The lawn really, really needed mowing yesterday. This is usually Mark's domain but he was busy with other jobs so I offered to do it.
I was feeling like a multi-tasker extraordinaire as I got the mower out, having first put the Sunday roast in the oven. I managed to plug the mower in and switch it on (!), but it immediately started making ominous grinding noises and there was a funny smell, too.
We had a look underneath and the whole family took to enthusiastically scraping off bits of variously decomposing and compacted and ancient grass in the hope that there was some sort of blockage which, once cleared, would enable the mower to spring to life as if it were brand new.
But no. Instead, the grinding noise got fainter and more plaintive, the mowing ever more feeble, and I had to finally admit defeat when actual flames started appearing out of the front of the mower.
Victor sprang to attention with buckets of water (we unplugged the mower first!). Francis was most intrigued.
As Mark said, it was an extreme, but effective, way of getting out of mowing the lawn.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
St-Remy-de-Provence
We spent two weeks in St-Remy-de-Provence, in a beautiful holiday house owned by Mark's father. Apart from a couple of days of mistral at the beginning the weather was sweltering, so we spent lots of time by the pool. And jumping in to it.
All three big children's swimming improved immensely. As before, wetsuits were a great buoyancy aid, as sun protection, and as proof against the water which was deemed 'freeeezing'.
There was a bit of time for reading
but not much, thanks to our action man toddler, who spent lots of time dangling precariously from the steps in to the deep end of the pool. No shots of that, I was too busy shrieking or having a cardiac arrest.
Time to do some wine tasting after all that stress. The surroundings were very conducive (Mas d'Estoublon):
On a couple of days we tore ourselves away from the pool to do some sightseeing. We visited these lovely terraced olive groves. Even this amateurish photo evokes Van Gogh, to me.
Just up the road from the house is this mind-blowing citadel, Les Baux de Provence, a village based round a castle literally built on and out of the rock. The surrounding dramatic rocky countryside is said to have inspired Dante's descriptions of Hell in L'Inferno.
The big three children, along with Mark and my sister (who joined us for the second week, hurrah) enjoyed some fabulous climbing and scrambling among the rocks.
There were plenty of photo opportunities at the top, too.
I settled for less hair-raising outings.
More to come when I get my hands on my sister's more professional shots...
All three big children's swimming improved immensely. As before, wetsuits were a great buoyancy aid, as sun protection, and as proof against the water which was deemed 'freeeezing'.There was a bit of time for reading
but not much, thanks to our action man toddler, who spent lots of time dangling precariously from the steps in to the deep end of the pool. No shots of that, I was too busy shrieking or having a cardiac arrest.
Time to do some wine tasting after all that stress. The surroundings were very conducive (Mas d'Estoublon):
On a couple of days we tore ourselves away from the pool to do some sightseeing. We visited these lovely terraced olive groves. Even this amateurish photo evokes Van Gogh, to me.
Just up the road from the house is this mind-blowing citadel, Les Baux de Provence, a village based round a castle literally built on and out of the rock. The surrounding dramatic rocky countryside is said to have inspired Dante's descriptions of Hell in L'Inferno.
The big three children, along with Mark and my sister (who joined us for the second week, hurrah) enjoyed some fabulous climbing and scrambling among the rocks.
There were plenty of photo opportunities at the top, too.
I settled for less hair-raising outings.
More to come when I get my hands on my sister's more professional shots...
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Swine flu...?
Mark's home late from work, shivery, muscle aches, runny nose.
Did I mention that he works in a hospital?
The NHS website mentions London as a swine flu hotspot. Having ticked their various boxes, it advises us to contact the GP urgently.
Now awaiting the callback. Any latenight readers feeling like saying a prayer, please do.
ETA: Doc called back at 2 am, advised M to stay at home today. M, however, asleep when the call came, got up at his usual ungodly hour. I was still asleep, he felt '80% ok', went to work... I'm pleased it seems to be a storm in a teacup but think a day at home would have been wise. Still, he's a bloke, what can I say...?
Did I mention that he works in a hospital?
The NHS website mentions London as a swine flu hotspot. Having ticked their various boxes, it advises us to contact the GP urgently.
Now awaiting the callback. Any latenight readers feeling like saying a prayer, please do.
ETA: Doc called back at 2 am, advised M to stay at home today. M, however, asleep when the call came, got up at his usual ungodly hour. I was still asleep, he felt '80% ok', went to work... I'm pleased it seems to be a storm in a teacup but think a day at home would have been wise. Still, he's a bloke, what can I say...?
Sunday, July 05, 2009
Your laundry needs YOU!
Reason: we're just back from here. We had a lovely time, and I will post more pics soon, laundry pile permitting.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Before, during and after
Check out the authentic sixties stone fireplace (and the gorgeous people in front of it); also the classy carpet in bogey green:
Here is the fireplace in all its slanty glory. Garage stuffed with furniture, hence the decorative bike:
Help! There's rubble in my sitting room!
Aaah, that's better.
Here is the fireplace in all its slanty glory. Garage stuffed with furniture, hence the decorative bike:
Help! There's rubble in my sitting room!
Aaah, that's better.
Neologisms, June 2009
Stainful: likely to stain. Eg 'Be careful, strawberries are stainful!'
Awakeish: Not Sleepy. Eg 'I can't go to sleep, I'm too awakeish.'
Dirtosher: 'Our dishwasher should be called a dirtosher, because things come out dirtier than they went in.' (Sad but true. Now it's not even doing that. Sob.)
Awakeish: Not Sleepy. Eg 'I can't go to sleep, I'm too awakeish.'
Dirtosher: 'Our dishwasher should be called a dirtosher, because things come out dirtier than they went in.' (Sad but true. Now it's not even doing that. Sob.)
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Oggy oggy oggy*
Have a look at that and tell me that rowing isn't a spectator sport.
*Pedant that I am, I googled the word to check that I wouldn't offend my readers with a misspelling. I discovered this fascinating Wikipedia article. In this case, of course, the correct response is: Oggy oggy oggy! House House House!
Friday, June 12, 2009
Badness from Badman
I don't have time for a long and reasoned reply to the ludicrous report on home education by Graham Bad Man, nor the response from Ed Balls, which is a load of...
There is so much to say, and already some excellent and reasoned responses on the internet. I don't have time for that (too busy educating my children, natch) but I do have some observations.
Getting Bad Man, a former schools inspector, to conduct the report in the first place was ridiculous. Like getting a butcher to write a review of vegetarianism.
There was never any evidence given to support the assertion that home education is a cover for child abuse or forced marriage. The NSPCC (which first propagated this outrageous slur) has since apologised -- but the pantechnicon of government rolled on regardless.
The report conflates education and child protection. Just because a child is in school does not mean that he or she is safe. If he or she is being abused, there is nothing to say that the school will find out. I know this from personal experience. I was abused as a child by my stepfather (I thought he was my father, but that's another story) and no-one ever found out. Even when the man in question was put behind bars for child abuse, no-one ever asked me if I had been a victim as well. There were two other girls in my class of thirty that I knew were abused (by family friends, in their case). Again, it never came to light.
As a victim myself, I'm the last person to make light of the importance of safeguarding children. But having bureaucrats interfering in the lives of innocent people will not safeguard abused children and in itself could represent a form of abuse. I'm thinking of a more subtle form of abuse where children are denied the completely individualised education they can currently enjoy at home, because they are made to jump through the same stupid hoops as the poor children at school. I'm also thinking of this one-to-one interview, without parents present, where children will be quizzed about their achievements. For children who have been withdrawn from school because of special needs, academic problems, or bullying, this could be a terrifying ordeal.
The report talks about balancing the rights of the parent to home educate against the rights of the child to receive an education. *BANGS HEAD AGAINST WALL* There is no dichotomy! There is not a bunch of selfish layabout home educators out there, forgoing an income and a whole lot of free childcare, just because they can't be bothered to send their children to school... Au contraire, it's precisely because very often what is on offer at the local school is so dire that parents feel forced to make huge sacrifices to educate their children themselves.
