The epitome of cool ...

Tara at Sticky Fingers has got all scanner happy … again … and keeps goading me into finding photos that I too can scan. She’s come up with the Young At Heart Photo Album Tag.

This tag is aiming to create a giant photo album of photos across the ether. But not baby/toddler/youth photos of your children – these photos are of YOU.

So this is my photo.  I was 10 years old and visiting my Grandparents in Edinburgh.

My Granddad, an avid photographer, wanted to take some shots of me on my skateboard. I rolled everywhere on my skateboard and from the looks of it I was growing out a perm. Every so often Crazy Nan would take me to the hairdressers and treat me to a perm. Yes … I said treat.

I thought I looked fab. I wore stonewashed jeans with patches pulled up in a Simon Cowell stylee. Just to make sure they didn’t fall down I wore a tight belt and as a secondary measure some braces.

The cardigan I have no recollection of, in fact it looks like it may have belonged to my sister.

To top off my look I wore a George Michael T-shirt, tucked in. I knew all the words to the Faith album … and probably still do.

Not much has changed, I’m still THAT cool.

Mellow Yellow

This tag has an air of mystery about it. You have to guess who I’m tagging . . .

I’ve already done it behind the scenes and she’s all ready to go. And she’s primed her tagee etc. See if you can guess who it is before you click through to find out who our mellow yellow blogger is . . .

She got in the pool and after a while the instructor told her to take one of her swim rings off each arm (she started with 3) because she was doing so well and congratulated her on her breast stroke.  I swelled with pride, she cried and refused to take a ring off.

At the end of the lesson he asked everyone to put their faces in the water and blow bubbles. He told them to do as much or as little as they wanted.  She blew bubbles without her face in the water, then cried.

After the lesson she was fine, said she didn’t like putting her face in the water.  I reassured her that he wouldn’t expect her to put her whole face in the water if she didn’t want to.

So, this week we set off for swimming, she was happily babbling on about something or other in the car.  As we got nearer to swimming she got quieter, then she started weeping.

I managed to get her into the changing rooms, into her costume and to the side of the pool where her sobs got louder and louder.  With everyone staring I quietly started the bribery process.

For a month now she has been coveting a doll’s pushchair in a local shop.  At £25 I told her she’d have to save up.  We’ve been giving her money here and there for little chores and as a reward for good behaviour. Our little version of payday loans.

Pushchair of her dreams ...

I started with “Two fat golden coins towards the pushchair of her dreams” if she’d get in the pool.

She continued sobbing louder, everyone stared, all the other children were in the pool.

“Two fat coins and a big piece of Mummy’s flapjack after swimming” I proffered.

Then, she gripped onto me like a chimpanzee and I went in for the kill whilst trying to loosen her vice like grip around my neck …

“OK, I’ll buy you the pushchair tomorrow if you will get in the pool”

To my shock the final bribe didn’t work, which was when I realised any more attempts to get her in were futile.  She would not be getting in that pool then or any other time for swimming lessons.  I dragged her back to the changing rooms.

I was annoyed.  Annoyed that she wouldn’t get in.  Annoyed that my confident girl had bought a ticket to Sobland and couldn’t give me a reasonable explanation for why she didn’t want to get in the pool.  Annoyed that I’d spent £40 on swimming lessons that were never going to be used and wouldn’t be refunded. Most of all I was annoyed that I’d tried to bribe her to do something she quite clearly didn’t want to do.

I told her I wouldn’t make her come again.  I also told her that her get out of jail free card had been used. She would still be going to Rainbows every week … and of course school every day.  At this news she was ecstatic and reverted back to my happy go lucky sing song girl. We went home and had a scooter ride with the dog.

At bedtime, she told me she was sorry for being naughty at swimming and making me cross.  I felt bad.  Awash with mother’s guilt* I gave her a cuddle and told her I wasn’t cross with her, that she hadn’t been naughty and that Grandpa would teach her to swim instead (Sorry Grandpa).

The good news is that I have managed to get the 3 year old lessons in place of the 5 year old so the money isn’t wasted.  Bad new is that because he’s under 5 I have to get in with him.

Now, where can I get one of those burkinis?

As a side note, I would like to add that at the point of leaving the changing room to take the 5 year old to the pool I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  Before leaving the house I had dryed my hair in a rushed fashion.  What I saw in the mirror staring back was an Afghan Hound, not dissimilar to this one.

