Category / Thinking & Musing

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

Hamlet at the Barbican. Yes, that Hamlet.

I don’t think I’ve ever waited 15 months to see a play before.

Films yes – I can spend an extraordinarily long time waiting for those – and books… well, let’s just say I really hope Pat Rothfuss is in a writing mood this month (though I know he’s not my thingy).

Anyway, 15 months it has indeed been and finally, finally we got to take our seats for one of the most talked-about theatrical experiences in London in recent years. So I feel like – if for no other reason than the epic wait – I should plop down a few thoughts about what I saw.

I was fully expecting an excellent central performance, and I got it. One friend had said she was concerned Benedict Cumberbatch would have too much gravitas – frankly, be a little too old? – to play the university-aged prince of Denmark, but actually when he’s adopting his own tones and not Sherlock’s moody baritone he does, anyway, sound younger (although it is in Sherlock, I think, that we see proof that childish peevishness is well honed in his repertoire). And his finely honed sense of the ridiculous is simply perfect here. But what I wasn’t quite expecting was the set.

Holy mother of set design.

When we were last at the Barbican, for Richard II (I swear I do go and see plays that star people other than nerd heroes, promise), the staging was so spare; a huge space to fill – and a difficult one to dominate – it was all simple chains and metal walkways. This time the halls of Elsinore unfold and… well, I won’t give too much away for those watching in cinemas or with tickets still to be used. But I couldn’t not comment. As a character, the palace itself almost overwhelms the action; that we were quite near the back and all occasionally struggled to hear Ciaran Hinds’ Claudius probably only made the detailed construction and beautiful lighting all the more obvious.

So… was it worth the 15 month wait? Damn right it was. And now I look ahead into a week of London Film Festival screenings already beginning to feel hints of the sadness afterwards when all the fun is over.

Although after Hamlet, Suffragette, Trumbo and High Rise, some form of therapy might be required…

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

Five things that make having an only child wonderful

It’s a question that, inevitably, anyone whose first child has reached two or more, will hear: “are you planning another?”

My answer will differ depending on who’s asking, because if it’s someone I know and like – and luckily it usually is – they’ll get a fuller response whereas if it’s not they’ll get a polite shutting down of the conversation (my womb is not public property, which is why you’re also not going to get the answer here). But invariably what follows is a discourse on whether having an only child is ‘fair’. I’m not going to go into all the things I found – shall we say – problematic in this well-meaning but rather weird article, for example but I do think it’s a sterling example of the job lot of assumptions – from ‘selfishness’ to a ‘lack of peers’ – that are very common when people talk about only children. I’m actually not one, but I am married to one, and right now my daughter is one too.

So here, with tongue tucked just a little bit in cheek, are my five best things about having one child.

Money Money Money

Unquestionably, there is more of it to go around. In a household with two working parents, who already have to rely some of the time on very obliging grandparents, budgets are tight and childcare is at a premium. Three afternoons a week of a childminder and a full five-week summer camp – not to mention holiday costs, uniform, school visits and trips, general household bills and the size of the property we live in (and therefore the mortgage we pay) – add up. The added costs of just one more child can radically change your lifestyle, and we really like ours where it is.

Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!

I have no idea where the selfishness thing comes from. As my friend Anna once said, “only a child with a sibling knows the exact mid-point of a Mars bar”. People assume that – a bit like manners, or liking vegetables – sharing has to be practiced or you won’t know how to do it. But sharing is something us social human creatures only seem to object to when we’re forced to do it. Think about it: what feels better, offering your seat to someone on the Tube or being asked for it? Both husband and child are considerably more natural and happy sharers than I am, because they’ve routinely had the security of knowing their stuff is their stuff. Not communal stuff. Not a hand-me-down. Not limited to ten-minute turns. Then again, I’m not sure I’ve ever met a single adult where I could tell if they had siblings or not by how ‘selfish’ they were. I suspect it makes no difference at all, but if I had to argue for more selflessness on one side, it would be in favour of the only child.

The Winner Takes It All

Having said that, I’ll tell you what I’m overwhelmingly glad my daughter doesn’t have to share: a bed. On holiday  (particularly in the US) it’s frequently the case that you’ll encounter hotels that have two double beds per room – and she gets it all to herself. No squabbling, no problem. I don’t have to share with her, as I did with my mum until my sister and I could be trusted to actually sleep and not have a kicking contest, and she never has to wake up freezing cos her sibling has made a burrito out of the bedding (naming no names, sister mine). If there is only one bed, she’ll slip happily into a single roll-out camp bed.

