Building the Bed

“I challenge you to build that bed in two hours,” says my husband. The huge flat packed box is laid out before me, complete with numerous pieces of wood, small packets of screws and a very brief instruction leaflet. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult. After all, it was only a Toddler bed.

My husband promptly declared himself out of the whole exercise and said he was of much better use preparing the groundwork. Good idea, I thought as he moved a chest of drawers to one side and swung the hand-held Hoover around a few cobwebs. I was ready to take on the challenge. I began by following in Grandpa’s footsteps by laying out all the relevant tools and mounds of bolts in small groups around me, carefully counting each one and checking it against the instructions. Meanwhile the boys who were extremely excited about the prospect of sharing a room for the first time, decided that I needed a little extra help. They dressed up in their builder’s hard hats, pairs of goggles and Wellington boots and began helping sifting through my tool kit.

Moments later, with one plank of the bed securely fastened, I turned to find my carefully placed screws scattered across the carpet. “I need them,” cried the Toddler as he hammered one into the wall surrounded by paint chippings. I tried to remain calm, thinking this could be a valuable building bonding experience with my boys. The problem was it was getting dark, I was undertaking an important challenge and the clock was ticking. “Now, where is that Alan key?” I ask calmly. Needless to say, they look at me blankly. Admittedly I had not seen it but it clearly told me in the instructions that it was included and it would be impossible to build the bed without it. After half an hour spent searching, stepping outside to shriek out my frustration across the fields, I return to the challenge, using a rather useless screwdriver and my finger nail as back up.

After another few hours and well past the challenged deadline I collapse in a heap on the pocket size bed that resembles something a small doll would sleep in. I shout to the boys that it is finally finished. They pile in excitedly, briefly glance at me lying on my carefully crafted bed and quickly turn their attention to the huge cardboard box beside me. “Cool. Can we make a rocket out of this?”

A Muslim in the Making

“I’ve got something important to tell you,” says my six-year-old daughter. She stands there, hands on hips in preparation for her important announcement. “I’ve decided I want to become a Muslim.” There is a silent moment as she fixes her eyes on me waiting for my reaction to her new idea and I rapidly plan my response. “How lovely, darling,” I reply. After a few more moments of silence, I casually ask, “Why?”

It had been a while since she read the Biff and Chip book entitled Mosque School and as far as I was aware they were not yet studying Islam at school. However, we have made a recent visit to the Middle East, which had obviously sowed the seeds in her small six-year-old mind. This was clearly not something she had just thought up over night.

She begins to go through the rationale behind her important decision with surprising clarity. She says that one of the most appealing reasons is that she can marry one of the most popular boys in the class along with three of her friends. Being a very uncompetitive child, this seems to her a much more appealing way of securing her husband. Being one of four wives would also enable her to live alongside her three best girl friends, enjoying never ending sleepovers. Another attraction is the clothes. She is quite partial to the black Abaya and the Hijab that covers the head and describes it as “beautiful”. She points out the advantages of only having to put out underwear the night before school and not having to think about what to wear at weekends. It would also provide much amusement in the classroom when the teachers could not see her expression towards yet more Maths and no one would be able to watch her eat her cheese sandwich beneath her veil at lunchtime.

Over the last few days I hear from other parents that she has briefed her friends on the benefits of Islam in the playground and when she gets home she is quick to abandon her school uniform for a black cloak and headdress. She has agreed to remove her veil during mealtimes as after all, we are all family and spaghetti hoops are very tricky to eat. I then point out that if she is to continue with her desire to become a Muslim she will have to visit the Mosque, the closest being in Weymouth. And of course she would be expected to visit the Mosque endless times a week, which would mean us spending a lot of time in the car driving her down there. After sleeping on this thought, she arrives down at breakfast and declares over her cornflakes, “I’ve decided to wait to become a Muslim until after Christmas.” “Very sensible,” I casually reply with a smile.

Committees

At the weekend, I spoke to a friend who a few months ago moved to a small local village. She seemed a bit down on the phone and not her usual jolly self. Eventually, I asked, “Are you all right?” She replied, “Not really.” She told me she was stressed. She had joined the village Mother and Toddler Group and tomorrow she had been asked to kick off the session by singing the Welcome Song. At this point I got the giggles. This was my friend who until recently had been a high-powered fabric designer in London, used to numerous business meetings with extremely wealthy individuals and celebrities. And here she was terrified about the thought of singing, “Welcome floppy bunnies,” to a small group of toddlers and their mothers.

She went on to tell me that she had joined the Village Hall committee and a number of other small groups, which she now utterly regretted. It turns out that in a village as small as hers, she had barely had time to unpack the removal van before villagers came calling delighted with the prospect of a new young recruit. As with many, she felt obliged to join, keen to be accepted and establish herself as part of the community. The slight issue is that she has two small children under 3 and a husband who works long unsociable hours.

This got me thinking. What is the perfect recruit for village committees? There are those who simply ‘don’t do committees’ usually based on a bad experience like falling out with the Chairman or being so proactive that it reduced them to an anxious wreck. There is the ‘silent member’ who dutifully attends every meeting, keeps quiet and scuttles away at the end hoping that no one will collar them for the Sponsored Bounce. There is the highly efficient member who runs the committee like a blue chip AGM, flipping open a laptop and tapping out the minutes live. Finally, there is the crème de la crème committee member who is not phased by the amount of work involved and juggles a job, children and pets, topped off with the church flowers every week. They are enthusiastic, willing and greet every cake and Table Top sale with open arms.

Joining The Committee is something most of us do at some point, whether it is out of duty or for enjoyment. However, it can be a bit like taking on a job without reading the job description. I feel certain that my friend would have stuck a sign on her front door reading ‘No Committee Requests Please’ if she had read the small print on public singing. And once you have been recruited it is very difficult to resign. She could be ‘Winding the Bobbin Up’ with the local toddler group for many years to come. That is until the next removal lorry arrives in the village.