... and I'll blog if I want to, blog if I want to, blog if I want to,
You would blog too, if it happened to you.
Or maybe not.
Anyway, it is my birthday.
Because my birthday is on the 24th, I always looked forward to being 24. I thought it would be significant in some way to be 24 on the 24th. When it came to it, I don't think it did feel very significant. Two decades of expectation, and then nothing special. Ah well.
I'm 48 today. As I was walking along, yesterday, pondering, as you do, when you walk along, on the day before your birthday, it occurred to me that 48 is twice 24, and that therefore this birthday is doubly special.
I have to make the most of these significant birthdays. The next one will be 72, and then 96, and then that will probably be it for significant birthdays of this kind.
.
Showing posts with label birthday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label birthday. Show all posts
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Birthdays
I love celebrating the children's birthdays, but this next one, 11-yo turning 12, is proving a bit of a hair in the gate. He and I have birthdays four days apart, and in America, they fell around Thanksgiving. We developed the tradition of a wonderful family time, taking the kids out of school for three days to turn the long week-end into a week, and heading off to Colorado. Late November in Colorado can be sunny and mild, or snowy and cold. It can be autumn or winter. I loved the element of surprise. We returned to favourite haunts, and did favourite things. We found snow, by heading high, and had a morning's sledding. We had a hike to a waterfall. We spent time in a cafe, drinking hot chocolate and playing cards. It was a much-anticipated week in a place special to the family. I even loved the journey, 10 hours' drive, along roads that had become familiar over the years.
11-yo has always done well for his birthday, because I've never wanted him to feel it's overshadowed by Christmas. Going to Colorado included a family celebration, and then he always had an event with friends too when we got back, whatever floated a young boy's boat. This year, back in Scotland, I was stuck. He was too. When we first discussed it, there were tears. He was suddenly overwhelmed with thoughts of friends back in the US, the memory of the huge party he had a couple of years ago joint with his best friend whose birthday is around the same time, and assertions that he doesn't have any friends here who he would want to invite. I left the subject for a few days. At the next discussion, he claimed that everyone in his entire class has already seen Skyfall, and no-one would want to see it again. No other idea was right either. Nobody would want to do anything.
This morning, as we walked to school, I found I was explaining and re-explaining why there had to be a limit of 3, on the number of friends we'd take to the cinema, and that if he really wanted to include a whole bunch of boys, we could have them round for a video and pizza instead. Phew. Given the choice of being faced with a child's anguish ("I don't have any friends") or a child's anger ("But WHY can't I invite 4 for the cinema?"), I'd willingly take the second, exhausting though it can be.
I thought we were unstuck on the birthday front, and it felt good. Until 8-yo piped up
"For my birthday, we'll be going back to America, won't we?"
I knew I had to nip that expectation in the bud, and told her that no, that wouldn't be possible.
"But it's ok, because it'll be half term," she countered.
Sometimes moving continents is a real bummer.
11-yo has always done well for his birthday, because I've never wanted him to feel it's overshadowed by Christmas. Going to Colorado included a family celebration, and then he always had an event with friends too when we got back, whatever floated a young boy's boat. This year, back in Scotland, I was stuck. He was too. When we first discussed it, there were tears. He was suddenly overwhelmed with thoughts of friends back in the US, the memory of the huge party he had a couple of years ago joint with his best friend whose birthday is around the same time, and assertions that he doesn't have any friends here who he would want to invite. I left the subject for a few days. At the next discussion, he claimed that everyone in his entire class has already seen Skyfall, and no-one would want to see it again. No other idea was right either. Nobody would want to do anything.
This morning, as we walked to school, I found I was explaining and re-explaining why there had to be a limit of 3, on the number of friends we'd take to the cinema, and that if he really wanted to include a whole bunch of boys, we could have them round for a video and pizza instead. Phew. Given the choice of being faced with a child's anguish ("I don't have any friends") or a child's anger ("But WHY can't I invite 4 for the cinema?"), I'd willingly take the second, exhausting though it can be.
I thought we were unstuck on the birthday front, and it felt good. Until 8-yo piped up
"For my birthday, we'll be going back to America, won't we?"
I knew I had to nip that expectation in the bud, and told her that no, that wouldn't be possible.
"But it's ok, because it'll be half term," she countered.
Sometimes moving continents is a real bummer.
Friday, July 29, 2011
And that's why I did labels
Sounds like the opening line of a short story competition, doesn't it? If you want, you can leave me a comment telling me what your short story would be, if it began with that line. It was, in fact, what I said to husband in my sleep last night. "And that's why I did labels."
Wouldn't it be interesting to know more about sleep and dreams? It's such an undiscovered world still. I mean, why do we all conk out for several hours a day? Why do we sometimes dream and sometimes not? Why do some dreams seem to make sense, and some are entirely random? Why do we sometimes speak out loud? I suppose it's the brain, left undisturbed, getting on with its work of processing experiences, cogitating on them, filing them away, bringing up old memories, working out how they tie in, imagining new possibilities. All very clever.
What a preoccupation sleep is for new parents. I can remember periods when I'd have given anything at all for a week of undisturbed nights. What am I saying? I'd have given anything for one undisturbed night. Impossible to believe that it will ever pass, but if you're in that phase of life, take heart. It does. I'm hardly ever disturbed at night by the children these days. If I am, I've lost the art of dealing with it. I'm all groggy, hardly functional. "House on fire? Are you sure? It's probably ok. Go back to bed and I'll deal with it in the morning." Then I can't get back to sleep again. Not like the old days when my on/off switch was brilliantly effective.
Sleep is a mercy, isn't it? Whatever the true extent of all of its mysterious unknown functions, it is one of life's blessings. The chance to lay aside worries and burdens for a few hours, the chance to recharge physical batteries. I've always been a good sleeper. I can't imagine how horrible long-term insomnia must be.
