Mr Personality

When Iain was about three months old, our pediatrician in Atlanta commented on his attention-getting ability. Even in an infant car seat, Iain captivated an audience. 'Mr Personality', the doctor said. 'But then, if you're number three, you have to be, or you get parked in a corner'.

Tonight we sat after dinner, Iain on Lewis's lap, friends on either side, and listened to Iain talk. He had pretended to be a knight most of the day, protecting 'Queen Mummy' from the monsters, and inviting me to see the 'pond' in his room. (A round rug, actually, but that's Iain's imagination for you.) He kept us fairly well entertained, and clearly enjoyed having the floor.

And no, that picture wasn't taken today. We still have plenty of snow. But that's Iain, just being Iain.

more snow!

Although I took this photo on Monday morning, it doesn't look much different now. I wish I had been able to record the sheep, all of whom seemed to be bleating insistently. Whether they were advising me to go back inside or pleading with me to make it stop, I've no idea.

The kids think it's great that they haven't been at school all week. Interestingly, as the time has worn on, they've proven themselves more and more self-entertaining and able to play well together. (As soon as I say this, though, a fight will break out and they'll all start complaining that they're bored.) Thomas and Iain were acting out a story they made up (well, Thomas did most of the making-up) while Anna chose a dress from the dress-up clothes.

All the same, I will be glad when schools are open again. I have a vague memory of having been a lecturer in theology and ethics, and there's a book I am supposed to be finishing this month...

official snow days

Schools were closed yesterday and today, and we've played in the snow (see the photos here), baked, painted, and made play-doh. I honestly don't know how my home-schooling friends do it. A day at work is so much less tiring, and in many ways less challenging, than a day devoted exclusively to keeping the children occupied. Juggling my teaching and writing and parenting and housekeeping often involves dropping balls and being frustrated that none of it seems quite up to par. But somehow scrambling after the balls has become a way of life, and I don't think I would be much better at my job if I didn't have children (I might write more, but I am not certain it would be better), and I wouldn't be better as a parent if I didn't teach and write (though the house might well be tidier).

But enough about me. The kids are the interesting bit here, and Iain says something every day that is worth repeating, or so it seems to me. Today we were discussing pizza (as you do), and thinking about making our own. The dough-making would be great (Iain loves cooking), and we could decide what to put on the pizza: he doesn't like cheese on pizza. Go figure. So I was listing all the different sorts of things we might put on the pizza besides cheese. After I had mentioned a dozen or so, Iain chimed in.

'Chocolate pizza!' he exclaimed with delight.

I laughed, and somehow all the work the day involved suddenly seemed worth it.

surprised by Thomas

Iain was particularly wriggly in Mass this morning. As he came with the others from children's liturgy, he stopped, turned and climbed the steps to give Fr Tony a hug. It's hard to be cross with Iain when he does things like that. It may not be appropriate, but it is an expression of his loving heart rather than his mischievous spirit (though there is probably a bit of that at work as well). When he came back to join us I commented, in a whisper, on his devotion to our parish priest. He said, not loudly, but loud enough for about half the church to hear, 'I love Fr Tony'. How can I complain? That's Iain.

Then he proceeded to wriggle and squirm through the Liturgy of the Eucharist, so persistently that Lewis took him out after communion. Thomas wasn't doing much better, and by the final hymn I had taken him aside, insisting that he stand still with me until it was time to leave. So he was standing close to me when the choir started the singing. Immediately, Thomas said, 'we sing this one at school'. And he proved it: he read the words and sang along, and knew the refrain by heart.

I'll never hear 'maranatha' in quite the same way again.

retreat from Stalingrad

We didn't have an official day off for Thanksgiving here in County Durham, but ended up having a snow day! After last winter, we thought the kids would be disappointed, since that sort of snowfall is so unusual in England. Snow hasn't fallen this early in winter or 17 years (or so Lewis tells me): the children don't care much for statistics, but they really enjoyed the snow.

Lewis gave our family walk the nickname 'retreat from Stalingrad'. I assure you, however, that we were dressed appropriately for the weather. If you don't believe me (or you want to see Lewis instructing Iain on the art of making and throwing snowballs), check out the photos.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Iain finds a monster

Iain was looking for sheepie. 'He's upstairs', I said, 'in the study'. Off he went, up the stairs to retrieve sheepie. A couple of minutes later, he came back down, and called out to me: 'I have something to tell you, mummy. You were right. Sheepie was in the study.' Wow. I hear those three little words so infrequently.

Then Iain went on to explain that sheepie was alone in the study, in the dark, and was a little frightened. Apparently there was also a monster in the study. A rather large monster, by the sound of it, in fact. Surprisingly, the monster said, 'Hello, Iain'. I suppose Iain met a monster just as friendly as he is. 'And guess what I did?' he asked. Now, Thomas would have killed the monster. Shoot first (or run through with a sword or light saber), ask questions later--and he never would have dreamt that the monster would offer a civilized greeting. But not Iain. I said, 'You said, "hello, monster"'. He nodded.

Turns out it was a chocolate monster.

no big deal

Several weeks ago, we had some news. Big news. And anytime there's big news to be shared with the children, I agonize over how best to break it to them--good or bad. When we were thinking about moving to England, we spent months talking it up. We involved them in the process, though only Thomas was really able to grasp the idea of moving to England. I even think hard about how and when to tell them we're having visitors.

So when the news was a little brother or sister, I was practically paralyzed. How should we tell them? What might they ask? How on earth would I answer those questions? In the end, we decided that it would be best to wait until we had an ultrasound picture. Something to look at, we reasoned, would help make the idea more real. (It certainly did for me: I was in such a state of disbelief over the news that I was actually a little surprised to see the unmistakable movement of a tiny heart beating.)

Picture in hand, I sat everyone down at the table. We showed them the picture of Iain at 5 months gestation, and explained what it was. Then--the moment of truth--we showed them the picture of baby-to-be. 'Who do you think this is?' we asked.

'Iain?' Thomas guessed. Anna and Iain weren't much interested in either of the fuzzy black and white photos. The one of Iain was slightly more interesting, because it was more clearly a baby. After we got the point across that the new picture was of their baby sister or brother (once again, Anna hopes for a sister...), we expected a reaction. Iain exclaimed, 'A baby sister!' with amazing certainty, then changed the subject. Anna continued chewing her bagel, thoughtfully.

Thomas looked a little disappointed. I think he thought we were going to tell him that we were taking him to a Chelsea match at the weekend.