I appear to be leading a charmed life. I am healthy. I am financially secure. I have a husband who adores me and I him. I have four healthy, contented, bright and beautiful children. I have a lovely home and I have a circle of close and trusted friends. And it's not just now, in my forties, that I have all this. Throughout my life nothing serious has ever gone wrong. My childhood was idyllic. I loved school. I chose my career path at 14 and then was focused on that throughout my education. I got the job I wanted and remained in it until I chose to leave. I have never suffered any relationship traumas. No one that I loved has died except in the natural course of life.
And now, am I tempting fate by brandishing my good fortune like a weapon? Will the gods look down from the skies smiling wryly and preparing to send me a thunder bolt that will smash my contentment to smithereens? That may well happen. It's statistically highly likely but when it does it will, I suspect, be nothing to do with fate. I don't believe in fate. Despite my husband's conviction that we were meant to be together and would have met no matter where life took us, I am much more realistic about how the course of people's lives pan out. Basically as far as I am concerned it is all about good decisions and good luck.
But luck is all relative. I will merrily walk under ladders so long as they look stable and I gave up counting magpies when I was a child. I am not superstitious in any way. I do not believe that I can control my luck, good or bad in any kind of supernatural manner. But I do believe that luck can be controlled and that I have controlled mine. It seems to me that some people have more luck than others for a reason and that reason is the choices that they make throughout their life.
Don't get me wrong. I can't control everything that happens to me. I had no idea when I was 16 that my future husband was sitting behind me in class. Meeting him and the other members of my form was just luck. Choosing to marry him and not anyone else some ten years later was a choice and, as it turned out, a good one. From that decision stemmed most of the things that make me happy and that I am grateful for today. I picked well.
I was trained well to make good decisions and learned at the hands of a master. My mum and dad taught me consistency, taking responsibility for my decisions and tenacity without my even being aware of it. Through them I developed my fierce sense of independence and a confidence in my own ability to make the right choice. Over the years, I have never regretted a decision or felt that I have made a mistake although there are a couple that I might approach differently with the benefit of hindsight. And I rarely change my mind which means that I remain committed to my chosen path and as a result invariably reach my destination.
It is easy, though, to make the right choices if you don't take any risks. I am cautious by nature and the path that I chose for myself has been well trodden by many others. Still, I know plenty of people who have taken a similar route and got horribly lost so perhaps there is some art to it.
I am also happy to take full credit for what I have achieved. With no faith in God or the gods generally or fate, I truly believe that the only body controlling my life is me and that I have to live with all that I have done and will go on to do. I now need to ensure that I pass what I have learned on to my children quietly and without any fuss like my parents did to me so that they can take from it what they will when they start to make life changing decisions.
Of course I am not so naive as to think that life will always be this sweet. I have stopped thinking that things are bound to go wrong and that, by the law of averages, it must be my turn by now, although that is very tempting. I also no longer allow myself to dwell on how catastrophically wrong things could go now that the anti is well and truly upped by having children. But as and when something difficult befalls me or mine I hope that I will be able to use the skills that I have developed thus far to try to navigate my way through. Of course, the only downside of my charmed life is that I have never had to deal with a crisis and so have no experience on which to draw. I would like to think that I will rise above the tumult and retain my general cool, collected and controlled manner. But really I have absolutely no inkling of how I will react or of my capacity to cope in the face of adversity.
Until then I shall just continue doing as I'm doing and hoping that the sun will continue to shine on my world for a very long time to come.
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
Sunday, 14 June 2009
TRAVELLING TOGETHER
Now that I am home from foreign climes, I have been ruminating on the pleasures and pitfalls of travelling with people other than your family. When I go away with my family I have a pretty clear idea of how it will pan out. Basically, I organise everything, pack everything, clean the house, change the sheets, arrange pet cover and cancel the milk. Then I shout at everyone in the airport, read books to children endlessly on the flight and wait not very patiently whilst we collect the hire car. Then it's over to my husband who generally navigates us, without incident, to our destination. Once there, I unpack ( swimming kit first naturally ) and organise some food and then our holiday can begin. It's generally the same as it is at home once we get established. We are noisy, busy and all get along pretty well.
But when I go away with someone else, it's a whole different world in which I have to tentatively feel my way along to make sure that I don't spoil my companion's trip.
I should point out at this juncture that my companion in Rome is a great person to travel with. We have known each other for 25 years and so have a pretty good grip on each other foibles. We have been away together several times and apart from a fairly explosive disagreement in a tent on the French Riviera concerning hostess trolleys, our holidays have been without incident and I think we have got along just fine.
