I am the household's teller of tales, and I can spin a yarn from the flimsiest topic (peppered with laboured metaphors if needs be). Lu has her favourites: how Jasper the dog came to us on an aeroplane and slept his first night on my hair; how we bought a lithograph in Germany; the purchasing of the little green house on Howick Street and our subsequent move to our current home. I'll tell these stories seven, eight, nine times in a row, hitting a rhythm that allows my thoughts to drift elsewhere. I think Lu uses these stories to feel secure in her world and I'm happy to help with that.
We've tried to be very matter of fact about bodies, naming the bits appropriately (and feeling incredibly uncomfortable as we do so: who wants to say 'vuvla' to a two year old when one's own childhood was peppered with "pee pee" and "down there"?). Because of course our bodies are to be owned, they are nothing to be ashamed of. This smug claim has been sorely tested in practice. As I was dressing Lu asked me to tell a story about pubic hair. Well, I'm not that kind of story teller. So where does a mother go from here? For the sake of posterity, here's where:
Once there were some pubic hairs. They went to the supermarket and bought some lollies and chocolate. And then they took them home to Mummy. Mummy was very happy. And that's the end.
I think the story lacks any real emotional resonance and the characterisation is sketchy. Lu, on the other hand, is more than satisfied with it.
Eating from the garden: oven roasted tomatoes on toast and pate for breakfast (posh!); beans in a Dad type stir fry; corn (from the second harvest), beans and tomatoes with snags for dinner, with a chutney made from part of the tomato pyramid; raspberries, apples and cherry tomatoes for snacks.