Advent Books Adventure

Since Gertie was tiny I have wrapped twenty-four advent books ('pre-loved', in newspaper) and put them under the tree. I can't remember where I first saw the idea and stole it from, but it has become a real tradition in our house.

As they grew up, sometimes Gertie read the books to her siblings, rather than me reading. Last year, all three of them took it in turns to read the story out loud. 

But even Eddie is getting a bit big for picture books now. 

I didn't want to let the tradition die, but I also didn't know what to do to make it work this year. A book a day each seemed ridiculous (that would, after all, mean 72 books. I couldn't find, let alone afford that); and their interests are so different at 8, 10 and 12 years old that I couldn't see a way of pleasing them all with just one. Perhaps I could rotate them? But there still wouldn't be that lovely shared moment.

Suddenly, Agatha Christie books began appearing in the post. Anonymously. I couldn't work it out. Maternal Hearth Grandfather is the only one who sends books anonymously, and so we always know that they are from him. They must have been sent in error. 

But I was around 12 years old when I started devouring them, I realised. As had MHGF. Suddenly I had a little pile of them. And some old Arsenal annuals turned up. Perfect for Gilby.  Random years: 2008, 2013. And some Beano and Dandy annuals. Older, but exactly what Eddie would enjoy. All of a sudden, a book each for every day of December up until Christmas didn't seem so impossible.

So I went for it. A quick trip to the Lions Bookstore (thirty books for three quid) and plenty of newspaper later, we were there.

And then this sort of thing started happening:

I mean, they're not snuggled up together like they used to be, but you can't have everything. 

And this happened, when I wasn't looking and should really have been time for bed:

The only hiccough came when Eddie confessed about a week in that he was 'a bit behind with his advent books'. I think he thought he had to read the whole thing in one day to be ready to qualify for the next one. Whoops. I have reassured him that he can pick and choose.

So, for at least twenty minutes a night, silence reigns in our house. The only sound is the occasional turning of a page. Ssshhhh.

Currently reading: An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

Where's A Masterchef When You Need One?

Food drives me mad at the moment.

There are three fussy eaters to feed; four if you include the German exchange student who is staying with us at the moment; plus one vegetarian (me). That can mean  up to four different dishes being prepared on any given evening.

Eddie and Gilby want bland, bland and more bland. The blander the better. Anything with any kind of flavour is off the menu. Gertie is a little more experimental, finally, having gone as far as a chicken korma. But they don't like the same bland. Although they will all eat vegetables, there isn't a single vegetable that all three will eat.

So mealtimes are not fun.

I think back to my own childhood, where food was definitely not fun either.

My memories may be skewed, but it seems that Mum didn't really cook for us as the primary audience; she cooked for the customers in the pub restaurant. I picture her cooking up batches of shepherd’s pie, browning the mince in enormous industrial saucepans (cauldron-sized to a child) before transferring to individual portions in impersonal, identical, mini brown casserole dishes by the dozen. Or sizzling portions of scampi in lethal commercial deep fat fryers that were NOT TO BE TOUCHED.

There was no sense of finesse. Nouveau cuisine was still a channel away. Making chips for the next few lunchtime and evening sessions could take an entire afternoon (until she was introduced to Mr McCain by Nurdin & Peacock). Everything came in giant packaging from cash and carry: tubs of powdered stock the size of camping gas tanks; shoe-box sixed margarine tubs; blocks of cheese three Encyclopaedia Britannicas thick.

There was an industrial microwave oven, its lights and alarms worthy of a nuclear plant. When it began its incineration of food it sounded like a 747 on a runway.

And then there were RULES. Different coloured chopping boards for dairy, meat and bread. Nail brushes at the hand washing sink, strict temperature controls, certain pans for certain products, a specified number of items that could be dried with a single dishcloth  before bacteria multiplied to epic proportions.

The kitchen was a tense place. My father was once overheard asking through gritted teeth whether my mother would like the kitchen ‘moved two inches to the left’ in a strained impersonation of his comic hero and fellow endurer of the vagaries of the hospitality industry, Basil Fawlty.

Because pub opening times were not really conducive to family life there were not actually mealtimes as such. One had to forage for oneself, while of course maintaining strict adherence to the RULES, and only using food which was no longer any good for customers.

So food was fairly bland for me, too. Pot noodles were good. And I perfected the art of the French bread cheese sandwich. Mostly because it hurt no one, required only two chopping boards and was very filling - if not exactly nutritious. I did have to be ‘trained’ to cut the bread at exactly the right angle, but once I had mastered that I was allowed to use up grated cheese (curling up at the edges and sweating a little having been left out over the busy lunch period).

I therefore arrived in the adult world with a slightly warped perception of what constituted a meal. Food was fuel. It was functional, and economies of scale were more important than taste. Its consumption took place standing up around a stainless steel prepping surface, or a plate might be hastened through a busy bar underneath a paper serviette to be eaten on my lap.  I could happily lay a table but rarely sat down at one to eat convivially; a fact which was brought to the fore when we had to ‘practise’ sitting down to meals as a family before the German exchange student came to stay when I was 15. Thankfully that didn't have to be repeated for the current one. Eddie, Gilby and Gertie can happily sit down at a table; they just might not eat what is put in front of them.

