Lucy doesn't crawl

Lucy has two teeth, and is working on a third. She sits up nicely and loves to try the food she sees the rest of the family eating. Fish fingers, green beans, sweet potato casserole, tender cooked broccoli and many other things have delighted her. If she is minded so to do, she can turn over. 

She's not often so minded: usually putting her down on her tummy results in a cry that sounds like she's been put down on a tack. And she absolutely does not crawl. Why should she? As you can see, the service around here is pretty good, if you're a baby.

A winter day

It was a lot colder on the windswept hills in north Yorkshire than I had imagined. But the boys were undaunted, having their first lesson in hurling from Liam on the playing fields at Ampleforth. (Shhhhhh...don't tell! I think the boys got a little carried away with their hurling sticks: the evidence was all over the field.)   

Meanwhile, Patricia took Lewis, Anna, Lucy and me for a look at the church. Lovely--and out of the wind, which was a definite selling point! Anna enjoyed looking for the little mice that are part of the decor, on some of the chairs and benches. 

We had a lovely time, anyway, though the inside bits of the day (lunch at the pub--yummy fish & chips for me, the abbey church at Ampleforth, and tea at Liam & Patricia's) were far more enjoyable than the outdoor bits. 

Plays well with others

It's something I hope that will be said about the children, and this week they're practicing. Iain and Thomas have been playing all sorts of pretend things together. This morning they were suited up in makeshift army gear, on a mission.

Thomas said they were looking for someone. 'He killed one of our best soldiers, and now we have a mystery to solve. We have to find him.'

Pretty soon, they were all outside, and Lewis was watching a documentary about the Russian front in WWII. And they didn't come back in until they were tired of playing--no squabbling or bickering.

If not peace on earth, at least we've seen peace in our backyard.

The second day of Christmas

Or, as it is known here, Boxing Day. Of course, there is a reason there's no 'Christmas Day' blog. At least four reasons, in fact: Anna, Thomas, Iain and Lucy. On Christmas Day, the usual noise ('oh the noise, noise, noise, noise!') and chaos increase exponentially. Partly, this is so because, well, it's Christmas Day, much anticipated and anxiously awaited; everyone has been up since...EARLY; and parents are preparing the culinary delights, which we have been eagerly awaiting. 

Yesterday, despite the chaos, was full of the usual pleasures and some unexpected treats. The children behaved astonishingly well in a very crowded narthex during Mass. (I thought, as we knelt during the Creed: here we are, adoring the Christ child in a crowded place. At least there aren't any barn animals in the mix.) The rolls were nearly forgotten in the run-up to dinner, and we never got around to eating the cheese, but the food was spectacular--as usual. Others might differ, I am sure, but my absolute favorite part of dinner was the sausage and chestnut stuffing. And the company was excellent, too. The kids had Violet, Camille, and Belen to play with, and we had their parents (Brandy, Matt, Eric, Tara, plus Tara's friend Amy) for conversation around the table. 

My special thanks, however, go to Tara, for singing the following lyrics I devised (to the tune of the 12 Days of Christmas) in honor of Lewis:

It's Christmas at the Ayres' house, and here's the scene you'll see:

Champagne a-pouring

iPad a-charging

Daddy outside 'egging'

Mommy a-kneading

Anna a-singing

Iain a-drawing

Lucy a-fussing

Thomas wearing Chelsea strip

Chestnut stuffing's on

smells so good

time to tidy-up

and on the Big Green Egg, a turkey!

Not quite up to the usual standards of entertainment at festive gatherings I've attended at the university, but then--as I am made more and more aware all the time--I am not English. 

It was such a busy day, in fact, that it wasn't until this morning that Lewis remembered to tell me that yesterday was the 70th anniversary of the fall of Hong Kong. Now that is a busy day.

business as usual

on Holy Island in October

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. In the US, that is, tomorrow is Thanksgiving day. What are we doing here? Well, Anna has dance club after school and the boys are going to a friend's house for supper. Lucy will be at nursery as usual in the morning, and Lewis and I both have to work.

So it goes for the American living in Britain, married to an Englishman. True, he really enjoys cooking and eating Thanksgiving dinner--but only in the States. Here in the UK, we can't be quite that counter-cultural. If only: it would be great if I could get some canned pumpkin, thus making the pumpkin-pie-baking a much easier task...sigh.

