Today
This morning a shared Facebook video came my way showing people trying to heave other people out of bed using mousetraps on the ears (honestly), upending beds into baths and setting Chinese cracker booby-traps,
Pretty nasty, really.
In My Day
Any mother knows the difficulties involved in trying to get their family out of bed in the morning, but I do think that, at some point, responsibility has to be passed on.
In 1983 when we lived at Montfort Close this was the set-up: Paul was working for himself as "Barretronics", I was working full-time and both girls went to the local school.
One morning I heaved myself out of bed and went to wake up my family. Without exception they were grumpy, bad-tempered and even gave me some verbal abuse.
I thought about this during the day. When I got home I summoned a council meeting. "Listen up," I said with some force, "I don't have to get you guys up in the morning; you're quite capable of getting yourselves up and you all have alarm clocks. If you can't treat me with some manners in future I shall get myself up and off to work in the morning and you can sort yourselves out." There was a shuffling silence.
The following morning when I got up, ready to carry out my threat, I was greeted by a chorus most mannerly: "Good morning, Darling", "Hello, Mummy" etc, etc , delivered with delightful smiles. I even think there was a cup of tea. And they've never given me a bad tempered word on waking since.
As Lizzie likes to point out, it didn't make her any better at getting out of bed, but at least she smiled when refusing to get up.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Basket Case
Today
Preparations for baby Donnelly are well under way. She already has one babygro and one hand-knitted cardie and I couldn't resist buying some cute little vests in Tesco the other day.
I've bought the Moses basket and am engaged in making a suitable lining or two for it. I find myself with an absurd feeling that if I don't stitch away night and day my grand-daughter will come into the world with nothing ready.
In My Day
So how prepared was I, when expecting Lizzie? To start with, I had a sort of superstitious feeling that to have a full layette, decorated nursery et al would somehow bring bad luck. Another thing was an almost total lack of money. When I brought Lizzie home from hospital I had: one babygro (Paul had to go out and hastily buy some more), nappies of the towelling variety, a carry cot with stand and wheels, a baby bath that shared the cot stand and some Playtex bottles. My Italian sister-in-law's mother knitted me some beautiful white blankets which stretched in a snuggly cocoon-like way around Lizzie. Later came the oversized leggings knitted by Jenny and a lovely crocheted floor blanket from Mamma.
I'm not sure I'd even heard of a Moses basket, outside the Bible, and nobody seemed to be stitching day and night on Lizzie's account. The bath soon became a useless relic as I discovered that Lizzie and I had a shared horror of using it, and that washing worked just as well.
And the other necessities? Well.we gradually bought what we could, as and when. My maternity allowance went on a spin-dryer, my month's back pay arrived just as Lizzie was outgrowing her first set of clothes. I didn't have a washing machine, and remember those nauseating buckets full of Napisan. I used to put the previous day's clothes into soak before going to work, rinsing and spinning them when I got home.
Well, she went neither naked nor dirty and gradually things eased up a bit.
The problem is, I saved those blankets for my first grandchild for forty years and now can't seem to find them; maybe I lent them to somebody.........
Preparations for baby Donnelly are well under way. She already has one babygro and one hand-knitted cardie and I couldn't resist buying some cute little vests in Tesco the other day.
I've bought the Moses basket and am engaged in making a suitable lining or two for it. I find myself with an absurd feeling that if I don't stitch away night and day my grand-daughter will come into the world with nothing ready.
In My Day
So how prepared was I, when expecting Lizzie? To start with, I had a sort of superstitious feeling that to have a full layette, decorated nursery et al would somehow bring bad luck. Another thing was an almost total lack of money. When I brought Lizzie home from hospital I had: one babygro (Paul had to go out and hastily buy some more), nappies of the towelling variety, a carry cot with stand and wheels, a baby bath that shared the cot stand and some Playtex bottles. My Italian sister-in-law's mother knitted me some beautiful white blankets which stretched in a snuggly cocoon-like way around Lizzie. Later came the oversized leggings knitted by Jenny and a lovely crocheted floor blanket from Mamma.
I'm not sure I'd even heard of a Moses basket, outside the Bible, and nobody seemed to be stitching day and night on Lizzie's account. The bath soon became a useless relic as I discovered that Lizzie and I had a shared horror of using it, and that washing worked just as well.
