A Day for Heroes
Today's heroes: the babycarrier and my eldest, the pre-teen. Looking to your ten-year-old to save the day can't be the best idea in the world, so I wasn't looking for help. And a day on which our baby carrier is your hero isn't likey to be the best day of your week. This one wasn't.
After not really the best night, Alba and I go back to bed for one of those lovely long naps we like to indulge in after nights like the last. A little while after what was meant to be a long while, the doorbell rings and wakes us up. I tumble down the stairs to open up and find my neighbour offering me a gift of a four cherries with four splodges of chocolate on. Does that sound a bit random? It is, and it's coming from a neighbour who is prone to the occasional random gesture, particularly when alcohol is involved. Four cherries mid-morning, and our nap is over.
Which is just as well, since playing with an increasingly mobile baby while first shopping, then chopping veggies for tonight's dinner - Greek salad with pea fritters - takes up every moment between nap and the school run at three. It also covers every square inch of kitchen floor with toys and bread crumbs.
Three pm! School run! Nap time for the baby! We'll combine the two, I take her in the pushchair so I can later park her in the garden and get on with what remains of dinner preparation, mushing peas and mixing batter. We arrive a little early and walk in circles in a corner of the playground. Alba closes her eyes on the tenth round of the climbing frame and we venture over to the classroom. Thirty kids come pouring out and run past us. Alba's eyes ping open. On the way home, we do another ten rounds of the block but it turns out that she feels perfectly refreshed after her three minute doze.
Theo has come home with 'special homework' in Maths, something he missed a few weeks back when ill for a day. The clock and time: 'A duck race is scheduled for 1.40pm, here is a delay of 55 minutes...'
Will you help me do this quickly, Mummy? he asks. I want to get this done quickly before I watch the telly and have my treat.
I'm impressed with his determination, so we sit down right away. Ten minutes later we've cracked two questions and Alba has distributed everthing that was on the table onto the floor. Theo is whining that it's not easy but still does not want any break.
We tackle the next question while I bribe Alba with food. Before we know it, the food is on the floor with everything else. I'm getting irritable, Alba is restless, Theo frustrated. But a break is still not acceptable to him.
I try to help Alba walk about the floor while supporting the Maths from across the room. It's not going very well and we're going in circles just like the arms of the clock. But baby is taking her first steps from pushchair to chair. Look, Theo, look! She went from here to here all by herself! I shout just as she falls under the table and hits hear head hard, also all by herself.
This is it with the Maths for me: I can't help you like this! You WILL eat you snack now! You will watch the telly now! You can wait until your dad comes home to ask his help! And while we're there you can mind the baby for me while I try to fix up our dinner!
I finally manage to part puree a kilo of peas. There are shouts from the front room. A television emergency! Alba sat on the remote controls and the film cannot be retrieved! When a mother is needed in the front room it's a reasonable thing to leave the mixer standing upright in a bowl of pureed peas, judged to be quite perfectly upright, is it not?
There is a thud: It is not.
Now there are toys, breadcrumbs and mushed frozen peas on the kitchen floor. I sob a little, step across the solid mess and wipe up mushy peas.
With all children staying safely out of sight in the front room, dinner progresses to the stage at which I realise that I need six eggs.
I have two eggs. But I have been working on this dinner since 11am and we. will. be. eating. this. dinner. and. not. something. else.
The pre-teen daughter who is happy to walk through town with her friends or go to the library alone regrettably does not feel ready to go to the shops to buy eggs.
It's all a bit much but it's tickled my stubborn streak.
Out comes the baby carrier because I WILL serve pea fritters up tonight, and I WILL keep the clingy non-sleeper happy.
Dad comes through the door in his cycle gear, takes one look at the desaster and says the magic words, What do you want me to do?
Theo turns up as if by magic, Maths homework in hand. Boil some rice, I request, we'll be back in a minute!
