Hooly

Withenay's Wednesday Word - a series about words and their meanings. 
Sometimes the word is chosen because I like it, sometimes because it is unusual, sometimes because I have heard or read it in the previous week; often because that is just where the dictionary took me. Together we can expand our vocabulary, inch by inch (or maybe letter by letter). Your challenge is to invent a sentence in the comments box that includes it.


hooly
softly, carefully (an adverb)
Scottish, perhaps from Old Norse hofliga fitly or hogliga gently

Thirteen years ago we went on holiday with a group of friends to the Isle of Mull. It was a lovely break, staying in a big old house, chopping wood for fires and spending time with some wonderful people. We spent Easter Day on Iona, an amazing experience, with two memories that stand out: a cross made from daffodils, and the clarity of turquoise blue sea all round.

Colour in that part of the world must be particularly vivid, for the main town of Tobermory sparkles in a rainbow crescent of colour, stretching out around the bay. All the houses are painted different colours, which makes it the perfect image for a cheerful postcard home. It also inspired the children's TV series: Balamory. Little did I know when I gazed at this beautiful scene that I would be watching it for years to come with two small children!

Which brings me, slowly, to hooly. A typical episode started with the nursery teacher opening the doors, asking about the weather and, "What's the story in Balamory?" The teacher was Miss Hoolie. I had always assumed her name was just a Scots surname that the ingenious writer thought sounded good and was easy for a young child to say. Yet, when I came upon this word in the dictionary I thought how apt the definition was for a young nursery school teacher: softly, carefully. I might only have added 'cheerfully'!

For completeness, I have to also glance up at hooley: a boisterous party (Irish). Perhaps that was what the children at the Balamory Nursery thought of it!

Cookies

The other day I baked choc chip cookies - anything to take my mind off what I ought to be doing!

The recipe always makes a huge batch, depending slightly on how big I make them. Nevertheless, here are the cookies that went in the tin:

... and here are the cookies that I told my children we had:

Ah! The joys of being a parent!

Little known fact

It is impossible to appreciate Sinead O'Connor singing Nothing compares to you whilst you are driving if your children are in the back of the car singing a medley of Bring me sunshine and Always look on the bright side of life (words amended to: always look on the bright side of sleep, with appropriate sound effect) at the top of their voices.

End of public service announcement.

A new addition to the family

As with most things, I give in to my children.

For ages they have been wanting a sibling (one wants a brother, the other wants a sister!) They also nag me endlessly about iPad, iPod Touch, iPhone, Kinnect and other technologies. So far, I have resisted. (Well, a combination of me, my sanity and my bank balance, depending on which option you choose!) In practice, I have given in to this:

Welcome Poppy!

Two days in and she is very much part of our family, although I haven't a clue what I am doing most of the time! She is, evidently, gorgeous and so it is easy to give in to her. At nearly 4 months she is quite old for coming to a new house but that also means that she is further on in her training than other puppies are. She is an all-consuming distraction from what I'm supposed to be doing - be it writing or children or meetings or whatever. She has slept well since arriving (two nights!) but really wants a lot more attention in the mornings than I am able to give her. And our adventure to walk to the post box yesterday only got as far as the neighbours' gate!

The name caused much debate. My husband and I wanted 'Pepper' but - as you can tell - we gave in to our children's preference. Surely taking ownership like this means they'll be delighted to walk her as she gets older. No? Me still?

You know you are getting old when...

... you find a piece of tooth in your mouth when eating nothing more innocuous than a cheese-and-marmalade sandwich, and then your dentist says, 'teeth become brittle after the age of 35...'

... when watching a Yorkshire cricket match you note that the first match recorded in your scorebook featured the fathers of two of the current players (Bairstow and Sidebottom, in case you're interested; Yorks v Kent 1979...)

... your son comments on how your shoes are old-fashioned ...

... you remember Now that's what I call music (number free; the first) being released and your children (with Now 78) are confused as they thought one came out every year ...

... the gentleman opposite on the train asks if the two young children you are with (my nephew and niece, taking them home) are your grandchildren...

*reaching for my zimmer-frame*

Writing Wednesday: World Book Day

Tomorrow is World Book Day, which (in our house) means creating amazing outfits without (a) going to any expense and (b) using up too much time. This year I am to create a butterfly and a leopard, in line with their respective school themes of Rainforests and Africa.

