Yes, we're back.
Unfortunately, I have been woefully short on time to actually write anything. Hopefully, that will be rectified soon.
After all the complaining about bad weather in the UK, we've finally gotten some good weather and all my extra time seems to be spent in the back yard (or as they say here, back garden ). Jeff has been a regular slave driver concerning the flower beds, while I whinge and complain that he needs to get his power tools out of my dining area. (Whinge... that's a good English word for you. Same thing as whine.)
Stay tuned, I'm sure I'll have more to say. (Don't I always?)
Wednesday, 23 April 2008
Friday, 14 March 2008
Still Waiting in the Wings
So, anyone who knows me, knows that I'm a bit... well, not shy.
I studied dramatics in college, have performed on stage on countless occasions, and seem to be very at home just telling stories or talking to anyone who might listen.
An ex-boyfriend of mine once noted that I would probably talk to a post if I thought there was a chance that it would answer me.
And then there is Kate.
This girl will clown around for me or her dad all day long if she can. Striking funny poses, dancing silly dances. (For some reason though, if you want to wiggle your butt you MUST pull your pants down around your ankles. I'm still working on that one.) Put her in a performance venue that involves other people though.... nada.
So, did the drama queen give birth to a wallflower? (This vexes me almost as much as her lack of enthusiasm for dogs.)
I was a little..... no, very... apprehensive when I found out that the schools have a weekly assembly which the different classes are responsible for organizing. This includes the "foundation
stage" which is nursery (Kate) and reception (Kate next year - full days) combined. They had the assembly a mere 2-ish weeks after Kate started. Not very good planning in my mind. Here were a group of children who are just getting adjusted to going to school and being separated from their moms/dads/caregivers for a few hours a day and you want them to perform?
Well, let's just say that Kate got through it. She didn't really participate, but she didn't outright cry either. Then she had another in November. She was a tad bit more confident and though she didn't really sing (maybe a few words here and there) she stood and looked like she was involved. (Not that the other kids did MUCH better. )
Christmas came and with it, the mandatory Christmas play. Kate was a musician child and had to sit at the very front of the stage. I was so proud. She shook her little jingle bells with all her might and managed to sing some of the songs! I could see it now! Kate Crawford performing live and in person! Where would I find an agent?
Well, yesterday was her first assembly since then. I arrived early, as usual, to make sure that 1.) I got a seat and 2.) it wasn't in the front. Well, it didn't matter. She came in and spotted me right away. Burst into tears and wailed. Chewed her fingers most of the time. I'm not sure she even sang a note. Poor thing. Here's a little video of her portion of the assembly.
That is her assistant teacher, Mrs Downey that is with her. This woman is an absolute star in the classroom and I don't know how we would have made it through the school year without her. Kate really responds well to all her teachers and I really can't say enough good things about the staff. It's a great place for Kate and I feel very blessed that I didn't listen to some of the critics of the school and requested it as her first choice for the fall.
As for the acting career? Well, I won't sign her up for tap lessons just yet. She can just stay in the spotlight of my heart.
I studied dramatics in college, have performed on stage on countless occasions, and seem to be very at home just telling stories or talking to anyone who might listen.
An ex-boyfriend of mine once noted that I would probably talk to a post if I thought there was a chance that it would answer me.
And then there is Kate.
This girl will clown around for me or her dad all day long if she can. Striking funny poses, dancing silly dances. (For some reason though, if you want to wiggle your butt you MUST pull your pants down around your ankles. I'm still working on that one.) Put her in a performance venue that involves other people though.... nada.
So, did the drama queen give birth to a wallflower? (This vexes me almost as much as her lack of enthusiasm for dogs.)
I was a little..... no, very... apprehensive when I found out that the schools have a weekly assembly which the different classes are responsible for organizing. This includes the "foundation
stage" which is nursery (Kate) and reception (Kate next year - full days) combined. They had the assembly a mere 2-ish weeks after Kate started. Not very good planning in my mind. Here were a group of children who are just getting adjusted to going to school and being separated from their moms/dads/caregivers for a few hours a day and you want them to perform?
Well, let's just say that Kate got through it. She didn't really participate, but she didn't outright cry either. Then she had another in November. She was a tad bit more confident and though she didn't really sing (maybe a few words here and there) she stood and looked like she was involved. (Not that the other kids did MUCH better. )
Christmas came and with it, the mandatory Christmas play. Kate was a musician child and had to sit at the very front of the stage. I was so proud. She shook her little jingle bells with all her might and managed to sing some of the songs! I could see it now! Kate Crawford performing live and in person! Where would I find an agent?
Well, yesterday was her first assembly since then. I arrived early, as usual, to make sure that 1.) I got a seat and 2.) it wasn't in the front. Well, it didn't matter. She came in and spotted me right away. Burst into tears and wailed. Chewed her fingers most of the time. I'm not sure she even sang a note. Poor thing. Here's a little video of her portion of the assembly.
That is her assistant teacher, Mrs Downey that is with her. This woman is an absolute star in the classroom and I don't know how we would have made it through the school year without her. Kate really responds well to all her teachers and I really can't say enough good things about the staff. It's a great place for Kate and I feel very blessed that I didn't listen to some of the critics of the school and requested it as her first choice for the fall.
As for the acting career? Well, I won't sign her up for tap lessons just yet. She can just stay in the spotlight of my heart.
Monday, 10 March 2008
A Break in the Weather!
Or at least a breakthrough in how Kate sees/reacts to the weather.
Kate, as you may remember, is an ombrophobiac (fear of rain)or maybe an amenophobiac (fear of wind) or an odd combination of the two. Basically, if it is raining or windy and I have to take Kate to school or bring her home or take her generally anywhere she turns into a crying, whining, snivelling, pitiful creature.
I'm not joking. It's horrible.
So, when I saw gale force winds in the forecast for Monday (and other days this week) I was understandably less than thrilled. Gale force winds. And rain. Just the kind of weather that makes my daughter question me at great length about why we don't have a car and why we can't just get in any one that looks like it is available.
Now, I have been working very hard to help her to overcome this fear. She got a new umbrella for Christmas. It is a pretty ladybird umbrella that she picked out. We talk about the weather a lot. Especially the wind. I've made up epic adventures about the wind. How the wind is very busy. His job is to blow the clouds away so that the sun can shine. He dries up puddles and mucky mud. He plays with the leaves and runs down the street very fast because he is always in a hurry and has a lot to do. (We talk about the rain in this way as well. Of course of all his jobs that I've listed {flowers growing, etc} the one she's focused on is that it washes the cat and dog poop off the sidewalk.)
After literally months, maybe even a year of talking until I'm blue in the face, it appears we've had a break through.
Because, Monday, the day of gale force winds, my daughter grabbed on to her umbrella with two hands and walked to school without a single tear. She chatted to me the whole way and we talked of the wind and the clouds and the rain.
When we got to school, I gave her the biggest hug and told her how proud I am of her for being so brave in the weather.
And she looked me in the eye and told me (as if this should have been as plain as the nose on my face,) "But Mummy, the wind is my FRIEND!"
Amen and Hallelujah.
I'm hoping that they stay friends for a long, long time.
Kate, as you may remember, is an ombrophobiac (fear of rain)or maybe an amenophobiac (fear of wind) or an odd combination of the two. Basically, if it is raining or windy and I have to take Kate to school or bring her home or take her generally anywhere she turns into a crying, whining, snivelling, pitiful creature.
I'm not joking. It's horrible.
So, when I saw gale force winds in the forecast for Monday (and other days this week) I was understandably less than thrilled. Gale force winds. And rain. Just the kind of weather that makes my daughter question me at great length about why we don't have a car and why we can't just get in any one that looks like it is available.
