Because they're growing up too fast

tLP brought a doll to church today, a doll which was appropriated by the very delicious little boy sitting next to us, who spent the service delicately identifying the doll's various facial parts, and very sweetly playing "Round and round the garden" with the doll's hand (and then giving his mother heart failure by body-surfing the doll, which, under small child, looked far too similar to the very real baby who had been on that spot on the carpet a few minutes earlier).

tLP abandoned the doll in her quest to run around outside with church friends, so doll hitched a lift out of church and into the hall on the back of Mog's chair. To quote our esteemed service leader this morning "Tea and coffee are good, but worshipping God is better." I wonder if the worship might be better if the coffee came first? I guess the queues for the loos might be longer...

I digress.

Mog and I entered the hall, I picked up my coffee, and turned around to someone nodding at Mog and the doll perched behind her, passing comment that "You've got two babies today I see." Confused, I pointed out Mog was 11, hardly a baby, and we had a conversation, somewhat startled on his part, as he hadn't realised she was the same age as his son. Don't think he quite understood that she wasn't simply an 11 year old baby though.

She isn't. Even when she's asleep, peacefully and beautifully asleep (bar the sarcastic seizures which twitch to order whenever anyone points out how peaceful she is), she's very definitely not a baby any more.

And nor is her sister

I might still have thought of them as babies for a while

   

Because let's face it, that's adorably babylike.

And this is just silly.

But whilst she might still enjoy cuddles on my lap, and whilst she might still need certain care not dissimilar to that I might give to a baby, I know of no baby who can be as insultingly sarcastic as Miss Mog, without ever having to utter a word aloud.

Here's to the next eleven years!
Tia

Mog's memory Verse

I'm not sure how I'd feel about losing my voice. I know how frustrated I get when people hear without listening, when I am talked over or ignored, or when I have to shout before a certain little princess hears me telling her she's on my foot and needs to move her chair RIGHT NOW.

Mog's never been able to talk. Not with words she has chosen, shaped by lips and tongue, and given voice through controlled use of her vocal chords. That doesn't mean she doesn't have anything to say; it's amazing what you can convey with a yes and a no and a carefully timed kick or roll of the eyes. She's never indicated that this lack of chattability bothers her though. We've tried scanning communication devices, and she has settled for the simplicity of a yes/no response and her "talking book", an auditory scanning file which is read out by myself (or anyone nearby and literate), and which she uses her yes/no response to scan through until she finds the thing she wants to say. It's limited to what those of us who have written it think she might want to say though; and nowhere in it is there anything close to "you're a smelly poo face" - although perhaps we should add an insults page. "This is boring" only goes so far. She finds a well timed clout around the ears with her boot-clad feet works wonders though, so we've not worried too much.

But still, even though she doesn't ever complain (and she does complain about some things; this is not a question of me not allowing her the opportunity to moan. Which is, sadly, all to easy to do when she can't just shout it all out), I'm sure there are times when she must feel set aside. It can't possibly be pleasant to overhear small children tell their parents they think you are dead, apart from anything else.

But, one of the things you might get if you don't have your own voice, is a switch connected to a LittleMac, and a LittleMac, for those who don't know, is a clever little switch which can work toys, plug into switch adapted anythings, and also carry a recording. Mog usually uses hers to say "Hello" or "Oi, pay attention to me!" But it does get used to share in other things too. Record Brownie Bells and she can sing along with the others. Record the holiday club chant and she can shout with the rest of them for the whole of the following week until someone at school is finally brave enough to record over it. And, when challenged to repeat correctly the morning's memory verse, it's awesomely easy to have it absolutely one hundred percent word perfect!

Tia

Jubilee

I suppose the incessantly pouring rain is a terribly British way of celebrating the Queen's Diamond Jubilee. Probably far more traditional than the street parties which are currently being rained on (or rained off) across the nation. I'd put some clever rain/reign pun in here but I can't think of one, so please insert your own.

The Little Princess is most impressed with the idea of wearing red, white and blue, and has taken this to heart, not just for Friday's "Street Party Picnic In The Playground" at school, but as The Law for the rest of the weekend. Cue many tears when the above outfit hits the washing machine. She's also been attempting to teach us the "Why I See Eat" song; mystifying until she starts both tune and action rather than words. I believe the rest of the world may know it better as "YMCA".

Minor side note - does that shorter leg look re-dislocated to you?

Eschewing the town's street party, concert, bun throwing and other potential drowning situations today, we decided the only sensible thing to do would be to make chocolate brownies. I suppose a decent Victorian Sponge ("Jam Cake" according to tLP) might have been more patriotic, but less easily turned wheat free, in honour of a friend we're visiting tomorrow.

The cats decided to celebrate in a half-hearted way, but half-sacrificing a little brown bird. Thoughtfully, they brought it in, dripping and flapping and chirping, and encouraged it to hide under the settee. Nice. What's kinder? To leave the bird to die (noisily) under the settee, out of reach of the cats but terrified, or to shovel the bird out into the garden under a tree and keep the cats in until they've hopefully forgotten about it? Can't quite bring myself to finish what the cats have started. Am however considering going off cats. Especially as they both also seem to be perfecting the midnight dash through the catflap and onto a sleeping human face, as swiftly as possible, with as much mud and water as possible. Colour me somewhat unimpressed.

And in the meantime, I'm trying to sort out where I stand on this whole monarchy thing. Is it right that anyone gets to be in such a position purely by virtue (?) of birth? Is it right that someone gets to be the head (under God) of our established church, again by birthright? Should anyone carry the title "Defender of the Faith" when the original title holder turned his back on the pope who bestowed it, and founded a whole new church so he could have a nice divorce and marry a new wife or five? Historians, please excuse my gross oversimplifications. And, at a time when we are being constantly told there's no money and that cuts are inevitable, is it right to spend a reasonably vast sum on a giant party for one woman?

On the other hand, seeing various different voluntary groups all coming together, watching communities working with each other to coordinate big lunches, that has to be a good thing, surely? And if we had no king or queen, who would become the national figurehead? The smarmiest of ex-political leaders? The wealthiest of businessmen? The winner of the next Big Brother/Britain's Got Talent/Big Thing?

I belong to the Church of England. I don't have to; we have religious freedom here, I am free to join any church or none. But I choose to consider myself an Anglican (and a Christian; it is possible to be both!), I choose to ally myself with the established church, I choose to associate myself with all the controversies and struggles and embarrassments which are the inevitable result of layering history, faith, religion, imperfect people, theology, tradition, state, and more imperfect people into one whole sort of general mishmash of a Church. Which means, I suppose, that I get to choose to celebrate 60 years on the throne for one woman, who seems to have handled the responsibility with grace and dedication.

Times change; we might occasionally still sing All Things Bright and Beautiful, but we probably skip through the verse "The rich man in his castle/The poor man at his gate/God made them high and lowly/And order'd their estate". And I'm reasonably certain no one these days adds "Lord grant that Marshal Wade/May by thy mighty aid/Victory bring/May he sedition hush/And like a torrent rush/Rebellious Scots to crush/God save the King" to the National Anthem. Marshal Wade? And our Queen today certainly has less power of the beheading and imprisoning variety than some of her earlier ancestors. But, whilst times change, if I'm going to call myself a Christian then I should probably look to the Bible when I'm trying to work this out, and 1 Peter 2 seems to be fairly clear - Honour mankind. Respect the brotherhood of believers. Fear God, and honour the king. Or in our case, the queen.

So it seems fitting today, to set aside concerns for the future, and instead to finish this post here in Westminster Abbey where pageantry, royalty, and faith can combine to produce this:

Tia

Hello

I had a biggish post planned here. Several, actually.

An update on Mog, who has had big seizures, big sleepiness, big misery and now much giggling and happiness.

