Diary of a Guilty Mother

Gypsy

2011-04-04T20:12:00.002+12:00

On Friday afternoon I said goodbye to our beloved Boxer Gypsy. She would have been 11 on the 30th of this month.

It has been a rollercoaster ride, a short one but a rollercoaster nevertheless. A couple of weeks ago she started to display signs of discomfort along her spine, she walked with her head low and her spine arched. We had her checked thoroughly. Our vet is a truly wonderful man and I thank him from the bottom of my heart for all he has done for us during this recent journey. Gypsy was x-rayed and given a series of blood tests. She was medicated with pain killers and anti-inflammatories. Some days were really promising, others not so much. We brought her bed into our room at night and her breathing would be irregular and sometimes labored, frightening to hear but not especially an issue apparently. I would stay awake most of the night listening to her.

Then a little over a week ago, on Thursday, she lost the use of her hind legs. We rushed her back to the vet. Without specialist MRI scans etc it was difficult to know exactly what was going on and with those tests costing nearly $3000 and any potential treatment a further $4000 the vet suggested gently that he wouldn't take that path if Gypsy were his dog. I hate to admit it but I was relieved to be vilified as the thought of spending thousands of dollars with potentially no good outcome unnerved me.
He gave her a 50/50 chance with a week to improve based on what he believed the issues may be. We were happy with those odds and brought our darling 'puppy' home.

I spent the next few days gently guiding her out into the garden with a makeshift sling wedged under her hindquarters in order to support her so she could go to the toilet; it was a bit like guiding a wheelbarrow. The drugs made her thirsty and she would drink only from a Pump bottle that I'd hold in her mouth. Through the night I'd hear her licking her lips, dry and ready for a drink, I'd get up 3 or 4 times a night and give her a bottle, it felt a little like being with a newborn again.

After 2 days Gypsy seemed to perk up and refused assistance with her toileting needs, wobbling out like a drunkard and stumbling down the step to relieve herself. She started eating from her bowl again as I had begun hand feeding her in an effort to stop the weight falling so rapidly. Exactly one week later we returned to our vet where he was impressed with her progress. We were to continue what we were doing and stay positive. I came home feeling happy and comforted.

The following night I was up most of the a.m. hours with her and I felt anxious when I left to take Lucy to school. I had put Gypsy’s big comfy bed on the deck so she could enjoy the fresh air and sunshine but when I returned home she was in her kennel, lying on her large duvet. She didn't come out to greet me; a bad sign. She spent most of the day in her kennel and again, on returning home with the kids didn't greet us. I put Lucy and Billy in front of the television and gave them open access to the biscuit tin. I went outside to sit with my precious Gypsy.

I sat at the entrance to her kennel and held her paw. She looked at me with soulful eyes but didn't stir. It was time and we both knew it. I phoned my vet and made the arrangements to head there shortly.

Gypsy and I spoke for a long time (or rather I talked and she listened). I reminded her of the day I picked her up as a leggy, playful 6 week old puppy. How it had been a torrential dark winters night and she had lain, upside down between my legs with her paws splayed and her mouth wide, sleeping for the entire two hour journey home. I reminded her of the christening party I held for her when she was 6 months old and how she had clambered into a friend’s handbag and fallen asleep. How she used to love chasing balloons until they popped and how much she adored playing with huge stones on the beach, dragging them around until her eye teeth eventually filed down. I told her how proud I was to have been part of her life, that she had been a joy to have around and how guilty I felt about the fact that I had often growled at her to move out of the way and that it was no reflection of how much I loved her. I told her how happy I was that Lucy and Billy had gotten to spend time knowing her and how grateful I was for her tolerance when they had clambered over her and tugged at her jowls when they were little.
I told her she had more people that loved her than some people have people who love them.

Gypsy, my wonderful old girl, I shall miss you dearly; the sound of your nails clicking on the patio; the sight of your nose beneath the gate when I come home; the sound of your paw rapping on the door to be let in, your snoring and the sight of you chasing rabbits in your sleep; the incredible bounding energy you displayed right up until those last couple of weeks and the unconditional love you offered every day, without question. You had the softest ears and the kindest heart, you were gentle and loving and I feel blessed to have known you and shared your life.

Rest well puppy, you’ll forever remain in my heart and in my memories.

Hmmmmm?

Wheeeeee.....

Honestly, it wasn't me... promise

Birthdays and Excercise

2011-03-16T14:51:00.000+13:00

Lucy's birthday party was a cracking success. My pinata held it's own but wasn't so tough that the determined little frock wearers couldn't belt the living daylights out of it and gain access to the kilo of sweeties inside. The games went off really well, excepting Musical Cushions which saw Billy out on the first round and utterly heartbroken, bless him :(. They all had a blast, the food was devoured, 9 little girls (and 2 little boys) must have changed in and out of Lucy's dress up box clothes at least 30 times during the course of the 3 1/2 hours and everone was suitably delighted with my little party boxes I'd put together. Lucy told me she had an absolutely brilliant day, which is the most important thing of all. Clean up took another 2 1/2 hours or so, in between making Lucy, Billy and a friend who stayed over some dinner, and when I finally sat down (excepting the three times I sat on the toilet seat), some 12 hours since I had first stood up, I was shattered!

It was my turn on Monday, 43, Shit, how did that happen???? I had a nice day and Paul had organised that the kids provide me with a 'movie night', in that they bought me a cool chick flick and two giant bags of Maltesers (which Lucy was quick to enquire "you will share them, won't you mummy?"). Maltesers are my fave and after a competition one night Paul and I established I could fit 14 of them into my mouth in one sitting. Perhaps not something to brag about... Anyway I got some lovely gifts and Paul bought a stunning white choc mud cake which was divine. He couldn't find where I'd stashed the candles so made do with a single match. Rather innovative I thought, but mostly I was just grateful not to have to blow out 43 of the buggers.

Today I ventured to the gym, I enjoy the curcuit training room as you move from one piece of equipment to the next every time the buzzer goes, working out your entire body in a relatively quick time frame since you're not left waiting for the machines. I like to go it alone and always arrive in plenty of time to complete my training before the first group class starts. Today I had nearly finished my second circuit when the room started to fill with senior citizens. Now, I have absolutely nothing against pensioners, my mum and dad are pensioners and I too will be a pensioner one day and hopefully I'll still be keen to get to the gym and enjoy a moderately energetic work out when I am. I take my hat off to the gents and ladies who come in to complete a 45 minute class but I get truly pissed off when they come well ahead of time, find themselves a weight machine, bike or rower, plant their ample backsides and proceed to start yabbering to their neighbour without actually doing any excercise.

Today I stood, ready and waiting to use the tricep pull down while the woman on it, after glancing at me, continued to chat. She wasn't even using the bloody thing except to rest her hands on. Aaargh!

Ladies, when the buzzer goes off, it's time to move on the the next machine, not the next topic of conversation.

Lucy turns 6

2011-03-12T15:04:00.001+13:00

It was Lucy's sixth birthday yesterday. We had painstakingly ensured she got the gifts she really wanted and despite my initial reservations, I succumbed and bought a selection of Littlest Pet Shop pets and accessories. She also got a large box filled with every kind of-dress up imaginable so she has her role playing well and truly covered (as does Billy who strutted about wearing a pink cape, long white gloves and purple fairy wings while brandishing a pink feathered fan).

Lucy was delighted with all of her gifts and once she had donned some fairy/princess/mermaid/bridal attire she sat down to play with her Littlest Pets (which I was of the mind was basically cheap crap - or rather - quite expensive crap).

Anyway, we enjoyed pancakes for breakfast and headed out to the local hot pools with a big picnic for a day of fun in the sun and lots of swimming. As it was technically a school day the place was almost deserted and we had the run of it to ourselves.

6 hours later we returned our wrinkled, weary bodies home. Lucy and Billy curled up on the couch in front of a dvd whilst I put together the traditional tower of little fairy cakes in order to sing happy birthday. There were 12 cakes in total. One each for me, Paul, Nanny and Poppa and the rest to be divided up between Lucy and Billy, or at least that was the plan. We all enjoyed the first and then in a skirmish for the second, all bar 2 slid off the plate and landed face down on the carpet. Devastating for all except the dog who polished them off before I could even remove the paper patty cases for her.

Lucy requested that instead of a story she be allowed some more time to play with her Littlest Pets and would I join her. So I did. Half an hour later, whilst Lucy had popped off to the loo, Paul stuck his head round the door.
"Having fun?" He asked, surveying the scene as I carefully see-sawed two small mice and slid a little frog down a slide.
"I am rather," I grinned back sheepingly.
"Would you like some Littlest Pets for your birthday then honey?" he queried.
"Ooh, yes please," I said without shame.

I hope he means it.

The Pinata

2011-03-04T20:17:00.001+13:00

Lucy turns six in seven days, her party is in nine days, the theme is pink, pretty and girly. Her choice. Kind of.

If I'm honest, initially she wanted a Barbie and the Three Mustateers party but I wasn't sure how to pull that off. She wanted pointy hats with feathers, cloaks, masks and long boots. She suggested each weekend we invite one or two of her friends over to watch the Barbie and the Three Muskateers movie with her for the weeks leading up to her birthday and then they could all practice the moves so that they would know what to do when her party rolled around. It sounded difficult, costly and very time-consuming, not to mention profoundly boring, I'm pretty sure twice is my max for Barbie movie viewing.

I suggested a spa day instead, with a handful of friends (five max). I'd paint their toe nails, let them put on face masks, lipstick and hand cream; give them foot rubs, wahtever their little hearts desired. She was delighted at the thought and promptly invited nine friends. I baulked and suggested a pink, girly party. So, pink and girly it is.

Lucy desperately wants a pinata. She has seen the one she wants, it's pink and looks like a crown. I also happen to know that it will take a good half hour of swinging a large stick about before even a dent is made in the monstrous carboard construction. It is also ridiculously expensive. So I told her I'd make one myself, how hard could it be? I'm creative enough, good with glue and sticky tape and so on. I bought a large heart shaped balloon for the task.

Yesterday she came home from school and looking cautious asked me what was balancing in a bucket on the outdoor table.
"It's your pinata, hunny," I said excitedly, "it's drying."
She promptly burst into tears.
"But it's awful, it doesn't look like a pinata. I wanted the pink crown. Ooohh." She threw herself dramatically across the table and the pinata bounced onto the ground where the dog started to chase it. She watched, horrified, and sobbed some more.
"Sweetheart, Lucy, it's not finished. It's only got the first layer of paper mache on (which has to be said is a bloody messy load of old malarky), mummy still has lots more to do and it needs painting. It'll be just lovely, trust me," I said with my fingers firmly crossed behind my back.

She sulked off, clearly unimpressed. "Lucy honey," I called after her, "haven't I always made your parties extra special for you? Haven't you and your friends always really enjoyed themselves?" I was feeling a little pissed at her lack of gratitude but I could understand why she couldn't necessarily see the transformation from torn newspaper and flour glue mix to pink heart pinata.
"Not always mummy, no," came her reply.
Oh.

Much Apoo About Nothing

2011-03-03T10:16:00.002+13:00

Ok, I need your help.

We've been toilet training Billy from when he just turned 3. Before that, despite intimating he was keen to use the loo, when it actually came down to it he just wasn't interested so I figured we'd wait til the weather warmed up (mainly so I didn't end up with an abundance of soggy clothes to wash and cold bums to warm up).

So from October last year we commenced operation 'Lets get Billy out of nappies and spend our hard earned cash on something entirely more fun'.

Once the decision was made he shunned the potty and the toilet seat insert designed to stop little bums toppling into the pan, instead hoisting himself up, taking a wide leg approach and balancing elbows on knees, often with a book to read to pass the time.

Within a couple of days he was using the toilet consistently to wee. Within 3 nights he was dry overnight!! I kept him in nappies for 'just in case' at night time but when he still hadn't had an accident in over a month I decided to be brave, and left him just in pants. He has been consistently dry at night since... Yay!!!

But now for the entirely more difficult part. Poos. Initially he told us he couldn't feel them coming. Fair enough, I was prepared to be patient and let him take as long as necessary to learn how to listen to his body. Then on Boxing Day he took himself off to the toilet and proudly did his first number two on the loo.
We whooped and jumped for joy. We high fived and praised him like he'd just won a gold medal at the Olympics. We were on our way, it was only a matter of time now.

So it's now March and he's still not using the toilet regularly for his poos. He's good as gold when we go out, more often than not telling us he needs to go so we get there in plenty of time. Although there was the once, in the early days, when we went to the shops and he informed me AFTER the fact. We walked carefully back towards the car, watching the small bulge that was pressed against his inner thigh creep ever so slowly down his leg, until eventually Lucy informed me in a loud voice that
"Mummy, there's poos coming out of the bottom of Billy's shorts."
Then we ran as fast as we could so I could take care of the necessary clean up in the boot of the car.

But aside from that he was doing well. My issue is that when we are at home he rarely uses the toilet for his poos. Instead he skulks off to hide in a room, or behind a door until the aroma accosts me and I go in search of the origin of the smell, usually his backside but occasionally a dog fart, in which case Billy's off the hook.

I have encouraged and cajoled. I have tried telling him he can't go to school until he can use the toilet for his poos (albeit it 18 months away, it seems to be quite a good carrot to dangle as he's very keen to start). I have been understanding and I have been firm but I am getting to the point where I just don't know what to do. Do I just wait it out and eventually he will start going consistently or should I try something else?

Any thoughts gratefully received.

Morons vs Idiots

2011-02-25T11:23:00.001+13:00

This morning, after dropping Lucy off at school, Billy and I pulled up at his Fairy Godmothers (homebased preschool).

Someone had parked somewhat precariously outside; not really alongside the kerb, kind of on the grass and a wee bit on the pavement. It wasn't a great job and mentally I wondered where they had secured their drivers license from.

"Moron," Billy piped up from the back seat.
"Billy!" I admonished, "that's not a nice word at all."
Though even as I was chastising him, I felt a distant memory stirring.
"Sorry mummy," he grinned at me in the rearview mirror, clearly not really sorry at all.
"We don't call people moron's sweeheart, it's not kind," I tell him.
There's that niggle again, what the hell is that? Oh, crap, yes that's right.
I can hear my own voice reciting in my head 'For God's sake, what are you DOING you moron?' in reaction to a car pulling out in front of me at the supermarket yesterday; and perhaps on a number of other occasions too.
I cringe at the memories.

"Do you know what Billy, I think mummy may have said that word before, but it's still not nice and I shouldn't say it either."
"S'ok mummy," he says "they're an igiot aren't they?"
Igiot, igiot, oh, bloody hell, idiot, that's one of mine too.

Shit, I really must learn to mutter my annoyances more quietly.

Libra flop

2011-02-23T21:56:00.000+13:00

I have just endured the most ridiculous of advertising commercials ever made.

Tell me ladies, when you discovered that Libra had redesigned their tampon wrappers, did you become so manically hysterical that you shrieked and jumped with joy?

Did you follow the stampede in the supermarket, dropping your eggs en route? Did you fight your way through the throngs and hurtle your body toward the shelves in order to secure yourself a box of little cotton wads covered in shiny blue wrappers?

I think not.

Do the marketing people, the advertisers and the suckers at Libra who gave it the thumbs up really think we woman are this pathetic? Frivolous and downright dumb? This ad makes us look utterly ridiculous; foolish and silly, as opposed to the strong, resiliant, intelligent woman we are. Quite frankly, it pisses me off!

On a positive note, Lucy and Billy think the new wrappers make cool finger puppets.

Lessons in Motherhood

2011-02-21T10:18:00.001+13:00

Motherhood has taught me (so far)......

That I am capable of falling so completely and utterly in love that I could actually eat the recipient all up

That it is possible to be so exhausted that I am physically incapable of holding up my own head

That at least once in my life, poo will be farted at me

That I will regularly wake up reciting nursery rhymes

That I will just as regularly go to sleep reciting nursery rhymes

That I will frequently use my thumb and forefinger to squeeze snot out of someone else’s nose.

That 'magic spit' heals a myriad of hurts

That I would prefer to catch (someone else’s) vomit in my hands, than clean it off the carpet/clothes/table.

That I will happily stay up all night long to cuddle someone poorly

That I will occasionally find raisins stuck to my breasts

That it is perfectly acceptable to use my finger to scrape food off someone else’s face and then lick it (my finger, not their face)

That I can, and will, eat food offered to me that has been pre-chewed

That I will happily suck a lollipop clean of dirt and debris in order to return it to its rightful owner

That I will have to pick crusty bogies off the wall

That it is possible to have the desire to cuddle and throttle simultaneously

That it is possible to hear your children crying for you, even when they are actually sound asleep

That some days, just the sight of a butterfly will make me cry

That I would gladly give away my last Malteser

That a prerequisite to having children is owning a good hand vac

I'd love to hear what you've learned on your journey (if for nothing else than to let me know what I'm in for in the coming years).

Trapped and Mortified

2011-02-16T14:06:00.003+13:00

What can I say, I've been appallingly bad and neglected my post for the longest time ever. Feel free to reprimand me at will. It was an impossibly difficult end to 2010 and I am glad to see the back of it. I shan't bore you with the tediousness of it all suffice to say I have taken to the keyboard once more.

Firstly though, I have to thank my readers, new and old, I hope you're still out there, despite my inability to communicate for the last 5 months. Hang in there with me, I won't let you down again...

As a form of self-flagellation I shall lay myself bare and share perhaps the most humiliating moment of my entire life. More embarrassing than the time I threw up on the tube in London when I was 19 (it was late, I was poorly and I was discreet – managing to get most of it into my handbag), more embarrassing than the time the man of my deepest affections (now my husband) and his two brothers caught a glimpse of my purple knickers when I was sitting on a grass verge and more embarrassing than the time I farted during an interview (I was nervous). This is, without a doubt, my most embarrassing moment to date.

As I have explained, when I dress in the morning I am inclined to simply grab the clothing that I have discarded onto the chair in our room the night before. Today was no different. I grabbed fresh knickers and pulled on yesterday’s jeans.

Billy and I dropped Lucy at school then headed to the supermarket. Eager to get home I arrived at the checkout after a mad dash round the aisles. Despite only needing a handful of items my trolley was still nearly half full.

I stood at the checkout playing with Billy whilst waiting for some more room on the conveyer belt so that I could unload the last of our groceries. Suddenly I felt a tap on the shoulder.
“Excuse me,” a voice said. I turned to look behind me. There was a good looking chap in his 20’s holding something out to me. I assumed that Billy had dropped his water bottle or perhaps tossed something from our trolley.
“I think these are yours,” he said.

I reached out to politely accept whatever it was with a smile but when I looked down at what was being offered to me I froze. It was a pair of my knickers (and a boring, white, thinning cotton pair at that). I was mortified! My face was ablaze.

I struggled to figure out how this fellow happened to be holding my underwear. I started running through various scenarios in my head before I guessed that they must have been yesterday’s pants which were still jammed into my trouser leg, working themselves down towards my ankle whilst I had been jogging round the supermarket.

I suddenly realised that he was still holding them out towards me and I took them with my head held low. I could feel the heat from my cheeks on my hands as I clutched my knickers tightly to my chest, desperately unsure of what to say. “Um, thanks,” I muttered.

There was nowhere to run; I just wanted the earth to swallow me whole. I so desperately wanted to get out of there but with half my groceries on the counter and the rest in my trolley, along with Billy, I could hardly abandon them so there I stood, alone in my shame whilst the people around me sniggered into their shoulders pretending not to have noticed but so obviously eager to finish up and get out so that they could get straight onto their phones, e-mail, Twitter and Facebook to update their mates on the hilarity of my situation.

Oh God, I’ve just had a thought, what if someone filmed it on their camera and I end up on You Tube?

Why the hell didn’t he just leave them on the floor and point to them, or better yet just push them under the confectionary counter with his foot. Why did he have to pick them up? Ugh!

I can’t stop wondering why, oh why I took them from him. I should’ve just denied all knowledge, instead finding some other poor woman exiting the supermarket to point the finger at?
“Oh, no, no, those aren’t mine. I think I saw that lady over there”, as I wave my arm in her general direction “with a pair just like these poking out of the bottom of her trouser leg. What a shame, how embarrassing for her. Let me just take them and I’ll be sure to pass them on.”

But I didn’t. Besides which, Billy didn’t help, clearly recognising them he reached out valiantly grabbing at my underwear as I tried to stuff them into my pocket. “Mummy, they're your knickers! What was that man doing with your knickers?" he said helpfully.

I keep replaying the scenario over and over in my head and each time I can feel my face flame. Why couldn’t he have just ignored them, didn’t he realise the acute humiliation I would feel? Or perhaps that was the point. After all, the girl behind the counter seemed to enjoy the show as they exchanged knowing grins. How come he was so convinced they were mine anyway, had he been watching them hanging off the cuff of my jeans leg, clutching desperately to the heel of my boot?

Oh my God, I shall relive this horror for all my days. I can never show my face again. I shall have to start wearing a berkha.

It’s no good, I have no choice, I shall have to change supermarkets.

Bloody hell, we’ll have to move house!

Messy Play

2010-08-22T11:42:00.001+12:00

To my small but perfectly formed handful of readers I must apologise; I have been absentee for far too long. Unfortunately, the longer I am away from my keyboard, the less inspired I am to return, but today, with a child and husband free house, return I shall.

For those of you who can remember, I had been thinking about opening my own business, had even gone so far as to locate suitable premises and approached the bank to borrow money. They thought my idea was a great one and were even eager to loan me cash but one has to wonder if that is more about the interest rate and their own monetary gains than my successes. Anyway, I finally completed my due diligence and whilst without a doubt the idea was sound, the premise fun and the work, well, the work was going to be hard - let’s not beat around the bush, the concept was unlikely to make any substantial impact on our ability to earn hoards of cash, which, if I’m honest, aside from anything else, was primarily what I was in it for. So I have shelved any notions of owning and operating my own business (for the moment) and am back to being a Guilty Mother again, which honestly, I never stopped being.

Lots has happened in the few short weeks I have been away from my desk but one thing springs to mind which I just have to share.

Last week Billy and I were busy playing house, he with his toys and me with the vacuum cleaner and washing machine.

I decided to do some baking and as Billy wasn’t fussed in accompanying me on the bench, I got on with it and left him to play, listening to him happily chatter away to his cars and Buzz Lightyear.

Singing along to the radio I suddenly realized that I hadn’t heard Billy in around 10 minutes or so. I wiped my hands on my apron and cautiously looked about. After all, silence can usually only mean one thing – destruction!

He wasn’t in Lucy’s room, nor was he in his own or the office. I opened the door to our bedroom and there he was, having discovered an art set complete with a dozen or so acrylic paints.

“Noooooo!!!! BILLY NOOOO!” I emitted, somewhat hysterically.
Billy, looked up and promptly burst into tears.
“I sorry mummy,” he hiccupped, “I so sorry.”

I knelt down beside him to examine the damage; except only, there actually wasn’t any...

Sure, he’d jimmied open the lock on the boxed art set, having been unable to open its complicated hooks and buttons he’d simply opted for brute strength and yanked at the hinged side until it gave way.

Discovering its contents with glee he’d then wandered off to find a small colouring in book for which to display his artistic creations. Armed with an A5 sized book he’d returned to the scene of his crime, removed one paintbrush from the art set and selected a tube of paint. He then unscrewed the lid and added a splodge to his paper before smooshing it around with his brush. He had used 5 colours on his paper that I could see, yet each of those colours had been carefully returned to their rightful slot, with their lids screwed back on properly. There was no paint on the carpet, there was none on our white bedspread (which was located dangerously nearby), there was none on his clothes; there was however a small amount on the tips of his fingers.

“Oh Billy,” I said breathlessly, all crossness dissipating.
He looked at me cautiously, fat tears balanced on his eye lids and his lower lip wobbled.
“Honey, what a wonderful job you have done!” I exclaimed.
“You’ve been so careful and you’ve tidied away the paints you used; you’ve kept all your paint on the paper and you made no mess and you’ve made such a lovely picture! I’m so proud of you. What a clever boy you are!”
He beamed at me.
“Of course you should have asked mummy first before you opened this you know,” I stated.
He bowed his head.

I also happen to know that had that been Lucy at 30 months, our bed would have been a lovely shade of reds, browns and yellows, not to mention our carpet and her face.

Mummy's little helpers

2010-07-25T20:31:00.003+12:00

Yesterday I collected Lucy a new desk. A large one which doesn't scrape her knees when she positions herself beneath it whilst perched on a tiny toddler chair. One with a hutch on top to house all her books, CD's, trinket boxes and soft toys. One with drawers to tidily keep all her pens and umpteen scraps of paper.

In order to collect said desk, I needed to leave the children (and their respective carseats) behind so that I could cram it in, which I did with cm's to spare. My mum took care of babysitting duties for the morning whilst I drove the length of the city and back.

This morning I refitted the seats. The underside of Billy's hosted a buffet of food debris and was cultivating an assortment of science projects. There was an instruction manual tucked in there which appeared to be actually eating itself. I vacuumed and scraped around all the awkward bits of plastic until finally it was clean. I then tackled the ridiculously difficult task of refitting the seat. It has a locking mechanism designed for super human midgets. I swear, you need to pull with all your might to get the tether tight enough then push the clasp until it clicks. Well the only way I have found is to use my hands to pull the tether and my feet to lock the clip, that and sheer brute force. It really is a two man job but since I'm one husband down at the mo I tackled it alone and mercifully it only took me twenty minutes.

During this extrenuous activity in the back seat, I allowed the kids to 'drive' in the front. Apparently we were off 'Up Norf'. Whilst I huffed and puffed in the back, Lucy offered words of encouragement from the front "You can do it mummy, I know you can."
"Rrrgggr," I said, tugging and mentally cursing.

Once it was fitted I set about refitting Lucy's booster, which is a doddle, and vacuuming the rest of the car. Half way through Lucy starts wailing about how sorry she is and I look up to see her holding the rear view mirror in her hand.
More mental cursing...

Apparently our rearview mirror doesn't just clip back on. Nor does it go on forcibly with the assistance of a hammer. It does however go back on when you call a trusted male friend with a good screwdriver set.

Billy meanwhile had found the head from the vacuum cleaner and was merrily pretending to hoover up all the muddy debris off the front lawn. "I helping mummy," he said.

Don't you just love it when they help?

Flying solo

2010-07-21T13:09:00.004+12:00

It's pouring with rain and my nose is streaming along with the downpour. Billy is 'resting' on the couch watching Handy Manny and re-enacting scenes from Toy Story with a miniature Buzz Lightyear and an small 3 eyed alien figurine. Periodically I rush to his side to swipe the snot from his upper lip after yet another fit of sneezing. I am so over winter!

I haven't written for ages, there's been so much going on and I've had nothing to say. I think it's a case of not knowing where to start sometimes.

Paul left for a trip to the other side of the world last Wednesday and isn't due back for another 9 sleeps. Lucy has been diligently crossing the days off the calender.

He is visiting his family, who reside in London and are celebrating his dad's 60th birthday on a small island called Gozo (just off Malta). Gozo is hosting it's own celebrations at the moment too and the place is awash with festivity (imagine New Orleans at Mardi Gras time but without the nipple tassles). The trip was a surprise and with the exception of his middle brother, no-one knew Paul was coming. It had the desired effect as Paul, after keeping his distance and watching his dad further up the street, approached and casually said "They put on a good show here don't they?" His dad, nodding, started to reply then turned to look at the person who had just spoken to him.
"PAUL!!!" "OH MY GOD, PAUL!!! He exlaimed loudly and excitedly. His mum then turned to see her eldest son and screamed so loud that the crowds of people parted under the misguided belief that someone had just been killed.

Anyway, his trip so far has been a resounding success and I'm thrilled he's getting the opportunity to spend some quality time with those he hasn't seen for so long. It doesn't hurt too that he's sunning himself on the Mediteranean.

Meanwhile back in chilly old NZ we have had our own share of fun.

The night Paul left the smoke alarm in our bedroom decided in it's infinite wisdom to announce it's battery was going flat and woke me at 2am with a high pitched beep. That continued every half hour thereafter until I was able to precariously perch atop my bedside cabinet to get it down and replace the battery the following morning. I might have endeavoured to extracate myself from the flannel sheets and deal with it at the time, had I known that Lucy was also being kept awake with it (although I do doubt it was all night as she suggested). But I fixed it and it was fine.

The following day our PC decided to crash. I turned it on just in time to see something about a fatal fan error. Fortunately I have been given the name of a chap who is a friend of a friend and what a Godsend he turned out to be. He arrived the next day to look at it, pulled it all apart, showed me where the fan had broken off, become detached and was now resting happily on top of our CPU unit and frying it in the process. He took it away and as I needed it for the weekend (didn't want to worry Paul with anything and my inability to skype may have raised his eyebrows) I collected it later that same day. The fan (a much new and improved model, and considerably more substantial in its efforts) cost $65 and he only charged me $25 for his time, including his trip out to see me! Not only is our PC working perfectly, it no longer makes an unpleasant groaning sound. I have his number on speed dial now and I think I might have to get it tattooed on my arm.

I've bought Lucy a large heavy new desk with a hutch (since she could barely get her legs beneath her cute purple toddlers desk and chair set anymore) which I have to drive over an hour to collect on Saturday after depositing the children somewhere since I can't fit it in the car without removing their seats. I then have to phone a friend when I get home to help me unload the car since I can't collect the children from where I left them until I remove the desk and replace their seats.

