Posted under People I love
My little world, seen through a glass, darkly. Or, more accurately, reflected in a garden ornament…me in regulation green wellies, Bertie with his handbag, MrSpud displaying freakish jazz hands, Klingon Baby Diggy in a sling, one little fat leg poking out…our house…our garden…pig food lurking in the background.
My husband, my sons, my home, my life. 1, 2, 3, 4…that’s me counting my blessings x
Posted under People I love, Photography, Witterings
Inspired by Janet of Are We There Yet? [random fact...I share a birthday with her] I’ve hitched a ride on the Postcrossing bandwagon…because who doesn’t like getting lovely things in the post? Chuck in the frisson of excitement of lovely things in the post from total strangers and you can see why the bandwagon is looking a little crowded these days.
I’m pretending to do it for my boys, using each card as a learning opportunity about new places, new people, different cultures and the like. A globe has been purchased and a system for displaying and then filing the postcards has been established. As things progress I will likely create an appropriate taxonomy for the cards but I’m way ahead of myself as…um…I haven’t actually received any yet.
But I will do, and any day now. I’ve briefed Postman Andy not to be afraid of me pouncing on him again each day, eager to inspect his wares. He’s not yet recovered from the 30 Secrets project and wild accusations of wig stealing…but I digress.
Not content with just picking up a few postcards of our local town for the project, I have had some of my photos made in to postcards by the wonderful people at Moo. Chuck in some Moo Stickers to decorate said cards with and I’m good to go. These aren’t just postcards…they’re works of art. Preens preens..ra ra ra…
So I dragged my boys in to town today to send postcards to Finland and the USA. Whilst there I remembered that, outside the library, is a funny little French postbox which seems completely out of place given that we live in, er, Britain. So we investigated as I thought it would be a fitting departure lounge for my finely crafted and exquisite works of art postcards. Well, I investigated…the boys did this until they got dizzy and fell over…
I hadn’t misremembered…right next to the ‘real’ postbox is this French one, a gift to the town from its ‘twin town’ in France in 1991. A little odd…couldn’t they have sent a lifetime’s supply of some cheeky little red for everyone or something? It’s on the shabbier side of shabby chic, don’t you think? Look at the fine, British post box…brave, tall and RED…long live the Queen etc etc….then compare and contrast with the French number…1-0 to les rosbifs I think…
Let’s look a bit closer shall we? Well, it’s kind of pretty and ornate…and rather quaint actually. ‘Saturday’s collection has been done’ it says…good to know. But, no, wait! It’s Friday today…that’s a bit worrying. What the hell has Postman Andy been doing since last Saturday? Wearing my bloody wig I bet. Suddenly, the French option is looking less appealing. Worse, look at this sign next to it…
Now this is a real worry…so there’s one collection a day, not ideal but this is the country afterall…they only collect for a couple of months of the year, hmmm now that’s quite slack…but even more worrying…collections are only made Monday to Friday. WHAT? Scroll up…the box says it was last emptied on Saturday. BUT THEY DON’T COLLECT ON A SATURDAY! WTF… is this some kind of joke and, if so, who is the joke on? And who’s going to have the last laugh? I bet that box is stuffed full of postcards from 1991 and it’s never once been emptied…Postman Andy, I’m on to you…be afraid.
But, seriously, who thought this was a good idea? Apart from mentalists like me, who would choose to post their labouriously scribbled postcards in a dodgy looking ‘pretend’ mailbox when one of Her Royal Maj’s real deal boxes is standing right next to it? I’ll bet it was one of ‘those’ local council meetings when that phoney ‘postbox’ arrived…they must have all sat round puzzling at it, going “Merde! Zut alors! What are we going to do with ‘that’…it’s embarrassing”. Then someone piped up, “I know, I know…shove it on the wall round the back of the library where no one really goes anyway but put it next to a real postbox…then add some confusing information about ‘collections’…and tell Postman Andy not to bother collecting from it anyway. Actually, scratch that…let’s just chuck the key away and be done with it. No one will ever know. Now, shall we have a nice cup of tea and some biscuits?”
