Micro-blogging: telephones

When we were at secondary school, BrotherBear and I both went to school by train. To different towns. In opposite directions. GrannyBear dealt with this in the mornings by simply dropping us both at the station in time for the earliest journey. In the afternoon/evening, we might miss the train, or there'd be a delay, or one of us had an afterschool activity, so the exact time at which we'd reappear at the station was unknown. The station was well-equipped with telephone boxes (invariably reeking of stale urine), but every phone call, no matter the duration, cost the princely sum of ten pence. But, if one inserted one's coin, rang a number, and it wasn't answered, one's ten pence piece was returned. So, we used to do that, and hang up after exactly three rings. GrannyBear would hear the phone ring three times, and come to the station to collect an unspecified member of the family. Strangely, this system worked remarkably well.

This week, I collected LittleBear from afterschool football. My mobile rang, but I didn't hear it. My friend's mobile rang, and she answered. Another mum was running late, and needed someone to prevent her 9-year old escaping unaccompanied. I scampered down the school drive to retrieve the already-escaped 9-year old, and friend retrieved her own boy and LittleBear. We all convened at the end of the school drive and waited until late-mum arrived, and all was well.

The world has changed a great deal, and while it's possible to bemoan the degree to which we're all tethered to our mobiles, the ability to retrieve small people from school is definitely a lot easier than it used to be.

Micro-blogging: age-appropriate reading matter

For his ninth birthday we gave LittleBear a book that had been recommended by one of my colleagues. Said colleague also had an only boy-child, about 15 years older than LittleBear, but one who'd been very similar to him in his younger years. So, I took the recommendation. It was a mighty tome of mythology - Arthurian legends, Ancient Greek, Norse, Roman, the Mabinogeon and the legends of Charlemagne. And, being written in the mid-nineteenth century, it didn't really pull any punches in its language or contents. And LittleBear hoovered it up, and continues to return to it. 

We have many family jokes from it now - such as on the frequent appearance of fountains in forests in romantic legend, or the use of the old "bag of wind" ruse in Greek and Roman myths. (Our personal favourite, however, is Rogero being "distracted by an adventure" on his way to the cathedral to marry the long-suffering Bradamante. That's quite some distraction.)

Today, LittleBear was required to dress up as an Ancient Greek for a history day at school, so I made some casual throwaway remark about being wary of Greeks bearing gifts...

LittleBear: Actually Mummy, the quote is that, "I fear the Greeks, even when they are bearing gifts." Laocoon said it.

Me: Was that in Homer? <desperately trying to salvage something from the conversation>

LittleBear: No, it was in the Aeneid. By Virgil.

And now I wish I'd never given him the damn book. Being corrected on a quote from Virgil when I studied the Aeneid at school is pretty bad. Having LittleBear assume that he needed to tell me that it was Virgil who wrote the Aeneid was just a step too far.

Isolation and exhaustion

Preamble: I started writing this about three weeks ago. Since that point I have added to it and deleted from it as my mood has ebbed and flowed. I have hit crashing lows where the world seemed unmanageable and I felt broken, and I have had days when I've wondered what I was being so melodramatic about. I have tried to capture both sides of my emotions in my editing.

Even at the best of times, I find interacting with the world hard work. And I think we can all agree that 2020 and 2021 very much come outside the boundaries of "the best of times". 

So, where normally I would find myself second guessing my every social interaction, questioning whether I have been too abrasive, too sweary, too self-absorbed, too needy, too rude, too oblivious, too opinionated, too me, I now find myself doing all that but beyond the veil of face-to-face interaction. I am robbed of even the clues of body-language and tone of voice that used to tell me when I wasn't welcome, or my views weren't needed. My social world has collapsed down to WhatsApp, and three-minute conversations outside the school gates. I now spend more of my free time talking to a football manager who trains on the pitch next to us* once a week than I do to people I once thought might be my friends.

I say "once thought might be", because there are now a surprising number of people, with whom I once thought I shared some kind of friendship who I essentially haven't seen, spoken to, messaged or otherwise interacted with for about a year and a half. And against my existing background of being perpetually anxious about whether I am saying the wrong thing, looking out of place, getting in the way, or in other ways transgressing subtle social rules, the isolation of lockdown has eroded what little confidence I had about my place in society.

The rational part of me knows that as much as these former-maybe-could-have-been-might-still-be friends are not contacting me, I am also not contacting them. As much as I am struggling with holding my life together, and navigating the emotional and psychological barrages of a pandemic, they are too. As much as I may be questioning my place and value and worth to others, they may be too. I doubt very much if I am the only one feeling isolated, anxious and alone. I doubt if I'm the only one whose child still will not sleep through the night and who is whimpering with exhaustion**. 

But inside my own mind, the degree to which other people may or may not be struggling doesn't change the reality of my own anxiety. No amount of rationalisation silences the voice of a school "friend" that said, "If you changed the way you acted, maybe people would like you." Inside my own mind, the loudest voice is the one that says, "See? People only ever tolerated you, they're probably all relieved not to have to spend time with you." 

Which isn't to say I don't have friends, or that they aren't enormously lovely people. I do, and they are. But when I'm reduced to electronic communication, or fleeting, mask-obscured exchanges, I am also reduced to doubting everything that I say and do, even with those lovely friends. I obsessively re-read messages I've sent to ponder whether somehow I have caused offence. I replay those fleeting conversations in my head to question if I managed to remain the right side of socially-acceptable. Was I too flippant? Or did I over-share? Am I wearing people out with my complaining? Have I failed to listen to other people? Am I oblivious to an undertone that is obvious to those who find human contact easy? 

Always, always it boils down to "am I too much?" or "am I not enough?"

The less I sleep, the more I find myself to be either too much, or inadequate, and the more I am sure that others do too.

The less "normal" contact I have with my friends and acquaintances, the more isolated I feel, and the more convinced I become that I will always feel this way.

I have spent so long without much face-to-face social contact that I have now reached the point where I cannot really imagine resuming it. Regular pub nights? Having friends round for a meal? Having play dates for LittleBear's friends? These seem like wildly improbable events now, and almost as daunting to consider as I previously found meeting new people. 

