Parklife

I love my morning dog walk. It is a quiet time for contemplation and preparation; some fresh air and exercise; an opportunity to fortify myself for the day ahead. 

Before we moved house a couple of years ago, our walks were in wild woodland. Now that we are back in the village they are in a little public gardens up the road. I thought Kempton, our Golden Retriever and sixth family member (who suffers under the illusion that she can talk like a human), would miss the fields and acres; but actually, the fact that is more of a sociable event since she sees other dogs these days seems to be just as exciting for her. It is me who misses the fields and woods of rural Sussex living.

But Kempy has now found a new way to make what is generally a delightful experience something of a torture.

It has long been her particular mischief to do her morning business right in the middle of the large grassy area in the gardens. Now it's worth saying that this is a minor irritant. In olden days I would be 'wellied-up', (not to mention no £1000 fine for failing to pick up poo - a smart kick into the undergrowth was all that was required). Given that we now go for a walk in the nicely landscaped and pave-pathed park, I'm usually in smart clothes and work shoes. Not sartorial choices conducive to walking across muddy grass in order for one of my first actions of the day to be a poo-scoop.

But Kempy has now taken the 'central vantage point' to a whole new level. Did I mention the nice landscaping? Which has resulted in a giant grassy mound, to mimic the nearby undulating South Downs in miniature, perhaps. This is now Kempy's early-morning-dump spot of choice.

I don't know if you have, by chance, noticed the unseasonably inclement weather this June, but earlier this week it was...persistently raining. Cue me, scrabbling my way up the mound on all fours, mud-splattered and mostly slip-sliding away in an ungainly fashion, just to retrieve a wet turd.

Not exactly the blissful contemplative experience I once enjoyed. Thanks, Kempy.

Just for that, I'm going to include one of you not looking at your best:

Currently reading: Bloody Brilliant Women by Cathy Newman

Confessions about Confession

Today was Eddie's 'Sacrament of Reconciliation' in preparation for his First Holy Communion next week.

He has spent eight months taking classes to get ready, and has completed various chapters of his preparatory book. 

One page asked him to complete the sentence, 'When I grow up, I want to be...' To my surprise, his answer was 'a footballer'. It's Gilby who has always seemed to be the sporting star, and though Eddie is a dancer and a gymnast, he hasn't shown a great deal of football ability thus far. 

But then, underneath, he wrote, 'But my Plan B is engineer, scientist or artist'. Nothing like keeping your options open, or embracing an interdisciplinary approach, then.

He was a little bit concerned prior to the act of confession itself. Understandably so - I mean, this is Eddie we're talking about - but he concluded, 'It was actually fine. Even though Gilby told me it was intense'.  Good older brother. Telling it how it is.

But he also observed, 'It's awkward when you can't think of any more sins to say'. Indeed. Which makes me think that he must have a rather inflated sense of his own goodness. He whispered to me that as well as the penance, the priest had counselled him to 'say more prayers' and 'be a better friend'. 

I have to confess myself that I was a tad disappointed that going to bed when he's told, not answering back, keeping his room tidy, not fighting with his brother and doing what he's told generally weren't mentioned. But perhaps the prayers will help with that.

There was also a rehearsal for the main event. Eddie's thoughts? 'The bread tastes like plastic and the wine tastes like beer'. Not a great vintage, then.

Currently reading: Here Come The Girls by Pat Barker

Silverware Wars and Sporting Firsts

There were proud moments at the weekend, as Hearth-Father and Gilby strode out onto a cricket pitch together for the first time, playing in a friendly game for Ladymead, versus Ockley.

Gilby was a little bit nervous, he confided in me on the way to the match. "And I don't think I want to bowl."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm nine and they're men!"

Fair enough. He did, though, and bowled a maiden for the final over. And at one point there was Hearth-Father, Hearth-Uncle and Gilby all in the slip cordon. Not sure how many more times that might happen.

