Wheat, Maize and Grain

When I was at school Geography was the educational equivalent of the Big Mac gherkin, unloved and discarded by virtually everyone.

This was because it was unrelentingly dull. We were a given a light snowfall of information about a number of countries, none of it deep enough to actually stick. Generally speaking we were taught the name of the capital city and the chief exports. As far as I can remember the exports always included wheat, maize and grain, and these three words featured in the first sentence of every exam answer I ever gave (“the chief exports of Ireland are wheat, maize and grain”…. “the chief exports of Antartica are wheat, maize and grain”… “the chief exports of the Sahara…” etc, etc).

Doing “projects” meant being a handed a map of Ireland stripped of all characteristics other than an outline of the counties, and being asked to fill in the names. This was as exciting as Geography got.

And because it was so dull, we all ended up forgetting about half of what we learned. I presume that’s why, although I can tell you where the North and South Poles are, I haven’t a clue about the whereabouts of the East and West ones.

When people slag Americans for how little they know about Europe, they assume it’s because they never learned about it. In fact, they were taught about it, but just couldn’t be arsed remembering. And, if we’re honest with ourselves, the same goes for us in reverse. One night in my local we managed to name 48 of the 50 US States. I was told to find out which two we were missing and returned the following night to report that we were actually missing five, since one of the ones we had listed was actually in Canada and two others weren’t States at all.

But somewhere along the way Geography upped its game. I think it began when the six-nation Common Market evolved via a series of leaps and bounds into the 27-nation EU (well, to be strictly accurate, 26 and Britain, who were given Free Trial Membership back in 1973 and still haven’t fully decided whether they like it or not). Suddenly Geography was no longer a dead, fixed subject, like Latin, it was changing all the time.

The collapse of communism halved the number of Germanies, while the number of Balkan countries exploded, often explosively. The roll-call of world nations changes with a rapidity that keeps atlas publishers in Ferraris and World Cup organisers in therapy. And climate change and global warming means that the very shape of countries and continents is changing.

The Burren

Tingirl is doing Geography and has three projects to hand in by Christmas. These are on the Burren, earthquakes and tornadoes. The Burren is a wild and lovely part of County Clare, earthquakes are strictly speaking Geology and tornadoes are just weather, but all three are more exciting than drawing the path of a river or a relief map of a fjord, which is the kind of crap homework we used to get. As a result kids these days love Geography.

Everyone has a Trivial Pursuit achilles heel. I’m sure you’ve guessed mine. I’d slide my wedge-filled pie-dish into the very centre, my fellow players would say “geography” in unison, I’d be asked some baffling question containing the word “scree” or “delta” and I’d retreat in humble embarrassment.

Hopefully the kids of today will be spared that humiliation.

Once, Twice, Three Times a Baby

In a frantic bid to rid myself of Bloggers Block, I am posting this photo of three photos:

We found them over the weekend by the method by which most things are found in the Tinhouse, i.e., we were looking for something else. The three pictures were together because we had intended putting them into a frame years ago, but never got round to it.

The pictures, in order, are Tinson1, Tinson2 and Tingirl, and each picture was taken, in the same pose on the same armchair, on the day on which each baby was six months old. When Jo asks why I don’t show my kids my blog, it’s because I occasionally do things like this to them.

(Brief digression: just as I was typing that sentence, the guy on Sky Sports News was announcing that Everton’s striker Jo has been dropped to the bench for tonight’s match).

And that’s really all there is to say about the photo.  The really eagle-eyed among you might notice that Tinson2 has a photo of Tinson1 on the table beside him, and experienced parents among you will know that our babies did not always look that happy.

Any of you in the mood to be critical of our parenting might look at the size of Tinson2 and conclude that we fed him on a diet of Big Macs and lard. All I can say in our defence is that he didn’t stay that shape, and indeed now is so thin that I think he’s about the same weight as he was in that picture.   

So,that’s it. Nothing else to say today.

If I don’t think of something soon, I’m going to post pictures of their fridge drawings.

And you don’t want to see a six-month old’s drawing of a fridge, do you?

Other Lives

The problem with having a secret internet life, with alternative names and activities, is remembering that not everyone knows it.

Recently in our house Tingirl and I were looking through the massive book mountain that has grown in the hall outside my bedroom door for a particular book. One of the books in the pile was Philip Pullman’s book The Tin Princess.

