Kids: Characters and Caricatures

It’s been a full on, funny old week so far.  Two out of the three boys started their Easter holidays, with the last one breaking up at close of play on Tuesday.  This is a lot earlier than the rest of the schools in the area, and so it made sense to take advantage of the theme parks and avoid the overcrowding that so often happens during the school holidays.

And so it was that we decided on Legoland Windsor.  This is well known to us, being practically on our doorstep, and has served us well over the years from toddlerhood to pre-teens.  Not only is it the place where the boys learned to face their fears on the Dragon ride in the Knights Kingdom and laughed at the pictures of Grandma in the log flume at Pirate Falls, but it is also small enough in which the older ones can roam independently, safe in the knowledge that they are tall enough for the rides and reveling in their freedom – all character building stuff. So it was that we waited in the house, my  12 year old excited to see two companions for a day out of fun and a sleepover.  One of his friends was well known to us, having been a lively part of our lives for a while, but the other child was an unknown – he had been in the class for a number of years, but in the weird way of children, had recently been discovered by my son as  a ‘new friend’.  His mother arrived to drop him off and warned me that he wasn’t unsociable, just ‘a bit shy’ in new company.  As soon as she left, I could hear her shy and retiring son bellowing through the walls of the playroom as they indulged in a last minute game of Xbox, so I knew it would be all right.

As the three elder boys charged off into the primary coloured world of our destination, I had a very excited 9 year old on my hands who took control and insisted on visiting every ride, regardless of whether or not his mother was as enthusiastic. So we got soaked, we went up and we went down, leaving our stomachs in mid air and the contents thankfully still inside.  We avoided the throngs of school trips by going where they didn’t, and all in all had a great time. The three elder boys met us for lunch and then scarpered, and we wandered amiably around Miniland and the Star Wars exhibition (which was Little Man’s favourite).  And Little Man sat patiently whilst an artist drew his caricature.  I always think a caricature is interesting – no matter what image you present to the world, the caricaturist picks up mercilessly on your flaws, and exaggerates prominent features from which you can’t hide.  You are forced to not take yourself so seriously.

This brings me in a roundabout way to two blogs that resonated with me this week.  One was http://www.mama-andmore.com/2014/03/bossy-where-do-you-stand.html  and the other was http://reprobatemum.com/2014/03/03/social-media-im-not-waving-im-drowning/  

The first posting was about a mother, who on being told that her 5 year old daughter was bossy, gently and tactfully confronted the stereotyping that took place within the school, and thus by society at large.  Why would a girl be called bossy, in a situation where a boy would be called a leader?  Does that word have negative connotations?  Would it not be better to use that ‘bossiness’ and channel it positively to ensure that girls become good leaders rather than class bullies?  Would that bossiness then become an awareness of others, and a willingness to listen to others without losing focus? The second post was written by a successful business leader who was drowning in self doubt brought on by social media – her carefully selected Facebook images not matching real life, the superficiality of the medium, and the gulf between the digital identity and reality.   Both blogs are well worth a read, and reflects on the way that we not only characterize ourselves and our kids, but that in some ways, we become our own caricatures.

Legoland was a great success, the older boys still had enough energy for their sleepover, and Little Man had his drawing and a stuffed dragon toy that he had won on one of the stalls.  The ‘new friend’ was collected by his mother the next day and I assured her that he had been a star.  She admitted that she had had ‘The Chat’ (you know, the one where you tell your son to behave, say Please and Thank You and on no account to reveal that you love your mothers’ arms because they are really flappy and you wonder if she will take off one day), and that he had told her not to worry.

This morning, Little Man was the first to reach the station platform on the start of a journey to London after a particularly slow ticket office experience. The train was just about to leave.  He waved his arms at the guard who was just about to signal the all clear. As we veered into view, Little Man was explaining to the guard that his mummy had a sore ankle and couldn’t run as fast as he could.  The guard let us on the train.

 Bossy…Leader – you decide, but one thing is for sure, our kids are definite characters.

