You would not be blamed for assuming that this post is to catalogue OH's DIY disasters - heaven knows, there's enough of them to list and smile wanly over. But I'll save that for another time. No, today's post is about song lyrics, subversion, philosophy and humour. So that's all right, then. :)
I'm not sure if tiredness, hormones, money worries or what exactly was causing my bad humour this morning, but Babe being a little pickle was not helping matters. And as we made a huge cut-out race track out of pieces of wallpaper stuck together (I add that piece of detail so that you know what a creative, generous-hearted, fun mum I am, even in the face of adversity), singing together as we worked, I found myself subverting song lyrics.
I usually do this in my head. There is one kids TV programme - I can't remember the title - whose theme tune goes something like 'Posituney, offirooney, big, bang, boo...' and at the end I always sing it's conclusion to myself thus: 'Stinky pinky poo'. And there is an ad on Channel 5 for awful and absurdly expensive girls' shoes that the hum in my mind's eye calls 'Smelly Kellys'. Perhaps this immature behaviour gives vent to some of my tiredness and anxiety, I don't know.
But today, as we were singing Bob the Builder - can you believe this is actually on nursery's repertoire of songs? - and shouting, 'Can he fix it?' I just couldn't help myself and out popped, 'No, he can't!'. Babe looked a bit shocked, so I shrugged cheekily and we both rolled on the floor and laughed. I felt way better afterwards, so subverted a few more: 'Postman Pat and his black and white pants'; 'Hokey Cokey cola' (anti-consumerist twang to that one, you understand, although that may have gone above his head) and 'Humpty Dumpty sat on the rubbish bin'.
My firstborn has developed a love of Dora the Explorer quite by accident (we were lent a Postman Pat DVD that had the wrong disc inside) and is begging me to invite her to his birthday party in a couple of weeks' time. (There's a fancy dress challenge for OH to meet;)) Babe particularly loves the pirates episode, in fact that's the only one he wants to watch, and I have been pleasantly surprised by its philosophical content.
Dora and the gang have to complete three challenges: Seas, bridge, treasure island. (Or, 'Treasure, I am' as Babe insists the lyrics go. I can't blame his misunderstanding as the characters do have terrible accents, nor his insistence that he is right, as I refused to believe that 'Mull of Kintyre' wasn't 'Margowyn Town until I was at least 25.) Once they have travelled the seven seas they have to get through this bridge by righting the song lyrics it wrongs.
It starts with: 'Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you ate for breakfast!'. I wonder what post-modern deconstructions would make of that. It continues with, 'Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily merrily merrily merrily, life is just a bowl of spaghetti.' I couldn't put it better myself. The final song goes like this: 'Old Macdonald had some pans, oye, oye oye.' Boy, did the writers run out of steam on that one, eh? Unless I'm missing something really clever and funny. Do let me know if that is the case. Babe prefers, 'Old Macdonald had some chocolate stars.'
Moving on (I cannot believe I am blogging this knackered, but I have to keep something in my life going as everything crumbles around me), my mid-life crisis and re-born desire to subvert are shifting their attention to Babe's wardrobe in order to find something to do.
I have never liked kids to look trendy; it seems inappropraite somehow to make them vehicles for their parents' fashion pretensions. And there is nothing worse than tarty-looking little girls, I'm sure you'll agree. I don't, however, like kids to look too 'Marks and spencers' either. You just know, looking at them, that they'll be the squares in the class at school.
To date, Babe most often just looks a mess, as I do. Sometimes a bit cool, sometimes a bit square and rarely matching as most of his attire comes from ebay job lots. I realise I tend to dress him as I dress myself - never quite matching, one or two nice items and quite a lot of tat.
Anyway, I've been given quite a few hand-me-downs recently that definitely have a bit of edge to them, and I'm kind of enjoying letting my son out of the house looking, well, a tad 'roguish' I suppose. But, I wonder, if he looks a bit edgy, will he be treated a bit edgy?
