I'm an awkward person. Once people get to know me, they say I'm quite a nice gal. I make silly comments. Sometimes they're witty, but more often than not, I wholeheartedly regret ever opening my mouth. I curse my parents for teaching me to talk, and wonder how anyone ever stuck around long enough to actually get to know me.
I've always talked fast. My sister and I can have a full conversation in seconds, and grown humans stand agog at how we can understand each other at such pace. It can come in handy, for getting your word into an argument, or sounding like you're in a rush and need to get away from someone. But the problem with talking fast is that you need to be able to think fast too. Or else, what comes out of your mouth is usually unfiltered rhubarb that makes you cringe with every fibre of your being.
Too many times have I been on the verge of falling asleep, when my brain suddenly gives me a swift kick. "Remember that time when that lady asked if you'd like to buy her huge ceramic Buddah? And you said "God no! That kind of thing isn't my taste at all!" Remember her hurt look? Remember your red face? You absolute moron. Goodnight."
It happens to everyone, I know. But most use them as anecdotes, proudly telling people of the time they had a lapse in their usual great conversation technique. I, however, seem to have these moments on a semi daily basis. Sometimes, I can limit them to bi-weekly, but only if I stay inside for a lot of the week.
Quite recently, I went to the doctors (not for chronic awkwardness, although I really should) and rather made a fool of myself. I usually have a female doctor, and we have a little small talk and chit chat. I say my usual stupid things, but women seem more forgiving of this, either that or they're not fully listening, and I seem to get away with it. This time, however, it was a male doctor. And he had no time for my inane ramblings, and made no bones about it. Firstly, when I had a telephone consultation with him about my deaf ear, I made faux pas number one.
"I'll fit you in at 10 for a look."
I didn't hear him fully, and asked him to repeat what he'd said.
"I'll fit you in at 10."
"Thank you. See, that's how bad my ears are."
There was a slight pause, as we both tried to comprehend what I'd just said.
"10. Goodbye."
And that was the end of that. I'd known the guy for 1 minute and 25 seconds and already he knew that I was not cut out for interacting with other humans. I knew he thought I'd set the joke up by asking him to repeat it, but I honestly hadn't. I just tried to lighten the mood and it backfired.
So 10am came, and he called me in to his office. He had a look at my ears and I tried everything I could to avoid sentences with more than 3 syllables. Then, I had to talk to him about something else - renewing my contraceptive pill.
"I'll need to weigh you."
"Oh, ok. But just know that these boots are really heavy, like a stone each, and my phone is in my pocket. It has a really big screen so that'll add up..."
Why did I say more than three syllables?! Why did I open my mouth? Why did I ever leave the house? My brain banked the exchange for bedtime, as I cringed internally. It wouldn't have been so bad if he'd have just done a polite laugh, but he didn't. He stared at me blankly, also wondering why I ever left the house.
"So, the contraceptive pill. You do know there are side-effects? Have you ever considered getting your partner sterilised?"
"Only when he's really annoying me."
It had happened. All awkward exchanges that had gone before were forgotten. This was now in top spot as Stupidest Thing I've Ever Said. He looked at me blankly, for a second, wondering if I was joking. He was caught off guard, expecting a simple "yes" or "no". They hadn't trained him for this at medical school. He probably also wondered how any man could put up with me for so long for me to ever need the contraceptive pill. Luckily, that was the end of the appointment, and I could drag myself home to wallow in embarrassment.
Some people might be reading this and wondering what all of the fuss is about. So I said some stupid things occasionally. Big deal. It wasn't even that bad. But that's the problem, it isn't an occasional thing. It's every time I meet someone new. I try to make jokes and fail completely, making myself look like an absolute imbecile. I avoid all social interaction if I can. I refuse to call companies out of fear I'll say something stupid enough to have my service cancelled. I try not to make eye contact with fellow parents in the school yard, in case I accidentally call their kid ugly or something. When I really must speak to another member of the human race, I over analyse every last detail of the conversation to find fault and judge myself. And this just happened.
I got home from being out for an hour or so to find my parcel had ended up next door. Having lived here only a month, I didn't know the neighbours. I hadn't even seen them before, so I had nothing to go on in terms of small talk. All I knew is they had a cat. And I know this because it sits outside their house. That's it.
So I muster up every bit of courage I have, and take Ava, to go and knock next door. It's OK when I have a kid with me. I can talk through them. Or get them to do the talking. Either way, it feels safer. Anyway, I knocked. No answer. Praise be. I breathed a sigh of relief and scuttled off home.
7pm rolls around. I've just taken my make-up off, and gotten into the most baggy, and most unsightly, pyjamas I own. I've pinned my fringe up because it gets in the way of my eyes when I'm reading the kids' bedtime story. There is a hole in my sock. Basically, I look like a hobo that's broken in. There is a knock at the door. I remember instantly about the parcel. It must be the neighbour. I haven't met them yet, and first impressions count. I don't want them to think me uncouth, or else they might think I'm ok with things like afternoon bonfires and leaving the shared gate open. I can't not answer, I'm standing near the window. He's seen me. Fuck. I answer the door and immediately start talking. Bad idea.
"Hiya. Is that my parcel?"
It's obviously my parcel. He didn't bring his own parcel round to show me.
"Er, yes. Here you go."
And that, dear reader, is where the conversation should have ended. A "thank you" and closing the door would have meant I could go inside with my head held high that I finally managed a relatively normal first impression. But it didn't end there. I noticed his cat had followed him to my front door, and was mewing loudly.
"Can I ask...?" I started, already wishing I hadn't. "What his, err, it's, name is? Is it a girl or boy? Only I love cats."
