A question from 8-yo yesterday:
"Mummy, is rocket science difficult?"
I just said yes. I said it must be very difficult and complicated to send up a rocket into space. But it's an assumption, isn't it? I could have said "Rocket science? Nah. Any old numpty can work for NASA if they want. Baking muffins that turn out light and fluffy. That's what's really difficult."
Because that is what I find difficult. Nay, impossible.
And remembering that red wine, though delicious, doesn't agree with me. (It's an age thing, I think; this is a new problem.)
And reversing in a straight line (I'm ok manoeuvring, but I find it hard to reverse straight back).
And spelling "manoeuvring", (though I hadn't thought about that one till just then).
What about you? What do you find difficult?
.
Showing posts with label 8-yo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 8-yo. Show all posts
Friday, March 22, 2013
Friday, January 11, 2013
Name corruptions
Good to know that we're not the only family which has a ridiculous range of names for its dog. Thanks for your comments. Hector is also Hectorious, Hectoroo, What-the-Hec, and probably several others that have slipped my mind.
Over Christmas, and as a result of the influence of my sister, 8-yo got very interested in Strictly Come Dancing. She joined the "Can't Bear Bruce Forsyth" club, and was generally very taken with the glamour and glitz of it all. Hector played his part. She would pick him up, hold him tight, and whirl round the room with him, saying "This is Strictly Come Dogging! This is Strictly Come Dogging!"
Oh dear. Perhaps she'll have forgotten, by the time next season comes round.
.
Over Christmas, and as a result of the influence of my sister, 8-yo got very interested in Strictly Come Dancing. She joined the "Can't Bear Bruce Forsyth" club, and was generally very taken with the glamour and glitz of it all. Hector played his part. She would pick him up, hold him tight, and whirl round the room with him, saying "This is Strictly Come Dogging! This is Strictly Come Dogging!"
Oh dear. Perhaps she'll have forgotten, by the time next season comes round.
.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Compliment... I think...
I picked 8-yo up from school one day last week, not dressed in my usual clothes, but in sharper attire.
I thought I was going to have to eat public humble pie and confess to having bought an item of clothing that I poured scorn and loathing on in a previous blog post. Jeggings. I thought I'd ranted at length about them, but on looking up that old post, it turns out, my memory was wrong. I was ranting about pyjama jeans. Pyjama jeans... *physical shudder*...
Now I probably don't strike you instantly as a jeggingsy kind of a gal, and I confess that in M&S recently, I had to ask the meaning of the word "treggings". I can't be doing with all these hybrid items. It's like layering. I've never got the hang of that. If you're cold, put on a jumper. If you're not, wear a shirt. Can't really do layering. Doesn't make sense, and looks like you didn't finish getting dressed properly. Perhaps I just had too many people in my childhood telling me to tuck my school blouse in (or "tuck yourself in" as they would say, which is a very odd turn of phrase, if you stop to think of it).
As I was saying, jeggings have not come naturally to me, but now I've taken the plunge (visual image of two M&S assistants each holding one side of a pair of jeggings, and me on a diving board above, shutting my eyes and holding my nose, stepping off and arriving, bump, ouch, into the garment), and I have to say they do look great with long suede boots, and a snappy city-dweller short mac. (Do they call them "macs" these days, or should I say "raincoat"?)
Back to 8-yo. When I picked her up, she said
"Oh Mummy, I hardly recognised you, you look so pretty".
Which I took as a compliment.
.
I thought I was going to have to eat public humble pie and confess to having bought an item of clothing that I poured scorn and loathing on in a previous blog post. Jeggings. I thought I'd ranted at length about them, but on looking up that old post, it turns out, my memory was wrong. I was ranting about pyjama jeans. Pyjama jeans... *physical shudder*...
Now I probably don't strike you instantly as a jeggingsy kind of a gal, and I confess that in M&S recently, I had to ask the meaning of the word "treggings". I can't be doing with all these hybrid items. It's like layering. I've never got the hang of that. If you're cold, put on a jumper. If you're not, wear a shirt. Can't really do layering. Doesn't make sense, and looks like you didn't finish getting dressed properly. Perhaps I just had too many people in my childhood telling me to tuck my school blouse in (or "tuck yourself in" as they would say, which is a very odd turn of phrase, if you stop to think of it).
