Domesticali

Extraordinary times

The thing about extraordinary times is so often, the days within them have an air of ordinariness. And so I find it during this Coronavirus event. As a family, we have been hunkered down for about a week now. Not in full isolation, but lying very low. Having my chicks in the nest is a relief - the last couple of days before the younger one's school shut was a battle of conscience. Sending him felt so wrong, but it's his GCSE year so not sending him also felt reckless. It was a relief when they finally pulled the plug.

And life at home now? It's good - home feels like our safe space and I am weirdly enjoying all the small, everyday tasks that keep it running smoothly. Usually in my head home is the launchpad for the real world outside where all the exciting things happen. I'm always rushing through things at home to move on to the stuff 'out there'. But now that out there isn't where any of us particularly want to be, I am happy with the domestic. Bathrooms have been deep cleaned, gardening is happening, time in the kitchen has provided soothing entertainment. And we are learning new skills - I can hear the boys next door in the kitchen where Mark is proving a dab hand with the hair clippers. 

And I am staying away from too much news and instead, back here at the blog. When I first began blogging, fourteen years ago (fourteen!), it was because I was spending an awful lot of time at home with very small children. Blogging wasn't so much a window on the world, as me running my own, homemade flag up the flagpole, with a slightly desperate call of Helloooooooo, I'm here, do you see me?

So it is perhaps not surprising that now, spending a lot of time at home with adult sized children, that the blog calls to me again. As a place to talk, and not least as a place to bear witness to the small, ordinary days within these extraordinary times.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Muscle Memory

This afternoon, I spent a happy half hour setting up a blog for a new friend. She is heading off on an adventure to faraway places, but didn't want to broadcast her absence by sharing photos on Facebook. And what better receptacle for memories than a blog? 

But handy though a blog is, to capture big, exciting things like a long planned trip, it is the small quotidian things that make up a life really. And taking the time to record them is the best way of appreciating them.

Because I tried, I really did, to embrace the concept of a daily gratitude list, but it made me cringe a little each time I tried to write one. Don't know why - they seen to work for other people, but not for me. But blogging? Turns out it's deeply ingrained in my muscle memory. Even if I need to remind myself to take more photographs. With the camera, not my phone.

Gratitude and iPhone photography - two millennial skills that elude me.

 

 

Plus ça change

Today I was listening to chatter about a reunion which a new acquaintance had attended last week - a group of old friends who had not all been together for 30 years. She described one gentleman; "Well, he used to be rather eccentric," and when I asked if he had mellowed in the intervening years she said, "Not really - I suppose we weren't terribly surprised." And that's the truth of it, isn't it?

We bob along in the waters of life through all manner of different landscapes. And where you are can be terribly jolly, or sometimes rather difficult, but you learn that whichever way it is, it generally passes. And in the ever changing vista before you, the one thing that remains pretty much constant is you.

Did I always know this? Yes, I think so, on some level at least. As I watch my children leave our family vessel and begin to journey under their own steam, my wish for them is that when they look at themselves in the mirror, that they know they are decent people, that they behaved with integrity and for them never to feel shame in who they are.

And all of the rest of it is pretty much icing on the cake.

It's been a while. But it is lovely to be back.

Bathtime

The night was destined to be a good one. I had rushed about far too much in the preceding days and had in mind, a better quality of evening.

With one child down (in France, on a school trip) the odds of a relaxed atmosphere seemed high - fewer competing demands on my time and my listening skills. Much less general bickering and friction. Only one set of homework to police. Things were looking good.

Dinner was simple - a roast chicken, some baked potatoes and a salad of egg, asparagus and green beans with a caper dressing which had caught my eye. I cooked, we ate. Full bellies and all was tranquil.

So tranquil, in fact, that the hubby and I decided after dinner to park ourselves on the sofa with a drink and watch a TV show. We know how to live it up round here! So we dispatched elder son to get a bath and settled down to watch. And all was going swimmingly, until about fifteen minutes in, when the TV suddenly switched off. Who'd sat on the remote? But no - the little red light was off, as was the DVD player. Something must have tripped the fuse, so hubby heads off to investigate.