”Look, Honey, that’s you,” I said, and exactly as I said it I thought ‘’she has no idea she’s called Tingirl.”

She looked at me as if I was an idiot which, in fairness, at that moment I was.

Then last night Tinson1 arrived home from college, and I asked him how was Archery Class. Again, I realised one millisecond too late that it was Bardson1 in my Shakespeare post who is actually learning archery.

I wonder do superheroes have this problem?

”Bruce, did you watch The Apprentice last night?”

”Of course not, Mother, you know I was saving Gotham from Catwoman.”

”What did you say?”

”Er, I said I was waving my bottom at a fat woman.”

”Really, Bruce, it’s time you got a girlfriend.”

Put Away Childish Things

School’s Out… forever. Tingirl had her last day in the Bray School Project today (the picture above is from one of her first), and we now have no children left in primary school.

Tinson1 had his first day there on September 1st, 1996 when Tingirl was only six-ninths er, cooked, so the Tinfamily have had a connection with the BSP for her entire life. As indeed has she, as she was accompanying Mrs Tin on school runs and sitting quietly at school meetings long before she ever became a pupil there.

If leaving there is upsetting her, though, she’s hiding it very well (though not as well as Tinson1 did. In the car on the way home from his last day there, in a conversation with Tinson2 he referred to the BSP as “your school”). She is eager and excited about the prospect of secondary school, and keen to get on with what young people regard as the terribly urgent process of racing through their lives as quickly as possible.

Mrs Tin is similarly unfazed by the thoughts of leaving a school where she has been on so many boards and committees for so many years. She received many plaudits I think she will miss it more than she thinks she will, but only time will tell.

The school itself is wonderful, run by a bunch of really terrific teachers backed by ranks of dedicated and hard-working parents. It will still feature on the Blogiverse, as both Jo and Ciara still have kids there, and I’m looking forward to being able to keep up with events through them.

In earlier years I did a lot of the driving to school, so got to know the BSP quite well, but latterly have rarely been inside the door (today was only the third time in Tingirl’s final year) so I should miss it less than any of them, and I suppose I do. But I do feel that today is a significant one. Our youngest child has finished at primary school, and is growing up. She’ll be a teenager later this year, joining her brothers on the ever-shortening road to young adulthood. I’m happy for her, and proud of her, but I do feel a little bit sad.

We still have kids, but as of today we no longer have children.

Drama Queen

Tingirl and her drama class had their end-of-term showcase today.

Tingirl has been enrolled in a Drama School in the Mermaid Theatre in Bray for about 3 years now, and at the end of each term they put on a little show. Today’s consisted of 2 courtroom scenes, written by the students themselves, and Tingirl played the bailiff of the court in the first one, and Counsel for the accused in the second.

It’s a real joy to watch this collection of 12-year olds acting their parts with such gusto, such talent, and with each passing show such confidence. Certainly Tingirl is a revelation. A naturally quiet girl, who’s repsonse to most questions is “fine”, she arrives out of rehearsal every week with a big beam on her face and chats away about what they did all the way home.

And today it was great to watch her, always acting, always in character, and to see the eager way she rushed over to us at the end to see what we thought.

That’s why you continue as parents to find money for things like this, no matter how your disposable income is decimated by extra taxes and reduced pay.

You spend your income on the essentials for living, and Tingirl’s drama class brings her to life.

Into The West

Tingirl’s class left for their trip to the Aran Islands this morning.

The Aran trip is a rite of passage each year for the class who are about to leave Bray School Project. It’s a three day trip with just three teachers and no parents. This is its 18th year, and it’s something the kids look forward to from the minute they start their final year (please note the use of both “its” and “it’s” in that sentence, Jo).

The journey, after the first car trip to the school, features a coach to Heuston Station in Dublin, a train to Galway, another coach to some pier somewhere and finally a boat to Aran, arriving just in time to get ready to start the return trip home. That’s why the phrase “this morning” in the opening sentence was used in its most broad sense, meaning “well, really still last night, but the date is different so I suppose we’ll have to call it this morning”. In other words we got up at 4.30, and arrived at the school at half past five.

But the bus didn’t arrive till 6.15, as a badly parked Eircom truck at its garage had partially blocked it in. This left less than an hour for the journey to Dublin, though the scarily young-looking driver assured everyone that he would easily make it.

“He’s a bit young, isn’t he,”  muttered some parents, ” I hope he doesn’t go too fast”.