One minute down the road, we can see The Neighbour of the Cherries tottering up the street, walking in a straight line being a thing of the morning, and holding on to fences for support. A brief mental struggle: monitor her and see her home safely or trust she's been there before and can make it home? I change over to the other side of the street, prioritising my dinner, and feel worse than before.
By the time I'm back, the rice is boiling but it's become clear that daddy is going to be as bad as mummy at helping with the Maths. Mummy is frazzled, daddy is racking up a very high swear jar bill.
And this is the point at which things take a turn.
Let me have a look at that, says Cara to Theo. Says the pre-teen who's been practising Superior Airs on her younger sibling for the last year. Says the girl that usually finds her little brother Most Pesky until after dinner when I want them to go to sleep.
But she takes a look at the paper, pronounces it do-able (as did mum and dad) - and then does it, a million times better than mum or dad.
Cara is much better at teaching me than either of you, finds Theo.
They stick their heads together and work till the work is done, and just looking at this little miracle of unexpected love and kindness where I didn't expect it, just like that, the tiredness and frustration lift.
How lovely would it be if the mess and peas also just lifted themselves off the floor? But the broom did that. The over-tired, clingy baby safely tucked away on my back and out of trouble. It's my first domestic back-carry, and I'm liking it! Very much. So much so that I think I can move straight on to a bit of gardening, since daddy has taken over the frying of the pea fritters.
After not really the best night, Alba and I go back to bed for one of those lovely long naps we like to indulge in after nights like the last. A little while after what was meant to be a long while, the doorbell rings and wakes us up. I tumble down the stairs to open up and find my neighbour offering me a gift of a four cherries with four splodges of chocolate on. Does that sound a bit random? It is, and it's coming from a neighbour who is prone to the occasional random gesture, particularly when alcohol is involved. Four cherries mid-morning, and our nap is over.
Which is just as well, since playing with an increasingly mobile baby while first shopping, then chopping veggies for tonight's dinner - Greek salad with pea fritters - takes up every moment between nap and the school run at three. It also covers every square inch of kitchen floor with toys and bread crumbs.
Three pm! School run! Nap time for the baby! We'll combine the two, I take her in the pushchair so I can later park her in the garden and get on with what remains of dinner preparation, mushing peas and mixing batter. We arrive a little early and walk in circles in a corner of the playground. Alba closes her eyes on the tenth round of the climbing frame and we venture over to the classroom. Thirty kids come pouring out and run past us. Alba's eyes ping open. On the way home, we do another ten rounds of the block but it turns out that she feels perfectly refreshed after her three minute doze.
Theo has come home with 'special homework' in Maths, something he missed a few weeks back when ill for a day. The clock and time: 'A duck race is scheduled for 1.40pm, here is a delay of 55 minutes...'
Will you help me do this quickly, Mummy? he asks. I want to get this done quickly before I watch the telly and have my treat.
I'm impressed with his determination, so we sit down right away. Ten minutes later we've cracked two questions and Alba has distributed everthing that was on the table onto the floor. Theo is whining that it's not easy but still does not want any break.
We tackle the next question while I bribe Alba with food. Before we know it, the food is on the floor with everything else. I'm getting irritable, Alba is restless, Theo frustrated. But a break is still not acceptable to him.
I try to help Alba walk about the floor while supporting the Maths from across the room. It's not going very well and we're going in circles just like the arms of the clock. But baby is taking her first steps from pushchair to chair. Look, Theo, look! She went from here to here all by herself! I shout just as she falls under the table and hits hear head hard, also all by herself.
This is it with the Maths for me: I can't help you like this! You WILL eat you snack now! You will watch the telly now! You can wait until your dad comes home to ask his help! And while we're there you can mind the baby for me while I try to fix up our dinner!
I finally manage to part puree a kilo of peas. There are shouts from the front room. A television emergency! Alba sat on the remote controls and the film cannot be retrieved! When a mother is needed in the front room it's a reasonable thing to leave the mixer standing upright in a bowl of pureed peas, judged to be quite perfectly upright, is it not?