As I was saying, jeggings have not come naturally to me, but now I've taken the plunge (visual image of two M&S assistants each holding one side of a pair of jeggings, and me on a diving board above, shutting my eyes and holding my nose, stepping off and arriving, bump, ouch, into the garment), and I have to say they do look great with long suede boots, and a snappy city-dweller short mac. (Do they call them "macs" these days, or should I say "raincoat"?)
Back to 8-yo. When I picked her up, she said
"Oh Mummy, I hardly recognised you, you look so pretty".
Which I took as a compliment.
.
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, June 1, 2012
Holding it all together
Life can embrace extremes, and sometimes it's hard to hold those extremes together. If you put one in each hand, your left hand would drag your shoulder down towards the floor, and your right would shoot up above your head.
I am thrilled by the act of taking a box of cast-off books to our local second hand bookshop, and receiving $9 for them. It feels like a good deal. I like the idea of them finding new homes, and helping the bookshop on its way. And $9 is better than nothing. Today we are going to talk to our realtor about dropping the price of our house. What will she suggest? $2,000? $5,000? More? So why did $9 feel so good? Why is my purse stuffed with coupons: 75 cents off a box of cereal?
I am enjoying seeing my everyday people and doing my everyday things. I also have a bucket list (hate that term, but it's convenient short-hand) of things I want to do and see locally. When I do those, I say "I can't believe we've been here five years and I've only just discovered this". The familiar and the unexplored. Both feel important, but they are competing for time. Not only time. Mental space, and emotional space too.
Blogging can be at the extremes too. I read the posts of people for whom life is pottering on, and the content is about school sports day, or chicken pox. I also read the posts of people for whom life is intense, and the content is about dealing with their child's serious long-term health, or a bereavement.
The universe must be reading as I write. I've just been interrupted by my daughter in her dressing gown. I thought we were going to have our usual conversation.
"Can I go on the computer?"
"No, I'm busy writing something."
"When can I go on the computer?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe twenty minutes. Go and play for twenty minutes and then you can."
"I'm bored. I don't know what to do."
But today she cut to the chase.
"I feel sad."
"Why do you feel sad?"
"Because it's June."
So we had a hug, but now she's pottered off, and here I am, still "busy writing something" on the computer, but yes, it's June, and when June is over, we will no longer be here, which has been home for the past five and a half years.
That would be a good way to conclude this post, but wait, I haven't finished yet. Here's another pair of extremes. In my email inbox the other day, one above the other, were three emails asking for my attention, and for air time on my blog. One was telling me all about how I could join in some PR event to try out new strollers. I replied, pointing out that my youngest child is eight years old. That one served only to make me more receptive to the other two, which were personal, thoughtful, and worthwhile. So I offer you, one in each of my hands, the following:
Gemma Robinson, who has sniffed me out as a fellow tea enthusiast, and whose hand-made art prints I am happy to draw attention to. You can find them here. "Parsnips are the enemy" made me laugh (though I really love parsnips, so I'm not sure why).
And Syria. I was invited to write about the horrors that are happening in Syria, to raise awareness. Many other bloggers are doing so today. You can read their posts in the links here. I am shocked and horrified by what I've read. I want to care about Syria. I believe that (as Edmund Burke said, and Potty Mummy quoted) 'All that's necessary for the forces of evil to win in the world is for enough good men to do nothing.' But I can't feel and do very much for Syria at the moment. I just can't.
I am thrilled by the act of taking a box of cast-off books to our local second hand bookshop, and receiving $9 for them. It feels like a good deal. I like the idea of them finding new homes, and helping the bookshop on its way. And $9 is better than nothing. Today we are going to talk to our realtor about dropping the price of our house. What will she suggest? $2,000? $5,000? More? So why did $9 feel so good? Why is my purse stuffed with coupons: 75 cents off a box of cereal?
I am enjoying seeing my everyday people and doing my everyday things. I also have a bucket list (hate that term, but it's convenient short-hand) of things I want to do and see locally. When I do those, I say "I can't believe we've been here five years and I've only just discovered this". The familiar and the unexplored. Both feel important, but they are competing for time. Not only time. Mental space, and emotional space too.
