Wee Parts One, Two and Loving the Tadpoles

Wee Part One

We live five minutes drive from lots of country lanes. Some of these country lanes have bumps, the sort that make your stomach lurch as you dip down. We call these 'wheeeeeeeees', which is the noise we scream as we fly over the them.

We have a particular favourite on the back road to Ilkley. The faster you go the better the 'wheeeeeeeee'.

The 4 year old informed me today that she knows how to tell a bad 'wheeeeeeeee' from a good 'wheeeeeeeee'.

4 year old - "A good wheeeeeeeee makes me do a little wee".

Wee Part Two

We spent most of Easter weekend with my sister, her family and some of her friends who had come down for the week from Scotland.

The friends from Scotland have a daughter who is four and got on famously with my 4 year old. After their first day together they declared themselves BFF.

The Scottish four year old is … well … Scottish and instead of using the word 'small' uses the word 'wee'. As my Dad, my aunt, uncle, cousins and my grandparents are Scottish it is something I give no thought to.

The 4 year old however has given it as much thought as possible.

4 year old - "Why does [the Scottish four year old] say 'a wee dog/a wee burp/a wee play/a wee boy"?

Me - "Scottish people use the word 'wee' for 'small'.

4 year old - "But if a Scottish person does a small wee, is it a wee wee"

Me - "I suppose so, yes"

4 year old - "… and if a Scottish person does a small poo is it a wee poo?" looks at me and sniggers

Me - sighing "I suppose so, yes"

This conversation I'm sure would have gone on ... and on ... and on had she not been in the car clutching an ice cream tub full of tadpoles which had been collected from Auntie K's pond ... to which she kept whispering "I love you".

We have a family tradition ...

… egg rolling.

Every Easter.

Up until five years ago I hadn’t met another family that did it. We take it seriously, very seriously indeed.

… we have a trophy.

For those of you who are not with it (ahem) … we paint hard boiled eggs, find a hill and roll our eggs down it. The egg that gets the most points over three rolls is the winner. The owner of said winning egg receives the trophy, which is proudly displayed until the next ‘egg roll’.

In t'olden days, when I was a child it was simple. Paint egg, find hill, roll egg, slap winner on back, well done.

Now the rules are a little lax.

I follow the old style method of ‘place and release’. Placing my egg on the line and releasing it.

I have never won the trophy.

Other family members, I shall name no names, favour the ‘egg toss’. The wrongdoer appear to be applying the ‘place and release’ method but at the last minute tosses their egg to gain speed and distance. This causes much bickering amongst the family and the word ‘cheat’ is bandied about. We have over ten family participants and it can get a little heated.

When the winner has been presented with the trophy we have lots of leftover eggs. One year, pre small children, we decided to have an egg pelting session which ended abruptly when a Grandparent received a black eye.

Since then we have taken a cricket bat and taken it in turns to bash the eggs (away from other people).

This week I received an email from my sister. I realised the excitement was brewing when she asked for verification of the rules.

She wanted to know if she could use more than one egg?
No, you may not. If you want to show off your artisitic abilities then we shall admire your extra eggs and say 'oooh', but they will not be submitted. One egg is sufficient.

Could we make the rules on trophy winning clear?
Yes. The winner wins the trophy.

Anything else?
Yes, we are going old school. We are using the ‘place and release’ method. Anyone found to be using the ‘egg toss’ will have points deducted from the total and people will point and mock.

After 30 years I might stand a chance of winning the trophy.

I keep finding the husband staring off into space and I think he must be thinking about work. Then I realise, he is a graphic designer, he is already designing his egg in his head.

Like I said, we take it seriously.

The Princess of 'Dilly Dally'

I'm waiting for 4 year old to pick a bedtime story. She runs her finger along all 50 of the Mr Men & Mrs spines then starts on her other books. Slowly. She runs her finger back looking thoughtful. Slower still. Then she starts on the Mr Men & Mrs books again.

Tick tock tick tock.

All the while I am lying on her bed watching, thinking that if I were to lie here another five minutes I would fall asleep.

The 2 year old is shouting from the room next door "Socks, socks, Mummy, socks, Mummy". Not only is he unable to sleep without socks but now they have to be odd socks.

When I return from sock duty I say to her "Come on now, just pick one, it's getting late"

She looks at me like I'm mad and continues the selection process, this time getting five books out on the rug and 'umming' and 'aaahing'. She puts them back and picks another five.

