tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30690359536908280342023-11-16T00:00:36.127-08:00Rebecca_In the Slow LaneLiving the Slow Life: Parenting 3 Little Boys, Growing Tiny Seeds, Keeping Chickens and still Night Feeding.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-10856058077619104642021-02-23T08:50:00.006-08:002021-02-23T11:48:12.622-08:00Lockdown February 2021- Week 7: a Birthday Sack of Potatoes.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4GDw_C_qz2UoYaJZB5nH4lOmjAcvF42ktO54857nm0XygA0Bmjr07vCJQN00lWZ7lTUVU15SfLIDtfjPD-IrLmupCydR7d3WzS3HMKSl47oqBepnGyDFlM1qWQ2USboAU1PV-Dba10Ea1/s2576/IMG_4214.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2576" data-original-width="1932" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4GDw_C_qz2UoYaJZB5nH4lOmjAcvF42ktO54857nm0XygA0Bmjr07vCJQN00lWZ7lTUVU15SfLIDtfjPD-IrLmupCydR7d3WzS3HMKSl47oqBepnGyDFlM1qWQ2USboAU1PV-Dba10Ea1/w300-h400/IMG_4214.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>I didn't do it at Christmas, or New Year, or even Valentine's Day, but I finally did it for my birthday. I made a bit of an effort: freshly washed hair, face scrubbed and moisturised, even a hint of make-up. I would have taken the dressing-up a little further, but the only place I wanted to go that day was the woods, so my brightened face was paired with a snuggly woollen jumper, loose jeans and mud-caked hiking boots. I did, however, reach for my pink wool beret, which is my way of saying "I don't know or care if it's fashionable right now, but it makes me very happy."<p></p><p>We feel so blessed to live on the edge of the town, in walking distance to the canal where kingfishers, coots and cormorants dart, float and fly, close to the woods where red deer stroll and red kites soar. Being able to enjoy and trust in Nature has been one of life's gifts from my parents, which I am passionate about passing on to our boys. <a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.com/2021/02/lockdown-january-2021-week-4-knowing.html" target="_blank">You might remember the RSPB bird watch, which kept our 6 year old glued to the window</a> for well over an hour, identifying many different species. His excitement is contagious and long-lasting. I'll have just sat down with hot cuppa and he'll suddenly shout from his bedroom window "EVERYBODY- IT'S A FEMALE PIED WAGTAIL IN THE LAUREL BUSH" whereby we all dutiful down tools immediately and rush to assemble. Or I'll have just locked the bathroom door before hurriedly abandoning my plans to see a "LOOK LOOK LOOK- IN THE PURPLE PLUM- A MALE BULLFINCH AND THERE'S THE FEMALE BULLFINCH". Luckily, our windows are double glazed, so the avian display usually stays until we join him by the window. I'm looking forward to when he spots a bearded tit. </p>Looking out the back windows, we can see beyond the back garden and across the farmland towards the canal. The rolling hills of the ancient Ridgeway is our beloved backdrop, peaking at Pitstone Hill, framed by the lonely leaning tree of Ivinghoe Beacon and the wooded hills towards Ashridge. It's a beautiful view and why we risked everything to move to this house. But sadly, <a href="http://www.dacorum.gov.uk/localplan" target="_blank">Dacorum Borough Council are planning to build an unprecedented amount of housing</a> on this huge swathe of precious land, a proposed 55% increase of housing, claiming the loop-hole that "we are permitted to take land out of the Green Belt through our Local Plan in 'exceptional circumstances'..." claiming that the growth needs of Dacorum cannot be met "just on previously developed land". There are <a href="http://www.grovefieldsresidents.com/" target="_blank">many pressure groups</a> gathering momentum to fight this decision and if you haven't added your voice yet, please do so before February 28th, 2021. These are the lungs of our town, our rich biodiversity, where families take walks and deer frisk and play. You can read my <a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.com/2021/02/an-open-letter-to-mr-gagan-mohindra-mp.html" target="_blank">open letter here</a>, addressed to our local MP.<p></p><p>Half-term has been glorious. A few days of inevitable teacher-on-holiday illness aside, we have all just relaxed and enjoyed doing nothing in particular. I know lots of people thrive on routine and schedules and timetables, but I really don't. I've enjoyed losing myself in a book whilst the boys rediscover the joys of open-ended play. They've been getting on better than ever, finding a rhythm that suits them all. They even mastered the true art of all bouncing on the trampoline at the same time, despite their very different ages/sizes/skills. I've stopped thinking about the education element of their playing and just let them get on with it. I've finally calmed that feeling of needing to document their reading/writing/drawing/building/maths, replacing my camera phone with my genuine interaction and presence, or better still, my measured distance. Even our seedlings seem to be thriving after a half term break from home-schooling. Perhaps unschooling is the way forward after all? I've been (re)considering the pros of alternative education paths, but the factor that always pulls me back to the love of state schools is the unparalleled buzz of the mixed and varied community- a true microcosm of the real world, an opportunity to learn from and to socialise with people from all different backgrounds.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6flWW3OogA3MYldIJayqAKuCF8IgJzoo2y05qyg0hhpRKF9LVVWFWmeBpf7q5LR6iJcbeVjAncdYdhNqjJcHAuJjgekxHWAiTra1m_y663Xi9mCAuJsDs27HAVP213caTVDt0YIyfrDao/s3774/IMG_4149.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2830" data-original-width="3774" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6flWW3OogA3MYldIJayqAKuCF8IgJzoo2y05qyg0hhpRKF9LVVWFWmeBpf7q5LR6iJcbeVjAncdYdhNqjJcHAuJjgekxHWAiTra1m_y663Xi9mCAuJsDs27HAVP213caTVDt0YIyfrDao/s320/IMG_4149.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>And this is why literature in lockdown is more important than ever, taking us to worlds beyond our walls. I've mentioned the <a href="https://www.hertfordshire.gov.uk/services/Libraries-and-archives/Other-library-services/Ready-Reads.aspx" target="_blank">Hertfordshire Library Ready Reads</a> service before, but it has been a life saver for many people, along with bookshops, local and online. The book I'm reading with our 6 year old is 'The Boy at The Back of Class' by Onjali Q. Rauf about a London primary school's newest pupil: a boy from Syria, leading to many discussions and research about Kurdish culture and identity, asylum and pomegranates. My current novel is something I should have read years ago, 'The Book Thief' by Marcus Zusak, leading me deeper into the backstreets of Nazi Munich, where the kindly accordion playing foster father, on the waiting list to join 'the Party', is honouring a wartime promise made long ago to his old Jewish comrade. Indeed there's nothing like being immersed in the hell of 1938, through the eyes of a Jewish German community to realise that Lockdown 2021- for the healthy and well off at least- is not so bad after all. </p><p>Having more time to read and relax has finally made me more aware of the world beyond our shores. Generally, I've been too tired to watch the 10 o'clock news and apart from the main headlines, I've avoided reading too many news articles. Our PM has just announced our tentative steps out of lockdown, scheduling back-to-school plans, outdoor meet-ups and hand-holding solo visits to nursing homes. More on that next time, but for now, I've been alarmed at the <a href="https://www.ft.com/content/974dc9d2-77c1-4381-adcd-2f755333a36b" target="_blank">Covid-denying governments</a> around the world: Brazil, Belarus, Turkmenistan, Nicaragua and until very recently, Tanzania. The latter is a country close to our family's hearts and origins, outraged to learn that it's also led by a President who, last year, publicly denounced the wearing of facemasks and despite pressure from the WHO, <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-52966016" target="_blank">has refused to reveal the figures of lives lost</a>, blaming a rise of pneumonia instead. The personal stories must be heard to put increasing pressure on such governments who refuses to support its health workers and forces its teachers to go into homes to bring kids back to school. <a href="https://time.com/5941421/tanzania-covid-19-pandemic/" target="_blank">Just hours ago, President John Magafuli has finally conceded that Tanzania has a problem with Covid</a>, finally endorsing the use of facemasks. He is yet to welcome the foreign made vaccines to begin to protect its people.</p><p>I feel very lucky to live in a country with lockdown, school closures, our state healthcare system, a free vaccine programme. And it is thanks to this feeling of safety and protection, that we enjoyed a cosy stay-at-home half term, starting with the best pancakes I've ever made and ending with (in my son's words) "the best birthday ever". It was indeed the happiest of happy lockdown birthdays imaginable, starting with my three boys overbrimming with excitement, bringing me drawings and parcels and plants before I'd even opened my eyes. They'd chosen a Birthday Princess card for me, showing where I can colour it in all by myself. Among the houseplants and chocs, they even brought in a gift-wrapped sack of seed potatoes, which I must say, is an absolute first. In the afternoon there was a cluster of doorbell deliveries, summoning us to retrieve bouquets and cakes, parcels and cards; my phone pinged with messages from friends and family. Special mention to my mum and dad who sent three boxes of homemade chocolate treats and watercolour-illustrated letters to all the boys. Brothers, sisters and best friends parcelled up cakes, flowers and books. I went to bed feeling the love from every corner of the world and it felt so good to be remembered. Special thanks to my super husband for orchestrating the perfect day. He even managed to make it a warm sunny spring-like day and magic the first daffodils to bloom in our garden. I went to bed with a full tum of homemade pizza, red wine and chocolate cake, and a heart bursting with joy, gratitude and love.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_c-UEpUoXLXU08-rLuFz5mXC9V_1kLUNC5G0VOWipX2vpncC71ZVbKO6pmfdWPVNhuWqmyGJxcm4xzvZmi1nYQfoXpJ5_bPmNvijVvWXQGyTDZzuMYfCQIBk1bl4CA-z0yGy9tU1hxCQK/s3401/IMG_4282.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2798" data-original-width="3401" height="526" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_c-UEpUoXLXU08-rLuFz5mXC9V_1kLUNC5G0VOWipX2vpncC71ZVbKO6pmfdWPVNhuWqmyGJxcm4xzvZmi1nYQfoXpJ5_bPmNvijVvWXQGyTDZzuMYfCQIBk1bl4CA-z0yGy9tU1hxCQK/w640-h526/IMG_4282.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Winter Sunset Over Grove Fields</i></td></tr></tbody></table>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-67644565056573690562021-02-23T02:28:00.002-08:002021-02-23T15:04:35.486-08:00An Open Letter: 'The Cry of Grove Fields, Tring'<p><i>Versions of this letter have already been sent to our MP, Lead and Local Councillors, Feb 2021.</i></p><p>We have spent the last few months studying Dacorum's housing plans for Berkhamsted and Tring; we are shocked and saddened to see the overwhelming extent of the plans, a 55% increase of housing in one single step for Tring, carving up vital Green Belt, beautiful biodiverse countryside and precious farmland. As well as the increased pollution and traffic, we are extremely worried about the environmental impact, including the tragic loss of habitat and the continued irreversible damage to our precious rare chalk streams, severely endangered by this unprecedented housing plan.</p><p>Tring is the friendliest of towns we've ever known, welcoming all who travel through, or choose to settle here to make it their forever home. Within commuting distance of London Euston, it has grown organically and comfortably, expanding gradually to accommodate those, like us, seeking open skies, bucolic charm and outstanding natural beauty: the chosen idyll for our children, learning to appreciate and trust in Nature, secure and safe in a small market town.</p><p>Looking at Tring specifically, the proposed plans would dramatically increase the size of our town, putting a dangerous strain on local services and commuter transport. We've always been of the mindset that all are welcome and would want other families to enjoy the treasured beauty of Tring's countryside, but the areas charted for development are precious swathes of countryside and farmland: sandwiched between the canal and final rows of residential dwellings. Between the harvesting and sowing, deer can be spotted, red kites soar and the owl's gentle call heard on a still night. During lockdown, Marshcroft Lane and the paths beyond have been a vital route for the daily exercise of Tring residents, fresh air and space in easy reach.</p><p>We understand the need for more affordable housing. We understand the need for more public services and stronger infrastructure. We understand that land is precious. But to destroy the lungs of a town to extend its arms does not make sense at all. To welcome new families to a town robbed of its natural beauty, is not how a healthy town grows. </p><p>Instead, we plead with you to use your voice to represent the heart and soul of your community, to challenge these unsustainable housing plans. Invest in our local services and find alternative ways to build affordable housing, without stripping the land of its highly valued Green Belt and rich biodiversity. </p><p>Today, our young children can toddle freely along Marshcroft Lane, spotting wildlife across Grove Fields. We hope that you can help us to ensure that the children of the future can continue to enjoy the beauty of this treasured land.</p><p>Yours sincerely,</p><p>Rebecca</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9vUxTRNx-A4dOY-dFrnvpb866H1Ri7u4K81iHcpNgEQhlGjm7UR7Xf6u_Uh0q6-l_PfoU-BzEpFxC_EWE295-xxCE67rdh3LQlZghBv-IMiRBYiTCENkEEnLSSWrPGETPSo1SctlTR5D1/s3401/IMG_4282.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2798" data-original-width="3401" height="526" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9vUxTRNx-A4dOY-dFrnvpb866H1Ri7u4K81iHcpNgEQhlGjm7UR7Xf6u_Uh0q6-l_PfoU-BzEpFxC_EWE295-xxCE67rdh3LQlZghBv-IMiRBYiTCENkEEnLSSWrPGETPSo1SctlTR5D1/w640-h526/IMG_4282.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sunset over Grove Fields</i></td></tr></tbody></table>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-21133248760626648932021-02-15T12:48:00.003-08:002021-02-15T12:56:06.815-08:00Lockdown February 2021- Week 6: Love is All You Need. Mostly.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibP7f6R9zE3HQkam6o50aMOyAD5WG3eVXQ3vRdcTCS5V1sPXdNqTSSkXNinbbaZM8jEtEw7__sPgozZULUVD0Uu-U0ULaOCPQeFFXXuUew5dYmpvjfxHRpiz-KftT47ItvjmMitaPEk4cV/s6914/LyndseyAbercrombyPhotography%252839of42%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6914" data-original-width="4612" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibP7f6R9zE3HQkam6o50aMOyAD5WG3eVXQ3vRdcTCS5V1sPXdNqTSSkXNinbbaZM8jEtEw7__sPgozZULUVD0Uu-U0ULaOCPQeFFXXuUew5dYmpvjfxHRpiz-KftT47ItvjmMitaPEk4cV/w266-h400/LyndseyAbercrombyPhotography%252839of42%2529.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Photo: <a href="https://www.lyndseyabercromby.co.uk/" target="_blank">Lyndsey Abercromby Photography</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Like an ice storm in an abandoned teacup, Week 6 began. I was feeling ill, the boys were squabbling because the oldest wanted to re-classify all the animals into geographical groups, a task fiercely claimed by his younger sibling; our youngest was adamant that all the jigsaws should be emptied onto the kitchen floor and then keep him in my arms all day. After a tense start to the day, the dust settled. I distracted our four year old with a game, involving sounds written on a board, us reading them out and a spatula for bashing them with, whilst littlest joined in with the milk brush (jigsaw pieces remaining on the floor). Our eldest was smuggled upstairs to secretly classify animals under the desk whilst his Papa led a whole year school assembly online.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvJp3ot1KZkkCILsAmGI_M8Aic4FLvOJk5afhqxcLySXzSnKXh2mSUPZFxZmOdivMgRKsOztLmkEDe-wFV0ZvYdINOqG6XIKGSQN8VHyyz7iiZ68IgjGB8sh47lrOHMtumOcI_nfBStphY/s4032/IMG_3912.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvJp3ot1KZkkCILsAmGI_M8Aic4FLvOJk5afhqxcLySXzSnKXh2mSUPZFxZmOdivMgRKsOztLmkEDe-wFV0ZvYdINOqG6XIKGSQN8VHyyz7iiZ68IgjGB8sh47lrOHMtumOcI_nfBStphY/s320/IMG_3912.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div>But somehow (thanks to A pushing back meetings to help me out and supply the ibuprofen), we made it all work and by lunchtime we were reunited on our now well used sofa, watching the heavy snow fall. Littlest one fell asleep on me during a feed while the older boys united their animal collection, now keen to play together, creating some complex wildlife roleplay.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIakxPlQe-v3fw_Z4-YZzX1-CrKPERg3jMsoESyyuL0I18kOxEVRrIRc3sIiL88_RGnI3HAIC8GEmYjRwokQ0qxs9LKpJE0IZjt0XN__VKWWc1XVOA-wxyP5yb78vWlgjrNPFiYJ_3P0HF/s2989/IMG_3963.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2109" data-original-width="2989" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIakxPlQe-v3fw_Z4-YZzX1-CrKPERg3jMsoESyyuL0I18kOxEVRrIRc3sIiL88_RGnI3HAIC8GEmYjRwokQ0qxs9LKpJE0IZjt0XN__VKWWc1XVOA-wxyP5yb78vWlgjrNPFiYJ_3P0HF/w320-h226/IMG_3963.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>It was freezing cold all week, inviting only a little outdoor snow/ice fun, but the heavy snowfall and bitter wind kept driving us back indoors. The effort needed to get everyone layered up and outside did not seem worth it, but I'm sure all the social media photographs made it look extra fun and wholesome. However, our four year old stayed out for ten minutes longer, upturning accidental ice castles out of the various containers we had left strewn around from <a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.com/2021/02/lockdown-january-2021-week-4-knowing.html" target="_blank">Week 4's icy potion non-explosion</a>, to create a rather impressive ice tower.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrKoEck4zZQquBNQnlOcLhUHMyf6L4L2T1tGe0RusiXAvlWic5vXErfd5skt0CKF4bAgsfnS3yESXnqLUFCf8KuNSbZZRoSwiLnHj-XPIEOnP5kRX1Sk0iZuzFyB7iBupwtz7Vc5cMFHX1/s3581/IMG_4041.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3581" data-original-width="2686" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrKoEck4zZQquBNQnlOcLhUHMyf6L4L2T1tGe0RusiXAvlWic5vXErfd5skt0CKF4bAgsfnS3yESXnqLUFCf8KuNSbZZRoSwiLnHj-XPIEOnP5kRX1Sk0iZuzFyB7iBupwtz7Vc5cMFHX1/w240-h320/IMG_4041.JPG" width="240" /></a></div></div><br /><div>One massive perk of the week was winning a sewing kit in a local competition, celebrating the brand new <a href="https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/Whistlebrook?coupon=BUY3GONHP&fbclid=IwAR0uHfWNVtsPla-kQExdFRpH8hVv3OJgxt_izeEPNLLywrmZKz7E24g-EAE" target="_blank">Whistlebrook sewing kits</a>, a new adventure for the Tring handmade clothing brand, <a href="https://whistlebrookclothing.co.uk/">The Whistlebrook Clothing.</a> I love sewing and creating things at my sewing machine, linked to my love of travelling and collecting amazing textiles from different countries (*sigh*). I've never had much luck with clothing though, sticking to patchwork quilts, bedding and cushions; but it does make me appreciate how much time and expertise goes into creating every item of clothing, deserving of a higher price tag than the fast fashion industry allows. I do sometimes dream about all the projects I could have done (art, music, sewing, writing children's books, a novel, that PhD...) in an alternative lockdown situation, but then I immediately feel guilty and remember how lucky I am to have a house full of love, noise and hugs.</div><div><br /></div><div>In reality though, if I didn't have our three beautiful children to mother 24/7, I'd be working full time in a secondary school, probably having to go in daily to teach the vulnerable students, or those with key-worker parents, maybe living alone in a city flat, returning exhausted to mark books, prepare lessons and upload engaging content for all the online learners. I never imagined being a 'stay-at-home-mum'; my teenage self would have probably scoffed at the idea. I have tried to work part-time, teaching in three different schools between 2014 and 2020, but I just can't do it, feeling guilty for not having enough time to be the teacher I want to be, nor the mother I want to be. It was sad when I decided to resign from my teaching post last year, but the impossibility of Lockdown#1 was too much. I'm fully aware of all the working parents trying to simultaneously parent/work/homeschool, and I wish you all the best as we wade through this wintry lockdown. Being a SAHM suits my slower life these days, knowing that these little boys are growing very quickly and probably won't need me with quite the same intensity in the coming years. But, having a 2, 4, 6 year old without schools, childcare, playgroups, community of friends or family, museums, zoos, is still hard and I allow myself a little wallow here and there. </div><div><br /></div><div>After the repeated failure of trying to convince our 4 year old to watch the video lessons, or interact with the live online content, I contacted his teachers and arranged to collect a folder of activities and books. I popped on my nose-warming mask and took all my little ducklings on a waddle into the school and it was really strange for us all to be on school site. My eldest was surprised and confused to see so many children and I had to explain why the Nursery was still open and the need to educated some of the community's children. The trip seemed to cheer everyone up, enjoying a run across the school field, a chat with a real life teacher and an arm full of reading books targeted exactly at the right level.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAHsCXkh8JUx735k6lin8IF_dKnd3Z8NynbQjbb4CdRTdlSIn-52yXDgWf-e3baAaK_31oS0EwW8iXaSs33wMWi5j0xbvhebR8AgOQgmHmvnvVkUiB7VRb9xRXAhjXWoAzHNWxhumXxob/s4032/IMG_3995.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAHsCXkh8JUx735k6lin8IF_dKnd3Z8NynbQjbb4CdRTdlSIn-52yXDgWf-e3baAaK_31oS0EwW8iXaSs33wMWi5j0xbvhebR8AgOQgmHmvnvVkUiB7VRb9xRXAhjXWoAzHNWxhumXxob/s320/IMG_3995.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>This week was pretty successful in terms of 'Distance Learning', because I finally gave up on trying to make the online bit work. We didn't use any computers at all and we totally missed all the Reception video calls (Incidentally, the school has now upped all the live online content to daily sessions (rather than weekly) so I did try once more, without our mic or camera on, but it's still a no no). Luckily, they are all OPTIONAL up to Year 2 so I didn't put any pressure (or totally forgot) to make those happen. But as a wise friend commented on my blog last week: "we weren't really made to interact with screens, children know that instinctively" and I've come to admire his raw response, free from the need to conform. But what we did achieve was loads more seed planting (snow peas and dwarf lupins), updating our library book selection (thanks to <a href="https://surveys.hertfordshire.gov.uk/s/readyreads/" target="_blank">Tring Library 'Ready Reads'</a>), phonics games, maths play, writing letters, a Paw Patrol addiction, Lego, drawing and outdoor ice-stomping. At one point, I even caught myself doing a bit of accidental yoga while the kettle boiled, but then realised I had a mouthful of crisps, so I'm not sure if that counts as exercise.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXwu4WuMYB-r_OXub5jYGKOhO32PjTcmaaRlJMV2c6CdS5VIx8eh8hSggOXV5u1EheJEjiCkRVP28NNt3xNcQ7G7aLKmmbr3o7HfkvY2tcmEjetsndBOzgugvE__z5UpafSe3i_vWuJf7T/s4032/IMG_3939.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXwu4WuMYB-r_OXub5jYGKOhO32PjTcmaaRlJMV2c6CdS5VIx8eh8hSggOXV5u1EheJEjiCkRVP28NNt3xNcQ7G7aLKmmbr3o7HfkvY2tcmEjetsndBOzgugvE__z5UpafSe3i_vWuJf7T/s320/IMG_3939.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div>By the weekend, we were ready to drop, ordering Vietnamese take away and sinking into a large vessel of wine. But before we could call it a week, there was one last request: an epic family disco with glow sticks, dance-floor filling beats and disco lights. We all danced our socks off, and in the case of our younger two, their entire outfits. I even shed one or two of my many woollen layers.