Tag Archives: an author with children

Hybrid. Not just for cars.

This post, on Chuck Wendig’s blog, got me thinking today. (BTW I can thoroughly recommend Chuck Wendig’s blog, unless you’re sensitive to swearing but then, if you’re sensitive to swearing I doubt you’ll be here either).

He was talking about hybrid authors. That is, those of us who self publish their work and also have a trad deal. Apparently, these folk earn more.

You know what. I’m not surprised at that.

Frankly, I would kill for a trad deal, so I could do both. Unfortunately it’s never going to happen. I used to have a reasonably high end business job, and I know how business works. I’m a really crap proposition. It won’t always be that way, but right now it is. A stay at home mum who takes two years to write each book. Even if I managed to pen a query letter covered with just the right amount of fairy dust and unicorn pooh to score that magic read (yes even with an ‘in’ I failed to the point where they sent me a letter back with comments that showed, quite clearly that one of the readers hadn’t even read the book). Even if an agent or a publisher, absolutely loved my stuff, there would be somebody who could churn out a book every 6 months, whose work they loved just as much, who’d get the deal. Geesh! I mean seriously, I wouldn’t touch me with a barge pole, so I don’t expect them to.

If I want trad, I’ve got to have a ‘proven track record’ – ugh I loathe and detest that phrase – and to get one of those, I’ve got to make it the hard way; as a self published author.

However, at least with self publishing, I do have the option to get my books out there and, possibly, succeed. It will be much harder – although not as hard as getting someone to read my query letter – and if I do succeed it will happen in slow motion. But the opportunity IS there.

This is what I love about self publishing.

What I hate is that anyone would bung their first attempt at a novel out there unedited, unrested, without thought. It absolutely amazes me – and gets me into a bit of a frothy mouthed rage, to be honest – because they’ve turned the only route to market for many of us into a slush pile that no-one will touch.

Thanks you bunch of complete and utter bastards.

The K’Barthan Trilogy (actually it’s four books so I’ll have to call it something else, ideas on a post card please) took me 25 years to write.  That’s if I count them from the first attempt. Although I admit I’ve done the donkey work in the last few, between 2008 and now. A lot of people, who would probably enjoy it will never will never find out about it, and others will never touch it because I’ve committed the terrible sin of publishing it myself.

Whatever people say, the prejudice has not gone away, with good reason (cf the complete and utter bastards mentioned above).

That is pretty galling.

Which brings me neatly onto hybrids and why I think they do better.

They’ve sidestepped the prejudice.

Those who ‘don’t read self published books’ will read the self published work of a traditional published author. They’ll pick up that author’s work in the first place. Those book shops who ‘don’t stock self published books’ will stock the self published work of someone with a trad record. It really is all about the brand. It’s the same road; getting to the point where there are enough people out there who trust you to write a good book, who will be confident giving them to their friends to read.

Hybrid is win-win. Hybrid authors have the endorsement of the establishment, they have fans from the normal off line world and they bring them with them. Those fans give the author the momentum to get their books up the listing past the glass ceiling of other authors, amazon book police and jaded, indie author loathing forumites, into the light where the ‘normals’ who are just looking for a book to read, see them. Their trad pub background gives them the golden key onto the review sites and into magazines that ‘won’t accept self published work’ but will from someone with a trad pub background. It’s definitely where I want to be.

In short, the way I see it is this.

If you’re a hybrid, you get to keep the cash and sell without the prejudice.
If you’re trad published you get to sell without the prejudice but there’s less cash to keep.
If you self publish you get to keep the cash but you earn less because until you’re seriously established, everyone you approach will assume that your work is sub standard, poorly edited crap.

It’s a conundrum. Hmm… would knowing what I look like help?

Well, you asked...
See how trustworthy I am.

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More McMini

Here are some more lovely gems from my small son.

“Mummy, remember when ….. (name redacted) came round and she did a pooh that was so huge that we had to break it in half with the loo brush to flush it away.”
“I’m tying not to.”
“Well, imagine if we were so poor, that we couldn’t afford a loo brush and had to cut it in half with  our hands or with a knife and fork.”
“I’m really trying not to.”

This one sums up the splendid randomness of life with children. This morning, I was woken up early with someone jumping into my room shouting, “boo!” McOther got up, luckily, fed the ravening mini-beast and went off up to town to the market. Meanwhile I got to the point where I was dressed in trousers pants and socks but my pyjama top when McMini, who was downstairs eating his breakfast, called me urgently.