Blogging can be at the extremes too. I read the posts of people for whom life is pottering on, and the content is about school sports day, or chicken pox. I also read the posts of people for whom life is intense, and the content is about dealing with their child's serious long-term health, or a bereavement.
The universe must be reading as I write. I've just been interrupted by my daughter in her dressing gown. I thought we were going to have our usual conversation.
"Can I go on the computer?"
"No, I'm busy writing something."
"When can I go on the computer?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe twenty minutes. Go and play for twenty minutes and then you can."
"I'm bored. I don't know what to do."
But today she cut to the chase.
"I feel sad."
"Why do you feel sad?"
"Because it's June."
So we had a hug, but now she's pottered off, and here I am, still "busy writing something" on the computer, but yes, it's June, and when June is over, we will no longer be here, which has been home for the past five and a half years.
That would be a good way to conclude this post, but wait, I haven't finished yet. Here's another pair of extremes. In my email inbox the other day, one above the other, were three emails asking for my attention, and for air time on my blog. One was telling me all about how I could join in some PR event to try out new strollers. I replied, pointing out that my youngest child is eight years old. That one served only to make me more receptive to the other two, which were personal, thoughtful, and worthwhile. So I offer you, one in each of my hands, the following:
Gemma Robinson, who has sniffed me out as a fellow tea enthusiast, and whose hand-made art prints I am happy to draw attention to. You can find them here. "Parsnips are the enemy" made me laugh (though I really love parsnips, so I'm not sure why).
And Syria. I was invited to write about the horrors that are happening in Syria, to raise awareness. Many other bloggers are doing so today. You can read their posts in the links here. I am shocked and horrified by what I've read. I want to care about Syria. I believe that (as Edmund Burke said, and Potty Mummy quoted) 'All that's necessary for the forces of evil to win in the world is for enough good men to do nothing.' But I can't feel and do very much for Syria at the moment. I just can't.
Life at the extremes. Sometimes all you can do is hold out your hands.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
A real gentleman
Day 20 of 'The Daily Post'.
Last night 12-yo was in a concert. It wasn’t a very formal affair, a school do, so we thought we’d take 8-yo and 5-yo. We went in two cars because this is the Midwest and we have a minimum personal mileage allocation which we have to reach by 31st December. We don’t really. We went in two cars because 12-yo had to be there half an hour early, and I guessed that one of us might be leaving half way through.
I was right about the half way through thing. 5-yo did well, but there is a limit to how still someone of that age can sit, with only the vocal excursions of middle and high schoolers as entertainment. We were sitting in the back row, which was good for the escape strategy, but bad in that there was a man with a video camera on a tripod next to us, filming the event. I was aware that every whispered question, or silent pretended giggle, or wiggle, or experimentation with balancing on the flip-up seat at different angles, might be captured on the recording. It raised the stakes. So when 12-yo had done his bit, Husband took 5-yo home. I was surprised that 8-yo decided to stay, since it was too dark to play with the trusty Bionicles which he had brought with him.
The back two or three rows had thinned out a bit by this stage, so I normally wouldn’t have been very sensitive to 8-yo’s wiggling. (Oh you naughty naughty parents who just stay for your child’s bit, without even having the ‘get out of concert free’ pass of a bored younger sibling.) But there was that video camera just next to us. In between songs, I whispered to him:
“You have to keep still. Every noise you make will be picked up by that microphone, and it’ll spoil the recording. You chose to stay. You could have gone home with Dad if you were bored. Why did you stay, anyway?”
He replied:
“So you wouldn’t be lonely”.
And if that wasn’t a heart-melting moment, that made me regret the mildly accusatory tone of my question, then I don’t know what would be.
Sitting in the dark, next to my small, tender-hearted, only slightly fidgety companion, and his two Bionicles, I wondered what finer escort a woman could have for an evening concert. Certainly you couldn’t ask for one with purer motives.
He definitely deserved his helping of the brownies and fruit punch which were served afterwards. And yes, he did know they would be there. But no, I don't think that was the reason he stayed. Come on... Even a true gentleman might harbour the tiniest glimmer of self-interest in his most gallant moments.
Last night 12-yo was in a concert. It wasn’t a very formal affair, a school do, so we thought we’d take 8-yo and 5-yo. We went in two cars because this is the Midwest and we have a minimum personal mileage allocation which we have to reach by 31st December. We don’t really. We went in two cars because 12-yo had to be there half an hour early, and I guessed that one of us might be leaving half way through.
