- 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
Thursday, 24 April 2008
Theme tunes I know off by heart
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)
Thursday, 17 April 2008
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?
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?
Thursday, 3 April 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, 1 April 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, 25 March 2008
We bought the dog I'm afraid
Judge me at your leisure. We caved, gave in to insurmountable pressure, looked into those large brown eyes and said the immortal word: Yes. Oh dear, the look in Isla's eyes the moment we agreed to get her a puppy said it all (cue sing song voice) once you've said it you can't take it ba-ack tralla tralla tra, we didn't take it back, we took her instead to choose a puppy.
Now, don't get me wrong, this was a well thought out decision. I knew in advance that all the work would fall to me and all the playing/stroking/feeding to Isla (for the first week at least until the novelty wore off and then my job description would absorb the playing/stroking/feeding bit. I have acres of time you see to devote to a boistrous puppy. Acres.) Anyway, Husband and I had thought and thought, discussed, discussed some more and came up with two lines: How hard can it be really? and Other people do it, so I'm sure we can. I should have heard the warning drone in my ear. I had said those lines before, about five years ago. Right before deciding to come off the pill.
The problem is that those lines work, you can convince yourself of anything with them. Nobody likes to think that they can't do something lots and lots of people are doing (and with apparent ease - ah the illusion) and nobody ever, ever reckons on something so cute being hard work. I mean children/dogs just play at your feet don't they? As long as they have a loving home and food to eat you can't go wrong. (Anyone saying this to you from now on, please direct them to this blog). It was a fait accompli really, you can't combine big brown eyes and a challenge to do better than others and not cave. A puppy it was.
Regular readers will know that Isla has had this puppy in her head for a while, she's even promised Barbie a matching one, with a matching name: Patch. That's right, Patch. So, given that she wanted to call the puppy Patch we looked for a breed that commonly has some sort of patch. Any sort would do, a freckle would suffice, anything to save our embarrassment in the park of a dog called Patch without a patch.
When we arrived to see the puppy he was, thankfully, covered in patches, he couldn't move for them, there are at least a hundred marks that could decently be called a patch. Excellent, onward we go. Isla loved him immediately, picking him up and playing chase. It was a touching scene, worth all the worry and decision making. Do you want to take Patch home? Asked Husband smiling. Isla looked alarmed at Patch, then at Husband and informed him in no uncertain terms that Patch was so last season (she even tossed her hair at him! How, why, where did she learn to do that? She's so darn good at it. Perhaps she'd teach me?) His name she announced (more hair tossing, I'm considering chopping it off in her sleep), is Twizzle. Twizzle. Great. Thanks. Cheers Isla. No one would ever feel embarrassed calling out Twizzle in a loud across-the-park voice. In fact I know at least four other dogs called Twizzle, Twizzle is so last year let alone last season. It didn't wash I'm afraid, something to do with the way I toss my hair seems to give away the fact that I haven't a clue as to last decade let alone last year.
The only way around it, Husband and I agreed, is to actually teach Twizzle to twizzle. We could summon him across the park accompanied by a light waltz from the ipod. He could twizzle towards us much like those dogs at Crufts who dance with their owners. We'd look great, exemplary pet owners and parents - fresh air, exercise and classical music for our brood. A little effeminate though was Husband's worry. More effeminate than naming your dog Twizzle and shouting it across the park? Quite. We'll see you at the park. And let this blog be a lesson to you all about giving a nearly-four-year-old too much power. It's too late for us now, but save yourselves.
Now, don't get me wrong, this was a well thought out decision. I knew in advance that all the work would fall to me and all the playing/stroking/feeding to Isla (for the first week at least until the novelty wore off and then my job description would absorb the playing/stroking/feeding bit. I have acres of time you see to devote to a boistrous puppy. Acres.) Anyway, Husband and I had thought and thought, discussed, discussed some more and came up with two lines: How hard can it be really? and Other people do it, so I'm sure we can. I should have heard the warning drone in my ear. I had said those lines before, about five years ago. Right before deciding to come off the pill.
