Paula, Olga and I joined forces and children and were off for a picnic in the countryside.
The kids were hot and ratty, and were sniping at each other the whole way there. And the way there seemed to get further and further away the more and more they ratted. Honestly, a 20 minute car ride in peace feels like moments, while in rattiness feels like forever.
Anyway, ignoring the ROAD CLOSED signs posted on the A57 added an extra frisson to the whole affair, so when I finally spotted the little dirt road that led to the track that led to the bridge that led to the sublime little picnic area by a stream, I was really relieved and excited. Out I hopped to open the gate and get us into the sunshine and fresh air, slamming the door to Paula's solid, Swedish engineered car with gusto.
There was a split-second where I glared at the offending thumb, recently yanked from between cardoor and car, when I thought it would be alright. Where I WILLED it to be alright. That was before the blood came.
"Ah" I said. "Slight problem, guys, I think we are going to have to turn around and get me to a hospital."
Three little faces turned towards me, taking a well-earned break from ratting at each other. I, quite calmly I thought under the circumstances, informed them all that I had hurt my thumb.
"It is OK, Mummy, we will go right home and run it under a cold tap. That is what you do when you hurt yourself."
Paula is a GP, who took one look at the thumb (nail Not Where It Should Be) and called the hospital. I decided to go with her advice instead.
Kids were bundled off to Olga's house to play in the yard, while I went and got hospitaled.
Ho hum. No picnic after all.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Going for a Tramp in the Woods
Ah, the idyllic English countryside...wooded paths, silken streams, a fabulous little playground tucked away in a lovely little park. And, look, there! A cafe, serving locally produced, delicious ice-creams. Yes, the English countryside comes alive in summer.
Which is more than can be said for the tramp passed out in the middle of the green when we sat to enjoy our aforementioned ice-creams.
Everyone was being hugely British and just Getting On With Enjoying The Sunshine, ignoring the somnambulent, rumpled pile of humanity in the middle of all this greenery.
In fact, what could be more British than two boys carrying on a hearty game of football around him? To be honest, it was a bit of a relief when the ball accidentally rolled (thwacked?) into the side of his head, as it meant he started to snore loudly. At least now we all knew for sure that he was alive.
The father of the boy who kicked the ball had a stern word with him (about how to ensure accuracy while kicking a football, and avoid...ummm...obstacles, I imagine) while trying to contain his giggles.
Eventually, up he got (lurching a bit). Off to find a more peaceful place to rest, I suppose. The collective guilt (over enjoying ice-cream when people don't have houses, over laughing when said people who don't have houses and sleep on the grass get gently thwacked in the head by a football, over the British trait of finding humour in every tragedy, not matter how large or small) was pushed back a bit, and we sat, more easily, in the sunshine.
Which is more than can be said for the tramp passed out in the middle of the green when we sat to enjoy our aforementioned ice-creams.
Everyone was being hugely British and just Getting On With Enjoying The Sunshine, ignoring the somnambulent, rumpled pile of humanity in the middle of all this greenery.
In fact, what could be more British than two boys carrying on a hearty game of football around him? To be honest, it was a bit of a relief when the ball accidentally rolled (thwacked?) into the side of his head, as it meant he started to snore loudly. At least now we all knew for sure that he was alive.
The father of the boy who kicked the ball had a stern word with him (about how to ensure accuracy while kicking a football, and avoid...ummm...obstacles, I imagine) while trying to contain his giggles.
Eventually, up he got (lurching a bit). Off to find a more peaceful place to rest, I suppose. The collective guilt (over enjoying ice-cream when people don't have houses, over laughing when said people who don't have houses and sleep on the grass get gently thwacked in the head by a football, over the British trait of finding humour in every tragedy, not matter how large or small) was pushed back a bit, and we sat, more easily, in the sunshine.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Maia-ciavellian
Last weekend, Sue, George, myself, Maia and Mum all went down to the Meersbrook Park Walled Garden, to have a nosy about (adults) and a run around (kids).
Maia and George were winding each other up a bit. George wouldn't let Maia win races, and Maia wouldn't let George sing the alphabet on his own. Seriously.
One exchange revealed the development of a scheming side to our Maia Miss M. She and George were running around, when she jokingly called him a "Silly Billy." This provoked a pretty strong reaction, as he howled and made a big fuss over the fact that it was Not Nice to call people names.