And here, the tranquil evening takes a turn for the pear-shaped. Water is flowing down the walls of the kitchen, through the cooker hood extractor and the fuse box. And we connect the dots - the teenager, the bath. And that was when the yelling began and the tranquility went the same way as the peaceful evening and the TV show.

The helpful attitude of said teenager who insisted on trying to argue in his own defence, that the overflow outlet ought to be able to handle the fact that he had been distracted with pressing matters of his own and had left the water in the bath on, didn't go down terribly well with his Father.

Not the evening I had planned, but at least the kitchen floor got mopped. Trying to look for the silver linings here. And possibly an electrician.

 

Demise of the playhouse

When we first moved to our current house, one corner of the garden was full of the most enormous Pampas grass. Now you know the urban myth about Pampas Grass don't you? I have no idea if the couple who lived here before us were swingers or not, but if the size of the clump was anything to go by, we were advertising a wild social time in our village!

Who knows what might have been, but sharp leaves of Pampas grass and then-toddler Mark, didn't mix, so we dug it out. And then discovered that the far corner of the garden was rather shaded and boggy and not much else wanted to grow there, so we got a playhouse instead.

And for the next dozen or so years, it served us well. A destination in our own garden, for when indoors was getting a little oppressive. A place to store trucks and sand toys and water pistols and as they grew, rugby balls and cricket stumps, rebounding nets and badminton racquets. All the outdoor paraphernalia of boyhood.

 

But out of all of us, I think it might have been me who loved it in there the best. When they were little, I would perch on my tiny chair with a cup of tea and watch them become immersed in some elaborate game or other - content to have me nearby without needing anything more than my vague presence. The playhouse gave me headspace, because there wasn't a pile of ironing in my peripheral vision, or a floor badly in need of a hoover distracting me from watching them go about their business.

And dang, if it wasn't the most photogenic of backdrops.

So much so, that in the last few years, it morphed into a cousin-filled growth chart of sorts.

 

 

But as those children have grown taller (not to mention more pesky to photograph), so time has taken it's toll on the wood of the house and this Easter, with the gap in the roof growing larger and none of the perspex windows left intact, we decided it was time to let it go. Bittersweet, for sure.

I know those small child days are long and exhausting, but sometimes I think it was easier to be a good parent then. The years when you just needed to be around a lot and not be too busy doing other things. When it was enough to hang out, drink your tea and watch them play. Teenager-dom, with the incessant pushing against boundaries and self absorption is proving  far trickier. Small people also go to bed at 7.30pm. Need I say more.

 

Though of course, there are still lighter moments of parenting older children. My neighbour asked me, somewhat aghast,  if I had let the boys loose outside with an axe. Nooooo, I scoffed, of course not. It was a sledgehammer.

And my mum-cred did briefly raise a notch or two when I taught them the right way to swing one.

 In fact, a spot of demolition probably helped no end in the quest to dissipate a bit of the testosterone flowing round these parts. And that's always a good thing, I think.

Now I wonder if anything other than Pampas Grass can be persuaded to colonise the corner. Or do I just install a mum-shed?

 

Rusty, but here.

Younger son and I were loafing around yesterday evening discussing calluses.

"There used to be one on the side of my little finger too", I told him "when I was at school and did an awful lot more writing than I do now". 

"What's the longest thing you've ever written?" he asked me.

"Probably my thesis" I said, racking my brains for the correct answer.

"What about your blog?" he replied.

Ah yes, what about my blog. And of course, he's right - though I have no idea what the word count is, I am pretty sure that over the course of the last 9 years, my total output here has far exceeded the length of anything else I have written in the past or am ever likely to write in the future.

And that simple observation of his has brought me back here. Picking up my virtual pen and hoping that even if my calluses have vanished, that I remember how to do this thing.

And maybe remember why I do this thing too.

