Swimming to victory!

"I can't believe she's been chosen," I say to my friend, a fellow mother. "I mean, with all her problems she struggles to understand instructions. And we've been doing swimming lessons for years and she's still only at Level 4. I know there are plenty in her year who are much better."

Thus I go to collect my daughter from a local swimming gala. She was chosen to represent her school in a competition against all four other village schools. I have blogged before about her learning difficulties and as I went to pick her up I expected little other than a wet, bedraggled girl.

Yet, just as these words slipped from my mouth, I spotted her through the window. She was grinning from ear to ear and holding up a medal and a certificate - First Place!

In here is a lesson for me not to belittle my daughter, despite all her struggles. Her friend said that everyone was shouting and cheering her on, as she swam the final and crucial leg of the relay that the school won. She was the hero of the moment... and her mother is unbelievably proud of her.

Well done, beautiful girl!

My World Book Day success!

There are few things that drive me more up the wall than 'dressing up days' at school. This is mainly because I am told about them with little more than 24 hours notice (or so it seems). Even with notice, it creeps up on me unawares and becomes a last-minute panic. It is also because I am pretty hopeless and utterly unskilled in creating outfits.

Whilst I love books, I was dreading World Book Day (last Thursday) because it would - inevitably - mean that both my children would have to dress up. I am running out of characters who wear ordinary clothes. Harry Potter et al requires a cloak. Winnie the Pooh: a bear outfit. Daisy Meadows' Fairies: wings, wands and general ethereality. Children's book characters are, almost by definition, out of the ordinary.

This year, along with many schools across the land I have no doubt, I had to dress my daughter as a Dickens' character. She has never heard of Dickens, never read one of his stories nor any idea about who would be in them. In all honesty, I haven't read a full novel of his either. How many female Dickens characters are there? And how many of them are interesting, rather than just Victorian ladies.

We settled for her being a ragamuffin urchin with a flat cap on and torn T-shirt + leggings.

In contrast, my son's class have been reading Gangsta Grannie and so had to go as Gangsta Grannies or Grandpas. Not having read the book myself I had to rely on him to know what to do. He decided to go as a thief, dressed all in black, with a mask over his face.

"And green coming out of my bottom," he said.

This is a statement to make most mothers stop in their tracks.

"She eats cabbage," he explained, "and farts cabbage."

"Oh," I reply. I rack my brain to think of where I might find some green material to sew on, and scratch my head as I wonder how I'm going to do that with no hours left in my day.

Then: my eureka moment.

"Why don't we buy a cabbage and fasten cabbage leaves to your T-shirt?"

And so we did.

And why was this a success? (Other than placating my son, of course!)

He won a Headteacher's Award for his costume!

I like to think that I won it really...

A new month...

Writing Wednesday

"Mum!" I hear my daughter scream, as she runs across the playground towards me. "Mum! Mum! I got three house points!"

"Wow!" I say. "What for?"

"For spelling February."

And she promptly did. Correctly.

She beamed from ear to ear. So tonight, we celebrate!


(Perhaps this post is a cheat for Writing Wednesday, as it is about my daughter rather than me, but I can't let my pride in her achievement go unrecognised!)

Today I weep

Today I weep.

My day started with discovering my daughter sleeping with her head at the foot of the bed. This only means one thing: she wet herself during the night and turned to sleep at the dry end. Unfortunately, aged 9, she is now too tall for this to be of benefit. So the day started with a change of sheets. Even this would not bother me too much, but I was greeted in the school playground by her saying she needed a change of pants. Looking down, I see it is worse than that, as her tights and shoes are sodden. Why oh why oh why? Clearly our current range of medicines to help control this are insufficient. But do I want to put my girl onto stronger drugs? Do I want to control this only by chemical input? Then again, do I want to spend my whole life washing her clothes and bedsheets?

Today I weep.