</div><div><br /></div><div>The weekend brought more time to rest and recuperate, but also more charity bags through the letter box. I've cleared out so many clothes, but as I peruse my wardrobe again, it's those sequinned relics of my pre-baby, pre-Covid fun times that keep staring back at me, wondering if I've finally given up the idea of a night out with cocktails, dancing and high heels, or all that formal workwear with fitted blouses and sharp tailoring. It's been so long that I can't even imagine wearing anything other than oversized woolly jumpers, joggers and slippers again. Maybe it's time to get the glitter out for the Friday night home disco?</div><div><br /></div><div>To end, I must mention a rather delightful Sunday feel good story. If you read <a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.com/2021/02/lockdown-february-2021-week-5-hope-is.html" target="_blank">last week's post</a>, you might remember the "kindest shopkeeper in the world" who gifted our boys chocolate eggs at the end of their weekly supermarket shop. To thank her, the boys wrote/drew thank you notes and made little packets with sunflower and pansy seeds in. </div><div><br /></div><div>Before leaving for the weekly shop, with his two co-shopping helpers, the kindest husband in the world left me settling our youngest to sleep, complete with water, hot tea, cake, my kindle, phone and laptop all in reach for the next two hours. These gifts of time, peace and rest (as well as the beautiful blooms and homemade card) were the best Valentine's presents. Six weeks down the tunnel of an intense winter lockdown would test any relationship, but we've arrived at the other side to half-term and can still make each other chuckle. The shoppers returned later to report that they had hand delivered the thank you gifts. Everyone was very chuffed and lived happily ever after.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5rVfgL2TDLFPpGJu39HFko6n0ATyuKJj4U77EA2jtOf5s1jbtU6DBY1pp-ZRgP4IUMNarG7-W4ARBEs0CTmQqS59WGgJWFbUymHSHLO2sbmrkUhme3BDQ90XeoZjfxEaMsmg8yH4JPbp-/s2576/IMG_4074.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1932" data-original-width="2576" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5rVfgL2TDLFPpGJu39HFko6n0ATyuKJj4U77EA2jtOf5s1jbtU6DBY1pp-ZRgP4IUMNarG7-W4ARBEs0CTmQqS59WGgJWFbUymHSHLO2sbmrkUhme3BDQ90XeoZjfxEaMsmg8yH4JPbp-/s320/IMG_4074.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-87402130924873955782021-02-10T11:23:00.008-08:002021-02-10T12:12:29.770-08:00Lockdown February 2021- Week 5: Hope is in the Air<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTF339z9_KIPdXl3Ps20m_aQV51JuOWzYp7aAqsWGkchNU05__FvR6DMu9BnjWNSar0rgHemAKxVyu6DkBlbyvsr7xzHW4_J3Wlg6luZk_FbLWk8PwjfPuwsm2_IlBsdOazB7dA__gi9Jy/s4032/IMG_3826.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTF339z9_KIPdXl3Ps20m_aQV51JuOWzYp7aAqsWGkchNU05__FvR6DMu9BnjWNSar0rgHemAKxVyu6DkBlbyvsr7xzHW4_J3Wlg6luZk_FbLWk8PwjfPuwsm2_IlBsdOazB7dA__gi9Jy/w640-h480/IMG_3826.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />Week 5 began with fresh determination to make a go of it. After giving up on the previous week, I felt a renewed sense of responsibility to make this a week to count. It all started well, very well indeed.<p></p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>While the boys watched a little bit of morning CBeebies, I prepared some (screen-free) versions of the Reception activities to try to catch up on <a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.com/2021/02/lockdown-january-2021-week-4-knowing.html" target="_blank">Week 4</a>. If you've been reading my blog, you might recall that our 4 year old doesn't want to do any of the tasks if it involves a screen, which is a bugger because all the tasks have instructional videos, interactive slides and documents. I had spent most of my Sunday night reading through all the tasks and ensuring I'd understood the Learning Objectives. First activity was a quick matching animals to classification groups (easily done on a tablet) but our version was a to sort out our animal model collection (a beloved assortment slowly built up over years of regular trips to Whipsnade Zoo, which we miss so much at the moment). This proved so popular that it took over the whole day, stole the attention of our 6 year old (who was supposed to be learning about noun phrases in the kitchen) and ended with creating alternative habitats in the garden. Win. <br /></li><li>My husband (A) managed to get the old printer fired up again, which is a game changer considering the extreme screen fatigue.</li><li>Letters in the post from Grandad arrived on Tuesday: beautifully written, illustrated and coloured, personalised for each of our boys, with questions, activities and stories. This inspired our own letter writing, drawing (and plasticine to keep the younger ones happy).</li><li>Child-led playing/learning took over for much of the week, involving lots of construction (maths), role-play (empathy, literacy, maths (playing shops)), model making and drawing. The only other activity I set up was to re-classify the animals into hot and cold climates, but the 4 year old wanted a ''Spring/Autumn'' category for the ones in the middle, so we came up with Temperate Climate for the dogs, cats and horses.</li><li>On Wednesday we made bird feeders: a school task which fitted our plans and <a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.com/2021/02/lockdown-january-2021-week-4-knowing.html" target="_blank">post-bird watch </a>weekend perfectly. It worked brilliantly and engaged all three ages, using the ends of the loaves, biscuit cutters, peanut butter, bird seed and string. And birds (and chickens) loved them too.</li><li><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKYq_fT3LDnVBWn1yNdsaxPjdRxdAq4GT2ltJhcJkigwP-x1SrO-KtEfVv1RW8GV5an1ZKyEqcz-NTgl8hVZyL4o9MyJVBOYOX3Ogdm7HBH6sRZ2S8_zKpGdLeRsz4VVtrMUCjpS3UPoP6/s4032/IMG_3832.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKYq_fT3LDnVBWn1yNdsaxPjdRxdAq4GT2ltJhcJkigwP-x1SrO-KtEfVv1RW8GV5an1ZKyEqcz-NTgl8hVZyL4o9MyJVBOYOX3Ogdm7HBH6sRZ2S8_zKpGdLeRsz4VVtrMUCjpS3UPoP6/s320/IMG_3832.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.com/2021/01/lockdown-january-week-2-finding-reset.html" target="_blank">Our new hen </a>has now settled in nicely, accompanying Flower 24/7. It was fascinating to observe the ritual of the pecking order and it made our older boys a bit sad when the new hen lost a few feathers: "Why can't Flower be nicer?" I do wonder if Chicky-Whitetail (name now settled as both) will ever rebel, especially as she seems stronger, can jump higher and seems much bolder, taking advantage of the open kitchen door, strutting passed our toddler (who I'd left to put on his wellies) and coming into the house on Thursday. Luckily, I interpreted little one's alarming "Mamamamamama" as "chicken in the kitchen" and shooed her back out the door. </li><li>Thursday was the 6pm clap for the passing of Captain Sir Tom Moore and dashing out to clap into the darkness made me suddenly really emotional, contemplating those lives lost to Covid. I swallowed it down because there were neighbours to greet and then dinner to get on the table, but it's these moments that remind me that we're living in a freakish global pandemic and none of this is normal.</li><li><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh98tlazKSudwF3abDmriy_fvA2iGrcEQFiPuYg0Cb8F8RZp9Io4C-TyrEa-U15MJS5ueCFr4hKF7N1wXsaG2FAP8_x8vct8sa3OHVsWGE8y6j_eJ1Z5IdnULNGWqxeX5SJ4moAV861pAN_/s4032/IMG_3811.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh98tlazKSudwF3abDmriy_fvA2iGrcEQFiPuYg0Cb8F8RZp9Io4C-TyrEa-U15MJS5ueCFr4hKF7N1wXsaG2FAP8_x8vct8sa3OHVsWGE8y6j_eJ1Z5IdnULNGWqxeX5SJ4moAV861pAN_/w240-h320/IMG_3811.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Friday was gloriously sunny and warm, inviting lots of garden time: hello snowdrops and crocus, tree climbing and our four year old wanting to photograph a spectacularly large unidentified turd.<br /></li><li>Saturday began with glorious sunshine before apocalyptic thick cloud descended, engulfing us as we made it to the local playground (our first trip out the house in a week). I then skipped into town as the clouds lifted and the air warmed, to enjoy a rare sociable (socially distanced) walk and coffee with a friend. I still have to fight the urge to fling my arms around my friends, taking so much concentration to simply flap my arms up and down in excited warm greetings. I ended up passing loads of different friends- mostly other school mums- who all shared the same dazed and delighted expression, thankful for a weekend and a breath of fresh air. </li><li>Sunday was supposed to be a full on snow day, hyped up by all the early weather reports, but any disappointment was soon forgotten after a wonderful act of kindness at our local supermarket. A always does the weekly shop and usually takes our four year old with him, who takes his co-shopper responsibilities very seriously, helping his Papa and waving at the very lovely checkout workers. Today, after more enthusiastic smiling and waving, one of the checkout ladies gifted both our bigger boys Kinder eggs, which was such a wonderfully kind gift that has brought much happiness. Thank you Tring Tesco! The boys came home in a flourish of Kinder kindness, wanting to draw her pictures and gift her some flower seeds (D wants to give her pansy seeds, L wants to gift her some tulip bulbs, but shhhh, it's a surprise). </li></ul><div>All in all, week 5 was a very good week. Even the elusive onion seedlings have appeared. </div><div><br /></div><div>The nights, however, have been hard. Our little two year old continued to wake regularly. I seem to have been in a permanent state of exhaustion all week. I get through with my three main pleasures: tea, chocolate and automatic play on <i>Paw Patrol </i>. Around 11am and again at 3ish (& also 6ish), I can often be found in the back corner of the kitchen, totally absorbed in a world of my own. I'm probably waiting for the kettle to boil, looking out the window, contemplating complex theories, no doubt. Somehow, in this blackhole of time, whole multipacks of Cadbury Mini Rolls have been known to disappear. I have no idea when or how or how many, but as the kettle reaches its climax, I will often look down to see several purple wrappers in my hand, or an empty biscuit pack, or once, only the crumpled remains of a chocolate orange. Gone.</div><div><br /></div><div>We've now watched so many <i>Numberblocks, Octonauts </i>and<i> Paw Patrol </i> that we can predict and recite most of the dialogue; our youngest's first words are "Pup pup!" But the boys can also tell me what square numbers are, the exact location of the Mariana Trench and the complex diet of a Giant Siphonophore. Thank you CBeebies.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2iCoBMCIt5ZjBL-UjvuKHjMTVCQ1sVQDjicj4s_HEUyLZEK964Qxrwl5bvxPxVPclboTaIRdilj7RdumgQlZBY_PST5w9gugDnRFANBVZZsarlHSQYnMJRLQ_XAxBoNWeh9Nd5VGaIgGl/s4032/IMG_3830.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2iCoBMCIt5ZjBL-UjvuKHjMTVCQ1sVQDjicj4s_HEUyLZEK964Qxrwl5bvxPxVPclboTaIRdilj7RdumgQlZBY_PST5w9gugDnRFANBVZZsarlHSQYnMJRLQ_XAxBoNWeh9Nd5VGaIgGl/w237-h315/IMG_3830.JPG" width="237" /></a></div>Meltdowns seem to be calming, which is a blessed relief. But it's only a matter of time, before the next developmental wave rolls around. Our youngest has started to become very upset suddenly, demanding me to be with him all the time. Good job I've got no where to go.</div><div><br /></div><div>By Sunday, I was feeling pretty chuffed with how the week had gone. In the morning, I even managed to carve out some sacred time to cuddle up with our eldest to pick up our reading book together. In the afternoon we gathered around the laptop for a big family Zoom chat. Haven't done one for a while, but I love them, seeing all my favourite familiar faces together in mosaic mode, like we're all treats behind square windows, like an advent calendar. Later on, we had a little boogie while we tidied up, trying out some new "pick it up and put it in the box" moves and rolled into the bedtime hour feeling chilled. </div><div><br /></div><div>But then it was all wrecked. At least, momentarily. I logged onto the kids' Google Classroom platforms to upload all the evidence of home learning going on, you'll remember the animal classification win, habitats, maths play etc. etc., but it just didn't seem nearly enough compared with all the tasks set. I know that there's NO PRESSURE to do everything, or even some of it, but the big red capitals "MISSING" after most of the tasks (a charming feature of Google Classroom) is hard to ignore. I don't usually let this get me down, but this time, it really did. Why? Because I really tried really really hard this week and we all loved it and learnt a lot and what's more, we all got on really well. But it kind of feels crappy when it looks as though we're not keeping up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thankfully, I'm bloody proud of everything we're doing (and not doing), and grateful for the slower pace to connect and be together, but I found further comfort in the wise words of my old friend and child Educational Psychologist who co-runs <a href="https://www.mellownest.co.uk/" target="_blank">'Mellownest'</a>, advising to do things your way, to suit your family, sharing a weekly schedule of homeschooling that looks more like this. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.mellownest.co.uk/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><span style="color: white;"> </span><img border="0" data-original-height="952" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzXtMHroubDB33iO-J5kR1ajfORttPpBeJCV7PPSCim1WZPHnPAGW-jVhyQPULhaIvfu5m6zjxO8KK5eX6LpbSeD6NZJWxS7-SvLPPkIs41XoE-IIgPqdSs59pE0sdS6EbbKFUvuOnVyiA/w252-h320/IMG_3978.PNG" title="https://www.mellownest.co.uk/" width="252" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdaQAMGKNXwK270FKB7iz1DWEXWA58USZCycThDz9dYIB66HBWEPs9DbJsOA4Vmukt80VJ_5yqjo2giRWJACKX-SnXndcptPPPRcjSvyuMUyn0GXvjkDhbdt9npwmKijCmZkGbGZqEKb4t/s4032/IMG_3820.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdaQAMGKNXwK270FKB7iz1DWEXWA58USZCycThDz9dYIB66HBWEPs9DbJsOA4Vmukt80VJ_5yqjo2giRWJACKX-SnXndcptPPPRcjSvyuMUyn0GXvjkDhbdt9npwmKijCmZkGbGZqEKb4t/s320/IMG_3820.JPG" /></a><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-15533349795026368302021-02-03T13:45:00.010-08:002021-02-04T07:08:25.744-08:00Lockdown January 2021: Week 4- Knowing when (and what) to Quit<div class="separator"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wWeufAl04Gygle0V4QpI8jP4DZLK5dKcd4jz9WCQvSNZNS8ytwcgL31wUP3o5LFnOaWwYLQ1htIbgdgh5xVV94eykVJEioCE8IQS2zwkt8cl4yZamyH9_WogVMTJoo2gu-iY2h-ZvB0d/s4032/IMG_3712.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wWeufAl04Gygle0V4QpI8jP4DZLK5dKcd4jz9WCQvSNZNS8ytwcgL31wUP3o5LFnOaWwYLQ1htIbgdgh5xVV94eykVJEioCE8IQS2zwkt8cl4yZamyH9_WogVMTJoo2gu-iY2h-ZvB0d/w320-h240/IMG_3712.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Week four was hard. So hard that by mid week, I declared that we were on early half term break. </div></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Here's the negatives:</span></div><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li style="text-align: justify;">Our youngest has been teething, cutting his back molars: an evidently miserable experience with a mild fever lasting a few days, which was especially bad in the evenings and all through the night, with lots of extra cuddles, tears and night feeding. By day, he would become very upset if I ever tried to tiptoe away to make lunch/dinner/anything. </li><li>I had some tiresome PMT, making the days that bit harder. All I wanted to do was curl up with a hot water bottle, cuppa and a good book. Instead, I was content with round-the-clock Numberblocks and some sofa time with my babies.</li><li>Tried to get some of the School Reception tasks done, but the resistance was strong. Our 4 year old runs a mile from online video calls now and is showing all the signs of screen fatigue. He's started talking about stuff now, which is huge progress and a big relief, saying: "The Coronavirus thing is going on too long now and I want to go to [my friend's] house".<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvYnXB0S1858zPbvFTirBAu8yD5KWQcEv_tfrgsxGKUokHy67jiWrROwe8Z5_RGnh5PuMGAT9GARz8GYtp_E73yxssZO9yJnqYGIP7f1wFEKiVY68Qdsux9m84obVBv0RCvVqVhfGfTpGh/s3497/IMG_3608.JPG" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3497" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvYnXB0S1858zPbvFTirBAu8yD5KWQcEv_tfrgsxGKUokHy67jiWrROwe8Z5_RGnh5PuMGAT9GARz8GYtp_E73yxssZO9yJnqYGIP7f1wFEKiVY68Qdsux9m84obVBv0RCvVqVhfGfTpGh/s320/IMG_3608.JPG" /></a></li><li>Tried to jazz up the final snow/ice day with a rapidly gathered concoction, grabbed from the baking cupboard: red and blue food dye, baking powder and remains of the vinegar, which they enthusiastically added to their icy potion bowls. I told the boys to stand back, anticipating something incredible. They'd all gone in heavy with the dyes and shaken out all the powder. I held the vinegar like it was the match to the gunpowder, with no clue how much to add. I gave them a quick safety pep talk and everyone took another step back. I added a few drops. Nothing. A bit more. Nothing. I then shook the bottle so the remaining inch dripped out, but just a tiny bubble appeared in the soggy blackened mess. Our oldest just said: "can I go back in now?" </li><li>It's been a dramatic first week for our new hen who turns out to be quite the jumper, clearing the homemade partition on day one. We keep strengthening the internal wall to keep them separate, but she keeps finding a new way through/over/under. The girls are keen to assert who's the top of the pecking order, but we'll have to keep separating them and building up the wall for a while longer. Too much drama.</li><li>Tuesday is an intense day here as the kids happen to have all the live online sessions that day and it's A's busiest and longest day. Week 4 Tuesday went smoothly but finished me off.</li><li>And of course, the saddest news was the ghastly 100, 000 death toll milestone: of a journey nobody wanted to be on.</li><li><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYmOTXUImjjiNNcjiCZ15hntYHS8tp-_qlbW51c9gf2kHQidl6GhTvJSzUdl1UUVGlr-9IpNAuT2_B4L2QTLGtWs88mz0KRng0MHIdFBRFCWa1cUEChVFGqlJcq16Rs8C2IXR2FBJhqRfi/s2303/IMG_3758.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2303" data-original-width="1441" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYmOTXUImjjiNNcjiCZ15hntYHS8tp-_qlbW51c9gf2kHQidl6GhTvJSzUdl1UUVGlr-9IpNAuT2_B4L2QTLGtWs88mz0KRng0MHIdFBRFCWa1cUEChVFGqlJcq16Rs8C2IXR2FBJhqRfi/w125-h200/IMG_3758.JPG" width="125" /></a></div>I've just felt a real struggle this week, trying to navigate the right balance between child-led play and keeping up with all the tasks from Year 2 and Reception. Ideally, I need to weave in all the tasks so it feels more play-based, especially given the obvious reluctance with the online learning, but it all feels too much right now, given the youngest has a fever and I have zero energy on repeated broken sleep and then there's all the meals and all the clearing up and all the laundry. I know that can all wait and it will.</li><li>I don't think I've left the house all week, apart from a wander in the garden, which I feel incredibly lucky to have. I know I'd feel better for a solo brisk walk/run/cycle, but I can't seem to motivate myself. Any brief moment of spare time and all I want to do is be still, find some quiet, read my book, write.</li></ul>Positives<br /><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Snow days 2 & 3. After the epic amount of snowfall last Sunday, we had two more days of hard snow/ice to play in. Despite the disappointing failure of the non-explosion (must get more vinegar), it was great to play outside and enjoy the icy crunch underfoot with bright sunshine on my face.</li><li>Seedlings are looking good, especially radish, cauliflower. New life just appearing in the sweet peas, sweetcorn and carrots. Bit worried about the peppers and tomato pots: only some suspect mushrooms have sprouted so far.</li><li><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVR5yU0Ss_HBznotTfKM3UkEWzZXqQsxZk-8YMLj-iMkCJ3mkzzQ1K86-EqaVR1ssJ8jFsxdLPDKZm-CQO_VqsPdVIsf0QaFcX9Br7LgjwX3EWxauPo9AmxVStXRdt98mCKVp4Q_ZV7GlM/s4032/IMG_3617.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVR5yU0Ss_HBznotTfKM3UkEWzZXqQsxZk-8YMLj-iMkCJ3mkzzQ1K86-EqaVR1ssJ8jFsxdLPDKZm-CQO_VqsPdVIsf0QaFcX9Br7LgjwX3EWxauPo9AmxVStXRdt98mCKVp4Q_ZV7GlM/w150-h200/IMG_3617.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>Given the screen fatigue, there's been a lot more free play and it's during the child-led activity when I can withdraw and observe, noting all the experimenting with numbers, shapes, role play as shop keepers, teachers, Pokemon trainers, battles, building dens, rainforests and hosting a random "chicken arty farty party" in the veg patch.<br /></li><li>I've perfected this brilliantly sticky <a href="https://www.cookbaketeach.com/recipes/recipe/c041e3ab-1be2-46aa-990c-a5b520e28397" target="_blank">Sesame Ginger Tofu recipe</a>, served with noodles, stir fry veg, taken from a school friend's blog she writes with her daughter.</li><li>Handwritten letters arrived for each of the boys from their Bibi (Paternal Grandmother), which was a really lovely surprise to perk up the end of the week.</li><li>A wonderful surprise 'Mud & Bloom' subscription box arrived from family with loads of beautiful outdoor activities (seeds, thread, plasticine)- perfect for the week ahead, which I've decided will be (computer) screen free.</li><li>I hadn't fully planned for us to do the full 60min RSPB Birdwatch, but on Sunday morning, the light was so bright, that we were drawn to the window and within 5 minutes, saw robins, blue tits, blackbirds. 5 mins turned into 10 into 30. A and littlest one went out into the garden to refill the birdfeeders and after a little break, our 6 year old and I returned to our post and stayed for an hour, (while the youngest perfected flips off the bed) observing a Jay, pheasants, red kites, great tits, doves, pigeons, finches, wrens. This was a massive highlight of the week.</li><li>I made a rare unplanned trip out the house on Sunday PM. I popped into the local M&S for much needed spring rolls, Mac'n'Cheese bites and giant cookies, and I have to say that I actually enjoyed it: other people, interaction, a bit of hustle and bustle. I think I can now effectively smile with my eyes and the face mask kept my nose warm, which is usually frozen all winter.</li><li>Went to the local library for the new click and collect 'Ready Reads' service, to freshen up the kids' library. A great idea. Thank you local libraries. #hopeisinthelibrary</li><li>First ever take away of 2021 (while watching Dirty Dancing). Benefit of declaring it a tough week early on is that we'd finally organised a takeaway in advance of the weekend and enjoyed a delicious Vietnamese feast. AND planned some feel good film time to pacify the week that was.</li><li>In small snatches of time, between clearing up and bathtime, A has found three random balls (in itself a challenge) and attempted to juggle. It's been the best comic relief for us all, to watch, and at first, it did seem rather hopeless. But I haven't given this challenge enough credit. It's been so good for the boys to see him try and to fail and to try and to fail. And now in week 4, we were able to watch him keep the balls in the air for about 10 seconds. We are all genuinely excited about this progress and already, I can see how the little ones are accepting their own challenges and seeing their failures as part of the success. For the week ahead, we're hoping we can both keep all the balls in the air, but some, will inevitably drop (& smash) to the floor. </li></ul><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaG8T-M-oITfatje_4d0Iq-5Eti5dLlSErPCmuEmxg52VpVk6dUOYLkm0B_X3SovVkiojGy6awbifgLR94lXu_7T9gah2F0uJVmpZfc-VP0-mzT55xpEor61bincYQ01PdDP_TrMWTw2OQ/s2576/IMG_3630.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1932" data-original-width="2576" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaG8T-M-oITfatje_4d0Iq-5Eti5dLlSErPCmuEmxg52VpVk6dUOYLkm0B_X3SovVkiojGy6awbifgLR94lXu_7T9gah2F0uJVmpZfc-VP0-mzT55xpEor61bincYQ01PdDP_TrMWTw2OQ/s320/IMG_3630.