In the days before children, I remember going to church one Sunday and sitting behind a young family, with three small children much the same ages as ours. I watched as they wriggled around whilst their parents desperately tried to keep them under control during the service. The poor mother was utterly horrified when she discovered their small son chewing a piece of gum that he had clearly found stuck under his pew. At the closing hymn, the parents looked genuinely joyful as they bellowed out the words, looking at each other in relief that they only had to endure another few minutes before they could release their children from the church. For me, as an onlooker, it was all fairly amusing.
A few weekends ago, I took the children to church and by the end of it, I was certainly not amused. We arrived promptly, to allow for parking the buggy in a suitably safe location. I confidently directed the children to the second pew from the front, believing it to be important for them to see what is going on. We were of course now in full view of the rest of the congregation. Thankfully, we were diluted by our friends with their three small children who shuffled into the pew behind us. We were kindly offered ‘Busy Bags,’ full of wonderful small, silent distractions for the children, which I politely declined on the basis that I wanted them to concentrate on being in church – a decision I was later going to regret.
For the first fifteen minutes I stood proudly with my little brood quietly nestled around me. It was The Baby who began to get twitchy first. He started wriggling on my knee, decided he wanted to get down and then crawl along the pew. He shouted out, “Ma Ma. Look,” as only a toddler can who has not yet learnt the art of whispering. Predictably this was followed by him hitting his head. There was the silent pause as his small mouth opened and the rip roaring scream erupted which I desperately tried to smother in my jumper. Meanwhile, the other two children had embarked on a loud religious discussion. “God is everywhere,” said my daughter. “He is even in your eye,” added my son. I desperately attempted to sssssh everyone, bribing them with biscuits afterwards. My son then said he needed the loo. In full view of everyone, I shuffled out and strolled down the aisle to the back of the church, with The Baby under my arm. We returned to our seats for some prayers and just as we were silently thinking about our own intentions, my son asked loudly, “Is God going to give us the biscuits soon?” I felt hot and vey flustered. As the vicar told us to “Go in Peace,” I could not hold back and cried out, “Thanks be to God.”
Friday, 9 November 2007
Friday, 2 November 2007
Fluffy
This week, after much pressure from my five-year-old daughter, I feel obliged to dedicate this column to Fluffy. Fluffy is my daughter’s class hamster. Our family has spent much time over the past five weeks talking of little else. We have discussed what she eats, what she likes to play with and how she is feeling each day.
As a parent, I have a lot to thank Fluffy for. My daughter has never had such a happier term at school. We only have to mention Fluffy’s name at breakfast, and a smile breaks out across her face. Her ‘hamster’ vocabulary has been impressively enhanced and her spellings of words such as “saw-dust,” “gnaw” and “rodent” are near perfect.
When she gets into the car after school, I ask, “How was school?” The response used to be something along the lines of, “Alice has crisps in her lunchbox. Can I have crisps tomorrow?” Now, when I ask, more often than not, the response is, “Fluffy wasn’t very keen on playing on her wheel today.” In fact, I gather each day the children sit down for “Fluffy circle time” when they have the opportunity to look closely at Fluffy and chat about her. They have learnt to recognise when she is tired, be considerate to her and to be gentle. She also has a role to play in science lessons and was most recently placed next to a teddy bear, to demonstrate things that are dead or alive. Fluffy also needs plenty of toys, and quite apart from her very own hamster motorbike, she also relies on the children to bring in loo paper rolls. My daughter has taken this very seriously and I have found mounds of loo paper lying on the floor, which she has unravelled from around the cardboard.
As most of us know, hamsters are not blessed with a long and fruitful life. I asked my daughter’s teacher about this and how the children might cope with Fluffy disappearing over night. To my relief, the class teaching assistant also has a hamster called Mr Darcy who looks identical to Fluffy, and apparently he is willing to move into Fluffy’s cage at short notice if necessary.
Thanks to Fluffy, I am no longer under constant pressure to get a hamster, guinea pig or rabbit, something I have resisted for years on the grounds that border terrorists and small pets such as these do not gel well. Our knowledge of hamsters is now extensive but I am delighted that Fluffy (or Mr Darcy!) is confined to a corner of the school classroom and according to my daughter is a very important 22nd member of Year 1.
As a parent, I have a lot to thank Fluffy for. My daughter has never had such a happier term at school. We only have to mention Fluffy’s name at breakfast, and a smile breaks out across her face. Her ‘hamster’ vocabulary has been impressively enhanced and her spellings of words such as “saw-dust,” “gnaw” and “rodent” are near perfect.
