Recently in Family Category

Yesterday, Alex turned to his dad and told him there was no such thing as the Tooth Fairy.

Apparently, lying in his bed the night after Christmas, he had started thinking. He knows fairies don't exist¹. The Tooth Fairy is a fairy. Therefore, she doesn't exist.

But he didn't stop there. He went on to consider the problem of the exchange of teeth for money. Was there a more plausible agent than the now-deprecated fairy? Of course there was; he knows that I creep into his bedroom every night after he's asleep to give him one last kiss and tell him that I love him.

So he reckoned that Martin or I would exchange the tooth for money in the night.

Coincidentally, he lost a tooth yesterday evening. He considered setting a booby trap to catch whoever was doing the money exchange³. But he forgot to put the tooth under his pillow last night. I'd left it on the shelf in my bindery.

*** ⁴

This morning, I was in the bindery getting a hair stick. I called him in and pointed to the shelf where his tooth had been last night, and where a nice shiny Euro coin was now sitting.

He laughed and laughed. He accused me; I said I'd left a tooth there the night before and there was a coin there now. He reckoned it was his dad instead.

He won't take the coin, either. Principled little guy.

For the third time in less than three years, Alex spent his first day in a new school yesterday.

Take One

The first time, he was a five year old in a necktie, starting Primary 1 at Gilmerton Primary School in Edinburgh.

He loved his time at Gilmerton, though we didn't fit into the primarily working-class community. We also had occasional differences with the school administration, but we kept them away from Alex. He learned to read that year, and discovered a real love of maths. But he knew that he wasn't going to stay; we were up front with him that we were moving to the Netherlands after that first year.

Take Two

The second time was last autumn, when he started school here in Holland*. We weren't sure how we were going to handle this, since he came here speaking virtually no Dutch at all. After discussions with the schools in our area, we found ourselves with two choices:

1. Drop Alex back a year to playschool-type schooling in the local village school, so that he could spend the time working on his language skills. All being well, he could then skip a grade and be back with his contemporaries. The American family† in the village did this with their eldest a year before we arrived, and found it a successful strategy. Unfortunately, we knew that Alex would be bored senseless by a return to playschool after a year of sit-down learning.
2. Put Alex into a school a little further away that specializes in teaching foreign children Dutch in a year, while continuing their ordinary education. (Kind of the reverse of an international school, basically.) Demographically, the school is very different than our village, drawing much of its student body from people who live in the city.

We chose Option 2, and Alex had a fairly intimidating first day at the Kernschool last autumn. He's a trouper, though, and plunged in wholeheartedly. He worried a lot at first, unsure if he was learning well enough or fast enough, but found his feet academically after the first term. But he never settled socially, making few friends and struggling with the fairly rough and tumble school culture. He has, however, learned a lot of Dutch, and is about half a year ahead of his age group in maths.

Take Three

The Kernschool's program is designed to slipstream the children into their local schools, once they have the language skills to cope. This meshes well with the local school's program of settling new children in with their class groups before the summer vacation. So yesterday, Alex went to the village school for the first time, for a half day of sitting with next year's classmates. (Wednesdays are short days in Dutch schools).

He was nervous before he went in, worrying about his hair and his appearance. I helped him peer into Fiona's classroom as we went to his (she had no special Dutch training, but started school normally in January; youth is an indisputable advantage to language learning). When he went into the room and his teacher began to speak Dutch to him, I felt a lurch: I didn't follow everything she said to him. But he did, having already surpassed me in learning the language.

Apparently, he came out triumphant and ecstatic, declaring the new school "super cool". He liked his classmates, enjoyed the academic work, and had no trouble talking his teacher's ear off in Dutch. He can't wait to start.

And then he woke up at 11:30 at night, desperately missing Scotland. I lay in bed with him for half an hour, talking about homesickness‡ and the delights of the Netherlands.

* Pedantic note: Although Holland is not actually a synonym for the Netherlands, we live in the province of Noord-Holland.

† By this classification, we are the English family in the village. It is really not worth trying to correct this.

‡ A matter close to my mind at the moment, since two of my colleagues went to San Francisco last week. One of them even went across the Bay to meet my parents and see my dad's printing press. My thoughts were often with them, and the world I had left behind to come to Europe.

1. Alex is fevered for the second day today, and has added barfing to his repertoire. I know he'll be better soon, but it's hard watching him suffer.
   
   
2. My first thoughts on waking this morning and looking out at the snow:
   
   I'm waking to a white Easter
   Staring out at falling snow
   The church bell's ringing
   Under thick clouds bringing
   More flakes to fall on us below.
   
   I'm waking to a white Easter
   Where every egg we dyed so bright
   Will not stay hidden
   But will show, unbidden
   We should just have left them white.
   
   I'm waking to a white Easter
   And feel that something isn't right
   The leaves that shrivel with blight
   Put all my dreams of sun to flight.
   
   
3. A dialogue between Martin and me:
   
   A: So what are we going to do with that bacon in the fridge?
   M: Ummmm...eat it?
   A: That sounds like a good idea.
   M: So should go downstairs and put the bacon on?
   A: (looks him up and down) Do you think it'll cover enough? I don't want you to be cold.
   

Last year, my mother made a [jumper / pinafore] (depending on dialect) dress for Fiona. It was every pink-obsessed little girl's dream garment, with tier on tier of floral ruffles. From a parental point of view, it's also very good - corduroy, washable, looks good unironed, long and loose enough that she can wear it for some time before it is too small. Fiona loves it, and has to be wrestled from it when it's time for a wash.

So in the tail end of the year, with the sewing machine and serger throwing inviting glances her way, Mom asked me if I wanted her to make another one. I thought about it, but Fiona only really needs one obsessive dress, or we'll run out of shirts and tights to go under it. But I had an idea for the leftover fabric from the first dress. Why not make a matching one for Fiona's favorite doll, Holly?

Measurements were taken in the dead of night. Guesses were made and rechecked. More measurements were required. Christmas threatened to squat like a toad on the postal services, so the decision was to wait till after New Year's to send the package. Federal Express then required a crash course in Dutch postcodes (hint: looking at them on the US ZIP code database gets you nowhere). Finally, the thing was sent and all we could do was watch the tracking.

And watch it we did, with versification to keep it entertaining.

On January 3 it arrived in Memphis. Mom commented,

Give me Memphis, Tennessee!
Hep me find the party tried to get in touch with me.
She could not leave her number, but I know who placed the call
Cause m'uncle took the message and he wrote it on the wall!

I replied with a mangling of Marc Cohn's Walking in Memphis:

Warehoused in Memphis
Would that I could see the sights outside
Warehoused in Memphis
Waiting for my transfer. Where's my ride?

Then it was sighted leaving Memphis, destination unknown. I found myself humming:

I'm leaving on a jet plane
At last I'm on my way again.
Fedex can ascertain
Where next I'm set to go.

Paris, as it turned out, was the next step. Mom announced this with:

The last time I saw Paris, her heart was warm and gay,
I heard the laughter of her heart in every street café

The last time I saw Paris, her trees were dressed for spring,
And lovers walked beneath those trees and birds found songs to sing.

I dodged the same old taxicabs that I had dodged for years.
The chorus of their squeaky horns was music to my ears.

Holly's dress arrived in that most magic of all cities at 8 pm today, January 3.

The first time I saw Paris I was 19 years old. We took a train into town, and we got there at about 6 am. ("We" being Mike Thacker and me.) I walked out onto a bridge over the Seine, and the city was misty and quiet still....the cathedral had been there forever. At that moment I fell in love, as one does at 19, unthinkingly. And forever. I can't see the real city now, when I go back. All I can see is what I saw in 1965.

The last time I saw Paris, her heart was warm and gay,
No matter how they change her, I'll remember her that way.

I Googled for Paris poetry, and settled on one that starts:

First, London, for its myriads; for its height,
Manhattan heaped in towering stalagmite;
But Paris for the smoothness of the paths
That lead the heart unto the heart's delight. . . .

It swiftly became:

First, Piedmont, for the artistry that creates,
Flat Memphis that still Elvis elevates;
But Paris for its far-flung motorways
That bear the dress to where the dresser waits...

