musingsponderingsandrants

Parenting, profundities and humour

Category: Parenting

Youngest… — July 16, 2015

Youngest…

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Tomorrow my little girl is 8.

I have actually got no idea where the last 8 years have gone.

It seems like yesterday that she was a tiny, crumpled baby, still to unfurl, nestled snugly, sometimes much to snugly for a hot July, on my chest asleep and content.

I remember before she was born telling myself to enjoy those early days. I knew she was to be my last baby. I knew it would be the last time I would hold a newborn and inhale that just born smell which lasts several days.

I didn’t enjoy my first days with eldest. I was in shock. Completely overwhelmed by the whole experience. I was fumbling around not sure what to do and which way to turn. I read too many books. I got too hung up on doing it all right. I was self conscious and exhausted. I was lonely and unsure how to forge my own path. I got there in the end. But it was a tough road for several months.

When middlest was born the whole birth and early days experience was so different and so much easier that I went the other way and did far too much too soon. I took him to meet friends the day he was born. I ran around after eldest trying to keep everything ‘normal’. Almost inevitably about a week in I ended up in hospital with post partum fever on IV antibiotics and so my early days with him were somewhat marred.  And then he also became quite badly and scarily ill a few weeks later and we had yet another really tough time.

So with youngest I was determined to enjoy those days. Relax. Allow people to help. Do what we felt was best not what the books said. Put her down to sleep on her front if she preferred it. Stay in PJs all day.

And it worked. Those early days with her are some of the happiest of my life. Although in hindsight it all went too quickly I can actually remember some of it going deliciously slowly. Hours listening to music in my newly finished conservatory just holding her and allowing her to sleep on me. Against all ‘that advice’.

She was a joy, not always easy- until we tried that sleeping on her front thing we got hardly any sleep ourselves for five days!- but a joy none the less.

And that is how it has remained. Happy Birthday darling youngest.

End of Term — July 10, 2015

End of Term

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Today is my children’s last day of term….well I say day it is actually half a day as I need to go back to collect them at 12 noon.

I always have mixed feelings at this time of year.

On the one hand I am immensely looking forward to having them all to myself for a few weeks. I am looking forward to not getting up at 6am. I will not miss the homework. I am excited about my temporary, semi retirement from taxi driving. We will have adventures with friends and family. I will be able to cook meals that take longer than 15 minutes. We are all excited about a family holiday all together somewhere warm and relaxing.

Yes we will still do music practise, I will try to finally help my daughter to learn to tell the time reliably. We will do the occasional times table. But we will also watch far too much TV, play on computers, doss in the garden, do messy craft (I have a yearning to finish off that Belle loom band character which still languishes half done on a loom since youngest and I started it in the last summer holidays) and read books.

We will fall out. I will miss having time to think and write this blog. There will be altercations and contretemps. Siblings will be physically abused, there will be crying and tantrums. My house will descend into even more chaos than usual (husband gird your loins)…

But I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Because on the flip side to the end of term is the fact that another year has slipped away. Almost unnoticed. My children are another year older. Edging inexorably towards adulthood. So these times are precious.

The summer offers a brief moment when the world slows down slightly. A time to really reconnect.

And for that I am eternally grateful.

Manners Maketh the Man — July 5, 2015

Manners Maketh the Man

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I drive my children to school. Luckily I share the morning trip with a friend and so I only do the early run one week out of two but I pick up every night, often twice.

The school is on a busy road and I have to turn right out of the driveway to continue my journey home. Lots of people approach the driveway from the left and have to turn in across the flow of traffic.

As we are British a sort of etiquette has developed. If you are approaching from the right and need to turn in left to the driveway you hold up the traffic behind you. Anyone approaching from the left then also holds up their flow of traffic. One car is allowed to turn right out of the driveway, then the car approaching from the left turns in across the flow and finally that person who is coming in by turning left does their manoeuvre. Please keep up.

This does mean the car turning in left has to wait. But in a few minutes- after they have disgorged their offspring, someone else’s offspring, a cello and two violins, four games bags and 4 school bags (that’s probably just me though- is it wrong that I feel a frisson of pride as we execute this?- and only on a Monday)- they will be that car trying to turn out right onto a busy road in rush hour. It is a kind of school run Karma… you give, you receive.

