So, Christmas is just - just - around the corner. We entered the festive fray this weekend chez Potty with a family trip to the ice rink at the Natural History Museum yesterday afternoon. It all looked very pretty and twinkly, with white lights glittering on the trees and brightly coloured skaters zipping around the ice... Though of course, this being England, there was not actually that much 'zipping' going on - more flailing, teetering, tottering, and crashing headfirst into other skaters and the wooden barriers.
But you don't need to know about me...
Husband, being Dutch, is a little more used to this ridiculous practice of strapping a couple of razer blades to your feet and pushing off, so he bravely took Boy #1 in hand and set off. Amazingly, despite a couple of encounters with the ice where he discovered just how unyielding and hard it is, Boy #1 really enjoyed himself. This was partly because Husband, knowing what he was about, had the presence of mind to request the double-bladed skates for him, so balancing was less of a problem than it might otherwise have been. Hell, even I could have skated with a pair of those on... maybe.
But you probably don't want to know about them, either.
No, what you want to know about is that we saw Elle Macpherson en-famille on the ice too, that she is very good looking in real-life, that she is tall with a great figure, and that she can skate, dammit. Well, better than me, at any rate. Somehow I suspect that her earliest skating experiences were a little more glamorous than mine at Bristol ice rink sometime in the late 1970's... You know, I bet I would be a great skater too if I had learnt at Aspen or Gstaad, or Lech, or Courcheval... and if I was 6 foot with honey blonde hair and... well, anyway. We had gone with my brother and his girlfriend L, who cheered me up considerably when, having had said Supermodel pointed out to her looked at her narrowly and said: "I'm going to get her."
She didn't, of course. Probably because, like me, she was incapable of leaving the side of the rink.
So, that's one reason I know Christmas is around the corner. Here's another; I've been fielding calls all weekend from ridiculously organised family members asking for Christmas present ideas for my sons. Oh, for the days when Christmas shopping could be left to the last minute and be covered off with a quick pop into John Lewis on the way home from work on Christmas Eve... Apparantly though that becomes a criminal offence when you have children, so now, when asked, I normally I just list a couple things from the top of my head; "Oh, books would be good. Or trains,. Whatever you think..." and leave them to it.
This year though, I thought, let's do this differently. (This may have something to do with the fact I'm still standing on small pieces of lego given to Boy #1 for his birthday). So, pen in hand I've spent this evening poring over catalogues to come up with lists for both my boys. And I must say, I think I've done OK. It includes presents from £4.00, and nothing on either of their lists costs more than £20.00. It's got books, games, toys, crafty stuff, stuff for their rooms. I hope it's not too worthy, but I am their mum, so it probably is.
But here's the clincher: I have e-mailed the list to all interested parties, complete with links to websites where they can buy these things if they want to, and asked if, once they have chosen a present, they can hit the 'reply to all' button and let everyone else on the distribution list know what they've bagsied.
No doubt I will be accused of being controlling where normally I am seen as being disorganised. But I don't care.
Because there's no lego on this list. At all.
PS. I have just had a thought. I am going to give you - yes, you - an early Christmas present.
http://amerrypottychristmas.blogspot.com/
Check that link to go to a new blog page I've set up, to see the lists for yourselves. Then, if you want to cut and paste them into your own family e-mail, you can. And if those presents don't suit, but you like the idea, how about e-mailing your lists for your children to me (at pottymummy@gmail.com) so that I can add them to the page for other parents to use?
Think of the time we might save in the future... Are you in?
Note: apologies to all outside the UK for whom this won't work. But you could always start your own lists...
Sunday, 23 November 2008
Saturday, 22 November 2008
Stop Press...
...you may have noticed a couple of weeks ago that I mentioned I'm hosting the next Best of British Mummy Bloggers carnival on Tuesday (25th November).
Now, I know it says 'Mummy' bloggers, but this is an all-inclusive deal; you simply need to be a parent (of either sex) to get involved.
