Thanks to Al Fresco Holidays, for putting right the situation, and offering a second holiday prize.
Now, here's a story about accents. My kids have varying degrees of American accents. As you would guess, 7-yo, being the youngest, has the strongest. She sounds American to me. According to a local here, you would think she was an American child, with rather proper parents.
That's one aspect of the British accent that I think fuels the American love of it. Somehow it speaks to them of bygone eras, and feeds that vague nostalgia we all have somewhere in our psyches, the sense that things used to be better. There was a time when all was well with the world, or at least a bit more so than today. I might be wrong about this, but it's a working theory. For Brits, it plays out in period dramas. We all know intellectually that life in Edwardian England was oppressive, smelly, and you couldn't get antibiotics, but somehow we all have a slight yearning for Downton Abbey days. Not From Around Here has an interesting take on the matter.
Anyhoo, 7-yo has clearly picked up this idea that a British accent means you're a bit proper. I know this, because she was annoyed with me for some parental injustice or other - you know the kind of thing - and from the back of the car, she piped up with her rendering of what I was insisting. And out came this prim, disapproving, rather aloof, voice. Think Maggie Smith as Miss Jean Brodie in an English accent, with light hints of Penelope Keith as Margot Ledbetter, citrus suggestions of Judy Dench as Q in James Bond, and woody after-notes of Helen Mirren as The Queen. (I haven't yet seen Meryl Streep as Margaret Thatcher; otherwise I expect she'd be in there too.)
"Mummy, you always say [enter Maggie Smith combo stage left] 'We can't possibly go, it's far too late, and you need an early night because we've had a busy week'. [back to Midwest twang] You always say that." (Or whatever the details were. I forget the exact conversation, but you get the picture.)
We've all had those moments when we hear our child use our phrases, and think "oh my goodness, is that what I sound like?" I tell you, this occasion was that feeling in spades. Do I really sound all prim and proper to her now? Or was she just taking the mickey? Or is she so attuned to American cultural assumptions, that to her, an English accent now implies a whole package?
It made me laugh, but it also made me a little sad - this gap between us. It's not that I want her to be like me, but it's that need for shared heritage with your children. Why else do we have Christmas traditions, take our children to places we went to as children, and teach them history in school?
Of course the alternative interpretation is that I really do sound like that.
.
Showing posts with label 7-yo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 7-yo. Show all posts
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Cinderella
It's our wedding anniversary on Friday. Of course we'll celebrate, but it's the Lower School Carnival on Friday, 11-yo's last since he'll be moving on to Middle School next year, so he wants (I want) to go. On Saturday, there's an indoor soccer match one of us has to be at. Our lives aren't ruled by our children, honestly, but sometimes the diary is. Just a little. We are under the deadline of a not terribly exciting Groupon which expires on the 31st, so maybe Thursday, although what kind of a non-celebratory night is Thursday, for heaven's sake? Or perhaps Sunday, but Sunday night is a cosy night in, not a fun night out, as eny ful no. (Do other people's minds work like this...?)
I took my youngest two to a production of Cinderella done by our local youth theatre on Saturday. It was very good (though looooong - at what age can you teach actors a bit of pace?) There was a raffle in the interval, and one of the prizes was a 'Night Out Basket', giving two tickets to the opera in February, dinner for two, a night for two in a hotel, chauffeur-driven car, and one or two other goodies that escape my memory. I knew I was going to win. I only bought one ticket, because I had worked out that in the cosmic scheme of things, if not in a maths text book, my chances of winning were as high if I only bought one ticket as if I bought a whole clutch. And I knew I was going to win.
I didn't win. As it happened. Bummer. 7-yo gave me a hug and patted my hand.
On Sunday night, all the 'ready for the week' boxes ticked, or enough of them to make it function on a day to day basis at any rate, we went up to bed, and there was an envelope on the pillow. On the front, there was a fairish stab at our address and a little picture of a stamp drawn in the top right hand corner. On the back was written 'you win!' The page inside read:
Ms. Manhattan and Mr. Manhattan are going to have a hotel in their house till March first. there will be one hostess named 7-yo Manhattan. She will get you breakfust in bed. She will make you lunch and dinner. She will get you what you need whenever you want. She will dell with 14-yo and 11-yo Manhattan. it will be $6.00 for the whole 2 and a half months.
from,
7-yo
I married Prince Charming 16 years ago (glass slippers would have been usefully waterproof on that snowy London pavement, but awfully cold). I now have my very own small, soft-hearted fairy godmother living right underneath my roof (one with a sharp eye for a business opportunity). I shall go to the ball, courtesy of Groupon, on Thursday night, but sometimes I can see that the ball is happening around me every day anyway.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Adding infancy to injury
It's bad enough trying to get to grips with school years being called "grades" and how the numbers equate, when you arrive in the US. Then there's the whole issue of college years. For a long while, that was just a mystery to me, until I took the bull by the horns, googled the answer, and then spent a few minutes chanting "freshman, sophomore, junior, senior" to myself, until it became ingrained in my mind. Not ingrained in the same way that it's ingrained if you've lived through it yourself and it becomes second nature, but ingrained enough for day-to-day purposes.
What I hadn't realised was the extent to which High School grades use this terminology too. So it's no good that I know that High School is grades 9 to 12. Nobody talks about 9th grade. I now have to shelve that knowledge, and start talking about 14-yo as a freshman. "He's in his freshman year at High School" I say.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "wow, those expat mums are so impressive... We really have no idea the burdens they carry... Someone, give them an award".
At least you'll be comforted to know that I'm not alone in my struggles. I have a helpmeet in the form of 7-yo. She has recently been reading Dick King-Smith's "Sophie" books. When Sophie starts school, there is talk of her brothers being in the juniors. This confused 7-yo, so I explained. It's nothing to do with being college juniors or high school juniors. In England, Kindergarten, first and second grades are called "Infants" and third, fourth and fifth grades are called "Juniors". So far, so straightforward. (I was a bit hazy on the exact demarcation, but given that these things vary from LEA to LEA, and given that I'm not sure that terminology is still used in any case, I didn't worry too much.)
A few minutes later, 7-yo came back with further questions about "Insults and Juniors".
.
What I hadn't realised was the extent to which High School grades use this terminology too. So it's no good that I know that High School is grades 9 to 12. Nobody talks about 9th grade. I now have to shelve that knowledge, and start talking about 14-yo as a freshman. "He's in his freshman year at High School" I say.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "wow, those expat mums are so impressive... We really have no idea the burdens they carry... Someone, give them an award".
At least you'll be comforted to know that I'm not alone in my struggles. I have a helpmeet in the form of 7-yo. She has recently been reading Dick King-Smith's "Sophie" books. When Sophie starts school, there is talk of her brothers being in the juniors. This confused 7-yo, so I explained. It's nothing to do with being college juniors or high school juniors. In England, Kindergarten, first and second grades are called "Infants" and third, fourth and fifth grades are called "Juniors". So far, so straightforward. (I was a bit hazy on the exact demarcation, but given that these things vary from LEA to LEA, and given that I'm not sure that terminology is still used in any case, I didn't worry too much.)
A few minutes later, 7-yo came back with further questions about "Insults and Juniors".
.
Friday, October 7, 2011
More second grade homework
I wrote recently about 7-yo’s homework, and how I hate the way she is being taught ‘correct’ and ‘incorrect’ ways to interpret passages of English. It’s getting worse. Could you bear it if I whinged on about it again? Given that you, my readers, are among some of the finest writers I've ever come across (and I sincerely mean that), let's see how you'd fare in second grade English homework.
Sam swims quickly.
Sam swims well.
Question : What is the best way to combine these two sentences?
Answer (choice of 4):
Of course it depends on your definition of “what is the best way…”. I note that it doesn’t say “what is the correct way…” (thank goodness). I would prefer to see it rephrased “what do you think you’re meant to think is the best way…”. At least that would be good early training in exam technique.
I’m sure you’re going to say that it’s important for second graders to learn grammar, and that these are just grammar exercises, and won’t quash her literary creativity. And you’re probably right. But the words “dumbing down” spring inexorably to mind. (Perhaps I wouldn’t mind so much if the letters that have come home from the three primary schools my children have attended weren’t sprinkled with typos and grammatical mistakes.)
Then I stopped to think. Do I care so much about how her brain is being trained in maths? Or any other subject? Do I have a strong opinion on what she should or shouldn’t be doing in PE? Do I react so strongly, either positively or negatively, when she talks about what she’s done in Art or Music? The answer to all these is no, not really. Opinions here and there, varying from mild to strong, but nothing gets under my skin to the same degree as her English homework. This says more about me, than about the education system (though I think my opinions stand, none the less).
If there’s one thing I’ve learnt about being a parent, it’s that you learn such a lot about yourself in the process. I knew all along that I love words, and that how we put them together is important to me. I didn’t need the reminder of 7-yo’s homework really. But it’s interesting to see what things push our own personal buttons.