(Now I'm looking forward to stepping out onto a stoolball pitch with Gertie for the first time ever tomorrow night. Come on the weather!)

(*Edit: This did happen! And we batted out the final overs together, me 26 not out, she 5 not out. Dream team!

)

But the cricket wasn't the best bit about Gilby's day. The best bit was being awarded player of the year for the second year running for his football team. It was totally unexpected - especially as I had been suggesting that since he won it last year they would probably share things about a little to give another player a turn. Apparently not.

When he walked off the cricket pitch after three hours of fielding his little face lit up when he remembered the morning's silverware that he had entirely forgotten about in his state of concentration. It's fair to say he slept well on Sunday evening.

Meanwhile, Gertie and Eddie were in action at a dancing competition on Saturday. For the first time ever, Eddie came home with more silverware than his sister. (She's in the top grade and he's still classed as a beginner, but we'll ignore that...)

A wonderful way to end the half-term break. Roll on summer.

Currently reading: Mythos by Stephen Fry

On Hearths. And Mothers.

I have been parenting for twelve years this week. Gertie will celebrate her birthday with a meal at a local restaurant with friends. Very grown up. Very exclusive. In the sense that no adults are allowed. Only at the end to pay the bill.

It follows, though, a bit of a soul-searching weekend. Eldest Gertie has been unrelentingly stroppy and demanding, middle Gilby seems to be in a permanent rage, and youngest Eddie even more than the usual law unto himself. Where have we gone wrong? There was much handwringing and lament. And some consoling wine.

But yesterday! They were immaculate. All day. Morning and evening and bedtime. Eddie went to his gymnastics class without a single murmur of dissent, and on first asking to put his shoes on. First asking! Gertie and Gilby collaborated on a housework project that meant I walked back into a sweet smelling, vacuumed downstairs, with all the laundry put away. I'd only asked them to clear their things after supper. I quite literally didn't know how to respond. 

So. One whole day in twelve years seems to have gone well. (We won't mention today.) Hooray for parenting! Hooray for Hearth-mother!

I chose the name 'hearth-mother' as a reaction against the earth-mother types that I met when pregnant and when Gertie was first born. The ones who were winning at motherhood: those who managed to breast feed incessantly without any effort, and then shredded roast lamb and purée artichoke for the baby whilst serving up four unmushed courses for their partners; the ones who did complex crafting with their precious offspring with endless calm and patience while playing a musical instrument and learning Mandarin themselves; and, most offensive of all: who always had immaculate make-up. I never really picked up makeup again after childbirth, so how women had time to put on a 'full face' was astonishing to me. They seemed there just to make the rest of us (well, mostly me) feel bad.

Going out, as in 'leaving the house', back then was just - well - too hard. Going out with a baby was a massive mission, a feat well beyond my limited capabilities. It was all I could do to sit by the fire, and er, tend the hearth.

Blogposts over the years have regularly been about the funny, silly, awful, brilliant things that the kids do, often alongside barely disguised allusions to my sustained parenting inadequacy. No doubt research could prove a connection between the two.

But I am currently reading Mythos by Stephen Fry, and in discussing Hestia, Goddess of - well, the Hearth, he explains:

In our less communal age of central heating and separate rooms for each family member, we do not lend the hearth quite the importance that our ancestors did, Greek or otherwise. Yet, even for us, the word stands for something more than just a fireplace. We speak of 'hearth and home'. Our word 'hearth' shares its ancestry with 'heart', just as the modern Greek for 'hearth' is kardia, which also means 'heart'. In Ancient Greece the wider concept of hearth and home was expressed by the oikos which lives on for us today in words like 'economics' and 'ecology'. The Latin for hearth is focus - which speaks for itself. 

So. Turns out Hearth-Mother might be a bit of domestic goddess. Literally. Not this one, obvs, but in name, and, on the eve of Gertie's twelfth birthday, my heart (hearth) is singing.

