Neighbourliness

I know I’ve talked before about how much I appreciate my neighbourhood, and how nice my neighbours are. People are happy to interact with the children, very complimentary about my skills (and patience, ha!), the chidren’s behaviour and all-round adorability. I have a teacher neighbour who’s been known to give me entire BAGS of stuff when she changes grades and won’t be needing things. (Though these things have included a heap of glue-sticks, boxes of crayons, a stack of construction paper. When don’t you need those in elementary school?? Not that I object! I am very grateful!)

I’ve had neighbours I don’t really know at all wander up the street. “Do you run a daycare? I see a lot of children here, and then there’s that stroller…” When I confess that I do indeed, this has been followed up with a donation, and not just little things: a ride-on car, a storage unit, a double stroller.

Once, I walked out onto my porch to discover a bag of stuff there. Nice, fun craft stuff and small toys. Never did find out who gave me that!

A day or two ago, a neighbour headed out her door lugging what I took to be an end table, all set to put it in the back of her truck. It looked nice, so I called across the street and said so.

“I’m taking it to the consignment shop!”

I laughed. “Not nice enough, then!” Well, no, it turned out that it wasn’t an end table, it was a toddler table with two little chairs. Her boys had outgrown it, and they were clearing out space in the basement. She pauses.

“Would you like it?”

Ha! I already knew I thought it was pretty. The chairs were adorable. The only challenge is figuring out where to put it in my small home, but for this? We’ll make it work! I said heartfelt thanks. I offered to pay for it. She declined. I offered again. Nope, no, she wouldn’t hear of it.

The kids loooove it. It’s had hours of use already.

The next day, the kids and I made a batch of cookies, decorated a paper bag, and took it over as our thank-you gift. I coached the children in their thank-yous, and Grace actually managed to speak the words, speak them audibly, AND make eye contact while doing so. I was very proud. My neighbour — how could she not?? — melted with all the cuteness. I’d call it a satisfactory transaction.

I really like this neighbourhood.

Not too little!

It’s a long, long, sloping sidewalk that challenges us as we make our way over the bridge on our way home from a lovely long outing on this beautiful fall day. A sidewalk with clear boundaries: on one side, the decorative concrete wall preventing us from plunging into the water below, and on the other side a 20-cm drop to busy street beside us. (As in, the sidewalk is raised, not broken.)

I am pushing a single stroller with New Baby Girl — now with the new, improved blog name of Rosie! — while the other three hold on: Grace and Poppy hold on to the stroller itself and Jazz holds on to Grace’s hand.

(All this finely calculated: Poppy is the second-youngest, and so must hold on. Grace is a terrible dawdler and would end up a km behind in about three minutes. It’s astonishing how far back she gets. Oh, the irony: dawdling is the one thing Grace does quickly. Jazz does not normally have to hold on at all, as she keeps up and stays close, but when on a busy street or a crowded sidewalk, she’s required to.)

All this careful arrangement does mean that, small as we are, we string out across the entire width of the sidewalk.

Now, one thing that truly annoys me is oblivious sidewalk-hoggers. These are generally groups of children and teens, though adults do it on occasion too. Once a child is 9 or so, I start to expect some sidewalk awareness. Three six-year-olds are strung across the sidewalk, meaning that me, walking on my own, am going to have to slide sideways around them or walk on the street? I cheerfully call out “beep, beep, guys!” Three fifteen-year-olds do it? I square my shoulders and refuse to budge an inch. This usually means that the one closest to me — who fully expects this mild-looking middle-aged lady to MAKE ROOM for his/her stupendousness, the only real, significant person in the universe, after all — this usually means that the one on my end careens off my shoulder. Only, I was expecting it, see, so I am unfussed, whereas little Lady (or Master) Self-Absorbed often actually staggers a pace.

“Oh, gracious!” I’ll say, as if I hadn’t been expecting it at all. “Sorry!” Which is a bald-faced lie. I’m not. At all. I hope that this has taught them a lesson, if not in manners and consideration, at least in self-preservation, which will result in the same behaviour: pay attention to oncoming traffic, and make room.

So, since this inconsiderate behaviour annoys me so very much, I’m not about to tolerate it in my kids. Yes, they’re only toddlers and cannot reasonably be expected to figure this out themselves. Not the point! Pro-social behaviour training starts NOW!

