The human mind is a remarkable thing.
Whilst it has the capacity to remember the smallest unimportant detail, it simultaneously has the ability to supress those things it feels you would be better off not thinking about.
So, for example, I can remember the smell of the newly cut grass and the distant buzz of the lawn mower floating in through open windows during my O-level exams at convent school 25 years ago. I can remember the feel of the parched dry lawn beneath my bare toes in the long hot summer of 1976. I can remember the taste of the blackcurrant ice lolly I sucked in the drizzle on a walk to the quayside aquarium in Fowey on a summer holiday, aged only 7. And I can remember gazing out of my bedroom window on a multitude of quiet summer evenings - when I should have been doing my homework - as I grew up in the Cotswolds. The pale blue sky slowly darkened to indigo and the trees on the distant horizon travelled through various shades of green to black; I can see it clearly, now.
But can I remember the pain of giving birth? Of course not. This, obviously, has more than a little to do with the fact that I opted for an epidural in both instances, but not until I had each time struggled gamely on until I was fully dilated (any men reading, look away now!), when both my hefty sons got stuck. To paraphrase Lady Bracknell 'once is unfortunate, but twice?' So I had a good few hours in each case to acquaint myself with the grittier side of giving birth - as did Husband's fingers that I crushed mercilessly during that seemingly endless period (it's amazing he was ever able to write again after Boy #2 arrived) - before giving in and demanding drugs at a stage when they are normally refused. It's testament to how 'stuck' both Boys were that I got them.
But you do forget. Of course you do - or you would never allow yourself to have more children.
And just in case you haven't experienced the phenomena of Nature's Gift of Amnesia for yourself, let me assure you that I am not alone in this. One of my girlfriends, on being questioned the day after her daughter was born about how it felt to give birth, answered "Rather like sh***ing a melon covered in glass." She now swears blind I made that up - but I never asked any of my other friends after that. And more to the point, didn't give birth myself for another 13 years or so...
Well, news flash. Potty Training falls into the area that Nature has decided it would be better for us not to fully remember.
Today was a big day in the Potty household; Boy #2 wore a pull-up nappy for the first time. He's not ready for potty training, oh I know that. We talk about it from time to time of course, but I know he's not really interested - or indeed, capable - which is why I haven't pushed it. The only action the potty has seen from his behind is fully clothed, keeping his brother company before they climb into the bath. Nevertheless, it seemed like a good time to make the switch to pull-ups in an attempt to encourage him to see the possibilities of a nappy-free life.
So today, once he was suitably clad in an easily pulled down nappy, I caught him about to 'make a delivery' (aren't euphamisms great?) and in a moment of madness suggested he sit on the potty to do so. He readily agreed, but 5 minutes of enthusiastic pushing on his part yielded no results, so I foolishly left him for a moment to fetch another nappy. And in the 30 seconds or so that I abandoned my post, he escaped from the bathroom - bare-bottomed - raced into his brother's room, and weed on the floor.
I'm not an amateur, I've been here before. I should have known what to expect. But I've decided that it's not my fault. Nature had stepped in, and wiped the 'frustration files' in the folder marked 'Potty Training' from my internal computer, and just to finish the job had deleted the 'treat naked boys with extreme caution' programme whilst she was at it.
I cleared up the wee, taking great care not to get any on my favourite loose summer dress as with this heat it's the most comfortable thing I have to wear.
However, the dress may not leave the confines of the flat for a while; this afternoon our cleaner asked if I was pregnant again.
Potty Training, and being thought noticeably pregnant (when, by the way, I most definitely am not). Pass the chocolate biscuits, please. Funny how the Human Mind never forgets where they are....
Wednesday, 30 July 2008
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
Snapshots #4
Example 1 of what happens when your children call your bluff.
You are in a stand-off situation with your younger son. It's dinner time, he won't come to the table, and it's time to show him who's boss...
Me: "Boy #2. Please come to the table. Right. Now. Or you will have to go straight to bed."
