The Amazing Freya

Our only set of car keys, which we lost for 36 hours last week, was eventually found in an old shoebox, along with some ancient cutlery and a plastic golf ball. The shoebox was buried underneath a suitcase. The suitcase was down the back of our garden shed. We keep our garden shed locked. This is the random magic of toddlers. How? And, more mysteriously, why?

We think that she stealthily took advantage of a five minute window in which Don went to grab a screwdriver from the shed, thus opening the door. Because she has since proclaimed that the car keys were ‘very tired’, we assume that she was putting them down for a nap. Why she decided that a battered old Converse box would make a suitable cot, and knives and forks an ideal mattress, I have no idea. And why car keys need naps is way beyond any attempt at rationalisation. Again, this is the magic of toddlers.

Freya’s missing her dad, who is seven days into a 10 day stint abroad. Yesterday at dinner time, she jumped up out of her seat, ran out onto the deck, shouted ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ and waved maniacally at the sky. I watched her, bemused, for at least 20 seconds, before I got it: she had heard a plane flying overhead, and was hoping that Daddy was on board and looking out the window. So I joined her in her waving and shouting, and convinced her that she could see Daddy waving at us through a window. Ben, however, was not fooled.

The keys, the keys

Phew: I’ve just emerged from the harrowing world of Charles Arrowby. And the upshot? He did, I suppose, develop some sort of understanding of himself - if that is what goodness is, or where goodness starts - but it was only through a very violent process which left him without hope or ego. He had to rebuild his reality piece by piece, taking this new awareness with him. I felt, in places, terrified of him, in others, embarrassed for him, and I even cheered him once or twice. There’s no doubting Iris Murdoch is a bloody genius. What an inspiration: as a writer and as someone who meditates so deeply on ‘the human condition’ (to use a horrid phrase).

In other events, Freya has hidden our car keys. She is refusing to remember where she has put them, saying: ‘I don’t know, where are the car keys?’ each time we ask her. Like it’s some sort of rhyming game we’re playing for her amusement. We have searched high and low and we have no spare set. I’m blaming Freya, but of course it could have been Ben. Or Don, even. Though, admittedly, I was the last to drive the car.

The sea, the sea

I’m reading Iris Murdoch. Amazing. I have no idea why it’s taken me this long to get to her. I once heard the quote: ‘We read to know that we’re not alone,’ and I’m reminded of it when I read about Charles Arrowby of The Sea, The Sea. Nearing old age, he’s a famous theatre luvvie and consistently pompous git who’s trying to leave all the London theatre nonsense behind to live a quiet life by the sea. He’s so human, with his rambling, fallible stumblings along the path of morality (a path which is partially obscured by his rampant egoism). He doesn’t understand his own motivations, and relies on tools like manipulation and self-promotion without realizing it, so it’s a novel with a fair share philosophical barbs, such as: ‘We are all such shocking poseurs, so good at inflating the importance of what we think we value.’ Yet it’s also about someone trying to develop moral goodness. I’m desperate for a hopeful ending, rather than a bleak one, but I’m not sure I’ll get it. Will report back.

I wonder

I just checked my stats. No one has looked at my blog. I kind of like it that way, actually.

My title, ‘The Wonder Years’, I love. It’s so apt for where I’m at, in terms of my parenting, my relationship and my own developing sense of self-awareness and discovery. It also reminds me of a TV show that used to play when I was a kid. I never watched the show, yet I can still picture the lead character, a kid with unruly brown hair and doe-like eyes. Wonder what he’s doing now?

My First Blog

Welcome to my blog. I thought I’d start one a) to see what all the fuss is about (several years after the rest of the world, admittedly), and b) for fun.

I guess, and it is a guess, that the things I’ll be writing about are the things on my immediate radar, which are: my family (I’m a seemingly permanently sleep-deprived parent of two toddlers), my culture (having been recently reintroduced to kiwi culture, I’m finding it has changed a lot in the last ten years) and my own journeys, thoughts and improbable musings.

Currently, I’m in bed and have been for a whole afternoon. Doubtless that last sentence is probably right up there on the list of ‘things you don’t expect parents of toddlers to write’. It’s because I’ve been struck by a horrid sore throat that’s making me feel very tired and ill. That said though, it’s been bloody brilliant! I have not had an afternoon ‘off’ for nearly three years! I have read Vogue from cover to cover, eaten several chocolate biscuits, drunk several cups of tea, caught up on about a dozen outstanding emails to friends around the globe, and even started a blog. Who knew illness could be so productive and relaxing. Well, aparts from the odd wail I can hear coming from the lounge from F, B and, er, D.