trucks, trucks everywhere

In our house, there are trucks everywhere.  Trucks live under couches, in bedrooms, under duvets, on dinner tables, under pillows, in the kennel, in the garden, in the sandpit (yes, we have a new sandpit, more on that later).  We draw trucks, make them out of Lego, colour them in, drive them around, sleep with them, eat with them, don't go anywhere without at least one for each hand.  We are crazy for trucks.  I say we, because it's infectious.  I can't go anywhere without wildly pointing out the cement truck, or the garbage truck, or the skip truck...

And it's all because of my dear first born.  Amazing what these little people open your eyes to.  Before him, trucks didn't even exist in my world.  He'll be three soon.  And so the birthday preparations begin.  It's still just over a month away, but when you take away the time spent at work, doing chores, preparing meals, looking after house and home, it really doesn't leave that long to get organised.  And God knows I could never be anything but.

Invitations, food, decorations, venue and the all important cake... yes, a truck cake.  Although he's on the fence as to whether it should be a garbage truck cake or a dump truck cake or a ladybird cake.  Don't ask me where that last one came from.

the men in my life

When I went to university at the age of 18, it was my first experience of living away from home and doing what I wanted to whenever I wanted to do it.  I went to a girls' school (two, actually) and I made some of my dearest friends there (sure I lost touch with some of them but thanks to facebook, these wonderful people are back in my life and it seems nobody knows me better).  But when I left home, naive, inexperienced, fresh faced and solitary, my world opened up.

The highlight of that time... well, there are many.  I didn't know how to cook - years of being told to go and study rather than hang out in the kitchen with my mum didn't seem like such a great thing when I was suddenly alone and devoid of any kitchen skills.  That said, I learned quickly, and now I love to cook (because I love to eat) and I became exposed to food I didn't even know existed.  Then there was discovering freedom and all the things that come with it.  The music (oh, the music), the parties, video games, the drugs, the financial irresponsibility (which thankfully is now financial responsibility), self discipline (that one comes and goes) and boys.

As someone who'd always been surrounded by girls (not only did I go to all girls' schools, but I also have two younger sisters), it was quite the thing to now be in this liberal place where everyone was the same and everyone treated everyone else with this cool, educated respect, and we were free to be and be with whoever we wanted.  It was a first for me to have platonic, respectful relationships with boys, and also romantic ones too.  I suddenly felt like I was being myself for the first time in my life, free of the expectations of my parents, and the rules that had surrounded my childhood.

I had been brought up to believe that relationships with boys were trouble and nothing else, that it wasn't possible to have a connection with a man other than my father or my future husband, that I would marry a man chosen by my parents and until that day, looking pretty, wearing make up, saying and doing what I wanted were not allowed, not possible.  Except everything I was now experiencing was the exact opposite of that.  I met guys who were into the same music, the same books, the same sense of humour as me and they weren't interested in having sex with me!  At least, I never knew it if they did.  These guys (and some gals too) became my best friends and I went from my first living experience at uni of an all girls on-campus flat to a shared house with three other boys and a girl who was never really around much.  It was then that I started to realise I was way better with boys than I am with girls.  

I met Troy, my dear friend Troy, the geezer that could drink anyone under the table and treated every event as an opportunity to enjoy himself.  Today he has boys of his own and he is someone I want my own boys to meet and look up to.  His friend Kris, the 7' giant with whom I shared a North London flat for many years.  There was Paul, the guy I was in a relationship with for almost seven years - maybe I'll write about that one day - for the most part, it was a happy time of my life, discovering what I wanted out of a relationship, and it was also a sad time of my life, discovering what I wanted wasn't going to be with him.  But through him, I met Ben, who is as dear a friend as anyone could have.  He too has boys of his own now too, shares his music with me, provides an ear when times are hard and has an imagination and ability with words that nobody else has.  His brother Toby, the geek with the video games, who was always up for a game of something and is one of the smartest boffins I know.  Seamus, the guy I was always a little wary of, didn't really know what to think of him until years into our friendship, when I realised he was a kindred spirit.  There was Neil, my funny French/Scot accountancy lecture companion who provided the inspiration to work hard and do my best and I am certain I owe a big part of where I am in my career today to him.  And Steve, who played the guitar, who liked the same music, who looked after me when I'd had a pint too many, and who made the best fried egg sandwiches.  I could go on.