Let's go back to where we started. "And that's why I did labels" came, of course, from a dream about the toy shop. Price labels are my nemesis. You'd think it was simple, in the grand scale of things, to stick the right price label on the right object. I guess my education didn't prepare me properly for such tasks. I know I always used to write on job applications "attention to detail" as one of my impressive skills, but my experience with labels in the toy shop have led me to see that as something of a fib (though what else is a cv but a list of fibs?) Too many toys are similar, but not quite the same. That is the essence of the problem. And the importance of accurate stock control. Bleugh. Whatever.
So in my dream, having been given complicated instructions about which set of labels went on which boxload of items, I found I was four labels short. So I was trying to print out the extra four labels on the computer, and making a bit of a hash of it, and then my boss came over and asked me what I was doing, and I went into a lengthy explanation of the whole issue, most of which was to do with the personalities of the other people working in the shop, and ending with "and that's why I did labels".
Then I was in a cake shop, ordering a birthday cake (Husband's 50th birthday this week?) and wondering how on earth I was going to carry it home on a London bus and the tube in the rush hour (memories of Sarah Brown's story at CyberMummy? and my own journey to CyberMummy on buses, as the tube line was closed? - perhaps, in my dreams, I AM Sarah Brown?). Then the cake shop lady started insisting that I buy some new clothes as well (sartorial insecurities?), and I noticed that it was a shop selling cakes and clothes (odd... or perhaps a brilliant idea for a new small business venture?). But then as I ran for the bus, my top kept falling down, and it turned out to be a dream about mastectomy scars. Ha! You didn't see that one coming did you? Nor did I, at the time.
I rest my case. Sleep. Dreams. Fascinating stuff.
Wouldn't it be interesting to know more about sleep and dreams? It's such an undiscovered world still. I mean, why do we all conk out for several hours a day? Why do we sometimes dream and sometimes not? Why do some dreams seem to make sense, and some are entirely random? Why do we sometimes speak out loud? I suppose it's the brain, left undisturbed, getting on with its work of processing experiences, cogitating on them, filing them away, bringing up old memories, working out how they tie in, imagining new possibilities. All very clever.
What a preoccupation sleep is for new parents. I can remember periods when I'd have given anything at all for a week of undisturbed nights. What am I saying? I'd have given anything for one undisturbed night. Impossible to believe that it will ever pass, but if you're in that phase of life, take heart. It does. I'm hardly ever disturbed at night by the children these days. If I am, I've lost the art of dealing with it. I'm all groggy, hardly functional. "House on fire? Are you sure? It's probably ok. Go back to bed and I'll deal with it in the morning." Then I can't get back to sleep again. Not like the old days when my on/off switch was brilliantly effective.
Sleep is a mercy, isn't it? Whatever the true extent of all of its mysterious unknown functions, it is one of life's blessings. The chance to lay aside worries and burdens for a few hours, the chance to recharge physical batteries. I've always been a good sleeper. I can't imagine how horrible long-term insomnia must be.
Let's go back to where we started. "And that's why I did labels" came, of course, from a dream about the toy shop. Price labels are my nemesis. You'd think it was simple, in the grand scale of things, to stick the right price label on the right object. I guess my education didn't prepare me properly for such tasks. I know I always used to write on job applications "attention to detail" as one of my impressive skills, but my experience with labels in the toy shop have led me to see that as something of a fib (though what else is a cv but a list of fibs?) Too many toys are similar, but not quite the same. That is the essence of the problem. And the importance of accurate stock control. Bleugh. Whatever.
So in my dream, having been given complicated instructions about which set of labels went on which boxload of items, I found I was four labels short. So I was trying to print out the extra four labels on the computer, and making a bit of a hash of it, and then my boss came over and asked me what I was doing, and I went into a lengthy explanation of the whole issue, most of which was to do with the personalities of the other people working in the shop, and ending with "and that's why I did labels".
Then I was in a cake shop, ordering a birthday cake (Husband's 50th birthday this week?) and wondering how on earth I was going to carry it home on a London bus and the tube in the rush hour (memories of Sarah Brown's story at CyberMummy? and my own journey to CyberMummy on buses, as the tube line was closed? - perhaps, in my dreams, I AM Sarah Brown?). Then the cake shop lady started insisting that I buy some new clothes as well (sartorial insecurities?), and I noticed that it was a shop selling cakes and clothes (odd... or perhaps a brilliant idea for a new small business venture?). But then as I ran for the bus, my top kept falling down, and it turned out to be a dream about mastectomy scars. Ha! You didn't see that one coming did you? Nor did I, at the time.
I rest my case. Sleep. Dreams. Fascinating stuff.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Birthday party
Yesterday we celebrated the 50th birthday of my older brother. Big family party. Thirty-five people: mostly first cousins, their spouses and children, and a few family friends. Sunny day. Outside on the lawn, chairs or rugs, depending on age and agility. Food and drink.
Aunts and uncles saying to children "Goodness me, how can you have got so big?" and "Sorry, it's so boring when grown-ups say that, isn't it?" Children too polite to roll their eyes, but inwardly doing so. Then as the afternoon wears on, racing around the lawn, kicking a ball, thinking how very tedious it must be to be a grown-up - all that sitting and talking, talking, talking, and having to drink wine and coffee - yuk! - and saying no to birthday cake or just a very small slice please. They don't know that we watch them, and remember, and know their secret thoughts.
Stolen moments in the kitchen with my younger brother. "Too many people out there? Yes, me too." "Nice though..." "Oh yes, very nice." Nice party. Nice kitchen interlude. Nice being with people who understand the hundred words you haven't said, when you just use one. Nice.
"Are you having a nice time, Iota?" Husband at my side. I smile. He knows I am. He knows how I love these events, and how sad I am at the many we've missed. 'Big 0' birthday gatherings, 21sts, 18ths, weddings, even humble common or garden Christmases. I see my children with their relations, chasing, falling, laughing, getting cross, tears before bedtime. The oldest of that generation is 21 later this month; the youngest is 4 months old. Blood is thicker than water. I see my own generation of cousins, the women more like our mothers each time we meet. I see my mother and aunt, who nurtured our love of these big gatherings Christmas by Christmas, year after year, planning the day, cooking the meal, creating the atmosphere, teaching us how to celebrate, how to enjoy each other's company. "Yes", I reply, even though he knows the answer. "I'm just sitting here and letting the family flow around me." And then I think that's a rather brilliant way of summing it up.