Boy #2: "That's. Not. Fair! Reeeeeeeeeeeally?"
Me: "Yes, Really. Table now, or bed."
Boy #2 considers the situation. "OK. Bed, please." And bustles into his bedroom, climbs under the duvet, and shuts his eyes...
It's the end of bath time - or rather, it should be. You're rushing to get them both into bed, it's a school night, and it was so hard to get them up this morning that you think even 10 extra minutes sleep might help ease the pain tomorrow...
Me: "Come on, Boy #1. For the 3rd time, please get out of the bath!"
Boy #1: "Why?"
Me: "Because, it's nearly bedtime, and if you don't get out now..... your skin will become all wrinkly and you'll turn into a raisin."
Boy #1 (eyes boggling): "Really????"
Me (I've got him now!): "Oh, yes."
Boy #1: "Actually then, I'm going to stay here and see how long it takes..."
I. Got. Nothing.
And finally...
I look at Boy #1. He has an angelic expression on his face, to the point where if spotted by one of the White Father's he would have been snapped up as a Holy Child and trained as a Missionary for Darkest Africa before you could say Jack Robinson.
Me: "What are you thinking about?"
Boy #1: "Chocolate."Fair enough. And I'll say it for you; Like Mother, like son...
Monday, 28 July 2008
Is there an Echo in here?
It's too hot to blog.
Like all big cities, London's heat is cumulative. A day or so of high temperatures are fine; we all revel in it, exalting in the balmy evenings, the chance to walk around after work with only a skimpy dress and no cardigan on, secure in the knowledge that this is a fleeting thing and that we are, after all, in London. It can't possibly last, we know that. One of the best jokes - or at least, one of the cleanest - that I ever heard about the British is related to this; in Britian, apparantly, we like 2 days of the year. Christmas, and Summer. Boom boom!
But just occasionally we get more than a couple of days of hot weather, and despite our protestations that we love it, and isn't it marvellous to be able to bbq every day, and who needs to go the Med for cafe society, London and it's inhabitants wilt like spring flowers in August.
The sun beats mercilessly down for 3 days or in this case, a week, and the heat builds up in the tarmac and pavements. By the late afternoon what would, elsewhere in the country, be a pleasant 25 deg C becomes an oppressive 29 deg. And that's discounting what it rises to on the tube. Being lucky enough not to need to use it on a daily - or even weekly - basis these days, I've managed to avoid it, but you can't miss those who haven't. They tumble out of the station at Gloucester Road, dazed, confused, and hunting desperately for the nearest air-conditioned shop to cool down in.
Boy #2 particularly seems to be finding the heat difficult to handle. At 2 years old, he has decided he would rather play inside than venture out into the furnace, and I can't say I blame him. Tempting though it is however to retreat into a hermit-like existence over the summer holidays, I find myself unable to do that. It's probably something to do with the fact that with Husband away in Mother Russia for a large part of the week, if we don't keep to our pre-arranged schedule of play-dates, summer school and haircuts, the only things I will find myself saying for 3 - 4 days a week will be:
Oh my god - is that another mouse? (because yes, they're back, probably sheltering from the heat outside like the rest of us. In fact, I think it's here in our tiny office with me right now, since every now and again I'm hearing unexplained movements. What, look? Are you crazy?)
Don't touch it - it's dirty!
No, we cannot keep it as a pet...
Don't touch that - it's poison! (we're using child-proof bait boxes but you never know. I am waiting for the boys to go on their grannie visits when trays of the hard stuff will be left in out for the little rodents to sample in relative safety.)
That's true, mice don't like poison.
Yes, they taste it, then decide they don't like it, and leave... That's exactly what happens.
Have you done a poo, Boy #2? (As I am overwhelmed by the olfactory evidence)
Are you sure you haven't?
Are you absolutely sure?
Yes, it is a big one, isn't it?
Maybe sometime soon you can start using the potty...
Why not?
Off you go...
Boys! No-one is allowed to play with the bicycles indoors!