The problem is that those lines work, you can convince yourself of anything with them. Nobody likes to think that they can't do something lots and lots of people are doing (and with apparent ease - ah the illusion) and nobody ever, ever reckons on something so cute being hard work. I mean children/dogs just play at your feet don't they? As long as they have a loving home and food to eat you can't go wrong. (Anyone saying this to you from now on, please direct them to this blog). It was a fait accompli really, you can't combine big brown eyes and a challenge to do better than others and not cave. A puppy it was.
Regular readers will know that Isla has had this puppy in her head for a while, she's even promised Barbie a matching one, with a matching name: Patch. That's right, Patch. So, given that she wanted to call the puppy Patch we looked for a breed that commonly has some sort of patch. Any sort would do, a freckle would suffice, anything to save our embarrassment in the park of a dog called Patch without a patch.
When we arrived to see the puppy he was, thankfully, covered in patches, he couldn't move for them, there are at least a hundred marks that could decently be called a patch. Excellent, onward we go. Isla loved him immediately, picking him up and playing chase. It was a touching scene, worth all the worry and decision making. Do you want to take Patch home? Asked Husband smiling. Isla looked alarmed at Patch, then at Husband and informed him in no uncertain terms that Patch was so last season (she even tossed her hair at him! How, why, where did she learn to do that? She's so darn good at it. Perhaps she'd teach me?) His name she announced (more hair tossing, I'm considering chopping it off in her sleep), is Twizzle. Twizzle. Great. Thanks. Cheers Isla. No one would ever feel embarrassed calling out Twizzle in a loud across-the-park voice. In fact I know at least four other dogs called Twizzle, Twizzle is so last year let alone last season. It didn't wash I'm afraid, something to do with the way I toss my hair seems to give away the fact that I haven't a clue as to last decade let alone last year.
The only way around it, Husband and I agreed, is to actually teach Twizzle to twizzle. We could summon him across the park accompanied by a light waltz from the ipod. He could twizzle towards us much like those dogs at Crufts who dance with their owners. We'd look great, exemplary pet owners and parents - fresh air, exercise and classical music for our brood. A little effeminate though was Husband's worry. More effeminate than naming your dog Twizzle and shouting it across the park? Quite. We'll see you at the park. And let this blog be a lesson to you all about giving a nearly-four-year-old too much power. It's too late for us now, but save yourselves.
Sunday, 9 March 2008
(The seemingly endless list of) Things I have said to my husband today
- What's that look for?
- I saw it
- You can pretend as much as you like but I saw you pull that face
- It's just cabbage
- I haven't given you much
- Isla's eaten all hers
- Well done
- What do you mean I sound like your mother?
- No, I want to know what you meant
- What was that?
- It wasn't nothing
- You said something under your breath and I want to know what
- I do not nag
- I care about you that's all
- Ice cream doesn't say I care
- No it doesn't
- I don't nag I explain
- If you want to live like a pig you can
- That's a good pig impression well done
- You grunt away I'm not listening
- Please stop grunting in my ear
- Ask Isla not to grunt
- Now look what you've taught her
- No you aren't a good influence
- No you aren't, you've just taught her to grunt at mummy
- It is not clever it's rude
- Can you put your tie in the wardrobe?
- You just flung that in
- Why do you think I got you that tie hanger?
- It was not a rubbish present
- Nintendo DS's don't keep your ties tidy
- Are you alright?
- It's just you've spent most of the morning in the toilet
- With the sports section
- There's some prunes in the cupboard if you need them
- No, no I was just saying
- Well, it was a long time
- I managed all the clearing and washing up in the time, that's all
- I just wondered if all was working as it should
- I saved you the drying up
Wednesday, 5 March 2008
Losing it
My friend from preschool came up to me this morning, and before you laugh, yes, I have a friend, we've bonded over finding the whole talking outside the school thing quite challenging. So in true friendship fashion we sit each morning in our respective (warm) cars and ignore each other and everyone else until we absolutely have to get out. Only then do we chance a quick smile and chat as we usher in our children.