I was right about the half way through thing. 5-yo did well, but there is a limit to how still someone of that age can sit, with only the vocal excursions of middle and high schoolers as entertainment. We were sitting in the back row, which was good for the escape strategy, but bad in that there was a man with a video camera on a tripod next to us, filming the event. I was aware that every whispered question, or silent pretended giggle, or wiggle, or experimentation with balancing on the flip-up seat at different angles, might be captured on the recording. It raised the stakes. So when 12-yo had done his bit, Husband took 5-yo home. I was surprised that 8-yo decided to stay, since it was too dark to play with the trusty Bionicles which he had brought with him.
The back two or three rows had thinned out a bit by this stage, so I normally wouldn’t have been very sensitive to 8-yo’s wiggling. (Oh you naughty naughty parents who just stay for your child’s bit, without even having the ‘get out of concert free’ pass of a bored younger sibling.) But there was that video camera just next to us. In between songs, I whispered to him:
“You have to keep still. Every noise you make will be picked up by that microphone, and it’ll spoil the recording. You chose to stay. You could have gone home with Dad if you were bored. Why did you stay, anyway?”
He replied:
“So you wouldn’t be lonely”.
And if that wasn’t a heart-melting moment, that made me regret the mildly accusatory tone of my question, then I don’t know what would be.
Sitting in the dark, next to my small, tender-hearted, only slightly fidgety companion, and his two Bionicles, I wondered what finer escort a woman could have for an evening concert. Certainly you couldn’t ask for one with purer motives.
He definitely deserved his helping of the brownies and fruit punch which were served afterwards. And yes, he did know they would be there. But no, I don't think that was the reason he stayed. Come on... Even a true gentleman might harbour the tiniest glimmer of self-interest in his most gallant moments.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
An unusual childhood complaint
Day Four of 'The Daily Post'.
There is a place here which is a favourite for kids' parties. There are lots of games where they earn tickets, and then they trade in the tickets for small prizes. It's like Chuck E Cheese's, without the mouse.
8-yo went to a party there yesterday. As we were setting off, he was desperately looking for a collection of tickets which he earned last time he went. That time, over a year ago, he spotted an electric guitar and decided he would save his tickets, until he had enough saved up for it. Now, a year older, he has worked out that if you earn around a hundred tickets each time, and the guitar is priced at several thousand, it's not a goal you're easily going to reach. Plus we have a kind babysitter who has an old electric guitar she doesn't want any more, and she is going to give it to him.
He couldn't find the tickets anywhere, and eventually had to leave without them. After the party he told me
"I'm really annoyed I can't find them, because I thought I was being smart. I looked them out the night before, and I put them in a safe place, and now I can't remember where that is."
My child has a touch of Mommy-brain.
.
There is a place here which is a favourite for kids' parties. There are lots of games where they earn tickets, and then they trade in the tickets for small prizes. It's like Chuck E Cheese's, without the mouse.
8-yo went to a party there yesterday. As we were setting off, he was desperately looking for a collection of tickets which he earned last time he went. That time, over a year ago, he spotted an electric guitar and decided he would save his tickets, until he had enough saved up for it. Now, a year older, he has worked out that if you earn around a hundred tickets each time, and the guitar is priced at several thousand, it's not a goal you're easily going to reach. Plus we have a kind babysitter who has an old electric guitar she doesn't want any more, and she is going to give it to him.
He couldn't find the tickets anywhere, and eventually had to leave without them. After the party he told me
"I'm really annoyed I can't find them, because I thought I was being smart. I looked them out the night before, and I put them in a safe place, and now I can't remember where that is."
My child has a touch of Mommy-brain.
.
Friday, April 10, 2009
You know you're in America when...
... your child gets a letter which is a personalized invitation to join in the National American Miss competition. Yay! My child has been selected for a Beauty Pageant!
I’m rather thrilled about this, as I feel I wouldn’t really have had the whole Living-in-America experience without it. It would be like going to New York and not eating a bagel, or London and not seeing Big Ben, or moving to the suburbs and not being invited to a Tupperware party. So I feel I’ve arrived. Yay!
The letter opens:
I understand that you may enjoy modeling, acting and learning stage techniques that will help empower and enable you to accomplish your future goals.
