Monthly Archives: July 2012

Smaller World

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It’s almost a week since my last post. And what a week! We had a holiday club for children (I was a volunteer), the Olympic Opening Ceremony (I was transfixed) and a Family Fun Day today (I was doing too many things!) It’s a struggle to do all this stuff with Dad. He was at Auntie’s until Thursday evening, and I was already done in! I should be getting up-to-date on my own jobs and re-charging my batteries a bit when he’s at Auntie’s. But this time last year he was walking to places and playing cricket with the kids, so I can hardly blame myself for having said yes to stuff. Without Mr. Invisible I couldn’t have done it. He helped Dad with the morning routine yesterday while I was at holiday club and again this morning when I was setting up the Fun Day. I think my world needs to shrink a bit.

Dad and Bear and I watched the opening ceremony of the Olympics last night. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and we have been waiting years for it. Just as the seven young athletes were in position to light the copper petals, which would combine to form the Olympic cauldron, Dad decided he needed the loo. Between the walking frame and the stairlift, I managed to get the gist of what was happening. And in the modern age, there are plenty of opportunities to see it again. So remind me, why did I stay up for it? That it’s all happening just along the road might have something to do with it. I’ve never taken any notice of the Olympics before, but now I’ve got Olympic-coloured nails and am well on the way to getting the total fever! Actually I love it. I love the hype, the atmosphere, I love that Bear is so engaged with it. I love that I can’t go anywhere without seeing an Olympic cycling team in training or an Olympic volunteer on the way home from a shift.

Anyway, Bear is in my bed now. He woke up an hour ago wet with perspiration, hiding under the covers from the monsters. Where these monsters have come from I don’t know, but they are real to him. Mummy’s bed with the lamp on is the best place. Monsters wouldn’t dare go into Mummy’s room and they are definitely scared of the light. I hope he’s still there when I go to bed. I’m happy for my world to get smaller if I get to look after Dad, give Mr. Invisible a break and enjoy Bear.

Memories are made of this

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We are all exhausted today. Yesterday was one of those sepia days. Our friend D carried the Olympic flame for 350 metres. 50 supporters chanted his name as the previous torch ‘kissed’ his and the flame was in his care for what must have been three minutes, maybe four before he passed it on to the next worthy soul.

It was long enough though. Long enough to lift the dreams, prayers and hopes of a whole community into the Olympics and beyond. To be honest, I’m not that interested in athletics. If it were only about sport, I probably wouldn’t bother. I might switch on the telly from time to time, or glance at the back pages, or maybe get really excited about something on the car radio, but not enough to listen to the end if I arrive at my destination before the race is over.

But yesterday was something else. Carrying the torch is nothing to do with sponsors or organisers or buildings. This is the bit that belongs to the people. Lots of little communities adding together to make a big one. D had his photo taken more times than a Hello-magazine bride. Everyone wanted a piece of him. We had one of those good old fashioned parties with buckets of drink, troughs of food and all kinds of people mixing together and having a fabulous time. There were people from beavers, cubs, scouts, from church, from work, family, friends, neighbours, friends of friends, children of friends, ex-lovers of friends. There were as many smiling faces as there were people and I bet there are a few sore heads today!

I’ve had enough of the sponsors and doom-mongers. It isn’t about them anymore. It’s time to consign it all to the small print. From here on, it’s about dreams, about inspirational people like D. It’s about a community that’s been getting ready for this for seven years, finally making it happen. Bring it on!

Any old teddy bear I want ….

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Rupert Pink arrived at his new home today. It’s the first time he’s been outside my parents’ house for over forty years. How did my special teddy manage to end up in a black bag in the attic? Maybe I’m biased, but he has always been my gold standard for a teddy bear. He has a proper stiff face, teddy eyes and the right amount of stitching under his shiny black nose. He has moving arms and legs and leather pads for his hands and feet. He isn’t properly pink anymore, but that just adds to his charm.

I can only suppose that he was briefly supplanted in my affections by newer, sleeker, shinier bears. Then he disappeared. I’m sorry Rupert Pink. I hope you’ll forgive me. If you can’t, I know you’ll give Bear a chance to make it right.

It must be a shock to be overwhelmed by an enthusiastic 5-year-old after twenty-odd years in the attic. Poor Roop probably needs a drink! And finally I’ve got just the old teddy bear I want.

Belonging

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I enjoyed my weekend in Ireland. It’s just that I’m pleased to be back. Bear and Mr. Invisible had a fabulous time. I could tell by the state of the house and the lack of clean laundry! I missed them, but I’m glad we did it. I needed to go away to feel grounded again. In the busyness of life it’s easy to lose track of the things that matter. It’s taken me a couple of days and I still haven’t caught up with my jobs, but I’m properly home now.