I know it's yours, Boy #1, but it's not to be used inside... Boy #2, have you done another poo?
And so on.
Oh, the glamourous lives we South Kensington Mummies lead. I'm going off now to melt in front of the tv and think nostalgically back to the days when warm evenings meant sitting on the roof with my girlfriends knocking back a glass or two of white wine. Check out the link below to the Echo Falls ad if, like me, you've forgotten that somewhat more carefree existence...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZYIf2hqaRk
Like all big cities, London's heat is cumulative. A day or so of high temperatures are fine; we all revel in it, exalting in the balmy evenings, the chance to walk around after work with only a skimpy dress and no cardigan on, secure in the knowledge that this is a fleeting thing and that we are, after all, in London. It can't possibly last, we know that. One of the best jokes - or at least, one of the cleanest - that I ever heard about the British is related to this; in Britian, apparantly, we like 2 days of the year. Christmas, and Summer. Boom boom!
But just occasionally we get more than a couple of days of hot weather, and despite our protestations that we love it, and isn't it marvellous to be able to bbq every day, and who needs to go the Med for cafe society, London and it's inhabitants wilt like spring flowers in August.
The sun beats mercilessly down for 3 days or in this case, a week, and the heat builds up in the tarmac and pavements. By the late afternoon what would, elsewhere in the country, be a pleasant 25 deg C becomes an oppressive 29 deg. And that's discounting what it rises to on the tube. Being lucky enough not to need to use it on a daily - or even weekly - basis these days, I've managed to avoid it, but you can't miss those who haven't. They tumble out of the station at Gloucester Road, dazed, confused, and hunting desperately for the nearest air-conditioned shop to cool down in.
Boy #2 particularly seems to be finding the heat difficult to handle. At 2 years old, he has decided he would rather play inside than venture out into the furnace, and I can't say I blame him. Tempting though it is however to retreat into a hermit-like existence over the summer holidays, I find myself unable to do that. It's probably something to do with the fact that with Husband away in Mother Russia for a large part of the week, if we don't keep to our pre-arranged schedule of play-dates, summer school and haircuts, the only things I will find myself saying for 3 - 4 days a week will be:
Oh my god - is that another mouse? (because yes, they're back, probably sheltering from the heat outside like the rest of us. In fact, I think it's here in our tiny office with me right now, since every now and again I'm hearing unexplained movements. What, look? Are you crazy?)
Don't touch it - it's dirty!
No, we cannot keep it as a pet...
Don't touch that - it's poison! (we're using child-proof bait boxes but you never know. I am waiting for the boys to go on their grannie visits when trays of the hard stuff will be left in out for the little rodents to sample in relative safety.)
That's true, mice don't like poison.
Yes, they taste it, then decide they don't like it, and leave... That's exactly what happens.
Have you done a poo, Boy #2? (As I am overwhelmed by the olfactory evidence)
Are you sure you haven't?
Are you absolutely sure?
Yes, it is a big one, isn't it?
Maybe sometime soon you can start using the potty...
Why not?
Off you go...
Boys! No-one is allowed to play with the bicycles indoors!
I know it's yours, Boy #1, but it's not to be used inside... Boy #2, have you done another poo?
And so on.
Oh, the glamourous lives we South Kensington Mummies lead. I'm going off now to melt in front of the tv and think nostalgically back to the days when warm evenings meant sitting on the roof with my girlfriends knocking back a glass or two of white wine. Check out the link below to the Echo Falls ad if, like me, you've forgotten that somewhat more carefree existence...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZYIf2hqaRk
Thursday, 24 July 2008
Note to self # 795...
a) Before you collect your children from a hot morning at summer school and promise them a dip in the paddling pool when they get home - check that you actually have one.
b) When making an unscheduled trip to Homebase to purchase a paddling pool, don't bother to ask customer services for the measurements to make sure it will fit on your tiny terrace. They won't have them. And at least 3 people will try to queue jump whilst you are trying to persuade them to find out, convinced that their need for sprockets, loo seats, and a particularly putrid shade of paint are far more important than that of a mummy dealing with two mildly irritated small children who are desparate for a cooling dip in their own palatial Thomas the Tank Engine pool...