Tonight, however,  we are getting the kids ready for bed, because they have school tomorrow. Fortunately, they're not too bothered. That's good: the last thing we need is an excuse for Iain to plead 'day off' from school. I can just imagine him saying, 'But I was born in America. I should have Thanksgiving day off!' Not, of course, that he's interested in the reason for the celebration, or eating the turkey--or even the pumpkin pie, for that matter--he just yearns for days off from school

With any luck (and a miracle at the UK border agency), he'll spend extra days off over the Christmas holidays traveling to California.

He won't want turkey then, either, or pumpkin pie. But we'll have it all the same. After all, a girl has to get that pumpkin fix sometime.

babe in arms

Here is Lucy, on a recent trip to Edinburgh (it was cold!), having a little sleep in the stroller (translate this to whatever word works for your region). Why is it photo-worthy? Because Lucy has taken to sleeping in the stroller only when it's moving. That is, she sleeps in the stroller when she can't sleep on me. 

Don't get me wrong: one of the loveliest things about having a baby is the soft, warm, cuddly feeling of your infant falling asleep in your arms. The memory of that feeling is what got me through my pregnancy this time around. Overwhelmed as I was at the prospect of child number 4, I could say to myself, but at least when the pregnancy is over, for a couple of wonderful years, you'll have a baby. You know, one of those little creatures who smiles and coos and makes you feel like the most important person in the world. They don't talk back, and, for the first few months at least, can't get away. I imagined having back all the things I missed most about Iain's babyhood. (He was, though I say so myself, the most wonderful baby.)

Lucy, lovely, lovely Lucy, is most of those things. And more: she sucks her thumb. I know this will be a problem later, but at 6 months, thumb-sucking is pretty darn cute. There is, however, one trait that she seems to lack: transferability. I mean, when you try to put her down in her bed after she's fallen asleep on you, she instantly opens her eyes and begins screaming as if you'd put her down on a bed of nails, not a mattress. She had about a week of sleeping through the night (or 6-hour stretches, which is nearly as good), in her own bed; she even fell asleep there. All that changed with her experience of jet lag, and since mid-August we've been suffering with her.

Eventually, I know I will have to remind her that she can go to sleep on her own, and she can sleep for long stretches of time in her own bed. I don't look forward to that. So today, when she woke up (in the bouncy seat, even) after just a few minutes' sleep, I took her and let her sleep on me while I finished reading an essay (on the theological virtue of hope in the ethics of Thomas Aquinas, if you're interested) and drinking a cup of tea (lapsang--my favorite). 

Then it was time to take Thomas to buy a newspaper. (Lewis has taken to reading the Financial Times at the weekend, which doesn't have a sports section. Anathema, according to Thomas, who thinks that the main reason for a newspaper is sports reporting and a list of which football matches will be televised, and when.) I opted for the walk, primarily because Lucy could stay asleep on me. 

She did. She slept through the trip, and stayed asleep while I read a whole section of the Financial Times (the arts bit) standing up in the kitchen. (The baby bjorn isn't really meant to be worn while sitting down.) I know that in the long run, this isn't helping. 

But it sure did make for a pleasant afternoon.

teeth time?

Well, there's no way to be certain whether Lucy is awake at night because she's getting some teeth. If only she were getting some words--that would be most helpful. All I know is that sleep is a precious commodity, one I seem not to be able to afford at the moment. If I could buy three hours of connected sleep, I would. If only. 

Lucy had to have some surprise up her little sleeve, though. Being the fourth child isn't interesting unless you can keep your parents guessing a bit. I remember when Iain was a baby, thinking that he never stumped me. Even his dramatic visit to hospital at thirteen days old, which included a spinal tap, chest x-ray and 48 hours of IV antibiotics (while remaining in hospital) did not puzzle me. I was grateful for my experience with Anna in the cardiac ICU, which made the whole hospital ordeal psychologically manageable. Not that it was easy, of course--just manageable.

Thankfully. Lucy presents us with challenges of a less dramatic, if more exhausting kind. Often, I put her down between  9 and 10, and crawl into bed myself, absolutely shattered, only to have her wake up at 11.30 and not let me put her down again. All night. If I am lucky, she'll lie down with me for a bit and I can catch a few minutes of horizontal sleep. But only if I am really lucky. 

We're thinking it's teeth. There is physical evidence to support this hypothesis. So we've got the calpol (tylenol) and bonjela (whose US equivalent I've forgotten--but it goes on her gums directly). She seems to be a bit better with these interventions.

And me? Could you pass me that bottle of syrah, please, and tell me that this will pass? 

Birthday season

Thankfully, we've survived birthday season once again. Anna is 10, Thomas is 8, and Iain is 5. I would love to offer a full report with photos, but Lucy, who is now nearly 6 months old, has other ideas about what to do with my fingers and the keyboard--and anything else within her reach. 

