Gradually distilling that Christmas spirit

It's taking a while but I am gradually getting into the Christmas mood. I suspect because we are pretty much having Christmas delivered by eBay and Amazon, and I am therefore not out in the shops much, it takes longer for it to really sink in that Christmas is almost upon us. There is something about hearing Slade drilling remorselessly into your ears that really brings it home that the festive season is nigh. Not surprisingly, we don't play that particular song on a loop while we surf the net so haven't succumbed to its insidious charms.

On Friday I attended First Born's P4 and P5 Christmas concert at a church near his school. He wasn't doing anything particular - I mean he was there and singing with the rest but not doing a solo or playing an instrument or anything. (He has not, it would appear, inherited his father's musical aptitude. Or if he has, he is keeping it very quiet.) A girl we have known since she was 4 as she used to be in FB's nursery class opened the proceedings by singing Emmanuel. Solo and unaccompanied in front of a couple of hundred of her schoolmates, assorted teachers and hordes of parents and grandparents. She's not my daughter but I still got a lump in my throat. God help me if one of mine ever does something similar - I will dissolve so fast they will need to scrape me off the floor and send me home in a bucket.

The singing of various carols, finishing off with "O Come All Ye Faithful", got the Christmas spirit going at long last. I used to sing (badly) in choirs all the way through school and every Christmas sang in the Christmas concert. The sound of those carols and Christmas songs (we used to do a very jazzy medley of stuff like Frosty the Snowman and Winter Wonderland) takes me right back in an instant to my childhood.

My mum and my gran would always come to those concerts and either really enjoyed them or did a splendid job of pretending. My dad worked abroad in Saudi Arabia so more often than not was not around for Christmas itself. We spent many hours on various Christmas days struggling with the frankly Kafka-esque Saudi telephone system trying to get through to speak to him for a couple of brief minutes. My Christmas memories therefore do not always include my dad, which is a shame.

They do however include my mum outside in the garden raking through the bin because my brother tore through his presents like a tasmanian devil (the Bugs Bunny incarnation of course) and invariably missed the little card from my other granny with a £5 postal order in it which then went out in the bin with the wrapping paper debris. Christmas wasn't Christmas unless my mum was up to her armpits in the bin, outside in the freezing cold, shouting "What colour was the wrapping paper??????" Makes me wonder what our own children's memories of Christmas will be when they are grown up. Mostly the Dr Who Christmas Special, I suspect.

*shudder*

Just been for a quick lunchtime visit to the new gym and it went pretty well. On closer inspection, the changing rooms were even more utilitarian than I remembered (think painted breeze block walls, reminiscent of primary school) but they were spotlessly clean and EMPTY. I could have danced around naked to my heart's content without frightening anyone. You know, if I'd wanted to.

I just wanted a quick run so I set the treadmill for 30 minutes, 1% incline and 8kph and off I went. I ran for 30 minutes and then cooled down for 5. Covered 4 and a bit km. BUT! I should get extra credit because on the TV screen for most of that run was Cliff Richard on Loose Women. I know I couldn't hear him but I could see him and he was trying to dance (like he did on SCD on Sunday night) and at one point they had his calendar out and were showing a picture of him pretending to shave and wearing nothing but a towel. Frankly I deserve a medal for not gagging and falling off the treadmill at that point. Someone needs to take Sir Cliff off to one side and tell him that (a) he is too old for leather trousers. By about 50 years. And (b) he is just...icky and should stop. Just stop.*

*Sorry to any Cliff fans reading.**

** Except not really. What are you thinking?????

It's a worry

Just had a conversation with Second Born. I was in the kitchen, preparing some of the mountain of fruit this family gets through in a week when he appeared and demanded a hug. I dutifully got down on my knees (having wiped the pineapple off my hands) and gave the requested cuddle. Second Born then pulled back and looked at me with a very serious face.

"I am concerned" he said.

"Really?"

"Yes. Concerned"

"Oh dear, what are you concerned about?" (Thinks: He looks really serious. What could it be? Fallen out with friend? Broken something and wants to own up? Bullied at school? WHAT?!!!)

"Yes. My friend on Club Penguin* has two bamboo sofas in his igloo with a rug in between them and they look really nice and I can't figure out how to get them like that in my igloo. Mine just don't look right."

Interior design. It's a worry.

* Club Penguin, for those without children, is a social networking-type site for children where their characters are penguins and they have their own igloos which they can furnish how they like, purchasing stuff from a catalogue using the coins they earn working in the Pizza restaurant or playing games. Glad you asked now, aren't you?

Oh, was that the weekend?.....

At the risk of repeating myself, the weekends just vanish like snow off a dyke these days. I'm sure in the days BC (before children) weekends were long and lazy and langorous. I'm sure I used to read the newspapers. All of them. And we used to have lengthy breakfast-come-brunches involving fresh bread, still warm from the oven.

Actually, that is one of the things I miss about living where we do now. We used to live in Marchmont, which is the heart of middle-class bohemia mixed with student-land. On a weekend morning, we could stroll to our nearest corner shop for brunch supplies, but in Marchmont corner shops, there were a dozen different kinds of bread, many baked right there on the premises, and croissants and pains au chocolat. There were scores of different kinds of cheeses and olives and what have you. We moved up here to the suburbs (two kids = can't afford to live in Marchmont any more!) and discovered that the bread in our local shop is steadfastly plastic wrapped and your choice of cheese is either shrink wrapped orange cheddar or Dairylea. Takes the spontaneity out of weekend brunches if you have to pack the kids into the car and to go Sainsbury's.

