Derangement relieved

Here I sit, in the dark, in a hotel room in central London, trying to type quietly while LittleBear snores beside me.

The last time I took LittleBear away to a hotel was our road trip to Lyme Regis, and I have to say, that a mere five hours in, and I've already made some better decisions about this excursion:

• we came by train, and thus LittleBear was not sick
• I have booked a hotel room with two double beds, and therefore I do not have to spend the night being kicked by a small wrigglesome creature
• I have discovered* that my laptop has a little light that can shine upon my keyboard, so I can even see to type in the dark

I was feeling more than a little trepidatious today about this whole expedition, starting with the idea of whisking LittleBear straight home from school with no dithering in time for a 3:30 taxi and hoping the taxi would get us through school-rush-hour traffic to the station on the other side of town for a 4:15 train. To my utter astonishment, this worked seamlessly. And the train was almost empty, and LittleBear was good, and helpful and listened to me, and didn't behave like a lunatic.

My trepidation extended to the idea of London underground with a six year old at 5pm, so I made the profligate decision to catch a cab, and we thus traversed London (slowly) above ground, but without being trampled on or squashed or terrified. And then the hotel restaurant, despite alarmingly declaring itself to only be Asian fusion cuisine, turned out to do pizza and fishfingers and other child-friendly (and LittleBear friendly) delectables, so we didn't even have to leave the building to find dinner, which was something of a relief with an exhausted boy in tow. And I got to have Nasi goreng and a glass of wine, which was a bonus.

Now all we have to do is get enough sleep that we don't both sit on the floor and sob in the Natural History Museum tomorrow. I probably haven't mentioned the middle--of-the-night requirement for Emergency Mummy Cuddles last night have I? They happened. Which has probably contributed to LittleBear falling asleep so quickly in strange surroundings, and also to my general zombie-like state. In fact, it's entirely possible that even though it's only just past 9pm, I might go to bed myself more or less nowish...


* BigBear explained this feature to me after I complained in my blog about not being able to see to type. I felt like a Bear of Very Little Brain after that.

Another deranged plan

This time tomorrow, LittleBear and I (all being well) will be safely ensconced in a hotel in central London, in preparation for a Wildly Exciting Adventure. On Friday, LittleBear's school has a teacher-training day, so we're going to take the opportunity of hoping that the Natural History Museum will be not quite as insanely busy as it is at the weekend, and spend the day there. And since we're going all the way to London, we're then going to go to London Zoo on Saturday. I must be insane.

To give you a minor insight into the exact levels of my insanity, here's a selection of the things that I've packed:

- three sets of pyjamas
- an encyclopedia of animals
- a packet of cheese biscuits
- steri-strips and surgical dressings
- a laptop, a tablet and a smartphone
- chocolate fingers
- mouth ulcer gel
- three toy sharks
- two cuddly sharks

There are perils in packing when feeling tired and stressed. It would be fair to say I may not be at my most rational.

If I survive the experience, I may even tell you about it. Watch this space...

You shan't go to the ball

Back in the Old Days (the ones before LittleBear, and sleep deprivation, and the evaporation of a social life) I used to make a habit of holding a mulled-wine and mince pie party before Christmas. I would make vast quantities of pies and biscuits and mince pies and buy enough cheese to sink a battleship, and mull enough wine to drown a camel. Friends would arrive from near and far, and we would stay up too late and feel ropey in the morning.

Last year, I managed to return to something along those lines, and it was fun - not only to regain some semblance of Life As It Used To Be, but also just to eat and drink and be merry. Though I confess, I was looking at my watch anxiously as it passed midnight, and wondering whether child-free friends realised that it was past my bedtime...

Last year I was clearly feeling brave and bold, because I didn't just have a mulled-wine and mince pie party, I held a children's party in the afternoon as well so that friends who were deficient in the baby-sitter department could also come out and eat cheese*.