There were girls too, and they too were and still are hugely influential in their own ways and I don't want to understate how important these friendships are, but it's the relationships with the boys that seem to stay with me.  With the exception of Paul (and I tried), I am still in touch with all of them to varying degrees, and it's been quite amazing seeing them go from university students, to ambitious, driven men, or fathers, or husbands, or older versions of their youthful selves or all of those things.  The experience of knowing them and seeing them become the men they are provides me with such a sense of optimism.

Since then, the trend has continued.  At work I have forged some of the best relationships with men, men who are smart, funny and loyal.  And then, of course, somehow, I got lucky and met the amazing man I was to marry, the man who somehow encompasses all the wonderful things about the other men in my life and more.  And after almost ten years together, we now have little men of our own.  Little men, who have so much to teach me about themselves, their aspirations, and little men that I hope one day will meet the big men in my life, the men that have shaped their mother and her idea of what a good man is.  And perhaps, if I am lucky, they will take note, and see what I see and become good men themselves.

boys dig flowers too

This last week or so, I've been deliberately spending as much time as possible outside, not just because it's what the boys prefer, but because spring is here, the weather is near perfect, and it's so refreshing to get out of the house.

For a while now, Ollie's been more keen to walk rather than sit in the pram, reminding us again that time is against us, and he's growing up so quickly.  He holds onto my hand (otherwise he knows the alternative is sitting in the pram and he doesn't want to do that) and walks along at his toddler pace, pointing out letterboxes and telling me to 'look at the cute little flowers', stopping now and again to pick one, and then another one for his brother, or poke his nose into someone's mailbox, telling me whether they've collected their letters or not.  It's cute, although it does take a lot longer to get anywhere and I am becoming more concerned about living on a main road.

Max, he sits comfortably in the front of the pram, with his muslin, thumb in his mouth, listening to the conversation between his mum and his brother.  I can't help but feel he loses out when Ollie is now so communicative and Max is not quite talking, but actually, I think it's good for him.  He hears constant chatter, which is more than Ollie had at that age and it feels as though any day now, his language will explode.  Speaking of 'that age', Max is the age his brother was when he came into the world.  17 months old.  It may sound crazy but it's making me think about how awesome it would be if there was another little soul in our lives... though it might be sensible to wait a little while.  Three kids under the age of three would be nuts.

So that's about all that's happening.  There's the usual too, piles of laundry, yearning for a hug from my mum, a wish for a holiday in the French countryside, bone-aching love for my husband and increasing dissatisfaction with my day job.  And is it me, or does it feel like things are about to change?

pick me up

The weekend just gone was a tough one.  At least to begin with.  It's not something I want to write about just yet, but we've had an emotionally trying fortnight which came to a head on Friday evening when we should have been eating pasta and drinking red wine.  Instead we did the opposite and after that, it could only get better.  Thankfully it did.

After a lazy Saturday in the garden, it was Fathers' Day and my plans to bake a cake were foiled somewhat, so we ended up making tiramisu, a dessert that has been on Will's mind ever since I bought the packet of savioardi biscuits months ago.  He is a coffee lover, so it makes perfect sense that he should love this dessert, which we made with fresh coffee, grand marnier and marsala.  Here in Brisbane, sourcing a good or even half decent bottle of marsala is not as easy as it sounds, so a special trip was required, after some internetting and old fashioned phone calling to find something better than the last bottle we sampled, which was awful.  (Don't buy Boronia, it tastes like flat Coke - find some proper Italian stuff and quietly disregard the air miles involved in getting it to Australia.)

Choosing the recipe is half the battle for me.  I pore over my cook books, agonise over what the internet has to offer, working out which of the gazillions of recipes on offer will be the one that will work for us.  It's the same with any new recipe I try.  I Google it, then get lost in the search results, by which time the kids are about to wake up from their day time naps and I've run out of time to get organised and try something new.  Not this time though.  I decided to go straight for what I knew should be a winner by typing in 'Food Safari tiramisu' and lo and behold, there it was.  A reasonably fuss free recipe for what looked like a pretty perfect dessert.

