Tuesday, 9 November 2010

So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye

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

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.

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.


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.

Wednesday, 27 October 2010

Thirty Nine Reasons Not To Get A Cat

  1. Because you already have a dog
  2. A mental one
  3. With a possible eating disorder
  4. Who still hasn't forgiven you for removing his balls
  5. Or calling him Twizzle
  6. They eat food that smells like a toilet
  7. They have a toilet in your kitchen
  8. Even the dog isn't allowed a toilet in the kitchen
  9. Even Husband isn't allowed a toilet in the kitchen
  10. Despite what he thinks
  11. You are expected to clean up their toilet
  12. Never ever Husband
  13. They sleep on your feet peacefully
  14. Until you are asleep
  15. Then they eat your head
  16. Never ever Husband's head
  17. Who insists you are paranoid
  18. They need their gonads removing
  19. They have spent the night locked in the kitchen with the dog
  20. Who has had his gonads removed
  21. And told them the whole sorry tail
  22. And pointed out that animals are the only males in the household to have their gonads removed
  23. Husband still has to get his done
  24. Despite what he may think
  25. They attempt to mate each other
  26. They are brothers
  27. They attempt to mate the dog
  28. Which is ill advised
  29. Just ask next door's cat
  30. Once his head brace is removed
  31. They never ever come when you call them
  32. They do what suits them
  33. They look at you with contempt
  34. They eat all your food
  35. And never thank you
  36. They resemble the rest of the family
  37. Because you would have liked a parakeet
  38. One that said thankyou
  39. And maybe came with gonads pre removed

Friday, 8 October 2010

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

  • Uuggghhhhhh
  • Huh?
  • Oh
  • Hi darling
  • Did you have a good night?
  • A very good night from the looks of it
  • Ummmm
  • Darling
  • It's 2am
  • I'm asleep
  • Night
  • Errr
  • Sweetheart
  • Can you move the kebab off my pillow?
  • That one
  • That kebab
  • The one spilling ketchup everywhere
  • Oh
  • Right
  • That's really kind of you
  • Thankyou
  • Yes I love my kebab
  • It's really kind of you
  • I do appreciate it
  • It's just that it's 2am
  • Can't I eat it in the morning?
  • I do love you
  • Yes I really do feel how much you love me
  • I do want the kebab
  • I love you and I love the kebab
  • I do hear how much you love me
  • Yes I really really love you too
  • I do mean it
  • I do appreciate the kebab
  • Ok just one bite
  • because I love you
  • See?
  • I love you
  • Because I'm sitting up at 2am eating a cold kebab
  • Did you have a great night?
  • How were Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head?
  • Oh good
  • Any sign of a girlfriend?
  • Or a shower?
  • Oh
  • Never mind
  • Did you hear that noise?
  • That noise
  • That scraping sound
  • It's what?
  • What?
  • Here?
  • Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head
  • Well where have you put them
  • Outside our door?
  • On the floor
  • So they can hear everything

Things I Have Said To Pokey, Stu And Bucket Head Tonight

  • Errr
  • Hi Guys
  • Good night?
  • Excellent
  • Excellent
  • Oh thanks
  • Yes lovely
  • I'm really glad you thought to bring me a kebab
  • Yummy
  • I am eating it
  • Yes I love my kebab
  • And I love you all
  • Yes I can feel how much you all love me
  • Yes I love you too
  • Even you Bucket Head, yes
  • Um
  • Well
  • It's just
  • Could I ask that you all put some clothes on?
  • Left them where?
  • Well yes,
  • It was very thoughtful
  • No I wouldn't have liked muddy clothes walking through the house
  • Leaving them outside was a good idea, yes
  • It's just
  • Well
  • Maybe you could have remembered to take your shoes off too
  • And left your pants on

Tuesday, 21 September 2010

Thirty Two Ways To Get Your Boot Camp Instructor To Give You Ten Press Ups

  1. Pretend not to hear when he yells through his loud speaker
  2. Call a taxi mid session
  3. Offer everyone free Starbucks if they stage a sit in with you
  4. Complain
  5. About Anything
  6. Even lack of refreshments
  7. Especially about lack of refreshments
  8. Refuse to 'wake your butt' by slapping it vigorously and with passion
  9. Enquire about the need for passion when slapping butt
  10. Refuse to slap your butt in front of three teenage boys
  11. Joke about slapping other people's butts
  12. Slapping other people's butts
  13. Making up what you ate last night
  14. Arguing that chocolate is raw and therefore counts
  15. Agreeing to work hard and smirking
  16. Smirking
  17. Laughing when doing the plank
  18. Talking when doing the plank
  19. Telling jokes when doing the plank
  20. Not concentrating when doing the plank
  21. Not taking the plank seriously
  22. Doing the plank badly
  23. Failing in plank performing
  24. Bringing gin to a session
  25. Swapping instructors Evian for gin
  26. Laughing at gin spitting
  27. Producing tonic water
  28. And an ice bucket
  29. Taking a picture of instructor swigging gin
  30. Refusing to hand over your camera
  31. Posting gin swigging on facebook
  32. Writing expose stylee blog posts