My older sister's 50th party was one of the ones we missed. I received the lab results from a lumpectomy the evening before. Cancer. Bad enough being estranged from the family gathering. Hadn't foreseen a cancer diagnosis on top of that. It was a very long Saturday. I didn't phone till the day after the party. Didn't think the news would add much to the party ambiance.
I don't know what that party was like. It's one of those conversations I've never had with my family. Probably never will have. Did they chat away bravely to guests, eyeing each other occasionally and taking a deep breath? Or had I not really intimated what the lumpectomy might reveal? Oh, how very me that would have been. Yes. I'd probably told them that I was having the lump out and implying that would be the end of it. Perhaps I believed that myself.
Two years on, my sister also finds a kitchen moment with me. She puts her arm round my shoulder. "I'm glad you're my sister," she says. "I'm glad you're my sister too," I reply. What more to say?
I'm sitting in the sunshine. Big brother is doing the rounds with a bottle of champagne. "More for you?" He waggles the bottle in my direction, puts a hand on his stomach and makes a slight retch, a wicked reference to the fact that only two days ago, I was confined to bed by a horrible sick bug. I grin brazenly and hold out my glass. I've had a whole day in between to recover, and I'm not going to miss out on this celebration. I have so much to celebrate.
.
Aunts and uncles saying to children "Goodness me, how can you have got so big?" and "Sorry, it's so boring when grown-ups say that, isn't it?" Children too polite to roll their eyes, but inwardly doing so. Then as the afternoon wears on, racing around the lawn, kicking a ball, thinking how very tedious it must be to be a grown-up - all that sitting and talking, talking, talking, and having to drink wine and coffee - yuk! - and saying no to birthday cake or just a very small slice please. They don't know that we watch them, and remember, and know their secret thoughts.
Stolen moments in the kitchen with my younger brother. "Too many people out there? Yes, me too." "Nice though..." "Oh yes, very nice." Nice party. Nice kitchen interlude. Nice being with people who understand the hundred words you haven't said, when you just use one. Nice.
"Are you having a nice time, Iota?" Husband at my side. I smile. He knows I am. He knows how I love these events, and how sad I am at the many we've missed. 'Big 0' birthday gatherings, 21sts, 18ths, weddings, even humble common or garden Christmases. I see my children with their relations, chasing, falling, laughing, getting cross, tears before bedtime. The oldest of that generation is 21 later this month; the youngest is 4 months old. Blood is thicker than water. I see my own generation of cousins, the women more like our mothers each time we meet. I see my mother and aunt, who nurtured our love of these big gatherings Christmas by Christmas, year after year, planning the day, cooking the meal, creating the atmosphere, teaching us how to celebrate, how to enjoy each other's company. "Yes", I reply, even though he knows the answer. "I'm just sitting here and letting the family flow around me." And then I think that's a rather brilliant way of summing it up.
My older sister's 50th party was one of the ones we missed. I received the lab results from a lumpectomy the evening before. Cancer. Bad enough being estranged from the family gathering. Hadn't foreseen a cancer diagnosis on top of that. It was a very long Saturday. I didn't phone till the day after the party. Didn't think the news would add much to the party ambiance.
I don't know what that party was like. It's one of those conversations I've never had with my family. Probably never will have. Did they chat away bravely to guests, eyeing each other occasionally and taking a deep breath? Or had I not really intimated what the lumpectomy might reveal? Oh, how very me that would have been. Yes. I'd probably told them that I was having the lump out and implying that would be the end of it. Perhaps I believed that myself.
Two years on, my sister also finds a kitchen moment with me. She puts her arm round my shoulder. "I'm glad you're my sister," she says. "I'm glad you're my sister too," I reply. What more to say?
I'm sitting in the sunshine. Big brother is doing the rounds with a bottle of champagne. "More for you?" He waggles the bottle in my direction, puts a hand on his stomach and makes a slight retch, a wicked reference to the fact that only two days ago, I was confined to bed by a horrible sick bug. I grin brazenly and hold out my glass. I've had a whole day in between to recover, and I'm not going to miss out on this celebration. I have so much to celebrate.
.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Ode to Josephine
Not so much an ode, as an oh dear...
My friend from way back, Josephine
Is someone who sure knows a theeng (or two).
The trouble with you, Josephine,
Is your difficult rhyme, as yo’s a-seein’.
So I’m going to start calling you Josie.
If I lived nearby, then I would mosey
Over quick to your place, for a nosey
Around to make sure all is rosy.
May your birthday be terribly cosy,
And maybe perhaps a bit bo(o)zy.
Hope Husband bought you a nice posy.
And I’m sorry I’m really so dozy
That I totally forgot to send you a card or a present.
Hope you had a good day. Thanks for being such a fabulous follower and commenter - I'm sure all my other readers feel they know you. Looking forward to seeing you in the summer (and sorry for being a rubbish birthday-rememberer).
Mwa mwa.
.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Pea coat
I bought a pea coat this morning. I'm very thrilled with it and with myself. Here is a picture of it.
(Ignore that spot in the middle - I was just sponging off a tiny mark and didn't think the damp spot would show up, but it does if you enlarge the photo.)
It's in a colour that seems to be known as teal, though who knows why. It was available in green, and that was tempting, because it would be linguistically so satisfying to have a pea green pea coat, but it wasn't really pea green, more of a muted lime, and anyway I preferred the blue. Though I did stop to wonder if the pussy cat was perhaps wearing a pea green coat when she went to sea in the pea green boat. That, too, would be linguistically satisfying, but I doubt Edward Lear ever gave much thought to it.