An update on the Little Princess, who is alternately finding suggestions for ways to avoid future surgery (planned for January), finding things to look forwards to about having had the op, and attempting to convince me we need four baby kittens. We don't.

An update on Grolly, who is now combining her new role of lap cat with a revival of her role of intrepid leaf-hunter. This, in Autumn, is causing damp wet tired cat to flop on my chest at every available opportunity, having previously carpeted the kitchen floor with mouldy horse chestnut leaves. These leaves are particularly attractive at five o'clock in the morning, and each one is supposed to be welcomed with much praise and adulation. It isn't.

Mildly humorous descriptions of all too brief excursions into the real world had been planned, including a promise to avoid any shop larger than Budgens for the next five weeks, and a reasonably irate rant about the placement of Christmas products combined with "new and improved" queuing systems which have now made it virtually impossible for the girls to get to the tills in most shops in town. But it was more infuriating than entertaining, and the vitriol bored me. So we'll skip that one too.

Smug "aha look at me, I've finished my Christmas shopping (or most of it) before Advent Sunday" post has been delayed due to the non-availability of certain items, the omission of certain persons from the list of people to shop for, and the sudden determination of one small child that only a particular piece of electronic gadgetry will do. It's probably just as well - it would only have been smugly irritating.

A post on the wonders of salted-pretzel-crusted chocolate chip cookie bars was stymied by the discovery that they were in fact fairly disgusting and not worth the effort of blogging about. Salted Fudge Brownies needed to be made in order to redress the balance.

There was comedy value last weekend; a friend with her own two somewhat wonky girls came to visit. And we did for a longer-than-it-should-have-been moment each have one small child screeching in bed and one less small child screaming uncontrollably across our laps. Visiting each other is such fun. Sounds like hell from the outside; from the inside, well, at least we had company. Misery shared and all that. Children irritating, and all that too.

And this weekend I'd planned something mildly edifying to do with our church's 50th Birthday. A bit of gentle grumping about a mother who would volunteer the Guides to help serve coffee then promptly disappear on holiday for a week leaving yours truly. But no need to grump really as it turns out we were only a very minor cog in the whole coffee-and-cake wheel. A comment on the Bishop's Birthday sermon, but I haven't heard it yet as I was busy putting out tablecloths and pinning balloons onto screens. A trip down memory lane; not that I've been at church for the whole fifty years, but that felt a little boring too.

I'll settle for saying, Christchurch is fifty. Young enough for the founders to be a part of the celebrations. In a building old enough to count as a "proper" Anglican church (having originally been Tithe Barn for the medieval abbey dissolved by Henry 8th). Following a God who is old enough to see the several hundred years between the building of the barn and the commissioning of the church in the blink of an eye, and young enough to relate to all of us, however old we are.
Happy Birthday, and here's to the next fifty.

And there you have a potted summary of what would I am sure have been some truly insightful posts. Alternatively, there you have just sufficient to confirm the fact a summary was the most sensible option.

I'm off to look at kittens later this week. Don't tell the Little Princess.
Tia

Sunday AllSorts

Sometimes my life seems to sum itself up into a series of Facebook Statuses (Stati?). Unrelated snapshots from the day.

Thus, this morning: Nor day nor night no carers.

Despite the lack of carer, I manage to get us mostly ready for church on time. Two of the three of us have brushed our teeth, using three of the four toothbrushes available to us. Two of the three of us have suffered to have our hair brushed, but not with our favourite hairbrush which has been left in Shropshire. Two of the three of us have had breakfast and one of the three of us has had a pint of tea. This may not be the best plan immediately before church. One of the three of us has picked up the suction pump, swung it across her shoulder, then, forgetting it is there, leaned forwards to pick up a candlestick, sending a deluge of cold and cabbagey suctioned secretions cascading down her back and into her pants. One of the three of us may never feel totally clean again, and is considering DIY dermabrasion. This same third of us is thinking that suction pumps ought to come with sealed containers. And an alert to remind carers to empty after use.

Later morning: A good service; always nice when God shows up too. I'm left wondering which Jesus I know best right now. Afterwards, a kind woman asks me how long I think it would take her to become familiar with the girls' needs, as she'd like to start babysitting for us.

Throughout the day: Tia is enjoying the King James Version Bible readings on BBC Radio 4.

Later: Tia is still enjoying the KJV readings but finding the Peppa Pig soundtrack to be a somewhat surreal accompaniment. Mog's chimes, on the other hand, add a certain "High Church" atmosphere.

Still later: Tia is hoping there will be a CD available at some point, because the readings are too rich to try to fight a losing battle with noisy children and hungry cats. And because Mog might enjoy listening herself as a change from Norah Jones one night.

And now: Tia is still feeling unclean, unclean, following the unfortunate suction encounter. Carers remain absent, and whilst Tia would be feeling smug about having managed to get both girls into bed and asleep slightly earlier than with the carers present, a brief glance around the room reveals the things Tia has not been doing in order to accomplish this.

Tomorrow, school for both girls and then a hospice trip for Mog. So now, bath with a Brillo pad or blitz the house to avoid embarrassment when tomorrow morning's carer arrives? Sadly no carer tomorrow either, so I'm guessing bath wins out,

Tia

The Illusion of Depth.

Living with children with profound disabilities can provide a short cut past the social chit chat sometimes. Forget the weather (easy to do when you haven't been outside all week), forget politics (except how they might impact on various policies and allowances), and forget the regular child stress about my child possibly not having very many friends or maybe getting a cold or whether or not to allow your teenager to pierce her ears; we're concentrating on whether this child will survive their latest illness, that child will ever be able to sit upright again, or if the other child should have surgery which might help but might kill them.

It cuts through a lot of the clutter.

So we meet friends, online or in person, for cake or for a week away. And there are smiles and laughs and tears and we swap fears and we talk about stuff which terrifies a large proportion of the population of this country. And we know that death is not a distant stranger, and somehow in talking about it, by acknowledging the reality that we probably will outlive our children, we make that truth something we can live with. And then we do talk about the general life clutter too; we dip deep and we float about in the shallows of conversation, and we make another date, and we do it all over again.

And it's refreshing, and it is so good to be with people who understand.

And it serves to hide so much.


Did you know, for example, that I have been blaming myself for my daughter's death for the last three years? And before you rush in to say I mustn't blame myself, that there are in fact good and solid reasons why I do bear some responsibility. Did you know that I've been totally unable to forgive myself for that? And unable therefore to accept forgiveness from anyone else?

Did you know that I have been unable to praise God freely, with my heart as well as my head, stumbling about over my prayers (well actually, you might know that if you've ever heard me), that I have been unable to trust God with the lives of my other girls, despite blaming not Him but myself for Goldie's accident?

Did you know that I have been weighed down, browbeaten, by my guilt and shame over things both recent and long past? And that through all this, I have been calling out, apparently unheard?

If you did know all that, congratulations, because I didn't know it all myself.

I have just been on holiday with friends, with church, and with God Himself. Which is fairly awesome really. And God, and God's people, met with me, and didn't hate me for the things I have done. And I am forgiven, and I am loved, and this is a new day that the Lord has made. And that was just the beginning.

I think things just got real.



Tia

Hanging around

The only thing better than swinging in a hammock tied to a tree by a river
Is swinging in a hammock tied to a tree by a river with your sister!
Housegroup barbecue today. A summer social, and a chance to say goodbye to friends who are moving away.

About eight years ago, I was walking through our shopping precinct with Goldie. Goldie was doing her usual "I'm excited about the possibility of eating a burger" thing; squealing and rocking and waving her hands up above her face, grinning and giggling, and generally being loud.

A few shops up from us, a little boy stopped. "LOOK, Mummy!" he shouted, pointing at Goldie. His mum looked, embarrassed, wondering what her son was going to say, as he chatted on at the top of his voice. She held his arm and encouraged him towards their next shop, but he turned around anyway - "no LOOK, Mummy! There is MY FRIEND!"

