Yes, then.

Yes, I have been coy; lurking without mentioning the big debate, the huge debate. Our wee country working itself into a frenzy. In a good way.

 

The reasons for my silence on the topic were many. I did not want to tell others what they should vote. I was unsure myself. I did not want to offend the English or England. (I love the BBC!) I did not want to get into spats and fights.

 

Two years ago, I started out as a  NO. I thought Scottish independence would be claustrophobic and parochial, like watching wall-to-wall Reporting Scotland (sorry Jackie Bird). I didn't want to 'divorce' England. I was afraid of making a mistake.

 

But the YES campaign have buoyed me, swept me along, made me feel like maybe I could go white-water rafting after all.

 

This is not about 'divorce.' It's about localising government and making it more accountable. It's about the Scots rejecting a UK economy where big business has started to rule everything and profit is the only measure of success. All-out capitalism is so uncaring.

 

We want a different kind of society that is more community-led. We don't want Trident or more eco-vandalism. We want renewables and thinking differently. Free education. We want to define ourselves. Even if we make mistakes, even if it costs us in the short term, even if you don't like Alex Salmond, we'll find a way in the long term. Our way.

 

If you are swithering, read this blog from the Guardian from George Monbiot. It's a belter.

 

"Independence, as more Scots are beginning to see, offers people an opportunity to rewrite the political rules. To create a written constitution, the very process of which is engaging and transformative. To build an economy of benefit to everyone. To promote cohesion, social justice, the defence of the living planet and an end to wars of choice."

People of Scotland, may the force be with us.

Actually not cooked sand

Years ago, I was a food critic for The List magazine and we were told to 'avoid clichés like the plague' (really). We had to shun common, dull words like 'tasty' and 'delicious.'

Yesterday, I was eating Ryvita crackers and Tess came in to have a bite. 'Mama?', she asked (for she has taken to calling me 'Mama', like a posh child); 'Are these crackers actually cooked sand?'

 

I loved that: she captured the texture in a nutshell. Oops, I'm mixing up the foodie metaphors, all over the shop.

'The Man' and why he should apologise to children more often

Parents everywhere, I'm sure you too have used The Man as leverage. Don't play on the escalators, or 'the man' will give you a row.  Say, 'Thank you,' to The Man. Sometimes The Lady but mostly, The Man.

 

Today, The Man got himself involved; dove right in, you could say, and managed to set off a classic parent-child Stress-Fest. Only later at home, when I got a minute's head space,  did I think, wait a minute....where is my true loyalty?

 

I was  returning, with Hugh and Tess, from a heat-soaked day at Troon beach. We were all stuffed on to a mobbed (Commonwealth-Games) platform at Central Station. The Man, a Games spectator from England, started making small talk with me, which was fine, until, he noticed, before I did, that wee Hugh had found a half empty can of some souped-up energy drink and was bringing his nose to the ring pull.

 

OI, OI, OI !  shouted The Man, in a tone, useful only for thugs snatching a pensioner's handbag. Poor Hugh nearly cacked himself, stunned to be yelled at, by a stranger.

 

'The man was only trying to stop you getting germs', I started in  soothing tones, hoping that the man would rush in with similar apology, but the man showed manly restraint. I even think Hugh muttered something, near tears,  about, 'only trying to sniff it.' (Forgive a 5 year old for showing our oldest evolutionary instinct in the relentless 'temptation' marketing from fizzy soft drinks).

 

Anyway, The Man just kept on with the small talk - something about driving his wife to Milngavie and getting lost - and I could see poor Hugh was not going to recover his composure and started to act out and pinch me. The man tried to make amends by carrying my awkward beach bags (wet towels, toy monkey, crusts of warm egg sandwich) on to the train, and by this stage, Hugh could hardly bear it.

 

His mother was running away with the berk who'd wronged him and shamed him. He started to really misbehave - arching his back like a toddler, hissing, scowling, with the odd suppressed punch to my arm. And still, I didn't get it. I was more concerned with politeness to The Man. Trying to make The Man feel better. Duh, he was just The  FRIGGIN Man, not my wee boy who needed someone, ideally me, to defend him.

 

So, here's what I will do differently, if I'm braver next time. I'm paraphrasing, but the proper version is something like this:

 

Man, oh Man.., I know you're trying to help, but my child didn't mean any harm, and he's hungry and spent after a happy day, and you scared the bejesus out of him, so if you could possibly find a wee apology for him, it would go a long way.

 

 Don't try and continue the chat with him regardless. When adults feel wrongly accused, they can't bear small talk from the perpetrator, as if nothing has happened!? Kids have an even keener and more desperate sense of justice. Throw him a bone. Say, 'Sorry I frightened you. I didn't mean to'. And, thanks, but there's no need to give them sweets. A toothy smile will do.

 

Now that harmony has been restored, and my journey home made less of an all-round discomfort, I'll tolerate your boring saga about losing your way and your wife on the way to Milngavie. Or was it Bearsden?

