Hello everyone,
Thanks so much for visiting my blog. I've actually moved to Wordpress where I hope you'll see a vague improvement. There's still work to do but I'm getting there...
www.postcardsfrompramstead.com
I hope to see you there!
All the best.
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
Monday, 9 May 2011
Is it a bird? Is it a...?
"It's a plane! Bye bye plane!" are the boy's favourite words, accompanied by squeals of genuine delight, open-mouthed amazement and vigorous waving.
A while ago we looked into moving to west London so I could cut down my commute and have the luxury of getting up after the radio breakfast shows have started (much as Radio 4's Farming Today really addresses my daily crop rotation issues). We rambled around Richmond, chugged around Chiswick and tootled around Twickenham. But for all that these areas have some gorgeous areas and actual, semi-affordable houses, there was one big problem: the planes. Try as we might to ignore them, the picnic at Kew Gardens where I could only hear half of H's musings thanks to the home-bound holidayers overhead sent us scurrying back to NW3 and early starts.
No planes here! Or so I had conned myself into believing until the boy started speaking and pointing; pointing out that, in fact, we do live under the flight path. There are hundreds of them, all day long. The boy can hear a lone aircraft over a boiling kettle or the Hoover, looking at me with excitement for confirmation that it is indeed yet another aircraft. I sometimes wonder if he conceals a pair of binoculars in his mop of blond hair as he can spot a pinprick of a plane in the widest of skies (and clouds are inevitably a source of some disappointment).
I bought him the sweetest airplane mobile the other day which he adores (and makes bedtime marginally less traumatic -bonus!), fueling his obsession yet further. But as a car-free household that struggles up the hill each week with the recycling, buys local/fairtrade/organic/whatever and is a mere 10 year wait away from being owners of our very own allotment, I'm not sure how we've produced a16 month old that would vote for a third runway at Heathrow...
Sunday, 8 May 2011
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
Four Easters
If you've ever seen the film 'Four Christmases', you'll have a vague idea of how my Easter panned out. Now I'm no Reese Witherspoon and H is no Vince Vaughn (thank God), but their frantic attempt to get around all four sets of divorced parents to celebrate the holiday is grimly familiar. H and I were both born to entirely incompatible couples who, in their own good time, saw the error of their ways and parted company.
They've all now found the yin to their yang and have remarried (some more than once, but we'll gloss over that). When we were younger, the emotional upheaval was more than made up for with double the presents on birthdays and at Christmas, extra pocket money and other guilt-induced treats. Now, however, it's just an administrative nightmare. I'll leave you to imagine the logistics of the top table at our wedding; it was so long that it may have spanned different time zones (a sure-fire way to keep any potentially warring factions apart, at least).
Once we were married I had to face the fact that I could no longer just enjoy Christmas and Easter with my own (two sets of) parents but had to join H's (two sets of) parents to celebrate with them as well. It was bad enough when it was just the two of us enduring the lonely drive up the A1 on Christmas day, but with a baby it's so much worse. For a start, Little Boy has increased our popularity tenfold; he is most definitely the star of the show and everyone wants a piece of him. He's the first grandchild, so I get it, but I can think of better ways of spending our bank holidays than criss-crossing the north of England with nursery rhymes on loop. There are times when I think it would be rather nice to just hole up somewhere cosy and receive guests like a monarch of some sort. That said, we had a lovely Easter. It's almost always worth the effort and at least we don't have to worry about cooking. And we drove home with double the amount of Easter eggs than we should have. Some things never change.
They've all now found the yin to their yang and have remarried (some more than once, but we'll gloss over that). When we were younger, the emotional upheaval was more than made up for with double the presents on birthdays and at Christmas, extra pocket money and other guilt-induced treats. Now, however, it's just an administrative nightmare. I'll leave you to imagine the logistics of the top table at our wedding; it was so long that it may have spanned different time zones (a sure-fire way to keep any potentially warring factions apart, at least).
Once we were married I had to face the fact that I could no longer just enjoy Christmas and Easter with my own (two sets of) parents but had to join H's (two sets of) parents to celebrate with them as well. It was bad enough when it was just the two of us enduring the lonely drive up the A1 on Christmas day, but with a baby it's so much worse. For a start, Little Boy has increased our popularity tenfold; he is most definitely the star of the show and everyone wants a piece of him. He's the first grandchild, so I get it, but I can think of better ways of spending our bank holidays than criss-crossing the north of England with nursery rhymes on loop. There are times when I think it would be rather nice to just hole up somewhere cosy and receive guests like a monarch of some sort. That said, we had a lovely Easter. It's almost always worth the effort and at least we don't have to worry about cooking. And we drove home with double the amount of Easter eggs than we should have. Some things never change.
Sunday, 24 April 2011
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Happy birthday to me!
Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday dear...Well, you get the idea. Another year older and still none the wiser. My boys did a very good job at distracting me from thinking about the extra candle on the cake (or in my case, almond croissant), helped hugely by the beautiful sunshine we had today. It started well with a splendid breakfast with a huge pot of Yorkshire tea and some lovely presents, followed rather too quickly by a delicious lunch at Marine Ices in Chalk Farm. The little boy did us the courtesy of falling asleep so we could enjoy a large glass of wine and far too much pizza in peace.