And the verdict?  Sensational.  The biscuits were soaked just enough, with just about enough coffee flavour and booze.  The Grand Marnier addition was an inspired one, the dessert tasted like Christmas and we used up some of that gorgeous orange liqueur that would have otherwise languished until the festive season.  We ate our first portions after two hours of chilling and that was something special, until I remembered what we had done the night before this morning, and I couldn't even wait until 10am before helping myself to a smallish portion.  The overnight stay in the fridge sent it from delicious to top quality.

And there you have it.  We succeeded in using up the savioardi biscuits we thought we never would, we made something new and untried, we managed to rustle up a treat for Fathers' Day and it just so happened to be the pick-me-up we needed after a shaky start to what ended up being a great weekend.

dad

Today was fathers' day here in Australia.  It's not fathers' day in England, that happens in June I think, so I have to remember two fathers' days, the one for my dad in the UK and the one for the father of my little boys.  I suppose I should write about Will today, after all we celebrated fathers' day with him, but I think instead I'll write about my dad.

Daddy. 

Born in 1953 in Sohal Khurd, India.  Moved to England with his parents and four younger brothers in 1963, at the height of those times in the UK when people were starting to learn about other cultures, and those times when racism and ignorance over how an immigrant population could enrich a country was rife.   But my dad and his brothers and their dad and their mum started a new life in England, making sacrifices and leaving their immediate families behind in India in order to provide their children and grandchildren with a better life - although that better life would be a long time coming.

He learned English, wore a turban, learned how to play the guitar, but not without being challenged by his strict but loving father who couldn't accept that his son might want to listen to western music, let alone pick up a guitar and worship his hero, Jimi Hendrix.  I expect this challenge was the start of my dad's open mindedness to let his own daughters discover their way in life, albeit with his guidance. 

He finished his education and became a draftsman, putting to good use his eye for detail and accuracy. I will always remember the tour we took of his office when I can only have been about 4 years old, shortly before he was made redundant and started his own business, a humble hardware store, that grew into a wood workshop, where he worked with his father in the family trade of carpentry.  As long as I have known him, he has worked hard, be it for our education, or to pay the mortgage, or because that's all he knows.

He married my mum in 1974 having only seen a photograph of her because that was the will of his parents.  He set the example he thought it ought to for his four younger brothers, and I'm not sure he ever did it because he wanted to.  37 years later they are still married and not always the picture of happiness you would want to see in your parents, but they look outwards together and regardless of their differences, they are unified in their love for each other, their children and their grandchildren and set an example for us all.

He renovated the house I grew up in, taking it from a ramshackle terraced house to the best house on our street, even better perhaps because it was next door to my granny and grandad.  He built his own workshop from the dirt in the ground. He smells like sawdust and sometimes like oil and always like hard work.

He has worked hard all his life and sometimes in the face of real adversity and always because he wanted to provide the very best for his family.  He can do a million things. I knows what every tool in the toolbox is for and he can fix almost anything.  I wish he would slow down and think about retiring soon. 

He is a dad that expects you to work hard and do your best.  He expected nothing less than straight As from us at school which I would worry and worry about when my school report showed anything but (which was often).  But that he instilled a sense of commitment and hard work in all his daughters can only be a good thing.  Without his unfailing push to make us realise how lucky we are to have had an education, I can't imagine how my life would be now. 

He used to take me to the library every Thursday and would read Dickens to me.  I used to think it was boring but loved it anyway, my dad reading to me.  He taught me to respect books, learning, reading.  It's probably why I love reading to my own children and definitely why I want my children to work hard and be interested in their education.

He worries.  I am sure he worries about more than I know, but in writing this I realise there is so much I don't know about my own dad.

He doesn't always believe he has been successful, but I suppose that depends on what your measure of success is.  Because it's not money, it's not the car you drive or the shoes you wear although he has always taken pride in wearing smart shoes.  Surely it is the love you give and receive.  And if that is the case, he is the most successful man I know.  My dad.

who'd have thought...

...that after a huge week at work, I would have had a weekend like this.  Nothing out of the ordinary, but it was as productive as my weekends have ever been and a reminder that the weekends when we have nothing planned but to be with each other are the best.  Will took the boys swimming on Saturday morning (usually we both go), so I stayed at home, blitzed the house and laundry which somehow set the scene for the rest of the weekend, during which the housework stayed done, and I had a cooking frenzy.

