THE CHRISTENING

The Baby was christened on Sunday.  The weather was fantastic and he behaved beautifully.  Husband made a cake and also decorated some cup cakes I had made: his years of painting lead figures have come to fruition in cake decoration.

The Baby looked lovely in a John Lewis cream linen trousers and shirt and pale blue tank top.  I'm not usually very keen on tank tops but babies and children can get away with all sorts of sartorial weirdness which the rest of us can't.  Daughter has been known to wear strange combinations of red and pink, leggings, shorts and skirts... her lack of self-consciousness is rather appealing and I wish I had the confidence to wear whatever I loved in my wardrobe in the morning when I woke up.  I guess it wouldn't have helped career-wise though.

Following the service at Hayton Church people came back for cake and fizzy wine followed by a barbecue.  It was the first time we've ever had the weather to have a party in our garden: and also the first time we've had a large enough lawn, now the new lawn is more-or-less established and most evidence of the pond has been destroyed.  The one indicator remaining  is that the grass is particularly verdant in the rough area of the former pond hole, due to the fact that we used it as a compost heap for some time and then burnt everything.

The service was perfect as well.  Edward the vicar gave a sermon about children, and how they are not the extremes of the devil incarnate whose wills must be subdued nor are they perfect little angels.  I hope and think that I have never expected either extreme from my children: I've always thought it was rather sad when people talk about newborn babies being manipulative, for example.  They do what comes naturally in order for them to get their needs fulfilled.  I'm also very conscious of not wanting to break their wills: sometimes it feels as if I'm trying to do so with Daughter as she can be so very strong-willed and at times persistently and deliberately disobedient, but I love her spirit and her independence and only hope I can bring her up to channel that correctly and in such a way that she retains her incredible sense of self-worth.  As one of the Mums at school said once, the things that drive you up the wall most about your children are also characteristics that you would not wish to change.

The day felt as if it was a way of welcoming the Baby formally to the world, and at 6 months at an age where he had some appreciation that something special was going on.  He laughed when the Vicar splashed his head with the water and was generally happy.  I think he knew that all this fuss and all these people were here to see him.  As one of his godmothers said, he was a star.  I felt very proud and very happy.

As Scotland Nanny and Grandad then stayed on, after school on Monday we all went down to the River Irthing at Lanercost with a picnic tea and the dingy.  The older two children had a fantastic time rowing upriver with Grandad and splashing around in the water.  The temperature got up to 28 degrees (centigrade): very hot for Cumbria and in fact a bit too hot for the Baby at times.  But the warm sunny weather meant that the whole extended weekend felt like a holiday.  Back to job-hunting and trying to create some work for myself now!

AM I A DOMESTIC GODDESS?

The word 'goddess' implies, when used in Nigella's 'domestic goddess' context, an attractive woman who can juggle family and home - and probably a job as well - in a well-organised rather enviable way: baking sublime cakes as her children traipse in through the door wet and covered in mud, whisking their wet clothes off into the washing machine before they have a chance to whinge and get cold, and calmly mopping the mud off the floor, whilst the entire time looking unruffled, well-dressed and perfectly made up.

If that is a domestic goddess than I am definitely not one.  However I do not consider myself an Earth Mother either (there is something rather hippyish and muddy about an Earth Mother to my mind and I don't dress like the former though mud and I are no strangers) and there are definitely days when I feel like a Drudge; when the hours from first waking to going to bed seem to be filled only with doing domestic tasks of one type or another, and usually for other people's benefit and to fit in with their timetables and demands.  But there are also those days when I feel that I have achieved something in the domestic arena and feel a little like a demi-goddess at least.

For example today I made ham soup from a ham bone which Husband had picked up from Cranstons and put in the freezer either for soup or for the ferrets (I hasten to add that it was good quality ham and the ferrets are spoilt); mango and strawberry ice cream as a house-warming present for Post-Natal Friend E. (the one I met at baby massage); and pear and blueberry puree for the Baby (yesterday I made him parsnip puree and also pear and mango puree).  Nothing was particularly difficult and I had thought of making oat cakes and flapjacks as well but those have not been achieved yet.  Today, after all this cooking, I was feeling distinctly chilled and domestic goddess-ish.