Before you accuse me of totally over-analysing all this, bear with me, please! If you and I judge one another quite heavily on how we look, don't we do the same with our kids? I know I pick out a mile off the ones I think look dull and the one that look a bit wild and the ones I think Babe might like to hang with, terrible tho' that sounds. And doesn't this lead to a subtle vibe in our reaction to them that might become self perpetuating, subtly re-enforced by the child him/herself, and reflected in his/her behaviour? Hum...
At my active birth group on Thursday Babe was exhausted and badly behaved. He and a little friend were allowed out into the beautiful garden that had a trampoline, slide, swings, etc etc. What did Babe do? He ran over the wood pile and start throwing logs around the garden. Could this have been because of the too-big baggy sleeveless Scooby Doo T he had slung on over his baseball top? Answers on a postcard, please...
New Babe crying, have to fly. OH out with Babe buying, I suspect, gifts for my impending birthday. Wonder what they'll get. I must do a post on some of the hilarious things OH has given me in previous years. Lots of love, then, xxx
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Money matters
My craving for sleep and the devastating impact of its absence from my life continues.
Last evening, I stood by the hob, to heat the vast vat of soup I had prepared earlier, in an attempt to get more vegetables into us. As I stared at the flames licking its bottom (so to speak) I could have sworn I heard a muffled cry. I leaned closer. Yes, I hear a tiny roar. Then another yell. I stood up straight and started at my reflection in the window above the sink. I was feeling and looking excessively knackered. Too knackered to feel disturbed or afraid.
I stuck my finger in my right ear (I think I've experienced some hearing loss since the birth of New Babe but the doctor assures me that nothing is punctured) and wiggled it around. Then listened again. 'Mum!' yelled the soup. I jolted backwards, somewhat freaked. Then with a thump from above, the realisation that Babe had not settled for the night after all, dawned. And I trudged upstairs to deal with him.
(FYI the soup was carrot, parsnip and ginger, and both OH and Babe refused to eat any. It gave me the most terrible abdominal pain and must have upset my breastmilk as well, as New Babe woke on the hour, every hour, last night, and it was his breaking wind, not his crying, that dragged me from sleep in the next room.)
(FYI2 I give Babe some great natural iron green vegatable supplements you can buy.)
(FYI3 It occurred to me last night, as I got back into bed having fed the baby and gone to the loo afterwards for the umpteenth time, that my bed is so close to the toilet, despite them being in adjacent rooms - our house is small - that it is kind of like having an en suite. Probably less distance between my bed and our toilet than from my brother's bed to the loos in his ensuite, I speculated at 4am.)
Anyway, OH has been laid off work again and money stresses are even more real than usual. So I have decided to dabble with ebay. I have lots of baby gear and maternity wear to get rid of, as well as other things I don't like or need anymore, and our roof is full of tools that OH doesn't use, as well as things like his tap shoes. (Long story, worn once - I thought tap dancing might be a fun activity we could share after work when living in London. Despite his general physical dexterity and high level of fitness, OH could not decipher the lingo - ShuFULLbullCHANGEetcetcetc - and was crap at it. I had the best laugh of my life that night but it was not £95 well spent.)
I thought I would start on ebay with something small. So I picked up a 'pale blue Acessorize angora cap-style beret, VGC' from the top of the pile. I then spent the best part of an effing hour, while NB slept, trying to capture it at its photographic best. If you manage to find the bloody thing on ebay, its the one with the terracotta breeze blocks in the background. Yes, the garden offered the best light and you can see a snippet of my brown sleeve in the pic.
