No, it's not actually a photo of Anna and me in our bathroom here--that's Atlanta, a few months ago. It represents something Anna really enjoys doing, though: helping me with the everyday personal care. I suppose in part, she enjoys brushing my teeth (really! I know it sounds odd), for example, because she always has help brushing hers. Maybe it gives her a sense of empowerment, or of capability.

Whatever it is, she had a lot of it this evening. She was especially resistant to hair-washing and teeth-brushing, and the boys were occupied downstairs, so after we had done her teeth, I asked her if she would like to help with mine. Delighted, she took the toothbrush in hand (an electric one) and gave my (front) teeth a good clean. She even sang bits of the little toothbrushing song I made up for them a couple of yeas ago. (Sung to the tune of 'Good King Wenceslas'--don't ask.) Then, since I had put her through the terrible ordeal of having her hair combed, I offered her mine. At first, I said, 'just comb the ends of the ponytail'. She immediately started at the crown, forcing me to take the ponytail out. Oh, well. So much for the boundaries. I knew that my hair would end up looking like I had stuck my finger in a light socket, but then I was only going to bed anyway.

Surprisingly gently, she combed a couple of sections of hair. After she had done a bit, I asked her how it looked.

'Nice,' she said. 'And tangly.'

little explorer

It is a sad fact that my children had to move to the UK to become fans of Dora the Explorer and her cousin Diego. Instead of learning their Spanish phrases in Atlanta, where they might have found opportunity to use them, they are picking up bits of (Latino, not Castilian) Spanish here, where the language they are likely to need next is French. For a real summer, I have come to understand, Britons go to the south of France. Next summer, we will too--if only because Lewis has a conference at which he has to give a paper. Time to figure out how to say all those things I now only read and spell. (The language exam given to PhD students doesn't have an oral component, though perhaps it should.)

The little explorer wielding 'binoculars' in the photo is not Dora, of course, but Iain. I never realized that the most useful skills I would acquire in my teens and twenties would come not from a university, but in the course of endless vacation Bible school experiences. Lewis throws away the cardboard tubes inside toilet paper rolls--or at least he used to, before we moved to County Durham, where we recycle that sort of thing. I hide them, so he won't, and so I can use them for a rainy day activity like making binoculars. I did not have especially high expectations, I admit. And I must confess that Anna was totally uninterested in the project. Thomas and Iain both colored the cardboard tubes and waited patiently for me to tape them together. (When she saw the finished product, Anna decided she wanted some too, of course.)

Iain then totally blew me away. He took the 'binoculars' (which I wasn't sure he'd ever seen before, even) and immediately took them out to the garden. 'I see pears!' he exclaimed, as though the pears were not visible to the naked eye. And so around the garden he went, 'discovering' with much enthusiasm all the things he saw yesterday and which weren't especially interesting then. Go figure. (Eventually I will post the video to Facebook--videos don't work well on the blog. So stay tuned.)

Needless to say, I feel totally justified in hoarding those bits of cardboard.

(By the way, this one's for you, Craig.)

pond life

Anna, Thomas and Iain find it nearly impossible to stay away from the pond in the garden. Iain chiefly enjoys the sound the stones make when he drops them into the water from various heights. (A budding scientist, maybe?) Anna and Thomas are more likely to splash each other, or to water the plants with the pond water--whether they need it or not. No matter how often (or how loudly) we repeat the basic pond rules--no splashing, and absolutely no throwing stones into the pond--somehow all three children manage to forget.

So on Saturday, in a desperate attempt to make good out of the pond situation, I suggested to Thomas that we name the tadpoles. The pond is full of them, and I had just noticed an unusually large one, hovering near the surface. "I think we should call that one Oscar," I said, pointing to it. Thomas immediately joined in, offering names like Daisy (for a tiny one), Baby (a very small one), and Macgregor (one of several "medium" tadpoles we named). At one point, Lewis looked over my shoulder at the list. (Yes, I wrote down the tadpoles' names. Don't ask.) I explained that we were naming the tadpoles. His expression said quite clearly, "have you lost your mind?" I just shrugged--Thomas was enjoying himself, and we weren't splashing, bailing, or throwing stones.

Besides, now we have a pond full of pets that don't require special food or trips to the vet.