Tuesday, 14 September 2010

Get Over Here So I Can Kick Your Ass Personally

OK guys, I've signed up for a Bootcamp. At the risk of being accused of attention seeking (moi?) I'm going to give you another chance to read that sentence in lots of little dramatic sentences: I've. Signed. Up. For. Bootcamp. Did you hear me at the back? Audible gasps please and a change of background scenery if you will, to one befitting GI Jane et al, complete with abs you could mistake as breasts. Because that's going to be me! Me! With breast abs and everything. Just imagine, Husband won't know whether to jump me or milk me (a gross too far? Sorry mum).
I still can't quite believe I've done it. I mean, I am far, far away from the ab thing (I won't mention the breast thing again, a case of over milking the cow don't you think?), about several vats of Chardonnay and hours of Oprah reruns away. If I ever do attempt any sort of exercise, and sitting down and standing up count, I only succeed in making everyone else gasp at their own relative super-fitness as I stagger behind sounding like an asthmatic wombat. I did once (once) drag my sorry soggy arse (Americans that's Ass to you, I put it in the title to help, sometimes I'm all heart) on a 5Km race only for it to take so long that the bin men picked me up on their rounds the next morning. By now you're getting the gist: Me+Exercise=Diseased Wombat+Soggy Arse, not an equation I would like to foist on any adolescent maths class.
So I'm quite pleased with myself really, it really shows determination and forward thinking doesn't it? In fact, I'm positively a forward planner, gasp at my organisational skills! Marvel at my strength of character! Envy my multi tasking endeavors! (you have to move arms and legs together you know). In short, this is a fantastic achievement for me.
Obviously I have yet to start the bootcamp, the first session is on Thursday, but still, it says a lot about how far I've come surely?
And I promise I'm going to do it, every week and everything, not least because I've paid £97 for the privilege. Yup, mouths closed please, £97 of my hard earned cash. £97 for someone to kick my ass, and it's not hard to miss; it's been used in emergencies to hold up dams.
I have paid someone to shout at me, make me run around outside, get me muddy, sweaty, laugh at my nail varnish, and generally abuse me in much the manner of a psycho. I have, in short, rented a psycho, one who I plan to meet alone at 8.30am (this just gets better and better doesn't it) in the park. Reading this back I conclude astutely that this may not have been my brightest moment.
Not only all of the above, but psycho shouting person has furnished me with a welcome pack. Do not be fooled dear reader as I was that this welcome pack includes anything so welcoming as a cheery hello or a lighthearted suggestion that I go shopping post haste for some shiny new exercise gear. Crikey they didn't even throw in a free chocolate bar, surely, surely the cornerstone of any great welcome pack?
But oh no, this welcome pack contained a five page diatribe of all things I have to give up: food, chocolate, alcohol, sex, (joke, Husband, joke) during the next four weeks, and all the things I'm expected to do: exercise, not ask questions, run at the double, cry only when instructed and keep an honest food diary.
Which is my sticking point to be honest, I mean how on earth am I expected to keep an honest food diary without lying? I'm working hard on it obviously in case I starve but really, why include the word honest? It's just more abuse as far as I'm concerned, why can't they just say keep a food diary then I can write whatever I like. In fact I'd keep Paula Radcliffe's diary, that'd impress them, think how much praise I'd get for that; they may even furnish me with a medal, Oprah would have me on her sofa, I'd jump up and down on it vigorously shouting "I love it! I LOVE it! Then everyone would know I had a film to promote and go and see it. I'd then have a baby that looked like Katie Holmes and all would be right with the world. See where lying gets you? A Hollywood career and a pretty baby that's where.
Anyway, I've been working through the night and I think I can wing it; I can call chips potato (which is good for you, baked, no butter), ice cream could be frozen fruit dessert (I will put fruit on the chocolate midnight cookie ice cream), dairylea sandwiches could be savory protein spread on wholemeal bread (I will put some wholemeal flour on the white bread), mayonnaise could be egg and olive oil smoothie, wine could be organic grape juice (I will buy organic wine) and pizza could be finest Italian bread with sieved tomatoes and savory protein.
But chocolate? Cake? I'm all out of ideas.
So here's the competition: the best viable alternative names for chocolate and cake wins a picture of me participating at bootcamp*. It'll be worth it I swear**

*may not be picture of author
**not a guarantee

Sunday, 5 September 2010

Things I Have Said To My Parents Today

  • I came as quickly as I could
  • Well it sounded pretty urgent
  • When you phoned
  • You know
  • You phoned about twenty minutes ago
  • Saying get here quickly
  • Well
  • I got here quickly
  • Where's mum?
  • Out?
  • Well what's the problem
  • What chaffing?
  • Where?
  • Oh crikey
  • Just tell me what it's like
  • Uhuh
  • Umm
  • Errr
  • Well dad it sounds like you have piles
  • Piles
  • Haemorrhoid's
  • Little painful sores
  • Where do you think?
  • Around err
  • Around um
  • Well where you said it was painful
  • I'm sure it's nothing to worry about
  • No thanks
  • No no, that's fine
  • I said no
  • Please Dad
  • I don't think an inspection is necessary
  • Oh Lord
  • Well
  • Err
  • Yup,
  • Definitely piles
  • Well I can see them
  • Yes they are impressive
  • I'll take your word that they're worse than mum's
  • Oh Hi Mum
  • Yes it's me
  • Looking at Dad's piles
  • What do you mean you've inspected them already?
  • He said it was an emergency
  • And that you were out
  • You were where?
  • Getting pile ointment?
  • Well why did he get me to come over?
  • Oh
  • To see if they were bigger than mum's
  • Thanks dad
  • I'm sure they are
  • No thanks Mum
  • I really really don't want to compare
  • I wouldn't be useful
  • Or impartial
  • Well I'd probably go blind
  • And have to call a therapist
  • I'm not being dramatic
  • Or over reacting
  • Oh OK,
  • That's a great idea
  • Yes, you call the neighbour
  • I'm sure Barry would love to be the independent adjudicator
  • I'm sure he is very fair at scrabble