For my daughter has no true awareness of her developmental issues. I can shout and scream until I am blue in the face, but she has little comprehension of her peculiarity, that she is not doing what a 'normal' 9 year old would do. Last night I said goodnight and switched off the light around 9pm - later than I'd like, but not horrifically so. Yet at 10.30pm I could hear her stereo blaring out music from two floors down. When I run up the stairs (furious) I find all lights on, Jessie J blasting out and her reading books in bed, without a care in the world. Even my arrival didn't instigate shame, such as hurriedly hiding away the books. The eventual apology was hollow, as she didn't understand why I was cross.

Today I weep.

My daughter has gone to play with a friend. This is a good thing, but it saddens me that she was the 'friend of last resort', as her friend listed out all the other girls she had tried to invite for tea but who couldn't make it for one reason or another. 'There's no-one else!' she declared, much to her mother's embarrassment. Fortunately this washes over my daughter's head, as she is so delighted to go out and play. But I worry for her, for the loss of friends as they develop at a 'normal' pace and my beautiful girl struggles to progress. Increasingly she will be difficult to play with - she won't understand the intricacies of a game or the social rules that children develop.

Today I weep.

For she is the most beautiful girl in the world. She is happy and carefree. She is trying so hard. She has a love of life and a love of people that does not judge or dismiss or become bitchy. There is nothing physically or genetically wrong with her, no diagnosable issue such as dyslexia or autism, no behavioural problems: just a markedly slow development educationally and socially. She smiles and laughs and giggles.

I have so few problems with my children compared to many people and I give thanks for the wonderful gift they are to me. Today I am seeing the black cloud rather than the silver lining. And today - just today - as I bear her pain, I weep for my little girl.

Autumn clean

It is half-term and the bookshelves are full to over-flowing, so indeed it is time for a tidy up.

We started in my daughter's room, principally because all her books and belongings were spread on the floor rather than in any shelves/baskets/drawers that may be available. It took several hours, in two sessions, but finally we have bottomed the room.

"What's this?" I would say, picking up another piece of tat.

"It's J's" she said, referring to a friend that stayed a few months ago.

"Where did you get this from?" I asked.

"J left it," she replied.

"How come you have a water bottle up here?"
"Whose is this hairbrush?"
"Is that headband...?"

"J's," she replied...repeatedly.

It would appear that her friend left more stuff behind than she took with her. And that her mum hasn't been missing it enough to ask for it back...!

Lost

Early morning, and I go into my daughter's room to wake her. I find her sat on her bed, motionless, morose. Rather than my usual chirpy morning routine I am flooded with concern. Something must be wrong.

"Are you ok?" I ask.

"I've lost Doris," she croaks.

I'm not sure I've heard her correctly. "I beg your pardon?"

"I've lost Doris."

Presumably Doris is one of the vast array of dolls and soft toys that take over the bed. It isn't a name I recall but I could name most of the ones I can see, so maybe she is lost.

"Doris?" I query.

Her voice is fading, hoarse and raspy. "My card," she explains.

A light switches on. All becomes clear in my mind as I remember the Moshi Monster cards that are so precious to her and the joy of the previous day's acquisition.

She looks at me, all forlorn, for her world is falling apart.

"And I've lost my voice," she whispers and bursts into tears.

Why is it, at these tender moments, all I want to do is laugh?

(For info, both Doris and voice have been recovered!)

Wedding bliss

I persuaded the children to sit on the sofa with me to watch the Royal Wedding.

"It's the dress I want to see," I told them. "10.51: that's when we'll get the first glimpse."

Sure enough, knowing her duty to her future family means sticking to the clockwork timetable, Catherine Middleton emerged from the Goring Hotel on time. I, of course, am engrossed. It looks big, not sleek and slinky. It looks lacy on top. But really, it is impossible to see much in those few seconds, what with the car in the way and a lady running around with a camera.

My son and daughter are less enthusiastic than me. My daughter is excited by her name. "Is it Catherine with a K?" she asks. When told no, her response is that it is like my name.

"Well, a bit," I say, "but mine has an A in it. CathArine, not CathErine."

You see - that's what I am: Catharine with an A.