Knowing Me Knowing You

I think the “what about their peers” argument is closely related to the anti-homeschool argument, though I’m not a homeschooler myself. There’s this assumption that if kids don’t have another child at home or don’t spend all day every day with at least 15 other kids of the same age (because in the workplace we’re all segregated by age and ability all the time), that means they’ll never have any friends. There are no cousins, no friends at school / clubs / swimming lessons, no family friends and relatives, no neighbours and absolutely no other opportunities to socialise with other kids. At all. Ever. Right? And we all know that having absolutely no personal space or way to get away from the person who’s driving you round the bend is very conducive to healthy friendships, and siblings never, ever argue. Ahem.

Also, might there not be something to be said – particularly, again, with two working parents who are out of the house a lot – for having a guarantee of your parents’ undivided attention? I can tell you that, for me, spending more time one-to-one (and less time refereeing) is a really precious gift; one I don’t take for granted. No, I don’t get to see those loving sibling moments – though I’ve seen some downright adorable cousin moments – and I only get one amazing small friend rather than two or more; my loss, indeed. But the flipside of that is that jealousy is a rare emotion in this house (except when the cat monopolises my lap for too long) and I only have one set of tantrums to handle.

My Love My Life

The fact is that I breathed a bit of a sigh of a relief when the baby milestones were done. I adored my daughter at all her stages: tiny, scrunched and helpless, snoozing on my chest; chewing her feet and making da-da-da sounds; taking her first wobbly steps. I hated potty training with a vengeance, but I celebrated with her when she nailed it, and I delighted in dispensing with nappies and bedtime pullups. I really, really, really love having an older child now, with whom I can have conversations, properly read books, watch films in the cinema, go to museums, travel and go out and about without the sponge shaped like a teddy bear and the teddy bear shaped like a sponge. I can also let her go for grandparent sleepovers without concerns – albeit not without missing her – and have more date nights, theatre trips and catch ups with friends.

Having one child – unless your first two children are twins – necessarily means reducing the length of time that you are parent of an infant; even if you have them back to back, each time you’re tacking on another year of those moments. And they’re beautiful, and wonderful and you do them willingly and sometimes you marvel in them but – to my mind – they’re not as good as the much more fully rounded person you get a few years down the line. (See? Told you I was the selfish one.)

When all is said and done, there are some serious things to be said about the only child discourse – including how hurtful it must be for people who did not choose to have one child but were forced into it by circumstance. And of course there are some very wonderful things to say about having more than one child, as many of my friends and family do. But just for once I wanted to celebrate the advantages – material, practical and emotional – that come with being a mum of one.

Whether or not I’ll stay that way… well, that’d be telling.

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

What it’s like to be your mum, now you’re five

I should maybe write about what it is to be five, but how can I? Being

a mum to a five year old I can tell you about. I think that there
might be only one word for it: awesome. Literally. I see that

tomorrow holds so much. I watch the grown up you appearing in the
embers of babyhood you’ve blasted away behind you like a phoenix. I
remember that there was a point when you were basically a genial blob, and I
remember that there was a time when you couldn’t read and were barely
interested in toys or games. I recall there was a period when your nappies were
full and your gums empty. But now we have these lengthy and complex talks –
ideas shower from you like rain – and you ask questions and stretch out
every bit of your vocabulary, testing out words like you’re nibbling bites from
dense loaves of bread. I cling to the moments when you have daft,

babyish ideas, like when you asked me if peas were dead tadpoles. You
understand why it’s funny, and make sly jokes about your mad idea, when
there was a time not too long ago you would have been too embarrassed.

Generally, you’re a brilliantly good-natured soul, making friends easily
or so your teachers tell me – and I see it when we visit other children. I
do envy this; your easy manners and wonderfully engaging nature are things

I have never felt entirely sure of in myself, gregarious as I am. But I

love that I’ll never have to worry about you fitting in, even with your fabulously
odd sense of humour and the way you gravitate towards geekery. I admit I felt
validated when it turned out that your favourites at Walt Disney World were
every bit as edutainmenty and nerdy as mine. Spaceship Earth! You know what

you like and it’s gentle and smart and sparkly, just like you. And
over and above everything, you know that your mama will adore you, will
understand the weird fears and sharp passions, and love you as you. Always.

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

Consent and conversations with young children (or why I ask permission for cuddles at night)

The other day I ended up staying late at work and heading out for dinner with some colleagues (friends, really and all, for what it’s worth, currently child free). While we were waiting for food I got a text from my husband about how our daughter’s bedtime had gone, and it listed the number of cuddles and kisses I could give her when I got home.

