Stone Hairdressing in the Modern Age

Friends, you may know I rail against needless consumerism, especially for kids, but the flip side is when my children's pals come for play dates, I have the occasional pang of demi-guilt that the toys in our house may not match the cascade of Argos-y plastic delights in other kids' bedrooms. 

Hence I was glad to see yesterday's improvised game: Stone Hairdressing. Simply pick your favourite stone from the garden, take it up to the bathroom sink, shampoo it, towel dry it (with a facecloth) and blow dry it. Add toy hairspray and brush to finish. Praise its beauty and show it to your mother. Ta daa.

God Help The Boy

I had a relaxed lunch in the window of Little Italy with Stuart who was just back from his globe-trotting B&S tour.

I asked him if his film, God Help The Girl was playing anywhere and he told me it was playing near his hotel in an Australian city. He couldn't get to sleep thinking that the projectionists might not be playing it loudly enough, so he pulled on his clothes - on top of his pyjamas - and walked down to ask the ticket booth girl if they could screen it at the right volume. She invited him in for a cup of tea, but he declined and went back to his hotel more able to rest. Ah, the old pyjama-under-clothes mission. It sometimes pays off.

On other matters, I am enjoying my new part-time job as a 'fieldworker' with Glasgow Uni's Medical Research Council. It doesn't involve Wellies, but I wouldn't mind if it did. There is still a lot of the island girl in me.

Well, look at the time.  We have barely had a minute to chat and it is school pick-up time already. A bien tot, as we used to say in French.

The jury is out

I love the kind of random waiting-room chat you get in Glasgow. After a week of sitting round the Sheriff Court, as a potential juror, I wasn't picked to be on the actual jury, which was fine by me.

 

The woman who sat beside me most of the week was warm and friendly. She said:

 

Oh, here, I'm glad I met you. It's fair put the time in. And, d'you know, you look dead like a women in my work - one of the psychologists. You're the image of her. And she's really high up.

 

We discussed always being hungry - I had sandwiches in my bag that I started eating at 10.15 am, although we were both thin. She told me that she once bought three Mars bars for a pound and ate them all. I looked surprised. I'm not finished yet! she said, adding that she ate two Double Deckers afterwards.

 

That's mental, I said, (worrying that I was using un-PC language).

That is mental! she exclaimed, pleased to bond further.

 

Her dog has it's own Facebook page

Happy New Year, Cowboys and Ice Queens.

Well, did the rain not lash itself about today?

In my cabin fever, I suggested to the kids that we try and make a wee film, although I didn't feel particularly confident in my Spielberg aspirations.

Hugh wanted to be a cowboy and make it a cowboy film. What will you be, Tess? I asked. Western barmaids in frilly skirts flashed through my mind, but I didn't want to be gender-limiting. I needn't have worried. Can I be the spikey plant? she replied.

Seconds later, she decided she'd rather be an ice queen from Frozen. Funny that. BAFTA Scotland need not concern itself with the end results.

Christmas 2014

The terrible tragedy in George Square yesterday makes us hold each other more dearly. This is a short poem I wrote about my son's Nativity, a week ago.

Primary Two Nativity  

When my son needs encouraged again

to go to school, I mention the play.

He says he is tired of singing

and tired of dinging 

but when I see the row

of tea-toweled shepherds

holding triangles high

I scan for him, lost without his blonde hair 

and in the micro seconds it takes

to recognise his face (there!)

my throat catches and I am falling again,
comet-like, whooshing with love
and he might as well be Jesus,

born anew to me each day.

-C 

Tantrums in 6 year olds - how to play it?

As the children grow, I enjoy that they are more open to reason and the days of irrational strops are over. And then, one of them blindsides me with a nuclear tantrum and I am left questioning whether I do, in fact, meet the essential criteria for being a parent.

Yesterday, Hugh and I had a fight over 'the wrong apricot'. It became a nerve-jangling battle of wills. I stuck to the received mantra of,  don't back down, you can never back down, you will look weak, they will win and behave abominably, whenever they feel like it.

We were locked down in a stalemate of misery, much like most of world politics. He wailed and screamed and sobbed because I stopped him grabbing a 'different' dried apricot from the tub, while shoving back one he had already pawed (with playground hands). He had several on his plate, plus other after-school snacks.

I tried to stick to plan A and put the apricot tub in a high cupboard. Did I have any idea this would lead to an hour of white rage? 'Course not. But half an hour in, I couldn't lose ground, could I?! Super Nanny and orthodox wisdom were yelling, 'hold firm, woman!'

Yet he was distraught - refusing to eat anything, sobbing on the floor. Crying. Kicking. In and out of The Naughty Porch.  I offered stop-gap compromises (cashews or pistachios?). So West End. But he was locked in to his position, almost helpless, exhausted after school. My own nerves were jangled and I was desperate to help him, without 'giving in' to 'bad' behavior.

So, next time - for there will be one - I wondered about unilateral disarmament. Saying, okay, I know you are doing an expert Horrid Henry impersonation, but I'll give you one chance. IF I let you swap apricots, then you must start to behave. Because behave-and-*then*-we-will-consider- apricot-swapping was failing spectacularly.

 

It reminded me of the years when I shared a room with my sister. I was always the one who got out of bed to turn out 'the big light' after reading. One night I refused, and asked her to do it. She's not a Taurean for nothing. An hour later, I stumbled over to the light switch, defeated, crying. We laugh at it now.

