Celestial Motherhood

Knitting Pretty - Secret Post Club #1

2010-03-30T13:47:00.000-07:00

I heard a little rat-a-tat-tat on my front door but ignored it, thinking it was one of the delightful kids from upstairs, asking if she could come and play with The Celestial One after school. I wasn't being rude, I was exasperated at My Girl's insistence at me hanging threads of red wool from the ears of her new favourite teddy, Sukie Jack Connor: a teddy so important as to merit the bestowing of 3 names. SJC has to wear pony tails at all times (just like his "mummy"), the adornments fastened so tightly around his ears that the poor's thing's circulation is in danger of being cut off and then from what will ~~she~~ I hang his imaginary hair? Plus he has a PINK ribbon/hairband around his head, in a early-1980s Olivia Newton John doing "(Let's Get) Physical" style (just like his "mummy"!)

"There, he looks lovely now." Patience wearing thin.

"SHE!"

"She looks lovely now!"

It's an on-going game. I say, "he," she says, "SHE!"

"Look, Mummy. Sukie Jack Connor is waiting for breakfast." Oops.

"Does he like porridge?"

"SHE!"

About 13 times an hour, this gendered mistake. All teddy bears are male to me, just like all cats are female and all dogs are something never to be let inside the house, regardless of chromosomes! Teddy Bears are Edwards - blokes!! My own little brown childhood bear, the one without any stuffing left, is still around, demoted to the toy box: he's called Knuckles, still one of my proudest name-giving achievements.

I heard the faint knock again. I didn't answer. I had a shower.

Through the steam of the faux-glass doors, I see the figure of my child, brown thing in hand. I hear her crying.

Sigh. "What is it, Celeste?"

"Sukie Jack Connor's pony tail breaked!"

"For God's sake, Celeste, I'm in the shower. I'll find him a new one when I get out!"

"HER!"

Right! I grab a towel, storm to the kitchen, find some more red wool and tie it extra tight round his ears that would be purple if he had any sense of feeling. Sorry, HER ears, SHE.

"There, SHE's got new pony tails now."

Knock, knock. Louder. And, "Becky, there's a parcel for you out here." My neighbour, V.

MY SECRET POST CLUB PARCEL!!!!!!

I squat and bend my still wet arm around the door, pull the packet into the warmth of our flat and read the message on the envelope, from which I determine that it's been posted to me by Ellie at Insomniac Mummy.

"I want to open it. I want to open it!"

No. It's mine. I never get to open anything that isn't electronically sent these days. I'm taller than her so I stand up, full of excitement.

Ellie, I think, has done her homework on me because inside MY parcel is a book of knitting patterns for children. Beautiful children with beautiful clothes. And two balls of the softest baby bamboo red wool. Thanks Ellie, I absolutely love it and I make you two promises:

1. I will learn to knit something more sophisicated than woollen squares that are used currently as blankets for Sukie Jack Connor.

2. I will not hang any of that gorgeous wool from said teddy bear's ears.

You have my word :)

Relic

2010-03-16T14:41:00.000-07:00

My Girl and I spent a couple of hours at the North Somerset Museum in Burlington Street today. The museum that the council is proposing to relocate from one of the oldest buildings in Central Weston to the Winter Gardens on the Sea Front. The museum whose potential closure is causing outrage among the local community, who have taken it upon themselves to organise protest meetings, petitions, colouring competitions and a Facebook group with hundreds of followers in a bid to halt these plans.

I haven’t yet met one person in this town who would like the move to go ahead, even if many of us didn’t manage to get to last Saturday’s 10:30 am meeting, organised by The Civic Centre, Friends of North Somerset Museum and the newly-formed Mums for the Museum, at the Blakehay Theatre. The place was packed, thankfully, so maybe we weren’t missed as much as our guilt at not being there might have indicated.

I’d rather not see the museum be ripped from its prime central position in a quiet street close to the train station and the 20 minute commute to Bristol to be dumped onto the struggling Winter Gardens bang on top of the beach, the Phenomenon-that-is-the-Grand Pier, the Wheel, the Sovereign shopping centre, the pubs and the restaurants, where everything cultural (ha!) would then be huddled together.

But I can see why the council might want to, aside from the immediate cash such a project might bring in.

See, what you have to ask yourself is … is Weston a seaside resort or a dormitory town? And is there room for both? If everything touristy was placed in the same square mile, could that free the rest of the town up for the locals?

No, you say, the museum is for locals. Yeah, I know, we are local and like I said, we were there today. I’ve got an annual membership (£4.50 per visit or £10 a year) because it’s a great place to go for someone with a three year old who loves to dress up and draw.

The first time I took the Celestial One to Burlington Street, her reaction was, to me, unexpected. It was among the most excited I have ever seen her: she’d visited once with pre-school and I think the place reminded her of her relationship with her pals. Poor, poor only child. She darted around, diving in the ‘cave’ (a tent) and pulling on the ladybird costume.

Today, her third visit, we stayed for an hour and a half. We had planned on having lunch at the Museum Café but I hadn’t realised that they only serve drinks and cake, so that’s what we had, with no protestations whatsoever from her, unsurprisingly. She was disappointed that the covered pond in the miniscule courtyard wasn’t a trampoline. She’d smelled lavender and rosemary before (I’m so boring!). She liked the magnets, not dissimilar from what we’ve got on our own fridge. Didn’t bother to dress up this time but she did find a pair of cat’s ears identical to the ones she wears every single day at pre-school, so much so that the staff say they’ve forgotten how she looks without them. She did a bit of brass rubbing. I played my role, explaining how the kitchen in Clara’s Cottage differed from our modern one, informing her that bears used to live by us in the quarry, pointing out that melted bin from the burnt out Grand Pier and showing her how to rub herbs and then sniff her fingers – again!

I showed her a photo of Anchor Head, taken back in the early twentieth century.

“Look, Lestie! Where’s that?”

“Weston-super-Mare,” she replied, barely humouring me.

“Yes, it’s where we climb the rocks, isn’t it?”

Not listening, lalalala, she skips off. The “Laughing Man” amusement machine she loved, she says, but she looked totally freaked out to me. She didn’t want to go on Sophia, the mechanical seaside horse, did that last time. She tried her hand at Punch and Judy but her monkey and polar bear puppets at home are easier to manoeuvre.

“I don’t like this game. I want to go to the library.”

And that might well be the problem with this museum as it stands, if there is one. It’s not big enough. As a social historian by trade, I’ve been to countless museums as a leisure pursuit but also as a researcher and I’m of the opinion that, where possible, museums and libraries should be in the same spot. Actually it’s difficult to believe that the museum only moved to Burlington Street 37 years ago: up until then it was squished into the our little library in Waterloo Street. This is one of the reasons that I don’t understand the sentimentality of keeping the museum where it is: it’s been there for a shorter time than I’ve been alive, though I am turning into a bit of a museum piece myself, it could be said. I do happen to think that the Gaslight is a fine building but North Somerset Council might need to consider buying up the rest of the street so it can expand.

Living in Weston-super-Mare is a bit like living in the States; its known history is limited. It’s a new town, built on the English Nineteenth Century love affair with the seaside and all the health giving properties the salty air was thought to offer. Apart from the natural history of the area, a couple of medieval churches and Priory, a scattering of Roman Villas and a most probably extremely rich but unknown ‘Iron-age’ history, there’s not much to shout about. If the history of Weston belongs to tourism, should we let tourism have the museum?

And as for the facilities at the museum itself - what about interactivity? I’ve listed some of the activities available but there might be an explanation as to why the clientele is limited to young families and pensioners (today, the only other browsers were a mum, her toddler and two people in their 70s and, last time we were there, two middle class boys with their mother). Where are the computers; that’s what kids want, isn’t it? That’s the way the world is going, for right or wrong. Celebrate Clara’s cottage but supplement her heritage with a sophisticated virtual world. Keep the amusements but compare and contrast them to World of Warcraft (or something less violent). I find it astonishing that, in 2010, our museum does not yet have its own independent website and still comes under the umbrella of North Somerset Council’s webpages, which are basic in the extreme.

My Girl is only three and she’ll get years out of the place yet and mostly it will be up to me to make it fun for her. And I might have to.

Our Playground

2010-03-14T05:08:00.000-07:00

Spring came to visit yesterday, so we packed a picnic and went over 'our back garden' hill to Sand Bay, where it was near gale-force windy and still very much March. We gobbled all the food up, managing to not get sand in our wiches, and then climbed back over the wooded hill of Worlebury, where, once again, the 150 year old trees completely sheltered from the cold, biting wind. Along the way, we found a slide, a swing and a bed:

Dig In

2010-03-08T12:29:00.000-08:00

One of my fellow Weston-super-Mums, Lily the Pink, has created a new group on our Community site entitled Little Green Fingers, in which she's posted a link to the BBC's Dig In: Grow you Own Grub, being advertised on CBeebies, apparently. I don't know how I managed to miss it. Or rather I do because I don't get involved in CBeebies anymore. Oh yes, it still goes on twice a day in our house: just before pre-school and for an hour or so in the run up to bedtime. But I've just about managed to switch my brain off to it completely, otherwise I'd have to deal with Cerrie Burnell and her truly awful presenting skills, with her wide-open eyes and that tiresome gasping noise she does: please, please, give us a bit of variety, Cerrie! Go on! Treat us to an "Ooh" sound and, oh I dunno, a "Hoop-de-hoop" or something, anything.

But this I do like! The Dig In website encourages us to grow our own vegetables by sending out free seeds that should eventually produce courgettes, green salad, basil, carrots and french beans. I've never grown anything successfully: even the basil I've attempted in the past has always failed to get anywhere near my plate of Putanesca.

At primary school, we had a daffodil growing competition every single year from the age of 4 till 11 and so, every March, I got a certificate that said "Better luck next year." Not only did I never get the thing to flower but I hardly managed to coax out the tiniest stalk! And while, as an adult, my indoor plants don't die, neither do they thrive: my peace lily has been the same size since I was given it as a housewarming present about five years ago. I've got four indoor plants, all limp but hanging on and all gifted to me. I don't remember having ever bought a plant for myself. Ever.

I once had a garden and thought that it would be lovely to sit in it during the summer but I never did because the grass was so high that it sort of flopped over on one side. I've just never been interested, I suppose. Does that make me a bad bet for a mother? Celeste seems to be doing alright - I feed and water her, give her plenty of sunshine and fresh air, seems to work.

And now she gets to be nuturer and is already doing better than I ever have. For the second year in a row, at Funny Bunnies, she has planted and watered her own cress until it reaches the top of the plastic cup standing on our kitchen windowsill. She's tasted it too and both time has pulled a disappointed face, "Urgh! Don't like it, Mummy."

Fair 'nough!

But now the time has come to show My Girl how our food is produced and, though I'm not doing it on the same scale as my brother, who bought an allotment last year and is reaping in a wide range of crops together with his four year old son, I can at least attempt a few courgettes and leaves of lettuce. So I've susbcribed to the Dig In on-line newsletter and sent off for the free seeds, which we will grow on our communal terrace (no! Of course we haven't got a garden, I ain't making that mistake again until we can afford a gardener and before I employ one of those, we need to hire a cleaner and someone to do the ironing).

The seeds should be with us soon and then the fun will begin.

Did I really just call it 'fun?'

I promise to let you know how ~~Celeste gets~~ we get on.

Our Friends on the Wall

2010-02-28T12:16:00.000-08:00

I've been tagged by the fabulous Camilla at Made by Milla.

Here are the rules:

1. open your first photo folder in your computer library.
2. scroll to the 10th photo
3. post the photo and the story behind it
4. tag 5 or more people to continue the thread

This photo was taken on my mobile phone a couple of years ago. The walls of Celeste's bedroom were, like the rest of the flat, plain white. She wasn't sleeping and who could blame her for not taking to a sterile room, her not yet two-year old imagination unable to make anything of so much bareness. So, Sexy Older Man grabbed one of her "In the Night Garden" picture books and copied the outline of the characters onto the walls with My Girl's black Crayola crayon. Then, darting to retrieve some of the paints he keeps by his own huge canvas down the road in his house-come-studio, he made Igglepiggle, Upsy Daisy, The Ninky Nonk and Makka Pakka come alive.

But would she like it? We did! But these five feet plus creatures with big eyes and open arms might be too imposing for a wee one.

The next night she slept so happily, embraced by the trees, next to the flowers, under the watchful eyes of her colourful friends. The mural is still there but not for much longer. The Celestial One is four in July and she may be outgrowing CBeebies. A local woman I've met on our Weston-super-Mum Community, Natasha, came round for a recce last week and sized up the room that she will transform into a bedroom suitable for Lestie's next phase as the little girl who is leaving toddlerhood behind.

She's asked to keep the trees and in place of the blue phallus with the red mohican, the rasta dancer with the inflatable skirt and the stoned soft figure (my words not hers!) will be fairies and flowers and butterflies - a magic woodland. All that remains now for me to do is to paint over SOM's work and prepare the blank canvas for Natasha to create her own Wonderland.

Somehow, though, I can't bring myself to do it ...

I now tag:

Keith Ramsey

Tim Worth

Nickie O'Hara

Victoria Wallop

Heather Sunderland

Seaside Icons

2010-02-23T12:18:00.000-08:00

Tea in a Caff

2010-02-21T09:48:00.000-08:00

Clarence Park Cafe has got a Facebook Fan Page!

Of course, when you go to Clarence Park, you can 't actually head straight for the cafe, not if you've got kids with you. You have to get your appetite up first by playing in the swing area, creeping up on squirrels, climbing trees, trying to uproot trees, chasing pigeons and making mud pies. Then after a quick hand wash under the ice cold water of the public convenience tap, you're really ready to eat!

Clarence Park Cafe is a greasy spoon, no question. Bacon, sausage, egg, beans, toast and a mug of tea for £2: at that price, who cares what it's been deep fried in? Tastes good too. And there's something very English about sitting in a park on a cold but sunny February afternoon, eating a Full English with a dollop of brown on the side. Something so comforting that, after you've wiped your plate clean with the toast, the only thing to do is head back up to the counter and order another mug of steaming tea, bag still in.

Rosebud

2010-02-19T08:13:00.000-08:00

Two women have propelled me to write this post; the lovely Emma, who I met at a girl's night out at the Old Manor Inn in Weston last night, and Nickie, my brilliant and talented twitter/blogger friend. Emma paid me a much appreciated and wonderful compliment, saying that she'd been reading my blogs for a while now and really enjoyed them: every writer loves such a reaction - it's inspiring, so thanks endlessly to you, Emma. And then that Nickie bird has tagged me again in her meme Childhood Memories that Make Me Smile - it's a brilliantly uplifting post that will have you pining for Play Away and Buck's Fizz. Please take a look!

I'm rubbish at honouring my memes but I won't let this one go, so here's my all-time favourite childhood memory:

I had a happy and fun childhood, spent in Central London until we moved to our home under the quarry in Weston in 1981. I grew up on a Peabody Estate in Pimlico until the age of 12, so, besides my brother and 4 boy cousins, I had a ready made community of friends and, indeed, Buck's Fizz rates very highly on my list of special memories too. We used to make up dance routines to such songs as "Making your Mind Up" in the safe haven of our playground that was overlooked by the low rise London Red Brick flats, skirted by balconies. Kim Wilde, "Rockafella, Cinderella" and "The Hucklebuck" were also on our list. The dance troupe usually consisted of my brother, John, and our mates Mandy and Frank: we were awesome! We also had a first-rate youth club in the basement of Malcolmson House, open every evening for a 5p sub and run by the inspiring and tireless Pat. We loved Colin Bizzell (a cousin in my Mum's huge family) and the tuck shop lady, the ancient (to us), Winnie.

I was a sociable girl but I liked nothing better than to read and I sat with books from the time I could hold them. They transported me to another place, as books should, and opened my mind. Mum took us to the bookshop in Victoria Street every single Friday after school and I think I devoured just about every Enid Blyton book that she every wrote. I adored reading about boarding schools so much that I wanted to go to one (I never did, thankfully). Mum says that, unlike my fiery, fiesty, sometimes uncontrolably physical Celeste, I was an insular child and only wanted to read, that she rarely heard a peep out of me, so busy was I sitting in my bedroom, reading all about Mallory Towers or Naughty Amelia Jane. And then there was Harriet the Spy and Tove Jansen's perfect 'Moomins' series of books. Sigh ...

Little did I know then that I was preparing myself for a lifetime of study, for years of consulting archives in different cities and towns, foreign countries, where I have poured over old letters, dusty newspapers, microfiches and government reports. The experience of touching and smelling hand-written letters by Mr Tate of Tate and Lyle to the Cuban Government will stay with me forever - being a Pimlico Girl, Tate Britain is also one of my treasured childhood (and adult) memories. I guess I'm just an Old Romantic and thank God for it because it compliments my very practical, scientific mind.

The one book that still sends ripples of excitment up and down my 40 year old spine is a belter by Catherine Storr, Marianne Dreams, and my Rosebud Moment must belong to this delciously dark book.

