little a can read now, really quite well. But she's not devouring books, not by any stretch. And for stories at bed time, she's still going back to the old favourites. Which isn't making for a very active blog ... there's only so many times you can write about Princess Poppy (though seemingly no limit to the number of times you can read the books).
This week, though, we have a new love, and it's entirely mutual. I have been lucky enough, through work, to be given an early finished copy of the very beautiful A YEAR OF FAMILY LIFE by Doodlemum. My new heroine, the author draws a picture a day and posts it to her blog, and together they make up a lovely lovely tribute to the irresistible chaos of kids, chickens and washing machines that feels familiar even if you don't have three children or hens.
So it's going on my shelf next to Island Wife, Miranda Hart, Caitlin Moran, Gabi Hinsliffe as inspiring guide to suriving modern womanhood.
Or it would be, if little a hadn't stolen it to read by torchlight ...
Sunday, 13 January 2013
Tuesday, 10 July 2012
The Family from One End Street
oh the drama of it, as Lily Rose's hat gets washed out to sea! This is Advanced Milly Molly Mandy - a celebration of the simple family life, all mucking in together, not much room or money but happy in the good fortune of having each other.
Love it.
And tonight - what a cliffhanger! Will Jim Ruggles ever escape from his drainpipe, or will he be whisked off to foreign parts in the belly of a big ship? Agog we are, I tells you, agog.
Love it.
And tonight - what a cliffhanger! Will Jim Ruggles ever escape from his drainpipe, or will he be whisked off to foreign parts in the belly of a big ship? Agog we are, I tells you, agog.
Wednesday, 13 June 2012
Dr Dolittle
little A came back from a couple of days with Grandma and Grandpa clutching my old copy of DR DOLITTLE. Bliss! for the first time, she is really truly captured by a full length book and wanting to keep on till the end. I'm sad to say that not even Roald Dahl has had this effect until now.
It's not without its problems though. Hugh Lofting was very much a man of his time and I'm afraid I've found myself skipping over some deeply unfortunate passages. I do wonder if modern editions have excised the dodgy attitudes to people of other nations? At first I took my lead from Mrs Winterson (oh do read WHY BE HAPPY WHEN YOU CAN BE NORMAL? if you haven't already, and you'll understand this reference) and tried to rewrite extempore but it turns out I lack her talent and after a couple of attempts at substituting the word 'white' with 'fine' in the sentence 'I wish I could be a fine prince' I floundered at the relentlessness of it all and just skipped a chunk of pages with no regard for plot.
That aside, what I hadn't appreciated in Hugh Lofting the first time round is that he's a rather beautiful writer. Tonight's adventures involved Jip the dog sniffing the four winds of the world in search of a sailor, and a boat with silken beds. His imagination is a joy to get lost in.
You can tell how much I'm enjoying it - it's inspired me back on here. The long silence has been filled with endless re-readings of Ivy and Bean and some well-loved picture book favourites. I fret sometimes that while her friends have started avidly devouring chapter books, little a is not yet a fan of reading herself. But perhaps we both are clinging to this special time of reading and being read to.
And with my father now introducing my daughter to the books he shared with me as a child, I'm revelling in the sense of stories which will go on being told forever, and loving reliving the magic of the pushmipulyu.
It's not without its problems though. Hugh Lofting was very much a man of his time and I'm afraid I've found myself skipping over some deeply unfortunate passages. I do wonder if modern editions have excised the dodgy attitudes to people of other nations? At first I took my lead from Mrs Winterson (oh do read WHY BE HAPPY WHEN YOU CAN BE NORMAL? if you haven't already, and you'll understand this reference) and tried to rewrite extempore but it turns out I lack her talent and after a couple of attempts at substituting the word 'white' with 'fine' in the sentence 'I wish I could be a fine prince' I floundered at the relentlessness of it all and just skipped a chunk of pages with no regard for plot.
That aside, what I hadn't appreciated in Hugh Lofting the first time round is that he's a rather beautiful writer. Tonight's adventures involved Jip the dog sniffing the four winds of the world in search of a sailor, and a boat with silken beds. His imagination is a joy to get lost in.