There is a thud: It is not.
Now there are toys, breadcrumbs and mushed frozen peas on the kitchen floor. I sob a little, step across the solid mess and wipe up mushy peas.
With all children staying safely out of sight in the front room, dinner progresses to the stage at which I realise that I need six eggs.
I have two eggs. But I have been working on this dinner since 11am and we. will. be. eating. this. dinner. and. not. something. else.
The pre-teen daughter who is happy to walk through town with her friends or go to the library alone regrettably does not feel ready to go to the shops to buy eggs.
It's all a bit much but it's tickled my stubborn streak.
Out comes the baby carrier because I WILL serve pea fritters up tonight, and I WILL keep the clingy non-sleeper happy.
Dad comes through the door in his cycle gear, takes one look at the desaster and says the magic words, What do you want me to do?
Theo turns up as if by magic, Maths homework in hand. Boil some rice, I request, we'll be back in a minute!
One minute down the road, we can see The Neighbour of the Cherries tottering up the street, walking in a straight line being a thing of the morning, and holding on to fences for support. A brief mental struggle: monitor her and see her home safely or trust she's been there before and can make it home? I change over to the other side of the street, prioritising my dinner, and feel worse than before.
By the time I'm back, the rice is boiling but it's become clear that daddy is going to be as bad as mummy at helping with the Maths. Mummy is frazzled, daddy is racking up a very high swear jar bill.
And this is the point at which things take a turn.
Let me have a look at that, says Cara to Theo. Says the pre-teen who's been practising Superior Airs on her younger sibling for the last year. Says the girl that usually finds her little brother Most Pesky until after dinner when I want them to go to sleep.
But she takes a look at the paper, pronounces it do-able (as did mum and dad) - and then does it, a million times better than mum or dad.
Cara is much better at teaching me than either of you, finds Theo.
They stick their heads together and work till the work is done, and just looking at this little miracle of unexpected love and kindness where I didn't expect it, just like that, the tiredness and frustration lift.
How lovely would it be if the mess and peas also just lifted themselves off the floor? But the broom did that. The over-tired, clingy baby safely tucked away on my back and out of trouble. It's my first domestic back-carry, and I'm liking it! Very much. So much so that I think I can move straight on to a bit of gardening, since daddy has taken over the frying of the pea fritters.
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| A broom to pick up the mess, a carrier to pick up the baby. |
Strawberry picking isn't the way to go but just being out in the garden, with all my little troubles of the day being taken care of, has me as happy as I was grumpy before, and I'm a little bit high on how well the back pack arrangement is working for me: Jay! Come and look at the nice bust this back-carry is giving me! Really nice boobs! I shout at my Other Half. Come and take a photo of my boobs for me!
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| *Click* here for a nice bust |
The Other Half drops the frying of the fritters, duly takes five pictures and returns to the hob.
I'm going to water the strawberries now! I've seen some fabulous water photos on Instagram and the light is just right! I want a fabulous water photo too! Please come and take a photo of us watering the garden! Oooh, Alma, look! A rainbow! Mummy is making a rainbow for you!
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| Mummy is making you a rainbow! |
The Other Half rolls his eyes but abandons the fritters. The light is just right but the wind isn't and one minute later I've sprayed him with water head to toe. This time he only takes two pictures. We're lucky he is still in his cycle gear and dries off fast.
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| When one helps the other... that's love. |
My personal heroes of the day: My daughter and the baby carrier. The true heroes of today are London's firefighters, because In Other News, in London, Grenfell Tower is burning. First reports speak of mothers dropping their babies and children from windows, from hights from which you wouldn't want to drop your children. A baby is caught by a gentleman, that's how the report puts it: He stepped forward and caught the baby. They speak of first six, then seven dead, but the death toll will rise much higher. I will be thinking of the mum who dropped her baby from the tenth floor for a very long time to come.
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