Tick tock tick tock.

Enough is enough. "Right, I am counting to five, if you haven't picked a book I will pick one for you .......... 1 .......... 2 .......... 3 .......... 3 and a half .........." I say to her.

She gets up from kneeling in front of her shelves and says to me "Mum. You are giving my life away!"

I think "Actually, where have the last 4 and a half years gone?"

I am giving her life away to the time bandits minute by minute, hour by hour.

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It is also my little big sisters birthday today.

She is eleven years older than me and shorter than me.

My sister K is smaller than me
I can lift her up quite easily
She can't lift me
she's tried and tried
I must have something heavy inside

Happy birthday little big sister! I love you.

For One Night Only - A New Husband

The 4 year old and I had a sleepover last night. I was looking after the big cousins whilst Auntie K was out of town with work. I took the 4 year old because I had to deposit her at school this morning on my way to work.

The 2 year old stayed home with Daddy and had some man time. I found out later that ‘man time’ involved two walnut whip poos on the potty and stripping a chicken carcass for tea.

I had an odd night’s sleep. I drifted in and out. Bouts of wakefulness were prompted by the 4 year old wittering and flailing in her sleep. At one point she walloped me across the face … accidentally of course.

Even though I slept badly I dreamt I was taking part in Channel 4’s Wife Swap and had swapped my house and family for a gypsy caravan, a new husband and several children.

In ‘real life’ there is a gypsy settlement within a few miles of school. Most of the children from the settlement attend the school. I discovered this one morning as I exited the school gates after dropping the 4 year old off. A transit van sped round the corner with a screech and mounting the kerb came to a sudden halt. It was like a scene from the A-Team, that is, until the side door was thrown open to expose two ladies with pushchairs (already erected with toddlers strapped in) and more than a few school children. Wasting no time they leapt out and proceeded to run towards their different classrooms. It was an incredible sight. The ratio of people Vs van square footage should win a place in the Guinness Book of Records.

Unfortunately I was woken mid dream by a foot in the ribs courtesy of the 4 year old. I was most disappointed because I was about to introduce my ‘rules’ to the new family.

My first rule was going to be that the A Team van must be fitted with appropriate seating and seatbelts. My other rules would include me NOT having to empty the chemical toilet or wear large golden hoop earrings.

I will sleep in my own bed tonight. I will sleep clutching my lucky heather.

Half Term – Day 4 – Grandpa Came To Stay

I started my new job today and we had no childcare so I left Grandpa in charge. Grandpa lives in Spain and was visiting. The children love it when Grandpa comes to stay, we see him 4-5 times a year, and they slip back into their relationship as if they’ve never been apart.

Grandpa started the day by venturing downstairs foolishly thinking it was later than it was and was met by the 2 year old who recruited him for some early morning cutting, drawing, tent making and channel surfing. When I rescued him at 8am Grandpa proudly told me that he had given the 2 year old some juice and had worked out how to turn the TV on. This boded well for his childcare duties during the rest of the day.

I went to work at 9.45 and returned to an empty house at 3.15. Fifteen minutes later a cold and tired looking Grandpa followed by two cold but remarkably perky children arrived home. Grandpa had been busy. He had taken them ‘rock jumping’ this morning (loosely translated = dog walking near some rocks which the children hurl themselves off). They came home for lunch, then ventured out again to Salts Mill (arty shops and a very nice café – full of yummy mummy’s – as a friend points out “I feel really skanky when I go there”) which is down a very steep hill from our house and has a lovely bookshop.

Grandpa told the children they could have a book each. The 2 year old gathered several books and formed a tower whilst the 4 year old and Grandpa found a book from which you can construct ’29 beautiful paper butterflies and display them on models representing three different habitats’ – what was he thinking? On further examination you require a pair of scissors fit for the Borrowers, a glue stick the size of a pen lid, a stiff drink and the patience of a saint. When he comes to stay again he will spend most of his time creating 29 beautiful paper butterflies. He must reap what he sowed.

The 2 year old was forced to whittle his pile of 30 books down to one and picked a book on Diggers (no glue stick required). They went to a café, ate biscuits and drank Ribena (one of the things which makes the 4 year old hyper). On the way home they had a trip to a playground, fed the ducks and rather aggressive swan. The 2 year old nearly fell into the canal twice. It was OK though because Grandpa had a backup plan. If he had to dive in he would leave his mobile phone on the side in case he had to ring my husband to come and get them. I think an ambulance may be more appropriate in temperatures of 0°C.