In any case, who cares most about a child -- the state, or the child's parents? Does the child belong to the state or is he or she the responsibility of the parents?
What do Badman and Balls propose to do about all the school-educated children who can't read or write? Will their parents be subject to inspections? Will failing schools be sued for malpractice just as doctors are sued for negligence?
And if B&B want me to be an agent of the state, 'delivering' the National Curriculum, they'd better start paying me.
Just a few random thoughts... More to come, I'm sure.
There is so much to say, and already some excellent and reasoned responses on the internet. I don't have time for that (too busy educating my children, natch) but I do have some observations.
Getting Bad Man, a former schools inspector, to conduct the report in the first place was ridiculous. Like getting a butcher to write a review of vegetarianism.
There was never any evidence given to support the assertion that home education is a cover for child abuse or forced marriage. The NSPCC (which first propagated this outrageous slur) has since apologised -- but the pantechnicon of government rolled on regardless.
The report conflates education and child protection. Just because a child is in school does not mean that he or she is safe. If he or she is being abused, there is nothing to say that the school will find out. I know this from personal experience. I was abused as a child by my stepfather (I thought he was my father, but that's another story) and no-one ever found out. Even when the man in question was put behind bars for child abuse, no-one ever asked me if I had been a victim as well. There were two other girls in my class of thirty that I knew were abused (by family friends, in their case). Again, it never came to light.
As a victim myself, I'm the last person to make light of the importance of safeguarding children. But having bureaucrats interfering in the lives of innocent people will not safeguard abused children and in itself could represent a form of abuse. I'm thinking of a more subtle form of abuse where children are denied the completely individualised education they can currently enjoy at home, because they are made to jump through the same stupid hoops as the poor children at school. I'm also thinking of this one-to-one interview, without parents present, where children will be quizzed about their achievements. For children who have been withdrawn from school because of special needs, academic problems, or bullying, this could be a terrifying ordeal.
The report talks about balancing the rights of the parent to home educate against the rights of the child to receive an education. *BANGS HEAD AGAINST WALL* There is no dichotomy! There is not a bunch of selfish layabout home educators out there, forgoing an income and a whole lot of free childcare, just because they can't be bothered to send their children to school... Au contraire, it's precisely because very often what is on offer at the local school is so dire that parents feel forced to make huge sacrifices to educate their children themselves.
In any case, who cares most about a child -- the state, or the child's parents? Does the child belong to the state or is he or she the responsibility of the parents?
What do Badman and Balls propose to do about all the school-educated children who can't read or write? Will their parents be subject to inspections? Will failing schools be sued for malpractice just as doctors are sued for negligence?
And if B&B want me to be an agent of the state, 'delivering' the National Curriculum, they'd better start paying me.
Just a few random thoughts... More to come, I'm sure.
An interesting simile
Perpetua, excitedly proposing a new seating arrangement in the ever more congested bath:
"Shall we get all squashed up like a dog's poo?"
"Shall we get all squashed up like a dog's poo?"
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Computer's on desk, all's right with the world
... and the floor's laid, the furniture's back, and the builders are gone, hallelujah.
Pictures to follow once I've cleared the mess off those bee-ootiful floors.
Pictures to follow once I've cleared the mess off those bee-ootiful floors.
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Bizarre marketing, and a small rant
Why would you name your shop 'Realistic Furniture'? As in, it looks like the real thing but it isn't? Or do most sofas not look like sofas, so their Unique Selling Point is that theirs are Realistic?
I'm just mentioning that because it stops me writing a whole post wondering why the woman beside me at Mass tonight felt free to whisper loudly to her daughter about 'Why doesn't she take those kids out?' and 'Is she still here?' as my lovely little Francis made his presence felt. We were at an otherwise lovely welcome Mass for our new Archbishop (I kissed his ring, hurray!). The three big ones were impeccably behaved, though I say so myself, and Francis was praising God in his own way.
Afterwards I was sorely tempted to give them a lecture about how children are the future of the church, and if they don't like it they should go somewhere else, but in between turning the other cheek, avoiding confrontation and rounding up my little tribe, I didn't. My best riposte didn't come to me until I was driving home: 'Suffer the little children to come to me, and do not hinder them: for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.'
I'm just mentioning that because it stops me writing a whole post wondering why the woman beside me at Mass tonight felt free to whisper loudly to her daughter about 'Why doesn't she take those kids out?' and 'Is she still here?' as my lovely little Francis made his presence felt. We were at an otherwise lovely welcome Mass for our new Archbishop (I kissed his ring, hurray!). The three big ones were impeccably behaved, though I say so myself, and Francis was praising God in his own way.
Afterwards I was sorely tempted to give them a lecture about how children are the future of the church, and if they don't like it they should go somewhere else, but in between turning the other cheek, avoiding confrontation and rounding up my little tribe, I didn't. My best riposte didn't come to me until I was driving home: 'Suffer the little children to come to me, and do not hinder them: for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.'
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Builder woes
The job was supposed to be finished last Thursday. ('I promise you, I'll be out of your life next Thursday.') Here we are on the following Tuesday, and the job is nowhere near finished. The fireplace is done, and most of the floor is laid, but needs re-sanding and sealing. Today, the builders didn't show. I got a brief text saying that the main guy was ill, but why that meant his men couldn't work either, I don't know (though I do have my dark suspicions).
Meanwhile, I've given him large wads of cash upfront because I fell for his sob stories about having to buy materials and pay his men... All I can do is dream of firing him and selling his tools on Ebay!
For the last two weeks, and likely for the next week or two, we have no furniture in our living space. I don't have so much as a comfy chair to park my weary bottom on. (I'm writing this on Mark's laptop, perched on the bottom stair.) Meals are eaten squeezed round our breakfast bar. As for home ed, Gregoria's been bravely working on some bits and bobs on her lap on the landing, and the others have been having a very long half term. I'm fed up with day trips, fed up with picnics, fed up with the mess.
All this has taken its toll on everyone's mood -- including mine, can you tell? I'm trying to offer it up (not very well just at the moment)... Say a prayer for me and my absent builder!
Meanwhile, I've given him large wads of cash upfront because I fell for his sob stories about having to buy materials and pay his men... All I can do is dream of firing him and selling his tools on Ebay!
For the last two weeks, and likely for the next week or two, we have no furniture in our living space. I don't have so much as a comfy chair to park my weary bottom on. (I'm writing this on Mark's laptop, perched on the bottom stair.) Meals are eaten squeezed round our breakfast bar. As for home ed, Gregoria's been bravely working on some bits and bobs on her lap on the landing, and the others have been having a very long half term. I'm fed up with day trips, fed up with picnics, fed up with the mess.
All this has taken its toll on everyone's mood -- including mine, can you tell? I'm trying to offer it up (not very well just at the moment)... Say a prayer for me and my absent builder!
Monday, May 11, 2009
Hating the Stuff
Tomorrow we're having our yukky ancient torn stained green carpet taken up and replaced with gorgeous reclaimed oak parquet. Our authentic 60s fireplace which looks like stone cladding but is actually real stone is going to be hacked about, too. (Before and after pics to come if I can get myself organised.)
All this means that every. single. thing needs to be taken out of our downstairs space, apart from the kitchen. All the books... all the toys... the contents of the sideboard... all the junk which has washed up on the windowsills, or on shelves away from the reach of our little explorer.
Let me tell you that it makes me absolutely HATE all our stuff! All these wonderful books and the carefully chosen toys, all the precious keepsakes -- somehow having to move them all and store them all makes them seem so ridiculously excessive.
