Yes, we've arrived. Despite the post that follows we're having a fabulous time. There's so much to write about I hardly know where to begin, so I'll start with this...
A short guide to taxi journeys from Cairo Airport
For the taxi driver:
Hang around the arrivals lounge at Cairo Terminal 2 late in the evening for the London flight to arrive.
Scan the passengers for potential fares as they arrive. Pay particular attention to families who look as if they were rather expecting to arrive at Cairo Terminal 1, where there is a state-sponsored taxi-stand. Narrow that down to families with small children and a buggy, who really can’t face the shuttle bus between the two terminals, and hang around incessantly offering them your services until they give in just to shut you up.
If you have prepared properly you will have parked your car in the furthest ‘close’ car park, which can only be reached by a seat of precipitous steps. The reasons for this will become clear shortly.
Of particular importance is to be able to quote a well-known marque when the fare asks you what type of car you drive. Peugot is a good one. No need to mention that it is 30 years old, falling apart, and does not posess rear seat belts until you all reach the car at the far side of the car park and they can’t face the walk back to the terminal with their luggage and buggy. The all important steps are of particular use here in helping them reach the right decision...
Ensure you treat all road signs, traffic signals and lane markings with cavalier disregard once your journey begins.
Should you yourself have a seatbelt pay no attention to it. In fact, the fashionable option seems to be to let it hang carelessly out the bottom of your door as you drive along, in 'Yes, I have a seatbelt, but why bother to use it?' kind of a statement.
Pay no attention whatsoever to the supersized rear-view mirror taking up most of the width of your windscreen.
Use your horn to indicate your intention to change lanes –indicators are for wimps or Europeans.
Similarly headlights; sidelights are all you need, it may be 1.00am but dipped headlights are only required when you want to flash the sucker in front to move over to make an extra lane so you can rattle past.
For the older child in the family
As you climb on board be sure to ask, wide-eyed, if you are going to die in this car because there are no seat belts.
For added impact, ask this loudly and in your father’s hearing (your mother will reward you later).
Then fall asleep and snore as if you have not a care in the world.
For the younger child
Stay wide-awake throughout the 45 minute drive to the hotel, asking repeatedly and at pertinent moments why the taxi driver is driving ‘like that’. Why, mama, why?
For the father
Preparation for this trip began weeks ago. No matter what your beloved spouse suggests, hold firm to your view that booking a taxi from the airport to the hotel is expensive and unnecessary. There is, after all, a government sponsored taxi stand at Terminal 1, Cairo airport.
Ignore her gentle reminders of similar situations in the past when you have ended up in death-traps disguised as taxis on Barbados and Mauritius, on one occasion being pulled over by the police and having them lecture you on the irresponsibility of taking a cab without a child-seat. You knew this. Why did they bother to tell you if it wasn’t to embarrass you? It’s not like you’re going to do it again...
On arriving at Cairo, fortuitously forget your previous telling off from the police in Barbados and in the absence of the state-sponsored taxi rank, find yourself a helpful local guy who offers to take you to your hotel for a cut-rate price in his limo.
On realising that to call the taxi a 'limo' is an act prosecutable under the trade descriptions act, decide to go with it anyway. You know there’ll be hell to pay with the missus but it’s late, you’re tired and what else are you going to do?
Ignore her muttered curses and exclamations as she holds tight to her children whilst the taxi driver weaves through the traffic and you sit safely in the front with your seat belt on. There is nothing you could say to make it better at this point, anyway...
Although if you do decide to open your mouth about the situation, the statement 'They drive like maniacs in Cairo. In a controlled way, of course.' may not be quite what it takes to get you out of the doghouse.
The Mother
See the taxi.
Realise that you have been proved right yet again – and that you should have booked the damn cab via the hotel yourself...
Monday, 30 March 2009
Thursday, 26 March 2009
Bonnet-tastic!
It's the last day of term before the start of the holidays for Boy #1 tomorrow. Correction; it's the last day of term before the start of the EASTER holidays. Why would the festival be important, you ask? Well, leaving aside any religious connotations (though of all the holidays Easter is probably the one where you can least do that, now I come to think of it), the festival is important to Boy #1 because tomorrow is The Parade. The Big Parade.
