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...
Maxims for Successful Kitchens — June 5, 2015

Maxims for Successful Kitchens

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kitchen

We recently moved house. I know, I know I have mentioned this before, in fact I may have opened another blog entry exactly like this before, I forget, its my age you know. A thousand, humble apologies.

The house is basically a three bed 1930s detached with a big double storey back extension and a spare room plonked over the garage. It is actually nicer than I am making it sound here.

Whoever did the extension was clearly a man. And here is why.

Let’s start in the kitchen. On the surface it looks quite pleasant, one may even say smart. Cream, gloss cupboards and black, possibly granite, worktops. I may sound like I am gloating now but bear with.

In my old house I had a worktop which was speckled in shades of beige and brown. I cannot remember the actual name of the colour, something poncy no doubt, but it could have been called ‘Toast Crumb Camouflage’. It was absolutely brilliant. Unless you actually put your eyes at counter level all manner of grot could be lying around totally unseen. Black granite is, shall we say, not as forgiving. Even when it is wiped down it needs buffing to remove the water marks left by my rock hard water. I was not put on this earth to buff worktops. Seriously.

Another smart but totally useless area is the in built draining board which consists of three shallow grooves carved into the granite vaguely sloping towards the sink (which I may add is hardly big enough to wash a mug in- more later). Things do not drain on it. Glasses, mugs, snack pots etc sit upside down on it until you remove them the next morning and the water that has remained trapped inside falls out. I have been banned from putting a plastic draining tray on it by ‘he who must mostly be ignored’ but I am reaching breaking point.

Back to the mouse’s bath that is my sink. Not even the smallest washing up bowl known to man will fit in it. (It is however deep enough to drown in.) So I have to be scrupulously careful about tipping out dregs etc before starting the washing up process. And yes before some smart Alec says it (husband take note) I could take all those dregs to the futility room sink but I don’t because I am in a hurry. And anyway it is just annoying.

And it is even more irritating because the integral dishwasher (which just means it has a cream gloss door attached to it, has reduced my magnetic noticeboard surfaces by one, and provides a much smaller inside capacity due to it BEING IN A CUPBAORD) is utter pants. I cannot fit my usual cooking pans in it (remember I am catering for a small army, or so it feels), the powder flap doesn’t open properly and it doesn’t clean anything, except water glasses used for water by someone who wasn’t wearing lipstick. I do a lot more hand washing than when I had my German machine, which I actually left behind. Sobs…

And then there are no drawers. Well that is a lie there are three normal sized drawers- cutlery, large cutlery, tea towels. And two ‘pan’ drawers. Which take roughly half my pans. And bizarrely two refrigeration drawers which are vast and currently contain the Ribena and the ketchup, which my kids now maintain is un-pourable as a result. This leaves me no cloth/ duster/ scourer/ extension cables/ random instruction booklets drawer; no cling film, foil, sandwich bag drawer; and no drawer for aprons, random party stuff, candles, matches, keys for locks I have no idea about & spare batteries. Unless I want them refrigerated, I am left with shelves in cupboards for this stuff. And my husband unpacked the kitchen (what was I thinking) so all the things I use most are out of reach. I can easily re-waterproof your mackintosh here but don’t come knocking if you have a blinding headache or require an emergency plaster.

What else? The built  in cooker’s automatic setting doesn’t work. Which leaves me with considerable cottage pie dilemmas. And the hob is electric. Very easy to clean, which is useful when everything I cook on it either boils over or doesn’t boil at all. But not so clever when your offspring use it as a work surface for the bread bag after you have just finished boiling over some rice. And actually not that easy to clean in those circumstances.

And then it has cream gloss doors. Need I say more. Not really but I will. No-one in their right mind when designing a kitchen for a five bed house (which presumably will mean children will reside in it) would sit down and think, hmm I know, cream gloss doors would work… no, no, no… they do not work on any level…unless you are one of those poor unfortunates addicted to cleaning. Let’s put it this way I empathise more with the dirty bu**ers on Obsessive Compulsive Cleaners, not those in rubber gloves…

Whoever designed the kitchen, therefore, had clearly hardly used one, the design breaking, as it does, my three principles for successful kitchens:

You can never have too may drawers.

A dishwasher can never be too big.

Camouflage is key.

Your Children Are Never Too Old for a Dressing Up Box — June 4, 2015

Your Children Are Never Too Old for a Dressing Up Box

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dressing up

My eldest is just about to leave Primary school. This is his last term before he ventures out into the world of Seniors. In some ways it makes me a little sad. But in others I am pleased. And one of the reasons I am pleased is because he is getting too big for a lot of our dressing up clothes.

I am a veteran Primary school parent. I have 7 years continuous service, with the last four of those seven years seeing all three of my kids attending. And so I am in a fortunate position and can pass on some of my wisdom. And the best and biggest piece of advice I can give you is to maintain a fully stocked dressing up box. Keep everything. Do not throw any garment away that could go in the dressing up box. Scour jumble sales for useful items. Keep everything they make at cub camp. Buy high viz vests in bulk and cheaply, buy face paint and hair dye. Keep a stock of Sharpies in various hues. Have snake belts. Keep old broken broom handles and cheap synthetic blankets.