It is wild, relentless, messy, exhausting and noisy. (See photo.) But I realize, in my better moments, that these are good times, and that (in the words of a country song that played on the radio when I was in Atlanta) I am going to miss this. So, off the computer and back into the fray, before there's drool on the keyboard.

driving in England

If I ever decide to write a memoir about my experience of moving to Britain, I will title it, 'Driving in England'. Driving is an apt metaphor, for me, for all that's unsettling about being an American in the UK. Last Friday, I got completely lost trying to find an address in Consett. I would have given up, except that I was looking for the house of the person from whom I bought (on eBay), Iain's birthday present: one wooden pirate ship, complete with canvas sails and wooden pirate figures.

Between setting out and finding the house I (a) nearly ran out of gas (um, sorry, petrol), (b) got lost, and (c) had a flat tire. No, I don't know how to change a flat tire. And yes, I was lost when I got the flat tire. No, I didn't have the AA (that would be AAA in the US) card with me. Fortunately Lucy was asleep in the back.  Even more fortunately, I stopped opposite two men laying large blocks to form a curb (or is it a kerb?) along a new, residential street. It was fortunate because even as I was on the phone to Lewis (who was at home working, while I was out with the car, yes, the one car), one of them tapped on the window and asked if I needed some help.

Did I ever. The two of them changed the tire for me in something like no time flat, amazingly. But then, they seemed like the sort of guys who were competent at that sort of thing. And I do mean that as a compliment of the highest order, since I am the sort of girl who is, shamefully, woefully incompetent at that sort of thing. As I drove away, I thought to myself that if I ever do write that memoir, I may just dedicate it to the two men who changed my flat tire.

If driving in England has been something of a challenge, the people who have stopped to help me with my various kinds of flat tires have made it possible for me to stay on the road. To those kind strangers, some of whom are now friends, I will always be grateful.

I will let you know how Iain likes his pirate ship.

Anna looks even better now that the IV's are all out; yesterday she came off oxygen for the day. At night she still requires a little bit, so the doctors won't let her come home today. She should be home by the weekend, though, after just over two weeks in hospital!

Anna keeps us on our toes

We had a lovely time in Cornwall, but it must be said that Anna was a bit under the weather by the time we were heading home. Monday we took her to the doctor and he prescribed some antibiotics. If you've ever been around when we've tried to give Anna oral medications, you know how much fun antibiotics three times a day are. Despite the medicine, she was still coughing awfully and running a fever. Wednesday we knew something was not right (sparing you the details) and took her to the emergency room to be checked out.

The short version of the story is that she has pneumonia and needs some oxygen to keep her blood oxygen levels up. The longer version of the story would involve details about the three different hospitals she's been in and the various specialists (consultants) who have been called in to see her. We're just glad she seems to be getting better and hope to get her back home in a couple of days.

It's a pretty stressful time for us, but I imagine we'll survive, once again.

holiday 2011

We decided to take the long trek down to Cornwall this year, to see the sea and hopefully get some sunshine. Thankfully, we had plenty of both and a marvelous time playing on the beach and seeing some of the sights. We even took a short boat ride, which both boys especially enjoyed.

But one picture is worth a thousand words, or so the saying goes. Click the link to see the photos!

Next up: Cornwall

That's right. If you're familiar with English geography, you'll know that Cornwall is a long way from Durham. We're hoping for a bit of sunshine, and planning to see the sea (whether or not the sun is shining on it).

If you're wondering how we're going to keep the children occupied in the car...

Yeah, me too. We'll keep you posted.

Anna comes home

It probably shouldn't be news, but it is. Iain wanted a bath; the water was still running. Lucy slept in the bouncy seat. Lewis had gone to collect Thomas from school. And I had that strange sense--intuition?--that it was too quiet.

As I neared the bottom of the staircase, I saw the door standing open. I took the last few stairs too fast (I'm still very stiff and sore from my failed sprint), without thinking about it. Ouch! I headed for the door as quickly as I could, and started calling Anna's name as soon as I crossed the threshold. I called down the back of the terrace and up toward the road. I hoped Lucy was still sleeping. I called out toward the woods, and hoped Iain was all right in the tub. And as I called down the colliery road, knowing I would have to give up in a minute and check on Iain and Lucy, I heard her voice.

She answered. She actually answered. Not only that, she came back, carrying the paper sword and shield she'd made on a field trip that day. It would have made a great photo, Anna hurrying toward me down the road, sword in hand, shield on her arm. But I hadn't stopped to get the camera (or even my phone) on the way out the door. I scolded her for going, but praised her more for coming back. It was a first, and her timing couldn't have been better.