Now, I have been working very hard to help her to overcome this fear. She got a new umbrella for Christmas. It is a pretty ladybird umbrella that she picked out. We talk about the weather a lot. Especially the wind. I've made up epic adventures about the wind. How the wind is very busy. His job is to blow the clouds away so that the sun can shine. He dries up puddles and mucky mud. He plays with the leaves and runs down the street very fast because he is always in a hurry and has a lot to do. (We talk about the rain in this way as well. Of course of all his jobs that I've listed {flowers growing, etc} the one she's focused on is that it washes the cat and dog poop off the sidewalk.)
After literally months, maybe even a year of talking until I'm blue in the face, it appears we've had a break through.
Because, Monday, the day of gale force winds, my daughter grabbed on to her umbrella with two hands and walked to school without a single tear. She chatted to me the whole way and we talked of the wind and the clouds and the rain.
When we got to school, I gave her the biggest hug and told her how proud I am of her for being so brave in the weather.
And she looked me in the eye and told me (as if this should have been as plain as the nose on my face,) "But Mummy, the wind is my FRIEND!"
Amen and Hallelujah.
I'm hoping that they stay friends for a long, long time.
Kate loves Crufts??
Let me talk to you for a moment about Kate and dogs.
She doesn't seem to like them. I mean, I think she likes dogs in theory, but the reality of them freaks her out.
Aunt Cathy and Uncle Ditto bought her some dogs for her birthday. Two large, soft ones that make noise (Jeff is ever so grateful) and some Pocket Puppies that are beagles. They were a BIG hit. She plays with the big ones, but the little fiddley ones are VERY much played with.
There are a few stuffed animal dogs in the house which she is very kind and loving to. Her Grammy gave her a gorgeous Webkinz beagle that she just adores. Grammy also gave her some West Highland terriers for her Sylvania Familes (small) collection. They are also well played with.
We recently bought the new 101 Dalmations DVD (with the small stuffed puppy - is anyone else struck by the irony?) and she watches it CONSTANTLY.
But live dogs? Forget it!
She sees them on the street and immediately shies away from them. Now in theory, that might not be a bad thing. Strange dogs are an unknown and I'd rather she be cautious and safe rather than just running up to random dogs and risk getting her face chewed off.
She is better (is it wishful thinking on my part) with the family pets. It's always been strange that she has always preferred Gretchen's Holly to her dearly departed Maggie. Then again, maybe not so strange. Holly is definately not at face level and size wise is much less intimidating. Holly also LOVES to play ball and Kate is more than happy to throw the ball.
Ditto and Cathy's beagles, Lily and Barney have always been tolerated by Kate. (And they seem to tolerate her rather well.) Again, there is a fetch aspect to Lily that Kate loves, the dogs are smaller (though Barney LOVES to lick), and they are for the most part quieter.
However, even when she's not interacting with a family dog and the dog is not interacting with her, she always seems to have one eye on the dog in an ever vigilant attitude.
Of course, it didn't help that one day at the market, we were walking along (it was a nice day for once) and this gangly, all paws, tongue lolling black Labrador puppy was approaching us. He was a happy go lucky chap with a clownish face and enthusiasm written all over his shining ebony coat. When Kate saw him, her face lit up and she sighed. "Oh, Mummy. Look at the pretty puppy."
And then he spotted Ellie.
Ellie is Kate's well loved elephant companion. She goes pretty much everywhere with Kate (though lately other animals have been taking a turn, she always goes back to her Ellie) school, gymnastics, shopping, to Gran's. If Kate's been there, Ellie's been there.
Well, the cute Lab puppy immediately registered the little elephant as "toy" and lunged for her. He didn't get it. I watched the canine's thought process and stepped between him and Kate at the last moment. I'm not even sure that the person walking him really noticed what was happening. He wasn't being aggressive, he just wanted to play with Ellie. Of course, Kate shrieked and clutched Ellie and my leg simultaneously and didn't let go until the pup was well past us.
It wasn't a huge deal, but Kate always watches warily for dogs when she has Ellie out and about.
So, anyway. My kid doesn't like dogs. (Which as a person who loves pretty much anything that has fur, I'm trying not to take it too personally. I blame her dad.)
Today, the Cruft's Dog Show was on tv. (Officially recognised as the WORLD'S BIGGEST DOG SHOW by the Guinness Book of World Records.) I knew I would enjoy it, but the rest of the family would just hate it. But.... Jeff was working on the rabbit hutch and Kate was playing... maybe?
So, I flicked it on. They had the obedience and agility finals on and I figured I could watch a few runs before being harrassed by the non-dog members of the family. Well, I guess real dogs on tv fall into that "dogs as a concept" category. Kate was transfixed. We had a lot of conversation about the dogs and what they were doing and when the BBC took their hour break for the news, she was definately disappointed. So, I promised her that if she quick ate her dinner and took her bath, she could come back downstairs and watch more dogs.
She did so quite happily.
When the dog show came back, there was a little more of the agility and obedience, but then went to the regular showing and though I find it interesting, I can see how it could be a bit boring for a 4 yr old. She went to bed before the end, but I was rather surprised at how much she really seemed to enjoy the dogs.
She has said on occasion, "Mummy, I wish we could have a puppy." Then again, she also told me last week that she wants a snake.
Like I said, dogs as a concept not a reality. She better outgrow it or I will die of shame.
As for the show, I'm not sure that I'm happy with the Giant Schnauzer winning. Throughout the competition, the announcers were making a big deal that this was the dog's third time in the finals and this should be his year. Like just because he has been there for so long he is entitled to it? And then he won.
I thought the Oscar was the only award that if you are nominated enough times, you will eventually win. At least before you die. In some cases, after you die.
I'd like to say that the Beagle was robbed, but he spooked in the ring and I'm sure that counted against him somewhat. Hopefully, we'll see him back in the final ring again. If I remember correctly, Max was one of the younger dogs in the ring (not as young as that 18 month old Chihuahua!) and definately had that ideal "pleading look" that is sought after in the Beagle breed. Much ado was made about "Uno" (15 inch Beagle) winning the West Minster Dog Show in February and there was speculation that 2008 would be the "Year of the Beagle." No matter. Max did a great job and there was much cheering for him on my couch. (Even Jeff managed to muster a bit of enthusiasm for him.)
Just a few random observations:
I got a great kick out of listening to the commentators point out again and again that the Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier had his coat groomed to the "American Standard."
When Harriet's Hungarian Vizsla won the "Friend's for Life" award, I couldn't help but get teary eyed for the poor kid. (Pass the tissues, please.) I don't remember Aunt Judy and Uncle Merrill's Vizsla having that moustache and beard look.....
Jeff's opinion of people who are into dog shows: "And people call computer people geeks? These dog people are much worse." He was having severe difficulties with the naming of the dogs and then referring to the dogs by a nickname. He's lucky I didn't bap him on the head. (I will admit that I thought I understood the groupings and the CC's, but I seem to be rather mistaken (though to be fair, there is a difference between the AKC and the KC standards and rules.)
I don't like the short listing of dogs for the Group divisions. I want to see the dogs!
Afghan breeders who think that their dogs are smart? Don't they know they are the blondes of the dog world? (Beautiful, but dumber than rocks in my experience.) Okay, I've never before seen the giant box that is really a doggie hairdryer. For a moment, I thought she put the poor thing in a large microwave.
Jack Russell terrier that barks its way through the agility course was hysterical!
Native vulnerable breeds had a little costume show. (These are dog breeds of England and Ireland whose numbers are dwindling and are in danger of being extinct.) Some of the dogs on the list are: Lakeland Terrier, Glan of Imaal Terrier, Clumber Spaniel, Smooth Fox Terriers, Sussex Spaniels, Deerhounds, and Cardigan Welsh Corgis. (The Queen evidently likes the Pembroke Welsh Corgis... she has something like 16 of them.) A little further research indicates that the Greyhound is also on that list? (Sounds suspect to me.) To get on the list, there has to be less than 300 dogs registered through the Kennel Club in a single year.
Well, that's it for me!
Yap! Yap!
She doesn't seem to like them. I mean, I think she likes dogs in theory, but the reality of them freaks her out.
