I envy those who manage to blog frequently... so often these days I either have
a - nothing to say or
b - no memory of what it was I thought I had to say earlier when I was doing something else.
So here I go, trying to wrest some content out of the shallows of my brain pan. I've been trying to learn how to relax recently. You know those bogus questionnaires that ask stupid and meaningless questions with the goal of either promoting some dreadful product or wasting a slack 10 minutes on the bus? You know the ones 'if you were an animal, which animal would you be?' - at the end they tell the reader that one is a wolf with killer instincts or something equally flattering and one bounces off to work feeling all empowered; only to realise that one is in fact a mouse, or perhaps some sort of invertebrate lagoon dweller and one's day is swiftly shot to hell, along with one's self image.
Anyway, I suppose I've always quite fancied myself as some sort of romantic creature; perhaps a deer, swift and mysterious; or a cat, cunning and fast - or perhaps something terribly laid-back and calm. The truth, I realise, is that I'm more like a rabbit; I'm constantly flitting about in a state of high nerves and am capable of long periods of deep hibernation. Actually, I'm pretty much always in a state of high activity.
I've tried a few things to combat this; exercise, booze, meditation;a friend has recommended some NLP techniques which occasionally help. Sadly my brain is a match for anything I throw at it and the result is that sometimes it sort of goes into overload and bits of it disconnect from other bits; which is where I find myself at the moment, with some sort of internal disconnect. I just can't make things match up, as thought two parts of my brain are thinking independently and I just can't communicate with myself.
Which means, of course, that communicating with this blog is hopeless... which won't exactly stop me but might just keep slowing me down.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
London Days
Finally, I feel like spring might actually be arriving. Come Imbolc there was still the threat of snow, and while snodrops were up in the park, the ones in my garden hadn't even popped their cherries.
Today, however, I looked out the window and there they were, or most of them, the Frog has stabbed a garden light into the middle of the patch but most of them seem up and bobbing about. Not only that, but yesterday we had actual sun; and the magnolias are out on the next street and a few other blossoms are stinking up the air something lovely.
Tomorrow it's Friday - Charlie day. It's not my day off, it's the one day I spend alone with my son. I can't say how cool Fridays now that the boy is actively involved in plotting them out - sometimes we spend all week planning.
This year we've already been to the Natural History Museum and the Science Museum - and the Transport Museum twice; last time we even found something new. It was sort of a great day; it was pissing down with rain and we rode at the top of the bus to Trafalgar square.
He loves the square even when there's nothing going on; he loves the fountains, mainly. Once there was an ice bear; once some great big tree trunks; once the fountains were full of flowers. The changing sculpture on the 4th plinth has been great - he loved the big ship in a bottle. Last time it was so wet that I splashed out on a taxi from the square to the museum. As I sat, driving through London in the back of a taxi with my four-year-old raving about everything he could see out of the windows, I felt sort of brilliant, to tell the truth. Afterwards we had pizza in Covent Garden and watched the street performers.
London has opened up; we're not just after open spaces and playgrounds anymore; we're on the hunt for new things. I've promised him a trip to the Tower of London when the weather clears up, we've got the Zoo in our sights and the Musieum of London might get a look in . Sometimes we just hang local - last week it was lunch with friends around the corner, sometimes it's just the park or a clear up in the garden.
Suddenly my urge to move out of the city doesn't seem quite so pressing now that all this cool stuff is on the agenda. I don't know what I'm going to do when he goes to school in September. Work I expect. Miss him, probably.
Today, however, I looked out the window and there they were, or most of them, the Frog has stabbed a garden light into the middle of the patch but most of them seem up and bobbing about. Not only that, but yesterday we had actual sun; and the magnolias are out on the next street and a few other blossoms are stinking up the air something lovely.
Tomorrow it's Friday - Charlie day. It's not my day off, it's the one day I spend alone with my son. I can't say how cool Fridays now that the boy is actively involved in plotting them out - sometimes we spend all week planning.
This year we've already been to the Natural History Museum and the Science Museum - and the Transport Museum twice; last time we even found something new. It was sort of a great day; it was pissing down with rain and we rode at the top of the bus to Trafalgar square.
