I realise, somewhat belatedly, it's been over a month since I wrote anything. I can put at least two weeks of that down to being on holiday in a place with no internet connection or mobile signal, and I think I'll ascribe the rest to the insanity of the end of term - a headlong acceleration through seemingly endless school activities from school plays to sports days and everything in between; plus the plate-spinning miracle that are school holidays - attempting to cling by my fingernails to a job whilst also making sure I'm not actually dumping LittleBear in the woods alone to fend for himself every day. Only four more days to go, and I've not had to resort to abandoning him yet.
And what of the holiday?
Not being the sort to post huge albums of idyllic photographs of my latest five star holiday, I shall simply mention that we went to the Lake District, and remind everyone that there are a great many lakes and rivers there for a reason. The water has to come from somewhere. I could tell you about the fun we had, the games we played and the mountains we climbed, but really, outside my immediate family, I doubt that many of you would be much enthused by an account of a traditional 1950s English holiday. Instead, I shall allow you to laugh at my expense as I recount the more painful episodes.
Let me start with an innocuous car-park in an unprepossessing service station on the M6...
LittleBear and I were walking across said car-park, on perfectly flat tarmac, not hopping, skipping, jumping or otherwise behaving with frivolity or foolishness. And I fell flat on my face, arms sprawling, knees crashing. I have no idea why. I am fairly sure that passers by did not think I was in a fit state to be in charge of a small child, let alone a car. I scrambled hastily to my feet and limped inside, knee bruised and grazed and arm wrenched. The next week involved extreme pain every time I tried to insert my left arm into a sleeve or through the strap of my rucksack.
Moving swiftly on to our first proper attempt on a fell - the Langdale Pikes. For various reasons, LittleBear and I diverged from the remainder of our party, assaulting the peaks while they meandered on lower slopes. This then led to us attempting to descend as fast as possible to regain the main party. LittleBear appears to have legs containing steel springs, and not the custard and leftover bits of polystyrene and putty that seem to constitute my legs. Dropping 1750 feet over 1.2 miles was a challenge. Doing so in barely more than 45 minutes of walking left me shaking, while LittleBear hopped, skipped and generally sprang about the place in a soul-destroying fashion. The shaking at the end of the descent, however, was as nothing compared to my state the following morning, or indeed over the next three days. There were times the only way I could get downstairs was backwards, the pain in my thigh muscles was so excruciating. I used a pair of trekking poles for even the shortest stroll for the next few days.
I had, more or less, recovered from this assault on my pride and legs by the time Friday rolled around. Aware that dear old GrannyBear would be arriving on Saturday, I determined that I would clean the front steps that lead into our cottage. They are smooth slabs of slate, and spend almost their entire time in shade, so develop a nasty slick of vague green across their surface. So, out I went to scrub them clean, and leave them safe for elderly bears to walk on. Never mind that it was lashing with rain at the time. Nor that it was rather cold. Nor, indeed, that I have distinctly sub-standard circulation in my hands. In fact, my hands became so cold while scrubbing I failed to notice that I was repeatedly crashing my knuckles into the rough surfaces of the risers of the steps. It was only when I dripped my way back inside that I discovered that not all the drips were rain. Nearly two weeks later, the final two knuckles still have scabs and holes in them.
And, finally, to my piece de resistance. An injury so impressively incompetent that I have come close to approaching total strangers to tell them about it. While having a family cottage in a beautiful part of the country is an enormous privilege and blessing, it does require that each of us undertakes various aspects of maintenance and DIY on most visits. And thus it was that I sat, tools neatly arrayed around me, carefully marking up where to drill new holes in the front door. I turned to put my pencil down, caught my elbow on the mains lead of the drill and tipped it off the arm of the chair. From whence it fell... landing point first just below my ankle bone. Wood-drill bits are quite sharp. Wood-drill bits pursued downwards by the full weight of a 1kW mains-powered drill are sharp and heavy. At least it wasn't on.
Showing posts with label travelling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travelling. Show all posts
Thursday, 29 August 2019
Monday, 29 October 2018
Being brave
Here we are, crawling to the end of half-term, wondering if it's now time for a holiday to recover from this one. More or less the same story as every holiday with LittleBear. Holidays with a small child are never quite as relaxing as holidays without a small child used to be. Which is not to say that they're not fun, they just involve considerably less sleep, less sitting around watching the world go by and definitely less reading a book with a nice glass of something in front of me.
This particular holiday was slightly talismanic for me - I have been increasingly feeling as though my world is getting smaller, my horizons narrower. I have found reasons and excuses not to travel. I have felt thwarted and trapped by my own inability to lift my head up and face the world. So I promised myself I would start with a small step. I would go to Zurich, where my friends live, where I've been before, where I know I can cope. And I didn't just promise myself, I looked two of my good friends in the eye when I said it, and they made me promise to stick with it, to not let life defeat me. And in my head, I built this trip up to be Something Important. It was to be the first step in travelling to more far flung destinations. If I couldn't do this, then there would be no hope for me.
Nothing like piling the pressure on myself is there?
Which is obviously how I came to be sat on GrannyBear's sofa the night before we flew crying that it was all too hard, and too scary and I couldn't do it. BigBear even offered to let me bottle out if that was what I wanted. I hadn't told him about my inner promises though, or that this trip represented something bigger to me than just visiting friends in Zurich. (I expect him to mind-read. For some reason he thinks this is unreasonable).
However, to cut to the chase, we went, everything was fine, and we had a lovely time. But since I'm not, generally, prone to writing the kind of blog posts that paint my life as some kind of Instagrammable perfection, I thought I'd share some of the odder aspects with you instead...
Like the fact that my awesome planning saw us renting an apartment in a relatively central location. Just off a road called Langstrasse. And while it's not exactly the Reeperbahn, it is very definitely the red light district, and party district, and drugs district. Both prostitution and cannabis are legal in Zurich. Let me introduce you to the bar on the ground floor of our building.
And perhaps we should all pause to ask ourselves what kind of an apartment needs individual red lights above the bedroom doors?
I was distinctly relieved that the only question that LittleBear asked was "Why is that shop called 'Acid'?" pointing to a shop with the characteristic smiley face in the window. That and asking why the bakery along the road needed to be open 24 hours a day. We decided not to explain the concept of the munchies. The bakery, however, proved to be a great blessing, allowing me to pop out every morning for fresh baked goods only a minute from our front door. And thus it was that we discovered that LittleBear has a passion for shoggi gipfeli. Those of you who are not already familiar with this confection may be tempted to Google it and determine that it is a chocolate croissant. But you would only know half the story, for a shoggi gipfeli from the "Happy Bakery" is nothing so ordinary sounding as a chocolate croissant. I cannot really do it justice other than by showing you my small boy attempting to tackle one.
Despite our insalubrious surroundings, we explored Zurich, mastered the tram system (even went to the tram museum) and introduced LittleBear to a variety of food stuffs that weren't all cheese or chocolate. A lot of them were cheese or chocolate, but they came in different formats, such as raclette and rosti, chocolate meringue and ruby chocolate. He also ate sourdough and bacon and coffee ice-cream, not to mention tackling gruyere and emmental, which are considerably cheesier than red leicester. To be honest, I was more impressed that we managed to go out for dinner with a vegetarian, a coeliac and someone with lactose intolerance and find things they could all eat. LittleBear has almost ceased to be the hardest person to find food for.
I will leave you with what I think should be the cover for a rap album. Taken under a tram.
This particular holiday was slightly talismanic for me - I have been increasingly feeling as though my world is getting smaller, my horizons narrower. I have found reasons and excuses not to travel. I have felt thwarted and trapped by my own inability to lift my head up and face the world. So I promised myself I would start with a small step. I would go to Zurich, where my friends live, where I've been before, where I know I can cope. And I didn't just promise myself, I looked two of my good friends in the eye when I said it, and they made me promise to stick with it, to not let life defeat me. And in my head, I built this trip up to be Something Important. It was to be the first step in travelling to more far flung destinations. If I couldn't do this, then there would be no hope for me.
Nothing like piling the pressure on myself is there?
Which is obviously how I came to be sat on GrannyBear's sofa the night before we flew crying that it was all too hard, and too scary and I couldn't do it. BigBear even offered to let me bottle out if that was what I wanted. I hadn't told him about my inner promises though, or that this trip represented something bigger to me than just visiting friends in Zurich. (I expect him to mind-read. For some reason he thinks this is unreasonable).
However, to cut to the chase, we went, everything was fine, and we had a lovely time. But since I'm not, generally, prone to writing the kind of blog posts that paint my life as some kind of Instagrammable perfection, I thought I'd share some of the odder aspects with you instead...
Like the fact that my awesome planning saw us renting an apartment in a relatively central location. Just off a road called Langstrasse. And while it's not exactly the Reeperbahn, it is very definitely the red light district, and party district, and drugs district. Both prostitution and cannabis are legal in Zurich. Let me introduce you to the bar on the ground floor of our building.
 |
| Ideal for children |
And perhaps we should all pause to ask ourselves what kind of an apartment needs individual red lights above the bedroom doors?
 |
| Anyone worried? |
I was distinctly relieved that the only question that LittleBear asked was "Why is that shop called 'Acid'?" pointing to a shop with the characteristic smiley face in the window. That and asking why the bakery along the road needed to be open 24 hours a day. We decided not to explain the concept of the munchies. The bakery, however, proved to be a great blessing, allowing me to pop out every morning for fresh baked goods only a minute from our front door. And thus it was that we discovered that LittleBear has a passion for shoggi gipfeli. Those of you who are not already familiar with this confection may be tempted to Google it and determine that it is a chocolate croissant. But you would only know half the story, for a shoggi gipfeli from the "Happy Bakery" is nothing so ordinary sounding as a chocolate croissant. I cannot really do it justice other than by showing you my small boy attempting to tackle one.
 |
| Nearly as big as his own head |
Despite our insalubrious surroundings, we explored Zurich, mastered the tram system (even went to the tram museum) and introduced LittleBear to a variety of food stuffs that weren't all cheese or chocolate. A lot of them were cheese or chocolate, but they came in different formats, such as raclette and rosti, chocolate meringue and ruby chocolate. He also ate sourdough and bacon and coffee ice-cream, not to mention tackling gruyere and emmental, which are considerably cheesier than red leicester. To be honest, I was more impressed that we managed to go out for dinner with a vegetarian, a coeliac and someone with lactose intolerance and find things they could all eat. LittleBear has almost ceased to be the hardest person to find food for.
I will leave you with what I think should be the cover for a rap album. Taken under a tram.
Tuesday, 20 February 2018
Chalk and Cheese
Having arrived and installed ourselves in our hotel in Lyme Regis, all seemed to be going well.
But then... not everything went quite perfectly... except when it did. Our days were a peculiar mixture of ups and downs, highs and lows, chalk and cheese.
We re-introduced ourselves to the Lovely Fossil Men, C and P, who are friends of a friend, and joined the fossil hunt again. And LittleBear bounced up and down on his toes, arm stretched high, desperate to answer every question. The poor gents had to resort to saying, "Yes, we know you know, but how about some of the other boys and girls? Or grown-ups? Or anyone?" And when it came time to hand out some pre-found ammonites, LittleBear found himself at the back of the queue, as C pointed out, "you have been before, and you do have lots of fossils, so we'd better let the others have some first." My little moppet's bewildered face clearly didn't understand what was going on.
However, LittleBear had obviously touched a soft spot in P's heart, because he lurked behind C, tapped him on the shoulder and muttered to him that he had a special fossil for LittleBear. Which is how my spoilt small boy received a beautiful little pyritized ammonite with a fossilized parasitic worm on its back, and not just a boring old ammonite on its own.
And down the beach we stomped, hunting for fossils, and finding a quite considerable quantity of ammonites, belemnites and crinoid stems. But then... woe and calamity... I found an ichthyosaur vertebra. Surely this is a good thing? You'd think so. But no. The problem was that I found it, thus shattering the internal narrative LittleBear had constructed of his triumphant discovery of a vertebra. And thus we found ourselves, miles along a cold and windswept beach, with a rather poorly, over-tired, small boy, sobbing his heart out at how wrong everything was. P and C were rather concerned, and I had to do my best to assure them that it was nothing to do with their fossil trip. We managed to insert some chocolate-chip cookies into LittleBear, and drag him back to the town to find some lunch before hypothermia and starvation caused any further damage.