Ah, thank goodness for that. I thought these pageants were just for aspiring beauty queens. It continues:
National American Miss is a pageant experience designed for you, today’s girl; that’s why we do not have a swimsuit competition, we have a no make-up rule for participants age 12 and under, and you are not required to have a talent.
Phew. We wouldn’t want to rule out anyone just because they are entirely untalented. (And I do understand that it’s a talent, not just talent, before anyone points this out to me; I just thought it was funny when I read it.)
So what does my little darling, talented or untalented, have to do in order to have a chance of winning $25,000, modeling contracts, college scholarships, or a 2009 Ford Mustang convertible? Well, the letter gives details of where we can go for an Open Call session, where
you will have the opportunity to make new friends with girls from across your home state who have interests similar to yours, and also to gain self-confidence and valuable communication skills.
It gives details of the age groups, including the “Princess” category for age 4 – 6, and the “Junior Pre-Teen” for age 7 – 9, (which means that your kid can be “Junior Pre-Teen” pretty much as they leave Kindergarten. Mm, nice.)
The final paragraph helpfully provides a few tips:
First, dress for success! Come dressed as you would for a job interview.
Um, my child hasn’t been to many job interviews yet…
Before you hurry to advise me on what attire would be suitable for a child in this situation, whether they aspire to be in modeling, acting, or simply to attain a new level of self-confidence, I have to say that we won’t be pursuing this fabulous opportunity. Why not? Well, just one small glitch. The letter is addressed to 8-yo, my youngest son.
And what is it with blogging, by the way? I write a post about boys and self-confidence, and then this National American Miss letter arrives for 8-yo the very next morning. Am I in some cyber version of The Truman Show? This isn’t the first time this kind of coincidence has happened. Does it happen to the rest of you? Is it that we are more attuned to events in our lives that we have just written about, and that makes us spot connections more readily? Or is there some spooky blogger puppeteer out there pulling the strings in my little blogger life? (If there is, I don’t want to know about it.)
I’m rather thrilled about this, as I feel I wouldn’t really have had the whole Living-in-America experience without it. It would be like going to New York and not eating a bagel, or London and not seeing Big Ben, or moving to the suburbs and not being invited to a Tupperware party. So I feel I’ve arrived. Yay!
The letter opens:
I understand that you may enjoy modeling, acting and learning stage techniques that will help empower and enable you to accomplish your future goals.
Ah, thank goodness for that. I thought these pageants were just for aspiring beauty queens. It continues:
National American Miss is a pageant experience designed for you, today’s girl; that’s why we do not have a swimsuit competition, we have a no make-up rule for participants age 12 and under, and you are not required to have a talent.
Phew. We wouldn’t want to rule out anyone just because they are entirely untalented. (And I do understand that it’s a talent, not just talent, before anyone points this out to me; I just thought it was funny when I read it.)
So what does my little darling, talented or untalented, have to do in order to have a chance of winning $25,000, modeling contracts, college scholarships, or a 2009 Ford Mustang convertible? Well, the letter gives details of where we can go for an Open Call session, where
you will have the opportunity to make new friends with girls from across your home state who have interests similar to yours, and also to gain self-confidence and valuable communication skills.
It gives details of the age groups, including the “Princess” category for age 4 – 6, and the “Junior Pre-Teen” for age 7 – 9, (which means that your kid can be “Junior Pre-Teen” pretty much as they leave Kindergarten. Mm, nice.)
The final paragraph helpfully provides a few tips:
First, dress for success! Come dressed as you would for a job interview.
Um, my child hasn’t been to many job interviews yet…
Before you hurry to advise me on what attire would be suitable for a child in this situation, whether they aspire to be in modeling, acting, or simply to attain a new level of self-confidence, I have to say that we won’t be pursuing this fabulous opportunity. Why not? Well, just one small glitch. The letter is addressed to 8-yo, my youngest son.
And what is it with blogging, by the way? I write a post about boys and self-confidence, and then this National American Miss letter arrives for 8-yo the very next morning. Am I in some cyber version of The Truman Show? This isn’t the first time this kind of coincidence has happened. Does it happen to the rest of you? Is it that we are more attuned to events in our lives that we have just written about, and that makes us spot connections more readily? Or is there some spooky blogger puppeteer out there pulling the strings in my little blogger life? (If there is, I don’t want to know about it.)