Marianne has a childhood illness and is bed-bound. Her home tutor tells her all about a boy she also teaches called Mark, whom our herione has never met but whom she constantly thinks about. She draws a house and then starts to dream about it. She draws a figure, staring out from the window and, at night-time, in her dream world, the figure becomes that little boy she doesn't know, who is trapped in the house, which in real life he is, unable to walk. On awakening she draws some stairs, thinking this might help him and, with every brush of her pencil, Marianne's dreams become more lucid and sinister. These kids just have to get well but they also must help themselves, noone else can do it for them.

I nearly wet myself a few years ago in Oxfam, Southend-on-Sea, when I came across My Book for a few pennies and read it again, understanding the deeper meanings of this masterpiece, as you do in adulthood (I think I must have been about 10 years old the first time around). I passed it on to the daughter of a friend so I no longer own a copy. Today, I ordered it from Amazon along with a film based on the book, Paperhouse, which I didn't know existed. I am wishing the days away now, eager to open my little, pleasure-giving parcel that Ian, my postman, will bring.

I must now have a little cry so excuse me ...

Observations

2010-02-14T09:16:00.000-08:00

Worlebury Hill, Weston Woods, Weston-super-Mare:

Weston-super-Structure?

Take 5

Woodspring Bridleway

Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round Some Old Bramble

Happy Valentines' Day <3

Kid A

2010-01-28T13:31:00.000-08:00

This blogpost was partly inspired by my attendance at the Very Silent Disco in Weston's Dophin Square, partly by Nickie O's imaginative music appreciation through blogging at Typecast and not a little by my twitter friend @dottyteakettle's tweet earlier today, which opined "Praise be for Boards of Canada."

That statement took me straight back to St Mary's Birthing Centre in Melton Mowbray and those hours that I awaited the birth of My Little Pork Pie, stuffing a huge bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk into my mouth for energy, rolling around on a huge gym ball, high as a balloon on gas and air, bang in the middle of that unbearable July Heatwave.

"I feel redundant," lamented my Mum, the best birthing partner a woman could wish for.

"I feel like I'm at a Festival," I shouted.

In the hours up till midnight, I coped with the flying and the contractions by texting incoherent ramblings to some of my family and friends.

"I do believe you are high," texted my brother from the Noel Arms in Langham, Rutland.

"And you, Sir, are drunk," I replied. "At least in the morning, I shall have a baby."

Radiohead's Kid A was probably offensively loud in the birthing suite. "Everything in its right place," sang our Thom. "Absolutely, Oh Wise One," I had to agree.

I waffled, I took in some more Entonox, I waffled some more, I turned the music up, I ate some more chocolate, I was manic.

The midwife broke my waters. WHAT THE ????

Everything changed. Pain, intense pain. I still needed music but The Head were no longer suitable, I had to listen to something more calming, tunes that would help me to focus, help me to float. And I needed more gas and air. We wheeled the apparatus into the adjoining room and I laid back in the birthing pool, soothed by the tones of the sublime Boards of Canada. I drifted in and out of sleep, bobbing, until .....

You don't really need to know the rest but at 3:46 am on Saturday 15th July 2006, she was born. My Celestial One.

My complete birthing music playlist was:

Radiohead - OK Computer
Radiohead - Kid A
Boards of Canada - Geogaddi
Boards of Canada - The Campfire Headphase.

Thank you, oh thank you, you fabulous British boys. You helped me through, you really did.

Disco Here? Disco There?

2010-01-23T12:24:00.000-08:00

In 1984, when I was 15, I sat on a clapped out Bakers' coach with a couple of dozen other excited teenagers and some local football team or other to embark on the Weston-super-Mare/Hildesheim student exchange for a fortnight away from home. In the main, I journeyed into the unknown with people I didn't know: most of the Priory School bunch I chose to hang around with could barely cope with remedial French, so were never going to learn German aswell.

Petra, the German girl, stayed at our house during Easter and I stayed at hers in the summer. We had nothing in common - she was sporty and probably quite lovely, while I was bookish yet Trouble. After a week in Weston's 'Twin Town' near Hanover, we, the English contingent, waved goodbye to our hosts and jumped back in the clackety vehicle for our three day visit to West Berlin.

At the Hostel, I had no worries about ignoring the 10:30pm curfew and persuading 2 other girls to head into the heart of the city to go clubbing for the night, whilst getting another to cover for us should it all come on top. Looking back, it must have been my first night-club experience, one where we got completely wasted on local beer and watched transgendered dancers giving it large in a city we couldn't navigate (West Berlin in 1984: before U2 had even considered making it 'cool' ) and surrounded by a language we hardly knew. We sat mesmerised, three English schoolgirls in Dorothy Perkins dresses, while men in skirts and leather groped each other. It was great!

So, it's hardly surprising that, although I went out dancing about three times a week from then until the age of 18, when I left Weston-super-Mare, I never really rated the club scene here. It was the same thing, night after night; cheap alcohol, boys on tap and lots of puking (not a noughties pheomenon, this, it's been going on forever!) I moved to Torremolinos.

Weston just didn't do Disco! And, 22 years on, nothing has changed ....

A couple of days ago, I got word of a Facebook Group promoting a Silent Disco, booked for the dilapidated Dophin Square area of the town, which would last the duration of one song of choice only. "Brilliant!" I thought, "It's in the afternoon! 12:30 on a Saturday! I can take My Girl," and I confirmed our attendance, whilst alerting other Facebookers/twits/WsMums to this rare-for-Weston event. I thought about the tune only I would dance to and that no-one else would be able to hear, flitting from Odyssey's "Shake your Body" (pure disco) to Hot Chip's "Over and Over" (which I dance to as though I'm holding a skipping rope and, therefore, it was ruled out) to Arctic Monkey's "I Bet you Look Good on the Dancefloor" (energy, pure energy). However, for me, nothing quite comes close to those Essex boys, who were so ahead of their 80s time, Depeche Mode, and my favourtie of theirs and very probably a Desert Island Disc of mine "Enjoy the Silence." Love that beat! I booted up my MP3 player for me, charged up the ipod shuffle that my brother had gifted me (jam-packed with my favourite songs, bless him) for her and grabbed two pairs of headphones.

Incidently, I had a Scooby Doo moment as we were leaving the house, when I checked to see whether the headphones worked on the ipod shuffle that My Girl would be using. I hadn't chosen a song for her; I thought any number would do as long as she could hear some music to dance to and not feel left out. They worked and which song was playing on a shuffle selects tunes totally randomly? Go on, guess? That's right .... I actually looked at the machine and vocally shivered (a sort of "Urghhgh" sound).

We went down The Hill.

I had it all planned so well: get there at least half and hour early so that she can play on the slides in the middle of Dolphin Square, get it out of her system ready for the Disco, and we would even have time to grab a Cornish Pasty from Hills in the precinct. We ate the peppered potato and meat in pastry and My Girl went off to slide, while I untangled the headphones again. At 12:20, we went to chat to some friends with their boy and girl and chosen bakery delights. They were also there for the Disco ("But we're just going to watch.") Another super-Mum turned up with her baby and fella and 2 ipods or suchlike.

We noted that there weren't many people milling about - 12:28 - although there were a damned site more than there had been 20 minutes previously. I spotted a woman standing on her own, hands in pockets, swaying a little. At about 12:30, we thought we heard a whistle but we weren't sure and no-one was dancing. At 12:34, we were sure we heard another but still no-one dancing. Maybe we should have just got on with it and danced but, well, you don't, do you?

Where were the organisers? Where was the placard to mark the spot? Where was the fun?

Like, I said, Weston never did do Disco. Torremolinos on the other hand ....

Night Night

2010-01-17T11:48:00.000-08:00

Historically, My 3 year old has been a bit of a gift in the old sleep department. She's almost always zonked out by 7pm and is up to begin a new day about 12 hours later. Not that she doesn't attempt to get into bed with me at some point between these two posts, often leaving me with broken sleep or, worse, with a switched on brain that mulls over everything from "would that work as a plot line for a blog/book/project/poem" to "I wonder whether Lady Sov's cockiness will endear us to her even more or whether it will be the reason for her demise and early eviction?" Still, no-one's perfect.

We were doing exceptionally well, with her rarely getting up even once during the whole night. That was until our trip to London, when we shared a bed at my Nan's for a couple of nights and she got used to me being there, by her side. It is special to feel the warm arms of your very own little person, the one your body, mind and energy has nurtured and is still nurturing, wrap around your neck and breath sweetness onto your cheek. That is until they decide that they'd like to lay horizontally across the bed or that your back/side/chest/stomach would made an excellent footrest. Then, I don't know about you, but I cannot sleep, no matter how exhausted I am and, as an older first-time mum, that's infinitely. Infinitely Exhausted.

I have no idea how she managed to persuade me but, for the past three or four weeks, I've been staying with her till she drops off. Actually, I do know - she caught me at a weak moment one evening when all I really wanted was to have a post-story time doze and so I snuggled up next to her and we visited the Land of Nod together. Now she won't let me go and her dropping off time has been getting later and later.

"Tonight," I thought. "This stops!"

I read her two bedtime stories, fought with her to let me brush her teeth (she won) and then explained that her cousin J. doesn't sleep with his mummy (though I think he probably does) and neither did her friend A. Did she know why?

"Yes, Mummy, because theys big boys and girl." And so was she, I assured her, and she didn't need her Mummy either.

"No. I want to keep you, Mummy." Bless.

"Mummy is just in the kitchen. I love you and I'll see you in the morning."

Then the house turned into a scene from SuperNanny. No, it was worse than that: the house turned into a scene from SuperNanny USA. She kicked off the covers, she screamed so that I thought the neighbours might come round, she demanded to sleep with her toothbrush (fine! Whatever, Wierdo!), she threw her toothbrush across the room, she didn't want Fairy, she wanted to sleep in my bed, she kicked her covers off again, she wanted her covers 'back in a square', she wanted her Incredible Hulk Burger King toy, she didn't want her Incredible Hulk Burger King Toy, she wanted Fairy, she went to sleep. The whole process seemed as laborious as digging a five foot hole then filling it in again but, in fact, from the time I turned off her light to the time the screaming and demands stopped, just 10 minutes had passed.

Done! Now all I have to do is put her back in her own bed at 2am when she creeps into mine and when I'd give absolutely anything for a quiet life. And for some sleep!

Short Story - The Night Bus

2010-01-07T15:01:00.000-08:00

I've just joined an excellent new creative writing community called Judith's Room: Where Women Write. Please check it out. And I would like to take this opportunity to thank Josie at Sleep is for the Weak for getting the community together with such efficiency and lightening speed.

Judith's Room has prompted me to post here one of my own short stories that I wrote a few months ago. And no, there are no parallels with my own life and SOM ... but a relationship with an age difference did get me thinking:

The Night Bus.

She was left-handed. That’s the first thing I knew about her. Then I learned that she had green eyes and that she’d killed a man.

She told me this on the N36 from Trafalgar Square to New Cross, the second leg of my journey home from Hither Green, where I’d just cremated my Grandfather. I hadn’t done it personally, you understand, but the pain was as great as though I had. She asked if I was alright. I told her and she stopped writing.

“What did he die of?” she asked.

“Prostate cancer,” I said.

She put the crossword on her lap and lifted her dulling emeralds to meet my moist eyes, which are brown. She’d killed her husband, she said, he’d had prostate cancer too. I started to mumble my apologies but she waved her hand as if to dismiss such an unnecessary sentiment. I shouldn’t be sorry, she said, his death had nothing to do with me. That she had been responsible for his earthly departure seemed to me to be her own dramatisation of the true events and I empathised, remembering how I had been powerless to ease the suffering of Patrick, my father’s father. I was still raw.

They had been married for nine and a half years, she said, he was eighteen years older than she. His second marriage, her first. I put her at about fifty. Vagaries of her prettiness remained but she was lived in now, like she’d seen a thing or two. They’d had no children together; she’d wanted them but he didn’t because he’d just got rid of the other two, he’d said. She never saw his kids anymore, because they were his, never hers. They didn’t have much to do with Dad before the illness consumed him - two boys, you see, busy seeing the world or whatever it is they do. Because of his love for his boys, he refused to tell them of his decay until he became too skeletal to deny it. No, the burden of such knowledge belonged to her.

She took him on holiday to Barcelona, somewhere that he’d always meant to go. They packed clothes for four days and medicine for six, just in case. She had loathed Barcelona ever since she’d split up with her student boyfriend there twenty eight years before but it was her husband’s wish, maybe his last. They climbed to the top of Sagrada Familia, he was so determined, and she thought about all of those unfertilised eggs that had passed through her. She wanted to push him off Gaudí’s unfinished masterpiece. They walked down La Rambla but he had to pause to sit, out of breath, and she looked at that old man who she had been saddled with for too long now. She wished to run away from him, leave him helpless, his drugs still in her handbag. They travelled up on the Montjuïc Funicular Railway and she felt the weight of their secret. She imagined him trapped in the carriage as it tumbled down the vertical drop, her watching quietly from above.

On the third day, while he was sleeping under the silent fan of the pension, she got a tattoo of a snake in a parlour next to the café advertising poetry nights in Calle Magdalenas. It was her rebellion, she said, and he never knew. She could never explain why but that snake was part of her future. On the plane, on the way back, she felt the throb of that snake on her shoulder, as though it were communicating with her. She sensed that it might slink over her whole body, awakening parts that had long been neglected. The pain gave her pleasure; it was her pain.

After that, he deteriorated rapidly. She nursed him at home until the doctors suggested a hospice. Once he was comfortably installed, surrounded by his memories, she took herself off to Weston-super-Mare to sample the freedoms that would soon be hers entirely. While she flew with the peregrines at the Old Town Quarry and squashed warm silt between her bare toes at Sand Bay, his decline accelerated. Alone in the hospice, her void was tangible to him, she felt sure. By the time she returned from her breaths of fresh air, he had only hours left in this realm. His passing was a relief to both; he was liberated from his pain and so was she. Her absence had hastened his demise.

“I killed him, you see, because I wanted him to die. Because I wanted to live.”

We sat in silence for the remainder of the journey. At my stop, I got off.

Meeting of super-Mums

2010-01-05T08:51:00.000-08:00

Wouldn't it be nice to have somewhere to meet up with other mums on a regular basis, a place that you could dip in and out of when you can or when you fancy?

The town I live in has a fabulous Baby and Toddler Cafe every Monday, with a bouncy castle and plenty more for the kids to be getting on with while we mums and dads relax a little with a cup of tea and cake. I have also been fortunate enough to meet other super-Mums through a book club I sometimes go to (only sometimes because I rarely get round to reading the damned book) and I've recently joined a Knitting group that has an instant therapeutic effect on me.

Where do you go?

If you could have a group dedicated to other Mums like you, what would it consist of? What would you like to talk about? Would you want a place to go with your super-Children or are you seeking a child-free refuge just for you and others of your kind? Do you hope to learn a new skill or would you prefer to just be ...? Evening or daytime?

I'd be really interested to hear your views on this one.

Thanks x

Set in Stone

2010-01-03T12:09:00.000-08:00

Walking along the road where we live today, under the Woods aka 'our Back Garden', 150 metres or so from our house, I noticed this discarded stone slab. It was divorced from the rest of the poem, as though it was sitting patiently on a grass verge, neither on the pavement nor in a garden, just waiting for me:

Pardon

r Mirth

a garden

on Earth

I don't know what it had once read, there was no counterpart. It didn't seem to matter: it all makes sense to me.

A view for all seasons, 2009

2009-12-29T07:16:00.000-08:00

Brean Down from the entrance to the woods at Cecil Road (top of Arundell Road), Weston.
See how the reconstruction of The Grand Pier is changing the landscape?

Late Spring

Summer

Autumn

Winter

Only Dreaming of a White Christmas?

2009-12-22T04:50:00.000-08:00

The first thing I did after putting the kettle on this morning was to peep through the blinds to see whether even a few flakes of the snow causing near havoc in many other parts of the country had managed to find their way over towards to Bristol Channel. Nope - nada, rien, a big fat zilch.

With no reluctance whatsoever, I climbed back into bed with a steaming mug of tea and biscuits for me and a beaker of milk and a biscuit for her: I get the M&S Pistachio and Almond Cookies and she gets the Tesco Malted Milks. Is that a bit too Mr Wormwood from Matilda? No, actually, it's fair enough - Marks' Cookies are too good for children.

An hour, 2 episodes of Peppa Pig and a fight to wash her hair in the shower later, I switched on the Christmas tree lights and then had another peek - LOOK, it's snowing! Finally! Horray!! We pulled the blinds wide open and My Girl stood on the window sill to *Gasp* and *Wow* at the sight of snow on the hills of Somerset, snow on the roofs of all the houses, snow on the roads and snow on the terrace.

"I want to go out in the snow, Mummy!"

So, of course we did, up to the Woods of Worlebury Hill:

Sometimes I think we must have the best back garden in the whole world ;0)

Never too cold for a picnic

2009-12-17T14:04:00.000-08:00

With thanks to Dotty Mummy for inspiring me to re-publish this post, which first appeared on The Weston and Somerset Mercury website last week. You can read Dotty Mummy's own reasons for eating al fresco on the Only Footprints website.