Anyway, where was I? Oh the weekend. Early shopping on Saturday so that husband could have a jam session with his friend (very loud. We have a drumkit. And friend has just acquired a big amp which they wanted to "blow the dust out of"). I spent the day finishing off my sister-in-law's birthday cake. She has a phobia about eyeballs so of course I made her a cake with a big icing eyeball on it, complete with wee red veins. I would show you a photo, but we didn't take one. It tasted good though and my children enjoyed shouting "You're eating EYEBALL!" at her.

Sunday I took First Born to karate and went in the gym while he karate-d. I ran on the treadmill, which was lovely because the gym has a window and you can see sky and trees and stuff, and I stretched and did sit-ups and a wee stint on the exercise bike. Then I went home, showered and drove Second Born to a birthday party in Bonnyrigg. Went fruitlessly looking for some Christmas presents and then picked him up again and took him home.

Made pizza for dinner for everyone and that was pretty much it. Watched Strictly Come Dancing of course. I am a bit sorry to see Letitia go. She is the same age as me and I liked to fantasise that with a bit of BBC makeup and wardrobe magic, I too could look like that (the fact my legs are about 9 inches shorter than hers and my hair is mousy brown and short is of course irrelevant). I liked the fact that she was real-life-woman-shaped and proud of it.

You know you're getting old when the highlight of your weekend involves Bruce Forsyth.

I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it

Running slightly behind time this morning, the boys had not appeared downstairs after going up to get washed and dressed. Or at least dressed. I loaded all the paraphernalia into the car and then headed upstairs to find out what was happening, as usually they like a couple of minutes of Gameboy time before we leave and it's not like them to miss out on it.

I found them both deep in discussion of some Star Wars role playing type game (First Born again being Darth Maul I think. Handy, as the jam on his face is red). FB is pretty much dressed. He shrugs his blazer on and disappears downstairs. Second Born does not yet have tie, jumper, blazer or shoes on. He dashes around getting ready and grabs his blazer. Then he wails "Mum! It's too big for me! I need a new blazer!" I look back. He is indeed swamped by the blazer. I call FB back upstairs. "Is your blazer okay?"

"Yeah" he shrugs. I shake my head in disbelief and position both boys in front of the mirror. FB's shoulders are up around his ears and his blazer barely reaches his backside. SB can hardly be seen for his. "Any suggestions as to what might have happened here?" I ask.

There is a pause before realisation dawns and the fighting starts "You stole my blazer!" "I didn't know it was your blazer and anyway you took mine" "I don't want yours...." etc etc. Normality resumes. I should have just let them go like that.

Boys will be boys

Before I had children, I used to believe, in a woolly half-thought-out sort of way, that how kids turned out was mostly to do with how they were brought up. Nurture versus nature. It was the kind of thinking that had me deciding, before my first son was born, that he would not be allowed to drink anything but milk and water (no sugary fruit juice for my child!); that he would watch very little TV (Yes. Well. Moving right along.); and that he would not have violent toys such as guns and so on.

Those of you with sons are now either wiping tears of laughter from your eyes or shaking your head in disbelief at my naivety. Children are born (are you ready for this?) with fully formed personalities. And! All your carefully considered decisions about how you are going to raise your perfect child go out the window when you bring your little bundle home and actually have to figure out strategies to get through the day. And more importantly, the night. Hate the idea of dummies but your baby likes to suck on something to get to sleep? No contest. Your need to sleep, and therefore function like something resembling a human being, triumphs and the dummy is purchased.

Now, I am way past all of that stuff as my offspring are now big lumps of boy but I was reminded this morning of our very short-lived attempts not to allow the boys violent toys such as guns, lasers, thermo-nuclear devices and so on. I will let you into a secret: boys like that stuff. If you don't let them have actual toy laser guns, they will make them out of anything they can lay their hands on: lego, twigs, cutlery, you name it. Eventually you realise there is no point in trying to shield your little angel from the influence of a toy sonic blaster when he is playing at melting his brother's face with a chopstick.

This morning, our two were playing at Star Wars in the living room as we got the car packed ready for the day. The living room door was closed (in order to exclude the boring adults who insisted that the death of Darth Maul must wait till after school), but we could see them as it has glass panels. When we were ready to go, husband and I stood at the door and scratched pathetically at it to be allowed in. First Born spotted us and howled "No!". Second Born appeared at the door and repelled us with the immortal threat "Get back! I have a sheep and I am not afraid to use it!"

See, in the hands of a 7 year old, even a stuffed toy is a lethal weapon.

Yeugh

A very housebound weekend we have had (gone all Yoda there for some reason). We had planned to go swimming with the boys and my ex-brother-in-law (husband is allergic to chlorine and is therefore excused such outings. Just the sound of a swimming pool brings him out in a rash) but we cancelled that as First Born has picked up a belter of a cough/cold thing and I decided it was not fair on the citizens of Edinburgh to let him loose in a pool, exuding unpleasant secretions as he is.

We had expected absolutely awful weather from every weather forecast we had seen: reports of gale force winds, rain, plagues of frogs etc. None of which actually arrived. We had a standard early December weekend. Cool, overcast, a bit dreich. I think we would be as well to go back to the traditional "bit of seaweed outside the window" method of weather forecasting.

So we have been indoors for pretty much the whole weekend. With First Born snorting and coughing and gurgling on the couch. Can anyone tell me how you train a 9 year old boy to blow his nose on a tissue rather than, say, to snort loudly and then wipe his nose with his hand/sleeve? I should be grateful I suppose, that we are past the stage when he was using my sleeve or whatever part of me happened to be handy, or indeed just appearing with......"stuff" on the end of his finger to be dealt with. The joys of toddler parenthood: drive-by snottings.