I got some baffled looks at this, so I tried to explain. My daughter knows that the last thing I will do every night before I go to bed will be to stick my head around her door and check in on her. My commute is around an hour and a half long, so I inevitably miss a fair number of bedtimes, and therefore bedtime cuddles. She doesn’t want to miss out on these altogether, but also knows she’ll be asleep when I get in. So she gives me a certain number of cuddles and kisses I can deliver when I arrive. It’s usually hilariously specific yet not – “ten or eleven kisses, and two or three hugs” – and sometimes she’ll be super prescriptive about exact kiss placement on her face, and sometimes not. And I only ever carry out exactly what she says, though I’ll admit if she gives me a choice of numbers of kisses I’ll invariably go for the maximum.

I basically got a ‘but why?’ to all this, and I tried to elaborate. The main message I’m trying to get across to the kid is that her body is her own (as I’ve written about before) and that doesn’t change when she’s asleep. We’ve talked about respecting each other’s boundaries a lot during wakefulness – one of her favourite games is the ‘Stop Go Tickle Game’, where she gets to dictate exactly how much I tickle her tummy and around her neck – but now that she’s left the infant stage where she’s unable to communicate preference, I want to demonstrate to her that this respect continues 24 hours a day. Of course I could just pay lip service to it and then smother her little chubby cheeks in mummy kisses as soon as she’s out – she wouldn’t know I’d broken her trust, but I would. And it would be heartbreaking.

The reaction I mostly got was ‘that’s fascinating’, and I’ve no doubt it sounds a lot like weird, handwringing, liberal overthinking. Even if it is, I’d rather overthink this stuff than not think about it at all. When you’re raising a girl, one of the topics you cannot ignore is personal safety; we live in a world where female autonomy and bodily integrity is not sacrosanct. In the slightest. I was very much taught about the practicalities of navigating a life around this as a youngster and a teen – personal alarms, not walking alone, self-defence classes, holding keys as weapons. And while I think that teaching a few defensive strategies has an element of common sense to it, I also think that focussing entirely on that basically says “this is your responsibility, as a girl” – and it’s blatantly not. I cannot, in raising a girl, control what other people will do around her. But I can help fight a culture that suggests that she can. To me, the best way to do that is to continually reinforce her confidence in her own boundaries.

This makes it sound like we all sit there politely asking each other for cuddles as you might ask to pass the salt, and anyone who has ever seen our family in real life would find this pretty hilarious. We’re a seriously huggy bunch (as anyone who has ever gone drinking with me will know); we just place emphasis on the fact that the word ‘no’ is important. More recently we’ve also talked about non-verbal cues as well; when my daughter told me she sometimes wanted to say ‘stop’ in the tickle game but was laughing too hard, I suggested she use a gesture instead and she decided on holding her hand up like a traffic police officer. It’s a constantly evolving process and negotiation, because the paradox of being a child is being taught that you have agency but told you have to go to school, must have your jabs, should eat your greens and will go to bed by a certain time. Parents exist in the land of I Know What’s Best For You, and to my mind she will trust in me offering up this sometimes bitter medicine (we recently had a belated phase two of the MMR, and it was not fun) if the rest of the time the sweet, sweet sugar is confidence in her own autonomy and ability to make decisions and choices that feel right to her. I position myself as the guardian of her safety and health – my number one job as Mama, part and parcel with loving her more than anyone else in the world – and her as the guardian of her personal space. And it’s a partnership which involves her direction and leadership as well as mine, until she’s old enough to take the reins entirely.

Of course I second-guess myself occasionally. For example, does making an agreement beforehand convey consent when one is asleep? For the moment I go with it because on those occasions where we haven’t spoken for some reason so I just poke my head in and leave it at that, she’s disappointed at ‘missing out’ on cuddles when we speak the next morning. She often proactively announces to her dad, without being asked, how much affection she wants doled out when I get home. But eventually I guess my mad work schedule will differ and she’ll get older and less concerned with missed bedtimes and this will all change.

But what won’t change, ever, is my respect for her. So I will carry on having what might seem like needlessly complex rituals in order to reinforce this for her because I really believe it’s important.

Is this something you ever think or worry about with your children or relatives’ children? Do you have family routines and behaviours which seem baffling to others but underscore an important message from your perspective? I strongly suspect I’m not the only one…

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

World Book Day: Cobbling together a costume on a shoestring

This year was our first year with a child at ‘big’ school, so it was our first real experience of the competitive costume gala known as World Book Day. Luckily, both our daughter’s school and the parents in it are pretty sensible; the school gave a week’s notice via a letter in which the head laid out in no uncertain terms that the buying or making of expensive and complicated costumes was really unnecessary – this was to be very much a home-made, celebratory, non-competitive and above all book-focussed World Book Day (they’re rebuilding the school library at the moment, too). Plus the other mums and dads at the school gates this morning were really great at making encouraging noises in the direction of all the kids. Yay, community!