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Three Little Letters

Three little letters that mean so much

Soft spoken words, a tender touch

A smile to chase tears on a sorrowful day

A note to face fears when you’re far away

The laugh that says it will be all right

The way the darkness dissolves in the light

Magic roast dinners, sumptuous pud

Heavy table, laden with food

Washing hanging in the summer breeze

The hot swish of ironing, flattening ease

Holidays long, and so filled with fun

Days crowded with friends, playing in the sun

Baths running, hot water soaked with bubbles

Soothing away all those kiddie troubles

A hug, the warmth, the story at night

A last blown kiss before turning out the light

Kids getting older, the love doesn’t jade

Arguments, blow ups, smiles do not fade

Advice, oft ignored ‘til realization dawns

Staying up worrying, stifling yawns

Becoming a grandmother, the gentle pride

A baby who won’t leave her childs side

The swell in her heart as the first words come

Three little letters, it’s simply

                                      ‘MUM’  

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Slob Out Time

There is something about just slobbing.  It could be in front of the telly, in the garden, or –my personal favourite – with a good book by a sunny pool side.  It needn’t be for long, but it helps rejuvenate the soul, regenerate the mind and recharge the old batteries.  The problem is, I’m just not very good at it.

But slobbing isn’t necessarily a physical thing, it’s more a state of mind.  It is seen when people watch television, or play an electronic game, or lie in the bath.  It can be seen in the day to day routine of a job, when the body is there, but the mind is sunning itself by the pool side with a good book.  It is Taking Five, or having Forty Winks, without the eyelids closing.  It is a moment in time.  And then back to reality.

When I was younger, and worked in London, I used to commute on the Tube.  This is the epicenter of Slobbism (see, new word?!).  Only on the London Underground can you spend a half hour sitting opposite someone and not make eye contact.  By the end of the journey they have either memorized the entire Tube map, they are walking along that metaphorical beach, or they have a squint. And God forbid if a busker dares to get on and hold an impromptu war time sing along whilst holding out a hat for money.  A male friend and I, both in our 20s, used to, for fun, begin little arguments between ourselves and see who of our fellow commuters would look up.  The trouble was, we would never warn each other when we were about to start, and we certainly didn’t have a clue about the ending and it would get more and more outrageous until one of us just switched into normal conversation as if nothing had happened.  

Our most effective was one morning, when we were crammed into the doorway, both holding on to the hanging handles and chatting quietly.  I then said to him in a loud voice “What do you mean you are having an affair? How Dare you?”  His stunned face said it all, but he quickly recovered himself and threw himself into the role.  By the time we disembarked for work, the whole carriage was full of alert people craning their necks to see what was happening between us, as we fell about laughing on the platform.

Middle Son was off ill this week and sat slobbing in front of the telly.  His poor body was exhausted fighting a nasty bout of tonsillitis. He was lost in the world of Housewives of Beverley Hills, followed by Housewives of Atlanta, followed by Millionaire Matchmaker.  I had to come in and physically switch off ITV2 before he became welded to the sofa.  Two days later, when he discovered Jerry Springer, I decided that he was well enough to go out for a coffee.

He sat in Costa, as I queued to order.  The Barista took the orders with the bored face of someone in mid slob waiting for his break.  Suddenly there was a jab in my ribs and standing behind me was a dad I knew. The teachers were on strike at the school and so he was in charge of the kids who were sitting in a booth waiting for him to order.  We said our hellos and as I was waiting for my coffee, he placed his request for a brownie.  It arrived, and was placed on my tray. I waved my hand at the offending item.

“We’re not together,” laughed my friend.

 

And then, with a mischievous look, he started.

 

“I mean,” he spoke confidentially to the Barista, “We were married once, but now we are divorced."  (Entirely made up.) The server began to go red in mortification.

Old habits die hard, even from 20 years ago. I joined in with relish.  By the end of the conversation, not only was the Barista fully woken from his slob mode, but so was the rest of the queue.
 

We laughed our goodbyes to each other, going back to our respective offspring who were slobbed out over their iPods.

Perhaps slobbing is just a relaxed mind waiting to be awoken – a bit like a standby button on a tv.  Perhaps it is just a way of brain conservation until something comes along to wake up your day.  

Either way, I’m still not very good at it.

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Sleep Deprivation

Every parent will tell you that there are phases in life where you simply get very little or no sleep.  This is the point where you wonder what an earth you did, pre kids, with all of that time.  You wonder how you managed a night out, then a lie in, perhaps surfacing just before lunch – and you marvel at how you wasted time.  Of course, it goes in phases.  You breathe a sigh of relief having gone through one phase, learn to sleep again and wallop – it hits you again and again.  And you are always surprised when it happens.  One of my cousins told me of her Nan, who on her 97^th birthday, and with dementia, sat surrounded by her kids, grandkids and great grandkids with a bemused expression on her face.  It was an idyllic picture as the kids rolled round at her feet.  Someone asked her what she was thinking.  She said in bewilderment ‘Someone told me that I had five kids.  I have no idea why – can’t stand ‘em’.

