I’m doing some basic research on teaching kids to program computers. If you teach (or have taught) kids to program I’d value your response. I’m using zoomerang for this so if the survey doesn’t appear below try going to the direct page for it. If you know any ICT teachers (or just parents who teach their own kids to program – please pass this onto them.

I’ll post the results later here and on my Free Software Magazine blog.

I don’t need to add anything here (except for my UK friends 8th grade is about 13-14 years old).

( h/t Jesus Needs New PR )

Scott Zirkel drew this cartoon of Katie as a Jedi to encourage her

A heartwarming story came across my feed today. It tells of how Star Wars fan Katie Goldman (7) came home and asked her mum to change her school water bottle to a pink one because the kids in her class were teasing her about her Star Wars one which was apparently “just for boys”. The story is a wonderful example of humanity at its best and I won’t repeat the whole thing here. Go read it and then come back. As ever in these stories my thoughts turned to my own kids. My son is Katie’s age and my daughter is not far off and whilst not fans like Katie they both like Star Wars.

In case you want to read it later, Katie’s mum blogged about her daughter’s plight, this was read by a fellow Star Wars kid who is now all grown up and is also a girl – Jen Yates. She posted a message to other Star Wars fans to help encourage Katie. They responded and then some, including some of the actors in Clone Wars. Now people are wearing Star Wars clothes to work to support Katie and help negate the bullying.

It’s a great story and is rightly being trumpeted as a victory for all that is good about the Web but here’s what caught my attention. The web, like any other medium, would have failed Katie as it fails many other kids who are bullied had it not been for one thing: somebody acted. Had Katie’s mum said nothing, nothing would have happened. had Jen Yates just read the story, thought “how sad” and then gone back to WoW or whatever else she does with her time, Katie would not be famous or — more importantly — helped. Had the other fans Yates contacted done nothing, Katie would now be taking her pink bottle to school.

Somebody acted. Would you?

I follow someone on Twitter, @artsyhonker who every morning tweets “Good morning! What will you [blank] today?”. The blank is replaced by a different encouragement/question each day. Today’s one was “What will you persist in today?”. I am pretty certain she has already done this one but following the same lines I would like to say to you

Who will you encourage today?

That encouragement might be telling somebody they are doing okay, saying thank you for something they do as part of their job or in the case of Katie Goldman, telling them that they are not alone.

May the force be with you, Katie and all the other Star Wars kids out there.

My father would hand-pump air into one of these to keep his baby brother alive

There was quite a bit of stuff on TV over the weekend regarding the 70th anniversary of the Battle of Britain. Included in any tale of the Battle of Britain will always be The Blitz and these were no different.

Watching these programmes reminded me of my father. Growing up in Islington (which was not the trendy place it is now) he was 5 when Britain declared war on Germany. By 6 he had been evacuated to Whitney in Oxfordshire where he stayed on a farm but – like many – found his hosts not to be as warm as his own parents. In 1941 my grandmother gave birth to my twin uncles so my Dad, aged 7 was brought back to London (at the height of the Blitz) to help her. He has told me of his nights sat in an air-raid shelter wearing his “mickey mouse” gas mask and pumping air by hand into one of his baby brother’s gas mask (see image right) while my grandmother did the same with the other one. I have a son about the age he was then and the idea of my boy going through what my dad went through is horrendous.

A while back (I think it may have been during the 60th anniversay of the Blitz) the Imperial War Museum¹ in London had a Blitz exhibition. I accomanpied my Dad hoping he could give me some first-hand references to the displays and features. He did. One of the exhibits was a “Blitz Experience”. You walked into a mock anderson air-raid shelter and then sat there whilst a simulated air-raid took place. The narrative was interesting and to me it looked like they had taken a lot of care over the authenticity. When the “bombs” dropped you could “hear” the planes and “feel” them exploding in the surrounding area as the shelter shook. During much of this time the lights were either out or very low. Thinking the experience was quite good I turned to my Dad for an opinion on just how realistic it was. My Dad was a white as a sheet and staring ahead. I touched his arm and he looked at me with a tear in his eye and simply said “That was a bit too close for comfort”.

