musingsponderingsandrants

Parenting, profundities and humour

Author: sarahsmale

Hmm... about me...well three kids, a husband (not acquired in that order)... and a love of punctuation...
Best Supporting Role…. — March 20, 2016

Best Supporting Role….

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So today I was in trouble. For a laundry related offence.

Today is the last day of term.  Excuse me, I am just going to take a moment here. Bear with, bear with. I’ll say it again, the last day of term. I am just going to sit here briefly and exhale forcefully and let my shoulders relax. And feel the release. The relief.

Ok sorry back with you now.

At this point I would just like to say for the record that I am extremely lucky that I do not have to go out to work. My husband works himself into the ground so that I can stay at home and take all the responsibility for the kids Monday through Friday. And although some days I am so intellectually bored that I could gnaw my own arm off most of the time this is a massive benefit to me and to our family. I can go to all my kids’ events and support them. Which is also fun for me. I can take them to hospital appointments. They can go to their myriad after school clubs and extra curricular activities. My husband does not have to worry about getting home or flying off to god knows where at the drop of a hat. I don’t have to find them holiday clubs. You get the drift.

So there we have it. We all benefit in different ways. Massively.

And this week has been extremely hectic, children’s activity wise. The usual last week of term flurry.

On Monday it was the Junior school cross country race. Which both Middlest and Youngest were taking part in. With varying degrees of enthusiasm. Running is one of Youngest’s many sporting abilities. She is good at it and she loves it. Mad girl, I blame her father. And running is not Middlest’s thing. At all.

But never mind following on from the cross country was a String ensemble concert for Junior school string players. This is Middlest’s thing. Playing the violin. I get the blame for this one.

So, apart from Scouts for Eldest, that was Monday.

On Tuesday Middlest had his violin exam and another concert. So I turned up again to watch him bow and pluck and generally do his thing. And made the other two watch again. We gave his football a miss. And went to the after concert tea and cake session instead.

On Wednesday Youngest had her class assembly which she had been diligently learning lines for all week. And playing the Sport Relief song on a loop for. Also all week. My ears, my ears. I had bought her the requested deely  boppers at some earlier point in the week.

After I had learnt all I could possibly learn about Sport Relief from their very informative class assembly I hot footed it over to the field to watch Middlest play his last ever football match for the Junior school. I was the only parent watching the C team. But I am glad I hiked over there as he scored a hat trick.  Just so you know the school fields, whilst sounding like they might be in close proximity to the assembly hall, are not. Its a good fifteen minute hike.

Any way I just had football training for Youngest, a piano lesson for Eldest and Cubs for Middlest to juggle after that.

That left Thursday. An easy day. I just needed to collect Eldest early and take him to his piano exam. And provide moral support. And tissues.

A while ago I booked a hair appointment for this morning. (Friday in case it isn’t as you read this). Squeezed in between the school drop off and the frankly ludicrous ‘last day of term’ noon pick up. No other day was going to work. I cannot imagine why (!).

Of course then I got a letter saying that the Senior school cross country was planned for the same morning.

So I could not go to watch Eldest. Well not without looking like a shaggy dog for the three weeks it would take me to get another appointment.

And to compound the issue I had washed his PE top overnight which was therefore still wet in the morning. And apparently it was essential he took it even though the letter said he could wear his rugby top. He wanted both ‘just in case’. In case of what?  He couldn’t expand on that, he was too cross about my lack of ability to provide a clean, dry PE shirt. So I was unable to provide the right kit, or my presence on the field. For once. The world had ended.

His parting comment as he got out of the car at school this morning was ‘Thanks for the support’. Accompanied by the glare. That glare I am becoming all too familiar with.

That hurts for two reasons.  One, he is too young for sarcasm, in my view. And two. Well I guess you can guess two.

Parenting. A thankless task. Literally.