For myself? I voted with my feet…I chose British…Rule Britannia! And all who sail in her…
Posted under Photography, Witterings
I’ve been a-pondering…and this is my ‘ponder’….that this is the first year in my whole life that I’ve been acutely aware of the passing of the seasons which, I suppose, is due to living in the country. Previously the seasons have been measured and defined by Spring/Summer and Autumn/Winter collections and, when I lived with my parents, the dates when the central heating was ceremoniously turned on and off (1 October and 1 April…regardless of the weather). But this year nature has unfolded its seasons for me RIGHT THERE in my garden, in the fields, in the hedgerows…a veritable gala performance, just for me. Fancy that!
The phrase “One swallow does not make a spring” meant nothing to me until this year, when the first swallows arrived and we watched them swoop and dive, then nest in stables and outbuildings and have babies. Then the swifts rocked up and, having ensconced themselves in our roof, the fun really began. Last year we had barn owls nesting in our neighbour’s barn…alas, no such luck this year although we’ve spotted a couple out hunting at dusk. Since when did I dig birds?! Look at me…I’m a twitcher (faints dead away).
Enough of the birds, let’s talk road safety…who knew that the passing of the seasons could have such a dramatic effect on road safety and, more specifically, the drive from our home to the boys’ nursery. It’s not a long journey, but it’s challenging and is thus not-so-affectionately known as the ‘Drive of Doom’ Chez Spud. In the winter, we slipped and slid up the lanes on black ice and mud on the roads…now the summer is here we zip round corners completely blind, unable to see approaching traffic because of the luscious hedgerows. It took me a week to realise why I could not longer ‘get the view’ for a particularly heart stopping ‘corner plus blind summit’ combo…ah, bless my little city girl cotton socks.
But the main stage for the seasonal drama is, of course, right outside my window. We are very fortunate to have inherited a mature garden, well stocked with all kinds of plants, shrubs, trees and, especially, flowers. There has been a delicious sense of expectation, of ‘ooh what next?!’ all through the year. I tell you, it’s better than telly..from the first snowdrops of the year,
…to carpets of violets, first sweet smelling purple ones then white …
..and hyacinths; pink, white and blue plus banks of these lovely grape hyacinths…
..and, of course, daffodils…dominating the garden for a few weeks, so many different types I lost count…
…and blossom, blossom everywhere…
…plus, my favourite, helibores…
..then up popped the foxgloves…
…soon replaced by vast hollyhocks in pink, purple and white…
…and all of a sudden it was summer, and there were daisies and buttercups in the meadows and poppies..poppies..poppies everywhere…
…roses all over the place of course, and this huge bank of lovely blue flowers (what are they?) which were out for a couple of weeks and then disappeared, literally overnight (bye! see you next year) …
…and red hot pokers, ornamental daisies and irises (again, they didn’t last long – it’s surprising how fleeting some visitors are)…
…and then a whole field of huge thistles in front of our office, beloved by butterflies, bees and goldfinches…
I could go on, but you get the picture. Sadly, it already it feels like we’re all done with summer; the nights are drawing in and the garden is gearing up for Autumn . The blossom on the blackberries is nearly gone and the fruit is starting to form – perhaps this year we’ll manage not to eat the ones we pick as we walk back to the house? Perhaps I will finally get to make a blackberry crumble? The tomatoes are yet to ripen, and yet I’m already planning chutney with the leftovers. The blossom on the apple trees has done its stuff…
… and perhaps this year we will get to eat them before the deer do. Oooh blackberry and apple crumble? And, squeeks excitedly, a vast pumpkin patch is lurking at the bottom of the garden, all ready for Halloween…
To everything there is a season…here is Bertie in the field in January…
…same spot, in March…
…and, finally, Diggy in the same spot in June…
I must remember to get a snap in the same place in the Autumn…ideally troughing our way through a vast blackberry and apple crumble. To everything there is a season…
Posted under People I love
‘Megaboys’…that’s what MrSpud calls our children, his megaboys or his ‘men’. I think they must actually think they are a new, higher order of boys though as they now call themselves Megaboys (“Daddy! The Megaboys are in the bath!”). Must stop this before they start school for fear of any Lord of the Flies type thoughts entering their pretty little blonde heads.