My son is intrigued by the wedding malarky, but states quite categorically that he is only interested in the kiss. When they said their vows he asked, "Do they kiss now?" (Clearly not.) And when they were on the balcony he was looking away when they first kissed and had to rewind! Thank goodness they did it a second time when he was watching!

But this is leaping ahead. The bride gets into her car, the train follows, and then her father sits by her side. No-one seems too flustered, not even that photographer. Everybody settled in and the car begins to move away.

Then my daughter says, "Is Catherine the one in white?"

The hunter and the hunted

As we sit down for tea, I ask my daughter what she has been doing at school.

"A story," she says, "about a hunter."

"Oh! What's it called?"

"The Hunter."

Given my daughter's poor comprehension skills I am surprisingly delighted by this response! She struggles to recall stories and tales with any accuracy, and open-ended questions are a virtually a no-go area.

"So, tell me about The Hunter. What happens in the story?"

"Well - " She screws up her face trying to think. An open-ended question: almost impossible to answer. I prompt her again.

"Who is in the story? What are the characters?"

Her face lights up. She can do this. "A hunter." I'd guessed that! "A girl and an elephant - a baby elephant."

"Oooh. What happens to them?"

"The hunter kills the girl and the elephant. Shoots them." This with dramatic demonstration.

"Really? The hunter shoots the girl and the elephant?"

"Yes."

She is adamant and won't be dissuaded. The hunter kills the girl and the elephant. I can't quite believe that school are reading this to 8-year-olds, and there doesn't seem to be much plot line behind her retelling of the story. I'm highly suspicious.

"And is that it?"

"Yes."

"The end of the story?"

"Yes."

There is no movement in her tale and she doesn't seem at all upset. I leave it, but speaking to the teacher subsequently I learn a different story. The hunter kills the elephant's mother (shades of Bambi here, I suspect!) and the girl and the elephant run away to escape the hunter. A much more likely story, spread over a week of readings and class exercises.

It is just another demonstration of how she struggles to grasp the facts of a story told to her - and, of course, any other facts (such as the teacher telling them to sit down and do some sums, or make an aeroplane, or whatever is next). Because of this, she falls behind in class.

Yet, given the menu at Sunday lunch, she can read words like 'sizzling' without batting an eyelid. Reading good, spelling good, comprehension negligible.

I shall enjoy the memory of the dead girl and elephant for what it demonstrates about my daughter. And I'll continue to enjoy her story-telling because she is trying and she is caught up by the magic of the tale, even when wildly wrong.

Marmalade wars

Over a couple of weekends, my husband and I have each made marmalade. Now, we are not competitive at all (ahem!) so I just wondered which was better.

First came mine: half normal (perhaps thin cut - I wasn't sure how fine I was supposed to slice the peel), half with ginger.

Thin cut

Ginger

Dark, but perfectly set.

And delicious (we have gone through a jar of each already).

Yesterday came his: half normal (chunky cut), half with lemon rind as well.

Lemon

Chunky

Both much lighter and - oh, his rind has rather floated to the top.

Did I win?

Best of all, my daughter must have been paying some attention. For months now her favourite sandwich for school has been cheese and marmalade (if you haven't tried it, you should: it really is very good!) It is partly for her that we've made so much. So imagine my horror this morning when she announced she didn't like marmalade.

"It's got rind in it," she says.

And it didn't before?!

Today is the beginning

Today is Day 1.
Today my daughter will have the support she needs to learn.




I have blogged before about my frustrations with my daughter, and all the incomprehensible difficulties she has with comprehension, concentration and learning. Not much more than a year ago she was silent at school: she refused to talk to any adults. I'm delighted to say that this does not appear to be a problem at all now - instead, she is more likely to answer back and tell them they are wrong when they are not doing what she thinks is right. More recently I battled with the NHS, trying to get her seen by the right people. This is more 'on hold' than dealt with.