Sam swims quickly.
Sam swims well.
Question : What is the best way to combine these two sentences?
Answer (choice of 4):
- Sam swims quickly and Sam swims well.
- Sam swims quickly, well.
- Sam swims quickly, well too.
- Sam swims quickly and well.
Of course it depends on your definition of “what is the best way…”. I note that it doesn’t say “what is the correct way…” (thank goodness). I would prefer to see it rephrased “what do you think you’re meant to think is the best way…”. At least that would be good early training in exam technique.
I’m sure you’re going to say that it’s important for second graders to learn grammar, and that these are just grammar exercises, and won’t quash her literary creativity. And you’re probably right. But the words “dumbing down” spring inexorably to mind. (Perhaps I wouldn’t mind so much if the letters that have come home from the three primary schools my children have attended weren’t sprinkled with typos and grammatical mistakes.)
Then I stopped to think. Do I care so much about how her brain is being trained in maths? Or any other subject? Do I have a strong opinion on what she should or shouldn’t be doing in PE? Do I react so strongly, either positively or negatively, when she talks about what she’s done in Art or Music? The answer to all these is no, not really. Opinions here and there, varying from mild to strong, but nothing gets under my skin to the same degree as her English homework. This says more about me, than about the education system (though I think my opinions stand, none the less).
If there’s one thing I’ve learnt about being a parent, it’s that you learn such a lot about yourself in the process. I knew all along that I love words, and that how we put them together is important to me. I didn’t need the reminder of 7-yo’s homework really. But it’s interesting to see what things push our own personal buttons.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
What I wrote... What I wanted to write...
What I wrote
Dear Teacher of 7-yo
I wanted to write to tell you how sorry I am to hear you are leaving. I understand you have personal reasons for relocating with your family to another state. I do wish you well. 7-yo will miss you. She has made a really great start to Second Grade. Thank you so much for the way you have encouraged her. She is happy in the classroom and eager to learn. Thank you for that.
What I wanted to write
Dear Teacher of 7-yo
Nooooo.... You can't go. You can't. 7-yo loves you. She cried yesterday when you told the class you were going. You're a brilliant teacher. Softly-spoken, serene, fair, kind, an encourager, a piquer of children's curiosity. You teach them to love learning and have fun. Don't go... There should be a rule that says good Second Grade teachers can't leave mid-year. A law. I'm going to write to President Obama. Waaaah...
.
Dear Teacher of 7-yo
I wanted to write to tell you how sorry I am to hear you are leaving. I understand you have personal reasons for relocating with your family to another state. I do wish you well. 7-yo will miss you. She has made a really great start to Second Grade. Thank you so much for the way you have encouraged her. She is happy in the classroom and eager to learn. Thank you for that.
What I wanted to write
Dear Teacher of 7-yo
Nooooo.... You can't go. You can't. 7-yo loves you. She cried yesterday when you told the class you were going. You're a brilliant teacher. Softly-spoken, serene, fair, kind, an encourager, a piquer of children's curiosity. You teach them to love learning and have fun. Don't go... There should be a rule that says good Second Grade teachers can't leave mid-year. A law. I'm going to write to President Obama. Waaaah...
.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Things that aren't right with education
Oh, don't get me started. Truly. This is the stuff of many a conversation in our household. Kind of goes with the territory if you're married to a Philosophy Professor. I tell you, "evaluation" is a more-than-four-letter word in this house. (Come to think of it, it probably is in your house too.)
So I'm not going to get all ranty about the education system. The school year has been underway a couple of weeks here, so we are almost in full swing, ahead of you, my fellow compatriots-by-birth-not-current-location.
However, I do just want to share with you something that happened with 7-yo, which was one of those moments where she discovered that sometimes you do your best, and it's not right, or not good enough. I hate that. What mother doesn't hate that for her small child?
She was showing me a couple of passages that she'd had to read and answer questions on. I think we used to call them 'comprehension exercises' - I don't know if they still do. The first one was about a girl named Frida, going off to camp to learn to play tennis. On the bus, Frida looks for her best friend, named Gina (not Saturda or Sunda, which would have been more logical), who wasn't there. So she sat next to another girl, Elaine. When she got to camp, she found out that Gina wasn't coming as she was ill. "Frida was sad" the passage tells us. "She wanted to play tennis with Gina". But she played with Elaine instead. The passage goes on "The girls learned how to hit the ball." Oh yes. That would be useful for playing tennis. It concludes by saying that Frida missed Gina, but still enjoyed herself. The next day, she told Gina about camp and about Elaine, and couldn't wait to share her new friend with her best friend.
Most of the questions on the passage were multiple choice, but one of them asked
Why is Gina's illness important to the story? Include details from the story in your answer.
7-yo wrote:
Frida and Gina are Best friends. Frida missed Gina very much.
an answer which was deemed inadequate. Wah. Honestly, I think 7-yo had just missed the ending of the story, which was on the back of the page, and maybe there's a lesson there about remembering to turn the page over. But I also think that even if she'd read to the end, her answer stands. I'm guessing the correct answer would be something like "Because Gina was ill, Frida made a new friend, Elaine. Frida would not have played with Elaine if Gina had not been ill." But I like 7-yo's response. She's bringing of herself to the story. To her, the most important thing was that Frida missed Gina very much. (And, between you and me, I think she did well to skip that bit about introducing a new friend to a best friend, because we all know what a recipe for upset that can be.)
I comprehend that the exercise was all about comprehension of the passage, and not designed to encourage personal response to literature, but I think that's sad. The idea that there's a right and wrong answer when you're talking about plot and character seems very limiting. I know I'm over-thinking this, but you would too, if you'd seen 7-yo's big blue sad eyes, as she asked "why did I only get 11 out of 13?", and I had to tell her that she's not always going to get full marks for everything and that that's ok. And adding that sometimes the questions are a bit silly, or open to misinterpretation, and then you just have to know that it's the question that's wrong and not you. Was that the right answer? I don't know.
Then there was the second passage, all about Mr Garcia, who brought a guinea pig into his classroom, and how excited the children all were. One of the children, Paula, held the guinea pig, and whispered to it "Welcome to our class". Aw. Anyway, 7-yo had to say what "whisper" meant from the following four options: shout, soft voice, loud voice, friendly tone. She picked "friendly tone", which wasn't the correct answer. But she explained to me that in the story, Paula knew the guinea pig would be frightened by all the people, so she whispered to it because she wanted to help it not to be frightened, and so that was being friendly to it, wasn't it? So "whisper" DID mean "friendly tone" in this story, didn't it?
All this over-thinking. Can't imagine where she gets it from.
One more thing. Can schools puh-lease stop giving our children stories to read about cute dogs and sweet little guinea pigs? At least until after Christmas. If they insist on stories about dogs, the narrative should be full of details about vet bills, boarding kennel bills, unpleasant poop-scooping, and walking out in the wind and rain when you'd rather be inside watching television.
.
So I'm not going to get all ranty about the education system. The school year has been underway a couple of weeks here, so we are almost in full swing, ahead of you, my fellow compatriots-by-birth-not-current-location.
However, I do just want to share with you something that happened with 7-yo, which was one of those moments where she discovered that sometimes you do your best, and it's not right, or not good enough. I hate that. What mother doesn't hate that for her small child?
She was showing me a couple of passages that she'd had to read and answer questions on. I think we used to call them 'comprehension exercises' - I don't know if they still do. The first one was about a girl named Frida, going off to camp to learn to play tennis. On the bus, Frida looks for her best friend, named Gina (not Saturda or Sunda, which would have been more logical), who wasn't there. So she sat next to another girl, Elaine. When she got to camp, she found out that Gina wasn't coming as she was ill. "Frida was sad" the passage tells us. "She wanted to play tennis with Gina". But she played with Elaine instead. The passage goes on "The girls learned how to hit the ball." Oh yes. That would be useful for playing tennis. It concludes by saying that Frida missed Gina, but still enjoyed herself. The next day, she told Gina about camp and about Elaine, and couldn't wait to share her new friend with her best friend.
Most of the questions on the passage were multiple choice, but one of them asked
Why is Gina's illness important to the story? Include details from the story in your answer.
7-yo wrote:
Frida and Gina are Best friends. Frida missed Gina very much.
an answer which was deemed inadequate. Wah. Honestly, I think 7-yo had just missed the ending of the story, which was on the back of the page, and maybe there's a lesson there about remembering to turn the page over. But I also think that even if she'd read to the end, her answer stands. I'm guessing the correct answer would be something like "Because Gina was ill, Frida made a new friend, Elaine. Frida would not have played with Elaine if Gina had not been ill." But I like 7-yo's response. She's bringing of herself to the story. To her, the most important thing was that Frida missed Gina very much. (And, between you and me, I think she did well to skip that bit about introducing a new friend to a best friend, because we all know what a recipe for upset that can be.)
