tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69230362885571989182024-03-13T11:40:18.235-07:00Mother and Other of SE23Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.comBlogger155125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-56536063375589968652020-03-22T09:33:00.001-07:002020-03-22T09:33:53.857-07:00All Change - Middling Through Muddle Life Hello one and all, after writing a few posts over the years that I never finished and therefore failed to publish, I figured that a change is as good as a rest and that I should re-brand and re-start. So to that end, to anyone who was following me as Mother and Other, who fancies finding out what is going on in my brain these days, please find me on <a href="https://middlingthroughmuddlelife.blogspot.com/">https://middlingthroughmuddlelife.blogspot.com/</a>. There are still no pictures, my paragraphs are still too long, I still have five children and I am still fat. I feel that change at this time is the last thing anything wants anymore of, so, I have kindly kept it pretty much the same. I hope you like. xAliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-73527491551149628862016-09-29T13:55:00.001-07:002016-09-29T13:58:09.692-07:00Autumn '16So, they are all back at school. No. 4 is now no longer under my control for most of the week and is getting on brilliantly - far above my expectations. Bea is also getting on wonderfully well at her secondary school. By the end of the first day her tears and tantrums from the term before were forgotten and she was brimming with its brilliance. The school is very strict and has a weird policy regarding the compulsory wearing of tights if you wear a skirt - regardless of temperature - and there is an awful lot more homework and hard work, but on the whole she likes her teachers, loves her new friends and has entirely forgiven me 'ruining her life' by sending her to a different school to her primary school friends. Even the boys are happy, (for now). G is happily reunited with his friends and and Ted's class tables are helpfully named after different types of sharks which are his current obsession. And both boys have been voted by their classmates to be School Councillors which is rather lovely as there are only two per year so I was most proud. I can't pretend that everyone is happy every day but, on the whole, the new school term has not been quite the trauma I had feared for anyone. <br />
<br />
Cybs isn't screaming and clinging on to me every morning and sits on the mat with the other children with very little fuss. I am quite amazed by it all. I don't know quite what I was expecting but that wasn't it. It was me that cried on the first day and had to escape quickly to ensure that she didn't see me. It is quite unlike me to cry about such things - I certainly didn't for the last two. But as she is a summer baby she seems so much smaller and more baby like. I think that, combined with the lovely summer, made leaving her that much harder. I'm pretty sure the worst thing about a child starting school is that having known every little detail of their life, from how much liquid they've ingested to how much poo they have ejected, you suddenly don't know anything about six hours of their day. Other people are now far more involved in their lives and you are just 'the mum' - the teacher even refers to them as 'her children' which for some reason struck me on Cybil's first day. Also they are assessed for various things from the moment they arrive on site and although I am more than happy to point out the children's faults and moan and write about them, the moment anyone else does it I become immediately defensive and pretty annoyed. After a few days of Cybs being at school it dawned on me that any minute now I will have to sign a form allowing her to be weighed as part of the government screening programme and yet again I will get a letter home telling me she is bloody obese. I HATE THESE. I know it's important, there's an epidemic blah blah blah. But I already know she's heavy. I think it's delicious, as I did with G before her. I will do my best as a responsible parent to ensure she doesn't end up with Type 2 Diabetes and using a mobility scooter at 16 because her bones can't carry her heft but I really don't want anyone else to point it out to me and include helpful 'tips and ideas' for small changes - "Don't give them cans of coke - why not swap it for a lovely glass of water?" NO SHIT. Why don't they extend the whole monitoring thing to more important stuff, like personality. Why don't other people get letters home telling them that their child has almost no personality and is borderline thick as shit. HUH? But no, it's how heavy you are that seems to be all that matters. I have no idea where I need to send it but I have taken the time to re-write the letter they send out to the parents of those children who have a little more meat to their bones in order to soften the blow a bit. It is far more useful than their current standard correspondence.<br />
<br />
Dear parents of X<br />
We had the pleasure of meeting your child, X, last week who is obviously a very enthusiastic and happy child. One of the many things we noticed was her great love of food. This is a wonderful aspect to her multi faceted personality and may well lead her on to an exciting career in catering in later years, however we think it might help her in the future if she enjoyed a little less food in the present. I'm sure you're already well aware of this and have plans in place, we just bring it to your attention on the off chance you were blind or thick as two short planks, which is actually more common that you might think! Please don't worry about it as it won't take too much to make a huge difference. If you can't think of any changes we have helpfully included 'An idiots guide' to feeding children and exercise. <br />
All the best<br />
Govt people<br />
<br />
Interestingly, my ability to adjust to her being at school every day is remarkable. It is quiet at home, yes, but Dot is more
than happy to make up for that and create quite a lot of noise and mess
so I don't feel too bereft at the loss. She is happy to empty absolutely
every cupboard and drawer in the kitchen and I have just spent half an
hour recovering bits of Weetabix that she had thoughtfully scattered
throughout the downstairs. She's also a big fan of spending hours on end
moving things that belong in one room to another room where they most
definitely do not belong. And she gets pretty pissed off when you don't
give her what she wants, the minute she wants it. Mainly food and my
iPhone. I had, once again, planned to achieve an awful lot in the weeks where I only have one at home. So far the six years of thank you notes I need to
write/the children need to write have gone unwritten. Photobooks have
also not been lovingly created from the million or so photos I am keen to organise. Clothes remain unsorted and exercise remains very much not undertaken. However I HAVE managed to organise
the kitchen cupboards and my scary coat cupboard which was waist high
with absolutely everything you can ever imagine. It is now possible to
not only find coats/shoes/cleaning equipment with exceptional ease BUT
you can also walk in to the cupboard and reach the far end. It is
miraculous. <br />
<br />
My sudden urge to sort and tidy has been precipitated by my selfish solo departure this weekend. It is just basic science that the further you go from your home and the more selfish the reason for the trip, then the more likely you are die. It's basically D (distance) + S (selfishness) = % chance of death. So, if you have to go somewhere locally for work, all good. If you go to Barbados for two weeks of indulgence and decadence then it's curtains for sure. I am only going to Kent for two nights of old-school-friend fun so I think it's pretty much 50:50. I'm not a massive fan of those odds so I am making sure that the children know that I love them, the house is tidy and that all the tupperware, shoes and coats are sorted and easy to find. It's bad enough that K will suddenly be left in charge of five grieving children without struggling to find a plastic container with a lid that fits in the mayhem of the school mornings. As I haven't managed to sort the photos into photobooks or albums it is imperative that in the event of my death my Facebook page is made in to a memorial site as they are currently the only photo albums in existence for 90% of the children's lives. Just in case anything does happen I'll let you guys know that the rest of the photos are on my phone/external hard drive and a few laptops - the hard drive is in my underwear drawer - I keep it there to hide it from burglars, obviously and the passwords for the laptops are Alicia0. If I don't die this weekend and go on to win the lottery and therefore able to build my 'dream' house it would contain a dedicated photo room - just for photo albums, photo filing cabinets, photo printing, photo framing, photo sorting and its walls would be adorned with photo wallpaper. I would also hire a photo archivist to do all of the above - I just thought I'd share that with you. <br />
<br />
It's funny but with every stage of baby/childhood you inevitably end up looking forward to the next stage. Even from the very first day when I am deeply in love and hormonally 'high' I look forward to the milk coming in so that I can properly feed and for the days my bits feel slightly less battered. Then I start looking forward to the days when they have a regular sleep and are able to go more than an hour or so without my boob in their mouth. Then it's the days when they will go to bed at bedtime and I can have my evenings back, then the days you can bribe them with chocolate, drop them off at nursery/school and have time to sort the washing and pair up socks etc etc. But with every stage I find that you gain and lose in equal measure. Obviously it comes with a whole new heap of utter cuteness or useful independence (depending on the age) but it also comes with a whole new host of problems. When Dot started talking I was so excited. "Cat". I was so pleased she was an early talker and the children and I were keen to get her to say it over and over again for our own amusement and to show off her obvious brilliance to others. Fast forward a month or so and dear god it has lost its appeal. It doesn't help that she is scared of the cat so whilst she might spend the day in search of the 'cat' and then pointing at it and saying 'cat' over and over and over again, as soon as it moves or comes near her she screams and yells CAT because, ultimately, she doesn't actually want the fricking cat. She also says Ted. But he has a tendency to play with her in a 'boy' way which usually means shouting in her face or throwing stuff and this tends to result in her crying so, again, she says Ted over and over and over again, finds him, and then cries. It is pretty annoying. (He has also helpfully taught her to say 'shake that booty' and then filmed it for hilarity's sake - which is exceedingly 'boy' of him). Same with any stage to be honest. The excitement at them all growing up and the changes this brings to us as a family, also throws up new issues you hadn't thought about. Instagram, homework, boys, girls, friendship woes, willies, bits (I'm still not ok with the whole labia/vagina thing - I don't care what 'right on' folks say - I don't ask if the children want to urinate or defecate or to wipe their anus - I don't think all things need to be bloody anatomically correct so I will still use 'bits' until I find a suitable alternative) puberty, freedom, choices, future - and we're only twelve years in. I can't imagine how much life is going to change in the next twelve years - Dot will be a teenager then and Bea will be 24 - this is all unimaginable right now. My greatest fear though, is the fear that I might not get to see it. I think it is every mothers fear. I think that is why we go a bit crazy worrying about stuff and trying to control everything. I think. Or it is age or the fact that we are turning in to our mothers. Either way, I shall be driving extremely carefully all the way to Kent and back.<br />