 

'Should be vibey'

Talent and Teeth

 

 

I have just started Donna Tartt's massive Goldfinch and, already I must gasp at her talent. Having never been in an explosion, her searing and vivid description of a bomb's aftermath (early in the book), made me feel able to imagine the visceral horror, more than even TV news has ever done. How does she do it? Darkly compelling.

 

Lightly compelling (see what I did?) was my amusement earlier, when driving with Tess (4). Harden my Heart, from 1982 came on the radio and the woman sang in her gorgeous, sexy voice about how she was going to harden her heart and swallow her tears. 'Why is she singing about swallowing her teeth?' Tess asked.

 

Nothing I love better, than driving with my wee girl, to a nostalgic 80's beat, and just starting to hint to her about the delicious mysteries of love and life ahead.

Why much less sugar is a good idea

Aliens, Screaming and Private versus Public Sugar

photo - 25g of sugar: recommended limit for adults.

 

'In space, no one can hear you scream.' As a Wannabe Sugar-Avoider (WAS) mum in the play-date world, I suspect no one wants to hear you scream. I'll admit it, I'm feeling lonely and out on a limb.

 

The photo above is 25 grams of sugar. This is the daily limit that the World Health Organization recommends *for adults*. Adults. So, do the maths for kids. You can see there's barely enough here to make a biscuit (pauses to scream).

 

For months now, I've been trying to cut back on sugar (not calories) and eat low GI/GL foods in the house, filling myself with 'slow-burn' food. Naturally, I've tried to take the kids with me. I've learned to bake biscuits that are mostly oats, butter, bananas, raisins and a splash of honey, as surely, these are better for them than a shop-bought Hob Nob. After school, I give them nuts and apples and milk.

 

But we don't live in isolation, and everywhere we go, the world is fuelled by lavish, 'treat-y', fast, carbohydrates that spike blood sugar like a 'hit'. They are the social currency of the mums' world, and play-date land. People offer your kids treats all the time, often directly, to the kids. So if you blurt out a 'no', you risk offending the host and giving your child food anxieties. D'oh.

 

And, there is no easy way off the train. Our kids will ask for their birthday parties and how can I possibly throw one with just fruit and oatcakes? Mea Culpa; I have complied like the others. Ah, but parties are rare, you say. No. At this age, they get party invites every other weekend, and why shouldn't they have fun? Can we just find a way to do it without involving about 8 or 10 of those egg cups full of sugar? Ten times an adults daily amount, before the sweet-filled party bags? Just about every childhood celebration is based around sugar: Easter, Halloween, Christmas...

 

And in all of this, I wonder how I'm ever going to keep the kids within healthful recommendations. That's all I'm trying to do! Yes, the argument rages in my head. I feel like a Nay-Sayer, a Debbie-Downer, a Party-Pooper, and yet all I want is to follow health advice from the WHO and prevent myself and my family from ending up with type 2 diabetes or worse, further down the road.

 

But I can see that it's going to take a revolution on a much bigger scale. Right now, I can do private no-sugar but I'm flailing with  public no-sugar, involving friends and kids. Is there any advice from Action on Sugar for  this?

 

I still feel like Sigourney Weaver, floating alone in her space ship, trying to save the Universe, fuelled inadvertently by doughnuts and glucose-fructose syrup.

Knocking down walls / Author turned plumber

Tonight the hot tap in our kitchen sink got stuck in full, drumming flow - the handle clicking uselessly as I turned it frantically. I managed to find the mains and turn off the water supply, phew, and then I phoned my parents, for their brief consolation, which was £80 cheaper than a plumber.

 

My Dad is an author, and we are the kind of family who can't put up shelves, do grouting or fix taps. (Occasionally, when we were kids, we wished our mum was a hairdresser, and our dad a builder: careers with practical application and bonus results. Loft extensions and 80's perms aplenty).

 

And so, I was touched when my Dad turned up promptly with his M&S shopping bag, clicking with assorted spanners and washers. He managed to take the tap apart and - thread some thread around the thread, making it work again, at least until we can summon up the 'chore energy' required to hurl ourselves through the automatic doors of B&Q towards the tap section.

 

This should temporarily distract me from my wall dilemma. As I say, we have never been a knocking-down-wall kind of family. We wouldn't dare. Mind you, the wall between our small, (can I say tiny?) kitchen and adjacent dining room had a cheek ever going up in the first place. It was probably built in the days when wives were referred to as, 'Her indoors'. None of your egalitarian Ikea family space back then.

 

To fight back I'll need building control, a steel beam and a suitcase of dosh, but most of all, I need to change decades of DNA to become a knocking-down-wall kind of family.

Older photos and a 'volunteering face'

My computer photo storage is so random that one of these photos was entitled, 'mushrooms in the garden.'  Of course it's me with the kids in the early days. Oh, the chubby cheek years. I fear my laptop will grind to a halt and I will lose most of my photos in the digital ether. I have some on Flickr although I'm close to my free limit.

 

Yesterday, a woman asked me to help in the school garden because she said I had, 'a volunteering face.' I told her I was committed to volunteering 3 times this week - in the school office, then at my girl's playgroup, then another local school. She let me off the garden.

