So dear reader,
What of these times we live in? Firstly, I hope this missive finds you well.
And me? All in all, not bad... y'know, industrious enough [I'm feeling like what in football jargon is referred to as a 'good pro,' ideally without the imminent free transfer] though lacking a smidge in the momentum and inspiration departments, hence the intermittent service.
We have, and will have traveled both near and far, but mostly near: from beautiful telly (no, really: a rare, rare thing - TV that's a bit special) to The / A Beautiful Game in the space of a week, via a steaming heap of fresh horse manure for the allotment. And work, and Life, and normality, and b-o-o-k-s and the Sunshine Cafe - yes, those too, mm.
Good times are these - at least, quite good. I may even push the boat out this week for Everton vs Sporting Lisbon or (if I'm feeling logistically awkward) Loughborough Dynamo vs Leek. And I am childless on Wednesday, which leaves me free to visit the new People's History Museum. Happy days.
Furthermore, Sam received [gratefully] a new t-shirt from M and Q in Canada a couple of weeks back. The box-heckling result here in ST6 being: "sod the downhill slalom (initially - auspiciously? - mistyped): what we really want to know is what the cuddly mascot's up to!"
So thanks are due to them too. See? Times're not bad at all. They're quite good, in fact. The itchy question is: where do we go from here, or will we be swept away on the crest of some unforeseen (or all too predictable) wave?
One contemplates the next six weeks with interest, foreboding, and - most of all - mixed feelings.
Yours in hopeful anticlimax,
M.
Showing posts with label parenthood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenthood. Show all posts
Saturday, 13 February 2010
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
Pixels
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
- e.e. cummings
Monday, 16 November 2009
Coinage
Much water has lapsed under the bridge since last I typed. Most of it rather too introspective, concentric or just plain rantrospective (boilers, plumbing, cars, careers on which one doesn't break even) to 'do' here (leave that to the poets, eh?)
Still, what can now be made official is that - all being well - we'll be doing this again next year. And yet the birthplace of #1 has been razed. Hopefully also gone are the Entinox pipes that have to be both snorted from and held into the wall at the same time. And with them, say cheerio to the gaffer-taped linoleum and floral seventies wallpaper... the list could go on.
And the parking's more chronic than ever, but I will not, shall not - I refuse to - turn this blog into a place to talk roads and parking spaces (leave that to the Sentinel, eh?)
To be honest, I nearly shed a tear as we shuffled by the taxis, ambulances and smiling families. Sam's was a difficult birth, though not life-threateningly so. None the less, it was his place of birth. And there is (was) something about the old-style maternity unit that's very democratic by 21st century standards, perhaps enforcedly so: everybody in it together, for better or worse.
In that space everybody could hear you scream.
With the private rooms, the all-day visiting, and the LCDs blinking out car-seat adverts disguised as public information films, I dare say some of that will be lost. By and large, mothers will agree, it's A Good Thing. But I bet there won't be the [compulsory] state-sponsored camaraderie that was such a striking feature of that ward.
Or maybe there will - but that's a post for another time.
Still, what can now be made official is that - all being well - we'll be doing this again next year. And yet the birthplace of #1 has been razed. Hopefully also gone are the Entinox pipes that have to be both snorted from and held into the wall at the same time. And with them, say cheerio to the gaffer-taped linoleum and floral seventies wallpaper... the list could go on.
And the parking's more chronic than ever, but I will not, shall not - I refuse to - turn this blog into a place to talk roads and parking spaces (leave that to the Sentinel, eh?)
To be honest, I nearly shed a tear as we shuffled by the taxis, ambulances and smiling families. Sam's was a difficult birth, though not life-threateningly so. None the less, it was his place of birth. And there is (was) something about the old-style maternity unit that's very democratic by 21st century standards, perhaps enforcedly so: everybody in it together, for better or worse.
In that space everybody could hear you scream.
With the private rooms, the all-day visiting, and the LCDs blinking out car-seat adverts disguised as public information films, I dare say some of that will be lost. By and large, mothers will agree, it's A Good Thing. But I bet there won't be the [compulsory] state-sponsored camaraderie that was such a striking feature of that ward.
Or maybe there will - but that's a post for another time.
Friday, 10 July 2009
Birthday
Yesterday I went with Sam to the induction afternoon at his school nursery, about which he had been very excited for days.
He's had good experience of schools during his short life, having even been unfazed six months ago by the process of a grilling from thirty seven-year olds on the subject of how toddlers are different from babies, and at the end of which he sat down contentedly for a story with them all.