Meanwhile real life continues apace. I've got half a post written about Gregoria's sublime First Holy Communion day yesterday; it was Victor's birthday the day before; and lovely little Francis took his first tentative step today! His fifth tooth has also finally come through, and he told me all about it between the hours of 2 and 4 this morning...
One of the things that needs packing up is the computer -- au revoir!
All this means that every. single. thing needs to be taken out of our downstairs space, apart from the kitchen. All the books... all the toys... the contents of the sideboard... all the junk which has washed up on the windowsills, or on shelves away from the reach of our little explorer.
Let me tell you that it makes me absolutely HATE all our stuff! All these wonderful books and the carefully chosen toys, all the precious keepsakes -- somehow having to move them all and store them all makes them seem so ridiculously excessive.
Meanwhile real life continues apace. I've got half a post written about Gregoria's sublime First Holy Communion day yesterday; it was Victor's birthday the day before; and lovely little Francis took his first tentative step today! His fifth tooth has also finally come through, and he told me all about it between the hours of 2 and 4 this morning...
One of the things that needs packing up is the computer -- au revoir!
Thursday, May 07, 2009
First Holy Communion Novena: Day 5
The flowers I will make today for the garden of my heart are bluebells.
I will make them by being cheerful.
Dear Jesus,
When You were a child like me,
You were never mean or unpleasant.
I want to be cheerful just like You were!
Today I will try very hard to be cheerful
at home, at school and at play.
I will try to be just like You, Jesus.
Each time I smile, it will be a beautiful bluebell
for the garden of my heart.
I hope You will like my bluebells, Jesus.
Sometimes they are very hard to make.
Dear Mother Mary and Saint Joseph,
please help me to be cheerful today.
I will make them by being cheerful.
Dear Jesus,
When You were a child like me,
You were never mean or unpleasant.
I want to be cheerful just like You were!
Today I will try very hard to be cheerful
at home, at school and at play.
I will try to be just like You, Jesus.
Each time I smile, it will be a beautiful bluebell
for the garden of my heart.
I hope You will like my bluebells, Jesus.
Sometimes they are very hard to make.
Dear Mother Mary and Saint Joseph,
please help me to be cheerful today.
First Holy Communion Novena: Day 4
The flowers I will make today for the garden of my heart are daffodils.
I will make them by not being selfish.
Dear Jesus,
When You were a child like me,
You were never selfish.
I want to share with others just like You.
Today I will try very hard not to be selfish at home, at school and at play.
I will try to be just like You, Jesus.
Each time I share with my friends and family,
it will be a beautiful daffodil
for the garden of my heart.
I hope you will like my daffodils, Jesus.
They are very hard to make.
Dear Mother Mary and Saint Joseph,
please help me to not be selfish today.
I will make them by not being selfish.
Dear Jesus,
When You were a child like me,
You were never selfish.
I want to share with others just like You.
Today I will try very hard not to be selfish at home, at school and at play.
I will try to be just like You, Jesus.
Each time I share with my friends and family,
it will be a beautiful daffodil
for the garden of my heart.
I hope you will like my daffodils, Jesus.
They are very hard to make.
Dear Mother Mary and Saint Joseph,
please help me to not be selfish today.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Pass the peas
Seems like weeks ago, but was some time during Lent -- hence the background music!
Francis can cope with more than one pea at a time now. Ah, the joy of cutlery.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Guest post by Gregoria: Visit to St Albans
Yestoday, we went to the town of St. Alban, for Mummy's Birthday (yes, yestoday was Mummy's birthday!) instead of a party, & We went to the Cathedral and did a childrens guid to St Albans Cathedral (oh, & by the way, St Albans used to be called Verulamiam (pronoused Ve-ra-lay-me-am. Also, the only reason St Albans is called St Albans is because he was the first English Matyr & he died there.)
Anyway, after that we went to one of the museums, & we saw loads of lovely things there. After, we all had forgotten to bring our money, (yawn,) & we (the children) wanted to buy stuff, so Mummy suggested her lending us the money & us paying her back when we got home. & I got 5 copies of real roman coins, Perpetua got three coins & a big soldier, & Victor got 3 small soldiers. (I forgot to tell you, we all got a Saint Alban badge (except for Mummy & Francis & Daddy of course because he wasn't there.)
After the museum we went to the park to see some Roman Remains. While we were in the park, we spotted a playground. Mummy let us have a little go there & then we went on & saw 6 NESTS, 3 GOSLING, & 7 DUCKLINGS!!! Isn't that lucky!? (& we saw about 2 of the nests being built)! then we came out of the park, bought some sweets (because we hadn't moaned), went to the car & came back home. THE END!
[ETA: Gregoria wrote this for her own journal, and I found it so lovely I asked her permission to share it on the blog. It's unedited apart from the names -- it's good for my humility to have the bribing/moaning detail here!]
Anyway, after that we went to one of the museums, & we saw loads of lovely things there. After, we all had forgotten to bring our money, (yawn,) & we (the children) wanted to buy stuff, so Mummy suggested her lending us the money & us paying her back when we got home. & I got 5 copies of real roman coins, Perpetua got three coins & a big soldier, & Victor got 3 small soldiers. (I forgot to tell you, we all got a Saint Alban badge (except for Mummy & Francis & Daddy of course because he wasn't there.)
After the museum we went to the park to see some Roman Remains. While we were in the park, we spotted a playground. Mummy let us have a little go there & then we went on & saw 6 NESTS, 3 GOSLING, & 7 DUCKLINGS!!! Isn't that lucky!? (& we saw about 2 of the nests being built)! then we came out of the park, bought some sweets (because we hadn't moaned), went to the car & came back home. THE END!
[ETA: Gregoria wrote this for her own journal, and I found it so lovely I asked her permission to share it on the blog. It's unedited apart from the names -- it's good for my humility to have the bribing/moaning detail here!]
First Holy Communion Novena: Day 3
The flowers I will make in my heart today for the garden of my heart are forget-me-nots.
I will make them by visiting Jesus.
Dear Jesus,
When You were a child like me,
You loved to visit the Temple and pray to God, our good Father.
I want to make visits with You because I love You so much!
Today I will try to visit You, in my heart at least,
if I cannot visit You in Church.
I will try to be just like You, Jesus.
When I visit You, it will be a very special forget-me-not
for the garden of my heart.
I hope you will like my forget-me-nots, Jesus.
Sometimes they are very hard to make.
Dear Mother Mary and Saint Joseph,
please help me to be able to visit Jesus today.
I will make them by visiting Jesus.
Dear Jesus,
When You were a child like me,
You loved to visit the Temple and pray to God, our good Father.
I want to make visits with You because I love You so much!
Today I will try to visit You, in my heart at least,
if I cannot visit You in Church.
I will try to be just like You, Jesus.
When I visit You, it will be a very special forget-me-not
for the garden of my heart.
I hope you will like my forget-me-nots, Jesus.
Sometimes they are very hard to make.
Dear Mother Mary and Saint Joseph,
please help me to be able to visit Jesus today.
Monday, May 04, 2009
First Holy Communion Novena: Day 2
The flowers I will make today for the garden of my heart are lilacs.
I will make them by not getting angry.
Dear Jesus,
When You were a child like me,
You were always very gentle and did not get angry.
I want to be gentle and patient just like You were.
Today I will try very hard to not get angry at home, at school and at play.
I will try to be just like You, Jesus.
Each time I keep from getting angry and raising my voice,
it will be a beautiful lilac for the garden of my heart.
I hope You will like my lilacs, Jesus.
Sometimes they are very hard to make.
Dear Mother Mary and Saint Joseph, please help me not get angry today.
I will make them by not getting angry.
Dear Jesus,
When You were a child like me,
You were always very gentle and did not get angry.
I want to be gentle and patient just like You were.
Today I will try very hard to not get angry at home, at school and at play.
I will try to be just like You, Jesus.