When she gets into the car after school, I ask, “How was school?” The response used to be something along the lines of, “Alice has crisps in her lunchbox. Can I have crisps tomorrow?” Now, when I ask, more often than not, the response is, “Fluffy wasn’t very keen on playing on her wheel today.” In fact, I gather each day the children sit down for “Fluffy circle time” when they have the opportunity to look closely at Fluffy and chat about her. They have learnt to recognise when she is tired, be considerate to her and to be gentle. She also has a role to play in science lessons and was most recently placed next to a teddy bear, to demonstrate things that are dead or alive. Fluffy also needs plenty of toys, and quite apart from her very own hamster motorbike, she also relies on the children to bring in loo paper rolls. My daughter has taken this very seriously and I have found mounds of loo paper lying on the floor, which she has unravelled from around the cardboard.
As most of us know, hamsters are not blessed with a long and fruitful life. I asked my daughter’s teacher about this and how the children might cope with Fluffy disappearing over night. To my relief, the class teaching assistant also has a hamster called Mr Darcy who looks identical to Fluffy, and apparently he is willing to move into Fluffy’s cage at short notice if necessary.
Thanks to Fluffy, I am no longer under constant pressure to get a hamster, guinea pig or rabbit, something I have resisted for years on the grounds that border terrorists and small pets such as these do not gel well. Our knowledge of hamsters is now extensive but I am delighted that Fluffy (or Mr Darcy!) is confined to a corner of the school classroom and according to my daughter is a very important 22nd member of Year 1.
Friday, 26 October 2007
Football fanatics
Our son has recently taken up football. Every Saturday at 6am, he arrives in our bedroom fully dressed in his football kit asking if it is time to leave. We then have to fill the next four hours with football build-up, encouraging him to eat as much cereal as possible and if necessary run a few laps round the garden to limber up.
He has joined Tiny Cherries, a locally-run football club in Sturminster Newton, and spends most of his week talking of nothing else. My husband is thrilled at his eldest son’s enthusiasm for any sport, so much so that after the first session, he convinced me that he needed the full football kit – including the over-priced nylon England kit, football boots and shin pads. Now, I should point out that our son is not fourteen, he is in fact four-years-old.
Not only are the children keen, so too are the fathers that show up at the football pitch every Saturday. They do not just stand on the sideline, shouting out the odd word of encouragement, but can barely contain themselves when they are asked by coach, Darren, to help out. My husband excitedly breaks into a casual jog across the pitch to get in position. In fact, it is only a question of time before he too decides he needs the full football kit to really feel the part. On Monday, in the school playground the boys gather together, the bond between them even stronger after another testosterone-fuelled football session. One of the fathers approaches me and starts chatting about how their football skills are coming on. He comments on our son’s shiny, new kit, saying, “Nice kit.” He then adds, “Of course, my son has red socks rather than white. Much more likely to get spotted by the coach, you see.” Naturally, I laugh this off, but when later I mention it to my husband he gasps, puts his head in his hands and says, “Of course. I should have known that.”
As the week’s go by, my son and husband’s competitive instinct increases. On one occasion, my husband was a little embarassed when our son had a massive temper tantrum and marched off the pitch because he was second rather than first in line for the penalty shoot outs. My husband spent the next 20 minutes giving him sports counselling behind a tree, away from his other team mates and, more importantly, the other fathers.
Now, our son has decided he also wants to turn his hand to rugby as long as he can partake in full on tackles, something he regularly rehearses on his sister, The Baby and the border terrorist. My husband tells him, “Football will give you the valuable ball handling techniques for rugby.” With that, the four-year-old skips off saying, “I’m just off to play dinner ladies with my sister.”
He has joined Tiny Cherries, a locally-run football club in Sturminster Newton, and spends most of his week talking of nothing else. My husband is thrilled at his eldest son’s enthusiasm for any sport, so much so that after the first session, he convinced me that he needed the full football kit – including the over-priced nylon England kit, football boots and shin pads. Now, I should point out that our son is not fourteen, he is in fact four-years-old.
Not only are the children keen, so too are the fathers that show up at the football pitch every Saturday. They do not just stand on the sideline, shouting out the odd word of encouragement, but can barely contain themselves when they are asked by coach, Darren, to help out. My husband excitedly breaks into a casual jog across the pitch to get in position. In fact, it is only a question of time before he too decides he needs the full football kit to really feel the part. On Monday, in the school playground the boys gather together, the bond between them even stronger after another testosterone-fuelled football session. One of the fathers approaches me and starts chatting about how their football skills are coming on. He comments on our son’s shiny, new kit, saying, “Nice kit.” He then adds, “Of course, my son has red socks rather than white. Much more likely to get spotted by the coach, you see.” Naturally, I laugh this off, but when later I mention it to my husband he gasps, puts his head in his hands and says, “Of course. I should have known that.”
