We Have Lift Off!

One of the nice things we did over half term was to visit family in Dorset. Lunch outside on the Cobb at Lyme Regis was a real treat - who'd have thought in this wettest of wet winters that we might do that in February...


But the weather turned again and for the following day in Weymouth, Hearth-Father chose to worship at the 'cathedral of cider'. This was an airy rustic restaurant with only pizza and cider on the menu. Everyone was happy! But it was up on the third floor and had a lift to access. Once the children were finished eating they dashed off to play.


Shortly afterwards Gilby came running back into the room, shaking, purple-lipped and barely able to speak.


"Eddie's gone!" he sobbed. It took another moment to work our what had happened. "In the LIFT!" he wailed. It was absolutely the end of the world, and must have seemed as if his little baby brother had been swallowed up. After all, lifts can go anywhere, if you read Roald Dahl.


I ran to look and could just about make out a tiny voice shouting 'Mummy...'.


Thankfully the lift hadn't even moved from that floor, and the doors just opened up to reveal the miscreant, who needed a little cuddle but was otherwise unharmed.


It was touching that it was his big brother who was more upset.  Less so that a few hours later they were happily pummeling each other once more over whose turn it was to play with a toy.





Currently Reading: Boring research methodology books.

Sunshine After the Rain

Today the sun shines brilliantly. What a change from the dreary wet. And the chickens began laying eggs again. Is the worst over?





Eddie thinks that he sees a rainbow in every sky. Mostly this is just wishful thinking. "Mummy, I see a rainbow up the sky!" He points up, usually, at nothing but cloud; though I did take this photo from the classroom window the other day.


Noses seem to have been running since Christmas. And Gilby tells me that he has a very bad cough. When he coughs hard, apparently, he can taste 'sneeze' in his mouth. Ah, yes. That is quite a bad cough. I chose not to introduce him to the word 'phlegm'. Such an ugly word. Much prefer a good mouth-sneeze myself.





Currently reading: Bloody Foreigners by Robert Winder

Guerilla Littering

No, it's not quite what it sounds like. Though perhaps, on reflection, it's worse.


Gertie finally moved into her own room after Christmas. Her younger brother's fear of the dark and general inability to sleep meant that although she had her own space (beautifully furnished and decorated in my opinion, but what does a mother know?) she had to spend night times sleeping in the top bunk of her brother's room so that Gilby didn't feel scared. I blogged at length about that sleepless period, and this was the happy solution we came up with: big sis to the rescue.


It works even better now, though, because since Christmas, Gilby has shared a bedroom with his baby brother; and he can be the older, protective one (even though it is he really who still wants company at night). And so, Gertie gets her room. She very much enjoys the peace and quiet, and we have gone back to me reading her a 'grown-up' book: Black Beauty, at the moment.


The trouble is that she doesn't seem to have inherited any sense of organisation or tidiness. This is probably a blessing, since I think for me it is a curse. But her bedroom is always, without exception, the messiest room in the house.


She wasn't happy with the decor and wanted wallpaper rather than the expensive shade of not-quite-white that we had chosen. The lightbulb moment: we do a deal. If she can keep her room tidy for a whole month - and we picked February because it is the shortest - then she can choose her wallpaper, and Daddy can hang it.


Ok, so in fairness to Daddy, I didn't mention that last part to him whilst I was sealing the deal. In fact, I just told him about it today. It is day 17 of the month, and her bedroom is spotless. Could feature in a beautiful homes magazine, in fact. And Daddy is panicking. He tells me it has been a while since he hung wallpaper. Knowing him as I do, I interpret this as a euphemism for, 'I have never hung wallpaper before and I am rather disturbed by the thought of it.' His answer: guerilla littering. He plans to go in there and mess it up for her, in an attempt to stave off the task. Initially I thought it was a little unfair, but hey, it's only what the little people do to us on a daily basis...





Currently reading: The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

Walking with sunshine

We came home in the cold and dark, and in pouring rain tonight. It was the sideways rain that soaks you. The porch was flooded again, and by the back door was impassable due to the water: the highest I have ever seen it. The trip out had been unsuccessful too. It was for Gertie's swimming lesson. She has changed groups and we got the time wrong and so she had missed the lesson anyway and the whole thing was therefore an unnecessary waste of time, and needless additional soaking. Are you getting a sense of my mood?


So heading for the car, with the damp permeating my skin (well, ok, just my boots then) and after another stressful day of work, I was muttering various unrepeatable phrases under my breath.


