Green tomato chutney and spots

We tried growing tomatoes this year, but they've been a total washout.  The seeds took ages to germinate, and were then totally drowned by all the rain.  Such a disappointment, especially as the packet was something daft like £3 for 6 seeds.  Of course, Lucy was very upset about this, so last weekend we went to the garden centre to buy a tomato plant as a replacement.  £8 later, and a rosemary and a lavender, and an ice cream, we were the proud owners of a yellow tomato plant. 

Alas, the course of true love etc, and it developed some form of blight, involving the leaves turning yellow and curling up but the fruit being unaffected.  We decided to cut our loses and make green tomato chutney, loosely based on a recipe in Beryl Wood's book Let's Preserve It, which has over 500 really great ideas in.  It's currently doing its thing, and the whole kitchen smells of vinegar.  It should be cooked in about an hour, and ready to eat by Christmas.  Most expensive chutney ever though.

In other news, Lucy now has chicken pox; she is covered in spots and very sad and sorry for herself.  She understands that she mustn't scratch, and is dosed up on a cocktail of Piriton and Calpol, and is hopefully sleeping it off.  It's a bit of a pain, as we're supposed to be running a playgroup on Monday, but that's impossible now.

I want to write about the Olympics Opening Ceremony, but I need to think a bit first.  I've not done that since about 2005, so wish me luck.

entrepreneurship

Golly gosh, the power of advertising.  My last post was about the baby gro "business" and since then, I've had 117 people read the post and a whole bunch more look at the flickr page, and a couple of what I can only call pre-orders, as in people saying that they will be ordering one in a few days once they've been paid/had the baby/found a baby who needs more clothes.   It's all rather exciting really, and I think I'm going to need some more stock this week.

Let's hope that I can make £100 this year; that would be a wonderful thing.

Just in case: Baby gros

Bespoke Babies

I've been making baby gros for a couple of months now, and had some minor successes - an Indiana Jones one, a Chewbacca one and, my favourite, the kissing elephants.

Ideally, I would like to sell these and want to set up a website.  What a pain in the bum that is;  it takes such a long time, and I have to actually think about the text, and I've realised that my photos are super rubbish, and moan moan.  Anyway.  If you want a baby gro, send me a message via this or Facebook, or Twitter and it's only a tenner.

Here is the flickr site with all the photos on.

babygros

I can draw most things, given enough time and gin.

Pox infested

When you are cuddling the newborn and smacked up on hormones and epidurals, no one tells you "One day, darling, we will have chicken pox".

Hat goes to nursery at the Children's Centre on site, and the nursery manager came to collect one of my boys today.  She asked me to come along as soon as possible as she thought Hattie had chicken pox.  By the time I got there, about 20 minutes later, she was definitely spotty and starting to look a bit sorry for herself.  I took her to the chemist and it definitely is the pox, which means that Lucy will get it, and it's terribly inconvenient, what with it being the summer holidays in a week, rather than next week.  Still I am brightsiding like mad, and at least they'll have had it by the time they are adults.

The job situation is going from bad to worse, and I am just about struggling through.  I'll get a new job soon; I don't want to be working for a sociopath next year.

There's nothing cheerful to write about; non stop rain, pox infestation, funeral tomorrow.  I'll try harder over the weekend.

Insanity update

The most unrealistic list of New Year's Resolutions ever.

12 unread books read - tbh, this was always here as a make weight, I've more than doubled this in the six months since January. 

12 babygros made - half way through this

12 meals from Nigella's Kitchen book - hmm.  Two.  Not so great.

12 pounds lost - nope.  Moving on.

12 jumpers knitted - apparently, I've made 9.  Blimey.

12 knitted things for Lucy - including some of the above, 5 things. 

12 knitted things for Hattie - fewer for Hat, er, 1.  (note to self: knit for the baby) (although I have made her a quilt, so that counts)

12 individual socks - no way.  Haven't even thought about socks for months.  I might manage one pair.

12 weeks no yarn buying (except to finish projects, otherwise they become WIPs and part of the problem, not the solution) - I think I've managed this, on and off.

12 patterns used  - 13. 

12 blog posts a month (hmm) - moving on.

12 other things - decided that would be 12 things for me.  So far, I've made 3.  Which is not bad at all.

So now all I've got to do is lose 12 pounds and go back in time to write 50something blog posts for February, March, April, May and June.

Next year, no sock or weight loss based resolutions.

NCT

We joined the NCT back in April or May 2008, when we were expecting Lucy.  We didn't really have high expectations of the programme, and knew that we might be fed some, well, inaccurate information regarding pregnancy and childbirth, but felt that the opportunity to meet some people in the same situation as us was unmissable.  There were 7 couples in our group, and our babies were born between the 1st of August and the 12th of September, and they are all healthy, happy and strong children.  We had 4 girls and 3 boys between us, and some of the children have grown up to be very fond of each other.  Lucy and her friend Jessie are very fond of each other, and do ballet together, and talk. all. the. time.

