Miscellaneous

This post could be a little free-form (any voices from the back of the hall shouting 'So what's new?' will be severely reprimanded, Frog in the Field...). Husband is travelling for a few days, and left alone with two cold-ridden children (one of whom has a continuous stream of what my father attractively calls 'British Ropes' descending from his nose), I find myself unable to marshall many coherent thoughts other than 'do we have enough tissues?' and 'Where is the Tixylix / Calpol / chocolate?'. So consider yourself warned...

The torture that is Potty Training Hell continues. It's been 2 weeks, 2 days, 14 hours and 44 minutes so far. I reckon that means approximately 42 floor-mopping incidents, 22 poo-spooning (figuratively speaking) incidents, and around 16 head-in-hands moments in total. In fact, Friday afternoon's head in hands incident graduated very swiftly to a head-on-the-dining room table with eyes-closed-for-15-minutes hiatus. I am that bored with it all.

Still. One day, he'll get there. I just hope it's sooner rather than later...


Having said all that, my sons continue to amaze and delight me. In amongst the peromptery demands, the shouting, and the broken nights, there are moments when the full force of what a gift they are comes home. When Boy #1 comments approvingly on a skirt that rarely gets worn (even aged 5 it seems that boys like their mummy to look like a woman), or fetches a tissue to tenderly wipe his brother's nose, for example. Or when Boy #2 relaxes into my arms as I rub cream into his back, and instead of breaking away to pick up his beloved Playmobil Helicopter, simply enjoys the togetherness.


But still, I'm not going to drown you in treacle; that's not why you come here, is it?


Back to free-form...

Friday morning, I climbed out of the shower. Boy #2 wandered in as I was towelling myself down. Now I'm not sure about your family, but at this moment in time, nakedness is not an issue in our house. I have no doubt it will be, and probably sooner than I think, but for now the boys are not phased by the sight of their mother in all her glory. This time, however, was different. Boy #2 had a definite agenda. I couldn't work out what it was to start with. He circled me. He bent from the waist. He checked me out from behind. He came back to the front. And then, I realised that he was looking for something. Something I don't have.

"Mama, where's your pemal?" FYI 'pemal' is Dutch for - you probably guessed already. "I don't have one, Boy #2". He looked at me uncomprehendingly. "No, but where is it?" "I told you, I don't have one, Boy #2. Girls and ladies don't have them." He looked shocked, and I could imagine him thinking 'What's she talking about? Everyone has a pemal!' So I tried again - this time hiding my modesty with a bath towel, since whilst I was prepared to admit to not having the same equipment as him, the English Catholic in me stopped short of being able to share what I actually do have. "No, really, ladies and girls don't have them..." I said. Silly me. What he said next was obvious. "But - but - but - you are not a lady, mama!"

Oh, so true.


A couple of days ago I wrote a post called 'Middle Class? Me?' Well, I admit to being middle class, but am less so than a friend of mine. She invited myself and 2 other girlfriends over for dinner on Friday night, and due to being crazy enough to have had four (yes, that's FOUR) children, and a job, had been unable to whip up some culinary delight for us. (Oh, the shame). Instead she had sorted out some fish and chips. What's middle class about that, I hear you ask? Nothing. And neither is it particularly middle class to have bought them from Waitrose.

But it is middle class is to serve them up with balsamic vinegar, because that's the only type you have in the house...