The Easter Bonnet Parade, to be precise.
Cue 'The Archers' theme tune as you imagine 150 children parading round a school playground in decorated hats of various shapes and sizes. Or is it just me that happens to?
A couple of weeks back Boy #1 arrived home with written instructions - from the headmistress, no less - that the children were all to make their own bonnet so they could participate in this august event.
The letter took me back to when my primary school held a similar event, around 36 years ago; I recall my mother found an old hat of hers, stuck lots of crepe flowers on it, and sent me in to school in it. Job done. I didn't win, of course. (What, you didn't know this was a competitive event? Come on! Get with the program!) No, I lost out to Tina Smith who had some kind of Little Bo Peep creation sent over by family in America. The cheat.
In any case, I have to admit that when I read the letter my heart sank. I foresaw hours of trying to create the perfect bonnet (my boy is nothing if not competitive), only to be beaten hands-down by offerings from other 'more Chelsea' families who got their nanny, the cook, the bottle-washer and the driver to create something in their spare time. (See this post for how easy it is to be outclassed by those who simply throw money at a problem. Who would have thought a child of 4 could create their own Fortnum and Mason look-a-like hamper for the Harvest Festival and do such a convincing job of it that they won the prize for the best decorated offering? Bitter? Me?)
But then I reread the letter. 'The children are all to make their own bonnet' it read. Hurrah! The head of school is no slouch. She will recognise the handiwork of eager 5 year old hands, I thought. At last, the opportunity to rise above my baser instincts and let the best child win. In brief, I decided to 'step away from the bonnet' and let Boy #1 make of it what he would.
With just a little direction from me, of course.
We're - sorry, he's - going to win. I can just feel it...
The Easter Bonnet Parade, to be precise.
Cue 'The Archers' theme tune as you imagine 150 children parading round a school playground in decorated hats of various shapes and sizes. Or is it just me that happens to?
A couple of weeks back Boy #1 arrived home with written instructions - from the headmistress, no less - that the children were all to make their own bonnet so they could participate in this august event.
The letter took me back to when my primary school held a similar event, around 36 years ago; I recall my mother found an old hat of hers, stuck lots of crepe flowers on it, and sent me in to school in it. Job done. I didn't win, of course. (What, you didn't know this was a competitive event? Come on! Get with the program!) No, I lost out to Tina Smith who had some kind of Little Bo Peep creation sent over by family in America. The cheat.
In any case, I have to admit that when I read the letter my heart sank. I foresaw hours of trying to create the perfect bonnet (my boy is nothing if not competitive), only to be beaten hands-down by offerings from other 'more Chelsea' families who got their nanny, the cook, the bottle-washer and the driver to create something in their spare time. (See this post for how easy it is to be outclassed by those who simply throw money at a problem. Who would have thought a child of 4 could create their own Fortnum and Mason look-a-like hamper for the Harvest Festival and do such a convincing job of it that they won the prize for the best decorated offering? Bitter? Me?)
But then I reread the letter. 'The children are all to make their own bonnet' it read. Hurrah! The head of school is no slouch. She will recognise the handiwork of eager 5 year old hands, I thought. At last, the opportunity to rise above my baser instincts and let the best child win. In brief, I decided to 'step away from the bonnet' and let Boy #1 make of it what he would.
With just a little direction from me, of course.
We're - sorry, he's - going to win. I can just feel it...
Wednesday, 25 March 2009
Tut
Boy #2 has begun to tut.
Not in the Bertie Wooster style, of using it as a word to answer a statement or question he did not approve of. You know, as in: "What do you mean Jeeves, that Great Aunt Maude doesn't agree that the worsted jacket should be worn with the cavalry twill trousers? Tut!" No, more in the style of clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth whenever he feels the need to be dismissive...
For example, this morning, Boy #1's headteacher said 'Good morning Boy #2!" as we walked in.
Tut.
(Thank god he's already registered and has been accepted at the school....)