Reality bites

Getting up this morning at 6am was hard. Younger son needed to be at school for 7.15 - he's off on a football camp.

When we left the house, it was still pitch black outside. This is the portion of winter I struggle with - the twinkly fairy lights bit is good. But this bit? I could quite happily crawl back into bed with the cat and wake up when it's Spring.

Old haunts

The offspring are almost back at school (after all, what's one little INSET day when you've already done a half term spanning a fortnight). Actually, I sound as if I am grumbling about it when in actual fact I could easily have gone on an extra week - we were all shattered and in need of a break and a change of pace.

And some late Autumn sunshine really helped.

It was too beautiful to be squandered, so we chucked on our wellies and headed out for a walk that we used to do often when the boys were smaller.

It turned out to be slightly bittersweet - what used to take a whole afternoon was done and dusted in an hour. What a difference bigger legs make. Though they did try valliantly to re-capure times past by climbing in all the old familiar spots.

 Autumn, you are photogenic, I'll give you that.

Trouble with re-entry

Turkey. The place not the bird. That's where the family and I spent our summer hols.

Only by the skin of our teeth though. First there was the trauma of Mark's passport which got stuck in the Passport Office log-jam for seven weeks. Seven. And then there was the closure of the motorway on our way to the airport leaving us gridlocked for well over  an hour, frantically making phone calls to airlines and travel agents and calculating the odds of making our flight. 

By the time we finally made it, I was ready for a whole heap of relaxation.

Ha ha ha, who am I kidding. You've clearly never been on holiday with us. There was a little tiny bit of infinity pool loafing and a whole heap of trying out ever activity possible. 

And it was so much fun I cannot even begin to tell you. And the best thing about it was after running around all day, I could eat like an absolute hog and still fit into my swimsuit! Because the food in Turkey was incredible - octopus salad, how I miss you.

Oh for the ability to snap my fingers and head back right this moment - because quite frankly my normal life is feeling a bit grim in comparison. I'm having immense difficulty in getting myself kick started into reality. Post holiday blues. And it's freezing. 

Lunar moments

In my experience, kids school holiday projects usually develop along these lines.

Child is set project for the holidays.

Parent's heart sinks, but hides true feelings behind rigid mask of enthusiastic support. Child has idea for project. Idea becomes more and more inflated (large/expensive/intellectually challenging). Parent knows the huge idea is doomed to failure and suggests a smaller scale. Child gets the hump because parent is being negative and throws a wobbly. Project becomes taboo subject. Holiday moves onwards. Parent in a state of vague anxiety about project, child appears oblivious. Eventually parent cracks and tentatively raises the subject of the project again. Child has totally different idea to the one that it had in the first place and the cycle potentially begins again until the very end of the holiday when the parent throws a wobbly and the child completes something in the remaining time, with the minimum of effort and a certain amount of bad grace.

Or maybe that's just how it goes round here. Can you tell I am not an enthusiastic supporter of the holiday project?

So when Johnny turned up at the end of last term with a sheet requesting a 3D science model on the theme of Space, my heart sank.

But this time I had to eat my words, because we had a great time with it! Who knew a papier mache and polyfilla moon model could be such a bonding experience? Here it is, in orbit on our washing line.

Turns out that space had a lot of lessons to teach me this month. Because I also read and loved Chris Hadfield's  'An Astronauts Guide to Life on Earth'. You know him - the guy who made all those compelling videos from the ISS? I don't think he'd be filled with trepidation at the thought of  a school holiday project.

 

The perils of modern technology

Johnny has a frequent grumble about ICT lessons - he complains that the teacher constantly repeats himself on matters of internet safety - don't give your real name (oops), never meet anyone in real life who you only know from the Internet (busted), never go onto a website that you don't already know about (really?). I can quite see how the poor child is conflicted given the sensible messages from school and the flagrant disregard of all of them by his blogging mother.

But this morning, our modern, technology fuelled life bit back.