The rest of the day would have been a suitable birthday treat for a five-year-old: an impromptu trip to the zoo and ice cream. Still, I couldn't have had more fun if I'd tried. Watching the little one blow kisses to the llamas and wave furiously at the giraffes filled my heart with joy. I'm sure the days of long boozy birthdays in the pub will roll around again one day, but for now this is my idea of a happy birthday.
So here's what I've learnt this year:
The rest of the day would have been a suitable birthday treat for a five-year-old: an impromptu trip to the zoo and ice cream. Still, I couldn't have had more fun if I'd tried. Watching the little one blow kisses to the llamas and wave furiously at the giraffes filled my heart with joy. I'm sure the days of long boozy birthdays in the pub will roll around again one day, but for now this is my idea of a happy birthday.
So here's what I've learnt this year:
- If your baby is under six months and you're not breastfeeding, don't tell anyone. They will only judge.
- If your baby is over six months and you are breastfeeding, don't tell anyone. They will only judge.
- Whatever it is, it's only a phase. It will pass.
- All babies will sleep through the night. Eventually.
- "They" have a lot to say about how you should bring up your baby and live your life (I'm looking at you, Gina Ford). "They" are more often than not entirely wrong.
- The best beauty treatment in the world is sleep, and lots of it.
- Your baby will still love you whether you choose a nanny, a nursery, a childminder or you brave all the childcare yourself.
- There is nothing in the world as wonderful as your baby's dance of utter joy when you enter the room.
- How to keep the in-laws happy (also known as 'how to please the unpleaseable').
- How to strike the right balance between work and family and not feel constantly guilty. This one is going to run and run...
Friday, 15 April 2011
'Contracts for crawlers!'
So H comes home the other day proudly brandishing a flyer advertising classical concerts for babies. It's held somewhere in our 'hood, on a Wednesday (when I happen to be off work), and costs ten pounds. Ten pounds!
"So are you going to take him then?", he asks.
"No way - it's far too expensive".
"Ah, but you can't put a price on culture".
"Yes you can', I replied, "and it's under a tenner".
Oh how times have changed. This time last year I would have jumped at the chance, shifting playdates and coffee mornings to shoehorn in yet another class. At one point we did swimming (a disaster every time because like any normal human being he wasn't keen on being submerged incessantly); baby massage, which he loved as he had a major crush on the teacher; Gymboree, for our sins, though I detest its enforced jollity and not-very-subliminal advertising ("Where's Gymbo everybody? That's right, he's in the shop and retails at a very reasonable £19.99!"; Mini Mozart and Monkey Music. Looking at it now, this explains a lot about the state of my bank account and the lines on my face.
A new toy shop has opened up the road, called 100 Acres, which I've so far managed to resist going into. I have perused the list of classes it holds, however, and was amused to see baby Mandarin. I mean, seriously? Mine can barely speak English yet, so I think I'll hold off for now.
One of the best classes we did was the low-key, low-tech Mini Mozart which was held in the dusty old Quaker meeting house. The babies would be mesmerised by the teacher singing beautifully, playing the violin or showing them how a clarinet works. It was fabulous and great for the boy to learn that some people have lovely singing voices (just not his mother, try as I might).
Fair play to the people who run these classes; if I could sing or had followed through with learning the flute rather than getting distracted by boys during my teenage years, I'd be tempted to set one up myself. As my talents are limited to drafting contracts, I think my options are limited. But maybe the pushy mothers would approve of a little light legal training at an early age. Watch out: 'Contracts for Crawlers' and 'Terms and Conditions for Toddlers' - coming to a community centre near you!
"So are you going to take him then?", he asks.
"No way - it's far too expensive".
"Ah, but you can't put a price on culture".
"Yes you can', I replied, "and it's under a tenner".
Oh how times have changed. This time last year I would have jumped at the chance, shifting playdates and coffee mornings to shoehorn in yet another class. At one point we did swimming (a disaster every time because like any normal human being he wasn't keen on being submerged incessantly); baby massage, which he loved as he had a major crush on the teacher; Gymboree, for our sins, though I detest its enforced jollity and not-very-subliminal advertising ("Where's Gymbo everybody? That's right, he's in the shop and retails at a very reasonable £19.99!"; Mini Mozart and Monkey Music. Looking at it now, this explains a lot about the state of my bank account and the lines on my face.
A new toy shop has opened up the road, called 100 Acres, which I've so far managed to resist going into. I have perused the list of classes it holds, however, and was amused to see baby Mandarin. I mean, seriously? Mine can barely speak English yet, so I think I'll hold off for now.
One of the best classes we did was the low-key, low-tech Mini Mozart which was held in the dusty old Quaker meeting house. The babies would be mesmerised by the teacher singing beautifully, playing the violin or showing them how a clarinet works. It was fabulous and great for the boy to learn that some people have lovely singing voices (just not his mother, try as I might).
Fair play to the people who run these classes; if I could sing or had followed through with learning the flute rather than getting distracted by boys during my teenage years, I'd be tempted to set one up myself. As my talents are limited to drafting contracts, I think my options are limited. But maybe the pushy mothers would approve of a little light legal training at an early age. Watch out: 'Contracts for Crawlers' and 'Terms and Conditions for Toddlers' - coming to a community centre near you!
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