I have purchased, disassembled and painted an old wooden school desk (the kind with a flip top lid) for Billy and once I screw the legs back on I've to find and paint up a suitable chair. I also need to find and paint a suitable chair to go with Lucy's new desk. Until I do I guess she'll just have to stand.

I've had Lucy at the doctors with some itchy rash and dealt with assorted other minor incidents.

On top of all this I'm still going through the due diligence for my new business venture in between fitting in ballet, trips to the park, playdates and playgroup.

And we all have colds.

I take my hat off to the wives of servicemen, whilst it's certainly possible to go it alone, it sure ain't as much fun.

On the mend

2010-07-14T20:26:00.005+12:00

Billy enjoys playing with Lucy's dolls, I have no issue there especially since the bulk of his interest seems to surround removing them of their clothing.

Today he gathered up her dolls and laid them on the couch.
"Dey poorly mummy,'he announced. "Dey all need fixing."
"Oh dear," I said, "that's terrible, what's the matter with them?"
"Dey have sore ears," he nodded at me earnestly, "and I'm going to fix dem."
"Righto sweetheart," I said, losing interest and returning to the computer, "You just carry on."

Upon hearing whirring and bashing sounds I decided to investigate. In his wisdom Billy felt it more appropriate to don his hard hat than his stethoscope and was diligently 'repairing' the dolls ears with a toy drill and hammer. Sitting next to them was Lucy's large (in that it stands as tall as Billy) rag doll. She was missing one of her limbs. "Billy!" I admonished, "What happened to dolly?" I asked, brandishing her lone leg at him.
"Oh, I pulled it off mummy, it was accident, but I fix her." He waved the drill at me airily as he grinned.
"No sweetheart, mummy will fix her properly, with needle and thread," I insisted.

So now we have a large scary looking one legged doll perched on the chair in the corner of our bedroom, her other leg sits, with the stuffing falling out, alongside her like she is doing some kind of remarkable gymnastic manoever. She smiles at me eerily whenever I enter and I'd swear she watches me as I move about the room.

I'll fix her when I feel brave enough.

Squished

2010-07-08T21:42:00.002+12:00

Last night I ventured away from the safety of our comfy couch and hit the squash courts - or rather my head did, about 30 seconds into my first game in a little over 6 years.

Clearly my body has aged considerably since the births of my beloved children and my feet, which previously knew it was perilously dangerous to allow ones head to connect with a concrete wall, didn't seem to give much of a damn and failed to stop in time thus ensuring I spent about 10 seconds listening to the (non-existent) cartoon-like birds tweet around me. My partner, who also hasn't played in over six years (I know this because the last person he played was me) buggered his shoulder about three minutes in thus reducing his ability to produce his (almost) world famous power shots, giving me a somewhat slight advantage. Which I needed since my head was ringing and thudding simultaneously and my vision was ever so slightly blurred.

We played for a total of 30 minutes, at least 5 of which was spent nursing injuries, 3 gulping copious amounts of water in a frenzied effort to rehydrate and 2 complaining about how old we are. I have twisted my knee, rendering it fat and horrid and almost imovable and every muscle in my body aches - in particular my right shoulder and both butt cheeks.

It was great and I can't wait for a rematch...

Tight spot

2010-07-06T20:24:00.002+12:00

After a lengthy downpour lasting the better part of two days and gale force winds, our only two methods of entry and exit from our home have become wedged shut. The swollen doors are jammed in their frames and no amount of persuasion, tugging or kicking from me is helping the situation one iota.

Fortunately we have an alternative escape plan, with internal access through the garage.

Billy, Lucy and I made our way into the garage this morning and Billy pressed the button to raise the door. It opened... about 60cm. Assuming Billy was at fault I asked him to press it again, and again and again... the door remained staunchly open at a maximum of 2 1/2 feet high.

With plans for the day we had no choice, this is, after all, our only means of exiting our house (short of tying the sheets together and shimmying over the front deck) and so I instructed the kids to go under the door. Billy managed with minimum fuss, Lucy had to bend and scrape a bit, me, well, I slipped, fell over, grubbied my knees, skinned my knuckles and landed my handbag in a puddle.

We returned home to discover that the problem has not gone away. We still can't use either our front or back door and the garage will only open up to my knees. Lucy and Billy crawled beneath the heavy metal door and I shimmied under in a snake-like fashion tugging bags of groceries behind me.

When Paul arrived home this evening he stood, bemused, as I gesticulated and shouted through the door that I truly could not let him in and that instead, he would have to limbo his 6'3" body through a 20 inch gap beneath the garage door.

The repair man will be round in the morning and the first thing I'll be doing is dropping Pauls suit in at the drycleaners.

Lucy's First Dance Party

2010-07-03T12:15:00.002+12:00

To mark the last day of term Lucy's school held a 'Movie Dance Party' last night. For the first and second years (ie the 5 and 6 year olds) it was to start at 6pm and finish at 7.30pm. The older kids got to come at 7.30pm and boogie their little hearts out until around 9pm.

We were to dress up as our favourite movie character. Lucy went as Cinderella; unable to think of a suitable character (and since parents weren't obliged to dress up) I went as 'Busy mum wearing make-up and respectable clothes - for once'.

Lucy was beside herself excited and it has to be said that Paul and I felt the tremors of 'Oh my God, our little girl is growing up'.

To say it was a dance party was over estimating it just a tad. Mostly, the boys thought it was a great opportunity to practice their 'sliding into touch' on a polished floor and kick balloons like rugby balls, but the girls, well, once they had stuffed themselves with cotton candy and ice blocks, adorned themselves with glow stick jewellery and had their faces painted they were ready to boogie. Lucy was up on the podium and wiggling her little bum to Abba, Michael Jackson and the theme tunes to Ghostbusters and Grease, she was loving it! It has to be said, mum did a fair bit of wiggling too.

It was noisy and chaotic and as we were ushered out the back door at 7.30 so the big kids could enter at the front I was grateful to have been able to spend this very special occasion with Lucy. I wonder how many more she'll let me come to before she deems it unsuitable to have mum as her date for the evening?

All or Nothing

2010-07-03T11:28:00.004+12:00

I'm a slack tart (of late anyway), I know it and if you bother to ever visit my site then you know it too. I haven't been near my blog in a week and when I last deigned to put finger to keyboard it was to enlighten with one riveting sentance.
Let it be known, I hereby officially apologise - though honestly, to whom I may be apologising is unknown as my comments are few and far between, but like I say, that's probably because I am a slack tart!

I do have an excuse, however pitiful it may seem to be. Believe it or not I am planning on opening my own business, one which involves locating a suitable premises from which to run said business. I have found another like minded mother of two small children who has by some miracle agreed to enter this venture with me. I am not permitted to divulge too many details at present but can say it is eating up most of my waking time these days (as well as that time which should be spent sleeping or cleaning toilets/fridges/showers...the list goes on).

My brain is so full at the moment that I almost have to wear earmuffs to stop valuable information falling out of my head.

I promise to offer more once I have carved everything out but for now, please offer this Guilty Mother some words of encouragement.... or just tell me I'm mad (go on...pleeease) and that I should simply stop right now!

Thought for the day:

2010-06-20T20:31:00.000+12:00

Tiredness is forgetting to remove your specs when washing your face.

Wrigglers and jumpers

2010-06-14T20:48:00.000+12:00

Little did I know that in addition to budgeting for school fees and uniforms when Lucy started school, I should also be putting money aside for medicinal purposes. In the last three weeks we have spent nearly $100 in order to remove and prevent incredibly small ‘things’ that either jump or wriggle.

A little over a fortnight ago Lucy complained of an itchy bum. I was about to turn her light out so she could go to sleep when she proclaimed her discomfort.
“Ooooh, mummy, my bottom is itchy,” she said writhing about on her bed.
“Never mind, it’ll pass, just leave it alone,” I said, not especially sympathetic figuring this was potentially yet another delay tactic.
“But mummy, it really, really itches!”
“Honey, there’s not really a lot I can do about it,” I said. I certainly had no intention of giving it a scratch myself.
“But mummy, I can’t stop; it’s soooo itchy.”
“Would you like some magic water?” I asked, “Perhaps that might help.”
Magic water is a very special concoction of warm and cool water served in a small shot glass. It is prepared by fairies and we are very fortunate to be able to offer this to Lucy when it seems that nothing else will suffice.
“Yes please mummy,” she said twitching and wriggling.
Duly served her magic water I bade her night-night and pulled the door to.
Within minutes she was back in the lounge dancing and jigging about. “Mummy, aargh, I can’t leave my bottom alone, it really is just too itchy.”
It was then I realised that I should probably consider the fact that Lucy may have worms.
With assurances that we would get her checked out the following day she finally fell, slumped with exhaustion, into her bed and fell sound asleep.
True to my word, although she had made no more mention of her itchy bottom, we went to the pharmacist after school the following day. Lucy and Billy ooohed and aaahed over the ice-creams for sale in a chiller; honestly, I have no idea why a chemist even sells ice-cream, but there you are, this one does, and at least it kept my two busy whilst I spoke to the resident pharmacist in hushed tones.
“I think my daughter may have worms,” I whispered, terrified Lucy may overhear me and discover that she had small wriggly things crawling about inside her. She would be absolutely mortified.
“Oh yes,” she said, nodding knowingly.
“And I’ve no idea how to treat them; I’m only used to dealing with the dog and cat stuff, and I just squirt that on the back of their necks. I presume there’s more to it for children?” I said.
“Oh, it’s very common you know. The worms reside in the body and then move down towards the anus at night and lay their eggs. That’s why the bottom is so much itchier at night time.
I couldn’t help myself, “Eeeww, my God, that’s disgusting,” I said.
“Children often pick them up from toilet seats; it’s incredibly common at school. The eggs sit around the child’s bottom and then get left on the seat in the morning. They can live for quite some time before they are picked up by another host.”
Host… bloody hell, she’s making it sound like something out of ‘Aliens’.
“Right,” I said, feeling the blood drain away from my face, “what do I need to do to rid her of them and ensure that her brother, dad and I don’t get them?”
Lucy and Billy arrived beside me and I took the family packet of worm tablets I was offered.
That night we each took a tablet. The following three mornings the kids took showers and were interested and confused by the fact that mummy insisted they keep on their underwear/nappy until they were in the cubicle and beneath running water. Worms killed, eggs gone, no more itchy bottoms.

Last week Lucy arrived at school to discover one of her friends had wet hair.
“Why is your hair wet?” she asked.
“I’ve got bugs,” she grinned. Lucy seemed to take her reply in her stride but I looked to her mum, “Bugs?” I queried.
“Hmmm, of the jumping variety,” she said.
“Oh crap, nits?”
“Yup.”
“Lucy honey,” I called after her, “No hugging anyone today please, ok?”
I felt powerless. I knew she would get close to her friends, she would hug and the nits would probably jump, after all, they like clean hair apparently.
I collected Lucy from school. “Is your head itchy at all sweetheart?” I asked her.
“Nope,” she screwed her face up at me confused. I was taking no chances; we made another visit to the pharmacist. She got out her magnifying glass and we searched Lucy’s hair. After all, I had no idea what I was looking for, this was all new territory.
We found nothing that jumped but we did discover what were possibly two or three eggs attached to the hair strands. That was enough for me and I bought solution, deterrant, comb and conditioner. I was $60 lighter but I didn’t care, I was going to beat these nasty little blighters before they took hold of my precious daughters head.
That night Lucy was doused, Billy was deterred and I was left wondering what else might be in store and how much it might cost us.

Breakfast Bedlam

2010-06-08T12:08:00.001+12:00

There are certain toddler type behaviours that I was disillusioned enough to believe Billy had grown out of. This morning he proved me wrong.
The kids were finishing off the last of their breakfast cereal and I, having wolfed mine down in a usual state of frantic rush, was brushing my teeth in the bathroom when Lucy appeared in the doorway stifling giggles.
“Mummy…. Billy, um, Billy’s put his bowl on his head,” she informed me.
I paused and looked at her. She nodded excitedly at me.
“Did he eat all of his breakfast first?” I asked hopefully.
“Well, he ate his cereal, but there was quite a bit of milk. Come, come see mummy,” she insisted.
I figured since the situation probably couldn’t be improved any by my charging off to rant at him, I would be wiser to finish cleaning and flossing.
“I’ll be there in a mo,” I mumbled through minty fresh bubbles.
Sure enough, a minute or so later I ventured into the kitchen to survey the scene. Billy sat happily in his chair wearing his bowl as a hat. Milk dripped from his earlobes and chin and his hair was wet and sticky.
“Oh Billy,” I said with a mixture of frustration and resignation as I removed his helmet, pulled off his top and quickly unbuckled him from his booster chair. He was still grinning and giggling as I scooped him up unceremoniously under one arm.
“Right, let’s get you cleaned up then,” I said as we headed for the bathroom where Paul was showering.
I opened the shower door and shoved Billy, still wedged beneath my arm, into the warm water head first; instructing Paul to clean just his top half please. Head and hair dutifully washed Billy was blow dried and given a fresh top.
Tomorrow he gets toast.

Ladies and ... ladies

2010-06-01T20:06:00.001+12:00

Lucy has taken, of late, to parading around the house on her tip toes, shoulders straight, head held high. “Don’t I look like a lady, mummy?” she asks me in a highly affected upper class English accent. Personally I think she’d do better to start by sitting nicely on her chair instead of kicking her legs out and flashing her knickers for all to see.
“No sweetheart,” I say in an effort to downplay her desire to mature far faster than she would like, “you look like a little girl pretending to be a lady.” I say the last word mimicking her posh accent.
This morning I watched as Lucy ponced around the kitchen table in pretend heels on her toes repeating, “Look at me, I’m a lady don’t you know.” I then continued to watch, horrified, as Billy minced around behind her. A pink hat adorned his head, one glove was pushed awkwardly over his left hand and as he trotted along on his tippy toes he chanted “Look at me, I’m a lady…I’m a lady.”
“No you’re not,” I shouted, caught somewhere between bemusement and hysteria. “You’re a little boy, pretending to be your sister who’s pretending to be a lady!”

Ails and wails

2010-05-30T12:33:00.000+12:00

Let me set the scene.

For the last few days our family has been stricken with a vile bug. The kind that leaves you feeling as though you are in the grasp of near death; the kind that renders you completely immobile (if you’re over 40 anyway), incapable of placing one foot in front of the other without collapsing in a giant heap on the floor. Billy got it first. Initially he lost his appetite and appeared lethargic. He complained of a sore throat and a sore head. He developed a runny nose and a slightly runny bum to go with it. We dosed him up with plenty of Pamol and cuddles and cosy time on the couch in front of his favourite DVD, and wiped each end of his body as required. He came right within a few short days. Lucy was next; she too lost her appetite, complained of a sore throat and sore head and was very lethargic. She managed to avoid the runs, at both ends. After a long warm bath and an early night she woke considerably cheerier the following morning but I considered keeping her home from school anyway.
“Lucy honey, would you rather stay home today?”
“No mummy, I really want to go, its wacky hair day and I get to wear my own clothes, I really don’t want to miss it,” she told me somewhat mournfully.
So bundled up, cute as a button with her hair bunched up with different coloured ribbons wearing her butterfly embellished denim skirt, black ¾ leggings, ‘I love my cat’ sparkly top and favourite silver ballet pumps she braved the day at school. That evening she devoured her dinner, asked for seconds and ate pudding. Clearly she was on the mend.

I on the other hand had spent Friday in a state not dissimilar to a beetle which has been sprayed with fast acting bug spray. Every muscle in my body, in fact every inch of my body ached. My fingers and elbows even hurt. My back had seized completely I was hunched over like that fellow from Notre Dame. Billy and I managed to waste an hour and a half lying on the couch watching Curious George. Well, he watched the movie and I watched him, enjoying seeing him laugh at the funny bits and shutting my aching eyes periodically. Despite wearing jeans, socks, ugg boots, three tops and an ankle length cardigan and being covered by a large furry blanket I shivered uncontrollably. Movie over, I gave Billy lunch and then attempted to play with him. I lay next to him on my back, with my knees tucked up to my chest (seemingly the most comfortable of positions available) and had him pass me pieces of plastic junior engineering equipment in order to him make a truck and trailer unit. For some God only known reason I cleaned the toilets, wiped down the vanity and threw some bleach around the shower before falling to the floor in order to read Billy a book (oh the guilt of an unclean loo – what the hell is wrong with me!!!).

We collected Lucy from school and by some miracle I managed to bring in a load of firewood and set the fire, make the kids dinner and do the dishes, run their bath and get pj’s etc ready. I was dragging my weary body around the house like a wounded animal when Paul arrived home from work at 6pm. He took over and I went to bed, I didn’t even stop to remove any of my numerous layers, only just managing to leave my ugg boots on the floor. I woke at 11pm, showered, watched a movie with Paul then went back to bed where I slept until 10am. Paul took the kids out for the morning and I had a long soak in the bath. Within an hour or so my appetite had returned and aside from a sore throat (and a touch of a runny bum) I was well again.

Today Paul woke with a sore throat. “Stay in bed honey,” I insisted.
I got up and made the kids pancakes for breakfast; they played beautifully and quietly together, mindful that daddy was trying to rest. Breakfast was a calm affair and enjoyed by all. Lucy and Billy continued to play nicely and had just gotten the Playdough out to make assorted cars and insects when I was struck with an overwhelming urge to revisit the loo. Despite attempting to finish up I found myself having to return before I’d even so much as washed my hands. So there I am, with my elbows resting on my knees, patiently waiting for events to cease when I hear the start of rebellion coming from the kitchen. A battle was ensuing over ownership of some plastic dough mould. Murderous screams were punctuated with anguished shouts. I called out in an effort to quieten them lest they wake their daddy (which in all honesty they probably already had) but my calls went unheard over their racket.

So I bellowed. “BILLY”, I yelled in a growly angry bear type voice, for he was the one doing most of the screaming. There was silence and then I heard a scraping of chairs followed by pushing and shoving. Still glued to the toilet I watched as the shadows of their feet appeared beneath the bathroom door. Lucy was gulping back noisy tears and Billy started banging on the door.
“Open the door,” I said sternly. Perhaps too sternly for now they were clearly gripped in fear of the repercussions should they enter.
“Open. The. Door.” I insisted haltingly to the sound of their scuffling.
“Lucy! I am on the toilet; will you just open the door.”
Finally the door is opened and they both launch themselves at me, words tumbling over each other as they try to redeem themselves from any suspected bad behavior.
“Please, can you keep the noise down? Poor daddy is trying to rest,” I said calmly, trying to breathe through my annoyance of having to fend two small people off my knee whilst my backside farts unpleasantly.
Paul appeared in the doorway. “Morning,” he said sleepily.

Motherhood is so undignified, don't you think?

Insulation and escapism

2010-05-22T13:08:00.005+12:00

“Aaaaaaarrrrgh!!!”

It’s Billy. I know its Billy for three reasons. Firstly, the pitch and intensity of the scream is something only he seems capable of mustering. Secondly, mine are the only children in the shop (yes, I am endeavouring to purchase something) and thirdly, the scream is followed by a very annoyed sounding Lucy, “BILLY, NOOOO! Ohhhhh Billy, you’ve ruined it!”

I move quickly down the aisle from where I am perusing insulating foam, the stuff you stick around your doors to stop draughts, to where the wails of angst are coming from. Lucy is on her knees on the floor of the small play area I have imprisoned them in. Prior to deciding to go to the shops after school (usually a very sensitive time for Lucy who is still suffering with tiredness from settling into her new routine) I asked the children that if we went to the large hardware store, would they play nicely in the designated play area whilst I made my purchases. I had hoped to make my shopping experience slightly more informed, as opposed to simply grabbing what looks about right in an effort to get the whole thing over with before the kids start beating upon each other, only to discover upon getting home that in fact I have purchased the wrong thing.
“Oooh yes mummy,” they both stated emphatically.

I shut them in the small enclosure and pulled the gate to. “Now,” I said in my ‘listen to me carefully’ voice. “I am only going to be over there,” I pointed towards the rear of the store, “if you need me, call out for me, I will hear you and I will come to you. Do you understand?”
“Yes mummy,” they both nodded dutifully.

I felt confident leaving them as the store clerk is positioned next to the play area, I know her, and with the exception of an elderly lady checking out some lawn seed, we were the only customers.
So, as I was saying, I return to the scene of the crime to find Lucy, distraught and on her knees. Billy is looking somewhat smug.
“What is going on?” I demand.
“Billy won’t let me play with the cooker and I want to make dinner,” Lucy informs me between sniffs.
“Me doing it,” Billy states, “not Lucy.”
“I asked you both if you were able to play here nicely. You assured me you would. I need to buy something, I won’t be long. Can you play nicely together? Billy, can you share please?” I deplore.
“Ok mummy,” he says handing Lucy a small plastic pot. Lucy picks herself up off the floor and I return to aisle 33. I have only just positioned myself in front of the insulation tape and am about to examine one of the choices available when I hear the yells followed by a loud “MUUUMMYYYY!”
Back I trot, with more than a little irritation.
“What!?” I ask.
“Billy turned over the table with my dinner on it,” Lucy tells me through her tears.
Billy looked considerably less than remorseful.
“For goodness sake, the pair of you; can’t you play nicely together for five minutes? Right, Billy, you’re coming with me; Lucy, you stay here and call for me if you need me,” I tell them. I open the gate and move towards Billy.
“Noooo mummy,” he wails. “Me want stay here.”
“But you’re not behaving Billy, and I would really like to buy some insulation tape in order to reduce the billowing of our curtains as the wind rushes through the gap in the French doors in mummy and daddy’s bedroom,” I say through gritted teeth and with considerably more explanation that was really required for a two year old.
“Please mummy, me ‘have (behave),” he says as he backs away from me.
“No mummy, take him, please,” implores Lucy.

I assess the situation and weigh up the benefits of separating them versus the disadvantage of giving Billy access to all of the open boxes of handles, locks and screws which reside alongside the insulation strips in aisle 33.
“Right,” I tell them. “Billy, B-E-H-A-V-E!” Lucy looks forlorn; she’s going to be stuck with him for a little while longer. “I will be back soon. Please, please just be pleasant to each other for five minutes.” I pull the gate shut and hear the lock click.

As I pass aisle 31, heading towards my desired location there is a loud voice over the tannoy system.
“Would the lady whose children are in the play area please return immediately; it would appear that they are escaping.”

Crap! I leg it back down the shop to find a bemused looking staff member raising his eyebrows at me and nodding towards the gate. Lucy has positioned the table beneath it, stood on top of it and lifted the gate lock. She is now standing on the outside of the enclosure, Billy is hovering, undecided where best to go for the least amount of bollocking he knows they are about to receive.
I look at Lucy. “WHAT are you doing?” I demand. “Under no circumstances do you let yourself out of there, you know that Lucy.”
“But Billy wanted to come and find you,” she tries to pass the blame.
I’m having none of it. “No, not good enough,” I say. “You are older, you know better and I told you, explicitly, that if you needed me you should call for me. You do not let yourself out. You could have got lost; mummy wouldn’t know where you were or whether you were safe. Billy, come here,” I say.
“Nooo, me stay and play mummy,” he whines.
“None of us are staying,” I tell them. “We are going, home, now! I am cross,” I add, just in case they missed that.
I look apologetically at the staff, “I’ll be back when I don’t have my children in tow,” I say with a strained smile.

I grasp their small hands firmly and lead them out of the door, resigned to the fact I must make this trip again and wonder if I have enough sellotape to weld our doors together in the meantime.

PS - our PC is still at the doctors but things are looking somewhat more optimistic, though until we have it back we won't know for sure. Meanwhile I'll make my entries as and when I can on borrowed time and laptops :)

Armless

2010-05-19T20:25:00.005+12:00

I must apologise for my recent tardiness with posts. You see, I have had my arms and legs cut off, thus rendering it impossible for me to relay any interesting (or boring, depending on which way you choose to look at it) updates of life as a Guilty Mother. You may be pondering the question as to how it is possible that I am typing this without the use of said limbs. The truth is, is that our computer has crashed, and when I say crashed, I mean with a capital CRASH!!! Complete with the blue screen of death. It has been sharing time with a resident doctor for a few days now and his recent diagnosis was that it was so badly screwed something may well have crawled up inside and removed it's innards entirely, so difficult was it to retrieve anything at all from the corners of it's sad dark little memory. This evening I have borrowed the necessary tools with which to access the internet but until I am officially operational again I'm sorry to report there will be only blank pages from moi.

Keep thinking postive thoughts, our life is on that tiny little hard drive and I couldn't bear the thought of kissing it all goodbye (well, as far back as March anyway, we do have some PC savvy).

Adieu, for now.

Cups, carpet and paint

2010-05-08T13:46:00.000+12:00

I have been managing to haul myself out of bed at 7.15am (well actually, as I usually try and savor another 3 minutes, realistically it’s closer to 7.18am) every morning in order to prepare myself for the inevitable madness that surrounds getting Lucy to school on time. No matter how organized or orderly I have been, no matter how quickly the children are dressed or how eagerly breakfast is enjoyed, we always seem to be in a mad scramble for the door as I usher them to the car.
To date we have not been late but this morning was almost a first.
It started over breakfast. We have various plastic cups in assorted shades, sizes and adornments. A red Lightening McQueen cup, yellow, orange and pink cups gifted by numerous visits to Mainly Music, a red cup with Lucy’s name on it, a white cup with teddy bears, another white cup with rabbits and one cup which deceptively looks like a yellow Mainly Music cup but which features a variety of jungle animals instead which we purchased at the zoo. There would have been a second of these cups but Lucy lost it after insisting on bringing it with her into a shop some time ago. So, with all these to choose from it should be an easy task selecting a drinking cup in the morning. It should, but it isn’t.
“Ok, here is your breakfast, I’ll just get your water,” I tell them. I return with two cups, both yellow and aside from the picture on the front, both identical.
“Mummy, it’s my turn to have the zoo cup, Billy had it last night,” Lucy says.
“Yes, that’s right honey,” I say as I place it in front of her and offer Billy the other. He looks mortified.
“No, me want that cup!” He shoves his cup hard across the table and water splashes over the sides.
“Billy, you had the zoo cup last night, and yesterday morning and the night before. You promised Lucy she could have it this morning so you’ll have to make do with this one.” I push it back towards him.
“Waaahhh,” he screams. “Waaaahhh, waaaahhh!” Lucy covers her ears.
“I’ll give you a baby beaker,” I threaten. I sit down and start to eat my breakfast while Billy continues with his meltdown.
“I’m not listening Billy, I’m ignoring you,” chants Lucy.
The volume gets louder and the pitch more frenzied. I am adamant Lucy will not relinquish her cup again as she has done (voluntarily) on previous occasions in an effort to cease the racket. “Billy, be quiet and eat your breakfast,” I say.
“No! Don’t want this cup,” he states grumpily. “Want nother cup. Want Lucy’s cup.”
Desperate for peace I go to the drawer and pull out alternative cups for his inspection. Finally we agree on one he is happy with (“No you may not have daddy’s coffee mug, yes you may have the rabbit cup.”) and breakfast resumes.

After we’ve finished eating I ask the kids if they’d feed Tabitha and Gypsy their breakfast while I pile the dishes in the sink to deal with later; a task they usually both enjoy.
I can hear skirmishing coming from behind the cupboard door and the tussling becomes evident when Billy falls onto his backside, triumphantly holding the plastic cup used to measure out our pets food.
“I want to do Tabitha,” says Lucy.
“No me want to do pussy cat,” argues Billy.
“For God’s sake,” I shout, “will you just each feed one of them before they die of starvation?” Hardly likely but it had the desired effect.

Finally; teeth and hair are brushed, lunch boxes packed and I am gathering up the last few things so that we can head off when Billy comes careering out of Lucy’s room, his right hand completely black.
“What the…?” I say.
“Mummy, mummy, there’s been a terrible accident,” Lucy announces somberly as she comes out behind him.
“Billy, what is that on your hand?” I ask sternly, deeply worried about his response.
“Paint,” he answers proudly.
I look at Lucy for answers, eyebrows raised questioningly. “Well….?” I say as I grab Billy around his waist, holding him out in front of me before he can place his hand on any other surface, including me.
Lucy looks at the floor. “I just got the face paints out of the cupboard mummy, but Billy opened them and he got paint everywhere. It was Billy’s fault mummy, he spilled them,” she quickly and eagerly clarified.
“Lucy going to paint my face mummy,” Billy said gleefully. I looked her, she looked down at the floor again, clearly not as innocent as she was hoping to make out.
I was fuming. I marched Billy into the bathroom and washed his hands free of all signs of paint. Black watery splashes adorned the vanity top but I didn’t have time to wipe them down. I dried Billy and demanded to see the mess. Billy pulled me into her room, eager to show off the damage, Lucy walked dejectedly behind. A large black area covered the cream colored carpet. Three or four handprints featured alongside. I stormed into the kitchen calling over my shoulder as I went “That was a very naughty thing to do,” I said to no one in particular. I gathered a fresh roll of kitchen towel and a tub of warm water, mopping and diluting as best I could. Behind me Billy helped excitedly by unraveling the roll of paper.
“Right, we’ve no time for me to clean this properly,” I said through gritted teeth, “in the car, NOW!” They moved fast, clearly fearful and due to some miracle of fate we still made it to school with plenty of time before the bell. Getting out of the car I notice Lucy is clutching something.
“What’s that’s honey,” I ask.
“Oh, it’s a cup. I found it with the face paints.” She hands it to me. It’s another zoo cup, an orange one but nonetheless a zoo one. I guess now they can bicker over who gets which colour tomorrow morning.