During his protest, Maia's face was a picture. Still, calm and totally calculating, you could almost hear the cogs whirring away.
Needless to say, for the rest of the afternoon, George was called a Silly Billy at every opportunity.
I figure, no, it is Not Nice to call people names. But I can totally see how it would be rewarding to do so after a reaction like that.
Maia and George were winding each other up a bit. George wouldn't let Maia win races, and Maia wouldn't let George sing the alphabet on his own. Seriously.
One exchange revealed the development of a scheming side to our Maia Miss M. She and George were running around, when she jokingly called him a "Silly Billy." This provoked a pretty strong reaction, as he howled and made a big fuss over the fact that it was Not Nice to call people names.
During his protest, Maia's face was a picture. Still, calm and totally calculating, you could almost hear the cogs whirring away.
Needless to say, for the rest of the afternoon, George was called a Silly Billy at every opportunity.
I figure, no, it is Not Nice to call people names. But I can totally see how it would be rewarding to do so after a reaction like that.
Uh Oh.
I have failed as a mother. I have failed as a feminist - in fact, if my 15-year-old-radical-self could see me now...Never mind bra-burning, I think I would be getting toasty hot right about now. Let me explain.
It is not Lucy, her doll. It is not her ideal career choice for when she grows up (although we have managed to modify that a bit...Her ambition is now to be a singer, a dancer, a doctor. And a cleaner.) It is not her devotion to all things pink. And sparkly. And Princess-y.
No, the real reason I have failed is that today, completely seriously, she told me that girls were not as smart as boys.
I was trying to get her to stop using this irritating baby voice she has picked up. "Me want this.." She lisps and coos, and I twitch.
Anyway, I sat her on my lap and asked her how old she was.
"Three"
I asked her how old she nearly was.
"Four!"
I then said that she was big and strong and bright and funny and smart and Nearly Four. And big, strong, bright, funny, smart girls who are Nearly Four don't talk in baby talk.
She looked at me incredulously and said "I am not smart. I am a girl!"
WHAT?? Where the hell did that one come from???
I went through a list of all the smart women she knows (me, Sarah, Noonah, Dr Kris, Jellybean etc etc) and she wasn't having any of it.
Although come to think of it, perhaps she thinks I mean smartly dressed, rather than smart referring to intelligence.
Ah ha! That's it. And when I explain it to her that smart can be smartly dressed as well as intelligent, she have two meanings for one word. Which, if you ask me, is pretty smart.
It is not Lucy, her doll. It is not her ideal career choice for when she grows up (although we have managed to modify that a bit...Her ambition is now to be a singer, a dancer, a doctor. And a cleaner.) It is not her devotion to all things pink. And sparkly. And Princess-y.
No, the real reason I have failed is that today, completely seriously, she told me that girls were not as smart as boys.
I was trying to get her to stop using this irritating baby voice she has picked up. "Me want this.." She lisps and coos, and I twitch.
Anyway, I sat her on my lap and asked her how old she was.
"Three"
I asked her how old she nearly was.
"Four!"
I then said that she was big and strong and bright and funny and smart and Nearly Four. And big, strong, bright, funny, smart girls who are Nearly Four don't talk in baby talk.
She looked at me incredulously and said "I am not smart. I am a girl!"
WHAT?? Where the hell did that one come from???
I went through a list of all the smart women she knows (me, Sarah, Noonah, Dr Kris, Jellybean etc etc) and she wasn't having any of it.
Although come to think of it, perhaps she thinks I mean smartly dressed, rather than smart referring to intelligence.
Ah ha! That's it. And when I explain it to her that smart can be smartly dressed as well as intelligent, she have two meanings for one word. Which, if you ask me, is pretty smart.
Monday, July 10, 2006
A Wedding to Remember
Mum is getting married to Dr Pat - whoo hoo! - in May 2007.
Maia's first reaction when asked if she wanted to be a bridesmaid, was to smile beautifically and say "No."
However, she is all caught up in the fever of the wedding now. She has had in depth discussions with Noonah about what she will wear. Last weekend Mum, Sarah, Maia and I went and bought her a dress, and she has refused to take it off since. Apart from bathtime and for eating porridge. I have the feeling we are going to have to buy another before the big day.