And here is why.

One day, probably within your first year of being a Primary school parent, you will be asked to send in your child in fancy dress. The school, of course, does not call it fancy dress. They call it Curriculum Enrichment. But it is actually fancy dress.

It starts off quite benignly. Usually with a super hero day. Or a ‘People Who Serve Us’ day. Most parents of four year olds have a Spiderman outfit or a nurses costume. Easy you think, I have this licked.

Ha ha ha.

Within months the school will be sending out requests for historic costumes. You will be asked to provide gear to attend a mock christening or wedding. Someone clever in the PTA will decide wearing spots is a good idea for Red Nose Day. Your child will be evacuated, transported back to Ancient Greece or Roman Britain, be flying in space. You will discover your child(ren) is (are) in the house coloured in the only colour they do not possess a T shirt in for Sports Day.

And here is a heads up. Generally the time notice period has been set by someone who has no kids. That is, too short. Certainly outside Amazon’s normal delivery time scales. And the letter will always says, ‘Please do not go to too much effort, it is about the taking part, but little Jimmy will get much more from the day if he comes dressed in a mop cap, doublet and full breeches, but please no swords’. Damn I have several hundred of those.

Again ha, ha, ha… One would love to ‘not make too much effort’. Again the non kid owning teacher has never experienced the mummy guilt which prevents one from sending in little Jimmy in rolled up trousers with a pillow case over his head. (Never throw anything away). Leaving aside the fussy and image conscious child.

Individually I can usually cope with these requests it is the likelihood of a co-incidence of costumier requirements amongst my three children that cause me headaches.

For instance that seemingly easy request for spots. I have two boys I can tell you how may articles of clothing they possess which have spots. None. At all. I had to cut down an old shirt of daddy’s and cover it in Sharpie pen. Times two. You see? Throw nothing away.

I have had some luck though. As my kids are close in age the Curriculum Enrichment opportunities often repeat themselves and I can re-use costumes. Its a shame then that my eldest is huge. And middlest is not. And youngest is a different gender. No matter. I am sure Tudors wore their breeches baggy. And she’s a tom boy anyway, so hey, suck it up.

And talking of Tudors. The instructions on HOW TO CHEAT to make the outfit required by this particular ‘full immersion’ day still required a sewing machine. That is not cheating. Anything involving haberdashery is not cheating. I went on e bay and looked up child’s Tudor costumes. Some enterprising soul was making outfits by hand to the exact specifications of the ‘Curriculum Enrichment’ venue my child was attending. Only a collar less shirt to provide. He went in with a collar. And was told off. And had to turn it inside. Making him hot and uncomfortable all day. In blazing June. Pardon me for not having ‘spare’ shirts I can merely hack the collar off.

Even such an easy request as a pyjama day can actually be fraught with issues. My children, especially middlest, who is a rake, struggle to keep up PJ bottoms. Which is fine in the privacy of my lounge not so good in double Maths. Snake belts, just saying, perhaps the single most useful items Santa ever brought. Also in this house PJs do not always fit. They are either too long or too short. Again not normally an issue. However it invariably rains, leaving dragging PJ bottom legs soggy and the child miserable. I have been up before now hemming pyjamas in the wee hours, after unearthing the letter from the depths of a book bag.

And then there is the annual jeopardy that is Christmas. Every year I dread the letters. I have had everything from line dancer to elf (green leggings for a boy, anyone?) to the traditional crib characters. Perhaps my most memorable year was when school decided in its infinite wisdom to ask both my boys to be angels. Whilst I applauded their gender neutrality providing white clothes for boys was less than easy. Luckily middlest was still in Reception and happy to go in one of daddy’s old T-shirts belted at the waist. Eldest, the year above, was less pliable and I had to beg some white jeans off a friend. They both agreed to tinsel, only middlest would wear wings.

I have only had a livestock request (sheep) once. And after a lot of time and cotton wool I can only say that the recent, if too late for me, boom in novelty onesies is every parent’s blessing.

Perhaps the worst of all will be days ‘left entirely up to you’. World book day is a classic example of this. Go as any book character. Please for the love of God narrow it down a bit. The stress of three of those costumes nearly un did me one year.

And my final bit of advice. Never volunteer. Unless you can rake up your own costume. And look good in half a bed sheet and your sandals from circa 1980. In the rain.

Eldest’s last hurrah dressing up wise is a WW2 evacuation. Luckily he did this in year 3. So upstairs somewhere I have a battered, small, hard suitcase, a flat cap, a knitted tank top, grey shorts, a ‘granddad’ shirt and a gas mask box. Of course he wore all this when he was about a foot shorter but hopefully no one will notice. Make do and mend after all.

