Auto-correct errors

I'm often amused by my phone's attempts at understanding me. Because I often text in French too, for instance, it likes to auto-correct the word remember to t'émmener, which is a tad bizarre, but nothing beats this week's photo caption...

Amaia was taking photos in the garden and she took this one. I tried to caption it 'A very dignified photo of me blowing bubbles on a space hopper thanks to Amaia.' as I uploaded it to facebook, but had to laugh when it corrected 'blowing bubbles' to 'blessing bibles'! So if you happen to see me in my garden, do check if I'm blessing bibles on a blue space hopper!

Definitely our child

It's been one of those days when you really don't need a DNA test to check you brought the right baby home from the hospital...

Thomas was out in Glasgow so I was doing the bedtime routine. I often sing Léon 'Hush Little Baby' with the obvious alteration of 'Papa' to 'Mummy'. Anna usually prefers other things so hasn't had that one for a while. But tonight she was still awake when I started Léon's song...

Hush, Little Baby

Hush, little baby, don't say a word.
Mummy's gonna buy you a mockingbird

And if that mockingbird won't sing,
Mummy's gonna buy you a diamond ring

And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Mummy's gonna buy you a looking glass

And if that looking glass gets broke,
Mummy's gonna buy you a billy goat

And if that billy goat won't pull,
Mummy's gonna buy you a cart and bull

And if that cart and bull turn over,
Mummy's gonna buy you a dog named Rover

And if that dog named Rover won't bark
Mummy's gonna buy you a horse and cart

And if that horse and cart fall down,
You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town.

She listened happily right through to the end then said quite matter of fact at the ripe old age of 6 'The tense is wrong you know - it's not 'broke'. Only question is - is she her mother's daughter or her father's?!

Scottish voting in the Euro elections

I don't know about anyone else, but I find this level of apathy in the face of a swing to the right absolutely abhorrent. We hear the UKIP polled 10% but look at this pie - UKIP didn't poll anything like 10%, apathy polled about 65% and that's a whole lot more troubling.

More than ever, yes!

Presumably London isn't following for UKIP because they are less affected by the economic downturn so less in search of a scapegoat. Scotland, however, despite the hardships is the least taken-in in the country. I don't know about you, but I certainly don't want the south east voting in my next government on the basis of this map. At least we have a viable alternative.

Glasgow School of Art fire

It just so happened today that I was in Glasgow with my DSLR when I heard about the GSA fire so I dragged all the four kids I had with me along.

I've always loved the art school - my first trip round it was with my school back around '84 and of course I've had friends study there while I was at Glasgow uni. Most recently Thomas and I first lived together in Rose street and for that reason all of Garenthill feels a bit special to our own story. It was hard not to be moved to tears today watching the windows blow out as the flames took hold of the roof. And everywhere many, many young people were walking around with tears streaming down their faces, their hands clutched to their mouths in shock. Others sat resigned on the pavement in the sunshine drinking beer in complete silence.

It seems 70% of it has been saved which seems beyond belief given what we witnessed first hand. 

Teacher's pet

I know I'm her mother so I'm probably not meant to bitch but Anna is something else at times! Every day in life she comes out with a story of how many 'house points' she's earned for knowing this, that and the next thing, for sitting quietly, for not misbehaving like whoever 'got on amber', or god forbid 'red' today. She would unashamedly take the teachers flowers and an apple every other day to curry favour and likes to make them jewellery when she has the time. Anything that can endear her to Mrs McDougall makes her happy. She even volunteered to sing Danish songs and read Danish books to the class. As a mum, I'm very proud (as a fellow classmate, I'd probably have wanted to trip her up in the playground!)

And so we come to Maths. Anna was working on the above last week when I came in to inconsolable hysterics. Obviously it isn't because it is too hard. It's way too easy now she's 6... But when Charlotte and I finally managed to calm her down enough to get what was wrong out of her, not laughing was a hard task. She was appalled by the messiness of this mathematical technique. The thought of handing in work with things scored out was too much for her to bear! She was trying to insist that once she had filled in all the answers on her worksheet, she should then rub out all the workings. She needed to rid her beautiful jotter of the scorings-out, the rogue little numbers on the sides because otherwise Mrs McDougall might take house points from her for not handing in clean, neat work. Charlotte, who is now going into her third year at high school, mentioned that working was worth 90% of the marks by her age and that erasing it was practically punishable by suspension from school (she likes to exaggerate for effect). At this, Anna dropped to the floor, a blubbering wreck, trying desperately to argue she should at least be allowed to copy it out on a second sheet to prove her ability for neatness to her teacher. Poor wee soul.