It is my birthday soon, and when Husband asked if there was anything I wanted, I said I would like to go shopping and choose myself some new clothes. This isn't such a treat for me as it sounds, actually, as I don't really like shopping. No, honestly. I can get into the swing of it, and then I have quite a good time, but the idea of a morning looking at and trying on clothes doesn't reach out and grab me. I have to psyche myself up. Odd, I know. I'm indecisive, and so I agonise over what to buy rather painfully. Plus I'm at that stage in life when changing rooms are more like confessionals. Today, for example, I discovered I have varicose veins on my right knee as well as my left. How did I not know that? And I haven't been shopping for clothes for six months, so there's the new body shape issue to deal with too.
For the past 12 years, whenever I've gone shopping for clothes for me I've almost always ended up browsing and making purchases in the childrenswear department, where it's much more fun. I do like new clothes and the nice feeling that comes with wearing them (phew, you're thinking), but the whole process of acquiring them leaves me a bit cold. One of the things I would do if I was overbearingly wealthy, would be to employ someone with excellent taste, who would tell me what I'd look best in, go and buy lots of outfits for me to try on in the comfort of my own home, and then take back the ones I didn't like. It would have to be someone who would encourage me to be more adventurous than I naturally am, and someone who could cope with indecisiveness in a client. I guess there are people out there who like that kind of career opportunity, and I'll tell you what. When I'm rich and looking to recruit, the first person who makes reference to this blog post will get the job. It will show either that they are reading my blog now and obviously you would all make fabulous personal style consultants, or it will show that they have done a huge amount of research into my past personal history, which would no doubt look good at the interview. Make a note, if you're a wannabe personal shopper to the rich. You never know when this might come good.
I wasn't on my official birthday shopping outing, but this morning, in Target (oh the high life) I spotted the pea coat. And I just knew it was ME. And it was $10 off. By the time I got to the fitting room, I had managed to acquire quite a few other items too. When I checked out, I found I had bought a pea coat, two pairs of cords (one in daring raspberry), three sweaters (and I didn't just consider how warm or how practical they'd be when I chose them), and two long-sleeved t-shirts (don't they make them deliciously soft these days?) I know this sounds extravagant, but (a) this was Target not some fancy boutique, and (b) you have to remember I'm not like you ordinary lovely people whose shopping instincts need to be curbed. I'm in need of encouragement, and this haul represents a healthy step towards making good a sadly lacking wardrobe. Plus it shows that I am capable of impulse-buying, which is an area where personal development is definitely needed.
You know what? I think I could develop a taste for this shopping lark...
.
(Ignore that spot in the middle - I was just sponging off a tiny mark and didn't think the damp spot would show up, but it does if you enlarge the photo.)
It's in a colour that seems to be known as teal, though who knows why. It was available in green, and that was tempting, because it would be linguistically so satisfying to have a pea green pea coat, but it wasn't really pea green, more of a muted lime, and anyway I preferred the blue. Though I did stop to wonder if the pussy cat was perhaps wearing a pea green coat when she went to sea in the pea green boat. That, too, would be linguistically satisfying, but I doubt Edward Lear ever gave much thought to it.
It is my birthday soon, and when Husband asked if there was anything I wanted, I said I would like to go shopping and choose myself some new clothes. This isn't such a treat for me as it sounds, actually, as I don't really like shopping. No, honestly. I can get into the swing of it, and then I have quite a good time, but the idea of a morning looking at and trying on clothes doesn't reach out and grab me. I have to psyche myself up. Odd, I know. I'm indecisive, and so I agonise over what to buy rather painfully. Plus I'm at that stage in life when changing rooms are more like confessionals. Today, for example, I discovered I have varicose veins on my right knee as well as my left. How did I not know that? And I haven't been shopping for clothes for six months, so there's the new body shape issue to deal with too.
For the past 12 years, whenever I've gone shopping for clothes for me I've almost always ended up browsing and making purchases in the childrenswear department, where it's much more fun. I do like new clothes and the nice feeling that comes with wearing them (phew, you're thinking), but the whole process of acquiring them leaves me a bit cold. One of the things I would do if I was overbearingly wealthy, would be to employ someone with excellent taste, who would tell me what I'd look best in, go and buy lots of outfits for me to try on in the comfort of my own home, and then take back the ones I didn't like. It would have to be someone who would encourage me to be more adventurous than I naturally am, and someone who could cope with indecisiveness in a client. I guess there are people out there who like that kind of career opportunity, and I'll tell you what. When I'm rich and looking to recruit, the first person who makes reference to this blog post will get the job. It will show either that they are reading my blog now and obviously you would all make fabulous personal style consultants, or it will show that they have done a huge amount of research into my past personal history, which would no doubt look good at the interview. Make a note, if you're a wannabe personal shopper to the rich. You never know when this might come good.
I wasn't on my official birthday shopping outing, but this morning, in Target (oh the high life) I spotted the pea coat. And I just knew it was ME. And it was $10 off. By the time I got to the fitting room, I had managed to acquire quite a few other items too. When I checked out, I found I had bought a pea coat, two pairs of cords (one in daring raspberry), three sweaters (and I didn't just consider how warm or how practical they'd be when I chose them), and two long-sleeved t-shirts (don't they make them deliciously soft these days?) I know this sounds extravagant, but (a) this was Target not some fancy boutique, and (b) you have to remember I'm not like you ordinary lovely people whose shopping instincts need to be curbed. I'm in need of encouragement, and this haul represents a healthy step towards making good a sadly lacking wardrobe. Plus it shows that I am capable of impulse-buying, which is an area where personal development is definitely needed.
You know what? I think I could develop a taste for this shopping lark...
.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Being the youngest
I often wonder what effect the position of my children in the family has on their personality, their interests, their approach to life. I know I’m not alone in this. I’ve talked to enough other parents who also find it an intriguing question. I’d love to re-run my family with the three children in a different order, just to see how it changes them. I’d do several versions, varying the age gaps as well perhaps. Fortunately, life doesn’t work that way, and I’m left wondering.