Monday, 12 July 2010

Three Rings To Come and Get Us

The children have gone to stay at my parents. This, for most of you out there would be a cause for grand celebration, glorious freedom, a night out with lashings of wine and a spot of sex without locking the bedroom door, I know! Heady times. But over here in Millennium Housewife Country (population: 4, sane residents: 1) it's a tiny bit tense; the time is spent not in the pursuit of lost, youthful hedonism but instead sitting by the phone waiting for it to ring three times. Because that's the signal you see. In case of emergency Isla will surreptitiously pick up the phone at my parent's house, dial our number, let it ring three times and whoosh, we swoop to rescue.
Obviously this is nothing against My Mother, or dad for that matter, it's just she's not a natural Grandmother. When I took a newborn Isla for her first ever visit to Granny, My Mother made us enter the house via the backdoor "In case the neighbours see and think I'm old enough to be a grandma" She hissed, patting her shampoo and set and adjusting her pearls. We were swept into the house at great speed, I was at least heartened by the fact she didn't insist on covering our heads with a tartan blanket in much the same manner as a murderer. Every cloud.
Once in, My Mother ushered us into The Front Room. The Front Room! That deserves a line all of its own don't you think?
The Front Room
If you knew, if you knew of the sancity of the front room you would have given it its own line too. You may even have stood up to salute and applaud and sing the national anthem lustily and with vigour. You see, I've never been in the front room, we weren't allowed; the front room is for best, for guests, it has sofas with the plastic still covering them, a little slippery perhaps but staying put until the pope visits. It has lush, plush carpet untouched by shoes, a chandalier reminiscent of Marks and Spencer's take on Dynasty. Little occasional tables litter the room, nestling under each other like fake mahogany Russian Dolls, doilies adorn every surface, the ubiquitous Portrait of my parents, naked except for mask and snorkels, framed in the finest gilt and lit overhead by a special portrait illuminating light. It was the holy grail of my childhood, glimpsed only on special occasions between legs of grown up aunties and uncles before being ushered upstairs to play with the other abandoned children. If I'd know all it took to get in there was producing a grandchild I'd have done it years ago, which is probably why they didn't tell me.
So, you can see what an occasion it was, it may have taken me nigh on thirty(ish) years to get in, but Isla had managed it in six weeks, just by existing. Life was looking up.
My Mother opened the door formally and invited us in with a slight bow of her head, and then, well, we stood around really. My Mother stood in the centre looking slightly puzzled, resplendent in her smart suit, freshly laundered hair and much loved prostitute boots that she bought from the local transvestite shop (you can't actually buy a transvestite there, just the clothes). She looked at Isla quizzically and quietly offered her a small dish of peanuts and enquired after her health.
"She can't talk you know mother"
"Oh yes, yes of course" she said in an accusing kind of way, and sat down under the portrait and sighed wistfully, "I'm sure you were doing more at this age" she added and mournfully ate a peanut.
"She's six weeks old" I protested, hugging Isla tightly and refusing a gin and tonic
"Still," She said, "I think we had you walking" and at this she attempted to take Isla and demostrate a walking motion.
So that is why we're spending the next few hours sitting next to the phone. Granted Isla and Jack are now walking and talking tolerably well, but I think it's about this age that my parents think a child should be cleaning the guttering out or at least using a power drill to effect. Isla has a list of things they are not to do. And our phone number tattooed on her arm.

Monday, 21 June 2010

Books I Am Planning To Write

  • De Worm Your Family In Seconds
  • How To Ask Your Friends To De Worm Without Giving Yourself Away
  • Concealing Worm Medicine In Sandwiches
  • Sex Education For Six Year Olds - the avoidance approach
  • Sex Education For Six Year Olds - how to defer to your Husband
  • Sex Education For Three Year Olds- how to defer to your six year old
  • Lose Fifteen Pounds Instantly - put your toddler down
  • Get Your Kids Hooked On Veg! alternative uses for nicotine
  • Sex! And Other Ways To Jewelery, Attention and Shoes
  • Talking To Teachers: tuck your shirt in and stand up straight
  • Child Proof Your House: lock them out
  • Crikey Your Pecs Look Good! and other ways to get your husband to do absolutely anything*

*not a guarantee

Saturday, 12 June 2010

Things I have said To My Parents Today

  • Hiya
  • Hellooooo
  • Mum?
  • Dad?
  • Muuuum
  • Daaaaad
  • The doors open
  • It's only me
  • Where are you?
  • Oh Good Lord Jesus Christ
  • Err
  • Hi mum
  • Hi dad
  • Sorry
  • Sorry to er
  • Well disturb you I suppose
  • I'll just
  • errr
  • Look over here
  • La la la la la
  • La la la la la
  • No no
  • No trouble
  • I'm not behaving strangely
  • It's just
  • Well
  • It's not what I expected to see
  • Not in that position anyway
  • I'm sure it was in a book
  • No thanks
  • I really don't want to borrow it
  • I'm sure it is informative
  • With clear illustrations
  • But I don't need the book
  • I'm not embarrassed
  • I'm well aware you're not embarrassed
  • It's just
  • Well
  • What will the neighbours think?
  • Well do you have to do it in the garden?
  • Well you should have stayed in the potting shed
  • I don't care if it was uncomfy
  • Dad's trowel?
  • Stuck where?
  • Oh Good Lord Jesus Christ
  • Sorry
  • Sorry for taking the Lord's name in vain
  • Twice
  • But the Lord would take his own name in vain if he knew about the trowel
  • I don't care what Oprah says
  • Why do you have to listen to Oprah?
  • I'm sure she does give great advice
  • About wallpaper
  • What did she suggest?
  • Spicing things up?
  • Couldn't you just have added curry powder or something?
  • Rather than doing it in the garden
  • In that position
  • Oh
  • OK
  • I'm going to write to Oprah

Things I Have Written To Oprah Today

Dear Ms Winfrey

Please could you do more programmes on things like home makeovers and being nice to other people, you're very good at them. My Mother watches you every day and they're her particular favourite.

