And so winter is finally upon us in London. Like most good Madras-vaasis, I reach for the monkey cap and sweater vest the minute the thermometre dips below 20 and look forward to spending the next six months covering various sins (cancelled waxing appointments) with a big old coat.
However, unlike previous winters spent commuting to work, freelancing from home (ie watching reruns of Murder She Wrote and eating Betty Crocker chocolate icing straight from the jar) and being pregnant (ditto as previous parenthesis but you can add toast buttered on both sides to this list) this winter, I have a child to keep me company. Or rather, a small child for me to entertain and pander to.
After a summer spent at the park, in paddling pools and generally running around the garden bare of chest and foot, my 17-month old boy doesn’t seem to realise that the months between November and March are meant for quiet indoor contemplation and eating chocolate and cheese. He is under the erroneous impression that human beings still go out on such dire days and interact with others of their tribe.
So what is a mother of a toddler to do in these cold months? Certainly, not what I did.
Last week in an attempt to keep my son occupied I went to our
local Early Learning Centre and purchased craft paper, play doh and enough paint to fill the National Gallery with his very bad art work. This was a bad idea.
Firstly, because my son cannot really make anything himself (all the art work at his nursery that bear his name were no doubt made by his key worker). Secondly, I actually have to sit down and engage in these activities with him. This shot to bits my original idea of handing him a tub of play doh and myself a tub of Ben and Jerry and zoning out to Maury.
My son refused to play ball with that concept and insisted on trying to eat the red play doh or smear it in his hair. I should have let him because it would have come out the other end at some point in time, while the play doh festooned in his hair had to be cut out. I should have learned from this and put the paint away.
But the eternal optimist within was sure that my son was the next Picasso if not the next Henry Moore. But his idea of painting included unscrewing the cap of each paint pen, shaking it vigorously and then hurling it across the room so that I might retrieve it for him. After spending an hour pushing aside the sofa, crawling beneath the dining table and behind the DVD stand, I gave up. And thankfully my son did too.
The paint and play doh have been put away but not without leaving their tell tale marks around the apartment’s wall and floors. And my face.
Children should be left to beat against the front door crying to be let out instead of having art and craft activities thrust upon them. I now know that. Though I must admit his few attempts to put pen to paper did have an air of early Cezanne about them.
(This appeared <a href="“>here)
There are days I just pass by the post box and don’t bother looking in. All that’s in there I tell myself is another insurance flyer, phone bill or something for the man who lives down the driveway. Nothing interesting for me in there. But after I hit publish on the last post, I went and checked on the boot, who was still sleeping and said ‘I need to get out of the house’ and so I went to the front door, climbed up the one set of stairs to the post box and looked in, expecting to find nothing. Or something boring. instead I found this.
K, I don’t know if you’re reading this, but THANK YOU. I didn’t open it at first. I just sat there and stared at it and marveled at it. Post. Real post. Not a bill. Not a magazine. Not a take away menu. But a real letter. So I just savoured it, in it’s envelope, with all its stamps on. And then I opened it and read a lovely letter from one of my most favourite people ever. And K, if you’re reading this, I took your advice. And took the time to comb my hair. Thanks. I will be replying very soon.
and i’m discovering new ways to ignore the weather outside…
leafing through my cookbooks and imagining all the wonderful food i’d be making if i could actually progress to the next step involved in the whole process… i.e getting in to the kitchen
looking at the very lovely and rather expensive toys here and wanting them for myself
I’ve also started reading Wolf Hall… which I only because Waterstone was selling it at £8.99 and I had just seen Anne of a Thousand Days
Sesame Street turns 40 and I’ve been watching some great Youtube clips from the show. My favourite character was the Swedish chef. here he is cooking lobster. for a every long time that’s what i thought swedish sounded like.
written a month ago, published now
oh well. there goes another year. I suppose I should be feeling a) nostalgic as my 20s bid me good bye 2) a sense of importance as I stand on the threshold of a new decade. but all i really feel is “why is my hair curling up at the sides all the time?” and “will i actually manage to do something of importance this year other than rearrange my sock drawer?” so go on people, you know what to do. (wish me a happy birthday and tell me how wonderful i am for those of you who don’t)
(warning: some of these stories are depressing)
There are days when I think that I would enjoy being a mother more if I saw less of my son. I realise how terrible that sounds as I read it back to myself. But it’s how I feel. There I days I think, if I went to work and could get away from it all for so many hours a day when I came home in the evening I will be more patient and loving with my son. Then there are days when I think, this is it. he is only ever going to be at this cute, cuddly, annoying, irritating and interesting stage of his life once. And if I went to work I would miss it all. And that I should embrace and enjoy staying at home with him. And then he throws a plate of sambar rice on the floor and I’m back browsing job search and boarding school sites. But I realise I’m lucky in that I have the luxury of choosing what I wish to do. That if tomorrow I wanted to return to full time work I would have the support of my husband in making that work. But a lot of people don’t have that choice. Not every one’s jobs will cover child care costs. And some people can’t afford to not work. Read these two stories at the Motherlode blog and you’ll see what I’m talking about. Regarding the first story I do have some questions/thoughts about the situation, but the bottom line is that that shouldn’t have to happen to any child.