Before any more versification or doggerel could be committed, the Fed Ex van arrived here in Oostzaan. Fiona was delighted.

Thanks, Mom, for the dress and the entertainment.

Just when we thought life was stressful enough...

I was giving Fiona a shower last night when she slipped and fell. When she got up, the little finger of her right hand was at a funny angle. It clearly hurt a lot.

I shouted for Martin, who called...someone (not sure who) in Dutch while I got her dried and redressed. M took her to the emergency room, where after some waiting, she got an X-ray that confirmed that she had a small break in the inner side of the lowest long bone of the little finger. The doctor adjusted it (which she did not like) and put a plaster cast on it. Martin brought our brave and solemn girl home at about midnight.

Fiona showed a lot of courage and class throughout this incident. She stopped crying very quickly, and started to look for upsides almost immediately. "At least I can wiggle the other hand." "At least I can wiggle the other fingers on this hand." "At least Alex can wiggle his fingers." "At least the stars look lovely tonight."

Alex, too, did a lot of good. He fetched and carried things to get her out the door (socks, things like that). He was then very comforting and amusing when we were alone in the house, and went to bed very easily when it was time.

Fiona is very tired today - she fell asleep just before we had to go get Alex, and I fully expect she will nap at least once more. But she's being a good sport about asking for help, and eventually took the prohibition on riding her bike in her stride. (Eventually. After some argument.) She will be going to the hospital again on Tuesday to get the break checked and the cast replaced with something smaller and longer term.

I'm exhausted and pretty stressed about the whole thing (as is Martin), but she is doing well. And that's what really counts.

(at home, in Dutch)

It's taken us so many months to get to this point that sometimes I don't believe we're here. But we're in our rented house in Oostzaan, with our possessions around us (many of them not even in boxes; some of them even in plausible locations).

One thing we still don't have is internet connectivity. I'm typing this on my laptop to save on a data key and post from work. If you're trying to email us, be mindful of this. I can read emails during the day, but my replies will be either short or composed offline. Martin has no net access at all, poor thing.

The move was an enormous effort, but what has really been hard is how much of it we have had to do separately. It started when I went off to work in Amsterdam for the month of July. Though that was pleasant in many ways, it was also profoundy disorienting for both Martin and me. We're used to having one another as backstop in so many ways. When things went wrong last month, each of us felt so deeply isolated.

The week of the actual removal was more of the same. The schedule was as complex as a ballet:

• I returned home on Thursday 26 July, and was (as usual for the commuter lifestyle) fried on Friday the 27th. Nonetheless, we packed our possessions into boxes all weekend.
• Monday 30 July the kids went to their childcare places. I packed, and ran errands in town.
• Tuesday 31 July started with Martin going to the van hire place to get a van for the move. Although he had arranged it well in advance, it took him longer than we had hoped to get it home, because the paperwork was not in order. Then he helped me with two items I couldn't manage on my own and went to work, taking the kids for their last days at their childcare places. And I started packing boxes into the van. I had it most of the way packed when it was time to take the kids for a final farewell to Mother Goose, the nursery they've been at since Alex was 9 months old.
• The morning of Wednesday 1 August, we put the last items into the van. Then Martin's family came over and we had a last lunch together. And in the early afternoon, Martin drove the van away with all of our things in it. That night, he took the ferry across from Newcastle to Ijmuiden. In the meantime, I cleaned the house, packed our suitcases, and played that we were camping out with the kids.
• It was very early on Thursday 2 August when I got the kids up and into a taxi to the airport. We flew to Schiphol, touching down just about when Martin arrived at the new house from his ferry. So by the time the jet set had had lunch, taken the train to Zaandam, and taken a taxi from there to Oostzaan, he'd done the checkout with house owners. The kids explored their new home, and we started unloading boxes from the van. It was a quick turnaround - three hours later, he was gone, and I was alone with the kids in a strange house, in a strange country. Not that they were discontent - I put the pedals back on Fiona's bike, and she and Alex spent the entire afternoon playing with bike and scooter in the garden.
• Friday 3 August was setlling in time. I unpacked many, many boxes, put lots of things away. The kids and I went out to the grocery store (on foot), then they persuaded me to go for a bike ride. We rode for about an hour all told (well, Fiona and I rode. Alex rode his scooter). In the meantime, Martin arrived in Newcastle on the ferry, drove north to Edinburgh, met up with his parents, tidied a few more things in the Scotland house, and flew across to Schiphol.
• Saturday 4 August was much more relaxing, apart from the two hour bike and scooter ride in search of a bike shop (we were going in the wrong direction entirely!

And what details should I tell you about?

About the house, which is beautiful, but huge? The space is good, but I worry that we will become too accustomed to it; barring a lottery win we can't afford to buy something this size next year.

I could talk about Fiona, who thinks she's died and gone to heaven. Instead of only riding her beloved bike when (a) the weather is good, and (b) there's a parent to keep an eye out for her so she can travel the 30 meters to the letterbox and back, she can step out into the sunshine and ride it all the time, back and forth from the front garden to the back. Alex comes out too, and the two of them play long elaborate secret agent games on their vehicles.

Alex is mostly absorbed in Pokemon Diamond version (at which he is very good, though too hard on himself), but he's been taking time out to ride his scooter, eat Dutch cheese, and watch Sonic the Hedgehog DVDs (it's comforting when he's tired).

I could mention the kindness I encountered from Dutch people throughout the difficult day's travel to Oostzaan, from the friendly immigration officer to the forgiving train conductor (turns out you need a discount card to get a reduced fare for a child...I didn't know) and the charming and funny taxi driver. The lady at the Albert Heijn meat counter who started giving the kids lunchmeat (which they loved), and the fellow customer who chuckled at Fiona's earnest explanation of how "lekker" is "yummy" and "heerlijk" is "scrumptious", and the meat was "lekker heerlijk" - yummy scrumptious.

I could talk about riding on the road with Fiona, who is remarkably brave for someone whose previous riding experience was all helmets and sidewalks. I keep myself between her and the traffic, of course, and Dutch drivers are very careful of cyclists (I also only allow her to ride on very quiet roads). But she is in transports about cycling next to me on the road, which is a layer of maturity and togetherness she can't get over.

I could describe my trial of my commute on Saturday evening, when I discovered it takes about twenty minutes to bike to the office and about an hour to walk back with a bike with a flat tyre.

I could talk about our attempt at a Sunday drive, which ended at the side of a road with two children throwing up (carsickness and dehydration, in ascending order of age). We abandoned the trip, but went cycling and scootering instead in the afternoon, and found a little beach on the local lake. It was about 20 minutes' ride from the house, and the kids gleefully threw off clothes and went in (Alex in his shorts, Fiona in her underwear - there were plenty of little girls there in just bikini bottoms). Then we rode home to where Martin was setting up the office space, all but glowing from the fun of it all.

Or I could describe what life is like in a country where I don't speak the language - how much it is like being deaf, in that I am excluded from verbal communication. Indeed, I don't always even hear when people speak to me, since I won't be able to understand it even if I do hear it. Not everything is easy.

For good or ill, we're in the house, and this is the new home.

Martin was running the bath.

Fiona said, "I need to poo!", and the upstairs reverberated with her footsteps in the hall.

And then it came. A heart-rending howl of horror and despair from Martin, followed by Fiona's bitter weeping. And I realised instantly that Fiona's low spirits had been due to digestive difficulties, and that these problems had suddenly become much worse. And Martin hates that kind of thing.

Those of you, dear readers, who have or have had a three year old know what sort of a scene I walked into in the bathroom upstairs. You need no description.

And those of you who do not know, from bitter experience, do not want to know. Please trust me on this.

After the bad luck of losing the place we'd rented for the next year, we had to go back onto the house hunt. Looking for rental properties from abroad is, at best, difficult, and at worst, soul-destroying. We were not looking forward to it at all.

The estate agent who found us the first place, though, was keen not to lose his commission. So he scrambled around and identified another place that might suit. Maybe. It was more expensive, though he managed to get us a break on the price. But it looked suitable, so we went out to see it (we'd been planning to visit schools on Monday, so we were going to be in the Netherlands anyway.)

