We've been in Holland for the weekend, catching up with family and friends. Now, there are a number of things I fully expect to happen when we visit the Netherlands.
Firstly, I expect to eat twice my own body weight in unidentifiable fried brown stuff. In my limited experience, the Dutch do fried snack food better than anyone else - with the exception, perhaps, of the Indonesians. But that's OK because, having appropriated Indonesia as a colony back in the 17th / 18th Century (right through until after World War II), they then took the next logical step and appropriated their cuisine as well. The Dutch found Indonesian food so delicious that they were unable to choose between the various dishes, so in a typically Dutch fashion, they found a very practical solution. Why choose at all? Why not have all your favourites on the table at the same time, and call the resultant meal a 'Rijstafel' (no prizes for guessing that means 'Rice Table' in English).
But even without all the yummy spicy stuff, the Netherlands could hold their own in a 'How to use up every conceivable part of a pig / cow / sheep by wrapping it in a potato / batter / bread covering and tossing it in a deep fat fryer until it resembles something you really shouldn't touch with a barge pole but then you do and oh, god, it's good' competition.
What else do I expect? I expect to have the pants scared off me when driving on their motorways. The Netherlands is not a big country, you understand. And they don't have that big a population (around 15 million, I think). But boy, do they like their cars. (To be fair, they also have a pretty good public transport system, and in addition about a zillion bicycles that they actually use, which is why they can eat the afore-mentioned fried snacks with impunity and not put on an ounce, blast them). But - probably due to what not long ago seemed an inexhaustible supply of oil - they have a love affair with their cars. Now, we're not talking flashy 4 x 4's here - though I must say that there are more of those every time I visit - because it's not traditionally Dutch to flash your cash, but even so, they drive what they have like race cars once they hit the highway.
Perhaps it's because there's not much space, but the motorways are always busy, and often filled to the brim with traffic jams. The result? Well, it's my experience (and apologies to any Dutch readers who are blameless in this respect, Sweet Irene), that a large number of people have given up taking the jams seriously and simply treat the whole driving thing rather like an arcade game. They switch lanes without hesitation; once that indicator light is flashing, anyone in their way better get the hell out of it because hey, like it or not, they're coming through. Never mind if the gap is only 2 meters long - it's a gap, isn't it?
I knew about this - but yesterday was so freaked out whilst on the A12 to Utrecht that I had a fit of most unseemly feminine vapours, and had to pull off the motorway to let my big Dutch husband finish the journey. Most disappointing of me, I know.
Oh yes, and I expect Rain. With a capital 'R'. When the sun shines in Holland there's nothing to beat it (apart from England, of course), and on Saturday it did just that. The sky was blue, the sea air crisp and bracing, and the hot chocolate in the cafe on the beach topped with sweetened cream. Who could ask for more? Certainly not the Boys, who ran around with their cousins shrieking in the stiff breeze, chasing bouncy balls and sliding down sand dunes like children from a 1950's postcard. But other than that? Well, when it rains in the Netherlands, it doesn't mess about. And it rains a lot. A LOT. (This is something of which we have yet to convince our friends over there, who react to news of good weather in South East England with an incredulity which would be a little insulting if we didn't know it masked their envy...).
So, fried stuff. Traffic jams and crazy driving. Rubbish weather. I expect all that. But what I did not expect, sitting at a friend's house yesterday afternoon, was to be hit by a blast of nostalgia from my 1970's/80's childhood.
Did your mother - or you - ever get involved with Herman? Before you start picturing big beefy German types with blond hair and rippling muscles (always vastly over-rated, muscles, in my limited experience), I'm talking about - wait for it - a cake. A Friendship Cake, to be precise, which my mother used to make. And there it was, in our friend's fridge, with the instructions for use stuck on the front in what I swear is the same type-font that was used in the instructions my mum had stuck to our fridge around 30 years ago.
In case you never heard of this, Herman is basically a yeast-based cake that you create from a starter portion of gloop given to you by - you guessed it - a friend. You then added to the gloop, fed it, parcelled up a few tupperware boxes for other friends, and used the remainder to make your own cake. What a nice idea, hey?
Except of course, when I got home this evening and called my mother with the news that Herman is not dead but alive and well and living in the province of Utrecht, she said "Gosh, yes, I remember Herman. Nice idea - but I seem to remember he tasted pretty horrible."
Obviously I didn't call my friends in Holland and tell them that. Why rain on their parade?
(But if you still want to give it a try, there's a link to Delia's site with a recipe on it here. And don't say you haven't been warned if you don't like the result...)
Monday, 31 March 2008
Friday, 28 March 2008
Meeooow!
Don't you just hate it when someone starts a sentence (or, in this case, a post) with the words: "Now, don't get me wrong. I like cars / men / football / trapeze acts, but..."?
