Ding, ding, ding, [England is evil 7]

It’s not that I’m ignoring him, more like not paying attention. He’s happy, playing, why break the spell?

“Ooo you had a good idea! Ding!” What a sweet adorable child. I wonder how long this one will last? I continue to make supper as the light fades. The minutes tick by as he continues with his new mantra, “ooo you had a good idea! Ding!” I can see him flit from one soft toy to another to repeat the same phrase out of the corner of my eye. Little gem. He darts between his brother and sister. She swats him like a fly but he's back to the soft toys in a ceaseless circuit of energy.


Where has this sudden good humour come from I wonder? Where has ‘England is evil’ gone? Ah the innocence of youth.

When I snap on the light in the kitchen I notice the gloom in the sitting room. I step in and reach for the table light but the darned thing is fused. “Ooo you had a good idea! Ding!” I look across to see him with the light bulb in his hand.

Light fingered Leviathan!

Still, it's an improvement on "last year."

OMG [England is Evil 6]

It would appear that travel not only broadens the mind but seemingly expands the vocabulary. It’s not a development that I particularly relish as I am surrounded in a ceaseless chant of blasphemy. Fortunately, they stick to the letter abbreviations rather than the words themselves, but it sends an entirely wrong message to the natives.

To be fair, if not even handed, the children are united in the opinion that they are really saying ‘oh my gosh,’ but few people give us the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it’s the American accents but heads turn and I’m sure to blush.

They acquire curious variations on old themes such as ‘little guys first in case they burst!’ and ‘apology not accepted,’ although neither phrase endears them to their relatives.

The final straw comes in an unexpected format.

Delightful friends pop over for dinner and catch up. As always, they bring entertainment which guarantees that their visit is both remembered and anticipated with glee, and not just by the adults. Long ago, we forced our children to watch one episode of Dr.Who, it was not a successful experience. When the door bell rang the troops gamboled into the narrow hall only to be greeted by a two foot moving "Dalek."

I am uncertain who was more surprised?

Predictably, we have absorbed each of the six phrases that the Dalek’s micro chip provided. We hear them frequently. Luckily, in England, if a child wanders the streets saying “exterminate, exterminate, exterminate,” no-one turns a hair.

I suspect a different reaction in America.

There again, if it wipes out the 'England is Evil' mantra all shall be well.

On the other hand 'England is Evil' in America might have all sorts of unforeseen repercussions.

Thank goodness for duct tape!

It’s a wild life [England is Evil 5]

I lean on the fence and look over the view of rolling green hills and a herd of giraffe. Whilst I look at the giraffe I can’t help but wonder why they do it? If you live in a small, dark pokey house with teeny tiny windows, why would you blot out the view with a three paneled dressing table mirror? I expect it’s just an English thing, as so very many odd things are.

A long legged calf trots along with the grace of some women in high heels as my daughter snuggles up to ask a question, “why are they all huddled up like that, all curled and hunched?” I scan the horizon for wizened giraffe without success. “Where? I can’t see any curly giraffe.”
“Not giraffes, women.”
“Curly women?”
“No Mom, those women over there, those English women that are all crumpled.”
“How do you know that they’re English?”
“Are they what you call ‘wimps’?”
“Wimps! English women aren’t wimps! English women are more like Amazons, cut off their right breasts to achieve better aim with a bow and arrow, or is it the left one or maybe I’m thinking of Britannia.”
“What?”
“Oh nothing, I expect they’re just a bit chilly.”
“Why are they standing like question marks?”
“Are they?”
“Yeah. Do they have dodgy deportment?”
“Dodgy deportment? Where do you get this stuff from? Actually, on second thoughts don’t answer that. I expect they’re just older and colder than some.”

My youngest son deflates against my body, exhausted after having walked five and a half steps from the car at Longleet safari park to my side, “Oh em gee! I broke a nail! OMG! I broke a nail! OMG! I broke a nail!” I pick up his spaghetti arm to check his fingers, just in case. Typical! Where has he picked that up from I wonder? He sighs as his chin sinks to his chest and then blinks at the view like someone deprived of light for the last 40 years, “I am liking dem.”
“I like them too, they’re such graceful creatures.”
“Creatures! Dey are not be creatures, day are be wimmins.”
“Not you too!”
“Yes I am liking the English wimmins very much.”
“Indeed! Why might that be then?”
“Coz of der squishy bits.”
“Which squishy bits?”
“Dah squishy cushions on der tummies for resting the elbows.”

Never let it be said that older women are not appreciated by the discerning, regardless of nationality.

