Oooh Christmas books down from the loft: Wibbly Pig and his itchy scarf, Angelina skating, Olivia the pig on Santa Watch. And our favourite, compulsory reading every night at the moment: Just for You, Blue Kangaroo. As delicious as mince pies and as cosy as a yule log fire. Still not quite there on the true meaning of Christmas, despite the madness of a nativity play in our living room on Monday, but I suppose there's a glimmer of hope in the message of Lily doing everything for her blue kangaroo, and him wanting to give something back in return.
Books and Christmas go together like holly and ivy. On woman's hour this week, I heard of a tradition of reading Dickens' Christmas Carol each year, starting on 1 December and finishing on Christmas Eve. That's one I mean to start next year. Move over, Wibbly ...
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
Monday, 29 November 2010
The true meaning of Christmas?
It bothers me that if you keep Christmas non-denominational you're not left with much aside from the presents.
I haven't worked out the answer to this problem yet, but when my sister suggested that, instead of drawing a Christmas card, I write a story, I thought I might give myself the challenge of coming up with something which captures what I think could be the true spirit of Christmas, without the baby Jesus.
We should take a moment here to realise that what my sister was actually saying was: face it, you can't draw, so while you might like the idea of giving your festive message the personal touch, the rest of us are wondering how we can politely not display your latest attempt at homemade greetings on the mantlepiece ...
Anyway, back to the case in hand. Walking in snowy Norfolk at the weekend, a story began to form itself in my head. (and by the way, may I add here that making up stories in your head as you walk sure beats worrying about work or Christmas shopping. From now on the moment some annoying niggle threatens to detract from a beautiful view, I shall be bopping it on the head with a 'once upon a time').
Home from work tonight just in the nick of time for a goodnight kiss and a wheedle for a story, I thought I'd road-test my new tale on my toughest critic. I won't tell it to you here - but in a nutshell I was rather chuffed with myself for using snow as a metaphor for the ephemeral nature of consumerism. But in a way I thought an almost-five-year-old might understand.
'But you can't bring snow inside mummy, it would melt. You'd have to have a very very cold room'
'Yes, yes you would. And she did. she had a very cold room'
[more story, at the end of which the snow does indeed melt]
'It's all right though because next time it snowed she'd have lots of snow again'
I'm getting the sense that my metaphor is just a little bit too subtle.
So this year, expect a card carrying the message:
Once upon a time there was a little girl who just wanted more and more stuff and refused to take no for an answer until her parents got so annoyed all they bought her for Christmas was a lump of coal. It didn't make her understand what Christmas was all about, but it made them feel better. The End.
I haven't worked out the answer to this problem yet, but when my sister suggested that, instead of drawing a Christmas card, I write a story, I thought I might give myself the challenge of coming up with something which captures what I think could be the true spirit of Christmas, without the baby Jesus.
We should take a moment here to realise that what my sister was actually saying was: face it, you can't draw, so while you might like the idea of giving your festive message the personal touch, the rest of us are wondering how we can politely not display your latest attempt at homemade greetings on the mantlepiece ...
Anyway, back to the case in hand. Walking in snowy Norfolk at the weekend, a story began to form itself in my head. (and by the way, may I add here that making up stories in your head as you walk sure beats worrying about work or Christmas shopping. From now on the moment some annoying niggle threatens to detract from a beautiful view, I shall be bopping it on the head with a 'once upon a time').
Home from work tonight just in the nick of time for a goodnight kiss and a wheedle for a story, I thought I'd road-test my new tale on my toughest critic. I won't tell it to you here - but in a nutshell I was rather chuffed with myself for using snow as a metaphor for the ephemeral nature of consumerism. But in a way I thought an almost-five-year-old might understand.
'But you can't bring snow inside mummy, it would melt. You'd have to have a very very cold room'
'Yes, yes you would. And she did. she had a very cold room'
[more story, at the end of which the snow does indeed melt]
'It's all right though because next time it snowed she'd have lots of snow again'
I'm getting the sense that my metaphor is just a little bit too subtle.
So this year, expect a card carrying the message:
Once upon a time there was a little girl who just wanted more and more stuff and refused to take no for an answer until her parents got so annoyed all they bought her for Christmas was a lump of coal. It didn't make her understand what Christmas was all about, but it made them feel better. The End.
Admire the view, and think of a story ...
Sunday, 28 November 2010
The Funniest Book in the Whole World
I love these expressions that are creeping in to our lives now school has begun. I never quite know how much little a knows what they mean.
So, apparently, John Burningham's THE SHOPPING BASKET is the funniest book in the whole world.
We did chortle a little. But we didn't laugh our heads off. It's great for quirky, gawky illustration, lots of animals and good lists of fruit for counting. We were late for bedtime tonight though, so no time for counting here. Poor old Steven had to be in quite a rush to run all those errands for his mum ...
Mainly because I did want to have time to read MADELINE.
