Who's the Mummy?

The Movie Project

Back in January, I made a New Year’s Resolution. Not to go to the gym or floss more regularly or anything even remotely self-improving. No. My resolution was that in 2009 I would watch 100 movies I’ve never seen before.

We’re now just past the halfway mark, and I’m on the hunt for more movie recommendations.

I’ve made a pretty good start but I’ve fallen a little behind since April – partly because I’ve been sidelined by some TV box sets (True Blood – OMG  it’s amazing) and partly because work has been so chaotic.

I’m also a bit short on inspiration, frankly. Which is where you come in, lovely readers. What movies should I definitely see? What classics or little-known gems would you share with the world?

I’m open to most things. For context, my top three movies of all time would probably be Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Jules et Jim and Ferris Bueller. But I can’t deal with horror movies. At All.

For reference, here's my 2009 movie viewing so far:

The “loved it” list:

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
Into the Wild
Slumdog Millionaire
Coraline
Persepolis
Spellbound
Lords of Dogtown
Man on Wire
Sweeney Todd: Demon Barber of Fleet Street
Zoolander
Star Trek
The Beat that My Heart Skipped
Che Part I and II
The Girl Who Leapt Through Time
Let The Right One In
I’ve Loved You So Long (seriously, I cried for about two hours)
Napoleon Dynamite
Duck Soup
Run Lola Run
The Hangover
Thirteen

The “good but not exactly cheery” list

Changeling
The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas
Nil by Mouth
Rachel Getting Married
Saturday Night, Sunday Morning

The “not everything I hoped it might be” list:

Taxi Driver
Complete History of My Sexual Failures
Inconvenient Truth
No Way Home
Moonstruck
March of the Penguins
Il Divo
Monsoon Wedding
Run Fat Boy Run
Wall E

The “guilty pleasure” list:

Twilight
Confessions of a Shopaholic
Fast Times at Ridgemont High
17 Again
Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist
The Boat That Rocked
Son of Rambow
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
He’s Just Not That Into You
The Spiderwick Chronicles

The “There’s two hours of my life I’m never getting back” list:

Mamma Mia
Knowing (did the scriptwriter have an aneurism halfway through??)
Monsters versus Aliens (I blame Flea)
Night at the Museum
Bride Wars

I think I may be raising a bona fide musical prodigy...

We're pretty big on music in our house. In the same way I never entirely trust someone who doesn't read anything, I always think people who aren't passionate about any sort of music are probably missing a bit of their soul. I feel the same about movies, but that's probably a rant for another day.

So since she was born, Flea's been exposed to all sorts of music. She knows the lyrics to all sorts of random songs by people like BB King, The Smiths and even James Taylor, although her preference is emo rock music like Muse and Panic at the Disco. She loves anything with a loud bass or drumline, and can often be heard saying things like, "Turn it up Mummy, it's Linkin' Park!" 

I take the view that I don't mind what music she's listening to, so long as she's enjoying it - providing it's nothing offensive like kids' party CDs or Simply Red.  I've promised Flea a scaled-down guitar for her 4th birthday and a friend is going to give her some lessons.

I know it's all sort of doomed and one day Flea will consider all this music to be deeply sad and embarrassing "old person" music, but I like to think I'm giving her a good start. Don't we all?

Anyway, given this intensive musical education, it's hardly surprising that my daughter has already turned her talents to composing. Today, at an intimate gig attended by close family, Flea performed her own composition, "The Monkey Song". 

I've recorded the lyrics below for posterity and I think you'll agree, it whoops the ass of anything Dylan ever put out. Ahem:

Once upon a time there was a monkey
Uh yeah, and he was sitting in a tree.
And he saw some bananas
For lunch

Ooooh, but they were in a different tree
And he couldn't reach them
So he went swinging
Yes, he swing-ed from the tree
To the next tree

And he was swinging
Uh, to the next tree, oooh
He was swinging
A long, long, long, long, long way to the next tree

But it was the wrong tree
And then he saw another monkey
In the tree with the bananas in
And that monkey ate them all.

It's like poetry, innit?

Confessions of a neurotic mother

My name is Sally and I’m a neurotic parent. There, I’ve said it.

I torture myself on a daily basis imagining the many ways my child could die or maim herself. Not for fun – I just can’t help it.

Flea will be playing happily in her bedroom and I’ll find myself wondering what would happen if she climbed on the wardrobe and it fell on her? (it can’t, the wardrobe is fixed to the wall, but logic is no comfort to a woman in my position).

Or Flea might be scampering around the garden and I’ll wonder what would happen if she somehow opened the locked garage door, climbed on a chair and drank paint stripper – after opening the child-resistant lid, obviously.