We already have some fantastic bloggers participating, but there is always room for more: if you would like to take part simply e-mail me with a link to your favourite post from the last 4 weeks (that's one that you have written, obviously), and I will include it. I will drop you a line on the day the carnival starts and send you a link. If you want you can paste that into your blog so that people can visit and vote for their favourite entry by leaving a comment on The Potty Diaries.
Send your mail to:
before Monday lunchtime if possible.
Best of luck!
Thursday, 20 November 2008
Fat is a Bloggamist Issue...
Fat is a bloggamist issue right now, it seems. Lots of us are focusing on it, and Tara at Sticky Fingers has even gone so far as to set up a blog with two friends, specifically about losing weight and supporting those who are trying to do the same thing. Check out BlogToFit and be swept away by the enthusiasm and determination of the team...
Now, right at this moment, at this particular instant in time, I am not overweight. Sure, I am a few kilos heaver than I would like to be, and probably 4 or 5 more (9 - 10lbs) than my fighting weight, but I haven't been there since before I got pregnant with Boy #1, and frankly? It's a distant dream, and I know it.
I could get there of course, but only by making changes to my lifestyle that just don't seem worth it. I already go to the gym 3 times a week where I burn calories and sweat buckets in a most undignified fashion, I eat healthily, and I don't drink during the week. Or even very much at the weekends, sadly. (Though that self-discipline is more to do with the hideousness of dealing with children whilst battling a hangover than any weight-related concerns.) So if I want to shift those last kilos it would mean - horror - going on to skimmed milk, eating grilled chicken with salad, cutting out the carbs, and shunning the chocolate. Which, if you know me at all from reading my blog, is never going to happen.
It would also mean facing up the fact that the little lies I tell myself about food are just that. Lies. Come on, you know the ones I mean... you probably have your own. Here's my list, in no particular order, developed over many years of self-delusion;
- If you are travelling abroad, food has no calories. Once you leave these shores, the calories stay behind. (They can't get passports, apparantly.)
- If chocolate is eaten whilst you drink a diet coke? No calories. (In fact, the diet coke trick works with just about everything).
- It takes more calories to eat a stick of celery than that stick contains, so if you put it in a sandwich or salad, guess what? The rest of the snack has no calories either. (Unfortunately I don't particularly like uncooked celery but cucumber does just as good a job in my mind...)
- If a biscuit is broken in two, the calories have leaked out. Stands to reason.
- If it's a vegetable - no calories. (Which is handy, because put me in front of a plate of roasted vegetables and they're history...)
- If it's eaten standing up - you guessed it. No calories. Or at least, the immense effort of staying upright cancels them out.
- This one is a classic, of course. No calories if left on the children's plate.
- No calories if no-one sees you eat something.
- Butter is good fat. We need it in our diets or all our fingernails will break and our hair fall out. Actually, this happened to a friend when she was young and foolish and cut all fat out of her diet. I wish it hadn't - for her sake, obviously, but also for mine as now I feel entitled to have butter in the fridge. Which leads me on to...
- If it's on a crispbread (i.e. Ryvita), no calories. So a ryvita smothered with butter / peanut butter / cheese / taramasalata / guacamole (not all together, clearly) is a healthy snack. As is the second, third, fourth and fifth...
- If you walk to pick the children up from school, a Starbuck's Hot Chocolate is the least you need to keep you sustained on the long 20 minute trip.
Those are the first of my 'food fibs' that come to mind - and I haven't even scratched the surface or spent more than 10 minutes thinking about it. What are yours?
Come on, spill!
Now, right at this moment, at this particular instant in time, I am not overweight. Sure, I am a few kilos heaver than I would like to be, and probably 4 or 5 more (9 - 10lbs) than my fighting weight, but I haven't been there since before I got pregnant with Boy #1, and frankly? It's a distant dream, and I know it.