 

I'm doing volunteering in schools, as I am mulling over the idea of teacher training in future. It's amazing how many people try and put you off - or just give a sharp intake of breath. Oh well. 'We'll see..,' as my dad always used to say.

So that's the reason my blog has been quiet again. My volunteering visage. And a general sense of  'float-y' contentment. May and June:  the months of longer days and aspirant plans.

Having babies close together

If any readers have one baby..., and are swithering about when to try for a second, feel free to listen here - 7 minutes into the Fred McAulay show (available one week only) as I talk on Radio Scotland about the joys of having two in relatively quick succession.

Voting for Stay at Home Mothering

I was at the GoMA museum with the kids when Radio Scotland phoned me to ask if I'd take part in a radio discussion on Stay at Home Mothering and Working Mothers.

 

Pause for initial slight angst as I don't want to be locked in some battle of judgments of working mums. Eh, let me think. Then, irony, I had to say I couldn't do it, as I am scheduled to do a training morning for a forthcoming  short-term, yet very welcome, health data collection job. (Francis, the kids' dad will look after them).

 

A while afterwards, I realised I had got my days muddled and I was free, but I think it's a sign of my commitment to the weans that I was unable to phone the show back, because I can't get online on my phone and had no number for them. Activating phone surfing is the kind of thing working people do all the time, but after repeated technical hitches, I waved the white flag and realized that the only proper time for casual internet-ting was when the kids are in bed. Like now.

 

With young kids, smart phones just stop the flow of interaction and I prefer to limit the phone-picking as much as possible. Thanks to that and the rare sunshine, we had ourselves a beautiful day.

 

I love the intimacy that builds with just hanging out with them: having a packed lunch in Princess Square; negotiating the station and hopping on a train home. Dandering to the park, answering their random, surreal questions (Is a hedgehog a kind of squirrel?) Being there for their every up and down. Hugging them every time they cry.

 

People ask if SAHM's get bored, and yes, there is that aspect on dreich indoor days, but days like today? Just a joy.

 

I understand and accept staying at home is not for everyone. But I do wish the government would stop penalizing single earner families and realise, that by raising the next generation with round the clock active devotion, we are doing an underestimated and undervalued good.

 

We are giving our all to prevent them becoming criminals and general corporate meanies. We are helping them grow towards being kind and compassionate adults who will want to parent their kids as best they can. Pious? Obvious? Maybe. But why do I feel I have to say it?

 

 

Lessons from Easter Football Camp

Hugh (5) came home from football camp with the demeanour of a child who subsequently needed to go to boxing camp. I got it out of him that he was sore about 'losing' and tried to give him the, 'only a game' speech.

He then went upstairs, 'to write a song' and it came back as such:

I lik wen I win
but it disn't matr
if I don't win
it is fun to win
but it is good
to let iver peepl win
so evrywun
can selabriat.

Tess (4) played the shaker as percussion. Premier League, here we come.

Rusty the Squirrel's Disco

How could you have missed it?

 

The science is catching up

Here is another rallying call to Big Business to protect children's health by cutting sugars in our foods.

Yes, I know it's my current favourite 'issue', and I think it has become so, because, in general, people look at health lobbyists like myself as if we're being a bit humourless and taking it too far.

The science is catching up. If 'treating' ourselves with sweet things on a daily basis, several times a day, is going to lead us to all sorts of unhealthy scenarios, then we've go to find another path.

Right. After my usual 'carby' free-fall of a weekend, I will return to porridge, eggs and homemade soup tomorrow. Will the flavour of righteousness suffice?

Eeny Meeny Miny Moe - don't kid yourself, we always know

I paint myself as an indecisive person sometimes, but deep down, I know we always know which path to take. I see it when the kids hover over choices with their eeny meeny miny mo rhyme.

Be it toys, biscuits, clothes or whatever, they start methodically, and, if the final mo is going to fall randomly, they make sure it wobbles at the last second, and they'll point to the one they really want.

Ah, Saturday evening, you are still young.

Even the government says sugar, 'could be addictive'.

I knew it! So grows the emerging feeling within me, that I have been eating far too much sugar, just like everybody else. And it takes so much work to avoid it.

I used to be relieved that I could easily live without alcohol - I'd barely miss it - and cigarettes were never a temptation, but I can safely say, I'm the sugar/biscuit/cake equivalent of a junkie.

These past few months of sporadic attempts to cut down, have felt like standing at base camp Everest, looking up.

What could be more important?

Readers, I do have regular Art versus Life dilemmas. I enjoyed my weekly poetry class, and then it was cancelled due to lack of numbers. I find it very hard to write without a deadline or a metaphorical stick. My father (a writer) used to suggest that I write a novel. Blimey, my massage lady, Wee Paula, tells me to, 'get that book written.' She claims to have clairvoyant powers, but, hey...

 

What's stopping me? Answer: Being as happy as a pig in mud (to use an un-writer-ly cliché). Being there for the kids feels like the truest calling I ever had. I ask myself, what could be more important? Sure, art is crucially important. It helps better us and elevate us and I love the high of a good song/film/poem/story/novel. I love feeling I have created something that moves others - a poem or a story.