Then we went for a cup of tea with a friend. Boy #2 is recovering from slapped cheek syndrome (click the link if you want to know what that is, but it pretty much does what it says on the tin, with the added benefit of high temperatures, a waterfull of snot, and general headaches and bad temper), so is not feeling his best. "Hallo Boy #2!" she said. "Would you like a toy?" He looked vaguely interested. "I have - this - in my bag!" She pulled out a Star Wars figure and handed it to him. He looked at it, handed it back after his inspection, and rather than doing what he would normally do and saying "No thankyou. Plane, please?" you guessed it.
Tut.
C3PO was not up to scratch, apparantly.
Now, the Potty family are off adventuring shortly. No names, no pack drill, and most importantly no dates, but in the near future we will be packing our bags and heading off somewhere more interesting than here for a short time.
In the usual way of these things, places that are more interesting than central London often have more interesting illnesses as well. So vaccinations were needed for the Boys and I. Namely, typhoid. Having left it to the last minute as usual I was unable to get appointments for us all to have our jabs at the same time, so Boy #1 drew the short straw and had his first on Monday. Boy #2 and I were booked in the next afternoon.
"It's quite a bad one, Typhoid" the nurse informed me quietly as I fished around in my bag for a chocolate lollipop to placate my oldest son and take his mind off what I was convinced would be only a tiny scratch. I don't think Boy #1 heard her but wow, did his reaction bear her comment out. Crying ensued on a fairly major scale. Followed by, for the rest of the evening, very sad behaviour indeed, and theatrical gasping whenever he had to lift his hand from his side or his brother came anywhere near him on the sofa.
Initially I was sympathetic. Well, the nurse had told me to be, after all. But by bed-time, when even putting on his pyjamas provided a performance worthy of a dying swan at the ballet, my patience was wearing thin. It was just an injection after all. How bad could it be?
Yesterday Boy #2 and I had our typhoid jabs. After initial tutting at the nurse, Boy #2 seemed to take it OK, though it's hard to tell through the tiredness, moaning and complaining resulting from his fast-disappearing Slapped Cheek. But me? OW! That arm hurts!!
Perhaps I should have been a little more sympathetic after all. Bad Potty Mummy.
As Boy #2 would say; tut.
Not in the Bertie Wooster style, of using it as a word to answer a statement or question he did not approve of. You know, as in: "What do you mean Jeeves, that Great Aunt Maude doesn't agree that the worsted jacket should be worn with the cavalry twill trousers? Tut!" No, more in the style of clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth whenever he feels the need to be dismissive...
For example, this morning, Boy #1's headteacher said 'Good morning Boy #2!" as we walked in.
Tut.
(Thank god he's already registered and has been accepted at the school....)
Then we went for a cup of tea with a friend. Boy #2 is recovering from slapped cheek syndrome (click the link if you want to know what that is, but it pretty much does what it says on the tin, with the added benefit of high temperatures, a waterfull of snot, and general headaches and bad temper), so is not feeling his best. "Hallo Boy #2!" she said. "Would you like a toy?" He looked vaguely interested. "I have - this - in my bag!" She pulled out a Star Wars figure and handed it to him. He looked at it, handed it back after his inspection, and rather than doing what he would normally do and saying "No thankyou. Plane, please?" you guessed it.
Tut.
C3PO was not up to scratch, apparantly.
Now, the Potty family are off adventuring shortly. No names, no pack drill, and most importantly no dates, but in the near future we will be packing our bags and heading off somewhere more interesting than here for a short time.
In the usual way of these things, places that are more interesting than central London often have more interesting illnesses as well. So vaccinations were needed for the Boys and I. Namely, typhoid. Having left it to the last minute as usual I was unable to get appointments for us all to have our jabs at the same time, so Boy #1 drew the short straw and had his first on Monday. Boy #2 and I were booked in the next afternoon.
"It's quite a bad one, Typhoid" the nurse informed me quietly as I fished around in my bag for a chocolate lollipop to placate my oldest son and take his mind off what I was convinced would be only a tiny scratch. I don't think Boy #1 heard her but wow, did his reaction bear her comment out. Crying ensued on a fairly major scale. Followed by, for the rest of the evening, very sad behaviour indeed, and theatrical gasping whenever he had to lift his hand from his side or his brother came anywhere near him on the sofa.