The last part of his journey was a steep hill home which I usually avoid at all cost due to the whine factor and because it usually ends in me carrying one child, shouting at the other for walking at the speed of a snail and nearly having a heart attack at the top. So when he arrived home he was rather stressed and tired.

By 5.30pm he had started on the wine and by 6.30 had single handed finished a bottle and was moving on to the next (he doesn't normally drink much). Auntie K, big boy cousin and big girl cousin arrived for tea and we all sat down to eat. Grandpa by this point was discussing the finer points of cheap supermarkets and kept shouting “LIDL” in a German accent which somehow then moved on to him shouting “vichyssoise” in a French accent (French translation = cold potato leek soup) … which then within 5 minutes moved on to him shouting “MERDE” (no translation required).

Grandpa decided to put himself forward to be thrashed by the 4 year old at ‘Hop and Pop’ (Asda’s cheapo version of Frustration). He then collapsed on the sofa with some water and biscuits to watch a light documentary called ‘The Yamato’ about was a battleship of the Imperial japanese Navy durin World War II which was sent on a suicidal mission against more than 1000 US ships off Okinawa. This triggered him to speak in a Japanese accent for the duration of the documentary, but there was no further swearing.

As I was washing up tonight I came across the almost empty beaker that the 2 year old had been drinking from this morning with Grandpa. In the bottom was thick liquid. He hadn’t diluted the juice ... just given it neat.

He never ceases to amaze me. Last year during a visit we were in a busy bookshop when the 4 year old decided to satisfy her hunger with a banana. I was holding the 2 year old and several books so told her to go and ask Grandpa to do it. Across a packed bookshop he shouted “I don’t know how to peel a banana”. The shop fell silent as people stopped and stared at this man in his late fifties who was unable to assist his grandchild with a simple fruit based act.

When asked what she did during the holidays I hope the 4 year old doesn’t tell her teacher that Grandpa is ‘merde’ at Hop and Pop.

More belly laughter than I know what to do with

The husband and I have just returned from a weekend away without children. 48 hours of not having to worry if I have the correct combination of raisins, juice, wipes and nappies in my handbag. Not going to bed with a feeling of dread, knowing that I will be rudely woken at 5.30am by a child wielding a Dora the Explorer backpack in my face. Not having to berate anyone for beating their sibling with a fork/stick/wand/sword (delete as appropriate).

The husband and I began to unwind with each other. Our relationship seems to be under constant stress at the moment and we’re often relieved to have made it through another day without one of us turning into a dribbling wreck. Regular communication and affection are reserved for another time, a time when the madness has subsided.

We went away with three other couples. It was just what we needed. Lots of laughing, relaxation, good food, drink and most importantly excellent company.

We made several phone calls home to check on the status of the children who were having a ball. A picnic with Auntie K, the park, drawing, baking, shoulder rides with big cousins, swimming, chocolate buttons with Grandma … much more fun than they get on an average weekend. It was reported that they were both behaving beautifully and … well, it seems the 2 year old slept better than ever before, having to actually be woken up one morning. This has never happened at home … EVER. Bitter? Me? Absolutely!

Our last day was spent having a leisurely walk in the sunshine along the river and mooching round shops before heading home. I was excited to be coming home. Despite my grumbling I miss them terribly when I am without them. If I think really hard about it, I even miss plucking dried Cheerios out of the 2 year olds hair and arguing with the 4 year old about which shoes she should wear (pink princess flip flops that are 3 sizes too big will never be appropriate for a muddy dog walk).

They were delighted to see us too … and very tired. After the initial excitement it began; ‘it’ being the punishment. The ‘how dare you leave us, we’ve had a bloody great time, but YOU LEFT US!’ punishment. It was a titanic two pronged tantrum which lasted two hours. They rode the relentless waves of tantrum through tea and bath time before finally falling asleep. I don’t know how it started or what started it but it was definitely designed to cause as much grief and guilt as possible.

When they were asleep I felt a rush of both guilt and desire. Guilt for leaving them and messing up their routine; desperate desire to be back in our lovely cottage with more belly laughter than I know what to do with.