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.

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.

A Room Of Teeny Weeny Chairs

I had taken the day off for the 2 year olds hospital appointment. After our trip I deposited him with the OAP childminders.

I had 4 hours to myself. Did I go and treat myself? Pamper myself? Go shopping? Just sit and stare into space knowing that I had 4 hours to myself? Eat something without having to part with half of it to stop the whining?

Nope, I went to help at the 4 year old's school.

For weeks she nagged ... and nagged ... and nagged "Everybody elses parents [in the whole wide world and universe] go into school to help".

I had to explain that I work whilst she's at school and only if I were to take holiday would I be able to help. That was my first mistake. My second was taking pity on her. She's been very clingy of late when I drop her at school and I felt sorry for her. So I arranged with her teacher to go in for the afternoon.

We had a discussion on the way to school in the morning about us being 'sensible' at school. She couldn't cling to me like a leech, show me her bottom or lick my face like she does at home. Similarly I couldn't fart the theme tune to Peppa Pig*, lick her face or dance like Baloo. We made a deal.

I arrived just as they were finishing lunchtime play. The children came in and sat on the carpet. The 4 year old walked in, looked at me, walked past me and then blanked me. She was perhaps taking our deal too seriously. I can't remember a clause in the deal that said 'pretend you're an orphan'.

When the teacher arrived she sat on a little persons chair and introduced me to the class. Three of the children (who have been for a fishfinger tea at our house) chortled at having to call me by my 'Mrs' name. They were probably having a flashback to my Baloo dancing. The 4 year old shuffled closer to my legs which were almost under my chin. I too was sat on a very small persons chair.

I have always liked the 4 year olds teacher. She is 'firm but fair'. The sort of woman you think is lovely but you wouldn't want to cross. I was in awe of her ability to work with one child at a table and see five children at different points of the classroom misbehaving. Without missing a beat she shot them a look which made them stop dead in their tracks. Genius.

I have made a mental note; At next parents evening ask teacher for tips on how to perfect the 'stop them dead' glare. I wouldn't need to write to Supernanny if I could do that.

I helped some children with numeracy. At any one time I had a maximum of four children in my group. Each one had a different agenda. The child who wanted to be out in the playground, the child who wanted to draw cyclopses instead of cars, the child eager to please and the child who completed the task before I'd even told them what to do. It was hard work but we got there in the end.

After playtime the children sat on the carpet for some religious education whilst I helped to tidy the classroom. At story time I returned to my teeny weeny chair and watched the children sit silently listening to 'Mog's Christmas', a month late.

Then we said the going home prayer. Setting a good example I clasped my hands together, bowed my head and listened (as all good athiests do at times like this).

As the children mumbled their prayer I heard the teacher in a cross voice say to the child to my right;

"John you should be talking to God, not Elizabeth**"

* I really didn't do this, but wish I could. At the point of reading 'theme tune to Peppa Pig' I imagine you were working out how many farts and of what length it would take to accomplish.

** Names have been changed to protect the not so innocent

More Cheese Grommet?

Husband and I took the 2 year old to the hospital today for his ear appointment. For some time now I have been aware that he has trouble with his hearing (see the 2 year old's update here). When he is being spoken to he either doesn’t hear or has to concentrate very hard on the face of the person speaking. His speech is delayed and unclear. Funnily enough the 4 year old can understand every word.

He had a hearing test six months ago which said that his hearing was down and that he would need to return for a further hearing test. He was never recalled and it took a further three visits to the Dr to get referred to a specialist.

I took husband with me because I knew that if someone else told me there was no problem I would probably grab their white coat lapels and weep uncontrollably. By the time we got to the hospital he was about ready to chain himself to an NHS professional should we hear that there was nothing wrong.

Usually children’s waiting areas are colourful and bright but lacking any toys. There is always a tatty
‘Take A Break’ with some horrendous ‘Murdered by my mothers, husbands, sisters brother’ headline across it.

I nearly collapsed in shock. There were tables laid out with paper, colouring books and colouring implements. The rest of the areas were sectioned off with chairs but had books and toys in abundance. The best bit was a lady volunteer ‘Doris’ who was doing a good job of keeping the children entertained until their appointment. The 2 year old opted for playing with the pedal on the bin in the corridor.

I sat nervously whilst his hearing was tested and his eardrums were checked for fluid. What if they told us to go away and come back in six months? In six months the then 3 year old would be revving up for morning nursery at school and still unable to hold a conversation with his peers.

We were called to see the consultant. She sat him on a big metal swivel chair, which he promptly swivelled with gusto. She told us his hearing was below normal, he has reoccurring fluid behind his eardrums (otherwise known as ‘glue ear’), which means he’s been living in and out of a bubble of muffled noise for the last 6 months at least.

I felt elated, which seems wrong, but it meant that something would finally have to be done.

She gave us three options … 1. Do nothing (I don’t think so) 2. Take antibiotics and come back in three months (even she was shaking her head at this option) or 3. Have grommets fitted.

We are going for the latter option, which is something my husband and I had already investigated. The waiting list is two to three months.

We went from arriving at hospital thinking we were going to have to fight for our boy to having everything handed to us on a plate. What’s the catch?

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I would love to hear from anyone with experience of grommets!

Do we have mice?

He looks at me all serious and says "I think one or both of the children have been climbing up on the worktop, going in the cupboard and stealing Jelly Babies!"

I look at him all sheepish and say, quiet as a mouse, "It was me".

Maybe it’s the way I tell ‘em

I love fairytales. Good old fashioned fairytales. Fairies, bad witches, evil stepmothers, dwarves, a princess or two and a handsome prince thrown in for good measure.

I’ve been collecting the Ladybird series and the 4 year old is showing willing. Last week we read Snow White & The Seven Dwarves. She enjoyed it, and asked for it three nights in a row. For days she kept harping on about Snow White laying dead in a glass coffin. This opened up a full death discussion over breakfast.

I started thinking about what questions would be raised after the next few titles on the shelf.