My major paranoia is choking. Flea had a horrible choking habit as a baby, and I’ve had to tip her upside down and whack her more times than I care to remember. For medical purposes only, obviously.

I’ve taken sensible precautions. I have done two paediatric first aid courses, and I keep the instructions for helping a choking child taped to the fridge, where I see them every time I make a coffee. I’ve never met a grape I didn’t slice length-ways. Also, I've explained to Flea about the importance of small bites, chewing carefully and never eating while you're playing.

Still, I watch over Flea so carefully when she eats that she started to roll her eyes and say “I’m ONLY COUGHING” before she turned two. I just can't help but feel she’s somehow dicing with death if someone gives her a slice of apple that has skin on it.

At work today, I read a government report into accidents – how they happen, where they happen, how serious they are. You’d think the report would cheer me up. It’s full of actual facts about how unlikely these sorts of accidents are. For example, the risk of a child choking to death before their fourth birthday is only around 3 per million, while the risk of a fatal fall down a flight of stairs or from a window is actually less than one in a million. 

Good, right?

Except, did you know 900 children aged 0-4 are injured in falls from ladders EVERY YEAR? This, friends, is an injury I’d never even thought to worry about before. Although you’ve got to wonder, why would a toddler be up a ladder in the first place?

Then there’s the 1,800 children aged 0-4 who require treatment after falling over a toy in their own lounge. Who knew the lounge was such a danger zone? Or the 800 children who require treatment for poisoning each year – after eating cosmetics. God, there are so many potential things I never even knew I could obsess about, completely irrationally. 

Anyway, must dash – I need to make sure the ladders are padlocked together. Just in case.

10 interesting facts about me? No pressure, then.

The lovely Dancinfairy at A Place of My Own has taken time out from growing the Squigler to give me an award. Cripes.

At first I was insulted because I thought it was to say my blog was 'honestly crap' but when I stopped squinting it appears to be a compliment, and I'm good with those.

I now have to provide you with ten interesting facts about me. Which turns out to be harder than I thought, on account of my life being such a dizzying whirl of exciting and glamorous activities and people. Ahem.

Ah well, in no particular order, here goes:

1. When I was ten years old, I was adopted, and the judge asked me what name I'd like on my new birth certificate. On the way home I had a strop with my Mum for not telling me that the whole 'name' thing was open to negotiation, since my greatest wish EVER was to be called Steve. I suspect that's precisely why she never mentioned it.
2. My party trick is flairing. For those who didn’t spend their 20s in cocktail bars, this means I can throw and spin bottles like Tom Cruise in “Cocktail”. Although the skills are allegedly identical, I can’t juggle to save my life.
3. I forged approximately 100 absence notes during my last two years at school. When my headmistress called in my parents to expose my evil-doing, my Mum pretended she’d written them all so I wouldn’t be expelled. Thanks, Mum.
4. I locked myself out of my house the night before my wedding. At midnight, I was to be found wriggling through the newly smashed kitchen window, while my two male neighbours shoved my rear end and joined in a hearty chorus of "Here Comes the Bride". Now I think about it, my life is full of these kinds of stories - full of gravitas and dignity.
5. I can’t remember a day in my life when I didn’t read something. Books are my solace, my inspiration, my entertainment and education. I feel sorry for people who don’t have the escape route of the printed word. Imagine never having read My Family and Other Animals - it's like sunshine in paper form!
6. Even though I left two years ago, every time I drive into Brighton, it still feels like coming home. And I still cry every time I leave.
7. The first thing I said to my then husband after giving birth to Flea was, “Why are you holding that baby?” It was a confusing moment.
8. Possibly the worst idea I ever had as a student was “Hey, let’s play catch the cat”. So if you ever wonder where that scar on my right eyelid came from…
9. Before I was a journalist I worked for Greenpeace in Canada. I don’t think I’ve ever done anything more soul destroying than try and persuade people with two SUVs and a speedboat in the drive that they should care about deforestation and global warming.
10. I think there should be a whole other circle of Hell devoted to people who buy Simply Red CDs and claim to be fans of the music.  That noise? In no way should it ever be confused with ‘music’.

And I've got to tag 7 more blogs, so on the basis I'd like to know their answers I'm choosing:   Hot Cross Mum, Home Office Mum, Littlesheep Learning, Potty Diaries, Working Mum on the Verge, Sue at Positive Parents who doesn't often do personal blog posts but I'm just TOO nosy, sorry! and finally, Dulwich Divorcee.

No husband? How careless of me.

“Have you thought about your life insurance lately Mrs Whittle?” the bank teller asked me this morning.

