Uber Mum to Goober Mum.

Upon receiving the Autumn Term newsletter from school, I dutifully read it. I felt very happy and content doing this little task. Last year, I was not receiving these emails and as a result missed a lot and played catch up all term. So to be reading this and feeling on top of the whole good parent in sync with the school was great!

At the end of this newsletter was a list of recommended reading for the Year 3s. I instantly felt like a literary inept mother for not having a single book from the list in our extensive library. So I popped onto our classes Facebook page to ask the kind mums if anyone had any of the books listed on the email and could they lend some to us.

Moments later there were a couple of replies asking “What email?”

Was it true? Was I the only mum to have read the email? Am I Uber Mum today? Do I get some kind of medal?

As the morning wore on my post filled up with parents commenting on how they had not received this email. I appear to be the only or one of the very few to have received it.

So I am not an Uber Mum after all. Back to being Goober mum as, A) I don’t already have the books on the list. And B) For drawing attention to myself and creating a drama as I sent all the other “almost uber mums into a panic”.

As one mum icely pointed out to me You don’t have to read from the list either, it’s only a guide, they can read anything they like within reason of course.” She of course had received the email.


The gift of a child’s love

More precious than diamonds my children are.
More beautiful than sunsets and roses and rainbows over mountains.

As unique as the finger prints that smear every surface they touch, thus blessing it.

The sound of their laughter rivals symphonies.
The sound of their gentle breath in peaceful sleep, is more reassuring than the locked doors.

The drama of their lives unfolding is more fascinating than any blockbuster or news headline.

And they love me. Even when I’ve told them off, confiscated every toy in sight, banned tv and raged at them. They still crawl into bed next to me, and wrap little arms around my neck, and kiss me with those overly wet lips.

They love me and trust me and that’s the gift.


The many faces of Oscar

The Cherub.
He lays asleep, perfect little up turned nose and perfect little pout, his eyelashes long and dark just brushing his ruddy pink and full cheeks one of which rests upon his folded little hands. His hair curls on his forehead, around his ears and down the back of his slightly sweaty neck. Baby fat still shows around his wrists and elbows. He snuggles and nuzzles and is a delight to behold.
He is an image of heavenly peacefulness, purity and sweetness.

What a great disguise!

The Story Teller.
Awake and full of life, he is a bundle of curious and creative wiggles and bounces. Every object has a life and a story of its own. Spiders grow in size. They become super beings imparting super powers. Mystery puddles were left by aliens from the planet Blue.
I can’t always tell when he’s lying, please don’t tell him that. His stories sound so plausible sometimes that I find myself falling in to traps. Like the time he convinced me that the teacher brought her dog to school. His description of the dog was so real and so detailed, right down to the colour of his collar. How could it not be true?

The Wildling Child.
He has suddenly lost the ability to use words, has lost his language and can only grunt and whine and even growl. He laughs like a crazy possessed thing and does exactly the opposite of everything I ask with deliberate and cruel joy.
He runs, he throws, he hits and howls. And when I try to hold him he pulls and pulls and suddenly flops to the ground refusing to stand.
He becomes deaf to every warning, every plea. He demands and stomps and wails and screeches going red in the face with such rage.
All without warning and little provocation.

The Little Brother.
He often stands in the shadow of his older brother who he idolises and despises in the same moment. At once aspiring and frustrated. He admires his brothers skills but is frustrated at his own lack. He does not understand that he too will be that fast, that strong, that smart in just another year. He wants to play with his brother and be with his brother but on his terms and by his rules. He is lucky to have such a tolerant sibling who loves him and is patient and adores him just as much.

The Rebel
He is my tiny rebel without a cause. He strives to be different from the rest. He’s the child with the crossed Velcro straps on his shoes, the Spider-Man with blue hair at the Halloween party. Dances to his own beat, sings his version of the song but still as sweetly.
He’s the boy who will dress smartly for dinner one day but turn up naked the next.
His creativity knows no bounds and bears no restrictions. He can colour within the lines but he will not be oppressed by these boundaries.