Bolting [ England is evil 4]

It’s a common enough issue for many a parent. One moment they’re there, the next moment they’re gone, without so much as a puff of smoke. It is familiar territory for many a parent. It wouldn’t be so bad if there was some kind of warning or preamble:- “Hey mom! I’m just going to trot up to the top of that mountain o’er yonder to investigate the sparkly thing on the top. Catcha in 5!” Then they’d be the chance to intervene, deflect or distract. Perhaps they already know the IDD tactic that we parents employ? Whatever the case, the truth of the matter is that an AWOL child produces an instantly insane parent. It’s a given.

Exceptionally good parents, such as myself, know that the only solution is constant supervision, never let your guard down, never assume anything. This is the relationship that me and my bolter have enjoyed ever since his legs started working in a vertical propulsion kind of way rather than a horizontal kind of kicking the air kind of way. I’ve had seven years to perfect the art of padlocking the bolter.

But of course there’s always jet lag.

We slumber, all of us in our second floor flat in the holiday let at the seaside in the pitch black of the silent hours. Their father is with his mother, on the other side of town. The click of the unfamiliar latch is the only clue as the door closes with a sigh. I stagger out into the hall. For some reason my brain clings to the false clue, the empty unworn shoes on the mat. I force my mind to the land of reason, where no-one around here ever wears shoes voluntarily. I hover, can I leave two children asleep and unsupervised? I grab the keys and lunge out the door, down the stairs to the front entrance with the even bigger lock that closes automatically as a safety device. I whip outside to the forecourt and parked cars and the empty road. There is no sign of him in any direction. I hop from one foot to the other, which way to go? How far could he get in five seconds, or is it ten seconds or maybe several life times? Horror stories, headlines and urban myths percolate through my last functioning brain cell.

Cell phone! Who should I phone?

I cross the road to check in both directions down the dip.

Nothing. I dash back strangely breathless with the deafening thud of my heart beat. Blood rushes through my ear drums. No! Waves! The beach. The sea. The water! I rush around the building to the side entrance to punch in the secret code to the gate. This is ridiculous, he’d never remember that code, alpha numeric. Did we even tell him the code? I should be looking somewhere else. Where else? I burst through the gate, over the concrete, up the steps to a vista of silver starry beach. My son lies face down drained of colour in the moonlight, slowly making sand angels with his arms and legs. I plop down next to him. I wait before I squeak. I put a hand on the small of his back and take a deep breath. This isn’t my bolter but his older brother. He rolls over lazily, “hi mom,” he beams. We return to the slumberers as we watch the moons together, the one in the sky and the one reflected on the water.


The sixth time he bolted in the same hour I had a sense of humour failure and decided to sit on him!


Well.....more like drag him into my bed and admit defeat. I'm sure I'm not the only one who adopts the parental padlock pretzel position? I hope?

Between a rock and a hard place [England is Evil 3]

I sally forth with 20 minutes reprieve, to the corner shop to buy my caffeine fix. My face is puce, windburn rather than sunburn, evidence of Summer’s existence in England. I leave my compulsive hand washer and the rest of the rabble in the tender care of their father.

My new skin tone clashes violently with the radio active rock emblazoned on my chicken chest, a wedding anniversary present. The gift is a Dichroic rock, a by-product devised by NASA. It flitters between an iridescent shade of lurid green and virulent neon pink. Co-incidentally, it’s arrival matches the children’s sudden interest in minerals, gem stones and fossils that appear to consume our every waking moment. Since we are on holiday and therefore technology free, we are rapidly growing an impressive library of books, pamphlets and brochures on the subject.

By some stroke of genius, we also mined a true ‘find,’ a touchstone indeed, in the form of a lump of Quartz with it’s own little bag labeled ‘worry stone.’ It might as well have been carved in granite, chiseled in marble as a miraculous ‘cure’ for the OCD amongst us. I have a whole new respect for cheesy seaside shops. He quotes directly from the accompanying leaflet:- ‘an excellent channeller for healing, dispels negativity,’ which it most certainly does! A closet Indigo child perchance! Proof positive of the power of mind over body, as long as we remember to bring the lodestone along.


His ability to absorb and regurgitate facts, is exactly matched by my own shortcomings, my inability to do likewise. Hence, I have had the forethought to write ‘Dichroic’ on my left hand. I also have the gift of second sight, a veritable Nostradamus but even more scientific, reliable to a statistical significance of plus or minus 3, or 7 on a really good day. I know that some stranger will ask me, ‘what is that thing glowing on your rib cage?’ and I shall be dumbstruck, wordless and brainless in response.

I keep up a cracking pace along the path, bent horizontal into the force 9 gale. I see evidence of seagull carnage on the path. Only the feathers remain, swirling against a wall long after the urban fox has departed. I have yet another reason to be thankful that I’m alone and have escaped the trigger of death and all other matters related to a tenuous life span.

Strangely, once in the coffee shop, no-one asks about the rock, either because it is barely dawn or alternatively because the glow is smothered by several thick layers of waterproof clothing, customary attire for those on a beach holiday.

