The Coming of Going

Yesterday, an insightful woman asked my what my inspiration was, quite uninvited. Here is my answer.

Yesterday was a day which I recognise as one that will take place with a regularity for which I should not be surprised. It was a day when the fragrant Mrs Acular and I sat before those who had had the the care of our children for the much of the last three years. Yesterday was their 'Report Day' as they start to make the transition from nursery to school.

Three years ago, we delivered to Aylesbury Day Nursery two nine-month old infants. They had just mastered crawling but not walking, could grasp and hold but not much more. They had yet to acquire their trademark curls or the spirit of partnership which characterises their existence. Then, two fairly immobile blobs spent their first day in 'The Setting' and yesterday we learned something of what the professionals think of our little girls. We sat in near-tearful amazement when we heard of their reasoning, creative and artistic skills. We reveled in their ability to count, to form recognisable letters, to problem-solve, to relate to others, to respond appropriately to strangers, to be warm tender human beings, and most importantly, in them being who they have grown into. Our babies are now little girls, inquisitive, vital, polite, generous, considerate and compassionate. I thank God for the life they have been able to lead so far. 

But things are going to change. Shortly, they will go to school and an entire phase of life changes. This mirrors that changes that are affecting their parents, as I bring to a conclusion something which has been as rich and forming as nursery life has been for them. Mrs Acular, sadly, has to bring something wonderful to an end - her present job. That things end is so hard, and part of all of us senses a slight resistance to the overwhelming changes that await us just around the corner. 

Wider afield, the world of social media is awash with those blessed with new ordained ministries, or the development of an existing one. I send my blessings and prayers to them - and a gentle reminder that they are some of the luckiest people alive. As a reader of this blog said elsewhere over the last few days, there is nothing that amplifies ones own sense of calling more than the affirmation of the callings of others through ordinations. 

So, my nursery days are drawing to their conclusion. There await some wonderful events where my family and I can say our 'goodbyes', and the hardest thing of all to contemplate - my last service in Aylesbury. I need to prepare a sermon for that and I am not sure quite where to start, or if I can ever hope to finish. So much to say, so little time. My wife and I chatted a little about how life is for me now when compared to life before ordination. The world is possible to me in a way that it never was before, and I know in absolute terms that I am doing what I am meant to be doing with my apportioned years. 

So, @Goannatree (the lady from Twitter who asked what had inspired me yesterday), my girls and the grace and excitement with which they are facing their transition - that is my inspiration. It's all in a day's work for them, this life-changing change stuff. I don't want to leave one place and yet I can't wait to start in another. It's a funny old time and so little of it makes sense on an emotional level. 

What To Do?

I am a mild-tempered man. Yes, I may rant and rave on this thing, but in the end, better that I tap keys than deliver a dry-slap to a passing pensioner, no? Apart from in front of Saturday night reality TV when I am rage-incarnate, I am just a ball of fluffy loveliness. 

Until just now ....

My little girl, my darling daughter, all three-years-old of her returned home from church in a ponderous mood. She is only like this if she is once again contemplating issues of mortality and the theology of death (I often wonder if Paul Sheppy isn't her real dad, at times), or if someone has been mean to her. Without exception, such a person is another child, one of her peers, and we attend to matters accordingly.

Until just now ...

She is fairly shy or perhaps measured. She is well-socialised as any clergy kids are, but she is cautious about who she speaks to - no bad thing in the large public gatherings that my work and life expose her and her sister to. It is a frequent thing that complete (or relative) strangers speak to them like old friends, or (as happened this very week) grab and squeeze their cheeks. For them to have a healthy reticence in the face of all this attention (wonderful and kind as it is) is a useful skill.

Well, this very day, within the context of the Eucharist at which we had all gathered to celebrate, someone accused my perfect little angel of being rude, because she didn't speak to that person (someone she hadn't seen in nearly a year). Were it another child, Rebekah would have stood her ground, but when it is another adult, all she could do was package it up, internalise it, believe what was said and take it home quietly. 

I have discovered a new emotion. Fortunately, I only learned about this after collar-off time, so was safely locked into the house. Why? Because this emotion is a dark one, one that propelled me towards a fury the like of which I have not felt for some time. I wanted to fight for my little girl. I wanted to do the index-finger-jabbing-chest thing, ask what the devil they thought they were doing. It is in the heart of most parents to protect their youngsters, or to seek retribution when they seem to have been wronged. I now know this first hand, and was, I confess, alarmed by my own fury. They are my kids and I am their dad, but here we have the old balancing act thing again, because I am clergy, and clergy do not habitually throttle people. I am now at a loss to know what to do in this thorny world that my children will have to journey through. I know that my collar will hold me back, and whether that is right or not I don't know. I jealously protect my own, but for the first time, I feel that there is a barrier to that in some small part. 