Back in the mists of time, I wrote about how hard I find it to move from casual acquaintance to genuine friendship, and how much I tend to feel as though everyone else is friends with each other and I'm the outsider. Well I'm right back in that state now, convinced despite all evidence to the contrary, that I alone am alone. That I am adrift in a sea of vague acquaintanceship without the dry land of solid friendship anywhere in sight. I have a small life raft of dear and lovely people, but I fear that if I cling on too tight I may either draw them under the waves or be pushed away by them before I sink us all.

In an attempt to dig myself out of my self-fulfilling hole of isolation, I am trying very hard to step outside my isolated bubble and reach out to other people. And it's not as bad as I feared. I am met not with rejection and horror, but with warmth and enthusiasm. It turns out other people aren't desperate to avoid me. It turns out other people may just be waiting to be invited too.

I went out for a drink with two people I've never socialised with before. 

I'm having lunch with two members of my life raft. 

I've suggested meeting two people for a drink who I've barely spoken to since before covid.

I am not alone.

We are not alone.

* To put this extensive friendship into perspective, we exchange pleasantries and ask whether our respective teams won or lost the previous weekend. Yet this is still a greater level of conversation than I manage with most people.

** I'm too tired to fix my participles. We're both whimpering with exhaustion - read it however suits you.

Age is just a number

But sometimes it seems like a dauntingly big number.

Take 9 for example.

My little baby is 9 years old today. Half way to being allowed to vote. Potentially half way to moving away from home.

It's a terrifying thought, especially as I look around and see my cousins' children attending university, setting off on gap years, launching themselves into their adult lives when it barely seems moments ago that they too were round-cheeked little moppets, earnestly explaining their imaginary worlds to me.

A month ago we knew what we were doing for LittleBear's birthday - today would have been a football match against the toughest team in his league, and tomorrow would have been a friendly football match arranged amongst players only from our own club as a substitute for a party. Parties were banned in covid-land, but football matches weren't, and since there's nothing a Bear loves more than playing football with his friends, I was making use of one of the only perks of being a football coach and arranging a match for him.

But here we are, back under lockdown, where not only parties are verboten, but so are football matches. Unless you're being paid millions of pounds and then you can still play football, because covid recognises pay cheques.

It was not, therefore, quite the birthday he had dreamed of, or we had planned, but (I hope) it was still a fun one. And what was perhaps most striking was just how many good friends my little boy has. Friends who walked, drove, or cycled round to our house in the pouring rain to deliver cards or presents. Friends who called by video, or sent emails. Even a friend who came out and played football in the park in the rain*. I think, and slightly hope, that LittleBear takes it all in his stride that he has such good friends rather than being surprised by it. But I was genuinely touched by the consideration, kindness and love from his friends and their parents that helped make his birthday a day filled with surprises and happiness.

There are many things in the world that are dark and miserable at the moment, including today's weather. And yet today was filled with all that was good about the people in the small corner of the world we occupy. And cake.

A successful birthday present

* LittleBear and LittleFriend will never let rain come between them and football. And to keep within the covid-rules, they met up on their own as "two individuals from different household exercising together" while I ran and walked round and round the park. In the rain.

Mild ranting

LittleBear is, as the perspicacious amongst you will have noticed, in primary school. As such, he has lessons; he learns things. This is quite definitely a Good Thing. Occasionally I am in the fortunate position of LittleBear actually telling me some of the things about which he is learning. This is not an everyday occurrence I should point out. Usually our conversations go something like this:

Me: Did you have a good day?
LittleBear: Yes
Me: What did you do?
LittleBear: Stuff

Sometimes we shake things up a little, and LittleBear's final response is, "I can't remember."

But sometimes we actually manage some quite detailed conversations about what they've been doing at school, and it's incredibly illuminating. For the most part I am impressed by the depth and range of things they learn at school compared to my own, admittedly hazy, recollections of primary school. But occasionally I am left dumb-founded.

Take English for example. The children are being taught how to use a wider range of vocabulary and sentence structures in their writing, to move away from simple declarative sentences to richer, more descriptive prose. What term do you suppose is used to describe this process?

Are the children improving their writing? Are they extending it? Are they enriching, deepening, broadening, expanding, strengthening, enhancing, growing, developing or widening their use of language?

No.

They are "up-levelling".

Up-levelling???

Given the richness and variety available within the English language, does the world of education* choose to revel in that language; or do they choose to chew it up and spit out an obnoxious, contorted neologism that fails to exhibit any of the properties that the process it purports to describe is promoting?

I know that every trade, and every industry, has its own jargon. I know I lack any training in pedagogy. I do not, however, know how anyone with a scintilla of love for the English language can, with a straight face, use the term "up-levelling" when teaching children to write doubleplusgood OldSpeak.


* I am unable to determine where exactly this term comes from, but it is certainly not exclusive to LittleBear's school. 

Definition of insanity

Isn't the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome?

Two years ago, I held a children's party in our local Community room. I organised and ran party games for twenty-seven children, and felt stressed, over-wrought, anxious and (ultimately) utterly exhausted. So, when LittleBear asked to have a football-themed party in the Community room with me running football games for him, the correct answer should have been "No." Rarely do I come up with the sensible answer when my LittleBear asks for something however.

Which is how I came to be running a football party for twenty 7 and 8 year olds today. There was a lot of sweat, intermittent tears, but fortunately no blood. My single greatest parental asset now turns out to be a referee's whistle. They actually stop moving and listen*. Not for long, but often long enough to tell them something important, like "there's cake".

I have spent the last few days feeling stressed, over-wrought and anxious. And now I'm utterly exhausted. It's almost like someone could have predicted this...




* I have two spare referee's whistles. I'm open to offers for them.

Happy Birthday

Today my "baby" turned eight. Eight.  I can't quite wrap my head round eight at the moment. He may have to become MediumBear sometime. Not yet though. He's still LittleBear for now.

I have had to bite my tongue repeatedly not to spoil the surprises for his birthday, because I'm utterly rubbish at keeping secrets, but I'm glad I managed it, as he was suitably delighted with the esoteric mix of presents he received. I am a mixture of proud and alarmed that he is currently of the view that his favourite present was the box containing forty small screwtop jars. Each jar contains a sample of a different chemical element. I would have been quite happy to receive said collection, if only because it includes pieces of some splendidly obscure metals (Hafnium anyone?) and it warms the cockles of my heart to know my little boy finds the same joy. Second only to my son's delight in his new collection, is the knowledge that the entire set was donated to us by one of my colleagues after he decided that his accumulation of elements after a forty year career in analytical chemistry needed a new home.