I also had few culinary skills to speak of. The act of cooking was not a thing to inspire love. Mum was certainly not terrifically impressed when she was given a collection of carefully collated kitchen utensils as her Mother's Day gift from me one year. Cooking was all about science and hygiene.

At least until I met and married a Masterchef, who finally revealed its art. He needs to do the same for our children.

Birth Giver

For a long time now I have had Hearth Father in my phone as 'Love of my Life'. This is not some saccharine romantic gesture, more a way of reminding myself when I am answering the phone (through gritted teeth because he is late, or because I want to carry on the morning's row) that I did in fact choose to marry the man and 'love and honour' him for the rest of my life. 

Unfortunately, on my current mobile telephone there aren't enough characters to spell out the full moniker, and so I answer the phone to 'Love of my Lif'.

Which would be fine if it weren't for the connotations it brings of Douglas Adams and John Lloyd's Meaning of Liff, where the word 'liff' is in fact defined as 'a book, the contents of which are totally belied by its cover'. Don't think I want to over-analyse that one.

Anyway, it was only this weekend that I discovered that I, too, was on the receiving end of similar treatment. I was standing next to Gertie to 'WhatsApp' some photos from my phone to hers when I saw that her notification announced a message from 'Birth Giver'. 

Not quite as affectionate as 'Mum'. More sort of, well, functional and arbitrary than that. 

Currently pondering changing my contacts to update her entry as '12 Hour Labour, Induction & Episiotomy'.

More Teething Trouble

It's fair to say that our tooth fairy doesn't have the best record. If she was in my employment I'd probably sack her. She is dreadfully unreliable and sometimes forgets to come on time. Sometimes she is unable to find the tooth and wakes the owner up accidentally during the search. She doesn't often communicate like other tooth fairies seem to, and when she does leave a note, her writing is 'too big' - apparently.

Eddie lost a tooth this week. Hearth mother and father had been busy doing a play while dealing with September, back to school routines, the aftermath of puppy-gate and a new member of the family (we have a teenage German exchange student staying with us).

The tooth fairy was up to her old tricks again.

'She didn't come!' cried a distraught Eddie upon waking yesterday morning.

'What do you mean?' I called, frowning at Hearth-father and fumbling frantically in my purse.

Hearth Father's palm was duly crossed and he took up the, er,  baton. 'Now then, let's see. I bet she did. Nothing there under the pillow? Are you sure? Let's look under the...mattress, just in case.'

Lo and behold: a single shiny pound coin. Magic. Sleight of hand. Disaster averted. Eddie was ecstatic. For a moment.

'But she didn't take the tooth!' he wailed.

'No-o. No, she didn't. Um...Perhaps she was disturbed in the night. Maybe you woke up too soon.'

This was followed by some hasty improvisation of fairy folklore.

'She might come back for it tonight?' He added, rather desperately. 'Perhaps that's what happens in these, um, cases...'

Thankfully, the tooth fairy had a better memory in the evening. But there were whispered discussions across the landing.

'She wouldn't just take it and leave nothing...'

'Do you think she would leave another coin?'

'Well, it has always been a two pound coin for the first big front tooth...'

'Fair enough.'

Some urgent checking of pockets and purses ensued.

'I've only got a bloody two quid coin!'

'Ssssssh. Give it here.'

'But then he'll have had three pounds!'

'Never mind. It'll have to do. So be it.'

Thus Eddie came down to breakfast in jubilant mood this morning, his trouser pockets heavy with gold; and was last overheard in the playground regaling his friends with the story of how he tricked the tooth fairy...

Currently reading: Mapp & Lucia by EF Benson

So Last Century

'The Beatles? Aren't they some old band from last century?'

This year's summer holiday was to Liverpool and the Isle of Man. The weather allowed plenty of swimming in the Irish Sea, and the rare occurrence of accompanying sunburn. The return journey included a stopover in Liverpool.

I thought my offspring would be excited to see the world-famous Cavern Club. Turns out...no. Primark was more exciting, as we don't have one near us. Not only were they not impressed by one of the most famous live music venues in the world  ('Can we go now, it's dark and boring'), we discovered that it wasn't just that they were firmly not Beatles fans, but that they actually didn't know any Beatles songs.

Clearly a case of parenting gone wrong, I sought to rectify this, immediately. I know, I thought, the drive back from Liverpool is a good four or five hours. That will give me plenty of time to educate these poor, deprived children.

Cue rapid download of The Beatles 'Essentials'. Don't worry, I felt the hand of Alan Partridge as we were doing it.

And then I thought, it isn't that they don't know any songs, it's just that they don't know they are by The Beatles. Let's see how many they are actually familiar with!

