...for the greatest answer to baby-broodiness you will ever hear of!
Oh yes indeedy, laydees! Are you reaching that 'certain age'? Do you find yourself casting wistful glances at cute little bundles of joy you pass on the street? Does the smell of newly washed baby cause you to cast all thoughts of caution to the wind?
In short, are you finding yourself afflicted by baby hunger when you know it would be madness to give in to it?
Fear not! I have the answer! No longer need you find yourself momentarily blinded to the pitfalls of re-entering the baby fog for a 2nd, 3rd, 4th, or even (Madame Pig) a 5th time when confronted with those little packages of sweetness known as babies!
'What is it?' I hear you ask. 'Tell us, dear Potty! What is the answer? How can we rid ourselves of these pesky hormonal urges? Show me how to lock that dastardly Mother Nature out of my well-ordered 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 (add more numbers as appropriate) child household once and for all?'
The answer, my dears, is simple.
Take your 2 year old to a wedding.
Smile smugly as you enter the church, congratulating yourself on your foresight in bringing cars, colouring books and trains to keep your little poppet amused during the important parts of the ceremony. Beam gently at the young mum in front of you cradling a bright-eyed and beautifully behaved 5 month old little girl, and watch indulgently as the little trollop (the baby, that is, not the mum) makes eyes at your husband...
Sensibly refuse the offer from the church warden of a bench halfway up the church, reasoning that the back of the church might prove less noticeable should your older little angel be caught short.
Grimace understandingly at the family with the badly behaved little one a few rows in front, thinking 'gosh, we're lucky my boys are used to going to church. At least we can rely on them to behave themselves'.
Glance surprisedly at your little darling as he throws his cars noisily to the floor and tries to post his train down the radiator behind your pew.
Whisper calmly as your husband's son begins to wriggle free of your grasp, making a bid for freedom in the direction of the children's corner you didn't notice when you made your foolish choice of seat, but which is now in plain view and which it has become Boy #2's dearest wish to visit.
Wait for the first hymn to begin to scuttle over to said corner, half-inch a Postman Pat soft toy and bring it back to him in the certain knowledge that this will keep him happy for the next 40 minutes of the service.
Watch in disbelief as he discards it and demands Minnie Mouse - very loudly - at a quiet moment. (For pete's sake! Does he even know who Minnie Mouse is? Has the babysitter been putting on the Disney channel?)
Send his older brother over to fetch requested doll in hope of a quiet life, only to...
Shrink as he waits for the priest to stop talking long enough to shout 'I want Bob the Builder!' at the top of his voice.
Calmly ask him to be quiet, and recoil, as in just as loud a voice as before he answers back 'Why? Why?'
Mutter under your breath that this is quite enough thankyou, as you scoop your younger son up and whisk him out of the church, only to...
Teeter precariously as your patent leather heels sink 3 centimeters deep into the grass of the wet churchyard whilst you chase your cheeky 2 year old in and out of tombstones.
Curse - not so quietly - as you ladder your tights (would like to say stockings here but I cannot tell a lie, they were control-top) on a rose bush.
Curse - a little louder - as you realise that the unpleasant smell you have become of aware during the chase is in fact emanating from your not-yet-potty-trained son.
Whisk him away for a change session in the back of the car, and once you get there, realise that you have left the change bag - along with the toys, books and snacks - on the floor under the bench. In the church.
Stomp crossly back up the path in your muddy shoes, smelly boy in tow, to retrieve said bag.
Sneak back into the church for furious whispered exchange with confused Husband who professes no knowledge of the bag until it is located behind his legs.
Steam righteously back to the car with smelly boy and the bag to change the nappy.
Tiptoe back into the service with younger son after delivering a brief lecture on behaving himself at his ex-nanny's wedding, to be greeted by older son bursting into tears when his request for a biscuit is met by blank incomprehension on your part as to how 5 years of 'no food in church' could translate into 'can I have a snack now, please?'
Glance at husband in complete frustration.
Crack up in a fit of hysterical shared giggles that you are powerless to control as it dawns on both of you simultaneously that you - yes, you - are the parents least likely to win the prizes for well-behaved children at this wedding, and that there is...
SOD ALL YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT!
So that's it, laydees. Want to cure the baby hunger? Take your existing children to a wedding...
No, no, put your chequebooks away. There will be no charge levied for this priceless information. Think of it as a gift from me to you...
Monday, 29 September 2008
Friday, 26 September 2008
Future shock
You know how in my last post I said I wouldn't be picking my son up from school on foot again? Well, the best laid plans, and all that...
