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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.”

The car journey

The car is bursting at the seams. We look as if we are off on an overland trek lasting several months, not a week’s holiday in Wales. The boot is full of suitcases crammed with clothes for three small children, allowing for numerous daily changes due to regular yoghurt spillages. There is an assortment of buckets and spades and a basket full of emergency rations such as coffee, olive oil and loo paper. Draped across the top is bedding for everyone including my own essential feather pillow. I also spot my husband’s laptop carefully hidden behind the pile of coats.

The children sit shoulder to shoulder, car seats crammed together in the back. Just as we start the engine, the usual demands for music begin. In the absence of any childrens’ CDs, due to my complete ban on Humpty Dumpty, Little Bo Peep and the like, they shout out, “Christmas carols.” I tell them that Father Christmas hates having carols played before December. Unable to agree, we begin our journey out of the village in silence. Suddenly a small voice from behind me says, “Are we nearly there?”

We drive on with next to no wrong turns but then enter unknown territory and grope for the sticky old map that lives on the floor under the childrens’ feet. Part of the crucial page we need has been torn. I try to make sense of it, whilst also passing back bottles of water and digestives to the now apparently starving starlings in the back. One wrong turn and we end up in Bristol, hitting its ring road on the day that they have closed one of the two lanes to strim the middle stretch of grass on the dual carriageway. Inevitably, this causes a huge tail back of cars like us, bulging with luggage and families on their way to enjoy the Bank Holiday weekend. My husband is losing his temper as we sit watching the merry strimmers. The quantities of water have taken their toll and our four-year-old declares he needs to stop. The queues of traffic stretch out beyond and behind us so we have no option but to pull over onto the hard shoulder. “Oh well, at least it takes people’s minds off the traffic,” mutters my husband. We creep along another half a mile and our daughter pipes up that she also needs to stop. I draw a line at the hard shoulder and our eyes are peeled for the next service station. The noise level in the back picks up as our son thinks it is hilariously funny to lean on The Baby, revelling in the inevitable high pitch screeches. It is time for bribery. “If you all be quiet, I’ll put the carols on,” I say. Finally, we pull into the service station and screech to a halt with the children belting out ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’.

The tent

Why is it that so many men have this huge desire to go camping? They seem to love the idea of taking their families into the wild, protecting them under a damp sheet of canvas and providing for them with a tin of ravioli warmed up on a gas stove. Personally, I have resisted the whole camping experience for the last year or so on the grounds that camping and nappy changing do not go hand in hand. However, next year when The Baby is firmly ‘potted’, I might have to give in and join the merry camping fraternity and submit to nights spent in cold and damp sleeping bags.

With this in mind, I decided to buy my husband a tent for his recent birthday. I thought he could practice camping in the garden this summer in preparation for next year. Given the current wet weather conditions, this would be the perfect rehearsal. He was delighted with his two man tent, the sleeping bag and the blow-up mattress – together with the pump given to him by the dog. With no time like the present, he was eager to time himself erecting his tent in the garden ready for his first night camping with our four-year-old son. Half an hour in, he waved the instructions at me. “These are wrong! They make no sense at all,” he said. I followed him outside to find tent parts sprawled across the garden. The first step said to identify each piece of the tent equipment, in conjunction with a diagram. My husband assured me he had already done this. We moved on and started hammering in pegs. The result of our efforts was a large piece of canvas lying pinned to the ground like a flattened spider. “It’s utterly ridiculous. Take it back to the shop and tell them that they’ve given us the wrong instructions,” he barked. I just could not accept that two relatively bright adults were defeated by four steps of instructions. We kept on trying different angles but just before we gave up, I reverted back to step one. “Are you absolutely sure that this bit of canvas is the ‘inner tent?” I asked. We both glanced at the other piece which my husband had identified as “the ground sheet.” As we unravelled it, it was obvious that this was the tent and we had been trying to erect the ground sheet. We dissolved into a fit of giggles and five minutes later, the tent was standing in all its glory in the middle of the lawn.

I left my husband to pump up the mattress and a while later he was still pumping furiously. He mouthed through the window, “It’s broken.” I just wonder how he will cope with the whole family standing in the pouring rain on a campsite next year.