Gramps dropped the children off this morning. When I asked how it had gone Gramps muttered something about Santas’s Sack and then left.  Later I checked my email and discovered this nugget from him;

We had bought sweets in bags called ‘Santa’s sacks’ to take to the pantomime but forgot to take them. The contents include Gummy Rings, Compressed Rings and Gummy Pouches. On arriving back home the grandchildren instantly made for the bags of sweets. It was late; bedtime. “Leave Santa’s sack alone” I said sharply to the granddaughter and instantly thought, thank God I hadn’t said that in the theatre, in the dark, in public.

Many years ago your mother had a similar slip with an inappropriate comment. While we were sat in the large, busy reception area of the company where we both worked she saw in a magazine a picture of some actor or celebrity that resembled my brother. “That looks just like your Willie” she exclaimed in a voice that echoed around the still void.

It is a clear cold November 5^th sometime in the late 1950’s. I stood with my father and mother watching with, frosty clouds of bated breath, my elder brother Willie von Braun proudly preparing his rocket for take off.

Influenced by the famous schematic centre page drawings in the Eagle comic and recent news of Russian dogs and monkeys being sent into orbit, Willie had decided that he would design and build his very own rocket, a large one. Amongst other components propellant was required; a lot of it and he had persuaded our gang to donate the gunpowder from our fireworks as fuel for his projectile.

This was a big ask. We revelled in our seasonal activities which involved harassing the town’s population by lobbing penny bangers, our weapon of choice, at innocent bystanders, creating shock and awe; mostly shock. We roamed around like small Hamas suicide bombers with our pockets crammed with explosives, probably enough, in the event of an accident, to blow a leg off at the thigh.

Willie constructed the rocket with our proud father looking on in admiration. It was large tubular object with a pointy nose cone, fins and supported on four spindly legs. Based on my avid reading of comics featuring daring stories of the Second World War I saw a bomb; our father impressed by Willie’s scientific endeavours, a Starship.

Over the weeks leading up to Guy Fawkes Night the body of Willie’s rocket was gradually filled up with gunpowder from our dismantled bangers and other fireworks. I suspect that other chemical substances had been added. The previous Christmas, to my brother’s manic glee a chemistry set had been his main present; a reckless gift in my opinion. Soon after strange smells and noises seeped from the utility room and odd events occurred. A hole of about two inches in diameter appeared in our garden bench, a church pew salvaged the demolished surplus village church. The hole with scorched edges had been blown clean through the two inch thick seat panel. My mother and father looked at the hole, scratched their heads and talked in hushed voices of Acts of God and meteor particles from outer space. But I knew; not how but who.

The launch day arrived and on a clear moonlight night Willie’s rocket stood proudly but precariously on a board in the middle of the lawn pointing menacingly at the stars; the centrepiece of the that year’s display.

After a paltry firework show Willie advanced confidently across lawn and lit the slow burning fuse, a product of his chemistry experiments, and retreated. Precisely two minutes later the rocket burst into life; more fizz than roar. It jigged about like a demented Riverdance performer then, failing to defy gravity, slowly toppled over to lie facing our small family group hissing threateningly. My father was now brought to his senses and, drawing on his wartime experience as a Master Gunner in the Royal Artillery he now, at last, saw a bomb not a rocket. and swiftly shepherded us down the garden away from the potential blast zone.  Thankfully there was no explosion; the rocket, in it’s death throes finally roared into life and sped around the lawn in ever increasing circles before finally expiring in the rose bed.

My father commiserated with the young von Braun unaware of the intricate Celtic pattern scorched in the lawn which would only be revealed at sunrise.

Apparently having a puppy around gives the older dog a new lease of life and also calms the puppy a bit quicker with the older dog being a good example.  A good example on how to sleep all day and almost kill with one fart, maybe.

I suggested that we get a puppy to The Husband expecting him to tell me that I was bonkers.  He said ‘OK’ and I fainted in shock.

So, we are getting a puppy, sometime over the next few months.  The children have no idea, but don’t worry, it won’t be like when Father Christmas left the gerbils in a cupboard three days early COUGH. Do you remember that?  it still makes me clench my buttocks thinking about it.  Gramps, also known as Baron Von Foot In Mouth, has almost managed to blow PuppyGate out of the water twice so I’m not holding out much hope.

So we may have a new baby soon … and I think that’s why The husband said OK so fast.  It’ll stop me pestering him for a human one.

Strange shapes in his room, scared on his own, needing someone to sleep with, needing several hugs, cuddles and kisses before he goes to sleep are are just a few of his problems.