Aunt Cathy and Uncle Ditto bought her some dogs for her birthday. Two large, soft ones that make noise (Jeff is ever so grateful) and some Pocket Puppies that are beagles. They were a BIG hit. She plays with the big ones, but the little fiddley ones are VERY much played with.
There are a few stuffed animal dogs in the house which she is very kind and loving to. Her Grammy gave her a gorgeous Webkinz beagle that she just adores. Grammy also gave her some West Highland terriers for her Sylvania Familes (small) collection. They are also well played with.
We recently bought the new 101 Dalmations DVD (with the small stuffed puppy - is anyone else struck by the irony?) and she watches it CONSTANTLY.
But live dogs? Forget it!
She sees them on the street and immediately shies away from them. Now in theory, that might not be a bad thing. Strange dogs are an unknown and I'd rather she be cautious and safe rather than just running up to random dogs and risk getting her face chewed off.
She is better (is it wishful thinking on my part) with the family pets. It's always been strange that she has always preferred Gretchen's Holly to her dearly departed Maggie. Then again, maybe not so strange. Holly is definately not at face level and size wise is much less intimidating. Holly also LOVES to play ball and Kate is more than happy to throw the ball.
Ditto and Cathy's beagles, Lily and Barney have always been tolerated by Kate. (And they seem to tolerate her rather well.) Again, there is a fetch aspect to Lily that Kate loves, the dogs are smaller (though Barney LOVES to lick), and they are for the most part quieter.
However, even when she's not interacting with a family dog and the dog is not interacting with her, she always seems to have one eye on the dog in an ever vigilant attitude.
Of course, it didn't help that one day at the market, we were walking along (it was a nice day for once) and this gangly, all paws, tongue lolling black Labrador puppy was approaching us. He was a happy go lucky chap with a clownish face and enthusiasm written all over his shining ebony coat. When Kate saw him, her face lit up and she sighed. "Oh, Mummy. Look at the pretty puppy."
And then he spotted Ellie.
Ellie is Kate's well loved elephant companion. She goes pretty much everywhere with Kate (though lately other animals have been taking a turn, she always goes back to her Ellie) school, gymnastics, shopping, to Gran's. If Kate's been there, Ellie's been there.
Well, the cute Lab puppy immediately registered the little elephant as "toy" and lunged for her. He didn't get it. I watched the canine's thought process and stepped between him and Kate at the last moment. I'm not even sure that the person walking him really noticed what was happening. He wasn't being aggressive, he just wanted to play with Ellie. Of course, Kate shrieked and clutched Ellie and my leg simultaneously and didn't let go until the pup was well past us.
It wasn't a huge deal, but Kate always watches warily for dogs when she has Ellie out and about.
So, anyway. My kid doesn't like dogs. (Which as a person who loves pretty much anything that has fur, I'm trying not to take it too personally. I blame her dad.)
Today, the Cruft's Dog Show was on tv. (Officially recognised as the WORLD'S BIGGEST DOG SHOW by the Guinness Book of World Records.) I knew I would enjoy it, but the rest of the family would just hate it. But.... Jeff was working on the rabbit hutch and Kate was playing... maybe?
So, I flicked it on. They had the obedience and agility finals on and I figured I could watch a few runs before being harrassed by the non-dog members of the family. Well, I guess real dogs on tv fall into that "dogs as a concept" category. Kate was transfixed. We had a lot of conversation about the dogs and what they were doing and when the BBC took their hour break for the news, she was definately disappointed. So, I promised her that if she quick ate her dinner and took her bath, she could come back downstairs and watch more dogs.
She did so quite happily.
When the dog show came back, there was a little more of the agility and obedience, but then went to the regular showing and though I find it interesting, I can see how it could be a bit boring for a 4 yr old. She went to bed before the end, but I was rather surprised at how much she really seemed to enjoy the dogs.
She has said on occasion, "Mummy, I wish we could have a puppy." Then again, she also told me last week that she wants a snake.
Like I said, dogs as a concept not a reality. She better outgrow it or I will die of shame.
As for the show, I'm not sure that I'm happy with the Giant Schnauzer winning. Throughout the competition, the announcers were making a big deal that this was the dog's third time in the finals and this should be his year. Like just because he has been there for so long he is entitled to it? And then he won.
I thought the Oscar was the only award that if you are nominated enough times, you will eventually win. At least before you die. In some cases, after you die.
I'd like to say that the Beagle was robbed, but he spooked in the ring and I'm sure that counted against him somewhat. Hopefully, we'll see him back in the final ring again. If I remember correctly, Max was one of the younger dogs in the ring (not as young as that 18 month old Chihuahua!) and definately had that ideal "pleading look" that is sought after in the Beagle breed. Much ado was made about "Uno" (15 inch Beagle) winning the West Minster Dog Show in February and there was speculation that 2008 would be the "Year of the Beagle." No matter. Max did a great job and there was much cheering for him on my couch. (Even Jeff managed to muster a bit of enthusiasm for him.)
Just a few random observations:
I got a great kick out of listening to the commentators point out again and again that the Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier had his coat groomed to the "American Standard."
When Harriet's Hungarian Vizsla won the "Friend's for Life" award, I couldn't help but get teary eyed for the poor kid. (Pass the tissues, please.) I don't remember Aunt Judy and Uncle Merrill's Vizsla having that moustache and beard look.....
Jeff's opinion of people who are into dog shows: "And people call computer people geeks? These dog people are much worse." He was having severe difficulties with the naming of the dogs and then referring to the dogs by a nickname. He's lucky I didn't bap him on the head. (I will admit that I thought I understood the groupings and the CC's, but I seem to be rather mistaken (though to be fair, there is a difference between the AKC and the KC standards and rules.)
I don't like the short listing of dogs for the Group divisions. I want to see the dogs!
Afghan breeders who think that their dogs are smart? Don't they know they are the blondes of the dog world? (Beautiful, but dumber than rocks in my experience.) Okay, I've never before seen the giant box that is really a doggie hairdryer. For a moment, I thought she put the poor thing in a large microwave.
Jack Russell terrier that barks its way through the agility course was hysterical!
Native vulnerable breeds had a little costume show. (These are dog breeds of England and Ireland whose numbers are dwindling and are in danger of being extinct.) Some of the dogs on the list are: Lakeland Terrier, Glan of Imaal Terrier, Clumber Spaniel, Smooth Fox Terriers, Sussex Spaniels, Deerhounds, and Cardigan Welsh Corgis. (The Queen evidently likes the Pembroke Welsh Corgis... she has something like 16 of them.) A little further research indicates that the Greyhound is also on that list? (Sounds suspect to me.) To get on the list, there has to be less than 300 dogs registered through the Kennel Club in a single year.
Well, that's it for me!
Yap! Yap!
Thursday, 28 February 2008
Maggie Mae has Gone Away.
The email I've been expecting has unfortunately arrived.
My sister had her beloved Maggie put to sleep this morning.
Gretchen and Steve have had Maggie longer than they've had their children and at times probably wish that they had just had Maggie instead of having children. (Ha ha!)
I'm sure it's been said a thousand times about a thousand different dogs, but it can't be helped. You couldn't have asked for a better dog than my Maggie Mae. She was the ultimate children's pet. Good natured and patient. Protective and obedient. Okay, so she had a problem keeping her head out of the trash, but a girl has got to have one vice, right?
You always hear the horror stories about the dog who loses its place of importance once the kids come along. How they get jealous and resent the kids or take their jealousy out on the family's shoes.
Not, Maggie.
Almost from the moment that Gretchen became pregnant, Maggie became a mother. Gretchen may have THOUGHT that she gave birth to Shelby, Carly, and Bradley, but the truth of the matter is that Maggie just let her borrow her human "puppies." She was attentive to Gretchen through the pregnancies and even when Gretchen was on bed rest with the twins, rarely left her side.
