A chip off the old block ...

It's my Dad's birthday today.

Happy Birthday Pops!

After he gave us his two penneth about concussion I asked my Dad to think of some more memories of days gone by.

I crossed my fingers, hoping he wouldn't remember another naked neighbour story.

It is with great relief that I give you 'The Perils Of Shopping With Children - Parts 1 and 2' by my Dad. Reading these has reaffirmed my belief that what comes around goes around!

Perils of shopping with children - Part 1

We are in the newsagents. You are about four years old, a picture of innocence in your pretty dress, blonde pigtails, white socks and shiny black shoes. I am the very proud father. Mr Fish, the newsagent, probably awash with fond memories of fatherhood smiles down at you, just visible above the counter, and we exchange pleasantries; the weather, children and the economy.

The conversation is difficult as Mr Fish has a cleft palette and requires a degree of patient interpretation.

In my peripheral vision I notice you are unusually quiet and very still like a predatory insect.

I look down and see a face of rapt concentration, your eyebrows are knitted and your lips are silently moving. With mounting anxiety and then dread it comes to me that you are mentally testing Mr Fish’s unfortunate nasal accent and that you may be about to give it a full trial run.

With as much good manners as possible I bring our chat to a quick close, grab you by the collar and make for the door, rudely pushing a few elderly customers and a birthday card display stand aside.

I fail to make the door.

“Whoy dus he spuk lak dat, duddy”? you ask in perfect mimicry of the unfortunate newsagent.

This is not asked in a small discrete whisper. As your mouth is four feet below my ears and you suspect I am a bit deaf the question is asked at full volume.

I turn as we leave and smile an apology at Mr Fish across the silent shop who smiles back with the sad look of someone resigned to this sort of innocent abuse by children.

Perils of shopping with children - Part 2

Earlier in your life we visited the bakers shop with strict written instructions from your mother about what we were to buy; a small shopping list reflecting the economic hardships of the time.

I know you were very young as you were attached to me by some sort of harness with a lead, presumably to prevent you running amok on the busy main road.

Reaching the head of the queue I handed the meagre list to the lady behind the glass display counter in the baker’s shop and as I waited was mesmerised by the machine that saws the loaves of bread into slices. That is if you want sliced bread, which happened to be the specification for the bread on the list.

The completed order is bagged and placed on the glass top of the tall display counter. I am waiting to be told how much to pay but notice the lady is staring down at one of the large cakes behind the glass.

“Is she trying to entice me to buy a cake as well as the bread and rolls”? I muse.

If she is she has another think coming, cakes are definitely not on the list.

No, I realise that she is actually trying to draw my attention to the deep grooves that have been ploughed across the pristine iced top of one of the cake on display. I look at the cake, then at you, who has all the fingers of a guilty hand in your mouth which is suspiciously rimmed with what looks like icing debris.

“Ah, I suppose I had better add the cake to the order”, I say to the lady behind the counter and wonder if I will have enough money.

Then, as we discuss in a joshing manner the problems of controlling young mischievous children I look down and watch with mounting horror as your hand again slips behind the glass front of the display counter and vandalises another, even more elaborate iced cake of even larger circumference.

We leave the shop and, watched through the window by the queue of entertained customers, I stagger up the street festooned with bags and towed by a small child in a harness trying desperately to keep her distance from her irate father.

... 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?

“Just one more push Mrs D”

I was laid on a hospital bed with cold jelly (not the strawberry kind) on my belly. The man doing the scan told us it was a girl. My second girl, husbands third.

The clothes were in boxes from our first, we had all the equipment and were ready. All we had to do was agree on a name and wonder what our daughter (then 13 months) would make of having to share us with another.

We were delighted but I still took great pleasure in teasing my husband that he would be surrounded by women forever. He had always dreamt of having a son to share his obsessions with. Who would he play or watch golf/football/cricket with? I suggested his daughters, but this did not ease his frustration. His mother kept telling him she was one of five sisters. I reminded him that I wanted lots of children so surely somewhere along the way there would be a boy. I could see the newspaper headlines ‘Woman gives birth to son after 15 daughters’

… and his mother continued to tell him she was one of five sisters.

When my due date came and went I became tired and emotional. The midwife had told me four weeks earlier that she thought the birth was imminent … I believed her. I had an 18 month old rampaging through the house, a husband starting a new business from the confines of the attic and blocked drains; the house, not mine.

My husband and his friend had bought tickets for the White Stripes assuming that the baby would arrive on or before her due date. How I laughed ... probably because weeping and rocking back and forth was the only other option at this point.

Seven days past my due date we arrived at the hospital for a check up and I was given a stretch and sweep (which is as uncomfortable as it sounds). The nurse talked about inducing on the night of the White Stripes gig. I laughed more heartily than before. My husband tried to talk the nurse into changing the day. With much eye rolling and tutting she agreed.

Needless to say my husband missed the White Stripes gig.

I won’t bore you with a full birth story; I’ll just let you in on the ending …

“Just one more push Mrs D”

There were many expletives, some shouting, screaming (all mine) then silence.

The shock was too much, my husband wept and I will NEVER forget seeing my sons willy for the first time.

My special, mischievous, surprise boy … and on my husband’s birthday.

Happy Birthday Boys, 3 and 40 today.

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.

A Fat Lip and a Full Frontal View

Just another day in the life …

I didn't have concussion but I do still have an egg on my head. However that is nothing compared to today’s affliction...

