Christmas magic

It started with the pompoms. Even with all the shopping and planning that goes into Christmas, I’m a sucker for “creating Christmas magic”. I blame those blogs that make everything;  house, kids, bookshelves and decorations look so darn pretty and cool. So, when I spotted this little tutorial on pom-pom garlands, I thought wow, something I could actually pull off. I remembered making pompoms in school, with rings of cardboard cut from a cereal box and, unlike any of my other knitting or sewing projects, they turned out quite nice.

So, on the first of December I told the kids that yes, they were allowed discuss what they were putting in their Santa letters, that Christmas was no longer a forbidden topic of conversation and headed to a wool shop to get the makings of a pom pom garland.

I don’t know, maybe I should have driven, because when I got to the shop I was tired and irritable. When the shop assistant noticed my bike helmet, she moved from her current customer, to whom she was droning on about the gloomy weather to me, and segued straight into rain, cycling in it and taking your life into your hands, all the while knitting, I wanted to scream.

Anyway, I made it home alive, and we started raveling wool.  My plan was to produce plump, roundy, fluffy snowdrops and ended up with a smaller, stringy variety, but that was OK, they bore the stamp of homemade, which was the look I was going for anyway. I dug out my Tesco gold chains and draped them along the picture rails, dotting the display with pompoms. It didn't look remotely like the tutorial, but do they ever? They looked fine and it was time to put the kettle on.

Then my husband came in, had a look and said, “You didn’t use sellotape did you? Cos that’ll take the paint off.”

So down they came, (as you can imagine, there was a “magical” atmosphere in the sitting room, what a lovely memory for the children!)to be re-hung with masking tape, where they stayed for a day before coming unstuck and dropping to the floor, snowdrop by snowdrop, chain by chain.

 Anyway, trying again, at bedtime I told the kids there was a magical treat in store. I had purchased a CD of Dylan Thomas reading his poem A Child's Christmas in Wales.

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Turning off the bedside lights, I told them to snuggle down and listen and stuck the CD into the player. It was immediately obvious that Dylan Thomas’ voice was not what they are used to and a nervous little boy said “Is this a ghost story?”

I lay beside him and promised that I would turn it off if the feeling of terror didn't go away, and he began, I think, to enjoy it. The response from his brothers was mixed;

“I liked that, it was really Christmassy.”

And

 “Is it over? My leg is sore.”

(For the record, I LOVED it and would highly recommend it to anyone. It was really beautiful, just maybe better for the over tens.)

Turning off the Christmas lights on their window sill, I let them go to sleep. I had offered to leave these lights on and turn them off later, (creating Christmas magic!)  but was told gently that it would probably be safer not to. The lights might over heat, they said, all nodding sensibly in their pyjamas, or keep us awake. So I said goodnight to my three little wise men, and their not quite so wise baby brother, and went downstairs. Having them safe in their beds was magic enough.

Best Book Guide

Best books for best friends: Bossypants which is, as you would expect, funny and well written. And has a great bit about a shared suit that alone is worth the price of the book.

Starter for Ten; I saw the movie of this, which was fine, but didn’t prepare for the brilliance of the book. Particularly funny if you have ever had bad skin.

A Humble Companion. I love everything Laurie Graham ever wrote, and this is no different.  Well researched, brilliant writing, not a sentence wasted, just great.

 Get Her Off The Pitch. I have read this twice and intend to do so again over the Christmas holidays. It’s about the authors experiences as a sports reporter. I like reading about sport anyway, but this is something special.

Best Books for someone who likes lovely books with even lovelier covers:

The Diary of a Provincial Lady. This was first published in a magazine called The Lady. (Which, as it happens, Lady Edith visits on her trips to London. I don’t need to explain who she is, do I? Downton!)  It is a classic.

Cranford. This has been on my wish list since my friend showed me her collection of Clothbound Classics. There were times when I ooohed and aahhed over my pals clothes or shoes, but now it’s their books that make me envious. The Little Women one is gorgeous too.

French Kids Eat Everything. This has a pink gingham cover, which is why I picked up the hardcover edition in the bookshop. It’s about an American mother learning to feed her kids the French way. Not a subject for everyone, but I found it interesting. And very pretty.

Best book for new baby:

Paul Thurlby's Alphabet. This is a beauty. So nice that I persuaded my sainted husband to measure the pages, cut three sheets of mdf, paste the whole alphabet to them and nail them to my kid’s bedroom wall.

Best Books for little boys and girls (age’s three to seven): Fortunately. I would be AMAZED if any child walked away without hearing the end of this one.