Over breakfast one morning, Maia and Mum were discussing Maia's wedding. She is, so she informed Noonah, going to marry George.
She would wear a pink dress, and flowers in her hair, and jewels and sparkly shoes. Her goldilocks would be pretty and she would look so lovely like a princess.
George would wear his Spiderman underpants, his Spiderman Pajamas and probably his Spiderman Mask. But she wasn't sure, because she thinks the mask would be too hot.
Maia's first reaction when asked if she wanted to be a bridesmaid, was to smile beautifically and say "No."
However, she is all caught up in the fever of the wedding now. She has had in depth discussions with Noonah about what she will wear. Last weekend Mum, Sarah, Maia and I went and bought her a dress, and she has refused to take it off since. Apart from bathtime and for eating porridge. I have the feeling we are going to have to buy another before the big day.
Over breakfast one morning, Maia and Mum were discussing Maia's wedding. She is, so she informed Noonah, going to marry George.
She would wear a pink dress, and flowers in her hair, and jewels and sparkly shoes. Her goldilocks would be pretty and she would look so lovely like a princess.
George would wear his Spiderman underpants, his Spiderman Pajamas and probably his Spiderman Mask. But she wasn't sure, because she thinks the mask would be too hot.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Spending Summer Afternoons
I take Maia out of school on a Wednesday (for ballet) and a Friday (for going to the park when it is sunny, and hosting gangs of marauding kids in the house when it isn't.)
Pat and Mum have decided to each take Maia for an afternoon this summer and do Something Fun with her. Pat is going to take Thursdays and Mum, Tuesdays.
The motivation is two fold, really. She goes to Big School next January, and we will not be able to take her out of school to do Something Fun just because we fancy it. And, it will save some cash.
Although, I am not sure just how much we will end up saving....Friday afternoon I picked Maia up at 1 (thus saving myself £10) and then promptly spent £30 on a new pair of tramping sandals for her, and £5 on a couple of sandwiches and drinks for while we pottered about the park.
So that means I saved minus £25. Yay me! Financial directorship of Enron just round the corner....
Pat and Mum have decided to each take Maia for an afternoon this summer and do Something Fun with her. Pat is going to take Thursdays and Mum, Tuesdays.
The motivation is two fold, really. She goes to Big School next January, and we will not be able to take her out of school to do Something Fun just because we fancy it. And, it will save some cash.
Although, I am not sure just how much we will end up saving....Friday afternoon I picked Maia up at 1 (thus saving myself £10) and then promptly spent £30 on a new pair of tramping sandals for her, and £5 on a couple of sandwiches and drinks for while we pottered about the park.
So that means I saved minus £25. Yay me! Financial directorship of Enron just round the corner....
Road-Weary Maia
There are workmen digging up the bottom of our road, blocking it off entirely. We have access from the top, but to get to it from my normal route to the house, we have to drive past the bottom of the road, along a bit and up the street that runs parallel. Yesterday, Maia sighed heavily when we drove past the road.
"The road is all closed! They are not fixing it." She seemed quite put out.
I explained that they wouldn't be fix the road until they had finished getting underneath it, to fix the power lines. Once they had done that, then they would fix the road.
"Oh" she said.
Later on, eating a snack at the table, she turned to me, and in a quiet voice said
"When is the world going to be fixed?"
I almost burst into tears. What on Earth has led to a 3 year old thinking that the world is broken?
"What do you mean, darling? The world isn't broken" I said, gently.
"No, Mummy, the road. When is the road going to be fixed?"
OOOH! The road! That's better. That one, I can handle.
"The road is all closed! They are not fixing it." She seemed quite put out.
I explained that they wouldn't be fix the road until they had finished getting underneath it, to fix the power lines. Once they had done that, then they would fix the road.
"Oh" she said.
Later on, eating a snack at the table, she turned to me, and in a quiet voice said
"When is the world going to be fixed?"
I almost burst into tears. What on Earth has led to a 3 year old thinking that the world is broken?
"What do you mean, darling? The world isn't broken" I said, gently.
"No, Mummy, the road. When is the road going to be fixed?"
OOOH! The road! That's better. That one, I can handle.
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