It didn't go well. Gertie had her headphones in, but she did deign to remove them for the opening few bars of each track to then offer an increasingly frustrated shake of the head to indicate that no, she really didn't know this one either.

Eventually, success!  We All Live in A Yellow Submarine provoked a spark of recognition. 'I thought it was a nursery rhyme.'

And Let it Be was 'vaguely familiar'. Nothing else though.

'Do we have to listen to any more of this OLD rubbish music? Seriously, mummy, these songs all sound exactly the same.'

Eddie joined in with the general malcontent, putting his fingers in his ears and pointedly singing, 'HATE Jude' once he'd mastered the refrain.

It was a very long journey home.

The Birthday Party

Gilby reached the milestone of double figures.

We are a long way beyond the class party these days. Yes, they were horrendous, but at least with the saving grace of being all over and done with in an hour and half. 

But, no. To celebrate, his treat of choice was to:

Take a group of friends to a trampoline park. 

Straight from school on the last day of the summer term. 

A suitably unhealthy burger and chips to follow the bouncing. 

Then all back to our garden for what is breezily termed a 'camping sleepover'.

I try not to begin from a 'deficit perspective' but there seems no other way to approach this given

the significant number of potential, actual and unforeseen pitfalls to this plan.

1. Eight children at a trampoline park.

Now, I don't know what the odds are in relation to number of visitors per injury, but I figured that our chances of ending up in casualty were pretty high. In my head, it was only a question of where the first blow might strike. Our odds were susbtiantially increased because in a fit of what I can only describe as a combination of uncharacteristic generosity and utter madness, I had booked the two hour bouncing deal instead of the single hour option. I had also failed to notice that the 'deal' was actually called 'Hungry Bouncers' and included a 'free' hot-dog. That meant that we were actually filling the boys up with two forms of processed meat in rapid succession. If they weren't going to end up in hospital through bouncing then perhaps the long-term health problems were going to get them there eventually.

2. Decibels

The noise quality in trampoline parks - and I don't mean to do them down specifically; it is generally the same in all 'soft play' establishments - is of a particular quality and timbre that generally leaves me wanting to crawl into a quiet hole after extended exposure to it. Note previous point in relation to the two, rather than one, hour deal.

3. The curse of the Golden Arches.

As a vegetarian I am not generally a big fan of the chains of 'family burger restaurants' with which we are all familiar. I object to the use of the term 'restaurant' when you are required to order at a counter, wait for your food, carry it back to plastic immovable chairs and tables, forage for condiments and then clear up after yourself, even though the person sitting at the table before you clearly didn't. And I object to the term particularly since they are not licensed to sell alcohol at all, let alone in the numbing quantities required to survive this sort of situation. When I say 'situation', I mean the kind of practices that boys eating burgers together seem to enact. Especially when they aren't actually that hungry because they have been bouncing for two hours and been given a giant hot-dog. Gilby is generally the nicest-mannered of my children, but somehow he feels the need to engage in burping, farting, food-throwing, food-wasting and fighting antics that would be unacceptable on any other day of the year, but somehow become tolerated when in the company of other people's children. Which brings me on to point 4...

4. Other people's children 

What is it and what is it not ok to refuse people's children? Three of the boys were very polite. At least to begin with. And three were not. I started getting all judgy at the lack of please and thank yous from the outset. And then there was the asking for things that had not been offered. A round of slushies were included in the two hour deal. I'm aware that I keep using the word 'deal' as though I had obtained some sort of bargain on the day. I would like to disabuse everyone of that idea and explain that in fact, attendance for eight children for two hours at aforementioned  trampoline park was extortionate and virtually required remortgaging. Nevertheless, some rejected the slushies and said that they wanted squash or coke or milk or anything that they could think of that wasn't a slushy. Grumpily, I said no and referred repeatedly to 'the deal'. Dear Jaydn - not quite enough vowels, surely? shrugged off the rejection

5. Sleep

What are the chances of that many boys in a tent, for some of whom it was their first sleepover, actually getting some sleep? The answer is, unsurprisingly, very little. Marshmallow toasting (supervised by Hearth-father while I went in search of the wine that had been so absent from our 'restaurant' experience) went on until quite late, and it seems that an injection of sugar at bedtime is not exactly conducive to 'settling down'. The torrential downpour after days of glorious sunshine didn't help. The fact is they didn't settle down. I sent Hearth-Father out at regular intervals to shush them, with fairly minimal results. The cricket game began at 5am when the rain stopped. At 5.15 the neighbour from two doors down was banging on the front door to complain. Saturday morning did not, therefore, begin in a terrifically positive way, and I did not come out of the exchange terribly well.

6. Inappropriate moral lessons

This one was definitely unforeseen. In an effort to reestablish relations with Two Doors Down, we decided it would be a good idea to send Gilby round the following afternoon with a box of chocolates and a rehearsed apology. Missing nothing, and still in his formative years, we appear to have inadvertently warped Eddie's already fragile moral code. He piped up, 'What? So she gets a present for coming round here and shouting? Are you serious?'

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