He's a bigger boy now, and he's moving away, with the rest of his family. On to new schools, new lives, new friendships. And I'm sure he'd be dreadfully embarrassed to be reminded of his three year old self. But he won't be forgotten.

Tia

Biscuit tin baking

So, what do you do when you plan an evening cooking with the Guides, only to be asked to vacate the church hall in order that the church can interview potential staff? Use one of the other outbuildings in the church, naturally. But then what do you do when other church people ask you very nicely if you'd mind actually not using that one either, as they need to set up for a special lunch the following day?

You could cancel Guides. Or change the programme, meet elsewhere, go for a hike, be flexible.

Or, you could just carry on regardless, swapping the kitchen for the carpark and the ovens for a handful of biscuit tins.

Hurrah for Camp Doughnuts!Butter the outside of two slices of bread, slap a load of jam in the middle, and wrap in foil.
Toss onto a fire. Extract somewhere after this point and before incineration is reached.
Dip in a plate of sugar (but we forgot this bit, don't tell the Guides).

Enjoy. Eat. Pick the burnt bits of and burn them further. Burn your fingertips on hot tinfoil, scrape your knees on gravel, beg for another one, negotiate for a flaming marshmallow, drink cold fresh water by the pint, leap walls into the field at the back to gather more sticks, then finally dowse the embers, bury the remains, gather up the rubbish, and leave a neatly sluiced carpark.

Tia

Sleep is for the weak

Mog is tired. Mog wants to sleep. But every time Mog slips into a deep sleep, Mog relaxes. And every time Mog relaxes, her airway collapses. Mog falls into a deep sleep every sixty to ninety minutes throughout the night. And I have to wake her up. Mog is tired. So am I. Which is possibly why this reads like a Peter and Jane book.

In the meantime my tired mind is running on random thoughts.

How is it that yesterday, despite the fact that the carer we were expecting did not turn up or let us know she wouldn't be turning up, we managed to be all three dressed and actually early for church? And yet today, with Little Fish getting up an hour earlier than planned, and Mog's carer turning up despite me not expecting her, we were running late for school?

I wouldn't say we were especially presentable for church yesterday - having scoured the house for cleanish clothes for the girls, I threw my own on at the last minute before walking out of the door into the beautiful Spring sunshine. A gentle breeze blowing the cobwebs away as we walked to church, enough of a chill to give the girls rosy cheeks but enough warmth to dispense with coats and make do in my case with a nice long cardigan I hadn't worn for a month or so.

Still, hair brushed (and then whipped out of shape by the wind), clean faces, fresh teeth, happy girls. We walked into church and stood by a radiator for a while waiting for Godzone to be ready for us. The radiator smelled a bit stale, a bit like something rather unpleasant had been spilled inside it.

But, doors opened, the girls wheeled in, and I went to sit down in church. The stale radiator smell followed me through and I wondered if all the heating had been somehow polluted. Something in the air perhaps? Friends arrived and sat next to us, and assumed there was an unfortunate incident with an incontinence pad. And then I realised the smell was following me around. And that lovingly cherished cardigan which had been out of sight under Little Fish's bed stowed away for the last month was actually covered in stale cat piss. "They'd make a good rug, wouldn't they?" said my neighbour as we stood to sing the opening hymn. People gave us a wide berth as we waited for coffee; I'm not entirely sure why...

And on a totally unrelated note, I'd like to know the answer to this:

Why is it that if a group of businessmen and women decide to adjourn to a restaurant it's called a working lunch, but when a group of stay at home mothers meet up for lunch or coffee, bringing their children and therefore their work with them, we are called "ladies of leisure" ?

Tia

Sleep in Heavenly Peace?

It's been a bit of a mad weekend here. Yesterday the great Christmas Tree hunt; disappointingly no small trees at our first stop so we had to travel to the more expensive place where, after I'd handed over wodges of cash, the chap manning the needle netting machine informed me the tree needed an inch sawing off the bottom in order to survive the next two weeks but that his saw was broken. Joy.

Home, lunch, and then we went postal. 91 leaflets to deliver to the 91 houses in our road - disconcerting as the highest number is 110. A mixture of memories; as a teenager I had the paper round for this road (and for another 300 houses. For the 390 houses I was paid £3 a week. A few years later my brother took over the round; his round was half the size of mine and he was paid double. But I'm not bitter. Not at all), and some of the letter boxes greeted me as old friends.See now this letter box is, to my mind, the perfect one (just as well really, since it's my own). It's medium height, the right way up, on a gentle spring so easy to push leaflets through but closes itself without leaving nasty draughts. Oh, and there's a ramp up to it so Little Fish could post the leaflet through - the only leaflet she delivered herself.

And so I remembered my letterbox classification system. There are the boringly normal letterboxes like this one. Kind, compassionate householders, clearly doing their best to make post delivery as easy as possible.

Then there are the sadists and those who like to amuse themselves at others' expense. In its mildest form, this creates a letterbox with a flap which opens outwards rather than inwards, making posting leaflets a two handed job. It can manifest in a letterbox cunningly disguised as a pillar or door panel, causing the poster to hunt fruitlessly until the owner of the house walks past and points. Or, more viciously, it means a letterbox with a spring so violent it skins your knuckles and requires the occasional sacrifice of a nail.

Then there are the mathematically challenged. These householders provide a letter box not more than three inches long, necessitating a gentle roll and fold maneuver in order to insert a leaflet. I remember these letterboxes from my papergirl experiences; with a bit of practice the free paper could be folded into 4 and rammed through, but only if the householders had no interest in the headlines or classifieds. Always a relief when the "no free papers here" sign appeared.

Next, householders overly interested in your own personal habits. This will generally be demonstrated by a clear glass panelled front door, and a letter box sited at the very top of the door. For a short papergirl to reach the slot, she must press herself up against the glass and raise her arms to the fullest extent. In winter these were the ripped underarm sleeve checkers; in summer they became the RightGuard police.

And finally, those with illusions of grandeur. The "I kiss thy feet, oh master of this house" letterboxes. These you will find a mere 2 inches off the ground, and generally with an extremely stiff spring to ensure you remain kneeling until you have gained a proper sense of humility.

Mixed in with the old friends was a new one; a Swiss Post mailbox mounted on the wall. Now if only I'd noticed that before battling my way through the several gates barring my access to the front door...

Home, and a deadline - chocolate truffles to be made for a Christmas Party. So, as the girls defrosted themselves nicely watching Mary Poppins I stood over a large mixing bowl in the kitchen, grating cake and mashing butter, and forgetting that the above recipe is already doubled from the original recipe, so doubling it again and providing quite ridiculous numbers of truffles.

Back to the girls and the always wonderful discovery that Little Fish had found the glitter and sequins and created rainbow snow in the sitting room.

Bedtime.

Awake early this morning, with a nagging sensation of something forgotten. I ironed the girls' party dresses, located tights and even found something vaguely smarter than usual for myself. Wrestled with the cats, debated doing more ironing before sanity prevailed, and then remembered I needed to find the girls' Angel outfits for the Carol Service. No problem, they're definitely in Mog's wardrobe.

Except of course that they aren't. And as she sleeps on, I ferret through every shelf in the wardrobe, turning the place upside down. I find our Christmas decorations, much tinsel, a rather nasty sticky patch of ancient kitten urine, approximately 147 disposable aprons, and eventually just one angel outfit. Searching through the scattered remains of the wardrobe I locate a white skirt, and then another, and several white tops, and as I muse that Mog has too many clothes I try to work out which one will be most acceptable to Little Fish. And then I remember the second tabard is in the sewing room and tear that apart in an attempt to find it.