When Shelby was very young, like toddler age. Steve heard Maggie crying and whining in the livingroom. He went to investigate to see what was wrong her. He discovered the problem soon enough. There in the middle of the room lay Mags with Shelby sitting with her. It would truly have been a Kodak moment if it hadn't been for Shelby methodically poking Maggie in the eye over and over and over again as Maggie just whined and cried. She would never hurt one of her "puppies" even if it was blinding her.
Don't worry. The twins aren't without their own little "tormenting Maggie" story. One day, I showed up at my sister's to find that she had what appeared to be some sort of dog shaped fawn. Or maybe it was a fawn coated dog. In any event, Carly and Bradley had somehow located a scissors and decided to give the Mags a hair cut. They had cut small, oval spots of Maggie's darker brown, black tipped overcoat and revealed the whitey beige of her undercoat leaving her with a fawn-like spotted pattern. I fondly referred to her as Bambi until her coat grew back.
Though I would go to visit my sister and her family quite often when I lived in Pennsylvania, it was always Maggie who would greet me first. Standing on her back legs, she would wrap her front legs around my waist and give me the equivilent of a doggie hug. Though she was a good sized dog, not small by any stretch of the imagination, she always believed herself to be a lap dog. If I sat on the couch long enough, I could usually count on having her lying on top of me at some point. If you were friend or family, you always got Maggie as a hostess. She would sit next to the visitor and give them her full attention. Even if they didn't want it.
My husband, Jeff, is opposed to dogs in general principle. He finds them loud, smelly, droolly, and germy with no evident good points. That makes it a bit difficult for me sometimes as I love any kind of furry creature and my family has always been a dog family. Maggie didn't let that get in her way when we would go to visit. No matter how many times you tried to move her or order her across the room, she would always find her way to Jeff's side. She would plaster herself against his leg and lay her head in his lap, looking up at him with her dark eyes as if to say, "how can you possibly not like me?" And truly, who could not like or love Maggie Mae.
Well, besides Kate. It grieves me that Kate never really took a shine to the Magster. No matter how hard Maggie tried, she just could not get my "puppy" to accept her. I'm sure in time, Kate would have grown to love her when she had grown a bit taller. When her face was no longer at tongue level and the hard whip of a tail didn't practically knock her off her feet. Though she sure enjoyed feeding her. Put Kate on a chair and hand her some food and she would gleefully throw food to Maggie. And if Maggie and Holly were playing chase in the backyard, Kate would laugh and shriek and encourage them on. I'm sure that Maggie would have won her over in the end.
I know my sister is killing herself for having made the decision to have her put down. She feels she let Maggie down somehow when Maggie was always there for her and the family and gave so much for her. Hopefully, she'll come to feel that what she did was the kindest gift she could have given to her canine companion. She showed strength and compassion instead of weakly allowing Maggie to suffer through her remaining days. After many years of faithful service, Gretchen was able to repay her by providing her with the greatest gift that she could. Her freedom.
Maggie had a heart as big as the world and her love will beat within us long after the pain fades.
My Maggie Mae has gone away. Good bye, old girl.
My sister had her beloved Maggie put to sleep this morning.
Gretchen and Steve have had Maggie longer than they've had their children and at times probably wish that they had just had Maggie instead of having children. (Ha ha!)
I'm sure it's been said a thousand times about a thousand different dogs, but it can't be helped. You couldn't have asked for a better dog than my Maggie Mae. She was the ultimate children's pet. Good natured and patient. Protective and obedient. Okay, so she had a problem keeping her head out of the trash, but a girl has got to have one vice, right?
You always hear the horror stories about the dog who loses its place of importance once the kids come along. How they get jealous and resent the kids or take their jealousy out on the family's shoes.
Not, Maggie.
Almost from the moment that Gretchen became pregnant, Maggie became a mother. Gretchen may have THOUGHT that she gave birth to Shelby, Carly, and Bradley, but the truth of the matter is that Maggie just let her borrow her human "puppies." She was attentive to Gretchen through the pregnancies and even when Gretchen was on bed rest with the twins, rarely left her side.
When Shelby was very young, like toddler age. Steve heard Maggie crying and whining in the livingroom. He went to investigate to see what was wrong her. He discovered the problem soon enough. There in the middle of the room lay Mags with Shelby sitting with her. It would truly have been a Kodak moment if it hadn't been for Shelby methodically poking Maggie in the eye over and over and over again as Maggie just whined and cried. She would never hurt one of her "puppies" even if it was blinding her.
Don't worry. The twins aren't without their own little "tormenting Maggie" story. One day, I showed up at my sister's to find that she had what appeared to be some sort of dog shaped fawn. Or maybe it was a fawn coated dog. In any event, Carly and Bradley had somehow located a scissors and decided to give the Mags a hair cut. They had cut small, oval spots of Maggie's darker brown, black tipped overcoat and revealed the whitey beige of her undercoat leaving her with a fawn-like spotted pattern. I fondly referred to her as Bambi until her coat grew back.
Though I would go to visit my sister and her family quite often when I lived in Pennsylvania, it was always Maggie who would greet me first. Standing on her back legs, she would wrap her front legs around my waist and give me the equivilent of a doggie hug. Though she was a good sized dog, not small by any stretch of the imagination, she always believed herself to be a lap dog. If I sat on the couch long enough, I could usually count on having her lying on top of me at some point. If you were friend or family, you always got Maggie as a hostess. She would sit next to the visitor and give them her full attention. Even if they didn't want it.
My husband, Jeff, is opposed to dogs in general principle. He finds them loud, smelly, droolly, and germy with no evident good points. That makes it a bit difficult for me sometimes as I love any kind of furry creature and my family has always been a dog family. Maggie didn't let that get in her way when we would go to visit. No matter how many times you tried to move her or order her across the room, she would always find her way to Jeff's side. She would plaster herself against his leg and lay her head in his lap, looking up at him with her dark eyes as if to say, "how can you possibly not like me?" And truly, who could not like or love Maggie Mae.
Well, besides Kate. It grieves me that Kate never really took a shine to the Magster. No matter how hard Maggie tried, she just could not get my "puppy" to accept her. I'm sure in time, Kate would have grown to love her when she had grown a bit taller. When her face was no longer at tongue level and the hard whip of a tail didn't practically knock her off her feet. Though she sure enjoyed feeding her. Put Kate on a chair and hand her some food and she would gleefully throw food to Maggie. And if Maggie and Holly were playing chase in the backyard, Kate would laugh and shriek and encourage them on. I'm sure that Maggie would have won her over in the end.
I know my sister is killing herself for having made the decision to have her put down. She feels she let Maggie down somehow when Maggie was always there for her and the family and gave so much for her. Hopefully, she'll come to feel that what she did was the kindest gift she could have given to her canine companion. She showed strength and compassion instead of weakly allowing Maggie to suffer through her remaining days. After many years of faithful service, Gretchen was able to repay her by providing her with the greatest gift that she could. Her freedom.
Maggie had a heart as big as the world and her love will beat within us long after the pain fades.
My Maggie Mae has gone away. Good bye, old girl.
Wednesday, 27 February 2008
Yesterday's Blues
I knew that something had happened the moment I picked up the phone and heard my mother's voice. The only fear was not knowing what.
Strange how in just a few seconds, brief as the single beat of a butterfly's ragged wing, my heart beats out a list of the people I fear for the most. No one is sick. No one has their death sentence written in a spidery handwriting of clouds and smoke waiting for the rains to come and wash their name from the sky. It was a sudden death. Final end. No good byes. No farewells. No time for tears and guilt and what if's. Those will all come later.
She says the name. Gives voice to the sentence. My heart constricts with relief and grief mixed in broad strokes of red and black swirled together in a chaotic dance. My voice trips on the barbed wire fence that has wrapped itself around my throat and has tightened painfully around the words that squeeze from my lips.
And she changes the subject, moves it to safer shores. Gives me time to recover and regroup. Distracts my heart long enough that my brain can hammer the door of my grief shut. Gives me time to peek at my grief at intervals while allowing me to slip blades of light and life into the darkness of loss.