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i style="text-align: left;">Reflection: Boris announced this week that schools are to remain shut until early March. I'm not too sad about that, which has led me to reassess the above. Looking back on the 'Negatives', I can easily write these with a positive spin, noting my privilege and stating my gratitude. I do feel enormously privileged to live in a warm comfortable house, with a big garden, with my favourite people and more than enough food. We have an amazing state Healthcare service, full of selfless dedicated professionals. Teething, fever and PMT is all part of healthy human existence and growth. I'm not working at the moment, which is a choice I made and I am privileged in being able to have that choice. Although my husband is working all day, he's around a lot more and if there's an awful emergency, he can down tools and help, which makes me feel a lot calmer. The boys seem a lot happier too and have become a proper trio of chuckles. Although it might not always come across, I am loving all this extra time with our little ones and A. They are my world and I'm confident we can carry on like this for a while. I do of course miss my parents, brothers and sisters and nephews/nieces, my friends, but I am so unbelievably lucky that the Covid era has come at a time in my life when I'm settled, nesting and content, happy to pull up the drawbridge and snuggle down with my little family. </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i style="text-align: left;"><br /></i></div><div><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib6K0pVKDSx_j9bXURFmhqtRbAcfaHOAuKenwY2aFK2aL1PgxqJaZjC2m8aWeNSas2C0IbT_tnEYI4GLP6r3hgGnIVRfCBfeIRAiEyy74oD4YPxFyDPJ-KVUkmF86uj_ppJvHIUjEzvTjc/s4032/IMG_3712.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib6K0pVKDSx_j9bXURFmhqtRbAcfaHOAuKenwY2aFK2aL1PgxqJaZjC2m8aWeNSas2C0IbT_tnEYI4GLP6r3hgGnIVRfCBfeIRAiEyy74oD4YPxFyDPJ-KVUkmF86uj_ppJvHIUjEzvTjc/w640-h480/IMG_3712.JPG" width="640" /></a></div></i></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-39636397609955942362021-01-28T10:52:00.002-08:002021-01-28T10:57:04.388-08:00Lockdown January 2021: Week 3- Change & Control<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeB4TAB1xcuadORtPeX9ipVptSVg20iIKEun6gk94Mz0ubC283VCFRgAmwYVMHuZfq-1LwSFawSlalqIk1JPMTDL4uRi_XCwC5KYzEOAdI-xQyyJNROTQNORuE8zfgdUPzWirxeWPHGi-8/s4032/IMG_3451.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeB4TAB1xcuadORtPeX9ipVptSVg20iIKEun6gk94Mz0ubC283VCFRgAmwYVMHuZfq-1LwSFawSlalqIk1JPMTDL4uRi_XCwC5KYzEOAdI-xQyyJNROTQNORuE8zfgdUPzWirxeWPHGi-8/s320/IMG_3451.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">I went into week three like a mum on a mission. Thanks to A's trip into his workplace, he'd printed off all the colourful resources (phonics, cursive handwriting, maths) so I got my Teacher hat on and smothered the kitchen walls with it, buggering up the paintwork with, post-it notes, blu-tak and sellotape. With thanks to </span><i style="text-align: left;">Oti's Boogie Beebies</i><span style="text-align: left;">, I pre-made the packed lunches, complete with drinks and snacks.</span></div><p style="text-align: justify;">I also finally found my sense of humour, presumed lost in the back end of 2020. Probably all thanks to the new POTUS and VP: Biden/Harris, bringing hope and joy to the world. Funny fun mummy gave hilarious voices to uneaten breakfast brioche, made up rhyming songs about animal habitats (cats/bats/rat-i-tat-tats) and did some spectacular gurning in the name of phonics (ur/ow/oi/ear). By 10am, two out of three children were dressed and we'd ticked off some of the eldest's home-learning tasks. But I still wasn't satisfied. </p><p>The sun was shining; we needed to be outside. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyFhOYpV6Uoj93QiZbq5IInAqGP5ucrspjLUqYRhE39cqP3h3wYnKsa4M7VjC1z3Ot9h3a-mGAQXXVe3U1iSTOHT1Cxb6HISs5obLz5JlEW5i1FSMeyftH7_S6D8Qt-utHLNszwO-gFULS/s4032/IMG_3358.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyFhOYpV6Uoj93QiZbq5IInAqGP5ucrspjLUqYRhE39cqP3h3wYnKsa4M7VjC1z3Ot9h3a-mGAQXXVe3U1iSTOHT1Cxb6HISs5obLz5JlEW5i1FSMeyftH7_S6D8Qt-utHLNszwO-gFULS/w229-h172/IMG_3358.JPG" width="229" /></a></div>After some free play, I managed to convince the last pyjama-loyalist to get dressed with the promise of a Duplo hunt in the garden: 6 year old to find hidden letters to make up words; 4 year old to find and order numbers and the 2 year old to find Duplo animals. Plus, we needed to go and chat with <a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.com/2021/01/lockdown-january-week-2-finding-reset.html" target="_blank">Flower, who was looking lonely in the run, and collect her egg. </a> I pulled on A's jacket and started to chuck Duplo around the garden. The Duplo hunt was the most successful fifteen minutes in all my six and a half years of parenthood so far: differentiated, educational and fun. I'd totally nailed it. Also, it turns out that our 4 year old seemingly loves maths and stayed out far longer than anyone else, making up all kinds of equations and number bonds.<p></p><p>Feeling smug as a thug with a pug, I handed out the pre-made lunchboxes and wallowed in my glory, thinking how best to write this up in my blog without sounding like an absolute arsehole. </p><p>Lost in self-congratulation, I finally went to take A's coat off and hung it casually on the kitchen door, the pocket banging against the glass. There was a barely perceptible thud, which I recognised straight away. I grimaced and gingerly poked my fingers inside the pocket. Flower's egg had cracked onto my phone. The yolk was still intact, but there were bits of shell and raw sticky whites loose in the pocket. Disgusted and annoyed, I set about the clean up and rescuing the remaining clean egg. By the time I'd finished and left the pocket turned inside out to dry, littlest one had emptied most of his drink into his lunchbox and there was a heated discussion brewing on the topic of post-it notes.</p><p>Exhausted, the TV went on and the CBeebies professionals took over.</p>The week went by in a game of ups and downs, navigating school tasks, some live teacher sessions and a solo chicken. Our eldest has been loving all the work on Rainforests and decided to create our very own rainforest, hiding loads of tropical animal models amongst the branches. Inspired by the anagrams and maths-in-the-garden revelation, we had three more Duplo hunts that week, even in the frost and rain. By midweek, I'd given up on insisting on being dressed and gave into pyjamas all day, even outside, if worn with an over-onesie or coat. This proclamation led to a list of rules announced back at me. including "No dancing to Oti" and "No post-it notes to be put on the wall".<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKS15bY-97E5In7MwW6ngF4HkxadjhWXOt3zU3qQzskLggr8UcRs8nyqioQWjnUiGWKCahQGS2NCFlNFGuJ6e-DItoqOrJbezBMa1jLEN60e01jEw8blAMDg40-Kb8t2tvnUnLIv8ClO9a/s4032/IMG_3404.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKS15bY-97E5In7MwW6ngF4HkxadjhWXOt3zU3qQzskLggr8UcRs8nyqioQWjnUiGWKCahQGS2NCFlNFGuJ6e-DItoqOrJbezBMa1jLEN60e01jEw8blAMDg40-Kb8t2tvnUnLIv8ClO9a/w240-h320/IMG_3404.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>By Thursday, we'd fallen into a rhythm of some work, some play, some telly. The older boys were happily drawing in the kitchen; I had my feet up, feeding our 2 year old to sleep for his afternoon nap. Bliss. The willow tree out the front of the neighbour's house has always been our view and I assumed it always would be. It had been heavily pruned earlier in the week, which was devastating enough, but then they'd decided to have it removed all together. Helpless, I remained seated opposite, as two men took their chainsaws to the trunk. Within forty minutes, the tree had been sawn into logs, right down to the base. I could see that the inside had started to rot, but even so, the sudden loss was too overwhelming and I realised that my tears had fallen on my now woken child. Our neighbours had texted to assure us that a new cherry tree would be planted in its place, but the chopped down willow was a sorry sight. You just assume a tree will be there for a long time. We attempted some footy in the back garden, but we were all a bit grumpy. Instead we hugged our tree and said not to worry, you're safe. (Luckily, our neighbours are really lovely, so we trust them and didn't feel too sad for too long). <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTXZaOsujyGtiS916gTRTl8rvAjZqIuj9IJLOc3YLLVe3h65EinbF8fSfGUQp0i8JTvl0SS6fn1nx3cRoOS_ldk8G69kBhTRKQZFnn-3dqviBE6neIOPhlOe7L_DzA6c3cylfr9fbqtN-Q/s4032/IMG_3384.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTXZaOsujyGtiS916gTRTl8rvAjZqIuj9IJLOc3YLLVe3h65EinbF8fSfGUQp0i8JTvl0SS6fn1nx3cRoOS_ldk8G69kBhTRKQZFnn-3dqviBE6neIOPhlOe7L_DzA6c3cylfr9fbqtN-Q/w175-h234/IMG_3384.JPG" width="175" /></a></div>On Friday morning, the boys went to water and check on the seeds and were delighted to see the first new shoots of the radish and cauliflowers appear. We worked hard to make the weekend a good one, with a classic Friday night disco, a half-successful game of footy in the garden and a new pet chicken to eventually introduce to Flower. A had built a little coop for her to have some space, while sharing the same run, but separate for now. We enjoyed some delicious dinners, including my crowd-pleasing Macaroni Cheese and A's newly perfected homemade pizzas (with thanks to Hannah & David for the online pizza workshop). Oh, A has been making our own kefir everyday, which is now really yummy and our grains are multiplying daily (if you're local, we've got grains to spare).<p></p><p>And then what felt like a blessing and a reward for getting through another week, Sunday brought the best snowfall we could ever have hoped for: deep soft beautiful snow, perfect for morning snowmen building and afternoon sledging along the quiet white roads. All that mattered was keeping everyone warm and fed. We said goodnight to the snow, expecting it to be gone by the morning. I fell asleep wondering if I could invent a new way of tidying up lego, where you simply throw a massive thick white blanket over it all.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ikq_SzafBv592h1w__7avS6n63zPc57Ucy7JBjY7cUi5drD3ZJLFC8fkQOdbm0r-K_IX967xK_Txx_tJVpC42Tf5WIitukGEuxZ1tG33oRjFlIixlO5QfvZf4dtiZvFpDwDOwVita8Cz/s4032/IMG_3537.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ikq_SzafBv592h1w__7avS6n63zPc57Ucy7JBjY7cUi5drD3ZJLFC8fkQOdbm0r-K_IX967xK_Txx_tJVpC42Tf5WIitukGEuxZ1tG33oRjFlIixlO5QfvZf4dtiZvFpDwDOwVita8Cz/w286-h215/IMG_3537.JPG" width="286" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEignxsnEE82T65E_W-d64pWgVFWz270ua_kyV-Sc71C2ivNbXK7rqmoEdm7NAtVTO97si6qz7oAD2gw3MBTPswl2eXA4O2GymmqM1Le4-13e_yYeftI90UZrPF2bA9ET12E3EeD67ZVgL36/s4032/IMG_3524.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEignxsnEE82T65E_W-d64pWgVFWz270ua_kyV-Sc71C2ivNbXK7rqmoEdm7NAtVTO97si6qz7oAD2gw3MBTPswl2eXA4O2GymmqM1Le4-13e_yYeftI90UZrPF2bA9ET12E3EeD67ZVgL36/w288-h216/IMG_3524.JPG" width="288" /></a><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>Reflection: I love how snow releases control from us all. How it often shuts us down and invites us to stop and simply play. Lockdown snow had the double effect and I think I enjoyed it even more. As my children get older, I'm trying to step back and let go a bit more, albeit solving a puzzle, climbing a tree or just learning through making a mess. We obviously have no control over Covid or Lockdown and the consequences of this affect us all, including our children. I think some of the meltdowns, which seemed less intense this week, are maybe due to this lack of control: the sudden closing of schools, not seeing friends and the unknown of it all. But, we carry on, trying to empathise and comfort, digging deep to bring back fun mum for at least some of the week.</i></div><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-65203702069948886212021-01-24T07:47:00.002-08:002021-01-27T12:06:38.773-08:00Lockdown January 2021: Week 2- Finding the Reset Button<p></p><i>I'm disappointed to realise that I've not introduced you to our chickens yet: Sita and Flower. In April 2020, when the shelves were emptying of free range eggs, we decided we needed to fulfil a life long dream and become chicken keepers.</i><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFlhmx34fsB2OPiVIdnIsO29sgIGlCF9gSzwHGtOIs6lvJl4uYpCWWml-Xt65YXLCN_58cRUMASCMdvNIwBNemhNo6k9jGBddkaVVecw_OfWq6NMH9V3mN2_7_99l0-SsE514eNHSWgCW/s4032/IMG_3529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFlhmx34fsB2OPiVIdnIsO29sgIGlCF9gSzwHGtOIs6lvJl4uYpCWWml-Xt65YXLCN_58cRUMASCMdvNIwBNemhNo6k9jGBddkaVVecw_OfWq6NMH9V3mN2_7_99l0-SsE514eNHSWgCW/w320-h240/IMG_3529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">The advice is to buy at least three chickens (if one dies, they'll still have company and because with just two, they might not get on). The chicken coop we'd hurriedly bought online was supposedly for up to 3 chickens, but when it arrived, I didn't see how they'd all fit in. I had read about some hens- the lowest of the pecking order- being shut out of the brood and forced to sleep outside the door, so we just bought two. Finding chickens to buy wasn't easy. It seems that we weren't the radical thinkers we thought we were; pet hens were more difficult to source than eggs. After a tip off from a local farmer friend, we hurriedly called and bought two black Daisybelles from a local seller. My husband (A) went to collect them and arrived home with a cardboard box with two young black hens, looking very scared. Poor little chickens; only three months old. But as time went on, they grew, fluffed up and developed red combs & wattles. They quickly became free ranging and we all perfected the hilarious art of herding chickens. Over the summer, A built a magnificently beautiful chicken run. He credits our then one year old for the hammering, but he's far too modest; it really is his wonderful creation and our chickens loved it and moved in straight away.</span></div><div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfWDtz4RNlJW3TnZTU6ZpLYs4NRMk6NhZQDhW90jlZjpqkEyS4ja7GqOBoXqTVd3H6L4epDv2iQL2WGWT5DAz-ZF-bjfcGL-zNjm3VdorwhuZx0VtxXbYwRppmqB-fCTmfzpnfcRbhO27W/s3490/IMG_3496.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3490" data-original-width="3490" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfWDtz4RNlJW3TnZTU6ZpLYs4NRMk6NhZQDhW90jlZjpqkEyS4ja7GqOBoXqTVd3H6L4epDv2iQL2WGWT5DAz-ZF-bjfcGL-zNjm3VdorwhuZx0VtxXbYwRppmqB-fCTmfzpnfcRbhO27W/w320-h320/IMG_3496.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Since then, we've gone to the chicken house every morning to open the hatch and serve them breakfast. Sita always laid her egg early, but Flower usually laid hers by mid morning. By lunchtime, the littlest one helped me to clear out any chicken poo and check the bedding and the feeders. He would always carry the second egg in and demand for it to be cooked immediately for his lunchtime egg. The chickens roamed the garden by day, sunbathing/dustbathing side-by-side, coming close to the house if we'd popped inside. Cats didn't bother them; Red Kites didn't bother them; we'd not seen any other predators. By nightfall, they would return to roost. Sita would head to bed as early as possible; Flower would hang on until total darkness before turning in and then we would tuck them in for the night. The sisters would cuddle up together until daybreak.</div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Why the backstory of two little chickens?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Well, after crawling through the first week of lockdown 'learning', we woke up on Sunday to thick heavy fog, lulling us all into a deep lethargy. We had fed the hens first thing and returned with littlest one to clear out the coop late morning, but a hungry little robin flew into the chicken run. Sita- the wilder escape artist- had already bolted out the door for some much-longed for foraging; her tamer docile sister, Flower, faithfully followed. The door had to stay open until the robin was out. This probably all sounds like bucolic loveliness, but with the threat of Avian Flu, we had to deep-clean the house and the feeders, easier to do with the hens outside (especially with little one's yummy-looking juicy wriggly fingers at perfect pecking height). A and little one then had to pop inside to refresh the feeders. While all this was going on, I was making a cake with our four year old star baker, who has a special skill for cracking eggs, mixing and beating. I remember taking a moment at the sink and noticing the sisters together in the garden. Two minutes later, I noticed that Flower was alone, pacing towards the house and making a distressed sound.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">At first I thought it was a fluffy cat, but as my eyes focussed, I saw that a large fox was right at the door of the chicken house. I screamed out "IT'S A FOX. A FOX. A FOX" and like a true warrior mum, in flowery apron, head scarf and fuzzy slippers, I sprinted out the back door, across the muddy lawn, screaming into the thick fog. The hungry hunter loped away. Sita didn't appear when called. She didn't run to us when whistled. Only an unbearable silence and stillness across the misty lawn. A discovered a pile of thick black feathers. But it was our six year old who suddenly shouted "There!" and pointed at her dropped body, under a bush on the soil. With Flower safely back in the coop, I ushered the younger ones inside, but our six year old stayed outside for ages, gently talking to Flower, bringing her willow leaves and worms from the veg patch.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Out in the garden, A dug the grave. Before moving her (now headless body), A deliberately waited until the boys were back inside and Flower was out of sight. But as soon as he lowered Sita's battered body deep into the hole, her sister started clucking loudly- that same distressed sound- despite being away in the coop.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLU9hHNsfmR8WsepWuYDePq6UXRzeKfgP7LqFPwl9G5pZrhENaeHrcbps6T3mCTIMJN4V2ubSswf0IA9kDIX-x3HPxTZGrEUr7xosYQNiqflkXFKFHx33R0sbw-zFtT8AEm8-q7fY8pBc/s2700/IMG_3193.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2548" data-original-width="2700" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLU9hHNsfmR8WsepWuYDePq6UXRzeKfgP7LqFPwl9G5pZrhENaeHrcbps6T3mCTIMJN4V2ubSswf0IA9kDIX-x3HPxTZGrEUr7xosYQNiqflkXFKFHx33R0sbw-zFtT8AEm8-q7fY8pBc/w179-h169/IMG_3193.JPG" width="179" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And that was how our second week began: a freshly dug grave and Sita's final eggs, already baked in the cake. I've always been highly sentimental, but I had no idea that I could be so sad from the death of a chicken. I dragged myself through each day. Sita's death had a profound impact on us all, eliciting some deep questions, conversations and artwork. </div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">By Wednesday, the last slice of cake was finished, the fog had lifted and a renewed peace resumed.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVbAhDaidipJ0GyPvVStiqMD3y9b1r5g8XiHfJqzINJ1SRsek5aeIv7590oAyG7uQoiHLWQIFwbK6wiHOcQPUYPfj317z7RcRGo4l4vvx-grN7cmPR1EZL2CZELCRwnI2YhnvrhyphenhyphenPRukZ3/s3490/IMG_3495.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3490" data-original-width="3490" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVbAhDaidipJ0GyPvVStiqMD3y9b1r5g8XiHfJqzINJ1SRsek5aeIv7590oAyG7uQoiHLWQIFwbK6wiHOcQPUYPfj317z7RcRGo4l4vvx-grN7cmPR1EZL2CZELCRwnI2YhnvrhyphenhyphenPRukZ3/s320/IMG_3495.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We had some more success with Distance Learning, both older children completing a satisfactory range of tasks, but I felt that we'd overdone the pyjama days and needed more fresh air. Even in the kitchen, I burnt the popcorn, spilt the milk and messed up the custard. I felt deflated and avoided the news. It was all too much. Too sad. Luckily, I'm part of a good team: A was there to scrub the pan, mop the milk and give me a hug. And then on Thursday, he took the older boys with him into his empty high school, to collect some teaching resources and to set up a temporary work station. This was exactly what I didn't realise we all needed. To have one day just to focus on our two year old was absolute bliss. We played all day, went on a random walk/run in the rain, jumped in all the puddles and laughed so much at absolutely nothing. When the bigger boys returned, having loved their day 'at work', we hugged as though we'd been apart for weeks. </div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Reset. Feeling refreshed, loved and unbelievably grateful for my family, we did a cha-cha-slide into Friday, with jazz hands and sparkles aplenty. We checked all the seeds and saw that the cress has rocketed to the sky. We spent the morning finding more worms to bring for Flower, planted more seeds (radish and onions) and even found time for drawing/writing down our hopes and dreams for 2021 (finally!) This was a lovely idea, but I now feel morally responsible for sourcing rollerskates for our 6 year old, a tree house full of Pokemon cards for our 4 year old and a TON of glitter for our youngest. Oh, and my husband's focus is going to be juggling. Me? I want to grow more veg and see the sea. And for Flower, some cool new chicken chicas to peck around with.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2XdtaebOtaNxTwnldRoMal3XCr9Kws7DAoBGSWRGoT9bBvs4YQMbKkI3dk5nF0X-69YiDVkxVzzRvNNpyp6GGie62vIY7cRk4MWIKipXWxyqZiF5jgE51zkFFo7LPx_juhgZ-ZgXacWzx/s795/8d09be6d-2ac7-4369-a1cb-522de52c0214.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" data-original-height="694" data-original-width="795" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2XdtaebOtaNxTwnldRoMal3XCr9Kws7DAoBGSWRGoT9bBvs4YQMbKkI3dk5nF0X-69YiDVkxVzzRvNNpyp6GGie62vIY7cRk4MWIKipXWxyqZiF5jgE51zkFFo7LPx_juhgZ-ZgXacWzx/w319-h279/8d09be6d-2ac7-4369-a1cb-522de52c0214.jpg" width="319" /> </a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSJXQfX_ObifG9VWEc_zBHUYxhq7yZV1kwg-XIl5lDvznrnV7QfNLaFiEB_HYpNxQZj3shDptXiK75cDp_jQG4eezqaO-6vcQcH8UZMmbGGLzgwXvBMsIt77uxF3eKHtxuupYTfkTiqGij/s4032/IMG_3252.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSJXQfX_ObifG9VWEc_zBHUYxhq7yZV1kwg-XIl5lDvznrnV7QfNLaFiEB_HYpNxQZj3shDptXiK75cDp_jQG4eezqaO-6vcQcH8UZMmbGGLzgwXvBMsIt77uxF3eKHtxuupYTfkTiqGij/s320/IMG_3252.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-23024036428441338602021-01-21T08:44:00.001-08:002021-01-21T08:48:18.492-08:00Lockdown January 2021 end of Week 1<p><i>These first few blog posts are catching up on the first couple of weeks, transferring frenzied thoughts into typed up prose... it'll catch up with real time real soon...</i></p><p>My husband(A) was back to working online full time before the primary schools were sending out work and I took this as a golden opportunity to introduce the thrill of learning through creativity, play and fresh air. I felt I needed to readdress the balance of Christmas toys & TV bingeing and get us all in the mood for some new year/term reflecting.</p><p>I had a simple, loose plan for our first day: </p><p></p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li>AM: Decorating mini (porcelain) plant pots, filling with compost and planting some seeds of their choice. I'd pre-selected seeds for January indoor planting: peppers, cauliflower, sweet corn, tomatoes and cress; all still in their labelled packets.</li><li>PM: Drawing/writing our 'Hopes & Dreams' for 2021on a huge pre-cut communal circle of paper.</li></ol><div>Great ideas, huh? Simple, wholesome, accessible for all ages. I started the day with a sparkle and shine, thinking- no... knowing- that I am a wonderful human being, a nurturing mother, a compassionate teacher/facilitator. This is what I've been waiting for: a chance to blend my awesome parent prowess with some <i>Outstanding</i> teacher tactics, based on professional training and years of experience. My husband had made me a hot cuppa, in my old 'Teacher' mug, which was on the kitchen counter. How hard could this really be, to have only three lovely pupils, rather than the usual 30+? Ever since our eldest started school, I've been wondering whether we should make the leap into homeschooling and this was the perfect way to dip the toe in the water.</div><div><br /></div><div>By 10am, the pots had been 'decorated' with the especially purchased (permanent) markers, but so had littlest one's face and arms, which was all part of the creativity, if not the plan.</div><div>A had left a big tub of compost on the patio for us, ready for the kids to go out and dig into. All good apart from the torrential rain which had left it water logged and churned up all the worms to the surface. Two out of three children were willing to get on their coats and boots, dutifully trying to fill up their pots in the pouring rain. </div><div>I took a moment to see if my tea's still drinkable, but decided to zap it in the microwave.</div><div>Once back inside, the boys happily chose their seeds and started poking them into the soaking wet soil. I was busy helping to clean littlest one's mud-caked fingers while the older two got stuck in. My eldest told me he's planted pepper and sweetcorn and our middle born is all about the cauliflower right now, but i'm not 100% confident of what's in each pot, but they excitedly carried them off to the window sill, to wait for the first sign of life. Littlest one poured out thousands of cress seeds, some of which made it into the pot.