We know them all so well, don't we? The angels, the shepherds, the wise men. But this year, I became aware of a hidden person, someone who must have been there, I think, but who was never written into the story.
A woman. I sense a woman at the scene. An older woman, a help-meet for Mary in her hour of need. I'm guessing that in the culture of that time, it would be a woman who would be the birth partner. I don't think Joseph could have managed on his own, though I'm sure he'd have tried to prepare himself, quietly seeking out the local midwife in Nazareth, swallowing his embarrassment, and asking her what he would need to do, far from home, in a city of strangers.
No. I don't think it was Joseph cutting the cord. Was it the Inn-keeper's wife? "You put them where? In the stable? She's about to give birth, for heaven's sake." Or another traveler? A woman staying at the inn who would willingly have given up her room, but only found out about Mary when she was a long way past being able to move from her bed of straw. Could it possibly have been Elizabeth, Mary's cousin? Did she meet Mary in Bethlehem, taking her own infant son with her? Or perhaps another member of Mary's family, who traveled the road from Nazareth to Bethlehem alongside Mary and Joseph?
I don't know. I'm guessing it was simply a local Nazareth woman. An older woman. A mother. She knew enough about childbirth to understand that Mary needed someone with her. She was there to hold her, to encourage her, to promise that the pains would pass. She helped ease the baby's head out, delivered his slippery body, cleared his mouth and nose of mucus, held her breath until he had taken his first. Then she wrapped him in the swaddling cloths which she had thought to go and fetch, before hunkering down in the stable at Mary's side. She took care of delivering the placenta, of cleaning up as best she could. She made sure Mary was warm, and as comfortable as possible, before leaving to go and tend to her own family.
I think she came back the next morning. Perhaps she came back several times. I think she helped Mary learn the skill of breast-feeding. I think she shared wise words about how to look after a newborn baby. I imagine they told her about the shepherds, and then later about the wise men, showing her the gifts, and enjoying her amazement. She was a trusted friend, by now, in that way that people become who meet us in the crisis points of our lives.
Did Mary and Joseph manage to get a message to her, when they slipped away urgently to Egypt, no time to linger, no chance to say good-bye? Did she wonder through the years what had happened to them, to the baby?
She has no mention in the Christmas story, but I'm sure she was there. Don't you agree? The Nativity Midwife.
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Monday, December 10, 2012
A Christmas Miracle
That last post was a little grumpy, wasn't it? Oh go on, you don't have to be nice. It was. But I'm feeling better, enjoying Christmas CDs, eating mince pies (bought loads for an event Husband was organising, and then fewer people turned up than he'd guessed, so yay, spare mince pies for us!) and generally getting in the swing of it. If all else fails, I turn on my IKEA stars and think how lovely they look. Yes, I really am that easy to please.
In fact, I'm so full of the Christmas spirit, that I thought I'd share my own little Christmas miracle story with you. It has all the right ingredients: a family visit, a child, a special day, a mistake that turns out ok but teaches the main character a useful life lesson along the way, a three-legged opossum, and laundry.
Followers of my blog (sad, sad people) will know how much I hate my washer-dryer. I am taking steps to remedy the situation, but for reasons that I can't go into on a public blog (living in a house that belongs to an institution which employs Husband and is therefore not entirely my own to manage), for the time-being, I am stuck with it. I have a personal rule, which is that I never use the dryer function of the washer-dryer combo. Never. Never ever. The dial now has a red nail polish mark on it, to make it easy to see whether it is on or off (applied after I ruined a load of washing). As I say, I never use it. Never. I vowed I wouldn't ever again. Except just sometimes I do have to, for example when my brother and sister-in-law came to stay this week-end and I needed to dry some towels for them (see 1, family visit).
They left on Sunday night, and I turned my thoughts to Monday morning and getting ready for school. 12-yo (see 2, child) said he had to go to school in formal wear, which I thought couldn't be right, but I read the weekly bulletin and spotted a bit I'd missed. Yes, indeed, he did need to be in formal wear because it's the last day of school, with an assembly and a carol service (3, special day). Think kilt, sporran, knee-length socks, sock flashes... (love it, love it, love it, love having my children at a school in Scotland which makes them wear kilts from time to time). Only slight problem, the knee-length socks, of which he has only one pair because he only wears formal dress on rare occasions, were at the bottom of the laundry basket. So into the washing machine they went.
I had forgotten to turn the knob back to the "dryer off" position (4, mistake). When I went into the kitchen at 10.30pm, expecting to find a small pile of clean, wet laundry in the drum (pa-ra-pa-pum-pum) and the machine off, instead I found the machine humming away happily in dryer mode. Although it was on "wool" setting, it was very hot (no, there's nothing wrong with it, I've phoned customer services and asked, it's just that washer-dryers dry very hot). I decided then and there that the red nail polish mark wasn't enough. No. I would have to do more. I would have to selotape the knob, to remind myself never, ever, ever, never, ever to use the dryer (4, mistake that teaches the main character a useful life lesson).
But here's the amazing denouement. The socks were fine. They were almost dry, and they hadn't shrunk at all. They are wool, should be hand-washed, definitely shouldn't be tumble-dried, but when subjected to the foundry-like temperatures of the Hotpoint washer-dryer, had survived unscathed (4, mistake that turns out ok). It was a miracle. I'm naming those socks "Daniel", for they lived through the fiery furnace. (Know that story?) And verily there was much rejoicing, for if the socks had been ruined, indeed the stress therein would have been mighty. For it remaineth to be seen whether a mother can buy a pair of long dress socks for a 12 year old before eight o'clock on a Monday morning.
I lied about the three-legged opossum.
So if "It's a Wonderful Life", or "Miracle on 34th Street" fail to touch your spirit this Christmas, please hold the story of "Iota's Laundry Miracle" in your heart.
If that fails, eat mince pies.
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In fact, I'm so full of the Christmas spirit, that I thought I'd share my own little Christmas miracle story with you. It has all the right ingredients: a family visit, a child, a special day, a mistake that turns out ok but teaches the main character a useful life lesson along the way, a three-legged opossum, and laundry.
Followers of my blog (sad, sad people) will know how much I hate my washer-dryer. I am taking steps to remedy the situation, but for reasons that I can't go into on a public blog (living in a house that belongs to an institution which employs Husband and is therefore not entirely my own to manage), for the time-being, I am stuck with it. I have a personal rule, which is that I never use the dryer function of the washer-dryer combo. Never. Never ever. The dial now has a red nail polish mark on it, to make it easy to see whether it is on or off (applied after I ruined a load of washing). As I say, I never use it. Never. I vowed I wouldn't ever again. Except just sometimes I do have to, for example when my brother and sister-in-law came to stay this week-end and I needed to dry some towels for them (see 1, family visit).
They left on Sunday night, and I turned my thoughts to Monday morning and getting ready for school. 12-yo (see 2, child) said he had to go to school in formal wear, which I thought couldn't be right, but I read the weekly bulletin and spotted a bit I'd missed. Yes, indeed, he did need to be in formal wear because it's the last day of school, with an assembly and a carol service (3, special day). Think kilt, sporran, knee-length socks, sock flashes... (love it, love it, love it, love having my children at a school in Scotland which makes them wear kilts from time to time). Only slight problem, the knee-length socks, of which he has only one pair because he only wears formal dress on rare occasions, were at the bottom of the laundry basket. So into the washing machine they went.
I had forgotten to turn the knob back to the "dryer off" position (4, mistake). When I went into the kitchen at 10.30pm, expecting to find a small pile of clean, wet laundry in the drum (pa-ra-pa-pum-pum) and the machine off, instead I found the machine humming away happily in dryer mode. Although it was on "wool" setting, it was very hot (no, there's nothing wrong with it, I've phoned customer services and asked, it's just that washer-dryers dry very hot). I decided then and there that the red nail polish mark wasn't enough. No. I would have to do more. I would have to selotape the knob, to remind myself never, ever, ever, never, ever to use the dryer (4, mistake that teaches the main character a useful life lesson).
But here's the amazing denouement. The socks were fine. They were almost dry, and they hadn't shrunk at all. They are wool, should be hand-washed, definitely shouldn't be tumble-dried, but when subjected to the foundry-like temperatures of the Hotpoint washer-dryer, had survived unscathed (4, mistake that turns out ok). It was a miracle. I'm naming those socks "Daniel", for they lived through the fiery furnace. (Know that story?) And verily there was much rejoicing, for if the socks had been ruined, indeed the stress therein would have been mighty. For it remaineth to be seen whether a mother can buy a pair of long dress socks for a 12 year old before eight o'clock on a Monday morning.
I lied about the three-legged opossum.
So if "It's a Wonderful Life", or "Miracle on 34th Street" fail to touch your spirit this Christmas, please hold the story of "Iota's Laundry Miracle" in your heart.
If that fails, eat mince pies.
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Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Iota's Six Top Festive Tips
Long-term followers of my blog (you poor sad people, don't you have anything better to do?) will know that I really love Christmas. So as the season starts to roll, I thought I would drip my distilled drops of wisdom, accumulated from experiences old and new, as to how to make this Christmas the most wonderful of all.
- Don't get a spaniel puppy. They poo and wee a lot on the floor. They humiliate you at puppy training classes. They bark when they are excited, which is a lot of the time. When you discuss this, outside, with the puppy trainer, she will talk about rewarding good behaviour, as if you need to become an expert in canine CBT. You will be nodding and smiling, while all the while you will be thinking "or we could just buy a kennel and he could live outside". Shouting at your puppy does not help.
- Don't have sons. They are incapable of distinguishing dirty clothes from clean. If you have to have sons, wait a few decades until Lasik have invented a corrective procedure, that will be offered to parents of boys at their birth. Shouting at your sons does not help.
- Don't have daughters. They are like whirlwinds of chaos. They have 'art projects' everywhere. They insist on growing their hair long, and then they don't want to wash it because they are too busy when it comes to bedtime. Shouting at your daughters does not help.
- Don't get married. Husbands are always right about everything, and it's very annoying. They put on a sad face with sad eyes (see "spaniel puppy" above) when you shout at them.
- Don't buy Christmas stocking fillers. You will hide them and then not remember where you have put them. Don't even bother with the shouting on this one. Those pesky stocking fillers will not hear you, and even if they do, they will not answer.
- Don't buy Christmas decorations. Don't buy fancy cardboard stars from IKEA, and wait till Sunday night to put them up. You will have mislaid the light bulbs, and it will be too late to go and buy some more (even if you could be bothered), because this is Britain where shops shut at a stupidly early hour. You won't be able to make the stars hang straight, because electric flex is so deliberately wayward, and because, quite frankly, the world is against you. Surprisingly, shouting at the IKEA stars DOES help.
If you follow these six tips, I guarantee you'll be full of festive cheer, and the season will envelop you in a flurry of goodwill and jollity, as if you were in a blizzard and every snowflake was a warm wish of happiness.
This post is part of the BritMums Christmas Blog Hop.
This post is part of the BritMums Christmas Blog Hop.
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Monday, January 2, 2012
Derek and Joyce
One of my all time BEST Christmas moments was the year that I and my siblings sent my parents a Christmas card from a fictitious couple, Derek and Joyce.
The card was intimate enough that it was clearly intended for my parents and not just wrongly addressed. It greeted them by name, and it cheerily exclaimed "We really must meet up in 1989!" It had one sentence of hand-written news about the children, Faye, Michael and Anne: "All doing well" or some such generality.
We then sat back and watched over breakfast, as my parents struggled to remember who Derek and Joyce were, and - crucially - how they could reciprocate and get a card in the post to them before Christmas. My mother thought that Derek, a friend of my father's living in South Africa, must have remarried in the course of the year, moved to England, and acquired three step-children. My father thought that Joyce was an old friend of my mother's from her nursing days, who'd decided to get in touch again on a whim. This all played out in front of our delighted, conspiratorial eyes.
