‘Cast on’, ‘Fasten off’, ‘Garter and Stocking’. This is a language that meant nothing to me until a few weekends ago, when I went on a knitting course. Apparently knitting is the “new yoga.” Knitting clubs, knitting cafes and knitting-obsessed celebrities are becoming more commonplace. So, off I went to ‘Little Red Hen’ in Shaftesbury to follow in the steps of knitting-crazed celebs, Julia Roberts, Madonna and Cameron Diaz.
I have to be honest, I felt a little nervous about the course. Some people in life are naturally creative and artistic but I am certainly not. My limited experience of sewing ended in the school classroom when I was thrown out of lessons for consistently snapping needles and breaking bobbins in the sewing machine. In our house, if buttons fall off they find themselves at the back of a drawer, holey socks go in the bin and name tapes sit in a great heap at my mother’s house at the start of each term.
The course took place in a little room above the shop, which inspires you the minute you walk in. Pretty buntings hang across the old beams, small gingham ducks decorate a tree in the corner, beautiful children’s cardigans and jumpers hang on painted hangers and lavender-filled cushions are scattered around, creating the perfect artistic setting. At first, it felt a bit like an AA meeting as the five of us sat around introducing ourselves and saying what we wanted to get out of the ‘knitting experience’. I wanted to find a hobby that was relaxing and enabled me to totally switch off from my frenetic lifestyle. I had read that knitting was good for you – research shows it slows the pulse rate and lowers your blood pressure.
We ‘Cast on’ over cappacinos, ‘stocking stitched’ over Turnbulls’ sandwiches and nattered over our knitted squares. Our teacher, Alison, patiently unpicked and praised us with words of encouragement. Once we had ‘Cast off,’ I left proudly holding my small square, having officially joined the knitting revolution. I made some good knitting pals and have since been full of inspiration. I am two triangles down on my ‘bunting’ which I am making for the baby’s room although, admittedly, it has taken me three days. I would encourage any of you who want to relax, be creative, or just follow the celebrity trend, to grab your needles and ‘Cast on’ with us.
Friday, 30 March 2007
Friday, 23 March 2007
Time to read
The rain is pouring down outside on a gloomy, grey Sunday morning. The Roast is in the oven, albeit a bit behind schedule as usual, my daughter is tapping away on CBeebies website, my son is motor rallying, half naked, around the kitchen on the back of his black plastic motorbike and the baby is busy picking pieces of mud off a pair of small wellies thrown into the utility room. The perfect opportunity to leaf through the Sunday newspapers, or so I thought.
My favorite sections are lying in front of me – Property (to glance at my dream houses), Food and Drink (because I am always quite partial to both) and Travel (to look longingly at sun drenched beaches in far off places). However, I had barely finished the first sentence of “100 Most Luxurious Hotels in the World”, when I am interrupted by, “Mummy, I’m hungry. When’s lunch?” Followed by, “Mummy, can I have a biscuit? Mummy, how do I play this game? Mummy, the dog wants to go out, Mummy, the baby is climbing up the stairs, Mummy, how does God make loo paper?” So, the newspapers sit there, neatly folded and shortly find themselves at the bottom of the recycling bin, unread once again. Meanwhile, my husband quite calmly and happily reads the Business section of the newspaper every Sunday undisturbed by continuous questions and completely oblivious to three small childen frolicking around him.
I never thought I would find myself literally longing to read – whether it is a newspaper, a book, or even a magazine. Now, I sympathise with mothers who tell me they sometimes feel like their, “brains have gone to mush.” Mine definitely has and it is not surprising when my daily reading material does not now stretch beyond my daughter’s ‘Biff and Chip’ school books, or my son’s favourite ‘Three Little Pigs’. Occasionally, I decide to go to bed extra early and take a handful of reading material up with me. However, this usually results in reading a page, getting to the bottom and then realising I have not a clue what I have just read as I am mentally drawing up tomorrow’s ‘To Do’ list. Alternatively, I just fall asleep with the light on, with a book lying unopened beside me.
So congratulations to all those mothers who have managed to reach the end of this article without any interruptions.
My favorite sections are lying in front of me – Property (to glance at my dream houses), Food and Drink (because I am always quite partial to both) and Travel (to look longingly at sun drenched beaches in far off places). However, I had barely finished the first sentence of “100 Most Luxurious Hotels in the World”, when I am interrupted by, “Mummy, I’m hungry. When’s lunch?” Followed by, “Mummy, can I have a biscuit? Mummy, how do I play this game? Mummy, the dog wants to go out, Mummy, the baby is climbing up the stairs, Mummy, how does God make loo paper?” So, the newspapers sit there, neatly folded and shortly find themselves at the bottom of the recycling bin, unread once again. Meanwhile, my husband quite calmly and happily reads the Business section of the newspaper every Sunday undisturbed by continuous questions and completely oblivious to three small childen frolicking around him.