Cyclamen

For as long I can remember cyclamen have made me think of my granny. I'm not sure why as I am pretty sure she didn't have any in her garden - it was all rhubarb, peonies and purple alpines with a lilac tree. Did she have them in pots in her house - I can't find any photographic evidence for that... or did she just tell me she liked them, perhaps? It's funny when you have partial memories like that.

Anyway, for what it's worth, I decided back around last November to buy one in B&Q just in her honour and I planted it in the garden, expecting it to last about a week in the Scottish climate but to my surprise it has flowered non-stop over a period of nearly seven months. I know it wasn't the coldest of winters, but it is definitely worth the money. Next winter I'll be supplementing my garden with a few more.

Inside the mind of a 6 year old girl

Inspired by something they found on Youtube, Anna and Amaia have taken recently to using Play-Doh to make outfits, shoes and accessories for their dolls. Given Lots never had a Barbie (she'd threatened anyone who bought her one with a painful death), this whole Barbie role play is a fascinating new experience to me.

I was pottering about the hall and could hear Anna and her friend Emma playing with Barbies in the dining room. I'm not sure what the conversation I overheard says about what kind of teenager Anna is one day going to be!

Anna: 'Emma, pretend this Barbie's boyfriend is coming over to visit her. Let's say she's invited him over to have a bath with her! She might not want him to see her privates when she's in the bath, so you make her a bikini, Emma!'

OMG!

One of those conversations

The three smallest kids currently share the biggest bedroom (as the master bedroom has been turned into the home office). As they are getting bigger, they are taking up more space and have more things. The chaos is becoming overwhelming. ( I need to get a DIY book on how to build your own extension!)

They'd been off for two weeks over Easter and every toy each of them possessed was strewn across the floor. Amaia's chest of drawers is in the far corner of the room but I couldn't even see a path to it as I went to put the washing away. I'd had enough. I snapped.

'I want this floor tidied now! I want a pathway cleared from here to the window before anyone goes out to play today!' I stormed out and downstairs to our room. I was sitting on the bed when I heard Thomas (who hadn't overheard our chat) enter their room. I heard him tell them in Danish that their room was a pigsty and that we wouldn't be doing anything fun until there was no longer a single toy on the floor and everything was back in each of their three toy boxes.

Anna then came out with a classic 'Well mummy said we only needed to clear a pathway, not clear the whole floor and since mummy is older than you she must be the boss so I think we only need to clear a path!' I'm not sure that was the best way to endear herself to either of her parents!

If only we were Danish

Years ago I blogged about the odd Danish habit of single duvets. I'm a hugger. I can't think of anything worse than being under a different duvet in the same bed as the partner I am trying to sleep with. For years I have not been able to find a single justification for such an odd cultural trait... that was until I found my dream duvet last week on ebay... They don't make it any size other than single! Arg! That's discrimination - Danish couples can have lovely minion duvets while we Scots are stuck, unable to use them on our marital beds ;-)

Snails, anyone?

We always feed the kids the same food as we eat ourselves. I can't think of any exceptions. From they first taste solids chilis and spices are added to slowly build them up to the same tolerance as the rest of the family - you can't be making seven meals a night, can you? So on Sunday we had decided to start with snails. Marcel and Lots had had them years ago in France but 3, 4 and 5 had never been subjected to them.

Thomas brought them through. Léon and Anna stared at them in with a mix of fear and horror while Amaia laughed and smiled. I was surprised as Amaia, though great with very spicy food, tends to be the hardest when it comes to tasting new things. I told them I wanted them to try one each. Anna just looked disgusted, while Léon clasped his mouth firmly with both hands. Amaia poured the garlic and herb butter onto her plate and immediately started to dip her finger into it, delighted with the flavour. Again I was surprised how easy she was being. Anna eventually gave in and tasted one sliver, deciding they were vaguely similar to mussels, Léon pulled off a chunk with one hand, gagging dramatically as he put it to his mouth. But we got there. I happened at that point to notice Amaia was still only eating the sauce. Absent-mindedly, I pulled her snail out with a cocktail stick as I thought she couldn't manage it. She looked on completely shocked. 'What on earth is that?' she squealed. 'It's the snail! That,' I said, pointing 'is the snail sauce.' Without a single word she jumped in the air, somehow rotated through 180 degrees, landed cross-legged under the table with her arms folded, her nose in the air and her bottom lip sticking out. 'I've eaten the sauce, but there's no way I'm eating that!' 

I guess we're going to have to work on snails...

