Mama's home-made birthday cake is a little dry, which is excellent. That means there will be plenty left over. And in my experience, you can never pour enough brandy over a stale cake.
Showing posts with label birthdays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label birthdays. Show all posts
Thursday, 24 February 2011
Happy birthday, triplets!
Mama's home-made birthday cake is a little dry, which is excellent. That means there will be plenty left over. And in my experience, you can never pour enough brandy over a stale cake.
Wednesday, 24 February 2010
Happy birthday, triplets
Shark, Squirrel and Tiger, I have thought of many words of advice to impart to you on this monumental day, the day you actually have lived ten years on this planet.
I probably will express those careful thoughts. Mostly while you tut, roll your eyes and toss your head. But I like to think that it is a mama's role to drip feed her words of wisdom, and I hope we are living together a lot longer yet, which will give me plenty of time to impart my ancient knowledge on why you should not wear that skirt out of this house.
So just for today, I will simply say, I love you, and Happy Birthday.
You must have done something right already, because I never did sell you for medical experiments.
I probably will express those careful thoughts. Mostly while you tut, roll your eyes and toss your head. But I like to think that it is a mama's role to drip feed her words of wisdom, and I hope we are living together a lot longer yet, which will give me plenty of time to impart my ancient knowledge on why you should not wear that skirt out of this house.
So just for today, I will simply say, I love you, and Happy Birthday.
You must have done something right already, because I never did sell you for medical experiments.
Sunday, 1 March 2009
Birthday party
The birthday party is done. It is an achievement. I am proud. Last year Shark, Squirrel and Tiger endured nearly ten months before I finally organised the birthday party. Birthday in February. Party in November. They must have wore me down with the whining and pleading.
But where did we go this time? To Planet Ice. A skating rink.
This required no small amount of self sacrifice, so I shall tell you about it. Because for an aged hippie like Grit who would run fa-la-la-ing naked through warm dappled woods, twisting flowers in her hair if only she would not be trapped by the police and sent to a secure unit, Planet Ice is the antithesis of being. It is the underpass of all misery.
Planet Ice is located deep underground and is painted black. I am convinced this is designed to lure the teenage market to a physical manifestation of their angst, pain and despair, because the further you sink down into this clammy damp circle of hell, the colder and deeper and more destroyed your soul. The only thing Planet Ice have got wrong about this set up is that at the bottom of the pit you have to go ice skating instead of up Satan's bottom and the music they play is Madonna and not The Cure.
I wish I could find a bit of pleasure about this place as a party venue, even for the sake of the children. But I cannot. As the doors swing back I expect to take cover from drugged out teenagers hanging against walls and vomiting in passageways. Once I have fallen over on the slope downhill, the wafting stench of frying cheap burger slithers up to soil my vegan soul. I am sure these burgers have never seen any form of meat at all. They may be made of mechanically recovered meat so that includes the eyeballs. The coffee is not coffee. It is a brown secretion possibly containing lard.
Then there is the ice skating. Rightly, the rink should be a pile of broken corpses with detached limbs and dismembered bodies, continuously sliced apart by a battle hardened wild eyed band of skaters travelling at speeds over 50mph. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING will induce me to strap metal razor blades to my feet and join the party. I would have to be mad, decomposed or bribed with several million quid and a free chateaux for life with staff.
The vehicle used half way through party time Saturday
to sweep the ice of dead bodies
But the children of course, these inexperienced creations who have yet to live through the dark ages, love Planet Ice. They think this is possibly the best, finest, most wonderful place to party, possibly in all eternity. The Hat, who probably does not live on planet earth, also joins the event, albeit two hours late when there is only fifteen minutes of skate time remaining. I provide cake. People provide presents. The gritlets provide grumpy shoving and pushing (and I note, Tiger, some chasing of the boys) and a good time is had by all.
And truly, I am always amazed that people offer gifts.
Really, I am humbled. The gritlets, on the other hand,
think this sort of thing at birthday parties is normal.
Well, a good time was not had by Grit, although forming a support group with the other suffering party mothers helped ameliorate the situation considerably. But as I said, I have suffered, achieved, and it is done. I have survived the birthday party. And I have survived Planet Ice.
Until Saturday, when Tiger takes her ice skating lesson.
But where did we go this time? To Planet Ice. A skating rink.
This required no small amount of self sacrifice, so I shall tell you about it. Because for an aged hippie like Grit who would run fa-la-la-ing naked through warm dappled woods, twisting flowers in her hair if only she would not be trapped by the police and sent to a secure unit, Planet Ice is the antithesis of being. It is the underpass of all misery.
Planet Ice is located deep underground and is painted black. I am convinced this is designed to lure the teenage market to a physical manifestation of their angst, pain and despair, because the further you sink down into this clammy damp circle of hell, the colder and deeper and more destroyed your soul. The only thing Planet Ice have got wrong about this set up is that at the bottom of the pit you have to go ice skating instead of up Satan's bottom and the music they play is Madonna and not The Cure.
I wish I could find a bit of pleasure about this place as a party venue, even for the sake of the children. But I cannot. As the doors swing back I expect to take cover from drugged out teenagers hanging against walls and vomiting in passageways. Once I have fallen over on the slope downhill, the wafting stench of frying cheap burger slithers up to soil my vegan soul. I am sure these burgers have never seen any form of meat at all. They may be made of mechanically recovered meat so that includes the eyeballs. The coffee is not coffee. It is a brown secretion possibly containing lard.
Then there is the ice skating. Rightly, the rink should be a pile of broken corpses with detached limbs and dismembered bodies, continuously sliced apart by a battle hardened wild eyed band of skaters travelling at speeds over 50mph. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING will induce me to strap metal razor blades to my feet and join the party. I would have to be mad, decomposed or bribed with several million quid and a free chateaux for life with staff.
The vehicle used half way through party time Saturdayto sweep the ice of dead bodies
But the children of course, these inexperienced creations who have yet to live through the dark ages, love Planet Ice. They think this is possibly the best, finest, most wonderful place to party, possibly in all eternity. The Hat, who probably does not live on planet earth, also joins the event, albeit two hours late when there is only fifteen minutes of skate time remaining. I provide cake. People provide presents. The gritlets provide grumpy shoving and pushing (and I note, Tiger, some chasing of the boys) and a good time is had by all.
And truly, I am always amazed that people offer gifts.Really, I am humbled. The gritlets, on the other hand,
think this sort of thing at birthday parties is normal.
Well, a good time was not had by Grit, although forming a support group with the other suffering party mothers helped ameliorate the situation considerably. But as I said, I have suffered, achieved, and it is done. I have survived the birthday party. And I have survived Planet Ice.
Until Saturday, when Tiger takes her ice skating lesson.
Thursday, 27 November 2008
Nine months late? Is that all?
Grit has finally got around to the gritlet's birthday celebrations. Yes, I know how long ago their birthday actually was. February.
In a moment of stupid drunkenness, foolish Grit casually suggested to the gritlets that for their eighth birthday they could invite some chums to a local paint-your-own ceramics studio. And kids don't forget anything, do they? Like who ate the last slice of pie last December and who had to wear Shark's coat when they didn't want to.