We raced back along the damp sand, leaping over little streams and giggling together, to reconvene with BigBear at the sea wall. And then we all had a little pause while LittleBear "dammed" a rock pool and declared proudly that he'd completely stopped the flow of water from one side to the other.
But he did like being tucked up in bed
And yes, LittleBear did manage to fit into that bed with his squid. And a penguin. And a stingray. And a hammerhead shark.
But most of all, Squidy enjoyed pretending to be Meryl Streep, sitting at a table used in the filming of The French Lieutenant's Woman, where Meryl sat.
* As some of you may have noticed, I am awesome at complaining in private, or in writing, but doing so in person is not my thing at all.
** The six-year old in question does receive a certain amount of help from his doting mother, but is developing into a keen Scrabble-player.
But then... not everything went quite perfectly... except when it did. Our days were a peculiar mixture of ups and downs, highs and lows, chalk and cheese.
Chalk
Initially, we were more than happy with our hotel room, with its proximity to the "games room" that allowed us to sit in peace while LittleBear fell asleep, its distance from the bar and restaurant meaning we were spared the comings and goings of late night revellers, its view of the sea via a quiet courtyard. And then The Other Family arrived. They occupied the two rooms beside ours. They had large dogs who appeared to need to go outside every hour or so. They had a deaf grandfather with whom they attempted to play Who Wants to be a Millionaire? late into the night. They had children who were prone to slamming doors and running up and down corridors. They had a mother who stumbled down the corridor, glass of wine in hand, telling her 7 year-old child that he couldn't go to bed yet, despite it being 10pm. By Saturday morning, BigBear was muttering that he wanted to drive home that day. We spent a particularly grim breakfast, staring at the tablecloth and not speaking.Cheese
I gently approached the nice people at reception and explained that we were not having the most restful time, what with the noise from The Other Family, and the dogs, and so on. This is not my usual style, since it involved both speaking to another human being and complaining out loud*, but the Bad-tempered Breakfast required desperate measures. And thus we ended up being moved to a different room. A room beside the King Edward Lounge, a residents' lounge that nobody else appeared to want to use. So essentially a private sitting room. We were, alarmingly, above the bar. And yet, after about 9:30 there was merely a murmur from below. More enjoyably, the bar was within baby-monitor range of our new room, and we were able to sit and have a pint of beer together while LittleBear went to sleep. If we hadn't been so utterly shattered after being kept awake by The Other Family, we might have (a) managed to find something to talk to each other about and (b) not given up and gone to bed ourselves at about 9 o'clock. |
| Our own private sitting room |
Chalk
The hotel's "games room", as well as being equipped with full-sized snooker table, table-tennis table, and bar billiards table had an ottoman full of board games. LittleBear was wildly excited to find that there was a Scrabble set, and spent a large portion of time when we were trying to get him to do something else, agitating to know when we could play. And when we came to play... there was no board in the box. And his world began to crumble. Feeling that I needed to spare others from such levels of distress, I took the box to reception to hand it in and let them know it was perhaps less playable than imagined.Cheese
When confronted with the Disappointing Scrabble Set, the young man at reception said, "Oh, I didn't know the board was missing, but I've got a new one here we hadn't got round to putting in the games room yet. You could take this one." So we christened the new board, and I was trounced at Scrabble by a six-year old again**.Chalk
Our first fossil-hunting day dawned bright, clear and sunny, which was a lovely day to be out in. Unfortunately, it was also a continuation in the delightfully mild winter that has resulted in very little in the way of fresh erosion and fossil exposure.We re-introduced ourselves to the Lovely Fossil Men, C and P, who are friends of a friend, and joined the fossil hunt again. And LittleBear bounced up and down on his toes, arm stretched high, desperate to answer every question. The poor gents had to resort to saying, "Yes, we know you know, but how about some of the other boys and girls? Or grown-ups? Or anyone?" And when it came time to hand out some pre-found ammonites, LittleBear found himself at the back of the queue, as C pointed out, "you have been before, and you do have lots of fossils, so we'd better let the others have some first." My little moppet's bewildered face clearly didn't understand what was going on.
However, LittleBear had obviously touched a soft spot in P's heart, because he lurked behind C, tapped him on the shoulder and muttered to him that he had a special fossil for LittleBear. Which is how my spoilt small boy received a beautiful little pyritized ammonite with a fossilized parasitic worm on its back, and not just a boring old ammonite on its own.
And down the beach we stomped, hunting for fossils, and finding a quite considerable quantity of ammonites, belemnites and crinoid stems. But then... woe and calamity... I found an ichthyosaur vertebra. Surely this is a good thing? You'd think so. But no. The problem was that I found it, thus shattering the internal narrative LittleBear had constructed of his triumphant discovery of a vertebra. And thus we found ourselves, miles along a cold and windswept beach, with a rather poorly, over-tired, small boy, sobbing his heart out at how wrong everything was. P and C were rather concerned, and I had to do my best to assure them that it was nothing to do with their fossil trip. We managed to insert some chocolate-chip cookies into LittleBear, and drag him back to the town to find some lunch before hypothermia and starvation caused any further damage.
Cheese
Our second day of fossil hunting followed hot on the heels of the Bad-tempered Breakfast, and was an expedition undertaken only by LittleBear and me, while BigBear went to explore the cliff path. And LittleBear, his expectations suitably adjusted downwards, had a lovely non-tearful time, finding all the normal fossils. He bounced up to both P and C when we encountered them on the beach to tell them what he'd found. He was utterly untroubled by the absence of complete plesiosaurs, and quite delighted with everything he found. He did demand that I stop looking for belemnites as it was "not fair" that I'd found more than him. In fact, at one point he removed one from my hand and threw it back into the shingle, to even things up, but I allowed that to glide past, for the sake of an enjoyable few hours with my moppet.We raced back along the damp sand, leaping over little streams and giggling together, to reconvene with BigBear at the sea wall. And then we all had a little pause while LittleBear "dammed" a rock pool and declared proudly that he'd completely stopped the flow of water from one side to the other.
 |
| Our collection of easily-portable fossils |
Chalk
LittleBear, being (I hope) a rather typical small boy, has a distinct reluctance to do what we want to do on rather too many occasions. Often, to my frustration, the thing that we're suggesting is something I know he'll enjoy. Which is how I ended up having to cajole and drag my small boy a matter of a few hundred metres ("but it's miles Mummy") to a museum full of awesome fossils. Because what LittleBear really wanted to do was play Top Trumps in our hotel room, and not have to any of those terrible holiday activities his parents were suggesting.Cheese
As well as finding, as predicted, all the awesome fossils, we also discovered that there was a cool craft activity going on in the museum. Because Dippy is on tour from the Natural History Museum, they had a 3D-printed copy of his skull, and a artist/educator who was getting children to join in making a model of Dippy's skeleton with glue, and black tissue paper, and toilet rolls and straws, and all the other good Blue Peter-style stuff. And the three of us settled in with the friendly artist man and had a lovely half hour of gluing and sticking and generally having a nice time. |
| Making a miniature Dippy |
Extra Cheese
As I believe I alluded to when describing the songs LittleBear was making up, Squidy came on holiday with us. Some of you may not remember quite how big Squidy is. He needed to wear a seatbelt to be safe while travelling... |
| Squidy's coming on holiday. |
But he did like being tucked up in bed
And yes, LittleBear did manage to fit into that bed with his squid. And a penguin. And a stingray. And a hammerhead shark.
But most of all, Squidy enjoyed pretending to be Meryl Streep, sitting at a table used in the filming of The French Lieutenant's Woman, where Meryl sat.
 |
| The French Lieutenant's Squid |
* As some of you may have noticed, I am awesome at complaining in private, or in writing, but doing so in person is not my thing at all.
** The six-year old in question does receive a certain amount of help from his doting mother, but is developing into a keen Scrabble-player.
Thursday, 15 February 2018
Road Trip to Lyme Regis (redux)
Last summer, LittleBear and I set out on a road trip to the Jurassic Coast. We went without BigBear, and (mostly) had a marvelous time. There were less than marvelous points, such as car-sickness, and attempting to share a bed with my son, but it was largely splendid. And while staying in Lyme Regis, we went on a guided fossil-hunting walk, which was an excellent way of taking the pressure off me to be good at finding fossils. However... the two delightful men running the fossil-hunt cheerfully told my son that the best time to find fossils is actually in winter, when the rougher seas, and worse weather, cause more erosion and more mudslides, revealing more fossils. Not to mention that there are fewer people visiting, so fewer people finding all the lovely fossils.
Which is why we're now in Lyme Regis in February.
I had intended to repeat last year's efforts and write a daily blog of the trip, but we're already on day three of the road trip, and I've only just found the energy to do so. The last two days we were staying with GrannyBear, which was a great relief. As I have recently mentioned, I've been a bit under the weather, and LittleBear has had The Eternal Cough. My patience has been wearing more than a trifle thin, such that I reached a new nadir of parenting shortly after midnight on Tuesday....
BigBear was still at home, and not due to join us for another day. LittleBear had gone to bed coughing. I had gone to bed at 10:15 and fallen asleep in around 17 seconds. An hour later, LittleBear's coughing started. So I trotted over to his room and rubbed his back and soothed him. Then at midnight a small figure appeared beside my bed to inform me that it was midnight and that he couldn't sleep because of his cough. So I invited him to join me, as it seemed the simplest solution. Then I remembered how much I hate sharing a bed with LittleBear. And then he needed his bedside light. Then his GroClock. Then his cuddlies. After I'd been back and forth several times, and found the cough medicine, I was even shorter on patience than I usually am in the wee small hours. Which is how I came to say, "If I'm horrible to you all day tomorrow, it will be your own fault for keeping me awake!"
Like I said - a parenting nadir.
I more or less redeemed myself by cuddling my moppet, and stroking his hair and soothing his worries about not sleeping, and about coughing, and soon we both drifted off to sleep. To my surprise, neither of us woke up again until shortly after 7 o'clock. Then my LittleBear read his book beside me in bed before trotting round to GrannyBear's room to check if she was awake and climbing into bed with her for a cuddle and a chat. The next thing I knew it was 9:30 and I stumbled, bleary-eyed, downstairs to find LittleBear and GrannyBear playing Scrabble together. I cannot begin to put into words how grateful, relieved and lucky I felt in having such an understanding mother, and such a biddable small boy, that they allowed me the extra sleep that I needed and happily got on with their day together.
Valentine's Day thus passed in a medley of games and food, with me in a considerably better mood than I'd managed for some time (and I apologised to my LittleBear for my poor behaviour in the night...) And finally, after many train-based-delays, BigBear arrived and we were ready to start the major part of our road trip the next morning.
This time, we were not travelling on a Bank Holiday, and I had not allowed LittleBear to over-fill himself with soft fruit, so we managed to arrive without a hint of vomit. LittleBear was (again) underwhelmed by Stonehenge, and (again) delighted with the place names. We were thrilled to rediscover West Camel, and to find its compatriot Queen Camel. In fact, we then spent several miles being regaled with a long list of potential camel-based place names. And then an even longer list of random-words-with-camel-appended, before parental patience wore thin and we called a halt to the recitation. LittleBear then returned to another current favourite - making up his own songs. Songs with catchy lyrics such as:
There's a mince pie in the sky
or
Blu-tack is small and round and furry like bolognese
or
Squidy's going on holiday
Squidy's going on holiday
Squidy's going on holiday
Oo! Sign to Lyme Regis!
Because, yes, we have brought a cuddly giant squid on holiday with us. I am more than a little bit relieved that our room is near the back of the hotel, and accessible via a door from the carpark and I was not forced to march down Broad Street and through the hotel carrying a giant, scarlet, cuddly squid.
So far, LittleBear has declared this to be the best hotel he's ever stayed in. Which he says about every hotel we ever stay in, but let's not quibble. It has a swimming pool and jacuzzi that LittleBear and I have made use of already, despite my having left my swimming costume at home. Because it's the kind of hotel where they expect you to be gormless and therefore have a stash of swimming costumes of various sizes to buy at reception.
