The Big Issues

So, Christmas has been and gone; we had a good one, I won't bore you with the details which are no doubt very similar to many other people's festive breaks. It featured, in no particular order, too much food, lots of presents, family jokes, family spats, moments of great happiness, and others of extreme frustration. But here are a couple that I thought it might be worth sharing...


For the last couple of weeks, at Mass on Sunday, Boy #1 has been asking the Eternal Question.

"Where's God?"

Gosh, I thought, only 4 years old and already the big questions. It's a good thing my paternal grandmother isn't with us any more or she would have him signed up for the White Fathers before you could say St Bernadette.

Not wanting to befuddle him with too much information - and frankly, not being too sure of the answer to that one myself - I took the easy way out.

"God is invisible, darling. He's here, but you can't see him."

Boy #1 thought about that. "Is that because he doesn't want to disturb us?"

I giggled to myself, said he was probably right, and thought no more about it. But this conversation was repeated the following Sunday - and then again on Christmas morning. I gave the same woolly answer. It clearly wasn't satisfying him. Then, as we left the church after Christmas mass, he turned to me and, pointing at a priest we hadn't seen for a couple of weeks, said very loudly; "There's God! He is here, after all!"

Mistaken identity. Not so philosophical after all, then.


-----------------

We arrived at my parent's house on Boxing Day morning after a 2 hour journey following an early start. Boy #1 needed the loo. He insisted I go with him as the bathroom in question has a light switch he couldn't reach, and then asked me to stay.

"OK, of course I will if you want me too. Why?"

"Because I need a poo, of course."

"But you don't need me for that these days."

The following was said through gritted teeth as he discovered that sometimes poo does not appear of it's own accord but needs to be helped on it's way. So, remember; gritted teeth, the space between each word punctuated by a thoughtful pause...

"This.
Could.
Be.
Tricky.

You.
May.
Need.
To.
Ask.
An.
Adult.
To.
Help.
You."

Give me strength.

Count to 10... and then again...

I'm pretty sure that there are no male readers of my blog. Well, make that absolutely certain, since I've never had any comments taking umbrage at my sometimes dismissive attitude to my Beloved, and let's face it, if a man could be bothered to read the drivel I type up he would hardly be likely to hold back if given an opportunity to criticise. (Or is that Women I'm thinking of...?).

However. If you are a man, and reading this blog, apologies in advance for this post. I am about to 'vent' (thanks Iota for this reminding me of this word, have been waiting for the opportunity to use it for the last couple of months!). And just in case you haven't guessed, the cause of my 'vent' is, you guessed it, men in general. And Husband in particular (to paraphrase a classic line from Bridget Jones 'The Edge of Reason').


Here are some things my beloved Husband has learnt over the last few days in the run-up to Christmas...

1. f you let an un-potty trained not-yet 2 year old Boy run around naked after a bath, he will wee on the floor. I can guarantee it.

2. Your wife will not be impressed. I can guarantee that too.

3. If you ask your 4 year old whether he wants to take his bike out 'now, or later' and the answer is 'now', replying 'OK, we'll go in 20 minutes then' will cause a rebellion. Which, I have to say, I think is fair enough.

4. If your wife is online 2 weeks before Christmas and says 'I'm just going to buy Boy #1's present', do not answer 'oh, let's get it ourselves. I want to see them in person first,' and then leave it until three days before the big day before bothering. There will be none left in the civilised world. And it will be Your Fault. (And yes, I know that the wife in question should have ignored his comment and gone with her gut instinct, ordering it anyway, but in an uncharacteristic fit of wifely agreement, I didn't do it.)

5. Newsflash: if you put a slab of pate into the fridge - unwrapped - and leave it there overnight, you will be knocked backwards by the fragrant aroma when you open the door to get your son's milk in the morning. It's not rocket science.

6. If you leave a packet of crisps and the remains of a tub of dip out on the side in the kitchen, do not be surprised if your wife, arriving home from an evening out with her mates with too much red wine and no food, hoovers up the lot. My body is only a temple when I'm sober.

7. Tiredness due to a week of office parties will not result in much sympathy from your wife.

8. If your wife has asked for specific cd for Christmas, do not be surprised when, after coming out of HMV on a family shopping trip empty handed, and then announcing that you still have one present to get, she guesses what that present might be...

