Happy Birthday!

Your confidence is rocketing and you are brimming with adventure.  You’ve kept me on your toes for six whole years … Grandma still can’t watch you when you play in the garden, all that jumping and whizzing around makes her nervous.

After having your third set of grommets put in and your adenoids removed five months ago you can not only hear but you have also stopped snoring.

You like things ‘just so’ down to the sheets on your bed, which underpants you prefer to wear and where the sauce has to be on the plate.  You get that from your Dad. The clumsy bit? … that’s all my fault.

You and your sister seem to argue more often than not at the moment. Last week, though, I woke up to find you both snuggled up in your bed chatting and giggling. It more than made up for all the arguing.

You seem to be turning into an entertainer … mainly for the family.  Your confidence isn’t such that you’ll perform for just anyone yet.  You like to make people laugh while maintaining a dead pan expression. That is a good thing. A lover of slapstick comedy, you recreate amusing scenes for your sister.  It makes her laugh so hard that her tummy hurts.

School is a necessary evil, you get on and do what is expected of you, your reading has taken off and you have lots of friends.  You live for playtime, PE and the weekend. “PE is great” you said today “But getting dressed after PE is boring” and then shortly after “How many days until the weekend?”.

You enjoy your own company … taking yourself off to just be, playing a game, drawing a football match, doing stunts in the garden or playing with the dogs.

As you turn six your favourite things are: Football, the Xbox, running, jumping, being outside, pain au chocolat, planets, snooker, having your duvet tucked in a certain fashion before you go to sleep, your bike, biffing with your big cousin F.

Keep entertaining, my beautiful blue eyed boy, make people laugh until they can laugh no more. Be your own person and look after your sister. Six will be a breeze.

All my love

Mum x

I have a love hate relationship with school uniform. I love that the children all look the same, cutting out any decisions about what to wear in the morning. But I hate the palaver that comes with it; That being growing children, stains and school lost property. After 4 years I’ve worked out that certain things need more money spending on than others;

White polo shirts – come home covered in the nuclear school dinner sauce of the day and/or mud from lying on the floor during playtime (still not sure why lying on the floor is necessary). The appearance of ‘stain away’ polo shirts amused me a few years ago, absolute codswallop.  No protective barrier could see off the school spaghetti bolognese. So now I buy quantity over quality.

Cardigans and Jumpers – I prefer to spend a little more on knitwear. Due to my childrens’ scatterbrain nature they regularly come home without the cardigan or jumper they left the house in.  A little part of me dies as I realise that I’ll be spending half an hour with my head in the lost property wheelie bin of doom.  Usually they appear 3 weeks later in a school bag with no explanation.

Trousers and skirts – Skirts with a ridiculous amount of pleats are an no-no for me unless, of course, you like spending an inordinate amount of time swearing and ironing. Trousers need to be good quality, especially if you have a 5 year old who spends most of his breaks playing football and practicing some sort of sliding knee tackle.

I would definitely buy cardigans, jumpers and trousers from Trutex.  The fit and quality is second to none.  As for polo shirts, until my children stop using their t-shirts as a serviette and a goal stop I’ll be buying the cheapest that money can buy!

On another school uniform note … My Name Tags sent us some iron on name tags.  I could kiss the lady at Name Tags, they are so easy to apply, it takes seconds to do and they stay put.  The tags come in a variety of colours with a full range of pictures.  Along with iron on tags they also sent some stickers which are useful for bags, water bottles, packed lunch boxes and anything that leaves the house that you want to come back.

I decided to make the 7 year old watch it.

“That film was REALLY old wasn’t it”, she said when it had finished.  “Yes, REALLY old” I replied, waiting for her to tell me she thought it was rubbish and she wanted to go back to school.

“Can I watch it again?” she asked as I choked on my Diet Coke. Massive backfire.

After I’d put Seven Brides for Seven Brothers away on a really high shelf she spent the remainder of the afternoon eating oranges and snuggling the puppy. I started to question whether she was pulling the wool over my eyes and then felt bad for doubting her when she went very pale and said she still felt sick.  She declared that she was going to have a nap while I picked up the 5 year old from school.

A few days later I discovered just how that sickness induced nap had gone.  She was so poorly she managed to beard herself, not once but twice, on my phone which I’d foolishly left behind.

I arrived, at church,  early, and elbowed myself to a decent seat upstairs with a good view of the choir. At these sorts of things it’s always important to make sure your child knows where you are.  Sitting there with a large flashing arrow is bad practice so everyone spends the first five minutes of any school performance identifying themselves to their child with a series of twitches and arm waving. All the parents around me spotted their children as I continued craning to see mine.  Nope, she definitely wasn’t there.

Wondering if she’d been left at school I went downstairs to question her teacher.  Looking a bit shocked, she said “Didn’t she tell you she was performing in the Christmas tableau?” Well, no she bloody well didn’t … otherwise I’d have brought the BIG camera and what in all things manger-like is a tableau? I went back upstairs, muttering to myself that I still didn’t know what a bloody tableau was, except of course I didn’t say ‘bloody’, not in a house of god, and moved to a better ‘tableau viewing point’.

The concert went something like this … Big Vicar Who Never Smiles says a few words … choir sings … some readings … more singing … Big Vicar Who Never Smiles tells church about the collection plate at back of church … tableau forms at front of church … I work out that a tableau is a formation of non speaking people … my daughter is a mute innkeeper … tableau returns to sit behind alter … the mute innkeeper keeps mouthing something to me.