* I decided this week that Mother’s Guilt should be bottled and inflicted on the bad people of this world thrice daily.

Once home the crying subsided, he ate some chocolate and went off to play on the trampoline.   This confirmed that he hadn’t broken anything and I didn’t have to spend 4 hours waiting in A&E whilst he jumped off the furniture.

Later he wanted to watch TV and got snuggled up on the sofa with Lulu. 

I sat next to him and he put his feet on my lap.  I gave his feet a tickle and he said …

“Hit my feet like Grandpa does”

So I patted his feet gently.

“NO!  Harder like Grandpa does and on the bottom” he demanded.

So I slapped the soles of his feet as he relaxed and watched Mister Maker.

Grandpa started the day by venturing downstairs foolishly thinking it was later than it was and was met by the 2 year old who recruited him for some early morning cutting, drawing, tent making and channel surfing. When I rescued him at 8am Grandpa proudly told me that he had given the 2 year old some juice and had worked out how to turn the TV on. This boded well for his childcare duties during the rest of the day.

I went to work at 9.45 and returned to an empty house at 3.15. Fifteen minutes later a cold and tired looking Grandpa followed by two cold but remarkably perky children arrived home. Grandpa had been busy. He had taken them ‘rock jumping’ this morning (loosely translated = dog walking near some rocks which the children hurl themselves off). They came home for lunch, then ventured out again to Salts Mill (arty shops and a very nice café – full of yummy mummy’s – as a friend points out “I feel really skanky when I go there”) which is down a very steep hill from our house and has a lovely bookshop.

Grandpa told the children they could have a book each. The 2 year old gathered several books and formed a tower whilst the 4 year old and Grandpa found a book from which you can construct ’29 beautiful paper butterflies and display them on models representing three different habitats’ – what was he thinking? On further examination you require a pair of scissors fit for the Borrowers, a glue stick the size of a pen lid, a stiff drink and the patience of a saint. When he comes to stay again he will spend most of his time creating 29 beautiful paper butterflies. He must reap what he sowed.

The 2 year old was forced to whittle his pile of 30 books down to one and picked a book on Diggers (no glue stick required). They went to a café, ate biscuits and drank Ribena (one of the things which makes the 4 year old hyper). On the way home they had a trip to a playground, fed the ducks and rather aggressive swan. The 2 year old nearly fell into the canal twice. It was OK though because Grandpa had a backup plan. If he had to dive in he would leave his mobile phone on the side in case he had to ring my husband to come and get them. I think an ambulance may be more appropriate in temperatures of 0°C.

The last part of his journey was a steep hill home which I usually avoid at all cost due to the whine factor and because it usually ends in me carrying one child, shouting at the other for walking at the speed of a snail and nearly having a heart attack at the top. So when he arrived home he was rather stressed and tired.

By 5.30pm he had started on the wine and by 6.30 had single handed finished a bottle and was moving on to the next (he doesn’t normally drink much). Auntie K, big boy cousin and big girl cousin arrived for tea and we all sat down to eat. Grandpa by this point was discussing the finer points of cheap supermarkets and kept shouting “LIDL” in a German accent which somehow then moved on to him shouting “vichyssoise” in a French accent (French translation = cold potato leek soup) … which then within 5 minutes moved on to him shouting “MERDE” (no translation required).

Grandpa decided to put himself forward to be thrashed by the 4 year old at ‘Hop and Pop’ (Asda’s cheapo version of Frustration). He then collapsed on the sofa with some water and biscuits to watch a light documentary called ‘The Yamato’ about was a battleship of the Imperial japanese Navy durin World War II which was sent on a suicidal mission against more than 1000 US ships off Okinawa. This triggered him to speak in a Japanese accent for the duration of the documentary, but there was no further swearing.

As I was washing up tonight I came across the almost empty beaker that the 2 year old had been drinking from this morning with Grandpa. In the bottom was thick liquid. He hadn’t diluted the juice … just given it neat.

He never ceases to amaze me. Last year during a visit we were in a busy bookshop when the 4 year old decided to satisfy her hunger with a banana. I was holding the 2 year old and several books so told her to go and ask Grandpa to do it. Across a packed bookshop he shouted “I don’t know how to peel a banana”. The shop fell silent as people stopped and stared at this man in his late fifties who was unable to assist his grandchild with a simple fruit based act.

When asked what she did during the holidays I hope the 4 year old doesn’t tell her teacher that Grandpa is ‘merde’ at Hop and Pop.