A few weeks ago, Kate came to me and asked with great solemnity, "Mom. Will you teach me everything I need to know for when I'm a grown up?" Wow. What a question. Her seriousness made me smile a little because at that moment in time, she truly believed that I have the answers to all the questions she could ever have.
I know where she was coming from with it. She has tons of questions these days. Questions about daily life. How do I know how to use the washing machine? How do I measure sugar? How do I know what to buy at the store? How do I peel a potato? How do I know how long to cook an egg? Where do I buy her socks?
So, I've taken her seriously. When I'm hanging up the laundry, she's "invited" to come along and help. For now, she watches and helps where she can. The simple joy that burst from her in a cascade of laughter when she managed to hang a single sock.... it was so.... humbling.
We made cookies today.
Earlier in the week, I was watching an episode of Nigella Lawson's "Nigella Express" and she was making her Totally Chocolate Chocolate Chip Cookie recipe. Kate was there as well. Eyes wide. Mouth open. I think if I wouldn't have reminded her to close her mouth, she would have actually drooled. Suddenly, she zipped from the room and came back with pen and paper. Carefully, she wrote down every ingredient that she could remember or understand. ("Mom, what's bicarbonate?")
We then went to the kitchen and compared the list to what we had in the cupboard. (I actually have the cookbook it came from, so I was able to get the amounts from there while explaining to her that though having the list of ingredients is important, it is also a good idea to know how much of each ingredient you need.)
The list was revised once more and then it was off to the local grocery store. "What do we get first, Mom?" Unfortunately, our shop is being totally remodeled and the location of items seems to change weekly so I really couldn't tell her. Instead, we walked the aisles picking up what I needed as we went and her checking her list and getting what she needed when we stumbled across them.
She learned to make sure to check the eggs in the boxes before buying them. "Mom! Some of these are BROKEN!" She exclaimed when we opened the first box.
By the time we reached the checkout, she was losing focus, so I decided to wait until another day to teach her about packing grocery bags. I didn't want to discover that our egss had all broken or our bread was squooshed when I unpacked them later.
And so today, we made the cookies.
It took longer than it would have if I had just done it myself, but that's not what it was about, was it? So, she broke up the chocolate while I measured out most of the ingredients. Once her job was completed, we stuck the chocolate in the microwave to melt and she helped me with the final few ingredients.
I got out the hand mixer, popped in the beaters.
She put her fingers in her ears and smiled.
"You better get your fingers out of your ears if you're going to do this," I commented.
"WHAT?"
I sighed and took her hands away from her head. "You. You're going to use the mixer. These are your cookies. Not mine."
Kate did as Kate does when informed she's going to do something new. She balked and shied away from it. "I can't...." She stopped and thought about it for a moment and then pulled the kitchen stool to the counter. "Okay," she said and giggled. Her hand looked so small gripping the handle. Did she have to hold it so tightly? What did she think was going to happen, it was going to drag her across the room?
Then I remembered, she wouldn't know. She's never held it. She doesn't know how it will feel in her hand when it gets turned on. In her mind, I could probably stop a moving bus. Who knows what kind of high powered equipment she thinks I use in the kitchen?
A quick safety lesson. Fingers NEVER go in the bowl while this is on. This never gets lifted out of the bowl when it is on. I adjusted her hand position, put the mixer in the bowl and turned it on.
Cue giggling.
When the butter was well creamed with the sugar, it was turned off. Chocolate added and turned on. Off. On. Off. On. Batter was tested as often as the mixer was turned off.
"Mom," she groaned as the last of the dry ingredients were being added. "My hand is falling off. Can you do it?" I had to admit, it was a really stiff batter and she'd done good to get that far with it. "Thanks," she said in relief as I took control of the machine and she zipped out of the kitchen.
I finished off the recipe (she'd never have gotten all the chocolate chips mixed into the batter without developing Hulk arms) and got the cookies in the oven. She reappeared when it was time to taste them and declared that the cookies were "lovely" and that cooking was "fun."
A success.
Anyhow, all of this got me thinking. Back to her original question. Will I teach her everything she needs to know for when she's a grown up?
In light of the events of the last few weeks, it's a question that we should all be asking ourselves. Are we teaching our children everything they need to know for when they are grown ups?
The ages of some of those involved in the criminal acts, the looting, the destruction, the wanton violence and disrespect of communities and properties is astounding to me. Some of them are as young as eleven. ELEVEN!