I comprehend that the exercise was all about comprehension of the passage, and not designed to encourage personal response to literature, but I think that's sad. The idea that there's a right and wrong answer when you're talking about plot and character seems very limiting. I know I'm over-thinking this, but you would too, if you'd seen 7-yo's big blue sad eyes, as she asked "why did I only get 11 out of 13?", and I had to tell her that she's not always going to get full marks for everything and that that's ok. And adding that sometimes the questions are a bit silly, or open to misinterpretation, and then you just have to know that it's the question that's wrong and not you. Was that the right answer? I don't know.
Then there was the second passage, all about Mr Garcia, who brought a guinea pig into his classroom, and how excited the children all were. One of the children, Paula, held the guinea pig, and whispered to it "Welcome to our class". Aw. Anyway, 7-yo had to say what "whisper" meant from the following four options: shout, soft voice, loud voice, friendly tone. She picked "friendly tone", which wasn't the correct answer. But she explained to me that in the story, Paula knew the guinea pig would be frightened by all the people, so she whispered to it because she wanted to help it not to be frightened, and so that was being friendly to it, wasn't it? So "whisper" DID mean "friendly tone" in this story, didn't it?
All this over-thinking. Can't imagine where she gets it from.
One more thing. Can schools puh-lease stop giving our children stories to read about cute dogs and sweet little guinea pigs? At least until after Christmas. If they insist on stories about dogs, the narrative should be full of details about vet bills, boarding kennel bills, unpleasant poop-scooping, and walking out in the wind and rain when you'd rather be inside watching television.
.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Unfair competition
I took my three children to the British Museum yesterday.
On our return, I asked 7-yo to tell her grandmother what was the most interesting thing she had seen there.
"Nothing", she replied. "Lots of really boring things, but nothing interesting at all".
Ah well. Can't win them all. Except, on reflection, she had something to add.
"There was one interesting thing. The ice cream van. That was good. Although it wasn't really IN the museum, was it? It was outside."
Bad luck, British Museum. Hundreds of years of history - nul points. Provision of parking spot for ice cream van - 10 out of 10.
.
On our return, I asked 7-yo to tell her grandmother what was the most interesting thing she had seen there.
"Nothing", she replied. "Lots of really boring things, but nothing interesting at all".
Ah well. Can't win them all. Except, on reflection, she had something to add.
"There was one interesting thing. The ice cream van. That was good. Although it wasn't really IN the museum, was it? It was outside."
Bad luck, British Museum. Hundreds of years of history - nul points. Provision of parking spot for ice cream van - 10 out of 10.
.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
CyberMummy 2011, the dark side
Well, CyberMummy 2011 was - of course - a fantastic occasion, and I loved it to bits. I'm sure there are a multitude of posts out there, if you want to read about the quality speakers, and the opportunities for digging into areas of interest. Or the uncovering of the many ways in which bloggers are moving cyber life forward, and the fun of being part of that whole movement. Or the excitement of meeting other bloggers, putting faces to names, being amongst old friends and new. Or the really rather delicious sausage casserole with a mashed potato topping. But you're not going to read about those things here. No. I'm going to confess to you that CyberMummy 2011 was, for me, the first step on what might become a downward spiral into a life of crime.
I committed a theft. I did. You're surprised, aren't you? You're thinking "that Iota... she seemed like a nice lady, who'd have thought it?" Alas. I fear it's downhill all the way from here. I can see you all, in the public gallery in the courtroom, as the judge pronounces the sentence, tutting sadly, and shaking your heads, more in sorrow than in anger. Then you'll go home, and tell your friends and neighbours "I was there, where it all started, back in 2011... at a conference, it was... such a shame..."
I was in the sponsors room. I was looking for a cup of tea. Oh, it started innocently enough. A cup of tea. That's all I wanted. But then there was all this STUFF... all this FREE STUFF. And nice smiley people wanting to talk to you, and give you leaflets, and tell you about their FREE STUFF. If you read my post on the CyberMummy blog, you'll know that I've decided to start earning a bit of money from my blog, and maybe some material goods. So I was trying to be open to any opportunities that came my way. That's when I saw the Crocs stand. By the stand, there were baskets full of Crocs, and people were rubbling through them. And the couple of bloggers I was with started asking each other "are those free Crocs?", and I thought "ooh, I've never owned a pair of Crocs". So then I got into the throng of people who were waiting to chat to the nice Crocs people, and I was going to ask if I could take a pair of Crocs, and try them, and write a review about them, and feeling like I was on the brink of venturing successfully into this commercial blogging lark that up till now I've deliberately distanced myself from. But the crowd wasn't moving, and the nice Crocs people were a bit overwhelmed, and I couldn't get through all the other bloggers to speak to anyone, and then the blogger I was with handed me a pair of bright yellow Crocs, size 1, and said "here, would these be the right size for any of yours?", and then I started feeling just a little bit smug for knowing 7-yo's UK shoe size as well as her US one, which just happens to be a size 1, and I pictured her little excited face as I would hand her the shoes. There was a bit of kerfuffling, as still no-one seemed to know what the baskets of Crocs were for, but I said to another blogger I was with "they wouldn't have brought them here, just to take them back again, would they? They must have wanted people to help themselves, mustn't they?", and she replied "oh, stick 'em in your bag, let's go". It wasn't my fault, you see. I was led astray by people who, quite frankly, should have known better. Mentioning no names, but you know who you are.
So there it is, M'Lud. I was a victim of circumstances. And it was all for my children. My little daughter. She was 7. She needed shoes. I did it for her. And I was thinking I could write a review for Crocs. That's how it works, isn't it? You get a freebie, you write a review. Yes, I must confess that someone did mention to me later on in the day that the Crocs in the baskets were samples for people to look at, but that's all I've done. Looked at them. In the comfort of my own home.
The review? Oh. Well, M'Lud, you see what happened was that I gave the Crocs, the bright sunshiney yellow Crocs, to my young child. Her face shone with gratitude as she softly whispered "oh Mummy, not a second helping of gruel AND new shoes!". Then she tried them on, and was very insistent that actually her feet were a size-1-but-very-nearly-a-size-2 and that her toes were pushing right up at the end in a most uncomfortable way. She said "the thing is, Mummy, I don't like Crocs. They're not really my style". So I couldn't review them. But I WOULD have done. Honest.
And that's how it all started. My first step on the slippery slope, M'Lud. Don't blame me. Blame CyberMummy.
.
I committed a theft. I did. You're surprised, aren't you? You're thinking "that Iota... she seemed like a nice lady, who'd have thought it?" Alas. I fear it's downhill all the way from here. I can see you all, in the public gallery in the courtroom, as the judge pronounces the sentence, tutting sadly, and shaking your heads, more in sorrow than in anger. Then you'll go home, and tell your friends and neighbours "I was there, where it all started, back in 2011... at a conference, it was... such a shame..."
I was in the sponsors room. I was looking for a cup of tea. Oh, it started innocently enough. A cup of tea. That's all I wanted. But then there was all this STUFF... all this FREE STUFF. And nice smiley people wanting to talk to you, and give you leaflets, and tell you about their FREE STUFF. If you read my post on the CyberMummy blog, you'll know that I've decided to start earning a bit of money from my blog, and maybe some material goods. So I was trying to be open to any opportunities that came my way. That's when I saw the Crocs stand. By the stand, there were baskets full of Crocs, and people were rubbling through them. And the couple of bloggers I was with started asking each other "are those free Crocs?", and I thought "ooh, I've never owned a pair of Crocs". So then I got into the throng of people who were waiting to chat to the nice Crocs people, and I was going to ask if I could take a pair of Crocs, and try them, and write a review about them, and feeling like I was on the brink of venturing successfully into this commercial blogging lark that up till now I've deliberately distanced myself from. But the crowd wasn't moving, and the nice Crocs people were a bit overwhelmed, and I couldn't get through all the other bloggers to speak to anyone, and then the blogger I was with handed me a pair of bright yellow Crocs, size 1, and said "here, would these be the right size for any of yours?", and then I started feeling just a little bit smug for knowing 7-yo's UK shoe size as well as her US one, which just happens to be a size 1, and I pictured her little excited face as I would hand her the shoes. There was a bit of kerfuffling, as still no-one seemed to know what the baskets of Crocs were for, but I said to another blogger I was with "they wouldn't have brought them here, just to take them back again, would they? They must have wanted people to help themselves, mustn't they?", and she replied "oh, stick 'em in your bag, let's go". It wasn't my fault, you see. I was led astray by people who, quite frankly, should have known better. Mentioning no names, but you know who you are.