This is despite the fact that the house is only partially decorated and the carpet in the dining room in particular is a mess, and the garden is getting more overrun by weeds by the day.  Indoors my tomato plants don't look too happy but outdoors my roses are coming into bud and mostly look great, though one has some black blotches on its older leaves, which I don't think is too good a sign.

On the Baby front I've had mixed success as I gave him Strawberry, Banana and Blueberry puree yesterday and he was very unhappy all day and vomited most of it back up: I think the strawberries gave him tummy ache.  Would a Domestic Goddess have made a similar mistake or would she have known instinctively that Strawberry puree would not suit the Baby?

A Domestic Goddess would doubtless juggle French lessons, singing lessons, various lessons for children and all her volunteering responsibilities with ease but I have just given up my French lessons as I wasn't getting time to do any practice: but I did do some singing practice yesterday.  I also feel that I've done quite a bit for the Lanercost Festival, especially in terms of publicity but this is something else I am probably going to give up as I want to apply to be on the Board of Trustees for Tullie House Museum and I also need to get a job and if I'm working I think Lanercost will take up too much time.

The problem is one of time, and a text conversation with a friend earlier highlighted this.  She said that as your children get older you actually have less time, not more.  I have mixed feelings about this: life felt as if it was going to be easier with the older children at school, but of course I never really got to find out although being pregnant with them at school permitted more time than now the Baby is here.  The Baby, being at the rolling-over-but-not-getting-any-further stage is now more demanding than when he was newborn in that he is getting frustrated and bored and needs picking up and cuddling and moving somewhere else until he gets bored of his new position and then needs moving again.  He is also still eating almost every couple of hours, although the quantity is reducing so he may be going to get taller and a bit slimmer at last: particularly if he manages to start crawling within the next couple of months.  And of course once he's crawling I am not going to be able to take my eyes off him, so the chances of doing much other than when he's asleep will reduce still further.  I don't regret this as I love watching him develop, but it means my opportunities for proof-reading things, answering emails, doing singing practice, writing articles, and applying for jobs will be more limited.

Husband asked rhetorically this morning where the baby who was Oldest Son had gone.   It seems, in some ways, such a short time since he was born, and certainly having another baby makes me reminisce about Oldest Son and Daughter as babies: but on the other hand I love watching them as they are.  Again, this text conversation with my friend made me think of what I'm proud of them for.  It's so easy to be aware of, and driven up the wall by, their failings - which are often characteristics you wouldn't dream of changing - but sometimes I think we need to step back and consider what we are proud of our children for.

I am proud of Oldest Son because he has a lovely nature.  He is kind, considerate and good at sharing, and can come out with some quite perceptive and sensitive comments about other people.  He is also good at drawing and far braver on his bike off-road than I ever was.

I am proud of Daughter's exuberant, brilliant personality.  She is a brainbox but in a very down to earth way: learning things and studying or doing 'homework' is not hard work to her but just something she enjoys doing, and combined with that she has amazing confidence.  I am also proud of her nearly swimming without armbands and of the way she keeps going when we go out on the tag-along, and chats away.

I am proud of the Baby because he is so happy and because he so often charms other people.  His smile lights up his whole face and happiness spreads to everyone else as well: even more so his giggle.  He appears to be quite a pickle and to have a good sense of humour.  I am also proud of the fact that he seems to be strong and is now enjoying trying to stand up (when held): in fact quite often now he objects if you try to keep him sitting on your knees.

They were all worth having though I have to admit the times when I feel like a Drudge (rather than a Domestic Goddess), I wish I had a job and could escape for a bit: and then afford to pay someone to undertake some of the domestic drudgery.

Do Domestic Goddesses really look glamorous?  Nigella seems to imply that they do but I've always preferred the rather more down-to-earth goddesses, as in the Greek and Roman myths, who fought each other for their men or who were fallible enough to fall for mortal men.  I'm not sure that all of them would have worn full make-up every day: they were far too busy rushing around and stirring things up.  And I'm sure that also by the time they had had 3 children they would have had a bit of a tummy on them.

My tummy still has not shifted - not surprisingly - but Post Natal Friend E. did comment this week that your body has a memory, and by Baby no.3 finds it easy to remember being pregnant.  So this morning I woke up determined that I shall think about my 40-year-old triathlete's body instead, and make my body remember that, in the hope that I shall get it back into a shape approaching the one it had on my 40th birthday without too much work.  Doing some exercise would help though...

