Say it ain’t so. Or, maybe, say it is so. I read in the paper today that a third of parents have never sung nursery rhymes to their children. Apparently, because parents are choosing to sing pop songs to their little ones rather than traditional rhymes which they deem boring and dated, said rhymes are in danger of dying out.
As with all things evolutionary, only the strong will survive. Most of the nursery rhymes still sung today are only sung because of their patterns and rhythms – their “catchiness”, if you will – not their content. I can’t imagine that half the parents and carers singing Baa, Baa, Black Sheep to their little ones are aiming to teach them about taxation, the real meaning behind the ditty. I sure as heck am not trying to teach my two-year-old about losing his virginity when I recite Jack and Jill. It seems that going up the hill to fetch a pail of water is a euphemism for having sex.
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So there I was at 3am with my son, trying to wean him off the wee hours feed so I could return to the concept known as a night of uninterrupted sleep. I was informed by somebody – I can’t remember who, but it was somebody who at the time seemed to be the supreme advice-giver of all things weaning as I read his or her book with heavy eyelids – that your little bundle of joy may cry a little. A little? I immediately turned to the glossary to see if there was a definition for “a little”. No such luck. I turned back to the weaning page, which stated that with cries, said bundle is only responding to a change in routine and isn’t really hungry.
Unbearable as it was trying to sleep with my son crying next to me for what seemed like a few lifetimes, I started imagining he’d wake up in a few hours looking completely emaciated. I convinced myself that he was starving. After all, I’ve been known to wake up at 3am, in desperate need of chocolate or craving a stone-baked pizza. Who’s to say he wasn’t ravenous.
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Thanks very much to everyone for coming out to celebrate the launch of Oomphalos! It was wonderful to meet you all and see the little ones’ smiling faces. Click here to view party photos.
Photography courtesy of storme sabine photography
w: www.stormesabine.com
e: photo@stormesabine.com
m: 07967 606227
I must’ve inherited it from my mom – this thing for orderliness. She arranged cans in the cupboard so that all the fronts of the labels faced you as you opened it a la Sleeping with the Enemy. And on the spectrum of calm to fanatical, she was probably at about over-the-top zealous when it came to preventing glass rings. If there was a box labelled “Christmas” or “Halloween”, you’d better believe that there would never mistakenly be a snowman or stocking in the Halloween box or a pumpkin or bat in the Christmas box. This would be total anarchy in her world.
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It all started with a purple and green crayon drawing on the wall. After telling my son what a beautiful stegosaurus he had drawn and suggesting he draw it in his notebook the next time around, I panicked knowing that my one friend who has a curious obsession with clean walls was coming over in the next few minutes. I eyed the baby wipes, decided to give ‘em a go and am now faced with an unhealthy fascination with the wee cloths. There was not a single trace of any pigmented wax having ever touched the wall.
Since this eye-opening experience, I have considered adopting the role of Premier Advocate of the Rectangular Moist Cloth. The next day involved a chocolate incident. Although it is difficult for me to bring myself to return to the scene of the crime, I can say that even the CSI folks would have difficulty knowing that a Green & Blacks bar temporarily resided in our home.
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