He loves the square even when there's nothing going on; he loves the fountains, mainly. Once there was an ice bear; once some great big tree trunks; once the fountains were full of flowers. The changing sculpture on the 4th plinth has been great - he loved the big ship in a bottle. Last time it was so wet that I splashed out on a taxi from the square to the museum. As I sat, driving through London in the back of a taxi with my four-year-old raving about everything he could see out of the windows, I felt sort of brilliant, to tell the truth. Afterwards we had pizza in Covent Garden and watched the street performers.
London has opened up; we're not just after open spaces and playgrounds anymore; we're on the hunt for new things. I've promised him a trip to the Tower of London when the weather clears up, we've got the Zoo in our sights and the Musieum of London might get a look in . Sometimes we just hang local - last week it was lunch with friends around the corner, sometimes it's just the park or a clear up in the garden.
Suddenly my urge to move out of the city doesn't seem quite so pressing now that all this cool stuff is on the agenda. I don't know what I'm going to do when he goes to school in September. Work I expect. Miss him, probably.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Lies we tell our children
Here are some of the lies I've told Charlie this week:
- Reeses Peanut Butter Cups only have 2 cups in a pack.
- Yes, you DID win
- You did a very good job of wiping your bottom
- That's not funny
- I'm still cross
The hardest one is 'that's not funny'... Imagine if you will... it's late, he's been playing up all evening, he's refusing to put on his pyjamas and has resorted to parading around waggling his bottom in the air and making fart noises. Although funny, this could be resisted if it wasn't for the expression on his face, which is priceless and becomes more so once he feels he has the upper hand, ie, catches me smirking.
Hard to stay cross but somehow, I managed.
I did, however, not feel guilty about that 3rd peanut butter cup.
.
- Reeses Peanut Butter Cups only have 2 cups in a pack.
- Yes, you DID win
- You did a very good job of wiping your bottom
- That's not funny
- I'm still cross
The hardest one is 'that's not funny'... Imagine if you will... it's late, he's been playing up all evening, he's refusing to put on his pyjamas and has resorted to parading around waggling his bottom in the air and making fart noises. Although funny, this could be resisted if it wasn't for the expression on his face, which is priceless and becomes more so once he feels he has the upper hand, ie, catches me smirking.
Hard to stay cross but somehow, I managed.
I did, however, not feel guilty about that 3rd peanut butter cup.
.
Friday, January 21, 2011
The kids are alright - confessions of an honest parent
The frog, in one of his more humorous moments, sent me a link to a story on the BBC website the other day talking about how Mums lie to each other about the amount of TV their kids watch, how many video games they play; how much time they spend with their kids and presumably how well they feed them, dress them, punish them etc etc.
The article said that the main pressure on us parents is - ta dah! Other parents! Well duh. Isn't peer pressure always the main pressure? I read it through and sadly couldn't sympathise; I have to say we don't have that problem in Brixton; at least not the parents I know.
What we have is more like a circle of condolence. It goes like this: I rock up at nursery about 30 seconds before they fine me for being late. As I'm stuffing Charlie's arms into his coat and prying the nursery helicopter out of his paws, I notice his mate being bagged up by the staff, her coat zipped, her rucksack installed on her shoulders - I ring her Mum who is out of breath and five minutes away; she speaks to the staff, I take the two kids back to our flat and start tea. (Sometimes this happens in reverse and I am the one receiving the call as I puff down the street).
A few moments later, the errant Mum rings the bell and we sit down to confess our sins. Wine is drunk, the kids are left to play with their food to their hearts' content. What, you might ask, are our sins? We work too much. The kids watch too much telly. We shout at them. We feed them things out of the freezer, out of tins and packets. We ignore them, spoil them, punish them, bribe them. We're tired, we look like shit, we're wearing the same things three days in a row, we wish we were better parents. We admire each other, confess more sins and end up feeling... pretty damn good about ourselves, to be honest.
There's no oneuppance here and it's the same whenever any of us get together. We're free to bitch, moan, produce cake out of a packet and expose ourselves - and do you know why? Because we have a troupe of happy, healthy kids.