Well done Jenn. Not only do you look like a bad Bridget Jones cosplay, you have now confirmed that you are in fact a crazy cat lady too.
"Oh, it's Arsene."
"Arsene? As in Wenger."
Stop talking. Stop talking now.
"No, Orson. As in Orson Welles."
"Oh that's good, I can't stand Arsenal."
He looked confused. He was either an Arsenal fan, and was insulted, or he had never heard of Arsene Wenger.
"Oh. Erm. Ok. The other black and white one that hangs around is Dylan, as in Thomas."
And that's when something else happened. I spoke again. I wanted to sound as sophisticated and in-the-know on literature as this guy, and wanted to say "Aha, a good choice of name. My son is called Dylan Thomas. Big fan." Or something similar, that didn't make me sound like a gimboid. But what happened instead was awful. An unnaturally Yorkshire accent came out of my face.
"That's me lads' name an'all!"
Dying inside, I tried to explain my interest in his cats that didn't make me sound crazy.
"It's just that my daughter, she loves cats, and she always likes to say hello to this one when we see him around the path."
Cheap shot, ok, I blamed the child. But it's true, she does say hello to him every time we see him, and I was interested to learn his name. The neighbour seemed to go home happy that he'd done a nice thing by bringing our parcel round. I'm still not sure whether I'm overanalysing the horridness of the exchange, or if he thought nothing of it and went about his evening without ever considering that I blushed the colour of sunset as soon as I had closed the door.
So today I have learned many things.
1. Do not overanalyse. You will send yourself mad.
2. Don't try to be funny, unless you have proof that you actually are.
3. Stop talking. Stop talking.
4. If you can't manage the first 3, stay inside forever and unplug the phone.
Thursday, 15 October 2015
Throwback Thursday - Past Parties
As promised, here are some of the ideas from my past themed childrens parties, just in case anybody wants any ideas for themselves (or ideas on what not to do, too). When Dylan turned two, Ava was just 2 months old. I had been very bored on my maternity leave, so decided to throw all of my time and effort into a big themed party for Dylan, to remind him that he was still special. He was very into cars at that point, so the theme choice was obvious. I went with a Disney Cars/ retro gas station type vibe. I made traffic light jelly shots (sadly without the vodka. I learnt later that it would have been handy to have a nip of something close by) and other bits and pieces. Having just had a baby, I was in no fit state to bake the cake (well, that's the excuse I used) so I bought a Lighting McQueen one from the supermarket. Perfect, until the birthday boy sobbed hysterically because he thought we were butchering his favourite fictional character with a knife when everyone wanted a slice. I made all of the signs and flags with my trusty Berol pens and craft paper, and I like to think I pulled it off. We played "Guess How Many Cars In The Jar" (29, in case anyone wondered) and people won "Piston Cups" for various games. For my first attempt into the world of themed parties, it went rather well.
The following year, it was Ava's turn. When she turned one, she didn't have many interests besides dribbling and the occasional tantrum. Not much to go on for a theme, so I used my imagination. I came up with a vintage tea party theme, because I love all that jazz. She even wore an old bridesmaid dress that my mum had since my sister wore it, aged 18 months (so 20 odd years ago). So I bought doilies and cake stands, and served tea and cakes to her close family in their Sunday best. It was a lovely day, and a lot less tiring because the theme wasn't so constricting. My mum had a friend who baked cakes, so she splashed out on a teddy bears tea party cake for her. So yet again, I avoided baking the cake. One year I will, I promise!
Another year passed and Dylan was turning 4. Both of the kids were going through a mad Ben and Holly phase, so it was clear what he wanted as a theme. We had quite a few of the toys already, so that was the decor sorted. This was one of my lazy years, actually. I relied on using the toys and things we already had as themed stuff, and got lazy with the food. We had "Nanny Plum's Magic Mix" and "Fairy cakes" (obviously), but it went down a treat with the birthday boy. I still didn't feel capable to bake the cake, so we went with a plain one with toys stuck on. I did say this was my laziest year.
And this year was the turn of The Gruffalo for Ava's 3rd. Next year, it's Dylan's turn again, and he's already got his eye on a Stampy Cat Minecraft theme. Thing is, you still can't buy Minecraft cakes yet. Could 2016 be the year that I attempt to tackle the baking tray? Or will I pay someone to do it for me. Only time will tell...
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| Car themed 2nd birthday Party |
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| Spare tyre Swiss rolls, traffic light biscuits and chocolate finger dipsticks |
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| Guess How Many Cars In The Jar |
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| Finish line checkered flags |
The following year, it was Ava's turn. When she turned one, she didn't have many interests besides dribbling and the occasional tantrum. Not much to go on for a theme, so I used my imagination. I came up with a vintage tea party theme, because I love all that jazz. She even wore an old bridesmaid dress that my mum had since my sister wore it, aged 18 months (so 20 odd years ago). So I bought doilies and cake stands, and served tea and cakes to her close family in their Sunday best. It was a lovely day, and a lot less tiring because the theme wasn't so constricting. My mum had a friend who baked cakes, so she splashed out on a teddy bears tea party cake for her. So yet again, I avoided baking the cake. One year I will, I promise!
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| The Birthday Girl in a 20 year old dress |
The Teddy Bears Tea Party birthday cake
Another year passed and Dylan was turning 4. Both of the kids were going through a mad Ben and Holly phase, so it was clear what he wanted as a theme. We had quite a few of the toys already, so that was the decor sorted. This was one of my lazy years, actually. I relied on using the toys and things we already had as themed stuff, and got lazy with the food. We had "Nanny Plum's Magic Mix" and "Fairy cakes" (obviously), but it went down a treat with the birthday boy. I still didn't feel capable to bake the cake, so we went with a plain one with toys stuck on. I did say this was my laziest year.