Fares Please… — March 13, 2016

Fares Please…

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taxi

I am not really a car person. My husband is a car person. And likes to pour over brochures and specifications and trims. And I am not. To me a car gets you from A to B. With the cello. Not much else.

However I have reached a point in my parenting life when actually I am more of a car person. And that is because I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time in it.

Driving in it. Sitting in it. Eating in it. Sleeping in it. Playing Solitaire in it. Reading in it. Highlighting programs of interest in the Radio Times in it. Planning menus in it. Generally living a large proportion of my life in it.

Take yesterday as a fairly standard example. It was Saturday. If it wasn’t then yet again I refer you to my scheduling habits for these blog entries. If you are still confused then you are clearly not a loyal reader. Please bone up. But anyway it was. A Saturday.

Youngest was playing soccer with her team away in Leighton Buzzard at 10am. Leighton Buzzard is a town I know well having spent my pre teen and teen years living there. My mother and one brother still live there. The journey used to take the best part of an hour. Then the powers that be built a new bypass and I can do it in 35 minutes with a following wind. Yesterday, however, I didn’t. One lane of that bypass was shut. I think some poor souls were litter picking. Or something. And then Leighton Buzzard hits grid lock on Saturday mornings.

So anyway that was my first hour in the car. Chatting to Youngest about life, Def Leppard and soccer. Mainly soccer.

There was a brief interlude where I actually watched football. In fact it wasn’t that brief. They kicked off late. And then played four quarters of 15 minutes with the obligatory team talks in between. This necessitated hubby taking Middlest with him to Eldest’s hockey match at school. As I was not going to be back.

Anyway we got back in the car. The traffic in LB had hit its lunch time peak. That lane was still closed. I decided in my infinite wisdom to drive straight to school to extract Middlest as he needed to be elsewhere too close to the end of Eldest’s match…which had also kicked off/bullied off/ whatever the hockey equivalent of kicked off is- off late too. It seemed to be a day for it.

I drew up in the bus stop next to the Astro pitch and hubby met me half way with Middlest. I set off home.

Clearly I am used to this journey as it is the school run. I set off on automatic pilot conveniently forgetting the flooded flood plains of the river in my village. Which I had commented on to Youngest merely minutes earlier on our journey from LB to school.

It was a shame I hadn’t thought about the implications of those floods on the river bridges in our neighbouring village which I needed to cross to get home. They were flooded and shut. Which I found out just as I approached them. There is another bridge over the river in a village about 10 miles further on. But I wasn’t prepared to risk that bridge also being closed. So we turned around and retraced our steps. Tyres.

We waved at school as we passed by again. And crawled through the traffic the other way. The way that I avoid at all costs. Bridges permitting.

Just as I was driving through my own village on my normal route which allows me to turn right into my driveway (I having learnt the hard way fairly early on the dangers of turning in left with loud children in the car and on a deadline) Middlest piped up that our road had been closed. At that end. Ah yes next door’s lead pipe replacement which seemed to have necessitated digging up the entire street. It hadn’t been closed when I had left home several decades earlier but it seemed the digging could not be accomplished with traffic signals alone and as hubby was leaving the road was in the process of being shut. I am glad Middlest remembered albeit not early enough for me to take the logical ‘other’ route.

I quickly changed tack and took a scenic route through the housing estates of my village to approach the drive from the left. We waved at our old house on the way. Turning into the drive left was made even harder than usual by the presence of an Anglian Water van and several workmen standing around looking pensive in the middle of the street.

So overall that journey took the best part of two hours. Which made us late for the rest of the day. I shoved food down Youngest and persuaded her into a shower and packed an overnight bag for her.

Then we set off again to town to drop Middlest at his party. Another crawl through that traffic that I avoid at all costs. Bridges permitting. And also road closures permitting. One critical road for this ‘bridge’ journey to town involves a street which has been shut for ‘essential’ gas works since February and isn’t due to re-open until May. Sigh.

So another 40 minutes of my life in the car.