Please could you stop doing programmes on sex for older people, specifically ones where you suggest new places for them to do it. The place they used to do it was just fine: in bed with the lights out on a Sunday. That way we all know where we are.

Many Thanks, and keep up the good work,

Millennium Housewife

PS, if you don't stop the sex stuff I'll tell you the trowel story.

Saturday, 29 May 2010

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

  • What are you doing?
  • Right now
  • What were you doing just then?
  • I know you're putting your pants on
  • But they're inside out
  • Oh you know already
  • Right
  • Well
  • Err
  • Why?
  • Why are you putting your pants on inside out?
  • What do you mean you've worn the other side?
  • What other side?
  • The inside bit?
  • You mean you've worn those already?
  • Three days?
  • And now you're turning them inside out
  • To wear the clean side
  • I am not grateful
  • No I should not be
  • I really don't need you to save me washing
  • Because I'd rather you wore clean pants every day
  • It's not bad for your health
  • I don't care what Pokey, Stu or Bucket Head say
  • I'm really not interested
  • What competition?
  • With Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head?
  • A pant competition?
  • Well just tell them you lost
  • Because you have a wife
  • Who has a nose
  • Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head only have each other
  • Well I don't feel sorry for them
  • No they can't come tonight
  • I'm very sorry if they're starved of female company
  • There's probably a good reason for that
  • I'm sure they do say a lot of nice things about me
  • And praise my lasagne
  • But that's because it's the only non takeaway meal they've ever eaten
  • Well you'll just have to un invite them
  • What important job?
  • Me?
  • No
  • I won't do it
  • I'm not judging the pant competition
  • Or washing the winner's pants
  • Well you shouldn't have told them I would
  • I know I'm the only woman in their lives
  • Perhaps if they changed their pants more often they'd find someone
  • What do you mean they tried that?
  • One week?
  • Well of course it didn't work
  • I think it'll take a bit longer than a week
  • And perhaps a toothbrush

Tuesday, 18 May 2010

Hips, Dips And Trips Down The Aisle

Last weekend grandma got engaged. This is not My Mother you understand, the kid's grandma, but my grandma, you know, the 95 year year old who lives in a nursing home. Obviously if it had been My Mother this post would not have opened in such a calm, measured, mature way without a hint of hysteria about it. Oh no, if I were talking about My Mother you would have been treated, nay gifted with a multi paragraphed diatribe on the evils of the older generation; their lack of staying power and commitment; how they expect everything on a plate nowadays without striving; and most importantly how you should never ever remarry once your children know about sex, because that's about all they'll think about once you announce you're about to remarry. And thinking about your parents and the merest hint that they may possibly have a sex life is To Be Avoided At All Costs, because you'll go blind. Or something. It'll be their fault anyway whatever the outcome.
So it's My Mother that gets to do the diatribe thing and obsess over not obsessing about the possibility her 95 year old mother-in-a-home (Delia does a recipe) is planning to tie the knot (to the bedpost - ha ha! Joke mum, joke) and possibly embark on a new spring in her step chapter of her life.
It has, to be honest been a bit of a shock, not helped by the fact that grandma is a bit mental. She regularly attempts to buy plane tickets to Belgium at the nursing home desk, thinks that all biscuits talk but only in Spanish and has an unholy interest in s-e-x (as she calls it before describing select portions of it in interesting detail).
Anyway, it's fallen to me to deal with the whole getting married thing and all it encompasses. There are only so many things I can expect My Mother to do and dealing with her own mother's impending (mental) nuptials and subsequent buying of negligees for the Wedding Night is not one of them.
Firstly I had to visit grandma and her betrothed Vincent on Monday to have The Talk. I approached this as a useful practise session for when I have to have The Talk with Isla and Jack. Husband is not doing this, whatever he says; Jack would simply be furnished with a few choice chat up lines and a bumper pack of condoms, and Isla would be encouraged to marry God.
The Talk was no nonsense and to the point (see how mature I'm getting?) and (obviously) loud, neither of them hearing at a level which would be preferred when discussing intimacies. I encouraged them both to wait until they were married (again! so mature!), not least because if the physical effort finished one of them off all my efforts for the wedding day would be wasted and, more to the point, unappreciated.
I was spared the whole gauntlet of contraception for obvious reasons (and if the reasons aren't obvious you sure did miss biology on the wrong day). But I did ask them to pay particular attention to the fact they've both had hip replacements and to be extra careful when thrusting, and perhaps remove their magnetic arthritis bracelets if attempting anything sub naval. I'm thinking of purchasing them a large road sign to place above their marriage bed saying Mind The Hip. Should do the trick.
I've also begun to plan the wedding; I've found a lovely venue with no steps or loose carpet, they've promised to provide a loud hailer for the speeches and a stand in for the best man should his bunions play up and best of all a couple of commodes dressed as thrones. Very Victoria Beckham. I'll keep you posted.

