I seem to have forgotten to blog. Perhaps for longer than I have forgotten to blog so far. Perhaps this is unsurprising, given we've been confronting Starting School, which has been marginally stressful (for me at least). For a start it involved LittleBear being at home for a week between the end of nursery and the start of school. And then he spent four "afternoons" at school, which actually consist of four one and a half hour sessions. And now he's undertaking mornings. And only next week will he actually properly start school in a full-time sense. All of which also coincided with the continuing complete and utter failure to function of everything I'm working on at work. And for reasons best known to myself I have started trying to teach myself HTML and CSS so I can write my own website. And the cat has brought fleas into the house. And my cleaner has been off work with severe morning sickness. And I'm training for a 10km race next weekend. And there's been an unnecessary quantity of hot weather, making sleep a distant memory.
The upshot of the above has been that I've been sleeping badly, ferrying a small boy to and from school by bicycle in nasty sticky weather, and then re-designing circuit boards, writing a website, running, cooking, cleaning, washing carpets, and generally stressing about more or less everything.
On the plus side, LittleBear so far thinks school is wonderful and he loves it. He is full of bounce and joy and excitement. Mostly he is enamoured of playtime. He is also very much his father's son. And he bears striking similarities to his uncle, BrotherBear. BrotherBear has always been noted for working on a "need to know" basis. He does not share unnecessary information, such as interests, hobbies, thoughts, opinions or his whereabouts with his family, unless he deems it necessary. Extracting information from LittleBear beyond the fact that he had a lovely time is proving challenging...
Did you have a story today?
Yes
What was it?
I don't know
Did you do any painting today?
I don't know
Did you play with Tom today?
I can't remember
Meanwhile, when I meet a fellow mother in the playground I am told, "Oh! This is LittleBear! I've heard so much about LittleBear, MyBoy is always talking about him!" Really? I've heard that LittleBear has a new friend, whose name might be MyBoy. And that's it. I had the same experience at nursery with SweetGirl, who apparently talked about LittleBear all the time. I'd never even heard her name until her mother introduced herself. Ah well, I can't be surprised, given the nature of his father, who is distinctly reticent about sharing information, or his uncle. It's just me that shares every passing thought with almost everyone I meet.
So I am still here, and more or less still functioning, but this is the first evening in a long time where writing here hasn't felt like a profligate waste of time in light of the enormous list of Things To Do that was following me around the house.
Thursday, 15 September 2016
Friday, 2 September 2016
Proving me wrong
There are few things that entertain LittleBear more than proving me wrong. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it's because I'm irritatingly infallible and all-knowing, so demonstrations of my failings are a rare and entertaining delight?*
There are games that LittleBear likes to play that are designed simply to demonstrate my wrongness. He will stand holding a bouncy ball and ask "which way am I going to throw it, this way or that way?" And naturally, whichever way I indicate, he throws the opposite way. Every time. And solemnly and vehemently insists that he had absolutely, definitely, completely, already decided which way to throw, and it's entirely coincidental that it's the opposite direction to that which I had chosen. This game can be adapted to many situations - which way am I going to jump? Which way am I going to throw nanoo? Which way am I going to swim? Which way am I going to run? Which dinosaur is going to attack the stegosaur? It's amazing the number of situations in which I can be hopelessly wrong.
And despite the fact that I am more or less utterly certain that LittleBear not only doesn't know that I write a blog, but he doesn't read it, he has now set about proving my most recent post utterly wrong...
Yesterday, on his last day at pre-school, I collected him and discovered that he'd eaten couscous with tuna and peppers. Now, this might not sound particularly radical to you, but he has never eaten tuna before, despite being offered it with tedious regularity. And though he loves peppers, he religiously picks cooked pepper out of anything it appears in. And the very idea of having foodstuffs mixed is anathema to him. Except yesterday. When he ate the whole lot and declared it to be "yummy".
Today, we went swimming (at LittleBear's request) at the municipal pool. Since it's still the school summer holidays here, the pool was FULL. We had to wait twenty minutes before we were issued a ticket to be allowed to even get changed to go in. And then one of the three pools was closed because there were too many people in it. Was LittleBear fazed? Did he attempt to avoid the hordes of teenagers in the pool? Did he cower at the side, not wanting to go where there were big children? He did not. He hurled himself around like a loon and wanted to go on the water-slides but was thwarted by the 8-year age limit on them. I was genuinely astounded that he wanted to go on a new and exciting activity that was also being used by bigger children. It's all context though. The swimming pool is somewhere that (now) he's amazingly confident and happy. He loves splashing and swimming and diving and jumping, and he doesn't care if there are other people there or not, as they don't really impinge on his own fun.