I've got to be honest: I don't do conversation on Monday mornings. Especially not before 10am. Just give me the cash. I’ve got a decorator waiting to be paid, and I need to get to Caffe Nero before I slip into a coma.

I try not to make eye contact: “Erm, not really, but I’ve got some, thanks.”

She’s decided today is the day to bring up the possibility of my untimely death. “What if something was to happen to you or your husband?  Is your little one provided for? We’ve got some GREAT deals at the moment on critical illness.”

Oh God. She's still talking. “Well, I’ll have a look but I think the policy I have does that.”

“Do you need to discuss it with your husband?” Yeah, because obviously THAT’S what’s stopping me from taking out a new insurance policy at 9.10am on a Monday morning.

“I don’t have a husband, thanks.”

She looks at me like my dog just died. Or maybe like I just confessed to having herpes. “Oh, I am sorry.”

“Oh, that's okay, I had one, he was a bit rubbish, really.” Really, I must stop saying the first thing that pops into my head. 

She decides it would be kindest to gloss over the awkwardness I must be experiencing in confessing my single status. “Would you prefer 10s or 20s?”

Just in case you’re wondering, YES, Flea does have this t-shirt. And she’s so wearing it next time we go to the bank.

But Mummy, I am almost definitely a boy called Aiden.

When I was seven, my Mum left my Dad and took us all to Ibiza for an extended holiday. You can’t blame her – my Dad was a scout leader so poor Mum had dealt with jamboree and damp tents in random fields for 17 years by that point.

A lot of things happened on that trip – I fell out of a tree and was treated in a Spanish clinic where a nurse poured iodine over my stomach while my brother sniggered: “Oh, this is gonna hurt sooooo much” (he was soooo right). Also, we learned to ride, and dive, and we even bunked down with some 20-something football supporters when we lost our hotel room temporarily.

But all anyone ever remembers is: “Hey, wasn’t that the trip where Sally pretended she was a boy called Steve?”

Ugh. Families. Fortunately, karma being a good friend of mine, I’m now storing up a plethora of embarrassing gender-related anecdotes for Flea’s teenage years.

Last November, Flea decided she was a boy called Aiden. At first, I presumed it was just a phase – but then she started correcting me every time I forgot to call her Aiden, and she would get tearful if I called her a good girl. “But Mummy, I am almost definitely a boy!"

It’s been almost eight months now and  Flea is definitely still a boy called Aiden. Her t-shirts are adorned with robots and pirates, she will only wear boys’ shoes, and her favourite toys are knights, pirates and monsters. Occasionally, she still weeps with disappointment when she wakes up in the morning and realises she still hasn’t grown the necessary ‘boy’ anatomy. Her school uniform is the only skirt she will consent to wear. She refuses to wear pink and will occasionally consent to yellow on the basis that "boys AND girls wear yellow, don't they Mummy?"

I’m not complaining. I hate pink, and there's no room in my life for anything sparkly.  I really don’t know how I’d cope with a child who wanted to play with fairies or princesses (or, "inappropriate gender role-models", as I prefer to think of them). The health visitor who did Flea’s three year check said it’s very unusual for children to be so fixed in their pretend identities, but it’s probably just Flea’s “highly creative” version of having an imaginary friend.

But what I really love is how other kids are so accepting of Flea’s dual identity. Recently, Flea was playing with her cousin Harry and he came into the kitchen to ask for some snacks.

“Sally, can me and Flea have some biscuits?”
“Sure, help yourselves.”
“AIDEN, your Mummy said yes!”

On the bright side, my cousin's eldest daughter pretended to be a cat for a whole year. She can be seen on their wedding video, in a lovely white dress, miaowing to the congregation.

...So we sat in the house and massacred innocent civilians.

It was a quiet day in Playmobil-land. Children raced go-karts, while mothers kept a loving eye on little ones, cosied up in their prams. A friendly policeman chatted with a child, while in the background, small dogs and cats playfully chased one another.

Who'd have thought, on an ordinary day, in an ordinary town, unimaginable danger was just around the corner?

 

Yes, that is a baby the dinosaur is eating.

I can't quite decide if it's a good or a bad thing that Flea came up with this lovely tableaux without anyone else's help. The whole "people lying on the floor while police and paramedics look on helplessly" thing? All her own imagination.

(ps  we're decorating, hence the dodgy wall coverings.)

Too wet to go out, too cold to play ball....

It’s been a busy old week. I had a book deadline, plus a former client snark up (technical term) my websites. So I've been typing like mad, trying to rescue my website and attempting to disentangle myself from the client relationship with dignity intact and no bodies in the basement.

As of last night though, my website was finally unlocked, the client has been sent all the handover files, and I was looking forward to a few days off with Flea and the chap.