It's harder than you might guess to take a photo of a beret with your hand inside it, trying to make it look appropriately full and not floppy, get the peak and the twiddley bit on top in, etc etc. I asked OH to model it - he refused, and his hands are hairy and it wasn't looking good when it held it up on various backgrounds. I considered putting it on a large stuffed toy, but feared it might trivialise the purchase to prospective buyers. I hope I haven't overstepped the mark by describing it as 'cute'. To cut a long story short, it doesn't even come up when you type in 'beret' - can some clever dick reading this explain why? - and I realise I've left the word 'outfit' or 'set' off my 'newborn boy winter jacket and trousers, VGC' and that isn't coming up easily either. Dang and blast.
So, if you wonder what I'll be doing for the rest of the evening (and probably the rest of my maternity leave, if not my life), it's trying to get my photos and keywords right on ebay. If any of you know a geeky adolescent who would take everything I possess and try and flog it for me, in return for a cut of the profit (or, I don't know, some lessons in the language of love or something - as I said, OH is without a job a the moment), please let me know!
Last evening, I stood by the hob, to heat the vast vat of soup I had prepared earlier, in an attempt to get more vegetables into us. As I stared at the flames licking its bottom (so to speak) I could have sworn I heard a muffled cry. I leaned closer. Yes, I hear a tiny roar. Then another yell. I stood up straight and started at my reflection in the window above the sink. I was feeling and looking excessively knackered. Too knackered to feel disturbed or afraid.
I stuck my finger in my right ear (I think I've experienced some hearing loss since the birth of New Babe but the doctor assures me that nothing is punctured) and wiggled it around. Then listened again. 'Mum!' yelled the soup. I jolted backwards, somewhat freaked. Then with a thump from above, the realisation that Babe had not settled for the night after all, dawned. And I trudged upstairs to deal with him.
(FYI the soup was carrot, parsnip and ginger, and both OH and Babe refused to eat any. It gave me the most terrible abdominal pain and must have upset my breastmilk as well, as New Babe woke on the hour, every hour, last night, and it was his breaking wind, not his crying, that dragged me from sleep in the next room.)
(FYI2 I give Babe some great natural iron green vegatable supplements you can buy.)
(FYI3 It occurred to me last night, as I got back into bed having fed the baby and gone to the loo afterwards for the umpteenth time, that my bed is so close to the toilet, despite them being in adjacent rooms - our house is small - that it is kind of like having an en suite. Probably less distance between my bed and our toilet than from my brother's bed to the loos in his ensuite, I speculated at 4am.)
Anyway, OH has been laid off work again and money stresses are even more real than usual. So I have decided to dabble with ebay. I have lots of baby gear and maternity wear to get rid of, as well as other things I don't like or need anymore, and our roof is full of tools that OH doesn't use, as well as things like his tap shoes. (Long story, worn once - I thought tap dancing might be a fun activity we could share after work when living in London. Despite his general physical dexterity and high level of fitness, OH could not decipher the lingo - ShuFULLbullCHANGEetcetcetc - and was crap at it. I had the best laugh of my life that night but it was not £95 well spent.)
I thought I would start on ebay with something small. So I picked up a 'pale blue Acessorize angora cap-style beret, VGC' from the top of the pile. I then spent the best part of an effing hour, while NB slept, trying to capture it at its photographic best. If you manage to find the bloody thing on ebay, its the one with the terracotta breeze blocks in the background. Yes, the garden offered the best light and you can see a snippet of my brown sleeve in the pic.
It's harder than you might guess to take a photo of a beret with your hand inside it, trying to make it look appropriately full and not floppy, get the peak and the twiddley bit on top in, etc etc. I asked OH to model it - he refused, and his hands are hairy and it wasn't looking good when it held it up on various backgrounds. I considered putting it on a large stuffed toy, but feared it might trivialise the purchase to prospective buyers. I hope I haven't overstepped the mark by describing it as 'cute'. To cut a long story short, it doesn't even come up when you type in 'beret' - can some clever dick reading this explain why? - and I realise I've left the word 'outfit' or 'set' off my 'newborn boy winter jacket and trousers, VGC' and that isn't coming up easily either. Dang and blast.
