Things I have said to my mother today

• Because I don't know what we're doing 23 weeks on Sunday
• We should be free for dinner, yes
• Hang on, that's near Christmas
• It gets really fixed up
• I know you're fixing us up, but I don't know if we'll be free
• Yes we're free now
• Fine, see you 23 weeks on Sunday
• No, no I was just joking, of course we'll see you before then
• I'm well aware you're only 10 minutes away
• I'm not sure what I want for Christmas
• Because it's June
• I'll have a think and let you know
• No don't think of something yourself
• OK, I'll let you know by tomorrow
• We're just getting over the shock
• Of the burglary
• Yes I know, it was awful
• What do you mean you know just how we feel?
• When were you ever burgled?
• You dreamt it
• That's hardly the same
• Oh it is, right
• Poor you
• I'm so glad victim support were helpful
• And the Samaritans
• Yes I'll give them a call now

I have married my mother

It appears that I may have married my mother. It wasn't immediately apparent at first, but it has shown itself in little winks and nudges over the years until today, when it finally twigged. Yes I have definitely married my mother. Oh dear.
Obviously I haven't actually married her, that would be weird, at the very least illegal, but the emerging similarities between Husband and my Mother are alarming. They both allow themselves a quiet panic (badly disguised) when confronted with my chocolate/chardonnay habit, they both treat texting like it is a form of devil worship (cue more badly disguised panic), both have a penchant for tutting under their breath when the television programme fails to meet their expectation (but never at Ray Mears/Jeremy Clarkson (Husband) Coronation Street/Heartbeat (Mother)), both think that anything the children do beautifully (manners/eating/general genius) is a direct result of their influence while any misbehaviour is down to my parenting skills, and neither has a clue as to how to work a dishwasher. In fact my Mother's dishwasher stands open at all times, gleaming and shining in the light, cleaner than the day it was bought, which it should be, she has never used it. She likes guests to see the inside so that they think that she's so fastidious that she cleans inside the dishwasher (should I point out that it's self-cleaning?) therefore giving the two fingers to Shirley-the-competition who also has a gleaming house/dishwasher and a secret cleaner to help her to do it.
I know about the secret cleaner because Shirley-the-competition has a daughter my age, we were pitched against each other at any opportunity when we were growing up as part of the competition - anything would do, as long as I won at it. The fuse finally blew when we were asked to have a Who Can Write Their Name The Quickest competition and I technically won, having written my first name first, but Shirley-the-competition's daughter went on to write her three middle names and started on the double-barrelled surname which, said her mother, negated the competition due to her daughter's obvious desire to stretch herself while I was obviously quite happy to do the minimum. Cue a fierce but polite row at which us two girls decided to throw in the towel. We were 27.
So here I am, several years free of competitive parenting and enjoying the freedom to tie my shoelaces without a stop watch being bought out. I have sworn many times that my children would never be subjected to the same level of expectation and they haven't. They will probably never appreciate it, having never experienced it, and will look up from their worthwhile job as a street cleaner and judge me for not having invited them to stretch themselves.
Or maybe not. This morning I walked into the playroom where Husband was dressing Isla. You know he said, Isla can put her dress on three seconds faster than last week, he showed me the stop watch as proof. I wonder how fast Matilda can do it, she's coming to stay next week isn't she, we could have a look.
I told you, I have married my mother.

Things I have said to my four year old today

• It's broccoli
• You do like it you have it nearly every day
• It's always been green
• And stalky
• I'll give you an ice cream if you eat your broccoli
• Absolutely I promise
• No I won't buy the green kind again
• I don't think the shop sells pink broccoli but I'll give it a go
• Good now eat your broccoli
• Leave Mummy's tummy alone please
• It is not all nice and squishy
• It's not it's toned and tight
• Stop bouncing teddy on it please
• No you can't dress yourself today
• Because we're in a hurry
• Arm in please
• And other arm
• It's upside down
• Yes I am a bit silly let's start again
• Arm in please
• Other arm
• It doesn't matter it looks good upside down
• Yes you probably would have done a better job
• Pardon?
• Please don't say that again Isla
• About the lady's nice big round bottom
• I know you were being nice
• It is lovely and big
• Ssh about her bottom
• If you have to talk just whisper
• No she isn't going to have a baby
• Can you carry the milk to the checkout please?
• What do you mean daddy says we don't have to pay for milk?
• I'm sure he was joking
• Well just don't mention it to the checkout lady
• Isla I said not to mention it
• I know you whispered but it looks rude
• Why don't you talk about the lady's nice big round boobs?