<br />
Until the next time (if all goes well). <br />
<br />
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-28983871857226798742016-09-10T13:28:00.001-07:002016-09-10T13:28:36.155-07:00Summer '16<br />
Time and Money. I struggle with both. The minute I know I have a lot of either coming my way I get terrifically over excited and spend the lead up to their arrival imagining all the wonderful things I will do with them. I research lots of things I will buy with the money - totally forgetting all the things I have already committed to, cheques I have written or tedious direct debits I choose to pretend don't exist. I buy the things/pay for the things I've been looking forward to with the sudden influx of money and when it is all gone (which it all does, in around 24 hours), I suddenly remember all the mundane things the money should have been used for and become quite depressed about the fact that I have no way of meeting the commitments and then the realisation that I will have to break the news to K that he will have to meet them instead, and then he becomes pretty annoyed and normally tells me he doesn't have any money either. The same is true of time. Six weeks of summer holidays sounds like a blissful amount of time. I researched all the things we could do, planned and promised all sorts of day trips, cinema trips and play dates. I achieved a mere fraction of them. I am genuinely shocked that the six weeks went by so bloody quickly. I find myself wishing we had two more weeks which is a first. I can only conclude that the sun has made the difference. <br />
<br />
We have had such a wonderful summer holiday it seems cruel that it should all come to such an abrupt end. Obviously it hasn't all been sunshine and lollipops, there has been plenty of shouting and ranting and threats to kill people to boot but on the whole, it has been stupendous but we have seen lots of lovely people, been to lovely places and swum in the lovely and bracing British sea lots and lots and lots. I even managed to get the boys out of the house time and time again thanks to the wonderful Pokémon Go. I will not hear a word against it. Even going in to town to run the dullest of errands was met with joyous excitement (and intense argument over who was going to hold the phone first) because they were happy to search for new pokemon and pokeballs to add to their virtual collection. Such a nice change to Minecraft which has them sitting down for hours on end and then having real life fisticuffs over people invading each other's virtual 'worlds' and ruining virtual buildings with virtual TNT. <br />
<br />
Our family holiday to the Isle of Wight was a stupendous success. We managed to actually enjoy large parts of the week even with five children, the British weather and that I had paid scant attention to the finer details in regards to the house we hired, and only realised the day before that it was a three bed, not the four beds I had planned and that it wasn't actually suitable for small children. None of it hampered the week as badly as I feared. I just kept a closer eye on Dot than I would normally and we spent lots of time out and about, even enjoying a day at a theme park - which isn't a sentence I thought I would ever utter. The ferry crossing there and back gave the children a sufficient enough experience of 'travel' and the long car journey on the mainland was more than enough to convince the adults that any ideas of driving to foreign lands would have to wait for several years thanks to a two hour traffic jam and copious sick. G is not a great traveller and half way through the stop/starting two hour M25 'fun' the complaints of his tummy ache reached an interesting climax when he began to spray everything within a few feet of his mouth with the eclectic contents of his stomach. I was in the front, driving and was lucky enough to have him sitting next to me in the passenger seat so I had the unenviable task of trying to clear up the mess/stem the flow whilst driving forward a few metres every few minutes. K had come up with the genius idea of sitting in the very back of our people carrier to better 'control' the children en route (I suspect it was also to fit in a long nap, which he commenced after about half an hour in to the five hour journey) and was therefore unable to be any use to us other than to dry heave at the smell and yell for the windows to be opened permanently. Due to the jam, we managed to miss our allotted ferry time but luckily made it on the very next one and I cleaned G and the car up sufficiently enough to be able to continue our journey onwards once we made it on to the island. Although I couldn't have predicted that he would then be sick yet again, but by that point I really had gone past the point of caring about the damage/smell and just concentrated on getting us to the house and the washing machine it housed, as quickly as possible. The journey home was mercifully sick free although still long but an awful lot quieter and more pleasant smelling.<br />
<br />
Starting the holidays with our holiday, was, in hindsight, a master move. The end of the school year was incredibly bitter sweet as Beatrice had to say goodbye to her beloved school. The tears flowed at her leavers' ceremony and even I welled up at one point - thanks to a few hundred children singing about seasons changing and people growing and time passing etc. Bea absolutely loved that school and her happiness has been infectious. Her sadness at leaving such a happy place left me feeling uneasy and equally sad. I have chosen to send her to a different school to the one that almost all of her classmates are going to move on to so not only did she feel the loss of her beloved school but 99% of her friends as well. I do feel a bit guilty for tearing her away but she'll get over it and like most parental decisions, I have done it in the belief that it is in her best interest. Anyway, the fact that we immediately left on a family holiday helped her not to sit and brood and actually meant that the children had to get on with one another straight away and not spend any time getting used to being in each other's company constantly. It was lovely to witness actually. Other than the usual petty squabbles and silliness, B and G got on beautifully and G and Ted were thick as thieves as they realised the benefit in having each other now that they are outnumbered by girls. The little girls slept unexpectedly well as well - even though they were sharing a room - Dot started sleeping through the night in her borrowed travel cot and even Cybs stayed in her own bed a few times - a hitherto unheard of event. As soon as we got home we made the same changes - put her in a single bed as opposed to a toddler bed and bought a big travel cot for Dot and shoved her in the room too. So far, so good. Cybs still comes in to my bed every night but now, more often than not, Dot does not, and if she does it is well past midnight which has made life far more enjoyable and bearable for me. <br />
<br />
Another life changing event has been the loss of Cybil's bloody dummies. I have no idea how we managed to get to her being four years old with her still insisting on taking one everywhere, but we did and my happiness at their demise is untold. As luck would have it I didn't even have to go through the rigmarole/expense of the dummy fairy to do it which adds to my happiness. On our second break of the holidays - to a lovely little holiday let in Spexhall next to the house of some friends of ours - I was left in charge as K sadly had to return to work for the last few days. I soothed my despair with wine and totally neglected the children and their bedtime needs as I indulged in a lovely grown up BBQ. By 9.30 pm and after a fruitless search for the sodding dummy, I allowed Cybs to fall asleep on the sofa in front of the TV in return for not crying about the lack of a silicone teat between her teeth. She happily agreed and the rest, as they say, is history. Sometimes neglect really is the way forward. Just in time actually as she is about to start school. I can't quite believe it. She is my first summer baby (she turned 4 at the beginning of August) so I'm not used to sending them in to full time education at such a ridiculously young age. My mother is convinced I should have tried to keep her off for another year so that she could start her reception year as the oldest, not the youngest. I wasn't convinced that that was any better an option than being the youngest so Monday it is. She will be leaving me. Initially for four days a week but then eventually the full five days a week. It seems an impossible thing but I know that it will be possible and it will happen. I'm not looking forward to it. Just me and Dot five days a week seems equally as odd and impossible. I've said it before I know, but how on earth I will actually send Dot to school so that I am here all alone five days a week - I have no idea. It is not something I can currently contemplate. I think I may just hate being alone. Even though I crave small pockets of time alone, great acres of time is not on my wish list. Maybe that is why I keep having babies. <br />
<br />
I think it is also because on the whole, I genuinely enjoy the company of children. Again, I do not mean all of the time - I really do have times when I would like it to be ok to kick them because I am so unbearably frustrated at their behaviour, but, more often than not, doing stuff with them is pretty fun. One of the absolute best of the best things about parenting is watching your children being joyful. All consuming, natural joy from something that hasn't been bought. Like watching Bea prance around in the shallow clear sea water of the Isle of Wight and performing endless hand stands and cartwheels, or them all playing a game together or when they realise Dot has learnt a new word (cat is pretty big news right now). It is what I find keeps me going and helps me deep breathe through the ridiculous fighting and whining and moaning and haranguing that I have relentlessly endured for six weeks. That is the greatest thing about the holidays. Watching the children playing happily, running around outside, in the sun, with other children and being childishly happy about it all is why the summer holidays are so much better with the sun and why I couldn't have planned what was going to happen to my time and money this summer because I quite simply couldn't have planned it better. <br />