And the other necessities? Well.we gradually bought what we could, as and when. My maternity allowance went on a spin-dryer, my month's back pay arrived just as Lizzie was outgrowing her first set of clothes. I didn't have a washing machine, and remember those nauseating buckets full of Napisan. I used to put the previous day's clothes into soak before going to work, rinsing and spinning them when I got home.
Well, she went neither naked nor dirty and gradually things eased up a bit.
The problem is, I saved those blankets for my first grandchild for forty years and now can't seem to find them; maybe I lent them to somebody.........
Wednesday, May 01, 2013
Cloistered
Today
A couple of days ago, driving past Downside Abbey, I found myself thinking about monasteries, the kind of life monks lead and what induces someone to become a monk.
In My Day
To my knowledge I only ever knew one person who'd been a monk. His name was Tony White and we both worked for the Inland Revenue while I was at Lewes in 1977. He was a stocky man of about fifty, with a grey beard and uncompromising expression. It was he who dubbed the unborn Becky the "Sprog" after his naval days. As we got to know each other he told me firstly about his seafarings days and then about his life as a monk. I think he'd been at Buckfast, although I have to say that my memory is hazy on this. He was no singer of plainsong or meekly devout man and, by the time I knew him, seemed to have forgotten what took him into the cloistered life.
By nature a man of action, he eventually decided that he could live a devoutly Catholic life without shutting himself away, so he left. He married late in life and had one son, Jonathan, who gave him great delight and who seemed to be lots of fun.
The question of having a second child arose. He confided in me. "My wife is already in her late forties", he said "and the chances are that not only would a second pregnancy be difficult for her but she would also have a very high chance of having a Down's Syndrome baby." His solution was for them to adopt a Down's Syndrome baby instead, thus removing the physical risk to his wife, while augmenting his family and doing good for an unwanted child.
The child was a girl and he described how happy Jonathan was, how his wife was taking pains to give the girl as much mental stimulus as possible and how they hoped at least to be able to give her a good and happy childhood, even if she needed to be transferred into care after her teens. (Knowing Tony, I doubt whether he would have had the heart ever to do this last thing.)
Tony proved to me that there are many ways of devoting yourself to the ideals of your religion other than shutting yourself away from human joy, need and interaction.
I wonder if he is still alive, but I hope that both his children are and living the life that his generous and large spirit made possible.
A couple of days ago, driving past Downside Abbey, I found myself thinking about monasteries, the kind of life monks lead and what induces someone to become a monk.
In My Day
To my knowledge I only ever knew one person who'd been a monk. His name was Tony White and we both worked for the Inland Revenue while I was at Lewes in 1977. He was a stocky man of about fifty, with a grey beard and uncompromising expression. It was he who dubbed the unborn Becky the "Sprog" after his naval days. As we got to know each other he told me firstly about his seafarings days and then about his life as a monk. I think he'd been at Buckfast, although I have to say that my memory is hazy on this. He was no singer of plainsong or meekly devout man and, by the time I knew him, seemed to have forgotten what took him into the cloistered life.
By nature a man of action, he eventually decided that he could live a devoutly Catholic life without shutting himself away, so he left. He married late in life and had one son, Jonathan, who gave him great delight and who seemed to be lots of fun.
The question of having a second child arose. He confided in me. "My wife is already in her late forties", he said "and the chances are that not only would a second pregnancy be difficult for her but she would also have a very high chance of having a Down's Syndrome baby." His solution was for them to adopt a Down's Syndrome baby instead, thus removing the physical risk to his wife, while augmenting his family and doing good for an unwanted child.
The child was a girl and he described how happy Jonathan was, how his wife was taking pains to give the girl as much mental stimulus as possible and how they hoped at least to be able to give her a good and happy childhood, even if she needed to be transferred into care after her teens. (Knowing Tony, I doubt whether he would have had the heart ever to do this last thing.)
Tony proved to me that there are many ways of devoting yourself to the ideals of your religion other than shutting yourself away from human joy, need and interaction.
I wonder if he is still alive, but I hope that both his children are and living the life that his generous and large spirit made possible.
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