c) Always remember to take a lead or similar for Boy #2, to whom DIY stores are places of great wonder, majesty, and a perfect opportunity to get lost.
d) Do not offer said paddling pool experience the day after taking the children to visit a friend in Leafy Surrey who has her own swimming pool. Even a 4 year old can see the difference (though, thank God, mine was too polite to comment on it).
b) When making an unscheduled trip to Homebase to purchase a paddling pool, don't bother to ask customer services for the measurements to make sure it will fit on your tiny terrace. They won't have them. And at least 3 people will try to queue jump whilst you are trying to persuade them to find out, convinced that their need for sprockets, loo seats, and a particularly putrid shade of paint are far more important than that of a mummy dealing with two mildly irritated small children who are desparate for a cooling dip in their own palatial Thomas the Tank Engine pool...
c) Always remember to take a lead or similar for Boy #2, to whom DIY stores are places of great wonder, majesty, and a perfect opportunity to get lost.
d) Do not offer said paddling pool experience the day after taking the children to visit a friend in Leafy Surrey who has her own swimming pool. Even a 4 year old can see the difference (though, thank God, mine was too polite to comment on it).
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
Pillow Talk
You know you're getting old when you get excited about finally finding the right pillow to lay your head on at night. I mean, what type of a saddo would wax lyrical about that?
Me, obviously.
When I left home at 19 years old, my mother presented me with a set of bedding which included a pillow. Being young, skint, and not very well organised, although I complained about the paltriness of the pillow for a little while, I didn't get round to replacing it - and pretty soon, I got used to it. But this presented a problem. Whenever I slept on a different - more normal - pillow, my neck ached.
Not for me those big puffy marshmallows that you see used in American soap operas and in department store windows. Not for me the luxury of sinking back, properly supported, on acres of goose-down. No, for years now I have been on a quest for the perfect skinny pillow. I hunted high and low. In department stores, in bedding stores, and invariably, with no luck. At times, I even resorted to sleeping on a folded towel when the puffiness of replacement pillows got too much.
Some well-meaning girlfriends, knowing of the fruitlessness of my quest, and no doubt bored with hearing me whitter on about it, even bought me what they thought was a thin pillow for my 40th birthday. I'd rather been hoping for Liberty gift vouchers or something unspeakable from Myla, but there you go. However, whilst a pillow did not score that highly in the excitement stakes, it did get closer to wish-fulfillment than the table linen my MiL was originally suggesting she buy me for the same birthday... (In her defence, when she saw my face fall, she quickly followed that idea up with an alternative of vouchers for a facial. Result! Though, now I think about it, perhaps not very flattering...) Anyway, if that 40th birthday pillow was thin, then I'm Cameron Diaz.
So, I was still looking. Until last week. When I finally did what I should have done years ago, and in a fit of very belated genius googled the following: Thin Pillows. And I now have the pillow of my dreams, thanks to Lily Sophia Silk & Cotton.
Now I know my dream pillow exists, I'm going back to the site. I plan to order more so that I am never without a skinny pillow. No doubt as I get older and even more of a pain (though of course I will much prefer to call it 'charming eccentricity'), I will take to bringing one with me whenever I lay my head somewhere other than home...
But before I wander off contentedly into a world of silk-filled pillows and high thread count Egyptian cottons, I have a couple of thank-you's to make.
Tara at From Dawn 'til Rusk has very kindly given me this award. Ain't it purty?
Expect to see it appear on my sidebar very shortly. As ever, there are rules attached, as follows:
1. Put the logo on your blog.
2. Add a link to the person who awarded you.
3. Nominate seven other blogs - but Tara cut it down to 5 because in her words 'I'm lazy', and I'm much too polite to do otherwise...