Well, don't get me wrong. I like cats. Grew up with them, actually. Though we started with dogs; a bitch, called Rosie. A sweeter Golden Retriever puppy you could seldom meet. The Andrex puppy had nothing on her big brown eyes and cuddly tummy. Granted, she bit the postman, and chased the milkman so often he took to leaving our daily pinta just inside the gate. And she refused to move out of my sister's and my room at bedtime after she had snuck upstairs when my parents' backs were turned, baring her teeth and grabbing onto the carpet with her velvety paws. But, when she arrived whilst we were aged 7 and 5 respectively, she won our hearts.
No happy ending here though. Within six months of our first family walkies, she had to be put down due to suffering from diabetes.
(You would think that this would leave a lasting scar, but I was clearly a shallow little girl as within a short space of time all I could remember was her cuddliness, rather than the fact she had died. Kids, hey?)
After that, my parents - understably - balked at forking out a relatively large sum of money with no guarantee they wouldn't have to simply repeat the whole sorry exercise (at the time, retrievers were so inbred that this was a common problem - apparantly). They decided instead, to get a cat. (I'm told that it was purely coincidence it was around this time my mother spotting a rat in the drain outside the kitchen).
Shortly after this, Cindy arrived. Cindy was tiny (8 weeks old. Which, by the way, seems the height of cruelty to me now I've had kids and regularly lecture Boy #1 on why it is so cruel to take the baby chimps away from their mummies when we're watching Monkey Business on Discovery...), She was mainly grey, with a white napkin and white socks, and in short, was the cutest kitten you could ever hope to see. But man, were her little claws sharp when you went down to the kitchen in the morning with no slippers or socks on...
No tragic story this time, you'll be glad to hear. Cindy lived to the ripe old age of 17; fat, sleek, and happy, a champion mouser who was even known, in her time, to drag a beheaded wood pigeon back to the front door to horrify my mother. (Probably her way of making sure mum knew who was boss. She was a bit like that, Cindy). My sis and I, blood-thirsty country kids that we were, simply thought it astounding that she could manage to hunt and kill something twice her size. But then we also took a mole that my father killed into school for show and tell. Aaah - happy memories...
We had moved by the time Cindy died, but my parents were still beset by rodents - or were, once the local mouse and rat community heard the big boss had passed on - so they got another cat; Chloe.
Chloe was a rather different kettle of fish. No big sleek mouser here; she was instead a rather fetching tortoise-shell. She was also nervy and a little tetchy. Aged around 3 years,she had to be given hormone replacement therapy after she was found to be marking her territory in a rather male fashion. Around the house. (I think what finally drove my parents to the vet was the discovery she had decided the toaster was also her territory. Inside the toaster, to be precise. Which of course they didn't discover until they used it... Would you care for butter and marmalade on that?)
But I digress. The drugs do work, and once treated for this hiccup Chloe rapidly became a much loved and very successful replacement for Cindy, and my family's association with cats continued until she died a couple of years ago, at the grand old age of 18 years old.
So, I should like cats. In fact, I do like cats. But we're staying at my brother-in-laws right now, and he has three. The Boys love them of course. They spend hours chasing them round the house, and I think that Boy #2 will sleep soundly despite the lighter mornings due to the number of times he's chased them up and down the stairs today, the cats always two steps ahead and looking back at him with that horrified feline expression that practically shouts: A toddler? Here? What the hell's going on?
But the Boy's eczema has flared up, all our clothes are covered with cat hair, one of the blighters is sleeping in the middle of our bed right now, and to cap it all, when I got up this morning to fetch Boy #2's milk, slipper-less, sockless (you would think I would have learned all those years ago with Cindy), and contact-lens-less, I trod right in the middle of the overspill from the litter tray.
Now, don't get me wrong. I like cats, but....
Well, don't get me wrong. I like cats. Grew up with them, actually. Though we started with dogs; a bitch, called Rosie. A sweeter Golden Retriever puppy you could seldom meet. The Andrex puppy had nothing on her big brown eyes and cuddly tummy. Granted, she bit the postman, and chased the milkman so often he took to leaving our daily pinta just inside the gate. And she refused to move out of my sister's and my room at bedtime after she had snuck upstairs when my parents' backs were turned, baring her teeth and grabbing onto the carpet with her velvety paws. But, when she arrived whilst we were aged 7 and 5 respectively, she won our hearts.
No happy ending here though. Within six months of our first family walkies, she had to be put down due to suffering from diabetes.
(You would think that this would leave a lasting scar, but I was clearly a shallow little girl as within a short space of time all I could remember was her cuddliness, rather than the fact she had died. Kids, hey?)
After that, my parents - understably - balked at forking out a relatively large sum of money with no guarantee they wouldn't have to simply repeat the whole sorry exercise (at the time, retrievers were so inbred that this was a common problem - apparantly). They decided instead, to get a cat. (I'm told that it was purely coincidence it was around this time my mother spotting a rat in the drain outside the kitchen).