The bathtub didn't even overflow.

Not the plan for Friday

There probably ought to be a photo. But if there were, I would probably rather have it destroyed. A photo of what, though? Of the fall? Of me being carried off the field? Of me being loaded into the ambulance? No. No photo required.

I was hoping to impress a guy, as usual. In this case, my 7-year-old. So I brought my old running shoes along for the mothers' race on sports day last Friday. I've been running since having Lucy, nothing spectacular, but up to 3x/week the previous week. I didn't think I would win; I've never been especially fast or competitive. I just hoped to make a good show of it.

Well, it certainly was a show. Not, however, the sort of show I was hoping for. Apparently the jogging I'd done since the baby was born was no preparation for a flat-out sprint. My hips decided they weren't up to it, and over I went. Not a trip-and-fall, catch-yourself-on-your-hands sort of thing. No, I crumpled, hit shoulder-first, and couldn't get up again. No permanent damage, no broken bones (but no x-ray, either). I will be fine, just taking lots of painkillers and wincing for a week or two.

And Thomas wasn't even that impressed.

adventures with Iain

Although a baby sister wasn't on Iain's list of desirables, he's finding that it has some surprise benefits. Chief among these (though Iain doesn't ascribe it to Lucy) is his weekly day off from school. Since he's had a lot more time in 'school' than the others, it seemed only fair to give him a little break before he starts properly in September.

So every Friday Iain stays with me (and Lucy), and we take walks and sometimes run errands. Last Friday was a particular thrill, as we went to meet a friend in Newcastle--and took the train. A train ride or a bus ride makes for a great day. If there's an advantage to not having a second car, it's in the adventures in transportation it affords. Today, after Mass at St Godric's school, Iain and I found ourselves needing to make our way home. We caught a new-to-us bus and wheeled Lucy aboard, and headed into Durham. Iain's favorite bakery is near the bus station, so that was our first stop. Then I remembered there was a park not too far away, one I pass by on the walk to (or from) Durham. We went off in search of it, but failed to find it. Never mind: Iain's found a street to explore, so off we went, soon finding ourselves in St Margaret's church yard.

It wasn't really where we wanted to be, but Iain didn't mind. We were on to the next thing: finding somewhere to feed and change Lucy. We parked the stroller (or buggy or whatever you want to call it, depending on your country and region of origin...) by a bench and he ran up and down while I took care of Lucy's needs. Then some shopping, back to the bus station and on the bus home.

And we were grateful the rain held off.

strange creatures

In the summer of 2009, I asked directions of a woman walking along the Bearpark Road. Of course, then I didn't know it was the Bearpark road. I also didn't know that two of the three possible paths I faced (in which I should have gone the way that looked like it was only meant for tractors) would have taken me towards home. Yes, I had a two-out-of-three chance of getting it right, and managed to go the wrong way. (Fortunately I did lots better on multiple-choice exams at school, or I wouldn't have done so well on the SAT and GRE.)

These days, I run regularly along those paths, and I know where they lead. I know that the way through the farm leads to Baxter's Wood, and brings me back to the Bearpark Road. The path that says 'Bishop Auckland' takes me to the picnic ground, where Thomas likes to kick his football. And the way through the field, up over the hill, which looks like it just leads out into the farmland, takes me straight back to the house in Broompark, where we lived in the summer of 2009. 

Now it is I who present the puzzle, apparently--and not just to the horses. It seems that the jogging stroller is a completely unknown item in British baby gear. The first person I encountered along the railway path just looked suspicious and a little amused. (Read: she looked like she was thinking, 'what on earth does that woman think she's up to?') The second person said with surprise, 'I thought you were pushing a wheelchair when I saw you in the distance'. (Ok, I admit that I thought, 'what? haven't you ever seen one of these before?' Obviously that was the case, I just hadn't realized it yet.) The third person to comment said, 'you're very keen, aren't you?' (I didn't even understand this question until he repeated it the second time. I had flashbacks to my first days living in North Carolina: are these folks speaking the same language I learned growing up in California? No offense to my southern friends: it's beautiful. I just couldn't understand it to begin with.)

Finally, I asked a group of young women whether they knew about the phenomenon of the jogging stroller. This time I was the one who had to repeat myself. (First of all, it's not a stroller, it's a pushchair...) Never heard of it. I can't imagine what women who are 'very keen' on running do when they have babies--wait until they can leave the baby and then go? I like running on my own, but sometimes I have to run and there's nobody who can watch the baby. 