And here is why I want to be six again. Because what Gertie said, in contrast, was this:


"Mummy, I wish I could have my very own sun to take around with me. On a string though, so I didn't burn my hands. Then I could always walk in sunshine."





Currently Reading: The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

Sleepover, Sigh.

Gertie has just experienced what by a rough calculation must be her tenth sleepover. Her fifth birthday was the turning point, and then it somehow became acceptable over night. Literally. She has two 'best' friends and they take it in turns. Last night Jessie came to stay with us. There was nail-painting, brother-baiting and hair-plaiting.


There were also some strange requests. Some things that she wouldn't dare to ask normally. Like, "Mummy, can we go and play with your make-up as Jessie's here?" And, "Mummy, is it ok if we take some food up into the bedroom while Jessie's here?" Um. Let me think about both those things for not very long. NO. And I managed to skirt the staying up late and watching a DVD issue by happily not being able to get the DVD player to work.


By midnight they were still talking. I was a little bit grumpy. This morning I have found the remnants of the feast stuffed under pillows - tell tale chocolate wrappers and crisp packets (so much for no food in the bedroom).


They then had the audacity to come running into our room at too-early o'clock because the brothers had woken them up too early in the morning. I don't think they fully appreciated the irony. Now that Jessie has gone home, Gertie is curled up on the complaining about being too tired.


Gilby is five in a few months time. He's too dependent to really enjoy a sleepover yet, I think. He got excited about it, and then when I mentioned that it would be his turn soon he quickly found lots of reasons why it shouldn't happen. I think I agree with him. I certainly don't remember sleepovers as a regular thing at that age.


As a child, sleepovers fell into two categories. The first meant staying at my grandparents' house as a matter of necessity because my parents needed childcare. This was a fairly regular occurrence, good fun, and is associated in my mind with plenty of treats, a change of books and toys, and some privileges appropriately afforded to being the eldest child. (Like being able to stay up a bit later than my siblings.)


The second kind, with friends, were rare and precious. I can remember only about five occasions, although I'm sure there must have been more. I recall late nights with my friend Liz, stashed food, the intimacy of whispered conversations, the strange noises of the fabric of someone else's house. Scary stories and giggled secrets. I must have been twelve or thirteen, I think. And I suspect that I asked of my parents things that were usually not allowed on the off-chance that they might be because Liz was there.


On my fifteenth birthday I had tickets for Bon Jovi for myself and a bunch of friends. Mum drove us up to London in a minibus, and there must have been at least eight of us. Because we would get home so late, everyone had brought sleeping bags for a sleepover on my bedroom floor. Bundles of bodies arranged haphazardly all over the room. 'Sleepover' was a misnomer, because in the adrenalin-fueled aftermath of the concert very little sleep happened. But I have never forgotten it. Come to think of it, I think my mum might have come in slightly crossly at about 2am because there was too much noise.


So perhaps the only thing that's changed about sleepovers is indeed the frequency. And perhaps not even that; maybe these magical nights seem far fewer in my own childhood just because they were so special. Sigh. And what would I do on a sleepover now? Probably catch up on some sleep...





Currently reading: Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

On God and Merkins

Under what circumstances might a four-year-old boy run round his sitting room shouting "I'm a merkin, I'm a merkin, I'm a merkin!"?


I only ask because this is exactly what you might have heard had you been at our place last weekend.


Before you cast aspersions on the kind of household we have created, allow me to explain.


Last Sunday was 'Epiphany', and, as part of celebrating the journey of the magi, Gilby was asked to be a king at church. He was representing Caspar, and we had a jolly old time making his crown. Cereal box, bandage, and some of Gertie's sequins from her Christmas nail art set all came in very handy. Mister Maker wouldn't have been that impressed, but Gilby was, and that was the main thing.


And what did Caspar have to do? Well, as we discovered, he had to give the gift of myrrh to the baby Jesus in a procession at the end of the service. Which is simply what Gilby was explaining to anyone who might listen.


And therein lies the explanation.





Currently reading: And the Mountains Echoed by Khalid Hosseini. Wow.

Traditional Dress

I went out dressed in my new Christmas poncho, feeling both snug and smug.


Daddy and I were enjoying a rare night out at a local Indian restaurant. It was a lovely meal, and as the time came to pay the bill, the remains of the Scottish banknotes came out.

When the waiter looked slightly aghast we had to explain that they were legal tender and we only had them because we'd just been staying in Scotland with friends and family.


I nipped off to the loo as the bill was being settled, so I didn't hear the next comment first hand:


"And your wife? Is she wearing traditional dress?"


Still snug, not quite so smug!





Currently reading: Death Comes to Pemberley by PD James