A little fishing trip.

The holidays are coming to an end.  In one week, Big Boy will be back at school, the girls will be back with us, and the crazy term-time lifestyle will be revisited.
So we're trying to fit some fun stuff in over the next few days :)
Yesterday was a fishing trip.  We went without a licence, but we also went without a chance of catching anything, so I wasn't too bothered!
On the way, we saw a crane being built for the new science block.  This was a fun distraction for a while, as we watched massive bits of crane being taken off the back of a lorry.

The crane is now completed, and presumably ready for action.  I can see it being a distraction for some time to come...
But we did make it to our fishing spot in the end.
Sadly, there were loads of reeds in the way, so it was difficult to reach the water.

Also sadly, most of the little jetty things were covered in water, and while Big Boy had his boots, I only had trainers on.  Thankfully, he avoided falling in (though did get one of his socks wet...)

However, we still had some fun and, despite my pessimism, managed to catch some things:

All in all, a good day's work :)
Love you Big Boy!

Playground antics

Quite amused by this photo. It's Big Boy pushing Little Boy on the swing, but he's paying far more attention to the girl on the neighbouring swing than he is to his own little brother. 

Maybe you had to be there...

Roots and rot.

We were having one of our many wanders around Calke Abbey recently, and came across this tree.

It looks ok doesn't it?  Bit short, perhaps...  But then you have a look around the other side and this is what you see.

Not looking so good now, is it?  You see, the tree looks like it's doing fine, but actually it's rotting away at the base.  That got me thinking.  And then, blow me down (perhaps that's not the right phrase to use here...), we got home and I found this in the orchard.

It's one of our plum trees.  Half of it has fallen over.  Not the first plum tree we've lost, sadly, but there we go.  And what do you find if you look at the bottom of the tree?

Rotten roots.

We can be a bit like that, can't we?  We might be looking fine and dandy, but if our roots aren't good; if they're rotting away gradually, it's only a matter of time before we collapse.  I wrote about Rootedness a while back.  We all need to be rooted if we're to survive and flourish.
As a Christian, I know how important it is to be rooted in my relationship with God.  That's not to say it's easy, just that it should be a real priority.  At the moment, I'm finding it hard to prioritise the things I should, but these trees were a helpful reminder that I need to look after my roots better.


What are you rooted in?

Are your roots nice and healthy, or have you got some work to do?

What can you do to help your roots grow?

I must be a little mad...

So, it's half-term.  You've got time off the crazy merry-go-round of term time activities.  What do you do?  You take two small boys to France.  By yourself.
Anna was up in Edinburgh on a hen do, (she also spent time with her parents).  I'd been invited to my godson's confirmation in France.  This meant that I had a trip with both boys.  In actual fact, it was quite fun.

The first trick was to get Little Boy's passport sorted.  This was pretty straight-forward, but was the first expense in it all.  The next worry was that Big Boy's passport photo, having been taken when he was about one, bears very little resemblance to him now.  I even dug out a sort of 'middle years' photo, where I figured you could recognise the picture as being both older than the baby photo and younger than Big Boy now.
Next was booking flights.  This was done with BA.  We've done budget and it's all well and good, but I knew that BA would be a thoroughly more pleasant experience.  Also, not knowing how much luggage I was going to take meant that BA would guarantee no add-on costs.  I also saved money with an Avios (Airmiles) deal I'd been sent.  BA also means you can book the exact seats you want.
Accommodation was at my godson's house, so that didn't need organising!
The hire car was the next thing on the agenda.  I realised I needed to hire a reasonably large one so that we could fit our absurdly large pushchair in the boot.  I booked a Citroen C4.

No, this isn't a C4, it's a Bugatti Veyron.  It's a joke...

The last thing to book was airport parking.  This was where I got a little shocking.  I booked valet parking.  Yes, I know, it seems a little mad.  But here's the image that went through my head.  I had parked the car (in some car park about as close to the airport as Tahiti) and was standing at the bus stop in the rain.  I had one child in his pushchair, the other at my side.  I had my suitcase, Big Boy's suitcase, Big Boy's car seat, Little Boy's car seat, Little Boy's changing bag, my hand luggage and Big Boy's hand luggage.  As the airport bus drew nearer, there would be a sense of impending doom, as I considered the fact that I was about to have to fold up the pushchair (removing Little Boy first) and, whilst holding Little Boy in one arm, would have to carry the entire contents of the pavement onto the bus with the other hand (probably with people tutting about how slow I was being on the 7 trips it took).  So, with this image in my head, I cheerily clicked on valet parking.  Sure, it cost almost double, but I was saving money on the hire car by taking my own car seats, which halved the extra cost.  And I figured the saving of mental stress was well worth the rest of the money.  It also meant that, on landing, I could simply phone the parking guys, and they'd have my car waiting for me.
Online check-in meant that we could rock up at the airport without a care in the world (ok, slight exaggeration...)  I left about two hours early, but this meant that we arrived and could go through security with plenty of time to have lunch.  Apart from the fact that the lift signage in Terminal 5 at Heathrow is absolutely rubbish, this part of the journey was fine.