As the week’s go by, my son and husband’s competitive instinct increases. On one occasion, my husband was a little embarassed when our son had a massive temper tantrum and marched off the pitch because he was second rather than first in line for the penalty shoot outs. My husband spent the next 20 minutes giving him sports counselling behind a tree, away from his other team mates and, more importantly, the other fathers.
Now, our son has decided he also wants to turn his hand to rugby as long as he can partake in full on tackles, something he regularly rehearses on his sister, The Baby and the border terrorist. My husband tells him, “Football will give you the valuable ball handling techniques for rugby.” With that, the four-year-old skips off saying, “I’m just off to play dinner ladies with my sister.”
Friday, 12 October 2007
On-line shopping
When Waitrose announced their on-line shopping service would now reach our village, I was as elated as my mother was when disposable nappies replaced Terries. I would no longer have to endure the performance of getting The Baby’s rigid legs into the trolley, bribe him through my list, realise it is lunchtime so go to the cafe and sit there for half an hour draining a strong double expresso while he munches through a sugary doughnut.
I was quick to fling a DVD on for the children, close the door and log-on in the comfort of my warm kitchen with just me, the laptop and a sleeping border terrorist. Once I had booked my delivery slot, I began scrolling through the on-line aisles. Admittedly it did take time as I dashed round the house checking how much bleach I had left or whether the children needed more toothpaste. I also missed the gorgeous smell of the Bakery as I scrolled through the bread section mulling over the huge array of sliced, crustless, rolls, baps, wholemeal, organic, seeds, malted and the rest. It was no light task, but I checked out delighted to have spent less than usual.
When my delivery day arrived, I was so excited that I rather peculiarly decided to clean my fridge out in preparation. I rummaged around the fridge, clearing out the old garlic bulbs and onions and the out of date chutneys. I then eagerly scrubbed the shelves, as if the Waitrose delivery team was going to vet my fridge before they agreed to leave my precious food. The van pulled up outside and trying to contain my excitement I yelled to my son, “They’re here,” as I skipped out of the gate to greet them. I was met by a very smart man in a suit. “I’m the Manager,” he said cheerfully. He then explained that they were overwhelmed by the response to the service so he was helping out. I was impressed. As he carried my bags into the kitchen, I excitedly leaped around, forgetting I had my slippers on, flinging open the fridge to show him my sparkling shelves. He began to look a little nervous and left quickly. I began unloading my neatly, orderly packed bags. Despite ordering four packets rather than four chicken legs and enjoying some delicious organic butter which I did not order, it was a great success. I celebrated with a glass of Chablis and a Jaffa Cake.
I was quick to fling a DVD on for the children, close the door and log-on in the comfort of my warm kitchen with just me, the laptop and a sleeping border terrorist. Once I had booked my delivery slot, I began scrolling through the on-line aisles. Admittedly it did take time as I dashed round the house checking how much bleach I had left or whether the children needed more toothpaste. I also missed the gorgeous smell of the Bakery as I scrolled through the bread section mulling over the huge array of sliced, crustless, rolls, baps, wholemeal, organic, seeds, malted and the rest. It was no light task, but I checked out delighted to have spent less than usual.
When my delivery day arrived, I was so excited that I rather peculiarly decided to clean my fridge out in preparation. I rummaged around the fridge, clearing out the old garlic bulbs and onions and the out of date chutneys. I then eagerly scrubbed the shelves, as if the Waitrose delivery team was going to vet my fridge before they agreed to leave my precious food. The van pulled up outside and trying to contain my excitement I yelled to my son, “They’re here,” as I skipped out of the gate to greet them. I was met by a very smart man in a suit. “I’m the Manager,” he said cheerfully. He then explained that they were overwhelmed by the response to the service so he was helping out. I was impressed. As he carried my bags into the kitchen, I excitedly leaped around, forgetting I had my slippers on, flinging open the fridge to show him my sparkling shelves. He began to look a little nervous and left quickly. I began unloading my neatly, orderly packed bags. Despite ordering four packets rather than four chicken legs and enjoying some delicious organic butter which I did not order, it was a great success. I celebrated with a glass of Chablis and a Jaffa Cake.
Friday, 5 October 2007
Pass the marmalade, please
Like many people of my generation, I was distinctly rattled to hear that Paddington Bear is now being used to promote Marmite.