You can tell how much I'm enjoying it - it's inspired me back on here. The long silence has been filled with endless re-readings of Ivy and Bean and some well-loved picture book favourites. I fret sometimes that while her friends have started avidly devouring chapter books, little a is not yet a fan of reading herself. But perhaps we both are clinging to this special time of reading and being read to.
And with my father now introducing my daughter to the books he shared with me as a child, I'm revelling in the sense of stories which will go on being told forever, and loving reliving the magic of the pushmipulyu.
Sunday, 27 November 2011
Homework serendipity
The very day I'd picked up a leaflet for Greenwich Theatre Festival and seen with a pang that there's a puppet show of The Velveteen Rabbit, Little A came home with a project to find a story about toys, and draw a character from it.
The Velveteen Rabbit is one of my favourite children's books, but Little A has never been interested, which made me sad. This Friday, though, all because of homework, we spent a happy hour curled up on the sofa under a fleecy blanket, reading the story of the rabbit who was loved so much by his boy that he became Real. Little A clutched her own beloved toy rabbit, who peeked over the edge of the book and is surely destined to be hopping through meadows herself one day.
Happy hoppy happy.
PS also discovered through homework this week The Magic Paint Brush by Julia Donaldson. She is a complete genius.
Saturday, 8 October 2011
Appy ever after
That's it. My work is officially done. I've been replaced by an iphone.
As I write this, little a is having her bedtime story read to her not by a doting auntie, fithusband or grandma, but at the touch of a button on the 3-D fairy tale that is nosy crow's Three Little Pigs app.
I haven't even recorded a personalised voiceover, which I believe is the ultra modern act of love from absentee parents.
Is that it, then? have I completely sold out?
We didn't have a television at all when I was growing up, there's a lingering part of me that sees them as the ultimate decadent corruption and I have equally ambivalent feelings towards the computer: lured by the bright entertaining fun of it all but guilty that I don't have to put in much work.
But the pictures in these apps are as charming as any story-book, and in many ways it's a calmer more child-centred experience than me galloping through some hideous pink fairy book with my teeth gritted. Isn't it?
Now all we need is an app that will get out of bed at hideous times of the night to scare off monsters and we'll truly be ready to retire.
As I write this, little a is having her bedtime story read to her not by a doting auntie, fithusband or grandma, but at the touch of a button on the 3-D fairy tale that is nosy crow's Three Little Pigs app.
I haven't even recorded a personalised voiceover, which I believe is the ultra modern act of love from absentee parents.
Is that it, then? have I completely sold out?
We didn't have a television at all when I was growing up, there's a lingering part of me that sees them as the ultimate decadent corruption and I have equally ambivalent feelings towards the computer: lured by the bright entertaining fun of it all but guilty that I don't have to put in much work.
But the pictures in these apps are as charming as any story-book, and in many ways it's a calmer more child-centred experience than me galloping through some hideous pink fairy book with my teeth gritted. Isn't it?
Now all we need is an app that will get out of bed at hideous times of the night to scare off monsters and we'll truly be ready to retire.
Saturday, 24 September 2011
Mr Nosy
Don't you love other people's book collections? Especially their children's books: full of old, familiar but forgotten faces, and some new ones that you otherwise would never have found.
We've just had two weeks of blissful quality time, not only with each other but with friends. And with friends, and their children, come a host of new stories. THE GIANT JAM SANDWICH, one of those delights which little a knows and loves from school but we don't have at home. And TIDDLER, a new Julia Donaldson with plenty of opportunities for audience participation (Tiddler? Tiddler? TIDDLER'S LATE!!!) And best of all, the chance to nose around in a friend's childhood library: lots of Miffys we haven't had before, and PIPPIN AND POD what naughty mice.
Now I can't decide whether we should have those books in our library, or keep them as treats when we get to nose around othere people's houses. Because I find books bring you memories - of where you were when you read them, or first read them. So maybe the Giant Jam Sandwich will always evoke a window seat in Lyme Regis for all of us, and that's something I'd love as much as it becoming part of the fabric of little a's childhood.