4. Add links to those blogs on your blog.
5. Leave a message for your nominee on their blogs.
So, here we are with my five (yes, FIVE) nominations, in no particular order. Before I start, you may notice I've included some bloggers that I've only started reading relatively recently. Let's spread the luurrve, people...
Mud in the City, who says about herself: Never happier than when I'm knee deep in mud in the country after a bracing walk, instead I find myself living in Fulham and trying to live a professional life. I love my independence, cheese and too much pinot grigio. I hate baked beans, rudeness and cotton wool.
Grit on Grit's Day, who writes: Grit. Mother of 7-year old home-educated triplets Squirrel, Shark and Tiger. We survive. I am married to Dig who is important.
Reluctant Memsahib, who says of herself (and apologies RM, for cutting short your long and wonderful 'About Me' description): That I am a third generation Celt in Africa, means I am a Memsahib, like it or not. I’d rather be mama or dada (sister) or – especially – simply addressed by name. None would bear bloodycolonial connotation. But no, third generation and white, African logic (or quiet humour) dictates I am memsahib.... I write, I walk, I teach my youngest at home in lieu of a school run and I try not to mind being memsahib.
Dulwich Divorcee, who writes: I'm just like you - but maybe a bit sadder and trying to get wiser
Samurai Beetle, who in 'About Me' says: My name is Rachel M. I live in South Florida with -Husband, Baby Girl, 2 enormous boy cats, 1 pretty princess cat, 1 cavalier king charles
Enjoy!
I also need to thank Hadriana's Treasures for another award, but to do that proper justice I think I will do it in the next post. And of course it means I get to enjoy the moment a little bit longer...
Now, please excuse me; not only is my silk-filled Thin Pillow (note the caps, because it's worth it) calling me, but Boy #1 is refusing to sleep and I need to go and give him a teaspoonful of milk masquarading as medicine to help him drift off... (The lies we mummies tell!)
Me, obviously.
When I left home at 19 years old, my mother presented me with a set of bedding which included a pillow. Being young, skint, and not very well organised, although I complained about the paltriness of the pillow for a little while, I didn't get round to replacing it - and pretty soon, I got used to it. But this presented a problem. Whenever I slept on a different - more normal - pillow, my neck ached.
Not for me those big puffy marshmallows that you see used in American soap operas and in department store windows. Not for me the luxury of sinking back, properly supported, on acres of goose-down. No, for years now I have been on a quest for the perfect skinny pillow. I hunted high and low. In department stores, in bedding stores, and invariably, with no luck. At times, I even resorted to sleeping on a folded towel when the puffiness of replacement pillows got too much.
Some well-meaning girlfriends, knowing of the fruitlessness of my quest, and no doubt bored with hearing me whitter on about it, even bought me what they thought was a thin pillow for my 40th birthday. I'd rather been hoping for Liberty gift vouchers or something unspeakable from Myla, but there you go. However, whilst a pillow did not score that highly in the excitement stakes, it did get closer to wish-fulfillment than the table linen my MiL was originally suggesting she buy me for the same birthday... (In her defence, when she saw my face fall, she quickly followed that idea up with an alternative of vouchers for a facial. Result! Though, now I think about it, perhaps not very flattering...) Anyway, if that 40th birthday pillow was thin, then I'm Cameron Diaz.
So, I was still looking. Until last week. When I finally did what I should have done years ago, and in a fit of very belated genius googled the following: Thin Pillows. And I now have the pillow of my dreams, thanks to Lily Sophia Silk & Cotton.
Now I know my dream pillow exists, I'm going back to the site. I plan to order more so that I am never without a skinny pillow. No doubt as I get older and even more of a pain (though of course I will much prefer to call it 'charming eccentricity'), I will take to bringing one with me whenever I lay my head somewhere other than home...
But before I wander off contentedly into a world of silk-filled pillows and high thread count Egyptian cottons, I have a couple of thank-you's to make.
Tara at From Dawn 'til Rusk has very kindly given me this award. Ain't it purty?