“Mummy! Mummy! Please can you help me.”
“Sure, what can I do?”
“I need you to help me prepare some breakfast.”
Poor wee soul, I’m thinking, his Dad must have forgotten to give him his breakfast before going out, either that or McMini refused it, which is not unknown. So I scurried down.”Course I can help, what would you like?”
“Oh no Mummmy it’s not for me,” McMini explains as we make our way through to the kitchen, “I wanted to bring you your breakfast in bed but I need your help. I thought you might like a piece of toast but I couldn’t cut the bread,” visions of McMini wielding the bread knife flashed into my head and I tried not to think about them. “Would you like a piece of toast?”
“Hmm, actually I think that what I would really like is one of these crumpets*. Shall we toast one and then you can butter it for me.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea, then you can go upstairs and get back into bead and I will take it to you.”
“Well… I’m half dressed,” I said as I lifted McMini and he dropped the crumpet into the toaster, “press the button,” McMini pushed the lever. “I think the best thing is if I eat it up down here and then go and get dressed.”
“No Mummy!” (shocked) “You can’t do that. You must go upstairs and finish dressing, first. Then you must come down and eat it.”
“Right o. Can I have a bite before I go?”
A beat.
“Oh I suppose so.”
“Thank you.”
“But don’t forget, I have to butter it first.”

He then proceeded to dig a series of small holes in the top of the butter with the tip of the knife, it looks like a primitive woodcut of an owl.

In church last Sunday, the gospel was the massacre of the innocents.

“Why did Herod want to kill all the little babies Mummy?” ‘whispered’ McMini.”Because he cared more about being in power than anything else.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess he wasn’t a very nice man.” **
“Yes, he was a big wee pot.”
Sniggering from the pews behind showed that this did not go unnoticed.

Going to bed last night.
“Mummy! Come back in here or I will shoot you.”

Going to bed this evening, I found a large velour spider, which is called ‘Glorious’ sitting at the top of the stairs. I picked him up and brought him into the bedroom.
“I found Glorious on the stairs.”
“Oh no, that’s OK Mummy, you should put him back. He has been naughty.”
“Ah right, so he’s on the naughty step is he?”
“Yes, he is nearly finished then he can come back in so long as he isn’t naughty again but he must be out there for a little longer.”
I went and put Glorious back where I found him, walked back in to McMini’s bedroom.
“You can go and get Glorious now and bring him back in. I think he has been out there long enough.” McMini said, the minute I set foot in the door. I went and got the spider and handed it to McMini.
“Glorious is very sorry, he has given me a kiss and I will kiss him back to make up,” said McSmall. And he did.

This is Glorious.

Glorious, looking very contrite.

*Pikelets if you’re northern, google it if you’re from anywhere else but for heaven’s sake put an s on it – crumpetS – unless you want to have to wade through loads of stuff about sex.
** Herod killed two of his sons and I’m pretty sure he also killed his wife, such was his determination to hang on to the reins of power… as Augustus said: “It is better to be Herod’s dog than one of his children.” He makes Lord Vernon*** look like a bit of a pussycat doesn’t he?
*** and if you don’t know who Lord Vernon is, read the K’Barthan Trilogy. NOW. Um… please.

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You see a meal…

I see Bacon Man!

Look at his lovely bacony jumpsuit. He is probably called Elvis. I bet Lady Ga Ga is jealous.

Bacon Man

The difference between originality and insanity is usually a matter of perception. But who’d be a writer? Who’d choose a career that you actually have to pay to do? Only an authorholic.

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Happy Christmas

K’Barthan 3 and 4 are with the editor and McMini is running around the house with a gravy baster, pretending it’s a lightsaber. God is in his heaven and all is right with the world.

Merry Christmas everybody. The lego creature is made by McOther. With us as parents, McMini has little hope!

IMG_0948

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Aw bollocks it’s the Chaos Fairies! Never mind here’s another gem from McMini.

Multo pissed offo con ultimo gizmo, con action grumpo. I dropped my iPad today and smashed it to bits. Arse, that’ll teach me to eyebomb our garage door with McMini for a laugh and then try to take pictures of it.

Wankpots! Wankpots! Wankpots! Bloody Chaos Fairies.

Needless to say I dropped it from about 3 feet and am almost certain that it was my spanner fingered attempts to catch it that were responsible since they simply involved me batting it up into the air so it went higher up and came down on one corner as opposed to its back. Then again, if these things are the all purpose take everywhere items the makers and adverts would have us believe then maybe they should try making them a bit more sodding robust. Probably.