Children of the Northlights. Every time I show this to a friend, they go out a buy it.

Best book for slightly older girl: (eight to twelve): From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs Basil E. Frankweiler.

Or boy: Cosmic. This is silver, which might not seem important, but is. Good book too.

Best book for teenage girl: I Capture the Castle. This has the best first line ever and is, overall, fantastic.

As I have never been nor do not yet own a teenage boy, I simply cannot guess a title for one. Anyone got any suggestions?

Best book for husbands. I’ve gone for two pretty different ones here, but both have been popular on the bedside table on the far side of my bed.  My Booky Wook 2 and A Tale of Two Cities.

And books I want: The Art of Fielding, Where'd you go to Bernadette and NW.

According to Amazon, we have eight days left to order for Christmas, although probably make that five if you’re ordering from Ireland. Happy Christmas!

Choosing a Secondary School or.. Where are the crisps?

The phrase school tour has a whole new meaning for me now. It no longer involves buses or pocket money or treaty lunches, now it means simply, touring a school.

Yes, it is that time; I have to choose a secondary school for my eldest son. Anyone who knows my husband or I will be aware that decision making is not our strong point. So, for the past year I have been asking anyone who will listen for information about the second level schools within driving distance of our home. And agonising of course. As it happens, agonising is probably our great strength.

I could have just looked around me, and observed the pretty normal looking teenagers walking and cycling home from the schools in our vicinity. I could have watched them pick up their younger brothers from my children’s schools and checked the league tables in the newspaper to see all the exam results. But somehow, instead I found myself lapping up and memorising every scary sound bite about our local senior schools that I could lay my hands on.

I learnt that some schools only “take the cream, the very bright boys”, some “only kids who have been expelled from other schools”, some have pupils “known by the Gardai” and some produce “really cool people, in bands”. Why is that scary? Oh come on, don’t be silly, unless its U2, how on earth are they going to pay a mortgage?

Eventually I learnt that it might be wise, instead of gossiping over coffee and grasping at any nonsense I overheard in the school yard, it would probably be a good idea to look at the schools for myself. So, mortgage repayments of 2030 on my mind, I booked a tour of each the schools under consideration.  Hopefully, my husband and I could be sensible adults and make a decision based on what we saw.

We saw science labs, “Note the light reflecting off the countertops” said the teacher guiding us, French classrooms, where my husband, unlike me, who looked blankly around, took in the square footage, the air vents and probably, the longitude and latitude. “Good natural light,” he muttered. We saw music rooms “a centre for excellence” said the Head of First Year, woodwork rooms, “a centre for excellence” said the same guy, and toilets “a centre for excellence?” we said quietly.

We heard about buddy systems, home school liaison officers, anti- bullying procedures and breakfasts served at school (my son LOVED that. “I’d really get toast?” he said with joy in his voice. The boy who turns down toast most mornings at home.)

We listened to the no-bullshit Principal “I don’t talk rubbish” he said, and his opposite number; “Under this roof, as we speak, each and every child is learning, being enriched, absorbing knowledge like a sponge.” I raised my eyes to heaven and immediately panicked that he had seen.

Each tour ended at the gym hall, where there was a chance to chat to other parents and, more importantly, get crisps for my weary toddler and bored younger boys. To be honest as I had all my (restless, noisy) children with me on three out of the four tours, “Where are the crisps?” was the question at the forefront of my mind for most of the time.

We got all the prospectuses, the application forms and the school rules. On close inspection, apart from font and layout, they were all very similar.

And after a brief kerfuffle about whether we should put “video games” under the “Interests” section, we filled in the form of the school of our choice. It’s in a drawer now, waiting for a Christmas card stamp, or a change of heart.

The Wind in the Willows

A broad glistening muzzle showed itself above the edge of the bank, and the Otter hauled himself out and shook the water from his coat. “Greedy beggars!” he observed, making for the provender. “Why didn’t you invite me, Ratty?” “This was an impromptu affair,” explained the Rat. “By the way, my friend Mr Mole.” “Proud, I’m sure,” said the Otter, and the two animals were friends forthwith.

There are many versions of The Wind in the Willows around. Novel sized paperbacks, various chapters in children’s classic compilations and audio versions by great actors, namely Alan Bennett and Richard Briers. Just recently, yet another one, illustrated by David Roberts in an art deco-y way was released. And Julian Fellowes, of Downton Abbey is penning a musical version for the stage, to be seen in the West End in the new year. Since its publication in 1908, it has never been out of print.