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>The boys were now happily role-playing something about dragons so despite needing a wee, I thought I <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOoxgcE9vdxb2nfkxVq9Wl_TmQkysQOe8NlD2ii-8alsXDA-Q9rVmLuevLUIHl5euscFpq_Lzj2ENLgGcNK4rMeb53IcXtK4m18JmjqHqurcbIT4G1AsSRlkuYvc0nf0yzHbDYoVBlpvqF/s4032/IMG_3248.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOoxgcE9vdxb2nfkxVq9Wl_TmQkysQOe8NlD2ii-8alsXDA-Q9rVmLuevLUIHl5euscFpq_Lzj2ENLgGcNK4rMeb53IcXtK4m18JmjqHqurcbIT4G1AsSRlkuYvc0nf0yzHbDYoVBlpvqF/s320/IMG_3248.JPG" /></a></div>better plough on with preparing lunch before we hit the dangerous hanger zone. While getting set up, I thought ahead to the afternoon plan: some reflective chitchat about the year ahead, while drawing our hopes and dreams onto the giant sheet of paper. I'm not sure how it started, but our 4 year old was suddenly very angry and it took about 40minutes (and all my remaining energy) to help to calm him down and coach him through some dark emotions, something about wings. Meltdowns leave me totally exhausted, but I try to see it as an opportunity to reconnect. By the time all was calm again- I'm sitting on the floor in the lounge doorway, 4 year old curled up in my lap, now busting for a wee- I notice that our eldest has popped the telly on [his last lockdown legacy was to master the remote control] and littlest one had hoisted himself up to the windowsill like the mini Ninja he is and found the kid's trowels; he was delightedly digging up all the pots, compost and seeds, looking very pleased with himself, his smile smeared in soil and wriggling his little finger, enthusiastically signing 'worm'.</div><div><br /></div><div>Feeling totally spent and frazzled, it was at this moment that my husband cheerfully bounded down the stairs, singing some ditty, ready to high five us all, chirping, "how's it all going? Have you all had lunch?" Grrrrr.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fast forward a few minutes and A takes over post-meltdown, trying to explain why Papa has been shut in a room all morning and then gets on with the now very late lunch. I quickly replant the displaced seeds into the older boys' pots, trying not to worry too much about how excited they were about the specific veg. I can't see any pepper seeds and the cauliflower seeds are microscopic anyway, so I take a few fresh sweetcorn seeds and bung a couple in each.</div><div><br /></div><div>I finally get to the loo for a minutes' peace, emerging to find another meltdown brewing in the kitchen, this time something about a plate. The lunch is done but A has to rush back upstairs to start his next lesson, stomping and huffing back up the stairs, seemingly frazzled and spent after spending exactly 22 minutes downstairs. I make a fresh cuppa.</div><div><br /></div><div>Needless to say, the epic Hopes & Dreams project got delayed and we all watched a lot of Paw Patrol all afternoon. I have to reheat my tea and find my first brew stone cold, the <i>Great</i> Teacher mug quietly mocking me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Before going to bed, we got set up for the school tasks, which would be appearing on Google Classroom in the morning. I managed to find two old mostly- unused exercise books; I gathered some stationery and then dusted off the 'Four H. Homeschool' rules, which we collectively (ahem, ok, mostly me) came up with last March. I think I had a mental checklist of other things but I cannot recall these right now. A and I found all the log-in details and made sure they were all working, including the (excellent) Phonicsplay.com and MyMaths website. We had two days of 'homeschool' before the weekend and I decided that we would just see how we went and wouldn't put too much pressure on myself to 'succeed', but the content the teachers upload is bloody brilliant- creative, fun and even differentiated- and in respect of their hard work, I want to give it our best.</div><div><br /></div><div>After breakfast, and a BIG prep-talk, including a refresher of the H.Homeschool dance we (ok, I) made up last year (Yes, I am <i>that</i> mum), I went to fetch the screens. I pressed the buttons and nothing happened. And then I remembered my first mental note of Distance Learning: remember to charge up the laptop the night before. Even my phone was battery dead. So, that was abandoned until later. Boys wanted some morning TV so I enjoyed a second hot cuppa and a leisurely breakfast. We tried again after lunch, all gathering around the laptop and successfully logged on to the two separate platforms, but then I remembered my second mental note: always read through all the tasks, information and slides before engaging the kids. Overwhelmed by the content, we abandoned it until later. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7gutPoALGJljXdAPIPJnOjxjgx_ytR7TUlqnCMQhlHldcyluffzEdHeLP0yXZfREIMjG0Koqnhk38yEUXefpH4tUgV3Y_6c75XVej3aihTSFg2NTAdidlJDbl4Aek7infMYagha7mROu/s4032/IMG_3152.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7gutPoALGJljXdAPIPJnOjxjgx_ytR7TUlqnCMQhlHldcyluffzEdHeLP0yXZfREIMjG0Koqnhk38yEUXefpH4tUgV3Y_6c75XVej3aihTSFg2NTAdidlJDbl4Aek7infMYagha7mROu/s320/IMG_3152.JPG" /></a></div>Finally managed to help the eldest to access and do a few tasks. He loves it and is unbelievably keen (which isn't exactly what I recall from last March). He is proudly using the brand new exercise book, creatively titled: 'Lockdown Learning'. However, the other book was promptly scribbled on, my neat handwriting crossed out and replaced with 'Pokemon', but spelt without the 'e'; the first 10+ pages were soon filled up with glorious artwork, depicting a colourful array of TV characters. It keeps him happy and busy for a very long time. Counting that as win.</div><div><br /></div><div>On the last day of the week, I decided that we had all worked very hard and declared that today was a day off and we should just chill, play outside, play inside, watch a film. Littlest one planted a lot more seeds. We feasted on fish and chips for tea and cracked open the wine by 4pm. </div><div><br /></div><div>We then finished the week with our family disco, remembering to agree the playlist first to avoid a meltdown, making it extra fun with glow-sticks. Mental note for next disco: make sure we all have the same colour glow-stick FFS. Always learning. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Reflections: these meltdowns are coming thick and fast and makes me remember that this is hard for us all. All the boys are missing having their dad around all day to play with and cuddle. They're all still so young and are constantly learning through play and daily interactions. We try and plan for some 1:1 time with each child over the weekend. I know we've done 'our best' and I know this sounds dramatic, but I can't help feeling enormously overwhelmed by it all, which I can't seem to shake. I'm sure a zero-plans weekend will help, with lots of outdoor time, time to read my funny book and maybe even a whole mug of hot tea.</i></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-60984026566697438072021-01-18T07:20:00.005-08:002021-01-27T12:07:01.374-08:00Lockdown January 2021- the Beginning: Wildly Optimistic.<p><i>I've been keeping a diary on actual real life paper, but thought I'd share from this current lockdown. Why? Well, it helps me to keep sane and I'm hoping that it might help to legitimise my recently mega increased screen time.</i></p><p>Here we are again: schools are shut and we're supposed to stay at home.</p><p>When the news was announced, I was actually quietly happy (I know, I know). Of course, I was devastated by the news of new Covid variants and rising R numbers and the ever increasing death toll. But I was deep in the cosy joys of a Christmas at home, staying at home with my fledglings close by, hunkering down with the expectation to travel removed. It didn't seem right to be sending our children back into primary school (especially with the new strain passing more quickly by children), nor my husband (A) back on the long daily commute into London (where 1 in 30 supposedly have Covid!), teaching in a busy city high school (amongst the biggest spreaders with very little outdoor space). </p><p>Plus, I had quit my job last year after the last Lockdown living/teaching/working/parenting thing almost DESTROYED me. I was teaching part time English in a local school, but I couldn't do it all and something had to go: the last fragile strand of my 10+ year profession. After Boris finished his "schools must close" (hours after saying "schools will open"), I thought about my current lack of paid work and actually said out loud to my husband: "I can do this. Bring it on". </p><p>Oh how naive I was.</p><p>A's working full time from home (taking over a corner of our room as his work space). I've got our three boys (6, 4, 2) to teach, parent, feed, keep hydrated, emotion coach, entertain, comfort, get to sleep, clean and wipe. I'm obviously not totally alone in this: A helps when he can, we've got amazing content supplied by the boys' teachers via Google Classroom, BBC and of course, darling Netflix. We've managed to get our hands on a couple of devices from A's work, set up to try and surf the tidal wave of school tasks. We've also got a garden big enough to run around, grow vegetables and keep chickens (more about that later). Sooo lucky and so aware of how much easier it is for us than thousands. But, despite knowing how much easier I have this than most, I've already started drinking more wine, eating more cake (thanks to my legendary mum for sending us a whole Christmas cake in the post) and I've started swearing like a drunk badass. </p><p>Before the first week of term, I devised a colour-coded timetable on a spreadsheet (who even am I??) in keeping with the school's schedule: wildly optimistic, but I just wanted to see what we might have to try and do to be able to keep up with the three Literacy, three Maths, Phonics, Spellings, Geography, History, Science, French, Art, PE, PSHE, plus the getting outside and fresh air thing. </p><p>Just to re-jog the facts here. Our kids are 6, 4 and 2. What the actual fork was I thinking?</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://drive.google.com/uc?id=1D50eueUXUyMWQNJ6NPeWuyrNksePAzSr" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="100%" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Rare mili-second where all 3 are engaged in the same task.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-69845509145292789352021-01-15T11:47:00.000-08:002021-01-18T13:14:08.463-08:00Reflections on Racism: on Being Mixed Race, Part 2
<p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Part 2: </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">On being half-white in Leeds, London and Mombasa (2001-2013)</span></p><p><img width="100%" src="https://drive.google.com/uc?id=1XWyBqieZZW4P7svnalkzvqhP3t1IiNXu"></p><p><br></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">(For Part 1, click <a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.com/2020/06/reflections-on-privilege-and-racism-on.html" target="_blank">here</a>.)</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-53e81b5b-7fff-f716-f6d6-0eaaedf97588"><ul style="margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 0; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">People still asked me where I was </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">really</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> from but I don’t remember personally being victim to or witnessing any obvious racial prejudice during these years ( (coincidence that these were mainly with a Left Wing British Government?)- a privilege. </span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Enjoyed a full urban life and culture, never being questioned, ignored or insulted- a privilege. </span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Teaching English in diverse urban schools without anyone ever questioning or doubting my ability to teach the home language or its literature- a privilege not always enjoyed by People of Colour. </span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Living as a comparatively wealthy expat in Mombasa, being expected to employ a full time cleaner and own a car (neither of which I wished/planned for)- a privilege. </span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Being appointed as Head of English (& Head of House) in a Kenyan Private School even though there were more experienced local black Kenyan teachers- a privilege. </span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Enjoying the full expat life including lavish dinners, hobbies, travel and the company of global trotting friends. </span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Although being seen as a white woman meant I also lost some privilege including being able to walk anywhere without being targeted and shouted at “hey Mzungu”, I got round this by wearing my Punjabi salwar kameez and head covered if I wanted a quiet walk to the shops. Double privilege to be able to choose. </span></p></li></ul><br><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Return to UK, 2013-2020: a rise in racism but more awareness of my white privilege compared to my darker skinned British-Tanzanian-Indian husband. </span></p><ul style="margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 0; padding-inline-start: 48px;"><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The first few months back in Lincolnshire, England- rise in UKIP under David Cameron- and my now husband comes to visit me. His first walk to the shops and a man shouts out “Oi Paki” just seconds from my parents’ house. </span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Another visit and he steps into the local sports shop to buy some swimming and rugby stuff and he’s immediately shown towards the cricket gear. </span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Travelling together is an eye opener. I’m used to being the one singled out in a group of white friends (although my mum thinks it’s because of my ‘bohemian style’) but my husband’s passport (with an Indian-Muslim name) is taken, scrutinised and his details interrogated. </span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When putting in an offer for our family home, we deliberately used my (Anglo-Christian) name and surname to avoid losing out because of our family’s ethnicity. </span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We’re very lucky to have financial privilege and this used to include hiring a cleaner to help out our busy family life, but I get so nervous and make sure that at least the bathrooms are cleaned for fear of one of the few BAME families in the town being seen as dirty!</span></p></li><li aria-level="1" dir="ltr" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; list-style-type: disc; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When on the receiving end of being ignored or dealing with hostility, we have to consider whether there’s racism involved, including our young children’s experiences as they grow and learn from the world. </span></p></li></ul><br><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phew. That will have to do. It’s exhausting reliving these uncomfortable feelings. But discomfort can be positive and necessary if we are going to grow and change for the better. </span></p></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-44905711055404002772021-01-15T10:11:00.000-08:002021-01-15T10:11:17.437-08:00Realising White Privilege (MOLO Blog)<p><span style="color: #020130;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>First published on The Motherload Blogzine, June 2020</i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #020130;">Watching the evening news, people witness another awful killing and see the Anti-Racism protests, feeling sympathy with the cause. They see the pain and the hurt and feel sorry that these tragic things happen in the world, and then settle in for some Gogglebox and tweet about celebrity home furnishings. After all, we’re only human and that’s how we cope, serving ourselves small measures of reality, washed down with an effervescent tonic of escapist TV.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For everyone struggles: dealing with life’s injustices, drowning in unfair systems, let down by fellow humans, <span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">broken by Covid-19</span><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">. No one is immune. <em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">We’re all in this together.</em></span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And then amongst all these hardships, this everyday trauma and pain, <a href="https://the-motherload.co.uk/how-to-be-an-anti-racist-family/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; display: inline-block; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: relative; transition: color 0.2s ease 0s; vertical-align: bottom;" target="_blank">some stranger tells you that you’ve had it easy compared to others,</a> that you’ve lived a charmed life. <span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Nobody likes to be told that they have had it easy</span><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">. </span><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Just today, another mum suggested that my life was easier now my two older children are back at school two days a week. I was immediately annoyed and quickly rattled off all the daily difficulties I faced. Defensive. Angry. In denial.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Amongst the waves of #blacklivesmatter protests and the social media focus on race and racism, there has been a wake up call to check white privilege: </span><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">to relearn British history, </span><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">to rethink British heroes and to appreciate having privilege that one never knew even existed before. Statues have tumbled. Pride has been punctured. </span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Identifying as mixed race, proudly half-Indian, <a href="https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/rebecca-gurnham/growing-up-in-a-posttrump_b_13136078.html" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; display: inline-block; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: relative; transition: color 0.2s ease 0s; vertical-align: bottom;" target="_blank">the only brown-skinned girl in my school</a>, I did not think that this applied to me. I was quick to assert my allegiance and <a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.com/2020/06/reflections-on-privilege-and-racism-on.html" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; display: inline-block; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: relative; transition: color 0.2s ease 0s; vertical-align: bottom;" target="_blank">voiced my story</a> and anger. I benefit from many a privilege, but I’d never realised that race was one of them.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But then this week, I’ve had the biggest wake up call of my adult life. Having been a victim of racist abuse, I would never have dreamt of being on the side of the oppressor, but in reading <em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Me and White Supremacy </em>(Layla F. Saad) and <em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">White Fragility (</em>Robin DiAngelo), I’ve learnt that if others see me as White, regardless of how I describe my own ethnicity, then I benefit from White Privilege.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: 600; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mind. Blown.</span></span></p><p data-slot-rendered-dynamic="true" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As mixed race, i’m also ‘half-white’ and often seen as white, especially by Asian and Black communities, when teaching in East London, when living in Kenya, or when hanging out with my Indian family. It’s easy for me to recall all the instances of falling victim to racism, but to chart my own white privilege is far harder, but it is a necessary exercise that I feel I must do so I can grow, relearn and <a href="https://the-motherload.co.uk/how-to-be-an-anti-racist-family/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; display: inline-block; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: relative; transition: color 0.2s ease 0s; vertical-align: bottom;" target="_blank">help my own young children to be anti-racist.</a></span></p><ul style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; margin: 1.5em; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0.2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Since adulthood, nobody has racially abused me – a privilege.</span></li><li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0.2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In recent years, nobody has told me to “go back to where you came from”- a privilege.</span></li><li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0.2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If the spare train/bus/plane seat next to me remains free, I don’t consider racism. Usually.</span></li><li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0.2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t live in fear of racially-motivated violence.</span></li><li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0.2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My body carries no physical scars from racist attacks.</span></li><li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0.2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I can call on the police without fear.</span></li><li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0.2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I can go for a walk in the woods without people worrying I’ll attack them.</span></li><li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0.2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I could run for a bus without people thinking I’ve nicked something.</span></li><li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0.2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I can travel the world without worrying too much about racism (apart from some casual curious racism and the odd time of being totally ignored in shops)</span></li><li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0.2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I can visit stately homes and gardens, live in towns with great infrastructure, built with the money from Colonialism and Slavery.</span></li><li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0.2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I can walk past Imperial statues celebrating British victory without my heart quickening and blood boiling, deaf to the agonising cries of decapitated ancestors (although I do take note and feel a deep shame)</span></li><li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0.2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve taught English in British schools without anyone ever questioning or doubting my ability to teach the home language or its literature – a privilege many black-British and British-Asian English teachers don’t always get to enjoy.</span></li><li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0.2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When appointed Head of English in an East African International School, I arrived to realise that there were local teachers more experienced than me who might have loved the job.</span></li><li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0.2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When travelling with my (British East African-Asian) husband, he is usually stopped at security and his passport scrutinised beyond belief.</span></li><li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0.2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When putting in an offer for a house, we deliberately used my Anglo-Christian name, to rule out fears of racism.</span></li><li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0.2em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wouldn’t expect to struggle to hail a cab because of my skin colour.</span></li></ul><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The list goes on, including every benefit of white privilege: education, housing, jobs, society.