Here I share the miracle of my son, writing.
Actual, proper, creative writing. I never thought the day would come. I have tortured myself in the past with visions of him unable to write more than his name and address without succumbing to writers cramp or buckets of tears. Or both.
In every shape and form possible, he has rejected writing at every turn - resulting in crossness (on my part) and despair (on his part).
At the start of this 'term' I got hold of this book, recommended by a zealous home-teaching friend of mine. I had little hope of it making bugger-all difference, but anything was worth a go at this stage. I also thought I should sit down with him and write, as I recall at school always being fascinated by other people's work and would (as I do now) adopt styles of writing that I enjoy and admire. As Oliver has no peers whilst working, he is at somewhat of a disadvantage in this respect, so I thought if he saw me writing and enjoying the process of creating, he might 'copy'. I am no Jane Austen, but certainly believe I can write creatively enough to satisfy the needs of an eleven year old.
Bingo.
In the space of a week, he was writing out passages with few spelling mistakes, and grasping the concept of punctuation. We read our work out to each other as we go along. I am now the proud author of a letter to my mother about what I did in the summer holidays, a description of my favourite dessert, a postcard home from Victorian seaside England and an adventure of a spider called Jefferson. The book encourages writing without worrying too much about spelling and grammar at this stage, which is a good idea to foster creativity. I am genuinely stunned at his ability to write interesting and amusing pieces of work - his use of adjective and dry humour is unbelievable for a child who does not read. Impressed I am.
For the last few weeks, Oliver has been cooking tea on a Thursday night, the only night we seem to sit down together and eat as a family. So, yesterday morning, over breakfast, I asked him what he wanted to cook later on. He said quiche, but wasn't sure what to put in it. He pondered this for a while and then said 'can I ask you something?' I nodded, mouthful of coffee, expecting a suggestion of weird quiche-filling combos, when he said 'I know how gay men have sex, but how do lesbians have sex?'
Bloody hell!
And all before I have any caffeine inside me.
Just to clarify why an eleven year old boy should have any concept of gay man sex, Mark was muttering an awful lot in Canada about being 'arse-raped' every time we had to cough up exorbitant amounts of dosh for lame tourist trips, and Oliver asked what this meant. We gave him a literal and colloquial explanation, as we are those kinds of parents.
Although quite why quiche and lesbians would crop up in the same thought span is anybody's guess.
I can't even bring myself to go into detail on my answer, suffice to say it involved the word 'rubbing', and then I went for a lie down in a dark room.
No-one ever told me home education could be so emotionally disturbing.
Mooooving swiftly on, I have fancied the idea of a Christmas blanket for a while, and with this in mind, am having a crack at this one:
It took a few squares to get the hang of the pattern, and these are the first four I did, sewn together to see the potential finished result. If I get desperate come December, this amateurish foursome will be featuring in the finished piece for sure.
I have now made 100 squares for this blanket:
Only 188 more to go. It was originally intended for my brother, but he has unknowingly blown it for being so bloody horrid all the time. So I am not busting a gut to finish it by Christmas as intended, and popped it in pending for now.
So there.