Fortunately the weather means that I am propelled back to the flat at warp speed with the coffee still piping hot, all ready for the next barrage of questions from the boys. Inside the gloom I prepare myself mentally for the vast diversity of instant explanations of all things English to include ‘the purpose of clotted cream’ and ‘the true nature of a cornet.’ How come I am suddenly the resident expert on all things English, a role for which I am woefully ill equipped. Sadly, I am poorly prepared for my daughter’s surprise question as she peers over her book, with a nest of bed head hair “what does ‘cleavage’ mean?” I look at the book, ‘A concise guide to rocks and minerals,’ and her gaping nightie neckline. I blink and think as she continues, “ I get the ‘name,’ ‘hardness,’ ‘specific gravity’ and ‘lustre’ even though they spelt ‘luster’ wrong on the chart but what’s cleavage?” Vast chasms of ignorance play with my brain. How many times am I destined to be exposed as an idiot before first light? Parenthood is so unfair on the middle aged. What use is my encyclopedic knowledge of dinosaurs now, assuming that information was still available and not already written over by miscellaneous facts and figures about Thomas, only to be subsumed by Pokemon details? “It must be something to do with…..splitability, how easy or difficult it is to shatter it.” I run away into the kitchen where I can wrack my thesaurus for a proper substitute for ‘splitability,’ wash my hands prior to breakfast and scrub off the ink as my youngest son pounces on me, “no!”
“No what? I mean……er….”
“I am mean stop, do not be wash yur hands.”
“Why? I’m just about to make breakfast.”
“You are not need to be wash yur hands now.”
“Why? Er breakfast……!” I seem to be caught in my own loop.
He uncurls his index finger to jab me in the chest, “because nuffin bad is happen. Now you are be have yur worry stone.”

England is Evil [2]

After 22 days in England, I grow weary of the mantra. It’s difficult to determine which is more annoying, the ‘England is evil,’ ditty, muttered in glowering tones of impending doom, or the ‘when we are go America?’ question, in the alternative. It’s tempting to climb into the tumble drier and hide, but of course in England domestic appliances are designed for people of diminished stature. I’d be lucky if I could put one foot inside the dinky little machine, manufactured to dry one pair of underpants at a time. It’s a timely reminder of why all British people wear thongs, regardless of age or physique.

The national shortage of Goldfish crackers, is of course unforgivable. Curiously, of all the many evils of England, the medieval practice of afternoon teatime at four o’clock is a big hit all round. I fester over the issue as to whether Jammy Dodgers biscuits are available in America, as their little red hearts are so endearing? Sadly, I already know that our arteries shall not be clogged with clotted cream, as strangely it is a culinary extravaganza that hasn’t caught on in the States.

22 days has meant a seamless automatic translation of fries into ‘chips’ without so much as a stutter. Collectively we overcome many new obstacles and learn a great deal. We learn that it is indeed possible to play beach cricket if one employs a neon yellow tennis ball, which appears to be close enough to ‘golden’ to make it acceptable foreplay. We learn that shower grouting can liquefy, but hardens very nicely on warm bodies. I learn that rather than a Rolls Royce being a stately and magnificent tribute to the British car industry, it is really only ‘cute’ and ‘weeny.’ We learn that the current level of hand strength means that it not possible to remove a three pin plug from a wall socket, even if you use a knife. We celebrate tool usage and a narrow escape from an ER visit. Furthermore, British road users prefer foreigners to use the same side of the road as they do, the left. My sons are indifferent, although it’s far more ‘fun’ when we drive the American way by mistake.

We learn that small fingers can be persuaded to pick up shells from sandy beaches. We learn that mother’s who lie about Hermit crabs inhabiting English shells are likely to be stoned, one way or another. I’d better nip that habit in the bud before someone becomes really crabby.

England is Evil

Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted that he feels able to express his viewpoint verbally. I’d just prefer it if he could be a little more circumspect, especially whilst we happen to be in England. I’m sympathetic to many of his complaints, that the milkshakes are too small and that weather is too big, but loud mouthed Americans are just to much of a cliché, even for him.

Handy travel hint of the day – to ensure that your suitcases are fresh for next year, tuck a tumble drier sheet inside before storage. Take care to assess whether or not tumble drier sheets should be eliminated from your life style, along with the tumble drier to reduce your carbon footprint on the planet. Should you suffer the misfortune of someone vomiting in your suitcase, admit defeat and chuck away the suitcase, carbon footprint be damned. Be grateful that your brain torture has ceased and that the mysterious stench is no longer mysterious. Don’t forget to thank the thoughtful child that shut the suitcase after use.

Normal service shall be resumed as soon as humanly possible.