Now I just have to work out what went right with swimming and try and transfer that ease and confidence to a few other realms of his life. Though if it involves all the angst and tears that we had with swimming, I think I might stick with how things are now!
* You can stop laughing now.
There are games that LittleBear likes to play that are designed simply to demonstrate my wrongness. He will stand holding a bouncy ball and ask "which way am I going to throw it, this way or that way?" And naturally, whichever way I indicate, he throws the opposite way. Every time. And solemnly and vehemently insists that he had absolutely, definitely, completely, already decided which way to throw, and it's entirely coincidental that it's the opposite direction to that which I had chosen. This game can be adapted to many situations - which way am I going to jump? Which way am I going to throw nanoo? Which way am I going to swim? Which way am I going to run? Which dinosaur is going to attack the stegosaur? It's amazing the number of situations in which I can be hopelessly wrong.
And despite the fact that I am more or less utterly certain that LittleBear not only doesn't know that I write a blog, but he doesn't read it, he has now set about proving my most recent post utterly wrong...
Yesterday, on his last day at pre-school, I collected him and discovered that he'd eaten couscous with tuna and peppers. Now, this might not sound particularly radical to you, but he has never eaten tuna before, despite being offered it with tedious regularity. And though he loves peppers, he religiously picks cooked pepper out of anything it appears in. And the very idea of having foodstuffs mixed is anathema to him. Except yesterday. When he ate the whole lot and declared it to be "yummy".
Today, we went swimming (at LittleBear's request) at the municipal pool. Since it's still the school summer holidays here, the pool was FULL. We had to wait twenty minutes before we were issued a ticket to be allowed to even get changed to go in. And then one of the three pools was closed because there were too many people in it. Was LittleBear fazed? Did he attempt to avoid the hordes of teenagers in the pool? Did he cower at the side, not wanting to go where there were big children? He did not. He hurled himself around like a loon and wanted to go on the water-slides but was thwarted by the 8-year age limit on them. I was genuinely astounded that he wanted to go on a new and exciting activity that was also being used by bigger children. It's all context though. The swimming pool is somewhere that (now) he's amazingly confident and happy. He loves splashing and swimming and diving and jumping, and he doesn't care if there are other people there or not, as they don't really impinge on his own fun.
Now I just have to work out what went right with swimming and try and transfer that ease and confidence to a few other realms of his life. Though if it involves all the angst and tears that we had with swimming, I think I might stick with how things are now!
* You can stop laughing now.
Thursday, 1 September 2016
Another parenting crisis of confidence
Once again I have been Foolish and Deluded. I have committed the cardinal sin. I have transgressed my own rules. I have read an "expert" article on parenting. And now I am wracked with guilt and self-doubt. The article's all about raising a confident child, and about all the things to do right and therefore, by implication, all the things you might be doing wrong in raising your child.
Those of you who have been stalking me assiduously, or paying an alarming degree of attention to what I write, will recall that when setting out on the extraordinary adventure that is parenthood, BigBear and I discussed our hopes and fears for our proto-child. And we were unanimous in our desire to try to instill self-confidence, healthy self-esteem and happiness into whatever progeny we gave rise to.
And already, it feels as though I'm failing in my quest. My LittleBear is anxious and unconfident. Not always, not everywhere, and not with everyone. But there are clues to his lack of confidence...
- if I try to read him a new story, he puts his hands over his ears, just in case. He always wants to look through all the pictures in a book first, and discuss what might be happening, before he'll risk a new story, a new peril, a new outcome.
- if we go to the park, and there are other children there, he'll only play on equipment with no other child in evidence. If another child appears? He retreats. If all the play equipment is in use? He stands at the side of the park, head tucked down into his shoulders, not wanting to join in. This occurs even if he's there with his friends. We went to a play park with the small Tiggers, of whom BoyTigger is LittleBear's absolute hero and idol. And though BoyTigger and GirlTigger rushed off to play, LittleBear stood forlornly at the edge, immune to all encouragement, and then finally asked to go home.