My mummy friends are all close to each other in relative degrees - some I see fairly regularly, some I see rarely.  We have now mostly all had second children, and it's all starting again - the sleepless nights, the terrible twos, the going out and having to rush home to breastfeed a screaming child, the general scattiness, the lovely closeness that comes from sharing a deep experience with someone.

Last night, though, we went out for a different reason.  A week ago, one of us took her children to the park.  She didn't come back.  So far there is nothing to say what happened, what caused her to fall and why she didn't get up again.  It is totally unbelievable and shocking.  Her son is Lucy's age, her daughter is a tiny baby.  I am so sad and angry and want to shout at the world and God and everyone about this particularly unfair, random event.  We can't bear it, not one bit.

The friends I made in my NCT group were closer than I realised, and I feel that I must cherish them more.  If there's one positive thing that's come out of this, that's it.

RIP Sherryn.  We will miss you.

Photo heavy weekend

We had a really adventurous weekend, as it was so lovely and unseasonable.  We went to Spitalfields Market on Saturday, where we failed to buy anything except lunch and a coffee.  I want a work box, but by the time we went back for it, it had gone.  Simon bought one on ebay instead, which is in Hove - we are sending Jim to pick it up, hopefully it will be here soon.

As you can see, we found the giant fibre glass rabbits, and had lots of fun on them.

I thought we might be a bit more calm on Sunday, but no.  We went to the Bunny Park after church where we saw the animals, Lucy had a minor meltdown, and we played for many hours on the swings.

We then went to Kew, where we had the first picnic of the year.  Bit cold, but with a coat on, it was lovely, and of course a real bonus to be eating outside during February.  Harriet is now a big girl, actually, and can drink from a carton of orange juice, without my help thank you.  

She is now walking, Harriet fans, which is exciting and depressing at the same time.

The main reason we went to Kew wasn't just to tire the children out so they'd stop bugging us for ten minutes, we wanted to see the orchids.  They were very beautiful.  I let Lucy take some photos, which are a combination of rubbish and actually not bad.  They are available for viewing on Facebook, these are mine.

I wonder why I am knackered all the time.

All work and no writing

12 blog posts a month?  I must be a moron to think I've got the interest in writing and the time to do something committed like that. 

Well, it's nearly the end of February and this is the first time I've written anything.  It's not like I've not been busy; we went to Paris to see my grandmother, took a whole lot of beautiful photos of our lovely little girls in the snow, read a whole lot of books including French Children Don't Throw Food, about which more later, had friends to stay, been to Spitalfields Market for the first time, been for a late lunch with a very dear old friend and the girls, which I think has put him off having children for ever and ever, and worked and worked and worked.

I can't think of much to write about - I want to write a piece about French Children Don't Throw Food because it's changed the ways I think about parenting, but I don't have the energy at the moment.  I think I need to re-read it first, and maybe have a look at some of her sources, especially Françoise Dolto, although I'll have to brush up on my French before then.  I'm not sure I'm quite up to reading about child psychology at the moment, especially as I'm downstairs, listening to Hattie shout a bit - she is exhausted, and dropped off in my arms, then when I tried to put her down, woke up and started shouting.  I've left her for about 7 minutes now, I think I'm going to have to go back upstairs in a bit.  Apparently, this controlled crying is anathema in France; I don't like it at all and rarely do it, as it doesn't really work.  She does self settle after a few minutes though, and I suppose I've got to let her learn to do it, otherwise I'll be sitting next to her when she's ten, holding her hand and waiting for her to drop off.  My friends do that with their three year old - madness.

I might try writing again on Tuesday - fewer distractions.

In praise of homework

Because I am rapidly approaching 35, and no longer consider myself to be in the Top Shop demographic, I have started reading a blog dedicated to growing older in a witty and stylish way.  I am, actually, about 10 years too young for the blog, but enjoy it very much; similar to the way I enjoy talking to my parents' friends.  Of course, my parents and their friends are far, far older than either of the writers.  Have I covered myself?

Anyway, I like reading their stuff, and sometimes feel a bit scared by their descriptions of living with teenagers.  Recently, they have been writing about homework.  I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I am a primary school teacher, and spent three long and happy years in Year One, teaching writing, reading, Maths and, well everything really.  As part of my remit, I had to set homework.  Now, I believe in homework.  I believe that, while education in school is incredibly important, most education happens at home, and a child's chances in life are enhanced by the way that education is regarded in the family.  This is not a snide class thing - after all, that awful Toby Young is on record as saying that he didn't enjoy education until his parents took an interest in it at secondary level, and his father is a peer - this is a teacher thing.  Education happens at home and at school, and the two have to work together in order to provide the best for the child.