Monday, January 5, 2009
Christmas words
We had a few interesting linguistic excursions in our house over the Christmas break.
I don't go out of my way to encourage rogue versions of carols, although the last few posts might lead you to think so. Nonetheless, 4-yo came up with her own. She would sing
"Deck the halls with boughs of holly
'Tis the season to be naughty"
and then laugh uproariously. (Try saying it with an American accent, and you'll see that the rhyme is closer than it looks.)
Then 8-yo asked the following question:
"You know when a boy thinks a girl is pretty, he says she's hot? Well, if he thinks she isn't pretty, does he say she's cold?"
Good question. Meanwhile, one of the little presents that Santa put in 4-yo's stocking was a packet of panties (her older brothers will never understand how panties and socks could possibly count as presents, for heaven's sake, but luckily Santa understands girls as well as he understands boys). Husband picked up the packet and said "oh, low rise panties. At first glance I thought it said low risk panties." Bridget Jones, you have so much to answer for.
Then there was a totally bizarre moment at the lunch table. We were enjoying smoked salmon, and encouraging the kids to try it. 4-yo asked the question "Is Gran smoked?" Hm. You're always told to answer kids honestly, so I replied "No. Um. No. Gran isn't smoked." That seemed an honest response.
It was only after long pondering that I worked out the background to the question. A couple of weeks before Christmas, 11-yo's class had been discussing the evils of smoking. I had been telling him how in his grandparents' generation, many people smoked, because they didn't know how bad it was for you. His grandparents had done so, but had given up when the ill effects became known.
Smoked salmon. Grandparents who smoked. Isn't the world a complicated place for a 4 year old?
I don't go out of my way to encourage rogue versions of carols, although the last few posts might lead you to think so. Nonetheless, 4-yo came up with her own. She would sing
"Deck the halls with boughs of holly
'Tis the season to be naughty"
and then laugh uproariously. (Try saying it with an American accent, and you'll see that the rhyme is closer than it looks.)
Then 8-yo asked the following question:
"You know when a boy thinks a girl is pretty, he says she's hot? Well, if he thinks she isn't pretty, does he say she's cold?"
Good question. Meanwhile, one of the little presents that Santa put in 4-yo's stocking was a packet of panties (her older brothers will never understand how panties and socks could possibly count as presents, for heaven's sake, but luckily Santa understands girls as well as he understands boys). Husband picked up the packet and said "oh, low rise panties. At first glance I thought it said low risk panties." Bridget Jones, you have so much to answer for.
Then there was a totally bizarre moment at the lunch table. We were enjoying smoked salmon, and encouraging the kids to try it. 4-yo asked the question "Is Gran smoked?" Hm. You're always told to answer kids honestly, so I replied "No. Um. No. Gran isn't smoked." That seemed an honest response.
It was only after long pondering that I worked out the background to the question. A couple of weeks before Christmas, 11-yo's class had been discussing the evils of smoking. I had been telling him how in his grandparents' generation, many people smoked, because they didn't know how bad it was for you. His grandparents had done so, but had given up when the ill effects became known.
Smoked salmon. Grandparents who smoked. Isn't the world a complicated place for a 4 year old?
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Jingle Bells
If you are from my era, you probably sang this as a child:
Jingle Bells, Batman smells
Robin's flown away
The Batmobile has lost its wheel
And landed in the hay.
Yes? Good. I'd like to know I wasn't the only one. Did you, too, share a frisson of naughty delight when you sang it? Not only were you singing the wrong words, which made it already pretty naughty, but that line "Batman smells" - wasn't that just the rudest thing ever?
Times move on, but it is good to know that childhood pleasures remain if not the same, than at least similar. There are new versions of Jingle Bells being sung around the globe. I thought you'd be interested to hear what eight year olds are singing in this neck of the woods. It goes like this:
Dashing through the snow
In a hybrid SUV
O'er the hills we go
Crashing into trees.
Bells are all destroyed
Making spirits fall,
All my presents have turned into
A flaming fireball.
There aren't any extreme rudenesses like "Batman smells", but even so, there's a healthy level of violence and destruction.
I love that eight year olds are singing about hybrid SUVs. Marvellous.
