It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Mother in possession of two children in school must be in want of a life. One that isn't virtual that is.
So dear readers it is with some regret that I close this blog and attempt to find some kind of existence beyond the four walls of my kitchen, one hopefully with more padding than this kitchen chair I've been sitting on for the last three years.
It's been wonderful knowing you all, I've made some great virtual and some non virtual friends, followed your adventures and laughed and cried with a lot of you.
Rest assured I will still be haunting your blogs, I'll just comment anonymously, just to keep you all guessing...
You'll forgive an old gal some indulgence won't you if I repost my four favourite ever posts? Call it nostalgia, call it blatant hooting about the glory years, call it plagiarism from the past. Whatever, just indulge me, there's a love.
So long,
MH xxxxxx
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
Things I have said To My Parents Today
- Ooh thankyou
- Happy early Christmas to you too
- I like the wrapping
- Shall I guess?
- Ok
- Err
- Well it doesn't rattle
- It's squareish
- It's quite light
- I'm guessing a book
- Shall I open it?
- Excellent
- I wonder what it is
- Yes I was right, a book
- Sex As You Age?
- Sex As You Age?
- What do you mean I'm quite welcome?
- It may well have got you through some tough times
- But I'm in my thirties
- My Thirties
- I'm not aging
- Or in need of an elderly person's sex manual
- Oh crikey
- There's notes in the margin
- Especially for me?
- Was this your book?
- Dad please don't say Ours like that
- While putting your arm round mum
- Because I'm holding your sex manual
- And sitting next to you
- And trying desperately to think of something pleasant
- And Christmassy
- And not look at the chapter entitled Arthritis Of The Knee And You
- Dad
- Stop winking at mum
- Put your hands where I can see them
- Both of you
- I'm taking away the sherry
- No you can't have it back at bedtime
- Because we're in the room next to you
- And I can see you've put your knee bandage on
- Yes of course safety comes first
- But so does your daughter's mental health
- I'm sure you do have a book on that too
- But really
- No more books OK
- Because my nerves can't take it
- No thanks
- I don't want my other present
- Because it looks suspiciosly like a pot of chocolate
- And a box of knee bandages
Things I Have Said To My Husband Today
- Ooh, yes I'd love a night out tonight
- What do you mean just you?
- But I do like them
- I love Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head
- Oh
- Right
- Of course I want you to have a good night
- I know Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head don't have girlfriends
- Apart from each other
- Nothing, sorry
- I didn't say anything I just coughed
- Will you be coming home after?
- Are you sure you don't want to stay at Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head's
- Yes of course I want you to come home
- Well you only have to sleep in the spare room if you snore
- I know you snore when you're drunk
- So you're guaranteeing that you're going to snore?
- Well then it'll have to be the spare room
- Because I have to get up with the children
- What do you mean where will Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head sleep?
- Invited them here?
- After a night in the pub?
- Hmm
- Well OK then
- Could you just make sure you all throw up in the toilet?
- I know there was a queue but the wok's just never been the same
- OK I'll put buckets out
- Send my love to Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head
Husband Flu
This post was going to be entitled 'man flu', not very original I know but could we really get through the Winter without reporting on this annual epidemic of such grave proportions that it results in so many near death encounters? Indeed it would be scandalous to ignore it, heartless even when we consider just how much our men folk have been through.
Luckily none of them, despite predictions, assurances (promises even) and some evidence to the contrary, have passed away. We emerge once again unscathed by such suffering (them), and a little scathed by such ministering (us) and of course the worry.
Husband's flu started about the time he first needed to blow his nose. It was a scary moment obviously, something was wrong with him, he might even feel poorly or, heaven's above need to go to the doctor's. In fact if a visit to The Scary Man was nigh the best thing to do, of course, was to take himself to bed and nurse himself until he was completely better to avoid such an encounter.