We left it a day or two, and then confessed. Derek and Joyce passed into family lore, and the next year my parents received another card from them, this time complete with newsletter all about the lives of Faye, Michael and Anne, their grown-up children.
I'd like to say that Derek and Joyce are still sending Christmas cards within my family, but actually, they petered out after two or three. Best to leave a joke at its height than flog it to annual death. They did make a guest appearance, more than a decade later, when they left a card at the wedding of a friend of mine, signing it "With fondest love, and we're just sorry we can't be at the wedding ourselves. Hope you like the present, and if not, we've included the receipt so you can exchange it" - but of course there was no present or receipt. A few months later, Derek and Joyce sent my newly-wed friends a Christmas card. "So sorry not to have been with you for your special day, but we've heard all about it and seen lots of wonderful photos. It looked like a magical occasion, and what sweet little bridesmaids! We do hope you enjoyed the present." The amazing thing was that I got a card back from them. "Thanks for your card. Have a super Christmas. Love from Derek and Joyce". In spite of the anonymous postmark and the disguised handwriting, my friend had guessed who Derek and Joyce's creator was.
I think of Derek and Joyce at Christmas time, obviously, and particularly when I hear God Rest You Merry Gentlemen, when the chorus comes round:
.
The card was intimate enough that it was clearly intended for my parents and not just wrongly addressed. It greeted them by name, and it cheerily exclaimed "We really must meet up in 1989!" It had one sentence of hand-written news about the children, Faye, Michael and Anne: "All doing well" or some such generality.
We then sat back and watched over breakfast, as my parents struggled to remember who Derek and Joyce were, and - crucially - how they could reciprocate and get a card in the post to them before Christmas. My mother thought that Derek, a friend of my father's living in South Africa, must have remarried in the course of the year, moved to England, and acquired three step-children. My father thought that Joyce was an old friend of my mother's from her nursing days, who'd decided to get in touch again on a whim. This all played out in front of our delighted, conspiratorial eyes.
We left it a day or two, and then confessed. Derek and Joyce passed into family lore, and the next year my parents received another card from them, this time complete with newsletter all about the lives of Faye, Michael and Anne, their grown-up children.
I'd like to say that Derek and Joyce are still sending Christmas cards within my family, but actually, they petered out after two or three. Best to leave a joke at its height than flog it to annual death. They did make a guest appearance, more than a decade later, when they left a card at the wedding of a friend of mine, signing it "With fondest love, and we're just sorry we can't be at the wedding ourselves. Hope you like the present, and if not, we've included the receipt so you can exchange it" - but of course there was no present or receipt. A few months later, Derek and Joyce sent my newly-wed friends a Christmas card. "So sorry not to have been with you for your special day, but we've heard all about it and seen lots of wonderful photos. It looked like a magical occasion, and what sweet little bridesmaids! We do hope you enjoyed the present." The amazing thing was that I got a card back from them. "Thanks for your card. Have a super Christmas. Love from Derek and Joyce". In spite of the anonymous postmark and the disguised handwriting, my friend had guessed who Derek and Joyce's creator was.
I think of Derek and Joyce at Christmas time, obviously, and particularly when I hear God Rest You Merry Gentlemen, when the chorus comes round:
O-oh, tidings of Derek and Joyce,
Derek and Joyce!
O-oh, tidings of De-e-rek and Joyce!
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Monday, December 26, 2011
Christmas 2011, the Christmas of the Towels
Christmas Eve, and Mr Claus and I were in the basement wrapping the final presents, and watching old episodes of Men Behaving Badly (yay, Netflix). I asked Husband to pass me a box of tissue, from the other side of the room, and as he pottered over in his socked feet, he paused and asked "why is the carpet wet here?". Yay for the box of tissues, which led us to discover that we have a leak in something (since it hasn't rained for a few days), and that water has been seeping into a corner of the basement, for probably several days (or weeks - who knows). This accounts for the slightly odd smell, which Husband had mentioned the other day, and I'd ignored. Our basement often smells slightly odd. It's usually to do with the dirty socks strewn around.
So the carpet is peeled back, the underlay discarded, and a pretty semi-circle of towels is keeping the water at bay. Towels which every few hours need to be wrung out, bunged in the washing machine and then the dryer (yay, driers.)
We had a lovely Christmas Day. We really did. Then last night, three of the five of us (Husband, me, 7-yo) went down with a bug. Or got up with a bug, I should say. Was it the turkey? Anyway, in these situations, I become a bit obsessive about washing everything: bedding, towels, pyjamas. I also put down a lot of spare towels, a habit which dates back to the days when our children weren't old enough to make it to the bucket, or good enough at aiming even if the bucket was right next to the bed. Thus it was that Husband, seeing me with another load on my way to the washing machine (yay, washing machines) wryly observed "This has been the Christmas of the Towels".
Right. Off to check that our house insurance is up to date.
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So the carpet is peeled back, the underlay discarded, and a pretty semi-circle of towels is keeping the water at bay. Towels which every few hours need to be wrung out, bunged in the washing machine and then the dryer (yay, driers.)
We had a lovely Christmas Day. We really did. Then last night, three of the five of us (Husband, me, 7-yo) went down with a bug. Or got up with a bug, I should say. Was it the turkey? Anyway, in these situations, I become a bit obsessive about washing everything: bedding, towels, pyjamas. I also put down a lot of spare towels, a habit which dates back to the days when our children weren't old enough to make it to the bucket, or good enough at aiming even if the bucket was right next to the bed. Thus it was that Husband, seeing me with another load on my way to the washing machine (yay, washing machines) wryly observed "This has been the Christmas of the Towels".
Right. Off to check that our house insurance is up to date.
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Tuesday, December 20, 2011
The Music of Christmas: Part ll
There's been a post doing the rounds where bloggers have been sharing their favourite Christmas songs. I've already mentioned a couple of mine, and told you how much I love and revel in Christmas music.
But even I have my least favourites. They are (in ascending order of awfulness):
1) Anything recorded sung by children. I don't mind hearing children sing. It's sweet. Lots of them have lovely voices. So why, when they make recordings of popular Christmas songs for the mass market, why on EARTH, do they recruit children who can't sing in tune? There is nothing cute about children singing flat. Or sharp. And putting a quasi-adorable picture on the front of the box, of several smiling children of different races is not going to persuade me otherwise.
2) The Little Drummer Boy carol. It's boring, tedious, gloomy, and factually ridiculous (little drummer boy goes to play drum for sleeping newborn baby - I hope Mary gave him what for). I grant an exemption from my loathing of this carol to David Bowie and Bing Crosby, who do a nice job of making it into a duet. It is the only exemption I will allow.
3) Frosty the Snowman. I don't know what it is about this song (I'm not going to elevate it to 'carol' status), but I really hate and detest it. I don't even know the lyrics. I looked them up for the purposes of this blog post, and frankly, I was happier when I didn't know them. Anyone else share my detestation?
If you don't share mine, what are your LEAST favourite Christmas songs?
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But even I have my least favourites. They are (in ascending order of awfulness):
1) Anything recorded sung by children. I don't mind hearing children sing. It's sweet. Lots of them have lovely voices. So why, when they make recordings of popular Christmas songs for the mass market, why on EARTH, do they recruit children who can't sing in tune? There is nothing cute about children singing flat. Or sharp. And putting a quasi-adorable picture on the front of the box, of several smiling children of different races is not going to persuade me otherwise.
2) The Little Drummer Boy carol. It's boring, tedious, gloomy, and factually ridiculous (little drummer boy goes to play drum for sleeping newborn baby - I hope Mary gave him what for). I grant an exemption from my loathing of this carol to David Bowie and Bing Crosby, who do a nice job of making it into a duet. It is the only exemption I will allow.
3) Frosty the Snowman. I don't know what it is about this song (I'm not going to elevate it to 'carol' status), but I really hate and detest it. I don't even know the lyrics. I looked them up for the purposes of this blog post, and frankly, I was happier when I didn't know them. Anyone else share my detestation?
If you don't share mine, what are your LEAST favourite Christmas songs?
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Saturday, December 17, 2011
The Music of Christmas: Part l
I love Christmas. I always have. I think I've mentioned that before (and since a quick check reveals that I've written 18 posts to date with the label Christmas, I expect I have mentioned it more than once). And one of the best things about Christmas is the music. I love Christmas music. I love it all.
I love the familiar favourites about Santa and snowmen and reindeer and children, rehashed in scores of ways, played over wobbly sound systems in shops, abused as the background music to adverts on tv, warbled by children in school concerts.
I love the jolly ancient songs about wassailing. They make me think of our medieval forbears cheering themselves in the dark, dank, muddy, winter days, with a wassail bowl and a hog roast and a roaring fire. (Oh, thank heavens for central heating, fast food and shopping malls.)
I love carols, careful carriers of theological truths down the ages before most people could read and write. I used to love my 12" black vinyl record of carols, with a picture of snow-laden Christmas trees on the front. (I wonder if I still have it somewhere?) I love all those David Willcocks arrangements from Carols for Choirs. What a genius that man was. My favourite Christmas hymn is Of the Father's Love Begotten, which we had at our wedding (in January, not quite Christmas, but still Epiphany and therefore seasonal). It's based on a hymn written in the 4th century. It's old.
I love the Nine Lessons and Carols from King's College, Cambridge on Christmas Eve. I sat and listened to it with my grandmother in the last month of her life in 1983. I had just got a fancy radio/cassette player which I was rather pleased with - it had two built-in speakers, taking me to the lofty heights of stereo sophistication. She needed an oxygen mask on during parts of the service. It's one of my loveliest memories.
I love modern classics, All I want for Christmas is You, Santa Baby, Let it Snow, War is Over, Slade's So Here It Is - all of them. My favourite in this category is Paul McCartney's Wonderful Christmastime. There's something about that song that just gets me between the ribs.
I love mystic-sounding madrigals on CDs which have the word Celtic in the title, with pictures on the front of people in hooded garb, gazing mysteriously across misty landscapes. (Incidentally, don't you think the current iPod generation misses out, with downloadable music which has no need of album covers?)
I even love the offensively vacuous Kidz Compilationz CDs we have. I'm going to have to use the word 'festive' at this point. You know the kind. Lots of jingles and jangles and a good strong beat, where Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer morphs into Ding Dong Merrily on High which segues into We Wish You a Merry Christmas which blends into Away in a Manger which transmutes into Deck the Halls. We have one version in which they sing 'bows' of holly instead of 'boughs'. Falala-lala to that.
Ah yes. Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without the music. I love it all. Well... Almost all...
NB I've sent this post to Notes from Home for her Christmas Carnival. If you're writing about Christmas, why don't you join in too?
.
I love the familiar favourites about Santa and snowmen and reindeer and children, rehashed in scores of ways, played over wobbly sound systems in shops, abused as the background music to adverts on tv, warbled by children in school concerts.
I love the jolly ancient songs about wassailing. They make me think of our medieval forbears cheering themselves in the dark, dank, muddy, winter days, with a wassail bowl and a hog roast and a roaring fire. (Oh, thank heavens for central heating, fast food and shopping malls.)
I love carols, careful carriers of theological truths down the ages before most people could read and write. I used to love my 12" black vinyl record of carols, with a picture of snow-laden Christmas trees on the front. (I wonder if I still have it somewhere?) I love all those David Willcocks arrangements from Carols for Choirs. What a genius that man was. My favourite Christmas hymn is Of the Father's Love Begotten, which we had at our wedding (in January, not quite Christmas, but still Epiphany and therefore seasonal). It's based on a hymn written in the 4th century. It's old.