So as we climb this long, long sloped sidewalk, I keep an eye out for oncoming pedestrians, in both directions. When someone comes up from behind, I simply stop and gently pull the child-obstacle out of the way. (We are slow-moving traffic, after all, and it’s a long section of sidewalk where no one could feasibly pass by stepping into what is usually a busy street.) When someone is coming from in front, however, the training begins.

“Jazz, honey. There’s a lady coming. See her? When she gets close, you’re going to have to squish into Grace a bit, so she can get by.” This said, you note, when said woman is well ahead. All this talking takes some time, and toddlers? They do not have lightning-quick reflexes.

As the woman gets closer, I remind Jazz. “Okay, Jazz, time to move over. Come this way a bit.”

And the woman, she smiles down at the four little faces, says, “Oh, that’s okay! They’re fine! Don’t worry!”

People do that. They think they’re being nice. They are being nice, but I sigh a little sigh each time it happens. ‘I don’t have to move because I’m little and cute’ is not the lesson I want these children learning. I usually just smile back, but today Jazz notices.

“Why did her say ‘don’t worry’?”

And I pause to consider. Why did she say that? It’s not too hard to figure: She’s probably seeing a woman with a lot on her plate, and is trying not to add more to it. She’s being considerate, is what she’s doing. Besides, there’s another explanation which is likely also part of it, that these children are too little to be aware of traffic, too young to be held culpable for their oblivion. Which is true, but…

But not forever! They get a free pass for now, but when do we expect these things to magically kick in, if we don’t actively teach them? Judging by the number of adolescent shoulders I knock into in a month, this is not something that just happens.

So I have to think of an explanation that will, well, explain what she just said, but without undermining my long-term agenda.

“You know what? I think she might have said that because she thinks you’re too little for good manners.” And you know what? Sometimes that is what it is. The follow-up comments tend to give it away. “Plenty of time for that!” or “Oh, it’s okay. They’re just little!” Well-meant, but unhelpful. And false.

I had chosen my words carefully, and I hit the mark. Jazz rears back in indignation. (Jazz is a champion indignation-rearer.)

“I am not too little! I am a big girl!”

“Yes, you are, and you have good manners. You have good manners, and you are learning more every day.”

“I have my good manners! I can say ‘please’!”

Grace is catching the drift now. “I can say ‘please’, too!”

“Yes, you can. You say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘excuse me’ and ‘I’m sorry’. All those good manner words. You’re learning to say “would you, please’ when you ask for help, and today? Today, what are we practicing?”

Blink. Blink. Blink. Mary and the trick questions. Geez. A hint is required.

“Just now, when that lady came, what did you do, Jazz?”

Oh, now that she knows. “I squished into Grace!”
Grace echoes: “She squished into me!”

“Yes. Why did you do that?”

A few more exchanges, in which it is determined — because this is in no way obvious to a toddler — that had Jazz not ceded a sliver of sidewalk the woman would have had to leap either into oncoming traffic or the canal. On or the other. But she would not have been able to walk on the sidewalk.

This is subtle, people, subtle. For toddlers (and, it seems, for many teens).

And so, when the next woman approaches, and we are in this process again, I call out to her: “We’re just learning our Sidewalk Manners!”

To which Jazz adds, “Because I am a BIG GIRL!”

And we are all very proud.

An unintentional social experiment

“Oh, look at all the babies!”
“Are they all yours?”
“Wow! That must keep you busy!”
“Oh, good god.”
“YOU are one brave woman!”
“Are they all yours?”

Just another outing with my mega-stroller filled with tots. I’ve talked about that before, of course. We simply never slip under the radar, much as I might like that some days. Recently, however, there’s been a change in peoples’ responses to us. It’s not because of those hats, though they certainly garner their fair share of attention. It’s not because I have two newbies, and thus the average age is younger than usual.

“Oh, look at all the babies! Isn’t that cu– OH! Oh, looook. Isn’t that adorable?”
“Wow! That must keep you — oh, my lord. That’s beyond cute!”
“YOU are one brav — Awwwwww… sooooo sweet. ”

And what’s the difference? It’s still a stroller filled with small children. They’re just as cute as they’ve ever been.

They still wear cute hats. They still stare solemnly, or beam beguilingly, depending on their personalities.

Nope, it’s not the kids.