Well I say some things take time. Anyway, in the home educating community you can never get everyone together on the same day at the same time. And Trinny went back to school in September, so she can't come at 2pm, can she?
Oh blimey, just better go with who's around, right here and now, and then I can get the ruddy thing done and dusted by Christmas.
Happy birthday, gritlets!
In a moment of stupid drunkenness, foolish Grit casually suggested to the gritlets that for their eighth birthday they could invite some chums to a local paint-your-own ceramics studio. And kids don't forget anything, do they? Like who ate the last slice of pie last December and who had to wear Shark's coat when they didn't want to.
Well I say some things take time. Anyway, in the home educating community you can never get everyone together on the same day at the same time. And Trinny went back to school in September, so she can't come at 2pm, can she?
Oh blimey, just better go with who's around, right here and now, and then I can get the ruddy thing done and dusted by Christmas.
Happy birthday, gritlets!Saturday, 14 June 2008
In the nick of time
We are invited to a birthday party. This is great, because it is a pool party, and we haven't been swimming for ages, so I can tick socialisation and swimming, all in one go.
Going to the pool party which starts at 6.45 actually means forgetting all about it while pottering in the garden, losing track of time because the clock doesn't work, then realising at 6.20 that we are going to a pool party and it starts in 25 minutes.
Now comes the horror that is the realisation that we have no cards or presents, nor have prepared swimming gear. Worse, I have not fed the children since midday. Since they are now wading knee-deep in satsuma peel and have picked out the centre of the loaf again leaving the crust behind like a sloughed off skin, I deduce they are starving and need immediate carbohydrate. Without that, we will not get through the next hour without a major triplet tantrum. That three-way explosion, of course, will be perfectly timed to blast the pool apart just as everyone else is singing Happy Birthday to the happy children for whom the adoring mamma and pappa just paid a wheelbarrow load of cash to hire out a swimming pool, lifeguards and inflatable submarine.
There is only one solution. Run around the house with hands clamped to head shouting Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod!
When that is done, jump in car, covered in soil and smelling of courgette fertilizer, and rocket on two wheels straight to Tesco while simultaneously shouting instructions to Dig about where the swimming costumes were last seen, last week in a pile somewhere over there. At Tesco, run through the present aisle, grab two gift bags and stuff them with sparkling glitter pens and drawing paper then run off to the Green and Black's chocolate department. I may be in an hour of need, but there is no way we are sinking to dog chocolate.
At the checkout, rip tags off goods and write happy birthday messages while checkout woman narrows eyes and stares. Hand over large quantities of cash. This is one problem solved by throwing money at it.
Drive home, screech to a halt outside the door, shout at children to get in, throw packet of fruit scones at them and drive off. Drive back to shout at Dig, who is still standing at the side of the road and who didn't get in quick enough. Shout. Drive off while Dig has one foot out of door and say it is all his fault because he should know what the time is and I told him there was a pool party on Wednesday and he should bloody well remember these things because I am covered in soil.
Arrive at pool party 10 minutes after start. Shoo children about, order Dig around and look at water. Need drink, large gin and tonic would do except there is no bar and glass is not allowed. Observe we are the only people I can see who are wandering about with presents in gift bags and lock presents in a locker. Then slump on bench, pick fight with swimming pool attendant over air humidity, take a deep breath, and relax.
There. Another successful arrival, which counts in the Grit book as better late than never.
Going to the pool party which starts at 6.45 actually means forgetting all about it while pottering in the garden, losing track of time because the clock doesn't work, then realising at 6.20 that we are going to a pool party and it starts in 25 minutes.
Now comes the horror that is the realisation that we have no cards or presents, nor have prepared swimming gear. Worse, I have not fed the children since midday. Since they are now wading knee-deep in satsuma peel and have picked out the centre of the loaf again leaving the crust behind like a sloughed off skin, I deduce they are starving and need immediate carbohydrate. Without that, we will not get through the next hour without a major triplet tantrum. That three-way explosion, of course, will be perfectly timed to blast the pool apart just as everyone else is singing Happy Birthday to the happy children for whom the adoring mamma and pappa just paid a wheelbarrow load of cash to hire out a swimming pool, lifeguards and inflatable submarine.
There is only one solution. Run around the house with hands clamped to head shouting Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod!
When that is done, jump in car, covered in soil and smelling of courgette fertilizer, and rocket on two wheels straight to Tesco while simultaneously shouting instructions to Dig about where the swimming costumes were last seen, last week in a pile somewhere over there. At Tesco, run through the present aisle, grab two gift bags and stuff them with sparkling glitter pens and drawing paper then run off to the Green and Black's chocolate department. I may be in an hour of need, but there is no way we are sinking to dog chocolate.
At the checkout, rip tags off goods and write happy birthday messages while checkout woman narrows eyes and stares. Hand over large quantities of cash. This is one problem solved by throwing money at it.
Drive home, screech to a halt outside the door, shout at children to get in, throw packet of fruit scones at them and drive off. Drive back to shout at Dig, who is still standing at the side of the road and who didn't get in quick enough. Shout. Drive off while Dig has one foot out of door and say it is all his fault because he should know what the time is and I told him there was a pool party on Wednesday and he should bloody well remember these things because I am covered in soil.
Arrive at pool party 10 minutes after start. Shoo children about, order Dig around and look at water. Need drink, large gin and tonic would do except there is no bar and glass is not allowed. Observe we are the only people I can see who are wandering about with presents in gift bags and lock presents in a locker. Then slump on bench, pick fight with swimming pool attendant over air humidity, take a deep breath, and relax.
There. Another successful arrival, which counts in the Grit book as better late than never.
Saturday, 17 May 2008
Happy birthday
12.00 noon. We are due at Moonshine's birthday party at 2pm. Perfect. We can just fit in a lesson on Telling the time. This lesson starts in answer to Tiger's question Are we late yet? We spend so long working out what the time actually is, that by the time Tiger does manage to tell the time, we are late.
1.30pm. In the car, we try a geography lesson in map reading. Mummy Grit has even equipped everyone with a map to read in the car. If only she had got the map right this would have been excellent. In fact getting the map wrong doesn't matter because everyone is too excited and forgets that this is actually our life skills lesson and not just a birthday party where we turn up with junk from the charity shop, eat rubbish, cry, and be ordered home.
2.00pm. Phew! We make the party! On time! Thank goodness mummy Grit did not pass the speed detector van like that time when she was zooming to Northampton to install an art display and got clocked at 76 mph in a 60 zone. Anyway, there is a comfort eating here. There are crisps. This is very good. We are not allowed crisps at home. I could do a lesson on potatoes next week if I slip a couple of packets of crisps into my bag while no-one is watching.
2.30pm. The next lesson! Citizenship. This translates as pass the parcel and musical chairs. It also can be interpreted as putting a balloon up your dress and running about the room screaming. These are the sorts of lessons I like and the sort of team building games we excel at. I celebrate with a prolonged dip into the cheese and onion crisp bowl.