9. DVD's for the children in the afternoon are a GOOD THING. (At least during the Christmad holidays).

10. C-beebies is blessed.


I could go on, but am feeling guilty now since despite all of this and a host of other things I won't bore you with, Husband is wonderful and in fact extremely helpful and hands-on with the Boys. So I should really count my blessings, and believe me, I do, every day. It's just that sometimes (like with the pate) I just want to scream. And I can't, because that's not the right way to run a successful marriage - at least in our house. (Although don't worry - he is aware of my take on all of the above). So, here I am. What else are blogs for, after all?

One for the road?

It's the first day of Boy #1's Christmas Break, and already I resorted to a DVD (The Incredibles - which means, of course, that Boys #1 and #2 are now Dash and Jack-Jack respectively) in the afternoon.

Bad mother.

Mind you, in my defence, this was after an action-packed day which started with a suitably picturesque sojourn in the garden first thing this morning when everything was prettily covered in ice. We don't get this often in central London, so I tried in vain to interest my Boys (I think the clue to my lack of success is in the name 'Boys' here) in the way Jack Frost had worked his magic; how crunchy the grass was underfoot, how the plants glittered in the morning sun (which, by the way, was so low in the sky it almost needn't have bothered getting out of bed) and how the veins on the leaves stood out in sharp relief with their ice highlights.

And then I thought; they're two and four years old. And they're Boys. What the hell are you playing at?

So we played a game of hide and seek or two, some football, they fought over who got to use which swing, and complained their hands were cold (which of course they would be if you won't wear your gloves, my darlings), before being driven back inside by the seasonal freezing temperatures.

Not before, however, we passed a cyclist sitting on his bike with his feet still on the pedals, leaning against a post-box with his eyes closed.


Boy #1, at the top of his voice: Is he DEAD, mama?

Me (struggling not to laugh too loudly): No, I think he's just taking a rest.

Boy #1, not bothering to lower the volume: But why is he sleeping out HERE?

Me (as the cyclist sighs heavily, props his eyelids open and wobbles off into the distance): I think he's probably just feeling a bit under the weather.


How do you explain 'hangover' to a 4 year old, by the way?

On a wing and a prayer

Lunch today, with Boy #2 and I enjoying some quality time (Boy #1 was at nursery. Last day of term tomorrow, help...). After approximately 3 mouthfuls, Boy #2 decides he's had enough of this, and that he is going to climb down from his elegant but not very enclosing Stokke high chair and play with Thomas the Tank engine under the table.

Now, Boy #2 is not a waif-like individual. In fact, at 2 years younger, he is approximately 90% of his older brother's weight. So let's just say that his skipping a meal or two doesn't induce the panic in me that it might. But, nutritional concerns aside, it's not good practice to allow this type of behaviour, so I proceed to hoik him out and put him back in his chair.

The phone rings. I go and fetch it. When I get back, he's under the table again.

I can make this a confrontation, I think, or I can experiment in other ways of getting him to do as he's told. So, I start to whistle; The Wheels on the Bus. Cautious applause from under the table. By verse #2, I've started to sing the words (well, otherwise how would he know which action to do?). We've reached the wiper's on the bus going swish, swish, swish by the time he emerges. I throw in some extra gusto and a spot of vibrato for special impact as I lift him back into his chair.

He looks at me. Opens his mouth. Is he going to join in? I hold my breath.

"Mamma. Sssshhhh."

I'm crushed.



Let's draw a veil over my vocal talents and move swiftly on to my next favourite Christmas thing...

Last Minute Shopping

Now, I'm not talking about the sort of last minute shopping you fit in when you're at the supermarket a few days before Christmas and spot a must-have roll of gift-wrap. Ha! That is last minute shopping for pansies. I'm not even talking about on-line shopping two nights in advance, riding the roller coaster of 'will they / won't they deliver the mail in time' for the next 48 hours.

No, I am referring to the 'it's midday on Christmas Eve and I have yet to buy a single present' type of Last Minute Shopping.

I bet you think I'm mad.

I must admit, this has had to fall by the wayside in the last couple of years - children slow you down, and buggies are a nightmare on department store escalators - but pre-kids, I firmly believed this was the only way to do it. Leave the office after the final mince pie was eaten, rush to the nearest row of shops, and buy the lot, preferably in as short a time and as few stores as possible. John Lewis would be sufficent, actually, or Bentalls in Kingston upon Thames when I lived out that way. I could be in and out of there within 45 minutes when I was match fit. Pre-kids. (Did I mention that already? Because if I you're thinking of doing this with children in tow you are certifiable...)