May Day

So Isla has had her party. I can hear regular readers breathing a sigh of relief, at last! We no longer have to hear about the ruddy birthday, get on with it please! And move on. Ok, but I have to stress, that any frustration you're feeling is incomparable to ours.
We did her proud, the princess theme was carried out right through to the napkins, we even rented a bouncy castle with a (rather dodgy and obviously in breach of copyright) picture of Cinderella on it, tea was set for twelve suitably attired princesses, and games and fun galore were planned.
Two o'clock came and people started arriving to drop off their princesses. Did you hear me? I said drop off. Drop off! Have some time to yourself! Enjoy the next few hours while I offer free, and extremely fun, childcare and food. But no, in came the mummies (some with husbands surgically attached) and refused to leave. I panicked, threw caution to the wind and gaily assumed the role of gracious of course I was expecting you host. Every spare cake was thrown into use and divided into twenty (didn't know you could slice a cake into twenty? Neither did I, I usually cut it into one and eat that slice myself). Tea cups were grabbed from the dodgy-and-chipped-tea-cup collection at the back of the cupboard, I even remembered to empty any spiders and bits of fluff. The spare emergency box of UHT milk was made use of and I improvised like a pro, all the time keeping up what I assume was amusing and interesting chatter in the manner of Frank Spencer. I don't know whether I didn't give anyone a chance, or that my chatter was so entertaining and informative that nobody wanted it to stop, but there was complete silence in the kitchen. I could hear Husband's brain whirring over time Talk! Oh Please! For the love of God, someone talk to someone else, anything to shut my wife up.
I shut myself up, by loudly and musically announcing I was off to the sitting room for party games, and would everyone please make themselves at home and help themselves to some cake.
I left the kitchen in a cloud of false mirth, desperate to face the relatively easy company of twelve princesses. Until I felt behind me a kind of ominous presence. I turned slowly, hoping aginst hope to find a poltergeist, a ghoul with it's head chopped off, anything (anything!) but what I knew I would see. There behind me in a funeral like procession walked the Parents-That-Refused-To-Leave, I almost (almost) stalled, before automatically moving into oh there you are, I thought I'd lost you! mode and beckoned them wildly into the sitting room.
There stood before us a glory of pink and sparkle, not one head was left unadorned, tiaras winked in the sunshine offering hope and, well, more hope I suppose. I picked up the pink CD player that Isla had been given for Christmas and trilled who wants to play some party gaaaames! I even offered a whoop whoop a la Oprah, but stopped short at the you go girl! for fear of looking false.
They stood there, in silence, all pink dresses, twisted knees and turned in toes, the theme for this party should have been awkwardness as opposed to princesses. Friend-from-pre-school Alexa began chewing her tiara, Ava started to cry, no one it seemed, wanted to play, except Isla who was on home territory and couldn't wait to begin.
