There are all sorts of reasons why people do and don't get married. We haven't done it as yet. We might do, some time in the future, but there was never any chance of me popping the question today. Not because I am a traditionalist or anything – I am all for a woman taking her bull by the horn (or whatever else she can get a firm grip on, lest the thing bolts at the first hint of a proposal) if she so desires.
No, it's more because of the terrifying prospect of my three-year-old daughter Ava muscling in and planning the wedding. Which she has, in fact, already started doing.
This began a couple of weeks ago when we were having a pub lunch with some good pals. Some newlyweds arrived, glowing and surrounded by their delighted family and friends. The bride looked gorgeous in a long, pure white, slinky silk gown. Ava was agog, it wasn't the first time she had seen a bride, but it was the first time she had taken a blind bit of notice.
And so began the questions.
“Are you and daddy married?”
“No darling, we aren't.”
“Oh! So shall we get married?”
“We?”
“Yes! You and daddy, and me and Ruby.”
“Well, yet we might do one da…”
“And Jibril.”
Jibril is a lovely little boy who Ava has known since she was born. He is utterly gorgeous, but I must say don't feel entirely comfortable with the idea of this strange wedded union between the five of us.
“And we have a parteeeeeeeeey!”
“Darling, usually it’s just two people who get marri…”
“I can wear a white dress and you can wear a pink one!”
Great. “And what will daddy and Ruby wear?”
“Um, daddy will wear a stripy top. And Ruby can wear… a bag. You know that green one?”
Clearly, Ava was seeing herself as the star of this show. The bag she was referring to is a green rucksack that looks like a turtle and has a little pull out plastic hat, with eyes, which makes Ruby look ridiculous. Cute, but ridiculous.
“Do I have to wear a pink dress, Ava? Can't I wear a white one as well?” I made a sad face.
“No, Mummy. Because. Because. Because my favourite colour is white.”
An outright lie! Her favourite colour is pink!
“And Jibril?”
“Jibril can come as a pirate maybe?”
Okay, so I have one groom dressed as a pirate, the other one wearing a stripy T-shirt but presumably naked from the waist down. Add to this one daughter wearing nothing but a turtle while her sister swishes round in a proper white bridal gown, and I take my vows in something hideously pink. Sounds like some interesting wedding photos, right? Wait 'til you hear the next bit.
“And when we get married, we have party games?”
“Sure.”
“Hide and seek?”
I would put money on not being able to find Dan anywhere. Ava ploughed on: “And maybeeee… sword fighting?”
Ava and Ruby have a set of foam swords given to them by their uncle and auntie at Christmas, and I figured any good party would require the laying on of some toys for the kids. “Yes, Ava – you and Ruby and Jibril could take along your toy swords, and have battles!”
“No, mummy! It's a real wedding, we need real swords! They need a pointy bit at the end, you know, where those people die?”
WHAT?!
I have had many daydreams about what my daughters might end up doing with their lives. I now feel pretty sure that Ava is considerably less likely to be a wedding planner than she is to be a writer on the TV show Shameless.
Wednesday 29 February 2012
Thursday 16 February 2012
Babies are weird. FACT.
Today a friend of mine tweeted me with a link to YouTube – it was a short film from Philips Avent about the special tricks mums have for getting their grumbling babies to sleep. Take a look, it's rather sweet. I especially like the infant who passes out the instant she hears the ping of a microwave.
Anyway, it made me think back to when my first daughter Ava was a baby. Like every new mother, I was feeling my way in the dark, pretty much doing it all wrong. Like a Tracy Hogg case study, I fed her to sleep during the day, let her stay awake for too long until she became overtired and inconsolable, and in the evening, when she seemed to ping into action at 6pm, I used to think it was cute she'd be awake to see her dad when he got home.
I accidentally parented her 'til the cows came home and, oh wowsers, what a rod for my back I was making! When Ava was teeny weeny, I noticed the hoover could send her into a trance-like state – and that had its useful moments. But by the time I realised I had utterly failed to give her a proper bed time, and teach her how to fall asleep by herself of an evening (and stay asleep), she had become immune to the Dyson (much like I have become allergic to it in the years since!).
So, we tried everything. I began reading parenting books. Dan and I would sit for (literally) hours in the dark, with a hand on her tummy. We tried controlled crying. We played her a track on the iPod of what a beating heart sounds like from inside the womb (I'm pretty sure my own heart never beat that slowly though, which is perhaps why it didn't work. It sounded like someone about to cark it). We'd usually succumb and pick her up or rock her to sleep – just so we could eat a meal and fit in a couple of hours kip ourselves. Every night was torturous.
Well, just as the mamas in the film eventually found their magic trick, so did we. It happened one day, quite by accident, when we had the iPod on shuffle and it settled on a very bizarre track that had an even more bizarre affect on Ava. She went floppy, glazed over, and fell asleep.
And that was that. Played quietly in her room, this was the aid that finally got our little monster to settle herself at night.
It'd be sweet if, now that she is three, I could play it to her again, just every now then. I'd be able to say: “Listen Ava! Do you remember? This is the music mummy used to play to you when you were tiny. I’d put it on, and you'd close your eyes and drift into a deeeeep sleep.”
And then Ava would say: “Really mummy? What is the song…?”
And, er... actually no, it won't happen. Because not only would I have to tell Ava that the song is called Bright Tomorrow and is by a band called the Fuck Buttons, I would also have to see her face as she actually listened to it. I think it would probably make her cry. I mean, it starts off alright, but when it gets to around 3 mins 57 seconds, wow, it REALLY kicks into… well, have a listen. And then try to imagine it lulling a baby into sleep.
