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...

Mary, Mary, quite contrary...

Boy #1 was in a bad mood this morning. Everything was a problem; waking up, being given his milk in an open rather than closed cup, getting dressed, you name it. And to cap it all, he rediscovered a scratch on the palm of one hand that was the result of having a splinter removed yesterday afternoon. Oh, the pain! The drama! He wasn't ever going to be able to eat again! He wouldn't be able to hold a pencil! 'Really, mama, I think I had better stay home from school today...'

(I would like to say at this point that the scratch in question was merely that - a scratch. Just in case you think I am Spartan Mummy and being too harsh on my beloved son...)

Having had just about as much moaning as I could take I administered Savlon and told him to get on with it, which was of course like a red rag to a bull. Things calmed down - a little - over breakfast, when he discovered that amazingly, he was still able to hold a spoon through the excruciating pain. However, when he was instructed to put on his shoes, all hell broke loose.

He couldn't do it.

He needed help.

How was he supposed to do up his shoes with the scratch on his palm?

I sat there, weathering the storm, giving Boy #2 - stoically good tempered, as ever - his breakfast. Suddenly, through the maelstrom of complaints, there came a small voice.

Boy #2: "Mama?"

Me: "Yes?"

Boy #2: "Boy #1. Help. Boy #1. Shoe. Help."

Me: "You think I should help Boy #1 put his shoes on?"

Boy #2: "Esss..."

Boy #1: "No! I can do it! No!"

And promptly did.


What it is to have a two year old who is a master of reverse psychology.

Four seasons in one day...

There's an ad in circulation at the moment for some hair or make-up product encouraging us to 'be a different girl every day' or something like that. Well, the copy writers for this should try being a mum. Forget being a different woman every day; it's my experience that you get to be a different mother every hour - at least...

For example, today I have been (in no particular order);

Knackered Mummy - when I woke up this morning after a fitful night of bad dreams involving spiders, crocodiles and missing Boys. Yes, you guessed it, I was dreaming of our forthcoming trip to Australia. Remind me again why we're willingly going to a country which 90% of the world's deadliest creatures call home?

Efficient Mummy - on my solo trip to the supermarket. What normally takes 45 mins to an hour when accompanied by the Boys was polished off in 25 minutes this morning. You could hardly see the trolley wheels as they whirred along the aisles. I dashed from one section to the next, remembering what I needed, finding it in double-quick time, and getting out of there so quickly that the till assistant barely had time to ask if I wanted to take the school vouchers. This morning's visit was at light speed compared to our normal progress round the store. This usually involves frequent stops to check the list due to failing memory (which I blame on the constant distractions of dealing with runny noses, requests for 'CAKE!', and the necessary passing of all purchases to Boy #1 so that he can put them in the trolley), and the compulsory stop at Starbucks to 'reward' (for which read 'bribe') the Boys for good behaviour with a chocolate coin. (And a skinny hot chocolate for me. Obviously).

Proud Mummy - when Boy #2 used his scooter for the first time on the way to the bakers a little later. Never mind that he walked rather than rode most of the way; he was simply as pleased as punch that he was not sitting in the buggy. He strutted importantly along the pavement, narrowly avoiding walking into walls and hedges, his tummy puffed out with pride. I imagine that I looked somewhat similar...

Frustrated Mummy - when Boy #1 decided he could scoot and eat bread at the same time, only to spend the next 5 minutes falling flat on his face as he discovered that - actually - he couldn't. (Must admit I was also - initially - Amused Mummy at the look of shock on his face when he pulled himself up from the pavement, piece of bread still intact and stuffed in his mouth, looking around indignantly as if to say; 'Who did that? It couldn't possibly have been MY fault...')

Push-over Mummy - when I found the Boys bouncing on our bed and instead of ordering them off it immediately, gave in to the sound of their delighted laughter and giggles and gave them 2 minutes more before getting off. And then another 2 minutes...

Creative Mummy - when I got the paints out for Boy #2 and helped Boy #1 make himself a mask out of biscuit packet, some tin-foil, string and glitter.

Resigned Mummy - when I found then myself covered in glue, glitter, and paint. And why is it that the activities take 20 minutes and the clearing up around 40?

Unsurprised Mummy - when Boy #2 needed a complete change of clothes after lunch due to over-enthusiastic spoon action with the soup.