We have …

… Goldilocks – A burglar, with a porridge habit
… Hansel & Gretel – Kidnapped by a cannibal witch
… Puss in Boots – Fraudulent and murderous talking cat
… Jack & the Beanstalk – Bone crushing cannibal giant
… The Emperor’s new Clothes – The emperor is a flasher

The one that I know will ignite some curiosity is Rapunzel.

Rapunzel’s father was a thief, of lettuces no less. The wicked witch kidnaps baby Rapunzel, locks her in a tower and makes her grow her hair into a golden ladder. There’s all that “Rapunzel, Rapunzel let down your hair” business followed by the Prince falling and suffering a serious head trauma which makes him blind.

The witch chops Rapunzels hair off and once the Prince has wandered blindly through ‘many lands and lonely deserts’ they are reunited. Rapunzel’s tears heal his blindness and although Rapunzel looks like someone has hacked at her hair with a butter knife they marry with ‘great rejoicing’.

Maybe it’s the way I tell ‘em. Thank god for happily ever after eh?

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.

Those who do not wear an apron need not apply

I was asked by a work colleague yesterday if I wanted to join the village WI (Womens Institute). She stressed it was the young and funky arm of the WI and not the alternative old and frumpy arm with discussions about incontinence pads in church halls.

After I'd finished chuckling to myself I looked at the national WI website. From what I saw there is nothing young or funky about becomming a member, although, I do share some of the attributes of the ladies in the photos; badly fitting bras, unkempt hair and choco belly paunches.

My initial thoughts are that the WI spend their time baking, arranging flowers, rustling up soft furnishings, drinking tea in church halls and generally being 'homely'.

If I'd looked in more detail I would have found a disclaimer : Those who do not wear an apron need not apply.

I started thinking about what I could offer by way of skills.

So, I can't sew ...

Last night after a painstaking hour I finished sewing name labels into the 4 year olds new school shirts (whatever she eats for lunch has stained the old ones beyond funny). Three shirts, one hour ... with swearing. I know, I know - "BUY THE IRON IN LABELS", I hear you. Let me explain. I bought the sew in ones because it seemed more ... well, wholesome. Ironing name tags into my child's clothes seemed like cheating. I now realise that this would have been the sensible option. The ones I did last night look like they've been sewn by a blind person on a roundabout wearing mittens.

Flower arranging ...

I rarely get bought flowers (ahem) but every so often I buy them, again, in a bid to feel wholesome. Flower arranging to me goes like this; remove from packaging, plonk in a vase (probably the wrong size) and then watch them die over a period of a few days. If they have enough water they're lucky.

Cooking, baking, feeding my family ...

The husband does most of that, he enjoys cooking. I see it more as a time consuming operation which results in something burnt or inedible ... and a lot of washing up. Occasionally I have a wave of enthusiasm and decide to make something. 9 times out of 10 - even when following a recipe I fail. My husband eats my offering out of politeness, but his face is usually screwed up in disgust.

I made rice crispie buns last month with the children. Easiest thing in the world, apparently. Three ingredients, melted chocolate, golden syrup and crispies mixed together - no oven required. The rice crispies didn't mix properly with the chocolate which resulted in something which could have been used to fill the holes in our road which are killing the suspension on my car.

Homemaking ...

Let's not even go there.

Today my colleague told me about her first WI meeting, in a bar, after darkness fell, with alcohol. More positive than the 'meeting avec drinks' is the trip they are planing ... to Paris to visit the continental markets.

Bring it on.

I might just turn up to the next meeting wearing a beret, clutching a copy of Delia's: How To Cook (I have to show willing at least) and dazzle them with my wit. They'll be laughing so hard they'll forget to ask for recent example of my crocheting or basket weaving work.

Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting

I work in the village, equidistant between school and home. Nothing more than a 10 minute commute in the mornings which is fab. I work school hours, so can collect my little 4 year old darling at the end of her day and also collect the 2 year old from his OAP childminder in the playground.

When the 4 year old skipped out of school yesterday I asked her how her day had been. She replied thus ...

"Good, I can't remember what I had for lunch and I told my class and teacher that you 'Kung Fu'd' me last night"

I now feel that I have to have words with the teacher to explain what she meant by that and that we really don't need any social services intervention.


We often have a nightly mad half hour. We race round the house, hiding, leaping out at each other followed by jumping on the bed, tickling and blurting (please ask if unsure of this practice). Probably not the most sleep conducive thing to be doing pre bath and bed but it works for us.


This evening the 4 year old decided to add an element of Kung Fu to our evening repertoire. She saw Kung Fu Panda at her first ever cinema trip last summer and although thoroughly enjoyed it hasn't really mentioned it again. I can only assume that the boys at school have been teaching her the art of Jackie Chan with a hint of Power Ranger and Ben 10 thrown in for good measure.


I was about to grab her for some tickling when she leapt at me and 'hi-yaaaaaaaaaad' (karate chopped) the air in front of my face and raced off chuckling. I chose this moment to hide under our duvet (maybe not so much hide as form a large mound).

Realising I wasn't following her she came looking for me. I waited until she was right next to the bed and then sprang from under the cover and 'hi-yaaaaaaaaaad' her back with great gusto. Unfortunately my gusto was such that instead of chopping the air I caught her eye with my newly sharpened claws. She now has a little scratch under her eye, which she proudly showed her father who rolled his eyes in my direction.

In the same day ...


I went to give the 2 year old a rather large smacker of a kiss and to finish off grabbed him for a cuddle as I was leaving for work. He started screaming like he was in pain. Turns out he was in pain. The under wiring of my bra was hanging out and had stabbed him. I now have to go through clearance checks, courtesy of the 2 year old before he will allow me to go anywhere near him.

This Was Yesterday ...

... and the reason behind my letter to Supernanny (below).

I pick the children up from school and the childminder. The 4 year old has a face like thunder and on seeing me bursts into tears. Thanks, I've missed you too. Someone has accidently taken her book bag home with her very FIRST reading book in it. I feel her pain, but it is even more painful when her brother, sensing her distress, decides to try and outcry her before we reach the car for no reason whatsoever.

I spend the journey home chanting in my head “Stay calm, be consistent, do not shout”.