Two hours later, our carer is just about due, Little Fish is calling to get dressed, the iron is overheating, and I just about have some clothes on. I have cleaned up copious quantities of kitten poo and am preparing to do the same for a flucloxacillined child.

The carol service is, as always, excellent. Hordes of angels and shepherds on the carpet abiding; there's something about being lined up facing the many adults in the congregation which seemed to somewhat silence the general chat and mayhem which accompanies our family services. Although whoever decided sticking large pointy stars onto long pointy sticks and handing them out to the children too young to sit on the carpet needs to spend 30 minutes sitting surrounded by children thus armed.

And then we rush to the Special Kids Christmas Party. Slightly too rushed perhaps; I turn the corner onto the main road and the beautifully arranged truffles leave the tray and leave their casings and pitter patter pitter patter themselves elsewhere. They're still beautiful, just no longer quite so delicately arranged. Good times.

I am in the middle of complacently telling a friend that no, my girls aren't particularly bothered about Father Christmas, when in he walks, and Little Fish is silent, tugging on my arm and pointing in utter disbelief. Mog too saves her only spontaneous smile of the afternoon for the big man in the red suit. Laura, your bright yellow socks double nicely as a slightly slipped halo; we didn't bother changing out of angel outfits for the party but decided we'd be nicely festive.

More food than we could conceivably consume, so we gather a doggy bag to keep us going on the long journey home. I exit the carpark, brake, and crisps, sandwiches, sausage rolls and chocolate biscuits hit the windscreen. Oops. I decide against the super expensive Surrey garage prices, and regret this when a new (to me) orange light shines on the dashboard begging me please to find Deisel anywhere, any price. £80 later the tank is full and I wonder just how empty it was. Little Fish memorises the route home and persists in checking whether we are now on the M40 or the A40. I wish she wouldn't; every time she asks I have to check myself.

And then we are home, and I open the front door. And am hit by the stench of stale cat urine. Pushing the girls into the sitting room I mop puddles, empty overflowing litter trays, and scrape turns from under chairs. A blast of air freshener and we're no longer breathing ammonia, but it's safe to say the party spirit has evaporated. The cats have stripped my poinsettia bare; I wonder whether it is poisonous to them and then find myself wondering whether I'd prefer it was as at least I'd not come back to quite such devastation. They've also taken the contents of Mog's wardrobe and generously redistributed them around the house, gathered the rainbow snow and chased it into crevices, and performed long and complicated stress tests (I can only assume) on my clean laundry.

It is at this point I remember Little Fish is supposed to be bringing six homemade fairy cakes to school with her tomorrow for her Christmas party. No time to buy them in the morning and pass them off as homemade; I will just have to set to and bake them. I have a kit; bought for Little Fish to do with a carer one afternoon but marginally quicker than assembling the necessaries myself, so I rip open the sachet of powder and discover I should be mixing it with oil. My only oil extra virgin olive oil, I add 6 tablespoonsful and watch as the mix turns a delicate green shade. Tasty. Next up, one egg; I open the 'fridge and remember we have run out. Consoling myself with the thought that no one ever actually eats the cakes at a child's party (and why would you when you could simply lick off the icing and leave the rest), I add water instead of egg and hope for the best. One last stir before putting the batter into cake cases, and with a gentle slip of the fingers I pour half the mixture down my jeans and across the floor. Muttering quite loudly now I scrape the remaining mix into the cases and shove them into the oven, where in due time they do indeed turn a beautiful pale golden brown, although they are distinctly flatter than the average fairy cake. Once cooled they turn out to be rather crisper and heavier too, but hey ho. Much icing to compensate for the inevitable taste and texture deficiencies, chocolate buttons as a further apology, and finally six biscuitty cakes are assembled and placed on top of the 'fridge - hopefully a cat proof location.

I toss the bowl and spoon into the sink, gather the rest of the washing up and then decide in the sink is just about as good as washed up and shiny, and retreat to the sitting room to try to blitz it.
It appears to be the case that an epic battle has been fought for posession of this cardboard box. Now you might think that Gotcha above here has won the battle. But closer investigation reveals that he is merely sitting on Grolly's head, and , once she has gathered strength, he is duly evicted.
And after a short wash, Grolly decides the box is no longer to her taste either, and insists I remove it from her hot water pipe. All three cats now approach, wishing to discuss the catering arrangements and keen to implement a better system for any future days when room service will be absent.

I open another couple of sachets of the good food, squeeze it out into newly cleaned cat bowls, and retire, defeated, to my armchair in the sitting room. And then I remember Little Fish needs to take a packed lunch in the morning as the kitchen is busy cooking Christmas Dinner for the senior pupils.

Stale bread, no eggs, and healthy eating in school rules meaning no crisps, chocolate or drinks other than water. That'll be ham, banana and a yoghurt then. I truly am a domestic goddess.

And now it must be bedtime.
Tia

Mighty to Save

Sometimes I look around and all I can see is the need. So many friends, so many families, crying out for help. Three families facing their own mountains this week and all I can do is pray - Saviour, move these mountains too.


On a lighter note, prompted by a near miss this morning; if the person next to you shoots up their arms in worship and knocks you flying as they do, does this mean you've been slain in the Spirit?

Tia

Freedom?

If everything goes as planned (and how often does that happen?), I think I might just have survived my last ever Scramblers. A nice, ordinary, morning, only two Calebs this time and no interruptions. In fact, total, engrossed, silence as the story teller told her tale*. Some bewildered desolation when they realised that the changes from last week are going to stay changed -no more squash and biscuits but plenty of fruit and water. One small boy whispering weepily "oh where is my biscuit?" But, no longer my problem, I've finished my last sunday, and might actually be able to get back into church again. Between rota'd Sundays, Sundays where I've had too many extra children to be able to justify the dump and run approach, and Sundays when one or all of us have been ill, I think I've managed just one Sunday morning in church since the beginning of September. I'm quite looking forwards to being able to be a grown up again.

Home, managing to dodge the horizontal rain showers, but in doing so managing to roll Little Fish in her wheelchair, landing her face down in a puddle, her chair on top of her. Cue one fat lip and banged eye just in time for school tomorrow. Lovely.

And then no more rain, and a beautiful walk over to my parents' house for an equally beautiful lunch (and no washing up). Starting to think about Christmas presents, I cryptically suggested Snakes and Ladders as an option for Little Fish. Too cryptic; Mum promptly found a set she'd been saving for the right moment, and handed it over there and then. Oh well; it showed I was right; LF did indeed enjoy playing it and actually understood most of the rules (although not the point of keeping your counters on the board and not in your mouth...).

Back home again, via Budgens for some essentials, and via church to drop something off. Mog and I did the Budgens run, Mum and Little Fish did the church bit. And then Mum turned up without Little Fish, having left her at church gatecrashing a Light party. It would have worked wonderfully, except she was overdue a trip to the loo, so I had to extract her. A quick conversation, and both girls stayed at church leaving me free to saunter home and enjoy the freedom.

Until I got home, and realised my doorkeys were in Mog's bag.

Dumping the shopping by the front door, I sauntered equally slowly back to church, kicking through the leaves as I went, and pretending I was having a nice long healthy Autumnal walk. And then I realised I'd left my purse in the shopping bag, which I'd left by the front door, because who was likely to be interested in a packet of ham and some chocolate spread?

Picking up the pace, I crashed the party for the third time, extracted the keys, admired Little Fish's instant integration into the group and smiled at Mog with a pile of glitter. And quick-stepped it home to find bag safely on the ramp with purse neatly sticking out from the top. Sometimes my incompetence impresses even me. But I'll go for "don't we have an honest neighbourhood" instead, combined with minor impressedness with the fact I had for once failed to leave any easily accessible windows open.