SINGING FOR JOY!

I did a new piece at my singing lesson this evening.  I was particularly pleased because I sight-sang it quite well (my teacher was impressed but so was I!), but also it was a piece I immediately liked and will now consider for my Grade 8 exam.

I was driving home debating in my mind what doing a new piece of music is like.  Initially I thought it was like starting a new exercise book at school (do children still use exercise books nowadays or is it all loose-leaf printouts from the internet and virtual essays?).  I remember the excitement of the smooth unspoilt cover and the pristine white pages, all waiting to be written on.  There was a sense of anticipation: what pearls of wisdom, imaginative stories or brilliant pieces of work were going to fill these pages?

However the exercise books all too quickly would grow dog-earred around the corners, the cover would get torn and scuffed and doodled on, and the inner pages would become rough and bumpy from the indentations of all that writing.  A piece of music doesn't become like that: or rather, the manuscript may as you work on it in more detail and put your own personal comments, reminders and notation on it (slow up here.... crescendo there.... keep that note light.... watch that vowel sound.... that's a sharp not a natural....), but the music itself, if any good, remains divine and familiarity, rather than breeding contempt, often breeds more awareness of the detail and awe for the skill of the composer.  The performer or listener may become more comfortable with the piece and may temporarily grow tired of it if heard or performed too much: but after that follows the pleasure of going back to the piece many weeks, months or even years later, to rediscover it and realise that although you still know it well, there are more jewels to discover.

I have no idea whether the piece I first sang today will be one of those that lasts the test of time for me.  I rather suspect it will as it comes from an anthology of songs and arias of which I never grow tired, Twenty-Four Songs and Arias of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries: a fundamental song book for nearly all singers I should think, with a well-chosen selection of pieces.  My very first singing piece came from there and I still know it and enjoy singing it today, finding something different to consider every time I sing it, even if it is only to myself.

That is, of course, also the delight of live performing.  Human beings rarely achieve perfection, especially ones with only the small talent I have (as opposed to those who are incredibly gifted and talented, though even those sometimes make mistakes), and when performing live you can always wish you had done something differently or better.  But isn't that great: it means there is always something you can strive for, and so long as you feel your performance was good then at least you don't need to beat yourself up about it either.

I'm currently working on my song selection for a demo CD I'm going to make.  My teacher asked who I was aiming it at: the answer is I don't know, but if even one or two people engage me and pay me to sing I will be overjoyed, and all my years of feeling a failure when I was at University should be finally put to rest.

HEATWAVE!

My memory of summers as a child is of my mother sunbathing religiously and my sister and I playing in the paddling pool.  There was one summer when I read 4 books in one day and got told off for not going outside more but generally summers seemed to last forever and to be sunny day after day.

In my 20s and 30s, living in London, I loved the hot summer weather despite the sweltering tube lines and pollution if you were cycling or walking around.  Life happened down by the river after work where people stood outside wine bars in the warm weather until it grew dark; the South Bank was a magical place of music and entertainment, close enough to Waterloo or Charing Cross station to stagger to get a train home once it grew cooler.  Frequently I got sunburnt: lazing around at friends' houses or out cycling, careless about suntan lotion and keen to go brown.  I only ever burnt once a year (even that seems too much now) and would then just turn brown.

Working in France in 1994 I would be out cycling or walking on the hottest of days, loving the heat.  I remember getting out of the car at the supermarket in Perpignan to be hit by a blast of hot air like walking into an oven: I think it was about 40 degrees that day and the temperature was regularly in the mid-30s.  Down by the coast there was a sea breeze to cool things; up in the mountains the mountain breezes; but they didn't stop the colleague I was working with and me developing tans which made us look like locals.