On Sunday morning, straight after breakfast, I made green bean and potato curry, muttar paneer and prepped the evening's roast chicken before get this - squaring Max's quilt, then making the binding AND sewing it onto the back of the quilt, all in one day. And Ollie was a joy to be around all weekend, totally interested in what I was doing, and happy to help.  Now I just have to blind stitch the binding on, design a little label for the quilt and we're almost at the stage when I can start the next one.

Sometimes I amaze myself. (Although at this point I should admit that this blog post is almost two weeks old, and I have only just got round to uploading it.  Better later than never.)

all work and a bit of play

We have been doing very little other than working and churning through meal times, chores and time with the kids lately.  I've had a busy few weeks at work, the last two in particular, and it's been ok, but it's also been challenging, working an extra day a week, finding time to fit in the housekeeping and blogging.  So although I've had posts on my mind, I've been tired, not necessarily overworked, but definitely under a lot more pressure than usual to deliver at work and at home and my time on t'internet has been limited and it's set to continue for a little while longer.

It's a tricky thing, my job.  I feel as though I need to work full time in order to do a good job but with the boys, it's just not possible (and not something I particularly want to do).  When I'm with Ollie and Max, I'm thinking about work and when I'm at work, I'm thinking about the boys and it's still a work in progress to strike that balance. Recently, and in an effort to kickstart our plan to be debt free, Will and I decided that he will work a day less and I will work a day more.  It should take some of the stress out of my job knowing I have a bit more space and it will make a big difference to our income, but shouldn't affect the boys at all, who will still spend three days with Sue and then a day with each of ma and pa.  By all accounts, they should be happier, because Will's far better than I am at keeping them entertained and well, Max, he loves his dad.  And Will is looking forward to his Fridays with the boys too, and I am going to try and take a Friday off every month or six weeks or so for a long family weekend together, even if it's just hanging out in the garden, though I'm hoping we will start up a summer of weekends at Straddie as soon as it starts to get warmer.

As for play, it's all about the drawing with the kids.  The pens and crayons and painting and books.  In particular, the Richard Scarry book Ollie borrowed from the library.  And Max wants to read nothing but Emergency! and Dig Dig Digging (both of which Ollie recites from memory) and Max walks around with the most tattered copy of Thomas you have ever seen, but it is his absolute favourite.  Oh, and then there's the $10 wheelie bin from Target that has kept Ollie entertained for the last week. It gets wheeled around mainly full of cars, trains, books, crayons, clothes, Tigger, more books, spatulas and other kitchen utensils... basically if you can't find it, it's probably in the wheelie-bin.

And in other news, the boys had their first taste of lollipops today, when we succumbed to Ollie's charm and manners at the supermarket, as he picked up a Chupa Chups and said please.  Predictably, they were a hit. They were also very sticky.  But they were silent and completely happy to do whatever they were told for about 30 minutes.  It will be a long time before they have them again, but it sure was nice to give them a treat.  Even if I did make them brush their teeth afterwards.

the hope

I have never been one to cope with news that involves violence, unrest, children and poverty to name just a few topics.  Since giving birth to my children, most movies are now ruined for me, since even the most innocent reference to a child's suffering, or the possibility of evil actually triumphing over good is too much for me to bear and I have to check on my little boys sleeping before I find some Gilmore Girls to purge any disturbing thoughts that might leave me fretting.  Remember Slumdog Millionaire?  That uplifting movie about the kids in the slums that come good?  We watched it shortly after I gave birth to Ollie and that scene where those heartless bastards are blinding the children... I had to walk away and look at pictures of kittens.

The news lately has been about as difficult for me to cope with as ever before.  It feels selfish to be complaining about having to merely listen to what the world is going through but I don't mean it that way.  It's not that I am writing about feeling sorry for myself, I'm writing about the helplessness I feel when we wake to news of rioting in England, the famine in East Africa, the debt crisis and the possibility (probability) of another recession.  There is little I can do about these things and it is filling me with despair for our future, the world's future, the future we are shaping for our children and their children.  I am and always have been a doer.  I get things done.  I organise things, fix things (or get my husband to fix them), but that I can't do anything significant to fix these problems that we wake to every morning... it is slowly ebbing away at that thing that drives us all, whether we see the glass half full or half empty... hope.