<br />Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-11080795234318822022016-05-20T23:39:00.000-07:002016-05-20T23:39:34.919-07:00Wouldn't change a thingThe Easter holidays are well and truly over and the summer holidays are fast approaching once again. I love and loathe the school holidays. Love, because there are no fraught mornings, no urgent uniform requirements, no homework, no bloody packed lunches, no tired and angry children to pick up at home time; Loathe, because there is just an endless expanse of time in which to fill, occupy, feed and tidy up after five small people.<br />
<br />
I have,
as I am told on an incredibly frequent basis, got my hands full. That frequency increases tenfold during the holidays when I am with them almost all of the time. I have heard 'you've got your
hands full' more often that I think it is possible to imagine. My new
response is 'so I'm told'. Before Dot was born I used to get blessed. A
lot. As if I had the Pope with me on work experience (presumably so he
could see first hand that encouraging people to keep procreating
regardless of circumstances, might be a little bit stupid.) I think it
is a Suffolk thing. I got 'ahh bless ya' from midwives, teachers,
strangers, cleaners and many, many mothers when they found out that the
baby I was housing/had just had was my fifth. Throughout the summer holidays shortly after her birth I
got 'How old is she? Are they all yours? you've got your hands full,
ahhh bless ya'. I am not saying it isn't always welcome, there are times when I
am bored at the park or in a queue when I am happy to while away a few
minutes with the '10 months, yes, so I'm told, thanks' responses but sometimes at the supermarket checkout whilst I'm trying to keep them all vaguely under control whilst packing bags it can sound suspiciously like I am failing to manage which I am less keen on. A number of times it is followed with 'But I bet you wouldn't change it for the world wouldya'. I SO WOULD. <br />
<br />
"I wouldn't change a thing". Who came up with that?! I would SO change things. Oh man, given the choice, my list of things 'to change' would be extensive (18 pages FRONT AND BACK - Ross v Rachel 'on a break' etc). There are loads of great things about children and babies - obviously - otherwise I would be insane, but ye gods are there a million things I would rather were different. Here are a few:<br />
<br />
Sleep<br />
FACT: I love the children at least 25 times more when they are asleep (actually about 25000 times more than that last hour before bed when in all honestly most days I could happily walk away and never come back). When I have slept I am at least 25 times nicer than days when I haven't slept the night before. Sleep is transformative. If I could change just ONE thing about babies/children it would be that they sleep for between 12-20 hours a day - 20 for newborns then gradually down to 12 hours from 10 years onwards until they leave home. If they came out pre-programmed to sleep from at least 7pm-7am imagine how much nicer the world would be? There would be no arguments between mothers about who was doing it 'right', parents wouldn't argue over who was more tired, people wouldn't accidentally leave babies in shops due to sleep deprivation or do the school run in their slippers etc Older children wouldn't hang around in the evenings driving you mad well in to adult/drinking/inappropriate eating time. (It is impossible to lecture on good eating practises and then tuck in to a packet of crisps and chocolate biscuits with your glass of wine whilst you're waiting for your supper to cook). I mean, don't get me wrong, if they are in a good mood and they are willing to fetch your wine and snacks for you then all is good. BUT if they are nosey or vocal or anything other than a silent presence then really, it's just too much after a long day with children. Bea and I have managed to agree on a happy hour where we watch crap reality programmes on TLC (Say yes to the dress, Kate plus 8 etc) but she knows I can quite often be grumpy during this time and is very good at keeping her head down. But pre-programmed children wouldn't argue about bed times, wouldn't fight over who was allowed to stay up until when, wouldn't keep yelling for drinks/light/dark/medicine hours after you put them to bed. It would mean that whatever happened during the day, whatever fights were going on, mess being made, food being thrown blah blah blah - you would know that there was a nice early 'end' to it all coming your way shortly.<br />
<br />
Also, it would put an end to the weird evil baby voodoo nonsense that curses you the minute you make the mistake of even THINKING how well they are sleeping at the moment or stupidly mentioning it to someone. The minute you think, mention or linger over their sleeping bodies thinking about how fabulous they are then their evil voodoo sensors kick in to action and BOOM, awake every hour for absolutely no reason whatsoever, sucking bottles/boobs dry time and time again just to teach you the lesson you should have learnt a thousand times over already. It would also put pay to those hideous 'post sleepover days' - where your usually even tempered and fairly compliant child is transformed in to some kind of possessed demonic arsehole of a human being, and depending on how little sleep they managed, it can take days for the possession to wear off. Imagine the joy and brilliance of being able to say 'yes' every time they ask for a sleepover because the sleeping part of the arrangement would actually be adhered to. <br />
<br />
Hunger<br />
DEAR GOD after 17 days of the Easter holidays it was like I was in charge of 5 giant rats. They just spent each and every sodding day telling me they were hungry. They eat, shit, eat, wee, eat, eat, eat and eat. WHAT THE HELL?! As you know I love to eat, but these guys take it to another level. Days out, Days in, I am expected to provide a constant stream of snacks and meals that they deem suitable. This last week alone I have spent £300 on food and drink from three different supermarkets (YES including bloody Aldi - it makes no sodding difference), in an attempt to keep them filled with a vaguely healthy variety of food. The boys are the worst. Dot and Cybs are close behind. It is impossible to keep them topped up. We went for a lovely walk along Southbank on our recent trip to London and if G and Ted told me they were hungry once, they told me a trillion times. G was quite close to death at one point. Not from strangulation, as I have spent many years learning not to put my hands around their throats, but from his near starvation from going without food for four and a half hours. It made me ponder how on earth they get on at school where one presumes the teachers are not providing drinks and snacks every half an hour. No wonder the boys come out of school at the end of the day in the foulest of moods - it has been a full two and a half hours since they have eaten anything. I am shocked they aren't keeled over, shaking and writhing on the floor with the intense pain of hunger. In an ideal world, children would only require one main meal a day and then some light and healthy snacks at other non fixed times of the day. I am incredibly 'over' preparing food for them and then tidying up afterwards. Some of them eat like rats as well. The mess after each meal has to be seen to be believed. One of their favourite meals is risotto but I won't feed it to them unless the cleaners are coming the next day because otherwise I spend all night on my hands and knees picking up bits of sodding rice. <br />
<br />
Mythical beings<br />
MAN I wish these guys were real. If the Tooth fairy, Easter Bunny and big FC were real, my life would be immeasurably easier. I forget the tooth fairy constantly. Luckily Bea knows the truth after finding a text message on my phone telling K not to forget when she was 9. The others are sadly not so clued up which means that the pressure is on. Poor G had terrible baby teeth - we're not sure why but they started to decay quite badly from a very young age and last year two of them were in a bit of a state so he ended up having them out under GA (mercifully K dealt with it and yes, I am part of the 'worrying statistics' on children's teeth. BITE ME with your immaculate teeth. It's not like I send him to him bed with a bottle of coke) and after a pretty terrible time, G was looking forward to his reward from the tooth fairy and put his rotten teeth safely under his pillow. Four nights he waited. FOUR. In the end he sadly concluded that because he had to have them pulled out and due to their condition, the tooth fairy had decided his teeth were not worthy of payment. Although for once that meant I looked pretty awesome as I bought him a £60 lego set to cheer him up and that silly cow bag of a tooth fairy couldn't even find him £2.<br />
<br />
The Easter bunny this year was pretty disappointing as well. I had great intentions in the lead up to the event and even bought the eggs well in advance AND I checked the official Coeliac Society list before buying Bea's and everything. I was so pleased with myself I managed to 'park' Easter in my brain under 'no further action required'. The night before Easter, Easter Eve if you will, I spent the evening downloading pictures from Bea's phone on to the laptop so that she had enough space to take a zillion pictures of Little Mix at their concert the following day. I was pretty tired after I'd managed it all, bid K goodnight and fell fast asleep. At 5.45 am the next day Cybs woke me up and asked for some milk. I lay back down thinking how lovely it was I didn't have to get up and do anything when I had that stomach punch of a realisation that it was in fact, Easter and all the Easter eggs were in K's car boot and in the cupboard under the stairs. My mind raced - can I tell them it's tomorrow, can I hide them in the garden (they normally get them at the end of their bed), can we ignore it completely? I panicked, I tried to wake K with whispered shouting, then slightly louder whispering and then eventual hard kicking to rouse him enough to fill him in on the situation. I ran downstairs and passed the boys beginning to stir in their room, I whisper-shouted that it wasn't the morning and to go back to bed, I grabbed the eggs from under the stairs and had to quickly decide what to do with them, I opted for a Christmas version and put them in front of the fireplace. K ran out to the car in just his pants to gather the rest. I ran back upstairs and got back in to bed with Cybs and Dot to complete the illusion. The boys asked what had gone on and I said I thought I was going to be sick and Dad had come down to check on me. Then they decided it couldn't be Easter as there were no eggs in their room. They went downstairs shortly afterwards and discovered the bunny had been but left the eggs in the wrong place. Bea was upset. She wanted bigger eggs and didn't like Aero and why the hell were the eggs in the living room??<br />
<br />
Spirits rallied with a shed load of chocolate so I decided to make things more 'magical' with an Easter egg hunt in the garden now that we have a garden suitable for egg hunting. Sadly I put one of G's in a bush and it fell down. I didn't really think at the time that that would be a problem until he stuck his hand in and I remembered it was a rose bush and he cut his hand several times on all of the thorns. Luckily, Grandma saved the day and managed a far better egg hunt in her garden with cousins to enjoy it with whilst K drove off to London with an incredibly excited Bea. I later found a lovely note complete with illustrations she had written for the Easter Bunny asking him/her (sexless?) to leave the eggs 'here' and hoping they were well and had had a safe journey. I did feel a TAD guilty and her anger on the day was slightly more understandable after that but I do find it quite hard to believe that she still believes in a magical rabbit. SO, all in all, the Easter Bunny was a crushing disappointment but they still ended up with enough chocolate to give sugar purists a heart attack. (Luckily, K is a chocoholic and as per most years, stealthily hoovered up the excess over the following week - hopefully meaning the children won't be included in any other 'worrying epidemics').<br />
