“What is a free range chicken?” my six-year-old daughter asked me over breakfast. I was not about to enter into a discussion on the intricacies of chicken rearing. I gave a brief explanation of the chicken’s ability to run merrily around on the grass rather than being shut inside. She quickly related it to dogs or more specifically, our border terrorist, Molly. She likened it to keeping her inside for days on end and never giving her a walk – a rather good simple analogy I thought, once you added in a few extra tins of Pedigree Chum.
The whole chicken chat arose because I had been talking to friends about Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s current “Chicken Out” campaign to encourage people to buy free range chickens. Hugh is trying to open our eyes to intensive farming which is the way 95% of the chickens we eat in the UK are reared. He is emotional in his demonstration of the intense pressure farmers are put under to produce poultry as quickly and as cheaply as possible. Hugh packed 2,500 chickens into a rearing facility for 39 days, with no natural light, with only 1 in 24 hours of total darkness. This encouraged the chickens to feed as much as possible and put on unnatural weight so they were ready for the supermarket shelves as quickly as possible.
His campaign is thought provoking but, for many, it largely comes down to money. Many people say they cannot afford to pay double for a free range chicken. This is a very personal decision and who are we to judge whether people decide to spend their money on a free range chicken for their kids’ lunch, the latest trainers or a Nintendo DX?
I was quick to reassure my daughter and rather righteously claim to have always bought free range chickens. However, moments later I began to reflect on my confident claim. Was I really the free range mother I claimed to be? Afterall, it was most unlikely that all the chicken my children had consumed in restaurants, pubs or even at friends’ houses were free range. I simply cannot deny that I have turned towards the occasional fast food item, when I realise there is nothing scheduled for supper. Like many, my children are quite partial to the odd chicken nugget and have declared the crème de la crème of nuggets are those nestled together in a MacDonalds bag. That definitely puts me in the part-time free range camp. I wholeheartedly support Hugh’s campaign and am happy to pay the difference for our free range feathery friends, particularly in supermarkets. However, I am guilty of the occasional rushed relapse. Sadly, I do not think Hugh’s campaign will ever reach the fast-food industry, which I am afraid is here to stay. Ronald has kindly introduced salads to his golden arches but I think the free range or even organic McNugget might be a little way off but we can only hope.
Friday, 25 January 2008
Friday, 18 January 2008
Man Flu
Thankfully, we have been spared the deadly norovirus that is circulating the British Isles. However, we were inflicted by a rare strain of the most powerful and deadly flu – commonly known as “Man Flu”.
My husband has spent ten days roaming around the house in his dressing gown, wearing a woolly hat which he says is essential to keep his head and ears warm. The heating has been pumping around the clock just to ensure the germs are kept cosy in our close knit cottage. The open fire has been banned for a week as the smoke, “irritates his sinuses.”
He has embarked on a lengthy ritual of remedies and scattered tissues around the house that are unable to make it to the bin. At night, I have endured the strong aroma of TCP with which he has gargled together with the Vick that he has smothered across his chest. He tosses and turns, groans, huffs and puffs at the sheer agony he is experiencing.
The only thing that seemed to relieve the pain temporarily was a film, preferably a thriller but no sooner were the credits rolling, the virus struck again it its most virulent form yet. He has conducted a full investigation of where he contracted the deadly virus sniffing out any guilty party who happened to sneeze near him in recent weeks.
Admittedly, at times he did look a bit pale and peaky but unfortunately there is something about Man Flu that promptly turns me into a ‘no nonsense’, unsympathetic wife. Perhaps unfairly, I was tiring of the patient in the woolley hat. I wanted to be spared the regular updates of the symptoms throughout the day. “Go for a brisk walk across the fields and blow the germs away, I suggested.”
He is quick to point out that I have never suffered from this strain of virus before. He is indeed right as according to the Urban Dictionary, Man Flu is, “an incurable virus which has been adapted to only effect the XY gene found in men. The virus attacks the immune system 10,000 times harder than the average flu virus, causing excruciating pain for the victim. The often deadly virus is mostly laughed at by women who sadly cannot contract Man Flu.”
My husband has spent ten days roaming around the house in his dressing gown, wearing a woolly hat which he says is essential to keep his head and ears warm. The heating has been pumping around the clock just to ensure the germs are kept cosy in our close knit cottage. The open fire has been banned for a week as the smoke, “irritates his sinuses.”