Postscript:
Oh. I've just spoiled my own post. I ran the lyrics past 8-yo. "Hypered", he said. "Hypered, not hybrid. What's hybrid mean, anyway?".
.
Jingle Bells, Batman smells
Robin's flown away
The Batmobile has lost its wheel
And landed in the hay.
Yes? Good. I'd like to know I wasn't the only one. Did you, too, share a frisson of naughty delight when you sang it? Not only were you singing the wrong words, which made it already pretty naughty, but that line "Batman smells" - wasn't that just the rudest thing ever?
Times move on, but it is good to know that childhood pleasures remain if not the same, than at least similar. There are new versions of Jingle Bells being sung around the globe. I thought you'd be interested to hear what eight year olds are singing in this neck of the woods. It goes like this:
Dashing through the snow
In a hybrid SUV
O'er the hills we go
Crashing into trees.
Bells are all destroyed
Making spirits fall,
All my presents have turned into
A flaming fireball.
There aren't any extreme rudenesses like "Batman smells", but even so, there's a healthy level of violence and destruction.
I love that eight year olds are singing about hybrid SUVs. Marvellous.
Postscript:
Oh. I've just spoiled my own post. I ran the lyrics past 8-yo. "Hypered", he said. "Hypered, not hybrid. What's hybrid mean, anyway?".
.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Christmas party
I was helping at 8-yo’s class Christmas party. My duty was to organize one game. In the car on the way there, 4-yo was asking me all about the event. Who was going to be there? Were other little brothers and sisters invited? Would the brothers and sisters be allowed to join in the game? Would they be allowed to have the snack?
I explained to the best of my knowledge (I wasn’t entirely sure what the party was going to be like myself, beyond my own game). Then she asked “How will the kids know how to play the game?”
“I’ll explain the rules to everyone before we begin”, I replied.
“Will the little kids understand the rules, or will they just watch the big kids and do what they do?” she asked, in such a matter of fact way that my heart melted.
Of course it didn’t need to melt. I know that second, third, and subsequent children “come on” much quicker than first children. Parents are amazed at the way their second children whizz by the milestones, and make sense of life so speedily. Perhaps it’s a little unsettling to think that all that careful parental input lavished on the first child, is less effective than the contribution of the sibling toddler, who does no more than potter on with daily life, oblivious of his or her role as a teaching model to number two.
As it happened, she was the only little sibling there, understood the instructions (it wasn’t a difficult game), was taken under the wing of her brother so that they both dropped out of the game together, had at least as much snack, if not more, than everyone else, and thoroughly enjoyed herself. She can't wait to start school. I sometimes wonder if we parents are more in danger of getting in the way of our children’s learning, than of not helping them enough.
I explained to the best of my knowledge (I wasn’t entirely sure what the party was going to be like myself, beyond my own game). Then she asked “How will the kids know how to play the game?”
“I’ll explain the rules to everyone before we begin”, I replied.
“Will the little kids understand the rules, or will they just watch the big kids and do what they do?” she asked, in such a matter of fact way that my heart melted.
Of course it didn’t need to melt. I know that second, third, and subsequent children “come on” much quicker than first children. Parents are amazed at the way their second children whizz by the milestones, and make sense of life so speedily. Perhaps it’s a little unsettling to think that all that careful parental input lavished on the first child, is less effective than the contribution of the sibling toddler, who does no more than potter on with daily life, oblivious of his or her role as a teaching model to number two.
As it happened, she was the only little sibling there, understood the instructions (it wasn’t a difficult game), was taken under the wing of her brother so that they both dropped out of the game together, had at least as much snack, if not more, than everyone else, and thoroughly enjoyed herself. She can't wait to start school. I sometimes wonder if we parents are more in danger of getting in the way of our children’s learning, than of not helping them enough.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Christmas carols
My two younger kids are singing in church on Sunday, along with all the rest of their Sunday school. They’re doing Away in a Manger, and Silent Night.