Admittedly, my face is probably saying "Take me away from this godforsaken place, PLEASE".

I ask the 4 year old to put her shoes away 5 times before she does it. She asks me if she can watch TV approximately 10 times, I tell her “no” 10 times.

We make a Duplo zoo.

We = the 4 year old and I, whilst the 2 year old flails and shouts because he’s tired and therefore emotional (welcome to my world). He then demolishes the monkey enclosure, which sets the 4 year old off on a rant. I try to reprimand them but cannot get a word in edgeways.

Once they have calmed down in the asylum of their own bedrooms we race the Shake n Go cars across the living room carpet.

We = the 2 year old and I, whilst the 4 year old is flailing on the floor because she can’t have the 'fastest car' even though the three cars we have are the same. She then snatches the 'fastest car' which sets the 2 year old off on a rant. Once more I cannot get a word in edgeways.

When it is time for me to make dinner I offer up 15 minutes of Charlie & Lola. But, before I can even find the channel an argument has broken out about whose toes are touching whose bottom on the sofa. I switch the TV off as punishment.

In the kitchen I wonder who is being punished more, me or them, as I try to make dinner. The bickering continues, this time, as we only have one step for them to stand on to watch me. Watch me what? Seethe?

“Stay calm, be consistent, do not shout”.

Next, the relay begins of ‘When you have finished crying / arguing / pushing / snatching / irritating one another you can come out of your bedroom'.

I’m sure the calories burnt carrying alternate kicking children up and down the stairs must mean I can break from the diet and eat a small square of chocolate.

My husband finds me sat on the stairs weeping like an idiot. I feel like I have hopped the London marathon six times in a chicken suit filled with bowling balls and piranhas.

I pull myself together, release them from their bedrooms and sit with them whilst they eat their dinner, like angels, wondering if it was all a dream.

Fortunately today was better. I feel like I only hopped the london marathon five times and without the bowling balls and piranhas. I don't need Supernanny, I need a glass of wine!

Dear Supernanny

Dear Supernanny

I write this letter because on days like this I feel that I am bashing my head against a brick wall of bad parenting.

I have been rudely awoken every morning for the past 4 and a half years. I feel like shouting a lot of the time. I’d rather stick a hot poker up my arse than endure another day of mindless bickering.

I watch your program with great interest. It makes me feel better to know that there are people worse off than myself whose children are absolute terrors. But today I feel like most of those women rolled into one and my children could do with a bloody good talking to in your coarse cockney tones.

They need big colourful reward charts, naughty chairs, they need you to bob down and talk to them an inch from their face and tell them how it is with your voice of authority, they need extra attention, they need to be listened to more.

I understand that the reason you can stay calm, not shout and bob down on their level without strangling them is that you can go home at the end of the day TO NO CHILDREN.

Still, it would be nice for you to visit. You can stay as long as you want. In fact you could turn my life around if you could stay … forever.

Yours pleadingly

Laura

Sugar Rush

At Casa Laura this is the look we associate with too much sugar ...



... wide eyed and crazy with a hint of 4 year old charm

People Overload

Before the 4 year old was born I bought her a soft, cuddly lamb from Marks & Spencer. We (I) named the lamb Lulu. She never took any interest in it and preferred her dummy (pacifier) instead.

The 2 year old claimed Lulu as his own. He and Lulu are firm friends. She has comforted him on many occasions and he snuggles her at night. He has since collected several other soft toys and sleeps with them, but, Lulu will always be his number one.

We have the imaginatively named from left to right Cat, Lulu, Baby, Baloo, Lynx, Rabbit, Ratty and Postman Pat.

We also have Fawn and Teddy who were otherwise engaged during the photoshoot.

One morning last week I was summoned, pre 7am. From the tone of the cries I thought he had injured himself (as only my child can with a pillow and duvet), but no.

'My people here' he told me and then pointed rather briskly towards his pillow. His people were spread from the top to the foot of his bed. During the night they had made a break for it, they needed their own space, and this was unacceptable to my indignant boy. He wanted his people on his pillow as close to his head as possible.

The only requirement of this arrangement, thankfully, is that his people still allow him to breathe.

Usually a child has just the one thing that they need to be weaned off. The 4 year old had a visit from the 'dummy fairy' courtesy of Supernanny and that worked a treat.

The 2 year old will need a whole army of 'people' fairies by the time he's finished his collection ... or a bigger bed.

Someone's got to do it ...

... and round here, you get service with a smile

A Pony Is For Life, Not Just Christmas

The 4 year old got a pony for Christmas, a pretend one I might add, that requires batteries. The pony, named 'Lady' flutters her eyelashes, neighs when stroked, moves her neck and munches on a plastic carrot ... or your fingers, she's not fussy.

It was love at first sight on Christmas morning. She carried Lady everywhere with her.

However, 4 year olds are fickle and the novelty is wearing thin. I know this because when I went to bed last night I found Lady in our bed ... like a scene from The Godfather.

Tonight for the first time since Christmas, Lady dined elsewhere. Over dinner, and may I add, 2 weeks after Christmas, the 4 year old turned to me and said "I cannot believe that Santa didn't bring me a Nintendo DS. What was he thinking?" Followed by a big sigh and her head in her hands.

Me? I'm passing the blame, I agreed with her. There's only so much eye fluttering one pony can do.

The big guy with the white beard has a lot to answer for.

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'.

7 Things You Don't Know About Me

... and probably don't wish to know.

I have had my first meme from Mia over at General Hysteria. I have a lot of admiration for her. She often makes me want to laugh and cry, sometimes at the same time.


7 Things You Don't Know About Me


1. I met my husband on the internet, in a chat room, nearly 9 years ago. I fell in love with him when I saw his photograph for the first time, he was wearing an INXS t-shirt. We moved in after three months, he says I 'infiltrated' his life ... fondly of course.

2. I have had hand foot and mouth disease. Yes, sheep also get it, but so do humans. I was in my late teens and the 14 days of isolation did nothing for my love life. Baaaaa.

3. I can spread my toes like I can spread my fingers. I call it 'doing the monkey'. This also does my love life no favours and the husband calls it 'disgusting'.