And Slightly Embarrassed and hoping I wasn't spotted Mummy - when I realised after lunch that I had gone to the bakers with glitter and paint in my hair like some 80's throw-back...

Lost; one brain

The Potty household was in crisis yesterday morning. Or rather, I was. I was lost, ruderless, up a nasty brown creek without a paddle. I was compass-less, I had mislaid my charts, I had no idea which way was up or down. What caused this shocking state of affairs?

I lost my diary.

Now, pre-children, this would have been no biggie. I would have been working, for starters, so all the important stuff would have been duplicated on Outlook in the office. And - rather more relevantly - I would still have had some kind of a memory. But post-kids? Memory? I'm sure I should know what that is, but you know, I've kind of... what's the word again... oh yes. Forgotten.

Sometimes it feels as if the grey matter in my head, which used to be, if not razor sharp then at least capable of inflicting a nasty graze, has just turned into a sludgy, porridge-like mess that is no use to man nor beast. Think treacle, and you'll have some idea of how quickly my thought processes work on occassion. It's normal, apparantly, post children, to feel like this. And I do remember that after Boy #1 was born I felt very similar. Crucially though, I went back to work between kids, which forced me to sharpen up rather more than I've had to since paid employment went by the wayside after Boy #2 arrived.

Nowadays things can literally go in one ear and straight out of the other. Not everything (Husband, in case you're reading this, of course I remember every conversation we ever had, and if I claim you haven't told me something then of course you haven't...), but if we're talking fine details, like dates and times, then forget it. Literally.

For example, I will remember that Boys #1 or #2 have a doctors or dentists appointment coming up soon. But when? What day? Where? Who knows... Or, a playdate. I can tell you there will probably be a playdate sometime this week. But will it be here? Will I need to provide dinner for the chosen friend? What time will their mummy be collecting them? Anyway, you get the picture. I have to write it down to remember it.

So, when I realised late on Monday night that I couldn't find my diary, I had a bit of a panic, to put it mildly. I hunted everywhere. I looked in my handbag. I looked in the nappy bag. I looked in every room in the house (which I'm ashamed to admit did include my cherub's bedrooms - with a torch, though, not the light on. Because turning the light on to hunt for something in the middle of the night in your child's bedroom would be crazy, right? Unlike crawling around on your hands and knees with a torch in your mouth as you rifle through the toy chest...). I checked in the car, the boot of the car, my gym rucksack, and cupboards that hadn't been opened in months. In brief, I resembled nothing so much as Olivia in 'Olivia and the Missing Toy' (if you don't have this book for your kids, check it out, it's hilarious, especially the look on her mummy's face when her daddy promises to buy her a new best toy. Then again - you probably know that expression already...). Then, when I had looked everywhere, I looked again. And still I couldn't find it.

The next morning I woke in the foulest of moods and my darling Husband promised to help me look. He looked in all the places I had looked - and then, just to make sure, I looked again. Still, no diary.

Now, whilst all this was going on, I was fighting the natural inclination any mother has. The default mechanism that arrives when the baby starts to crawl, and only strengthens when they begin to walk. The inclination to blame the children. Because, let's face it, a small silver-coloured book with empty pages perfect for drawing on has to be a Boy magnet, doesn't it? But there was no evidence of foul play from the Boys, and Boy #1 swore blind when questioned that he hadn't touched the diary, hadn't seen the diary, in fact what was a diary, and could he have television now?

I relented and started to think the diary was lost for ever. Which of course put me in an even fouler mood. And the realisation that this was JUST A DIARY for CHRISSAKE!.. didn't really help. Social ostracisation due to missed birthdays, dinners and playdates, blackballing by the nursery due to failed appearances at parents evening, not to mention being refused entry to the doctors, dentists, hairdressers due to non-attendances at appointments, loomed.

So when Husband finally found the blasted thing tucked under the sofa (which I had checked, I hasten to add), I was relieved, delighted, thankful and embarrassed at having been so worked up about the whole thing.

And, of course, justified. I knew it had been the Boys - all along.



Now - before you disappear to much more entertaining blogs, take a look at this link (courtesy of Alpha Mum), and if there is a man in your life you will laugh your socks off. Particularly watch out for the reference to the 'man with a hurty knee'...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mz6DktXFvg4

Polly, put the kettle on...

