Verbatim (from a Berkeley Playground)

‘Are those blueberries organic?’ asked the strange child as he approached me in the playground (I say strange both because he was unknown to me, and also because he looked strange: The kid was so translucently pale he made Jack look tanned. Also the brightly orange hair and the Chris Kardashian self-possessed manner.)

‘Um, yes, they are, actually!’ say I (good to get one right for a change.)

‘Oh good! Cos I only eat organic’ continues the four-year-old, while he helps himself to my blueberries (but as I tell Jack, we are a sharing family.)

‘Yes, we’re vegans’ says a man who from the similarly pale skin and carroty hair I correctly deduce to be his father, approaching me wearing clothes I can only describe charitably as coming from a unisex wardrobe he undoubtedly shares with his wife.

‘Oh, cool! My husband’s a vegetarian, so we often eat vegan things like Bocca Burgers and stuff’ says I.

‘Well’ continues Pale-Haired Dad, looking ever-so-slightly aghast, as if I’d just admitted to a penchant for pureering MacDonald’s to feed to the baby ‘we make everything from scratch, so Quentin (probable name for kid that I just made up) wouldn’t know what that is. He doesn’t know any brand names.’

‘Yup!’ continues Odious Quentin ‘Just the names of real vegetable like broccoli, kale and things!’

Game. Set. Match and possible relocation fees to somewhere less strange like Boise, Idaho to Real Berkeley Family.

(This conversation brought to you, truthfully, by occasional-burger-eating-people whose idea of made from scratch begins and ends with British Pound Cake.)

Different. The Same.

Margot’s eyes are wide-open portals to the world, watching, ever-alert, ready to absorb the moment. Jack, on the other hand, is the moment: Oftentimes moving past you in a whirl of sound and restless motion (I’m convinced we could solve the energy crisis if only we could hook small children up to electric generators. Don’t quote me on that, though.) Moments I want to wrap up under my skin and take with me for ever: Margot, dancing in a slowly turning circle, hands out at right angles like a graceful penguin, saucer eyes shining with excitement; Jack, racing towards me at preschool in a lean-bodied bound, shock of white hair, diving into my lap.

So different. But in my heart, just the same.

Indestructible Hamster

It happens to the best of us: That toy acquired in the mists of times past that Just. Will. Not. Die. And so it is in the Carlisle Household: Noisome hamster that produces an assortment of irritating sounds, each calculated to be more aggravating than the last, culminating in a sort of final trumpet call to the deaf, a squeaky ‘Here We Go!’ as the little critter skitters away to an inaccessible final resting place under the sofa.

It was Jack, actually, who started experimenting with ways to Kill Hamster. Not, you understand, because he really wanted to bring about the blessed creature’s final demise, but because, scientist-like, he just wanted to see what he could make Hamster do. In the interests of science, Hamster was immersed in ice-cold water, then plunged into the depths of the freezer (which makes for a startling moment of confusion when preparing supper……) but still Rasputin emerged, victorious….. and ruthlessly undead.

There were some battle scars, however. Hamster may still be with us, but his voice box is somewhat fainter. His defining shout (Here we go!) has become ever weaker, yet, like the elderly relative whose death releases millions, he clings defiantly to life, with a piteous mewling that scares the living daylights out of me as I clear away the day’s detritus. Still. H…e…r….e W….e. G………..o.

Crap and Schmaltzy

Possibly the first time round, but quite definitely for Number Two, the removal of the placenta triggered the slow degradation of innumerable brain cells. Lost for ever, it seems, is my ability to absorb New Modern Fiction (but never mind, ay?), disturbingly supplanted by an unquenchable lust for all things crap…. and schmaltzy. In this I find, however, that great minds have gone before me: Bill Bryson writes movingly of his lust-affair with a seashell light (think something your four-year-old dreamed up, then…. take it down a notch) and of his inability to enter a 99 cent store without a plentiful haul….