4. I talk in my sleep, regularly. I have also been known to walk in my sleep. I once woke up running down the stairs, trying to escape from a giant robotic spider. Now you can see where the 4 year old gets it from.

5. I once visited a psychic who told me I shouldn't eat sandwiches, but gave no further explanation. I still eat sandwiches and am awaiting the outcome.

6. As a family we go egg rolling every Easter. We take it very seriously, there are rules and we have an egg rolling trophy. Nearer Easter I may even get out a picture of me as a child egg rolling and share it with you.

7. I have met Trinny & Susannah and appeared on 'What Not To Wear'. You only get to see 2.3 seconds of my red, paint splattered dog walking coat and right hand. This may have something to do with the fact that during the interview Trinny asked me if anyone had ever told me I looked like Prince William. Instead of saying "Funnily enough, NO, now eff off" I giggled like a five year old and went bright red. Because they didn't pick me, I still don't know what to wear.

There you are, 7 things you didn't know about me.

Next, the rules of the meme:1- You link back to the person who tagged you (me). For me, it was Mia. 2- You get to “tag” 7 people (or less if you’d like) and link them on your blog, as I do (below).3- Be sure to comment on the blogs of others who were tagged. That’s part of the fun!!!!

So I'd like to tag (apologies if you have already done this or don't want to do this!) ....

Mary over at Caution...Woman At Work

Merrily Down The Stream at Life Is But A Dream

Mariah at Manic Mariah

Robert over at My Wife Has Agoraphobia

The Grocer at Famous For All Kinds Of Wickedness

Melipop at BabyBlog

and

finally A Confused Take That Fan, 30

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.

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 Cavernous Cavity

Husband is a fantastic cook and my services are very rarely required. He is the king of Sunday roasts and this morning bought the ingredients for a chicken dinner … and then promptly vanished to bed to have man flu. He cocooned himself in the duvet and shivered for five hours.

I was left holding the chicken as it were. This is fairly appalling to admit but, I am 30 years old have no idea what to do with a whole chicken. I have no problem with rustling up a bog standard meal, but a whole roast chicken is definitely husbands department.

I tried to shove a lemon and several garlic cloves into its neck stump instead of its rear cavity, I then covered it with olive oil and nearly dropped the slippery sucker when transferring it to the roasting dish. It is only because the husband mentioned basting during one of my ‘check on the man with man flu’ trips that I didn’t present the children with meat the consistency of one of Ghandi’s flip flops.

It was delicious; I sat with the children and told them what a wonderful chicken it was and how lucky they were to have a Mummy that could cook such a splendid roast. They agreed with everything I said because they didn’t want to eat their broccoli.

Husband ate his later when he had stopped shivering. He hasn’t yet passed comment on the quality which can only mean that he is frightened of losing his ‘Best British Roaster’ title … ahem.

It's Been An Epiphany

Over the Christmas break we have transformed into a relaxed and smiling family.

Without our usual routine; get up, shout at each other, eat breakfast like it is our last meal, rush kids to school (hopefully dressed), rush to work realising I am dressed but haven’t brushed my hair, work, rush to school to pick kids up, referee arguments, make tea, an element of cleaning, put kids to bed whilst refereeing a fight, collapse on sofa, turn brain off and stare at the TV, perhaps grunt at the husband, go to bed … repeat as necessary.

We have rebelled. Some days we haven’t dressed till lunchtime. We have used the Christmas DVD’s as a babysitting service some mornings to gain an extra 30 minutes in bed, Wii’d till all hours, eaten rubbish, played hide and seek and laughed, lots. We have only been out on two family outings and one of those was to the supermarket because we had run out of rubbish to eat. Usually family outings are a stress filled event making my husband wish he’d had a vasectomy 5 years ago.

I’ve reacquainted myself with the 2 year old and realised he has many more endearing foibles than first thought. He likes to sniff everything, not just food and his sister but the kitchen floor and his toys too. He likes to line things up in order of size and colour. He likes to have a conversation about the colour of the sky every morning over breakfast. Most of all he’s happiest when he has more time to explain himself.

The 4 year old and I didn’t really need reacquainting. I am fully aware of her personality traits; she’s just like me with an extra sprinkling of stubbornness from her father. She has become funnier; she’s been telling more jokes (as they can loosely be termed). She’s discovered she loves prawns, beef and cheese (?) sandwiches and telling tales on her brother (granted, he was on the kitchen worktop hanging out of the biscuit/sweet cupboard at 7.30am).

The biggest change of the holiday is that the husband and I have been exchanging more than just one syllable grunts. We have been speaking. That’s right, having a conversation (talk between two or more people in which thoughts, feelings and ideas are expressed, questions are asked and answered, or news and information are exchanged). It’s been an epiphany.

In the past I’ve been excited about the end of the school holidays. Frazzled and short tempered I bid farewell to my children and rush to work for a break. Now it is three sleeps till school/work and I want it to be three months. I want the 2 year old to sniff my apron strings and the 4 year old to tell a joke about an orange crossing the road to buy a jumper (it’s a grower!). I want to keep my new and improved family close.

Cinderella Spilt the Pheasant Stew

This will probably be my last blog of 2008, so I’ve decided to do an update on a few things before slipping quietly into 2009 …

I’ve neglected my blog this past week. I’d like to say I’ve had ‘Bloggers Block’. In part I have but we also got a Nintendo Wii for Christmas which has been slightly distracting. We’ve had a ball, quite literally. We bowl together on wii sports … usually betwixt the hours of 6 and 7am. The 4 year old is the family Kingpin. I on the other hand have all the grace of an elephant and have nearly taken out a glass overhead light fitting on more than one occasion with my over exuberant bowling style.

The 2 Year Old still has the original batman t-shirt and now a long sleeved version which he refuses to wear, a Batman figure, the notorious cape (which he has worn for approximately 40 seconds) and some wrist cuffs which were the cheapest but most successful of his Christmas gifts.