Tuesday, 11 May 2010

Model Behavior

I have been terribly remiss about updating this blog, I do apologise and I know you will all be breathing a sigh of relief that the absence isn't because of My Mother's bunions again. Thanks to dad's ministering of God-knows-what they're healing nicely (cue global out breath and subsequent raising of CO2 levels, sorry Mr Gore, forget industry, three inch stilettos are where the problem's at).
It's just that I've been lazy, lazy and a little tired. I do love my family, despite what you all may think, and I do love being a stay at home mum, sometimes. But it's been a long time, over six years of being home alone with a baby/toddler/preschooler and I could do with a break. One which doesn't involve finding something new to do with Jack during the day.
Mother and toddler groups just don't cut it anymore. There's only so many times I can stand in a circle, gripping a child's hand to make him/her stay beside me while waving enthusiastically at the teacher during Hello Hello It's Nice To See You; and I'm not sure how long I can stand to look surprised to find my knees again, or how long Jack can put up with me whispering fiercely at him to make him stay during ring a ring o' roses so I don't have to hold another mummy's hand. The biscuits at the end of the session are a small consolation I suppose, but they do insist on giving the children all the good ones and us mummies the ones that look suspiciously wholemeal. I'd do a lot for a custard cream.
Anyway, during one such session last week (where I rebelled a little and neglected to find my knees), I came up with a great idea to make mummy and toddler sessions (there are no daddies in ours) a lot more fun: Male Model Teachers.
Think about it, it's perfect. As Carlsberg would say, this, Ladies and Gentlemen is probably the best playgroup in the world. The Male Model Teachers (TM) could have a uniform of simple, ripped jeans while their torsos could be all oiled and ripped too.
It would mean that the Hello Hello It's Nice To See You song could have a lot more meaning and feel to it, you know? It really would be nice to see them; crikey you'd even arrive early to see whether they actually change into their uniforms at the village hall as the rumours suggest.
Jack and Jill going up the hill would be a chance to snigger quietly as you winked at each other through the version that has them coming (snigger) down with a daughter. And the Goodbye Goodbye song could provide its own opportunity for pathos and real regret as those glistening pecs were put away for another week.
Biscuit time would be changed forever, especially as the wine suggestion was taken up (and paid for generously) by the committee. Conversation would flow as we all waved away the wholemeal biscuits, and failed to look longingly at the custard creams. Who needs custard creams when you're watching your oh-so-slim figure? (this is a fantasy playgroup remember).
I do hate to gloat, but this really is a simple and quite honestly genius way to transform the lives of any stay at home parent. Groups with dads in them could include female models, or any peccadillo really as long as you clear it with the committee. Let me know what you think, and any models out there looking for a change of career, do get in touch, I'm setting up an agency.

Tuesday, 6 April 2010

Judgement Day

I really do miss judging other people's children, little ones I mean. Having two young ones myself, obviously I have to be kind and understanding and nod ruefully at the lamentations of various parents about their child's behaviour. There's absolutely no place for judging, no way. Not even when they're shouting in the supermarket (Because Of Additives), or being bribed in the trolley (Filling Them With Additives), or moaning incessantly about wanting something in a shop (Because They're Spoiled) or throwing one helluva tantrum about going to school (Lack Of Discipline In The Home). You see?I have all these brilliant judgements and no one to pour them on. This is because, as you may well have guessed due to the lack of Parenting Pride themed posts on this blog, it's normally my kids doing all of the above, I am not even able to delete any as appropriate.
But because my kids refuse resolutely to grow up faster than the average child (despite what it said on the tin), I'm stuck with two young ones, and therefore doomed to be Understanding about everyone elses. Especially ones showing behaviour learnt from my two.
Before children I used to have a good old judge of other people's children (and by default their parenting skills) at least once a day. Ahhh, it was a beautiful time of ego boosting as I watched behaviour that my future offspring would never be allowed to get away with. Oh yes, you see I knew all about bringing up children, why, I read the Guardian family section every week, I knew all about the pitfalls of parenting, from psychological damage to paying out too much pocket money. Oh yes, I had it all planned out, including the type of labour they would be expected to do to earn the perfect amount of pocket money for their age.
The only light relief I get nowadays is watching the faces of first-time-pregnant mums when we're out and about. Ok, they're still in a place where they may be able to convince themselves that their child experience will be different (because it just will, ok?); they may even be a little smug, still a little judgemental, but in a slightly wary and rabbit caught in headlights way. Oh yes. Because you see they have yet to have their child, their child that may possibly behave in the manner that my child is demonstrating so exquisitely right this minute. They are well aware that Life May Be About To Change. Thus they are extra careful with their accusing glances and even attempt a child-bonding proffering of sweets or hair ruffle in an attempt to say 'ah, it'll be my turn soon ha ha ha ha.'
Of course they don't believe this, in their (hormone flooded) heads, their children will be awash with rice cakes and good feeling. They will bring colouring books and sparkly stickers to the supermarket with which to entertain their children in a healthy and absorbing manner. They will even, when pushed, agree to an Organix Everything Free biscuit, but only in emergencies.
It is opposite these new-pregnant-mummies that I display my children to the fullest. A peacock if you will, to the pea hen's lair. They daren't complain, they're too busy watching me smirk at their bump and daring them to criticise. I even pull my best parenting stunts in front of them, just to give them some tools for later when their little treasures are burying Bob The Builder in the freezer section. I am adept, you see, at the yanking-one-arm-harsh-whisper-in-the-ear-and chocolate-shoved-in-mouth manoeuvre; regard with Wonder and Approval my removal-of-child's-shoes-to-prevent-running-away display (I made that one up myself); gasp at my mastery of the double-child-hair-pull-with-a-back-twist, I even land with both feet together and a flourish of the arms, sometimes to applause - I know, I'd be wishing I was me too.
Obviously, I can give my judgemental streak a good old scratch now and then at teenagers, but it's just not the same is it? Once you've given birth and screamed for the epidural you swore you'd never want, and failed resolutely to Ohmn the baby out in a restful lotus position, you realise with a vomit laden thud that you're doomed to Be Like Every Other Parent. You are not the special, Guardian Family Section educated, Zen like mother you always thought you'd be. And ergo you may not judge.
Bit of a shock that was.