And then I got pregnant with Oldest Son in 2003 and the UK had one of the hottest summers on record.  Husband and I were in Sherborne when I was about 4 months pregnant the day that the temperature hit 40 degrees C at Heathrow: I was glad I wasn't more heavily pregnant.  I felt uncomfortably warm and heavy.  Sadly, in a way, I've never enjoyed hot weather so much since and so when my Mother in Law wondered if, as a Southerner, I'd find Cumbria a bit cold, I thought it unlikely.  In the May half term last year (2010) we spent a hot day in Keswick: even at 2 months pregnant I found it uncomfortable and just wanted to sit down in the shade somewhere (I wonder if I wrote about that in this blog?).  So the past two days of this year's May half term, when the temperature has risen to about 27 degrees, I have understood the baby's discomfort.  Both nights he couldn't settle to sleep until about 9p.m., which is most unlike him: today, when the temperature has dropped significantly, he was asleep at just gone 7.30p.m.  I'm happy to see the sun but I have to admit that the slightly lower temperature is more to my taste nowadays.  I find it difficult to believe that I went running when on holiday in Greece one year: although I never went very far. 

Maybe my favourite weather, at least in terms of activity, is in fact when there is a thick layer of fresh snow on the ground, blue skies and the sun is out: you can wrap up warmly to suit whatever you're doing, and going running means putting on plenty of layers in the hope that you may be able to take some off rather than feeling too hot before you even start.

However, I like all weathers in Cumbria.  Living in the country I am far more conscious of the changes in the seasons, even within the seasons, than I ever was when I lived in the city.  Life seems to spring from all corners and in a crazy way I'm not surprised I got pregnant when I didn't expect to.  I just wish there was some way of making the weeds less fertile!

GOING AWAY FROM AND COMING BACK TO CUMBRIA

I have two friends whom I have known since University.  I have celebrated - or not - turning 21, 30, 40 and this year 50 - with them both: I am a godmother to the younger son of one and the older son of the other; one is a godmother to my oldest son and the other a godmother to my daughter.  I don't see them that often and sometimes don't even communicate with them that frequently, but they are there, part of my life, and important to me.

So I make the effort to attend events which matter to them and they do the same for me.  This meant that this weekend I travelled down to just north of Cambridge for the 50th birthday party of Longtime Friend C.  Oldest Son had decided to come with me, which was nice because he was company to me on the trip which was 256 miles in each direction, and because he saw his godmother and was looked after by her two sons, both of whom he liked (so did I: I'm not one of those people who automatically likes the children of my friends but I do like these two).

However being a long distance and a night away from the Baby (in particular), Husband and Daughter, plus having a late night and a few more glasses of wine than I might normally have imbibed, got me into a philosophical mood - especially at 1 a.m. last night when I couldn't get to sleep!  I think there were 3 main trains of thought I started following.

Firstly, it was lovely to see my friend and her family, and indeed to catch up with other friends of hers, some of whom I probably haven't seen for somewhere between 5 and 10 years.  One hit the nail on the head when she commented on what a decade we've had: she turns 50 in July but like me had her children only once she was into her 40s.  But the best bit of the weekend was just seeing my friend and her family and catching up on what she's been up to.  Whilst the bare bones of what's happening can be laid out in an email or phone call, as can even the fundamental feelings of the time, the detail tends only to be discussed when you're sitting face-to-face and having a cup of tea or glass of wine, or going for a walk - and also perhaps have had time to reflect on things a bit as well.  So in fact whilst the party was an enormously enjoyable highlight for my friend, if I'm totally honest I would have enjoyed the weekend more if I'd just been able to see her and chat to her.  Don't get me wrong: I still fully intend to have a big 50th party myself and I hope all my long-term not-seen-very-often friends will make the effort to be there, but I'm conscious that whilst they may enjoy the party I shall probably enjoy it far more.  And after all that's how it should be: I was there yesterday to help my friend celebrate and have a fantastic time, not to please myself. 

However (and partly as I know she sometimes reads my blog), don't go thinking that I didn't enjoy myself, as I did - and in fact the other thing is that because I was on my own I did miss my children and husband.  After all, when you have a newish baby you want to show him off, and also I was worried about whether Oldest Son was enjoying himself left with a babysitter and two boys who were older and relative strangers just a few miles up the road.  I still can't quite work out whether he was happy or not as he'd been writing 'I miss Mummy and Daddy' in his book but then sent a text to his Dad this morning saying he had a great time, and was also loathe to come home as he wanted to stay and play!

It was great crossing the Cumbrian border high up along the A66 and almost immediately having a wide vista across to the Lake District in the distance.  We were home, even though there was another hour's drive ahead of us as Cumbria is such a big county and we're right up at the top.