And, generally speaking, I recall last year's events with fondness. I think people enjoyed it. I enjoyed it. LittleBear and his friends enjoyed it and LittleBear went to bed and to sleep without being too perturbed by a houseful of people.

So, in the spirit of festive fun, I'd been vaguely planning to do something similar this year. And then, last night, while wallowing in self-pity as I struggled to eat, drink, talk or sleep without excruciating pain due to the massive ulcer on the side of my tongue, I found another ulcer developing under my top lip. And I threw the whole idea of a party in the bin.

One mouth ulcer and the whole party is cancelled?

Surely that's some kind of over-reaction?

It's really not, honest. Mouth ulcers in my life are symptomatic of being stretched to breaking point, of my immune system being on the point of utter collapse, of the candle having been burnt at too many ends. The combination of LittleBear's birthday and party (and cake), weathering the storm of chickenpox, drowning under a tidal wave of work, trying to get ready for Christmas, and rashly arranging a weekend in London with LittleBear in four days time** has left me with only one possible day on which to hold a party before Christmas. And to be honest, if I only have one free day between now and Christmas, I suspect I will find there are a lot of other things I need to be doing on that day.

And I feel sad, and a bit crap, but in possession of just enough self awareness to remind myself that not holding a party will not result in the immediate and instant evaporation of all my friends. Because, being inclined that way, I do assume that I have to do things for my friends for them to like me. If I don't feed them, they might leave me...

So, this year, I am sorry to say, there will be no Christmas party, and PhysicsBear shall not go to the ball.

On the other hand, last year's "Christmas" party didn't actually happen until 4th February, so there's hope yet for us all to enjoy a festival of cheese.
 



* Yes, cheese always features prominently.

** That's the sound of me panicking.

Fusion cookery

By popular demand*, here comes the post about The Birthday Cake. This year's cake, as ever, was of a general dinosaur-esque theme. But it was heavily influenced, in LittleBear's mind, by a rather more sophisticated cake that he'd seen in a book. Somewhat further back in time, I made a cake for GrandmaBear's birthday, and I made the rather rash decision to consult the male bears in the household about the design of the cake, using a cake decorating book as reference. BigBear did not have strong views, but LittleBear certainly did, and what is more, he felt inspired to make Helpful Suggestions regarding a design for his own cake.

GrandmaBear's cake turned out reasonably well, despite my misgivings about my ability to pipe royal icing with anything approaching a smooth flow.

GrandmaBear's cake

However (and you knew there was going to be one), LittleBear spotted this cake in the book:

Chocolate box cake

That's right - a beautifully constructed cake designed to look like a beautiful box of chocolates. This would, in itself, have constituted a Challenge Too Far for my decorating skills, but then LittleBear didn't exactly want a cake like that. He wanted a cake that had a lid on, with chocolates hiding inside, but he wanted the chocolates to be dinosaur eggs, and the box to be camouflaged and disguised with leaves and twigs so as to look like a nest, and there needed to be dinosaurs marching round the outside.

Obviously, the correct answer at this point would have been hysterical laughter followed swiftly by "not on your life, sunshine."

I suspect you've already guessed that this wasn't the answer I gave, which is how I ended up making nearly a kilogram of chocolate icing early this month.

Step one in the cake-making saga was relatively straightforward. I made two layers of chocolate cake, and one layer of chocolate cookie (to be the lid).

Basic elements

This rapidly became less straightforward when it became clear that a large slab of chocolate cookie is not structurally sound. In fact, it wasn't possible to pick it up, let alone use it as a lid for a cake, so I resorted to re-baking it until it was teetering on the brink of burnt, at which point it became reliably crisper and more rigid. Surprisingly it was still tasty, though with two days till party time, I was prepared to accept an inedible lid just to complete the challenge.

While I was busy worrying about the structural integrity of the lid, I was also contemplating how to create the recess in the top that would allow the concealment of the eggs. Having used a cake mixture that used 3 eggs to make the two slabs pictured above, I decided that I needed to make a rectangular perimeter with a 1-egg mixture, thus occupying one third of the area of the above slabs. For geometrical reasons that I won't go into, this resulted in me lying awake at 3:30am trying to calculate the square root of 32 in my head.