In short, I was kind of expecting it to be plain sailing, which it was, right up until we had to go into the nursery classroom. Sam had been bantering - or at least happily making daft noises - with all the reception kids who had come over to the fence to investigate the gaggle of pre-schoolers and awkward-looking grown-ups; they seemed a thoroughly genial bunch of children.
Sam was reluctant on entering the room, but began to play with a 3D magnetic jigsaw, occasionally sharing remarks with another boy and his mum. But then, there was a moment where it seemed he looked up, his surroundings closed in, and his whole self melted spontaneously. It seemed to dawn on him that the fairly small classroom was thick with people - children and adults - milling around, with most of the latter simply ignored by the former.
Springing to his feet, he clamped himself to my neck and began to cry "I want to go home now, I want to go home now, I WANT TO GO HOME NOW," with an increasing anxiety shortness of breath. I could feel his heart belting like a drum machine as the tears flooded his cheeks, leaving little wet patches on the carpet, and his whole body became a white knuckle.
Probably for the first time since I was ten - deaths, illnesses notwithstanding - I sobbed publicly, visibly and nearly (very nearly) uncontrollably. A man not given to that kind of self-expression, surrounded by level-headed young children happily patting at playdough or charging around in their own little worlds with plastic dinosaurs in hand, and by adults that didn't know where to look.
We asked to go outside for a walk, and returned to the classroom ten minutes later, where it was all I could do to sit boy on lap beneath the coat pegs in the corner, as the pleas restarted. Pressed emotionally and physically into a corner, one of the other parents kindly took some sympathy and relayed a request for some train track to coax some sense of comfort and familiarity. Despite a couple of these half-effective distractions, the indoor parts of the afternoon nonetheless continued in similar recoiling vein.
The one thing that leaves me glad we stayed is that Sam loved playing in the outdoor classroom, forgetting his anxiety instantly and role-playing delightedly in the hidey house / pretend cafe with other nursery and reception kids and charging around on the various bits and pieces.
We chatted on the way home, and he told me that he liked the teacher and the children and the playground and the sing-song but not the banging [of drums and tambourines during the sing-song] or "all the grown ups... they were scary."
Really, there was enough to suggest that he'll be fine once he finds his feet, and the reception children especially were all thrilling to play with. But, as I write this post and say to myself. "he'll be three tomorrow," it's all I can do to choke the tears once again.
He's had good experience of schools during his short life, having even been unfazed six months ago by the process of a grilling from thirty seven-year olds on the subject of how toddlers are different from babies, and at the end of which he sat down contentedly for a story with them all.
In short, I was kind of expecting it to be plain sailing, which it was, right up until we had to go into the nursery classroom. Sam had been bantering - or at least happily making daft noises - with all the reception kids who had come over to the fence to investigate the gaggle of pre-schoolers and awkward-looking grown-ups; they seemed a thoroughly genial bunch of children.
Sam was reluctant on entering the room, but began to play with a 3D magnetic jigsaw, occasionally sharing remarks with another boy and his mum. But then, there was a moment where it seemed he looked up, his surroundings closed in, and his whole self melted spontaneously. It seemed to dawn on him that the fairly small classroom was thick with people - children and adults - milling around, with most of the latter simply ignored by the former.
Springing to his feet, he clamped himself to my neck and began to cry "I want to go home now, I want to go home now, I WANT TO GO HOME NOW," with an increasing anxiety shortness of breath. I could feel his heart belting like a drum machine as the tears flooded his cheeks, leaving little wet patches on the carpet, and his whole body became a white knuckle.
Probably for the first time since I was ten - deaths, illnesses notwithstanding - I sobbed publicly, visibly and nearly (very nearly) uncontrollably. A man not given to that kind of self-expression, surrounded by level-headed young children happily patting at playdough or charging around in their own little worlds with plastic dinosaurs in hand, and by adults that didn't know where to look.
We asked to go outside for a walk, and returned to the classroom ten minutes later, where it was all I could do to sit boy on lap beneath the coat pegs in the corner, as the pleas restarted. Pressed emotionally and physically into a corner, one of the other parents kindly took some sympathy and relayed a request for some train track to coax some sense of comfort and familiarity. Despite a couple of these half-effective distractions, the indoor parts of the afternoon nonetheless continued in similar recoiling vein.