Anyway, as usual, because we are rubbish and busy loving and devoted parents, Ash and I left it to just a couple of days before to agree with R what she wanted to be on the day; we steered her away from the standard Disney kit, because we wanted her to think outside the obvious a bit. It’s no secret from the whole of the internet that I love Disney and Marvel (yes, that IS me in the Daily Mail wearing silly leggings) with an almost embarrassing intensity, but I was determined that this year at least we wouldn’t go the ready-made route. No judgement of those who did, do or want to you understand.

Anyway, I cannot remember whose idea it was to be a crayon from The Day the Crayons Quit by Drew Daywalt and Oliver Jeffers; it MIGHT have been mine, but anyway R chose to be Red Crayon as it’s her favourite colour – handy, since she already has a load of red clothes. We were determined to spend pennies on this, if that, so in the end the only thing we had to buy was the card, because the coloured paper we had was too small, and the elastic.  So, what we used was:

  • Red clothes (child’s own)
  • Red card
  • Black card
  • Pencil
  • Elastic
  • Stapler
  • Scissors
  • Tape
  • Needle and thread
  • Writing paper and markers

R's letter to Duncan from Red Crayon

R as Red Crayon

I don’t really need a step-by-step guide here, do I? A few points of note:

I sewed the ‘belt’ trim to the t-shirt because it’s a really old, short t-shirt and I don’t care if it gets holes in it. I actually thought about stapling it on, but I wanted her to easily be able to rip it off if it annoyed her during the day – she still needs to focus on what she’s doing at school after all. Ash made the hat, which was a basic semi-circle shaped into a cone held together with tape and staples; as I said, we did splash out on some elastic to keep it on (and of course cut it slightly the wrong length so it falls off every time she looks down, but let’s face it – that was never going to stay on in school anyway).

The letter to Dung Duncan was actually R’s own idea, and she copied it out herself which, given she’s only 4, I was very proud of; she wanted to do a copy for every person in her class, which is a genius thought but not when you have it at 8:00pm the night before and your bedtime is 7:30pm max. I think the cutest part was when she addressed it to her teacher but then decided to give it to her friend instead and crossed out the name on the back. Second hand letters are the most thoughtful, aren’t they?

So there you go. Less than £5 spent, and we needn’t even have done that if we’d been prepared to cobble together smaller pieces a bit more (or had a better stocked craft pile. Or thought of making a paper chin strap for the hat. Or, or, or…).

And now looking forward to spending the book token with R. Perhaps she’ll go for The Day the Crayons Came Home!

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

Thoughts on The Theory of Everything and Only Lovers Left Alive

Aside from an abundance of English accents, the above have little in common. However, I happened to see them in the same week and while one is too old to review and I probably don’t have enough to say about the other to warrant a whole post, I had a few thoughts about each I wanted to set down.

First, the Hawking movie. It would, I think, simply be silly to be remotely critical of Eddie Redmayne here; he was as close to perfect, and as far from impression or parody, as anyone could ever ask him to be. I don’t for a minute question whether he deserves all the accolades heaped on his head; with that in mind, I also think there’s a great deal to be said for the direction, at least from a performance perspective. However, I was left feeling largely like I’d missed the point. Usually with a biopic there’s an arc, a focus – an overall reason for telling this story, at this time and in this way. Unquestionably, Stephen Hawking has led a life that is out of the ordinary in a number of ways, and that makes it a compelling proposition. But where the oft-compared The Imitation Game largely focussed on a particular period in Turing’s life, and came with a healthy dose of social justice polemic to boot, The Theory of Everything is essentially a greatest hits of Hawking’s life from MND diagnosis to the end of his marriage to first wife Jane.

Of course the primary reason for this time span is that the source material is Jane’s book (and how good to see a woman’s story and perspective for a change). But in trying to summarise everything it feels like a thread has snapped somewhere along the line. Perhaps because both are still alive, and in spite of Felicity Jones being marvellous, Jane seems oddly airbrushed; actually, the whole film has a soft-focus, with any sexual or gory medical detail much more inferred than displayed. Again, I think, a side effect of choosing a living subject – a largely private one, at that.

There is, thankfully, no hokey disability narrative; the Motor Neurone Disease Association appeal shown just before the film deftly made the point that Hawking’s length of life post-diagnosis is pretty unusual and the film, to its credit, doesn’t try to imply that there’s any special strength of spirit that is the cause of this. It actually does an admirable job of acknowledging the considerable challenges of living with MND, whilst allowing a full characterisation of the subject as a complex – and obviously hyper-intelligent – human being. Still, there was one moment where Hawking imagines stepping out of his chair to pick up a student’s dropped pen – one of those inescapable cure-fantasy moments that seem to come built into any story where disability is an essential part of the story.