The best thing about me, thought Husband, is that I make absolutely no fuss, in fact no one will even know I'm here. Unless I get really ill you understand. Yup, I understood. He sat in bed like a small boy in an Enid Blyton story, special striped pyjamas on (kept from his childhood and saved for the really serious cases), knees drawn up and duvet up to his chin. There was a weak smile as I entered the sick room with a cup of tea which he bravely sipped while quite hot. I had blown on it like he'd asked, but still, it was brave. I placed a box of tissues on the bedside table and a bucket as requested just in case. Then I duly went downstairs for the forgotten items (hot water bottle, Lemsip, cough drops and a newspaper in case his head felt up to reading). Yes, he was a little trouper, no one but me knew he was ill, and he was nursing himself through it in his own way. Of course he was too ill to get up and actually nurse himself, so I had to do it but the thought was there, he whispered weakly.
It was a long afternoon for him, tea made his nose runnier so warm honey was duly administered, the hot water bottle was tricky to keep at just the right temperature despite him checking it on his thermometer, and the TV just wasn't up to scratch. He got through it somehow and struggled to bedtime managing a bowl of soup and chocolate pudding before checking the water bottle temperature and falling asleep next to me, exhausted.
In bed that night he proceeded to groan as loudly as possible and thrash about wildly as he tried to deal with his flu. Every nose blowing event was performed accompanied by an expletive and a comment on how much he wasn't sleeping and how long to go until I had to get up. If I had managed to go to sleep between these events then I was sure to be awoken by loud retching noises away from the bucket as a demonstration of what might possibly happen were he to feel sick and I had missed the warning signs.
By 2am I had had enough, he'd only used up one tissue all day and the 'sweat' patches were really spilled Lemsip. Risking a lifetime of references to my uncaring nature and pub near-death stories that I had no authority to refute so he could embellish at will, I moved to the spare room. I did explain to him why, but all he could reply was that he could see a bright light and should he go towards it?
The dread of a cold bed and having to clean the guest sheets tomorrow were no deterrent to the thought of a decent few hours before getting up with the children. It was bliss, heaven, worth the lifetime's condemnation. For a while. He missed me you see, it may be his last night of sleeping next to me and wouldn't it be lovely to savour the moment? I felt the bed springs sink as he dragged himself into bed beside me. The groanings were louder this time although giving him the warm bit of the bed went some way to soothing them. The retching continued until the bucket was brought from our room and then almost ceased. We watched dawn rise together thankful that he'd survived the night.
I sent him to the doctors the next day, tail between his legs, deaf to his protestations that all he needed was a few more days of TLC. He emerged from the surgery triumphant and euphoric. The doctor had sympathised, hadn't asked him to remove any clothing and best of all given him a prescription for Strepsils.
Luckily none of them, despite predictions, assurances (promises even) and some evidence to the contrary, have passed away. We emerge once again unscathed by such suffering (them), and a little scathed by such ministering (us) and of course the worry.
Husband's flu started about the time he first needed to blow his nose. It was a scary moment obviously, something was wrong with him, he might even feel poorly or, heaven's above need to go to the doctor's. In fact if a visit to The Scary Man was nigh the best thing to do, of course, was to take himself to bed and nurse himself until he was completely better to avoid such an encounter.
The best thing about me, thought Husband, is that I make absolutely no fuss, in fact no one will even know I'm here. Unless I get really ill you understand. Yup, I understood. He sat in bed like a small boy in an Enid Blyton story, special striped pyjamas on (kept from his childhood and saved for the really serious cases), knees drawn up and duvet up to his chin. There was a weak smile as I entered the sick room with a cup of tea which he bravely sipped while quite hot. I had blown on it like he'd asked, but still, it was brave. I placed a box of tissues on the bedside table and a bucket as requested just in case. Then I duly went downstairs for the forgotten items (hot water bottle, Lemsip, cough drops and a newspaper in case his head felt up to reading). Yes, he was a little trouper, no one but me knew he was ill, and he was nursing himself through it in his own way. Of course he was too ill to get up and actually nurse himself, so I had to do it but the thought was there, he whispered weakly.