Mostly it’s a game of conjecture. Would 10-yo be more or less easy-going if he hadn’t been the oldest? Would 4-yo be more or less confident if she had been an only child for the first 3 years of her life, as he was? Conjecture, with a touch of guilt now and then. The first child, inevitably, receives more parental time and attention. Subsequent children receive less, but I think there is a sense in which that removes a burden. There is definitely a lot to be said for getting on with your own childhood development while flying under the parental radar. So for me, it’s a touch of guilt, tempered with realism. I feel a bit bad that 4-yo’s preschool report tells me things I don’t know about her – that wouldn’t have happened with my eldest – but I know she has a richness of experience from muddling along with two big siblings that he never had. I’m not so aware of the progress of each skill and ability, I don’t spend much time and effort helping her learn to count and spell her name, but I’m a more experienced parent. That must count for something (I hope). I also have a wider perspective on the value of all this endless assessing of children’s abilities. I’m a third child myself (of four), and I’ve never had a moment when I would have chosen to change my lot.
Yes, mostly it’s a game of conjecture. Occasionally, though, there are incidents which I can categorically state would not have happened if the youngest was the eldest. A few days after 4-yo’s birthday, 10-yo had his best friend round. John, bless him, had patiently listened over snack-time while 4-yo regaled him with stories of all her new presents, before he and 10-yo disappeared off to their big boy occupations. A few minutes later, 4-yo rushed into the kitchen, and said “guess what I gave John, guess what I gave John”, with that post-birthday excitement still gleaming on her face. “I don’t know”, I said. I hoped that he hadn’t been embarrassed by (for his sake), or dismissive of (for her sake) whatever small piece of pink festive paraphernalia she had bestowed on him. A pink bow carefully saved from the gift wrap perhaps, or a Disney princess paper plate. “What did you give John?” I asked. “A wedgie!” she shouted, with gleeful triumph.
Now THAT wouldn’t have happened without older brothers.
Mostly it’s a game of conjecture. Would 10-yo be more or less easy-going if he hadn’t been the oldest? Would 4-yo be more or less confident if she had been an only child for the first 3 years of her life, as he was? Conjecture, with a touch of guilt now and then. The first child, inevitably, receives more parental time and attention. Subsequent children receive less, but I think there is a sense in which that removes a burden. There is definitely a lot to be said for getting on with your own childhood development while flying under the parental radar. So for me, it’s a touch of guilt, tempered with realism. I feel a bit bad that 4-yo’s preschool report tells me things I don’t know about her – that wouldn’t have happened with my eldest – but I know she has a richness of experience from muddling along with two big siblings that he never had. I’m not so aware of the progress of each skill and ability, I don’t spend much time and effort helping her learn to count and spell her name, but I’m a more experienced parent. That must count for something (I hope). I also have a wider perspective on the value of all this endless assessing of children’s abilities. I’m a third child myself (of four), and I’ve never had a moment when I would have chosen to change my lot.
Yes, mostly it’s a game of conjecture. Occasionally, though, there are incidents which I can categorically state would not have happened if the youngest was the eldest. A few days after 4-yo’s birthday, 10-yo had his best friend round. John, bless him, had patiently listened over snack-time while 4-yo regaled him with stories of all her new presents, before he and 10-yo disappeared off to their big boy occupations. A few minutes later, 4-yo rushed into the kitchen, and said “guess what I gave John, guess what I gave John”, with that post-birthday excitement still gleaming on her face. “I don’t know”, I said. I hoped that he hadn’t been embarrassed by (for his sake), or dismissive of (for her sake) whatever small piece of pink festive paraphernalia she had bestowed on him. A pink bow carefully saved from the gift wrap perhaps, or a Disney princess paper plate. “What did you give John?” I asked. “A wedgie!” she shouted, with gleeful triumph.
Now THAT wouldn’t have happened without older brothers.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Happy Birthday, a year on
I have been waging a slow and entirely ineffective war against Chuck E Cheese’s over the past year. The map on the website shows that we would have to move to either Vermont or Wyoming to live in a Chuck E-less state, and as neither of those two eventualities are likely just at the moment, I have had to bring the battle into my own home. Every time a commercial comes on the television and I hear the jingle "where a kid can be a kid", I say to my kids “but actually, Chuck E Cheese’s isn’t nearly as fun as it looks on the tv is it?”. They either chorus “yes it is” in unison, or don’t answer at all. This is how I know my attempts are ineffective (perceptive, me).
In spite of this, I did manage to avoid going there for 4-yo’s fourth birthday party. By a sneaky undercover operation, I made sure that a rival venue, Pump It Up, was higher up her list of desirable venues by the time her birthday came round. Pump It Up seems to me to be an altogether more healthy set-up (although still fairly rancid and not very parent-friendly). It’s a large barn of a place filled with bouncy castles and a huge inflatable slide. Apart from this being a broken limb waiting to happen, and a session there resulting in wild, hyped up children, I’m quite in favour of Pump It Up (“Pump Them Up” as a friend calls it). So thus it was that 4-yo had her party there, or half of it at any rate.
Technically speaking, she didn’t have her party there. That would have involved paying Pump It Up a serious amount of money for them to order pizza, and give me the use of the party room. So we just went along to the Preschool Play Session with half a dozen small friends and their mummies, had a good bounce around, and then came back to our house for nibbly snacks, birthday cake and a big slice of delicious plum pie. We didn’t do games and there were no pink frocks, but I satisfied my party-organising yearnings with decorating a room and a table, and filling some party bags. We had an ice cream cake from Dairy Queen, which was very exciting for me, since I’ve been wondering what Dairy Queen was like ever since I first heard the song Ariel by Dean Friedman, which must have been around 30 years ago (and if you’re struggling to remember that one, here's a youtube link. The clip is is 4 mins 21 secs long, but you’ll recognize it within the first 4 secs, I promise, and you can thank your lucky stars that, in this age of clickable choices, you have the option as to whether to listen to the whole thing or not).
The cake had some fancy candles on it, which burnt with different coloured flames, and which I’d bought in the MoMA Design Store during my trip to New York. Oh how smug I felt, until I saw them for half the price a couple of weeks later in my local Wal-Mart, and until I lit them, and found out that the flames, though quite possibly of interestingly varying hues, were almost invisible.
