It's a fare(sic) cop...

OK. Here is a picture that Boy #2 brought home from nursery with him today. (Bear with me please, there is a point to this post other than maternal boasting. Just for a change.)

Not bad, huh? Especially when you remember that he is, in fact, only 3 years and 3 months old. "I'm sure that Boy #1 wouldn't have painted this at the same age" I thought to myself. In fact, the more that I considered it, the more impressed I became with my younger son's artistic ability.

I located him in the sitting room, where he was supervising the removal of a train wreck from the Isle of Sodor, and the subsequent airlift of Thomas the Tank Engine to the local workshop in a super-jet. (I may not have great faith in his artistic talent, but Boy #2's imagination is working just fine, thankyou very much...)

Me: "Boy #2, this is fantastic! (His face lights up). Did you paint this?"

(Now, before you think I went in there to give him the 3rd degree, I didn't. Questioning is just part of the normal conversational technique with this age group. As in ; Did you make that mess / tidy up / push your brother over / find your blanket etc etc.... Obviously, I know he did all those things. It's just a way of communicating that encourages children to answer back... So, I was just making small talk, really, as a way to underline how impressed I was with the picture)

Boy #2: "Yes. No."

Me: "Ah. So you did paint this?"

Boy #2 (totally unphased): "No."

Me: "So who did paint this?"

Boy #2: "Miss M painted it." (Miss M is his teacher)

Me (still grasping at straws): "What, you mean she painted bits of it?"

Boy #2: "Yes. This bit (points to the roof). This bit (points to the boot). This bit (points to the bonnet). This bit (points to the wheels)."

Me: "And you painted....?"

Boy #2: "This bit." (points to the thick black line representing the main body of the taxi).


I'll not be filling in his application for art college just yet, then...

Gymtastic

Random thoughts winging their way in and out of my consciousness during my first sojourne on the treadmill for some time, this morning;

God, this is hard work. OK, let's step it up. 6K an hour is not going to cut it in the losing weight stakes...

...does that Rapid Restore stuff being advertised on Sky Sports really work? Because our kitchen work-tops could do with some attention... But then, what if it doesn't, and messes them up, Husband will kill me...

...what? WHAT? She is not really going to wear that frilly top on the stair master, is she? She is. She IS! Well, what do you expect, she's only a size 6 (that's a '2' to you lot over the Pond). Probably dieted away her brains already...

...OK, let's push it now. Up to 10K. What's that in miles per hour? Let's see, 3 miles = 5 kilometers, which means that, bugger, it's only 6 miles an hour. 6 miles an HOUR? Why does it hurt so much, then?...

...I need water...

...ooops! OK, OK, we're alright, nothing to see here people, nothing to see. Just a person overbalancing slightly when their ipod cord caught in the handle of the machine. Could happen to anyone...

...I don't think anyone noticed that...

.... now that wouldn't have happened on the Treadclimber. Maybe I can swap over. Is that scary butch lady still on there? Need I ask? Of course she is. '20 minutes only' the sign says. It's been at least... 10. OK...

... how long is that ad for the Rapid Restore going to last? Maybe it does work... Oh, and look at that, only £29.99 for 3 bottles and a special squeezy thing to apply it. And a whatchamcallit for the end of your mop... Stoppit, stoppit! I must resist. I muuuuusttttt resiiiiiiiissst...

...oh, look at that. The spinning class is finishing. Gosh, they look even hotter than I do. What IS that man wearing? What is it that Crazy Trace calls them on her blog? Budgie smugglers? There must be at least 3 down there...

... whoops! Ha. Just caught myself. Think I got away with it...

...how long now? 14 minutes. ONLY 14 MINUTES? My watch must be slow. Let's check the wall clock...

...it's not slow...

...come on, come on, come on...

...dammit, I forgot to take Boy #1's homework book in again. Hope he doesn't make me apologise to the teacher like he did the last time...

...oh, there they are, the couple in matching shirts doing their matching Powerplate exercises. Sweeeeet. Do they know how ridiculous they look on those things?...

...mind you, they are quite toned...

...maybe I should book a session?...

...19 minutes... Christ! Who's the sweaty bright red creature in the mirror next to me? She should clearly slow down. Ahem. Yes, that is, in fact me...

... slowing down now... 19 minutes and 55 seconds, 58 seconds, aaaaaand Stop.

Thank heavens for that.

I reckon if I walk home, I totally deserve a frappucino...


Note: This is of course all highly exaggerated. I am in fact a finely tuned athlete who takes her training extremely seriously.

Now pass me one of my children's Easter eggs, please.

It's all about MeMeMeMe!

Oh, thank god. THANK GOD! I've been tagged. How fabulous is that? And not once, not twice, but three times; by Bush Mummy, A Modern Mother, and Nappy Valley Girl, which means it would be downright rude of me not to participate, don't you think?