 

But, let's face it, my main creativity is helping the children grow safely and happily. This should not been seen as lesser. I am enjoying a new volunteer role as a classroom assistant in a local primary school. This too, feels right and it feels important in a way that is often underrated. But it feels important to me, and this is where the sustenance lies. I'd love to get a job like this, one day.

 

Perhaps I will come back to writing sooner or later. Umm, later or sooner, I want to say, to give me hope it will be sooner.

 

Still, I love being the big cushion for the weans and the one who will teach them to tie their shoe laces. Such industry allows me to be the one who watches The Simpsons with them, when the  comfortable tiredness of evening comes calling. Peace on earth, man.

 

That's touring, hen...

I took a trip to Manchester with Francis, when he went to see Laura Cantrell sing. 'You do really cool things,' said a friend. I thought it would be an exciting getaway: say, pre-gig dinner in a cool urban eatery...a sparkling gig, then a funky hotel with snowy towels and sheets?

Yes, kind of. And what about: motorway service stations, Sat Nav insanity, cold, smelly dressing rooms in the student union, four hours sleep with toga-wearing hen parties yelling for their f-ing pizzas at 4am?

'That's touring, hen', said Francis. He's right. I wouldn't last five minutes.

Turn off Sat Nav and drive directly to Comfort Zone. Know your strengths and stay there, she tells herself , next morning, as she notes her wrinkles in the mirror.

Lovely Laura, meanwhile, gave it everything and the crowd lapped it up.

It was great to see the kids again, when we came home.

Crying Fowl

I should really brush up on my spelling before tackling local dog owners. The more educated canine might think, okay, so I can't chase any chickens here now, but I can still use the pavement as a toilet.

 

Yes, I am really angry about the endless dog poo in our area. I phoned a community dog poo lady from the council - although that may not be her official title. She did her best by asking 'community officers' to patrol the area, but she said the legislation was woeful. I'd like to see a new, 'stop and search' campaign. If the dog owners can't produce a plastic bag, then the police should take down their address and give them a verbal warning.

 

It's vile and disgusting and bacteria therein can lead to kids going blind. Really. It makes most people really angry. How can we pool our collective wrath and close in on the offenders?

 

More chalk and correct spelling might be a start.

What is it with our hospitality industry?

Though I love Scotland, I have grown weary of the oft-encountered, poor customer service.

I am toying with the idea of booking a 2 night, February break in a hotel 'resort,' an hour's drive away. There are 'luxury' lodges and a hotel swimming pool, pine trees and lochs.

I am hesitant, because it feels like a possible indulgence and the weather could be dreich. Still, I phone the (4 star) resort, looking for some encouragement.

-Hello, I am thinking of booking a break with you soon and I wondered if there are any children's activities running?

Woman: (flat-voiced) I have absolutely no idea.

Me: Well, how would I find out? Should I phone back?

Her: (irritation suddenly rising to match mine) Well, it would help if I actually knew which weekend you were coming?

Me: Not this weekend, but next.

Her: Well I don't know. The activities are only planned week to week. But usually, only if the schools are off. So, usually not.
If you phone back next Friday, I can ask the leisure team, but there's been nothing on at all this week....

Me: Okay, thanks. I'll think about it. (Hangs up. Blogs in frustration about it).

How different it could have been! Even if there are no kid's activities on out of season, she could have sold it to me with warmth and welcoming. 'Kids always love it here. There are great walks and a play area. It's very family friendly,' etc.


When I do get good customer service in Scotland, or anywhere, I make sure to lob liberal smiles and 'thank yous' at them.

Avoiding the Expectation Management chat with a five year old

 

It was Hugh's buoyant certainty that made my heart pang; the certainty that all the local children would read the above poster (barely legible in the photo): Hugh's poster. Come to Hugh's house if you want to come to the treasure (hunt). Don't be late.

 

He thought they would come streaming, in joyous droves and he would be the Great Gatsby of our postal code, handing out wrapped-up treasure, glowing with the joy of giving. He didn't say this, of course, but it was there in the subtext.

 

I couldn't bear to tell him otherwise, so I texted 'Daddy' to make a fuss of the clues. Somehow, the fact that daddy was on his way home anyway, was subsumed by the fact that Hugh's poster had called him from afar, beckoning with promise. Alchemy in itself.

 

If I've done one useful thing today...

...it has been to sign a petition in the No More Page 3 campaign. I never buy the tabloids, but when I take Hugh (now five) to get his hair cut in the barbers, I always forget about page 3.

 

I pick up a paper and start to flick it open....and then quickly shut, newly annoyed that the objectification and exploitation of women is so everyday. It's not the nudity; they could look at National Geographic or the step-by-step breast feeding photos in my Mother and Baby guide - but the meat-market approach of page 3. It's grim and I shall gladly click on the petition to ban it.