Once on the plane, it became apparent quite how wriggly Little Boy is.  Being strapped to Daddy simply wasn't his cup of tea, and he rivaled Houdini in his escapology.  It was like being strapped to a resentful eel.  However, having booked onto BA, we did get drinks and snacks without paying through the nose.  We arrived in France, collected our gear and headed to car hire.  This was the first fly in the ointment.  I said 'Parlais vous Anglais?' and got a very uncertain response.  Oh dear, GCSE French was going to have to kick in.  We got by though, with her fluent French, my rubbish French and her broken English.  I was a bit thrown when I was told the car I would be driving would be a 'sikattra', until I realised she was saying 'C4' in French.  Ironically, we went to collect the car from the parking lot, and the lady there spoke near perfect English.  Given that I'd misplaced the map to get to my godson's house, it was helpful to have directions to get out of Paris...  (The map turned up in Little Boy's pushchair the next day)
We drove off (sticking to the correct side of the road).  I kept finding myself surprised as people drove past and I'd think, 'oh look, it's a left-hand drive'... then realising that that is the norm in France.  We found the house (they'd moved since we were last there, but only a couple of streets down, so once I found the town centre, I knew where to go).  The boys went to bed and I had a lovely meal.

They live in rather a fine house.  (Ok, so this is actually the local chateau)

The next day the other guests all arrived, and so the house was very full.  We had a lovely day popping to the bakery (twice) and just enjoying spending time with my godson's family.

Our second bakery trip was to pick up puddings that we'd ordered on the first bakery trip.  On the way, I was quietly hoping to myself that the same people who'd been there in the morning would be there again in the afternoon.
They weren't.
This led to a conversation where I pointed to the cakey things we wanted and said (in French), "eight of them please".  This was despite the fact that there were quite patently only four there.  The lad behind the counter looked a little thrown, and slowly raised four fingers, saying (again in French) 'four'.  This was crunch time.  I now had to work out a sentence through which I could express the fact that we'd ordered eight that morning.  I could think of 'ce matin', which I figured would express the morning bit, but after that, could only think of the word for 'hire', not 'order'.  I wasn't sure that telling the lad we'd hired eight this morning would enable the conversation to progress with any real vitality...  I got out the 'ce matin' bit, and then tried the back bit of my brain where I thought maybe the word for order might be hidden.  As I was looking (I'm pretty sure he'll have noticed my eyeballs spinning back there...) the lad said (in English) 'for the morning'.  Although it was sad that he thought I was asking for some for tomorrow, it was a great relief to know that we could move forward in a language which I stuggle less with.  I told him we'd ordered eight this morning.  He got a box from the cupboard behind him, and opened it.  It didn't have eight, but one massive one.  Oh dear, I thought, I have no idea if this is right.  Thankfully, he 'phoned someone who did know, and said it was definitely for us.  Relief all round (particularly on the part of the burgeoning queue) and I paid and hastily retreated with Big Boy.
Saturday saw a trip into town complete with ride on the carousel.  He and his ... uh ... godbrother really enjoyed it!  (Only an 11 year age gap)  After that, we headed for a drink, and Big Boy ordered his own milkshake, in French.  Very impressive.  I asked him if he'd like to order in French, if I told him the words to say, and he completely surprised me by saying 'yes'.  This led to a brief mental panic where I tried to work out the easiest (accurate) way of ordering a drink, whilst being watched by my fluent godson and his fluent sister...  The outcome was that we got the drink we'd wanted, so we can't have been all that bad :)

Sunday was the confirmation service (as well as my godson's birthday) and a fun family celebration.