Another spate of undetected ear infections are over so his hearing is up again and his speech is coming along. He has had five ear infections this year alone – they last between 2-3 weeks. There are no outward signs until his ear pops and gunk comes out. We visit the Dr – they say ‘Oh yes, I see, but he’s fine now, goodbye’ – I say ‘Oh yes, he’s fine now, but this is the 5th time this year. That’s around 15 weeks of living in a bubble. His speech is affected! Do something about it’. Reluctantly they have referred him – we only have to wait another 4 months till we go to the hospital to speak to an ‘ear professional’ (who I’ll probably have to cry and blow snot bubbles at) and then another few months until something will be done. With my calculations that’s another 3-4 ear infections and many weeks of deafness. Oh well – at least he can say cracker coherently now.

He is doing really well with his OAP childminders – after all my stressing. He is always happy to go to them – and equally happy to return to the bosom of his mother. In his first week I had to explain the 2 year olds ear problems to them so they didn’t think he was rude and ignoring them. They in turn told me a long, drawn out story (5 minutes before I was due at work) about their son. He suffered from a similar problem during childhood and to summarise ‘had his ears off twice, but it is fine because, although he needs a hearing aid and is dyslexic he is also a Dr’. To add insult to injury ‘his feet are so big that he couldn’t buy a Citroen car’. Although reassuring to hear about his triumphs I had to rush off, I then spent my day at work haunted by the vision of my boy having his ears removed TWICE.

The 4 year old is still bossy and has decided she will call her first born ‘Jesus’. She got a Cinderella dress for Christmas and has worn it for approximately 36 hours out of 48. The only reason she hasn’t worn it for longer is because she spilt pheasant stew down it and I had a three day laundry strike during the festive season.

She’s had a terrible hacking cough over Christmas and I am sick of saying ‘cover your mouth when you cough’ every 45 seconds. After 3 sleepless nights I relented and gave her some ‘night time’ cough medicine. I say relented because as you know the 4 year old has a bad reaction to sugar and additives. Cough medicine is full of colourings and sugar. We were desperate and it promised us that she would sleep soundly. No such luck – the man visited and she thrashed about all night whilst shouting and screaming random sentences.

The Husband got Guitar Hero : World Tour for the Wii, so spends his evenings strumming to an imaginary stadium of thousands in his band ‘Jumbo Ballsack’. I have learnt not to speak whilst he is ‘performing’; it makes for an easier life. We are planning his birthday party for January and he is seemingly unworried by hitting the big 40. His only concern is that overnight his pubic hair will go grey.

Me – I got the BIGGEST hamper of Green & Black’s chocolate for Christmas. My body is currently 70% cocoa solids. I’ve had an eye infection, usually I wear contacts but I had to forgo them for antibacterial eye drops and my ‘Evil Edna’ glasses. My eye was so sensitive that on Christmas Eve I had to watch TV with one of the 2 year olds socks wrapped round the right lens. I would have been much better off with an eye patch.

On Boxing Day morning I was sat with my sister on the kitchen floor watching the kids racing mini santa’s on sleighs. The children were arguing about which Santa they wanted (there was a choice of 12). My sister watching them said “I remember thinking it would be great to have my children close together” (she has the same age gap between her kids as I do – my niece and nephew are now 12 and 14) she pointed at the 2 and 4 year old who were grappling with a shiny green sleigh and hitting each other “but often I wondered if I’d done the right thing – this is one of the worst ages”.

I on the other hand think there is probably far worse to come and I look forward to sharing it with you all!

Happy New Year!

Nigella Does Jamie At Christmas

We were invited to see Polar Express (in 3D) at the IMAX in Bradford this weekend. Unfortunately we had to decline. We were on a mission to IKEA for 8 x 250ml kilner jars … as you do, the last Saturday before Christmas. Let’s just say that the husband has watched too much ‘Nigella Does Jamie At Christmas’ this week and our kitchen is a veritable hubbub of festive produce. As I type he is polishing his jars for his cranberry and apple chutney.

Luckily we decided to pass on the Polar Express and return directly home. I say luckily because later on my friend (teacher friend mother of three) told me that she had had to leave the IMAX with her eldest child (age 4). She was scared and they had to stand in the foyer where there was an exploding poo situation in the toilets (hopefully the 4 year old and not her) and a host of Cliff Richard Christmas songs being piped out. On the way home she asked her 2 year old son if he’d had a good time, he replied “No, I had a scaredy time”. Once home her husband admitted that they indeed have the film in their DVD collection and could have, instead, been scared in the comfort of their own home. To add further insult to an already expensive and frightening injury it is also on TV on Christmas Eve.

Meanwhile, I had snuggled on the sofa after our IKEA scramble for some pre bed cartoon fun, when I noticed The Goonies was on Boomerang. Caught up in childhood nostalgia we watched, and laughed at Chunk’s ‘truffle shuffle’. I thought we’d struck gold; my little munchkins cuddled up in their pyjamas, the fire roared and the smell of cranberries wafted through the house. Once the nostalgic thoughts had cleared I actually fast forwarded the film in my mind and started to remember it in more detail; skeletons, scary Italian mafia types and the character Lotney ‘Sloth’ Fratelli … then on our TV … cue dead body falling out of an industrial freezer on top of a child.

4 year old –“Mummy that man is FAST asleep”

Me – “BEDTIME!”

I don’t think we’ll be entertaining anything more perilous than Tom & Jerry from now on.

Sprucing it up

(Almost) a new year a new blog. Well not entirely. The content will be the same, I'll be the same, I will forever be tired wishing there were more hours in the day.

I’m going to ‘do it up’ give it a makeover - new colours, new logo (hopefully), better layout. Give it a new lick of paint, make it more user friendly, better on the eye. All those terms the husband, who is a graphic designer by trade, hates.

Who knows – he might even create a new logo for me …. I’d like to think out of husbandly love but more out of embarrassment that people who really know me won’t think he is responsible for the fuzzy makeshift one that is there now.

Please bear with me whilst it is fiddled with.

Free Willy

Incident 1

We were snuggled on the sofa watching Channel 4's ‘Willie’s Perfect Chocolate Christmas’ and drooling as he made these.

The 4 year old was engrossed, she loves cooking programmes, moreso if they involve chocolate.