I love the Nine Lessons and Carols from King's College, Cambridge on Christmas Eve. I sat and listened to it with my grandmother in the last month of her life in 1983. I had just got a fancy radio/cassette player which I was rather pleased with - it had two built-in speakers, taking me to the lofty heights of stereo sophistication. She needed an oxygen mask on during parts of the service. It's one of my loveliest memories.
I love modern classics, All I want for Christmas is You, Santa Baby, Let it Snow, War is Over, Slade's So Here It Is - all of them. My favourite in this category is Paul McCartney's Wonderful Christmastime. There's something about that song that just gets me between the ribs.
I love mystic-sounding madrigals on CDs which have the word Celtic in the title, with pictures on the front of people in hooded garb, gazing mysteriously across misty landscapes. (Incidentally, don't you think the current iPod generation misses out, with downloadable music which has no need of album covers?)
I even love the offensively vacuous Kidz Compilationz CDs we have. I'm going to have to use the word 'festive' at this point. You know the kind. Lots of jingles and jangles and a good strong beat, where Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer morphs into Ding Dong Merrily on High which segues into We Wish You a Merry Christmas which blends into Away in a Manger which transmutes into Deck the Halls. We have one version in which they sing 'bows' of holly instead of 'boughs'. Falala-lala to that.
Ah yes. Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without the music. I love it all. Well... Almost all...
NB I've sent this post to Notes from Home for her Christmas Carnival. If you're writing about Christmas, why don't you join in too?
.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
12 Days of Blogging
Everybody is at it. Hot Cross Mum, The Potty Diaries, Nappy Valley in New York and Expat Mum. They've all come up with versions of the 12 Days of Christmas. I wanted to join their club, so I've done one of my own, about blogging.
Incidentally I have, actually, already done a truncated version of the well-loved carol, counting down the body parts I've lost, but that was a long time ago: (all my hair, 4 wisdom teeth, 3 moles, 2 boobs, and a lymph node, I believe it went.)
Anyhoo, here is one about blogging. I'm going to cut to the chase, and start at the 12th day.
On the 12th day of Christmas, my bloggy friend sent to me:
12 Tumblrs Tumblring
11 DiggIts Digging
10 Blogger Updates
9 Wordpress Downloads
8 RSS feeds
7 Pics a-Flickr
6 Tweets re-tweeted
5 BritMums Live!
4 Angry Birds
3 Facebook Friends
2 Gurgle Loves
And a Rise in my Site Meteree!
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Incidentally I have, actually, already done a truncated version of the well-loved carol, counting down the body parts I've lost, but that was a long time ago: (all my hair, 4 wisdom teeth, 3 moles, 2 boobs, and a lymph node, I believe it went.)
Anyhoo, here is one about blogging. I'm going to cut to the chase, and start at the 12th day.
On the 12th day of Christmas, my bloggy friend sent to me:
12 Tumblrs Tumblring
11 DiggIts Digging
10 Blogger Updates
9 Wordpress Downloads
8 RSS feeds
7 Pics a-Flickr
6 Tweets re-tweeted
5 BritMums Live!
4 Angry Birds
3 Facebook Friends
2 Gurgle Loves
And a Rise in my Site Meteree!
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Saturday, January 15, 2011
Therapy in the toy store: Part l
You don’t just get a toy, when you come to the toy shop. You get therapy, and like the gift wrap service, it’s free.
Family therapy is our main business. We know that daughters-in-law can make buying a present for a grandchild well nigh impossible. “I think he’d like this, but I’m not sure his mother would approve” you say, tentatively. We sympathise, and then we help you find an alternative which you’ll be just as happy to give.
We know that mothers-in-law can make life with a new baby difficult. We understand when you explain how the musical mobile she insisted on giving you isn’t nearly as nice as the one you wanted. We do exchanges without judgement.
We tactfully don’t watch as your small child has a tantrum, and refuses to leave the shop without the toy he’s holding. Or we might say “don't worry, we’ve all been there”. If we sense you need our help, we address your child “oh, it’s SO hard to leave the toy store, isn’t it? But you can come again another day. You have to leave the toys here, though. Everyone has to.”
We declare “It’s cute baby day in the toy store today!”, and make you feel that your infant is the most beautiful one who has ever crossed our threshold. We let your toddlers play with the train track, and the doll’s house, and the sandbox, bounce around on the hop ball, ride round on the bike, jump on the trampoline, and it doesn’t matter at all if they make a mess, or make a noise. “It’s a toy store!” we exclaim.
We offer a 10% discount to therapists, teachers, and staff from the local center for disabled children, and we never ask if they’re buying the toy for the classroom or their own home.
Some therapy pulls the heartstrings. I tried to help someone find some dot-to-dot books with pictures that weren’t too babyish for an 18-year-old with an educational age of 10 (“and he still thinks he’s going to college like all the other 18 year olds”). I spent some time recently with two older women who came in looking for activities to keep occupied their Alzheimer-suffering husbands. It really must be like having a small child to look after. No small pieces to put in their mouths, no magnets, nothing which demands too long an attention span.
I personally have developed two particular therapies. The first is the “no more mummy guilt” therapy. If a customer ever makes reference to being a bad mum (or dad for that matter), for whatever reason, I look them straight in the eye, and say “that doesn’t make you a bad mother”. It’s amazing what people worry about, thinking it makes them a bad parent. Buying party favours only the day before the party. Buying not enough presents for their child’s birthday. Buying too many presents for their child’s birthday. Not buying exactly what their child wants. Not knowing exactly what their child wants. It’s time we dropped all this parent guilt. I’m doing my bit in the toy shop.
The second is a seasonal therapy, to the grandparents who came to the shop early in December, wanting to buy presents to send to far away grandchildren. “I think she’d like this... Yes, I think she would... But I haven’t seen her for a long while, and they change so fast.” I reply “I’m sure she’ll love it. I’m sure she will”. I understand that you don’t want to make a quick decision. I understand that you need to spend an hour looking round, picking all the different items off the shelves, holding them, feeling them, choosing the right one to imbue with your love before letting us wrap it and ship it off. I understand if you say you’ll wrap it yourself. You want to take it home and have it in your hands a little longer. You want the gift tag to be in your own writing. You want to add ‘with so much love from…' and underline ‘so much’. I hear what it is you’re really saying, when you tell me you have to get the choice right, because they live so far away, they can’t come in to do an exchange. I like listening to you as you talk about your grandkids. I ask questions about them. I smile a lot when I’m talking to you. I want you to enjoy your morning, choosing Christmas presents for the grandkids so far away. I like helping you look around, and giving you ideas, but I know too that you need some time on your own, so I leave you in peace. I am, by proxy, the sales assistant who is scanning the bar codes on the purchases my mother is making, an ocean and half a continent away.
Family therapy is our main business. We know that daughters-in-law can make buying a present for a grandchild well nigh impossible. “I think he’d like this, but I’m not sure his mother would approve” you say, tentatively. We sympathise, and then we help you find an alternative which you’ll be just as happy to give.
We know that mothers-in-law can make life with a new baby difficult. We understand when you explain how the musical mobile she insisted on giving you isn’t nearly as nice as the one you wanted. We do exchanges without judgement.
We tactfully don’t watch as your small child has a tantrum, and refuses to leave the shop without the toy he’s holding. Or we might say “don't worry, we’ve all been there”. If we sense you need our help, we address your child “oh, it’s SO hard to leave the toy store, isn’t it? But you can come again another day. You have to leave the toys here, though. Everyone has to.”
We declare “It’s cute baby day in the toy store today!”, and make you feel that your infant is the most beautiful one who has ever crossed our threshold. We let your toddlers play with the train track, and the doll’s house, and the sandbox, bounce around on the hop ball, ride round on the bike, jump on the trampoline, and it doesn’t matter at all if they make a mess, or make a noise. “It’s a toy store!” we exclaim.
We offer a 10% discount to therapists, teachers, and staff from the local center for disabled children, and we never ask if they’re buying the toy for the classroom or their own home.
Some therapy pulls the heartstrings. I tried to help someone find some dot-to-dot books with pictures that weren’t too babyish for an 18-year-old with an educational age of 10 (“and he still thinks he’s going to college like all the other 18 year olds”). I spent some time recently with two older women who came in looking for activities to keep occupied their Alzheimer-suffering husbands. It really must be like having a small child to look after. No small pieces to put in their mouths, no magnets, nothing which demands too long an attention span.
I personally have developed two particular therapies. The first is the “no more mummy guilt” therapy. If a customer ever makes reference to being a bad mum (or dad for that matter), for whatever reason, I look them straight in the eye, and say “that doesn’t make you a bad mother”. It’s amazing what people worry about, thinking it makes them a bad parent. Buying party favours only the day before the party. Buying not enough presents for their child’s birthday. Buying too many presents for their child’s birthday. Not buying exactly what their child wants. Not knowing exactly what their child wants. It’s time we dropped all this parent guilt. I’m doing my bit in the toy shop.
The second is a seasonal therapy, to the grandparents who came to the shop early in December, wanting to buy presents to send to far away grandchildren. “I think she’d like this... Yes, I think she would... But I haven’t seen her for a long while, and they change so fast.” I reply “I’m sure she’ll love it. I’m sure she will”. I understand that you don’t want to make a quick decision. I understand that you need to spend an hour looking round, picking all the different items off the shelves, holding them, feeling them, choosing the right one to imbue with your love before letting us wrap it and ship it off. I understand if you say you’ll wrap it yourself. You want to take it home and have it in your hands a little longer. You want the gift tag to be in your own writing. You want to add ‘with so much love from…' and underline ‘so much’. I hear what it is you’re really saying, when you tell me you have to get the choice right, because they live so far away, they can’t come in to do an exchange. I like listening to you as you talk about your grandkids. I ask questions about them. I smile a lot when I’m talking to you. I want you to enjoy your morning, choosing Christmas presents for the grandkids so far away. I like helping you look around, and giving you ideas, but I know too that you need some time on your own, so I leave you in peace. I am, by proxy, the sales assistant who is scanning the bar codes on the purchases my mother is making, an ocean and half a continent away.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Random things to end to the year with
Here are some random things.
A Christmas thing I really don't like: That carol about the drummer boy parum-papum-pum. It's really dumb-darum-dum. Drumming for a baby is stupid. Mary would have got really cross. It would have woken the baby up.
British English words that I miss: Stupid instead of dumb. Cross instead of mad/angry.
Fruit I miss: Bramley apples!
Christmas food: mince pies.
Fact about living in Scotland: they call mince pies, mincemeat tarts (which could be great inspiration for a fancy dress costume).
Christmas food that I miss, though I don't like the taste: Christmas pudding and Christmas cake.
Christmas food that is marvellous beyond words: cold turkey and cold stuffing.
A phrase in American English that I really like and use a lot: "Good luck with that". It means "that sounds truly dreadful, I don't envy you".
Something that made me laugh yesterday: my boss called me Eunice Fairbanks all day. It was an in-joke. It was funny at the time, though I can see it loses something in the telling.
Something I am grateful for: oh lots. I'm in that kind of a mood.
Something I bought half price, in the sale at Williams Sonoma yesterday: a mix for making sticky toffee pudding. It says that they researched the recipe in the Lake District, from where the pudding hails. I didn't even know puddings could hail. I don't want to make the pudding. I just want to read the side of the tin over and over, and luxuriate in the fact that I've bought a mix from Williams Sonoma, which is what I do in my dreams sometimes.
Something I saved $100 on, in the sale at Williams Sonoma yesterday: a Le Creuset oval pot, cast iron, enamelled. Only a couple of days ago, I said to Husband "the trouble with my two Le Creuset pots is that one is too big, and the other is too small; I really need the one in between." It would have been criminal not to have saved $100 buying the very perfect one. It's like the baby bear's Le Creuset in Goldilocks. It's orange. Hot orange. I know I'm a better cook already.