It's been a busy day at the Potty homestead. I hadn't expected it to be, since Husband is still away and it was meant to be just me and the Boys, but we seem to have had one visitor after another today.

First off? Steve Irwin and a lion dropped by at around 8.00am. The Crocodile Hunter was in fine form, hunting down the big cat and cornering it in the sitting room. This was perhaps a little easier than usual, since the lion in question was clomping around with a pair of my boots on it's front paws, so was not able to pad around the flat with it's usual stealth and cunning. It still put up a fight though, growling and roaring like the king of the Savannah it is. This necessitated the intrepid Aussie to counter with his own shouts of 'crikey' and 'Irwin, Steve Irwin!' before the wrestling pair had to be separated for breakfast.

Steve left, but as he departed he entrusted a model Tasmanian Devil to Boy #1's care - the relevance of which will become clear shortly.

Breakfast over, I took my life in my hands and decided to fly solo for the first time. Yes, I took the Boys to mass on my own. Somewhere between the car and the church however, a miracle took place and instead of being accompanied by two squirming complainy Boys, I found that I had acquired a couple of angels who, for the first part of the service, seemed to deem it their mission to show up every other child in the building with their model behaviour.

During the opening hymn Boy #2, standing on the bench between his brother and I, reached out and took both of our hands, resembling nothing so much as a child at an evangelical church about to speak in tongues. It was quite exceptionally cute. However, the moment passed rapidly come the sermon, when Boy #1 started to demand juice which I refused to hand over, forseeing treks back and forth to the loo shepherding not just him but his brother and all our coats and bags as well (it's a central London church holding around 400 people on a Sunday morning. I am not so naive as to leave my bag lying around unaccompanied, un-Christian though that might be...). This resulted in much fierce whispering until his attention was distracted by the winsome 4 year old girl in the bench in front.

Unfortunately (and this is where the relevance of the toy animal becomes clear), in a bid to impress, Boy #1 decided to show off the charge left with him by Steve-o. His command of the word 'Tasmanian' is not good at the best of times. This resulted in his replying, when she asked him what the animal was; "A Tis..m..n DEVIL" during the period of quiet contemplation before communion.

Well, he didn't actually say it like that - that's just how it sounded to me. And everyone else around us. Her mother, not seeing the toy, and no doubt only hearing the word 'devil', shot me a reproachful look before gathering her daughter closer to her...

So, that was mass. Afterwards, we went home and were joined by the celebrity chef from Friday again, this time in full whites regalia, who insisted on accompanying Boy #2 and I to the garden where we met a friend and her daughter before going for lunch. I wouldn't have minded, but his overalls could really have done with a wash, and looked a little odd hanging out beneath his coat whilst the whole ensemble was topped off with his cycling helmet. Still, I guess that's the rich and famous for you...

When we reached the garden? Well, the chef rapidly metamorphosed into a 'pirate chef' with his sidekick the pirate captain, who commandeered the lookout post and refused to come down until tempted to do so with biscuits.

The Boys joined me briefly again for lunch in Carluccio's, but when we got back and Boy #2 went for a nap, Boy #1 went missing and was replaced by Diego, the Sabre-Toothed Tiger from Ice Age, who was hunting his prey all over the living room and doing his best to destroy what remains of the springs in the sofa (where I was trying - unsuccessfully - to take a post-prandial nap. As if. Have you ever tried to get some shut-eye with a fearsome tiger breathing in your face?)

It wasn't until dinner that calm was restored and it was just me and the Boys again.

I'm bushed.

Sisters, sisters...

Boys #1 and #2 were playing together in their fisher price kitchen this afternoon. Boy #1 was the chef, Boy #2 was his dog (of course). Boy #1 was cooking up one of his favourite delicacies ("Ladies and gentlemen! Today, I will be cooking... pancakes with chocolate ice-cream!"), whilst issuing instructions in an officious tone of voice to Boy #2.

Boy #2, crowned rakishly in a tall white chef's hat (heaven only knows how he spirited that away from his brother), wilfully ignored the instructions given by the celebrity chef, and crawled around under the dining room table, concentrating on generally getting in his brother's way whilst dancing in a reggae styley to whatever was on the radio.

Even at 2 and 4, they make a good team.

Earlier today, a friend had asked me what the gap between my two Boys actually is. I replied that it is almost exactly - less around 1 week - the same as the gap between myself and my younger sister. Whilst I hadn't planned on being quite so precise about it, that time-frame was in the back of my mind as a guideline when Husband and I were 'working on' Boy #2, because it had seemed to work out pretty well for sis and I.