The system works. Mostly. And the reason it sometimes doesn’t work is that some people (one might call them selfish) do not adhere to the rules. And this drives me utterly batty.

Either these other people are new to the school (although that is highly unlikely except in September when an element of leeway is given), stupid (quite possibly, I worked out the turning in/ turning out etiquette within about two days of beginning this school run) or ill mannered.

And if there is one thing I cannot abide is it is bad manners. I am a fairly tolerant person in many ways. I accept that all people are not the same and come with their own unique characters. They will view the world differently to me (I married a Tory supporter for goodness sake) and approach things in a way possibly alien to me. But I believe that one thing should be common to all of us. The ability to be polite.

It begins with the p’s and q’s. My children had this drummed into them from as early as they could speak, and then as quickly as possible progressed from merely adding a please onto a demand to asking in a full sentence beginning ‘Please may I…’. And importantly I speak to my children in the same way. Asking politely and thanking routinely. The first time. I do escalate to demanding once I am ignored a couple of times.

So that is important but it is also a whole host of other things.

Being on time, not pushing into queues, enquiring after people’s welfare, replying when spoken to, smiling at people who are helping us, cashiers, shoe fitters, ticket collectors, sending apologies for any absence, holding doors, allowing other people to go ahead of you (but clearly not in a queue unless, say, I have an entire week’s shopping and they are buying a toothbrush), replying to party invitations within the designated timeframe, dealing with paperwork in a timely fashion. I could find many more I am sure.

Often I get comments in my offsprings’ reports or at parents’ evenings that they are well mannered and polite. It is not something I need to hear. I find it deeply depressing that this makes them unusual enough for it to be commented on.

I don’t know about you but interacting with a polite, well mannered individual, whatever their age, gives me a warm glow. Whilst the opposite leaves me spitting feathers.

Pride Cometh.. — July 2, 2015

Pride Cometh..

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As the more astute of you may have realised by now I am a SAHM… that is parenting forum speak for Stay At Home Mum. It hardly encompasses my role but, hey, that’s a post for another day.

In the days BC (before children) I had a job. Actually it was a career of over a decade in duration. I earned more than my husband. It was really quite high powered and despite constantly feeling like an imposter I was surprisingly good at it. Annually I would fill in those endless, tedious forms about my achievements over the last year and sit in front of a manager- whose only real interest was in my sales results- and receive feedback. And hopefully a bonus and possibly a pay rise. Occasionally over that 12 year period I was promoted which meant a definite pay increase and more people to sit in front of every year and provide feedback to.

And usually if the manager could see past my slight ‘oddness’ – variously described as scruffiness, dislike of networking, lack of killer instinct- I got positive feedback, maybe a few development areas too, but generally a lot of good stuff.

And also I had grateful clients, colleagues who needed me to help them out, managers whose butts I saved.

And I miss it. I miss sitting down a few times a year and being told I was good at something. By someone other than my mother. I miss the cards from clients.  I miss the gratefulness of colleagues.

Now my days are ruled in large part by small people and a house. They are not that good at feedback. Really. So for instance I take it as a positive if the food I provide is eaten by everyone without comment. That is a win. Comments are usually only negative. The abode of course doesn’t speak. It cannot thank me for being dusted. The wall cannot provide gratitude for being painted.

And so the job is long on tedium and drudgery and short on thanks.

Therefore when my off spring achieve something amazing I feel not only the usual mother’s pride but also a slight sense of validation. I know this is wrong. In my heart I know that I am in no way responsible for the wonderful things they achieve. That they are their own people who work hard at something or are just (lucky them) naturally good at something else. But I feel it anyway.

This blog has helped. People like reading it, or so they say! I certainly feel less of a need to post about my children on Face book as a result. (Which incidentally is such a hot topic of debate- I personally love hearing about my friend’s children’s achievements because otherwise how would I know?-but I know opinion is divided).