The name on this day was that of my cousin Bill. (Or Billy as he was forever known to my tongue.) He is the eldest of my grandmother's almost 30 grandchildren. Though you would never know it by how little I saw him or spoke of him, I have always had a soft spot for him. It's hard to explain, really.
You see, the Billy that always creeps into my mind when his name is mentioned or remembered is the Billy that I remember from my childhood. A tall, lanky, blond haired boy on the cusp of manhood. At the time he seemed decades older than me, yet the reality was much less. I was ten or eleven just on the threshold of adolescence while he was standing at the exit.
He belonged to the "class" of cousins that were "above" the age group to which I belonged. Older and wiser and definately too cool for the kids who still looked under the rocks along the river and climbed the apple trees. We rode bicycles, didn't drive cars. Didn't care about cars, really. Didn't want to know about carburetors and rims, cylinders and horse power (unless it whinneyed.) We were "kids." They were... not.
Yet with Billy, even at that awkward age when it's sometimes easier to sneer and snigger at the "little ones" and tease them and taunt them with your superiority, his true heart shone through. I'm not going to pretend that his teenage arrogance didn't sometimes get the better of him, but he seemed to have a greater patience for us who were watching, waiting, and wondering what it would be like to be "grown up."
I'm sure that he was just as kind to the rest of the cousins that came after him, but he had a way of making me feel special. I don't know, maybe he felt sorry for me. He had lost his father tragically at an early age. Did he remember him? We had moved back to Pennsylvania after the breakdown of my parent's marriage. My father had stepped out of our lives. The wounds of loss were only freshly scabbed and prone to bleeding. I definately remembered mine. He and I are both the eldest children in our respective families. Maybe he understood how easy it was to feel invisible against the backdrop of the needs of the younger kids. Maybe he sympathized with the struggle between trying to be strong and mature, "not a baby," and just wanting to be a child.
Who knows? It's only in retrospect that I analyze the relationship and the why's and how's of it. I struggle to make sense of what I shouldn't really dissect. All I know is that even while he struggled with his own uncertain futurity, he managed to make my present a little more bearable. I don't remember the words he said, but only that he said them. I remember they were words of encouragement and understanding. They were kind words. Kind enough to make a young girl whose soul felt perpetually on the edge of tears to look up and admire the blond boy with the too charming, quiet smile, and sparkling eyes. At a time when the main male figure of my life had disappeared, Billy unknowingly stepped in and helped ease the void.
A word of praise for a stone well skipped. A casual tousling of my mouse brown hair in a moment of silliness. A voiced concern when an ankle was overturned, a knee skinned, an arm raked by thorns.
Eventually he became a full-fledged adult (at least age wise) and I moved into the torture of the teenage years and beyond. Life moved us into different orbits and though they crossed every now and then, we didn't see each other as often as those golden summer Sundays when the cousins would gather at my Grandmother's house and we would tumble around the landscape.
I wish so much that I could say that his life continued to shine with the promise that reflected off his golden hair, but it didn't. As I caught snippets of his life through my mother's voice, I remember never really knowing if I should be happy for him or not. Like most of society these days, he felt the pain of divorce. For many years, we rarely saw Billy because he worked on a dairy farm and though we all celebrate our Christmases and Thanksgivings, the cows don't stop giving milk or needing food simply because we want to eat a turkey dinner or spend a few hours with our extended family. In the arrogance of my education, I always felt like Billy could have done so much more with his life. But I guess the question I didn't ask myself was whether or not Billy was happy with his life.
I'm sure there were things he would change, but when our paths would cross and we would inevitably find ourselves with just a brush of time to catch up I was struck by the fact that he seemed okay with the hand that life had dealt him, almost contented. Who was I to say what he should or should not have done with his life? Yes, his job was physically very demanding, but I'm not sure I would give up the soft, grain scented breath of cattle for the braying herd of humanity. A four year degree doesn't make me any more motivated to leave behind the satisfaction I get in being a stay at home mom for the childish and unreasonable demands of the job world.
Billy. I never had the chance to thank you. Say "Hi" to Grandmom for me.
Good bye.
Strange how in just a few seconds, brief as the single beat of a butterfly's ragged wing, my heart beats out a list of the people I fear for the most. No one is sick. No one has their death sentence written in a spidery handwriting of clouds and smoke waiting for the rains to come and wash their name from the sky. It was a sudden death. Final end. No good byes. No farewells. No time for tears and guilt and what if's. Those will all come later.
She says the name. Gives voice to the sentence. My heart constricts with relief and grief mixed in broad strokes of red and black swirled together in a chaotic dance. My voice trips on the barbed wire fence that has wrapped itself around my throat and has tightened painfully around the words that squeeze from my lips.
And she changes the subject, moves it to safer shores. Gives me time to recover and regroup. Distracts my heart long enough that my brain can hammer the door of my grief shut. Gives me time to peek at my grief at intervals while allowing me to slip blades of light and life into the darkness of loss.
The name on this day was that of my cousin Bill. (Or Billy as he was forever known to my tongue.) He is the eldest of my grandmother's almost 30 grandchildren. Though you would never know it by how little I saw him or spoke of him, I have always had a soft spot for him. It's hard to explain, really.
You see, the Billy that always creeps into my mind when his name is mentioned or remembered is the Billy that I remember from my childhood. A tall, lanky, blond haired boy on the cusp of manhood. At the time he seemed decades older than me, yet the reality was much less. I was ten or eleven just on the threshold of adolescence while he was standing at the exit.
He belonged to the "class" of cousins that were "above" the age group to which I belonged. Older and wiser and definately too cool for the kids who still looked under the rocks along the river and climbed the apple trees. We rode bicycles, didn't drive cars. Didn't care about cars, really. Didn't want to know about carburetors and rims, cylinders and horse power (unless it whinneyed.) We were "kids." They were... not.
Yet with Billy, even at that awkward age when it's sometimes easier to sneer and snigger at the "little ones" and tease them and taunt them with your superiority, his true heart shone through. I'm not going to pretend that his teenage arrogance didn't sometimes get the better of him, but he seemed to have a greater patience for us who were watching, waiting, and wondering what it would be like to be "grown up."
I'm sure that he was just as kind to the rest of the cousins that came after him, but he had a way of making me feel special. I don't know, maybe he felt sorry for me. He had lost his father tragically at an early age. Did he remember him? We had moved back to Pennsylvania after the breakdown of my parent's marriage. My father had stepped out of our lives. The wounds of loss were only freshly scabbed and prone to bleeding. I definately remembered mine. He and I are both the eldest children in our respective families. Maybe he understood how easy it was to feel invisible against the backdrop of the needs of the younger kids. Maybe he sympathized with the struggle between trying to be strong and mature, "not a baby," and just wanting to be a child.
Who knows? It's only in retrospect that I analyze the relationship and the why's and how's of it. I struggle to make sense of what I shouldn't really dissect. All I know is that even while he struggled with his own uncertain futurity, he managed to make my present a little more bearable. I don't remember the words he said, but only that he said them. I remember they were words of encouragement and understanding. They were kind words. Kind enough to make a young girl whose soul felt perpetually on the edge of tears to look up and admire the blond boy with the too charming, quiet smile, and sparkling eyes. At a time when the main male figure of my life had disappeared, Billy unknowingly stepped in and helped ease the void.
A word of praise for a stone well skipped. A casual tousling of my mouse brown hair in a moment of silliness. A voiced concern when an ankle was overturned, a knee skinned, an arm raked by thorns.
Eventually he became a full-fledged adult (at least age wise) and I moved into the torture of the teenage years and beyond. Life moved us into different orbits and though they crossed every now and then, we didn't see each other as often as those golden summer Sundays when the cousins would gather at my Grandmother's house and we would tumble around the landscape.
