Saying the wrong thing to my children (No 2,016)

There are times when I realise that I and my children exist on totally different planes.

Take this, for example.

Last Summer.  The day we got back from France.  The week before my period.  I hadn't slept for two days because I'd been sharing a bed (for which read bunk on a boat, the second night) with M.  He's adorable, but he's not the best of bedfellows.  B had had the other room in the hotel and cabin on the boat because he was doing all the driving, and because he had to work as soon as we got back.

So, anyway, we docked at 9 am. We got back here at 10.30ish.  By 11.15 B was back at his desk, leaving me with four (tired) children, and two weeks worth of unpacking, washing, post, shopping, phone messages, and everything that goes with them.  Oh, and did I mention the PMT?

All this is by way of justification for the fact that when, a few short minutes and about six loads of laundry later, I discovered that the the girls had destroyed their bedrooms as only a force ten gale or three small children can, I was perhaps not my entirely calm and rational self.

About a minute and a half of shouting later, I sank to the floor, head in hands, two parts ashamed, to three exhausted, to probably, if the truth be told, one still spitting bricks.

And L came up to me.  I don't know what she said, if anything.  I can't remember.  I just know I said, in tones of world weary, resigned exhaustion:

I can't do it any more.  Make a mess.   I don't care.

And she got up and skipped away, huge grin on her face, shouting with delight:

Mummy says we can make a mess!

Sometimes only your children can make you smile...

What the Dickens have I been reading for the last six months?

To which the answer is:

This lot.

Which contains some Dickens, but not as much as I promised myself when I set myself the task of reading everything he wrote, back in July.

But that, with one honourable exception, (the photo on the right, thanks Amazon), that I've passed on to a neighbour,  is everything I've read since then.

It's a rather shamefully small list, which I blame almost entirely on Dombey and Son which I started reading in September, and only finished last week.  I'm not sure why, after all, what's not to love about a book which has on its first page, the following sentence:

...and Son lay tucked up warm in a little basket...immediately in front of the fire and close to it, as if his consitution were analogous to that of a muffin, and it was essential to toast him brown while he was very new.

I suspect other people may have noticed that Dickens had a way with words, but if I hadn't been aware of it before, he had me at that point.

Hard Times, although I read it quicker, didn't grab me in the same way.  It's difficult, perhaps, to read these books as Dickens might have intended the reader to; we live, after all, in a somewhat different world.  But even though all the same social issues he raises still exist, and are maybe often worse, I just felt too distanced from his world really to be drawn into it.

The others were a bit of light relief really.  Georgette Heyer is my 10-tog-duvet, big mug of hot chocolate, author of comfort and love.  I turn to her whenever I don't know what else to read, or just when I want something to entertain, amuse and remind me that all is, at base, right with the world.  I didn't know either of these two of hers before and I thoroughly enjoyed them both, even if I can't really remember what either of them was about now.  High Society followed on from the two Georgettes (we're on first name terms) and fleshed out the world she wrote about for me, even if that wasn't really necessary because there are so  many historical snippets and period details in her books that there were times that this really just felt like a non-fiction version.

I wanted to enjoy the Jeffrey Eugenides, having loved Middlesex and the Virgin Suicides, but I just didn't.  I felt as though he was trying to say something terribly significant and failing.  But maybe the failure was mine.

I felt let down by The Night Circus too.  It was recommended by a friend, and it's the sort of thing I normally love, but in the end it felt like all style and no substance.  In the bonus extra author interview the publishers stuck in at the end Erin Morgenstern is asked whether she is a fan of Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell.  She is, apparently.  The problem is her book just isn't as good.

You can't be let down by Margaret Attwood though (although to be honest, I struggled and failed with Alias Grace) and The Robber Bride was creepy and compelling and mysterious and racy all in one.  I realise I'm pretty late in coming to it, but I'm glad I did.

Next, something completely different.  I read a lot of those "Best books of 2012 " things last month and the one book that kept coming up was The Old Ways, by Robert Macfarlane.  It's a very not me sort of a book, but I asked Santa for it anyway and I started it this morning.

I'll let you know how I get on.

Addendum (18th February) - for completeness' sake, I also read The Pickwick Papers.   I realised when I found it under the bed about fifteen minutes ago.  I told you there was more Dickens.  I'm rather ashamed of having forgotten it though. Doesn't say good things about me, really, does it? I'm not sure we can blame one of Charles' finest, after all.  Jolly funny it was too.

When friends grow old.

Barely days ago, in Summer 2010, I posted this picture of A's best friend:

Bunny:

In the intervening two and a half years, Bunny has been much loved, much played with. Much cuddled and nurtured.

