312: hashtag soblessed

One of the great joys of parenting is the almost constant sense of bewilderment and the nagging feeling that you’ve missed something quite important somewhere along the line which will, in short order, come back to you just that little bit too late to do anything about it. Like being the only parent who forgets it’s non-uniform day, or odd socks day, or that it’s an INSET day and you’re the only parent who has taken their child to school (sorry, Thing 1). I’m nineteen years plus into this mothering lark and I still haven’t got the hang of it. If I end the day with the same number I started with I’m counting it as a win, even now. If they’re fed and clean, all the better though these days they take care of the latter themselves and they’re getting better at the former.

Don’t get me wrong, dear readers. I did not start this journey with quite such a cavalier attitude to my offspring.

When I started down this road I had visions of being the sort of parent who’d have all the kids’ clothes out ready for the morning, all co-ordinated and cute. I’d do baby led weaning and nary a jar of Cow & Gate cauliflower cheese would grace my shelves let alone baby crack (aka Petit Filou). Annabel Karmel would be my guru. They would be breakfasted on something healthy and be at school ready to learn with their socks up and their hair in plaits (not Thing 3, at least until Covid hit and his response to our DIY haircut was to refuse to have his hair touched for the next two years).

I wouldn’t be that parent who was in Tesco at 8am shoving the food tech ingredients into a basket and hissing ‘measure them when you get there!’. I would remember parents’ evening and to buy end of term cards for teachers, but not Roses or Quality Street. I too would be immaculately turned out, possibly with grown up shoes, tamed hair and flicky eyeliner. I’d be on time to the childminder, and would have meal plans that didn’t involve fish fingers. I would remember to book the appointments for parents evening.

Mum Barbie (TM) lived rent-free in my head, as the youth would have it.

I am sure I could have been Mum Barbie, really, except for that thing called real life that kept getting in the way. Thing 1 was a fussy eater, colicky when she was small and then she didn’t like pureed butternut squash and sweet potato, or green things. She would like one thing for a week so you’d lay in a stock. Big mistake. Huge mistake. I learned. Petit Filou to the rescue, as at least she was eating. At 19 she’s still a fussy eater. Still, I loathe beans and pulses of all description because of the texture so I can’t really criticise. Things 2 and 3 – jars all the way. Sanity saved. Thing 2 has turned out to be a foodie and will try anything – her favourite food was always ‘someone else’s’ and if we mislaid her in a restaurant she was to be found peering over a table at other people’s food, with an unnerving hard stare similar to that patented by Paddington.

As for the co-ordinated cute clothes – well, there were clothes and thank heavens the kids were cute. Tracy the childminder/lifesaver used to say that the parents at the school knew which parent had been responsible for dressing the child that morning. Three days a week I’d be off to work at 6am and Daddy was in charge of clothes. Just because everything has stripes it doesn’t mean they match. My own dressing for several of those early years was more ‘has anyone been sick on me? Nope? Good to go!’ than a ‘fit check’ as Thing 1 tells me these are called.

At no point did my children arrive at school with their socks up. Thing 1 was often handed over straight to first aid thanks to her ability to fall over from a standing start, while Thing 2 was usually screaming in fury at being left at school. Thing 3 was a dirt magnet. I gave up: they were there. I wasn’t late, although my hair remained (and remains) untamed and I still live in DMs and Converse. I tried ballet flats but with my Hobbit feet they’re never going to work. Flicky eyeliner remains beyond me even with felt tip pens and a stencil.

2017. First day of new school. Note socks.

I was in awe of those parents who managed with swan-like serenity to juggle their offspring from school to activity to gym to bed on time, probably via something home cooked and nutritious. The ones with the perfect blonde highlights, yoga pants and immaculate children with big bows in their hair. Their kids probably came home with the same clothes they started with and didn’t lose whole PE kits (twice). The ones who made things for cake sales, ran the PTA (in school hours – way to alienate the working parents, folks!) and who always managed to make it to school assemblies and sports days in time to sit at the front to cheer their child on, even though we weren’t supposed to. I hated sports days as a child and as a teacher, and even as a parent that never changed.

The Playground Mum Barbie cliquey mums at the gates who gathered in twittery groups and went for coffee at Costa and yoga classes together while I hared off down the hill to the station. Who collared mums they’d never usually deign to speak to when they wanted your support to get a child with what would turn out to be ADHD removed from the school ‘for his own sake, so he can have the care he needs (simper simper)’. The ones who share carefully curated family pictures on their socials with hashtags like ‘making memories’ and ‘so blessed’. In my head I knew that these weren’t ‘real life’ and their reality was probably much like mine, but one thing you learn when you live with mental health issues is that your head is a bloody liar at times.

No one carefully curates the moments when your phone rings with the school number on it and your heart sinks. Is it the umpteenth courtesy call of the week to say that Thing 2 has clashed heads with her inseparable buddy again and just to be aware. The fourth call in one day to say that the three year old had got overexcited playing dinosaurs in the playground before school and bitten someone, and did we need to have a chat about his behaviour before he started school six months later?