A battle-of -wills eats up time. Maybe I'll try allowing the 'right' apricots and then set up some other part 2 sanction. If you don't behave post-apricot swap, I swear I will..., have to think of something. Dear readers, I will let you know.

A Love Letter to Your Local Library via The Scottish Book Trust

Dear Hillhead Library,

The Scottish Book Trust may have prompted my letter of appreciation to you, and they are right to do so - like a good parent reminding a child to say please and thank you.

I do thank you, Hillhead Library for all that you give. You are the big, rectangular heart of Byres Road. I feel an instant physical relief when I  sweep through your automatic doors into the vault of books and quiet people and 70’s geometric carpet. Ah, the warm community air, the space to think and explore. An egalitarian place, free of commercial exploitation. What a rare and precious thing.

Books are free to read for those who can’t afford them. They can be requested, ordered, or just browsed. What a liberating and reassuring feeling this is. Indeed, what a relief.

And your staff are friendly and helpful. The ‘man with the curly hair’ is a true librarian. Nothing is too much trouble and he has time for the children and is patient when books are renewed until we find them again at the bottom of a toy box.

When I attended the excellent, ‘Bounce and Rhyme’ with my baby son, it became the social highlight of the week, (new mum-pals all going for coffee and chat afterwards). As we sat in the library singing, ‘If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands’, I clapped my son's chubby hands together and, yes, I was happy to the point of tears.

Hillhead Library, let us cherish you, celebrate you and, -most of all - never forget your true value to society.
　

Yours Sincerely, 　
　

Ciara MacLaverty.

The unimaginable suffering of Ebola

I usually try to keep this blog 'light', but I have to write at my slow horror at the Ebola tragedy unfolding in the news. It is more uniquely awful than  anything I have seen. I almost feel there should be no other news until we get serious, world-wide help for this. I don't know what else to say or do, but I will donate some money here. I am in awe of the people who risk their lives by volunteering to help.

Headless Halloween wins a tube of chocolate buttons

Teachers DO change lives

Recently, I was doing some classroom volunteering in a new school, and one of the teachers in the staff room said to me, 'just don't go into teaching thinking you'll change lives.' I didn't feel it was my place to argue with her, so I kept quiet.

 

Tonight I went to a maths workshop for parents of P1-P3's in Hugh's school, initially thinking, maths schmaths; how can I just 'get by' until he turns into an adult and uses a calculator like the rest of us?

 

Yet his teacher was so inspiring, she made me want to relearn maths all over again - which was some feat, considering I had to be dragged by the hair through quadratic equations the first time.

 

But how things are taught is almost as important as what is taught, and she had me enthused and believing that there's probably an innate poetry to maths, if I  can just find it. It was nearly all Brian Cox - Maths can be beautiful too.

 

And on my walk home, I thought how lucky my boy is to have a great teacher and I thought of how I loved some of my teachers in Islay High School. Yes, Mr. Warren, we were in awe of you and your casual, almost nonchalant, dispersing of Shakespeare, the way you sat on your desk with your floppy hair (and Converse basketball sneakers?); your effortless command of the class.

 

French and German from Miss Cuthbert, who was always up, positive and shiny with a new outfit each day (how was that even possible?). A poster of Schloss Neuschwanstein on the wall! Oh, the possibilities. She offered us a packet of Smarties to the first person who could spontaneously use the German word, 'doch!' in the correct context. No one ever won one it. Doch! That's me winning it now. It's only taken a few decades to sink in, but hey, it's better than Smarties.

 

Good teachers, man. Let them rule the world.

 

And this is what I mean...

Only a few days after the referendum, and it looks like Britain is creeping towards a war with ISIS in Syria. Now 'we', in Scotland, will be joining in, by default.

The three things I had wanted most from the Yes vote were

1) No nuclear weapons and a movement towards being a pacifist country. The day Tony Blair bombed Iraq without a second UN resolution was the day I lost all faith. I wanted Scotland to have no part of this kind of war-mongering. When will they understand that modern wars are never won? Peace only follows dialogue, not bombs.

2) I wanted the NHS to be free from the threat of the new TTIP bill. No chance now. Most people haven't even heard of TTIP. Here's a short but important explanation.

3) Green, green, and more green. I want Scotland to invest in renewables and take the lead in Green policies. The least I can do now is join the Green party.

Anyway, it feels like 'business as usual' with a deep frustration that 'we' may be headed to war again, dropping bombs in the middle east, encouraging generations of radicals to join up and try to bomb us back.

Am I the only one who thinks this is near insanity?

Yes and No and thoughts of bitter-sweetness

When I told you of my journey from No to Yes, I wanted to add that I am still a Nervous, Hopeful Yes, and nowhere near being a Triumphal, Tribal Yes.

Already, I am feeling for the losers. If this is as close as the polls suggest, then somebody's going to walk off the pitch, feeling like they just lost the World Cup on a penalty shoot out; times a million, for the rest of their life.

 

An old  friend got in touch on Facebook and told me she'd be so sad at 'breaking up with England' that her family would move away from Scotland, 'eventually.' It's sad to think that either side can feel so bereft.

 

I know Yes-ers who would react with self-righteous mockery to that, but I can really imagine the No's will indeed feel such isolated, lonely frustration if Yes wins; ironically, just the feeling that led Yes to fight for independence in the first place.

 

Ah, well, life is a series of see-saws and roundabouts; snakes and ladders and whatever other clichés you wish to dig out. The best we can do is to keep true to wer'sels and civil to each other. Golly, it's hotting up.

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.