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On the upside, the screen works so I won’t have to spend £110 (urrrgh MT’s knees go a bit wobbly) on a new screen straight away. There’s a shop who’ll fix it quite near and they will do it while you wait (2hrs) and I might even be able to get McOther to pick it up – said shop is about a mile from where he works.

Oh and our garage door looked like Nigel Mansel for a few moments – until I removed the eyes in disgust.

And another positive, I managed to do 35,000 words, or thereabouts for NaNoWriMo, which, considering I wrote nothing at weekends or the week before last and very little last week either is making me feel… smug.

So to cheer us up, another couple of conversations from McMini.

His godfather is recovering from a shoulder up and suggested we draw him a card.

“My shoulder hurted a lot once but once I had got home it went away. He will feel a lot better when he gets home.”

And on the subject of marriage, overheard by his Dad.

“I’m going to marry my Mum when I grow up.”
“You can’t do that,” said McCousin, “your Mum is already married to your Dad.”
“Yeh but he’s old. He’ll die before long and then I’ll marry her.”

I’m not quite sure how to take that.

And this evening as we’re going to bed.

“Eugh! I’ve just smelled my trousers and they smell absolutely stinky.”
“Oh dear, what wee and poo stinky?” 
“No. They smell like fried socks.”

So… a mixed bag.

Oh and if you’re wondering where I’ve been for the last two weeks, well, for the first one I was baking a cake – more on that story, later.

In the second week I was catching up with all the things I was supposed to be doing when I was making the cake instead. Then I was hanging with the in laws and McMini. There’s not much going to happen this week either, phnark but I do hope to get the K’Barthan Trilogy done by Christmas.

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Shingles anybody? It’ll make you feel better.

I was looking at this post, earlier and a few days before that, this one.

Both are about trying to balance career with other things, in the first being a Mum, in the second illness. So this is not for the people happily churning out a book every month, or painting prolifically. It’s for the people who could but haven’t the time.  My books take about 2 years to write. If I had the glorious luxury of being able to write 9-5, the whole year I reckon each one’d take 6 months, tops. That, right there people, is frustration.

Eyebombing, the only art I have time to do nowadays.

Eyebombing, the only art I have time to do nowadays.

However, these days, I think I’m surprisingly happy with my lot and I’ll tell you the secret. Shingles. run with me on this one, it’s going to take a while.

This isn’t a Mummy Blog but I am a Mum, which is why I thought I’d write this post is for the other Glacier Girls and Guys who are living slowly because they’re parents and they have to. It’s also for anyone who is a Parent who feels that by not enjoying each and every single minute they are somehow betraying their child(ren). In any job there are going to be bits you don’t enjoy. Being a parent is a job and in this respect, it’s like any other.

The other trick, I think is that we all tend to get a bit Monty Python Fork Sketch about being parents. Sometimes, all we see are the bad bits. That’s a habit but it’s not an easy one to shake especially among those of us who tend to be a bit anal about getting everything right. Seriously, though it’s amazing how quickly the good bits become background noise.

McMini goes to school but in the holidays, mostly, it’s just me and him. Sometimes it’s a challenge – usually on days when my energy levels are not quite compatible with his – but mostly we have fun. I think we always  have but it’s only recently I’ve been able to see it like that. Because… well… the truth is, I had a bit of a melt down.

A little while back, three, four years ago? Something like that, the reactor really cracked. The journey down took a year.

My in laws came to live with us for three months, from May to September. I love them dearly and gladly took them in but I found it peculiarly stressful. The fact that I did upset  me. November, the cold set in and my Dad took a real nose dive. My worry about my parents intensified along with me feeling that I was failing them. I crept through the winter, torn between staying at home and looking after my boy and going down to Sussex and looking after my folks.

Meanwhile, I was trying to be a decent Mum, fun to be with, understanding, full of ideas, kind and loving, when I couldn’t remember the last time I’d completed a thought without being interrupted and felt like shit.

Then one of my friends was diagnosed with lung cancer and given 5 weeks to live and  I took stock. I had a loving husband, a lovely little boy, a very dear family, a fantastic group of friends and a car to die for. Hell, I’d even written a book. I knew it was all good but the frustration of caring for a little one and being torn in two different directions at once was beginning to get a bit  much. I knew I was happy ‘on paper’ it was just that in reality I didn’t seem to be able to convince myself. I was perennially angry and mardy and grim and I didn’t like it. Or me.

