A Few Rules for Beginners
by Katherine Mansfield

Babies must not eat the coal
And they must not make grimaces,
Nor in party dresses roll
And must never black their faces.

They must learn that pointing's rude,
They must sit quite still at table,
And must always eat the food
Put before them--if they're able.

If they fall, they must not cry,
Though it's known how painful this is;
No--there's always Mother by
Who will comfort them with kisses.

***

Lesson Number One: These little fellows make changing the sheets a trial.  So I've decreed that henceforth no more soft toys shall be brought into this house.  Enough is enough.  No matter how adorable.  We cannot adopt one more free-loader.   (D'ya hear Daddy?)  Space is at a premium.  Once, it was all Beanie Bears.  Now the lastest obsession is with The Littlest Pet Shop creatures.  One little doggie crept home with us from the Royal Agricultural Show.   He has scored pride of place on the pillow but will no doubt be de-throned in favour of a distant cousin, also made in China as the weeks and months go by.  Affections are fickle when it comes to plush companions.

It's snuggle weather here with record-breaking rain.  The dams are bursting, sports grounds closed, swimming carnivals cancelled and that twice-daily cross-country walk to the office results in sodden trouser legs, if I'm not careful.  

Now and Then

As from the house your mother sees

You playing round the garden trees,

So you may see, if you will look

Through the windows of this book,

Another child, far, far away,

And in another garden, play.

But do not think you can at all,

By knocking on the window, call

That child to hear you. He intent

Is all on his play-business bent.

He does not hear, he will not look,

Nor yet be lured out of this book.

For, long ago, the truth to say,

He has grown up and gone away,

And it is but a child of air

That lingers in the garden there.

Robert Louis Stevenson

***

So true, my  precious little ones.  The days are long but the years are short.  We watched some of the SBS program, Who Do You Think You Are, tonight.  It's become a bit of a favourite in our house when we manage to catch it. My, what facinating stories they unearth and how it affects people to learn about the struggles of their forebears. Tears well up as the subjects are reconciled with the past and the jigsaw puzzle pieces of their heritage connect.  Some tough lives has been lived. Don't I know this more than most coming from tough Anglo-German-Swedish migrant stock. It taken many generations for my lineage to be able experience the opportunities my children currently enjoy. It's really a gift to know this.  I reflect on it often.

It's Show Time!

Banquet Night  
by Rudyard Kipling

"ONCE in so often," King Solomon said,

Watching his quarrymen drill the stone,

"We will curb our garlic and wine and bread

And banquet together beneath my Throne,

And all Brethren shall come to that mess

As Fellow-Craftsmen-no more and no less."

***

What a day.  If I were Julia I'd need to break my Lenten commitment to forsake alcohol.  I haven't given up coffee though and I'll bet the coffee machines at Parly House were on overdrive today.

I love my new pretend paper cup from the two dollar shop.  I've taken to using the Italian expresso pot on the stove and pouring myself a double-shot flat white.  I can pretend I'm a hot shot executive too busy to breakfast when in fact I'm drinking from it in my jarmies at the kitchen bench while stuffing carrot sticks and frozen banana cake into plastic lunch boxes designed like miniature space shuttles with flaps that open in all directions.  The kids think the cup is 'awesome' too and have visions of taking hot chocolate to soccer in one.  They've got another thing coming.

We had a busy weekend what with a go-karting birthday party, the usual cricket match, World Thinking Day for Girl Guides on Aspen Island (in the rain) and a trip to the Royal Canberra Agricultural Show for the littlest gull and me.   The coffee injections were indispensable to enable me to get from this:

to this:

Fabulous from start to finish!

It's Curtains.

The King's Ring

by Theodore Tilton

I.

Once in Persia reigned a King,

Who upon his signet ring

Graved a maxim true and wise,

Which, if held before his eyes,

Gave him counsel, at a glance,

Fit for every change or chance:

Solemn words, and these are they:

“'Even this shall pass away!'”