It was a long afternoon for him, tea made his nose runnier so warm honey was duly administered, the hot water bottle was tricky to keep at just the right temperature despite him checking it on his thermometer, and the TV just wasn't up to scratch. He got through it somehow and struggled to bedtime managing a bowl of soup and chocolate pudding before checking the water bottle temperature and falling asleep next to me, exhausted.
In bed that night he proceeded to groan as loudly as possible and thrash about wildly as he tried to deal with his flu. Every nose blowing event was performed accompanied by an expletive and a comment on how much he wasn't sleeping and how long to go until I had to get up. If I had managed to go to sleep between these events then I was sure to be awoken by loud retching noises away from the bucket as a demonstration of what might possibly happen were he to feel sick and I had missed the warning signs.
By 2am I had had enough, he'd only used up one tissue all day and the 'sweat' patches were really spilled Lemsip. Risking a lifetime of references to my uncaring nature and pub near-death stories that I had no authority to refute so he could embellish at will, I moved to the spare room. I did explain to him why, but all he could reply was that he could see a bright light and should he go towards it?
The dread of a cold bed and having to clean the guest sheets tomorrow were no deterrent to the thought of a decent few hours before getting up with the children. It was bliss, heaven, worth the lifetime's condemnation. For a while. He missed me you see, it may be his last night of sleeping next to me and wouldn't it be lovely to savour the moment? I felt the bed springs sink as he dragged himself into bed beside me. The groanings were louder this time although giving him the warm bit of the bed went some way to soothing them. The retching continued until the bucket was brought from our room and then almost ceased. We watched dawn rise together thankful that he'd survived the night.
I sent him to the doctors the next day, tail between his legs, deaf to his protestations that all he needed was a few more days of TLC. He emerged from the surgery triumphant and euphoric. The doctor had sympathised, hadn't asked him to remove any clothing and best of all given him a prescription for Strepsils.
One Day
One day I will have a small car again. One that only fits me and the occasional passenger and is clean, shiny and hand print free at all times.
One day I will go with my husband on a second honeymoon (for two), wake with the sun high in the sky, get ridiculously and dizzyingly drunk at lunch time and go straight to bed until the next morning.
One day my house will stay the way I left it, not mysteriously mess up the minute I turn my back.
One day I will pop out to the shops - and I mean pop - and be finished in five minutes. I may even treat myself to a basket rather than a trolley-for-three and queue up giddily in the baskets only aisle.
One day I will go to all the shops in my village and buy elegant things for dinner, stopping to chat or for a coffee at leisure. I will be able to fit myself (because there is only myself and no pram) into every tiny specialist shop, smug and happy that I'm 'buying locally'.
One day I will have a cup of tea during nap time without the tension that someone may wake at any minute and ruin the moment. In fact I may even have a set cup-of-tea-time that I adhere to religiously just because I can.
One day my children will refer to me as That Mad Old Bat or The Parental Guidance rather than Mummy Can I Have and I will be pleased at my eccentricities and lack of responsibility.
One day I will actually go on a 'date night' (ha ha ha, did anyone really believe they would ever get to do that?) with my husband without the little knot of tension that everything's alright at home.
One day my kitchen will be my own, the high chair, mini chair-and-table set and play mat will be gone and I will dance a waltz with my husband around our own elegant dining table in all the space.
One day my day will end when I want it to, possibly as late as 11pm, rather than at 3pm when I start thinking about school pick up and tea.
One day evenings will be for relaxing, possibly a glass of wine or even the cinema, not getting-ready-for-the-morning, ironing, sandwiches and signing notes.
One day I will sleep all night long without nightmares/coughs/toilets/monsters to wake me.
But
One day the house will be ever so quiet, I will be able to whisper to myself and hear the echo.
One day strangers won't smile at me on the street, pause and say; isn't she/he lovely, envious of my status, my life, my treasures.
One day I won't get up to two smiling faces, ever so pleased that I'm awake and ready to play.
One day the worry will be further away and thus more scary and less controllable.
One day my tea break will be interrupted by the phone ringing, and it will be one of the children and I shall be very very glad.
