Hello Blog, it's Me, Slacker

// crayons & a bit of offcut from park pine trimming //
// ooh //

Well, kind of. In fact, we're just back from a two week trip to Ontario to visit PA's Canadian family in and around the Toronto area. All Tim Horton's and wildlife, goldfish crackers and toddlers on aeroplanes.

We had happy fun times and pictures are bound to follow. Because there's nothing like other people's holiday photos, right?

Mister G and I are off again this afternoon on the bus out to Oxford to visit my parents for the weekend - surely this'll be a cake walk after transatlantic air travel... but any psychic non-vom vibes our way would be gratefully received.

I hear that the bluebells might be out in the village woods. Time for our annual kid-in-flowers set-up, obviously.

In the interim, this is what I did when I was supposed to be doing my fifth load of post-holiday laundry and tidying the flat in preparation for next weekends move (the move! I'd almost forgotten the move!).  I was always the sort of kid that got satisfaction from the orderly progression when drawing rainbows and the sort of adult who enjoys things organised neatly (as well as arranging my bookshelves by colour), so this makes me happy. If not technically productive.

17 // 52

// raring to go //

"A portrait of Mister G, once a week, every week, in 2013"

It's been a good week for having fun but kind of a rubbish week for photos. So it goes.

Anyway, this week's G is sliding - climbing up and launching down all by himself - whilst rocking my favourite childhood ZOO København t-shirt.

which, <3

Magnolia // Thoughts on Porridge

Are you bored of magnolias yet? (Or, if you're a member of my immediate family, are you bored of me making you stop at every magnolia tree to pose for a picture?)

Mister G and me // in the magnolia tree

Well if you are, then lucky you - the other 50 weeks of the year are nearly upon us! We waited approximately forever for this fortnight and they're already starting to curl brown around the edges and drop. But that's what I enjoy, that's exactly the futility that makes me like liking magnolias. Eleven and a half months wistfully recounting your love for them in all their structural, creaminess (and reciting the parts you can remember of Mister Magnolia... he has an old trumpet that goes rooty-toot!) // half a month of shouting MAGNOLIA! every time you pass a tree, like a toddler in front of a DUCK!pond.

Climb 'em if you got 'em.

// jumper's coming off //

// PA might have appreciated assistance with kamikaze-G //

// these two guys are done with this magnolia nonsense //

Apropos of nothing, I was remembering how one of the greatest tricks my parents ever pulled was convincing three girls for the entirety of childhood that porridge (made with water!) was a legitimate special treat. 

I still love it, even after the Great Porridge Necessity Diet of Dalston '01 in my second year student days (my other staple was tinned economy plum tomatoes on toast, which is also delicious by the way) and although I now make it several times a week for Mister G's breakfast, it still has that slight taste of luxury. Even though (shhhhhhh) we use half and half water and milk which makes me feel decadent and a little guilty? I justify it to myself on the grounds of calcium.

Porridge seems to hold an odd number of folk-memories in my family - hearing about how my Great Auntie May would soak the oats overnight, or how a big iron pan would be waiting on the Rayburn to feed the farm workers when they got back from milking when my Dad was young, or how the leftovers would be poured into a drawer (can that be right?) to cool and my grandpa would take a cold slice in his pocket for lunch.  Mine only go so far as Saturday mornings, sitting at the counter and begging on my Dad to make us his special porridge - water, oats, a pinch of salt, with half a teaspoon of sugar on top and milk poured veeeery carefully around the edge of the bowl to make the porridge float - but I guess it's a contribution to tradition.

In a similar but totally tangential vein, I love that Mister G currently thinks that blueberries are about as amazing as life gets (eating them, squishing them) and eats whole bowlfuls of pasta-broccoli. How to sustain?

Perhaps I ought to make B-foods a weekend-only indulgence, steamed by special request? Or more likely just enjoy this now because soon enough he'll decide he only really likes gruyere and sultanas. 

Ramping

// homesurfing // 

I can't remember exactly why we have a big piece of thick plywood in our flat - I feel like it was a part of PA's pre-G nesting phase which involved a lot of woodwork - but it's come in pretty useful so far, most recently as a makeshift ramp for Mister G.  Just stand next to the wall and hold up one end, or prop it up quite stably on a box or two full of files or similar.




Perfect for running up and down, sliding, car racing and bowling for dinosaurs. You name it, really.

This is also the flip side to our previous pl(a)ywood improvisation as Mister G's drawing board (lean your plywood against the wall, tape cheap roll paper to it, add crayons. Amuse yourself drawing muppets while your kid totally ignores it in favour of a saucepan.) Doublesided fun.

I expect a found door would do just as well.

Happy happy Monday

xxppxx

16 // 52

// early morning G //
// sleeping babyface //

"A portrait of Mister G, once a week, every week, in 2013"

He spends his days a whirling toddler in constant motion - always doing something, investigating something, climbing up something. He hasn't yet learned to look at his footing and bulldozes over obstacles like kerbs and flowerbeds rather than side-stepping, course-correcting as necessary, face-planting when that doesn't quite work, picking himself up and trotting off again.

He walks for longer distances now in the park and insists on trying to push the pushchair even though he's not tall enough so I carry him under one arm while he steers erratically.  He has more and more near-words like shish [fish], cock [clock] and cow. He loves lasagne and putting on my birkenstocks.  He likes saying 'bump bump bump uh-oh' at the beginning of 'A Bit Lost' and trying to brush my teeth. Which, turnabout's fair play I guess.

He decapitates daisies and offers them up to me and my heart aches, sweet boy.

But when he sleeps he is still so much a baby.

I usually find taking pictures of sleeping Mister G a little creepy (and mostly impossible in the near-dark) but on Saturday morning, at my parents', I woke up at seven to this little face that had been sleeping next to me since four (molars suck) and he looked like a painting and so peaceful I couldn't resist.  

More Friday colour

It's like Hudson's Bay got all Finnish and made a big stripy linen sack dress. I think I like it.
and I could coordinate with Mister G, which is a plus.

from Marimekko's new, oddly named, Sauna moments collection

pics from marimekko

Aquarium (Virtuality)

don't look now, but I think there's a whale behind you

because sometimes a projection is like reality but with less going outside in the cold
these pictures are from a month or so ago, sitting in my drafts
bit of Friday colour

going in for a hug from papa

going in for a hug from a fish

technicolour experience courtesy of David Attenborough and PA's decision three years ago to buy a projector.

I thought he was crazy at the time, but am now a massive advocate: it's actually cheaper than a big tv, stops you watching stuff in the daytime if you have ineffective blinds like us, and allows you to have most of the cinema experience at home, with a toddler in bed and better snacks.