threescore

My new favourite song, since finding a £4 gem of a CD at Woolworths last week, is Alma Cogan’s In the Middle of the House. What a hoot! We do not have room for a railroad track in the middle of our property, but we do have Scalextric from time to time and I’m saving up for some Brio.

I received my first Mothering Sunday card yesterday from my daughter (whose handwriting looks remarkably like her father’s). I also got chocolates and flowers, but only at home. We did not do Mothering Sunday at church this year. Too sensitive all round, what with various sad departures and friends of ours having lost a baby when he was born in October. Clare held Lily for a while in church yesterday and always asks how she is doing. They have put up more photos of Theo on their own blog recently.

I have to agree that celebrating mothers in public, along with an excess of saccharine or lateral  TV advertisements (”Who needs daffodils Mum when you can have a Nintendo DS?”) really is unfair on many people who do not have a living mother, as well as those who have suffered in their own upbringing or route to parenthood. It rubs salt in the wound, and pretends to kiss it better.

Some people say mother’s day is unfair on fathers, although they may like to look into the history of it all. I find it quite reasonable that my dad does not approve of Father’s Day, being manufactured by such kind-hearted capitalists as Hallmark. As my husband does actually send his father a card, we shall have to see what Lily decides to do in June…

Personally I would far rather encourage and thank both of my parents for their tireless and patient work bringing me up by living a decent and honest life, full of effort for others, hard work and love for family. Where I cannot pay them back I intend to pay the reward forward to my own child and any other children later.

Including singing along with Alma Cogan, when necessary.

Four and a half years ago I promised to love, honour and obey my husband, so when he placed a veto on my returning to work full-time I did not argue. It was unlikely that anyone could have talked me into it. We have tried to be prudent and allow for a part-time return to work for me. It seemed to make the most sense to us.

I have been getting used to the idea of going back to work, by keeping myself busy and visiting local nurseries.

This week I saw my Head, who told me that he cannot offer me part-time work as he has too many part-timers on the staff. I did not see this coming. Now I have to get used to the idea that I may not be working for a while at school. So I am investigating other ideas. Maybe things are working together for the best. I guess we may (or may not) understand with hindsight. I’d like to write a book with dad. I’d also like to spend time becoming a great mum. I’d also like to work abroad, fly a plane, speak another language fluently and have more children, but all these things are going to have to wait.

Today I did not have baked potatoes ready in time for lunch (there is a long and uninteresting story behind this), but I did have many family members over. I had foresight but circumstances kept interrupting. Yesterday we drove to London without checking the traffic and took 4 hours getting there, but one and a half getting back. I did not have foresight, or food in the car. From now on I will.

Lily, who finds my sister hilarious and laughs at her pulling faces, does not worry about what she will wear tomorrow or even about the hairs on her head. She just gets on with life and having her here is a wonderful learning process. She often sleeps well as she is very calm a lot of the time, but occasionally wakes at night and panics. When she summons me she knows she is safe and will be cared for. So we take one night at a time.

Once upon a time I went shopping with dad last week. We parked in the parent-and-child parking, and as I was not a small child it was convenient that we also had Lily along with us.

Dad bought things like lentils and I bought things like chocolate and Lily didn’t buy anything but helped start conversations.

One of the things we found was a pack of game, such as one might use for making a game pie. (Not to be confused with International Pi day next month, dear reader.)

So very soon after I learnt how to make pastry and cooked a game pie. I did not pass Go and did not collect £200. It was not that sort of game. It was the sort of game where you find shot as you chew and you have to remember not to chew too hard, otherwise you take a chance and pay the dentist £100.

In order to make pastry for the first time in post-pregnancy memory, I had to use 2 egg yolks (the yellow bit) and leave the whites (the clear bit).

My husband, being a Clever Bloke, suggested that I use the remaining whites (still clear) to make a meringue. Ideally while the oven was still warm.

I read what St Delia of Norwich had to say and found the ingredients remarkably straightforward. 2 oz of caster sugar for each egg white (clear). ‘That’s fairly clear’ I thought. I did not think her idea of whisking until the eggs defied gravity suited my lifestyle of listening to a crying baby, so whusk until I felt ready to stop. At this point I added some of the sugar, and then all of it. I whusk and I whusk and I re-read the writings of St Delia and commited them to memory and I realised my error. There was no way I was going to create a meringue this way.