My Brain — June 2, 2015

My Brain

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Just a quickie…

So today I was in the middle of hanging my laundry on the airer. It being rainy here…again…

My doorbell rang, well I say bell, actually it plays an extremely tinny version of ‘I came from Alabama with a banjo on my knee’ …the previous owners of this house were just…weird…I can’t seem to change it…Interestingly on the Fixtures and Fittings list they said they were taking it with them which I thought was a bit odd, seeing as it is sooo hideous, but they possibly ran out of time to remove it as they were too busy taking down every….single….curtain rail… which were on the Fixtures and Fittings list as staying…ho hum, I digress.

At the door were a national bed company who were here to deliver our new flat packed double spare bed. I supervised the process. And then being a little odd I decided to start assembly. I quite like flat pack, as long as I am not doing it with my husband, when I hate flat pack. I like to read ALL the instructions, count ALL the bolts, and nuts, and gizmos and Alan keys. He doesn’t. Let’s just say we are slightly incompatible in this regard.

I was expecting a handyman to call to tell me he was on his way to fit some of the aforementioned missing curtain poles.

I realised I perhaps ought to have my mobile and landline handset upstairs, in case I missed his call through all my grunting and swearing.

I went downstairs and could not find my mobile. So I called it from my land line. I located its muffled ring under a pile of wet washing on my futility room side. Oh, yes, I remember I was doing the laundry. I pocketed the phone and finished hanging the laundry.

I then checked my phone for missed calls from my handyman. There was indeed a missed call, damn. I didn’t immediately recognise the number but thought it odd that it was a landline not a mobile. So I called it.

And got myself…

I actually do worry gently.

The Definition of Sod’s Law —

The Definition of Sod’s Law

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sods law

If you read my previous entry entitled Bodge it Yourself (if not, do look it up) you will know how hard I worked to remove my washing machine from my old house.

It made it to the new house.

I plumbed it in, despite the waste outlet pipe under my new sink looking disticntly odd. The removal man who helped me said this was ‘how most pipes looked these days’. How old did I feel?

I did a test run. And in the drainage section of the cycle my machine stated to make horrible sort of ‘I am trying, I really am trying….but getting no where’ noises.

The drainage pump was defunct. I had had sporadic issues with this at my old abode. Which I had ignored, adopting my ‘head in the sand’ approach to disaster management.

Because that is what being without a washer is in my house, a disaster.  My new home was already a complete box bombsite. The thought of a laundry mountain added to that made me shudder.

I ordered a new machine on line. I had no emotional energy left to try to organise an engineer. The old machine had done six years which in my house seems par for the course.

In the meantime an exceptionally good friend took in my laundry. I delivered it to her, or she occasionally picked it up from me, such service, and it came back dry and folded. Bliss.

My new machine arrived at tea time on the following Thursday and was fitted and tested by my delivery men. I had to run a two hour dummy cycle to unlock the spin system and open some ball valve or other. (Germans- such control freaks). That wait felt like agony.

I put in my first lot of clothing; pants and socks… We generate an unbelievable quantity of smalls. That went on the maiden airer. I put in a second load and set the timer so it would finish just as I arose the next day.

And I awoke to rain, the first in weeks.

And all this my friends, is the definition of Sod’s Law….

The Freedom to Roam.. — May 31, 2015

The Freedom to Roam..

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risk

During the long, hot summers of my childhood, which probably had their fair share of rain, I spent a great deal of time playing out. This involved very involved games in our cul-de-sac with the neighbours’ children, or riding our bikes up and down the kerb and even taking a picnic up to the bypass embankment. (I think I may have mentioned this before, it was better than it sounds and was a fantastic place to build dens).

Once I had learnt to tell the time I was allowed even further rein, wandering around our estate knocking on friend’s doors. I walked to Primary school in sole charge of my younger brother. We cannot remember when exactly this started but it was certainly by the last year in Infant school, so Year 2 by today’s reckoning, with my brother a year below. And it was at least a mile away. By nine I was walking home alone as my mother had returned to work.

And all this was the norm. All my friends walked to school alone. We all played out. We all roamed. We all went on epic bike rides. And importantly we all managed the various risks. As children of the 70s bombarded with ‘safety films’, delivered by the TV wheeled into the school hall, we all knew about stranger danger, we all had regular visits from the Green Cross Code man and attended the Tufty Club. I knew to avoid silo pits on farms, that I should not swim in rivers and that I should not play on the railways for fear of my life.

And I knew not to betray my mother’s trust. I knew to be home when I said I would, and to tell her roughly where I might be headed. And I understood the consequences of not doing so, withdrawal of that precious freedom. And yes there were accidents. My brother did cut his head open on numerous occasions. But we survived.

I am trying to replicate this controlled loosening of the reins for my children. Despite the quite marked move away from this in modern society. Where schools are not allowed to release children except to a named adult, where we are almost daily reminded of the threat from paedophiles. However  I believe the risks are actually not much greater. Yes traffic is worse but I maintain that in other regards the dangers children face today out in the wide world are roughly the same.

