Stealth Boy strikes again ...

What you see in the 'after' photo is 7.5kgs of dry dog food.

What you fail to see in the 'after' photo is the dog puke on the hallway carpet, dog food on the hob and under the microwave and a 3 year old boy crying in his bedroom.

An update on life as we know it

Me – I was shocked and slightly disturbed to find that all this blogging (which some may see as idle wittering) has earned me number 40 in the Top 100 British Parent Bloggers. It’s all very exciting and I don’t completely understand all the technical bits which got it there, but none the less I have told everyone (bar the monotone security guard on Friday) I have come into contact with over the past week.

I have had several broody moments this week. I keep seeing mothers with their bundles of joy out and about in the village. In my mind I would love another bundle of joy because the maternal lunatic which lives inside me has erased all the crappy/shitty/tear your hair out parts of having a baby. All I can remember are the good bits … swaying with my beautiful baby in the pitch black of night as I feed her/him for the third time in six hours. Bliss. What? Wasn’t I tired and vaguely psychotic through lack of sleep? According to the maternal lunatic in my head … nope, never. I blame the sudden bouts of sunshine this week which make everything seem très jolie.

Just for the record, the above paragraph is written in a special typeface that my husband can't read.

I am feeling fairly domesticated which is a vast improvement on my previous status of ‘definitely not domesticated, no sireee’. Not only have I ironed more than twice this week I have also bought a new Hoover and taken an interest in the garden. My new favourite hangout is the local garden centre.

Can I just mention that the highlight of the televisual year is upon us. The Apprentice is back on Wednesday. Personally, I can’t wait.

Husband – Doesn’t like the Apprentice and is more Alan Titchmarsh than Guitar Hero these days. Despite a bad back he has spent hours cultivating a vegetable patch. It started three weeks ago with a ceremonious bonfire (what is it with men and fire?) in the back garden to clear the way and now we have seedlings sprouting ubiquitously.

I keep having visions of him stepping onto a podium at the village summer fair to collect his prize for 'Yorkshire's Biggest Leeks'.

3 Year Old – Stealth Boy has struck again. Last week husband found a '3 year old sized soil angel' in his vegetable patch. This is hindering the above village prize giving vision.

I walked into the kitchen on Saturday morning to find it flooded. From what I can tell he had been trying to fill the dog’s water bowl. Unfortunately he had then spilled it and repeated the process around twenty times.

The grommet operation was a success, he can hear, his balance is better and he actually starts conversations with people where before he would stand and stare at them as if they were talking in Swahili.

We are growing his hair, I say 'we' but I am actually against this idea as his head is already on the large side. He now has ear flaps and as his hair grows, so does his head. I keep looking at pictures of him after his last hair cut and contemplating sneaking off to the barbers for a quick snip.

4 Year Old – She is in fine fettle. Parents evening made us swell with pride.

Her writing has become much clearer and she likes to leave messages, albeit phonetically, on my computer. Her latest offering was … ‘Ben ten is a hirobicoshiyfitswivpipl’. As you can see she needs to work on her spacing too.

Her class keep getting nit letters, every time I read one I start to itch. No nits yet and I am crossing my fingers that we shall avoid them altogether. Who am I kidding?!

On a recent trip (one of many) to the garden centre she caught us unawares and she had to have an emergency poo. Husband was mortified as he and the 4 year old emerged from behind a polytunnel. She looked relieved. Apparently it was huge. We just can't EVER go there again.

Luckily there are other garden centres in the area that we can visit.

Just another morning ...

It is half term. The kids are staying at home today with daddy. No rushing to school, stay in jamas as long as you like, steady away.

I have been awake since 5.30. I was rudely awoken by the 3 year old who crawled into bed and clamped his cold feet to my toasty warm body. I was momentarily bitter, well, for a few moments actually.

I read Snow White & the Seven Dwarves 14 times. The 3 year old is particularly taken by the evil queen who he refers to as the ‘nice fairy’.

I have drunk three cups of tea, it is only 7am.

I start breakfast proceedings. The 4 year old appears all sleepy, but instantly bossy. I ask them what they want; Cheerios for the 4 year old, Boulders and Crispies for the 3 year old. He’s a cereal mixer just like Gramps and Mummy.

After breakfast I bung some washing in the dryer and put a new load in the washer. The never ending cycle. I constantly have two baskets of ironing on standby. Standing by for a time when I have three days spare to do the lot in one go. Never. Gonna. Happen.

