Poke that up your nose!

photo credit

Yesterday Son pushed something up his nose. He put it up there and then just poked away.

He paused long enough before embarking on this experiment to notice that the object was:
- a sort of see-through, whitish colour
- a sort of bumpy circle shape
- something that kept its shape when pushed
- a solid not a liquid, although some doubt remained about how he would categorise ice

He didn't pause long enough to a. re-consider or b. actually identify the object (which he found on the carpet)

When he'd poked long enough to make said object disappear he panicked. The school panicked. The GP panicked. I didn't panic (knowing Son better than the aforementioned) but did drive, with Daughter in tow, to A&E... again.

The object remains a.w.o.l despite the best attempts of Manchester's finest medical practitioners. We have therefore concluded that:
a. the object has already come out, un-noticed in the ensuing melee
b. never actually went in
c. was ice
or
d. is still in there causing slow but irreparable harm as it rots away

In case of d. we have been referred to the 'Rapid Access Ear Nose and Throat Centre'. Rapid is clearly an ambiguous term since we're expecting to hear in 3/4 weeks when our appointment might be.

That's fine by me. I've already spent enough of Son's 5yrs apologising to medical folk for wasting their time... besides which, my money's on the ice.

Never trust a fraggle to recommend books...

Husband sent me the link to Book Army - a 'social networking site for bookworms' where you type in all the books you like, make friends, and receive recommendations for books you'd love.

The typing in books bit is fine - I'm addicted to lists - but I'm a tad cynical about the recommendations. After nights of adding my collection of literary giants to amazon's recommendation engine, what did they come up with... Maeve Binchy!

Not that 'real' friends are much better. At uni I lived with an inhabitant of Fraggle Rock masquerading as a psychology student. I gave 3 years of my life to her incessant squeals and out-sized nose, she watched me graduate with a degree in English Literature and gave me... a Maeve Binchy novel!

I don't have high hopes for Book Army - the site is way too slow - but I have made my first friend - Callum. He has 2,664 friends which I find surprisingly low given his only criteria for friendship appears to be someone's profile name.

I have no idea how long it will take him to recommend Maeve's finest, but in the meantime there is one thing he's given me worth sharing, his profile quote...

'Life isn't about sitting out the storm, it's about learning to dance in the rain'

A star is born...

As he approaches his 5th birthday, and matters of career and legacy begin to weigh heavy on his little shoulders, Son has announced his intention to become a 'child singer'. Despite having watched X Factor a grand total of three times, he is apparently smitten by the promise of fame and fortune and is already well underway with logistical planning.

His band will be called 'Fool's Dragon', and his first song has the working title 'Fires of Smoke'. The lyrics are somewhat sparse to date but, in a perceptive nod to the manufactured music industry, he is confident that the 'people at X factor' will help him with the actual words.

In the meantime, practice is unthwarted by this lack of content. Shouts, screams and various other unidentifiable 5yr old boy noises fill the void admirably.

His outfit has been meticulously planned and involves his 'cool Chinese vest', running trousers or red shorts (presumably he's waiting to gauge the temperature of those punishing studio lights) and some clone wars underpants.

He plans to stand on a pole, really high up and jump around playing the guitar. He can't play the guitar, but - like the lyrics - he's confident this won't matter.

The sad thing is, it probably wouldn't.

Running to keep up with what's PC and what's not

I've signed up to do The Great Manchester Run. I have no track record of running success. In the past, I've expressed profound suspicion at those who like to pound the pavements... but I'm up for a challenge. Or rather my friend is, and I'm going along for the ride... just hopefully not home in an ambulance.

We are yet to write our training plan but a subtle change has already subconsciously permeated my being. I'm eating more. Crisps and cheese mainly. This is to make up for the extra calories I will expend when training does eventually get underway.

I'm going to be running for Scope - which focuses on people with cerebral palsy. They used to be called The Spastic Society but changed their name in 1994 once spastic had become a term of such common abuse. (In the UK at least - according to Wikipedia, in the US the term spastic - or Spaz - refers to someone who is 'courteous to teachers, plans for a career... and believes in official values', which just goes to show how open to mis-interpretation this language is!)

I see why the name had to change. If the people you want to help won't touch you with a barge pole because of your name, clearly something must be done. I also understand that the term wasn't appropriate for everyone the charity catered for, but it's a shame that society has to go to such lengths because segments within it claim a word as a term of derision.

I also feel sorry for the innocent people who struggle to keep up. Like Husband's nan when my mother-in-law mentioned that she'd taken something to the Scope shop.

Nan: What's that?
M-in-law: A charity shop.
Nan: Never heard of it.
M-in-law: It was The Spastic's Society.
Nan: Well, why on earth did they change the name?
M-in-law: I don't think people really say spastic anymore.
Nan: Why ever not, it's a medical word.
M-in-law: Even so, I think some people use it wrongly. It's probably best just not to say it anymore.
Nan: But Scope? That's ridiculous too.
M-in-law: Why?
Nan: Well, you can hardly call someone a scoper can you?
M-in-law: I think that's the point mum!