During the school holiday the 7 year old has thought it exciting to share a room with her brother.  They have had all manner of ‘midnight feasts’ … at 8pm. Last night, though, she decided she was moving back.  She wanted her own space.  A bedroom with no snoring.

It took a while to settle the 5 year old.  He read to me, I read to him.  He wanted the 7 year old to sleep with him, she said no.  He told me about the ghosts that scare him.  I told him there was no such things as ghosts. He believed me. I told him he had to sleep in his room alone.  He eventually got used to it and went to sleep.

Today we had a stressful shopping trip. My first mistake was giving the children popping candy before leaving the house to buy school shoes, my second to ignore the 5 year old’s pleas for a poo shortly before entering the store.  We got home just in time to greet Gramps who had bobbed round for a catch up. We sat in the garden with a cup of tea.

The children came over to us and Gramps began telling them about a ruin they had visited in the wood during a treasure hunt, near his house, the last time he had looked after them.  The children listened intently.  He said that he’d found a picture of the house before it was a ruin that he’s show them next time they came round.

“Best of all” he said with wide eyed excitement … “There’s a ghost!”.

Face. Palm.

Can’t wait for bedtime tonight.

A post by Gramps about the joys of being a Grandfather …

A typical day with my grandchildren usually starts with swimming or a visit to that wonderful venue Wacky Warehouse. Swimming has the disadvantage of prematurely tiring me out whereas a visit to the Wacky Warehouse does not need any exertion on my part; adults sit reading newspapers and magazines while the children exhaust themselves (although I have noticed that too many Slush Puppies tend to counteract the fatigue) We then return home and walk our dog Millie in the nearby field. The dog and the children startle the rabbits and the heron standing still as a statue in the pond at the end of the field. The annoyed heron heaves itself out of the pond and we watch as it labours up into the blue sky and slowly vanishes over the trees. I show the children the network of paths made by the rabbits and they follow them in Indian file to their burrows where the granddaughter barks loudly into the mouth of the burrows probably petrifying the poor rabbits and bemusing Millie who rarely barks.

A quick lunch is followed by the ever popular dam building in the stream. Each successive dam is more complex in construction and the resulting pool deeper. For this latest dam we collect dead leaves to create a seal between the rocks. The grandchildren work with enthusiasm with the occasional sibling spat and the dam today is impressive. My grandson then demands to play football as promised (recklessly) at the start of the day. I desperately negotiate a ten minute kip while they watch TV before dragging my protesting body to stand between the two trees that are the goal posts. A day of simple pleasures; priceless.

As I sit recovering from this childminding pentathlon I am content; there is a reassuring knowledge that somewhere in my grandchildren there is a small part of me being transported into the future even if it is only a memory of a day like this.

He commented yesterday that puddings in our house are a bit hit and miss. A biscuit maybe or a yoghurt and on one occasion I pushed the boat out and made a lemon cheesecake which was lovely.  He said it clearly wasn’t memorable because he had no recollection of it. Charming.

So tonight I presented him with a box of cupcakes.  One for everyone. We thought they were lovely, he thought they were sickly. The children particularly liked the idea of edible paper. He didn’t.

There’s no pleasing some people.

The reason Rowse sent us the honey and the cupcakes is because they have just spent an awful lot of money letting their staff create their latest advertising campaign. There are six ads to choose from … complete with wooden acting, wobbly camera work and amateur sets! Click on an ad to watch it and meet the cast. Then LIKE it to vote for it.

All weekend we talked about how many sleeps till the 4 year old’s birthday.  So on Monday, when he came out of school with a massive grin on his face my heart skipped a beat.  My happy little boy full of the joys of school.  Then he said “It’s my birthday tomorrow isn’t it?”.  He sobbed all the way home when I told him he had a few more sleeps to go.

My Dad, Gramps, who is aware of The Husband’s birthday present, which is a lovely surprise, came for dinner last night.  He struggled through the meal because he kept almost blurting out things regarding the logistics of said birthday surprise.  It was stressful for us both. He kept starting conversations and then pretending he’d forgotten what he was going to say.  He said it was his best Alzheimer’s impression ever.

This morning I had the following conversation with the 4 year old on the way to school;

Me - Are you excited about your birthday?

Him - Yes, I can’t wait to get my ramp.

Me - What ramp?

Him - A scooter and skateboard ramp for the garden.

Me - What if you don’t get a ramp?

Him – But you know I want a ramp

Me - What if Daddy makes you a ramp?

Him - I want the ramp, the one on the computer. The one I am getting for my birthday.