A year on, the whole birthday event had a much happier feel to it. My daughter had friends to invite, I knew how to get to the venue without puzzling over a map, we had a proper home to make festive, and I incidentally satisfied a 30 year long thirst for knowledge.
And the plum pie? Ah yes. I should explain about that. Many years ago, when I was in a dismal job which I truly hated, a friend of mine who was commiserating with me told me to look for the plums. There must be some projects, he said, which you like dealing with, which you seek out of your in-tray and put to the top. They’re your plums. Look for them. Actually, there weren’t any, not any at all; it was a dreadful job. The advice, however, has lived with me, and has helped me through many a dull situation. Not that becoming a Midwesterner is dull. I didn’t say that. But there is a certain dreariness in the slow process of growing roots in a new land: feeling a stranger the whole time, being an outsider, searching unsuccessfully for kindred spirits. That does get dull after a while. So I have had to employ my strategy of looking for plums. And I have found them. They were there at 4-yo’s party. Not a ready circle of mums from the same preschool or neighborhood, but a selection whom 4-yo and I have discovered in different places. None of the 5 of them had met each other before – I seem to have plucked my plums from different trees. They all helped make 4-yo’s day special. They know her well enough to know what present she would really like. They enjoyed her pleasure as she opened them. They are the people I can go to both for practical advice, and for a chewing over of the more puzzling questions of motherhood and life. They have, without exception, helped me out with a bit of childcare when I needed it. They make an effort to understand my extraordinary English take on life. I’ve even tried out the Chucky Jesus thing on one of them, and she laughed. I believe they would feel a gap if I was here no longer.
Birthday cake and plum pie. A rich and satisfying party mix.
In spite of this, I did manage to avoid going there for 4-yo’s fourth birthday party. By a sneaky undercover operation, I made sure that a rival venue, Pump It Up, was higher up her list of desirable venues by the time her birthday came round. Pump It Up seems to me to be an altogether more healthy set-up (although still fairly rancid and not very parent-friendly). It’s a large barn of a place filled with bouncy castles and a huge inflatable slide. Apart from this being a broken limb waiting to happen, and a session there resulting in wild, hyped up children, I’m quite in favour of Pump It Up (“Pump Them Up” as a friend calls it). So thus it was that 4-yo had her party there, or half of it at any rate.
Technically speaking, she didn’t have her party there. That would have involved paying Pump It Up a serious amount of money for them to order pizza, and give me the use of the party room. So we just went along to the Preschool Play Session with half a dozen small friends and their mummies, had a good bounce around, and then came back to our house for nibbly snacks, birthday cake and a big slice of delicious plum pie. We didn’t do games and there were no pink frocks, but I satisfied my party-organising yearnings with decorating a room and a table, and filling some party bags. We had an ice cream cake from Dairy Queen, which was very exciting for me, since I’ve been wondering what Dairy Queen was like ever since I first heard the song Ariel by Dean Friedman, which must have been around 30 years ago (and if you’re struggling to remember that one, here's a youtube link. The clip is is 4 mins 21 secs long, but you’ll recognize it within the first 4 secs, I promise, and you can thank your lucky stars that, in this age of clickable choices, you have the option as to whether to listen to the whole thing or not).
The cake had some fancy candles on it, which burnt with different coloured flames, and which I’d bought in the MoMA Design Store during my trip to New York. Oh how smug I felt, until I saw them for half the price a couple of weeks later in my local Wal-Mart, and until I lit them, and found out that the flames, though quite possibly of interestingly varying hues, were almost invisible.
A year on, the whole birthday event had a much happier feel to it. My daughter had friends to invite, I knew how to get to the venue without puzzling over a map, we had a proper home to make festive, and I incidentally satisfied a 30 year long thirst for knowledge.
And the plum pie? Ah yes. I should explain about that. Many years ago, when I was in a dismal job which I truly hated, a friend of mine who was commiserating with me told me to look for the plums. There must be some projects, he said, which you like dealing with, which you seek out of your in-tray and put to the top. They’re your plums. Look for them. Actually, there weren’t any, not any at all; it was a dreadful job. The advice, however, has lived with me, and has helped me through many a dull situation. Not that becoming a Midwesterner is dull. I didn’t say that. But there is a certain dreariness in the slow process of growing roots in a new land: feeling a stranger the whole time, being an outsider, searching unsuccessfully for kindred spirits. That does get dull after a while. So I have had to employ my strategy of looking for plums. And I have found them. They were there at 4-yo’s party. Not a ready circle of mums from the same preschool or neighborhood, but a selection whom 4-yo and I have discovered in different places. None of the 5 of them had met each other before – I seem to have plucked my plums from different trees. They all helped make 4-yo’s day special. They know her well enough to know what present she would really like. They enjoyed her pleasure as she opened them. They are the people I can go to both for practical advice, and for a chewing over of the more puzzling questions of motherhood and life. They have, without exception, helped me out with a bit of childcare when I needed it. They make an effort to understand my extraordinary English take on life. I’ve even tried out the Chucky Jesus thing on one of them, and she laughed. I believe they would feel a gap if I was here no longer.
Birthday cake and plum pie. A rich and satisfying party mix.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Happy Birthday
So, 3-yo turns 4. She was the first of us to have a birthday here in the US. Now her second birthday-in-America has come round, it feels like we are here well and truly here, not just here finding out what it’s like here.
Her third birthday was, for me, one of the saddest days of this whole moving-to-America lark. I didn’t dwell on it, not wanting to cast a gloom over her special day, but the day brought for me both a focus on what we had left behind in Scotland, and a meeting head-on with the very worst of the culture we were seeking to embrace.