So far, it's shaping up to be the best place I've stayed with LittleBear, if for no other reason than I am currently writing this while sat on a sofa, with a large glass of wine in front of me, in a properly lit room, safe in the knowledge that LittleBear is tucked up in bed about 6 metres away from me, and I have a baby monitor by my side so I know he's OK. This is a significant improvement on sitting hunched in a corner of a pitch black room, trying to type quietly.
And tomorrow we start hunting for fossils again.
Which is why we're now in Lyme Regis in February.
I had intended to repeat last year's efforts and write a daily blog of the trip, but we're already on day three of the road trip, and I've only just found the energy to do so. The last two days we were staying with GrannyBear, which was a great relief. As I have recently mentioned, I've been a bit under the weather, and LittleBear has had The Eternal Cough. My patience has been wearing more than a trifle thin, such that I reached a new nadir of parenting shortly after midnight on Tuesday....
BigBear was still at home, and not due to join us for another day. LittleBear had gone to bed coughing. I had gone to bed at 10:15 and fallen asleep in around 17 seconds. An hour later, LittleBear's coughing started. So I trotted over to his room and rubbed his back and soothed him. Then at midnight a small figure appeared beside my bed to inform me that it was midnight and that he couldn't sleep because of his cough. So I invited him to join me, as it seemed the simplest solution. Then I remembered how much I hate sharing a bed with LittleBear. And then he needed his bedside light. Then his GroClock. Then his cuddlies. After I'd been back and forth several times, and found the cough medicine, I was even shorter on patience than I usually am in the wee small hours. Which is how I came to say, "If I'm horrible to you all day tomorrow, it will be your own fault for keeping me awake!"
Like I said - a parenting nadir.
I more or less redeemed myself by cuddling my moppet, and stroking his hair and soothing his worries about not sleeping, and about coughing, and soon we both drifted off to sleep. To my surprise, neither of us woke up again until shortly after 7 o'clock. Then my LittleBear read his book beside me in bed before trotting round to GrannyBear's room to check if she was awake and climbing into bed with her for a cuddle and a chat. The next thing I knew it was 9:30 and I stumbled, bleary-eyed, downstairs to find LittleBear and GrannyBear playing Scrabble together. I cannot begin to put into words how grateful, relieved and lucky I felt in having such an understanding mother, and such a biddable small boy, that they allowed me the extra sleep that I needed and happily got on with their day together.
Valentine's Day thus passed in a medley of games and food, with me in a considerably better mood than I'd managed for some time (and I apologised to my LittleBear for my poor behaviour in the night...) And finally, after many train-based-delays, BigBear arrived and we were ready to start the major part of our road trip the next morning.
This time, we were not travelling on a Bank Holiday, and I had not allowed LittleBear to over-fill himself with soft fruit, so we managed to arrive without a hint of vomit. LittleBear was (again) underwhelmed by Stonehenge, and (again) delighted with the place names. We were thrilled to rediscover West Camel, and to find its compatriot Queen Camel. In fact, we then spent several miles being regaled with a long list of potential camel-based place names. And then an even longer list of random-words-with-camel-appended, before parental patience wore thin and we called a halt to the recitation. LittleBear then returned to another current favourite - making up his own songs. Songs with catchy lyrics such as:
There's a mince pie in the sky
or
Blu-tack is small and round and furry like bolognese
or
Squidy's going on holiday
Squidy's going on holiday
Squidy's going on holiday
Oo! Sign to Lyme Regis!
Because, yes, we have brought a cuddly giant squid on holiday with us. I am more than a little bit relieved that our room is near the back of the hotel, and accessible via a door from the carpark and I was not forced to march down Broad Street and through the hotel carrying a giant, scarlet, cuddly squid.
So far, LittleBear has declared this to be the best hotel he's ever stayed in. Which he says about every hotel we ever stay in, but let's not quibble. It has a swimming pool and jacuzzi that LittleBear and I have made use of already, despite my having left my swimming costume at home. Because it's the kind of hotel where they expect you to be gormless and therefore have a stash of swimming costumes of various sizes to buy at reception.
So far, it's shaping up to be the best place I've stayed with LittleBear, if for no other reason than I am currently writing this while sat on a sofa, with a large glass of wine in front of me, in a properly lit room, safe in the knowledge that LittleBear is tucked up in bed about 6 metres away from me, and I have a baby monitor by my side so I know he's OK. This is a significant improvement on sitting hunched in a corner of a pitch black room, trying to type quietly.
And tomorrow we start hunting for fossils again.
Thursday, 11 January 2018
Keeping the peace
There can't be many parents who haven't heard at least some permutation on the immortal line, "Are we nearly there yet?" There can't be many parents who don't hanker after foolproof methods to entertain their children on long car journeys.
We have dispensed with the need for LittleBear to ask either how far we've been, or how far we've got left, or what time we'll arrive, as he's just as capable as I am of seeing the screen on the Satnav and determining these useful tidbits for himself. Which is unfortunate when we would much rather assure him that, "it's not far now, really," when in truth he can perfectly well see the looming threat of an hour and a half's delay on the M6.
My friend Tigger gave us a splendid game for the car that is actually called, "Are We There Yet?" but unfortunately, the need to read the cards renders LittleBear rapidly car-sick, and I'd rather deal with a fractious boy than a vomiting one. So we have to reserve that particular game for when there are sufficient additional passengers that we can play without LittleBear doing the reading. Or BigBear, who can't cope with it either. Or GrannyBear, who can't find her glasses.
We've tried playing eye-spy. We've tried listening to recorded stories. We've tried (and please spare me this ever happening again) me telling stories. We've tried listening to music. We've tried playing twenty-questions. Any and all of these, in varying combinations, have usually managed to pass the time on even the longest of journeys.
Now we have a new form of entertainment. We have not succumbed to any kind of gadget, device or screen. We have not sedated LittleBear. We have not invented a teleportation device.
We have this:
That's right. A list of letters and numbers. I could just leave it at that, and allow you to attempt to work out what manner of game LittleBear has lit upon, but I'll put you out of your misery.
We attempt to "collect" as wide a range of Scrabble scores for car numberplates as possible. Because, obviously, having introduced LittleBear to Scrabble, the first thing he did was memorise the scores of each letter, followed rapidly by learning how many copies of each letter exist in a standard Scrabble set. There are therefore strict rules to the collecting of numberplates, most notably that a numberplate is only valid if it can be formed from a set of Scrabble letters. No double-z thank you very much. A Scrabble set only has one "z", so you can only have a numberplate with one "z" in it.
This game has led to some interesting observations...
- getting only low scoring letters in a numberplate is surprisingly rare
- trade plates are very exciting, as they allow you to score zero, having no letters in them
- we now feel disappointed if someone has gone to the effort of a personalised numberplate and have not either minimised or maximised their score. Why have only one letter and let it be "K", scoring five points, when you could have "E" for one point? Other people have such strange priorities.
- Z and X seem to crop up peculiarly often
- there is a disappointingly low occurrence of the letter Q
Because I'm me, and LittleBear has to get it from somewhere, I now find myself pathologically incapable of not totalling up the points score of the numberplates that I see. I feel a frisson of excitement if I get a thirty-pointer, or anything below five-points. I can't help myself. I'm not entirely sure who relishes this game the most, me or LittleBear. It certainly keeps me occupied on long journeys.
Footnote
The good news is that LittleBear has invented a new permutation upon this game, in which the colour of the car can mulitply the score, as a coloured square on the Scrabble board does. A dark blue car - triple one letter. A red car - triple the whole score. A pink car - double the whole score. A light blue square - double one letter. It's doing wonders for LittleBear's mental arithmetic.
We have dispensed with the need for LittleBear to ask either how far we've been, or how far we've got left, or what time we'll arrive, as he's just as capable as I am of seeing the screen on the Satnav and determining these useful tidbits for himself. Which is unfortunate when we would much rather assure him that, "it's not far now, really," when in truth he can perfectly well see the looming threat of an hour and a half's delay on the M6.
My friend Tigger gave us a splendid game for the car that is actually called, "Are We There Yet?" but unfortunately, the need to read the cards renders LittleBear rapidly car-sick, and I'd rather deal with a fractious boy than a vomiting one. So we have to reserve that particular game for when there are sufficient additional passengers that we can play without LittleBear doing the reading. Or BigBear, who can't cope with it either. Or GrannyBear, who can't find her glasses.
We've tried playing eye-spy. We've tried listening to recorded stories. We've tried (and please spare me this ever happening again) me telling stories. We've tried listening to music. We've tried playing twenty-questions. Any and all of these, in varying combinations, have usually managed to pass the time on even the longest of journeys.
Now we have a new form of entertainment. We have not succumbed to any kind of gadget, device or screen. We have not sedated LittleBear. We have not invented a teleportation device.
We have this:
 |
| It keeps me quiet |
That's right. A list of letters and numbers. I could just leave it at that, and allow you to attempt to work out what manner of game LittleBear has lit upon, but I'll put you out of your misery.
We attempt to "collect" as wide a range of Scrabble scores for car numberplates as possible. Because, obviously, having introduced LittleBear to Scrabble, the first thing he did was memorise the scores of each letter, followed rapidly by learning how many copies of each letter exist in a standard Scrabble set. There are therefore strict rules to the collecting of numberplates, most notably that a numberplate is only valid if it can be formed from a set of Scrabble letters. No double-z thank you very much. A Scrabble set only has one "z", so you can only have a numberplate with one "z" in it.
This game has led to some interesting observations...
- getting only low scoring letters in a numberplate is surprisingly rare
- trade plates are very exciting, as they allow you to score zero, having no letters in them
- we now feel disappointed if someone has gone to the effort of a personalised numberplate and have not either minimised or maximised their score. Why have only one letter and let it be "K", scoring five points, when you could have "E" for one point? Other people have such strange priorities.
- Z and X seem to crop up peculiarly often
- there is a disappointingly low occurrence of the letter Q
Because I'm me, and LittleBear has to get it from somewhere, I now find myself pathologically incapable of not totalling up the points score of the numberplates that I see. I feel a frisson of excitement if I get a thirty-pointer, or anything below five-points. I can't help myself. I'm not entirely sure who relishes this game the most, me or LittleBear. It certainly keeps me occupied on long journeys.
Footnote
The good news is that LittleBear has invented a new permutation upon this game, in which the colour of the car can mulitply the score, as a coloured square on the Scrabble board does. A dark blue car - triple one letter. A red car - triple the whole score. A pink car - double the whole score. A light blue square - double one letter. It's doing wonders for LittleBear's mental arithmetic.
Saturday, 2 December 2017
Too tired to even be deranged
It is possible that at some point I will write about how awesome my son is, and how much fun we had at London Zoo. I might find the energy to write about him coping on the tube, even when Camden Town station was so over-crowded they were closing the gates and only letting a trainful into the building at a time. I might write about how much he loved seeing all his favourite snakes, not to mention penguins and wild dogs and meerkats and lemurs. I might write about how I, Johnny-Morris-like, provided voices for all the animals we saw, no matter how stupid I looked in front of all the other, more normal, adults around me. I might write about LittleBear eating a packet of hula hoops, a banana and a chocolate brownie for lunch. In the rain. With his gloves on.
Or I might just leave you with that cluster of images and tell you that I lay awake from 4am to 6am, worrying about how to acquire a cuddly stingray for my son. And then, even though my lovely friend has offered to try and acquire one when she went into work, I decided to run back to the museum to be there when it opened, queue up, dash round three museum shops to find one of the last remaining stingrays and then run back to the hotel. And before undertaking this absurd performance, I shattered the childhood dream of surprises at Christmas by gently explaining to my son the impossibility of purchasing his heart's desire anywhere other than actually in the museum, and that he needed to decide if he really, really, really wanted it. As you can surmise from the outcome, he concurred that he did really, really, really want it, more than anything in the world, and that he was prepared to sacrifice time in the zoo in return.
So here we are, back home again, with our eyelids drooping closed, the cat frantically over-excited to see us again, and a sense of deep relief to be out of the seething mass of humanity that is London.
And I think I was a better mother today. Whether it was the warm glow of knowing I had a cuddly stingray in my bag, or the calming and reassuring presence of BigBear to take the stress out of solo responsibility, or the additional sleep that LittleBear had had, or a combination of all three, I don't know. Suffice to say, I was much more patient, much more loving and much more kind today. And LittleBear made me so very, very proud by being the best little bear in the world.
