Last Lunch

After fourteen years at the post, I made our eldest their last packed lunch this morning. School finishes for A'level students late morning tomorrow and they remove, as one, to the local public house for liquid lunches that will no doubt represent the real thing for years to come!

Unsure whether to jump for joy, or shed a tear for the speed at which the fourteen years of school have sped by, I remembered the umpteen times I've made up sandwiches at break-neck speed whilst fielding, 'have you seen my socks', and 'is there any milk left' type questions. It's not necessarily the sandwiches that cause the problems - although with the eldest they can do - but what the heck else do you put in there that will fill them up and be nourishing rather than an easy 'fix'?

When we first embarked on this, back in September 1999, I began with brown bread. The four year old child soon asked to try school dinners! A few weeks of tired child later and me assuming that all children were this exhausted after a day in front of the blackboard, a kindly teaching assistant told me that my child clearly didn't like the school food and would 'pick and leave', rather than pick and mix. 

Alcohol and Coke

There were three of us on Saturday, half the squad and one we three was cricketing in far flung reaches of the county. Thinking that it might constitute a treat, I suggested to the youngest that we ordered a takeaway to coincide with the return of the cricketer and had a drink in a local pub whilst we waited. There was no enthusaistic, 'great idea, Mum, when can we go?' - although the offspring concerned was happy to record any essential tv programmes that might be missed. Rather the concern was, 'do you always have to drink wine?'

Four teens, Four candles...Fork handles

There has been no earthquake, no tidal wave of woe; we have passed under the barrier long since dreaded and, with the latest birthday, become the parents of four teens. Instead, for the first time since the youngest's birth, it rained on the appointed day and, two days later is set to bring a deluge accompanied by winds and a drop in temperature: does this herald the slow start to years of increased stomping arguments (there is such a thing, believe me), slammed doors - already replaced the back door once - assumptions that the car is their preserve and theirs only; that food will disappear at an even more alarming rate and that, naturally, the centre of the entire universe revolves around them. Them x four. 

Undoubtedly, yes!

Empty Inner Middle

Back in the Iron Age when I was pursuing an undergraduate life with the odd bit of study thrown in, I decided to take as part of my degree, a module in computer science. The Edinburgh University Geography department had a few computers, but most were the preserve of the post-grads and profs. We underlings gave seminars using overhead projectors and typed up dissertations on cranky old machines requiring WD40 to lubricate the keys.

K is for Kit

When it comes to sports kit, it is almost impossible to keep up to date with a growing family of sports-minded people. Football boots that cost more than they should are guaranteed to have been outgrown by half-way through a season; although I have to hand it to offspring#2 who finished the last few matches of last season with boots taped afresh each week to hold them together and in situ - with size 13 feet it is far from easy to find footwear to fit!

The approach to this year's cricket season was tempered with queries and suggestions such as, "Do your whites still fit? Do you know where they are? Have your feet grown (again)? Should you check any of the above." With replies assuring me that all was, "Fine, Mum," said with suitable 'go away and leave me alone' tone, I relaxed. Cricket is, after all, the preferred sport for the males of the family and I know that they're keen to begin the season.

First match was last Monday. Monday morning came the cry, "Can't find my whites and the only shirt is too small." And then before I had a chance to swing round from making up packed lunches, "Are you going out today?" Books tend not to write themselves when interrupted by ad hoc shopping trips which may well explain why I'm only half way through this re-write instead of considerably further along.

Wearing a shirt three sizes too big, the afore-mentioned child played in multiple layers designed to help keep him warm for this summer game played in decidedly temperate conditions. Other-half's missing kit was found in a plastic bag at the bottom of the stairs and older sibling's grubby kit retrieved from the bag in which it had been sitting since last August - surprised it didn't walk out of its own accord.

I buy tracksuits on a regular rotational basis, know that it can take one child up to two hours to find a pair of trainers to fit, another will be satisfied with the first pair tried. We have, somewhere, different length spikes for various athletics disciplines, at least 10 mouth guards here in assorted colours; we have weapons aplenty in the form of bats, sticks, riding crops, racquets and a javelin; pads for protection, gloves for virtually any sporting discipline, body protectors, helmets, hard hats, boots, balls ranging from in size from squash and golf to medicine balls for strength and conditioning via the greenhouse-shattering cricket balls. A catching net props up one end of the garden in the summer, a makeshift goal at other times there is a temporary badminton net and the yard becomes a cricket pitch when weather permits. And 101 socks.

Yes we have kit, but the never the right stuff at the right time!

Wisdom tooth woe

It has taken some years for my teeth to decide that it is time to be wise; something that my brain has yet to take into consideration! Yesterday was D-day for extraction of one such tooth that had decided to grow horizontally towards my molar, causing all manner of potential problems.

I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason why dentists persist in using vast metal syringes rather than the rather natty disposable ones favoured by nurses, but it does little to encourage a relaxed state of mind as something capable of knocking out a horse at ten paces looms towards your face!

I had obeyed orders and partaken of a large breakfast, but the combined effect of the numbing gel and two syringe dose of local anaesthetic, caused my throat to become numb and me to feel as though I could neither breathe nor swallow, in turn becoming grateful for the support of the dental chair as a feeling of nauseousness swept over me.

Scalpel, pick-axe and wrench took their turns, followed by a long needle and some fishing line resulting, I'm told, in a relatively 'clean' extraction. During the grinding and crunching when I wondered how long my jaw would hold out, the dentist uttered those immortal words, "You're doing well and we're nearly there." I was pinned with afore-mentioned weapons in my mouth otherwise there may have been a similar response to that given to just-out-of-college midwives who tried to reassure me during hours 20-30+ that labour and childbirth didn't really hurt at all - 'So how many children do you have?'. I'm not sure how many wisdom teeth have been pulled from my - very good and kind - dentist, but there may have been an admittance of potential pain if such treatment had been undergone.

Nearly 24hours later and I still feel as though I've gone a few rounds with a knuckle-duster wearing Mike Tyson, but I did manage a little porridge this morning and my combination of painkillers is doing something to dull the pain.

The good news - another wisdom tooth began to come through at the weekend!

Buzzing Bees

Consumption of honey in this household is high; this, combined with a desire to do our bit for the struggling UK honey bee, led to me take a ten week beekeeping course in the early months of this year.

Theory is all very well, but yesterday we were called to the local area's apiary to begin to put some of our hard earned knowledge into practice. Things I have learned:

1. There is no elegant way in which to don an all-in-one bee-suit whilst hopping on one leg with red boggy ground beneath one's feet.

2. Along with one other, I am the youngest there by at least 15 years, therefore am assumed to have the agility to complete the above task. As the sole female, my fellow beekeepers are unsure whether to offer help or stare into space!

3. I still don't like the sound of multiple insects buzzing about my face, but

4. It is neither wise nor cool to swipe haphazardly at the few honey bees who are struggling to cope with being so rudely interrupted on a Sunday afternoon! Slowly and surely is the mantra.

5. Vision behind a mesh is not good, not even when teamed with glasses which are pushed down my nose by the hat and veil. This may be a good thing, I tried not to look to see how many of the little wonders had settled on me.

6. The apiary manager may want to choose someone else to write the hive record card, my handwriting whilst leaning on thin air is even worse than usual. The next person to inspect may wonder if the queen was a no show or had laid copious combs-worth of eggs.

7. I'm hooked, after half an hour.

8. But still have a life-time's worth of knowledge to assimilate and absorb so hope the fascination lasts long enough to provide the family with a jar or two of honey!