Mamma Mia here I Go Again

Well, one day in and we are all back to normal. The children are fighting, I feel stressed and the husband and I are bickering over how many balls of tagliatelle to have for tea.

I made a concerted effort not to rush the 4 year old before school which was difficult as we didn’t wake up until 30 minutes before we are supposed to leave. Yet another day at the office with my hair looking like an unkempt hedge as I tried to cram two weeks work into my six hour day.

I arrived at school to pick the children up. It turns out that one of our OAP childminding duo is unwell and has spent time in hospital. She is still there, and has been since Boxing Day. This I know because the OAP childminder man shuffled the 2 year old to school to meet me at 3.30pm. He brought the wrong bag and my son was wearing someone else’s trousers. I thought this quite apt as he has watched Wallace & Grommit’s Wrong trousers approximately 347 times during the holidays. He didn’t see the joke. When we arrived home he demanded to go to the toilet and revealed that he was wearing a pull up nappy too. The childminder had got the children and their bags totally mixed up.

This was all by the by, because 10 minutes after we were home the bickering started which fuelled some red in the faced shouting from me. The day was partially saved by the 4 year olds dancing show to the music from Mamma Mia which was accompanied by her brothers wailing. I did snigger at him when he did a swan like dive on the floor. But, the reason for the dive was because I wouldn’t feed him chocolate 10 minutes before bed and it WAS funny.

My husband pointed out, quite rightly that our children had returned from school even more irritating than usual …which was punctuated by the 4 year olds desire to have the last words ‘No we’re not’.

A Damp & Slightly Smelly Masked Crusader

Batman has loomed large in our lives for six months, maybe longer. Batman is a t-shirt, a greying, once black t-shirt, with the word Batman and picture of Batman himself.

The 2 year old is infatuated with the t-shirt. He is so obsessed, that at any given time he can tell you at what stage in the laundry process it is at; washing basket, washing machine, tumble drier or ironing pile. He is only truly at peace when the t-shirt is touching his skin; no other item of clothing comes close. My son has his foibles; Batman is one of them along with wearing socks in bed and using a giant spoon to eat yoghurt.

We had a Batman related accident this evening. Everything was rosy in the house of Laura. The snow was falling, the house was roasty toasty and the children were playing nicely (No, really!) whilst I made tea … until the 2 year old visited the toilet that is. My newly toilet trained boy must have forgotten to aim because tonight he peed on Batman. He came out of the downstairs bathroom upset and half naked (he always strips from the waist down when he goes to the toilet). I tried to wrestle the wet t-shirt off him which turned into a violent struggle with me tugging the t-shirt and him fighting to keep it on. I won; he collapsed in a fully naked heap on the carpet near our front door, as fat snowflakes fell on the other side of the glass. I foolishly offered an alternative garment which was instantly dismissed (with shouting and probably the odd snot bubble or two). I left him to it. He continued to blubber until hunger got the better of him and he joined us at the table – now naked from the waist up. The chill had evidently reached his nether regions and he had sensibly put his underpants and trousers back on. Whilst he ate he looked at me sideways with disparagement as if it were me who had urinated on Batman.

On a shopping trip a few months ago I saw a Batman jumper – which would be much more appropriate for this time of year. I was torn between buying one for every day of the week and not buying one at all. I decided that I must stop feeding his habit and chose the latter option.

However … I had a weak moment at a recent church led toddler group. A woman was selling Batman capes. Not just any old common or garden Batman capes …. Feel good; give yourself a pat on the back ‘Fairtrade’ Batman capes made in Africa. All thoughts of not encouraging the ‘Batman habit’ were gone as I buckled under the pressure and purchased one. It is a thing of splendour, all the more so because it was handmade by someone in the developing world (pat pat). It is now laying in wait in my Christmas present hidey hole, ready to KERBOOM and POW its way through the festivities.

When he starts school I will be the mother trying to coax her child out of the fancy dress outfit and into his school uniform in the cloakroom … telling him that “Batman never wore his cape to school” and then whispering slyly “If you shut up and stop yelling you can have a Batmobile for Christmas”.

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.

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.