After which, the free afternoon I thought I'd suddenly gained had somehow shrunk to half an hour, far too short to do anything sensible. So I sat down and did nothing, and revelled in the peace.

There's something about the silence of a house with no children in it which is utterly different from the silence of a house with sleeping children. The lack of snoring and ventilator sound effects could have something to do with it, I suppose, but it's more than that. It's the luxury of knowing I could be doing anything at all in these few minutes; I could leave the house without arranging for alternative care, I could put earplugs in or play music really loudly, I could cook and eat soemthing without having to share it. Or I could choose to just sit quietly, and be off duty for a while.

Bliss.

And from tomorrow, I should be getting a solid six hours of that on a regular basis again. Hurrah!
Tia

*Which leads me to wonder, why can the 3-5 year olds in Scramblers stay silent for a story, the 7-10 year olds in Brownies stay silent too, and yet we cannot get total silence for even 30 seconds from the 10-14 year old Guides? What happens when they move up, and why do they suddenly think muttering in an undertone isn't going to be heard by the Guider trying valiantly to make herself heard over the top?

Easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle

Than to tell a story to a group of preschoolers.

Fun times this morning; we arrived at church to the always joyous news that there was no Storyteller (leader) for Little Fish's Sunday School group. One teenager, two scheduled helpers, one extra press-ganged into service, and thirteen 2-4 year olds. Funny how a bit of perspective helps: as the children started pouring in we still had no keys and therefore not only no Storyteller (and no story to tell), but also no colouring pens, no paper, and, most important of all, no access to biscuits and squash. And then the keys turned up, and suddenly not having the person in charge seemed unimportant and manageable. More perspective - today was, without warning, the one Sunday in the term when the children all go into church for communion. Attempting to walk a handful of preschoolers across a carpark from barn to church is not unlike attempting to herd kangaroos through a field of bulls. And yet, without a programme, without a Storyteller, making the attempt was worth it for the joy of handing them back earlier.

Bonus; we found a vat of playdough in the 'fridge. Bad times; the pink was mouldy. Two of us outvoted the third who was attempting to scrape the mould off with a rusty teaspoon, and decided the children could manage just with the somewhat repulsive looking green instead. And bingo (I'll stop with the b's soon I promise), half the children bounced over to the table and spent the next half hour spreading slimy green dough as far as possible over hands, Sunday clothes, table and carpet. Good times. The other half meanwhile spent their playtime dismantling the toy kitchen, jumping on the toy cars, and squabbling over the baby buggies. Ah, such sweet children.

And so time passed until that magical moment; "Tidy-up time". And the children were transformed from destructive monsters creative beings into genuinely helpful, enthusiastic little people; gathering books and trains and sorting babies from plastic play food, sifting everything into the relevant boxes and then dragging them across to the cupboard, small boys staggering solo under the weight of the Brio, smaller girls carrying boxes of books one girl to each corner. And one small Little Fish who did nothing constructive but wheeled herself up and down the room pausing, hands on hips, to shout "come on everybody, tidy up time now!" I can't think whre she gets it from.

Small children all seated on a rug, and the box of books raided for the first not-too-twee bible-based story to read as they sip squash and eat biscuits (hmm; the squash and biscuits can't possibly have anything to do with their enthusiasm over tidying up can it?). And out comes the stoy Jesus told, how it's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man who loves money to enter the kingdom of heaven. Setting aside the theological debates about needles and gates in Jerusalem (which this little book ignored totally), I have to ask if this was the best story for a bunch of small children:

So - there was a man who loved his money.
I love my Mummy too
No, this man loved money.
I love my Mummy. And my Daddy.
And I love my Daddy too.
I not got a Daddy, I got a sister though
I've got three sisters
I have twenty seven a million sisters ner!

Lovely, now Jesus said that it was harder for a camel to squeeze through the hole at the top of a needle than for this man to go into Heaven. Does anyone know what a camel is? Anyone? Oh, no, that's not a camel, that's a piece of playdough. No, no, don't get the rest of the playdough, I'm sure it was lovely but we're reading a story now.

Ok, so let's think about needles for a minute.
my Mummy's got needles.
I got a big needle and it scratched me
If you stood on a needle it would go right through you and you would die
if a needle goes through you you will DIE
if you stand on a needle and you have crocs on, and the needle goes through the hole in your crocs, it could be rather painful could it not?

Yes you're quite right, it would be. But that would be a needle going through us - we couldn't fit inside the needle could we?
I pricked myself with a needle once.
My brother's got a needle.
So, I got six brother.
I got twelve brothers.
I have only one brother but Mummy says that's quite enough for us, thank you very much.
My brother is called Caleb
No, I am called Caleb,
No, I got a brother called Caleb
no, I got two brothers and one is called Caleb

Does anyone not have someone called Caleb in their family?

Right then, why don't we have a story about a boy who had lots and lots of brothers? [gratefully receives book from other helper who has delved more deeply through the pile inbetween wrestling small boys either called or with siblings called Caleb].

This is a story about a boy called Joseph.
[silence]
Joseph had lots and lots of brothers
[we all count the boys in the picture]
Joseph was his Daddy's favourite
[pause, wincing, in anticipation of many aggrieved accusations over supposedly favoured siblings, probably called Caleb. Am faced instead with ongoing breathless silence]
Joseph's Daddy gave Joseph a very special coat with lots of different colours in it.
[ongoing breathless silence, thirteen children utterly gripped by the story or else there was something very odd in those biscuits. We continue with the story, children fascinated, beautiful concentration, until it starts to get interesting]
And so Joseph went to Egypt where he was a slave and worked for the king. Joseph had many adventures before he saw his family again.

[and I turn the page, to reveal two words] THE END.

The END? Joseph goes to Egypt, and you leave the story there? Who decided that would be a good idea? I have a rugful of enthralled children here, they don't want to leave Joseph stranded in Egypt with a scary picture of a man with a whip.

And so they sit, and, attempting to keep to the very simple basic language of the book, I try to tell the rest of the story. Or at least edited highlights. But I'm losing them. We're heading perilously close to more conversations about needles and Caleb. Perhaps we could thread Caleb through the eye of a needle? Or thread a needle through a Caleb? We seem to have plenty of spares.

And then, just as attention is about to drift away completely, salvation appears in the form of a head round the door and a "this is your 2 minute warning", and we are off, standing up and herding our little flock over to the church.

It's a nice church. It's a lovely building. And it's rather small and crowded when all the children are here. Mog having decided to entertain her Sunday School group with a demonstration of the many colours of phlegm, she is the last to arrive. So we hover in the doorway, attempting to be as inconspicuous as it is possible to be with two excited children and a rather large wheelchair.

We take Communion, and it is great to have the children in with us. We are a congregation, a community. And it does feel strange to me that whereas Jesus was fairly clear about letting the small children come to Him (and yes, I do feel I suffered the children this morning, why do you ask?), we, on the whole, exclude the junior members of the church family from drawing near. Not a criticism; I enjoy child-free Communions too for the peace and solemnity and recognition of the awesomeness and wonder of the occasion. But I also like the hurly burly enthusiastic real everydayness we get from having the children present. And I like the fact my girls can receive a blessing at the altar rail, even if the shuffle pull balance hop kneel and wobble and stretch and hold to get them there isn't the most dignified of dances.

And then we head back to our pillar by the door, and a couple more songs and a prayer or two, and then it's make way fast before we block the exit for everyone else. And into the hall for an extremely well-earned coffee. Communion aside, Little Fish's teacher does this for six hours a day, five days a week? With thirty of them? She needs a bigger Christmas present!

Tia
Disclaimer: I like Caleb. All of them. No Calebs were harmed in the writing of this blog. And no disrespect is intended to any Caleb or parent of a Caleb. But would anyone care to enlighten me as to the sudden popularity of the name?

An excess of expats?