Initially I was sympathetic. Well, the nurse had told me to be, after all. But by bed-time, when even putting on his pyjamas provided a performance worthy of a dying swan at the ballet, my patience was wearing thin. It was just an injection after all. How bad could it be?
Yesterday Boy #2 and I had our typhoid jabs. After initial tutting at the nurse, Boy #2 seemed to take it OK, though it's hard to tell through the tiredness, moaning and complaining resulting from his fast-disappearing Slapped Cheek. But me? OW! That arm hurts!!
Perhaps I should have been a little more sympathetic after all. Bad Potty Mummy.
As Boy #2 would say; tut.
Monday, 23 March 2009
Oh, go on then...
I can't do it. Every fibre of my very British personality is telling me 'Keep quiet. What on earth are you thinking of, considering a post about this? Are you absolutely crazy? People will think you're proud of yourself or something. And we can't have that! (Oh god, she's going to anyway. Clearly been spending far too much time with that Continental type she married...)'
But I can't keep quiet. I have to tell you that I came out number 11 in the recent survey of Top 100 British Parent Blogs and Bloggers'.
Hurrah!
Of course, I'm a natural pessimist, so in reality this list is a double edged sword. It's not a one-off, you see. They're going to update it 'regularly'. What does that mean, 'regularly'? In my darker moments I see myself becoming a slave to The List. 'I went down a place. Why did I go down a place (or two, or three, or ten or fifty?) What went wrong? Why does no-one love me anymore?'
Still, that's all to come, and for now I'm at 11. And I'm thrilled. And for all you stiff upper lipped English types out there, sorry. This was a temporary aberration - I promise not to mention it again...
But I can't keep quiet. I have to tell you that I came out number 11 in the recent survey of Top 100 British Parent Blogs and Bloggers'.
Hurrah!
Of course, I'm a natural pessimist, so in reality this list is a double edged sword. It's not a one-off, you see. They're going to update it 'regularly'. What does that mean, 'regularly'? In my darker moments I see myself becoming a slave to The List. 'I went down a place. Why did I go down a place (or two, or three, or ten or fifty?) What went wrong? Why does no-one love me anymore?'
Still, that's all to come, and for now I'm at 11. And I'm thrilled. And for all you stiff upper lipped English types out there, sorry. This was a temporary aberration - I promise not to mention it again...
In demand...
Before I had children I thought I was in demand. Work was constantly busy with meetings to be held, actions to be taken, projects to be monitored, e-mails to be answered, decisions to be made. I loved it ('look at me, aren't I important?'), but it could be pretty draining. The upside of course was that once I was out of the office, the demands disappeared and my time was my own.
Have you spotted where this one is going yet?
Then, when I got pregnant for the first time, I foolishly thought things might slow down a little - at least whilst I was on maternity leave. You know, what with being at home with a small baby who couldn't even speak yet.
As a friend of mine who was 6 months pregnant with her first baby once asked; how hard could it be? Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha! (Repeat to fade...)
The shock of the number of demands a newborn makes on you - or on me, at any rate - rather knocked me for six. The breastfeeding/bottle feeding. The sterilising. The changing. The burping. The worrying. The laundry - god, the laundry! The worrying. The night-time feeds. The worrying (did I mention the worrying?) The cuddling (not that I minded that one, you understand - that rather made up for everything else, in fact.) The 'I may not be able to speak yet but come over here and talk to me!' demands your child is mysteriously able to convey by the process of just opening their mouth and yelling. The visits from loving relations who simply want to spend time with their grandsons but in the process demand tea, coffee, and conversation you are ill-equipped to supply after having had no more than 3 hours continuous sleep since the little cherub arrived. And of course, there's the worrying...