Expect to see it appear on my sidebar very shortly. As ever, there are rules attached, as follows:
1. Put the logo on your blog.
2. Add a link to the person who awarded you.
3. Nominate seven other blogs - but Tara cut it down to 5 because in her words 'I'm lazy', and I'm much too polite to do otherwise...
4. Add links to those blogs on your blog.
5. Leave a message for your nominee on their blogs.
So, here we are with my five (yes, FIVE) nominations, in no particular order. Before I start, you may notice I've included some bloggers that I've only started reading relatively recently. Let's spread the luurrve, people...
Mud in the City, who says about herself: Never happier than when I'm knee deep in mud in the country after a bracing walk, instead I find myself living in Fulham and trying to live a professional life. I love my independence, cheese and too much pinot grigio. I hate baked beans, rudeness and cotton wool.
Grit on Grit's Day, who writes: Grit. Mother of 7-year old home-educated triplets Squirrel, Shark and Tiger. We survive. I am married to Dig who is important.
Reluctant Memsahib, who says of herself (and apologies RM, for cutting short your long and wonderful 'About Me' description): That I am a third generation Celt in Africa, means I am a Memsahib, like it or not. I’d rather be mama or dada (sister) or – especially – simply addressed by name. None would bear bloodycolonial connotation. But no, third generation and white, African logic (or quiet humour) dictates I am memsahib.... I write, I walk, I teach my youngest at home in lieu of a school run and I try not to mind being memsahib.
Dulwich Divorcee, who writes: I'm just like you - but maybe a bit sadder and trying to get wiser
Samurai Beetle, who in 'About Me' says: My name is Rachel M. I live in South Florida with -Husband, Baby Girl, 2 enormous boy cats, 1 pretty princess cat, 1 cavalier king charles
Enjoy!
I also need to thank Hadriana's Treasures for another award, but to do that proper justice I think I will do it in the next post. And of course it means I get to enjoy the moment a little bit longer...
Now, please excuse me; not only is my silk-filled Thin Pillow (note the caps, because it's worth it) calling me, but Boy #1 is refusing to sleep and I need to go and give him a teaspoonful of milk masquarading as medicine to help him drift off... (The lies we mummies tell!)
Monday, 21 July 2008
There may be Trouble ahead...
You can almost smell the panic in the air.
Outside schools and nurseries all over western Europe (or all over Kensington and Chelsea, at least), mummies and carers gather with a look of desperation on their faces. Details of summer schools are exchanged and noted down in Smythson diaries and on Blackberries. Enquiries about who's nanny is looking for filler work whilst their employers head off for sunnier climes are bandied around. (This is last ditch talk, of course; we all know that most families moneyed enough to employ a nanny and who have a second home in sunnier climes are actually doing the sensible thing, and taking the Help with them...) And playdates with families with gardens - or access to garden squares - are being set up with indecent haste.
You guessed it.
The Summer Holidays are upon us.
Are you ready? I'm not sure I am.
I have booked playdates - a number of them. The Boys are signed up for a couple of days of Summer School at the nursery. And Boy #1 is due to attend a week of morning sessions at a drama class, with the theme of Pirates and Mermaids. I'm not sure if this is wise, given his tendencies to overdramatise, but needs must.
Ahoy, me hearties! Is that a beached whale I see before me? No, it's a mummy doing her impression of one, following a summer of having children at home with no child-care and thus no time to go to the gym, who has had only biscuits for company and consolation...
Thankfully, The Grannies have both been marshalled, and are each standing ready for their 3 - 4 days 'quality time' with the Boys. I hope they know what they are letting themselves in for. By the time we deliver our little cherubs, Boy #1 will have been immersed in a week of life on the ocean seas so no doubt will be sleeping in an eye patch, and Boy #2 is getting more independant every day.
It's amazing to me that 2 year-olds make it to their 3rd birthday really, given all the scrapes mine gets himself into. Any day now I'm expecting to walk into the living room to find he's scaled the bookshelves in search of some electronic device to use as a phone. If today is anything to go by, he'll be sitting up there next to the untouched Penguin Classics (the legacy of a university education, and abandoned to splendid isolation ever since), with the Sky remote control pinned to his ear, saying "Uh huh, yes. Yes. Mmmmm. Tractor. Riiiight. Train - water. On track."