Something that happened while I was writing this post that was very nice: my brother phoned from Paris to say Happy New Year. It is, of course, already 2011 in Paris. I'm just so darn international.
Something nice I'm doing tonight: going out. We have been invited out as a family. And - get this - this is the second year running that we have had a New Year's Eve invitation. This could almost be a reason to stay in America. We never used to get invited out on New Year's Eve.
A true fact: I will be late if I don't go and get ready right now.
Greeting: Happy New Year, Bloggy Peeps!
.
A Christmas thing I really don't like: That carol about the drummer boy parum-papum-pum. It's really dumb-darum-dum. Drumming for a baby is stupid. Mary would have got really cross. It would have woken the baby up.
British English words that I miss: Stupid instead of dumb. Cross instead of mad/angry.
Fruit I miss: Bramley apples!
Christmas food: mince pies.
Fact about living in Scotland: they call mince pies, mincemeat tarts (which could be great inspiration for a fancy dress costume).
Christmas food that I miss, though I don't like the taste: Christmas pudding and Christmas cake.
Christmas food that is marvellous beyond words: cold turkey and cold stuffing.
A phrase in American English that I really like and use a lot: "Good luck with that". It means "that sounds truly dreadful, I don't envy you".
Something that made me laugh yesterday: my boss called me Eunice Fairbanks all day. It was an in-joke. It was funny at the time, though I can see it loses something in the telling.
Something I am grateful for: oh lots. I'm in that kind of a mood.
Something I bought half price, in the sale at Williams Sonoma yesterday: a mix for making sticky toffee pudding. It says that they researched the recipe in the Lake District, from where the pudding hails. I didn't even know puddings could hail. I don't want to make the pudding. I just want to read the side of the tin over and over, and luxuriate in the fact that I've bought a mix from Williams Sonoma, which is what I do in my dreams sometimes.
Something I saved $100 on, in the sale at Williams Sonoma yesterday: a Le Creuset oval pot, cast iron, enamelled. Only a couple of days ago, I said to Husband "the trouble with my two Le Creuset pots is that one is too big, and the other is too small; I really need the one in between." It would have been criminal not to have saved $100 buying the very perfect one. It's like the baby bear's Le Creuset in Goldilocks. It's orange. Hot orange. I know I'm a better cook already.
Something that happened while I was writing this post that was very nice: my brother phoned from Paris to say Happy New Year. It is, of course, already 2011 in Paris. I'm just so darn international.
Something nice I'm doing tonight: going out. We have been invited out as a family. And - get this - this is the second year running that we have had a New Year's Eve invitation. This could almost be a reason to stay in America. We never used to get invited out on New Year's Eve.
A true fact: I will be late if I don't go and get ready right now.
Greeting: Happy New Year, Bloggy Peeps!
.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
A favourite Christmas moment
We have been watching a lot of The Waltons recently. It’s hard to find a movie or tv programme that keeps everyone happy, given the age range of our children, from 6 to 13. The Waltons seems to fit nicely. And it’s so darn wholesome too. Husband and I can sit back and feel smug about the lessons that our children are learning of the values of family life, the common sense morality, the homespun wisdom… Many of the episodes are familiar, so they must have had a big effect on me when I watched them over 30 years ago. I loved The Waltons, as a child. Now I see my own children equally caught up, with 6-yo deciding she wants to be called Elizabeth, and the boys arguing over whether Ben should or shouldn’t have told the family that he had failed to shoot a turkey for Thanksgiving, and had ended up buying it instead.
It’s not all easy watching. In the depression in rural Virginia, the family and their community struggle to make ends meet. The children go to school in bare feet. The programmes don’t shy away from traumatic events. Mary Ellen’s husband was killed at Pearl Harbor in a recent episode we saw. But they are rich stories, and though things don’t always end well, there is good at the core. And there's a great theme tune to boot.
I have to confess that my inner teenager has a bit of a girlie crush on Johnboy. My inner teenager is fickle, because when I watched The Waltons decades ago as a real teenager, it was the dreamy Jason or the impetuous Ben who held my interest. But now it’s Johnboy. It’s the struggling writer thing that I’ve fallen for. There he is, lynchpin of the family, wavering between boyhood and manhood, more parent than older brother to the younger brood, and then each evening, he seeks the solitude of his own room, and writes feverishly, capturing the ordinary and the extraordinary in his stories of everyday life on Walton’s Mountain. Each episode begins with his mature reflection on the events that will unfold. He is in the story, but he is detached from it: a participant but also an observer. Johnboy Walton was a most excellent blogger, before blogging was invented.
Oh alas, Johnboy. How much easier you’d have found it these days. With broadband arriving at Walton’s Mountain, a whole world would have opened up for you. No more mailing off stories to hard-faced publishers, and waiting for disappointment after disappointment as the manuscripts are returned to you with rejection letters. No, you’d definitely be a top blogger, with your winsome tales of your siblings, and your nuggets of insight into the complexities of family life. What would your blog be called, I wonder? Perhaps one of the following: A Modern Mountain, Johnography, Mountain Tips, Bringing Up JimBob, Virginia Scribble, John Boyfoix, More than Just a Walton. Or how about The Johnota Quota? I’m glad you made it in the end, Johnboy, even with no blog to foster your nascent writing skills.
Here is one of my favourite Walton moments. It’s a blooper with an appropriate Christmas theme, which made me laugh decades ago, back in the days when you had to catch bloopers once a year on a Dennis Norden seasonal special, and savour them enough to last a Youtube-less year.
It’s not all easy watching. In the depression in rural Virginia, the family and their community struggle to make ends meet. The children go to school in bare feet. The programmes don’t shy away from traumatic events. Mary Ellen’s husband was killed at Pearl Harbor in a recent episode we saw. But they are rich stories, and though things don’t always end well, there is good at the core. And there's a great theme tune to boot.
I have to confess that my inner teenager has a bit of a girlie crush on Johnboy. My inner teenager is fickle, because when I watched The Waltons decades ago as a real teenager, it was the dreamy Jason or the impetuous Ben who held my interest. But now it’s Johnboy. It’s the struggling writer thing that I’ve fallen for. There he is, lynchpin of the family, wavering between boyhood and manhood, more parent than older brother to the younger brood, and then each evening, he seeks the solitude of his own room, and writes feverishly, capturing the ordinary and the extraordinary in his stories of everyday life on Walton’s Mountain. Each episode begins with his mature reflection on the events that will unfold. He is in the story, but he is detached from it: a participant but also an observer. Johnboy Walton was a most excellent blogger, before blogging was invented.
Oh alas, Johnboy. How much easier you’d have found it these days. With broadband arriving at Walton’s Mountain, a whole world would have opened up for you. No more mailing off stories to hard-faced publishers, and waiting for disappointment after disappointment as the manuscripts are returned to you with rejection letters. No, you’d definitely be a top blogger, with your winsome tales of your siblings, and your nuggets of insight into the complexities of family life. What would your blog be called, I wonder? Perhaps one of the following: A Modern Mountain, Johnography, Mountain Tips, Bringing Up JimBob, Virginia Scribble, John Boyfoix, More than Just a Walton. Or how about The Johnota Quota? I’m glad you made it in the end, Johnboy, even with no blog to foster your nascent writing skills.
Here is one of my favourite Walton moments. It’s a blooper with an appropriate Christmas theme, which made me laugh decades ago, back in the days when you had to catch bloopers once a year on a Dennis Norden seasonal special, and savour them enough to last a Youtube-less year.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Crismis
So this is Crismis. Or that’s what it says on the calendar on my kitchen wall. Written by 6-yo way back last January, when she was a mere Kindergartener, and she went through the calendar painstakingly writing in birthdays and holidays in letters larger than the space allowed. Of course now she is a First Grader, she would know how to write Crismis properly. That’s what a year does for you. And when we went swimming yesterday, she insisted that I use the Winnie the Pooh towel, which is too babyish for her now, though it was a favourite in the summer. Time passes and things change.
If I were feeling in a philosophical mood, I would reflect that this has been a year of two halves for me. It started badly, with that trip, when Husband was head-hunted and it all came to naught. Then I don’t really remember much about the spring, except I couldn’t really get back in the groove, and I was truly fed up with people telling me to be gentle with myself and not expect too much of myself, and that getting over a major trauma like cancer would take time. Don’t you just hate it when you know the answers, and people keep telling you them, and it doesn’t make the darnedest bit of difference?
The year’s half time was our trip to the UK, which was lovely. I remember day after day in the sunshine in my mother’s garden, trips to beaches, a very hot visit to Paris, walks on the North York Moors, resting and recuperating. There were tears in the gardens of Grosvenor Square, sprung out of the sheer frustration and anguish involved in getting through the US visa system. I remember that.
Then the second half began with the arrival of my green card, and a job in a toy shop. Morale improved. I was busy. It’s easier to make good use of time at home, when you’re not at home all the time. All three children made happy starts to the school year. I joined the church choir, remembered how very much I love choral singing, and wondered why I’ve done so little of it over the past ten years. We celebrated Thanksgiving in Colorado, which has become something of an annual tradition. I spent a week-end in Chicago with five other British bloggers living in the US, leaving Husband to look after the children and pass a kidney stone (or not pass a kidney stone, as it turned out – it had to be blasted apart a week later). That man is a saint.
In terms of blogging, well, I was a finalist in the MADs awards, in the category ‘Best Writer’, and now it seems I’m a finalist in the BMB Brilliance in Blogging list, in the category ‘Inspirational’. Ooh, get me. The blogging highlight of the year for me was reading out a blog post at Cyber Mummy. I loved doing that. I was really nervous, truth be told. Given that it was an emotional topic, my youngest child’s first day at school, I wasn’t sure I would make it through without tears, so I’d given a copy to a friend in the front who could take over if necessary. Be prepared, as they say in the boy scouts (although I’ve never actually been a boy scout, so I don’t know for sure that that’s what they say). Reading that post reflected how I like to think my blog plays out in the blogosphere. Some members of the audience had never read my blog, so for them, the post would have been an interesting commentary on school life in America through an English woman’s eyes. All the audience at Cyber Mummy were mums (or dads), so the post would have tapped into some of the feelings that all mothers experience from time to time, when our children move on and grow up. The specific interest and the general appeal - a good balance in a post. But there were some people, who have followed my blog through thick and thin, and for them, the post was loaded with significance. They would remember that my daughter started school in the middle of my 12 weeks of chemotherapy, and that it was only by the fortunate chance of where the date fell in the 3-week cycle, that I was well enough to take her. They knew how important that was to me. They knew that at the back of my mind were thoughts not only of her first day at school, but where I would be for her last day of school. I spotted tears at the front table. I love that about blogging – the way we all connect in different ways, and on different levels. It’s a rich web of interactions.
Enough about blogging. Another year has gone by. The tree is decorated. The wicker reindeer is on the front lawn, bedecked in lights. The organic turkey will be collected tomorrow. The egg nog is in the fridge. So this is Crismis.
If I were feeling in a philosophical mood, I would reflect that this has been a year of two halves for me. It started badly, with that trip, when Husband was head-hunted and it all came to naught. Then I don’t really remember much about the spring, except I couldn’t really get back in the groove, and I was truly fed up with people telling me to be gentle with myself and not expect too much of myself, and that getting over a major trauma like cancer would take time. Don’t you just hate it when you know the answers, and people keep telling you them, and it doesn’t make the darnedest bit of difference?
The year’s half time was our trip to the UK, which was lovely. I remember day after day in the sunshine in my mother’s garden, trips to beaches, a very hot visit to Paris, walks on the North York Moors, resting and recuperating. There were tears in the gardens of Grosvenor Square, sprung out of the sheer frustration and anguish involved in getting through the US visa system. I remember that.