I found this one  on Amazon last week. It’s a steal at £9.97; not only does it include every chapter (many versions of this book skip a few), it has beautiful, lush illustrations by Robert Ingpen and a little biography of the author, Kenneth Grahame. It

was published to celebrate the 100^th birthday of the books first release.

In my head Kenneth Williams was always the author of this classic, he of Carry On fame. I don’t know why I thought that, maybe he voiced a character in a BBC production and I associated his name with the book? I just thought the guy was multi-talented; a great actor and a brilliant writer. Anyway, I was wrong. Kenneth Grahame was not an actor, he was a banker. Born in Scotland, his mother died when he was five and he was then sent to be raised by his grandmother by a river bank in Berkshire. I’m thinking it had to have been a happy(but maybe solitary?) childhood to have resulted in this treasure.

The main reason I got this one though was because, a few months ago my eldest moved into his own bedroom. At first delighted to have some space (he had previously shared with two siblings), he got lonely. One rare evening, when I wasn’t in demand in the other bedroom, we looked together though an old christening present, a collection of children’s stories. Included were the chapters The River Bank and The Open Road from The Wind in the Willows. We chuckled and chuckled. “Toad is such a show off,” He smiled, “Is there more?” But there wasn’t.

I needed no more encouragement and got online as soon as he went to school the next day to see what I could find. And am so happy with the result. (I did try to scan pictures onto this blog, they are so lovely, but failed I'm afraid. It could'nt be that difficult, I know, but is at the moment, beyond me.)

 So now, to even things up under the tree next month, I have to find two more interesting, biggish sized, hardcover books for his brothers. Oh dear, what a chore.

Who am I kidding, I know exactly what books to choose. I just needed an excuse to buy them.

food flasks

I reached an all-time low, appearance wise this morning.  While mooching around the kitchen, coughing, mixing diorlyte for two sick kids and loading the dishwasher, I noticed my two year old following me, saying “Dat! Dat!” and pointing to the back of my cardigan.   

I looked behind and saw that there was a lump of cookie dough stuck to it. A lump of mid brown cookie dough. I had made some with him last week so it had had almost a week to harden.  Basically, I looked like one of those shaggy sheep you see with bits of poo stuck to the wool around their bottoms. You know, those sheep that us city folk see and think “Why doesn’t the farmer just get nail scissors and trim that area?”  Oh, I was a sight for sore eyes.

It all started with the food flasks. I bought them on Monday in a flurry of supermom-ness, smug in the knowledge that from then on, my kids would have warm delicious dinners at school. Soothing broths, noodles, Laksa soups with rice, tinned tomato with a swirl of cream, warm, tasty meatballs with pasta and a sprinkling of grated cheddar. Of course, I hadn’t really considered that to do all this, an awful  lot has to be achieved early in the morning. And the night before.

 And then there was the boasting . I just couldn’t stop myself. Every mum I met on the way in and out of school had to hear about them. Even as I watched tired early morning mothers eyes glaze over, I went on with my list of benefits of hot food in the middle of the day, recipes and the wonderfulness of it all. It just didn’t seem worth it unless everyone knew my kids were using food flasks. What can I say? I’m only human.

After three days, four soups, one curry, noodles  in chicken broth, and a few extremely bored friends, I was tired. Very,very tired. They had gone from “Food Flasks!” to “fucking food flasks”.

By Friday I was coughing and by Saturday, neatly coinciding with my middle son starting the vomiting bug that was circulating in school, I had a temperature and felt truly rotten. Over the next few days his brothers fell like dominos, leading to nights loading the washing machine with sheets, glasses of coke being sipped uncharacteristically cautiously, duvets on the couch and the feeling of profound exhaustion that for me, results in the complexion of a used j-cloth.

And of course, the appearance of a smelly sheep.

So how was your week?

mid term mini break

It has been over a decade since we brought our kids to a hotel. Actually, the last time we had only one child. One unsettled, fractious nine month old, allergic to travel cots, any unfamiliar highchairs and settling to sleep for more than two hours at a time. I was an anxious, first time mother whose constant fussing ensured none of us slept or relaxed at any point that weekend. The only sane thought I had then was to realise that hotels and babies are not a great mix.

On arrival at the hotel for our mid-week- mini-break last week, it all came flooding back.  We were greeted by dads walking slowly around the lobby pushing buggies with blankets draped over their (hopefully) sleeping passengers, mammies asking for bottles to be warmed, granddads escorting red faced toddlers and grannies rocking new-borns with fierce looks on their faces. You know the look that says “I’m trying to get a child to sleep here.”  Pointing out that it was a hotel lobby and there was no other way for us to get to our room without walking past her would have made sense but I don’t think anyone would have been brave enough to say so.