(Have you caught on yet to the fact that I am clean out of posting ideas? I blame the unusual purity of the vodka mentioned in my previous post; thankyou, Mr Tyrell, your potatoes have never been put to better use...).

Before I start though, here's a conversation I had with my younger son today:

Boy #2: "And THEN, the helo-lo-lock flew in and SAVED EVERYBODY!!!!"

Me: "Wow! That's amazing! And can you say it the same way I do, Boy #2? Can you say 'helicopter'?"

Boy #2: "No. I can't say 'helicopter'. But you can."


Back to the tag...

1. What are your current obsessions? Whether Mother Russia finally has us in her grasp, and putting words on a page that are even mildly amusing. The two are not related - yet.

2. Which item from your wardrobe do you wear most often? It's a dead heat right now between Banana Republic jeans, and a long chunky linen-knit cardigan from Jigsaw that hides the extremely upsetting roll of flab that has appeared around my middle since Easter.

3. What's for dinner? I ate with the boys, so grilled salmon (with thai dipping sauce for me, not the kids), couscous, and green beans.

4. Last thing you bought? The bi-weekly shop from Sainsbury. Rock and roll, baby.

5. What are you listening to? Right now, the sweet sound of silence...

6. If you were a god/goddess who would you be? Tricky one. I would like to say the Goddess of flat stomachs but that would be a lie, so I guess it would have to be the Goddess of Optimistic Self Delusion.

7. Favourite holiday spots? Fowey, in Cornwall. The South of France. Mauritius. Only one of those are on my holiday horizon in the near future, and sadly it ain't the last one...

8. Reading right now? Barack Obama 'Dreams of My Father'. Mr Brave. Mr Perfect. Mr Mischevous. Little Miss Trouble. Other people's blogs...

9. Four words to describe yourself; Trying to get organised.

10. Guilty pleasure? A facial. Followed by a bar of (you guessed it) Green & Black's Butterscotch Chocolate.

11. Who or what makes you laugh until you’re weak? My sister. And Michael McIntyre.

12. Favourite spring thing to do? Walking through South Kensington, looking at all the blossoms on Launceston Place, and daydreaming about winning the lottery so that one of those houses can be mine, Mine, MINE!

13. Planning to travel to next? South of France. Or Russia. It's anyone's guess, frankly.

14. Best thing you ate or drank lately? Organic rhubarb stewed with orange juice and a little sugar, served with 1/2 fat creme fraiche and a drizzle of honey. I could eat it forever. As my parents were staying with me at the time however, and thought the same thing, fat chance - it all went in a trice.

15. When did you last get tipsy? Last weekend. See previous post...

16. Favourite ever film? Life is Beautiful. (I can't watch it again, though. It's too sad. There are not enough tissues in the world...)

17. Care to share some wisdom? Life is short; eat pudding first.

18. Least favourite thing about driving in London (or wherever you live)? 4 x BLOODY 4'S


Rules of the meme. Respond and rework. Answer questions on your own blog. Replace one question. Add one question. Tag 8 people.

So, I tag:

Millenium Housewife
Nixdminx
Boondock Ramblings
ParadiseLostInTranslation
Missing You Already
More Than Just A Mother
Sticky Fingers
Footballer's Knees
and a late addition, Titian Red

Enjoy!

???

I can't promise much for this post. Possibly, you might already have guessed that by the fact I can't even think of a relevant title for it.

I spent the last 24 hours catching up with a group of girls I used to go on hockey tour with, and am feeling more than a little shabby this morning.

We met up in a fantastic beach house in Wittering on the south coast of England after I had driven down through beautiful West Sussex. I'm a West Country girl personally, but West Sussex has to be one of the most visually pleasing places in the country with it's hills, valleys, picturesque villages and leafy woods. I swear, in the spring sunshine yesterday it so much resembled my mental picture of The Shire (for those Tolkien fans amongst you) that I kept looking for hobbits and doors in grassy banks.

Once I arrived, we spent yesterday chatting, gossiping, reminiscing, drinking, eating too much chocolate (one of them works for a well-known chocolate brand and seemed to have bought most of last week's production run with her for our delictation), walking along the beach, feeling the burn in our thigh muscles as we remembered how hard it can be to walk on shingle, and drinking (again) to recover from the exertion.

Throw in a meal out, more wine, silly games, more drinking on the beach, some embarrassingly bad campfire singing (without the campfire - even 3 sheets to the wind we weren't foolish enough to attempt that) and a restorative cup of tea at 1am and you have the recipe for a rather sore head this morning...

I should have known what to expect, of course. And I should have known that it would do me no good. It never did when we were on hockey tour 10 years ago or more, and now that I'm 40 + why would that lethal combination - vodka redbull - have a lesser effect?

The coup de grace was the fact that I needed to be back in London by 11am today so that Husband could fly off for another week of wooing Mother Russia.

Looking after the Boys, solo, with a hangover.

What was I thinking?