I could get there of course, but only by making changes to my lifestyle that just don't seem worth it. I already go to the gym 3 times a week where I burn calories and sweat buckets in a most undignified fashion, I eat healthily, and I don't drink during the week. Or even very much at the weekends, sadly. (Though that self-discipline is more to do with the hideousness of dealing with children whilst battling a hangover than any weight-related concerns.) So if I want to shift those last kilos it would mean - horror - going on to skimmed milk, eating grilled chicken with salad, cutting out the carbs, and shunning the chocolate. Which, if you know me at all from reading my blog, is never going to happen.
It would also mean facing up the fact that the little lies I tell myself about food are just that. Lies. Come on, you know the ones I mean... you probably have your own. Here's my list, in no particular order, developed over many years of self-delusion;
- If you are travelling abroad, food has no calories. Once you leave these shores, the calories stay behind. (They can't get passports, apparantly.)
- If chocolate is eaten whilst you drink a diet coke? No calories. (In fact, the diet coke trick works with just about everything).
- It takes more calories to eat a stick of celery than that stick contains, so if you put it in a sandwich or salad, guess what? The rest of the snack has no calories either. (Unfortunately I don't particularly like uncooked celery but cucumber does just as good a job in my mind...)
- If a biscuit is broken in two, the calories have leaked out. Stands to reason.
- If it's a vegetable - no calories. (Which is handy, because put me in front of a plate of roasted vegetables and they're history...)
- If it's eaten standing up - you guessed it. No calories. Or at least, the immense effort of staying upright cancels them out.
- This one is a classic, of course. No calories if left on the children's plate.
- No calories if no-one sees you eat something.
- Butter is good fat. We need it in our diets or all our fingernails will break and our hair fall out. Actually, this happened to a friend when she was young and foolish and cut all fat out of her diet. I wish it hadn't - for her sake, obviously, but also for mine as now I feel entitled to have butter in the fridge. Which leads me on to...
- If it's on a crispbread (i.e. Ryvita), no calories. So a ryvita smothered with butter / peanut butter / cheese / taramasalata / guacamole (not all together, clearly) is a healthy snack. As is the second, third, fourth and fifth...
- If you walk to pick the children up from school, a Starbuck's Hot Chocolate is the least you need to keep you sustained on the long 20 minute trip.
Those are the first of my 'food fibs' that come to mind - and I haven't even scratched the surface or spent more than 10 minutes thinking about it. What are yours?
Come on, spill!
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
A stitch in time...
I'm in trouble. I mentioned in a previous post that Boy #1's Christmas (i.e. Nativity) play is fast approaching. So far, so good, so sit in the audience snivelling a little at how he's grown, fishing desperately for a clean handkerchief in my bag and finding only a used remnant from some time last summer...
But there's a problem.
This play is 'in costume'.
Now, I can at least thank my lucky stars that unlike the mums / grandmothers / nannies / paid help of the families of the 3 little boys who need to dress as Elvis (the King), I don't have to spend the next 2 weeks sourcing a white jumpsuit and sewing spangles and sequins onto it. (What on earth are spangles, by the way? I think I first heard the term in a Ballet Shoes book around 30 years ago, and I still don't know... And no clever answers telling me they're a sweet from the 1970's and 80's either, please. Those I do remember - and can still taste the orange ones now.)
So, no Elvis.
No, Boy #1 is going to be dressed as a waiter (that well-known character in the timeless Christmas story). Which means black trousers, and a white shirt - both of which are easily found and can be pressed into service at Christmas lunch if we want pocket-sized help to carry complicated stuff into the dining room at my parent's. Complicated stuff like... napkins, that is.
It's the third item on the costume list we received by letter from the school that is bothering me.
He needs an apron. A white, waiter's apron.
Bearing in mind that at school my home economics teacher used to have the same reaction to my sewing that my sports teacher used to have to my tennis - to wander past slowly, sorrowfully shaking her head - you will understand when I tell you that my first instinct was to source this on the internet. Unsuccessfully, of course. I mean, who in their right mind would stock a white waiter's apron for a 5 year old?