Lost phone

Thomas lost his phone today. He asked Anna to look around the house to see if she could see it. Eventually she came and asked me if she could phone it with mine to save her looking.
'What's daddy under on your phone mummy? Thomas? Or 'My dear?'
Hahahaha - don't you love kids?

Eye colour

I'm a DSLR man so have never really been a great fan of mobile phone photos but just occasionally I find they capture something completely right. And this is one of these occasions: Amaia's eyes often look monotone brown but in reality they are caramel brown with a fairly large ring of pale green around each iris. I was more than surprised yesterday to see the Samsung had managed to capture all that detail. It gets a thumbs up from me today.

Age

While watching a documentary about the history of Scotland in the year 980 last night Anna asked: 'Were you alive then, mum?' Thanks, Anna!

Maybe I'm doing something right

Sometimes the smallest comments can blow you away. That's one reason you can't blink for a minute as a parent. If you let your mind wander, you miss the gems that reassure you that you must be doing something right.

Marcel will be 17 in a few months, Charlotte is two years and five months younger. By all accounts they should be at that very age where they can barely stand the sight of each other.

Instead they often return from a friend's house puzzled by their friend's conduct towards a younger or older sibling - the snide comments, the ignoring, the pushing, poking, and all the petty one-upmanship.

My two have a solidarity that is wonderful to watch. Of course, it was in part borne out of watching out for each other at their father's house when they still had a relationship with him. They only had each other to talk to about their experiences there and that meant dropping the sibling rivalry. Still two years have passed since that issue was resolved and their bond has become closer, not weaker. They are often found laughing together. Marcel advises Lots on high school etiquette, on studies and just generally gets joy from her company. And she listens to him, trusting. She cares how he's doing and strives to emulate him and his achievements. Because it was Charlotte who ultimately solved the issue of their father, there is a great deal of respect from Marcel towards her. He defers to her in a way that underlines his gratitude and a certain awe in her silent strength of character. It isn't something you often see from older to younger - not when they are as young as this. They've probably been through a bit more than many of their contemporaries with our divorce, the breakdown in the relationship with their other family and my dad's long illness and those things have made them closer than teenage siblings often are.

So what inspired this? Charlotte came in yesterday with a form from school. She cast it nonchalantly onto the dining table muttering that they were running a French school trip to Paris next summer but at nearly £700 she had already worked out that there would be no point in discussing it. When you are self-employed and have five kids £700 is more like the annual family holiday budget, than the school trip budget. Desperately sad, as I always am to deny them what would be lifelong and wonderful memories, I started to agree with her when Marcel looked up from his dinner and said, completely genuinely 'If there's anything I can do to help - I could, like, give her all my earnings from my job for a month or something if that'd help?' How many 16 year old boys would work every Monday, Wednesday, Friday night and every Sunday morning from 5am in a shop and then offer to give up all their earnings to try to pay for their 14 year old sister to go on a school trip - no strings attached? His generosity, his selflessness and his love just blew me away. Of course, it might not get her to Paris, but it melted my heart a little, that's for sure.

I am one proud mummy.

Logic that's hard to argue with

They've been back at school two days now. They aren't overly happy to be getting up at 8am again and consequently breakfast is a constant argument: who should get bowls, spoons, cereal, who's had too much milk, who can get dressed quickest - whine, whine, grump, moan for a solid half hour. Amaia just sits shell-shocked, looking exhausted, while these two battle it out to the death. Tired myself this morning, I shouted at them to stop arguing.

Me: 'Will you two just all stop arguing and get dressed NOOOOW!'
Anna: 'It's your fault we argue, mum!'
I quickly ran a search in my head of my own behaviour to work out if I was too grumpy, shouty or argumentative myself, but before I'd analysed all the data she elaborated: 'You had us - if you hadn't had us, we couldn't argue!'

Well that's a bit drastic, if technically true...

A wicked sense of humour

So Charlotte, Amaia and I went shopping in Asda for dinner. Charlotte was in her school uniform, Amaia in normal clothes. Charlotte goes to the local school so everyone knows the uniform. Moreover the school has a colour-coding system of ties to show where in the school a child is - red ties for 12-14 year olds, blue ties for 15 and 16 year olds, black for 17 and 18 year olds. Those whose kids attend the school are obviously aware of this. I had to go to the Internet order pick-up desk for a skirt I'd ordered Amaia so I gave Lots the shopping list and Amaia opted to go with her. I'm not sure what got into Amaia's head but Charlotte said that every time they stopped to pick something up and there were other shoppers nearby Amaia turned to her in a very loud voice and called her 'mum!' 'Mum, can we get crisps?', 'What's for dinner, mum?' Lots was affronted! She said she's never had as many dirty looks in her life! Wee besom!