Personally I just hoped the journey wouldn’t involve him trying to turn right onto a road that had a car waiting where the STOP marking as in the attached diagram. Because I had just realised that I’ve met this driver before, about a year ago, when I was the driver at the stop sign, and it was only by reversing violently backwards as he turned that I managed to keep his impact with the Tincar down to a brief juddering. In fairness, he’s a lovely guy, was very apologetic, and fixed the tiny amount of damage that was done to the Tinbumper.

Anyway, watching the expert and effortless way he reversed the huge coach into the schoolyard this morning it’s clear that he has improved since my encounter with him, so I kept this information to myself.

So off they went, jabbering excitedly, ready for their first big trip away from home.

Its the Taking Part That Counts

Tingirl is in her final year at primary school, so last Thursday took part in the Tinfamily’s last Sports Day.

Three kids spending eight years in a school means 24 chances to run while looking down at an egg on a spoon, to hop along in a scratchy, itchy sack or try to run while tied to someone else (we really do give kids a hard time, don’t we)?

In those 24 events the Tinkids have got soaked, sunburnt, knee grazes and fits of the giggles.

What they haven’t got is medals.

So when Tingirl arrived home on Tuesday her brothers were anxiously waiting for her (Tinson2 is finished for the summer, while Tinson1 had an unexpected day off due to the Great Exam Leak scandal). “Did you win anything?” they asked her.

“Nope,” she replied.

Cue high-fives all around. Their perfect record was safe.

You can’t accuse them of being over-ambitious.

Aw, Shucks

Tingirl is making her confirmation this year. This morning I asked her had she picked her confirmation name yet and she said she is going to take my mother’ s name. She already has my Mother-in-Law’s name as her second name (yes, her second name is Madwoman) and she said doing this will give her both her grannies’ names.

My mum died nine years before Tingirl was born, yet she decided on this all by herself.

I think I’m going to burst.

Just Like a Woman

On Saturday K8 the Gr8 mentioned a Blog Gender Analyzer (http://www.genderanalyzer.com/), where you type in a blog address and it tells you whether the blog is written by a man or a woman. I entered mine and was informed that there is a 77% chance that I am a woman.

Clearly therefore I am not posting enough pictures of Yelena Isinbayeva

or Maria Sharapova

Clearly also I am not using the words poo, tit, bum or fart enough. Fear not, all of these flaws will be remedied from now on.

Yesterday, though, I forsook the delights of the Manchester derby followed by Chelsea v Arsenal to spend the afternoon at bowling-then-pizza with eight 12-year old girls. Then came back home and ooh’d and aah’d at the bracelets, nail stuff, etc that Tingirl was given by these girls. And then, because it was her birthday, when she put on “The Winner Takes it All – the Story of Abba” I didn’t flee to the kitchen to blog, but stayed and watched it with her – and really enjoyed it.

So I don’t dare take the test again today.

My Little Girl, Pink & White as Peaches & Cream is She

Back in June I wrote a long piece about Tinson1 when he got his first part-time job. The following month I wrote one about Tinson2 when he headed off on his own to the Gaeltacht. The order they were born in dictates that Tingirl would be left till last, but that’s not the only reason. The fact is that she’s the hardest to write about, because she’s the one I know least. But she’s twelve today, so it’s time to try.

I know nothing about girls. Mrs Tin will back me up on this. Part of the reason is that I have one brother and no sisters. (Actually, that’s not strictly true anymore, since my dad got married again 3 years ago and the Wicked Stepmother brought four more sons into the family as her dowry). Having had no sisters in the house growing up has meant that I’ve found it almost imposssible to know what Tingirl is thinking at any stage in her life. All I know is that she thinks I’m wonderful, and I’ve no idea why.

The news that she was on the way came as, well, a surprise. When we first found out that Mrs Tin was pregnant Tinson2 was only about ten months old, and we were so mortified that we told nobody for months. My brother’s wife suspected, and kept asking him to grill me about it, which he wouldn’t. She also kept asking Mrs Tin pointed questions about whether she was still going to the gym, which she kept saying she was. In the end I said we’d better tell her before the gym sued us, since giving the impression that going there gave you a figure like the one Mrs Tin was developing was unlikely to do their business any good.