Currently reading: Mythos by Stephen Fry

Human, or Dancer

At a recent dance performance I failed to recognise my own daughter when we poked our heads backstage to wish her luck.

I only knew it was she since I got a dismissive finger wave from a mascara-clad, crimped, sequinned, gum-chewing pre-teen that I assumed must be her - as we backed hurriedly out of the room.

On stage, I recognised her from her dance steps rather than her face.

And whilst I was proud of her younger brother dancing with all the big kids, it was pointed out to me that he more resembles a table football peg than a boy:

Currently reading: Bookworm by Lucy Mangan

Do Arms Dream of Electric Whisks?

School Holidays essentially become a daily battle to:

a) see how long we can exist each day without resorting to screens of any kind

b) complete a) in the context of spending as little money as possible.

Today we reached 3pm before the television went on with its infuriating YouTube gaming videos. Apologies if I offend someone who actually produces these, but whilst playing a computer game for hours on end seems to me like an utter waste of life, watching someone else do it feels even less worthwhile. It's one of those generational things where my children turn to me, shake their heads, and tell me that I 'just don't understand'. Quite.

And I managed to do it all whilst only spending £4.42 on baking ingredients. Winning at life. So, today's activities included:

1. A continuation of the comic strip collaboration (between Eddie and Gilby) of Captain Mega and the Alien Invasion  (where the lid of a permanent marker being left off led to the, well, 'permanent marking' of a drying towel.

2. An Irish dancing practice session.

3. Starting the new jigsaw puzzle.

4. A game of chess that turned into who could twirl the pieces on their edge for the longest.

5. Several hours of trampolining. (Because it was a bit damp and drizzly, it required Eddie wearing 11 - count them - pairs of socks to stop his little toes getting wet.)

6. An extra washing load. See 5.

7. A banana cake, made by Gertie and Eddie

8. And, not to be outdone, a rival baking adventure that resulted in Gilby's first Victoria sponge.

The banana cake created the most mess, but also produced my favourite exchange of the day:

Gertie: Oh why is it taking so long to cream the butter?

Eddie: Because we aren't electric.

Currently reading: The Wife by Meg Wolitzer

Literacy and Tulips

Eddie and I went for a walk this morning.  I'd like to say that it was a meandering purposeless walk; walking for the sake of it, but no - we were in a hurry to get to his holy communion class and steaming down the road at a hundred miles an hour running slightly late, but not late enough to take the car for the short distance.

To make up for the relentlessness of the pace, (and in an attempt at 'good' parenting) I tried to point out a few things along the way. 'Look at those budding tulips,' I urged.

At which point we made an interesting discovery.

'Tulip is one of my favourite words,' he enthused. 'You can really taste it.'

Really, I thought. And what exactly does it taste of? Masticated flesh, perhaps? But of course I didn't say that.

'It tastes of air,' he explained. 'But air in a tube.'

Oh, right.

Turns out that we may have a little synesthete on our hands. Later on we were talking about whether he preferred Maths or Literacy at school.

He physically shuddered at the word 'Literacy' - though it is one of his favourite things.

'I am probably better at literacy,' he explained, but I hear and sort of feel the whoosh of the paper-cutting thing when you say it.'

'The guillotine?' (Not to brag, but I have quite an impressive one in the study: it was one of my favourite Christmas presents last year.)

'Yes, that.'

At bedtime I did another little check. What colour is 'A', I wanted to know.

'Orange,' came the reply. Without any hesitation. C is blue, and S is red, apparently.

OK. So my friend Google tells me that apparently four percent of the population experience this phenomenon of experiencing a cognitive intertwining of sensory perception. But common amongst writers and artists.

Ergo, he'll probably grow up to be a poet or a novelist. Obvs.  Except that 'literacy' and a guillotine is a slightly unfortunate association...



Currently reading: Bookworm by Lucy Mangan