Now I don't for a minute think she meant any harm or insult. At nearly 90 she just can't keep up with what's PC and what's not.

Even so, if I ask her to sponsor me in public I might just say I'm running for Guide Dogs for the Blind.

Catching up on the books...

There's been quite a lot lately about Husband and 2 Kids and not much about the lots of books, so to remedy the situation, here are 3 of my favourite bits from What Should I Do With My Life by Po Bronson

The book is a collection of stories about people who did something different with their lives - to find happiness, meaning, fulfilment or just some balance.

It's not about trekking through the desert to 'find yourself', there are stories about people who found out the best thing for them was a normal 9-5 day job, staying at home with the children or working in a bank but there are also stories to prove that it's never too late to change your life, you don't need to do it all in one go and that even taking the tinniest steps towards your dreams can help you be happier. Here we go:

1. On why I ended up working in a bank for 10 years:

Failure's hard, but success is far more dangerous. If you're successful at the wrong thing, the mix of praise and money and opportunity can lock you in forever. It is so, so much harder to leave a good thing

2. On why I did eventually manage to escape:

Becoming a parent can trigger a return of meaning...The relationship with your child is so meaningful it can reveal just how meaningless other things in your life are.

3. On the fact that although I still don't know what I should 'Do' with my life, I'm edging slowly closer:

I used to think life presented a five-page menu of choices. Now I think the choice is in whether to be honest, to ourselves and others, and the rest is more of an uncovering of layers...I used to treasure the innocence of first love. Now I treasure the hard fought. I used to want to change the world. Now I'm open to letting it change me.

Watch out, an iron is about!

I have a pathological fear of irons and ironing boards. It's the logical conclusion of growing up with a housework obsessed mum and a dad who was big in health and safety.

While Dad used mealtimes as a vehicle to hone his talk on the dangers of bottom wiping - using a nifty little blotting pad to show the poo seeping through a double fold of Andrex - Mum chased an errant crumb around the tablecloth.

The fear began reasonably enough when an ironing board actually attacked me. I was 14 and desperately trying to uphold domestic standards in my mother's absence. The next minute I was prostrate on the floor, blood trickling onto the carpet I'd just hoovered and all I'd done was nudge against the spring loaded release thingy.

To took more than one conference call on blood removal techniques, and several weeks of accident forms before life could take on a semblance of normality again.

And what was normal? Once bitten, twice shy! An ironing board leg had tried to break my nose... it wouldn't catch me napping on the job again!

Of course, what really scares me it getting burnt. Although I've stayed safe up till now, with no risk assessments, action plans or even an accident book in the house, I'd only have myself to blame if the worst happened.

Or Husband.

In the days when he still ironed - i.e. before we were married - he would take great pleasure in ensuring the end of the ironing board hung over the sofa on which I was lying. One enthusiastic swoosh of the iron too many and I would have been pinned to my cushion by a lump of molten metal.

Last night - while I ironed - he mused how, were he to have the time and money, he'd fill the entire lounge with ironing apparatus just in order to watch me traverse it.

It's probably this type of loving support that's carried me so far towards facing up to my demons. I now feel strong enough to heat the iron to maximum... and slam it into his face.

No-one will ever know what happened. Like I said, there's not an accident book in sight... but if I were him, I'd set to work on that risk assessment!

On why the old ways are sometimes the best

When I left Son for the first time at nursery it was after what felt like three years of settling-in time. We had completed taster sessions designed to ensure that every nuance of his daily routine had been 'tasted' in advance by his new carers.

I had also been required to pen a short, experimental novel charting his likes and dislikes. This took shape with a series of forms with titles such as 'allergy action plan' focused on what would happen should he accidentally swallow some penicillin. I know his little friends were bright, but to this day I have my doubts about the likelihood of a little Alexander Fleming culturing penicillin laden mould in the crevices of the play house.

In short, we were ready and well prepared.

When I left Daughter on Friday - in a free creche at Son's school (so I could attend the Parent Survival Course), things were a little more laid back. There were no forms at all, although a particularly proactive member of staff did venture to ask her name.

Daughter cried, and I wondered why we were even doing this at all given that I'm surviving pretty well as a parent already. I trudged down the corridor, flicking a arm to indicate Daughter's stricken presence to Miss V, who taught Son while his real teacher mended her broken arm.

I returned to collect her 2 hours later to find not a scrap of paper indicating her bowel movements or favourite activities. She was a little red-eyed but had apparently been fine, and off we went home.

That night at dinner, Son told how he'd seen Daughter at school. 'She came into class with Miss V. I had to give her a kiss to stop her crying, then M kissed her, and J, and S and I think P. She stayed right till phonics time.'

I don't know why they didn't tell me this - perhaps the creche people were embarrassed that she'd given them the slip, but I'm pleased that the system still has enough slack, inbetween testing and targets, to look after a lonely little baby.

There might not have been forms or action plans, I still have no idea what they would have done in the event of an allergic incident, but she was looked after by some caring souls and a hug from her big brother. Sometimes, the old fashioned ways really are the best.