- if he's faced with new food, he shakes his head, refuses to speak, and will get close to tears at the thought of trying anything new.
- if we play at a friend's house, and there are other children there too, he stays by my side, playing his own games, only with me, and hides behind me if another child tries to talk to him.
- if we go to a party, LittleBear remains attached to me in a limpet like fashion, unwilling or unable to interact with other people, only me.
I try, I really do try, to encourage, and support, and love and praise my beautiful, fragile little boy. And now yet another person is announcing that the power to raise a confident child lies solely with the parents. That the failure to raise a confident child lies solely with the parents. Another person is denying the possibility that there are inherent differences in personality, that there are traits that are not changed simply by being a better parent. I'm being the best parent I know how to be. More than that, I'm being a parent who is aware and alert to avoiding damaging an emerging sense of self in my son. And yet, still, I feel as though my baby is faced with a battle that I can't win for him. That I can't parent his way out of. And while I'm facing the dawning realisation that maybe this is just the way he is, I'm simultaneously being told the 17 Amazing Tips to Raise a Confident Child, as though that's all it takes. A recipe. A list. A set of check boxes.
For those who haven't read the article I linked to, these are the things I should be doing to make sure I raise a confident child.
1. Appreciate effort no matter if they win or lose
2. Encourage practice to build competence
3. Let them figure out problems by themselves
4. Let them act their age
5. Encourage curiosity
6. Give them new challenges
7. Avoid creating short cuts or making exceptions for your child
8. Never criticise their performance
9. Treat mistakes as building blocks for learning
10. Open the door to new experiences
11. Teach them what you know how to do
12. Don't tell them when you're worried about them
13. Praise them when they deal with adversity
14. Offer your help and support, but not too much of it
15. Applaud their courage to try something new
16. Celebrate the excitement of learning
17. Be authoritative, but not too forceful or strict
I've read this list, over and over again, and the description that goes with each item. And I've really tried to think critically about whether I do or don't manage those things. And honestly? I think I occasionally slip up on points 4, 7, 12 and 14, but I've pretty much nailed the rest. Seriously, I could give you chapter and verse, with examples, photographic evidence and citations of me doing exactly those things. In fact, now I've read what I should be doing, I'm actually quite pleased to discover that it's more or less exactly what I am doing. The disappointing thing is that it doesn't bloody well work.
And it makes me angry that "experts" parade their knowledge around, telling us all how to be better parents, how not to get it all wrong, how to make sure our children end up psychologically healthy, physically strong, mentally agile or whatever else their book is touting. And never do they acknowledge the spectrum of humanity that is represented in children. Never do they say, "actually, for the most part, if you're a good enough parent, your child will turn out however it's going to turn out, and you just have to roll with it".
And I'm trying to roll with it, really I am. I'm trying to walk the tightrope of giving LittleBear the opportunity to step out and try new things, while giving him the cushion of warmth and love to know that he's safe and loved no matter what he does. I'm trying not to worry too much about his fear of the unknown. I'm trying not to be petrified that next week he starts at school with 96 other four-year olds, of whom he's familiar with a scant handful, and friends with one. I'm trying not to cry when I think of him standing at the edge of the playground, afraid to join in. I'm trying not to break down when I picture him not eating anything at lunch-time as the new and strange food choices scare him into silence and terror. I'm trying. I'm really, really trying.
Those of you who have been stalking me assiduously, or paying an alarming degree of attention to what I write, will recall that when setting out on the extraordinary adventure that is parenthood, BigBear and I discussed our hopes and fears for our proto-child. And we were unanimous in our desire to try to instill self-confidence, healthy self-esteem and happiness into whatever progeny we gave rise to.
And already, it feels as though I'm failing in my quest. My LittleBear is anxious and unconfident. Not always, not everywhere, and not with everyone. But there are clues to his lack of confidence...
- if I try to read him a new story, he puts his hands over his ears, just in case. He always wants to look through all the pictures in a book first, and discuss what might be happening, before he'll risk a new story, a new peril, a new outcome.
- if we go to the park, and there are other children there, he'll only play on equipment with no other child in evidence. If another child appears? He retreats. If all the play equipment is in use? He stands at the side of the park, head tucked down into his shoulders, not wanting to join in. This occurs even if he's there with his friends. We went to a play park with the small Tiggers, of whom BoyTigger is LittleBear's absolute hero and idol. And though BoyTigger and GirlTigger rushed off to play, LittleBear stood forlornly at the edge, immune to all encouragement, and then finally asked to go home.