Each time I keep from getting angry and raising my voice,
it will be a beautiful lilac for the garden of my heart.
I hope You will like my lilacs, Jesus.
Sometimes they are very hard to make.
Dear Mother Mary and Saint Joseph, please help me not get angry today.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
First Holy Communion Novena
We've started this novena ready for Gregoria's First Holy Communion on 10th May. I find it so beautiful. And it doesn't hurt me to pray for kindness, too.
Opening prayer before each day
Very soon I will receive Jesus for the first time in Holy Communion! I can hardly wait! I must get myself ready. I must make my heart ready for Jesus to come to me in this special way. I will make my heart a beautiful garden. I will fill it with flowers to please Him. When He comes into my heart He will be very happy. He will see how much I love Him! I will work very hard to make many flowers for Jesus. Dear Mother Mary and good Saint Joseph, please help me to get ready to receive Jesus in Holy Communion! Holy Guardian Angel, help me to do my best each day!
Day 1 Prayer
The flowers I will make today for the garden of my heart are roses. I will make them by being kind to others. Dear Jesus, when You were a child like me, You were always vey kind to everyone. I want to be kind to others just like You. Today I will try very hard to be kind to everyone, at home, at school, and at play. I will try to be just like You, Jesus. Each time I do something kind for someone, it will be a beautiful rose for the garden of my heart. I hope you will like my roses Jesus. Sometimes they are very hard to make.
Dear Mother Mary and Saint Joseph, please help me to be kind to others today.
Opening prayer before each day
Very soon I will receive Jesus for the first time in Holy Communion! I can hardly wait! I must get myself ready. I must make my heart ready for Jesus to come to me in this special way. I will make my heart a beautiful garden. I will fill it with flowers to please Him. When He comes into my heart He will be very happy. He will see how much I love Him! I will work very hard to make many flowers for Jesus. Dear Mother Mary and good Saint Joseph, please help me to get ready to receive Jesus in Holy Communion! Holy Guardian Angel, help me to do my best each day!
Day 1 Prayer
The flowers I will make today for the garden of my heart are roses. I will make them by being kind to others. Dear Jesus, when You were a child like me, You were always vey kind to everyone. I want to be kind to others just like You. Today I will try very hard to be kind to everyone, at home, at school, and at play. I will try to be just like You, Jesus. Each time I do something kind for someone, it will be a beautiful rose for the garden of my heart. I hope you will like my roses Jesus. Sometimes they are very hard to make.
Dear Mother Mary and Saint Joseph, please help me to be kind to others today.
Victor's frabjous day
He swims! The boy who swore that he would never, ever swim... couldn't do it... hated learning to swim... has started swimming!
With Gregoria it was a wetsuit which was the nudge she needed. This time, when Victor was practising on his noodle, Mark just pushed the float a little under the water, so it wasn't supporting him as much -- and that made him realise that he could do it on his own. He just set off, and did it! A magical moment. Mark and I whooped for joy.
In Swallows and Amazons, Roger's reward for learning to swim was a penknife. So was Victor's. He's almost tearful with excitement.
With Gregoria it was a wetsuit which was the nudge she needed. This time, when Victor was practising on his noodle, Mark just pushed the float a little under the water, so it wasn't supporting him as much -- and that made him realise that he could do it on his own. He just set off, and did it! A magical moment. Mark and I whooped for joy.
In Swallows and Amazons, Roger's reward for learning to swim was a penknife. So was Victor's. He's almost tearful with excitement.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Bara brith
Ingredients
Directions
I use whatever mixture of dried fruit that's in the cupboard -- usually generic supermarket dried fruit; even the value stuff is fine. I've used different mixtures of sugar, too -- dark or light muscovado, demerara -- it's all good. Mixing a bit of rye flour in with the self-raising also works well and allows me to pretend that it's healthy. Oh, and I don't have a large enough loaf tin, so I bung it in a cast iron casserole dish -- and it only needs an hour in my oven.
Long story short -- you can do what you like as long as the proportions are the same. And it's very hard to go wrong with this. Unless you forget to put it in the oven.
- 6 oz currants
- 6 oz sultanas
- 8 oz light muscovado sugar
- 10 fl oz strong hot tea
- 10 oz self-raising flour
- 1 egg, beaten
Directions
- Measure fruit and sugar into a bowl and pour over hot tea.
- Cover and leave overnight.
- Preheat oven to gas 2/150C/300F
- Lightly grease and base line a 2lbloaf tin with greased greaseproof paper.
- Stir the flour and egg into the fruit mixture, mix thoroughly then turn into the prepared tin and level surface.
- Bake in pre-heated oven for about 1 hour and a half, to 1 and 3 quarter hours or till firm to the touch.
- Allow to cool in the tin before turning out.
I use whatever mixture of dried fruit that's in the cupboard -- usually generic supermarket dried fruit; even the value stuff is fine. I've used different mixtures of sugar, too -- dark or light muscovado, demerara -- it's all good. Mixing a bit of rye flour in with the self-raising also works well and allows me to pretend that it's healthy. Oh, and I don't have a large enough loaf tin, so I bung it in a cast iron casserole dish -- and it only needs an hour in my oven.
Long story short -- you can do what you like as long as the proportions are the same. And it's very hard to go wrong with this. Unless you forget to put it in the oven.
Amnesiac cooking, part II
After un-lentil soup...
I'm beavering away on the parish magazine (well, if a beaver is an animal which surfs the internet a lot and puts things off; maybe slothing away would be better). Anyway, to reward myself for another bit of copy typing completed, I nipped into the kitchen to get the bara brith out of the oven. It went in an hour ago -- just right for a bit of nursing typist's fortification...
... Did you guess? The oven is empty, the raw bara brith still on the worktop. Ah well, that's another hour's typing, then...
And if I'm not fed up with typing, I'll post the recipe later, too. Too good not to share. Easy, yummy, cheap. What more could one ask? Just that it's cooked, I suppose.
I'm beavering away on the parish magazine (well, if a beaver is an animal which surfs the internet a lot and puts things off; maybe slothing away would be better). Anyway, to reward myself for another bit of copy typing completed, I nipped into the kitchen to get the bara brith out of the oven. It went in an hour ago -- just right for a bit of nursing typist's fortification...
... Did you guess? The oven is empty, the raw bara brith still on the worktop. Ah well, that's another hour's typing, then...
And if I'm not fed up with typing, I'll post the recipe later, too. Too good not to share. Easy, yummy, cheap. What more could one ask? Just that it's cooked, I suppose.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Question Time
I was in the audience of Question Time yesterday. We were asked to submit a question by email in advance, and one on the night of the broadcast.
This was my first question:
And this was the one I handed in yesterday:
I was tempted to phrase it like this:
Anyway, they didn't choose either, unsurprisingly. There were questions on the budget, the police, MPs' expenses, and St George's Day -- can't remember the rest. I didn't speak on the programme although I wish I'd said something provocative about how lovely it was that everyone wanted to celebrate the life of a Christian martyr!
Overall it was an interesting experience, although I spent most of the broadcast worrying about Francis and hoping that my little nurseling was coping without me at bedtime. (He was fine.) I was also struck by how attractive the spotlight was, but how fickle. I'd been gearing up for the programme all day -- staying at home to ensure Francis had his nap at the right time, feeding the children early, listening to the news -- and all for what? Being another bum on a seat, and not even speaking (although I am to be seen grinning at David Starkey being told off by David Dimbleby).
Now safely back in happy obscurity.
This was my first question:
The Government supports so-called hardworking families with tax allowances, Child Tax Credits, and childcare credits. Single-earner families are disadvantaged under these policies. Should the Chancellor have introduced income-splitting for tax purposes, to support single-earner families?
And this was the one I handed in yesterday:
Monday marks the 42nd anniversary of and passing of the Abortion Act. With abortion rates now approaching 200,000 a year, does the panel think this is progress?