She gets up and points at the man on the TV “Is his name Willie?”

“Yes it is” I confirm, knowing exactly where this is going.

4 year old – “Really? WILLIE?”

Me – “Yes, now ssssshhhhhhh”

4 year old – “BUT, boys have a willy!” she shouts in astonishment as she falls back onto the sofa in fits of giggles.

… closely followed by Incident 2

4 Year old – “Mummy, Mummy come and look at what he can do with his willy”

At the time I was washing up. As I dried my hands and rushed to my 2 year old, my thoughts were as follows;

• Oh my god – he’s chopped it off with the scissors (after all we haven’t visited A&E in over a month).
• He’s allowed the 4 year old to felt tip on it and add festive glitter (modern art?).
• He’s trapped it in something (we haven't had a really embarrassing A&E trip yet).

Nothing would surprise me anymore in this house. These options may seem farfetched, but not as farfetched as the 3 year old (friend of a friend of a friend's friend) I am aware of who was able to proudly put a whole mini diecast dinosaur in his foreskin before his mother drummed the perils of sharp objects and nether regions into him.

Fortunately it was none of the above.

I walked into the living room to find him lying on the sofa watching Lazytown.

4 year old – “Show Mummy what has happened …”

My 2 year old casually revealed himself, not taking his eyes off the TV.

4 year old – “Look Mummy it’s pointing upwards”

Me – “Oh yes, so it is. It’s Scooby Doo next, does anyone want a biscuit?”

Click Click Click

I have very few memories of my mother. The trauma of her death at a young age has wiped a lot of my early memory and kept a lot of memories I’d rather have lost. I was 7 when she was diagnosed with cancer and 9 when she died. I have memories of my childhood … hundreds … but not many with her in them.

I have boxes and albums stuffed with photos. I often look through them and it can trigger memories of an event but not of the interaction we shared, normal everyday moments shared between a mother and child. The kind of moments I share with my children that I know I shared with her but have no recollection of. A goodnight kiss, snuggling up for a bedtime story, holding hands as we walk down the street … all gone in the dust of death.

I have only two very different memories that have stayed.

Memory 1
We were at a neighbour’s house. I was playing with my friends; the adults were all chatting and laughing in the living room. It must have been a party of sorts because there were a lot of people there. We were running up and down the stairs, racing round the house. It was late, I was tired and hot and I went to my mum for a cuddle. She sat me on her knee; she lifted my long hair up and blew cold air on my neck to cool me down, breaking off to laugh with her friends. We sat like that for a long time, together. It is a tender moment that I treasure.

Memory 2
Driving somewhere, just the two of us, Mum and me. I was sat in the backseat. I had a plastic toy gun which made a click noise when the trigger was pulled. Cheap plastic against cheap plastic; Click, Click, Click. I realised that this noise, although not annoying to me, was grating to my mum. I evidently clicked one too many times because I was told in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t stop it would be going out of the car window. I must have weighed up the seriousness of her threat before … CLICK. Without saying a word, and still driving, she removed the gun from my hand, wound down the window and threw it, wound up her window and continued on our journey as if nothing had happened.

I have a lot of memories of my father’s parenting which was fairly laid back unless I crossed the line in which case I knew about it.

I often think about the way I parent my own children. On a bad day I am a ‘show no mercy’ gun slinger and on a good day I am a laid back tender neck blower.

I need to learn how to be a mixture of gun slinger and laid back tender neck blower all the time!

Raspberry beret

It was the 4 year olds nativity last night, shortly after this cheese related incident.

Mary, Joseph and Baby Jesus were in attendance along with, of course, a token donkey, several angels and some camels.

Also present were my daughters class dressed as French people complete with berets and stripy tops. Disappointingly, no further ‘string of onions’ stereotyping.

Another class wore traditional African dress, albeit made from Grandma’s curtains.

… and the well known Christmas classic that was being belted out in the school hall ….

Brown Girl in the Ring, as sung here by Boney M of course

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.

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’.

Skidders

We joined our friends and went on Santa Express yesterday. We BOOED at Scrooge and cheered for Santa. We sang for Rudolph and looked at the clown, that well known Christmas icon, with bemusement. The 2 year old who is frightened of adult sized rabbits, dogs and reindeers didn’t cry as in previous trips. He was brave. Most importantly, the thimble full of sherry was of much better quality than last year.

Everyone piled back to our house for lunch; in total eight children and eight adults. We had a great time and the children managed to spread our collection of toys throughout the house. Will Mr Potato Head ever be reunited with his left arm? Will Barbie ever wear her swimsuit again? Only time will tell.

The 2 year old and his friend nearly flooded the kitchen whilst helping themselves to a drink. The 4 year old girls argued with the 4 year old boys and were then reunited over a spot of trampolining on the bed, monster fighting and bun eating.

The highlight of my daughter’s day and my own, apart from meeting Santa of course, was the new game … ‘Skidders’.

The rules of skidders; You stand at one end of the kitchen and when told to, by the bossy 4 year old who is recording the event on her plastic camera, run and then skid on your knees or feet to the end of the kitchen (which is fairly long). Finishing in a flourish earns bonus points.

My husband’s inner 4 year old couldn’t resist and he too joined ‘skidders’ for a short while.

When they had finished, the 4 year old came through with her friend O and announced very proudly that he was the winner. “O is the winner, he has done the best skidders!”

Oh the naivety of it all. My inner 12 year old though it was hilarious as did O’s parents who are now proudly nurturing ‘Yorkshire’s Supreme Skidder 2008’.

Mrs No Arms & The Slippy Slidy Day

This one is for Sue over at The Book Chook and Potty Mummy over at The Potty Diaries.

During the night it snowed, big fat snowflakes fell as we slept.

I don't know who was more excited when we opened the curtains; me, the 4 year old, the 2 year old or the dog. School closed for the day. As we ate breakfast we watched several cars try and fail in varying slippy slidy ways to get down our street.

After breakfast several layers were put on topped off with waterproofs and we braved the snow.