- if he's faced with new food, he shakes his head, refuses to speak, and will get close to tears at the thought of trying anything new.
- if we play at a friend's house, and there are other children there too, he stays by my side, playing his own games, only with me, and hides behind me if another child tries to talk to him.
- if we go to a party, LittleBear remains attached to me in a limpet like fashion, unwilling or unable to interact with other people, only me.
I try, I really do try, to encourage, and support, and love and praise my beautiful, fragile little boy. And now yet another person is announcing that the power to raise a confident child lies solely with the parents. That the failure to raise a confident child lies solely with the parents. Another person is denying the possibility that there are inherent differences in personality, that there are traits that are not changed simply by being a better parent. I'm being the best parent I know how to be. More than that, I'm being a parent who is aware and alert to avoiding damaging an emerging sense of self in my son. And yet, still, I feel as though my baby is faced with a battle that I can't win for him. That I can't parent his way out of. And while I'm facing the dawning realisation that maybe this is just the way he is, I'm simultaneously being told the 17 Amazing Tips to Raise a Confident Child, as though that's all it takes. A recipe. A list. A set of check boxes.
For those who haven't read the article I linked to, these are the things I should be doing to make sure I raise a confident child.
1. Appreciate effort no matter if they win or lose
2. Encourage practice to build competence
3. Let them figure out problems by themselves
4. Let them act their age
5. Encourage curiosity
6. Give them new challenges
7. Avoid creating short cuts or making exceptions for your child
8. Never criticise their performance
9. Treat mistakes as building blocks for learning
10. Open the door to new experiences
11. Teach them what you know how to do
12. Don't tell them when you're worried about them
13. Praise them when they deal with adversity
14. Offer your help and support, but not too much of it
15. Applaud their courage to try something new
16. Celebrate the excitement of learning
17. Be authoritative, but not too forceful or strict
I've read this list, over and over again, and the description that goes with each item. And I've really tried to think critically about whether I do or don't manage those things. And honestly? I think I occasionally slip up on points 4, 7, 12 and 14, but I've pretty much nailed the rest. Seriously, I could give you chapter and verse, with examples, photographic evidence and citations of me doing exactly those things. In fact, now I've read what I should be doing, I'm actually quite pleased to discover that it's more or less exactly what I am doing. The disappointing thing is that it doesn't bloody well work.
And it makes me angry that "experts" parade their knowledge around, telling us all how to be better parents, how not to get it all wrong, how to make sure our children end up psychologically healthy, physically strong, mentally agile or whatever else their book is touting. And never do they acknowledge the spectrum of humanity that is represented in children. Never do they say, "actually, for the most part, if you're a good enough parent, your child will turn out however it's going to turn out, and you just have to roll with it".
And I'm trying to roll with it, really I am. I'm trying to walk the tightrope of giving LittleBear the opportunity to step out and try new things, while giving him the cushion of warmth and love to know that he's safe and loved no matter what he does. I'm trying not to worry too much about his fear of the unknown. I'm trying not to be petrified that next week he starts at school with 96 other four-year olds, of whom he's familiar with a scant handful, and friends with one. I'm trying not to cry when I think of him standing at the edge of the playground, afraid to join in. I'm trying not to break down when I picture him not eating anything at lunch-time as the new and strange food choices scare him into silence and terror. I'm trying. I'm really, really trying.
Sunday, 28 August 2016
Things that irritate me...
...when I'm running. A list of things that irritate me generally would occupy far more than a single blog post. Even the patience of my devoted readers would not extend that far. No, this is very specifically the things that irritate me when I'm out running.
People.
Mostly, it's people.
There are the people who walk along, heads down, eyes on their phones, completely oblivious to everything around them. The young man on Wednesday, occupying the centre-ground on a pavement more than wide enough for two, concentration fixed on his phone. As I drew near, his aimless feet meandered him even closer to the line I was running, forcing me off the pavement and onto the road, at which point he looked up and gazed at me in slack-jawed incomprehension. If I'd been less British I'd have said something cutting. Instead I said "tsk" inside my head and kept running.