Mr. Invisible met me at the airport on Sunday night. That’s the start of homecoming. (I love being met from airports.) Next thing ticked off was the red bus. Even when I was at university, my muscles started to relax when I saw my first red bus on homecoming. It’s a bit like the first sip of wine on a summer evening. Indoors, I made Dogford wait while I looked at Bear sleeping soundly in the ‘pea on a fork’ position. He looked huge. He can’t have grown 15 cm in a weekend, so I guess I imagine him as a smaller bear than he really is. Then I let Dogford welcome me properly. Even Lady Catford condescended to be stroked (on her own terms of course!)

Bear’s face lit up when he came into my room on Monday morning. Make no mistake. He had a fantastic weekend, he was bubbling about it and wanted to tell me everything! We were only just on time for school. Walking home through the park after dropping him, I felt the most amazing sense of peace. I felt it again on the the flats this morning. It didn’t rain today (newsworthy!), but there is so much water. The flats are incredibly marshy. Dogford was splashing and generally being a dog. There were the most gorgeous water lillies in the lake. Gentle. There are many beautiful places in the world and lovely people everywhere, but nothing that comes close to home. I’m more certain than ever that it’s my life I’m living, the one I’m supposed to have.

Painted Lady

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It was open-evening at Bear’s school today. He enjoyed showing me the newly transformed painted lady butterflies in their net tube. He has been so excited about them over the past few weeks, right from anticipating the arrival of the eggs. Sadly, by the time they arrived the eggs had hatched into caterpillars. This didn’t dampen Bear’s enthusiasm and with his little hand in mine each day on the way home from school, he has shared his excitement and his newly acquired knowledge.

When he was little he liked wearing fairy wings at our local playgroups. I thought the pinks and lilacs were a bit sickly, so I found him some painted lady butterfly wings to wear. Three years on and he still loves flitting about in them, but we have had little success looking for real ones in the garden. I’m so grateful to his teacher for giving him this amazing experience. As much as he has enjoyed seeing the development from caterpillar through pupa to butterfly, he is looking forward even more to setting them free in the sensory garden, where they will take their chance with the other creatures.

I am doing something similar with Bear. I remember the first suspicious changes in my body and the test that confirmed he was growing inside me. Then he developed as a foetus, a baby, a toddler, and so it goes on. At some point, he will take his chance with the other creatures. All I can do is support him and equip him as best as I can. One day, he will stretch his own wings and taste the nectar for himself.

Storytime

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Wiser folk than I say the art of storytelling was lost when we started writing things down. I’m sure something changed forever the first time someone put chisel to stone, but we also gained in the process. I love writing. The feel of my Waterman fountain pen on fine moleskin paper, or biro on the shopping list pad, or pencil in a notebook. I love books. Crisp new books, never before touched by human hand. Secondhand books whose history I share with unknown readers who maybe left a shopping list or a boarding pass behind as a clue. Library books shared with a whole community. I love them all. I even managed to save a few books from my own childhood to share with Bear. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Mary Poppins, The Water Babies.  When I was pregnant I bought a book for him each month. My postnatal hormones wouldn’t allow me to read Dogger without crying for at least a year!

I love reading too. Bear calls any book without pictures a “mummy’s book.” I love being pulled in from the first sentence. Well-crafted description is so satisfying. Believable dialogue makes the characters leap out and into a future beyond the confines of the pages. The last sentence of a book can make it or break it. I love a happy ending, but I’d rather have a sad one than fake a happy one.

And yet. Sometimes stories just have to be told for the sake of it. If it’s unwritten, the ending can change each time. The plot can thicken or dilute according to the time available and the audience. Some stories are good only good for the moment. Others would completely lose their meaning if they were written. Sadly, we mostly only tell made-up stories for our children now. Bear even likes stories that are simply about his day. There doesn’t have to be a point to them. His favourite is about going on the Clipper. Before he started school we used to sit on the same bench in the park every Wednesday for the same story about a dinosaur called Eric. He can make up stories too. It’s great. It’s another way for him to make sense of his world. My Dad used to make up bedtime stories for Auntie and me. I can remember them now, but I bet Auntie remembers them differently and Dad differently again. Making up stories for Bear would be too much for him now, but he’s always enjoyed reading to Bear at bedtime. This evening, after Bear had got his pyjamas on and brushed his teeth, he clambered onto the sofa next so Grandad could read to him. Whatever day it is, that’s a perfect ending.

Architect of the Week

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Bear received a set of wooden bricks for his first birthday from Grandma & Grandad. At first he could hold one, appreciate the texture and explore it with his mouth. The first time he put one on top of another, Mr. Invisible and I were very excited. He’s building, he’s building! We were jumping up and down.