Let me share the cautionary tale - it's Saturday of a luxuriously un-busy Bank Holiday weekend. I awaken shortly after 7, but there is no need to leap up. It might be nice to loaf in bed with a cup of tea and catch up on a few blogs. But the other half of the bed is empty. Hubby has already got up and has clearly headed downstairs. Damn. I have two options - get up and make my own tea (but the bed is warm and cosy) or yell downstairs and ask him to make me one (but at least one of the children is still sleeping and I don't want to wake them up).

Then an idea dawns on me. My phone is downstairs, but hubby's iPad is next to the bed. I could facetime him and ask him to make the tea. Cunning plan, eh? I thought so. So I call my phone. I hear ringing, then a scuffle, then a thunk, then a pause and an "Ali iiii".

I go downstairs. There is blood dripped liberally across the kitchen floor. Hubby is standing in the utility room. He does not look good.

Turns out that when the phone rang, he jumped up from the table to grab it before it woke anyone and smacked straight into the kitchen door, splitting his eyebrow open.

Needless to say, the sleeping child was awakened. And I ended up making the tea (sweet for him - he's not good with blood).

They just don't always warn you about the correct perils at school, do they?

Luckily he doesn't bear a grudge. Probably why we have been married for 20 years. That and the fact that he usually brings me a cup of tea without having to be asked...

Restoration

Back in the bleak, wet days of January, I booked us a little holiday. In part, seduced by this photograph.

You know how dangerous that can be, don't you. When you are seduced by that picture in a brochure or on a website and somehow, even though you ought to know better, you have taken that one perfect shot and spun it out into a fantasy of a trip where your family are paragons of every possible virtue, the weather is blissful, and food of the totally delicious but somehow calorie free variety appears as if by magic. And somehow it would be rude not to press 'book now'.

Well, I sort of did that. Because it was our 20th wedding anniversary. And the Easter holidays, and goodness knows, a little restorative trip did seem in order. And in the depths of a dank January, who wouldn't have been seduced by that photograph?

But d'you know what - reality wasn't too far off the mark. I adored being right on the beach. Especially one of the pebbly variety. Sand is great, but for the British seaside, you can't beat pebbles. They warm up so fast in the sun and you get that great crunching sound as you walk along them. And there's always a pretty one to pick up - even a hagstone if you are lucky.

And the boys could zip about all they pleased, climbing things and playing frisbee (and in the case of Johnny, go for an impromptu, fully clothed swimming excursion). And I was happy, just sitting on the pebbles, thinking about not very much at all and taking photos in that glorious seasidey light.

I do like our life in Oxfordshire, but it is an awful long way from the sea. And every once in a while, a little sea-fix is just the tonic.

 

Written in the stars

The occasions when one of my offspring approaches and asks to do a craft project are rare round these parts. But very welcome. So when Mark wanted to make a Galaxy shirt, I was in the cupboard rooting out the fabric paint faster than a ferret up a drainpipe.

I even managed to keep my control freak tendencies under control for long enough to let him do his own project himself with minimal interference. And believe me, that's nothing short of a cosmic miracle.

Absent chick

Hubs laughs at me - for all my bravado, I'm a bit of a mother hen and truthfully I am happiest when all my chicks are in the nest where I can keep a beady eye on them.

When one is absent, there's quite a bit of mental pacing that goes on. And a spot of frantic activity to try and pass the hours till the nest regains its full complement. I cleaned the inside of a kitchen cupboard today. That's how bad it is.

But I'm not going to be able to keep up that pace for a full week whilst Johnny is away. He's gone skiing with school. And I'm hanging on the nightly bulletins from the staff and refreshing the feed on the resort webcams in the hope that I catch a little glimpse of his bright yellow legs somewhere on the snow.

Sigh. This letting go business is so much harder with the smallest one. Though he marks his 10th birthday today and so will no longer be officially small on his return.

Happy Birthday Bean x

You may be middle sized now, but you'll always be my little chick. Sob. Off to check that webcam again...

A whizz by weekend

Monday again? How did that happen?