There are people who walk along in a group - sometimes a family of four, all holding hands; sometimes a group of friends chattering away; sometimes a school party heading for the bus. This section of pavement is the worst in my village:
Yes, you're right, it's a huge pavement. There is easily space to fit four people side-by-side across this pavement. And it is here that I regularly meet four people side-by-side. And none of them step aside. They can see me coming, sometimes they even make eye contact, but they resolutely march on, families holding hands, friends busy comparing notes on whatever it is teenagers care about these days. And I'm forced to run in the road. Why? Why are people so rude? How hard is it to share public space in a civilised fashion?
There are people who shout things from cars. Yes, I'm a woman. Yes, I have breasts. Yes, I'm running. This is not worthy of comment. And even if it is worthy of comment, it's only worthy of the kind of comment you are welcome to make to yourself. Quietly. And no, shouting at me to run faster is not funny, or clever. It's particularly not entertaining when a 7(ish) year old winds down the window and shouts at me to run faster.
There are people who are listening to such loud music on their headphones that they don't hear me running up behind them, even with my elephantine footsteps. Nor do they hear me call out "excuse me!". No, once again, I have to divert onto the road to bypass the noise-o-philes. It's beginning to be a good thing I live in a quiet village, with the frequency I end up in the road.
There have been a couple of notable occasions when self-absorbed, lazy arses have decided that they don't want to walk the 20 yards from the official carpark into the local shop, and instead have decided to drive their obscene four-by-fours up onto the pavement to park. The pavement that I have been running on at the time. I have literally had to leap sideways to avoid being run over.
There are the dog walkers. Not the lovely ones who see me coming and make sure that their dog isn't in a position to either be freaked out by me, or to want to chase me. Not the ones who very kindly stop and hold their dogs (and to whom I always offer a heartfelt thank you). No, it's the ones I never see. The ones who leave their dog poo all over the path. I live opposite a delightful bridlepath. One that is so well-used by dog-walkers that the council have kindly provided a poo-bin:
That little red box? That's a poo-bin. And the council send a poo-collection van every week. What a great job! Poo-collection operative! However, given this provision, why does there have to be so much poo on the path?
It's a good thing that most people are quite nice. Other runners who offer that rueful smile of mutually acknowledged exhaustion, people whose music is quiet enough that they hear my laboured tread coming behind them and discreetly move to one side of the pavement, drivers who see that I'm heading towards crossing a side-road and wave me across so I don't need to break stride, the aforementioned dog walkers who keep their dogs calm and under control. It's everyone else that pisses me off.
Photographs purloined from Google Streetview.
People.
Mostly, it's people.
There are the people who walk along, heads down, eyes on their phones, completely oblivious to everything around them. The young man on Wednesday, occupying the centre-ground on a pavement more than wide enough for two, concentration fixed on his phone. As I drew near, his aimless feet meandered him even closer to the line I was running, forcing me off the pavement and onto the road, at which point he looked up and gazed at me in slack-jawed incomprehension. If I'd been less British I'd have said something cutting. Instead I said "tsk" inside my head and kept running.
There are people who walk along in a group - sometimes a family of four, all holding hands; sometimes a group of friends chattering away; sometimes a school party heading for the bus. This section of pavement is the worst in my village:
Yes, you're right, it's a huge pavement. There is easily space to fit four people side-by-side across this pavement. And it is here that I regularly meet four people side-by-side. And none of them step aside. They can see me coming, sometimes they even make eye contact, but they resolutely march on, families holding hands, friends busy comparing notes on whatever it is teenagers care about these days. And I'm forced to run in the road. Why? Why are people so rude? How hard is it to share public space in a civilised fashion?
There are people who shout things from cars. Yes, I'm a woman. Yes, I have breasts. Yes, I'm running. This is not worthy of comment. And even if it is worthy of comment, it's only worthy of the kind of comment you are welcome to make to yourself. Quietly. And no, shouting at me to run faster is not funny, or clever. It's particularly not entertaining when a 7(ish) year old winds down the window and shouts at me to run faster.
There are people who are listening to such loud music on their headphones that they don't hear me running up behind them, even with my elephantine footsteps. Nor do they hear me call out "excuse me!". No, once again, I have to divert onto the road to bypass the noise-o-philes. It's beginning to be a good thing I live in a quiet village, with the frequency I end up in the road.
There have been a couple of notable occasions when self-absorbed, lazy arses have decided that they don't want to walk the 20 yards from the official carpark into the local shop, and instead have decided to drive their obscene four-by-fours up onto the pavement to park. The pavement that I have been running on at the time. I have literally had to leap sideways to avoid being run over.