The one thing that the estate agent hadn't explicitly confirmed to us was the rental time. I had asked him to look for a house that was available for a year. He thought (or says he thought) that I meant a maximum of one year. We spoke to him about 15 minutes before the viewing, and he said that the place was only available for eight months.

Our hearts sank.

We went to the viewing anyway. It's a very pleasant, large place, owned by a nice couple, with four kids (one, a 7 month old baby girl, was there the whole time and flirted outrageously with us). They're going to the Netherlands Antilles for a while. We talked it over, and they said they would consider whether they could extend their trip from eight months to a year. If they could, we said, we'd take the house.

They said they had to think it over.

We left, feeling deflated. We reckoned we had, at best, a 50% chance to get the place.

So we went to open a bank account for me, which was a whole 'nother round of trouble. (If ABN Amro treats all its potential customers like they treated me, I can see why they're a takeover target. ING, though not able to actually give me an appointment, had a motivated and intelligent man who helped me get the paperwork I needed to physically sign. All praise (and all my business) to them.)

And I got a Dutch mobile phone. It's a prepay phone, bottom of the line, but it's a phone I can use to make & receive calls without paying a fortune to my British provider. I'll dual-run the phones for a while, because I'm going to need phone capability in both cultures.

We returned home, trying to turn the few success in the day into cause for some cheer. Not easy

But this morning, I got a phone call from our estate agent. The owners of the house are willing to rent it out for 12 months, less 1 week. 51 weeks is good enough.

So, once again, we have a house. It's in Oostzaan, close enough to my job that I may cycle on good days; the bus will take me close enough to walk the rest of the time. The school is about 4 minutes' slow walk away, and the local nursery is another two or three minutes beyond that (though getting places may be a problem).

Oostzaan, as any of my Dutch readers may already know, is notable for voting overwhelmingly either socialist or communist in national elections, and for being the founding place of Albert Heijn, the Dutch grocery chain. Having worked on the legal affairs of a supermarket, and dealt with the economics around staff pay, I find these two facts plausible.

The house in Wormerveer has just fallen through.

The owner is not going to Mallorca with his family next year, so he is not renting it out. We have to find another place.

This is really, really disappointing. It was a great house, light and airy and well suited to us. And the process of looking for housing is discouraging and frustrating, time-consuming and generally a drag.

Sigh.

I am seriously annoyed.

Alex's school is doing a "Keeping Myself Safe" unit, and he brought the first book from it home today. It's entitled "Laura Goes Home".

In it, because her mother is late, Laura is left at school. She decides to walk home on her own, but she's frightened and crying. A man walking his dog stops to ask if she is lost. End of book.

The homework exercise that came with it was a half sheet of paper that said only:

Please read and discuss this book - Laura Goes Home - with your child and then tick the outcome chosen by your child.
1.   Left open ended.
2. a. The man takes Laura away.
    b. Laura's mummy comes up at that moment.
    c. Laura screams, "I don't know you" and runs back to school to tell Mrs Smith

We have included the following letter in Alex's homework folder back.

We have decided to excuse Alex from doing this piece of homework, for two reasons.

1. It's unclear what he's supposed to do. He puzzled and stewed over the various options, but we couldn't figure out whether this is what he would do, what he thinks happened next, or some other answer. He was quite upset by his inability to figure out what the exercise was about.

2. We strongly object to the high level of paranoia that the exercise is designed to build. Although children do need to be told not to talk to strangers, we both found the idea of ending this story with "The man takes Laura away" really repugnant. And the third option, to have the child scream and make a scene, is also inappropriate when the man has does nothing more than crouch down and ask if she is lost, with no contact or menace whatsoever.

Although we appreciate the teaching on well being and safety, we are concerned that this goes too far. Children need to be taught to be cautious - but not to be afraid all of the time.

Would you be available to talk about this at some point on Friday afternoon?

I think I need to review the materials for this unit, because I really don't agree with the tone they're taking.

The fact is that stranger abduction is extremely rare (see, for instance, the statistics for England and Wales here - I couldn't find the equivalent Scottish statistics, but they will be smaller due to the lower population here.) Our fictional Laura was in much more danger from crossing the road than from the man who saw her crying and asked if she was lost. She was in more danger of violence or sexual abuse from people she knew than from strangers as well - the vast majority of these crimes occur in the home. But I seriously doubt that the next book in the series will address those issues - parents would riot, for one thing.

And Martin and I both really object to raising our children in irrational fear. They will have to adopt realistic threat assessment strategies when they go out alone in public, which won't be for some time. (To go back to the book, I would teach Laura to stay on school grounds and get the office to call her mother. She'd never have gotten to page 3 until she was old enough to make the walk home without her mother.)

But if we tell them that every stranger is out to get them, and they find out that we were exaggerating, then where will our credibility be? How, then, will they believe us when we say not to go out at night, or through bad neighbourhoods, or with an ostentatious display of wealth? How can I teach Fiona the caution necessary for a woman to be safe, if she's been immunised by cheap scare tactics now?

And what does that do for their fellow feeling with mankind? Are we really trying to build Margaret Thatcher's world, where there is "No such thing as society", one isolated child at a time? There are ways for a child to react to - and reject the assistance of, if appropriate - a strange adult that don't involve screaming and running away, for instance.

I was annoyed enough that the nursery discussed Madeline McCann's abduction with the kids (as though there was any cautionary or educational element to it - are they not to sleep with the windows open, perhaps?). But to hear this same message of fear from the school, from the official educational channels, really gets my goat.

It seems like we're protecting our kids from everything but irrational terror. It's almost like going to the airport these days.

A week or two ago, one of the commenters on a weblog I frequent quoted a line from one of her dreams: "Sometimes the petal is as effective as the flower."

And I felt the tug I feel sometimes, when there's a sonnet somewhere inside me, waiting to come out. It took about half an hour from tug to completion, but when I read it to M, he thought it was so sweet he cried.

So, for Valentine's day, a love sonnet.

Alex has been petitioning me to go visit London and see the London Eye ever since I sent him a postcard of it while on a course. We finally agreed that we would go in October, when he was settled into school.

So on October 6 - 8, we did. I picked him up from school on a Friday afternoon and took him home for lunch and a change of clothes. Then we took a taxi to the airport and flew down (British Midland to Heathrow). We took the Heathrow Express into Paddington, then the Tube to Victoria, where we stayed at the Comfort Inn.

Best moment of the journey down, for me: we bought some crisps and some apples in Heathrow, because we were going to be a long time getting our dinners. I was going to be flexible about food on the journey, figuring that any blood sugar was better than none, and offered to open the crisps for him. I got a five-star telling off, because apples are "real food" and crisps are not, and you do not eat junk food until you've eaten your real food. He harped on it throughout the trip.

Best moment of the journey down, for Alex: after school, taxis, planes, trains, tubes, and shops, walking hand in hand through the darkness at Victoria, the baggage trailing behind me, he was still cheerful and stable. I said, "You are such a good travelling companion. It's a real pleasure to be with you right now." It seemed to strike him deeply that I should feel that way.

We got up the next morning and took a photo of ourselves in the mirror. Here we are, getting ready for adventures:

(He's being a squirrel in the second of these shots.)

We set out for the Eye before 9, on foot to burn off some of the excess energy. There was some running on the deserted pavements, the odd shot with Big Ben, all that sort of thing.

We got to the Eye before it opened, and queued for tickets in the sharp breeze. By 10:00, we were on board. Alex is a little nervous of heights these days, and nearly funked out a couple of times, but when he got on board, he wasn't as scared. It reminded him of a space ship.

Although he would only go to the window when I asked him to for photos, he enjoyed the ride.

By the time we were at the top, he was pretty much reconciled to the trip.

He still did his fair share of scowling.

Still, he was glad to get down.

Then we had ice cream (his idea, not mine) and watched the people who paint themselves metallic colours and pretend to be statues. I bought us onto an open-top bus tour for a bit of a rest, and we rode around London for a while, playing with the headphones and the pre-recorded narratives. We got off near Regent Street, with the intention of going to Hamley's. A bit of lunch restored our energy, and off we went. I let Alex take the lead through the shop. This meant that we saw a lot of Lego.