Yes, they probably eat too many fish fingers, watch too much TV and play too many games on their parents' iPhone but evidence shows they are equally happy to pack about together armed with nothing more than sticks and bits of fabric and make up their own games. They fight monsters, they built towers, they say please, they hug their friends; they sing and dance and cajole and laugh and cry and object to bedtime and lie about their misdemeanours; they fight and tell tales and pick their noses and go to bed begging for more stories - in other words, they're perfectly healthy kids.
They're loved, fed, clothed and warm - they're fine. Who cares if we're not up at the crack of arse making fairy cakes and cutting sandwiches into stars? Who? Who cares about this crap? Whatever we might be doing to them, we've come to the conclusion that we're all essentially the same and that they're probably going to turn out just great.
When I got pregnant I was often told that I was about to join the least exclusive club in the world. Billions are in it already - so, come on, let's be honest with each other. Even you, Super-Mum. You may pitch up at the school gates looking immaculate with a hand-cooked lunch, hold down a full time job and bake award-winning cakes before bedtime but be honest with the rest of us - it's hard work and sometimes even you, my girl, fuck up.
Let's cut each other some slack. We're all shit parents in one way or another and you know what? The kids are alright.
The article said that the main pressure on us parents is - ta dah! Other parents! Well duh. Isn't peer pressure always the main pressure? I read it through and sadly couldn't sympathise; I have to say we don't have that problem in Brixton; at least not the parents I know.
What we have is more like a circle of condolence. It goes like this: I rock up at nursery about 30 seconds before they fine me for being late. As I'm stuffing Charlie's arms into his coat and prying the nursery helicopter out of his paws, I notice his mate being bagged up by the staff, her coat zipped, her rucksack installed on her shoulders - I ring her Mum who is out of breath and five minutes away; she speaks to the staff, I take the two kids back to our flat and start tea. (Sometimes this happens in reverse and I am the one receiving the call as I puff down the street).
A few moments later, the errant Mum rings the bell and we sit down to confess our sins. Wine is drunk, the kids are left to play with their food to their hearts' content. What, you might ask, are our sins? We work too much. The kids watch too much telly. We shout at them. We feed them things out of the freezer, out of tins and packets. We ignore them, spoil them, punish them, bribe them. We're tired, we look like shit, we're wearing the same things three days in a row, we wish we were better parents. We admire each other, confess more sins and end up feeling... pretty damn good about ourselves, to be honest.
There's no oneuppance here and it's the same whenever any of us get together. We're free to bitch, moan, produce cake out of a packet and expose ourselves - and do you know why? Because we have a troupe of happy, healthy kids.
Yes, they probably eat too many fish fingers, watch too much TV and play too many games on their parents' iPhone but evidence shows they are equally happy to pack about together armed with nothing more than sticks and bits of fabric and make up their own games. They fight monsters, they built towers, they say please, they hug their friends; they sing and dance and cajole and laugh and cry and object to bedtime and lie about their misdemeanours; they fight and tell tales and pick their noses and go to bed begging for more stories - in other words, they're perfectly healthy kids.
They're loved, fed, clothed and warm - they're fine. Who cares if we're not up at the crack of arse making fairy cakes and cutting sandwiches into stars? Who? Who cares about this crap? Whatever we might be doing to them, we've come to the conclusion that we're all essentially the same and that they're probably going to turn out just great.
When I got pregnant I was often told that I was about to join the least exclusive club in the world. Billions are in it already - so, come on, let's be honest with each other. Even you, Super-Mum. You may pitch up at the school gates looking immaculate with a hand-cooked lunch, hold down a full time job and bake award-winning cakes before bedtime but be honest with the rest of us - it's hard work and sometimes even you, my girl, fuck up.
Let's cut each other some slack. We're all shit parents in one way or another and you know what? The kids are alright.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Great big little white lies
Charlie has discovered lying.
I've suspected this for a while but have cut him a lot of slack given how easily confused a 4-year-old can get about even the smallest things, like remembering what they had for lunch, for example, or where they left your telephone, or which bed they're supposed to sleep in...