<br />
And well, if the big FC was real, December would actually be a flipping joyous time for me and man, how I would treat myself to some lovely things with all the lovely money I would save. A new laptop for one - I am currently sat with the screen held up by a pile of cushions because it has broken free of its supports and is only held on to the keyboard thanks to the wires. My November and December would be pure heaven as I wafted from one social engagement to another with only a few family and friends to buy for - no managing of child expectations, no mad bidding for a stupid light up unicorn on ebay thanks to selfish far sighted bastards who bought them all up in October. It would also mean that faulty/easily broken gifts were much easier to return as well. I am yet to replace Ted's rather awesome shark beanbag that broke within half an hour of ownership thanks to a faulty seam. <br />
<br />
Proportionate behaviour<br />
It would be utterly amazing if their behaviour was directly proportionate to the amount of time/effort/money you spent on them. One of the things K finds hardest to cope with is the seeming ingratitude that bad behaviour implies when we are making a concerted effort to have fun - meals out/days out/family activities - anything that is out of the 'ordinary' should be rewarded with exemplary behaviour. No strops in the gift shop at the end of the day because you refuse to buy a £20 stuffed panda, (What the hell is that btw - we go to the zoo/legoland/cutty sark etc and pay a fortune to get in, fortune for drinks and food and guides etc and then you have to pay to leave the place with some kind of toy/branded plastic as a 'memory' of the day - I appreciate I could be strong and say no but that isn't exactly my forte), no sibling fights, no whining, no parental arguing over acceptable reactions to bad behaviour, no constant demands for food, just happy, smiley and grateful faces from morning til night. Like real life facebook pictures all day long. Amazing.<br />
<br />
Illness<br />
I'm not saying it's particularly fun for them but good lord I do not enjoy ill children. I mean one day is understandable, acceptable and sometimes even enjoyable - an excuse for a legitimate day on the sofa is all good as long as I had nothing else planned (it is so rare for me to have anything on but it can happen once every blue moon) but any longer and it is just bloody dull and a pain in the rear. Dot and Cybs enjoyed a week long illness over the Easter holidays which I could well have done without. A cough and cold is currently going around and this is also incredibly painful. Illness doesn't just ruin your days it also blights nights as well - broken sleep, crying, coughing and puke are regular occurrences. One morning in the holidays I started my day breast feeding Dot in bed whilst lying on my side with Cybil lying behind me on my other side. She started coughing so badly she was sick, the milk she had just downed had all come straight back up again - all over my hair and back. Due to the exceedingly early hour of the morning I couldn't move because I was very desperate to keep Dot asleep as she would cry an awful lot and very loudly were I to remove the boob from her mouth, and that would wake up the other three so, I just had to lay there as I felt the regurgitated milk trickle down my back and tried to calm Cybs down who was upright and startled. I kicked and kicked K until he finally awoke and passed us a towel. My efforts to keep Dot asleep throughout all this failed and I eventually gave up and got in the shower- only for Dot to cry so much due to my absence that I had to welcome her in to my shower and hold her, fully clothed with one hand and wash my hair with the other. But at least I was clothed and sick free for the Sainsbury's delivery when it arrived shortly afterwards.<br />
<br />
And the rest<br />
Back answering, knowing it all, not listening, mess, money, noise and neediness. Most days I would change it all to make it easier for me. But one of the main things I would change is how quick it all is, how fast they grow, how days turn in to weeks which turn to months and years and then suddenly your newborn is a toddler and then at school and then at secondary school and then a teenager. I panic that I am going to forget it all, I worry about how I will cope when they aren't all little enough to need me all the time, I panic over not remembering how they smelt and felt as tiny babies and sometimes I rack my brain to try and remember the hilarious thing they said the week before that I wanted to write down so I never forgot. I take pictures, millions of pictures, in the vain hope that seeing the pictures in years to come will sufficiently jog my memory. I try to take enough video footage that we can see what they were all like and remember all the sleeplessness/fighting/mess when there is only sleep/calm and tidiness. If I could change one thing, it would be to remember it all perfectly, the good, the bad the ugly. I wish I could make my brain in to a video camera so that I could recall it all in perfect detail whenever I wanted. Even the sleeplessness. Particularly that actually because one day I might get enough sleep to think having another might be a good idea and as much as I love babies, I really do not want to raise or pay for another child. Enough is really enough.<br />
<br />Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-353047938319592742016-03-23T15:24:00.001-07:002016-03-23T15:24:41.821-07:00Number Four <u>THE SUFFOLK SECTION </u><br />
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Bonjour! and welcome back after my sabbatical. It has flown by. Turns out five is quite a lot of work and there hasn't really been many spare hours to sit and write. However, the baby is now nine months old and, as of the last few nights, has been sleeping in her cot from early evening which means I am finally able to sit down and fill you in on some of the last six months.<br />
<br />
Right now, I am wrapped in a blanket and a cashmere jumper in front of a roaring fire (I love fires so much - I take ridiculous levels of pride in each one and I encourage the children to gaze in wonder at the soaring flames and listen to the beautiful crackling sound and bask in the warmth it emits - you'd be shocked to learn of some of their unenthusiastic responses) because the boiler isn't working. This is symptomatic of things in general. As we approach our Suffolkaversary all the things we bought/had serviced when we arrived have started to stop working. The shine is very much not rubbing off of our new shiny life, it's just there are now quite a few irritants in it. My much coveted Dyson handheld (the glamour) will not charge, the smart remote for our smart TV won't work so the Tv is now just of average intelligence, we're at least one sky remote down, the bath leaks, the shower in our ensuite is stuck on 'very hot' and we have an awful lot of ants who have decided that our kitchen is their new home. (Ummmm as a postscript the boiler wasn't broken - it actually appears that oil is far too easy to use up and despite a relatively recent delivery of it, we had run out. The poor boiler man turned up only to tell me that we had run out of oil. But then he had to come back and fix the boiler because if you run out, the boiler sucks in air, and apparently this is bad for boilers. It has cost quite a lot of money to find all of this out.)<br />
<br />
So, boiler, ants and broken stuff aside all is well avec nous. The BIG news is that today I dropped four children off at ONE SCHOOL. Yes, finally, a few weeks ago some awesome little dude called Dexter who I will never meet, left with his family for pastures new so Ted joined his brother and sister at the local school and today was Cybil's trial session at the nursery. Happiness level peaked when we also found out that Bea had been given her first choice of secondary school. Although it is a slight worry as it is a brand new school, it isn't even built yet, it's not full and it's not the school all of Bea's friends are going to, so I have sort of gone out on a limb with choosing it - only time will tell if it was the right decision but I still remain hopeful. At the very least with such a small year (it's not full and there were only 120 spaces) Bea has much more chance of becoming head girl/prefect when the time comes. Not that I am insistent on her living my dreams for me, but I was the only person in my group of friends not to become a prefect and that has stayed with me. I am also a secret wannabe dancer which is why she is still 'encouraged' to weekly dancing lessons... <br />
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As you might imagine, an awful lot has happened since we last met but do not fret, I don't intend to regale you with every minute detail. We have had many birthdays and many parties, many, many play dates, spent an awful lot of money, done Christmas plays/concerts/carols, had nits, fleas, flu, sick bugs, coughs that won't end, trips to London, filled in thousands of forms and loaded and unloaded the dishwasher approximately a million times. The children are thriving, K is working all hours 5/6 days a week and I have made some lovely friends to whom I moan to about K working all hours and so all in all life has settled down to 'normal' after all the excitement of last year. It is in fact, gloriously boring and I love it. <br />
<br />
Before Christmas, mother was working five days a week and so I was pretty much on my own when it came to school runs/tidying/cooking/childcare/present buying etc. It was busy. Since Christmas, mother hasn't been working at all so that means we have been seeing a lot more of her. This has pros and cons. The benefits are her being able to do the odd school run, or taking Cybil for a few hours and she is very partial to busying herself in my kitchen preparing food or 'clearing my sink'. I like to think I am helping to keep her busy and she likes to think I couldn't manage without her. Even though I have. The down side to her being around all the time is she does not agree with a lot of my parenting methods. Not that I have a method in particular. It is mainly just 'getting through'. She rang me recently, to tell me she 'knew what I was doing'. She had read about it in the Telegraph. Apparently it is 'Positive Parenting'. I am not a fan of this whole labelling thing. Gentle bloody parenting, helicopter, tiger, attachment, baby led weaning blah blah blah. She is wrong, as it happens - I am not positive parenting, I am 'Wrong parenting'. The thing I have learnt, is that whatever you do, however you do it, someone (or many) believes it is the wrong way. And therefore, we are all doing it 'wrong'.<br />