The Birthday Elf
Nanny Plum's Magic Mix
Fairy Cakes
Laziest cake ever
A sparse spread, but Dylan loved it
And this year was the turn of The Gruffalo for Ava's 3rd. Next year, it's Dylan's turn again, and he's already got his eye on a Stampy Cat Minecraft theme. Thing is, you still can't buy Minecraft cakes yet. Could 2016 be the year that I attempt to tackle the baking tray? Or will I pay someone to do it for me. Only time will tell...
Monday, 12 October 2015
How Does One Scramble A Snake? - The Gruffalo Party
Our youngest turned 3 on Friday, quite unbelievably. She's seemed like a 3 year old already for quite some time, as she follows her older brother and cousin around, learning their tricks and teaching them new ones. She's a very independent girl, the sort who will probably break a few glass ceilings in a few years. She knows what she wants, and she knows how to get it.
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| The Birthday Girl in the Deep, Dark Wood. |
And she wanted a Gruffalo party. Now, I love planning. I love Pinterest boards and lists and making notes about the best and most creative way to mess, I mean, make things. I'm not the best at crafts - many an attempt has turned into disaster. As their birthdays are within 2 months of each other, we alternate the parties every year, with Dylan having his even ages, and Ava having the odd ages. That gives me a good year between parties to recuperate and re-plan. My next post will be about past parties, so I won't go into detail here.
So, Gruffalo party. I scoured the supermarkets for Gruffalo produce, and failed miserably. Frozen stuff, everywhere. Peppa Pig stuff, tripping over it. Minions? Annoyingly in your face. But The Gruffalo? Nowhere to be seen. This was a job for the craft box.
So I made a poster, drawing a picture using an image from Google. I made the little signs for the food, and the autumn leaves for the general decorations. I then realised I hate myself, and therefore needed to make my life even more complicated by introducing the idea of a treasure hunt for the kids. I made the sheets, included a magnifying glass and hid three (one each for my two, one for my nephew) of each treasure around the garden. We had fox paw prints (or pebbled with Sharpie scribbled on them), owl eggs (or bouncy balls, which should really be called "Satan's Own Balls" for the amount of chaos they create) and a toy snake. When they found all three, they were rewarded with some bubble mixture. Sounds easy, and the kids loved it, but the ballache when it came to the planning means I probably wouldn't do it again (actually, I would. I'm a glutton for punishment, it seems).
But then, the next problem arose in my planning. How does one actually scramble a snake?
My nephew is vegetarian, and I know he's a fan of the Gruffalo too. It would have broken my heart to turn him away from the buffet, when this was his chance to sample some of the foods from the book. I aimed for as much of a veggie friendly feast as possible, and did alright (minus the odd sausage roll and Jaffa cake). I came up with French Fries for scrambled snake, after turning down the idea of actually doing any real baking. Pinterest was filled with "bake your own sausage rolls and dye them green, so simple, you gotta try this!". How's about no. In Yorkshire, when all else fails, we use crisps. Owl ice cream? Well, using Ava's Lego ice cream cones, I plonked a few marshmallow/ coconut snowballs in them, with owl face toppers. I was as surprised as you that marshmallow are vegetarian, but they were. Now, roasted fox? I had the brilliant idea of using those cat face shaped bread cakes, but they had sold out. Normal breadcakes it was. Ham was out of the question, so cheese would have to do. Thinking back, I could have gone to more effort with this, but as you can imagine, I'd stopped caring by now.
Monster Munch make good Gruffalo claws, and a few raspberries (and grapes, because they're Ava's favourite) made for Forest Fruits. And what of the Gruffalo Crumble? Why, muffins with orange icing eyes, of course! Unless, you come to ice the eyes the night before the party and find you've bought a tube of icing colouring, not icing. Cue frantic Googling, resulting in a hastily bought packet of Skittles and Jelly Tots. Jelly Tots are vegan, apparently. Who knew?! So muffins with Orange Skittle eyes would have to do. Just a note, by the way, never bite into a muffin with Skittles in. They don't go together very well. But they looked ok, and that's what matters.
And, the most important thing, the cake. I googled and googled. I considered baking, which is a sure sign I've started to lose it. I don't bake. It's a guaranteed fail whenever I even try. So I knew I had to buy one. As it turned out, Tesco do a Gruffalo cake! Yes! No baking for me! Ava's day would not be ruined.
So we went to the biggest Tesco in the city, the day before the party. Frozen cakes, Peppa Pig cakes. The annoying Minion. But no Gruffalo. Back in the car. A screaming Ava who wants her Gruffalo cake. A tired husband spending his first day off in two weeks cake shopping. A stressed out me worrying about the idea of actually baking a cake. The next Tesco was even more useless. A value range sponge and jam thing, and just one other. That sodding Minion again! After a lot of internal swearing, I decided to give it up as a bad job. To Asda, where anything would have to do.
We briefly considered the owl shaped cake we'd seen a week before, but that was sold out. Then Ava decided that The Gruffalo wasn't what she wanted after all, and instead picked the cat shaped one. Like hell, Ava Mae. You're having a bloody Gruffalo party if it kills me. A caterpillar cake? Too scary. Disney Princess? Too irrelevant. The Minion? Not in a thousand years will that thing ever grace my home. Last chance saloon. The "Draw Your Own" cake. It was pre-baked, so I wouldn't even have to turn the oven on. It was just a plain, white cake with three edible ink pens. "You could draw The Gruffalo on it." Tom said. I can't. Not with the pressure of making it perfect. "Or, I noticed they do a chocolate egg in the shape of a Gruffalo a few aisles back. Get that and stick it on."