So I continue to puzzle the natives. Even the horses, apparently. 

Anna's baby Lucy

Anna swaddles her baby doll and prepares to put her down to sleep.

If you wondered who was the most thrilled about the birth of baby Lucy, it wouldn't take long to work out: that would be Anna. Anna went to camp a few weeks ago (which is another story, and not one we can tell yet: Anna said she enjoyed canoeing, the climbing wall and the zipwire, but hasn't offered any sort of narrative!); when she returned, she greeted Lewis and Iain at the door, exclaiming, 'I miss you!' (Yes, we're still working on the past tense. Never mind, you get the point.) But she didn't stop there. Immediately she went through to the living room to find--you guessed it!--baby Lucy. 'Hello Lucy!' she smiled with complete delight. 

Did she even acknowledge me? Of course not. 

baby Lucy

Lucy arrived about 7.30am on 2 May, her due date. More to follow when I can use both hands to type...

local adventures

home safe and sound

 Fortunately, Anna's most recent local adventure has a happy ending. Every once in a while, she decides to go for a walk...but neglects to take a grown-up along. Friday was one of those days. Thomas was drawing, Iain was looking at a book, and I was about to sit back down at the dining room table, where Anna and I had been coloring a few minutes earlier. But it was oddly quiet, and I sensed mischief, so I headed upstairs to look for her. Immediately upon reaching the top of the stairs, I thought, no--she's gone out the door.

And so she had. If she had shut it, I would have heard her go; since she didn't, I was certain she'd gone. I called to the boys, and we had our shoes and jackets on in seconds and were out the door. Unfortunately, because Anna had been asking to go for a walk to the ruin (what remains of a late-medieval retreat house, about 20 minutes' walk away), I guessed she must have gone in that direction. So we headed that way, and I asked Lewis, who was by then on his way home to join the search, to drive into the village just in case she'd gone that way.

We walked to the ruin. We looked in the woods. We asked everyone we passed if they'd seen Anna. We met up with Lewis, who had looked in the village. We had a couple of graduate students round, one of whom scoured the area around the terrace. We asked some neighbors, as we walked up the back of the terrace, on our way home empty-handed, whether they'd seen Anna. They hadn't, but took up the search in the woods immediately behind the terrace.

Still no sign of Anna; Lewis started going door-to-door in the village, and soon found her, wrapped up in someone's coat, eating chocolate--and looking a bit shocked. If I had guessed right, we probably would have caught up with her immediately, as she didn't get far.

Thomas and Iain dressing up at Housesteads

So you can bet that the next day, when the boys went to Hadrian's Wall, I made certain that Anna was under a watchful eye. And today we ALL took a walk to the ruin.

nighttime prayers

Anna never ceases to amaze me. We've been saying prayers together in the boys' room for a couple of weeks now, and she's a full participant: she remembers classmates, present and former, teachers, friends, our parish priest, and most of the regulars at Faith & Light. Anna reminds me of people we've not seen in ages, and I sometimes wonder whether she knows something I don't. Last night, though, she asked at the end of prayers (when we usually have the Salve Regina--apologies to all the liturgically correct: someone needs to teach me the Ave Regina Caelorum before next Lent) for Michael.

Michael? I wondered. Which Michael? Then it dawned on me: St Michael, as in St Michael the Archangel. Back in Atlanta, we concluded every Mass with the prayer to St Michael. I don't remember whose idea it was to incorporate it into our bedtime prayers, but we used to have it each evening. I think eventually it was squeezed out by the Salve Regina (which Thomas decided he really wanted, especially after experiencing compline at Minster Abbey). I asked Anna, "Do you mean St Michael?' She said 'yesssss' in the way that she does when you've worked out what it is she's trying to say.

Again, I wondered. Does she know something I don't? I will probably never quite understand the way her imagination works. She remembers so much, and reminds us of things at the most surprising moments. It's unpredictable: unlike Thomas, she's not likely to remember the big events that we keep in prayer; unlike Iain, she's unlikely to have something specific in mind. But then there are these moments, when she reveals something to us, reminds us of something or someone we've forgotten or nearly forgotten, and we know that she's been paying attention all along, storing things up in her heart. She may not be meditating on them, exactly, but she certainly keeps them.