Even as a worrier, I have always felt the future was bright.  After all, isn't the world a better place than it was 100 or even 50 years ago?  I used to think so, but I'm not so sure, and I'm also not so sure it's not because I am getting older and seeing the world the way my parents would have viewed it when we were growing up, listening to them about the demise of morality and the state of the world.  I'm beginning to sound a lot like them.  But I think it probably is a better world and almost certainly no worse.  The problems of our parents' and grandparents' generations have always existed - the demise of morality, the destruction of our planet, the bollockiness of politcs, the increasing divide between the wealthy and the poor, society that measures success by how much money you have, the accountability of individuals and communities to make the world a better place and the suffering of the deprived, uneducated and poor... I could go on.  These problems have always existed and it's not that they are going away, it's that we aren't necessarily getting better at dealing with them.

We might be in a recession but it's no different to recessions we've had before. Maybe the difference is that our greed makes the lack of work, the cost of living and having to do without so much harder for us than it was for our parents - we've never had to do without.  As for the state of morality... I take solace in the fact that each and every one of the people I know upholds the highest regard for doing the right thing and all I can do is teach my children what I believe to be right from wrong and lead by example.  That's not to say I can (or should) protect them from everything.  The riots in England have made us question whether it really is the right thing for our family to raise our boys in the UK, but for me, the answer is still yes, it is. The 'sick society' of the UK is no different to the sick society in any western country, the difference is that the UK's problem is way ahead than the rest of the world's. It's going to happen here, there, everywhere, this uprising of disenfranchised youth.  As a parent it's up to me to make sure my kids understand why this reaction is plain wrong, and perhaps seeing it first hand will be a part of that education because God forbid my children should be ignorant of the problems of the world.  Perhaps I am being naive, but I can't run away from the place I call home because life is harder there.  That would be wrong.  If anything, and just like anything else in my life, I want to be a part of fixing the problem.

And much as I wish I could, I know I can't fix these problems on my own, just like I know that my tiny monthly contribution to Unicef isn't going to fix the famine in East Africa, but it's something and not one of us should sit back and do nothing at all.

So, I won't stop listening to the news just yet, although I have considered it.  I need to know what is happening in the world outside.  I need to know that there is more than despair out there.  Because, for all the stories that leave me desperate, it's all an education, one that I need in order to do the best I can raising my children, who, oblivious to the problems of the world get on with their lives, pottering about our house, playing with this and that and... life goes on.  And for all the stories that leave me feeling helpless, there are the ones that leave me with hope, like these images of the Londoners that I know and remember, rallying together to do the right thing.  Images of that hope and optimism and power of people.  We might not need the news, but we definitely need that hope.

new camera

Well, we did it.  We couldn't exactly afford it, because we also bought a new fridge to replace the dodgy old one that we had, but thanks to the charms of interest-free credit, we are now the very proud owners of a new Nikon D7000.  I am amazed at the lack of indecision involved in buying this camera.  We are usually hopeless at making decisions but this one was within an acceptable price bracket (that's not to say it was cheap, unfortunately), and unlike it's cheaper little sister the D5100 it is compatible with my old Nikon lenses from the days of my manual Nikon SLR and so that was that.  We actually made a decision without dithering for weeks.

What is even more amazing is just how good this baby is.  I know nothing about cameras and couldn't tell you how to buy one, but the gazillions of megapixels, the absurdly high ISO capability, the humungous screen, the oodles of focus points, the lovely squishy button... the images we have taken so far have been damn near perfect and that's before we've even worked out what we are doing (that's where the 326 page manual comes in - and it's all in English).  You know with our old D90, taking photos at night time was hopeless.  The flash was so harsh, the colours so stark, we couldn't get it to do what we wanted (our wedding photos were a total disappointment because they all looked like we got married in the middle of a creepy night instead of at magical dusk, how I wish we'd organised a photographer), but this new camera has a much kinder flash; it's yellower - and mellower (I just thought of that!) and the images are so much more true to life than flash photography can often be.  We've taken some gorgeous shots of evening time in our house, capturing that lovely time after the kids are bathed and squeaky clean and dressed and ready for story time, and these shots of the newly configured bedroom of Ollie, which I'm hoping will soon become Max and Ollie's room so we can get some precious space back into our lives.