And so, that is the tale of how I completely avoided baking for my daughters birthday. It was for her own good. Buying supermarket cake doesn't make me a bad person. It makes me a better person for not subjecting everyone to a burnt, over-iced mess covered in sickly sprinkles. I had to stay up late, making cake toppers in the shape of Gruffalo characters, and I did have to do a bit of artwork using the edible pens, but over all, I think it was slightly better than the Tesco one. And certainly better than that bloody Minion.
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| The finished cake |
Plan, plan and plan.
Plan for if the first plan goes wrong.
Always assume you need more time that you anticipated for setting it up.
Don't let the kids see the party food until the last minute, or you have a very difficult battle on your hands.
Unless you are trained, buy the cake.
And, most importantly, get some wine in for after the party, and everyone has gone home. This information could save a life. Pass it on.
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| The Gruffalo Feast |
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| Scrambled Snake & Gruffalo Claws |
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| Owl Ice Cream |
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| Spot The Snakes... |
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| Ava and her Great Nanan, doing The Gruffalo Treasure Hunt |
Wednesday, 7 October 2015
Back To School
Another morning, another school run. Plans for the day on virtually zero, apart from having a breather at my parents' house with the youngest. Dylan is playing nicely, so I slip away with Ava to set about my day of loitering.
"Oh, before you go..." The teacher pipes up "You will be at the phonics class this evening, won't you?"
The what now? Phonics class? Dear, I have a GCSE in English language, and an A Level in English Literature. I think I can manage a few letters of the alphabet!
But I didn't say that. I said "Of course! 3.30? I'll be there!"
Great. So my day of gossip with mum and having endless coffees with my dad was on hold. I still went and did those things, but spent a lot of it nervous about the meeting. I didn't really enjoy school. I was clever, but a bit weird. I had blue streaks in my hair and a lip ring. I wore black a lot on own clothes day, and had a small but important group of friends out of which I never strayed. Every day caused anxiety that the one friend I had per class wouldn't show, and I would sit alone. Now I was going back to school, and starting again. I'm sure some of the parents still hadn't looked kindly on me since the meltdown Dylan had last week, and the others were already in their groups. I was to be the weirdo at the back again. But I'm an adult now, this shouldn't bother me. And I guess it doesn't.
So I got to class with a few other parents - many didn't show. Rude. We put our kids in the Y6 classroom to watch a film whilst we went back to school
It literally was back to school for me. This is my own primary school. I sat in Mr Kitts' classroom, managing to pull up a chair beside another lonely mother who I hoped had felt the same way. The room felt much smaller, but then again, it would. It was 20 years since I was last in that room, and a lot had changed. Without getting chance to take it in, a lady stood in front of the old blackboard - now an interactive white screen - and introduced herself as one of the school teachers. A young lady, probably my own age or younger. Ok love, you tell yourself that I, holder of English GCSEs and A Levels, need telling how to help a four year old with homework by a kid herself.
"So, everything you learnt is rubbish." She started, more or less. "Turns out, the way we learned to read and write as children is not the right way, and we have new methods now."
Oh. Ok?
"We all know the alphabet is A, B, C. But this is useless to children."
Pah, I knew that, I thought, feeling like a bit of a class swot.
"And so is ah, bu, cu."
What. Er, what?
"Now we teach 'Pure Sounds', so it's a, b, c. And there are ffffff and vvvvv. For example, M is not "em", or "um". It is "mmmm". We look at how our mouths are shaped and we spell words based on the sounds they make..."
Fuck I wish I'd brought a pen to write this down. I felt a total plank. What is this witchcraft? She continued on with common sense stuff I'd never considered, and I nodded accordingly. But then it got weird. She pulled a toy frog from a box and said "This is Fred. Say hello Fred."
Great, a nut job who talks to stuffed frogs is teaching my kid to read. She seemed so competent up to now.
"Fred Talk is the way we get children to learn their letter sounds. So "cat" is not "C-A-T", nor "cu-ah-tu", but "c-a-t".
It's difficult to write it and actually putting across what I mean, but she started making sense. She told us how our children did Fred Talking at school, and it is a proven method of getting them interested and engaged with learning to read. An hour later, my head was filled with good intentions and a new lease of parenting. I will sit my children and read every night. I will get them to care about language, and storybooks, and education in general.
When Dylan did his homework that night, I felt a lot more able to help him. I did before, but now I was Fred Talking. I was confident that he would understand better. That is, until, he asked "Why are you talking like that? Fred does that. I don't like him."
So the tried and trusted method may just be the answer to a better education for this generation of children. But not necessarily mine.
"Oh, before you go..." The teacher pipes up "You will be at the phonics class this evening, won't you?"
The what now? Phonics class? Dear, I have a GCSE in English language, and an A Level in English Literature. I think I can manage a few letters of the alphabet!
But I didn't say that. I said "Of course! 3.30? I'll be there!"
Great. So my day of gossip with mum and having endless coffees with my dad was on hold. I still went and did those things, but spent a lot of it nervous about the meeting. I didn't really enjoy school. I was clever, but a bit weird. I had blue streaks in my hair and a lip ring. I wore black a lot on own clothes day, and had a small but important group of friends out of which I never strayed. Every day caused anxiety that the one friend I had per class wouldn't show, and I would sit alone. Now I was going back to school, and starting again. I'm sure some of the parents still hadn't looked kindly on me since the meltdown Dylan had last week, and the others were already in their groups. I was to be the weirdo at the back again. But I'm an adult now, this shouldn't bother me. And I guess it doesn't.