So there it is, M'Lud. I was a victim of circumstances. And it was all for my children. My little daughter. She was 7. She needed shoes. I did it for her. And I was thinking I could write a review for Crocs. That's how it works, isn't it? You get a freebie, you write a review. Yes, I must confess that someone did mention to me later on in the day that the Crocs in the baskets were samples for people to look at, but that's all I've done. Looked at them. In the comfort of my own home.
The review? Oh. Well, M'Lud, you see what happened was that I gave the Crocs, the bright sunshiney yellow Crocs, to my young child. Her face shone with gratitude as she softly whispered "oh Mummy, not a second helping of gruel AND new shoes!". Then she tried them on, and was very insistent that actually her feet were a size-1-but-very-nearly-a-size-2 and that her toes were pushing right up at the end in a most uncomfortable way. She said "the thing is, Mummy, I don't like Crocs. They're not really my style". So I couldn't review them. But I WOULD have done. Honest.
And that's how it all started. My first step on the slippery slope, M'Lud. Don't blame me. Blame CyberMummy.
.
Friday, April 29, 2011
The Royal Wedding
Yes, I did get up early to watch it. 11.00am your time was 5.00am mine. I set my alarm for 4.40am, because I thought we'd need a bit of time to build up the excitement, and see the Royal Family arriving at the Abbey. Though 20 minutes seemed a rather paltry allocation, when I set the alarm for anything earlier, it did look terribly terribly early. You have to remember this is an ordinary school and work day here. The alarm went off, I turned it off and went back to sleep. Husband woke me at 4.55am, saying "it's time to get up". So much for the build up.
What a lovely do. We do do do's terribly well, we Brits, don't we?
We all snuggled up on the sofa to watch, trying not to be too grumpy. Then it was the usual morning routine, making packed lunches and scooting everyone out the door. I remember on my own wedding morning, driving to the church, past Marks and Spencer, seeing people out shopping, and thinking "how odd! Here am I getting married, and there they are, just a normal Saturday morning in M&S". I don't imagine Kate Middleton thought of us normal folk, making packed lunches and scooting children out the door, but if she had, it would have been the same sort of thing.
Now I'm not a great follower of fashion, but I do have just one comment. Hats are ok on the top of heads. They are ok on the side of heads (the word 'jaunty' is useful for this). They are not ok on the front of heads. Not unless you're carrying a laser gun and you're auditioning for a part as an extra in a sci fi movie. Victoria Beckham and Princesses Eugenie and Beatrice - I'm talking to you.
My favourite moment (well, one of them) was when the American commentary that we were listening to kindly found someone to lip read what William said to Kate's father, just before the service began. It was something along the lines of "just a small family affair, then". Now if that isn't a fine example of British humour, I don't know what is.
Jerusalem. It's a great hymn. "And did those feet, in ancient time, walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God, on England's pleasant pastures seen?" But at that point, some inner rebellion in me always wants to answer "No, I don't think Jesus ever made it to England". I know. Terribly literal of me. I have no poetry in my soul.
As so often, 7-yo had her own unique take on the occasion.
"So she's going to be the queen now."
"No, she's marrying the prince, so she'll be the princess."
"What? She goes through all this, and she only gets to be the princess?"
.
What a lovely do. We do do do's terribly well, we Brits, don't we?
We all snuggled up on the sofa to watch, trying not to be too grumpy. Then it was the usual morning routine, making packed lunches and scooting everyone out the door. I remember on my own wedding morning, driving to the church, past Marks and Spencer, seeing people out shopping, and thinking "how odd! Here am I getting married, and there they are, just a normal Saturday morning in M&S". I don't imagine Kate Middleton thought of us normal folk, making packed lunches and scooting children out the door, but if she had, it would have been the same sort of thing.
Now I'm not a great follower of fashion, but I do have just one comment. Hats are ok on the top of heads. They are ok on the side of heads (the word 'jaunty' is useful for this). They are not ok on the front of heads. Not unless you're carrying a laser gun and you're auditioning for a part as an extra in a sci fi movie. Victoria Beckham and Princesses Eugenie and Beatrice - I'm talking to you.
My favourite moment (well, one of them) was when the American commentary that we were listening to kindly found someone to lip read what William said to Kate's father, just before the service began. It was something along the lines of "just a small family affair, then". Now if that isn't a fine example of British humour, I don't know what is.
Jerusalem. It's a great hymn. "And did those feet, in ancient time, walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God, on England's pleasant pastures seen?" But at that point, some inner rebellion in me always wants to answer "No, I don't think Jesus ever made it to England". I know. Terribly literal of me. I have no poetry in my soul.
As so often, 7-yo had her own unique take on the occasion.
"So she's going to be the queen now."
"No, she's marrying the prince, so she'll be the princess."
"What? She goes through all this, and she only gets to be the princess?"
.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Tales from the soccer pitch
I had my first experience of attending a girls’ Under 8 soccer match tonight. Husband has been more involved in 7-yo’s soccer exploits to date, and has even got himself appointed Assistant Coach to the team. But tonight he was at a meeting, so it fell to me to take her.
This was a make-up game. No, no… you’re on the wrong track. Not that kind of make-up. Just because it’s girls’ soccer, you’re thinking lipstick and mascara, aren’t you? It was a make-up game because a previous game in the season was cancelled for bad weather. I must admit I have a problem with the whole make-up game thing. I have a problem with the whole competitive league thing. Actually, it really annoys the pants off me. I think, on reflection, that it annoys me more than anything else in my life annoys me, at this point in time. It annoys me as much as it did when I wrote this post about it. I’ve hardly been able to think about it since, because my pants just fly off in annoyance if I do. Which is why the whole 7-yo soccer operation has been Husband’s responsibility. He keeps his pants on much better.
Anyway, tonight there was a make-up game, and I went along to watch. And my heart totally melted, and my pants stayed right on, because I tell ya, four-a-side soccer played by seven-year-old girls, is stomach-mushingly adorable. I’m going to give you the highlights.
1) 7-yo’s team all sport a purple clip-on hair braid. I have no idea why. Team identity or something.
2) 7-yo was discussing her soccer career with me in the car on the way, and declared she didn’t really know whether she was better at defence or soffence, and what did I think. I said I thought it was too early to say, but soffence sounded like it might be her thing. (And then I had to spoil it by saying that most people pronounce it ‘offence’ – I hate that part of being a mum.)
3) At half-time, our coach told the team “now remember, we switch ends, so show me which goal we’re aiming at from now on”, and the two players who were concentrating pointed to the wrong goal. The other two were engrossed in a conversation about their snack and drink. (This is the kind of thing that feeds my resistance to the whole idea of a competitive league.)
4) The score was 1-1. A third goal was scored by the opposition, but no-one knew whether it counted or not. One of their team had fallen over and had a sore finger. She was showing it to the ref, when one of the other players ran up to the goal with the ball and scored. No-one knew whether the ref had stopped play for the examination of the sore finger, or not. No ruling was made at the time, and so when it came to the end of the game, no-one knew what the final score was. (Are you beginning to share my reservations about the whole competitive league thing?)
5) The goalie on the other team, in a bored moment, twizzled her foot around in the goal netting and got stuck, and had to be untangled.
6) There was a lovely moment when I saw 7-yo skipping down the outfield. It brought a whole new meaning to fancy footwork.
7) 7-yo missed a crucial half minute or so, somewhere in the second half, because she was undoing her pony tail, taking her hairband off, and removing the purple braid. I could tell that she spent the next few minutes trying out the best running action for making her loosened hair swing from side to side. Luckily, there was no evidence that this distraction had any adverse impact on her soccer skills or the outcome of the game.
I was really proud of my sons, who came along to watch the game and cheer 7-yo on. I thanked them and told them I was proud, at which 7-yo pointed out that she had often been to watch their games. She’s right, of course. Over the years she has been lugged along to many matches, with a backpack full of Polly Pockets and colouring books, and has sat patiently on the sidelines or in the car if it’s cold or windy.The difference is, she doesn’t have the choice on these occasions; the boys do. Such is the lot of the youngest sibling. 10-yo entered into the spirit of the game, and called out instructions which, in the context, were decidedly ambitious: “pass the ball, pass the ball!” 13-yo has inherited more of his mother’s laconic detachment as a spectator, but understands the value of encouragement, and told 7-yo “good job” in an understated kind of way at half-time.
Ah, see how all my annoyance has drifted away. Maybe I could get myself nominated Assistant Assistant Coach. Or Snack Manager. Or Team Nurse. I think I’m going to need an excuse to go along to a few more of these matches. Do you think they have seven-year-old soccer in heaven?
.