Anyway, she looked worried. Just this morning, she confided through the corner of her mouth, she'd lost it with her boys. Shouted. Screamed. And get this she whispered, thrown all their toys out of the window. The fear was palpable, the light sweat on her forehead belying the cool exterior of the mummy-out-and-about.
Fair enough this was good going for before 9am, but really, toys out the window? That's nothing! I've torn heads off Barbies, thrown perfectly good princess tippy toe shoes in the bin, thrown toys out of the car window (there's a lot of throwing it feels really good), made an Easter egg sandwich and thrown (yes) it onto the table shouting 'there's you bloody dinner, happy now?' And before you phone social services, I don't know any mother that hasn't done similar things.
It's just what happens, it doesn't do the children any harm (well none that they can't see a therapist about later on), in fact, we tell ourselves, it's good for them to see that mummy has a line (a good line in throwing especially).
I was listening to an awful, pompous man on radio four the other day (and I know that's probably what I get for listening to radio four), and he was chatting to a woman who was worried about losing it with her sons, apparently she shouts at them, shouts. OK, I was waiting for the next bit but there wasn't one. Shouts? That's nothing! I've.. (see earlier list). Anyway the point of this bit is that the pompous I've-never-stayed-at-home-on-my-own-with-the-children-day-after-day-while-other-people-get-to-be-citizens-of-the-world man asked her is if she would ever lose it public, say in Boots? No, she replied, well then he said, you can control it. Sorry? The taste of chalk and cheese stuck painfully in my throat. Boots? But there are so many more options available in Boots. Shelves and shelves of things to accidentally sweep to the floor (I've managed a whole aisle), shopkeepers to smile at as you drag your child away from the teletubby bubble bath into the corner for a good shouting at. In fact you can feel like a good mummy in Boots (and it doesn't have to be Boots either, I've done it lots of times in Thorntons). Look, you are saying as you raise you voice without embarrassment, I'm a zero tolerance mummy, I stand up to my children and lay down the Law. Hoorah for me, you won't be seeing me on Super Nanny, (though you're hoping that they didn't see last Summer's episode that you starred in, and have obviously failed at miserably hence the Boots/Thorntons tantrum). You see, when you're out in public it's not other people that stop you losing it and carrying out bizarre and, let's face it, pretty stupid punishments (it took me ages to glue Barbie's head back on, and Easter egg sandwiches have had to become part of the weekly menu), it's that other people mean company, freedom, space. A good disciplining can be admired, taken note of, I'll try that shouting-in-the-corner-thing myself you can hear people thinking, I'd look really good doing that. At home there is nobody around to admire your handiwork, and nowhere else to go but bizarre. Four walls leave you with no option , when you've tried everything else, sometimes you have to lose it, let it go, take it out on Barbie (you never liked her anyway), do whatever it takes to lose control without actually losing control. It's the only way. And if you don't agree then you don't have children.
My brother in law, Alec, has been staying with us for the last few days and I haven't lost it once. Not because I'm being polite, we know each other far too well, but because I've had some company. I don't mean to insult Isla and Jack here, they're lovely company, but it's been nice to have some that I didn't also have to feed/wipe/bath/nappy (although it's been close, he's not that domesticated). He's been someone to chat to (at), he's played with the children while I 'got on with things' (oh how blissful to actually get on with it all), he's held the baby to stop him crying instead of me holding him in one arm, pushing the dummy in with the other and stirring the sauce with my toes. He's even read stories, made mud pies, tickled, played 'you can't catch me' for two hours and generally entertained in the manner of Koko the Klown all day. It's been great, everyone should have a visitor that isn't child-jaded (it took him going to South Korea for a year but still). It has, in a nutshell, been blissful. And it's going to carry on for sometime, I've hidden his passport.