II.

Trains of camels through the sand

Brought him gems from Samarcand;

Fleets of galleys through the seas

Brought him pearls to rival these.

But he counted little gain

Treasures of the mine or main.

“What is wealth?” the King would say;

“'Even this shall pass away.'”

III.

In the revels of his court,

At the zenith of the sport,

When the palms of all his guests

Burned with clapping at his jests,

He, amid his figs and wine,

Cried, “O loving friends of mine!

Pleasure comes, but not to stay:

'Even this shall pass away.'”

***

This week I seem to have been pacing through my working hours waiting for the factory siren to signal knock-off time.  It's been tediously slow, and just as well, because we've been captivated by the Machiavellian twists and turns in federal politics.   Good old ABC 24 News live broadcasts have been keeping us informed as we gather around wall-hung television sets to watch the succession of media conferences. 

Lyndall Curtis has been t'rrific on the telly and Latika Bourke unstoppable on Twitter.   There's no waiting for press clips as we've been able to hook-in minute-by-minute with online coverage and social media commentary.  I'm no political junkie, but the outcome of the ballot on Monday will have direct repercussions on my paid employment, being a loyal public servant and all.  So I come at it from the perspective of a Canberra insider (which makes it all the more gripping) and a voter (which makes it all the more tedious). 

But what is really bothering me this weekend, getting down in the micro-world of my daily life (!), is the choice of blinds for the "side room" (pictured). I never like the fabric samples I bring home to suspend from the window sill on their coat hangers. They looked so promising in the show room. I don't know whether to go custom-made with exquisite Warwick materials or buy ready-made from BQ Designs. The proprietor of the local curtain shop must despair of me as I've been on her books since 2008, unable to make a decision.   Like the Labor Party, I just need to get it over and done with, make a choice and accept the consequences.  There seems to be a strangely apt analogy here!

 

It will all pass ... eventually.

Denzil, Apprentice Wizard

Another rollicking book series which has captivated my nine year old son is The Adventures of Denzil, Apprentice Wizard written by New Zealand children's fantasy writer, Sherryl Jordan. We have been progressively working our way through this charming and funny set of books about the exploits of Denzil, the boy wizard, and his master, the great wizard Valvasor.

Unwittingly transported to modern times, Denzil finds himself entangled with the MacAllister family, a lovable lot despite their flaws, and entranced by modern conveniences.  This is a familiar but captivating premise on which to base a children's fantasy novel and one which encourages young readers to think about history, time and place. How would it feel to go back or forward over seven centuries and witness life first-hand?

The first Denzil story, The Wednesday Wizard, was published in 1991 (way before Harry Potter was created), and the final novel, The Silver Dragon, in 2007.   We have the entire boxed set which includes Denzil’s Dilemma and The Great Bear Burglary.   It's been loads of fun to read aloud and the stories have had plenty of magical twists and turns to sustain our interest.   This little series has become one of our firm favourites.

Recommended for 8-10 age bracket.  Both boys and girls will enjoy the series.  Girls will identify with the headstrong protagonist, young Sam(antha) MacAllister, and boys, of course, will become Denzil in their mind's eye.  Mrs MacAllister and I also shared some common traits (a mother's exasperation with circumstances beyond her control mainly, and wry humour), so I found myself travelling in her shoes.

Berry Delicious Summer.

Blueberries 

by Robert Lee Frost

"You ought to have seen what I saw on my way

To the village, through Mortenson's pasture to-day:

Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb,

Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum

In the cavernous pail of the first one to come!

And all ripe together, not some of them green

And some of them ripe! You ought to have seen!"