There followed a rather pleasant interlude. I dropped Middlest at his Pokémon party in the local comic book store. And then Youngest and I had about an hour to kill before I needed to drop her off at the local pottery painting shop. We went to the library where it quickly became apparent why the multi storey had been so full. Some sort of event was in full swing blocking off the teenage fiction section. Anyway we had a browse and then a snack and drink in the café. Lovely.

I dropped her and plodded wearily back to the old voiture. At least on this journey I was alone and able to play Def Leppard at ear splitting volume and sing without being shouted at. Still the traffic was bad so yet again it took 40 minutes. It didn’t help that I had forgotten about my closed road until I had gone past the point where I could take the ‘other’ logical route. Again. More housing estate. Hi again old house (usual pang…).

It would be nice to say that was it. But it wasn’t. I went back out at about 5.30pm to collect Middlest from his party this time from his friend’s house. On the other side of town. The traffic hard calmed a bit so the whole trip took about an hour there and back. So not too bad. One half Def Leppard, one half Pokémon de-brief. I forgot about my closed road entirely this time but thankfully it had re-opened in the intervening period and was merely traffic signal controlled. I successfully negotiated turning into my drive for what felt like the umpteenth time that day.

And that was it. I turned off the cab sign for the day. A total of around five hours in the car. All told.

Poor hubby though. He had to go to get Eldest from his night hike at half past midnight. Yikes.

So there you have it. I guess I am a car person. By default. And the world’s worst paid taxi driver.

 

 

Just a Quickie… — March 10, 2016

Just a Quickie…

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So Eldest is revising for his next science test. On reproduction.

The topic started off quite benignly with pollen and wind assisted fertilisation and stamen. There were pretty pictures and bee attracting strategies.

The life cycle of a frog was mentioned at dinner one night.

And then things went quiet. I think they had started on human reproduction. Not something Eldest cares to discuss over meatballs. And who can blame him.

So tonight I was helping him fill in his key word sheet. They have one for each topic and it helps revision. This one didn’t hold any punches.

We meandered through the gamut of sexual organs, menstruation, hormones, birth, placentas and such.

I corrected some misapprehensions. For instance that the cervix is the gap between the vagina and the anus.

That in-vitro fertilisation is ‘how frogs do it’.

That the process of labour is like having leg cramp in a ‘delicate’ area. Well his teacher is male and I guess this is the nearest men can get to understanding it.

That Urethra Franklin was not a soul singer. OK I made that one up. Because I can. Ha ha.

But overall I was quite impressed with his knowledge and lack of tittering. Although it wasn’t completely absent. The tittering that is.

There is a diagram of the female reproductive system hastily drawn by me on the dining table. Without an anus. But with a cervix. To clarify it is on a piece of paper on the dining table in case you were worried.

And my son now understands that his parents had sex at least three times. He is grossed out.

Ha ha-er.

 

 

 

 

A Weighty Issue — March 8, 2016

A Weighty Issue

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weight

So last evening I sang with my choir in a Music Festival. I may have mentioned that before. I joined the choir about 5 years ago and in the run up to our first concert had to find an all black outfit.

I may have also mentioned before that I wear jeans. All the time. And not black ones at that. And so I made an emergency dash to Primarni and purchased a pair of black trousers with an elasticated waist and a black fitted T shirt. For about ten quid. Thinking that they would do ‘pro tem’. I ignored the little voice in my head mithering about child labour. And the elasticated waist.

Of course in every concert since I have reached in my wardrobe for that exact same outfit. Pro tem, it seems, is at least 5 years.

Anyhoo. Last night I pulled on the trousers and was slightly disconcerted to find that they were…a little snug.

So there we have it. There has been creep. A depositing of extra pounds around my, how can I put this politely, arse. OK so not very polite, but then I don’t feel very polite about it.