I wish so much that I could say that his life continued to shine with the promise that reflected off his golden hair, but it didn't. As I caught snippets of his life through my mother's voice, I remember never really knowing if I should be happy for him or not. Like most of society these days, he felt the pain of divorce. For many years, we rarely saw Billy because he worked on a dairy farm and though we all celebrate our Christmases and Thanksgivings, the cows don't stop giving milk or needing food simply because we want to eat a turkey dinner or spend a few hours with our extended family. In the arrogance of my education, I always felt like Billy could have done so much more with his life. But I guess the question I didn't ask myself was whether or not Billy was happy with his life.
I'm sure there were things he would change, but when our paths would cross and we would inevitably find ourselves with just a brush of time to catch up I was struck by the fact that he seemed okay with the hand that life had dealt him, almost contented. Who was I to say what he should or should not have done with his life? Yes, his job was physically very demanding, but I'm not sure I would give up the soft, grain scented breath of cattle for the braying herd of humanity. A four year degree doesn't make me any more motivated to leave behind the satisfaction I get in being a stay at home mom for the childish and unreasonable demands of the job world.
Billy. I never had the chance to thank you. Say "Hi" to Grandmom for me.
Good bye.
Monday, 18 February 2008
Has Anyone Seen My Weekend??
I'd really like to have it back. So, if you happen to find it lying around somewhere, please, let me know.
Saturdays are always a bit nutty. Especially in the morning. Lady Kate has a gymnastics class at 9am on the other side of town. As you may or may not know, this household does not currently have an automobile, so we are reliant on public transportation. What this means for our Saturday routine is that I have to get up at 6:30 am (if I want a shower) to get me and Kate ready for class. Normally, she hears me in the shower. This particular Saturday, she crawled into bed with Daddy and I and was sleeping like the proverbial rock. It took quite a bit of poking and prodding to get her functional.
Out the door at 7:45am to get to the top of the hill and make sure we are at the bus stop for the 7:55am bus (Kate will happily tell you that it is the S2) that will take us into St Albans. We get there early. Maybe a little too early, but I just don't trust buses. Technically, we should catch the 321 that leaves the high street at around 8:30am. Our S2 bus get us there at about 8:05am. There is a 321 that leaves at 8:15am, but that gets us to the school way too early and there is only so much you can do while waiting for the doors to open at 8:45am. There IS an S2 that gets there around 8:28am. Technically, Kate and I could get off that one and on to the 8:30am 321 and be on our merry litttle way. Like I said, I don't trust it. All it takes it for the S2 to be running a smidgen late or for the 321 to leave a smidgen too early and then we're stuck. The next 321 doesn't go until 9:15am. Too late for class.
So, we get to the center of town and do our thing for about a half an hour. It's actually nice. We stop at a news agent and get a paper and a juice. The market is just setting up for the day, so there is a scurry and bustle to the high street that normally isn't there at that hour of the morning. People chatting and yelling out to each other as they get their goods out for sale. Early morning shoppers who get there extra early to get the best produce off the fruit and veg stands.
Everyone has a kind word or a smile for Kate and she's been known to get a free clementine or satsuma just for her cuteness level. We make our way to our bus stop and I try to get her to eat something. She's notoriously bad at eating early in the morning. Her natural tendency is to eat around 9:30am, but if I don't get something in her stomach, she just can't focus and concentrate during gymnastics.
From here, the journey is uneventful. We get to gymnastics and all goes well. It's when gymnastics is over that the fun begins. The bus is supposed to get to the bus stop at 10:10am to take us from the gymnastics place back to town. So, Kate is done at 10am (usually on the nose.) We frantically struggle into shoes, socks, and coat and rush out the door and hurry to the bust stop.
Now, let me tell you about the previous weekend. We came around the corner to the bus stop at 10:05am. (The stop is maybe 10 feet from the corner.) The bus was there and getting ready to pull away. Eventhough I waved and signalled with all my might, the driver decided he didn't see us and left. Kate cried. I mentioned the buses come every half hour, right?
Well, the next bus (10:40am) didn't show up at all. The 11:10am bus was too full and didn't stop. Finally, the 11:40am bus stopped and we managed to squeeze on. An hour and a half we waited at that bus stop. If I had been in better shape (my back was still a bit sore) we would have done better to walk back to town. Well, that was last week.
Of course, this week the same thing happened. Now, I hate to waste money (since we buy a return ticket) but we had things to do and a schedule to keep. The weather was nice and I decided that we would try out this walking back to town and see how it goes. After drying the girl's tears (again) we headed off down the road. Bus drivers who make my girl cry are definately on my shit list. I'm finally understanding why my husband used to threaten to take a chainsaw to the buses when he was commuting to university.
She did just great. I thought there would be more whining since she had been up early and worked really hard at gymnastics, but there wasn't. She chatted the whole time and it really only took us about 30 minutes to get there. We got into town just as the next bus was arriving at town. So, yes... we could have waited and caught it and not lost any real time, but I just couldn't take the chance that perhaps the 10:40am would go missing again.
We had to make a quick stop at a small pharmacy that some of the people in my bible study group told me about. Jeff's cough is still hanging around and the *women in the know* told me to go to Derek's Pharmacy and ask for Derek's special black cough medicine. They swore it would do the trick. So, feeling a more than a little silly, I traipsed into Derek's with Kate in tow and went to the pharmacy counter. An elderly man stood behind the counter and greeted us warmly.
Well, if nothing else, I gave the guy a chuckle. "My husband has a nasty cough and the women from my church told me to go to Derek's pharmacy and ask for Derek's magical black cough medicine," I explained in a rush.
His eyes twinkled as he laughed. "I have some of this magical exilir right here," he said as he picked up a bottle from the shelf. "It's a fresh batch. Before I give it to you though, I must ask you a few questions."
I half expected him to ask me if I believed in the fay folk, unicorns, and the curative properties of mermaid scales. Oddly, I felt a little disappointed when he continued. "Is the cough a dry cough or a wet cough, a chesty cough."
"It's in his chest, " I answered truthfully.
"Good," he nodded as if I had correctly answered a pop quiz question. "This medicine is for a congested cough. Now, is he on any other medications? Prescription medicine?"
"No," I shook my head in the negative. "He takes nothing."
"Good," he said again. "Then you may have some of the magic, black medicine." After explaining the dosage information, he rang me up and we headed on our way once more.
Next stop was the "biscuit man." He's a man who runs a stand at the market and he sells biscuits (cookies) and crisps (chips) at a more reasonable price than the supermarket. (Plus a bunch of odds and ends like candy and jam and olive oil.) We stocked up on Kate's favorite "bear crisps" (yes, chips that are shaped like teddy bears) and her Cadbury Animal Crackers that are dipped in what else? Chocolate.
We rush off to Woolworth's next. I'm trying to get home before the poor thing runs out of steam and starts the whining routine. We need a present for her friend, Elise. Kate's been invited to her birthday party this afternoon. It's really the first non-family party that she's been invited to and she isn't very thrilled about the whole idea.
I was pretty astounded at how quickly she helped pick out a gift. I was flabbergasted really. I thought for sure that she'd be all for getting a gift as long as it was for herself. However, we had barely gotten to the toy aisle when she quickly picked out a "My Little Pony" and handed it to me. "This is for Elise," she said. Obviously, she had gotten the idea behind the whole gift giving thing. Yet, there was something not quite right about how quickly and willingly she completed this task.
She looked at me hopefully. Her expression was one that begged choirs of angels to hover nearby and forbid butter to melt. "And this squirrel is for me." My child is the queen of manipulation and being her mother, I can see how her schemes work. She had quickly chosen the "My Little Pony" in hopes that I would fail to spot the "Littlest Pet Shop" chinchilla toy and decide that would be a suitable present for her little friend. The speed in which this exhange happened led me to believe that as soon as she had laid eyes on the chinchilla, she decided that she MUST have it even if she didn't really know what it was.
Yes, being her mother I know how she works. But being her mother also means that I can choose to let her get her way every now and then. She had been a very good child all morning and even with the extra walking and the extra stops and missing the bus she hadn't complained one bit. It has been ages since I actually let her have a little something special. It wasn't going to totally kill the budget.