Excess of choice perhaps a better description (but not quite as satisfactory as a title).

My brother and sister-in-law, back in the country after a month in Australia, and just for a few short weeks before moving to Tanzania. Hello, yes I'm talking about you. No blog to link to yet, watch this space. And remember, you heard it here first.

And my friends Martin and Hazel, here from Argentina for just a few days.

Combine driving to Hertfordshire to see M and H with being on duty at Scramblers makes for a very disjointed and probably boring blog enty. But given the number of messages I had when I missed posting last week, I thought I ought to put something up here.

Oh - I'll leave you with a thought from Scramblers (church for 3-4 year olds).
Leader "Right, children, today's story is about a man called Matthew"
Voice from the mass of children "There's a boy called Matthew in our kindergarten"
Leader "That's nice, is he your friend?"
VFTHMOC "Not really, he broke my nose"
Leader "Right, children, today we're going to learn about a different man called Matthew".

Combine that with one small visiting child dressed up as Snow White (hello, yes, I'm still talking about your family), one small boy throwing a screaming howling tantrum because he wanted a fake currant bun (and then a nap with his muslin), one small girl crying for Mummy, one large boy shouting just because he can, three spilled drinks and one toddler plumping himself down into the ensuing puddle, the inevitable constant trickle of wee children needing to trickle their own wee, and one thing's for sure, it wasn't a boring morning.

Tired now though - and a silent household meaning that despite the late night (some children weren't in bed until past seven o'clock!), everyone has settled and I should probably join them.

Tia

Take the shackles off my feet so I can dance

A beautiful sight in church this morning. Summer is here, so all age worship is the order of the month. Seats are turned around to face each other, children sit on a carpet up at the front, and there is an energy brought to the service. It's the energy brought by small people, wriggling and jumping and putting their whole hearts into the singing, putting those of us who prefer to sing quite loud with a dignified clap* to shame. It's the energy created by the people leading, knowing that rather than leading relatively docile sheep their morning's task is more akin to herding kangaroos, knowing that any minute one may break free. It's a restless enthusiasm mixed with a modicum of disapproval, hope and nervous anticipation of parents with children just out of reach, and roof raising, rattling good tunes with a reasonably large measure of God thrown in there too. Oh, and sweets or chocolates and quizzes handed out by the cannier ministers.

That's just setting the scene. Today was something special. Two sisters sat on the carpet together with the other children. One in a summer's sundress, a floaty twirly dress, with hair in bunches and bundles of energy. And the other, younger, smaller, slower, practicing her sitting skills and loving being with her bigger sister. The music started, and the sisters danced. Little sister moving to the rhythm of the beat, arms raised, head held high and loving it. And big sister twirling and hopping, jumping and spinning, grabbing her sister's hands and then taking off again to dance.

And the other children, mostly older, simply made way for these girls to dance their joy. A circle formed around them, giving both girls the room their dance commanded. Not joining in, not condemning or laughing at them, simy moving across and forming a circle around them, letting the two twist and spin and praise and celebrate. And then the music stopped, and we all sat down, and the little sister twisted around to plonk her baby-pudding self onto her big sister's lap, and everyone was ready for the next part of the service. Love, joy, and acceptance. Beautiful.
Tia



*I had here planned to put up Adrian Plass' Anglican Rap
(Let's kneel, let's stand, let's be terribly bland,
Let's sing quite loud with a dignified clap,
Let's process around the church in a victory lap,
From the Isle of Wight to the Watford Gap
Everybody's doing it, the Anglican Rap)
but I couldn't find it so you'll have to settle for the chorus and my apologies if I've got it wrong.

EDIT: for anyone not automatically hearing the chorus when they read the title of this, L sent me this link - now you can all share the earworm!

Resistance is futile

Mum, I wanna ast you something. Mum, Mum, Mummy Tia, I need to tell you something. Um, I would like a likkle pizza please. Please, Mummy, it would be very nice and I am a bit hungry. You order one, pleeeeeeeese, Mummy, a pizza with the man bringing it in a box and we can eat it. We could ave one Mummy, we could. I would like one it is my favourite and my best it is.


Anyone care to explain how one small child can eat her own bodyweight in pizza with no I'll effects and yet choke on pasta, gag at the sight of a bread crust, and refuse to allow anything green within three inches of her face? How can h
she retch on a banana milkshake (tubed) and have space for slice after slice of garlic bread? And why are cheese and ham on a plate something to cry about but cheese and ham on a pizza something to celebrate?

Do Dominos make cauliflour and courgette pizzas? Oh, and why is pizza in a box from a man at the door her favourite and her best, but pizza from my fair hands and pizza from the freezer both objectionable?

Readers, we ate the pizza.

Long day today. Up early, and for once LF consented to eat her breakfast (1/2 a slice of toast) in somewhat less than 30 minutes. Smart clothes all round; matching dresses for the girls to LF's delight and Mog's displeasure. All dressed, hair brushed without tears for once, polished shoes, ironed tops, and a reasonably clean house too.

Off to church where for once we managed to be early. Girls delivered to their various spots and I to my semi regular slot into the next-but-one-to-the-back-of-the-rows-in-front-of-the-door aisle seat. It's a comfortably safe spot. Close to the exit if needed by crying child. Or if the church should suddenly burn down; an unlikely prospect but important to be prepared and ahead of the Zimmer brigade . Within smiling distance of several housegroup friends, handshakeable distance from the earnest brigade, and shoulder polishing reach of woman whose name I am now resigned to never remembering. A safe distance from the drums and out of wincing range from the speakers; a spot nicely placed to give a good view of most of the rest of the church whilst still being able to read the words on the screen in front. And for once, feeling reasonably smug - not late, no toast crumbs or coffee stains, proper shoes and even a skirt- and a skirt which i had tied in several different ways in front of a mirror before leaving the house to ensure it was neither inside out nor at risk of unwrapping itself and revealing a pasty white leg during communion.

And then the service started, and I put my hand up to my collar, to loosen off my tshirt. And then my fingers found a label, and I realised my tshirt was on back to front. And then I wasn't feeling so smug any more.

I am not cut out for smart.
Tia

Healing in the streets

Our local corner shop is situated, rather handily, opposite our local church. This means that every Sunday morning you will find a number of church goers slipping in sheepishly for gravy, stuffing, bread sauce mix, or other essentials without which the Sunday Roast will not be complete. Small children, released from the confines of Sunday School, roam the aisles shrieking for chocolate or bemoaning the fact they only got one broken biscuit after the service because the big boys took all the Jammy Dodgers. Larger children wait outside enjoying private chats, broken periodically to call into the shop "come on Mum I'm HUNGRY", or alternatively "but I don't WANT to go now, I'm still talking". How the staff must love us.

That's Sunday. For a long time now, that's been pretty much the sum total of the involvement between church and the shops; well, that and the mad midmorning dash for emergency milk and biscuits when stocks run low between the services, repeated midweek during the various toddler groups, prayer groups, and other church activities. Periodically on a Monday night girls all dressed in blue will run in to buy marshmallows or matches, boys in green might do the same thing on a Wednesday evening, and every so often small groups of non-church Youth tanked up on underage alcohol will shuffle from the shop forecourt to the churchyard and back again as they debate where to scribble their next piece of graffiti or which bench is better to vomit on.

A short while ago (or possibly a longer while ago; I'm not terribly observant about these things) a group from the church decided to embark on a "Healing in the Streets" mission. Saturday mornings, a time when the church is usually pretty quiet, a small group gather and base themselves in the shop carpark where they offer prayer ministry to any shopper who cares to ask for it. They seem to have had a fair bit of interest and support from the community, always good.