That is part of the problem though. Although I think it has been fine, what do my companions think? Before I go anywhere, I always worry that I will annoy them or get on their nerves. Will we run out of things to talk about? Will we want the same kind of food at the same kind of time? Will the fact that I am rubbish after about 11 at night be an issue? Do all travellers share these concerns or is it just born of my insecurity I wonder?
Assuming that you are managing to rub along without grating on each other's nerves, then how do you decide what to do next, where to go for lunch, when to stop for coffee. If you are not careful, you can both be so easy going and laid back for fear of taking control that no decisions actually get made. " What shall we do next?" " I'm not bothered. What did you have in mind?" " Well, I'm easy really." You can see how quickly that kind of dithering can breed irritation. It can only work if one of you takes control and that can only work if you know that your buddy really doesn't mind what happens next. Otherwise you have to reach some kind of workable compromise either because you know each other well enough or because not to do so would result in both of you being miserable.
But all of these minor issues pale into insignificance if you decide to go on holiday with another family. As far as I am concerned this is a recipe for disaster. We have some very good friends with delightful offspring but I could no more share my holiday than share my children. It doesn't matter how well you get along at home, the thought of living with someone else's children makes my blood run cold. It's bad enough living with my own! Joking aside though, the issue is that everyone parents their children differently. Things that are strictly forbidden in my house may have a blind eye turned to them in theirs. Annoying little food foibles that I tolerate in my own children could drive others to distraction. And what if you feel the need to reprimand a friend's child? Will that lead to a frosty atmosphere over breakfast? My holidays are far too precious to run the risk of any of these issues spoiling it and so I decided long ago that shared summer holidays might work beautifully for others but are to be avoided by me. I am far too anti social and intolerant.
And now I have no more trips in the offing apart from our family holiday in the summer. But there are lots of places that I would like to visit so if you think you could bear to share a city break with me then just get in touch and we can see if our idiosyncrasies match!
But when I go away with someone else, it's a whole different world in which I have to tentatively feel my way along to make sure that I don't spoil my companion's trip.
I should point out at this juncture that my companion in Rome is a great person to travel with. We have known each other for 25 years and so have a pretty good grip on each other foibles. We have been away together several times and apart from a fairly explosive disagreement in a tent on the French Riviera concerning hostess trolleys, our holidays have been without incident and I think we have got along just fine.
That is part of the problem though. Although I think it has been fine, what do my companions think? Before I go anywhere, I always worry that I will annoy them or get on their nerves. Will we run out of things to talk about? Will we want the same kind of food at the same kind of time? Will the fact that I am rubbish after about 11 at night be an issue? Do all travellers share these concerns or is it just born of my insecurity I wonder?
Assuming that you are managing to rub along without grating on each other's nerves, then how do you decide what to do next, where to go for lunch, when to stop for coffee. If you are not careful, you can both be so easy going and laid back for fear of taking control that no decisions actually get made. " What shall we do next?" " I'm not bothered. What did you have in mind?" " Well, I'm easy really." You can see how quickly that kind of dithering can breed irritation. It can only work if one of you takes control and that can only work if you know that your buddy really doesn't mind what happens next. Otherwise you have to reach some kind of workable compromise either because you know each other well enough or because not to do so would result in both of you being miserable.
But all of these minor issues pale into insignificance if you decide to go on holiday with another family. As far as I am concerned this is a recipe for disaster. We have some very good friends with delightful offspring but I could no more share my holiday than share my children. It doesn't matter how well you get along at home, the thought of living with someone else's children makes my blood run cold. It's bad enough living with my own! Joking aside though, the issue is that everyone parents their children differently. Things that are strictly forbidden in my house may have a blind eye turned to them in theirs. Annoying little food foibles that I tolerate in my own children could drive others to distraction. And what if you feel the need to reprimand a friend's child? Will that lead to a frosty atmosphere over breakfast? My holidays are far too precious to run the risk of any of these issues spoiling it and so I decided long ago that shared summer holidays might work beautifully for others but are to be avoided by me. I am far too anti social and intolerant.
And now I have no more trips in the offing apart from our family holiday in the summer. But there are lots of places that I would like to visit so if you think you could bear to share a city break with me then just get in touch and we can see if our idiosyncrasies match!
Friday, 12 June 2009
ROME THEN AND NOW
Rome is not as I remembered. The last time I was there was in 1987 so there has been plenty of time for it to change. In 1987 I set out from Lincoln station with my best friend, an unfeasibly heavy rucksack and an interail ticket. The whole of Europe was spread out before us. However, in a desire not to just see the inside of railway stations for the whole of our month, we had decided to limit our travel and focus entirely on Italy. With that aim in mind, we joined the Youth Hostel Association and booked beds in all the places of interest. Rome was fourth on the list after Venice, Pisa and Florence.