So yesterday we carted the Megaboys off to a local horse show because that’s just the kind of fun parents that we were. There were horses, as you might expect at a horse show…
And, rather randomly but wonderful anyway, owls…
and then all the usual paraphernalia of such events; beer tents, live music, cake stalls, raffles, tombolas…all the trappings of an English fete in fact including a couple of rides and activities for small children. Both boys were pretty keen on a vast, and improbably pink, inflatable slide which I was very unsure about for Diggy as he’s only two. But I stood and watched my baby climb climb climb all the way to the top, slowly, carefully and with great determination. There was no WAY he was going to stand round and watch his big brother have all the fun…
…and then, as I saw his beaming smile as he reached the top, I felt them…those little tears of pride starting to prick. I couldn’t help myself, I didn’t dare look at MrSpud who blubs like a girl at the best of times. I was suddenly so aware of how grown up he is and how quickly he’s turned from a yelling newborn bundle of fury in to the brave little chap I was watching climb the mountain and hurl himself down, shrieking with sheer joy.
I haven’t had the easiest of relationships with Diggy. I found the first year of having two children very tough and I didn’t cope as well I might. Diggy was a very clingy baby and needed holding constantly, day and night. Sleep deprivation was high, and just getting through the day with the Klingon and a toddler was tough. I didn’t really ‘enjoy’ Diggy for a long time and that’s a real sadness to me; I can’t get those early weeks and months back, they are lost to me now. The memories are mostly bad ones; struggling through it and feeling so resentful that Bertie’s babyhood had been cut short by the unexpected arrival of Diggy…and how little time I had for my ‘big boy’ as I always had the baby in my arms. Or rather on my tummy or back as the Klingon basically lived in a sling for the best part of the first year of his life…
He’s still pretty high octane, a hurracaine really…but he lives life at 150% and is so up for everything that you have to forgive his maddening, willful streak. He is very affectionate and charms everyone we meet with his breezy nature and those white blonde curls. I’m hopelessly addicted to his sweet kisses and cuddles, and the feel of those soft chubby cheeks. It’s a wonderful feeling, this overwhelming, dizzy making feeling of being ‘in love’ with your child…I can’t get enough of it. It’s been a long time coming.
Posted under People I love, Photography, Witterings
Bunting at the Regatta
Despite a grey and drizzly start to the day, which involved frantic head scratching Chez Spud about ‘what do we do when the weather is rubbish?’, things brightened up pretty quickly and by lunchtime it was glorious.
Just as well as it was our town’s annual regatta today…think: loads of boats, boat racing, nautical types, pink shirts, collars up, Crocs by the million, poor sound systems, tombolas, hog roasts, bad live music, warm beer, ice cream, bouncy castles, carousels, candy floss, children pumped on sugar and parents on the edge etc etc. All so quintessentially English. And all so delightful; it even involved a successful ice-cream ‘in public’ attempt which is always a bonus.
Two of Diggy’s biggest EVER tantrums have been over ice-creams ‘in public’, more specifically him letting his ice-cream melt too much and thus dropping it on the floor and then totally losing it. One of them was so bad I ended up having to shoehorn him back in to his car seat by effectively elbowing him in the stomach to get him to bend - he was totally rigid with fury and had been for 20 minutes whilst a small crowd of JudgeyPants gathered and tutted at me(thanks guys, your reward is in heaven..remember that). He was 16 months old…you can imagine how we feared the ‘terrible twos’ given that he was a seasoned pro by 16 months.
Moments before the first, monumental ice-cream droppage tantrum..it set the standard..
It’s been a year since an ice-cream related tantrum occurred, but the memory of them is terrifying enough that ice-creams ‘in public’ still bring me out in a bit of a sweat. The main issue is that he never stops talking (hmm, now where does he get that from?) and thus the ice-cream melts whilst he is chattering away. A previous tactic to avoid ‘the droppage’ has been for either parent to swoop in and lick the melty bits before the entire structure gives way. Such a mistake, he has a tantrum about that too – he hates it if you take his food, even if he has no intention of eating it (clearly not the case with ice-cream) and has been known to attempt to take food out of your mouth if he thinks it’s ‘his’. Thus, by deploying the ‘emergency licking’ technique to avoid a tantrum, you actually end up causing one.