Anyway, she looked worried. Just this morning, she confided through the corner of her mouth, she'd lost it with her boys. Shouted. Screamed. And get this she whispered, thrown all their toys out of the window. The fear was palpable, the light sweat on her forehead belying the cool exterior of the mummy-out-and-about.
Fair enough this was good going for before 9am, but really, toys out the window? That's nothing! I've torn heads off Barbies, thrown perfectly good princess tippy toe shoes in the bin, thrown toys out of the car window (there's a lot of throwing it feels really good), made an Easter egg sandwich and thrown (yes) it onto the table shouting 'there's you bloody dinner, happy now?' And before you phone social services, I don't know any mother that hasn't done similar things.
It's just what happens, it doesn't do the children any harm (well none that they can't see a therapist about later on), in fact, we tell ourselves, it's good for them to see that mummy has a line (a good line in throwing especially).
I was listening to an awful, pompous man on radio four the other day (and I know that's probably what I get for listening to radio four), and he was chatting to a woman who was worried about losing it with her sons, apparently she shouts at them, shouts. OK, I was waiting for the next bit but there wasn't one. Shouts? That's nothing! I've.. (see earlier list). Anyway the point of this bit is that the pompous I've-never-stayed-at-home-on-my-own-with-the-children-day-after-day-while-other-people-get-to-be-citizens-of-the-world man asked her is if she would ever lose it public, say in Boots? No, she replied, well then he said, you can control it. Sorry? The taste of chalk and cheese stuck painfully in my throat. Boots? But there are so many more options available in Boots. Shelves and shelves of things to accidentally sweep to the floor (I've managed a whole aisle), shopkeepers to smile at as you drag your child away from the teletubby bubble bath into the corner for a good shouting at. In fact you can feel like a good mummy in Boots (and it doesn't have to be Boots either, I've done it lots of times in Thorntons). Look, you are saying as you raise you voice without embarrassment, I'm a zero tolerance mummy, I stand up to my children and lay down the Law. Hoorah for me, you won't be seeing me on Super Nanny, (though you're hoping that they didn't see last Summer's episode that you starred in, and have obviously failed at miserably hence the Boots/Thorntons tantrum). You see, when you're out in public it's not other people that stop you losing it and carrying out bizarre and, let's face it, pretty stupid punishments (it took me ages to glue Barbie's head back on, and Easter egg sandwiches have had to become part of the weekly menu), it's that other people mean company, freedom, space. A good disciplining can be admired, taken note of, I'll try that shouting-in-the-corner-thing myself you can hear people thinking, I'd look really good doing that. At home there is nobody around to admire your handiwork, and nowhere else to go but bizarre. Four walls leave you with no option , when you've tried everything else, sometimes you have to lose it, let it go, take it out on Barbie (you never liked her anyway), do whatever it takes to lose control without actually losing control. It's the only way. And if you don't agree then you don't have children.
My brother in law, Alec, has been staying with us for the last few days and I haven't lost it once. Not because I'm being polite, we know each other far too well, but because I've had some company. I don't mean to insult Isla and Jack here, they're lovely company, but it's been nice to have some that I didn't also have to feed/wipe/bath/nappy (although it's been close, he's not that domesticated). He's been someone to chat to (at), he's played with the children while I 'got on with things' (oh how blissful to actually get on with it all), he's held the baby to stop him crying instead of me holding him in one arm, pushing the dummy in with the other and stirring the sauce with my toes. He's even read stories, made mud pies, tickled, played 'you can't catch me' for two hours and generally entertained in the manner of Koko the Klown all day. It's been great, everyone should have a visitor that isn't child-jaded (it took him going to South Korea for a year but still). It has, in a nutshell, been blissful. And it's going to carry on for sometime, I've hidden his passport.
