Today was rather better

We went out relatively early for a weekend and went to the painting session in the Town Hall. Linnea... painted. She was particularly amused to find that paint is slippery when walked upon, so she did a few artistic skids and a number of tracks. She also painted me and Rob, and her belly, and just before we started cleaning her up, she painted her hair blue. Thoroughly.

Then Rob and I bought ourselves some new socks, as a special "It's winter and now we need to admit that most of our socks are unwearably worn" treat. I think I will have to start buying socks in the men's department, because I like my socks to either have exciting patterns, or be warm and comfortable, and the women's department just about managed "not boring" patterns. I wonder what men's shoe size I take? I'm a ladies UK 5 or 6.

Thicker socks would also help my ankles, come to think of it. All my shoes rub to some extent.

Anyway, after socks, Linnea and I headed for the Forbury Gardens, and Rob went the opposite direction to buy sausages in buns for our lunch. Except that Linnea wasn't happy once she realised that Daddy had vanished, and turned around right next to the "Fathers For Justice" banner and called "Dadda! Dadda! Dadda!" so I had to stand there, holding her firmly by the reins, saying, right next to the "Fathers for Justice" banner, "Daddy will be back soon. Come on, darling, Daddy back soon. Daddy's gone to get lunch. Daddy back soon, I promise. Come on, darling."

She did come on that time, but outside the Early Learning Centre she lay down and refused to move for so long that I actually called Rob to tell him we weren't going to be at the Gardens.

Lunch, once we had it, was most pleasant, and she liked the onions very much. Then she ran around madly, until we decided it was late, and we headed home, via Oxfam, where I bought some loose chamomile tea (that is, just plain old dried chamomile flowers, nothing tealike about it). We got the bus home and Linnea napped for hours while I knitted and Rob ordered a wormery.

We've ordered one that takes no effort on our parts so hopefully it will be used.

My knitting is coming along nicely. I've realised that if I want to knit Linnea a winter coat I need to finish the project on my 3mm needles now so I'm working pretty hard at it.

Muffins make the world go round. And I think I won't need to buy any clothes this winter! I have found a bunch of perfectly adequate long-sleeved tops that probably still fit! Hurrah!

But I will need socks. I wish socks didn't wear out so easily. I must learn to knit them.

Idle curiosity

Once again, I have no idea who is on my friends list, how they got there, or why they've friended me back. And as for the hundred or so who aren't on my friends list but who nonetheless have friended me, I have no idea who half of you are. So. I got curious and I haven't done a poll in ages. It would be funnier if I had a better sense of humour.

[Poll #572398]

Motherhood: As it was done unto me

We learn about motherhood primarily from our own mothers, I think. And from our formally and informally adopted mothers, I suppose.

I learned almost everything I know from mine.

When my little sister was a baby, so I was about 3 at the most, my Nana had laid her across her lap and was patting her back and bottom to burp her. My baby sister was crying - probably screaming, actually - and my Nana said to me, "Isn't she very bold?" (bold meaning naughty), and I agreed that yes, she was very bold! Nana said, "Will I smack her?" and I replied -

"Babies aren't for smacking. Babies are for loving."

I remember my mother chasing me around the kitchen with a wooden spoon to smack me hard for being very very bold - but I don't remember her catching me. I remember her chalking hopscotch on the kitchen floor (quarry tiles) and teaching me how they used to play when she was a little girl. I remember her teaching me to skip (jump rope) and knit and sew. I remember sitting for hours turning the fabric for hair scrunchies inside-out because she made them to sell; we used to stretch them over a knitting needle.

I remember her being given a stick with which to beat my "foster-brothers" by their mother. I remember her burning it.

I remember her explaining to me and my little sister, when we were arguing with the girls next door over whether or not you had to be married to have a baby, that "some people think it's best to wait until you are married." She's one of those some people, but she didn't say so. In Ireland. In the 1980s.

I remember her making my first communion dress and it being the nicest dress anyone had ever had. I remember she made a matching handbag. I remember she made my confirmation dress too, and decorated the buttons to match, the day after my father's mother's funeral. I remember she made my wedding dress without question and without flaw.

I remember that Santa gave me a Ballet-Dancing Sindy one Christmas, which I wanted because it had very very movable limbs. I remember that my Sindy came with handmade jeans, lumberjack shirt and sweater included in the box, stitched to the card with plastic thread just like real packaged presents. I remember receiving a Bosco puppet in a proper Bosco box, equipped with a bed and bedclothes and everything. I didn't find out the box was home-made for years and years.

I remember being taught to comfort eat: I was told that eating very sugary, starchy foods made me feel a bit better in the short term, and it was an ok thing to do. She explained quite a bit of the biology to me in a ways I understood at the tender age of 13. I remember comfort-eating porridge made with milk instead of water. And custard.

I remember pitying people with skinny mothers because they couldn't be as cuddly as mine. I remember hating her wearing lipstick. I remember thinking she was beautiful in an ancient, tatty cardigan. I remember her getting me French lessons after school. I remember her teaching me to use a grape scissors (my Nana had one) and how to arrange food to look attractive. I remember being sick in bed and getting breakfast on Wedgewood china because I was too grown up for Bunnykins - a small bowl with a satsuma broken into a flower shape, a mug of rosehip tea, some toast cut into small triangles, and a bowl of cereal. Milk in a little jug and sugar in a sugarbowl.

I remember that this was normal for us when we were sick and that I took it as my due - I was pleased about it, but not in the least surprised.

I remember that when I was miserably depressed in my teens, she offered to find out about fostering, in case I'd be happier in another family. I remember that she believed I wasn't doing drugs when all the psychologists were convinced I was (she was right - at the time I wasn't touching even alcohol). I remember that after I'd left home, she came and got me when I was ill or depressed.

I remember that she held my baby for me when I could not because I had given birth only three hours before and still couldn't move much.

I remember that ever single day in hospital, I had fresh ironed pyjamas and clean underwear.

I remember.