I turned again (this was beginning to be a theme) and the Parents-Who-Refused-To-Leave stared silently, they didn't even have any cake in their hands, didn't they know how hard I'd sliced, and at great speed? What did they expect me to do? If they had in fact, as expected, left, then I would have danced around manically in a Ko Ko the Klown stylee, roly poly-d like a rabid dog, roared and lept re enacting a lion and gazelle hunt, anything, to get them going. Instead I sheepishly started the CD player, the rendition of Pants! not serving at all to lighten the mood, while Husband and I realised that it was not as cute as first though that Isla knew all the words.
I think you'll find came a well meaning voice behind me that they'll liven up a bit after the tea, a bit of sugar works wonders. Tea? Sugar?But the tea isn't until the end I spluttered, horrified at my gaff. Now, I know that Isla is our first child but our memories can't be that bad surely? Husband and I both remember parties in our day, pass the parcel, musical bumps, no parents watching and the tea at the end before going home time. Who had changed the rules? And not told me?
And sugar? Damn, damn my well meaning rice cakes and raisins, damn Gillian McKeith who haunts my dreams with innovative new TV shows such as Surprise the Inadequate Parent - which one shall we shame tonight? (cue looming large blue finger booming It Could Be YOOOOU) And I knew, just knew, that any sign of a jelly tot or French fancy at Isla's tea, she be down on me like a vulture to a field mouse and take me down in the manner of the Titanic (Jack! Jack!) and film her best episode yet.
Silence swelled about the room like an unwelcome large guest who's stolen from you before and you weren't expecting to ever come back to visit. In desperation I looked around, and spied Husband quivering behind the pink CD player still blaring out Pants! Lenny Henry's voice had never sounded so accussing. We caught each other's eye and I gave him the wink, the one that offered promises of glorious unmentionables later if he would go with me on this one.
Everybody outside! I yelled, in a voice that could have been heard around the globe, I think the monster's hiding on the bouncy castle! Twelve pink slippered princesses leapt into life and screamed appreciatively, Husband gave me a return look that meant said unmentionables were going to be considerable, and after a pint. A flurry of pink jumped onto the castle as Husband went behind to roar in his best I'm going to get you voice. And still the Parents-Who-Refused-To-Leave (from here on known as TPWRTL) refused to leave. They watched Husband give an Oscar worthy monster performance, his red face the only clue as to the humiliation he was enduring. I heard a loud voice, a scratchy desperate one exit my mouth. Tea! Tea is ready! It wasn't, but anything was less painful than this.
I sat twelve princesses down to a barely cooked tea of sausage and chips and watched them eat in silence, watched - silently - by the PWRTLs. But they did start to warm up, it was quite miraculous really. Chatter started, each princess tried to out do the other in how many jewels they had on their tiara, crikey food was even thrown and I was delighted, delighted! Ah, you see, it's not that bad, all they needed was a bit of food. And sugar on the chips.