At that moment, more than any other I began to appreciate what those who remember the Blitz went through and why they rarely speak of all of it. I imagine it is similar for the pilots of the RAF and all those who served, fought and just lived through those times. Later my Dad would tell me how it brought back memories of the time and of those who went through it with him but are no longer around. At that moment also my respect for my dad grew at an exponential rate and still does.

So here’s to my Dad and the thousands like him who lived through times that I couldn’t possibly imagine living through. They didn’t ask to or want to and I doubt they would want to do it again but they did and had they not: how different would the world be now? While we’re at it here also is to those around the world who live through such times today and here’s hoping we can finally get around to making sure nobody else has to.

¹ If you live in London and have never visited the Imperial War Museum, I recommend it. Far from being a celebration and glorification of military might as the name might suggest it takes a sensitive, respectful and careful look all the aspects of war, the people involved, the tragedy and the reasons behind it. I am yet to go and not come away even more convinced that war must end.

Thought I’d start the new year with a cautionary tale.

Somebody once said “There’s no such thing as a normal day”. That is true but there are definitely abnormal days. Days that really could only happen once. At least there had better be or else the day described here could happen again. Before I go any further I want to say this is all absolutely true (except the Bon Jovi bit which I can’t prove) and occurred in mid 2008. At the time, I submitted it as an article for an internal magazine where I was then working but never got around to putting it on here.

Update 19 March 2010: Recently this page has been coming to the top of Google searches for “My child has put cat poo in their mouth”. If you’ve come here looking for what to do I’m afraid I don’t have the answer. The NHS website does say that “Animal faeces (poo) are not ‘poisonous’ but may cause infections and if you are concerned you should call NHS Direct.” Here’s the link to that page (helpfully called “poisoning”) if it helps.

If your child hasn’t been tucking into the cat litter you can read on. Oh and wouldn’t read this while eating if I were you.

Rude awakenings

It all started when my left leg decided it was time to re-introduce me to the idea of cramp. Now I’ve had my fair share of cramp and perhaps it was the fact that I was in the middle of an unusually deep sleep but I don’t recall cramp ever feeling like this! This was man-cramp. My leg felt like it had a shark attached and I went from snore to roar in under a second. I did what any normal human would do and screamed. Actually I didn’t – I was about to when I remembered my loving wife (Claire) sound asleep beside me and being a caring husband (and a complete coward) I thought it best not to wake her at 5:30 in the morning.

So I slid out of bed (the only way I could actually move at the time) and tried to get rid of the cramp by stretching my leg – which of course hurt even more. So now I wanted to scream even more. Time to leave the room and scream elsewhere. They don’t call it cramp for nothing though and my first step resulted in a half lunge and me falling towards the bed. After a clever mid-fall twist which would have made Tom Daley proud I avoided the bed and landed on the floor – right on top of the leg with cramp. So I crawled to the bathroom, stuffed a flannel in my mouth and stretched my leg. After about ten minutes the pain (and the screaming) reduced enough for me to limp back to bed where my – ever so concerned – wife was probably dreaming about Jon Bon-Jovi but was definitely not awake. Phew. The venture was a success in one aspect at least.

I went from roar to snore in under a second. This was man-cramp!

And so back to sleep for all of around 10 minutes when my son (four at the time) started shouting “help!” from his bedroom. Despite some well placed elbows, Bon-Jovi was still holding my wife’s avid attention. So up I got and hobbled into the kids’ room to find him sitting up in the top bunk. He calmly explained that he’d had a nightmare and had “forgotten” to wake up in the middle of it to go to the toilet. The bed was soaked. His sister (three) was as out of it as my wife (but hopefully not dreaming about Jon Bon-Jovi) in the lower bunk. The manager in me took over and I decided that eighties musicians would have to move aside. I, gently, woke my wife and assigned her the task of dealing with our son while I dealt with the bed. Standing on the edge of the lower bunk (with my daughter still asleep in it) I stripped the top one and cleaned up. Eventually the bedding was all piled up and Catnip (his favourite toy) was sitting atop the pile like a wee-covered Guy Fawkes. I decided I’d take them down “in the morning”. By this time my son was clean and in dry jammies and clambered back into bed. I limped back to mine. My wife was already heading back to the eighties and my cramp was dying down so it seemed some sleep was on the cards.