I love the fact there is a day to celebrate books. After all, they form so much of our history and our education. They enlighten and inspire. They make us weep and whoop! Even more so for children. They can be so caught up in a story, faces lit up by the suspense of the simplest tale. So celebrating World Book Day at school has to be encouraged as a way for them to make the paper and words real to them.

My only headache is that this involves costume work for me! I am, by nature, lazy, so enjoy the routine of school uniform (no decisions every morning, although mild panic when I look at the ironing pile). Of course, the children partly love World Book Day for exactly the reason I don't: they throw off the uniform and dress up.

The school try to make it simple. "Just joggers, a T-shirt and a made-up face is fine." And who makes up the face? I'm even less of a painter than a seamstress!

Wish me luck for tomorrow. We'll all be up at the crack of dawn, getting more and more wound up before school starts. One yellow-t-shirted leopard and one floaty butterfly, tons of face paint and two smiling faces: that's what we're aiming for.

Back to the grindstone

Half-term is over! At last!

Now I can ...

• get on with editing my writing
• read the book for my book club without interruption
• sneak a chocolate biscuit from the tin with no-one watching
• enjoy peace and quiet in the house
• not constantly be the arbiter in the sibling wars

I can also ...

• file all the paperwork that I put on hold
• pay the bills that have been building up 
• do the ironing in front of my TV choice
• have time at home to do the washing and housework
• find things where I leave them (well, roughly)

Oddly enough, I miss the pair of them. We had fun together, going shopping, playing games, having tea and toasted teacakes. They had time with their friends; they had time with their grandparents; I had a day in London with my husband (a big treat - thank you Grannie & Grampa!) 

A week off, and we've all relaxed and unwound.

Now all I've got to do this week is swimming lessons, Cubs, Brownies, band, drama, choir, playdates, homework, birthday party presents and get two outfits sorted for World Book Day.

Back to normal then ...

Tea at our house

Why is 5.30-6pm the busiest time in our house?

It starts with, "Mum, I'm hungry!"

No - I lie - it is never so polite. It's more like:

"Mu-um ... I'm staarrrving!" (with added whine and moan factor).

Although my favourite bit is when this is followed by my daughter saying, "My tummy's rumberling."

So, clearly, at this point I have to put my vague thoughts about what we are going to eat into practice. Yesterday I was running a little late, due to the electricians messing around with the power all afternoon, so went for quick-and-easy oven chips, veg and the leftover roast beef.

No sooner had I put the chips in the oven when there was a knock on the front door. To my surprise it was a friend from my writing group, wanting to know if I'd recommend my builders. She didn't know it was my house but had been watching its progress over the last few months. (She and half the village, I am picking up. Someone told me they thought it was being made into an old people's home. How disappointing my screaming children will seem!) Clearly she also hasn't read this blog post, or she'd never have asked. Anyway, she came in and we chatted and I learnt about her house with marble floors and meeting Saddam Hussain and other things that really stop you thinking about cooking dinner.

Until, of course, you hear the whine from the children again. "Mummy - my tummy's rumberling."

Hopefully not too rudely I encouraged my friend out of the front door and rushed back to put the food onto plates. Cold beef first ... then the phone rings. It is my husband checking when he's supposed to be home so I can go to a meeting. Seven o'clock. Yes, stop work now and get a move on!

I return to the table to dish up the vegetables - only for the mobile to ring. My friend is dropping something off before going to the aforementioned meeting - is that ok? Yes, yes... any time is fine. (Obviously apart from right now. There are tummies rumberling.)

With some manic screaming from me, the children drag themselves away from the television (even rumbly tums are less important than Pokemon) and we settle to eat the now somewhat cool food.

Then all I have to deal with is both children talking at the same time, to and across each other and me: a constant barrage of noise. There's no such thing as a quiet tea at our house.

A room with a view

At long last, we clear enough room to put the dining table with four legs on the ground. We still can't access the chairs all around it, but there is a row of three crammed between the table and the wall, more like a bench than a seating arrangement. The room is madness: filled with boxes and furniture that has not yet been taken to the right room. As the builders are still in and out of the house I have designated the utility as a space for them to leave boots and equipment and spare parts, so all the washing is hung on the other side of the table. Anywhere else and it would be filthy in seconds: here I feel I have some level of control.