Anyway, so when he says something that sounds a little hinky, I've been giving him the benefit of the doubt, however clearly, this has backfired.
We are big fans of star charts here. We incentivise pretty heavily - for every 10 stars, he gets to choose a new Chuggington toy. It's not a give-away though, oh no. The criteria is tough and every day in which he doesn't earn a star we actually take one away... it took him nearly a month to earn his last one. I know, call me Cruella.
While this has moved certain behaviours of his along in leaps and bounds, it's also a pretty keen incentive for him to tell a few big fat porkies - I don't want to damage his dignity here, but I'm certain he's having things done for him at nursery that he's supposed to be doing himself and he's earned a star or two off the back of it... and inspired him to try out lying as, essentially, his default position.
Luckily, while he's got a face that'll do him proud around a poker table later in life, currently his lies are pretty unsophisticated - here's one from tonight:
Charlie: 'I'd like to play for 10 more minutes Mummy'
Me: 'OK, I'll set the alarm for 10 minutes'
Charlie: (realising he bid too low) 'NO MUMMY, I said TWELVE minutes'
Me: (laughing) 'No you didn't, you clearly told me10 minutes'
Charlie: (even louder) 'NO MUMMY, I SAID IT TO DADDY I SAID TWELVE MINUTES TO DADDY'
Me: (to Frog) 'Did you tell Charlie he could play for 12 minutes?'
Frog: 'No!'
Charlie: (Makes general freaking out sounds, shouts, pouts and then gives up when he realises he's done for) 'OK Mummy, you set the alarm for 10 minutes.'
Me: 'It's 8 minutes now'.
It's a bit worrying; we need to teach him to tell the truth but I'm not quite certain how... He's never been punished for telling the truth but we've not exactly made a big deal out of it either; we've sort of assumed a natural honesty in him that perhaps should have been rewarded.
So, perhaps I need to reward him for telling the truth more often. I smell another star chart...
I've suspected this for a while but have cut him a lot of slack given how easily confused a 4-year-old can get about even the smallest things, like remembering what they had for lunch, for example, or where they left your telephone, or which bed they're supposed to sleep in...
Anyway, so when he says something that sounds a little hinky, I've been giving him the benefit of the doubt, however clearly, this has backfired.
We are big fans of star charts here. We incentivise pretty heavily - for every 10 stars, he gets to choose a new Chuggington toy. It's not a give-away though, oh no. The criteria is tough and every day in which he doesn't earn a star we actually take one away... it took him nearly a month to earn his last one. I know, call me Cruella.
While this has moved certain behaviours of his along in leaps and bounds, it's also a pretty keen incentive for him to tell a few big fat porkies - I don't want to damage his dignity here, but I'm certain he's having things done for him at nursery that he's supposed to be doing himself and he's earned a star or two off the back of it... and inspired him to try out lying as, essentially, his default position.
Luckily, while he's got a face that'll do him proud around a poker table later in life, currently his lies are pretty unsophisticated - here's one from tonight:
Charlie: 'I'd like to play for 10 more minutes Mummy'
Me: 'OK, I'll set the alarm for 10 minutes'
Charlie: (realising he bid too low) 'NO MUMMY, I said TWELVE minutes'
Me: (laughing) 'No you didn't, you clearly told me10 minutes'
Charlie: (even louder) 'NO MUMMY, I SAID IT TO DADDY I SAID TWELVE MINUTES TO DADDY'
Me: (to Frog) 'Did you tell Charlie he could play for 12 minutes?'
Frog: 'No!'
Charlie: (Makes general freaking out sounds, shouts, pouts and then gives up when he realises he's done for) 'OK Mummy, you set the alarm for 10 minutes.'
Me: 'It's 8 minutes now'.
It's a bit worrying; we need to teach him to tell the truth but I'm not quite certain how... He's never been punished for telling the truth but we've not exactly made a big deal out of it either; we've sort of assumed a natural honesty in him that perhaps should have been rewarded.
So, perhaps I need to reward him for telling the truth more often. I smell another star chart...
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
Happy New Year?