Saturday, 1 March 2008
The Ball Commitee
Isla has begun what can only be described as a daily bulletin regarding her birthday. The bulletin takes two forms; What I Want To Do and What I Would Like For My Presents (note the plural).
What she would like to do for her birthday party has progressed from the relatively simple (in hindsight) 'dress like a princess' to a full on Princess Ball 'like Cinderella has'. She chaired the first meeting of the Ball Committee last night, elected herself as Chair, me as Secretary and Husband as Treasurer, sounds about right, long live democracy. Apparently her vision for the ball is all the girls in long floaty Princess dresses, party food and a princess bouncy castle- which sounds expensive to me, I have yet to Google it but I can just feel it can't you?
Upon discussing the risk assessment that she had undertaken and presented to us regarding her party, Husband and I unveiled a major flaw. It turns out Isla is expecting a host of appropriately dressed and behaved princes to waltz the princesses around the ballroom (read: garden). Excellent. No problem. Eight princes-who-can-waltz aged about four, even Google can't help on this one.
The obvious answer is to invite all the boys from pre-school, but not only are 'all boys banned' (what on Earth does she think a prince is?) but I doubt that they are as enthusiastic about waltzing as Isla is (she practises every evening with daddy), I just can't imagine any of them in a tuxedo executing the perfect bow to Isla and whisking her off for a dance at all. So we're a bit stuck on this one. Husband thinks we should hire eight small people (I’m not sure how to put that politically correctly) to be the princes but that sounds even more expensive than the princess bouncy castle. Even so, after writing this I'm off to Google 'small people' just to check it out as an option.
What she would like as her presents centres around one central theme: a dog called Patch. Not only have we got to find her and buy her a dog it's got to have a Patch to justify the name. We're going to feel really silly calling out to 'Patch' in the park only to have a blemish free Labrador rush up to greet us. Very silly. Anyway, all the other presents have to do with Patch; a bed for Patch, a bowl for Patch, a lead for Patch and clothes for Patch. Yes, that's right, clothes. Apparently Patch is a girl and likes to dress like Barbie. Fab. A patch-free dog called Patch who dresses like a hooker. Can't wait.
We've explained, of course, that a dog isn't really a possibility at the moment citing any argument we could think of. But, being Isla, she has a counter one every time, she even announced at the Ball Committee that an extra to the agenda had been added and we now have 'Patch update' before retiring to vote (Isla's vote counts twice). We thought we'd finally gotten it through to her by explaining that the garden was far too small for a dog, and we'd get one when we had a bigger garden. But I came into the kitchen yesterday to find her Googling Estate Agents on the laptop. I'm looking forward to the Committee Meeting tonight, she's going to tell us where we'll be living next week.
What she would like to do for her birthday party has progressed from the relatively simple (in hindsight) 'dress like a princess' to a full on Princess Ball 'like Cinderella has'. She chaired the first meeting of the Ball Committee last night, elected herself as Chair, me as Secretary and Husband as Treasurer, sounds about right, long live democracy. Apparently her vision for the ball is all the girls in long floaty Princess dresses, party food and a princess bouncy castle- which sounds expensive to me, I have yet to Google it but I can just feel it can't you?
Upon discussing the risk assessment that she had undertaken and presented to us regarding her party, Husband and I unveiled a major flaw. It turns out Isla is expecting a host of appropriately dressed and behaved princes to waltz the princesses around the ballroom (read: garden). Excellent. No problem. Eight princes-who-can-waltz aged about four, even Google can't help on this one.
The obvious answer is to invite all the boys from pre-school, but not only are 'all boys banned' (what on Earth does she think a prince is?) but I doubt that they are as enthusiastic about waltzing as Isla is (she practises every evening with daddy), I just can't imagine any of them in a tuxedo executing the perfect bow to Isla and whisking her off for a dance at all. So we're a bit stuck on this one. Husband thinks we should hire eight small people (I’m not sure how to put that politically correctly) to be the princes but that sounds even more expensive than the princess bouncy castle. Even so, after writing this I'm off to Google 'small people' just to check it out as an option.