I often wonder how that extra chromosome affects Anna so variably. In some areas, the delays in development are pronounced; in others, she grows by leaps and bounds (though also in fits and starts!), making her way forward in her own unique pattern. In her heart, though, she carries so much more than I do: she may be delayed in speech, she may be behind in arithmetic, but she's way ahead in love.

march miscellany

We've had very little of the 'madness' of the NCAA tournament this year, and yet Thomas managed to throw himself into the University of Washington v UNC game as if he had bet his life on UW. I think the sports gene (like the math gene) must skip a generation. Thomas watched with interest, listened to the explanations given, and by the end of the game was able to suggest fairly sophisticated strategies. I know the sports gene skips a generation, because I can't even remember the specifics, just that I was amazed at how quickly he picked it up. Later that evening, as I was saying goodnight to a very sleepy Thomas, I commented that I was impressed at how quickly he'd learned, and that I was proud of him. As if to console me, he replied that he didn't really understand the offside rule in soccer, either.

inspiration?

Iain has decided he doesn't mind saying prayers. He's practically taken over saying grace at suppertime; he learned Thomas' school grace, and surprised us all one day by rattling it off. We thought he wasn't paying attention.

So prayers at bedtime involve more participation. Thomas tends to remember the big events: he's the first to pray for the people in areas of the world affected by earthquakes, floods, famine or drought, or political unrest. Iain is just the opposite, perhaps because he is only 4 and doesn't have current events brought to he attention at school. He asks God to bless his teachers and friends at school. 'Especially God bless my friend Alex', he said tonight, 'so that he doesn't get ill again'. He continued on, naming friends (including 'all the babies'), pausing occasionally in an effort to remember. 'God bless Poppy...God bless Samuel...God bless Sebastian....' and on he went, until he said 'God bless Rachel...'

He stopped suddenly and looked at me. 'Who's Rachel?' he asked.

I laughed. I have no idea how 'Rachel' got into his head. 'Is Rachel one of your students, mummy?' he asked. Fortunately, I do have a student named Rachel: problem solved.

Ash Wednesday

Today, when I picked Iain up from school, he immediately noticed the ashes on my forehead. 'Where did that come from?' he wanted to know. Church, I said. 'Did you do that yourself?' he asked. No, Fr Tony did that, I explained. He wanted me to wash it off. Immediately. I said, a bit too flippantly, that the Archbishop wouldn't like it if I did that, whereupon Iain started to cry. That'll teach me to quote the Catholic Herald to my 4-year-old. So I had to promise to try to get the ashes off once we got home.

Iain and I walked to the bus station, and rode the bus home. (Iain absolutely loves to ride the bus!) About halfway home, a group of teenagers boarded the bus and headed straight for the back, where Iain had insisted on sitting. One of them, a boy, stared at my forehead. He tried, without success, to get his schoolmates to join him in staring at my forehead.

I think there was a time that might have bothered me. But that feels like a very long time ago now.

High culture

Lewis hates opera. Well, too be fair, he doesn't hate it all: he says he likes Verdi, and he likes Wagner. Still, he usually turns off BBC3 during the metropolitan opera broadcast on Saturday evenings. Apparently, Anna takes after her daddy. 'Scary bit!' she insists, whenever she hears opera on the radio. It's not scary, I tell her.

So a week or so ago, I was with the children in the dining room, and the opera was on. Anna was complaining, as usual. Not only was it scary; she insisted that she couldn't like it. (That's Anna: it's not that she doesn't like something, it's that she can't like it.)

'Of course you like it,' Iain interjected. 'It's lovely.'

That's my boy.

a domestic miscellany

Iain wins the prize for creativity and obedience this week. Well, that's true most weeks, but never mind. We hold out hope that his siblings will copy his cheerful attitude and at least appreciate the fantastic tales he spins. His two most precious moments of the last week or so:
(1) several days ago, I gave a very specific instruction to the children before I went upstairs to gather my things in preparation for the morning school/work run. Don't tip out the legos; we need to leave in a few minutes. (I admit that may seem somewhat arbitrary to those who don't mind coming home to a living room floor covered in brightly colored plastic rectangles and squares. I am not one of those people.) Within seconds of clearing the top step, I heard the familiar sound of the lego bin being turned over. At exactly the same moment, I heard a lovely little voice saying insistently, 'but mummy said no!' I can't remember whether Iain prevailed over his brother, actually; I was just so pleased that he had heeded the instruction I didn't care whether the legos were all over the floor. Some things are more important than a tidy living room.
(2) Yesterday, Iain had to have two immunization injections. He wasn't pleased when I explained to him where we were going and why, and there were some tears on the way to the doctor's office. When we arrived, we read his new favorite book, which I had just received from amazon that morning. (This was my first read-through: Captain Pike looks after the baby was a nursery book, not one we had at home. I recommend it.) Our turn came, and we found the right door (eventually), and a very kind nurse met us. She was much gentler than the last nurse we'd seen, and I was glad. I was as traumatized as Iain after the last round of immunizations--and that only invoved one needle! He sat still, though, in spite of his tears. Afterward, he observed the tiny dot of blood that showed through the little band-aid the nurse had applied. What's that? he asked, then answered his own question: it looks like blood. I nodded. Well, that's very interesting, he said. Trauma over. By the time we got home, the jabs were a part of a new story he made up about some pirates and a sea monster (who, incidentally, bit one of the pirates in the leg).