And in it comes, the new year, dragging us reluctantly behind it; full of phlegm and snot and all sorts of other things that have emerged from various cavities during the holiday season. Deck the halls? Deck the walls, more like. We've had flu (me) a runny tum (Charlie) vomiting (the Frog), a chest infection (me) a cold (Charlie and the Frog) and, er, a hangover. Me. Sadly.
Resolutions? Nothing so bourgeois in this house, no no no. No, I find myself facing each new year as though standing in the path of a herd of panicky buffalo - rooted to the spot and dithering over which way to run first. In fact, I'd rather time didn't move quite as fast as it does, thank you very much; I'd be quite happy for it to stop all together, at least for a month or two; enough time for me to get a few things done on last year's 'to do' list.
Perhaps I should take my 'to do' list and call everything on it 'resolutions'; might make them sound more exotic and give them a sort of dead-liney feeling rather than the feeling they currently have, which is of a sort of grey pile of heaviness that occasionally shifts and throws me off-balance. Not a bad idea, in fact, giving my guilt a deadline. Until I miss it of course. Actually scrap it; the last thing I need is more guilt at things undone. So, no resolutions for me; no 'in with the new' - more like 'in with the same'. Quite comforting really, to be honest.
Hm. Anyway, so here it is, 2011. Maybe we should all plan to have a global cup of coffee at 11:11:11am on Nov 11 - that's the sort of deadline I might be able to achieve, frankly.
Happy New Year everyone - happy blogging, happy families and I'll see you at the other end; hopefully.
Resolutions? Nothing so bourgeois in this house, no no no. No, I find myself facing each new year as though standing in the path of a herd of panicky buffalo - rooted to the spot and dithering over which way to run first. In fact, I'd rather time didn't move quite as fast as it does, thank you very much; I'd be quite happy for it to stop all together, at least for a month or two; enough time for me to get a few things done on last year's 'to do' list.
Perhaps I should take my 'to do' list and call everything on it 'resolutions'; might make them sound more exotic and give them a sort of dead-liney feeling rather than the feeling they currently have, which is of a sort of grey pile of heaviness that occasionally shifts and throws me off-balance. Not a bad idea, in fact, giving my guilt a deadline. Until I miss it of course. Actually scrap it; the last thing I need is more guilt at things undone. So, no resolutions for me; no 'in with the new' - more like 'in with the same'. Quite comforting really, to be honest.
Hm. Anyway, so here it is, 2011. Maybe we should all plan to have a global cup of coffee at 11:11:11am on Nov 11 - that's the sort of deadline I might be able to achieve, frankly.
Happy New Year everyone - happy blogging, happy families and I'll see you at the other end; hopefully.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
A bear of very little brain
I love my son. I can prove it. I love him even though this morning he woke me up from a dream in which, magically single, child-free and wrapped in a towel, I opened the door of my appartment and Josh Holloway was standing outside telling me he would rather spend the evening with me than at his latest film premiere.
I must have done something lovely for my subconcious recently as this is definitively not the sort of dream it normally lets me have... a good dream for me is normally any dream in which I am not working or Charlie hasn't gone missing. Anyway, there I was, sat beside Mr Holloway on the sofa trying to convince him to go back to his party (my subconcious doesn't love me THAT much...) when Charlie crawled into bed having had a bad dream.
Five minutes later the Frog's alarm went off an hour early; the subsequent humphing about trying to get back to sleep then disturbed the cat who spent the next 60 minutes putting his paws up my nose at irregular intervals hoping this might entice me to the kitchen to prepare the first of his many breakfasts.
I think that the fact I have not harmed any of them today is a measure of my undying love and devotion, frankly.
I have however harmed myself trying to stay awake all day; a job that not even coffee could manage. Come bedtime Charlie is all about the stories and being a bear of very little brain I rather led him to certain stories that come with CDs, allowing a tired parent to sit, potato-like, turning pages and smiling beatifically without having to expend any energy actually reading aloud. This is Very Lazy parenting; however I learned it from the best, my own parents.