Friday, 19 March 2010

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

  • No
  • No thanks
  • I said no
  • I don't want to pull your finger
  • Because I know what will happen
  • I do know
  • Because I've been married to you for years
  • It will not be different this time
  • It won't
  • Because I've been married to you for years
  • And every time you pass wind
  • Pass wind
  • It's the polite way to say it
  • I'm not doing it
  • I don't think I'll be pleasantly surprised this time
  • I'm not doing it
  • I'm sorry if you're getting desperate
  • Stop hopping around
  • I know it's trying to come out
  • Well just go to work
  • And do it in the car
  • Sorry if that's no fun
  • And your boss doesn't like it
  • Your finger does not need to be pulled
  • It's not a biological necessity
  • Or a unique quirk of your physique
  • Please don't try to dance your pecs when you say that
  • I'm sure it does impress your boos
  • And the lady at the checkout
  • Because I've been married to you for years
  • Just get ready for work
  • And put your finger away
  • You will not burst
  • I assure you
  • Stop hopping
  • Oh, ok
  • I said ok
  • I will make it a good one
  • Let's just get it done shall we?
  • Give me your finger
  • There
  • All better?
  • What?
  • What was I supposed to be pleasantly surprised about?
  • Oh
  • Well
  • Yes
  • I suppose it is your best yet
  • Yes aged oak with citrus undertones is what I was going for

Saturday, 6 March 2010

Things I Have Said To My Mother Today

  • Oh hello
  • I didn't realise you were coming over
  • No you didn't
  • You didn't warn me
  • Well I'd have remembered
  • And been out
  • Yes I suppose you are here now
  • A cup of tea?
  • Oh OK
  • Yes the milk's fresh
  • What's that?
  • Your own mug?
  • I do wash up properly
  • And use good tea bags
  • You really didn't need to bring your own
  • Why don't you just sit down
  • And stop dusting the door
  • Over there
  • On the chair
  • You don't need to do that
  • Put a napkin on the chair
  • Before you sit on it
  • Because it's clean
  • OK, but just sit down
  • Lovely
  • Errr
  • Mother?
  • Those are interesting boots
  • Hmm
  • Very red
  • And shiny
  • And knee high
  • Yes you were lucky to get them in your size
  • I do like them
  • It's just that
  • Well
  • They're a bit
  • Um
  • Prostitutey
  • It's not a rude word
  • What woman in what shop?
  • Which shop did you go to
  • In town?
  • At the bottom of Mill Street?
  • Err
  • Was this shop woman rather large?
  • And tall for a woman?
  • Any sign of an adam's apple?
  • No, no
  • It's just that it's a transvestite shop
  • Transvestite
  • You know, women's clothes in men's sizes
  • Well some men like to
  • That's how you managed to get large boots
  • Lot's of men do
  • Sorry?
  • I thought you said like dad
  • You did
  • Ah
  • Err
  • I'll just pretend I didn't hear it
  • I'm not being prudish
  • I'd just rather not know
  • Yes I suppose I do know now
  • What girl's day out?
  • You and dad?
  • No thanks
  • I said no
  • I really don't want to join you on your next one
  • Because dad in a dress is not my dream excursion
  • I'm sure he does look very becoming
  • But I'd rather see him in his gardening trousers
  • Like I'm used to
  • I'm very sorry that he finds the look restricting
  • And rather drab
  • But it's just for a while
  • Until I leave the country

Monday, 22 February 2010

How Did That Happen?

It appears I may have started to get old, not old as in stooped and hunched and best friends with the commode but the growing up kind of old. First my best friend's little sister went and rather selfishly turned thirty, reminding me that I must be way over that, and now she's gone and gotten engaged. Engaged! To a real person and everything. She's even having a hen night, one to which I've been invited. I was quite chuffed actually, who wouldn't be? Until she let it be known that they thought a few oldies would help keep everyone in line during the drinking games. Drinking games? Surely she's too young?
Last time I saw her she was even discussing kids, much to my horror, I reminded her that she was expected to keep chaste until her wedding night, just as I and Husband had done. The fact that Isla was born three months after our wedding was a small aberration, Isla was one of those quick growing babies, My Mother was dead impressed, she even called the local paper.
Anyway, secondly, I went to my younger brother's leaving do on Saturday night, he's moving to LA with absolutely no thought as to where I'm going to find a replacement Younger Brother (the position is up for grabs if any of you want to apply, must babysit/wash regularly/be more inhibited when discussing his admittedly impressive love life, if I'm going to hire a new one we might as well go for some improvements).
This party was one of those all dayer things: lunch followed by drinking through until closing then attempting to bribe the barman on bended knees for a lock in (if any police officers are reading this, he said no). Obviously because I am now a Grown Up I couldn't go until the evening due to having Responsibilities. I'd missed lunch but sensibly ate a large carbohydrate dinner just before leaving, we wouldn't like to be drunk in front of the babysitter would we? I then proceeded to drink my body weight in wine (some things qualify as Grown Up even if it doesn't sound too mature) and chatter and laugh in a seemly and discreet manner.
It was about this time that I had my big growing up realisation. You see, I went to the toilet and there was no toilet paper. The old, immature, more drunken me would have yelled into the next cubicle to see if the other toilet user had any, the kindly user would then pass some under the door and we'd have a little drunken bonding session about tissue and pubs (you read that right) and all manner of interesting things. We'd then both exit our toilets and smile in an embarrassed manner because we knew we'd heard the other one wee and now we didn't know what to say to each other. But it would have been fun, and an interesting diversion.
But I was denied all this because I had a little packet of tissues in my handbag, you know, just in case. And that's when it hit me, I'm a grown up, a sensible, tissue carrying, proper contraception using, wine sipping, non shot gulping, going to a best friend's little sister's hen night as an oldie, grown up. Dammit. There's only one more place for me to go before the grave now, I get to turn into My Mother.