Fortunately, working in an engineering firm allowed me to knock up a modification to one of my cake tins during my lunch hour, allowing me to make a perimeter cake:

Perimeter prior to baking

Perimeter fresh from the oven

And thus I was liberated to start making industrial quantities of icing, and building The Cake of Doom.

Industrial quantities of chocolate icing

Layer one

Layer one iced

Layer two added

Layer two with perimeter icing

Perimeter layer added

Plastered in chocolate

I was then able to fill the cake with chocolate eggs, and insert a little extra structural support just in case the twice-baked cookie wasn't up to the job of spanning the top.

Egg-filled, reinforced cake

What I should have mentioned at some point was that for the week prior to making the cake, I'd spent most evenings tediously lovingly crafting sugarpaste leaves in various semi-convincing shades of green. These I was then able to stick down all over the outside of the cake and the lid, thus rendering it brilliantly camouflaged against any predators hoping to steal the dinosaur eggs.

They'll never find the eggs in here

Which most people would think was more than enough cake, but LittleBear had been quite clear about the need for dinosaurs as well. Which is how I ended up with six individual dinosaur cakes standing around in plastic cups with icing dripping off their feet.

Which also then allowed me to (re)discover that the T.rexs in this particular set of dinosaur cake moulds are unable to stand up, and therefore need artfully arranged "logs" to lean against.

I could stand up if I wanted to, really I could

And then I forgot to take a picture of the completed cake. Because I had a party for 25 small children to finish organising.

And though this all sounds like a stupid amount of effort to have made, my boy not only loved his cake, and loved eating it, but he also joined in making it, and it became an opportunity to have fun together.

Making his own cake

I do find myself saying the same thing this year as I've said on previous years however, which is that next year I won't ask LittleBear what he wants, or if I do I'll rein in the wilder excesses of his imagination. But I know myself. So I can more or less guarantee you'll find me doing something equally daft next year.


* OK, one person asked about the cake. Frankly, that's as popular as I get.

Drama? Me?

So here we are, at day 4 of chickenpox. The day that People On The Internet said was the absolute worst day of chickenpox, and to be dreaded at all costs. What happened? I went to work, and left a remarkably perky small boy eating toast in my bed, while trying to persuade his rather tired father to play games with a giant cuddly squid. And when I got home, I found an even perkier small boy, and and even more tired husband. A small boy who had needed no calpol, no piriton, no virusoothe, no calamine all day. A small boy who had developed no new spots all day. A small boy who showed every sign of being more-or-less better.

This morning, LittleBear woke up after half past seven* after having slept soundly all night without a whimper.

This evening, LittleBear went to bed with no drugs, no lotions, potions, liniments or creams, and we haven't (two hours in and counting) heard anything from him.

Tomorrow, on the grounds of some vaguely suspicious spots that may or may not have a crust on them, he will stay home again. I don't want to be That Parent, who sends their infectious child back to school, and while I'm 95% certain the vaguely suspicious spots are dry and not wet, I don't think an extra day to be certain will be a bad thing.

So, once again, all my doom and gloom has been proved groundless. Once again, I should know better than to read about other people's children on the internet**. Once again, I should just accept that sometimes what will be, will be, and I should just roll with it. Once again, getting myself wound up to a fever-pitch of anxiety serves no useful function whatsoever. But if I became relaxed and able to handle minor bumps in the road of life without assuming that the suspension of my mind has broken and all the wheels of my life have fallen off, I'd have nothing left to write about, and you'd all be very disappointed. I'm just doing it for you.



* For those souls who either don't have children, or who have forgotten, this is essentially a miracle.

** You would have thought that I would have learnt my lesson from discovering that books about child-rearing were deeply unhelpful, or that parenting articles frequently piss me off. But apparently I can't be taught.