We did it slightly differently today, though. Instead of walking to the nearest park as yesterday, where I had handily parked the car for the remainder of the trip home, this afternoon we were forced to walk the entire way. It's a fair step: the way there, without Boy #1 (but with his brother in the buggy) took all of 25 minutes. That's quite a distance when you're 5 and you've had a long week at school.
Anticipating this I had bought each of the boys (and their mummy too, of course), a decent-sized cookie to take the edge off the first 10 minutes or so. "It's for extra energy" I told them. "What, the raisins too?" asked my eldest poppet, curling his lip at the thought that he might unwittingly eat something wholesome. "Yes, the raisins too. Try them, you never know, you might like them."
Shock number 1: he did like them! Not a lot, it has to be said, but they were eaten without further complaint. Which only goes to show how tired he must have been feeling at that point: his resistance was clearly low...
The subsequent sugar hit fuelled us along the pavement for a while, with only a few pauses for complaining and fretting that the pavements weren't smooth enough for his scooter to coast on at optimum speed, but eventually, as I had known it would, the energy rush ran out. Our pace became slower and slower. Comments about how far we'd come and how he couldn't go any further increased in frequency. It didn't help that Boy #2 was still munching on his cookie at this point, sitting in his buggy like a little pasha, and taunting his brother with the remains of his treat. As we were on the home straight by this time though, I was hopeful we would all make it back in one piece.
Suddenly, we ground to a halt. "What is it, Boy #1?" I asked in my sweetest and most reasonable voice (aren't blogs great for rewriting the past?). "Come along, we're nearly home!" Amazingly, this was in fact true. So near home that we were by the girls prep school around the corner from our flat. It appeared that it was the sound from the playground (it was break) that had stopped my exhausted son in his tracks. "What's that?" he asked. "A girl's school." "Oh."
Slowly, he began to move again. As we drew level with the school gates, his gaze became fixed on the girls inside. So fixed, in fact, that as he continued walking and pushing his scooter, not watching where he was going, he ran into the gate post...
Far from being perturbed by this turn of events, however, Boy #1 made the best of having found himself an audience. He got back on his scooter, crouched low over the handle bars, literally growled (think Hugh Grant in Bridget Jones, revving the engine of his flash car as he picks her up for their 'mini-break'), and sped off down the street, leaving his admiring audience gasping at his derring-do.
He's 5. There may be trouble ahead...
Still, I shouldn't complain. At least that flash of dash got us home.
We did it slightly differently today, though. Instead of walking to the nearest park as yesterday, where I had handily parked the car for the remainder of the trip home, this afternoon we were forced to walk the entire way. It's a fair step: the way there, without Boy #1 (but with his brother in the buggy) took all of 25 minutes. That's quite a distance when you're 5 and you've had a long week at school.
Anticipating this I had bought each of the boys (and their mummy too, of course), a decent-sized cookie to take the edge off the first 10 minutes or so. "It's for extra energy" I told them. "What, the raisins too?" asked my eldest poppet, curling his lip at the thought that he might unwittingly eat something wholesome. "Yes, the raisins too. Try them, you never know, you might like them."
Shock number 1: he did like them! Not a lot, it has to be said, but they were eaten without further complaint. Which only goes to show how tired he must have been feeling at that point: his resistance was clearly low...
The subsequent sugar hit fuelled us along the pavement for a while, with only a few pauses for complaining and fretting that the pavements weren't smooth enough for his scooter to coast on at optimum speed, but eventually, as I had known it would, the energy rush ran out. Our pace became slower and slower. Comments about how far we'd come and how he couldn't go any further increased in frequency. It didn't help that Boy #2 was still munching on his cookie at this point, sitting in his buggy like a little pasha, and taunting his brother with the remains of his treat. As we were on the home straight by this time though, I was hopeful we would all make it back in one piece.
Suddenly, we ground to a halt. "What is it, Boy #1?" I asked in my sweetest and most reasonable voice (aren't blogs great for rewriting the past?). "Come along, we're nearly home!" Amazingly, this was in fact true. So near home that we were by the girls prep school around the corner from our flat. It appeared that it was the sound from the playground (it was break) that had stopped my exhausted son in his tracks. "What's that?" he asked. "A girl's school." "Oh."
Slowly, he began to move again. As we drew level with the school gates, his gaze became fixed on the girls inside. So fixed, in fact, that as he continued walking and pushing his scooter, not watching where he was going, he ran into the gate post...
Far from being perturbed by this turn of events, however, Boy #1 made the best of having found himself an audience. He got back on his scooter, crouched low over the handle bars, literally growled (think Hugh Grant in Bridget Jones, revving the engine of his flash car as he picks her up for their 'mini-break'), and sped off down the street, leaving his admiring audience gasping at his derring-do.