Shortly after this, Cindy arrived. Cindy was tiny (8 weeks old. Which, by the way, seems the height of cruelty to me now I've had kids and regularly lecture Boy #1 on why it is so cruel to take the baby chimps away from their mummies when we're watching Monkey Business on Discovery...), She was mainly grey, with a white napkin and white socks, and in short, was the cutest kitten you could ever hope to see. But man, were her little claws sharp when you went down to the kitchen in the morning with no slippers or socks on...
No tragic story this time, you'll be glad to hear. Cindy lived to the ripe old age of 17; fat, sleek, and happy, a champion mouser who was even known, in her time, to drag a beheaded wood pigeon back to the front door to horrify my mother. (Probably her way of making sure mum knew who was boss. She was a bit like that, Cindy). My sis and I, blood-thirsty country kids that we were, simply thought it astounding that she could manage to hunt and kill something twice her size. But then we also took a mole that my father killed into school for show and tell. Aaah - happy memories...
We had moved by the time Cindy died, but my parents were still beset by rodents - or were, once the local mouse and rat community heard the big boss had passed on - so they got another cat; Chloe.
Chloe was a rather different kettle of fish. No big sleek mouser here; she was instead a rather fetching tortoise-shell. She was also nervy and a little tetchy. Aged around 3 years,she had to be given hormone replacement therapy after she was found to be marking her territory in a rather male fashion. Around the house. (I think what finally drove my parents to the vet was the discovery she had decided the toaster was also her territory. Inside the toaster, to be precise. Which of course they didn't discover until they used it... Would you care for butter and marmalade on that?)
But I digress. The drugs do work, and once treated for this hiccup Chloe rapidly became a much loved and very successful replacement for Cindy, and my family's association with cats continued until she died a couple of years ago, at the grand old age of 18 years old.
So, I should like cats. In fact, I do like cats. But we're staying at my brother-in-laws right now, and he has three. The Boys love them of course. They spend hours chasing them round the house, and I think that Boy #2 will sleep soundly despite the lighter mornings due to the number of times he's chased them up and down the stairs today, the cats always two steps ahead and looking back at him with that horrified feline expression that practically shouts: A toddler? Here? What the hell's going on?
But the Boy's eczema has flared up, all our clothes are covered with cat hair, one of the blighters is sleeping in the middle of our bed right now, and to cap it all, when I got up this morning to fetch Boy #2's milk, slipper-less, sockless (you would think I would have learned all those years ago with Cindy), and contact-lens-less, I trod right in the middle of the overspill from the litter tray.
Now, don't get me wrong. I like cats, but....
Thursday, 27 March 2008
A taste of things to come...
Nearing the end of a long car journey this afternoon...
Boy #1: Look, Boy #2, a crane! Can you see that? A crane!
Boy #2: Plane!
Boy #1: No, I said a crane. A crane! Over there - a crane!
Boy #2: Train!
Boy #1: Noooooo! Mama! Tell him - it's a crane! (Reaches over to give Boy #2's car seat an admonitary tap). Iiiiiiiiits a CRANE!
Me: Boy #1! No hitting. Not even chairs. If Boy #2 wants to say plane or train, he can. You know it's a crane, that's what's important. He'll get it eventually. Won't you, Boy #2?
Boy #2 (under his breath and grinning at me cheekily): Crane. (More loudly) Plane! Train! Plain! Train!
Give me strength...
Boy #1: Look, Boy #2, a crane! Can you see that? A crane!
Boy #2: Plane!
Boy #1: No, I said a crane. A crane! Over there - a crane!
Boy #2: Train!
Boy #1: Noooooo! Mama! Tell him - it's a crane! (Reaches over to give Boy #2's car seat an admonitary tap). Iiiiiiiiits a CRANE!
Me: Boy #1! No hitting. Not even chairs. If Boy #2 wants to say plane or train, he can. You know it's a crane, that's what's important. He'll get it eventually. Won't you, Boy #2?
Boy #2 (under his breath and grinning at me cheekily): Crane. (More loudly) Plane! Train! Plain! Train!
Give me strength...
Tuesday, 25 March 2008
To Russia, for Love?
I first met Husband around 13 years ago. I had recently come out of a 7 year on-again / off-again relationship with a guy I met at uni who really was no good for me (and, to be honest, nor was I for him), but who kept me on my toes and turned me into the stubborn madam I am today. (And, of course, he had a great bod. Don't they always?).
Anyway, the ending of this relationship with - let's call him Sporty Boy - really took it out of me. I wept, railed, stopped eating, and generally moaned incessantly about my lot. For about, oh, 3 whole days, actually. And then, to my shock and suprise, I started to feel better. (Which was pretty unexpected considering we had just moved in together before he unceremoniously dumped me from a great height). Frankly, the absence of worry and tension about the relationship was so liberating that rather than simply repeating my past mistake (i.e. wait until he saw the error of his ways and then take him back at the first opportunity), I started to enjoy myself - on my own.