We built 'Mrs No Arms';

Then the 2 year old took off his gloves and ran round the car knocking the snow off;

Then Mummy put down the camera and the dog joined us. The daft dog loves to catch snow in her mouth much to the 2 year olds delight and cackles. Unfortunately, during the final 'snow throw', the dog caught the snow in her mouth and collided with the 2 year olds head which resulted in a deep cut between his eyes, blood all over my new Berghaus, a visit to the emergency Dr and some steri strips, like so;

As he is also Batman in his spare time, he wasn't out of action for long and returned home for some leapfrog with his sister;

Last night I hoped it would snow, tonight I hope that school is open so I can go to work for a rest. The 4 year old is hoping Mrs No Arms will live to see another slippy slidy day full of fat snowflakes.

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”.

A sea of embellishment …

I picked the 4 year old and two of her friends up from school for a fishfinger tea and play.

In the car on the way home I listened to the radio whilst they chatted amongst themselves. I was invited into their banter by one of the 4 year olds friends ……

Friend 1 “Laura, I can swim without any armbands.”
Me “That’s very clever”
Friend 2 “I can swim without any armbands …. last week I swam really, really far in the sea”
Me “I’m not sure you did, I think you can swim with one armband on each arm because I take you to your lessons. Soon you will be able to swim with no armbands”
Friend 2 “BUT I can – I can swim with NO armbands at all”
Me “I see. What happened when you swam with no armbands?”
Friend 2 “I swam really, really far in the sea and then (thinks) … I drownded”

At this point I thought it best to go back to listening to the radio whilst the girls decided what havoc they were going to wreak when they got to our house.

Check Me Out

Don't be fooled by the birthday cake (what birthday cake? I hear you shout). My birthday isn't for another 9 months. Just for the record and for those of you who are unable to decipher the drawings of 4 year olds;

1. I am wearing a party hat ... obviously

2. I do not have breasts on my back, they are wings, I am a 'fairy mummy'

3. The black thing is 'nothing'

4. I am not a hermaphrodite, the protruding bit at the bottom right is the rest of my beautiful orange dress. The 4 year old clearly got waylaid and forgot to finish.

5. I don't normally apply my lipstick as if I was on a rollercoaster.

Things I have said to my children recently …

• “Don’t drink that, you brother may have had a wee in it”
• “Maybe the dog doesn’t want you to ride on her back”
• “Are you eating hair again?”
• “Go dance in the garage with Daddy”
• “Santa can only carry so much on his teeny tiny sleigh”
• “It’s not nice to say fat. Perhaps you should just say that man is very, very big”

Yo Ho Ho & A Bottle Of Rum

The 4 year old had been invited to a party, a Peter Pan party, none the less. It was fancy dress. Unlike some families we do not stock a full range of outfits for every occasion. Our range consists of a donkey, a reindeer and an ill fitting Baloo. As the theme was not a Nativity guest starring Baloo from The Jungle Book we were screwed. I could see we had options; pirate, crocodile or fairy, but I was only offering one option, the fairy, which was immediately taken up by the 4 year old with great gusto.

I remembered seeing a fairy outfit last time I was in Next (see The eyes). So off we went. NB – most of my potentially embarrassing episodes happen in Next. Either this is indicative of their clientele or I don’t get out much.

We found it, a beautiful lengthy pink sparkly dress with separate wand and wings, altogether costing ….. £28!!! Now I’m not being funny but I thought that was a bit excessive – especially seeing as our entire fancy dress repertoire at home cost a grand total of £8 (Baloo was a hand me down from the big cousins). Flabbergasted I decided to try another, cheaper store. The 4 year old was devastated and I understood her pain. She had already imagined herself in the elegant flowing gown tapping all the boys on the head with her silver wand, turning them into frogs, then fluttering away leaving a trail of fairy dust behind her.

I started to sell the alternative option to her. This is where the day took a spectacular turn. As I suggested “You could be a girl pirate” a woman wearing a black eye patch walked into the store. I looked from the woman back to my inquisitive, loud mouthed, not yet learned subtlety 4 year old. She was digesting my last comment and about to make her retort. I immediately entered stealth mode and scanned for an alternative exit. Realising there were no other exits I mentally traced another route which would take in the shoes and handbags and avoid the one eyed lady. She was a lady, a very respectable silver haired lady, all that was missing was a diamante skull and cross bones on the patch.

I altered our course, guiding the 4 year old to safety, or so I thought. Just as we were on the home run she was there, the lady pirate was closing in, less than a metre away heading straight for us. I shrouded my daughter with my cardigan (in a move I like to call Batmum) and thrusting my finger out, said in a loud and slightly panicky voice – “look at that sparkly handbag, see how it twinkles”. My voice was just loud and my finger thrusting alarming enough to stop the 4 year old mid sentence “But Muuuum, I want to be a fairy, not a girl P……….”

Slightly sweaty and my heart thumping we left. I did at this point think that I was on one of those shows where someone would leap out from behind the Next employee wearing a sash offering catalogues on the door (you know who I mean – and you also avoid them) shouting “Congratulations – we have just observed you on our hidden camera show and you have excellent pirate avoidance techniques – you’ve won a fairy outfit!”

Anyway, I visited an alternative store, a store that was not frequented by pirates. We got five outfits for £7.99. A bargain, or so I thought, until I we got home and discovered that they would only fit a child half her size. She looked like a belly dancing dwarf with wings.

It just goes to show … quality NOT quantity.

Stocking Filler Anyone?

I use statcounter to monitor traffic through the site. I get excitable on a good day and my heart swells with pride, even if the visitors have only spent 0.3 seconds looking … ahem … before moving on to something more interesting.

So, today I pressed the wrong button and up popped ‘keyword analysis’. This tells me what keywords people have used in google before they 'happen up on me', in most cases accidentally.

So let’s start with;

‘toddler tourettes’ – yep, fair enough, clearly it’s a far reaching problem
‘the baby show’ – I get that too
‘sleep fairy dust’ – OK
‘terrible odour in car’ – Yawwwwn, this is getting boring now

… until I get to;

‘tights lycra full body with no head cover mummy’ – WHAT??????