Except – torrential rain. Ugh.

Flea looked out of the curtains this morning as I lay in bed trying to convince her it wasn’t morning. “It’s a horrible, horrible day.” Pause. “Unless you have Wellingtons.”

So we’ll probably head out this morning for some puddle splashing but when that gets old (after about 10 minutes) we’ll be back indoors. Since Flea doesn’t watch television except for the odd movie, I’m sometimes a bit stuck for indoor activities when the weather’s bad.

Here are Flea’s top three indoor games, but I’d love your recommendations. I suspect my own childhood favourite game of “taking the mattress from Mum and Dad’s bed and riding it down the stairs” may fail 2009 health and safety standards….

Game 1: Camping.
Flea adores camping. This game involves putting lots of toys in to your backpack, and wandering round the house until you find your tent (£6, Ikea, complete bargain). Then you get into the tent and unpack your bag, and make a campfire feast. Mothers are permitted to bring sandwiches, of course.

Game 2: Drawing
Flea also likes drawing. When I say Flea likes drawing, of course what I really mean is “Flea likes to take out tubes of glitter and spread them over the dining table where, it turns out, they can only be removed by sandpaper”. Sometimes, for a change, it means "Flea likes to stick stickers to your newly sanded floorboards where they can only be removed with white spirit." I HATE drawing.

Game 3: Playmobil
Basically, Playmobil has saved my life. Flea adores Playmobil and can be entertained for an entire day by her little people. She particularly likes knights and pirates (obviously) but she also has a strange habit of taking out all the Playmobil children and one adult, and then making the adult tell every child they are very, very naughty, spanking them and sending them back to bed in the toy box. If a social worker ever sees this role play, I fear bad things might happen.

Flea's first school report: the highlights

Flea has now finished her first year at pre-school, and her teacher dropped off her file today.

This includes a regular school report. Apparently, Felicity - Flea's official name -  is a “lovely little girl who is polite and sensible at all times”.

But the file also includes dozens of Flea’s drawings together with lots of photographs the staff have taken throughout the year. Each photo is accompanied by a little anecdote to tell me what she was doing and saying at that particular moment.

It’s a really, really lovely idea – especially since if I ask Flea what she did at pre-school between the hours of 9am and 5pm the answer is usually “I can’t remember” or a detailed recollection of the lunch menu!

I thought I’d share my favourite photo and anecdote from the file.

So young to learn the harsh lesson that boys often get your hopes up, only to be distracted by something more exciting:

No, I don't want to give my child a 'head start', thanks.

When we moved to Lancashire, Flea and I signed up to a variety of activity groups, hoping to meet some other Mums and kids.

On one level it was a resounding success – we met some great Mums at swimming, and I knew I’d get along with the local vicar the moment I clapped eyes on the Photoshopped picture of him with two bikini clad vixens on his bathroom wall.

But on another level, it’s all rather depressing, isn’t it? 

“Give your child a head-start in the classroom!” chirrups one website, before moving on to a series of facts and figures about educational underachievement, with the unspoken assumption that if your child ends up with no GCSEs, shooting up heroin in a Camden bedsit, it’s probably because you didn’t do enough to nurture his pre-literacy and communication skills.

At one activity class, I watched as a group of mothers tried to keep their toddlers focused on a series of small pictures, trying to match rooms with objects, and spotting things that rhymed.

Flea, like the impeccable three year old she is, gathered up all of her pictures, announced “These are my birthday party invitations” and proceeded to ‘post them’ through an imaginary letterbox, throwing them exuberantly across the room.

When I admonished her with the words “You’ll end up at a third-rate polytechnic at this rate,” I’m not entirely sure the class leader realised I was being ironic.

When I told another class leader it wouldn’t occur to me to be impressed by a three-year-old knowing all their letters, I got a lecture about “the downward spiral of educational achievement”. Pfft.

Not that all activity classes are evil, of course. Flea and I have been swimming since she was 10 weeks old - she was about 16 weeks when the photo on this post was taken - and hand on heart, she’s had a great time and still loves swimming. But the key is that we’d go swimming even if there weren’t any ‘benefits’. It’s just fun, and we both really enjoy it.

If Flea follows my example, she’s got 17 years of full-time education to look forward to. I don't care about boosting her academic performance just yet, thanks. I care that she’s learning to sit on a big swing on her own, she’s got great manners and she can create an entire imaginary world using nothing more than a tea towel and a box of Playmobil. Oh, and she’s now able to go downstairs and get her own cereal in a cup while I stay in bed.*

What do you think? What activities have you really enjoyed with your little ones?

* ps - not really.