It’s…

the puuuupppyyyyy…

I think I have sufficient data that I can safely declare that, for the bulk of the population, ONE puppy outweighs the cute factor of FOUR babies/toddlers. Any day.

“Look at the cute babi — OH, my word! Look at the puupppyyyy! “

Good thing I’m self-motivated

The truck trundles up the street as I load the children into the stroller. As I snap the last buckle, it pulls up in front of our house, and the driver hops down. Nodding at the stroller, he comments,

“That’s a helluva job.”

It’s not an unusual reaction, so I’m able to reply with a grin. “It sure is, but I love it!”

“It would drive me crazy!”

I’ve had this exchange, or some variant of it, with dozens of people over the years. To date, though, they’ve been grinning right back at me. While they couldn’t imagine doing it themselves, they admire the work, and who can argue the cute factor? This guy? He’s not smiling. This isn’t a light-hearted conversational gambit. He’s dead serious.

“Different strokes, I guess. It suits me.” I shrug and grin again. Come on, guy, lighten up!

“My wife does that. There are SIX of them in my house right now.” His lip curls in revulsion. “Six. And today’s my day off!”

You know, I’m really not sure what to say to this. Not that he’s really listened to anything I’ve said so far anyway. So I don’t say anything at all.

“Today’s my day off, and I decided to take another shift, because, it would drive me crazy, be around that all day.” He shakes his head, annoyance writ clear on his face. “Helluva job. Helluva job.”

And with that, he picks up our garbage cans and empties their moldering contents into the filthy back of the reeking truck he drives.

People are weird

We generally create a stir when we go places. Four toddlers in a stroller, with a puppy alongside. It’s some damned cute.

Most people smile. Many laugh outright. Children point. People do double-takes, nudge their friends, roll down the window of their car…

I don’t necessarily enjoy all this. I’m a pretty private person, and an introvert to boot. I’m not shy, mind you. There are times and places where I can thoroughly enjoy being the centre of attention. I don’t crave the spotlight all the time, though. The feeling that just by walking down the street I’m making a spectacle of myself? Not one I enjoy.

Most days I can enjoy the stir, because people are getting such pleasure out of us. We’re provoking smiles and laughter, after all. Smiles and laughter are a good thing. The other days, the days I really would rather pass unnoticed, I endure it. (With a smile, of course. People are being nice, I can at least smile. It might be a weary smile, but it’s a smile.) But escape it? Not really possible.

Now, a small percentage of people don’t notice us at all. One might wonder how four toddlers in a super-long stroller with a puppy alongside could pass unnoticed, but it happens, every day. One might condemn those people for their lack of observational skills, if not their lack of heart… one might, unless one were me. I know I’ve been that preoccupied. You could have passed the entire Mulberry Street parade under my nose at certain points in my life, and I’d not have noticed.

I had my reasons. These people probably do, too.

The people who truly confound me, the people I find it hard to forgive or even excuse? Are the people who see four toddlers and a puppy…

and scowl.

Really. That happens, not every day, but probably most of them. Passing down a city street, there will be one person every day or two who scowls. Not because we’ve crowded them, not because their passage has been halted to make room for four toddlers and a puppy, but just because…

I don’t know.

If they looked sad, I’d think maybe they’re missing their child who is at his/her daycare somewhere, or maybe that their family pet died recently.

But a scowl?

What’s with that?

Bizarre.

Button-pushing. Not just for toddlers!

“Oh, look at all the babies!”

We’re out in the mega stroller, of course.

“Goodness, are they all yours?”

(Of course. I’m always asked that.)

“Oh, dear. Can you see, honey? This one,” the sweet white-haired woman straightens to tell me, “this one can hardly see.” Her brow furrows, and suddenly she’s not sweet. “Her hat is almost entirely covering her face!” Not sweet at all. I am being reprimanded. For being negligent. Shoddy caregiving, that’s what this is! Harrumph.

Her companion, a woman I would judge to be her daughter (and about my age), also straightens. Goodness. Am I going to get it from the both of them?

I could point out that the child is question is not complaining. I could point out that, given my so-responsible sun-shade, I can’t see the children’s heads from where I stand at the back. (Not without tilting 45 degrees to one side to peer underneath, that is — which, I might add, I do at least once per block.)