For those concerned that my son might not be having enough fun, he did also receive multiple books and games, a cuddly snow leopard and a trip to Twickenham to watch the Barbarians.

Usually my highlight on LittleBear's birthday is seeing his happiness and excitement as he opens his presents. Today, however, it was trumped by a moment that almost brought me to tears...

It is "traditional" at his school that each child takes to school some kind of treat for all the members of their class. In LittleBear's case, the treat was a small mountain of packets of Haribo sweets, which he loves with a passion that I find mystifying.

When I retrieved him from school, he informed me that there had been one packet left, which would be for him. This seemed utterly reasonable to me, and in fact what I had assumed would be the case. As we set off down the school drive we passed his headmistress, who often tries to stand there to say goodbye to the pupils.

"There's MrsHeadmistress! Can I give her the last packet of Haribo?"

"Of course you can, if you'd like to."

And off he went, presenting his headmistress with his own sweets and having a little chat with her about his birthday, including his impending trip to Twickenham. She agreed to accept the sweets on the grounds he promise to tell her all about the rugby when he sees her on Monday.

As we headed home, I told my generous, sweet-hearted little boy how proud I was of him for being so thoughtful and being happy to give away his last packet of sweets.

"That's OK. It's my birthday and I'm getting lots of things."

How could anyone not love my boy?

A little up; a little down

Let us put aside, for now, the tedium and vexation of all things political. Instead, I shall shine a light on two minor aspects of my life, one a cause for mild sadness and world-weariness, the other an antidote to that weariness.

Today, LittleBear's football team had a friendly football match. It's half-term and there are no "official" fixtures, so Coach arranged a friendly against another local team. Our boys played well, had fun, encouraged each other, listened well, and were generally a source of great pride. And at the end, the opposition coach refused to shake hands with us. Apparently, there was some level of misunderstanding that was certainly not down to us (I've read the thread of messages exchanged before the match). The opposition were expecting us to be a "development side" and at the end we were sworn at and told we had "wasted their time" by being more experienced than expected.

I was dumbfounded to start with. I haven't even bothered visiting "angry" but have just moved to deep sadness. Why are people so horrible? Why does sport have the tendency to bring out the worst in people? Is this what I will continue to face if I stay in voluntary coaching?

And now for the brighter side of humanity...

Earlier this term, LittleBear's school had a harvest festival. Fortunately(?) this year I didn't have an opportunity to listen to them singing about broad beans in blanket-y beds, or big, red, combine-harvesters. Unfortunately, because of the absence of this auditory treat, I also didn't have the mental prompt to provide LittleBear with a donation of food for the local night shelter. I discussed this with LittleBear over dinner one day, and he told me that it probably didn't matter as they had a huge pile of food collected. We then mused that perhaps that in itself wasn't ideal, and that perhaps they end up with lots of food at Harvest and Christmas and not enough the rest of the year. And it was at this point that LittleBear warmed the cockles of my old and jaded heart.

"Mummy? You know how last year we did that reverse calendar thing* at Christmas and put food in a box?"

"Yes? Would you like to do that again this year?"

"I think we should do that but not at Christmas. Can we do it for the month running up to my birthday, and then again running up to mid-summer's day? I don't think many people will donate things in November or the middle of summer."

And so it is that today, while putting in an on-line grocery order, I have been transcribing a list of things in my lovely boy's handwriting to buy for the local food bank. Every day for the last ten days he has added an item to the list, after consulting the food bank website to discover what they need.

So, yes, some people are horrible. But I am blessed beyond measure that my LittleBear is not one of them**.


* My attempts to make sure Christmas isn't simply a festival of consumerism involves us having a reverse advent calendar - every time LittleBear opens a day of his calendar, we put something into a box to go to the food bank. Sometimes it's a nominal "put a thing in the box" and actually we buy several things at once and put them all in, having written them down on the day.

** Maybe this counts as the most appalling level of bragging about what an angel my son is. He's not, he's just a small boy with a big heart. And sometimes that big heart, and excess of empathy, means life is difficult for him to cope with, but sometimes it means he makes choices I think are bloody brilliant, and I love him to bits. And this is my blog, so once in a while I'll brag about my baby.

A moment of positivity

Despite my current battle to keep my head above water, there are some moments of light and joy that I am going to focus on.

LittleBear has his future as a professional footballer all planned out. That's as a part-time professional footballer, obviously. The rest of the time he'll be busy being a physicist. However, his footballing plan involves being scouted for LocalTown, then moving on to BiggerClub, before finally stepping up into the Premiership. Simple isn't it? You can imagine, perhaps, my anxiety when one of LittleBear's team-mates got scouted not simply for LocalTown, but actually for BiggerClub. It took me a few days to decide how and when to break this news to him. I feared a crumbling meltdown as he wept at not being scouted. Instead the conversation went something like this...

Me: I've got some awesome news. Guess what? TeamMate has been scouted by BiggerClub, and he's going to start training with them.

LittleBear: That's really good for TeamMate!

Me: I wonder if he'll learn lots of good stuff that will help him in our team?

LittleBear: He probably will. I think he'll be even more solid in defence. And then we'll score more goals.

Me: Why will you score more if TeamMate is better in defence?

LittleBear: Because if I'm confident that we've got a strong defence, I'll score more goals, as I play better when I'm confident.

How can I not swell with love and pride at that attitude to his friend's success?

Meanwhile, LittleBear has also received his school report today. Obviously it's nauseating in its praise for my little angel, especially the bits about needing to be reminded to listen when with certain children. However, I am going to spend the weekend reading, and re-reading these lines, and reminding myself that I have the best and loveliest little boy in the whole world, and that no matter what stresses and strains the world throws at me, I adore him beyond all imagining.

"LittleBear is an incredibly motivated learner who has a thirst for knowledge..."

"It is always a pleasure to have a conversation with LittleBear..."

"It is always lovely to hear about LittleBear's regular trips to different bookshops!"

"We have loved teaching LittleBear and are proud of all he has achieved..."

Dubious long term strategy

Long-term readers may remember my sage words of advice about getting through parenthood - Rule Number 2: do what works for you until it stops working. I may, however, have to slightly modify this advice. Let me explain.