May the force be with you too

In the salon I hand over the gift voucher with glee. An hour of frivolous indulgence should never be squandered. I leave with two parts of my scraggy anatomy spruced up to meet American standards of womanliness. I anticipate that the manicure should remain immaculate for the next twenty minutes during the drive home.

As I drive I calculate which mode to adopt on arrival? Guilty of the crime of ‘absent without leave,’ I shall be soundly punished one way or another. Maybe the sulky, silent treatment? Maybe mountainous meltdowns? It’s the price to be paid for such selfish skullduggery at the weekend. Whilst many a parent returns home to be welcomed with open arms, other parents need to be a bit more savvy.

On previous occasions I made the mistake of bringing home treats, due to a combination of gratitude for the time off and a hefty dose of guilt for being so grateful in the first place. For some reason, I had temporarily forgotten that most treats are in fact torture, but I learned from my error. Whilst it’s tempting to try for a hug, that too is subject to negotiation. There’s nothing like unexpected physical contact to really ruin someone’s day. I decide to play it by ear.

As I step through the door my ears are assaulted by a loud combination of someone playing the recorder, another one making rooster noises in protest, a third is buried head down in cushions and an aerated father has an air of exasperation.

“Oh good! You’re home! How did you get on?” We ignore our children, exchange glances. I permit him to note my sparkly finger nails.
“Ooo very………clean.”
Whilst it wasn’t the adjective I was looking for, it was a good try under the noisy circumstances. The rooster ceases to crow and gasps instead, open mouthed, a picture of awe struck, “you are be touch?”
“Pardon dear?”
“You are be touch me wiv your magic fingers!” I swear he's as sharp eyed as an eagle.





















Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse.

Bye for now

We’re off on our annual pilgrimage to "England," a green and pleasant land so they say, but not without it's "hazards."
There again, we have the opportunity to relish "family support" for a few weeks and take time to bask in those tiny huge "triumphs."
I suspect we shall spend less time in the "car" with the petrol prices and exchange rate being as they are. It's probably time to kick back, "relax" and let the "campaigns" slide.

1. "Chat, chat, chat - breaking news"
2. "Zero sum and the division of labour"
3. "I do not like green eggs or otherwise"
4."The Humane Society"
5. "Slap on the head for the handmaiden"
6. "Puppy dogs tails indeed"
7. "The Seven Deadly Sins"
8. "I hear Thunder"
9. "Truthful Tuesday, the sin of Pride"
10. "To be or not to be, that is probably the answer"
11. "Look to the Future."
12. "Occupational Therapy - no Flying!"
13. "A Labyrinth of Liars"
14. "Personal Learning Curves"



So here are a few bits and bobs in the interim.
Cheers dears

Everyone is unique

Junk food

I am a woman of strong convictions, so I waste no time, take out my pen and write to the local school district about their disgraceful policy on school lunches.

Not a mung bean in sight, nor in storage. How can young minds learn anything when they are starved of good, nutritionally well balanced meals. Where is the tofu may I ask? Whole-wheat is a good start but wheat-free options should be a priority. Fresh fruit and yoghourt is all very well but what about the lactose intolerant. Haven’t you people heard of soy? Don’t you know there’s more to a salad bar than lettuce and tomatoes? Whilst the new recyclable lunch container policy is commendable, shouldn’t there be a complete ban on paper towels too? We parents have high standards that are inviolate.

I pause as I hear the garage door open.

Children tumble into the house.

Spouse brings up the rear mounded high with sacks of groceries.
“You’ll never guess what?”
“What?”
“Tell her. Hey! Tell your mum what we bought.”
“Um……”
“Come on! Tell her! No words? O.k. just show her then. He chose it himself, just like that!”



























If that’s the 18th food then I’m a beansprout.

I toss the letter in the bin.

Traitor.

Alex Barton's Lesson

All parents are teachers but many of us are mere amateurs.

I have long been an admirer of the teaching profession, their vocation and dedication, all of them. We entrust our children into their care, in loco parentis, secure in the knowledge that they will do their part in guiding them along the treacherous path to adulthood.

I was therefore a little alarmed to read that a young Kindergartener, "Alex Barton," had been voted out of his class, a bit like one of those popular reality shows on the telly. This wasn’t a case like "Lord of the Flies," where the children had run amuck without adult supervision, but rather, his ousting was instigated by his teacher.

It made "me" wonder. It made lots of "people" wonder. It made his mum take "action."

I wondered why a teacher might do such a thing? Five years old, seems a little young to be teaching Darwin’s theory of "survival of the fittest," but I’m obviously not up to date on the State curriculum.

How else might this have come about? Maybe this was merely a role playing exercise, helping the children learn "kinesthetically," where we learn by doing. An early introduction to the power of the vote, elections and democracy?