Thursday, 11 February 2010

Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Retold.

Once upon a time in a land far away there lived a family of bears, Daddy Bear, Mummy Bear and Baby Bear. They were a little unusual for a bear family however in that they eschewed the traditional bear family set up and attempted to fit in with the local population by donning clothes and living in a house in the woods. They had been vegetarian for some time and Mummy Bear usually dished up bowls of porridge at each meal. She was not known for her vegetable based repertoire and missed the days when a nice fresh salmon would suffice.
One morning Mummy Bear woke late and rushed the usual porridge order serving it up without a thought as to its consistency or temperature. Baby Bear’s porridge, luckily, was just right, but hers was too cool and Daddy Bear’s far too hot, much to his disgust. They decided, as any family would, to go on a nice walk while Daddy Bear’s porridge cools down, by which point Baby Bear’s porridge will be cold and Mummy Bear’s congealed, but hey ho, that’s what you get for appointing Daddy Bear the head of the family.
While away on their walk, from the other side of the forest came Goldilocks. A deceptively sweet looking girl and as yet unfettered by an ASBO, she was allowed to wander freely about the forest. She decided to do a quick break and enter into the Bears’ cottage just to see if they lived on that foreign muck that her mother claimed they did. Goldilocks wasn't sure what foreign muck was, or why it made her Mother sniff so loudly when she mentioned it, but she was going to find out. All rather exciting actually.
On entering Goldilocks spied the uneaten porridge and having only had Coco Pops herself for breakfast, she decided to give it a try. Finding Daddy Bear’s porridge too hot and Mummy Bear’s too cold, she settled on Baby Bear’s and giving no thought to hygiene finished it all up.
Golilocks’ body reacted to the strange, sugar free breakfast and began to shut down, so she decided to go upstairs and have a little rest. On finding the three single beds that the Bear family occupy rather chastely during the night she tries each one out in turn. Daddy Bears is too hard, mainly due to the plank of wood Mummy Bear inserted under the mattress to help his sciatica. Mummy Bears is too soft, she should never have removed the base and given it to Daddy Bear, sciatica or not. Baby Bears turned out to be just right and Goldilocks fell into an oat induced slumber.
On returning from their walk, the Bear family found Baby Bear’s empty porridge bowl. Baby Bear was secretly pleased and crossed his fingers that Mummy Bear had some Crunchy Nut Cornflakes hidden somewhere. In a fit of temper at having their home invaded the Bear family marched upstairs to search for the miscreant. The Bears found Goldilocks asleep on Baby Bear’s bed and roared in an unfriendly and uninviting manner. Goldilocks woke startled, and fearing for her life ran from the house. Mummy Bear managed to snatch at her ankle, but the electronic tag was all she could grab hold of and it came away with ease. Goldilocks disappeared into the forest towards an uncertain future and untimely motherhood. The Bears retired to discuss What The World Is Coming To over a bowl of porridge.

Monday, 25 January 2010

Make Love Not War

My two year old has decided to potty train himself. Yup, I know what you're all thinking: stupid, weak Mummy strap a nappy on with sellotape and bribe with chocolate. I've tried! I've tried! But he figured out that vaseline de sticks sellotape on the first go, and I already bribe with so much chocolate that I suspected myself of attempting the hostile takeover of Cadbury's.
So he remains nappyless, with not a clue what to do without one. All he knows is that Buzz Lightyear (second hand) pants are far preferable to Barbie nappies (I had a lot left over from Isla, everybody swore blind that boys don't notice what they wear. This is no ordinary boy).
I didn't want him to do it, I wanted to wait until he was three, no strike that, I didn't want to do it at all. I've already done one and the dog, and the latter ensured any excreta training of any sort lost it's appeal. In fact, if I had my way, I would have happily (I think) stayed pregnant for a few more years while my unborn weaned and toilet trained himself in utero. In fact, if he'd done a few exercises and generally put a bit of work in, he could have walked out one day all finished, nodding at me with a sullen wave and a mutter of you're so embarrassing and it's not fair and behold I have a teenager all prepared and ready to fly the nest. If I'm honest, giving birth to a teenager seems an attractive option right now, a little more painful perhaps but to have bypassed the potty training bit? You've got yourself a deal.
Why didn't I think of this years ago?If I'd just had a little strength of character and concentrated on panting instead of pushing, I could have been the first woman alive to produce a ready done adult(ish).
Plus, I could have made a mint out of it. Think of all the book deals, titles like Don't push, sit on it and be patient you idiot. All your problems are about to be solved, come abounding to mind. I'm sure there's something snappier out there but be fair, I've only just thought of all this. And surely I could have sold the story to the tabloids? Think of the field day, the boosted sales as all women want to get in on the act. The Sun could even run a competition asking its readers to guess the amount of dilation needed for a teenager. The prize could be dinner with me. Fancy that, being a prize in a paper.
Obviously my newborn teenager will be incredibly embarrassed at all this attention, but hang that, I was pregnant for fourteen years, yes! try coming back from that one boyo. I will have had ample time to prepare for his most hormonal years and will even tolerate his 'Make Love Not War' T-shirt with a wry smile. I know it's not original, you know it's not original, but hey the lad hasn't been around long. When I discovered the Make Love etc slogan I wore it with pride and no bra. Now there's a statement. I thought I was The Girl, The Pacifist, original and braless until My Mother pointed out that it was her generation that came up with the slogan and the idea of going braless.
"And we did dear"
"Did what?"
"Make love not war, it didn't stop the war but it was a lot of fun. That is of course until your father knocked me up and my dad hit him on the head with a nut cracker until he agreed to marry me. He's still got the bump."
Anyway, my Granny informed me that it was her generation that came up with the making love not war thingy, and that they could never afford bras anyway. Granny without a bra, now there's a slogan.