And as my Mother in Law, otherwise known as 'she who can rustle up a child's kilt at a moment's notice' (which was lucky, as she had to do just that for last year's festive extravaganza - click if you want to see just how out of control a nursery drama teacher can get when her medication runs out) is out of the country for the next week or so, I can't even turn to her for help on this one.
I am, horrors, going to have to Make This One Myself.
It's just me, a new white tea towel that I plan to butcher into a suitable shape, and some of 'that tape they use on seams' to make the ties. You see, I'm so rubbish at this, I don't even know what the tape is called. They're going to laugh me out of the Peter Jones haberdashery department when I go there tomorrow to buy some...
Oh well. At least the tea-towel / apron will be washable to get rid of the blood and chocolate stains. Blood from my fingers, and chocolate, well, because why not? It is nearly Christmas, after all.
But there's a problem.
This play is 'in costume'.
Now, I can at least thank my lucky stars that unlike the mums / grandmothers / nannies / paid help of the families of the 3 little boys who need to dress as Elvis (the King), I don't have to spend the next 2 weeks sourcing a white jumpsuit and sewing spangles and sequins onto it. (What on earth are spangles, by the way? I think I first heard the term in a Ballet Shoes book around 30 years ago, and I still don't know... And no clever answers telling me they're a sweet from the 1970's and 80's either, please. Those I do remember - and can still taste the orange ones now.)
So, no Elvis.
No, Boy #1 is going to be dressed as a waiter (that well-known character in the timeless Christmas story). Which means black trousers, and a white shirt - both of which are easily found and can be pressed into service at Christmas lunch if we want pocket-sized help to carry complicated stuff into the dining room at my parent's. Complicated stuff like... napkins, that is.
It's the third item on the costume list we received by letter from the school that is bothering me.
He needs an apron. A white, waiter's apron.
Bearing in mind that at school my home economics teacher used to have the same reaction to my sewing that my sports teacher used to have to my tennis - to wander past slowly, sorrowfully shaking her head - you will understand when I tell you that my first instinct was to source this on the internet. Unsuccessfully, of course. I mean, who in their right mind would stock a white waiter's apron for a 5 year old?
And as my Mother in Law, otherwise known as 'she who can rustle up a child's kilt at a moment's notice' (which was lucky, as she had to do just that for last year's festive extravaganza - click if you want to see just how out of control a nursery drama teacher can get when her medication runs out) is out of the country for the next week or so, I can't even turn to her for help on this one.
I am, horrors, going to have to Make This One Myself.
It's just me, a new white tea towel that I plan to butcher into a suitable shape, and some of 'that tape they use on seams' to make the ties. You see, I'm so rubbish at this, I don't even know what the tape is called. They're going to laugh me out of the Peter Jones haberdashery department when I go there tomorrow to buy some...
Oh well. At least the tea-towel / apron will be washable to get rid of the blood and chocolate stains. Blood from my fingers, and chocolate, well, because why not? It is nearly Christmas, after all.
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
Isaac and Jeremiah
Two MAJOR tantrums from Boy #1 this evening - to the extent that I am just about wrung out. And why? Well, have you got a moment?
Tantrum #1 - let's call it Tantrum Isaac, since that is how far down the alphabet I believe we've travelled since the beginning of term - probably rated a 4 on the scale. It blew up out of a relatively cloudless sky shortly after bath time. Admittedly, it did follow a short squall over dinner that dissapated amazingly quickly once gingerbread cake was promised for pudding if all the main course of gnocchi was eaten, but there was no hint of the mayhem that then followed when I refused to top up Boy #1's milk immediately, the moment he asked for it. I was making a telephone call, and asked him to wait a couple of minutes, hence the sudden and unexpected visit from Isaac.