A little soft-focus, a little abbreviated, a little airbrushed… is it better, perhaps, to be as accurate and respectful as one can be about reality than to basically make bits up for dramatic effect, as The Imitation Game has been accused of? Perhaps for the subject; but I can tell you which makes better cinema.

And yet, having just complained about the lack of structure in The Theory of Everything, in the same week I hugely enjoyed a film with absolutely no real plot to speak of, Only Lovers Left Alive.

I’ll generally watch any old vampire crap as long as it’s not full-on horror, and there is something wholly irresistible about the idea of Tilda Swinton as the undead. Throw in John Hurt – as Kit Marlowe, no less! – and Tom Hiddleston (finally out-manoeuvred on-screen by his manifestly more experienced colleagues, but still very good), and I’m already sold. But I generally have little patience for excessively self-indulgent faffing, and the first few minutes of the film, beautiful though they were, threatened to annoy my short attention span. And yet… touches of unexpected humour, jarring references to YouTube and Apple product placement, captivating moodiness and just the right touch of self-aware silliness… altogether, frankly, it was a little gem. Every so often, a burst of activity threatens to add a storyline, but then it just sort of rolls on – as well life might if you’ve been alive and married for centuries.

Perhaps that’s exactly the difference between a biopic that rattles from station to station with no clear destination and a drive through the desert with no road at all.

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

2015: The Year of Asking

No, it’s not a review of Amanda Palmer’s book. (Which I might read. I think it would actually be really appropriate to do so but I do tend to find myself disagreeing with her as much as I agree with her; while that opinion matters not a jot to her or hers, it is sort of important when you’re deciding what you should spend your time and attention on.)

But, this year, I’ve decided, will be my Year of Asking.

I’m one of those people who lives with a foot in two different cultures, and sometimes I don’t necessarily mine the best of both. Forgive me for resorting to some tongue-in-cheek stereotype here but I love that I enjoy wonderful Mediterranean foods and nurse a fabulously British passion for tea. I love an orderly queue, and also shouting at then television as if they can hear me. I love a bloody good argument debate, holding court on my favourite subjects and also glaring withering glares at people (*cough* my husband *cough*) who try to talk to me in the cinema. I sit poised between Greek drama and British reserve, and that can be a wonderful thing.

But it can also be an obstacle. For example, I’m really quite bad about asking for things. Not so much at work where the last few years have seen a continual and steady growth in confidence and that just goes from strength to strength – and thank goodness for good management continually prodding me to speak up and demonstrate my worth, with the result that I was promoted this year and actually felt I deserved it. And in the past few years I’ve got a little bit better at complaining – politely, of course – but it’s the proactive asking I still get super hesitant about. But in the (IRL) social world, even something as simple as suggesting a meeting with someone I don’t know can have me second-guessing myself and worrying that I’m somehow taking up too much space in people’s minds.

Some of this is probably leftover socialisation from growing up as a fat kid and literally worrying I took up too much space (tip: please don’t feel the need to tell me I’m not fat now, as a) yes I know and b) still kinda big though and c) that just encourages people to think fat is bad and thus the evil cycle of mental pain continueth). Some of it is probably because several generations of women in my family have very much been the type who worry what other people will think and say if… Some of it is because, resorting to stereotype again, British good form is really not to shout too loudly about oneself or be too proud of one’s accomplishments – and isn’t making your presence known basically a way of doing that?

I sometimes find myself wincing when people self-publicise or repeatedly tweet the same posts with “ICYMI!”. But honestly, why shouldn’t they? They’ve come to the point where people are waiting for their updates, and why shouldn’t they recognise that? What is so wrong with saying “I am here, and I am asking for your attention, because…”? And honestly, waiting in the corner for the Powers That Be (from the brand you want to work with to the person you want to make friends with or the company you want to notice your complaint) to notice you is several times more pathetic than just sticking your hand up and giving a little wave.

I’m sort of a believer in defining years by words because when I do it seems to work out for me as an excellent mental reminder to hop to it. 2013 was Decisiveness; I changed jobs, though I was a scared, and surprised myself regularly throughout the year with what I could set my mind to. 2014 was Creativity, and #100forchildsi seriously unlocked or unblocked something wonderful. 2015 is my Year of Asking – and I guess it started with asking you to read this.

Thank you for your time.