LittleBear has, once again, for what feels like the squillionth time, hit a patch of Not Very Good Sleep. He wakes in the night, either with a nightmare or Just Because. He then struggles to get back to sleep and becomes increasingly overwrought and distressed about never, ever, ever being able to get back to sleep. Obviously, eventually, he does go back to sleep but this has been known to take an hour or more, occasionally also resulting in a small boy curling up in bed with me while his father is banished to a different room.

After a week of broken nights, I am not a terribly good-tempered person. (See also, inappropriate swearing and throwing)

Yesterday evening, BigBear was feeling unwell and didn't want anything to eat for fear of seeing it again, so I didn't bother to cook anything. Instead I poured myself a martini and ate snacks.

Dinner

and a drink

I ended up eating the entire packet of cracker crisps and nothing else for dinner. I then went to bed, read my book for a bit and fell asleep. It was only this morning, when LittleBear scrambled into our bed for a morning cuddle that I discovered that he'd been up three times in the night and been tended to by his Daddy. I had not heard a thing. I had had a full, and uninterrupted night's sleep. I am therefore going to have to drink martini and eat appallingly unhealthy snacks for dinner every night to ensure I sleep enough.

I can't see a problem with this strategy. Can you?

Neither sleep nor food

Last year I wrote about the impossibility of having a child who both sleeps well and eats an interesting variety of food. At that point in time, we were having exciting culinary adventures, but a dearth of sleep, and it was taking its toll. I have mentioned to more people than I care to count that there is at least one good reason why LittleBear is an OnlyBear, and that reason is his mother's inability to cope on reduced sleep levels.

For the past few weeks* LittleBear has been suffering from nightmares again. He wakes in the night in a state ranging from mildly perturbed through to sweating and sobbing, and appears to be only consoled by Mummy. Daddy does his best, but LittleBear generally ends up demanding Mummy as well or instead.

Being me, naturally I am both looking for reasons, so that I can Solve The Problem, and also beating myself mercilessly over the head for my own catalogue of maternal failings that has led to this state of affairs. Because nothing promotes rationality like sleep deprivation. I have tried desperately to spot patterns in good nights versus bad nights. (Hint: there are no patterns; except in the fevered desperation of my befuddled brain).

I think it would be fair to say that some of the approaches I have taken in the middle of the night have not, perhaps, been the most productive. There was the notable occasion when LittleBear summoned me back to his room for the seventh time in the space of a little over an hour. (I forget now whether this was via the mechanism of the pathetic half-stifled sob, or the tremulous cry for "Mummy"). I became, shall we say, tetchy. I informed him in no uncertain terms that there was absolutely nothing I could do. I had cuddled him, I had kissed him, I had offered reassuring things to think about, but he had his bed and I had mine, and it was about time we were both asleep again. Phrases such as "I've had enough of this," were possibly uttered.

And it feels as though I have been making up for this attack ever since. Because, unsurprisingly, getting cross with a distressed, anxious, sensitive small boy does not engender feelings of calm, contentment and security. It feels as though he needs the reassurance that I will come to him at any time, no matter what, because I threatened not to. I don't think he's doing so consciously or deliberately, but I fear that he fears abandonment. So, night after night, I stumble from our room and clamber into bed with him, spend ten to fifteen minutes cuddling him and whispering sweet nothings, before stumbling back to my own bed again. I have persuaded him that he is allowed to come and find me if he needs me, rather than crying alone in bed. And I have persuaded him that it is always better to call me than to be sad on his own.

This has, mostly, worked for the past week or so. LittleBear feels better and goes back to sleep. I feel more confident that he will call or arrive by my bedside, so I no longer strain to hear him. And, miraculously, after a few nights of him actually going straight back to sleep, I began to relax enough to believe that he would do so, and thus I too went back to sleep. In total we were perhaps losing no more than twenty minutes sleep each. Prior to this, it didn't matter how quickly he fell asleep again, I would lie awake, straining to hear his little voice. Just in case. I was losing anything up to 2 or 3 hours sleep on the worst nights. But, as I said, we got into a system. It was working.

Except.

A couple of nights ago, the night before going back to school after the holidays, we had another session of needing a cuddle every ten minutes for a large chunk of the night. Five times? Six times? I lost track.

So last night, when I woke for no apparent reason at 3:30, I then lay awake until LittleBear did have a nightmare, which wasn't until 5:15 on this occasion. Thanks brain, you're not doing me any favours.

Here we are then, going to bed every night, assuming LittleBear will wake in some level of distress at some point between 10pm and 5am.

Does he do so more when he's been told of for something during the day?
My self-recrimination tells me he does.

Does he do so more when he's over-tired?
My doubt at my own parenting skills tells me he does.

Does he do so more when he feels neglected?
My anxiety tells me he does.

Is it just one of those things, and he'll grow out of it, and really I should just chill out, love and cherish him, and wait for it to pass?
Probably.

Am I going to?
Almost certainly not.


* I say weeks, but it feels like months. I have lost the ability to be rational and objective about this. It may even be years by the time I next talk to anyone.

A tale of bravery

Once upon a time there was a very brave LittleBear.

This LittleBear had a very stubborn little tooth. The little tooth had become old and tired, and had suffered a grievous injury many years before, that had left it sad and brown. The LittleBear's body didn't really know that the sad, brown tooth was there, and so had ignored it. Instead of absorbing all the goodness from the roots of the little tooth, the LittleBear's body just left it be. The LittleBear's body grew a lovely, strong, big, new tooth, which grew and grew as far as it could. But the lovely, strong, big, new tooth crashed into the little old tooth until neither of them could move any more. The LittleBear didn't know what to do. His body was stuck with both the teeth, and he knew that it was time to say goodbye to the little old tooth, but he didn't know how.

The LittleBear's Mummy knew a very special lady who could help. She was an expert in helping teeth to behave themselves, and it was certain that she would know how to help the little old tooth.

So the LittleBear and his Mummy went to visit the special tooth lady, and she offered to help the LittleBear to wiggle the little old tooth out, but the LittleBear was scared of being hurt and he wouldn't let her. He promised to spend three weeks trying to wiggle his poor old tooth out on his own, and to come back to see the special tooth lady if he couldn't.