The makers of Marmite have launched a new advertisement featuring Paddington sitting down to enjoy a Marmite sandwich. Paddington, being so polite, then shares a piece of his sandwich with a pigeon, who goes beserk at the taste causing a passing bus to crash. The advertisement plays on the “You either love it or hate it” theme. The advertisers are attempting to encourage people like Paddington who are “creatures of habit” to try Marmite.
My children are greatly influenced by television advertisements and if I am not careful they will soon solely associate Paddington Bear with Marmite. I have a problem with this. I want them to think Marmalade when they hear his name and imagine him delving into his suitcase for his sandwich. Paddington loves the chunks in Marmalade, its sweetness and its stickiness on his paws and when he finishes says, “Yes, that’s much better.” Marmite is smooth and above all, salty!
Sadly, Paddington is not alone in being tampered with. Enid Blyton’s adventures are now less dangerous, no doubt for health and safety reasons, The Faraway Tree characters, Dick and Fanny, are now called Rick and Franny and Andy Pandy’s friend, Looby Loo, no longer skips off to do the washing for fear of offending feminists. Perhaps I need to move with the times, but I think one of the lovely things about these traditional books are their old fashioned, innocent, charming styles.
When copies of the most controversial children’s book, Little Black Sambo were re-printed, I ran out to buy one. This is now my childrens’ favourite book. They love the fact that Little Black Sambo outwits a group of tigers by giving them his fine clothes including his purple shoes with crimson soles and crimson linings. They are fascinated by the tigers who chase each other around the tree so fast they turn into “ghi” an Indian term for melted butter. Little Black Sambo’s mother, Black Mumbo, later uses this to cook delicious pancakes. In fact, I often recount this to my children to stop them excitedly chasing each other around the house at bathtime.
Many of these books are part of our heritage. Paddington Bear is far too well-mannered to decline the Marmite, but I, on the other hand will now only buy chunky, sweet, sticky Marmalade.
The makers of Marmite have launched a new advertisement featuring Paddington sitting down to enjoy a Marmite sandwich. Paddington, being so polite, then shares a piece of his sandwich with a pigeon, who goes beserk at the taste causing a passing bus to crash. The advertisement plays on the “You either love it or hate it” theme. The advertisers are attempting to encourage people like Paddington who are “creatures of habit” to try Marmite.
My children are greatly influenced by television advertisements and if I am not careful they will soon solely associate Paddington Bear with Marmite. I have a problem with this. I want them to think Marmalade when they hear his name and imagine him delving into his suitcase for his sandwich. Paddington loves the chunks in Marmalade, its sweetness and its stickiness on his paws and when he finishes says, “Yes, that’s much better.” Marmite is smooth and above all, salty!
Sadly, Paddington is not alone in being tampered with. Enid Blyton’s adventures are now less dangerous, no doubt for health and safety reasons, The Faraway Tree characters, Dick and Fanny, are now called Rick and Franny and Andy Pandy’s friend, Looby Loo, no longer skips off to do the washing for fear of offending feminists. Perhaps I need to move with the times, but I think one of the lovely things about these traditional books are their old fashioned, innocent, charming styles.
When copies of the most controversial children’s book, Little Black Sambo were re-printed, I ran out to buy one. This is now my childrens’ favourite book. They love the fact that Little Black Sambo outwits a group of tigers by giving them his fine clothes including his purple shoes with crimson soles and crimson linings. They are fascinated by the tigers who chase each other around the tree so fast they turn into “ghi” an Indian term for melted butter. Little Black Sambo’s mother, Black Mumbo, later uses this to cook delicious pancakes. In fact, I often recount this to my children to stop them excitedly chasing each other around the house at bathtime.
Many of these books are part of our heritage. Paddington Bear is far too well-mannered to decline the Marmite, but I, on the other hand will now only buy chunky, sweet, sticky Marmalade.
Friday, 28 September 2007
Arts and crafts
As a child, I regularly asked my mother if we could do arts and crafts together. She was never that keen on transforming old loo rolls into fairies with cotton wool heads, covered in gluey glitter and now I know why. My five-year-old daughter adores sitting at the kitchen table, losing herself in crepe paper, coloured sequins, glue and a mass of felt tips. She also regularly asks me to join in. I am quite partial to a bit of sticking but I admit I am also a perfectionist. Put it simply, I am not much of a team player when it comes to art. Last week, we were sticking together a wooden car which we then began to paint. At first, my daughter was thrilled at my enthusiasm but it ended with us squabbling over which colour to paint the bonnet. I almost marched out of the kitchen in a toddler-type strop. Perhaps I am better taking the role of the parent who supervises from a distance and tries to remain calm when the small pot of glitter spills across the kitchen floor.