So I poured out the mixture (white) on to baking paper in a gooey line and cooked it. When I opened the oven this morning I discovered a surf board. So that was nice. Except it didn’t look very floaty or strong, and it was a bit little. So perhaps it was a cuttlefish in fact.

too young to know she’s young

heavying on my porcelain arm,

she laughed in her sleep

and me, rotten through with self-righteousness,

milking life for all I can:

I dreamt, and dream and lie awake again.

Musing on anniversaries

and trees - the only Elm in the parish

or the given fig, seeds sown and grown

he takes his tea

and those who can, remember jokes

and onion soup and dignity,

Old Spice and hedgehogs finding milk

Lily is hoping to roll over soon. Her determination is usually hampered by sleeping bag shape, toys or having an arm in the way. She can roll if she starts from sitting on a bed, but that doesn’t count.

For the first time I see real frustration in her when she fails.

I want to tell her that it will happen. It’s not a matter of if, but when. This is precisely what dad has been advising me on plans I have to change course in my life and do some exciting project which benefits others and uses more of the skills and qualifications I have.

And, as my sister pointed out to me yesterday, even dad took his time after the heart attack to assess his means and change from paid employment to focusing on healthy living and doing things for others. We were frustrated when he took his time to decide, but it has worked out well.

Dad is the kind of person who looks at the scrabble letters he’s been given and things happen in his head. They are always worth waiting for. It’s a matter of When.

My uncle won the quiz in the last posting by noticing the biblical pattern and contacting me first. However, it took dad to spot that Ethan was the only Old Testament name. He was also keen to work out how many football stadia would make interesting first names. I came up with Den and Reebok. He suggested Vicarage and Whiteheart. I found a useful page or two for future reference.

The baby has woken and wants to do some rock and rolling.

No really: I mean it. Go and read yesterday’s blog first. I’ll be waiting at the line of *** when you get back.

********************************************

Ok.

So, God has a sense of humour and  he proved it to me again today.

Lily played on her mat today, kicking her wind chimes and doing something with her mouth as close to a laugh as a 9 week old baby can do. (It has not escaped my notice that we have already used up 1% of the time we may have with her before she leaves for university). 

I put her in her infant carrier and sorted out washing. I talked, she listened. Then I drove her to an ENT appointment at the hospital. It is the kind of clinic where they have to have a laser display board for the waiting area, as most of the patients are hard-of-hearing. They also announce names very LOUDly. This is good for people like Dad, who like to know when they are being spoken to, but shouldn’t be patronised with laser display boards in dot matrix capital neon red.

The point of taking a person 1% of their way to university to an ENT clinic is so that their hearing can be checked. For this it is important that they are asleep. Laser display boards are irrelevant. Loud announcements are somewhat unfortunate.

She passed the hearing test and was allowed to come home. But we didn’t go home, we went on to a supermarket to exchange an outfit she had received in duplicate. In all truth, I could not believe my ears as I turned a corner in the children’s clothing district to hear a father shouting at Trafford, his son, for not following him and a mother saying it didn’t matter, you could shout all you liked, he wouldn’t do what he was told.

We smiled at Trafford, which saved having to face his parents. I started wondering how original his name was, or where the trend may develop. There is a whole naming chapter waiting to happen, I feel.

On the way out of the supermarket we returned to the well spaced parent-and-child parking zone to find Trafford shut in a car, having a tantrum, while his parents were taking a cigarette break. We got in conversation and Lily was duly admired. I commented that she was crying for England and was their little boy going through a toddler tantrum stage? Yes, he has been ever since he was a toddler. I turned and gave him a look that teachers learn. It starts with a ‘you-don’t-really-think-I-believe-the-dog-did-your-homework-and-the-cat-ate-it-did-you?’ eyebrow curve and then rolls into a grin.

Trafford blinked, stopped crying and stared at me. I’m not certain anyone else noticed. I do hope Trafford gets the care and attention he needs. He’ll need understanding and acceptance more and more the older he gets.

So, to finish this long diary entry of a post, here’s a challenge. What is the connection in the following names, and which is the odd one out?

Ethan, Linus, Rufus, Bernice, Candace, Joanna.