No one curates the moment when you’re trying to wrangle three kids out of the door and you wonder when it’s your turn to have the meltdown at the idea of putting shoes and coat on and going somewhere. The cluster feeding when they’re either attached to you or screaming and you can’t put them down, so you walk for hours pushing the buggy and crying quietly knowing that as soon as you get back to the house it’ll start again. The moment when they found the crayons or the maple syrup and redecorated the walls or carpet, or when they refused the carefully cooked fish fingers but ate the compost from the plants, or when you decided that enough was enough and everyone was having the same dinner. Stroganoff Gate remains one of the worst evenings of my life. When you’re on the phone trying to explain to the doctor that no, I can’t bring in the one with the suspected ear infection as the other one has confirmed chicken pox. I can laugh now about the year I begged – only half in jest – for just 24 hours without a sick child. I made it to 25 and it started again. No really, I can laugh about it now.

Post-Natal Depression Barbie has never taken off, for some reason. Even poor old Pregnant Barbie was discontinued. There’s probably a reason for that.

Eventually you find your playground tribe. Often it’s the ones also dashing up the hill from the train, cursing the existence of Platform 1 and having to cross the bridge and the fact that there’s never a bus when you really need one. I was lucky and had a childminder who did pick-ups three days a week but on the rare occasions… We moved schools when Thing 1 went to secondary school: Things 2 and 3 started at the primary school in our village, where the worst thing that I heard on the first day was ‘They tried to play with me and they didn’t even introduce themselves!’. The playground parents were much friendlier, and the school was more welcoming. I think I got the hang of it all eventually – I still miss the odd parents evening, as telling me about a March date in the previous September, and sending 13 page newsletters is too much to wade through.

I think I’m winning. There’s three kids here and I’m pretty sure they’re mine – I’ll take it! #soblessed

Things making me happy this week

Not this little thug, who attempted to hamstring me earlier for having the temerity to walk past her
Making a job offer to a new team member – made my day!
Thing 2’s new obsession with sourdough – cinnamon and raisin has been my favourite this week, though the rosemary and confit garlic is pretty impressive
Bridgerton. So frothy and flirty and fun. Benedict is redeemed
https://www.instagram.com/realpuppetregime/ on Instagram – very funny
Several days of sunshine, which went a long way to curing all ills
My thumb joint slowly improving – hopefully I’ll be able to crochet again soon

And that’s it from me for the week! Hope you’ve had a good one too.

Kirsty x

What I’ve been reading:

Kate Shugak Investigations 5 – 10 – Dana Stabenow. That’s it. Nothing else.

257: time flies when you’re being mum

The last couple of months have been bringing home to me how fast the Things are growing up, not just physically (as I crane my neck to look up at them) but in what they are up to. I think I have been deep in denial that Thing 1 is actually planning to leave home in just a couple of short months, to head off to university to do Early Childhood Studies. Thing 2 is revising hard for her GCSEs and had an interview for a professional cookery course at a local college this week. Thing 3 is making his GCSE choices and wanting to join gyms and things.

It does make me feel a bit wistful looking up at them all, especially when the digital photo frames show ‘on this day’ pictures of when they were small: using their dad as a climbing frame, charging off into their first deep snow in the local park, picking me bunches of bright dandelions on the way to the shops, ‘gumping in muddy buddles’ in their ladybird wellies, being hopelessly overexcited at a toy train, being the Littlest Gruff on daddy’s lap at storytime. I still have their first shoes and their first tiny Welsh rugby shirts stashed in my wardrobe, of course, and locks of hair from their first haircuts*. There are certain photos which make my heart melt every time they pop up.

Now I look at Thing 3’s shoes (size 12!) and Thing 1’s varying hair colours. Thing 2 still picks flowers but is now more likely to press them and turn them into art than clutch them all around the town. It used to take ages to get anywhere as she was so engrossed in looking at all the small things. Thing 3 used to make us stop at every lamp post where he’d say ‘that sign means lightning! If there is lightning you must not go in the garden because you will DIE’. It took a while to get to nursery. Thing 1 used to talk to the meerkats that lived in Daddy’s shoes, which was a bit disconcerting but there you are. Who were we to say that there weren’t meerkats in his trainers? Imagination is one of the best things about being a small person, building the world the way you want it – I think if they get to exercise it when they’re small it’s good practice for improving the world when they’re older. I think we’re going to need the imagineers in the next couple of years.

Obviously I know in my head that kids are supposed to grow up (I plan on trying it some time myself) and leave home and be their own people and all that sort of caper, but it seems to have come round terribly quickly and without much consultation. I’m not sure I like it but apparently it’s not up to me….

*Thing 2 is reading over my shoulder as she revises and just said ‘urrgghhh, you kept our hair?’ She’ll learn.

Things making me happy this week

Last week’s post being flagged as not meeting some tech corporation’s community standards – AHAHAHA. Like Captain Vimes says, if you’re annoying the right people you’re doing things properly.
The V&A Academy’s online ‘In Practice’ series – last Monday I did Ekta Kaul’s Stitching Nature session and had an enjoyable evening doing embroidery..
Meeting lots of lovely ex-colleagues from Young V&A as I was in Bethnal Green for a meeting.
Turning a Vicki Brown Designs yarn advent sock yarn set into piles of squishy granny squares. Eleven colours down, 23 to go. She designs gorgeous sock patterns too. Sock yarns are too nice to go inside shoes though.
Making some progress on last year’s temperature tracker which I hadn’t touched since August as I put it down in favour of Christmas crochet. Only four months to go…
The prospect of a lot of baguettes, canalside walks and a week off.

