- Pretend not to hear when he yells through his loud speaker
- Call a taxi mid session
- Offer everyone free Starbucks if they stage a sit in with you
- Complain
- About Anything
- Even lack of refreshments
- Especially about lack of refreshments
- Refuse to 'wake your butt' by slapping it vigorously and with passion
- Enquire about the need for passion when slapping butt
- Refuse to slap your butt in front of three teenage boys
- Joke about slapping other people's butts
- Slapping other people's butts
- Making up what you ate last night
- Arguing that chocolate is raw and therefore counts
- Agreeing to work hard and smirking
- Smirking
- Laughing when doing the plank
- Talking when doing the plank
- Telling jokes when doing the plank
- Not concentrating when doing the plank
- Not taking the plank seriously
- Doing the plank badly
- Failing in plank performing
- Bringing gin to a session
- Swapping instructors Evian for gin
- Laughing at gin spitting
- Producing tonic water
- And an ice bucket
- Taking a picture of instructor swigging gin
- Refusing to hand over your camera
- Posting gin swigging on facebook
- Writing expose stylee blog posts
Tuesday, 21 September 2010
Thirty Two Ways To Get Your Boot Camp Instructor To Give You Ten Press Ups
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
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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