There are the dog walkers. Not the lovely ones who see me coming and make sure that their dog isn't in a position to either be freaked out by me, or to want to chase me. Not the ones who very kindly stop and hold their dogs (and to whom I always offer a heartfelt thank you). No, it's the ones I never see. The ones who leave their dog poo all over the path. I live opposite a delightful bridlepath. One that is so well-used by dog-walkers that the council have kindly provided a poo-bin:
That little red box? That's a poo-bin. And the council send a poo-collection van every week. What a great job! Poo-collection operative! However, given this provision, why does there have to be so much poo on the path?
It's a good thing that most people are quite nice. Other runners who offer that rueful smile of mutually acknowledged exhaustion, people whose music is quiet enough that they hear my laboured tread coming behind them and discreetly move to one side of the pavement, drivers who see that I'm heading towards crossing a side-road and wave me across so I don't need to break stride, the aforementioned dog walkers who keep their dogs calm and under control. It's everyone else that pisses me off.
Photographs purloined from Google Streetview.
Thursday, 25 August 2016
A day in the life
7am - woken by a small boy landing on my bladder for a cuddle. Oof. The cuddle's nice though.
7:15 - obligatory snuggle in bed and I read a page of a dinosaur encyclopedia. Isn't this how everyone starts the day?
7:15 - 8:15 - wrangle LittleBear into clothes, food and tooth-brushing, interspersed with lego playing
8:20 - finally insert LittleBear into the car and head to work/nursery. Spend the next 25 minutes continuing our epic tale of dinosaur adventures. This story has been running for about 2 months now. On every car journey. I'm getting better at off-the-cuff story telling. Today sees a Spinosaur, a Sauroposeidon and a Stegosaur making ice-sculptures of themselves half way up a mountain. It would take too long to explain how we got to this point in the story. About two months too long.
8:45 - deposit LittleBear at nursery. He only has 5 more days left and there are beginning to be a lot of "goodbyes" and "last evers". Despite four years at nursery, and apparently being very happy there, he still clings to me and asks me to stay. Every day. It's only got marginally easier over 4 years. At least I don't leave the carpark in tears any more.
8:55 - arrive at work to find everything is still broken. Spend the next 8 hours in a blue funk with my boss, desperately trying to find ways to make a recalcitrant heap of scrap metal behave a bit more like a precision scientific instrument. It's due to head to the customer in three days time and currently isn't good for much more than propping the door open with. And there's not many people who'd be happy to spend £150,000 on a door-stop.
5pm - collect LittleBear, who is hot, sweaty, over-excited and desperate for more dinosaur tales. My poor exhausted brain attempts to string some exciting stories together while not driving into any tractors.
5:45 - 6:45 - make dinner for LittleBear, insert dinner into LittleBear, answer intriguing questions about how many different ways 10 coloured pens can be arranged. (It's never too early to start on combinatorial mathematics is it?) Some intensive lego building.
6:45 - give up on persuading LittleBear to come to the bathroom and carry a sobbing, snotty small boy to his bath. Then attempt to bath a small boy with a minor cut on his leg who refuses to bend said leg, or allow water to touch it.
7:20 - kiss my soft, sweet-smelling boy goodnight and leave him sat on BigBear's lap for his bedtime stories.
7:30 - set out on a 5+ km run. It's still 27C outside, and the combine harvesters are spewing dust into the air.
8pm - home in a sweaty heap, to pace up and down drinking pints and pints of water, while BigBear gets ready for his run. What kind of madness is it that we're training for races on the same day?
8:30 - finally start cooking dinner for me and BigBear.
8:45 - at least it was a quick dinner to cook, and I can tuck in. BigBear sweats his way back into the house but won't be ready to eat for another half hour at least. I eat alone.
9pm - now I can settle down on the sofa... to write an instruction manual for a mass spectrometer. Because there's no longer any time in the day, whilst at work, to do anything mundane like sit at a PC and write. If I'm in the building I'm sweating blood over non-functioning instruments. This particular instruction manual is a bugger. The customer decided to buy a bag of bits from us, asserting he could "build his own" mass spectrometer. Now he's complaining that all he's got is a bag of bits and he doesn't know what to do. Sadly, one of my colleagues promised "full documentation", so muggins here is trying to fully document a bag of bits.