He wanted to buy himself a toy, and quickly settled on a dragon in its own egg. Then he wanted to make sure we got one for Fiona, at which time I silently decided that we weren't going to use his pocket money for any of these purchases. (Generosity is rewarded.) We found a cuddly puppy for her, then walked up a staircase themed after the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Alex enjoyed sitting in High King Peter's throne at the end.

After watching some older kids play with Scalextric, we added a green light sabre to our stash and left. By then, Alex was beat. We went back to the hotel and found a documentary on people who base jump with peregrine falcons (I am not making this up). He watched that, surrounded by his toys, then came out for dinner. We went home and crashed.

We woke the next morning in a silly mood (Well, one of us did, but he was silly enough for two.)

We packed up the room, checked out, and headed for Hyde Park to play about before our flight home. The park was crowded with runners in some sort of footrace, but we soon found an activity more suited to us: a tree that reminded Alex of Yoda's house on Dagobah. So we did a little Star Wars playing.

Then we headed for the Tube, dodging through the endless stream of runners. We stopped at Paddington for lunch, took the Express back to Heathrow, and flew home at last.

It was an inexpressibly wonderful weekend, with an inexpressibly wonderful boy.

(There's a Flickr photoset with more pictures as well.)

It's really not important what we did, this rainy September day.

What's important is that we had fun.

And we did.

So a new child seat law comes into effect in a month's time. It tightens up the existing rules for children in cars, and means that some kids who were formerly riding without seats will need booster cushions.

The Beeb has a FAQ on the whole issue, including a few questions they've asked of the Road Safety Minister, Stephen Ladyman. My absolute favourite exchange is here:

What if a child refuses to use a child seat or cushion?

Mr Ladyman recognises that in some cases "there will be hell to pay". He suggests parents blame him.

Betcha he has kids.

OK, I know Martin has been ranting a lot on his blog lately. But it's not all grumps and grouses here...

I can't believe Martin hijacked the entire story about Alex with a rant!

Other information that the less clothing-obsessed readership might be interested in:

Alex was very nervous before school started. I could barely persuade him to eat his breakfast, and he was anxious and big-eyed on the drive to school itself. We dropped Fiona off at nursery on the way, then drove to Gilmerton Primary (it's all within a few minutes' walk, but we were running late).

The families gathered in front of the two classrooms, with all the nervous little children in their uniforms. There was some confusion, because they'd renamed the classes from Primary 1a (taught by Miss Bain) and 1b (taught by Miss Stewart) to 1b and 1s respectively. This meant that we were queuing at the 1b door, confused to see the wrong teacher's name, until Martin went to investigate. Then we went to the correct place, waving at Alex' former nursery-mate Keir as we swapped (his parents were also reversed).

Alex was welcomed into the room by one of the classroom assistants (two women, older than Miss Stewart, very friendly). We hung up his coat and stashed his backpack while he got busy threading beads. Then Miss Stewart shooed us all out of the room, because it was time to start. All of the children waved, and none of them wept.

It was a short day - only an hour and a half. We got home pretty much to turn around and go back out to get him. He came out with a picture of the sun, coloured yellow, and a big smile on his face.

"How was it?" we asked.

"It was good. I thought it was going to be hard, but it was really easy."

All the factors were in place for him to love school. Miss Stewart is lovely, the classroom assistants are friendly, he's mature enough to be confident in the situation, he was tired of nursery and ready for a change, and actually, he's quite bright. He's still enjoying it hugely, a week and a half in.

But back to the day itself. We came home, Alex changed clothes, and we all had lunch. Alex and I went to the movies (we saw Cars) while Martin went back to work. He and I then bought a belt for his school uniorm, to reduce the degree of shirt-untucking to a believable level. By the time we were on the way home, Alex was tired and thoughtful.

It was a good day.

Every Friday, the kids and I get to spend the day together. We have some very good times, and I've taken some fun shots. Now I have the time to post some!

16 June 2006

Waiting for the bus

They made a sand castle, sort of. (The little one with the sticks. The other one was someone else's work)

All fall down.

2 June 2006

Portrait of Fiona and me, by Alex

Portrait of Alex, by Fiona

"We're best friends"

Watch out, Fiona! There's a cow!

Fiona meets a cow she likes in the Cow Parade

Alex and Fiona meet Robocow

Funniest sight of the weekend: Fiona in her swimming goggles.

Taken 10 March 2006

Coolest thing of the week: eating mussels, I found a pearl.

Taken 11 March 2006

The last couple of weeks have included some really good family time around the Sutherland household, for no particular reason that I can put my finger on.

Last weekend, Fiona decided she was "full up" of wearing trousers (meaning she didn't want to any more), and stripped them off. She was clearly very comfortable in this state.

Taken 26 February 2006

Alex, meanwhile, scampered around and around his prone dad until he fell down giggling.

Taken 26 February 2006

Finally, Fiona got him to burn some of his energy off pushing her round the room in the block trolley.

Taken 26 February 2006

This week's notable burst of photography was Friday, when the snow was falling thick and fast. We went out into the back garden to play in it until we got cold.

Fiona with snow in her hair.

Taken 3 March 2006

Alex, inevitably, picked up a toy gun to play with.

Taken 3 March 2006

Fiona, after a time, was troubled by the snow sticking to her gloves

Taken 3 March 2006

So we all went inside and had hot chocolate. Fiona likes hers foamed with my latte milk foamer. Alex prefers mini marshmallows in his.

Later, we went out to the local garden centre to get materials for planting basil. En route, Alex decided to try making snow angels. This one turned out rather well. (I very nearly tried one myself, but Fiona was getting a bit wigged out, and having Mom lie down in the snow wasn't going to do her any good at all.)

Taken 3 March 2006

Sadly, the kids got cold on the way back from the garden centre, and much weeping ensued. Fiona turned out to have been sickening with a cold anyway, and spent Saturday fevered and listless. She recovered quickly, crunching through the remnants of the snow with me to the shops that evening.

Today was more fun again, but sadly unphotographed. You will simply have to imagine it, dear reader.

(Have I been enjoying the family more as my energy levels have lifted? Probably. Why have they lifted? Because this is the view when I walk to the bus in the morning.

Taken 2 March 2006

And this is the view when I get back in the evening.

Taken 1 March 2006

Note the visible sun!)

Taken 26 February 2006

At the dinner table tonight, apropos of nothing whatsoever: If you want to look like a robot, this is what you have to do. First you put a box on your head, with a square hole in it. Then you put socks on your hands. Then you take off all your clothes.

You can't make this stuff up.

Bit by bit, Fiona's nature is unfolding before us. She has always been a centred little thing, with a certain poise to her gestures and a grounding of deep silence to her warmth. She's the kind of girl who loves her cuddles, but loves her quiet times with her books as well.

This is not to say that she is never silly. Witness our conversation yesterday:

She's also just old enough to find Martin's and my long-running game of randomly swapping the words "nose" and "knee" funny. She certainly did this morning.

You gotta laugh. I did.

Taken 24 February 2006

In other news, last Monday I was picking the kids up from nursery. Alex, who has only now become interested in representational art, presented me with a picture of a number of space ships and aliens in battle, with lines connecting them up to show their alliances and actions. Even his drawings are social. Fiona, less obsessed with diagrams than appearances, drew a swirl of circles on the page, looked up at me and said, "Datsa moon, Mama!"

It was her first drawing of something, at two, while her brother has only started getting serious about it at 4 3/4. How can my children be so very different?

We have been having a busy wee weekend here at the Evilrooster's Nest, after Friday's high-energy activities.

On Saturday, the kids and I went out for a brief expedition to the local shopping centre and (more importantly) the play park right nearby. It was a frosty morning.

Taken 18 February 2006

But the crocus was just beginning to bloom in the park.

Both taken 18 February 2006

Fiona decided to take a route through the play structure that required her to cross a wobbly bridge. She was brave, but cautious.

Both taken 18 February 2006

We walked home, past the dry hedges in the suburban front gardens.

Taken 18 February 2006

My in-laws then came over and took the kids for a long expedition to a soft play area, while Martin got some quiet time and I took a nap (sleep can be hard to come by in a busy household). M and I then went out to dinner and a film, leaving the kids in Ian and Sheila's very capable hands.