The LittleBear tried and tried and tried. He wiggled his little old tooth backwards and forwards. He wiggled it to the left, and he wiggled it to the right. He even tried twisting it round, but it was a stubbord little old tooth and it wouldn't let go.

Back to the special tooth lady went the LittleBear and his Mummy. And the LittleBear was big and brave and he let the tooth lady put a strange, minty gel on his gums, but it made his tongue feel funny, and he didn't like it. Then the special tooth lady, ever so carefully, made a tiny pin-prick against the LittleBear's gum, to make the stubborn little tooth go to sleep. But the LittleBear didn't like it, and he flinched, and the little pin-prick scratched the LittleBear, and he really, really didn't like it.

The LittleBear's mouth started to bleed and he cried and cried and cried. His Mummy tried to soothe him, and the special tooth lady promised that if he could just try and stay still she could carry on without any more pain. But he didn't believe her, and he didn't believe his Mummy. All he believed was the pain, and the blood. And soon he was a red and blotchy LittleBear, and the tears were dribbling into his ears as he lay on the tooth lady's funny lying-down-chair.

But the LittleBear tried ever so very hard, and he breathed in with his Mummy, and he breathed out with his Mummy, and he sat up and was cuddled and dried his tears. And then he said, "I'll try and stay still, and you can have one more go."

And even though he was shaking and sweaty and scared, the LittleBear held his Mummy's hands tight, and he lay ever so very still, and the tooth lady made the tiniest of pin-pricks and suddenly the LittleBear couldn't feel his sad old tooth any more, and there wasn't any pain any more. And almost before he knew what had happened there was his poor little old tooth, lying in the palm of the tooth lady's hand.

The special tooth lady was very proud of the LittleBear, and told him that he was the first LittleBear that she'd ever known who had been so sad and so scared but had let her carry on anyway, and that he was the bravest LittleBear she'd met.

And his Mummy was very proud of him too, and she and the LittleBear had ever so very many cuddles for the rest of the afternoon, because he was the bravest LittleBear she knew too.

A poem.

I Am Angry

I am angry
Really angry.
Angry angry.
I'm so angry I'll jump up and down.
I roll on the ground.
I'll turn books into pulp.
I'll rip up kelp,
pull up trees,
Explode all the peas.
Crack stones.
Open up bones.
Tip up school lunch.
Throw you in one dump.
Cut classrooms in half
Put cats in the bath.
Repaint the classroom into a enormous green frog,
Turn you into a big round cog.
Chase bees.
Make you eat pooed on beans.
Boil books.
Squash cooks
Squirt paint.
Rip bait.
Crack cubes
Mush moons.

By
LittleBear

All spelling, punctuation etc reproduced accurately from the original. 

I think this was an exploration of expressing feelings through poetry. I don't think my boy was actually angry at school last term!

 

Finding his feet

LittleBear's footballing adventures at the tail-end of 2018 were not one hundred percent filled with joy. In fact, I spent a large portion of the Christmas holidays wondering how I could return him to a state of loving playing again, or whether we were going to have to give up on being in a team if it caused him so much distress.

We talked about it a bit, about how amazing he is when he's confident, and how he mustn't let himself feel defeated. We read books about football and about footballers, and compared his emotional response to losing to that expressed by Raheem Sterling, Jordan Pickford and Harry Maguire. Not because those are particularly his favourite players, but because we happen to have acquired books about them*. It appears to have genuinely helped to discover that players he watched playing at the World Cup suffered disappointment, setback and loss in lower league teams, but they didn't give up.

Football training for his team started last weekend, and he was my determined demon again, playing with and against his friends, constantly on the go, constantly running, constantly battling for the ball. I began to feel a sprinkling of hope that a rest and a break from playing football had been what he needed to bring back a bit of his confidence.

Then we had training last night. And in the mini-match at the end, his side let a goal in (not through any particular fault of his) and there was my LittleBear, standing in the corner of the pitch, tears pouring down his cheeks, while his coach crouched beside him to give him a cuddle and convince him not to give up.

My heart sank. The hoped-for resilience was looking like an illusion already, having lasted less than a week. Even conceding a goal in training was too much for him. I went to bed dreading today's match. My only ray of hope this morning was that LittleBear was excited about playing and looking forward to the match.

And?

It went better than I could have imagined. LittleBear scored the first goal, and in defence put in an utterly brilliant sliding dive across the goal mouth to push the ball wide of the post and deny the opposition a goal. And, despite going behind, my boy didn't droop, didn't cry, didn't give up, but ran and ran and ran, and tackled, and dribbled, and turned, and shot, and cleared. And I was so very, very proud of my Player of the Week. Not because of his goal, not because of the final score-line, but because he kept trying and enjoyed himself. I have spent the rest of the day on cloud nine, because I had my happy, confident, awesome little footballer back.

So just for now, for today, I don't have to wonder whether letting him play football is the right thing to do. The pure joy on his face, his pride in himself, his delight in skipping round defenders, spinning away from them and sprinting into the box, all of those things were enough to tell me I can't keep him away from his game.

It was almost enough to make up for the cat poo on the carpet this morning.


* LittleBear participates in a "Book Savings Club" at school. He saves 50p a week, and at the end of the term gets the chance to spend his savings on books that the club have managed to buy in bulk (and therefore at a discount. He came home with two footballer biographies and has utterly fallen in love with reading them.

A trying weekend

There's something about the first term of the school year that seems peculiarly, and unjustly, exhausting. Is it because the children are thrown into a new routine and worn out by it? Is it because they've just had the long summer holiday and have got out of the habit of getting up and concentrating five days a week? Or is it just because it's cold and dark and we all feel tired and miserable?

Whatever the reason, this weekend has been particularly emotionally draining. For all of us. LittleBear even calmly and happily accepted that it was time for an early bed tonight as he was too tired. This has happened perhaps twice in his entire life. I am planning to do much the same.

Friday was a slightly atypical variation on our normal Friday. A normal Friday involves bringing LittleBear and BestFriend home, getting them both into their football gear, feeding them biscuits and taking them to football training. Getting a small boy into football gear is not dissimilar to how I imagine it would be to try and get a squid into a onesie designed for a goat. Full length, skin-tight lycra underclothes, shin pads with velcro straps, long socks that snag on the velcro and (insult of insults) lace-up boots. Getting two small boys into football gear is about four times as hard as getting one small boy into football gear, due to the tendency of small boys to get sidetracked and start slapping each other with their socks, or trying to juggle with their underpants.