Away in a Manger is to a different tune to the one I know. How can that be? Shurely shome mistake. How can you have Away in a Manger, not to the Away in a Manger tune? Actually, I’m rather glad, since the usual tune makes me cry. You know how it is. You go and see your child in some preschool or school event, and you put a tissue in your pocket but you’re absolutely determined not to use it. You’re doing really well, and it’s almost over, and then - oh they’re so clever these teachers – right at the end, a child steps forward and lisps “Now we’re all going to thing Away in a Manger, the firtht time on our own, and then pleathe join uth when we thing it a thecond time”, and the familiar music starts. You’re sitting there, thinking “This is SUCH a cliché. I’m so NOT going to get emotional just because it’s Away in a Manger, and my little darling is dressed as a shepherd/angel/lamb. It’s just Christmas, for heaven’s sake, and I’m NOT going to succumb to the cheesiest old favourite in the book. Absolutely NOT.” It rather depends how slowly they sing it, and how many verses they have learned, as to whether you can keep these stern thoughts going for long enough, or whether the tissue has to emerge from the pocket.
What is it with Away in a Manger? I’m wondering if mothers put it on quickly when their baby daughters start to cry, so that the association becomes ingrained Pavlov-style at an infant age, and then somehow lies dormant till motherhood. I didn’t know about this, so I didn’t do it for my daughter. She’ll have an easier time at her children’s nativity plays.
Silent Night. That’s a nice one (apart from the rather screechy way you have to slide up the scale on “pee-eeace” in the last line). I was getting 8-yo to sing it to me, to make sure he knew the words, and half way through, he stopped and said “What is an infantso?” You know that bit: Holy infantso, tender and mild. I told him it was a kind of reindeer (I didn’t really).
It reminded me of one of my own childhood Christmas carol puzzles. There was this really confusing bit in “While shepherds watched” which said Thus spake the sheriff, and forthwith appeared a shining throng. I knew it couldn’t be a wild west type of sheriff, in Bethlehem. In any case, men can’t be angels. Girls are angels, as eny ful no. I remember being confused, but I can't remember how I resolved the issue. I probably concluded the sheriff was the angel with the bright golden star.
Ah, innocent times. These days, kids are probably more confused by why forthwith a shining thong would appear.
Do you have any childhood festive misunderstandings you’d like to share?
.
Away in a Manger is to a different tune to the one I know. How can that be? Shurely shome mistake. How can you have Away in a Manger, not to the Away in a Manger tune? Actually, I’m rather glad, since the usual tune makes me cry. You know how it is. You go and see your child in some preschool or school event, and you put a tissue in your pocket but you’re absolutely determined not to use it. You’re doing really well, and it’s almost over, and then - oh they’re so clever these teachers – right at the end, a child steps forward and lisps “Now we’re all going to thing Away in a Manger, the firtht time on our own, and then pleathe join uth when we thing it a thecond time”, and the familiar music starts. You’re sitting there, thinking “This is SUCH a cliché. I’m so NOT going to get emotional just because it’s Away in a Manger, and my little darling is dressed as a shepherd/angel/lamb. It’s just Christmas, for heaven’s sake, and I’m NOT going to succumb to the cheesiest old favourite in the book. Absolutely NOT.” It rather depends how slowly they sing it, and how many verses they have learned, as to whether you can keep these stern thoughts going for long enough, or whether the tissue has to emerge from the pocket.
What is it with Away in a Manger? I’m wondering if mothers put it on quickly when their baby daughters start to cry, so that the association becomes ingrained Pavlov-style at an infant age, and then somehow lies dormant till motherhood. I didn’t know about this, so I didn’t do it for my daughter. She’ll have an easier time at her children’s nativity plays.
Silent Night. That’s a nice one (apart from the rather screechy way you have to slide up the scale on “pee-eeace” in the last line). I was getting 8-yo to sing it to me, to make sure he knew the words, and half way through, he stopped and said “What is an infantso?” You know that bit: Holy infantso, tender and mild. I told him it was a kind of reindeer (I didn’t really).
It reminded me of one of my own childhood Christmas carol puzzles. There was this really confusing bit in “While shepherds watched” which said Thus spake the sheriff, and forthwith appeared a shining throng. I knew it couldn’t be a wild west type of sheriff, in Bethlehem. In any case, men can’t be angels. Girls are angels, as eny ful no. I remember being confused, but I can't remember how I resolved the issue. I probably concluded the sheriff was the angel with the bright golden star.
Ah, innocent times. These days, kids are probably more confused by why forthwith a shining thong would appear.
Do you have any childhood festive misunderstandings you’d like to share?
.
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