What I’ve been reading:

Million Dollar Demon – Kim Harrison

The Fifth Element/Night Watch – Terry Pratchett (Audible)

Death of a Lesser God– Vaseem Khan

240: Here we go again part, I don’t know, several million

Well, gang, it’s been a while since I had to get up on this particular soapbox, but here we are again. This time it has a positive outcome but quite frankly it should never have been an issue in the first place, it being 2024 and all that.

I should probably include a trigger warning here for workplace bullying, sexual harassment, self harm and fury. Skip to the happy list at the end if you like. I won’t mind. Honest.

Thing 1 has been working for the last month or so at the local pub, where she and her best friend do a mix of kitchen and front of house shifts. Another of her friends, a lad she was at school with, also works in the kitchen. It came to light that she really wasn’t enjoying the kitchen shifts, and neither were her friends, due to another, older, member of staff who was making sexually inappropriate comments to these two teenage girls and bullying the boy. Not in front of other staff, of course, but in that nasty underhand way that bullies have, trying to make his other victims complicit in his behaviour – presumably with a sense of relief that they weren’t on the receiving end for a change, because that’s how bullies work. He commented on Thing 1’s self-harm scars and ‘advised’ her on more effective methods, and made explicit comments on the girls’ physical appearance. He threatened to get them all sacked and screamed at the boy so loudly in the kitchen it could be heard in the bar.

One evening last week they got together and approached their manager, with video evidence of an incident and detailed everything else that had gone on. The manager – also the father of a teenage daughter, but I would hope his reaction would have been the same anyway – offered the girls the chance to speak to his wife if it made them more comfortable, or for his wife to join the conversation. He didn’t make them make a statement, which is supposed to be procedure at the company. The bully was sacked the next day for gross misconduct and it’s been made very clear to all the staff that bullying of any kind is not acceptable.

I’m very proud of them for standing up for themselves, but furious (mama bear again) that yet again Thing 1 has been subjected to bullying and inappropriate behaviour. Having been the victim of bullying at work when I was a young teacher, I’m aware of just how long-lasting the effects can be, how damaging it can be to your confidence, and I didn’t want this to be her impression of what work is. I’m also pleased the manager’s response wasn’t to ‘have a chat with him’ as it was when I reported sexual harassment to an HR team in the first museum I worked in. It also demonstrates the power of working together – forming their own little union, if you like, and making things better for everyone.

My baby bird has come a long way since the incident a couple of years ago with the local business owner, and I am glad that the lack of action by the CPS on that occasion didn’t deter her from reporting this, but oh, how I wish that this sh*t (sorry Dad) wasn’t still happening in the first place.

Things making me happy this week

Interesting online things – mentoring training for working with young people who want to get into the creative industries, and one on workplace wellbeing.
A good day at Copped Hall last Sunday, despite Thing 2 being convinced her feet were going to fall off. Converse are not good cold weather shoes.
Making crochet French Fancies. With google eyes.
Idris Elba’s In The Long Run, his comedy series loosely based on his East London childhood. At the same time I was reading Lenny Henry’s autobiography, set a decade earlier, but detailing his experiences growing up in the Black Country as a Caribbean migrant. There’s probably some clever comparison I can make but mostly Lenny Henry’s made me quite sad. Word of warning – Netflix have listed In The Long Run backwards so we watched series 3, then 2, then one and were very confused.
Brassic, which has gone from strength to strength as the series (serieses?) have progressed.
Bemused by Lulu-cat’s personality change in the last few weeks. She’s taken to shouting at us and demanding food loudly, herding us in a most Bailey-like fashion.

Next week I’ll be coming to you live from sunny (I hope) Wales. Must remember to pack laptop.

Kirsty x

What I’ve been reading:

Who am I, again? – Lenny Henry

A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian – Marina Lewycka

Perverse and Foolish: A Memoir of Childhood and Youth – L. M. Boston

21st Century Yokel/The Good, the Bad and the Furry – Tom Cox (Audible)

239: mama bear mode engaged

This has been a fairly chaotic week, what with one thing and another, juggling family, work and finally a mercifully brief (as long as I don’t move too fast) bout of vertigo.

Thing 1, as I have mentioned before, is doing one of those new-fangled T-level things, in Education and Early Years. After a rough start at Harlow College doing a beauty course which she didn’t enjoy, she began the T-level course and got a A in her first year. A large part of the course is practical, spent on placement in an early years setting. Last year she was in a setting in Harlow, which meant the better part of 3 hours travel every day at the mercy of her inability to get up despite approximately a million alarms and an erratic bus service. This year, she got a placement in our local town, which you’d think would be a good thing – except it was the one school locally where I didn’t want her to go, as when she was a pupil there she was badly bullied. The school were unhelpful to say the least, telling me that she – as the victim – had to take some responsibility for being bullied. I have never come so close to thumping someone as an adult in my life – I was literally speechless, and anyone who knows me will be aware that that does not happen often.