This Friday I'd rashly volunteered to take three small boys to football training. Knowing my own limitations however, I had declared that I would pick the other two up from their homes, leaving their own mothers to undertake the squid-wrestling. I did manage to get them all there, and back again, and only one of them got injured, and only one of them left his coat behind. Look, I never said I was good at this childcare stuff, OK?

Because it's that time of year, the football club then had a party almost straight after training, whilst I had volunteered to babysit for the Piglet family. No Piglets were injured or lost their coats, so my skills were clearly improving through the day. I did, however, have to abandon BigBear and LittleBear at the football club party; both looking somewhat shell-shocked and as though they'd rather be anywhere else. LittleBear still bears all the hallmarks of his younger years, and doesn't cope well with arriving at a party that's both loud and already in progress. And BigBear doesn't really like parties at all. So there they stood, hand-in-hand at the edge of the hall, my lost bears.

Apparently, however, LittleBear did enjoy himself, ate pizza, met Father Christmas and was given chocolate, so all was well.

Meanwhile, I didn't return from my babysitting duties till sometime after midnight, filled with rage at the swines who'd closed the road home (and with myself for having forgotten that they were doing this, despite the fact that they have done so nights for the past year or more).  So I stayed awake wittering at BigBear for rather too long, so neither of us got enough sleep, and before we knew it, the diligent all-weather builders were hard at work hammering the roof. Not that that mattered overly much, as we had to be out of the house by 9 o'clock for LittleBear's football match.

As per the rules of the FA, the score or result of an under-7 match may not be publicised, because it is strictly friendly and non-competitive. So I will draw a discrete veil over the event and say only that every time the opposition scored, my little boy wilted into tears, and on at least two occasions I broke with convention and ran round the pitch to give him a cuddle. He's only seven after all. And by 11 o'clock he was a very, very tired seven, who was adamant that he hadn't enjoyed playing at all.

I have spent a large portion of the weekend feeling desperately sad about how easily his confidence is bruised, and how easily he turned from my confident little torpedo, shredding a defence to canon a ball into the top corner into a hesitant, nervous defender, hanging back, dropping off the ball, shying away from the tackle. As always I find myself wondering how I can help him build his resilience. How I can persuade him that winning or losing a game is not a judgement on his worth as a person. How I can convince him to keep picking himself and trying again if things don't go his way first time. And then I remember he's only seven, and it's asking a lot of him.

A morning of exhaustion and heartbreak set us up perfectly for going to a spy-mission themed birthday party in the afternoon. It may not come as much of a surprise that my LittleBear spent three-quarters of the party sat on my lap doing a word search while his little friends undertook the spy mission. He was too scared to want to join in. Fortunately(?) two of the other little friends were in similar state, so he wasn't plagued with the self-doubt of being the only child who didn't want to join in. And, by his own admission, he enjoyed the party. Funny little soul.

Today, which could have been restful, was punctuated instead by the screaming of a huge circular saw in the building site, as the diligent all-weather builders sliced up massive quantities of insulation to fit into the new roof. They elected to do this because it was going to be "quieter for us" than hammering the roof to put the rest of the slates up. They have a funny idea of quiet. But they are utter perfectionists and have done a beautiful job of fitting the insulation to my peculiar-shaped roof. So there's that.

BigBear was tired. I was tired. LittleBear was tired. IdiotCat was probably tired. He was certainly stressed, as the moment the rest of the bear family had finished breakfast and disappeared upstairs together, he voided his bowels on the carpet. It really improved the day. Again. He even chose a different patch to the one he'd just peed on and I'd already cleaned earlier in the morning.

One of the few high points of the weekend had been that our Beloved Burnley had finally won a match, so I installed my two bears on the sofa, watching Match of the Day, while I ripped out a vanity wash-basin upstairs (that has the eccentric outflow pipe). Before having any breakfast. Because tiredness had led to poor decision making.

Then we all shouted at each other a bit. Had I mentioned we were tired? And I was hungry. Hungry and tired is always a winning combination. Eventually, we had some food inside us, and I took LittleBear off to the garden centre to acquire a small tree for Christmas. We generally have a large tree, but inconveniently someone's pulled down the room we usually put our tree in.

Eventually, after two garden centres and a trip to see Father Christmas, we were home with the tree, and a bottle of cat-calming herbal spray, that we all hate the smell of. So we had a jolly time, with the windows open trying to clear the stench of valerian root and swapping affectionate comments like,

"Why does nobody let me make any suggestions?"

"I don't even like baubles"

"Do you have to put that there?"

There were two verified instances of tears while decorating the tree, because that's what Christmas is all about.

Eventually it was bedtime, and all was well.

The cat is calm and snoring, apparently enjoying the valerian root more than the rest of us did. There is a box of lego on the chair beside me, that LittleBear received from Father Christmas at the garden centre, that he would like me to wrap up so he can have it under the tree for Christmas. The lights are twinkling on the tree, and there are three little penguins hung on it in a row. I made them six years ago, one for each of us, and every year we hang them side-by-side on the tree. This year, LittleBear wanted them facing the door so they could welcome people into the room. So those are the three thoughts I shall take to bed with me. Not the yelling, not the tears, not the aching muscles, not the dust and the dirt and the soiled carpet, not the anxiety and insecurity of my boy and me. I will take to bed the thoughts of the loving, considerate, compassionate little boy who melts my heart.

What will it take?

My LittleBear loves football. He really, really loves football. He watches Match of the Day religiously on Sunday mornings. He collects Match Attax cards. He plays football at every possible break time at school. He coerces me and BigBear into playing football in the garden whenever he can, come rain or shine. He has been as happy as a pig in poo at being able to train with the local Under-7s team. Even the fact that the team is already full and that this is "only" training, pending a new team being formed at Christmas, is not enough to stop him being overjoyed at being able to play.

So he was very pleased with himself that the U7 coach sent me a message earlier this week, asking if LittleBear would like to come to an extra mid-week training session for "some of my boys". There's nothing he enjoys quite as much as someone showing signs of thinking he's good at football.