This afternoon in the nursery playground, my back was only turned for an instant when he proceeded to try and climb into the front of one the other mum's Bakfiets (think; Dutch invention of a bicycle with a box on the front for the kids to ride in - or check out this link if you think you've never heard of such a crazy thing and that I couldn't possibly mean what you think I do).
On it's own, this would have been fine, but he was using the spokes of the wheel as steps, and since he's not the lightest of little princes, visions of recieving invoices for £1000's to repair the damage flashed across my mind. I dragged him away, kicking and screaming, to the garden square, thinking that at least here he would be contained. Where he then proceeded to make his way over to one of the gardeners bags, open it, and as I turned round to catch him in the act, was about to sink his little gnashers into one of their very tasty looking sandwiches.
And the holidays don't officially start until tomorrow.
I'm feeling a bit twitchy about the Boy's granny stays, to be honest. On a recent visit to MiL's house, half the soft furnishings in the conservatory turned out to be works in progress and full of pins, whilst yesterday evening my mother 'fessed up to having had to remove a tick from my father's leg last week. Not from their garden, obviously. Oh no. From a neighbour's.
Well, that makes me feel so much better...
And then, to make me feel even more relaxed with this news, Mum went on to list the diseases that ticks can carry. Lyme's Disease. Encyphalitis. Meningitis. And so on. My laughter at that stage became more than a little hysterical, and noticing this, she hurried to repair the damage by assuring me that during their stay the Boys would not be allowed outside without long trousers and wellington boots. A 2 and a 4 year old, outside, in long trousers and boots, in the summer?
Whatever it takes.
Now, where are those carrot, apple and chocolate muffins I made for the Boys' last day of term? Some quality control checks are needed, I think.
Outside schools and nurseries all over western Europe (or all over Kensington and Chelsea, at least), mummies and carers gather with a look of desperation on their faces. Details of summer schools are exchanged and noted down in Smythson diaries and on Blackberries. Enquiries about who's nanny is looking for filler work whilst their employers head off for sunnier climes are bandied around. (This is last ditch talk, of course; we all know that most families moneyed enough to employ a nanny and who have a second home in sunnier climes are actually doing the sensible thing, and taking the Help with them...) And playdates with families with gardens - or access to garden squares - are being set up with indecent haste.
You guessed it.
The Summer Holidays are upon us.
Are you ready? I'm not sure I am.
I have booked playdates - a number of them. The Boys are signed up for a couple of days of Summer School at the nursery. And Boy #1 is due to attend a week of morning sessions at a drama class, with the theme of Pirates and Mermaids. I'm not sure if this is wise, given his tendencies to overdramatise, but needs must.
Ahoy, me hearties! Is that a beached whale I see before me? No, it's a mummy doing her impression of one, following a summer of having children at home with no child-care and thus no time to go to the gym, who has had only biscuits for company and consolation...
Thankfully, The Grannies have both been marshalled, and are each standing ready for their 3 - 4 days 'quality time' with the Boys. I hope they know what they are letting themselves in for. By the time we deliver our little cherubs, Boy #1 will have been immersed in a week of life on the ocean seas so no doubt will be sleeping in an eye patch, and Boy #2 is getting more independant every day.
It's amazing to me that 2 year-olds make it to their 3rd birthday really, given all the scrapes mine gets himself into. Any day now I'm expecting to walk into the living room to find he's scaled the bookshelves in search of some electronic device to use as a phone. If today is anything to go by, he'll be sitting up there next to the untouched Penguin Classics (the legacy of a university education, and abandoned to splendid isolation ever since), with the Sky remote control pinned to his ear, saying "Uh huh, yes. Yes. Mmmmm. Tractor. Riiiight. Train - water. On track."