There has been a small triumph this week, in that we've finally succeeded in teaching the ginger moggie that the new, expensive, microchip activated cat flap is fine to use. He is a stubborn feline, and not too overly blessed in the brain cell department. I dare not tell you how long I spent crouched by the back door, with my arm stuck out through the cat flap clutching a pet treat. In the end though, locking him outside in the rain when we weren't home seemed to work best. Tough love.

The other cat has used it nonchalantly from day one of installation. Only slightly disturbed by being chased by an owner brandishing a yet-to-be-installed cat flap, attempting to scan the microchip in her neck. Some people just do change better than others.

I am two weeks into a printmaking course. In spite of having no real idea what I am doing or much natural drawing ability, I am enjoying myself enormously. Helps that I get to see Monica once a week too, of course.

Johnny spent a chunk of Sunday afternoon making a baseball bat. I know. It's a log. I think he may have been trying to avoid music practice.

That's a dulcimer. It sounds beautiful when he plays, but I would hesitate to recommend it as an instrument for a child to learn. Mostly because he cannot carry it himself and it will not fit in the boot of hubby's Mini. If I had to choose a musical instrument for them to play all over again, it would be the piccolo. For obvious reasons.

 

Dino Dental Aid

Oh Pinterest, how I love thee. Because it is only through you that I could possibly ever hit on the perfect time filler for a rainy day, alone with younger offspring, on which I had rashly banned all screen time.

Why wouldn't you drill a hole in a plastic dinosaur and call it a toothbrush holder? Who knew my house needed such a thing? Only you Pinterest.

Someone, who shall remain nameless, 'upgraded' the computer this weekend.

I think we all know where this is heading, don't we?

Someone has now abandoned the non-functioning domestic IT situation and departed on a business trip.

There are mutinous rumblings at home. I shall look at my flowers and rise above it. Unless, of course, he didn't back up my photos properly beforehand, in which case I may be compelled to join the angry mob.

The Seaside

Don't want you to think we spend all our time gadding about making merry. But we've been off to the seaside visiting my folks. When we got here it was frrreeezing, with a howling wind and sleet falling. Hiding inside weather, for sure. But today, we awoke to the sun shining and positively balmy weather compared to that of late. Time to grab the camera and head out to capture some of it, in case it is a short lived interlude.

Hope you caught a few rays and made the most of them.

Ski ski

Apart from an hour in the Milton Keynes snow dome, the last time I stood on a pair of skis was 1994.

When we lived in Japan, some pals of ours decided to take us skiing in Nagano for the weekend. We drove up there overnight and were kitted up and out on the slopes as the dawn rose over the mountains - spectacular, if a little exhausting. My ski gear was borrowed from my 6'3" boss and was somewhat on the large side, to say the least. Oh, and there was the small problem that my only idea of how to ski had come from watching Ski Sunday and the odd Winter Olympics. No matter - our friend Masahiro grabbed me by the back of the jacket and bundled me onto and off a ski lift. In rudimentary Japanese, he explained how one snowploughed and then pointed me down the mountain. Off I slid - all very good. Skiing! Faster and faster, until I hit what felt like about 30mph and thought I'd better try the snowplough thing, at which point I discovered that at that speed, it really doesn't work too well, and flung myself onto the ground instead. When everyone else finished howling with laughter, they explained to me that skiing generally involves traversing the slope from side to side, not just heading straight down it. Well, how was I meant to know? That's not what they do on Ski Sunday!

It has taken me nineteen years to get round to going again. But go, we did, last week. And it was brilliant.

The snow was thick and fluffy, the hotel, perfectly placed for easy access to the lifts and ski school and the instructors got us all whizzing along and really enjoying what La Plagne has to offer. Predictably, the boys loved skiing and took to it really well - they are certainly much braver than me, as we discovered when we took a wrong turn and ended up on an extremely steep slope. They flew down, without a second thought when I made the mistake  of looking and engaging my brain. Cue 10 minuites of knee trembling and agonisingly slow descent (but I made it!).