The one thing that leaves me glad we stayed is that Sam loved playing in the outdoor classroom, forgetting his anxiety instantly and role-playing delightedly in the hidey house / pretend cafe with other nursery and reception kids and charging around on the various bits and pieces.
We chatted on the way home, and he told me that he liked the teacher and the children and the playground and the sing-song but not the banging [of drums and tambourines during the sing-song] or "all the grown ups... they were scary."
Really, there was enough to suggest that he'll be fine once he finds his feet, and the reception children especially were all thrilling to play with. But, as I write this post and say to myself. "he'll be three tomorrow," it's all I can do to choke the tears once again.
Sunday, 5 July 2009
Ambition
After yet another Tuesday night of teenage rampage - though quite positive and enjoyable in the end - I came in late and popped upstairs to see Sam.
The boy snored quietly in his pit with hair scruffened and body slackened, right up against the wall and with one leg rooting indolently down the side of the bed.
Ample opportunity, then, for me to recline beside him and stop for a little oneversation (hmm, I'm acutely aware but ... does this sound like a sign of madness?)
Whatever:
"[...] missed you, would have really enjoyed a little play this afternoon [...] teenagers blinkin' obsessed with roflcopters [...] hope you had a nice day too, Mummy was really proud of your burnet moth drawing so we've put it on the wall [...] what do you fancy doing on Thursday, I though we could go on another little adventure up at Berryhill fields, and take some crayons and a picnic this time, eh? [...] so anyway, I'm really chuffed 'cos Ian Miller and Stephen Foster are staying - I guess Colin Todd is a safe choice in the circumstances - and did I agree to take you and Aidan to Vale Park...? Err, maybe that's not such a good idea at your young age, um...."
During this ramble, Sam would loll gently away from the wall now and again. Each time, he'd dribble a bit and then his head would incline itself back to the wall again with a gentle, repeating thud (great for fatherly self-esteem, that).
Manoeuvring him back towards his rocket pillow, this all rendered me speechlessly glad that it's not me banging my head on brick.
Get by. If you can, strive to get paid doing just enough of something you enjoy. Then; work less, play more - ideally caught up in a whirlwind of playful young child[ren] doing his [their] stuff, with crayons.
Like the man says.
Sunday, 26 April 2009
Never written down
An oddball weekend; if not a rollercoaster, then certainly a cash railway. A weekend full of lots-of-things-long-ago-arranged-but-never-written-down. Like one of those meteorite near-misses, we got away with it without the need for excuses. Cash duly stashed by railway clerk, and never seen again. AMEX reported delighted.
And so, to recount Friday and Saturday:
The lurgy - duly despatched /a visit from a real-life blogger, pleasantly fragranced / a visit from a real-life morrisman with a chainsaw who believes blogs are for weirdos / quickfire doses of rocksteady, a washboard, and a monster set of dreads / The Coachmakers and the omnipresence of asparagus in Worcestershire discourse / a quick play, a morning flyer to London and a thwarted attempt to visit a mermaid / sister suggests Wagawotsit instead - meanwhile I, Wag-A-Finga, wouldn't be seen DEAD in there / echoes of a Pulp song *yum* but feel a bit like a dirty celeb-stalker / on the tube, I daydream of surfacing in Trafalgar Square, but can only muster air turbulence in South Kensington / attempting to experience museums the way others do is another post for another day, but enjoyable (I learned something today!) / we hang around a lake full of flapping youths named Clara and Ptolemy - it's pleasant / as are drinks with Milos and Q / then it's the last train home for me and the boys from Bury, Burnley and the Brit, plus a long sojourn in Milton Keynes awaiting the rozzers / back home, and the fans file silently past the train crew before breaking into "if you've all shagged a virgin..." - but only once safely below tracks in the subway.
Sunday, simpler. Japanese knotweed, pirate ships in Longton Park, and wondering how to get your two-year old to share the bridge of the latter. "Ask nicely when you want a go and take it in turns with the other children," we urge.
He shows faith, and asks the vacant looking kid - nicely. Oops - that'll be a big fat "NO!" right in the face, then. So Sam reflects briefly and lamps kid, a child twice his size and age. The child's vacant-looking twin dad can barely be bothered to notice as he sups from his can of Stella. Vacant twin child remains - well - vacant.
I apologise anyway and we drag our normally-shy toddler away for a time-out by the ducks. It must be hard to understand when others don't play by the same rules, or indeed any rules. I angst about this for some time, until we return. Sam promptly offers the bridge to another boy. We all feel better and take our turns on the rope slide. Then, ice cream.