How I felt about the party also made me question whether dashing off all over the country to parties is really what I want to do.  The other Longterm Friend I mentioned earlier is 50 in November, and her party is during termtime: I do very much want to go for the same reasons I went this weekend.  But other friends, such as an ante-natal friend in Bristol who is having a 40th this year, I wonder about.  It would be lovely to see my ante-natal 'bunch' but many of them don't make much effort to stay in touch with me, and in fact I think I'd rather spend a week down in the Bristol area - perhaps staying with my parents in the summer holidays - and catch up with them in a slightly more leisurely environment, where there is a chance to chat properly and where I'm just with people I know.  That makes me sound a bit anti-social perhaps but I've never liked large parties where I don't know people: a dinner party is a different kettle of fish.  It's not that I'm in the slightest bit scared of meeting people I don't know: I'd just rather do so in a setting where it's rather easier to talk, and also if I'm travelling a long way I want to talk to the people I know rather than have to shout at them or try to make small talk with people who I meet that evening and may possibly never see again.

A rather nice conclusion of the weekend was how much I love my family: I mean Husband, Baby, Older Son and Daughter.  My friends have always been important to me and at one point where absolutely key in giving me support and affection: things I didn't feel I had within me and things which I didn't feel I'd got from my upbringing.  As I turned 40 I felt more self-confident than I had since being a child (and I do feel our basic nature, how we are as children, is our true self and what we ultimately return to after the experiments of teens and twenties and in my case thirties), but Husband and children and the move to Cumbria have boosted that further.  I wonder sometimes whether if I had remained single after 40, my confidence would have continued and increased in the same way, or whether I would have reverted to being a bit screwed-up.  At a friend's wedding years ago there was a brilliant sermon in which the priest said that marriage is about giving each other support and helping make up for the weaknesses in each other: well, whilst I don't adhere to the 'other half' theory (I'm quite whole on my own, thank you), I do think that my Husband has helped fulfil me in ways that perhaps wouldn't have happened if I had remained single.  But as I shall never know I don't tend to dwell on it!

That point in a sense brings me on to my final thought, or at least the only remaining one I can now remember.  And that is that I think I am mentally healthier because I am living in the present more: I think that is one of the gifts which babies and children bring with them.  In a way it's a problem because in the middle of August my income will reduce so that I have only £190 per calendar month to spend, and in January it will reduce further when the Child Tax Credits go down when the Baby turns one.  I should be worried about our future finances but somehow I don't seem to be able to motivate myself to get desperate, which means I'm not actually doing all that much about finding work!  I seem to be going along assuming that everything will be OK and that something will turn up from somewhere, which is somewhat naive in many ways: except that I'm trying to arrange to get some demo discs made, I do keep trying to get articles sold, I'm trying to motivate myself to do an aerobic class, and I've got a job interview coming up.... I'm not doing nothing but if I were single I'd be doing an awful lot more.  But again, as someone said at the party yesterday, whilst I've got less money, we also need less money living where we do.  In fact if I could earn even £100 per week (with no childcare costs), and if we sold one car, we'd be fine for a while.  No foreign holidays - and I do miss skiing - and no pension pot, but for a few years we'd be able to buy birthday presents for other people and new shoes for the children, and pay for swimming lessons (for example).  And again, recently a couple of people have commented on life in large cities for children.  They end up doing a different activity after school almost every day, and seem to be under constant pressure to perform and to learn: and I know if I lived in a city I would be one of those mothers who wanted my little darlings to be accomplished in foreign languages, music, dancing, acting, riding, swimming and various sports from an early age..... up here they get swimming lessons every-so-often and otherwise we're out walking or on bikes if the weather's fine.

I'm not sure whose children will achieve more in life: I'm not sure which is the best way (as they are, after all, little sponges): but I love living up here and whilst I wish I could afford to pay for a few more things for my children, I believe they are happy.  And as I've said many times before, if I can bring up my children to be happy, confident adults then I will have succeeded: and if I have good relationships with them that will be better still.

MEN, DALEMAIN AND CONTRACEPTION (BUT NOT NECESSARILY IN THAT ORDER)

Hooray!  I can access my blog again!  It had gone through a phase of not asking me for my password, so then one day when it did ask me I had forgotten - only, once I had changed the password, not to let me in but just to go round in a loop and back to the sign in screen.  I had visions of all my hard work (ha!) over the last year+ just vanishing into virtual air (or even indeed into the real air).  But here I am.