The prize for most thoughtful action of the past five days goes to Thomas. Last Friday evening, he amused himself by testing me on his spelling words. Since I didn't miss any, he got some help from Daddy and from our friend, Mim, in creating a spelling test certain to stump me. I managed vicariate and catacrestically, but was eventually tripped up by 'gymkhana'. To be fair, I had no idea what it was, and my strategy for spelling it came from having grown up with words derived from Spanish and various Native American languages. The next morning, Thomas presented me with a piece of paper, on which was written the word 'gymkhana'. Just so you don't forget how to spell it, he explained.

I shall endeavor to work it into my next bit of academic writing.

Champions

It was a rite of passage for both of us...

Although Thomas refused to go to gymnastics club this term, on the grounds that he was one of only two boys in it, he insisted on participating in the competition at the local leisure centre. This particular venue is a kind of gymnastics central for Durham, and the gym is fully equipped with big, springy floors and all the requisite equipment. Because the kids competing had done all their practicing in school halls, the events were limited to floor and vault. A good thing--I can't imagine Thomas coping well with a balance beam, and I wouldn't be able to watch him on the parallel bars.

Not only did Thomas insist on taking part in the competition, he wanted an audience. Fair enough, I suppose, though it wasn't high on my list of desirable events for the afternoon. I would probably have said I was too tired--but that turns out not to be a problem. Watching tumbling by 6- to 11-year-olds who haven't had much training or practice isn't particularly taxing, nor does it require any intellectual effort. (The main thing required, in fact, is the ability to refrain from saying things like, 'point your toes' and 'stick your landing'. I may not be able to explain the off side rule in football or tell you the score of the last Newcastle vs Sunderland match, but gymnastics was my thing when I was Thomas' age.)

Despite my initial ambivalence, I was glad I stayed. St Godric's school won the competition (in all three age groups) and Thomas was delighted with their victory. Everyone had a chance to hold the trophy, and Thomas made certain he took his turn. Sure, I had to sit through lots of awkward tumbling, and Thomas's share of the spotlight might have been 5 minutes out of 90. But it was worth it to share the joy with him, and that's why we do these things, isn't it?

History lesson

Yesterday morning, Thomas asked, 'Who started the wars?'--as if there was one culprit responsible for all of them. 'Which war?' I asked. He was able to narrow it down: World War I and World War II, he wanted to know. As to the first, I said, it's fairly complicated. (I did remember something about Archduke Ferdinand being shot, but any connection I might be able to make between that event and WWI would be a bit dodgy, to say the least.) Let's ask Daddy when he gets home. (I enjoy these history lessons as much as Thomas; Lewis always tells a very good story. Before Thomas, I asked the questions, and I like the stories twice as much now that he's old enough to appreciate them as well.)

So, after supper, I reminded Thomas of his question. 'For that', came the response, 'we need a map'. Lewis proceeded to tell the story, weaving in the bits I knew and filling in all the details linking Gabriel Prinzip to the war that engulfed Europe. Truth be told, I was more interested in the boys' response than the story: I know I can get a refresher course in WWI history on any given evening. (Fortunately Lewis is incredibly patient, and doesn't mind telling the same story over and over...which is good, because otherwise he would refuse ever again to tell me about the rise of Islam.)

About WWII, I was able to help. Thomas, in fact, knows the answer to that one, and will tell you: Hitler. Yesterday morning, though, he continued. 'So,' he mused, 'it was the Germans'. 'Well, I said, not all the Germans supported the war. There was this famous German named Dietrich Bonhoeffer...' I began. Thomas wandered out of the room carrying his lego-built gun, completely uninterested: obviously this part of the story wasn't going to involve any shooting.

Thomas shows his true colors

We were on the way to see friends in Lanchester (the photo isn't from the same day, but you get the idea--that's Thomas's pal, Lili), and the usual chatter floated up from the back seat. Everyone seems to have something to say these days. Iain's mind is full of the Great Agon, good vs evil, on a cosmic scale. He is constantly battling  an evil emperor of some sort or another. Anna talks about friends from school, or scenes from her favorite films.