And the lady working in Middleport Co-Op thinks the 1/3 off pasta offer would be really good were it not for the fact that "these new trendy foods just taste like slime to me, duck." In her honour, we conclude with the awesomeness of pasta e fagioli.
And so, to recount Friday and Saturday:
The lurgy - duly despatched /a visit from a real-life blogger, pleasantly fragranced / a visit from a real-life morrisman with a chainsaw who believes blogs are for weirdos / quickfire doses of rocksteady, a washboard, and a monster set of dreads / The Coachmakers and the omnipresence of asparagus in Worcestershire discourse / a quick play, a morning flyer to London and a thwarted attempt to visit a mermaid / sister suggests Wagawotsit instead - meanwhile I, Wag-A-Finga, wouldn't be seen DEAD in there / echoes of a Pulp song *yum* but feel a bit like a dirty celeb-stalker / on the tube, I daydream of surfacing in Trafalgar Square, but can only muster air turbulence in South Kensington / attempting to experience museums the way others do is another post for another day, but enjoyable (I learned something today!) / we hang around a lake full of flapping youths named Clara and Ptolemy - it's pleasant / as are drinks with Milos and Q / then it's the last train home for me and the boys from Bury, Burnley and the Brit, plus a long sojourn in Milton Keynes awaiting the rozzers / back home, and the fans file silently past the train crew before breaking into "if you've all shagged a virgin..." - but only once safely below tracks in the subway.
Sunday, simpler. Japanese knotweed, pirate ships in Longton Park, and wondering how to get your two-year old to share the bridge of the latter. "Ask nicely when you want a go and take it in turns with the other children," we urge.
He shows faith, and asks the vacant looking kid - nicely. Oops - that'll be a big fat "NO!" right in the face, then. So Sam reflects briefly and lamps kid, a child twice his size and age. The child's vacant-looking twin dad can barely be bothered to notice as he sups from his can of Stella. Vacant twin child remains - well - vacant.
I apologise anyway and we drag our normally-shy toddler away for a time-out by the ducks. It must be hard to understand when others don't play by the same rules, or indeed any rules. I angst about this for some time, until we return. Sam promptly offers the bridge to another boy. We all feel better and take our turns on the rope slide. Then, ice cream.
And the lady working in Middleport Co-Op thinks the 1/3 off pasta offer would be really good were it not for the fact that "these new trendy foods just taste like slime to me, duck." In her honour, we conclude with the awesomeness of pasta e fagioli.
Monday, 9 February 2009
Conjunctivitis
Monday.
I could have been gadding importantly around very inspiring youth participation projects in Manchester's most enviable museums and galleries. Sam was exceptionally chirpy too, despite the soufflé and custard around the eyes.
It's one of the those pesky ailments. Even toddlers aren't bothered - this one doesn't mind gunk, just bits and bumps - but there's still a 10-mile biohazard exclusion zone around any form of childcare.
Crap weather.
And so too much time, frankly, has been spent contriving little inukshuks from the piles of damp cotton wool that rise inexorably from the arms of the sofa. Wewent planned to see the nurse (but she despatched us, fully prescribed, with a telephonic turn-of-phrase), we popped to Morrisons, we played trains, we read, we drew, we bartered and bantered.
We wiped again and again, outwards and gently.
About halfway through the afternoon I was prodding a lapsang souchong in the kitchen, and thinking too little of it (maybe). Sam, cheek to the floor, chuffed and clattered a chain of tiny cabooses to their familiar, fluffy fates beneath the armchair.
Semi-rhythmically, I was mumbling and remumbling some of my favourite lines as I do, rarely. The gooey-eyed guv'nor leapt to his feet and proclaimed joyfully at the top of his voice:
"You were being a train or a river!"
Thus compelled, we immediately stomped about to a tinny version of The Night Mail and then progressed - with ritual success - to Where the Wild Things Are.
A marvellous afternoon. A total balalaika show, in fact!
I could have been gadding importantly around very inspiring youth participation projects in Manchester's most enviable museums and galleries. Sam was exceptionally chirpy too, despite the soufflé and custard around the eyes.
It's one of the those pesky ailments. Even toddlers aren't bothered - this one doesn't mind gunk, just bits and bumps - but there's still a 10-mile biohazard exclusion zone around any form of childcare.
Crap weather.
And so too much time, frankly, has been spent contriving little inukshuks from the piles of damp cotton wool that rise inexorably from the arms of the sofa. We
We wiped again and again, outwards and gently.