Shades of grey

Talk about serendipity. Earlier this evening I had a conversation with my mother about her decision to 'go grey', and then what do I read? A post from Nappy Valley Girl about blonding herself - and how despite the fact that she was not dressed to impress, she still elicited whistles from builders on her way home from the hairdressers...

Just to digress for a moment (it's been a while, cut me some slack), I'm not blonde. Sadly. But I have always thought that if could pop back in time around, oh, 43 years ago, and have a word with the Gene Fairy before my conception, I might put in a bid for some blonde locks. For some reason I always thought that if I had naturally blonde hair, there would be no stopping me. No stopping me at what, is something I'm not sure of however.

In any case, I know what she would have said. Auntie Gene would have laughed outright at me. "Blonde! Blonde? Are you crazy? There hasn't been anyone with properly fair hair in your gene pool for around 400 years! Not since before those pesky Moors got washed up on the Dorset coast and got busy with the local senorita's has there been anyone naturally blonde in your mother's family. And as for your Dad's side, well the Irish potato famine and the exodus to Liverpool put paid to the previously blonde Scottish roots there, so really, Potty, fughedaboudit..."

But anyway, this post wasn't supposed to be about my sad blonde dreams. I'm a brunette, and that's how it's going to stay. Indefinitely. Come hell or high water. Which takes me back to my conversation with Mum.

A bit of background here: my mum was - still is - what they used to call in the '60's 'a looker'. Frankly, 45 years later Dad still can't believe his luck. And to add to her natural good looks, she's got excellent genes (so there is something to thank the fairy for, after all), works hard at the gym, and gets her hair coloured regularly. As a result, she looks at least 10 years younger than she actually is. When I was in my 20's and she was only 23 years older, people usually assumed we were sisters. There is a classic story of how, at a dinner party with my father, she mentioned her mid-20's daughters to another guest, who looked at her intently and asked, very diplomatically "And did you... inherit your children?". So you get the picture. She looks young.

But now, fast approaching 65, she has announced her intention to go grey - or at least to try it out and see how it looks.

It shouldn't be any of my business, I know. It's her hair, not mine. Although let me tell you, whilst I am lucky enough not to be very grey right now, the moment I feel it's getting out of control I will be dealing with that; I will not go quietly into that grey night...

So why do I so desperately want her to keep her coloured hair?

Vanity, vanity, all is vanity. As my non-naturally blonde sister (also fighting the grey to the last stand) pointed out last night, whilst our mum looks young, then so do we. And frankly, I'll take any help I can get in that respect.

Mum, don't do it!

Yuck!

Poo in the bath.

(Not mine, obviously).

(Or Husband's).

(Or even Boy #2's).

That's all I'm saying. Am now off to gag at the memory - and to buy more bleach. For some reason, we're running out...

Revenge is a dish best eaten cold...

It was Saturday night, and we were staying with friends outside London. S, who I've known since college, had taken a decision that we deserved a grown-up night out away from bottles, babyphones, and the detritus of toys underfoot, and had booked both a babysitter and a local restaurant.

Now, Husband and I do go out. Without the children. Sometimes, even with each other, which of course requires use of a babysitter. And since it's now 5 years from Boy #1's arrival, we have 2 or 3 trusted faces who we use, and on the odd occassion they can't do it, we put out a 'calling all cars' alert and usually manage to draft in a grannie or one of our friends' trusted sitters. So it's not as if the Boys aren't used to this sort of thing.

However, given the performance Boy #1 was putting in, you would think that we were planning a 6 month trip away and leaving him and his brother in an orphanage. There were tears, whispered pleas into the babyphone, and heartbreaking weeping.

I was prepared to be understanding about this; he was in a strange house, with an unknown face in charge, after all. But he was with his brother, his friend E, we wouldn't be far away, and dammit, we were going out.

As we were due to leave, I went upstairs for the 4th time since bedtime to try and sort the situation out.

Boy #1: "Pleaaaaase don't go out Mama! I'm scared... " (bear in mind, before you start to worry about his state of mind, he says exactly the same thing when The Numberjacks are on C-Beebies...)

Me: "Boy #1, you'll be fine. We won't be gone long, and before you know it we'll be back and I'll come upstairs and give you a big kiss, which you probably won't even notice as you'll be asleep by then."

Boy #1: "But, But, But..."

Boy #2: "I'm alright mama! I'm a big boy!"

Me: (suddenly having an idea): "Yes, yes you are. And you can have a big kiss to prove it. You can both have a big kiss, in fact."

I kiss Boy #2. He rolls over and closes his eyes. Then I turn to Boy #1, give him a big kiss, and whisper in his ear...

"Guess what? I just gave Boy #2 a magic kiss - and turned him into a princess! But he doesn't know, so don't tell him..."

Boy #1 stopped whimpering. He looked at me, and then at his brother, and giggled.

The babysitter didn't hear another peep out of him.