So mine walked home from their piano lessons alone from age seven. They have been walking alone to the local field to kick a ball around for some years. They might be out running round the village. They will bike to Scouts and football, be left home alone for short periods, they will call for friends. They have parameters. Both geographic and time based. They have to look out for each other. They have to wear bike helmets (mu-um). I secretly watch them crossing roads and haul them up if they have forgotten any basic safety procedures. They know which doors to knock on in an emergency. They are not allowed to cook, bathe or eat whilst I am out, yet.

None of them have phones. So I have to rely on them to keep their word, and yes I come down hard when they don’t. If they violate my trust I withdraw their freedoms, temporarily.  I am hoping this will set up good habits for the years ahead. Learning to deal with risks and assess the dangers in situations is a vital skill. I don’t want mine to be doing this for the first time when they are reckless teenagers who believe they are invincible. I want them to be doing it now so it becomes second nature.

Many people will believe I am in the wrong. That I am needlessly putting my children in danger, but I am heartened that lots of their local friends are allowed similar freedoms.

When I have no option but to let them out I want to know I have equipped them with as many risk mitigation skills as possible, not to do so, in my opinion, is the most reckless thing of all.

“Only people who have been allowed to practise freedom can have the grown-up look in their eyes”, E M Forster.
Open Sesame — May 29, 2015

Open Sesame

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password

I have recently moved house…I know, I know, I have mentioned it before.

We are now in our new abode  and aside from risking life and limb every day shuffling around rooms piled higher with boxes than any self respecting health and safety officer would agree was safe and loosing sleep through lack of curtainage things are getting more settled.

So today I decided to start tackling the ‘change of address’ process.

Originally I was going to do this in a reactive way having paid more than a small fortune to the Post Office to redirect my mail. It’s at times like these that I regret not using my married name as the process has cost me twice as much due to the fact that good old Royal Mail charge per surname as well as per address. Money for old rope… And don’t get me started on the burning hoops of fire I had to jump through in order to set this highly extortionate process in motion. I wouldn’t mind so much but we have literally moved around the corner. And I am on first name terms with my postman…and actually my buyers…but, hey, I am British and therefore hate to put anyone out.

Then I got to thinking about it and decided a reactive process might just draw out the inevitable pain too long. So I changed to proactive mode. And started logging on to various web sites.

I am going to let you in to a little secret. My memory is not that great. It might be my age or just they way I am made but I forget things. I may have told you this before, apologies.

When the Internet banking/ shopping/ membership management/ forum revolution started in earnest it quickly became apparent to me that I was not going to be able to retain all the information required by these sites to gain access to their wonders.

I can remember my bank card PIN, and make sure all my cards have the same number so it is fool proof…In fact if anyone cracks my bank PIN they will also be able to steal my bike from it’s combination bicycle lock, access the numerous mindless games downloaded by my kids onto my I pad and deactivate the house burglar alarm, that we never use. And good luck with Crossy Road…which as far as I can see is Frogger with different animals (capybara anyone?).

Those of you with a security bent are no doubt horrified by this laxness but as the PIN is truly random (given to me with my first ever card by some Bank or other, probably Lloyds, Sheffield University branch) and does not relate in anyway to birthdays or some such nonsense it is relatively safe. Except my kids now know it…and I have to prevent them shouting it out in unfortunate places, for instance when they are withdrawing money for me from an ATM… In my defence I need to teach them how to survive in the modern world, and anyway they still have wonder that money appears for free from the wall…

It soon became apparent that this simple (yet actually quite difficult to break) code was not going to suffice for these new fangled internet sites.

It started with banking. Along with a lot of people, I imagine, I search diligently every new tax year for a relatively decent interest paying ISA account in which to stick some funds, should we have any spare. Of course the ones I already have are never the best ones going forward and as I am too lazy to move the old money out of the old ISAs (to be honest it just seems soooo complicated) I have built up quite a collection of banks and building societies and airlines….

Of course the best rates are always on line. And anyway the on line financial institutiton doesn’t know I am not my husband. So I can manage all his money too. He trusts me. Evil cackle…

That doubles the number of accounts. And the number of passwords. And the number of user names. And the number of ‘memorable questions’. And the number of card readers. And the number of random number grids.

Over the years the Financial Institutions have upped their security game, some key stroke capture avoidance or something.  In fact my most secure account (I think it may have around £200 in) has a randomly generated User Number, needs my date of birth, a card and card reader and a PIN which is unchangeable and not the same as my ‘normal’ PIN. The letters that arrived, separately, containing all this information asked me to memorize the numbers and store the card away from the reader. I laughed, heartily, and stuffed all the correspondence in the padded card reader envelope in my drawer. I didn’t write down my DOB as I can manage that (and my husband’s) but any one who is savvy enough could find it on Facebook and steal my money if they raided my man drawer. Frankly if they can navigate the security system they would have earned that £200.

You can imagine the process I needed to go through to change my address with these people. Which they never use, as it is an a on line account with paperless statements. I think they have now changed it. I got a normal email telling me there was a secure e mail waiting for me on their secure system, and I have yet to find the energy to re log in.

At yet another institution I was asked to change my password for a more secure version. Apparently my original password did not have the right combination of upper case letters, lower case letters, numbers and random punctuation, nor was it long enough. I defy anyone to remember such a password.

