Great Works of Art revisited. An occasional series

Hard to spot the difference isn't it ?

With apologies to George Stubbs and the Tate Gallery

The guilt, the guilt

I read a lot of wonderful blogs, many of which are written by women with young children detailing their lives and learning curves. Oh, the memories, the joy in their children. The rueful smiles and blissful hugs. They do instil in me a measure of guilt though. I have realised my parenting skills leave much to be desired and listed below are a few of my "less nurturing" moments from the last 20 years.

I plunge into sleep before they are home and if I do wake when they get back, I complain about being woken.

Any chocolate left in the kitchen is fair game.

I put their clothes in the washing machine when I want to, which is not necessarily when they need them.

When they were young it was not unknown for me to eat treats I had purchased for them 2 or 3 times before the children actually got them. Cadburys buttons a speciality.

I refused to write a essay for a module in GC's Graphics A level.

If they are home at suppertime I will feed them, if they aren't, I don't.

I always have used a "riper" vocabulary than perhaps I should in front of them, resulting in the family story of my small boy from back of car asking "so, which car are the dozy tossers in Mummy ?"

The tooth fairy forgot to visit on a regular basis.

I still have my school reports, not convinced I could put my hand to theirs.

I talk to their friends (big sin, big,big sin)

I did not take the day off work to accompany either child to get A' level or GCSE results.

I cheat at Jenga.

I have been known to sing (and horror of horrors dance) in public

When they were young I used to sleep with my fingers in my ears - allegedly. (I am sure the picture above was photo shopped)


And do you know ? Despite this benign neglect, (not once did I congratulate them for breathing, walking or even using a knife and fork) they have turned into jolly nice people.

Long walk and little things.

There really was a feel of Autumn in the air today, leaves are beginning to turn, berries are showing colour and the fungi are more plentiful. Most of all there is that damp musty scent in the air, how are we heading into Autumn without a Summer ?

Digger for M

I suspect Mr Spielberg is unlikely to loose sleep over this, I am not a natural cineaste however it does give an idea of the lollop in action. Not at full lick as he could not bring himself to leave "Master".

My wounded soldier. A cautionary tale

As those of you on Twitter may remember we recently had an "eventful" evening in our household. Ever generous, Boy Child decided to provide me with yet more blog fodder by wrestling with the dog at 1am and ending up being scalped. The joys of A&E at 1.30am are many and varied I am sure, I am just too surly to appreciate them. For a beautiful piece on this you need to go to http://misswhistle.blogspot.com/2009/07/emergency-room.html


BC had come down from his room on a fridge raid, but stopped off to romp with the lunatic hound, one thing led to another and at 1am BC stumbled back upstairs,

"I'm bleeding". I have to admit my head went under the pillow for a moment, maybe I hadn't heard.

"Mu-um, there's quite a lot of blood" .........................and then the clincher.

"It's dripping on the floor"

By this time Silent One had woken up and gone to investigate. when he found a length of BC's scalp with hair attached (I kid you not) on the floor things became a little more urgent. The dog was beside himself with guilt and was prostrate on the floor, BC was being stoic and Silent One proved his worth by disposing of the evidence.

A&E was not too busy, but the nurse decided his scalp needed to be checked by plastics, so we were sent home with enough bandaging to do a remake of The Mummy and an invitation to return the next morning.

When seen by plastics the decision was made to do clever, gruesome embroidery which I shall tell you nothing about because it makes me feel quite poorly. Not normally squeamish in the slightest, but this was my baby . Then there followed multiple check ups to make sure no brains were escaping (how would they tell ?) and the healing was going well.

After two sets of antibiotics, sutures, clips and glue BC is mended although he will have a Heidleburg quality scar on his brow for the rest of his life. Here's hoping he can think of a story that involves beautiful maidens, swarthy villains and derring do. Being BC it will be a functional recitation of events.......................... if you want embellishment rely on his mother.

The joys of dog ownership

So far today the dog has

Woken me at 5am to let me know someone walked past the house

Chewed a corner off the rug

Pushed me off the sofa

Eaten my breakfast when I turned away for half a moment

Stood between me and the television at a crucial moment of "Project Runway"

and

given me a huge halitosis "kiss"

He did however, apparently, return when called, when Silent One took him on a walk this morning and that alone redeems all the sins listed above.

The Hound of the Baskervilles runs wild and free

Now I am worried

OK, so I stopped blogging for a bit when I suffered a loss of confidence, but today something happened that made me realise I had to stop worrying about how people interpret what you say and what you do, I stepped back and took a deep breath.

Six weeks ago I applied to go on the Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square, the interactive work initiated by artist Antony Gormley that he has called a "a living monument to humanity". Most people will know him for "The Angel of the North" or "Another Place" on Crosby beach. He is a master of accessible modern art.

I never expected to be selected, but the idea of "performing " has always been dear to me, my first dream job, at 5, was a bunny girl, by 16 I was already planning on being an opera singer, but life, parental input and sheer terror made me step back from the fantasy. It has lurked, deep inside though for years. To be on stage, judged only for what you perform, not who you are, to step forward into the dazzle of the proscenium arch and take a bow to a packed auditorium (saved from stage fright by the fact you are blind as a bat and can see no one) has been something I have often dreamt of.

It is now, officially, a nightmare. My name has come up. I am on the plinth. If I can do that, I can write a blog, no more excuses. After all, they say it's not over until the fat lady sings.

I'm off to practice my scales.

PS. So far reactions have been hugely positive from friends real and virtual, the Twitter band have been generous with encouragement.

Less affirmative from other quarters. The children "God, Mum, you are sooooo embarrassing" which was expected. My Mother "Oh, well you always were a bit of a show off"