So I got to class with a few other parents - many didn't show. Rude. We put our kids in the Y6 classroom to watch a film whilst we went back to school
It literally was back to school for me. This is my own primary school. I sat in Mr Kitts' classroom, managing to pull up a chair beside another lonely mother who I hoped had felt the same way. The room felt much smaller, but then again, it would. It was 20 years since I was last in that room, and a lot had changed. Without getting chance to take it in, a lady stood in front of the old blackboard - now an interactive white screen - and introduced herself as one of the school teachers. A young lady, probably my own age or younger. Ok love, you tell yourself that I, holder of English GCSEs and A Levels, need telling how to help a four year old with homework by a kid herself.
"So, everything you learnt is rubbish." She started, more or less. "Turns out, the way we learned to read and write as children is not the right way, and we have new methods now."
Oh. Ok?
"We all know the alphabet is A, B, C. But this is useless to children."
Pah, I knew that, I thought, feeling like a bit of a class swot.
"And so is ah, bu, cu."
What. Er, what?
"Now we teach 'Pure Sounds', so it's a, b, c. And there are ffffff and vvvvv. For example, M is not "em", or "um". It is "mmmm". We look at how our mouths are shaped and we spell words based on the sounds they make..."
Fuck I wish I'd brought a pen to write this down. I felt a total plank. What is this witchcraft? She continued on with common sense stuff I'd never considered, and I nodded accordingly. But then it got weird. She pulled a toy frog from a box and said "This is Fred. Say hello Fred."
Great, a nut job who talks to stuffed frogs is teaching my kid to read. She seemed so competent up to now.
"Fred Talk is the way we get children to learn their letter sounds. So "cat" is not "C-A-T", nor "cu-ah-tu", but "c-a-t".
It's difficult to write it and actually putting across what I mean, but she started making sense. She told us how our children did Fred Talking at school, and it is a proven method of getting them interested and engaged with learning to read. An hour later, my head was filled with good intentions and a new lease of parenting. I will sit my children and read every night. I will get them to care about language, and storybooks, and education in general.
When Dylan did his homework that night, I felt a lot more able to help him. I did before, but now I was Fred Talking. I was confident that he would understand better. That is, until, he asked "Why are you talking like that? Fred does that. I don't like him."
So the tried and trusted method may just be the answer to a better education for this generation of children. But not necessarily mine.
Monday, 5 October 2015
Not On A School Night
As I said, we moved house on the 9th of September. But, far more importantly, our eldest started primary school the same day. The main reason for moving was to be near this particular school, and we fell extremely lucky to have got one on the same street. I am determined that I won't get lazy, and be "That Mum" who takes their kids to school whilst wearing pyjamas. I don't judge these people. I applaud them. If I had the confidence to wear pyjamas in the street, I would. And so would you, so don't lie.
So we took him in on his first day, and he was his usual shy self at first. He seemed to settle ok, and didn't seem upset when we left him to it. Ava did, because she wanted to stay and play with the big children (I say "big" children, she towered over a few of the younger ones in uniform, even at just two years old). When we picked him up, he was happy. He had had a good day, made a friend and had no complaints about anything. All was well.
Over the next few days, he had better and better days. He was chosen for the "Top Table" at dinner time, his pictures lined the classroom walls (with his name scrawled on them, better with each attempt) and his friends were always happy to see him arrive. I could not be happier about his start to school, and neither could he.
But the long days were tiring him more than either of us thought. As a treat, I took him to his Nanan and Gramps' after school a few times, which messes around with usual routine and bedtimes. So it's a little later that usual, and he's had a few extra treats than he needs, but the old saying "Not on a school night" is exactly that, an old saying. He'll be fine.
He wasn't fine. And I wasn't fine. The next day, he was sleepy before we even set off. I assumed he'd have a good day anyway, and he could have a relaxing evening at home to counter the hectic chaos of the previous one. But no. He came down the path, as he usually did, carrying boxes and "models" of ovens and washing "shamines" and he looked happy. I gave him his dolly that I'd promised to bring and he asked "Are we going to Nanan's again? Are we??"
"Not tonight, maybe tomorrow."
"Why not?!"
"Because we went yesterday, and we can go tomorrow. But tonight we're going home."
This lit the firework.
"HOME?! I don't want to go home!"
"What? Why not?"
"I DON'T WANT TO GO HOME!"
Uh-oh. Meltdown imminent. I know that tone. And sure enough, the meltdown came. Right there, in the middle of the schoolyard, surrounded by all the other parents that I've tried so hard to get along with so far (smiley eye-contact and "oh I know!" small-talk, mainly, but it's early days). He threw his dolly across the yard before he threw himself to the ground, clung on to the fence and screamed "I DON'T WANT TO GO HOME WITH YOU!"
This led my brain to unravel slightly. Too much was happening. Ava was running freely in the yard, blissfully unaware of the coming chaos. I could not worry myself with this for now, so I rounded her up quickly by holding her hand. She hates holding hands, she's very independent like that, so she started crying. It didn't look good for me, but that was nothing on what was to come from her brother. Firstly, there was what my brain wanted me to do with him, which was revert back to play centre and toy shop tactics of the old "Lift-Carry-Ignore". Sometimes, strangers would tut, with the rare chance that the odd mother would give me the knowing nod of "Been there, the ol' Lift-Carry-Ignore. Good luck, sister." But these people were strangers. I could leave Toys'R'Us with my screaming child over my shoulder, silently seething until we got back to the car and not bat an eyelid at what Old-Woman-With-Perfect-Grandchild thought. But that was not this day.
