The Danger of Children's Toys

Common household dangers - we are all warned about them when we give birth. We put child locks on the detergent cupboards, barriers on the stairs and remove all breakables and so on. All this to protect our innocent and vulnerable offspring. No-one warns us about them.

My father used to tell me that toys came alive at midnight. 

They do. They evolve. They move. 

They form little armies. 

They plan and execute battle strategies. 

It’s Toy Story gone bad.

 

Picture this…

The digital alarm clock casts its eerie green light across the room. It is 2 am. The dark of the night. All is quiet. 

A voice shatters the silence, the cry of a child in the grip of night-time terrors. 

I am moving before I am awake, swinging my legs over the bed caught in the biological instinct of a mother to protect her child.

Under my foot is something wet, furry and very very dead. I stifle the urge to scream and peer down at the floor in cold sweating horror. A small boy strategically placed a wet rat soft toy next to my bed. It is fine. 

I recover and walk forward… 

Right onto the handle of a plastic toy rake. 

This time I cannot stop the scream of sheer agony as it’s razor sharp tines stabbed my shin. 

I hobble forward and took off on the roof of a small matchbox car landing with a thump on a tiny piece of Star Wars Lego.

No-one warns us of the dangers of child-friendly, educational toys.

They can kill a parent.

Beware.

Luke's Book of Dolch Sight Words

This was put together to help Small boy aged 7 to learn his Dolch sight words. 

He was struggling to read them out of context.

 

This is my friend.

He has come to play with me. 

We like to play ball with his dog.

His dog can run fast.

  

 

The dog saw my cat.  

The dog barked. 

The cat heard the dog bark.

The dog ran after the cat. 

The cat ran up a big tree.

I said, “No! You must not chase my cat!”

What a bad dog!

The dog went away.

How can we help the cat come down?

What are we going to do?

This is my mother.

This is my little sister.

She is a good girl.

This is my big brother.

They will help me find the cat.

We went up the hill.

“Look up,” said my mother.

We looked up into the tree.

The cat was hiding in the tree.

I said, “I can not see the cat.”

We went on looking.

 

 

It was time to go home.

At home we found the cat.

She made it back before us.

We got home after her. 

“Here she is,” said my friend.

Some more words…

Is this a boy or a girl?

He is a boy.

What has he got?

He has got an apple.

What are you playing?

We are playing hide and seek.

What has my mother made?

She has made a cake.

Have you helped your mother?

Yes, I helped her make more cake.

Did you give your friend some cake?

Yes, I gave him some cake.

Have you had more cake?

Yes, just one more slice.

Who does this ball belong to?

It belongs to him.

 

Where are you going?

We are going away on holiday?

Where have you been?

I have been to see my mother.

Can you hear the rain?

Yes, I can hear it.

Glam Rock or Soft Pop?

What music to do you listen to?

This question makes me alternatively blush and fidget nervously. It’s a loaded question. Answering it is like playing Russian roulette. Your answer will be the foundation of a character assessment that you will never live down. 

It’s akin to the Bible story about building your house of rock (good) or sand (bad). Maybe it’s better explained as rock (good) and Justin Bieber (bad).

I fear this question like no other, because my music taste is questionable. I have to be honest about it. It’s not like I listen to Tiffany or Belinda Carlisle. That shows my age. I don’t listen to Britney, Justin or woman who wear raw meat. Yes, I can be just as judgemental. Music is very polarising. It’s why the question Beatles or Elvis can easily distinguish one mindset from another.

I am a child of 80s glam rock. Big hair, tight pants and emaciated bodies. Guns and Roses, Bon Jovi and Aerosmith. I grew up with Dylan, Joan Baez, Uriah Heap and the Grateful Dead. My first CD was Poison. I rocked to Alice Cooper, Metallica and Suicidal Tendencies. I teenage angsted to Pink Floyd, Leonard Cohen, Sinead o’Connor and Nirvana. I had a wardrobe of band t-shirts – Sisters of Mercy, the Cult, Judas Priest, Motorhead, Sex Pistols, Nine Inch Nails and of course, The Doors.

These days I can’t answer the question so easily. I don’t listen to any particular genre. The one common thread through all the music I listen to is honesty. I like music that conveys an intimacy, an emotion and a connection to the musician. I don’t like bad cover versions or pop princess music written by a team of aging white men.

I listen to Eminem, because of the raw honesty of his work. He brutally lays out all the minutiae of his life, his loves and his challenges. He makes no excuses. 

Now Ms Spears has a huge amount of experience to draw from – the breakdown, the divorces, the haircuts. Yet, she persists in singing about utter drivel.

 

I listen to Joan Baez, because her work had no fancy production, her voice and her guitar were all she needed to make a listener weep. I listen to Cowboy Junkies because the intimacy and power of this family come through each song. I listen to Leonard Cohen because he never sings the same song the same way. I listen to Dylan, despite the harmonica, because his prose could start a revolution.

My ancestors, in between painting themselves blue and running amok, had bards. These men were given the task of recording the battles and deeds of the clan in song. The ones that have survived are eloquent, heartrending accounts of the horror of war, the betrayal of trusted friends and the fight to own the land they called home.

In honour of Heritage Day I played Scottish songs on the school run. The Battle of Glencoe never fails to make my blood run cold. Three small children sat spellbound throughout. 

When we got to the Scottish Soldier we belted out the refrain. Of course, I ended up promising I’d take them to the land of the kilt.

There is something humbling and empowering about standing under the statue of Robert the Bruce and knowing that his fearsome warrior blood runs within my veins too. No wonder I am such a stubborn women. 