I had a Board meeting this evening and came in to find all the children tucked up snugly in bed and asleep and Husband watching TV.  The fact that the children were in bed asleep was Very Good.  What was not so impressive were the dirty (and in some cases clean) clothes strewn around the floors and the kitchen still in a mess: having said that, I was happy to get on with that as Husband said he'd do the ironing.  So I got on with the Baby's bottles, hanging up the washing and putting the next load on, sorting out which clothes were dry... etc.  Husband asked why I didn't go and watch TV with him (it was that interesting series about the human body) and my reply was that I had too much I wanted to get done before I went to bed.  He also said he'd go up into the loft to get a mouse costume down for Daughter to wear to school tomorrow....

About 20 minutes later I had finished my jobs and wondered why I hadn't heard him go up into the loft.  I approached the TV room and noticed that the Human Body programme had finished.  I then noticed that Husband was sound asleep, fully dressed, on the sofa.  Hey ho!  He had been complaining that his eyes felt itchy and that he felt as if he was going down with a cold, but a woman would have carried on and done all her tasks anyway.... wouldn't she?  I remember the time I had chicken pox and still had the children and my parents to look after...

It's not a major complaint but it would be interesting to hear other people's views on the subject.  I do feel that men don't really pull their weight on the household front, sometimes just because they don't notice and/or don't care.

What I have found this week is that I haven't done half the things I meant to, principally in terms of trying to drum up some work.  The Baby rolled over on to his front today (at one day short of 21 weeks - the others were 12 weeks and 17 weeks when they did so, so he's slow compared with them but also been sitting in a chair more than they did I think).  That was a very exciting first and I'm now just waiting for him to repeat it, but the downside of his being more active and alert is of course that I end up playing with him more.  I am enjoying him so much though, and I don't want to miss out on anything.  I've also found emotionally this time that I don't really want to hand him over to anyone else to look after, so I really do need to drum up some of that freelance work.  Maybe I'd cope with one day in nursery if I could get a job which paid me incredibly well for one day per week's work!  Perhaps I could even commute to London one day a week... though of course the cost of travelling down there would need to be covered as well, so I'd probably want to earn about £400 for that day's work.  Not far off what some consultants earn but they generally work full-time.

We definitely cannot afford any more children, even if we thought it was worth taking the risks of having more.  I was therefore a little concerned when, having gone for a coil fitting the other day, I found that even the expert at the Family Planning Clinic said she couldn't get one in.  So it's back to the pill - and her advice was that I should stay on it until I'm 55 by which time I 'should' have gone through the menopause, even if I haven't been aware of doing so.  Great!  No guarantee that I will have done and the last thing I want is a baby when I'm aged 55.  A 20-year old at 69/70 is one thing as he'll virtually be a grown-up, but a 15/16 year old would be awful.  So I shall pester the Doctors when I'm about 53 to do one of those hormone test things they can do, and to repeat it each year until they can be certain I'm no longer fertile.  I shouldn't complain as many women would love to be so easily fertile so old, but it's a bit of a mixed blessing.

Not that I would be without no.3 for the world.  He's such a gorgeous and giggly baby.  I was standing on the doorstep talking to one of Older Son's friend's Mums yesterday and the Baby just started giggling: it got us both laughing, it was so infectious.  He was then doing the same with my French teacher this morning during my lesson.  We saw Godmother L. on Sunday - we went to Dalemain - and she is definitely smitten.  She's going to make an excellent godparent because she loves him so much - and also because she's the type of person who makes the effort to stay in touch with people.

Dalemain was interesting not only for itself but for what it made me think about stately homes generally.  For years now I've thought that National Trust properties all get a bit boring after a while, unless they have something special about them (for example, Cragside in Northumberland was fascinating; Lanhydrock in Cornwall has the most fantastic gardens and grounds).  I've now come to the same conclusion about all stately homes.  Very often you see so little of them anyway, and at Dalemain the rooms were a bit small and pokey by stately home standard and not really desperately interesting.  The garden was quite pleasant but some of it wasn't accessible with the buggy.  Still, at least I've been there now.  It makes me question whether I really want to go to Hutton in the Forest - will it be that different?  I think I'd probably only go to one of these places again if there was some sort of event on that I wanted to see.