PS - One bottle of super duper carpet cleaner and the stain is gradually fading.

Crunch time

2010-05-03T20:02:00.001+12:00

Oh the shame! Tonight I devoured three pieces of home-made ginger crunch. Under normal circumstances (i.e. those which involve a television and a couch, and perhaps a cup of something hot) this would be of no consequence whatsoever, most trivial indeed and possibly even accompanied by a brownie or bag of Maltesers also; but what makes this such a dirty deed is the fact that I ate them whilst preparing dinner, which incidentally was less than 20 minutes from being served up.

Arriving home from collecting Lucy from school then delivering her at ballet - where Billy and I dropped peanuts and raisins (well, technically he dropped them and I picked them up) throughout the waiting room, I found I was famished. Having only eaten a couple of slices of toast for breakfast, half a peanut butter sandwich (the half Billy didn’t want) and half an apple (again, the half he didn’t want) for lunch, I had had nothing.
I opened the pantry doors in order to retrieve the flour for the cheese sauce I was making and there, all enticingly, sat a large container housing the last six squares of the ginger crunch Billy and I had made last week.
“Eat me,” one of the squares whispered beguilingly.
“It’s nearly dinner time, I really couldn’t,” I reasoned.
“Go on, you know you want to,” it murmured.
“Righto,” I said (as you can tell, I can be quite resolute), and opened the box quietly so as not to alert the attentions of Lucy and Billy.
Three bites and it had gone. God it was good (in fact it has to be said, as I am quite the ginger crunch connoisseur, that this batch was better than a bought one). I carried on stirring my sauce.
“Another one wouldn’t hurt you know,” a small voice came from within the pantry shelves.
I didn’t wait to be told twice and ate this one hiding behind the door as I heard Billy’s footsteps closing in behind me.
“What you eating mummy?” he asked.
“Hmmm, oh nothing,” I mumbled, crumbs peppering the top of his head as I stood over him.
He looked at me suspiciously but returned to the lounge and Lucy.
I felt replete, I didn’t need another; I certainly knew that eating another would be akin to gluttony, and sneaky gluttony at that, but I couldn’t help myself, they were just so bloody good. I stole a third square and ate it quickly.
Sitting down to dinner less than 15 minutes later, I felt strangely full and picked at my food. Whilst Lucy and Billy devoured their meals Lucy paused to question me, “What’s that matter mummy, are you not hungry?”
“Not especially sweetheart,” I replied.
“Oh, why not?” she asked.
“I really couldn’t say,” I said.

What you doing?

2010-04-27T21:35:00.003+12:00

Seemingly I haven’t had nearly enough punishment surrounding household renovations yet for recently I enlisted a builder, painter, landscaper and insulation expert to come and make merry in and around our home. They were all due to start their respective tasks at appropriately spaced intervals however the builder had jobs which took longer than expected, the landscaper required sudden and painful teeth surgery, the insulation chaps got held up and the painter, well, generally he seems to be a bit on the slow side. As such they were all delayed and I’ve pretty much been delighted with their company all at once. Actually, it is not especially delightful. Billy however, is ecstatic.

The landscaper has been digging furiously in our back yard for the last few days in an effort to provide us with, not only good drainage so that the garden does not resemble a swamp during winter, but also a lovely large paved area in which to enjoy the sun. Billy paid careful attention, diligently watching him work.
“What you doing man?” he questioned.
“I’m digging,” he replied.
“Why?” asked Billy.
“So that we can lay your pavers nice and flat,” he said.
“Why you putting that in there?” he asked again as our landscaper shoveled earth into a wheelbarrow.
“So that I can carry it away,” he answered.
“Where you taking it?” asked Billy.
“Down there,” he pointed as he continued shoveling.
“What you doing man?” questioned Billy yet again.
“I’m digging,” he replied.
“Why?”
I called out of the open kitchen window to our worker. “Please don’t feel obliged to chat with him, he’ll question you endlessly all day if you let him.”
Billy watched for a while longer before galloping back into the house.
“Mummy, me want to be like man. Me need sunglasses and gumboots. Please may you get them for me?”
“Sure Billy, but don’t bother him ok?” I said.
“Ok,” he nodded earnestly.
I retrieved his sunglasses from his drawer and pulled on his gumboots. Billy headed out to the garden with a serious look on his face. I watched as he pulled his small plastic wheelbarrow from his and Lucy’s little playhouse and grabbed a plastic spade left in his bucket from our last visit to the beach. He wheeled his barrow over so that he was positioned a few feet away from the landscaper and then proceeded to shovel tiny amounts of earth into his barrow; periodically stopping to push his sunglasses back up his nose as they slipped down. As the chap headed off to dump his barrow load of dirt, Billy followed with his few small spoonfuls in his little wobbly green barrow.
They returned back a few moments later, their respective barrows empty. Suddenly there was a tuneful sound emitting from the landscapers pocket; he pulled out his phone and answered it. Billy's eyes widened. He ricocheted past his barrow, tipping it over in his excitement, and up the steps calling out to me “Mummy, mummy, me need my phone.” I looked at him, somewhat bemused. “MUMMY,” he exclaimed loudly, turning to look at the chap in the garden still talking on his Nokia. “Mummy please, mummy, me really need my phone.” I rummaged through a small box filled with assorted toys and extricated a red flip top phone. I handed it to a breathless Billy.
“Here you go sweetheart,” I said.
“Thank you mummy,” he replied before heading back out into the garden. He stood, eyes glued to our worker, whilst chatting and nodding into his plastic Lightening McQueen phone, and as the landscaper finished his call and put his phone back into his pocket, Billy flipped his shut and slid it into his pocket also.
“Who was on the phone Billy?” I asked him.
“Just Lightening, mummy,” he replied.
“Oh, I see. And how is he?” I asked.
“He’s good.”
This little scenario tickled me no end and I came to realize just how impressionable our children are. Its all well and good telling children to ‘Do as I say, not as I do’ but the reality is, is that they will mimic us at every opportunity; so we damned well better be doing it right.

The painter had started work on the exterior of our French doors so after lunch I insisted Billy stay inside to avoid the dust from the sanding. He busied himself on the other side of the door with his face pressed up against the glass.
“What you doing man?” He bellowed over the sound of the sander. Understandably the painter was not quite so interested in chatting through the doors and ignored him. I encouraged Billy through to the lounge where the sound of banging was coming from under the house as the insulation was being attached beneath our floor boards. I left him playing happily with his toys and set about getting dinner prepared.
I could hear Billy calling loudly. I put my peeled carrots to one side and peered around the corner. He was hunched over on his knees with his face pressed against the carpet yelling to the insulating men beneath the house. “What you banging for man?” “Hey man, can you hear me? Why you banging? Maaaannnn, what you doing down there?”
Never mind, only, um, four to six weeks left.

School Hols

2010-04-16T23:20:00.000+12:00

The school holidays have been challenging to say the least. Lucy and Billy have alternated between playing nicely and tearing each other limb from limb at approximately 15 minute intervals.
This morning Lucy wanted to make a castle out of mega blocks; I was cleaning up after breakfast in the kitchen.
“Billy! BILLY! Nooooo! Aargh! Mummy, MUMMY! M-U-M-M-Y!!!!”
I headed into the lounge to see Billy clutching half a dozen pink plastic bricks and a small Disney princess; the remaining blocks lay scattered across the floor. Billy was grinning, clearly proud of his destruction.
I wasn’t in the mood to cajole, bargain or chastise; today was the last day of the holidays and I was over listening to whining and complaining, screaming, shouting and assorted other sounds of violence.
“Lucy sweetheart, how about we collect all these blocks up and take them into your room and you can rebuild your tower in peace?” I looked at Billy reproachfully.
“Ok,” she nodded mournfully.
I helped her carry the large box of blocks through into her room, kissed her lightly on the head and closed the door behind me.
“Billy,” I instructed “leave your sister alone!” He grinned at me again. I returned to the dishes in the kitchen.
“Aaaahhhh,” Lucy screamed. I heard a clatter and a thud followed through with loud shrieks. I headed back to the lounge and Lucy’s room; the bedroom door was open and Billy was heading straight for me, tears streaming down his reddened face as he reached out desperately for the comfort of my leg. “Lucy huh, huh, hurt me mummy, Lucy hurt me,” he stammered.
Lucy stood defiantly amidst her toppled bricks, hands on hips, daring me to tell her off for defending her creation.
“Lucy, what did you do to your brother?” I asked.
“I hit him,” she said.
“With what and where?” I asked again, I didn’t need to ask why, I could already see why.
“With my hand, on his face,” she answered honestly.
“Right, firstly; you, do, not, hit, your, brother!” I said haltingly.
I couldn’t think of a second thing so instead I said “Ok?”
“Ok mummy,” she said staring at the ground. “But he came in my room and he knocked over all my blocks again.”
“I can see that honey, and that is not ok either.” I turned to Billy; the mark on the side of his face was subsiding. “Billy, apologize to your sister now please,” I instructed.
“Sorry Lucy,” he mumbled.
“Now go over and give her a nice hug please.”
He started over towards her. She put her arms out to fend him off. “No, I don’t want a cuddle from you Billy.”
He moved in closer and she backed away. They started to tussle, hands flicking at each other and Billy started to tug at Lucy’s top in an effort to pull her over. I grabbed him around the waist, lifted his wriggling body into the air and dumped him unceremoniously across the threshold into the lounge. Lucy pushed the door closed behind us. I could hear the sounds of a ‘My Little Pony’ story starting on her CD player as she forgot all about the altercation.

Fifteen minutes later her door opened and Lucy joined Billy alongside his train table to play. For about ten minutes they played nicely before the squabbling started.
“No me want that car,” Billy stated loudly.
“But I had it first,” retorted Lucy holding the seemingly extremely desirable car high above her head.
Billy upended his entire box containing close to sixty die cast cars and began whirring his arms about like a propeller, tossing the cars in all directions. Lucy promptly burst into tears and Billy, thrilled with the reaction he received, picked up a little car and threw it towards her. It missed but the intent was there. I scooped him up and deposited him in his bedroom.
“We do not throw.” I said. “When you are ready to behave, you may return and continue playing.”
Lucy stayed where she was and I went back to into the laundry where I was sorting clothes. Incidentally we have still had no rain and I am waiting as long as humanly possible before putting on the washing machine these days. A few minutes later I called through Billy’s door. “Are you ready to join your sister and play nicely now?” I asked. There was silence from his room. I cautiously opened the door and peered inside. Billy, having climbed into his cot, was balancing on one end and leaning toward the back wall where he had opened a small cabinet which contained a few homeopathic teething sprays, a nasal decongestant pump, a baby hairbrush and nail clipper set, a forehead thermometer strip and a sample tub of nappy cream which he had managed to smear all over his face. One of the handles had broken from his dresser where he had clearly tried to use it as a ladder and his piggy bank lay on the floor, coins strewn across the carpet.
“Billy!” I admonished, lifting him off his precarious perch. I set him down on the floor and set about wiping his face clean of nappy cream and tidying up the rest of the mess. “Sorry mummy,” he said, hugging my leg.

I sent them both out to play whilst I vacuumed and watched as they chased Gypsy around the garden, trying to get her to release her ball so they could throw it for her. They played on the swing and slide, taking turns and helping each other out when one needed a push. When they came back in for a spot of morning tea they laughed and joked across the kitchen table.

“Mummy,” Lucy asked “can we please listen to some music so we can dance?”
“Sure,” I said “what would you like to listen to?” She pulled out a Christmas CD.
“This one please mummy.”
“Oh.” I said “Are you really sure you want to listen to this? It’s not Christmas for a long time, wouldn’t you prefer to listen to this one at Christmas time and put something else on now?”
“Nope, this one,” she stated adamantly.
“Ok,” I said, somewhat resigned. I put the CD on and as expected, within five minutes, was singing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer at the top of my voice. Lucy and Billy danced delightedly around the room. Until it all got a bit too exciting and they started behaving like celebrity wrestlers and hugging each other for extended periods of time. Then one fell to the ground with the other squashed beneath and the pummeling recommenced. I sent Lucy to her room and since I couldn’t risk putting Billy back into his I put him outside. Despite the autumn season, the temperatures have been unseasonably mild and I had no problem leaving him there to calm down. He peered through the glass doors, grinning at me, clearly hoping his cute little face would lead me to let him back in. It didn’t. He started banging on the door and when that didn’t get the desired response he decided to post an entire box of twigs collected for kindling through the cat flap at the back door. Dozens of sticks adorned the floor and when I still ignored him he decided to see if his little body would fit through the flap also. I stood in the kitchen, watching as he pushed one leg through into the laundry. He was straddled with two thirds of his body outside and the remainder inside. “Muuuummmy,” he called. “Muuuummmy, me stuck, help.” Tempting though it was just to leave him there, wedged in the small plastic circle, pinned in the doorway, I didn’t have the heart so gently eased him back through and opened the door to let him in. Relief was written all over his face. “Thank you mummy,” he said.
“You’re welcome.” I replied “Now go and pick up all those sticks and put them back in their box please.”
He did as I asked without question.

Death of a Donut

2010-04-12T20:49:00.002+12:00

Last Tuesday our beloved old ginger cat Donut died. He was 18 years old and had had a long and relatively stress-free life; excepting the occasional house shift and annual trips to the vet for jabs and teeth cleaning, his was a blissful existence.

This is the first I have felt up to writing about it.

I padded out onto the deck in my dressing gown and slippers and called him to breakfast; he was lounging in the early morning sun. He twitched but did not raise his head. I called again, louder this time, he still did not move aside from a periodic twitch. I flung off my slippers and ran towards where he was laying on the ground, calling loudly, my voice filled with panic. I knelt down beside him and saw that he was clearly dying. His eyes were glazed, his breathing barely detectable and his body felt rigid and aside from the twitching it was hard to tell he was even alive. I started to cry, tears coursed down my cheeks as I held him close to me and rushed back to the house. Lucy and Billy met me at the door.
“What’s the matter mummy?” they asked, full of concern.
“Donut’s dying, we need to get him to the vet as quickly as possible,” I replied, wiping my face on my sleeve. “Lucy honey, can you go and get dressed please; Billy, can you grab me a fresh nappy and your wipes so that I can get you changed? Quickly now, both of you,” I hastened.
They seemed to understand the urgency and moved fast. I got a towel and wrapped Donut up warmly and placed him in Gypsy’s bed before calling the vets. I got the machine; they weren’t open for another 20 minutes. Lucy came back moments later fully clothed and Billy was laying on the floor already for me. I quickly changed and dressed him, all the while talking to Donut.
I had been about to make toasted English muffins so whilst Lucy and Billy sat alongside Donut and stroked him gently, I threw together a hasty portable breakfast for the kids.
I arrived at the vets and left Lucy and Billy in the car, they were visible through the large window and I just couldn’t face negotiating them out of the car and into reception, they seemed quite content.
The nurse looked at me, “Are you alright?” she asked kindly. I shook my head, tears flowing freely. “Do you need to see a vet right away?” she continued. I nodded, “He’s dying,” I said in a wobbly voice through my tears. “My kids are in the car,” I pointed to them.
“It’s ok, I’ll go see them,” she said as she led me through to one of the clinics rooms.
The vet examined Donut quickly and advised he had chronic renal failure and was, as I already knew, dying. “There’s nothing we can do for him,” he said “I’m very sorry.”
“I know,” I replied. “I knew the moment I went to him this morning that this was it, it's still just such a shock, it seems so sudden, despite the fact he’s such an old cat. I kind of thought he’d go on forever.”
The vet nodded and as I kept my head close to Donut’s small orange furry one, whispering in his ear, he carefully inserted the needle that would send him to sleep. I stayed for a little while longer, fat tears dropping onto his thick coat, and then returned to the car.
“Donut dead mummy?” Billy asked.
“Yes sweetheart, he is,” I replied, blowing my nose.
“Awww, me no want Donut to die,” he said.
“No, I didn’t want Donut to die either honey.”
“And he won’t be coming back will he mummy?” Asked Lucy.
“No sweetheart, he won’t be coming back.”
“Right so,” Lucy paused, “was it Tabitha who died mummy?”
“No honey, it was Donut.”
“Soooo,” she continued thoughtfully “we just have one cat and one dog now don’t we mummy?” she stated matter-of-factly.
“Yes, we have Tabitha and Gypsy.”
“Ok," she nodded. "Do you think we could maybe go to the park now?”
I allowed myself a little laugh.

Rain Dances

2010-04-08T20:12:00.000+12:00

We are experiencing our driest autumn in years. Much of our garden is crisped in a delightful shade of yellowed beige and my hanging baskets sport droopy brown leaves and sad brown stalks. For us, the lack of water means more than just a thirsty garden however, for we are on tank supply. That means, that the only water we have available to us is sourced from the sky. We have a large roof and are fortunate that when it does rain, we catch a great deal, but when nothing is forthcoming we must become more and more frugal, resorting to prayers and frequent rain dances. Lucy has developed a very stylish little routine complete with pirouettes and lots of toe pointing; Billy just spins around in a circle until he falls over. Sadly neither seems to be having the desired effect. There have been some lovely thunderous looking black clouds overhead but aside from a squeezed out handful of drops which dried the moment they hit the roof there has been nothing.

I refuse to buy any water for I just know that the minute we do, the heavens will open and our tank will overflow. The same way it always rains when you’ve just washed your windows or car, or when you’ve gone out for the day and left a line of washing hanging out to dry.
At present the toilet is only to be flushed when absolutely necessary (which suits Lucy just fine since she usually forgets anyway); I use the previous nights dishwater to rinse off the current days dishes and stack them up throughout the day until there is a wobbly mountain of cups, bowls, plates, pots, pans and cutlery balancing on the bench, then wash them all in one go. Lucy and Billy are allowed only one bath per week now (which I then recycle onto our hedge that I am still desperately cultivating), not that we’re letting them go around all stinky, we are in fact giving them showers, but they are quick and thorough with no time for tomfoolery. The kids are starting to really comprehend the importance of saving water as Billy scolded me this morning for not turning the tap off quickly enough when brushing his teeth, “Mummy,” he admonished, “no waste water!”

This evening I checked out who the God of Rain was so that I could be sure I sent my prayers in the right direction but upon discovering that Tlaloc is not only the God of rain and water but also of fertility, I’m more than a bit worried I could end up with far more than I bargained for.

Settling In

2010-04-03T12:33:00.000+13:00

To say Lucy is enjoying school would be like saying kids quite look forward to Christmas; a bit of an understatement. Each day she gallops across the courtyard to her designated classroom whilst Billy chases behind as fast as his little legs can carry him. She has settled into a lovely routine and we are all getting used to rising earlier in the morning to ensure we get there on time, or more importantly, that we get a parking space. School bags and homework bags must all be put away, as must drink bottles and hats, ready to retrieve when required. There are 15 children in Lucy’s class and first thing in the morning there are also 15 parents plus assorted younger siblings, making for a very noisy surround in which to practice name writing and go over homework (which to date simply consists of repetitive letter writing in order to ensure pencils are held correctly and letters formulated properly – down and bounce, something even I can get the hang off) before the bell goes.

Lucy has made new friends easily and fortunately was lucky enough to have a number of existing friends in her class also so she has no shortage of playmates. She is still quite the mother hen and a couple of the less confident children latched on to her, insisting on holding her hand lest they become lost in the large playground for the first week or so, until they too became more secure in their surroundings and released their grip.
Billy too displays a great deal of maternal instinct and comforts the babies trapped in their strollers whilst mums settle their older children, even when they don’t especially want to be comforted. “It’s ok,” he says soothingly, gently stoking their heads and offering awkward cuddles as they wail for their mummy, desperate in their efforts to remove their restraints.

We are now three weeks in and the Easter holidays have started so mornings can be a little more relaxed for the next fortnight. It will be the first time ever that both Lucy and Billy have been home simultaneously with me for such an extended period of time (excepting of course when they were both poorly last year, but the lack of food in meant there was minimum energy output). I have planned play dates and swimming lessons in an effort to while away the hours and to keep boredom at bay, I’ve also promised to make a volcano. Cripes, what was I thinking?

Lucy's First Day at School

2010-03-22T19:40:00.002+13:00

Firstly I must apologise for my tardiness. I actually wrote an entry to post following Lucy's first day at school but have been engulfed in a whirlwind of busyness so this is the first opportunity I had.

I must also tell you that I am taking a sabatical from blogging for a bit. My blog will remain and as time allows I will make updates but for now I have something else that demands my time and attention.

Enjoy my final entry (for a wee while).

Lucy's First Day at School

I awoke early, overly organised and anxious this morning. My clothes were folded in a neat pile ready for me to dress quickly and without fuss, confusion or spare knickers dangling. I snuck quietly to the bathroom to complete my ablutions before popping on the kettle and heading through to wake Lucy from her slumber. I opened her door and snuck in, ready to gently rouse her.
“I was waiting for you to come in mummy,” she whispered.
I smiled at her and sat on her bed, my arms engulfing her in a huge hug; part of me just wanting to sit there forever more and not have her get any bigger, older; less reliant.
“Good morning sweetheart, are you ready for your first day at school?”
“Yes!” She stated eagerly and with certainty.
I opened her curtains and the early morning sun peeked through the clouds. I took her uniform off the dresser where I had left it the night before and handed it to her.
“Get yourself dressed honey and I’ll be back in a moment.
I made my coffee and returned to her room where she was fully dressed, complete with her school bag on her back.
“I’m just seeing how it feels mummy,” she said.
“And…?” I questioned.
“It feels good.”
I smiled. “Shall we go and wake Billy then?”
We opened his door and watched him stir as Lucy murmured quietly “Billy, it’s me, Lucy. It’s time to wake up now.”
He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “You wake me up,” he said frowning.
“Yes honey, we have to get up and get ready. Its Lucy’s first day at school and we mustn’t be late,” I said, gently rubbing his back.
It never fails to amaze me how quickly kids can go from deep sleep to torpedo speed in less than a minute; it still takes me at least 40 minutes to be completely coherent in the morning. Billy was up and clambering out of his cot ready to crash cars and wrestle dinosaurs in seconds.

Once he was dressed too, we sat down to enjoy breakfast. I had laid everything out on the table the night before and have been encouraging the kids to serve themselves lately. Cereals duly selected, water cups filled and vitamins taken, we sat down to enjoy our food. My stomach felt wriggly and my cereal tasted bland. I forced it down with swigs of coffee, thinking of all the things that might cause Lucy concern. Will she remember where the toilets are and what if she has trouble turning on the taps, they were really quite stiff. She’s never used one of those towel roll thingy’s, what if she can’t pull it down to get a nice clean dry bit? Will she know where to find her schoolbag and what if I haven’t given her enough food to eat? Will she be sensible and eat her sandwiches and leave her brownie for after? Will she drink enough; and who will she play with; will she find her friends ok or make new friends? Thoughts swirled irrationally through my head. I knew they were irrational. Lucy is perfectly capable, competent and confident. She makes friends easily and has never been afraid to ask for help. I was being feeble and over protective, but I was only doing it inwardly. Outwardly I was enthused and excited about her new start.

We finished breakfast and brushed teeth and hair. I showed Lucy her lunchbox, complete with small containers housing a sandwich, some blueberries, melon, a brownie and crackers. Had I supplied her with enough nutrition to give her energy to last throughout the day? I filled her water bottle and slid it into the side pocket of her school bag. Then I took it out again and handed it to Lucy; some foolish logic encouraging her independence.
“Sweetheart, your drink bottle goes in this pocket; can you put it in for me please?”
She looked understandably confused as to why she was being asked to repeat the task I had just performed but slid it in effortlessly. I was happy; she knew where it went and could replace it with ease.

Finally we were ready to leave the house. We had plenty of time and were the first in her class to arrive. Lucy’s teacher showed her where to hang her bag, her sunhat and where to place her drink bottle. She reminded her where the toilets were and Lucy used them, washed her hands (turning the tap on and off with ease) and dried them, pulling down the roller on the automatic towel dispenser. Returning to her class she put her book bag in the box she was instructed to before galloping over to inspect a large Swan plant residing in the corner of the class, complete with dozens of tiny caterpillars destined to become Monarch butterflies. As the remaining members of her class filtered through the door Lucy’s teacher motioned for them to sit in front of her on ‘the mat’ and said she would call each of them up to chat about their recent birthdays. She called Lucy first. She spoke clearly and confidently speaking to the teacher and turning to talk to her classmates.
“I turned 5 and I had a ladybird cake for my birthday. We had my party at home and we played games. My favourite present was a jewellery box that I can put all my treasures in.”

“I’m 2, I had a Lightening McQueen cake,” piped up Billy from the side of the room where he had contentedly been playing. Lucy gave him a big, loving sisterly smile.

Tears welled up in my eyes and I staunchly held them back as I proudly walked back across the playground to the car park with Billy’s hand held tightly in mine.
“When me get to go to school mummy?” he asked.
I let my tears fall freely.

Birthday duet

2010-03-16T21:29:00.002+13:00

I rolled out of bed at 8.30am on Sunday; Lucy’s birthday party was due to start in 2 1/2 hours and there was still a list as long as my arm to get through before little people started arriving bestowing gifts. The balloons at least were blown up, I did that while I was still in bed; sat leaning up against my pillows puffing furiously to inflate the large polka dot covered pink, purple and blue decorations that would adorn the floor and ceiling. Once I got over the light headedness I ventured through to the kitchen where Paul was serving Lucy and Billy breakfast; sausages, scrambled eggs and toast.

“Happy birthday,” they all called out in unison.
I smiled my gratitude. Today I am 42; and I am hosting Lucy’s 5th birthday party complete with 12 little party goers to celebrate.
“What would you like for breakfast?” my husband asked, kissing me good morning.
I felt anxious and eager to get on with the list of chores stuck to the side of the fridge.
“Umm, just toast thanks; and coffee. I’ll just go and get washed up.”
“Relax, don’t rush,” he said, watching me eyeing up the fridge. “We’ve plenty of time, we’ll get everything done.”
I rattled off to myself what needed doing as I rinsed off my soapy face, speaking, as always, aloud and thereby filling my mouth with bubbles in the process.
“Plant the lollipops; blend the frozen berries and make the cranberry punch; make the orange punch, mustn’t forget to slice the orange up to float on top; put together the cheese and pate platter.” With the exception of the lollipops, so far this was all just for the grown ups. “What else,” I muttered into the towel as I dried off. “Tack the table cloth to the outdoor table; hang up some of the balloons; make popcorn; put up the bunting for the races; get the eggs and spoons out; where did I stash the pillow cases for sack races? Put a balloon on the letter box for the first time visitors; heat through the chipolatas; rid the sandpit of leaves and snails. I’m sure that’s not all, what else, what else?” I whispered to myself. “Put up the Tinkerbell poster; find Lucy’s little plastic wand; God, find ‘Blue tack’ so that the little wand actually sticks to the poster. Oh yeah and hunt for a blindfold. Slice the melon, wash the grapes and make a fruit platter.” That’s it, I thought to myself. Well, that and try to make myself look presentable.

I returned to the kitchen where my breakfast and a pile of presents and cards awaited me.
“Happy Birthday, mummy!” they shouted again gleefully.

Billy had bought me a party sized tub of Maltesers, Lucy had selected a new coffee mug which she had deliberated over for some time, making sure she had chosen just the right one for me. It is perfect and I told her so. As I kissed and hugged them, thanking them for their thoughtful presents, they questioned me.
“Mummy, you will share them won’t you?” they said, slightly panicked that I might choose to indulge only myself, looking at the gigantic tub of little chocolate treats with huge eyes.

From Paul I received a stunning pair of ear-rings and a book I had been coveting for a while. Other parcels were torn open eagerly as I munched away on my toast, all thoughts of ‘The List’ forgotten.

As I swore at my blender and its inability to turn my frozen mixed berries to the right consistency of mush, Paul methodically worked his way through the list until, miraculously, I was just giving the benches a final wipe as the first guest arrived. Aside from a few splatters of cranberry juice on my new white T shirt, I was also presentable.

The party went off without a hitch. The kids had a blast and were really keen to join in the games. Even Billy managed to keep his wobbly blue egg (dyed for the occasion) from falling off his spoon more than twice. Lollipops were found and eaten, sacks were abandoned by some - who legged it to the finish line on foot instead, there was a clear winner for pin the wand on Tinkerbell and medals (chocolate coins) were dished out left right and centre. The food was all eaten (with the exception of much of the fruit) and the cake well received. The grown ups polished off their food and drink and had fun too. Lucy received some lovely gifts, all really well thought out by her friends (or their mums at least) and when everyone went home with a polka dot balloon and small box of party goodies she fell onto the couch exhausted.

Paul and I left her and Billy to vegetate in front of a DVD while we commenced operation clean up. Lucy’s room had every toy, book and piece of jewellery or hair accessory pulled from its place and discarded onto the floor or bed. The kitchen looked like a bomb site and the garden was strewn. All the right signs that everyone had a great day; including me. Opening the fridge door to get out a jug of water I spotted a lone orange rolling around in the vegetable drawer; I had forgotten to slice it and add it to the punch.

We sat down to a delicious dinner that Paul had prepared and scoffed the most decadent chocolate cake imaginable (the birthday cake he had managed to secretly hide from my unusually heightened chocolate sensors).