As children we had a small collection of excellent stories on vinyl; including a wonderful Winnie the Pooh record which my Mother presented to us on our recent visit. We've been reading Pooh on and off for a while and occasionally I brave singing one of the songs; however I am always commanded to stop; already my singing embarrasses my son. So, having the songs on vinyl for him to listen to is not only very sweet, but a big cheat which allows me to kiss him gently on the head, put the needle on the record and creep quietly out of the room.
Despite the Disneyfication of Pooh, the stories are timeless. Charlie sleeps under the same Pooh blanket that I slept under at the same age, we read from the same books and now listen to the same record. While the 100-acre wood is still new territory for him, it's sending my son off to sleep as successfully now as I'm sure it did me; to, I am certain, the same parental sighs of relief.
The Royal Mail have issued a set of Winnie-the-Pooh stamps featuring the original illustrations from EH Shephard; they're so lovely. I know the official Christmas stamps this year are Wallace and Gromit but I know what I'm putting on my cards this year - a celebration of sleeping children and, hopefully, sweet dreams for everyone.
Now fluff up my pillow; I'm heading back to dreamland.
I must have done something lovely for my subconcious recently as this is definitively not the sort of dream it normally lets me have... a good dream for me is normally any dream in which I am not working or Charlie hasn't gone missing. Anyway, there I was, sat beside Mr Holloway on the sofa trying to convince him to go back to his party (my subconcious doesn't love me THAT much...) when Charlie crawled into bed having had a bad dream.
Five minutes later the Frog's alarm went off an hour early; the subsequent humphing about trying to get back to sleep then disturbed the cat who spent the next 60 minutes putting his paws up my nose at irregular intervals hoping this might entice me to the kitchen to prepare the first of his many breakfasts.
I think that the fact I have not harmed any of them today is a measure of my undying love and devotion, frankly.
I have however harmed myself trying to stay awake all day; a job that not even coffee could manage. Come bedtime Charlie is all about the stories and being a bear of very little brain I rather led him to certain stories that come with CDs, allowing a tired parent to sit, potato-like, turning pages and smiling beatifically without having to expend any energy actually reading aloud. This is Very Lazy parenting; however I learned it from the best, my own parents.
As children we had a small collection of excellent stories on vinyl; including a wonderful Winnie the Pooh record which my Mother presented to us on our recent visit. We've been reading Pooh on and off for a while and occasionally I brave singing one of the songs; however I am always commanded to stop; already my singing embarrasses my son. So, having the songs on vinyl for him to listen to is not only very sweet, but a big cheat which allows me to kiss him gently on the head, put the needle on the record and creep quietly out of the room.
Despite the Disneyfication of Pooh, the stories are timeless. Charlie sleeps under the same Pooh blanket that I slept under at the same age, we read from the same books and now listen to the same record. While the 100-acre wood is still new territory for him, it's sending my son off to sleep as successfully now as I'm sure it did me; to, I am certain, the same parental sighs of relief.
The Royal Mail have issued a set of Winnie-the-Pooh stamps featuring the original illustrations from EH Shephard; they're so lovely. I know the official Christmas stamps this year are Wallace and Gromit but I know what I'm putting on my cards this year - a celebration of sleeping children and, hopefully, sweet dreams for everyone.
Now fluff up my pillow; I'm heading back to dreamland.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Magic fingers
My Frog has magic fingers. No no no, I'm not about to let you into any marital secrets, it's OK. But he does have a preternatural ability to fix mechanical and electrical items simply by... and there's barely any other way to put this other than by describing it as... er... a laying on of hands.
It goes like this. You have a broken toaster (I am telling a true story here, I'm just making you the protagonist rather than my Mum for bogus literary effect).
You have for some reason allowed the Sparx family access to your house and, while the Spud turns your livingroom into an ersatz train shed, you stand in the kitchen with the Frog and I making conversation, during the course of which you bizarrely admit to a broken toaster. The Frog shifts uneasily.
Telling the Frog that something is broken is probably the most annoying thing you could do to him. More annoying then not taking out the recycling when it's your turn (you're the hero of this story remember. Not me, nuh uh). More annoying than leaving your shoes in the hallway. More annoying even than reading in bed after lights out.