We've just had two weeks of blissful quality time, not only with each other but with friends. And with friends, and their children, come a host of new stories. THE GIANT JAM SANDWICH, one of those delights which little a knows and loves from school but we don't have at home. And TIDDLER, a new Julia Donaldson with plenty of opportunities for audience participation (Tiddler? Tiddler? TIDDLER'S LATE!!!) And best of all, the chance to nose around in a friend's childhood library: lots of Miffys we haven't had before, and PIPPIN AND POD what naughty mice.
Now I can't decide whether we should have those books in our library, or keep them as treats when we get to nose around othere people's houses. Because I find books bring you memories - of where you were when you read them, or first read them. So maybe the Giant Jam Sandwich will always evoke a window seat in Lyme Regis for all of us, and that's something I'd love as much as it becoming part of the fabric of little a's childhood.
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
Truth is scarier than fiction
I've just come back down from comforting little a, too scared to fall asleep. That's not unusual. She has a low fear threshold, my daughter. What is unusual is that tonight her fears were completely founded in reality. Usually, we spend a hearty five minutes bopping imaginary monsters, dragons and storybook burglars on the nose. I can promise her that bad earthquakes don't happen in this country, and it's really unlikely that we'll get hit by lightning. But tonight, when she told me she'd overheard the bigger girls talking about 'scary things' I didn't have the answers. She's starting to be that age where she understands, but doesn't quite. And part of me wants to protect her from every bad thing in the world, from even knowing that there are bad things. But a much bigger part wants her to grow up tough. I want her to be Pippi Longstocking: strong and free and kind (and if at all possible, with a large bag of gold coins ...)
So doesn't she need to know about the bad things then? So that she can learn to stand up to them? But how do I tell her and still let her sleep at night? How do I explain the riots when I don't really understand them or know what I think myself? I found myself telling her we'd be safe because we didn't have trainers, or a shop that sold flatscreen TVs. That we were on the top of a hill and lived on a quiet street. But I knew how tenuous my arguments were, because I've just spent three days watching reports of the weirdest and most arbitrary, unpredictable and, yes, scary, things that people do.
I think a lot about the stories we tell our children. I wonder why we value stories so much. I wonder why, in the attempts to understand the riots, so many seem to feel that if only we could teach every child to read, they would be okay. Is that really true? or is it that reading to your child is an act of love, because it takes time and togetherness, and what all children need most of all is to be loved?
Obviously, I like to tell myself that in reading her stories, I'm not telling her lies about the world, but showing her truths. But part of me thinks I'm just weaving that web of cotton wool even thicker. I'm wrapping us both in the cocoon of a world with cats named Mog and tigers who come to tea, where the goodies and baddies are as easy to tell apart as fairies and witches. And of course it's all middle middle class and a world away from the real baddies who aren't so much bad as bored or jealous or angry.
I do want her to learn the difference. Just maybe not yet.
So doesn't she need to know about the bad things then? So that she can learn to stand up to them? But how do I tell her and still let her sleep at night? How do I explain the riots when I don't really understand them or know what I think myself? I found myself telling her we'd be safe because we didn't have trainers, or a shop that sold flatscreen TVs. That we were on the top of a hill and lived on a quiet street. But I knew how tenuous my arguments were, because I've just spent three days watching reports of the weirdest and most arbitrary, unpredictable and, yes, scary, things that people do.
I think a lot about the stories we tell our children. I wonder why we value stories so much. I wonder why, in the attempts to understand the riots, so many seem to feel that if only we could teach every child to read, they would be okay. Is that really true? or is it that reading to your child is an act of love, because it takes time and togetherness, and what all children need most of all is to be loved?
Obviously, I like to tell myself that in reading her stories, I'm not telling her lies about the world, but showing her truths. But part of me thinks I'm just weaving that web of cotton wool even thicker. I'm wrapping us both in the cocoon of a world with cats named Mog and tigers who come to tea, where the goodies and baddies are as easy to tell apart as fairies and witches. And of course it's all middle middle class and a world away from the real baddies who aren't so much bad as bored or jealous or angry.
I do want her to learn the difference. Just maybe not yet.
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