Here's that post:

December Picnic on the Beach

Yes, you did read right. You see, finally, the rain stopped: I would dance about it but that might be interpreted as a prompt for more. Instead, I pick My Girl up from Funny Bunnies, armed with fruit, drink and a woolly hat. The lack of cloud cover has welcomed the frostiness in and there is more than a nip in the air but at least it’s dry.

She jumps up from her chair and runs into my arms as I appear at the pre-school door: “Where we going today, Mummy?”

“We’re going to the beach. For a picnic.”

“Hooray!” Smiling excitedly, she tells her pre-school teacher. “We go to the beach.”

“Have you got your bucket and space?” her teacher asks. Er, no, I forgot about that and, anyway, I’m not sure I want to be sitting around, inactive, for too long after the food has gone. Not today.

“Have we got sandwiches, Mummy?”

We haven’t got sandwiches so we stop off at Astill’s in West Street to buy a warm sausage bap. I ask whether the sausages are local and the woman serving informs me that the pigs belong to the owner of the bakery, in Lympsham. You don’t get much more local than that.

The sea front is a building site and the part reconstruction of the old Grand Pier seems so out of place in our beautiful bay but at least you can still see all of Brean Down through it. The promenade is looking good and feels safe now the sea defences separate the pedestrians from the busy road.

We go onto the sand and almost straight away sit on the new wall to enjoy our plump sausages while they’re still warm. Lovely. I stare at the Channel, at Brean and Knightstone Island: we really should venture down here more often. I get out my camera.

“Mummy, are you taking photos of the picnic?” Yes, of the picnic, of My Beautiful Girl, of the vista, of footprints.

My ulterior motive for picnicking on the beach in full winter is to get some shots of any footprints left on the beach by other people. It’s for a new website I’m working on, which is dedicated to open spaces in the UK and tried and tested picnic spots such as this. Because so few Westonians are brave/fool enough to stroll on the beach on such a freezing cold day, my options are limited so I stamp in the sand and make some prints of my own.

“Can I do that, Mummy?” My Girl runs along the wall and slides on a slimy moss-and-seaweed mixture and I’m impressed that she has landed on her bottom, legs in the air, while managing to cling onto her bap. She cries but is fine, a little damp and shocked but not hurt enough to neglect her food. She sits on my lap, transferring watery sand from her coat to mine: she’s taken her gloves off to eat and her hands are scarlet. A woman with a dog goes past and I snap evidence of this with my camera, pointing it at the floor.

“Come on, Lestie, let’s finish the berries later.” I cover her exposed fingers with her mittens, pack my bag and we chase each other along the sand, where we can’t slip but we can warm up a little. A workman opens the barrier for us at the Knightstone entrance and, once My Girl has overcome her mistrust of the noisy digger, we speed down the ramp to Marine Lake. Her gloves are off again.

“Mummy, look, I throw seaweed into the sea. You do it too.” I wince as I take off my own gloves to grab the wet seaweed. She thinks this is brilliant so we throw some more into the water, counting as we go. I think she’s trying to reaching the seagulls bobbing on the Lake.

“Mummy, I’m cold.” We dry her hands and pop the gloves back on. I emit a grunting sound as I mount my heavy daughter, clad in at least four layers of clothes, onto my shoulders. We say goodbye to the beach, the footprints, the seaweed and the building work and head up to Nanny and Grandad’s for a well-deserved hot chocolate.

Big City Lights (Writing Workshop)

2009-12-10T08:15:00.000-08:00

Each week the articulate and funny Josie at Sleep is for the Weak posts five writing prompts in her Writing Workshop and invites us all to add more than a pinch of our own creativity. This is my first contribution to the WW and I've taken the prompt "Put yourself into the mindset of someone else," for which I've tried to get into My Girl's head. Thanks Josie, here it is:

A couple of weeks ago, an old friend Facebooked me that she had spare tickets to visit Father Christmas in his Harrods’ Grotto so I thought I’d knock several robins out of their Norwegian Spruce with one glittering bauble and take My Girl to London.

She’d been a few times as a baby, when having her with me was no more complicated than hauling around an extra piece of cooing luggage that needs a full breast and a bum wipe every now and then. In toddlerhood, I visited without her because I have a degree of common sense and because I’m lucky enough to have parents who are happy to have their grand-daughter to stay over with them for periods of longer than a couple of hours. So I’ve enjoyed the occasional Big City re-fresh at a gig, show or wedding. Ah, re-fresh.

Now she’s well into her fourth year, My Girl knows what’s going on and is ready to test life outside of our own little triangle of Woods-Quarry-Beach.

Let’s go and strike those robins:

On the day of departure, she pulled on her best-ever-charity-shop-buy fluffy purple Disco Diva mini-rucksack at 7:30 am and watched Milkshake, all ready for the mid-day train to London, keeping it there, on her back, until we arrived at my Nan’s at gone 4pm. On the train she was very well behaved but aren’t three year olds extremely loud in confined spaces? Drawing is loud. Reading Julia Donaldson books is loud. Playing roll the squash bottle is loud.

The Flat in Pimlico is home-from-home: after a visit from my cousins, together with an almost edible one week old baby boy, My Girl went to bed at the normal 7pm, I watched Corrie with a cup of tea and me Nan, curling up with a Kathy Reichs’ book in the double bed next to my snoring daughter by 10pm. A lack of signal on my mobile and no computer access meant a real holiday for me. In the morning, I had my prescribed couple of cuppas and she watched her usual Milkshake. A steady morning and then it was time to hit the West End, meet a couple of friends and show My Girl the sights of London.

Sometimes it’s so easy to forget that our children are brand new people and that there are so many first-time experiences for them, isn’t it?

This is how one little girl seemed to see things:

Tubes – Look at all these people! That tunnel is so dark! Feel that fast wind on my face when the train comes. Woo-hoo. If I hold this pole in the middle of the train, how far back can I lean without falling over? Isn’t it noisy in here? Can we go on another one please?

Escalators – Weeee. This is brilliant. We’re really high up. I think these moving stairs are the best thing ever. I want to go backwards. I can balance and I don’t even need to hold Mummy’s hand. Let go Mummy, I can do it by my own. That’s really interesting; look how dirty my cream coat gets when I rub it along the metal side.

Buskers – What’s that lady doing in the middle of the tunnel? She’s making music by blowing that big metal thing. I want to watch some more of this. Can we stand here for ages Mummy? I can’t even close my mouth, I’m so astonished. Isn’t she wonderful? Yes, I’ll put the coin in the box. Bye bye lady.

Father Christmas’ Grotto (Day 1) – Ooh, that pretty lady who is all dressed up has put PINK fairy dust on my hands, I like that. Knock, knock. That’s Father Christmas, he’s very big and his beard is huge. I’m not sure I want to get too close to him though. Oh, he knows my name and he’s given me a big chocolate coin and a book and a badge. Can I put the badge on? He’s nice. Can I give you another hug, Father Christmas? Can we take another photo of us standing together Father Christmas? I want a scooter please. Bye bye. Oh, hello Mrs Christmas, can I hug you too? What a friendly place.

Oxford Street’s Crowds – Tsch, I’ve seen people before: I’m not fazed at all.

Christmas Lights – There are loads of them in the sky, on buildings, in the shop windows and they are all different colours but I’m not too impressed really.

Carnaby Street – Look, Mummy, Look. A big PINK reindeer flying high above us. And massive hearts with writing on them. There’s another PINK reindeer and another one. I want to sit down now. I like it here; it’s happy.

Leicester Square – I want a Burger King.

Trafalgar Square – Can I please stand in the rain and watch all the people singing underneath that really big Christmas tree? I’ll put my hood up. And I can jump on the steps. I’m not even tired and it’s been dark for ages.

Science Museum (Day 2) – What’s that, Mummy? Oh. An astronaut? He goes to the moon in his rocket? He has to go in his rocket when it’s night-time though Mummy, doesn’t he? Ooh, here’s a big tunnel. I shout my name and Mummy’s name in it and I can hear it again, it’s called a echo. Look, I made a flower out of magnets, they’re all stuck together. And I built a really tall tower with numbers on it and then I knocked it down. Hooray, I made my own puppet show. Can we stay in here a bit longer. Please ….?

In short, it was a chilled-out yet exciting affair. Tucking her into her own bed last night, I asked here what she’d done in London, wondering which aspect of her mind-expanding journey had embedded itself the most. I was sure it would be the tubes or the escalators or the echo.

“I watched Peppa Pig at Great-Nanny Josie’s,” she said. “I saw the one about Teddy’s Day Out.”

Work and Play

2009-12-01T04:19:00.000-08:00

Do you ever lay in bed at night and have all these ideas to share and you want to get up again but you know that to do so would be detrimental to tomorrow and your mood of it?

I do.

Last night I was mulling over all this stuff I wanted to tell you, which seemed witty and lol-able to me then, when I was snug and wrapped up in my sun-yellow duvet. Now, in the cold light of this December day, I'm struggling to remember any of it. My Mum would say, 'It couldn't have been very important then.'

Mostly, in that time between awake and asleep, the events of the previous 16 hours whizz around in my head and so, yesterday, that would have been Peppa Pig and Footprints. Oh yeah, and assuaging my guilt with the help of Mummy Pig, curiously. And knitting. Let's take them in that order then:

Peppa Pig is My Girl's program-du-jour and I'm lucky because it's one of the better ones, in my opinion: sweet with the odd bit of snorting and colourful without being Tweenie-sickly. The trouble is that the episodes are so short. No, the trouble is that the episodes are so short AND I've recorded them on BT Vision, which means I have to actively scan through the Recordings on my box. God, that sounds so lazy! But when you have a 3 year old directing you, 'Mummy, I want Grandad Dog's Garage,' 'No, Mummy, that's not Rebecca Rabbit's House,' you may as well not bother trying to get anything else done.

And what I'm trying to get done (with success) is ...Ta-da .... a new website called Only Footprints, dedicated to all those open spaces we can enjoy in this beautiful country, whether they be parks, beaches, moors, woodlands, walks, public gardens .... the list is endless. The site is now live and the twitter account is gaining followers, so it must go from strength to strength. Only Footprints is looking for contributors, people to write reviews of their favourite outdoor spots, send in photos, write poems, whatever is your thing really. Please take a look and email us with your thoughts and ideas. Plug Done. But I'll be back, don't you worry.

So, I'm feeling the Guilt because, while I'm pfaffing about on the computer, Celeste is behind me, playing by herself: building brick towers, throwing parties for Noddy and Fairy, making art, watching Peppa. She interacts with other kids at least 3 hours per day, 5 days per week though, then we go to the park, woods, beach, town or quarry most days and we eat and play together - yesterday I role-played a bridge, which is better than role-playing a road, I suppose, or a plank. And although she has every thing she needs and more, I DO sometimes feel I should be giving her more of my time. Is this just me? Do you suffer from this? Am I being hard on myself? Am I being hard on her?

Here's where Mummy Pig comes in. One of My Girl's favourite episodes of Peppa Pig is called Work and Play, in which Mummy Pig works from home on the computer while George sits on her lap, mini-grunting, and Peppa goes to playgroup with all her friends. Mummy is not playing, she's working: educational, thanks Mummy Pig.

And Knitting! Aha. A small group of us have just set up a Tea, Toast and Knitting Group and yesterday was our first get together. A small collective of six ladies turned up with our balls and needles at Loves Cafe in Weston, two of us having never knitted before, me being one of them. After sitting, post-tea and -chat, in the swing area of Grove Park with my Number 6's and a charity shop mass of cream wool, clickety-clacking away, I can safely say that I think I may already be hooked. I even managed to knit 3 rows in bed last night, trying to get my mind off Peppa Pig, Footprints and guilt ....

And we come full circle.

Fade to Grey

2009-11-27T04:08:00.000-08:00

I took My Girl to pre-school this morning and my first thought, as I tried to convey to her the importance of putting up her fleecey waterproof hood, was "bloody weather." I wasn't in a particularly good mood because head lice is going around at the moment and I find it difficult enough to brush that wild hair just once a day. To an onlooker, the daily scene of me running around the flat after her with a detangling strawberry smelling spray in one hand and a brush in the other, while she screams "No, Mummy. DON'T," might be comical. In reality, one of us is crying with stubborness and perceived pain and the other is close to tears with stubborness and exasperation. How the bleedin'eck am I supposed to check for lice? And if she's got them/when she gets them, how do I get one of those stupid little combs through her hair (the NHS recommends: "with a fine tooth nit comb ...work methodically over the whole head for at least 30 minutes"). Hahahahahaha - I can just about sit still for 30 minutes, and even then I get a break for adverts, but a 3 year old with a mortal fear of hair brushing!?  This morning, as ever, I pinned her down and gave her really beautiful, really difficult locks a once over and then tried to get her to let me fasten a pony tail so 'the little creatures don't live in your hair.' She'd go for a small one at the front a la Pebbles Flintstone but would have none of the tie-back idea and, anyway, you can just tell she thinks that little creatures living in her hair would be pretty cool.

My grumpiness soon dissipated once I'd deposited her with wet and free-flying hair at pre-school. My load considerably lighter for the next 3 hours, I walked home, studying the openness above me as I went and I noticed that, actually, once you get used to it, these grey winter skies are really quite beautiful. I tuned into the Grey Spectrum and I marvelled at the bluey-grey, juxtaposed with a sort of white-grey, a touch of slate-grey, a smattering of charcoal.   And just look at the layers of cloud and the shapes they create.

Am I deluded?  Can grey be beautiful? Am I attempting to dress up this seemingly everlasting weather of cloud, cold, wind and rain? Is it just a way of getting through the day/winter? Or am I so used to detecting all those shades of brown in Weston's landscape, particularly when gazing at the seafront on a stormy day, that I can now appreciate subtleties in colour, whatever the colour?

In explanation, I grabbed my camera and darted outside to take a few snaps of grey for you. I hope you appreciate them because I got soaked!!

Jill's Garden

2009-11-25T15:09:00.000-08:00

Jill Dando is something of a legend in Weston-super-Mare. Our small-town Mercury reporter made good with a glittering career at the BBC. A couple of years after her murder in 1999, the Ground Force team built a garden memorial to her in Grove Park, central Weston.

Yesterday afternoon, we played hide-n-seek in the blueness of her shrine and I asked myself, "What is a legacy?"

The Answer, My Friend ...

2009-11-24T06:59:00.000-08:00

We're back in our favourite place, Worlebury Hill, My Girl with her Barbie - so outed - and me with my camera. Sheltered up here, the relentless wind hardly touches us but we stop to listen to the trees waving frantically, shedding the last of their yellow leaves, lamenting as they fight to resist the gusts we've all become so used to lately.

"Listen, Lestie, what's that noise?"

Creak, creak, moan, moan. She opens her mouth in surprise and gasps.

"What is it Mummy?"

"It's the trees in the wind."

"No. That's not the trees!"

"Yes, it is. Listen, they're blowing in the wind. Creaking."

"No, Mummy, it's not the trees," she looks at me as though I'm a nut and skips off in her own world. "Can we have a party for Barbie when we get home?" This is my fault for singing Aqua's Barbie Girl (Come on, Barbie, let's go party). I just can't help it but, in my mind's eye, instead of seeing the doll in My Girl's hand I picture the fabulous Katie Price, who is so professional and bloody minded that it's almost a relief to call her just that - fabulous - in a #thereisaidit kind of way.

When we get home, we lay a PINK picnic blanket on the living room floor, scatter cushions and settle down to eat sandwiches, vegetable sticks, fruit and cake. The three of us, Celeste, me and ~~the fabulous Katie Price~~ Barbie.

Pals

The Hello Game @ The Encampment

Your Majesty

The Bristol Channel as the sun begins to set

Sand Point as seen from The Encampment

What's Brown and Sticky?

2009-11-22T11:27:00.000-08:00

What's the strangest thing you'e done today?

Mine must be making a bed for Stick and kissing it goodnight. Don't worry, we gave him a red plastic ball to cuddle:

Toilet Humour?

2009-11-18T11:25:00.000-08:00

The use of public loos increases forty fold once you have kids, especially when you are lucky enough to frequent Weston's Grove Park.  My Girl is now a very grown up 3 year old who insists on doing the wee-wee operation completely unaided and this gives me the perfect opportunity to take in the ambience of these toilets. Yes, I know it's unusual to survey a public convenience but really, this place is a treasure trove of either kitsch or plain bad taste.

Happy, summery music can always be heard, often soundtracks from the 1960s, and it's very clean in here though you can smell the Gents next door and, sorry, I just have to do this:

On entering the party at Rik, Vivian, Neil and Mike's house:
Girl 1: Ooer, smells like a gents in here.
Girl 2: A gent's what?

                                   (The Young Ones, "Interesting", 1983)

Tacky ornaments and fake plastic flowers adorn the sinks and window ledges, in contrast to the beauty of the naturally lovely park just out the door, and there are always at least two women working here, often spotted in red aprons having a cup of tea and a fag with the bloke in the small road sweeping vehicle. But it's the selection of photos on its walls that absorbs me.  As you wash and dry your hands or re-apply your lipstick and titivate your hair, you have the delicious company of the following peeps:

Jill Dando (local dead heroine)
Princess Diana (dead national heroine)
Will Young (gay pop idol)
Daniel O'Donnell (dubious Irish crooner)
Sharon Osbourne (feisty celeb wife and manager)
Duffy (Welsh songstress)
Captain Jack Sparrow (fictional Keith Richards with a twist of camp-foolery)
Robbie Williams (international superstar)
A selection of Playgirl male models (really rather unattractive ones with long hair)

They've won awards, you know? Something like Public Toilet of the Year, 1999.