Perhaps if we were more prepared, then our bodies wouldn’t go into shock.  So I have attempted to put together a little list.  Feel free to add more (if you can stay awake)…

Newborn

No-one can work out the machinations of a newborn.  It doesn’t seem to matter how good you were as a baby carrier for 9 months, as soon as that little red bundle is handed to you, it literally has a life of its own – and a mind of its own.  Despite what all the books and kindly advice says, that baby will sleep when you don’t want it to, and wake when you do.  You spend the first two months see sawing in dizziness from night to day, your washing pile of muslins pile up, not because they are dirty, but because  a) you can’t work out what you are supposed to be using them for, but every bit of advice says to use them, and so you carry them around with you and lose them in every room, and when you find them you can’t remember what you used them for and so to be on the safe side you stick them in the wash and b) it gives you something to do when you wander around in a daze at 3.30 in the morning with aching milk filled boobs because every night since you remembered you have been woken up at that hour, but this is the one time that Baby has decided to sleep through…

Teething

So Baby has got into a routine and you have become a Smug Mummy.  Not only have you lost a little of your pregnancy weight due to breastfeeding (yeah right, like that ever really happens), but your baby has now reached that milestone in good parenting – sleeping through the night.  And then all hell breaks loose – your little sleeping angel turns into a gurning, red cheeked drooling devil with a voice that penetrates walls.  Teething.  Cold raw carrots, hard biscuits, chew toys – nothing seems to alleviate your darlings distress, except of course, your finger.  That seems to work.  And as your wail joins theirs, no one sleeps.

Sickness

Young or old, when sickness (often accompanied by diarrohea) hits the household, no one sleeps.  You pass the days in a hazy fug of washing piles, scrubbing piles, and sick buckets.  Every sheet in the house is just not enough.  Your well intentioned desire to keep an eye on your child by inviting them into your bed means that you sleep not a wink as they toss and turn and snuffle and barf. By the time they have sprung into life again, full of the joys that school insists that they take 48 hours off after being sick, you feel as energetic as the wet rags you have been using to mop their fevered brow.  And then you go down with it.

Angst

Your child comes back with tales of friendship woes.  You listen, soothe, teach them coping mechanisms.  They go to bed happy.  You lie in bed worrying.  This will happen in recurrent cycles throughout their lives.  I suspect that this never ends.  Enjoy…

Socials

The time when you stay up to collect your teenage kid from a party – so you can’t sleep, in case you miss the deadline you set.  Or even worse, you’ve set the deadline, but someone else is delivering them back, and so you can’t sleep, in case they are late. The most you can do is fall into a half sleep on the sofa.  This means that you wake up with a cricked neck.  Not ideal, as you greet your testosterone fuelled child with your head to one side and squinty eyes a la Columbo. 

I have yet to discover the later stages with my kids – but I suspect that they go something like this:

Parties – you lie awake on your romantic weekend away with your husband, and as he snores in blessed unbroken sleep in your pretty B&B, you are wondering if the kids are having a party (yes) and how trashed your house will be (very).

Weddings – oof, when is the best time to tell your child that you really don’t like their choice of partner?

Grandkids- OMG, it starts all over again…


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I

Retro Mum

Does anyone remember Constance Carroll make up?  It was in the 80’s and came in the brightest colours of pinks, purples and blues.  When you were 13, it was the best thing since sliced bread (which had only probably just been invented). In those days we cared not of the provenance, or if it was organic, or tested on animals, or indeed if it was any good for our skin.  If it was cheap, we liked it – and boy was it cheap.  In the days when a Curly Wurly was still only 9 pence, a little pallet of Constance Carroll would set you back about 50 pence, and for that you could plaster it all over your eyelids and look simply gorgeous.  It was all down to those Athena posters which were primarily white and always featured red lips, brightly made up eyes and a lipstick positioned somewhat erotically.  Sometimes, to look more exotic than erotic, there was a cocktail glass thrown in, in place of the lipstick.  The New Romantic movement was in with a bang, and men wore eyeliner with pride, ruffled shirts cascaded down the lean bodies of the men in our teen mags (Blue Jeans, Jackie – remember those), and hair was gelled into weird and wonderful quiffs.  As girls in boarding school we lusted after those impossible heroes of Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet sellotaped  to our walls, overlapping pictures of Toyah and a cute poster of a Woofit (Google it).

And then came the Fame phase – where we all thought we could dance, and even if we couldn’t we still dressed head to toe in legwarmers and cut off grey sweatshirts.  I even had a grey ra ra skirt – much in demand in the weekly swap shop of my friends.  Pixie boots, dungarees, pedal pushers, studded belts , those little Princess Diana court shoes with the bows at the back. And the brick sized mobile phones. Remember those?