Then there’s public speaking or the debating aspect. There are any number of valuable lessons to be learned, to say nothing of voicing opinions and sharing.

Perhaps this was a carefully orchestrated plan, to teach inclusion by demonstrating exclusion, lesson one, with a follow up next week?

It could be that this was a litmus test to check the class’ moral fibre, a bench mark and launch pad for a new campaign of social awareness.

Alternatively the teacher decided that her students were in need of a demonstration of the "bystander effect." The bystander effect is when an incident occurs that requires action from the onlookers but few are able step up to the plate. Alex found that two of his classmates were able to act, but who would choose to test five year olds?

I expect it was something to do with the harsh lessons of reality, that life can be a "popularity contest." When is the right time, developmentally and chronologically to learn that lesson?

I wonder what her plan was? I’m just curious. It seems a curious lesson plan to amateurs. I wonder if the rest of her profession concurs? I somehow doubt it. I suspect she is in the minority, singled out with a unique perspective. I wonder if she is a good sharer? I’d love to know her perspective? I’m sure we’d all like to understand.

My own behaviour as a parent would not hold up well under public scrutiny.


I’m sure there are some saintly types around who never lose their cool. Sadly, I’m not one of them. All to often, every day in fact, I’m pushed to the point of "exasperation." I lack the patience and temperament for "teaching," and more importantly, a vocation. My retaliation is usually in the form of sarcasm. Luckily no-one around here understands sarcasm. Unluckily my tone makes the underlying message unmistakable = Mum is mad. I make many mistakes and more than a few hideous blunders. I’ve learned to forgive myself the errors and vow to do a better job tomorrow, every day, but that’s the nature of human frailty.

Fortunately, no-one’s going to call me to account for my misdeeds.

I get away Scott free.

It’s only all the "children" that will pay.

A one size fits all

As the time for the play date approaches I have a growing sense of dread. I have my own mother’s words circulating through my skull, variations on ‘don’t be such a wimp.’

It’s one thing to discipline my own children in my own home, but it’s quite another to tackle someone else’s child. It would be so easy to do irreparable harm, however unwittingly. I just don’t know the child well enough.

In theory, I have decided on my approach, the one that I generally use. I practice in my head and anticipate reactions, but it’s all just theory. The practice rarely turns out as planned.

When the first demand is bellowed I ignore it, or rather I pretend to ignore it. After a couple of repeated demands she comes to seek me out in the kitchen, “hey! I said I want a snack. Didn’t ya hear me?” She turns on her heel and stomps back into the family room to continue playing. I swallow hard and ignore the yellow stripe down my back. Am I the only one afraid of ten year olds? I tiptoe into the family room to survey a relatively calm scene of play. I am cautious of the firecracker child. She glances up at me, or rather my empty hands, bristling. Her mouth drops open, presumably with outrage or disbelief, as I sit down next to her on the carpet. “You know “Rebecca,” in our house we try and use our indoor voices.”
“What?”
“We try and use quiet voices so that we don’t hurt our ears.” She looks at me as if I am a thing from another planet, which I probably am. Will she spontaneously combust?
“O.k. so can I have my snack now? Is that what ya want?”
“That is sooo much better, much easier to listen to.” She looks at me again. Is she checking for sarcasm?
“Snack?”
“I’m going to get everyone a snack.”
“When?”
“I’m going to start now and I should be ready in about five minutes. Here. Do you see this timer. The red bit shows five minutes. It would be great if you could wait those five minutes because there’s six of you and only one of me.”
She looks at me. She looks at the timer.
“Is that o.k. with you?”
“Sure.”
“Shall I tell you something else about our house?”
“Sure.”
“When people say please and thank you, I work sooo much faster.” I attempt a smile to the unknowable child, the stun gun in the arsenal of sophisticated pre-teen population.
“Please.”

Save me from the typical types.

Hand luggage and Teflon

It takes up a disproportionate amount of time in my working memory:- how to minimize luggage but maximize options?

It’s quite selfish really.

I have three sets of clothes that I wear all the time, the on, the off and the in the wash. It’s perfect. It’s perfect until we set off for our annual holiday to England.

Wear one and pack the other two in a suitcase?

No.

Wear one and pack the other two in the hand luggage. My suitcase in the hold will be full of other essential items, none of which will be clothes, least of all my own clothes.

This is o.k. because I will need all three sets of clothes for the journey. I shall be up and dressed in set number one at about 5 in the morning. I shall then remain immaculate throughout the day until we fly at 7 in the evening. It is essential that I remain in set number one come what may. During the first hour of the flight, my eldest son will have a technicolour accident, a combination of fear of flying and air sickness. At this point, I shall abandon set number one, wrap them in several bags and shove them at the bottom of the backpack.