This morning, after sundry shopping expeditions, we all ended up at the Cuddy Brae (pub with grub) for the classic family lunch. The children were beautifully behaved, the conversation pleasant, and the food good if excessive. Ideal. Even the car park plants were looking pretty good.

Taken 19 February 2006

Who says you have to do exotic things to have a good time?

Another Friday, another adventure.

Fiona had a birthday party to go to quite late today (4:30 - 6), so I had half-intended to spend the morning quietly so as to leave her with energy for the afternoon. But the day was so sunny, and the kids so chirpy, that I decided we all needed a trip out. There's been a geocache near us, unfound, for some time: Craigmillar's One of Four. Off we went.

Alex pointed the way.

Taken 17 February 2006

Fiona checked our heading with a compass.

Taken 17 February 2006

We lucked out. We found the cache really quickly, got good loot, left our trades, and thought, "now what?"

So we walked on round the castle, whcih was magnificent in the glorious sun.

Taken 17 February 2006

Fiona took her own path, at her own pace.

Taken 17 February 2006

We saw lots of trees.

From far away.

Taken 17 February 2006

From up close.

Taken 17 February 2006

And all wrinkly.

Taken 17 February 2006

Ones that look like dragons.

Taken 17 February 2006

And ones that look like island chains! (Cropped, I confess.)

Taken 17 February 2006

Then we rolled back down the hill (no, really, Alex wanted to barrel roll. Fiona tried to join him, but needed a bit of help.) After a brief visit home to lunch, nap and change clothes, we went to Lauren's party. The kids were perky as they waited for the bus.

Taken 17 February 2006

Fiona loved the party, particularly when painted as a puppy. (Yes, I know it's out of focus, but she was dancing.)

Taken 17 February 2006

It was a magnificent day. Alex impressed me with his maturity at the party (I asked him to sit out the party games after he won the first one, to give the smaller kids a chance. He not only did so, but he made the effort to smile about it as well. Wow.) Fiona was funny and beautiful. Then they had a delightful bath and went to bed.

As bath toys go, bubbles are top favourites in this household. We never do bubble baths on nights when we're in a rush to get the kids clean and into bed, because the bubbles are too much fun to rush. But though they play with bubbles, both kids had forgotten how much fun it is to wear them. Till I reminded them last night.

Alex with a beard.

Taken 12 February 2006

Fiona with a beard.

Taken 12 February 2006

Apparently, this beard thing is catching. I look like one of the Soggy Bottom Boys in it.

Taken 12 February 2006

Take two Santas into the bath...?

Taken 12 February 2006

We're finally out of the Christmas blast radius, and the weather was sunny today. It was time to go out for adventures.

Alex was keen.

Taken 10 February 2006

Fiona was dressed to the nines

Taken 10 February 2006

So we went to the play park, where Fiona was brave and Alex was funny. We bagged the Crag and Tail geocache, then walked down the Royal Mile.

En route we found Adam Waters, who makes his living as a William Wallace ("Braveheart") impersonator. He explained that he pays the bills with the royalties from postcards, and poses for photos to raise money for lukaemia research. We were happy to donate to the cause, and Alex was keen to cross swords with the guy with the blue face.

Taken 10 February 2006

We were going to go on to lunch, further caches and Starbuck's, but Fiona fell asleep sitting on my shoulders and leaning on my head. So we got some food and came home for a restful afternoon.

What more could anyone want from an adventure? Travel, courage, treasure and swordfighting, followed by the brave heroes returning to their beloved home for a feast.

In the style of the "What Happened Next?" game beloved of talk shows, geeks and geekettes, what happened before Fiona shook her finger in my face and shouted, "Dat's a MOON not a 'pace tason!"

A mouse took a walk in the deep dark wood...

Actually, it was a whole family out searching for the Butterdean Wood geocache, but two keen little children found the idea that a Gruffalo might be lurking among the trees pretty exciting. Martin, clever bunny, proposed a caching expedition to get us out in the beautiful (if chilly) sunshine, and this was a good cache to look for. It was about half an hour's drive from home, taking us over flat paths that were just wild enough to seem adventurous. They were also perhaps a little muddy.

I brought my phone camera, of course, and stopped from time to time to take pictures.

Fungus on a fallen log.

Taken 4 February 2006

Alex took the GPS and went ahead, following the arrow and talking of treasure. Playing Zelda has sharpened his taste for quests and adventures. He waited patiently whenever I would stop to take a shot.

The twisted stem of some vine - I don't know what kind. (This picture has been cropped.)

Taken 4 February 2006

Two leaves on a twisting vine.

Taken 4 February 2006

Fiona strode along the path, first with one parent, then with the other. At two, she is rock-steady on her feet and entirely unafraid of any mystery the woods might hold. She has been a strong walker for some time, and I think she enjoyed the challenge. When we were walking together and I would step aside to take a picture, she would venture onward without a backward glance.

Fir cone among the leaves.

Taken 4 February 2006

Eventually, Alex relinquished the GPS in favour of a stick sword, and Fionaberry took over as navigator. (We pretty much followed the path.) She thought my eTrex was a camera, and every now and then would stop, hold it to her face, bend very close to the ground, and say, "I take a picture. Cheese!" before going on. Not a landscape photographer, I guess...

Tangle of sticks, a pattern shot.

Taken 4 February 2006

Lichen on a branch. It's almost blue!

Taken 4 February 2006

Alex was soon wrapped up in Zelda-esque adventures, which reminded me vividly of my own childhood games. The forest around our cabin was always Lothlorien and Mirkwood, Stephen R Donaldson's The Land and Sherwood Forest. For him, East Lothian became Link's country, and he crept and ran through it like the hero of his favourite Game Boy game. I'm happy that our mostly urban life has opportunities for that kind of imaginative play.

He has not yet developed the love of the woods and trees for their own sake that I have. But I learned that a bit older than four. Maybe one day he'll see it.

The pattern of decay on the limb of a fallen tree reveals so much of its underlying structure.

Taken 4 February 2006

Concentric rings on tree bark. I don't know why this occurs.

Taken 4 February 2006

Alex used his stick to open "gates", mostly by keying his name into the trees. This one, in particular, required a number of passwords to be entered. We touched certain parts of the branches and said certain letters, spelling out our names to pass onward along the path.

Taken 4 February 2006

By the time we found the cache, a good half mile from the car park, the kids were running out of adventurous spirit. They weren't crabby, or unhappy, or even tired, but they were more focused on getting the "treasure" than on telling themselves (and us) stories on the way.

We found the box easily enough - it's both well hidden from the casual passer by and easy to find if you know where to look - and there were toys enough for both of them. Alex chose a deck of cards, and Fiona took a mini pencil set. I left some stone animals and an amethyst in trade, and we turned back to the car.

Although she wanted to be carried early on for the return journey, Fiona soon regained her energy and did a good deal of walking on the way back to the car. We covered over a mile as a family, and she managed about two thirds of that. Alex walked the whole distance, and wasn't worn out at the end.

We left the wood as the sun began to head for the horizon.

Late sunshine on brown leaves. The shot looks warmer than it was!

Taken 4 February 2006

One of Fiona's favourite Christmas presents this year was a pushchair, from Grandma and Granda Sutherland. Ever since she got it, she's been putting her new teddy bear or her latest doll ("Baby", the third of that name in our house) into the seat and bustling it around the living room. "I'm going home," she'll inform us, "Bye! Have a good day!" Then she'll walk it to the entry hall door, open it, and vanish from sight.

Moments later, she's back, grinning hugely. "Hiya!" Bustle, bustle, then "I go get-a milk! I go to the shop! Bye! See you later!" And out again. She can do this for half an hour at a time, easy.

So yesterday, since we actually did need milk, I decided to walk out to the corner shop with her, Baby and the pushchair. (Martin and Alex were at the cinema, and I needed to tire her out before her nap. I also had to get outside and get some light after Saturday's catastrophic mood crash.) When she realised we really were going to go out and get milk with the pushchair, she practically floated off of the floor.