One day my heart won't burst with pride every morning just for the existence of another human being.
One day the feeling of a tiny hand slipping into mine, skipping and pulling at it while I go, will be a distant, precious memory hard to grasp and pin down.
One day tiny clothes and underwear that are so cute your heart skips will be missing from my washing line, my ironing pile.
One day I will wish for little cold feet and snuffly noses to creep into bed with me. I may even wake in the night thinking they have only to find it was a dream.
One day I won't be a hero, a queen, the focus and meaning in my children's lives. Just an ordinary person living invisibly.
One day life will be for filling, but not necessarily fulfilling, not in the same way anyway.
Until grandchildren.
One day I will go with my husband on a second honeymoon (for two), wake with the sun high in the sky, get ridiculously and dizzyingly drunk at lunch time and go straight to bed until the next morning.
One day my house will stay the way I left it, not mysteriously mess up the minute I turn my back.
One day I will pop out to the shops - and I mean pop - and be finished in five minutes. I may even treat myself to a basket rather than a trolley-for-three and queue up giddily in the baskets only aisle.
One day I will go to all the shops in my village and buy elegant things for dinner, stopping to chat or for a coffee at leisure. I will be able to fit myself (because there is only myself and no pram) into every tiny specialist shop, smug and happy that I'm 'buying locally'.
One day I will have a cup of tea during nap time without the tension that someone may wake at any minute and ruin the moment. In fact I may even have a set cup-of-tea-time that I adhere to religiously just because I can.
One day my children will refer to me as That Mad Old Bat or The Parental Guidance rather than Mummy Can I Have and I will be pleased at my eccentricities and lack of responsibility.
One day I will actually go on a 'date night' (ha ha ha, did anyone really believe they would ever get to do that?) with my husband without the little knot of tension that everything's alright at home.
One day my kitchen will be my own, the high chair, mini chair-and-table set and play mat will be gone and I will dance a waltz with my husband around our own elegant dining table in all the space.
One day my day will end when I want it to, possibly as late as 11pm, rather than at 3pm when I start thinking about school pick up and tea.
One day evenings will be for relaxing, possibly a glass of wine or even the cinema, not getting-ready-for-the-morning, ironing, sandwiches and signing notes.
One day I will sleep all night long without nightmares/coughs/toilets/monsters to wake me.
But
One day the house will be ever so quiet, I will be able to whisper to myself and hear the echo.
One day strangers won't smile at me on the street, pause and say; isn't she/he lovely, envious of my status, my life, my treasures.
One day I won't get up to two smiling faces, ever so pleased that I'm awake and ready to play.
One day the worry will be further away and thus more scary and less controllable.
One day my tea break will be interrupted by the phone ringing, and it will be one of the children and I shall be very very glad.
One day my heart won't burst with pride every morning just for the existence of another human being.
One day the feeling of a tiny hand slipping into mine, skipping and pulling at it while I go, will be a distant, precious memory hard to grasp and pin down.
One day tiny clothes and underwear that are so cute your heart skips will be missing from my washing line, my ironing pile.
One day I will wish for little cold feet and snuffly noses to creep into bed with me. I may even wake in the night thinking they have only to find it was a dream.
One day I won't be a hero, a queen, the focus and meaning in my children's lives. Just an ordinary person living invisibly.
One day life will be for filling, but not necessarily fulfilling, not in the same way anyway.
Until grandchildren.
Friday, 5 November 2010
Position Of The Month
These were my resolutions this week: Be Useful, Get A Job, Make A Difference. It's now Friday and I've just finished all the facebooking I needed to do and eaten the Halloween sweets that I hid from the kids so I really ought to get down to some work. Thank God it's the weekend tomorrow, I'm bushed.
Talking of bushed, I did come across something the other day that may solve all three problems in one, fancy that! And with very little effort (my favourite kind of job).