As the children get older those demands decreased, thank heavens. But new ones took their place. I want the potty (not that I will EVER complain about hearing those words). I'm finished, wipe my bottom. Can I have a drink? Not water, apple juice. Not apple juice, milk. Not milk, water. I want a play date. Please. Can we have it today? But I want it today! Why can't you call X's mummy? It doesn't matter that it's nearly dinner time. I want a snack. Please. Can I have a rice cake? No, not that one, it's broken. Can we go to the park? Please. The one with the pirate ship? Can we take a treat? Can you reach that from there for me? Can we do some painting? Please. Can we paint our hands? Can you help me wipe that up? Can you tell Boy #2 to stop that? Can you ask Boy #1 to stop that? Can you come here? Can you? Can you????
I'm exaggerating, of course. But not by much. Frankly, the thought often crossed my mind that it would be nice to go back to work for a rest...
But, quit moaning PM, I got used to it. The demands became the norm, and I forgot the joy of ever being able to switch off completely, apart from on those 'get out of jail free' weekends that if you are lucky your parents give you every now and again. You know, when you leave your little darlings with them for quality grandparent time, whilst you and your beloved gallivant off to do something that involves sleep, alcohol and other stuff that follows when you've had enough sleep and alcohol.
So then, I became a little bit blase about the demands. They were just a fact of life in this brave new full time mum world. 'But I need more than this', I thought. So I started a blog. And after a while, I began to build up a network of blog-buddies - thank the lord. And then, a little bit after that, more demands started to arrive. Blogs are currency, it seems. They can be worth something. People pay attention. And the PR people found mine. Guess what, they wanted something too.
Now, sometimes their thinly veiled demands are ridiculous in that they are just not relevant to who I am or what I write about. 'Write about nappies', one hapless soul suggested. 'Ours, preferably.' 'Well, that's all very well, but I'm trying to break the habit', I replied. 'The clue's in the name of the blog...'. 'Write about our site selling clothes', another said. 'Why?' I asked. They didn't have an answer.
Others are not ridiculous in the slightest. One person emailed: 'Write about our vacuum cleaner - we'll show you how it works, we'll even give a free one if you like it'. 'Why not?' I wrote back. And I'm not sorry that I did.
And then, finally there are the good causes. Like the e-mail that recently came through from the NSPCC, asking me to visit their parenting site - yourfamily.org - and take a look at their latest campaign to teach children how to be responsible around alcohol. With all the pressures of living today, I think that this campaign could be a Very Good Thing, so I took a look and was impressed.
In addition to the drinking campaign, there are fun things to do with your kids, hints on how to teach them good manners (and don't get me started on the importance of that, living as I do in 'Entitled Children R Us-ville', aka Central London), and ideas on how to help them understand the value of money - and that's just for starters. I liked it; it was easy to navigate, bright and friendly, and didn't patronise. They've clearly thought about it, and haven't just thrown mud on the wall to see what sticks.
And just in case you are a PR person (not a blogging PR person btw; some of the best blogs are written by some) and have bothered to read this far (though why break the habit of a lifetime, really?), I suggest you read this post by A Modern Mother. She has brilliantly summed up what does and doesn't work for those of us who go to the trouble of writing and reading posts.
Guess what? Making demands doesn't. We have too many of those to deal with already.
Must go. There's a nose that needs wiping...
Have you spotted where this one is going yet?
Then, when I got pregnant for the first time, I foolishly thought things might slow down a little - at least whilst I was on maternity leave. You know, what with being at home with a small baby who couldn't even speak yet.
As a friend of mine who was 6 months pregnant with her first baby once asked; how hard could it be? Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha! (Repeat to fade...)
The shock of the number of demands a newborn makes on you - or on me, at any rate - rather knocked me for six. The breastfeeding/bottle feeding. The sterilising. The changing. The burping. The worrying. The laundry - god, the laundry! The worrying. The night-time feeds. The worrying (did I mention the worrying?) The cuddling (not that I minded that one, you understand - that rather made up for everything else, in fact.) The 'I may not be able to speak yet but come over here and talk to me!' demands your child is mysteriously able to convey by the process of just opening their mouth and yelling. The visits from loving relations who simply want to spend time with their grandsons but in the process demand tea, coffee, and conversation you are ill-equipped to supply after having had no more than 3 hours continuous sleep since the little cherub arrived. And of course, there's the worrying...