We had heard from fellow travellers that Rome was a bit dodgy and that you were likely to have things stolen by gypsy children who worked in gangs across the city. We had had a near miss in Florence so we were feeling a bit vulnerable. As a result we were cautious to the point of obsession. But it seemed to us that we had good grounds. As I recall, the city was dirty and seedy with beggars on every street corner and gangs of feral children.
The Rome of 2009 is very different. Like many cities of my acquaintance, it seems to have cleaned up its act. No litter, bins and not beggars on every corner and a friendly and welcoming atmosphere so that even when we got quite badly lost on our second night we still felt safe and not scared.
Another thing that seems to have changed is Catholicism. When I was there before, Catholicism seemed to be the very essence of the city. Every second person seemed to be clutching a rosary or trying to sell one. There were lots of those little shrines that you sometimes find in holes in walls. And lots of candles. This time I saw a few nuns in various colours and a monk who wouldn't have looked out of place in The Da Vinci Code and apart from that you wouldn't have known that we were in the centre of the Catholic world. Even at the Vatican the signs weren't easy to spot. No one praying and no real candles, just electric ones with switches.
Another difference this time was that I flew in. Not nearly as romantic as pulling into the station by train and considerably cheaper than my rail ticket. Instead of carrying my kit on my bag I pulled it behind me on a little set of wheels. We did catch a train from the airport in to the city and then a tube to our hotel. We walked up the road looking for Hotel Firenze. We walked down the road. No Hotel Firenze. We rang the hotel and they told us that they were at number 106 but when we got there the hotel appeared to be called Hotel Doge. How very curious. As it turned out they were in the middle of changing its name. Might have been an idea to mention that on the web site but not to worry. We were there now.
After dumping our stuff we set off in to the mele of chic Italians and dreadfully turned out tourists. The Italian women were slim, smart and strutting about the cobbled streets on impossibly high heels. The tourists had pasty skin, bad shorts and flat footwear. We hoped that we fell somewhere between the two - clearly not Italian but not letting the Union Jack sag either. In fact, on our very last coffee stop, our trip was made by a gentleman asking us for directions and calling us Signorinas and not the more credible Signoras. So shallow and easily pleased!
Another thing to strike us was how very old everything is. The churches are full to bursting with paintings and sculpture from the 15th, 16th and 17th centuries - an embarrassment of riches. But of course the art work is a mere spring chicken compared to the Colosseum and the area around the Forum. The degree of preservation is incredible. It was so very humbling to be there and it made me feel very small and insignificant but at the same time awe struck by the buildings magnificence.
And so I passed a very agreeable four days in Rome. I was pleasantly surprised by the city and the changes that it seems to have undergone. Or could it just be that I am older and wiser? Of course, the benefits of the relaxation I enjoyed have more or less evaporated now, 24 hours later but that just means I shall have to go and explore somewhere else before too long.
We had heard from fellow travellers that Rome was a bit dodgy and that you were likely to have things stolen by gypsy children who worked in gangs across the city. We had had a near miss in Florence so we were feeling a bit vulnerable. As a result we were cautious to the point of obsession. But it seemed to us that we had good grounds. As I recall, the city was dirty and seedy with beggars on every street corner and gangs of feral children.
The Rome of 2009 is very different. Like many cities of my acquaintance, it seems to have cleaned up its act. No litter, bins and not beggars on every corner and a friendly and welcoming atmosphere so that even when we got quite badly lost on our second night we still felt safe and not scared.
Another thing that seems to have changed is Catholicism. When I was there before, Catholicism seemed to be the very essence of the city. Every second person seemed to be clutching a rosary or trying to sell one. There were lots of those little shrines that you sometimes find in holes in walls. And lots of candles. This time I saw a few nuns in various colours and a monk who wouldn't have looked out of place in The Da Vinci Code and apart from that you wouldn't have known that we were in the centre of the Catholic world. Even at the Vatican the signs weren't easy to spot. No one praying and no real candles, just electric ones with switches.
Another difference this time was that I flew in. Not nearly as romantic as pulling into the station by train and considerably cheaper than my rail ticket. Instead of carrying my kit on my bag I pulled it behind me on a little set of wheels. We did catch a train from the airport in to the city and then a tube to our hotel. We walked up the road looking for Hotel Firenze. We walked down the road. No Hotel Firenze. We rang the hotel and they told us that they were at number 106 but when we got there the hotel appeared to be called Hotel Doge. How very curious. As it turned out they were in the middle of changing its name. Might have been an idea to mention that on the web site but not to worry. We were there now.
After dumping our stuff we set off in to the mele of chic Italians and dreadfully turned out tourists. The Italian women were slim, smart and strutting about the cobbled streets on impossibly high heels. The tourists had pasty skin, bad shorts and flat footwear. We hoped that we fell somewhere between the two - clearly not Italian but not letting the Union Jack sag either. In fact, on our very last coffee stop, our trip was made by a gentleman asking us for directions and calling us Signorinas and not the more credible Signoras. So shallow and easily pleased!