Then the second half began with the arrival of my green card, and a job in a toy shop. Morale improved. I was busy. It’s easier to make good use of time at home, when you’re not at home all the time. All three children made happy starts to the school year. I joined the church choir, remembered how very much I love choral singing, and wondered why I’ve done so little of it over the past ten years. We celebrated Thanksgiving in Colorado, which has become something of an annual tradition. I spent a week-end in Chicago with five other British bloggers living in the US, leaving Husband to look after the children and pass a kidney stone (or not pass a kidney stone, as it turned out – it had to be blasted apart a week later). That man is a saint.
In terms of blogging, well, I was a finalist in the MADs awards, in the category ‘Best Writer’, and now it seems I’m a finalist in the BMB Brilliance in Blogging list, in the category ‘Inspirational’. Ooh, get me. The blogging highlight of the year for me was reading out a blog post at Cyber Mummy. I loved doing that. I was really nervous, truth be told. Given that it was an emotional topic, my youngest child’s first day at school, I wasn’t sure I would make it through without tears, so I’d given a copy to a friend in the front who could take over if necessary. Be prepared, as they say in the boy scouts (although I’ve never actually been a boy scout, so I don’t know for sure that that’s what they say). Reading that post reflected how I like to think my blog plays out in the blogosphere. Some members of the audience had never read my blog, so for them, the post would have been an interesting commentary on school life in America through an English woman’s eyes. All the audience at Cyber Mummy were mums (or dads), so the post would have tapped into some of the feelings that all mothers experience from time to time, when our children move on and grow up. The specific interest and the general appeal - a good balance in a post. But there were some people, who have followed my blog through thick and thin, and for them, the post was loaded with significance. They would remember that my daughter started school in the middle of my 12 weeks of chemotherapy, and that it was only by the fortunate chance of where the date fell in the 3-week cycle, that I was well enough to take her. They knew how important that was to me. They knew that at the back of my mind were thoughts not only of her first day at school, but where I would be for her last day of school. I spotted tears at the front table. I love that about blogging – the way we all connect in different ways, and on different levels. It’s a rich web of interactions.
Enough about blogging. Another year has gone by. The tree is decorated. The wicker reindeer is on the front lawn, bedecked in lights. The organic turkey will be collected tomorrow. The egg nog is in the fridge. So this is Crismis.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Christmas picks
This is the time of year when many mummy bloggers do reviews of toys, and give their hot picks for Christmas presents. Well, I’m going to do the opposite. I’m going to give you my cold picks.
The vast, vast majority of the toys in the toy shop where I work are brilliant. They’re high quality, well made, educational, imaginative; some are old favourites, some are different and unusual. I just want to point that out. I need to cover my back in case, just in case, the toy shop owner somehow is reading this and has worked out who Iota is, because I really don’t want to be dooced. And if you are reading this, oh please, please don’t dooce me. I love my job. Please, please don’t give me the sack. I love your shop. I love working in it. I’ll work for you for free.
With that disclaimer, of the thousands (actually, I think it might be tens of thousands) of toys in the shop, there are a very few that I really dislike. So here are my cold picks for 2010.
Hexbugs - I’m sorry, but I just don’t get Hexbugs. We’ve got a couple at home, from 10-yo’s birthday last year. They do two things. They either stay absolutely stationary, or they scuttle in a straight line. Neither is remotely interesting after the first 5 seconds. They are expensive, and as far as I can see, you might as well put your dollar bill or your credit card on the floor. That will stay absolutely stationary, which is 50% of what the Hexbug does. Then you can pick it up again and put it back in your wallet, and have it to spend on a different item. In my opinion, that will have been a much better use of your money. You will miss out on the scuttling, but trust me, you’re not missing out on much. I’m guessing that people buy Hexbugs because some in the series have the title “nano”, and “nano” sounds intelligent and impressive. Even the ones that aren’t “nano” somehow bask in the reflected glory of the ones that are. Also, some boys reach an age where they are almost impossible to buy presents for, and Hexbugs are the straws at which desperate friends and relations clutch.
Ugly Dolls - I don’t see the point of Ugly Dolls. They are ugly. They are overpriced. They do nothing. They don’t even scuttle. If your children ask for an Ugly Doll, it means they’ve got too many toys.
Chew by Numbers kits – I had my first introduction to this concept when 6-yo was in Kindergarten. I used to help out in the classroom each week, and once, I couldn’t believe it when the activity to help the kids learn the letter ‘G’, was to chew gum to make it soft, take it out of their mouths, and then stretch it into a string and stick it onto a sheet of paper in the shape of a ‘G’. Very suitable letter, given the huge number of Germs that were being happily spread around the place. Well, the idea must be flavour of the month with educators and toy designers, because someone has produced these kits containing different coloured gum, which you chew and then stick on to pictures. It’s painting by numbers, but with gum. Yet no-one has had the wit to call it “painting by gum-bers” which would at least add a bit of wry humour to the activity. Answer me one question. Why would anyone buy this kit, when there is a huge range of really good, creative, sensible art kits on the market, which don’t involve chewing and spitting out? Answer me another question. What are you meant to do with these chewing gum pictures when you’ve finished them? Hang them on your wall? Used gum, in colourful blobby shapes, masquerading as art, on your wall? Or put them in a drawer? Yuk. I rest my case.
Anything that says “Everyone loves” on the box - It’s like reading a recipe that says “Children will love this tasty and nutritious snack”. You just know it’s going to have spinach and chick peas in it, and that your children are not going to love it; they’re not even going to try it unless you deploy a big bribe. We sell a craft kit for making wind chimes that says “Everyone loves wind chimes” on the box. Well, I have news for the manufacturer. I don’t love wind chimes. I don’t mind them. I don’t object to them. But I don’t love them. So that’s a fib, right there, before the description goes any further. I am one person. So if I don’t love wind chimes, you can’t say “Everyone loves wind chimes”. Who wants to buy a toy from a company that fibs? We’re all ethical consumers these days.
Snap circuits - I have no idea what these are, in all honesty. I just know that the description on the box makes no sense: “Have fun learning all about electronics”. That is a sentence made up of two entirely discrete concepts – “have fun”, and “learning all about electronics”. That sentence is like vinaigrette. You can shake it vigorously, and it’ll be tasty for a short while, but then the oil and the vinegar will separate out again. You just can’t force two things to combine that don’t belong together. I think the word I’m looking for is immiscible. (Oh, how very, very gratifying. That is indeed the word, but it’s not in Microsoft’s thesaurus. I’m more literate than Microsoft! Ha!) I do have to tell you, though, that we sell a lot of snap circuits, and that people love them and come back for more. There are things called "snap circuit extension kits". I really have no idea at all what those four words mean (though I will happily sell you a box).
So those are my cold picks. I do have one more. It’s not so much a cold pick, as a frozen pick. It’s an item I hate with exquisite loathing. I’ll tell you about it in the next post.
The vast, vast majority of the toys in the toy shop where I work are brilliant. They’re high quality, well made, educational, imaginative; some are old favourites, some are different and unusual. I just want to point that out. I need to cover my back in case, just in case, the toy shop owner somehow is reading this and has worked out who Iota is, because I really don’t want to be dooced. And if you are reading this, oh please, please don’t dooce me. I love my job. Please, please don’t give me the sack. I love your shop. I love working in it. I’ll work for you for free.
With that disclaimer, of the thousands (actually, I think it might be tens of thousands) of toys in the shop, there are a very few that I really dislike. So here are my cold picks for 2010.
Hexbugs - I’m sorry, but I just don’t get Hexbugs. We’ve got a couple at home, from 10-yo’s birthday last year. They do two things. They either stay absolutely stationary, or they scuttle in a straight line. Neither is remotely interesting after the first 5 seconds. They are expensive, and as far as I can see, you might as well put your dollar bill or your credit card on the floor. That will stay absolutely stationary, which is 50% of what the Hexbug does. Then you can pick it up again and put it back in your wallet, and have it to spend on a different item. In my opinion, that will have been a much better use of your money. You will miss out on the scuttling, but trust me, you’re not missing out on much. I’m guessing that people buy Hexbugs because some in the series have the title “nano”, and “nano” sounds intelligent and impressive. Even the ones that aren’t “nano” somehow bask in the reflected glory of the ones that are. Also, some boys reach an age where they are almost impossible to buy presents for, and Hexbugs are the straws at which desperate friends and relations clutch.
Ugly Dolls - I don’t see the point of Ugly Dolls. They are ugly. They are overpriced. They do nothing. They don’t even scuttle. If your children ask for an Ugly Doll, it means they’ve got too many toys.
Chew by Numbers kits – I had my first introduction to this concept when 6-yo was in Kindergarten. I used to help out in the classroom each week, and once, I couldn’t believe it when the activity to help the kids learn the letter ‘G’, was to chew gum to make it soft, take it out of their mouths, and then stretch it into a string and stick it onto a sheet of paper in the shape of a ‘G’. Very suitable letter, given the huge number of Germs that were being happily spread around the place. Well, the idea must be flavour of the month with educators and toy designers, because someone has produced these kits containing different coloured gum, which you chew and then stick on to pictures. It’s painting by numbers, but with gum. Yet no-one has had the wit to call it “painting by gum-bers” which would at least add a bit of wry humour to the activity. Answer me one question. Why would anyone buy this kit, when there is a huge range of really good, creative, sensible art kits on the market, which don’t involve chewing and spitting out? Answer me another question. What are you meant to do with these chewing gum pictures when you’ve finished them? Hang them on your wall? Used gum, in colourful blobby shapes, masquerading as art, on your wall? Or put them in a drawer? Yuk. I rest my case.
Anything that says “Everyone loves” on the box - It’s like reading a recipe that says “Children will love this tasty and nutritious snack”. You just know it’s going to have spinach and chick peas in it, and that your children are not going to love it; they’re not even going to try it unless you deploy a big bribe. We sell a craft kit for making wind chimes that says “Everyone loves wind chimes” on the box. Well, I have news for the manufacturer. I don’t love wind chimes. I don’t mind them. I don’t object to them. But I don’t love them. So that’s a fib, right there, before the description goes any further. I am one person. So if I don’t love wind chimes, you can’t say “Everyone loves wind chimes”. Who wants to buy a toy from a company that fibs? We’re all ethical consumers these days.
Snap circuits - I have no idea what these are, in all honesty. I just know that the description on the box makes no sense: “Have fun learning all about electronics”. That is a sentence made up of two entirely discrete concepts – “have fun”, and “learning all about electronics”. That sentence is like vinaigrette. You can shake it vigorously, and it’ll be tasty for a short while, but then the oil and the vinegar will separate out again. You just can’t force two things to combine that don’t belong together. I think the word I’m looking for is immiscible. (Oh, how very, very gratifying. That is indeed the word, but it’s not in Microsoft’s thesaurus. I’m more literate than Microsoft! Ha!) I do have to tell you, though, that we sell a lot of snap circuits, and that people love them and come back for more. There are things called "snap circuit extension kits". I really have no idea at all what those four words mean (though I will happily sell you a box).
So those are my cold picks. I do have one more. It’s not so much a cold pick, as a frozen pick. It’s an item I hate with exquisite loathing. I’ll tell you about it in the next post.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
The Christmas story
Christmas is coming, in case you hadn’t noticed, and here at The Iota Quota I’ve been thinking about Herod. Just to get into a festive mood.
Now Herod was not a nice man. Oooh no, not a nice man at all. If you’d been around at the time of the Nativity (and please, Americans, do we have to pronounce it Nay-tivity? Can’t we just stick to N’tivity? Please?)… If you’d been around at that time, you’d have heard very little about the shepherds and the angels, I’m guessing, because life would have been completely dominated by the horrific events instigated by Herod. Do you remember? He didn’t like the idea of anyone challenging his rule, so when the Magi pitched up, with their stories of the special star and the special baby, he came up with a plan, and ordered all the infants under the age of 2 to be slaughtered, in front of their parents. I’m told that fourteen thousand babies died. Fourteen thousand. Herod was not a nice man.