Tip: ALWAYS take the tub option over cone...NB ice-cream on the beach in mid-winter
So ice-creams ‘in public’ now involve ignoring any of his attempts to engage you in conversation and constant ‘KEEP LICKING!’ orders, barked at him in a slightly shrill tone. It takes an age, and by the time he’s finished we’re normally running late so he has to take a ride on MrSpud’s shoulders to override the default toddler walking speeds of dead slow/stop/reverse to examine every leaf on the path. That works out well; we get where we need to in good time, and Diggy saves me the job of clearing up the post ice-cream aftermath by wiping his sticky hands on MrSpud’s hair. What’s left of it…
Posted under People I love, Witterings
Bertie...often mistaken for 'Betty' as he is a bit girly..clip doesn't help?
Julocha’s very funny post today about her learner driver buddy named ‘Snow’ got me thinking a bit about names, specifically the huge responsibility that we have when we name our children. It’s so tough…interesting but not to whacky, popular without being ‘too’ popular, meaningful, easy to spell, goes with your surname etc etc etc. And then there are all those people who can’t resist sticking their noses in and giving their unwanted, unasked for opinion of your choices. A friend of mine named her son Barnaby..her mother in law rang her when the baby was a few weeks old to tell her she was, ‘Coming round slowly to the idea of the name Barnaby’. WTF?
When I was expecting Bertie I made the mistake of telling my cousin we liked the name Celia for a girl. She launched in to a major rant about what an ugly/old fashioned name it is and that I would be cruel to name a child Celia. I was rather hurt but put it down to her being completely off her face slightly tipsy at the time. But the next morning she sat me down, with a hurty head, to tell me again what a vile choice Celia was for a girl. Then she added insult to injury by adding that her chosen girl’s name was Lucy, our grandmother’s name…which was my second choice for a girl’s name. Two lessons learnt here: (1) NEVER discuss your name choices with other people and (2) bagsy family names quickly.
On which note, ‘Celia’ turned out to be a boy and we named him Albert, but he’s known as Bertie. Albert is a family name on both mine and MrSpud’s side: it’s my grandfather’s name (although he’s known as Bert) and it was MrSpud’s grandfather’s middle name. We thought it was a fitting choice and that everyone would be so touched at our thoughtfulness. Oh…how…wrong we were.
My grandfather’s reaction? “Bertie? Bertie? No, I don’t like that, not at all. No. Bert is a good name. You should call him Bert”. Hmmmm. And MrSpud’s grandmother on hearing the news that her recently departed husband’s name would be carried on? “Bertie? As in Albert? Oh darling, Grandpa HATED that name!” Lesson three: do not depend on family to be pathetically grateful for naming your child after them.
Another tip, check your chosen name isn’t a traditional dog’s name. We chose Digby (always known as Diggy or Diggers) for our second child because we love the name. No other reason than that. But sooooo many people say, “Digby? What, as in ‘The Biggest Dog in the World’” Gah, I’d never come across that film as it’s not on The Approved List. Ah well.
Finally, the acid test for all names should be ‘Does it pass the rock star/prime minister/president test?’ i.e are you saddling your child with a name which will preclude them from pursuing their chosen career without ridicule and scorn? Can Bertie be a rock star, probably not but his initials are ART which kind of works. Can Digby be Prime Minister? Yes I think so, although he’ll have to quit the tantrums.
Not so the two children I came across recently. I know, I know…you shouldn’t criticise other people’s name choices but these were SO ridiculous that I don’t care. If you are reading this, mother of GYPSY and PIRATE, then you are a cruel woman. Pirate? Pirate? Who on earth told you that was a good idea? Long John Silver?
Posted under People I love, Photography, Witterings
It’s pretty exhausting keeping up with the non stop fun at Chez Spud, that much I will admit. My boys are generally well up for it but, sometimes, it all gets a bit much for them. They concede, they admit defeat, they submit and then they lie down on the floor and take a nap.