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For example, pink. 'People' hate the idea of girls wearing/loving pink, as if the colour alone is anti-feminist. I like pink. I'd like my boys to wear pink, but sadly they won't, Cybil loves pink, I let her wear it. I don't really care if this is bad. It makes her happy. She likes other colours too. This is also ok. She is also a kick arse, scary mother-fo when she wants to be and has recently taken to threatening to punch people in the face if they cross her path. She also loves to get messy, playing with dirt, is a speed freak, brave and many, many other things besides. Her loving pink doesn't make her a 'princess' so I don't really understand why we have to programme her to hate it. I wouldn't replace a toy we already had with a 'pink' version but I also wouldn't refuse to buy her something just because it was pink. <br />
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Rolemodel<br />
I am, according to many, a terrible role model for my daughters. I do not have a job/career. I am unlikely to rush out and find work just to rectify this. If our economic survival depended upon it, I would obviously rush out and find paid employment, but whilst we can get by, I shall stay here. And probably while we can't actually. I'm not really good for much at the moment anyway. I'm totally institutionalised. A few weeks ago I went to pick up my first prescription of antibiotics for many years (mastitis - first ever bout - nine months in to the fifth breastfed baby - I have no idea why) and I genuinely thought they would be giving me 'banana medicine' or the liquid solution I usually pick up for the children - I put it upright in my bag and everything. I had also imagined where I would put it in the fridge, next to K's beer, so that he would see that I had penicillin and therefore hopefully feel guilty for paying absolutely NO attention to my pain and suffering. It was a total shock when I realised that what I had was pills - the sort of things they give grown ups. It also put paid to my genius idea to make K worry about me. He has STILL not mentioned it and I have since had a second course when the mastitis helpfully joined me on the other boob. Feeding a toothy baby off a sodding sore boob is the kind of sacrifice not many would make willingly, but 'ability to take pain in the name of job' is not something I could put on a CV so I worry I'm pretty much unemployable aside from in the child sector and if I do return to work, I really don't want it to involve children. Although my ability to catch sick and wipe poo without gagging would make me a good carer. But I really don't want to do that either. Therefore I shall remain a terrible role model for my daughters as I lazily and selfishly devote all my time to their care. (It annoys me - only because i would NEVER say I thought a mother was a bad role model for going to work and leaving her daughter/s in the care of others and yet I sometimes feel like it's open season for stay at homers. For the record I think working mothers are superheroes and I often tell them so. Why can't we just live and let live people)<br />
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Sugar<br />
I don't mind it. I haven't spent years researching the affect it has on mutating cells in the body, or its affiliation with the devil or anything, so my opinion on it is really just personal and not based on anything, but I like it. It makes things taste nice. I don't think we should have a plate of it morning, noon and night with a coke to wash it down with, but I don't live in fear of it. I don't panic if my children are given Haribo at school by other children to celebrate their birthday. I don't freak out if they drink apple juice. I actually buy them sweets and chocolate and apple juice. Same with carbs and fat and salt. I feed it all to them. Maybe they will live ten years less than their non sugar eating counterparts. But that's their issue, not mine. I'll be dead. I'm ok with that. As a 'nod' to the current sugar hysteria and my mother's helpful insistence that my children will all lose limbs to Type 2 diabetes, I have switched to the 'reduce sugar and salt' tomato ketchup and made G swap to corn flakes instead of coco pops. I can't say I've noticed a difference. <br />
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Shouting<br />
I shout. It's cathartic, helpful and extremely rarely it is life saving. People who parent 'gently' do not shout, or use 'time out', or any such things. They most probably take time to sit down and talk everthing through in a calm and gentle way. I think that is ok for them to do, it is probably really nice of them. They think I am wrong. I'm more than happy about that. I couldn't give a flying fig. The world is noisy. I believe it is best to prepare children for that noise by being noisy. Also if I didn't expel my pent up agression, angst and exceedingly high levels of annoyance by raising my voice to a shout, then I would be sitting in a corner somewhere rocking gently whilst emitting a low and constant humming noise. Also, what is so wrong with getting angry. FFS, I am a bit fed up with all this, 'be calm and serene and gentle' crap. Get fricking angry people. Not all the time, not every single day, not over small crap, but what's wrong with anger? If people didn't get angry we'd still have the fricking poll tax - let's raise angry people, let them get bloody angry with arseholes who cut disability benefits, maybe they'll change the world. Or maybe not. I'm also pretty lazy and my children have inherited it, so maybe they'll just do what I do and get angry, shout about it, but then be very ineffectual about putting any of their shouty threats in to practise. <br />
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TV<br />
They watch it. I watch it. My little sister and I watched it lots when we were young. I am fat, she is not. I do not worry that watching the TV makes you fat or stupid. Eating too much and not doing enough makes you fat. The TV is educational. The stuff G comes out with is amazing. And then when I express amazement at his worldly knowledge and ask where he learnt it from, he repeats the line from Matilda 'All I learnt I learnt from telly'. It is also great at teaching children patience when the adverts come on. From a very young age my children are aware that if they just wait for the adverts to finish, their chosen programme will eventually appear. It is also a great help when it comes to Christmas shopping - just one advert break combined with an amazon order can completely sort out one child. <br />
<br />
Children<br />
Population matters people believe that I shouldn't have even had most of my children. Therefore I am in the wrong for having them, let alone how I choose to raise them. Ideally no one would have children and we would leave the world to go back to how it was before we raped and pillaged it for our own end. To them I say, I'm sorry, but again, tough shit. If we all die, who is here to appreciate the earth as a planet anyway? If all humanity dies then it is just a planet in the solar system and in the event of its extinction, no one on Mars is going to cry about it. So, again, sorry, sorry, sorry. But I've had them now, if I kill them to make you all happy then I will go to prison and also it's really just not very nice. So stop making me feel bad with your FB posts about how awful I am. I haven't been on a plane in ten years, I recycle and I eat local produce (sometimes). I'm trying to make amends, I know it's not enough and I am partially directly responsible for the early demise of this great planet, but, it's done now. I promise not to have anymore. Pinky promise. Babies are incredibly labour intensive and as much as I do absolutely adore them, I really cannot be arsed to do it anymore.<br />
<br />
Weight<br />
Tonight, Cybil stood up at the table and announced that Dottie was getting a fat tummy from all the food she was eating and now she looks like a mummy, 'like you, mummy'. According to all 'studies' fat people are basically responsible for all evil, so I can only conclude that her knowing I am fat is a terrible thing. My obesity will not only make my children obese, it will also cause my untimely death from a whole host of hideous diseases. It has probably already caused a million terrible things for my children's future as I over ate when pregnant and breast feeding. The catch 22 with this is that because I have daughters I am not meant to draw attention to the fact that I am fat, or that I am in any way unhappy with my appearance. I keep reading all of these features about how I am meant to 'not mention' my weight, or losing weight, I am also not meant to draw attention to my daughters' weight. Most recently, I learnt that I am to compliment them without mentioning their beauty or size. Instead I am meant to say they look 'strong' and 'confident'. Now. Imagine for a minute that you (supposing you are a female) had spent an hour or so getting ready, you were wearing your favourite outfit, most beautiful shoes and you had tried out a new make up technique and had spent extra special amounts of time on your normally wayward hair. Imagine then, you descend the stairs to see the person who is special to you or you meet up with your friend/date and they greet you with the words, "WOW! you look so amazingly strong and healthy! You exude a great confidence". I'm quite sure I wouldn't be the only person who would be greatly pissed off. Being called strong and healthy in my eyes is another way of saying you are looking a bit porky. I'm sorry if this is wrong, and potentially this is what we're meant to be working to change, but what the hell is wrong with saying someone is beautiful? No one looks at the Daffodils, snowdrops and crocuses and comments on their apparent strength (I am quite countrified now - I stop the car to admire these flowers which are currently in bloom and making the countryside even more beautiful) so why can't I tell my beautiful babies how beautiful I believe them to be? I also tell them how brilliant they are and clever and annoying and all those other things a mother should think. But there is no harm in being beauitful. As long as it's not all you are.<br />
<br />
Just so you know, I am back at weight watchers and am much less obese than I was. I mean, I couldn't guarantee it wasn't still 'morbid' or something equally as attractive sounding, but it is less, and that is surely what counts. And Bea knows I go. And George. Bea and my mother are the only ones that remember to ask how I got on. I officially apologise if this insight in to my life has far reaching and negative affects on their future lives. I'm unlikely to lose any sleep over it. I'm too tired.<br />
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So, there you have it, my life is boring and I'm parenting the 'wrong' way. I couldn't recommend it highly enough.<br />
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I shall be back to tell you more whenever I think of something more interesting to tell you. <br />
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<br />Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-41572965335041580792015-09-25T12:19:00.000-07:002015-09-25T12:23:10.777-07:00The Modern Guide to Returning From Work To a Stay at Home ParentMy take on the 1950s housewifery guide on how a woman should greet her husband upon his return from a hard day's toil in the office. No ribbons in the hair, clean children or supper in the oven on this one:<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Modern Guide to Returning From Work To a Stay at Home Parent</b></div>