I cleaned before the cleaner

Oh dear, I cleaned before the cleaner came. Rubbish I know, but it had to be done, really, honestly it did. Now, I'm not one of those lucky housewives who get to have a cleaner every week, oh no. Apparently we don't need one, I have Husband you see to help, and the children, crikey even the puppy chips in. Apparently.
Obviously I didn't give up my career to clean the house, or clear up after everybody else. I gave it up to raise the children, provide them with that much heralded parent (read mother) at home.Oh yes. Cleaning was something we would do in the evenings and at weekends, rather like when we both worked full time. We had a democratic partnership you see. Not for us those pre war roles, we were re-writing the rule book, let's hear it for emancipation! Yeah!
You see, since giving up work, ostensibly I don't work. No! Not a jot! So there's acres of time to clean, and acres of time left to raise the children. Lovely. Lucky me.
So, there we have it, somewhere along the line (clothesline, if you will), I agreed, albeit in stealth like stages that of course I could cook the tea/pop into Sainsburys/pick up the dry cleaning/clean the loo (skid marks a speciality), crikey I'll even spin plates I've so much time. A sunny afternoon with Jack screaming in the trolly, Isla skipping in front getting under the wheels simultaneously undressing Barbie and me picking out the menu for the week (five fruit and veg a day/check all labels/pretend the chicken nuggets are for the dog, you never know if Jamie O or even more hideously Gillian McK might pop up behind you, microphone in hand saying loudly tell me Mrs C, why do you feed your children such hideous junk? Oh the shame). Yep, that's how I envisaged raising my kids, in the supermarket.
So that was it, I gave up cleaning about a month ago. Ahhhhhh.
Ah?
You see I was working on that stupid theory that if you don't wash your hair for a month it becomes self cleaning (it doesn't, trust me, it ends up smelling and anything within a two meter radius gets stuck in it. It's like a living compost bin). So I was going to put up with the slide into rubbish dump mess clinging on to the glimmer ahead that was shiny taps and fresh toilets. I closed my eyes with determination at the old toothpaste gnarled around the tube, hole completely blocked, the only way to dispense any was through a little cut in the side that Husband had made with his nail clippers.
I even turned a blind eye (and nose) to the blocked sink/shower/toilet. Husband blames my long hair, but if that's the only culprit then that would be admitting to being hairier than next door's dog (and she'd kill me, we meet for a glass of wine occasionally).
Gradually I began to despair, any glimmer in the distance was simply an old bottle top that no one had put out for recycling (another thing I have acres of time for). Either way the house looked disgusting, which in turn made me look disgusting. No one else you understand, me. At no point would anyone ever think that Husband allowed us to live in this mess would they? Oh no, he's busy at work, Wife has acres of time.
I booked a cleaner. Ahhhhhhhh.
Ah?
The terror began slowly. What would they think of me (it was so bad the company said they thought they should send two. Two!), how could I let everyone live like this. Oh no! What had I done?
So that was that. I clung on, sat on my hands, drank copious amounts of chardonnay each evening to numb the fear of Friday, Judgement Day, I was not, repeat not (in slightly strangled voice) going to clean.
But no use, Thursday arrived, chardonnay stayed on ice, and I caved (you'll notice I cave frequently, I'm thinking of buying one of those hats with a torch on). Scrubbing brush and bleach in hand I scoured, swept and de-toothpasted the house. It looked fantastic, it said here lives a woman who looks after her family, not for her the shoddy corner cutting of the sloppy housewife. I left no corner cut, not even grazed. Husband came to bed, oblivious to the difference, but then why would he notice, even though he'd just spent a month getting the house just as he liked it? But I noticed, and so would the cleaners.
They came, they cleaned, they made absolutely no comment. No comment at all. Nothing! Where was my praise, my A+, my admiration at being so house proud that even at this level of clean I thought it needed a good going over by professionals? They said absolutely nothing.
Until they left, going down the path: more money than sense said cleaner #1 I know, easiest day I've had in years, you'd think she would have left it a bit, you know, just to get her money's worth said cleaner #2. As I said, more money than sense.
Ah.

Theme tunes I know off by heart

• Balamory
• Big cook little cook (has no one stepped on him yet?)
• Top gear
• Postman pat
• Roooory the racing car (complete with roar)
• Scrap heap challenge
• A question of sport
• Match of the day
• Ray Mear's extreme survival
• Ray Mear's bushcraft
• Country file (?)
• In the night garden (can spell all the names)
• The Tweenies (can identify all the characters including Doodle the dog)
• Roly Mo

Theme tunes I wish I knew off by heart

• Property ladder
• How to look good naked (God bless Gok for trying)
• XFactor
• Strictly come dancing
• Coronation street
• Eastenders
• Emmerdale
• Pushing dasies
• Desperate housewives (they read this blog apparently)
• What not to wear (and wish Husband would watch too)
• It's me or the dog (I relate)

Pramtastic

Apparently you can buy a pram for £880, my friend Catherine saw it on the internet. £880. And that's not for one of those fancy buggy come car seat come cot come first-car-when-they-turn-seventeen. Oh no, this is just a pram. A seat on four wheels to push your toddler around in (or toddler's dolly while toddler walks slower than a mothball admiring every molecule along the route. Twice). Husband reckons he could knock one up in the garage for £4.50 (coming to ebay soon, hold your breath) so by his reckoning, he logics, that's a profit of £875.50. You could buy a small car for that he grumbled into his Horlicks while cleaning his bifocals on his cardi. Quite.