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And if this hasn’t persuaded you to rethink your own privilege and shed your pride, watch Frozen II and copy the example made by Anna and Elsa (now revealed as mixed race – yippee, join the club sisters), who realise that their own Grandfather was a violent imperialist leader, tricking and killing the Northuldra people under the disguise of a peaceful cup of tea and jolly picnic. The princesses use their power to destroy the dam – the classic symbol of anti-nature colonialism – to bring justice to the indigenous communities, to make history right and to set ALL people free. While this simplistic allegory for colonial damage and repatriation may not be ideal (white saviour complex?) it does launch a much-needed conversation with even young children about history, imperialism and fairness: for surely every child on earth notices what is fair or unfair before they can even walk or talk?</span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But life isn’t Disney. Real shots have been fired. Real blood has been shed.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Together, as parents of the next generation, we can shed our pride and free our children. <span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Racism is everyone’s issue and we are all called upon to rethink our lives and demand more from our schools, our police, our justice system, our reading, our television, our government, our future. </span><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Once we’re aware of our privilege, we can begin to move forward with our collective fight for a better world.</span><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></span></p><div><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Quicksand, Verdana; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-26208359490143350112021-01-15T10:02:00.005-08:002021-01-16T13:03:33.362-08:00How to be an Anti-Racist Family (MOLO Blog)<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>First published in the <a href="https://the-motherload.co.uk/how-to-be-an-anti-racist-family/" target="_blank">Motherload Blogzine, June 2020</a></i></span></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #020130; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;">Racism is part of everyone’s history. Racism is everyone’s business. Racism should not be our future.</span></span></b></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Yet racism is clearly our present. Whatever our background, we have a role to play to make a change for our children’s futures: we are called on to be “Anti-Racist” in an age that can no longer progress with well-meaning ‘colour-blind’ apathy.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The latest news bulletins force us to confront the realities of George Floyd’s last breath, Breonna Taylor’s last sleep, Sean Reed’s last drive and Ahmaud Arbery’s last jog: just some of the recent victims of the inherent racism fixed in our society, on both sides of the Atlantic.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><img alt="" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-26348" height="480" loading="lazy" src="https://the-motherload.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/giphy-1.gif" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; height: auto; margin: 0px; max-width: 100%;" width="436" /></p><em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: 600; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">This is deeply uncomfortable, but recognise this as a healthy reaction to utilise, to make a change.</span></em><p></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">As mothers, we already know that we have to do all we can to foster kindness, but do we know that “children notice race and the difference between themselves from the age of around three” (<span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Quicksand, Verdana; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Educational Psychologist Dr Ikeogu of </span><a href="https://www.mellownest.co.uk/" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; display: inline-block; font-family: Quicksand, Verdana; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: relative; transition: color 0.2s ease 0s; vertical-align: bottom;">Mellownest</a>)<span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">? </span><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The first time I realised this was when my eldest painted his self-portrait, age 3, exaggerating his East African/Asian heritage with a skin tone much darker than his own: a mark of pride, perhaps, but definitely a conscious observation of difference. </span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">In my own childhood, it was at primary school when I remember being more aware of my otherness, deflecting labels like “Brownie” and the exasperating question: “where are you <em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">really</em> from?” whilst simultaneously having to admire a friend’s suntanned skin. </span><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Quicksand, Verdana; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dr Ikeogu states that “research has shown that white children go on to show a preference for peers who are also white so it is really important to start this work early on,” to avoid this unconscious bias. </span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: 600; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">But how do we begin to challenge ourselves to confront these deeply ingrained prejudices?</span></span></em></p><h3 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 20px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 30px; margin: 3rem 0px 1rem; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">1. Know your History and not just the European version.</h3><p data-slot-rendered-dynamic="true" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Find out about how the British Empire expanded; understand the powerful symbolism of painted black devil faces in Medieval Theatre,<span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Quicksand, Verdana; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> inspiring </span><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Quicksand, Verdana; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“the blacker devil” of </span>Shakespeare’s Othello (1603); Slavery; <span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Quicksand, Verdana; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">19th Century European ‘Anthropological’ fascination with black bodies like the Khoikhoi women displayed in London and Paris exhibitions, including rape and experiments </span><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Quicksand, Verdana; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">in the name of Science; or the pseudoscience of Biological Racism whereby empirical ‘evidence’ was gathered to justify White Supremacy (this objectification of Otherness continues);</span> the bloody imperial resistance to movements of Independence (Partition of India 1945, the Kenyan MauMau Uprising); ethnic cleansing; first hand experiences of p<span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Quicksand, Verdana; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">ostwar immigrants; Segregation; </span>Civil Rights Movement; Apartheid; 20th Century Race Riots; Tottenham Riots, the roots of #blacklivesmatter.</p><h3 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 20px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 30px; margin: 3rem 0px 1rem; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">2. Listen/watch/read about the lived experiences of everyday racism to make you aware of White Privilege.</h3><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">If you can travel without your bags being searched, or can run for a bus without worrying people think you’ve stolen something, or exit a shop without panicking where your receipt is, then you’re probably in a bubble of white privilege.</p><h3 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 20px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 30px; margin: 3rem 0px 1rem; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">3. Avoid Cultural Misappropriation.</h3><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">This is where the practices and customs of minority groups are taken by the dominant culture, often to make money or to gain popularity. Research its history of oppression and marginalisation before dressing as an Indigenous American Indian, or Rastafarian, or Geisha. If you’re a babywearer, learn about #takebacktherebozo</p><h3 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 20px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 30px; margin: 3rem 0px 1rem; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">4. Once you’re confident with the above, you’ll begin to read the world differently and educate your families appropriately.</h3><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">At a Museum, you will see Egyptian artefacts and question what right the British have to still be “protectors” of these great relics. You’ll see a world map with new eyes, noting the political bias of placing the UK in the middle, or the straight lines dissecting Africa’s internal borders. Re-see those British statues celebrating the British Empire, with chastened Elephants and tamed Lions under the boots of marble military leaders. Re-visit <a href="https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/the-stately-homes-built-on-the-back-of-slaves-8518002.html" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: relative; transition: color 0.2s ease 0s; vertical-align: bottom;" target="_blank">grand stately homes and question where the money came from.</a></p><h3 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 20px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 30px; margin: 3rem 0px 1rem; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">5. To be Anti-Racist requires us to question our influences in the home.</h3><p data-slot-rendered-dynamic="true" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Where is the diversity in your child’s reading, and from whose perspective is the historical sources in the school text books? Aim for positive messages of identity, fairness and kindness, with illustrations that promote diversity. Audit what you already have, dig out those free books the Health Visitor gave you and if you do invest, look for writers from the BAME community, books to inform about a variety of cultures with a new perspective to offer.</p><h3 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 20px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 30px; margin: 3rem 0px 1rem; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">6. Audit your toys.</h3><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Notice the white dominance of your Duplo figures or dolls. Toys play a major role by normalising diversity.</p><h3 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 20px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 30px; margin: 3rem 0px 1rem; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">7. Look at what you’re watching on TV and be critical of what picture it gives of the world.</h3><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">You can play it safe with relying on the excellent CBeebies/CBBC. But maybe now you’ll notice that in Netflix’s <em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic</em>, the only black unicorn is Princess Luna, linking blackness to uncontrollable violent outbursts and greed, a constant threat to the pure whiteness of Princess Celestia’s happy land.</p><h3 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 20px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 30px; margin: 3rem 0px 1rem; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">8. Challenge your own reading and media habits.</h3><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Choose non-fiction and fiction that will broaden how you think about Identity, Race and Society; be prepared for discomfort. Watch films that draw attention to experiences of marginalisation and prejudice. Go find the brilliant threads in <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/molobookclub/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: relative; transition: color 0.2s ease 0s; vertical-align: bottom;" target="_blank">The Motherload® Book Club</a> for great recommendations.</p><h3 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 20px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 30px; margin: 3rem 0px 1rem; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">9. Stop pretending that you’re too nice to “see colour”.</h3><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Because that’s what polite people said to do in an age when mixed race partnerships were still taboo. Once you’re honest with this, you can have meaningful open discussions and ensure the right message is set. I understand the good intentions of claiming not to see skin colour, but if you don’t acknowledge difference, then you deny the existence of racism and the much-needed conversations about diversity and acceptance gets swallowed up by ignorance and fear.</p><h3 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 20px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 30px; margin: 3rem 0px 1rem; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">10. Be sensitive to how you talk about colour with young children.</h3><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I was enraged at one baby class when every colour was assigned a positive image in a song, but brown was linked to a dirty frown, with accompanying sad faces and yucky sounds. Why not the colour of trees, cocoa beans, chocolate, coffee, tea, the earth? Nobody else seemed to mind, singing and cooing at their little babies, but as the only brown-skinned family in the room, I stopped singing. <span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Quicksand, Verdana; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I’d never usually admit to this, for fear of being accused of being over-sensitive. But w</span>hen you live with everyday racism, having been called the colour of poo, this kind of colour symbolism matters more than some would ever guess.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/rebecca-gurnham/growing-up-in-a-posttrump_b_13136078.html" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: relative; transition: color 0.2s ease 0s; vertical-align: bottom;" target="_blank">My own experiences of racism</a> inspired me to study History and Literature through a non-white lens, but even with this privileged insight and education, I need to do better: to call out someone who was joking about the brown-hand emoji, demanding greater diversity in the A-Level Literature syllabus and interrogating my own privilege as ‘white-passing’ in more culturally diverse areas – something I’ve only just learnt to recognise.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">This call for Anti-Racist action is life-changing.</em></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #020130; font-family: Quicksand; font-size: 18px; margin: 1.5em 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: 600; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">What changes or challenges will you make to ensure that your family are Anti-Racist?</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-70976826582757193842020-06-15T12:57:00.002-07:002021-01-16T13:05:06.438-08:00Reflections on Racism: on Being Mixed Race, Part 1
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><img height="640" src="https://drive.google.com/uc?id=1l-y7wF6CQgz2fFw8AJr7eWo7JmofZ0em" width="480" /><br /><span style="font-family: "arial"; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>These are individual experiences but they are not the fault of any individual, but instead the collective system of racism, grown out of a history of oppression, misrepresentation in dominant media and a failure to deliver a more diverse curriculum in schools.</i></span></div><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /><span style="font-family: "arial"; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>There are many forms of privilege, many of which I benefit from: class, gender, financial, place of birth, education, but this post reflects only on racial.</i></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: "arial"; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><br /></i></span><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Part 1</span></div><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On being half-Indian (Kenyan-Asian) growing up in small town monocultural Lincolnshire (mid 1980s- 2001)</span></div><br /><span style="font-family: "arial"; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><br /><ul style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br /><li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: disc; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><div dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mostly very positive as I was a very confident 3rd child and had a close group of (all white) friends in a comfortable happy family, good schools, a friendly middle class neighbourhood and a left-wing Government through my teenage years.</span></div><br /></li><br /><li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: disc; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><div dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Late 1980s. I don’t remember the specific event but I recall the conversations afterwards: My Punjabi Sikh Grandfather made a rare visit up to see us, leaving the relative safety of the multicultural North London neighbourhood where he lived. His turban and his beard: proud symbols of Sikhism made him visually different and on a family walk to feed the ducks, a man shouted abuse out of his window “Go home Paki”. He didn’t visit again for a long time.</span></div><br /></li><br /><li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: disc; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><div dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">1990. Earliest memory of racism was age 7 when my brother was repeatedly being called “Brownie” in the playground. I was a proud Girl Guide and assumed that this is what the bully meant, but seeing the discomfort and the way my brother was ignoring him, decided to turn up the volume on my plucky confidence, and got my Brownie Girl Guide gang to chase him off chanting his surname over and over until I was told off, hauled in and made to face the wall. I don’t remember the “Brownie” slur ever addressed. </span></div><br /></li><br /><li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: disc; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><div dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Being called a “paki” by a classmate and trying to return with a racially-motivated insult “chalky” but it fell pretty flat without any of the sting I’d just absorbed. </span></div><br /></li><br /><li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: disc; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><div dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At secondary school, lunchtime, corridor, alone. He was with several other boys in our year. I remember feeling rather apprehensive as I passed them as I thought one might whistle or say something provocative. Maybe I fancied one of the group; maybe I thought one fancied me! Instead, one boy called me “nigger”. Despite my shock and sadness, my ego suddenly slashed to the tear-stained flood, I could also see that this was laughable, pitiable as he got the wrong racial insult. It exposed his ignorance but also the lack of diversity that my slightly darker skin was seen as black. Such a tiny moment but never forgotten. My sense of self took a long time to recover.</span></div><br /></li><br /><li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: disc; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><div dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">1990-2000ish. Constantly having to explain that “Yes, I am </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">really </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">from here” and “Yes, this is my home”. But when the questioner persisted with “but where are your parents from?” I felt I needed to give a long explanation- an education- that my dad is from exotic Lincolnshire and my mum is Indian, born in Kenya. The utter confusion led to me explaining about the immigration from India to East Africa during the British Colonial building of the railway network and then Idi Amin’s expelling of non-Black Ugandans when my mother’s family lived there in the 70s. Did people really not know their history?!</span></div><br /></li><br /><li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: disc; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><div dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On a train from Manchester, c1998, there was a man smoking and drinking. For some reason, I persuaded my eldest brother to tell him to stop smoking. His aggressive retort: “Go back home to where you came from,” is what I remember most and my brother’s evident fear for the remainder of that journey. Nobody else on that packed carriage said a word as his cigarette smoke wafted and collected in the air. </span></div><br /></li><br /><li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: disc; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><div dir="ltr" role="presentation" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">As I got older, the world seemed to become more accepting, tolerant and I too broadened my own horizons, living in Leeds, Murcia (Spain), London and then to Mombasa (Kenya). My Indian half seemed to dilute, passing more for white in the more diverse cities where I lived (apart from in Spain where my Indian identity seemed to define me “La Morena” (the dark one) in the eyes of the local Murcianos). From 2001, I began to enjoy white privilege like never before… </span></div><br /></li><br /></ul><br /><br /></div><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-88868722044805641982018-08-21T00:45:00.004-07:002021-01-16T12:35:09.353-08:00The Last Feed?: Part 2- Night Weaning BeginsDear Team Night Feed,<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1BndLrbFRQiY0ph-YZDvFi396qXwe83ArbAARDw3hioav3M1BeN6RzTDXWIGqnCzFsqHMGN1wa2JcA7VUcYTxA4y73yUPnF1WRFTalNJ3RJJ2rZaF2SKqFqIql_JPQR2kAns-0gzYvZVc/s1600/7D6CD765-B7B9-4524-9A42-02524E001576.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1047" data-original-width="716" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1BndLrbFRQiY0ph-YZDvFi396qXwe83ArbAARDw3hioav3M1BeN6RzTDXWIGqnCzFsqHMGN1wa2JcA7VUcYTxA4y73yUPnF1WRFTalNJ3RJJ2rZaF2SKqFqIql_JPQR2kAns-0gzYvZVc/s400/7D6CD765-B7B9-4524-9A42-02524E001576.JPG" width="272" /></a>I'm writing this particular blog as I was very anxious about this transition and wanted to hear about other parents' experiences, especially mothers who'd chosen to feed their babies and toddlers to sleep, maybe for two years or so, but were interested in gentle night weaning. I can't believe we made it this far, especially after writing <a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.com/2017/09/will-he-be-night-feeding-forever.html?m=1" target="_blank">this</a> last summer! I hope our story helps anyone else in the same position, even though every child/parent/home is unique and different.<br />