Whilst I've been vaguely aware this has been happening, I've not actually experienced it myself yet - Saturdays are traditionally the one day in the week where we don't have a carer come in in the mornings, so they are therefore by extension the one day in the week where I feel entirely justified in hanging about in pyjamas doing nothing very much. We have carers every morning at the moment as it takes two of us to get Little Fish dressed, so we're up and about somewhat earlier than might otherwise be expected. So far though we've been happy to either hang about at home doing a whole lot of nothing (and doing it well), or we've been away.

This morning our carer came, both girls were raring to go, and we decided to brave the 200yard dash to the shop to post a letter. It's not a difficult trip; one big road to cross with two exciting buttons to push to make the traffic stop for you*, one slightly awkward bit where the path narrows and too many sloping drives make for a wobbly push, but the rest of it is nice level tarmac without any sandwich boards, dustbins, parked bicycles or other pavement impedimentia furniture. Nevertheless we are brave to attempt it. I am told this at least once every time we do. Depressingly, most often by people who know us and see us regularly - perhaps we are brave after all, who knew? Leaving the house and remembering the front door key is a bit of a challenge, finding a window between sleeps and catheters and med times can be tricky, but once we've done that I'm not convinced that shopping for a load of bread is a particularly brave thing to do. Unless I haven't had my coffee of course. Still, brave or not, it was time to go, and go we did.

Amazingly we managed to shut the door without incident (chasing Goway and his dead pet sparrow out ahead of us doesn't necessarily count as an incident; I didn't have to touch the bird so it doesn't count and I can pretend it never happened and that he's a sweet harmless fluffy thing). We walked down the path without being mugged or shot or even halted by people stopping immediately in front of us to remind us of our bravery. We pressed the button, the red man went away and the green man came, we shouted hurray (and by we, I mean Little Fish), and then we waved at the cars and shouted our thanks to them for stopping (and again, by we, I mean Little Fish). We went single file for the wobbly bit of the pavement without either child needing to go backwards, and then back into formation (two children in front, yours truly behind, one chair in either hand, for anyone reading who is presently thinking "I don't know how you do it").

And then it happened. Gradually we noticed soft and gentle music wafting through the air. And we saw two men staring at us with a strange gleam in their eyes. A kind, concerned, caring "must-be-gentle-and-polite-and-make-inane-joke-to-pretend-I-am-comfortable-with-the-fact-there-is-a-woman-pushing-two-children-in-wheelchairs-walking-towards-us" kind of a gleam. I'm used to that, what I'm not used to is the mild panic I noticed hovering about the edges of the kindly gleam. And then two women approached too, causing us a mild problem as the pavement is a little rutted here, and any stopping makes it inevitable that a wheel will get caught in a hole and our progress will be halted. Little Fish dropped the letter at this point, a car ran over it, and we paused to retrieve it, escaping the women with nothing more than a brief hello and acknowledgement of our mutual existence. Not, however, without hearing the "I don't know how she manages"/"however does she do it?" conversation which echoed in our wake. And then I realised what the panic was all about - underneath the casual concern was fear that we might be coming in for a spot of healing.

You're safe lads; the girls and I are not in search of healing just at the moment. Or at least, not from their disabilities anyway. I'll take all the prayer anyone feels inclined to give us that Little Fish's hip has knitted itself back together enough for her brace to come off and stay off on the 6th. I'll take plenty of prayer that Mog's seizures stay stable and that she can shake off a little of the sedating effect from her current drug cocktail. And if you feel inclined to pray for me then pray for my wrists and back, so that they stay strong enough to do everything we need them to do for the three of us. But just for now we'd like to post our letter and buy some bread, and that's all thanks. Apart from anything else; I'd be out of a job if we had too many miracles.

We went in, we bought our bread, we left the shop and dodged another huddle of marvellousers. Ruining the competent effect, we got wedged on a kerb and I tilted Little Fish nearly out of her chair as Mog giggled. Oh well, dignity never was anything I valued particularly highly.

And then we got home, and Little Fish got into a strop because Mog went into the house first. And she threw the shopping onto the ground. And then she poured macaroni onto the floor once inside, and then I realised her feed pump which had been unaccountably slow had reset itself to be running at 1ml/hour rather than 300. And then I discovered our cleaner has hidden our matches, so macaroni is definitely off the menu. And then I thought to myself "they're right, you know, I don't know how I do it".

Tia




*exciting when you are four. The thrill has palled somewhat for me these days

It's cold, it's wet, it's a miserable toe-freezing day

So what do you do?

hibernate
hide from the cleaner in your bedroom until the cats give away your hiding place
Grin and make the best of it.
Little Fish always happy to drag Ella Bella out. So with driving rain like ice-cold needles across our shoulders, we dodged from house to van, and did the only sensible thing, went shopping.

We needed things for a scary activity at Guides tonight - scary for the leaders that is, the girls love it. And we needed food ourselves. So off we went on Tesco bent, it only took ten minutes to negotiate the small glacier which has formed across the end of our driveway and then we were off.

We shopped. We stocked up. We found every single thing we needed for the Guides. And Little Fish collected three "has she got a license for that thing?" jestful murmurs, four "oh she's so helpful, you must be really grateful"* comments, half a dozen "awwwwww look at that" mutters, and a small handful of "Oh £$%^("s as they stepped backwards into her. Score!

And then we came home, and did the only sensible thing.

We baked.
Macaroni cheese with bacon. So good it deserves a special close up.
Banana nut loafwhich I'm sure will be delicious if Little Fish could just get past "I not liking bananas, bananas bit stinky Mummy".

And then our own new creation, peanut crunch.
I can share the full recipe, but the key ingredients as far as we were concerned were the peanut butter (not unexpected in a peanut biscuit recipe) and a large double handful of cornflakes (definitely not in the original recipe and somewhat unplanned and haphazard). They seem to have come out ok despite the addition.

And then, because we hadn't done enough cooking, I posted the girls into bed and went to Guides. Don't look at me like that; we do have a babysitter. And I took all our scary ingredients, added five gas canisters, and a pile of calor gas stoves. Add in a large number of mainly pre-teen girls, a handfu of aprons and a sprinkling of adults, and you have a recipe for disaster a Ready Steady Cook competition.

They did really, really well. One reasonably uninspiring set of ingredients, and each group came up with something totally different. The winners were our youngest group, who came up with this little lot
The photo doesn't do it justice; it was beautiful. And I'll be stealing their improve a digestive biscuit beyond all recognition idea.

Cooking with the Guides is always interesting. I was so impressed this time though. Most of them remembered aprons and hair ties, only one group had no one who knew how to chop an onion, they all had original ideas and even more impressively, they all managed to work together as a group to get those ideas to turn into a meal.

Just to make life doubly interesting, as the girls cooked on camping stoves on tables around the room, the centre of the church hall was covered in an array of buckets and bowls, catching water in ever increasing amounts from the leak in the roof. We the leaders were unsure whether to worry more about the trip/skid hazard or be thankful for the plentiful supply of water should there be an "incident". As it was, only two incidents - one Guider who will remain nameless for fear of merciless teasing by those who read this blog and who work with her managed to cut her finger on a splinter - and one Guide managed to succumb to the stomach bug she'd been fighting all day but hiding because she didn't want to miss the evening. I do hope she explained to the other Guides; I'd hate them all to catch it and to blame the cooking for it. So if there are any angry parents about; we did personally ensure every single sausage was fully cooked, we watched them all wash their hands, and we didn't know about the bug until too late. Sorry.

And then a quick look at the time, and a flurried tidy, and then an un-tidy to rescue the stoves and clean them before packing them away once more, and a scramble across the increasingly wet floor whilst our most scientific of Guiders pondered the most effective placement of buckets and bowls to last until morning.

And then Taps, and Dismiss, and swim through the carpark, and home. One small child locked in a spasm, no resolved, and now one peaceful household gently scented with sugar and spices and love.