As the children get older those demands decreased, thank heavens. But new ones took their place. I want the potty (not that I will EVER complain about hearing those words). I'm finished, wipe my bottom. Can I have a drink? Not water, apple juice. Not apple juice, milk. Not milk, water. I want a play date. Please. Can we have it today? But I want it today! Why can't you call X's mummy? It doesn't matter that it's nearly dinner time. I want a snack. Please. Can I have a rice cake? No, not that one, it's broken. Can we go to the park? Please. The one with the pirate ship? Can we take a treat? Can you reach that from there for me? Can we do some painting? Please. Can we paint our hands? Can you help me wipe that up? Can you tell Boy #2 to stop that? Can you ask Boy #1 to stop that? Can you come here? Can you? Can you????
I'm exaggerating, of course. But not by much. Frankly, the thought often crossed my mind that it would be nice to go back to work for a rest...
But, quit moaning PM, I got used to it. The demands became the norm, and I forgot the joy of ever being able to switch off completely, apart from on those 'get out of jail free' weekends that if you are lucky your parents give you every now and again. You know, when you leave your little darlings with them for quality grandparent time, whilst you and your beloved gallivant off to do something that involves sleep, alcohol and other stuff that follows when you've had enough sleep and alcohol.
So then, I became a little bit blase about the demands. They were just a fact of life in this brave new full time mum world. 'But I need more than this', I thought. So I started a blog. And after a while, I began to build up a network of blog-buddies - thank the lord. And then, a little bit after that, more demands started to arrive. Blogs are currency, it seems. They can be worth something. People pay attention. And the PR people found mine. Guess what, they wanted something too.
Now, sometimes their thinly veiled demands are ridiculous in that they are just not relevant to who I am or what I write about. 'Write about nappies', one hapless soul suggested. 'Ours, preferably.' 'Well, that's all very well, but I'm trying to break the habit', I replied. 'The clue's in the name of the blog...'. 'Write about our site selling clothes', another said. 'Why?' I asked. They didn't have an answer.
Others are not ridiculous in the slightest. One person emailed: 'Write about our vacuum cleaner - we'll show you how it works, we'll even give a free one if you like it'. 'Why not?' I wrote back. And I'm not sorry that I did.
And then, finally there are the good causes. Like the e-mail that recently came through from the NSPCC, asking me to visit their parenting site - yourfamily.org - and take a look at their latest campaign to teach children how to be responsible around alcohol. With all the pressures of living today, I think that this campaign could be a Very Good Thing, so I took a look and was impressed.
In addition to the drinking campaign, there are fun things to do with your kids, hints on how to teach them good manners (and don't get me started on the importance of that, living as I do in 'Entitled Children R Us-ville', aka Central London), and ideas on how to help them understand the value of money - and that's just for starters. I liked it; it was easy to navigate, bright and friendly, and didn't patronise. They've clearly thought about it, and haven't just thrown mud on the wall to see what sticks.
And just in case you are a PR person (not a blogging PR person btw; some of the best blogs are written by some) and have bothered to read this far (though why break the habit of a lifetime, really?), I suggest you read this post by A Modern Mother. She has brilliantly summed up what does and doesn't work for those of us who go to the trouble of writing and reading posts.
Guess what? Making demands doesn't. We have too many of those to deal with already.
Must go. There's a nose that needs wiping...
Saturday, 21 March 2009
Self righteousness never pays...
Husband (having just arrived back from a trip to Russia): "Have you seen my keys? I left in a rush on Tuesday morning and didn't have time to look for them..."
Me (mentally rolling my eyes): "No, I haven't."
Husband: "Well, can you just check in your bag? You were the last one to use them..."
Me (sure of my ground - I always put my keys in exactly the same place as I come back into the flat and have never lost a set): "What are you talking about? I always know where MY keys are. Why would I use yours?"
Husband: "Well, you did this time. Can you check? Please?"
Me (huffily putting my hand into my bag): "I don't know why I'm bothering. I'm not the one who lost the spare car key. I'm not the one who loses any keys. I'm... (oh, shxt)... the one who has to own up when she finds your keys in the side pocket of her handbag..."