10:45 - I was about to go to bed, but then BigBear has received a text about suspicious activity on his debit card, so instead we spend some time checking and double-checking that actually it's all fine and no money has evaporated.
11pm - bed. Free time? Free time is for wusses.
7:15 - obligatory snuggle in bed and I read a page of a dinosaur encyclopedia. Isn't this how everyone starts the day?
7:15 - 8:15 - wrangle LittleBear into clothes, food and tooth-brushing, interspersed with lego playing
8:20 - finally insert LittleBear into the car and head to work/nursery. Spend the next 25 minutes continuing our epic tale of dinosaur adventures. This story has been running for about 2 months now. On every car journey. I'm getting better at off-the-cuff story telling. Today sees a Spinosaur, a Sauroposeidon and a Stegosaur making ice-sculptures of themselves half way up a mountain. It would take too long to explain how we got to this point in the story. About two months too long.
8:45 - deposit LittleBear at nursery. He only has 5 more days left and there are beginning to be a lot of "goodbyes" and "last evers". Despite four years at nursery, and apparently being very happy there, he still clings to me and asks me to stay. Every day. It's only got marginally easier over 4 years. At least I don't leave the carpark in tears any more.
8:55 - arrive at work to find everything is still broken. Spend the next 8 hours in a blue funk with my boss, desperately trying to find ways to make a recalcitrant heap of scrap metal behave a bit more like a precision scientific instrument. It's due to head to the customer in three days time and currently isn't good for much more than propping the door open with. And there's not many people who'd be happy to spend £150,000 on a door-stop.
5pm - collect LittleBear, who is hot, sweaty, over-excited and desperate for more dinosaur tales. My poor exhausted brain attempts to string some exciting stories together while not driving into any tractors.
5:45 - 6:45 - make dinner for LittleBear, insert dinner into LittleBear, answer intriguing questions about how many different ways 10 coloured pens can be arranged. (It's never too early to start on combinatorial mathematics is it?) Some intensive lego building.
6:45 - give up on persuading LittleBear to come to the bathroom and carry a sobbing, snotty small boy to his bath. Then attempt to bath a small boy with a minor cut on his leg who refuses to bend said leg, or allow water to touch it.
7:20 - kiss my soft, sweet-smelling boy goodnight and leave him sat on BigBear's lap for his bedtime stories.
7:30 - set out on a 5+ km run. It's still 27C outside, and the combine harvesters are spewing dust into the air.
8pm - home in a sweaty heap, to pace up and down drinking pints and pints of water, while BigBear gets ready for his run. What kind of madness is it that we're training for races on the same day?
8:30 - finally start cooking dinner for me and BigBear.
8:45 - at least it was a quick dinner to cook, and I can tuck in. BigBear sweats his way back into the house but won't be ready to eat for another half hour at least. I eat alone.
9pm - now I can settle down on the sofa... to write an instruction manual for a mass spectrometer. Because there's no longer any time in the day, whilst at work, to do anything mundane like sit at a PC and write. If I'm in the building I'm sweating blood over non-functioning instruments. This particular instruction manual is a bugger. The customer decided to buy a bag of bits from us, asserting he could "build his own" mass spectrometer. Now he's complaining that all he's got is a bag of bits and he doesn't know what to do. Sadly, one of my colleagues promised "full documentation", so muggins here is trying to fully document a bag of bits.
10:45 - I was about to go to bed, but then BigBear has received a text about suspicious activity on his debit card, so instead we spend some time checking and double-checking that actually it's all fine and no money has evaporated.
11pm - bed. Free time? Free time is for wusses.
Saturday, 20 August 2016
What I did on my summer holidays
Since I'm a bit too tired to write, I've decided instead to just hurl some photos at the screen and see what happens. Maybe this is more of a plog than a blog today?
Just look at the pretty pictures....
Just look at the pretty pictures....