He's 5. There may be trouble ahead...
Still, I shouldn't complain. At least that flash of dash got us home.
Thursday, 25 September 2008
It's remarkable!
We picked Boy #1 up from school on foot today. Won't be doing that again, oh no...
I was pushing Boy #2 in his buggy, and a visiting friend was supervising Boy #1 and asking pertinent questions about his day. As we reached the Kings Road a rather large gentleman turned down the road we were just walking out of.
Boy #1, at the top of his voice, announced in an interested and informative tone: "Look! Look! A REALLY faaaaaat man!"
How to deal with this? He spoke the truth. The man was fat - remarkably so. You would notice him walking down the street, no doubt about it. But good manners mean that this is not something to be mentioned.
For some reason (and it's not particularly relevant, but it makes a good side-story so indulge me) it reminds me of the time, around 20 years ago when one of my co-workers was wearing one of those 'body' suits that were all the rage. You know, the ones that looked like a tight-fitting top tucked into your skirt / trousers, and which were usually worn under a jacket with padded shoulders (Miami Vice-tastic). The hidden 'extras' were the attractive baby-gro flaps that kept the top so smooth and wrinkle free and which popped together 'down below'. Good idea if you liked the body-conscious look. But bloody uncomfortable, as I remember, and if they were the slightest bit tight, required some interesting contortions in the loo to refasten them... Donna Karan has a lot to answer for (apparantly they were her invention).
Anyway, how did we know my colleague was wearing one of these contraptions? Because clearly, when attending to her toilette, she had failed to master the popper mechanism, and the back of the suit was hanging down over the top of her skirt.
All day.
We could all see it. We all knew that if that were us, we would want to be told. But nobody could quite bring themselves to mention it. I finally plucked up the courage to tell her at around 3.00pm, and when she returned from her red-faced rush to the ladies and asked how long it had been visible, I lied heroically and said I had only noticed it in the last few minutes. Well, you would, wouldn't you? Nothing would have been gained by adding to her mortification had she realised it had been an all day baby-gro situation...
So anyway, as usual I digress. Back to our children and their absence of a filter between brain and mouth. Or is that just 5 year olds? Or, in fact, just my 5 year old?
If you are anything like me, the adage 'seen and not heard' is not used in your house. Our children are people, and as such are encouraged to say what they are thinking. Politely, yes, in a timely manner, yes, but we want to know. We want open lines of communication rather than stunted silence (though every now and again a little quiet would be welcome), untrammelled creativity (well, untrammelled as long it involves paper rather than the walls, floor, or material furnishings), and above all we want to foster an eager curiosity in the world around them.
Which means, as every parent knows, you have to take the rough with the smooth, roll with the punches, and deal with interesting questions about nipples and why men have them as well women, for example. (That was tonight's bathtime poser. Anyone know the answer, by the way?)
I might prefer that sometimes they did it less loudly, less emphatically, or with less whining, but I want my sons to ask questions and to comment on the world around them. It's an important part of their growing up.
Which takes me back to this afternoon. What would you do in response to Boy #1's remark? As tempting as a swift clip round the side of the head might have seemed at the time, I chose to stop the buggy and very briefly - and matter of factly - discuss with him why commenting on someone's weight was not really a very polite thing to do.
And then, once my sons' backs were turned, I'm afraid to say my friend and I cracked up.
Kids. What a joy.
I was pushing Boy #2 in his buggy, and a visiting friend was supervising Boy #1 and asking pertinent questions about his day. As we reached the Kings Road a rather large gentleman turned down the road we were just walking out of.
Boy #1, at the top of his voice, announced in an interested and informative tone: "Look! Look! A REALLY faaaaaat man!"
How to deal with this? He spoke the truth. The man was fat - remarkably so. You would notice him walking down the street, no doubt about it. But good manners mean that this is not something to be mentioned.
For some reason (and it's not particularly relevant, but it makes a good side-story so indulge me) it reminds me of the time, around 20 years ago when one of my co-workers was wearing one of those 'body' suits that were all the rage. You know, the ones that looked like a tight-fitting top tucked into your skirt / trousers, and which were usually worn under a jacket with padded shoulders (Miami Vice-tastic). The hidden 'extras' were the attractive baby-gro flaps that kept the top so smooth and wrinkle free and which popped together 'down below'. Good idea if you liked the body-conscious look. But bloody uncomfortable, as I remember, and if they were the slightest bit tight, required some interesting contortions in the loo to refasten them... Donna Karan has a lot to answer for (apparantly they were her invention).
Anyway, how did we know my colleague was wearing one of these contraptions? Because clearly, when attending to her toilette, she had failed to master the popper mechanism, and the back of the suit was hanging down over the top of her skirt.