During this time, I didn’t write or paint. There just wasn’t the slack in the system. The ambient levels of background worry continued to climb into the red zone, my emotional glass was full and the tiniest thing on top would make it brim over and have me in tears. Eventually it all went pop.

It was a Friday, late March or early April and I got home from dropping McMini off at nursery and started to cry. I cried for hours. I mourned for my Dad, for my friend, and for my Mum as she shouldered responsibility for everything my Dad had used to do. I picked up McMini from playgroup puffy eyed and wondered if I was having a nervous breakdown. But I finally understood how it was I could love my life, and the people in it, the way I did and still be sad. And it was OK and it made sense.

The next morning, I woke up feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted, with a new and certain understanding of my world…. and shingles. I’ve never felt so shit and so relieved at the same time. Sure, shingles was bloody painful, but I knew I’d hit the bottom. The only way from here was up, and finally I had some fucking clue which direction up was in. And I felt something else. I felt strong, and solid, and grounded.

Shortly after that, my friend with lung cancer died and in the same week another one did, too, unexpectedly, three days before his 42nd Birthday. I became aware that you can lead a full and happy life, and still find your brain is in a bit of a knot. So, thinking I might need a bit of help I went to the Doctor to see if I could get some counselling on the NHS.  She referred me for something called cognitive behavioural therapy although by the time I got to the top of the waiting list, I’d kind of worked it out for myself, but the basic gist is this:

  1. You cannot do everything you want to do, only what you can do. This is the hardest thing in the world to accept.
  2. Once you’ve understood your limitations, think of ways to work within them and let the other stuff go.
  3. Concentrate on doing things that play to your strengths.
  4. Draw a line under your mistakes. You can’t change them. Move forward and aim to avoid making them again.
  5. Concentrate what you’ve achieved rather than what you’ve failed to do.
  6. If something is wrong, tackle it. Fix it.
  7. Don’t look at other people and compare them to you, they and their circumstances are different.

If you can manage that, you can enjoy and appreciate the things you are able to achieve and you’ll feel less trapped by the stuff you haven’t done. And that will make for an easier going, happier you and perversely, I’ve found I achieve more now that I’ve stopped worrying about it… (mostly). Sure, I am not the daughter I hoped I’d be and probably not the mum, but I know I’m fulfilling both roles about as well as I can and I’ll settle for that.

Yes, is difficult to adjust to the glacially slow process of your own life once there are kids in it – and I’m the queen of the big Jessies there, because I only have one. It’s also difficult to adjust to the fact there are bits of your brain, like your intellect, that you don’t get the chance or just don’t have the energy to use.

However, Amanda Martin’s post (the first link) summed it up perfectly when she said that the whole point is, she wouldn’t trust anyone else to do it. I wouldn’t and as for progress on other things. Well, it’s a bit like getting over shingles. When you are chipping away at something day after day, it’s easy to forget what you’ve achieved.

A few years ago, when I was absolutely at the end of my tether, I remember complaining to a friend, in tears, that I’d only written five words that day.

“Well,” he said, “That’s five words that weren’t there yesterday.”

And that’s the trick, isn’t it? Not to look at the oceans of stuff you haven’t done and the stuff you don’t have but to let all that bollocks go and look it the way it really is.

Life hasn’t stopped. It’s just slowed down; and who knows, we may be hankering for this when faster times come.

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Things you don’t know about parenting until you try it Number 63: Night Terrors.

2012-11-06-153One of the surrealist things about having kids is night terrors.

McMini is getting over a sick bug and has a slight temperature so it was pretty much a given that he’d have one. They are also more likely to happen to very active children and McMini is extremely active. He started crying in that certain way and I went upstairs and found him sitting in bed shaking with fear, sobbing his eyes out and staring at something only he could see. Normally I talk to him, sometimes he responds, sometimes I just sit with him to make sure he’s OK and reassure him when he wakes up.