I was tempted to phrase it like this:
One-quarter of pregnancies worldwide now results in an abortion. Which one of the panel should not be here, because of their mother's 'right to choose'?
Anyway, they didn't choose either, unsurprisingly. There were questions on the budget, the police, MPs' expenses, and St George's Day -- can't remember the rest. I didn't speak on the programme although I wish I'd said something provocative about how lovely it was that everyone wanted to celebrate the life of a Christian martyr!
Overall it was an interesting experience, although I spent most of the broadcast worrying about Francis and hoping that my little nurseling was coping without me at bedtime. (He was fine.) I was also struck by how attractive the spotlight was, but how fickle. I'd been gearing up for the programme all day -- staying at home to ensure Francis had his nap at the right time, feeding the children early, listening to the news -- and all for what? Being another bum on a seat, and not even speaking (although I am to be seen grinning at David Starkey being told off by David Dimbleby).
Now safely back in happy obscurity.
Monday, April 20, 2009
What would you ask?
I'm going to be in the audience of Question Time on Thursday -- God, and Francis, willing.
The panel are:
The panel are:
John Denham MP, Secretary of State for Innovation, Universities and Skills; Phillip Hammond MP, Shadow Chief Secretary to the Treasury; Vince Cable MP, Shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer; Ruth Lea, Director of the Centre for Policy Studies and the Historian David Starkey.
I have to submit two questions -- and obviously, the more thrillingly topical, the better.
My various hobby horses are champing at the bit, but meanwhile:
What would you ask?
(Sorry about the bold! Couldn't get rid of it.)
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Update on Francis
... or, the self-indulgent mummy post.
Francis is now again in rude health, thank God. He is also back to his climbing antics, and some. He now easily scales the dining room table (opportunity to sit on his siblings' maths books!) and has worked out getting from the armchair in my bedroom on to the chest of drawers (access to the stereo! buttons! lights! noise!). When we were away for our usual Easter retreat (well, our usual stay in a cottage in a monastery grounds) there was even more scope for mountaineering. There, he found that you could get from the armchair to the windowsill, and, even more alluringly, squeeze from the open-plan stairs on to the top of the fridge. There were also low basins whose taps he could turn on, and easily accessible loos to flush, and a cooker with knobs on the front (instead of on the top, as at home). Very bliss.
Like all my other babies, he's not quick to walk -- but he's clearly getting there, as his latest trick is literally going round on all fours, bottom in the air. A very funny sight.
He's not talking yet, but he's communicating. He picks up anything with buttons on it and puts it to the side of his face, and says 'e-o' -- his version of 'hello'. At bedtime, when we do our round of 'God bless Gregoria' and everyone else, he insists on putting his hand on everyone's forehead, as we do. He's so keen, indeed, that he starts energeticallyhitting blessing me as soon as I say 'In the name of the Father...'
And he's eating with a spoon! I was beginning to despair of his eating habits (and wonder whether I'd made a big mistake with this baby-led weaning malarkey). In particular, his habit of breaking out of the straps on his high chair (a la Avocado Baby, one of our all-time favourite books) and sitting on the table, after only one mouthful. The solution? Cutlery. Now, give him a spoon and fork and he'll sit there, if not for hours, at least for minutes -- and get a good load of kedgeree, or baked potato, or hummusall over himself inside him. Now, if only he hadn't given up on bibs...
Francis is now again in rude health, thank God. He is also back to his climbing antics, and some. He now easily scales the dining room table (opportunity to sit on his siblings' maths books!) and has worked out getting from the armchair in my bedroom on to the chest of drawers (access to the stereo! buttons! lights! noise!). When we were away for our usual Easter retreat (well, our usual stay in a cottage in a monastery grounds) there was even more scope for mountaineering. There, he found that you could get from the armchair to the windowsill, and, even more alluringly, squeeze from the open-plan stairs on to the top of the fridge. There were also low basins whose taps he could turn on, and easily accessible loos to flush, and a cooker with knobs on the front (instead of on the top, as at home). Very bliss.
Like all my other babies, he's not quick to walk -- but he's clearly getting there, as his latest trick is literally going round on all fours, bottom in the air. A very funny sight.
He's not talking yet, but he's communicating. He picks up anything with buttons on it and puts it to the side of his face, and says 'e-o' -- his version of 'hello'. At bedtime, when we do our round of 'God bless Gregoria' and everyone else, he insists on putting his hand on everyone's forehead, as we do. He's so keen, indeed, that he starts energetically
And he's eating with a spoon! I was beginning to despair of his eating habits (and wonder whether I'd made a big mistake with this baby-led weaning malarkey). In particular, his habit of breaking out of the straps on his high chair (a la Avocado Baby, one of our all-time favourite books) and sitting on the table, after only one mouthful. The solution? Cutlery. Now, give him a spoon and fork and he'll sit there, if not for hours, at least for minutes -- and get a good load of kedgeree, or baked potato, or hummus
Happy Easter!
A very happy Easter to you, dear Internet, and to you, dear reader. How I have missed you...
... but not as much as I might have done. It's amazing how much one can deem to be 'essential' computer use when one is fasting from all the non-essential. I also found that as soon as I granted myself a concession because of extenuating circumstances ('It's late, but Francis is awake and grizzling so obviously there's nothing to be done except surf the internet'), that concession became the norm. Ah well.
Note to self: do not attempt to give up too many things. Even giving up chocolate is clearly too much for you.
... but not as much as I might have done. It's amazing how much one can deem to be 'essential' computer use when one is fasting from all the non-essential. I also found that as soon as I granted myself a concession because of extenuating circumstances ('It's late, but Francis is awake and grizzling so obviously there's nothing to be done except surf the internet'), that concession became the norm. Ah well.
Note to self: do not attempt to give up too many things. Even giving up chocolate is clearly too much for you.
Monday, March 16, 2009
In which Francis is admitted to hospital
Poor little Francis didn't get any better, and by Thursday I was seriously worried about him. Our little action man had been transformed into a rag doll, who sat listlessly on my lap and wept tearlessly. He still wasn't keeping anything down and producing copious amounts of nasties from both ends.
Off we went to hospital. We had a long wait in Casualty, then another long wait while they asked me to keep up the syringing of Dioralyte (no bare-bottomed pot-proffering this time, though) to see if that would improve matters. It didn't, and he kept on being sick and producing overflowing nappies. So they decided to admit him.
He had to have a naso-gastric tube. I will not quickly forget the sight of him wrapped in a sheet to prevent his arms getting in the way, held down by a nurse while the other one tried to get the tube in. Despite the constraints, and his weakened state, he protested hugely. The tube went in through his nose, but came out of his mouth instead of down into his stomach, and he was violently sick. They tried again, it went in, and the Dioralyte started going straight in. Relief.
It made a difference, and he perked up slightly, but (as I later found out) it only works if you really are dehydrated -- so a few hours later, after a huge dose of the stuff, he was massively sick again. And again. And the nappies were no better, and his heart rate was still a bit raised, and he was still extremely lethargic.
Meanwhile I was advised not to breastfeed for the moment -- so Francis had an unplanned experience of night weaning. He was so wiped out that he didn't seem to notice, but I did!
I don't know when things started to get better, but they did. We must have hit just the right combination of Dioralyte and breastmilk, because he stopped vomiting, and perked up considerably, and we were discharged.
We were in hospital for three days and three nights. It was a bizarre, surreal experience. I was gut-wrenchingly anxious (excuse the pun) about Francis, and we were mostly alone in our little windowless side room. I couldn't leave him of course, and I wasn't supposed to take him anywhere because of the bugs, so I just sat there with him, limiting loo trips to twice a day and forgetting about any more sophisticated personal care.