At the risk of being labelled a complete weirdo and/or dangerous, I sneaked my camera in, just to show you:

No More Scooter Girl

2009-11-14T07:35:00.000-08:00

Would you believe that, about 18 hours after posting Scooter Girl, below, The Scooter broke? I could have shared this gem of an odd twist of fate with you earlier but, you see, the story comes with a compulsory visit to the Confessional.

OK, I broke The bloody Scooter. I can’t even blame the memes.

Thursday was about the tenth torrentially rainy day in a row. Outdoors, we’d done the jumping-in-muddy-puddles-like-Peppa-Pig thing to death and, indoors, we’d completed more paintings than Leonardo, so I thought I’d have a spring/autumn clean. No-one really likes housework, do they? But I dislike it so much and do so little of it that I have to whisper the word. When I say spring clean, it may have been more like a weekly tidy up for many of you: bleaching the kitchen and bathroom, mostly, then wiping off fingerprints from the walls and doors (this for the first time ever, I must admit: the interior of our house was a criminologist’s dream, that is if Angel were more culpable of anything other than pissing me off big time) and, of course, the dreaded vacuuming.

There and then, I made a promise to myself that, when I am eventually sitting anywhere north of the poverty line, I will employ a regular cleaner and I will pay that person double the minimum wage.

The plan had been to get My Girl involved in this rare process, engage her in early training, just in case I can never afford said cleaner. An old, rinsed Flash spray bottle full of lukewarm water and a new dishcloth were her tools and she was instructed to wipe the bath clean of her multi-coloured bath crayon drawings, which I’d meant to remove in September. She did well, the kid, but her concentration waned and she very quickly succumbed to the lure of anything else at all as long as it didn’t involve elbow grease. Like mother like …..

For once determined to get on with the job, I made her a den out of dining stools and lots of pretty blankets and material and left her to her own devices.

Kitchen stripped of grease, onion skins and bacteria. Bathrooms removed of mud, dirt rings and spiders’ webs. Any other shit I would prefer not to have to look at shoved under beds, into drawers and beneath brightly coloured sarongs that double up as throws. Mission nearly accomplished. Right: the mothersuckinghoovering! Floors are what I loathe cleaning the most because they are low down and dirty and for walking all over. No-one should have to subject themselves to backache, whilst casting their eyes in a downwards motion just to ensure that floors are rid of all that crap that inevitably gathers on them, not even cleaners working for £11.60 an hour.

But what if my mum comes round? What if I get an unexpected visitor?

I vacuumed most of the lounge with Artic Monkeys blasting out some and then some more. I had to dismantle the pretty den in order to get to the floor beneath it because if a job’s worth doing…. I pulled out The filthy dirty rotten mud-caked Scooter and bits of brown fell all over my freshly vacuumed cream carpet. For Fuck’s sake! In the den, I realised, The Scooter had been resting upon her white, yes white, duvet cover (with duvet inside, obviously).

I carried the lot into My Girl’s bedroom, dropping a trail of dried mud after me, really annoyed. In her room, she had pulled out all of her clothes, again, and draped them over the floor. What IS the sodding point?!? I delved not that deeply, as it happens, and pulled out my inner petulant child, throwing The stupid Scooter across the bedroom.

“Celeste!!!”

“Yes, Mummy.” Butter wouldn’t.

“Come and tidy these clothes up. Now!”

She simpered into the bedroom and I left her there, not really caring whether she was doing as I asked, just so long as she was out of my road.

Two minutes later, she appeared behind me, holding The Scooter’s handlebars and front wheel.

“Mummy, my scooter broke.” ShitShitShitShitShit – snapped in two.

In the spirit of the day, I came clean, explaining that I’d thrown it in a temper because I was angry because she kept making so much mess and that I was very, very sorry.

“That’s OK Mummy. I get a new one for Christmas. A PINK one.”

Yes, my darling, you most probably will.

Scooter Girl

2009-11-11T11:50:00.000-08:00

About 18 months ago, I went scavenging around the neighbourhood and came back with a scooter.

It's not strictly true: I was walking down my road and a few doors up someone had thrown out a perfectly good green and orange kids' scooter. I knew of a very good home for it.

"Ah, it's got a little crack in the base but it's house-worthy. Yeah, I'll grab that and customise it." So I put a fairy sticker on it, not very imaginative but these were from a collection My Girl and I had picked up in Glastonbury when out on a Fairy Hunt. On that trip, we also found a pretty little rag doll for 25p that she named 'Fairy' and who she still takes to bed with her. It took me months to notice that someone had dreaded the back of her yellow hair - very Glasto, don't you think?

So this scooter was very much appreciated and I have been dizzy on countless evenings, watching her spin around the room on it like a Whirling Dervish. Once mastered, it started coming out with us, up and down our local more-than-just-a-gentle-slope hills. Well, mostly ridden full pelt down the hills by her and carried up again by me, of course. And how fast she travels; lighting speed with all the agility and skill of a 14 year old on a BMX bike. She loves it.

Today we took it to the park, where the wheels collected mud and leaves and inspired a few tears and dirty knees (at one point she went to beat it up after having skidded on the wet ground. Temper, temper, Sweet Thing). The little crack, however, is growing and, although I hate to spend over-the-top on new items, I think I would be willing to stretch. She gets so much mileage out of this one but I don't believe it will last much longer and what with Christmas coming up?

This is where you come in. Any suggestions for a decent on-the-market scooter for a 3 year old? Preferably one that will last at least another couple of years?

Thanks x

Perfect Picture Meme

2009-11-07T07:51:00.000-08:00

Tag. I'm it!

The lovely Insomniac Mummy has tagged me. My challenge? Ask My Girl to draw a picture of her extraordinarily pretty and intelligent Mummy and post it right here to show you rabble.

My Girl spends half her young life painting and drawing and so it was an easy ask, although I must say she does seem to be in the midst of her Minimalist Phase.

Last week I bought her her very first set of marker pens. "What? Marker pens, cream carpets, a cream sofa and a three year old? All mixed together?" I hear you scream. "You're a loony."

It's rare I get to live dangerously these days so I threw caution to the wind and paid £1.99 for 8 Crayola Washable Markers from Wilko's and told her to "use them only at the TABLE and NOT on the floor! And put the lids on when you've finished, please." The face on it; so happy with her new found grown-upness. The floor is still cream, save the red wine stains, ingrained Weston-super-Mud/Sand, candle wax and baked bean juice but her butterfly top had red and brown marker pen blotches all over it. Guess what? It washed out. After one wash. Marvellous.

Here's what she came up with:

To begin with, she couldn't conceive of drawing me without her

so I'm the purple one

We got separated, sort of. She drew herself on another sheet and put us side by side.

This is me, complete with sun, sky and floor.

I like that my legs go up to my neck.

The Unfoldlings

2009-11-05T04:17:00.000-08:00

I'm having a really good week. All this rain has meant more time indoors and while My Girl is painting, drawing, gluing, watching CBeebies, I'm plotting, planning and doing.

I've got a brand new project, which some of you will already be aware of. I've started a blog called The Unfoldlings, which is contributing to the research stage of my latest novel and here's the description:

The format of my new novel remains undisclosed but the workings of my mind are henceforth laid bare. You, The Readers, are the Unfoldlings. Each week, I will pose new questions and I'd like you to supply answers, some of which will be incorporated into my own work. I will credit all authors but if you wish to remain anonymous, please indicate this clearly at the foot of your posting. I'm peeing myself with excitement. Are you?

And here is the all-important link:

The Unfoldlings

I really hope you can join in, I'm already having massive fun with it
x

Worlebury Hill, Early November

2009-11-03T09:13:00.000-08:00

Aka, The Woods or Our Back Garden:

Photogenic camera shyness

I continue to snap away.

She finds a stick, turns her back and stirs.

We eat (pretend) leaf soup, our favourite.

It's awfully kind of you but I couldn't possibly. I'm full to the brim

The sun shines on Brean Down but not for much longer.

We miss the rain by 10 minutes.

What Not to Wear

2009-10-27T14:34:00.000-07:00

I remember when my Auntie was out shopping for clothes years ago with her toddler daughter. In one of Topshop's changing rooms (you know them, where everyone can hear everything), she squeezed into a rather tasty, sexy number, thinking this was The Outfit She Must Have, when her little girl protested extremely loudly:

"No, Mummy. Too tight, too short." Brilliant, though Mum was mortified.

Fast forward sixteen years and I could well be saying the same thing to my daughter, not the other way around (I think).

I told you about this clothes obsession of hers very recently, didn't I? It doesn't matter what she wears, as long as it defies me and what I think she should be sporting this season. I'm not a fussy mum, honest I'm not, but I would at least like the pretty little thing to wear something that is a) warm b) her size c) on its way to being passably clean. She, of course, has other ideas.

Today she managed a Big Fat Fail on all three counts and demanded to put on a T-shirt (it's the end of October), age 18 months - 2 years (she's 3 and a half) that she pulled out of ~~the laundry basket~~ a heap of clothes stuffed into the cupboard next to the washing machine.

If I had longer hair, I swear I'd pull it out!

Bazza!

2009-10-20T17:23:00.000-07:00

Most think I have a problem but I defy you all, please just have a listen. This man is brilliant:

Could it be Magic?

Eternal Summer

2009-10-19T11:08:00.000-07:00

In my second ever Weston Mercury blog post, back in March, I grumbled about the number of times that My Girl changes her clothes every day and, seven months on, if I have managed to better direct this obsession, I haven’t eliminated it.

Yesterday, for example, I coaxed her into a dress of all things and a very pretty one, with brand new woolly cream tights. Success.

“I don’t WANT to wear a jumper!!”

“OK then, that’s fine, no jumper. And no cinema.” Tough Love.

She put the jumper on. Fabulous: cute, clean and warm – miracle of miracles. The concession? Of course, there was a concession; in the form of way too small, paint-and hot chocolate-stained white shorts underneath the dress. Shorts are le mode du jour (or should that be de la saison?) in our house – shorts, naturally, because the temperature has taken quite a dip during the past few days and who wouldn’t want to have their flesh exposed in mid-autumn?

I bought her a gorgeous, colourful matching and warm hat n gloves set the other day and so, maybe, she’s demanding to wear what she considers the direct opposite of winter woollies just to wind me up/assert herself. I say coat, you say sunglasses. I say winter hat, you say bandana. I say “put your bloody socks on,” you say “I want my Fifi sandals.”

But she did get dressed in the warmish gear and made no mention of this hardship whilst watching Madagascar – Escape 2 Africa (how’s this? I sussed out that Ben Stiller and David Schwimmer voice two of the main characters in Madagascar! I’ve always been crap at determining voices – seen Zoolander and Friends too many times, obviously). No whinge about her outfit in the park either. But when we got home, the first thing she said, and I mean as soon as we walked in the door, was “I put something else on now.”

Had she really been thinking about that for 3 hours?? If so, may I call my 3 year old daughter a great big loser? Just this once?

Shop Local?

2009-10-12T13:38:00.000-07:00

During the mornings, when My Girl is at pre-school, I’ve taken to popping into town to buy the provisions. It’s only a ten minute walk from here and once I’ve counted with her the acorns/conkers/pine cones we’ve collected on the way to Funny Bunnies, I’m half-way there.

A grocer’s has recently opened up next to the butcher’s, which is next to the baker’s, by the Silica-Carrot-Turnip-Phallus Structure in Weston Centre, turning that little area into a food shoppers’, if not Paradise, then convenient Shop Local outing.

This morning I whizzed into Tesco Express for the necessities (milk and a big bar of Mint Aero) en route to seeking out other items from the mini-parade of shops. I quizzed the butcher over the price of sausages because I thought he’d undercharged me and I congratulated myself on buying a decent amount of grapes for 50p in the adjacent shop. Shopping local has its advantages – offering mostly less expensive produce than I’ve become used to at the Supermarket. And the people are friendly. Well, they have to be, don’t they?

I head home with two large and strong carrier bags: don’t frown, I recycle them as rubbish bags. Damn, I’ve forgotten the butter but at least I have chocolate. Not to worry, there’s a corner shop on the way home (where, yes, you have to buy Anchor. And yes, it costs 51p more than the Asda Smart Price stuff), so I’ll just stand here behind this woman topping up her electric and gas and mobile phone and wait with an air of “Oh, it’s fine, I’m not in a rush”. Taking my own mobile out of my back pocket, I realise that this little excursion has swallowed up nearly an hour of my child-free time and I’m not even home yet! I could have stocked up on everything we need for a couple of weeks at said Asda or Tesco in a bloody hour.

I pace up the huge hill back to nuestra casa, even breathed, wondering whether I should be economising more wisely on time? But, look, we’ve lots of (mostly) healthy grub and my arse is definitely getting firmer. Plus, it’s a great divisionary tactic for actually getting things done!

I'm Spartacus!!

2009-10-06T10:48:00.000-07:00

Her 4-year old boyfriend, L1, came round to play yesterday afternoon. They behaved well enough (My Girl was only sent to the yellow Chill-out Chair once for throwing play-dough all over the carpet after being asked not to). They made a general mess as kids do but nothing that couldn't be picked up and jammed into a cupboard, drawer, wardrobe or trunk once they'd finished. Lunch was a competition, as was most everything else, and the little lady gobbled hers in record time with the jubilant annoucement "I the Winner!"

And then they fought over who would take the lead role in their own version of Lazy Town.

"I'm Sportacus," he cried.

"No, I'm Sportacus," she replied.

"No, I'm Sportacus,"

"I'm Sportacus!"

Over and over and over again until I felt as though I were in a very odd re-make of a Stanley Kubrick film!! (Click here to view)

Do You Really Need to Know More About Me?

2009-10-04T05:02:00.000-07:00

This award was passed onto me by Babyrambles a couple of weeks ago and so apologies to her for not honouring it any earlier - I just don't know, since My Girl started pre-school five mornings a week, I have achieved less than at any other point since she was about 8 months old...? My blogs have become much less frequent, our treks of outings are shorter, the house is messier, my writing is dry and my tweets are almost inaudible! Finger out tomorrow, the start of a new week. Off to the library to do some more research on Worlebury Hill but for now ....

Each question must be answered in only one word, like this:

1. Where is your mobile phone? Handy

2. Your hair? Bedlike

3. Your mother? Working

4. Your father? Babysitting

5. Your favourite food? Spicy

6. Your dream last night? Fading

7. Your favourite drink? Tea

8. Your dream/goal? This

9. What room are you in? Living

10. Your hobby? Sleeping

11. Your fear? Pointless

12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Content

13. Where were you last night? Here

14. Something that you aren’t? Energised

15. Muffins? Indifferent

16. Wish list item? Property

17. Where did you grow up? London

18. Last thing you did? Re-focussed

19. What are you wearing? Little

20. Your TV? Off

21. Your pets? NO!

22. Friends? Changing

23. Your life? Smooth

24. Your mood? Relaxed

25. Missing someone? Nope

26. Vehicle? Bicycle (sorry, I know that this is more than one word but it's a bike PINK with high handlebars. I bought it 2nd hand from the Old Town Quarry a couple of days ago and I love it. My car is still dead in the drive and we're still not missing it, although as the winter approaches ....)

27. Something you’re not wearing? Underwear

28. Your favourite store? Food

29. Your favourite colour? Red

30. When was the last time you laughed? Yesterday

31. Last time you cried? Friday

32. Your best friend? Analytical

33. One place that you go to over and over? Woods

34. One person who emails you regularly? Twitter

35. Favourite place to eat? SOMs

Can you tell that I haven't been out of bed for very long? It 1pm (hehe, I love it when that happens).

I pass this award on to Rachael Blogs, To give her something to think about, besides tanned men and blue skies, when she gets back from her holiday in Sicily :-)

xxx

Save One Mammy

2009-10-01T03:06:00.000-07:00

As we run through the Woods chasing fairies, escaping witches, there is a part of me that is happy to have this little delight of a daughter all to myself, not to have to share her with anyone. It’s selfish, I know. But it’s also self-preservation.

Her father doesn’t take an active a role in My Girl’s life as I would like. In fact, he plays no role at all and I lay little blame at his door: it was my decision to have a child, he has had very little input and I knew that I would be ‘going it alone’ from the outset. But we do have a daughter who is strong, healthy, beautiful, lively and as independent as I’ll allow. She’s in my life now and thank God! It’s her and me.

And just look what he’s missing out on!!

I’ve contacted him, of course I have – she started asking about him before she was 3 years old: most of her friends have a Daddy, even Peppa Pig. Just simple questions like, “How old is the doggy? How old is my Daddy?” but ones I thought I might be ready for. In a few years time!! Naive ...