I look across the room at my seven-year old and think. "Where will she be in four years?"
Well, I know where I hope she'll be. In the kitchen. Making cookies. And learning how to do the washing up.
In the meantime, I better get on with it. There's a lot she's going to need to know and time is running out.
Tuesday 16 August 2011
Friday 11 March 2011
Frantic Friday
Okay... it's not REALLY that frantic. I just REALLY enjoy alliteration. And Freaky Friday is already taken.
It's a pretty normal Friday for me, actually. The sun is playing hide and seek amongst the cloud cover. Kate's at school.
Oh, yeah... Kate. Kate is the one having the Frantic Friday of sorts. Today, she's on a class trip (field trip for the US readers) to the RAF Museum which is relatively nearby. (Click here for more information... if you're interested.)
I had been invited along, but I've been suffering for most of the week with a horrible chest cold, so thought perhaps staying home was preferable. Then she'll get back and go straight to dance class until 4:30pm at which point I'll pick her up and bring her home. Throw some dinner down her throat. It's Friday... which means pizza in Kate's book. She is then being picked up at 6:10pm for Lucy and Ben's joint birthday party at the very popular DJ's Jungle Adventure. It has the unique experience of being a pajama party! Meaning, Kate and all the other attendees will be wearing their pajamas! Kate is VERY excited by the idea of wearing her PJ's in public. Oh, to be seven again....
It's a long day for her. I expect her to be hyper-ly exhausted when she gets home.
Last night, as we were doing our good night routine, I was sitting at the side of her bed, reviewing what was coming up in the days ahead. We talked our way through Friday and the discussed a bit of Saturday. "Gran will be coming to visit on Saturday and it is Quiz Night at school," I explained. "So, Gran will be sleeping over so Daddy and I can go."
"Oh, Mum," she said as she snuggled down into her bed. "That's so wicked." Her eyes darted to my face to see if I'd have anything to say about her choice of vocabulary.
"WICKED!?" My brain set off the klaxons and went to red alert. Little men wearing brightly coloured jumpsuits began running about wildly inside my head as they tried to induce me into a similarly panicked overreaction.
Calmly, my hand reached out and brushed her hair back from her forehead. "Yeah, pretty cool, huh? Gran doesn't usually sleep over on a Saturday.
"Wicked cool, Mum. Wicked." Was it me or did a faint shadow of disappointment flicker through her eyes at failing to get a rise out of me?
I leaned over to kiss her goodnight and my sparkling seven year old returned, hugging me tightly around the neck and refusing to let go until I paid a suitable toll. (Many MANY kisses).
Which brings us to this morning. Friday morning.
We're trudging our way to school, chattering like a mischief of magpies (or if you prefer, you can use tiding, tittering, tribe, murder, gulp, or charm... I prefer mischief.)
"Shoot," I exclaim softly when we're well past the halfway point.
"What is it, Mum?" Kate asks.
"Oh, I forgot to bring Geraldine's book for her." My friend Geraldine (yes, yes... stop laughing) had lent me a book which I finished rather quickly. A lively piece of Chicklit entitled The School Run, it was just the sort of light, engaging, and entertaining read that I needed after finishing the Swedish thriller The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. (Having been a fan of the Swedish mystery drama Wallander (both the English and the Swedish (with subtitles) versions) I was familiar with the darkness of the Swedish psyche but even this plunged me into a darkness that haunted me well after I put the book down.)
"Well, Mum, you can't be expected to remember EVERYTHING."
My heart nearly stopped. Could this be true?? Could SOMEONE actually notice that I seem to organize the world on a daily basis and without my careful hand, lunches, school boxes, PE kits, and various other things would never make it with the people they are supposed to leave with? Am I actually about to be shown some appreciation by the person I least expect it from?? Let's be realistic... she has to be prompted to say "Hello" or "Good Morning" to people she knows.
And then the penny drops....
"Yes, Mum," she continues after a few moments. "As you get older your brain cells begin to die off and you aren't able to remember things as well as you could when you were young."
From heroic Super Mom with cape fluttering in the spring breeze to pitiful Alzheimer Mom who is lucky to be wearing matching socks in five seconds flat.
"Oh, and Gran told me that when you get old ... there are these squooshy bits in your back that will shrink and you'll get shorter."
I'm doomed.
It's a pretty normal Friday for me, actually. The sun is playing hide and seek amongst the cloud cover. Kate's at school.
