NotSheep

I’ve written before about how a lack of structure affects us here, and the past week has been a very good (or bad, depending on how you look at it) example. Apart from Barney’s French revision, there hasn’t been much structured study going on for the past few weeks, and since his last exam, he and I have been relaxing too. And I know that this laid-back, no-routines way of living has been largely responsible for the absolutely horrible behaviour and relationships around here recently, but that doesn’t make it any easier to cope. Mid-week, it all came to a head, and I proclaimed that I couldn’t take any more. A few days later, and I think the boys are starting to see that constant bickering and bad attitudes on their part have an effect on me - and that the effect on me has an effect on them. And so I’ve had commitments from each of them, together and separately, about how things are going to be from now on. We’ll see.

With no mum willing to make an effort to organise more, George’s 11th birthday yesterday was a quiet affair: family, card, cake, candles (and now that I think about it, I’m not even sure we all signed a card - maybe someone signed it on my behalf).

Hard as it is to believe that George is 11, the real shocker is Barney, who has developed not only the beginnings of teenage spottiness (which was expected, because he’s not exactly meticulous about personal hygiene), but also a shadow of a moustache on his upper lip. You have to look hard to spot it, but it’s there. And this child teenager, who for years has been saying that he doesn’t want to grow up because it’s more fun being a child, is thrilled about it. Me, I’m just trying to come to terms with having a child who is taller than his grandmother and old enough to have facial hair.

Nesting continues apace, and I now have three very clean bathrooms, a very tidy living-room and a reasonably clean kitchen. The conservatory and dining-room still need to be attacked (the dining-room is at that stage where the main reason not to begin is being unable to decide where). But the big change this weekend is that it is now actually possible to move around my bedroom. It’s a large room, but there was so much clutter that it was actually becoming difficult to navigate. However…piles have been tidied, surfaces cleared and cleaned, and there might even be room to put away some baby-clothes - once I’ve laundered them, that is. The diapers have been washed and some of them hung to dry, and I gave away a load of them on freecycle (had about 30 replies to the offer!) Having declined a visit from the midwifery manager (why does she routinely visit homebirthers? does she think we’re doing something dangerous? are we some kind of threat?), I’ve had a letter from her instead, telling me why I’m high-risk (over 40, fat, five previous babies - all the usual unsubstantiated-by-research scare stories) and all the awful things that might happen because of it. She can’t possibly not know that I’m well-informed - the local midwives are bound to have told her - so it would seem this is either shroud-waving (even though the local midwives are also bound to have told her that won’t work) or an ass-covering exercise. Either way, it doesn’t seem particularly respectful of my right to make my own decisions, and it doesn’t very much surprise me that the homebirth rate in this area has fallen in the last three years.

Line of the day, from me to Toby: “No, bandaids don’t work on Hot Dogs.” Explanation: Toby’s favourite animal is the giraffe, and he has several toy giraffes, all of which are called Hot Dog (at his insistence - I have no idea why), including a soft stuffed one which doesn’t have much of a neck (for a giraffe, I mean), but is nonetheless nearly as big as him. And this morning, it mysteriously developed a hole under one arm…er, I mean, front leg. Toby demanded a bandaid for it, so I had to explain that this was a more serious injury, requiring stitches. Lucky he doesn’t know about medical superglue and steri-strips, really.