So there you have it a mostly silent readership is providing that little bit of validation. I will still feel pride at all my kids achieve, who wouldn’t, but maybe I will see those achievements for what they are and not as a reflection of how well I am ‘performing’. And I will just be able to enjoy the moment.

The Brothers — June 28, 2015

The Brothers

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IMG_4253

On a recent weekend my eldest and middlest were at Scout and Cub camp respectively. In the persistent, unrelenting rain.

This left youngest home alone. Well obviously home with hubby and I, not actually alone, that would constitute child neglect I am sure, but anyway you know what I mean.

To begin with she and I dropped middlest at Cub Camp, whilst hubby delivered eldest to Scout camp elsewhere, and I couldn’t get her to come home. She had embroiled herself in a soccer game that had started up amongst the Cubs and as regular readers will know this is her passion. And so she was gaily bashing a ball around.

Anyway I finally extracted her and on the short drive home we discussed what fun we would have over the weekend. She had a football game the next morning, her Grandma was coming over to stay to celebrate her birthday and she had a bowling party on the Sunday. Plus she had her parents all to herself.

It took precisely 20 minutes before she was sobbing gently into her bath about missing ‘The Brothers’. This is what she calls them. I tried again to stress the upsides. For instance that she could watch whatever she wanted to watch on TV the next morning and for longer than usual as we needed less time to get ready. Sole control of the remote- what could be better?

At this she relented slightly and admitted that she could probably stand the weekend without eldest but she was feeling the loss of middlest keenly. Apparently I had ‘rushed her off’ at the Cub Camp drop off and she didn’t get to say goodbye properly. I pointed out that middlest would probably not have wanted a hug in front of all his scouting friends. Although that is actually unlikely to be true as middlest will usually accept a hug from anyone, anytime, anywhere.

She was not to be consoled. And so she went to bed sniffing gently.

The next morning I came downstairs and found her sitting forlornly in front of the TV holding the remote control. It is evidently less fun to have ownership of that device when one has not had to fight tooth and nail for it.

She made the most of the day. She enjoyed the football match but wished eldest had been there ‘shouting from the side’. Grandma taught her a new game to play with a tennis ball against the wall of the house but really she wanted to ‘play penalties with middlest’. We went out for Grandma’s birthday meal and I think the mainly adult conversation got her down. The party offered some relief but then she had no one to gloat at upon receipt of a sweet stuffed party bag.

I did warn her as we left to collect middlest that he might be tired and not in the mood to play.

Then he got home and they built that den up there and laid in it to watch TV.

She was happy again.

So although they fight tooth and nail, bicker, physically assault each other and tease each other mercilessly when it comes down to it my kids love each other dearly.

It’s heartening to know that although I busted my pelvic floor having three kids in three and a half years it has paid off. Long may it continue.

Oh and good luck to youngest’s first boyfriend. He will have two tough acts to follow!

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Relaxing weekend — June 25, 2015

Relaxing weekend

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IMG_4282

Last weekend was a tad…frantic…  I would like to say it is unusual. It isn’t really… I am sure some of you can empathise..

It started off on Friday. I was a due a day with no workmen…just a furniture delivery and a furniture collection. Oh and the grocery shopping. But then the wooden floor man asked if he could start prep for Monday’s job and of course I agreed, hoping to salvage Tuesday.

And so I was confined to barracks again waiting for people. In any event I had a cake to bake so really it wasn’t too bad. And my in-laws were due so things had to be prepared and cleaned. The floor man arrived at lunchtime and immediately got VERY noisy doing unspeakable things to my architraves… I left him with the in-laws to collect eldest and youngest from school. He had thankfully finished when I got back.

We dashed off a bit of homework and then I took youngest to piano, you know that hokey cokey I think I have mentioned before. After a bit more desert natural life adaptation work I took eldest and his cello to piano (don’t ask) and picked up youngest. I slowed down outside our house, booted her out of the car, checked the in laws had answered the door and drove off to pick up middlest from his school trip. After the obligatory wait for the bus to crawl up we left and I took my Tudor boy to the chippe. Youngest is banned. The blood splatter is still there.

