Apr 18, 2014

Centenary Diving

Eloise has been saying for a while that she'd like to try her hand, if not her head, at diving. So I thought we could have a stretch at the reasonably recently renovated Centenary Pool, with its dedicated diving pool with deep deep water and high high diving boards.

A hot day it was indeed, a day to stick to the shade if you ask me, and Lyra and I did just that. Lyra, unwell with whatever it is that she's unwell with, was in no mood for this swimming nonsense so I retired to the icke kid's pool - the most boring ickle kids pool in the world with precisely no amusing things in it whatsoever - where I sat in the shade with Lyra cuddling me and eventually falling asleep.

Eloise however was in the diving pool, jumping on the springboard to varying degrees of success as she learned how to cope with this weird springy divey thing.

At one point I looked up to see her on the five-meter platform looking down very tentatively. "Good for you" I thought until she stepped off it at which point I thought an expletive of surprise and some admiration as she disappeared from view in what looked like a reasonable pencil-dive (that's the one where your feet go in first by the way).

She bounded across to me in the ickle pool. "Did you see that?!" Proudly: "Yes I saw that!"

"I'm never going to do that again, that really hurt."

Apr 17, 2014

Shady Dealings

I'm reasonably sure that given the extremely limited readership and that you're all no doubt the absolute heart and soul collectively of good taste and discretion, that I will escape the long arm of the law in posting this amusing image, as you will all be looking at the sunglasses and the handbag and none of you will be diverted by the amber necklace.

Apr 12, 2014


This hat, this spangly hat, this disco-ball of baseball caps, held a little torch of hope that it might all be worthwhile.

It used to belong to Eloise - Eloise who never would, from forever ago to almost this day, wear her hat without some form of protest. Eloise would never wore it really.

Then a few weeks ago Lyra discovered it, and for a while at least, when we were off out, she would look at me with a look of "A-ha," saunter off, find the hat, plonk it off her head, and look at me with a looking of "I'm ready."

Off course, capricious as she is, that's all come to an end, and now it gets tossed on the floor like a discarded salad, but still, there's hope.

Apr 8, 2014

The Gap Thing

So with a gap of eight years and a little bit of sister time under our belts, we could take stock a little on way things are going, casting a weather eye over these mums - drawn and haggard, with multiple offspring close together in time, patient and calm with a thinly concealed ragged edge - and contrasting that with our situation, where I feel no particular need to conceal my ragged edge, but somehow remain sort of patient and kind of calm. Mostly.

And without a doubt it's easier with one at school, and when she's at home she can help with Lyra for the ten seconds or so it takes until she gets distracted by some nonsense or a telly or tablet or something vaguely shiny that she sort of catches a glimpse of out of the corner of her eye.

And it's lovely when they cuddle and get on, and you can reason with one of them at least when there is conflict.

But then you have to schedule sleep time so that school can be done and be at the various out-of-school things at the various out-of-school times. And one child that wakes up at 5am and one that would sleep until 10 given a half a chance. And I suppose there's the extra seven years of child rearing that'll be involved...

So maybe we should come back when seven years are up and think about this all again.

Apr 2, 2014

Cross Country

In year four, Eloise runs a kilometre-long cross-country race on a carnival day where all the children run in their allotted age groups with parents in attendance by the veritable cart-load all cheering on little Tarquin or Atticus or Cremona or whatever.

It's a chance for her to demonstrate her sporting prowess in the Alliterative Arena of Athletic Achievement. It merely requires her to run faster than everybody else, consistently over a kilometre, and the prize could be hers.

It goes like this: the report of the gun echoes across the field, the cheering begins: a high-pitched drone from the stands on the other side. They hare around the oval, and depart on the pavement for a circuit of the school, out of sight.

They approach from the other direction, one by one, then a pack, then the stragglers, then Eloise, then a couple more.

They run, or walk, or stagger back onto the field before crossing the finish line.

Well I always hated cross country when I was a boy.