***

What is it with berries?  The supermarkets are full of them.  Raspberries, blueberries and blackberries are standard fare in the big chains not just the farmers markets or roadside stalls.  Not so when I was growing up.  There was a time when they were a rarity. I'd pick mulberries from the tree in my grandparent's back yard and we had a few measley strawberry plants in our own vegie patch.  These days however, we can recreate some an English pastoral scene in the kitchen with bountiful punnets of berries... at three dollars a pop, or less.  (Perhaps not so cheap for raspberries, the most delicate of all the Rubus genus.)

In fact, our 2011-12 summer dessert hit has been pavlova shells stuffed with mixed berry goodness and chopped kiwi fruit, topped with Gippsland double cream and syrupy passionfruit.  Look what Not Quite Nigella has to say on the topic.  I haven't been brave enough to make my own pavlova just yet but I feel the need to do so some time soon.

Our smoothie of choice this season has been a creamy concoction of frozen berries, milk and yoghurt.  It makes an impressive sight in a long, tall glass with a couple of bent straws and a parfait spoon.  Yum.  Sluuurrrrp-able! The folk at Creative Gourmet (Australian suppliers of frozen berries)* have a neat website with plenty of mouth-watering recipes the kids would go ape over.   Just as well we keep the freezer well stocked with the frozen variety so we always have a box on hand when we feel a berry craving coming over us.

* Not sponsored.  My own views. :o)

School

Gratitude To The Unknown Instructors 

by William Butler Yeats

WHAT they undertook to do

They brought to pass;

All things hang like a drop of dew

Upon a blade of grass.

***

Parent Information Night.  It's amazing how, still, to this day, teachers make assumptions about what parents know about school routines, reporting, educational acronyms and the curriculum.    Bless them though.  They probably rightly focus on communicating with the children and do it very well. But my impression is that they aren't great shakes at communicating with parents.   It's a tough ask, I know. There are lots of diverse opinions, needs and interests.  As an old primary school principal once said to me "there are as many hats as there are heads".

Maroc in the Mail

She very much liked Marrakech, its easy feel, the quality of its light, its pinkish earth and rose-coloured walls. In Fez life seemed concentrated and intense, contained beneath and within the jagged mountains enclosing the city. The mountains seems to turn Fez in on itself...

Extract from Larabi's Ox, by Tony Ardizzone

***

Guess what came in the mail the other day?  The boys' member's pass and 2012 season tickets to the Brumbies rubgy team matches and a post card from Morocco!  Every-one was doing cartwheels.  Me especially.  The card was from the 'awesome' (as we say around here, or 'epic'), and peripatetic, Jeanne from Collage of Life.   Frankly the post card easily pipped the Brumbies.  Every-one ooh-ed and ahh-ed and marvelled that this virtual friend from across the oceans should send something tangible in the mail.   Thanks a bunch Jeanne  *waving*.  I can hear the soundtrack to The Sheltering Sky in the background; it's a wonderful piano piece by Ryuichi Sakamoto.  It also reminds me that I must read the book. 

Love 'ya. See ya'.

St. Valentine's Day

By Wilfred Scawen Blunt

TO-DAY, all day, I rode upon the down,

With hounds and horsemen, a brave company

On this side in its glory lay the sea,

On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown.

The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone,

And still we gallop'd on from gorse to gorse:

And once, when check'd, a thrush sang, and my horse

Prick'd his quick ears as to a sound unknown.

I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even

Better than all by this, that through my chase

In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven

I seem'd to see and follow still your face.

Your face my quarry was. For it I rode,

My horse a thing of wings, myself a god.

***

Valentine's Day is no big deal really in this household. An imported custom that doesn't seem authentic and besides, there's no-one here experiencing the first blush of young love.   Yet. Thanks heavens.

No time for luvvy-duvvy stuff either between the old marrieds, what with an early start and late finish respectively.  His steed is a hulking late model SUV. She canters in a city runabout with a child-proof rear seat protector.  The 'chase' is a drive up and down a major city thoroughfare multiple times to deliver and collect children.  Phone calls are made, not to whisper sweet nothings, but to synchronise transport arrangements. 