This was a make-up game. No, no… you’re on the wrong track. Not that kind of make-up. Just because it’s girls’ soccer, you’re thinking lipstick and mascara, aren’t you? It was a make-up game because a previous game in the season was cancelled for bad weather. I must admit I have a problem with the whole make-up game thing. I have a problem with the whole competitive league thing. Actually, it really annoys the pants off me. I think, on reflection, that it annoys me more than anything else in my life annoys me, at this point in time. It annoys me as much as it did when I wrote this post about it. I’ve hardly been able to think about it since, because my pants just fly off in annoyance if I do. Which is why the whole 7-yo soccer operation has been Husband’s responsibility. He keeps his pants on much better.
Anyway, tonight there was a make-up game, and I went along to watch. And my heart totally melted, and my pants stayed right on, because I tell ya, four-a-side soccer played by seven-year-old girls, is stomach-mushingly adorable. I’m going to give you the highlights.
1) 7-yo’s team all sport a purple clip-on hair braid. I have no idea why. Team identity or something.
2) 7-yo was discussing her soccer career with me in the car on the way, and declared she didn’t really know whether she was better at defence or soffence, and what did I think. I said I thought it was too early to say, but soffence sounded like it might be her thing. (And then I had to spoil it by saying that most people pronounce it ‘offence’ – I hate that part of being a mum.)
3) At half-time, our coach told the team “now remember, we switch ends, so show me which goal we’re aiming at from now on”, and the two players who were concentrating pointed to the wrong goal. The other two were engrossed in a conversation about their snack and drink. (This is the kind of thing that feeds my resistance to the whole idea of a competitive league.)
4) The score was 1-1. A third goal was scored by the opposition, but no-one knew whether it counted or not. One of their team had fallen over and had a sore finger. She was showing it to the ref, when one of the other players ran up to the goal with the ball and scored. No-one knew whether the ref had stopped play for the examination of the sore finger, or not. No ruling was made at the time, and so when it came to the end of the game, no-one knew what the final score was. (Are you beginning to share my reservations about the whole competitive league thing?)
5) The goalie on the other team, in a bored moment, twizzled her foot around in the goal netting and got stuck, and had to be untangled.
6) There was a lovely moment when I saw 7-yo skipping down the outfield. It brought a whole new meaning to fancy footwork.
7) 7-yo missed a crucial half minute or so, somewhere in the second half, because she was undoing her pony tail, taking her hairband off, and removing the purple braid. I could tell that she spent the next few minutes trying out the best running action for making her loosened hair swing from side to side. Luckily, there was no evidence that this distraction had any adverse impact on her soccer skills or the outcome of the game.
I was really proud of my sons, who came along to watch the game and cheer 7-yo on. I thanked them and told them I was proud, at which 7-yo pointed out that she had often been to watch their games. She’s right, of course. Over the years she has been lugged along to many matches, with a backpack full of Polly Pockets and colouring books, and has sat patiently on the sidelines or in the car if it’s cold or windy.The difference is, she doesn’t have the choice on these occasions; the boys do. Such is the lot of the youngest sibling. 10-yo entered into the spirit of the game, and called out instructions which, in the context, were decidedly ambitious: “pass the ball, pass the ball!” 13-yo has inherited more of his mother’s laconic detachment as a spectator, but understands the value of encouragement, and told 7-yo “good job” in an understated kind of way at half-time.
Ah, see how all my annoyance has drifted away. Maybe I could get myself nominated Assistant Assistant Coach. Or Snack Manager. Or Team Nurse. I think I’m going to need an excuse to go along to a few more of these matches. Do you think they have seven-year-old soccer in heaven?
.
Friday, April 8, 2011
A boy with a heart
Since we're on the subject of 10-yo, I'll tell you about the big event of his day today. Fourth grade were having their first taste of dissection. Oops. Unfortunate turn of phrase.
I've had the note home, with the permission slip to be signed. We've had the conversation about where they get the hearts from (dissection number 1 is a cow's heart, dissection number 2 is going to be a cow's eye). We've had the discussion about whether the cows died naturally or by other means. This led to a discussion about animal rights, in which 7-yo declared that she just doesn't think about the fact that meat comes from animals when she eats it, so she feels like a vegetarian, even though she isn't one. "I do FEEL like a vegetarian." Hm. Not sure you can really be an honorary vegetarian, but it'll do for today. She IS only just 7...
Anyway, in the car on the way home from school, 10-yo was showing me how big a cow's heart is. "This big... no, maybe a bit smaller... this big... well, perhaps a bit smaller... um... this big" (during which he moved his hands from about 2 feet apart to a size that still looked to me unbelievably large for a cow's heart, but this IS America where everything is big, so after we'd exchanged a mutual "seriously?" "yup, seriously", I agreed that wow, a cow's heart is pretty big. (Not that my son is prone to exaggeration.)
10-yo told me that he had felt a bit sick while he was waiting for his turn, but thought he would feel better once he was actually doing the dissection himself. "And I was right. I did feel ok when I was using the scissors." This child has good intuitions. He may be right in his next observation too.
"I don't know why they make you wear gloves and goggles. The gloves were really hot, and I can't see the point of the goggles. Perhaps they thought they'd make us feel scientific."
Gloves, yes, I can see the reasoning behind that. But goggles? Seriously? So that you don't get a squirt of cow's blood in your eye? Or in case of over-enthusiastic scissor use by your class-mate? (In which case, why not goggles for art projects?) Yup. I'll go with 10-yo's "make us feel scientific" insight.
.
I've had the note home, with the permission slip to be signed. We've had the conversation about where they get the hearts from (dissection number 1 is a cow's heart, dissection number 2 is going to be a cow's eye). We've had the discussion about whether the cows died naturally or by other means. This led to a discussion about animal rights, in which 7-yo declared that she just doesn't think about the fact that meat comes from animals when she eats it, so she feels like a vegetarian, even though she isn't one. "I do FEEL like a vegetarian." Hm. Not sure you can really be an honorary vegetarian, but it'll do for today. She IS only just 7...
Anyway, in the car on the way home from school, 10-yo was showing me how big a cow's heart is. "This big... no, maybe a bit smaller... this big... well, perhaps a bit smaller... um... this big" (during which he moved his hands from about 2 feet apart to a size that still looked to me unbelievably large for a cow's heart, but this IS America where everything is big, so after we'd exchanged a mutual "seriously?" "yup, seriously", I agreed that wow, a cow's heart is pretty big. (Not that my son is prone to exaggeration.)
10-yo told me that he had felt a bit sick while he was waiting for his turn, but thought he would feel better once he was actually doing the dissection himself. "And I was right. I did feel ok when I was using the scissors." This child has good intuitions. He may be right in his next observation too.
"I don't know why they make you wear gloves and goggles. The gloves were really hot, and I can't see the point of the goggles. Perhaps they thought they'd make us feel scientific."
Gloves, yes, I can see the reasoning behind that. But goggles? Seriously? So that you don't get a squirt of cow's blood in your eye? Or in case of over-enthusiastic scissor use by your class-mate? (In which case, why not goggles for art projects?) Yup. I'll go with 10-yo's "make us feel scientific" insight.
.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Cuteness abounds
Well, I’ve seen some cute things in my life. I’ve seen my own newborn babies, (funny how your own are so gorgeous, whereas other peoples'...). I’ve seen baby rabbits, and ducklings. Our next door neighbour has just got a 9-week old puppy. That’s fairly darn cute. It’s a cockerpoo (cocker spaniel poodle cross). Is that just in America that they come up with these clever cross-breed names, or are they doing that in England too?
Anyway, what else have I seen that’s cute? Nativity plays - I’ve watched a few of those. Once my two boys, aged about 1 and 4, fell asleep arm in arm. Naked toddlers wearing wellies - they’re pretty cute. Small children trying to say long words: hospital, or ridiculous, for example. Small children using grown up words for body parts. Kids wearing brand-new school uniform on their first day. Baby socks. The first unbelievably small sleepsuits that my babies wore when they were born (which, yes, I’ve kept). Their early scrawly sentences, written in mixed lower and upper case letters, with illustrations of gangly people with smiley faces.
Yup. It’s fair to say that I’ve witnessed plenty of cute things in my life. I’ve even embraced the word ‘cute’, and use it instead of the word ‘sweet’. But… nothing prepared me for seeing a 7 year old girl in soccer gear. My 7 year old girl in soccer gear. Yes, 7-yo has taken up soccer, and as if soccer shorts aren’t cute enough on a 7 year old bottom, she also wears knee-high socks, diminutive shin pads, and petite cleats. ('Cleats' translates as 'soccer boots', or I’d better say 'football boots', else someone will correct me). Pink and black cleats! Heaven. Even for someone like me, who so staunchly resists the infiltration of pink into all aspects of a girl’s life.
It was that opening sentence “Well, I’ve seen some cute things in my life” that first made me see myself as a country singer. By the time I’d got to the end of that paragraph, I was imagining Iota on a high stool, legs crossed, strumming her guitar wistfully, crooning into a microphone, in a smoky bar in a small cowboy town some place. I was trying out rhyme schemes with ‘cute’ (‘my guitar is my lute’, ‘I also play the flute’, ‘I have a pet newt’, ‘I’m in my birthday suit’), and before I knew it, I’d written a ballad.
