Wise children

We snuggled up together in the super-king size bed - me, little P and the two fattie catties. The house feels extraordinarily empty.

I flicked through my news feed at 7 o'clock this morning, barely awake and taking in the happenings of the night. P, interested in all things screen, watched and asked questions as I scrolled.

"Why are they singing? Why are there rainbow tears coming from that lady's eye? Where's Orlando?"

I explained the horrors, I hope in child-friendly terms, of the shooting in a gay nightclub. She sat up, looking pretty scared.

"So, the men were at a disco dancing and somebody shot them? Why?"

And before I could answer, she shouted:

"THEY SHOULD BAN GUNS!"

"Is there tourism in Paris?" she asked in earnest.

We talked about the romantic city, and the Eiffel Tower, the Mona Lisa and the River Seine.

"With guns?" She insisted.

"Ohhhh, terrorism, not tourism!"

So we had a little chat about the awful shootings in Paris recently and how we mustn't hate people different to us who maybe have different views. I explained that if someone was mean to her in school, she must try very hard not to be mean back. Just love and kindness. Love and kindness.

"There should be no wars then!" she exclaimed and up she got to clean her teeth before another day.

The Fly

"Why couldn't you have just opened the window?" she wailed, hot tears of real sadness and empathy rolling down her face.

Because flies are dirty darling, and it would have died outside anyway as it's freezing out there.

"Ohhhhh, why did he have to die Mummy, why couldn't we have caught the fly and made him a little house?" she sobbed, her chest convulsing, struggling to catch her breath.

P was distraught. He had got the fly exterminator, a tennis racket-shaped fly zapper and electrocuted the rogue fly which was looking pretty ill and lazy stuck to the kids bedroom wall.

I don't think he would want to live in a jam jar, I explained.

"We could have made him little windows and a door!" she reasoned, dramatically sobbing over the fly's demise all over again.

I soothed her and explained that flies don't have the same feelings as us. How did I know that? Good question.

"Being dead is horrible Mummy, it must have hurt the fly and now he's dead...." cue more streams of tears.

She had a point, I don't know what flies feel and I have no idea if being dead is OK or pretty boring. I did learn that we have to be more careful around sensitive, little P - and just let flies out of the window.

My favourite place

"What's your third favourite colour?" P asks while wandering along a farm track.

"Which is your second favourite animal...and you're not allowed to say horses, cats or dogs...?" she might ask. Or my personal favourite;

"What's your favourite light bulb, Mummy?" P queried in all earnest.

It's a game that can last for a long while, especially on walks or tedious car journeys which involve the M25.

"Where is your favourite place?" is a game we have played often, even partying around a pool in Ibiza with over 18's.

My favourite places are the ones which produce calm, awe and near-tears. In no particular order:

Exmoor
Where moor meets the sea, wild weather and wonderful walking

East Africa

 The raw wilderness

Spain 

The islands, the cities, the culture, the language, the countryside

Where's your favourite place?

Fringe benefits

She had been asking for weeks. Can I get a fringe? She had been practising in the mirror, making a fringe out of her pony tail, staring at herself coquettishly, this way and that - deciding that a fringe would suit her very well indeed.

It changed her face entirely, her mannerisms and the view of herself. My baby girl is growing up.

Kent County Show

We'd been building up to this for quite a while, training Dexter to walk and trot nicely and to stand like a good boy while the judge judges. We had bathed him three times, brushed through his mane and tail, oiled his feet and trimmed his face. We had manically run around Kent and Sussex as well as trawling eBay to collect the outfit necessary to take him to the competition. A strange tradition of tweeds and Victorian looking collars, culottes and navy tights - all to show Dexter off as a pony capable of teaching a small child to ride.

We had never done anything quite like this before, let alone at county level. P was silent as we dressed her in her finery, her quietness betraying her nerves. Dexter dozed in the hot sun as we waited to enter the ring, the woollen scratchiness of the tweed irritated my head and the heat of the day made our outfits hot and heavy. Fourteen ponies, their riders and leaders all entered the ring hoping for a rosette.

I have no idea what the judge was looking for but I know that Dexter behaved himself impeccably, P rode beuatifully and we all had a brilliant time.

We were 11th out of the fourteen, nowhere near the top but the judge gave us a consolation rosette anyway.

"I came 'special' " P exclaimed excitedly - yes my lovely, you came 'special' and a very proud mama I am too.