Mary and Joseph slipped away to Egypt, and somehow, down the ages, those other babies and their weeping, scared, scarred parents have been relegated to second place in the story. Well, I’m remembering them here.
Thinking about this story, I’ve noticed something this time round that I’ve never noticed before. The Magi. They’re meant to be the good guys. Wise, rich, exotic, generous, journeying patiently, seeking diligently, wearing fancy crowns. But they did a bad thing. They went to see Herod on their way to Jerusalem. They were warned in a dream not to go and see him on their way home, but it was too late by then. The damage had been done. Why did they do that? Why did they go to Jerusalem? Couldn’t they just have steered their camels to Bethlehem? They must have known that Herod was bad news.
I think they went to see Herod, because that’s what powerful people do. They like to hang out with other powerful people. No doubt they were well-received, and treated royally, and who doesn’t like to be treated royally? And listen to what they said: “Where is he who has been born king of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the East, and have come to worship him.” Yes. Because we all like people to know when we’re about our religious business. If you’ve made a big effort to go on a spiritual journey, it’s a shame if other people don’t know about it. Especially if it has involved a bit of hardship and a few trials. But Magi, my friends, your desire to be kingly and to have your mission weightily appreciated may well have cost the lives of fourteen thousand babies.
I’m disappointed in the Magi, frankly. It’s disconcerting when you see the flaws in the good guys. I’ve always preferred them to the shepherds, actually. I mean, they had to trek across nations following a mysterious moving target, while the shepherds were conveniently right there just by Bethlehem, and had the benefit of a skyful of angels telling them what was what. All they had to do was straighten up the tea towels on their heads, and walk down the hillside. They're always depicted with a lamb or two, but let's think about that for a minute. They would either have taken the whole flock with them (bit cosy in the stable), or they'd have left someone in charge on the hillside, in which case they wouldn't have needed to take any with them at all. Maybe one of the heavenly host tipped them the wink. "Psst. Take a lamb with you. You know... A lamb...? For the symbolism...?"
My favourite character in the story, though, is Mary. And I’ve seen something new about her this time round too. When she and Joseph escaped to Egypt, how horrible that must have been for them. They must have felt such awful, dreadful relief at having protected their precious baby, their firstborn, from Herod’s henchmen with their instruments of death. But I’m sure they felt horrible guilt too. Can you imagine? Escaping when fourteen thousand didn’t? The news of the slaughter must have reached them, and they must have been sick at heart. How did they cope with it? When they returned from Egypt and went to Nazareth, did they avoid Bethlehem? I bet they did. To have a living child among such bereavement would have been a most terrible burden. The lesser burden, but a terrible burden nonetheless. Terrible, and so lonely.
We’re not told very much about Mary at this point, but we are told that she “kept all these things, pondering them in her heart”. I love that. If there’s one thing that I’ve learnt from all the mummy blogs I read, it’s that there is quiet pondering a-plenty that goes on in a mother’s heart. I suppose Mary had more to ponder than most of us, what with the visitation from the Angel Gabriel, and the donkey ride, and the shepherds, and the Magi. And just think of the pressure you’d be under to look your best after the birth, if you knew that your picture was going to be on Christmas cards for several millennia?
Yes, I think Mary must have had very many lonely and difficult days. I'm glad she had Joseph. Obviously a great bloke, choosing to stick with her and look after her, though she was carrying a child who wasn't his own. We're thinking the Dad from Little House on the Prairie meets Atticus from To Kill a Mocking Bird.
Whatever you think of the historical reality of the Nay-tivity, you’ve got to admit, it’s a great story. Tell me, who’s your favourite character?
Now Herod was not a nice man. Oooh no, not a nice man at all. If you’d been around at the time of the Nativity (and please, Americans, do we have to pronounce it Nay-tivity? Can’t we just stick to N’tivity? Please?)… If you’d been around at that time, you’d have heard very little about the shepherds and the angels, I’m guessing, because life would have been completely dominated by the horrific events instigated by Herod. Do you remember? He didn’t like the idea of anyone challenging his rule, so when the Magi pitched up, with their stories of the special star and the special baby, he came up with a plan, and ordered all the infants under the age of 2 to be slaughtered, in front of their parents. I’m told that fourteen thousand babies died. Fourteen thousand. Herod was not a nice man.
Mary and Joseph slipped away to Egypt, and somehow, down the ages, those other babies and their weeping, scared, scarred parents have been relegated to second place in the story. Well, I’m remembering them here.
Thinking about this story, I’ve noticed something this time round that I’ve never noticed before. The Magi. They’re meant to be the good guys. Wise, rich, exotic, generous, journeying patiently, seeking diligently, wearing fancy crowns. But they did a bad thing. They went to see Herod on their way to Jerusalem. They were warned in a dream not to go and see him on their way home, but it was too late by then. The damage had been done. Why did they do that? Why did they go to Jerusalem? Couldn’t they just have steered their camels to Bethlehem? They must have known that Herod was bad news.
I think they went to see Herod, because that’s what powerful people do. They like to hang out with other powerful people. No doubt they were well-received, and treated royally, and who doesn’t like to be treated royally? And listen to what they said: “Where is he who has been born king of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the East, and have come to worship him.” Yes. Because we all like people to know when we’re about our religious business. If you’ve made a big effort to go on a spiritual journey, it’s a shame if other people don’t know about it. Especially if it has involved a bit of hardship and a few trials. But Magi, my friends, your desire to be kingly and to have your mission weightily appreciated may well have cost the lives of fourteen thousand babies.
I’m disappointed in the Magi, frankly. It’s disconcerting when you see the flaws in the good guys. I’ve always preferred them to the shepherds, actually. I mean, they had to trek across nations following a mysterious moving target, while the shepherds were conveniently right there just by Bethlehem, and had the benefit of a skyful of angels telling them what was what. All they had to do was straighten up the tea towels on their heads, and walk down the hillside. They're always depicted with a lamb or two, but let's think about that for a minute. They would either have taken the whole flock with them (bit cosy in the stable), or they'd have left someone in charge on the hillside, in which case they wouldn't have needed to take any with them at all. Maybe one of the heavenly host tipped them the wink. "Psst. Take a lamb with you. You know... A lamb...? For the symbolism...?"
My favourite character in the story, though, is Mary. And I’ve seen something new about her this time round too. When she and Joseph escaped to Egypt, how horrible that must have been for them. They must have felt such awful, dreadful relief at having protected their precious baby, their firstborn, from Herod’s henchmen with their instruments of death. But I’m sure they felt horrible guilt too. Can you imagine? Escaping when fourteen thousand didn’t? The news of the slaughter must have reached them, and they must have been sick at heart. How did they cope with it? When they returned from Egypt and went to Nazareth, did they avoid Bethlehem? I bet they did. To have a living child among such bereavement would have been a most terrible burden. The lesser burden, but a terrible burden nonetheless. Terrible, and so lonely.
We’re not told very much about Mary at this point, but we are told that she “kept all these things, pondering them in her heart”. I love that. If there’s one thing that I’ve learnt from all the mummy blogs I read, it’s that there is quiet pondering a-plenty that goes on in a mother’s heart. I suppose Mary had more to ponder than most of us, what with the visitation from the Angel Gabriel, and the donkey ride, and the shepherds, and the Magi. And just think of the pressure you’d be under to look your best after the birth, if you knew that your picture was going to be on Christmas cards for several millennia?
Yes, I think Mary must have had very many lonely and difficult days. I'm glad she had Joseph. Obviously a great bloke, choosing to stick with her and look after her, though she was carrying a child who wasn't his own. We're thinking the Dad from Little House on the Prairie meets Atticus from To Kill a Mocking Bird.
Whatever you think of the historical reality of the Nay-tivity, you’ve got to admit, it’s a great story. Tell me, who’s your favourite character?
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Christmas tips
To tip or not to tip? Who do you tip at Christmas?
This year, we tipped the mailman. He made it kind of obvious, by leaving us a card explaining that routes were being rearranged, so that he would no longer be our mailman in 2010, and saying how much he’d enjoyed working our patch over the past however many years. I felt a bit obliged, but I didn’t mind, as he’s always been a fantastic mailman. He’s gone out of his way to make life easy – arranging to stop mail if we’re away (you usually have to go to the post office and fill in a form), and doing his best to deliver parcels that need signatures at convenient times.
I remember when I was a child, our paper boy adopted a similar strategy. He left a Christmas card wishing his customers a merry Christmas, and detailing the number of hours he spent on the round, the amount he was paid, and the amount he estimated it cost him to do the job (mostly wear and tear on his bike). The newsagent made the poor lad go round to each house and apologise in person. I suppose England in the 1970’s had less stomach for blatant tip solicitation than America in the 2000’s.
My worst Christmas tipping moment happened in Scotland a few years ago. The window cleaners had come round, and I was doing that thing of lurking around the house trying to avoid the rooms they were working on, but also trying to make it look as if I was totally relaxed and not doing that at all, just getting on with my normal business, which - as usual - was taking me from room to room every few minutes. On this occasion, not only was I lurking and roaming, but I was also cogitating the appropriateness of a tip.
I decided I would give them a Christmas extra. I imagined that being a window cleaner in Scotland in December didn’t have much warmth and cosiness about it, and that a Christmas tip might just provide a rare warm and cosy moment. So I went out the back door in search of the head window man. As I rounded the corner of the house, there he was, with his back to me, standing close to the house, doing up his flies.
Now, if this scenario took place today, a bit of American assertiveness having rubbed off on me in the 3 years we’ve been here, I think I’d say,
“Excuse me. I’d prefer it if you didn’t urinate against the wall of my house. You are very welcome to come inside at any time and use the bathroom. If you don’t want to do that, I’d appreciate it if you urinated at the far end of the garden, and not right next to the window of our guest bedroom, spotless though that window is – on the outside at any rate.”
But this was a few years ago, and I was far too British for that kind of approach. What I did was to fix my eyes on a spot somewhere to the north west of his face, and certainly far north of his fingers fumbling with the zip, and say,
“Um... er... um... this is for you” (thrusting the wad of notes towards him, the usual amount and the tip),
“and... um... er... um... Happy Christmas. Yes, um... Happy Christmas!”
He in turn looked at a point significantly to one side of me, and replied,
“Oh... er... um... thank you very much.”
It’s great being British, isn’t it?
.
This year, we tipped the mailman. He made it kind of obvious, by leaving us a card explaining that routes were being rearranged, so that he would no longer be our mailman in 2010, and saying how much he’d enjoyed working our patch over the past however many years. I felt a bit obliged, but I didn’t mind, as he’s always been a fantastic mailman. He’s gone out of his way to make life easy – arranging to stop mail if we’re away (you usually have to go to the post office and fill in a form), and doing his best to deliver parcels that need signatures at convenient times.
I remember when I was a child, our paper boy adopted a similar strategy. He left a Christmas card wishing his customers a merry Christmas, and detailing the number of hours he spent on the round, the amount he was paid, and the amount he estimated it cost him to do the job (mostly wear and tear on his bike). The newsagent made the poor lad go round to each house and apologise in person. I suppose England in the 1970’s had less stomach for blatant tip solicitation than America in the 2000’s.
My worst Christmas tipping moment happened in Scotland a few years ago. The window cleaners had come round, and I was doing that thing of lurking around the house trying to avoid the rooms they were working on, but also trying to make it look as if I was totally relaxed and not doing that at all, just getting on with my normal business, which - as usual - was taking me from room to room every few minutes. On this occasion, not only was I lurking and roaming, but I was also cogitating the appropriateness of a tip.