Now, I won't bore you with the stories of my sowing of wild oats, or with how that was very much overdue at 27. Or with the tale of how, some months later, when Sporty Boy contacted me by e-mail to say he had made a big mistake and that his new squeeze didn't understand him like I did, I mailed him back to say; hope you're happy, you made your bed, now lie on it sweet-cheeks (God, that felt good). But suffice it to say that when one of my Best Friends offered to set me up on a blind date with a guy working with her then boyfriend, my first reaction was to say- no. The absolute last thing I needed at that time was to bother with such manufactured relationships - I was having a perfectly good time dodging commitment all on my own, thankyou very much.
But she persisted. And that is how, one rainy Sunday evening, I ended up on a blind date with a tall, skinny Dutch guy in a pub just off Leicester Square, drinking far too much red wine, eating much too large a chinese meal, and making my drunken way home - alone - on the train. (Then, not wanting the fun to end, I ended up falling asleep, missing my stop, and having to pay a fortune in taxi fare when I finally woke up in a deserted station at 2.00am on a Monday morning. That was a hangover to remember...)
Tall skinny Dutch guy (let's call him TSDG for the moment) was actually quite good looking, I realised the next morning when I tried to remember through the haze of shiraz and cigarette smoke (for yes, children, at that time we were allowed to smoke in public - not that I did, of course. Filthy habit...). So when he called to suggest another date, I said yes.
Oh, alright then. I called him. (You can take the girl out of the convent...)
Not quite knowing how to say no to such a forthright young lady, TSDG said yes. Hurrah! And after a whirlwind courtship, 6 years later we were married, dear reader, and TSDG became Husband.
Hang on.
6 YEARS?
What took us so long? You may well ask. 'Another' came between us. This seductress already had her claws into TSDG before I even met him; in fact, in a way, she is why we are together at all. He was in London only on his way to her; this mysterious Eastern temptress had in fact been in his thoughts and dreams for almost as long as he could remember.
Now, to be fair to my beloved, he was straight with me from the start. I knew from the time I met him that his London sojourn would not be for long. And frankly, I was OK with that. No strings, no commitment - in my post-Sporty Boy state, all I wanted was a bit of fling, actually. However, the fling got out of hand. We fell for each other. But she - she was always there, waiting in the wings to whisk him away, just when it was getting interesting.
You see, Husband was in London only to train for a paltry 4 months before heading off to her open arms for however long it took. This 'she' was, in fact, Russia.
I didn't try to compete. Didn't want to, actually. But somehow, once he had gone, we stayed in touch. He flew over to see me. I sorted out a visa and went to see him. And before we knew it, most of our disposable income was being spent on plane fares and telephone calls. Long distance relationships definitely have their down-sides, but at the time it was mostly one big adventure. Meeting at romantic cities across Europe for the weekend. Taking the night-train from Moscow to St Petersburg. The joy when he surprised me by turning up out of the blue.
And before we knew it, 4 years had passed, the economy in Russia had crashed (1998), shortly after that he decided to come to London, and we moved in together. The rest is history.
But she has always been there, hanging around, sending messages, reaching out, trying to suck him back in. And now that he is once again a free agent job-wise, she's knocking on our door again. (Note the 'our' this time. It has already been made clear that she won't get Husband without me and the Boys.)
I've visited her a few times over the years, and honestly, I don't mind her. She's 'alright', in her own way. Beautiful, I must admit. But cold. Changeable. Not to be trusted. And populated by people I'm never quite sure of. However, if this credit crunch continues to bite, it may be that our path lies in her direction, so I'd better start making friends with her. Learning her language, maybe (though not just yet).
Not that we're going, you understand. We're not. But just in case....
(And let's be honest, can you imagine the blog fodder? Outstanding...)
Anyway, the ending of this relationship with - let's call him Sporty Boy - really took it out of me. I wept, railed, stopped eating, and generally moaned incessantly about my lot. For about, oh, 3 whole days, actually. And then, to my shock and suprise, I started to feel better. (Which was pretty unexpected considering we had just moved in together before he unceremoniously dumped me from a great height). Frankly, the absence of worry and tension about the relationship was so liberating that rather than simply repeating my past mistake (i.e. wait until he saw the error of his ways and then take him back at the first opportunity), I started to enjoy myself - on my own.
Now, I won't bore you with the stories of my sowing of wild oats, or with how that was very much overdue at 27. Or with the tale of how, some months later, when Sporty Boy contacted me by e-mail to say he had made a big mistake and that his new squeeze didn't understand him like I did, I mailed him back to say; hope you're happy, you made your bed, now lie on it sweet-cheeks (God, that felt good). But suffice it to say that when one of my Best Friends offered to set me up on a blind date with a guy working with her then boyfriend, my first reaction was to say- no. The absolute last thing I needed at that time was to bother with such manufactured relationships - I was having a perfectly good time dodging commitment all on my own, thankyou very much.