"You know what?" I said as I took it from her hands and looked it over. It was the strangest chinchilla I had ever seen. I could see why she called it a squirrel. "You've been such a great kid today and a big help. You can have this, but it's a chinchilla."
"Oh, yeah," she answered as if she knew it all along and had just momentarily forgotten. "It IS a chinchilla."
She helped me pick out a card (ladybird on it) and wrapping paper (cupcakes) and off we went. After making sure that I had put her new toy safely in my backpack, we skipped off to find the S2 to take us home. She didn't even glance at the little bakery where we always stop to get a cookie for her to eat after lunch. She had her chinchilla and she certainly wasn't going to push her luck.
Thankfully, the bus came rather quickly and we motored on home. She ate a quick lunch while I packed her clothes for Gran's house and Daddy wrapped the birthday present. Before we knew it, it was time to leave for the party. Elise's mom had rented out one of the halls at the church, so no transportation worries. It was within walking distance.
When we got there, I could tell that Kate was starting to feel the length of her day. As soon as we got in the front door and she heard the music from upstairs she simply collapsed in a heap on the floor. "I don't want to go to a party, Mummy," she sniffled with the hint of a whinge.
Basically, I ended up carrying her upstairs. A dead weight, sack of potatoes carry while I juggled her penguin backpack that contained her clothes and a small owl backpack that her Gran had brought back from Scotland for her which carried the chinchilla and two tigers. Now, keep in mind, when I got this invitation for the party it said VERY clearly that it was a craft party and that the kids would be doing crafts. So, imagine my surprise when the majority of the little girls were in proper party dresses. We're talking taffetta and satin. Sparkles and lace. Velvet and bows. And Kate in her pink fleece with pink pants and her hair looking like I had combed it with a blender. (Can I help it that hats do horrible things to her hair?)
Not that Kate noticed. She was too busy whimpering at my feet like I had just set her in a pit of acid. "Come on," I hissed. "Get up. Elise is here. You'll have fun." At that moment, I looked up to see one of the little girls that had been in Kate's nursery class in the fall (she has since moved up to the reception class with the January intakes). Grace is one of those absolutely adorable little girls who look more like a doll than an actual child. She has the biggest eyes I have ever seen ... well, on anyone actually. Her hair was perfectly braided in two french braids down either side of her head and she was wearing a very girly teal print dress made out of some sort of chiffon with a matching sweater over top of it.
Her little face lit up when she saw Kate from across the room. With dainty, ladylike steps she came to her and like a little fairy princess, she held out her hand as if she would lead her to some magical world where they eat nothing but fancy sweets and cakes. I'd like to say that Kate was so happy to see her "old" friend that she jumped up and took Grace by the hand and went to play. Not my child. She sobbed and buried her face into my leg. Poor Grace looked disappointed.
"Hello, Grace!" I said brightly. (Maybe a little TOO brightly.) "It's nice to see you again! How is school?"
"School is very nice. Thank you for asking," she said sweetly as she smiled at me. Whose kid has manners that are THAT impeccable??? Luckily the woman who was running the craft portion of the party announced that it was time to put on aprons (little plastic disposable ones that she provided) and get crafting. I managed to get Kate into an apron and seated at the table and soon the tears and the fears were forgotten.
She spent the next two hours using markers on a little tote bag, painting a giant toadstool to put in the garden, and making a clay pot and sticking "gems" into it. She had a great time. She managed to cover her ears and not make a fuss when they sang "Happy Birthday" to Elise and ate most of the small snacky-lunch that was provided while stuffing as many chocolate treats, cupcakes, and cookies into her tummy as she could. Before we knew it, it was 3 pm and Daddy had arrived to take Kate to Gran's.
Since he has a season ticket for the train, it is cheaper for him to take her by train to Borehamwood and then by bus to Barnet. However, today Gran was meeting them in Borehamwood and taking Kate from there. (Reports have it that even though Gran said it wouldn't be a double decker bus, it most definately was and Kate was absolutely thrilled. She loves sitting on the top deck at the front and looking out over the land.)
I returned home and from there... well, I don't know where the rest of the weekend went. I know I rousted my husband out of bed and made him go to the 9am church service with me on Sunday. (Our dear friend Liz was preaching the sermon.) And I vaguely remember nagging him for hours on end to work on the rabbit hutch that I was promised months ago. (I still have two rabbits living in my kitchen.) Oh, I made New England Clam Chowder and added a bit of other seafood to the recipe for a bit of a change.
Other than that.... I'm not sure where it all went. So, if you see any of it lying around. A bit here or a piece there. I'd love to have it back.
Saturdays are always a bit nutty. Especially in the morning. Lady Kate has a gymnastics class at 9am on the other side of town. As you may or may not know, this household does not currently have an automobile, so we are reliant on public transportation. What this means for our Saturday routine is that I have to get up at 6:30 am (if I want a shower) to get me and Kate ready for class. Normally, she hears me in the shower. This particular Saturday, she crawled into bed with Daddy and I and was sleeping like the proverbial rock. It took quite a bit of poking and prodding to get her functional.
Out the door at 7:45am to get to the top of the hill and make sure we are at the bus stop for the 7:55am bus (Kate will happily tell you that it is the S2) that will take us into St Albans. We get there early. Maybe a little too early, but I just don't trust buses. Technically, we should catch the 321 that leaves the high street at around 8:30am. Our S2 bus get us there at about 8:05am. There is a 321 that leaves at 8:15am, but that gets us to the school way too early and there is only so much you can do while waiting for the doors to open at 8:45am. There IS an S2 that gets there around 8:28am. Technically, Kate and I could get off that one and on to the 8:30am 321 and be on our merry litttle way. Like I said, I don't trust it. All it takes it for the S2 to be running a smidgen late or for the 321 to leave a smidgen too early and then we're stuck. The next 321 doesn't go until 9:15am. Too late for class.
So, we get to the center of town and do our thing for about a half an hour. It's actually nice. We stop at a news agent and get a paper and a juice. The market is just setting up for the day, so there is a scurry and bustle to the high street that normally isn't there at that hour of the morning. People chatting and yelling out to each other as they get their goods out for sale. Early morning shoppers who get there extra early to get the best produce off the fruit and veg stands.
Everyone has a kind word or a smile for Kate and she's been known to get a free clementine or satsuma just for her cuteness level. We make our way to our bus stop and I try to get her to eat something. She's notoriously bad at eating early in the morning. Her natural tendency is to eat around 9:30am, but if I don't get something in her stomach, she just can't focus and concentrate during gymnastics.
From here, the journey is uneventful. We get to gymnastics and all goes well. It's when gymnastics is over that the fun begins. The bus is supposed to get to the bus stop at 10:10am to take us from the gymnastics place back to town. So, Kate is done at 10am (usually on the nose.) We frantically struggle into shoes, socks, and coat and rush out the door and hurry to the bust stop.
Now, let me tell you about the previous weekend. We came around the corner to the bus stop at 10:05am. (The stop is maybe 10 feet from the corner.) The bus was there and getting ready to pull away. Eventhough I waved and signalled with all my might, the driver decided he didn't see us and left. Kate cried. I mentioned the buses come every half hour, right?
Well, the next bus (10:40am) didn't show up at all. The 11:10am bus was too full and didn't stop. Finally, the 11:40am bus stopped and we managed to squeeze on. An hour and a half we waited at that bus stop. If I had been in better shape (my back was still a bit sore) we would have done better to walk back to town. Well, that was last week.
Of course, this week the same thing happened. Now, I hate to waste money (since we buy a return ticket) but we had things to do and a schedule to keep. The weather was nice and I decided that we would try out this walking back to town and see how it goes. After drying the girl's tears (again) we headed off down the road. Bus drivers who make my girl cry are definately on my shit list. I'm finally understanding why my husband used to threaten to take a chainsaw to the buses when he was commuting to university.