The kids went out like lights. As I tucked her in I asked Lucy what her favourite gift had been.
“My jewellery box mummy,” she replied.
“What about your new bicycle,” I said.
“Oh yeah, I like that too, but my jewellery box is my favourite.”
Fair enough, I laughed.
“First day of school tomorrow sweetheart,” I said, “are you excited?”
“Mmmm, very,” she murmured sleepily.
“That’s good. Mummy will do her very best not to cry,” I whispered quietly as I pulled her door to.

I spent the rest of my birthday enjoying a leisurely evening relaxing on the couch with Paul. I also discovered something new about myself. I can fit 14 Maltesers in my mouth in one go.

Lucy turns 5

2010-03-13T17:44:00.003+13:00

On Thursday our little girl turned 5. A voice piped out of her bedroom when she woke.
“Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me…”
We had another school visit in the morning and as such only had time to open one of her presents. Breakfast was eaten in a flurry and then we were off. Whilst we were gone Paul made a picnic lunch as we were heading out for the day and set all of Lucy’s remaining presents out for our return. A bicycle took pride of place and she tore open her other presents eagerly when we got home, jostling with Billy who was equally thrilled to tear at the shiny wrap. In the end he gave up and climbed atop her new bike, his legs dangling as he stretched his toes out to reach the pedals.

We set off to the Museum of Transport and Technology, or MOTAT as it is known. Being mid-week we had the place virtually to ourselves and the kids had a blast, riding the tram, checking out the aeroplanes, cars and fire engines and clambering over the obstacle courses.
Ice creams and muffins were preferred over the healthier options Paul had packed and we let them enjoy whatever they fancied.
“Billy sweetheart,” I asked as spied a sticky mess, “how did you manage to get ice-cream on your thigh, all the way up inside your trousers?”
He grinned a cheeky chocolate covered smile, “I just clever mummy,” he said.
“Hmmm,” I muttered.

We arrived home tired, happy and with full tummies. I thought about dinner choices; I was exhausted, they were exhausted; I wasn’t hungry, they weren’t hungry. I handed them a mini packet of Tiny Teddy biscuits each. They looked surprised but didn’t question me; smart children. I then set about placing 10 cupcakes into the now traditional birthday tower and lit 5 candles. We sang Happy Birthday and Lucy eagerly blew them out. They had 2 cakes apiece.
I served my children biscuits and cakes for dinner and I didn’t even feel guilty about it.

Girly stuff

2010-03-10T21:25:00.000+13:00

Whilst showering this evening the bathroom door suddenly opened and in walked Lucy announcing she needed the loo. “I need to go poos and wees mummy,” she declared.
In other words, ‘I intend to be here a while’.
I carried on washing.
“What’s that picture on your back mummy?” she asked.
“You know what it is sweetheart, I’ve told you all about it before,” I replied.
“Oh, that’s right, it’s a tattoo.”
“Uh huh.”
“And it will never come off, will it mummy?”
“Nope.”
“Will any of them come off mummy?”
I actually have three small tattoos, discreetly positioned about my body.
“No honey, they’ll never come off. Mummy was very foolish and got them when she was much younger,” I said. I didn’t add that I actually quite liked the one on my lower back and didn’t regret it at all. The others, well, those I’m not so enamoured with.
“But how did they get there mummy?”
“Like I’ve explained before honey, ink is injected through a very sharp needle which pierces your skin and pushes the ink in so that it can never be washed off. It is really painful too.” I added, figuring I should make the whole process sound as unpleasant as possible.
“Well I’m never going to have a tattoo mummy.”
Bingo!
“Are you nearly done yet honey?” I ask.
“Nope, can’t you hear the plops? I’m still going.”
“Right, ok then.”
Apparently the scrutiny of my body through the shower glass isn’t yet over.
“So mummy, why do you have all that hair around your foofoo?” (Although we have told Lucy the correct word for her vagina, this is our ‘pet’ name for it).
“Well, when boys and girls get older they grow hair in certain places on their bodies. Under their armpits and around their foofoo’s - their vagina,” I explain yet again for it is not the first time she has glimpsed my nether regions.
“But what’s that bit down there mummy?”
“What bit Lucy?”
“That bit,” she gesticulates.
“This bit?” I answer.
“Yes mummy; that bit. It doesn’t look like mine.”
“Well sweetheart, mummy has had two children and babies have to come out through there so mine doesn’t look quite like it used to anymore.”
“But I thought babies came out of your tummy.”
“They do sweetheart. They grow inside your tummy and when they’re ready to come out, they travel down here and come out here,” I point to the appropriate areas.
I really hadn’t bargained on giving the birds and the bees talk tonight and I’m not sure I’m doing so well, caught off guard like this.
Lucy looked suitably alarmed. “So babies come out of your foofoo?”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, I’m never having a baby.”
“Ok sweetheart,” I say, reminding myself to ensure she is equally disenchanted when we discuss how they get there in the first place.

Ugh!

2010-03-06T17:26:00.001+13:00

Today I made porridge for breakfast and inadvertently subjected my children to some form of early childhood edition of Fear Factor.

As per usual I prepared the porridge and served Lucy and Billy first whilst I set about getting them their flaxseed oil and making my usual ‘wake-me-the-hell-up’ cup of morning coffee before joining them at the table. The kids were eating robustly, we hadn’t had porridge in a while and it is always well received. I had half a dozen mouthfuls then noticed something in my bowl. It was nearly a centimetre long, thin and white with a small black head. I stopped eating, spoon midway to my mouth. I felt a bead of sweat break out on my forehead and another trickle down between my breasts. I felt nauseous. I wanted to scream “STOP EATING!” I said nothing. I calmly reached over and took Lucy and Billy’s spoons from their hands and popped them back in their bowls before removing both dishes.
“Hey, mummy; I’m not finished yet,” said an indignant Lucy.
“Mummy, me still hungry, not finish,” said Billy.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were all done,” I lied, as I studied the remaining contents as discreetly as possible so as not to cause concern and in Lucy’s case, potential hysteria. There were no signs of foreign bodies, living or dead.
I dumped the remaining dubious porridge into the bin and said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, “So, who’s for toast?”
Porridge forgotten, both Lucy and Billy yelled “Me, me,” excitedly.

Tonight I have Googled our porridge interloper and discovered that it was a flour weevil larvae. God, the word larvae makes me want to heave. I have no idea how many, if any, were actually consumed and I am horrified that I may have fed my children bugs for breakfast, albeit highly radiated ones since I make my porridge in the microwave (another reason to feel guilty). The only consolation is that I suspect they are probably quite high in protein.
Anyway, I have dumped the porridge and I imagine that toasted English muffins will feature highly on the breakfast menu for a while from now on.

Caught Short

2010-03-02T11:17:00.001+13:00

Billy and Lucy were playing outside this morning and squabbling over the swing. Poor Billy, his legs just aren’t long enough and he just isn’t fast enough to beat Lucy so she usually gets there first. If they’re being pleasant I can hear them chant, “Lucy’s turn; Billy’s turn,” as they play nicely and share well. When they’re not feeling quite so obliging and considerate it’s a race to the fort filled with fierce determination and a little bit of pushing and shoving at the finish with a fair bit of whinging thrown in for emphasis.

This morning Lucy had had a brief shot on it and then realised that she actually needed a wee. She begrudgingly hopped off. Billy saw opportunity staring him in the face and made a dash for the swing.
Lucy finished on the loo and returned to the garden in the hope of reclaiming what she felt was rightfully hers. Billy didn’t quite agree. She drew the line at trying to physically remove his little bottom from his perch but more than likely only because I was within eye shot and hanging out the washing, otherwise I’m sure he’d have been fair game.
“Billy honey, isn’t it Lucy’s turn again now?” I called out.
“Noooo, not yet,” he retorted. I wasn’t in the mood for a debate.
“Lucy, why don’t we open up the sandpit? You can have a little play in there and Billy is sure to want to join you and then perhaps you could have a go on the swing,” I suggested.
I realised I was being a little bit devious for I knew that once Billy was down beside the sandpit Lucy was likely to leg it back to the swing and there was a good chance Billy would be less than thrilled at being swindled.
Before I even made it to the sandpit, Billy had hopped of the swing. I thought he was in the mood to share after all and was about to commend him when I realised what he actually wanted was his shorts pulling back up, seemingly they were falling down.
“Mummy, pull shorts up please, they fall down.” He was watching Lucy and kept furtively looking back towards the swing. Lucy, seeing her chance, started to run. She was quite a way back but Billy was at a distinct disadvantage since his shorts were wrapped around his ankles. He was determined not to let it deter him; he swatted away my helping hand.
“Noooo,” he wailed. “Mine swing.” And he started to run; at least he started to waddle, really fast, short little steps. Sadly not fast enough as Lucy hopped on victoriously. There was a bit of a tussle but again, with his shorts around his ankles he wasn’t on top form and wobbled about precariously before planting his backside firmly on the ground. I helped him up, dusted him off, pulled his shorts back up and pointed him in the direction of the sandpit. He threw Lucy a slightly disgusted look before deciding that perhaps a spot of digging might be rather fun after all. I breathed a sigh of relief.

A Spectacle

2010-02-27T19:42:00.001+13:00

Yesterday I visited a warehouse selling sunglasses. It is in a relatively remote location (up a long drive), has no signage, does not advertise and sells the best and cheapest range of sunglasses I have ever come across. Paul came home with two pairs the other day for less than $20 and on mentioning his discovery to colleagues at work it turned out just about everyone knew of this place, except us. So, like I say, yesterday I went in search of a pair of sunglasses that didn’t pop one of its lenses out onto the floor every time I put them on.

The owner was most obliging and encouraged me to take a small shoebox around the aisles, filling it up with the styles I liked, then trying them all on and making my selection. He would replace all the discarded ones since he knew exactly where each pair lived. Perfect, I thought and eagerly started ambling up the aisles, box in hand. When it was full, and I also had four more pairs in my hand I decided I had enough to choose from so set myself up in front of a large mirror and began narrowing my choices down. Periodically I would wander back down another aisle, swap a pair out and return to my box and mirror. I chose three pairs and took my selection to the counter to pay. The total cost came to $18; I was delighted! I opened my wallet and squinted for the right denomination of notes. Hang on, I thought, why am I squinting? “Oh God, I can’t see,” I said.
The proprietor looked alarmed, clearly under the misguided belief that I had suddenly just been blinded.
“My glasses, my glasses,” I stuttered.
“Yes,” he said, holding up my three new pairs of sunglasses.
“No, my spec’s, my spectacles; I’ve put them down somewhere,” I said, somewhat hysterically.
We both cast our eyes about the large room; there were glasses of every description in every direction, including two long rows of reading glasses, not dissimilar in appearance to my now lost pair. They could have been anywhere and I couldn’t bloody well see to look for them because, well, because I couldn’t see. My heart sank to great depths.

The gentleman very kindly came to my assistance, as did a fellow shopper. What did they look like, they asked.
“Well, they’re kind of a brown colour and have rectangle frames,” I said. I looked around me; great, that narrowed it down to about nine thousand pairs. I walked up and down the aisles with my nose hovering about four inches away as I peered at each shelf. Periodically the owner or the other shopper would pop up holding a pair for my inspection and I would shake my head dejectedly. The search continued. After another agonising half hour and just as I was beginning to give up hope, we found them. Which is just as well since not only would it have been quite a bugger to lose a $400 pair of glasses in order to save a few bucks on some new sunglasses but it would also have been a rather long and blurry walk home.

Poppas Fault

2010-02-23T20:38:00.000+13:00

I have the most appallingly smelly feet. Not all the time, for example not after a shower, or straight out of the sea after a swim at the beach, but certainly when encased in shoes for any length of time and especially when those shoes are made of synthetic fabrics; although even my ventilated leather Sketchers maintain a certain eau de foot.

Each night throughout winter I had to place my sheepskin slippers at the furthest end of the bedroom for the hideous smell would waft up from the side of the bed and prevent me from descending into a restful slumber. Usually, despite repeated washing I would have to replace my slippers after approximately two months, although I must admit that they were worn at great length both through day and evening (including once, when I was still in a sleep deprived semi coma and inadvertently wore them to the supermarket).

I blame my dad as he too used to have shockingly smelly feet and on returning home from work of an evening would take great delight in removing his socks (which had been enclosed in stuffy shoes all day) balling them up and pressing them against my nose (rendering me nearly unconscious I hasten to add).
“They smell just like crushed rose petals don’t they chicken?” he would ask as I simultaneously gagged with the fumes and laughed uproariously.

Last Thursday I took Lucy and Billy to the mall. We walked a lot, we enjoyed lunch, we walked some more. They were impeccably behaved and as such were given lollipops. It was this delightfully compliant behaviour that saw me decide to stop and venture into a fitting room with a pair of cool looking jeans I had spotted in the shop window. I popped Billy into his stroller, for even when compliant, the desire to touch all those silky, shiny fabrics with sticky fingers would have simply been too much for him to bear. I instructed them both to keep their hands close to their bodies and to touch nothing. Billy was so good; he kept his tucked under his chin. He and Lucy, equally well behaved (and considerably less sticky since she can actually eat a lollipop without having a continual gooey residue drip down her fingers) came into the largest of the changing rooms with me.
I started to undress.
“Ooooh, mummy, goodness what’s that terrible smell?” Lucy asked, not quietly, screwing up her nose in disgust, “Something really stinks in here.”
“Stinky,” mimicked Billy loudly.
I could hear sniggering coming from the neighbouring cubicle
“Oh, err, I do believe its mummy’s feet,” I laughed, bending down and raising one foot to my nose.
“Eeeew, they really do smell bad don’t they,” I agreed lowering my leg, poking my foot back out and gently pressing it to Lucy’s nose. She shrieked and erupted into a fit of giggles. Billy, not wanting to be left out of the fun insisted on receiving a whiff also. I happily obliged, wiggling my toes freely in front of his sticky face while he squealed with horror and delight.
Perhaps I’m more like my dad than I realised. I know for a fact that Lucy’s feet smell nothing like crushed rose petals either, rancid is the word that comes to mind when she removes her trainers. It’s ok though, we’ll just blame Poppa.

Blessing for the Day

2010-02-22T19:57:00.000+13:00

This afternoon on collecting Lucy from pre-school I told her how much I loved her.
“I love you too mummy,” she said giving me a big hug.
“How much?” I joked.
“As much as the sun is bright,” she replied.
What more could a mother ask for?

Valium

2010-02-19T17:59:00.000+13:00

I feel a little peculiar. I think it might have something to do with the 4 valium and 12 needles I had injected into my mouth yesterday. I won’t bore you again by going on and on about my fear and loathing when it comes to dental appointments but to say I would sooner be poked in the eye repeatedly by a big stick than suffer at the hands of a dentist is an understatement. Yesterday however, I had no choice as I required what is known as root planing. I have periodontal disease (or gum disease for the inexperienced). Whilst my teeth may look perfectly healthy, are without fillings and are relatively white, straight and even, beneath it all is a raging angry infection which seemingly if not addressed will have me lose most of my rear teeth within the next few years. Since I’d prefer not to have to eat my roast dinners pureed and sucked through a straw I figured I should heed the expert advice and undergo the treatment. Apparently it has nothing to do with how well I look after my teeth; moreover it is often hereditary and frequently exacerbated with pregnancy. In other words, I was simply one of the unlucky ones. The valium was to calm my nerves so that I didn’t scratch someone’s eyes out with anxiety, the injections (did I tell you there were 12 of them?) to numb the excruciating pain.

The procedure involves scraping the bone that lies beneath the gum (an area which cannot be reached with general cleaning either by me or the dentist); so in essence, the gum is pulled away and a sharp pointy metal thing is grinded back and forth across the root of the tooth until it is nice and clean. This joyous procedure was performed on nine of my teeth.
When making the initial appointment I was told that usually they like to complete it in two sessions, one side at a time as it can often be too much to handle, especially having your whole mouth numbed. I said that it was quite likely I’d change my name and move country and that she’d never see me again if it wasn’t all performed in one torturous hit so she gave me a script for valium and the appointment was made for yesterday.
I was instructed to take the drugs one hour before my appointment. I was told they would likely make me feel a little drunk, which I was quite looking forward to, but mostly they made me feel a bit sluggish, slow and thick. I also had trouble lifting my arms and legs; it was as though someone had taped a large tin of beans to each of them. Fortunately Paul had taken the afternoon off in order to nurse me through the ordeal and my mum came up to watch Lucy and Billy.

Paul held my hand in his throughout, and I crushed every bone within it. With my free hand I clutched, white knuckled, at a chunk of flesh around my midriff (attempting to use a distraction/pain transference technique) until the dentist carefully peeled off my fingers and gave me a small soft ‘beanie’ duck to strangle instead. I think they usually reserve him to pacify slightly younger patients but were concerned I may actually do myself real harm, resulting in ambulances and all sorts of other tiresome things should I puncture my tummy. The duck was happily oblivious at my attempts to squeeze his small beans out through his backside. Once all the injections took effect and my mouth was completely numb (as was my tongue and even my nose for that matter) I was able to release my grip and relax - just a tad. I am sorry to say a few lone tears rolled down the sides of my face as each needle pierced the skin inside my mouth.

The whole thing took about an hour and finally I was done. Paul stretched out his fingers and I returned the, by now much thinner, duck.
“Sit up when you feel ready and give your mouth a rinse out,” the dentist instructed kindly.
I sat up and took the offered cup, placing it to my lips. Except, hang on, where the hell were they? Using my free hand I felt about for my mouth, oh, there it is, whew. I tried again, aiming in the general direction I knew my mouth should be, somewhere under my nose, only I couldn’t feel that either. I poured an entire cup of water down my neck and shoulder.
“Never mind, that’s very common,” said the dentist. “Here, let’s try again; take it slowly,” she said, handing me a fresh cup. This one went down my cleavage. Four attempts later and quite wet indeed, I finally managed to get a teaspoonful of water between my giant lips. I couldn’t actually move my tongue to swish the water about so had to make do with shaking my head from side to side like a dog shooing a fly from its ears.
“You might just want to give your mouth a little wipe,” she suggested, handing me a wad of tissues “you’re dribbling a bit.”
I felt about for my mouth again; there was a stream of drool escaping from the left side leaving a bloodied stain on my chest.
“Well done Siubhan,” she said. “You really were very brave.” I didn’t feel brave, thinking of my tears.
“Anku,” I mumbled, my fat lips getting in the way of each other. I tried to smile but I think it came out as more of a grimace.

Paul helped me off the chair and guided me to the front desk where he propped me up against a counter whilst he paid the bill and scheduled my follow up appointment. He then steered me in the direction of the car and gently edged me into my seat, where I lay in a valium induced slump, dribbling onto my knees for the journey home.

Once home the kids were lovely, they gave me hugs and kisses (they noticeably avoided my mouth, even they were afraid of my colossal lips) then watched as I bounced off the furniture heading for the bedroom where I collapsed in a drug infused stupor for five hours.

When I woke my lips were back to their normal size, although my face was still a bit swollen and my mouth very, very tender. Unsure if I could handle eating anything I opted for a couple of paracetamol to reduce the discomfort. Paul offered to make me various light meals and I settled on scrambled eggs, which were just perfect. I then polished off the remainder of a box of Belgian truffles; since after all, it was imperative I eat food which melted readily in the mouth.

A load off my chest

2010-02-15T21:13:00.000+13:00

I’m in the mood for a rant. I saw something recently which has continued to bug me and therefore I must purge.

I’ve always tried really hard to never been one of those people who cast aspersions on others parenting skills. A mother could be dragging her two year old by the foot along the supermarket aisles whilst he kicks out, screaming at the top of his lungs, grabbing at passing shelves and bringing down towers of baked beans in his wake and I will do my very best not to judge. Or perhaps she is hissing threats in her child’s ear while said child pulls her sister’s hair with one hand and tosses the eggs from the trolley with the other. Mostly when I see those situations I take a wide berth, endeavour to make sympathetic eye contact and feel eternally grateful it’s not me. Billy, if he’s with me, usually likes to add commentary “Naughty grumpy boy not having (behaving) mummy,” before thinking that the egg tossing actually looks like fun and perhaps he should give it a shot too.

It never fails to amaze me how many people tut and look on disapprovingly whilst a mum or dad endeavours to rein in an unreasonable child throwing a tantrum. The methods are many and varied.
There is the stern disciplined approach spoken between gritted teeth:
“If you don’t stop that I shall tear off your arm and belt you with the soggy end.” (Something I recall being threatened with as a child).
The jollying along tact:
“Oh come on now darling, don’t be grumpy; look at mummy, look how she can cross her eyes and touch the tip of her nose with her tongue, can you do that?”
Bribery:
“Please sweetheart, if you could just stop throwing our groceries out onto the floor mummy promises to buy you an ice cream on the way home.”
Distraction:
“Darling, good grief, did you see that blue rabbit just bounce past the tinned tuna?”
And the never fail instant gratification method as you tear open a packet of biscuits and shove one in their mouth “For God’s sake, just be quiet and eat this.”
Sure, if the mum or dad was swearing like a trooper I’d probably throw my raised eyebrows in their direction and hurry past before Lucy or Billy started asking “What does F…king little bastard mean mummy?” but mostly I try to empathise.

When it comes to issues of safety though, I take an entirely different view and am consistently horrified about how lapse in judgement some parents are. We are in a society that sadly is filled with far too many creeps and cretins and whilst you can’t wrap your kids up in cotton wool and hide them away in their room for the rest of their lives (however tempting) surely we should at least be smart about keeping them safe.

The other day I was out shopping (without the kids) and used the toilets at a large local mall. It has convenient spacious parent’s rooms which have toilets complete with an adult sized loo and a child sized loo in the same cubicle plus room enough for a large pram and still enough space to manoeuvre about and wash and dry hands. I always use this facility when out with both Lucy and Billy but if we happen to be somewhere that is not so well equipped then we use the disabled toilets as there is ample room for all of us. Failing that, I will squash the three of us into a standard sized cubicle and beg Billy not to unlock the door thus allowing all those washing hands, fluffing hair and applying lipstick to get a bird’s eye view of my unkempt nether regions. Whilst out on this particular day I had finished my business and was washing up when a woman entered the toilets. These toilets have no entrance door, instead just a large wall you walk around to enter (I think this is a great idea since I always cringe having just gone to all the trouble of washing my hands only to have to grab the bacteria infested handle – usually with the hem or cuff of whatever I’m wearing). The woman had two children with her; the eldest was about five and the youngest, in a stroller, was around a year old. She then left her youngest, a little boy still strapped in the pram, by the entrance way and put her older boy in a cubicle then went into another cubicle on her own alongside. People came and went during the short few minutes it took her and her son to complete their business and most looked with curiosity at the little lad sitting on his own by the entrance. The parent’s room is right next door, the disabled toilet was free and would have fitted all of them with ease; I simply cannot imagine any reason why you would leave your one year old baby, sitting on his own in a room full of strangers, away from your watchful eye for even one minute. Silly tart.

Rant over, I feel much better.

Not long now

2010-02-11T20:42:00.000+13:00

We are only four and a half weeks away from Lucy’s first day at school. Today we went, as a family, and met with the principal. We sat outside his office and waited. It was a bit like visiting the headmaster when I was a child, a little in awe and wanting to be sure I did and said all the right things. He put us immediately at ease and chatted away with Lucy, asking questions to test her language and numeric skills. We permitted ourselves a moment of heart swelling pride when he commented on how exceedingly well she had done in both areas. I suddenly felt compelled to blurt out that I had been a very good mummy and managed to secure all the necessary stationery items, but fortunately managed to restrain myself. What is it about being in the principal’s office that makes you feel like you want to be patted on the head and given a gold star?

We took a walk around the school; the grounds and rooms were awash with azure blue uniforms as hundreds of little people all sat diligently reading, writing and listening or bouncing about energetically, aerobics style, to some fun and funky tune (considerably different to the star jumps I remember being part of my childhood PE curriculum). Lucy would have quite happily pulled up a chair and joined in given half a chance. Billy, on being released from Paul’s clutches, was most intent on showing off his artist talents and made a beeline for the paper and pencils. We reined them both in and they stood patiently, eyes huge, drinking in their surroundings.

We met with many of the teachers and also the lady who runs the tuck shop. I noticed there were considerably healthier options than when I was little. When I was at school, every Friday I was permitted to forgo my cold baked bean sandwich (sometimes it was beetroot but I usually had to eat that at morning teatime, otherwise if I waited ‘til lunch the bread turned pink and soggy. At other times it was cheese but I didn’t really like cheese sandwiches, they were always a bit dry and tended to stick to the roof of my mouth and if they were tomato, they usually came back home with me, I hated tomato sandwiches) and enjoy a sausage roll and an apple turnover from the tuck shop. Lucy’s tuck shop even has sushi on the menu and throughout summer they have real fruit (as opposed to fruit coloured and fruit flavoured but not actually fruit) ice blocks. I saw Lucy’s ears prick up on hearing that.

Paul and I have suffered much anxiety over Lucy’s schooling, mostly because we wanted her to attend a school we were not residentially zoned for but as luck would have it, our application was seen favourably and she was accepted. It was wonderful to walk through the grounds today and feel so relaxed, confident that she would thrive in her surroundings. I bought her uniform the other day; I am yet to let her try it all on for I fear I may get a bit emotional (and there’s always the chance she may not want to take it off).

We drove home feeling relieved and happy, secure in the knowledge that Lucy will be absolutely fine, that she will receive a great start to her learning, that she will be supported and that we will be kept well informed and involved and that she will have fun and should make many new friends in the process.
“So honey, what did you think of your new school?” I asked her.
She replied excitedly, “Mummy, daddy, did you hear that lady say they had ice blocks?”

A life ruined

2010-02-07T13:39:00.001+13:00

Apparently I have ruined Lucy’s life. I am amazed it has only taken me 4 ¾ years, I figured it would be at least another 10 to 12 years before I accomplished such a feat.

Loading Billy’s wooden trolley up this morning with various soft toys Lucy took one from his cot; I arrived when the sounds of screaming could no longer be ignored. Lucy was standing, backed into the corner of Billy’s room fiercely protecting her hoard; Billy was forcibly attempting to remove Lumpy, a large blue elephant, from her tight grasp.
“I want him, give him to me,” she ordered.
“Noooooo, MINE!” shouted Billy, tugging with all his might.
“YES!” she demanded, pulling back harder.
“NOOOOO!” he screamed, with a firm grip on Lumpy’s trunk.
“WHAT is going on?” I questioned the pair of them with a suitable amount of annoyance; I was making a flan, or at least trying to.
Their words scrambled over the top of each other as they both insisted on being heard.
“Be quiet, both of you. One at a time, tell me what has happened,” I said, hoping to sort the domestic out in a reasonable fashion.
“Billy won’t let me have Lumpy and I want him, I need him, I have to put him in the trolley,” Lucy whined.
“Mine,” Billy stated matter-of-factly, giving another tug.
Lucy pulled back and Billy promptly fell over, she lost her balance and landed on top of him. They pummelled each other for good measure. I hoisted them both back up with my floury hands.
“For goodness sake will you stop it? I demanded.
They are both usually fairly happy to allow each other to play with their respective ‘special’ toys but the rule is that you must always ask; you may not simply help yourself.
“Lucy, did you ask Billy if you could borrow his trolley and Lumpy?” I asked her.
She refused to look at me.
“Lucy! Will you answer me please?” I said sternly.
“No,” she muttered sullenly.
“So you didn’t ask Billy if you could play with them.” I needed to clarify she wasn’t simply telling me that ‘no’, she wouldn’t answer me.
“NO!” she snapped at me.
“Don’t talk to me like that please Lucy. It is rude and it is cheeky and I will not tolerate it. Now, you need to ask Billy if you may play with his toys, you cannot simply help yourself.”
“Can I have Lumpy please Billy,” she murmured somewhere to the carpet.
“No,” said Billy, a little too gleefully for my liking, before launching himself at her and pulling out all the other toys tucked safely inside the trolley, tossing them into the air.
“AAAARRRGGGHH!” yelled Lucy, throwing herself at him.
“Right, neither of you are playing with any of these toys,” I said as I took Lucy firmly by the arm and led her out of Billy’s room. I gathered up the toys and placed them out of reach. “When you’re ready to be pleasant to each other and play nicely you may have them back; until then, kindly just stay away from each other. Lucy, please go to your room until you have calmed down.” I told them, heading back to the kitchen.
“You’ve ruined my life,” Lucy shouted to my retreating back before stomping to her bedroom and slamming shut the door.
So, like I say, much earlier than I thought.