But she persisted. And that is how, one rainy Sunday evening, I ended up on a blind date with a tall, skinny Dutch guy in a pub just off Leicester Square, drinking far too much red wine, eating much too large a chinese meal, and making my drunken way home - alone - on the train. (Then, not wanting the fun to end, I ended up falling asleep, missing my stop, and having to pay a fortune in taxi fare when I finally woke up in a deserted station at 2.00am on a Monday morning. That was a hangover to remember...)
Tall skinny Dutch guy (let's call him TSDG for the moment) was actually quite good looking, I realised the next morning when I tried to remember through the haze of shiraz and cigarette smoke (for yes, children, at that time we were allowed to smoke in public - not that I did, of course. Filthy habit...). So when he called to suggest another date, I said yes.
Oh, alright then. I called him. (You can take the girl out of the convent...)
Not quite knowing how to say no to such a forthright young lady, TSDG said yes. Hurrah! And after a whirlwind courtship, 6 years later we were married, dear reader, and TSDG became Husband.
Hang on.
6 YEARS?
What took us so long? You may well ask. 'Another' came between us. This seductress already had her claws into TSDG before I even met him; in fact, in a way, she is why we are together at all. He was in London only on his way to her; this mysterious Eastern temptress had in fact been in his thoughts and dreams for almost as long as he could remember.
Now, to be fair to my beloved, he was straight with me from the start. I knew from the time I met him that his London sojourn would not be for long. And frankly, I was OK with that. No strings, no commitment - in my post-Sporty Boy state, all I wanted was a bit of fling, actually. However, the fling got out of hand. We fell for each other. But she - she was always there, waiting in the wings to whisk him away, just when it was getting interesting.
You see, Husband was in London only to train for a paltry 4 months before heading off to her open arms for however long it took. This 'she' was, in fact, Russia.
I didn't try to compete. Didn't want to, actually. But somehow, once he had gone, we stayed in touch. He flew over to see me. I sorted out a visa and went to see him. And before we knew it, most of our disposable income was being spent on plane fares and telephone calls. Long distance relationships definitely have their down-sides, but at the time it was mostly one big adventure. Meeting at romantic cities across Europe for the weekend. Taking the night-train from Moscow to St Petersburg. The joy when he surprised me by turning up out of the blue.
And before we knew it, 4 years had passed, the economy in Russia had crashed (1998), shortly after that he decided to come to London, and we moved in together. The rest is history.
But she has always been there, hanging around, sending messages, reaching out, trying to suck him back in. And now that he is once again a free agent job-wise, she's knocking on our door again. (Note the 'our' this time. It has already been made clear that she won't get Husband without me and the Boys.)
I've visited her a few times over the years, and honestly, I don't mind her. She's 'alright', in her own way. Beautiful, I must admit. But cold. Changeable. Not to be trusted. And populated by people I'm never quite sure of. However, if this credit crunch continues to bite, it may be that our path lies in her direction, so I'd better start making friends with her. Learning her language, maybe (though not just yet).
Not that we're going, you understand. We're not. But just in case....
(And let's be honest, can you imagine the blog fodder? Outstanding...)
Tea for three
Yesterday I wrote my 100th post.
Who'd have thought it?
And in celebration, I bring you an excerpt from a conversation with my children this morning. Boy #1 had just been unpacking his toy-rucksack following our return from my parent's the previous evening.
Boy #1: Oh look Mama, a toy car. It isn't mine. Is it mine? Boy #2, is it our car?
Boy #2: Tea? (Boy #2 is currently obsessed with pouring imaginery tea for everyone he meets. It wouldn't be particularly funny, but he asks in just the tone that a vicar's wife - or, if you happen to live in the UK and have seen the 80's comedy Keeping up Appearances, Hyacinth Bucket - would use. With a rising inflection and a big smile plastered over his cheeky face).
Boy #1: Yes please, Boy #2 (he knows that he won't be left in peace until he is holding his imaginery cup of Earl Grey). Mama, look! I said, a toy car, that isn't mine!
Me: Oh yes. Maybe we brought it home by mistake. Perhaps it's one of Cousin J's.
Boy #1: No, no, we didn't bring it by mistake. We were just stupid.
Boy #2: Cake?
Ah, the wisdom of babes. (And yes please, Boy #2. I will have that cake).
Who'd have thought it?
And in celebration, I bring you an excerpt from a conversation with my children this morning. Boy #1 had just been unpacking his toy-rucksack following our return from my parent's the previous evening.
Boy #1: Oh look Mama, a toy car. It isn't mine. Is it mine? Boy #2, is it our car?