Her anxiety stems from this experience, so I was worried that going back there would trigger a crisis. She felt that she would be OK, but the two reception teachers made it clear that they had no use for a student and weren’t allowing her to plan and deliver the activities her course required. She was also very distressed about their handling of a child with behavioural issues and children crying (these are four years olds who have been in school for a matter of weeks). I have long held that this particular school is not supportive of children with additional needs, and I still wish I’d removed Thing 1 before the end of primary. Things 2 and 3 changed school when Thing 1 went to secondary, and it was one of the best decisions I’ve made – if your child’s only complaint on their first day is that people tried to play with her and ‘they didn’t even introduce themselves!’ I think it’s a good sign.

Luckily her tutors were supportive, especially as Thing 1 had already raised the child with a behavioural issue as a safeguarding concern with them, and they have helped her to find a new placement with a lovely local school. She’s been talking over the last few months about going to university and has expressed an interest in working with children with SEND, which I think she would be great at (obviously I am biased, but) and I really don’t want her to have a negative experience before she’s had the chance to find out what she wants to do. (My own final teaching practice began with the teacher saying ‘You can’t be a teacher in a year, I don’t know why you’re bothering’… and it went downhill from there.) The relief I am feeling and the gratitude to the local head for making an exception and taking an additional student this year are enormous. I know she’s 18 and all that, but I am pretty sure there’s no age limit to the mama bear instinct.

Other things making me happy (or dizzy) this week

A visit to the Charles Dickens Museum on Wednesday – I took their learning person on a tour of the New River Head site (Dickens was a New River Company customer, it seems – even back then people were complaining about the water companies. Dickens paid for a bath-sized cistern but it was never full enough) and then we went for a return visit.
Later that evening the vertigo started – I probably shouldn’t have gone to work on Thursday but it was World Mental Health Day and I’d organised a team lunch and made banana and Malteser cake. The journey home was not fun, I can tell you that much. Luckily the cats kept me company all afternoon and Thing 2 looked after me.
An extremely slow walk around the Knitting and Stitching Show with Heather on our annual pilgrimage to Ally Pally – I didn’t buy anything at all, which is a first, and we remembered to take our packed lunches. We saw many Bees, including Luke who won this year’s GBSB, and I met some lovely textile illustrators. The Subversive Stitcher, who had an amazing exhibition of vintage tea towels in the foyer, was a favourite, and Harriet Riddell‘s amazing embroidered portraits and scenes. We liked Richard Box’s gorgeously tactile hares and flowers, too. The show had a couple of years when the big exhibitors didn’t attend but it seems to be back on form now – the graduate showcases and quilt exhibitions are always worth a look too.
Lots of making for today’s Apple Day at Copped Hall. Thing 2 is helping me out again, and we may have to be ‘those people’ in dryrobes as the temperature is looking autumnal.

You may detect a distinctly festive theme to the making, as I have just heard I have a stall at this year’s Epping Christmas Market, but there’s autumnal ones too…

And now I am off to enjoy the new series of The Cleaner, with lovely Greg Davies. Same time next week then!

Kirsty x

What I’ve been reading:

Unruly – David Mitchell

Razor Girl – Carl Hiaasen

We Are All Made Of Glue/A Short History of Tractors in the Ukraine – Marine Lewycka

Horses, Heifers and Hairy Pigs: The Life of a Yorkshire Vet – Julian Norton

21st Century Yokel – Tom Cox (Audible)

230: there’s a nap for that

I like sleep. I’m a big fan of it, quite frankly, and am willing to embrace it at the drop of an eyelid. Lockdown was brilliant, as I was on furlough, it was really hot and I could have siestas in my hammock whenever I wanted. Weekends almost always include a good nap or two. At night I like to read a bit (until the book falls out of my hands, usually) and then snuggle down with whichever cat happens to be on hot water bottle duty until the alarm goes off.

The hot water bottle on International Cat Day this week

One of the most annoying bits about menopause – which was saying something, given the rest of the symptoms – was the constant waking up at stupid o’clock and not being able to go back to sleep, but the patches seem to have sorted that out. Sleeping with earplugs has also helped enormously. My Beloved claims that earplugs aren’t helping him as he can still hear me snoring, but he can always get his own.

However, so far no one has made a patch that reduces wakefulness due to stress (the first of our National Lottery Heritage Fund community co-design projects starts this week, and what if no one turns up? I haven’t booked the transport yet! Is the bus big enough? What if it’s a total disaster? What if no one comes to the last day which is the really important one? What have I forgotten? What if too many turn up for the bus who didn’t RSVP? Argh! ).

There isn’t a patch to deal with having an 18 year old daughter on the loose in London with her friends, either. Thing 1 has embraced raving and has been off to South London (of all places!) a few times since her birthday. I am not sure why I am more concerned with her going to Vauxhall or Lambeth than when she goes to Camden, but there we are. We give her the lecture every week: no sex, no drugs, no sausage rolls (on the basis that rock’n’roll is in short supply at raves, but there might well be a hot dog seller or a 24 hour Greggs to hand). She’s quite sensible, we think, and we know she’s got a getting home plan and she’s with her friend from the village, but STILL. It’s my job.

At this point my mother is cackling away in her little village in Gaul and muttering about karma. I see you, mother. Don’t deny it.