Before you have children, you imagine that the world of mums and babies is a shiny smiling place, in which groups of women happily congregate to share experiences, and where deep friendships are formed. Then you have a baby, go to a few babies and toddlers groups and activities, and find that it can be quite different. Why would there be so many Mommy blogs if the myth were reality? I had done my fair share of all this with the two boys, and had found a bit of reality and quite a lot of myth. With my third, I struck lucky. Two women who were already friends happened to have daughters at the same time as I had mine. We lived within walking distance of each other. They each had 3 older children, and sons in the same classes as mine. I was even in the maternity hospital at the same time as one of them. Our due dates were a month apart, and throughout the pregnancies, we’d joked that she’d have to give birth two weeks early and I’d have to be two weeks late. And it happened. I woke up the morning after laboring and delivering, to a cheery familiar face and a “fancy a cup of tea then?”
The little girls, even at the ages of 1 and 2, liked each other’s company, and, perhaps for having 8 older siblings between them, seemed able to play together beyond their years. They sat up in high chairs in the local coffee shop, at that lovely stage where a teaspoon to bang on the table is all that’s needed to occupy a baby for half an hour. Luxury. Then they staggered round the coffee shop, giggling at each other, plopping down on their padded bottoms, while we tried (and by now, failed) to have a conversation. They reached the stage where crayons and paper might work for 5 minutes, but a decent conversation is beyond possiblity. We met at the local toddler group, where it just so happened there was a whole bunch of other fun mothers. Women who week by week would ask how my plans for America were coming along, who would listen to the tedious details, whom I bullied into buying the furniture and gadgets we didn’t want to ship (“who’d like a paper shredder? or a desk that’s a bit broken?”), who I knew would feel a space on a Thursday morning where 2-yo and I had been.
By the time of her third birthday, we’d been in America for just over 3 months. We were beginning to find our feet. There was no-one, though, to invite to a party. I couldn’t help thinking what pleasure a party would have given her, her small friends, and me, if we were still in Scotland. We’d have had it at home. Little girls in pink frocks. Old-fashioned games: the farmer’s in his den, pass the parcel, musical bumps and musical statues (all with a bit of parental help and varying degrees of chaos). Older siblings hovering around the edges. Little nibbly snacks and a cake. Singing happy birthday. Balloons and decorations. I know that children's parties strike fear into the hearts of many a braver mother than I, but I've loved the parties I've hosted. It's not hard to give half a dozen preschoolers a good time.
Worse still, 2-yo had tagged along when I had taken her brother to a party, and already had a firm idea of what constituted an all-American birthday experience. She was fixed on having her birthday celebration at Chuck E Cheese’s. Oh dear. Chuck E Cheese’s. Even the locals say things like “the kids love it”, as if to absolve themselves of any guilt attached to the decision to take their children there. With my freshly-arrived British sensibilities, I can only say that the words “culture shock” came nowhere near describing the experience. Chuck E Cheese’s is a games arcade designed for the 3 – 8 age range. You buy coin-like tokens, which your beloved darling then feeds into various game machines. If they win, the machine spews out tickets, and when your child has finished for the day, you take your tickets to a counter where they can exchange them for a prize. The prizes on display on the wall behind the counter are Nintendo DSs, or huge Hot Wheels playsets, or diamond-studded Barbies. These have price tags on them of thousands of tickets. Your child has probably collected 50 tickets. They will be directed to the glass display cabinet where they can choose between an array of small plastic items. They could get two yo-yos and a plastic ring, or three 4” fake snakes. Those too young to understand that a number with 0s after it is a big number are sorely disappointed. Those old enough to grasp the concept can take their tickets home to save up, and try their luck at persuading their parents to bring them again. I speak from experience. 7-yo has a bag of about 80 tickets in his bedroom, against the day when he might get another 8,000 or so for the electric guitar. This makes for happy parent-child conversations, as I’m sure you can imagine.
If kids are not going to a party, but have come along simply to enjoy a pleasurable Saturday morning, they will have queued for a long while to share the privilege. If they have come to a party, they will by-pass the queue, feed tokens into machines for a period of time, and then sit at long tables, eating oily pizza, until a large mouse with an over-sized plastic head emerges with a cake. This is Chuck E Cheese himself.
I think it is at Chuck E Cheese’s that the consistent Iota “not wrong, just different” philosophy of life in a different culture is stretched to the ultimate limit of its elasticity. Surely, surely, this is not a good way of entertaining young children. The place is small, crowded, smelly, greasy, loud, and thoroughly unpleasant. The food (pizza or burgers) makes a McDonalds happy meal look nutritious; the music is brainless. The adults sit in booths looking bored or anxious or both, and avoiding each other’s eyes. If this was a police state, I would say that everyone was trying not to see who else was there. It’s the kind of place you could report your neighbours for visiting. The annoying thing is that, as the locals say, the kids do love it. I can’t help feeling, though, that they have all been so thoroughly brainwashed by so many TV advertisements telling them that they are going to have a gratingly fantastic time, and then subjected to the peer pressure that the adverts engender, that they arrive without much choice.
I hate Chuck E Cheese’s so much, I’m not even going to provide a weblink. If you want to visit him, you can google him yourselves. I don’t want to be responsible for a single extra visitor to his site. The only redeeming feature about Chuck E Cheese’s, is that, along with the shiver of hatred that makes me clench my molars together and suck in my breath every time I hear his name, there is a little glimmer of amusement provided by my English ears. You see, the way they pronounce it here, it sounds for all the world like Chuck E Jesus. If I was feeling very irreverent, I might even say it sounds like Chucky Jesus. I’ve even tried saying “Chucky Jesus” to people in the right context, and they don’t notice anything wrong: “you went to Chucky Jesus on Saturday? How fun!”
So my daughter had her third birthday at Chuck E Cheese’s. She had no friends to invite, and I had no friends to share it with. She enjoyed every moment with her two big brothers, though, which was all that mattered. And if I could have seen ahead to her fourth birthday, I would have felt a lot happier about being here. More about that next time.
Her third birthday was, for me, one of the saddest days of this whole moving-to-America lark. I didn’t dwell on it, not wanting to cast a gloom over her special day, but the day brought for me both a focus on what we had left behind in Scotland, and a meeting head-on with the very worst of the culture we were seeking to embrace.