Here’s Bertie, 3 years old, a few days ago. It was about 10am when it was suddenly all too much…he couldn’t take the pace. So he grabbed a couple of cushions and lay down on the kitchen floor. Strange choice, we have beds, sofas, floors with carpets on them even, all mod cons but, apparently, the cold, hard, filthy kitchen tiles are the place to snuggle down for a doze:
Eyes…barely…open…
Meanwhile, in the playroom, Diggy was following his brother’s lead and was also settling down for a nap. He was probably exhausted having drawn all over his face with a red pen. In fact he’d also drawn all over the piano too. Later, I drew all over my Grudge Book...
I swear I took these photos within seconds of each other. So I had Bertie dozing on my kitchen floor, and Diggy thinking about a nap on the playroom floor. And it was 10am – I’d not even cracked open the dressing up box yet. Oh, hang on, this one is nodding off…eyes rolling back…note blue colouring in on hand…
For a child who, from memory, didn’t sleep AT ALL for the first year of his life he’s developed quite a talent for ‘on the hoof’ snoozing. Here he is, a few days before, sneaking a teatime nap on MrSpud
Oh, and look! MrSpud is snoozing too! It seems he can’t keep up with all the Chez Spud antics either. Shame on you Mr Spud, sleeping on the job. Like a horse. Well, more like a pony of course in your case. A Shetland Pony. A very, very, small Shetland Pony. A Shetland Pony foal, in fact.
If I don’t ever blog again, it’s because MrSpud has finally cracked and has beaten me to death with The Saucepans. SOS (save..our…saucepans).
Posted under People I love, Photography, Witterings
I love MrSpud for many reasons, one of which is his sheer gutsiness. I must say that I do try not to tell him too often, just to keep him on his toes and also as a kind of ongoing vengeance for The Saucepans. On which note, a friend told me that his wife just bought him one of those files for removing dead skin from your feet as a wedding anniversary present….love that, “Here, Happy Anniversary! Now take this and turn those trotters back in to feet wouldya?”
But back to MrSpud and his funny little ways. Yesterday he goodly offered to take the boys to the park in a bike trailer despite the blistering heat. The boys were pretty chuffed about this as they’ve never been in a bike trailer before. So we borrowed one from our friend, who luckily was too busy filing his trotters to take his own children out and about in it.
Here are the boys, clipping themselves in and ready to go. Note hard hats…don’t you love their utter trust in their father’s ability to get them places in one piece:
Is there a life jacket with a whistle for attracting attention anywhere?
Bye Mummy! Feel free to loaf around on the sofa surfing the net while we’re gone won’t you?
Bertie looking a little unsure, still looking for the life jacket?
Ready for the off, MrSpud looking confident…er but MrSpud, you’re not supposed to PUSH the bike, you’re supposed to cycle it?
MrSpud looking confident
Oh good, he’s worked it out, he’s getting on the bike, this is good:
Nice sandals...do you wear socks with those sometimes MrSpud?
Hoorah, they’re off. Oh, but MrSpud…it’s a bit of a hill…do you think, perhaps, you’ve over estimated your own strength? You’re only very little remember and you’ve got two heffalumps in the back there?
Note Bertie looking entirely unimpressed in the back
Oh, and he’s OFF. Yes, he is OFF the bike and pushing again having cycled for approximately 2 metres (admittedly a little better than my 21cm shot put).
And he's off...I repeat..he is off
COOOOEEEEE MrSpud, turn around, let’s get a shot of you in your moment of shame shall we? No?
Run MrSpud! Run like the wind...
Giggle. I don’t ‘think’ he pushed them all the way to the park, but MrSpud learnt a valuable lesson about how embarrassing it is when you wildly overestimate your own strength and have your wife photograph the entire episode and then write about it on the WWW DOT, as my Grandad calls it. How he must wish he’d ticked the ‘must be loving and supportive’ box when shopping for me on the internet. No point trying to get a refund now MrSpud, I’m used goods, my packaging is not intact and my labels have been removed. You’re stuck with me! Now stop whining or I’ll buy you a de-trotter for your birthday.