There is a rare moment of wakefulness in the morning and my daughter lays the table for breakfast. She places three bowls in a row, and insists that Mummy sits next to her. My son sits on the other side, a cosy threesome in the chill morning air (we can't yet shut the window properly).

"Isn't this lovely," I say, "all three of us together."

My daughter giggles. She's delighted, cuddling up to me. There is more reluctance from my son.

"Yeah," he grunts, "and looking at Dad's underpants."

Must, must, must find alternative space for drying clothes...

Summer holiday fun

Am I a peculiar mother, given I dread the summer holidays?

I am blessed by only having a shade over 5 weeks in which to entertain my children, but still the thought of it stretching out in front of me fills me with dread.

Five weeks! What to do? What to do?

I have spent too many of them moving house, of course. Last year we moved in the summer half-term, but the previous two summers had been spent moving house. And this year we move back into our refurbished house (woo hoo!!) So perhaps that is much of the dread. After all, young children and packing boxes and chaos is not a good mix. They get fed up, bored, frustrated and I get nothing done.

This summer I had decided to take a more chilled out approach. The first week I'd get the children into some activity or childcare, whilst the house was completed, then I'd have three weeks in which to gradually move back in. We could alternative house-moving with days out (yes, the technical term is bribery) and be all settled before our late, brief holiday and term starting again.

Then this happened. Now my three weeks has vanished. I am still overseeing a house refurb and entertaining the children. Furthermore, if the build overruns any more our holiday will be threatened and my desire to be settled before term recommences looks less and less likely.

Well, I have dealt with the first problems by finding more activities for the children to attend and, believe it or not, I am sorry and a little resentful. Being 9 and 7, my children are a good age for enjoying many activities and days out, and the need for me to be around for last minute corrections and purchases for the house limits the flexibility I would like for doing such things with them. Despite the grey cloud of five weeks looming, I do love my kids and recognise this is precious time with them, time that I will never recoup.

I have no doubt we'll manage to squeeze something in other than trips to IKEA. But I am - now - looking forward to next summer when I will be in control, not the builders or removal men!

Peeow! You're dead!

"Peeow! You're dead!"

Thus rings out the merry cheer of half-term at our house... usually followed by...

"No! I'm not dead!"

"Yes you are!"

"No I'm not!"

"Yes you are. I shot you."

"No, I shot you first."

"Peeow! You're dead! Got you this time!"

"But you were already dead so you can't shoot me."

The conversation carries on like this until their mother is on the verge of madness and cries out for them to stop.

Not that their parents are immune to being shot. Their father, however, usually responds along the lines of:

"You didn't shoot me. In that millisecond that you shot, I super-laser-zapped my head and it split in two down the middle, your shot missed and then my head stuck back together again."

...or...

"You couldn't see it but I time-travelled for a short while, so I wasn't here when the shot was fired and so can't have been killed."

My reaction? Usually:

"I'm dead? Oh."

And then I get on with clearing the dishes, hoovering the floor, putting the washing out ... well, life really.

The Dream Challenge

At some stage a year or so ago my son couldn't get to sleep so wanted something to dream about. I gave him some suggestions. "How about giraffes and elephants and lions?"

The next night I volunteered a few more.

The following night he asked for some ideas again.

And the next. And the next. And the ... well, you get the idea.

It is hard to come up with three original ideas every night. And, believe me, I get complaints when I repeat topics.

My son is bad enough. Now it is even harder: my daughter has decided that she too needs dream ideas. Three. Each night.

It would be lovely if I could repeat the same three, but daughter likes fairies and princesses and son likes rockets and dinosaurs. (Another path that has never run straight is having non-stereotypical boy/girl splits, for reasons that completely elude me.) Six dream topics, every night. No wonder I delight when my husband is home from work in time to put them to bed: it may be a rarity, but it gives me a break from the dream challenge!

So, anyone got any ideas I can use?

Picture credit: Dr Richard Ferber, Children's Hospital Boston   http://web1.tch.harvard.edu/dream/dream_fall06/sweet_dreams.html

The effect of disciplining children

Happy New Year!

The children are back at school (despite the snow today) and I have the chance to return to the computer, to the blog, and to the enormous pile of ironing...