But I have no complaints. We were looked after fantastically by extremely dedicated doctors and nurses. Various kind friends helped Mark hold the fort at home -- and another fabulous friend visited me bringing just what the doctor ordered (clean clothes, bottled water, choccy treats, apples, hand cream and lip balm -- perfect). My phone was a lifeline, allowing me to send out a panicky prayer request and also to get reassuring messages and calls back. Most of all, I was so thankful for prayer. I did have some words with God along the lines of why wasn't he pulling his finger out and just making him better, but I also appreciated enormously not having to come up with my own words, but joining in the prayer of the church in the rosary and the liturgy of the hours.
We left the hospital yesterday in bright sunshine which left me blinking after three days without even seeing daylight. It was wonderful to see Mark and the children again (they'd come in for a flying visit on the Saturday, but I'd missed them so much) and to be home. It seemed like our 'release' coincided with the arrival of spring, as we drove home past cherry trees heavily gorgeous with blossom. A 'welcome home' poster, home cooking, cuddles with everyone, and a wonderful long sleep in my own bed. Little lovely Francis is still not quite himself (and his nappies are still toxic) but he's on the mend. Deo gratias.
Off we went to hospital. We had a long wait in Casualty, then another long wait while they asked me to keep up the syringing of Dioralyte (no bare-bottomed pot-proffering this time, though) to see if that would improve matters. It didn't, and he kept on being sick and producing overflowing nappies. So they decided to admit him.
He had to have a naso-gastric tube. I will not quickly forget the sight of him wrapped in a sheet to prevent his arms getting in the way, held down by a nurse while the other one tried to get the tube in. Despite the constraints, and his weakened state, he protested hugely. The tube went in through his nose, but came out of his mouth instead of down into his stomach, and he was violently sick. They tried again, it went in, and the Dioralyte started going straight in. Relief.
It made a difference, and he perked up slightly, but (as I later found out) it only works if you really are dehydrated -- so a few hours later, after a huge dose of the stuff, he was massively sick again. And again. And the nappies were no better, and his heart rate was still a bit raised, and he was still extremely lethargic.
Meanwhile I was advised not to breastfeed for the moment -- so Francis had an unplanned experience of night weaning. He was so wiped out that he didn't seem to notice, but I did!
I don't know when things started to get better, but they did. We must have hit just the right combination of Dioralyte and breastmilk, because he stopped vomiting, and perked up considerably, and we were discharged.
We were in hospital for three days and three nights. It was a bizarre, surreal experience. I was gut-wrenchingly anxious (excuse the pun) about Francis, and we were mostly alone in our little windowless side room. I couldn't leave him of course, and I wasn't supposed to take him anywhere because of the bugs, so I just sat there with him, limiting loo trips to twice a day and forgetting about any more sophisticated personal care.
But I have no complaints. We were looked after fantastically by extremely dedicated doctors and nurses. Various kind friends helped Mark hold the fort at home -- and another fabulous friend visited me bringing just what the doctor ordered (clean clothes, bottled water, choccy treats, apples, hand cream and lip balm -- perfect). My phone was a lifeline, allowing me to send out a panicky prayer request and also to get reassuring messages and calls back. Most of all, I was so thankful for prayer. I did have some words with God along the lines of why wasn't he pulling his finger out and just making him better, but I also appreciated enormously not having to come up with my own words, but joining in the prayer of the church in the rosary and the liturgy of the hours.
We left the hospital yesterday in bright sunshine which left me blinking after three days without even seeing daylight. It was wonderful to see Mark and the children again (they'd come in for a flying visit on the Saturday, but I'd missed them so much) and to be home. It seemed like our 'release' coincided with the arrival of spring, as we drove home past cherry trees heavily gorgeous with blossom. A 'welcome home' poster, home cooking, cuddles with everyone, and a wonderful long sleep in my own bed. Little lovely Francis is still not quite himself (and his nappies are still toxic) but he's on the mend. Deo gratias.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Not for the squeamish
Only to be read by those of a robust constitution!
We've had norovirus. All six of us. Francis got it first (five bouts of sickness early on Saturday morning). By Sunday afternoon, numerous unpleasant episodes later, I took him to Casualty on the advice of NHS Direct: it was the dry nappies and bringing up of bile that concerned them.
The doctor asked the usual questions and then asked me to get a urine sample from Francis. She handed me a pot and asked me to hold it under him until he produced. I looked at her in frank disbelief that she should ask this of a baby with acute diarrhoea... Meanwhile I was also to syringe Dioralyte in every five minutes.
So there I was, holding the wretched pot, squirting in the wretched Dioralyte to a squirming Francis (and which, moreover, made him vomit, everywhere) when the inevitable happened... what can only be described as a niagara of diarrhoea all down my trousers and on to the floor, and all this in a waiting room with standing room only.
Ahem. They eventually decided that he was well enough to go home (thank God!). By this time I was feeling awful (after two nights of very little sleep) and crawled into bed. When I got up, all hell broke loose. Everyone started vomiting: at one stage there were three people being sick simultaneously! Somehow we got through the evening, and the night, and today everyone has been much better. Poor little Francis is the only one still exhibiting symptoms, and everyone else has been kept happy binge-listening to Narnia CDs that I'd been saving for our summer holiday.
Mark has been a tower of strength. He's been unwell like the rest of us, but nobly took on clearing-up duty last night. Now he's got two days off because if he gave this to his patients, it would literally kill them. So every cloud has a silver lining -- and boy, am I grateful for a washing machine. Shame I can't throw the whole carpet in...
We've had norovirus. All six of us. Francis got it first (five bouts of sickness early on Saturday morning). By Sunday afternoon, numerous unpleasant episodes later, I took him to Casualty on the advice of NHS Direct: it was the dry nappies and bringing up of bile that concerned them.
The doctor asked the usual questions and then asked me to get a urine sample from Francis. She handed me a pot and asked me to hold it under him until he produced. I looked at her in frank disbelief that she should ask this of a baby with acute diarrhoea... Meanwhile I was also to syringe Dioralyte in every five minutes.
So there I was, holding the wretched pot, squirting in the wretched Dioralyte to a squirming Francis (and which, moreover, made him vomit, everywhere) when the inevitable happened... what can only be described as a niagara of diarrhoea all down my trousers and on to the floor, and all this in a waiting room with standing room only.
Ahem. They eventually decided that he was well enough to go home (thank God!). By this time I was feeling awful (after two nights of very little sleep) and crawled into bed. When I got up, all hell broke loose. Everyone started vomiting: at one stage there were three people being sick simultaneously! Somehow we got through the evening, and the night, and today everyone has been much better. Poor little Francis is the only one still exhibiting symptoms, and everyone else has been kept happy binge-listening to Narnia CDs that I'd been saving for our summer holiday.
Mark has been a tower of strength. He's been unwell like the rest of us, but nobly took on clearing-up duty last night. Now he's got two days off because if he gave this to his patients, it would literally kill them. So every cloud has a silver lining -- and boy, am I grateful for a washing machine. Shame I can't throw the whole carpet in...
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Breaking my fast....
Had to share these.
Perpetua: Why is the day after Christmas called Punching Day?
And, in proof of our enjoyment of the Swallows and Amazons CDs:
Victor: Can we listen to Swallowdale? I'm addicted.
We've been to see the snowdrops at Welford Park. So. Beautiful. (Apparently they may have been planted by the monks in the Middle Ages as decoration for their Candlemas altars!) I hope to make it a February tradition.
We also went to Hampton Court Palace. Could have spent days there. Beautiful spring day, sun shining, crocuses blooming, astonishingly beautiful palace and gardens, brimming with history. Proud mummy moment when Gregoria recognised a portrait of Charles I; conversation with the member of staff led to the inevitable 'Have you done this at school?' question. Member of staff obligingly affirmed our sense that children who go to school just don't know this stuff. Good to have some positive reinforcement with the storm clouds gathering in the public sphere.
Perpetua: Why is the day after Christmas called Punching Day?