Loads of amazing food (including a stunning salmon!)  Sadly, given the need to be back for the new half-term at school, it also involved heading back to the airport and home.
Regrettably, Orly doesn't have the facility to leave your pushchair at the departure gate to be picked up by airline staff - you have to check it in.  This meant a rather farcical wait before going through security, then going through with all hand luggage and a child to carry.  On top of this, we got to the gate where there was plenty of seating, all full, with no-one inclined to offer a dad with a wriggler a seat.  We stood at waited (at the almost-front of the queue) and were eventually told the plane was a bit delayed.  It arrived a little late (Big Boy took numerous photos)

I'm glad to report this was the weather in France - it doesn't just rain in England, you know.  At this point, Big Boy announced he needed a wee.  This meant leaving our prime position in the queue and heading to the loo. 
We discovered the gents was closed for cleaning, so the disabled one had a little man-queue (us blokes aren't used to loo-queues!) which we joined.  When we got to second in the queue, Big Boy decided he could hold it in, just as the bloke in front got into the loo.  We left the loo-queue, rejoined the departure queue (much further from the front!) and then had a conversation about how desperate Big Boy was for the loo.  Once he'd established that the plane wouldn't leave while we were in the toilet, he decided he really did need to go after all.  Thankfully, the loo-queue had by this time gone, so we were straight in (obviously, being a caring daddy, I was loving and kind all through this process of indecision).  When we came out and rejoined the queue again, we were almost at the back (keep smiling Parish!).  What's more, the chap who went into the loo after us then came and tried to join the queue in front of us.  Shocker.  Anyway, we made it onto the plane unharmed

Little Boy was as wriggly as before, and I was thankful that he and Big Boy could 'play' in the minute amount of space afforded them.
We were only a bit late getting into Heathrow, all in one piece.

Having retrieved our luggage, we phoned the valet folks.  They said the car was ready for us.  After getting slightly lost, we found them and picked up the keys.  This was the sight that met us outside the valet parking office.

The guy said, 'Your car is in row three' and sort of motioned behind the first row of cars.  I said, 'oh, you've hidden it then?' to which he just laughed.  I then asked if we could have the rather fine white Jag in row one instead, to which he responded, 'you missed the McLaren this morning'.  At this point, I realised that I was way out of my depth, and pottered quietly off to find our hidden car.  Sure enough:

Yes, they have actually parked it between some random 'events' 4x4 and a white van with an orange light on its roof.  Oh the shame.
Still, we got home safely, and the only casualty of the entire journey was one of Little Boy's bottles, which disappeared somewhere en route.

Jammin'

The Lower Sixth (17 year olds) had a project last week which included making an advert for Superjam (which is a real jam, created by a guy called Fraser Doherty, who visited the school as part of the project)
This is one of the adverts created, with Little Boy himself in a starring role.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=is05FvGI1Fs

Pretty cute 'eh?  And Fraser even tweeted about it :)

Hospital parking and grace.

I was thinking recently.  This is not altogether unusual, in my defense.  However, I think the thoughts I was thinking are worth sharing.  This is altogether more rare.

This week has been somewhat full-on, to say the least.  I'll focus on just the relevant bits.  And to put things in context, I live in the UK.  If I lived in another country, this blog post wouldn't have been written.  I'm profoundly thankful.  You'll see why by the end of the post...

To cut a long story short, Tuesday saw me taking Little Boy into hospital.  He'd already been to the doctors on Monday, and the same doctors' surgery but a different doctor on Tuesday morning.  He was running a high temperature.  Tuesday's doctor diagnosed tonsillitis and prescribed some antibiotics.  She said that I was to take Little Boy back that afternoon to see how his temperature was, and if I was concerned in the meantime, I could go to A&E (I guess that's ER for you folks on the other side of the pond).
Well, I was concerned in the meantime, because his temperature, despite paracetamol and ibuprofen, was heading up rather than down.  We therefore went to A&E.
At A&E, we saw a nurse at triage, followed by a doctor, then another doctor.  We had a bay to wait in, and were seen by, I think, four or five nurses taking his temperature, checking his oxygen intake and all that jazz.  We were then sent up to the ward where we were seen by other medical staff (doctors and nurses) and eventually released that same evening when both we and they were happy that Little Boy's fluid intake was where it should be.
Wednesday, Little Boy didn't do too well.  Thursday was worse, and we went back to A&E.  We were admitted to the ward, this time staying overnight.  We saw at least three more doctors, plus two student doctors.  We saw countless nurses, and I was allowed to stay overnight with him, on a bed they made up for me next to him on the ward.

Now rewind slightly to Tuesday evening.  We're on the ward, waiting to see if we'll be kept in, and I'm thinking about hospital parking.  You see, a lot of people have a bit of a thing about hospital parking.  But as I sat there, thinking, it occurred to me that I was getting a bit of a bargain.  By the time I left the hospital on Tuesday night, I'd got an £8.50 parking bill.  But what else did I have to pay?  Nothing.  £8.50 for loads of doctors, nurses, a bay on A&E and a cot on the ward.  Free drugs while we were there.  Bits of paperwork, a couple of syringes for fluid challenges (without needles, don't worry!), I could go on.
And then Thursday was even better.  We took Little Boy in later in the day and paid £5.50 for parking (this was partly because we didn't leave the car overnight - Anna took it home.  £5.50 for the same as Tuesday, plus a cot and a bed overnight, free prescription of new antibiotic, in case the other one wasn't working.  You getting the picture?