Once I have donned set two, I shall remain inviolate during the remaining 9 hours of the flight, apart from other little accidents. Those lap tray tables are so tricky to manage. During the 9 hours I shall be speckled with three meals from several people, and possibly my own. I shall be sprinkled, doused and drenched in every available beverage. I shall reluctantly shun the offer of a free glass of wine. Befuddlement in confined spaces is a mistake.

As we move forwards through the night, we shall arrive yesterday. As we hit the ground in England, de-plane, charm customs, salute passport checkers, locate buses, hire a car and pile ourselves into it, I shall then have been in set number two for 12 hours, together with enough foodstuffs to make a severe dent in the world food shortage.

I shall resist the urge to change into set number three.

We will drive to our rental, de-car, relocate ourselves and our baggage into the flat. I shall make up four beds in the hope that someone will sleep sometime soon. Only when sleep is imminent shall I remove set two, leaving set three available, ready for the next shift, although not necessarily the next day. Otherwise, waking time will arrive and I shall be threadbare and threadless.

This annual problem weighs heavily upon my mind.

Whilst the English are more open to nud.ity, the weather tends to be inclement.

I need an alternative solution.

And here it is.




























There again, I may just have to grit my teeth and go shopping for an entirely new outfit altogether.

Don’t do that. What?

Sometimes I just yearn for a scientific mind.

You see it most commonly in toddlers and those under the age of 5 when social awareness has yet to eradicate it. It always strikes me as being half way between a yawn and a stretch. It’s a gesture that intrigues me as I watch a three year old girl twist and pull her skirt up towards her face, to reveal a pair of pink leggings. It does not appear purposeful, more like the shudder of cat coming awake. It’s the same as another child that appears to half pull off his T-shirt. They remained clothed and decent, as they don’t complete the motion. Somehow it is not the same as someone undressing. It’s more like slow motion followed by a pause.

It should have a name. Where should I start in the dictionary?

It appears that most children grow out of this phase but others do not. I suspect that whatever prompts the behaviour is outstripped by the stronger motivation to fit in with the social mores. Some others are both stuck in this phase and usually manage to complete the motion unless prompted to do otherwise. Because it is slow and lazy there’s enough time to step in. If I could figure out the why, then I might be able to tackle the habit more effectively. It’s all well and good to say ‘no,’ to be watchful and intervene, but it would be so much better to determine the cause.

This is so often the case with so many of their habits. If someone is not aware that they’re doing something, it seems pointless to ban it outright without further investigation. If the social awareness and peer pressure element is missing, or not a priority, it is still wise to prompt and guide, but it’s not ideal. If the tactile defensiveness component is eliminated, what else is left?

It is not the same as undressing. Undressing is purposeful and fast, over in the blink of an eye. This gesture is a distracted movement, common in youngsters that I never see with adults. If they are both kinesthetic learners, learn by their bodies going through the motions, I wonder if once they start the gesture, their bodies just follow through, as the ‘pause’ at the apex of the movement for most people, is over-ridden?

It is these kinds of thoughts that make life so unproductive.

Where are all the boffins when you need one?

Come along villagers, out of the lab, it's time for some fieldwork.

How was your day?

It’s the same exchange that parents have all over the world, when it’s dark and the kids are asleep.

Ours takes place in the wee small hours of the night, morning really, when he comes home from work. Together, we put the nocturnal child back into his bed, again, tuck him in and put the door to, ajar.

“Well at least he’s really cheerful.”
“I’m glad someone is.”
“So how did it go?”
“He pulled down the shower curtain. I nearly brained myself trying to get it back up on the wall.”
“You should have left it. It helps if you’re taller.”
“Couldn’t. He was trampling all over it to get to the top shelf.”
“Ah the soap collection.”
“Indeed. He’s going to break his neck clambouring up that wall. He uses the soap dish as a foot hold.”
“Well that’s a positive thing.”
“Is it? Which bit? The climbing or the collection.”
“Er…..well…..both. I admit I wouldn’t have expected a soap fetish from the filthiest child on the planet but that’s all to the good surely?”
“I’ll remind you of that the next time you want to wash your hands.”
“Hmm….....maybe it’s a cunning plan to foil the hand washing campaign?”
"?"
"Well........?"
“He’s not that devious.”
“Are you sure? I certainly wouldn’t bank on it.”
“So.....if he’s graduated to ‘devious’ do we chastise or celebrate?”
"Passed with flying colours!"

Bi-lingual, it’s no excuse

The trouble with being a foreigner is that so much of what we say is incomprehensible.


Because the life of a foreigner is normal to the foreigner, the foreigner forgets that other people live different lives.

Take these two fairly ordinary statements, excuses in this particular instance.

For some reason everyone understands the first one but the second one causes no end of confusion. They are of equal weight around here. Both are common enough experiences in the great scheme of things. The statements are simple enough, but they convey a whole panoply of commonly shared human experience.