One boy child (and I'm sure you might be able to guess which) might have been a little gung ho at one point and managed to ski over the back ends of my skis resulting in a big fall and a colourful bruise.

I may have had the teensiest sense of humour failure at that point - he learned his lesson and gave me more room from then onwards!

And the best thing about skiing is that you feel totally justified in eating like a pig at every opportunity. Cooked breakfast - yes please, lunchtime tartiflette - don't mind if I do, 4:30pm - must be cake time, and it would be rude to turn down any of the three courses at supper. My kind of holiday!

Honestly, I'm slightly sad that it has taken me till my 40s to discover what fun a ski holiday is. I'm sure I would have bounced better at twenty something. And I might have stood a better chance of keeping up with the offspring too. Though I don't feel the need to do everything they do...

 

 

Birthday Boy

Somebody has a birthday today.

How old, Johnny?

And my prayer to the baking gods worked out, because after looking for a while like my first go at an Angel Food cake was never going to exit the tin, it finally eased out intact. And proved the perfect vehicle for whipped cream and berries (two things high on Johnny's list of favourites). Sweet boy.

 

Hearts and pancakes

This is a good week, if you are fans of seasonal celebrations. Shrove Tuesday and Valentines Day and during half term too - enough to get anybody's creative juices flowing. However, some of our efforts to mark the occasions have been more successful than others.

I'd seen a cute idea over at Pinterest and armed myself with my foolproof Delia's classic pancake batter recipe and a squeezy bottle, we set to.

The idea is, you put your batter in a squeezy bottle and then you can make doodle heart pancakes. Look how cute those things are (images from the Bite delite blog).

Okay, want to see mine?

Hmm - not really as attractive, is it? Thise suckers are more difficult to do than you'd think. Plus lacy looks nice, but isn't as filling, so I'm afraid we abandoned all efforts to be chic and just had round pancakes instead. Greed 1 - Style 0

Thankfully, there are other ways to celebrate the festival of love. Our antlers got a little seasonal makeover.

And we thought we might try our hands at making a celebration of love film - me and the boys. We've begun, even though it is highly unlikely to be ready in time. The photoshoots have been fun, but they keep getting hijacked by play dates and games of football and cat sitting duties. I'm sure Sam Mendes doesn't have these problems.

 

She's making a list, and checking it twice

Less than a week to December! There wasn't really any need to remind you of that though, was there? Because right about now everyone starts to be a little more aware of the date than usual, mostly expressed in deadlines - last posting day, days left of term, final order date for turkeys, grocery delivery slots. There's such a frenzied sense of countdown.

Which really renders the whole idea of Advent calendars pretty redundant for adults. When so much headspace is already dedicated to what needs to be shoehorned in before the big day. I think that is probably why hubby's beer advent calendar always goes down well, signifying as it does, a moment of reprieve from the responsibilities of real life. Yup, he's getting one again this year.

But what I really want to achieve in time for Christmas, is for my Toast style lifestyle to materialize. You know the one I mean - when the house is beautifully uncluttered with the personal treasues significant to us allowed to shine. When everything is orderly and I can enjoy the company of family and friends instead of rushing around doing my finest impression of a headless chicken. Where there are whole stretches of the day devoted to staring into the middle distance and pondering, whilst wearing cashmere.

So I've made myself an Advent calender, out of the flier that Toast kindly posted through my door on Saturday.

And over those little pictures of lifestyle desireability, I am going to stick bits of paper with the stuff I need to accomplish between now and the big day. The boring stuff like clean the microwave and finally get round to putting the halloween decorations back up in the loft and as I get them ticked off my to-do-list, I am going to remove the bits of paper and watch my perfect lifestyle emerge.

Think I'll make it by Christmas?

Positive Mental Attitude

Mark, the elder one, was running in a Cross Country fixture last weekend. We were sat at dinner the evening before, joking about carb loading and planning the arrangements for getting to the race, when he came out with "I don't think I'm going to do very well".