I continue in vain to contact him – for her sake and for mine. I’d like her to know more about herself, to not feel a sense of rejection or a mistrust of men (something I will do my utmost not to foster) and I want to protect my relationship with her, to let her know that I did, at least, try.

So I persevere. He no longer responds.

But what about those fathers who, when love no longer lingers between Mum and Dad, just refuse to let go, attempting to keep the mothers of their children captive in a foreign land, using their offspring as pawns to hurt and silence the ex-partner? How damaging could that be to a young child? And how confusing? Unfortunately, this type of scenario is the reality for some children and their mothers, unable to live the lives they choose, kept away their loved ones by the courts. This is what has been a living nightmare for Save One Mammy. What is she to do: leave the land of her ex-husband, Ireland, to return home, over the water in England, also leaving Small Child with him, thus losing custody? Or stay prisoner there but remain with her Baby?

It a choice that I, thankfully, will never have to make.

Please follow the Save One Mammy Campaign by clicking here

Thanks xxx

Black Hole Sun

2009-09-27T10:14:00.000-07:00

She's been drawing ever since she worked out that having opposable thumbs was fun and that they enabled her to do more than simply feed herself and the floor; if she got it right, she could hold a biro and make unwelcome marks all over our white walls (come to think of it, Celestial Graffiti pre-dates the thumb-awareness thing and began as soon as a fist could be clenched forcibly enough to support a pen).

She has her very own ~~Junk~~ Arts and Craft Cupboard in the kitchen, into which I ~~bung any old shit that I come across~~ place all sorts of delights for her to transform into an art form (old food boxes, washing up bottles, used wrapping paper and, more recently, conkers, pine cones and acorns). We're very Mister Maker (her inevitable hero) about the whole thing.

I really can't be sure but I think she's rather adept at drawing - she can already do a fathomable cat, person, face and flower. She draws an awful lot of spiders, which look a bit like her depiction of the sun but with eyes and a thread from which to dangle. The sun isn't always yellow - it can be PINK or blue or even black, like this:

This particular drawing, which I had to smooth out after she'd screwed it up into a ball, had me singing that fabulous Soundgarden tune all day yesterday. (Click here to listen to it)

The Black Sun and creepy spiders fixation could be seen as somewhat macabre ... but that sort of analysis is the property of adults who have learned too much and have lost all innocence, isn't it? Or should I expect the Social Servies round at some point in our future?

Over to You ...

2009-09-21T06:30:00.000-07:00

Whilst belting out tunes with her amazing voice to Bristol Festival partygoers during the early hours of Sunday morning, a friend of mine fell off stage and broke her ankle. That's pretty shit right?

She broke it in 4 places! OUCH! She'll be out of action for 3 months! DOUBLE OUCH!

This means that she can't do any more gigs for a while. It also means that she'll find it extremely difficult to entertain her lively two year old son, which many of us know can be trying at the very best of times.

So, I'm asking you all for ideas - how can she keep herself and her gorgeous little fella occupied with restricted mobility and (because she can't work right now), I'm guessing, restricted finances?

All suggestions welcome. Thank you :-)

xxx

On the Rocks

2009-09-18T08:55:00.000-07:00

Rocks were the name of the game yesterday for My Girl and her cousin. It's been a while since I shared any photos with you, so:

Searching for Crabs @ Anchor Head

It's Time for Ice-Cream. Whooppee!

Recycled Flower @ the Old Town Quarry

Give it a Rest, Lola

2009-09-17T03:17:00.000-07:00

My Girl is really into this book at the moment:

It's the first book she grabs at bedtime. We have to read it twice - she to me and me to her. I welcome this - it's fun and endearing to see her put her own words to the pictures. What's more, it displays a keenness to learn and a sense that she is at one with her imagination.

But, I wonder, is Lauren Child a children's literary genius or is My Girl actully becoming Lola?

She's always been an independent little girl - even though she could barely hold the little plastic spoon, she insisted on feeding herself that rank baby-rice stuff that I introduced into her unexciting Mummy's Milk Diet way back when. She has always wanted to put her shoes on herself or mix the glue into the paint herself or jump from a great height herself. I've become used to hearing "I do it! I do it!"

But now she has a new mantra and before putting her skirt on inside-out, back to front, she takes a breath and nodding her head, informs me that:

"I can do Everything that's Everything all on my own." An ever so slight Lola mis-quote, which I'm not about to correct.

The night before last, we read the book (twice), read Peppa Pig and the Tooth Fairy (twice) and said our goodnights. She jumped out of bed, as eagerly as if you'd just offered her a bar of Cadbury's.

"I do the light!" But before she did so, she stood still and announced proudly with a pronounced bob of the head:

"Today, I get dressed ALL ON MY OWN, I push the red swing ALL ON MY OWN, I ride my bike ALL ON MY OWN, I brush my teeth ALL ON MY OWN, I read my book ALL ON MY OWN and I turn the light off ALL ON MY OWN. I can do Everything that's Everything ALL ON MY OWN."

But just how fine is that line between independence and willfulness?

Got Any Cotton Wool?

2009-09-14T07:30:00.000-07:00

Before I was a mother, a friend sent me that email congratulating me and everyone else born before the mid-80s on having managed to survive childhood (there's now a Facebook Group dedicated to it). We were allowed to eat mud, walk down the street on our own, climb trees and play out until night-fall - all this without choking on germs, being abducted, cracking our heads open or getting lost.

I remember pelting down Ashbury Drive, Weston on my yellow and blue roller discos. My cousin, Johnny, and I (we were always the naughty ones) used to skate so ridiculously fast down that really steep hill, right from the very top. We had no brakes so our only means of stopping was to smash into a wall on the other side of Worlebury Hill Road and just pray that no cars were coming. They weren't. We used to clamber up the tallest trees in Weston Woods, helping us to more easily plan and plot our homemade maps of that wooded area, which, even back then, I treated as my very own Back Garden. With my teenage and recently deceased friend, Ma, I spent evenings dangling my legs over the top of the Quarry, watching the town below (no chance of doing that these days; you can't even get near the edge).

And I made it into adulthood! We all did!

Now I've got a child of my own, I encourage her fearless spirit, showing her how to climb those same trees and allowing here to scale the rocks at Anchor Head. I want her to run free and to get dirty from those muddy puddles, jump off the stones. If she falls, I pick her up, ask her if she's OK and tell her to get on with it. I make sure that she's safe and isn't taking mad risks, trusting that her own intuition will alert her to extreme danger.

She recently got her first bike; PINK with stabilisers. She bombs around on it outside the house and takes corners like a teenage boy on a BMX. Thing is, she also owns a bike helmet, knee pads and elbow pads - did you have anything like that? We never! And the truth of the matter is that, even though I don't want her to harm herself (of course I don't!), all this protection is as much for the benefit of others - I mean, imagine all the tuts and looks we'd get without it!!

Flying Solo

2009-09-12T02:33:00.000-07:00

I drop her off at pre-school and you'd think I'd go home to relax or at least to do something different while I've got some time to myself, wouldn't you? But no!

I take a new-to-me path from Cecil Road up to the Woods. It's a steeper, stonier course than we usually take, one which requires more input of energy - or is it just that I'm unemcumbered by my very own Wood Pixie and so I'm able to march along, working those leg muscles harder than they have become used to? I snag my bare legs on a few blackberry brambles but nothing to invite tears and I head up to Worlebury Camp, taking a few photos of trees on the way.

The 'Camp'

The Camp/Encampment/Iron Age Fort is a substantial clearing in the Woods at the top of Worlebury Hill, offering delightful vistas of Sand Bay/Point, the Bristol Channel and Wales - the view is stunning on a clear day such as today. Once there, I examine the holes or pits that I wrote about in my latest Weston Mercury Blog post and I realise that they are more circlar than square and are larger than I first thought (maybe 6, 7, 8 foot in diametre). These holes have been purpose-built for ... well, there has been some (but not nearly enough) speculation as to exactly what these stoned-lined wells were built for. One thing is clear; they have been here for hundreds, probably thousands, of years. Moss and ivy crawl up the walls and there are more of these pits than I had first imagined - dozens in fact. Most have been maintained (by the Rangers?) while those situated a little away from the path are disguised by brambles. As I venture inwards through the stinging nettles, I tred carefully, mindful that another seven or eight foot deep hole could well be hidden by overgrowth. I fancy that I'm swallowed up, pulled down into the opening and that I find myself in one of these crevices that, in ancient times, may have been used to store grain and/or as burial grounds. Research tells me that faeries have been spotted here - my mind frees itself.

The moon is visible in the cloudless, daytime sky, dragging the sea inwards: in an hour's time it will be high tide. Up here on Worlebury Hill, exposed to the elements, I explore not only this mysterious terrain but also an unseen space, creating my own Fantasy World.

Maybe I'll tell you about it one day?

Pit

4 Years (abridged)

2009-09-09T13:46:00.000-07:00

Do you ever feel like the whole world is changing? No not the world – You?

You’re changing because your life has changed:

“Fuck! I’m pregnant!”

“My Beautiful, tiny, helpless baby”

“Please. Please just pee in the bloody pot.”

“The mouse found a nut and the nut was good. Goodnight Darling, I love You."

“Oh My God!! You really are here for the rest of my life, aren’t you?”

I mean, what do you do with THAT?

:-)

Are We Here Already?

2009-09-09T10:21:00.000-07:00

I went to view a primary school for My Girl this morning. The deadline for applications in North Somerset is 23rd October 09 (for admissions for next academic year) and I have to apply for three, in order of preference.

I’m viewing four schools, all of which are in close proximity (within 1600 metres) to where we live.

Two are Church of England schools, voluntary aided and small, with an intake of 30 children per year. The other two are community schools of no religious denomination with double the intake at 60 kids per year.

All have “Good” Ofsted reports – though one narrowly missed being classified “Outstanding.”

The outside playing/sport area is, I think, restricted in at least one of the primaries (we’re close to the town centre here) and outdoor activity is vital, especially to a child as active as My Girl.

Two of the schools do not have websites, which, in 2009, worries me.

Ofsted reports, proximity, technology, sport, size, religious instruction and, of course, the place she would probably be happiest: what else do I need to consider before I fill in that form? Most people say that you get a ‘feel’ for the environment and you instinctively know which school would suit your little darling.

What are your criteria for choosing a school for your child?

Our Back Garden

2009-09-08T09:19:00.000-07:00

The Great Read Award has been passed onto me by Insomniac Mummy, who tells us that she experiences sleep deprivation from bringing up two young children, though you'd never guess it from her writing, which exudes wit and vibrancy. Insomniac Mummy has revealed to us "Ten Simple Things that Make Me Happy," and it is my role to take this and adapt it to my style.

I accept the baton and clasp it gratefully. I had meant to write this post yesterday. My Girl began pre-school - hooray!!! - freeing me up for five mornings a week and so, during her first session, I was going to share with you ten smells that make me happy, which would have included the aroma of Sexy Older Man and the whiff of a blown-out candle. However, despite having three whole hours without a little person trying to persuade me to dress up as a faery or turn the carpet into a giant jigsaw puzzle, the time just whizzed by and the post never got written.

During the afternoon, My Girl and I climbed up into the woods, which you can read all about in my Weston Mercury Blog. While we were there, I got to thinking about how much time we spend up on Worlebury Hill and why I would never want to move away from this area. Therefore, my Great Read Award considers just this: ten things I love about the Woods at Worlebury Hill, Weston:

The way my lower body gets exercised and how aerobically fit all that walking makes me feel.
The varied shapes and colours of the trees.
The smell of the ground after a spell of rain.
Playing hide and seek with plenty to hide behind.
Watching My Girl jump, sit and lie in muddy puddles.
Eating faeries in our role of Big Witch and Little Witch.
Taking photos of the views over Brean Down/Somerset on one side and Sand Point/Wales on the other.
Noticing the moving shadows of the leaves and branches against the Wood floor.
The seasons - all of them!
Spending quality time with My Girl with no-one else around.

I now pass the Great Read Award on to the wonderful Tim Worth, full-time carer and father to two teenagers.

Ugh, This Tastes Like Shit

2009-09-06T00:06:00.000-07:00

She hops into the front room on two feet. So, I suppose, she jumps into the front room.

“Mummy, I done a poo. Wipe my bottom.” I pull her back into the loo, where I oblige: “One day soon she will be able to do this unassisted”, I assure myself.

Job done, dinner served.

She spoons in the ketchup solo and then eats one of the homemade mini-burgers, most of the spaghetti hoops and all of the cucumber (she loves cucumber and so, in a bid to tick one off of the five-a-day fruit and veg list, I now serve it an accompaniment to every meal, regardless – roast lamb and cucumber, beans on toast and cucumber, spag bol and cucumber, you name it). Then down go the grapes, berries and good old Tesco Value Chocolate Mousse.

Due to my tighter-than-tight budget, practically everything I buy these days is Tesco Value or Asda Smart Price and either I’ve managed to convince myself that it’s as good as those brands you pay two or three times the price for or it’s true and retailers are robbing us blind most of the rest of the time. Anyway, I have no complaints about their chocolate mousse and, at 26p for four of the little devils, how could I? I sit down to watch the Corrie I recorded last night with a pot of my own.

“Finished, Mummy,” I look over. She’s been plopping the grapes into the mousse and the stupid stuff is everywhere.

“Right, let’s wash your hands and face,” I say, carrying her into the bathroom by her armpits.

We wash and dry her hands and she skips off.

“Bloody Hell!” I mutter as I spot a small splodge of chocolate mousse on the cream carpet (no, I’m not that dense! They are; it’s a rented flat). I bend down and I really, really don’t know why I do this but I pick the offending mucky stain off with my finger, which I then suck.

A nanosecond later I realise, with horror, that the brown blob that was on the cream carpet and is now in my mouth is NOT Tesco Value Chocolate Mousse.

!!!!!!!!!!!!

Bribery

2009-09-05T00:56:00.000-07:00

Before the North Somerset Rangers fine me for actually setting up camp and moving our tiny family into the woods, I thought I should prove that we do go to other places sometimes. I’ve got photographic evidence too!

Yesterday, after having, erm, walked through the woods and hidden from the witches, taking a completely new and somewhat steep path, which posed a challenge and promoted a couple of tantrums (her, not me), we had a burst in Grove Park, a 5 minute trot from our house, although by the route we took – an hour!!

My Girl wanted to reach for the clouds (plenty of ‘em) on the red swing, which she is beginning to outgrow but, while she still fits, she’ll continue to insist on “higher, faster.” Her feet can now reach the floor, leaving me somewhat redundant and that suits me fine: I just wish I could remember to bring a book.

“Let’s go to the bandstand!!” she yelled. Ok, let’s go to the bandstand – at the bottom of the park, down the steps, by the café that sells PINK iced lollies (get where she’s coming from?), which she couldn’t have because …. well, just because I said so, OK?

I sat, she got silly-dizzy with all that running around in circles and then we headed back up to the swings via Jill’s Garden (erected and constructed by the Ground Force Team shortly after the murder of local girl Jill Dando). It’s really beautiful at the moment, all colour and butterflies. In fact, the whole park is gorgeous; hanging flower baskets everywhere.

On this, our second visit in half an hour, we had the swings all to ourselves. Lovely! But come on Lestie, let’s go home now for some strawberries and ice-cream.

Jill's Garden

Grove Park Bandstand

Teenage Attitude on a 3-Year Old

What's That Around The Corner? Is it Autumn?

2009-09-04T00:33:00.000-07:00

Weston Woods, as seen by My Girl and me yesterday morning. You will let us know if our lives are getting boring now, won't you?

Brean Down or "The Rock Where We Had a Picnic"

PINK Woodland Flowers

Nothing Ever Really Dies Part I (Moss on a Tree Trunk)

Nothing Ever Really Dies Part II (Ivy on an Uprooted Tree)

A Faery

An Angel and A Faery

Weston-super-mum's Facebook Face Page: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Weston-super-Mum/99940260107?ref=mf

Hope in Weston-super-Mare

2009-09-02T23:54:00.000-07:00

Some friends of mine were visiting us from Essex a short while ago and, with their keen eye, they caught this on camera:

Photo by Andy Bennett and Tracey Richards @ http://www.andybennettphotographer.co.uk/

Pet Sounds

2009-09-02T07:18:00.000-07:00

It's happened - she's asked the question I've been dreading for most of her life - the one I thought I might be able to buy some time on:

"Mummy? Can you buy me a kitten?"

"No!"

"Oh. Can you buy me a puppy."

"No."

"Can you buy me a tiger."

Sigh.

I just don't do animals. I know that this might seem a little unfair to a 3-year old but who's going to end up taking care of the damn thing? I detest dogs - stupid, slobbery things - I'm actually secretly glad when the great big mutts up Weston Woods try to kiss/lick/annoy Celeste because, though I don't want her to be scared of them, I definitely would prefer not to have one in the house! We couldn't anyway because the house is actually a flat and it just wouldn't be fair. Right, sorted! Can't have a dog, no way.

Hamsters, gerbils, guinea pigs, etc, are on a par with vermin, so no thanks! Anyway, we've got plenty of wood rats scurrying around here at the back of the house.