All day.
We could all see it. We all knew that if that were us, we would want to be told. But nobody could quite bring themselves to mention it. I finally plucked up the courage to tell her at around 3.00pm, and when she returned from her red-faced rush to the ladies and asked how long it had been visible, I lied heroically and said I had only noticed it in the last few minutes. Well, you would, wouldn't you? Nothing would have been gained by adding to her mortification had she realised it had been an all day baby-gro situation...
So anyway, as usual I digress. Back to our children and their absence of a filter between brain and mouth. Or is that just 5 year olds? Or, in fact, just my 5 year old?
If you are anything like me, the adage 'seen and not heard' is not used in your house. Our children are people, and as such are encouraged to say what they are thinking. Politely, yes, in a timely manner, yes, but we want to know. We want open lines of communication rather than stunted silence (though every now and again a little quiet would be welcome), untrammelled creativity (well, untrammelled as long it involves paper rather than the walls, floor, or material furnishings), and above all we want to foster an eager curiosity in the world around them.
Which means, as every parent knows, you have to take the rough with the smooth, roll with the punches, and deal with interesting questions about nipples and why men have them as well women, for example. (That was tonight's bathtime poser. Anyone know the answer, by the way?)
I might prefer that sometimes they did it less loudly, less emphatically, or with less whining, but I want my sons to ask questions and to comment on the world around them. It's an important part of their growing up.
Which takes me back to this afternoon. What would you do in response to Boy #1's remark? As tempting as a swift clip round the side of the head might have seemed at the time, I chose to stop the buggy and very briefly - and matter of factly - discuss with him why commenting on someone's weight was not really a very polite thing to do.
And then, once my sons' backs were turned, I'm afraid to say my friend and I cracked up.
Kids. What a joy.
Wednesday, 24 September 2008
Lies, dam'd lies, and dental appointments
This post was going to be called 'of rear ends and dental floss', which, you have to agree, is a pretty catchy title.
It certainly would have snared some pretty interesting visitors.
But I started to write, and somehow that title skewed the content of the post, I can't imagine why. I began to tell you all sorts of things about my mis-spent youth, knickers of choice, and other personal histories which frankly are best left undisturbed. At least, in writing.
So instead, here's a snapshot of my morning. Please laugh - I had to...
Imagine, if you will, a Kwikfit store, somewhere in central London. It's 8.31am. The bell on the door tinkles prettily as a stunningly attractive late 30-something brunette sashays in. (In a certain light, she looks just like Juliette Binoche. In the dark, that is). She makes her way to the counter where the following exchange takes place...
Brunette: "Could you take a look at my car, please? I think there's something wrong with the exhaust as it's sounding like a Ferrari - which it isn't."
Manager (as if): "Certainly ma'am. Which car is it?" (gesturing hopefully outside at any of the number of expensive models parked on the street)
Brunette: "That one, over there."
He wilts, visibily. "The........ Skoda?"
The Brunette holds her head high: "Yes. I'm afraid so..."
The long and short of our conversation (for yes, dear reader, that stunningly attractive late 30-something brunette was, in fact, me)(Oh alright. Early 40-something, if you're going to be like that...) was that my beloved purple nightmare needs not only a new catalytic converter, but a new exhaust as well, and that the grand total for this injury would be in the region of £470...
Before 9.00am? Before even a can of diet coke, a hot chocolate, or a cuppa?
I don't think so.
So, I thanked the gentleman for his expert opinion, declined his kind offer of a free machine coffee whilst I waited for the work to be done, and drove off to seek a second opinion, from Ray, our helpful mechanic who services said purple nightmare yearly. Imagine the following delivered in strong Greek accent.
Ray: "What you want, see, is this, you want a new cat, because it's broken, right, and if you bang it, like this, you hear it - you hear that? - so we need a new one for you which I don't have but I will call him right now, the man, and see if he has one, but wait, I don't know which model, because your Skoda, right, your Skoda can have one of two, so I need the chassis number (I just look it up on the computer right now don't you worry I got it), and then we know, but what you don't need, see, is a new exhaust, because this, right, this is not broken, it's got 3, 6, 9 months, maybe a year left in it, and I know your husband he don't want to keep the car that much longer so why pay, right, if you gonna replace it soon, so don't you worry PM, all will be OK, and I won't charge you what those cowboys at Kwikfit quote - no don't tell me what it was, I don't want to know - but I better it by a lot because I not going to fit new exhaust just because I can. OK?"
OK.