So, if you wonder what I'll be doing for the rest of the evening (and probably the rest of my maternity leave, if not my life), it's trying to get my photos and keywords right on ebay. If any of you know a geeky adolescent who would take everything I possess and try and flog it for me, in return for a cut of the profit (or, I don't know, some lessons in the language of love or something - as I said, OH is without a job a the moment), please let me know!
Monday, October 5, 2009
Style icons
My concerns that I am approaching a mid-life crisis continue. Yesterday I bought a hair clip in the hope that it could revive my flagging personal style (cute, buttony) (the hairclip, not my personal style, that is) but in fact it just makes me look like a wa**er.
When I was pregnant I felt so bloody awful that I vowed I would hit the treadmill in the gym just as soon as I'd given birth, lose loads of weight and purchase a capsule wardrobe that even Gok would be the envy of. I took a plain piece of A4 and listed a number of adjectives (and adjectival phrases ;)) I wanted my new look to say about me. They included: comfortable, feminine, organised, appropriate, practical, but with a hint of quirk, je ne sais quoi, carpe diem, etc etc, so that my True Self would shine through. (Would a bloke ever sit down and complete such an exercise I wonder?)
Actually, I'm not sure who my True Self is anymore. I'm a fairly passionate mouthy sort, with a reasonable sense of humour and a mega grumpy dark side that I blame on PMT. I am very organised (well I try to be) but am somewhat ineffective at 'sharpening the sword' (Seven Habits speak, as those of you who have done the course and bought into the ridiculously expensive filofax will know), also somewhat pedantic (I added that after re-reading the para above) and quite a scorpio I reckon. But more of all that another time.
In my youth (What?! Am I actually saying things like that now?) I thought of myself as 'alternative'. Or should that be 'Alternative'? or 'an alternative'? For F's sake! I had my nose pierced before it became de rigour (yep, I noticed the italics symbol tonight), wore a lot of tassles and purple and tights with big flowers on them and thought I was The Business. I have never been a follower of fashion, would hate to look cool, but would hate to look uncool and would hate to look as though I'm trying too hard. This must be boring you senseless. Total navel-gazing self-indulgence.
It's hard to get enthusiastic abut looking good when you spend your days arriving late at playgroups, sweating and pavement pushing, or hanging out in the park with your boob hanging out, dribble, crumbs mud and dog poo decorating your inner and outer wear. But I still aspire to being a woman that people would look at know I am just, I don't know, a bit different, not conventional, a liberal free thinker not run of the mill ho de hum diddley dee I don't know.
So, with Babe in nursery, and fired up by my recent hair clip purchase, New Babe and I hit the shops this morning. I wanted to purchase a gilet, what with the colder days approaching. (Now if that isn't sodding conventional, I don't know what is, but whatever. I need something I can thrown on fast and which will keep me warm, but enable me to cool down quickly when I open it.)(!).
I was immediatly distracted by a number of handbags - good friends will know of my search for the ultimate 'third lung' - a vessel that carries my daily requirements to perfection, both looking and feeling The Business - and also of my general obsession with all things of a receptacley nature (make up bags, wash bags, lunch boxes, pencil cases...). God, I'm sad.
In the knowledge that for the forseeable future I have need of nothing but a baby change bag, I managed to avoid the clutches of the clutches, saddle bags, satchels etc that kept crossing my path, and somehow or other ended up in the Disney shop, quite at odds with my anti-consumerist principles and bought an indecent amount of Cars film memorabilia for Babe's impending birthday.
Feeling bored and irritable, I decided to give TX Maxx a try, as there one can rely on variety under one roof. I bought Babe two jumpers and a coat. New Babe kicked off before I could continue shopping for myself, so I had an early lunch in a cafe while he bounced on and off my breast, leaving my nipple exposed every time a suave young man entered the joint.
