Festival Madness

Groovy Baby

The skies are grey, rain is in the offing, so yes, it is that Music Festival time of year. Last year we took little Cassie to her first music festival and she slept blissfully through most of it looking very cute indeed in her pink ear defenders. This year I am guessing she will be a little more active which means that Gramps and I will be struggling to our feet from the picnic rug more than we are used to. Let’s hope the old knees, ankles and backs will stand it!

Forty years ago Gramps and I went to the very first music festival ever to be held in the UK. The Isle of Wight decided it could be the Woodstock of England. So off we went wearing our loons, tie –dye-three-button-t-shirts and leather sandals which smelled so strongly of the camel urine they had been cured in. It didn’t matter though as the smell of patchouli incense and weed was so strong that nothing could penetrate it. Fifty thousand people descended on the Isle of Wight and we all looked exactly the same! (Although it became apparent as the weekend progressed that some of the crowd, the ones with suspiciously short hair, big boots and Alsatian (sniffer) dogs were not, perhaps, as ‘laid back’ (daddy-oh) as the rest of us.)

The sun shone, the music was great, the weed was weak, and people made love not war, and when a press helicopter started circling overhead whilst the acoustic folk group, Pentangle, were playing, fifty thousand people rose to their feet and gave it a two fingered salute. God did we feel powerful – flower powerful? This was the sixties baby and us middle class rural baby boomers were taking a tiny sip of the elixir of the Age Of Aquarius!

No worries that weekend about the damp grass affecting the rheumatic knees! The funny thing is that it only seems a few minutes ago that those happy hippy young things were gramps and I. Make hay while the sun shines kids, life is short but it can be great!

Granny Bloggins

Festive Functions

This time last year I wrote a post about how I had lost my Joi De Vivre - we took Cass to her first ever music festival and while I was supposed to be being a cool and laid back Mummy all I did was worry about her eating and sleeping, and yes of course, pooing. I felt that perhaps I was never going to get my groove back and that maybe this was what motherhood was; a constant feeling of anxiety about the little midgetty person, just enough so that you never really relaxed and enjoyed yourself. Well, the good news is that that passed quickly and this year, I knew that when she needed to sleep, she would sleep, if she was hungry she would eat and all her other bodily functions would be just fine.

And indeed they were. While the music was great, the food overpriced (and as is so often the case at festivals, disappointing) and the festival atmosphere jovial, my favourite moment this year did indeed feature a bodily function. Sorry, I don't often do a post about poo, but here it is.

Apparently one of the top reasons that people list for avoiding festivals is the loos. I get that. Portaloos are not glamorous and don't exactly provide the leisurely experience of the home porcelain. Lucky for Cassie, she isn't potty trained (God forbid, she is only 17 months) and so had no issues with that.

So my resounding memories of this years festival will be my child backing up into a big hedge that she had located in order to do her job of work. Imagine the scene; a grubby little cherub, her tog suit pretty much muddy from head to foot, with bright pink ear defenders on, nuzzling (if you can nuzzle with your backside? does that make it buzzling?) backwards into a huge bank of shurbs, squatting and then doing the face. You know, the face. And pretending she is on her own by not making eye contact with any of the people passing by who were chuckling because they knew the face too.

Brilliant. What I like about motherhood is that every new phase gives you something new to enjoy, some new moment to cherish and some new challenge to work with, and so I think we might have to make this festival post a yearly event - what will be next year's festival 'Kodak Moment'?

The Mummatron

Writing Lists...

The Babyproof Bucket List

A few months ago my father in law was diagnosed with cancer. As you can imagine, my lovely hubby was having a pretty hard time of it so I suggested a treat; a yummy meal and a movie on the telly. Now to those of you who still have a life, I know that doesn’t sound like a big deal, but for those of us who usually have just about enough energy for half (yes indeed half) an episode of ‘The Wire’ before we nod off, a whole movie is HUGE.
So I decided on something called The Bucket List which looked like an amusing diversion - Nicholson and Freeman - what could go wrong? Nicholson and Freeman with terminal cancer - what could be a worse choice (you stupid stupid cow, read the synopsis next time you idiot)?

Anyway, after recovering from that faux pas, I got to thinking about Lists (of the Bucket variety, hence the capital L) and whether you could still have one if your main priority was your newly burgeon-ed family unit... And I figured yes, you can but it need to be babyproofed. And so here goes, my Things To Do Before Ya Cark It List:

1. The American Road Trip: Starting in Alaska and ending up in Patagonia, in a bloody great gas-guzzling palace on wheels (I’ll plant some trees as I go). Not til CK is old enough to handle being strapped in for more than 12 minutes without screaming - so probably 2020...
2. Learn a new language: So I always make an effort to be able to ask for my egg and chips in the vernacular, but I have never been able to hold a conversation, or go beyond the basics. I suppose Spanish is the best choice to aid with List Item 1 (am already fully fluent in Yankee Twang).
3. Become a pianist: I play the saxophone (or used to at least) and while that is lovely, no-one has ever wanted to gather around it and have a singalong. In fact most people want to get about 3 rooms away to spare their hearing - I played it for little CK the other day and she cried. So am thinking maybe piano is more versatile, more sociable? All I need now is a piano, and a teacher, and some time (and will) to practice.
4. Bite the Bullet and eat Michelin: Anyone who knows me, knows I like my food. And I love to eat out. And I LOVE Masterchef and their obsession with stars. But I have never been able to bring myself to go to a starred restaurant - all that money for something you are, eventually, going to flush - surely that’s not moral? But I want to! I want to!
5. Own a dog: Man's best friend, every family needs one, easier (marginally) than having another child.