We set out, and she was all over the pavement in her delight.

Taken 8 January 2006

Taken 8 January 2006

It took us half an hour to get to the foot of the road (a sixfold increase on my average time when heading for the bus). It was worth every minute in the cold air. We paused to take some more pictures, including a rather nice portrait of Baby.

Taken 8 January 2006

Taken 8 January 2006

By the time we were in sight of the crossroads, Fi was getting tired (it's a long slope for short legs). So she tried carrying Baby on her shoulders, which didn't really work. (Baby is falling in this picture).

Taken 8 January 2006

Eventually, as I expected, Baby and the folded pushchair ended up in my rucksack while Fionaberry sat on my shoulders and got dirt on my jacket with her little feet. The trip home, across the field and over the fence, was faster and muddier, but less memorable, than the trip to the shop.

At dinner:

I'm not sure we're doing right by the kids, in fannish terms. I think we may be giving them a less than complete basic grounding in SF&F types and memes. This will harm them in later life, in certain circles.

Fiona is fine. No worries there. She, contrary to most stereotypes, is clearly a science fiction girl. Whenever she sees a hooded and cloaked figure, she exclaims "Star Wars!" We don't know if she's thinking Obi-Wan Kenobi, Emperor Palpatine, Jawas, or Anakin Skywalker, but she's definitely got the dress code crystal clear. She also calls all explosions "Star Wars".

No, it's Alex who seems to have missed out. I first noticed this when I was talking to him about Hagrid, from Harry Potter, and he hadn't realised that Hagrid is a giant. He wasn't clear what a giant was, either. I explained that it was a special kind of person who was very, very tall.

I explained that giants appeared in a lot of stories, from the Bible (Goliath) to Narnia (I'm trailing the film heavily around the house, having brought it up in light of the centaur that appears in the first Harry Potter film as well.) Then I explained that other special kinds of people in these stories were dwarves, who were very, very small.

"Other special people [my attempt at nonhuman character for the four year old set] in stories are elves, who are, um....foofy."

Alex heard the word "elves" and put his arm over his head, with his forearm hanging down from his nose like a trunk.

Oh...dear...

Fridays are usually adventure days around the Sutherland household. I'm home from work, the kids are home from nursery, and we tend to go out and find something fun to do in town.

For two reasons, we didn't do that today.

One: Disease Girl

This little darling was up and down between 3:30 and 4:30 am, coughing her wee tiny throat out. Even cough syrup couldn't settle her. I finally got her back to sleep by lying in bed with her singing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and my own version of Rockabye Baby. She was no better in the morning, moving slowly and eating little.

Two: The White Stuff

Lovely, isn't it? First snow of the year, falling thick and fast in the midmorning. The chilly air meant that it lay on the ground for several hours, looking peaceful and bright. I love the snow and the light that comes with snow, particularly from inside a nice warm house.

So we stayed in and watched Harry Potter DVDs. It was kind of a disparate day, one I would like to remember because it was so unfocussed.

I took snow photos out the windows.

Alex needed a quiet day, too. It's been a busy and exciting time for us lately, and he decided he wanted to lounge around in his pyjamas for most of the morning. He wasn't in the mood to be photographed, but I got some good shots of him as he watched the climax of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.

Fiona watched the snow.

About midmorning I popped popcorn.

This is a fine art, by the way, popping on a stove. My mother taught me how years ago. You cover the bottom of a pan with kernels, then pour enough vegetable oil to well coat the kernels. Cover the pan and heat it over a high flame, shaking the pan constantly. The trick is knowing when to stop, so that all the kernels are popped and none burned. Like this!

In the afternoon, while Fiona napped, I made Alex a new shield, as I'd been promising for ages. (He loves playing with swords and shields, and just got another wee sword in a parcel from California. Thanks, Trish!) The shield is made of medium-weight bookbinding cardboard, with coloured paper over it and a leather strap. The whole thing is protected with sticky-backed plastic. Alex loves it.

In between all these activities, I got some cooking in - goulash for dinner tonight, and a chickpea soup for Saturday. That recipe, from the ever magnificent Oswego Tea site, has been tempting me for weeks. Unfortunately, it came out bitter and bland at once. I think I've rescued it with some sausage and some balsamic vinegar, but the soup was the point of the day when things started to turn.

In contrast to the rest of the day, dinner was decidedly not peaceful. Alex decided he wouldn't eat the goulash (though he had promised me he would earlier in the day). I decided I was tired of his fussy eating. So I took him upstairs and put him in his bed. He apologised, came downstairs, and still wouldn't eat it. So his dad took him upstairs, forcibly dressed him in his pyjamas, and put him to bed. It was an epic wrestling match, with screaming, hitting, and numerous bolts for freedom. He shouted and carried on for 10 or 15 minutes after the bedroom door was closed, too!

Having Alex get that fussy took much of the joy out of the memories of the day. But our lives are rarely unmixed tragedy, any more than they are unmixed comedy. The light relief in this case was provided by Fiona, who decided, halfway through Martin putting Alex to bed, that she wanted to go to bed too. She climbed down from her seat, toddled upstairs, and clambered into her bed on her own, barely attending to the tantrum going on a few feet away. While her brother howled and carried on, she laid her head onto her pillow and pulled up her duvet (my offer of assistance was spurned with an "I do it!"). By the time Martin had left the room, she was asleep.

Alex has been going to his nursery, Mother Goose, for almost four years now. As he has become more verbal, he's brought nursery rhymes and songs home with him. Sometimes they're the standard ones - "Baa baa black sheep" and suchlike. Sometimes, they're not.

His favourites right now are "Heyyy, baby...I want to know-ow-ow....will you be my girl?" and "Jadda", which is a string of nonsense syllables I can't reproduce, but which does NOT finish "bing bop pop." (I think it should and add it in when he sings that, to his massive indignation.)

He brought home another verse to "Row, row, row your boat" the other month. I understand that it's become common, but I had never heard it before:

Now, this is the sort of thing that gets me going on inventing my own doggerel. I quickly added another verse:

He loves it. He's tried to convince Goose that it's an official verse, with about as much success as he had sellng this rewrite I did of Hey Diddle Diddle:

I can't wait to see him try to get them to accept my latest offering, invented last night with Fiona in my arms:

And yes, I know I am messing with my descendents unto the tenth generation with this stuff. But it's so much fun!

Fiona turns one in 2 1/2 weeks. As always, being a parent, I feel two mutually exclusive things. On the one hand, it seems just yesterday that I was sitting at this same table, doing a jigsaw puzzle, when the first contractions started. On the other, I can't imagine life without her.

That second thought - the inability to even contemplate a life that didn't include her - is a particularly poigniant one these days, as we watch the families torn apart by the tsunami try to find their loved ones and, too often, discover that those loved ones are dead. What parent doesn't picture themselves on the beach with their children, with the wave coming, wondering how to save their precious lives? Who can't empathise with the survivors afterward, wondering where the family members they lost in the maelstrom will turn up? And for the locals, with no safe home to go to to deal with their grief, things are even harder.

So, since Fiona is too young to notice whether she gets a present at all, Martin and I would like to ask her friends and family to give her small gifts this birthday. She'd enjoy a rattle made from a box and some split peas and taped shut as much as she would some Super Magic Whizz-O Gadget with bright sparkly lights. So give her a small toy and a big hug, and give the money to the tsunami victims this year. She'll never notice the difference, because the hug is what really matters.

And she has lots more birthdays to come, where we can all splash out on gifts for her. Would that the families of the tsunami victims had the same.

Thank you.

OK, the short story is: Cameron (Martin's cousin and a groomsman at our wedding) and Clare (a very beautiful woman) got married last weekend. We all went. Alex wore (in the loosest sense, at times) a kilt, which was cute and funny. We had a great time.

Below are some pictures, as evidence. They aren't all the pictures from the wedding, nor necessarily the best ones. They're just what I picked out to get something onto the web.