Wednesday evening rolled around, and I duly girded my loins and braved the horrific rush-hour traffic to battle our way to the other side of town for said extra training. As we got closer, LittleBear got quieter. As we pulled into the carpark he started asking where we had to go, and whether this was the right place, and how did I know. I assured him that Coach has told me where to go, and that we'd just ask someone the way to the football pitch. LittleBear's feet dragged and he didn't want to hold my hand to cross the carpark.

"What if it's not this way?"

"It's fine... look, it says Reception there, so we'll go in there, and there'll be a front desk and someone who knows everything and it'll be fine."

"But it's a school, and it's not our school, and we're not just allowed to walk in."

"It's a sports hall. Like the sports hall at LocalSchool, where we go for parties and things. Everyone's allowed in, and you ask where to go inside."

And, fortunately, Mummy was right, and (admittedly not actually at the front desk, but nearby) we found a nice young man in a polo shirt with a sports centre logo on it, and we asked him the way, and he pointed it out to us, and there we were, beside an astroturf pitch, at the edge of which was gathered a gaggle of other six and seven year olds, waiting for a hockey match to end. So far so good.

Not a sign of any six or seven year olds that we actually knew. Or our coach, A. LittleBear buried his face in my legs and wanted to be cuddled. I crouched down to talk to him, and he simply clambered onto my bent legs to sit on a lap that was barely there.

"What's wrong sweetheart?" I whispered.

"I'm worried."

"What are you worried about? Are you worried we're in the wrong place? Or that we're not supposed to be here? Or that we're going to get told off?"

"The last one..."

So I resorted to one of my new tactics, used because I'm not very good at approaching people either. And I had a child sitting on a non-existent lap who was making it hard to move. In a slightly-louder-than-was-completely-necessary voice, that I hoped would invite eavesdropping, I said, "Don't worry LittleBear, we'll wait here until A arrives, and then you can join in."

My stratagem worked. The burly man in charge of the gaggle of boys approached me, "Are you with A? He's stuck in traffic and he'll be late. He's a rubbish driver, he's always late."

Slightly reassured, we were able to return to a vertical orientation and I began to get some blood back in my legs again.

The hockey match drew to a close, the girls left the pitch, and the gaggle ran onto the pitch, accompanied by BurlyMan. He beckoned for LittleBear to follow his gaggle, and I turned to give my boy a grin and a pat on the back as he trotted off. Instead I met a tear-streaked little face as my poppet stood irresolutely by the gate, shaking his head and clutching his hands together.

"I don't want to. I don't know anyone."

"It's OK my lovely, I'm not going to make you do anything. If you don't want to join in, that's OK. We can wait for A, and then you can join in if that's what you'd prefer. This is supposed to be fun, but if you don't want to, it's OK."

"I don't want to."

What else could I do? I have no intention of trying to force him to do something that clearly triggers terrible distress. And nor do I want to break his love of football.  So we stood for a few more minutes, having some extra cuddles, the tears mostly drying.

"I think I know that boy," LittleBear murmured, peering out of our cuddle and over my shoulder, back along the path leading to the pitch.

Finally, one of the other boys from our under-7 team arrived. Still no sign of A, but that suddenly didn't seem to matter, as we walked LittleBear and ThatBoy over to the gaggle and they joined in without a backward glance. A did eventually arrive, with another two boys, and in the resulting 7-aside match, LittleBear scored a goal, and became the subject of an argument between BurlyMan and A over who would get to sign him to their team.

As we drove home, an exhausted voice piped up from the back seat, "I had a really good time today Mummy."

I am trying to use this as an opportunity to help LittleBear learn that being worried doesn't have to be a reason to give up; that sometimes we can all be afraid but we can overcome our fear and do something fantastic once we've got past it; that he should try to remember this day, to remember that he was scared, but he persisted, and he had a really good time.

I'm not sure that he really understood or believed me. I'm not sure that my words are ever going to be enough to overcome his innate anxiety. I'm not sure I have any right to be surprised, as I see my own carefully-masked feelings in his open and raw experiences of life.

Heart-warming

LittleBear has, as I believe I have commented, certain foibles. He doesn't like stories, or films, or uncertainty, or peril. His teachers have observed his tendency to retreat into himself, or even put his hands over his ears and sit shaking his head to block out a film if they show them such a thing at school as a treat. My poor poppet.

This term, one of their topics is "Twisted Tales", in which they consider variations on traditional fairy tales - such as Three Little Wolves and the Big Bad Pig. So far, LittleBear has been enjoying it. He even watched, and enjoyed a puppet show. So far, so good.

On my way into school today to collect him, the Headmaster was standing on the gate. He gazed at me earnestly and asked, "Are you OK?" Now, I know I'm pretty tired at the moment, but I began to wonder if there was something more obviously amiss with me. Did I really look that bad? And then... it got worse....

"I had to take Little Bear aside to have a word with him today,"

Oh dear. Oh no. What has my Bear done?

"It was about the Wolf."

At this point, the Headmaster had temporarily lost me, because I'd forgotten a conversation I'd had with LittleBear's teacher last week. I told you I was tired.

"I let him know that it was going to be me dressed as the Wolf. I know he's sensitive, and I didn't want him to be scared, so I told him beforehand that it would be me, and gave him a wink when I came in."

My heart melted.

In a school of three hundred children, the Headmaster knows and cares that one small boy is easily worried, and he made sure to let him know who would be inside the costume of the Big Bad Wolf so that he wouldn't be scared. It's hard to imagine a lovelier environment for my baby to be at school.

Sleep OR food

I have written, with perhaps tedious monotony, about the importance of never, ever mentioning that your child sleeps well. It is a maxim that applies almost equally well to discussing any aspect of your darling snowflake's behaviour of which you are unaccountably proud. The moment that you inform someone that your child eats well, or is never car-sick, or loves going to their swimming lessons, or always undoes their shoes before taking them off*, you will be damned, because they will immediately start doing the opposite.

You can imagine, therefore, the trepidation with which I wrote about LittleBear's New Adventures In Food. You can understand also why I had remained utterly silent on the subject of sleep, because I had (at the time) nothing bad to say about a child who was going to bed at 8pm and remaining incommunicado until past 7am.

"But PhysicsBear!" I hear you cry, "Now you've really put the kibosh on things!"

Alas, no, my friends, for the kibosh has already been well and truly put.