I don’t weigh myself. For a few reasons. Firstly because the batteries in my fancy fat percentage weighing scales are dead. (Don’t use in socks. It gets all confused and throws a hissy fit). And I keep forgetting to replace them. And by now a combination of the steam from the shower and leaving dead batteries in there for over a year has probably knackered them beyond all repair. Which begs the question why am I still dusting them every week? (OK, OK, every month…ish…).

I also don’t weigh myself as I do not want to obsess about my weight and transfer any eating issues to my kids. Who are already bombarded with enough ‘healthy living’ advice at school to be sufficiently paranoid that Eldest has designed his own sit up and press up routine.

But if I am brutally honest I don’t weigh myself because it is better not to know. There I said it. Ignorance is bliss. Was.

But now I have failed the ‘concert trousers’ test. And have until May to do something about it. I really don’t want to admit defeat and have to go back to Primarni and buy elasticated trousers in a (whispers) bigger size.

So this is my plan of action.

Stop buying large packets of Doritos in my Friday on line shop. I buy them to accompany our weekend salad lunches. But I have noticed a tendency between hubby and I to ‘forget’ to serve them to the kids at lunch. So we can then eat them ‘a deux’ on the sofa in the evening in front of The Night Manager.

Crisps are really my downfall. It is a well known fact amongst my inner circle. In fact so much so that on my birthday some dear friends bought me some individual sized packets of Salt and Vinegar Kettle Chips. A catering sized box full. From a wholesaler. Hmmm they probably haven’t helped. Much.

Start dusting those weighing scales more often. Obviously I don’t just mean the scales but dusting and other such pursuits more generally. Housework is a great calorie burner. Although tedious as hell. But cheaper than a gym membership. And with pleasant side effects. However temporary.

Eat less biscuits. This is tricky. My afternoon pleasure is a cuppa and a couple of biscuits (unless I am still wading through a catering sized box of salty delights, oh, OK often as well as…). You know to reward myself for not dusting. Somehow a cuppa alone isn’t quite the ticket. I could chow down on carrot sticks and a cuppa. I suppose. Sigh. It doesn’t help that my children (well actually my husband) bought me two packets of luxury biscuits for Mother’s Day yesterday. So now I am in that quandary. Eat them gradually over the course of a few weeks risking staleness and poundage creep or eat them all in one sitting and ‘get them over with’? I suppose in the latter case I could just counter-act the huge calorie in take with extra (shudders) dusting.

Walk more. The weather is improving. Finally. That yellow thing in the sky has actually come back. So although it is cold still at least I feel like venturing out. And so I need to do so. And not sit on the sofa watching re runs of Friends…sorry I mean dusting.

Eat less cheese. And pork pie. Bigger sigh. I have finally finished the Christmas cheese so that will help. Pork pie is a different issue. I clearly have none left over from Christmas. That would be insane. But a medium Melton Mowbray does come up in the top ten of my ‘Favourite’ items on my Sainsbury’s on line ordering system. Says it all really. May be I should deliberately run out of Branston pickle. Rendering the pie unappetising. But that would incur the wrath of Youngest. Who is pickle mad. Dilemmas, dilemmas.

Keep going to my exercise class once a week. Which is fun. And not reward myself afterwards with an extra cuppa and couple of biscuits. Bad mummy….

That is it really. I don’t want to lose a lot of weight. Just a ‘couple’ of pounds. Or so. Obviously I don’t actually know how many I want to lose as I can’t weigh myself. But I am guessing seven will do it. By May. Do-able. I hope.

Wish me luck.

 

 

Inspiration — March 6, 2016

Inspiration

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Yesterday I received sad news. The night before that choir that I mentioned in Sing It Loud lost one of its oldest members.

The lovely thing about this choir, other than allowing me to sing, is that the participants are drawn from all walks of life. We are a non auditioned Community Choir and as long as you hit the top of the waiting list you are welcome. Whether you read music or not. Even you haven’t sung for years or never at all. It matters not. Our amazing choir mistress will still whip you into shape. So that our choir turns out good and entertaining performances which our swelling audiences are testament to.