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There's a background story to our first night of night weaning which you can read <a href="http://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.com/2018/08/the-last-feed-part-1.html" target="_blank">here</a>, but in short, little one was 26 months with good communication skills, he'd stopped asking for "mummy milk" during the day and in the morning, and was only waking up once in the night. He's got a big brother who's almost 4 years old and fully weaned (at 18 months). I had routinely<a href="http://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.com/2017/12/early-motherhood-clouded-by-thick-fog.html" target="_blank"> fed our youngest to sleep</a> for every bedtime, back to sleep after every wake up and until about 22 months, most daytime naps too. He'd only recently started enjoying cow's milk. I'd also massaged him at bedtime, using lavender and singing the same lullabies. He also has a trusted comforter, a well-loved bunny. He'd started to miss the occasional afternoon nap. I was also in the second trimester of pregnancy and felt ready to stop breastfeeding in the night. Feeding had become uncomfortable on one side. Unless ill, he was usually settled into his own bedroom, but co-slept with me from his first wake-up until morning. I'd read a lot on this subject, especially <a href="https://sarahockwell-smith.com/2014/08/10/how-to-gently-night-wean-a-breastfed-baby-or-toddler/" target="_blank">this</a> article by Sarah-Ockwell Smith and <a href="https://themilkmeg.com/the-night-boob-how-to-gently-night-wean-your-toddler-from-breastfeeding-and-bed-sharing/" target="_blank">this by The Milk Meg</a>, but I'd decided that I wanted to help him through the process, especially as I'd settled him at every bedtime. I'd also been talking with him about limiting the milk and milk running about for about two weeks. I'd decided I was going to continue to offer him a feed at bedtime. But despite all this preparation, there hadn't been the right time to start yet.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirS3AdAApR0z5PuJrs-67Dm8mn39qCyLb6e-fpnpCDkn3762XKFBxlVbXAOz_ZWC4NyF0T01nd5v5kwL-RaDlrNXqNCsq2RRXj_mPqYekliAScDBk_dK4OTLXxpmaZLJ5NB6od_-Dbl97A/s1600/IMG_0580.PNG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirS3AdAApR0z5PuJrs-67Dm8mn39qCyLb6e-fpnpCDkn3762XKFBxlVbXAOz_ZWC4NyF0T01nd5v5kwL-RaDlrNXqNCsq2RRXj_mPqYekliAScDBk_dK4OTLXxpmaZLJ5NB6od_-Dbl97A/s200/IMG_0580.PNG" width="150" /></a><b>First Night:</b> He woke up as usual and came into our room. I fed him back to sleep before I was fully awake. He usually always falls straight back to sleep until morning, but on this occasion he struggled to go back to sleep and wanted more milk. I tried to feed him again and said that this was the last milk and then it's finished, but when this failed again (and was painful for me) I didn't wish to feed him anymore, plus, I was now wide awake. I've felt bad about this and wish that our first night had been a smoother, better planned night. He was upset but I was able to calm him by talking about the day, cuddling, massaging and singing. Once calm, he accepted a drink of water. It took about 45 minutes to get him back to sleep without another feed. He slept next to me until morning.<br />
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<b>Second Night:</b> Better prepared tonight, with lots more chats and agreement that if/when he woke up, he could come to us and snuggle back to sleep, but there'd be no more mummy milk. He hadn't napped during day and therefore fell asleep during a bedtime feed. He woke up and came to us and was confused and upset when he couldn't have any more milk. Again, talking about lovely things that had happened that day, exciting plans for tomorrow, singing, massaging, a sip of water, successfully calmed and helped him back to sleep. It took about 25 minutes and he slept next to me until morning.<br />
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<b>Third Night:</b> He's had an afternoon nap this day and didn't fall asleep so easily at bedtime. Although it took a lot longer, it meant that he didn't fall asleep at the breast. I was able to explain more clearly about the milk running out and what would happen in the night. He settled to sleep without any further feeding. He woke up and found me around 3am and with cuddles and singing, he was back to sleep within about 10 minutes.<br />
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<b>Fourth Night: </b>I was beyond surprised when he asked for "bottle milk" (warmed cow's milk) at bedtime. He then fell asleep without any "mummy milk" at all: the first time in 26 months. I have to admit, I felt quite emotional about this, but also excited about his progress. I was curious about the night wake up and expected it to be smoother. The 3am wake up happened but he was more upset than usual. After trying my usual tricks, I ended up choosing to calm him by feeding him back to sleep when his anguish intensified. I felt disappointed that I may have confused him, but on reflection, I was glad that I could soothe him when he communicated his needs so clearly. I was also worried that we may be back to square one. By morning, I realised that he had been teething, cutting a new back molar. Poor little poppet.<br />
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<b>Fifth Night: </b>I needn't have worried. This night was unusual and wonderfully liberating. For the first time in 26 months, my husband was able to settle littlest one without any tears, nor him asking for mummy or mummy milk. He settled both boys together in our eldest's room where they both wanted to be. I relaxed on the sofa and read my book. Amazing. He woke up in the night, found me as usual, snuggled up and went straight back to sleep.<br />
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<b>Sixth Night: </b>I hadn't fed him now for well over 24 hours and was feeling surprisingly fine. I'd had a history of reoccurring mastitis (cured only and finally with an ultrasound treatment after trying every thing else) and was worried about another blocked duct. I settled him to bed and still no feed was requested. It was a late bedtime though after a later afternoon nap. He slept through the night and didn't wake up until morning. First time ever. (His big brother woke up though and needed our help to resettle).<br />
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<b>Seventh Night & Beyond:</b> We travelled north to spend time with my parents and set up floor beds for our boys, next to each other in the same room. It took ages to settle him, but again, no mummy milk was requested. Actually, I do remember offering a feed at one exasperated point, but he didn't want it. He woke up but resettled again with a cuddle.<br />
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I felt that the night weaning was going well, but I hadn't intended to fully wean at all. I'm not sure I was completely ready for this so on the one occasion when he requested a bedtime feed, I had no desire to refuse. He was over tired, restless and in danger of waking up his brother. He'd asked twice already so by the third request, I fed him and he fell into a peaceful content state. He slept for a few hours but woke up in tears and wanting more mummy milk. I was able to comfort him and resettle him without a feed, but it took a lot of time and effort to calm him and help him back to sleep. We got there. Together.<br />
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Since then,it's all been smooth and snuggly; I'm getting a lot more glorious uninterrupted sleep. I've not breastfed our youngest and he's been content with reading, cuddles and singing at bedtime. I think we've had our last feed. I cannot know for sure, but it seems as though he was ready for the transition and was old enough to understand the night weaning process. He has now slept through the night more times than I can count. My husband has been able to settle and resettle him and if he does wake up, he just snuggles up next to us and sleeps until morning. Day time naps are few and far between. His last molar is now almost through and he hasn't requested a breastfeed for over two weeks. I'm assuming my milk has dried up for now, or changed anyway due to the pregnancy. I'll update this blog if that changes.<br />
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I feel delighted that we've been able to wean gently and that I've been able to breastfeed for 26 months. He's a happy and healthy little boy who's done so well. I'm a very lucky mama to have had the support from my husband, family and friends. <a href="http://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.com/2016/10/the-story-behind-that-nursing-mums-smile.html" target="_blank">My breastfeeding journey didn't begin well </a>and after various bouts of plugged ducts and mastitis, I am amazed that we've enjoyed the journey this far. Secretly, I'm missing the feeding, that warmth and comfort, but to go to sleep knowing that I can have an uninterrupted sleep until morning feels very very good indeed. xxx<br />
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<i>Here marks the end of this stage of <a href="http://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">The Night Feed:</a> a blog to chart the early months and years of mothering the second time around, doing things my way, following my instincts and having confidence in myself and my children. I hope you've enjoyed reading about these highs and lows, perhaps you've found something useful or helpful. It's not the end of writing or blogging though. I'll be continuing to write about more family adventures, but more broadly, but expect the same descriptive prose and optimistic thinking. Enjoy and good luck, night feeders. x</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://campervankidsco.wordpress.com/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img alt="www.campervan-kids.com" border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMcImZ3_KNPCTDP_9Ug6xL3fA2QxgAHGUgxQLedDM5a8DquMhLo5Wb30rbcCPXOP5kVw9b7SsA2TTsbOYvJo9empE4m2Cq-XuzFAkwX_THMOWWaRB5q8E6QJDpU3nK0e6F8wzWT4J1ZcUe/s400/OCTA+HOME.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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<i><br /></i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-31822831751151357222018-08-10T14:22:00.002-07:002018-08-10T14:49:19.339-07:00The Last Feed? Part 1<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu35ZzLFIYdM28LyR8GoaQ2mEfFmaoPa0dxqpxSaX0z5Llv3u6dha1K1jfuauG77Jb3-t9IrQzwvMLnfNOlb9hGkB2Jbk2ML2NbMTw4KOHpmbnYZAxzLND0Ootk1zs2GxUVJuo5ekUH029/s1600/IMG_2481.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="829" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu35ZzLFIYdM28LyR8GoaQ2mEfFmaoPa0dxqpxSaX0z5Llv3u6dha1K1jfuauG77Jb3-t9IrQzwvMLnfNOlb9hGkB2Jbk2ML2NbMTw4KOHpmbnYZAxzLND0Ootk1zs2GxUVJuo5ekUH029/s400/IMG_2481.PNG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Our boys nursing their bunnies to sleep</i></td></tr>
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Four months ago, I published <a href="https://the-motherload.co.uk/why-i-didnt-repeat-our-successful-sleep-training-experience-with-number-two/" target="_blank">an article all about my rejection of the sleep training culture</a>, extolling the virtues of following my baby’s lead, the second time around. The liberation from rules and schedules was the birth of my maternal instinct and true enjoyment of motherhood.<br />
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When my eldest was just six months, he slept through the night, 7pm-7am every night. To outsiders, we’d discovered the holy grail of parenthood. Yet there were major cracks under the perfect, unbroken surface of sleep. To achieve this, I had to leave him to “self soothe”; I rarely witnessed that magical moment of watching him pass from wakefulness to sleep; I had to rouse him if he fell asleep at the breast for fear of “bad sleep associations”, but I didn't dare break out of this, too worried about giving our child "poor sleep habits". But if you’ve read <a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.com/2017/12/early-motherhood-clouded-by-thick-fog.html" target="_blank">my other blogs,</a> you know all about this.<br />
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When our second boy was born, all those rules went out of the window for both our children, choosing to listen to their needs instead, to follow their lead. Another two years on and we’ve cuddled/massaged/sung our boys to sleep every night. We’ve been there at every wake up, every nightmare and every moment of sleep. Our almost-four year old occasionally says that he can go to sleep by himself and we take our leave. Our youngest has fallen asleep after a breastfeed most evenings and has napped out and about in the sling or buggy. However, since his second birthday, his needs have changed and I’ve tried to respond to these changes.<br />
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Age two, the breastfeeding- alongside a full balanced diet of good food- increased during the day, especially when in a new environment or when hosting a houseful of guests. He would crawl into my nap and request “my mummy milk”. His molars were coming through, he woke up every two hours through the night, he could become very tearful without warning and he became intensely possessive over everything. “Welcome to the terrible twos” most people would quip but what a world of wonder he was discovering anew. His language skills suddenly exploded with new words, he was forming more complex sentences and his understanding had clearly improved.<br />
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Another six weeks later, in his 26th month, he gradually stopped asking for milk from me during the day. He sometimes skipped his daytime nap and was consequently falling asleep very quickly by bedtime. His night wakings reduced to just once per night and the teething calmed.<br />
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By this time, I was pregnant with our third child and wondering what might happen to my milk. Breastfeeding through pregnancy is perfectly normal but I do know that this is when many older siblings self-wean as their mothers’ bodies change through pregnancy. Many report pain and discomfort; milk can dry up or nurselings can reject the colostrum produced later on, ready for the newborn. However, many mums do choose to continue to nurse both children, tandem feeding their toddlers and babies, allowing their children to form a unique bond of trust and care. With my two year old feeding every evening and at least once a night, I had to adjust to the idea that this could be us. I tried to romanticise the tandem feed and spoke enthusiastically about the idea to friends and family, preparing them and me for this possibility. I began to dwell on those picture-perfect photographs shared in the Facebook support group for 'Breastfeeding Older Babies and Beyond', normalising Natural Term Weaning and tandem feeding, especially where siblings tenderly held hands while co-nursing.<br />
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However, deep down, I was anxious about this idea. I’d night fed without a break for over two years and was struggling with exhaustion and sickness during this pregnancy. I was happy to feed both but not during the night. Something had to give. I’d read about night weaning and was interested in other mothers’ experiences. Friends were starting to night wean their toddlers. But for us, it never felt like the right time. His bedtimes were so swift and I could get him back to sleep within seconds with another feed, lying side-by-side, both relaxed and content. Taking away this vital sleep-maker seemed like a ridiculous and counter-productive idea.<br />
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But then the migraines began. Crippling debilitating headaches that lasted all night and resumed in the day. Caused by tiredness, pregnancy hormones, diet, screen time...? I don't know. I was waking for more water, re-positioning cushions, loo trips, paracetamol and tiger balm. Extra wakings and nocturnal breastfeeding were suddenly frustrating. I couldn’t do it anymore but to suddenly stop was not an option.<br />
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I waited another week or two and spent the time talking about the night-milk finishing and persevering with cow’s milk, just like his big brother enjoys. I'd limited his bedtime feeds to one side only and used countdowns to try and shorten the feeds. I bought the beautifully illustrated (yet flimsy and over priced) publication <i>Nursies When The Sun Shines </i>to try and help him to prepare for the change. This was a big waste of money: every time I began to read it, he closed the book and picked up a different book. I collected photos to make a story book for him, saying goodnight to all his family and friends. We bought a different bottle which he'd enjoyed drinking milk from while at a friend's house. But, above all, I talked about the change and used role play to help him to understand. My intention was to only stop night-feeding. I wasn't completely ready to say goodbye to this particular nursing journey.<br />
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Then the inevitable night finally came. I'd been struggling with another bad headache, linked perhaps to the ice-cream I'd enjoyed. I'd fed him as usual at bedtime and although I tried not to let him fall asleep at the breast, he was soon snoozing away in my arms. The last thing I'd said was "mummy milk is finished now." I hadn't necessarily planned to start the night-weaning that night but sometimes these things happen by themselves.<br />
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<i>[Coming soon... The Last Feed? Part 2- Night Weaning Begins]</i><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-63141214099981376992018-08-08T14:11:00.001-07:002018-08-08T15:18:29.799-07:00Rejecting The Sleep Training Culture, Despite Early Success<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAw98kY-JXIxa3X37JsZQDFjxOmMy9QcpLc4AtKE-ZHyKY0WKsbjMVJn9z4fxvlMh96rYNaaBCyM-Ryk28Xv5GIZZ6Ss8pqSLWV1y072jNJvF07Wdax7qaxpM51N98WSy3b_cJKPeOK8C4/s1600/IMG_2469.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="801" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAw98kY-JXIxa3X37JsZQDFjxOmMy9QcpLc4AtKE-ZHyKY0WKsbjMVJn9z4fxvlMh96rYNaaBCyM-Ryk28Xv5GIZZ6Ss8pqSLWV1y072jNJvF07Wdax7qaxpM51N98WSy3b_cJKPeOK8C4/s320/IMG_2469.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Published First on <a href="https://the-motherload.co.uk/why-i-didnt-repeat-our-successful-sleep-training-experience-with-number-two/" target="_blank">The Motherload,</a> 15.4.18</i><br />
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My confession: we tried sleep training.<br />
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Is he sleeping/feeding/crying/playing too much/too little? Like many other first-time clueless parents, coping postpartum with newborn life broke me. The critical effects of the sudden onslaught of sleepless nights, anxious days and sore nips were far worse than I’d romanticised.We soon reached for books preaching routines and promising contentment. We read that feeding/cuddling/rocking to sleep would cause long lasting bad habits. We tried the recommended schedule and my husband took over bedtime duties. After a breastfeed and a story, I’d ninja-step out of there as he'd sashay into the nursing chair. Little one got cuddles galore with his Papa, along with all the rugby anthems he asked for. I never knew that ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’ had so many verses. But after much perseverance, he managed to achieve the impossible: put down in the cot, sleepy, but awake. By the time he was seven months old, he slept for a solid twelve hours a night, cuddling his bunny and humming himself to sleep.<br />
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The night-time sleep-training was seemingly successful. People praised us for helping our child to be independent. People joked that he'd already read the manual. We pinned feed and sleep times to the kitchen notice board. We became those well-rested smug-faced parents who thought we’d tamed those pesky sleepless nights forever.<br />
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But, what was the price we paid for a full night's sleep?<br />
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I'm not sure what our baby thought. But with certainty, I can say that the price was my mental health. I spent the early days feeling useless and anxious, dreading naptimes. Rousing his little sleepy head after a feed seemed completely against my instinct, but the fear of "bad sleep habits" was greater. I've never been much of a worrier, but I developed intense anxiety on trips away and big days out, panicking about his sleep. I became a slave to the schedule and clock, fearing the consequences if we disobeyed.<br />
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Even without those books, the pressure to sleep train was everywhere: when he was just four months, sleeping snugly on my shoulder, I opened the door to our Health Visitor who was quick to criticise, “allow him to self-soothe in the cot”. I tried, I really did, but closing the door and ignoring him was far harder than they suggested. Instead, with their warnings rattling around my head, I chose to walk him for every daytime nap, bent over the buggy to hold his hand or stroke his head.<br />
All settled into place, but then our sleep-angel hit the two-year sleep regression. Poor wee lamb. What had we done? Our self-settling self-soother of a hero was suddenly refusing his bed, refusing his bedroom and refusing sleep. Night terrors. We didn't know how to help him. We sought advice from 'professionals': “leave him to cry it out”. <a href="http://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.co.uk/2017/12/early-motherhood-clouded-by-thick-fog.html" rel="noopener" target="_blank">The thick cloud of the sleep training dust was finally clearing. </a><br />
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This was total bollocks; we had to do things differently.<br />
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Instead, we discarded all the sleep training advice and simply listened to him, kept him close. Long evenings were spent getting to know his new bedtime needs and just being there with him. Friends warned against <a href="https://the-motherload.co.uk/i-made-rod-back/" rel="noopener" target="_blank"> "making rods for our own back"</a>. Blah blah. He's now three and a half. Every night since then, one of us lies with him until he’s fast asleep, storytelling, singing, cuddling, whatever he needs. And these comforts satisfy us, too. Requests for "papa's nook" make us all smile. He rarely wakes up now, but we’re there for him if he does.<br />
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Among all the chaos of newly disrupted nights was another little laddie in our family. I decided from the get-go that I’d only trust my instincts. I listened to him and fed him whenever he needed milk, completely liberated from the clock, enjoying every naptime, at home or day-tripping. By bedtime, I'd snuggle, read, sing and feed him to sleep, treasuring the night feeds for this was the only time that he had my undivided attention.<br />
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The youngest is now twenty two months and I feel reassured that I understand and respond to his cues. He seems to trust me. Until recently, he's woken up every 2-3 hours; it's now every 5 or 6. It probably sounds horrendous to most, but it’s actually okay. Usually. He wakes up, calls for me and after a little feed, is back to sleep, all within fifteen minutes. Usually. I tell myself that it won’t be like this forever and I remind myself that I’ll miss these nocturnal wake-ups one day. I’ve learnt all the seasonal paths of the moon and I enjoy extra chocolate biscuits with my afternoon tea. Always.<br />
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But the sleep training culture is so dominant that I'm regarded as mad for dismissing it, especially as we've succeeded before.<br />
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Mention you’re sleep-deprived, perhaps hoping for a little empathy, and you’ll be hit with all the advice promising products, people and routines that will 'correct' your child’s natural sleep patterns, reminding me of our fresh-faced early days. Call me stubborn. Call me a mum who’s “made a rod for my own back”. Call me a martyr (with sarcasm, of course). The truth is, however hard this way is, and it is bloody hard, I’d still do it all over again, choosing fatigue over anxiety. My mental health was too high a price to pay for a full night's sleep. <a href="http://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.co.uk/2017/09/will-he-be-night-feeding-forever.html" rel="noopener" target="_blank">I’ve no idea when little one will sleep through the night</a>, but I do know that for now, despite the yawning, we’re a far happier team, day and night.<br />
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#onemorebiscuit #anothercuppaplease #teamnightfeedUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-34875968652748115312018-08-08T14:05:00.002-07:002018-08-08T15:31:30.166-07:00Two Under Two is Really Really Hard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Published first on <a href="https://the-motherload.co.uk/mind-the-gap/" target="_blank">The Motherload,</a> 6.11.2017</i><br />
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Our parents did it. Our parents' friends all did it. The Royal family routinely do it. Having your children two years apart always seemed like a good idea. They get to grow up together, have the same friends, share toys(!)... Sixteen months into being a mother to two, and I'm now able to see the light. However, I can say with recent experience, that it is so much harder than I ever imagined it could be.<br />