As the conversation continues (we're back in your kitchen now, keep up), the Frog starts darting glances towards your toaster and gets all fidgety. Eventually we decide to move into the livingroom. We sit down, then realise someone is missing. Back in the kitchen, the frog is casually playing with the buttons on your toaster. 'Oh don't worry about that' you'll say. 'That side hasn't worked for over a year. We've had it apart and everything, we think there's a broken wire'.
At this point I like to put him out of his misery and just ask you if you'd like him to fix it for you. Visibly relieved, he'll pick it up and fiddle with it seemingly aimlessly, possibly opening it up and peering inside, while we all top up our drinks. A few minutes later he will hand it back to you, working perfectly.
You will be amazed. 'What did you do?' you'll ask. His reply is the same every time. 'I don't know.' A gallic shrug. 'The usual'. This is when you will hand him your blender, an old watch and your son's gameboy, all of which he will turn over in his hands a few times, press a few buttons, possibly peer inside and hand back to you in perfect working order.
I'm used to this now. It's ceased to annoy me that he is better than I am at fixing things. In fact, if something breaks I take a great deal of perverse pleasure in dropping it into the conversation and watching him lurch about like I've put a pea in his shoe until he slopes off to take a look.
So, imagine my glee when, the other day, I found him kneeling by the not-inconsiderable stack of aging electronics in our livingroom, unable to get the Wii to display on the screen. He had pressed all the buttons. He had fiddled with all the connections. He had switched things on and off and on again. He looked frustrated.
Don't get me wrong. Initially I was gutted and mentally adding the cost of a new TV into our exigent budget; when the frog says something is broken, you've pretty much got to call the appliance undertakers.
No, my glee came when the spud walked over and said 'Daddy you haven't pushed the button' and, ignoring the Frog's fatherly splutterings, protestations and highly-continental rolling of eyes and blowing out of lips, he squeezed past, laid his hands on the junction box, did some fiddling and... miraculously, everything started working.
'Now you know how I feel' I told my stunned Frog.
Magic fingers. There's clearly a gene for that.
It goes like this. You have a broken toaster (I am telling a true story here, I'm just making you the protagonist rather than my Mum for bogus literary effect).
You have for some reason allowed the Sparx family access to your house and, while the Spud turns your livingroom into an ersatz train shed, you stand in the kitchen with the Frog and I making conversation, during the course of which you bizarrely admit to a broken toaster. The Frog shifts uneasily.
Telling the Frog that something is broken is probably the most annoying thing you could do to him. More annoying then not taking out the recycling when it's your turn (you're the hero of this story remember. Not me, nuh uh). More annoying than leaving your shoes in the hallway. More annoying even than reading in bed after lights out.
As the conversation continues (we're back in your kitchen now, keep up), the Frog starts darting glances towards your toaster and gets all fidgety. Eventually we decide to move into the livingroom. We sit down, then realise someone is missing. Back in the kitchen, the frog is casually playing with the buttons on your toaster. 'Oh don't worry about that' you'll say. 'That side hasn't worked for over a year. We've had it apart and everything, we think there's a broken wire'.
At this point I like to put him out of his misery and just ask you if you'd like him to fix it for you. Visibly relieved, he'll pick it up and fiddle with it seemingly aimlessly, possibly opening it up and peering inside, while we all top up our drinks. A few minutes later he will hand it back to you, working perfectly.
You will be amazed. 'What did you do?' you'll ask. His reply is the same every time. 'I don't know.' A gallic shrug. 'The usual'. This is when you will hand him your blender, an old watch and your son's gameboy, all of which he will turn over in his hands a few times, press a few buttons, possibly peer inside and hand back to you in perfect working order.
I'm used to this now. It's ceased to annoy me that he is better than I am at fixing things. In fact, if something breaks I take a great deal of perverse pleasure in dropping it into the conversation and watching him lurch about like I've put a pea in his shoe until he slopes off to take a look.
So, imagine my glee when, the other day, I found him kneeling by the not-inconsiderable stack of aging electronics in our livingroom, unable to get the Wii to display on the screen. He had pressed all the buttons. He had fiddled with all the connections. He had switched things on and off and on again. He looked frustrated.