“Mummy…” crying.
“It’s alright mate,” doing the special calm voice, “I’m here. What’s up?”
“Where am I?”
“You’re in bed. Are you scared?”
“Yes,” sobbing, “but Mummy, can’t you see them?”
“What?”
“The Power Rangers lined up in front of the curtains.”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Why not?” still sobbing.
“Because you’re asleep mate and I’m not in the dream with you.”
“Oh.”
“Yeh. It’s OK you’ll wake up in a minute.”
“Will I?”
“Yes. Are you scared.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not surprised, I would be too but don’t worry, you’re just having a night terror. Would it help to sit on my lap until you wake up?”
“Yes please.”
McSmall climbs on lap.
“What’s a night terror?”
“A very vivid type of dream. I still get them sometimes. Mine are when I can see the room I’m in but I hear a noise which I know is not real (but is still very scary). To be honest you probably won’t remember this when you wake up. Do you want a drink of water?”
“No thanks.”
“Sure? It’d be nice and cold on your throat, might wake you sooner.”
A beat. McMini stops sobbing abruptly.
“Mummy?”
“Yep.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Ah, have you just woken up?”
“Yes. Why am I on your lap?”
“You got on here.”
“I don’t remember.”
“That’s OK, you wouldn’t you were asleep. You’ve just had a night terror that’s all. D’you remember what you were dreaming about?”
“No.”
“Well, it sounded very exciting because while you were asleep you told me it had power rangers in it.”
“Oh.”
“D’you want to hop back into bed now?”
“Yes please.”
“Right o.”
I hug him and give him a kiss.
“Night kiddo.”
“Night.”

Night terrors. So surreal. If you’re little one is having them fear not. I found a few things on the NHS website which helped me feel more relaxed about it so I thought I’d share them:

  1. It’s scary for sure but try not to freak out. This is easier if you can remember having them yourself. Just sit with the child, hold them if it seems to help. Speak calmly to them if it helps you – sometimes they talk back quite lucidly and calmly, even if they’re crying their eyes out.
  2. Their eyes may well be open.
  3. It’s NORMAL, don’t worry, your small one is fine. It’s basically, a normal nightmare but at a different stage of the sleep cycle.
  4. It’s tempting to wake them but most pundits agree you should let the terror run its course. It will take anything from 5 to 30 minutes if our own experience with McMini is anything to go on.
  5. They are more likely to happen when your small person is extra tired, has a fever, and is going to sleep more deeply. They can also be caused by things that are likely to wake them up, excitement or sudden noise, for example the huge firework some complete bastard let off outside our house just before tonight’s terror started.
  6. Once the attack is over, if they start sleeping peacefully again, it’s often useful to wake them as this can break the cycle and stop them having another one.

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Yes, you can polish a turd… if you light it well.

— Caveat, the whole point to the less is more bit of this post was that the prop under discussion was the one used in the actual series of Dr Who. It wasn’t. It was built by a fan. Looking at the equipment available to the BBC props department and a chap in a shed, the whole perspective suddenly changes. Basically, a 19 year old lad has made something, himself, that I thought was an actual BBC prop. So it’s more on the freaking awesome level than what I call it. So what I say about attention to detail still stands but actually, the example might just as well be made up. So there you are. Check your facts. All of them. Even the ones you don’t even realise need checking. —

This week has been half term so all meaningful work on K’Barthan things has dropped in favour of doing stuff with the ankle biter. We went to a sci-fi exhibition at the local museum, great fun, and opened with a host of look a likes, Dr Who, Darth Vader, a rather handsome jedi knight, a cyberman, Boba Fett and McMini was pictured with all of them.

Inside the exibition they had the actual control console from the Tardis. There have been several, anyone with kids who remembers the beebatron on CBeebies, or who has subsequently seen Cari and David’s Pop Shop will know what happened to the one out of the 5th Doctor’s Tardis. The one in the exhibition was the current one. Here it is. So what do you notice?

IMG_0689

That’s right. It’s really shit. And close up, it looks like this?

Dodgy Tardis

and this….?

dodgytardis3

So this is what amazed me; the difference between the way it appears on film and the way it looks close up.

On film: slick, sparkly and kind of steam punk with all that shiny brass and bits of 1960s telephones. Of solid, robust and more to the point cool.

Close up: shit.

And here’s the magic.

It doesn’t matter how hit looks close up because, it’s designed to be seen on film and the minute I take a picture it ceases to become a load of old tut and turns into to something else.

And what does this have to do with writing?

Well, my point is this. It’s easy to get hung up on world building and character back story when you write spec-fic. But what this teaches me, at any rate, is that the trick is not so much what you put in as what you leave out.