My first car

With Marcel reaching 17 this summer, he's started talking about saving up for driving lessons, a car and insurance. Many of his better-off friends will be given a car but rather than being down in the dumps at that prospect, Marcel just sees that as another challenge. And obviously given he's just worked enough in the corner shop to pay for a trip to India and a few other outings this summer, that possibility isn't as far-fetched as it could be (well if you ignore the potential insurance quotes anyway!)

So we got onto the topic of first cars. Somehow Marcel had managed to miss all references to my first car over the years so I hunted through some old photos till I found one of it. It was a 1988 Fiat 126. He looked surprised that something that small could actually get you anywhere. When I pointed out that Linda, Gillian, Shona, Sheina and I had been on many day trips to the coast and the likes in that little chuggy, he nearly fell off his seat in surprise.

I have fond memories of a trip to Edinburgh once: I had noticed in the handbook that its top speed was 68mph so with a tailwind on the M8 we'd tried our hardest to break the 70mph barrier - ambitions were small back then!

There was the time I had taken it to Mull on holiday with my then French boyfriend. We'd phoned ahead and booked into a bed and breakfast calling ourselves Miss De Beauvoir and Mr Sartre and they hadn't seemed to get the allusion! We drove onto the ferry, or rather we tried to but the chuggy got stuck as it was too little to drive on. Four men had had to carry it on rather than leaving it wobbling on the on-ramp - how embarrassing!

And finally in the early years in Collins, a German colleague asked me for a lift into town as his car had broken down. I'm not sure he'd have asked, if he'd seen what I drove. He was about 6'8" and I had serious trouble getting him in and out. I thought at one point I might have to drive with the sunroof open!

 These days I may be seen more often than not in my big seven-seater people carrier, but to be honest I will always be a chuggy owner at heart. One day, when all the kids have left home, the economy permitting, I'm going to buy myself a new Fiat 500!

Egg obsessed

For the past six or seven years Thomas has been obsessed with making the perfect Easter egg. I can only assume this is a hang-up from his childhood (with German aunts and uncles) rather than a new-found religious streak...

At first he banged his head up against the fact that the UK has become an almost exclusively brown egg country and brown eggs just don't colour. One year we did get six white eggs off our dear doctor (who has a home farm) but beyond that the eggs were the first hurdle.

After that the colouring of his childhood seemed to be unavailable because of all these colouring regulations these days so the first few years saw brown eggs dyed browner and that wasn't very appealing.

Then we started shopping more in ethnic supermarkets and it came to our attention a year ago that Poles love white eggs. So off he went down to Thornliebank and returned hopping and skipping (carefully) with two dozen white beauties from the Polish supermarket.

Added to that the complex plan whereby he'd ordered German Easter egg colouring six months ago, had it delivered to my friend in Cologne and had her drive it back at Xmas - bingo - everything finally fell into place for our first ever brightly-coloured Easter eggs.

It was such a success I had better order next year's already.

I did feel sorry for his other Danish expat friend who had had the same problem. Having not discovered the Polish option, she had forked out for Waitrose's most extortionate pale duck eggs. With no decent colouring to be had she tried boiling them with beetroot in an attempt at achieving pink eggs, only to find out that expensive duck eggs mixed with beetroot gives exactly the same shade of brown as Asda smartprice eggs. I reckon she'll be going down the amazon.de route next year too.

Sometimes it is the innocent conversations that teach you the most.

I was driving into town yesterday with four of the five kids in the car. Charlotte was in the front so the soundtrack from Tangled was chosen to be the in-car entertainment for the trip. We'd just listened all the way through both Mother knows best and the reprise, sung by the old witch Mother Gothel and I innocently commented that she was a bit of a bitch. Still singing along happily and innocently Charlotte stated, quite calmly and unmoved 'Yeah, she always reminds me of papa'. I quietly left her to elaborate. She commented on the way she undermines Rapunzel, the way she builds her confidence and knocks it down in the one sentence, her paranoid fluctuations between loving and downright nasty, her condescending attitude, her mad possessive steak and finally the glee she takes in telling her no one will want her.

Often when I hear how my kids talk about their father, I am shocked that he allowed their relationship to deteriorate to that level. Nothing should have been more important to him than them but by allowing his own madness to become more important than them, he lost them somewhere along the way. I would be devastated if this sort of song reminded my kids of me.