The chilren are playing one of their chase, growl and laugh, chase, growl and cry games together.

I tell them I’m going to get ready for work; No playing with knives, ringing Australia on my mobile or ordering porn on Sky. I’m joking right?

All is well. I am able to shower, get dressed, apply make-up and, shock horror, brush my hair. I worry that my work colleagues may not recognise me if I am not sporting my ‘dragged through a hedge’ look.

I come back downstairs and busy myself with packing my handbag with enough sugary snacks to last till lunchtime. I can hear the children playing. This is a good sign. Silence is bad, screaming is bad, good old chuntering and playing is excellent. The only problem being I can’t locate them!

I follow their hushed tones to the downstairs toilet. I panic a little, my heart isn’t ready for another episode of poo clearing, wee on the wall or a towel induced sink flood or … well they could be up to anything to be fair.

I open the door anxiously to find, in a room the size of an average toilet cubicle, the 3 year old, a pillow, a drum, some plastic food, a small suitcase and the 4 year olds duvet which is … moving.

I remove the duvet to find the dog, a rather large Labrador, who looks at me with pleading eyes. If she could speak she would be screaming ‘PLEASE TAKE ME AWAY FROM THESE PEOPLE’.

After a discussion about toilets and bedding not mixing, the dog liking her own space and the perils of playing games in the vicinity of the toilet bowl I go to work …

… for a rest.

... and we all talked drunken bollocks

The 3 year olds party was perfect. Lots of children racing around getting sweaty, flailing in ball pools, climbing the wrong way up slides, snubbing anything uncrisplike and eating the sweets off the top of buns.

Regarding the 40 year olds party, there are just a few things I would like to raise with the venue manager regarding our party ...

Dear Manager of Venue

There are just a few points I'd like to raise that luckily did not detract from our enjoyment of the evening, but none the less I would like to bring them to your attention

On our inspection visit a few weeks ago we thought the function room smelt damp and foisty. I brought the subject up with you who said something would be done. The odd squirt of Febreze would have been better than nothing. But ‘nothing’ you did and on arrival the smell of wet dog still permeated our nostrils. This wasn’t a problem to one of our forty or so guests who has no sense of smell.

The fact we could use our own ipod and playlist appealed to my husband (a music snob) who dashed off to create his tour de force. It took him the best part of a day and was, I quote, “Eclectic. Loud and laid back, old and new, mainstream and indie; something for everyone and tailored to suit each friend that attended the party”.

I didn’t much mind standing on a rickety old table, risking neck breakage, to access the aged stereo and plug the ipod into its lead. I did however get slightly irritated at the ipod having to be in one position and one position only to play; tilted on its left hand side pointing upwards and wedged behind the stereo. If it were moved 0.1 millimetres to the right it went silent, sounded like it was being pumped through an elephants rectal passage or jumped like a CD in a go kart on a cobbled lane. At times myself, my husband and occasionally, our guests had to stand on the rickety old table to reposition the ipod.

I’m fairly easy going so most of the above didn't really phase me, besides we were too busy laughing with our friends ...

HOWEVER – What did razz me off was this ... When I initially called to book the venue I was told there would be waiter/waitress service to the room below the bar we had booked. With the press of the shiny red button someone would appear and take our drinks order. No mixing with the riff raff upstairs. Excitedly I pressed the button ….. and waited 15 minutes. Nothing. Giving the button the benefit of my doubt I pressed again with more gusto. Nope, nothing, nada. We were informed that as the bar was so busy, with it being a Saturday night, you were unable to accommodate our demands downstairs. I spent the following 30 minutes queuing at the bar upstairs. When I was finally served I panicked and bought several drinks, which in turn made me take several hangover cures on Sunday morning.

The excited menfolk gathered on the wooden floor to play pool, a floor that felt like it had been been mopped with golden syrup. It was very much a case of ‘look at what you could have won’ when it became apparent that you had lost the cue ball. Still, the pool table was nice to look at all evening.

Towards the end of the night, tracksuit clad chavs unable to read the words ‘PRIVATE PARTY’ tried to join us. They were given short shrift as our guests hugged their handbags closer. Nylon tracksuits I ask you … on a Saturday night. What is the village coming to?