I never thought I would find myself literally longing to read – whether it is a newspaper, a book, or even a magazine. Now, I sympathise with mothers who tell me they sometimes feel like their, “brains have gone to mush.” Mine definitely has and it is not surprising when my daily reading material does not now stretch beyond my daughter’s ‘Biff and Chip’ school books, or my son’s favourite ‘Three Little Pigs’. Occasionally, I decide to go to bed extra early and take a handful of reading material up with me. However, this usually results in reading a page, getting to the bottom and then realising I have not a clue what I have just read as I am mentally drawing up tomorrow’s ‘To Do’ list. Alternatively, I just fall asleep with the light on, with a book lying unopened beside me.
So congratulations to all those mothers who have managed to reach the end of this article without any interruptions.
Friday, 16 March 2007
Trantrums
You pour cornflakes into the breakfast bowl instead of Weetabix. This is enough to set off the first whiney whinge, evolving into crying and accelerating into a full raging temper tantrum. The next half an hour is then spent reasoning, coaxing, diverting, bribing or just ignoring. Anything to put an end to the little red faced person standing before you screaming (oh – and the baby joins in just for good measure).
Our son, bless his little Spiderman socks, is a professional ‘Temper Tantrumist’. Being three, he has got it down to a fine art, having practised hard at it for the past year. I find myself thinking ahead to potential hazards. Have we got the right wellies with us, are the crusts cut off his toast? Ridiculous I know, but faced with a tantrum, I will do whatever it takes to fend them off.
The worst is the public Temper Tantrum. Lying on the floor rigid and screaming at full volume to attract the most attention possible. Most spectators look on either sympathetically or disapprovingly. However, we all suspect they are thinking that we can’t control our child. To our relief we recently saw someone else’s child having a major tantrum in public, to which my husband turned around excitedly and cried out, “Bring it on.”
On one tantrum occasion, someone said, “You need to consult Super Nanny.” Horrified at the thought that I was considered a totally inadequate mother, I took their advice and watched the programme. It featured children (and parents) at their very worst. Our family seemed angelic. However, it did prompt us to introduce ‘The Naughty Step’. You place the child on a step, to reflect on its behaviour for a minute for each year of its life (three minutes for a three year old etc). More often than not, our children promptly got straight off it. I see there are now even mobile naughty mats, which you can use in public places. So you could soon find yourself dodging children parked on little mats in the aisles of supermarkets.
We will continue to ride the wave of temper tantrums, and as for Super Nanny’s advice, I have decided to place myself on the naughty step for 33 minutes of my 33 years and reflect on my behaviour, preferably with a large glass of Chablis in my hand.
Our son, bless his little Spiderman socks, is a professional ‘Temper Tantrumist’. Being three, he has got it down to a fine art, having practised hard at it for the past year. I find myself thinking ahead to potential hazards. Have we got the right wellies with us, are the crusts cut off his toast? Ridiculous I know, but faced with a tantrum, I will do whatever it takes to fend them off.
The worst is the public Temper Tantrum. Lying on the floor rigid and screaming at full volume to attract the most attention possible. Most spectators look on either sympathetically or disapprovingly. However, we all suspect they are thinking that we can’t control our child. To our relief we recently saw someone else’s child having a major tantrum in public, to which my husband turned around excitedly and cried out, “Bring it on.”
On one tantrum occasion, someone said, “You need to consult Super Nanny.” Horrified at the thought that I was considered a totally inadequate mother, I took their advice and watched the programme. It featured children (and parents) at their very worst. Our family seemed angelic. However, it did prompt us to introduce ‘The Naughty Step’. You place the child on a step, to reflect on its behaviour for a minute for each year of its life (three minutes for a three year old etc). More often than not, our children promptly got straight off it. I see there are now even mobile naughty mats, which you can use in public places. So you could soon find yourself dodging children parked on little mats in the aisles of supermarkets.
We will continue to ride the wave of temper tantrums, and as for Super Nanny’s advice, I have decided to place myself on the naughty step for 33 minutes of my 33 years and reflect on my behaviour, preferably with a large glass of Chablis in my hand.
Friday, 9 March 2007
Safety versus sanity
I strap my children in and out of car seats on average 55 times a week (excluding weekends). That is around 1,860 times a year. The whole ‘strapping in’ exercise takes around eight minutes, with my ‘behind’ sticking out of the rear car doors, heaving children into their seats, fumbling around trying to locate each clip that fits into the right buckle and adjusting straps to allow for the relevant clothing (avoid the puffa jackets!). I then reappear red-faced, with a slight twinge in the back and ready to screech at the top of my voice across the fields.
Weekends are even worse, when we resort to car seat planning sessions to ensure that we always have the right seats in the right car, for the different trips. Inevitably, the plans change or we are late, so my husband flies into ‘car seat panic mode’ flinging the wretched seats across the driveway in frustration.
Spare a thought too for poor grandparents who kindly agree to help out ferrying children around. Mastering the fastening of the car seat can result in many staying at home and avoiding any trips out in the car whatsoever.