Also on the motherlode blog (which I love reading) is the story of Anita Tedaldi who have away her adopted son. Now I’m torn between feeling terribly sorry for this woman, her adopted son, her other children (how did she explain to them that their brother was no longer going to live with them) and also a bit puzzled as to why she would want to adopt a child when she had five of her own kids and an army husband away on a tour of duty. Noble and wonderful as her intentions may have been five kids is a handful in itself,why would you want one more?
I don’t know if any of this post makes sense or even what it is I want to say. It’s hard when to think straight when a 16 month old is biting your elbow and drawing on a peach with a permanent marker. Oh well.
(Apologies in advance for typos etc. Please don’t point them out to me. I know they are there.)
Does your son refuse to eat everything orange? Does your daughter have a conniption if the peas on her plate touch one another? Are your kids getting by on a diet that consists of cheese, crackers and little else? Is there anything worse in life than having a fussy eater for a child and unevenly shaped eyebrows? (If I had to choose, I’d take the fussy eater)
Perhaps there is. Presenting, ladies and gentlemen — the indiscriminate eater. Now I know that all children put things in their mouth, and that it is our duty as parents to snatch the
offending object out of their hands before it makes its way down their oesophagus. But sometimes you’re just too busy watching America’s Next Top Model to realise that your Ikea Allen key is making its way in to the gaping black hole that is your toddler’s trap.
Now most kids, dumb as they are, will realise once the Allen key is in their mouth, it is not a silver-coloured cheese stick. And then they will spit it out. But what does it say about your child, and more importantly about your cooking, if the apple of your eye does his best to repeatedly try and consume the dratted thing?
For instance, last weekend, we were woken up by the alarm, which you can’t throw out the bedroom door (it’s not like I haven’t tried) — our son. Being a Sunday and 6 am, I decided that I would rest along with the Good Lord and kicked my husband and son out of the room and went back to sleep.
As I settled down in to a nice dream that involved me, George Clooney and a rather large quantity of Limoncello, I heard a rattling near my head. Like any woman in the middle of a dream involving George Clooney and strong liqueur, I ignored it. The rattling went away, but then in wafted a strong, pungent smell. This, I was sure, was not a part of the dream.
I found myself staring in to my son’s eyes; they widened in surprise as his brain registered the rather peculiar taste of my Body Shop Hemp foot protector cream. Yes, you read that right. The rattling had been the sound of him opening my side table drawer, and not as I had erroneously imagined, Gerard Butler trying to pry open my bedroom window.
My immediate reaction was to of course ask George to wait, yell at my son, jump out of bed, rush him to the bathroom for a thorough mouth washing and return to my bedroom and check how much of my over priced foot cream was left. Ok. So I checked how much cream was left before I took my son to have his mouth washed, but why nitpick over small details?
You would think my son would be more grateful for having his life saved. But oh no! Instead he cried, kicked and screamed in anger. My husband said it was like watching a very small version of myself when I find out there is no more Ben & Jerry’s Chunk Monkey in the freezer.
Since then, the foot cream has been perched high up on the window ledge. My son points to it every morning and says ‘Mamm mamm’. Who wants dosas for breakfast when you can eat recreation drug-flavoured unguents? I have considered giving him some for lunch though. He was very mellow for the rest of that Sunday.
Everything about her is white. Her skin, jeans, the flash of her lace thong,the snake skin boots, the sleeveless t-shirt that revealed a milky cleavage in the front, and a white bra in the back. Even her hair was a bleached blonde that shone white in the sun. He feels a stiffening and is grateful for his long black coat. He watches fascinated as she collects her ticket and walks towards him, long limbed and elegantly clumsy. He stands up and offers her his seat. She ignores him and moves to the back where he realises there are plenty of places. Wilting, he sits back down next to his mother. Brown, dour and smelling of the kitchen sink, her bra is a non-colour, held together by safety pins and a miracle. He looks out of the window, ignoring her smirking eyes that have seen everything, hating that she knows she will have wash the sheets tomorrow.
Today I completed an 8k run. And I actually ran. All of it. That is the distance between my parent’s place in mylapore and somewhere in thiruvanmiyur and not as i had initially and naively assumed the distance between my parent’s place and kapaleeshwarar kovil. i was never very good at all that time and distance stuff in school. so. thanks to ammani for getting me to join, and running the first half k with me before she zipped off ahead and joined the real runners! it was a pretty great day. more once my thighs stop crying.
1. Is there an age limit on wearing Ugg boots?
1.a) Are Uggs i) Naff ii) Cool and snug iii) For 8 year olds
2. How much detergent powder can a child consume before his parent has to start worrying?
3. What is the appropriate way to deal with a child who insists on climbing on to the luggage display shelves at John Lewis? (This one is multiple choice)
a) Tut tut loudly and ask “Who does this child belong to?”
b) Buy a very expensive piece of luggage in an attempt to appease annoyed looking staff?
c) Make do with online shopping for the next 10 years or so.