For my successful battle is with the school. And I mean with. Together we have applied for IPF funding, only for the council to decide to assess her for a statement. Much to my surprise, given these cash-strapped times, she has been successful in obtaining that and has twenty hours of funded 1-1 support. It was the best Christmas present we could have asked for. The school has been fantastic, fully recognising my daughter's needs in order to progress.

And today it began.
Today the teaching assistant (TA) began working with my daughter.

Today the TA sat in with my daughter and the Speech & Language Therapist to see how my girl performs and to be able to carry some of the lessons and activities back into class.

Today my daughter had a TA prompting her to remember the teacher's instructions throughout the morning's lessons.

Today my daughter had a TA prodding her into concentration, into keeping to the task at hand, into trying everything not giving up.

Today is the beginning.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

Tied to the apron strings? I think not!

Last weekend my daughter went on Brownie Camp. This was her first time away with friends, rather than staying with grandparents or for a sleepover. Her mother (that is, me!) was all fretful and concerned.

She bounced into the place they were staying and squeaked and squealed with excitement over her bed, the drawer and shelf she could put things on. (She does have these things at home as well!) She was delighted to be sharing with some older girls and another girl in her year. She rushed around, finding out about the facilities and showing the girls who arrived just moments later what there was available.

I decided to leave after she ran past me at great speed shouting, "Bye mum!" with barely a glance. I know when I'm not needed!

Being mum, I did spend much of the peaceful weekend without her worrying. Was she okay? Did she talk with friends? Would she manage to keep up with the other girls? Would she be laughed at, teased, ridiculed? Did she eat what she was given? Has she cried herself to sleep or (for that matter) has she slept at all?

She almost paid attention to me when I returned to pick her up, although chatting to her roommate was more interesting than helping me pack and collect everything. Eventually I got a chance to talk with her.

"I missed you!" I said, giving her a kiss.

She smiled. "Where were you?" she asked.

"At home," I replied.

"Oh. I did wonder," she said ... and promptly fell asleep in the car.

Falling foul of the system

I have blogged before about my daughter's difficulties at school. I don't like to write much, for her own privacy, but it has a great impact on our lives and the focus of our attention. I joke that I have children two years apart chronologically but four years academically. I think the four is growing - at both ends! My son keeps on at leaps and bounds.

My daughter's progress is slower, but she has shown a marked improvement over the year and I am inordinately proud of her. She is a bright and cheerful child who loves life. Unfortunately she has trouble with concentration and comprehension, both of which spill over into many aspects of schoolwork.

Before you ask: here are some of the background details. She is being seen by speech & language and has been assessed by OT. She is getting extra sessions, principally for confidence building, from SEN and they are giving as much extra time to her in class as is reasonable (given, for some reason, they feel a need to teach all the other children as well!) We've checked her eyesight and hearing (both fine) and hopefully she'll be seen by an educational psychologist in the next three months. She remains a mystery.

In many ways I'm delighted that she is unable to be labelled, but labels do often aid in knowing how to help a child. If she was autistic, there are schemes and charities in place to help. If dyslexic, similarly. If just generally not at the level she should be... nothing. It would be nice to have a clear plan as to how to help her progress.

My husband (a paediatrician) also knows there is something wrong without being able to pinpoint it. In amongst all the assessments already done, we thought it would be a good idea if she was seen by a developmental paediatrician. He (or she!) would be able to assess whether she is progressing normally according to her age. Maybe she simply is a year or so behind and if we accept that she will progress as normal, and maybe with a bit of help catch up a bit. Or maybe she is falling further and further behind and her development is not in line with 'the standard'. Either way, this could only be assessed by a specialist.

So I got a referral from the GP.

I dutifully took my daughter to the hospital for the appointment.

I spent nearly half an hour explaining my daughter's history and my concerns.

Then, at the end, he very kindly explained to me that he wasn't a developmental paediatrician but a general paediatrician with a specialisation in diabetes. He had been given the appointment because there was a waiting list to see the community team. There is nothing obviously wrong, he said. Come back again in four months.