Boy #2: Tea? (Boy #2 is currently obsessed with pouring imaginery tea for everyone he meets. It wouldn't be particularly funny, but he asks in just the tone that a vicar's wife - or, if you happen to live in the UK and have seen the 80's comedy Keeping up Appearances, Hyacinth Bucket - would use. With a rising inflection and a big smile plastered over his cheeky face).
Boy #1: Yes please, Boy #2 (he knows that he won't be left in peace until he is holding his imaginery cup of Earl Grey). Mama, look! I said, a toy car, that isn't mine!
Me: Oh yes. Maybe we brought it home by mistake. Perhaps it's one of Cousin J's.
Boy #1: No, no, we didn't bring it by mistake. We were just stupid.
Boy #2: Cake?
Ah, the wisdom of babes. (And yes please, Boy #2. I will have that cake).
Monday, 24 March 2008
40 winks, anyone?
...and yes, it's STILL the Easter weekend.
I never really thought about it before, how this holiday just goes on and on. In a secular world I suppose it's something of a triumph for Christianity that the least believable part of the gospel story (and before you start foaming at the mouth at my heretic-talk, I am a 'practicing' Catholic. Some day I hope to get good at it...boom boom!) is the one that has the most impact on everyone's lives in the UK, namely by allowing us all 2 bank holidays whether we sign up to the whole resurrection thing or not.
But anyway. Enough religion. Here I am. Still on holiday. Still in Somerset. Still struggling with my parent's blasted apple Mac.
The only thing that has changed is the fact that I have put on about 10 stone over the last couple of days, what with the marathon of eating and drinking that always - but always - ensues when my family find themselves together in one place. Surprisingly - and I know you may find this hard to believe - not a chocolate egg has passed my lips. That, however, is more due to the cooked breakfasts, hot cross buns, Easter biscuits (you don't know them? Oh, you should...), pre-lunch snacks, lunch, afternoon cake, pre-dinner snacks, and 3 course dinners that I've been consuming. Quite simply, I don't have space for any eggs.
And if I'm honest, my chocolate cravings have been more than sated by the puddings my mother has concocted. Which may have included chocolate. And eggs. And, on more than one occasion, chocolate eggs. But I haven't actually unwrapped a chocolate easter egg for myself - so I think that's OK...
We're heading home later. We could stay until tomorrow but Boy 2 has started waking abnormally early.
Now, I used to be one of those smug parents who listen to other mothers and fathers bemoaning their lot when then their kids get up with the sun, thinking, why don't they just ignore them? Leave them in bed? I mean, it can't be that difficult, surely?
Aha.
Now I know.
That will teach me.
It can be that difficult. Especially if Boy 1 is sharing a room with Boy 2 and is also woken up. My sons couldn't be more different, in so many ways, and one of those is the fact that whilst Boy 2 is a little ray of sunshine when rising from his bed, his older brother will often be grumpy and uncooperative. (Yep, I just can't wait 'till he's a teenager).
Their styles of waking in the morning go roughly as follows:
Boy 1 wakes when we go into his room if it's before 7.30am. If it's a good day, he smiles. If not... I'll leave you to imagine. If we leave it until 7.30am (i.e. once in a blue moon), we usually hear him shouting "I need a poo! I need a poo! Somebody? I need a POO!" at the top of his voice. (It appears that, aged 4 years old, he still hasn't worked out he can climb out of his bed unaccompanied. Shame. Like I'm going to challenge that...)
Boy 2, on the other hand, wakes by himself, usually around 6.45am. He lies there, chatting to himself for a while. This builds to a gradual crescendo at around 7.15am, by which time either Husband or I have dragged ourselves, blinking and stumbling, to the kitchen, to sort out his milk. He then greets us with a cheery smile and a big hug when we go into his room. Bless.
But now, it's getting lighter. And it seems that Husband and I are - to put it politely - screwed. We not only have Boy 2 to entertain at 6.00am when he's been awake for half an hour and has finally lost his temper because his cute cooing and singing has gone unrewarded with a mug of warm milk and cuddle time with mum and dad, but we have Boy 1 inconsolable and on the warpath.
Separate rooms - at home - is the only way.
And tomorrow I will be investigating blackout blinds for my younger cherub's room.
The fun never stops with this parenting lark, does it?
I never really thought about it before, how this holiday just goes on and on. In a secular world I suppose it's something of a triumph for Christianity that the least believable part of the gospel story (and before you start foaming at the mouth at my heretic-talk, I am a 'practicing' Catholic. Some day I hope to get good at it...boom boom!) is the one that has the most impact on everyone's lives in the UK, namely by allowing us all 2 bank holidays whether we sign up to the whole resurrection thing or not.
But anyway. Enough religion. Here I am. Still on holiday. Still in Somerset. Still struggling with my parent's blasted apple Mac.