Better, worse and better

Chickenpox appears to be something of a rollercoaster ride, as with many LittleBear illnesses. One minute he's hurtling around the house, playing "keepy-downy" with a helium balloon, the next he's curled up on the sofa, with a heap of cuddly toys and a soothing DVD on in front of him. I admit there is a strong correlation between bounciness and piriton/calpol levels, so today we're keeping him dosed up a bit more than yesterday.

During the day yesterday, there seemed to be little development in the spot department, and then as the tail end of the day approached, every time I looked at my bear there seemed to be more spots, in increasingly unpleasant places. The fact that he is deeply resistant to the application of calamine lotion or the consumption of piriton syrup is not helping the itching, though he's gradually being persuaded that these implements of parental torture do actually help and are therefore worth having. This has not reduced the amount of sobbing, complaining and insistence that it's the worst thing in the world ever. Right up there with tooth-brushing*.

Bedtime was deceptively easy, with a somnolent (if itchy) small boy settled into bed, covered in calamine. And then, about two hours after bedtime, presumably as one sleep cycle shifted into another, my poor baby started making the most heart-rending keening, whimpering noises. I kept checking on him, and finding him asleep, whimpering and squirming, rubbing his back and head and tummy. And this continued, every 15 minutes or so for, well, I'm not quite sure how long for, as I'm a terrible mother and managed to go to sleep, despite the pathetic whimpering. BigBear reports it continued for quite some time however.

I had been happily sitting on the sofa, engaged in some calligraphy, when the whimpering started, and I immediately felt sick and tearful, hearing my baby's distress. I stopped being able to concentrate on what I was doing, I couldn't watch television, I couldn't read my book. I immediately, in my twisted little mind, leapt to catastrophic-thinking - fearing we would be up all night, and that then I'd be crabby and tired and tearful today. I got the spare bedroom ready in case I needed a place to share a bed with my poorly boy. I paced around the landing and bedroom, wondering what I could do to help my boy, even though he was asleep. In the end I did nothing. I went to bed, and (to my surprise) exhaustion got the better of anxiety, and I slept soundly until 7am, when LittleBear trotted out of his room to the bathroom.

And then BigBear and LittleBear allowed me a couple of extra hours in bed, and when I came downstairs, I played with dinosaurs with a perky small boy, who doesn't seem to have many more spots, though still has a lot that show no sign of blistering, and I'm left wondering how I tell if they're going to blister or not. How long do I wait before I conclude there are no more fresh blisters to come? It's a mystery...

And then, an hour after I got up, the tears and grumpiness returned, so we inserted more piriton and calpol to get our small boy back on an even keel.

So, it could be better, it could be worse, and as usual the worst parts seem to be in my head.

* Tooth brushing has become marginally easier thanks to the Eternally Clinging Tooth finally falling out yesterday morning. This event was in itself a trauma, as it happened in bed and resulted in a small quantity of blood emerging AND that blood ending up on the beloved nanoo. The wailing continued for a tediously long time, and even the lure of the tooth fairy bringing a whole pound in return for the tooth was not enough to stop the tears.

The Pox

It's been a while since I've written anything, in large part because I have crossed over from A Bit Tired to So Exhausted I Don't Function. And that is, in large part, due to the transition from having a 5-year old to having a 6-year old, which necessitated a party. A large party. A large and exhausting party. A large and exhausting party with a large and exhausting cake.

I had been planning to write about the cake and show you all how marvelous I am, and what a skilled and amazing cake-maker I am. But I was too tired to bother, and now LittleBear has chickenpox, and I'm wondering why I didn't get him vaccinated.*

Yesterday morning started with a sobbing small boy, and BigBear informing me that his little boy appeared to have chickenpox as I appeared downstairs from the shower. LittleBear was distraught, not at the idea of being ill, but at the thought of missing school, missing Golden Time, missing Crown Assembly, missing a playdate with his Best Friends In The World and missing Go To School In Spots Day. (Oh, the irony...)