And, in proof of our enjoyment of the Swallows and Amazons CDs:
Victor: Can we listen to Swallowdale? I'm addicted.
We've been to see the snowdrops at Welford Park. So. Beautiful. (Apparently they may have been planted by the monks in the Middle Ages as decoration for their Candlemas altars!) I hope to make it a February tradition.
We also went to Hampton Court Palace. Could have spent days there. Beautiful spring day, sun shining, crocuses blooming, astonishingly beautiful palace and gardens, brimming with history. Proud mummy moment when Gregoria recognised a portrait of Charles I; conversation with the member of staff led to the inevitable 'Have you done this at school?' question. Member of staff obligingly affirmed our sense that children who go to school just don't know this stuff. Good to have some positive reinforcement with the storm clouds gathering in the public sphere.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
So much to blog, so little time
So little time in the evenings, with my lively baby, and so little time now, even with snoozing baby on my lap, since I've decided that computer time really is something I could cut down on during Lent.
So, in brief -- a frabjous day indeed here. Children discovered that they do, after all, like pancakes. Previously they were purely a spectator sport, and anyway there were no pancakes last year with a days-old baby in the house. Pancakes with Smarties (Nestle boycott, please forgive us) and mini marshmallows really hit the spot. Having previously hit the floor. At least not the ceiling this time.
Ooh, yes, Francis is one! Allow me to indulge in the cliches: I can hardly believe it, it seems like yesterday, where does the time go. All true. Also true is that I feel like the luckiest person alive to have this wonderful brood. Mostly. And when I do feel like that, I also wonder why I sometimes don't.
Part of it is not having a roadmap this time round. Our older children were very different, and our lives were different then. This time round, I'm still feeding Francis, a lot, and at night, a lot. As a result, he's right next to me most of the night. I hesitate to say we co-sleep, because we wouldn't if he didn't insist! It's about survival. But I can't help feeling that he's a happy baby as a result. Mostly. Me, I'm rather at sea (errm, roadmap? excuse the mixed metaphors) because I've never done it this way before.
But anyway he's clapping and he's waving bye-bye and he's climbing and it's all lovely.
Meanwhile we pootle on with the usual activities. Perpetua has now insisted on Doing Maths rather than just playing the little games I did with her, so I dug out (and rubbed out) an old Singapore Maths book of Gregoria's, and she's rattling through it as if her life depended on it. Victor is suddenly enthused about Explode the Code (although writing is still a herculean task) and declares that maths is 'his favourite thing'. Our readalouds have slowed due to Francis, but books on CD are a good stopgap. Our current favourite, passionately enjoyed by all, is Swallows and Amazons read by Gabriel Woolf. Akimbo by Alexander McCall Smith and Framed by Frank Cottrell Boyce are two other sets which we all enjoyed, Mark and me included.
And so, au revoir, until Easter. I may post on Sundays (a little Easter, dontcha know?) but on the other hand I may have to go cold turkey... Dear reader, if you're so inclined, pray for me, as I will for you.
So, in brief -- a frabjous day indeed here. Children discovered that they do, after all, like pancakes. Previously they were purely a spectator sport, and anyway there were no pancakes last year with a days-old baby in the house. Pancakes with Smarties (Nestle boycott, please forgive us) and mini marshmallows really hit the spot. Having previously hit the floor. At least not the ceiling this time.
Ooh, yes, Francis is one! Allow me to indulge in the cliches: I can hardly believe it, it seems like yesterday, where does the time go. All true. Also true is that I feel like the luckiest person alive to have this wonderful brood. Mostly. And when I do feel like that, I also wonder why I sometimes don't.
Part of it is not having a roadmap this time round. Our older children were very different, and our lives were different then. This time round, I'm still feeding Francis, a lot, and at night, a lot. As a result, he's right next to me most of the night. I hesitate to say we co-sleep, because we wouldn't if he didn't insist! It's about survival. But I can't help feeling that he's a happy baby as a result. Mostly. Me, I'm rather at sea (errm, roadmap? excuse the mixed metaphors) because I've never done it this way before.
But anyway he's clapping and he's waving bye-bye and he's climbing and it's all lovely.
Meanwhile we pootle on with the usual activities. Perpetua has now insisted on Doing Maths rather than just playing the little games I did with her, so I dug out (and rubbed out) an old Singapore Maths book of Gregoria's, and she's rattling through it as if her life depended on it. Victor is suddenly enthused about Explode the Code (although writing is still a herculean task) and declares that maths is 'his favourite thing'. Our readalouds have slowed due to Francis, but books on CD are a good stopgap. Our current favourite, passionately enjoyed by all, is Swallows and Amazons read by Gabriel Woolf. Akimbo by Alexander McCall Smith and Framed by Frank Cottrell Boyce are two other sets which we all enjoyed, Mark and me included.
And so, au revoir, until Easter. I may post on Sundays (a little Easter, dontcha know?) but on the other hand I may have to go cold turkey... Dear reader, if you're so inclined, pray for me, as I will for you.
Keep calm and carry on
So says the logo on the mug I gave Mark for Valentine's day.
Apparently it's from an original government poster intended to boost British morale during the Second World War; millions of copies were printed, but somehow never published, until a copy was accidentally rediscovered a few years ago.
There's even a BBC website article about it here.
I just love the phlegmatic British character evoked by this poster -- and it makes Mark smile every time he has coffee.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Not too late to reply to the government consultation
Do it here. I did, hurriedly and grumpily. I'm number 1622, which is encouraging.
I meant to link to this ages ago, but didn't get round to it: Peter Hitchens' blog on this whole charade is spot on. (Never thought I quote him approvingly...)
I meant to link to this ages ago, but didn't get round to it: Peter Hitchens' blog on this whole charade is spot on. (Never thought I quote him approvingly...)
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
On a lighter note...
Nice meme courtesy of Margaret.
1. Choose the 4th folder where you store pictures on your computer.
2. Select the 4th picture in the folder, and post it on your blog.
3. Explain the picture.
4. Tag four people to do the same.
5. No cheating (cropping, editing, etc.)
Gregoria, aged six weeks, in the arms of her great-grandfather. He's not prone to exuberant expressions of emotion, but in the car on the way home, he told my father-in-law that when he held her, he wouldn't have minded if he'd died that day; he felt his life was complete.
Picture taken in our first dear little house in Cambridge, in the kitchen which we were tickled to paint in a colour called Sweetcorn.
You're tagged!
1. Choose the 4th folder where you store pictures on your computer.
2. Select the 4th picture in the folder, and post it on your blog.
3. Explain the picture.
4. Tag four people to do the same.
5. No cheating (cropping, editing, etc.)
Gregoria, aged six weeks, in the arms of her great-grandfather. He's not prone to exuberant expressions of emotion, but in the car on the way home, he told my father-in-law that when he held her, he wouldn't have minded if he'd died that day; he felt his life was complete.
Picture taken in our first dear little house in Cambridge, in the kitchen which we were tickled to paint in a colour called Sweetcorn.
You're tagged!
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The elephant in the room
I've buckled, and taken Francis to the cranial osteopath, in the hopes that a nice lady feeling his head for half an hour will persuade him to sleep. Francis hasn't read the baby books that say that he should be sleeping for twelve hours at a stretch, and I was hoping that a bit of head feeling would impart this knowledge to him. At the very least, I could feel that I had not left this stone unturned (or, as Mark would see it, I could invest in a very expensive placebo for myself).
The jury's still out on whether it's done any good or not; at our latest consultation we were sitting discussing Francis's recent episode of frantic night-time screaming (in my arms, having been fed, nappy checked, and with dummy in mouth). The osteopath raised the possibility of night terrors. (Please no!) She asked whether there was any family history of epilepsy.