Or I might just leave you with that cluster of images and tell you that I lay awake from 4am to 6am, worrying about how to acquire a cuddly stingray for my son. And then, even though my lovely friend has offered to try and acquire one when she went into work, I decided to run back to the museum to be there when it opened, queue up, dash round three museum shops to find one of the last remaining stingrays and then run back to the hotel. And before undertaking this absurd performance, I shattered the childhood dream of surprises at Christmas by gently explaining to my son the impossibility of purchasing his heart's desire anywhere other than actually in the museum, and that he needed to decide if he really, really, really wanted it. As you can surmise from the outcome, he concurred that he did really, really, really want it, more than anything in the world, and that he was prepared to sacrifice time in the zoo in return.
So here we are, back home again, with our eyelids drooping closed, the cat frantically over-excited to see us again, and a sense of deep relief to be out of the seething mass of humanity that is London.
And I think I was a better mother today. Whether it was the warm glow of knowing I had a cuddly stingray in my bag, or the calming and reassuring presence of BigBear to take the stress out of solo responsibility, or the additional sleep that LittleBear had had, or a combination of all three, I don't know. Suffice to say, I was much more patient, much more loving and much more kind today. And LittleBear made me so very, very proud by being the best little bear in the world.
Friday, 1 December 2017
Sleep-deprived and deranged
I spoke too soon.
I may have had a bed to myself, but that only marginally improved the quantity and quality of sleep I obtained. There were two factors involved. Firstly, the hotel room was, as they so often are, far too hot and far too dry. This led to me succumbing to the one-glass-hangover, and waking feeling utterly, utterly wretched. Secondly, LittleBear woke at 5:30, instead of his more usual 6:45. In truth, "secondly" may also have been caused by "firstly", as I can't imagine he was much more comfortable than me, even without having consumed wine.
And thus it was that at 6:45 I was being regaled with statistics from the Guinness Book of Formula One Records with a pounding headache. Living the dream. Or perhaps the nightmare.
I managed to stave off actually emerging from my bed for another half hour or so, at which point I found ibuprofen and coffee, and introduced LittleBear to what probably still counts as the parenting highlight of the day - I'd remembered to bring his advent calendar with me, and remembered to put chocolates in the first two pockets at least. And because I wasn't up for any kind of battle, he had today's chocolate in bed. And in many respects, my parenting went downhill from there.
Breakfast sustained me with industrial quantities of coffee and fried foods, which layered on top of the ibuprofen nicely to render me more or less human. Though, sadly, not any less tired. LittleBear, meanwhile, chomped his way through two bowls of fruit, a massive doorstop of buttered toast, and a croissant. And I introduced him to Nutella on his croissant. The individual packets are relatively generous, and it only took about half a pot to comfortably daub every chunk of croissant. Which is how I came to allow LittleBear to eat the rest of the pot with a teaspoon. Like I said, my parenting was nose-diving.
Since the Natural History Museum doesn't open until 10, and our hotel was only a few minutes down the road, we returned to our room to play a few swift games of "Uno" before tackling the rest of the day. And I made the classic error or winning the first one, leading to a small (and under-slept) small boy lying on his front sobbing that he was never, ever, ever going to play, ever, ever, ever again. Nose-diving.
Despite such traumas, we still made it to the museum in time to queue up and be among the first to get in for the day, allowing us plenty of time and space in the all-important dinosaur galleries first. The route round seems to have changed in the last two years, which was when we came on our Big Day Out. Aside from the fact that, obviously, dinosaurs are awesome, there were two major things that struck me - firstly, it was very disappointing not to be able to walk along the elevated gantry, and it felt as though we actually saw far fewer skeletons; secondly, LittleBear remembered around which corner he would encounter the meteorite on a stand that he could touch, two years after he last saw it. I think I have spawned a freak.
The museum was as awesome as ever, though we did need to stop intermittently to curl up in a cuddle on a handy bench with a nanoo. There were several more parenting nadirs however...
...for instance...
... while playing with the demonstration of the difference between a horse's leg and an elephant's leg, and watching LittleBear bounce up and down with a metal post under his chin, I found myself saying, "If you knock your teeth out and there's blood everywhere, I won't be sympathetic and cuddle you!" The devastated tearful collapse then warranted some serious apologising and the assurance that I would always, always, always care if he was hurt, and always, always, always try and make it better.
I even managed to hold firm to my injunction that coming to London, and staying in a hotel, and eating in restaurants and going to the museum and the zoo were treats, and that I wasn't buying anything in the shop. I didn't manage to resist imprecations to visit the various museum shops (for they are many and scattered). And LittleBear and I both fell in love with a beautiful, soft, cuddly ray. And I assured him that it would go on his Christmas list, and that as long as we knew if was what he really, really wanted, there'd be a good chance he could have it. So every time we passed a shop, we popped in to cuddle a ray. And I knew that the museum has an online shop, and buying one would be easy. Oh foolish me. It does not exist in the online shop. It was been discontinued by the manufacturer. I have as good as promised my son something I cannot provide. I hadn't thought my parenting could go much further downhill today.
I have one possibility, and that is my friend who works in the museum, who if I beg and plead and cajole, might be imposed upon to cross the boundary from back-room to front-of-house and buy one on my behalf, before the world's supply of adorable cuddly blue-spotted rays dries up completely.
In the gaps between visiting shops to cuddle rays, we covered a lot of territory, though by the end we were resorting to the lift to descend from the mineral collection to the ground floor, before ascending into the From The Beginning Gallery. As we paused (again) to extract nanoo from my bag to have a sustaining cuddle on my lap, I suggested maybe we should head back to the hotel... "But we haven't been to the Human Body yet". So off we went... and I was relieved that LittleBear was already almost comatose, as I could lead him swiftly through the details of human reproduction and into senses and memory. There is rarely a day when I do feel like explaining about sperm and how they get where they're going. But there are some days when I am even less keen than other days. This was, in case you hadn't guessed, one of the latter.
After six hours, we did finally stumble back to our hotel. And I've probably made it sound as though I was mostly a splendid Mummy with one or two moments of vexation, but it feels a lot more as though I was a vexed Mummy with one or two moments of being almost human. And I'm finding myself genuinely (and perhaps disproportionately) worried and upset about failing to buy the coveted ray when I had a chance. BigBear arrived this evening, and his rather more robust view is to simply tell LittleBear that he can't have it. He's probably right. But he didn't see the utter adoration that LittleBear heaped upon this creature. And he didn't almost-promise that LittleBear could have one for Christmas.
I may have had a bed to myself, but that only marginally improved the quantity and quality of sleep I obtained. There were two factors involved. Firstly, the hotel room was, as they so often are, far too hot and far too dry. This led to me succumbing to the one-glass-hangover, and waking feeling utterly, utterly wretched. Secondly, LittleBear woke at 5:30, instead of his more usual 6:45. In truth, "secondly" may also have been caused by "firstly", as I can't imagine he was much more comfortable than me, even without having consumed wine.
And thus it was that at 6:45 I was being regaled with statistics from the Guinness Book of Formula One Records with a pounding headache. Living the dream. Or perhaps the nightmare.
I managed to stave off actually emerging from my bed for another half hour or so, at which point I found ibuprofen and coffee, and introduced LittleBear to what probably still counts as the parenting highlight of the day - I'd remembered to bring his advent calendar with me, and remembered to put chocolates in the first two pockets at least. And because I wasn't up for any kind of battle, he had today's chocolate in bed. And in many respects, my parenting went downhill from there.
Breakfast sustained me with industrial quantities of coffee and fried foods, which layered on top of the ibuprofen nicely to render me more or less human. Though, sadly, not any less tired. LittleBear, meanwhile, chomped his way through two bowls of fruit, a massive doorstop of buttered toast, and a croissant. And I introduced him to Nutella on his croissant. The individual packets are relatively generous, and it only took about half a pot to comfortably daub every chunk of croissant. Which is how I came to allow LittleBear to eat the rest of the pot with a teaspoon. Like I said, my parenting was nose-diving.
Since the Natural History Museum doesn't open until 10, and our hotel was only a few minutes down the road, we returned to our room to play a few swift games of "Uno" before tackling the rest of the day. And I made the classic error or winning the first one, leading to a small (and under-slept) small boy lying on his front sobbing that he was never, ever, ever going to play, ever, ever, ever again. Nose-diving.
Despite such traumas, we still made it to the museum in time to queue up and be among the first to get in for the day, allowing us plenty of time and space in the all-important dinosaur galleries first. The route round seems to have changed in the last two years, which was when we came on our Big Day Out. Aside from the fact that, obviously, dinosaurs are awesome, there were two major things that struck me - firstly, it was very disappointing not to be able to walk along the elevated gantry, and it felt as though we actually saw far fewer skeletons; secondly, LittleBear remembered around which corner he would encounter the meteorite on a stand that he could touch, two years after he last saw it. I think I have spawned a freak.
The museum was as awesome as ever, though we did need to stop intermittently to curl up in a cuddle on a handy bench with a nanoo. There were several more parenting nadirs however...
...for instance...
... while playing with the demonstration of the difference between a horse's leg and an elephant's leg, and watching LittleBear bounce up and down with a metal post under his chin, I found myself saying, "If you knock your teeth out and there's blood everywhere, I won't be sympathetic and cuddle you!" The devastated tearful collapse then warranted some serious apologising and the assurance that I would always, always, always care if he was hurt, and always, always, always try and make it better.
I even managed to hold firm to my injunction that coming to London, and staying in a hotel, and eating in restaurants and going to the museum and the zoo were treats, and that I wasn't buying anything in the shop. I didn't manage to resist imprecations to visit the various museum shops (for they are many and scattered). And LittleBear and I both fell in love with a beautiful, soft, cuddly ray. And I assured him that it would go on his Christmas list, and that as long as we knew if was what he really, really wanted, there'd be a good chance he could have it. So every time we passed a shop, we popped in to cuddle a ray. And I knew that the museum has an online shop, and buying one would be easy. Oh foolish me. It does not exist in the online shop. It was been discontinued by the manufacturer. I have as good as promised my son something I cannot provide. I hadn't thought my parenting could go much further downhill today.
I have one possibility, and that is my friend who works in the museum, who if I beg and plead and cajole, might be imposed upon to cross the boundary from back-room to front-of-house and buy one on my behalf, before the world's supply of adorable cuddly blue-spotted rays dries up completely.
In the gaps between visiting shops to cuddle rays, we covered a lot of territory, though by the end we were resorting to the lift to descend from the mineral collection to the ground floor, before ascending into the From The Beginning Gallery. As we paused (again) to extract nanoo from my bag to have a sustaining cuddle on my lap, I suggested maybe we should head back to the hotel... "But we haven't been to the Human Body yet". So off we went... and I was relieved that LittleBear was already almost comatose, as I could lead him swiftly through the details of human reproduction and into senses and memory. There is rarely a day when I do feel like explaining about sperm and how they get where they're going. But there are some days when I am even less keen than other days. This was, in case you hadn't guessed, one of the latter.
After six hours, we did finally stumble back to our hotel. And I've probably made it sound as though I was mostly a splendid Mummy with one or two moments of vexation, but it feels a lot more as though I was a vexed Mummy with one or two moments of being almost human. And I'm finding myself genuinely (and perhaps disproportionately) worried and upset about failing to buy the coveted ray when I had a chance. BigBear arrived this evening, and his rather more robust view is to simply tell LittleBear that he can't have it. He's probably right. But he didn't see the utter adoration that LittleBear heaped upon this creature. And he didn't almost-promise that LittleBear could have one for Christmas.
Thursday, 30 November 2017
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:
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.
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.
Wednesday, 30 August 2017
Road Trip: end of the road
And finally, we're home.
Actually we got home last night, but I was (for a change) too exhausted to contemplate writing anything. Besides, it was quite nice to sit with BigBear and catch up on life and the Vuelta a España.
Between Lyme Regis and home we stopped for two nights at GrannyBear's house, which I think GrannyBear more or less survived, and more or less enjoyed. I think two days with LittleBear brought her almost to the same level of exhaustion as me though, so it's probably a good thing it wasn't any longer than that.