The only thing that has changed is the fact that I have put on about 10 stone over the last couple of days, what with the marathon of eating and drinking that always - but always - ensues when my family find themselves together in one place. Surprisingly - and I know you may find this hard to believe - not a chocolate egg has passed my lips. That, however, is more due to the cooked breakfasts, hot cross buns, Easter biscuits (you don't know them? Oh, you should...), pre-lunch snacks, lunch, afternoon cake, pre-dinner snacks, and 3 course dinners that I've been consuming. Quite simply, I don't have space for any eggs.
And if I'm honest, my chocolate cravings have been more than sated by the puddings my mother has concocted. Which may have included chocolate. And eggs. And, on more than one occasion, chocolate eggs. But I haven't actually unwrapped a chocolate easter egg for myself - so I think that's OK...
We're heading home later. We could stay until tomorrow but Boy 2 has started waking abnormally early.
Now, I used to be one of those smug parents who listen to other mothers and fathers bemoaning their lot when then their kids get up with the sun, thinking, why don't they just ignore them? Leave them in bed? I mean, it can't be that difficult, surely?
Aha.
Now I know.
That will teach me.
It can be that difficult. Especially if Boy 1 is sharing a room with Boy 2 and is also woken up. My sons couldn't be more different, in so many ways, and one of those is the fact that whilst Boy 2 is a little ray of sunshine when rising from his bed, his older brother will often be grumpy and uncooperative. (Yep, I just can't wait 'till he's a teenager).
Their styles of waking in the morning go roughly as follows:
Boy 1 wakes when we go into his room if it's before 7.30am. If it's a good day, he smiles. If not... I'll leave you to imagine. If we leave it until 7.30am (i.e. once in a blue moon), we usually hear him shouting "I need a poo! I need a poo! Somebody? I need a POO!" at the top of his voice. (It appears that, aged 4 years old, he still hasn't worked out he can climb out of his bed unaccompanied. Shame. Like I'm going to challenge that...)
Boy 2, on the other hand, wakes by himself, usually around 6.45am. He lies there, chatting to himself for a while. This builds to a gradual crescendo at around 7.15am, by which time either Husband or I have dragged ourselves, blinking and stumbling, to the kitchen, to sort out his milk. He then greets us with a cheery smile and a big hug when we go into his room. Bless.
But now, it's getting lighter. And it seems that Husband and I are - to put it politely - screwed. We not only have Boy 2 to entertain at 6.00am when he's been awake for half an hour and has finally lost his temper because his cute cooing and singing has gone unrewarded with a mug of warm milk and cuddle time with mum and dad, but we have Boy 1 inconsolable and on the warpath.
Separate rooms - at home - is the only way.
And tomorrow I will be investigating blackout blinds for my younger cherub's room.
The fun never stops with this parenting lark, does it?
Saturday, 22 March 2008
Raaaaagh!
It's the Easter Weekend. How do I know this? Well, two reasons really; traffic to my blog has halved (you all obviously have much more interesting things to do than sit inside and look at the computer), and it's been snowing. I mean, of course it has. It's nearly the end of March. Oh yes, and if I see another chocolate egg I may implode. Or just eat it. No telling which.
I am at my parent's house in Somerset with the family, stealing a few moments to feed my internet addiction, whilst Boy 2 naps and Boy 1 entertains his grandmother and great-grandmother with stories of flying skunks. (No, really. It wouldn't be so bad, but he has taken to illustrating the skunks' abilities with real life smells of his own at the relevant points - for authenticity's sake, you understand. Luckily his great-grandmother hasn't noticed - or is just too polite to comment. And there's not even a dog to blame it on...)
If this post turns out to be a little short or rather odd, it's because I'm using my parent's apple Mac and am struggling with it. I like to think of myself as creative, but am clearly an accountant underneath as I find these things impossible to use (where is the hash key? What's with the moving around of the @ sign? Why can't I maximise the screen? Where is the 'end' key? Etc... Bring back my pc!)
For those of you still interested, Thursday evening's foray into my past life went pretty much as expected. Husband was late home, (knew I should have booked a babysitter) I spent the hour before I left dodging the ever-present trail of snot from Boy 2, and Boy 1 demanded to know why I was prettied-up, and if I was going to a hotel. As I always do on a Thursday night, clearly.
Then it rained between the tube and the bar, and having left my umbrella at home in the interests of appearing less mumsy (which was rather beside the point since I was still prepared for all eventualities, with handkerchiefs and wet-wipes spilling out of my handbag), I arrived looking less polished than I had hoped for...
Once there, of course the main question on my ex-colleagues lips was "What are you doing now?" I toughed it out and answered truthfully.... "Staying at home with my children".
Cue pause.
In some cases, quite a long one.
The women (both with and without children) clearly thought I was mad, whilst all the men were impressed. The gender divide is alive and well, I'm sorry to say....