And then there are the memorable questions. My main bank uses these to identify me on the phone. Every …single….time…I ring up I am offered another form to fill in with my answers to these ‘memorable questions’  as some of the answers are clearly not that easy to remember. If you are me…  First house….god knows what I answered to that. I have lived in 18 houses over my life time. I never get it right…

But it’s not just banks. It is all the shops, memberships of charitable organisations, the cinema, Facebook and other essential social media sites, my supermarket, this blog host, my BT (ARGHHHH) account, paperless utility bills, the TV licence and on and on and on…

I have a file full of post it notes on which I jot, as I join any new web sites, the user name and password.

So I am a security risk. If I ever get burgled my life will be quite literally open for all to see. My only saving grace is that I never store my bank card details on any web site. You see I have no problem remembering numbers (in four digit parts) its just all those pesky words…and difficult questions.

The Order of Things — May 27, 2015

The Order of Things

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birth order

My eldest has a rough deal, in my humble opinion. I am sure he would whole heartedly agree, he often has that hang dog look of the severely put upon. And the reason I think he has it so tough is because he is the eldest child of two eldest children.

Birth order and it’s effects on children has always fascinated me. I would like to say that I have conducted extensive scientific research, or at least read a lot of literature on the subject but that would be a complete lie. Between child rearing and writing this blog there is no time for such niceties. As such there will be no bibliography or references on this post, instead my opinions and conjecture will be based purely on my statistically very insignificant sample of three….backed up in part with my own childhood experiences. Buckets of salt required on your part then.

So here goes, deep breath and in we plunge.

My husband and I (she says very regally) are both first born in our respective families. I think it is fair to say that we both conformed very much to a ‘type’ in this regard. I was a serious, diligent and hardworking child. Not particularly talented at anything but very willing to give everything my all. I was a control freak. I was the teenager with the colour coded revision timetable pinned to my wall stretching forward many more weeks than the average child’s.

I was not satisfied with 75% in tests anything below ninety meant failure to me. Oddly I can never remember my parents saying to me- really 75% is not all that good Sarah- and yet that is exactly how I always felt from being very small.

And these qualities have continued into my middle years. I am still a control freak, wedded to my to do lists. I still do everything I tackle from child rearing to school governorship with an intensity which borders on the pathological. And my husband is the same. He is a work-a-holic giving it more than his all. He runs with an intensity that is frankly scary.

And so we have very very high expectations. Of ourselves, of gadgets, of companies and of our children and most of all our eldest son. It is something I am very aware of as eldest picks his way through his life under the kosh of those high expectations.

And leaving all that aside being the eldest is tough. I am sure all you none eldests out there are screaming at the screen as I speak but I still hold it to be true. They do everything first. Start nursery, start school, have swimming lessons, go on cub camps, residential school trips, take exams, push the boundaries of curfews, succeed in nagging enough to recieve a gadget previously banned. And all this is harder when you are the first to do it.

How much easier it is when you are following a sibling, have watched from the sidelines, have a mate already there, can use the argument ‘well eldest got that/did this at my age’.

And then there is the matter of parental blame. I quite often and automatically blame my eldest for any ruckus between my children. Sometimes he is not even in the room. I assume he is the aggressor when often he is not. It has taken me quite a long time to realise that youngest is no longer the defenceless baby at the mercy of her toddler brother, but a manipulative child who will give herself a Chinese burn and blame it on eldest.  Naturally he is outraged at this injustice and quite rightly so.

He is a hard working, diligent and serious boy. He has high expectations of himself and they are probably transferred however unintentionally from us. He is conforming to our type. It is hard to say that those first 18 intense months with undivided parental attention has moulded him to some degree, but it is tempting to assume so.

And so middlest has some things easier than his brother. He followed along relatively quickly and has had his elder sibling to rely and lean on for as long as he can remember. He is also a totally different character. Since he appeared in the world he has been intensely laid back. He used to lie in his Moses basket asleep with his hands crossed behind his head looking for all the world like he was sun bathing on a remote desert island beach.

But it isn’t all plain sailing. He follows his brother through life, in consecutive school years, trying his hardest to live up to those high standards already set by him.  In many ways he succeeds but in others he cannot hope to. Eldest is an all rounder, passably good at everything he turns his hand too, backed up by his amazing work ethic. Middlest cannot hope to replicate that. And he shouldn’t have to. But a small part of him feels he ought to. And I know he finds it tough that he can’t draw, play rugby, swim as well as his elder sibling. He has many, many strengths where he can outshine eldest but he focuses, if we are not careful, on all he can’t do rather than all he can.

He doesn’t have the same work ethic and has to be cajoled to stick at things. He is a bit of a butterfly flitting from one thing to another.  He is the joker, the light hearted one. As a result he is the happiest to loose (mostly) to keep up the status quo, he is self deprecating and he is the peace keeper, the pourer of oil on troubled waters. He will admit he is wrong and make amends with both siblings. He is the jam in my children sandwich, holding it all together. These are extremely mature skills for a nine year old and will stand him in good stead but when he is sobbing that despite all his efforts his siblings still ‘hate’ him my heart breaks a tiny bit.