Cooking Club

Everything is 'middle-ish' to P. She quite likes riding Dexter and Freddie. School is OK. Singing in her after-school choir is sometimes fun, sometimes boring - 'middle-ish' really, she will explain. Street Dance turned out to be dull after all and so was ballet. It's hard to have such an ambivalent child when life is pretty darn amazing. I needed to find P's passion, which didn't include chocolate or the iPad.

We have started a Cooking Club, P and I. We look up a recipe in the week and cook it together on a Tuesday when A is out dancing (and loving it). We mainly chat about the week, I listen to her, let her use sharp knives and stir hot pots, she kneads, she grates, she creams together the butter and sugar - and she loves it. She really loves cooking.

And I really love that she loves it.

Yesterdays Aubergine Chilli - gobbled by both kids

Cheese straws

Life story

On Friday after school, P's tooth was ridiculously wobbly, she had been playing with it all day no doubt and now it was hanging out her mouth comically. Pull it out I told her, go on, yank it. So she did, and when it still didn't come out she gave a it a double twist and a great big tug - out the tooth finally came, along with great spurts of dark red blood. I guess it wasn't quite ready. We giggled at P's bravery while A squirmed and squealed in the other room, not daring to look at either the tooth that had come out or the bloody gap.

I try not to put our children into pigeon-holes but if I had to describe them in three words it might go something like this:

A - the kind and sensitive, daydreamer
P - the wilful, competitive, brave one

Anyhow, the story goes that we were all cuddled up to watch the new David Attenborough series, Life Story, on iPlayer. If everything has been done, all the washing, feeding, cleaning and preparing for school the next day I like to sit and watch a programme with the girls. We choose something with animals in normally so this series was very fitting. And for those of you that have already seen it, you can imagine that my cosy snuggle-up session ended in chaos. In wailing. In screaming. It was a disaster.

The gorgeous fluffy Barnacle Geese chicks balanced precariously in their 400 foot high nest, only 2 days old and needing some food they had to get to the bottom where the vegetation grew. Being born so high up gave them a chance of survival, away from the nasty mean foxes down below, it was like a fairy-tale about to go very, very wrong. The Mother and Father goose flew off the cliff edge and encouraged their babies to jump out of their nest, unable to fly they squeaked and crashed violenlty into the cliff face, their little furry bodies tumbling and whacking against the hard rock as they journeyed to the bottom. Three out of the five made it at which point we had to turn it off.

P, the brave one, was heaving, shaking and screaming at the screen.

"Why doesnt the Daddy just go and get food for the chicks and bring it back to the nest.......sob sob sob....or, or, or they could've flown down on the Mummy's wings!"

She was utterly distraught, I felt a bit sad as well and hugged her little, upset body.

"It's only a chick, for goodness sake," said A the sensitive one, blowing all my pigeon-holing right out the window.

Pippin the pigeon

In the unnatural storms of this week, a little pigeon lost her way. She was found under our car sheltering from the rain which beat down relentlessly, threatening our imminent camping trip. We know she is young because the tag around her leg said so, the Internet helped us decipher that she was born this year and that she was all the way from Dalkeith in Scotland. She was very wet and bedraggled, A said she was must be feeling 'under the weather' which we all giggled at. We gave her some bird seed, and not bread, which she immediately pecked at - probably starving from her journey. We then gave her a little blanket, a pot of water and let her rest. She is still with us now, in the utility in the cat carrier. The fatty catties are unbothered by our new feathered friend, seemingly more concerned with catching the many zeds now that winter is nearly upon us.

We have called her Pippin. I keep checking to see if she is OK, we are waiting for her owners to get in touch to advise us what we should do next. She is now dry, perkier and hopefully with a full belly and a good few nights sleep she can begin her journey home again. Or if she decides to stay with us, she would be very welcome indeed.

Flumpy

There are three Flumpies. There is Flumpy Original, New Flumpy and Brown Flumpy. Flumpy Original was a gift to my first daughter A, when she was born. He is a blue elephant, with long gangly legs, a small soft body, an unfeasibly large trunk and two lovely white tusks. When A first held Flumpy, she put her thumb in her mouth, fiddled with his flicky tusks and slowly closed her eyes, Flumpy was her first best friend.

We had an emergency thought that most first time parents go through, what if we lost Flumpy, we need some replacements. The problem was that Flumpy came from Thailand. By fortune, the parents-in-law were visiting the country for a holiday soon enough so they had strict instructions to bring a replica home. Hence New Flumpy. Brown Flumpy arrived by post, an arduous journey no doubt, a well travelled elephant - he got delivered to the wrong address and went on the aeroplane all the way back to Thailand, only to be re-sent to our current address. Despite his colour he was welcomed with little chubby, open arms. So much so, his eye fell off and needed replacing with a rather bulbous one. Slowly all their tusks disintegrated, their bodies became soft and floppy with a lack of stuffing and their fluffy coats became worn and loved.