I don't know how to end this post. At the moment I want to take my little girl's pain away and do death in equal measure. I am a nice man, and also a priest, and at the moment, I am not sure how this stuff works. 

David Baibey or Lord Titchfield?

I am amazed by this photograph. That it is one of my daughters is not the reason. That it is reasonably well composed is not the reason. That the photographer and subject have managed to negotiate a smile for the picture is not the reason. That the light is right and the colours vibrant is not the reason. That it is focussed and crisp is not the reason either.

The reason that this picture is amazing is that it was taken by my other daughter, barely three years old. I have never taught her to use the camera and neither has my wife. We know she was fiddling with it, but never for a moment thought that she had taken anything! Add to this that our camera is notoriously difficult to use at times (it's a little older than most digital cameras). 

Aren't children amazing?

(and for the cynics, it wasn't me cos I wasn't there, and it wasn't The Wife because that is her shoulder you can see)

Double Yolk

I am a 'twin parent' which means that I am a parent to twins, not that I have a similar looking Belgian parent that I visit once a decade! Having my surname precipitated the nomenclature 'David Cloake, Double Yolk' - more especially in the early days of the wife's pregnancy! She informs me that I can claim no credit along those lines - but that didn't stop the Alpha Male from chest beating (and I am not referring to St Nicky of Gumbel either - he is quite another Alpha Male - and I wonder whether it is true that conservative evangelicals read the Alpha Mail?!) Anyway ...

The last few days have seen a poorly twinny - and it made me think once again about the specific demands on twin parents. I will list just a couple so that you can gain an insight to this rather odd world (privileged and arduous in equal measure)

1. We were expecting two kids, sex unknown, and we had to have four names. Two girls were born so we were left with two girl's names. Which baby gets which name? On what basis is that choice made? That was an interesting thing an hour into their life.

2. Being twin parents is like being two cohabiting single parents. We each have one of our own to look after, as it were - especially in the early days.  Each has a nappy to change at every round, each a bottle to feed (only the bravest of twin mothers do the boob thing, which aerates the breast-feeding lobby no end). No rumpy-pumpy either, not in the first few months ... no time, too tired.

3. In the event that one of us was alone with both babies - and both cried, how could we fully comfort both? Lifting one floppy infant is tough enough, let alone two howlers. For the first few times that hurt - really really hurt.

4. So they are growing and developing apace. Watching two children who are in all but the smallest details the same, developing and finding their way in the world is simply amazing. Watching their first interactions with one another; watching them play together now; listening to them imagine; seeing how very different their personalities are - manna from Heaven to me!

5. Twins are not singleton babies 'plus' - having two passing the same developemental stages at the same time is interesting, let's say. Two weaners, two potty-trainers, two kids that even yet have not mastered whole night sleeping (at the same time), two lots of chickenpox and barf - tiring doesn't even cover it. 

6. Receiving the first two Father's Day cards that they have ever made [today] - priceless.

It is a relatively rare privilege being a parent to twinnies. Jessica and Rebekah are a constant joy and root my life so firmly on the ground that I nearly have flat feet. The admiration of passers-by (and the silly questions: are they twins? [no love, I clone babies]; are they both girls? [no, I have clothed the boy in a dress to skew his self-image]; awww, double-trouble I bet ['BOGOF' - breed one get one free]; where does the red hair come from? [the local twin wig shop, don't you know it?]; are their twins in the family? [yes, these ones, silly - plus the nine other sets we keep for special occasions] ... and so on add a quality to my life that is magical. So, Happy Father's Day to those of you for whom that applies - although the day itself it is a bit of an invention, no better job exists than that of 'Dad' if that is who you are called to be.

And the Truth Shall Set You Free

...Arse Gropper ...

...is how my daughter pronounces 'grasshopper'. You may have seen others on the blog ... 'spagolognaise' is obvious, but Jess still pronounces 'dressing gown' as 'abbiguyon'. It is part of the Cloake patoir now. Jess still has trouble with the letter 'l', so '...and one for the yittle boy who yives down the yane' is commonplace.

What falls out of the mouth of my babes and sucklings got me a'thinkun yesterday. The mispronouned words are funny - but the clearly pronounced publically uttered (albeit innocent) questions are less of a happy matter for Mrs Acular and me.

"Daddy, why is that yady fat?", stated less than three feet away from the hapless (if, admittedly morbidly obese) lady, in an empty cafeteria. 