Night all
Tia




*only two of which were accompanied with "shall I call social services on this clearly deranged mother who is snapping at this utterly delightful and tragically disabled child?" glares.

A blogger's Christmas

Mog had a beautifully peaceful night last night - too peaceful; I have gotten used to hearing every breath she takes and so had to keep checking she was actually still breathing. Happily I had plenty of opportunity to do so, since Little Fish was not a happy person much of the night. Hot and "I not comfy Mummy" and a pyjama sleeve which did not want to behave itself and kept somehow freeing itself from her arm and wrapping itself around her neck or Nippy hosing instead.

So a respectable morning start at 7, medicate Mog and find her some Christmassy clothing, then watch her fall asleep as I drink the first coffee of the day. Radio on, clothes on, more coffee surrounded by the silence of sleeping children. It's nice not to be woken at silly o'clock by children too excited to sleep, but after nearly ten years of being a parent, it would be nice one day to have a child even vaguely excited about the prospect of Christmas.

Grannie arrived to help out, then left to ready the church. Little Fish declared herself full after 6 spoons of porridge, got excited at the party dress then very sad at the idea of tights. Her reflux is playing up at the moment so I now temporarily have two children on feeding pumps, fun times. The pumps we get (and no, we don't have any choice about which make of pump or even which model) come with a rucksack which is larger than Little Fish's back; she wears it sitting in her Minny chair and it comes up over her head and rests on the floor all at once. Mog my big girl has hers running at 90mls an hour and we just about manage to get 1.2Litres into her over the course of a day. Little Fish my toddler now has hers running at 300mls an hour and gets the same volume in 4 separate hour long feeds. And doesn't fidget, I don't get my hair pulled and my face slapped for fiddling with her sore tummy, and she doesn't puke. Just a minor tantrum as we turn it on. And then major potential for mayhem as she dances around Mog weaving an intricate web of tubes and giving sets. Good times.

To church, and to a sentence I never thought I'd say "Jesus is the only true WYSIWYG" ("What you see is what you get" for the non bloggers amongst you). We had a biscuit tin filled with rubbish (what fun), a lemonade bottle full of water (oh the joy), and earmuffs instead of headphones for the drummer (I reckon the drummer's family and neighbours might appreciate the headphones more than the drummer anyway, but what do I know?). Wildly excited children, some of whom claimed to have been up before 4, a church packed full again, jubilation and celebration and glee. And Mog slept through it. And Little Fish sat on my lap kissing my nose whispering "I like you Mummy". It could have been a lot worse.

A quick church tidy up (what do you do with 80 leftover Christingled oranges?) and back to my parents' for some cooking. Mog slumbered on, Little Fish slowly and deliberately transferred cheese biscuits one at a time onto a plate, then repeated the process for chocolate truffles, mince pies, and finally unwrapped the butter and put it in a dish - a process so exciting she had to take a trip into the sitting room to show Grandad.

Into the dining room, a table, assorted chairs, a Christmas tree and presents presents presents underneath. And Little Fish more excited by her highchair than by thoughts of any gifts.

Lunch (goose). Mog woke up, had a lick of Christmas Pudding, choked and opted out of other foods.

Finally coffee and time to open some presents. Mog opened her eyes. The girls started with their gifts from Helen House, and Mog's doll turned out to be her favourite.
She held it in her arms for the rest of the afternoon, not knocking it off or kicking it down once just clinging on firmly and dribbling gently down its back. We could have stopped there, and both girls would have been happy.

But we didn't stop, and now both girls have books and scarves and snuggly blankets, Mog has a coat and a shiny silver hat, lots of music and assorted new tops. Little Fish has an entire range of In The Night Garden stuff - amazingly no duplicates and each new piece greeted with further glee. An Upsy Daisy in bed, a Makka Pakka, a Ninky Nonk (I want a Ninky Nonk, would make a great rollercoaster - Alton Towers or similar please take note), stickers, books..it's safe to say she's a very happy girl. And she has her own little cooker now (not a working one, although it does have a rather annoying noisy little button on one ring which when depressed suggests adding salt and pepper or cooking soup. Inspired idea; she spent a good hour cooking cabbage and car soup to feed to her new baby, as Mog clutched her doll and looked on, grinning quietly when she thought no one was watching.

Dr Who ("what's that Mummy who's that what's that why they do that oh NO what's that what's that?"). And then walk home, and utter meltdown for Little Fish (and grins from Mog; she does find it funny when LF gets into a state), and then bed. Two cats queuing in the hallway pretending to be starved. And Mog, still not able to sleep in her bed, but cuddled to sleep in my arms and then gently placed hefted into her armchair for hopefully another peaceful night.

A good day. Family times, phone tag with relatives (both mine and Mog's), good food, a cosy sort of a day.

And now sitting here in peace, Mog's music playing softly and the hiss and whine of Little Fish's Nippy hinting that she may finally have settled. One cat on the kitchen table watching the fish, the other on a comfy chair watching me and trying to persuade me to go to bed. He could well be right.

Night all.
Tia

Christingle merrily on high.

The Christingle.
It's a beautiful service, the Christingle, very symbolic. An orange to represent the world, sweets to remind us of God's gifts and the four seasons, a red ribbon for the blood of Christ and a candle for the Light of the World.

Lovely. We have our Christingle on Christmas Eve - two of them now so more people can come. And even then the church is packed to the rafters, children sitting on carpets and knees and shoulders and running up and down the aisle, parents and grandparents trying to contain the excitement and catch a few words of the service.

A short pause to fix our eyes on Jesus before bedtime and stockings and Father Christmas and reindeer and mysteriously closed doors with intriguing sellotaping noises seeping through the house.

Alternatively, 200 people, over half of them children under ten, each child armed with a lit candle in a building made largely of wood, many of them totally unfamiliar with the layout of the church. Mayhem potential: high.

I quote the curate: "Parents, er, perhaps it would be a good idea if you could hold onto your children firmly now. When lighting the Christingle, please hold the unlit candle sideways and the lit candle upright to avoid spilling hot wax. Please sit still. Emergency exits are situated to the back and side of the church and in the event of an emergency ocean landing, the chutes will turn into lifeboats. Due to the highly flammable nature of the candles, oxygen masks will not be descending from the cupboard above your heards. Children, please stay with your parents."

Eventually the only light in the church is a slightly wobbly, breath-holdingly excited bobbling of white candles, as we sing "Oh Little Town of Bethlehem".

O little town of Bethlehem,
How still we see thee lie;
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by;
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting light.
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight.

For Christ is born of Mary,
And gathered all above,
While mortals sleep the angels keep
Their watch of wondering love.
O morning stars, together
Proclaim the holy birth !
And praises sing to God the King,
And peace to men on earth !

How silently, how silently
The wondrous gift is given !
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of His heaven.
No ear may hear His coming;
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive Him still,
The dear Christ enters in.

O holy Child of Bethlehem,
Descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin and enter in,
Be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels
The great glad tidings tell,
O come to us, abide with us,
Out Lord Emmanuel !

Silence then, or what passes for silence in a barn full of overexcited children waving flames, and as we pray I notice two enterprising children toasting the mini marshmallows from their Christingle over the candle flames.

Candles out, a collective sigh of relief from Curacy and Sidesmen all.

And then into the foyer and many Christmas greetings, from regular parishioners and from visitors. And then home, and time for this
before a bath and bed. We don't do stockings here, Little Fish is scared of Father Christmas and Mog is far too wise for her years. So the big treat tomorrow morning will be Grannie coming to help me get the girls dressed, and then we will be off to church and then to their house for food and presents and general family fun.

And now Mog is asleep, and Little Fish has finished coughing, the cats are fed and the house is settling down for the night.

I hope you all have a peaceful night and a beautiful day tomorrow.
Happy Christmas,
Tia and the girls.