Instead, I opt for a subtle reprimand back. “If it bothers her, she’s perfectly capable of moving it. She’ll never learn if I do it for her, will she?” And I smile. I’m aiming for warm, but I may only have achieved a semi-savage baring of teeth. I suspect the latter, because the sweet/stern/scolding woman’s condemning frown turns uncertain.

Her companion leaps in.

“It’s what I always say, mother!” (Called that right!) “We need to let kids learn things themselves.” I shoot her a grateful glance, which she doesn’t notice, as she’s only beginning. “You’re always complaining, mother, that kids these days expect the world to bend over backward for them. Well, who do you think taught them that? There’s a time and place to just step back and…”

She’s still gaining momentum as their voices fade into the distance. Oops. I didn’t mean to trigger a mother-daughter spat… but I rather suspect this particular one has been going on for decades…

It’s only because we’re CONSPICUOUS

It always feels a bit illicit.

I’ve taken the tots to the local mall. It’s about a two km walk each way, easily manageable for Noah and Tyler on foot, the babies all neatly tucked into my four-seater stroller. I have a few errands to run, an item or two to pick up. I’ll hit the drug store, the post office, the grocery store.

And, oh! I’m out of wine. Why don’t I pick up a bottle while I’m here?

Well, no reason why not at all, except that I feel hugely conspicuous with my enormous stroller and my five-kids-under-three. You can imagine the thoughts in the heads around you.

“My GOD, look at all those kids! Sure can see why she’d be needing that!”
“I hope she’s not going to go straight home and slug that back.”

I don’t drink during work hours, of course, but now that the nice weather’s arrived, I do enjoy a glass on the front porch after work. I mean that quite literally, too: a glass. One bottle lasts me a week, usually. But somehow you feel, in this situation, like you’re a certain kind of mental image: the middle-aged lush-lady, the slatternly caregiver on that slippery slope down to greeting the parents with a crooked grin, bra-straps showing, reeking of gin.

Like I said, I feel a tad illicit.

But hey. A bottle a week, tops. It’s not like I’m in and out of that place four times a week. And it is Friday, after all. Conspicuous yes — I’m conspicuous at work no matter where I go — but not out of control.

We approach the cashier, who takes the bottle and greets the the tots with a broad smile.

“Hey, guys! Nice to see you all again!”

Next time, my husband can pick up the damned wine.

My stroller

Gillian asks, “What kind of a stroller do you have?”, and you know, I love my stroller so much, I thought I’d do a little commercial rave. NOT because I’m being paid in any way for this, but just because I’ve had one of these beauties for ten years now, and I love it.

This is my stroller:

I also have the sun canopy and premium rain shield, and of course (I am North American), the cup-holder. In my case, a water-bottle holder.

I don’t buy retail, but order straight from the manufacturer, Berg Design. Even with shipping (from Oregon to Ottawa, about $180), and customs fees (another $78), AND the exchange on the dollar (not so much right now), it still ends up being several hundred dollars less expensive than buying them locally.

And besides, Roger Berg is such a nice man! I’ve spoken to him twice, and he is ever friendly and helpful. Chatty, too. (I wonder if that phone call is a tax deduction?)

These things are light-weight (okay, not so much loaded with four children, but you can’t blame the vehicle for the payload!). They are manoeuverable. I can turn this thing with one hand. They are slim: I can fit it through any door I’ve yet come across. I won’t go slamming the competition, but I’ve had several other makes and the Runabout is by far the lightest, easiest-to-handle machine I’ve ever run. I currently have a two-seater other brand, and it’s not as easy to steer as my four-seater Runabout.

And durable. As I said, I’ve had one for ten years. This one is brand new, so my last one lasted… TEN YEARS. Ten years of 75-pound (plus) haulage. Ten Ottawa winters. Hundreds and hundreds of kilometres.

(No, I don’t store it inside. Nor do I have a garage. That baby winters under a tarp. Though this winter will be different: my old, rusted Runabout will be brought out, all greased up and ready for winter’s rough handling. My shiny new baby will come inside, and stay shiny and new. I fully expect my old Runabout, once equipped with a shiny new set of wheels, to handle another ten winters.)

There are downsides, of course. The seats are a little close together, particularly in winter when heavily-padded Canadian children are 30% thicker! Changing the angle on the seats helps a bit, but doesn’t eliminate this problem. It can be a little awkward, but there’s a knack, and it’s not that difficult… though the occasional boot does end up being removed in the extrication process!