Enter the cat

At this point the cat realised she had not played a big enough part in my morning. She also decided – what with all the moving around – that it must be time for her breakfast. Tempting as it was to help her out of the upstairs window, I hobbled downstairs and fed her with all the grace I could muster. Believe me, she was lucky I didn’t put a funnel in her mouth and pour it down! So after all that it was back to bed and what was left of my sleep.

Believe me at this point the cat was lucky I didn’t open her mouth and pour the food down for her!

But wait! There’s more. Apparently during my cramp-induced gymnastics I managed to knock my alarm clock off the bedside and turned it off. So half an hour after I was supposed to wake up, my son appeared beside my bed and gently shook me. “Ah bless” I thought ,“He probably wants some breakfast”. He probably did, but the reason he was waking me up was to say “Daddy, Pebbles has done a poo in my room”. Pebbles if you haven’t guessed is the afore-mentioned cat. Taking in this glorious news I just knew it would be on the rug and not on the – easy to clean – laminate flooring. “Where abouts?” I asked, anxiously. “On the bottom bunk” came the reply swiftly followed by – a very dead-pan – “and it’s all squishy”. This was enough to drag my wife back from her own personal Ashes-to-Ashes and she went to rescue our daughter from the cat’s new litter tray. After she returned while I limped towards my own personal Life On Mars to clean another bed. Meanwhile Mummy went through the checking-a-child-for-cat-poo-whilst-avoiding-getting-it-on-yourself-and-anything-else procedure (patent pending).

When I arrived there were indeed some “parcels of fun” from Pebbles the cat on the end of the bed and they were indeed, squishy. Not that my daughter had noticed. Apparently she had remained completely asleep while the cat did it’s business and – even with the squishy poo on her bed – I confess I was envious. The cat must have seen my face and decided this was not the time to ask for more food and she sat quietly by the back door waiting for me to open it. If she was smart she’d stay out there all day. I know my cat. She’s not that smart.

A twist in the tale

You’d think this story would end now wouldn’t you but, like an M. Night Shyamalan film, there’s one final plot twist. As I went out to deposit Pebbles’ – er – pebbles ( now in a bag ) into the dustbin I re-discovered that the day before my Father-in-Law ( who to be fair was just trying to be helpful ) had put the kitchen bin liner and put it next to our dustbin. I had “meant” to do something about that before going to bed because, bless him, he didn’t know the reason we have dustbins with lids where I live. They are called foxes and overnight a couple of the little beggars had ripped that bin bag to shreds and spread the contents – offering like – before my front door. They were obviously looking for waste food. Ha! Waste food in our house – nice one.

So there I stood, tired, in bare feet, only one of which I could stand on, holding a bag of poo, before a sea of kitchen waste. Hey, at least the sun was shining. Right in my eyes! So I mopped up the sea, deposited the bag o’ poo and glanced at the clock. Arrghhh – 7:45 – I was supposed to leave at 7:30!

So while “this is the day that the Lord has made” would seem ironic at that moment. “We will rejoice and be glad in it” was a particular struggle. I really hope that was an abnormal day. Because if it wasn’t, there’s a risk that it could happen again and I’m not sure I could survive two days like that.

I know for a fact that my cat won’t!

P.S. My wife has asked me to point out that the bit about Bon Jovi is entirely without evidence or factual basis and is simply a pre-supposition on my part. Glad to get the legal part over but I would like to say that she was very excited when I later gave her tickets to a Bon-Jovi concert

It’s a popular meme at this time of year that Christmas is for the kids and — incarnation of God and beginning of the world’s salvation not withstanding — it probably is as well.

Having two of the little ones myself I thought it might be nice to share some of the Christmas-related, children-related quotes and events that I’ve encountered. Some happened this year, others in previous years.