Then again, it is the only time I’ve had someone refuse to sell me something because of my name. I was in William Wallace country and bloody Mel Gibson had made sure I couldn’t buy a single bloody thing.

History moves slower in some places than in others. In the highlands, battles that took place hundreds of years ago are still relived today. Not the sort of American Civil War re-enactments where accountants and history buffs get all dressed up. I hooted with laughter because the English Heritage lot put a Campbell in charge of the museum at Glencoe. The McDonalds were up in arms and livid with rage, how could they put such a murderer in charge? It was a particularly bad decision on behalf of the English. I felt sorry for the poor curator.

The thing is, when you stand on the edge of a loch, with the mist creeping over the heather you can hear the echo’s of the pipers from centuries past and feel the feral wildness of the land. It is easy to believe the tales of fairy mounds and magic, to imagine Hamlet’s witches.

The Scots are in general a genial lot, but there is one sure fire way to get a Scot to let loose that famous temper. Call him an Englishman.

Daddy and the Bear

Every morning in Mummy and Daddy’s bed

Daddy’s gone, and there’s a bear instead

A great, big, angry, grizzly bear!

Where did he come from?

How did he get there?

Under the covers he grizzles and growls 

If you make a noise then that grizzly bear howls

And if you get too close he’ll pounce out of the bed

If you’re not careful, he’ll bite off your head!

 

Then Mummy makes coffee all steaming and hot

And leaves it by the bed in a big coffee pot 

Sooner or later Daddy comes down the stairs

With a big happy smile and a cheery air

I went up and checked and the bear’s disappeared

Where does he go to when my Daddy is here? 

I poked him this morning, so I know he’s not dead

Maybe he’s hiding under the bed?

Friends - a story for Luke

 This is my friend.

 What does that mean?

 A friend makes you smile.

 A friend makes you laugh.

A friend makes you feel important.

A friend isn’t mean to you.

A friend doesn’t push you around.

A friend is proud of what you do. 

A friend is there when you are sad or happy.

A friend plays with you. 

A friend learns with you.

A friend is forever.

Lexi and Clare's Story

The Fairy's house in the lavender

Once upon a time there were two little fairies. They lived at the bottom of a garden in a little house in a big lavender bush. The two fairies were the very best friends and they did everything together.

Clare Bell

Lexi Bell

The pink fairy’s name was Lexi Bell and the blue fairy’s name was Clare Bell. 

Their job was to look after all the garden and make the flowers bloom. It was a very special job and the Queen of the Fairies had given it to them herself.

 

Every Spring the fairies had to wake up the seeds and the plants that had slept through the Winter. It was very hard to get them to wake up. So, the fairies would sing a beautiful song about the spring and one by one the plants in the garden would wake up and smile.    

The song went like this:

Wake up little flowers

Shake dreams from your head

The spring has arrived

So rise from your bed

As they sang their song, the fairies would dance through the garden sprinkling fairy dust over all the flowers. As the sun shone through their wings little rainbows would shimmer all around them.

The garden burst to life. The bees began buzzing. The birds began singing. Everywhere flowers began to bloom. All but one. 

A butterfly came and told Clare Bell that one little flower refused to get out of bed. 

Clare Bell and Lexi Bell tried everything they could think of. They sang, they danced, they sprinkled fairy dust, but the flower would not wake up.

“Oh dear,” said Clare Bell, “What if she doesn’t wake up before the Queen gets here?”

Lexi Bell frowned, “We must find out why the flower won’t wake. Maybe there is something wrong?”

“Maybe she is just lazy?” suggested Clara Bell.

Lexi Bell laughed, “Maybe she is having such a nice dream, she doesn’t want to wake up?”

“How can we find out?” asked Clara Bell.

“I can help,” said a little voice.

The fairies looked down and saw a little red ladybird.

“Do you know why she won’t wake up?” asked Clare Bell.

“She is sad,” said the ladybird, “She misses the children who used to play in the garden.”

“Where are the children?” asked Lexi Bell.

“I know,” said Clare Bell sadly, “They are inside the house. They don’t play out here anymore.”

“But why not?” said Lexi Bell, “The garden is full of magic. There are places to hide and new things to discover everywhere. Why don’t they play here?”

“They have computer games and TV. They’ve forgotten us,” said the yellow dog.

“Well,” said Lexi Bell, “We shall have to make them remember!”

“I know how we can do that!” said Clare Bell winking.

The fairies spoke to all the birds, bees, ladybirds, dragonflies and all the creatures in the garden. Together they made a plan to bring the children back to the garden.

As the children lay sleeping, the fairies wove their magic into their dreams, planting seeds that would blossom when the children woke. 

In the morning the children heard the birds singing and their hearts filled with joy. The flowers sent their sweet scent into their rooms with the promise of sunshine and fresh mown grass. 

That afternoon instead of going inside to watch TV, the children came into the garden. The yellow dog barked and wagged his tail and the children laughed and threw his ball. They forgot all about going inside. They climbed up in the old tree house and swung on the branches. They danced around trying to catch the pretty butterflies.

The sound of their laughter found its way to the flower who lay sleeping. 

As the fairies watched, the flower opened her eyes and unfurled her petals. She stretched and yawned and smiled. 

At last the whole garden was awake.

The Fairy Queen

When the Fairy Queen came to see the garden she was amazed at how beautiful it was.  

“How did you get the colours so bright?” she asked, “I have never seen the garden look so alive.”

Clare Bell and Lexi Bell laughed, “With a little bit of magic and a lot of laughter.”