I must go as the normally happy Baby is crying: he seems a bit snuffly.  Do you think he's so happy because I was generally very happy and relaxed in my pregnancy and still am now, despite the lack of dosh?  Food for thought.  Good Night!

PICNIC

The gorgeous weather continues unabated, but without being too hot, and today as we gave Husband a lift into work I suggested to everyone that we had a picnic after we fetched him this evening.  This met with approval all round.

Daughter was keen that we should go up to Bewcastle, as I had mentioned whilst on our magical mystery tour up there that it would be a good picnic spot: there's a stream and an open area which I assume one can sit on and share with the sheep.  I didn't really feel like going that far though and ideally wanted somewhere with a bit of a view: Heughscar Hill would have been great but there wasn't time to get there and do the walk, and in any case the buggy is awaiting new tyres and inner tubes having had yet another puncture.  I briefly considered Dalemain but didn't really want to drive that far, and ended up thinking that we should go up to the reservoir at Castle Carrock as we've only once, and very fleetingly, been up there.

In the end however, having driven via 'the scenic route' from Corby Hill via Talkin and Farlam en route to Hallbankgate, Husband then suggested we went down to the river at Lanercost.  There's not much of a view once you're down at river level, although the river itself and the location is lovely, but the view driving down past Naworth Castle was glorious.  I do so love living up in this part of the world, and moments like that remind me why!

Now, I still haven't learnt how to arrange photos nicely so this will look nothing like as beautiful as H's-beautiful-blog.....



Isn't Lanercost Priory beautiful?  It looks even better when you're coming down one of the hills towards it and it's snugged there at the bottom of the valley, surrounded by trees and grass and with the river Irthing splashing past.

Suffice to say the picnic was a great success and as we got in the car to go home Daughter said 'Mummy....'  'yes?'  'I love you'.  Despite the number of times I lose my temper with them, they get upset and cross with me for not allowing them to do things, etc. etc., they still suddenly come out with that, and everything is blissful - for a few moments at least!  The other day however we had a moment I shall treasure for a long time.  I was kneeling in the kitchen to be at her height to talk to her and give her a cuddle, and the sun must have been shining in on my hair.  'Mummy, you've got SILVER hairs!  Can I have silver hair?'.

We like doing things as a family.  We've now achieved getting the entire family out to do some exercise: I take Daughter on the tag-along (she talks non-stop, and gets very competitive); Older Son cycles his bike; and Husband runs with the Baby in the buggy.  This was fine until the buggy developed yet another puncture, so we're now buggy-less until the three new tyres and inner tubes, which we decided it really needed, are delivered (tomorrow I hope).  And then I'm definitely, definitely, definitely going to start going running each day with the buggy.

Meanwhile the Baby continues to be happy and as he's now reached 17 weeks/4 months and is hugely hungry, we decided to tentatively try solids.  Baby Porridge was rather puzzling: his look said 'what's this stuff that's very like milk but thicker and fed to me on a spoon'; mashed banana went down rather better; but what, to my surprise, was a Big Hit: was orange.  I'm sure you're not meant to give babies orange as an early weaning food, but it happened by chance.  He was sitting on my lap at the picnic and I was peeling an orange, and he was reaching out for it.  Thinking that a little suck on a piece of orange probably wouldn't hurt and that in any case he probably wouldn't like it, I put a bit to his mouth.  He loved it!  So much so that he started crying every time I took each piece away.  I feel a little guilty as I'm sure it's really too acidic for him, but he didn't have a huge amount.  It was a rather nice sweet orange, of an overgrown satsuma type.  I do however feel less guilty about having started him on solid food (well, purees etc.), as he was definitely reaching out for the orange.  It reminded me of a photo I have of Daughter, a couple of months older than the Baby is at present, being fed a strawberry in much the same way: someone holding it and her sucking on it really hard and with strawberry juice all over her chin.

I guess the garden could do with some rain (I have a rather dead-looking fir tree outside the front door) but I love this weather.  It's not too hot, in fact sometimes it's quite chilly, but it's sunny and the sky is clear and blue.  How can anyone fail to feel optimistic?