He has embarked on a lengthy ritual of remedies and scattered tissues around the house that are unable to make it to the bin. At night, I have endured the strong aroma of TCP with which he has gargled together with the Vick that he has smothered across his chest. He tosses and turns, groans, huffs and puffs at the sheer agony he is experiencing.
The only thing that seemed to relieve the pain temporarily was a film, preferably a thriller but no sooner were the credits rolling, the virus struck again it its most virulent form yet. He has conducted a full investigation of where he contracted the deadly virus sniffing out any guilty party who happened to sneeze near him in recent weeks.
Admittedly, at times he did look a bit pale and peaky but unfortunately there is something about Man Flu that promptly turns me into a ‘no nonsense’, unsympathetic wife. Perhaps unfairly, I was tiring of the patient in the woolley hat. I wanted to be spared the regular updates of the symptoms throughout the day. “Go for a brisk walk across the fields and blow the germs away, I suggested.”
He is quick to point out that I have never suffered from this strain of virus before. He is indeed right as according to the Urban Dictionary, Man Flu is, “an incurable virus which has been adapted to only effect the XY gene found in men. The virus attacks the immune system 10,000 times harder than the average flu virus, causing excruciating pain for the victim. The often deadly virus is mostly laughed at by women who sadly cannot contract Man Flu.”
Friday, 11 January 2008
The Baby
In a few week’s time it will be The Baby’s second birthday. I therefore feel it is now time to promote him to the role of The Toddler in forthcoming Family Ties articles. Like most youngest children in a busy family, the last two years have flown by and it is only now that it has become obvious to us all that he is in fact no longer a baby and scarily his first morning at pre-school is looming. When I think back over the past couple of years I am suddenly struck with a sudden feeling of guilt.
The two older children were born in London so they travelled on buses, tubes and taxis regularly. Since we have been living in Dorset, we still try and take the odd trip to London on the train and enjoy day trips out to the theatre, ice creams in Harrods ice cream parlour and walks down to Buckingham Palace. I am ashamed to admit, The Toddler has never been on a train, bus or taxi to London or anywhere else. In fact, as my five-year-old daughter pointed out, he has not even had a Babycino in Starbucks. Last year, he did not make our holiday in Cambodia and instead spent two weeks with Granny and Grandpa In fact, that is where he has spent much of his first two years. And more often than not, he is accompanied by his best friend, Molly, our border terrorist. In fact, over the past two years, he has barely left the village other than on the weekly shop to the local supermarket.
At home, he is a very relaxed little boy. Thank goodness, I hear you say. He is perfectly happy to play with all the old toys that his siblings were given. He is satisfied being dressed in perfectly good clothes passed down from his brother, with only the odd button missing. He is content with his Mummy reading him a rather sticky old book at bedtime, albeit at record speed as her mind turns to homework, laying out school uniform and reading to the other two.
With his birthday looming, which unfortunately he shares with his sister, my mother casts my mind back to my daughter’s second birthday. We hired a room in a children’s restaurant in London where she enjoyed an afternoon of soft play alongside fifteen of her two-year-old friends. The photographs show her sitting at the end of a large table, wearing the most beautiful dress, with the most phenomenal tea displayed before her. For ‘The Toddler’, I was thinking more along the lines of his three little friends, or rather my three friends’ children, coming over for a round of lunchtime sandwiches in the kitchen. But as the guilt sets in, I will buy him a new shirt to wear, rummage around for some balloons and perhaps take him on his first bus ride to Sturminster Newton.
The two older children were born in London so they travelled on buses, tubes and taxis regularly. Since we have been living in Dorset, we still try and take the odd trip to London on the train and enjoy day trips out to the theatre, ice creams in Harrods ice cream parlour and walks down to Buckingham Palace. I am ashamed to admit, The Toddler has never been on a train, bus or taxi to London or anywhere else. In fact, as my five-year-old daughter pointed out, he has not even had a Babycino in Starbucks. Last year, he did not make our holiday in Cambodia and instead spent two weeks with Granny and Grandpa In fact, that is where he has spent much of his first two years. And more often than not, he is accompanied by his best friend, Molly, our border terrorist. In fact, over the past two years, he has barely left the village other than on the weekly shop to the local supermarket.