Sometimes.


1. Sorry I’m late but she broke her finger.
2. Sorry I’m late but he’s gone all nocturnal.

And sometimes not!

In the interests of scientific impartiality, I shall have to try them out again in England, when we nip home for a holiday. A good scientist never predicts outcomes prior to the test.

Verily, I shall be a foreigner on either shore.

Mexican Hat dance

I bimble around the garden muttering to myself as my youngest son sits in the shade in his underpants and a Mario baseball cap. He is busily occupied pushing playdough through the mesh table top, to form piles of neon spaghetti on the ground beneath. It's a tough work out for feeble little fingers, but the texture is no longer torture.

He is a study in concentration, oblivious to my presence. It is a rare sight indeed to see him sitting. I suspect that the same mesh pattern may be imprinted elsewhere upon his person, testament to his increasing powers of endurance. “It is so hot! We really shouldn’t be out in the sun you know.”
“I am not…..in dah sun,” he remarks, checking the dappled light through the foliage of the pergola.
“Hmm. I think I need a hat or something?”
“Big hat. Little cloves.”
It’s a valid point but I am way beyond the age where a bikini can be a realistic option.
“I swear it must be 100 degree out here!”
“No swear! Bad to be swear.”
“Oh that’s not swearing as such.”
“It is be dah figure of speech?”

I rip off the sweaty gardening gloves and step over to him. His minimalist approach to language and conversation is so often peppered with huge lumps of sophistication, if I were only paying attention.

Different Strokes for different folks

We survive the first 45 minutes of her being ill, but then she follows me around like a rash.

She reminds me that she is bored at 3 minute intervals. This is my ‘play with me, play with me, watch me, watch me,’ child, not that I’m assigning a role of predestination for any of my children.

Perish the thought!

Although brothers generally fall into the category of ‘pest,’ when they are at school, somehow their company is so much more appealing.

“But I’m real bored Mom.”
“I know dear, but I’m very busy. Why don’t you go and rest in your room.”
“But it’s not like you’re doin nothin.”
“Anything, dear, anything! As I said before, I have a great deal to do and the sooner I get it all done, the sooner I may have some free time. Why don’t you go and rest in your room and think of three things that you’d like to do when I’m finished.”
She sighs and deflates against the wall, “whatya doin then that’s more important than me an bein sick?” The tone of sarcasm isn’t lost on me, but I decide to ignore it. It would appear to be an abuse of power to out sarcasm a sarcastic 10 year old.
“Well right now I’m putting all the boys’ clothes back into the cupboard. I do it every day. It take about 20 minutes depending upon whether they accidentally tipped out the pyjamas too.”
“It sure is a big mess.”
“Hmmm.”

I fold, refold, stack shelves and re-hang T-shirts under her watchful eyes.

“If I did that you’d be real mad at me, right?”
“Well it would depend upon why you’d messed up your closet?”
“It’s not fair, they get to trash their closet every day and you just clean it all up!”
“Is that what you think?”
“It’s always the same, you treat em different.”
“You’re right, I do. Partly because you’re older and partly because there are some things that they find a lot more difficult than you do. Sometimes they need more help.”
“It stinks.”
“Now I have a question for you!”
“Really! What?”
“When you were really little, we had a closet just like this one. Half of it was toys and half of it was clothes. Every day I would try and put you to bed for your nap. Instead of taking a nap like every other toddler in the entire universe, you’d climb the closet shelves and chuck everything out. Then you’d strip your bed. Every day. Now why do you suppose you did that?”
“Geez, I have no idea! What did you do?”
“Every day after your non existent nap, I’d come up here and you’d be sitting in your devastated room with a mischevious grin on your face. I would be so cross with you. Daddy and I decided that we’d just leave mess and put you to bed at night without the bed clothes.”
“I don’t remember that either.”
“Well you wouldn’t, because some time during the evening, once Daddy was home, I’d zip up here and straighten it all out. It took ages but I just couldn’t put you to bed like that, it seemed too unkind.”
“Wow. How long did I do that for then?”
“Eternity.”
“What happened to stop it?”
“I gave up trying to get you to nap.”
“Why did I do that? It seems kinda weird.”
“Well, I think it’s because you didn’t have enough words to explain that you didn’t want to nap and probably more importantly, that you didn’t need a nap. You always were an energizer bunny.”

She slithers down the wall onto her hunkers, stares at the self portrait picture of her big sister. "Did she do weird stuff when she was little too?"
"Oh yes indeed. There's not a child on the planet that doesn't do "weird stuff" sometimes. The trick is to figure out the why? Once you know the 'why' it won't be weird any more."





















Post script:-

Take one Lilo and Stitch video

Extract Elvis

Add birthday present CD and "Mix"

Alternative "Junior production."