Girls and their advance planning

Our wee girl, Tess, came back from playgroup and told me that there was a new boy there and she was, 'falling in love with him'. 
I asked her what made her fall in love and she said, 'hmm, (embarrassed laugh), his hair and his eyes and his teeth'.

It'll be no different at age 14, I thought.

Meanwhile, he's still 2 feet high. She said, 'I didn't tell him I was falling in love with him and I might want to marry him. That could be a wee surprise for him.'

Yes.

Festival highs

 

Good luck to my old friend, Stuart, whose first feature film, God Help the Girl, is debuting at Sundance Film Festival.  I'm sure it's thrilling to be there, in the mountain air. Even rolling the name, 'Sundance' across my tongue is enough for me.

 

Last night, Francis and I went to the opening night of another great festival, Celtic Connections. The musicians appear effortlessly talented and convey such a feeling of inclusive magic - as if you've just stumbled into the best party in town, their party, and they're going to let you stay. They'll transport you and ravish you (sort of) and leave you walking out lighter. Brilliant.

 

Child's play

Wow. I agree with every word of this important article about why free play is crucial to the development of young kids, and how society is slowly but surely reducing opportunities for it to thrive.

'The most fundamental social skill is the ability to get into other people’s minds, to see the world from their point of view. Without that, you can’t have a happy marriage, or good friends, or co-operative work partners. Children practise that skill continuously in their social play.'

Roll on Spring and a childhood revolution.

The risks of excess sugar...

were featured widely in the news today. I liked this quote -

Assistant Professor of Medicine at the University of Ottawa, Canada, Yoni Freedhoff; “Not only has added sugar found its way into virtually everything we eat, but worse still, the use of sugar as a means to pacify, entertain and reward children has become normalized to the point that questioning our current sugary status quo often inspires anger and outrage.
“We need to re-relegate sugar to the role of occasional treat rather than its current role of everyday, anytime, crutch”.

Hmm. Will I be deeply unpopular if I only put out oatcakes, cheese and apple whilst hosting my next play date?

 

The last day of 2013

Is it normal to have an aesthetic bias for even numbers? Why should that even be? (Ha). 2014 sounds more pleasing than 2013. My children were born in 2008 and 2010.

So, anyway, I know it's a cliché to blog about New Year resolutions, but earlier today, I enjoyed reading the 2014 aspirations of various feminist women, here in The Guardian.

I especially liked Jeanette Winterson's quote -

My new year's resolution is simple: you don't have to play by other people's rules but you have to play by your own. I want to be clear about what I believe and uphold those values in private and in public. This government is so shoddy and the ethos of the time so self-serving. It is important to work out what is important. Living consciously has never mattered more.

I know what she means. So often, I feel I should be living more environmentally and consumer-ethically. I get privately mad when others don't, while constantly reminding myself that your average Greenpeace activist or true Eco Citizen (who live by their creed) would look at me in horror. It's a sliding scale

 

I want to get outdoors more. More nature. More family walks and exercise. Less sugar. Being able to do less sugar and not mind. (I have just had a slice of Christmas cake and read that there were 40 grams of 'sugars' in one portion. Insane.)

 

Ah well, just three more hours to go to the so-called 'Bells'. Hogmanay is such a Scottish tradition, and I remember the Irish girl in me being bemused, at parties of old, when all the boys ran to phone their mums after midnight. We never did that stuff. It wasn't like Christmas.

 

Tonight, I'm glad I'm not careering round the wet Glasgow streets looking for  adventure. I'm happy just to be home and  warm on the sofa with 'wur own' Jackie Bird.

 

Vive la difference - chicos y chicas

The woman walks into the bedroom and the man is stroking his tablet (steady). It is Boxing Day and the woman is wondering if she can get away with wearing the same dress she wore on Christmas day, to a Boxing Day dinner. She likes the dress but it now smells faintly of roast turkey.  She says, but, maybe nobody will notice as we’ll be surrounded by more roast dinner anyway? The man glances up briefly and makes a neutral, acknowledging, ‘hmm’.

The woman keeps on gently narrating until the man says, look, can you get to the point, I’m reading. The woman says, there doesn’t have to be a point – this is the way women walk in and out of rooms to each other, being each other’s flexible audience, offering the soothing acceptance that comes with the tennis game of no-pressure chat, that doesn’t need to go anywhere fast.

The man says, aye, but you’ve hit the ball over the net and are now glaring into the sunshine, wondering where it’s gone. Yes, laughs the woman. She has been here before. The man goes back to his tablet, reading aloud, When Kaiser’s Europe invaded France….

The woman goes off to have a shower, content that he is engrossed. She enjoys washing her hair and not being offended. She enjoys the laid-backness of the morning.  Downstairs the boy child and the girl child sit in new Christmas dressing gowns watching Mickey Mouse Mouse-keteers, unaware that when they grow up they will have many Kaiser’s Europe versus Chat-for-the-sake-of-connecting chats. No one will win, and no one needs to either.

Going Underground

Christmas Prayer for three foreign students on the Subway

St George’s Cross? Are you sure?

Are you safe, are you loved?