As our youngest is two, I was optimistic that if nothing else, we would get through two nights without wanting to kill someone for coughing at the wrong time, or letting a door slam beside a reclined buggy.

I’d forgotten the excitement of that hotel feeling. Running down carpeted hallways to our room, (not me of course, the kids, I managed to restrain myself), checking out the bathroom, the wardrobes, the TV. channels, the hairdryer and the view. “Look! There’s our car!”

The next morning it occurred to me that I hadn’t really considered that even though there was a soft indoor play area, two playgrounds, farm animals, go-karts and a swimming pool, none of our kids were keen to attempt much of it unaccompanied. So of course, we ended up doing it all too. God, the dust in the hidden corners of those jungle gyms needs to be seen to be believed.

I watched all the other Irish families on mini-breaks, checking out the mammies jeans and boots, eavesdropping on the conversations with their husbands (craning as close as possible if things seemed a little tense), trying to overhear the kids names to see if any of them were interesting or awful and all the time biting my tongue to stop myself saying “Do I look older or younger than her?”

My husband has one learned response to this. After sighing deeply in exasperation he says “Ok, what do you want the answer to be?” 

I did end up catching the eye of one of these mums by the swings, but as I opened my mouth to chat, I realised my toddler (who I was carrying) had managed to move in such a way that his curls were caught between my two front teeth. Which, as you can imagine, was an odd position to find oneself in, and all the conversation left my head as I concentrated on untangling him. 

There was so, so many kids. In the restaurant it seemed like everyone was pointlessly trying to eat a meal in peace, while toddlers climbed out of high chairs, leaned precariously off ordinary chairs, retched up carrots and cried. In the pool, all the same people were there, bobbing around in swimming hats, saying encouraging things and again, there they were in the playground, wiping off wet swings with tissues and bracing themselves against the cold November wind.

I think it was worth it though. Even with all the playing and tumbling and getting hair out of my teeth, we still had that hotely feeling. That “I’m a resident” smugness as you click a card in the door and wait for the green light, and then walk in to flop in the bed, lie back on loads of clean, crisp pillows and grab the remote to watch a bit of telly before dinner (even if it is just Scooby Doo).

book!

If at all possible, I buy books for my kids to bring to birthday parties. I don’t know why really, there’s not a lot of pleasure in watching the recipient loudly announce “book!” in a flat voice and quickly pushing it aside to make space for the next gift;  “Yay! Lego Star Wars!” 

 Another thing is that once wrapped, books can look so small - I mean we all want to be the mother of the child arriving with the big box, right? How I get around that is give the book in big paper bag with handles and sometimes (oh the shame of this!) only tear off half the price tag or “forget” to take the receipt out of the bag.

Anyway, if you do decide to take the Connect 4 or Guess Who? route for party gifts, most of the below are small enough to be rolled-up to fit into a Christmas stocking.

So, focusing this week on the seven to ten year olds, here are some nice presents they might not already have on the shelves in their classroom libraries.

For boys and girls beginning to read independently, Snipp, Snapp and Snurr  and Flicka, Ricka and Dicka are something a bit different. They are both sets of Swedish triplets who embark on wholesome adventures in about thirty pages, all illustrated in colour. The books were created in the twenties, so the illustrations are vintagey and gorgeous. There are numerous books in both series.

For readers who have finished the many Horrid Henrys, meet little Tomi of 26 Fairmont Avenue . The opposite of Henry, Tomi is a nice little person, growing up in the forties in Connecticut. There are three books in the series. At about the same reading level  are the two Parrot Park books, by Mary Murphy, the wonderful Irish writer on whose board books (I Like It When and How Kind!) my eldest son was raised.

One step up on the reading ladder, there is Emil. He isn’t like Henry either, being in possession of an abundance of intelligence, wit and curiosity. Living on a farm in Sweden, Emil is impossible to dislike and, as he was created by Astrid Lindgren, his adventures make a great read. He has three books to himself.

Tired of rereading the Wimpy Kid’s? Nicholas is funny too.  He is the product of half of the Asterix team, Rene Goscinny(with illustrations by Jean -Jacques Sempe) and there are six in the series.

Slightly older boys and girls who have enjoyed Skulduggery Pleasant and Harry Potter should like Philip Pullmans triptych His Dark Materials. There are three to four hundred pages in each, so if that’s a bit daunting there is also Four Tales. The hardcover version of this is very special, the ideal present for a godchild.

And lastly, for kids who “don’t read” try the Artemis graphic novels; Artemis Fowl and Artemis Fowl: The Artic Incident. Or Smile.