Things making me happy this week

A couple of evening walks with Thing 2 through the fields and woods between our village and the next. There were deer, we startled a badger on his dusk patrol up near the fishing lake, gorgeous waterlilies.
I say walk – my Achilles has been playing up so more of a hobble. Still, I made it to week 5 on the C25k before it went. However, this evening it went ‘pop’ which Google assures me is not a good sign.
A day at the Peel/Three Corners Street Party – bubbles, dogs to make friends with (including a puppy who’d never seen bubbles before and kept trying to catch them), a DJ playing excellent tunes, lots of people interested in our project.
Saturday with my gazebo, touting my wares at a local church fundraiser. Sold a few bits and bobs, talked to lots of nice people and cut out a lot of paper hexagons for an English Paper Piecing project while sitting in a pretty graveyard. I love a graveyard, as you know.
Hydrangeas flowering nicely thanks to no intervention from me
The prospect of a few days off and a new dress pattern.
Apple cakes using my mum’s recipe, making use of the windfalls in the garden.
Early doors walk with Jill on Friday, putting the world to rights and plotting dastardly deeds.
Progress on the kantha-inspired bag which I keep forgetting to take photos of.
Unputdownable books.

And that’s it from me – next week I’ll try and remember to take photos, as I’m off with a load of families to Kew Gardens. If they turn up. And if the bus is big enough.

Kirsty x

What I’ve been reading:

Still Life – Val McDermid

Joe Country/Down Cemetery Road – Mick Herron

The Diary of a Secret Tory MP – The Secret Tory MP

Honeycomb – Joanne M. Harris (Audible)

The Full English – Stuart Maconie

The Covent Garden Ladies – Hallie Rubenhold

Necropolis – Catharine Arnold

229: Alexa, tell me a joke about robots

It’s Saturday evening and I am surrounded by small children jumping on and off the sofa and my stool as we run through my repertoire of counting songs, from monkeys jumping on the bed to frogs sitting on a log. We’ve exhausted Alexa’s store of jokes (turns out she doesn’t know any jokes about Transformers, much to Grandthing 1’s disgust) and all her fart noises. She’s now ‘having a rest’ (aka ‘Granny turned off the microphone’) and the kids are being kittens. The garden’s full of the Things and the Timeshare Teenagers – or Timeshare Twentysomethings now – and their partners, and various of their friends have been drifting in and out over the day as we do ‘open door’ parenting. If they know there’s a welcome for them and all their friends in easy times, they know the door will always be open when things get tough.

Our little blended family is expanding at the moment, and it brings me much joy: TT1’s partner has a little girl the same age as GT1 (they’re the ones being cats) and the pair of them are very much looking forward to being big brother and sister to the twins when they arrive in a few weeks’ time. This little girl loves Lilo and Stitch, collects snails and has an endless imagination. She’s a water baby and spent all afternoon in the pool splashing about. Turns out Grannies always have enough love to go around, although I think we’re going to need a minibus for the next family day out.

Other things making me happy this week

Airconditioning on the Elizabeth Line. Especially when the Central Line is up to its old tricks again
Running – I’m up to week five on the couch to 5k plan and while the 8 minute blocks came as a shock to the system today I still enjoyed it!
A day at the Royal College of Art with a colleague talking to the MA Visual Communications students -one of them told me that my talk had helped him decide what he wanted to do next. It’s nice to be a good influence instead of a terrible warning sometimes.
Also, they have a nice fernery in the middle of the college, with huge tree ferns, and the roof terrace has a view of the Albert Hall
Some gorgeous and much needed evening swims with Sue and a lot of ducks
Slow stitching on a felt hoop – a Corinne Lapierre kit of toadstools and ferns – at home, and on the sari silk patchwork bag on the tube.
The film of Paul Gallico’s book Flowers for Mrs Harris – they didn’t ruin it, hurray!
Sourdough crumpets – thanks to London sister Tan for the recipe, which is a winner

Now I’d better go and sort out tomorrow’s batch of bread….

Same time next week then,

Kirsty x

What I’ve been reading:

The Stones of Green Knowe – Lucy M.Boston

London Rules/Nobody Walks/Down Cemetery Road/Joe Country – Mick Herron

The Moonlight Market – Joanne Harris (Audible)

211: communications breakdown

Easter is here already, and I am relieved of the responsibility of getting anyone out of bed other than me for the next two weeks. This makes me quite cheerful. While I am known for being generally quite chirpy of a morning, this is only the case if I am allowed to have a cup of coffee and half an hour (at least) of solitary reading before I am expected to engage with anyone else. Having to coax various offspring out of their pits before my happy face is in place is known to test the bounds of my patience, and brings on what London sister refers to as my ‘psycho Mary Poppins’ persona. Gritted teeth, determinedly cheerful voice and walking (and occasionally falling off) the fine line between perky and profane.

It turns out that pulling an all-nighter in A&E with a miserable child (don’t panic, mum, she’s FINE – NHS111 sent us up there but their concept of emergency does not translate to actual emergency care) also tests my patience, especially when communications break down within the hospital and things are missed. The streaming clinician telling child they need to go to Urgent Care where they’ll be seen quickly, for example, but no one having told the clinician that Urgent Care had closed. Then, because we’d been through triage once and then got put back on the system as they’d taken her off because she’d been sent to Urgent Care (that wasn’t open), they failed to take bloods which were finally done at 4.30am – and then the doctor said they couldn’t do anything for various reasons, and to get a GP appointment. I laughed in a what was, according to the child, quite a scary way. These days you can only get a GP appointment if you phone in an arbitrary half hour slot on a Thursday afternoon, a month in advance, and there’s a z in the month. Or if you dial upwards of 50 times (my record is 96) to get into the queue at 8.30am and pray that by the time you get through there’s an appointment left. And now the nurse practitioner (lovely lady, did all the medication reviews, HRT and generally useful things) has left which will reduce options even more. The child also needs a consultant appointment – a telephone clinic – so she attempted to book online, only to find there were no appointments and to leave a number and the clinic would phone back. They did not phone back – the next contact was a letter telling her if she didn’t book an appointment she’d be discharged. I suppose the theory is that you’ll either be better or dead by the time you actually get to see anyone, which at least reduces waiting lists. You can’t fault the actual people on the NHS frontline (which includes some of my favourite friends) but something is going wrong somewhere.