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Upon your return from work, please remember that the partner you left behind in the morning may well have had a lovely day with your offspring - drinking coffee and tea, baking cakes, visiting museums, swinging on swings in the park and generally making hay in the sunshine. However he/she may well have had a day that would test the patience of every saint living or dead. And they may be hanging on to their sanity by little more than a thread. And so, as you gingerly open the front door to see what lays in store, please try and keep in mind this brief guide on what not to do/say upon your return in case any or all of it has happened to them during the day.<br />
<ul>
<li>Do not wipe your nose on their clothing whilst pretending to hug them</li>
<li>Do not say 'You Know' in response to anything they say to you, even if it is telling you your own name, just thank them for the information they have provided</li>
<li>Do not say anything is unfair</li>
<li>Do not use the term 'everyone else does' in response to anything, but especially not in a bid to win an argument</li>
<li>Do not throw up on them</li>
<li>Do not get ill</li>
<li>Do not cry</li>
<li>If you get in the car with them, do not fight to the death over where you sit in the car</li>
<li>Do not suddenly decide you hate all food you have previously liked</li>
<li>Do not say you are hungry</li>
<li>Do not ask for any food</li>
<li>Do not spend hours asking repeatedly for the sweets you know are in the kitchen but have thus far been denied to you</li>
<li>Do not wee in your pants</li>
<li>Do not cry because you cannot find your kindle/ipad </li>
<li>Do not cry because you can't find the charger to your kindle/ipad</li>
<li>Do not cry because your kindle/ipad is not working</li>
<li>Do not cry/fight because someone entered your minecraft world and killed the minecraft 'you'</li>
<li>Do not cry/fight because someone entered your minecraft world and blew up your village</li>
<li>Do not say you have looked everywhere for something you desperately want to find when you haven't even vaguely looked anywhere</li>
<li>Do not cry if someone touches your lego creation</li>
<li>Do not cry if someone breaks your lego creation</li>
<li>Do not cry because you don't have any lego</li>
<li>Do not ask if there is another baby in their tummy</li>
<li>Do not ask why their tummy still looks like there is another baby in it</li>
<li>Do not ask them to download an app, especially if they are feeding a baby and sitting on the loo</li>
<li>Do not try and find them when they are on the loo</li>
<li>Do not accompany them to the loo/help them to 'wipe'</li>
<li>Do not complain of tummy ache</li>
<li>Do not find a twig/feather/scrap of paper and then fight to the death over it </li>
<li>Do not ask where a piece of paper is after you left it on the floor a week ago</li>
<li>Do not have a tantrum over a lost piece of paper</li>
<li>Do not pretend you can't hear them yelling your name</li>
<li>Do not refuse to wear underwear</li>
<li>Do not draw on the walls</li>
<li>Do not ignore everything they say as a matter of course</li>
<li>Do not crush up a pack of biscuits and scatter the crumbs everywhere</li>
<li>Do not take all of your anger and frustrations from the day out on them with verbal abuse</li>
<li>Do not hit them</li>
<li>Do not kick them</li>
<li>Do not insist you can do things on your own and then spend pain staking minutes attempting to do so even though you know everyone needs to leave the house immediately</li>
<li>Do not insist you can do something on your own that you patently cannot and then attempt to do so whilst risking your life and the lives of others</li>
<li>Do not refuse to leave the house without a bag full of crap that you have decided is vital right at the last minute thereby making you late for the event you were leaving the house for</li>
<li>Do not ask if they were alive in the first world war</li>
<li>Do not be surprised to learn that cars and televisions had been invented, even when they were a child</li>
<li>Do not spend hours crazing to play with a toy/game with a million different pieces and then empty it all out on to the floor, then lose interest and walk off</li>
<li>Do not hit/bite anyone</li>
<li>Do not refuse to leave the house</li>
<li>Do not refuse to return to the house if you leave</li>
<li>Do not throw yourself to the ground and scream if you are refused something</li>
<li>Do not pull their clothing</li>
<li>Do not deliberately do something naughty and then shrug and say 'sorry' whilst smiling</li>
<li>Do not refuse to get dressed</li>
<li>Do not refuse to get undressed</li>
<li>Do not refuse to get in the bath</li>
<li>Do not refuse to get out of the bath</li>
<li>Do not become hyperactive after your bath and run around the house naked and screaming </li>
<li>Do not refuse to get in to bed</li>
<li>Do not tease them about your reluctance to get in to bed</li>
<li>Do not promise to go to sleep if they read 'just one more' story even though they are clearly about to cry with hunger, tiredness and the previous ten stories they have just read you spurred on by the very same promise</li>
<li>Do not whine</li>
<li>Do not drink their wine</li>
</ul>
<div>
And, finally, in response to them complaining of exhaustion from the day, NEVER, EVER, advise them to have an early night. Sleeping will just bring about the next day whereas staying up means more time to eat, drink, bathe and generally bask in the beauty and glory of the silence that late night brings. Et voila. You can't go wrong.</div>
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Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-15344506425405023262015-08-06T14:37:00.000-07:002015-08-06T14:37:15.240-07:00Number Three<div style="text-align: center;">
THE SUFFOLK SECTION </div>
<br />
Bonjourno. Four months in and nine weeks after the birth of Dottie Dot the Full Stop it is time to take down the New Home and New Baby cards and admit that nothing is very 'new' any more. K's new job is four weeks in and I have survived. He seems to like it. I think. I get a very descriptive 'Yeah it's all right' when I enquire as to his daily grind. I still don't like him being away all day and being tired when he is home but he is resolutely refusing to gain 10 stone so that we might be able to claim disability benefits for being too fat to work. Such a shame because I am dangerously close and I think with five children we could really rake it in. He keeps wittering on about self respect but I'm totally over that.<br />
<br />
So, that is all old. What is new is the pool. It is up and running and quite frankly fabulous. I realise that this is all quite temporary as it is just the novelty of it all but the children are loving it. It is really helping with the summer holidays which I think I might have found even more taxing if it wasn't for the fact that for hours on end they can amuse themselves in our back garden. Mother is still very concerned for their lives as we don't have a 'walk on' cover at the moment but as Cybs can stand up in it and Dot can't currently move I am less worried than I was. Only today mother was telling me how I would be aghast at the cost of a funeral. Because naturally, if we lost a child, THAT would be what we would be most worried about.<br />
<br />
Although the pool has claimed one victim - I managed to drop the exceedingly heavy wooden beam which forms part of our temporary cover, directly on to my foot. The pain was pretty magnificent. I have become a bit of a pompous twit about pain since Dot's birth. I have been known, on one or two occasions, to tell the child making a big fuss about some pain I deem trivial to 'try giving birth to a baby bottom first'. However, the pain of the beam on my foot was pretty close. I managed with nurofen and frozen peas initially, but after a few days the swelling and the pain hadn't subsided enough to enable me to walk properly so I took myself off to A and E. On what turned out to be my final morning without any older children thanks to a delightful sick bug which started the summer holidays a few days earlier than planned. Cybs was FINALLY enjoying a full morning session at nursery after an epic two months settling in period. I have become firm friends with a number of 3 and 4 year olds, mainly girls, who have watched me breastfeed Dot twice a week, every week for a whole half term. Lily, Sophia, Josie - we are all great mates - I was entrusted with their dolls, told of their weekend activities and moving house excitement whilst they waited patiently for a 'turn' with Dot. Never has a child been so gently eased in to a few flipping hours without their mother.<br />
<br />
So, I spent my only and final few hours of the summer term having an x ray and awaiting the results. I breastfed and waited. I was secretly hoping that someone might object to me breastfeeding. I have always hoped for this. Just so I could reply with some witty and scathing retort - although I would probably do what most other people do and clam up and feel embarrassed. The problem I have with breastfeeding in public is not nipple flashing or worrying about other people being offended or upset at seeing my unwieldy infant trying to latch on to my giant boobs, my worry is trying to abide by the fat person's code - not upsetting normal sized people by revealing my unholy amount of fatty flesh. Being fat brings on a whole new aspect to public breastfeeding. It can make the whole thing quite a spectacle - although the recent addition to my wardrobe of breastfeeding tops thanks to a very generous friend who gifted me all of hers, has gone quite a long way towards simplifying the process.<br />
<br />
It's not just when I am feeding actually. I do not enjoy being fat, but I enjoy eating lots. Post baby and in the middle of full on breastfeeding mode, I can't stop eating. I think it is a disease. Abiding by the fat persons code becomes harder and harder. Especially in the heat. Some days I worry more than others about it. Some days I cover all but the socially acceptable parts of my body - ankles and lower arms - and some days I throw caution to the wind and reveal my upper arms and lower legs (gasp). In the past I have assumed I am a lot thinner than I actually am post baby - I realise now that this was because I didn't have a full length mirror when we lived in London. The best mirror in the house was in the bathroom and the sink unit cleverly covered my lower body, so I never realised the true horror. In this house there are a number of full length mirrors and one is opposite Dot's changing unit so I will suddenly catch a glimpse of myself before I have a chance to breathe in or pose in a way that softens the blow. It is probably for the best - it does stop me eating the whole pack of biscuits and only eating half a cheesecake at a time. <br />
<br />
Luckily, the foot was not broken. Just badly bruised. Thank goodness. The idea of being here without the ability to drive is unfathomable. And no one asked me to spare their blushes by covering up my boob or my stomach. People are usually too polite to make a fuss anyway. Last week I took Bea for a physiotherapy session back at the hospital (boring issue with leg pain) and managed to replace the wrong flap on my breastfeeding top in my hurry to stand up when Bea's name was called, so I accidentally greeted the lovely student physio with my nipple poking out, loud and proud, as if a feature of the top. Luckily he seemed largely unphased and I acted as if nothing had happened as policy dictates, and quickly replaced the correct flap and bra over the offending boob and we managed to get through it without note. <br />