I was flicking through one of my (pre teen) cousin's magazines and there, in full blazing glory was a column entitled 'Position Of The Month.' This is not, dear puritan readers, an illustration of a likely position in order to prevent backache during long exams, or even, oh naive one, of a useful career position, one that includes the word doctor or lawyer. Of no, this was as in sex position, you know, like the one Playboy runs, they must have stolen the idea the swines. Note to Mr Heffner: please sue pre teen magazines before they steal any more of your ideas, (also personal note: please buy longer dressing robe type thing, I can see your willy every time you wear it, many thanks).
Obviously I'm not shocked, of course I wasn't, I'm a woman of the world, a pre teen me read Bunty and Twinkle, well, now they've grown up. I did think though, that therein I may not only find my new career, but also a way to be useful. You see, these pictures were of real life couples in certain ahem, positions. Well, I could do that! Easily. Just watch (or not, there's no test at the end of this).
I could pitch to the magazine a brand new column, one entitled 'Labour Positions Of The Month', this dear readers would not only earn me a bit of money and find a use for my now defunct vagina, but it would also contribute significantly to the lowering of the teenage pregnancy rate. The thought of stuffing a doll up there, even if it was good for the nation, puts me off a little but still, you've got to take the rough with the smooth (as I shall wisely tell the nation's teenage girls).
Think about it - it's genius (and please forget all the other genius things I've proposed on this blog, this is the Real Deal, I'm in the zone!), money and usefulness for me, less babies for the under thirteens! It's brilliant! It's marvellous! It's something I may have to persuade Husband about.
But still, I'm sure he'll come round, especially when I tell him about the awards I've been given, one's for services to humanity and all that. They could even put my labour pictures on milk cartons and things like they do with missing kids in America, that'll put them off their coco pops/copulation/dolls.
It is indeed an idea for Humanity, one that may yet get me the knighthood I feel I so deserve. In fact if any of you feel the need, nay, the urge to nomintae me next time you see the queen please do, be sure to mention the milk carton idea.
Talking of bushed, I did come across something the other day that may solve all three problems in one, fancy that! And with very little effort (my favourite kind of job).
I was flicking through one of my (pre teen) cousin's magazines and there, in full blazing glory was a column entitled 'Position Of The Month.' This is not, dear puritan readers, an illustration of a likely position in order to prevent backache during long exams, or even, oh naive one, of a useful career position, one that includes the word doctor or lawyer. Of no, this was as in sex position, you know, like the one Playboy runs, they must have stolen the idea the swines. Note to Mr Heffner: please sue pre teen magazines before they steal any more of your ideas, (also personal note: please buy longer dressing robe type thing, I can see your willy every time you wear it, many thanks).
Obviously I'm not shocked, of course I wasn't, I'm a woman of the world, a pre teen me read Bunty and Twinkle, well, now they've grown up. I did think though, that therein I may not only find my new career, but also a way to be useful. You see, these pictures were of real life couples in certain ahem, positions. Well, I could do that! Easily. Just watch (or not, there's no test at the end of this).
I could pitch to the magazine a brand new column, one entitled 'Labour Positions Of The Month', this dear readers would not only earn me a bit of money and find a use for my now defunct vagina, but it would also contribute significantly to the lowering of the teenage pregnancy rate. The thought of stuffing a doll up there, even if it was good for the nation, puts me off a little but still, you've got to take the rough with the smooth (as I shall wisely tell the nation's teenage girls).
Think about it - it's genius (and please forget all the other genius things I've proposed on this blog, this is the Real Deal, I'm in the zone!), money and usefulness for me, less babies for the under thirteens! It's brilliant! It's marvellous! It's something I may have to persuade Husband about.
But still, I'm sure he'll come round, especially when I tell him about the awards I've been given, one's for services to humanity and all that. They could even put my labour pictures on milk cartons and things like they do with missing kids in America, that'll put them off their coco pops/copulation/dolls.
It is indeed an idea for Humanity, one that may yet get me the knighthood I feel I so deserve. In fact if any of you feel the need, nay, the urge to nomintae me next time you see the queen please do, be sure to mention the milk carton idea.
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