At home, he is a very relaxed little boy. Thank goodness, I hear you say. He is perfectly happy to play with all the old toys that his siblings were given. He is satisfied being dressed in perfectly good clothes passed down from his brother, with only the odd button missing. He is content with his Mummy reading him a rather sticky old book at bedtime, albeit at record speed as her mind turns to homework, laying out school uniform and reading to the other two.
With his birthday looming, which unfortunately he shares with his sister, my mother casts my mind back to my daughter’s second birthday. We hired a room in a children’s restaurant in London where she enjoyed an afternoon of soft play alongside fifteen of her two-year-old friends. The photographs show her sitting at the end of a large table, wearing the most beautiful dress, with the most phenomenal tea displayed before her. For ‘The Toddler’, I was thinking more along the lines of his three little friends, or rather my three friends’ children, coming over for a round of lunchtime sandwiches in the kitchen. But as the guilt sets in, I will buy him a new shirt to wear, rummage around for some balloons and perhaps take him on his first bus ride to Sturminster Newton.
Thursday, 20 December 2007
The Nativity
This year, the children have shown much interest in the Nativity story. This has largely been helped by school. Our daughter has played the proud part of an innkeeper in the school play and our son has been very busy ‘sounding out’ the word ‘Bethlehem’. We have also had the Travelling Holy Family visit us, which has caused much discussion. This a group of nativity figures, knitted by our village Mother’s Union, who travel around different families in the village in the weeks leading up to Christmas, finally arriving at the Church on Christmas Eve. Each family keeps it for a night and is allowed to keep one of the knitted sheep as a momento. This thrilled the children and as I set about reading them the Christmas story accompanying it, I was a little unprepared for the mass of questions that followed.
My four-year-old son, needless to say, was most interested in The Baddy, also known as King Herod and was desperately disappointed that his picture did not appear in any of the nativity stories we have in our house. He was also interested in what jobs Mary and Jospeh did. My daughter answered this question without hesitation, saying, “Mary was a cleaner and Joseph was a builder.” When asked why she thought Mary was a cleaner, she confidently replied, “Because she carries a broom.” I should have known that any child would have come to the same conclusion as Mary is often portrayed sweeping around the stable – impressive when you have travelled on a donkey for hundreds of miles before giving birth. Joseph of course carries tools, explaining his building expertise.
The questionning then moved onto the gifts. After giving the briefest explanations of gold, frankincense and myrrh, which I could clearly see puzzled them, my son asked, “Did Father Christmas come to the stable that night and leave Jesus a stocking?” Oh goodness, this was getting tricky. Thankfully, my daughter changed the subject and said, “It was a bit like a christening. The kings and shepherds were Jesus’ godparents.” Well, that is a good way of looking at it and we were on safer territory than Rudolph and his sleigh landing on the roof of the stable.
Later that afternoon, my son was peering at the small wooden nativity scene in our sitting room, clearly deep in thought. He turned to me and said, “Mummy, how did they all go to the loo in the stable?” I pondered briefly as to whether I should launch into the inventions of modern appliances and decided against it. I expect they just used a corner of the stable, I explained. That evening as I passed the stable, I looked down to see a small wooden loo, which had been moved from the dolls house to pride of place at the front of the stable beside the crib. Well, we do try don’t we!
My four-year-old son, needless to say, was most interested in The Baddy, also known as King Herod and was desperately disappointed that his picture did not appear in any of the nativity stories we have in our house. He was also interested in what jobs Mary and Jospeh did. My daughter answered this question without hesitation, saying, “Mary was a cleaner and Joseph was a builder.” When asked why she thought Mary was a cleaner, she confidently replied, “Because she carries a broom.” I should have known that any child would have come to the same conclusion as Mary is often portrayed sweeping around the stable – impressive when you have travelled on a donkey for hundreds of miles before giving birth. Joseph of course carries tools, explaining his building expertise.
The questionning then moved onto the gifts. After giving the briefest explanations of gold, frankincense and myrrh, which I could clearly see puzzled them, my son asked, “Did Father Christmas come to the stable that night and leave Jesus a stocking?” Oh goodness, this was getting tricky. Thankfully, my daughter changed the subject and said, “It was a bit like a christening. The kings and shepherds were Jesus’ godparents.” Well, that is a good way of looking at it and we were on safer territory than Rudolph and his sleigh landing on the roof of the stable.
