Despatches from a mother who started late (and is running to catch up)

Blog to Book - Fashionably Late

I am writing Fashionably Late, an irreverent guide to having children later in life. Did you become a mother over 35? If so, and you'd like to tell me your story please contact me at mail@motheratlarge.com.

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Bleeping annoying

One of my Christmas presents this year was something called a Keyfinder, which Santa* admitted s/he found in the pages of the Radio Times. It could have been worse. I could have got nose hair clippers.

"I thought it might help you get out the house faster," Santa said in a helpful tone.

"I'm not slow. I have to get Beanie ready as well, you know."

"Yes, of course," Santa replied. With lowered eyes.

When I ripped off the wrapping paper and clapped eyes on the Keyfinder, I couldn't believe I'd gone this far through life without one, it seemed so simple, so ingenious, so.... life-changing.

I attached the Keyfinder as instructed to my errant keys. I whistled, the Keyfinder lit up and bleeped at me to reveal its whereabouts. In my hands. Okay, but, you know, I could see the principle and glimpsed in it the potential for a new me, a woman able to leave home in less than 40 minutes, someone in control of her destiny, with smooth hair.

As we sat there by the Christmas tree, I already began to think about buying other Keyfinders for glasses, hairbrush and hat. Perhaps for Beanie's shoes. Each of them.

Unfortunately, only four days after Christmas, all we hear is bleep, bleep, bleep. The 'device' bleeps when Beanie protests as I remove a carving knife from reach. It bleeps when she shouts for more rice cakes. It bleeps when she finds me slow in reaching more fromage frais from the fridge. It bleeps when we sing. It bleeps as we pretend to be crocodiles. It bleeps as she bangs her beaker on the table and grins at me. It bleeps as I remove the beaker. It bleeps when we laugh. Its bleeping shadows me, reproving me, shaming me into hushed whispers.

In a rare quiet moment, unpunctuated by bleeping, I peruse the instructions. They describe the Keyfinder as an 'invaluable little companion". I grimace. "Try whistling at different pitches until your Keyfinder responds. NOTE: on occasion other sounds such as music, television or other background noises may have the same pitch as your whistling and may activate your Keyfinder. This should be considered NORMAL."

Va-vay has inserted the bleeping (yes, I can say that under the circumstances) batteries so efficiently I cannot prise them out. Though I break a fingernail trying. The keyfinder: not so much keyfinder, more sonic swearbox.

But then again, perhaps that is what Santa* had in mind all along.

* a character who has also featured in this blog under another name, (not Va-vay) but I can't say any more. And, just for the record, 'Santa' did do us proud with the fitted sheets we wanted....

Posted 29 December 2007 20:04

Home Kit

Comments

iota said:

Reminds me of a friend whose daughter had a dolly who cried until you put the dummy in. One day she lost the dummy, and couldn't find a screwdriver to remove the batteries, so ended up having to smother the dolly under a couple of pillows and a duvet - and hoping that her daughter (who had two younger siblings) would never say to anyone "Mummy buried the baby under the bedding to make it stop crying".

I'm glad to have read this story, as it has saved me from purchasing a keyfinder in years to come.

Posted 29 December 2007 22:16

Helen said:

Iota, how modern - have just finished leaving a comment over at yours. Yes, a screwdriver, that's what was needed. I'll dig one out of Va-vay's cupboards in the morning.

Posted 29 December 2007 22:49

Frog in the Field said:

Ha HA!

sorry, but this made me laugh..not out loud because Darling Husband has already stomped downstairs asking me why I'm up so early.

I would put it in Santa's pocket when he leaves for work and see how long it takes him to find it!

Posted 30 December 2007 06:50

Frog in the Field said:

ps Happy New Year!

Posted 30 December 2007 06:53

Omega Mum said:

The key words are 'invaluable little friend' and it is an item designed for those with no social life, pets, children, husbands or anything to do other than whistle a merry tune. Mind you, it begs the question as to why they'd need one since they clearly don't get out much. I hate to suggest incineration but unless it can improve its act (whistling back, offering tips on improving home security, or suggesting other items that you might have left behind) it has to go. Try getting it to whistle a final hymn as it goes up on the bonfire - Taps would do it.

Posted 30 December 2007 17:39

Helen said:

Frog in the Field, must let you into a secret, the 'Santa' in this particular 'present crime' is female and retired from work some years ago. Happy New Year to you too.

Omega Mum, perhaps I should keep it for when old and alone. No, then again, perhaps is already time to 'bye-bye' it, as Beanie would say.

Posted 30 December 2007 21:26

potty mummy said:

I have just the thing to deal with this. It's called a mallet. And god, it will feel so good to use it - trust me on this...

Posted 30 December 2007 21:27

Helen said:

Potty Mummy, enjoying just thinking about the crunch and splintering plastic as I read your comment. Oh, hang on, no, maybe not such a good idea, that would trigger one final blast of bleeping.

Posted 30 December 2007 21:30

Mother at Large

Welcome to this site. It's based on my personal experiences of becoming a mother a little later in life. If, like me, you waited a while to have children you're in good company. More and more of us are waiting until our late 30s or even 40s to become parents. Some might even say we're fashionably late.

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About me

Mother at Large dreams of crossing the Pyrenees with her young daughter. For now, getting to playgroup takes all her energy. To find out more read her full profile.