Of course, by then it was too late for me to do anything about it. What was I supposed to do? Throw a hissy fit? Not my style. I came home and brooded. My daughter had lost a precious morning's education for an assessment that her father could have done.

There is nothing obviously wrong. My husband can do a general assessment to conclude that! Heck - I can conclude that! What I needed was a specialist. Someone who would look closely at my daughter's handwriting and recognise that it was behind standard. Someone who would think that my daughter's struggle to know how to draw a man was perhaps a little odd when aged 7. Someone who would know that a sibling of a very bright child and daughter of highly academic parents should be comfortable at school. Someone who would play some games with her and find out what her maturity was like.

I have to play the system. It was no-one's fault: the NHS machinations don't have a little flag saying 'this child is complicated' but a deadline for appointments. I either fell foul of the 'be seen within 18 weeks' rule (I was, impressively, seen within eight weeks) or of their subtle scheme for filtering out the children who are being pushed by paranoid parents, the parents who simply think their child is brighter than he or she really is. I wish I was just paranoid. But I have a husband, educated in the field, who is also concerned. I have a headmaster with many years of experience who is baffled by her. She is not straightforward.

Now I am trying, gently, to avoid apportioning blame. As with the house delays, we have to move on from here and now, not from back then. The pressing issue is to get her the right appointment. Hopefully the lovely receptionist at the GPs will be more effective with her second letter, sent directly to the developmental paediatricians (by name).

And just think: I haven't even begun on the battle with the educational authority to get her 1:1 support in class. Oh, my war has barely started, but rest assured: the only winner will be my daughter. Somehow.

Taking your time...

Once again, my son and I are waiting for my daughter.

To say she is slow is an understatement. We do seem to spend a lot of time waiting for her. Getting dressed, eating her branflakes, finding schoolbag, remembering where she has put her spellings book, picking up the games kit, brushing her hair ... and this is all just before 8.30am!

This time it is en route, walking all the way to school. Only 5 minutes (less, if you are me and realise just a shade too late that if the computer says 15:15 and you really ought to be at school to pick them up, not tweeting away...)

"Come on!" I say.

About ten metres behind my daughter is dawdling along, singing merrily to herself.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming!" she says, moving a little (but not much) faster.

My son groans through gritted teeth.

"Hurry up! You don't want to be late for your teacher!" I have a vain hope that this will be an incentive.

"Okay," she says.

A brief burst of speed does little to help. Exasperated I say, "You are a slowcoach!"

"No I'm not!" she replies indignantly.

"Yes you are!"

"No, I'm not!"

"Excuse me, but you are a slowcoach. You're taking forever this morning to walk to school."

"No, I'm not a slowcoach," she says adamantly. "I'm a BIG slowcoach."

Cheesy, but true...

"I don't want cheese sandwich in my lunch," my daughter declares at breakfast, with a distressed look on her face.

I am surprised. She always has cheese; she likes cheese. She has never expressed a dislike of it in the past, although (unlike her brother, who hates the stuff and will only eat ham) she is usually willing to try other things.

"Oh?" I say. "Why not?"

"It makes me feel sick," and she rubs her tummy and leans forward with such pain and anguish that I am forced to believe it has truly upset her.

"Okay, do you want ham, like your brother?"

"No." (More stretching of face in agony.)

"Chicken?"

"No. I get a poorly tummy."

I am getting the picture. "So, what would you like in your sandwich?"

The face transforms instantly. She sits upright, a small smile on her face and a bright spark in her eyes.

"Chocolate spread, or honey!"

Too many babies

Over the last month we have spent a lot of time with our siblings, and thus my children have had time to play with their cousins. In particular the under one-year-old girls. (They are both fab and beautiful, by the way).

Their mothers are both amazing at breastfeeding. I say this from the position of failing my son before he was three months old (still feel the guilt when I gave up) and that my daughter gave up on me before reaching a year: she recognised there was nothing much coming out and so drifted into preferring the bottle. I try to view this as just the first rejection of her mother - there are plenty more to come, no doubt!