We got home around 6.20pm and stuffed down chips.  At some point the kids went to bed and I then packed for the following night and built a football out of rollable icing for the top of that cake.

The next day dawned, wet. Husband and I did the usual fielding of football games/ training sessions, made slightly easier by eldest having the weekend off. I watched youngest and her team comprehensively beat the opposition, in the rain, with Granddad and latterly Grandma and eldest, who, showing his empathic side, had brought a folding camping chair for Grandma…I had time for a momentary flash of pride.

We managed to get home before middlest, who was merely training, and his father. So, damn, I had to start on lunch. Spag bol for seven. Whilst that was steeping I emptied chests of drawers.

After lunch the husband of a lovely friend (of course he is lovely too) turned up to help shift our extremely heavy chests of drawers out of our bedroom onto the landing in readiness for our fitted wardrobe…fitting. I bet he wished his wife was not in the Monday morning coffee group I attend. Where we regularly offer up our husbands for ridicule (in a loving fashion) and the occasional job.

We then spent a few hours at the kids’ football club annual presentations, in the rain. The children seemed to enjoy the stalls on offer, despite having to wring out their socks after utilising the bouncy castle obstacle course. Husband and I managed to see youngest receive her medal and take a team photo before we had to rush home to get ready for an evening out. We left the in laws to watch middlest and eldest get their awards. They were there until gone seven. Ouch.

An evening out is a rare and wonderful thing. This was work though. We had to schelp to Birmingham (an hour and a half drive- in the rain) in time to host a table of 12 at the Rep Theatre’s fundraising 1920s murder mystery dinner. We arrived in Birmingham at around 6pm and drove towards the hotel. We were slightly disconcerted at the large number of ball gowned ladies tottering towards our venue. We couldn’t check the time that our function started as the details were in the boot of the car. Fingers crossed husband had it right then.

He did…we had about 50 minutes to get changed and make ourselves over from soggy football parents into scintillating black tie dinner guests. Posterity will show if we got that right, along with the annoying photographer at the event. Husband assured me that the venue was ‘right next to the hotel’ so off we went. Luckily it had stopped raining. I tottered, he strode; I shouted, he slowed down. After crossing a canal, walking past hundreds of bars, dodging pools of sick (never easy in a floor length gown)and walking through what looked like a shopping centre we arrived. I may blame that ‘quick walk’ if I look less than scintillating on those photos.

Luckily the guests husband had chosen were actually quite good fun, they were even more fun after a few glasses of free wine. Them not me, I don’t drink. In fact I love watching other people drink. In a kind of anthropological experimentation kind of way. One mentioned that they had passed the Annual Slimmer’s World awards ceremony on their way- ah those ball gowned ladies. On the menu- one shake and a green salad?

So due to the company the event was actually fun. There was also a really quite good murder mystery to solve. And a live jazz band. Well we were in a theatre so I had expected a certain level of acting and music. There was a quiz. I love a quiz. There was an auction to take the mickey out of (we were at a table of bankers and guests I leave you to decide how much was spent collectively). I managed to be amusing and good fun so all in all not a bad night’s work.

All too soon it was time for that ‘quick walk’ home. I purloined husband’s jacket to avoid garnering too much drunken attention en route. I may be the wrong side of 40 but still scrub up OK in a ball gown, especially when the audience is pissed.

After a terrible night’s sleep (clearly chucking out time is now 3.15am- when did that happen?), we awoke, packed, and left to head back to the kids and relieve the in-laws, stopping en route for a sausage and pancake meal somewhere on the M6.

We got home around 11am. During that 3.15am early morning call I had realised that this was going to be my only window to get my prize winning children to a book store to choose appropriate books ahead of Friday’s deadline. Yep you read it right, my only window. So I scooped them up and drove to town, leaving husband to rustle up some roast potatoes and cabbage for a 1pm lunch. We browsed the books, fought over suitability and discovered that the book tokens provided by the school would in no way cover the cost. On the way home I picked up a ready cooked chicken.