I am not sure whether Glenys was our oldest member. But she was certainly a contender and an inspiration. She sat in front of me in the sopranos or ‘tops’ as we are more generally referred to! ‘Hands up tops’ is still a line shouted from the conductor’s dias which gets us all a titter…. There are others…the tenor ladies, hands down bottoms …  She joined in fulsomely in our hip rotating, arm waving warm ups.

She turned up almost every Monday night and was in nearly all our performances. Eschewing that chair that was always placed for her use. Despite, I believe, being in her nineties.

After the last concert at Christmas she came up to me, put her hand on my arm and told me what a lovely family I had. They had sat on the front row, my harshest critics. Even they enjoyed our fairly light hearted Christmas tunes.

It is lovely to spend time with such people. People at different points in their lives. Who provide a fresh perspective. Where else would I rub shoulders (during some warm ups quite literally) with friends nearly twice my age.

And it gives everyone hope. Hope that they too will enjoy such pleasures as singing well into old age.

This evening we took part in a Music Festival competing against other such choirs. We decided to dedicate our performance to that special lady. We came a commendable second. But in my mind we were winners. I am sure Glenys would have agreed.

I didn’t know her well. But well enough to know she was an amazing individual.

As the line of one of our songs went this evening…’Goodnight my angel, it’s time to close your eyes’..

Rest in peace.

The cost of everything, the value of nothing — February 28, 2016

The cost of everything, the value of nothing

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smashed phone

So Eldest. We gave him a phone when he started Senior school in September. It was an old handset of husband’s with a SIM only, well SIM.

Almost as soon as he had it and the novelty had worn off he was on the internet researching better models.

And then regaling me ad infinitum about the advantages of the Samsung Edge or the I phone 6S. Or some other such technical wizardy. In which I had no interest. And no intention of indulging him.

The deal had always been that he would keep the old hand set (which actually is an I phone 4 and so not too shabby, certainly better than my entry level Samsung touch phone) until at least Year 9. When apparently phones become so important it is impossible to live without the latest model. Well certainly not at Eldest’s school. Where ‘everyone else’ has a better phone than him.

Ah school. The one-up-manship. The ‘my phone is better than yours’ ship. Every time Eldest whinged about his phone’s short comings I was transported back to my own Year 8. And red shoe gate.

I suppose I should explain. I always wore ‘sensible’ shoes to school. Anyone born in the seventies and growing up in the eighties will know that this meant black lace up Clark’s shoes. In a time when Clark’s shoes were not fashionable. In any sense.

I was teased mercilessly about my sensible shoes. Others persuaded their parents to buy them court shoes. Slips ons with bows and tassels. It was the eighties after all.

I finally got my mum to buy me some of these beauties. To wear outside school. They were bright red slip ons. With bows. And they were shiny. Finally I was going to be accepted by the teenage girl elite. Of course they were not regulation black and so I had to sneak them into school in my back pack without my mother seeing. And change into them in the loo. I should also probably point out at this juncture that our school uniform was maroon. And the shoes were crimson. One does not have to be a fashionista to work out that that combo was not all I thought it was.

Suffice to say I got more ribbing wearing the red shoes than the sensible black lace ups. In fact I wanted to click my heels and forever disappear to Kansas. I never wore them again.

So there you have it. I have no interest in keeping my children up with the latest trends in order for them to ‘fit in’. It didn’t work for me.

And then of course Middlest is hard on Eldest’s heels. He was recently accepted into the same Senior school and is, of course, expecting a phone. To be able to function.

So actually it is not just that I didn’t want to get him a better phone so he could fit in. It is also that I didn’t need to. Nor could justify the cost.

And then a series of ‘incidents’ occurred. Eldest swears all accidental. Which may be true. At least consciously.

He first disabled the phone by changing the PIN on the lock screen and then forgetting it. And inputting it wrongly so many times the phone disabled. Well suffice to say about four evenings and a trip to the phone shop later we finally managed to un-disable it. I think much to Eldest’s disgust.