"Which Flumpy is coming to India?" I ask A, starting to think about packing and preparation.

"Well, it depends on who's turn it is to sleep with me on that day," explained A. "I take it in turns sleeping with them because it is only fair, they all want to be in my bed. And if I love one more than the other they will get sad and the one I love the most will get worn out."

I like your thinking A.

Confusion

We watched Life of Pi at the weekend, in preparation for India, and although I found it completely trashed the wonderful book, the opening scenes made me smile as they reminded me of P. Pi, short for Piscine, decided he enjoyed all the religions to be found in Pondicherry, South India. He loved the heroes of the Ramayana; the monkey god Hanuman, the elephant god Ganesha and the blue face of Krishna. He discovers a church and the priest shows him Jesus Christ, and in the mosque he enjoys Allah for company. Pi decides to be all three religions.

My daughter has decided not to be a Christian. But she doesn't mind Jesus because the stories are nice.

"Mummy! I'm not a Christian." she pronounces. I wince slightly, I don't know why, I'm not a Christian but it took me a number of years to reach that conclusion and to be sure of my decision, P is five.

"My teacher said that I am a Christian because we are all Christians in our school, and I told him I am not!"  I wince again. It's a Church of England school, there are no secular schools in these parts.

"That's OK P, if you don't want to be a Christian that is entirely fine with me but you must respect other peoples beliefs. Lots of people do believe in God and Jesus all over the world, they also believe in lots of other things as well."

"Fine. I'm not a Christian!" she reiterates and continues to play.

About 4 weeks later.

"Mummy, I told my teacher I am not a Christian, he doesn't believe me." she seemed distressed at being told she is something that she doesn't want to be.

Oh holy cow. Time to mention it to the school.

I very gently asked the teacher to respect P's beliefs and I told the teacher that she will not bring up her non-Christian-ness again. I told the teacher we are teaching P that we respect and love people from all cultures and religions and we mustn't impose our beliefs on others. The teacher said that it is a Church of England school. And I said that I understand that, but if we were a Sikh family we wouldn't be having this conversation.

As we respect and love everybody for who they are, I hope the school can find it in them to respect P's atheism - even if her non-Christian-ness only lasts three days.

Half term horsiness

"Where's the hoof pick A?" I heard P ask her sister. 

"I need to muck out Daisy's stable, you brush her tail first though!" I hear about half an hour later. They are having fun with Daisy the pony today, even though Daisy is made of fur and has two rockers instead of four legs. I believe the ponies may be getting under their skin a little.

Half term week has given us a reprieve in the weather. It is fair to say that we have got wet a number of times but have been lucky to see the sun as well. Yesterday afternoon was particularly brilliant, in its sunshine and the experience, for the girls had a go at a gymkhana at their local riding school. The games consisted of a ride and run, a potato race, a dressing up race and a balancing ball race. I was thrown back into my childhood remembering how I would drag my pony to the finishing line, grinning aimlessly just hoping for a shiny, ribboned rosette. And once the girls got the idea of racing for rosettes, the determination was intense.

"C'mooooooon P!" I shouted, "Run, run run!" I jumped up and down, giggling and slightly concerned at the same time, as they have only had three riding lessons.

A's face had pure grit written all over it. That rosette was going to be hers, and I have never seen her so proud of her achievements.

"Mummmmmmmyyyy? Do you think we could get a pony one day?" she asked in the car on the way home.

Friday niceness

"Mummy......" said A with the intonation going up long and gradually at the end.

"Yes A?" I answered putting the car into reverse, hazard lights on, heater and headlights on full blast ready for the school run.

"I wish that there was peace in the world, I mean all over the world and that there was no war. I wish there were no nasty people who do war. And I wish that it was warm everyday with just a little bit of rain so that the plants would grow."

"What a lovely wish A, you'll have to wish that next time you blow your candles out or break a wishbone with your little finger!" I replied, glowing with pride inside.

"And I also wish that people never got ill and they felt well all the time," she said specifically at P who was looking rather forlorn in her ladybird onesie about to have another sick-day off school.