AND the bloody coffee machine was broken.

After six hours I was forced to channel my inner dad, and explain that we’d been there many hours at this point, and that I did have two other children who I needed to make sure got to school and perhaps a doctor might like to talk to us so we could leave? I was extremely polite but my inner psycho Mary P was very definitely in evidence. The only plus was that we’d been there so long that the buses had started running again so at least we could get home.

We got home, I made sure the other two were at least awake and then went to bed, slept for a few hours and was in work for afternoon meetings…. FML, quite frankly. FML.

Things making me happy this week (not the NHS)

Monday morning coffee with an old colleague
Getting a lot of crochet done on my scarf – obviously I’d rather it hadn’t been overnight in the A&E dept, but there we are
Finishing the Rivendell cross stitch – next up, a Michael Powell kit that’s been lurking in the stash
Getting up to date on the temperature cross stitch
Discovering a rather magical new book – Days at the Morisaki Bookshop – and a whole new genre of literature (cats and books in Japan)
A visit from London sister, although I think my cats are trying to kill her
An Easter morning swim

Hopefully you’re all having a lovely Easter weekend filled with chocolate and hot cross buns.

Same time next week then!

Kirsty x

What I’ve been reading:

Voodoo River – Robert Crais

Sweets – Tim Richardson

At Home/Notes from a Big Country – Bill Bryson (Audible)

Kick Back – Val McDermid

Days at the Morisaki Bookshop – Satoshi Yagisawa

The Easy Life in Kamusari – Shion Miura

163: just being friendly?

Back last November I opened the front door to a very distressed Thing 1, who – on her way back from walking her friend to their job in the pub round the corner – had been accosted by an adult who had tried to kiss her. Thing 1 is 16, she’s polite and friendly, and she answers when she’s spoken to which is how she’s been brought up. We live in a village, we see the same people on a regular basis and so you say hello, because that’s what you do in a small community. For the last couple of years this adult has been making comments which erred towards the inappropriate, but could be brushed off as just overly friendly.

Comments on appearance, on how she was growing up, asking if she was still at school. The sort of thing you’d laugh off as being a bit creepy, followed by ‘say hi to your mum and dad’. Innocuous. Then she turned 16, started at college, and the tone changed.

‘Have you got a boyfriend? I bet you’ve got lots of secret admirers. I know you’ve got at least one, you’re growing up nicely’. The sort of thing you need to keep an eye on, as it’s too creepy. She would come home and tell us when he’d spoken to her, so we knew what was going on but thought he was just sleazy as she’d laugh it off.

On this day in November she wasn’t very well, so wasn’t as alert as usual, and she was trying to get home. We spent the following day at the emergency GP, in fact, with severe tonsillitis. On this occasion he started with ‘was that your boyfriend? Have you got a boyfriend?’ and then he put his hands on her shoulders and went in to try and kiss her. She reacted by stepping back and came home in a state.

This is a married man, at least in his 30s. who clearly knows what he is doing is wrong – asking her if she’s 16 yet, for example, is a clear indicator that he is aware of the legality of the situation. He is a local business owner, who has been heard encouraging teenage boys to bring their girlfriends in as ‘he likes them young’.

After speaking to a friend in the police we reported the incident and luckily they took it seriously, sending someone to interview Thing 1 and I, taking video evidence from her – and doing everything they could to make it an easy experience for her – and eventually arresting him. He of course denies knowing her (and someone else who made a complaint against him) and is out on bail, and this week – as he’s denied it – she had to go and do an identity parade which is fortunately all digital these days. It wasn’t easy: she texted me after I checked in on how it had gone, and said,

‘Yeah it was fine it was weird though all the pictures were fine but as soon as I saw his it felt like his eyes were looking right at me it was so uncomfy.’

She’s been so brave, and I am so proud of her: she is clear that she doesn’t want this to happen to someone else, who may not be as speedy or as supported as she is. She has to walk past his business twice a day, three days a week to catch the bus to college, and his bail conditions state that he is not allowed to speak to her or approach her – as he hasn’t, I assume that he does actually know who she is, despite the denials. The police have been great, keeping us updated with any developments and taking her seriously.

I’m not under any illusions that anything will actually happen to this man as a result of my little girl being brave enough to step up and make her statement: much as I’d like to see him named and shamed and drummed out of the village, I’m quite realistic. I would like the parents of other teen girls in the village to warn their daughters away, or at least to make sure their daughters know that this behaviour is sexual harassment and they don’t have to put up with it. It’s not ‘cultural’, it’s not ‘being friendly’, it’s harassment and we now know that it won’t stop there.