Then he took it out when he went to play football with a mate. I asked him to take it. Because it is a mobile phone and not much use sitting on my kitchen counter. Communication wise. So what happened next was of course all my fault. Namely that it fell out of his pocket during a rainbow flick. And smashed. Not beyond help. But enough to threaten cut fingers during screen swiping.

So of course now he has a better phone. Only up one level to an I phone 5 but still.

Twelve year olds are damn cunning.

I made him give me ALL his birthday and Christmas money though. All £110 of it. And spend some of his Amazon vouchers on a proper case. So now he is broke. Until next Christmas.

Serves him right. And at least now he has a better understanding of the value of things. After all it has cost him everything.

 

 

Sing It Loud — February 7, 2016

Sing It Loud

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So here is a thing you may not know about me. I love to sing.

When I was small I sang in a church choir. That is my and my bro up there…he may never forgive me. It was a fairly serious affair involving cassocks and surplices and practices and two services on Sunday and often a wedding on Saturday. And rather thrillingly it also involved small brown envelopes containing hard cash. It was my first ‘job’ although it didn’t really feel like hard work. There was extra money for weddings.

I took exams and gained medals and rose to the heady rank of Head Girl Chorister before my family upped sticks and moved 200 miles south when I was 11. I never took it up again in the new place. Not really sure why.

Still some of my best memories of that period of my childhood come from singing in that choir. In fact the best of those was singing at sung evensong in candle light on a winter’s evening. I still have a fondness for hymns and especially psalms. It is part of the reason I go to church. To sing.

From then on in I didn’t do that much singing as instrument playing took over. Specifically double bass and for one school production percussion. Because my piano playing wasn’t up to scratch. That gig went to Rupert Wilson, he of the cello playing fame….we once did a turn in the school concert…him playing a beautiful rendition of The Swan from Carnival of the Animals and me following up with the double bass solo….The Elephant…well I guess I chose to play the bass….anyway I digress. In the event playing percussion turned out to be a blast especially banging on timpani. I often wonder why Rupert and I didn’t hook up forming, as we did, the bass string section of the school orchestra mostly single (double) handedly. But we didn’t. I like to think he still plays. His cello is probably gathering as much dust as my double bass.

Although now I think about singing at school I do remember that I was part of a quartet of street sellers in a production of Oliver in my fifth year. I can still sing the whole of my part. I was a milk maid. My boyfriend of the time was quite taken with my long dress and metal pail.

For a long time thereafter through university and work my singing was confined to the shower and round the piano at Christmas. I got a bit rusty to be honest.

Then Eldest came along.  There were many long February evenings when I was pacing up and down with a grizzly baby waiting for my husband to arrive home when I cranked up the stereo and sang along to my favourites. Frank Sinatra, The Carpenters, Crystal Gayle, Ella Fitzgerald. I like to listen to all sorts of music. But this is the stuff I like to ‘Karaoke’ to…even if only in the privacy of my lounge.

The others came along. I sang a lot of nursery rhymes. Wind the Bobbin Up? Anyone? We went to a mums and toddlers singing group which was fun. Eventually I progressed to Cub Scout campfire singalongs. But this was the extent of my limited singing opportunities. Life with small kids. Doesn’t leave much time for a social life.

Then about five years ago a flyer came home in the school bags advertising a community choir being held in another local school. I organised husband to get home in time and with a lot of trepidation set out to join. I expected a hall full of people. There were seven of them. Including the choirmaster. That brought its own issues. No where to hide.

But it was fun. We did public performances. I still go to that choir today. When I can get away on a Monday night. The choir now numbers around a 100 people. But it is still immense fun. We sing all sorts sometimes in Zulu, Spanish and most recently Maori. We do show tunes and folk tunes and a smattering of religious stuff. Rutter- my favourite. Some Mondays I almost don’t make it because the effort of getting out in time whilst juggling the kids’ stuff and often a late husband is nearly enough to tip me over the edge. But without fail I am always glad I made the effort. It cheers my soul.