Shark needs to have more practice in citizenship, clearly, because there is a bit of squaring up over who gets to sit on the penultimate chair for musical chairs. Then Shark smartly shoves the birthday girl out the way and parks her bum solidly on the chair. But in these strange party days everyone's a winner, so a bewildered Moonshine is palmed off with a bag of chocolate. The game proceeds to its bitter end with a triumphant Shark, probably getting to the point of sweetie sugar overload where combustion is inevitable. I take solace in fat-reduced plain crisps with just a little salt.
3.00pm. I could make a lesson out of this tea time assortment if I were so moved. It is a haphazard of jumbled up jelly, pink ice-cream, fairy cake, more cake, crisps and cake. Grit tut tuts and stuffs her mouth full because we are not allowed any of this stuff at home.
3.30pm. Grit stops thinking about home education altogether because her brain is now taken over by Walkers. She hovers about the crisp bowls, pretending to help clear up. Actually she is stuffing as many salt and vinegar crisps down her throat as time will allow or before she is caught and all the bowls removed.
4.15pm. The party girls are bundled off home. Wonderfully, no-one has burst into tears or disgraced themselves. Success! Grit has become aware of watchful eyes however as she tried to sneak off with the last bag of cheese and onion.
5.00pm. Grit says that was a very good birthday party and wasn't it clever to get all the party goers to make their own little bags in which to collect prizes, cake, and mummy Grit's stolen bags of crisps? Shark agrees, and I say I might use that idea of making our own party bags if we hold a party. Shark agrees again, adding it would be a very good idea even if a mummy Grit party wasn't very well organised.
And because life is full of small ironies as well as crisps, today is also Dig's birthday. But he is celebrating his birthday elsewhere.
Happy birthday, Dig. I shall open the last bag of salt and vinegar in honour.
1.30pm. In the car, we try a geography lesson in map reading. Mummy Grit has even equipped everyone with a map to read in the car. If only she had got the map right this would have been excellent. In fact getting the map wrong doesn't matter because everyone is too excited and forgets that this is actually our life skills lesson and not just a birthday party where we turn up with junk from the charity shop, eat rubbish, cry, and be ordered home.
2.00pm. Phew! We make the party! On time! Thank goodness mummy Grit did not pass the speed detector van like that time when she was zooming to Northampton to install an art display and got clocked at 76 mph in a 60 zone. Anyway, there is a comfort eating here. There are crisps. This is very good. We are not allowed crisps at home. I could do a lesson on potatoes next week if I slip a couple of packets of crisps into my bag while no-one is watching.
2.30pm. The next lesson! Citizenship. This translates as pass the parcel and musical chairs. It also can be interpreted as putting a balloon up your dress and running about the room screaming. These are the sorts of lessons I like and the sort of team building games we excel at. I celebrate with a prolonged dip into the cheese and onion crisp bowl.
Shark needs to have more practice in citizenship, clearly, because there is a bit of squaring up over who gets to sit on the penultimate chair for musical chairs. Then Shark smartly shoves the birthday girl out the way and parks her bum solidly on the chair. But in these strange party days everyone's a winner, so a bewildered Moonshine is palmed off with a bag of chocolate. The game proceeds to its bitter end with a triumphant Shark, probably getting to the point of sweetie sugar overload where combustion is inevitable. I take solace in fat-reduced plain crisps with just a little salt.
3.00pm. I could make a lesson out of this tea time assortment if I were so moved. It is a haphazard of jumbled up jelly, pink ice-cream, fairy cake, more cake, crisps and cake. Grit tut tuts and stuffs her mouth full because we are not allowed any of this stuff at home.
3.30pm. Grit stops thinking about home education altogether because her brain is now taken over by Walkers. She hovers about the crisp bowls, pretending to help clear up. Actually she is stuffing as many salt and vinegar crisps down her throat as time will allow or before she is caught and all the bowls removed.
4.15pm. The party girls are bundled off home. Wonderfully, no-one has burst into tears or disgraced themselves. Success! Grit has become aware of watchful eyes however as she tried to sneak off with the last bag of cheese and onion.
5.00pm. Grit says that was a very good birthday party and wasn't it clever to get all the party goers to make their own little bags in which to collect prizes, cake, and mummy Grit's stolen bags of crisps? Shark agrees, and I say I might use that idea of making our own party bags if we hold a party. Shark agrees again, adding it would be a very good idea even if a mummy Grit party wasn't very well organised.
And because life is full of small ironies as well as crisps, today is also Dig's birthday. But he is celebrating his birthday elsewhere.
Happy birthday, Dig. I shall open the last bag of salt and vinegar in honour.
Friday, 16 May 2008
An invitation
Oh dear. Shark, Squirrel and Tiger have an invitation. Another birthday party. And it is tomorrow.
As all good home educators know, a birthday party for an eight-year old golden-haired child in a twinkly pink satin frock is not just an excuse to eat cake, twirl about the floor, fall over, cry and be carted off home covered in vomit after a good scream. For the home educating family, a birthday party is a means of developing literacy, numeracy, citizenship skills, art, geography and, if we are lucky, nutritional awareness, team building skills and musical knowledge.
This is how our home ed works. The children have a normal growing up time, filled with humiliations, rages and jealousies of childhood, maturing into teenagedom, and the quiet guiding hands of us adult helpers extract as much as we can in terms of knowledges and awareness.
And so, in front of Shark, Squirrel and Tiger, every day I say 'That's GREAT! LOVELY! Well DONE!' over just about everything. I gush out Wow! let's work out how many we can bury! when Shark has dug a big hole in the ground and filled it with unicorns (maths, science). When Tiger brings me to her model of a time machine made out of wool, I spout Brilliant! Shall we find out about Einstein? (physics, materials science, design and technology). When Squirrel draws a fairy, I say That is marvellous! Let's look at Frida Kahlo's nice bits! (art, history, cultural awareness).
And wow, do I enthuse. Every day. Because in home ed happy land we must extract positive life lessons from just about whatever the child does, so long as it's not kill your granny and smash up your neighbour's Audi, obviously, because that is not home ed, that is anti-social. Although I bet somewhere there's a home educator who would have a good go in getting a fun spelling game out of those two events.
Now if Shark, Squirrel and Tiger went to school Monday to Friday I wouldn't feel the need to turn everything into a quiet lesson in the name of child-led education. At weekends I could just say I've told you before. Don't dig up the tree. Put the wool back. Stop drawing. Art is not tested in SATs. Just get on with the revision worksheet. But home ed is a life I've chosen as being in the best interests of us all, and I bet if pushed I could even back it up with something akin to an argument and philosophy.
Committing oneself ideologically to home ed in this way unfortunately comes with a side effect - one apart from poverty and hounding by the authorities for off-template parenting. Sadly, it also means extracting as much education as I can out of little Moonshine's birthday party, on the sly. Today, that means I plan the birthday cards and the birthday presents.