Don't get me wrong. Initially I was gutted and mentally adding the cost of a new TV into our exigent budget; when the frog says something is broken, you've pretty much got to call the appliance undertakers.
No, my glee came when the spud walked over and said 'Daddy you haven't pushed the button' and, ignoring the Frog's fatherly splutterings, protestations and highly-continental rolling of eyes and blowing out of lips, he squeezed past, laid his hands on the junction box, did some fiddling and... miraculously, everything started working.
'Now you know how I feel' I told my stunned Frog.
Magic fingers. There's clearly a gene for that.
Monday, November 08, 2010
Why you always get sick on planes...
Well that was a laugh. We're back from 2 weeks in Canada, having contracted a wicked lurgi on the flight between Vancouver and Calgary. No fun really. It took the shine off the last week, however it was a brilliant holiday. Here's a bit of what we did:
I watched while my brother let Charlie push the ignition button on his car:
...Then he revved the engine, really high so the car roared. You have never seen a happier boy. And Charlie was pretty thrilled too...
Then there was a bit of this behind the Frog's back (he hasn't forgiven me quite yet...)
...Charlie's used to it now but I'm not sure I am...
Then we did a bit of seasonal stuff which was way fun:
A few days later we headed to the grandparents and did various cosy snowy things with which I shall not bore you... stuff like this:
...yes, that's my Pa, BBQing breakfast in the snow. Well. In a few patches of snow.
Then we went further into the mountains. Charlie was very impressed. You can tell, can't you?
After that there was a lot of whinging about being homesick, at least until the day we took off into the cold to trek to the two nearest neighbours for sackloads of trick-or-treat. Nothing like walking home along a dark and deserted country road with one's 4-year-old to make one wish one had taken the bear horn along for the ride; all we saw were stars, however. Then there were fireworks. Then it was bedtime.
After that we laid low and enjoyed the family until our very good friend Allen came and picked us up for a rip-roaring night in Calgary with old mates. Shortly after that Charlie decided he had a fever. I debated missing the plane and settled for dosing him up. The fever abated. We got on the plane. I apologise to everyone who was on that plane.
I have worked out why one always gets sick on planes however. I reckon loads of people fly out and back in a week. This is just long enough to pick something up on one plane and still be infectious on the flight home, thus infecting another load of people. I see us as just one cog on the great wheel of international plague. I may never fly again.
We spent the last four days in bed. Would have been lovely if we'd been able to move.
I watched while my brother let Charlie push the ignition button on his car:
...Then he revved the engine, really high so the car roared. You have never seen a happier boy. And Charlie was pretty thrilled too...Then there was a bit of this behind the Frog's back (he hasn't forgiven me quite yet...)
...Charlie's used to it now but I'm not sure I am...Then we did a bit of seasonal stuff which was way fun:
A few days later we headed to the grandparents and did various cosy snowy things with which I shall not bore you... stuff like this:
...yes, that's my Pa, BBQing breakfast in the snow. Well. In a few patches of snow.Then we went further into the mountains. Charlie was very impressed. You can tell, can't you?
After that there was a lot of whinging about being homesick, at least until the day we took off into the cold to trek to the two nearest neighbours for sackloads of trick-or-treat. Nothing like walking home along a dark and deserted country road with one's 4-year-old to make one wish one had taken the bear horn along for the ride; all we saw were stars, however. Then there were fireworks. Then it was bedtime.After that we laid low and enjoyed the family until our very good friend Allen came and picked us up for a rip-roaring night in Calgary with old mates. Shortly after that Charlie decided he had a fever. I debated missing the plane and settled for dosing him up. The fever abated. We got on the plane. I apologise to everyone who was on that plane.
I have worked out why one always gets sick on planes however. I reckon loads of people fly out and back in a week. This is just long enough to pick something up on one plane and still be infectious on the flight home, thus infecting another load of people. I see us as just one cog on the great wheel of international plague. I may never fly again.
We spent the last four days in bed. Would have been lovely if we'd been able to move.
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