Negative Soundbyters - a gentle Spring eve to you all! This evening I look down from my lofty perch onto my brand new artificial lawn neatly squared off with a brick border and recently turned beds inviting me to start exercising my green fingers. What a transformation!
When my garden became a dumping ground for every conceivable builder's tool, rubble, cement, discarded sweet wrappers (don't get Mrs H started) and coffee cups (Mrs H...stay calm) during the months (no years!) that it took for the builder to complete our extension, I never thought it possible that one day a scene reminiscent of the Battle for Fallujah could become an oasis of calm. That day finally arrived last week.
On Sunday, while Rafe and Mrs H tried out what it was like to lie on the new lawn under the umbrella without a rusty nail interfering with one’s posterior, I turned my attention to one of the beds that looked like it needed a little weeding. I say “looked like” because I wasn't 100% sure whether it was a mass weed infestation or a splurge of spring or a combination of the two.
In gardening, as in most things in life, a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. But given that I had not even a “little knowledge” I decided that even if I mistakenly pulled up something green that later turned out to be a genuine plant, who would know? Mrs H knows as much about gardening as I know about cooking so she wasn't going to out me and Rafe, well, as long as he could put it in his mouth, then no bother. So all good.
I used all my gardening tools; spade, hand trowel, fork, rake and even my own bare hands at times when a particularly stubborn weed (or plant?) needed that last yank. Finally the bed was clear - of everything. Thankfully I kept what I thought looked like plants (they had bulbs at the end of the stems) because my mother confirmed via whatsapp video that they needed to be put back into the ground pronto. (My Mom is the plant equivalent of shazam.) Train crash averted on that one; they still seemed alive when I checked on them this morning!
My foray into the garden was relatively successful, but nothing compared to the biggest geopolitical event of the year, The Royal Wedding!
I remember standing at the altar at the start of the ceremony with Mrs H and perspiring profusely (I blame the weather!) to the point where I had to ask the best man for a tissue for a quick wipe-down. This fine moment is captured on our wedding video. But can you imagine if large drops of perspiration had started forming on Harry’s brow beamed in HD to the billion-or-so people watching across the Empire-and-beyond. It’s much like the Queen having to hold a steady gaze (and slightly grim expression) while the American pastor railed on about slavery. But that’s what the Royals are great at - being completely unflappable. Harry was never going to break a sweat and while the Queen might have thought about the Tower of London, there are no mind readers in that global audience so she’s safe for now!
From this highly influential and trend setting blog, I wish Harry and Meghan all the best!
Big Love to All.
Hoddy X
No Means No.
Those words have been passed down from those in authority to those not in authority for eons. And woe betide trying to push beyond that very clear boundary. We have all learnt this lesson at one time or tutha.
According to “The Wonder Weeks”, which gives a blow-by-blow account of your baby’s development, at Rafe’s ripe old age of 9+ months we should start saying “No” clearly when he is doing something against the rules.
I have started experimenting with this word in various scenarios and I do believe that in Rafe’s mind “No” means “I should definitely try that again….and again….”
Take for instance his endeavours in relation to the spice rack. He has worked out how to pull the knob such that the rack - and all the spices - are exposed to his grubby little paws. (His walker enables him access to all parts of the kitchen…see prior posts!) He then proceeds to select himself a spice-or-two, inspects them carefully and then hurls them from his walker as he moves on to the cupboard beneath the sink.
I watch him breaking into the spice rack and catching his attention say in a very firm and fatherly voice: “No Rafe No. You will trap your fingers. No.” He looks at me square in the eye, pauses briefly, and then pilfers the Oregano. I say “No” again - emphasised with a pointed finger! Completely unruffled he breaks out into a very wide gummy smile (exposing his only tooth), tosses the Oregano, grabs the Cinnamon sticks and beats a hasty retreat. He looks over his shoulder at me, gives me another megawatt and makes for the poker in the wood basket next to the fireplace.
His sense of self preservation at this stage is somewhat limited so as parents we are duty-bound to try and guide him in the right direction but I fear that in some instances Rafe, like all children, will learn certain things the hard way. So far we have had one trapped finger - the culprit - yes, you guessed it - the spice rack!
For the time being though he believes that a smile will square his papa off - and he is correct for the most part. That’s until he works out how to turn the gas on.
OUT :)
Pic of the Week
Battersea Power Station - under cranes...