So, we are revelling in taking photos with this amazing beast, but having to be quite selective when we download them, because each image takes up way more space than our old camera did, even at reasonably basic settings (and it's meant we've had to buy extra space, too).  Poor old camera.  It's so utterly rubbish compared with our new mate, but we have had some good times with old D90, some very good times.  We must have taken at least 100,000 photos with him, he did us good, but boy are we wondering why we didn't upgrade sooner.  So go on, if you're thinking about a new camera and don't think it's worth it just yet, think again.  You'll wish you'd done it ages ago.

do-a-dot digression

I admit to splurging a bit and buying those do-a-dot markers that you see around (for the boys, of course).  I've had my eye on them for a while now, knowing the kids would love them and knowing they would make a change from the crayons he loves so much.  Ollie is always asking to 'do some drawing' or 'want to play with the crayons' but lately I think he's been a little bored by it and a bit frustrated by the marker pens fading away.  So I promised him we would go to the craft store and buy some more, which is where I got lured by the do-a-dots.  We came away with new felt pens, new chubby colouring pencils, the do-a-dot markers, and in a momentary lapse of judgment, a colouring in book devoted to trucks.  He loves his trucks, does Ollie, and I am finding I am trying to go out of my way to encourage an interest in something else, anything else, and I have never liked the idea of colouring in books, preferring instead to let Ollie's own creativity take the lead, even if that means scribbling like a maniac before tearing up the paper and sticking masking tape everywhere.

But he loves that book.  I wish he didn't love it as much as he does, but yesterday and then again this morning, he coloured in (coloured over) the pictures of log-loaders, excavators, monster trucks and bulldozers for over an hour until I actually had to make him put the pens away to have his dinner.  In fact this evening, we had to take it to dinner with us and in just 24 hours he is suddenly very good at colouring within the lines even though I have very deliberately not told him about that (there are enough rules in that kid's life).

Max, on the other hand, he loves all things pen.  He loves to chew the do-a-dot caps and then stack them up and walk around the house with one in each hand and wave them around in Lola's face (anything but actually do dots with them).  The mighty pen is our toy of choice when I need him to sit still for a nappy change, when I need something in the high chair to distract him or when I'm trying to get him dressed at his most wriggly time of the day, after his bath.  Of course he's now at the age when there's also a chance that he will fling the pen in disgust and throw a tantrum rather than be captivated with it like he used to be as a baby... that kid's discovering toddlerdom, and I have to say, it's hilarious second time round.  He's nowhere near as intense as Ollie was at that age (and I remember how it used to get me down) and he'd definitely always been a more mellow kid (the second always seems to be?) but he's discovering just how much he can get away with.  The back arching, screaming objections to not being allowed to chew a crayon don't last that long - with Ollie it seemed sometimes that it would never end.  Actually thinking about it now, Ollie seemed so much older than Max at this age, all knowing somehow and I'm certain that fuelled his abnormal levels of frustration.  He amazes me with his incredible memory, his affinity for puzzles and his ability to apply what he knows in order to learn the next thing and I suppose I've always seen that in him.

But Max, you know, he's so different to Ollie.  He's into belly buttons, birdies, pouring water out of the bath and being very deliberately cheeky.  He's less the analyst, more the kid that sees the moment, loves to point at the birdie, the doggy, he loves to clap and wave and communicate like babies do. Ollie's not so much deliberately cheeky as he is just a bit of a pain in the arse sometimes, but he has such a kind nature, often masked by his insistence on doing everything his way or not at all.  Such a bossy little boy.

Anyway, I don't mean to compare and I shouldn't, but it's hard not to.  You are blessed with one happy little healthy child that reminds you of yourself and you think the next one will be the same, knowing full well you were completely different from your siblings and don't know many that are alike.  Then the second comes along and you're blown away by how different he is, but not unexpected, because you see his father in him every day, every time he smiles, every time he tootles around the house, just taking things in his stride and when he bowls everyone over with his good looks and charm.  And then you wonder whether you should ever be so blessed again, because it's hard to imagine that you could be so lucky but amazing to think there's another soul, different again, that might one day be a part of your family.

And so, after you've cleared away the doodles and colouring-in books, found the caps for all the pens and tidied them away, you check on those little boys as they are sleeping, their little chests moving with that sleepy breathing that only children can do with such peace and you think about the mischief they will get up to as they grow older, the books they will read by flashlight when I think they've gone to sleep, the men they will become, the challenges they will face, the people they will love, the good that they will do in their lives and the the tantrums of the day are all but forgotten.