One of my favourite parts of staying with GrannyBear, aside from having a bed to myself, and aside from two nights of gloriously uninterrupted sleep, and aside from having a chance to do the crossword with GrannyBear*, was the fact that LittleBear, upon seeing us doing a crossword, wanted to set one for GrannyBear. So, LittleBear choose some words, and I made a grid for them, and then LittleBear invented some clues...
First among his requirements was that the clues shouldn't be too easy for GrannyBear. Unfortunately, LittleBear has a rather over-inflated idea of GrannyBear's knowledge of dinosaurs, or of the inner workings of LittleBear's mind. Let me give you some examples:
Sometimes it's wobbly (5 letters)
Go on, admit it, you think it's jelly don't you? GrannyBear did too, but it's not. It's tooth. It's true that a major feature of the road trip has been a wobbly tooth, but it wasn't perhaps at the forefront of GrannyBear's mind to quite the same extent as LittleBear's mind.
Something which tries to creep up on people
Naturally enough, GrannyBear tried to think of as many sneaky predators as possible, knowing LittleBear's preferences. She did not, perhaps unsurprisingly, think of LittleBear himself, as he has rather more of a tendency to bounce up to people rather than creep as such. He lays claim to "sometimes" creeping up on people, so the solution to this particular clue was his own name.
Something with long claws (10 letters)
I particularly enjoyed this clue, mostly because of LittleBear's utter glee as he thought of it. I shall put you out of your misery and let you know that it's Suchomimus, a spinosaurid whose name means "crocodile mimic", due to its very crocodile-like skull. I suggested that we should perhaps mention its crocodilian features, to give GrannyBear a chance, but Littlebear demurred, "No Mummy, that would be too easy. This will be funny because Granny will think it's Baryonyx, and it's not!" In vain did I attempt to convince him that GrannyBear would most certainly not think of Baryonyx straight away, if at all, so poor GrannyBear was confronted with an almost insoluble clue.
I think GrannyBear can feel justifiably proud of herself for getting 7 out of the 10 clues (with a few extra hints) given the level of challenge she was set.
And then... we were back on the road again. And as we set off for the Motorway From Hell, the satnav reported even more foul traffic than usual, and suggested we go the other way. Let me show you...
We wanted to get from A to B. Generally, clockwise is shorter and quicker. We went anticlockwise. This was a decision of dubious worth, as it took us 3 hours and 118 miles to undertake what is normally a 2 hour and 90 mile journey. I'm clinging to the view that I don't know how bad clockwise was, and it might actually have been worse than our actual journey. Please don't tell me otherwise.
But, finally we're home, after 491 miles on the road.
It's been fun, but exhausting. Being a solo-parent for a week away from home was both rewarding in being utterly all-encompassing, and allowing me to be completely absorbed into my LittleBear's world, and also exhausting in being relentless in responsibility and concentration. So tomorrow I go back to work for a couple of days and let BigBear and LittleBear bond. And I am looking forward to it, just a teensy bit.
* Which I still haven't finished yet, dammit.
Actually we got home last night, but I was (for a change) too exhausted to contemplate writing anything. Besides, it was quite nice to sit with BigBear and catch up on life and the Vuelta a España.
Between Lyme Regis and home we stopped for two nights at GrannyBear's house, which I think GrannyBear more or less survived, and more or less enjoyed. I think two days with LittleBear brought her almost to the same level of exhaustion as me though, so it's probably a good thing it wasn't any longer than that.
One of my favourite parts of staying with GrannyBear, aside from having a bed to myself, and aside from two nights of gloriously uninterrupted sleep, and aside from having a chance to do the crossword with GrannyBear*, was the fact that LittleBear, upon seeing us doing a crossword, wanted to set one for GrannyBear. So, LittleBear choose some words, and I made a grid for them, and then LittleBear invented some clues...
First among his requirements was that the clues shouldn't be too easy for GrannyBear. Unfortunately, LittleBear has a rather over-inflated idea of GrannyBear's knowledge of dinosaurs, or of the inner workings of LittleBear's mind. Let me give you some examples:
Sometimes it's wobbly (5 letters)
Go on, admit it, you think it's jelly don't you? GrannyBear did too, but it's not. It's tooth. It's true that a major feature of the road trip has been a wobbly tooth, but it wasn't perhaps at the forefront of GrannyBear's mind to quite the same extent as LittleBear's mind.
Something which tries to creep up on people
Naturally enough, GrannyBear tried to think of as many sneaky predators as possible, knowing LittleBear's preferences. She did not, perhaps unsurprisingly, think of LittleBear himself, as he has rather more of a tendency to bounce up to people rather than creep as such. He lays claim to "sometimes" creeping up on people, so the solution to this particular clue was his own name.
Something with long claws (10 letters)
I particularly enjoyed this clue, mostly because of LittleBear's utter glee as he thought of it. I shall put you out of your misery and let you know that it's Suchomimus, a spinosaurid whose name means "crocodile mimic", due to its very crocodile-like skull. I suggested that we should perhaps mention its crocodilian features, to give GrannyBear a chance, but Littlebear demurred, "No Mummy, that would be too easy. This will be funny because Granny will think it's Baryonyx, and it's not!" In vain did I attempt to convince him that GrannyBear would most certainly not think of Baryonyx straight away, if at all, so poor GrannyBear was confronted with an almost insoluble clue.
I think GrannyBear can feel justifiably proud of herself for getting 7 out of the 10 clues (with a few extra hints) given the level of challenge she was set.
And then... we were back on the road again. And as we set off for the Motorway From Hell, the satnav reported even more foul traffic than usual, and suggested we go the other way. Let me show you...
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| The Motorway From Hell |
But, finally we're home, after 491 miles on the road.
It's been fun, but exhausting. Being a solo-parent for a week away from home was both rewarding in being utterly all-encompassing, and allowing me to be completely absorbed into my LittleBear's world, and also exhausting in being relentless in responsibility and concentration. So tomorrow I go back to work for a couple of days and let BigBear and LittleBear bond. And I am looking forward to it, just a teensy bit.
* Which I still haven't finished yet, dammit.
Monday, 28 August 2017
Road Trip: Day Something Or Other
Those of you who have been eagerly following my day-by-day account of my adventure to the Jurassic Coast with LittleBear will have been devastated to notice that I didn't write anything yesterday. This was for two reasons.
Firstly, I was absolutely exhausted. Properly, properly exhausted. I had thought that LittleBear's night-time rotations had run through all possible permutations, but I had not fully appreciated that there are times that, labrador-like, he seems to chase rabbits in his sleep. His little legs flail up and down as he runs wildly after little bunnies (or perhaps Lambeosaurs) and he grunts and wurtles to himself. This would be mildly distracting if he were simply lying beside me. And it was. It was more than mildly distracting when he was lying with his feet on my stomach.
Secondly, I was relishing the opportunity to put LittleBear to bed and then retreat to a different room, sit on an actual piece of furniture and speak to another human being. GrannyBear and I sat on a sofa and did a crossword together*. This was a distinct improvement on the previous three evenings, where I had tucked LittleBear up, switched the light off and then sat on the floor in a dark corner, lit only by the ethereal glow of my laptop screen. Blogging in the dark is challenging. I can generally find all the letters by touch alone, and can stare at the screen as I type. If I want to do anything radical, like use punctuation, then I need to angle the screen downwards so it lights up the keys, at which point I can no longer see the screen. You can imagine it was a somewhat laborious process, because I'm quite fond of punctuation. And I was sat on the floor. Normally I don't mind sitting on the floor. I do it quite a lot. But after spending rather more time than I'd like, carrying rather more rocks in my back-pack than I'd like, up rather more hills than I'd like, my back was rather more painful than I'd like. Sitting on the floor was like twisting the knife in the red-hot agony of backache.
So, I didn't feel like writing last night.
But now LittleBear is happily watching a recording of Match of the Day**, and I can sit on Actual Furniture and type where I can see and all sorts of other luxuries.
Yesterday was a long, but enjoyable, stage in our road trip, back on the road again.
To avoid Further Incidents, I moved LittleBear's car seat into the front of the car, and I forbade the consumption of soft fruit at breakfast. The two-pronged attack was entirely successful, and we managed 95 miles, mostly on small, windy roads, without any complaints. Once again, I have no idea where we went, simply putting myself in the hands of the satnav. I can tell you we went past a village called West Camel, which was definitely our favourite for the day. Better even than Middle Wallop. And we also passed Stonehenge, which I attempted to explain to LittleBear. I'm not sure I managed to convey the full historical and cultural importance of Stonehenge... "but why would you travel thousands of miles just to come and see that Mummy?"
Nonetheless, we made good time, and before we knew it we'd arrived with the Bear cousins Somewhere In Hampshire. And I was able to relax into the warm embrace of family, enhanced enormously by the presence of BoyCousin, to whom LittleBear attaches himself whenever he sees him. I barely saw him for several hours as his (very tolerant) older cousin played lego with him, and played football with him and smiled and nodded as LittleBear became tired and deranged and talked nonsense. BoyCousin is nearly ten years older than LittleBear and yet is infinitely patient and kind with him. One day, I hope, he will realise just how huge a difference it makes to me to be able to talk to my aunt and (grown-up) cousins without constantly supervising LittleBear. It's almost like being a normal human being again. If I'm lucky, LittleBear will grow up to be as delightful a boy as BoyCousin.
And then, finally, the last leg of the day, a mere 45 miles back to GrannyBear's house. A bed to myself. Bliss...
* Actually, we attempted a crossword, and became slightly vexed when we discovered that the Grauniad had managed to publish a mis-print in their prize crossword. I suppose we should be proud of ourselves for being good enough to have solved enough to identify a mistake, but still...
** A 1-1 draw for Burnley against Spurs at Wembley, which, in the words of BigBear, "feels like a win to me".
Firstly, I was absolutely exhausted. Properly, properly exhausted. I had thought that LittleBear's night-time rotations had run through all possible permutations, but I had not fully appreciated that there are times that, labrador-like, he seems to chase rabbits in his sleep. His little legs flail up and down as he runs wildly after little bunnies (or perhaps Lambeosaurs) and he grunts and wurtles to himself. This would be mildly distracting if he were simply lying beside me. And it was. It was more than mildly distracting when he was lying with his feet on my stomach.
Secondly, I was relishing the opportunity to put LittleBear to bed and then retreat to a different room, sit on an actual piece of furniture and speak to another human being. GrannyBear and I sat on a sofa and did a crossword together*. This was a distinct improvement on the previous three evenings, where I had tucked LittleBear up, switched the light off and then sat on the floor in a dark corner, lit only by the ethereal glow of my laptop screen. Blogging in the dark is challenging. I can generally find all the letters by touch alone, and can stare at the screen as I type. If I want to do anything radical, like use punctuation, then I need to angle the screen downwards so it lights up the keys, at which point I can no longer see the screen. You can imagine it was a somewhat laborious process, because I'm quite fond of punctuation. And I was sat on the floor. Normally I don't mind sitting on the floor. I do it quite a lot. But after spending rather more time than I'd like, carrying rather more rocks in my back-pack than I'd like, up rather more hills than I'd like, my back was rather more painful than I'd like. Sitting on the floor was like twisting the knife in the red-hot agony of backache.
So, I didn't feel like writing last night.
But now LittleBear is happily watching a recording of Match of the Day**, and I can sit on Actual Furniture and type where I can see and all sorts of other luxuries.
Yesterday was a long, but enjoyable, stage in our road trip, back on the road again.
To avoid Further Incidents, I moved LittleBear's car seat into the front of the car, and I forbade the consumption of soft fruit at breakfast. The two-pronged attack was entirely successful, and we managed 95 miles, mostly on small, windy roads, without any complaints. Once again, I have no idea where we went, simply putting myself in the hands of the satnav. I can tell you we went past a village called West Camel, which was definitely our favourite for the day. Better even than Middle Wallop. And we also passed Stonehenge, which I attempted to explain to LittleBear. I'm not sure I managed to convey the full historical and cultural importance of Stonehenge... "but why would you travel thousands of miles just to come and see that Mummy?"