I love this time of the year, when we actually get a week at home to spend time together as a family. We had no anxieties about travelling anywhere - choosing to walk around the village in the snow rather than drive and having The Oldies visiting us for Christmas itself. The four of us had a lovely time together: playing games, reading books, watching Mary Poppins, being beaten by son at Mario Cart Wii.

We all eat together, which I think is one of the most important things a family can do. We sit at the table and talk. And (as I push the boat out) usually have dessert (I assume Christmas Cake counts in this category). It also gives us, the nasty, horrid parents, the chance to discipline our children. This year, we tried to emphasise the use of the word please.

Why is it so difficult? We have been harping on about its use for the last eight years!

Please can I have the milk?

Please will you stop singing at the dinner table?

Please sit with all four legs of the chair on the floor.

The children both struggled badly. My husband and I gave out silent screams of frustration.

But something must have sunk in. One day last week we were getting ready to go out for a walk. Like using the 'P' word, this is something the children object to (until they are actually out in the fresh air, when they love running around and throwing snowballs and clambering over tree stumps). For a good ten minutes before we leave there was whining, whinging and moaning.

"Mu-um, do we have to go?"

"Yes!"

"Mu-um, I'm too hot, I don't want to wear my coat."

"It'll be freezing outside. Put it back on, love. And your wellies."

Then, of course, there was the sibling rivalry. The arguments ("That's mine!") were unending ("She stood on my toe!"... "Well, he hit me!" ... "But it was an accident!")

I stood in the hallway and raised my head to heaven.

"God, give me strength!"

"Please!" my son pipes up. "You forgot to say please..."

Going for a song

We are in the middle of a whirl of Christmas shows - as are most parents at the moment, no doubt. I am the proud mother of a Townsperson and a Robin (two separate productions, neither with significant parts were they to drop down with the dreaded lurgy in the next 24 hours).

So, last night, my husband and I had a 'night out at the theatre' - i.e. Aladdin by Key Stage 2 (why have we dropped Infants & Juniors?) It was excellent: truly, I have to say that. It went without a hitch and to manage to organise about 150 children to be on and off stage at the right times is an amazing feat. Someone had painted a beautiful backdrop, the costumes were fantastic and I could hear every word.

It was a musical and I have to admire all the children who took major parts and sang solos. It is terrifying to stand in front of parents anyway - to do that and sing is marvellous. And no-one bottled out. And some of the notes were very high. But .... (and you knew a but was coming!) some of it was remarkably out of tune.

Now, I cannot criticise the children at all: they were doing really well. But it did set me to wondering whether or not I could sing at that age. Even my tone-deaf husband questioned the singing, and what his abilities were at that age.

My school had a choir. We were trained in classic choir songs, singing descants for the carol service and in harmonious parts. The spring term brought 'The Opera': a musical for the choir to perform. There were some solo parts and some spoken parts but the majority was choral. We did Joseph one year, Treasure Island another, I recall watching The Mikado once. I think we could sing. I know that in my final year at school we won a county choir competition and that later my sister's year recorded an album and were on the local news. So I suspect our choir was good, that we could sing.

I glimpsed the end of X-factor when Jedward were knocked out. I was fascinated by Danii's question: Is this a singing competition? Can any of these wannabe stars sing? I hear wobbles and moments of being out of tune. Is that nerves, or part of our current obsession with pushing for fame and stardom without having the correct training in place? Singing is a physical activity that requires controlled breathing and depth of voice comes from the correct use of one's diaphragm. Without this, untold damage to vocal chords can occur, which sadly will only become apparent at an older age.

I am no expert and strongly believe that singing adds so much to life: expressions of emotion, release of stress and outpourings of joy. So I am delighted that my children's school has a choir and the confidence to present a musical, but I just hope that their training will develop strength and depth rather than just enjoyment. And tunefulness...

And - for tonight - I hope that one particularly excitable Robin will remember all her words and actions. (See - extraordinarily proud mother comes first!)

The writing bug

This year I have been overwhelmed by moving house. The planning and organising has dominated my life: packing and unpacking boxes, trying to keep the family fed and watered, being there 100% for my children to settle in. My life - my aims and goals - have taken second place to the family chaos.