Fair’s fair

My two were clamouring for one of the chocolates on offer after the carol service. I said they could have one each. My eldest (6 at the time) spotted the mince pies and — putting on his best smile — asked “Can I have a mince pie as well Dad?”. It’s Christmas. I said yes. At which point my youngest (4 at the time) started rifling through the tin of chocolates. When I asked what she was doing she responded (without looking up or stopping the rifling) with: “I don’t want a mince pie!”.

Guess who’s coming to town

It was six days before Christmas and to say my two were excited is a gross understatement. School was out and they were gearing up for the big night in a big way. Despite their excitement we managed to get them upstairs to get ready for bed. I took the opportunity to make a cup of tea and after stirring, tapped the mug with the teaspoon (I don’t know, it’s a thing I always do). It made a slight tinging sound at which the two kids thundered down the stairs shouting “We heard the bells! Where’s Father Christmas?”

New takes on the old old story

We’ve all encountered children who think the wise men brought “Gold, Frankenstein and Myrrh” but there are other cases of new words being used in the old story. I personally got in trouble as a child for saying the shepherds were washing their socks. I’ve also heard a version of Away in a manger where the cattle were “glowing” (presumably from standing too close to the angels). A friend’s child once asked why Mary and Joseph didn’t just drive home again if all the hotels were booked up but perhaps my favourite is the child who asked where the horses slept with all those people crowded in the stable.

The Real Father Christmas

When my niece was young I took her to see one of the many Father Christmas’s in a local shopping centre. Whilst queueing we passed the people exiting excitedly with their presents (and an emptier wallet). I heard a parent ask their little one if they enjoyed seeing Father Christmas. The child responded with “yes and I think this one is the real one not some bloke pretending”. Then there was a pause and then the big brother (who was looking very fed up) said  “He could do with getting his beard dry cleaned though!”.

The look that the parent gave the older child would have made Medusa proud.

The trials of Christmas shopping

Last year I was in a shopping centre, a week or so before Christmas and took a moment to grab a rest while waiting for my wife. A Mother and her three children stopped and readjusted their myriad of bags next to me. The mother started running through her – mental – checklist to ensure they hadn’t forgotten anything. As she listed the gifts they had bought and who they were for, the middle of the three children began to interrupt. “Mum..”. The mother held up her hand to summon silence. “But..” Again the mother held up her hand and this continued through the list. Satisfied that they hadn’t forgotten anything she declared they could now go home. She then turned and asked what the middle child wanted. “I think Dad’s still in GAME” they said at which point the youngest threw up her arms and said “Oh great! We’ll never get him out of there!” (For those who don’t know, GAME is a popular video game store in the UK)

If you have any of your own, feel free to add them as comments here.

Happy Christmas

Some time (scarily it was nine years) ago I wrote a piece on here entitled “Touching a heart“. A few years later I followed that up with a piece called “Further lessons from a child“.

Both those pieces centered on lessons I had learned by observing my niece and I often find myself reflecting on the things I have (and haven’t) learned as a result of those experiences. Nowadays I have children of my own and just a few weeks back my son (who at the time was two and a half) taught me something about faith.

We’ve all been there, you wake up in the middle of the night and your throat is a dry as sandpaper. The trouble for my son this time was that we hadn’t left a drink next to his bed for him. So he did what toddlers do in the middle of the night and cried out for one of us to go in. My wife went and discovered the ongoing thirst issue. Actually the words my son used were “How about a nice cool drink mum?”. Mum said she would bring one and left to go downstairs.

So what did my son do during the wait? He sat on his bed quietly waiting for his Mum to return. You see he had no doubt that she would come back or that she would have the water in her hand when she did. He trusted her, implicitly and, to him, the fact that she had said she would do something was enough. No more tears, no going to the top of the stairs, no watching the door, no worrying just patience and – when she returned – thanks. In short my son has faith in his mother – and rightfully so.

So let me ask you the question this triggered me to ask myself. How often do you wait patiently for God? How much do you trust that He will do what He has said? How much faith do you have in Him?

Always handy having kids around when you need a few lessons don’t you think?