And then there was the music.  Techno, pop, garage, house, rave.  Frankie Says Relax. And not forgetting the masters of the 80’s -Stock Aitken and Waterman.  On my 20^th birthday in a student house in Leamington Spa, we held the mother of all parties where everyone came as a pop star from the SAW pack.  We had Kylies, we had Jasons, we had Bros (both of them), several Rick Astleys, Mel and Kim, the list was endless.  And in each room we had a different sound system going – where the songs were different but the SAW beat was the same...Ah, those were the days…

What goes around comes around.  And I kind of wish I’d held on to all of my gear.  We’ve seen the dungarees, the ra ra skirts, the Pineapple Dance look, the ballet pumps, the luminous oversize T shirts, the remix of the 80’s and 90’s songs, the Human League wedges.  Our phones have gone from enormous to teeny weeny, to gradually getting bigger again.  And the makeup is bright, and getting more Constance Carroll.

And you know, it’s kind of cool.  We are learning new things every day – where my mother struggled to set the VHS, I now struggle with using the telly. I look in envy at the teenagers modelling what I used to wear, but I wouldn’t wear it again – it’s their turn, and their modern twist. 

But I did find one funny thing the other day.  The boys were in the car waiting to go on the school run, and they were pairing my iPhone with the car (don’t ask me how – I’m still in the land where the car mobile had a curly wire and very little reception).  They had found my music selection and were laughing at my dire taste in sounds.  I sat in with them and basically said ‘My car, my rules’ (I know, pathetic really).  And I scrolled through my music library. And I found a tune that I hadn’t listened to in nearly 20 years, since a brief moment in history when I went a bit Rave mad.  It was Shakawkaw (Stretched- EP) by Infected Mushroom.  For those of you who were never infected by the mushrooms, I highly recommend downloading it off iTunes as in its 7mins 24 playtime you are guaranteed to find one bit of it that you enjoy, I promise.  And so I slammed it on, at full volume.

Little Man immediately began to wave his arms around.  He said excitedly ‘This would be brilliant to do a Contemporary dance to!’  Middle Son, who is the DJ in the house and doesn’t like to be usurped in in car entertainment, started to fiddle with the Base and got it really thumping through the car floor.  His face was blank. Eldest Son’s hand was tapping on his knee.  Seven minutes later, as the music died, I turned to my two eldest.

‘Well?’

They looked at one another, high fived and then grinned at me.

‘Sick!’

And Middle Son pressed repeat play for the rest of the journey.

It may only last a couple of days, but for the moment, I’m so Tomorrow…

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No MakeUp Selfies

Over the past two days there has been a small revolution by women on social media.  It comes in the form of the No Make Up Selfie, to raise awareness for cancer, and the aim is to put up a picture sans war paint, and nominate a friend or friends to do the same.  At the same time, using your mobile phone, you donate the small sum of £3 by simply texting BEAT to 70099.  A lovely idea – some didn’t get it, what did the no make up thing have to do with cancer?  It would be my idea of absolute hell – I wake up in the morning with bedhead and don’t go anywhere without some tinted moisturizer and mascara. Indeed, that was my reaction initially, until I had a good think about it.

 

You see, the reality is that cancer is a hidden disease, often coming to the fore unexpectedly, and often with devastating results.  There is something very tangible in the act of stripping away the outer layer that you portray to the world, and baring your face, warts and all, which makes the blasé social media viewer stop and take a second look.  It makes a statement.

In a world dominated by glamorous women on our TV screens and in the movies, it is a sad fact that most of us know someone with cancer, and perhaps these selfies reflect that. On my Facebook page alone I have seen selfies of women ranging from 14 to the late 60’s. And there is an interesting side effect.  You see your friends, in all their vulnerability, in a different light.  Yes, you see their blemishes, you see their wrinkles, you see their worry lines. But you also see, in that self conscious act, how beautiful they really are.

  

Perhaps we are not as clothes and possessions obsessed  as all the magazines would have us believe.  Perhaps at the root of these selfies there is a realization that no matter what the outward appearance, we are all women, and all at risk from the dreaded C word.

The campaign has raised over £1 million pounds in two days and rising.  What is even more amazing is that CancerResearch UK was caught totally on the hop.  They knew nothing about it, and wondered why the donations were suddenly pouring in.  And they embraced it. And women embraced it.

One day, the word Cancer will not be synonymous with fear.  But until that day, there will always be fresh faced warriors ready to battle it.