We ate. We cleared. We had a small space for a sit down. We then left to host youngest’s 8th birthday party at a gymnastics centre in a nearby town. Once everyone had arrived, and I had reminded the staff of what I had actually paid for, the party went quite well. I rolled out that cake, children were collected and I drove home. Really this does not in any way sum up two hours with 13 very excited children, two Year 9 boys ‘in charge’ and a host of dangerous gym equipment but I let your imaginations fill in the gaps. I am too traumatised to go through it all here. Suffice to say it wasn’t what I needed after 4 hours sleep. But then children’s parties are never something I need even on a full 9 hours.

We came home, unwrapped presents, assembled kit for the next day & accomplished the bed time routine. I discovered it is actually possible to fall asleep whilst reading aloud from Harry Potter and the Order of the Pheonix.

We got some tea for the in laws. Who looked a bit shell shocked.

And then I sat down and fell asleep in front of the Antiques Roadshow.

I make no apologies for that.

Procrastination… — June 23, 2015

Procrastination…

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ahh-procrastination

I think I may have mentioned before that I love writing this blog.

I think I may have also mentioned that sometimes I panic gently about running out of ideas.

And then I need to do something unpalatable. And suddenly I become full of the muse and set to work…

Today I am supposed to be packing two smallish boys up for Cub and Scout camp. It is one of those chores which sounds easier than it is. I loath it. If I merely pulled my digit out of a small orifice I could have the job licked within about two hours or so (not including the GF cake I need to bake and name labelling all their newer kit). But something in me is putting it off.

And so I am writing this piece of fluffy nonsense instead.

On the kit lists it says that the smallish boys themselves should pack their bags. Hmmm. Well that would be lovely I am sure but as tonight I have to drag all of them down to the camp field to actually pitch the Cub tents and tomorrow one has to get to a village at least 30 minutes away by 5pm during rush hour, when we will only land in from school circa 4.15pm that aint going to happen.

In any event they can’t work the loft hatch, unhook the trailer cover or sew on name badges all of which I need to accomplish to pack the bags.

No I prefer to focus their energies on remembering to BRING ALL THE STUFF I LOVINGLY PACKED BACK…

And so packing is my domain and the process (once I got round to it) goes something like this.

First I attempt to find all the stuff from downstairs. To avoid going up and down those stairs too often. So I scoop up tea towels and medication, carrier bags for wet clothes, small travel sized tubes of sunscreen, packets of tissues.

Next I raid the garage in search of camping crockery and cutlery, strong boots, wellies, a camp chair. The latter is a new one on me. Clearly Scouts is a lot more civilised than Cubs. Or the group owns less seating.

I then make my way into the loft and throw down sleeping bags, pillows, thermarests & hold-alls that could never hope to contain all this stuff. This is made harder today as I have never been in my current loft and first need to negotiate the unknown loft ladder. Once I gain access I find that I am lucky and husband has put all this stuff in plain view.

I dig out flannels that won’t embarrass but are named, four towels (eldest needs three- the mind boggles), soap in boxes (how 1970s), spare asthma inhalers and spacers.

Finally I get to the bedrooms to assemble the rest of the gear. I search drawers for all the clothes that are old and already labelled. Unfortunately we have recently replaced a lot of their outdoor gear as their ankles were on show and for some inexplicable reason I have failed to name eldest’s new Scout uniform. So I amass a large pile of sewing.

It is at this point I realise that I have forgotten ‘shoes which can get wet’ (garage), waterproofs (under the stairs) and torches (in an unknown location- last seen on my hall bookcase unfortunately in my previous abode).

I call husband and leave a message torch wise. I gather the other bits, check the weather forecast and decide to chuck in sun hats and woolly hats.

A quick glance at the clock and it becomes apparent  that I have now only got an hour left to bake that cake and eat lunch before my afternoon meeting. Should not procrastinate, should not procrastinate. So I dump stuff on the floors and vow to finish tomorrow when my supermarket will have delivered the extra tooth paste I require. I do not have enough tubes for everyone to be in a different location. These en-suites have their disadvantages including needing 3 tubes of toothpaste- well 4 now so the boys can split up too… who knew dental hygiene could be so problematic.