I dealt with it as best I could, confining the eye of the storm to his room for 5 long minutes of time out, during which time Isaac blew itself out with shouts of 'Milk! Milk! Milk!', 'I'm not your best boy any more, mama!' and the classic 'I've been in here for HOURS!' We made up, apologies and kisses were given, calm was restored, and normal service was resumed.
Or so I thought.
Isaac may have been powerful, however, but it was nothing compared to Tantrum Jeremiah, which arrived 20 minutes later when I switched off the television 7 minutes earlier than normal. I wouldn't usually do this - both my Boys look forward to their tv probably more than they should - but Nick Jr were showing seven, yes, that's SEVEN, minutes of adverts before the next scheduled programme, and whilst I'm OK with the boys sitting through a couple of minutes of pleas to buy the latest Power Ranger / Hot Rod / Baby Born / Gameboy etc, 7 minutes seemed just a little excessive and rather manipulative no matter what the time of year.
So, I switched it off.
My oh my, Jeremiah was what I believe they call a Doozy. Screaming, shouting, pleading, throwing himself on the floor, you name it; it must have registered a 5 on the Tantrum scale. Clearly, Boy #1 was over-tired, and the simplest thing would just have been to give in and turn the blasted box back on, but I couldn't, for two very simple reasons.
Firstly, if I give in to that behaviour then I am making a rod for my own back in the future; being consistent and sticking to your guns is one of the only ways to exert control over your children, so I knew that if I gave in I had lost not just this but many future confrontations.
And secondly, who was standing wide-eyed, watching the whole performance? Boy #2. Who, just for the record, had already been sent to the Naughty Chair (for spitting out his food and repeatedly getting down from the table) during dinner. So it was doubly important that he also saw justice being carried out for his brother.
Tantrum Jeremiah was sent to blow itself out in Boy #1's bedroom. It took a little longer than it's predecessor, but it did die down eventually, and is now all forgotten by my beloved older son.
Whilst it was dying down I had Boy #2 on my lap in another room, and was calmly trying to explain to a spooked two year old that his brother was fine, would be OK in a couple of minutes, that mama was not a monster (OK, I didn't say that but - even though I knew I was doing the right thing - it felt like I was being one), and that Time Out was what happens when you behave badly like that.
I don't know about you, but when Husband and I became parents, we agreed that smacking / hitting / physically punishing our children was not on the agenda. You don't hit an adult, we reasoned, so why would you hit someone whom you supposedly love even more than life, who is defenceless, and who is less than half your size?
I still believe that, really I do. And I still believe that Time Out is the most effective and the best way of dealing with these situations.
But god, it's exhausting being the Grown-Up sometimes.
Tantrum #1 - let's call it Tantrum Isaac, since that is how far down the alphabet I believe we've travelled since the beginning of term - probably rated a 4 on the scale. It blew up out of a relatively cloudless sky shortly after bath time. Admittedly, it did follow a short squall over dinner that dissapated amazingly quickly once gingerbread cake was promised for pudding if all the main course of gnocchi was eaten, but there was no hint of the mayhem that then followed when I refused to top up Boy #1's milk immediately, the moment he asked for it. I was making a telephone call, and asked him to wait a couple of minutes, hence the sudden and unexpected visit from Isaac.
I dealt with it as best I could, confining the eye of the storm to his room for 5 long minutes of time out, during which time Isaac blew itself out with shouts of 'Milk! Milk! Milk!', 'I'm not your best boy any more, mama!' and the classic 'I've been in here for HOURS!' We made up, apologies and kisses were given, calm was restored, and normal service was resumed.
Or so I thought.
Isaac may have been powerful, however, but it was nothing compared to Tantrum Jeremiah, which arrived 20 minutes later when I switched off the television 7 minutes earlier than normal. I wouldn't usually do this - both my Boys look forward to their tv probably more than they should - but Nick Jr were showing seven, yes, that's SEVEN, minutes of adverts before the next scheduled programme, and whilst I'm OK with the boys sitting through a couple of minutes of pleas to buy the latest Power Ranger / Hot Rod / Baby Born / Gameboy etc, 7 minutes seemed just a little excessive and rather manipulative no matter what the time of year.
