How did I get here?

Do you ever have those moments? The moments when you ask yourself "How did I get here?" Not, "How did I get here?" but "How did I get here?"

I do. Most days, in fact, and they usually involve my children - unsurprisingly.

For example. You may have picked up on the fact that my Boys luuuurve their cake. A lot. Given their heads it would be too much, perhaps, though due to my innate ability to resist anything but temptation, we don't have it in the house very often. And when we do, it's usually home-made - not because I harbour any Domestic Goddess fantasies (well, not only because of that) - but because of the nut allergy thing. So, when we have cake, if I do say so myself, it's usually pretty good - and it doesn't last very long.

Now, I remember when I was a child. If there was cake on offer, it also wouldn't last very long. (I may kid myself I'm an OK cook, but my mother was Nigella before Nigella was even helping her mother stir the soup). It would be handed out on high days, holidays, and at teatime on a Sunday in front of a roaring fire and Doctor Who on the tv. There was no ceremony involved. We weren't savages, but cake would be wolfed down behind the sofa or a cushion, crumbs scattered willy-nilly whilst we concentrated on hiding from the daleks, or the cybermen, or whatever monsters the 1970's BBC special effects department had dreamed up for us that week.

So, when I see my Boys, sitting at the table eating cake with a fork - a fork! - I marvel at their continental sophistication and do wonder how I got here...


Another example. I took the Boys out for lunch last weekend with a girlfriend and her daughter; we were both husband-less due to our beloveds' travel commitments. And I sat there with my mouth open as Boy #2 (the 2 year old) perched calmly in his high chair in Carluccio's and, taking a piece of ciabatta with one hand, dipped it into the dish of olive oil provided. And after stuffing it in his mouth, proceeded to say "Yum yum" and repeat the process. For heaven's sake. I didn't learn that trick until I was, oh, around 35...


And finally, a less sophisticated example. Picture the scene. Holland Park sand pit, this afternoon. The play area, practically deserted. It was clearly too cold for the normal yummy mummy brigade (and the wet sand might have scuffed their very shiny boots), so there were only a few diehard English mummies determined that their broods should get their full complement of fresh air and exercise before the rain set in again.

Most of the children were toddlers, younger even than Boy #2, and I stood eavesdropping on a trio of mums with kids of around 18 months. They were agonising over potty training and whether Max and Fenella were still too young to start. Being the mother of a child who is well over 2 and shows no interest in the potty other than to sit on it naked as a delaying tactic before his bath, I kept schtum, enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of - for once - not being the most anxious mother in the play ground, and also - for once - fairly confident that my children were fit to be seen in public.

Suddenly, from across the playground, comes a booming shout from Boy #1.

"Mama! I need a poo! Now!!!!!"


As I said. How did I get here?


Yet again, I've been rubbish keeping up with my blog housekeeping. Firstly, I need to say thankyou to Elsie Button at Flower Fairies and Fairy Cakes for being lovely, funny, and seeing fit to give me this award which I will add to my sidebar the moment I can remember how it's done.
















Secondly, I want to thank Carolyn at Laughing Alone in the Dark for this, and for not only being entertaining, amusing (and often complimentary about what she reads here), but bringing the whole BPA debate to my attention. All the boys' Tommy Tippee cups are now out on their ears... (Check this link for more info).

And finally, Dulwich Mum, I haven't forgotten about the meme - but this post has been too long already...