Short cut

2010-02-02T20:06:00.000+13:00

I have just done something totally rash and without forethought. You may recall me mentioning that I take on average around a year between haircuts with the duration between my last two cuts being 20 months or thereabouts. My last appointment was only a few short months ago but my style was becoming lacklustre and for the last few weeks my hair has been scraped back up in its singularly boring ponytail again. Even pulled back, the intense summer heat has left me feeling sticky and hot with beads of sweat trickling down the back of my neck. This morning I woke up with my hair plastered to my face in tentacle like strands and wrapped around my neck like a hang mans noose. I decided I could stand it no longer; I phoned the hairdressers and made an appointment. I did not sift through the pages of a single magazine nor cruise the internet looking for suitable styles; neither did I accost anyone in the street sporting cute cuts. I simply arrived, 10 minutes early and waited. I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do. Already my hair had grown to reach below my shoulders and I wasn’t sure if I was just going to ask for a trim or something more drastic.
I was led to a chair by the resident hair washer and offered a complimentary drink.
“Yeah, that’s be great, I’ll have a Sangria thanks,” I said hopefully, smiling at the young girl who was looking at me expectantly.
She frowned, “Um, oh, I’m not really sure, oh, um,” she stammered. “We have tea, coffee, water…” she drifted off, clearly confused.
“That’s ok, water is fine; just wishful thinking on my part.”
“Great,” she smiled at me, clearly relieved I wasn’t about to get all irate about their limited supply of beverages.
She returned with my water, a small chocolate and a pile of magazines. The chocolate was unwrapped and eaten before the mags even touched the table.
I was just turning the first page of my six month old edition of OK when the hairdresser arrived beside me.
“Hi there, what can we do for you today?” She asked.
I glanced down at the magazine, there was an advert for some kind of styling product and the model (20-something, blond, stunningly beautiful, razor sharp cheekbones) was sporting a super short crop.
“I’d like that please,” I said. The words just kind of fell out of my mouth.
“Great, no problem; lets get you over to the basin then shall we?”
And suddenly, just like that I had decided to have the shortest haircut I have ever had.
She took the scissors and sliced off the first wad of hair.
“There it goes,” she said as it fell to the floor. “You’re very brave.” She fingered her own long extensions, “I couldn’t do it personally but I do love the opportunity to perform such radical changes on other people.” I wasn’t really sure I liked the way the word radical was reverberating around my head but there was no backing out now.
As she sliced, razored and textured I was astounded by how terrific I felt. And then suddenly she was done and I was thrilled! My wayward frizz-inclined semi curls are no more; in their place is a super short sassy crop. It is versatile and with a small amount of styling product and only a few seconds in time can be shaped in half a dozen different ways. It is refreshingly cool; it requires no effort whatsoever and still looks great even after washing, despite the fact that all I have done is run my fingers through it this evening. Paul loves it, Lucy laughed hysterically and Billy simply said “Mummy hair all gone,” before enveloping me in a big hug. Indeed it has and boy does it feel good, though I’ll probably need a warm hat for when winter rolls around.

Podge

2010-01-30T10:28:00.001+13:00

I am not impressed! Seemingly I have developed what is commonly known as ‘middle aged spread’. It wasn’t there on Tuesday so can only assume last nights iced coffee has tipped me over the edge; quite literally. My tummy spills over the top of my ¾ shorts in a squidgy little roll that I can’t seem to resist poking and playing with. Paul thinks it’s great, I am less enamoured. Actually I blame him entirely. He has, after all, been insisting I indulge in one of his most delicious iced coffees, made with lashings of chilled whipped ice cream and served in a tall glass, most nights for the last eight weeks. I wouldn’t dream of refusing lest I should hurt his feelings, instead I show my displeasure by lingering over it slowly over the course of about three minutes. That should show him.

Toothfully

2010-01-26T13:11:00.001+13:00

The dentist was hideous, made less so by the unexpected arrival of Paul who came to offer moral support and hold my hand (or rather to have his fingers crushed). Actually my dentist is really lovely, she has to be otherwise she wouldn’t see me for dust, but it makes little difference to my state of general wellbeing whilst in the chair. She informed me that I am brushing my teeth far too hard, eroding my gums away in the process and if I don’t want to resemble a toothless old gum smacker in five or six years time I had better take more time and extra care with my dental routine. No more white knuckled frenzied thrashing around my mouth then, it would seem. Now I must ensure I brush gently (for the required 2 minutes – no cheating), floss (approximately 45 seconds) and rinse (1 minute – no less!) with a mouthwash that despite leaving my breath smelling sensational, leaves my tongue with that scalded feeling you get after drinking a piping hot cup of tea. It also removes most of my taste buds in the process thus, by default I guess, minimising my desire to eat.

Anyway after I got over the resentment of paying a ridiculous amount of money for something I abhor doing I made my follow up appointment with assurances I wouldn’t bottle out and cancel again.

Naturally I was concerned about how I could possibly squeeze an entire 3 minutes and 15 seconds into my already chaotic mornings but I had made a commitment and besides, I really don’t want to earn the nickname gummy bear or something equally horrid. So I duly set about cleaning my teeth as instructed and this morning answered the phone mid routine. I managed to hold an entire conversation whilst I brushed, flossed (quite tricky with a phone perched on your shoulder) and rinsed. Much of my contribution was spoken in gurgle but aside from the tiny bit of toothpaste I spat into the mouthpiece I was impressed in my ability to multitask and wonder if perhaps keeping the tooth fairy at bay won’t prove quite such an inconvenience after all.

Fear and Loathing

2010-01-22T14:04:00.001+13:00

I have a dental appointment on Monday. I’ve already bumped it back three times over the past eight months; I have a morbid fear of dentists. I’m pretty sure it stems back to the years of orthodontic treatment I endured as a teenager, courtesy of my top front teeth; if I’d had long ears and a cute little furry tail I could’ve easily gotten work as a double for Bugs Bunny they were so bucked – seemingly something to do with the fact that I sucked my thumb until I was nine years old.
For nearly six years I had, what are officially known as appliances (interestingly fire engines are also known as appliances and for how comfortable it all felt I might as well have had a truck shoved in my gob). My appliances consisted of a band, which was a thin metal ring cemented directly onto my teeth and used like handles in order to tighten the brackets (with a pair of all purpose hardware store bought pliers I’m sure) and move my teeth in the right direction. Onto these bands the brackets are welded. An archwire is fitted into the brackets by tie-wires and this rests in a long tube placed at the back of your mouth. And if you have any room left whatsoever, apparently I did, metal hooks (which dig unpleasantly into the side of your cheeks) are fixed onto your molars so that tiny little rubber bands can attached thus ensuring you may only open your mouth no more than approximately three centimetres at any given time, ensuring food must be cut into slivers before being slotted through the gap between your lips.
I could never resist pinging these tiny rubber bands with my tongue, like I was plucking the strings on a violin (if I’d been remotely musically inclined I might have made some pretty decent tunes) and once a yellow one actually flew right out of my mouth, striking my friend on the cheek.

I would dread every visit and after the orthodontist had stretched my mouth open wide enough in order to fit both of his large hairy rubber gloved hands inside he would poke and pull and tighten and scrape with no thought whatsoever to the pain and duress he was inflicting on his patient. The ultimate result was perfectly straight teeth; the side effects were a dislocating jaw (especially problematic when endeavouring to eat an apple or a burger) and a genuine fear of the dental chair and all it promised. During the entire check-up my hands, balled up and clutched together tightly, drip with sweat; my buttocks are clenched together tightly in a state of rigid paralysis and it takes three days for the imprint of the buttons from the chair to fade from my back so desperate is my effort to vanish into it. It can also take up to half an hour for me to be able to close my mouth again, thus rendering me speechless; though I guess those around me may actually consider that to be a benefit.

School Daze

2010-01-19T19:34:00.001+13:00

I am incredulous that in exactly two months from today our precious little Lucy, who by rights should still be swaddled and in her cot, will be starting her first day of school. How is it possible that this time has gone by so quickly when it feels as though every day has been so long and tiring? She is excited; firstly because her best friend from pre-school will be going to the same school and secondly because she gets to wear an Orca (the school logo) on her shirt – her most favourite creature after elephants. We have a meeting with the principle next month and I have been issued with a list of stationery items I need to purchase in advance of her first day. I set off this morning with enthusiasm under the illusion it would take no time at all to gather the few books and pencils she required.

Upon entering the large shop specialising in anything to do with office or school I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume and variety. Who knew there were so many different exercise books available? I made my way over to a heaving trestle table and set about locating the 1U4 and 1F4 books that Lucy needed. I could find neither and my palms became sweaty when I realised that this might prove to be a slightly more arduous task than I had at first thought. I wandered around and around the tables muttering away to myself as I am want to do until a woman with her 12 year old daughter in tow appeared like an angel at my side.
“You look a bit lost,” she smiled. “Do you need a hand?”
“Oh God, do I ever,” I replied. “It’s our daughter’s first year and I have this list of stuff to buy and it’s really specific and there are words like ‘DO NOT buy such and such brand’ and I thought it would be easy but it’s not and there are so many options and,” I paused for breath “I’m really confused.”
“Let’s take a look at your list,” she said helpfully “and we’ll see what we can find; her first year eh? That’s really sweet.” She looked wistfully at her daughter who was standing impatiently next to her and I figured she was taking a little wander back down memory lane. Not wanting to appear rude but eager to find what I needed I brought her back from her trip,
“Umm, it says here I need a 1F2. Do you know what that is? Is it a pencil or a book?”
With my knowledgeable new found friend in tow we located all of Lucy’s exercise books in no time at all. Once I’d established that a homework bag was pretty much the same thing as a book bag I was away laughing and all I still needed to get were glue sticks (specific brand, particular size), felt-tip pens (also specific brand), 20 leaf clear-files (specific colour) and triple grip pencils (never heard of them).

I bade my assistant goodbye as her daughter was looking downright surly and was clearly unhappy spending her time buying school supplies in the middle of the summer holidays, then set about locating the last of Lucy’s required purchases. I found everything else I needed (with just a touch of expert help from the shop assistant). The pencils are cool. Triple grip means triangle shaped so that the children can ensure they hold their pencil correctly. I remember I only had a slate and a piece of chalk when I started school.

So now Lucy has all the prerequisite stationery and in the correct sizes, colours and brands thus ensuring she will not feel excluded because her foolish mother unwittingly bought her a 1WB instead of a 1F4. Whew!

Summer Holidays

2010-01-16T15:20:00.003+13:00

We planned our first ever family vacation. Initially it was intended that we stay with friends however one half of the couple took seriously ill and as he was under strict instructions to rest and recuperate, we figured that perhaps having our tornado-infused Billy around would not be conducive to his speedy recovery. Looking for alternative accommodation proved most difficult. Being peak season our options were limited and mind numbingly expensive but we were determined to enjoy a relaxing and fun summer holiday with Lucy and Billy as this would likely be the only time Paul has off work for a long time.

We finally found somewhere in an idyllic spot approximately three hours drive away. We headed “Up Norf” as Billy says, for four nights. There were beaches and ice-creams all within a stones throw so figured we'd be just fine. We booked a deluxe two bedroom suite situated on the second floor (all the better to keep Billy contained), with a fully fitted kitchenette, balcony overlooking the swimming pool and a stunning view of the sea. There was also a playground and a games room too, so we were armed with all the tools required to keep our children entertained, as well as a spa pool for mummy and daddy to enjoy a well earned rest. I was convinced Lucy and Billy would be suitably exhausted at the end of each day and would sleep like logs - bliss.

We arrived at our destination slightly earlier than expected, courtesy of Billy and a 6.30am start to the day and as our room wasn’t yet ready, decided to head into town. The weather was glorious and after a gentle meander around the shops we bought ice-creams and sat on the wharf watching the boats bob peacefully on the water. We returned to the apartment (not nearly so deluxe as one would have imagined considering the cost) a couple of hours later and set about unpacking. I was feeling very pleased with myself as Lucy and Billy each had their own box of toys, books, pens/pencils and colouring books, ample to occupy them for hours, affording Paul and I some much needed R and R. Lucy sat down on the floor of her room and contentedly applied stickers to a fairy book. Within five minutes Billy had bored of his selection and figured he would check out what Lucy was up to instead. Paul and I continued unpacking whilst listening to the melodious sounds coming from the adjoining room; Billy growling “Me Monsta, Me Monsta” as he thieved one of Lucy’s precious stickers then started to bounce on, what he had decided was going to be, his bed shouting “RAAAH, RAAAH” and Lucy clambering over the beds wailing “Billy, give that back, Billy, BILLY! Oh now you’ve torn it! M-U-M-M-Y, D-A-D-D-Y…” Oh yes, I could tell it was going to be a very relaxing holiday indeed.

Slathered with sunscreen and armed with 15 flotation devises we ventured down to the pool. Despite being a Pisces and the constant references to my fish like need to live by the water (in all honesty I’m quite happy with a bath and a few bubbles), my love of the swimming pool extends mostly to sitting alongside it on a deck chair with a good book. Paul and the kids however couldn’t wait to get in and after my initial “Brrrr” we set about manoeuvring our children (who resembled mini blimps) from one end of the pool to the other. I contemplated attaching pieces of string from their ankles to Paul and my wrists in case there was a sudden and unexpected gust of wind and they blew away altogether. Initially Lucy was loathe to let go of our necks since even the shallow end was deep for her but after a short while she gained her confidence and enjoyed floating around like a small lifeboat with her water wings and ring. Billy clung to Paul’s face until he discovered what fun it was to stand, ‘Hawaii Five-O’ style, atop his miniature boogie board, while daddy whisked him up and down. Feeling full of the joys of the holiday spirit I started to sing a few bars of the theme tune to the well known TV show “da da da da daaaa da, da da da da daaa,” but when everyone looked at me blankly I gave it up. We whiled away the rest of the afternoon bobbing about until the kids were wizened.

Despite taking the portacot with us, Billy was most insistent that he sleep in a regular bed, just like Lucy. So we decided to give it a go and after dinner, a bounce on the trampoline, umpteen slides and swings and a bath we got them ready for bed. It was after 8pm and despite the brightness of their room Paul and I were convinced that they were both suitably tired and should sleep well. We popped them into bed and read them a story. Hugs and kisses issued, “Night, night sweethearts” we said and shut the door ready to enjoy some grown up time together. Two minutes later the bedroom door opened and out came Lucy, followed by Billy. “Billy keeps climbing on my bed,” she said. We returned them to their room and issued Billy strict instructions to stay put. “Sing Tinkle Tinkle Little Tar peese mummy?” he asked sweetly as I put him back under the covers. “Ok honey, just the once though,” I replied. Once finished I shut the door and returned to the couch. Hushed voices came from their room. Within five minutes they had reached fever pitch. Billy was singing “Tinkle tinkle little TAR!” the last word roared at the top of his lungs. Lucy emerged from her room, “Billy is antagonising me,” she announced as she stood, hands on hips in front of us in the lounge. This went on for over an hour until finally, their room darkened enough and Billy exhausted enough he gave in to slumber. Lucy, grateful for the peace, went to sleep too. Paul and I fell into bed about an hour after that.

We were up at 6.30am the following morning courtesy again of the shortest member of our family. After giving Lucy a Tigger worthy bed bounce in order to ensure she was awake also, the pair of them stormed our room and insisted we rise. Paul, very kindly, left me to my slumber and after breakfast, with Billy still resplendent in his PJs took them to a beachside playground. On their return Lucy couldn’t wait to get in the pool again but since it was only 8am I didn’t relish the thought of a dip. We compromised and the four of us splashed around in the nice warm spa instead. The negotiations were short lived though and by 9am we were back in the pool. Suitably chilled and wrinkled we headed out for the day and took the ferry across to Russell where we planned to have a wander and lunch. The kids loved bobbing on the water, the wind and sea spray on their faces and I, remarkably, refrained from throwing up on anyone, instead maintaining my sea legs for the brief 10 minute ride. The wander was relatively short lived since Lucy kept complaining of sore feet so we sat on the grassy verge of the pebble beach to enjoy a bite to eat. Aside from the fact that they were doused in dry grass clippings (since Lucy kept standing up and dusting off her backside) and we were surrounded by noisy, eager seagulls, we enjoyed absolutely the best fish and chips imaginable.

Armed with the knowledge that Billy might be better restrained in his sleeping bag we removed his blankets and got them settled for our second night. This time it took only 45 minutes as Paul wisely stuffed our large duvet over their curtain railing in order to provide a cooler, darker room and after negotiating with Billy, who was determined to retain his blanket “Like Lucy mummy, be like Lucy,” I agreed he could keep it, returning when he was asleep to remove it again. We had placed his portacot in between the two beds as it fitted snugly and worked as a wonderful barrier against Billy falling out onto the floor. The theory was great but he woke around 1.30am with a pitiful cry, “M-u-m-m-y, m-u-m-m-y,” he called sadly. I leapt out of bed and rushed into his room. I climbed onto the bottom of his bed ready to soothe him back to sleep before he woke Lucy. I patted his mattress, trying to feel for him in the darkness, “M-u-m-m-y,” a little voice repeated. It was coming from the side of the bed and as I felt around I discovered Billy wedged in between the portacot and his bed. Tugging him out somewhat unceremoniously as his feet were a bit stuck, I set about cuddling him. Within seconds of settling him back on his pillow he was out cold. “Night-night mummy,” Lucy whispered. “Night-night sweetheart,” I reached over and kissed her and she fell straight back to sleep. They slept until after 7am and Lucy, who woke first, took great care not to waken Billy, who slept soundly for another half hour before waking and calling out “Lucy, where Lucy? L-u-c-y? LUCY!”

After endeavouring to spend a nice, quiet and peaceful morning wandering around a nearby township, we gave up amidst much whining and complaining, returning instead to the pool. Lucy had made a friend the previous day, a slightly older little girl (who, surprise, surprise Billy was equally enamoured with) named Danielle. Whilst Lucy enjoyed a play date at their apartment, I enjoyed a civilised glass of wine and adult conversation with her parents and Paul took Billy into town to the beach and to get supplies at the shops. It was a thoroughly pleasant afternoon and most ‘holiday-like’ indeed.

That night, with enough pillows stuffed between his bed and portacot that even an ant couldn’t fall out and get stuck, we were convinced we had the perfect bedtime set up for Lucy and Billy to ensure a speedy settling. The duvet was crammed over the curtain railing and we had put them down early in an effort to have them try and catch up on some lost zzzz’s. It was 6.45pm and they were absolutely knackered. Lucy couldn’t get into her bed fast enough and had the blanket tucked under her chin and her eyes closed before we had even said night-night. Billy bounced about like a loon. After 45 minutes of listening to him alternately sing and bellow “Tinkle Tinkle Little TAR!”, Lucy coming out to tell us she couldn’t sleep courtesy of Billy’s acoustic talents and bed bouncing techniques then Billy shuffling out after her like a little penguin in his sleeping bag, we decided to take radical action and put Lucy in our bed with the intention of returning her once Billy had settled. Duly snuggled up and happy in our room Billy proceeded to wail despairingly “Where Lucy, oh where Lucy? Me want Lucy. L-u-u-u-c-c-y!” He was informed that due to his behaviour Lucy would be sleeping in mummy and daddy’s room. After a further 20 minutes of bellyaching, I told him I would allow Lucy to return only if he behaved. He assured me with a suitable amount of remorse that he would, indeed, be quiet and stay in his own bed. Lucy, who had been unable to settle anyway since her brother was loud enough to wake the guests staying at the hotel down the road, returned to her bed. Things seemed to be going well and Billy was true to his word, for about five minutes; then he started up again and this time, I swiftly removed Lucy and deposited her back in our bed. More wailing ensued along with assurances of better behaviour; “Huh, huh,” he sobbed, “I be good mummy. No sing Tinkle Tinkle. I stay in bed mummy. Lucy go in bed there,” he pointed at the empty bed across the room. I explained that if I had to bring her out again she would not be returning and that this was absolutely his last chance. He nodded woefully and once again, Lucy clambered back into her own bed. Sure enough he stayed quiet and only two and a half hours after they were initially put to bed, they went to sleep.

Our final day was spent mostly at the beach. We loaded up the car with buckets and spades, rubber rings, water wings, boogie boards, snacks and Billy’s plastic motorbike. We set up camp, pitched our shelter tent on the grassy verge and got down to the business of making sandcastles. Within half an hour an ominous black cloud appeared overhead. We packed up our sandy belongings and bodies and made it to the car just as the first fat raindrops descended. We ventured into town and whilst Paul got us much needed extra large coffees, I sat and filled the kids faces with food in an effort to keep them from complaining. Within 15 minutes the sun was back out and we ventured back towards the beach, this time finding a more sheltered spot in case it rained again, which it did, twice, but we were fine crammed in our little three foot by four foot tent until it passed. That evening we were invited down to our new friend’s apartment and whilst the kids (already bathed and in PJs) watched DVD’s until their heads drooped on their necks like wilted flowers we enjoyed a beer and adult conversation. Returning to our ‘house’ around 10pm Lucy and Billy fell into an immediate and deep slumber.

We enjoyed a leisurely drive home, stopping on route to have lunch and a wander round a few shops before finally walking through our front door at 5pm. The animals were delighted to see us, or rather Gypsy was, I don’t think Donut and Tabitha gave a monkeys. They were well fed and happy though, as friends had been house and pet minding whilst we were away. Our house seemed massive after the confined quarters of the holiday apartment and it felt really, really good to be home. Lucy, despite desperately missing the swimming pool, couldn’t wait to get back into her own bed for an uninterrupted sleep and after dinner, a bath and a story, they both fell into their beds and slept soundly for over 12 hours straight. Billy is enjoying an afternoon nap, his first in five days. I am enjoying not being on holiday.

A bit belated

2010-01-13T20:05:00.002+13:00

We have just returned from our first family vacation. It was great, actually it was many things, including quite an education but the one thing it was NOT was relaxing. I shall fill you in on all the details when I am suitably recovered but in the meantime shall leave you with an entry I wrote and meant to post the eve before we left but got distracted with packing and whatnot. So here tis, only 5 days overdue.

The issuing of daily treats is no more. I started to ponder my wisdom as each morning when Billy woke he would delightedly shriek at me “Choooose treeets please mummy, ooooh, choooose treeets,” while he bounced eagerly in his cot, clearly desperate for release from his sleeping bag; he would then hit the ground running towards the kitchen and fling open the pantry doors yelling at me over his shoulder “Show you mummy, show you.” As he made his selection I would wave his designated container about under his nose at the same time saying “Just pop them in here Billy, then you can have them whenever you like.” “Me like now,” he would grin at me, his mouth full and crumbs spilling from his lips as he tried to keep both biscuits safely ensconced within his cheeks. Lucy, who had been showing considerable restraint, was clearly being led to the dark side and had started polishing off all of one treat and then about two thirds of the second, leaving about an inch of chocolate biscuit in her container which she would invariably request the moment she got home from pre-school. To be fair, neither of them made further demands, at least not often and both were very accepting of the rules but I began to despair when Billy would push away his half finished bowl of Weetbix claiming “Had nuff mummy, down now please.” I decided to amend things slightly and informed them that treats would now only be chosen after breakfast. It was met with a bit of muttering and for a few days I had to race Billy to the kitchen and stand barricading the pantry doors whilst he pleaded pitifully with me but after that they were quite content to wait and again Billy would cram his mouth immediately his choices were made.

Around the beginning of December when we put up our advent calendar and Lucy realised that there were chocolate Santas to be had after dinner each and every night during the countdown to Christmas eve, she too would polish off her treats straight after breakfast. Add to that the regularity of baking day each week and the fact that it would have been cruel and unnecessary punishment not to be allowed to enjoy the fruits of our labour once they had cooled from the oven, I realised there were considerably more than two treats being consumed on a daily basis. So about two weeks ago I dished out their selected treats after breakfast and announced that this was the last time we would be choosing treats in the morning and from now on, mummy and daddy would be deciding what could be enjoyed and when (though it has to be said, we are very fair). I prepared myself for the onslaught, for the outpourings of how unfair life was, for the sight of Billy’s wobbly bottom lip and for the big fat tears that would drip off little chins. There was nothing. Lucy asked “But why mummy?” And I carefully explained my reasoning which she calmly accepted. Billy was still too busy enjoying the last of his morning’s treats to fully comprehend the enormity of the situation but surprisingly, even the next day he did not throw his little body onto the floor sobbing over the tragedy that was his lost treats. Naturally Christmas has brought about many more goodies than usual; there has been plenty of Christmas pud and custard, plus loads of pavlova and even if we stuffed ourselves nightly we’d still have enough chocolates to last us about four months but they haven’t been over indulged, just allowed to enjoy the season and all that goes with it.

The nice thing about mealtimes though is still the fact that I simply do not stress about how much or how little either Billy or Lucy are eating. Also, Lucy has become far more adventurous and is trying lots of new foods, even enjoying some of them. Pre-school commented on her marked improvement and said they had no concerns whatsoever anymore so I guess perhaps, in a round about way, it has been a worthwhile experiment after all.

The Sleepover

2010-01-05T20:49:00.002+13:00

A few days ago I arranged for Lucy to have a friend sleepover for the first time. We kept it as a surprise right up until the last minute for fear the disappointment would simply be too much to bear if it should all turn pear shaped. As I have mentioned in earlier entries, this is a friend that Billy is rather fond of, her name (though not her real name) is ‘Amelia’ and she arrived yesterday morning with more bouncing enthusiasm than a kangaroo training for the long-jump.

Lucy and Billy could barely contain themselves and the day was a riot of fun and hysteria as the three of them scrambled over the fort, hid in the tent, bashed and crashed in the bedrooms and lounge and wrestled almost every toy, puzzle and book out of its designated space until it all lay strewn across the floor. They gyrated endearingly to Hi5; costumes were put on and cast aside; clothes were swapped and eventually discarded in favour of only knickers. Billy, determined to follow suit, gave up trying to keep up and resorted to wearing his shorts around his ankles. Periodically a tangle of bodies would scream with delight and very occasionally scream with pain or annoyance. They ate well (with a hint of mucking about, game playing and secretive giggling), they played nicely (with a modest amount of whining and whinging) and even though it was Lucy’s friend and Lucy’s sleepover, the girls were exceptionally accommodating and at no point did Billy find himself face to face with Lucy’s bedroom door; they included him in everything, something that pleased me no end. Billy, in turn, was extremely well behaved and with the exception of the odd over exuberant cuddle did not antagonise nor pinch (well, if I’m honest, there was just the once), pull hair or bite. He actually hasn’t performed any of these misdemeanours for quite some time, clearly getting fed up with being dumped unceremoniously in his cot each on each occasion. The improved behaviour may actually also have something to do with the fact that some time ago I deposited him in his room for pulling Lucy’s hair and inadvertently left him there for 25 minutes. After shutting the door and fully intending to return a couple of minutes later I got distracted by the phone and it was only on hearing him bash his wee fists against the door nearly half an hour later calling “Mummy,” plaintively that I discovered, to my horror, what I had done. He was actually perfectly happy having spent most of the time playing with his farm and various other toys but I was mortified. When he realised there were guilty cuddles to be had from mummy he milked it for all it was worth. “Poor me, poor me,” he said woefully burying his head in my shoulder then looking up and grinning before forcibly squeezing out a tear or two.

Anyway, despite the chaos, everyone thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Bath time was a snug fit but enough parts of them got wet and soapy to ensure clean bodies for bed time. Billy went out like a light and Lucy and ‘Amelia’ were permitted to stay up and watch ‘Madagascar 2’ and stuff their faces with popcorn. At 9pm it was lights out with instructions to settle down and go to sleep. There was much excited chatter in not so hushed voices. At 9.20pm after a resounding clatter I went in to find ‘Amelia’ trying to extricate something from atop Lucy’s wardrobe. Encouraged back into bed I was assured they would go to sleep. More giggling and chatter ensued. At 9.40pm I returned to discover Lucy had climbed into bed with ‘Amelia’. At 10pm, they were still nattering away and this time ‘Amelia’ was alongside Lucy in her bed. At 10.15pm they were in their own respective beds. By 10.20pm they were asleep.

Billy woke at 5am! Despite my best efforts and two renditions of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’, he would not settle, calling out for me every 15 minutes. Paul got up with him just after 6am and the girls woke, ready to make merry at 7am. Paul made pancakes amid ‘Amelia’s’ slightly whingy protestations. “I don’t like pancakes, I don’t want pancakes, I don’t liiiike them.” Paul ignored her and served them up lovely and warm with maple syrup. Billy and Lucy started shovelling the food into their mouths whilst ‘Amelia’ complained. Paul insisted, “Just try a bite, if you don’t like it, fair enough you don’t have to eat it but you must at least try it,” he said fairly. ‘Amelia’ finally agreed and took a bite. “Mmmmm, this is yummy,” she said, before polishing off the lot.

Today was much like yesterday only with what seemed like more mess and more noise. After dinner this evening and much hugging Lucy and Billy bade their friend goodbye. They are both exhausted (as am I) and were in bed and asleep by 6.50pm. Despite the craziness though, I have to say I’m really looking forward to the next sleepover. Did I mention Lucy's been invited to 'Amelia's'? Hmmm, I wonder if I could convince her that Lucy and Billy come as a double act.

Goodbye 2009

2010-01-01T22:09:00.001+13:00

New Years Eve was a relatively quiet affair. We had a wonderful but ultimately tiring day spent walking around the zoo. Billy saw, for the first time in real life, slow moving rotund hippos and thick skinned dusty rhinos, long limbed giraffes and a sad looking elephant (who recently lost her mate after more than 20 years together). He marvelled at the caterwauling monkeys swinging skilfully through the trees from their long tails and the giant Galapagos tortoise chewing endlessly on long stems of grass. He delighted at the tubby seals languishing on rocks in the sun and eagerly tried to pet the large Koi carp swimming freely by his feet. We watched an ostrich eject its backside in order to have either a wee or a poo, I’m still not sure which it was but it was most mesmerising whilst at the same time highly unpleasant viewing indeed. The lions and tigers caused minor concern as Billy peeked behind daddy’s cap from atop his shoulders asking hesitantly “No let them bite me mummy.” And Lucy and I enjoyed a quick rendition of Madagascar’s – ‘We Like to Move it Move it’. Sadly the lions weren’t keen to join in and we kept it brief as fellow zoo goers didn’t seem especially enamoured with our vocal outpourings and jiggy jiggy dance moves, looking oddly at us with sideways glances. We picnicked on the grass and enjoyed ice creams in the sun, we laughed at the cute and curious merecats and the seemingly single legged flamingos. Lucy and Billy clambered all over the climbing wall, wobbled across the rope bridge and scrambled up a mammoth hill in order to slide down a huge tunnel before finally, after more than five hours on their feet, collapsing into their car seats.