So, I switched it off.
My oh my, Jeremiah was what I believe they call a Doozy. Screaming, shouting, pleading, throwing himself on the floor, you name it; it must have registered a 5 on the Tantrum scale. Clearly, Boy #1 was over-tired, and the simplest thing would just have been to give in and turn the blasted box back on, but I couldn't, for two very simple reasons.
Firstly, if I give in to that behaviour then I am making a rod for my own back in the future; being consistent and sticking to your guns is one of the only ways to exert control over your children, so I knew that if I gave in I had lost not just this but many future confrontations.
And secondly, who was standing wide-eyed, watching the whole performance? Boy #2. Who, just for the record, had already been sent to the Naughty Chair (for spitting out his food and repeatedly getting down from the table) during dinner. So it was doubly important that he also saw justice being carried out for his brother.
Tantrum Jeremiah was sent to blow itself out in Boy #1's bedroom. It took a little longer than it's predecessor, but it did die down eventually, and is now all forgotten by my beloved older son.
Whilst it was dying down I had Boy #2 on my lap in another room, and was calmly trying to explain to a spooked two year old that his brother was fine, would be OK in a couple of minutes, that mama was not a monster (OK, I didn't say that but - even though I knew I was doing the right thing - it felt like I was being one), and that Time Out was what happens when you behave badly like that.
I don't know about you, but when Husband and I became parents, we agreed that smacking / hitting / physically punishing our children was not on the agenda. You don't hit an adult, we reasoned, so why would you hit someone whom you supposedly love even more than life, who is defenceless, and who is less than half your size?
I still believe that, really I do. And I still believe that Time Out is the most effective and the best way of dealing with these situations.
But god, it's exhausting being the Grown-Up sometimes.
Monday, 17 November 2008
Snapshots #2
Snapshot 1
Talking to Boy #1 this evening, I learnt that people are all different shapes. Some are fat, some are not. Some are tall, some are not. And some, who are reeeeeeeaaaaally old, get square tummies. Though not before you're 30, of course.
Well, that's a relief.
Snapshot 2
Changing Boy #2's nappy at lunchtime (it's a pull-up, I tell you, a pull-up! So not really a nappy at all. Not by my standards, anyway...) we heard the roar of a petrol engine outside. "That's. Loud." he informed me, wide eyed. "I know, Boy #2. What do you think it is? I think it's a motorbike." He looked at me disparagingly. "Not. motorbike. Mama. Silly. Ferrari. Red."
Snapshot 3
I may have mentioned before that my younger son is something of a petrol head. He loves cars, and is never happier than when sitting in the driving seat of one. But his devotion goes further than that; he is even perfectly happy walking down the street pronouncing on the relative 'coolness' of the parked cars he passes - and, just occassionally and rather embarrassingly, trying the doors to see if they're locked... Obviously, since we drive a Skoda (generally agreed upon to be anything but cool), this does skew his criteria somewhat. I mean, a chap couldn't possibly admit to driving a not cool car, could he? So he strides along stating "Cool car (Ferrari). Not Cool Car (Volvo 4 x4 - my work here is done...). Cool Car (Peugot van). Cool car (Aston Martin). Not Cool Car (Renault Clio). Cool Car (Skoda)."
That's my boy... What? Whaaaat?? Want to make something of it, Frog in the Field?
Snapshot 4
Always check, before taking off your younger son's 'virtually not nappies' pull-ups at bathtime, that there is no nice little suprise waiting to be scattered across the bathroom floor, racing to the corners of the room like marbles, for you to hunt down whilst wondering which deity you wronged today for it to end like this. (Boy #2 clearly needs more liquid in his diet).
Helpful hints; that's what I'm here for...
Talking to Boy #1 this evening, I learnt that people are all different shapes. Some are fat, some are not. Some are tall, some are not. And some, who are reeeeeeeaaaaally old, get square tummies. Though not before you're 30, of course.