A Ballad to my Daughter Playing Soccer
Well m' neighbor’s just got hisself a small cockerpoo
His front lawn is covered with a load of doo-doo
That mutt is so adorable, half poodle half cocker,
But the puppy ain’t a patch on my li’l girl playing soccer.
I’ve been to Hardy’s birthplace, a-down there in Dorset,
I’ll think of a rhyme here, though I might have to force it,
Twee cottage with a thatched roof, twee door with cute knocker
But no, nothing near so cute as my gal playing soccer.
A thing of beauty’s a joy forever, said ol’ Johnnie Keats
He was thinking of m’ daughter, in her size 2 pink cleats.
I’ll be standing on the sidelines, ‘mongst fat moms and thin dads,
Watching her run by, in her sweet li’l shin pads.
In your soccer clothes, My Honey-pie, you look awful purty
And I’ll take out an opponent if she tackles you dirty,
If I were an Aussie, I’d sure say you were beaut
But I’m here in America, so I’ll just call you cute.
I’m off to Starbucks right now, for my tall decaf mocha*
I hope I don’t end my days in Davy Jones’s locker
Ah’m just an ol’ sentimental and somewhat agin’ rocker
Who died of a cute attack, when her daughter dressed for soccer.
* I know, I know. Mocha and soccer don't rhyme, unless you have a British accent. How about 'So please don't be a scoffer, and please don't be a mocker'? Happy now?
Anyway, what else have I seen that’s cute? Nativity plays - I’ve watched a few of those. Once my two boys, aged about 1 and 4, fell asleep arm in arm. Naked toddlers wearing wellies - they’re pretty cute. Small children trying to say long words: hospital, or ridiculous, for example. Small children using grown up words for body parts. Kids wearing brand-new school uniform on their first day. Baby socks. The first unbelievably small sleepsuits that my babies wore when they were born (which, yes, I’ve kept). Their early scrawly sentences, written in mixed lower and upper case letters, with illustrations of gangly people with smiley faces.
Yup. It’s fair to say that I’ve witnessed plenty of cute things in my life. I’ve even embraced the word ‘cute’, and use it instead of the word ‘sweet’. But… nothing prepared me for seeing a 7 year old girl in soccer gear. My 7 year old girl in soccer gear. Yes, 7-yo has taken up soccer, and as if soccer shorts aren’t cute enough on a 7 year old bottom, she also wears knee-high socks, diminutive shin pads, and petite cleats. ('Cleats' translates as 'soccer boots', or I’d better say 'football boots', else someone will correct me). Pink and black cleats! Heaven. Even for someone like me, who so staunchly resists the infiltration of pink into all aspects of a girl’s life.
It was that opening sentence “Well, I’ve seen some cute things in my life” that first made me see myself as a country singer. By the time I’d got to the end of that paragraph, I was imagining Iota on a high stool, legs crossed, strumming her guitar wistfully, crooning into a microphone, in a smoky bar in a small cowboy town some place. I was trying out rhyme schemes with ‘cute’ (‘my guitar is my lute’, ‘I also play the flute’, ‘I have a pet newt’, ‘I’m in my birthday suit’), and before I knew it, I’d written a ballad.
A Ballad to my Daughter Playing Soccer
Well m' neighbor’s just got hisself a small cockerpoo
His front lawn is covered with a load of doo-doo
That mutt is so adorable, half poodle half cocker,
But the puppy ain’t a patch on my li’l girl playing soccer.
I’ve been to Hardy’s birthplace, a-down there in Dorset,
I’ll think of a rhyme here, though I might have to force it,
Twee cottage with a thatched roof, twee door with cute knocker
But no, nothing near so cute as my gal playing soccer.
A thing of beauty’s a joy forever, said ol’ Johnnie Keats
He was thinking of m’ daughter, in her size 2 pink cleats.
I’ll be standing on the sidelines, ‘mongst fat moms and thin dads,
Watching her run by, in her sweet li’l shin pads.
In your soccer clothes, My Honey-pie, you look awful purty
And I’ll take out an opponent if she tackles you dirty,
If I were an Aussie, I’d sure say you were beaut
But I’m here in America, so I’ll just call you cute.
I’m off to Starbucks right now, for my tall decaf mocha*
I hope I don’t end my days in Davy Jones’s locker
Ah’m just an ol’ sentimental and somewhat agin’ rocker
Who died of a cute attack, when her daughter dressed for soccer.
* I know, I know. Mocha and soccer don't rhyme, unless you have a British accent. How about 'So please don't be a scoffer, and please don't be a mocker'? Happy now?
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Birthday girl
Well, 6-yo turned 7. She had a sleepover. I'm not a big fan of sleepovers, as I believe I'm mentioned before. However, it was what she wanted more than anything anything anything. She's in a little friendship group of four girls, and the other three, their birthdays in September, December and February, all had sleepovers. So it would have been difficult for the fourth member of the group to flake out.
It went really well, thanks for asking. I had a few activities up my sleeve, but mostly just let them play. I did get them to do a scavenger hunt, which they enjoyed, and it was very sweet watching them scuttling round the garden collecting blades of grass and small stones, and then sitting studiously drawing an animal and something that begins with B. The item they found hardest to collect, interestingly, was a list of 10 different girls' names, each one written in a different colour marker. When I put that on the hunt list, I thought it would be easy for them, but I hadn't reckoned with the way the mind of a 7 year old works. "I could write Bayley, but I'm not really friends with her, so I don't think I want her name on my list."
We watched a dvd together (they watched, I snoozed), and I had them in bed by 10.15 and asleep not long after that. Beforehand, 7-yo had been very adamant that they HAD to stay up till after midnight, because you HAVE to do that at a sleepover, and they did at EVERYONE ELSE'S sleepover. So I had prepared the ground by setting my alarm clock an hour ahead. (I was sleeping with them in the basement, where there are no other clocks.) Sneaky, huh? And if you're reading this in years to come, 7-yo, then don't be too hard on me. You'll understand when you have a daughter of your own. Perhaps you already do. I have no idea at what stage in life you'll decide you want to look up that old-fashioned thing that your mum used to write, back in the olden days when they used to do that thing called, what was it? "blogging" or something. But in any case, I didn't need to use the clock, because by that time the girls had already had a lot of fun, and the competitive urge to stay up later at this sleepover than at any of the others had disappeared.
They all slept till 7.00am. At about 5.00am, one of them got up to use the bathroom, and I lay in bed willing her to go back to bed and to sleep, and not to assume it was morning (I'd turned the alarm clock back to the correct time by then). I don't know if it was the force of my willpower, or what, but she did. So we all got eight hours of sleep, which is good going for a sleepover. Next year, I'm thinking that 8 year olds are probably more challenging than 7 year olds on the bedtime front, so I am definitely crushing up a few Benadryl to bake into the birthday cake.
7-yo is very much into writing lists at the moment. My favourite is this one:
I hate...
mean people
pikle
brokle
wine
I hasten to add that she's only ever dunked a finger into a glass of wine for a taste. Honest. (And I was joking about the Benadryl too.) As for pikles and mean people, I don't like them much either. But personally I do like brokle. Have you worked out what that is? It took me a long while.
It went really well, thanks for asking. I had a few activities up my sleeve, but mostly just let them play. I did get them to do a scavenger hunt, which they enjoyed, and it was very sweet watching them scuttling round the garden collecting blades of grass and small stones, and then sitting studiously drawing an animal and something that begins with B. The item they found hardest to collect, interestingly, was a list of 10 different girls' names, each one written in a different colour marker. When I put that on the hunt list, I thought it would be easy for them, but I hadn't reckoned with the way the mind of a 7 year old works. "I could write Bayley, but I'm not really friends with her, so I don't think I want her name on my list."
We watched a dvd together (they watched, I snoozed), and I had them in bed by 10.15 and asleep not long after that. Beforehand, 7-yo had been very adamant that they HAD to stay up till after midnight, because you HAVE to do that at a sleepover, and they did at EVERYONE ELSE'S sleepover. So I had prepared the ground by setting my alarm clock an hour ahead. (I was sleeping with them in the basement, where there are no other clocks.) Sneaky, huh? And if you're reading this in years to come, 7-yo, then don't be too hard on me. You'll understand when you have a daughter of your own. Perhaps you already do. I have no idea at what stage in life you'll decide you want to look up that old-fashioned thing that your mum used to write, back in the olden days when they used to do that thing called, what was it? "blogging" or something. But in any case, I didn't need to use the clock, because by that time the girls had already had a lot of fun, and the competitive urge to stay up later at this sleepover than at any of the others had disappeared.