You must be: your towely socks are newish white,

your rucksacks packed to perfection,

and the silver tinsel on your hats is allowed,

for your brown eyes have no idea

of their own shine: the sassy purity of youth.
 

When you get off, and the train pulls away,

let everyone be kind to you,

let your B&B be without grubbiness

and let the grey, Glasgow wind and rain

fail to dampen you, in these days before Christmas

when you are far from home.

Moral responsibilty and different hair

When Tess was doing that thing that 3 year olds do especially well: treating you like the most servile of all servants, I tried to explain to her that when she grows into a bigger girl, she will have to learn to do things for herself.  Eyes raised to the ceiling, she asked, 'And, will I have different hair?'

Today's three questions from our 3 year old.

It's the way Tess lobs her questions out, apropos of nothing. Her random reasoning finds a leaping-off point, and she asks:

1) When little crabs pince you, is it tickle-y? Just little ones?

2) What is under everybody's floor? Just old 'wubbish?

3) When people die, do they never come back? Not ever?

Ah, the everyday parental sport of hiding the lump in your throat.

The job interview

Last week, I had my first proper job interview. As readers may know, my life has been:

Happy childhood in Belfast, then Edinburgh; teenage years idyll on Islay; Arts Student at Glasgow University; wrecked by ME in my 20's and 30's; amazing recovery in my 40's....just in time to fall into full-time motherhood .

 

So, I've done intermittent volunteer jobs and a bit of writing, but the career ladder has escaped  me. And now I'm looking for part-time work to fit around 'being there' for the weans. When I got an interview for an entry-level, social care job, I thought, great, here we go...

 

Or not. I thought I did well at interview and when the woman phoned, I was sure she was going to offer me the job. That'll teach me. Instead she told me, (in consolation?) that there were ninety applicants. Ninety?! For near minimum wage. And she had asked if I was prepared to work with potentially violent and do personal (incontinence) care - neither of which had appeared in the job description.

 

For the first time, I felt like a living statistic in Recession Britain, where people were expected to work for free in Poundland for 'work experience'.

 

The world seems so skewed when bankers get paid millions for moving money around, and the grafters and carers get so little.

 

Ah, well, we'll see what next year brings.

 

 

Facebook

Facebook is gradually worming it's way into my every day. I used to have an on/off affair with it - always feeling I might be missing the party, but now it's becoming a semi-comfortable habit. We'll see how it goes...shall we?

Twitter can have a seat in the waiting room.

The Fussy Eater Mantras

I should print out this short article on what-not-to-say to fussy eater kids, and pin it up in the dining room. Genius.

Wee Boy off School - Part 2

By  afternoon, the mother consoles herself that she has made the right decision to keep her young boy off school. She had wondered previously if he was milking his off-school status, and she felt almost relieved when she could see he was still struggling.

 

Even a car trip to Ikea to buy a Christmas tree was soon met with complaints of a, 'funny tummy' and a desire to go home and lie on the sofa.

 

Hours later, the kids are asleep, and the Christmas tree lies horizontal and netted in the dark boot of the car, until Daddy comes home on a late train from the Highlands.

 

(Can we dust this scene with snow for extra effect, anyone? No? Worth a try).

Wee Boy Off School

So, Hugh started the day saying he felt too sick to go to school. It's like a 9am poker game: is he bluffing? Am I too soft? Am I too hard? Will he hurl all over his desk after ten minutes? Hmm, he does look pale...

 

I gave him 'the benefit of the doubt' (a phrase oft used by my mum). Two hours later, he's watched a pile of kid's TV (it's educational, I tell myself) and managed a bit of toast. I feel a bit duped.

 

I've quizzed him about any possible fears or negatives at school, but nothing surfaced. I know it sounds 'hippy-speak', but I do believe the body speaks for us, when we can't speak for ourselves. There's probably some level of angst lurking.

 

It's his school Christmas party tomorrow afternoon, so I hope he'll go happily. One more week 'til the holidays. C'mon the sleigh bells.

 

Bitter Sweet

I know, I've said it before, but I am definitely trying to cut back on sugar. And I'm trying to protect the kids from the hidden sugars all around, in supposedly healthy things like yoghurt and wholemeal bread.

 

I love C Beebies, but every other programme features lip-licking worship of cup cakes and ice cream. Mr Bloom's veggie's can't quite make up the shortfall. Broccoli jazz hands by the compost-arium, everyone!

Boys and Girls come out to play...

Here is a short article about why younger boys and girls benefit from being friends with each other. The female author didn't want anything to do with boys at school, but I felt the opposite. Boys were exciting.

 

My first 'best friend' was Colin Patterson. I have not seen or heard of him since we were seven; my family moved from Belfast to Scotland to flee the troubles.

 

I remember his freckles and his plastic binoculars and how he taught me to do 'commando runs'. Once we stole biscuits from a neighbour's  house, exhilarated by the ease of our success: simply opening the back door and standing on a kitchen chair to get the tin from a high shelf. That was it? No police? No guard dogs?