The price is justified, hints the advert, because it's made of leather. You know, that stuff that absorbs water and stays sodden for days even after the slightest down pour, weighing as much as Belgium. The stuff we wear on our feet all day and get for £8 in Tesco. Who on Earth would buy a leather pram? For £4.50 let alone £880? Even if you were a multi millionnarie surely you'd have more sense? This pram is destined to be a walking depository for all things liquid/mucous/crumbly/sticky. It will act as a barrier to big dogs, be rolled recklessly over dirty puddles, be used as temporary highchair/bed/naughty step. Why oh why wouldn't you buy the one that has a wipe clean seat, anti sticky material, a tissue pocket that dispenses perfectly sized tissues for the nose of a toddler, a mini vaccuum cleaner, a dog whistle and a pull out naughty step? Ok it doesn't actually exist but I'd be far more likely to buy it at £880 if it did.

Actually maybe not, it's still an horrendous amount. For £880 it would have to get up with Isla and Jack, bath, feed and de-sticky them, take them to the park itself, buy them an ice cream and stroll back gently so that just the right amount of rocking motion was produced to lull Jack back to sleep. It would then creep quietly back inside, put Isla in front of Cbeebies, Jack into bed and wake me gently with a cup of tea and no chatter. Oh yes, now I see. A pram for £880? Where do I sign?

Second child syndrome

Now I know that this blog has been very Isla-centric up until now. It's not that we don't love and adore Jack, but in many ways the lack of attention we give him is all his fault. If he will sit quietly and sleep through the night, when on earth are we expected to cuddle and coo at him? When he's playing beautifully on his own? When he's eating neatly, self feeding like a pro? No, that would be madness. Now, if he would just make a fuss, cry, scream and generally make his presence felt then he'd get just as much attention as Isla did at this age. More even as Isla would be a third attention giver and earn herself even more stickers for her Barbie fund (she's saving for Ken's Koktail Bar, his only chance since Barbie took the True Love Waits pledge). Anyway, the point is that Jack is our second child and, just as all parents with second children warned us, he comes second.
It's all so scary with your first, with the second you begin to relax a little, mainly because you know his eye isn't going to bulge out if you throw him in the air, or stop breathing just because you stopped watching. But also because the older one already has a schedule (yes a schedule, mock me if you dare but it's fab, taped up on the fridge even. I hope you're never late for Circus Club). You can't rock him to sleep with a bottle at 9.30am and put him down for two-hours-uninterrupted, there are places to go, teachers to smile at, hats and coats to hang up, schedules to keep up with. Now, I don't know about you, but Isla is three years older than Jack and three years is a lot. We had acres of time to fill in those three years, I couldn't keep a live spot open just in case another child came along. So our week is filled I'm afraid, and Jack has had to fit in.

It was so different with Isla, we'd never had to worry before. Worry was something that our parents did that annoyed us greatly and we had to tiptoe and lie around. Husband's mother still doesn't know about his motorbike in the garage. He's thirty-three. (Perhaps we'll tell her on her death bed Husband said bravely, except that'll probably be what does it). Anyway the point is that with each consecutive child things tend to get more relaxed. Friends with three children cheerfully inform me that they'd let their third child juggle knives (First Child was only allowed a plastic spoon until she was ten). In fact if said knives happened to chop a leg half off they'd tell them to go to the doctors themselves. They may give them the bus fare but only if the leg couldn't be walked on and there was no faking-to-get-out-of-school going on.
When Isla first needed to go to the doctor Husband took a day off (took a day off!), it sounds absurd even now and I was half of the decision making process. He even took it as annual leave rather then try to pull a sickie, he couldn't trust his acting abilities under such worrisome circumstances, afterall she had a slightly pink eye.
We arrived at the doctors that day with Isla bundled up in blankets taken fresh from the airing cupboard to ward off any chill and bundled her in, expecting to be fast tracked like the families with terribly hurt children in Holby City. We had to wait like everyone else which did nothing for our heart rates or husband's worry line. Eventually the two of us walked into the doctor's surgery and carefully unwrapped our treasure. It's a bit of a sore eye doctor said Husband in a slightly choked voice, the doctor took an implement and proceeded to look into Husband's eye. To be fair it was quite pink from holiding back tears, and watery. Not mine, Isla's, said Husband. The doctor asking which eye was not the crowning glory of our day but he did eventually look at Isla's diseased eye and generously tutt tutted before asking us to keep and eye on things and bring her back if it developed any pinkness. Thankyou doctor said Husband rising from his seat, I took the day off just in case. Very laudable the doctor muttered in the kind of voice that said he was going to have a good laugh about this with the receptionist later.
Trying to muster a little of our dignity back I chuckled in an embarrassed way and mentioned that Isla was our first child and that we'd be letting our third juggle knives and bring himself to the doctors on his bloodied stump. Quite said the doctor, in the kind of voice that said he'd be asking the receptionist to call social services if I ever mentioned I was pregnant with a third child.
As our second child, Jack is taken to the doctors by me and me alone. Not because we don't worry as much (Husband has two worry lines now and has started buying hair follicle thickener and making me photograph the crown of his head evey month) but it just isn't so alien and scary taking care of this second human being. And anyway, the doctors is near Circus Club and fits right in with the schedule if we only take him on a Thursday. Perfect.