Dada and Alex	Kissing the Bride	All the kilted folk...spot the one whose shirt is coming untucked!
Mama & Fiona	Sharing a joke with grandda	"Everybody look left and laugh!
Family portrait 1	Family portrait 2: Kyle is ready to dance!	Family portrait 3
Cam & Clare under an onslaught of confetti	Kyle jumps the gun on tea	Swinging boy
William Wallace, eat your heart out	"Yeah, the kilt is a babe magnet. I know."	Dada agrees about the babe magnet
Dancing with Grandma	Dancing with Beth and Anna...wardrobe malfunction immanent!	Needing a little help pulling the kilt back up.
Fiona takes a break	Tired after the party.

Alex has an interesting relationship with food.

Yucky vs Yummy

Like most toddlers, he's neophobic. No, that doesn't mean Keanu Reeves in a black trenchcoat appears in his nightmares. He just doesn't like new foods.

He has a clear understanding that there are foods one likes (yummy foods) and foods one doesn't (yucky foods). As we often discuss at the dinner table, "Mama say yum, broccoli. Dada and Alex say yuck, broccoli." He was discussing the different kinds of food with me yesterday, revealing his understanding of jobs in the process.

"When I'm a little older, I have a new job and you have a new job and Dada have a new job and we make big monies and we buy all the yummy food and we buy all the yucky food and put it in the bin."

Real Food

Also like most toddlers, Alex loves his sweets. We've been drilling it into him that you can't have dessert until you've eaten some "real food" (amount to be determined by the Court of the Parents, from which there is no appeal). We first introduced this in a restaurant, where he was angling to have a chocolate sundae for dinner. We explained that he had to have some peas, fish and chips first, because that was real food.

So one day last week, he brought home a square of the cake they'd made in nursery. He didn't eat it after dinner (can't recall why), but the next day I packed it, along with some sandwiches and fruit, for lunch while we were out geocaching. We stopped for lunch and I opened the box. He looked inside, inventoried the contents, and gave me a testing glance. "Sandwiches are real food," he said. Translation: I eat the sandwich and I can have some cake, right? I agreed that sandwiches were real food, and he tucked in with enthusiasm, keeping an eye on the cake as he ate.

Even funnier was the pantomime he went through yesterday. I had bought a new pair of boots, and had just taken them off in the living room. He put his feet into them (a comic sight) and declared he was off to the shops to get some sweeties. He was halfway across the floor toward the dining room table (the shop in this game) when a thought struck him.

He turned around quickly and rushed back to the living room. Kicking off the boots, he turned to the TV table. "Real food," he said, and started picking up handfuls of air and stuffing them in his mouth. "Eat, eat, eat..." Then he put the boots on and went to the shop for sweeties.

It's been over a week since Alex has made any significant mistakes, so I hereby declare him POTTY TRAINED.

If you, gentle reader, are the parent of a recently potty-trained child, you will know the mix of delight, amazement, and exhaustion I'm feeling right now. Delight, because I don't have to change his nappies any more. Amazement, because I see now what a fundamentally unnatural thing Alex has achieved. And exhaustion because potty training is hard work for a parent as well as a child.

If you are the parent trying to, or contemplating trying to potty train, a child, I know how you feel too. Curious, right? I used to read potty training books and websites, looking for some magic formula that would make the effort easier. Well, sadly, there is no universal magic formula, but let me tell you how we did it.

If you're not a parent, you'll have to find your own motivation to read this.

So how did we do it?

For almost a year, we tried rewarding Alex' use of the potty with little toy cars, stickers, any little titbit that might get him interested in the process. Although I felt at the time that this effort was wasted - his success was sporadic at best - I have realised that this long run-up laid the groundwork for the present success. First of all, it clued him into the fact that potty training was a fertile area for rewards, and secondly, it started him working on his bladder control.

It did not, however, convince him to be clean and dry. None of the trinkets on offer were worth the effort of managing his wastes himself instead of lying there while we did it. Not even the thrill of "big boy underwear", just like Dada's was enough. So we found two things that he loves best, and used them as levers.

First of all, Alex is a very social boy. He thrives on interpersonal interaction, and values approval very highly. (I'd worry more about how this will leave him prey to peer pressure if he weren't also stubborn as a mule.) So when his grandparents Sutherland started in on how important potty training was on his first overnight visit to their house, he began to realise that people in general were keen on the endeavour. I think he felt Martin and I were eccentrically obsessed before then. This social awareness also allowed us to use praise as a reward, and mild shunning as a penalty for failure (particularly poo failure).

The second lever we had on him was gaming. Alex loves Playstation and GameCube games. Even PC games, or the Flash games on the CBeebies website, can captivate him for however long we allow him to play them. So we started changing the rules. First, he couldn't play anything until he peed in the potty once in the day. Once he was reliably peeing first thing, then he could only play until he was wet or dirty, then they went off until he asked to go to the potty and produced somthing, then on until the next mistake, etc. Finally, they were off after a mistake, with no reprieve.

It all took a week or two from the visit to his grandparents' to being always dry. But poo was still a consistent problem. Then his grandma Foley came over and reinforced the social leverage about stinky poo. So instead of messing his underwear, he clenched. Like a drug smuggler refusing to produce the evidence for the customs officer, he simply held it all in. And we held our breath - would he ask to go to the potty when the peristalsis was too strong to overcome? Or would he let it all out?

He asked to go to the potty. And there was much rejoicing.

Now I'm trying to roll back universal games access, since I don't actually want him to turn into a couch potato, even one with excellent bladder and bowel control. But I'm also so proud of my boy that I'm rolling it back gently...

We took Mom to Edinburgh Airport this morning. Martin dropped us all off, and Alex, Fiona and I then accompanied her to the security gate (via the exceedlingly long and slow British Airways check-in queue). Then the kids and I took a taxi back to Goose, where I left Alex behind and walked Fi home.

In the taxi, there were a couple of adverts for the manufacturer, Manganese Bronze. One of them showed a classic black cab in a shopping centre, which particularly interested Alex.

First, he explained that "naughty people" drive taxis in shopping centres, and "good people" don't. When he was a little older, he continued, his new job¹ would be to tell them "NO" (said with The McLean² Admonitory Index Finger, heretofore to be referred to as the MAIF, extended), and that I would stay at home.

Then he mentioned that there were sharks in shopping centres, which also needed application of the MAIF and a good telling-off, and told me his new job would involve this as well. I pointed out that that was two jobs, and how would he find the time to do them both?

His solution was that I would do both jobs, presumably because as a Mom I have so much time on my hands. So I am now the Official Teller-Off of Sharks and Bad People Who Drive Taxis in Shopping Centres. Armed with my MAIF, which I only have by marriage, I go from shopping centre to shopping centre, saying "NO" to large toothy fish and cabs.

The taxi driver was it stitches.

Fiona had her 8-week check and immunisations on Thursday. They measured her weight, height and head circumference, and all of these measurements came out extremely large for her age. Specifically:

So, in other words, she is a perfectly normal 4-month old baby...at eight weeks.

...but in a good way.

When Fiona is fussy, we tend to offer her something to suck on. This comforts her, and allows us to determine if her fussiness is due to hunger. (It usually is.) Martin tends to offer his nose; I generally alternate between nose and chin. Or I used to - after this I'm thinking nose only, or maybe finger.

On Sunday, she was so hungry that when I let her suck on my chin, she gave me a hickey.

Alex and I were blowing raspberries at Fiona this morning, and she thought it was hilarious.

Alex has had a bad week or two.

Easrly last Wednsday night (March 3), he threw up at about 1am. He was distraught for the rest of the night, but felt pretty much OK the next day. Fine, we thought, he throws up randomly from time to time.

Then on Friday (March 5), he started again. He was sick through Saturday morning, but felt better in the afternoon. The barfing was worse - we ended up with towels instead of cushion covers on most of the 3-seater sofa (I love washable covers). But when it was over, we thought it was over.

So when he started crying at 3 this morning, we thought it was just a bad dream. Martin went through to him, then came to get me to do the long-traditional barf wash while he showered with the boy. This was made worse because we had Martin's high-garlic garlic bread, and Alex had eaten rather a lot of it. I leave the fragrance to the imagination, dear reader. Trust me, though, imagination falls short - it took two washes, one at 90° C, to get the smell out of his bedclothes.

Now, the day after the night before, he seems better, but weak. We went out to pull my Dean Bridge for maintenance, and then go hunt another one nearby, but had to come home halfway through the project because he was so tired.