Feeling bored-er and irritable-er, I bounced round a few more shops where I bought a few more things for my kids, before somehow ending up at a bakery where, yes, you guessed, I bought the equivalent of an early tea to eat on the bus on the way home. At approximately 12.45am.
I then sprinted along several pavements, trod in two turds and arrived sweating at nursery to pick up Babe. On arrival I lifted New Babe from the pram and he promptly posseted over my shoulder and down my back. Rummaging about my person for a tissue I noticed that my left boob had leaked quite badly en route. And that there was doughnut jam stain on my elasticated trousers. And that my shoes were muddy. My hair was tied back and I wasn't wearing any make up. Bloody hell.
I retrieved Babe, who was covered in paint, had sand in his shoes and was wearing girls' pants and trousers as he had weed and pooed himself senseless all morning and refused to use the potty and they had run out of spare boys clothes for him. We looked at one another as he took my hand, and despite his tender years I believe a mutual sigh of understanding was shared. We picked up some juice, bananas and chocolate buttons (half a pack for Babe, two-and-a-half for me) from the corner shop and headed to the park as it started to rain...
When I was pregnant I felt so bloody awful that I vowed I would hit the treadmill in the gym just as soon as I'd given birth, lose loads of weight and purchase a capsule wardrobe that even Gok would be the envy of. I took a plain piece of A4 and listed a number of adjectives (and adjectival phrases ;)) I wanted my new look to say about me. They included: comfortable, feminine, organised, appropriate, practical, but with a hint of quirk, je ne sais quoi, carpe diem, etc etc, so that my True Self would shine through. (Would a bloke ever sit down and complete such an exercise I wonder?)
Actually, I'm not sure who my True Self is anymore. I'm a fairly passionate mouthy sort, with a reasonable sense of humour and a mega grumpy dark side that I blame on PMT. I am very organised (well I try to be) but am somewhat ineffective at 'sharpening the sword' (Seven Habits speak, as those of you who have done the course and bought into the ridiculously expensive filofax will know), also somewhat pedantic (I added that after re-reading the para above) and quite a scorpio I reckon. But more of all that another time.
In my youth (What?! Am I actually saying things like that now?) I thought of myself as 'alternative'. Or should that be 'Alternative'? or 'an alternative'? For F's sake! I had my nose pierced before it became de rigour (yep, I noticed the italics symbol tonight), wore a lot of tassles and purple and tights with big flowers on them and thought I was The Business. I have never been a follower of fashion, would hate to look cool, but would hate to look uncool and would hate to look as though I'm trying too hard. This must be boring you senseless. Total navel-gazing self-indulgence.
It's hard to get enthusiastic abut looking good when you spend your days arriving late at playgroups, sweating and pavement pushing, or hanging out in the park with your boob hanging out, dribble, crumbs mud and dog poo decorating your inner and outer wear. But I still aspire to being a woman that people would look at know I am just, I don't know, a bit different, not conventional, a liberal free thinker not run of the mill ho de hum diddley dee I don't know.
So, with Babe in nursery, and fired up by my recent hair clip purchase, New Babe and I hit the shops this morning. I wanted to purchase a gilet, what with the colder days approaching. (Now if that isn't sodding conventional, I don't know what is, but whatever. I need something I can thrown on fast and which will keep me warm, but enable me to cool down quickly when I open it.)(!).
I was immediatly distracted by a number of handbags - good friends will know of my search for the ultimate 'third lung' - a vessel that carries my daily requirements to perfection, both looking and feeling The Business - and also of my general obsession with all things of a receptacley nature (make up bags, wash bags, lunch boxes, pencil cases...). God, I'm sad.
In the knowledge that for the forseeable future I have need of nothing but a baby change bag, I managed to avoid the clutches of the clutches, saddle bags, satchels etc that kept crossing my path, and somehow or other ended up in the Disney shop, quite at odds with my anti-consumerist principles and bought an indecent amount of Cars film memorabilia for Babe's impending birthday.