Before you have children, you imagine that the world of mums and babies is a shiny smiling place, in which groups of women happily congregate to share experiences, and where deep friendships are formed. Then you have a baby, go to a few babies and toddlers groups and activities, and find that it can be quite different. Why would there be so many Mommy blogs if the myth were reality? I had done my fair share of all this with the two boys, and had found a bit of reality and quite a lot of myth. With my third, I struck lucky. Two women who were already friends happened to have daughters at the same time as I had mine. We lived within walking distance of each other. They each had 3 older children, and sons in the same classes as mine. I was even in the maternity hospital at the same time as one of them. Our due dates were a month apart, and throughout the pregnancies, we’d joked that she’d have to give birth two weeks early and I’d have to be two weeks late. And it happened. I woke up the morning after laboring and delivering, to a cheery familiar face and a “fancy a cup of tea then?”
The little girls, even at the ages of 1 and 2, liked each other’s company, and, perhaps for having 8 older siblings between them, seemed able to play together beyond their years. They sat up in high chairs in the local coffee shop, at that lovely stage where a teaspoon to bang on the table is all that’s needed to occupy a baby for half an hour. Luxury. Then they staggered round the coffee shop, giggling at each other, plopping down on their padded bottoms, while we tried (and by now, failed) to have a conversation. They reached the stage where crayons and paper might work for 5 minutes, but a decent conversation is beyond possiblity. We met at the local toddler group, where it just so happened there was a whole bunch of other fun mothers. Women who week by week would ask how my plans for America were coming along, who would listen to the tedious details, whom I bullied into buying the furniture and gadgets we didn’t want to ship (“who’d like a paper shredder? or a desk that’s a bit broken?”), who I knew would feel a space on a Thursday morning where 2-yo and I had been.
By the time of her third birthday, we’d been in America for just over 3 months. We were beginning to find our feet. There was no-one, though, to invite to a party. I couldn’t help thinking what pleasure a party would have given her, her small friends, and me, if we were still in Scotland. We’d have had it at home. Little girls in pink frocks. Old-fashioned games: the farmer’s in his den, pass the parcel, musical bumps and musical statues (all with a bit of parental help and varying degrees of chaos). Older siblings hovering around the edges. Little nibbly snacks and a cake. Singing happy birthday. Balloons and decorations. I know that children's parties strike fear into the hearts of many a braver mother than I, but I've loved the parties I've hosted. It's not hard to give half a dozen preschoolers a good time.
Worse still, 2-yo had tagged along when I had taken her brother to a party, and already had a firm idea of what constituted an all-American birthday experience. She was fixed on having her birthday celebration at Chuck E Cheese’s. Oh dear. Chuck E Cheese’s. Even the locals say things like “the kids love it”, as if to absolve themselves of any guilt attached to the decision to take their children there. With my freshly-arrived British sensibilities, I can only say that the words “culture shock” came nowhere near describing the experience. Chuck E Cheese’s is a games arcade designed for the 3 – 8 age range. You buy coin-like tokens, which your beloved darling then feeds into various game machines. If they win, the machine spews out tickets, and when your child has finished for the day, you take your tickets to a counter where they can exchange them for a prize. The prizes on display on the wall behind the counter are Nintendo DSs, or huge Hot Wheels playsets, or diamond-studded Barbies. These have price tags on them of thousands of tickets. Your child has probably collected 50 tickets. They will be directed to the glass display cabinet where they can choose between an array of small plastic items. They could get two yo-yos and a plastic ring, or three 4” fake snakes. Those too young to understand that a number with 0s after it is a big number are sorely disappointed. Those old enough to grasp the concept can take their tickets home to save up, and try their luck at persuading their parents to bring them again. I speak from experience. 7-yo has a bag of about 80 tickets in his bedroom, against the day when he might get another 8,000 or so for the electric guitar. This makes for happy parent-child conversations, as I’m sure you can imagine.
If kids are not going to a party, but have come along simply to enjoy a pleasurable Saturday morning, they will have queued for a long while to share the privilege. If they have come to a party, they will by-pass the queue, feed tokens into machines for a period of time, and then sit at long tables, eating oily pizza, until a large mouse with an over-sized plastic head emerges with a cake. This is Chuck E Cheese himself.
I think it is at Chuck E Cheese’s that the consistent Iota “not wrong, just different” philosophy of life in a different culture is stretched to the ultimate limit of its elasticity. Surely, surely, this is not a good way of entertaining young children. The place is small, crowded, smelly, greasy, loud, and thoroughly unpleasant. The food (pizza or burgers) makes a McDonalds happy meal look nutritious; the music is brainless. The adults sit in booths looking bored or anxious or both, and avoiding each other’s eyes. If this was a police state, I would say that everyone was trying not to see who else was there. It’s the kind of place you could report your neighbours for visiting. The annoying thing is that, as the locals say, the kids do love it. I can’t help feeling, though, that they have all been so thoroughly brainwashed by so many TV advertisements telling them that they are going to have a gratingly fantastic time, and then subjected to the peer pressure that the adverts engender, that they arrive without much choice.
I hate Chuck E Cheese’s so much, I’m not even going to provide a weblink. If you want to visit him, you can google him yourselves. I don’t want to be responsible for a single extra visitor to his site. The only redeeming feature about Chuck E Cheese’s, is that, along with the shiver of hatred that makes me clench my molars together and suck in my breath every time I hear his name, there is a little glimmer of amusement provided by my English ears. You see, the way they pronounce it here, it sounds for all the world like Chuck E Jesus. If I was feeling very irreverent, I might even say it sounds like Chucky Jesus. I’ve even tried saying “Chucky Jesus” to people in the right context, and they don’t notice anything wrong: “you went to Chucky Jesus on Saturday? How fun!”
So my daughter had her third birthday at Chuck E Cheese’s. She had no friends to invite, and I had no friends to share it with. She enjoyed every moment with her two big brothers, though, which was all that mattered. And if I could have seen ahead to her fourth birthday, I would have felt a lot happier about being here. More about that next time.
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