Perhaps he had a point - he had run well in the heats, but this was the regionals. Plus the age category was U13, so many of the competitors would be from the school year above him. It was going to be a tough gig. But there's no defeatist talk tolerated around our table! We had a chat about your best effort being enough and how a positive mental attitude can really make the difference.

Face it, I had few words of wisdom to offer on the actual running side of things, so cod sports-psychology was all I could offer. In fact, the older the children get, the more I realize that as a parent, I honestly have no answers to the vast majority of their quandries. I listen, I try to make sure they know I'm on their team and I trot out a load of old bunkum and hope that it makes them feel better.

But words do have the power to do that sometimes. No matter how well worn or rehashed they are. And sometimes, just saying it out loud makes it seem a little more real or a touch more possible.

I'm hoping this theory holds true at Christmas. Because I've been making a banner.

All is calm, all is bright

Positive Mental Attitude, people. And a little glitter card and a template from here.

50 things to do before you turn 12

The National Trust came up with a big list to get children off the sofa and out into the big outdoors. Given that Mark turned 12 today, I thought it might be a fun time to see what evidence we could find of the activities we've done. It has taken a very pleasureable age of trawling through the photo archives. Makes me want to be sure to photograph their childhoods at every single turn.

1. Climb a tree

2. Roll down a really big hill

3. Camp out in the wild

4. Build a den

5. Skim a stone

6. Run around in the rain

7. Fly a kite

8. Catch a fish with a net

9. Eat an apple straight from a tree

10. Play conkers

11. Throw some snow

12. Hunt for treasure on the beach

13. Make a mud pie

14. Dam a stream

15. Go sledging

16. Bury someone in the sand

17. Set up a snail race

18. Balance on a fallen tree

19. Swing on a rope swing

20. Make a mud slide

21. Eat blackberries growing in the wild

22. Take a look inside a tree

23. Visit an island

24. Feel like you're flying in the wind

25. Make a grass trumpet

26. Hunt for fossils and bones

27. Watch the sun wake up

28. Climb a huge hill

29. Get behind a waterfall

30. Feed a bird from your hand

31. Hunt for bugs

32. Find some frogspawn

33. Catch a butterfly in a net

34. Track wild animals

35. Discover what's in a pond

36. Call an owl

37. Check out the crazy creatures in a rock pool

38. Bring up a butterfly

39. Catch a crab

40. Go on a nature walk at night

41. Plant it, grow it, eat it

42. Go wild swimming

43. Go rafting

44. Light a fire without matches

45. Find your way with a map and compass

46. Try bouldering

47. Cook on a campfire

48. Try abseiling

49. Find a geocache

50. Canoe down a river

And can I add an extra? Eat Nigella's Nutella Cheesecake in lieu of a birthday cake.

Happy Birthday elder son. It's been a lot of fun making childhood memories with you.

Little people

It was Anna's pin which led me to the Korknisse pattern on Ravelry.

But it was the lure of diversionary activity, which had me knit up my version of a little cork person there and then. Because my own little person has flown the nest and headed off to France for a few days.

I used to think I was a relaxed kind of Mother, the type who is chilled about letting her offspring sally forth on the odd adventure. Turns out that is true only when it is the elder one, and I still have a chick at home to cluck over.

The French trip has stolen my baby, and I don't like it one little bit. 

Though I am sure he will be having a whale of a time. And I do promise to refrain from telling him that he must never leave my side ever again.

 

What a difference a week makes

This time last week, it was still the Summer Holidays.

The tail end always seems a little strange - the days still our own, but tinged with anticipation of what is to come. It's a notoriously scratchy period at our house - tempers a tad frayed, ready to get back to some sort of routine. To feel we are taking up the reins and getting on with life again.

And nature too has a way of reminding us that time is passing. That summer, however sweet, does not last forever.

But that every season brings its own bounty.

As a reminder to us to enjoy each new phase as it is ushered in.

Even if it can't possibly be time for that already. 

 

Nancy taught me a good word for this moment:  'la rentrée' - hope yours was a smooth one.