Away for a grown-ups only break in Norfolk for the weekend, I was delighted to see Madeline nestled into a beautiful window display in the bookshop in Burnham Market to take home (middle class? moi?). I don't know why it feels like a perfect read for the time of year, especially this year when snow has fallen so early. There's nothing Christmassy about the tale, and yet it feels so wintry and festive. Perfect for tucking up warm and dreaming of Paris.
Although little a is now worried about her appendix. Let's hope that laughter is the best therapy ...
So, apparently, John Burningham's THE SHOPPING BASKET is the funniest book in the whole world.
We did chortle a little. But we didn't laugh our heads off. It's great for quirky, gawky illustration, lots of animals and good lists of fruit for counting. We were late for bedtime tonight though, so no time for counting here. Poor old Steven had to be in quite a rush to run all those errands for his mum ...
Mainly because I did want to have time to read MADELINE.
Away for a grown-ups only break in Norfolk for the weekend, I was delighted to see Madeline nestled into a beautiful window display in the bookshop in Burnham Market to take home (middle class? moi?). I don't know why it feels like a perfect read for the time of year, especially this year when snow has fallen so early. There's nothing Christmassy about the tale, and yet it feels so wintry and festive. Perfect for tucking up warm and dreaming of Paris.
Although little a is now worried about her appendix. Let's hope that laughter is the best therapy ...
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
Cat and Mouse
What is it about kids wanting to be animals? In the past week I've swung wildly between 'mummy cat' and 'owner' but the pretty constant theme is little a as kitten. This makes barking orders to stay in bed quite difficult - a bark doesn't carry so much meaning when it has to come out as a meow.
And it's added an entertaining new spin to Angelina's Royal Wedding (how apt! perhaps little a is a psychic cat! I can roll her out for the olympics now that the world cup octopus is sadly no longer with us). We still relish the twee stories and drool at the tasty wedding feast. But we also gobble up the mouselings as they prance across the page.
Most satisfying.
All together now: Meeeowp!
And it's added an entertaining new spin to Angelina's Royal Wedding (how apt! perhaps little a is a psychic cat! I can roll her out for the olympics now that the world cup octopus is sadly no longer with us). We still relish the twee stories and drool at the tasty wedding feast. But we also gobble up the mouselings as they prance across the page.
Most satisfying.
All together now: Meeeowp!
Sunday, 7 November 2010
No strings
My lovely friend Paul pulled some strings to get us tickets to see Disney on Ice at the O2 recently. Little a was transported. The princesses, of course, were a big hit - no surprises there - but the lasting favourite has been Pinocchio.
The scene didn't stand out particularly at the time, aside from the scary whale. (We're going through a bit of fear-discovery I think. She was scared by the supposedly comic opening scene with Goofy and the Zamboni - leaping into my lap, wailing and clutching at me as though Godzilla himself was stalking the blue plastic seats). Since then, though, we've been subjected to 'I've got no strings on me' played on repeat interminably.
It's maybe a price worth paying. I've been inspired to dig out the original tale and put straight my sketchy recollections of fairies, foxes and donkeys. Little a seems captivated by the idea of a boy brought to life by love. It brings out in her the same reaction as a game we used to play with a big cardboard box: a special delivery arriving on my doorstep of my very own 'real girl'. Of course Pinocchio must have been there all along in my subconscious. And it seems to me a good first introduction to the birds and the bees. Not the act of creation itself, but the feelings you hope will accompany it.
Hmmm, that's deeper than I meant to go when I started to write about this jolly song that's going to be annoyingly lodged in my head all week. But it's true. And a lesson I'm a lot more comfortable with than the 'find-a-prince-and-kill-your-stepmother' messages of most of our storytelling inheritance ...
The scene didn't stand out particularly at the time, aside from the scary whale. (We're going through a bit of fear-discovery I think. She was scared by the supposedly comic opening scene with Goofy and the Zamboni - leaping into my lap, wailing and clutching at me as though Godzilla himself was stalking the blue plastic seats). Since then, though, we've been subjected to 'I've got no strings on me' played on repeat interminably.
It's maybe a price worth paying. I've been inspired to dig out the original tale and put straight my sketchy recollections of fairies, foxes and donkeys. Little a seems captivated by the idea of a boy brought to life by love. It brings out in her the same reaction as a game we used to play with a big cardboard box: a special delivery arriving on my doorstep of my very own 'real girl'. Of course Pinocchio must have been there all along in my subconscious. And it seems to me a good first introduction to the birds and the bees. Not the act of creation itself, but the feelings you hope will accompany it.
Hmmm, that's deeper than I meant to go when I started to write about this jolly song that's going to be annoyingly lodged in my head all week. But it's true. And a lesson I'm a lot more comfortable with than the 'find-a-prince-and-kill-your-stepmother' messages of most of our storytelling inheritance ...
Bonfire night story
There once was a tiny spark born when a match was struck to light a candle.