Yours faithfully

Mrs D

So it came to pass that on Saturday night we celebrated husband’s 40th in style; It's the company you keep that's important, and the company we kept on Saturday night was outstanding!

After the party we went for a curry with leftover revellers which was delicious and we all talked drunken bollocks.

I woke yesterday to a dull throb in my head but managed to shake off the hangover when I discovered the 3 year old in the bathroom having an early morning hair styling session. He had used the best part of a tube of hair gel which was now running down his forehead towards his eyes. Only a bath and hairwash would do.

Next time we’d be better off having a party at home. We have Flash All Purpose floor cleaner, uninterrupted music, a ‘no nylon’ policy and a fast drinks service.

Sure, our home smells of dog and burnt chocolate crispie buns, but, we have Febreze.

What do you mean you're not supposed to bake chocolate crispie buns?

From Amazonian Tree Dweller to Jabba the Hut

I was given a large box of Green & Blacks (the contents: 4 boxes of chocolates, 7 large bars, and about 50 miniatures) for Christmas.

The jumbo box which I thought would take months to devour (who was I kidding?) is getting lighter by the day, so light in fact that I have used the outer box to store our Christmas decorations. This weekend in a desperate bid to save my flabby choco-paunch I offloaded one of the boxes of chocolates onto friends who invited us for dinner. After a lovely meal and several glasses of wine we scoffed the contents of another box of chocolates as a post meal snackette. I was being sociable.

My husband likened me to an ‘Amazonian Tree Dweller’ when he first met me which is, umm … nice. I am tall with big boobs so nothing really ever fits right. I have never been skinny and never fat, somewhere in between. I have never dieted or obsessed about my weight and I was lucky enough to lose my baby weight plus more when I breastfed. For those of you who are now vowing never to read my blog again after that snippet of information, just wait … once I had finished breastfeeding the weight returned.

Times are a changing and I am officially concerned about my weight. During Christmas I have overindulged and eaten anything and everything. I am surprised one of the children is not missing a limb and shortly I will be wearing our ‘four pod’ family tent as it will be the only thing which will cover my engorged frame. The 2 year old has suddenly started requesting that I lift my top to show him my belly and then laughs whilst prodding the flabby choco-paunch. This violation is a daily occurrence. I have decided to cut back; smaller portions, no puddings or alcohol during the week so far so good. I decided this morning to keep a list of what I eat during the day. Here is what I have eaten so far;

- 3 slices of toast smothered in butter and jam
- 2 apples
- 1 mince pie courtesy of a work colleague – out of date, so doesn’t count
- 1 chicken, basil and pasta salad from M&S – low calorie version so only half of it counts
- 2 pieces of broccoli left by the 2 year old after tea – vegetable and second hand, so definitely doesn’t count
- Nachos covered in lardy cheese

This is a fifth of what I normally eat and I’m feeling faint. I actually have a headache from thinking about food.

My brain is panicking and telling me to eat the remaining Green & Black’s chocolate as quickly as possible, because, if I can no longer see it my body won’t realise what is going on and will therefore be fooled into cancelling the fat content.

If anyone has seen the film Madagascar they will understand what I mean when I say that I have been eyeing up the dog, and she just looks like a huge double chocolate chip muffin.

Swallowing the cheese whole

Unusually the children opted for a snack tea tonight. They normally have a hot meal, but with the 4 year olds school nativity looming in a couple of hours I was more than happy to oblige.

The 4 year old specifically asked for cheese and tomato sandwiches. We were down to the bare essentials (milk and bread) and our Tesco delivery was not due till the following day.

Luckily during my lunch break I had popped to the shops and taken advantage of a BOGOF (Buy One Get one Free) offer on some mature cheddar.

The 2 year old decided to ‘help’ make tea. This ‘help’ usually involves him standing on a step against the worktop and fiddling with anything hot, sharp and/or electrical.

I was at the fridge explaining to the 4 year old that we were out of tomatoes when there was a squeal of delight, usually only associated with mischief.

I turned to see our dog (a large brown Labrador) with a whole block of cheese in her mouth and the 2 year old smiling. He just shrugged at me and said ‘she's hungry’ whilst pointing at the dog who was trying to work out whether she could swallow the cheese whole.

I wanted to scream ‘She’s always bloody hungry – she’s a Labrador’, but I composed myself and launched myself across the kitchen to remove the cheese from the dog's jaws.