The long and short of it is that it's still going to cost too much money, but we're going to do it anyway, because the incessant rattling and roaring is driving me crazy, worrying Boy #2 who now accuses me of crashing the car every time he hears it ("Mama! Listen! Don't crash! Car!"), and leading Boy #1 to glance around expectantly for a Ferrari every time I accelerate...
So, that was my morning until 10.30am, at which time the Ferrari/Skoda and I arrived at my dentist's for an appointment with the hygeinist.
Now, there are times in life when it's acceptable - almost expected - to tell a little white lie or two...
You get the picture, I'm sure. But there are other times in life when it is impossible to lie. Like, when you swear blind to the lady with the scales that you have been eating sensibly - but you've put on 2 lbs. Or, when you stand in the kitchen at home wondering when the little taste of ice-cream suddenly turned into an empty tub.
Or, in the dentist's chair. No place to hide - or lie - there. Not with the hygeinist putting you through seven kinds of hell whilst she removes all the scaly evidence that you made empty promises when you said on your last visit you were definitely going to floss at least 3 times a week from now on...
I think she was a little disappointed in me. If possible, it hurt even more than usual this time. She probably did that just to teach me a lesson. In a kind of 'no more Mrs Nice Guy' style. She needn't worry though. I've learnt my lesson. I will floss, every day.
Starting tomorrow.
It certainly would have snared some pretty interesting visitors.
But I started to write, and somehow that title skewed the content of the post, I can't imagine why. I began to tell you all sorts of things about my mis-spent youth, knickers of choice, and other personal histories which frankly are best left undisturbed. At least, in writing.
So instead, here's a snapshot of my morning. Please laugh - I had to...
Imagine, if you will, a Kwikfit store, somewhere in central London. It's 8.31am. The bell on the door tinkles prettily as a stunningly attractive late 30-something brunette sashays in. (In a certain light, she looks just like Juliette Binoche. In the dark, that is). She makes her way to the counter where the following exchange takes place...
Brunette: "Could you take a look at my car, please? I think there's something wrong with the exhaust as it's sounding like a Ferrari - which it isn't."
Manager (as if): "Certainly ma'am. Which car is it?" (gesturing hopefully outside at any of the number of expensive models parked on the street)
Brunette: "That one, over there."
He wilts, visibily. "The........ Skoda?"
The Brunette holds her head high: "Yes. I'm afraid so..."
The long and short of our conversation (for yes, dear reader, that stunningly attractive late 30-something brunette was, in fact, me)(Oh alright. Early 40-something, if you're going to be like that...) was that my beloved purple nightmare needs not only a new catalytic converter, but a new exhaust as well, and that the grand total for this injury would be in the region of £470...
Before 9.00am? Before even a can of diet coke, a hot chocolate, or a cuppa?
I don't think so.
So, I thanked the gentleman for his expert opinion, declined his kind offer of a free machine coffee whilst I waited for the work to be done, and drove off to seek a second opinion, from Ray, our helpful mechanic who services said purple nightmare yearly. Imagine the following delivered in strong Greek accent.
Ray: "What you want, see, is this, you want a new cat, because it's broken, right, and if you bang it, like this, you hear it - you hear that? - so we need a new one for you which I don't have but I will call him right now, the man, and see if he has one, but wait, I don't know which model, because your Skoda, right, your Skoda can have one of two, so I need the chassis number (I just look it up on the computer right now don't you worry I got it), and then we know, but what you don't need, see, is a new exhaust, because this, right, this is not broken, it's got 3, 6, 9 months, maybe a year left in it, and I know your husband he don't want to keep the car that much longer so why pay, right, if you gonna replace it soon, so don't you worry PM, all will be OK, and I won't charge you what those cowboys at Kwikfit quote - no don't tell me what it was, I don't want to know - but I better it by a lot because I not going to fit new exhaust just because I can. OK?"
OK.
The long and short of it is that it's still going to cost too much money, but we're going to do it anyway, because the incessant rattling and roaring is driving me crazy, worrying Boy #2 who now accuses me of crashing the car every time he hears it ("Mama! Listen! Don't crash! Car!"), and leading Boy #1 to glance around expectantly for a Ferrari every time I accelerate...
So, that was my morning until 10.30am, at which time the Ferrari/Skoda and I arrived at my dentist's for an appointment with the hygeinist.
Now, there are times in life when it's acceptable - almost expected - to tell a little white lie or two...
- Gosh, no, I never diet!
- Exercise? Me? No, the baby weight simply dropped off through breast feeding and running around after the children...
- Don't worry about it! I'll easily find another babysitter (at 4 hours notice?)
- No, no, bring your mother. The more the merrier!
- Boy #1's feeling a little under the weather today - otherwise I'm sure he'd wolf down this risotto with chanterelle mushrooms just like the other children...