So yesterday I stayed home with my LittleBear, and we played, and we built Lego models, and we had our own Golden Time, and we ate fishfingers, and it was all basically OK. There were some spots, some blisters, some itching, some tiredness and sadness, but nothing too bad. He even went to bed and to sleep easily and calmly.

Then today....

Today there are many more spots, in many more nasty places, such as eyelids, and lips, and inside ears. And there are many more blisters, which are much more itchy. And there is much more scratching, and sadness and pathos.

And I did a Foolish Thing. I read stuff on the internet. I read that (allegedly) it's the fourth day that's the worst. I read about children who slept no more than an hour a night, who screamed and scratched and wailed. I read about the itching getting worse and worse and worse. I read about not being able to leave the house for two weeks. I read about new waves of spots arriving just when you think it's all over.

And I keep looking at my poor, pathetic, itchy, sad baby and wondering how much worse it's going to get before it gets better. I wonder how poorly he will get, how hard he will find it to sleep, or eat, how long we will be trapped at home feeling sad, and itchy and poorly and bored and irritable.

Because there's only one thing worse than having a poorly child, and that's having a poorly child when you're already tired, and you've read Other People's Opinions On the Internet, and you're susceptible to worst-case thinking, and prone to anxiety, and suddenly everything seems terrible.

What I really need to do is look at the little munchkin curled up under a duvet on the sofa with his cuddly penguins and cuddly giant squid, watching Blue Planet II, tired, but apparently quite content. This is the truth. The internet is full of lies. 


* I am rabidly pro-vaccination but also incredibly disorganised and allergic to phoning the doctor's surgery for an appointment. Many vaccinations are given as standard in this country, and they just happen without me needing to actively do much. Chickenpox is not one of the standard panoply, so it didn't happen.

Probably OK

Every now and then* I worry about my LittleBear. I worry about his oddities, the ways in which he's not like other children, whether he'll continue to fit in, to have friends, to be happy.

Last week, he was invited to a friend's house to watch a film. Normally he will point blank refuse to consider such a thing, because films are scary and horrid and he doesn't want to watch them. Ditto all other forms of fiction. However, on this occasion, several of his dearest friends were gathering and he seemed to think it a nice idea. Five minutes into the film ("Sing" as it happens) I found he was curled into a small ball, cuddling his penguin, shark and two nanoos, with his fingers in his ears, shaking his head. A bit of cuddling and I ascertained that it was "too scary" and he wanted to go home. My heart broke a little bit for my poor baby, but I snuggled him away from the film, and he settled down to play with toy cars instead so that he could stay for pizza with the others. He was entirely content playing instead, but it just fuelled my worries about his "otherness".

Lately, we've been playing Scrabble together, and it turns out that the structure of playing with letters and numbers appeals to my boy enormously. He loves the idea of letters having points values, and everywhere we go now he's busy scoring words, numberplates, signs, names, anything. A few days ago, he was eating potato waffles and baked beans for dinner. This may seem unrelated to playing Scrabble, apart from one of the peculiarities of this meal in our household. Those of you not familiar with potato waffles - they are a grid of reformed potato, thus:

Rectilinear potato

Those of you not familiar with early electronic calculators or the inner workings of my mind may not spot the potential to form seven-segment-display characters from a potato waffle.

The geometric essence of a potato waffle

The simple application of a sharp knife allows the creation of a wide variety of letters:

B, E and r, rendered from potato-y goodness

Under instruction from my little tyrant however, I have also attempted extravagant feats of cursive letters from a potato waffle. They are convincing only in the mind of a five year old:

A somewhat unconvincing, and fragile o and s

When last munching his way through his own name (yes, yes, I do construct his name from chopped up potato waffle. Yes, I am a fool.) LittleBear piped up,

"Mummy? Do you know what half of three points is?"

Not spotting anything out of the ordinary yet, naturally I responded,

"One-and-a-half points darling."

"No Mummy, it's actually one point."

"Is it? Why's that?"