What was interesting, however, was my reaction to both points of view. With the women, when they waxed lyrical about time spent with the children, being a good mum etc, I played up the down and dirty side of being a SAHM. Snot was mentioned. Pooh may have been referred to. Crushing boredom may even have been touched on. And the toilet door joke (see my profile) popped out more than once. I mean, whilst I strongly believe I've made the right choice for our family to put my career on hold, I'm very much aware that for most people it's simply not a financially viable option. Whilst I complain incessantly on this blog, underneath the bluster I believe that I'm very fortunate, frankly, that I have the chance to do this. So the last thing I wanted to do was to rub the noses of women who couldn't make that same decision in the fact that yes, my being home is working out well for us.
With the men, my 1980's feminist conditioning - and the double vodka and tonics I had been drinking since I arrived - took over... After an evening of platitudes, nodding sagely when middle-aged men misted over at the thought of mummy greeting them at the school gates, and holding my tongue mainly because if I ever want to go back to work, I will probably be reporting to them, I had had enough. When some poor young, unmarried guy reminisced about how his mum stayed home and did 'the most important job in the world', I couldn't help it. I pointed out that when he reached that stage, (never mind the 'if' he reached that stage), he and his partner may not be able to afford to survive on one salary. That the mother of his child may not want to stay home. That it is not always the best option for the happiness of the family. And mainly, why assume it should be her in the first place? Surely he would be just as capable of changing a nappy? And so on...
Luckily, he was a) quite drunk (which if I'm honest, so was I), and b) not that senior. I think I got away with my rant.
And then I left the party a little early to sway home on the tube, in order to make Tesco's before it closed to pick up the milk for the boys.
Well, somebody had to.
I am woman, hear me roar...
I am at my parent's house in Somerset with the family, stealing a few moments to feed my internet addiction, whilst Boy 2 naps and Boy 1 entertains his grandmother and great-grandmother with stories of flying skunks. (No, really. It wouldn't be so bad, but he has taken to illustrating the skunks' abilities with real life smells of his own at the relevant points - for authenticity's sake, you understand. Luckily his great-grandmother hasn't noticed - or is just too polite to comment. And there's not even a dog to blame it on...)
If this post turns out to be a little short or rather odd, it's because I'm using my parent's apple Mac and am struggling with it. I like to think of myself as creative, but am clearly an accountant underneath as I find these things impossible to use (where is the hash key? What's with the moving around of the @ sign? Why can't I maximise the screen? Where is the 'end' key? Etc... Bring back my pc!)
For those of you still interested, Thursday evening's foray into my past life went pretty much as expected. Husband was late home, (knew I should have booked a babysitter) I spent the hour before I left dodging the ever-present trail of snot from Boy 2, and Boy 1 demanded to know why I was prettied-up, and if I was going to a hotel. As I always do on a Thursday night, clearly.
Then it rained between the tube and the bar, and having left my umbrella at home in the interests of appearing less mumsy (which was rather beside the point since I was still prepared for all eventualities, with handkerchiefs and wet-wipes spilling out of my handbag), I arrived looking less polished than I had hoped for...
Once there, of course the main question on my ex-colleagues lips was "What are you doing now?" I toughed it out and answered truthfully.... "Staying at home with my children".
Cue pause.
In some cases, quite a long one.
The women (both with and without children) clearly thought I was mad, whilst all the men were impressed. The gender divide is alive and well, I'm sorry to say....
What was interesting, however, was my reaction to both points of view. With the women, when they waxed lyrical about time spent with the children, being a good mum etc, I played up the down and dirty side of being a SAHM. Snot was mentioned. Pooh may have been referred to. Crushing boredom may even have been touched on. And the toilet door joke (see my profile) popped out more than once. I mean, whilst I strongly believe I've made the right choice for our family to put my career on hold, I'm very much aware that for most people it's simply not a financially viable option. Whilst I complain incessantly on this blog, underneath the bluster I believe that I'm very fortunate, frankly, that I have the chance to do this. So the last thing I wanted to do was to rub the noses of women who couldn't make that same decision in the fact that yes, my being home is working out well for us.
With the men, my 1980's feminist conditioning - and the double vodka and tonics I had been drinking since I arrived - took over... After an evening of platitudes, nodding sagely when middle-aged men misted over at the thought of mummy greeting them at the school gates, and holding my tongue mainly because if I ever want to go back to work, I will probably be reporting to them, I had had enough. When some poor young, unmarried guy reminisced about how his mum stayed home and did 'the most important job in the world', I couldn't help it. I pointed out that when he reached that stage, (never mind the 'if' he reached that stage), he and his partner may not be able to afford to survive on one salary. That the mother of his child may not want to stay home. That it is not always the best option for the happiness of the family. And mainly, why assume it should be her in the first place? Surely he would be just as capable of changing a nappy? And so on...
Luckily, he was a) quite drunk (which if I'm honest, so was I), and b) not that senior. I think I got away with my rant.
And then I left the party a little early to sway home on the tube, in order to make Tesco's before it closed to pick up the milk for the boys.
Well, somebody had to.
I am woman, hear me roar...
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