He has also never had my undivided attention for any lengthy period of time and never will. He has always had to share. He had more than his fair share of relatively minor medical issue as a baby and small child and when we finally got discharged from his last outpatient clinic we were both a little sad. We had enjoyed our many afternoons sitting in hospital waiting rooms, with the other two at school, chatting without interruption.

And there is that other thing for middle children. No one ever says ‘well you did that well, considering you are the middlest’ …

My youngest gets that a lot. You did that so well- considering you are the youngest. I am never sure if this is a compliment or not…it seems rather back handed to me. It is hard for me to empathise with youngest. My youngest sibling is a full ten years younger than me and so whereas my middle brother and I had similar issues to my eldest and middlest, youngest’s position is totally different to my childhood experiences coming, as she did, a mere 23 months after middlest, and three and a half years after eldest.

There are advantages. She is given the  benefit of the doubt much more often and in many circumstances. She is given leeway and my addled brain lets much more slip with her than the other two. Which they of course note and place in my debit ledger. No doubt to bring up later in therapy.

And after her brothers started school she got me all to herself for long periods until she went two years later. And she will eventually have me all to herself again assuming the other two trot of to college or university leaving her behind for another two years.

On the other hand she has had to grow up very fast or be left behind. When the other two were seven they weren’t watching Storage Hunters, playing poker or wrestling to WWE rules. She is. She has to be the goalie in front of her 11 year old brother’s pounded footballs, hit balls bowled at speed with her cricket bat and generally run, jump, swim and play harder and for longer than they could ever have managed.

And it is not just physical. Emotionally and intellectually she is given no quarter. I wouldn’t have dreamed of making eldest watch Atlantis at age seven but we all get a bit annoyed at her snivelling in the scarey bits.

She hasn’t been able to do those small-childish things for as long. Like soft play barns, petting zoos and watching CBeebies. That makes me a little sad. On the other hand she is so very adventurous that the more advanced opportunities she experiences probably suit her better.

She is massively independent, and always has been. After the first two, who were still proffering their feet to be shod at age three, the shock of youngest who wanted to dress herself at age one was enormous. And it’s hard to know whether it is the result of her constant striving to ‘catch up’ or her personality. I suspect a bit of both.

So there you have it. Who really knows if birth order makes any difference. Surely this blog has shed hardly any light. Interesting though eh?

Timing, It’s Everything — May 24, 2015

Timing, It’s Everything

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Here is a short little blog entry…(I hear the collective sigh of relief)…

I love writing this blog…every so often I feel like I am going to run out of ideas… And I panic gently… But then something amusing, convoluted or annoying happens or something vaguely profound or interesting occurs to me and off I go again.

I said at the outset that I am not that interested in an audience as such…just a way to express these thoughts. And an outlet for my creative side, that part of me that finds life amusing or down right irritating.

But then there is this little button on WordPress….it’s called Stats.

I know I have also mentioned before my fondness for mathematics. I especially liked Statistics, rolling dice, picking cards, randomness or lack there of, chi squared analysis etc etc.

And so I find the lure of the little button almost overwhelming.

Not only does it tell me how many people have read that day’s entry. It also tells me where they found me from, what other past blog entries they may have read that day, presumably therefore indicating a new visitor or an infrequent one (how dare they), and also if they shared it on. Really very, very excitingly it tells me whereabouts in the world they come from…with a map…Qatar… anyone?

Once when many of my regular readers kindly shared my Rant Alert and Rant Alert Update about LLP more widely than they may have otherwise (if this is new to you please do look it up…and boost my viewing figures in the process) I actually got a kind of award from WordPress as those viewing figures got so high….in fact the whole scale of my y axis had to change… I felt slightly proud….it’s a long time since I won any kind of award…(yep it’s sad I know….feel free to share away again!)

And although I could ignore the button I do not. The lure is strong especially as it is backed up by this incentive plan run by my host which fires off further gratification at intervals.

Not just content with reading the data my brain is now going off in random directions over analysing the stats provided. For instance I have noticed that blog posts shared on Saturday mornings do badly. Similarly Fridays are extremely poor for garnering an audience. Everyone is, I assume, busy and so misses my Facebook share (where the majority of my viewers come from). Or maybe traffic on Facebook is heavier and so my post slips down someone’s wall as if it were painted with anti climb paint.

On the flip side to that quite a few people read my posts on the following day…usually from Facebook…I am not going to speculate on the sparseness of their walls, or maybe they have read it via a new share that someone has done on their Facebook wall…stop me if I am loosing you…

Interestingly it makes not a jot of difference if the post is humorous or not, I thought it might. I assumed people would prefer funny anecdotes to my ramblings about life, the universe and everything.  Maybe I just disguise them well, after all that little button is not clever enough to tell me if each person read to the end of my entry or gave up half way in disgust or, even worse, apathy (I am now worrying gently)…

So now I find myself scheduling future posts carefully. (I normally have about two to three posts already written at one time… So you can rest assured that I did not write today’s entry today). Planning when to publish to obtain maximum ‘clicks’. When I promised myself I would not care.