And so, here’s my No MakeUp selfie…

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Ooh Doctor

I don’t know about you, but I come over all Miranda Hart whenever I go to see anyone medical.  It could be a nurse, it could be a doctor, or on occasions it could be a consultant – regardless of who it is, the metamorphosis begins as soon as I step in the door.  First of all, I start to feel a little hot, and then I crack the one liners – you know, you’re lying there legs akimbo whilst an uninterested nurse rustles behind the curtain to show that she is ‘chaperoning’ and the male doctor attempts to shove a metal speculum into your firmly clamped lady bits in an attempt to get a smear- and rather than the ‘ooh it’s cold’ and giggle slightly self conciously type of reaction that everyone else has, I say ‘I hope to God it doesn’t start to buzz’ and then giggle slightly maniacally.  I know… It gets worse.  Having clambered off the bed, I inform both of my startled companions that I have put my Granny pants on especially for the occasion.  Note I said my Granny pants, not my Grannies pants (that would just be weird).

I am absolutely fine when it comes to the kids being ill, in fact I excel at being the efficient, well informed mother, often trying to point the professional in the right direction, the boys dying of embarrassment. As a result, unless a leg is physically hanging off, my boys would rather not go to the doctor… 

I like to think that whatever medical journey I go on, my little attacks of Mirandaisms spread a little joy in the establishments that I visit. And it is a bit contagious.  A number of years ago I had what is known in the genteel surroundings of Surrey as a ‘little op down below’, and to the rest of us, ‘a hysterectomy’, due to a condition called adenomyosis.  My consultant was a small Welsh man, with the intense attitude synonymous with all consultants and lawyers that I have ever met.  On the post op examination, we got over the whole embarrassment of the internal investigation (I will leave it to your imagination what I came out with once he lubricated his hands with a huge pot of petroleum jelly) and  he pronounced me fit and well, and looked up at me from between my legs with a smile and said ‘Yes, all looks great, people pay good money to look that good in Hollywood’. And then I was dismissed, open mouthed.

Likewise, when G was struck down with what turned out to be gallstones, I gallantly offered to take him to the doctor’s surgery so that she could check him out.  Of course, he is registered at a different place to mine and the kids, mainly due to the fact that he has lived in this area all of his life and never changed it.  So it was with interest that on the 3^rd of January this year I sat on a seat in a doctors waiting room, and was the only well person doing so.  G huffed and puffed beside me, with the agony that comes with protracted labour, and moaning softly at intervals.  Old ladies greeted each other with ‘How was your Christmas?’, seated old men nodded at each other over  their walking sticks and hassled mummies rocked buggies of red faced screaming kids.  It was all very interesting.  A rather large lady entered the waiting room – obviously a bit of a local surgery celebrity, several voices raised to greet her. One lady, dressed head to toe in lilac shouted across the room ‘How’s your vagina?’  I started to get that familiar hot feeling under my collar as I stared at the large lady. 

‘Not too bad, not too bad’, she answered gallantly as she slowly made her way over to her concerned friend.  ‘Playing up a bit, and it was really bad over Christmas – spent most of it laid up in bed’.  I looked around wildly – there was no reaction in the surgery.  Perhaps they were all deaf.  I stared…

G dug me in the ribs and hissed, ‘What are you looking at?’  I whispered back.  He looked at me incredulously, his pain momentarily forgotten.

 ‘Angina, she said Angina’… I began to snicker in relief as everyone stared at me.

This week I had to go and see a consultant about a dodgy Achilles tendon that renders me lame at certain points of the day.  I was determined not to embarrass myself.  I turned up early, filled in the form, and sat waiting.  I was called in.  The consultant was looking at my notes, and bade me to sit down. 

Immediately I started.

 ‘Ooh, am I in the naughty chair then?’ He glanced at me.

‘No, it is so that I can examine your foot…’

He was actually a very nice chap, and he diagnosed what was wrong, and said that he would arrange for me to have a scan and what not.  He was treating me like an equal, and I felt quite adult and in control. After then telling me what he was recommending, he then said that he would get it actioned asap, and began to write.  What I should have done was put my shoes on and sat there politely until I was dismissed.  What I actually did was engage in a final conversation.

Without thinking, I said, ‘Oh, so you’re not left handed?!’ No, I don’t know why I said that either. But he looked up surprised, and queried why I would say that.  You know when you start something and you don’t know why you started it and then you start trying to justify why you said the thing that you didn’t know you were going to say until you did?  (Or is it just me?)

Needless to say, he seemed confused. And I seemed to have got over my lameness as I limp-ran out to the car.

It’s probably just me and Miranda, isn’t it?

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