On Dressing Up...And Underestimating Dad

October and November have been turbulent and travel-filled.

I returned last weekend from ten days in Uganda, where I was 'on duty' over half term with a group of Year 11 students.  The trip itself was amazing, but the logistical arrangements to enable it to happen - over a period of holiday for the kids with Hearth-father working - were quite spectacular.

Shaded into the shared google-spreadsheet(!) were the swimming lessons, football club, Irish dancing workshops and nursery sessions with clear instructions about who was picking up whom and when.  Secreted into last weekend with little discussion or preparation was a Halloween Party in fancy dress.

Above is what he pulled off! Most impressive was the make-up. Clearly my services were not required. Note to self: go away more often...

 What a fearsome trio they make!

Eddie insisted on coming to meet me in his full 'bat' gear - which look slightly less devilish at 9am on a bright November morning.

But it was rapid change into the Ugandan away kit, so that the 'Uganda Boys' can continue to train this season:

And later that afternoon, Nano returned from her even more far-flung travels - with some pyjamas from Hong Kong:

 So, my return had a rather theatrical feel to it all.  I wonder where they get it from?




Currently reading: The Paying Guests by Sarah Waters

Today's Little Treat

There's a photo doing the rounds on Facebook at the moment. Some company have created t-shirts for three siblings. I don't wish to promote them, nor would I ever suggest that my children wore them, but I do agree with the sentiment, which basically goes along the lines of: Oldest child makes the rules, middle child is the reason we have rules and youngest child knows that the rules don't apply.

I may have mentioned some or all of the following before in relation to Eddie:

• Eddie doesn't understand consequences
• The word 'no' is something of an enigma when he is on the receiving end of it (though definite when he delivers it)
• He can go from grinning cutie to fiendish horror quicker than a new Porsche gets to 60mph.

So, what was today's little treat for mummy?

Pushing the 'Emergency Stop' button on the supermarket trolley escalator.

Sigh. As you were.

Currently reading: The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman

How Not To See Your First Football Match

Gilby is a football fiend.

He can't walk past anything that doesn't have foundations without kicking it to try and score. His first love is Arsenal. He has the kit; he has the pyjamas; he has the Arsenal football.

His sixth birthday was a football party - complete with full size pitch and coach.

He has begun playing for a local club, and his school coaching is done by the Albion in the Community team from Brighton and Hove Albion football club.

But he had, until last weekend, never been to a 'real' game.  (Sorry, Hearth-Father, Sunday morning veterans doesn't count...)

At the final cricket game of the season (a tense few weekends when the cricket and football seasons overlap) I happened to mention that I was trying to get tickets for a local game.

'Why don't you and Gilby come and enjoy the hospitality of my private box for the next Brighton and Hove Albion home game?' offered the president of the cricket club.  Now, there's an offer you can't refuse.

So, off we went - for my first visit to the magnificent AMEX Stadium (saw a few games at the Withdean, but it's been a while), and Gilby's first Championship game.

Now - there were a few rules. It's smart in them there private boxes, so no team shirts and no trainers.  And we had to arrive two and a half hours early in order to enjoy the three course meal...

We were presented with a complimentary programme on arrival.  Waitresses brought drinks directly to us,  and the view from the table was magnificent.

What's more, Brighton's Hemed scored in the opening five minutes after a shot by Dale Stephens was blocked just before. For the first fifteen minutes Brighton dominated and it was all very exciting.  Bobby Zamora came on right at the end for his first appearance at home for his old club in twelve years. The crowd were suitably appreciative, and Gilby was well aware of Zamora as a player from his premiership days. Brighton won 1-0, and whilst the rest of the game didn't quite live up to the pace and promise of the start, the sun shone and it was a fantastic afternoon.

For Brighton it was always going to be a special day - tinged with sadness as the club paid tribute to two of their own lost in the Shoreham air disaster three weeks before.

It was moving and fitting - both solemn and celebratory.

And the Brighton win meant that the club were four points clear at the top of the table. And what did Gilby do at the final whistle? Phone his father, breathless with excitement, to proclaim that, 'We won!'. What happened to my little gooner?

For one six year old boy, a truly unforgettable day. (Even if he did think the mascot looked more like a duck than a seagull.)

And he's in for a shock the next time he goes to game and has to make do with a seat in the stand and a pie...


Currently reading: The Ocean At The End Of The Lane by Neil Gaiman.

Eddie the Gangster

The holiday period has made me look at my youngest son in a new light.

In France we were entertained by French friends who invited us 'A la  Bonne Franquette' which, loosely translated (we thought)  is a simple supper, not standing on ceremony.

So we were agreeably surprised to discover that in reality this meant an al fresco five courses of fine food with different wines served at each course.  (Exactly like the simple suppers we have at home...) Conversation was entirely in French which meant much nodding and pointing as far as I was concerned, though my fluency seemed to increase directly in proportion to the amount of wine consumed. Hearth-Father lead the international-relations charge.