A love affair of a different sort. 

In two acts

Alone for a Week

By Jane Kenyon

 

I washed a load of clothes

and hung them out to dry.

Then I went up to town

and busied myself all day.

The sleeve of your best shirt

rose ceremonious

when I drove in; our night-

clothes twined and untwined in

a little gust of wind.

For me it was getting late;

for you, where you were, not.

The harvest moon was full

but sparse clouds made its light

not quite reliable.

The bed on your side seemed

as wide and flat as Kansas;

your pillow plump, cool,

and allegorical. . . .

***

 

Parenting around these parts is a two-person act but sometimes. I confess, when there is only one person it goes more smoothly. There are no assumptions about who will wipe the bench or clean the children's teeth.  One can hog the electronic devices to one's heart's content, there are no bathroom queues or collisions in the kitchen.  The bed is a glorious expanse of space that can be filled with a soft, little cuddle-able body.   We live in a state of suspense waiting for your return.  It is quieter and noiser at the same time.  We seem to talk more loudly.

 

It's not the same without Dadda.  Things go bump in the night more than usual. A halogen light bulb always blows when you are away. Some chores are more easily done by someone tall and strong. Books about the minoans and gladiators need a masculine narrator.  We cry when we hear your voice on the phone.  We are glad you are home.  A restive peace returns.  

 

Jane Kenyon, “Alone for a Week” from Collected Poems.

Kairos Moments

Solitude by George Gordon, Lord Byron

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,

To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,

Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,

And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;

To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,

With the wild flock that never needs a fold;

Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;

This is not solitude, 'tis but to hold

Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.

But midst the crowd, the hurry, the shock of men,

To hear, to see, to feel and to possess,

And roam alone, the world's tired denizen,

With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;

Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!

None that, with kindred consciousness endued,

If we were not, would seem to smile the less

Of all the flattered, followed, sought and sued;

This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

***

I know I'll miss the children when they are grown and moved away but there is a lot to be said for a few hours respite from the rabble.  No catering, cajoling or castigating. Just blissful peace and quiet.  Time to sort, spruce the place up and accomplish some chores without interruption.  Think.

I've copied the following article in full from Huffington Post because it spoke to me and I may want to come back to it if I get some time uninterrupted. It's written by Glennon Melton.

Don't Carpe Diem    

Every time I'm out with my kids -- this seems to happen: An older woman stops us, puts her hand over her heart and says something like, "Oh, Enjoy every moment. This time goes by so fast."  Everywhere I go, someone is telling me to seize the moment, raise my awareness, be happy, enjoy every second, etc, etc, etc.

I know that this message is right and good. But, I have finally allowed myself to admit that it just doesn't work for me. It bugs me. This CARPE DIEM message makes me paranoid and panicky. Especially during this phase of my life - while I'm raising young kids. Being told, in a million different ways to CARPE DIEM makes me worry that if I'm not in a constant state of intense gratitude and ecstasy, I'm doing something wrong.

I think parenting young children (and old ones, I've heard) is a little like climbing Mount Everest. Brave, adventurous souls try it because they've heard there's magic in the climb. They try because they believe that finishing, or even attempting the climb are impressive accomplishments. They try because during the climb, if they allow themselves to pause and lift their eyes and minds from the pain and drudgery, the views are breathtaking. They try because even though it hurts and it's hard, there are moments that make it worth the hard. These moments are so intense and unique that many people who reach the top start planning, almost immediately, to climb again. Even though any climber will tell you that most of the climb is treacherous, exhausting, killer. That they literally cried most of the way up.

And so I think that if there were people stationed, say, every thirty feet along Mount Everest yelling to the climbers -- "ARE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF!? IF NOT, YOU SHOULD BE! ONE DAY YOU'LL BE SORRY YOU DIDN'T!" TRUST US!! IT'LL BE OVER TOO SOON! CARPE DIEM!" -- those well-meaning, nostalgic cheerleaders might be physically thrown from the mountain.