Monday, 11 January 2010

The Ten Commandments

It will come as no surprise to any of you that I routinely spend January making and breaking my New Year's Resolutions. So on Husband's suggestion, I'm going to give myself rules. Rules, apparently, cannot be broken. But we'll see.

  1. Thou shalt not lie with thine son, no matter how much he screams and cries. You will only wake up squashed against the wall with Buzz Lightyear grinning manically at you and a smell of nappy wafting gently through the air. You will get no thanks for this, only more whining and smug satisfaction from Husband that he got the run of the bed.
  2. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wine. They probably didn't pickle themselves in December, and are probably on the same bottle they started last week. You, on the other hand can barely remember Christmas and had to tip the bin men to take the extra recycling box away.
  3. Thou shalt visit thy Granny every week. Despite the fact that she spends the whole time pointing out that the woman in the next bed looks like the transsexual actress from Coronation Street. You will even nod politely as Granny invites the entire ward to meet the actress and wonders loudly about the bits that were removed, even though the lady in the next bed is not hard of hearing.
  4. Thou shalt show an interest in your dad's potting shed. And ignore, to the best of your ability, the porn hidden under the seed trays.
  5. Thou shalt help your Mother clean your house. This will be a bonding time for both of you. You will, under no circumstances, flinch if she mentions: Dog hair, the whereabouts of the box of sex toys she gave you for your birthday, cobwebs, Husband's prolific use of toilet paper, the smell in the bedroom, Dad's virility, lack of suitable cloths, using effective contraception until you find a decent man, how it was when she was a girl.
  6. Thou shalt be on time to pick up Isla from school three times in five, and show the teacher that you're not 'slightly unhinged with OCD tendencies'.
  7. Thou shalt be more understanding and giving when Husband nudges you in the back. Even at 6am.
  8. Thou shalt invite Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head for dinner, and not: Cancel at the last minute, disinfect the house prior to and after arrival, make jokes using words longer than two syllables, request ID, laugh at Husband laughing at them, serve dinner in a bucket, complain about the vomit.
  9. Thou shalt not lie to: the doctor, dentist, giving up smoking nurse, police about the scrape on their car, your Mother about her chances in the lightest sponge competition, Dad about noticing the porn under the seed trays, Dad about porn in his dashboard, Dad in general about porn, Husband about his bald spot or any matter to do with sizing of anything at all. This is a minefield.
  10. Thou shalt not blame hormones for any or all of the following: Lack of libido, cobwebs, takeaway for the fourth night in a row, crying at Notting Hill, crying at Star Wars, crying at any baby passed in the supermarket, chooching babies and making a choochy noise while in the supermarket, elbowing Mothers out of the way to chooch their baby, being irritable when Husband steals your chips, forgetting that you drank the last bottle of chardonnay, being cross for cross's sake, bad driving, mounting the curb while driving, forgetting to indicate while driving, putting lipstick on while driving, gaining ten pounds, spending the mortgage on a dress, writing sarcastic things on your blog.

Thursday, 7 January 2010

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

  • Ooh thankyou
  • I do love Christmas
  • Especially the present getting bit
  • Ooh this one's nice and squishy
  • Is it from you?
  • Lovely
  • Ummm
  • It's very large
  • Err
  • Um
  • Is it a rug?
  • A throw?
  • A what?
  • Slanket?
  • What's a slanket?
  • I'm well aware that I'm holding one
  • But how would one use it exactly?
  • For wearing?
  • It looks like a two large dog rugs sewn together
  • One that the dog would refuse to sit on
  • I wear it?
  • How?
  • Over my head
  • Oh I see
  • Why?
  • Well I'm sure it will be comfortable
  • Yes, yes it's lovely
  • But really
  • Well,
  • It would be just as easy to sew two dog rugs together
  • And put that over my head
  • Yes it would look rubbish
  • Exactly
  • Well I'll give it a go
  • What do you mean there's more?
  • More presents?
  • No
  • Well what then?
  • It's big enough for two
  • Do you mean the two of us?
  • Well I thought maybe you meant you and the dog
  • Well why would we sit in a dog rug together?
  • It's a naked thing?
  • It does not
  • It does not say that on the label
  • Yes I can read
  • Yes it says for naked use only
  • But the handwriting gives it away
  • As does the small pornographic drawing
  • No it doesn't get me in the mood
  • At all
  • I said At All
  • Yes I suppose we could give it a try tonight
  • You've rented a DVD?
  • To watch?
  • Fantastic
  • Well yes I suppose we could watch it naked in the slanket
  • What's the movie?
  • Die Hard
  • I think I'll have an early night
  • Yes you can borrow the slanket