In the past two weeks we have had nightmares, and night terrors, and bizarre fears of a "spooky thing in my bedroom". We have had too much light, and not enough light, and a strange need for Mummy to do something about the fact that a small boy is feeling a bit too warm in the middle of the night. We have barely managed a night without a crisis of some form or another.

Even my colleagues have started to comment on the fact that I look like death warmed up as I crawl to work. Because the real joy of being woken by my son at 1:30am is not the waking up; it's the lying awake for an hour or two (or three if I'm feeling really special) waiting to see if he calls out for me again. Because my brain loves me like that.

Meanwhile, despite my happy comments that LittleBear is trying new food, and despite the probability that this would immediately jinx things... he has, in fact, continued to try new food. He has happily eaten galettes au chou, his eyes have lit up with glee on discovering the joy of properly crisp pork crackling, he has demolished cheese and bacon pancakes. He has asked to try pesto, and gnocchi, and spring rolls. More excitingly, he has simply eaten some of the new experiments, without objection, even when he's said they're only "OK". I still can't quite get over how exciting this all is.

However, I now have a new Theory Of Children. 

In the past, I had happily accepted that some children sleep well, and some children eat unfussily, and for the most part it's outside your control. What I have gradually come to notice is that these two states are mutually exclusive. You can have sleep, or you can have food, but you can't have both. This has broadly been true across my friends - if there were any who had children who ate everything and slept well, they very sensibly kept quiet.

We currently have food, but we do not have sleep.

I've enjoyed the episode of eating things, but actually, in retrospect, if I had a choice, I'd choose sleep.

Are you listening LittleBear?


* Seriously, does any child do this?

Plus ca change...

Well, this time, to my bemusement, plus ca change, plus ca change.

For various reasons, LittleBear's school's kitchen is out of commission for the next few weeks, and so he is having a packed lunch every day. But I was Firm Mummy, and informed him sternly that he would absolutely, definitely, and with no question, be returning to school lunches as soon as they were back on offer. And then, because I was tired, I started getting even more firm about trying new foods again and not leaving everything at school when lunches re-start.

I've tried a new approach lately, explaining to LittleBear that not liking new food is completely normal, and a perfectly safe way for a cave-man's brain to behave. New could be poisonous, and so is not to be trusted. But he's not a cave-man, and he has to keep trying food until the cave-man inside him is satisfied that it's not poisonous. So now, when he says he doesn't like something - frequently something he hasn't tried - I can simply tell him not to let the cave-man win. So far, it hasn't worked at all, but because there's nothing quite like banging one's head against a brick wall, I've stuck with it as my explanation in the hope that he might actually believe me.

Back to the old favourite through - insisting that LittleBear try some new things. We wrote a list together. Actually, we wrote three lists, titled "Good", "OK" and "New". I was pleasantly surprised by how many perfectly good meals there were in the "Good" column. And there were a handful of things in the "OK" column; things he hadn't actually spat out last time he tried them, or were made entirely of ingredients he already likes. And the "New" column included some variations on a theme that he might tolerate.

So, last night, as well as cooking his old favourite of pasta-and-vegetables-with-cheese, I provided a small ramekin of pasta with a smidgeon of passata and herbs, and a tranche of grated cheese. In previous times, this would have led to LittleBear ignoring the new food, or tasting a microscopic quantity, all the while tucking his head into his shoulders like a scared tortoise and heading towards tears. You can see why we don't try this often can't you? This time, however, he ate the entire pot and agreed that it was "OK" and that if he had no other choice, he'd certainly eat it. I nearly fell off my chair.

Almost overwhelmed by the novelty of LittleBear's approach, I was utterly unprepared for this evening. I offered Little Bear a choice of a couple of his old favourites for dinner - it had been the first day back at school after all. What did he do? He said, "Can I try a new thing from the list tonight?" And he promptly collected the list and we chose something from it. Pea and asparagus risotto. Not hugely different to that which has gone before on the surface, rice with vegetables being a definite favourite. But this was made with risotto rice, not long grain, and the rice was cooked in stock, and therefore the whole thing has a new flavour, and a new texture and other challenging and exciting things. LittleBear ate the whole bowlful. And said he loved it and wanted to have it again. And then he asked to try something new tomorrow as well.

I honestly don't know what's just happened.

I suspect I may wake up soon and discover it was all a dream.

Accidental parenting genius

Yesterday, with a week left to go until the start of the new school year, I took LittleBear shopping for his new school shoes. This was, I admit, a rookie error. The last week before school, in a shoe shop, is somewhere between the First Circle of Hell (Limbo) and the Seventh (Violence). When we entered the shop, it was not actually possible to approach the shelves to even see the children's shoes through the seething mass of humanity and the precariously balanced towers of rejected shoes. Verily, I had chosen poorly.

Shoe shops are, blessedly, wise to the school-shoe-buying season, and not only have a numbered queuing system, but they also write down a description of the child* in question so that if, over the screaming hubbub inside the shop, a whimpering parent misses the call for number twelve thousand, seven hundred and ninety-two to approach the counter, they can still be found.

We were only ninth in the queue when we entered the shop, with an estimated twenty-five minutes to wait.

Twenty-five minutes with a bored and tired six year old who has already been dragged round a bed shop for his mother to try out mattresses. The omens were not good.

But then, oh joy! Oh rapture! Oh blessed gods and goddesses who have smiled upon me! I had a pack of playing cards in my handbag. And there was a spare corner of a bench for us to perch upon. So perch we did, and spent a surprisingly happy time playing cards while other mothers gazed on bearing expressions that were an extraordinary mixture of surprise, envy, hatred and desperation. I promised one of them who was already a further 8 places behind us in the queue that we'd choose our shoes as fast as possible. It was the least I could do. If the cards hadn't been LittleBear's very favourite, crested, Burnley Football Club cards, I might have donated them to the queue for The Greater Good. But even my compassion has its limits when it comes to my boy and his football team.

To compound my joy, the shop had shoes that fitted my son's (inherited) wide, spatula feet, and he liked the first pair he tried on.

From the jaws of catastrophe we snatched triumph. By accident.



* Mine was described as "Blue-spotted ribbontail ray", because unsurprisingly, he was the only child in the shop clutching a cuddly cartilaginous fish. Which probably makes the derangement that went into buying it worthwhile.