- I never eat chocolate...
You get the picture, I'm sure. But there are other times in life when it is impossible to lie. Like, when you swear blind to the lady with the scales that you have been eating sensibly - but you've put on 2 lbs. Or, when you stand in the kitchen at home wondering when the little taste of ice-cream suddenly turned into an empty tub.
Or, in the dentist's chair. No place to hide - or lie - there. Not with the hygeinist putting you through seven kinds of hell whilst she removes all the scaly evidence that you made empty promises when you said on your last visit you were definitely going to floss at least 3 times a week from now on...
I think she was a little disappointed in me. If possible, it hurt even more than usual this time. She probably did that just to teach me a lesson. In a kind of 'no more Mrs Nice Guy' style. She needn't worry though. I've learnt my lesson. I will floss, every day.
Starting tomorrow.
Monday, 22 September 2008
Mothers, know your limits...
Aah, Mondays. Don't you just love them?
Husband rushed off to Mother Russia first thing, and this was my morning until 10.00am:
6.45am: Got myself out of bed, washed and as presentable as it is possible to be on too little sleep and a surfeit of wine from 2 days prior.
7.10.am: Got 2 boys dressed and in the correct outfits, dealing with 'My short's are too rough, mama!' from Little Prince #1, and demands from Little Prince #2 that I reconstruct the lego airplane he had just smashed. I would have, but since it took Husband 3 hours to build the thing in the first place, and since I had only a window of 5 minutes spare in our morning schedule, I thought it was a little ambitious to begin at that moment...
7.30am: Organised breakfast for the three of us, making sure to:
a) give correct bowls to correct Boys to avoid an outbreak of warfare
b) limit number of toys Boy #2 takes to the table
c) capture Boy #2 on his way to replace the toys I have removed
d) find and put Boy #2's socks back on
7.35am: Spoonfed Boy #2 his breakfast, since otherwise we will be at the table until lunchtime
Looking quite civilised so far, isn't it?
7.40am: Spoonfed Boy #2's sinister stuffed cat (taking up valuable table space) it's breakfast, since apparantly all cats eat weetabix, taking great care not to get food on it's whiskers as this will prompt crying and protestation. Not from the cat.
7.41am: Get food on the cat's whiskers. You know what happens next.
7.42am: Wiped mouths and faces (though of course, I forgot my own).
7.44am: Supervised Boy #1's toothbrushing.
This is where it all starts to get a bit frantic...
7.46am: Captured Boy #2 from his hiding place under the table and brushed his teeth.
7.47am: Wiped both sets of mouths and faces again.
7.48am: Retrieved and replaced Boy #2's socks, requested putting on of shoes.
7.50am: Found school bag and coats
7.52am: Requested putting on of shoes.
7.53am: Insisted on putting on of coats.
7.55am: Retrieved and replaced Boy #2's socks.
7.56am: Insisted (loudly) on putting on of shoes.
7.59am: Shepherded Boys out to the car, remembering on the way to pick up school bag.
8.00am: Once Boys safely buckled in, went back to house to re-check front door locked. (As ever, it was...). Unlocked it anyway to pick up school bag left inexplicably inside.
8.02am: Drove to school, dodging mafia-black 4x4's on the way and telling myself not to take Boy #2's request to stop singing along to the radio personally.
8.15am: Dropped off Boy #1, dealing with horrendous return to 'don't leave me, Mama!' form, not handled very well on my part, and feeling dreadfully guilty as a result
And - relax....
8.35am Arrived home with Boy #2, put on today's washing, sorted yesterday's and started the dishwasher. Made the beds, completed a much too brief tidying up of the flat, and whilst glancing in the mirror, realised I had toothpaste attractively decorating my mouth...
8.55am: Retrieved and replaced Boy #2's socks.
9.00am: Took Boy #2 to the shops complete with scooter (dismantled and stowed in the back of the buggy approx. 20 meters after we set out).
9.30am: Peeled his sticky little face off the front of the glass cake display cabinet in the bakery, and hoped nobody noticed the smears (or indeed the croissant he manhandled before I removed it from his grasp and put it back in the basket...)
9.35am: Wheeled him home whilst inhaling a skinny hot chocolate (today, I deserved dairy...)
9.40am: Bribed younger son back into the flat with the promise of a Baby-cino. Husband normally makes these for him, but I figured I was up to the challenge.
9.55am: When I delivered it to him at the table, he sampled it and said:
"Baby - chee - noooo. Not. Like. Papa's."
Well, that told me...