It was a terrific way to say goodbye to 2009. I had little energy to do more than lay on the couch with a beer and a handful of chocolates once the kids had settled contentedly for the night (though Billy woke after an hour seemingly with quite a fright and rambling “Where giraffe go mummy, where go?” He settled after a cuddle and reassurances that there were no giraffes lurking at the bottom of his cot and he had just been dreaming. I’d have had nightmares too after seeing the size of their steaming dung.

The revellers made merry throughout the neighbourhood as midnight struck (though I guess lot’s of people had their clocks set a bit slow since every couple of minutes another house would erupt with bellowed shouting and cheering) and masses of fireworks squirreled away from November 5th found their way whistling and popping across the sky. We had made plans to visit friends but the husband had been taken very ill a few days earlier and as such we decided to stay home. To be honest I was done in but my darling Paul had energy left to burn so I convinced him that he should most definitely go and have some fun. I, on the other hand, enjoyed it all from the comfort of our bed and did not feel like I was missing out in any way whatsoever. Paul and I enjoyed a text snog at midnight and I dozed off shortly after. God, I must be getting old.

Christmas Morning

2009-12-28T22:02:00.003+13:00

Well, the day dawned bright and sunny. Billy followed Lucy’s lead, excitedly emptying out his stocking and stuffing three Hershey’s Kisses in his mouth before you could say Merry Christmas. I must congratulate Santa on his wisdom in ensuring these delicious treats were all bite sized, thus meaning any chocolate covered fingers were easily and swiftly dealt with (with a quick lick) and as such none of the presents were harmed. Santa also displayed good sense in wrapping all of Lucy’s gifts in pink coloured princess Christmas paper and Billy’s in Lightening McQueen. This meant that they were each naturally drawn to their own gifts and there was no haggling whatsoever. Billy quickly cottoned on to the shape of those gifts that contained the rest of the cast of his favourite movie, ‘Cars’ and insisted on riffling through his pile to open those first. He loved his train table and after discarding half of the trains he set about whizzing his cars along the track instead. Lucy’s Country Kitchen has taken pride of place in her room and Paul and I have been inundated with dozens of cups of coffee and plates of knitted and plastic food as she works her culinary magic. She and Billy repeatedly squabble over who gets to wash their hands in the pretend sink which is ironic since they decidedly lack the same enthusiasm in the bathroom. Lucy took a moment to register, when she opened the parcel, that she had been given a real camera, a red one and just like mummy and daddy’s, complete with its own case. “I just knew Santa wouldn’t forget,” she said delightedly when she recognised the picture on the box and once Paul had shown her how to use it, she was off. She must have taken over 100 photos already.

Actually, I have to interject here. I appreciate that the local store Santa’s are wonderful and the kid’s love them, and they dish out lots of sweets and are no doubt very patient and accommodating but listen up Santa. If my daughter is sitting on your lap and you say “And what would you like Santa to bring you for Christmas?” And she says “Oooh, a real camera please, Santa. A proper one, not a toy one, or one for children but one like mummy and daddy have.” You don’t say “Ho, Ho, I’m sure I can arrange that,” without looking at the parent holding her hand and making some kind of eye contact to ensure that this is a gift she will in fact be receiving. Because you know what big guy… if she hadn’t been getting a real camera, you can bet your bottom dollar that you wouldn’t be the one consoling her and convincing her on Christmas morning that Santa really did love her and perhaps the camera fell out of his sleigh as he passed over sodding Australia!

Anyway, aside from some minor bickering, mostly due to excitement, it was a wonderful day. We breakfasted on bacon and eggs then headed to my mum and dads where we opened yet more presents; then stuffed ourselves on delicious moist turkey with all the trimmings, three different puddings and dozens of chocolates and mince pies. We managed to force down some turkey rolls for dinner before rolling home to bath and bed the kids, who were exhausted, and plopping our weary but happy bodies onto the couch to enjoy some quiet mummy and daddy time, where I promptly fell asleep on Paul’s lap.

Operation Santa - Mission completed

2009-12-25T01:48:00.001+13:00

Well, it’s nearly 2am. The presents are all wrapped, the stockings are brimming and Paul has managed to assemble both the Train Table and the Country Kitchen with only a handful of screws left over. There are tell tale crumbs where once a chocolate biscuit sat, a half eaten carrot remains with reindeer sized bite marks in it and a lone glass contains only milk dregs. We have finished our bubbles and eaten a fist load of chocolates (well, I have anyway) and are now ready to head off to bed where in around five hours we shall be awoken with delighted screams. I can’t wait!!!

Merry Christmas

2009-12-24T21:45:00.002+13:00

Twas the night before Christmas
And inside our wee house
Paul is busily putting together a Train Table (plus trains, tracks, trees and houses etc) for Billy
And a Country Kitchen for Lucy
(Complete with 64 pieces and an 18 page instruction booklet)

A large orange carrot sits on a plate
Alongside a glass of milk which should probably go back in the fridge
(but won’t in case Lucy decides to get up and go to the loo)
And a rapidly melting chocolate biscuit which Paul will eat later

The stockings are hung in front of the unlit (well, it is summer) fire
But not before I hurriedly emptied them out on our bed
As Lucy exclaimed “Oooh mummy, let’s hang the stockings”
And I realised I had been way too prepared

We let them stay up, just a little bit late
Then Lucy went outside to blow Santa a kiss
Billy called out “Merry Kissmas to all”
And we put them to bed where they bounced for a bit

Now they are sound, I can hear them snoring softly
We must get to work since the elves have gone AWOL
I have eaten nine chocolates and drunk a glass of bubbly
Paul still has 324 screws to find a home for

Merry Christmas

Santa is Coming

2009-12-21T11:31:00.000+13:00

Christmas wrap surrounds me on the floor and mountains of books and toys are piled high beside me. I have a box filled with colourful ribbon and little gift tags showing jolly Santas and red nosed reindeers that jingle, courtesy of the cute little bells attached. I have numerous pieces of discarded sellotape stuck to my legs and Snoopys Christmas blares from the stereo. Despite being only 11.30am the Christmas lights are twinkling (if I look at them at the right angle) on the tree and I am wearing my Santa hat. I feel decidedly festive and the excitement is building. Paul has taken Lucy to preschool and gone last minute shopping with Billy who is thrilled to have daddy around on a week day and once the wrapping is finished I shall stash the presents back into their hidey cupboard, way, way out of sight from nosey little people. I have thieved a couple of spare chocolate Santas left over from the advent calendar and made a coffee. The chocolate dissolves deliciously in my mouth as I take a sip. I love the overindulgence, I love the thrill of wrapping the gifts, I love how excited Lucy and Billy are; I love Christmas!

Only four more sleeps to go.

Ungrateful and Guilty

2009-12-17T19:45:00.000+13:00

Yesterday Paul had his team Christmas lunch, tomorrow he has his after work Christmas bash which will involve plenty of free alcohol, food and entertainment - I am just a little bit jealous. Don’t get me wrong, he totally deserves to enjoy some down time, his days are long, tiring and stressful and he works incredibly hard but it has made me realise that this is the first Christmas since I started work at the ripe old age of 16 that I have been out of paid employment. I used to love the build up to Christmas when I was at work. The atmosphere had a relaxed feel despite the rush to complete everything before going on holiday. There were lunches and get togethers, the exchange of ‘Secret Santa’ gifts, after work nibbles and full on ‘everything included’ do’s that would always provoke much to talk about on our return to the office. This year the only Christmas party I have attended (and will be attending) was held at Lucy’s pre-school. It was lots of fun, they sat calmly and stuffed their mouths with the delights on offer (we supplied butterfly cakes) and seeing their little faces when Santa arrived to hand out the gifts is something I will always treasure, especially Billy’s when he discovered that despite sitting on Mrs Clause’s knee alongside Lucy who was perched on Santa, there wasn’t actually a gift for him (he was content to settle for a biscuit instead and was a perfect poppet the entire noisy afternoon).

It only highlights again for me how starved of adult company and conversation I am (other than my husband that is). I couldn’t say the last time I had a discussion with anyone over the age of five during the hours of 7am and 7pm that wasn’t interrupted incessantly. Naturally I then feel immensely guilty for the fact that I should be grateful to have the opportunity to spend so much time with my children, which truly I am, I know I will never get this time again and I really do cherish it but truthfully, sometimes I just hanker for some time spent away from the house, with other grown ups, in order to talk about something other than children. I would like to dress up a bit and look my best with my hair and makeup intact, to enjoy a drink of something only people over the age of 18 can purchase, to have a wee boogie to songs that haven’t been plucked out of ‘Mother Goose’ and occasionally, perhaps, to sing a little karaoke.

Anatomy for Dummies

2009-12-16T21:44:00.000+13:00

Lucy has outgrown her swimsuit and as such Billy and I ventured into the shopping centre to try and find her a suitable replacement this morning. Billy kept himself busy hiding between the racks of clothes and playing peek-a-boo, giving me ample opportunity to peruse the selection on offer. He was happily playing beside my legs, commenting on the various little skirts and dresses and eying up a child sized mannequin. Suddenly, just as I’m reaching for a pink all-in-one surfer style swimsuit there is a clatter and lying next to me is Billy, limbs outstretched with a four foot headless dummy on top of him. As he scrambles to free himself he accidentally pulls off one of the arms. Devastated, he waves it about at me crying “She broken mummy, oh no, she broken.” He tries to wedge the arm back onto the body and in doing so the hand falls off. Billy is bereft. He is standing there, with an arm in his left hand and a hand in his right. He looks at me beseechingly “Fix her mummy, peese, fix her. Oh no, oh no, broken,” he wails repeatedly. “It’s all right sweetheart,” I try to soothe him “we can put her back together, don’t worry.” Seemingly that was easier said than done. Apparently I should have completed a course in mannequin assembly and maintenance when I was at school for this plastic little girl looked set to be armless until some shop assistant wandered by and noticed her appendage lying at her feet. Billy wasn’t at all happy to be leaving the doll in a disabled state, “No mummy, no leave her. We fix.” So I wrestled with her some more and in doing so managed to remove her left leg. If Billy was upset before that was nothing on what he was now. Seemingly mummy was not only incapable of helping but also some kind of mean spirited soul intent on handicapping his wee friend for life. We sat there, on the floor, surrounded by limbs, all of which looked simple enough to reattach but in fact were damn near impossible. I finally removed her clothes, since they seemed to be causing the biggest hindrance. Billy starts chanting “No top mummy, dolly no top,” and I almost expected to see security bearing down on us wondering what kind of pervert disrobes and dismantles a child dummy. We were left alone and finally, after what felt like an age, her arm was back in its rightful place, complete with hand, albeit bent at a slightly funny angle and her leg was reaffixed. I redressed her and stood her back up; with her clothes back on you could hardly tell she was double jointed.

One Lone Black Bird Baked in a Pie

2009-12-14T19:59:00.002+13:00

The bloody birds are waging a war. Since our cats were making no effort whatsoever to defend their food I took radical steps and moved their bowls, again. The birds, specifically the blackbird, unaware of the new location have been taking out their vengeance on Tabitha. I watched, dumbfounded as she tried to walk across the lawn today whilst this angry feathered brute dive bombed her mercilessly and repeatedly, stopping only inches above her furry head each time he swooped. Then, as she lay soaking up the afternoon sun, the same bird sat on the ground less than three feet away and squawked loudly and angrily at her, flapping its wings for added emphasis, just in case his point wasn’t being taken. Right now, as she sleeps on top of the warm, concrete water tank, the damned bird is perched atop the fence having a go at her. I am incredulous that she has made virtually no effort to hunt it down and pull its wings off, she normally has quite the hunter instinct but this bird is really taking the piss. We have gathered a row of small stones to try and knock it off its perch but I’m a crap shot and as each pebble bounces off the fence paling, this bird from hell mocks me further by flicking it’s feathery tail in my direction and crapping before turning to give me a beakful of arrogant ‘birdsong’. Having just finished reading George Orwell’s ‘Animal Farm’ again, I’m starting to wonder if they’re staging a take over. In no time at all they will be flying through the windows and terrorising us like some king of frightening modern day take on an old Alfred Hitchcock movie. I must make a note to stock up on planks and nails in case we should need to barricade ourselves in.

1 Deadly Sin

2009-12-12T23:16:00.001+13:00

I have just returned from an evening out with my lovely husband. We went for a meal at a local Italian restaurant and I have consumed far too much. After three substantial courses (although the first was shared) and two large glasses of Merlot my belly is strained and protruding. I look like me, when I was about 5 months pregnant with Billy. I am struggling to breathe comfortably as my lungs fight for the room to expand inside my body, a body crammed with bruschetta, carbonara, fudge brownie and vanilla ice-cream. Clearly I have succumbed to at least one of the seven deadly sins – gluttony. Personally I blame my mum and dad for always making me clear my plate when I was a child.

Hair hair

2009-12-09T14:09:00.001+13:00

How come I’ve never realised that my leg hair grows faster during the warmer months? Donning a pair of long shorts (to cover my less than attractive knees) this morning I discovered that my legs could not possibly be seen out in public in all their pale, hairy glory and as such it was imperative that remedial works be undertaken. Normally I’d have overcome this problem by simply throwing on my jeans instead but since both pairs were in the wash I was stuck with my shorts. I wandered into the bathroom and filled the sink with warm water then gathered up the necessary tools – shave mousse and razor then set about the hair removal process. I needed to be quick since we were already running late and I had a number of errands to run after I dropped Lucy at pre-school. Balancing on tip toe and with the other foot jammed into the sink I shaved as quickly as I could without slicing and dicing. Blood loss was kept to a minimum and I towelled off ready to perform the same task on the other leg when I heard Billy wailing from the lounge. Clearly something catastrophic had happened and he urgently required my immediate attention. I dashed into the lounge, ready to offer cuddles and discovered that his distress was caused by the fact he couldn’t find his miniature skateboard he received as a party favour recently. Lucy, Billy and I then spent the next seven minutes crawling around on all fours peering under tables and down the sides of the sofa when I suddenly realised we absolutely had to go. I gathered the kids up, grabbed Lucy’s school bag, my handbag, a selection of small toys for Billy’s entertainment, drink bottles and morning tea snacks then stumbled out the door.

Billy spent the next two hours asking me “Where my skaybord mummy?” My initial response was “I don’t know honey, I think you might have lost it.” But after four thousand, two hundred and sixty three times answering in the same way I resorted to more imaginative replies.
“Where my skaybord mummy?”
“I think a monster came into the house and ate it while we weren’t looking Billy sweetheart.”
“Where my skaybord mummy?”
“Perhaps it grew wings and flew out of the window, honey.”
“Where my skaybord mummy?”
“I’d say the cat probably stole it.” He wasn’t falling for any of it “Where my skaybord mummy?” he continued to ask. Finally once at home again and distracted by food he forgot about his little skateboard and I set about putting away a few groceries. I headed into the bathroom with a tube of toothpaste and noticed the razor and mousse along with the sink full of now cold water covered in small black hairs. I looked down at my legs and there I saw, one delightfully smooth calf and one sprouting hundreds of stray black hairs. Crap!

Tis the season

2009-12-06T21:58:00.001+13:00

We put up our Christmas tree this afternoon. Lucy was beside herself with excitement and as we aired it in the back garden (since it has spent the best part of 12 months stuffed in a box under the house) before popping it in the lounge we cranked up Wham’s Last Christmas and danced like pagans around it banging large cookie tins like drums.

The novelty of actually decorating the tree wore off fairly quickly and while I carefully positioned delicate ornaments, Billy collected up all those which had the appearance of anything vehicular (Santa and his sleigh, a miniature toy box filled with teddies and a toy car, tiny wooden trains) and refused to allow them to adorn the tree. Lucy rolled around on the floor singing some festive song she had made up wearing nothing but a pair of fairy wings, a fairy skirt and a pair of reindeer antlers.

They have written their letters to Santa, at least Lucy has written hers, she also compiled Billy’s for him. We asked him what he would like before penning his request, it was quite simple and she wrote clearly in her delightful four and a half year old handwriting as best she could ‘Dear Santa, I would like a car. Love Billy’. Lucy has asked for a real camera and I believe Santa will do his best to oblige as she is quite the photographer, using ours at every opportunity and taking very good shots indeed.

Billy has no real idea what’s going on but thanks to Lucy’s enthusiasm has more of an understanding than she did at his age. He delights in seeing Santa, whether in pictures or ‘real life’, though is especially shy around the real thing and tucks himself in behind my legs poking his head curiously through my knees for a better look.

Our advent calendar has been rammed with chocolate Santa’s and both Lucy and Billy have painstakingly waited each day to accept their sweets after dinner. I am impressed in particular by Billy’s ability to refrain from touching the shiny foiled treats as they poke out invitingly, well within his little arms reach.

As they have slept tonight I have finished decorating the rest of the house with the garlands and holly, angels and reindeer that add those extra touches and make me smile every time I look around me. I can’t wait to see Lucy and Billy’s faces in the morning when they look about the house and spot something new. I’m not sure who’s more excited, me or them. Oooh, only 18 more sleeps to go.

Wishful thinking

2009-12-06T21:16:00.004+13:00

I’m itching to join the gym, especially with summer officially here. I haven’t been since I fell pregnant with Lucy and would really like to try and tame my wobbly bits. I’m hoping to entice all the parts of my body that have been migrating south and encourage them to start vacationing back up north again. Perhaps Santa will leave me a membership in my stocking. I saw him up at the shops today but despite an enticingly large bag of sweets was loathe to sit on his knee and pose my request.

I reckon I'll just have to drop a few hints around Paul instead.

Gone to the birds

2009-12-04T14:36:00.001+13:00

I am so fed up; our pets are complete non-contributors. Our cat food sits in bowls atop the outside shoe cupboard in an effort to deter the dog from polishing it off yet every day, as Donut and Tabitha lounge about and sun themselves on the deck, an assortment of birds fly down from the treetops and help themselves. They are so bold as to actually walk between the cats, who lay less than two feet away on either side, before dining on the assortment of biscuits they so obviously believe I have laid out for their enjoyment. If they have a fancy for something sweet they will then indulge in a little nibble of our strawberries hanging juicily on their stalks while Donut watches on, flicking his tail with disinterest. They then crap on the cupboard and poop on the deck before fluttering off with full little bird tummies. If I catch them in time, I career out of the kitchen, flapping a tea towel about like a mad fish wife and frighten them off, during which time the cats look about themselves lazily wondering what all the commotion is for. There are at least four nests up in our trees, housing tiny little baby birds. It’s no wonder they set up home so close by, who wouldn’t when they have the perfect fly through restaurant located only metres away.

Hungry

2009-12-02T14:04:00.001+13:00

And finally it would appear I am well again. My food is staying put and my tummy no longer sounds like a pot of spuds on the boil. Lucy and Billy have been making up for lost time and eating damn near everything in sight. This morning Billy devoured four and a half Weetbix with milk, 1 slice of toast with Marmite and cheese and a large box of dried apricots and raisins - and that was just for breakfast. How is it even remotely possible that he can fit that much food into his tummy, which is supposedly only the size of his fist? I cannot deny that I too am eager to join in the consumption and despite taking it slowly initially, am now all too keen to work my way through our entire pantry, one plateful at a time.

Mouth Wash

2009-11-29T16:09:00.000+13:00

Billy wandered into the kitchen this morning; his face erupting into a giant smile. I looked at him dubiously; I could tell he’d been up to no good.
“Billy honey, what have you been doing?” I asked him.
He opened his mouth to say something and a large bubble formed on his lower lip. He closed his mouth and the bubble detached then slowly floated away, landing on my foot before going ‘pop’.
“Billy Green, have you been in the bathroom?” I demanded. He nodded.
“And have you been eating the liquid soap?” He grinned and nodded again, offering his hands up for inspection. They were covered in gooey soap. They were sticky but smelled lovely.
Another bubble erupted from his mouth and Billy shrieked with delight.
“Right young man, let’s get you cleaned up.”
We headed into the bathroom and I washed his hands and as much of his mouth as I could. I checked the bottle of soap and fortunately was relieved to find it still nearly full. There was a great big dollop on the floor so I’d hazard a guess that he’d only consumed a small amount. At least his poo should smell nice for a while.

In Sickness and in Health

2009-11-27T09:20:00.000+13:00

I have never been so relieved to see a nappy full of poo. Finally, after 6 days Billy is better. It was remarkable just how much could explode from such a cute little bottom with virtually no input at the other end but at last, both my children are healthy and happy again and equally eager to resume their daily treats.

I, on the other hand, am not so well. My darling husband has taken the day off work in order to look after his poorly wife and more importantly, Lucy and Billy, since I have been sapped of every molecule of energy I ever maintained; even my back-up resources have gone and I am hunched up in a pathetic little ball as I write. Despite eating nothing yesterday I still spent much of last night on the loo and I ache in places I didn’t even realise I had. I am drinking a cup of coffee as I write and even though I left out the milk I know just how foolish I am being. I will likely throw it all up in half an hour or so and I shall suffer horribly for my inability to restrain myself but without my morning cuppa I will endure hideous withdrawal headaches as well as the indignities of a liquid rear end.

Incidentally, Lucy’s old Disney Princess trainee nappy pants don’t fit me.

Zzzzzzz

2009-11-23T22:11:00.002+13:00

I recall a saying, something about sleeping like a baby. In my experience it’s a load of old poppycock since my babies would regularly wail like banshees throughout their supposed sleep time but today, Billy has slept like no baby I have ever known. He woke a few times briefly throughout the night last night but settled quickly with a soothing word and a gentle back rub. This morning he awakened early at 6.30am but when I brought him into our bed for a snuggle he fell fast asleep again and there he stayed until around 10am when he woke briefly for a cuddle before falling back into a deep slumber for another hour and a half. He curled up on the couch and had a small and boring bite to eat (which thankfully stayed put) then went back to bed at 1pm where he stayed until 3.30pm. He dozed, balled up in a corner of the couch, on and off until bath time and was oblivious to the fact that Lucy had placed a crown on his head and a wand in his little fist whilst he slept (which she then proudly took photos of to show him when he is well again). Despite all his rest he was eager for his bed at 7pm and is again sound asleep.

Lucy appears to be on the mend. She was dreaming of food last night and was desperate for sausage, bacon, eggs and toast for breakfast this morning.
“And don’t forget ketchup mummy, I really want ketchup too please,” she insisted.
Instead she was given a slice of toast with a scraping of butter and marmite and 4 small plain crackers. She stuffed her mouth ravenously. I felt rotten but she contentedly accepted my explanation for the simple fare, clearly just grateful to be eating something.
Two hours later when there was no sign of anything reappearing she was given more of the same and for dinner she was allowed plain pasta.
“You will cook it though won’t you mummy,” she asked warily. “I don’t think I’d enjoy dry pasta very much.”
Clearly I’ve been pushing the whole ‘dry food’ concept a little hard but rest assured, the only time I’ve ever given my children uncooked pasta was so that they could glue it onto a piece of cardboard.

Lucy has been wonderful today, incredibly helpful; especially since Billy has insisted (during his wakeful times) that he be held by me at all times. She has been on hand to gather water, nappies, creams and tissues without question and has offered Billy kindness, comfort and even a piece of her cracker. She spent much of the afternoon preparing a large picnic in her room in anticipation of a party she intended to throw and wrote out lists of games that she and her guests could play on small scraps of paper. Lucy informed me that she couldn’t invite any of her actual friends and would have to make do with her toys and teddies since “It would be unfortunate if anyone caught Billy’s bug, wouldn’t it mummy?” I heartily agreed.

I believe we are over the tip of the peak and should hopefully coast downhill a little tomorrow. Lucy won’t get her sausage breakfast just yet but her food will be a bit more colourful than it has been of late and Billy, well, Billy will be getting dry stuff. If he can stay awake long enough to eat it.

The Day After the Night Before

2009-11-22T21:14:00.000+13:00

Within 15 minutes of snuggling down into his cot this morning Billy was retching; we got up shortly after.

Paul managed to snatch a few brief hours sleep last night (albeit broken) and I had none whatsoever. The entire day has been spent washing and drying. We even lit the fire in an effort to speed up the process since it has been grey and rainy outside. Billy has periodically slept where he lay; atop his teddy on the lounge floor, sprawled out on the sofa and next to daddy on our bed. I was instructed to go to bed around 9.30am and sent back when I rose at 11.30am. I finally surfaced around 2pm, feeling much more prepared to take on anything that was thrown my way.

The children have astounded me with their ability to deal with mummy and daddy’s resolute decision regarding food today. They have eaten nothing and been permitted only sips of water throughout the day to keep them hydrated without puking. They have been so understanding and enduring of this horrid sickness. They were both asleep within minutes of climbing into bed after their bath this evening. They are exhausted and hungry and although tomorrow I will let them eat a little, it will again be only basic and mostly dry.

Paul and I have just devoured a pizza, the first thing we have eaten all day as we could never be so mean as to eat in front of Lucy and Billy.

I am dreading tomorrow, Monday; when my darling Paul must return to work and my supporting shoulder will not be there to lean on.

The past few days have been a blur. Dear God, when will it end?

Saturday Night Fever

2009-11-22T20:59:00.000+13:00

Billy has Lucy’s bug. I know this because both of his sleeping bags, his teddy bear and various other items of bedding are currently whirring their way around in our washing machine. It is 11.15pm and he has woken twice tonight in order to empty his tummy throughout his cot. He is thrilled to be experiencing what he sees as a ‘big boy’ moment as he is now snuggled beneath a quilt - all the bedding we have left.

Lucy is still hanging onto her bug. This I know because her sheets and pyjamas are currently whirring their way around in our tumbler dryer after she woke at 8pm and was horribly sick. Mottled, soggy teddies and pillows line the floor of our laundry for the bedding must take priority.

Both our children are poorly and yet soldiered through their sudden and bright showers with absolutely no complaint and only a few self pitying tears as their bodies and hair were washed and dried for the second time this evening (and in Billy’s case for the third). They have been brave and compliant, settled immediately after clean up and even remembered their manners. I’m so proud of my little battlers.

We have spoken to the doctor and tomorrow our family is restricted to water only in a giant effort to terminate this tenacious bug.

It’s 12.30am. Billy has just woken and thrown up again. There’s nothing to it other than water but both he and his bedding need changing again. I am rapidly running out of sheets and have resorted to using one designed for our king sized bed. Our washer and dryer are still working hard. Thankfully the first of my two mattress protectors (which have already alternately both been washed) are dry and ready for reuse. One of Lucy’s sheets has gone from her bed, to the washing machine, to the dryer, to Billy’s cot then back to the washing machine in the space of only a few hours.

It’s 1am. I am off to fall into bed.

It’s 1.45am. Billy woke again at 1.20am and was sick again. He has nothing left in his little tummy but still manages to get soggy. He is down to his last long sleeved top and we have no more bedding left. He and I are setting up camp in the lounge on towel covered sofa cushions. Paul has made us a very comfy bed indeed with plenty of luxuries alongside; towels, buckets and plenty of tissues and wipes. We are set for what’s left of the night.

It’s 5.45am and I’ve just put Billy back into his own bed. He has spent the night retching every half hour or so and moves like a limp rag doll. He is desperate to guzzle water but we are firm in restricting him to sips only as otherwise it simply comes straight back up. He sat up next to me 20 minutes or so ago and asked to go to his own bed.
“Bed mummy, peese; my bed; peese mummy,” he mumbled. I emptied the dryer and set up a clean bed. My hair is crunchy and my nightie damp from holding onto his poor little body as he retched through the early hours. I too had two showers and washed my hair twice last night but am still soured with the stench of vomit.
This bug is relentless and unforgiving.

Wicked

2009-11-21T19:00:00.001+13:00

Lucy is on dry food only until her bug bids a hasty retreat. She is unimpressed and looks at me mournfully with big sad eyes. I tried to make her breakfast (which consisted of a slice of dry bread) at tad more interesting by turning it into two small hearts, a star, a teddy bear, the letter L and a miniature gingerbread man but it made little difference. I am feeding my child dry bread and water. I have clearly turned into evil step-mother sort.

A Bug's Life

2009-11-20T14:19:00.001+13:00

It is 2.14pm and for the first time in well over a year both of my children are sound asleep. Whilst I should be jumping for joy (albeit quietly so as not to disturb them) I’m not, since they’re actually both poorly. Lucy has been unable to keep anything down for the last 48 hours (with the exception of a piece of dry wholemeal crust-less bread about 3 hours ago) but thankfully has had enough warning that on each occasion she has successfully managed to contain everything in a bucket. I kept her home from pre-school yesterday and she spent the entire day wrapped up in her snuggle sack on the couch in front of the telly. She is pale and looks sad. It makes me sad.
Billy was a box of fluffies but woke this morning with stream of snot dangling out of his nose. Every time he sneezes (which is frequently) bogies hang like bungy jumpers from each nostril.

They are a right old pair. Of course, all we need is for Lucy to catch Billy’s cold and for Billy to get Lucy’s bug. Then life would be just delightful for all concerned.

Curiouser & curiouser

2009-11-18T19:49:00.001+13:00

How come my children are unable to hear me calling to them to wash their hands before dinner when they are only a few feet away yet can hear me eating a chocolate biscuit from the other side of the house?