Later that afternoon, my son was peering at the small wooden nativity scene in our sitting room, clearly deep in thought. He turned to me and said, “Mummy, how did they all go to the loo in the stable?” I pondered briefly as to whether I should launch into the inventions of modern appliances and decided against it. I expect they just used a corner of the stable, I explained. That evening as I passed the stable, I looked down to see a small wooden loo, which had been moved from the dolls house to pride of place at the front of the stable beside the crib. Well, we do try don’t we!
Friday, 14 December 2007
The Advent Calendar
The countdown to Christmas has begun. We are now on day seven of the beloved Advent Calendars and only another 17 exciting mornings to go. This year, I gave in to the childrens’ continuous requests for a chocolate calendar.
They could barely contain themselves in the days leading up to the 1st of December. They shrieked with excitement when they came down for breakfast to find their Advent Calendars on the kitchen table ready for the ceremonial opening of the first door. As a mother of three twittering starlings, I have to pay tribute to the Advent Calendar. Over the past few days, the children have been up promptly, dressed in record time and even cleaned their cereal bowls of each and every remaining Rice Crispie. They sit perfectly still and quiet, as I take the calendars down from the top shelf of the dresser. Woe betide any small hands or the paws of a passing border terrorist opening a door early. They excitedly search for the number and their little fingers work frantically at the small door, desperate for the sight of the small brown chocolate shape. My son struggles with his small blunt nails, trying to shift the chocolate from its plastic nest. Then, there is the excitement of working out what the shape is and the further excitement of the Nativity picture behind. The Advent Calendar also works as quite a useful bribery tool in our house. Last Sunday, we all braved church once more and sat at the back, desperately trying not to distract the rest of the congregation with our brood. When my son began building a tower out of kneelers and then knocking them down, much to The Baby’s utter delight, I was able to hiss at him, “If you continue with that, you will not have your advent calendar tomorrow morning.” With that, he promptly sat bolt upright on his chair, his hands neatly on his lap staring straight ahead of him.
The Advent Calendar, with or without chocolates, is a marvellous tradition. It helps the children enjoy the anticipation of the coming of Christmas rather than just one solitary day. With any luck, some of the pictures or chocolate shapes behind the 24 doors remind them about the meaning of Christmas. And just as the build-up of Father Christmas gets children to reflect on their behaviour, perhaps the advent calendar does the same. There are more than one million advent calendars sold each year around the world, so I hope there are many more families like us enjoying a December of more well-behaved, albeit very excited children.
They could barely contain themselves in the days leading up to the 1st of December. They shrieked with excitement when they came down for breakfast to find their Advent Calendars on the kitchen table ready for the ceremonial opening of the first door. As a mother of three twittering starlings, I have to pay tribute to the Advent Calendar. Over the past few days, the children have been up promptly, dressed in record time and even cleaned their cereal bowls of each and every remaining Rice Crispie. They sit perfectly still and quiet, as I take the calendars down from the top shelf of the dresser. Woe betide any small hands or the paws of a passing border terrorist opening a door early. They excitedly search for the number and their little fingers work frantically at the small door, desperate for the sight of the small brown chocolate shape. My son struggles with his small blunt nails, trying to shift the chocolate from its plastic nest. Then, there is the excitement of working out what the shape is and the further excitement of the Nativity picture behind. The Advent Calendar also works as quite a useful bribery tool in our house. Last Sunday, we all braved church once more and sat at the back, desperately trying not to distract the rest of the congregation with our brood. When my son began building a tower out of kneelers and then knocking them down, much to The Baby’s utter delight, I was able to hiss at him, “If you continue with that, you will not have your advent calendar tomorrow morning.” With that, he promptly sat bolt upright on his chair, his hands neatly on his lap staring straight ahead of him.
The Advent Calendar, with or without chocolates, is a marvellous tradition. It helps the children enjoy the anticipation of the coming of Christmas rather than just one solitary day. With any luck, some of the pictures or chocolate shapes behind the 24 doors remind them about the meaning of Christmas. And just as the build-up of Father Christmas gets children to reflect on their behaviour, perhaps the advent calendar does the same. There are more than one million advent calendars sold each year around the world, so I hope there are many more families like us enjoying a December of more well-behaved, albeit very excited children.