The birthday cards
First we must do art. Does your child have problems with front and back? This is the front of the card. Try and draw the picture here I say to Squirrel. And Squirrel draws her picture of a fairy on the back. Shark produces an unwise picture of a killer whale chewing on a seal. Tiger paints a picture that she insists must go in a frame and be put up on the wall. I have to negotiate my way round this lot to proudly present Moonshine with... a back to front card, a picture of a blue whale not eating anything, and a crumpled picture from Tiger because, with no time left to do another one, I had to fight her for it.
The birthday presents
Next, the chemistry lesson (making bath fizzies). This does not go well because I forget that's what I planned. I switch to the standby maths lesson instead (buying a present to a budget). This also means citizenship (thinking of and buying for others, while interacting with the deaf old lady in the Help the Aged shop).
This is also a good lesson in family trust because it means I have to trust my children to select wisely for Moonshine. I reckon, because Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are aged 8, this will go well because they will know what to do. If the present buying is left to a 48-year old woman, she will go into home ed mode and buy a dust-gatheringly worthy tome, like an Arabic-Esperanto dictionary, or proudly offer the children's version of Darwin's Origin of the Species, and then discover Moonshine's mummy is a creationist preacher. So I will get everything deeply wrong. Better give the job to three 8-year olds.
First stop, charity shop. Perhaps this sounds mean. I should get everyone down to Hamley's and blow £300 on Moonshine with some real swanky stuff. But you see, I am so ideologically driven. Basically, I need to work in some maths with notes and coins. I could say I am doing citizenship too by helping the aged because I tell Tiger that one day I might need their bus service. I will certainly justify the charity shop environmentally, and I tell Squirrel that I bet Moonshine is as delighted by a pink bag with fluff round the top costing 20p as she is with the same item wrapped in 30 metres of plastic packaging costing £34.99.
After three pink bags and assorted junk is bought (total cost £3.20. It's the thought that counts), we pop to the newsagent and I buy a box of Cadbury's Roses for Moonshine's mum. Partly to apologise in advance should Shark, Squirrel and Tiger go at each other's eyes over pass-the-parcel, but mostly because I genuinely think kid's birthdays are a bum deal for mothers. Mothers suffer the memory of their innards launched out on this commemorative day to strangers passing by, poised to catch the slime, and they never get so much as a thank you from their offspring for the pain, humiliation and sacrifice of their womb. They just get Gimme the goddam cake and It's soooo Not Fair. So after the ordeal of childbirth, the least Moonshine's mummy deserves from anyone is a half-size box of Cadbury's Roses which have not been eaten before she gets to them.
Now, with cards, and presents, we are just about ready for tomorrow's birthday party. In fact thanks to some smart organisation today we have the evening free to discuss celebrations around the world. Or mummy Grit could act like a proper worn out teacher and flop on the sofa with a bottle of beer, happy to have extracted a bit of home education from unsuspecting Moonshine, who thinks she is just having a birthday party, cake, and a big cry.
As all good home educators know, a birthday party for an eight-year old golden-haired child in a twinkly pink satin frock is not just an excuse to eat cake, twirl about the floor, fall over, cry and be carted off home covered in vomit after a good scream. For the home educating family, a birthday party is a means of developing literacy, numeracy, citizenship skills, art, geography and, if we are lucky, nutritional awareness, team building skills and musical knowledge.
This is how our home ed works. The children have a normal growing up time, filled with humiliations, rages and jealousies of childhood, maturing into teenagedom, and the quiet guiding hands of us adult helpers extract as much as we can in terms of knowledges and awareness.
And so, in front of Shark, Squirrel and Tiger, every day I say 'That's GREAT! LOVELY! Well DONE!' over just about everything. I gush out Wow! let's work out how many we can bury! when Shark has dug a big hole in the ground and filled it with unicorns (maths, science). When Tiger brings me to her model of a time machine made out of wool, I spout Brilliant! Shall we find out about Einstein? (physics, materials science, design and technology). When Squirrel draws a fairy, I say That is marvellous! Let's look at Frida Kahlo's nice bits! (art, history, cultural awareness).
And wow, do I enthuse. Every day. Because in home ed happy land we must extract positive life lessons from just about whatever the child does, so long as it's not kill your granny and smash up your neighbour's Audi, obviously, because that is not home ed, that is anti-social. Although I bet somewhere there's a home educator who would have a good go in getting a fun spelling game out of those two events.
Now if Shark, Squirrel and Tiger went to school Monday to Friday I wouldn't feel the need to turn everything into a quiet lesson in the name of child-led education. At weekends I could just say I've told you before. Don't dig up the tree. Put the wool back. Stop drawing. Art is not tested in SATs. Just get on with the revision worksheet. But home ed is a life I've chosen as being in the best interests of us all, and I bet if pushed I could even back it up with something akin to an argument and philosophy.
Committing oneself ideologically to home ed in this way unfortunately comes with a side effect - one apart from poverty and hounding by the authorities for off-template parenting. Sadly, it also means extracting as much education as I can out of little Moonshine's birthday party, on the sly. Today, that means I plan the birthday cards and the birthday presents.
The birthday cards
First we must do art. Does your child have problems with front and back? This is the front of the card. Try and draw the picture here I say to Squirrel. And Squirrel draws her picture of a fairy on the back. Shark produces an unwise picture of a killer whale chewing on a seal. Tiger paints a picture that she insists must go in a frame and be put up on the wall. I have to negotiate my way round this lot to proudly present Moonshine with... a back to front card, a picture of a blue whale not eating anything, and a crumpled picture from Tiger because, with no time left to do another one, I had to fight her for it.
The birthday presents
Next, the chemistry lesson (making bath fizzies). This does not go well because I forget that's what I planned. I switch to the standby maths lesson instead (buying a present to a budget). This also means citizenship (thinking of and buying for others, while interacting with the deaf old lady in the Help the Aged shop).
This is also a good lesson in family trust because it means I have to trust my children to select wisely for Moonshine. I reckon, because Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are aged 8, this will go well because they will know what to do. If the present buying is left to a 48-year old woman, she will go into home ed mode and buy a dust-gatheringly worthy tome, like an Arabic-Esperanto dictionary, or proudly offer the children's version of Darwin's Origin of the Species, and then discover Moonshine's mummy is a creationist preacher. So I will get everything deeply wrong. Better give the job to three 8-year olds.
First stop, charity shop. Perhaps this sounds mean. I should get everyone down to Hamley's and blow £300 on Moonshine with some real swanky stuff. But you see, I am so ideologically driven. Basically, I need to work in some maths with notes and coins. I could say I am doing citizenship too by helping the aged because I tell Tiger that one day I might need their bus service. I will certainly justify the charity shop environmentally, and I tell Squirrel that I bet Moonshine is as delighted by a pink bag with fluff round the top costing 20p as she is with the same item wrapped in 30 metres of plastic packaging costing £34.99.
After three pink bags and assorted junk is bought (total cost £3.20. It's the thought that counts), we pop to the newsagent and I buy a box of Cadbury's Roses for Moonshine's mum. Partly to apologise in advance should Shark, Squirrel and Tiger go at each other's eyes over pass-the-parcel, but mostly because I genuinely think kid's birthdays are a bum deal for mothers. Mothers suffer the memory of their innards launched out on this commemorative day to strangers passing by, poised to catch the slime, and they never get so much as a thank you from their offspring for the pain, humiliation and sacrifice of their womb. They just get Gimme the goddam cake and It's soooo Not Fair. So after the ordeal of childbirth, the least Moonshine's mummy deserves from anyone is a half-size box of Cadbury's Roses which have not been eaten before she gets to them.