The spark danced and spun in the candle flame and was happy. The candle burned bright on the windowsill, and the spark looked out through the window where she saw the stars twinkling and winking in the dark night sky. Burning brighter with yearning, the spark flew up up on the hot air above the candle flame, until she WHOOSHED out of the open window.
Out on the street below, she saw crowds of people walking in the cold darkness, faces bright with looking. Sparkling and shivering, she followed as the wind blew her hither and thither among the people.
They came to rest on the dark green of an open heath, and there the spark saw the biggest brightest flames she had ever seen. Burning brighter with yearning, she flew up up on the hot air above the bonfire and made a dancing whirling dervish with her new friends.
Out on the heath, both hot and cold from the fire and the night, the people raised their faces to the sky. Following where they gazed, the tiny spark saw a roaring WHOOSH of blaze and flame that burst into the darkness in a shower of sparkles bright and red and rainbow green, tumbling golden back to earth.
Burning brighter with yearning, the spark flew up up in the rocket stream and when the other sparks fell back down, she pushed on, on, reaching upwards ever upwards.
Far, far below, the tiny faces watched, bright and filled with wonder, eyes a-spark with the lateness and the heat.
Up and up the tiny spark flew, above the crackling fireworks, beyond the clouds, past the cold gaze of the moon until she came to rest in the velvet dark of the night sky.
There, she twinkles on long long long after other sparks had faded back to fire; and they named her Astrid, for that means STAR.
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
Monsters
Oh dear. What made me think a book about Monsters might make good bed-time reading?
It was the 'mythological' that did it: tapped straight in to my middle-class misconceptions that if it's inspired by Ancient Greece it must be good.
And reading it was fun. Wittily and inventively illustrated by Sara Fanelli, it got me thinking I might dig out some of the stories in full. We counted Scylla's heads, we spotted the two closed eyes of Argus, we decided that Pegasus was our favourite.
Lights out. 'Dream really happy dreams'.*
Five minutes later. 'I can't dream happy dreams I can't. I can only dream of monsters'
At least, I hear you say, she'd absorbed the lessons of the night: now she will know her harpies from her furies - her classical education has begun.
No, I'm afraid not. The monster that would stalk her dreams was tyrannosaurus rex.
Thank heaven (Zeus?) for Pegasus. 'I like horses. I like that he has wings. I like that he carries the stars. And there are children. He's my favourite'. Also, we decided, if T rex did show up (apparently being extinct doesn't count in dreams), then Pegasus could whisk her up so she could bop him on the nose (while he scrabbles widely but ineffectually with his pathetically small hands) before flying off to safety over the mountain to swim with mermaids and dolphins in a beautiful lake.
This still wasn't quite cutting the mustard (I don't like dolphins. I like mermaids though) so I laid it on thicker, with the application of a fairy godmother who would turn all the monsters into frogs (no, into butterflies - ah my daughter with her poetic soul!). And last but by no means least, the magic spotty blanket that would make them all dizzy so they'd fall over.
Brilliant. So instead of giving her a solid grounding in the classical tales, I've sent her off to the land of nod with a rattlebag of nonsense.
Ah well, whatever it takes for a good night's sleep.
It was the 'mythological' that did it: tapped straight in to my middle-class misconceptions that if it's inspired by Ancient Greece it must be good.
And reading it was fun. Wittily and inventively illustrated by Sara Fanelli, it got me thinking I might dig out some of the stories in full. We counted Scylla's heads, we spotted the two closed eyes of Argus, we decided that Pegasus was our favourite.
Lights out. 'Dream really happy dreams'.*
Five minutes later. 'I can't dream happy dreams I can't. I can only dream of monsters'
At least, I hear you say, she'd absorbed the lessons of the night: now she will know her harpies from her furies - her classical education has begun.
No, I'm afraid not. The monster that would stalk her dreams was tyrannosaurus rex.
Thank heaven (Zeus?) for Pegasus. 'I like horses. I like that he has wings. I like that he carries the stars. And there are children. He's my favourite'. Also, we decided, if T rex did show up (apparently being extinct doesn't count in dreams), then Pegasus could whisk her up so she could bop him on the nose (while he scrabbles widely but ineffectually with his pathetically small hands) before flying off to safety over the mountain to swim with mermaids and dolphins in a beautiful lake.
This still wasn't quite cutting the mustard (I don't like dolphins. I like mermaids though) so I laid it on thicker, with the application of a fairy godmother who would turn all the monsters into frogs (no, into butterflies - ah my daughter with her poetic soul!). And last but by no means least, the magic spotty blanket that would make them all dizzy so they'd fall over.
Brilliant. So instead of giving her a solid grounding in the classical tales, I've sent her off to the land of nod with a rattlebag of nonsense.
Ah well, whatever it takes for a good night's sleep.
*Charlie and Lola afficionados among you will recognise this as a quote from 'I do not ever want my teeth to fall out'. Now absorbed into our nightly lexicon ...
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