"And if no one was ill there would be no nits. Yeahhhh! I wish there were no nits in the world Mummy!" she exclaimed and continued to look out of the car, day dreaming off into the distance, following the raindrops down the window with her fingers.

Look at my do!

When P was very little, even more little than she is today, she used to say some delightful things which I cleverly wrote down in her baby book - so I may look back in years to come and smile fondly. My favourite was when she was very proud of her efforts, maybe a splashy painting or climbing dangerously high on the climbing frame she would shout:

"Look at my do!" - which is exactly how I felt when someone took a video of me jumping Fletch.

Look at my do! That's me on that great big ginger horse, I can hardly believe it and wanted to show the world.

Sweaty paws

It was after the fifth night in a row that I decided to take her to the vet. Waking us up each night, the retching, the heaving and then the depositing of thick brown fluid on our bedroom carpet had finally culminated into shoving the cat in a box and driving to the local surgery. The children were excited to come and meet the vet and to soothe Cleo in her hour of need.

She wailed and called all the way. A clamped her hands on her ears panicking at the strange and unheard noise the cat was making. She was utterly terrified, A was too.

"Mummmmmmy, I don't like it!" cried A, starting to sob.

"It's OK, it's OK..." P soothed and started to make up a very sweet song about how the vet was going to make Cleo better and that she would soon stop puking up brown goo.

She was very well behaved in the waiting room, staring out of her catty box at the puppy opposite and the Slinky Malinky style cat next to her.

"Cleo!" the vet called. Cute that they call the cats name and not ours. He was a nice man, calm and slight with an honest animal-loving face. I started to tell him of her ailments interjected by P's graphic description of the sick and the poo and the wee all over the utility room.

He gave her a couple of injections which had A gasp with terror and fear, clamping her eyes shut this time. Cleo left blood on the vet and the nurses arm when they shoved a thermometer up her bum and then wet the table. Mortified I apologised for my felines behaviour and the urine.

"Oh no, that'll be sweat," he said "Cats sweat from their paws when they are scared."

Well I never, bless her little cotton paws. And from this day forward the vets will now be known as The Sweaty Paw Shop.

Love in a box

Christmas is upon us, a time of year I struggle with but put on a brave face for the kids. The season starts with some charity, before the onslaught of greed, excess and plain over-eating. Every year a friend of mine encourages us to fill a shoe box with presents for children less fortunate than ours. The local project is called 'Love in a box' - lorries take these shoe boxes from Sussex to countries all over Eastern Europe, there are emotional videos of the kids opening their presents on their website. It feels like a more personal sense of giving, rather than a tenner via the internet.

Every year we have the same arguments. Two shoe boxes, which my two children are encouraged to fill with some of their toys to give to poorer children who may not even have a mummy or a daddy. One shoe box is over flowing with gifts, from A - and the other is, well, empty.

"C'mon P, what about this teddy - imagine a little girl opening this on Christmas morning, don't you think she would like this teddy?" I cajole.

"No, it's MIIIIIIIINE!" she wails, throwing herself and the teddy on her bed dramatically.

"What about this little bag? Or this dolly? Or a nice necklace?" I ask getting a little angry.

"NOooooooooooooooooo!" the sobs are loud and real, her cheeks streaked with tears.

We revisit the computer and show her all the children who have nothing and what this gift would mean to them. She doesn't get it. She's five. So I leave it at that. And when they are at school I do a mine sweep of their rooms and get a shoe box of goodies that any little girl would be happy to receive. I top the box up with some pens, sweets, hair accessories and stickers.

When they return from school they open the boxes, which I told them not to, and screamed and cried at the contents. The stuffed horse didn't make it to Romania, nor the plastic fairy, but we came to an agreement on the others.

Love in a box? Reluctance in a box is perhaps a little more accurate.

Money money money

The realisation hit P when we were travelling back from Brighton. It started off as a whine, a low moan and soon developed into huge, full-blown sobs with salty, wet tears streaking her little doll face.

"I don't want to give you my pounds!" she screamed "Ooooohhhhh, I've only got two pounds and I don't want to give them to you!" she wailed.

"I don't mind," said the generous A "I will give you my money, I can give you P's too if you like?"

They had both wanted a little trinket from the delectable North Laine shops, shops so full of things you would like but rarely need. I don't give them pocket money, but the children seemed to have accumulated a few quid from teeth falling out, the odd 20p interest when I raid their piggy banks for school dinner money and from coins they have found around the house. A has saved up over ten of these elusive pounds (mind you, she has a gappy mouth right now) and P has two gold ones and a bit of shrapnel which includes a euro and a Kenyan shilling.