Mid whisking hubby calls back and asserts that the torches might be in the bottom drawer of his chest with all his running, cycling and gym gear. It is a drawer I avoid at all costs it being a tangle of an unbelievable quantity of lycra, padding and vaguely sweaty accessories. I take the plunge and rummage around and unearth the torches. Another cross off the list.

I bung the cake in the oven and stuff down a cheese and pickle sandwich. Mid crisp, and again remembering the forecast of ‘extremely heavy rain’- I believe it was a Yellow warning- I remember waterproof trousers and dig around in my under stairs cupboard. During this process the timer on my cake goes off. I extract it and rush off to my meeting.

Tomorrow I will add teddies, that toothpaste, ice the cake, try to remember water bottles.

And tonight I will face the sewing mountain.

I wouldn’t mind so much but I know that when they return precisely none of the garments or towels and flannels will have actually been used. The soap in a box will remain pristine. Even the spare pants will be untouched. I try to see the silver lining in this whilst they soak in a bath and I load the washing machine whilst trying not to touch anything and put the clean, dry clothes back in the drawers…

Footnote: I appreciate that having to pack two boys for camp is a mere drop in the ocean compared to the effort the leaders put into these events. And I really do appreciate all their work on behalf of my kids and everyone else’s. You lovely people.

What do points make? — June 21, 2015

What do points make?

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Every Bruce Forsyth fan (and I count myself amongst them, fond memories of watching idiots try to throw pots and ice cakes in 30 seconds on prime time TV in the 70s) knows the answer to that question, all together now

‘Prizes!’

It is soon Prize Giving Evening  at my children’s school. All the teachers wear their university robes, which is a bit startling when you have only seen some of them in shorts all year. They get some old boy (there are not yet many old girls it being only 10 years since the school went co-ed) to present books with a plaque inside to children who have presumably shone in various areas.

We knew eldest would be there as he recently co-won the Year 6 Humphriss Prize for Music at the Music Prize day.

All three of mine took part. Eldest played the cello and clearly must have done quite well with his Tudoresque, semi quaver fest. Middlest played his violin and the piano (not at the same time) and got lovely feedback from the adjudicator but was pipped to the Year 5 prize by a wonderful flautist. Youngest banged out ‘What shall we do with the drunken Sailor’ in her pre grade piano way. I think the adjudicators words were ‘great enthusiasm’…

Then today the prize winners were awarded with their book tokens in assembly. Eldest has surpassed himself and also won the Robinson Cup for the Most Improved Sportsman and duly received 2 book tokens. Youngest won the ‘something something’ prize for best person at PE in Year 3- probably because she won the Cross Country for the Year 3 & 4 girls and also the ‘how far can you throw a rounder’s ball’ event at last week’s field sports day. And she can run up House Point Hill very fast.

And middlest won nothing. Nada. Which is fine. Unless you are middlest, sandwiched between your award winning siblings. He had some hopes for the Year 5 Science Prize as all his exams this year have been in the 90%s. But, no, clearly there are many brilliant scientists at their school.

And so here is the very fine tight rope that is parent hood in perfect relief.

I am of course pleased for eldest and youngest. Eldest works incredibly hard. He deserves that Sportsman prize as he regularly falls into bed in a state of physical exhaustion after yet another training session. He was determined to shine with that cello piece after (and maybe I am being a bit partisan here) the really harsh examiner in April provided him with barely a pass for it in his exam. It was better than that even then. Now after a few more weeks of practise we can play it in our sleep. And it showed on the day.

Youngest is a born sportswoman as I may have mentioned before. And whilst this prize may be for something she is naturally good at she does attend every sports club going and she did go out training for that cross country, including taking part in a very cold Duathlon despite being terrified. She has an amazing untaught mind set- when I asked her how she ran through her stitch during the 2k cross country she told me she merely thought about how good she would feel when she won. The rounder’s ball thing was a surprise though.

So I feel they deserve their accolades and want to tell them that. It is hard to do so without middlest in ear shot and actually he should hear it. But how to do that without middlest taking it all the wrong way. My kids cannot understand that when I praise one I am not automatically denigrating the others. That just because I say ‘Well you worked hard for that so you deserve it’ I am not saying ‘And you, you just don’t work hard and deserve nothing’.