He doesn't seem ill otherwise. After all the barfing he's done over the years, we have learned that his digestive system is his "fuse". When things go wrong, he throws up. I suspect that this is psychological rather than disease-related. More cuddles will be needed, clearly...

A week ago today, Fiona looked me in the eye and smiled. Twice.

I immediately ran for the camera, at which point she screwed her face up, turned bright red, and wailed.

She has since smiled at her grandparents, her father, her brother, and at least one friend. I've been trying to capture a smile on diode for seven days now, and I give up. She'll smile for the camera when she wants to, but let it be known:

She can do more than cry. She just chooses not to.

Well, it's started.

I left Fiona lying on her back on the changing mat (on the living room floor) while I went upstairs for a minute. Came back and...

It's not true rolling - she's thicker than she is wide, it's easy for her to wriggle till she turns over. She has learned this at night, since she prefers to sleep on her side. And the downslope of the changing mat will have helped. Still, it's already time to be careful about leaving her unattended on table tops. At 20 days.

Maureen, our midwife, has just been by again to check my stitches (things are not healing very well, but that's another story). I took the opportunity to ask her to weigh Fiona.

Fi was asleep, so we didn't want to strip her to the skin and wake her up. Maureen suggested we put another bodysuit and nappy in the scales, then subtract that weight from the weight of the fully clothed baby. I pointed out that if we zeroed the scales with the clothing and nappy in there, then we'd get the right weight for the girl. We did this, and stared at the reading. It was too high to believe.

So we stripped Fi down and put her in the scales naked (and complaining), and the weight was confirmed.

4.74 kilos (For those of you who think in Imperial, that's 10 lb 7 oz.)

She was last weighed at 6 days of age, and was unusual enough then for having gained 50 grams rather than losing weight, as most babies do in the first week. That put her at 4.1 kg/ 9 lb 1 oz. So she's gained 640 g / 1 lb 6 oz in the last 10 days. That's a lot of weight..

I had noticed that her clothing was getting a little tight in the tummy, and a little short from shoulder to crotch. And she does seem to be eating all the time. My mother was once told that her milk had a "high butterfat content", and such things are hereditary. So some weight gain is to be expected, even with anaemia. But 15% in 10 days?

The health visitor is coming on Monday with a different set of scales. I wonder what they'll say?

It is a truth universally acknowledged that newborn babies don't sleep through the night. Indeed, their schedules bear only the remotest resemblance to the way most of us live. It's all dictated by stomach size and blood sugar levels. A newborn's stomach is about the size of a walnut, and it can't maintain its own blood sugar for more than a few hours at a stretch.

So it needs feeding. Over and over again. Most newborns run to a 3 or 4 hour cycle of eating and sleeping, punctuated by bouts of crying. Fiona is no different - she's slept for as long as 5 hours in a stretch, but most of the time she needs a good feed every three or four hours, day and night.

Naturally, this schedule is totally incompatible with adult life, and indeed drives some people into a state of mild psychosis. With Alex, I tried to live normal hours, and really suffered for it. But with Fi, at least for the first week and a half, I've given that up. Every night, at about 10 or 11, I leave Grenwich Mean Time and move into her world: Baby Time (there is no "standard" or "mean" to it).

We've been sleeping in the master bedroom, while Martin has been crashing in the guest room (he runs on Martin Standard Time, which seems to involve staying up really late at night, getting up with Alex at 7 or 8, and miraculously being OK). I turn my dimmable bedside lamp down low and lie Fi down on the bed beside me. Then, when she wakes, I turn the light up and feed her, usually while reading a book. She falls asleep at the breast, but wakes up when laid down on the bed. So I turn her on her side, lie on mine, and give her another drink, which sends her off again. I've turned the light down when laying her down, so when she goes to sleep so do I (usually - this instantaneous dropping off was easier before my blood transfusion reduced my anaemia and upped my energy levels).

Three or four hours later, we do it all again.

It takes 10 or 12 hours' sack time to get a liveable night's sleep in Baby Time, leading to something like jet lag when I try to mesh with GMT again. And Martin wants to move back into his own room before he starts his new job. So this pattern is going to have to be modified, starting tonight (when she goes into the Moses basket and falls asleep on her own rather than being nursed down - expect crying baby and tired parents). In the end, she is going to have to move out of her own time zone and into ours.

But I've lived ten nights in Baby Time, watching her sleep, lying on her side facing me, with me on my side curled around her, in the dim light of my nightlight. That time will be with me always.

Martin has described Fiona's birth from his point of view. Mine may or may not match his - I was present, and conscious, for different portions of it than he was.

Tuesday, January 27 had been a bad day. I was worried that I would have to have another Caesarean section (not that I mind C-sections) if Chenoweth didn't emerge soon. They don't induce labour if you've had a section previously, but by the time they were done waiting for spontaneous labour, they'd be scheduling me for a section the week before Martin started his new contract. If you can't tell, I was beginning to doubt whether Chen would be born normally at all. I hate waiting. It makes me pessimistic.

That evening, I was doing a jigsaw puzzle, which always soothes my emotions. I felt an intermittent crampiness from about 11:00, but didn't mention anything to Martin at first. No sense giving him false hopes or false alarms. By midnight, I decided they weren't just my imagination and told Martin, then started timing them. For me, the rest of the labour seemed to have been timed and measured. Like a timetable:

All times are approximate, most are deduced rather than based on checking the clock, and recall of many is influenced by drugs and/or altered states of conciousness.

At this point, things melt into a kind of timelessness for me (can't think why...)

I remember spending a lot of time sitting on the stool in the shower room, supported by Lynsey, while she took my blood pressure and pulse every 10 minutes. After a couple of tries on each arm, we concluded that the automatically-inflating blood pressure machine can't register low enough and Lynsey switched to the manual system (pressure of 78/53, well out of normal range, even for me).

The fluid drip they set up for me after delivery wasn't getting fluids into my arm, and my veins collapsed enough that it took four tries to get enough blood to check my haemoglobin levels. All I wanted to do was to lie down, but the medical staff didn't want to move me yet.

Finally, I convinced Lynsey to let me lie on the bathroom floor, despite her horror at the unsanitariness of it all. She spread a sheet from the bed on the tiles, then I engineered a slow collapse into blessed horizontality. They were still not sure about moving me to a bed, so I stayed where I was for some time, presenting an alarming picture to anyone coming into the room. At this point, I was well past caring about either sanitation or alarm.

Fiona was asleep in the cot the whole time, which made me care a lot less about what happened to me.

Finally, an orderly came and helped me into bed again, and the doctor came to give me another stitch to close a leaking blood vessel. Martin came back to find me in bed, looking pale, much as I had been when he left. They took me up to the postnatal ward then, rolling on a bed with Fiona in the crook of my arm.

I spent one night in hospital, then made such a pest of myself that they discharged me home. (Considering how well Martin takes care of me, the daily midwife visits that are standard on the NHS, and how close I am to the hospital, this was not a foolish decision. Even for someone whose haemoglobin count was at about 70% of normal.)

So here I am home now, with Fiona, Alex, Martin, and a severe case of anaemia. I look like a Goth without the makeup, and despite taking iron tablets three times a day, my haemoglobin has dropped to 67% of normal. According to the midwife, I should be having trouble breastfeeding, though the fact that I've already frozen 200ml of breastmilk as well as feeding Fi kind of flies in the face of that. I am, however, utterly exhausted and frequently faint.

We discussed my medical situation with the midwife this afternoon, and agreed that this can't go on. It'll take weeks and weeks for me to feel better, and I need to be able to cope with both Alex and Fiona a lot sooner than that. So sometime over the next couple of days, I will be going back into the hospital to get a transfusion. Three units of blood should get me back on my feet again.

On the one hand, I'm looking forward to having the energy to climb the stairs more than twice in a row, and to being able to give Alex the attention and reassurance he needs. On the other, I feel selfish, using up blood that could save someone's life, purely for my own convenience. This is particularly selfish because I haven't given blood for some time. (The last time I did so, I fainted in a bus stop an hour later. Kind of put me off.)