So secondly, my brain decided to scan the playground for disproving looks. Why, I do not know. Again, they normally don't bother me, but these people were my peers. I needed to look like Mum Of The Year if I ever wanted to get invited to a coffee morning (which I would never dream of going to, but it's nice to be asked). And the fact that my child was screaming that he didn't want to go home with me wasn't even going to put me as a runner up. I had to think quick. I tried a variation on the "Lift-Carry-Ignore" by trying to help him up from the ground. He clung even harder to the fence, and screamed even louder. Now he was crying. I'm sure many parents thought "that kid is tired, and he's had a long day at school. They all do this at some point, poor mother". But my brain automatically assumed they were all looking at me and thinking "That poor boy! I wonder what his mother does to him so badly that he doesn't want to go home! I must ring Ester Rantzen immediately!"
Nobody thought that, I realise that now after getting home and having a good think. But at that moment in time, I felt like I was in the dock, my own child pointing me out as the criminal and the people I have to spend the next decade making small talk with as my jury. Eventually, I managed to pull him away from the fence, still screaming that I'm a "bad mummy!" Whilst attempting to sooth him with "We can go to Nanan's tomorrow, ok? Let's get you home, you're so so tired, aren't you?"
Luckily, we live a 2 minute walk from the school, so the torture didn't last too long. The crying and screaming carried on for a while, and when it stopped I tried to get to the root of the problem. It turns out he doesn't hate me, or the house, but he does like going to Nanan's after school more than going home. Well, obviously! He has Quavers for tea and "just one more" biscuit, coupled with being allowed to run and shout and play, knowing he won't be told off as much because "It's Nanan's House". But that is as a treat, not a daily routine. He couldn't grasp this in his tired state, and the meltdown proved it. I promised myself there and then that he wouldn't have another late school night. I doubt I'll stick to it, but hopefully future meltdowns will be more manageable. I should know by now that when Cbeebies sing the goodnight song, it's bedtime. Don't be tricked into changing over to NickJr, or even the overly-soothing BabyTV. When Charlie Bear waves goodbye, put them to bed.
If only I could listen to my own advice, I might have avoided having to finish off the rest of the bottle of rosè that night. Which, I found out the next morning, is something else you shouldn't do on a school night. Who knew?
So we took him in on his first day, and he was his usual shy self at first. He seemed to settle ok, and didn't seem upset when we left him to it. Ava did, because she wanted to stay and play with the big children (I say "big" children, she towered over a few of the younger ones in uniform, even at just two years old). When we picked him up, he was happy. He had had a good day, made a friend and had no complaints about anything. All was well.
Over the next few days, he had better and better days. He was chosen for the "Top Table" at dinner time, his pictures lined the classroom walls (with his name scrawled on them, better with each attempt) and his friends were always happy to see him arrive. I could not be happier about his start to school, and neither could he.
But the long days were tiring him more than either of us thought. As a treat, I took him to his Nanan and Gramps' after school a few times, which messes around with usual routine and bedtimes. So it's a little later that usual, and he's had a few extra treats than he needs, but the old saying "Not on a school night" is exactly that, an old saying. He'll be fine.
He wasn't fine. And I wasn't fine. The next day, he was sleepy before we even set off. I assumed he'd have a good day anyway, and he could have a relaxing evening at home to counter the hectic chaos of the previous one. But no. He came down the path, as he usually did, carrying boxes and "models" of ovens and washing "shamines" and he looked happy. I gave him his dolly that I'd promised to bring and he asked "Are we going to Nanan's again? Are we??"
"Not tonight, maybe tomorrow."
"Why not?!"
"Because we went yesterday, and we can go tomorrow. But tonight we're going home."
This lit the firework.
"HOME?! I don't want to go home!"
"What? Why not?"
"I DON'T WANT TO GO HOME!"
Uh-oh. Meltdown imminent. I know that tone. And sure enough, the meltdown came. Right there, in the middle of the schoolyard, surrounded by all the other parents that I've tried so hard to get along with so far (smiley eye-contact and "oh I know!" small-talk, mainly, but it's early days). He threw his dolly across the yard before he threw himself to the ground, clung on to the fence and screamed "I DON'T WANT TO GO HOME WITH YOU!"
This led my brain to unravel slightly. Too much was happening. Ava was running freely in the yard, blissfully unaware of the coming chaos. I could not worry myself with this for now, so I rounded her up quickly by holding her hand. She hates holding hands, she's very independent like that, so she started crying. It didn't look good for me, but that was nothing on what was to come from her brother. Firstly, there was what my brain wanted me to do with him, which was revert back to play centre and toy shop tactics of the old "Lift-Carry-Ignore". Sometimes, strangers would tut, with the rare chance that the odd mother would give me the knowing nod of "Been there, the ol' Lift-Carry-Ignore. Good luck, sister." But these people were strangers. I could leave Toys'R'Us with my screaming child over my shoulder, silently seething until we got back to the car and not bat an eyelid at what Old-Woman-With-Perfect-Grandchild thought. But that was not this day.
So secondly, my brain decided to scan the playground for disproving looks. Why, I do not know. Again, they normally don't bother me, but these people were my peers. I needed to look like Mum Of The Year if I ever wanted to get invited to a coffee morning (which I would never dream of going to, but it's nice to be asked). And the fact that my child was screaming that he didn't want to go home with me wasn't even going to put me as a runner up. I had to think quick. I tried a variation on the "Lift-Carry-Ignore" by trying to help him up from the ground. He clung even harder to the fence, and screamed even louder. Now he was crying. I'm sure many parents thought "that kid is tired, and he's had a long day at school. They all do this at some point, poor mother". But my brain automatically assumed they were all looking at me and thinking "That poor boy! I wonder what his mother does to him so badly that he doesn't want to go home! I must ring Ester Rantzen immediately!"