Another thing to strike us was how very old everything is. The churches are full to bursting with paintings and sculpture from the 15th, 16th and 17th centuries - an embarrassment of riches. But of course the art work is a mere spring chicken compared to the Colosseum and the area around the Forum. The degree of preservation is incredible. It was so very humbling to be there and it made me feel very small and insignificant but at the same time awe struck by the buildings magnificence.
And so I passed a very agreeable four days in Rome. I was pleasantly surprised by the city and the changes that it seems to have undergone. Or could it just be that I am older and wiser? Of course, the benefits of the relaxation I enjoyed have more or less evaporated now, 24 hours later but that just means I shall have to go and explore somewhere else before too long.
Sunday, 7 June 2009
LA DOLCE VITA
Tomorrow I am going to Rome. It's a girls' trip for me and a close friend for four days and I cannot wait. I am seriously in need of some r and r and whilst I love my children dearly you can sometimes have too much of a good thing.
Before I had children, I generally managed a week a year in the sun with my girlfriends. It meant leaving my husband behind but he always took it in good spirits. But after I had the first two, I no longer felt that I could leave for a whole week and so my annual breaks were either in UK cities or at a lovely spa hotel that we found in Northumbria. By the time I had child number 4, the chances of me leaving Ilkley started to look impossibly remote and my girly weekends were reduced to the odd afternoon at the Turkish Baths in Harrogate.
Then last year my Roman mate turned 40 and invited a gang of us to accompany her to Palma. My youngest had not yet started school so the plans to cover my absence were many and varied and at various points I did begin to wonder if it was all worth the effort. It so was. Whilst I fretted for weeks beforehand about how they would all cope for four days with out me and formulated innumerable and unnecessarily complicated plans to cover every conceivable eventuality, the moment I stepped on the plane the stress and guilt left me and what was left? Well, me really. The me that I had forgotten about. The one that can sit in a cafe and enjoy a cup of coffee without fear that we are disturbing all the other customers by banging the teaspoon on the table. The me that can walk round shops, leisurely looking at all the merchandise with careful consideration rather than trying to negotiate the escalator with a buggy. The me that can finish not only a sentence but a whole conversation without interruption.
By the time I came home I was so removed from the woman that left, that I'm surprised my family recognised me. "This is something that I must make time to do," I said. "I need it. It's good for my soul." But then time passes, life picks up pace and before you know it, the family planner is too congested with activities to take time out and the guilt for even thinking about time away is suffocating.
Because that's what stops me going far more frequently - the guilt. It's not so much leaving the children. They do miss me a bit I'm sure but their lives continue pretty much along the same lines as normal. No, it's the guilt induced by the team of people that have to step in to cover my absence. For example, in order for me to take four days me time in Rome, I have had to get my husband to work short days and involve my parents and two separate friends to pick up children at various times. That's a lot of favours to call in just so that I can get away. But it will be so worth it. We haven't had a break since our family holiday last August and too much time in my house makes Imogen a dull girl. Actually, it makes her a nightmare to live with so actually my family should treat it as some kind of therapy against the rigours of day to day life. And I shall return refreshed, reinvigorated and ready to face the summer term with verve and vigour.
Before I had children, I generally managed a week a year in the sun with my girlfriends. It meant leaving my husband behind but he always took it in good spirits. But after I had the first two, I no longer felt that I could leave for a whole week and so my annual breaks were either in UK cities or at a lovely spa hotel that we found in Northumbria. By the time I had child number 4, the chances of me leaving Ilkley started to look impossibly remote and my girly weekends were reduced to the odd afternoon at the Turkish Baths in Harrogate.
Then last year my Roman mate turned 40 and invited a gang of us to accompany her to Palma. My youngest had not yet started school so the plans to cover my absence were many and varied and at various points I did begin to wonder if it was all worth the effort. It so was. Whilst I fretted for weeks beforehand about how they would all cope for four days with out me and formulated innumerable and unnecessarily complicated plans to cover every conceivable eventuality, the moment I stepped on the plane the stress and guilt left me and what was left? Well, me really. The me that I had forgotten about. The one that can sit in a cafe and enjoy a cup of coffee without fear that we are disturbing all the other customers by banging the teaspoon on the table. The me that can walk round shops, leisurely looking at all the merchandise with careful consideration rather than trying to negotiate the escalator with a buggy. The me that can finish not only a sentence but a whole conversation without interruption.
By the time I came home I was so removed from the woman that left, that I'm surprised my family recognised me. "This is something that I must make time to do," I said. "I need it. It's good for my soul." But then time passes, life picks up pace and before you know it, the family planner is too congested with activities to take time out and the guilt for even thinking about time away is suffocating.