About halfway through the afternoon I was prodding a lapsang souchong in the kitchen, and thinking too little of it (maybe). Sam, cheek to the floor, chuffed and clattered a chain of tiny cabooses to their familiar, fluffy fates beneath the armchair.
Semi-rhythmically, I was mumbling and remumbling some of my favourite lines as I do, rarely. The gooey-eyed guv'nor leapt to his feet and proclaimed joyfully at the top of his voice:
"You were being a train or a river!"
Thus compelled, we immediately stomped about to a tinny version of The Night Mail and then progressed - with ritual success - to Where the Wild Things Are.
A marvellous afternoon. A total balalaika show, in fact!
Thursday, 22 January 2009
Note to my autumnal self
Enough introspection.
You have no money to throw at the problem. You still haven't a clue how you're both going to keep on top of things after September, be it this or the next.
There are simply too many ifs, ors and buts. You'd (still) rather just ignore the small-if-significant iceberg that's looming ever larger on the horizon.
But you know what? That's fine.
At home you've been the happiest you've ever been in your adult life. You should require no reminding of the reasons for this. You've never loved your work so much. Your long-term friendships remain mostly intact.
Life is very, very good. Step back and look at the big picture. You'll muddle through, and you should be thanking your winter self for this helpful missive.
The devils lurk in too much detail. So shut up, look up, and you might just perk up.
You have no money to throw at the problem. You still haven't a clue how you're both going to keep on top of things after September, be it this or the next.
There are simply too many ifs, ors and buts. You'd (still) rather just ignore the small-if-significant iceberg that's looming ever larger on the horizon.
But you know what? That's fine.
At home you've been the happiest you've ever been in your adult life. You should require no reminding of the reasons for this. You've never loved your work so much. Your long-term friendships remain mostly intact.
Life is very, very good. Step back and look at the big picture. You'll muddle through, and you should be thanking your winter self for this helpful missive.
The devils lurk in too much detail. So shut up, look up, and you might just perk up.
Thursday, 1 January 2009
Textbook Toddleager
Happy 2009? Like, whatever. Dad.
We recently adopted a zero-tolerance approach to Sam's habit of mithering, whining and occasionally flapping at us when he doesn't get what he wants, and with some success.
I say "some" success - it's a pyrrhic victory, big time.
Gone overnight are the hallmarks of the so-called "terrible two"; now witness the studied savvy of the urbane toddle-ager:
Me: OK, matey, we're going somewhere nice...
Sam, hopefully: Are there steam trains / fire engines / cakes / angel babies [don't ask] there?
Me, wearily: No Sam, I really doubt that.
Sam, pauses, considers screaming "but I waaaaant one!" Instead, deploys the verbal musicality that unlocks old ladies' sweetie jars: Hmmm. We'll see shall we - when we get there? I suppose you never know. Maybe later, eh? And mummy says yes too. And then at bed time we can have FIVE stories!
Me, speechless: O: Um...
Cue panic. How the devil am I going to outmaneouvre this slick operator when he's a sagely six?
Lesson learned, too late: Deploy only the simplest language when dealing with the Pampered proletariat - do NOT give them the tools to outfox you comprehensively before they are out of nappies!
Friday, 1 December 2006
Lull, lol.
My first post in over a month and FAR be it from me to debase this blog by lauding a multinational pharmaceuticals corp - but this product is officially worthy, and **oh!** such good value at something like ten quid per precious, soothing drop. Indeed its every appearance has in recent times been heralded in these parts by a choir of angels.
So now that wee Sammy is colic-free and chitter-chattery again by day (this boy quite literally has an appetite for his books, many of which are currently spread around the house drying off), it's about time I gave this radio station the TUTD endorsement, a little sleepy somewhere to stream to in the small hours. Almost as good as the Metasciences' Intergalactic Lullaby, which I keep plugging but gets greater with every play.
Thursday, 2 November 2006
"These things aren't real until you blog them"
And they're barely blinking real afterwards, either.Born Stoke-on-Trent City General on 11 July 2006, at 05.16am, weight 8Ib 6oz.
Early signs of labour began with the final Italian penalty, Kate was in hospital from 2.30pm on Monday, and delivered the baby by Ventoose at 5.16am after too many brave, exhausting hours. She's the greatest, and he looks just like her.
His name is Samuel James (maybe after the dreamer Coleridge; Js. in memory of my brother), but we'll just call him Sam for now.
Off to see him again in a min :-)
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