Part of the reason we were so concerned was that it was brother’s wife who minded the Tinsons while Mrs Tin was at work, and we were afraid that she’d say she couldn’t mind three along with her own three. Sure enough this happened, so Mrs Tin had to quit work for good. Not only that, but I needed the car in the job I had at the time, so we’d to fork out for a second one for her. While all of this seemed disastrous at the time, it changed our family life for the better, and oddly helped me get even busier, as I was no longer tied to child & wife -collecting.

We were old hands at birthing at this stage, and Tingirl was born at a respectable mid-afternoon time on the exact day she was due. The Tinsons adored her from the start, Tinson2 and she became like twins, and everything was good. I do remember one scary day when all three of them were crying at different things at the same time, and we realised for the first time that we were outnumbered, but generally everything was great.

When a girl has two older brothers she can either go the tomboy route, matching them in rough play and manly pursuits, or she can go the girly route, twisting them round her finger with her cuteness. This is the option Tingirl selected, though she could still hold her own if she needed to. When she was about one she was in her granny’s, and her similarly aged but bigger girl cousin tried to pull a toy she was holding away from her. “Now don’t hurt little Tingirl,” said my brother-in-law, kindly but also slightly condescendingly. “Don’t worry about her,” I said, “she’s well used to having an older brother at the other end of whatever toy she wants to play with, so your daughter’s WAY out of her league”. Sure enough, after thirty seconds the big cousin was pink in the face tugging two-handedly away at one end of the toy, while at the other end Tingirl was holding on with just her left hand, never taking her eyes off the TV. It might still be my proudest daddy moment ever.

In the same way that salmon are born instinctively knowing the route back home, I believe girls are born knowing all about princesses, ponies and Barbie. At the age of about three, Tingirl was in her baby-seat in the back of Mrs Tin’s car, and Mrs Tin scolded her about something. After about a minute she suddenly burst out sobbing “I’m..not..going.. to..be..Daddy’s…..princess”. It’s not an expression we’d ever used. Where do girls get this stuff from?

Anyway, she’s grown up sweet and funny, and her brothers would do anything for her. I’ve told the story of how Tinson2 stepped between her and a snarling dog in Kusadasi. Tinson1 and she give an impression of quiet indifference toward each other, but on another holiday in Malta she returned crying to our table at the pool because a bigger boy had knocked her down and broken her necklace. We comforted her and then realised Tinson1 had vanished, and I found him in the games room with the guy up against the wall by the neck (oh, I’ve just realised why he wants to join the FCA).

She has a generally terrific relationship with Mrs Tin, and the two of them revel in being the two girls in a house of three men. They had a Mamma Mia night last Saturday, where we were all ordered to sod-off to other rooms in the house. They watch Strictly Come Dancing together. They go off on shopping trips. Very occasionally though they quarrel, and I see a brief flash of very real anger in Tingirl’s eyes, which shows that the relationship will be as challenging as any other Mother/Daughter one in the years to come.

Like, whatEVER

As I said, she’s twelve today, and I find her even more mysterious and scary as she starts to develop. She speaks in an Amonda Dort accent that, like, SO didn’t come from us. She’s got er, chest bumps now, and I don’t know where to look. Her wall is covered in pictures of young guys from bands & shows I’ve never heard of. She’ll be starting to “get off” with boys soon, & though I said in yesterday’s post that guns are bad, just typing that sentence has given me the sudden urge to buy one.

I said something about this in a comment on Jo’s blog about five months ago, and this was Jo’s reply:

“Tinman, you sound fraught! I must think of a good book for you to read. ‘Promiscuities’ by Naomi Wolfe is wonderful, but I don’t know if its reassuring for dads (it’s not what it sounds like, just a study of growing up a girl).

If I may, you are the man she gets to practice her femininity on. You’re the safe training wheel of masculinity, in an ideal world. So if you make her feel loved, cherished, safe and worthwhile, respected and important, she’ll probably feel those things about herself, and choose men who do the same. Listen to her. And give her insights into what it’s like to be a man!”

5 years time?

I can tell you straight out that if she ever practices her femininity on me, I’ll be in the pub within thirty seconds. It’s what I’ve always done when Mrs Tin practices hers, and I see no need to change a winning formula. It was good and helpful advice from Jo though, (who I hadn’t even met at that stage) and I have to admit I’m kind of looking forward to the teenage years to come. No matter what they might bring ->.

So Happy Birthday Tingirl. You are – of course – my Princess. And always will be.