What I’d like even more is to know that I won’t have to write yet another blog post next year calling out sexual assault, or harassment, or even inappropriate behaviour. I think we’ve all had enough.

Things making me less furious this week:

The safe arrival of my very gorgeous new grandson this week, two weeks early, courtesy of Timeshare Teenager 2 (she’s 25, but they’ll always be the TTs). I think Grandson 1 was hoping for a baby robot for a cousin but he’ll have to put up with a regular human baby.
A good 13.5k ramble in the sunshine this morning following a footpath I’ve been eyeing up for a while, seeing my first swifts of the years and a whole family of hares.
A day off midweek, with a lovely walk round Harlow Town Park with Sue and the Bella-Dog finished off with tea and an Eccles cake
The Gaslight Anthem’s new single with an album to follow
A catch-up with an ex-colleague about attracting secondary school teachers to the museums

Tomorrow I have a swim and a visit to the new arrival planned, a Long Walk on Monday with London sister, and then will be spending some time this week planning another Long Walk away from all media next Saturday.

Happy Long Weekend!

Kirsty x

What I’ve been reading:

Desperate Undertaking/Fatal Legacy/The Silver Pigs – Lindsey Davis

Lords and Ladies – Terry Pratchett (Audible)

102: growing up isn’t easy…for the parent

This was secondary school week, when our year six kids find out which school they’ll be off to in September. For the lucky ones (including us) it’s your first choice school but others may not have fared so well. In our village, it’s a bit of a lottery – the majority of the children will have selected the school in Epping and will probably have got in, but if they’re in the half of the village that’s past the library they won’t be entitled to school transport as they’re closer geographically to the school in Ongar. Unfortunately as it’s so oversubscribed they haven’t got a chance of actually getting into Ongar – we got Thing 2 and 3 in on the sibling rule as Thing 1 started there when it wasn’t oversubscribed as Ongar parents didn’t want to send their darlings to a new school.

This is the first year the school has had a full cohort of students from Y7-Y13, as it’s been building year by year as a new academy. It has its issues (a severe shortage of maths teachers this year) and I shall be watching their options system with interest as it appears to be more focused than I’d like on the government’s EBacc targets than on the children’s own wishes, but we’ve been happy with it for all the kids. One of the reasons I chose Ongar was because it had more of a creative focus, and you all know creativity is one of my favourite things, but that does appear to be changing. Thing 2 will be making her GCSE options next year, so I will have my eye on it.

Still, that is not the subject of this week’s blog really – it’s more of a long-winded intro. This post is really about me, and Thing 3, and growing up and stuff. He wants to be allowed to walk home from school on his own which might not seem like a big thing in the grand scheme, but…

…one of the best things that’s come out of the pandemic is that I’m still working from home quite a lot and doing the school run a few afternoons a week. For me this is still a novelty. Apart from when I was on various maternity leaves, when school run was a pain as it meant wrestling the others into a buggy and coaxing a tired little one along the mile walk home up a big hill, this is the first time I’ve really had to do this. Our wonderful childminders did it for years, which I can’t complain about as we couldn’t have managed without them, but not me.

So, three afternoons a week I put the laptop to sleep and head off up to the school to collect Thing 3, and I get to brace myself as he hurls himself across the playground at me for a hug. I do the playground thing and chat to other parents, and I know which parents are attached to which child. I get to walk home and chat with my son as he tells me all about his day. This week we’ve compared secondary school notes. Sometimes I’m able to return the many favours my friends have done for me when the Central Line has failed or when I was ill last year, and pick up their children as well. It’s been easier to say yes to playdates. It sounds daft, but these are some of the things I missed as a working parent – once, when Thing 1 was in Year 4, my beloved and I both did school run and another parent did a double take and said ‘I didn’t realise you two were together‘. That was how often I wasn’t there…

And now he is into his last two terms at primary school and from September he’ll be on the bus with his sisters or my beloved will be picking up, and I won’t get to do it any more. So, sorry son, but I’m making the most of you while I still can.

A finish or two

This week I have a couple of days off as I didn’t have any time off in half term, and am plotting and planning what to do with that free time! I’m thinking the new Folkwear Basics jacket, and maybe an afternoon nap or two.

Until week 103 (wow!) then…

Kirsty x

What I’ve been reading:

The Library at the End of the World – Felicity Hayes-McCoy

The Innocents – Harlan Coben

Doctor Who: Tenth Doctor Novels vol 2 (Audible)

The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry/The Music Shop – Rachel Joyce

Week forty nine: is there anything else?

Before this week’s reflections on the art of successful parenting (those who know me, feel free to laugh) I’d like to say thank you to everyone who read, shared, and responded to last week’s ramble. More than 320 people have seen the post, which is HUGE for me. I’m glad I shared it, and didn’t delete the draft despite my doubts.

Normal service can resume….

Stroganoffgate and other stories

Once upon a time, I was a brand new mum and wanted to do everything right, which of course included weaning. I cooked stuff and pureed it: sweet potatoes, butternut squash, all mushed through a sieve with baby milk. I followed Annabel Karmel’s tips. I froze things in ice cube trays. I bought organic when I bought readymade food. I didn’t add salt to anything. It became yet another thing to beat myself up about: Thing One didn’t like the pureed veg. She liked – mostly – to eat the Radio Times. Her first birthday photos show her with a face covered in soil from one of the pots in the garden. She would wolf down Heinz baby cauliflower cheese one week, then decide I was trying to poison her the next.