I woke up this morning with the BIGGEST cold sore you ever did see (so big that I nearly took a picture to show you, but, wouldn’t want you vomiting on your keyboard so decided not to). It has made my lip swell to four times its normal size. I smeared it in antiseptic cream, nappy cream and Blisteze and went to the chemist.

The woman behind the counter remarked "Wow, look at the size of that". Unimpressed by her enthusiasm I could only muster “Umm, thanks”. She then summoned her colleague, who I assumed was a pharmacist, to come and look. Finally the pharmacist came to look at the freak show and gave me some cream which should clear it in five days. Great. Just in time for husband’s birthday party.

Not only do I have to worry about the double party day, double cakes and music, but now I have to ride the ‘Will I or won’t I have to wear a paper bag on my head’ bus to Saturday.

As if a fat lip wasn't enough to contend with I dropped the 4 year old at school this morning and when I returned to my car it wouldn't start. I had to walk very quickly up a steep hill to work. Luckily I had decided to wear flat shoes for the first time in months which aided my speed walking.

AND as if all the above wasn’t hideous enough …

I must have been fairly traumatised by my lip and the car fiasco because it is now, only seven hours later, that I have remembered seeing a naked man on my 'speed walk' to work.

Don’t get excited, it wasn’t the sort of naked man you want to see.

As I walked past his house he was stood in his, I can only assume, bedroom which has a floor to ceiling window and he was totally naked, taking in the morning view.

As he was elderly I wish I hadn't taken in his, full frontal, view.

Somebody sent me this link two days ago, maybe they are a ‘soothsayer’ and thought it would prepare me for the shock that was to come.

Leftovers - a bit of idle wittering

This post was going to be called 'The Sunday Roast' but I got distracted by by a hangover ... caused by too much red wine on Saturday night.

It's just a little catch up ...

We had friends for dinner on Saturday night. Their dog is a quarter the size of our dog and spent the evening trying to hump her ... a total of 263 times. Our poor dog was exhausted from trying to avoid his advances, which were more aimed towards her head than anywhere else.

Husband decided to cook tapas which normally takes him hours if not 2 days. 3 hours before our guests arrived he decided to go on a bike ride with the dog. She runs alongside him, she does not sit side saddle. When he returned he decided it was a good idea to bath the dog and then dry her with the hairdryer.

Whilst tidying the house in preparation for our guests I discovered the 2 year old's party list (see Let Them Eat Cake). It mysteriously reappeared from under a pile of things on my desk. I now know EXACTLY how many children are attending the 2 year olds party. All I need to get is the cake. I don't think M&S do Batman cakes and anyone who suggests I could make one should bask in their cake making skills whilst I wallow in mine.

House tidy I decided to bath the children. By now we were up against the clock and to my horror I found what looked like yeti shavings in the bath. Moments before our guests arrived I was gathering enough hair to make a wig for Terry Wogan. Despite the smell of wet dog the evening went well and I was last seen at 1am playing on the Wii, of course.

Husband's Party ... is on the same day as the 2 year olds in 2 weeks time. Am I a glutton for punishment or just plain foolish? Yes and yes. The DJ is now unable to attend and the venue smelt 'musty' when we inspected it last week. I have persuaded the husband that taking the Wii to the party would not be 'good fun' for anyone other than him.

What does he want for his birthday? Well ... either a very expensive set of knives or one of these. I told you before, cooking is his third love. First and second? Guitar Hero and football.

Speaking of Guitar Hero, he recently renamed his band. It was Jumbo Ballsack, it is now Stinking Buttcrack. I for one can't wait for 4 year old to tell her teacher that snippet of information.

I have tennis elbow, repeptitive strain of my right arm due to excessive Wii tennis. Husband and I have been playing nightly tournaments. It's getting serious. He spends most of the time working out how to make the ball spin really fast and failing.

Last night he flung himself into the curtains and hurt his back convinced that if he moved his entire body right then he would get the perfect shot. On Friday I almost destroyed an overhead glass light fitting with my serving force. It is now held together with hair clips.

Let Them Eat Cake

The 2 year old will be a big fat 3 in just over three weeks. To mark the occasion we are having a party. Last years 'effort' was a pirate party at home. I had flu and no voice. When it was apparent that the party was getting out of hand Teacher friend mother of three had to take over and comandeer the ship as it were whilst I felt sorry for myself and picked cheesy Wotsits and grapes out of the carpet.

We have decided to have the party at a soft play centre. The idea being I turn up with a birthday cake and my child, nothing more nothing less.

Because I work and have no involvement with pre-school I asked for a list of names of children that the 2 year old plays with regularly. They gave me a list of ten and I added a mixture of family and family friends on for good measure. Invites went out to 20 children with Christmas cards, killing two birds with one stone.

Easy peasy, stress free, partytastic!

Then I lost the guest list.

The husband remarked that perhaps I should have placed aforementioned list in a 'safe place' at which point I had to refrain from launching myself across the room armed with only a pen to kill him.

The party list was formulated and reformulated to get the number to 20 and I had to leave out some children. I cannot for the life of me remember who was in or out or how my ruthless list making process originated and am now stuck.

The woman from the soft play centre will be ringing for exact numbers. Do I wing it and under cater with my random rule of 'usually 4 children have better things to do on a Saturday afternoon than eat birthday cake'? ... or over cater and end up paying extra for children who are not there?

I'm now thinking I should send a text message to every parent in my phone saying 'If I invited blahblah to the 2 year olds party can you let me know if he/she will be there. If I didn't invite blahblah then sorry, better luck next year'.