They wanted their gifts so badly, A a little elephant notebook and P a stuffed house with a tape measure inside, but it was neither a birthday or Christmas and I believe Father Christmas has sorted their stocking already.

"OK, girls you can have them but you need to pay me for them, OK?"

They agreed readily, very pleased with their loot. Except now, P was not pleased at all.

The crying lasted all the way home and reached new levels as we entered the house, A skipping upstairs immediately to give me her money.

"But I..I..I..don't want to give you my pounds, I only have two of them, ooooohhhh it's not fair..." and so it continued. She knew I wasn't going to give in - it was the stuffed house or the two quid little lady.

She did it eventually, it pained her, it cut deep, but she spent her money and has not put the stuffed house down since.

It's called Kerry and I believe will be with her forever. "How can I get two more pounds?" she asked over her Cheerios this morning.

"Ahhh, you'll have to work for it unless your teeth fall out!" I replied.

She took this information very seriously and in between mouthfuls of cereal wobbled those teeth so hard it looks like her money box will have been recuperated by the weekend.

When I grow up

When I grow up I would like to be a writer and drink coffee by the cafetierre. I would smoke if it was fashionable, cross my legs and ponder. I would look out of my window which would perhaps be in Tuscany, or Seville, or somewhere remote sounding like the Peak District. I would have a dog who rests at my feet and a couple of cats, we would walk to the local shop to buy bread and I might even go to the pub in the day. I see myself spinning yarns with the locals, seeing stories in the trees, imagining complicated novels while eating olives, to then return to write some fabulous prose. Yes, when I grow up I would like to be a writer.

"But you're already grown up!" whined P when I told her of my aspirations. "Shush...." whispered A  "Mummy doesn't like being told she is old!"

I'm not old A, I'm just ready for my next goal. Or career.

Paper round
Dish washing
Waitress
Cook
Shop assistant
Early years worker
Play scheme play worker
Picture framer
Bar maid
Groom - riding schools, show jumping year, dealing yard, private yards, private schools..
Equine laboratory assistant
Organic gardener
Cold caller
Farm shop and cafe assistant
Project coordinator on a city farm
Community gardener
Antenatal teacher

Because after this crazy C.V it's time for a change.

Tea time questions

During a slurpy spaghetti dinner, two particularly hungry children were wolfing down their food.

In between enormous mouthfuls, P asked a very serious question with a furrowed brow.

"Mummy, when you were a kid, were you in the olden times?"

Yes, my darling, I was.

Teenagers

"In the game, my name is Daisy and I'm like, 15!" I over-hear P telling A.

P is fascinated with teenagers, they are like a different breed of people to her. She admires them, copies them and so desperately wants to be one. P was born a teenager, a frustrated baby who always wanted to be bigger, an angry toddler ready for the world and now, scorning her 5 year old self - wishing her life away.

"Look Mummy, there are some teenagers!" she will squeal and point out.

She then dives into her best teenage impression. P carefully places a bag over her arm, combs all her hair to one side and tilts it provocatively, she slouches on one hip bone and continues:

"I'm liiiiike, a teenager like and I go to Uplands, liiiike..." Uplands being the local comprehensive school.

"Where on earth did you get those ideas from?" I ask, giggling at her insanely accurate depiction.

P observes. She watches closely at how people act. She emulates and strives to be older. She loathes being little and cute and the youngest.

I just hope 15 is all you hope it to be, but please enjoy the 10 years leading up to it little P!

School photo

It's time for a rant. I haven't ranted for a while, it's been too darn nice to moan. A sure fire way to start me off is ...school. In fact I'm surprised I've lasted until day 5 without even a mention of it.

I can't bear the uniform our school uses. It's a village state school but insists on a tie, a logo on the cardigan, a matching book bag and P.E kit, all at great expense. The tie is a particular unnecessary item in the rigmarole that is uniform.

"I can't breathe, I hate this tie....GET OFF ME!" shouted A this morning, as I wrestled with her top button.

Today is school photo day and the school insists on 'Winter Uniform' for this event - instead of the pleasant and easy gingham dresses of the summer term. The children felt constrained for the first time in months, gone are the t-shirts and crocs, gone are the swimming costumes and naked garden days - along with the change in the weather, everything is closing in!

I never buy the school photo anyway. I hate the fake smile, slightly sitting sideways and prim nature of the picture. Today's photo would only remind me of our particularly unpleasant morning of getting ready for it.