So, with Thing Two I didn’t bother with the pureed veg and went straight to the jars, and she ate pretty much everything. She was an adventurous eater and her favourite food was always someone else’s – she is that child peering beadily at you in a restaurant, always wanting to try your food. She took to Chinese and Indian far quicker than the other two, and her favourite condiment is sweet chilli sauce which, she tells me, goes with everything. How times change: she has now decided she doesn’t like jacket potatoes or sausages, unless it’s a battered one from the chip shop.

By the time Thing Three turned up I’d had enough, and he pretty much ate what we did.

Because of my beloved’s shift pattern we’d got into a habit where I fed the kids early. We’d eat when he got home, which meant I was doing two different meals several nights a week: working full time as well meant this got quite wearing.

It was high time, I declared, that we all ate the same thing. I could cook it early and then the kids could have theirs and we could eat later! There would be no alternative meals,! My children would eat what was put in front of them or they would go hungry!

Thing Three. Spoons were a mystery to him.

Man (or woman) makes plans and god laughs, as some wise person once said.

I decided (wrongly, as it turned out) that this would be an excellent time to try some delicious new recipes, starting with a pork stroganoff. I left out the mustard, I made sure it wasn’t spicy, and I carefully picked the mushrooms out of the kids’ portions. It was delicious. You would have thought that I’d put a plate of live snails in front of them: Thing One went to bed rather than eat anything on her plate. Thing Two ate the rice but wouldn’t eat the stroganoff or any rice that had sauce on. Thing Three – once his sisters stopped making a fuss – ate the lot. I gave up on new recipes as it was just too stressful.

You’d think that over the years things would have got easier, and they’d try more things. To be fair, they are improving: this week we have had two new meals. These Indian koftas were a resounding success, and the sesame broccoli from this recipe was a revelation. They’ll definitely be on the rotation from now on, and I’ll be trying some more new things out on them too.

So, here are my top tips for feeding your kids of any age:

Invest in a couple of metres of wipe-clean tablecloth fabric to go under the high chair. It’s amazing how far a spoonful of peas can travel. Don’t even talk to me about rice.
Don’t beat yourself up if you haven’t got time to cook from scratch everyday. Fish fingers were invented for a reason. So were baby food jars.
Get one of those bibs that go on like a straitjacket. You’ll thank me when you’re not trying to get tomato based foods out of the elbows of the babygro. Get one for yourself too.
Mr Tumble Dryer is your friend during weaning and potty training.
Disguising food is fine. My mum grated liver in the mouli-grater for years and put it in the gravy. Last week I grated mushrooms into the spag bol and none of them noticed.
Lying is also fine: “No, Thing One, of course I took your bit out before I added the spices to the chilli.” My mum fed London sister boiled bacon while the rest of us had gammon, and ‘long-eared rodent stew’ was quite popular despite the fact that we had a pet rabbit.
Ignore the people who say their child eats everything. One day they won’t. Try not to snigger till they’re out of earshot.
Apparently it can take up to twenty tries to get a child to eat something new. Maybe spread those tastes out a bit and don’t try it all at once.
Bananas stain more than you think they would. Trust me.
‘Green eggs and ham’ is a great story but won’t help you convince your kids to eat anything.

Back on your heads, lads

This week I have been back in the office twice, and it’s been bliss: the tubes in haven’t been too busy and I have half the foot of the second sock done thanks to the commute. I’m still swatching for Tunisian crochet – the pattern calls for 3.5mm and so far I’ve tried 3.5, 4, 4.5 and 5mm hooks and they’ve all come up too small. 5.5mm is looking good though, so I live in hope.

I’m able at last to share the latest instalment in the year of handmade gifts: a cross stitch I designed and made for my line manager. The lockdown birthday culture at the museum is lovely! This is one of her frequent sayings, worked up in DMC variegated threads on 14 count black aida.

Yesterday my beloved and I sorted through his collection of Royal Mail stamp cards, which rather than get rid of we’re going to use – especially the Christmas ones. There are some lovely artworks here – my favourites are the springtime ones by Andy Goldsworthy. and the wintertime hare.

I couldn’t resist this one, either – any excuse for a Monty Python reference! I’m not even sorry….

Arthur: The Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite
held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water, signifying by divine
providence that I, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur. THAT is why I am your
king!
Dennis: Listen, strange women lyin’ in ponds distributin’
swords is no basis for a system of government! Supreme executive power
derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic
ceremony!

So that’s been my week: cooking, crochet, cross stitch, commuting! This week’s cover image is the snow moon seen from North Weald Common early on Friday morning. Spring is on the way – the song thrushes are singing their little heads off, the doves are beating each other up on the lawn and the male blackbirds are running off their rivals.

Next week is week 50 – it seems pretty unbelievable that we’ve been in various phases of lockdown for almost a year! Hopefully the kids will be back at school next week (well, I’m hoping so at least!) and the ‘roadmap’ back to normal is realistic. Fingers crossed!

Kirsty x

What I’ve been reading:

Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers/Inspector Hobbes and the Bones – Wilkie Martin

A Capitol Death (Flavia Albia) – Lindsey Davis (Audible)