They have to be his most-used toy. He probably wouldn’t rate them as his favourite. He’d probably choose some noisy piece of plastic that doesn’t often see the light of day. But he goes back to these wooden bricks time and again. He has built train stations, beds for his cuddly toys, castles, even a playground complete with ice cream van.

This afternoon he came up with an ‘Award Tower.’ His world is taken up with all things Olympic at the moment and it’s still almost three weeks to go! I dread to think how much more excited he can get. At the weekend he built an Olympic stadium with a portable toilet block for the ‘Teddy Bear Olympics.’ I am constantly amazed by his individual thoughts and ideas. I love that that he is a totally separate creative being. He’s definitely my Architect of the Week.

Read all about it

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This morning I travelled to the West End by tube. Nothing unusual there I hear you say, but this was before 9.30am when lots of people go to work and I’m usually still walking the dog. Yes, I know half the day is gone by then but they don’t!

When I used to tube it to the office, passenger pastimes were very different. I was once part embarrassed, part flattered to be sketched by a fellow passenger. Sometimes people would do unusual things on the tube like sing or play charades to see if anyone would join in, but the vast majority read books or newspapers. A minority would do nothing and there might be one or two people-watchers like me. I’m fascinated by the way people behave on the tube. Everyone sits face to face like a big dinner party, but no one is really there because everyone is between places. You see the real person. Not the work-persona or the home-persona, but the person in between, who they are when they think no one’s watching. There are still taboos. No one would scratch an embarrassing itch, for example or pick their nose, but applying make-up is fairly common for those with a steady hand.

Out of 12 sitters in my bit of the carriage this morning, two were snogging (a clear case of yesterday’s clothes if ever I saw one!), four were staring inanely, one was reading a free newspaper (I’ll call it ‘litter’ from now on for brevity) and four were using mobile devices. Only one was reading an actual book and not a single person was reading a proper newspaper. I know this isn’t a scientific sample and that these people possibly read lots  when they are not on the tube, but surely it’s an indication.

The first thing that goes in a totalitarian society is the free press. Soon after that books are banned. Are we heading towards a state that doesn’t have to ban newspapers and books because no one will want to read them anyway? My advice to the people on the tube this morning? Go to the library and the newsagents. Get it before it disappears.

Lost Arts

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It’s impossible to switch on a radio or pick up a newspaper without learning of another skill being lost to the age of technology. The art of conversation is making way to social networking. Some would relegate to history the sensuous, tactile experience of reading a book – yes, an actual book. Not to mention the disappearing art of letter writing. So which of these am I rueing today?

Actually none. It’s the disappearing art of opening a milk bottle. It happened in my house everyday when I was growing up, and every house for that matter. Children were able to do it before writing their name or tying their shoe laces. Not anymore. When Ashford moved in with us, he was old enough to vote, get married, do what he would with anyone who’d consent. But open a milk bottle? Apparently not. I came across a few mangled milk bottle tops in the fridge before initiating him in the art. This afternoon, I was making a cup of tea for a friend and she was helpfully PEELING the lid off the milk!

I’m only going to say this once. Holding the lid, shake the bottle. Then press the lid with your thumb. Not the nail. The pad. To summarise, hold lid and shake, press with thumb. There I’ve said it twice. That’s it. No more. Ever.

Pardon the Pun

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Bear’s laughter is my favourite sound in the whole world. Before he was born, it was Mr. Invisible’s laughter, so I guess that’s now my second favourite. (Please don’t tell him he’s been relegated, although I suspect he already knows!)

Bear comes into my bed every morning for a tickle. My day is never quite right if it hasn’t been started by the tinkling of his laughter. As he gets older I’m going to have to become more sophisticated to extract my favourite sound. Right now, he likes the usual toilet humour (that girls grow out of at some point.) He laughs at magicians and Mike burping in Monsters Inc and Mr. Potato Head in Toy Story. He even has a favourite joke.

Q: ‘Why did the cow cross the road?’  A: ‘Because he wanted to go to the MOOvies!’

Mr. Invisible and I have to laugh every time. He’s taken a while to come up with his own though. His first, a couple of years ago now was, ‘Knock knock.’ ‘Who’s there?’ ‘Mr. Coffee. (pause) Go on laugh!’

He’s just moved onto the next level. Wearing his firefighter outfit earlier, he held up his toy drill and said, ‘Fire….. Drill!’

Mr. Invisible was thrilled to bits with his protégé and I’d like to suggest an amendment to the definition of a good pun. If it’s one you made up yourself, I’d like to add unless you’re under six years old, in which case it’s charming!