This afternoon in the nursery playground, my back was only turned for an instant when he proceeded to try and climb into the front of one the other mum's Bakfiets (think; Dutch invention of a bicycle with a box on the front for the kids to ride in - or check out this link if you think you've never heard of such a crazy thing and that I couldn't possibly mean what you think I do).
On it's own, this would have been fine, but he was using the spokes of the wheel as steps, and since he's not the lightest of little princes, visions of recieving invoices for £1000's to repair the damage flashed across my mind. I dragged him away, kicking and screaming, to the garden square, thinking that at least here he would be contained. Where he then proceeded to make his way over to one of the gardeners bags, open it, and as I turned round to catch him in the act, was about to sink his little gnashers into one of their very tasty looking sandwiches.
And the holidays don't officially start until tomorrow.
I'm feeling a bit twitchy about the Boy's granny stays, to be honest. On a recent visit to MiL's house, half the soft furnishings in the conservatory turned out to be works in progress and full of pins, whilst yesterday evening my mother 'fessed up to having had to remove a tick from my father's leg last week. Not from their garden, obviously. Oh no. From a neighbour's.
Well, that makes me feel so much better...
And then, to make me feel even more relaxed with this news, Mum went on to list the diseases that ticks can carry. Lyme's Disease. Encyphalitis. Meningitis. And so on. My laughter at that stage became more than a little hysterical, and noticing this, she hurried to repair the damage by assuring me that during their stay the Boys would not be allowed outside without long trousers and wellington boots. A 2 and a 4 year old, outside, in long trousers and boots, in the summer?
Whatever it takes.
Now, where are those carrot, apple and chocolate muffins I made for the Boys' last day of term? Some quality control checks are needed, I think.
Friday, 18 July 2008
Children say the funniest things...
Well, you better be laughing, is my point of view.
This morning at the Amazing Butterflies exhibition at the Natural History Museum, a friend's daughter asked me:
"Have you got a baby in your tummy?"
I replied: "Thanks for asking J, but no, I haven't."
What I wanted to say was: "You cheeky little so and so. You're 5 years old and you think you can diss me like that? In your pedal pushers, with your cute blonde bunches? Have 2 kids, honey, and then come round here with your impertinent questions..." Can I tell you how relieved I was when her gorgeous skinny yummy mummy then said quietly to me "God, she's obsessed. She asked me that on the way here too"? (It may not have been true, but I'll take anything...)
Then, this afternoon, Boy #1, having spent the morning with 2 very girly girlfriends and their long/shoulder length haired mummies, turned to me and said:
"Mama, you have Boy hair."
And there was me thinking it was chic, attractive, sassy and stylish, not to mention being the best cut for the shape of my face. In addition it's the only way of dealing with a head of hair that, if it grows any longer than my collar, sits flat on my head like a very dead thing.
But no. It's Boy hair, apparantly.
Ah well.
Rejoice. For our children are getting Opinions.
This morning at the Amazing Butterflies exhibition at the Natural History Museum, a friend's daughter asked me:
"Have you got a baby in your tummy?"
I replied: "Thanks for asking J, but no, I haven't."
What I wanted to say was: "You cheeky little so and so. You're 5 years old and you think you can diss me like that? In your pedal pushers, with your cute blonde bunches? Have 2 kids, honey, and then come round here with your impertinent questions..." Can I tell you how relieved I was when her gorgeous skinny yummy mummy then said quietly to me "God, she's obsessed. She asked me that on the way here too"? (It may not have been true, but I'll take anything...)
Then, this afternoon, Boy #1, having spent the morning with 2 very girly girlfriends and their long/shoulder length haired mummies, turned to me and said:
"Mama, you have Boy hair."
And there was me thinking it was chic, attractive, sassy and stylish, not to mention being the best cut for the shape of my face. In addition it's the only way of dealing with a head of hair that, if it grows any longer than my collar, sits flat on my head like a very dead thing.
But no. It's Boy hair, apparantly.
Ah well.
Rejoice. For our children are getting Opinions.
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