Yesterday, for the first time in ages, I sat down and thought: I want to write my book. I want to get this back into my time schedule. I want to make this space for me, for expressing myself, for being creative.

So what happens as of 3.15pm tomorrow? School holidays. Am I really likely to get a moment's peace?

Now I'm planning: take the laptop on holiday. Work out how to blog from mobile (have to confess this is highly unlikely to work!) Consider booking children into holiday camps for entire 5 weeks. (Would Grannie like them?) Insist on a couple of hours a day, uninterrupted, simply to write.

Or ... accept the reality. Enjoy the children while they are still prepared to tolerate me. Plan for a solid routine when term starts in September.

Which do you think will win?

Questions you cannot answer (2)

"Mum, is lion's wee red because they eat blood?"

Sports Day

Son had Cub Sports Day last night. His pack was competing against the other two in the village (there would have been a fourth, but they didn't turn up). It turned out that his pack were defending their victory in 2008. The trophy is enormous.

I assume (oh, terrible mother that I am) that he will succeed in sport as much as his mother did (i.e. he won't).

But before I had a chance to test this out I was approached by Arkala to score! Doesn't she know I am an accountant?

Accountants don't do numbers. Nor do Maths graduates. I am an utter failure with numbers.

There wasn't even a calculator available.

At least I got a seat.

Of course, all the mental brain exercise didn't stop me screaming like mad for my son to win every race he took part in: Three-legged race (for 8 year olds) and Obstacle race (for 9 year olds). I suppose that aged 8.5 this is permissible.

And guess what?

He won!

The strains of domesticity

I've had a week of feeling rather down: overwhelmed, I suspect, by the move and the changes. I seem to have little direction and focus in life, nor any great achievements at the end of the day. Instead I have become a domestic goddess (or perhaps slave, given my lack of enjoyment and gross incompetence) and spend my days washing, ironing and cooking. It hardly seems the best use of all my qualifications and abilities.

(But the raspberry jam is very tasty.)

So I was delighted to receive an award from Maternal Tales - a lovely blog! How good does that make me feel? Thank you so much for bringing a ray of sunshine into my life!

In my turn, I shall pass it on to Working Mum on the Verge ('cos she's fun and witty and lives near me - oh, darn, you've already got one), Gareth Bentley (simply because everyone should take this link and look at his wonderful photos of Zambia), Hadriana (who inspired me into active blogging) and Ladybird World Mother ('cos I never fail to laugh at her writing).

Today I bravely faced a local writers group. This seemed particularly foolhardy, given my current fragile state, but I was blessed with a group low on criticism and high on encouragement. I'm not sure it will help improve my book, Singing in a foreign land, very much, but it will provide a welcome respite from the cleaning and tidying for a short while once a fortnight.

I had an interesting (and quiet) weekend at home whilst my son was at cub camp. I got a chance to spend some time in the garden and hope one day to know what the plants are that I attack. (They were definitely raspberries. I think it might be an olive tree behind them.) Unfortunately, my son was sick and had to come home early, which I have written about on my other blog here. Thankfully a day without food or excitement (except the Wimbledon Men's final) and he was right as rain for school today.

Tomorrow: I resolve to get back to the writing. Surely the ironing can wait just one more day?

You won't believe it, but ...

Yesterday my son had to have school dinner because his packed lunch fell in the fish tank.

Strange, but true.

Garden design

My daughter is making a miniature garden at school today.

She spent last week at school designing her garden. On Friday she brought home her list of what she needed to find in order to create and fulfill the design . It consisted of:

- little box for playhouse and shed

- little box for table and chairs

- flower seeds

Of course, despite a whole weekend at home, it is only on Monday morning that we do anything about this, so at some ungodly hour I am dashing around finding small boxes (how big is a miniature garden?) to provide all the hard landscaping for her masterpiece. The only horticultural bit - the flower seeds - we fail on completely: I had thought of raiding the pantry for sunflower or poppy seeds, but was a bit concerned that she actually wants these flowers to grow.

At breakfast, I'm thinking about what I can pull together for her and it strikes me that there are empty toilet rolls in the bathroom. Can these be transformed into garden shed? Probably not, but then I hit on an idea.

"Would you like a totem pole in your garden?" I ask.

Shaking her head she responds, "Because I don't have a pond."

No - I don't get it either.