Now. I'm not suggesting that the sweet old ladies who tell me to ENJOY MYSELF be thrown from a mountain. These are wonderful ladies. Monkees, probably. But last week, a woman approached me in the Target line and said the following: "Sugar, I hope you are enjoying this. I loved every single second of parenting my two girls. Every single moment. These days go by so fast."
At that particular moment, Amma had arranged one of the new bras I was buying on top of her sweater and was sucking a lollipop that she must have found on the ground. She also had three shop-lifted clip-on neon feathers stuck in her hair. She looked exactly like a contestant from Toddlers and Tiaras. I couldn't find Chase anywhere, and Tish was grabbing the pen on the credit card swiper thing WHILE the woman in front of me was trying to use it. And so I just looked at the woman, smiled and said, "Thank you. Yes. Me too. I am enjoying every single moment. Especially this one. Yes. Thank you."

That's not exactly what I wanted to say, though.

There was a famous writer who, when asked if he loved writing, replied, "No. but I love having written." What I wanted to say to this sweet woman was, "Are you sure? Are you sure you don't mean you love having parented?"

I love having written. And I love having parented. My favorite part of each day is when the kids are put to sleep (to bed) and Craig and I sink into the couch to watch some quality TV, like Celebrity Wife Swap, and congratulate each other on a job well done. Or a job done, at least.

Every time I write a post like this, I get emails suggesting that I'm being negative. I have received this particular message four or five times -- G, if you can't handle the three you have, why do you want a fourth?
That one always stings, and I don't think it's quite fair. Parenting is hard. Just like lots of important jobs are hard. Why is it that the second a mother admits that it's hard, people feel the need to suggest that maybe she's not doing it right? Or that she certainly shouldn't add more to her load. Maybe the fact that it's so hard means she IS doing it right...in her own way...and she happens to be honest.

Craig is a software salesman. It's a hard job in this economy. And he comes home each day and talks a little bit about how hard it is. And I don't ever feel the need to suggest that he's not doing it right, or that he's negative for noticing that it's hard, or that maybe he shouldn't even consider taking on more responsibility. And I doubt anybody comes by his office to make sure he's ENJOYING HIMSELF. I doubt his boss peeks in his office and says: "This career stuff...it goes by so fast...ARE YOU ENJOYING EVERY MOMENT IN THERE, CRAIG???? CARPE DIEM, CRAIG!"

My point is this. I used to worry that not only was I failing to do a good enough job at parenting, but that I wasn't enjoying it enough. Double failure. I felt guilty because I wasn't in parental ecstasy every hour of every day and I wasn't MAKING THE MOST OF EVERY MOMENT like the mamas in the parenting magazines seemed to be doing. I felt guilty because honestly, I was tired and cranky and ready for the day to be over quite often. And because I knew that one day, I'd wake up and the kids would be gone, and I'd be the old lady in the grocery store with my hand over my heart. Would I be able to say I enjoyed every moment? No.

But the fact remains that I will be that nostalgic lady. I just hope to be one with a clear memory. And here's what I hope to say to the younger mama gritting her teeth in line:

"It's helluva hard, isn't it? You're a good mom, I can tell. And I like your kids, especially that one peeing in the corner. She's my favorite. Carry on, warrior. Six hours till bedtime." And hopefully, every once in a while, I'll add -- "Let me pick up that grocery bill for ya, sister. Go put those kids in the van and pull on up -- I'll have them bring your groceries out."
Anyway. Clearly, Carpe Diem doesn't work for me. I can't even carpe fifteen minutes in a row, so a whole diem is out of the question.

Here's what does work for me:

There are two different types of time. Chronos time is what we live in. It's regular time, it's one minute at a time, it's staring down the clock till bedtime time, it's ten excruciating minutes in the Target line time, it's four screaming minutes in time out time, it's two hours till daddy gets home time. Chronos is the hard, slow passing time we parents often live in.