Thankfully, school provides the perfect forum for arts and crafts. On a daily basis, the children arrive home laden down with artwork. Some of these masterpieces are put in a drawer and treasured forever. However, I must confess that many do not make it. These include the painted cereal boxes and paper covered in glitter and glue that has not yet dried. I am sorry to say, that these are mysteriously taken by the fairies. On one occasion, the fairies were caught out. My son was putting his apple core into the kitchen bin and suddenly shrieked, “Mummy, my space ship is in the bin. The fairies must have put it there by accident.” Head bent down, I mumbled, “How dreadful.” The space ship, in the form of a Cornflake box painted black, was then promoted to the kitchen dresser on display for the rest of the week.
Thankfully, school provides the perfect forum for arts and crafts. On a daily basis, the children arrive home laden down with artwork. Some of these masterpieces are put in a drawer and treasured forever. However, I must confess that many do not make it. These include the painted cereal boxes and paper covered in glitter and glue that has not yet dried. I am sorry to say, that these are mysteriously taken by the fairies. On one occasion, the fairies were caught out. My son was putting his apple core into the kitchen bin and suddenly shrieked, “Mummy, my space ship is in the bin. The fairies must have put it there by accident.” Head bent down, I mumbled, “How dreadful.” The space ship, in the form of a Cornflake box painted black, was then promoted to the kitchen dresser on display for the rest of the week.
Friday, 21 September 2007
Girls' shopping trip
My five-year-old daughter and I decide to leave the boys to their raucous game of soldiers in the sitting room and head off for a spot of retail therapy.
We arrive in a nearby town and walk hand in hand, with no buggy, and a handbag that is distinctly light and free of any ‘no spill’ cups, nappies or soggy wet wipes. Thankfully, she is as keen as I am to wander around the shops and browse through the new autumn collections. I watch as she floats around the store carefully sizing up each garment, pointing anything out to me that is glittery, velvet or covered in sequins. As I sift through hangers trying to find my size – or remember what size I actually am now, I suddenly spot her reflection in the mirror clipping along in a pair of silver stilletos. I dive towards her, ‘de-shoe’ her and take off the designer beaded necklace and shimmery scarf she has draped around her neck.
We head off into the changing rooms together and as she perches on the stool, I begin the task that reminds me why I rarely visit a clothes shop anymore – the trying on. I put on the first item, which I had spotted on one of the giant posters around the shop. The difference being that the model wearing it was probably a size zero and in her late teens. I twist and turn, looking in the mirror acutely aware of my daughter’s intense gaze. “What do you think?” I ask her, in the absence of my husband or mother’s opinion. “I think it would be better on a younger grown-up,” she says. I can’t resist the urge to laugh out loud at her bluntness in speaking her mind, completely unaware of how it comes across. Annoyingly she is absolutely right and I am kidding myself to think that this designer top could hang on a thirty-something-year-old mother of three!
As we leave the shop empty handed, I mutter something about losing weight under my breath. Hearing this, she looks up at me and says, “Don’t worry Mummy. I think you’re as thin as a sausage.”
We arrive in a nearby town and walk hand in hand, with no buggy, and a handbag that is distinctly light and free of any ‘no spill’ cups, nappies or soggy wet wipes. Thankfully, she is as keen as I am to wander around the shops and browse through the new autumn collections. I watch as she floats around the store carefully sizing up each garment, pointing anything out to me that is glittery, velvet or covered in sequins. As I sift through hangers trying to find my size – or remember what size I actually am now, I suddenly spot her reflection in the mirror clipping along in a pair of silver stilletos. I dive towards her, ‘de-shoe’ her and take off the designer beaded necklace and shimmery scarf she has draped around her neck.
We head off into the changing rooms together and as she perches on the stool, I begin the task that reminds me why I rarely visit a clothes shop anymore – the trying on. I put on the first item, which I had spotted on one of the giant posters around the shop. The difference being that the model wearing it was probably a size zero and in her late teens. I twist and turn, looking in the mirror acutely aware of my daughter’s intense gaze. “What do you think?” I ask her, in the absence of my husband or mother’s opinion. “I think it would be better on a younger grown-up,” she says. I can’t resist the urge to laugh out loud at her bluntness in speaking her mind, completely unaware of how it comes across. Annoyingly she is absolutely right and I am kidding myself to think that this designer top could hang on a thirty-something-year-old mother of three!
As we leave the shop empty handed, I mutter something about losing weight under my breath. Hearing this, she looks up at me and says, “Don’t worry Mummy. I think you’re as thin as a sausage.”
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