I admire cats though: I like the way they appreciate freedom, the way that they use and abuse - gollop the food, grab a cuddle and then sod off for a couple of days until they need some more sustenance. Even still, I'd rather not be responsible for the vet's bills or for buying food for IT as well as for us and I certainly don't to go through that inevitable training, pissing stage.

I know I could start small and get her a fish or something but it'd be me who has to change the water, buy the food, flush it down the loo and replace it with another slither of gold when it dies in a couple of weeks/months time. But I've got enough to do already and usually I don't even get around to doing that.

For example, I was in the bath yesterday, where I had little choice but to glance over at the toilet right next to me (it's still without a seat and lid after it broke about, erm, four months ago). Hygiene levels were low and I thought that if I'd have sat on THAT toilet in anyone else's house, I would have been horrified!! It isn't even fit to flush a mythical goldfish down!

September in Weston Woods

2009-09-01T03:46:00.000-07:00

This is what we happened upon up Worlebury Woods this morning:

The Fairy House

The Beach from the 'Magic Garden' (AKA the Encampment)

Mushrooms

Octuplets

A Beautiful Mirage

This Life

2009-08-31T01:01:00.000-07:00

Last week I left a comment on Facebook about how wrong it seemed to be a) recording Coronation Street and b) experiencing sadness over the liaison between Emily and Ramsey that never reached full-flower, thanks to bitter old Norris’ refusal to accept his estranged brother. My cousin came back with an observation about how much I’d changed.

I sit guilty before you.

Life is just so, erm, different these days.

I never imagined that I’d move back to Weston-super-Mare after 20 years of living in some rather exciting (and some rather dull, it has to be said) places. I never dreamed that I’d be spending my days in sandals/walking boots and cut off shorts/jeans and anorak, traipsing up and down hills, getting soaking wet, squelching mud between my toes, telling anyone who is willing to read my ramblings – yes, that’s you – about my love of this town and of my gorgeous little girl.

Who’d have thought that I would never again scan Saturday Guardian’s ‘The Guide’ for interesting (and often expensive) things to entertain myself with and I’d stop going to the pub at least 3 times a week. Indeed, who’d have believed that I’d have almost entirely knocked alcohol on the head (that’s almost – whenever I do go there it just doesn’t work and I turn into a twat of massive proportions). Isn’t it ridiculous that I can no longer bear festivals and live concerts? Don’t you think it’s a little odd that I rarely go abroad anymore and don’t even want to?

Where did that irrepressible Night Owl go and who is this woman who just wants to crawl into bed at 9pm every evening? Why, when My Girl stays over at my Mum and Dad’s do I not think, “Where can I go tonight?” but “Brilliant! Now I can have an early night AND get a lie-in!”

No-one told me that I’d become a trampoline and a slide in my own home or a witch and an aeroplane up the woods. They didn’t explain that I would be baking cakes at 9 in the morning (yes, still packet mix) or dancing along with the Milkshake girls before my first cup of tea of the day.

I didn’t think that I’d be living round the corner from my wonderful parents and that I would be lodged on the same beautiful hill that I spent my entire teenage life in.

No warning that those boys would be so refreshingly replaced by Sexy Older Man.

I couldn’t have known that I would look forward to watching XFactor or Britain’s Got Talent on a Saturday night (!!!) or that I would find it nearly impossible to finish reading a book. Any book!!

But this I will say – I have ALWAYS been a Corrie Head :-0

Size

2009-08-30T01:22:00.000-07:00

They are your whole world but sometimes they can appear so small:

PINK Sky At Night ...

2009-08-29T01:24:00.000-07:00

The sky was doing some really interesting things yesterday. In fact, I've been loosing track with the RainSunRainSun WarmCoolWarmCool bi-polarity of the weather all week and have been carrying an even fuller bag than usual to facilitate the sun-screen/hat AND waterproofs/extra layers.

Yesterday, the wind was high and we sat at the Cafe of the Old Town Quarry, My Girl with a cold ice-lolly and me with a hot cup of tea, watching the shadows of the clouds pass over the Limestone, making fast-changing pattterns on the surface of the rock. The gusts pushed us home: we went with it, screaming and holding hands all the way and, when we got here, we read a poem called "The Wind" and watched a RazzleDazzle rhyme on the same subject via the CBeebies Web Page.

When she was asleep the sky turned PINK! She would have been thrilled but of course I didn't wake her. We both know when to stop!

Hilary. Again.

2009-08-28T02:32:00.000-07:00

You know about Hilary, don't you - boy, short black hair, 3 years old, always there, invisible? He's still very much around and, although He can be quite naughty (He spills things, He mashes banana into places it shouldn't be mashed into, He turns the music up very loudly), I've welcomed Him into the house and I haven't perceived Him to be anyone I should be concerned about.

The other day, My Girl was adding her colourful markings to our bath with her new bath crayons (thanks to a couple of twitter friends for alerting me to the absolute mess these can make when used away from the tub - especially by someone as inventive/invented as Hilary - never fear, they are outta reach when not being used in the proper manner) and she asked me to write her name, then my name, then the names of those close to her. Like this:

She was the brains behind this, her own Family Tree, I was simply the executor following orders. A few details, however, grabbed my attention:

Her second Grandad, who she calls Grampa, made it onto her bath list of important people, right down there at the bottom. He is also invisible. But 'My Other Mummy' - yes, the imaginary one - wasn't important enough to make the Tree, which lifts my heart. 'My Other Mummy' has a PINK computer and PINK toilet roll and My Girl sometimes prefers that Mummy's company to this one's. No words of comfort, please: I'm SO over it!

Her cousin, Joel, has been pushed right over to one side of the Tree (the left hand side) - he's the same age as her and they only see each other every couple of months or so because my brother and his family live in the East Midlands. They play together and they fight: he's the only person who seemingly lashes out on her for no reason - though I'm sure he does have his reasons and, underneath, she is fully aware of what these are and pushes all the right buttons. Anyway, in this Bath Life, he is somewhat alienated from the rest of her loving family!

Hilary is, or was, there - you can no longer see Him because His name has been nigh on erased due to the pure practicalities of having to use the bath to wash off all that Weston Woods' mud from her delightful little body most every day. He had pride of place above everyone else on the very top of the bath, the ledge if you like. He is Overseer, He is God, He is her sub-conscious ....? Sexy Older Man pointed out that Hilary could well represent My Girl's absent Father and I was shocked to realise that this had never even occurred to me, that her innocent invisible friend is a substitute for someone deeply important to her whom she has never met. Am I in denial? Am I deluding myself that she is OK just with me? Am I failing her? Is she being deprived of something that not I nor anyone else except that one person can give her?

And how long will we need Hilary for?

No-one I Think is in My Tree

2009-08-27T01:23:00.000-07:00

In Grove Park, up a larch, wet and looking slightly concerned.

Boycott

2009-08-26T02:22:00.000-07:00

“I thought we could go to Asda,” my mum says. ”Dad will have Celeste for a while.”

“Great,” I agree. My car is still off the road, which hasn’t been much of a problem at all really as most things are within easy reach of here but I do take Mum up on these offers every couple of weeks so that I can stock up on food and thus avoid the shops for most of the rest of the fortnight. Not much of a shopper, you see – I prefer spending my time up the woods or cosy at home. “See you at 2:30.”

As soon as we get a foot in my parents’ house, My Girl whips off her jacket, eager to tell Grandad her news.

“Dandad,” she looks at him with adoring yet conspiratorial eyes. “I got a bike!”

“A bike? What colour is it?”

“PINK!” She is all squeals of delight and he is all ‘wows.’

We leave them to their Worship Fest and head to the shops. Here I must warn you – there is a rant coming! A rant of supermarket proportions!!

Initially, the trip goes well enough – we pop into Lidl for all those goodies that they do so well and so cheaply and then we go to Next to spend an almost forgotten birthday gift card of Celeste’s (I buy her a bright red waterproof for the woods: perfect!) and then we battle to get into the Car Park at Asda. The road is extremely busy but there are loads of spaces.

Shopping done – easy job, it’s pretty quiet in here.

And then:

It takes us 20 – TWENTY – minutes to get out the car out of the bay. WHY? Well, Waitrose has just opened next door. I love Waitrose; I used to shop in there in another life, in another town … BUT neither Asda or Waitrose has considered the logistics of having two superstores bang next to each other – there is no extra lane for the traffic and no additional exit (they could do with 2 more exits at the very least – one for each supermarket!). It's pandemonium.

The Parking Patrol Staff are, it seems, mostly responsible for the chaos – they let one car out of our bay in 10 minutes!! Left to their own devices, I’m sure drivers would sort it out much better for themselves – most of us have road respect. The sun’s out and there’s limited air. But there is food!! I open a massive bag of Tortilla Chips and eat them until my mouth is so dry that I can chew no more (opening the wine does cross my mind!).

Not moving! Not moving!

The couple in front of us pull into a space, usher out their two young daughters, grab their carrier bags from the boot and inform us that they’re walking home and will come back and get the car tonight, when the rush has died down. How nuts is that?!

We eventually exit the car park and crawl onto the road of the retail park, when we still have to fight our way out on the main road, which is Traffic Light City, incurring more delays!

But actually, rather than be annoyed at the lack of planning and our collective need to feed ourselves continually, my main thought is “Look at all these cars! THIS HAS TO STOP!”

Maybe I won’t bother with the expense of getting my battered old Fiesta through its MOT, taxing it and insuring it – I could just walk into town twice a week and buy my produce there? After all, this town won’t miss another car!

Good Morning Weston-super-Mare

2009-08-24T22:31:00.000-07:00

It promises to be a fine one:

This Morning Up Weston Woods

2009-08-24T04:50:00.000-07:00

The view was obscured by the rain and clouds - can you see the sea?

This is where The Gruffalo lives

I love you

It was very, very dark in places but we weren't scared!

Two's Company

2009-08-22T00:43:00.000-07:00

I LOVE SLEEPOVERS!!

My cousin's little girl, S., stayed over last night. The two of them were so excited to see each other and they must've completley worn themselves out playing together all day because they were asleep ten minutes after they laid their heads on the pillows. All I heard was My Girl blowing her yellow recorder (I put a swift stop to that nonsense - Spoil Sport Mum!) and then she started making fake snoring sounds, which I'm sure she thought we're hilarious (yeah, well, they raised a chuckle from me too, especially seeing as they were soon replaced by less audible asleep noises).

They slept right through and have now been awake for two hours playing happily, despite the three year age gap, while I've been able to drink tea and watch BBC Breakfast without anyone trying to turn me into a slide or a trampoline.

I'm sure this is all just novelty though, right?

A Calm Approach

2009-08-21T11:09:00.000-07:00

This morning I found myself tired, grumpy and not at one with my role as mother/father/chef/playmate/ police officer/teacher/bum wiper etc. A later night than I would ever recommend any mother have (Midnight: buzzing on coffee and nicotine, no less) and a few hours of disturbed sleep had left me irritable and impatient with my Angel. I snapped, I shouted and, I'm ashamed to say, I swore - bad, bad behaviour and not the sort of conduct that I want my daughter to witness and, worse, emulate.

Way back when I was pregnant, I bought (and started reading) Sarah Napthali's "Buddhism for Mothers: a Calm Approach to Caring for yourself and your children."

I think it's time to finish it!

Night night xx

http://books.google.co.uk/books?id=tl3vxxH-mH8C&dq=buddism+mothers+napthali&printsec=frontcover&source=bn&hl=en&ei=b96OSt_WBODajQeK4L38DQ&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=4#v=onepage&q=&f=false

Bathroom Art

2009-08-20T07:20:00.000-07:00

I got Lestie a packet of 10 ELC bath crayons and, I must say, it's the best £4 I've ever spent!

I left them on the bath, next to her squirting water animals, forgetting that she might spot them whilst on the loo. So, four hours before I even think about getting her clean for bed, the bath resembles an installation from Tate Modern. She's been constructing her masterpiece for about 45 minutes now and is currently IN the bath, tongue out, drawing shapes and squiggles with delight :-)

And, yes, I've already checked - it does wash off!

Delirium

2009-08-19T09:49:00.000-07:00

She's standing behind the rocking chair when she says, "I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for, Lest?" I ask.

"This," she replies and pulls the rocking chair towards her, deliberately banging herself on the head with it.

!!!!

What's all that about?

Tiredness? Sun-stroke?

Or maybe vertigo from going on this earlier?

It Might as Well Rain Until September

2009-08-18T06:10:00.000-07:00

I don't know how everyone else with children feels but these summer holidays are excruciatingly long. My Girl has only been going to pre-school for 3 mornings a week for the past couple of terms but what a difference it has made to both of our lives - she gets that all important interaction with her peers and I get ....

Time. Rest. Exercise. Jeremy Kyle. More opportunity to twitter and blog.

She's just turned 3 so from September she'll be enjoying five mornings a week at Funny Bunnies (gratis, thanks to our wonderful State) and I'll have time to rest or exercise or watch JK or lose myself in cyberspace!

I didn't write a post yesterday but I DID GET THROUGH THE DAY so that's something, isn't it?

Energy Girl isn't in any way a difficult child but, well, she is 3 - that's enough. And she's always there, following me around with a recorder in her mouth or spraying water at me or pulling me up to dance. She is so beautiful, such a delight, so exciting, so involved, so loving but still always there.

We go out a lot: we have to, otherwise we'd both get wound up with each other. Yesterday we had to go to the dentist's so, beforehand, I thought we'd enjoy an hour at Ashcombe Park, which is opposite our Healthy Teeth Man (dishy, young dentist said that she had 'lovely teeth', which she's been telling everyone about. Mine aren't lovely and they need a little work - BOO!). She lapped up her PINK lolly in the park and had a good go on the extremely busy swings, slide and roundabout (another thing, I much prefer these places when everyone else is at school. Selfish? Maybe).

After our check-up, we popped into a corner shop to get some bread and she completely lost it:

"I want a lolly."

"No, you had a lolly in the park."

"But I WANT a lolly."

"No."

"But I'm hungry."

"That's good. It's good that you're hungry because it's nearly dinner-time."

"I don't want dinner. I want a lolly!!!"

Tantrum Time.

We left the shop without a lolly but with loads of attitude and floods of tears and me trying to ignore the whole big strop. Like I said, I got through it and so did she but .... roll on September!

Wheels on Fire

2009-08-16T04:16:00.000-07:00

Last night at about 1:15 am, some loser drove a van through the narrow paths of the woods, crashed it into the railings at the top of the steps, just above our house, and then set it on fire ...???

The firemen came to put it out!! That's the most exciting Saturday night I've had for ages!!

"When I Grow Up I'm Going to Be ..."

2009-08-15T08:32:00.000-07:00

"Can A. come out to play?" I plead into the intercom.

"Sure. I'll just get her ready and she'll be down in a mo," says her Mum.

The thing is, I crave some of my own *space* but Single Child needs a whole lot more stimulation: she's even worn out ever-patient Hilary (The One Who Can't be Seen), dragging the poor invisible boy out of bed to play at Christ knows what hour. I've lasted an everlasting morning and it's gone noon already but I would really rather have some help today. Oh, I know it's my job and mostly I love being a mum but I don't relish being teacher, trampoline or extra-fit dancer for another five hours until The Man-of the-Moment, Mr Maker, starts prancing around and making wondrous artifacts on CBeebies at 5.25.

Five minutes later, A., pushes open the heavy door and says to me solemnly:

"I have to have my ..."

"A-law-a" enthuses Celeste (Alawa isn't her real name but Lestie can't get to grips with so many vowels all in one place). A. ignores her.

"Becky, I have to ...."

"A-law-a," Lestie nods and smiles in excitement. "Do you want to play wif my ..."

A. interrupts her with a dirty look and an articulate "Celeste, I am talking to yer mom." Now, A. is over a year older than My Girl, whose impatient eagerness sometimes drives her up the wall. I know exactly how she feels.

"Mommy says I can come and play after I eat me toast," A. informs me and she leaves poor Lestie looking bewildered and a little hurt.

"A. will be down again soon," I promise.

About 20 minutes later, the two of them are pulling out every doll and every teddy from the toy box and every item of clothing from the dressing up trunk. It is bliss. For a while. They mould things out of play dough, they fight over the play dough scissors. They fight over half and apple, even though I cut a whole one in two - one half each. They fight over a table and chair. AGHH!

A. is the third youngest of six children so she's perfectly used to sharing everything but Celeste still doesn't quite get it and snatches whatever A. picks up out of her hands. Then my own child gets ratty so I put her on the yellow chill-out chair, where she can think about the consequences of her behaviour and just bloody well calm down! After a hissy-fit (sorry, Mrs Bill Clinton, I so couldn't resist that one), they get along famously and giggle and chase each other around and dress up.

"Can we do some cutting?"

This is a good idea: we've got loads of paper and two pairs of child-safe scissors so what's the worst that could happen? They sit happily cutting out shapes, leaving a whole lot of mess on the floor. Their attention is starting to wander, however, and in my attempt to teach them about tidying up after themselves, so as to save me from being a skivvy for the rest of my maternal life (oh, shit! That's forever, isn't it?), I give them a box in which to put all the loose cuttings and I encounter no backlash whatsoever. Hey, I'm getting rather good at this!

Several minutes later, Celeste brings the box over to me. It's full of small pieces of yellow paper and ...