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh

It’s been a while.  Here is a guest post from Gramps on one of his favourite two subjects, farts and poo …

My grandson looks uncannily like me when I was his age. Occasionally this brings back memories of the distant past and the recent story involving poo triggered a particularly traumatic school recollection.

Still coming to terms with primary school life I am sat anonymously somewhere in the middle of the classroom at a wooden desk, one in a regimented sea of desks. The sun is streaming in the large window, the room is warm and my mind is probably elsewhere; mulling over the latest exploits of Davy Crockett or Quatermass, a scary science fiction TV film which surprisingly my dad had allowed me to watch at the impressionable age of six.

The class, in a state of mild excitement, is about to go to the music lesson which is held in a room at the other end of the school where I will wield a triangle, the extreme limit of my musical talents.

My day begins to unravel with an unexpected and uncontrolled fart; loud enough for the teacher, a tall, thin, middle aged lady, to give me a disapproving look and the girl who is sat next to me to snigger.

The moment passes and I slip back into my default daydreaming mode.  But this doesn’t last. I slowly become aware, along with the teacher and my fellow pupils, that the room is filled with the smell of poo. My recent fart puts me in the frame as the source of the smell. The teacher, suspicious that I have suffered a catastrophic ‘follow through’ tells me to sit at the front of the class.

Even at the age of six I felt victimised; I couldn’t believe that the sheer volume and persistence of the smell could possibly have seeped from my small body.

Much later in my life my mother would often announce, to my extreme embarrassment, in her lilting but loud Scottish voice that when I was a child Doctor Sommerville had remarked that I had very large bowels; the chatter and clatter in restaurants would be suspended at this revelation.

But, back to my childhood. I am sat, probably red faced at the front of the class with the teacher taking frequent smell readings over me with her nose. Things are about to get worse.

The class is marshaled into a column of pairs, boy and girl holding hands and start the long march down the main corridor of the school in a cloud of poo smell. I am holding hands with teacher with my classmates smirking at my discomfiture as teacher stops me at frequent intervals to bend over, pull up the leg of my shorts and sniff.

This final humiliation was intense but short lived.

Suddenly, a girl in the column bursts into uncontrollable tears. The humiliation is transferred as teacher lifts her skirt to reveal a memorably large poo slung in her knickers.

I received the following email from my Dad today …

Dear Laura

If you remember, when you announced on your blog that you were taking up knitting as a hobby I ordered a pair of Speedo style knitted swimming trunks for Christmas. Forget the trunks! I was in two minds anyway; I had a bad experience in the past with knitted swimming attire produced by my mother and I think wearing them at the baths with the grandchildren could create an embarrassing moment – at the very least!

This newspaper article made me think I would like a knitted coffin instead. I have emailed Prince Charles asking if his Royal Highness would be kind enough to forward the knitting pattern to you.

Needless to say there is no urgency for the coffin. I’ll let you know the colour choice (maybe a tartan pattern) and the personalised name in due course.

Be careful not to drop any stitches!

Many thanks

Pops

Tara’s Gallery theme this week is ‘a photo you are proud of.  Well, here is mine.

This picture was taken last month at a family gathering.

I am very proud of the relationship my Dad has with my children.  

When the 6 year old was two weeks old my Dad told me that he’d been keeping a secret from me during the latter part of my pregnancy.  He had prostate cancer. The prognosis was good, and he would be having an operation.

The operation went well and he made a full recovery.  This dice with death prompted my Dad to do something he’d wanted to do for a long time, move away from the stress of his business and live in the sun.

When the 6 year old was a few months old my Dad and my Stepmum moved to Spain.  It meant that they visited a couple of times a year and we would spend a week or so with them each year. 

I found it difficult to keep my Dad updated with our lives and a phonecall or email once a week or fortnight was never enough.  That’s one of the reasons I started the blog, so that they could keep in touch with our lives more regularly.

I remember having a mixture of emotions when they moved, happy that they were doing something they wanted to do, but sad that my children wouldn’t have a close relationship with their grandfather. 

My fears were totally unfounded because they’ve always had a special relationship. Clicking straight back into their banter regardless of how long it had been between visits. 

My Dad and stepmum moved back to the UK last year.  I am so glad that he no longer lives a plane ride away and is literally just over the hill.  The children enjoy spending time with him, having Gramps adventures, and I love listening to them chatting and watching their interaction.

Since moving back to the UK my Dad, who is 60, has retrained as a driving instructor.  He’s put everything into his training and is now fully qualified and enjoying his work.  He has a glint in his eye again. 

I’m very proud of you Pops!