So here you have it. I do care. A bit. But if you all stopped reading would I care enough to stop. Probably not.

Footnote….and no I cannot click on my own blog entry to artificially inflate my stats. I am offended that you even think I may try such a tactic…

Bodge it Yourself — May 22, 2015

Bodge it Yourself

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I am about to reveal to you my best and most top secret tip for those attempting DIY. It is something I have learnt from bitter experience over the years. It shouldn’t be bandied around too much, I don’t want everyone catching on, OK?… Ready?

Make workmen a cup of tea.

It never fails. Ever

I will give you a prime example. I recently moved house. I am still shaking from the physical and emotional effort. On the day before my removal team arrived, heading up my to do list was ‘Un-plumb the washing machine’. It was at the top of quite a long list of essential jobs that needed doing.

As I was selling the house to someone known to me I had also booked a professional oven clean for the same day. If I hadn’t been selling to someone I knew and moving round the corner I may not have bothered spending the cash on such a frivolous expense but not wanting to be considered a scuss ball by the whole of my village I decided it was money well spent.

I apologised up front to the lovely chap who turned up, and proceeded to take my oven apart, because I was going to be in his way as I had quite a lot of kitchen based jobs to accomplish. To be honest we struck up an almost immediate rapport when he opened my cooker and exclaimed that it was no where near the worst he had seen. I brewed up and we had several fun minutes supping char whilst he regaled me (possibly quite unprofessionally) with amusing anecdotes of the worst ovens he had encountered in his cooker cleaning history. He should maybe write a blog…

Anyhow I needed to crack on and started un-attaching my washing machine from my house. Once I had emptied all the Tupperware, drinks bottles and plastic pint glasses left over from a time when I hosted parties (surely everyone has such a cupboard..) I got the process underway. I successfully unplugged the machine, unscrewed the waste pipe and was feeling really rather proud of myself. I then tried to shift the washing machine which was firmly stuck under the counter. Embarrassment crept in as I realised I had not detached the water inlet hose… So back into the Tupperware cupboard I went.

And here I hit a snag. The hose was so firmly screwed on that I couldn’t budge it. I went to the garage to fetch pliers and WD40. I found pliers but must have used up the last of my lubricant spray un-plumbing some other white good at some other point. The pliers weren’t really much use for two reasons. One, they wouldn’t fit round the circumference of the pipe screw fitting and, two, the dishwasher inlet hose (which for some inexplicable reason has a kind of box on it, it’s a German machine, need I say more) was hampering access. So I tried manually again. I then had a mild crisis of confidence believing I may be ‘going the wrong way’ and merely aggravating the situation. By this point I was grunting somewhat.

My lovely oven cleaner stopping paying homage to my cooker and enquired after my welfare. I explained my predicament. He produced WD40 and larger pliers (they may have even been a monkey wrench). I squirted and then made more tea. In any event I was, by now, seeing black spots in front of my eyes possibly because I am old and my body doesn’t take too kindly to lying prone, half in a cupboard, trying to unscrew something very tight at a funny angle. I don’t think the futile pulling of the machine earlier had helped either.

Another few minutes passed in companionable chat. This time about music making- my children’s music stand having just fallen over and disgorged its contents onto the lounge floor just as the kettle boiled. Freaking us both out slightly. You can meet clarinet players in the most unlikely of circumstances.

During the washing up process following the brew I discovered that it is not a good idea to empty a bowl of water down a sink when one’s washing machine outlet hose is detached. I flooded the Tupperware cupboard. Workman told me that he thought you could buy bungs for such situations but that required a level of forethought I was simply not capable of- appliance wise. I went to look for gaff tape, of which we had none, but I found that parcel tape worked quite well. Pro tem. Anyway that small problem solved on I went.

I tried again. No joy. Friendly oven cleaner said he would try for me. He was also grunting after a few minutes of fruitless pressure. He asked me if I knew any tame plumbers who could nip out to help me. Err no. We discussed my earlier concerns about turning in the correct direction. Unusually for a manual labourer he wasn’t sure either. I offered my scientific rule of thumb, righty tighty, loosey leftie. He looked dubious. I went to check on you tube (what on earth did humankind do before you tube?). Whilst I was listening to a really very competent looking plumber explain that his quick rule of thumb concerning tightening and untightening nuts was …righty tighty, loosely lefty, the oven man exclaimed in some delight. The nut had moved! But would not move any further.

We we had another cup of tea. Thinking about it he didn’t ask to use my facilities which makes him not only the nicest workman I have come across for a some time but also the owner of a cast iron bladder.

Upon reflection he thought that maybe the whole copper pipe that the nut was firmly attached too may have moved under the power of his monkey wrench. I was somewhat peturbed by this.

Another tack was needed. The tea had kick started my brain and I decided to try again to get the machine out thinking I could detach the hose at the washing machine end. Leaving my buyers with a useful, if welded on forever, inlet hose. Friendly workman looked impressed at this piece of logic. I mentally polished my halo.