It was five hours from start to finish - how splendidly French.  The kids, however, were not as impressed as the adults with the timescale, and were restless after a couple of hours.  Ice cream perked them up for a bit, as did some French television.  Then one of our hosts, Kevin, seeing Gilby in his Arsenal shirt and recognising a kindred footballing spirit, presented him with an Olympic Marseilles teddy bear to play with. 'Say 'merci' to Kevin' chorused the adults. Delighted with his new toy, Gilby marched off to find the others. One can only imagine the scene that took place in the next room.

Eddie, all three years and several teddy-deprived hours of him, marched back outside a few minutes later - to a group of nine adults speaking an entirely foreign language. He stood framed in the doorway, chiaroscuro lighting, hands wrapped around his body, every muscle quietly and dangerously accusing. With a pitch that Marlon Brando would have been proud of, he rasped,

Which one of you out here is Kevin? 

whilst flinging his arms outwards to encompass the gathered diners.

Poor Kevin, with his limited understanding of English, needed no translation to send him scuttling off to find a second OM teddy bear - for the godfather twenty years his junior.

A fait accompli, to borrow a phrase from the French.  Fearless and ready to fight for what he wants. Never shall I worry about the youngest and smallest fending for himself again.

Which one of you out here is Kevin?

Currently reading: Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn (better late than never)

Carry on Camping

We've bailed out of a camping trip in Dorset because the weather's too terrible and I wasn't born to camp.

We're going to return tomorrow, but I needed a night of hot bath, clean children and just not being damp for a little while.

GCSE results day tomorrow, too, so I have the perfect excuse: I need to be home. So, whilst here, I thought we'd better start on the holiday homework.  I was a good mother; Gilby is researching the Victorians, and we took a visit to the Lyons bookstore and the local library. We worked on how to use an index and created a template for his project together. He has a total of six books, including the Horrible Histories. Sorted. Plenty to keep him busy. Gertie was also busy doing her homework and Eddie was engrossed in Lego. Perfect. Some time for me.  I set them off.  A few minutes later, prompted by Gertie's giggling, I came back to find this:

I think the Victorians probably made me feel like this too until my thirties, so I can't blame the little chap. And he's been sleeping in a tent for the last few nights, so probably a little short of kip...but I strongly suspect he won't win any prizes for this particular assignment.



Currently reading: Behind the Beautiful Forevers by Katherine Boo

Tables Turning

We've just returned from our summer holiday in the south of France.  For the fifth consecutive year we've been to the same place - a practice that I previously believed, given that big wide world out there, existed as the preserve of the old and the boring. But the house is beautiful, the restaurants and local markets endearingly familiar, the pool is perfect and the kids have everything they need. The house is also large enough for lots of people and so there are a different cast of characters each time. And so we keep going back.

Swinging in Uzes

While we were there Gilby turned six, and, to celebrate, we went to Aqualand (just as we did last year, but don't judge...).  Having traversed all the slides before, I was quite happy to swap the adrenaline rush for a sun-lounger and a book this year. (Who said old and boring?) I could 'plot up' in peace, and be the repository for bags and towels, and the supplier of sunscreen as required.

My sis and Gertie on 'The Wave'. Been there, done that.

At lunch, I mentioned that I might like to go on something before the day was out.  At which Gilby slung a protective arm around my shoulders, conspiratorially whispering that he thought I'd like the 'Surf Rider' and the 'Tornado'. "Yep, you'll love them, Mum. I'll take you on there. Follow me, I'll show you what to do..." He may even have patted my arm.

It was lovely to see him so confident and assured and grown up.

And yet, bittersweet.

I can't help thinking that this is the beginning of the end in a gradual process of role reversal as he begins to lead me rather than the other way round.

Gilby standing tall

So it was a relief when he was dependent on me to steer and paddle and generally get us out of trouble kayaking on the Gard a few days later.

He does need Mummy for a little while longer, after all.



Currently reading: A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry

In the Swim of Things

Eddie has a weekly swimming lesson, and has done since he was about six weeks old. The word 'lesson' here is used in its loosest possible sense, and it's fair to say that he hasn't taken to the water like the proverbial duck. Thursday mornings have the potential to be a very stressful affair.

So, when he announced last Thursday that he wanted to get himself ready for swimming in advance, the suggestion was greeted enthusiastically by Hearth-father. Perhaps this might be a 'good' swimming day.

All was quiet upstairs for a while before Eddie marched down proudly, fully dressed but pulling his shirt buttons apart in the manner of Superman (Eddie is obsessed with superheroes; Batman and Spiderman are his current favourites) so that it was plain to see that he was already sporting his all-in-one swimsuit beneath.

Behaviour was bordering on enthusiastic, and it meant that exit from the changing rooms to poolside was unusually speedy and hassle-free. The chickens were lining themselves up to be counted.  The lesson passed without a tantrum, and Eddie even did some of the things that his teacher told him to.

But there was a problem. Hearth-father realised that, following Eddie's self-selected sartorial arrangements, he had neglected to bring along a pair of pants for Eddie to change back into after his lesson.

"Don't worry, Daddy," Eddie piped up unperturbed, "I kept my pants on underneath my swimsuit..."

Perhaps it's a superhero thing.




Currently reading: The Book of You by Claire Kendal