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| Give him a rock, and he'll climb it |
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| If he's not climbing them, he's jumping off them |
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| Or persuading Daddy to join the jumping fun |
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| How can I not be restored with this view? |
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| How about when those same mountains disappear for several days on end? |
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| I turn my back and LittleBear gets over-ambitious with his choice of rock for our dam-building |
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| The hydrologist pauses to consider his next step |
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| Leading his mother and grandmother up the mountain |
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| LittleBear really does like to be in the lead |
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| In which I discover the stepping stones are probably best not attempted by 4-year olds |
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| A rock and a river are made for each other |
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| Thumbs up for another conquest |
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| Being a 'jagular' in a tree |
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| Me and my boy in the shadow of a mightier peak |
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| Are there any bears in these woods? |
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| We retreated shortly after this photo, when GrannyBear was nearly blown off the mountain. |
Friday, 19 August 2016
Returning to the 21st century
I seem to have been a bit quiet here lately. In large part this was because our recent holiday took us back to the 19th century. Our cottage does have electricity, and it does have a telephone. Though the quality of the line is such that I wouldn't be surprised to hear "Mr. Watson—Come here—I want to see you". In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if Mr Watson hadn't been able to hear Mr Bell rather more clearly than I manage to hear anything on our contraption.
Among the things that our cottage doesn't have however are: television, radio and internet. The next door cottage does have an internet connection, and one of those rather friendly WiFi boxes that allows other people to tunnel through it to the outside world. In a very solidly built slate cottage however, it was occasionally necessary to actually press your device against the wall when standing on one leg and praying to the gods of electromagnetism to be able to get enough WiFi signal to download a plain text weather forecast. So blogging wasn't happening.
Then we came home.
And my cleaner has morning sickness and hasn't been for over a month, so I had to remember how to clean. I got bored after about half the house, but at least that half included the bathrooms.
And I'm addicted to watching the Olympics, so I keep staying up too late, getting too tired and then having no energy reserves for anything other than being cross with LittleBear and eating too much. *
And I'm spending my non-Olympic-destroyed patches of time writing Other Stuff. It's work-related stuff, and difficult, and I'm not enjoying it, and it's making me fraught and stressed, but I keep feeling I need to get it done before I'm "allowed" to write anything of my own instead. Tonight I've decided I'm allowed to do "me" stuff in my free-time, and that four evenings in a row of work stuff is enough for this week.
And I've re-remembered that I'm running a 10k in just under 6 weeks and I've just spent two weeks on holiday without doing any running at all, so I've had to knuckle down to actually going out running again.
All of which has meant I haven't really found the time for writing here.
So this is me, finding a small window of time and reminding you that I'm still here, and reminding myself that I can still put fingers to keyboard and write about something other than scientific instruments.
* What's different this evening?
My choices are:
- various forms of fighting. I don't like fighting
- women in huge quantities of make up and bling dancing with ribbons, which is skillful, but frankly a bit bloody weird. I keep trying to watch, and keep giving up at the weirdness of it.
- women's gold medal hockey match. Far, far, far too stressful.
Among the things that our cottage doesn't have however are: television, radio and internet. The next door cottage does have an internet connection, and one of those rather friendly WiFi boxes that allows other people to tunnel through it to the outside world. In a very solidly built slate cottage however, it was occasionally necessary to actually press your device against the wall when standing on one leg and praying to the gods of electromagnetism to be able to get enough WiFi signal to download a plain text weather forecast. So blogging wasn't happening.
Then we came home.
And my cleaner has morning sickness and hasn't been for over a month, so I had to remember how to clean. I got bored after about half the house, but at least that half included the bathrooms.
And I'm addicted to watching the Olympics, so I keep staying up too late, getting too tired and then having no energy reserves for anything other than being cross with LittleBear and eating too much. *
And I'm spending my non-Olympic-destroyed patches of time writing Other Stuff. It's work-related stuff, and difficult, and I'm not enjoying it, and it's making me fraught and stressed, but I keep feeling I need to get it done before I'm "allowed" to write anything of my own instead. Tonight I've decided I'm allowed to do "me" stuff in my free-time, and that four evenings in a row of work stuff is enough for this week.
And I've re-remembered that I'm running a 10k in just under 6 weeks and I've just spent two weeks on holiday without doing any running at all, so I've had to knuckle down to actually going out running again.
All of which has meant I haven't really found the time for writing here.
So this is me, finding a small window of time and reminding you that I'm still here, and reminding myself that I can still put fingers to keyboard and write about something other than scientific instruments.
* What's different this evening?
My choices are:
- various forms of fighting. I don't like fighting
- women in huge quantities of make up and bling dancing with ribbons, which is skillful, but frankly a bit bloody weird. I keep trying to watch, and keep giving up at the weirdness of it.
- women's gold medal hockey match. Far, far, far too stressful.
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