Nobody thought that, I realise that now after getting home and having a good think. But at that moment in time, I felt like I was in the dock, my own child pointing me out as the criminal and the people I have to spend the next decade making small talk with as my jury. Eventually, I managed to pull him away from the fence, still screaming that I'm a "bad mummy!" Whilst attempting to sooth him with "We can go to Nanan's tomorrow, ok? Let's get you home, you're so so tired, aren't you?"
Luckily, we live a 2 minute walk from the school, so the torture didn't last too long. The crying and screaming carried on for a while, and when it stopped I tried to get to the root of the problem. It turns out he doesn't hate me, or the house, but he does like going to Nanan's after school more than going home. Well, obviously! He has Quavers for tea and "just one more" biscuit, coupled with being allowed to run and shout and play, knowing he won't be told off as much because "It's Nanan's House". But that is as a treat, not a daily routine. He couldn't grasp this in his tired state, and the meltdown proved it. I promised myself there and then that he wouldn't have another late school night. I doubt I'll stick to it, but hopefully future meltdowns will be more manageable. I should know by now that when Cbeebies sing the goodnight song, it's bedtime. Don't be tricked into changing over to NickJr, or even the overly-soothing BabyTV. When Charlie Bear waves goodbye, put them to bed.
If only I could listen to my own advice, I might have avoided having to finish off the rest of the bottle of rosè that night. Which, I found out the next morning, is something else you shouldn't do on a school night. Who knew?
Friday, 2 October 2015
Homesick
So we're in the new house. We survived four days at my parents, and we picked up the keys at 9.30am. We went inside, and scrutinised every bit of it. When you're on a viewing, you're so busy taking it all in that you don't really notice the slightly faded wallpaper, or the true extent of how small the living room is. You just nod and smile when the owner shows you each room in a hurry.
We throw down all the bags we could carry, and prepare for the most chaotic few days we'll ever envisage. Thoughts of our first born starting school for the first time that very morning are pushed into the back of the mind, begrudgingly, to make room for the organisation needed ahead. Friends and family joined in, ferrying furniture and boxes, between my parents' and the new house. The whirlwind went on for a few days. Living out of suitcases and side-stepping hastily dumped cardboard boxes in the walkways. The school run became an actual run, as we were often bordering on being late because we had ran out of socks. With a bit of elbow grease and a few late nights, the house was finally habitable. It took a lot of tears - especially when we got fleeced on Gumtree with a knackered fridge freezer, and now the seller can't be contacted - and a lot of patience, but we got there. Now to settle down and enjoy the family life.
But something is wrong. Dylan still claims he hates the new house, and finds every excuse not to go home after school. I put this down to how much he loves being at school, but we're all feeling it. Ava is too young, and the whole thing is still an adventure for her, but to Dylan, he's had a lot of changes in a very short time. He had room to play and clamber and escape to when his sister was in a snatching mood. Now, he has access to less than half of his toys, the floor space has decreased dramatically and he doesn't want to play as much as he did. Once we get fully sorted and settled, I'm hoping this will change, but for now it's very disheartening. Meanwhile, I too am feeling a bit down about it all. It's not the fairy tale I thought it would be. The house is a lot smaller than the last one, but that just means it's cosy... Right? And the decor hasn't been updated since the late 80's, whereas our old house was exactly how we liked it. But you don't notice as much once all our modern ornaments are up... Right? And the lights and TV flicker a few times a day, and we can't pin-point what is causing it. But we'll learn to live with that... Right?!
Basically, we're homesick. Not "home" sick, because this is our home now. We're Old-Homesick. The old house had its little faults, but we knew what they were and how to handle them. We moved for a good reason, and I do know why we did it, but that doesn't make me settle any better.
I'm hoping it's a case of spending more time here, but at the moment, I still feel like a guest in someone else's house. Maybe, once we have a family Christmas here, we'll all feel better.
It was our first home and I'm bound to feel something for it, but really, it's just bricks. Nicely decorated bricks, with an integrated kitchen and step-in shower, but bricks all the same.
We need to start making some memories here, and maybe I will love it more. All I know for sure is I'm still glad we did it. The school run now takes 7 minutes, instead of over an hour. So yeah, I'll settle down here. Whether I like it or not!
We throw down all the bags we could carry, and prepare for the most chaotic few days we'll ever envisage. Thoughts of our first born starting school for the first time that very morning are pushed into the back of the mind, begrudgingly, to make room for the organisation needed ahead. Friends and family joined in, ferrying furniture and boxes, between my parents' and the new house. The whirlwind went on for a few days. Living out of suitcases and side-stepping hastily dumped cardboard boxes in the walkways. The school run became an actual run, as we were often bordering on being late because we had ran out of socks. With a bit of elbow grease and a few late nights, the house was finally habitable. It took a lot of tears - especially when we got fleeced on Gumtree with a knackered fridge freezer, and now the seller can't be contacted - and a lot of patience, but we got there. Now to settle down and enjoy the family life.
But something is wrong. Dylan still claims he hates the new house, and finds every excuse not to go home after school. I put this down to how much he loves being at school, but we're all feeling it. Ava is too young, and the whole thing is still an adventure for her, but to Dylan, he's had a lot of changes in a very short time. He had room to play and clamber and escape to when his sister was in a snatching mood. Now, he has access to less than half of his toys, the floor space has decreased dramatically and he doesn't want to play as much as he did. Once we get fully sorted and settled, I'm hoping this will change, but for now it's very disheartening. Meanwhile, I too am feeling a bit down about it all. It's not the fairy tale I thought it would be. The house is a lot smaller than the last one, but that just means it's cosy... Right? And the decor hasn't been updated since the late 80's, whereas our old house was exactly how we liked it. But you don't notice as much once all our modern ornaments are up... Right? And the lights and TV flicker a few times a day, and we can't pin-point what is causing it. But we'll learn to live with that... Right?!