Feeling bored and irritable, I decided to give TX Maxx a try, as there one can rely on variety under one roof. I bought Babe two jumpers and a coat. New Babe kicked off before I could continue shopping for myself, so I had an early lunch in a cafe while he bounced on and off my breast, leaving my nipple exposed every time a suave young man entered the joint.
Feeling bored-er and irritable-er, I bounced round a few more shops where I bought a few more things for my kids, before somehow ending up at a bakery where, yes, you guessed, I bought the equivalent of an early tea to eat on the bus on the way home. At approximately 12.45am.
I then sprinted along several pavements, trod in two turds and arrived sweating at nursery to pick up Babe. On arrival I lifted New Babe from the pram and he promptly posseted over my shoulder and down my back. Rummaging about my person for a tissue I noticed that my left boob had leaked quite badly en route. And that there was doughnut jam stain on my elasticated trousers. And that my shoes were muddy. My hair was tied back and I wasn't wearing any make up. Bloody hell.
I retrieved Babe, who was covered in paint, had sand in his shoes and was wearing girls' pants and trousers as he had weed and pooed himself senseless all morning and refused to use the potty and they had run out of spare boys clothes for him. We looked at one another as he took my hand, and despite his tender years I believe a mutual sigh of understanding was shared. We picked up some juice, bananas and chocolate buttons (half a pack for Babe, two-and-a-half for me) from the corner shop and headed to the park as it started to rain...
Friday, October 2, 2009
Thomas and the Mad Bomber
I could write a lot about kids' tv and DVDs etc, and the merits or otherwise of each. I am interested in children's literature and media, in fact I've co-written a number of children's books, and have enjoyed writing for, teaching and working with children.
Personally, I had intended that Babe would not be introduced to tv until he was at least the age of consent but that was before I knew I'd have a baby who would be up at half five every day. These days my bottom line is that if the telly keeps him quiet from 6 - 8am, I'm not that bothered about him watching it.
A friend suggested recently that if I banned tv in the mornings, Babe may then stay in bed longer. Not a bad suggestion - tho' he has always been an early riser. I suppose I could buy a lamp he can switch on himself (he'd need one as he has a black-out blind) and insist that he plays with his toys in his room until 7am or something like that and may try it, once I have the energy to face the inevitable repercussions and tantrums. From OH that is...
OH has a certain Mediterranean (based on my experience, that is) adoration of the tv. I may have mentioned in a previous post my observation that in many households across Greece and Albania the tv acquires a shrine-like status in the sitting room, complete with croched doiley and ornament or religious icon on top.
It is not considered rude to continue watching tv if guests arrive, and I have cringed on numerous occasions when OH either refuses to turn the tv off when people come in, or will turn it on in the middle of conversation after a meal. Usually to tune in to 'Euronews' which he wrongly assumes our guests have the same interest in as he does.
He also has a Mediterranean liking of having all household appliances turned on at the same time: TV, stereo, radio, iron, etc, (well, ok, maybe not the iron) and then having to shout in order to make himself heard.
And being East European (sorry about these generalisations, I admit that's what they are) OH a) believes that most of what he hears on the tv is the 'truth' - thanks to communist brainwashing - he once suggested I try some wonder diet pills that were said to have been used by Princess Diana, because Albanian TV said they 'definitely' worked, and b) also has a dodgy liking for crap American movies, particularly the ones in which the plot centres around a canine with humanesque qualities. He will actually sit and laugh hysterically at such epics, cry at films about inept fathers and their sons/lost twin brothers etc, and was once asked if he was drunk on a flight back to the UK during which an inane kids cartoon (Tom and Jerry I believe) was making him roar out loud. But perhaps it's tension release at the strain of living with me.
Worse than all this, OH seems to be actively teaching Babe to sit and watch DVDs with him on Saturday afternoons, so that he can crash next to him on the sofa for a couple of hours. He has bought a huge number of kids' films from the supermarket and puts them on with great excitement, to Babe's bemusement. Although I strongly disapprove of this, I have had my own come-uppance in the films department and realise that I may be the bearer of double standards.