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Our parents can only remember the good times. "My eldest (fourteen months older) used to bring me the nappies and wipes," my mother in law told me. "Your brothers were always the best of friends," my mum reminisced. However, in our merry little foursome, my husband usually returns from work to find me a broken human. Still standing, but only just. There's been times when all three of us have been crying, feeding off each other's misery. It was hard to define what the matter was; it was all just really really hard.<br />
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My boys, born twenty-two months apart, are now 3 and 16months, and life is already much more manageable. Still exhausting but so much better. The eldest, without direction from me, will greet him after nursery saying, "I missed you baby chap," and this is the best feeling of them all. The youngest wants to be with his brother all the time, copying everything he does. My favourite sight is how the younger sits on the potty, fully clothed, reading the same book, just like his big brother. Time is already starting to cloud my memory, but before it does, I feel it is important to record some of my experiences of mothering two under three. That first year was really really bitterly hard.<br />
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I felt for my eldest, still so little, too young to really understand. His mummy's growing belly housed his baby brother and it probably all seemed ok. Everyone talked about how exciting life could be with a loyal companion to play with and explore with. Yet, his anxiety was already clear. Any time a well meaning relative would come to give me a rest, he'd cling onto me for dear life. Only my arms and warmth would do. After the birth and home again within hours, my heart was already torn. I wanted to lie with my new baby, skin to skin, without interruption. But I also wanted to cuddle my eldest, just twenty two months, play games with him and run around in the park. That was the first day I experienced his wrath. A thick wooden jigsaw piece launched at my face. He was silent but breaking inside. What have we done, I thought. My husband and visiting family worked hard to distract him with adventures galore, so I could rest and feed and feed. On his return I'd make sure that tiny one was in his Moses Basket so my arms were completely free for him. Looking back, I probably needed more time with our toddler. More time with just Mummy and cub.<br />
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What made it all possible for me was that my husband, a teacher, was at the start of his six weeks of summer holiday. He and I were a magnificent team of feeding, changing nappies and cuddling. He and our eldest became inseparable. We even moved house to a new town that summer. Our eldest started at a local nursery, a luxury to give me time with the tiny one, I thought. We managed it all and the first six weeks of being a family of four was actually ok.<br />
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And then my husband went back to work around the time of our eldest's second birthday. Everything fell apart. Our two year old had "lost his Mummy" to this little baby and now his beloved Papa had disappeared and "gone to work" by the time he woke up and didn't appear again until bath time. Nursery drop offs became so traumatic that I decided not to persevere. "Keep him close," my mum advised. The best advice I could've had. I kept him close all the following year and it was my mantra for every meltdown, sleepless night and heartbreak that the year threw at us.<br />
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What saved me was the ability to wrap the tiny one to me, even now when he is not so tiny. He had my scent, warmth and around-the-clock access to the milk bar. My arms were still free for cuddling up with a book, jigsaws and painting. The TV saved me too. I'd been nervous about the effects of screen time, but without childcare or regular help, CBeebies was our nanny. A nanny that could conveniently pop in when there was a baby to feed and change, or food to prepare. Convenience food became our best friend, keeping hunger at bay with cereal bars and freezer meals. Standards dropped to survival. But we survived. Any spare cash was spent on paying for a cleaner to do a weekly clean. Within minutes of her departure, the house was a mess again, but it was clean and our home was sanitary again. The washing machine was constantly on "quick cycle" and the microwave housed a permanent sorry sight of forgotten tea. The hardest times have been potty training at the same time our youngest learnt to crawl. We should've planned that better. Recent challenges include allowing space for our toddler to construct his duplo masterpieces while acknowledging that the youngest is learning through destruction. Imagine the domestic bliss.<br />
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Yet I look at my boys now, rosy-cheeked and sparkly-eyed, chasing each other around the house, or bumping each other on the see saw, or naked cuddle-wrestling pre-bath-time, and I'm already forgetting the emotional misery of acknowledging the eldest's initial apathy and then even worse, the primal aggressive possession of his territory. All very normal behaviour but still deeply troubling to any parent experiencing it for the first time. And it's probably better to forget. To look forward. To keep empathising, nurturing and cuddling. They are both little, both vulnerable, both wonderfully zealous and they are both individual people, too.<br />
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And after all, it takes a village, or a palace to raise a family. Perhaps there's no such thing as an ideal age gap, is there?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-36979969957138937562018-08-08T13:57:00.003-07:002018-08-08T15:17:05.343-07:00A Thank You to Grandparents, Everywhere.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>First Published on <a href="https://the-motherload.co.uk/grandparents-unsung-heroes/" target="_blank">The Motherload</a>, 17.1.18</i><br />
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Dear Grandparents,<br />
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We moved far away from the family home, far from the shire where you invested your careers, friendships and lives. We preferred the bright lights of the big smoke with higher salaries, bigger shops and more take-away options, selected from an app on our phones. We used to call you up in the evenings for an uninterrupted natter. We used to visit "home" at weekends with flowers or new partners for you to meet. You'd meet us at the station and there would always be smiles, hugs, a cuppa on arrival with homemade treats and home-cooked feasts. My old bedroom, a relic from my childhood, readied with fresh linen and towels. We loved our weekend visits for the peace and fresh air, the leisurely brunch, the heated debates around the kitchen table, mum-daughter trips to the shops, trips to the tip and a proper starry night sky.</div>
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A decade on, we're parents and we're tired all the time. Our evenings are spent settling our little ones before collapsing in front of the telly, and then resettling them an hour or two later. We rarely have the energy for proper dialogue, much less for a family catch-up chat on the phone. Our weekends are rare moments to be as a four, to snatch moments of "me time" or to earn extra money with part-time work. The youngest hates the car and there's no direct train, so visits are few and far between. I wish we had you around the corner. I wish we could pop by for a play and a coffee, without the four hour drive. Or for my in-laws, a nine hour flight.<br />
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But the long journeys don't put you off. You pack the car with all the homemade delights from the late-night cooking session the day before. Your health isn't great and the long drive doesn't suit your ailing back or ageing eyes. If we're ill, you reschedule your busy lives in the hills and come to help with Calpol and tissues at the ready. My mother-in-law arrives from her overnight flight with extra bags filled with Swahili delicacies and safari books.</div>
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You swap your book clubs for bedtime stories, your watercolours for finger-paints, your quiet morning cuppa is transformed as you safeguard little ones jumping on the bed; the newspaper becomes a sensory toy or a cloth to soak up spilled milk. You wipe noses, clean bottoms and empty potties. You fiddle with stair gates and child locks, bottle teats and nappies. You wash up the dishes, fold up the washing and offer to help with the nights.<br />
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Of course, it's not all sunshine and roses. We sometimes snap, or misunderstand. It's sometimes stressful and intense. Being parents of parents must be hard. Being children and parents simultaneously is not easy either. But honesty, patience and forgiveness gets us through. After all, we're all doing our best.<br />
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We managed to come to you for Christmas. We arrived at the door in a heap of snot and glitter. We left feeling refreshed and happy. You indulged the little ones with presents and favourite foods and treated us with gifts galore. But the best present was time spent together as a big family, seeing your gardeners' hands stroke fine newborn hair, hearing the harmony of your voices laughing together, octaves and generations apart. You gave my husband and I what we really needed. a chance to connect with moonlit strolls and coffee dates in town while our little ones reconnected with you.<br />
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So, this is a big thank you. A grateful bunch of words in recognition of your energy, support and love. Grandparents everywhere, you are the unsung heroes, helping your children to be better, more rested parents. Time is precious. Life is fragile. Know that you are loved and our gratitude is endless.<br />
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From a lucky daughter and a grateful mum. x</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-37403679893693423412018-08-08T13:48:00.000-07:002018-08-08T15:15:32.766-07:00I Used To Say "Sorry For The Mess"<div class="MsoNormal">
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<i>Published first on <a href="https://the-motherload.co.uk/sorry-for-the-mess/" target="_blank">The Motherload</a> 19.12.17</i></div>
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I'm lucky to have good friends; we're in and out of each others' homes. Our homes vary greatly in size, noise and tidiness. In early motherhood, I used to apologise for the mess and do a quick clean up when backs were turned. Three years in, and I realise that I'm not sorry at all; i wouldn't do anything any differently at all. </div>
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It’s 1pm. I’m back from the afternoon pre-school drop off. My three-year-old is happily at his nursery and my 18month is snoozing in the buggy after a pretty precarious journey over ice sheets and puddles, over looked by tenacious zombie snowmen with gouged out eyes, their disembodied carrot-noses sinking in the slush. After an elaborate role-play of pretending to be various Arctic animals, we successfully made it out this morning to our toddler music class and returned for lunch and more play. I survey the house.</div>
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To a stranger, our house may look as though it’s been recently robbed, its people abducted. Every toy box has been emptied; the cushions are scattered across the floor; there’s the remains of lunch on and around the kids’ chairs. In the kitchen, there’s half-drunk tea and an abandoned sandwich. As I pick my way across the crowded floor, flecks of glitter catch my eye, and a stray cornflake crunches underfoot. If you invited yourself into my house right now, I’d mutter “I’m sorry for the mess,” under my breath.</div>
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The mess is pretty bad, but it could be a lot worse. Between reading stories to my boys, role-playing, dressing them, preparing food, cleaning it up, taking us all out for the morning, I’ve managed to collect all the empty mugs and water glasses, empty the dish washer, refill it with the breakfast stuff, sweep (some of) the floor (while little one “helps”), put a load of dirty nappies on to wash (with little helpful fingers pressing the buttons), fold yesterday’s laundry (with little one's help) and put a few toys away (as a fun fishing game and song). You couldn’t tell that, though. You’re distracted by the surrounding chaos, although you’re probably trying not to judge.</div>
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The mess does get me down, especially if I don’t get a chance to restore a little order. However, I also see evidence of a happy morning well spent. </div>
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The scattered cushions are from our indoor soft play game, trying to get from one end of the house to the other without touching the floor. They’re also there to protect the boys’ heads as they jump fearlessly through the imagined jungle. There are still tiny bits of playdough stuck to the floor. The strewn toys are the leftovers from a morning of careful construction and jubilant demolition: a perfectly valid way for toddlers to learn. There’s drawing paper on the floor, a lost crayon somewhere under the sofa and there’s STILL the glitter from last week’s Christmas card-making session, all in aid of making the seasonal card-giving tradition that bit more personal. There are woolly hats and gloves piled on the radiator: a happy picture of yesterday’s <a href="http://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.co.uk/2016/12/winter-lethargy-and-advent-hope.html" rel="noopener" target="_blank">adventures in the snow</a>. The abandoned socks show me that our three-year-old is gaining confidence in how to independently undress and redress himself. The food I pick up from the floor is a great sign: little one is self-feeding and using the spoon himself. The bits of waste go straight into the compost bin, to nourish the garden’s soil one day. </div>
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As I begin to restore order, I start to imagine a future time when I'll miss all this and long to find tiny mittens behind the sofa or bits of playdough stuck to my slipper.</div>
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Fast forward a few hours and the house is a mess again. The boys have a new game involving roaring and chasing. As I chop vegetables and sautee risotto, all the pots and pans are emptied from the kitchen to become props and instruments. The only time the house gets another tidy before bedtime is if the telly goes on. But even then, I’m more likely to be sitting with the boys, feet up, watching their favourite programmes, or dancing along to the theme tunes if they absolutely insist. The joyous chaos of family life remains around us.</div>
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The next time we come to your house, for a play date or to drop off a card, please don’t feel you have to say “sorry for the mess”. I get it. It’s not really mess. It’s play. It’s construction. It’s demolition. It’s role-play. It’s nourishment. It’s growing independence. It’s home-cooked meals. It’s music. It’s dancing. It’s laughter. It’s freedom. It’s life. If you come to my house, announced or not, I may or may not apologise for the mess, but you’re still very welcome to come in. Always.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-28605432754941437312018-04-06T06:27:00.001-07:002018-04-06T06:37:31.594-07:00Gardening Therapy for Toddlers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm struggling to believe that Spring is actually here. It's felt like the longest, harshest winter. We've had three rounds of snow, school closures and cancelled trains. Every virus, cough and pox has swept through the town, taking us down as their victims. Currently overcoming chicken pox, our children have felt pretty miserable, but have shown us moments of how to have fun in the midst of discomfort, "I'm doing the itch-dance", says our three year old while the younger dives off the sofa. Now into our second week of quarantine, we've exhausted every jigsaw and colouring book; we've finished watching every Paw Patrol episode and strayed into the dark land of afternoon repeats of CBeebies; we've baked cakes, biscuits and bread. But better than all of this, as the days gradually lengthen? We planted some seeds.<br />
In an emotionally-intense chicken pox fog, my two tots and I gardened our way to recovery. In a pre-pox bustle of activity, we'd bought seed packets from the local supermarket, saved old yogurt pots for plant pots and hauled a bag compost back from the shop in the bottom basket of the buggy. The boys had chosen sunflowers, tomatoes, cucumbers, pumpkin and courgettes. A bit surprising as neither of them eat the latter. Like all little children, they had their own unique way of helping. The older enjoys an imaginary world or pretending to be various animals or dinosaurs, so his participation was peppered with animal sounds and movement, including a swishing stick-tail that sent the seeds and pots flying. The younger is keen as mustard to get involved, but it takes every ounce of my patience to keep smiling when newly planted seeds are suddenly dug again, or seedlings swamped in water.<br />
Both helped with filling pots with compost, sowing seeds and watering. The best seeds for little hands were the big sunflower seeds, cucumbers and even bigger pumpkin seeds. In retrospect, I should have just sown the tomato plants myself. The seeds are absolutely tiny. Minuscule. Microscopic. My enthusiastic little helpers flung several seeds across the trays. I tried to redistribute, but with damp compost everywhere, I had no idea how many, if any, were in each pot.<br />
Next, the watering. For my 22 month old, there's no activity more wonderful, more fun-filled, more brilliant, than holding a filled small watering can. The power, the freedom, the responsibility. I love to try and nurture this enthusiasm. I really do, but it took saintly tolerance to calmly redirect the water spray to avoid drowning the tiny seeds. Calls for "more more" water had to be directed to the ivy.<br />
After an hour of 'gardening', I was exhausted. The littlest one was still earnestly watering the ivy while my older helper was busily acting out a scene between a triceratops and an anaconda. Their mood had changed from irritable to lively in one short activity. They both seemed genuinely proud to have helped with such important work. They were both covered in soil, water and smiling. Despite testing my patience to the brink, I couldn't help but feel happy, too. Their genuine joy and excitement was infectious.<br />
The next day, they were both disappointed that nothing had grown yet: just boring tubs of dirt. And the same the following day and the same again after that. Still nothing. The excitement had gone.<br />
And then, the first shoots appeared. Sunflowers first. Little green stems with the seed still attached to its head, like a miniature tree. The blessed miracle of life, there on our kitchen window sill. So tiny, so simple, so readily taken for granted, but through the eyes of a toddler, these little seedlings were pure magic.<br />
Every morning, they come downstairs and go straight to see the seeds, charting their gradual progress. New green shoots are a cause for great celebration. The pots where still nothing seems to grow, receive gentle cajoling, songs and dancing. Maybe they'll grow tomorrow.<br />
I also find myself rushing to the window sill, sharing in their excitement. I dream of home-grown veg and fantasise about our children feasting on courgettes. This is all that is good in life. Goodbye Winter. Goodbye coughs and colds. Hello Spring! Hello new life!<br />
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<i>Published first on The Huffington Post <a href="https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/entry/gardening-therapy-for-toddlers_uk_5abc18dfe4b075a5c9a465d6" target="_blank">here</a>.</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgur0T8yrVO8_a8Q6P0_w3SgApSzZDsBl4HXBDyW11GYwacjzO6A8kX_9YfN4boIA_nIoFImNOMglPcKSJ-mviUN1NIpif4hVyCx8EeSPMAuDxWtnbmncV9uAFYy2jTm4AfBb-WylAfZnQW/s1600/gardening+leo+and+dylan.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i></i><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgur0T8yrVO8_a8Q6P0_w3SgApSzZDsBl4HXBDyW11GYwacjzO6A8kX_9YfN4boIA_nIoFImNOMglPcKSJ-mviUN1NIpif4hVyCx8EeSPMAuDxWtnbmncV9uAFYy2jTm4AfBb-WylAfZnQW/s320/gardening+leo+and+dylan.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-62669768803083402352018-02-28T14:51:00.005-08:002018-03-09T05:43:19.349-08:00Attempting World Book Day like a pro (without effort nor money), 2018<div class="MsoNormal">
I love books. I love
the world. I love special themed days: Birthday,
Mother’s Day, Christmas Day, Pancake Day. What in the Dickens is this World
Book Day about?</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I love any excitement over books. There’s nothing better than a story storm: thousands
of kids camping out to get a Harry Potter book, the banning of D.H. Lawrence’s ‘Lady
Chatterley’s Lover’, 100 million+ copies sold of the Fifty Shades trilogy. Or better still, a group of little kids
enthralled by a story; genuine joy that today is library day; pin-drop silence
in a room of thirty teenagers as they are all glued to a book. Pure magic. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve taught English in secondary schools since 2005. Never before have I asked students to find fancy
dress costumes. Traditionally, we’d hand
out £1 book tokens and have an extra twenty minutes of private reading. There’d be a book-themed assembly and the school
library would put a nice display up. As
the Literacy Coordinator, I spiced things up a bit one year by getting all the
teachers, (including P.E. and Maths teachers) to share their favourite books, post
shelfies (pics of their book shelves); homework was book-themed; tutor time was
book-themed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now I’m a mum and my eldest attends a nursery attached to a
local primary school. I love the school.
I love my children. For World Book Day,
he has to attend his session dressed as an adjective. This year: an adjective- a word to describe a
noun. Next year, a modal verb, or subordinating
connective? Can’t wait. He is three years
old. He’s a bright lad. He loves jigsaws, PawPatrol and animals. He speaks a lot. He knows his letters. He writes his three-letter name, but not in
the right order: “Ole” rather than the name on his birth certificate.
I could correct him, but I think it’s kind of cute. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Luckily, the school gives some guidance, advising on any readily available costume, complemented by a descriptive word. This is good as there's no way we're panic buying costumes from Tesco's. We happen to have a lion costume: a hand-me-down from his
big cousin. I think about tacking an adjective
to its back: “tame”, “sleepy”, “wild”.
But, then I wonder if this is a test of our family intellect. Perhaps “lackadaisical”, “arcadian”, “bellicose”. Or, maybe the adjective should be a political
statement: “hunted”, “endangered”, “innocent”. Then we remember it’s <i>World</i> Book Day and consider another language, but my memory of Spanish
only gives me “muy bien” and “confuso”. We
get carried away by the delicious sounds when it dawns on me that little one definitely
cannot wear his lion costume all day as even a grown up would struggle with the all-in-one zip when "Mr Wee is coming!" He’s only three.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Our only other option is the dragon/dinosaur dressing gown,
which has the added benefit of giving him homely warmth. We talk about what type of dragon/dinosaur he’d
be. His response is swift and confident:
“gigantoraptor”. Thanks to Andy’s Dinosaur
Adventures and the many dinosaur fact books that we’ve accrued over time, he
already knows that this means ‘a big thief’.
He likes the idea of a literal label so everyone knows what he is. After all, explaining you’re a Gigantoraptor
all day could get tiring. Sorted. We can
spoil him with an adjective and a noun, maybe even an article too: “A Big Thief”. I mean, show me a little child who doesn’t
want to be labelled at school like this?! <o:p></o:p></div>
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I manage to talk him into a more figurative label: “fearsome?”