All my children sing. Eldest and Youngest are in the school choirs. Eldest particularly loves it. Middlest has a great voice but is taking a sabbatical. We all sing once a month in our church all age choir with other families.

We have just returned from a practice with the church choir master ahead of Sunday’s family service.  ‘Go Tell it on the Mountain’ this time. The ages ranged from 5 to cough cough. We numbered 10 in total. It is a bit daunting for us to stand up in front of the congregation and do our turn. But we all still turn up.

Because there is really nothing like the buzz of singing in a group.

So now I have more outlets for my singing. But even so I can still often be found belting out a Carpenters track into my hairbrush whilst stirring spag bol. Because that is fun too.

 

 

Every Cloud…. — February 4, 2016

Every Cloud….

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image

 

So on Monday Eldest managed to disable his phone. It was the usual morning chaos. At some point he lost his rag as Youngest had changed his home screen picture again.  And so I heard him say that he was going to change the passcode.

I shouted vaguely in his direction that it might not be such a good idea. We all knew his passcode which he had explained the evolution of to me in such detail that I was never going to forget it. In case he forgot it.

Anyhow out of school him came on Monday brandishing his disabled phone. Apparently he had ignored my advice. In the manner of twelve year old boys. He had changed the passcode. And promptly forgotten it.

After the numerous attempts to remember it his phone decided it had been stolen and disabled itself. I guess at some point phones may become clever enough to distinguish between theft and idiocy. But not yet. Accordingly to husband he must have tried incorrectly at least 12 times with dire warnings of the consequences of carrying on appearing after the sixth attempt. Presumably also ignored.

Husband has spent the two evenings he has been in since trying to un-disable it via his Apple Mac. It isn’t really working. We will have to resort to a shop.

He is not best pleased.

On the up side since Eldest has been phoneless for nearly four days he has rediscovered pursuits other than Terreria.

He has played YuGiOh in break times with actual cards. And played ping pong.

He has devoured two more books in the Belgariad.

He has played with his new remote controlled helicopter enticing his brother away from Monster Legends with ‘Who can fly their remote control helicopter better’ competitions.

He has drawn lots of Manga characters with his new pen from Grandma.

We have discovered that we do not need to be in constant phone contact to survive the school day.

So all in all there is a silver lining. Maybe we shouldn’t bother getting it reactiviated. Oh except for that £15 a month contract….hmmm…

Hard Drugs… — February 1, 2016

Hard Drugs…

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Well that got your attention.

This entry will probably disappoint those searching for my seedy past. Which doesn’t really exist.

No this is a post about Eldest. And before you call Social Services he doesn’t use mind altering substances either. Well unless you count sugar. And Toxic Waste. Look it up if you don’t understand that.

This weekend Eldest turned twelve. It is not much of a milestone. Well only in as much as any year is a milestone in a child’s life. And that of its parents.

And then today I was queuing up in Boots for yet another large bottle of Calpol. 6+ Calpol. And the pharmacist asked me how old the child was who was going to use it. In case I didn’t understand the name 6+ Calpol… I replied that he was twelve. And he retorted that in that case I could give him actual pills of paracetomol. And I realised 12 is actually a milestone year. He no long needs to take his pain relief in liquid form via a large, squeezy syringe.

I nearly burst into tears. Right there in Boots. Rather embarrassingly. I still bought that Calpol. As Middlest and Youngest are, well, younger. But still, a bit of me died.

Parenting is like this. There are little things that you do routinely for what seems like years. And then one day you realise that you are no longer doing them. At least for one child if not all of them.  And further, you don’t really remember the last time you did do it. It just stopped at some point. And even though you realise this it keeps happening with the same child and with subsequent ones too. It cannot be anticipated. These things just stop. On a random Tuesday. It is only in hindsight that you notice.