 

We dug for treasure behind his garage - it was always inches away from us in the clay mud. His family had 'a good room', so we listened to his Rolf Harris record in the back room. For a joke, I hid his wee brother's shoes in the coal bunker. I was hot with shame when caught. Justice then, eventually.

 

Just Magic

I'm pleased that our boy, Hugh, (5) is already showing a decent grasp of science. But how can reindeers fly? he pleads. It's just magic, I reply. And in a way, it is.

His sister, Tess (3) is somewhat behind. She is excited to be in the playgroup 'Tanivity' play and wants to be a butterfly, but will settle for being one of the angels.

There are many moments I imagine we might forget as we get older. I love the way she makes words her own. She pronounces 'children' as 'joldren'. Because is 'we-cause'. Just we-cause she can.

The Revolution is coming but not before dinner

I've been watching Russell Brand's orations on the hypocrisies of modern politics and media, and while he doesn't hold any answers to the complex problems, at least he elucidates where we go wrong. He takes risks, he splits the critics, and he speaks for millions, including me (although I would always vote, even if it means voting for the least bad option).

 

Anyway, I keep wishing someone would speak out for the daily paradoxes of domestic family life. There are many mores of motherhood that I rail against inwardly, before I compromise or conform. And each time, I conform, I tell myself I shall start a counter revolution. How? Umm.

 

Who's going to risk accusations of kill-joy Scrooge-ery and oppose the Plastic-ification of Christmas?

 

Can I really be the only one who feels depressed by the mountain of plastic toys brought into kids' homes by 'Santa'? This morning I finally threw out a bulging bag full of mottled plastic bath toys that had been hanging on a hook in our bathroom for a year. This was over and above the toys that still linger daily in the bath.

 

All these trinkets are unrecyclable (our council only take plastic bottles). A family with no toys could have played with them, but I can hardly send a padded envelope of grubby ex-bath toys to a mythical mud hut somewhere, where kids play with sticks and yams, and may indeed gain more from that.

 

So, I want to resist buying more planet-harming plastic, yet I don't want our kids to feel bereft. It's like trying to live in LA when you don't want to dye your hair, let alone get your face lifted. Are we mad, people?

 

And, now, the revolution is grinding to a halt, as I have to go and make the kids' dinner. See? That's how it works round here.

 

What the kitchen men tell you

A new man came to measure the kitchen.

He was older but he had bright eyes, with pupils blue as marbles. He said he couldn't have biscuits. He was diabetic and he'd had a stroke a few years ago. He said the Victorians hung their doors to protect privacy; not like the modern way. He said, 'I love my wife dearly, but I'm not going to spend six grand on a granite worktop for her. I'm sorry Dorothy, but I'm not'.

I liked him.

Look, No Hands

 

I am spending my free time thinking about some kind of part time work and mulling over my skills. Today, I can add, Riding a bike along a riverbank with no hands,' to my CV. It only lasted for 5 seconds and took 45 years to master, but it was, indeed, a spike of joy.

 

It made me think of teenage boys in summer, who came riding into town, arms by their side and shoulders back. I don't know who they were now - like characters from half-remembered dream, but damn, they looked cool.

 

I was cycling to meet a friend (offering his career advice) and I took a safer short cut, along the banks of the river Kelvin. It's like nature's secret artery through the city, shared by yappy dogs and  walkers, joggers, prams, and the wee druggy couple who weren't having ice creams in the rhododendrons.

 

 

Zumba into 80's Timewarp.

 

If you thought I was at my second only Zumba class, struggling to follow the fancy moves and panting dumbly, you would be seeing in one dimension only.

 

Inside, I am Jennifer Beals. The pretty, Spanish Zumba teacher is happy to have such a 'natural' in her class. Yes, the 80's were a while back, but, hey, she knows I haven't lost it. We understand each other, even if her star jumps outclass mine. (Know what I'm saying, ladies?).

 

One day, I will mature out of my X factor mentality and learn that   we can't all be Jennifer Beals, or Subos, but we can have fun trying. For anyone outside Scotland who doesn't know Subo, you can see her here.

Time for the Actual One

I had to google, 'Time for the Actual One', to see if it was from some children's cartoon, or whether my kids had just made it up. It seems the latter. Still, I find myself saying it back to them - we all use a American 'movie trailer' accent to deliver it, and it feels strangely soothing and grounding. Try it. Time for the Actual One.

The garden in November

Collected Stories

My Dad is having a book launch / house party for his Collected Stories tomorrow night. I remember when he was an English teacher in a tweed jacket, who occasionally wore red satin-y shorts to play teachers versus pupils basketball in the school gym (sorry, dad). I'm proud of his work ethic and all-round perseverance. Go, Barney.

The Lost Window

The two workmen both take two sugars in their tea. The younger one smells fresh, like some kind of man deodorant. The older one coughs, and sighs intermittently. Our front door and windows are open, and the air inside the house smells of industrial adhesive.

 

Earlier the older one dropped a lap-top sized window and it smashed through the gutter outside and landed in the wet bark chippings of the front garden. It looks lost, out of context, like a lone robot eye, squinting at the sky.