She is approximately 6 metres away from me and her face is partially obscured by an elaborate iron frame.  I struggle to work out what she’s mouthing. I keep mouthing back “What?”. As everyone starts to belt out Away in a Manger I think I’ve got it.  She keeps mouthing “I need a bell”.

I’m trying to remember at what point in a nativity the innkeeper has a bell and why on earth she hadn’t mentioned a) the fact she was performing in the ‘tableau’ and that b) she needed a bloody bell.

Shrugging I mouth back ‘I haven’t got a bell’.  She looks confused.  We all sit down again to listen to the Big Vicar Who Never Smiles telling us that Christmas isn’t just about presents. She continues mouthing at me.  I keep mouthing back ‘I don’t have one’ and gesticulating the international sign for ‘all gone’.  I stop short at emptying the contents of my handbag and holding it high above my head with the lining hanging out.  I realise that the man standing next to me, the Father of the child playing Mary, probably thinks I’m mad.  I whisper to him “She needs a bell”.  He looks at me like I’ve just confirmed his fear that I am mad.

Then it’s all over. Parent’s of children in the tableau are urged to go and take pictures of their children. I go over at which point I realise she looks a bit grey. I ask her why she didn’t tell me she needed a bell.  She tells me that she doesn’t need a bell and it dawns on me that the words she kept mouthing were  “I don’t feel well”

So we are now at home, her a little green behind the gills and  snuggling a puppy for medicinal purposes. I just need gin.

Cue sharp intake of breath from 7 year old and shifty look from 5 year old

Me “Why did you see the head teacher’s office?”

5 year old “I just did”

Me “Have you been naughty?”

5 year old “No, I just saw it. Can I have a biscuit?”

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At 2am in the morning;

5 year old “What is that noise outside?”

Me “People in cars, now go back to sleep”

5 year old “What are they doing?  Are they burglars?”

Me “No, they are probably people working at night”

5 year old “Like who? Who works at night?”

Me “Nurses, people who work in supermarkets, doctors, police, truck drivers”

5 year old “So there are no burglars?”

Me “No, there are no burglars working tonight”

5 year old “So why are the police working tonight? Are they looking for burglars?”

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Me “Time to get in the bath”

5 year old “Do I have to?”

Me “Yes, you are covered in mud”

5 year old “I’ve had enough of being  a human”

I was a staunch advocate for Clarks. Then eighteen months ago I had a bad experience.  We went to buy school shoes and it was incredibly stressful.  The store was packed and although it was only the second week of the school holidays the assistant couldn’t find a pair of shoes in the right size.  We eventually took home a pair which had stitching across the toe, that we didn’t actually like, because it was the only pair they had.  The stitching came undone within a fortnight.  I stopped shopping at Clarks for a while.  For a year I was disappointed.  I discovered that without spending over £50 a pair I couldn’t find anywhere else which gave the service and quality that I had experienced at Clarks before my bad experience.

A few weeks ago I was contacted by Clarks and asked if I’d like to come into store and get some school shoes.

We were given an appointment which immedately made me feel happy. I didn’t have to rugby tackle an assistant or pick a number.  The assistant was very chatty and put the 7 year old at ease immediately.  She had her feet measured and the assistant then brought a selection of shoes that the 7 year old had picked out. The 7 year old fell in love with the first pair she tried on, although we had to go up a size and they were able to bring out every pair in the right size.

We were in and out of, a well stocked, Clarks, without any arguing, unstressed in 15 minutes.

So Clarks, I’m back, I’m all yours … and I’m glad.

Last September we were sent a letter offering music lessons in school time. Thinking about Vanessa Mae and how successful her career has been *cough* I signed her up for violin.

We heard nothing for 3 months and then last week the rental pack arrived.  I filled in a lengthy form about what sort of violin we wanted to rent.

Knowing nothing about stringed instruments I asked the following question, of my friends, on Facebook;

Does anyone know anything about violins? Does the 6 year old need a 1/2 or 3/4 size?

Here are some of their not so helpful answers …

Eriiica – A double zero I think.

Friend from school 1 – I played for 3 years and still sounded like a cat. It’s an awful noise even when its played right. It’s also hard good luck with that x

Friend from school 2 – You got sucked into it to. E is doing violin too. Horrible sound. Will have to let her practice at grandma house!

Woman at Work – I’m an expert on violins as you know, considering her age and size I’d recommend a 1/2 or alternatively the tuba…

Exmoor Jane – Oh sweet god…of all the instruments… only one worse is the trumpet. I’d move out.

So I guessed, and she sat clutching her 1/2 violin on the way home from school. Since then she has plucked the strings at every opportunity and at other times just sat staring at it. She is unbelievably excited.

Her first lesson is next week.  Let’s hope that she doesn’t have my musical ability … I am tone deaf.  … and yes, I am investing in some ear plugs and extra gin.

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.

Bill has clearly spent many a night at young children’s homes.  He looks tired.  I’m sure that once upon a time (circa 1990) he was a brand spanking new Forever Friends bear on a shelf in Clinton Cards.

The 4 year old had been told to take pictures of Bill’s adventures, as you can see he had many, CLOSE UP, encounters in the play room.

I can confirm that Bill preferred Crunchy Nut Cornflakes to Weetabix and he liked whooping the 4 year old’s ass at Mario Kart  He didn’t like the bare naked Mr Potato Head, the rifle or the sword fight … he found all three offensive.  He did like the bike ride, the ambulance and it turns out that Bill’s favourite film is Uncle Buck, but we were unable to watch it with him due to the three ‘shits’, two ‘son of a bitches’ and one ‘asshole’ that fall out of Uncle Buck’s mouth.

After a bike ride on Sunday, Bill was more than happy to return to school for a rest.