What she would like as her presents centres around one central theme: a dog called Patch. Not only have we got to find her and buy her a dog it's got to have a Patch to justify the name. We're going to feel really silly calling out to 'Patch' in the park only to have a blemish free Labrador rush up to greet us. Very silly. Anyway, all the other presents have to do with Patch; a bed for Patch, a bowl for Patch, a lead for Patch and clothes for Patch. Yes, that's right, clothes. Apparently Patch is a girl and likes to dress like Barbie. Fab. A patch-free dog called Patch who dresses like a hooker. Can't wait.
We've explained, of course, that a dog isn't really a possibility at the moment citing any argument we could think of. But, being Isla, she has a counter one every time, she even announced at the Ball Committee that an extra to the agenda had been added and we now have 'Patch update' before retiring to vote (Isla's vote counts twice). We thought we'd finally gotten it through to her by explaining that the garden was far too small for a dog, and we'd get one when we had a bigger garden. But I came into the kitchen yesterday to find her Googling Estate Agents on the laptop. I'm looking forward to the Committee Meeting tonight, she's going to tell us where we'll be living next week.
Thursday, 21 February 2008
The God of small socks
I have 29 odd, small socks in my laundry basket. I've just counted (it's a slow day). Why? Why? Where are they? Who has taken them? Is there somewhere, in a parallel universe, another laundry basket with all the matching pairs in? I want to stage a protest outside Mothercare, Gap, Next and anywhere else they sell baby socks. Stop selling them, they don't work! I'd like to meet anyone, anyone! who has ever held onto a matching pair of baby socks (and it's cheating if you bought lots of pairs of the same socks). No matter what you do, however carefully you apply said socks in the morning, by the evening one of them will be gone. And that's the weird thing, it's only ever one of them. I'd understand it more if it was the pair: obviously someone is stalking me secretly and stealing the socks from Jack's feet when I'm not looking. But one? No, that doesn't make sense. Who would stalk me to steal only one sock, only a crazy person and the only one I know is my mother. But she hates socks, so it can't be her.
I have tried to observe at close quaters the transition from socked foot to un-socked foot that occurs through the day but to no avail, yes, sometimes I catch a live one just about to drop and deftly return it to it's correct positioning but the euphoria is short lived. However vigilant I am the sock always manages to exploit a weak moment (usually involving chocolate) and escape with admirable speed and skill.
I do know that Jack has especially wriggly feet, in A&E (ER to my American readers) yesterday (oh so much you don't know, more of that another time) the nurse tried valiantly to take his blood pressure with one of those things that attach to your finger. Only with babies they put it on their toes. Jack kept the non monitored foot very, very still but wriggled his monitored foot with gusto, not what you want when trying to accurately record data. I held his foot, he wriggled only the toes, I held his toes except for the monitored one, he wriggled the monitored one. Fab, we had a quick guess at what his blood pressure might be and reached the conclusion that he was fine. Anyone who could wriggle their feet with that much vigour can't be particularly damaged. (Or can they? Cue the dark of night, lying awake, and the thought that wriggly toes might be the first sign of brain damage doesn't do much for insomnia. I also worried about a future of arthritic toes, it was a busy night).
Anyway, while I acknowledge Jack's excessive toe wriggles I don't accept it as an explanation for the phenomenon, simply because Isla's toes were literally comatose (sorry) in comparison, and she reached the heady heights of losing two-socks-a-day (not matching ones, she was my first child and I stupidly replaced the missing one with a new matching pair, my mother has never recovered). So the parallel universe theory still stands I'm afraid. And before you think you can come up with another, less other worldy, explanation, hear my final argument: you never, ever see single socks while out and about. Think about it, how many times have you come home and noticed the baby has lost a sock again? Answer: Lots. But, how many times have you been out and found single socks? Answer: Almost never (never in my case). So that proves it, there must be some big, black hole that suctions up any baby sock the minute it's wrested free from a tiny foot. It's the only logical conclusion. Can you think of a better one? Me neither.