They all slept till 7.00am. At about 5.00am, one of them got up to use the bathroom, and I lay in bed willing her to go back to bed and to sleep, and not to assume it was morning (I'd turned the alarm clock back to the correct time by then). I don't know if it was the force of my willpower, or what, but she did. So we all got eight hours of sleep, which is good going for a sleepover. Next year, I'm thinking that 8 year olds are probably more challenging than 7 year olds on the bedtime front, so I am definitely crushing up a few Benadryl to bake into the birthday cake.
7-yo is very much into writing lists at the moment. My favourite is this one:
I hate...
mean people
pikle
brokle
wine
I hasten to add that she's only ever dunked a finger into a glass of wine for a taste. Honest. (And I was joking about the Benadryl too.) As for pikles and mean people, I don't like them much either. But personally I do like brokle. Have you worked out what that is? It took me a long while.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
More thought on time
It is amazing that my children have any grasp of time at all. "We're leaving in TWO MINUTES" I say. Then I get chatting to a friend, and ten minutes later I repeat "I said we were leaving in TWO MINUTES. Come on, hurry up, get your stuff. Now. Quick. We're going to be late." Then I remember one more thing I had to tell my friend, and five minutes later I repeat "Now. We're going. Quick. I said TWO MINUTES."
Maybe my mother was the same. Maybe that's why I have a struggle with the whole concept of time. If my children ask me any of those cosmic-related questions like why we have summer and winter, my reply is "that's because the earth spins on its axis, no, hang on, wait a minute, no, it's because the earth goes round the sun, and, um, the sun is hotter on one side than the other, no no, that's not right, um, oh yes, I remember, it's because the earth is tilted and doesn't face true north, so it gets colder when it's round the back of the sun because England and America get tilted away, and yes, that's why the moon is sometimes up in the daytime too because we see it for longer when we're tilted." Poor kids. They don't have a chance.
I know 7-yo ponders these things. He once said to me "It's not fair for kids. When you're a kid, when something is boring, time seems to slow down and it lasts for ages. Then when you're having a good time, like at recess, time seems to speed up and it goes by so fast." I hated to disillusion him, but felt I had to. "You know what? When you're an adult, it's exactly the same thing. You've got more used to it, but it's the same thing." He took the news in his inimitable child stride.
Living in America makes it more complicated for them than it was for me as a child (which was already complicated enough, let me tell you). They know that when we Skype grandparents, it's our morning but their afternoon. How complicated is that? They understand very easily now, but I remember struggling to explain it before we came. Before we flew out, nearly two years ago now, we carefully explained to them that it was going to be a long and exhausting journey. Not only was it a long, long way and we'd have to be in the plane for a long, long time, but also, there was this thing called the time difference. This meant that the day would be an extra long day, because it would be like it had six extra hours in it. We'd arrive in the evening, but it would be for us as if it was the middle of the night. We'd be tired, very tired, was the message I was trying to get across. 7-yo took a different message though. He told a friend of mine "Do you know, in America it's great, because their days are six hours longer than ours."
I repeat, I would love to be inside my child's head for a day.
.
Maybe my mother was the same. Maybe that's why I have a struggle with the whole concept of time. If my children ask me any of those cosmic-related questions like why we have summer and winter, my reply is "that's because the earth spins on its axis, no, hang on, wait a minute, no, it's because the earth goes round the sun, and, um, the sun is hotter on one side than the other, no no, that's not right, um, oh yes, I remember, it's because the earth is tilted and doesn't face true north, so it gets colder when it's round the back of the sun because England and America get tilted away, and yes, that's why the moon is sometimes up in the daytime too because we see it for longer when we're tilted." Poor kids. They don't have a chance.
I know 7-yo ponders these things. He once said to me "It's not fair for kids. When you're a kid, when something is boring, time seems to slow down and it lasts for ages. Then when you're having a good time, like at recess, time seems to speed up and it goes by so fast." I hated to disillusion him, but felt I had to. "You know what? When you're an adult, it's exactly the same thing. You've got more used to it, but it's the same thing." He took the news in his inimitable child stride.
Living in America makes it more complicated for them than it was for me as a child (which was already complicated enough, let me tell you). They know that when we Skype grandparents, it's our morning but their afternoon. How complicated is that? They understand very easily now, but I remember struggling to explain it before we came. Before we flew out, nearly two years ago now, we carefully explained to them that it was going to be a long and exhausting journey. Not only was it a long, long way and we'd have to be in the plane for a long, long time, but also, there was this thing called the time difference. This meant that the day would be an extra long day, because it would be like it had six extra hours in it. We'd arrive in the evening, but it would be for us as if it was the middle of the night. We'd be tired, very tired, was the message I was trying to get across. 7-yo took a different message though. He told a friend of mine "Do you know, in America it's great, because their days are six hours longer than ours."
I repeat, I would love to be inside my child's head for a day.
.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Time flies
I don't know what they've been teaching 7-yo at school. Actually, I do know. They've been teaching second graders all about spiders and insects. This is why last night at dinner 7-yo shared some of his knowledge with us along these lines:
"Did you know flies see things in slow motion? If you do this..." (waving his arm up and down vigorously) "they see it like this..." (same action, but at 1/16th speed). At this point, Husband and I are looking at each other quizzically. I've never been very good at the whole time/space comprehension thing, and am grappling with the idea that the humble house-fly might be not only more able to understand it than I am, but is even somehow at the level where he is able to control it. Husband, who is a philosophy professor (have I ever told you that?) has a mind that is probably some light years away already on a journey of analysis of 7-yo's statement from historical, ethical and theological perspectives.
7-yo fills the silence with more insights. "They know what is going to happen next. That's what it's like when you see things in slow motion. You can tell what is going to happen next. That's why they're so difficult to swat. They know you're coming." So not only can the house-fly slow down reality, as he buzzes about his daily business, but he can also see the future, (which must be a burden, if it is a future that contains the bashing of himself continuously against the inside of a never-to-be-opened window). Blimey. Evolution got it wrong. They'd be much better at running the world than we are (once they'd got the hang of window catches).
Husband and I agree that this would make a rather good episode of Primeval (which is all the rage with the programme schedulers on BBC America), and the conversation moves on to more pressing matters, such as choice of ice cream flavour for dessert.
I would love to be inside my child's head for a day.
.
"Did you know flies see things in slow motion? If you do this..." (waving his arm up and down vigorously) "they see it like this..." (same action, but at 1/16th speed). At this point, Husband and I are looking at each other quizzically. I've never been very good at the whole time/space comprehension thing, and am grappling with the idea that the humble house-fly might be not only more able to understand it than I am, but is even somehow at the level where he is able to control it. Husband, who is a philosophy professor (have I ever told you that?) has a mind that is probably some light years away already on a journey of analysis of 7-yo's statement from historical, ethical and theological perspectives.
7-yo fills the silence with more insights. "They know what is going to happen next. That's what it's like when you see things in slow motion. You can tell what is going to happen next. That's why they're so difficult to swat. They know you're coming." So not only can the house-fly slow down reality, as he buzzes about his daily business, but he can also see the future, (which must be a burden, if it is a future that contains the bashing of himself continuously against the inside of a never-to-be-opened window). Blimey. Evolution got it wrong. They'd be much better at running the world than we are (once they'd got the hang of window catches).
Husband and I agree that this would make a rather good episode of Primeval (which is all the rage with the programme schedulers on BBC America), and the conversation moves on to more pressing matters, such as choice of ice cream flavour for dessert.
I would love to be inside my child's head for a day.
.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
What's in a name? - Part III
They held a mock election in 11-yo's school (middle school). McCain won by 4 votes. He voted for Obama, in spite of the fact that one of his friends told him that Obama supported terrorists.
7-yo has also been told that Obama supports terrorists, is a terrorist, in fact. They're not holding an election in his school (lower school), which he is sad about. He'd vote for McCain. "Why would you vote for McCain?" I asked. "Because it sounds like candy cane, and I like candy canes", he replied with a grin.
Now there's an angle that I'll bet the Republican PR people haven't thought of using.
7-yo has also been told that Obama supports terrorists, is a terrorist, in fact. They're not holding an election in his school (lower school), which he is sad about. He'd vote for McCain. "Why would you vote for McCain?" I asked. "Because it sounds like candy cane, and I like candy canes", he replied with a grin.
Now there's an angle that I'll bet the Republican PR people haven't thought of using.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Sidewalk chalks
Sidewahk chahks. One of the staples of American childhood, and I don’t think we have them at all in Britain. Perhaps we do, and I just never came across them. I wish I had done – they’re a very useful arrow in the mother’s quiver of outdoor toys for small children. Happy hours are spent doodling on the steps, the path or the patio, and then when the rain comes, it’s all washed clean and you can start all over again.
