I had a bit of a 'Joker' and now I have concussion

Last night we went to my big sisters birthday party. It was great, a dinner party for 19 during which we did a smorgasbord of music and picture quizzes. I drank several glasses of red wine, so much so that when I got home I had a bit of a 'Joker' (hardcore winos will understand). I had a slightly dull head this morning.

We had a sort of lie in; if you call waking at 6am, but remaining ensconced in the duvet, whilst small children leap about and thrust various items up your nose and in your ears … a lie in.

We got up had breakfast and took the 13 year old to her weekly horse worship at the stables for 10.15. We continued on our way to watch our 11 year old nephew play football. The 2 year old gets very excited about watching him play, today was no exception, and he jabbered on and on and on until we reached the football club.

We got wellington booted up and wandered over to the pitch. It was freezing and with the help of an elixir (Diet Coke) the dull red wine headache started to abate. The match was in full flow but as we got closer it became apparent that we could not see brother or sister in law. On further investigation we realised that they were not there, nor was our nephew. Usually nephew can be spotted instantly; he has been blessed with the family trait of having incredibly skinny legs (that is husband’s side of the family and definitely not mine. I am a member of ‘thunder thighs anonymous’).

Two random teams were playing. The 2 year old was so excited about seeing his big cousin play football that we had to stay and watch other people’s cousins play instead. I spent 30 minutes thinking that I could still be at home in my dressing gown slobbing on the sofa whilst nursing my head.

It was then that husband checked his phone to find a text, sent at 9am, saying ‘football called off’. Humph.

It is now Sunday evening and the neighbours have come to ask if husband ‘wants to come out to play’; code for a swift pint or four in the pub.

I have just got something out of a high cupboard in the kitchen and dropped it, picked it up and whacked the top of my head on the underside of the cupboard. I can’t tell you how much I swore. For the record the children were an inch away from the TV two rooms away … plus the 2 year old is virtually deaf. I now have a painful egg shaped bump on my head.

If husband had been here he would have sniggered and given me a ‘told you so’ look. To his annoyance I am always leaving cupboards open or even just slightly ajar.

If I collapse with concussion, the children will put themselves to bed and husband will come home to find me slumped against the keyboard. Just in case that happens and he ignores me and decides to catch up on my blog …

Husband – I have concussion. Your tea is in the oven. I think the children have gone to bed, if they haven’t you will find them raiding the biscuit barrel, guaranteed. Don’t forget to Sky Plus the new series of Lost which starts tonight at 9pm.

Newsflash - The 2 year old has just refused a bag of chocolate buttons, I DEFINITELY have concussion.

She only licks the icing ...

I have always been very conscious of the amount of sugar that the 4 year old eats. Anything more toxic than chocolate buttons and her head is guaranteed to spin as she bounces off the walls. I kid you not; she even has nightmares (usually about the man) when she’s overdosed on sugar. Don’t even get me started on fizzy drinks or Fruit Shoots. Snack wise I always try and lean towards the raisins/fruit option before the sweets and biscuits. This has thus far worked and makes life much easier. Both children have their fair share of sweets and biscuits, just in moderation. Control freak? Me? Never.

I am already twitching at the start of the ‘silly season’. Christmas is a time of many parties … out spring the guilty pleasures of my 4 year old; Cheesy Wotsits, buns (of which she only licks the icing) and unsolicited party bags brimming with a variety of sweets.

I recently discovered that the forces are against me; the force of Daddy. On the way to school we saw a sign outside a local shop advertising ice cream. As I had just scraped ice off my car I thought it amusing and made a comment to the 4 year old about it not being the sort of weather to be partaking in a 99 with sprinkles and sauce. This jolted one of her memories from her ever random memory bank …

Her - “Mummy, once when you were out Daddy said we could have an ice cream and some sweets. Then YOU rang to say you were on your way home and he said we couldn’t have anything because you’d tell him off”.

Me - “Do you think I’m mean?”

Her - “Yes”

Me - “Do you think Daddy’s mean?”

Her - “No”

I may be mean but he’s busted and he doesn’t even know it (until, that is, he reads this).

My husband would live on Midget Gems if he could. He has learnt to conceal his quarter bags of the little buggers from the children. Unfortunately, even the 2 year old who we suspect suffers from periodic deafness can identify the rustle of a paper bag filled with sweets. On the occasions they have discovered his stash they beg him, with their big eyes for a hit of the good stuff. He of course crumbles under the weight of his heart being tugged and the gentle whine of his beautiful babies. This, I have found, often happens within half an hour of bedtime and also coincides with the nights I am on bath and bed duty.

This, I refer to as ‘Daddy writing cheques that Mummy has to cash’.

Six Pairs Of Pants, One Wet Fart

When my daughter had just turned two we started potty training her. She had a keen interest in bodily functions and the thought of wearing ‘big girl knickers’ made her swell with pride. She was prime potty training fodder and got the hang of the basics within a fortnight. At times it was very frustrating, but that frustration had to be hidden behind my ‘Oh dear, don’t worry, let’s try again’ face, for fear of sending her back to square one. At the end of week one I decided that I would bin the offending pants if a rogue poo had occurred rather than scrape the contents into the toilet. It turned out over the next six months that we would have several bouts of regression, sometimes for good reason, sometimes sheer laziness. So it came to pass that the only way back to dry pants was persuasion (bribery) of a chocolate variety.

I am now embarking on the same journey with the 2 year old (who will be 3 in January). My attitude was that I would wait until he was definitely, 100% ready. I’ve found lots of reasons to put it off – starting pre-school, new OAP childminders, not enough pairs of pants. He has repeatedly shown interest in the toilet, choosing to climb atop and squat above. I’m not sure where he learnt this approach, but it works for him. He would be a natural in a French ‘squat toilet’. However he has also shown rebellion in his toilet habits (see ‘The Morning Log’). Now, I’m getting impatient. The final straw came when I had to buy some emergency nappies from the local chemist for double the price I would pay in the supermarket. I want rid. NO MORE NAPPIES.

So, we’re off. Today my boy and I bought another pack of pants. Backup pants. He chose Lazytown ones which have the character Sportacus in an assortment of cheesy poses on the crotch. He lovingly clutched them all the way home. Once home, he immediately stripped and put them on … then did a massive wee in them. Pair number two came out and a discussion about what to do in the event of needing the toilet was had. He nodded, then got on with some serious playing. They lasted 10 minutes. I banned all drinks, even the one he had stashed behind the sofa and pair three made a grand entrance. He coolly announced he needed a poo and obligingly did it on the potty. I cheered, we flushed, he proudly waved goodbye to the poo and replaced his pants. Unfortunately the poo was followed by a wet fart with substance – neither he nor the pants could have seen that coming. The wet fart confused him, I could see it in his eyes, he felt cheated.

I left him alone for a while to bask in his 4th pair of pants. I say left alone, but I shouted ‘do you need a wee’ at regular intervals from the other room. I say regular intervals, try every five minutes.

In my absence he decided that three pairs of pants is better than one and had put them on in a hit and miss style so he couldn’t walk properly – having put his waist through the leg hole on one pair. It was of course this moment that he decided he needed another wee. Once removed, his three pairs of pants were somewhat damp but he still made it to the toilet for the remainder. Being tight I made him wear a damp pair and put the other two on the radiator.
All this activity in an hour.

Next week I have to rely on not only myself, but, the husband, the pre-school and the OAP childminder’s support. Too many cooks …

I’m optimistic though … I’ll have him sorted, even if I have to resort to the chocolate buttons. But please, no more unexpected wet farts.