My daughter has been fascinated by both her cousins. One, nearly walking, had to be rescued repeatedly from her over-caring attention: the attempts to help her to walk were frightening to watch, as a seven year old doesn't understand the speed of a child who has just taken their first steps! Watching my daughter love and care for these babies makes me realise just how gifted she may be, even as she struggles academically.

It turns out the fascination was not just with her cousins. Last night I watched as she took teddy off the chair and gently pushed up her T-shirt, positioned teddy and settled back to let him 'breastfeed' while she watched the TV. No fuss, no chat, just a loving cuddle to her 'baby'.

But I'm not ready to be a granny yet!

Concubines for a nine-year old?

Sometimes, studying the bible with our children is not straightforward.

"It's Daniel 5. 1-9." My son has a daily study book that we are following. It is great, as it explains things simply with additional cartoons and puzzles.

While I find the reading he wriggles into position. He is perched on the edge of my daughter's high-bed, legs sticking out over the stepladder and quite likely to fall off. She is at the pillow end, looking over my shoulder as I read. It has taken a while to get into this precarious position, as I adjudicated over a fight about who has the study book and who has the bible.

Still, it is a great story: the writing on the wall, as the king at his great banquet sees a hand moving but no-one is able to interpret what it has written. Tomorrow night Daniel comes to the rescue, like Superman, though it wasn't a great message to have to tell the king. I start reading.

"King Belshazzar gave a great banquet for a thousand of his nobles and drank wine with them. Will you please stop fidgeting?"

"I'm not!" my daughter complains.

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not!"

Anything to end this pantomime! "Will you please just sit still and concentrate?"

"Okay," she says reluctantly.

I return to the reading, recapping from the beginning.

"King Belshazzar gave a great banquet for a thousand of his nobles and drank wine with them. While Belshazzar was drinking his wine - You said you would sit still!"

"I am."

"What was the name of the king?" I ask slyly.

"Erm..." she squirms. "King ... er... King B..."

I spot her looking through my fingers. All credit to her: Belshazzar is hardly an easy name for a seven-year-old to say.

"Right. Come on. Listen properly this time."

A rather grumpy assent from the little girl.

"Okay, where were we? While Belshazzar was drinking his wine, he gave orders to bring in the gold and silver goblets that Nebuchadnezzar his father had taken from the temple in Jerusalem, so that the king and his nobles, his wives and his concubines might drink from them."

"Mu-um?" This time my son interrupts. We've only reached the end of verse 2 and not yet got to the interesting and slightly spooky bit of the writing on the wall.

"Yes?"

"What are concubines?"

Quotes from The Bible, NIV.

Rockin' to the radio

My daughter has helped whilst I prepare dinner - help, in the loosest sense of the word, you understand. Nevertheless, dinner is on.

As is the radio. A new song plays. My daughter starts dancing.

"Hey, did you know you can do a Military Two Step to this?"

She looks at me blankly. I remember she hasn't been brought up to Ceilidh dance.

"No, seriously, you can. Here!" and I take her hand. In about a square metre of space between table and fridge I demonstrate.

"Hold my hand. Right, now ...

Heel - toe - heel - toe

1 - 2 - 3 - turn..."

We hit the fridge.

"Heel - toe - heel - toe

1 - 2 - 3 - turn..."

We're back where we started.

"Right kick, left kick, twirl..."

I get sore shins; she loves the twirling.

"And polka for eight - da-di-da-di-da-di-daa"

Polka-ing is hard enough with a seven-year-old half your size. Throw in the two left feet, the lack of available space and me taking the man's role ... well, we collapse in giggles.

"Again! Again!" she says.

We are nowhere near the beat of the music, but try once more. More laughter, more giggles.

We stop, me panting for breath, her face nearly wet with tears.

"Alternatively," I say, "we could try head-banging."

Which is how we spend the rest of the song, waving our blonde bobbed hair madly in the air, narrowly avoiding the corner of the table, each other and the resulting concussion.