Friday, 7 December 2007
Christmas decorations
My husband is standing on the back of a chair with his head peering into the loft, whilst I am sitting on it to avoid it tipping. We certainly do not want any broken limbs for Christmas. Typically, the ladder is somewhere buried in the outside shed, so we are resorting to the kitchen chair for assistance. He hauls himself up into the loft opening and rummages around for the box of Christmas decorations. The children stare bewildered at the whole charade. After a few groans and grunts from the black hole above us, my husband shouts out, “Found it. I knew I’d put it somewhere up here.” He then passes it down to me through the hatch, with the three children surrounding me like some sort of safety net.
We begin sifting through the decorations, rapidly removing the small torn crackers that have clearly been enjoyed by a small mouse. The children excitedly pull out everything glittery, including two long strands of tinsel which they wave around the room. I try to remain calm and ‘merry’ as silver tinsel scatters itself across the carpet in every direction. “I think those would look lovely in your bedrooms,” I say hastily. Meanwhile, I open the box of Mummy’s special decorations – all things wooden. Once we have spent the first half an hour positioning the tree, we begin decorating. I must come clean here and admit that having wrestled with pine needles for years, we now have a fake tree that although has no gorgeous smell, does avoid having to drag the vacuum cleaner around the tree every day. Also, our tree comes with lights perfectly attached to the branches. “How ghastly,” I hear you say. But now, there is no need for my husband to lie under the tree spending a good first hour checking each small bulb to find out why the lights fail to come on, whilst the children look on sobbing.
Obviously, I like my children to participate with the whole tree decorating task, but it is desperately hard to watch as the front branches become more and more crowded leaving the side and back branches miserably bare. Then, we have the mass of homemade decorations – the glittery gluey pom pom resembling some sort of snowflake, the paper fan-shaped angel and the new addition in the form of a cardboard lantern covered in stickers. These are of course given prime position in the front, for all to admire. At one point I dare to say, “Don’t you think the lantern would look really nice here darling?” My daughter is quick to reply, “But, no one can see it at the back, Mummy.” Finally, we all step back, switch on the lights and delight in our Christmas masterpiece.
Later that evening, when “nothing was stirring, not even a mouse” I tiptoe downstairs and quietly make some minor adjustments to my beloved tree. I just wonder how long it will take them to notice that the small painted white wooden angel has been upgraded to the front, and the pom pom has been relegated to the back row!
We begin sifting through the decorations, rapidly removing the small torn crackers that have clearly been enjoyed by a small mouse. The children excitedly pull out everything glittery, including two long strands of tinsel which they wave around the room. I try to remain calm and ‘merry’ as silver tinsel scatters itself across the carpet in every direction. “I think those would look lovely in your bedrooms,” I say hastily. Meanwhile, I open the box of Mummy’s special decorations – all things wooden. Once we have spent the first half an hour positioning the tree, we begin decorating. I must come clean here and admit that having wrestled with pine needles for years, we now have a fake tree that although has no gorgeous smell, does avoid having to drag the vacuum cleaner around the tree every day. Also, our tree comes with lights perfectly attached to the branches. “How ghastly,” I hear you say. But now, there is no need for my husband to lie under the tree spending a good first hour checking each small bulb to find out why the lights fail to come on, whilst the children look on sobbing.
Obviously, I like my children to participate with the whole tree decorating task, but it is desperately hard to watch as the front branches become more and more crowded leaving the side and back branches miserably bare. Then, we have the mass of homemade decorations – the glittery gluey pom pom resembling some sort of snowflake, the paper fan-shaped angel and the new addition in the form of a cardboard lantern covered in stickers. These are of course given prime position in the front, for all to admire. At one point I dare to say, “Don’t you think the lantern would look really nice here darling?” My daughter is quick to reply, “But, no one can see it at the back, Mummy.” Finally, we all step back, switch on the lights and delight in our Christmas masterpiece.
Later that evening, when “nothing was stirring, not even a mouse” I tiptoe downstairs and quietly make some minor adjustments to my beloved tree. I just wonder how long it will take them to notice that the small painted white wooden angel has been upgraded to the front, and the pom pom has been relegated to the back row!