Because that's what stops me going far more frequently - the guilt. It's not so much leaving the children. They do miss me a bit I'm sure but their lives continue pretty much along the same lines as normal. No, it's the guilt induced by the team of people that have to step in to cover my absence. For example, in order for me to take four days me time in Rome, I have had to get my husband to work short days and involve my parents and two separate friends to pick up children at various times. That's a lot of favours to call in just so that I can get away. But it will be so worth it. We haven't had a break since our family holiday last August and too much time in my house makes Imogen a dull girl. Actually, it makes her a nightmare to live with so actually my family should treat it as some kind of therapy against the rigours of day to day life. And I shall return refreshed, reinvigorated and ready to face the summer term with verve and vigour.
Friday, 5 June 2009
THE GOLDEN CHILD
Do parents favour one child over the others? If so, is it a subconscious act or would any parents admit to having a favourite?
I have three daughters and a son and I can honestly say that they all delight and irritate me in equal measure. But I suspect that if you were to ask them who got the most lenient treatment and they were guaranteed anonymity, they would all say my son. Including him. And I fear that they might be right.
When I was growing up there was only my brother and me. My mum was almost evangelical about us being treated even-handedly. If one of us was bought something, then so was the other one. If one of us was afforded an opportunity to try something new then the other would be given a chance. There was no difference between us apart from the obvious one and probably as a result of our certain knowledge that everything was fair and seen to be fair, we were never competitive between ourselves.
But as we got older something did begin to become apparent. If there was a spare roast potato or an extra portion of crumble it would be offered to my brother. Never me, or my dad. And because he was a growing lad and never turned down an offer of food, there were never seconds for the rest of us.
And so it continued. The older we got the more apparent it became that he was the Golden Child, favoured way above me by my mum. But did I feel aggrieved? Was I badly done to and resentful? Not in the least because for every act of favouritism that my mum made to my brother, I was afforded at least similar if not better treatment from my dad. My dad bought me little treats for no particular reason. He sat for hours outside village halls in the wee small hours waiting for me to finish my disco or party. He drove like a lunatic around Lincolnshire's country lanes so that I could get from choir practise to roller skating at the Drill Hall before the end of the session.
So we both had a parent that favoured us in age old stereotypical style. Mum with her son and Dad and his little princess. And that was just how it was. But if you ask my mum to this day if she favoured my brother she would deny it. ( I haven't asked my dad but his favouritism was so blatant that I can't believe he would have the bare faced cheek to deny it!)
And so here I am with my own children. I do not have a favourite and love them all equally but I suspect I don't treat them equally. The little ones get away with things that I would have come down like a ton of bricks on the big ones for. This is partly because my ideas have altered with time and experience and also because I now pick my battles to prevent my life turning into one long conflict. So to that extent the little ones are having an easier time of it. I can't remember how the elder two behaved when they were 5 and 6 but I do recall getting as exasperated with them as I do with the little ones.
But my real concern is the treatment that my boy receives. Do I make allowances for him, as I like to believe, because he is only 5 and cannot be expected to behave like his sisters. Or is it because he is a boy? When I was pregnant many people assumed that we were having a fourth in an attempt to have a boy. This was not true. In fact, I wanted another girl. I knew about girls and had lots of girly stuff. I thought it would make having four children a bit easier. Of course, when he was born I was delighted to have a go at something new. But I really don't think I indulge him because of his sex.
Partly it's his size. He is so little in comparison with his sisters and in fact all other 5 year olds of my acquaintance. He is the only one of my children that I can still sweep up and plop on my hip with no physical effort and he seems to enjoy a cuddle as much as I do. So when we have finished eating and he weedles his way on to my knee despite my telling him to stay on his chair, I can't help but let him stay there.
He rarely does as he is asked first time. Is this because I let him get away with stuff or because he is naturally naughty or because he is 5? The girls would say that I let him get away with stuff. I do but am I spoiling him? I don't know. I can't tell.
But it's not just me. When he was younger, his sisters did everything for him and let him have whatever he wanted to stop him from crying. I had to talk to them about elementary parenting skills. Consistency. No meaning no. Firm but fair. And now I reap what I sowed. If I break my own rules they all chorus with righteous indignation that no means no.
But he is used to getting his own way. He has a cheeky smile, a wide vocabulary and is somehow very appealing. He has learned that by smiling, being endearing and adding thoughtful details in his conversation he can woo all my friends and so get away with almost anything. Even his war-weary class teacher seems charmed. I did once tell him that there would come a time when his smile would no longer work and he said that it worked now so that was ok. And is he right? Possibly.