Then there's Kairos time. Kairos is God's time. It's time outside of time. It's metaphysical time. It's those magical moments in which time stands still. I have a few of those moments each day. And I cherish them.

Like when I actually stop what I'm doing and really look at Tish. I notice how perfectly smooth and brownish her skin is. I notice the perfect curves of her teeny elf mouth and her asianish brown eyes, and I breathe in her soft Tishy smell. In these moments, I see that her mouth is moving but I can't hear her because all I can think is -- This is the first time I've really seen Tish all day, and my God -- she is so beautiful. Kairos.

Like when I'm stuck in chronos time in the grocery line and I'm haggard and annoyed and angry at the slow check-out clerk. And then I look at my cart and I'm transported out of chronos. And suddenly I notice the piles and piles of healthy food I'll feed my children to grow their bodies and minds and I remember that most of the world's mamas would kill for this opportunity. This chance to stand in a grocery line with enough money to pay. And I just stare at my cart. At the abundance. The bounty. Thank you, God. Kairos.

Or when I curl up in my cozy bed with Theo asleep at my feet and Craig asleep by my side and I listen to them both breathing. And for a moment, I think- how did a girl like me get so lucky? To go to bed each night surrounded by this breath, this love, this peace, this warmth? Kairos.

These kairos moments leave as fast as they come- but I mark them. I say the word kairos in my head each time I leave chronos. And at the end of the day, I don't remember exactly what my kairos moments were, but I remember I had them. And that makes the pain of the daily parenting climb worth it.

If I had a couple Kairos moments during the day, I call it a success.

Carpe a couple of Kairoses a day.

Good enough for me.

Photo: By me. Bert Flugelman Cones 1976/82 polished stainless steel. Sculpture Garden, National Gallery of Australia.

Starry-eyed

The Evening Star

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Lo! in the painted oriel of the West,

Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines,

Like a fair lady at her casement, shines

The evening star, the star of love and rest!

And then anon she doth herself divest

Of all her radiant garments, and reclines

Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines,

With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed.

O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus!

My morning and my evening star of love!

My best and gentlest lady! even thus,

As that fair planet in the sky above,

Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night,

And from thy darkened window fades the light.

***

The first week of school, day two and it's merry mayhem around here with a special soccer training program twice weekly, a mid-week ballet lesson and a host of other extra-curricular activities to schedule.  How on earth can I focus on the paid job when there is so much fun to be had after 3.00 pm every day?   How can I concertina up those office hours to spend more time with the children?  I'm trying.

The children go to bed plum-tuckered-out under the evening star and thr full moon last night.  Not I, of course, because I'm still up covering books (last minute creative attempt), thinking about packed lunches (but deciding against preparing the night ahead as it most items won't stay fresh) and devising complex transport arrangements (with all the precision of a LinFox freight truck). 

Summer Refrain

 

"Mother, may I go out to swim?"

"Yes, my darling daughter.

Fold your clothes up neat and trim,

But don't go near the water."

***

Let's get a pool!

We could put a pool where the grass is!

 

 

Can we go to the pool?

 

 

If we get a pool we can't do the nature strip yet.

 

 

I really want a pool.

 

 

A pool would be good.

We wouldn't have to drive.

I'm hot.

Can I get in my swimmers?

Poem: Mother Goose Rhymes.

Image: Australian Institute of Sport, by me.

Fruity Style

I love these colour matching recommendations.  I'm applying it to my wardrobe a la Color Me Beautiful rather than my interiors.  Do you remember that 1980s style phenomenon and best-selling book which came along before Trinny and Susannah's Body Shape Bible? 

Chats with the girls would inevitably lead to questions about whether you had "had your colours done"?  I recall witnessing some remarkable style transformations among my circle of friends over the years thanks to these instructive manuals.  It doesn't come naturally to some of us but once explained it seems bleedin' obvious.