Now, with cards, and presents, we are just about ready for tomorrow's birthday party. In fact thanks to some smart organisation today we have the evening free to discuss celebrations around the world. Or mummy Grit could act like a proper worn out teacher and flop on the sofa with a bottle of beer, happy to have extracted a bit of home education from unsuspecting Moonshine, who thinks she is just having a birthday party, cake, and a big cry.
Sunday, 23 September 2007
A birthday breakfast
It is Grit's birthday today and so a glass of whisky to start the day is permissable. Anyway, I need to get through until breakfast. Dig told the children yesterday of the imminent joy that is mother's 147th birthday and they are planning a morning surprise.
Of course I have to pretend to be ignorant of the upcoming surprise. Especially when a Tiger, or a Shark or a Squirrel bursts into the office where I am now hiding and asks sweetly whether I am planning to go into the kitchen yet for breakfast. Dig tells me that unless he instructs me otherwise by code, the answer is 'No'.
Throughout these performances, the innocent face that I have to display is, quite frankly, killing me, so I reach for the brandy. What I really want to answer is 'I want my muesli. Stop doing what you are doing. Put the felt tip pens down. Mop up the liquid. If you wrap streamers around the kitchen again I will go beserk with the wooden spoon painted like a dolly, at which point I cannot be held responsible for my actions.'
Dig assures me there is no liquid involved. He says it is not streamers either but that everyone is cooperating and not fighting and there is no blood or paint. I say it is an hour and a half since I woke up and drenched myself in coffee and it's about time I had my breakfast. The corpse smile that I'm keeping about me is starting to hurt, and unless I get my muesli and soya milk soon the tetchiness will take over and I'm going to explode or die or both. Dig says he will go and chivvy them along a bit and off he goes.
Ten minutes pass and he's back, with an open mouth and a look of astonishment. I fear the worse. But no. It is Elizabeth Hurley. She is up and having breakfast. In my seat.
'Do you know what she just said to me?' asks Dig.
'No.'
'She stood up in front of me, put her hands on her hips and said "I am very angry!" '
Now it's Grit's turn to be astonished. 'What have they done to her?' I ask.
'Nothing!' cries Dig.
Well, Elizabeth Hurley is angry indeed. Apparently she says the children woke her up this morning at 7.30 by chattering in the schoolroom. She says this is unacceptable. This is her day off and she deserves not to be disturbed by children in the morning. She says she has got up early thanks to the noise and she has had to eat her breakfast surrounded by noise and it is not nice.
Dig is equally outraged. He points out that this is the family flat and today is a day of celebration. I would like to think he added 'Shove it' but I bet he didn't, partly because he doesn't know how to say that in French but also I suspect that the thought of an enraged Elizabeth Hurley might be more than a man can bear before a shower and after only two cups of coffee.
'Well what have the children been doing?' I ask. I know I'll blow the surprise but hey-ho, a cross Elizabeth Hurley is more than I want to face too on my birthday day with no breakfast.
'Drawing Happy Birthday cards and blowing up balloons' answers Dig. What? No streamers? No. No liquid? No. No lying down screaming on the floor? No. Lots of happy chatter and anticipation of cake for breakfast. Which there isn't any, incidentally. Dig adds that Shark is very proud because she can tie knots in the balloon end, but not always. So for those balloons blown up she is tying a piece of string around the end, very tight indeed.
'And is there much noise?' I ask.
'Nothing out of the ordinary' says Dig.
So there you have it. Grit drinking on an empty stomach while Shark, Squirrel and Tiger take nearly two hours to make a birthday surprise happen by blowing up lots of balloons and making cards. I wonder if Dig has deliberately given out misleading information to Squirrel who has written 'Happy Barfday' on hers. As I eventually and joyously contemplate my muesli I give everyone top marks for cooperation on balloon handling, string tying and card making. And secretly I note that thanks to the string, the balloons will all deflate by tea-time which makes clearing-up easier.
And Elizabeth Hurley, who is very cross indeed, disappeared by stomping off to her room and slamming the door.
Thus the Grit household felt fully exonerated after failing to invite her for a splendid autumn walk through the parks followed by a celebration family lunch down at the local curry house and the last couple of hours down at the kiddie theme park.
Of course I have to pretend to be ignorant of the upcoming surprise. Especially when a Tiger, or a Shark or a Squirrel bursts into the office where I am now hiding and asks sweetly whether I am planning to go into the kitchen yet for breakfast. Dig tells me that unless he instructs me otherwise by code, the answer is 'No'.
Throughout these performances, the innocent face that I have to display is, quite frankly, killing me, so I reach for the brandy. What I really want to answer is 'I want my muesli. Stop doing what you are doing. Put the felt tip pens down. Mop up the liquid. If you wrap streamers around the kitchen again I will go beserk with the wooden spoon painted like a dolly, at which point I cannot be held responsible for my actions.'
Dig assures me there is no liquid involved. He says it is not streamers either but that everyone is cooperating and not fighting and there is no blood or paint. I say it is an hour and a half since I woke up and drenched myself in coffee and it's about time I had my breakfast. The corpse smile that I'm keeping about me is starting to hurt, and unless I get my muesli and soya milk soon the tetchiness will take over and I'm going to explode or die or both. Dig says he will go and chivvy them along a bit and off he goes.
Ten minutes pass and he's back, with an open mouth and a look of astonishment. I fear the worse. But no. It is Elizabeth Hurley. She is up and having breakfast. In my seat.
'Do you know what she just said to me?' asks Dig.
'No.'
'She stood up in front of me, put her hands on her hips and said "I am very angry!" '
Now it's Grit's turn to be astonished. 'What have they done to her?' I ask.
'Nothing!' cries Dig.
Well, Elizabeth Hurley is angry indeed. Apparently she says the children woke her up this morning at 7.30 by chattering in the schoolroom. She says this is unacceptable. This is her day off and she deserves not to be disturbed by children in the morning. She says she has got up early thanks to the noise and she has had to eat her breakfast surrounded by noise and it is not nice.
Dig is equally outraged. He points out that this is the family flat and today is a day of celebration. I would like to think he added 'Shove it' but I bet he didn't, partly because he doesn't know how to say that in French but also I suspect that the thought of an enraged Elizabeth Hurley might be more than a man can bear before a shower and after only two cups of coffee.
'Well what have the children been doing?' I ask. I know I'll blow the surprise but hey-ho, a cross Elizabeth Hurley is more than I want to face too on my birthday day with no breakfast.
'Drawing Happy Birthday cards and blowing up balloons' answers Dig. What? No streamers? No. No liquid? No. No lying down screaming on the floor? No. Lots of happy chatter and anticipation of cake for breakfast. Which there isn't any, incidentally. Dig adds that Shark is very proud because she can tie knots in the balloon end, but not always. So for those balloons blown up she is tying a piece of string around the end, very tight indeed.
