When our 4-month-old flat-screen and HD television came to a
rather abrupt and unexpected end under a deluge of (quite artistically
plastered I have to say) E45 cream, it was a blow, but I managed to pull
through. (There is now always - praise the Lord - the iPlayer
and I keep the laptop tucked away in Drawer 3 under a pile of old t-shirts in
our bedroom where it sleeps snugly and safely, away from those prying little,
cream-smearing fingers).
When our pine kitchen table underwent the kind of
metamorphosis you only see in science fiction flicks and turned into one of the
giant yellow and purple rectangular toadstools from Alice in Wonderland, that
put off dough rolling for a while, but in the end I found another solution. (I
bought another, less antique and more plastic kitchen table. I know, I know.
Hey, I am nothing if not practical. Not sure Kirsty would go for it, mind).
When the red Givenchy dress my husband gave me for our 10th
wedding anniversary was transformed into a rather more avant-garde style piece
of clothing that Jean Paul Gaultier might conjure up on one of
his wilder days, a shudder of pure panic and deep despair did ripple through me
for a moment - I cannot lie - but I managed to find another similar dress (from
Mango, natch) that I have so far managed to cunningly disguise as the original,
tucked away as it is in the wardrobe for special occasions.
When the Arts and Crafts curtains that I inherited from my
Grandmother and which hung in the living room, were trimmed into more of a
thinly threaded frame allowing people to see directly into our house like some
sort of live museum space exhibiting dysfunctional homosapiens, I bit the
bullet and went to see the Swedish House Mafia (or as it is perhaps better
advertised: Ikea).
I did used to wonder how I now take these things in my
stride when, in the past, I would have run shrieking from the house, sending
coffee cups flying, holding my hair in clumps and giving the cat a coronary in
the process. (The cat and I now have a mutual and profound
understanding/laissez-faire attitude to the house).
But this new serenity is not just down to the valium (joke!)
it is because, now, I pretty much value playtime over anything else.
I have learned so much. I have.
The value of free expression for one. Yes, maybe there have
been a few sacrificial lambs in the shape of previously beloved items of
furniture, but that’s part of the process, so you’d better get used to it. That
vintage orange lampshade from the nice flea market in le Marais, Paris?
Furgeddaboudit.
Of course, should I want to spare the sacrificial lambs their
strangely kaleidoscopic fates, you can let your kids play merry havoc at
somewhere like Camp Beaumont’s playtime instead, putting a
nice slice of distance between them and the living room’s Persian rug.
One of the other things I have learned is that is also
important to let the kids have some time by themselves too. I mean, whose heart
can not be filled with joy when the little sunbeams say in the sweetest little
voice, ‘Mummy go away. Go away Mummy’?
No, of course I am joking again but that said, giving them a
bit of a free reign during playtime is definitely good for them. Just maybe tie
those curtains up for a while.
Other things I have learned during playtime include this:
kids can spot a cheat, or in my case, a guilt-ridden, hesitating and
procrastinating cheat, a mile off. So don’t even think about it. They will
realise the thought has crept into your mind like a shadow in the night before
the thought has even had time to make itself known to you. They are that good.
I have also learned that what you previously thought was an
inanimate object suitable only for storing old tv listings magazines and
pamphlets, is actually better used as a space ship, as unlikely as it looks,
sitting there, tucked behind the wood for the fire (actually, that’s not wood
for the fire, they are violent and stern-looking alien beings who are
interested in invading Earth).
The most important thing I have learned through playtime is
that sometimes, you’ve just to let go - both in terms of your material
possessions*, but also your hold on the activity.
*(Just not the china though. Not the china. That’s not an
option. Step away from the china.)
Ohhhh... I shudder at the thought of my home being trashed too much. Just a little I can cope with. But not too much... I can manage the smeary handprints all over the large windows where the children have been "helping" me to clean them. I can even manage just a teensy bit of pen on upholstery and crayon on the walls (though I believe I yelled on both occasions) - much more than that has me holding my head in my hands... yet I aim for creative freedom and spirited children - what a scary balancing act over the next few years!
ReplyDelete