And if you fancy a laugh (and an explanation for this post's title) watch this Harry Enfield and Paul Whitehouse sketch:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=MMb8Csll9Ws
Husband rushed off to Mother Russia first thing, and this was my morning until 10.00am:
6.45am: Got myself out of bed, washed and as presentable as it is possible to be on too little sleep and a surfeit of wine from 2 days prior.
7.10.am: Got 2 boys dressed and in the correct outfits, dealing with 'My short's are too rough, mama!' from Little Prince #1, and demands from Little Prince #2 that I reconstruct the lego airplane he had just smashed. I would have, but since it took Husband 3 hours to build the thing in the first place, and since I had only a window of 5 minutes spare in our morning schedule, I thought it was a little ambitious to begin at that moment...
7.30am: Organised breakfast for the three of us, making sure to:
a) give correct bowls to correct Boys to avoid an outbreak of warfare
b) limit number of toys Boy #2 takes to the table
c) capture Boy #2 on his way to replace the toys I have removed
d) find and put Boy #2's socks back on
7.35am: Spoonfed Boy #2 his breakfast, since otherwise we will be at the table until lunchtime
Looking quite civilised so far, isn't it?
7.40am: Spoonfed Boy #2's sinister stuffed cat (taking up valuable table space) it's breakfast, since apparantly all cats eat weetabix, taking great care not to get food on it's whiskers as this will prompt crying and protestation. Not from the cat.
7.41am: Get food on the cat's whiskers. You know what happens next.
7.42am: Wiped mouths and faces (though of course, I forgot my own).
7.44am: Supervised Boy #1's toothbrushing.
This is where it all starts to get a bit frantic...
7.46am: Captured Boy #2 from his hiding place under the table and brushed his teeth.
7.47am: Wiped both sets of mouths and faces again.
7.48am: Retrieved and replaced Boy #2's socks, requested putting on of shoes.
7.50am: Found school bag and coats
7.52am: Requested putting on of shoes.
7.53am: Insisted on putting on of coats.
7.55am: Retrieved and replaced Boy #2's socks.
7.56am: Insisted (loudly) on putting on of shoes.
7.59am: Shepherded Boys out to the car, remembering on the way to pick up school bag.
8.00am: Once Boys safely buckled in, went back to house to re-check front door locked. (As ever, it was...). Unlocked it anyway to pick up school bag left inexplicably inside.
8.02am: Drove to school, dodging mafia-black 4x4's on the way and telling myself not to take Boy #2's request to stop singing along to the radio personally.
8.15am: Dropped off Boy #1, dealing with horrendous return to 'don't leave me, Mama!' form, not handled very well on my part, and feeling dreadfully guilty as a result
And - relax....
8.35am Arrived home with Boy #2, put on today's washing, sorted yesterday's and started the dishwasher. Made the beds, completed a much too brief tidying up of the flat, and whilst glancing in the mirror, realised I had toothpaste attractively decorating my mouth...
8.55am: Retrieved and replaced Boy #2's socks.
9.00am: Took Boy #2 to the shops complete with scooter (dismantled and stowed in the back of the buggy approx. 20 meters after we set out).
9.30am: Peeled his sticky little face off the front of the glass cake display cabinet in the bakery, and hoped nobody noticed the smears (or indeed the croissant he manhandled before I removed it from his grasp and put it back in the basket...)
9.35am: Wheeled him home whilst inhaling a skinny hot chocolate (today, I deserved dairy...)
9.40am: Bribed younger son back into the flat with the promise of a Baby-cino. Husband normally makes these for him, but I figured I was up to the challenge.
9.55am: When I delivered it to him at the table, he sampled it and said:
"Baby - chee - noooo. Not. Like. Papa's."
Well, that told me...
And if you fancy a laugh (and an explanation for this post's title) watch this Harry Enfield and Paul Whitehouse sketch:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=MMb8Csll9Ws
Sunday, 21 September 2008
Hair of the dog that bit you
Walking up Park Lane, on our way to a friend's 40th birthday party yesterday evening:
Me: "Let's try not to get too drunk this evening."
Husband: "OK. Let's try..."
5 hours later, on our way home in the taxi:
Husband: "This is a bit of a long way round isn't it?"
Me: "What do you mean?"
Husband: "Well, why is he taking us down Chiswick High Road?"
Me: "What are you talking about? This is Knightsbridge. (silence) Did you hear me? Wake up! I said, THIS IS KNIGHTS.... oh, for Pete's sake..."
Husband is feeling just a little bit shabby today. (I, needless to say, am as fresh as Spring snow...)
Me: "Let's try not to get too drunk this evening."
Husband: "OK. Let's try..."
5 hours later, on our way home in the taxi:
Husband: "This is a bit of a long way round isn't it?"