Nonetheless, we made good time, and before we knew it we'd arrived with the Bear cousins Somewhere In Hampshire. And I was able to relax into the warm embrace of family, enhanced enormously by the presence of BoyCousin, to whom LittleBear attaches himself whenever he sees him. I barely saw him for several hours as his (very tolerant) older cousin played lego with him, and played football with him and smiled and nodded as LittleBear became tired and deranged and talked nonsense. BoyCousin is nearly ten years older than LittleBear and yet is infinitely patient and kind with him. One day, I hope, he will realise just how huge a difference it makes to me to be able to talk to my aunt and (grown-up) cousins without constantly supervising LittleBear. It's almost like being a normal human being again. If I'm lucky, LittleBear will grow up to be as delightful a boy as BoyCousin.
And then, finally, the last leg of the day, a mere 45 miles back to GrannyBear's house. A bed to myself. Bliss...
* Actually, we attempted a crossword, and became slightly vexed when we discovered that the Grauniad had managed to publish a mis-print in their prize crossword. I suppose we should be proud of ourselves for being good enough to have solved enough to identify a mistake, but still...
** A 1-1 draw for Burnley against Spurs at Wembley, which, in the words of BigBear, "feels like a win to me".
Saturday, 26 August 2017
Road Trip: Day 4
This is one for those of you who like the "spot the next shape in the sequence" puzzles. Here you go:
I lied. It's not a puzzle at all, it's a depiction of the various positions LittleBear is able to occupy in a double bed in one night. I shall make it easier for you by depicting my approximate location throughout these manoeuvres.
I have also discovered how LittleBear shifts position in his bed at home. He braces his feet against the wall and pushes off to lever his body round. There is no wall beside this bed. There is, however, my stomach.
We were both, once again, a trifle weary come morning. But we still managed to have a Splendid Time. We visited two museums, bought some presents, did a spot more fossil-hunting, and made a new friend on the beach, with whom major excavations were undertaken, I say "made a new friend", making it sound like LittleBear is the kind to spontaneously make friends with new people. In fact, LittleBear and Charlie were digging neighbouring holes in the sand, when Charlie announced that they would be able to dig a much bigger and better hole if they worked as a team. Then he informed LittleBear that they should be friends, as friends worked as teams. LittleBear acquiesced to both these suggestions and calmly continued to dig a hole, now in the company of Charlie. They seemed quite content and it absolved me of having to join the digging party. At least until Charlie had to go home for lunch.
But the thing I am most proud of my LittleBear for has been his restraint and self-control in choosing a present for himself. At the start of this trip, I told him I would buy him ONE treat. In the first shop he saw, he fell with glee upon the first piece of plastic tat he saw. I suggested a strategy - I suggested that over the course of this stay, he remember all the things he saw that he liked and only choose between them on the last day, and then he would be sure that he got the thing he most wanted. And he agreed. Not only that, but he accepted my stricture that £35 was too much for a plastic dinosaur. (Seriously - thirty-five pounds. There were awesome, real fossils that cost less than that). So, today, after three fossil shops, two museum shops, a bookshop and a toyshop, LittleBear chose a rather adorable cuddly pterosaur. And he shows no signs of regretting any of the things he didn't get. And I am just immensely proud and pleased to have such a lovely little boy, who is not throwing tantrums about wanting more and more and more stuff, and who is so endearingly delighted with a new cuddly toy. And it wasn't £35.
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| What is it? |
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| Some are less fun than others |
We were both, once again, a trifle weary come morning. But we still managed to have a Splendid Time. We visited two museums, bought some presents, did a spot more fossil-hunting, and made a new friend on the beach, with whom major excavations were undertaken, I say "made a new friend", making it sound like LittleBear is the kind to spontaneously make friends with new people. In fact, LittleBear and Charlie were digging neighbouring holes in the sand, when Charlie announced that they would be able to dig a much bigger and better hole if they worked as a team. Then he informed LittleBear that they should be friends, as friends worked as teams. LittleBear acquiesced to both these suggestions and calmly continued to dig a hole, now in the company of Charlie. They seemed quite content and it absolved me of having to join the digging party. At least until Charlie had to go home for lunch.
But the thing I am most proud of my LittleBear for has been his restraint and self-control in choosing a present for himself. At the start of this trip, I told him I would buy him ONE treat. In the first shop he saw, he fell with glee upon the first piece of plastic tat he saw. I suggested a strategy - I suggested that over the course of this stay, he remember all the things he saw that he liked and only choose between them on the last day, and then he would be sure that he got the thing he most wanted. And he agreed. Not only that, but he accepted my stricture that £35 was too much for a plastic dinosaur. (Seriously - thirty-five pounds. There were awesome, real fossils that cost less than that). So, today, after three fossil shops, two museum shops, a bookshop and a toyshop, LittleBear chose a rather adorable cuddly pterosaur. And he shows no signs of regretting any of the things he didn't get. And I am just immensely proud and pleased to have such a lovely little boy, who is not throwing tantrums about wanting more and more and more stuff, and who is so endearingly delighted with a new cuddly toy. And it wasn't £35.
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| LittleBear enjoying lunch with his pterosaur |
Friday, 25 August 2017
Road Trip: Day 3
I was slightly tempted to describe this as "Night 2" as the night-time events assumed a disproportionate significance in my mind, not to mention contributing significantly to the fatigue levels experienced during the day. Let me introduce you to the bed I was confronted with when I decided to attempt to achieve blissful somnolence:
I did, mostly, manage to wrangle LittleBear's legs back into roughly his half of the bed, but they showed a marked reluctance to stay there, introducing themselves to my stomach, back and legs for much of the night, and to my face at least twice. There was also a notable occasion on which I heard LittleBear reach over for his water bottle and take a drink. When I didn't hear him put it back, I rolled over to tell him to do so, only to find him fast asleep, snoring and cuddling his water bottle. It appears he was able to undertake the whole process without waking up. Which I wish I could say for me.
But it's OK, I didn't have to withstand this for long. We woke up at 6 as the light streamed through the very pretty, but wholly inadequate, blinds.
Fortified by significant quantities of coffee, plus scrambled eggs and smoked salmon for breakfast, I felt better equipped to cope with a non-travelling day on our road trip. Well, not car-based travelling. We did spend 7 hours out and about around Lyme Regis, the bulk of it fossil-hunting, and covered 3.5 miles on foot when measured in a straight line (i.e. not including the dashing back and forth, clambering up and down and darting hither and yon that all outings with LittleBear involve).
It was a beautiful day, which was a pity...
... because beautiful days mean quiet seas and no rain, which consequently means no fresh mudslides, no dramatic erosion, no turned over boulders, and little chance of interesting finds. We came perilously close to deep distress as the second hour of hunting ticked past with no new finds by LittleBear, and even chocolate and Haribo failed to completely raise morale. But all was not lost, as LittleBear adjusted to the idea that it was OK to find things that we couldn't take home with us, and then all was well again, because he was really good at spotting those.
(For my non-geologist friends, and I do have some, the hammer is there for scale, because otherwise that rock could be 2cm across or 2m across and no-one would be any the wiser).
And then we reached Black Ven, and LittleBear turned out to be a dab hand at finding belemnites. And then he found a beautiful little ammonite. And, of course, I have the added advantage that the three men running the fossil-hunting trip are all friends of my friend J, and my friend J had told them we were coming, so they were especially kind and friendly to LittleBear, and gave him a lovely belemnite with its tip intact, and a nice chunk of fossilised wood with calcite sparkling in it. To be honest, they were lovely people anyway, and very good with all the little people on the trip, but LittleBear was definitely the Littlest, and definitely appreciated the sense of being known by the men in charge.
And then we staggered home. Well, I staggered, weighed down not only with my rucksack of essential provisions to cope with All Emergencies That Could Befall a Bear, but also an alarming number of rocks. LittleBear ran, obviously. And wept when I couldn't (or wouldn't) run to keep up. And then he wept when I told him to blow his nose. And then he wept when I told him that if he was rude to me I'd send him to bed without any dinner. And then he wept when I told him not to throw my clothes into the shower. And then he wept because he couldn't remember why, but he wanted a cuddle. We were both a bit tired. But we had cuddles and ate chocolate chip cookies, and I said sorry for shouting, and he said sorry for being unhelpful, and we agreed we'd had a lovely day but were awfully tired.
But we washed our fossils and ourselves:
And then, just to prove he really is one of my family, LittleBear sat in the bar with me playing cards before dinner, and I felt a glow of maternal pride.
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| Where do I go? |
But it's OK, I didn't have to withstand this for long. We woke up at 6 as the light streamed through the very pretty, but wholly inadequate, blinds.
Fortified by significant quantities of coffee, plus scrambled eggs and smoked salmon for breakfast, I felt better equipped to cope with a non-travelling day on our road trip. Well, not car-based travelling. We did spend 7 hours out and about around Lyme Regis, the bulk of it fossil-hunting, and covered 3.5 miles on foot when measured in a straight line (i.e. not including the dashing back and forth, clambering up and down and darting hither and yon that all outings with LittleBear involve).
It was a beautiful day, which was a pity...
 |
| A beautiful day |
... because beautiful days mean quiet seas and no rain, which consequently means no fresh mudslides, no dramatic erosion, no turned over boulders, and little chance of interesting finds. We came perilously close to deep distress as the second hour of hunting ticked past with no new finds by LittleBear, and even chocolate and Haribo failed to completely raise morale. But all was not lost, as LittleBear adjusted to the idea that it was OK to find things that we couldn't take home with us, and then all was well again, because he was really good at spotting those.
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| Too big for Mummy to carry |
(For my non-geologist friends, and I do have some, the hammer is there for scale, because otherwise that rock could be 2cm across or 2m across and no-one would be any the wiser).
And then we reached Black Ven, and LittleBear turned out to be a dab hand at finding belemnites. And then he found a beautiful little ammonite. And, of course, I have the added advantage that the three men running the fossil-hunting trip are all friends of my friend J, and my friend J had told them we were coming, so they were especially kind and friendly to LittleBear, and gave him a lovely belemnite with its tip intact, and a nice chunk of fossilised wood with calcite sparkling in it. To be honest, they were lovely people anyway, and very good with all the little people on the trip, but LittleBear was definitely the Littlest, and definitely appreciated the sense of being known by the men in charge.
And then we staggered home. Well, I staggered, weighed down not only with my rucksack of essential provisions to cope with All Emergencies That Could Befall a Bear, but also an alarming number of rocks. LittleBear ran, obviously. And wept when I couldn't (or wouldn't) run to keep up. And then he wept when I told him to blow his nose. And then he wept when I told him that if he was rude to me I'd send him to bed without any dinner. And then he wept when I told him not to throw my clothes into the shower. And then he wept because he couldn't remember why, but he wanted a cuddle. We were both a bit tired. But we had cuddles and ate chocolate chip cookies, and I said sorry for shouting, and he said sorry for being unhelpful, and we agreed we'd had a lovely day but were awfully tired.
But we washed our fossils and ourselves:
 | |
| Clean fossils. And some rocks that we liked |
And then, just to prove he really is one of my family, LittleBear sat in the bar with me playing cards before dinner, and I felt a glow of maternal pride.
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| My boy |
Thursday, 24 August 2017
Road Trip: Day 2
Another 130 miles completed today. And it only took four hours. The insanity of coming to a major tourist hot-spot on the August Bank Holiday weekend is beginning to sink in.
Initially, I felt quite positive about the journey... it started well, with no lane closures on the Motorway Of Eternal Roadworks. We bombed down as far as Southampton. We paused, briefly, to purchase coffee for the driver, but no food as LittleBear insisted he wasn't hungry. Perhaps warning bells should have rung?
On we went, the roads reducing from motorway, to dual-carriageway, to single-carriageway, the speed dropping inexorably, the queues growing depressingly. When we still had fifty miles and an estimated hour and a half left to travel, LittleBear informed me he felt sick. As this is a semi-regular announcement in the car, I was perhaps not as sympathetic as I should have been. To be honest, "I'm turning round and going home if you whinge again" was perhaps not a justified response, not least because I had no intention of attemping another 150 miles in the opposite direction at that point.
A few deep breathes later and I cheerfully suggested eye-spy to take his mind off it. I was turned down.
A few more deep breathes later, as we joined a particularly tedious stretch of road, nose-to-tail in both directions and with no laybys, there was an ominous burping, gurgling noise from the back seat, as LittleBear's breakfast overflowed all over his front*.
It was several noxious-smelling miles before we found a garage to stop at. And LittleBear sat calmly in the effluent, commenting only with delightful understatement, "this is NOT a good start to the holiday. But I do feel a lot better now."