<br />
The summer holidays at home on my own are something I have never tried before. I have always run away to Suffolk to enjoy a bit of a break from all the cooking, cleaning and childcare. However now that we are in Suffolk I have nowhere to run. I am here and in charge of five children all day, every day. K now works six days every other week as well, so it is pretty full on. Hence yet another long silence from me. The silence of the evenings with just the whirring of the machines is something I crave for most of the day and doing anything else but eating and falling asleep is asking too much. I spend almost all day saying 'in a minute', 'hang on', 'wait', 'IN A MINUTE', 'don't fight', 'stop fighting', 'get off me', 'you cannot be hungry I fed you five minutes ago', 'no', 'I said no', 'I SAID NO', 'who's done this??!' and 'IN A BLOODY MINUTE'. I have largely given up with worrying what is right and wrong with raising children and just try to keep them alive. (purely to save on funeral costs). They get up and come downstairs before I have finished feeding Dot <strike>woken up </strike>in the morning and so Ted has been having a lot of ice creams for breakfast and he's also been handing them out to Cybs. The first fight of the day has often taken place before I am fully conscious. Cybs has taken to wiping her bottom with her clothing. G has worked out most of my threats are meaningless and therefore acts accordingly and is encouraging others to do so as well - I heard him tell Ted not to do as I had told him because there was no way I would actually cancel his friend coming over. The boys have collectively decided that living in squalor is actually fun so leave every item of clothing they have worn, thought about wearing or just come vaguely in to contact with, on the floor. Bea has decided she is now fully grown up and is in need of pierced ears, a bank account and a mobile phone. So, whilst I keep them alive and their clothes washed and dried, I have decided to become obsessed with the health of the pool and leave them to it. The temperature of the pool is now so interlinked with my mood and general well being that I am becoming concerned. It is MEANT to be able to get to 40 degrees but at the moment I can't get it beyond 27/28 which is maddening. I have also been known to tell the children that they can't get in the pool in case it gets too cold with the cover off or they splash so much I have to top it up with cold water.....<br />
<br />
I am missing my friends so much at the moment. It has been four months now and the reality of not having them around all the time
is setting in. I am very lucky to already have lots of shiny new
friends, it's not that I am lonely, it is just that I miss my grubby old
friends being nearby and the ease of the friendship. I am not able to keep up with
almost anything I want to at the moment as I seem to be permanently trying to achieve
things and not managing and before I know it a whole day has gone by
again. This includes updating this, writing thank you cards,
emailing/writing to friends and trying to keep the old folks from over
the road in London up to date with 'their' babies who have up and left
them. I am lucky that a lot of good pals have made the trip up here already and more are planned so I do not fear being forgotten or losing a friend, and obviously lovely FB keeps me up to date with most things, but there is no replacement for seeing someone every day or every week, or popping to their house for a cuppa or meeting for lunch etc. I know it is still early days in my 'new' life and eventually it will all fall in to place and soon feel 'old' but even planning birthday parties is a whole new ball game here. Although I am quite friendly with Cybs' pals from nursery, I don't know the parents at all so wasn't properly able to organise her party before the end of term which means she has a fairly random mix of children attending her party tomorrow. Only two of the children are even vaguely her age. Not that she will care. There is a bouncy castle and bunting and a lot of children so she is unlikely to notice. Oh! There will also be balloons. You will all be relieved to know that I have managed to locate a local balloon person who will deliver all that we require in the way of helium filled celebratory shapes. The first party kicks off tomorrow and then it's the first birthday of the season for Cybs before we leave for two weeks at the coast. I can't wait. I don't think I have ever looked forward to a holiday more. For one thing I will finally have K back for two weeks. I may even find out how is job is going.<br />
<br />
I shall update you all as soon as the opportunity next presents itself. If it does.<br />
<br />
Until then. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx<br />
<br />Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-89064819917720090952015-06-28T13:14:00.000-07:002015-06-28T13:14:29.704-07:00Number Two<div style="text-align: center;">
THE SUFFOLK SECTION </div>
<br />
Hello! Thank you for your patience it has taken me a magnificently long time to get on here and get it all written down.<br />
<br />
So she is out. And she is a she. Dorothea Honor or Dottie for short, finally touched down on June 2nd. Again, I didn't manage the home birth we wanted (I am now 3 for 3 on having girls in hospital and 2 for 2 on the boys at home). But this was actually quite lucky as she not only surprised us by getting in there in the first place but also gave us quite a shock in how she came out.<br />
<br />
I don't have an awful lot of time to fill you in, as you might imagine/know, having four children and a newborn is pretty exhausting. But here we go:<br />
<br />
After being slightly scathing of local midwives, I went along to a 'VBAC' appointment (vaginal birth after c section for those not in the know and apologies for the use of the word 'vaginal' if, like K, you object to me using an official term and not 'down there') and met one who appeared to be very much on my side and who set forth a plan to help get the baby out 'on time'. She agreed I wasn't actually high risk and that I was more than likely to have a normal delivery so suggested they start twice weekly stretch and sweeps from 37 weeks to ensure that I didn't go overdue and would hopefully have the home birth I wanted and all would be dandy. This was all very positive and I was very excited by the possibility of missing out on the last heinous few weeks of pregnancy and having a smaller baby than usual.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to 41 weeks and I was at the hospital meeting the VBAC Consultant for my EIGHTH stretch and sweep and a discussion on what should be done moving forward. At nearly every one of the preceding seven painful encounters with midwives (again, for those not in the know a stretch and sweep isn't the most pleasant thing ever - google it if you have no idea) they assured me that the baby would be out shortly, they made appointments for the next S+S saying how unlikely it would be that I would need it and I became well acquainted with a number of midwives and their living situations as we chatted about that night's arrangements and who was on call, in case our encounter that day elicited the desired results. After a number of the sweeps I got some contractions, sometimes there was even a run of them over a few hours, but other times there were none at all and eventually they all came to nothing. So, I ended up at the 'over due' appointment at the hospital with the consultant who explained my options. <br />
<br />
The consultant sent me away with an appointment for the following morning to have my waters broken and yet again, reassurances that I was unlikely to need it as I would no doubt have the baby that evening as her sweeps were, according to her, 'legendary'. And it was indeed the most painful one I have ever had. And I did indeed have a number of painful contractions for the rest of the day. So much so, that K was quite insistent that I sit on a tarpaulin in his car just in case my waters broke. He was very concerned that the liquid could seep in to the stitches and leather and he would never get the smell out of his car. He tried to get the tarpaulin out of the boot and was desperately trying to 'sell' the idea to me but it actually just made me want to leak amniotic fluid all over his leather interior all the more.<br />
<br />
We had left Cybs with mum and the big children were back at school after the half term so it was just K and I, awaiting the contractions to get serious. We went in to town to pick up my repaired iphone (the screen had been repaired for the second time in a month). I wanted to be distracted from the wait and the occasional contractions with a slap up meal and champagne but K had just paid for my phone so decided he would 'treat' me to a Burger King meal instead. He did say I was able to choose anything I wanted from the menu though.....<br />
<br />
Anyhoo, my waters remained intact for the rest of the day so his car seats and Burger King were spared any fluid disasters. We collected the children from school and still nothing happened. Nothing happened that night either so the following morning I rang labour ward and confirmed I would be in for my waters to be broken. I made three packed lunches, got the children ready, finished writing Ted's book he really wanted finished in time for school, dropped them off at their respective schools, returned home, packed my bag and off we went. The consultant had persuaded me to go ahead with the induction because she said that unlike my previous experience at King's, I would be given 24 hours to go in to labour after the breaking of waters and if I wanted, I would be allowed to go home afterwards so that I could wait for labour to begin. She also insinuated that 'should' I not be able to get back in to the hospital in time for the birth, then there was nothing anyone could do and the midwives would have to come out to me so that I would wind up having my home birth as I planned. This had all seemed like a great idea the day before.<br />
<br />
However. My determination to have a home birth was already waning on the way in to the hospital. I had worked myself in to a bit of a state worrying about the pain of contractions. The pain of Cybs' birth was over two and a half years before but it was remarkably fresh in my memory and I was terribly worried that I might have such a quick labour (the eight stretch and sweeps and the fact that it was my fifth meant that I was already 3cms dilated and fully effaced so that when labour did eventually start, it was likely to be quick) that I might not be near gas and air or the gas and air might never arrive and I would be stuck with K as my only form of pain relief and comfort. He was also very worried about me returning home in his car with freshly broken waters..... so by the time we got in to our room I was pretty sure we were going nowhere and the final baby, like the first, would be born in West Suffolk Hospital. <br />
<br />