Answer in next blog post.

You don’t appreciate wine when you are young.

You can talk of it, smell it and look at the shapes in the glass.

Redder than water, stronger than blood.

You think you know what it must taste like, and you are sure you would not enjoy it.

When you come of age, you taste wine. I mean really taste it. Point of no return.

With appreciation.

You realise you love what it does to your senses.

It follows your emotions and raises them.

It blesses you.

Even the humble house-wine deserves appreciation.

You feel you must not say you appreciate it, lest you are labelled weak, supercilious or an over-drinker.

It’s a bit like appreciating your parents.

A fruitcake is a dense, interesting and arguably healthy cake. When life gets fruitcake-packed and interesting there is nothing more I can do but relay some of the nuggets of what has been happening. Enjoy with a large scoop of vanilla ice-cream!

Lily smiled for the health visitor today and we both agreed it was a social smile. She is having a bit of a growth spurt. On Saturday we went on a train for the first time, up to Norwich. It was a successful visit and involved cousin Asher grinning a lot and finding a place to eat where Liverpool were winning. On Sunday we went to the church where we were married and took Lily to meet old friends. We also met a new friend from Russia called Anastasia. She told us that her shortened name is Nastia. It is not true. She is Nicer as far as I am concerned. My dad’s shortened name is Androushka. When those present realised this rhymes with a certain Russian word for granny, Anastasia told us that grandads in Russia can be called Dedushka (дедушка), which may be less insulting. Lily is soon to visit a number of relatives, which means we are planning how much we really need to pack. As the car is having its MOT today the baby seat is in the front room. The on-line shopping order arrived early and I put Lily in the seat. Her nappy did not perform as well as hoped, and I have since learnt how to take the covers off the seat to wash them. It was not as quick a job as I might have hoped, but I feel it is better to learn now than in the dark on a motorway somewhere. The on-line order was largely delivered correctly, but they gave me £0.07 of carrot, for no logical reason. It looked like Rudolph had been at it, and it was drying out fast. I can’t believe Sainsbury’s thought I ordered so little carrot. Even if we are about to go away. In my post-pregnancy state I have yet to decide what to do with it. Yesterday I managed to get my hair cut, as mum took Lily round town for a few minutes. This was at the hairdressers who asked a month or two back whether I had had the baby yet. Unfortunately no one asked this time.

O Raspberry Leaf Tea,

you promise so much

and deliver a taste not unlike Ribena,

or perhaps the smell of raspberry bushes.

Was it only this week I asked dad to go to town for you?

If I wanted to start a religion

I might begin by promising that something natural

might deliver something inevitable.

I do not worship at the altars of herbs.

I sit and brew and consider the heresies of other hot drinks.

Why does coffee taste so different from how it smells?

(Or it does in my mind - I forget when I stopped drinking coffee).

Maybe I’m softening.

Maybe the high priests of Raspberry Leaf would have me believe that delivery follows ripening, as ripening follows brewing, as brewing follows putting on the kettle.

It’s all a little home-made for me.

What am I really thirsting for?

It seems to me that the days before your first child is born are filled with excitement and anticipation. And food, TV, reading, lying down a lot and re-washing things for the baby. You never know, they may not yet be absorbent enough.

You take new pleasure in noting the weather and which trees still have leaves and wondering what your child’s date of birth might be. Well, we missed 1/11/07, but there are some other lovely ones coming up.

You occasionally remember that others are going to work, but that it is your duty to rest and eat and drink, and eventually you stop feeling guilty about this and indulge.

I feel rather like Mole in Wind in the Willows, discovering a whole new pace to life. I do everything. Extremely. Slowly. The days scull past.

(Mole, I feel, should probably have featured in an earlier post about literary sidekicks, but I’ll leave that thought there).

I do like to keep in touch with the world around me, and this is very possible with broadband and televisual technology available to me. For example, I have been learning why Papworth hospital (where dad was given stents) is suspending all heart transplant operations for the next couple of weeks. It sounds drastic, but it may not affect many, if any, of these highly specialised operations. The statistics sound worse on TV because the numbers are so small. Maybe the press coverage will give much needed attention to the need for more organ donors.

Let it be known here that I intend any and all of my organs to be used for medical purposes on my death. I cannot see why it should be any other way.