And that got me thinking on my relationship with her and how, if the boys duplicate it between them, even slightly, they will be very lucky.

We've had our ups and downs, my sis and me. Whilst we were growing up we could go from inseperable to deadly enemies in the blink of an eye. If you have a same-sex sibling you probably find the same thing. There is no-one - and I mean, no-one - who can drive me insane with a tut, a blink, a look, or a curl of the lip, like my sis can. (And I like to think that compliment would be returned). Likewise, there is no-one who can pull me from the depths of despair and gloom to hysterical wet-your-pants laughter in the same millisecond.

It's amazing how shared memories can bring you together.

It's amazing, actually, that she still speaks to me at all after the tactless comments I've made to her over the years. A particular low-point was my telling her that she would be quite pretty - if it weren't for her big nose. We were around 10 and 8 at the time. (I'm not sure I would have forgiven her that one, or indeed any number of other goody-two-shoes incidents that happened subsequently between us. No prizes for guessing who was wearing the shoes; I was the oldest, it was my job - I thought...) She got her own back though, by being much cooler, and consequently having much more success with boys than me - and by having better legs. And by being blonde. And blue eyed.

God. It's no wonder we didn't get on.

But, thank heavens, we both left home, and incredibly that is when our friendship bloomed. Aside from being my sis she is now my best friend, the person I call when I really want to let rip and who I know will always understand without 'sympathising', rounding off her summing up with some tart comment that will make me snort into my tea.

Only today she rescued me again; once after fall-out with my mum, and once when I was trying to contact Husband who had, it seemed, left the planet and travelled to Mars on his rally given how contactable he was today. (Now sorted. Men and technology. Numpties...)

Thanks K. For understanding without sympathising. (I can deal with anything but sympathy...). And by the way. This does not mean you can have my brown LK Bennet boots.

Just fo' the fun of it...

I'm sitting here waiting for the phone to ring. Husband has gone off for the weekend on a charity fancy dress car rally with my brother and a couple of his friends. He left at lunchtime today, telling us not to expect him back until Monday. However, my darling - but occassionally very slightly disorganised - brother is in charge, so when I got a call this evening telling me that the team's car had broken down around 25 miles from where they had met up, I must admit I was not surprised.

The AA are working on the car now. Heaven only knows what they thought when they turned up and were met on the hard shoulder of the M25 by a group of 4 rather middle class blokes dressed as mo'fo' pimps...


Whilst I wait, another gem from around our dinner table. The time: yesterday evening. The occasion: our first family dinner in a week. I had prepared a lovely meal of chicken (sorry to mention the Meat word, Pig in the Kitchen, but it's relevant) roasted in a mustard and marmalade marinade, with mashed potato, carrots, and broccoli. I was being hopeful with the broccoli, I know, but it gave me another bargaining chip in the compulsory negotation of what will and won't be eaten. On top of which, the green looked so pretty on the boy's plates... (And before you ask, the marinade was not my own idea, but it was a triumph).

Boy #2 did his normal party trick of getting stuck in and then spitting anything that required more than minimal chewing into his pelican bib. Lovely.

Boy #1 attacked the potato and carrots with gusto, completely ignoring the broccoli and the chicken. Well, the broccoli embargo I expected, but the chicken?

Me: "Boy #1 - can you try some chicken, please?"

Boy #1: "I don't like it..."

Me: "You haven't even tried it yet. How can you say you don't like it?"

Boy #1: "I just know I don't like it..."

Me: "Try some please, Boy #1. You know what always happens - you try some and then you say: 'Mama! I do like it!'"

Boy #1 regards me soulfully with his big eyes, clearly working out how far he is prepared to push it and at what stage I am - horrors - going to start including the broccoli in our discussion. He heaves a great sigh. "Oh, OK..."

He takes a bite, and chews thoughtfully, resembling nothing so much as one of the Masterchef judges at the semi-finals. Having considered his verdict, he leans toward his father. "Papa. I want to whisper something to you."

Husband turns towards him obligingly. "OK."

Boy #1 gets right up close to Husband's ear, probably spraying the inside liberally with the contents of his mouth, as he says in a loud stage whisper: "Papa. I do like it!"