Recently a friend lent me a bunch of DVDs to take on holiday. I couldn't help but get excited about it. If I'm completely honest, I was delighted to discover you can get feature-length Thomas films and sometimes I put them on during the afternoon when OH is at work so that I can lie on the sofa and rest (see what I mean about the double standards? Why is it any less bad when I do it?).
One of the DVDs I was lent is about a tap-dancing penguin. It didn't occur to me to vet it. We sat down to watch, but a few scenes into the film, the cute baby penguin is being chased by horrible scary sea birds and gets stuck under the ice. I sat with growing discomfort, looking at Babe's face, and wondered how I could turn it off without worrying him further at my censoring of the material. I tried to interject with comments such as 'Oh, poor little penguin, I expect his friends are just about to arrive and play with him'. But when he got stuck Babe, with a look of horror on his face burst into tears and screamed at me, 'He's on his own and he's lost his mummy and his daddy!'
I can't tell you how bad I felt, that I had happened upon this experience unprepared. We kept watching until it became clear that the penguin was perfectly alright, but Babe had been confronted with a whole load of stuff I'd have preferred to introduce him to myself when I felt the time was right.
Also recently, I have taught Babe to surf youtube for video clips. He loves Thomas songs and one we had found on the official site called, 'What makes an engine happy? What makes an engine sad?' and which would make your heart ache to hear him sing along to, was suddenly removed.
In my efforts to track it down I had got as far as discovering the composer was a Lib Dem supporter living in the Totnes area, when a friend found the song for me on youtube. We were overjoyed! But I quickly discovered the frustration of either having to sit with Babe and watch all the related Thomas clips myself, or return to the computer every three minutes or so each time a clip ended. So it made sense to teach him to scroll through and click and select the clips himself.
I can't believe that as someone who works on the web, and on children's materials at times, it didn't occur to me to check that there weren't any dodgy clips among all those songs and episodes. But having watched hundreds with him, and usually being in the room with him while he watched them and not overheard anything inappropriate, I trusted the stuff and presumed it was all harmless Thomas fun for kids.
I certainly didn't expect to pop out of the room for a beaker of milk and come back in to hear a frightened Thomas call 'Help, help!', have his head blown from his tank and end up with it inverted, smoking, beside him on the tracks. I swooped to the laptop and slammed it shut (and we haven't been back to youtube since), but not before Babe said in a small voice,
'I don't like this one, Mummy, it makes me feel sad.'
Gah! The guilt! A steep learning curve and proof that you just can't be too careful with your kids. From now on, it's nothing but Thomas and Postman Pat, at tightly controlled and rigorous intervals...
Personally, I had intended that Babe would not be introduced to tv until he was at least the age of consent but that was before I knew I'd have a baby who would be up at half five every day. These days my bottom line is that if the telly keeps him quiet from 6 - 8am, I'm not that bothered about him watching it.
A friend suggested recently that if I banned tv in the mornings, Babe may then stay in bed longer. Not a bad suggestion - tho' he has always been an early riser. I suppose I could buy a lamp he can switch on himself (he'd need one as he has a black-out blind) and insist that he plays with his toys in his room until 7am or something like that and may try it, once I have the energy to face the inevitable repercussions and tantrums. From OH that is...
OH has a certain Mediterranean (based on my experience, that is) adoration of the tv. I may have mentioned in a previous post my observation that in many households across Greece and Albania the tv acquires a shrine-like status in the sitting room, complete with croched doiley and ornament or religious icon on top.
It is not considered rude to continue watching tv if guests arrive, and I have cringed on numerous occasions when OH either refuses to turn the tv off when people come in, or will turn it on in the middle of conversation after a meal. Usually to tune in to 'Euronews' which he wrongly assumes our guests have the same interest in as he does.