But am I creating a monster? Should I be cracking the whip and expecting him to conduct himself differently? Will he grow up blithely ignoring me and getting away with murder because he knows I can't help myself and thus create resentment from his well behaved sisters? Time will tell. One thing I know is that I don't seem to be able to do anything differently. He is not the Golden Child. He is just young and appealing and will learn that he needs to do as he is told sometimes in order to get his own way. Or not.
I have three daughters and a son and I can honestly say that they all delight and irritate me in equal measure. But I suspect that if you were to ask them who got the most lenient treatment and they were guaranteed anonymity, they would all say my son. Including him. And I fear that they might be right.
When I was growing up there was only my brother and me. My mum was almost evangelical about us being treated even-handedly. If one of us was bought something, then so was the other one. If one of us was afforded an opportunity to try something new then the other would be given a chance. There was no difference between us apart from the obvious one and probably as a result of our certain knowledge that everything was fair and seen to be fair, we were never competitive between ourselves.
But as we got older something did begin to become apparent. If there was a spare roast potato or an extra portion of crumble it would be offered to my brother. Never me, or my dad. And because he was a growing lad and never turned down an offer of food, there were never seconds for the rest of us.
And so it continued. The older we got the more apparent it became that he was the Golden Child, favoured way above me by my mum. But did I feel aggrieved? Was I badly done to and resentful? Not in the least because for every act of favouritism that my mum made to my brother, I was afforded at least similar if not better treatment from my dad. My dad bought me little treats for no particular reason. He sat for hours outside village halls in the wee small hours waiting for me to finish my disco or party. He drove like a lunatic around Lincolnshire's country lanes so that I could get from choir practise to roller skating at the Drill Hall before the end of the session.
So we both had a parent that favoured us in age old stereotypical style. Mum with her son and Dad and his little princess. And that was just how it was. But if you ask my mum to this day if she favoured my brother she would deny it. ( I haven't asked my dad but his favouritism was so blatant that I can't believe he would have the bare faced cheek to deny it!)
And so here I am with my own children. I do not have a favourite and love them all equally but I suspect I don't treat them equally. The little ones get away with things that I would have come down like a ton of bricks on the big ones for. This is partly because my ideas have altered with time and experience and also because I now pick my battles to prevent my life turning into one long conflict. So to that extent the little ones are having an easier time of it. I can't remember how the elder two behaved when they were 5 and 6 but I do recall getting as exasperated with them as I do with the little ones.
But my real concern is the treatment that my boy receives. Do I make allowances for him, as I like to believe, because he is only 5 and cannot be expected to behave like his sisters. Or is it because he is a boy? When I was pregnant many people assumed that we were having a fourth in an attempt to have a boy. This was not true. In fact, I wanted another girl. I knew about girls and had lots of girly stuff. I thought it would make having four children a bit easier. Of course, when he was born I was delighted to have a go at something new. But I really don't think I indulge him because of his sex.
Partly it's his size. He is so little in comparison with his sisters and in fact all other 5 year olds of my acquaintance. He is the only one of my children that I can still sweep up and plop on my hip with no physical effort and he seems to enjoy a cuddle as much as I do. So when we have finished eating and he weedles his way on to my knee despite my telling him to stay on his chair, I can't help but let him stay there.
He rarely does as he is asked first time. Is this because I let him get away with stuff or because he is naturally naughty or because he is 5? The girls would say that I let him get away with stuff. I do but am I spoiling him? I don't know. I can't tell.
But it's not just me. When he was younger, his sisters did everything for him and let him have whatever he wanted to stop him from crying. I had to talk to them about elementary parenting skills. Consistency. No meaning no. Firm but fair. And now I reap what I sowed. If I break my own rules they all chorus with righteous indignation that no means no.
But he is used to getting his own way. He has a cheeky smile, a wide vocabulary and is somehow very appealing. He has learned that by smiling, being endearing and adding thoughtful details in his conversation he can woo all my friends and so get away with almost anything. Even his war-weary class teacher seems charmed. I did once tell him that there would come a time when his smile would no longer work and he said that it worked now so that was ok. And is he right? Possibly.
But am I creating a monster? Should I be cracking the whip and expecting him to conduct himself differently? Will he grow up blithely ignoring me and getting away with murder because he knows I can't help myself and thus create resentment from his well behaved sisters? Time will tell. One thing I know is that I don't seem to be able to do anything differently. He is not the Golden Child. He is just young and appealing and will learn that he needs to do as he is told sometimes in order to get his own way. Or not.
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
THE MYSTERIES OF THE BLOG
I wonder who reads my blog. I wonder if anyone reads my blog. If you read my blog please raise your hand. Bother. I can't see you.
It really is a rather strange feeling. Here I am rambling on about things that catch my interest and sometimes bearing my soul to a degree that could be considered more than is prudent especially when I have no idea who I am talking to.