And it's not that I had an exhaustive list, no indeed. The skill of the true last minute shopper is to not really have any idea of what to get the recipients, but to make whatever is available suit them. It hasn't always worked out, agreed. For instance, my brother got what looked like the same scarf 3 years running once, because my taste hadn't changed but my memory was impaired by the wine that had accompanied those mince-pies in the office. He had the good grace not to point this out; I only realised when in 2003 I found a photo of the 2002 present frenzy, with him wearing what looked the very same Ted Baker scarf I had just given him that morning...

But overall, it was a pretty sound strategy. If you don't have kids (did I say that already?), and a free afternoon when you finish on Christmas Eve, I suggest you try it. If you've got children, however... you would be crazy. Don't even think about it. Haven't done it all online already? You're toast.


BTW - I'm toast.

Don't knock it 'till you've tried it...

So, I promised a list of things I like about Christmas. Obviously there are the common-or-garden ones; dressing the tree, mulled wine and mince pies, the Boy's growing excitement, the fuzzy felt Advent calendar I dig out every year, the opportunities to wish everyone a Happy Christmas, cold crisp mornings, the possibility (so rarely delivered) of snow, and carols etc. But I thought that actually I wouldn't bore you with those. No, I thought I would think outside the box here. So here is the first of my alternative Christmas Top Picks....


Brussel Sprout Soup.

Yes, that's right. Brussel Sprout Soup. Now, don't click away in disgust, hear me out on this one; I promise you might rethink your attitude to the humble sprout by the time I've finished...

My mother is a wonderful cook. No, make that fabulous. She's self taught; from the age of around 9 her mum left her to do most of the family's cooking every summer, whilst she went and ran the family business with my grandfather (they had a caravan park on the South Coast).

Unlike most grandmothers, I don't have fond memories of her apple pie or roast potatoes. My abiding memories of Nana's cooking are of being knocked sideways by the smell of roast pheasant as we entered the house; my grandfather liked to go shooting, and liked the resultant game well-hung. Past the point of hygeine, some might say. I also remember picking the shot out of said pheasant. And most memorable of all, I recall Nana serving a particularly 'interesting' soup one lunchtime. Very heavy, somewhat greasy, with a rather strange after-taste. We asked curiously what it was. "Rabbit pie soup" she said. It transpired we were eating the left-over rabbit pie from the previous day, pastry and all, tossed in the blender with some left-over gravy and a little hot water. British war-time cooking at it's awful best.

Consequently, the bar wasn't set that high for my mother when she took the reins in the kitchen. Against all the odds though, she is famous amongst family and friends for being a superb cook. But when she presented us with an unidentfiable green soup one Boxing Day many years ago, I must admit there were questions in the house, of the 'rabbit pie soup' genre. Being smart, she refused to tell us what it actually was until we'd tried it.

Mum's the only person in our family who actually likes Brussel Sprouts; for years we children were forced to eat a couple at Christmas lunch (waste not, want not). If it was on the table we were expected to try it. But once we left home, all bets were off, and we flatly refused to have any of the blighters on our plates. At this point, my father came out of the closet, and admitted that he too had never really been that keen, so one Christmas my mother found herself with a tureen full of Brussels Sprouts that even she couldn't work her way through. And thankfully for the ozone layer, she didn't try.

As would be the case with most mother's, simply throwing them away was not an option. Are you crazy? Whenever I visit my parents my first action is a 'search and destroy mission' in the fridge to remove all product well-past it's sell-by-date. (My father doesn't believe in them - but that's a post for another time).

So, she did what any self-respecting cook would do - in fact, what more of us should do, and scarily what I have found myself starting to do recently - she made some soup. With the stock left over from the ham she served on Christmas Eve. And wouldn't be drawn on the contents until we had actually tried it, and found that it was delicious.

We no longer begrudge Mum putting a tureen full of sprouts on the table each Christmas Day. As long as we don't have to eat them in their natural form, that is...

Missing in action: One Fairy Godmother

I think my Fairy Godmother has been abducted by aliens. Or something. So far this week:

The Boys babysitter, who comes once a week, every week, on a Tuesday afternoon to give me a whole 4 hours off, quit. Well, when I say quit, it was kind of a pre-emptive strike on her part. I had told her last week that after Christmas, when Boy #2 starts nursery, we won't be needing her any more since I will have a whole lot of time freed up. But of course we would still love her to babysit for us regularly in the evenings (on average, once every week or so). Oh yes, she nodded, that would be great.

Why, why, why, do I insist on taking people at face value?