I decided I would give them a Christmas extra. I imagined that being a window cleaner in Scotland in December didn’t have much warmth and cosiness about it, and that a Christmas tip might just provide a rare warm and cosy moment. So I went out the back door in search of the head window man. As I rounded the corner of the house, there he was, with his back to me, standing close to the house, doing up his flies.
Now, if this scenario took place today, a bit of American assertiveness having rubbed off on me in the 3 years we’ve been here, I think I’d say,
“Excuse me. I’d prefer it if you didn’t urinate against the wall of my house. You are very welcome to come inside at any time and use the bathroom. If you don’t want to do that, I’d appreciate it if you urinated at the far end of the garden, and not right next to the window of our guest bedroom, spotless though that window is – on the outside at any rate.”
But this was a few years ago, and I was far too British for that kind of approach. What I did was to fix my eyes on a spot somewhere to the north west of his face, and certainly far north of his fingers fumbling with the zip, and say,
“Um... er... um... this is for you” (thrusting the wad of notes towards him, the usual amount and the tip),
“and... um... er... um... Happy Christmas. Yes, um... Happy Christmas!”
He in turn looked at a point significantly to one side of me, and replied,
“Oh... er... um... thank you very much.”
It’s great being British, isn’t it?
.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Then one bloggy Christmas eve(ning)
I wondered if there was something a bit sad about posting on Christmas Day. But I decided that there isn't (although Blogger is down, so I've had a frustrating time trying to read posts and leave comments, and who knows if this will make it onto my blog). The children are asleep upstairs, my parents-in-law and sister-in-law are retiring to bed downstairs in the basement, and it's as if I have the house to myself. There's a quietness and a stillness that I'm enjoying in contrast to the noise and excitement of the past 16 hours.
Husband has just wandered down in a t-shirt that is as old as our relationship (15 years), which has a picture of me on the front of it. It was made by some friends for him when we got engaged. In those days, printing a photo onto a garment was a real novelty. It wasn't like today, when you can't move for smiling children on mouse mats and household pets on key fobs. The t-shirt is Husband's garment of choice for nightwear. I rather like the picture of me on it, actually. Young, carefree, smiling, looking over one shoulder at the camera and pretending I didn't know I was about to be photographed. Having been through the wash regularly over 15 years hasn't done much for me, it must be said, and I'm very faded, but still smiling.
"Are you coming to bed?" Husband asked.
"Soon", I replied. "I'm just needing some me time."
I'm probably less tired than him, as this afternoon I slept through the entire length of Mr Bean's Christmas Special - the movie that was drawn out of the hat, winning over Snow Buddies and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. I imagine I would have slept through either of those too.
Today I have:
Woken up at 4.45am and remembered that I hadn't put the dishwasher on, crept downstairs, decided that putting it on might wake sleeping visitors (it's a very noisy dishwasher), and crept upstairs again,
Read aloud a note by the fireplace which said "Yum yum, thank you very much. Love, Santa Claus", while knowing that the cookies (which 5-yo iced at her Kindergarten party, and which have been in a ziploc bag in her backpack for a week) were in the kitchen bin,
Laundered a bath mat (don't ask, it was a puzzle to me too),
Cooked salmon for eight,
Finished a 1,000 piece jigsaw with no picture to copy from (group effort, that one, not me personally),
Wondered how to get a big, bright pink stain out of woodwork, left by 5-yo's Glitter Lava Ice craft kit,
Cut a chunk of hair out of 5-yo's head, right above her forehead, as the only way of removing a large glob of Glitter Lava Ice,
Wondered who on earth thought up the name Glitter Lava Ice, surely a contradiction in terms,
Skyped and phoned family in Britain, and heard all about the snow there,
Boasted back about our Midwestern snow: "Oh, it'll be here for ages - the forecast says it won't get above freezing for several days",
Unwrapped some lovely presents, including ones bought proudly by my two sons with their own money,
Created merriment by saying that the little Santas we have as a table centre, gathered round a battery-powered nightlight, looked as if they were huddling together and warming themselves round a brassiere.
I hope you have had as happy a day as I have. Perhaps you've even managed to sneak some me time in there too, even if at 11.30 at night. But now I'm tired, and I will wend my way upstairs (after putting on the dishwasher this time), and join the faded, crumpled, eternally youthful version of myself already in bed with Shadowy Santa.
To all, a good night.
.
Husband has just wandered down in a t-shirt that is as old as our relationship (15 years), which has a picture of me on the front of it. It was made by some friends for him when we got engaged. In those days, printing a photo onto a garment was a real novelty. It wasn't like today, when you can't move for smiling children on mouse mats and household pets on key fobs. The t-shirt is Husband's garment of choice for nightwear. I rather like the picture of me on it, actually. Young, carefree, smiling, looking over one shoulder at the camera and pretending I didn't know I was about to be photographed. Having been through the wash regularly over 15 years hasn't done much for me, it must be said, and I'm very faded, but still smiling.
"Are you coming to bed?" Husband asked.
"Soon", I replied. "I'm just needing some me time."
I'm probably less tired than him, as this afternoon I slept through the entire length of Mr Bean's Christmas Special - the movie that was drawn out of the hat, winning over Snow Buddies and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. I imagine I would have slept through either of those too.
Today I have:
Woken up at 4.45am and remembered that I hadn't put the dishwasher on, crept downstairs, decided that putting it on might wake sleeping visitors (it's a very noisy dishwasher), and crept upstairs again,
Read aloud a note by the fireplace which said "Yum yum, thank you very much. Love, Santa Claus", while knowing that the cookies (which 5-yo iced at her Kindergarten party, and which have been in a ziploc bag in her backpack for a week) were in the kitchen bin,
Laundered a bath mat (don't ask, it was a puzzle to me too),
Cooked salmon for eight,
Finished a 1,000 piece jigsaw with no picture to copy from (group effort, that one, not me personally),
Wondered how to get a big, bright pink stain out of woodwork, left by 5-yo's Glitter Lava Ice craft kit,
Cut a chunk of hair out of 5-yo's head, right above her forehead, as the only way of removing a large glob of Glitter Lava Ice,
Wondered who on earth thought up the name Glitter Lava Ice, surely a contradiction in terms,
Skyped and phoned family in Britain, and heard all about the snow there,
Boasted back about our Midwestern snow: "Oh, it'll be here for ages - the forecast says it won't get above freezing for several days",
Unwrapped some lovely presents, including ones bought proudly by my two sons with their own money,
Created merriment by saying that the little Santas we have as a table centre, gathered round a battery-powered nightlight, looked as if they were huddling together and warming themselves round a brassiere.
I hope you have had as happy a day as I have. Perhaps you've even managed to sneak some me time in there too, even if at 11.30 at night. But now I'm tired, and I will wend my way upstairs (after putting on the dishwasher this time), and join the faded, crumpled, eternally youthful version of myself already in bed with Shadowy Santa.
To all, a good night.
.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Body parts: missing in action
Day 15 of 'The Daily Post' - and my 200th blog post.
It’s amazing, when you come to think of it, how many body parts you can do without. Your appendix, tonsils, adenoids, gall bladder…
I made an inventory of the bits and pieces that I’ve lost. I'll start with my wisdom teeth, which I had out in my early 20s. Haven’t missed them at all. I had all four out at the same time under local anaesthetic. This didn't strike me as particularly unusual or brave at the time, but since then, I've only met one other person who hasn't had a general anaesthetic for four simultaneous wisdom extractions. I did ask the dental surgeon why he did all four at once, and he replied "It's not a very pleasant procedure, and I usually find that if I do two, then the patient doesn't want to come back and have the other two done." Actually it wasn't too bad.
Back to the inventory:
The boobs, of course.
A lymph node.
My hair.
Three moles – one which I didn’t like the look of a few years ago, and then a couple more in the armpit/chest area, that the breast surgeon removed as a bit of a freebie (“Have a mastectomy, and I’ll throw in a couple of molectomies for you.”) They were going to analyse those, but the lab lost them, which I have to say, didn’t inspire my confidence. The breast surgeon reassured me: “it’s not as if they lost them, really. It’s just that they’ll be in a huge bank of thousands and thousands of samples, and we could ask for the lab to go through all those samples and find them, but I really honestly think that would be wasting someone’s time, because I had a good look at them and they weren’t at all suspicious.” Which might have been medical speak for “my resident fouled up and forgot to send them to the lab”. I decided not to pursue the matter, since I had had all my moles checked at my annual well woman appointment, and those ones had indeed been deemed to be not worrying.
Looking at this list, it reminds me of a song. When the season is right, I can sing:
On the fifth day of Christmas, I had removed from me:
Five hundred thousand hairs (rough estimate)
Four wisdom teeth
Three brown moles
Two lovely boobs
And a lymph node.
Poor impaired me!
.
It’s amazing, when you come to think of it, how many body parts you can do without. Your appendix, tonsils, adenoids, gall bladder…
I made an inventory of the bits and pieces that I’ve lost. I'll start with my wisdom teeth, which I had out in my early 20s. Haven’t missed them at all. I had all four out at the same time under local anaesthetic. This didn't strike me as particularly unusual or brave at the time, but since then, I've only met one other person who hasn't had a general anaesthetic for four simultaneous wisdom extractions. I did ask the dental surgeon why he did all four at once, and he replied "It's not a very pleasant procedure, and I usually find that if I do two, then the patient doesn't want to come back and have the other two done." Actually it wasn't too bad.
Back to the inventory:
The boobs, of course.
A lymph node.
My hair.
Three moles – one which I didn’t like the look of a few years ago, and then a couple more in the armpit/chest area, that the breast surgeon removed as a bit of a freebie (“Have a mastectomy, and I’ll throw in a couple of molectomies for you.”) They were going to analyse those, but the lab lost them, which I have to say, didn’t inspire my confidence. The breast surgeon reassured me: “it’s not as if they lost them, really. It’s just that they’ll be in a huge bank of thousands and thousands of samples, and we could ask for the lab to go through all those samples and find them, but I really honestly think that would be wasting someone’s time, because I had a good look at them and they weren’t at all suspicious.” Which might have been medical speak for “my resident fouled up and forgot to send them to the lab”. I decided not to pursue the matter, since I had had all my moles checked at my annual well woman appointment, and those ones had indeed been deemed to be not worrying.
Looking at this list, it reminds me of a song. When the season is right, I can sing:
On the fifth day of Christmas, I had removed from me:
Five hundred thousand hairs (rough estimate)
Four wisdom teeth
Three brown moles
Two lovely boobs
And a lymph node.
Poor impaired me!
.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Wonderfully Weird Parenting: Part ll
The next way I'm weird is that I didn't really want my children to believe in Father Christmas. I never did, since my older sister had been terrified at the idea of a strange man coming into the house, and so my parents had never had the chance to spin the story. I never felt I missed out. Parents talk fondly of the magic of Christmas, but I always had plenty of that in the sheer excitement of waking up on Christmas morning and kicking at the end of the bed to feel the lumpy stocking there. It hadn't been any less fun for knowing where it had come from. As a family, we enjoyed the whole charade, and played along with the story, while we all knew it wasn't true. It was like a great shared secret.
When our first child reached Christmas-appreciating age, I'd rather planned to go down the same route. Then I discovered that to the great majority of parents, it was hugely important to keep the Father Christmas myth alive for as long as possible. I honestly had had no idea before then, that this was of such consequence. I didn't really want to get my son to believe the story because of my own experience as a child, and because I anticipated a day when he would find out and would then wonder what else I'd been fibbing to him about. I wanted him to be able to trust me 100%, always. It made me uneasy to sell him a fiction as a fact. I also knew of older children deeply upset on finding out they were the last child in their class still to believe.