It is a dirty little secret, but I really quite like…. Reality TV. My divine friend Blake - who truly does spend most evenings doing yoga and crocheting (two things I have never really attempted but will certainly be putting on my CV anyway) - was quite noticeably taken aback by this admission. Friday evenings will definitely find Yours Truly gobbling up hour upon hour of McDonald’s television, sighing over frou-frou concoctions of satin and lace, sometimes even (oh god….) crying when a particularly epic search finds its apotheosis in a gargantuan gown of Kardashian proportions….. Why? I am already married: I have no more use for tulle in my life! I think it’s because my all-time favourite zone-out activity (boil-the-baby hot baths with wine) can only last for so long before your skin gets all pruny. And at the end of the day I demand a prolonged sojourn to a place where no brain and no thought is required: Enter Reality TV, which extends the mind-numbing comfort of the hot bath schema, but with less damage to the skin. Also, I have to be ready with some fashion-forward choices for when Todd suggests we have a ten-year vow-renewal ceremony….

(The show is ‘Say Yes to the Dress’ by the way J)

Am I Ever Glad I Don’t Live With a Nanny-Cam…..

(From Margot’s’ days as a newborn) I don’t really know what nannies do all day with their charges, but I am entirely certain I would fail to qualify as one. Doubtless, a neurotic ideal of perfection figures largely in the job description – ever-ready with a cooing smile, a soft-yet-firm voice that is instantly obeyed, and a never-ending repertoire of games and songs – my own list of activities, however, falls somewhat short of the ideal….

Today, for example, in the dead zone of mid-day when my daughter awakes before my son and unplanned-for time must be filled, I elected to introduce Margot to intimate grooming. Not, I hasten to add, hers, but mine. I mean, come off it; we had nursed, read stories (see! Good Mom activity checked off the list!) and were both struggling with an agenda for the remaining time. So I thought (as you do), well, might be time to get out the ole’ razor and tend to the undergrowth a bit…. I mean - and this is what they don’t tell you about life with a toddler when you’re struggling with your first baby - she doesn’t yet have opinions of her own (at least, godforbid, not fully formed and highly vocal ones): As Mummy Camp Counselor, it falls entirely to me to compile our Daily Activity List. However, if I had attempted said grooming ritual with my three-year-old, I would have been swamped with a barrage of questions, not to mention flooded with my own thoughts of the possible (probable?) psychological damage I was inflicting on him… Margot, however, just widened her big, beautiful eyes with interest, as she does whenever confronted by a new piece of this zany world of ours – and there was another five minutes down of our hour alone.

And yet, it would never have passed muster under the all-seeing eye of the Nanny Cam…. Good thing I’m only her mother, then, isn’t it?!

Rock Jewelry

Above the noise of the poo-diaper change, which Margot was energetically protesting, I heard the unexpected sound of our neighbors below. Evidently, Jack had beckoned them in - hand on hip in the doorway in a manner vaguely reminiscent of the Reeperbahn - with a bellowed shout: ‘Wanna see my RockJewelry?!’ You betcha we do! RockJewelry started life as a collection of buttons…. my buttons, to be more precise… but as is the way of these things where little people are concerned, mine and thine quickly became confused, and soon Jack emerged victorious as the new possessor of my button jar. Over time, additions have been made to the collection, and now Jack has acquired quite a sizeable array of rocks, stones, jade tree leaves, some type of twig-things more commonly known as ‘dinosaur eggs’ (friend Karydis swears they are), all to be displayed, crooned over, and (if you are very lucky….) solemnly presented as a Special Gift….

Jack does actually have real toys – quite a few of them, lovingly arrayed in sustainably-sourced wooden play structures (ha ha!), all gathering a fine layer of dust – but none so beloved as things that are FREE. Which brings me to today’s conclusion and the Moral of the Story: Grandparents, take heed! Give your grandchildren a collection of pine cones and spend the money you saved on WINE for your poor, beleaguered children. Failing wine, a lovely bottle of Pimm’s will do. Please send all donations to Jack’s house, care of his parents. It will be gratefully received. Thank you.