Every so often someone will make a direct reference. " I read your blog and noticed..." whatever it is. So then I know that they read that posting. But most of the time I type stuff, post it and off it flies into the black hole that is the world wide web. No one ever makes any comments either. At the bottom of every posting "0 Comments".
But if I did know, would that stifle what I write? Yes. More than likely. Perhaps I should stop wondering about it. Maybe I should behave like a child who has decided that they must be adopted and that their real parents are royalty. I can pursue my own little fantasy that hundreds of people look forward to logging on or that no one reads it so I can write what I like, depending on my mood.
So, if you do read it and feel the need to reveal yourself then go for it. Or don't and I will just keep wondering.
It really is a rather strange feeling. Here I am rambling on about things that catch my interest and sometimes bearing my soul to a degree that could be considered more than is prudent especially when I have no idea who I am talking to.
Every so often someone will make a direct reference. " I read your blog and noticed..." whatever it is. So then I know that they read that posting. But most of the time I type stuff, post it and off it flies into the black hole that is the world wide web. No one ever makes any comments either. At the bottom of every posting "0 Comments".
But if I did know, would that stifle what I write? Yes. More than likely. Perhaps I should stop wondering about it. Maybe I should behave like a child who has decided that they must be adopted and that their real parents are royalty. I can pursue my own little fantasy that hundreds of people look forward to logging on or that no one reads it so I can write what I like, depending on my mood.
So, if you do read it and feel the need to reveal yourself then go for it. Or don't and I will just keep wondering.
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
STORIES OF SAILING
A friend of mine went on a sailing trip last weekend and that reminded me of a whole part of my youth that I had forgotten about. On further reflection, I wondered if those memories might support a quick trip down memory lane.
My relatively brief dalliance with boats began when my dad decided that he wanted to learn to sail. I was only little when he joined Glossop Sailing Club and took himself off to night school. I don't remember taking to the water myself at that stage (except perhaps in a double fibreglass canoe that he made in another night school class.) But I do remember spending what seemed like hours at the water's edge with my brother waiting for dad to come in. I think the dinghy was a Graduate but I may be wrong. It's about 35 years ago! We moved house and consequently sailing venue. Winsford Flash. Hardly more inspiring than Glossop scenically but we also got a slightly bigger boat - a Snipe and that together with our advancing age and swimming ability meant that we got to go out with dad more regularly.
Mucking about in little boats was one thing but my dad's best mate had a small cruiser on Lake Coniston and we often went up to spend the day with them. This was more like it. Beds, a galley, a real loo and loads of little cupboards filled with everything one might need for a day on the water. We used to tack up and down the lake, my brother and I feigning knowledge about which rope controlled what. It was great.
Whilst I, as a pre-teen, had a passing interest in most things that I was exposed to, my dad had got the bug so when his friend traded up, we bought his cruiser and secured ourselves a mooring, firstly in the unfashionable end of the lake and then right outside the clubhouse with the people that took the whole sailing thing seriously.
And once we had our boat we spent as much time as we could on it. By then we lived in Lincoln so it was a long way to go but regular weekends and most school holidays were spent on the lake. And most of the time I loved it. As is often the way, most of my memories are of long, hot summer days swimming across the lake from one side to the other or catching minnows from the jetty in jam jars filled with bread. Of course I know that it was the Lake District and so by the law of averages there must have been more wet days than sunny ones. I do remember it snowing on us fairly regularly and I still believe that your upbringing has been sheltered if you haven't weed in a bucket in the middle of the night and then had to chip the ice off it in the morning in order to throw it away!
Actually sleeping on the boat was great. I think it had six berths but would only sleep six if two of the occupants were midgets. It was just right for my parents, brother and I as long as we didn't grow much more. At the appointed hour, we all used to wriggle ourselves into our sleeping bags, my brother would make the boat rock violently by throwing himself about his berth, my mum would scream and tell him to stop and we would fall asleep with the gentle lapping of the water all around us. In the morning the water was always calm. There would be wetland birds calling and the sound of the rigging banging against the mast. As I stuck my head out of the hatch, I could usually see the mist rolling off the water and even at that age, when you often fail to appreciate these things, I could see that I was in a very privileged place. You could always smell bacon too as all the other cruiser owners came to life.
As I got older I met more of the sailing club regulars who sailed Scorpions and Fireballs each weekend come hell or highwater. Going to the boat then took on a whole different complexion. I was 15 and they were boys. Pretty soon I had got myself a lovely boyfriend who could sail the rest of them into a cocked hat and I used to sit proudly in the club house waiting for him to cross the finishing line in first place and then greet him as he came back in, blue with cold, with a big kiss. Sleeping on the boat with my parents grew less attractive and we used to camp on the nearby site and buy chips from the van and halves of lager from the bar. I was growing up.