Downsides… I did put an ‘s’ on that word… um…

No, that’s really about it. Just that one little thing.

Oh, unless you’re kind of introverted (like me), and you find the laughter and the pointing and the stares a bit much. That’s a downside — but more of my job than the vehicle! (And on other days, my extroverted days, I love it, and join in the smiles and the laughter.)

There you go, Gillian. More than you ever cared to know about Mary’s stroller!

In which Mary kicks temporal ass

You know, I will never understand people who say they can’t go grocery shopping with a toddler.

One toddler? One??

Pshaw. That’s practically ALONE.

We bombed out of the house this morning, Tyler (2.5), Noah (2.75), Nissa (2), and Lily (16 months), all four in the stroller, because Mary was in a HURRY. We left at 8:45 and had to be back by 10:30 for Emily’s arrival off the Junior Kindergarten bus at 10:45.

Fifteen minutes’ grace is what I call “cutting it close”, because with toddlers, even toddlers all safely strapped into five-point harnesses… you just never know.

The mall is a 15-minute walk away when I’m on my own. Pushing 35 or 40 kg, I’m not sure how long it will take. I’m pretty sure two hours will do it (there and back, I mean) but today we are not strolling. We are motoring.

(I wish this thing did come with a motor, come to that. You should SEE me powering that thing, fully loaded with four, up a hill. I don’t maintain my girlish figure sitting on the couch eating bon-bons. But some days I do dream about a little motor that would give me a boost. Just for the hills…)

The toddlers love it when I power up a hill, because to make it up a good hill? It helps to get a running start. Speed up on the flat. Dig your toes in and take short, fast steps as the hill steepens. With any luck, you don’t grind to a halt a metre before the top.

I have that dark fear in a back corner of my mind. Slowing, slowing, sloooowing, STOP, inches from the top, and then the inexorable slide backward.

It’s never happened, but you worry about these things when you’re behind 75 pounds of toddler. There are also some hills around here I just don’t tackle. There are some hills I make one or two get out and walk.

But not today! Because I’m in a HURRY! So we POWER up the hill, we run, we speed, we DIG IN … and the children squeal with excitement! The THRILL OF IT ALL. (Toddlers are speed demons, one and all.)

“That was FUN!”
“That was FUNNY!”
“FUN, funny,
fun, FUNNY,
FUN, FUN, FUN!”

Oh! The adrenaline rush!!!

They play call-and-response with “FUN!” for the next five minutes, eliciting outright laughter from passers-by. Who can’t at least grin at the sight of four smiling babies, three of whom are carolling “FUN, FUN, FUN!”??

We arrive at the mall. EIGHTEEN MINUTES. Three extra minutes because of the 35 or so kilograms I’m propelling.

NOT. BAD.

I’m also sweating a bit. Heh. The walk has moved from ‘light’ exercise to ‘moderate’. I’m calculating points in my head. I think I’m earning myself a Mike’s on the porch after work. Mwah-ha.

Into the mall.

“Are they all yours??”
“No, it’s a daycare.”

In the grocery store, we collect our craft supplies. (But of course. What else could possibly make a daytime trip to the mall, not my all-time favourite destination, a necessity?)

“Are they all yours??”
“No, it’s a daycare.”

We have rainbow-coloured muffin cups. Tyler, in front, hold those. (THOSE will, with the addition of some pipecleaners and tape, become pretty spring flowers.)

“They can’t all be yours!”
“No, it’s a daycare.”

We have large Zip-loc storage bags. Noah, second, carries those. (Put a dollop of chocolate pudding in those, squeeze out all excess air and seal tightly shut, and you have reusable finger paint medium.)

“Are they all yours??”
“No, it’s a daycare.”

Lily, in back, is asleep now, so nothing for her.

Nissa, third, carries a tin of tuna. Bet you can’t figure out what craft that’s for!

“Don’t tell me they’re all yours!”
“No, it’s a daycare.”

And I pop 4 litres of skim milk in the basket at the bag. (That’s for me and my girlish figure. And my not-so-girlish bones.)

“Are they all yours??”
“No, it’s a daycare.”

I stop at the bank to deposit some cheques, and we leave the mall.

“Are they all yours??”
“No, it’s a daycare.”

It took… 26 minutes. Not bad!