That’s the start - what have I forgotten? What would you put on your Bucket List? I’ll let you know as soon as I tick anything off the list - but don’t hold your breath for too long!

The Mummatron

A Bit of A To-Do

In the days of BC (before Children) I seem to remember that I was an efficient and organised kinda gal. I found time for all sorts of jollys, I planned and threw parties; dinner parties, fancy dress parties, loud music parties, parties with games, grown-up parties with complicated guest lists and parties which featured a lot of alcohol and some less legal substances – don’t look so shocked it was the early 70’s. I baked my own bread, sifted my own lentils, made my own marmalade, and, but not at the same time - cut my own hair (yes, well that may have been a mistake but hey, money was scarce). All this, while working and being newly married. Then along came children.

From then on it seems that I needed to write lists for everything; shopping, jobs to be done, where I needed to be and when. I can remember going to the supermarket, glancing down to see why the floor seemed so slippery, and realising I was still wearing my slippers. Did I have my purse or shopping list? What do you think? Of course not. Parties? Give me a break I couldn’t have organised a pig-out in a doughnut factory!

Then, of course, when my little darlings started school they clamoured for birthday parties so I had to gird my proverbials and start making lists… And I must say that those parties were always very successful and here’s my secret: I would get a pal to help and ask her to arrive an hour before the start time, at which point we would open a bottle of white wine and drink the lot! Yeah! Boy those parties went with a swing! (Though I have to admit that there were always other mothers there to drive to the hospital if any of the little party-goers came to grief).

However, I digress… once my daughter was at school my brain seemed to become my own again, I felt lucid and efficient once more. I read the newspapers, organised trips with friends, trained the puppy, managed reasonably well-informed conversations and was able to get through a whole day without a single list to tell me who I was and what I should be wearing. Unfortunately what I didn’t know at the time was that it was merely the ‘eye of the storm’ and now at nearly 60 Lists are once again the order of the day. So if you are at home with your little ones wondering if your brain will ever work properly again, the answer is probably not, but try to think of it as the perfect training for how to make great lists to sustain you in your old age. Who am I again? Oh yes,

Granny Bloggings

Week 14: Getting on...

Crows Feet and other fun...

One of CK’s favourite moments in the mornings is to have a quick squizz at us in the mirror. She loves it. I am horrified by it. What has happened to me? Her peachy, perfect soft skin serves only to exaggerate my creased, lined, aged, old skin. And it is not just the complexion that is suffering...

I have always prided myself on my interest in everything current and as a music fan, have always tried to stay one step ahead of the charts - I like to think that I am ‘over’ most number 1s before they make it there. No more. I switched on Radio 1 the other day (having crossed over to Radio 4 during my pregnancy) and found myself mumbling under my breath, in much the same style as my grandfather, “What is this rubbish? It’s doesn’t even seem to make sense grammatically!!” I swiftly re-tuned the wireless and was wrapped in the warmth of my equally uncool friends Libby Purves, Jenny Murray and Evan Davis (although I think he is secretly very cool, he’s just not allowed to show it to the Radio 4 listernership).

I also tried logging on to Twitter this week (which is what has sparked off this tirade) and I just don’t understand it. I don’t know what I am supposed to do on there, why I would want to use it or what the point is. And I’m a media teacher for God’s sake!

Is this another ‘symptom’ of pregnancy? Is it nature’s way of making sure that CK can forge her own identity without me trying to hop on board the latest trends? I’m not sure. But I do know this. Tempah is spelt like this: temper. A chipmunk is a little squeaky rodent. Tweets are what birdies do. And gaga is what you are after childbirth, and no, it isn’t cool at all.

p.s. if you don’t understand the last paragraph... you know what that means... you are past it too! Hurray!
The Mummatron


Getting Old

With this topic I think I may have a bit of an advantage. My next birthday is the big 60, is that old? Well some mornings it feels like a Methuselah-fest and other mornings I can skip out of bed like the proverbial spring woolly thing, you know, the one you eat with mint sauce …. And there’s the main problem about getting old, never mind the groans, creaks and windy emissions it’s the lack of ability to access your random memory base that is the most frustrating part of it. It helps if you have been married as long as I have because my husband and I have known each other since we were 16 so we can sew a pretty good patchwork of memories between us, but some days that just isn’t enough for either of us.

As old age creeps silently up behind you with cold twiggy fingers outstretched you learn all sorts of new skills; how not to scream when the chiropracter chops down on your spine with the full force of her boney little hands; how to keep your opinions to yourself now that you have learnt that you will never change a racist Fascist; how to plan how you will get up again before sitting on the floor, and always, always avoid large bean bag chairs, especially when the phone is likely to ring – over there on the table – argh!

My latest lesson in ageing is that babies are not what they used to be. I hardly dare do anything with my little granddaughter CK without checking with my daughter if it is OK these days to: feed her banana; go within 15 feet of her if I am wearing any synthetic materials; lay her on her – side – tummy – back, although obviously not her head, we never even did that in the Old Days. And the nappies! My goodness how they have all changed. When changing CKs’ nappy I first have to find my reading glasses and get stuck into the introductory course on how to open the baby wipes and how to use them. Then the nappies themselves require quite advanced training on type, size and absorbability, not to mention which nappy cream to use when and where! I suppose this is all good training for when I shall have to start stealing her nappies for myself, but I am keeping my ever so slightly arthritic fingers crossed that that will be a long time in the future.

Granny Bloggins