So much so, that this is Bunny now, scrubbed up and looking at his best for the photo:

Bunny is still loved.  Still taken to bed every night. Still clutched through bumps and bruises, fears and frolics, dreams and nightmares.  Still sucked and nuzzled into a disgusting, soggy, stinky rag that requires a weekly 90 degree wash.


But we have to accept that the end cannot be far off.  And I don't know how I am going to cope, much less A.

As the actress said to the bishop. Or not.

I did something increasingly unusual last year.

On the census form, on the religion bit, I put: C of E.

I don't go regularly any more (distinct lack of child friendly churches round here), and you'd probably never know that I ever went at all if I didn't tell you.  But despite that my membership of the Church of England, is, and always has been, a part of who I am.   Three of my four children were baptised into the church and the fourth has his official dunking booked for later this year.

But following the news about gay bishops, I'm thinking of cancelling the Christening; and if the census were tomorrow, I'm not sure what I'd put.

It's not that I care who my bishop sleeps with.  (To be fair,it's not that I know who my bishop is, living in Scotland as I do.)  Nor is it that the whole thing is a nonsense - it's apparently ok to be gay, and do gay stuff like fall in love, move in together and  have a civil partnership, as long as you don't do other gay stuff; like, for example, sleep with other men.  (Really?  Is there really anyone who thinks that makes sense?)  Nor is it that it almost explicitly invites senior clergy into each other's bedrooms. (Will they also be asking the straight ones if they prefer it missionary or doggy style?).  

It's not actually about the gay men at all, whether bishops or otherwise.  

What's bothering me is the thought of what this says about the whole institution's unspoken attitude towards women in general, and women bishops in particular.

Because underneath it all, doesn't that attitiude boil down to this: 

Being gay is wrong.  Being a gay bishop is ok.  
Being a woman bishop is not ok. 

Or, in other words: while it's sometimes ok to be gay, it's never ok to be a woman.

Thoughts on the 22nd December 2012.

Well, it turns out the world didn't end yesterday.

As it happens, I still don't understand why people thought it might end.  If I've understood it right, and I can't say I've ever given much thought to the Mayan calendar before, it was just the end of a period of time for them, like a bigger week, or month, or century.  So if they were still around, they would, I think, have been looking at people stockpiling tins of beans and thought they were rather odd, while looking forward to what the fourteenth baktun might bring.

But anyway, the world didn't end.  Which is nice, because it's my birthday today, and it'd be a shame to have missed that.

And it's three days before Christmas, the wrapping is done, the cake is iced, B has taken the children off to Sainsbury's to do the brussels sprouts and double cream shop (one of the perks of having a birthday so close to Christmas) and, to top it all, M, nineteen months on New Years' Eve, has finally taken to his feet and walked.

So I am feeling blessed.  Or lucky.  Or both.   And not unlike Lucy Mangan in today's Guardian (even down to the motor skills). 

So go and have a read, and after that have a wonderful Christmas, and a very happy New Year.

xx

The hardest thing about Christmas

Is not, in my opinion, the cooking.

It's not the maintaining of an innocent appearance in the face of ruthless interrogation on the reality or otherwise of you know who.

It's not even dealing with the fact that my twins (see left), my mother, my brother and myself all have birthdays in the two weeks before Christmas (and admittedly that means it's worse for my sister who has to buy (and think) for all of us - so does my dad, technically, but honestly any involvement he has in the thinking of, shopping for or wrapping of presents is purely coincidental).

No. It's men's presents in general, and B's present in particular.

It needs to be thoughtful and personal: chosen with real care to reflect how much I love him and how central he is to mine and the children's everything.

I've just ordered it. It is safe to say it is none of the above.

He reads this blog so I can't be specific (think of this as management of expectations) but suffice to say it's something we need and  so because I can't think of anything else I'm buying it now, essentially to save having to spend money on it later.

How rubbish is that?

It's his fault, obviously.  I'm pretty good at presents mostly, but my effort and imagination do, I admit, tend to prioritse birthdays over Christmas.  B turned forty earlier this year, and if he hadn't selfishly done so I wouldn't have used up my store of fabulously well thought out presents already.

I did well then, with no false modesty: he got a pretty spectacular party, a weekend away with various bits to go with it, and two maps from thisismymap.com

Now, this isn't a sponsored post (I paid for the maps ages ago), and the lovely people who made them don't even know I'm writing it but the maps are just brilliant.

The pictures on here aren't actually of our ones because B has very gently pointed out that if I stick a whole bunch of personal information (as I did briefly this afternoon) including all our names and significant places online, it might not do much for what remains of my anonymity, but these are very like ours and I hope that Tracy, whose business it is, will forgive me for lifting them off her website.  And that everyone else won't mind that I've changed this post slightly from the original version.