SURPRISE!

2009-11-16T19:49:00.001+13:00

3 weeks ago Paul arrived home on the Friday evening with exciting looking parcels under his arms. The kids were enjoying their dinner and I was gossiping on the phone to my girlfriend and enjoying a small glass of red wine.
“Oooh, I said to my friend. Paul’s been shopping.” I smiled at him.
“Yup, and that’s where you’re headed off too,” he stated matter-of-factly.
I was confused but nevertheless eager to take him up on his offer.
“As soon as you hang up the phone that is,” he continued. “The shops are open for another three hours, buy yourself some nice new clothes and a pair of shoes. I’ll bath and bed the kids. Come on….” He said, nodding at me to hurry up.
“Katy, I said to my friend. I don’t know what’s going on but I’ve just been ordered to go shopping and by God, I don’t need telling twice. Talk soon, bye!” I hung up.
“Right,” said my gorgeous hubby “your mum and dad are still coming up tomorrow night but we won’t be playing cards as planned. They’re going to babysit and you and I are on a 24 hour leave pass. We’re staying in a boutique motel and checking out a show. Now, say night night to your darling children and hop it,” he instructed.
I love it when he’s masterful, especially when I get to spend money in the process.

I slapped on some make-up, kissed everyone goodnight, grabbed my bag, checked I had my phone and credit card and was off. When I arrived at the shopping centre I felt a bit bewildered, I didn’t really know where to start. It’s funny, only recently I was thinking that I had lost the ability to determine what suited me anymore. I used to have such a sure idea about my fashion preferences but seemed to have lost a lot of my identity since having Lucy and Billy. When out with the kids I would peruse the racks with uncertainty, ultimately choosing not to waste time trying things on and sticking with the tried and true jeans and T’s I had at home. Besides, normally, when I head out to buy something specific I can never find what I want. Its sods law that when I spot something I really like, I can’t afford to buy it anyway.

It took me a little while to resist checking out the kids shops but resist I did and pretty soon got into the swing of spending money on me; though I have to admit I did buy Lucy two very cute nighties but that was all. When confronted with the perfect little red, high-waisted, below the knee, pencil skirt; adorable black lace camisole and ¾ sleeved wool bolero cardigan I was ecstatic. Initially I had a moment of despondence as I discovered they didn’t have the skirt in my size. As I left the shop with my head hanging sadly I happened to spot it in the window on a mannequin. Dashing back in I checked the size and on discovering it would fit asked the assistant to disrobe her window dolly. Sure enough, everything fitted like a glove and I bounced about excitedly as I paid my bill.
“Gosh, it’s so long since I bought myself clothes,” I gushed to the girl behind the counter “I only ever seem to buy for the kids and the house these days,” I raved.
She smiled at me, clearly not a clue what I was talking about.
“Now I just need to find some shoes,” I said.
Seemingly I was back on her level “You’ll be wanting red ones then,” she advised.
“Red ones; red ones; yes, you’re right, of course, red ones,” I rambled.

I still had 40 minutes before the shops shut and a pair of shoes to find. Happy with my outfit I resigned myself to the fact that I would likely make do with a pair I already owned after finding nothing that I liked in three shoe shops. Then I hit gold. The perfect pair of shoes sat glistening on a shelf, beckoning for me to reach out and stroke them. Shiny red patent leather, a delicate ankle strap and perfect little peep toe. I dumped my parcels on the floor where I stood and pulled my size out of a box. Sitting on the floor I did them up, rolled my jeans up to my knees then hoisted myself into a standing position. They were truly beautiful. I tottered over to a mirror, balancing surprisingly well on the four inch polished wooden stiletto heels. “This is them; they are perfect,” I muttered to myself “but how well can I walk in them?” I walked up and down the wooden runway, my heels tap tapping on the hard surface. “Yes!” I exclaimed. The young girl trying on a pair of sandals a few feet away threw me a confused look and wandered a bit further away to the safety of another aisle. I performed a few surreptitious dance moves, nothing fancy but just to check I could do more than simply get from the car, to the table, to the toilet in them. I flashed the sales assistant my credit card with glee as I clutched my purchase delightedly.

When finally shunted out of the centre at 9pm that night I was the proud owner of a new skirt, top and cardigan, a pair of simply divine shoes, a stylish summer maxi dress, a stunning black trench coat styled jacket, sleepwear and two nighties for Lucy. I was one happy shopper.

Our weekend away was sensational. We had so much fun. My husband looked incredibly handsome in his new and stylish purchases and I complimented him perfectly in my choice of outfit. The show, a burlesque styled affair, was hilarious and we ate, drank and laughed until the wee hours. My shoes were also well admired by a number of women; perhaps I haven’t lost sight of my own sense of style just yet after all.

It's a woman's perogative to change her mind

2009-11-15T14:14:00.002+13:00

And with that in mind I have decided to recommence my blog. After all, I'm a woman and I know how to multitask so I should be perfectly capable of raising my children, tending my house and supporting my husband whilst writing a book and maintaining my blog - easy!

I shall fill you in on all the recent happenings soon but for the moment will leave you with this little treasured thought for the day:

The kids love going to the park. I love taking the kids to the park. It is, after all, a nice leisurely 20 to 30 minute walk to get there, downhill all the way. It is also a delightful way to get them energised (and ultimately exhausted) and provide them with plenty of fresh air. But I ask you, is it totally necessary to stop and examine every single bird poo on the pavement en route?

Au revoir

2009-10-14T19:05:00.003+13:00

This is to be my last entry.

For a number of months I have been working on a book and writing it alongside my blog is becoming too difficult for me; especially with the time constraints I face since in addition to all the usual domestic stuff, I squeeze my writing in during nap times and bedtimes.

So I give you my last entry and ask that you keep positive thoughts for me in being successful with my book - which is titled 'Diary of a Guilty Mother'.

I would also be eternally grateful if you took the time to offer up your comments, be them positive or negative. Perhaps tell me of your most favourite or least favourite entries, I would be thrilled to receive genuine reader critique.

I shall leave my blog link live for a short while then intend to remove it. Hope you enjoy my last post.

Siubhan

A couple of weeks ago I was just about to join the kids for breakfast. My porridge was already on the table but whilst making my usual large ‘wake-me-the-hell-up’ cup of coffee I managed to spill an entire jar of sugar all over the bench and floor (some even went down my front and I suffered a sticky, gritty cleavage all day). “Shit!” I said loudly and clearly, without thinking about my audience.
“Shit, shit, shit” repeated Billy.
I must have looked marginally horrified for that was all the encouragement needed.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit” my children sang in unison.
I decided to ignore them, fearing that by making a big deal of it the word would stay with them, ready to be repeated at some highly inappropriate time. I vacuumed up the mess and sat down to my, by now cold, porridge.
Lucy delighted in telling Paul that evening but fortunately left out the swearing part. I filled him in on it later.
Nothing more was said and the kids refrained from uttering any more expletives, until yesterday.
Lucy, sitting at the table enjoying breakfast, knocked over her cup of water.
“Shit!” she said, clearly, concisely and in perfect context.
Damn.

High expectations

2009-10-12T14:26:00.002+13:00

I made sweet and sour tuna for dinner on Saturday night and I have to say it’s actually quite delicious (another one pot wonder from yours truly). Billy showed his pleasure by screwing up his face and saying “Yuck!” Lucy was more tactful and simply pushed all her saucy tuna to the other side of her plate so that it didn’t touch and therefore contaminate her rice. Between them they ate approximately 10 teaspoonfuls of plain boiled rice for dinner. I tried to refrain from issuing disapproving looks and voicing annoyance at their complete lack of enthusiasm as per our new rules, I really did but I’m afraid I couldn’t quite control myself. Also I have to admit that I did hint at displeasure when Lucy left her banana and grapes residing on her plate at lunch time; I really must try to do better.

Since they both had one treat remaining in their respective jars they each had a chocolate biscuit and as I polished off the remnants of their tuna meals I did ponder the wisdom of this new regime (boiled rice and choccie biscuits?) and wondered if I would have short people calling out demanding sustenance during the night. They slept soundly for over 12 hours so I guess their little tummies were just fine.

I expect I’m probably being a little unreasonable expecting a huge change in their eating patterns in only one or two days. I just have to commit and give it more time. I should probably also learn how to keep my gob shut and my critical looks to myself. God it’s hard being a mum.

PS:
It’s 2.25pm, I didn’t eat with Billy today so I’ve just eaten a lemon muffin and a chocolate covered muesli bar alongside a shot of coffee for my lunch – I am such a hypocrite!

Picky picky picky

2009-10-08T20:12:00.000+13:00

Lucy has been getting pickier and pickier with her eating lately and preschool commented last week that they felt it was becoming an issue at lunch time. The children are supplied with morning and afternoon teas as well as lunch. All the meals are nutritious with plenty of fruits and vegetables as well as crackers or biscuits for after but Lucy is showing signs of defiance at lunch time that sees her eating next to nothing and frequently nothing at all, despite her teachers efforts.

Meal times at home can be a drag at the best of times, especially if I’ve prepared something that Lucy doesn’t particularly like. There’s moaning and complaining, sometimes crying and wailing, occasionally foot stomping and ultimately door slamming. We seemed to be doing ok, she was trying a few new things but always with the same result - nose screwed up followed with “I tried it mummy but I don’t like it.” It makes dinner preparations even more difficult and you already know how I feel about cooking.

Some foods Lucy eats with gusto. She had three helpings at mum and dads last weekend, devouring kumara and roast potatoes, parsnips and even happily ate her chicken and carrots (though mum does douse them in butter and brown sugar so it’s not exactly a hardship).
Lucy gets served up the same as the rest of us and if she doesn’t eat, after I’ve tried various coercion tactics and confirmed that there will be no pudding for her, she goes without. She can take an absolute age to eat her dinner and will sit and masticate one mouthful of food for 10 minutes easily. I usually try to put at least one thing on her plate that she likes and often that will be the only thing she eats but after preschool voicing their concerns on Friday I decided I won’t keep pandering to her relatively limited taste buds and need to address her foodie issues head on.

As such I have spent the weekend devouring a book called ‘Food Sense’ and now have an entirely different view on how we should be handling food and meals in our home. Firstly, how much I thought my children should be consuming at each meal was far too much; they actually only need a very small amount to provide their nutritional needs. Secondly, I have inadvertently been distinguishing foods as good and bad by coercing, encouraging and making a big deal of what they ate. In an effort to get to the good grub, ie pudding, they had to eat the ‘bad’ food, ie carrots or meat (except Billy, who as you know would usually rather have carrots anyway). Treat foods were sometimes used as rewards therefore making them even more appealing and ‘healthy food’ less so.

In my efforts to ensure our children ate healthy balanced diets I had created in them preconceived ideas about food that meant they were unable to use their own judgement. In short – I had been going about it all wrong.

The most important thing I have learned is that as parents it is our responsibility to provide our children with the right foods and at appropriate times throughout the day. It is our children’s responsibility to determine what and how much of those foods they choose to eat. It is vital to allow them to eat as much as they need and learn when they are full. I have definitely been guilty of saying “Just one more spoonful honey, then you can have pudding.”

So, under our new food rules we have removed pudding from the equation. Sounds harsh huh but it actually makes sense. Instead I offered Lucy and Billy two treats this morning, entirely of their choosing, that they may eat as and when they wished throughout out the day, whether it be when they woke, or after dinner, it didn’t matter – the choice was theirs. Lucy chose a lollipop and an M&M biscuit that she helped bake, Billy chose a small chocolate fish and a lollipop. The treats went into two separate containers - Billy’s and Lucy’s. Billy wanted his chocolate fish straight after breakfast; Lucy has already decided to save her treats ‘til this afternoon. The theory behind this is that they feel in control and when they know they may eat what they have chosen, whenever they want to, they ultimately make good choices. They also stop asking for additional treats (I’ll let you know how that one goes).

The other important thing is to give them their meals and snacks at regular times, something we tended to do anyway. However, the key is to not provide other foods in between. So, they eat what they want from their breakfast, lunch, morning tea etc but once they have eaten all they want, there is nothing more until their next meal or snack (unless they choose to eat one or both of their treats), which will only ever be a couple of hours away anyway. Eventually they should start trying foods they have previously shown an aversion to (again, I’ll let you know how we get on).

I have also removed ‘I have eaten my meals and used nice table manners’ from Lucy’s sticker chart. Food should be an enjoyable path of self discovery and not something for which there is a reward. It’s been replaced with ‘I stayed in bed after lights out’ (I’m sure there’ll be an opportunity to discuss that in more depth another time).

It is early days but knowing that I don’t have to get anxious at dinner time and can let them eat as much or as little as they need without feeling like I need to try and force feed them has already lifted a great burden.

I expect it’ll only be a matter of time now before Lucy is asking for liver and onions (she'll be fat out of luck though).

Battle for Supremacy

2009-10-06T14:28:00.000+13:00

Billy is revolting. Not as in ‘horrible and disgusting’ but as in ‘attempting to overthrow those in authority’, namely Paul and I. So far he is winning. Seemingly he has decided that he should no longer be required to wear a bib at mealtimes. He has clearly been eyeing up the rest of us and noted that he is the only member of the family with a silly looking piece of cloth secured around his neck and decided that it is simply not on (he wasn’t so observant as to realise that he is also the only member of the family who manages to get at least a third of his meals on his front). As such he pulls at his bib until eventually, with a good hard tug, it pops off. Over the head bibs aren’t working either and can be removed with ease. Initially I tried the whole “No bib; no breakfast” approach and he resigned himself to the fact that if he wanted his food then he really needed to wear his babyish looking bib; sadly that only worked for a couple of weeks and he is now showing us just what a determined wee lad he is. Lucy, little love, even offered to wear a bib to show him he wasn’t alone and I went so far on one occasion to tuck a tea towel under my chin before realising just how ridiculous we were being.

I have, therefore, conceded. He has won this battle but I’m sure there will be many more before he can say he has won the war.

Stuck - Again!

2009-10-05T14:40:00.001+13:00

As I’ve mentioned previously I’ve always considered glue and cellotape to be some of my closest friends. Until today that is. You see I’ve been getting crafty and have finally put the finishing touches to Billy’s height chart. It has only taken me seven months to complete. I made one for Lucy which I managed to have finished in a couple of months and it adorned the back of her door from when she was around 14 months old. Unfortunately Billy’s has taken considerably longer. Not due to any extra elements of difficulty (hers is a long necked giraffe, his is a crane - of the mechanical variety, not a bird) but just because I didn’t fancy getting up at three in the morning to work on it and in all honesty that would be about the only free time I have these days.
Anyway, the reason behind the termination of my friendship with glue is due to Billy’s height chart. Whilst the crane and background are all painted on, I thought it would be nice to give it some extra dimension and add fluffy clouds. Fabric duly cut into cloud like shapes I set about adhering them to the surface. Naturally glue was my first choice and since I am an avid fan of the extra strength, heavy duty super sticky stuff, this is what I used. What I didn’t think about was just how porous the fabric was – it’s kind of like quilt lining (well, they are supposed to be light fluffy clouds after all) and in ensuring they were positioned correctly and firmly, the glue seeped through and I managed to stick my hands to the board also. Apparently I didn’t learn my lesson well enough when I repaired Lucy’s rabbit ears.

I expect you have a myriad of questions so I shall do my best to answer them now:

Yes, I did panic ever so slightly (I mean, if for no other reason than how the hell am I supposed to wipe my backside with a piece of hardboard 1 metre x 25 cm stuck to my hands?)
Yes I did manage to eventually tug it off (feet are such handy things in a crisis).
No, I didn’t cry.
Yes I am missing some areas of skin.
No, I can’t feel my fingertips.
Yes, the height chart is still intact.
No, I no longer retain all of my dactylograms (potentially making me an ideal candidate for any less than legal activities).
Yes, the clouds look perfect (if you don’t peer too closely for fragments of my dermis).

Now I just need to figure out how to stick it to his door.

What was that?

2009-10-01T13:28:00.002+13:00

I think we are over the worst of it. Billy, despite not having much of an appetite, managed to keep down what little food he did eat on Wednesday and only coughed a few times throughout the night. Yesterday he was back to his ever cheeky self and came traipsing out of the office with a small brass ornament in his hand.
“Mummy, mummy, Billy has one of daddy’s little things” Lucy exclaimed, eager for the opportunity to tell on her brother.
“What little thing?” I asked cautiously, wondering where he’d been rummaging.
“One of those little people, from daddy’s wooden box on the wall”
We have a printers block and display various small sentimental pieces in it, including half a dozen miniature brass statues that Paul picked up when visiting Nepal some years ago. Billy was holding a small Buddha.
I removed it from his clutches; Lucy asked if she could see it more closely so I showed her.
“Where did daddy get it from mummy?”
“A place called Nepal.”
“Nipple, that’s a strange name isn’t it mummy?”
“No sweetheart, N-e-p-a-l.” I stifled a grin.
“Yes, Nipple, that’s what I said.”
I returned the ornament back to its rightful place.

Shortly after whilst eating our breakfast we received a minor Tsunami warning, it was announced on the radio. There had been an earthquake near American Samoa and we were likely to be hit later that morning with waves between one and three metres high.
“Mummy, what’s a salami?” Lucy queried.
“A salami? It’s a roll of hard spicy meat. Why?”
“The man on the radio just said that we are going to be hit by a salami today.”
Only just managing to stuff back my laughter as I envisaged our coastline being belted by a giant salami, I explained what a tsunami was.

Once at preschool Lucy couldn’t wait to fill in her teacher all about her morning.
“Billy stole daddy’s special brass thing that he got from Nipple and we have to be careful because there’s a salami coming.”
Her teacher’s eyebrows rose in a curious fashion and she looked at me. I felt I should explain. I really didn’t want her to think that we purchased brass things from somewhere called Nipple, nor that we had a salami on back-order.
“No honey, Billy found daddy’s little brass Buddha that he brought back from Nepal and we heard a tsunami warning on the radio.”
“Don’t worry” her teacher said laughing “we hear all sorts. A little lad at my last pre-school came in and announced one morning that his dad liked to wear dresses.”
I hated to think what Lucy shared with her classmates but asked anyway.
Seemingly a wee while ago Lucy and one of her friends had been speaking about their mummies. Her friend had said that her mummy had gone to work the day before. Lucy responded with “Oh, my mummy is always on a day off. Sometimes she cleans a bit or goes to the supermarket though.”

My fault for asking I guess.

Eau de Puke

2009-10-01T13:08:00.002+13:00

The lingering smell of vomit permeates the air as our darling little Billy deals with a nasty virus which sees him coughing to the point of emptying his tummy at least daily at the moment. The doctor has confirmed there is nothing we can do but ride it out and keep him as comfortable as possible. It makes me so sad to hear his strained wee voice as he coughs throughout the night.

NB - Despite being dated Thursday this was actually Tuesdays posting but due to a computer hiccup couldn't be posted.

Time Out

2009-09-28T19:48:00.002+13:00

There is no denying I adore our children. They are forever gorgeous, usually delightful, often hilarious, sometimes irritating and always, always time consuming. Don’t get me wrong, I am well aware that child rearing is supposed to be an all consuming occupation, it has to be but sometimes, just sometimes, its nice to have some mummy and daddy time, together, alone and not at 8pm when we are exhausted and virtually incapable of making a cup of coffee let alone conversation.

On Saturday Paul & I dropped Lucy and Billy off at my mum and dads before embarking on an entire day of ‘us’ time and it has to be said, despite the dreary weather we were both very much looking forward to it. We haven’t spent time together, without the children only a matter of metres away (be they playing, screaming or sleeping) in seven and a half months; this was our first chance to enjoy full length adult conversations together without nodding off mid sentence. The thought alone was heaven.

We set off from mum and dads mid morning then headed to Devonport. It’s such a lovely town with its original historical buildings and quaint villas, as well as plenty of boutique style shops and wonderful eateries. We spent time in antique bookstores leafing through pages, uninterrupted by the tugging and whining that usually accompanies such a visit. We ambled through the narrow aisles of expensive gift shops, perusing and handling the items on display without the constant sound of my voice ringing in my head “Don’t touch that; Put that down; Leave it alone; Please come here; Let’s just go.”
We ventured into galleries featuring an assortment of artworks, including beautiful glass blown vases and ornaments. Since a vase standing 15cm high was the equivalent to two weeks of Paul’s wages, it was a shop I wouldn’t have dared enter with the children in tow, mostly due to the large sign that stated ‘You break it – You pay for it’.

We enjoyed a pleasant fireside drink in a lovely old pub and relished the fact that our conversations had beginnings and endings with the only interruptions coming from the waiting staff asking if we required anything else. We perused an English style confectionery shop, the kind that has rows of large jars housing all sorts of delectable sweets. I treated myself to a small bag of sugar dusted toffee bon bons and bought a sweetie necklace for Lucy. We then caught the ferry across to the city where we dined on gourmet burgers and chips in an atmospheric bar. I watched on without envy as a couple endeavoured to eat their lunch while feeding a baby a jar of orange coloured pureed something and encouraging a toddler to sit still and eat.

Paul and I strolled leisurely, hand in hand along the streets, stopping where and when we fancied and generally just enjoyed each others company. All too soon it was time to catch the return ferry and head back to mum and dads to collect Billy; Lucy was having a sleep over. Since I’d managed to munch my way through my entire bag of bon bons Paul suggested buying some more. We pulled over and he shot across the road to the shop. I anticipated a small white bag so shrieked with laughter and delight when he returned, armed with a huge jar in his arms. I was now the proud owner of a three kilo capacity sweetie jar containing approximately one kilo of sugar coated toffee bon bons. He figured the likelihood of my getting the opportunity to buy more anytime soon was slim so simply bought the lot, jar included. I then spent the rest of the journey delving into my oversized container and popping the delicious sweets in my mouth – until I got jaw ache from chewing and had to take a rest.

We could hear the shrieking from the driveway as we pulled into mum and dads and the sigh was almost audible as we relieved them of one of our children. Lucy and Billy had been well behaved but as usual, noisy and totally excitable; though mum did feel somewhat responsible when she considered the amount of ice-cream and jelly that had been consumed (which Billy then deposited throughout his bed following his afternoon nap). Lucy was delighted to see us and after lots of hugs and kisses whispered to Paul, “Can you please go home now and take Billy with you?” Obviously eager to be getting on with her sleep over which included takeaways and a late bedtime she wanted us off so we obliged, taking a slightly bewildered Billy with us. “Loooly? Loooly?”

Dinner, bath and bed were a breeze with Paul and I on hand and only Billy to attend to. Unfortunately he woke an hour or so later, coughing furiously and again threw up - he has a bug. Paul and I, refreshed from our time out from the kids, enjoyed playing cards and eating pizza (which I am only marginally ashamed to admit I collected wearing my pyjamas, dressing gown and ugg boots. Whilst I did top it all with a trench coat I have a sneaking suspicion my under garments may have been detected by an enthusiastic staff member who seemed unable to contain his grin. Either that or he thought I was a flasher).

On Sunday we went back to mum and dads to collect Lucy, staying to enjoy a roast chicken lunch. Billy, clearly unwell, didn’t eat much and just wanted to go to sleep so we popped him into bed where he slept until we woke him two hours later. Lucy meanwhile filled us in on everything she had been doing, clearly keeping nanny and poppa most occupied indeed.

We left late in the afternoon and I casually said “So, same time next weekend?” It was met with much chortling so I’d guess that perhaps means no. It’s remarkable the difference having just a few hours to yourselves can make. Does it make me a horrid mum when I say I feel as though I like my kids just that little bit more when I haven’t had to spend every waking moment with them? I hope not.

Info Overload

2009-09-25T15:09:00.001+12:00

Some days my head is so jam packed with information - lists; things I need to do; things I need to undo; people I need to speak to; people I’d rather avoid (not because I dislike them but because they might engage me in conversation and they’d only slow me down); things I need to buy; things I probably shouldn’t have bought, so much so that my tummy gets all anxious and antsy just thinking about it.

The other day I forgot to collect Lucy. Billy and I had detoured via the supermarket and instead of heading towards her preschool afterwards, I took the turning that would take us home. If it hadn’t been for Billy exclaiming loudly in the back, “Loooly; Loooly! Mummy – LOOOLY!” I doubt I’d have realised I was minus one of my children until we arrived home.

Really, it’s a miracle my brain still reminds me to breathe. Just in case it forgets though, I’ve written it in really big letters on the side of the fridge and on my hand too, lest I’m away from the kitchen – ‘BREATHE’. Under the circumstances perhaps I should write ‘LUCY’ underneath also.

The Snail Trail

2009-09-22T20:56:00.000+12:00

I seem to recall an old Mother Goose nursery rhyme relating to the general make-up of little boys and girls. From memory, little boys are made of snips and snails and puppy dog tails whereas little girls are made of sugar and spice and all things nice.

Whilst watching Billy play in the sandpit today I discovered just how true that little rhyme is. You see, for some reason, we have an abundance of snails that like to reside in the kid’s sandpit. It is a very large wooden sandpit and even has great big hinged lids to keep out most things but seemingly not the snails. Every Spring, in anticipation of the coming warmer months we set out to give it a massive clean out. We usually fill a sand bucket with snails then set about to find them suitable alternative accommodation all the while trying to keep them from crawling out of the bucket. This morning Billy chose to help.

Unfortunately since a snail’s call for help cannot be heard by human ears I had no idea of the massacre that was taking place until Billy approached me with yellowed hands.
“Mess” he said, showing me his gooey hands.
“Sweetheart, what is that? What have you been doing?” I couldn’t imagine what it was since he had been within my peripheral vision the whole time and I hadn’t seen him touch anything except…..hmmm. Spotting a few carcasses scattered about I narrowed my eyes at him.
“Billy! Have you been poking the snails?”
“Yup” he grinned.
“Oh, you mustn’t do that Billy. You will hurt them. Oh dear; poor, poor snails.”
I didn’t see the point in mentioning the fact that there were a few I had accidentally given serious headaches to when I sent them for a spot of abseiling across the fence – I’m not always the best shot.
I took a closer look at the damage and spotted more than a dozen snails turned on their backs foaming furiously at the entrance to their fragile homes; it appears they do this in response to would be predators. Tragically I think it was because of this fun foam that Billy sought out more to poke. Generally they looked ok and although they will likely suffer bouts of anxiety in the future resulting in required long term psycho therapy, I don’t think any were actually killed. We gathered up the rest and placed them in the long grass, far, far away from the sandpit (and Billy’s curious prodding little digits).

I told Paul about Billy’s exploits this evening. “Lucy used to do the same thing” he said. “Remember?” Thinking back, I did indeed remember having a similar conversation with Lucy before setting about to wash her gooey yellow hands.

It seems to me that little girls might not necessarily be made out of all things nice after all.

Hurry up!

2009-09-20T11:55:00.002+12:00

My girlfriend is pregnant; very pregnant in fact. So pregnant, that she is now four days past her official due date. She is not happy!

I recall the latter stages of pregnancy with little fondness. The first two or three months were not especially fun either. Loathe telling anyone other than those closest to us I suffered the indignity of looking as though I was simply getting fatter. With Lucy I was unaware I was pregnant until I was five weeks gone and after enduring a particularly nasty and lengthy dose of food poisoning went to the doctor who informed me with delight that I was in fact, expecting our first child. I was distraught, for aside from the concern of my illness and the possible affects it may have on our unborn child; Paul and I had also attended a housewarming party three weeks earlier whereby I had polished off an entire bottle of red wine (and then some) on my own.

After our first scan and ample reassurances from medical professionals that our baby appeared fine and healthy and so long as I stayed off the ‘juice’, it was highly unlikely any problems would have been caused my induced bottle of Merlot.

Once the first three months had passed and my belly rounded nicely we were able to tell people our wonderful news. The time between three and six to seven months were definitely the nicest (aside from the heartburn, migraines, leg cramps and strangers who felt compelled to rub my belly as they passed me in the supermarket). I was a delicate little flower who required lots of tender loving care and attention and I ate it up in great dollops.

Then suddenly, or so it felt, I became too fat to do anything. I was still working, it was the peak of summer and I had to cram my - by now huge - feet (or at least my right foot was oversized, my left wasn’t too bad) into large steel-capped lace-up boots, then traipse around parks and fields all day (for the record, I worked for the local council and audited our contractor’s performance on maintaining council reserves and assets). Five o’clock couldn’t come fast enough.

Paul was repainting our bedroom and as such had moved our mattress into the lounge so that we could avoid the dust and paint fumes. We slept in the lounge for a week or so. Every two or three hours throughout the night I would have to roll off the mattress onto the floor then use the bookcase shelves to lever myself up into a standing position so that I could relieve my increasingly sensitive and squished bladder.

It has to be said - there is a divine blissful ignorance felt with your first pregnancy that cannot be found with subsequent pregnancies because you know precisely what you are in for second time around. Granted no two will likely be the same, just as no two children are the same, despite being of the same parentage but without a doubt, whatever way you look at it, you will invariably reach a point where you just want to get that baby out. Enough is enough! You can no longer handle your internal organs sitting somewhere up around your throat and your bladder squished to the size of a pea. You don’t want to eat dinner only to find it seems to rest somewhere just above your tonsils. You cannot tolerate being frozen into a stiff rigid board of cramping muscles repeatedly each night. You want to shave your legs, bikini line and you want to see your feet again.

For my girlfriend it is time. Please baby, please come today.