And what were we listening to? An all-time classic. Enjoy!

Pandemonium and Pottery Party Preparation

I hate birthday parties.

Now is the time of year I have to endure organising them. It causes me untold stress, and I really wish they didn't, as the children love them. My son's birthday is just before Christmas which makes it doubly difficult as I have to avoid Christmas parties and the many school events that occur in the run up to the holidays.

Nevertheless, yesterday was Daughter's 7th birthday party. She had been looking forward to it all week: a party at a pottery place.

Here is what I organised:

- the venue

- the invitations

- the items the girls were going to paint

- the food to eat

- the plates etc. to eat the food from

- the party bags

- the cake - both making and decorating

I know, my list is very similar to every other mother's list. And I wish it didn't get me so anxious, but I would like everything to be perfect and I want all the children to be well-behaved and I don't want to run out of food or bags or cake or whatever. The Cake dominated Saturday's preparation, firstly as I realised I didn't have enough eggs to cook it. Then concern when, after 37 minutes in the oven it was still soggy in the middle. Then making butter icing that was nearly solid and virtually unspreadable. Then decorating with enough pink things to make it attractive for a dozen girls, including writing her name on it with the icing pens my son had kindly bought (with my money but without my permission) when I have never written with icing before. Then ensuring no-one ate it for 24 hours...

Here is what my daughter did:

- turned up and enjoyed herself

Yeah, I know! How inconsiderate! All the hard work from Mum and not so much as a thank you! Friends arrive, she grabs their presents and then sits down to the hard work of painting her model teddy bear. She leaps at the chance to go on the miniature railway (whilst I set out all the food) and then eats. She blows out the candles. She says goodbye to all her friends. She laughs and smiles the whole way through.

She gets home, opens all the presents and then snuggles up with Mum on the sofa.

Ah, yes: that bit was precious. An exhausted daughter, worn out by the excitement and the joy, just enjoying being quiet with me for a little while.

And that, really, is what makes it all worthwhile.

Job prospects

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" I asked my daughter at lunch today.

"A mummy," she says.

"You can't be a mummy," her brother complains. "That's not a job." [Wry smile from me, here.]

"Would you like to be a teacher?" I ask.

"No."

"Maybe a nurse, or a doctor like Daddy?"

"No, that's a boy's job. I don't want a boy job. I'm a girl."

"Doctors can be girls too," my son shouts back at her. Patience and tolerance are low in his list of skills at present - equality and justice are clearly higher! I do wonder where they get these sexist ideas for jobs: it certainly isn't from home.

"What about being a vet?" her brother continues. "Boys and girls can be vets."

"No, that's a boy job. I don't want to be a vet."

Volume levels are rising, and the distinction between boy and girl jobs is not one I wish to promote nor pursue. "So, is there anything else you want to be?" I ask gently.

"No. I want to be a mummy."

So that's that.

Does that mean I have to be a granny?

Autumnal mornings

'tis the season of mists ...

(to husband)

"Don't you have an appointment at the doctor's this morning? What time is it?"

"I haven't seen anything lying around."

"Is it in the pile in the hallway?"

"Bedroom floor?"

"Desk?"

"They might have sent a message to your mobile."

"Perhaps best calling to find out ..."

"Oh, at 8.30? Better get going then."

... and mellow ...

(Shout up stairs)

"Come on, boy! You've got to go in 5 minutes!"

(Two minutes later, thankfully downstairs)

"I know you say you hate choir, but you are still going."

"Eat up! There isn't time for chatting!"

"Why haven't you got your shoes on?"

"Have you got everything? Music? Book? Spellings? Pack lunch? Games kit?"

(To daughter)

"Get your coat on. No, don't worry about the doll."

"No, you can't take your bracelet."

"Yes, it is pretty but the headmaster will be very cross with you."

"You can play when you get home. Right now, you have to go to school."

"What do you mean, you can't find your jumper?"

...fruitfulness

Time for a cup of tea...

With apologies to John Keats, To Autumn, 1820:

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.