Oh, yeah... Kate. Kate is the one having the Frantic Friday of sorts. Today, she's on a class trip (field trip for the US readers) to the RAF Museum which is relatively nearby. (Click here for more information... if you're interested.)
I had been invited along, but I've been suffering for most of the week with a horrible chest cold, so thought perhaps staying home was preferable. Then she'll get back and go straight to dance class until 4:30pm at which point I'll pick her up and bring her home. Throw some dinner down her throat. It's Friday... which means pizza in Kate's book. She is then being picked up at 6:10pm for Lucy and Ben's joint birthday party at the very popular DJ's Jungle Adventure. It has the unique experience of being a pajama party! Meaning, Kate and all the other attendees will be wearing their pajamas! Kate is VERY excited by the idea of wearing her PJ's in public. Oh, to be seven again....
It's a long day for her. I expect her to be hyper-ly exhausted when she gets home.
Last night, as we were doing our good night routine, I was sitting at the side of her bed, reviewing what was coming up in the days ahead. We talked our way through Friday and the discussed a bit of Saturday. "Gran will be coming to visit on Saturday and it is Quiz Night at school," I explained. "So, Gran will be sleeping over so Daddy and I can go."
"Oh, Mum," she said as she snuggled down into her bed. "That's so wicked." Her eyes darted to my face to see if I'd have anything to say about her choice of vocabulary.
"WICKED!?" My brain set off the klaxons and went to red alert. Little men wearing brightly coloured jumpsuits began running about wildly inside my head as they tried to induce me into a similarly panicked overreaction.
Calmly, my hand reached out and brushed her hair back from her forehead. "Yeah, pretty cool, huh? Gran doesn't usually sleep over on a Saturday.
"Wicked cool, Mum. Wicked." Was it me or did a faint shadow of disappointment flicker through her eyes at failing to get a rise out of me?
I leaned over to kiss her goodnight and my sparkling seven year old returned, hugging me tightly around the neck and refusing to let go until I paid a suitable toll. (Many MANY kisses).
Which brings us to this morning. Friday morning.
We're trudging our way to school, chattering like a mischief of magpies (or if you prefer, you can use tiding, tittering, tribe, murder, gulp, or charm... I prefer mischief.)
"Shoot," I exclaim softly when we're well past the halfway point.
"What is it, Mum?" Kate asks.
"Oh, I forgot to bring Geraldine's book for her." My friend Geraldine (yes, yes... stop laughing) had lent me a book which I finished rather quickly. A lively piece of Chicklit entitled The School Run, it was just the sort of light, engaging, and entertaining read that I needed after finishing the Swedish thriller The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. (Having been a fan of the Swedish mystery drama Wallander (both the English and the Swedish (with subtitles) versions) I was familiar with the darkness of the Swedish psyche but even this plunged me into a darkness that haunted me well after I put the book down.)
"Well, Mum, you can't be expected to remember EVERYTHING."
My heart nearly stopped. Could this be true?? Could SOMEONE actually notice that I seem to organize the world on a daily basis and without my careful hand, lunches, school boxes, PE kits, and various other things would never make it with the people they are supposed to leave with? Am I actually about to be shown some appreciation by the person I least expect it from?? Let's be realistic... she has to be prompted to say "Hello" or "Good Morning" to people she knows.
And then the penny drops....
"Yes, Mum," she continues after a few moments. "As you get older your brain cells begin to die off and you aren't able to remember things as well as you could when you were young."
From heroic Super Mom with cape fluttering in the spring breeze to pitiful Alzheimer Mom who is lucky to be wearing matching socks in five seconds flat.
"Oh, and Gran told me that when you get old ... there are these squooshy bits in your back that will shrink and you'll get shorter."
I'm doomed.
Monday 21 February 2011
The Visitor
Sometime last November-ish, while I was preparing for WOW! (the after school program that I'm involved in at St Luke's) a few people decided to have a little clear out from under the church stairwell. Things tend to get sucked in there or stuck in there like it is a pocket of infinite space or a mini-black hole. Gill (the church secretary) was pulling things out of the darkness much in the same way that I always imagined James Herriot helping with a rather difficult calving. Stuck in up to the armpit.
"Ow," she said puzzledly. "What is THAT?"
Well, THAT turned out to be a hedgehog.
