The Nativity

This year, the children have shown much interest in the Nativity story. This has largely been helped by school plays and our son’s role as one of the three kings. 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 memento. 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 five-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 Joseph did. My daughter answered this question without hesitation, “Mary was a cleaner and Joseph was a builder,” she said. 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 indeed often portrayed sweeping around the stable – impressive when you have travelled on a donkey for hundreds of miles before giving birth. Joseph’s tools explain his obvious building expertise.

The questions then moved onto the gifts presented to Jesus. I gave a brief explanation backed up by Grandpa’s box of frankincense that he had helpfully collected on one of his many travels. They were clearly a little puzzled by the appeal of a rather potent resin. My son then asked, “Did Father Christmas come to the stable that night and leave Jesus a stocking?” Oh help! Thankfully, my daughter changed the subject and said, “So, it was a bit like a christening. The kings and shepherds were Jesus’ godparents.” Yes, that is exactly what it was like. Thankfully, we were on safer territory than Rudolph and his sleigh landing on the roof of the stable.

Later that afternoon, I caught sight of my son 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. Happy Christmas.

Curse of the Christmas Catalogue

Since November, there has been a noticeable thud of post landing on the doormat. The Toddler makes a mad dash to collect it and struggles to carry it to me. Unfortunately this is not because we have been inundated with lovely brown parcels tied in string, or the rare site of a hand written envelope. Instead we have received piles of catalogues. No doubt we have the Internet to blame and the small print at the bottom of web pages requiring us to tick an invisible box if we do not want to receive further information.

Needless to say, the children love them. They busily sift through pages of toys and mark their names beside the most inappropriate items, usually the biggest, loudest or something they already have which looks a bit more presentable in the catalogue. I have tried hard to manage expectations and explain why it is highly unlikely that Father Christmas will drag a motorbike down the chimney. It also means that as far as the children are concerned the Halloween pumpkin will soon be replaced with the Christmas tree.

Meanwhile the catalogues begin piling up in the corner of the kitchen. I happen to overhear a mother in the playground say, “I’ve just finished wrapping all my Christmas presents.” Despite trying hard not to be influenced by other playground chat this threw me into the most almighty panic. I dash home, reach for the catalogues and flip open the laptop. Finally, after an hour or two I proceed to the virtual Check Out. The site promptly freezes. I call customer services and speak to Sanjay who speaks English but with a heavy Indian accent. I finally establish the site is temporarily out of action. I begin the lengthy task of giving him my order by phone which is a struggle given our language barrier. To my amazement, most of my items are already out of stock – even before the festive period has begun. Afterwards, I feel disappointed, exhausted and distinctly un-festive. I long for the day I can stroll down the high street on a cold crisp December morning, enjoy the wonderful shop window displays and all to the tune of the Salvation Army. It seems the catalogue companies and their websites have collared many mothers like myself who battle with pushchairs, numerous school runs and huge Christmas shopping lists.

Now it is December, the doors of the Advent calendar are swinging open and we can mention the word ‘Christmas’ without a trace of guilt. And finally there is no thud on the doormat. It seems for the catalogue companies, Christmas is long gone.

The Costume

It is that time of year again. The requests come thick and fast in the book bag ahead of the school event of the year – the Christmas Play. Brown tights, reindeer antlers (“no bells”) or Father Christmas hats must all be in school within the week. A trip to Woolworths beckons – what will we do without them. Parents up and down the country are making a mad dash around the shops competing over the last pair of green tights for their precious elves. Then comes the thankless task of counselling their little boys into wearing them, insisting that elves definitely can’t wear Spiderman socks.

Last week, my daughter arrived home in a state of extreme excitement. She could barely get the words out fast enough about the school play and what she needed to bring in. As usual, it is the highlight of her year and she rehearses as if she is about to hit the West End stage in mid-December. “I have to buy a Father Christmas hat by Monday,” she says. But it is only Friday November 21st and we have a very busy weekend ahead of us. By bedtime, she has mentioned it another six times and urges me to re-arrange my busy weekend schedule to squeeze in a shopping trip. She assures me that she recently spotted a Father Christmas hat at the checkout of a nearby shop. Later, I rummage through the book bag for precise instructions, only to find it empty. Clearly she was ahead of the game and thrown into action before her teacher had time to draft and print the crucial costume request to parents.

On Saturday, we dashed out to buy the crucial hat. After trawling round three shops it soon became clear that other Dorset elves had beaten us to it. By this stage, she was distraught. “I’ll get told off if I don’t bring it in on Monday. You simply HAVE to find one Mummy,” she cried. I too was beginning to feel under pressure. Perhaps I should have bought the one I had spotted the night before on the Internet and paid for Special Delivery. We continued on with our search and finally we found one whereupon we threw our arms round each other in elf-like delight.

Yesterday, my daughter came back from school with a letter from her teacher. It was a very jolly letter kindly asking us to bring a, “woolly hat to school by Monday 8th December.” I re-read it. It definitely says a woolly hat, not a Father Christmas hat, and it really does say 8th December, not 24th November? “Well, it’s still a hat and it’s better to be ready early,” says my daughter.

Home Alone

The taxi pulled away and we all stood waving, huddled together in the pouring rain. My daughter sobbed, “We’re going to miss him so much.” My husband was off on business although admittedly only for one week. Nothing like my sister-in-law who recently waved off her husband ahead of a six-month posting to Afghanistan. We all went back inside and I cheerily called for a round of hot chocolate and a plate of Hobnobs to put the smiles back on our faces. I mean, how hard could it be to survive for six days or 144 hours alone with three small children and two active dogs.

As we mopped up our tears and drained our hot chocolate, my son said, “What are we going to do for the rest of the weekend without Daddy? It’s going to be so boring.” Good point, I thought. However, this could be my opportunity to shine as a mother. I could give them my undivided attention and prove that life without Daddy was not that horrendous.

On day one, we played endless games of Snakes and Ladders and Snap which involved an awful lot of cheating and masses of arguments. We baked cookies and cakes and licked out bowls until we felt sick. We glittered, glued and coloured a whole heap of loo rolls and built a whole city of Lego towers. They enjoyed a whole heap of home-cooked meals for which even Nigella would have been proud. I even managed an attempt at a game of rugby in the garden that abruptly ended when the border terrorist scampered off across the fields with the ball. At bedtime, I let them frolic in the bath and turned a blind eye to the amount of water pouring all over the carpet. I then spent an hour reading them a whole pile of books. After all, my solitary baked potato and Strictly Come Dancing was not that enticing.

On day two, I took them to church for some much needed quiet time and revelled in the opportunity to see other adults. We spent the afternoon role-playing Mummies and Daddies, Doctors and Teachers. I was impressed by my newfound motherhood. Perhaps I had even edged closer towards the dizzy heights of Super Mum. Even the children decided I was not quite as boring as they thought.

It is now day five and I am beginning to feel the strain. Motherhood is flagging. The television has crept back on, the fish fingers have re-emerged from the freezer and the wine beckons. In fact, in two days time I will lie in wait for the taxi and when it appears round the corner I will leap up and down, wave a banner and shriek, “WELCOME HOME.”

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.