I designed them in conjunction with Tracy and they make me smile every time I see them. B loves maps, and we have maps dotted all round the house, but these are different: the one on the left not a map at all, it's a family tree, and the other, the one which looks, counter-intuitively like a tree (and which is what gave me the idea of the family tree above), is all of his favourite things interconnecting, from me and the children to bacon and egg muffins, from our first house to fine wine (it's more specific than that), and from sudoku to the Proclaimers.
 

They reflect him and us, and his family and friends and everything that is important in his life in two fabulously simple, information packed graphics and he, and I, are delighted with them.  The children love them too, of course, because they're on both of them.

If I say it myself, I did well.  Then.  For now though, I'm just going to have to hope they're good enough to compensate for the new Christmas Hoover...

Ps: As I say, I've not been asked to write this (and it wasn't really the post I intended to write when I started out) but if you're struggling for a present idea, and can't find a good place for a weekend away (we went to the Lake District, it was fab) have a look at the site. I can promise you won't regret it.
 

Scots, wha hae wi Wallace read...*

Great excitement at school on Friday:  the P1 bookbug bags arrived.

It was the end of Scottish Book Week, and here, where we still get free books given to every child every year from birth to five, they dished out three crackers to L and her classmates, whose front covers you can see in this post.  I honestly can't tell you which I like best. They're all awesome.  If you're looking for a book to give a five year old this Christmas, you won't go wrong with any of these.

But they also gave us Jordan's new Jaiket.

First line: Jordan wis in his bed sleepin.  He wis in the middle o a braw dream.

And I have removed it from L and told her she's not allowed to read it.

It's not a Scottish literature thing, obviously.  The three fantastic books which illustrate this post are all written by Scottish (or Scottish based) authors and I couldn't be more delighted with them. 

But it is a Scots thing. 

For a start, I don't happen to think Scots is a language.  Now, technically, there's no fixed definition of what's a language, what's an accent and what's a dialect. But if we assume that a dialect is somewhere between a language and an accent, I reckon Scots is a dialect.  Or, indeed, a vast number of different dialects which are markedly different if you live in Stornoway, Stranraer or Selkirk.  Indeed, people (or indeed folk) from Selkirk, a grand 20 miles away from where I sit, speak a completely different version of Scots from those in Hawick, or Galashiels, or Duns, each of which is less than 20 miles from the others.  

So if L reads, or has read to her (although not by me, because I'd mangle it), Jordan's new Jaiket she's not hearing anything that really resembles the words, accents and turns of phrase she hears out and about. 

The introduction to Jordan's new Jaiket, written, obviously, not in Scots, says:

Learning about Scotland helps children to develop a sense of who they are and their place in the world[...].  Exploring Scots language is an iimportant part of this learning.

Of course it is. I couldn't be more delighted for my children, and all other children wherever they are raised, to be given an real sense of the local culture: the literature, art and music, the dialects, architecture and landscape.  I want my children to appreciate the works of Robert Burns, John Buchan, James Kelman or Irvine Welsh (but not Walter Scott, because (whisper it) it's incredibly dull).

But not yet.  Not now.

L is five.  She is just on the cusp of learning to read and write, an explosion of literacy that is going to open up to her worlds of imagining and information.  She, and I, are so excited by this.  She can't get through her bedtime story at the moment without stopping me to read out words or sentences she has recognised, or to point to a punctuation mark and ask what it is and what it's doing.

So when she picks up Jordan's new Jaiket, and reads, in her voice which still has more than an echo of three formative years spent in southern England, "Jordan was in his bed sleeping",  she is undoing all the hard work her teacher has put in, teaching her to recognise that was is spelt with an a and ing makes the sound, and has the grammatical function, it does (although obviously she wouldn't express it like that), in whatever accent you choose to say it.

Wherever you stand on the importance (or indeed existence) of the Scots language, at this stage, L, and all the other P1 children who were given this book, are being taught to read and write English, and it is in English that they will go on to read the vast majority of books, textbooks, exam papers, magazines, newspapers or advertisements.  Tacitly, the writer and publisher of Jordan's new Jaiket (which is, incidentally, a rubbish story - Jordan can't find his new jacket because his sister has put it on her snowman) know this, else why write the blurb in English?

L's school has a Burns competition. Each year around Burns night, the older children are encouraged to learn a Burns poem and to recite it in front of their classmates and the school.  I dearly hope she will take part and I'd love her to be able to do so with a swagger and a swing of Scots conviction.  But by that stage she will be older.  She will be reading and writing fluently in English, and regularly hearing the local dialect of Scots. She will have the knowledge and sophistication to recognise and understand the differences and to know that what is correct in one is not in the other.

But now, at five, she's not.  And to confuse her, or her classmates, is jist wrang.  




*With apologies to the shade of Robert Burns.