"Well, if you cut an 'M' in half it's an 'N'; if you cut a 'B' in half it's an 'O'; if you cut a 'C' in half it's an 'R'"

"!"

Let me help you here, dear readers.

3-point M becomes 1-point N

3-point B becomes 1-point O

3-point C becomes 1-point R

Now, while I may think it's awesome that LittleBear has memorised the scores of every letter on the Scrabble board, and is able to take a sideways view of the structure of letters and think laterally and generally be adorable, I also fear for what this approach to the world will mean amongst other children (and adults). I have enough experience of being a bit odd, and a bit on the outside, to know that it's not always the most comfortable place to be. I may be comfortable(ish) with who I am aged 43, but I don't want it to take my LittleBear that long to be OK.

And then, this morning, he came out with something that put my mind at rest about his ability to have friends and be friends and be part of the world in a loving and awesome way...

"Mummy? I've been thinking about my party."

"Yes dear?"

"LittleFriend doesn't like chocolate, so we need to make sure there's something else that he likes."

Because this Saturday is LittleBear's sixth birthday party, and he has planned his cake in extraordinary detail**, including the important fact that it is a chocolate cake. But, out of the twenty-seven*** children attending, one of his dearest friends doesn't like chocolate. I'm not sure it is possible for me to be more proud of my baby than I am about the fact that he remembered this, and cared so much about the happiness of his friend that he wants to be sure there is cake for him too.

I think LittleBear will probably be OK.


* When I say "every now and then" obviously I really mean "almost constantly". 

** My ability to realise this cake in actual physical form will start being challenged tonight. My stress levels are already high. By Friday they may be stratospheric.

*** Yes, really. This may be one of the stupidest things I've ever done. Twenty-seven children. With me entertaining them. 

Old dogs and New Tricks

In the wake of #metoo, more and more worms are munching their way out of the woodwork and revealing the rotten heart of our establishments. And there are the same tired non-excuses for crappy behaviour being wheeled out, of poor, confused men who just can't tell in the face of all this horrible, rampant feminism whether it's OK to call their assistant "sugar tits" or not. And the not-at-all lamented Fallon, claiming that “The culture has changed over the years. What might have been acceptable 15, 10 years ago is clearly not acceptable now.”

And while he may (and I only concede this very grudgingly and with serious caveats) be right that the culture has changed in the last 10-15 years, it doesn't actually mean that it was ever acceptable to the women involved to grope, harrass or outright assault them. Just because it was possible to get away with it without losing your job, doesn't mean it was acceptable. It merely means unacceptable things used to happen.

I have a friend who falls into that group of people who seem to be mired in this confusion about what is OK and what is not. He is a sixty-year old, overweight,  white man. For the sake of anonymity, I shall call this man Nigel.

Nigel describes himself as a racist, sexist, homophobic, misogynist pig. He says he was raised that way. But he is utterly aware that the way he was raised had flaws, he is aware that many of his knee-jerk views are wrong, and he makes a conscious effort to not allow his upbringing to drive his actions now. He admits that his initial reaction to the calls for gay marriage was that there was no need, marriage is marriage and is for one man and one woman, and if you're gay and want a partnership, have a different one. But he now says, "I listened to what everyone said, and realised I'd lost that argument. I'm wrong, and marriage can be for everyone."

Nigel torments himself over perceived transgressions. He was walking along the street recently when he passed a young, attractive, beautifully dressed woman. The sight gladdened his heart, not (according to him) in any predatory way, but just in a "isn't it lovely to see something attractive" way, and he smiled. He smiled at the young woman in question. And then he felt terrible. He asked me if what he had done had been wrong. Had he been lecherous, threatening, harrassing by smiling at her? Was it objectifying to find the appearance of a stranger a source of pleasure?

Nigel over-thinks things. But, despite his condemnatory self-description, he is a liberal, feminist, accepting man who is aware of his own potential to discriminate and tries not to.

Men - be like Nigel. It's really not much more complicated than that.