Circus act

2009-09-18T14:39:00.000+12:00

Billy has discovered that the door of the (front loading) washing machine makes an excellent step and is using it to climb atop said washing machine. He has also figured out that the handles on the drawers in both the kitchen and bathroom (the latter are trickier and require the aid of a stool also) are ideally used as ladders. The towel rail is a wonderful single beam (for hanging and climbing), the kitchen chairs are perfect for balancing on two legs and if he stacks the two nappy buckets on top of each other he can gain another three feet in height in order to reach all sorts of otherwise unattainable stuff.

I wonder if the circus would consider buying him.

From the mouths of babes

2009-09-16T19:46:00.002+12:00

As parents I believe we all do our level best to instil basic moral principles in our children; to understand the difference between right and wrong, to show compassion and empathy, to remain honest and true. Paul and I have continued to be consistent in our approach to teach Lucy and Billy these values but I fear I may be having a change of heart with regards to some aspects.

It’s all well and good when I ask Lucy if she’s just hit Billy (which naturally I don’t condone unless in self defence) and she’s says shamefacedly “Yes mummy”; although in all honesty, it’s usually blazingly obvious anyway when he’s sitting there sporting a large red mark on the side of his head and wailing “Loooly” accusingly. The tough part is extracting the information surrounding exactly which weapon she has chosen so that I can ascertain precisely how much damage may have been inflicted. Since invariably it’s nothing overly heavy or blunt we can get away with a cuddle for Billy and some Time Out for Lucy and I commend her for at least telling mummy the truth before I send her to her room.

I’ve heard it said that there is something so refreshing about a child’s complete honesty. This is true; however on the other hand their inability to restrain themselves from turning their thoughts into spoken words and allowing them to erupt from their mouths can be most embarrassing.

When my dad dropped by for a visit recently Lucy wanted to watch some television. “No honey, Poppa is visiting, that would be rude and impolite. Perhaps later, when he has gone home you may.” So instead she pulled out a stack of books for him to read to her. Dad worked his way though them adding his own infusion of humour along the way. Once finished (clearly tired of his services and eager to watch television) Lucy asked him, “Poppa, please can you go to your own home now?”

Whilst walking behind a particularly large lady at our local shopping centre, Lucy stated rather loudly “Mummy, when did that lady get so big?” When I failed to answer her, instead pointing out something inane and boring in an effort to redirect her attention, she asked “Why is that mummy so big? She’s very big isn’t she?” The woman must have heard us but fortunately saved me the mortification of turning around to look at us.

A few weeks ago on passing a group of interestingly attired youths Lucy burst out laughing “Mummy, that boy has green hair. Doesn’t he look silly? Look mummy, can you see? Look at his silly green hair.” Whilst the lads didn’t look overly threatening, I’m pretty sure they didn’t appreciate the attack on their choice of styling by a four year old critic.

And yesterday, after visiting me whilst I was busy on the toilet, Lucy gasped and choked then holding her nose dashed out of the bathroom in order to tell anyone within earshot (thankfully only Paul and Billy) that mummy had done really stinky poos; adding the appropriate sound effects “Eeeew, smelly”.

So whilst honesty is probably still the best policy; the next time we have visitors, if I feel the need to spend some time on the loo, I might just pop out to the public ones at the local park.

Unwell...ish

2009-09-14T14:21:00.000+12:00

Just as Billy and I were tucking into our tuna mayo and avocado topped toasted muffins this afternoon the phone rang. I expected to hear the automated voice from the library again advising me that our book was still overdue and would I be so good as to return it and pay the applicable fine. Actually, I do feel a bit bad about that. I did try and extend the due date but on discovering there were 22 people on the wait list the library wouldn’t allow it; so I naughtily just kept it until it was finished – unfortunately that took 2 weeks. I promise to return it this afternoon or tomorrow at the very latest and will pay my fine and take my punishment with an appropriate amount of head hanging.

Anyway, as it turned out it wasn’t an automated voice at all; instead there was a real person on the other end. It was Lucy’s preschool teacher advising that Lucy had been sick and was sitting at this very moment with her head in a bucket and it was preferable that I came and collected her. “Oh, poor Lucy” I said. “Of course I’ll come and pick her up, Billy and I will just finish up our lunch and will be there within half an hour.”

I hung up the phone and explained our plans to Billy who nodded woefully, poor Lucy (or Loooly, as he calls her).

I had a nagging thought there was something I was missing, something I wasn’t thinking about, something I hadn’t taken into consideration. Then it hit me. I didn’t actually have a car. After dropping Lucy off this morning I had delivered it at our mechanics for a full service and tune up, it would be ready for collection at 4pm. Damn! I phoned preschool back and explained my predicament. Fortunately they had a plan; one of their staff would drive her home, they had spare car seats for that very purpose.
“You will be there though won’t you?” she asked.
“Yes, of course.” I was a touch confused by this comment. Was it their experience that after pre-arranging to deliver poorly children back to their homes the parent or caregiver had simply buggered off to go shopping or something?

Sure enough, 20 minutes or so later a car pulled up the drive. I rushed out, ready to scoop up an ashen faced Lucy only to have her skip towards me, a little flushed granted but clearly happy nonetheless. We went inside and Lucy explained what had happened.
“I threw up my spaghetti mummy and I got a little bit on my skirt but it’s all gone now.”
“That wasn’t very nice for you was it honey?” I sympathised
“No. Can I have a gummy snake please?”
“We-e-l-l, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“What about an ice-block, or a biscuit?”
“Sweetheart, I’m not sure, I really don’t think so. You’ve just been sick after all; maybe later.”
And with that she galloped off to her room, returning wearing her Snow White costume atop her clothes and settled down to the business of dancing in the kitchen with Billy.

Billy’s napping at the moment. Lucy, still wearing her costume and whilst watching the Wizard of Oz, has enjoyed an ice block (fruit juice only though), a bowl of strawberries, a marshmallow and a chocolate biscuit.

She seems fine but I’ve given her a bucket - just in case.

Lazy a.m.

2009-09-12T10:40:00.001+12:00

It is 10am and I have just woken from a deep slumber. That in itself is surprising since it is nigh on impossible to sleep whilst Lucy and Billy are wreaking havoc about the house. It all makes sense however when I read a note left on the table ‘You have the house to yourself. Enjoy’. There is something almost divine about having the whole house entirely to me. The silence (aside from the gentle hum of the tumble dryer) is sheer heaven. My thoughts can collect and stay centred without dashing of in all directions as I am constantly bombarded with demands from little people.

I have just been assaulted by a thought. How long exactly do I have? How long have they been gone? Is it a quick trip to the supermarket? It’s too wet to have gone to the park. Perhaps Paul has taken them out for the whole morning in which case I have a good two hours up my sleeve. Without knowing, it’s hard to decide how best to spend my time. I’d hazard a guess that Paul would’ve said in his note if they were only popping out briefly so I think that perhaps I can relax after all.

I shall take advantage and go and enjoy a leisurely late breakfast, maybe even in bed, and dust off a magazine to read. Mmmmm.

I might just place my clothes at the foot of the bed so that should I hear the car pull up the driveway I can dress in extreme haste; just in case.

The procrastinating cook

2009-09-11T13:43:00.001+12:00

I am procrastinating. It’s a stunning warm day; we’ve been to the park with Gypsy and played on the flying fox, swings and slides. We’ve done battle with the supermarket and left a foodie trail of chewed up ham and cheese rolls up and down all the aisles for some poor supermarket employee to clean up. Billy is having a nap and Lucy is chilling out watching a DVD. I, as I mentioned, am procrastinating. What I should be doing right now is preparing dinner. Unfortunately since I haven’t a clue what to cook, I don’t know what exactly to start preparing.

Every day I’m assaulted by the same nagging thought. What the hell should I make for dinner? An irritating little voice stays with me until I am grabbed by inspiration and I pull out a packet of mince or sausages in order to make Spaghetti Bolognaise or sausages and mash. Paul, very thoughtfully for he knows how I battle with the whole ‘what to cook’ saga, bought me a book entitled “4 Ingredients”. All the recipes have only 4 ingredients or less. You’d think it would have solved all my problems yet still I struggle daily. You see, unfortunately it is in text format only and I simply cannot read a recipe and visualise what the meal will ultimately look like, meaning I can only ever cook recipes from books with accompanying imagery. My mum, on the other hand, will recite off recipes and say “Doesn’t that sound delicious?”
“Hmmm,” I’ll reply “is there a picture?”
I have around 15 inspiring and delicious cookbooks adorning our book shelf and will periodically sit on the couch after the kids have gone to bed and ooh and ah over the recipes. Well, technically not the recipes but the pictures. I will examine them for fresh ideas, fold over corners of pages and mark recipes that I think we’ll all enjoy. Then I pile them all back up on the shelf and leave them there to continue gathering dust.

I have a friend who prepares her weekly menu and posts it on the fridge. It is a superb idea and if only I could actually get my proverbial into gear I’d follow suit.
You see, I’m not an especially great cook. I can follow a recipe and I am great at single pot dishes but ask me to prepare food that has to be, not only ready but hot at the same time and I’m completely flummoxed. I’ve really only mastered boiled carrots, pork chops and jacket spuds in the last few years and even that gets me flustered when I discover everything else is ready and the chops are still worryingly pink in the middle and need more time.

Paul once asked me, if I could have one task or household chore performed by someone else, what would it be? Would I have a gardener, a cleaner, someone to complete all the washing? Without a shadow of a doubt I’d have a chef. They needn’t even be especially talented, just so long as I don’t have to think about it and the kids will eat it then I’d be quite happy. Sadly that is unlikely to happen anytime soon so best I get off my rear and go prepare something. Spaghetti Bolognaise? No, let’s mix it up a bit - Shepherds pie I think tonight.

And for those of you who are paying attention you will note that this post is dated Friday - aka Takeaway night. I actually wrote it yesterday and got distracted before posting it. Well done if you noticed and no, there isn't a prize.

Sheepish

2009-09-08T13:45:00.000+12:00

Yesterday we took Lucy and Billy to Sheep World. This attraction has been around for years and I remember long before having the kids thinking that it looked like a rather dull place to go (although periodically I would notice that the sheep were sprayed bright pink or purple and it would make me wonder…); I couldn’t imagine why anyone would bother going to visit a bunch of sheep.

In my early teens we lived on a mini farm, complete with a goat, horse, dog, cat, 10 chickens and a sheep. Our sheep, Marigold, had belonged to a neighbouring property but every day would somehow squeeze through the fence (quite a feat considering they were narrow strands and she was a very, very large sheep) to sit at our front door. Naturally we would return her home but after a short while it became apparent that she was more comfortable residing with our menagerie than she was with her three woolly companions next door so her owners resigned themselves to the fact and let us keep her. She was a darling and I would regularly take her, the goat and the dog for walks. She and the goat, Buddy, committed frequent misdemeanours and at every opportunity would escape from their respective pens to dismember my mothers newly planted saplings. We would arrive home to find them both looking decidedly fat and sheepish (one of them more so than the other obviously), lounging on the deck; not remotely remorseful for the damage caused.

Marigold also used to enjoy playing chase with our German Shepherd, Honey, although it always tickled me to see the sheep giving chase to the dog. Looking back it was a wonderful lifestyle. Every morning we would have fresh eggs for breakfast and most evenings fresh vegetables from our garden (assuming Marigold and Buddy hadn’t escaped that day and already polished them off). It was with these fond childhood memories that we decided to take Lucy to visit Sheep World when she was about 18 months old and after having such an enjoyable time there, we went back again yesterday to show Billy too.

There’s a show which is surprisingly fun; mostly since the chap hosting it has a great sense of humour, a good patter and makes the audience volunteer for various sheep related tasks such as sorting and shearing. His sheep dogs perform various tricks which everyone enjoys but without a doubt the best bit, and the main reason we go, is that they sit the kids down, give them a bottle of milk each, then send in the lambs. Frisky little balls of white and black fluff career through the shed searching for a teet then latch on and suck ferociously whilst small hands hang on for dear life. Naturally Billy got excited at the sight of so many ‘Bot Bots’ (as his own bottle is known) and thought he might get to have a quick swig, fortunately we were able to divert his attention in time and as such none of the lambs missed out.

Once the bottles were emptied the lambs permitted lots of cuddles before they bounced off with full bellies looking for a sunny spot of grass to sleep on and we headed out into the sunshine in search of other wildlife; well - donkeys, piglets, calves and chickens anyway. We patted backs, rubbed ears and scratched snouts. Lucy delighted in it all, shouting gleefully as she spotted something new to pet. Billy on the other hand wasn’t quite so sure. He was particularly cautious of a large rooster (which was content to calmly follow us about like a pet dog) and would regularly grab at my leg crying “No mummy, bite”. It wasn’t until Paul reasoned that the rooster was nearly as big as Billy and perhaps I would feel similarly uncomfortable if I was confronted with a feathered bird standing five feet tall and with a very sharp beak. I agreed and with that we went to have our lunch.

Paul and I ordered hot drinks but I had brought Lucy and Billy their lunch so we settled down to enjoy some peace and quiet. Unfortunately Billy had other ideas and was reluctant to eat any of the tasty morsels I had provided, instead playing with a couple of cars and generally making a demanding racket. In the end, Paul, Lucy and Billy settled down on a sofa beside a large box of toys and I finished my drink at the table. I could hear Billy screeching over a toy Lucy had that he wanted and as a chap passed my table with his young son and daughter he said “Let’s go over here, we don’t need to listen to that racket.”
“Actually,” I said with a grin “that racket is mine.”
“Oh no, no, I was referring to the radio.”
Like hell, I thought. It was a good save but I’m pretty sure he was lying and as he sat down at the table with his children he wore a slightly smug look which appeared to say ‘my children are well behaved and quiet, yours are noisy and unruly’.
Of course, I could have just been jealous.

Fortunately Billy’s tirade was short lived and after a play on the swings and slide we headed home tired and content with Lucy clutching a ball of wool fresh from a shorn sheep. Seemingly she has high hopes that I will make her a jumper from it but as it’s about three inches in diameter and fairly stinky, I think her chances are rather slim.

Hide and shriek

2009-09-04T15:43:00.001+12:00

Lucy has become obsessed of late with playing hide and seek. It’s a game I rather enjoy playing with the kids since it frequently gives me an opportunity to have a bit of peace and quiet in addition to a well earned sit down. Granted I’m usually squashed in a dark cupboard but I’m happy to take my breaks wherever I can. Our house isn’t huge and there are only so many hiding places but if I really put my mind to it I can elude them for around five to seven minutes at a time. On top of that, when it’s Lucy’s turn to hide I get an opportunity to complete chores en route as I ‘seek’ her out. Invariably I already know where she is. She tends to hide in the same places, usually giggles and frequently Billy stands alongside her chosen hidey hole shouting “HERE!” so it’s not much of a challenge. I do however scour the house in my efforts to locate her. For example, if I have clothes to put away in Billy’s room I will say in a loud voice “Now, where is that Lucy Green, is she behind Billy’s cot? Noooo. Is she in his wardrobe? Noooo.”, while I tidy away the clothes. If I need to go to the toilet, I call out “Is she in the airing cupboard? Noooo. Is she in the shower? Noooo.”, whilst I’m sitting on the loo. It’s remarkable just how much I can get done whilst ‘looking’ for her.

Unfortunately Lucy is a terrible cheat and whilst counting she will frequently and obviously look up to see where I am going. Billy’s loyalties don’t lie with anyone and he will happily give me up. In fact he invariably follows me to see where I’ve gone so that he can go back and get Lucy before leading her to me; little traitor. If I’m quick I can usually distract him “Oooh Billy, look, is that a car?” whilst I chuck myself behind a curtain.

Billy enjoys playing hide and seek too and is even starting to get the hang of the rules; of sorts. Mostly he just likes to run around screaming “Here, here!” but when it’s his turn to seek he cups his hands around his eyes then says “Nine, ten – come, ready not”. On average this gives you around two to three seconds; not long to locate a decent hiding place. As such he usually finds me with ease, dithering about only four or five feet away from him.

I think I shall have to consider making it more challenging for them. Next time, if it’s sunny, I may try and distract Billy and make a dash for the garden; I’ll be sure to take a good book with me. Alternatively, Lucy doesn’t look all that hard so if I were to bury myself behind the coats in our wardrobe I could probably eek out 15 minutes or more.

I must remember to stash a flashlight and a magazine behind the shoe rack; perhaps a bar of chocolate too.

One of those days

2009-09-02T19:42:00.001+12:00

I wonder if some days ‘the powers that be’ sit around on their backsides, bored and fidgety deciding who’s day they will turn to custard in an effort to provide themselves with some light hearted entertainment. Seemingly, today they chose me.

Firstly I awoke to discover that Gypsy clearly had an upset tummy since she had obviously experienced a very unfortunate bowel movement; all the way from the laundry through to the bathroom. As such I spent the first half hour of my barely awakened moments on my hands and knees mopping and disinfecting the floors and the walls (though it has to be said, I was eternally grateful she had at least managed to avoid the carpet).

The rest of the morning went mostly without incident. I hung out my washing and 10 minutes later it started raining so I brought it back in and popped it in the dryer only to find that the sun came back and stayed for the rest of the day; it was only mildly inconvenient and as I wasn’t about to hang it all out again I didn’t let it irk me.

I managed to clean out our large bookcase; a task which was long overdue as the shelves were heaving. Piles of books, paper, colouring in pads and pencils, magazines and stacks of CDs stood up in mini mountains, threatening to topple with the slightest nudge.
Billy insisted on helping and so knocked over large towers of books, tore up screeds of pink wrapping paper and affixed Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella stickers to everything in sight, including me.

Gypsy was booked for her final check up at the vets to ensure her paw was healing well so we ventured off straight after Billy’s nap. Sure enough, they were very happy with her progress and she got the thumbs up. Gypsy looked especially pleased, I noted, when I handed back the large plastic bucket thing.

We had time to spare before collecting Lucy from preschool so we headed to the supermarket for a few bits. Billy was an angel and walked happily alongside me, pointing out with a loud “Mummy!” all the things he spotted on the shelves that reside in our own cupboards. “Mummy!” he shouted, as he held up a bottle of Pledge, “Mummy!” he exclaimed, as he waved about some Toilet Duck, ditto the loo paper. Fortunately I managed to stop him before he started brandishing the tampons.

Feeling good about how much I had accomplished (I did do lots of other things but shan’t bore with the details) I got back in the car, ready to head off and pick up Lucy. I put the key in the ignition…. nothing. I checked my steering column, yup, it was in park. I tried again…. nothing. I sat there in a bit of a daze for a few moments. I tried again; still nothing. I felt extremely calm, which was rather strange considering I had also misplaced my mobile phone two days earlier and was currently without the ability to call anyone for assistance. I think I thought the car would just miraculously start if I was patient enough. I was, but it didn’t.

The dog was starting to make obscene smells in the back and I was gripped by a sudden fear that she may unload her backside all over the floor of the car so I decided I needed to do something and soon. Billy was contentedly munching on crackers in his seat so rather than unstrap him and traipse back into the supermarket trying to find a phone to use I decided to have a look under the bonnet myself.

Peering at the car engine I gave the battery connections a wee tap and wiggle. There; I wondered if that had helped at all (I was quite hopeful since that was the extent of my mechanical skills) – now what? I tried the engine again, ever hopeful…. nothing. I stood for a moment looking helpless with the bonnet up but no-one came to my aid, despite the volume of traffic, so I cornered some poor unsuspecting chap who looked respectable and not at all the serial killer type (though I believe from watching many an episode of CSI that the serial killers are precisely that - respectable looking but yet again, I digress). He was very polite and peered knowingly at the engine; giving the battery a tap and a wiggle then he announced that that was the extent of his mechanical skills also – drat! He was however able to produce a phone and so I called Paul at work, unfortunately he was in a meeting and his mobile was switched off. I considered calling AA but since they can be anything up to 2 hours depending on how busy they are I decided to speak to one of Paul’s colleagues instead, who very kindly drove the short distance to see me, complete with a mobile battery charger. Yippee! We applied the charger, I got in the car, turned the key and…. nothing!

The fumes coming out of Gypsy’s bum were getting worse and I harboured real fears for bottom explosions but she managed to keep her legs tightly crossed. Billy was fortunately still happily chomping away and appeared interested in the goings on so kept his complaining to a minimum. Since there was nothing else he could do, Paul’s colleague very kindly went to collect a mechanic he knew and returned with him about 10 minutes later. After some jiggling and wiggling (I apologise for those of you struggling to understand my technical vehicular terminology) the car started. He turned it off, then on again, just to check it would be ok. It was and we left to go and collect Lucy in the wake of expensive sounding words such as starter motor and immobiliser switch.

When we arrived at preschool I turned the engine off then on again, just to be sure. It was fine so I turned it off and went inside to find Lucy. Five minutes later I returned then had a two minute debate with her over whether or not she could eat the cupcake she had made that day immediately (which was her plan) or if she should save it for pudding (which was my plan). She won (but she did share it with Billy and me for that matter), I didn’t have the energy or inclination for an argument. I turned the key in the ignition and … nothing. “NO!” I bellowed, hitting the steering wheel in frustration and Lucy promptly burst into tears. I apologised profusely for frightening her, gave the stick shift a wiggle (like I’d seen the mechanic do) and after a few slow sad ‘wowwowwow’ sounds, she fired up.

I drove straight to my mechanic (who was closing up shop in 15 minutes) imagining the worst and pictured myself having to leave the car there so they could repair it in the morning then walk the 30 minute trek home with Lucy, Billy, Gypsy (complete with crossed hind legs), a bag of groceries, Lucy’s school bag and my handbag. He opened the bonnet, took one look at our engine and said “That’s the oldest battery I’ve ever seen. It’s the original, it’s 12 years old and it’s a miracle it’s still going.”
“Well, actually, I don’t think it is.” I ventured to guess.

It took all of 15 minutes (during which Lucy complained of boredom and Billy sat contentedly, despite having run out of food and been trapped in his car seat for over an hour and a half) to replace our battery.

I finally drove home happily, albeit with my purse considerably lighter.

At last

2009-08-31T14:28:00.001+12:00

We are two months away from Billy’s second birthday and dare I say I do believe we are making extremely good progress. I’m not so brave as to say it out loud for fear of any jinxing (though according to ‘The Secret’ I should be shouting it from the rooftops in order that the universe makes it so. Perhaps I shall offer a holler out to the moon tonight after a glass of red wine or two).

Anyway, there has been no ‘vomiting on demand’ for 3 weeks now and Billy is going to bed, settling and sleeping for 12 hours again. Thank God! He seems to have taken things a step further too in that previously when he woke from his slumber he would start bellyaching immediately, demanding instant attention and insisting he be allowed to get out of his cot to play. Now however, I can go in and see him, offer three or four books and a toy car and there he will stay, contentedly and quietly for another half hour or so. Sometimes it gives me an opportunity to snuggle back under the duvet for a bit or if Lucy wakes around the same time, I can get up and get on with a few morning essentials (washing and dressing) in peace, whilst she dresses herself.

It really is working out rather nicely indeed.

Sick

2009-08-28T14:38:00.001+12:00

There are some days when I feel guiltier than others. The days where I have spent plenty of quality time with Lucy and Billy; when I’ve managed to remain cool tempered despite the fact that Billy has emptied an entire bottle of massage oil throughout my bedside drawer; when we’ve danced ridiculous looking dances in the kitchen and enjoyed brownies and warm Milo for afternoon tea - those are the days I feel good about my mummy skills.

Then there are the days when I despair at my lack of self control. Yesterday was one of those days and I felt (and still feel) horrid. We had had a lovely day. We had baked brownies early since Lucy had a friend coming over to play and she behaved impeccably throughout the whole day. Billy was reasonably well behaved considering there were two little girls flying about giggling and tossing their hair in his general direction. He did not pull hair, bite or pinch and aside from a distinct lack of interest in sharing and the odd spot of shoving he did very well indeed. It wasn’t until dinner time that I became unstuck.

Lucy’s friend had gone and we had been to ballet. We were doing puzzles in the lounge (well, Lucy and I were putting them together, Billy was dismantling them) when I told the kids that I needed to get dinner ready and to continue playing nicely.

Once in the kitchen I got down to the business of chopping, heating, stirring etc. It was then that the wailing and squawking began. Lucy, despite Billy’s best efforts, was still playing nicely but he had decided to demo everything in sight. He emptied out the toy cupboard and in doing so upended 6 jigsaw puzzles so that all the pieces were mixed together, scattered a box of plastic ‘tools’, various games, fuzzy felts, soft toys, the dress up box and 3 boxes of flash cards (which he proceeded to bring into the kitchen and practice ice skating on). He then spent the next 15 minutes trying to climb onto the kitchen bench, pull me via my jeans pockets and tug on my calves in an effort to get me to join him in the lounge where he was insistent I ‘help’ him with something (his mass destruction no doubt).

It was whilst turning sizzling pork chops that I lost my temper. I extracted him from my legs, tripped over a toy truck and deposited him firmly back into the lounge whilst stating between gritted teeth and with a raised voice,
“I am sick of you pulling me and I am fed up tripping over you and your toys! You will get hurt. I will get hurt. Will you please just stay in here while I make dinner?”
Then a little voice piped up.
“Are you only sick of Billy mummy?”
I felt physically ill. What an utter witch I was. I gathered them both up in giant hugs and apologised profusely.
“Mummy is absolutely not sick of you or of Billy sweetheart. I should never, ever have said that. I love you both so much. I was just cross and it wasn’t fair to take it out on either of you. It wasn’t a nice thing to say at all and I’m very, very sorry.”

What can I say? Sometimes I think I’m a crap mum. Though I wonder, has anyone invented straight jackets for children? I might look for one in Billy’s size.

Cone-head

2009-08-25T19:56:00.001+12:00

Despite my feeling exceptionally sorry for her, Gypsy and her giant plastic head are becoming tiresome; she collides and crashes through the house like a drunkard, knocking over small children, denting the furniture and taking chunks out of my knees.

The cone isn’t even performing its desired function (although it is definitely proving to be a hindrance) and she manages regular access to her paw to consistently remove Paul’s socks. Her bandages are off now but she has developed dermatitis between her toes due to the trapped moisture and it must be driving her insane. We have cream to slather on twice daily which, as you can imagine, she is thrilled about.

I was also regularly waking at 3am to the sound of Gypsy turning (what sounded like a dozen or so times) in her bed and misjudging the walls, scraping and banging against the oak panels in the still of the night. I would lay there thinking, for Gods sake just please, please sit down and be quiet before you wake the kids. Anyway, we finally had a (somewhat belated) brain wave and moved her bed to the centre of the room when we retired for the night. Problem solved.

Her ears are obviously uncomfortable as they get little ventilation in the big bucket and as such she tries to give them a good old scratch, except that all you can hear throughout the night is the scraping sound of claws on plastic; we wake up, she achieves nothing (to compensate I have been offering long compassionate scratches every time I relieve her of her appendage).

My biggest concern however is that if she doesn’t stop skulking so close to the fire, there is also a very real possibility of the damned thing melting on her furry head.

(Might I just add that I don’t really think that will actually happen, we have a fire guard and I am very watchful of her).

Thankfully though the wound is healing well and she should only have to put up with her oversized head periodically over the next week as she is now allowed to have the cone removed when supervised.

Billy will be disappointed, he rather delights in Gypsy’s ‘hat’ but I’m quite sure she will be most relieved, as will my knees.

Anti virus

2009-08-22T14:29:00.000+12:00

I probably wouldn’t go so far as to call myself computer savvy but I can work my way around most software programmes and if I can’t, I’ll figure them out with trial and error, or I’ll just ask for help. Even I know the stock standard resolution to most technical faults – turn it off, wait 30 seconds then turn it back on. I certainly wouldn’t call myself a computer imbecile so when I opened my e-mails this afternoon and clicked on ‘create’ to prepare one to send, imagine my horror when I discovered we had a virus.

Supposedly intruders are forever trying to hack into your PC, either to deposit hideous things that will cause much mayhem, or to steal your identity and runaway with your credit card details; shopping up a storm on-line. We are so careful and have all the necessary firewalls and anti-virus software that I thought we were foolproof but apparently I was mistaken.

For today, when I saw an ant unwaveringly trotting along the line of my subject code, I knew we had been bitten by a bug. I’d like to say my instant reaction was one of calm thoughtfulness but instead I just panicked.
“Oh my God; we’ve got a virus. Damn, damn, DAMN! How did that happen? What should I do? What have I got open? Quick, quick, close it all down. Turn off the PC. Oh hell!” Was what I said, rather quietly but nonetheless out loud.

I shut it all down. I sat and waited. 1 or 2 minutes passed and I switched it all on again.

Everything fired up and I quickly double clicked on my e-mail icon to reassure myself that the dreaded ant virus had disappeared.

“SHIT! It’s still there, now it’s walking along the ‘To’ line. Oh bloody hell, what’s it doing? What does it want?”
I reached out to touch it and promptly squashed onto the monitor.

Hmmm, I may have overreacted just a tad. It would appear our anti viral software is effective after all.

Inconspicuous

2009-08-19T14:33:00.001+12:00

I have come to the conclusion that my grey hairs are extremely inconsiderate. Instead of sensibly distributing themselves throughout my head therefore making them less conspicuous, they are choosing to clan together, full of comradery and looking very obvious indeed. Am convinced there are at least 10 more than when I last looked and those are only the ones I can see at the front; there may well be a whole congregation hanging around at the back of my head that I have yet to discover.