Ishy

Until yesterday, that's how Lucy referred to herself: 'Ishy.' It had been sounding more like Oo-shy lately, I admit. But last night there was no mistake: she said 'Lucy'!

 

 

She wouldn't stand still enough for me to take her picture, though :)

 

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Thomas wanted to be with his classmates for their first Holy Communion. So we went to the Mass, Thomas in his red tie and looking very smart. The head teacher welcomed him and included him in the photo. I think he was well pleased; it was definitely the highlight of the weekend for him.

 

As for me, well, I was there to support Thomas, and mostly spent my time in the back of church trying to occupy Lucy, who was far less interested in the goings-on. Later, at the party, I was fascinated by the sea of white shirts, dresses and veils. Thomas and Anna's class at church was small--just five children--so the group of nearly 30 from school looked enormous. I snapped the photo of these two girls waiting to receive their certificates as Thomas looked on with me. He applauded for them all, genuinely pleased for his friends.

 

And I was proud of him all over again.

 

Spring at last

Maybe even summer. We have had a few really nice days in the last month or so--warm, sunny days. It's pleasant to be outside, and the garden has enjoyed much more attention of late. Several weeks ago, it looked abandoned. Now it looks, well, lived-in. Not beautiful, but at least it looks like somebody has made an effort. The children have helped, even. (Though the would-be helper was behind the camera--or, in this case, my iPad--in the photo below.)

 

Probably we were all encouraged by the handful of plants I brought back from the Chelsea Flower Show at the end of May. A generous invitation provided a great opportunity, and I went down to London for the day. Little did I think I would bring back marigolds, daisies (just visible in the photo above), and a couple of things yet to be identified.

 

It is perhaps especially nice to be outside in the sunshine after a virus knocked me and the boys flat a couple of weeks ago. Fevers, chills, general malaise--maybe a stray flu? Whatever it was, we were glad to see it go, and I was thankful that the girls and Lewis didn't catch it.

 

Iain helped quite a bit with the gardening, I am told, while I was out with Thomas on Saturday morning. The evidence, however, is that his activities in the garden also included photographing various aspects of the work as well as odd corners of the garden. So I have no photos of the marigolds or the unidentified plant. I have a number of blurry photos of buttercups, as they're plentiful at the moment. I have a portrait of the new mower, as well as a picture of the box in which it came. (Some assembly required, apparently.) I also have a series of photos of Lewis, walking across the garden. All in all, it's hardly a representative set, I think.

 

Then again, maybe I should just be grateful that I have some photos.

 

 

What does that say?

When I was a toddler--my mother liked to tell the story--one of the first things I said was, "What does that say?" So she taught me to read. She enjoyed telling the stories about me as a toddler, reading the word cards she made for me, understanding what she was teaching me about contractions. I get the impression that was one of the best stretches of my childhood for her.

 

So when I discovered I was pregnant with my first child (somehow I knew it would be a girl, from the moment of the positive test), I was looking forward to that same stretch. I was thrilled. Imagine my dismay (no, don't) who I found out that Anna might have Down Syndrome. All bets were off.

 

Over the past few years, teachers have been working hard to help Anna to learn to read. She loves books--one of her very first words, when she was using signs, was 'book'--so I thought she would probably learn to read eventually. For years she has memorized her favorite books. She has been able to recite 'How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight?' since about 2008, I think. But give her a new book and she would always narrate the pictures. Recently, she has started to sound out words--or at least pretend to sound out words. I'll never forget her sounding out a-l-l-i-g-a-t-o-r when the word actually said 'crocodile'. Asking her to look at the words, trying to correct her? Not much point. She wasn't too interested.

 

Last week, she came home from school with an award for good work in phonics. 'Phonics?' I wondered. This week she had a day off school with the usual cold-like thing. Lucy was at nursery, so we got out Anna's reading book, and I made up a phonics game for her. (Games are better, because the rules are part of the fun.) We had fun, and it seemed that she was actually sounding out the words this time. Amazing.

 

And then at dinner, she pointed to the front of Lucy's high chair tray, to the 'chicco' label, and asked me--clear as day--'What does that say?'

 

 

 

 

Thomas the patient

Usually Thomas excels at self-pity. Disappointment or failure, insult or injury--it's all so overwhelming. I understand. But today, when he came home from cricket after school and just wanted to lie down, there was none of that.

 

He came in to thank me for preparing supper. He said he was grateful to have food when so many go hungry. While I was giving the girls a bath, he rubbed my shoulders. 'I just want you to be happy,' he said.

 

Who is this feverish child??!?

 

 

 

the kitchen floor is dirty

This is not news. This is everyday life. It strikes me as painfully ironic that when you most need your kitchen floor to be clean enough to eat off of (there's no way to put that phrase that doesn't end in a preposition), there is no way you can get it that way, much less keep it that way. So the dirt sticks to the raisin that falls on the floor, and before you've realized that the 9-year-old has dropped raisins on the floor, the not-quite-2-year-old has eaten three of them.

That's life.

The children don't seem to mind. Lucy doesn't care if the bottoms of her socks (or feet) look like she's been walking around outside, and the boys would probably rather I not scrub the floor. I mean, when the floor is clean (for the whole 5 minutes it stays that way), they have to be obsessive about taking muddy shoes off at the door.

In fact, now that I think about it, the children would all probably prefer that I leave the house untidy and not bother too much about the floors. The main result of it, from their point of view, is that then I am far more likely to ask them to pick up toys when they've finished playing, and way more likely to recoil in horror if they walk into the house in muddy shoes. (And, as this is England in spring, muddy shoes are pretty much the order of the day...) Dusting would be ok, and cleaning the bathrooms doesn't disrupt them too much.

Then again, maybe I should just go for a walk.

Baked beans go with everything

I admit that this isn't news. Not a 'current event' of the sort that bored me as a teenager. Truth may be stranger than fiction, but I always found fiction more compelling at that age. I suppose that what I am about to post is the former: truth, stranger than fiction. Or at least I find it so, since I am from Southern California, where baked beans go with hot dogs and hamburgers, next to the coleslaw.

Here, in England, beans go with a lot more things. Toast, for example. Baked beans on toast is one of my kids' favorite things, especially with soft boiled eggs. If you're British, you probably don't find that odd. (Then again, you might--my British husband doesn't like eggs, so he's not a reliable source.) I don't mind. It makes the kids easy to please when their dad is away. They think it's a treat.

And then there are those intercultural moments in our house, when baked beans find their way onto plates with really odd pairings. Today, it's enchiladas. One of Iain's very favorite meals is enchiladas with baked beans. It still disturbs me slightly. I stick with refried beans, which are the fitting accompaniment to enchiladas.

Green enchiladas aren't something you find much in Durham. Maybe not at all. The Central American proprietor of Salsa y Sabor (next to the bus station) does the green salsa. I was going to post the recipe (and probably will eventually), but now it's time to eat.