"Look, Mummy, A-law-a's hair."

OMG! What the ...? And sure enough there are slithers of fine, blond hair in the box, on the floor and loose against A.'s head, every clump thick enough to tie a ribbon around and store in a memory box. Uncharitably, my first thought is "Thank fuck it's not Celeste's hair!" and my second is "Which one of these two darling little girls did this? A. or C.?"

It turns out that A. cut off her own tresses "by accident." Oh yeah, so why is she also holding a doll's hairbrush in her hand? She starts to cry. I give her a hug and tell her not to worry but she mustn't cut her own hair in future. Celeste starts to cry. Why?!?

We walk A. home to explain the impromptu haircut to her parents. Thankfully, they're both completely unperturbed - they've got 6 kids for goodness sake, they've seen it all.

And anyway, although I don't mention it to A., she's done rather a good job.

9:20 am

2009-08-14T04:53:00.000-07:00

Following on from yesterday's post, where I employed measures to get My Girl out of my bed and into hers (to much fuss and many tears), what do you think happened next?

Did she repeat the pattern last night? Did she insist on sleeping with Mummy? Did she riddle me with guilt for not caving in and letting her kick my bones in her slumber?

No. She didn't make ONE visit!!

Now, as a rule, even if she does sleep right through from 6:30pm to 6:30am, she'll then wake me for a cuddle, a PINK beaker of milk and a biscuit and an early morning viewing of CBeebies. It's part of the routine, it's how we embark on a new day.

Last night saw me early to bed with a book because I was shattered after too little sleep in my role of SuperNanny the night before. We both came to after the birds this morning and I could hear Celeste chatting away to herself in her own room. "She sounds happy enough, I'll leave her to it" I thought and dozed off again.

My eyes pinged open a little later, completely refreshed, like I'd actually had enough sleep! Enough sleep!? When does that ever happen when there's a toddler in the house? I could still hear her merry chit-chat and, being ready to get up, I actually went into her room first!

"Hi Lestie?"

"Mummy!!!"

"You OK?"

"Yes Mummy, I play in my room wif Hilary" (Hilary is her invisible friend). "I's a big girl. I stay in my bed all night!" She's really happy with herself and, it must be said, I'm pretty chuffed too.

I go to make a cup of tea. My God! It's nearly half past nine! What a turn around. Reckon it'll last?

2 am

2009-08-13T02:40:00.000-07:00

She wants to get into my bed and sleep with me. Much as I love the sound of her breathing next to me and the feel of her little arms around my neck, this cannot happen because after an hour or so, she'll be laying diagonally across my mattress, her precious feet exploring my whole body with kicks. Then, in the morning, I'll be red eyed from lack of sleep and she'll miss out on The Fun because I'll be too exhausted to play with her or walk up and down these hills. Then we'll niggle at each other for much of the day - one bored, the other in a haze.

I carry her back to her own bed.

"I want to go."

"You want to go where?"

"To Mummy's bed." She's crying. I kiss her, I stroke her and I explain that she can see me in the morning and then I leave her.

She sneaks in again, I take her back to her room.

And again. And again. I discipline her the SuperNanny way and say nothing, communicating to her my strength in pure determination and will. She is a very good match, reluctant to concede. This continues, her cries turning into screams.

I have to see this through.

And then, suddenly, she stops resisting and remains in her own space. The protests, however, continue through great big, excruciating sobs. After a while, her pleas become less audible and less convinced as tiredness overtakes My Girl's beautiful, sturdy body:

"I want my Mummy. I want my Mummy. I want my Mummy. Come on Mummy. Come on. Come on. Mummy Come on. I want you Mummy. I want you for ages. I want you for ages. Come on Mummy. I want my Mummy. Come on, come on. It's not fair. I want you Mummy. I want you. Come on Mummy. Mummy. Come on. Come on. Come on ...."

Silence from the other room. No peace in my head.

Baby Love

2009-08-12T08:13:00.000-07:00

"I want to take my baby to the woods," she pleads.

"You can take baby but you have to carry him all the time. Mummy's not carrying him. OK?"

"OK."

"Are you sure you want to carry baby? He can wait here if he wants to."

"I take him."

"You have to carry him, Celeste. All the way!" I reiterate.

"I take him."

Up we go.

To start with, our woodland walk is much less fun than it usually is: I'm not in the mood for doing very much at all today and Celeste is concentrating on not dropping her baby. She watches her step and, in her studiousness, she isn't noticing the bugs or the blackberries. At the Water Tower, I let her choose which path we will take next. She picks the one I know will be littered with muddy puddles and I think she knows this too.

I roll her jeans up. She finds a big puddle, jumps and laughs and jumps again. She washes naked baby in the puddle.

"There you go, baby. You all clean now," she tells him with authority and love. He WAS clean before he went in to the quagmire but now he is splattered in brown.

"You come in, Mummy." Ah, WhatTheHell! I glide through the rain water in my sandals and shorts. She jumps and splashes me until my legs are the colour of tree bark. Lovely. I begin to jump too and we dirty each other. This is more like it.

"I want a wee-wee."

Good. "Let's go home." She offers no resistance.

She runs on a little way ahead, carefree, unencumbered. Hold on a minute, why am I holding muddy naked baby? I thought we had an agreement! How did she manage that? Knowing I need more than ever these days to stick to my word, I ask her to take over babysitting duties.

"No, you hold him Mummy."

"Lestie, if you don't carry baby, I'll leave him here in the woods and the foxes will eat him."

"NOooooo."

Was that a bit harsh?

Weston Donkey

2009-08-11T11:39:00.000-07:00

I'm laden with two carrier bags full of fruit, milk, bread and lovely, fabulous chocolate and I've got my swimming bag on my back (I didn't get to the pool but that's another story - one I'm not going to tell you. Let's just say it was fun. Adult fun, nudgenudgewinkwink). She's holding her brand new PINK skipping rope, her brand new Piggle Wiggle and her 2-week old Gruffalo book - I know, how spoilt is that? Whoops.

"Hold my hand, Mummy."

What? Why don't you just sit on my head?

She didn't! Thankfully.

Anyhow, our new Weston Mercury Blog is now live on their website. It's all about the Teddy Bears' Mudbath up Weston Woods. Any comments are very welcome:
http://www.thewestonmercury.co.uk/cs/blogs/weston-super-mum/archive/2009/08/10/1793798.aspx

Dawn Chorus

2009-08-10T02:11:00.000-07:00

She wakes up at Silly O'clock and climbs into my bed.

"I want CBeeebies on."

"Go back to bed Celeste, CBeebies isn't on yet. It's still night-time."

"It's NOT night-time." There is a kind of light outside, it's true, but the dimness notifies some part of my desperately-wanting-to-get-back-to-a-semi-conscious-state brain that the Night Creatures are only just going back into hiding. I can hear no birds, no sign of life outside of this bed. "CBeebies!"

I'll have to get tough.

"It's not on yet. Go back to your own bed Celeste or go to sleep here. You choose. But be quiet and leave Mummy alone. Mummy's still asleep because it's night-time" I know it's a little unfair, she was out for the count by seven o'clock last night and we're at least 10 hours on. She tries to be still and sleepy but it's not working for her.

"Tickle me on my arms." This I do because this I can manage, while being able to remain prostrate with eyes mostly closed, still snug, just about . "And on my legs. and here and here." Sigh.

We hide from the Monsters, cheek to cheek, under the covers.

"It's OK, Mummy. It's a friendly monster. It's the birthday monster."

"But it's not my birthday," I say. I want more cuddles, I don't want to leave this space. We cuddle.

"I want CBeebies on." Putting the telly on means that she'll sit and enjoy The Tweenies (I still don't know how even a three-year old gets anything positive out of that bunch of excruciatingly annoying, squealing Fuckwits), permitting me to hide my head to doze as she goes through the CBeebies early morning schedule of BBC Signature Music-Tikkabilla-Fimbles-The Tweenies. I give in.

"OK, let's see if it's on yet."

It is and it has been for an hour (the grey day outside had convinced me that it was much earlier. Or I'd convinced myself!)

The Tweenies spew too bright colours out onto our TV screen. I turn over and close my eyes tight. Bella starts to screech a too high-too fast-too soon song. I wrap the quilt around my head, blocking out all sound.

OK, so maybe it is time to get up!

Today in Photos

2009-08-07T10:08:00.000-07:00

Through Weston Woods

Past Birnbeck Pier

Down the Steps by The Captain's Cabin

On the Rocks @ Anchor Head

On the Beach @ Marine Lake

When one Door Closes ...

2009-08-06T08:46:00.000-07:00

It's all so quiet now. An hour ago we were at loggerheads. She was screaming, crying and throwing herself on the floor because ...

She wanted to shut herself in her bedroom.

Our doors are very heavy fire doors that take tremendous strength to open. Little fingers can get caught and, oh, I don't have to explain it to you, do I? You know what I mean. And anyway, once you've said 'No,' there's no reneging, is there?

"I-want-to-close-my-bedroom-door," she sobs.

"No." I say.

"But-I-want-it-to-close."

"I said 'No!'"

"I close it!"

"Why do you want to close it, Celeste?"

"I-want-it-closed!" She hasn't got a hold of the 'why' question yet, which I should be grateful for because when she has, there'll be no let up. Although, once the relentless questioning years begin, at least I'll have Google.

I show her Barbie's arm, which I accidentally caught in the window when shutting it yesterday - she's got a rather nasty scar. Oops.

"That's what happens when you get your arm shut in the door. Do you want to have an arm like Barbie?"

"No," a shake of the head.

"OK, so leave the door open, please."

"But I want to close my bedroom door."

For fuck's sake!!

"No."

She lets out a great big piercing scream.

"Right, sit on the Chill-Out Chair and calm down." But the Chill-Out Chair is in the open-doored bedroom.

"I-want-to-close-my-bedroom-door." And the strop continues.

Just ignore her till she's screamed herself bored.

A few moments/minutes/hours later, she appears at the front room door.

"I want my Mummy."

Aw, come here.

Photo Shoot

2009-08-04T06:39:00.000-07:00

"Look at that rain," she said. "It's big and fat and crying."

We gave in to the British Summer yet again so its been another day at home, which has consisted of making misshapen fairy cakes hanging over their paper cases like an unfit bloke (but tasting gooood, like ...), dancing to Bjork and Artic Monkeys and taking photos of each other.

Model Girl thought she was in some sort of studio photographic session and kept striking professional looking poses with a PINK blanket.

Here's one of each: we're both improving, don't you think?

BOGOF

2009-08-03T08:18:00.000-07:00

She's sitting there and I get up to do us some beans on toast.

"Mummy, show me your boobies."

I give her a flash of my bra-clad beauties. She gives me a smile.

"I like your boobies."

"Aw, thanks Lest!"

"Where did you buy your boobies?"

Ha! A shop for little people? A joke shop? Primark?

Play Time

2009-08-03T04:48:00.000-07:00

I grew up on an estate in Central London: a clean, community-spirited estate that housed hundreds of families, which meant a ready made army of other kids to play with at any given daylight hour. It was pretty safe - open balconies skirted the flats offering a vista of the playground and the football pitch below (much of this has since given way to a car park. In the 1970s there were considerably fewer motors and if your family owned one, it was usually in the form of a black cab). We used to shout up to Mum and Dad for money when the ice-cream van came (well everyone else did; we weren't allowed, we had to go up and ask for it), played British Bulldog and Tin-Can Alley Man and made up dance routines to Bucks Fizz songs. During the evening, there was a youth club that ran from 6-8. It was furnished with everything a child could want, down to a VCR, a pool table and a tuck shop. There was always something to do, someone to do it with.

'If I ever have kids,' I used to say. 'I'll move back to London.'

But those rose-tinted spectacles made the world look murky brown before she was even born. London? You must be mad! In fact, for the first 16 months of my baby's life, we lived in the East Midlands in a small village with two pubs and a church. I knew I couldn't have sustained living there for any longer (I would have gone insane) and the pull to the West was irresistible. Weston has a population about 90 times the size of that village but it's way off being a city. From where I sit, it's semi-rural, it's woodland, it's beach, it's peaceful - 30% of the cars that come up our road are driven by learner-drivers and their instructors - all of the houses are spread out and set back into the hill so that I know who the people in the house to the right of me are but that's about it - in short, it's the opposite to where I grew up.

So, thank Goodness that our flat is in a block of six and that the couple upstairs have that brood of children, some of whom she plays with outside where I can still see them.

And right now, they're driving me bloody mad!!

Teddy Bears' Mud Bath

2009-07-30T11:16:00.000-07:00

We had fun up Weston Woods today - it was a very mucky affair:

To see some more photos of our adventure, check out Weston-super-Mum's Facebook Fan Page and click on 'Events':

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Weston-super-Mum/99940260107?ref=mf

Wednesday was Rained Off

2009-07-29T10:41:00.000-07:00

We didn't venture out of the house today. Not once. We haven't seen another living being.

I'm not adverse to a bit of rain but today in Weston-super-Mare (and many other places across this green land, I suspect), there has been no let-up and this morning a mini-tornado passed over the Bristol Channel. Oh, good, let's stay all cosy and dry indoors then.

We finally climbed out of our jim-jams around midday although I now think we should have left them on. TV girl watched some CBeebies, I did some social networking, we played dance music on my new-to-me sound system (fabulous sound, massive speakers) and danced, we lounged about in my bed with books and the telly, she did some gluing, cutting and sticking, I cooked dinner: we've eaten our way through Wednesday.

Every evening after story time - she's totally hooked on The Gruffalo and we've read nothing else since I bought it last week - we play back the day.

"What did you do today?" I asked.

"I go to pre-school."

"Nooooo, it's the holidays."

"I go to the park?" Try again.

"I go to the woods?"

"No."

A smile crosses her pretty face: a revelation.

"I have spaghetti bolognese."

"Yes, you did."

And that's about it. 'It was very tasty, Mummy,' she forgot to say.

Where Do All the Jibbitz Go?

2009-07-27T10:58:00.000-07:00

It was time to pass the red Crocs onto someone else - they're still pretty much in one piece after a whole year's wear (!) but definitely too small for My Girl's feet.

I refused point blank to renew them with a PINK pair - too many shades of that colour, they just don't go with everything. Red shoes are the safest but, well, not again.

We found a purple (grape) pair, big enough to last a good few months, though the rate these little people grow it could well be less.

A sunflower Jibbitz (you know; that decorative little thingymabob that squeezes into the holes and personalises these fabulous shoes) has adorned the red for all the time they've been on those precious little feet. A happy, yellow sunflower. All we had to do is transfer it to the brand new purple Crocs. But, when I went to perform the operation, it had broken; the petals had simply snapped off! Gone. They were there yesterday. And last week, last month, last year. Did the flower-that-turns-its-head know instinctively that it was about to be uprooted?

Rubbish you say!

OK then, so explain this:

When, last year, I replaced Comfy-Shoed Girl's first ever pair of Crocs (light blue) with the red ones, I decided that I would take the tortoise Jibbitz off them to switch over to her new pair. But the tortoise had disappeared. GONE! It was there the day before. And the week before, month before, year before!!

Curiouser and curiouser.

Lestie Leibovitz?

2009-07-25T08:56:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, my beautiful and talented daughter took this photo of her Mummy:

OK, so it was a bit of a fluke; she also took plenty of my feet, knees, hair and boobs and a few of the Woods' floor. But all the same, I told her that she was fabulous and clever and that I loved it and it was brilliant and so was she. I said these things partly because I think photography is a great hobby to encourage (I agree with you there, Neya) and because I sincerely believe that it's an excellent photo. An excellent photo of ME.

She's caught me au naturel, this is true, but au naturel during mid-summer, after months of days out together in the sun (and in the rain!). She decided to show an interest in the workings of my camera - now our camera - during a happy moment, when I'm surrounded by the green of our back garden, aka the Woods. She's captured my best smile - the one I usually flash for her, my little Angel: the real smile!

I love it. So much so that it's now my profile picture on both twitter and Facebook.

At the suggestion of one of my Facebook friends and a possible relative of ours over the pond in Philadelphia (thanks Dan), today we made a special journey to the 'photo shop' and printed off an 8 x 6" photograph in an instant (plus a smaller version that she could put her raspberry-stained fingers all over right there and then: one to touch and dirty up if she so wishes). Then, in Wilko's we chose a cheap wooden frame that, at home, she decorated with a mixture of PINK paint and PVA glue so that she could stick little silver sequins onto her marvellous creation.

It's now drying on the worktop but I can't wait to put her/my photo into that extremely girly frame and hang it on Camera Girl's bedroom wall, next to Igglepiggle and his friends.

After all, it's about time there was a photo of me in the house!

Points of Interest at The Old Town Quarry This Afternoon.

2009-07-24T08:34:00.000-07:00

One bug bugging another bug

Yet more lovely mud!

Very early blackberries (still green up the woods where shaded)

Mushrooms

A ledge that doubles up as a very dirty slide

Where's Lestie?

2009-07-23T06:05:00.000-07:00

Photo of the day:

Weston Woods towards New Castle, Kewstoke entrace.

Freaky Wednesday.