Mr or Mrs X from Trumbull, Connecticut, I think THIS may be what you were looking for. Not only is it a bargain but it’s the string vest version with ‘lots of stretch’, ‘one size fits all’. What’s more it’s ‘Industrial’(?) Unfortunately no head cover available but maybe you could buy two and stitch them together.

I feel violated. I’m off to bathe in antibacterial handwash.

Bottom + Towel = Despair

One of the first things I heard this morning stopped me dead in my tracks. It was my husband. He had just opened the bathroom door and in a shocked voice said to the 4 year old ...

"Have you wiped your bottom on this towel?"

Do I really have to spend this afternoon heading up a masterclass in bottom wiping for the child who has been toilet trained for two years whilst the child who is currently mid toilet training watches on?

I despair, I really do.

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.

Note to self – Buy More Bed Linen

The 2 year old started the ball rolling by regurgitating an entire plate of Spaghetti Bolognese down himself and his bed. Apart from the unmistakable smell of sick, it actually looked like it had when I’d presented it to him at tea time. I took the role of chambermaid whilst my husband wiped him down. No sooner had we put him back to bed and settled down to watch TV then he was off again. We automatically assumed our previous roles of chambermaid and chief child cleaner and put him back to bed reluctantly.

We managed another hour without incident before turning in for the night. As I started to drift off I heard it. The ‘burble’. I probably heard it before the 2 year old even considered making it (mothers’ instinct) because I sprang out of bed like a psychotic frog (wearing, of course, just a pair of big knickers) and dashed across the hall to his room. The poor boy was whipped out of bed and held over the toilet to make his final retching of the night.

I wouldn’t have normally been so quick off the mark but we are not a family of plentiful bed linen. In fact the only times I think about stocking up on extra duvet covers, fitted sheets and pillow cases are during episodes like this.

As I got back into bed I received a text from teacher friend, mother of three which said;

‘Two sick children. Is it wrong to bathe your children in antibacterial hand wash?’

I felt a sense of comfort that we were experiencing synchronised puking at opposite ends of the village and glad that under the circumstances I only had one child to find sheets for and not two.
The next day the 4 year old arrived home from a birthday party. As she excitedly told us about the party and was about to tell us what she had eaten she was sick over the length and breadth of the two bottom stairs, her socks and my husband’s jeans. It was quite plain to see that she had in fact been eating Cheesy Wotsits and not much else. As he carried her to the downstairs loo she erupted again all over the carpet (more Cheesy Wotsits and a trace of Party Ring). My poor big little girl spent the rest of the night in the vicious circle of sipping water and then bringing it back up again. In order to save the bed linen which was still in various stages of washing machine/tumble dryer I made her lie on the sofa clutching a bowl until she fell asleep with her face in the bowl (she obviously understood the linen situation too).

I have discovered two things. Cleaning my children’s sick up is an automatic reflex. If it were anyone else’s I’d have had to wear a radiation suit and smear my nasal passages with Vicks VapoRub … and if you don’t remove all the lumps first they just come out of the washing machine clean and intact.

Oh, and I’m not sure … Is it wrong to bathe your children in antibacterial hand wash?

Nothing On Top Thank You

"W*nker" was the first thing I thought I heard from the 2 year old this morning as I woke up. I endured toddler tourettes with the 4 year old when she was a similar age so decided to ignore him and went about the morning rituals.

During the day I tried to think of an occasion when I may have said that word in front of him. I could clearly remember the word ‘sh!t’ accidently falling out of my mouth last week during an incident involving a very hot pan of water and my hand, but not ‘w*nker'. I decided the blame must lay at my husband’s feet.

After school the 4 year old was her normal famished self. I offered her an apple, an orange, a pear or some raisins. As usual she wanted something that was not on the menu. She wanted a cracker. An arid, dry as they come, nothing on top thank you, Jacobs cracker.

Ten minutes later I heard the dulcet tones of the 2 year old quite clearly shouting "w*nker, w*nker, w*nker".

It turns out he shares his sister’s penchant for dried foods. After questioning both him and his sister I have deciphered his new word. It is in fact ‘cracker’. What a relief! If only he shared his sisters language skills too.

Fishfingers, Fireworks and Fate

We are driving home from teacher friend, mother of three’s fishfinger and firework extravaganza. The 4 year old is grumbling about having to leave the fun to go home to bed. The grumbling quickly escalates into a rant with tears and she is given a warning that if she continues she’ll lose a bedtime story. Low and behold … she continues.

“One bedtime story gone” I say.

She stops crying and with an air of injustice says “Mummy, if you are not nice to me I won’t be your child anymore” adding a huff on the end for effect.

I have never heard of social services intervention due to bedtime story withdrawal so I confidently deliver the news that we are stuck with each other forever.

Accepting her doom, she points at the 2 year old who, sensing the unrest has taken to his favourite pastime of raspberry blowing “Will he always be my brother?”

“Yes” I reply “We are stuck with him too”.

Little Miss Attitude

She’s 4 years old going on 13. I just don’t know where she gets it from ….

• She speaks first, thinks later.
• If she has too much sugar (a droplet of Ribena and a Jelly Baby is enough) she shouts like a bellowing bison in her sleep.
• She tells you “I know that” with an air of authority before you’ve finished your sentence.
• She doesn’t like boys, she only likes girls … but she likes her brother … but not always.
• She wants pasta for tea … no, she wants chicken … no, she wants sausages … no, she definitely wants pasta
• She wants to marry her brother even though she likes her brother … but not always.
• If something doesn’t happen fast enough (like NOW) she weeps with frustration.
• She doesn’t want school dinners she wants a packed lunch … but she still wants to have rice pudding on a plate and the chocolate with onions in it.
• She loves PE because she plays the ‘toilet’ game (it is genuine) but hates PE because she can’t get her tights back on without assistance.
• When playing games she has exasperating determination – she takes her father’s ethos of “you play to win at ALL costs”.
• She wants to wear shorts and a vest because it’s frosty outside and the sun is bound to come out later because she’s been crossing her fingers.

I find the whole thing baffling.

The 2 year old sticks his tongue out and blows a raspberry if life isn’t going his way. Now that I understand.