I struggled. Yet again oven man took pity on me and between us we woman and man handled the beast out from under my counter. After I had recovered from the shock of the truly awful sight that lay under and behind that machine I attempted to detach the hose… and couldn’t shift this one either.

By this point my weakened from three childbirths bladder gave out and I went to use my facilities. Whilst I was gone a shout akin to a war cry emanated from the kitchen. Lovely oven man had detached the hose. I thanked him profusely. I could have hugged him. I only thought that in my head as obviously I had only just met the man and although we had bonded over my appliance trauma I thought it a little early to suggest physical intimacy.

And then we had a celebratory cuppa and I even broke out the biscuits.

On his way out two hours later, after he had left my oven so clean I could see my face in it, he asked if he could come to my new house to clean that oven if it needed it.

Absolutely. And I will make sure I save any little plumbing jobs for when he is there.

Footnote. This goes out with sincere and heartfelt thanks to Matthew from Cooker Buddy without whom my washing machine would still be firmly welded to my house, in perpetuity…

The Beautiful Game — May 19, 2015

The Beautiful Game

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I have never been remotely interested in football. Well that is actually not true, more later, but in my heart I am not remotely interested in football. I can remember every Saturday evening as a child waiting for Doctor Who to start and listening to the man read out the scores. I liked the names of the clubs (especially the Scottish ones) and that you could try to guess which team had won by the way his voice rose up or down between numbers but I had no interest in what had led up to those tables of results.

My brother played a bit but I was not involved in that. Luckily none of my childhood friends, teenage mates or boyfriends were remotely interested either. We were too busy slaying dragons and exploding pineapples, head banging, drinking cheap beer and hiking through woods in the dark…an altogether different sort of passion…

I got to about 25 before I had to show more than the passing interest I had developed to survive in the world of work for three years. And that was because my partner at the time was a football nut. He was a life long Arsenal supporter, condemned to live in the north, and I either got involved or never saw him. So I started watching Match of the Day, went to away matches, entered a fantasy football team (I actually did quite well) and got myself clued up on the stars and rules.

It was with some relief, however, that I met my husband and could gaily give it all up again. As a result my memories of football are firmly routed in the time of Blackburn Rover’s spectacular rise, Peter Schmiechal and David Seaman and a crying Paul Gascoigne.

And I thought that was it, I thought I could wash my hands forever. Maybe taking just a passing interest in World Cups and the like if England got in or past the group stage.

When the football letter came out in Year 1 for eldest I binned it. Similarly a year later with middlest. And then he came home around January and said everyone was leaving him out in the playground because he wasn’t in the football team. So we went along and signed them both up. And that was the end of my football apathy.

Both boys started with their local football club. That first year lulled me into a bit of a false sense of security. We didn’t start until around February. Both boys were training in the same place and at the same time on neighbouring pitches. It was an hour and a bit out of a Saturday, done and dusted by 10.30am. And one of us got to stay home with youngest. In the warm.

It is now four years later and our lives are ruled in large part by the beautiful game. That’s youngest up there, aged 5, during her first season playing. To say she has enjoyed it from the start is an understatement. She remains the only girl in a group of around 15 lads slogging it out every Saturday. Meanwhile both boys now train in the week (on different days) as well as having fixtures most Saturdays, often in far flung places.  Eldest’s home pitch is no longer the same as his siblings’ so even concurrent home fixtures present a problem. We are often split three ways.

And so I turn out every weekend. I haul myself out of bed really far too early for a Saturday morning in order to freeze my parts off on an often windy, wet or snowy pitch to cheer on my offspring. I am an expert in the differing rules which alter as you move up through the youth football system. I can be heard shouting ‘Man on’ or ‘Mark up’ regularly.  My fellow soccer mums and I discuss the best footwear for the side-lines (the feet are always the first to ‘go’) and envy richer clubs with pop up dug outs and club houses with tea urns, bacon butties and even loos.

And leaving aside the very real physical discomfort there are things about it that really irritate. Like how the season seems to go on for ever- long after local councils have replaced the goal posts with creases and my kids are in danger of sun burn. That it gets really too competitive too early with A & B teams ‘cleverly’ disguised with different names, whilst the children are fully aware of the pecking order. That my kitchen floor is a mud bath by lunch time.

But to be honest I don’t hate it, well not after I have thawed out. The youth game is generally a civilised affair populated by committed and dedicated volunteers giving hours of their time to allow my offspring to enjoy running around in the mud. I am grateful to them.

So I get up and turn out so that my kids can enjoy the sport they all seem to adore- despite their differing abilities. I have mellowed towards football. I still don’t watch it on TV or have any interest in the fortunes of the professional game. But as a sport for my young kids to meet with their friends, get sweaty, join in the universal language of small boys (and girls), learn the hard lessons of losing and how to win graciously it has merit. So I will risk my lower digits for that.  As long as I have my insulated mug of tea and my sheepskin lined snow boots I can survive.

Footnote… And, no, I never got that kit vaguely white again…