She did just great. I thought there would be more whining since she had been up early and worked really hard at gymnastics, but there wasn't. She chatted the whole time and it really only took us about 30 minutes to get there. We got into town just as the next bus was arriving at town. So, yes... we could have waited and caught it and not lost any real time, but I just couldn't take the chance that perhaps the 10:40am would go missing again.
We had to make a quick stop at a small pharmacy that some of the people in my bible study group told me about. Jeff's cough is still hanging around and the *women in the know* told me to go to Derek's Pharmacy and ask for Derek's special black cough medicine. They swore it would do the trick. So, feeling a more than a little silly, I traipsed into Derek's with Kate in tow and went to the pharmacy counter. An elderly man stood behind the counter and greeted us warmly.
Well, if nothing else, I gave the guy a chuckle. "My husband has a nasty cough and the women from my church told me to go to Derek's pharmacy and ask for Derek's magical black cough medicine," I explained in a rush.
His eyes twinkled as he laughed. "I have some of this magical exilir right here," he said as he picked up a bottle from the shelf. "It's a fresh batch. Before I give it to you though, I must ask you a few questions."
I half expected him to ask me if I believed in the fay folk, unicorns, and the curative properties of mermaid scales. Oddly, I felt a little disappointed when he continued. "Is the cough a dry cough or a wet cough, a chesty cough."
"It's in his chest, " I answered truthfully.
"Good," he nodded as if I had correctly answered a pop quiz question. "This medicine is for a congested cough. Now, is he on any other medications? Prescription medicine?"
"No," I shook my head in the negative. "He takes nothing."
"Good," he said again. "Then you may have some of the magic, black medicine." After explaining the dosage information, he rang me up and we headed on our way once more.
Next stop was the "biscuit man." He's a man who runs a stand at the market and he sells biscuits (cookies) and crisps (chips) at a more reasonable price than the supermarket. (Plus a bunch of odds and ends like candy and jam and olive oil.) We stocked up on Kate's favorite "bear crisps" (yes, chips that are shaped like teddy bears) and her Cadbury Animal Crackers that are dipped in what else? Chocolate.
We rush off to Woolworth's next. I'm trying to get home before the poor thing runs out of steam and starts the whining routine. We need a present for her friend, Elise. Kate's been invited to her birthday party this afternoon. It's really the first non-family party that she's been invited to and she isn't very thrilled about the whole idea.
I was pretty astounded at how quickly she helped pick out a gift. I was flabbergasted really. I thought for sure that she'd be all for getting a gift as long as it was for herself. However, we had barely gotten to the toy aisle when she quickly picked out a "My Little Pony" and handed it to me. "This is for Elise," she said. Obviously, she had gotten the idea behind the whole gift giving thing. Yet, there was something not quite right about how quickly and willingly she completed this task.
She looked at me hopefully. Her expression was one that begged choirs of angels to hover nearby and forbid butter to melt. "And this squirrel is for me." My child is the queen of manipulation and being her mother, I can see how her schemes work. She had quickly chosen the "My Little Pony" in hopes that I would fail to spot the "Littlest Pet Shop" chinchilla toy and decide that would be a suitable present for her little friend. The speed in which this exhange happened led me to believe that as soon as she had laid eyes on the chinchilla, she decided that she MUST have it even if she didn't really know what it was.
Yes, being her mother I know how she works. But being her mother also means that I can choose to let her get her way every now and then. She had been a very good child all morning and even with the extra walking and the extra stops and missing the bus she hadn't complained one bit. It has been ages since I actually let her have a little something special. It wasn't going to totally kill the budget.
"You know what?" I said as I took it from her hands and looked it over. It was the strangest chinchilla I had ever seen. I could see why she called it a squirrel. "You've been such a great kid today and a big help. You can have this, but it's a chinchilla."
"Oh, yeah," she answered as if she knew it all along and had just momentarily forgotten. "It IS a chinchilla."
She helped me pick out a card (ladybird on it) and wrapping paper (cupcakes) and off we went. After making sure that I had put her new toy safely in my backpack, we skipped off to find the S2 to take us home. She didn't even glance at the little bakery where we always stop to get a cookie for her to eat after lunch. She had her chinchilla and she certainly wasn't going to push her luck.
Thankfully, the bus came rather quickly and we motored on home. She ate a quick lunch while I packed her clothes for Gran's house and Daddy wrapped the birthday present. Before we knew it, it was time to leave for the party. Elise's mom had rented out one of the halls at the church, so no transportation worries. It was within walking distance.
When we got there, I could tell that Kate was starting to feel the length of her day. As soon as we got in the front door and she heard the music from upstairs she simply collapsed in a heap on the floor. "I don't want to go to a party, Mummy," she sniffled with the hint of a whinge.
Basically, I ended up carrying her upstairs. A dead weight, sack of potatoes carry while I juggled her penguin backpack that contained her clothes and a small owl backpack that her Gran had brought back from Scotland for her which carried the chinchilla and two tigers. Now, keep in mind, when I got this invitation for the party it said VERY clearly that it was a craft party and that the kids would be doing crafts. So, imagine my surprise when the majority of the little girls were in proper party dresses. We're talking taffetta and satin. Sparkles and lace. Velvet and bows. And Kate in her pink fleece with pink pants and her hair looking like I had combed it with a blender. (Can I help it that hats do horrible things to her hair?)
Not that Kate noticed. She was too busy whimpering at my feet like I had just set her in a pit of acid. "Come on," I hissed. "Get up. Elise is here. You'll have fun." At that moment, I looked up to see one of the little girls that had been in Kate's nursery class in the fall (she has since moved up to the reception class with the January intakes). Grace is one of those absolutely adorable little girls who look more like a doll than an actual child. She has the biggest eyes I have ever seen ... well, on anyone actually. Her hair was perfectly braided in two french braids down either side of her head and she was wearing a very girly teal print dress made out of some sort of chiffon with a matching sweater over top of it.
Her little face lit up when she saw Kate from across the room. With dainty, ladylike steps she came to her and like a little fairy princess, she held out her hand as if she would lead her to some magical world where they eat nothing but fancy sweets and cakes. I'd like to say that Kate was so happy to see her "old" friend that she jumped up and took Grace by the hand and went to play. Not my child. She sobbed and buried her face into my leg. Poor Grace looked disappointed.
"Hello, Grace!" I said brightly. (Maybe a little TOO brightly.) "It's nice to see you again! How is school?"
"School is very nice. Thank you for asking," she said sweetly as she smiled at me. Whose kid has manners that are THAT impeccable??? Luckily the woman who was running the craft portion of the party announced that it was time to put on aprons (little plastic disposable ones that she provided) and get crafting. I managed to get Kate into an apron and seated at the table and soon the tears and the fears were forgotten.
She spent the next two hours using markers on a little tote bag, painting a giant toadstool to put in the garden, and making a clay pot and sticking "gems" into it. She had a great time. She managed to cover her ears and not make a fuss when they sang "Happy Birthday" to Elise and ate most of the small snacky-lunch that was provided while stuffing as many chocolate treats, cupcakes, and cookies into her tummy as she could. Before we knew it, it was 3 pm and Daddy had arrived to take Kate to Gran's.
Since he has a season ticket for the train, it is cheaper for him to take her by train to Borehamwood and then by bus to Barnet. However, today Gran was meeting them in Borehamwood and taking Kate from there. (Reports have it that even though Gran said it wouldn't be a double decker bus, it most definately was and Kate was absolutely thrilled. She loves sitting on the top deck at the front and looking out over the land.)
I returned home and from there... well, I don't know where the rest of the weekend went. I know I rousted my husband out of bed and made him go to the 9am church service with me on Sunday. (Our dear friend Liz was preaching the sermon.) And I vaguely remember nagging him for hours on end to work on the rabbit hutch that I was promised months ago. (I still have two rabbits living in my kitchen.) Oh, I made New England Clam Chowder and added a bit of other seafood to the recipe for a bit of a change.
Other than that.... I'm not sure where it all went. So, if you see any of it lying around. A bit here or a piece there. I'd love to have it back.
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