Writing Workshop - Gifts

My granny bought her Christmas cards this weekend.  August Bank Holiday weekend.  Someone pointed out to Mummy today that the next bank holiday is Christmas Day, but even so, having your cards already does seem to be a little forward-thinking.

You grown-ups do seem to get stressed-out by what ought to be a wonderful, family occasion.  I know Mummy is already thinking about it herself because the discussions have started about who’s going where and when.  Great to be looking forward to Santa coming, but there’s so much fun to be had between now and then!  Don’t wish away our lives.

I understand that Christmas is a religious festival, although at the moment I’m not too sure I get what it’s all about yet.  Plenty of time for that.  What I am aware of is presents!  Gifts.  Lots of them.  Beautifully wrapped in gorgeous paper and bright ribbons.  Everyone that comes to the house brings something lovely, usually for me.  How cool is that?!

Mummy is a great supporter of the old adage, “It’s the thought that counts.”  It seems to be too easy to rush into a shop these days and grab any old thing for someone, just to tick it off the list, but what’s the point of that, knowing they’re probably doing exactly the same for you?  You exchange ‘novelties’ that you bought on a 3 for 2 deal at the supermarket, when you might as well have not bothered and both of you saved your cash.  No thought went into it.  Is it any wonder that people think Christmas is becoming too commercialised?

Daddy doesn’t seem to understand that it’s not about how much money you spend on something that counts.  Mummy would far rather have a couple of flowers picked from the verge when Daddy’s out walking Hairy Dog than a big bunch from the petrol station on the way home from work when he remembers their anniversary – it means he’s thought about her while he’s out and not just had a reminder on his phone!  Far more romantic.

Handmade cards and gifts are great for the same reason.  Someone has cared enough about you and your ‘occasion,’ whatever that might be, to take time to create something special and unique for you.  Surely that carries more weight?

For me, a gift should be something that you want (not necessarily need) or that shows the giver has thought about you specifically – something to do with a hobby, or that reflects your personality.  Not a funny-shaped jar of boiled sweets because someone had to pick an extra item to make the deal worthwhile.

Santa seems to do pretty well.  I met him last year, you know.  I sat on his knee and looked him up and down, then stared him straight in the eye and asked him to bring me something lovely, using telepathy, of course.  My stocking was full to bursting on Christmas morning.  I think the trick is to keep the brief quite vague; that way, I’m not expecting anything too specific, so I’m not disappointed if he doesn’t get it quite right (talking of pressure, think of all the gifts Santa has to plan for!) but I think he also hedges his bets and leaves a few things.

I know sometimes parents are disappointed when we play longer with the box than with the toy, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  As I alluded to earlier, it’s about imagination.  Do it right, and there’s as much pleasure in the giving as in the receiving.

CB

Writing Workshop - Big Screen Inspiration

Today’s post is for this week’s Writing Workshop over at Sleep Is For The Weak next Monday. The prompt is Big Screen Inspiration and our favourite quotation.  Here’s mine:

Nobody Said Being A Bunny Would Be Easy!

This is one of Mummy’s favourite movie quotations.  It stems from her childhood, and has become part of the regular family dialogue.  It comes from The Tale Of The Bunny Picnic, created by Jim Henson of The Muppets fame.  Sadly, the film was never that big in this country, but Mummy recently heard it made it to DVD  (she’d previously only seen it on VHS – that’s how old she, I mean it, is!) so she’s scouring the internet for my copy.

As you might expect, the film is about al fresco rabbit dining; Bean is told by his bunny brother that he is too small to help with the preparation.  Bean hops off alone and comes across the ultimate nemesis – the farmer’s dog.  Nobody believes Bean has seen it until it’s too late and the dog breaks free!  Bean must come up with a plan to outwit the dog.

“Nobody said being a bunny would be easy,” is a good reminder to us all, just substitute your own noun if you don’t like the rabbit reference.  When I’m struggling to walk, talk, climb, do things my mind says yes but my body says no to, Mummy reminds me that, “Nobody said being a baby would be easy.”  And she’s right.  I just take stock, breathe, pick myself up and try again.

It works for her too, although you have to pick your moment to remind her.  When she’s been up four times in the night, the house is a tip and I’ve just smeared breakfast all over her posh work outfit, Daddy might be wise not to remind her that, “Nobody said being a mummy would be easy,” and just assume as she clenches her fists and looks skyward that she’s saying it to herself.  I don’t think Daddy’s seen the film anyway.

Try it!  Next time you’re feeling the pressure, remember, “Nobody said being a bunny would be easy.” Even if it only makes you smile because you think it’s madness, it should lighten the load a bit.

CB

Track back

Writing Workshop - Big Kids

For those of you unfamiliar with the Workshop, it runs every week on Sleep Is For The Weak where everyone is prompted to write on a particular subject. We'll share them all next Monday.  This is a tricky one for me to write this week, so I’ve asked Mummy to guest write it for me.  If it’s rubbish, blame her!  Here she is:

Before I start this story, I’d like to point out that I had a great childhood.  I have a very loving, supportive family.  I think it’s worth stating that because my tale is not going to be one of innocently playing Pooh Sticks in the woods or picking flowers in a meadow (although I did both regularly.)