The assumption at my son's preschool was so strong, that we were all doing the Father Christmas thing to the Nth degree, that it would have been very difficult to opt out. I heard tales of mothers who had let older siblings tell, and how this had ruined Christmas in previous years. I heard of the devious tales that children were told to explain how Father Christmas managed to get gifts to the right place, when a child was spending Christmas away from home. It was a huge conspiracy, carefully guarded, and even if I'd been brave enough to have broken out myself, I had to think through the ramifications of that for my son. For him, it would have been a hard burden to bear to be the only 3 year old at the Christmas party who knew that Father Christmas was in fact one of the dads with a pillow up his front, and to know that he must not tell any of the other children under any circumstance. I certainly wasn’t going to risk letting him be the child who spoiled Christmas for 20 families.
So I went along with the majority, but I confess that I did sow seeds of doubt. I would tell my son "it's amazing how Father Christmas manages to get round all the houses in the world in one night - I wonder how that can be", or "you know that song about how you only get presents from Father Christmas if you've been good? well, the funny thing is, when it comes to it, ALL children get presents after all". Call me subversive, but hey, in this house, the children imbibe doses of irony along with their mother's milk, so even at 3, I was fairly sure that my son was picking up at least some vague sense that when we talked of “Father Christmas", we did so with invisible inverted commas.
The saving grace for me, was a Canadian couple who hosted a St Nicholas’ Day party, early in December the following year. I hadn’t known before then how the Father Christmas legend had developed from an early East European bishop (Saint Nicholas becoming Santa Claus). He gave money and food to the poor, leaving it tactfully in the shoes they left outside their doors, which over time became the presents in the stockings. To me, this gave the perfect half-way house between truth and fiction, with the divide nicely blurred. Now, I talk about how there was a real man, a long long time ago, who was the real Santa Claus. But when they've asked me outright what happens to the stockings by the fireplace, I've started by fudging with "who knows?", and then over time, have come clean and confessed that it is really Mummy and Daddy. But we say "it's fun to pretend it's him", and we do just that. We do the carrot for the reindeer and the mince pie and whisky for Santa, and on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, we act it out just like proper believing families. There’s plenty of mystery and magic, but no room for future disappointment.
But here’s the really intriguing thing. Even when I have debunked the myth, my children have each believed, because they have chosen to. For each of them, there have been 2 or 3 years when they have known that Santa isn’t real, but they’ve believed in him anyway. I don’t know whether it’s peer group pressure, or the desire for fairy tale, but they have taken the lead and acted the story out so hard, that Husband and I have followed along. For you non-weird parents, that may well be an argument to support your approach of keeping the myth alive from the outset. I prefer to interpret it as an argument that it doesn’t really matter which approach you take, so long as everyone has fun.
When our first child reached Christmas-appreciating age, I'd rather planned to go down the same route. Then I discovered that to the great majority of parents, it was hugely important to keep the Father Christmas myth alive for as long as possible. I honestly had had no idea before then, that this was of such consequence. I didn't really want to get my son to believe the story because of my own experience as a child, and because I anticipated a day when he would find out and would then wonder what else I'd been fibbing to him about. I wanted him to be able to trust me 100%, always. It made me uneasy to sell him a fiction as a fact. I also knew of older children deeply upset on finding out they were the last child in their class still to believe.
The assumption at my son's preschool was so strong, that we were all doing the Father Christmas thing to the Nth degree, that it would have been very difficult to opt out. I heard tales of mothers who had let older siblings tell, and how this had ruined Christmas in previous years. I heard of the devious tales that children were told to explain how Father Christmas managed to get gifts to the right place, when a child was spending Christmas away from home. It was a huge conspiracy, carefully guarded, and even if I'd been brave enough to have broken out myself, I had to think through the ramifications of that for my son. For him, it would have been a hard burden to bear to be the only 3 year old at the Christmas party who knew that Father Christmas was in fact one of the dads with a pillow up his front, and to know that he must not tell any of the other children under any circumstance. I certainly wasn’t going to risk letting him be the child who spoiled Christmas for 20 families.
So I went along with the majority, but I confess that I did sow seeds of doubt. I would tell my son "it's amazing how Father Christmas manages to get round all the houses in the world in one night - I wonder how that can be", or "you know that song about how you only get presents from Father Christmas if you've been good? well, the funny thing is, when it comes to it, ALL children get presents after all". Call me subversive, but hey, in this house, the children imbibe doses of irony along with their mother's milk, so even at 3, I was fairly sure that my son was picking up at least some vague sense that when we talked of “Father Christmas", we did so with invisible inverted commas.
The saving grace for me, was a Canadian couple who hosted a St Nicholas’ Day party, early in December the following year. I hadn’t known before then how the Father Christmas legend had developed from an early East European bishop (Saint Nicholas becoming Santa Claus). He gave money and food to the poor, leaving it tactfully in the shoes they left outside their doors, which over time became the presents in the stockings. To me, this gave the perfect half-way house between truth and fiction, with the divide nicely blurred. Now, I talk about how there was a real man, a long long time ago, who was the real Santa Claus. But when they've asked me outright what happens to the stockings by the fireplace, I've started by fudging with "who knows?", and then over time, have come clean and confessed that it is really Mummy and Daddy. But we say "it's fun to pretend it's him", and we do just that. We do the carrot for the reindeer and the mince pie and whisky for Santa, and on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, we act it out just like proper believing families. There’s plenty of mystery and magic, but no room for future disappointment.
But here’s the really intriguing thing. Even when I have debunked the myth, my children have each believed, because they have chosen to. For each of them, there have been 2 or 3 years when they have known that Santa isn’t real, but they’ve believed in him anyway. I don’t know whether it’s peer group pressure, or the desire for fairy tale, but they have taken the lead and acted the story out so hard, that Husband and I have followed along. For you non-weird parents, that may well be an argument to support your approach of keeping the myth alive from the outset. I prefer to interpret it as an argument that it doesn’t really matter which approach you take, so long as everyone has fun.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
The inauguration
I have some interesting neighborhood graffiti I'd like to share with you, and a picture of a dinosaur made out of model magic by my 2nd grader, but I feel that these things should be put to one side today, as the world watches Washington DC.
I feel a bit cheated here. There hasn't been much excitement about the inauguration. They did get the kids to watch it at school on tv, but I haven't felt much of the buzz and the awe that seems to be around elsewhere in the world. From what I gather, you're more excited about it in Britain than here in the Midwest. Perhaps I should clarify. I heard Chicago, home of the Obamas in their pre-White House days, described on the radio this morning as "the Midwest", and I bet they're pretty excited about it in Chicago. But oh my goodness me. Chicago? That's not the Midwest. When I say "the Midwest" I mean "the proper Midwest" which is what I believe some people call "the Plains". We're a staunchly Republican state, so maybe that is why I haven't sensed too much excitement about the inauguration. Which is a shame, as elsewhere, if the media is to be believed, Americans of both political persuasions are excited about Obama, at this significant moment in the history of the country. Vision, hope, optimism - these are all words that have been ringing in the ears of anyone watching or reading the media reports. I'm a bit sad it's passed me by.
I'm sorry to disappoint any of you who were hoping for great things from this blog on the inauguration, but I'm just telling it like it is. I'll have to rely on a story from the UK, since there is little of interest to report from here.
A friend of mine tells me she was watching some of the inauguration with her 4 year old daughter. She tried to explain what was going on, and said Barack Obama was probably the most important man in the world. Without a second's hesitation, her daughter asked, "Well, what about Father Christmas?" (That's Santa Claus to my American readers, in case you didn't know.)
I feel a bit cheated here. There hasn't been much excitement about the inauguration. They did get the kids to watch it at school on tv, but I haven't felt much of the buzz and the awe that seems to be around elsewhere in the world. From what I gather, you're more excited about it in Britain than here in the Midwest. Perhaps I should clarify. I heard Chicago, home of the Obamas in their pre-White House days, described on the radio this morning as "the Midwest", and I bet they're pretty excited about it in Chicago. But oh my goodness me. Chicago? That's not the Midwest. When I say "the Midwest" I mean "the proper Midwest" which is what I believe some people call "the Plains". We're a staunchly Republican state, so maybe that is why I haven't sensed too much excitement about the inauguration. Which is a shame, as elsewhere, if the media is to be believed, Americans of both political persuasions are excited about Obama, at this significant moment in the history of the country. Vision, hope, optimism - these are all words that have been ringing in the ears of anyone watching or reading the media reports. I'm a bit sad it's passed me by.
I'm sorry to disappoint any of you who were hoping for great things from this blog on the inauguration, but I'm just telling it like it is. I'll have to rely on a story from the UK, since there is little of interest to report from here.
A friend of mine tells me she was watching some of the inauguration with her 4 year old daughter. She tried to explain what was going on, and said Barack Obama was probably the most important man in the world. Without a second's hesitation, her daughter asked, "Well, what about Father Christmas?" (That's Santa Claus to my American readers, in case you didn't know.)
Monday, January 5, 2009
Christmas words
We had a few interesting linguistic excursions in our house over the Christmas break.
I don't go out of my way to encourage rogue versions of carols, although the last few posts might lead you to think so. Nonetheless, 4-yo came up with her own. She would sing
"Deck the halls with boughs of holly
'Tis the season to be naughty"
and then laugh uproariously. (Try saying it with an American accent, and you'll see that the rhyme is closer than it looks.)
Then 8-yo asked the following question:
"You know when a boy thinks a girl is pretty, he says she's hot? Well, if he thinks she isn't pretty, does he say she's cold?"
Good question. Meanwhile, one of the little presents that Santa put in 4-yo's stocking was a packet of panties (her older brothers will never understand how panties and socks could possibly count as presents, for heaven's sake, but luckily Santa understands girls as well as he understands boys). Husband picked up the packet and said "oh, low rise panties. At first glance I thought it said low risk panties." Bridget Jones, you have so much to answer for.
Then there was a totally bizarre moment at the lunch table. We were enjoying smoked salmon, and encouraging the kids to try it. 4-yo asked the question "Is Gran smoked?" Hm. You're always told to answer kids honestly, so I replied "No. Um. No. Gran isn't smoked." That seemed an honest response.
It was only after long pondering that I worked out the background to the question. A couple of weeks before Christmas, 11-yo's class had been discussing the evils of smoking. I had been telling him how in his grandparents' generation, many people smoked, because they didn't know how bad it was for you. His grandparents had done so, but had given up when the ill effects became known.
Smoked salmon. Grandparents who smoked. Isn't the world a complicated place for a 4 year old?
I don't go out of my way to encourage rogue versions of carols, although the last few posts might lead you to think so. Nonetheless, 4-yo came up with her own. She would sing
"Deck the halls with boughs of holly
'Tis the season to be naughty"
and then laugh uproariously. (Try saying it with an American accent, and you'll see that the rhyme is closer than it looks.)
Then 8-yo asked the following question:
"You know when a boy thinks a girl is pretty, he says she's hot? Well, if he thinks she isn't pretty, does he say she's cold?"
Good question. Meanwhile, one of the little presents that Santa put in 4-yo's stocking was a packet of panties (her older brothers will never understand how panties and socks could possibly count as presents, for heaven's sake, but luckily Santa understands girls as well as he understands boys). Husband picked up the packet and said "oh, low rise panties. At first glance I thought it said low risk panties." Bridget Jones, you have so much to answer for.
Then there was a totally bizarre moment at the lunch table. We were enjoying smoked salmon, and encouraging the kids to try it. 4-yo asked the question "Is Gran smoked?" Hm. You're always told to answer kids honestly, so I replied "No. Um. No. Gran isn't smoked." That seemed an honest response.
It was only after long pondering that I worked out the background to the question. A couple of weeks before Christmas, 11-yo's class had been discussing the evils of smoking. I had been telling him how in his grandparents' generation, many people smoked, because they didn't know how bad it was for you. His grandparents had done so, but had given up when the ill effects became known.
Smoked salmon. Grandparents who smoked. Isn't the world a complicated place for a 4 year old?
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