Well, that's a relief.
Snapshot 2
Changing Boy #2's nappy at lunchtime (it's a pull-up, I tell you, a pull-up! So not really a nappy at all. Not by my standards, anyway...) we heard the roar of a petrol engine outside. "That's. Loud." he informed me, wide eyed. "I know, Boy #2. What do you think it is? I think it's a motorbike." He looked at me disparagingly. "Not. motorbike. Mama. Silly. Ferrari. Red."
Snapshot 3
I may have mentioned before that my younger son is something of a petrol head. He loves cars, and is never happier than when sitting in the driving seat of one. But his devotion goes further than that; he is even perfectly happy walking down the street pronouncing on the relative 'coolness' of the parked cars he passes - and, just occassionally and rather embarrassingly, trying the doors to see if they're locked... Obviously, since we drive a Skoda (generally agreed upon to be anything but cool), this does skew his criteria somewhat. I mean, a chap couldn't possibly admit to driving a not cool car, could he? So he strides along stating "Cool car (Ferrari). Not Cool Car (Volvo 4 x4 - my work here is done...). Cool Car (Peugot van). Cool car (Aston Martin). Not Cool Car (Renault Clio). Cool Car (Skoda)."
That's my boy... What? Whaaaat?? Want to make something of it, Frog in the Field?
Snapshot 4
Always check, before taking off your younger son's 'virtually not nappies' pull-ups at bathtime, that there is no nice little suprise waiting to be scattered across the bathroom floor, racing to the corners of the room like marbles, for you to hunt down whilst wondering which deity you wronged today for it to end like this. (Boy #2 clearly needs more liquid in his diet).
Helpful hints; that's what I'm here for...
Sunday, 16 November 2008
Venus and Mars
Another weekend, another birthday party at the Army Museum in Chelsea for Boy #1.
Luckily no Bolshy Blonde was in evidence this time round; instead it was the usual gathering of 5 year-olds - racing manically around, hyped up on excitement and the expectation of too much sugary party food - and parents, reeling from the noise, the commotion, and the results of having spent the week either incarcerated from 8am - 6pm (if they were lucky) in the office, or alternatively with the children, on taxi duty.
There were actually a few more men in evidence than is normal at this party, however. I expect that this was because it was being held at the Army Museum, so their wives were able to persuade them that it would be different from the usual run of such things, probably with macho stuff like Men being Men in Manly situations...
It wasn't different at all of course, apart from the fact that the children got army hats to run around in and the jungle gym had camoflage on a couple of it's walls...
But the dads' morning wasn't completely wasted; I saw a few of them sneak out guiltily, and come back in hefting plastic bags full of books from the museum's bookshop. One of them admitted quietly that coming to the party was 'completely worth it' for the opportunity to stock up on the '3 for 2' offer of hard-to-get books on military history.
Men.
They're just different, aren't they?
Luckily no Bolshy Blonde was in evidence this time round; instead it was the usual gathering of 5 year-olds - racing manically around, hyped up on excitement and the expectation of too much sugary party food - and parents, reeling from the noise, the commotion, and the results of having spent the week either incarcerated from 8am - 6pm (if they were lucky) in the office, or alternatively with the children, on taxi duty.
There were actually a few more men in evidence than is normal at this party, however. I expect that this was because it was being held at the Army Museum, so their wives were able to persuade them that it would be different from the usual run of such things, probably with macho stuff like Men being Men in Manly situations...
It wasn't different at all of course, apart from the fact that the children got army hats to run around in and the jungle gym had camoflage on a couple of it's walls...
But the dads' morning wasn't completely wasted; I saw a few of them sneak out guiltily, and come back in hefting plastic bags full of books from the museum's bookshop. One of them admitted quietly that coming to the party was 'completely worth it' for the opportunity to stock up on the '3 for 2' offer of hard-to-get books on military history.
Men.
They're just different, aren't they?
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