According to the new law, I will be required to use three car seats for another seven years until my daughter either hits 12 years or meets the 135cm height restriction. Each child requires a different kind of seat depending on their age, each with different buckles and fasteners which require studying an instruction manual, which in our case usually finds itself unread in the bin in the box it came in.
Interestingly, taxis are not legally obliged to use car seats for children. I am unsure why they are any safer than parents in people carriers. However, some firms, such as Handy Cabs of Stalbridge, do insist on passengers bringing their own car seats. (They deserve a mention as our five-year-old daughter was sick over the back seat of their taxi last week!)
Obviously we all endorse safety for children, but I am beginning to wonder whether this is part of a secret Government environmental initiative to put parents off using their cars altogether and go by foot instead.
Weekends are even worse, when we resort to car seat planning sessions to ensure that we always have the right seats in the right car, for the different trips. Inevitably, the plans change or we are late, so my husband flies into ‘car seat panic mode’ flinging the wretched seats across the driveway in frustration.
Spare a thought too for poor grandparents who kindly agree to help out ferrying children around. Mastering the fastening of the car seat can result in many staying at home and avoiding any trips out in the car whatsoever.
According to the new law, I will be required to use three car seats for another seven years until my daughter either hits 12 years or meets the 135cm height restriction. Each child requires a different kind of seat depending on their age, each with different buckles and fasteners which require studying an instruction manual, which in our case usually finds itself unread in the bin in the box it came in.
Interestingly, taxis are not legally obliged to use car seats for children. I am unsure why they are any safer than parents in people carriers. However, some firms, such as Handy Cabs of Stalbridge, do insist on passengers bringing their own car seats. (They deserve a mention as our five-year-old daughter was sick over the back seat of their taxi last week!)
Obviously we all endorse safety for children, but I am beginning to wonder whether this is part of a secret Government environmental initiative to put parents off using their cars altogether and go by foot instead.
Friday, 2 March 2007
The cake sale
The children skip out of school and thrust a letter into my hand. It asks if parents would, “bake a cake for the Cake Sale.” It is two weeks away, but the pressure is on and I am already starting to panic.
Thoughts of the nice chocolate cake on display at the local Farm Shop spring to mind. No one will ever know if I destroy the packaging and pretend it is mine. But guilt sets in and my mother says, “As a mother, it is about time you learnt how to bake a cake.” Turning to cooking guru, Mary Berry, I discover a fail-safe recipe. The dreaded deadline arrives. Apron on, children parked in front of a DVD and an assortment of cooking utensils lined up alongside double the ingredients, to allow for disasters. I meticulously follow the recipe and wait nervously, peering into the oven while it cooks. It comes out a little miserable with a sunken middle but it will look fine once the icing is on.
At teatime, my daughter spots the cake and says in amazement, “Did you make that?” They then ask to try a piece which is probably a good idea, given it is a first. Which means that night, I am under even more pressure to repeat the whole exercise again. By 10pm, the finished product is carefully wrapped in foil ready to take to school the next day. Nightmares set in about who in the village will buy it and be exposed to my inept baking. The next day, I guiltily slap a sticker on the top of the cake saying, “Made by a 3-year-old” and ask my mother to drop it in at the school. My strategy is to lie low for the next few days and avoid eye contact with other parents. Later that week, as I am picking up my daughter from school, a voice shouts across the playground, “We bought your cake. It was delicious.” Grabbing the childrens’ hands, I skip to the car and breathe a huge sigh of relief. The mother of three has finally conquered her fear of cake baking.
Thoughts of the nice chocolate cake on display at the local Farm Shop spring to mind. No one will ever know if I destroy the packaging and pretend it is mine. But guilt sets in and my mother says, “As a mother, it is about time you learnt how to bake a cake.” Turning to cooking guru, Mary Berry, I discover a fail-safe recipe. The dreaded deadline arrives. Apron on, children parked in front of a DVD and an assortment of cooking utensils lined up alongside double the ingredients, to allow for disasters. I meticulously follow the recipe and wait nervously, peering into the oven while it cooks. It comes out a little miserable with a sunken middle but it will look fine once the icing is on.
At teatime, my daughter spots the cake and says in amazement, “Did you make that?” They then ask to try a piece which is probably a good idea, given it is a first. Which means that night, I am under even more pressure to repeat the whole exercise again. By 10pm, the finished product is carefully wrapped in foil ready to take to school the next day. Nightmares set in about who in the village will buy it and be exposed to my inept baking. The next day, I guiltily slap a sticker on the top of the cake saying, “Made by a 3-year-old” and ask my mother to drop it in at the school. My strategy is to lie low for the next few days and avoid eye contact with other parents. Later that week, as I am picking up my daughter from school, a voice shouts across the playground, “We bought your cake. It was delicious.” Grabbing the childrens’ hands, I skip to the car and breathe a huge sigh of relief. The mother of three has finally conquered her fear of cake baking.
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