'And is there much noise?' I ask.
'Nothing out of the ordinary' says Dig.
So there you have it. Grit drinking on an empty stomach while Shark, Squirrel and Tiger take nearly two hours to make a birthday surprise happen by blowing up lots of balloons and making cards. I wonder if Dig has deliberately given out misleading information to Squirrel who has written 'Happy Barfday' on hers. As I eventually and joyously contemplate my muesli I give everyone top marks for cooperation on balloon handling, string tying and card making. And secretly I note that thanks to the string, the balloons will all deflate by tea-time which makes clearing-up easier.
And Elizabeth Hurley, who is very cross indeed, disappeared by stomping off to her room and slamming the door.
Thus the Grit household felt fully exonerated after failing to invite her for a splendid autumn walk through the parks followed by a celebration family lunch down at the local curry house and the last couple of hours down at the kiddie theme park.
Thursday, 17 May 2007
Dig's birthday
It is Thursday, and time for celebration. It is Dig's birthday.
Everything starts off OK, except that I forget it's Dig's birthday and suddenly shout out 'Is it your birthday?' over a breakfast cup of coffee. Then we have to plan everything. Shark plans a card, which she hides and which Daddy has to find, as part of a birthday game. Tiger makes a cobweb with the glue gun and a toilet roll. Squirrel gets distracted and goes off to play with her dinosaurs before remembering she had a plan and getting Tiger to knock out another cobweb as a second birthday present.
I haven't got any presents to give. I ran out of ideas about 12 years ago and then Dig did absolutely nothing for my 40th so I reckon zero on the gift front is probably fair. I suppose I could offer my body, but he probably wouldn't want that. But when the excitement of the presents is all over, we all push off out the house to gym lessons leaving Dig to get on with some work. We promise to come back later and make cake. Dig sighs.
The plan to make cake goes quite well until the actual cake-making. I manage to mess that up by calculating the wrong amount of flour so have to get Tiger to keep beating eggs and pouring milk into the cake bowl, which is quite a hard thing to do with Squirrel's fingers darting in and out the mix and Shark shouting 'Where's the chocolate?'
Nevertheless, we manage to get to party tea time with an actual baked chocolate cake with lumpy bits in. The candles are lit, the moment duly photograhed and I forget to make Dig wear the big badge that reads It's My Birthday.
The children insist the candles are lit at least twenty times, and Dig is very good about it and keeps on wishing, probably for us all to go away and leave him in peace with his computer. But he never says, otherwise it won't come true, and he blows out the candles quite properly too. He never once set fire to his beard. He wouldn't have laughed about it if he had. My mother once burned off her eyebrows and eyelashes after sticking her head in the gas oven and she could manage a smile after that. I know it sounds unlikely, but that's the sort of family that Grit comes from. We have to laugh at our disasters because otherwise they would overwhelm us and the despair would swallow us whole.
So Dig's birthday passed peacefully enough, albeit that the candle bit took about half an hour, and another year is passed and marked. Next up, wedding anniversary.
Everything starts off OK, except that I forget it's Dig's birthday and suddenly shout out 'Is it your birthday?' over a breakfast cup of coffee. Then we have to plan everything. Shark plans a card, which she hides and which Daddy has to find, as part of a birthday game. Tiger makes a cobweb with the glue gun and a toilet roll. Squirrel gets distracted and goes off to play with her dinosaurs before remembering she had a plan and getting Tiger to knock out another cobweb as a second birthday present.
I haven't got any presents to give. I ran out of ideas about 12 years ago and then Dig did absolutely nothing for my 40th so I reckon zero on the gift front is probably fair. I suppose I could offer my body, but he probably wouldn't want that. But when the excitement of the presents is all over, we all push off out the house to gym lessons leaving Dig to get on with some work. We promise to come back later and make cake. Dig sighs.
The plan to make cake goes quite well until the actual cake-making. I manage to mess that up by calculating the wrong amount of flour so have to get Tiger to keep beating eggs and pouring milk into the cake bowl, which is quite a hard thing to do with Squirrel's fingers darting in and out the mix and Shark shouting 'Where's the chocolate?'
Nevertheless, we manage to get to party tea time with an actual baked chocolate cake with lumpy bits in. The candles are lit, the moment duly photograhed and I forget to make Dig wear the big badge that reads It's My Birthday.
The children insist the candles are lit at least twenty times, and Dig is very good about it and keeps on wishing, probably for us all to go away and leave him in peace with his computer. But he never says, otherwise it won't come true, and he blows out the candles quite properly too. He never once set fire to his beard. He wouldn't have laughed about it if he had. My mother once burned off her eyebrows and eyelashes after sticking her head in the gas oven and she could manage a smile after that. I know it sounds unlikely, but that's the sort of family that Grit comes from. We have to laugh at our disasters because otherwise they would overwhelm us and the despair would swallow us whole.
So Dig's birthday passed peacefully enough, albeit that the candle bit took about half an hour, and another year is passed and marked. Next up, wedding anniversary.
Tuesday, 6 March 2007
Another party
We have to come back from Pretty Land. We have to spend the afternoon at Play Park. This, apparently, is another celebration for the children's seventh birthday last week. Strange. I thought we'd already had a couple of parties and three birthday cakes, but I'm told none of those were Proper Parties. Admitedly Tiger spent most of one party in the toilet waiting to throw up, and the first party seemed mostly to be about mother opening several bottles of wine but, as I argued, it's my celebration too, mostly of the fact that I've survived this long without dying, leaving home, or selling the lot of them for medical experiments.
We tried to get round the problem of the endless birthday celebration seven years ago. We reckoned that with triplets each child would want their own birthday instead of having to share it. So we nicked the Naming day celebrations from the French. Shark was given her own naming day in December; Tiger got August and Squirrel got May. Then each could share their annual birthday and have a separate party come Naming day time.
This seemed to work quite well for the first few years. All the family celebrations were spread out throughout the year and there was always something to look forward to.
Trouble started a couple of years ago. Everyone wanted to swap celebrations. Then because everyone had swapped I forgot whose celebration was when. I had days of grief from Squirrel for forgetting about hers and, when I finally remembered, fobbed her off with a walk in the woods and a packet of ginger nuts at the Woodland Cafe, sadly located in the car park. She's not forgiven me so far.
The other thing that no longer works is our insistence that birthdays are family events. In the past we tried to position the Naming day celebrations as events and outings with friends, and the birthday as a family event. At birthday time, we got The Hat round, sang 'Happy Birthday', then blew out the candles and that was that. This definitely no longer works.
All the kids have witnessed, and even attended, The Birthday Party Package. This seems to be fairly standard. An hour on the play equipment/ donkey/ computer-controlled dodgems, then up to the Birthday Party Room for Birthday Party Food. This involves napkins with the company logo and balloons with the company logo. The napkins go on the floor. Then there are a lot of howls, screams and tears when the balloons pop. Next, out comes the chicken nuggets and chips and bring your own cake. If the happy parents have paid the extra tenner, some bloke dressed as a penguin enters and leads the little songsters in 'Happy Birthday' before trying to exit sharpish without setting his costume on fire, knocking over the cake, tripping over balloon string or treading on the toddler clinging to his leg.