The Christmas play
This morning, I was awoken by a little voice singing. “Welcome, welcome. This is our Christmas story.” It was my daughter, gaily lying in bed rehearsing her school song for the forthcoming annual Christmas play. This is what my five-year-old looks forward to all year. If you ask her what she likes most about school, she will speedily reply, “the Christmas show,” and she can barely contain herself in the days leading up to the performance. As parents, we love the play too and I usually end up blubbing into my husband’s sleeve, the minute my child appears dressed up on the stage.
My four-year-old son is also entering the school play scene this year but he takes a different approach to it all. He is pleased to be taking part but, to my relief, is intent on keeping the show a complete surprise. This is impossible for my daughter. Last year, Singing Santa appeared in our house in the middle of November. She rehearsed the song most days leading up to the play. Thankfully, we were given respite when she was at school. However, I soon found myself humming, “Guess what? A baby boy is born,” while pushing my trolley up supermarket aisles. These festive songs have extremely catchy tunes and simple lyrics, to appeal to their small vocalists. Even my husband got hooked and we were subjected to deep renditions of “Santa’s on his sleigh tonight. Way up high, way up high,” bellowing out from the bathroom.
When I was a child, I do not remember singing these catchy little jovial tunes. I remember having to learn, ‘Little Donkey’ ‘Away in a Manger’ and ‘We wish you a Merry Christmas,’ if the school were feeling a little racey that year. The performance was always the nativity play. The story was read out beautifully by the narrator, who was of course our very best reader and learnt by an understudy, the second best reader, should one get a cold. I was always one of those children who was an angel year after year. In fact, usually one of the angels in the back row. I remember my teacher saying to me, when she read out the appointed cast, “Sophie you always make such a good angel.” Yes, I thought, just standing at the back in a white sheet, with the only tiny excitement being the halo, a strand of tinsel hanging around my mouse brown fringe. I used to look longingly at the pretty, little angelic girl who year after year played the part of Mary. She wore a beautiful sky blue dress and got to hold a small doll throughout the play.
Thankfully, there are no auditions for Singing Santas or reindeers. They are just one big merry group singing, “All we need is a place to stay. Please Mr innkee.. (you have to pause, Mummy) ..per what do you say?” as loud as they can. We have mastered the tune, stocked up on packets of tissues and will no doubt be humming it well into 2009.
My four-year-old son is also entering the school play scene this year but he takes a different approach to it all. He is pleased to be taking part but, to my relief, is intent on keeping the show a complete surprise. This is impossible for my daughter. Last year, Singing Santa appeared in our house in the middle of November. She rehearsed the song most days leading up to the play. Thankfully, we were given respite when she was at school. However, I soon found myself humming, “Guess what? A baby boy is born,” while pushing my trolley up supermarket aisles. These festive songs have extremely catchy tunes and simple lyrics, to appeal to their small vocalists. Even my husband got hooked and we were subjected to deep renditions of “Santa’s on his sleigh tonight. Way up high, way up high,” bellowing out from the bathroom.
When I was a child, I do not remember singing these catchy little jovial tunes. I remember having to learn, ‘Little Donkey’ ‘Away in a Manger’ and ‘We wish you a Merry Christmas,’ if the school were feeling a little racey that year. The performance was always the nativity play. The story was read out beautifully by the narrator, who was of course our very best reader and learnt by an understudy, the second best reader, should one get a cold. I was always one of those children who was an angel year after year. In fact, usually one of the angels in the back row. I remember my teacher saying to me, when she read out the appointed cast, “Sophie you always make such a good angel.” Yes, I thought, just standing at the back in a white sheet, with the only tiny excitement being the halo, a strand of tinsel hanging around my mouse brown fringe. I used to look longingly at the pretty, little angelic girl who year after year played the part of Mary. She wore a beautiful sky blue dress and got to hold a small doll throughout the play.
Thankfully, there are no auditions for Singing Santas or reindeers. They are just one big merry group singing, “All we need is a place to stay. Please Mr innkee.. (you have to pause, Mummy) ..per what do you say?” as loud as they can. We have mastered the tune, stocked up on packets of tissues and will no doubt be humming it well into 2009.
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