Keir Royale

So what did I do - in those pre-child days - when time after work was mine for the taking?

When tea-time was spent in the gym and bed-time was a vague concept adhered to only on the eve of exams, early shifts or Big Days of one kind or another.
And it was only my bed-time I had to consider.

Was the telly really this bad in those days, or did I have better things to do?

Didn’t I go to the theatre, to the cinema (art house stuff, not Mr Bean on Holiday), to other people’s smart houses for stimulating conversation and delicious meals unaccompanied by plaintive cries for ketchup?

Surely that was my life?
If only I could bring to mind exactly how I filled the hours in those days.

Did I not realise how precious they were, those long hours filled with… with what?

I do remember in the early days of babies and nappies that I longed to get those hours back again.
But, like an addict immersed for too long in her drug of choice, I can no longer remember what it was I was yearning for.

What was it that I wanted to do?
I could do it, right now, if I could only recall what it was.

I have just returned from a weekend in France.
I’m alone, having left the rest of the family to enjoy watching time trickling slowly by in the garden, on the beach, on bum-sore bike rides.

I, however, am back at work.
I’m a glass half full kind of person though, so I’m looking around for ways to make the most of my few days as a singleton.

I’m getting in touch with friends I don’t see enough of.
I may go jogging.
I’m going to get my hair cut.

But what then?

If you can remember what it was that filled the hours of the day pre-children, please tell me before my time is up.

But do bear in mind, late nights and over-indulgence are no longer an option. And art-house cinemas are fairly thin on the ground over here.

Ben has a new career path in mind.

He’s been through policeman, spy and footballer already. But now he has another plan.

It was prompted by some news I told him today. One of his friends has landed a lead role in a TV drama.

“A big part?” asks Ben.

“Yes, one of the main parts.” I reply, and watch his mind whirring.

“I want to be a model,” he announces, “My face is beautiful and I’ve got lovely big eyes. It’s just my hair I’m worried about.”

Well, what does a mother say?

Of course I think he’s beautiful, but I would, wouldn’t I?
And normally it’s me saying he looks lovely while he scowls at me and moans -
“You’re my Mum, you’re going to say that aren’t you. It doesn’t mean it’s true.”

Perhaps the lovely Sandra has been complimenting him on his looks.
He’d believe her over me any day.

I point out to him the difficulty of working as a model when we live on an island, a flight away from what I assume to be the centre of the modelling world.

I stop short of scuppering his ambition by listing the many ways in which his temperament militates against any kind of work which involves patience, stillness and - most importantly - trying on clothes.

I fear this last issue is the main sticking point.

He will sit still when he’s reading, and he can be patient with small children and guinea pigs.
But he will not try on clothes.

I think he imagines modelling to be one, big, happy Boden catalogue kind of life - with lots of jumping on beaches and striding across sand dunes.

I’m hoping this modelling idea will go the way of fencing, tennis and French Club - to be replaced by the career equivalent of his current passions - football, cricket and Sandra.

It’s been Activities Week at the children’s school all this week.

For “Activities Week” - read “Tax payers’ money spent on days on the beach” week.

They’ve been to Sark (Ben), St Ouens Beach (Ben), Greve de Lecq beach (Hannah), the Amaizin Maze (Ben), Val de la Mare Reservoir (Ben) the cinema (Hannah)… need I go on?

They have had nothing but fun and are exhausted and ready for 6 weeks off.

Sark was the setting for Ben’s first purchase of a love token.

When I fetched him from the harbour, he showed me his spoils…

“I got a bottle of coke, some sweets, a key ring so I could remember my trip to Sark - but I didn’t have enough for any presents. Not for you anyway.”

“Did you get something for someone else then?”

“I got Sandra something.”

So, his spare cash is now going on his “girlfriend”.

“I spent £2.75 on a rose quartz crystal in the shape of a heart.”

How sweet.
How much? £2.75?

I told him that if he continued with this kind of romantic gesture into adulthood, he’d have girls falling at his feet.

He smiled his Charlotte Harvey smile and turned the colour of the rose quartz.

“I’m quite popular with the girls,” he said.

“Are you? How do you know that?” I asked.

“Well - none of them really hate me!”

So that’s what constitutes being popular in his Year 4 world.

But at 9 he’s got more romance in his scrawny little body than most of the men I’ve passed the time of day with.

£2.75?
On a girl, when he could have bought more sweets?
More amaizing than any maze.

Well, it’s happened.
Young love is blooming and Ben is wearing his “Charlotte Harvey” face.

Charlotte Harvey was a little girl at Ben’s nursery whose hair he fell in love with first, followed by the entire girl. If he talked about her, his face would go all woozy and he’d smile a special gooey smile.

We called it his “Charlotte Harvey” face, which made him blush all the more.

We invited her to his 4th birthday party and among her many memorable utterances she said to one of Ben’s older cousins -

“If ya look at me I’ll kill yer!”

I’m hoping his current beloved is a little more eloquent.

She’s called Sandra and she’s in his class.
He’s liked her for weeks but she was spoken for. And then one day I was home first from work when Ben burst into the house and grabbed his bike without even speaking to me.

“Hello,” I say, “how was piano?”

“Fine. Mum, I’ve got to go. I’ve got my first date. What time do I have to be back?”

Hell, I think, and I hold my breath.
He’s nine years old. Why am I having to deal with this now? What questions do I need to ask? Do I have to delve deeper than “What games did you play?” and “Who did you play with?”
I decide to play dumb.

“With Sandra?”

“Yes, of course, and Ollie. We’re going to play forty-forty.”

I breathe again. A date seems a bit of a misnomer, but he’s so happy with himself he can’t keep his face calm and he can’t believe Sandra is his.

“I never thought someone I loved would love me… except for you and Daddy,” he adds as an afterthought.

“But you’re gorgeous, of course other people will love you.”

“Mums always think that,” he smiles.

So now he is officially part of a pre-teen couple.

I’m not sure what difference it makes to his everyday life, as he and Sandra don’t seem to play together much.
She’s into netball and he’s obsessed with football, which doesn’t bode well for a harmonious future.

But it’s done wonders for his self-esteem, and he’s started brushing his hair without being nagged.
He’ll be volunteering to take a shower next…

It’s hard to tell whether this is a Jersey thing, or an age thing - the children’s age, not mine.

The other day, Hannah, who’s just 7, was telling me what she’d been doing while playing outside with her friends.

These are friends who are available after school, rather than friends we’ve arranged for her to play with.

She said -

“Some big kids came past and started swearing at us. So we swore back at them…”

I raised my eyebrows and added a parental response -

“You should just walk away if people are nasty to you when you’re playing outside.”

She ignored my interjection and carried on -

“… we didn’t say anything really bad like c***. We just said the b word and the s word.”

Oh, my, god.

I’m hoping this will stand her in good stead for when she’s older, out on her own with friends and in need of a substantial dose of street-wisdom.

In the meantime, Blog Fodder is under strict instructions to impose a more rigorous after-school supervisory regime.