Now, imagine going to stay at a nice hotel, and at the end of the stay, being told, 'you owe us £8.50 for parking'.  You might think that was a bit steep.  But if that was ALL they charged you; if your ENTIRE bill for the stay was the £8.50 for parking, well that would surely be different.

Or go to a nice restaurant for a slap-up meal.  The £3.00 cost of parking would seem really quite reasonable if you weren't paying anything for your food and drink.  So why do we go to hospital, enjoy the attentions of numerous doctors and nurses, pay nothing for the privilege, and moan about the cost of parking?


And then I got thinking a little more, and I thought - "that's what I sometimes do with grace".  I quibble and moan (at least in my head, if not out loud) about God's expectations of me.  Why do I have to do stuff His way?  Why must I pay that price?  And yet I'm forgetting that while grace is free, it cost Him a great deal.  It costs me so little compared to the actual cost of being reconciled to God.

What about you?

Do you sometimes forget what our relationship with God cost Him?

Do you need to get God's expectations of you in perspective?

I know I do.

Little Boy's baptism.

Well, it has to be said, we've had a busy week.  In fact, we're in the middle of a busy fortnight.  In fact... (I could go on, but I'll stop)
But yesterday was the highlight of it all. Little Boy got baptised.  It ended up being a sort of fusion of the various communities of which we are a part.  It happened in the chapel here at school; the service was led by mum, and we had family, friends from church and lots of people from school there.  It was great to draw together these different parts of our lives.
We were delighted to have so many  people with us, celebrating Little Boy's life, and committing him to God.

The numbers grew as the weekend progress - 10 for Saturday dinner, 30 for Sunday lunch, and about 4.7 million (or thereabouts) in our house for tea after the service.
I explained it all to Big Boy (again!) on the Sunday morning, so he had fresh in his mind what we were doing and why.  He came and stood with us while we were making our promises (the photo is from after the service - that's the top of his head at the bottom there, along with the top of his cousin's head).  Granny also got Big Boy to light the candle and hold it while we prayed.  That night, as it happened, our Bible story was about Jesus' baptism, which was rather apt.
All-in-all, a great day, and hopefully one which will help others to understand our faith better.

Gorgeous Big Boy.

Blogging seems to have tailed off recently (something about trying to get a book published, I suspect...)  But Big Boy has come out with some crackers of late, and it would seem a shame to deprive you of them.
Today's classic was about wind turbines.  (Don't call them windmills; he'll correct you!)  We drove past one in the next village and the conversation went thus:
BB:  Why do wind turbines have to be in fields?
Me:  They don't have to be sweetheart, it's just a good place for them to get lots of wind.
BB:  Maybe it's so they can blow all the leaves off the trees, so that the apples can come.
I have to say, that was a very amusing picture - farmers erecting enormous fans in their fields to hasten the harvest.  Perhaps one day I'll explain to Big Boy that turbines harness the wind, they don't create it...
He's also started cheating.  Not because he doesn't understand the rules of a game; it's not so innocent as that.  A couple of days ago, we were playing a game called Crazy Chefs.

Basically, you have a card with a bunch of ingredients to collect.  A whole bunch of tiles with these ingredients (for a total of five chef cards) are placed face down, and players take it in turns to turn them over and take them if they're on their card.  It's sort of a memory game.  When you've got all the ingredients, you spin a spinner to try to collect a plate, and then again to try to collect your completed meal.  Sadly, when we played, Big Boy failed to take all the tiles out of the box, with the result that I lost.

Today, we were playing Shopping List.  (Incidentally, they're both 'Orchard Toys' games, which are fab)

It's a similar game, where you have a trolley and a list of eight items to collect.  There are five trolleys and lists, so forty tiles to turn over in the course of the game.  Of course, when there are only two of you, that means that there's always a greater statistical likelihood that you'll turn over one that neither of you needs (especially when, like Big Boy, you're prone to turning the same tile over two or three turns in a row...)  As we were approaching the end of the game, I was about two tiles ahead (not unusual, given his dodgy memory) but was struggling with the final ones.  I eventually found the teddy bear tile, but didn't manage to find the toilet paper one before he'd found all of his tiles (with some guidance...).  I thought this was a little odd, as I was pretty confident I'd been through the whole set.  When I said, 'I can't find the toilet paper anywhere', and starting turning all the tiles face up, Big Boy laughed and said, 'that's because I tricked you - I left it out', and proudly produced it from the box.
Cheers Big Boy.  Turns out crime does pay.