Yes, the Tardis Control Console looks terrible to the naked eye but on TV it looks bloody brilliant. Sometimes, less, or a hint, is more and the reader – or viewer’s – imagination does the rest. The secret is selecting the trigger details, the odd snippet here and there which people reading it will embellish for themselves. The real Gods are the writers who do that in a way that will have every reader seeing the same picture.

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Am I what I eat? I hope not.

It’s Friday, not much is going on, McMini is upstairs ‘playing’ with a cross trainer, which is somewhat worrying but hey, he’s enjoying himself, taking some exercise and it’s keeping him quiet. Actually, it’s not, he’s shouting cheery numbers down to me as I sit here in the kitchen.

“One hundred a million!” clunk clunk, “seventy zero” clunk whirr clunk, “fifty a hundred three!”

Which reminds me, I don’t think I’ve posted anything about the conversation we had in the supermarket the other day.

After our splendid trip to Alsace, McMini has developed a liking for frankfurters or “les knack” as they are known in Alsace.

Dinosaurs meet.

Dinosaurs meet.

So I tend to buy them in packs of four, one sell by quite soon, one with a date a bit further away so I can keep it in reserve for later in the week. So there we are at the cold meats section and I’m rootling about at the back looking for one with a longer date. McMini is idly looking at the packets of stuff asking random questions and I am marvelling at the way his mind works.

For example, his question about precut salami: “How big is one of these sausages, Mummy, if it’s not cut up?” you get the picture, I’m sure. anyway, there we are.

“Mummy…?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what this meat is?”

“No,” I say, because Mummy is not really looking.

“It’s pterodactyl meat.”

I grab the latest sell by date knacks I can find and pop up to see what he’s looking at. Pancetta, cubati de.

“Is it really?”

“Yes. They catch the pterodactyl and then they kill it, and cut it into tiny pieces and then WE eat it.”

“I see. That’s… very interesting. Did your father tell you that?”

“No, I made- I found out all by my own. I know all sorts of interesting things.”

“I’ll say.”

At this point I notice an elderly man who gives me a lovely smile and walks away chuckling.

Later, on the way home, he says. “Mummy, I love you and Daddy and God more than anyone else in the whole WORLD even more than my best friends!”

This is how a five year old thinks and talks, I suppose and it’s really rather wonderful.

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“Come in to my parlour,” said the spider to the fly.

On our last day in Alsace the weather was blinding so we left later and spent a morning at the hotel pool. McMini was playing with model planes, micro mini planes, one of which was an X Wing fighter out of the StarWars films. The conversation, as reported to me, went like this.

McMini, “Get in! Get in! Get in.” rinse and repeat.
McOther intrigued as to what is going on asks, “What are you doing there?”
McMini shows him the X wing with it’s cockpit opened. “I am trying to get this ant to climb into my X Wing.”
McOther, “Why?”
McMini, “So he can go for a ride.”
McOther, “But he’s an ant, he won’t be able to drive it.”
McMini, “That’s alright, I will drive it for him so he can have a lovely time.”
McOther, “I’m not sure he’d like it, why don’t you leave him where he is?”
McMini, “But Daddy he will have such a fun time.”
McOther, “I’m not sure. Ants enjoy different things to humans, he might not like it.”
McMini, a little crestfallen. “Oh… are you absolutely certain, Daddy?”
McOther, “Yes.”
McMini, “OK, I will leave him where he is then.”

We’ve been giggling about this ever since.

This evening, McOther rang to say that he was on his way home and that there was a lovely moon. I suggested McMini could look at it through his junior National Geographic telescope (what was I thinking)?

McMini, “Will I see any aliens?”
MTM, “Maybe.” (What was I thinking?)

So we got the telescope out and set it up and he has a look.

MTM, “What do you see?”McMini: “Nothing, just whiteness.”
MTM, “Hang on, shall I just check it’s in focus?”
McMini, “Yes please Mummy. ”

So I check it and focus it.

MTM, “There you go.”
McMini, “I still can’t see anything.”
MTM,”Hang on, let me check that again,” MTM checks the focus again, “is that any better?”
McMini, “No I still can’t see.”
MTM, “Maybe it’s the angle, shall I check again?”
McMini, “Yes please.”

So I check the angle and yes, it’s all fine, the moon is bang in the middle and he should be able to see it. I wonder whether he’s closing the wrong eye. He has another look.

McMini, “I still can’t see any aliens, just white moon.”
MTM, “Well, you probably need a bigger magnification to see aliens.McMini, very crestfallen, “Oh…. I wanted to see some aliens.”

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