I’m not sure what I planned to do with the cheese but for the briefest of moments I actually believe the thought that I may still be able to use the cheese in some way for tea crossed my mind.

The cupboards were bare, it was toilet paper sandwiches with milk or dog cheese sandwiches. Then I remembered the BOGOF offer I had taken advantage of earlier, I threw the soiled cheese in the bin and my children were saved from dogitis.

In the past our dog has eaten (stolen from the kitchen) frozen mince, a tub of margarine, a pomegranate, 3 large alter style candles, 2 loaves of bread, a bunch of bananas (complete with skins) and a full nappy to name but a few. Compared to that lot a block of cheese must have been a taste sensation … nearly.

So near but yet so far.

Peanut Nipples

The 2 year old was in the bath tonight. Pouring water from one vessel to the other and making sure he splashed sufficiently to soak me and the floor. When he’d made sure there was more water out of the bath than in it he stood up and pointed at his nipples “what are these?”,
“Nipples” I replied.

Always one to encourage education in the everyday world in which we live I pointed out “You have two nipples”, he looked and counted.

He looked again at his nipples, then asked “Mummy nipples?” to which I replied “Yes”, “Daddy nipples?” to which I replied “Yes”. We then had a whole family nipple-athon. Grandpa, Aunties, Uncles, sisters, cousins, the man who lives next door. No one was safe … then he got to our dog.

I have to declare at this moment that our dog is called ‘Peanut’. If asked why I always blame the children for naming her even though neither of them were even born when we got her. Regrettably it was me, all me and I am unable to explain my actions to this day.

Anyway, back to the nipple-athon … “Peanut nipples?” to which I replied “Yes”. He looked at me as if I was a crazy fool, shook his head, laughed and said “No, Peanut no nipples!” adamantly.

I fear for the dog in the morning. The 2 year old’s one and only thought when he wakes will be to check if I was telling the truth.

Not only will the dog get a rude awakening but imagine the 2 year old’s surprise when he discovers that not only does she have nipples but she has six of them.

Scooter Boy Strikes Again

It was a Saturday morning at the beginning of Summer. The kids were in the back garden, the 2 year old on his scooter and the 4 year old on her pinker than pink bike. I was still in my dressing gown, doing general chores … the removal of the dog hair carpet that forms on the kitchen floor during the night, picking up stray banana skins left by the 2 year old in the bathroom, retrieving the TV remote from the Lego box … that sort of everyday thing.

Suddenly there was a clatter and crying. The 4 year old had fallen off her bike and was nursing a grazed knee. Those of you who know the 4 year old will know that she is unable to let any injury pass without a full drama. In her mind grazing your knee is on par with been knocked over by a herd of stampeding buffalo and she makes it known, not only the occupants of our house but the occupants of every house on the street. God help all around her if she were to have a serious accident.

I brought the invalid into the house so that I could inspect the damage. There was a graze and a speck of blood which according to the 4 year old warranted a full bandage. After rifling through the contents of our first aid kit; one latex glove, one pair of tiny nail scissors, a pack of one size plasters and an eye patch I negotiated her down to a plaster the size of a potato waffle.
The 4 year old was admiring her new accessory and limping back to the back garden (on the wrong leg I might add) when the front doorbell rang. There, on the doorstep was a neighbour, next to her, my son with his scooter, grinning from ear to ear and our dog looking sheepish.

It appears that during the excitement of the 4 year olds fall he had climbed onto something (I fear the dog may have been used as a step) and opened the lock on the gate. The neighbour had spotted him pootling up and down the road happy as Larry shouting for the dog to follow; which she did, happy to be partaking in a bit of impromptu hedge sniffing.

The shame of my son disappearing and making solo scooter jollies with his brown hairy friend was overshadowed by humiliation as I realised I was stood there in my tatty grey old man dressing gown, sporting bed head and a week’s worth of leg stubble. I thanked her profusely and she left.

The husband reinforced the gate adding a further lock completely out of reach or so we thought. It turns out that by standing on one leg on the saddle of his bike he can reach that too. However, the pride the 2 year old feels at being able to open the gate outweighs his desire for freedom as he now proudly drags me to the scene to show me his handiwork. Even the dog dared not venture out.

I must thank my neighbour again for returning my son and the dog. I also want her to know that I will be asking for a new dressing gown for Christmas and that I have started shaving my legs more often.