And off we power home. Three blocks from home, I take the toddlers out. Lily slumbers blissfully on. They can walk because we’re 45 minutes ahead of the bus (can I stick to a schedule OR WHAT?)…

and there’s a freakin’ enormous hill between me and my home. Well, enormous if you’re pushing 35 kg of toddler. Perfectly reasonable if they’re propelling their own selves.

We arrive home with 35 minutes to spare.

NOT. BAD.

Found her!

She came to the interview with not only her baby, but her 4-year-old. And no husband.

I winced.

NOT because she’s a single mom and I’m all morally outraged. Good heavens, no. I winced because one adut/two kids almost always means no interview.

What I get instead is “Can you tell me what your usual schedule is — oh, hang on a sec — sweetie, get down from there… Sorry about that… Where were we? Oh, schedule. Can you tell me — Oh, are you hungry, baby? Let mummy get you settled — So do you take the kids out every — Johnny? Come back where mummy can see you, please — Well, usually the children arrive between — No, honey. Put that down. I don’t think that’s a toy. — That’s okay, he can touch it. Everything’s pretty kid-friendly in here — You sure?”

Okay, I exaggerate a tad. It’s not quite that bad, but it can sure feel like it. Our ‘interview’ degenerates into a steady stream of distractions interspersed with quick apologetic smiles tossed my way, tiny fragments of information shot out at each other between interruptions.

So, yes, I winced.

(She’s not a single mom, as it happens. About 70 – 80% of moms come on their own, and even when dads appear, it’s 99% clear that his is the support role: Mom is the decision-maker on this one.)

But instead of chaos, I got calm. Instead of interruptions, we simply settled in. When the 4-year-old needed direction, it was done in a very quiet, calm voice. And it only needed to be said once. When the baby got fidgety, she was dealt with in the same quiet, efficient way.

You all know how I haaaaate working in a LOUD environment? Loud parents very often engender loud children. Soft-spoken parents — particularly quiet, efficient ones — tend to produce quieter children. There are no guarantees, of course, but it’s a good sign.

(And no, the kids in my care are not expected to tiptoe and speak in hushed tones. But there’s a wide range between whisper and BELLOW. Where it’s within my control, I avoid bellowers like the plague.)

And that calm efficiency? There will be no whine-and-coax scenes at my door with this mother. Let me tell you, there is not a caregiver on the planet who doesn’t loathe whine-and-coax scenes with a cold, implacable hate… or a fiery passion… or both. I am 99.9999% sure I will never see one between this mother and child. Bliss!

I don’t think we were eight minutes into the interview before I knew: I WANT this family. (I’ll only be getting the baby. Big Brother is going to a preschool in the fall.) The rest of the interview proceeded smoothly, all the standard questions covered with that same quiet and friendly efficiency, me warming to her all the while.

Then came the stealth question:

“Do you write those daycare pieces for the neighbourhood paper?”

THAT was unexpected. Though (obviously) my parents know about my monthly column, and eagerly look for their child’s exploits, and a bunch of my neighbours have figured it out, none of my incoming parents has ever known that anonymous provider is me. Besides, it’s just a week neighbourhood paper with a readership of… 12.6? What are the odds anyone’s read my stuff?

How does she feel about it? Her face is giving nothing away. Is this a good thing for her, or a bad? She’s very quiet; maybe privacy is important to her? Maybe the idea of exposure, even though I don’t identify anyone, is unnerving? Oh, well. I’m not about to lie. If I’m now about to lose the BEST POTENTIAL CLIENT IN YEARS… so be it.

“Yes, that’s me. However did you know?”

Her face suffuses with relief. “Oh, I hoped it was you! I asked the editor of the paper, but of course he couldn’t tell me. And then I was talking to a friend who’s a provider, and said she thought it might be you.” (I know this provider: she knows it’s me. Discreet of her, no?)

Well. Whaddaya know? I have a Fan. (A nice, quiet, sane, non-stalker fan.)

Turns out my style, as evidenced in my writing, feels just exactly right for her. She wanted her baby with THAT provider.

And now she has. She was ready to sign right then, right there, but as per my custom, I sent her home with the contract.

Which was returned two days later, signed, dated, and accompanied by its nicely bulging envelope filled with post-dated cheques.

That’s it! My spaces are filled. No more interviews, no more nagging worries, and (I hope!) one of the most calmly effective parents I’ve seen in a long while.

Colour me happy.