If you have a front drive, or a front porch, a front path, or even just a front doorstep, you can display your work for passers-by. Most will miss it, of course, cocooned in their cars from such neighbourhood detail, but the occasional walker, in trainers, sports gear and headphones, will glance over, and I like to think we make the mailman’s job more interesting.
Earlier in the year, 7-yo wrote a lovely message of welcome for visitors. “The Manhattans live here - this is our house - hello” it read, in a spidering melee of capitals and lower case, some letters twice the size of others, and no one the same colour as its neighbour. If you’d passed by that day, before the rain came, I’m sure you’d have enjoyed the message, and perhaps you would have wondered about the blur of colour underneath. That was where the open-hearted child had written “Our garage code is ####”, to be extra welcoming, and the more security-conscious mother had scuffed it out, sad to have to explain a little more of the world to him as she did so.
Three weeks ago, on the day of our return from Britain, some friends came by and covered our drive and porch in “Welcome Home” messages: a huge red heart and big flowers, and personalized exclamations. “Hi, 11-yo, can’t wait to see you!” “We missed you, 7-yo!” It was wonderful, and made me promise myself that I would do the same for others in the future. Perhaps I could bring the custom back to repressed Britain, where such a gesture would be embarrassing. Heavens, other people would see it! And children’s names, their own NAMES, outside for all to read! Embarrassing, but enjoyed too, I think. I will take the risk one day (but maybe not use the children’s names).
Now, if you walk by our house, you will see a four-letter word carefully inscribed three times in different colours. Hurry though, before the rain comes. “OLAY OLAY OLAY”. Intrigued, I asked 4-yo why she had fetched the bottle of body moisturiser from the bathroom, and taken it outside to copy. “I wanted everyone to know that I can do that letter now”, she replied, pointing to the Y, somewhat larger than the other letters and a little more wobbly, but absolutely recognisable. She learns so fast these days, in that engaging 4 year old way, and often teaching herself. I wouldn’t even have known that she can do all the other three letters. I wonder why she picked the letter Y as the next one to master. I wonder why that word on that bottle caught her interest. I wonder if she feels, as I do still, that letters have their own personalities. I wonder which ones she will like best. I have always liked Y.
Anyway, I felt her achievement and her desire for recognition deserved a wider audience than our - no doubt rather puzzled - mailman.
If you have a front drive, or a front porch, a front path, or even just a front doorstep, you can display your work for passers-by. Most will miss it, of course, cocooned in their cars from such neighbourhood detail, but the occasional walker, in trainers, sports gear and headphones, will glance over, and I like to think we make the mailman’s job more interesting.
Earlier in the year, 7-yo wrote a lovely message of welcome for visitors. “The Manhattans live here - this is our house - hello” it read, in a spidering melee of capitals and lower case, some letters twice the size of others, and no one the same colour as its neighbour. If you’d passed by that day, before the rain came, I’m sure you’d have enjoyed the message, and perhaps you would have wondered about the blur of colour underneath. That was where the open-hearted child had written “Our garage code is ####”, to be extra welcoming, and the more security-conscious mother had scuffed it out, sad to have to explain a little more of the world to him as she did so.
Three weeks ago, on the day of our return from Britain, some friends came by and covered our drive and porch in “Welcome Home” messages: a huge red heart and big flowers, and personalized exclamations. “Hi, 11-yo, can’t wait to see you!” “We missed you, 7-yo!” It was wonderful, and made me promise myself that I would do the same for others in the future. Perhaps I could bring the custom back to repressed Britain, where such a gesture would be embarrassing. Heavens, other people would see it! And children’s names, their own NAMES, outside for all to read! Embarrassing, but enjoyed too, I think. I will take the risk one day (but maybe not use the children’s names).
Now, if you walk by our house, you will see a four-letter word carefully inscribed three times in different colours. Hurry though, before the rain comes. “OLAY OLAY OLAY”. Intrigued, I asked 4-yo why she had fetched the bottle of body moisturiser from the bathroom, and taken it outside to copy. “I wanted everyone to know that I can do that letter now”, she replied, pointing to the Y, somewhat larger than the other letters and a little more wobbly, but absolutely recognisable. She learns so fast these days, in that engaging 4 year old way, and often teaching herself. I wouldn’t even have known that she can do all the other three letters. I wonder why she picked the letter Y as the next one to master. I wonder why that word on that bottle caught her interest. I wonder if she feels, as I do still, that letters have their own personalities. I wonder which ones she will like best. I have always liked Y.
Anyway, I felt her achievement and her desire for recognition deserved a wider audience than our - no doubt rather puzzled - mailman.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Foolish words
A couple of weeks ago (a fortnight, one might even say), I had to take 7-yo to the doctor for something fairly routine. In the bit of small talk that one has time for during a doctor's appointment here (shock, horror), I mentioned to the doctor that we'd had a really healthy winter season. The kids had been well, Husband and I had been well, not much in the way of bugs, coughs and colds. Oooooh noooo, I hear you wail. Yes, indeed it was foolish talk.
A week later, I have three sick kids, and a head cold. I am debating with myself why I am posting this, and I think it is for some e-sympathy. I have a superstitious sense, too, that if I repent of my foolhardy words in a public forum, perhaps Providence will relent, and everyone will be well again in 9 days time, so that we don't have to ferry poorly children across the Atlantic. Not fun.
There's something that is complicated about going to the doctor here, as well as understanding the insurance system (which I don't think anyone does, actually). It's the vocabulary. A surgery is something you have, not something you visit. Sick means ill, vomiting means sick. Fever means high temperature. I don't think they use the word poorly at all. Not even poorly. And it seems that 7-yo has walking pneumonia, which I just wish could be called a chest infection. I assume that is what it is, but doesn't "walking pneumonia" sound much worse? What they used to call the old man's friend, on legs. If we had to have walking pneumonia around the place, I would rather it was something in the back yard, alongside the creeping jenny and the climbing wisteria. But at least if it's walking pneumonia, it will respond to the antibiotics and not be mono (which was mentioned), which is glandular fever, and not nice in either language.
Today's turn at the doctor's office is 4-yo's, who I suspect has an ear infection. Usual symptoms, plus half a dozen large red circular marks on her arms and abdomen, including one perfectly centred over her tummy button. These may confuse the doctor, although if he looks carefully, he will see Barbie's face, and conclude, rightly, that a Barbie stamper with rather permanent ink has been in use. At least I hope he doesn't want to investigate further, as I'm sure the ailment isn't covered by insurance and it could be hugely expensive. Either that, or she will be hailed as some kind of miracle child in the religion that Barbie has become, and we'll have to set up a pink shrine on our front porch to accommodate worshippers, once word is out.
I've come a long way though. The first time I went to the doctor, early on in our time here, the receptionist told me brightly "there's a $20 co-pay today", and not having a clue what that was but assuming from her tone of voice that it was some kind of jolly little extra I could opt for, I replied equally brightly "oh, um, no thanks".
A week later, I have three sick kids, and a head cold. I am debating with myself why I am posting this, and I think it is for some e-sympathy. I have a superstitious sense, too, that if I repent of my foolhardy words in a public forum, perhaps Providence will relent, and everyone will be well again in 9 days time, so that we don't have to ferry poorly children across the Atlantic. Not fun.
There's something that is complicated about going to the doctor here, as well as understanding the insurance system (which I don't think anyone does, actually). It's the vocabulary. A surgery is something you have, not something you visit. Sick means ill, vomiting means sick. Fever means high temperature. I don't think they use the word poorly at all. Not even poorly. And it seems that 7-yo has walking pneumonia, which I just wish could be called a chest infection. I assume that is what it is, but doesn't "walking pneumonia" sound much worse? What they used to call the old man's friend, on legs. If we had to have walking pneumonia around the place, I would rather it was something in the back yard, alongside the creeping jenny and the climbing wisteria. But at least if it's walking pneumonia, it will respond to the antibiotics and not be mono (which was mentioned), which is glandular fever, and not nice in either language.
Today's turn at the doctor's office is 4-yo's, who I suspect has an ear infection. Usual symptoms, plus half a dozen large red circular marks on her arms and abdomen, including one perfectly centred over her tummy button. These may confuse the doctor, although if he looks carefully, he will see Barbie's face, and conclude, rightly, that a Barbie stamper with rather permanent ink has been in use. At least I hope he doesn't want to investigate further, as I'm sure the ailment isn't covered by insurance and it could be hugely expensive. Either that, or she will be hailed as some kind of miracle child in the religion that Barbie has become, and we'll have to set up a pink shrine on our front porch to accommodate worshippers, once word is out.
I've come a long way though. The first time I went to the doctor, early on in our time here, the receptionist told me brightly "there's a $20 co-pay today", and not having a clue what that was but assuming from her tone of voice that it was some kind of jolly little extra I could opt for, I replied equally brightly "oh, um, no thanks".
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