The point of this story? Babies are weird. FACT.
Anyway, it made me think back to when my first daughter Ava was a baby. Like every new mother, I was feeling my way in the dark, pretty much doing it all wrong. Like a Tracy Hogg case study, I fed her to sleep during the day, let her stay awake for too long until she became overtired and inconsolable, and in the evening, when she seemed to ping into action at 6pm, I used to think it was cute she'd be awake to see her dad when he got home.
I accidentally parented her 'til the cows came home and, oh wowsers, what a rod for my back I was making! When Ava was teeny weeny, I noticed the hoover could send her into a trance-like state – and that had its useful moments. But by the time I realised I had utterly failed to give her a proper bed time, and teach her how to fall asleep by herself of an evening (and stay asleep), she had become immune to the Dyson (much like I have become allergic to it in the years since!).
So, we tried everything. I began reading parenting books. Dan and I would sit for (literally) hours in the dark, with a hand on her tummy. We tried controlled crying. We played her a track on the iPod of what a beating heart sounds like from inside the womb (I'm pretty sure my own heart never beat that slowly though, which is perhaps why it didn't work. It sounded like someone about to cark it). We'd usually succumb and pick her up or rock her to sleep – just so we could eat a meal and fit in a couple of hours kip ourselves. Every night was torturous.
Well, just as the mamas in the film eventually found their magic trick, so did we. It happened one day, quite by accident, when we had the iPod on shuffle and it settled on a very bizarre track that had an even more bizarre affect on Ava. She went floppy, glazed over, and fell asleep.
And that was that. Played quietly in her room, this was the aid that finally got our little monster to settle herself at night.
It'd be sweet if, now that she is three, I could play it to her again, just every now then. I'd be able to say: “Listen Ava! Do you remember? This is the music mummy used to play to you when you were tiny. I’d put it on, and you'd close your eyes and drift into a deeeeep sleep.”
And then Ava would say: “Really mummy? What is the song…?”
And, er... actually no, it won't happen. Because not only would I have to tell Ava that the song is called Bright Tomorrow and is by a band called the Fuck Buttons, I would also have to see her face as she actually listened to it. I think it would probably make her cry. I mean, it starts off alright, but when it gets to around 3 mins 57 seconds, wow, it REALLY kicks into… well, have a listen. And then try to imagine it lulling a baby into sleep.
The point of this story? Babies are weird. FACT.
Tuesday 14 February 2012
We say it with bums in our house
I think it's fair to say that having children is not very sexy. It's lovely, obviously. Life with children is full of love. But on days such as this one – or on other special occasions (you know, Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries and the like), you realise how romance has been, well, hijacked.
As a rather superb metaphor for this, I'll tell you what happened this morning. I had chosen a small card for Dan (we don't go over the top with these things, but doing nothing would be like saying romance is dead) which had, I felt rather appropriately, three hearts on it.
'The big one is mine!' I thought, 'And the little ones are the girls'! Yes, that's sweet, it represents three hearts, all choc full of love.'
So having written something inside explaining the above, lest it was not entirely obvious, and having given it to each of my daughters to then vandalise with their crayons, I allowed my eldest Ava to hand it over.
She did so very ceremoniously. First she sang 'happy birthday', ignoring my quiet instructions that it was not in fact her dad's birthday at all, it was Valentine's Day and we just had to tell him we loved him. Then she offered him the card with a small bow. All good.
But then Ruby, who thought the card was a present, grabbed it and ran off with it. And despite the fact she had literally just seen it, and had watched me put it into the envelope for her daddy, she embellished her incredibly theatrical opening of the card with plenty of overly dramatic gasps.
When it was finally handed to the intended recipient, and he glanced down to see what all the fuss was about, Ruby pointed at the picture on the front and said: "Iss BUMS!”
And yes, in much the same way that having children colours every part of your life, or at least the way you regard every part of your life, I concur with Ru. It does look a bit like bums. In fact, if you turn it upside down, it looks a bit like two funny shaped poos coming out of one big bum.
Not very sexy, no. But whether they are all bums, or just one big bum and two small poos, they represent the three of us, and hey, what's not to love?!
As a rather superb metaphor for this, I'll tell you what happened this morning. I had chosen a small card for Dan (we don't go over the top with these things, but doing nothing would be like saying romance is dead) which had, I felt rather appropriately, three hearts on it.
'The big one is mine!' I thought, 'And the little ones are the girls'! Yes, that's sweet, it represents three hearts, all choc full of love.'
So having written something inside explaining the above, lest it was not entirely obvious, and having given it to each of my daughters to then vandalise with their crayons, I allowed my eldest Ava to hand it over.
She did so very ceremoniously. First she sang 'happy birthday', ignoring my quiet instructions that it was not in fact her dad's birthday at all, it was Valentine's Day and we just had to tell him we loved him. Then she offered him the card with a small bow. All good.
But then Ruby, who thought the card was a present, grabbed it and ran off with it. And despite the fact she had literally just seen it, and had watched me put it into the envelope for her daddy, she embellished her incredibly theatrical opening of the card with plenty of overly dramatic gasps.
When it was finally handed to the intended recipient, and he glanced down to see what all the fuss was about, Ruby pointed at the picture on the front and said: "Iss BUMS!”
And yes, in much the same way that having children colours every part of your life, or at least the way you regard every part of your life, I concur with Ru. It does look a bit like bums. In fact, if you turn it upside down, it looks a bit like two funny shaped poos coming out of one big bum.
Not very sexy, no. But whether they are all bums, or just one big bum and two small poos, they represent the three of us, and hey, what's not to love?!
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