Some of the things are a relief. Like bum wiping. And nose wiping.

Some are heart breaking. Hand holding. Bedtime story reading. Getting goodbye kisses at the school gate.

And some are surprising. Like no longer providing pain relief in liquid form.

Ah Eldest. Where did the years go? It is a cliché. But it is true. Time flies. And before you can blink that sweet baby is as tall as you and wears shoes two sizes bigger.

He will always be my baby though. My sweet, sweet baby. X

 

Life Sentence…. — January 27, 2016

Life Sentence….

/sarahsmale/Leave a comment

handwriting

Today is Monday. Well actually it probably isn’t anymore as I never post entries on a Monday as they do spectacularly badly. But anyway when I was writing this it was Monday.

Monday is a particularly bad day.

For many reasons. The usual ones. Husband back to work. Kids back to school. Bag packing. Early, dark morning. Scrambling not to be late. All the usual stuff families have to work through.

Anyway after the husband and kids have safely left for work and school I spend a few depressing hours getting on top of the detritus left by two days of not dealing with it. And the admin which still seems to pile up even on ‘non’ work days.

Usually I meet up with some friends and we stave off the Monday blues with tea and biscuits and chat. A good couple of hours in an otherwise dismal day.

And then after school we have to deal with the return of homework.

I have mixed feelings about homework. In theory I believe in homework. Which is a good job as mine get quite a lot of it. It is our own fault. We chose the school. And knew the homework policy before we did so. Although like a pregnant lady facing parenthood I was in denial somewhat. I should have listened.

Eldest gets about an hour a day. Middlest gets 40 minutes a day. Youngest about 20 minutes. It is useful for me. I get to know what is going on at school. Books come home and I can surreptitiously trawl them to see how they are getting on. It highlights areas they may want to work on with me. I can ‘help’ with stuff I love. Like algebra and history. And I can be ‘too busy’ when it is English. Or a fact file….saints preserve me from fact files…

Mine are very good and we operate a ‘do it on the day it is set’ policy which served me well at school. This means Saturdays and Sundays are usually free of homework which makes the contrast to Monday even more extreme.

So I get homework. I know why it is set. I try to be positive about it in front of the kids.

But in some ways I hate it. And Mondays are particularly bad. And this is because Youngest brings home her spelling sentences. Every week she has a list of 15 words to learn to spell. Usually based around a sound. This week that sound was ‘or’. She writes them out each morning in her book before breakfast. And has a test on a Friday. So far so OK. I did this as a child. Along with my times table tests. I have no issue with it.

What I have an issue with is the Monday task of putting these words into sentences. In her handwriting book. She has to come up with a sentence for 5 of the words. And then write them out so her risers and fallers (get me all ‘Primary Teachery’) fall exactly between the sets of lines provided in the special handwriting book.

So far this term her words have been too loopy, too small, too far apart, too close together, too god knows what. I don’t get the point. She doesn’t write in this way in her actual books, which lack the numerous sets of lines provided in the handwriting book. The fact that her writing is joined up and legible is enough for me. I find it particularly irritating as it is impossible to read some of her teacher’s marking comments as their writing is so illegible. My writing is illegible. My doctor’s writing is illegible. It doesn’t really matter. Especially in the modern world. Where writing in pen is dying out. I never hand write anything except greetings cards and shopping lists.

So I find it a banal task. Extremely.

Today these are the sentences we came up with. Youngest wasn’t brave enough to actually write them in her book. I wish she had.

Please transport me to a place where spelling sentences do not exist. Period.

I cannot afford the time to write out these spelling sentences. I have a life. I am eight and my hand writing is better than yours.

The pupil found writing out spelling sentences so depressing that she committed Harakari with a sword.

Coming up each week with an interesting assortment of spelling sentences is driving my mother mad.

Writing out these spelling sentences is pure torture.

I think we should have written these. Seriously.