Beer Ballet

Very occasionally, Hearth-Father has to do Gertie's 'ballet run' when I am otherwise engaged.

We were driving to her ballet class last week when Gilby piped up from the back seat, "Mummy, shall I take you to this little pub I know where Daddy and I go sometimes when ballet is on?"

Now.  Where to start?  Best not to, methinks.

Anyway.  The day of the ballet exam finally arrived at the weekend.  There was much fussing and an hour's worth of rehearsal beforehand.  Ribbons and hairnets and hairspray and endless tying of ballet shoes.  This was, of course, enough to send Gilby, Eddie and Daddy running for this little pub they know...

And on the way home?  After their respective afternoon exertions?  Well.  It's hard work in that pub!

Currently Reading:  Falling by Elizabeth Jane Howard

Report Season

The school book-bags were a little fuller than usual on Friday afternoon: large white envelopes with the annual school report inside.

Gertie's was, for the third year in a row, glowing.  The headteacher's summary at the end begins with, 'Wow!'

Gilby's is also excellent: my favourite line is, 'He thinks of himself as a writer'.  It has taken me forty years to achieve this for myself.  My son has managed it in four.  I am impressed.

Now Eddie.  He is too young for an official school report.  So let's just report on his activities for this morning...

He woke me up by poking me hard between the eyes, and in my bleary semi-consciousness I noticed that he was making off with my watch.  That is, effectively, a mugging, is it not?

He then proceeded to empty out every single toy that he owns into the middle of his bedroom, mixing up all the pieces from all the games leaving me with a couple of hours of sorting and tidying (and that is a conservative estimate).

Immediately afterwards he sat in the middle of the kitchen floor with his thumb in his mouth staring into space and refusing to sit at the breakfast table or respond to any kind of question or cajoling.  Next he used a garden chair as a pram, pushing it round the sitting room and ramming it under my legs so that I nearly toppled over the coffee table, narrowly avoiding a trip to casualty.

Finally he threw one of my prized ornaments down the stairs.

So, how about this: Eddie is a determined child with a strong will and a creative interpretation of the world around him.  He enjoys sequencing (and unsequencing) objects to explore the patterns they create, and using the physical space around him in an imaginative way.  He can be reflective at times, and his diminutive stature is of no drawback.  He has a growing awareness of his own physical strength and corporeal power. His clear fascination with the force of gravity indicates his developing scientific interests...

Oh good.  He's doing just as well as his siblings, then.

Currently reading: The Terrible Privacy of Maxwell Sim by Jonathan Coe.

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