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

Ten New Year wishes for my four year old daughter

Hey Pickle,

I’ve been reading back over my wishes for last year, and you know what’s awesome? You pretty much cracked them all. I mean, okay, there are plenty of lifetime ones that none of us will ever exactly nail – that life is a journey stuff? Trite, yes, but true – but all those goals like toilet training and staying immensely cool and surprising me every day? Yep, yes, done. As if there were ever any doubt.

And in the spirit of celebrating that joy and achievement, I have ten more wishes for you. Because I will never stop wishing for you.

1. I wish that you will continue to bring the laughs. I was bowled over when it turned out that your relentless good humour and the jokes and daftness that you bring to everyday life at home turned out to be your default position in school as well. It’s heartwarming to hear that you spend your time making friends and encouraging people to smile. Okay, we’ll probably need to have some conversations about not getting carried away (and maybe also not basing your worth on being the centre of attention), but I can’t really think of a better essential life skill than spreading the happy. You go, kid.

2. I wish for you to have an IMMENSE time at Walt Disney World! I know I’ve invested an awful lot in this since your first visit is to be at the same age as my first visit was. And it was different for me because a) different people and b) I had no expectations – whereas you, lucky creature, have been to Disneyland Paris twice already! But you’ll have your cousins with you, with my nephew the same age as his mum was when we embarked on this manic, lifetime’s love together. And I hope that will help you overcome any nerves about rides (not to mention entertain you in the crazy queues). There are some attractions we’ll experience for the first time together, and some I think will be reignited in my heart by experiencing them with you. I am highly aware that I need to not base my own excitement on yours, and that I need to accept that your experience will be what it will be. So, you’re the lucky one – when I took your father for the first time, on our honeymoon, I told him that if he didn’t love Epcot I’d regret marrying him. You, I leave to your own devices. (But please don’t hate Spaceship Earth!)

3. I wish that you will keep smashing those targets – in your own time. I knew you were a ridiculously good reader, but I had no idea until parents’ evening how good you are at, well, almost everything else as well. And it’s easy to get carried away with that and get complacent or smug – plus I’ll never apologise for being aspirational and ambitious for you, including academically. You’re smart, and that’s nothing to hide.  And I think we should look to find activities that will let you enjoy your love of singing, dancing and performing. But I also don’t want your formal achievements to be everything about the way you define yourself. That kindness and joy-spreading I talked about? Equally, if not more important. So while I will pray for every success and offer you all the support you could ever possibly want to do what you dream of doing, I’m definitely not going to Tiger Mother you to the next level.

4. I wish that you will keep being amazed by small things. I pretty much adore that you are equally blown away by theme parks and the dodgy-looking wobbly Christmas tree across the road from the childminder’s. The awe is so real – so genuine and heartfelt. I love that you find something wonderful in everything and I hope you keep that for a long time.

5. I wish that you will keep liking what you like, regardless of the opinions of others. Your life is an explosion of all colours, superheroes, princesses (and queens – let’s not demote Elsa like everyone else seems to), building, drawing, reading, writing, singing, playing, computer games, puzzles… no boy things, no girl things, just things. And you don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I know school has a way of knocking the corners off and making people hide their interests to fit in, and I really really hope this doesn’t happen to you. Especially after I promised to give you my Captain America leggings when you grow up. I’d really like to keep that promise.

6. I wish that you will get to spend even more time with your cousins. A holiday together will really help and you’d think a couple of hundred miles is NBD, but somehow we never seen them quite as much as we’d like to. And when you are together, it makes me so happy watching the close and affectionate and rowdy and ridiculous relationships that you’re developing between you. It’s a wish for all of us really, because you can’t ever have too much love in your life, can you?

7. I wish that you will keep inspiring me to be better. From drawing a story out of me, to forcing me to pay attention to the balance I strike between time working and time with you, you raise me as much as I do you. I spent the first year of motherhood trying to work out how to follow a script and be a mother. But being a mother can’t be done by me to you. It must be done between us, as a lifetime’s work. You have to teach me to be the mother you need, and I have to teach you to be your most honest self.

8. I wish that you would let me brush your hair more often. Listen kid, I get that it’s boring and sometimes uncomfortable, and from the perspective of supporting your control of your own body I really, truly don’t care if you want a crew cut or Rapunzel’s braids. Just, for sanity’s sake (and so that the school don’t think I’m neglecting you), as long as it’s clean, tidy and not the snarled and knotted haystack you far too often force me to let you get away with. We’ll use the special brush and the conditioner spray and all the rest of it, but for real kid, we need to keep that thing in line.