Basically, we're homesick. Not "home" sick, because this is our home now. We're Old-Homesick. The old house had its little faults, but we knew what they were and how to handle them. We moved for a good reason, and I do know why we did it, but that doesn't make me settle any better.
I'm hoping it's a case of spending more time here, but at the moment, I still feel like a guest in someone else's house. Maybe, once we have a family Christmas here, we'll all feel better.
It was our first home and I'm bound to feel something for it, but really, it's just bricks. Nicely decorated bricks, with an integrated kitchen and step-in shower, but bricks all the same.
We need to start making some memories here, and maybe I will love it more. All I know for sure is I'm still glad we did it. The school run now takes 7 minutes, instead of over an hour. So yeah, I'll settle down here. Whether I like it or not!
Thursday, 1 October 2015
Goodbye, First Family Home
So we begin with an ending - the day we left our first family home. We had been there for over three years, but it was time to move on.
After 6 hours of sweeping floors, washing windows, cleaning under cupboards and a fierce battle with the ice tray in the freezer, the house was ready to be inspected at 10am the next day. We arrived at the old house at 9am, ready to give it a last minute airing and vacuum the corners that I'd given up on the day before. However, a car pulled up just as we did. A nice car. The sort of car you don't see belonging to people who live in the area. He had a suit on. People around here don't own suits. They hire them for court appearances, or nick them from Primark. They don't wear them proudly on our street. This was an estate agent. And he was here to see us.
"I THOUGHT he said 9! I asked if you were sure, you said 10!"
"He said 10! He definitely said 10!"
"Clearly(!)"
The hushed bickering continued as we smiled and waved at the nicely dressed man.
"I don't want to go inside! I want to go back to Nanan's!"
"I'm going to nursery after my birthday!"
"Children, please!"
We let the nicely dressed man inside, and let him poke around our home. He was lovely, to be fair, and complimented us on looking after the house so well. I waited for him to leave for upstairs so that I could quickly wash the coffee coloured stain from the living room wall that I had suddenly remembered in my panic. Cloths and sponges were all packed, so the inside of my cardigan was sacrificed as a scrubbing rag to make the wall look better. I had liked that cardigan too.
"A few furniture scuffs - to be expected - but overall very nice."
After a brief chat about how ridiculous the renting fees were these days (which paid for your suit Mr Estate Agent, so don't complain), we were ready to leave. Our first family home. Three and a half years worth of family life. Ava took her first steps right on that carpet. And Dylan had his first proper birthday party here. It was the first time he'd ever been remotely poorly in his first 2 years of life, and he spent a lot of it napping. I remember it well. And we had our first family car on that driveway, and we...
Reminiscing would have to wait. It was time to go. We leave the keys with Mr Estate Agent, and leave for the last time. We pull out of the driveway, taking two attempts because the man-across-the-road always parks his cheap 4X4 bang opposite us. We drive past the house we hated, two doors down from us, who played music at all hours and ultimately forced us into the move in the first place. We leave the pot-hole ridden street and past the dip in the road that always floods in the rain. We leave the area, for good. I still feel sad that our family home had to be sacrificed for a better life, but all in all, I'm glad that it's done.
Now we just have to live with my parents for four days (surrounded by our belongings, furniture and junk) until we pick up the new keys. This is where the fun would really start.
After 6 hours of sweeping floors, washing windows, cleaning under cupboards and a fierce battle with the ice tray in the freezer, the house was ready to be inspected at 10am the next day. We arrived at the old house at 9am, ready to give it a last minute airing and vacuum the corners that I'd given up on the day before. However, a car pulled up just as we did. A nice car. The sort of car you don't see belonging to people who live in the area. He had a suit on. People around here don't own suits. They hire them for court appearances, or nick them from Primark. They don't wear them proudly on our street. This was an estate agent. And he was here to see us.
"I THOUGHT he said 9! I asked if you were sure, you said 10!"
"He said 10! He definitely said 10!"
"Clearly(!)"
The hushed bickering continued as we smiled and waved at the nicely dressed man.
"I don't want to go inside! I want to go back to Nanan's!"
"I'm going to nursery after my birthday!"
"Children, please!"
We let the nicely dressed man inside, and let him poke around our home. He was lovely, to be fair, and complimented us on looking after the house so well. I waited for him to leave for upstairs so that I could quickly wash the coffee coloured stain from the living room wall that I had suddenly remembered in my panic. Cloths and sponges were all packed, so the inside of my cardigan was sacrificed as a scrubbing rag to make the wall look better. I had liked that cardigan too.
"A few furniture scuffs - to be expected - but overall very nice."
After a brief chat about how ridiculous the renting fees were these days (which paid for your suit Mr Estate Agent, so don't complain), we were ready to leave. Our first family home. Three and a half years worth of family life. Ava took her first steps right on that carpet. And Dylan had his first proper birthday party here. It was the first time he'd ever been remotely poorly in his first 2 years of life, and he spent a lot of it napping. I remember it well. And we had our first family car on that driveway, and we...
Reminiscing would have to wait. It was time to go. We leave the keys with Mr Estate Agent, and leave for the last time. We pull out of the driveway, taking two attempts because the man-across-the-road always parks his cheap 4X4 bang opposite us. We drive past the house we hated, two doors down from us, who played music at all hours and ultimately forced us into the move in the first place. We leave the pot-hole ridden street and past the dip in the road that always floods in the rain. We leave the area, for good. I still feel sad that our family home had to be sacrificed for a better life, but all in all, I'm glad that it's done.
Now we just have to live with my parents for four days (surrounded by our belongings, furniture and junk) until we pick up the new keys. This is where the fun would really start.
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