I have a solution though, I've tried and it works: every new pair of socks you buy, sew a long piece of string (or wool, it's your choice) between them, therefore attaching them to each other. Genius. Then, when dressing baby, put one sock on and thread the other sock up through the trousers (or skirt, it's so much easier with a skirt, who cares if people call Jack she?) and down to the other foot. Place the second sock on this foot. Do you see? It's fool proof, if ever a sock drops off it's attached to the other one, and, if the child's in trousers, trapped in the clothing. Let's say one did get lost (it's unlikely but not impossible) it will never just be one, the second will have to go with it, this renders the odd-sock-laundry-hamper useless, and is beginning to save my sanity. It's perfect. The only place to go with the idea now it to apply it to my husband's socks, although I'm not sure how well he'll take the string intrusion.
I have tried to observe at close quaters the transition from socked foot to un-socked foot that occurs through the day but to no avail, yes, sometimes I catch a live one just about to drop and deftly return it to it's correct positioning but the euphoria is short lived. However vigilant I am the sock always manages to exploit a weak moment (usually involving chocolate) and escape with admirable speed and skill.
I do know that Jack has especially wriggly feet, in A&E (ER to my American readers) yesterday (oh so much you don't know, more of that another time) the nurse tried valiantly to take his blood pressure with one of those things that attach to your finger. Only with babies they put it on their toes. Jack kept the non monitored foot very, very still but wriggled his monitored foot with gusto, not what you want when trying to accurately record data. I held his foot, he wriggled only the toes, I held his toes except for the monitored one, he wriggled the monitored one. Fab, we had a quick guess at what his blood pressure might be and reached the conclusion that he was fine. Anyone who could wriggle their feet with that much vigour can't be particularly damaged. (Or can they? Cue the dark of night, lying awake, and the thought that wriggly toes might be the first sign of brain damage doesn't do much for insomnia. I also worried about a future of arthritic toes, it was a busy night).
Anyway, while I acknowledge Jack's excessive toe wriggles I don't accept it as an explanation for the phenomenon, simply because Isla's toes were literally comatose (sorry) in comparison, and she reached the heady heights of losing two-socks-a-day (not matching ones, she was my first child and I stupidly replaced the missing one with a new matching pair, my mother has never recovered). So the parallel universe theory still stands I'm afraid. And before you think you can come up with another, less other worldy, explanation, hear my final argument: you never, ever see single socks while out and about. Think about it, how many times have you come home and noticed the baby has lost a sock again? Answer: Lots. But, how many times have you been out and found single socks? Answer: Almost never (never in my case). So that proves it, there must be some big, black hole that suctions up any baby sock the minute it's wrested free from a tiny foot. It's the only logical conclusion. Can you think of a better one? Me neither.
I have a solution though, I've tried and it works: every new pair of socks you buy, sew a long piece of string (or wool, it's your choice) between them, therefore attaching them to each other. Genius. Then, when dressing baby, put one sock on and thread the other sock up through the trousers (or skirt, it's so much easier with a skirt, who cares if people call Jack she?) and down to the other foot. Place the second sock on this foot. Do you see? It's fool proof, if ever a sock drops off it's attached to the other one, and, if the child's in trousers, trapped in the clothing. Let's say one did get lost (it's unlikely but not impossible) it will never just be one, the second will have to go with it, this renders the odd-sock-laundry-hamper useless, and is beginning to save my sanity. It's perfect. The only place to go with the idea now it to apply it to my husband's socks, although I'm not sure how well he'll take the string intrusion.
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