9. I wish that you will keep playing along. I’ve never been sure whether you know that it’s me moving Kinder Egg Loki around the house or whether you really think he does it on his own, but if you are humouring me well then keep doing it. All our little in-jokes and silly conversations that only you, me and your dad really ‘get’ are what makes our little world so perfectly, unforgettably ours. Also, the bizarre knock knock jokes like “Knock knock. Who’s there? Banana. Banana who? Banana, can you paint a wall? No.” Those have to stay.

10. I wish that you will watch Ratatouille. Cos it’s great. And that Care Bears movie thing is doing my head in.

Yours with a full heart,

Mama x

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

Five things you should do over the Christmas break…

As with many bloggers, I find myself with many post ideas brewing in my head – but I occasionally lack the time to actually write them. It seems to me that many of the things I’ve been thinking about lately are things I’d like to do when I have more time. And while I’m still working throughout December, there is always more time around Christmas for doing Things and also Stuff. So here are five things I’d either like to do or recommend doing during the downtime – in whatever amounts you get it – before the new year.

No resolutions necessary – unless you want to.

1. Read Joanne M. Harris’s The Gospel of Loki 

…and while you’re at it, follow her on Twitter, for she is delightful.

I’d actually fallen a little out of love with some of Harris’s writing after somewhat bingeing on it after Chocolat. Around the time of Five Quarters of the Orange I’d felt like there wasn’t much more I wanted to read. It happens sometimes, and it doesn’t really necessarily have as much to do with the author as where you are right at that moment.

Anyway, a few months ago I started to see tube posters for this, and it looked very different. And I think no Tom Hiddleston Marvel fan could quite resist being plunged back into the Norse mythology that has spawned a thousand books, comics, films, plays, artworks and Allfather knows what all.

The Gospel of Loki delivers in spades. For a start it’s extremely funny – sometimes just in the turn of phrase, but often in the broadly grotesque characterisation that our fiendish narrator employs to breathe life into his antagonistic fellow Asgardians. And then it is by turns gut-wrenching, guiltily relatable and uncomfortably tense. Loki, forever a victim in his own head, is the perfect anti-hero, and incredibly cleverly drawn; he walks the extremely delicate line between sympathy and disgust, being largely a terrible individual that you somehow root for anyway. The delightful episodic storytelling took me right back to childhood and falling in love with the stories from The Odyssey, and there’s nothing like starting a new book with a cast of characters (except maybe a map. Books with maps = the greatest).

2. Wear something ridiculous

A lot of lucky people (like me) will be working from home for at least part of the festive season, but to be honest I’ve worn every single one of these ridiculous articles into the office in the last three months (yay creative industries!).  So let out your most ridiculous side because honestly? It really does make you feel weirdly happier.

bifrosted

loki thor

I imagine you might be picking up on a theme here, but don’t worry – that’s about it. At least for this post. Maybe.

3.  Give something… extra

If you’re sitting there thinking “well, it’s Christmas, duh!” I don’t blame you, but I’m not talking about the usual presents for friends and family. I’m talking about considering how you can spread a little cheer to a stranger (or even not a stranger, but someone you wouldn’t usually give something to – perhaps even the time of day). It could be a donation of money or time, a present to someone who isn’t expecting one or even a clear out for your local charity shop.

I’ve been thinking about this a fair bit after we had a bit of a mess up with a Disney Store order that didn’t arrive. In the interim I nipped into an actual bricks and mortar store to buy the key item just in case it couldn’t be resolved by Christmas Day. I kept the receipt thinking I’d return the excess item if all worked out.

Disney Store has now resolved the issue, and we have both items. But then I started thinking about doing something else with the spare one (it’s a dressing up costume). I could give it to another child as a Christmas present, and I might. But I could also get in touch with a local hospital and see if they could do with something new for the children’s ward. Or I could auction it on eBay and set the proceeds to go 100% to a charity (won’t make as much as the original sale price, but I can top up AND someone who perhaps can’t afford the full whack will still get the gift). Or I could return it and donate the money. I haven’t really worked out what I’ll do yet, and it might well not get to anyone by the big day, but I figure presents are welcome all year round. The point is, there are opportunities to be generous even in places you didn’t expect, so maybe consider even more options than you already do (if you haven’t already).

In related news: if you’re not a Kiva lender already, do consider making that a giving resolution.

4. Start (or review) a gratitude box

At the end of 2013 we put a big tub in the kitchen and labelled it ‘good things’. Then we started popping stuff in it like theatre tickets, travel mementoes, letters from friends, little notes on which happy moments were scribbled and anything else that generally spoke of a joyful moment that happened that year. My notes are as random and varied as “Armistead Maupin called me ‘wise’ on Twitter” through to “got a promotion at work”. It’s basically #100happydays, but in physical form, and it’s pretty awesome.