Mother of Intention

If not the mother of invention, let me at least aim for intention. For the list of things I intend to do is so long and varied, it  taunts me and I have to argue back, just like the kids, with their, 'but, but, buts.'

 

I want to read more, watch more, walk more, learn more, create more, dance more, see more people. But first, I am a mother. Oh, yeah, mustn't forget, I (we) have created a couple of human beings and we're still putting in the graft. Hourly.

 

Another mother in the playground admitted she was, 'so lacking in ambition' and, once again, I thought: Hold on! Society only defines it that way. We are deeply ambitious that our kids get the best upbringing possible, by being there for their every need. By doing all the invisible stuff they are not aware of, but they'd miss it if we didn't, or if we left them in after-school clubs all week.

 

So, yes, I still hope to do so much more. And I will, when the planets are in the right orbit. Meanwhile,  did I start a novel in the last half hour? Eh, no. After weeks of intending to, I managed to  make an online purchase of two universal cooker hood filters with grease saturation indicators. Of course you wanted to know that. I bet all the best novelists have a) no kids or b) a nanny, and perhaps, c) oven hoods dripping with grease.

A Modern Prob

Have you noticed how frequently people say, 'No problem', when the question of a problem hasn't necessarily be raised? A man came to measure our kitchen. I said, I'll get your coffee. He said, no problem. I was at the till in the supermarket. I said, I'll get my purse (fumbles in bag full of crushed tissues and half-eaten bananas). No Probs, said the checkout boy. Houston, we have a prob. Just Don't tell Lynne Truss of Eats, Shoots and Leaves.

Katie Morag on CBeebies..,

..is definitely my new favourite children's show. Great to see a  central female character who is just like-able and human and not defined by the usual 'pink princess' nonsense. See? It wasn't that hard, people. Watch a clip here.

 

It made me so nostalgic for the freedom of youth I had on Islay. Such a rare and precious thing.

 

-C

A Cake-a-holic goes Cold Turkey and is Surprised

 

 

I haven't mentioned my dabbles with Low GI or Low GL eating. It stands for Glycemic Index or Glycemic Load, and refers to how fast sugar in any given food is converted to glucose in your blood stream. You may know this already.

 

 

I started aiming to eat low GI foods, not to lose weight, but because, for a few years, I have felt like a slave to sweet things. I was getting bored of needing cake several times a day. I got so crave-y and hungry. I spent weeks, months, summoning up the will power to cut back on sugar, thinking that when I did, my life would become a grey wilderness of pining. The cake section in M&S would feel like an illicit crack den.

 

And the most surprising thing is: I can eat low GI for 5 days a week and enjoy it. I'm at the stage of  'treating' myself at the weekends and deciding to eat anything I want, and okay, there is exhilaration and freedom in that.

 

But after your typical weekend of kids' parties - pizza, chips, pirate-ship cakes.., it feels like a relief to go puritan again on the Monday. Rye bread, soups, peanut butter, fruit. Slow stuff. Like putting a big log on the fire instead of trying to keep it going with newspaper: flaring high and leaving me wanting more.

 

My slow and steady enthusiasm for low GI  may be boring my friends. It's only been a few weeks, but I'm hoping I can walk the walk..,quietly chomping on an oatcake.

 

-C

 

A story inThe Scotsman

Thank you to The Scotsman newspaper for publishing my short story.  It's called Yours to Enjoy and it's about an exchange visit student who comes to stay in Scotland with an older, childless couple.

-C

Halloween

Oh, I appear to be dressed up as a middle-aged mum, addicted to comfort-over-style. Frightening, I think you'll agree.

Stay at Home Mothers

It looks like Laura Perrins is becoming a great supporting voice as she calls for  recognition of the true value of Stay-at-Home-Mothers to society.

PROJECT WILD THING

 

This looks right up my street - or countryside lane.

 

-C

Children Growing

I love Tim Lott's column in the Guardian and agree with his philosophy. This week he suggests that telling children to 'cheer up,' when they are sad, is counter-productive. Instead, accept their feelings and give them the love and space to start cheering themselves up, in their own time.

 

I read another great quote in this article about trying to educate kids of dangers online. If they are curious, don't say, 'Ask me when you're older,' as they can Google everything anyway. I hope I can answer 'tricky' questions, as the kids grow up.

 

Yesterday, Hugh said, (apropos of nothing),

 'Why do baddies have all the money and power?'
Me: 'Who told you that?'
Him: 'You did.'

Oh.

-C

Scary or Beautiful: The Only Choice

I saw Superman logo thermals in M&S and naively thought I could kill two birds with one stone: winter warmth and Hugh's Halloween costume.

'No!' he protested, as if I knew nothing about anything. 'You have to be scary or beautiful; that's the only choice.'

Wolfing About

Hugh came home from school and told me the Common Wolf Games were coming to Glasgow.

Sunshine on Leith

Loved it, loved it, loved it. Wanted to be it.

 

-C

Glasgow Grapes

Ok, so they are barely the size of blueberries, but they taste sweet (yet tart?) and I grew them in my Glasgow garden. I hope you are grapeful.

-C