Not surprisingly, we've avoided the Party Package. But to Shark, Tiger and Squirrel it says 'I am a Proper Birthday Party and anything else, including a packet of ginger nuts at the Woodland Cafe, is not.' So Shark, Tiger and Squirrel want a Proper Party. And, quite frankly, I'm not providing one. A hundred quid for a miserable experience and a bloke dressed as a penguin sounds like torture.
Thus I've been led into a phenomenon that I now call the Rolling Birthday. Basically, this is in lieu of a Proper Birthday Party and consists of a week or two of constant demands for celebrations, parties, events, and cakes, none of which are Proper Parties. So far they've had celebrations such as take away pizza, mother going to bed early, family friends round, two birthday cakes, and a song at the art and play session. This week the celebration is at the Play Park, without the Party Birthday Package, and tomorrow Squirrel's little chum from ballet is coming round for tea. And that's it. I won't be cajoled into any more. I declare the birthday season over. And it's my reward to open a bottle of wine to celebrate the fact.
We tried to get round the problem of the endless birthday celebration seven years ago. We reckoned that with triplets each child would want their own birthday instead of having to share it. So we nicked the Naming day celebrations from the French. Shark was given her own naming day in December; Tiger got August and Squirrel got May. Then each could share their annual birthday and have a separate party come Naming day time.
This seemed to work quite well for the first few years. All the family celebrations were spread out throughout the year and there was always something to look forward to.
Trouble started a couple of years ago. Everyone wanted to swap celebrations. Then because everyone had swapped I forgot whose celebration was when. I had days of grief from Squirrel for forgetting about hers and, when I finally remembered, fobbed her off with a walk in the woods and a packet of ginger nuts at the Woodland Cafe, sadly located in the car park. She's not forgiven me so far.
The other thing that no longer works is our insistence that birthdays are family events. In the past we tried to position the Naming day celebrations as events and outings with friends, and the birthday as a family event. At birthday time, we got The Hat round, sang 'Happy Birthday', then blew out the candles and that was that. This definitely no longer works.
All the kids have witnessed, and even attended, The Birthday Party Package. This seems to be fairly standard. An hour on the play equipment/ donkey/ computer-controlled dodgems, then up to the Birthday Party Room for Birthday Party Food. This involves napkins with the company logo and balloons with the company logo. The napkins go on the floor. Then there are a lot of howls, screams and tears when the balloons pop. Next, out comes the chicken nuggets and chips and bring your own cake. If the happy parents have paid the extra tenner, some bloke dressed as a penguin enters and leads the little songsters in 'Happy Birthday' before trying to exit sharpish without setting his costume on fire, knocking over the cake, tripping over balloon string or treading on the toddler clinging to his leg.
Not surprisingly, we've avoided the Party Package. But to Shark, Tiger and Squirrel it says 'I am a Proper Birthday Party and anything else, including a packet of ginger nuts at the Woodland Cafe, is not.' So Shark, Tiger and Squirrel want a Proper Party. And, quite frankly, I'm not providing one. A hundred quid for a miserable experience and a bloke dressed as a penguin sounds like torture.
Thus I've been led into a phenomenon that I now call the Rolling Birthday. Basically, this is in lieu of a Proper Birthday Party and consists of a week or two of constant demands for celebrations, parties, events, and cakes, none of which are Proper Parties. So far they've had celebrations such as take away pizza, mother going to bed early, family friends round, two birthday cakes, and a song at the art and play session. This week the celebration is at the Play Park, without the Party Birthday Package, and tomorrow Squirrel's little chum from ballet is coming round for tea. And that's it. I won't be cajoled into any more. I declare the birthday season over. And it's my reward to open a bottle of wine to celebrate the fact.
Saturday, 24 February 2007
A birthday day
First up for the three birthday girls, the birthday cards. One arrives from Aunty Dee with a note of apology, having been shredded by Royal Mail. The pieces have been thoughtfully put in a plastic bag.
This is better than one of the birthday presents, a red dressing-up dress I bought three weeks ago from ebay, which hasn't arrived at all. There's been no reply from the seller to my emails, so I've been badmouthing her and kicking the furniture. Next I'll find she's lying in a hospital bed with her appendix in a jar and my cheque still on her doormat.
Cake, we did two yesterday, and we're all feeling a bit over-caked. So we're cutting out the cake today. Balloons I had yesterday and didn't blow up, so will consider saving them until we can have another go at some sort of party next week.
The rest of the events, like presents, are down to us: new bedrooms, a playroom, and a line of dressing-up dresses in all colours, except in red. Today is moving day.
The moving of furniture and the clearing of detritus goes on all day. The chandelier goes up, with a lot of cursing, and the ladders come down. The light-stop curtains go up, and the new dressing up box is installed. The mattresses go up, and the old beds start to be dismantled.
Dig's not sure about taking the old beds apart. First he says he doesn't want to do it. He says it's because of the emotional trauma. When we got them about three years ago Dig had to threaten legal action to prise them out of the company who made them. It took six months. At one point the kids were sleeping on the floor. When the beds finally arrived, the construction took ages. Then we realised that while they looked great in the shop, with three of them lined up in the bedrooms, they looked a bit like a hospital ward. So to spare Dig's sensitivities I took the first bed down quietly, with care, time, and an alan key. Ten minutes later I find him smashing the second one apart with his foot and a rubber mallet.
By 8 in the evening, everyone's starving. And in the rush of the past few days, I've forgotten about food. There's a bent carrot in the fridge and three green potatoes in the cylindrical container I call a potato hopper and which Ikea call a plastic bag store. This doesn't look good. We had the pasta option for lunch. I suggest I make tomato bread and then discover we haven't got any tomato and we haven't got any bread either.
Dig comes up with a plan. Go to the Pizza Shop in the market square. This is excellent. Last week we hit the chippy, then it was an Indian take-away and the other night a Chinese meal for Chinese New Year. The Pizza Shop will spare our blushes. We've only ever tried it once; when we all got there, starving, it was shut for staff training. But tonight they're open, and can do tomato and pineapple for the birthday girls.
After supper we're probably wrong to let the princesses into the new playroom to find all their dressing-up dresses lined up for them. It's far too late, and they still have the excitement of their new bedrooms. But there are squeals of delight on finding perfect presents. So it's bed at 11pm. And a momentus day over.
This is better than one of the birthday presents, a red dressing-up dress I bought three weeks ago from ebay, which hasn't arrived at all. There's been no reply from the seller to my emails, so I've been badmouthing her and kicking the furniture. Next I'll find she's lying in a hospital bed with her appendix in a jar and my cheque still on her doormat.
Cake, we did two yesterday, and we're all feeling a bit over-caked. So we're cutting out the cake today. Balloons I had yesterday and didn't blow up, so will consider saving them until we can have another go at some sort of party next week.
The rest of the events, like presents, are down to us: new bedrooms, a playroom, and a line of dressing-up dresses in all colours, except in red. Today is moving day.