Me: "What do you mean?"
Husband: "Well, why is he taking us down Chiswick High Road?"
Me: "What are you talking about? This is Knightsbridge. (silence) Did you hear me? Wake up! I said, THIS IS KNIGHTS.... oh, for Pete's sake..."
Husband is feeling just a little bit shabby today. (I, needless to say, am as fresh as Spring snow...)
Friday, 19 September 2008
That's another fine mess you've gotten me into...
Why do I do it to myself? I'm an intelligent woman (or at least, I used to be). I know my limitations (or at least, I used to). I don't make commitments I have no intention of honouring. And yet, when a friend of mine mentioned that she is planning on starting her own business offering group fitness training sessions in a park nearby, what do I do?
Did I say "oh, that's nice" and move the conversation swiftly on to a safer subject, like religion or politics? Did I suddenly realise the time and make a swift exit, pleading an urgent appointment with a plumber / builder / the school nit-nurse (no, it hasn't happened yet, but it's only a matter of time in a central London fee-paying school, apparantly).
No. I did none of those things.
I said; "What a great idea! Let me know if you need any help, won't you?"
Now, I am not getting hot under the collar at the subsequent brainstorming sessions that followed, the website that I ended up building for her (which in itself is hilarious, because I am a complete novice at such things), or the crash course I gave her this morning on how to open more than one window simultaneously on her computer and how to bcc her e-mail recipients without typing every single address from her online address book in manually. (Yes, believe it, there are people over 30 out there who, if they have never worked in an office, don't know how to do these things. And frankly, why should they?)
No, actually, doing those things was extremely rewarding. I loved every minute of it. It was so refreshing to do something unrelated to nappies, laundry, and wiping snot other than my own off my shoulders. And enabling someone else to achieve their goal is very fulfilling.
What I am getting a little worked up about is this; now that I've helped her set it all up, guess what?
She expects me to go.
And to be honest after all the work, so do I, dammit. But hang on. This is me we're talking about. What was I thinking? I've signed myself up for an hour - that's 60 excruciating minutes - of interval training focusing on stamina, strength building and flexibility in Hyde Park! I know, I know. I go to the gym. More often now than I ever thought I would. But at the gym, you are surrounded by like minds, all plugged in to their i-pods or similar, none of whom make eye contact with each other, because if they do they might see the look of horror on the other person's face when confronted with the red, 'glowing' mess that more than 5 minutes of exercise turns them - well, OK, me - into.
But this? This is in the park. With tourists, visitors, locals walking their dogs. It is, in short, IN FRONT OF OTHER PEOPLE. What was I thinking?
I clearly am potty.
As Boy #1 would say, 'time to get your sports breasts on, mama...'
Did I say "oh, that's nice" and move the conversation swiftly on to a safer subject, like religion or politics? Did I suddenly realise the time and make a swift exit, pleading an urgent appointment with a plumber / builder / the school nit-nurse (no, it hasn't happened yet, but it's only a matter of time in a central London fee-paying school, apparantly).
No. I did none of those things.
I said; "What a great idea! Let me know if you need any help, won't you?"
Now, I am not getting hot under the collar at the subsequent brainstorming sessions that followed, the website that I ended up building for her (which in itself is hilarious, because I am a complete novice at such things), or the crash course I gave her this morning on how to open more than one window simultaneously on her computer and how to bcc her e-mail recipients without typing every single address from her online address book in manually. (Yes, believe it, there are people over 30 out there who, if they have never worked in an office, don't know how to do these things. And frankly, why should they?)
No, actually, doing those things was extremely rewarding. I loved every minute of it. It was so refreshing to do something unrelated to nappies, laundry, and wiping snot other than my own off my shoulders. And enabling someone else to achieve their goal is very fulfilling.
What I am getting a little worked up about is this; now that I've helped her set it all up, guess what?
She expects me to go.
And to be honest after all the work, so do I, dammit. But hang on. This is me we're talking about. What was I thinking? I've signed myself up for an hour - that's 60 excruciating minutes - of interval training focusing on stamina, strength building and flexibility in Hyde Park! I know, I know. I go to the gym. More often now than I ever thought I would. But at the gym, you are surrounded by like minds, all plugged in to their i-pods or similar, none of whom make eye contact with each other, because if they do they might see the look of horror on the other person's face when confronted with the red, 'glowing' mess that more than 5 minutes of exercise turns them - well, OK, me - into.
But this? This is in the park. With tourists, visitors, locals walking their dogs. It is, in short, IN FRONT OF OTHER PEOPLE. What was I thinking?
I clearly am potty.
As Boy #1 would say, 'time to get your sports breasts on, mama...'
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