The lady in the petrol station who served me as I purchased bin bags, baby wipes and dettol wipes enquired only, "Sicky child? Has to be with that collection." But I got my moppet cleaned up, in clean clothes and his seat (mostly) clean, and covered in a plastic bin liner, and on we went. Lunch did not seem like a sensible option at this point.
As we proceeded to fight our way through ever more traffic, my ray of sunshine cheerfully pointed out that he hadn't been sick on his socks or his nanoos, so it wasn't all bad. And after a while we began to drive past fantastic place names - not just Tolpuddle, but the less-well-known Affpuddle, and Puddletown. Not to mention Piddletrenthithe and Piddlehinton. And then we began to get glimpses of the sea, and drove past a sign saying "Eype, 1/2 mile" which is where I used to holiday as a child, and where I used to find fossils. We may make a detour on our way home, for old times' sake. It is a road trip after all.
Finally we made it, and are now ensconced in a 17th century inn in Lyme Regis. We arrived in time for a trip to the shore, and LittleBear is over the moon to have found his first ammonites already (that he could take home with him) as well as some fossils that were embedded in rocks rather too large to remove. And we dibbled in the sea, and made a sandcastle, and ate chocolate chip cookies at 4:30 instead of having lunch. And had sausage and mash for dinner.
And miracle-of-miracles, LittleBear was asleep in our bed by 8:30.
That's right. Our bed. It was supposed to be a twin room, but it's a double. Which was so much fun last time we did this.
The only thing I'm looking forward to less than sharing a bed with my son is getting back in the car again in two days time. I had to go and get the bag of cuddly penguins before bed, and the sensory assault from his rather unpleasant car seat after it had sat in a hot car for several hours was quite extraordinary. I can only begin to imagine how that aroma will mature over the next few days...
* One of these days I'll learn my lesson and not let my boy over-eat soft fruit before putting him in a car. We've managed the same feat three times now.
Initially, I felt quite positive about the journey... it started well, with no lane closures on the Motorway Of Eternal Roadworks. We bombed down as far as Southampton. We paused, briefly, to purchase coffee for the driver, but no food as LittleBear insisted he wasn't hungry. Perhaps warning bells should have rung?
On we went, the roads reducing from motorway, to dual-carriageway, to single-carriageway, the speed dropping inexorably, the queues growing depressingly. When we still had fifty miles and an estimated hour and a half left to travel, LittleBear informed me he felt sick. As this is a semi-regular announcement in the car, I was perhaps not as sympathetic as I should have been. To be honest, "I'm turning round and going home if you whinge again" was perhaps not a justified response, not least because I had no intention of attemping another 150 miles in the opposite direction at that point.
A few deep breathes later and I cheerfully suggested eye-spy to take his mind off it. I was turned down.
A few more deep breathes later, as we joined a particularly tedious stretch of road, nose-to-tail in both directions and with no laybys, there was an ominous burping, gurgling noise from the back seat, as LittleBear's breakfast overflowed all over his front*.
It was several noxious-smelling miles before we found a garage to stop at. And LittleBear sat calmly in the effluent, commenting only with delightful understatement, "this is NOT a good start to the holiday. But I do feel a lot better now."
The lady in the petrol station who served me as I purchased bin bags, baby wipes and dettol wipes enquired only, "Sicky child? Has to be with that collection." But I got my moppet cleaned up, in clean clothes and his seat (mostly) clean, and covered in a plastic bin liner, and on we went. Lunch did not seem like a sensible option at this point.
As we proceeded to fight our way through ever more traffic, my ray of sunshine cheerfully pointed out that he hadn't been sick on his socks or his nanoos, so it wasn't all bad. And after a while we began to drive past fantastic place names - not just Tolpuddle, but the less-well-known Affpuddle, and Puddletown. Not to mention Piddletrenthithe and Piddlehinton. And then we began to get glimpses of the sea, and drove past a sign saying "Eype, 1/2 mile" which is where I used to holiday as a child, and where I used to find fossils. We may make a detour on our way home, for old times' sake. It is a road trip after all.
Finally we made it, and are now ensconced in a 17th century inn in Lyme Regis. We arrived in time for a trip to the shore, and LittleBear is over the moon to have found his first ammonites already (that he could take home with him) as well as some fossils that were embedded in rocks rather too large to remove. And we dibbled in the sea, and made a sandcastle, and ate chocolate chip cookies at 4:30 instead of having lunch. And had sausage and mash for dinner.
That's right. Our bed. It was supposed to be a twin room, but it's a double. Which was so much fun last time we did this.
The only thing I'm looking forward to less than sharing a bed with my son is getting back in the car again in two days time. I had to go and get the bag of cuddly penguins before bed, and the sensory assault from his rather unpleasant car seat after it had sat in a hot car for several hours was quite extraordinary. I can only begin to imagine how that aroma will mature over the next few days...
* One of these days I'll learn my lesson and not let my boy over-eat soft fruit before putting him in a car. We've managed the same feat three times now.
Wednesday, 23 August 2017
Road Trip: Day 1
As the school summer holidays draw to a close, LittleBear and I have embarked on something of a road trip. For some time, well, OK, since we went to the Isle of Wight two years ago, I've been promising LittleBear we'd go to the Jurassic Coast and go fossil hunting. So, I've booked a long weekend away with him, and arranged a fossil-hunting tour, and we're on the way! (And, with reference to the above post, we're staying in a hotel, so I don't have to do any cooking or cleaning! Hooray!)
But it turns out the Jurassic Coast is quite a long way from East Anglia, so we're taking it in stages. And we're doing it without BigBear, who doesn't have enough leave left from work. So it's a solo-parenting road-trip. First stop: GrannyBear's house.
There is little to note about the trip so far, consisting of 5 hours at work (with a hangover), a frenzied hour of packing (with a hangover), collecting LittleBear from holiday club (with a hangover), and driving for 2.5 hours on The Road From Hell (with a hangover)*. It wasn't my favourite day of the holiday. And I'm close to falling out with my SatNav already.
Here are my issues with my SatNav:
1. It doesn't have a "don't behave like a git" setting, and is therefore quite capable of suggesting I leave the motorway at a junction, whizz round the roundabout and rejoin straightaway, just to leap-frog a few hundred yards of stationary traffic. I am not that kind of an arse, and I don't want my SatNav turning me into one. So far I have kept enough of a beady eye upon it that I have not fallen for this particular scam.
2. It doesn't seem to have a "please don't take me down almost non-existent roads" settings. This is akin to the "don't behave like a git" setting that's missing. I don't like taking the kind of short-cut that involves zooming down single-track roads or dodging through sleepy residential areas with children playing in the streets. I know it's my job as a driver not to make stupid decisions about routes, and not to blindly follow my SatNav wherever it may take me, but it's not necessarily obvious that a road is going to degenerate into the kind that has grass down the middle, and aeroplanes skimming the hedges in front of me as I make a split-second decision about whether to turn onto it. Which is what happens along Tilehouse Lane as it passes Denham Aerodrome, as I now know.
3. There is no way, upon reaching my destination, of asking the SatNav, "where the hell have I just been?" Names flicked by on signposts, road numbers jumbled together as I turned from one to another, until I finally reached safe, recognised, known turf, at which point I was beyond tired, wallowing in bewilderment and simply wanted to know what insane route I'd just taken in an effort to avoid 10 miles of the The Road From Hell. And yet the SatNav just blinked blandly at me and told me I'd arrived at my destination. Where I've been remains a mystery.
Tomorrow, as I undertake the second leg of the journey, I hope to stick to roads that at least have a line down the middle of them.
* I feel duty-bound to point out that I have reached a rather distressing time of life where a single drink results in a hangover. I find this deeply, deeply unfair, and yet it hasn't exactly stopped me drinking entirely. Yet. One glass of wine will generally make me feel rather unwell for at least an hour the following morning. My lasted-almost-all-day hangover was the result of drinking two, not particularly strong, pints of beer the previous evening. Deeply, deeply unfair.
But it turns out the Jurassic Coast is quite a long way from East Anglia, so we're taking it in stages. And we're doing it without BigBear, who doesn't have enough leave left from work. So it's a solo-parenting road-trip. First stop: GrannyBear's house.
There is little to note about the trip so far, consisting of 5 hours at work (with a hangover), a frenzied hour of packing (with a hangover), collecting LittleBear from holiday club (with a hangover), and driving for 2.5 hours on The Road From Hell (with a hangover)*. It wasn't my favourite day of the holiday. And I'm close to falling out with my SatNav already.
Here are my issues with my SatNav:
1. It doesn't have a "don't behave like a git" setting, and is therefore quite capable of suggesting I leave the motorway at a junction, whizz round the roundabout and rejoin straightaway, just to leap-frog a few hundred yards of stationary traffic. I am not that kind of an arse, and I don't want my SatNav turning me into one. So far I have kept enough of a beady eye upon it that I have not fallen for this particular scam.
2. It doesn't seem to have a "please don't take me down almost non-existent roads" settings. This is akin to the "don't behave like a git" setting that's missing. I don't like taking the kind of short-cut that involves zooming down single-track roads or dodging through sleepy residential areas with children playing in the streets. I know it's my job as a driver not to make stupid decisions about routes, and not to blindly follow my SatNav wherever it may take me, but it's not necessarily obvious that a road is going to degenerate into the kind that has grass down the middle, and aeroplanes skimming the hedges in front of me as I make a split-second decision about whether to turn onto it. Which is what happens along Tilehouse Lane as it passes Denham Aerodrome, as I now know.
3. There is no way, upon reaching my destination, of asking the SatNav, "where the hell have I just been?" Names flicked by on signposts, road numbers jumbled together as I turned from one to another, until I finally reached safe, recognised, known turf, at which point I was beyond tired, wallowing in bewilderment and simply wanted to know what insane route I'd just taken in an effort to avoid 10 miles of the The Road From Hell. And yet the SatNav just blinked blandly at me and told me I'd arrived at my destination. Where I've been remains a mystery.
Tomorrow, as I undertake the second leg of the journey, I hope to stick to roads that at least have a line down the middle of them.
* I feel duty-bound to point out that I have reached a rather distressing time of life where a single drink results in a hangover. I find this deeply, deeply unfair, and yet it hasn't exactly stopped me drinking entirely. Yet. One glass of wine will generally make me feel rather unwell for at least an hour the following morning. My lasted-almost-all-day hangover was the result of drinking two, not particularly strong, pints of beer the previous evening. Deeply, deeply unfair.
Wednesday, 5 July 2017
MPP: it's never all bad
There are days when it's harder to think of something positive. Days when I'm hot and tired and crabby, and I've just had to throw in the towel on part of a design at work and commit to another month of delay while I get a new precision part machined and electron-beam welded. And even then I don't know if it's going to work. But at least I tidied my desk today. Not that that's my Positive Thought for the day.
Today I'm wearing a bracelet. I don't usually wear bracelets, not because I don't own them, or because I don't like them, but because I generally stumble through life wearing my wedding ring, engagement ring and watch and forget to open my jewellery box and get anything else out. But today I thought it would be nice to wear something nice. So I chose this:
It's not made of precious metals, or studded with gems. It's not flashy or gaudy. But it has a story, and one I can be grateful for.
It was my thirtieth birthday present from BrotherBear. And we chose it from a stall on the Street of Facades in Petra. I've written before about the distress and misery that aspects of that holiday caused, but actually, this bracelet reminds me of the things that were awesome too. About how mind-blowing it was to walk the collonaded streets of an ancient Roman city, about how utterly, stunningly beautiful Petra was, and how unbelievably lucky I am to have been there. About my first (and only) experience of scuba diving. About the fact that my family are actually really rather nice, even though sometimes BrotherBear does try and wind me up on purpose. He's my brother, it's virtually part of the job description.
Today I'm wearing a bracelet. I don't usually wear bracelets, not because I don't own them, or because I don't like them, but because I generally stumble through life wearing my wedding ring, engagement ring and watch and forget to open my jewellery box and get anything else out. But today I thought it would be nice to wear something nice. So I chose this:
It's not made of precious metals, or studded with gems. It's not flashy or gaudy. But it has a story, and one I can be grateful for.