On Monday morning I got a text telling me that she now has another job, so won't be able to cover the two Tuesday afternoons remaining before Christmas. And by the way, the agreement that she made to babysit two more evenings in the next 10 days? She can still do it, but has to start an hour later. Because of the new job. If I hadn't effectively already done it, I would have fired her. Like she would have cared...

Next up, a text on Wednesday morning, saying the cleaner was sick and wouldn't be coming this week. Now, I am as handy with a hoover as the next woman, and just as capable of giving the place a quick once-over so it stays presentable until she gets back. But what worries me is the ironing. Not my ironing, you understand - knowingly buy something that needs ironing? Are you crazy? - but the ironing that flows in a steady stream from the washing machine when Husband gets back from one of his trips. I have no intention of doing it. No sirree. Especially when I know perfectly well that, unlike sewing on a button, ironing his shirts is something he does frequently whilst travelling. But I'm not sure he's realised that yet... I just can't wait for that conversation...

Simultaneously, there were great plans afoot at Boy #1's nursery between various Mums about what to get a little girl who is leaving the class due to the family relocating from the UK, and for whom there was a party this afternoon. Lovely French Mum volunteered to buy joint presents from all the kids. Great, one less thing to add to my list.

But then Efficient and Slightly Scary in a Glenn Close styley German Mum jumped on board and issued instructions to each of us to supply an A4 piece of paper with suitable artwork from our children on it by Wednesday morning 9am, so that she could bind them into a suitable folder for the child leaving to take away as a 'lovely memento'. Warning bells started to ring. Shortly followed by tantrums on Monday night from Boy #1 because the crocodile he was trying to draw didn't have the correct legs (one was a foot, the other a paw. He said). We retired and decided to try again later.

At 9.30am on Wednesday morning, a text was sent round naming and shaming all the non-contributory children. Obviously, Boy #1's name was on the list. So this morning at 7.30am he and I were industriously sticking and pasting a suitable offering, having begged an extension until today. (Reminds me of being back at uni). We made it - just. Laid-back Danish Mum told me this afternoon that her daughter also had help - thank god. Control-freak Dutch Mum admitted that she more or less did it herself. And Manic Colombian Mum had forgotten all about it - but her son wasn't going to the party this afternoon anyway.

And so, to the party itself...

I've written about kid's parties on this blog before. The good, the bad, and the downright ugly. But I have to say, this had to be the worst party I have ever (EVER) taken the boys to. Where to start?

• 30 (yes, I counted them) kids in a flat of less than 60sq meters (the same size, basically, as most people's kitchens, sitting and dining rooms combined. In an all-pervading gloom due to the fact that most of the light fittings had been removed prior to the family's move. And BTW - before you start feeling sorry for them, this was not the flat where the family holding the party actually lived. They lived on the 2 floors above, but hadn't wanted the mess of the party in their own home.)
• In addition the kid's mums and /or nannies (so, around 30+ adults. Just in case you hadn't worked that one out for yourself).
• One bathroom. Let me say that again. One Bathroom.
• An entertainer who was great but somewhat subservise and quite messy (the children ended up with balloon animals that they loved, and many of which also resembled - well, you can guess).
• A grandmother who was on door duty - but not, being too busy taking photos of her darling grandchildren to trouble herself letting people in.
• Ditzy Spanish Mum (the hostess), 5 months pregnant, in the midst of packing up her home and wondering how she got herself into this mess, trying to handle her 2 kids and 28 other people's children screaming like banshees and hyped up on tiredness and day-glo crisps.
• Yet another cake with nuts in it. So one upset Boy #1.
• Shortly followed by an almost concussed Boy #2 as he tripped over somebody's feet and banged his head on a door frame. If this post seems disjointed, it's because I am switching rapidly between my on-screen persona of Potty Mummy and my current off-screen manifestation as Panicky English Mum, and sneaking into his room to check his breathing every - oh - 10 minutes or so...

I should have listened to my gut and made our excuses at the beginning of the week. Oh, the sweet benefit of hindsight.

So, I'm asking again. Where did my Fairy Godmother get to? She's got my Christmas cards to finish writing, for starters...


Note: next post I am going to stop feeling so sorry for myself and tell you the stuff I love about Christmas. (But it probably won't anything like as appealing...)

Oh no, he isn't...

Boy #1 went to the pantomime with his nursery yesterday. A great time was had by all, it seems. So great, in fact, that he now refuses to answer to his given name.


Boy#1 has become 'Prince Charming'.


Along with the other 7 boys in his class, I'm told. This could get confusing at circle time...

(And of course, Boy #2 is Buttons.)


Stop the madness! (I need another mince pie...)