 

Elsewhere

Feeling somewhat apologetic about my absence here this summer. But life seems to have been happening elsewhere.

Though, if I am honest, a large proportion of that 'elsewhere' has been a derriere shaped indentation on the sofa in front of the Olympics.

We did also manage a quick live spectator trip.

The experience was every bit as fab as everone else has said.

And educational - we are now fluent in Polish Volleyball.

Can't believe there is only a day left before the Olympics comes to an end. But very much hoping that the feel good feeling lingers on.

Sunshine addles brain

I am going for a haircut tomorrow. This is, for me, a relatively rare occurrence (last time I went was January). But at least I am no longer scared of the hairdresser. I have finally found somebody who cuts my hair as curly hair, rather than as straight hair, bent to their will with a blow drier, thus looking fantastic, swishy and gorgeous as I leave the salon and a hideous, cowlicked state the rest of the time.

Adrian, my scissor wielding saviour, likes my curls. In fact, he goes so far in 'encouraging' them, that I tend to leave the salon looking like a poodle, but at least when I wash it the following morning, my hair works as its curly self. This is worth the large amount of money I pay for his 'creative director' status (especially since haircuts generally only happen a couple of times a year).

But tomorrow, I am not going alone. Mark has finally consented to cut his hair, but only if he gets to go to the same place as me. So I called for appointments for three of us (only two of us are NOT getting the creative director). 

They used to go to Sara - the biker chick owner of the local barber's shop. She would discuss Top Gear with Mark, tickle Johnny with her neck brush and give the swiftest, most sensible boys haircuts on the planet. And lollipops. She had cut their hair right from little baby wisps, through first days at school and I was hoping she would navigate teenage trends on my behalf, but she left to go back to the Isle of Man. And since she did (and it was almost 2 years ago), the kids hair has been getting more and more unkempt.

We've cut it, in many different walk in barber shop type places, but the styles (or lack thereof) have been getting worse and worse. Mark is commonly sporting what can only be called a bob. Not good. So I was determined that we should get decent haircuts out of the doubtless extortionate bill tomorrow. And the key to a decent cut? Knowing what you want.

Cue pinterest. I'm a big fan of Johnny's choice.

Source: Uploaded by user via Ali on Pinterest

 

Okay, I realize he's a bit young for facial hair, but the rest is good, no?

Mark is still keen to be more hairy and scruffy than I, and his school I suspect, would ideally like. But I bow to the whims of pre-teen fashion. At least he isn't asking for piercings or a tattoo (yet). 

Though it is clear that some people are in doubt over the motives behind my pinboard....

Do you have input into your kids hair? How do you manage it? I have high hopes tomorrow for finding a Sara relacement, who can tread the fine line between pleasing the customer and producing something on their heads which looks reasonable. Keep your fingers crossed  - given that it took me over 30 years to find a hairdresser I liked, it might be a big ask.

Hola!

We're back from our hols. I wrote a great long post about them and Typepad ate it. So here's the abbreviated version.

Lanzarote - Finca de Arrieta - great place.

Sun, sea, sand, pool, donkey, trampoline, snorkling, eating, drinking, bliss.

Happy face.

Happy face.

Back home.

Pros: own pillow

Cons: no more baby calamari

 

Move over, Spielberg

So, it's the beginning of the holidays. That'd be the almost nine (yes, NINE) week Summer Holidays. I've done 4 loads of washing this morning in the hope of getting all the school uniform and sports kit processed and put away. 

Much paper detritus had been shovelled out of bedrooms to make way for the influx from this year's work. It seems paying £1 per bag tossed really helps to focus the mind on just how essential it is to hang on to things. Turns out my most mercenary child is highly susceptible to cash bribes, in spite of his pack rat tendencies.

But there are only so many domestic chores one can expect to accomplish each day - holidays require projects and this one seems destined to be the year of movie making. 

So I give you 'The House Next Door'. Shot by my offspring, entirely in pyjamas. Beat that Spielberg.