The moving of furniture and the clearing of detritus goes on all day. The chandelier goes up, with a lot of cursing, and the ladders come down. The light-stop curtains go up, and the new dressing up box is installed. The mattresses go up, and the old beds start to be dismantled.
Dig's not sure about taking the old beds apart. First he says he doesn't want to do it. He says it's because of the emotional trauma. When we got them about three years ago Dig had to threaten legal action to prise them out of the company who made them. It took six months. At one point the kids were sleeping on the floor. When the beds finally arrived, the construction took ages. Then we realised that while they looked great in the shop, with three of them lined up in the bedrooms, they looked a bit like a hospital ward. So to spare Dig's sensitivities I took the first bed down quietly, with care, time, and an alan key. Ten minutes later I find him smashing the second one apart with his foot and a rubber mallet.
By 8 in the evening, everyone's starving. And in the rush of the past few days, I've forgotten about food. There's a bent carrot in the fridge and three green potatoes in the cylindrical container I call a potato hopper and which Ikea call a plastic bag store. This doesn't look good. We had the pasta option for lunch. I suggest I make tomato bread and then discover we haven't got any tomato and we haven't got any bread either.
Dig comes up with a plan. Go to the Pizza Shop in the market square. This is excellent. Last week we hit the chippy, then it was an Indian take-away and the other night a Chinese meal for Chinese New Year. The Pizza Shop will spare our blushes. We've only ever tried it once; when we all got there, starving, it was shut for staff training. But tonight they're open, and can do tomato and pineapple for the birthday girls.
After supper we're probably wrong to let the princesses into the new playroom to find all their dressing-up dresses lined up for them. It's far too late, and they still have the excitement of their new bedrooms. But there are squeals of delight on finding perfect presents. So it's bed at 11pm. And a momentus day over.
Friday, 23 February 2007
A usual sort of day
Tomorrow's the birthday for Shark, Tiger and Squirrel, and for the last twelve hours I've been in maximum preparation mode. Late afternoon yesterday I dragged myself away from listening to early morning Perth radio and stood by while Shark beat a celebration carrot cake to an almost certain death.
Then it was Tiger's turn to make a rum plum cake without the rum. I would have put rum in it, but we didn't have any. The bottle's empty. There wasn't anything left in the brandy bottle either. There was a bit of vodka, but that didn't seem right for a children's birthday cake, although I considered it.
Thanks to the late night cooking, I was expecting a late morning, and a late arrival at the home educator's craft and get together at the local community hall, but everyone got up early. That threw me, because I had to nip to Tesco for the cream cheese for Shark's carrot cake, and a pack of fresh marzipan so everyone could make marzipan carrots for decoration. So if we were late, it was me, wondering whether I should make a fuss about the marzipan on sale at Tesco with a best before date of Jan 2007, or whether I should look the other way, pretend not to see it and buy it. I'll leave you guessing.
Then we set off, reasonably early for us. And as we arrive in Middling Town, Tiger suddenly calls out with a strangled cry, 'I need to stretch my legs!' I can feel a medical emergency here so tell her to unstrap herself. Next I've got a child standing behind me shouting 'I'm going to be sick!' This would be a fine morning for the local police, stopping a woman driver with an insurance claim already going through the books, doing 50mph over the speed bumps in Middling Town centre with a screaming child unsecured in the rear.
I do get Tiger to the hall in time and rush her headlong into the toilets, which she occupies for half an hour, leaning over the toilet bowl. This is supposed to be a birthday party for her and her sisters. I have balloons, a leaden carrot cake and ideas for silly games. Jol has brought games too, and everyone's waiting. By the time Tiger decides it's all over, there's only 15 minutes of the session left to go. The bounce has gone out of the balloon idea, so we just eat cake and everyone sings Happy Birthday.
In the afternoon we go to lunch with Jol and Am. This is the third time we've come for lunch and we start to take over the house. Shark stomps about and bullies her sisters; Squirrel makes rude comments; Tiger sits on the bed and howls; I come over all teachery and make self-important, hoity-toity comments about when it's time to leave. And as usual, Jol and Am's warmth and good nature lets us get away with it all. One day they'll have had enough of us and put extra locks on the doors.
We're back in good time for the second birthday party of the day, with The Hat, who's late. This is excellent, because it gives Tiger time to do her violin practice and time for me to dredge icing sugar over the rum plum cake without any rum.
By 9.30, The Hat disappears. The night's still young for her, and she has another social appointment to make. Behind her are three pre-birthday ladies, one weeping, one howling, and one hanging over the toilet bowl.
All in all, a perfectly normal day.
Then it was Tiger's turn to make a rum plum cake without the rum. I would have put rum in it, but we didn't have any. The bottle's empty. There wasn't anything left in the brandy bottle either. There was a bit of vodka, but that didn't seem right for a children's birthday cake, although I considered it.
Thanks to the late night cooking, I was expecting a late morning, and a late arrival at the home educator's craft and get together at the local community hall, but everyone got up early. That threw me, because I had to nip to Tesco for the cream cheese for Shark's carrot cake, and a pack of fresh marzipan so everyone could make marzipan carrots for decoration. So if we were late, it was me, wondering whether I should make a fuss about the marzipan on sale at Tesco with a best before date of Jan 2007, or whether I should look the other way, pretend not to see it and buy it. I'll leave you guessing.
Then we set off, reasonably early for us. And as we arrive in Middling Town, Tiger suddenly calls out with a strangled cry, 'I need to stretch my legs!' I can feel a medical emergency here so tell her to unstrap herself. Next I've got a child standing behind me shouting 'I'm going to be sick!' This would be a fine morning for the local police, stopping a woman driver with an insurance claim already going through the books, doing 50mph over the speed bumps in Middling Town centre with a screaming child unsecured in the rear.
I do get Tiger to the hall in time and rush her headlong into the toilets, which she occupies for half an hour, leaning over the toilet bowl. This is supposed to be a birthday party for her and her sisters. I have balloons, a leaden carrot cake and ideas for silly games. Jol has brought games too, and everyone's waiting. By the time Tiger decides it's all over, there's only 15 minutes of the session left to go. The bounce has gone out of the balloon idea, so we just eat cake and everyone sings Happy Birthday.
In the afternoon we go to lunch with Jol and Am. This is the third time we've come for lunch and we start to take over the house. Shark stomps about and bullies her sisters; Squirrel makes rude comments; Tiger sits on the bed and howls; I come over all teachery and make self-important, hoity-toity comments about when it's time to leave. And as usual, Jol and Am's warmth and good nature lets us get away with it all. One day they'll have had enough of us and put extra locks on the doors.
We're back in good time for the second birthday party of the day, with The Hat, who's late. This is excellent, because it gives Tiger time to do her violin practice and time for me to dredge icing sugar over the rum plum cake without any rum.
By 9.30, The Hat disappears. The night's still young for her, and she has another social appointment to make. Behind her are three pre-birthday ladies, one weeping, one howling, and one hanging over the toilet bowl.
All in all, a perfectly normal day.
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