On this occasion, however, Thomas had the floor, as it were. With Thomas, one never knows whether it will be battles or football that will capture his imagination. But usually, it's pretty easy to guess where his tales are headed.

Not this time. 'When I'm a little older', he began, 'I will write some books'. He went on to explain that, when he had written them, he would take them outside ('on a sunny day, so they won't get wet'); he would write the titles on them, and the prices. And when he had sold them, and collected the money, then what?

'I will keep some of the money for myself', he explained. 'And I'll give the rest to people who don't have any.'

I'm still smiling.

Extraordinary time

I did pack up all the Christmas decorations dutifully by 6 January. Really. But somehow the boxes have not been returned to storage. So this morning Anna retrieved the box with the creches, and carefully arranged the scene, focusing the attention of all the figures on (in her words) 'the baby Jesus'.

Sometimes we wonder what Anna picks up from all that goes on around her. I suspect she doesn't miss much, though. And maybe she is wiser than I am: just because it's time to take down the tree doesn't mean we should shift our attention from the reason we celebrate Christmas.

a milestone of sorts

I suppose every child does it at one time or another, and Iain chose today: he cut his own hair. When I said that we would take him to get his hair cut this weekend, he protested: 'I already did it myself!' True, but when it isn't so carefully combed (and in such a blurry picture), he looks remarkably like a 4-year-old with a receding hairline.

And I expect I'll be finding bits of his hair for several days to come.

Self-sufficiency 101

From the study, I heard a strange noise. Anna had disappeared down the stairs several minutes earlier, and it was just about time to check on her. The noise, while not alarming, was puzzling enough to warrant immediate investigation.

Anna was coming up the stairs as I started down. The strange noise I had heard was the sound of her clothes against the wall as she came up, hands full. What she carried was remarkable: half a bagel, spread fairly neatly with peanut butter, and a cup of milk about 3/4 full. She had decided that she needed more breakfast, I suppose, and without a word had found what she needed.

Now the rule is that we don't take food (certainly not peanut butter or cups of milk) upstairs. So, after expressing my amazement at her initiative, I suggested that we take the bagel and milk down to the table. You did this all by yourself, didn't you? I said. She beamed down the stairs at me, as I carried her plate and cup towards the dining room. 'Yes.'

Not a drop of spilled milk, not a stray smear of peanut butter anywhere. Anna sat with me at the table, carefully using her napkin and smiling broadly. She didn't eat that much of the bagel, but I didn't mind. Who would have thought that some peanut butter could bring so much joy to us both?

A different sort of Saturday

All three of the children enjoyed our Saturday outing today: we attended the baptism of our good friends' baby. I admit to being a little apprehensive, knowing that the Orthodox liturgy would take some time. Fortunately, there were lots of children present, and all the grown-ups were pretty laid-back. This was especially helpful as I finally had to take Iain to the font and show him the water while the baby was being dressed again after the immersion. He was desperate to see it.

Iain was especially full of questions, once things got going. What's that? The font. What's in it? Water. What's it for? To baptize the baby. Are they going to take his clothes off? Yes ...and so on. The chanted liturgy was brilliant, and kept the children's attention. They were fidgety, of course, after a while, but nowhere near as unruly as I had feared. Iain's questions kept up in a steady stream, as the baby was undressed. (All the while, I was grateful for Fr Andrew's introduction to the liturgy, so I knew what was happening and what would happen next.)

Before the baby was immersed in the water, he was anointed with oil. Not just a cross marked on the chest, mind. The two priests and the baby's godparents anointed him with oil as an ancient wrestler (Fr Andrew's image, not mine): his whole body was covered with oil! Baby did not like this. Up until that point, he had been remarkably calm, given that he was handed over to his godparents at the beginning of the liturgy, and his mum stood a little ways off. (Anna was considerably upset by the amount of crying that ensued in this particular stage, sensitive soul that she is.)

Iain watched this activity with a very keen interest. What are they doing? Anointing the baby with oil, before he goes in the water. Are they killing him? Fair question, I thought, given how much he's crying. Of course I thought for a brief moment about the theological complexity of my four-year-old's question, but said simply: No. Baby was immersed three times in the water, protesting all the while. Afterward, he was anointed again, this time with a very small brush (to make the sign of the cross with oil on his ears, eyes, etc.). Iain asked, Why are they painting the baby? It's part of the anointing.

He doesn't like being painted, Iain observed gravely. I nearly laughed out loud. No, I said, he doesn't.