Thing is, I haven’t looked at it since then (and I’ve got a little lax about filling it). It’s time to review all the amazing experiences we’ve been privileged to have over the past year and think about what’s around the corner – that we know of. Sometimes I can be guilty of only placing significance on big things, and that just leads to a kind of vague and unhelpful dissatisfaction with everything. A little gratitude goes a long way.

5. Watch something you haven’t seen before. And something you definitely have.

Last year, I saw Elf for the first time. And it was… quite good? Better than okay? Not my favourite Christmas movie*? Whatever. I can’t really be arsed to watch it again, but I won’t turn it off if it’s on. The point is, it was nice not just spending the entire festive period watching classics and favourites, but potentially allowing for a new classic or favourite – even if Elf turned out not to be it. This year I haven’t yet decided what it will be, but I have some shameful gaps in my film viewing and, having bullied Ash just this past week into watching both Network and Edward Scissorhands since he hadn’t before, I think it’s important to bully myself a little too. Because even in the midst of the most cosy, nostalgic, comfortable familiarity, a touch of newness is healthy.

And yet of course Christmas is the season for binge-watching your absolute favourites – whether they’re festive classics or not. Obviously we’ll be having a family sit down in front of The Avengers / Avengers Assemble*  on Boxing Day and I will be as enthralled as ever in front of the underappreciated gem that is Ratatouille.  Because it wouldn’t be Christmas without an ambitious rat… right?

——

*Die Hard. YES IT IS A CHRISTMAS MOVIE. THE HO HO HO JOKE WOULDN’T WORK OTHERWISE, WOULD IT? WOULD IT?!I

*Pick your regional variant. Amusingly, the first time I saw this I blundered in about a quarter of the way through, completely confused, and I hadn’t yet seen Captain America: The First Avenger  or Thor and I was all “who the hell is this guy with the unfortunate hair? WHY IS HE WHINING ABOUT EVERYTHING? Loki my arse – he’s like Louis from Interview with the Vampire…”. So.. yeah. Give things a second chance. Watch them in their proper context. *cough*

by Alexandra Roumbas Goldstein

Five reasons to love Collectif clothing

collectif I’m sure you’re all very smart and knew all these anyway. But it’s rare that I get all that excited about clothes – I like them, but I often struggle to find affordable stuff that fits and that is worth getting excited about. And I will always enjoy days in battered Uniqlo jeans and my 1980s EPCOT hoodie.

But anyway, just in case you didn’t know about this – or perhaps feel the same way – here are my five reasons to love Collectif.

1. It’s vintage-inspired without you having to actually look for vintage stuff. Which, while it’s lovely and addictive and incredibly rewarding, is also time-consuming and frequently disappointing (especially if, like me, you only ever find things you like in teeny, tiny sizes). Plus, vintage looks look awesome with flats. Which this never-wearing-heels-again woman is pretty happy with.

2. The size range is respectable, going from 8 to 22, and using a roughly 1940s ratio for the fit – which means that if you have a relatively broad waist-to-hip ratio, things will fit beautifully. And though I’m quite tall at just short of 5′ 9″, the longer skirt lengths means they still fall just below the knee and look fab. I’m a 14 in M&S but a 16 at Collectif, but I don’t care about going up a size when things fit perfectly (and we all know M&S is a bit of an ego massage anyway).

3. The prices aren’t low, but they are much lower than many similar brands. I ain’t never giving up my love for Vivien of Holloway, but I can’t afford a £100+ dress very often at all. So for everyday looks, Collectif is a much more accessible source. And there are excellent sales – I bought at least one skirt for just £15.

4. The service is a joy. Easy, quick returns (sadly, not everything can look good), stupid questions answered with grace and charm, and unexpected postal problems swifty resolved.

5. There are high street stores too! I haven’t actually visited one yet, but I’m very much going to. As soon as I can risk the dent to my bank account.

My favourite pieces so far have been this sturdy yet elegant navy cotton anchor-patterned cardigan (which, in spite of my shoddy photography, rightfully got much Instagram love), a slinky, high-waisted skirt and, well, another gorgeous high-waisted skirt. A nipped in cardigan, a stretchy VoH belt, some ridiculous earrings and a smear of silly-bright lipstick – it feels like do-anything armour on days when looking confident helps you to feel the same way.

Anything I’m less keen on? Well, cigarette pants look awful on me, but I don’t think I can blame them for that. Oh, and I’d love to see an even bigger accessory collection.

And hey, now it gives me plenty to wear at Bea’s…

No sponsorship, just an honest bit of love because I felt like it.