We moved house again and by this time I was 17 and could stay at home when my parents went to the boat. We were also closer geographically and could realistically go for the day. My visits became less and less frequent and other interests and my A levels sort of took over. I didn't really go again until I took my husband a few times before we had any children. We loved it but it was summer, we didn't have to do any of the horrid bits and pretty soon we had toddlers and it all seemed a very distant dream. Shortly after that my dad sold the boat and that was sailing gone from my life. Whilst I would never describe myself as a sailor, there is something really special about the part that the lake, the club and the people that I met there played in my adolescence. Being a small part of something like that made me very proud.It taught me a whole host of outdoor skills but also played a huge part in developing my independence and my creative thinking. I look back on those days fondly. Even the day that I ran the boat aground and had get the rescue boat out. But that's another story.
My relatively brief dalliance with boats began when my dad decided that he wanted to learn to sail. I was only little when he joined Glossop Sailing Club and took himself off to night school. I don't remember taking to the water myself at that stage (except perhaps in a double fibreglass canoe that he made in another night school class.) But I do remember spending what seemed like hours at the water's edge with my brother waiting for dad to come in. I think the dinghy was a Graduate but I may be wrong. It's about 35 years ago! We moved house and consequently sailing venue. Winsford Flash. Hardly more inspiring than Glossop scenically but we also got a slightly bigger boat - a Snipe and that together with our advancing age and swimming ability meant that we got to go out with dad more regularly.
Mucking about in little boats was one thing but my dad's best mate had a small cruiser on Lake Coniston and we often went up to spend the day with them. This was more like it. Beds, a galley, a real loo and loads of little cupboards filled with everything one might need for a day on the water. We used to tack up and down the lake, my brother and I feigning knowledge about which rope controlled what. It was great.
Whilst I, as a pre-teen, had a passing interest in most things that I was exposed to, my dad had got the bug so when his friend traded up, we bought his cruiser and secured ourselves a mooring, firstly in the unfashionable end of the lake and then right outside the clubhouse with the people that took the whole sailing thing seriously.
And once we had our boat we spent as much time as we could on it. By then we lived in Lincoln so it was a long way to go but regular weekends and most school holidays were spent on the lake. And most of the time I loved it. As is often the way, most of my memories are of long, hot summer days swimming across the lake from one side to the other or catching minnows from the jetty in jam jars filled with bread. Of course I know that it was the Lake District and so by the law of averages there must have been more wet days than sunny ones. I do remember it snowing on us fairly regularly and I still believe that your upbringing has been sheltered if you haven't weed in a bucket in the middle of the night and then had to chip the ice off it in the morning in order to throw it away!
Actually sleeping on the boat was great. I think it had six berths but would only sleep six if two of the occupants were midgets. It was just right for my parents, brother and I as long as we didn't grow much more. At the appointed hour, we all used to wriggle ourselves into our sleeping bags, my brother would make the boat rock violently by throwing himself about his berth, my mum would scream and tell him to stop and we would fall asleep with the gentle lapping of the water all around us. In the morning the water was always calm. There would be wetland birds calling and the sound of the rigging banging against the mast. As I stuck my head out of the hatch, I could usually see the mist rolling off the water and even at that age, when you often fail to appreciate these things, I could see that I was in a very privileged place. You could always smell bacon too as all the other cruiser owners came to life.
As I got older I met more of the sailing club regulars who sailed Scorpions and Fireballs each weekend come hell or highwater. Going to the boat then took on a whole different complexion. I was 15 and they were boys. Pretty soon I had got myself a lovely boyfriend who could sail the rest of them into a cocked hat and I used to sit proudly in the club house waiting for him to cross the finishing line in first place and then greet him as he came back in, blue with cold, with a big kiss. Sleeping on the boat with my parents grew less attractive and we used to camp on the nearby site and buy chips from the van and halves of lager from the bar. I was growing up.
We moved house again and by this time I was 17 and could stay at home when my parents went to the boat. We were also closer geographically and could realistically go for the day. My visits became less and less frequent and other interests and my A levels sort of took over. I didn't really go again until I took my husband a few times before we had any children. We loved it but it was summer, we didn't have to do any of the horrid bits and pretty soon we had toddlers and it all seemed a very distant dream. Shortly after that my dad sold the boat and that was sailing gone from my life. Whilst I would never describe myself as a sailor, there is something really special about the part that the lake, the club and the people that I met there played in my adolescence. Being a small part of something like that made me very proud.It taught me a whole host of outdoor skills but also played a huge part in developing my independence and my creative thinking. I look back on those days fondly. Even the day that I ran the boat aground and had get the rescue boat out. But that's another story.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)