I gave homework to my children that involved the parents.  I expected the children to be read with every night, and gave out two reading books a week.  I handed out spellings that related back to the sound that their group was learning - some weeks it would be "igh", some weeks "o", depending on the progress of the children in the group.  Obviously, with my incredible professionalism, I knew where all the children were all of the time, and made sure that all the children moved at roughly the same quite rapid pace.  (This is true by the way - it is not comic hyperbole, for a change).  Each week, the children had a maths worksheet to complete that involved, and this is very important, cutting, sticking and colouring.  It irritated the parents who believed that darling Raveena should be doing her fifty times table, and it irritated the parents who didn't like darling Reece using glue outside school as it is too messy, but that was OK by me. 

My personal favourite homework was about "Toys in the Olden Days" where I got the children to talk to their parents and grandparents about the toys they had played with when they were children.  Most of my parents at that time were the same age, or considerably younger, than me, and the grandparents weren't much past 50.  I had quite a few complaints about that, fortunately all of them light-hearted. 

Homework is a window for both parents and teachers.  I could see what was happening at home as I encouraged parents to write in the diary and would respond to their comments frequently and often at great, inappropriate length.  Parents could see what I was expecting from their children - as my maths homeworks were solidly aimed at the middle, the parents of the top group would boot their children off to do it on their own, the parents of the middle group would encourage independence, and the parents of the bottom group would, well, ignore it frankly, and sometimes do the work for them.  Ever wondered why your child isn't achieving?

I wouldn't dream of setting homework every night.  I would be upset to think that the children were unable to do their homework; I expected the parents to sit with the children for 15 mins and complete the work.  However busy your life is, you have 15 minutes out of an entire weekend for your child's formal education.  Don't you?

I expect that other schools, other teachers have different views, obviously.  I know several of my colleagues disagree with homework in the Infants, and dislike it in the Juniors, and I know that secondary school is different, although perhaps it shouldn't be.  Perhaps there should be more emphasis on the whole child, rather than individual subjects?  Who can say?  At primary school, we deal with everything, we wipe noses, zip up coats, put on plasters and give out cuddles, we teach every subject and are expected to have excellent general knowledge, and detailed specific knowledge.  We generally get good results.  My first class, the first lot to have the Miss Harries (as was) homework regime forced upon them have just surpassed other Year 6 classes nationally, across the board, but especially in English.  Maybe something stuck.  Good foundations are crucial to any successful building.

Middlemarch and all that

I have shamelessly taken this picture from dovegreyreader's blog, as it perfectly illustrates the book I have been reading.  She is holding a "read along", reading Middlemarch in instalments, which meant that I romped through Miss Brooke at a speed of knots, and now have to wait until February to read Part Two. 

It's been interesting to re-read George Eliot.  Being a literary sort, I chose Science A-Levels, and had to self-teach myself critical reading.  In my wasted youth, I read all the CLASSICS (Middlemarch, Dickens, Trollope etc) and didn't particularly gain much from them, although many I enjoyed greatly and have gone on to re-read and re-read, especially Jane Austen and Trollope.  Middlemarch has not been one I've re-visited, and I can't really think why.  I watched the television adaptation relatively recently, with the lovely Rufus Sewell in his prime (he's gone to seed now, of course) and the utterly entrancing Juliet Aubrey as Dorothea Brooke.  Perhaps that's why? 

For whatever reason, Middlemarch is on my list.  I loved reading it as an adult.  A proper adult, I mean, with a job and a mortgage and two children and an account with John Lewis.  Miss Brooke is far more pious and difficult than I remember her being, Cecila is a sweetie, Sir James is very proper and manly, and Casaubon is made out of beige.  What a wonderful character he is.  A key to all mythologies, honestly.  And silly Dorothea for being taken in by him - I suppose he would seem like some form of hero to an eighteen year old longing to be taken seriously by someone and, feeling herself to be far cleverer than the people around her, longing to have someone to whom she could admire intellectually.  Unfortunately, she doesn't realise; the first rule of being cleverer than everyone else is to pretend not to be cleverer than everyone else. 

George Eliot's writing is needle sharp - it's as if she has specially sharpened her pen and is creating perfect little pen and ink drawings of her characters.  She is also funny - I don't remember laughing during the television adaptation, except at Mr Brooke, so it must be the strong author's voice, so disliked by Linda Grant.  I follow her on Twitter, I don't have a personal connection to her. 

The thing I love most about reading the book with a group, especially via dove grey reader, is that she is able to make connections to things I had vaguely noticed and mentally filed under interesting.  A S Byatt's writing about GE is the example I'm thinking about at the moment; here is a vast chunk I have copied and pasted.

'I taught it with a passion because it I perceived it was about the growth, use and inevitable failure and frustration of all human energy - a lesson one is not interested in at eleven, or eighteen, but at twenty-six with two small children, it seems crucial. George Eliot's people were appallingly ambitious and greedy - not always for political, or even exclusively sexual power...they were ambitious to use their minds to the full. to discover something, to live on a scale where their life felt valuable from moment to moment...'


I can't say anything more about it.  That's it really.