Bugger.
Humble pie, anyone?
Me (mentally rolling my eyes): "No, I haven't."
Husband: "Well, can you just check in your bag? You were the last one to use them..."
Me (sure of my ground - I always put my keys in exactly the same place as I come back into the flat and have never lost a set): "What are you talking about? I always know where MY keys are. Why would I use yours?"
Husband: "Well, you did this time. Can you check? Please?"
Me (huffily putting my hand into my bag): "I don't know why I'm bothering. I'm not the one who lost the spare car key. I'm not the one who loses any keys. I'm... (oh, shxt)... the one who has to own up when she finds your keys in the side pocket of her handbag..."
Bugger.
Humble pie, anyone?
Thursday, 19 March 2009
Benchmarks
You know you've earned your Duke of Edinburgh Bronze Parenting Award when...
1. You, who used to blaspheme for Britain at the slightest opportunity, catch yourself using one of the following as a curse word, even when there is no-one around...
Shoot!
Bother!
Blast!
For Goodness' sake!
2. You find yourself turning round to point out the tractor blocking the road to your cherubs in the back of the car - and realise it's the middle of the school morning and there is no-one to view it's yellow JCB-ness but you.
3. You get more pleasure out of shopping for your children than for yourself. There is less trying on, no extra poundage/roll of flab/tummy sucking in issue, and most importantly, you can get a complete outfit for them in Gap without breaking a credit-card related (will they/won't refuse the Visa?) sweat
4. You know the words - dammit! - to Chuggington on C-beebies
5. You feel a sense of achievement when you catch yourself checking your childrens' school uniform for cleanliness and suitability for another day's wear when they take it off rather than first thing in the morning. This removes the necessity for last minute tumble-drying and / or yesterday's sock recycling. (Though isn't the latter better for the environment?)
6. You find yourself googling 'how to draw a horse' and being quite impressed with your own efforts in that direction. Hell, no-one else is going to do it, the original request came from your son who - five minutes in - rushed off to play Power Rangers elsewhere.
7. You remove a sizeable splinter from your younger son's hand without resorting to a trip to A&E. OK, so there was chocolate involved. Want to make something of that?
8. Both Boys are asleep in bed by 7.30pm having fallen for your "gosh, look how late it is! Off to bed now!" routine a dastardly half an hour earlier than normal. And you don't feel guilty in the least about fibbing to them.
Now. How do we get to Silver and Gold? Anyone?
1. You, who used to blaspheme for Britain at the slightest opportunity, catch yourself using one of the following as a curse word, even when there is no-one around...
Shoot!
Bother!
Blast!
For Goodness' sake!
2. You find yourself turning round to point out the tractor blocking the road to your cherubs in the back of the car - and realise it's the middle of the school morning and there is no-one to view it's yellow JCB-ness but you.
3. You get more pleasure out of shopping for your children than for yourself. There is less trying on, no extra poundage/roll of flab/tummy sucking in issue, and most importantly, you can get a complete outfit for them in Gap without breaking a credit-card related (will they/won't refuse the Visa?) sweat
4. You know the words - dammit! - to Chuggington on C-beebies
5. You feel a sense of achievement when you catch yourself checking your childrens' school uniform for cleanliness and suitability for another day's wear when they take it off rather than first thing in the morning. This removes the necessity for last minute tumble-drying and / or yesterday's sock recycling. (Though isn't the latter better for the environment?)
6. You find yourself googling 'how to draw a horse' and being quite impressed with your own efforts in that direction. Hell, no-one else is going to do it, the original request came from your son who - five minutes in - rushed off to play Power Rangers elsewhere.
7. You remove a sizeable splinter from your younger son's hand without resorting to a trip to A&E. OK, so there was chocolate involved. Want to make something of that?
8. Both Boys are asleep in bed by 7.30pm having fallen for your "gosh, look how late it is! Off to bed now!" routine a dastardly half an hour earlier than normal. And you don't feel guilty in the least about fibbing to them.
Now. How do we get to Silver and Gold? Anyone?
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