Most English people take hedgehogs to be a part of the daily routine. I do not. In my almost 6 years here, I've only spotted two live ones. (And a few dead ones, but they don't count.) I bemoan the fact there are none in my back garden (or yard as we say in America) and because they stubbornly refuse to set up house at my house, I blame them for the massive army of slimey slugs that march through my garden and decimate my feeble attempts at gardening.
So, here under the church stairs, was a rather small hedgehog. No one knows quite how he managed to make his way in, but... he did.
He was obviously a little one born late in the year (another effect of the changing climate patterns.) Sadly, this meant that he would be too small, too underweight, to survive the winter hibernation. So, Clare put on her superwoman cape and charged to the rescue. She has a friend who is an experienced hedgehog nurturer and the inital plan was that if this woman wasn't willing to take on this rather prickly hedgey-in-need then perhaps she would take it to one of the hedgehog rescue organizations such as Tiggywinkles. (We take our hedgehogs to heart over here!)
So, off she went.
When I emailed her later in the day for a "hedgehog update", she informed me that in a surprising change of circumstance, she and her family (with advice from the friend) were going to winter the little prickleball themselves!
Which brings us to February.
A few weeks ago at the Women's Wednesday Morning Group that I attend (Let me tell you... Wednesday's are more churchy than Sunday's for me!) Clare looked at the group and rather forlornly put forth her request. "I don't suppose anyone here would be willing to watch a hedgehog for a weekend?" Her very body language said volumes. She didn't expect anyone to volunteer.
She certainly wasn't expecting me to practically jump up and yell, "Kate and I would LOVE to take care of the hedgehog for a weekend!"
And so... Alejandro Hedgehog spent a weekend at Chip and Kate's Animal Spa. Kate was thrilled. (He's leaving today and she's been a bit tearful.) I learned some things about hedgehogs. (They will release Alejandro in April (in Clare's back garden) and though they eat them in the wild, I was instructed not to give him any slugs from the garden during his visit (they carry lungworm). They like a little mashed banana as a treat. Oh, and they eat cat food (wet and dry).)
And.... I took a few pictures of our little friend....
"Ow," she said puzzledly. "What is THAT?"
Well, THAT turned out to be a hedgehog.
Most English people take hedgehogs to be a part of the daily routine. I do not. In my almost 6 years here, I've only spotted two live ones. (And a few dead ones, but they don't count.) I bemoan the fact there are none in my back garden (or yard as we say in America) and because they stubbornly refuse to set up house at my house, I blame them for the massive army of slimey slugs that march through my garden and decimate my feeble attempts at gardening.
So, here under the church stairs, was a rather small hedgehog. No one knows quite how he managed to make his way in, but... he did.
He was obviously a little one born late in the year (another effect of the changing climate patterns.) Sadly, this meant that he would be too small, too underweight, to survive the winter hibernation. So, Clare put on her superwoman cape and charged to the rescue. She has a friend who is an experienced hedgehog nurturer and the inital plan was that if this woman wasn't willing to take on this rather prickly hedgey-in-need then perhaps she would take it to one of the hedgehog rescue organizations such as Tiggywinkles. (We take our hedgehogs to heart over here!)
So, off she went.
When I emailed her later in the day for a "hedgehog update", she informed me that in a surprising change of circumstance, she and her family (with advice from the friend) were going to winter the little prickleball themselves!
Which brings us to February.
A few weeks ago at the Women's Wednesday Morning Group that I attend (Let me tell you... Wednesday's are more churchy than Sunday's for me!) Clare looked at the group and rather forlornly put forth her request. "I don't suppose anyone here would be willing to watch a hedgehog for a weekend?" Her very body language said volumes. She didn't expect anyone to volunteer.
She certainly wasn't expecting me to practically jump up and yell, "Kate and I would LOVE to take care of the hedgehog for a weekend!"
And so... Alejandro Hedgehog spent a weekend at Chip and Kate's Animal Spa. Kate was thrilled. (He's leaving today and she's been a bit tearful.) I learned some things about hedgehogs. (They will release Alejandro in April (in Clare's back garden) and though they eat them in the wild, I was instructed not to give him any slugs from the garden during his visit (they carry lungworm). They like a little mashed banana as a treat. Oh, and they eat cat food (wet and dry).)
And.... I took a few pictures of our little friend....
He's actually much larger than he was in November.
Mum? Can we have a pet hedgehog PLEASE?!
Handle with Care!
Awww.... wook at the wittle hedgie-hog face!
Who wants a kiss!?
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