April fool

What on earth have we done? What possessed us? Aren't we busy enough already? Honestly, sometimes I look at my mother, shake my head and think you taught me nothing. Why oh why did two sane, intelligent grown ups agree to a (nearly) four year old's request for a puppy. Called Twizzle especially. It's rule #1 in the parents guide book surely; do not ever, ever agree to a pet until your child is of an age to take care of it themselves (about 52 should be old enough).
We already have a spouse each (one of whom has limited self-care abilities as it is), two children, one mortgage, one (official) job, one (apparently voluntary) job, one MSc course, three credit cards and a car loan. Why not a puppy! Throw him in to the mix, that'll stir things up nicely, we don't have enough to do anyway. It's like adding TNT to a box of fireworks and used nappies and then throwing in a match for good measure. Just watch it hit the fan ladies and gentlemen.
I'm the only one in the household who was slightly reluctant to have a dog, and yet somehow it is me that seems to have a dog, and only me. Oh yes, Isla plays with him sometimes, she likes to stroke him and generally do anything that is pleasant with a puppy. Husband adores him; he's a lovely treat to come home to after a long day just as Twizzle is winding down and being cute, and Jack thinks he's a big toy. I am the only one that has a second baby to care for. Because that's what he is. A small furry baby. Jack and Twizzle are alike in so many ways: they're both small enough to trip over frequently, neither understand danger, personal hygiene or irony (I've wasted some corkers, I tell you), both sleep and feed regularly but never to suit you, they both whine to get up at 6.30 in the morning to fall promptly asleep again at 8 (just when I would like to be getting up), neither understands a word I am saying or anything about the world except food, sleep and treats. Both treat this house like a hotel/toilet, eat off the floor, eat the other's food and throw up and generally treat me as their cook/chamber maid/personal hygeine manager (come to think of it so does everyone else in the family).
Except Twizzle is harder work than Jack, I promise. The fact that I can't put a nappy on him is a little galling. At least Jack's mess stays (mostly) where he's deposited it, rather than being dragged through the house and up the stairs. Jack can come anywhere with me and is reasonably welcome in most shops (that incident in Ann Summers notwithstanding). And although tying Jack up outside Sainsburys would be a little frowned upon around here, taking Twizzle into Sainsburys would cause a near riot (they'd have a point, I haven't cleaned his paws since the last digestion incident). And Twizzle has a full set of teeth. Sharp ones. Jack has been straining to grow his three teeth for the last ten months. I'm really proud of him. Twizzle arrived with a full, glistening set and absolutely no sense to go with them. He uses them frequently. On me.
So a moment of pure madness, one weak moment trying to please our little girl has resulted in this. Nine possibly ten years of my very own dog to look after. Actually strike that, the teacher at creche says her Spaniel is fifteen. Ooh lucky me, fifteen whole years of a dog to myself, whoo hoo! I bet he gets old and smelly really young.