He also has a Mediterranean liking of having all household appliances turned on at the same time: TV, stereo, radio, iron, etc, (well, ok, maybe not the iron) and then having to shout in order to make himself heard.
And being East European (sorry about these generalisations, I admit that's what they are) OH a) believes that most of what he hears on the tv is the 'truth' - thanks to communist brainwashing - he once suggested I try some wonder diet pills that were said to have been used by Princess Diana, because Albanian TV said they 'definitely' worked, and b) also has a dodgy liking for crap American movies, particularly the ones in which the plot centres around a canine with humanesque qualities. He will actually sit and laugh hysterically at such epics, cry at films about inept fathers and their sons/lost twin brothers etc, and was once asked if he was drunk on a flight back to the UK during which an inane kids cartoon (Tom and Jerry I believe) was making him roar out loud. But perhaps it's tension release at the strain of living with me.
Worse than all this, OH seems to be actively teaching Babe to sit and watch DVDs with him on Saturday afternoons, so that he can crash next to him on the sofa for a couple of hours. He has bought a huge number of kids' films from the supermarket and puts them on with great excitement, to Babe's bemusement. Although I strongly disapprove of this, I have had my own come-uppance in the films department and realise that I may be the bearer of double standards.
Recently a friend lent me a bunch of DVDs to take on holiday. I couldn't help but get excited about it. If I'm completely honest, I was delighted to discover you can get feature-length Thomas films and sometimes I put them on during the afternoon when OH is at work so that I can lie on the sofa and rest (see what I mean about the double standards? Why is it any less bad when I do it?).
One of the DVDs I was lent is about a tap-dancing penguin. It didn't occur to me to vet it. We sat down to watch, but a few scenes into the film, the cute baby penguin is being chased by horrible scary sea birds and gets stuck under the ice. I sat with growing discomfort, looking at Babe's face, and wondered how I could turn it off without worrying him further at my censoring of the material. I tried to interject with comments such as 'Oh, poor little penguin, I expect his friends are just about to arrive and play with him'. But when he got stuck Babe, with a look of horror on his face burst into tears and screamed at me, 'He's on his own and he's lost his mummy and his daddy!'
I can't tell you how bad I felt, that I had happened upon this experience unprepared. We kept watching until it became clear that the penguin was perfectly alright, but Babe had been confronted with a whole load of stuff I'd have preferred to introduce him to myself when I felt the time was right.
Also recently, I have taught Babe to surf youtube for video clips. He loves Thomas songs and one we had found on the official site called, 'What makes an engine happy? What makes an engine sad?' and which would make your heart ache to hear him sing along to, was suddenly removed.
In my efforts to track it down I had got as far as discovering the composer was a Lib Dem supporter living in the Totnes area, when a friend found the song for me on youtube. We were overjoyed! But I quickly discovered the frustration of either having to sit with Babe and watch all the related Thomas clips myself, or return to the computer every three minutes or so each time a clip ended. So it made sense to teach him to scroll through and click and select the clips himself.
I can't believe that as someone who works on the web, and on children's materials at times, it didn't occur to me to check that there weren't any dodgy clips among all those songs and episodes. But having watched hundreds with him, and usually being in the room with him while he watched them and not overheard anything inappropriate, I trusted the stuff and presumed it was all harmless Thomas fun for kids.
I certainly didn't expect to pop out of the room for a beaker of milk and come back in to hear a frightened Thomas call 'Help, help!', have his head blown from his tank and end up with it inverted, smoking, beside him on the tracks. I swooped to the laptop and slammed it shut (and we haven't been back to youtube since), but not before Babe said in a small voice,
'I don't like this one, Mummy, it makes me feel sad.'
Gah! The guilt! A steep learning curve and proof that you just can't be too careful with your kids. From now on, it's nothing but Thomas and Postman Pat, at tightly controlled and rigorous intervals...
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