"Is that cereal bar nice?", retorted a deeply embarrassed Daddy, now exhibiting a blush hotter and redder than the surface of the sun.

"But daddy, the yady is fat" ... and so on, until we left (the lovely woman didn't betray so much as a flicker)

I thought this through, and it reminded me of a conversation that I had had many years ago in one of my London carpet emporia. A customer and I had come to the end of a rather nasty 'spat', we had both raised our voices, we both swore at the other, we had finger-pointed, then we concluded with something of a friendly and mutually respecting epilogue (once we had thrashed out the minor details). We later commented how refreshing it had been to be honest with one another, and how we ought to have a day in the year where we could have an amnesty on the truth - that is to say, say it like it is, honestly. I grant you that one us had called the other 'a f*cking animal' and the other 'a vile slug' - though we did giggle about that afterwards.

So, an amnesty on the truth. If that day had been yesterday, I would have been compelled to make comments about excessive consumptions of calorific content, a glandular matter perhaps, sizeable bones even, or more particularly a lethargic metabolic temperament. That would be why, my daughters two, 'the yady is indeed fat'.

Wider issue here - if we follow this to its logical conclusion, it is clear how much 'half-truth white-lie semantic prestidigitation' we surround ourselves in. The politically correct world is largely one of fibbing-to-protect. Can you imagine a ministry where the vicah could only be truly and painfully honest? I shudder to think ....

(Thanks to Reverendfun for the cartoon)

Through the eyes of children II

The last time I wrote on this topic, I was wounded by the power of a relative baby http://vernacularcurate.blogspot.com/2010/01/through-eyes-of-children.html - and so I approach this topic again from another perspective, a happier one I think. 

The thing that I discover as I get older is that life and its concerns (good or bad) seem to increase in both speed and physical volume. A decade ago, I worried about how my Marriage was going to go (it is, by chance, our anniversary today), and a bit about how my then store in Tunbridge Wells was faring in a difficult trading period. I worried about money a bit, and was looking forward to our honeymoon in Gran Canaria - that was about it. Today, I worry about the kids, my work (subdivided into EDL, next Sunday's sermon, the wedding in the middle of the EDL visit, the Charity Commission return, the website that needs updating in a little while, and so on), how Jo is getting on court today (not as the defendent, I assure you), the fact that my shoulder always aches at the moment, the lack of sleep thing etc etc. I am happy in my life, but an orchestra of stuff plays its Cranial Symphony - and the tempo is perky just right now. 

Jo, Jessica Rebekah and I, with the excellent Katie and her daughter Izzie, went to London to see the Queen on Saturday. That's right, we decided to up-sticks, get on the train with our kiddie paraphernalia and schlap to the Capital for a little sightseeing. What a wonderful day we had. Why? We only managed on open-top bus ride when there ...

No, mate - that is what I did. 

What the kids did was get on a train, be excited about that almost to micturition. They saw ten-million sheep, and were so delighted that they told everyone on the train about each one as they passed it. We saw planes - oh my word we saw planes. They saw blossoms, lots and lots of blossoms. There were hawsees and moo-cows and that was even before we left Buckinghamshire. Then we got to Marylebone and got the Tube, and got on the longest set of magic-stairs ever (that is what we call escalators). Rebekah asked a Rastafarian man (after waking him) why he was wearing a big hat. He smiled and graciously answered. Then we got to Piccadilli and caught the big red bus and we drove and drove. We went passed the the Queens' house ('Daddy, does the Queen live in the chimley?', 'Yes baby, and I think she is looking, so wave' - we waved). We saw the Household Cavalry moving towards the Buck House for Changing of the Guard - Jessica nearly ruptured a lung at that sight. We went to Old MacDonalds and they had baby-burgers (shut it, you snobs - it is easier than carrying a picnic) - then we saw the river ('no Daddy, that's the sea', 'Boat, Daddy, look - a boat'). Then we passed some protesters in Parliament Square ('that lady is smelly isn't she Daddy', 'no, baby, because she lives in a tent doesn't mean she is smelly - maybe a bit dusty'). Jessica asked if Westminster Abbey was my church, and my reply was 'not yet'! I told Rebekah that Lambeth Palace was where daddy's boss lived and she now thinks that Jesus lives in Lambeth Palace - d'oh! Then we went home in much the same way as we arrived.

The fact is, I got to see every detail of every building in London - largely to answer to the girls' questions as we went by. I have never had such a close and detailed look at my Capital city, and all because of two two-year-olds who want to see everything. What a gift to us they are, both in themselves, but because of the renewed perspective that they offer. I only wish that toddlers could read and have access to Scripture and Doctrine - we'd have it sorted in minutes.