Cheers Debra!

0 – 60 diddly squat

Children thrive on routine or so they say.

We nay sayers decided to adopt a more modern approach to our children. None of those strictures for our little free spirits. We planned to copy our laid back, easy going Californians cousins. No mean feat for the average Brit, and we are terribly average.

Despite our best endeavours, it soon became apparent that laid back was more like flat out, or rather, flat out chaos and a great many horizontal meltdowns. We went over to the dark side, made schedules and schooled our children to follow them. Schedules and routine produced predictability, and a certain degree of calm, or maybe just less chaos. Before too long we slipped into the groove. Before too much later, we found that the walls of the groove had grown so high that we were scrabbling around in the hollow, unable to deviate right or left. The schedule became iron clad. There was no room for spontaneity as the timetable was rigidly enforced, indirectly, by the children themselves.


It infiltrates every second of our existence, the necessity to maintain sameness. I hear that this is quite common, indeed my good pal describes her life as a perpetually reliving the same day, day after day. Sometimes we get "bogged down" in the mire. It's hard to "escape" from the strictures of the schedule. There is no room for flexibility, merely crisis management.


Currently, our family experiences another peak in the "anxiety" roller coaster. It is exactly at such times, that it is imperative to maintain the routine.

Our routine is for me to arrive outside the boys’ classroom at least five minutes before the end of the school day. I wait. When they come out, we meet and greet, exchange pleasantries and wait for their sister to join us. It is important to remain in the same safe 10 yard area and wait. Sometimes we wait a long time, as she is usually the last to leave.

I have learned that it is unwise to be impatient, foolish to seek her out with the boys in tow. I cannot leave the boys behind to wait on their own because they cannot wait and they cannot wait on their own.

The seconds tick by as we wait. As they tick, so the anxiety increases, “where is she be?”
“She’ll be here any moment dear.”
“How many minutes? How many seconds. Is she be lost? Is she be selled?” He starts to suck his fingers and rock, small mewing noises get louder. I pull him onto my lap and he curls up small and tight. He slithers off and bolts. “We must be find her!” he yells as he charges off around the corner. I grab his brother and the backpacks as we scuttle off in hot pursuit.

It’s only 25 yards away but the court yard is crampt with a sea of bodies, parents and children and siblings and strollers. I spot him, dressed in red from head to foot outside her open class room door, blocking the way as he peers inside. Every face in the classroom is turned towards the little boy in the entrance way, crouched, mewling and swaying. Wounded in distress. I slip through the crowd to him and point out his sister, a long straight arm to guide vision with a rude finger at the end. He yelps with glee as I herd him away to a safe distance to join his brother. His brother is gone. “Agh! Where is he been?”

I spot him ambling away in the opposite direction. We gallop after him. I can already see the lure, a baby. We catch up just in time. He’s overtaken the mother, child and baby, to walk backwards in front of them whilst he asks questions to the mum but stares at the baby. I burble a torrent of compliments to the mum, child and baby. Yes, my nine year old is very fond of babies, all babies, and this is a particularly fine specimum of babydom, how could he resist?

Many parents have strong objections to large filthy children touching their purebred offspring, it’s quite natural. Luckily, we are in luck. The mum permits touching, cooing, smiles and pats, very tender gentle ones. I prompt goodbye greetings, as busy mums can only be hindered and detained for a short periods of time. It can never be long enough for my son to get his baby fix.

I turn around with a firm grasp on each boy as we stride back to the classroom. The class room is empty. “Oh no! Where is she be. We are be lost her! You and yur stoopid babies. It’s all yur fault.” The only reassurance that will work now is for him to see her, alive and well. Nothing else will placate him. The boys squabble as I haul them around the corner. They debate the merits of temporary relationships with strangers versus long term blood relations.

Animosity and anxiety vie for supremacy.

I see her waiting outside the boys’ classroom in a state of confusion. I yell as I see her heels disappear around the corner as she returns to her own classroom. My son hangs on my arm, a dead weight, the child that cannot be hurried. I dither. Double back and cut her off at the pass or follow her around again? I shoulder two backpacks, secure my grip on the snotty hand, hoik the nine year old onto my hip and galumph back.

We stagger and stumble our way amid bleats and rooster crows of the truly desperate. I glimpse her again, just as she begins to retrace her steps but I lack enough oxygen to yell. The snotty one spots her too, slips from my grasp and careens over screaming her name at 50 decibels. I watch her turn, pause, tune in, align sight, open arms just in time to catch him as he collapses into her. A swoon, worthy of a Southern Belle. As we bring up the rear he has gained enough composure to machine peck kiss her inner wrist. He pants like a puppy, exhausted, “you are be alive!” he puffs.

Only just dearies, only just.