I had to answer, 'Not as far as I know of, but I don't know half my family history, because I'm donor conceived.' I managed to say it quite matter-of-factly this time; in the past I've said it and dissolved into tears. I still feel a residual sense of shame as I say it, although it really wasn't anything to do with me...
The osteopath was obviously shocked, and expressed her surprise that the donor's medical history wasn't disclosed. I told her that things were, shall we say, unregulated thirty-six years ago.
So there it was, the elephant in the room, my weird origins just sitting there. I don't think I'll ever get used to it. I'm glad to be alive, and I think some other people are glad I'm here too, but bringing people into the world this way is not how it was meant to be. Not just because we don't know one half of our parents' medical history; but for huge, indescribable feelings of identity, and belonging, and knowing our place in the world.
Anyone who isn't donor conceived, and thinks differently, does not know what it is like. And it's not only me. Lots of other donor conceived adults feel the same.
Having been flamed about this before, I need to point out that I will not publish comments that wish to express their disagreement on this subject by being rude to me. As I say in the sidebar, there's a great big internet out there.
The jury's still out on whether it's done any good or not; at our latest consultation we were sitting discussing Francis's recent episode of frantic night-time screaming (in my arms, having been fed, nappy checked, and with dummy in mouth). The osteopath raised the possibility of night terrors. (Please no!) She asked whether there was any family history of epilepsy.
I had to answer, 'Not as far as I know of, but I don't know half my family history, because I'm donor conceived.' I managed to say it quite matter-of-factly this time; in the past I've said it and dissolved into tears. I still feel a residual sense of shame as I say it, although it really wasn't anything to do with me...
The osteopath was obviously shocked, and expressed her surprise that the donor's medical history wasn't disclosed. I told her that things were, shall we say, unregulated thirty-six years ago.
So there it was, the elephant in the room, my weird origins just sitting there. I don't think I'll ever get used to it. I'm glad to be alive, and I think some other people are glad I'm here too, but bringing people into the world this way is not how it was meant to be. Not just because we don't know one half of our parents' medical history; but for huge, indescribable feelings of identity, and belonging, and knowing our place in the world.
Anyone who isn't donor conceived, and thinks differently, does not know what it is like. And it's not only me. Lots of other donor conceived adults feel the same.
Having been flamed about this before, I need to point out that I will not publish comments that wish to express their disagreement on this subject by being rude to me. As I say in the sidebar, there's a great big internet out there.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
You know you're tired when....
... you serve the lentil soup, and then discover the lentils still draining in the sieve.
Un-lentil soup was actually quite nice.
Good night.
Un-lentil soup was actually quite nice.
Good night.
De profundis
Out of the depths I cry to thee, O LORD!
Lord, hear my voice! Let thy ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications!
If thou, O LORD, shouldst mark iniquities, Lord, who could stand?
But there is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared.
I wait for the LORD, my soul waits, and in his word I hope; my soul waits for the LORD more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning.
O Israel, hope in the LORD! For with the LORD there is steadfast love, and with him is plenteous redemption.
And he will redeem Israel from all his iniquities.
Just whiling away the hours with a sleepless baby..... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Monday, February 09, 2009
Pulling my weight
I went to a fantastic choral workshop on Sunday afternoon, where I learnt all about singing through the top of my head, chest resonances, mouth shapes, loose jaws and tongues, and things like that.
One of the things our tutor mentioned was that we should all be aware that what we sing, or don't sing, really makes a difference. If I sing slightly off-key, or too loud, that will send a ripple of disturbance to the person next to me, and so on to the row in front and behind. There is nowhere to hide!
That's enough to think about on its own, but I got to musing about pulling my weight -- literally. Let me explain. My only brush with sporting competence was when I rowed while at university.
I had spent my entire school career avoiding sport wherever possible. The PE teacher would get two sporty girls to choose teams, and I would always, unfailingly, be the last to be chosen. Like Cecil Vyse, I was a 'chap for books'.
But quite by fluke, I found to my surprise and delight that rowing was a sport that I could do. I made it to the college first eight! (There weren't that many contenders. And I married the coach, but that's another story.)
Anyway, we took it fairly seriously. There were frequent weight-training sessions in the gym to the strains of Abba, and lots of time on the water: 6.30 am outings four or five days a week, and this in the Hilary (spring) term when it was so cold that ice would form on the blades...
There was a strange clash of cultures. We rowed in a fancy state-of-the-art boat, with fancy blades (much better than our technique deserved); but our diet was straight out of the 1920s. Every night in the dining hall there was 'training table', where the men's and women's first eights would sit at a table apart from the rest of the college, and devour steaks and pasta, to build up our muscle power. Instead, of course, we got fatter...
When it came to the final selection, there were time trials on the ergo, and sometimes seat races. This meant that people would take it in turns to swap in and out of the boat, and each different crew would be timed. That way, the coaches knew who was, literally, pulling their weight: because, of course, each rower is weighing down the boat, as well as pulling it along. A bad rower will not only not pull his weight, but might actually slow the boat down further if his blade acts as a brake rather than a beater.
Things could get brutal. In Mark's crew, the coaches pitted rower against rower. If they really wanted to put a rower to the test, they'd seat race him against --- a ham sandwich. Yes, the rower would get out of the boat, and would be replaced by a ham sandwich.
Sometimes the ham sandwich won.
This got me to thinking. As a wife; as a mother; as a home educator; as a Christian: am I doing better than a ham sandwich?!
One of the things our tutor mentioned was that we should all be aware that what we sing, or don't sing, really makes a difference. If I sing slightly off-key, or too loud, that will send a ripple of disturbance to the person next to me, and so on to the row in front and behind. There is nowhere to hide!
That's enough to think about on its own, but I got to musing about pulling my weight -- literally. Let me explain. My only brush with sporting competence was when I rowed while at university.
I had spent my entire school career avoiding sport wherever possible. The PE teacher would get two sporty girls to choose teams, and I would always, unfailingly, be the last to be chosen. Like Cecil Vyse, I was a 'chap for books'.
But quite by fluke, I found to my surprise and delight that rowing was a sport that I could do. I made it to the college first eight! (There weren't that many contenders. And I married the coach, but that's another story.)
Anyway, we took it fairly seriously. There were frequent weight-training sessions in the gym to the strains of Abba, and lots of time on the water: 6.30 am outings four or five days a week, and this in the Hilary (spring) term when it was so cold that ice would form on the blades...
There was a strange clash of cultures. We rowed in a fancy state-of-the-art boat, with fancy blades (much better than our technique deserved); but our diet was straight out of the 1920s. Every night in the dining hall there was 'training table', where the men's and women's first eights would sit at a table apart from the rest of the college, and devour steaks and pasta, to build up our muscle power. Instead, of course, we got fatter...
When it came to the final selection, there were time trials on the ergo, and sometimes seat races. This meant that people would take it in turns to swap in and out of the boat, and each different crew would be timed. That way, the coaches knew who was, literally, pulling their weight: because, of course, each rower is weighing down the boat, as well as pulling it along. A bad rower will not only not pull his weight, but might actually slow the boat down further if his blade acts as a brake rather than a beater.
Things could get brutal. In Mark's crew, the coaches pitted rower against rower. If they really wanted to put a rower to the test, they'd seat race him against --- a ham sandwich. Yes, the rower would get out of the boat, and would be replaced by a ham sandwich.
Sometimes the ham sandwich won.
This got me to thinking. As a wife; as a mother; as a home educator; as a Christian: am I doing better than a ham sandwich?!
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Feelgood video
HT to my friend Clare.
I challenge you not to smile as you watch this. Works for me, anyway, as I sit with my sleepless baby on my lap.
Oooh, makes you proud to be a Londoner.
And then watch this for some background.
I challenge you not to smile as you watch this. Works for me, anyway, as I sit with my sleepless baby on my lap.
Oooh, makes you proud to be a Londoner.
And then watch this for some background.
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