2009-07-22T06:23:00.000-07:00

Imaginative Girl and I sometimes do role play, which is something I always really hated at school or at uni. But the whole game is much more fun when it's played with a cute 3 year old and without a bunch of peers and a teacher to have to perform in front of.

This afternoon she decided that my role was to be her and her role was to be me. We would swap places. Ah, interesting. Is she just looking for an excuse to be Boss? Is this just her own clever way of telling me what to do or of getting her own way? You know, like 'I think we'll have some chocolate now.'

"Hello Lestie." Her being me.

"Hello Mummy." Me being her.

"I love you Lestie."

AWWW!! What a cynic I am!

Devil Woman

2009-07-21T03:01:00.000-07:00

I woke up at an ungodly hour this morning after a succession of dreams about some kind of macabre circus resident at the window of my bedroom - I live under the woods and quarry so I dread to think what was really there! Maybe I do prefer the thought of vampire-men on stilts and Gothic acrobats. Actually, that's pretty cool ....

So, after lying there for well over an hour, I got up at 4:25 am. Still dark outside, still raining!!! The kettle went on, the computer went on and I did some research for my new book, which very, very luckily is about social networking Lol, PMSL, :-) etcetera ...

Lestie woke up with a scream about an hour and 40 minutes later (manic clowns, I wonder?) and was perplexed to find me up and already in the front room. When she could focus, I put Milkshake on for her and she sat quietly for a while. Some time later, Bop Box came on, whereby a couple of the Milshake presenters have a bit of a boogie and a sing-song. By this time, I'd been up for 3 hours and could partake in a bit of hip-wiggling to 'The Kingston Swing - turn right around with style and ting'. It was fine the first time but then:

"Bop Box! I want Bop Box again."

I know I didn't have to do this but I rewound it and gave Voyeur Girl another Mummy Dancing Treat - the last time I danced at that hour of the morning, I'd probably been going all night!

Then, and this also without precedence, the telly went off and good old Fun Kids Radio came on. You know I love that station but do we really have to do it before 8 am? Well, listen, here's SClub7 with "Rachel doing her thing," and then Steps version of Tragedy. I'm partial to a bit of saccharine in the morning so I was up again, this time with voice. With shit voice, given, but with voice.

A little later, Summer Holiday by Cliff Richard started playing - Summer? Pah! Have you seen it out there?!!

"Mummy, it's Fireman Sam."

What where? "That's not Fireman Sam!"

"It is. It IS Fireman Sam." She puts her ear to the radio.

OK then, it is. And do you know what? I can see the resemblance:

Part-ay!

2009-07-20T00:52:00.000-07:00

My 30th birthday lasted for 3 days because back then I had enough energy for that many consecutive parties (it takes me 3 days to catch up on one night now) and because I had different lives in various parts of the country - I lived in Wolverhampton, folks in Weston and other family and friends in London. I kept up and had a veritable Ball!

But what excuse has Celeste got with her own 3 celebrations in as many days?:

One with Mummy, Nanny and Dandy-Dandad at Bristol Zoo on THE DAY. When I say zoo, Physical Girl was more interested in running around in an attempt to lose us and climbing on absolutely anything that could be scaled, showing little love for the monkeys or the axolotls (be impressed! Here I must reference Julio Cortazar for his excellent short story by the same name - read him if you get the opportunity!) She remembers the lion and the lioness, cruelly but necessarily separated by a wire fence, and the Gorilla, who treated us to an opening of the eyes, a turn of the head and .... a return to sleep mode.

The day after, she took a carrot cake into pre-school to share with her Funny Bunny friends. The fabulous staff made her wear 'the birthday hat', a Mad-hatteresque towering thing that she probably loved! They all sang the usual song and I'm sure she was in her element.

On Saturday, we had a small party with just 5 of her friends. Pizza, Jelly and ice-cream and more cake. Oh and Pass the Parcel and a few bottles of wine (sshh). The guests were really well-behaved (although Kid A and Mezzanine did end up being frisbeed out of the window at some point - serves me right for not updating my CD collection since the invention of the MP3) and brought with them some wonderful pressies - thanks x. And, because I do it every chance I get, I must once again praise the excellent Fun Kids Radio for keeping the music fresh for hours.

So, 3 days, 3 parties, 1 child. Am I making a rod for my own back here?

Plah!

2009-07-17T02:42:00.000-07:00

I've been feeling a bit rough lately and yesterday I just needed to go to bed. Nowhere else would do but illness isn't really allowed when you've got kids, is it? You still have to get on with it and there's only so much respite that CBeebies will offer, there's a finite amount of time that a young child will sit and entertain his or herself with glue, glitter and paper. Then it's up to us super-Mums and Dads.

So, all I can say is thank God for Grandparents!! My Dad picked up Boundless Energy Girl from pre-school at mid-day and she stayed, played and slept at Nanny and Dandy-DanDad's house until this morning, while I snoozed the day away and watched some crap on the telly.

I still feel rubbish but ....

Thanks Dad x

My latest Weston Mercury Blog about the Music and Dance Festival at Grove Park last week:
http://www.thewestonmercury.co.uk/cs/blogs/weston-super-mum/archive/2009/07/14/1757170.aspx

Happy Birthday

2009-07-15T01:43:00.000-07:00

My Girl is 3 today!!

And we're off to Bristol Zoo with Nanny and Grandad.

Mostly, she's looking forward to seeing the dinosaurs and the dragons.

Let's hope she's happy with the elephants and the penguins too!

Happy Birthday Lestie xxxxxxxxxx

Chill!!!

2009-07-14T06:08:00.000-07:00

I went to bed at 7:25 last night with a cup of tea and the telly on (the unthinkable happened; I had NO chocolate!). I seem to be doing this about once a week right now and usually on a Monday, when I can really relax with a double bill of Corrie and a few pages of my reading book in between. Paradisaical.

When My Girl is at pre-school (three mornings per week, two and a half hours per session), I'm always trying to get something done: write, swim, shop for food and much, much less frequently, do some housework. Today I popped to Tesco Express to buy a baguette for my bacon sandwich, so I could sit down with a milky, sugary coffee and read the newspaper that I also picked up from there. I chose The Sun (Julie Burchill is BACK), so you'd have thought I could have got past page 23, wouldn't you? Well, actually I did because I flicked about for Mystic Meg ("Clever Mercury merges with the sun so you think faster and get your life moving" !!!) but I don't even allow myself time to read this most simple of journalism.

Did I tell you that I'm in a book club with some other local mums? Well, I've only managed to finish one of the three books so far (I'm still reading the one that was discussed two weeks ago!).

So, this is just a whinge really and a chance to ask .... where does the time go?

Hotter Than July

2009-07-13T06:33:00.000-07:00

We had a fight this morning.

Time to get dressed for pre-school. OK, we have to be there in 15 minutes but look, I've got all your clothes ready, ironed and everything. All you have to do, little girl, is put them on.

"I want black tights on."

"No, Celeste. Wear these please."

"No, I want black tights."

"It's July. You can't wear tights." Like that means anything to a 3 year old.

"No, I want black tights."

"It's too hot for tights. Put this on now please."

"Black! Tights!"

"Look, you can put the tights on when you get home. Get dressed now please or no pre-school." Over her head, rip goes the PINK top, to the bedroom on the chill-out chair goes the crying toddler.

......

4 minutes and a hug later, I wipe the snotty and inexplicably dirty face. We're friends again. What's more, she's soon dressed and ready to go to Funny Bunnies.

Three hours on, we're back home and guess what she's wearing...?

Biscuit Anyone?

2009-07-12T04:45:00.000-07:00

We've just had a painting session, whereby we mixed bright blue, yellow and PINK paint with PVA glue. Then we decorated an old Persil box, an egg tray and a long-empty chocolate box tray with this gloopy mixture, adding the odd flower and ribbon. Pretty, huh?

"Mummy, Give me some red beans?" Her.

"Please could I have some red beans, Mummy!" Me.

Lentils.

I pass her a small bowl of raw red lentils and some green ones for good measure. Oh, a few unsoaked, unboiled butter beans. These she places into a couple of the chocolate-shaped holes, all of which have already been painted gluey-blue.

"Now. I put them on my table and wait them to grow to biscuits."

What?

"They grow to biscuits."

Cool.

She sits patiently watching and waiting for her blue-painted lentil biscuits to start sprouting. And waiting. And watching. Ah, at least it's keeping her quiet.

"Sit on the rocking chair, Mummy. And watch."

I try to get out of this but she persists, her voice rising to a screech.

"Watch wif me, Mummy."

I sit down opposite her and we both stare at the mess, willing the Miracle.

"Come on." She shouts at the lentil mixture.

Yes! Come on: it's like watching bloody paint dry!

Mills and Boon

2009-07-10T06:41:00.000-07:00

We just had a picnic at the Old Town Quarry, which is always a pleasure. Today they'd left hula-hoops and a skipping rope out on the grass - rather thoughtful, that. Our big treat of the day was at the cafe, in the form of a cappuccino for Mummy and a clown lolly for Lestie. Hey-hey.

We checked out Nathan the Blacksmith's place (OMG! He's like something out a historical romantic novel, sigh....). Unfortunately we couldn't see The Man Himself although we could hear him beating his wrought iron.

Ahem.

Lots of climbing, running and knee-grazing later, we walked home through the woods to play with the fairies. We came across the tiniest-weeniest of raspberries, which we golloped down before the birds could get at them and then we scatched our bare legs on the brambles as we tackled the overgrown paths.

And now it's a cup of tea, chocolate (I'm addicted to Mint Aero at the mo) and CBeebies time. I'm sighing again but, this time, for completely different reasons.

Hula-Hoop Girl

Nathan the Blacksmiths' from Behind

The Witches House @ The Quarry

The 'Secret Garden' @ Weston Woods (Queen's Road Entrance)

Peek-a-Boo, I See You

Puddle Jumping Part 2 - Weston Woods

2009-07-08T05:14:00.000-07:00

In pictures:

Her Face

My Feet

Our Bath

Puddle Jumping Part 1

2009-07-07T09:46:00.000-07:00

The absolute best fun you can have for FREE?

No contest. It has to be jumping in puddles.

We've just been into town after a few rather heavy downpours. Put a pair of PINK wellies on the feet of one little girl and it's pretty much a case of, "Mind out of the way everyone, here I come!"

Running jump, two feet and SPLASH!!

The only way I could coax her home was with the promise of more puddles along the way. We finally made it!! She's in the bath now, creating more water mess, and I've given my word that if she goes to bed soon (she's "not tired". That old chestnut), when she wakes up in the morning we'll go up the woods and find some even bigger puddles.

But this time, I'll be dressed for it too :-)

And, by the way, here's my latest Weston Mercury blog post about our visit to Chris' allotment last week, when it was still sunny: http://www.thewestonmercury.co.uk/cs/blogs/weston-super-mum/archive/2009/07/07/1748821.aspx

Entertain Us!

2009-07-06T06:11:00.000-07:00

Horray! Thank you BBC!

The fabulous Chris and Pui are back on Cbeebies. OK, we still have to put up with the dull-as-dishwater Cerrie and Alex (no chemistry, 6 months on) but at least we get to watch C&P in their new programme Show Me, Show Me twice a day (10am and 1:30pm). Actually, we've got it on a bit of a loop here at the moment because when it finished at 2pm, TV Girl got really upset (it's not just me who thinks these two are The Best):

"I want Show Me, Show Me. I want Show Me, Show Me." Whinge, whinge.

So, I rewound it and she's actually sitting there smiling at the telly. Music and dancing, campery, dressing up, flowers, numbers and Teddington. Smashing!

We love Chris and Pui, we love Chris and Pui, we love Chris and ....

http://www.bbc.co.uk/cbeebies/showmeshowme/

Our Weekend

2009-07-05T09:42:00.000-07:00

The Moon from our Window

Glastonbury Tor - View from Ebbor Gorge

Chris' Allotment (The Plot) - Digging for Spuds

Feeding the Chickens @ The Plot

Caught Red Mouthed - Picking Berries @ The Plot

Become a Facebook Fan of Weston-super-Mum? @

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Weston-super-Mum/99940260107?ref=mf

Shall I Tell You the End?

2009-07-05T06:17:00.000-07:00

We've already walked through Grove Park and said 'hello' to the fish in the pond (and someone had a PINK lolly from the cafe). We've just been to Waterstones to say 'hello' to the extremely colourful fish in the tank (and someone had Smelly Peter, the Great Pea Eater read to her). We're now on our way to Tesco, where we always say 'hello' to the dead fish at the dead meat and fish counter and, passing the Odeon, I realise that today is Sunday! That means that Odeon Kids are showing U- and PG-rated films for £1 (that's £1 per child and free for adults!!).

The listings state that 3 Odeon Kids films are on this morning and that they all started between 90 and 50 minutes ago. The last one to begin was Bedtime Stories and it's still only half way through. Perfect! Yeah, let's go and see Bedtime Stories!

What? Why would you want to see a film that you'd already missed half of?

Well, because there's no way that my very, very-nearly three year old daughter could ever do a whole film! I mean, she can manage 20 minutes of Justin and Mr Tumble on CBeebies but that's about her record. At least this way, if I can stretch it out, I get to 'take the weight off' for half hour and maybe even see the end of the movie, whereas, if we go at the beginning, I'm always left wondering how it finished up. I'll fill in the bits that I've missed. It's an Adam Sandler film: how hard can it be? And it only costs a quid! That's a steal for a midday rest, don't you think?

"Ooh, it's dark. It's dark. It's very dark."

Straight to the front. I calculate that there are around 10 people scattered about the cinema. We take a chair each. 1 minute; Fidget Girl is still watching. 2 minutes; still watching. 3 minutes ... and she's off, test driving every single pull-down seat in the front row, where, incidentally, no-one else is parked. I let her get on with it, she's not bothering anyone. She gets her leg stuck, I go to pull her out. She stares at a little boy behind her, he pokes his tongue out at her. She makes her way back to where I'm sitting, she climbs onto my lap for a cuddle and we watch the action together, all snug.

She wants to go the loo. It's a false alarm.

"Where's the big film gone?" she asks.

We return to catch the end of the movie, in which a small mob are trying to prevent their fabulous school from having an evil hotel built on it. "Save our School" the mob shouts. "Say a Scold" Random Girl shouts, over and again, fist in the air, emulating the mob on screen.

They save the school, Adam Sandler gets the girl and the baddies get their just desserts.

And do you know what? It's really rather good!

http://www.odeon.co.uk/fanatic/kids/

ZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzz

2009-07-03T09:16:00.000-07:00

Some might call me lazy: I just call myself Knackered Old Mum.

Whatever label you choose, the truth is that, instead of entertaining you with tales of the madness of child-rearing, which most of you probably share/have shared/will share (oh, I've scared some of you now - byeee), I'm posting the link to my latest Weston Mercury Blog entry. Fresh and Live:

http://www.thewestonmercury.co.uk/cs/blogs/weston-super-mum/archive/2009/07/03/1744810.aspx

I've had a really lovely day today though. Hope you have too
xx

Poxy Spots

2009-07-02T03:08:00.000-07:00

So, she woke up yesterday morning with a few spots on her belly but, as far as I could tell, no signs of illness. Fit Girl gets a new bruise or scratch every single day from climbing and has been to the hospital twice for head injuries when she ran full-pelt into a table and then into a door but this child is never ill. 'Is it chickenpox?' was the first thing that passed through my head. I took her to the Chemist:

"Has she got any other symptoms?" he asked.

Not unless you count extreme naughtiness. And screaming for no discernable reason. And demanding chocolate. And continually blowing raspberries. Oh, and stamping her feet. "I don't think so."

"Is she hot?"

What in these freakishly high temperatures of Summer 2009? Give me someone who isn't hot! Just one person. "No."

"Has she been lifeless or very tired?"

No, she's still an absolute maniac who doesn't stop running around (sometimes in circles) from 7 am till 6:30 pm. "Nope."

"Has she eaten anything unusual?"

Lots of sweets at those two parties. A lollipop at the hairdressers. "A bit more sugar than usual but no, not really."

"I'll give her some Piriton. Keep an eye on her."

It could be an allergy? It could be chickenpox? Last night I was sure it was the latter: just a few more spots on her legs and back but now, looking at her sitting on my kitchen worktop, squirting water into her mouth from a plant sprayer, laughing and screaming (still screaming!!), I really, really don't know!

Anyone?

Short and Curlies

2009-07-01T03:43:00.000-07:00

Why is it that I can't get Energy Girl to stay still for long enough to put her socks on but she sat happily in the hairdresser's chair for 20 minutes?

And why is it that I can't get Ouch-It-Hurts Girl to let me wide-comb her wild curly hair (even with conditioner in) but Kylie the Stylist managed to de-tangle it while it was dry and with a fine-tooth comb, all without a whimper?

How come I have to chase Screamer Girl around the house with a pair of scissors just to trim her fringe, when her New Hair-Cutting Friend arranged it tidily into layers with no hassle whatsoever?

When has Chatterbox Girl ever stopped talking for more than two minutes except for yesterday in that chair, lollipop in hand, getting her curls groomed by the Lovely Kylie - when she didn't say a single bloody word?