Middlest works hard, he isn’t a natural sportsman but tries his best, he is a fabulous musician (who won over that tough examiner in his violin exam to get a merit and leads the school orchestra), he is a brilliant scientist. On this occasion though others were just that bit better.

I feel for him. I told him that in my entire school career I never won a thing. Ever. And yes it hurts. But then I turned out alright didn’t I? He looked a bit askance at this, as he thinks I am a bit mad, but I think it helped. A bit.

And yes this is life. Life is tough. Get used to it. And all such platitudes. But when he is dripping tears into his cottage pie I don’t want to say that. I want him to have a damn prize. Damn it.

Anyway by bed he had become more philosophical. He has decided he would win the prize for ‘Best at Never Winning Prizes’. I may buy him a book and put a plaque in it for him. Not sure I will use his category though… maybe he should just win a prize for being generally wonderful…because he is.

The Games My Children Play — June 16, 2015

The Games My Children Play

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DVD players

So today on a really not that long car journey my children (11, 9 and 7) decided to count passing German cars. They wanted to see how many they could find in a row.

Being them, the game soon escalated and became more and more involved so that by the time we were coming back again they were giving each car make a ‘handle’ whilst still counting German cars… and so the conversation went something like this…

one, two, sushi, sushi, burger, burger, double burger, one, burger, sushi, burger, burger, ugly burger, poppadum, poppadum, poppadum-dum-dum (sung), one, sushi, Retreat, Retreat We Surrender, sushi, burger, burger, sushi, poppadum, poppadum, poppadum-dum-dum, somewhere in a factory in South East Asia, ein, zwei (things had moved on German wise), Taekwondo, sushi, sushi, poppadum, poppadum, poppadum-dum-dum, burger, burger, burger with ketchup (roof rack), I can play chopsticks with chopsticks, sushi, burger, burger, ein, zwei, drei, burger, God Save our Gracious Queen (etc sung- rare old Rover), Retreat, Retreat We Surrender, burger, burger, sushi, sushi….

Etc

And this is why we have in-car DVD players for longer journeys…

I know I play like a girl, try to keep up… — June 11, 2015

I know I play like a girl, try to keep up…

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playlikeagirl_1

I recently bought youngest (7) this T shirt, although in purple, her favourite colour.

And the reason is that my daughter is a soccer player. She adores the game and has played in a team from year one. Since she started a new school in September we have also found out that she enjoys hockey, netball, rounders and long distance running. But given a choice football is what she wants to play.

Whilst I am at a complete loss about where this sportiness comes from, I myself being one of those children who was picked last for every single team sport, every single time, I am immensely proud of her.

I really wanted a daughter. I am not going to lie and say that I was not secretly quite pleased on that last 20 week scan to be told it was 95% likely that a girl was what I was having. I am not really sure why I was so keen on it. There are many superficial reasons, like wanting to be mother of the bride, knowing that daughters tend to turn to their mothers when they become mothers themselves rather than their mother-in-laws, fancying browsing a new section of the baby clothes aisle after two sons.

But I guess the main reason is that I thought over the years I would be able to empathise more with a daughter.

Had that third child been a boy I would have been fine, I love my boys, and another would have been absolutely brilliant. But the fact she was a girl felt like the icing on the cake. It’s controversial to say it but that is how I felt.

And not only I am pleased to have a daughter, I am pleased to have the daughter she is. I am pleased for many reasons but mostly because she is fiesty, strong willed and intensely independent. She is not someone who takes any nonsense and she holds her own in almost any company. She does not see her gender as a barrier to anything. If she is the only girl on the football pitch she shrugs her shoulders, pulls on her shin pads and studs and sets to work.

And that is how it should be. I hope it continues and she can carry that inner confidence long into her future. Because it’s hard, as a female, to do that. I will certainly try to help her with it.

So I am proud of my daughter the football player. Because it epitomises what I want for her in her future. Feelings of confidence, worth & value and a knowledge that she can do anything she wants to regardless of her gender.