It was my thirtieth birthday present from BrotherBear. And we chose it from a stall on the Street of Facades in Petra. I've written before about the distress and misery that aspects of that holiday caused, but actually, this bracelet reminds me of the things that were awesome too. About how mind-blowing it was to walk the collonaded streets of an ancient Roman city, about how utterly, stunningly beautiful Petra was, and how unbelievably lucky I am to have been there. About my first (and only) experience of scuba diving. About the fact that my family are actually really rather nice, even though sometimes BrotherBear does try and wind me up on purpose. He's my brother, it's virtually part of the job description.
Thursday, 23 March 2017
Here we go again
It would appear that I have lapsed into a "Moog".
It would appear that I lapse into a "Moog" on a fairly regular basis.
You can probably guess from the sound of it, and the fact that one can lapse into one, that a "Moog" is not a flavour of ice-cream, and nor is it the classic electronic synthesiser. Technically, "The Moog" to which I refer is this one:
A particularly gormless dog from a children's television programme of my youth called Willo the Wisp.
Somehow the combination of his name, his lack of brain and his rotund dumpiness sum together to express how I feel when I'm down quite succinctly. And telling BigBear that I'm "in a Moog" is quicker, and more emotionally accurate, than saying "I'm suffering a hint of existential angst, combined with fatigue, and a general dissatisfaction with the direction my life is taking, a lack of motivation to change that direction and a crisis of self-confidence." And fortunately, he understands The Moog. He has been known to experience The Moog himself.
The Moog is not the same as the Black Dog of depression; it is less severe, less all encompassing, and generally easier to shake off. But it still leaves me glum, prone to feelings of isolation and loneliness even amongst friends, tearful and with a sense of futility. It is The Moog.
Now that I've introduced you to The Moog, I can get back to where I intended to start, which was to elucidate on my current Moog...
It's about feeling stuck.
About having dreams and not realising them.
About spending my life urgently trying to get unimportant things done.
About repeating the same cycle of working and cooking and cleaning and eating and sleeping and playing week after week after week and never looking up. Never looking beyond the end of my nose for long enough to make a plan that extends beyond the end of the current week.
About watching my life trickle past and not seizing the day.
About being afraid that even if I lifted my head and gazed to the horizon I still wouldn't have the gumption to do anything.
Some of these feelings have been triggered by the pernicious influence that is Facebook. I know (really I do) that the lives presented to the world on Facebook only bear a passing resemblance to reality, and that most people only showcase the happy, good and beautiful moments. I know that looking at Facebook and thinking that it represents anything other than about 5% of anyone's life is madness. But it isn't other people's apparent perfection that has triggered The Moog this time. No. It's the wide variety of things other people are doing that remind me of all the things I'm not doing. It isn't so much that someone else is doing it that's the problem, it's the reminder that I have dreams and aspirations that I can't or won't or don't pursue that's the problem.
I've written before about the conflict that exists between my dreams and my gumption. So even though I'm gazing jealously at exploring tombs in Egypt, visiting the Burgess Shale, climbing volcanoes, diving in the Red Sea, skiing in the Swiss Alps, swimming in the Caribbean or exploring Thailand*, I'm solemnly planning whether to spend 1 or 2 weeks in the Lake District this summer rather than anything more exotic or adventurous.
I excuse my lack of adventuring on the grounds of having a LittleBear in tow, but I know that's no real excuse. There are plenty of people who travel the world with a small child, or several such, tucked under an arm. My own parents did. My aunt and uncle did. My cousins did. My friends do.
I excuse my lack of adventuring on the grounds of not having time. But that's not really true either. I could book flights to Hanover as easily as driving to Hawkshead. But my own terrible fear of the unknown and unplanned means I can't, because I wouldn't just need to book the flights, I'd need to plan the details of where we'd go and what we'd do (and what and where we'd eat. The stress of what my LittleBear would eat in foreign climes is enough to make me feel sick with anxiety even typing about it...)
I read books and I watch television and I see what my friends are doing, and I wish that I could watch Nabucco at La Scala, or climb Machu Picchu, or explore the Amazon, or see the northern lights, or watch whales, or clamber around Angkor Wat, or hike in New Zealand, or sip coffee in Prague, or sail amongst the Greek islands, or stand on the Acropolis, or tour vineyards of the Loire, or walk along the Great Wall of China. And instead I stay right where I am. And if I think too hard about doing any of those other things, I get close to tears with the sheer terror of organising or undertaking something that doesn't happen within about 5 miles of my own home.
So, in an effort to combat The Moog, I'm trying to talk myself out of this negative spiral. I'm trying to remind myself of all the things I have done, and the places I have been. That I can do this. I can go to new places. I can try new experiences. I can be braver than this.
I've stood on top of Table Mountain and Pic Blanc. I've climbed the Eiffel Tower and the Coliseum. I've explored Borobudur and Kinkakuji. I've swum in the Atlantic, Pacific, Indian and Southern Oceans. I've taken a boat ride with dolphins in Australia and tracked lions on foot through the Zimbabwean bush. I've camped on an island in Lake Victoria, and rafted down the Kali Gandaki. I've watched the Cubs play at Wrigley Field and France play a World Cup match at Twickenham. I've been behind the wire at Los Alamos and to the bottom of a gold mine in the Witwatersrand. I've shopped in the souk of Marrakech and the Champs Elysee. I've walked along the streets of ancient Petra and the Via Appia. I've been beneath the Great Pyramids of Giza and floated on top of the Dead Sea. I've seen the Smoke That Thunders and scuba-dived in the Red Sea.
By any reasonable standard, I've done an extraordinary number of things already. And, yes, some of them caused anxiety and stress. And some of them I know I wouldn't have done if they hadn't been organised by someone else. And I wouldn't have done them alone. But I have done them. And I can do things like that again. I don't have to give up. I don't have to let LittleBear's life be hemmed in by my fears. I don't have to take charge of every detail of every adventure I'd like to undertake. I can find ways of making it doable, possible, enjoyable, achievable.
But today, now, I'm going to hold onto the memory of the amazing places I've been and seen. The recollection that I am that person, that I have nothing to be envious of, and that being a forty-two year old mother of a 5 year old child does not have to mean I allow myself to stop and hide from the world.
I am PhysicsBear. Hear me squeak in a slightly less daunted way than I did yesterday.
* If you feel you resemble one of these descriptions, please don't feel that I don't want to read about what you're doing, or that I'm in any way criticising the fact that you're doing it. I'm just envious. Envious that you have the get up and go to get up and do. Envious that you're doing the things I'm not doing.
It would appear that I lapse into a "Moog" on a fairly regular basis.
You can probably guess from the sound of it, and the fact that one can lapse into one, that a "Moog" is not a flavour of ice-cream, and nor is it the classic electronic synthesiser. Technically, "The Moog" to which I refer is this one:
 |
| The Moog |
A particularly gormless dog from a children's television programme of my youth called Willo the Wisp.
Somehow the combination of his name, his lack of brain and his rotund dumpiness sum together to express how I feel when I'm down quite succinctly. And telling BigBear that I'm "in a Moog" is quicker, and more emotionally accurate, than saying "I'm suffering a hint of existential angst, combined with fatigue, and a general dissatisfaction with the direction my life is taking, a lack of motivation to change that direction and a crisis of self-confidence." And fortunately, he understands The Moog. He has been known to experience The Moog himself.
The Moog is not the same as the Black Dog of depression; it is less severe, less all encompassing, and generally easier to shake off. But it still leaves me glum, prone to feelings of isolation and loneliness even amongst friends, tearful and with a sense of futility. It is The Moog.
Now that I've introduced you to The Moog, I can get back to where I intended to start, which was to elucidate on my current Moog...
It's about feeling stuck.
About having dreams and not realising them.
About spending my life urgently trying to get unimportant things done.
About repeating the same cycle of working and cooking and cleaning and eating and sleeping and playing week after week after week and never looking up. Never looking beyond the end of my nose for long enough to make a plan that extends beyond the end of the current week.
About watching my life trickle past and not seizing the day.
About being afraid that even if I lifted my head and gazed to the horizon I still wouldn't have the gumption to do anything.
Some of these feelings have been triggered by the pernicious influence that is Facebook. I know (really I do) that the lives presented to the world on Facebook only bear a passing resemblance to reality, and that most people only showcase the happy, good and beautiful moments. I know that looking at Facebook and thinking that it represents anything other than about 5% of anyone's life is madness. But it isn't other people's apparent perfection that has triggered The Moog this time. No. It's the wide variety of things other people are doing that remind me of all the things I'm not doing. It isn't so much that someone else is doing it that's the problem, it's the reminder that I have dreams and aspirations that I can't or won't or don't pursue that's the problem.
I've written before about the conflict that exists between my dreams and my gumption. So even though I'm gazing jealously at exploring tombs in Egypt, visiting the Burgess Shale, climbing volcanoes, diving in the Red Sea, skiing in the Swiss Alps, swimming in the Caribbean or exploring Thailand*, I'm solemnly planning whether to spend 1 or 2 weeks in the Lake District this summer rather than anything more exotic or adventurous.
I excuse my lack of adventuring on the grounds of having a LittleBear in tow, but I know that's no real excuse. There are plenty of people who travel the world with a small child, or several such, tucked under an arm. My own parents did. My aunt and uncle did. My cousins did. My friends do.
I excuse my lack of adventuring on the grounds of not having time. But that's not really true either. I could book flights to Hanover as easily as driving to Hawkshead. But my own terrible fear of the unknown and unplanned means I can't, because I wouldn't just need to book the flights, I'd need to plan the details of where we'd go and what we'd do (and what and where we'd eat. The stress of what my LittleBear would eat in foreign climes is enough to make me feel sick with anxiety even typing about it...)
I read books and I watch television and I see what my friends are doing, and I wish that I could watch Nabucco at La Scala, or climb Machu Picchu, or explore the Amazon, or see the northern lights, or watch whales, or clamber around Angkor Wat, or hike in New Zealand, or sip coffee in Prague, or sail amongst the Greek islands, or stand on the Acropolis, or tour vineyards of the Loire, or walk along the Great Wall of China. And instead I stay right where I am. And if I think too hard about doing any of those other things, I get close to tears with the sheer terror of organising or undertaking something that doesn't happen within about 5 miles of my own home.
So, in an effort to combat The Moog, I'm trying to talk myself out of this negative spiral. I'm trying to remind myself of all the things I have done, and the places I have been. That I can do this. I can go to new places. I can try new experiences. I can be braver than this.
I've stood on top of Table Mountain and Pic Blanc. I've climbed the Eiffel Tower and the Coliseum. I've explored Borobudur and Kinkakuji. I've swum in the Atlantic, Pacific, Indian and Southern Oceans. I've taken a boat ride with dolphins in Australia and tracked lions on foot through the Zimbabwean bush. I've camped on an island in Lake Victoria, and rafted down the Kali Gandaki. I've watched the Cubs play at Wrigley Field and France play a World Cup match at Twickenham. I've been behind the wire at Los Alamos and to the bottom of a gold mine in the Witwatersrand. I've shopped in the souk of Marrakech and the Champs Elysee. I've walked along the streets of ancient Petra and the Via Appia. I've been beneath the Great Pyramids of Giza and floated on top of the Dead Sea. I've seen the Smoke That Thunders and scuba-dived in the Red Sea.
By any reasonable standard, I've done an extraordinary number of things already. And, yes, some of them caused anxiety and stress. And some of them I know I wouldn't have done if they hadn't been organised by someone else. And I wouldn't have done them alone. But I have done them. And I can do things like that again. I don't have to give up. I don't have to let LittleBear's life be hemmed in by my fears. I don't have to take charge of every detail of every adventure I'd like to undertake. I can find ways of making it doable, possible, enjoyable, achievable.
But today, now, I'm going to hold onto the memory of the amazing places I've been and seen. The recollection that I am that person, that I have nothing to be envious of, and that being a forty-two year old mother of a 5 year old child does not have to mean I allow myself to stop and hide from the world.
I am PhysicsBear. Hear me squeak in a slightly less daunted way than I did yesterday.
* If you feel you resemble one of these descriptions, please don't feel that I don't want to read about what you're doing, or that I'm in any way criticising the fact that you're doing it. I'm just envious. Envious that you have the get up and go to get up and do. Envious that you're doing the things I'm not doing.
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. |
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