Apparently I'm a fruity cocktail of mangosteen and pear.

{this moment}

{this moment} - Joining SouleMama with a Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

***

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

{Williama Carlos Williams}

School lists, pantry lists and timetables

Come up here, O dusty feet! Here is fairy bread to eat. Here in my retiring room, Children, you may dine On the golden smell of broom And the shade of pine; And when you have eaten well, Fairy stories hear and tell.

{From a Child's Garden of Verses, Robert Louis Stevenson} *** The school lists aren't out as it turns out.  Massive disappointment.  Due apparently, to unanticipated "walk-ins" last week.  Presumably this means late enrolments.  I suggested to the young teacher we encountered in the hallway that perhaps the school shouldn't make promises it can't keep when it says in the final newsletter for the year that the lists will be up at a specified time.  All fell on deaf ears of course.   She took my name like like I was being pulled over for doing 80km in the 40km zone.  We'll be lampooned in the staff room. There's goes my kids' chances of scoring the popular teachers, getting good grades, breaking the job market ...  Meantime, I am bracing myself for next week when the SSO is away travelling for work and not, I might add, to glamorous destinations, but to places which are one ring out from the Great Australian Outback, if a map of the continent were the geographic equivalent of the growth rings on an ancient eucalypt.   He's also driving long distances when not being flown in very small charter aircraft.  Makes me nervous.  I'm also not sure how I am going to accommodate the school run and mounting number of after-school commitments.  Some deft organisation, abundant frozen meals and pre-packed lunches will be required. In fact, it's the crowd catering which stresses me the most about next week.  I plan to follow Jenny Rosenstrach's advice on marinating chicken legs ahead, deconstructing meals and following the cook once, eat twice mantra.  I've replenished the pantry with sesame oil, soy sauce, red curry paste, nori crackers and Angostura Bitters (oh, that's not for family dinners) and even bought items, such as semolina and soba noodles, which signify a level of culinary ambition I may not be able to achieve.   But I am emboldened by my holiday reading.  The danger is of course that I spend more time basting and crumbing than I do reading and playing.  Postscript: The school rang a little later to tell me the lists were up and advise who were my children's class teachers.  The staff member couldn't have been more obliging.  I take back all I said.   The children emailed the SSO and he phoned back to celebrate and commiserate their mixed fortunes.

Fanciwork

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

{WB Yeats}

Crotcheted Milk Jug Cover

Souvenir Handkerchief

Jaunty Printed Tablecloth

Hand embroidered tableclothes

***

I have all of both my grandmothers' and a great aunt's fanciwork as well as a small collection of retro homewares which belonged to my mother.  I'm glad I've held onto them.  I'm too sentimental to dispose of them in a rush of decluttering but I've no idea what to do with multiple embroidered duchess sets (one large doily and two smaller ones for a lady's vanity table), masses of edged handkerchiefs and assorted tablecloths in a riot of glorious patterns which do not fit any our tables. 

As I am an aspirational rather than practical crafter, I am resisting the temptation to turn the hankies into bunting or make a curtain out of crotcheted doilies or lay an artful table using mismatched tablecloths placed on the diagonal.  It would not end well.  Thankfully as I work full-time, I can't indulge in such whimsy.  This is, as the SSO* would attest, one of the advantages of my being at work.  There's no getting caught up in fanciful domestic projects. I'm sure I would get better with practice.  'I only need time', she says, thinking of the unfinished baby birth sampler for the first-born (which I am aiming to complete for her 21st birthday!). 

I am thoroughly enjoying this final week off nonetheless; pottering to my heart's content, sorting, arranging and planning up to the end of term one on 13 April, interspersed with baking, ironing and abundant free time on the computer (for research and inspiration, you'll understand).    

The modem is my sewing basket.

* Strong, Silent One (Husband)

Poem by WB Yeats.