“Extinct?” “Hungry?” and we’re all excited by the possibilities. Right. Now, I have to work out how to get the
word onto a soft fleecy dressing gown… felt-tip pens on an old cereal packet
sellotaped on? Paints on cardboard stapled on? Fabric paint on some scrap fabric
tacked on? Embroidery? Cross -stitch? Help!? <o:p></o:p></div>
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FML… Praying for a snow day...<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Companionable" Cat from 'Room on the Broom'</td></tr>
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<br />
... the snow day happened in all its glorious white blizzard wonder, shutting the school and postponing the 'Vocabulary Parade' until the following Friday. I found a piece of soft fabric from my patchworking days (yes, I know) , some fabric pens from a first Father's Day gift idea (a surprise message on a baby-grow during a nappy change) and a needle and thread to tack it onto the dressing gown. Win. Next challenge: the school run on wheels without the tail getting caught in the spokes.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spot the Anachronism. </td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-61427067573361545082018-01-14T15:09:00.001-08:002018-01-29T11:27:21.465-08:008 of the Best Story Books To Read By Moonlight<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_aITPHBJP9EBDYYunHZATlYymNDG5-NMudzLTV6inkYDLhyphenhyphenM5ePiTLdnJapkWmgNT70pmm6pcOiIX6fE7vqppH7gUeT2VGVHTqUrJR3ZKpteZSaX6GK0TsLMEvZW4aOJHairedvghIIJ/s1600/FullSizeRender+%252811%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_aITPHBJP9EBDYYunHZATlYymNDG5-NMudzLTV6inkYDLhyphenhyphenM5ePiTLdnJapkWmgNT70pmm6pcOiIX6fE7vqppH7gUeT2VGVHTqUrJR3ZKpteZSaX6GK0TsLMEvZW4aOJHairedvghIIJ/s320/FullSizeRender+%252811%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjAKr2biYGC0oIxDk5FlGjMm8umvScE7SB4u_GP6CxEvVuTmQOlyjo-bAvnN8_IQd87kD-_GRANejaLIa9R0sbjujx3eq_maGa3RHmiTcOtOOP4pEE1qzB8LllS8-KrF-DKP6-L7VMnIKd/s1600/IMG-1661.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a>We were lucky enough to begin the new year with a glorious full moon, just high enough to shine above the clouds and to illuminate little one's room in time for bedtime stories. Unusually, we pulled up the blind that night and relied solely on the bright moon beams to read our favourite books: a hopeful start to 2018. Here's our list of the best story books to read by moonlight. The next full moon, a blue moon, is on 31st January, 2018.<br />
<ol>
<li><i>Papa, Please Get The Moon For Me, </i>by Eric Carle (Simon and Schuster, New York, 1999). If there was a prize for the most doting father, it would go to this earnest chap, who manages to climb the tallest ladder on top of the tallest mountain and bring down the mighty moon for his daughter to play with. Beautiful, charming and heroic. Final thought: how wonderful to dance with the moon.</li>
<li><i>Giraffes Can't Dance</i>, by Giles Andreae (Orchard, 1999). To be honest, we read this most nights, but it took on a new meaning whilst reading under the lunar gaze. Gerald the giraffe is the unlikely hero who drags his two left hooves through a jungle full of talented but mean dancing animals, teasing him for his lack of technique or skill. Think<i> Strictly Come Dancing in the Masaii Mara</i> with a judging panel of only Craig Revel -Horwoods, in lion form. Poor Gerald. But all's not lost. A little cricket, with his handmade fiddle, gathers inspiration from the huge equatorial moon and helps Gerald back onto his dancing feet: "...he raised his head and looked up at the moon and stars above./ "We all can dance, " he said, "when we find music that we love." Final thought: Makes me think of toddler dancing- a pure reaction to music, or to a full moon party in Thailand where everybody definitely thought that they could dance, in their own unique and wonderful way. #bemoregerald #bemoretoddler</li>
<li><i>I Took The Moon For A Walk</i>, by Carolyn Curtis and Alison Jay (Barefoot books, Oxford, 2004). A lyrical poem with dreamy folk art- inspired illustrations. We follow the magical journey of a small child as he takes the Moon ("like a still summer kite") and the readers for a pre-bedtime walk, along a windy moon-illumined path, flanked by nocturnal creatures and moonlit strollers. A beautiful story to tire those little minds and to excite our imagination for endless dream-filled possibilities. Plus, there's a couple of extra pages with information about "The Mysterious Moon" and "The World at Night". Final thought: we love this book but it will do nothing for you if your little ones are going through that "I am not wearing a coat!" phase.</li>
<li><i>Moonlight Bear, </i>by Rosie Wellesley, (Pavilion, London, 2014) A new one for our collection, and already a favourite, 'Moonlight Bear' is a magical night-time adventure story with the brilliant little Eva and her cuddly Bear. At each full moon, Bear hopes she'll wake up to join him on a "full moon hullabaloo," filled with tree-climbing, star-gazing and a midnight trip to the playground (in Hackney, London). Tonight is the night that she finally wakes to follow him out the window. Final thought: all those days I spent teaching English in East London, but never realised what secret magical adventures the children were enjoying under the full moon. </li>
<li><i>Whatever Next!</i> by Jill Murphy (MacMillan, London, 1980). This classic picture book, which begins "Can I go to the Moon?" was probably read to you at bedtime. I was about to describe it as "timeless" but then I remembered the get up of solo-parent "Mrs Bear", illustrated as a Victorian housewife with an ankle-skimming, long-sleeved, high-necked dress, full length frilly apron and tartan house slippers. Clothing aside, this is a charming tale of a powerful imagination, finding a space ship in the cupboard under the stairs, a helmet from the draining board and an excellent choice of picnic foods to enjoy on the moon with fellow space traveller, Owl. Final thought: perfect if your little one is resisting the bath, this may well change his/her mind. </li>
<li><i>Goodnight Moon, </i>by Margaret Wise Brown (Harper, New York, 1947). 1947?! This book is full of unsettling lines "Goodnight Nobody", nightmarish colour-schemes (bright red and leaf green walls) and the oddest collection of nursery items (telephone, two clocks, a mouse, kittens...) yet like two generations before, our little 19 myonth old always searches for this particular time-travelled book: a relic from another age. The meditative script always calms us down and preludes a long list of what we then wish goodnight to: a soporific incantation to begin our own bedtime routine. Final thought: either that little mouse is very lucky or the two little kittens are very lazy. </li>
<li><i>Can't You Sleep, Little Bear? (</i>Walker, 1988) If there was ever a story to show the natural need for a child to sleep with their parents, then this is it. Little Bear cannot settle to sleep and even the biggest lamp cannot quell his fears of the dark. Big Bear takes him on a trip to see the moon, but when he looks down, "he had gone to sleep, warm and safe in Big Bear's arms". Final thought: Big Bear is so calm and listens to the needs of his little cub; I love the final image of him reading his book in one paw and cradling Little Bear in the other. #bemoreBigBear</li>
<li><i>On The Night You Were Born, </i>by Nancy Tillman (Feiwel and Friends, New York, 2013) In our everyday subliminal thirst for acceptance and beauty, it's easy to forget that we are all completely unique and wonderful. When I read these words to my children, it's usually with tear-filled eyes and a shaky whispered voice: "On the night you were born, the moon smiled with such wonder... the night wind whispered, "Life will never be the same." Because there has never been anyone like you... ever in the world." Final thought: this is a must-read book for all ages, especially when the swirling chaos of hectic schedules and crowded lives drowns your voice and makes you feel invisible, this book will comfort you for all those times "whenever you doubt just how special you are and you wonder who loves you, how much and how far...".</li>
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Time to pull up the blind, snuggle up for a story and bask in the light of the mo-oo-ooon.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-26587922358105146242018-01-01T14:21:00.004-08:002018-01-02T00:43:52.398-08:00New Year's Day: More Fuzz Than FizzThe first day of 2018- a happily fuzzy sociable sort of a day for us- has concluded with a bright full moon in clear cloudless skies. Our littlest one and I read books by the light of the moon before settling for a dreamy sleep. His big brown eyes finally closed as I stroked his head and whispered an echo of our final read: "I love you to the moon, and back" (<i>Guess How Much I Love You, </i>S. McBratney)*. I then settled our older boy who just needed one more cuddle after the exhilaration of a busy few days. We then collapsed in an exhausted pile on the sofa.<br />
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I used to feel a particular blurry excitement on New Year's Day: a fresh start with new goals and dreams, after the fizz of the night before. In 2011/12, <a href="http://mombasamoods.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/bare-foot-flat-tyre-back-in-mombasa-for.html" target="_blank">my friend Jody and I partied on Mombasa Beach and watched the mighty African sun rise above the Eastern shoreline. </a> Somewhere amongst that five-thousand strong crowd was another traveller-teacher, on his own Kenyan adventure. We didn't meet that night. Instead, Jody and I got home the way we'd arrived, sharing a bicycle along the pot-hole ridden Mombasa roads; the sun had been up for a while and we were hungry for our first breakfast of 2012: the year I was to meet the man I now call my husband. the father to our two little children.<br />
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Those two little ones have changed us more than we could have imagined and continue to challenge and entertain us everyday. We celebrated their first and third birthdays this year and hope that life continues to be kind to us in 2018 and look forward to their next steps, words and achievements. We tried to mark the New Year last night; it was our best effort since becoming parents in 2014. We had family over to stay, popped a bottle of something bubbly and bashed out Take That singalong classics on the piano. By 1am we were all asleep before our collection of little ones were awake for various cuddles and milk feeds through the night. The last two NYEs were basically right-offs with midnight nappy changes and cluster feeding or dealing with firework bang-induced wake-ups. That fuzzy excitement of yesteryear has been replaced by overwhelming teary gratitude for all our dear family and friends, anchored by a deeply warming love. Thank you, children, parents, brothers, sisters, friends for all the chuckles, straight-talking and hugs.</div>
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I've never been very good with resolutions and was delighted to hear that Barack Obama doesn't make resolutions either. However, I like to look back on the previous year and take time to consider the challenges to face in 2018. Our eldest (summer born) boy will start school in September, just days after his fourth birthday. I remember my own apprehension and excitement about starting school- some of my earliest memories. I find it incredible to think that our little cub might remember these days for the rest of his life. Our youngest embarks on a year full of developmental milestones, especially his verbal communication and comprehension of the world around him. For my man and I, we're starting Ballroom/Latin dance classes! And just for myself, I hope to read more, to continue writing and to invest more energy into the two local playgroups I started in 2017: one in a <a href="http://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.co.uk/2017/11/the-young-old-and-lonely-part-2-babble.html" target="_blank">local care home </a>and the other, a collective of lovely parents who run an outdoor playgroup in the woods: 'Books in the Woods'. The latter has grown in size and confidence as we embark on new projects for our community of book and nature-loving families, with woodland book-walks and literary picnics among the forever-changing, yet constant deciduous trees. But above all, I hope for peace, joy, more cuddles with my loved ones and plenty of more moonlit night skies.</div>
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<i>*New Blog spoiler: The Best Books To Read By Moonlight (coming soon!)</i></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bedtime under a moonbeam, 1/1/18</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-47649700535873418782017-12-05T02:01:00.001-08:002017-12-05T02:11:04.841-08:00Early Motherhood Clouded by Thick Fog, Just Like This Year's Supermoon.Our youngest has the box room at the back corner of the house, its window to the side. Looking out, there's a disappointing view: a thousand bricks, rising high into the blue. Yet, there is one slither of visible sky. Every evening, after bath time, we snuggle on his low bed, reading stories and settling for a milk feed. The curtains are closed and the lights are dimmed to a low warm light.<br />
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We must have been a bit rushed one evening, a later bedtime with an overtired baby. We collapsed onto the mattress, comfortable and settled at last. It was only then that I looked up and realised that the blinds were up and I'd forgotten to turn the night light on. But the room had a glow more lovely and soft than usual; the moon was steadily rising up through the narrow visible triangle of sky. We both stared up in awe at the bright crescent moon and our little 17month old pointed and muttered "moo".<br />
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We've now spent a few evenings pointing at the moon and have observed its gradual wax and wane through the lunar month. Littlest one eventually falls asleep under its languid light. "Goodnight Moon" has become our nightly ritual. <br />
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This first weekend of Advent 2017 promised to be a <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/entry/supermoon-of-the-year-is-happening-this-weekend_uk_5a213356e4b0a02abe90421e?ncid=tweetlnkukhpmg00000001" target="_blank">truly spectacular lunar show: the only supermoon of</a> 2017. It was the incredibly <a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.co.uk/2016/10/supermoon.html" target="_blank">grand golden supermoon of November 2016 that inspired me to begin this blog</a>: a saving grace of the regular night feeding and lonely nights. For the last two nights, I've made sure that the blinds were up and once settled, we could watch and admire the moon. Expectations were high. On the second night, little one went to the window. He looked up to the sky and...<br />
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Nothing.<br />
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Just the swirling thick cloud and fog of the day. Not even the slightest glimmer or glow.<br />
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Disappointing.<br />
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I keep the blind up and we sit there in the darkness. Little one is now reclined on my lap, taking satisfying gulps of milk. I cuddle him and stare into the cloud-covered night sky.<br />
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I become lost in my thoughts and memories, reflecting on the fog that clouded my first months of motherhood. Looking back, I feel disappointment in my failure to trust my own instincts, forty months ago. Brainwashed by second-hand austere parenting manuals and stale medical professionals, I was scared away from allowing my new baby to fall asleep at the breast, or to rock or cuddle him to sleep: "You'll give him a lifetime of sleep problems," they said. "Transfer him to the cot when he's tired, but not asleep," they said. "Feed him for twenty minutes and then swap sides... express more milk.. watch the clock.... set alarms... wake him up.... feed times... he should be sleeping in the cot by now, not on you... he should be in his own room by now... he should be self settling by now... in a dark room... with the door shut... he's too heavy for you to be carrying him now... you've breastfed him for long enough now..." they said, they said, they said.<br />
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We didn't follow all the advice. But my own maternal instinct was smothered by rules and schedules, fears and threats. Emotionally loaded parenting guides made me feel as though my own voice was wrong and misjudged. Through academia, I had always trusted the printed word. It was hard to reject published advice, promising "calm" and "contented" little babies, a smiling cherub on its "bestseller" book cover. Until motherhood, I had never questioned a medical professional's opinion either. Doctors, Nurses, Health Visitors all knew best, didn't they? When the smiley Health Visitor strongly suggested I tried 'Controlled Crying' and said (at 5 months) my baby shouldn't be asleep on me anymore, I didn't have the confidence to disagree, even though my gut was silently twisting inside. And after all, we had never parented before. We didn't really know what we were doing.<br />
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Fast forward a few months and years and the fog has mostly cleared. I still harbour doubts and I'm happy to admit that<a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.co.uk/2017/09/will-he-be-night-feeding-forever.html" target="_blank"> I'm still making it up as we go</a>, but my inner voice is bright and strong. Interestingly, after two years of uncomfortable silence, I recovered my writing voice too. Now, I trust my instincts and I block out the onslaught of unwelcomed advice and unnecessary rules. Plus, I'm more confident to ask for help when it's needed, especially from our parents and trusted friends. When I first became a mum, I avoided straying onto the internet for parenting advice, but I have to admit that I've found strength from like-minded communities (Gentle and Attachment Parenting, Natural Term Breastfeeding etc.) and publications that actually help to endorse the parent's instinct (e.g. anything by Sarah Ockwell-Smith), rather than to dismiss it.<br />
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I've been up a couple of times through the night and peeped through the curtains. Still no moon. Still no lunar brilliance. I know she's up there, though. Somewhere. Shining more brightly than ever, illuminating the thick soft winter blanket around her. It's a lovely thought as we fall back to sleep.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069035953690828034.post-64291412194481246802017-11-28T14:15:00.000-08:002017-11-28T14:33:14.393-08:00The young, the old and the lonely, part 2: 'Babble and Bubbles' at St. Joe's.<div style="text-align: justify;">
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After <a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.co.uk/2017/11/the-young-old-and-lonely-setting-up.html" target="_blank">two years of trying and failing to set up a regular intergenerational social</a>, I was delighted when Charley Allen, Activities Coordinator of St. Joseph's Care Home, Tring, commented on my post in the local Facebook group: a desperate last chance to team up stay at home parents, their little ones and isolated older adults. The idea came from my often <a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.co.uk/2016/12/unexpected-loneliness-of-new-motherhood.html" target="_blank">lonely and anxious experience of early motherhood</a>. The major trial of leaving the house with a tiny baby was always rewarded by a natter in the shops or on a park bench, cooing into the pram, telling me "he's gorgeous". His lovely little face brought so much joy. Surely we could make this a regular thing?</div>
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Charley works with older adults in a local care home, specialising in dementia care. She was excited by the possibility of opening the care home doors to babies, toddlers and their parents. We chatted about what might appeal to both under 5s and over 75s, deciding on traditional nursery rhymes, a story, bubbles, a parachute, tea, biscuits and a chance to chat. We also acknowledged that we'd be joining together the most vulnerable and unpredictable of our community.</div>
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I remembered my own Grandfather in his last months, lost inside his memory, suffering with the rapidly advancing effects of dementia. It seemed as though he didn't recognise me as his granddaughter, but spoke to me as though he was a boy, and we were childhood friends. His inner child was released: we sang, smiled and joked. My earlier memories of care homes are very clear, the oppressive hush and forlorn expressions, but I don't ever remember seeing other children.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5QZv5rGdPibXf9XnO6KmGF9Wm2cYIf2YSevKxHm5ulIW5YC87ERP4bVjLJ-ro1SQPqK9TwxnWw1tazGoPeKZQq6m0OvxYz9PCO8zEnzJpT9fhxJABCOOn6QaPgLkSpBrBySKMI4kqf0zc/s1600/IMG-0632.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="699" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5QZv5rGdPibXf9XnO6KmGF9Wm2cYIf2YSevKxHm5ulIW5YC87ERP4bVjLJ-ro1SQPqK9TwxnWw1tazGoPeKZQq6m0OvxYz9PCO8zEnzJpT9fhxJABCOOn6QaPgLkSpBrBySKMI4kqf0zc/s320/IMG-0632.JPG" width="320" /></a>According to national statistics, 60% of residents never receive a visitor: a crushing reality that affects physical and mental health. I do remember being quite little and walking past lots of faces, whose eyes would appeal to me and would sometimes beckon me over to talk. My parents always encouraged me to talk to everyone, but it was clear that one little girl wasn't enough. Now, in our 'Babble and Bubbles' group, some grandchildren of the residents come along, bringing much joy and excitement. The once daunting silence has been replaced by the welcoming harmony of different generations giggling together.</div>
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This project is important to me personally, but it is far more important for our community: residents, staff, parents and children. Mixing generations is important to learn so much from each other. Finding mutual interests and songs to sing would be an important first step to break the ice, ease us all into the shared space and to begin to build friendships between our eldest and youngest. Our first objective was simply to spread a little happiness; a longer goal would be to inspire long-lasting relationships; improve mental and physical health; perhaps even extend life expectancy.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiog1tgdNTJMF8iJwR6tw8hK6HQzu1EP55o1uPXCHSTaTkGF54dNbHIVKAqxavC-kVRW8ENxfjuAUvx4Obbi-K9EB3n-RDiVDTx5pfQ6LUtqfNQF2cfquyQ7Ucabp2oIzRbNpSyDOmj784j/s1600/parachute.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1135" data-original-width="639" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiog1tgdNTJMF8iJwR6tw8hK6HQzu1EP55o1uPXCHSTaTkGF54dNbHIVKAqxavC-kVRW8ENxfjuAUvx4Obbi-K9EB3n-RDiVDTx5pfQ6LUtqfNQF2cfquyQ7Ucabp2oIzRbNpSyDOmj784j/s320/parachute.jpg" width="179" /></a>We had our first session in the spring. We were probably all a bit nervous and unsure of the new situation. We sang some nursery rhymes and shared a story, but it was the babies and bubbles that stole the show. As the little ones reached for and cheered at the bubbles, some of the older adults really perked up and seemed to enjoy the spectacle of these tiny humans delighting in something so simple. One lady started to sing "I'm forever blowing bubbles..." and it caught on until everyone was singing along. It was a wonderful success; the residents were soon asking: "when are the children are coming again?"</div>
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By the summer, the little ones were desperate to be outside and the effect of their energy was incredible. Charley had said that it takes a heat wave to get the residents outside, but once the children had made a run for the garden door, the older adults soon followed, disregarding the grey skies. Gingerly, but with determination, walking frames clattered on concrete and more outside seating was arranged. One lady brought her walking frame onto the grass and started to kick a ball about with the toddlers. A crowd of children then gathered around a little worm, attracting some of the older adults to come and see what they were looking at. The fresh air and infant joy were our only medicine, but it was enough to revive us all.</div>
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Now it's autumn and we've started to try out some arts and crafts: potato prints, finger paints and even rolling pastry for mince pies. It's good to get us all chatting while drawing or moulding. Our interaction has increased and we feel we're starting to get to know each other. Like other parents who attend, I look forward to conversations with our new friends, usually about our shared experiences of parenthood, or childhood memories. Now we've been attending the playgroup in the care home for some time, my same "gorgeous" baby is now three years old and holds his own conversations with the residents, chattering away about their favourite animals or colours. One lady keeps his dinosaur drawings on her room wall.</div>
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It's brilliant to see that there are projects all over world where different generations socialise and spread so much joy. It's exciting to be a small part of this great shift in how we care for and interact with our most vulnerable members of the community, young and old. Despite the growing interest, we are careful to limit numbers, keep continuity, focus on building relationships rather than numbers and to respect the space where we socialise. Charley ensures that the residents feel safe and are not overwhelmed. Despite the freezing weather, the sessions end with the children running around in the care home's usually silent garden; the residents often watch and laugh from the warmth of the conservatory. These little humans, with wide eyed curiosity and spirited courage, have the power to release unmeasurable joy. Now it's the turn of every manager and care home owner to realise these benefits and to open the care home doors to the babies, babble and bubbles. </div>
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You can read more uplifting and raw words on Rebecca's blog, <a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">The Mum on the Moon: the Night Feed.</a></div>
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<a href="https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">https://thenightfeedwords.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1