I’ve always been a picky, worry wart.  As I grew up, it has improved as I’ve learned to deal with what were often totally irrational thoughts. Irrational is really the only way to describe the fear in my eight-year-old head that something awful would happen to my parents, to the point that I would freak out if they went out together without me and my sisters.  To say I worried doesn’t come close.  From the moment they told me they were going out, I would worry until the moment they came back.  I paced around the house, desperate to find a distraction.  I paced around the garden, looking out for the car to pull up at the gate.  What would happen to us if something happened to them?  How would I look after my sisters?  How would I contact someone to help me?  Would people step in and separate us?  I howled and wailed and begged them not to go, and looking back now, I’m sure I ruined their social life.

I’m not a psychologist so my analysis is flawed, I’m sure.  I do know I like control though, and not being able to influence something is difficult for me. I like to know what’s happening and I like to feel that I have a firm grasp on things. That’s not to say that I always have to be in charge, I don’t, but if no-one else steps forward, I’m more than happy to do it.  Like many other little girls, I played with my sisters and our Barbies and Sindies.   The difference with us is that I introduced a whole social class system and a currency!

Fun?  Certainly for me.  Educational? Perhaps in a harsh life-lesson sort of way for them.  A little freaky?  I prefer unusual!  My dolls lived in the big houses, they had the good jobs.  One ran the bank, for example, and as all eight-year-olds know, money comes from banks, so my doll created the money.  One of my sisters carefully crafted doll toilets, but in my Doll Society, she couldn’t sell them direct to the dolls because mine owned the hardware shop so I paid her a pittance for them then charged her to buy them back from me!  Non-purchase was not an option for them – how many houses had they ever visited that didn’t have a toilet?  None.  All residents had to buy one.  Perhaps I should be on The Apprentice!  Or perhaps my entrepreneurial flair is in fact autocratic tendency!

The thing is, this order and process helps me deal with stress.  Another totally ‘nutty’ thing I did was start a library at home.  I labelled all our books and made my super-patient family sign them out if they wanted to read them.  And I’d fine them if they let their books go overdue!

I’m not a complete tidy-nut by any means, and most weeks we live in total CHAOS (Can’t Have Anyone Over Syndrome) but every now and then, I start getting stressed.  It gets me twitchy and I need to sort something.  I have a household organiser so I know when all the insurance policies are due for renewal, or when the dog needs his boosters, that sort of thing.  I have a calendar beside my front door where each member of the family has a column, with another one for all the things we need to remember, like birthdays. I don’t think either of those things is particularly wacky or off-the-wall – it strikes me that as a working mum, cook, housekeeper, general dogsbody, it’s just common sense.  Saying that, even the friends I would have considered super-organised have been known to ask me for birthdays or addresses to save blushes because they know I’ll have the information.

I save for Christmas every month so it doesn’t come as a big shock in December.  Not that it ever would, because I’ll be all done weeks in advance, of course!

I’m starting to get stressed now.  My job is at risk, and while I haven’t enjoyed it for a while, the uncertainty does make me a bit nervous.  I have every confidence in myself that I’ll be able to make a living somehow, but the fact that I don’t know that for certain is what makes me uncomfortable.  So this week, I am writing a household inventory, not just of everything in the freezer, but also of the cleaning products and the store cupboard.  And all Chatty Baby’s old clothes have been sorted into those that can be worn again (others can’t – I’ve posted about baby food staining before!) those that need to be passed on to another beautiful baby, all neatly labelled by age and season. 

Reading back through this, and the length of this post, I guess that there’s still a lot of that neurotic child in me, but I’m much better at containing the neuroses and channelling it into something more positive.  I’m so much better than I was!  My books haven’t been in alphabetical order for years and I can let it go now if someone reads my magazines before me, something which would have tipped the eight-year-old me over the edge.  But I can still tell from twenty paces if someone’s touched one of my ornaments!

I think worrying will always be something I do, compounded now by the eternal guilt one feels as a mother, but I don’t worry any more if I have nothing to worry about.  It’s less of an issue for me now because I know the difference between the things I can influence and those I can’t, so I just don’t bother with the latter.  Otherwise, I’m pretty much still me.

Thanks for reading this far! If I sound completely crazy to you, I’m not worried – nothing I can do about it.

Writing Workshop: Simple Pleasures

This is my first foray into the Writing Workshop hosted by Sleep Is For The Weak, and I’m quite excited by it! My next step in the blogging world.

I want to tell you about what made today special, and mean something to me. It’s been a really lovely day, actually.  The weather threatened to ruin it for a while, but in the end it was perfect.  My little village had a bit of a gathering – a picnic for everyone to get together, have a catch up and share some grub.  People aren’t that keen on sharing mine though because I tend to squeeze it through my fingers as I offer it to them.

What was so lovely about it was everyone spending time together.  I went with Mummy and Daddy, but when we arrived I went to play with the big kids while M and D talked about boring grown-up stuff with other parents.  I came back to eat with them but shot off again afterwards and they mingled with other folk.

I was the life and soul, of course.  I instigated an impromptu game of “follow my leader” and crawled round the field with everyone else following.  It made Mummy feel proud and a bit sad at the same time; proud that I’m confident enough to go and socialise with other people, but sad that she felt her baby was literally moving away from her, growing up almost as she watched me eating dirt and climbing on the wooden frames.  I’m not a baby any more, Mummy!

It encapsulated everything that village life means, back to basics, if you like.  Young and old, all together, enjoying the summer sunshine.  Very informal, do as you please, and we all had a great day.

CB