The labour ward was mercifully quiet and our allocated midwife was very lovely. All seemed well. I was hopeful we could get the waters broken and the baby out quickly. I hadn't at that point arranged anyone to pick up the children from their schools. Labour had started with Cybs three hours after they broke my waters so I was sure I could pop this one out even sooner. Sure enough, when the midwife did break them at 11 am I started having contractions almost straight away. Each one pushed more water out of me. At one point a small flood ensued which then created a smelly waterfall over the edge of the hospital bed. We called the lovely midwife back in who very sweetly started cleaning it up for me as I apologised profusely (for something I had no control over - but I am British so therefore one must apologise for such things). Laughing at the situation also made me leak more fluid and at one point the midwife was unfortunately positioned as I laughed and a small gush splashed her. This made me laugh more. Other than that high point it was a very dull few hours - the 'view' from my room was a wall with some very noisy machinery behind it which made a loud bang when it kicked in every 15 minutes. K who had been finding various reasons to nip out for errands eventually settled in his comfy chair and became very sleepy as, like all hospitals, the room was very warm and there was also a loud humming noise coming from the building opposite in between the loud bangs which lulled him into a deep slumber. <br />
<br />
I continued to contract infrequently and sporadically as he slept. Some were uncomfortable so I began to use the tens machine. However nothing much else happened and the midwife, when she popped in to check on progress, remained unimpressed with my 'progression'. So much so, that after four hours of non standard contractioning I was chucked out of the labour ward and relegated to the antenatal ward. This was not in my plan. I had waited a jolly long time for this baby, I had even been waiting patiently as I wasn't as fussed about it getting out as I had been with Cybil where I had driven myself half mad with it. This time around I was almost happy for her to stay in, if it hadn't been for the constant need to wee and the inability to plan anything I would have quite happily continued being pregnant for at least another week. With children who need to be taken to school and Cybil in need of childcare in the event of labour, it wasn't particularly helpful not to be able to plan when the baby would come out. I had thought that finally forcing the issue by having my waters broken would mean we would have the baby that day and that would put an end to the speculation, planning and back up planning that had preceded induction day for weeks. I felt particularly guilty about half term where we could only really work on things on a day to day basis as we had no idea what would happen over night. Mother had taken various days off work 'in case' and even stopped drinking in the evenings in case we needed her urgently. When you 'fail' to go in to labour you can feel like your body is letting you down and you are in turn letting everyone else down by not making things easy and just bloody well getting on with it. People always talk about keeping the sex of the baby a 'surprise' as it's the biggest surprise you get in life - I would argue that labour is a bit of a shock as that really has so many variables - there are only two possible options on the sex front so it isn't a massive surprise. <br />
<br />
Back to antenatal ward. I was NOT happy. Not only do I hate wards but I hate other people in wards with me - even though they are no doubt delightful people out of the hospital, I hate having to share rooms with strangers. Particularly when I am leaking water, attached to a tens machine, having contractions and in a bad mood. The flimsy curtains that surround each bed are no protection against the sound of people burping, eating and my all time least favourite, talking. I realise I am not the most interesting of people, but when I am in a bad mood and in occasional pain, I really don't want to listen to other people talking about crap. The view was at least better, I could see a road and some trees and a small building that was no longer in use. I spent a long time looking out of that window so that there was no chance the other two residents of my 'bay' would engage me in conversation. It was unlikely anyway. It was clear I thought myself to be too good for the 'waiting' ward. Or maybe that was just my paranoia because I really did think I was too good for the waiting ward. This was my fifth sodding baby for christ's sake - I had been told it would come tumbling out as I was so 'favourable' and yet here I was, hours and hours after induction and I was no better than the woman on her first over the aisle to me bouncing on her sodding ball and heavy breathing. I became slightly belligerent at this stage in the process. Particularly because the communal loo (which was, like the rest of the loos I encountered, brand new back in the 70s, so gave the air of an old boarding school which badly needed funds to renovate) was a good walk away from my bed. When you are constantly leaking, the need to be near a nice comfortable loo really cannot be over rated. Especially when you have to carry a Tena Lady pant with you for changing purposes. (OMG if you are ever in a similar situation and have had your waters broken, you MUST invest in some tena lady pants - they are amazing. I mean truly. No more waterfalls over the bed or water down the leg. These things are the bees knees when it comes to saturation.)<br />
<br />
Fast forward some more boring hours, K left and collected children from a friend's house and deposited them with mum along with their swimming stuff for the morning and returned with 'food' - I asked him to get some because I was obviously not going to eat the 'slop' the hospital was offering. He returned with about 10 packets of crisps, 5 chocolate bars and a chicken wrap - I became paranoid people would look at this haul and think 'no wonder she's so fat'. He had a sleep. I read more of my book (Paradise City by Elizabeth Day - another recommendation - it kept me going through the whole thing). They ran a trace and noticed my 'tightenings' - also known as contractions if they are happening in your uterus. I got fed up. We went for a walk when K awoke. We returned and I informed the midwife that I intended to leave. I was going to self discharge and get in my own bath and my own bed and come back in the morning. Unsurprisingly they were not keen. Another midwife came back to try and dissuade me. K was on their side. He didn't say it but he was entirely unkeen to take a leaky wife back in his car (the leather) and then potentially have her give birth whilst he was the only other person around. Just as I was wavering and having just had another large contraction, he asked if I could be put in a private room. The midwife was thrilled with this compromise. I relented and ten minutes later we were shown to our new quarters. Still no flipping ensuite, although the communal loo was at least right next door. By this time it was gone 7 pm and K was getting quite itchy to leave for the evening now that he had procured me suitable accommodation for the night. He set off to find me a tv viewing card and came back with enough credit on the card to keep me goggle boxing for a month. I refused to let him leave immediately and so he sat down and read his book. I sat on the bed and began my evening's viewing, occasionally holding on to his hand if there was a contraction that hurt. By this stage they were still not at all regular, not that frequent and also varied wildly in strength. I set about furious texting complaining about the 'very un-Portland like facilities' and stupid baby that wouldn't come out. I watched Phil and Kirsty's 'Love it or List it' programme, waited to see the end, put the red hot phone down and visited the communal facilities next door.<br />
<br />
From this point it all became very surreal. No sooner did my Tena lady's hit the floor and my bottom the seat, I felt a very odd sensation. One I had felt a number of times before but not in this situation. I put my fingers down to check and my suspicions were confirmed, the baby was coming out. I also felt that it was not the head that was leading the charge, it was in fact, a squishy bottom. I yelled incredibly loudly at this point. K came running as did a charge of midwives. I apologised profusely (obviously - I am British and I had stupidly not realised I was fully dilated and I had my tena lady pants around my ankles and I had yelled). They said I needed to get back on the bed for them to see what was happening, I said I needed to wash my hands first (MRSA and all that). I got on the bed, spread my legs and then the sides of the bed were up, a sheet was put over me to cover my dignity and the bed was being moved at a brisk speed over to labour ward. I will admit that I was highly scared at this point. Not only because the risk to the baby was huge but because I had had no drugs, was as alert as it is possible to be and I didn't think that pushing a folded up baby out of a small space would be that comfortable. In seconds we were in a labour room filled with midwives and doctors. I apologised to all of them, obviously. They used 'calm' voices to tell me not to panic but that time was very much of the essence and I had to do exactly as I was told. I apologised. Obviously. I did exactly as I was told. I moved myself on to the bed, put my feet in stirrups and pushed so hard I thought I might split in two. The second push was quite honesty the worst pain I have ever experienced. I swore badly. I said I couldn't do it. I asked for gas and air. I apologised. No gas and air was allowed. I delivered the body. More calm voice instructions from the amazing old school midwife sitting front and centre of all the action. She told me that it was vital to deliver the head as quickly as we could. I pushed for the third time and out came the head. As I had been warned, the baby was quiet and lifeless when she was put on to me. Being told something doesn't necessarily make it any less scary though and I was convinced she wasn't in a good way. 'They' took her over in to the corner to check on her and get her life like. It seems like quite a long time when you are waiting for that all important first cry, the confirmation that you have done your job and delivered your offspring 'safely'. It did finally come though and suddenly it all seemed wonderful. K and I were a bit high from the drama of it all. I KEPT saying 'I was just watching kirsty and phil'. I was in such shock. I have never been fully dilated and in minimal pain or able to walk and talk and focus on a tv programme and texting before. I have never had an undiagnosed breach baby and I have never been the one to diagnose it. It was a lot of firsts. And she was perfect, as they always seem to the euphoric and relieved parents. I did want to then find the three midwives I had been involved with over the course of the day and yell "I TOLD YOU THEY WERE CONTRACTIONS AND NOT FLIPPING TIGHTENINGS. WHY DIDN'T YOU EXAMINE ME YOU IDIOTS". But I did not. I just kept on apologising to anyone who would listen for 'all the fuss'. <br />
<br />
Twelve hours after they broke my waters and two hours after she was born, I was wheeled back to our private room without ensuite facilities and K was told to go home. West Suffolk hospital has an odd policy which decrees that partners are not allowed on the ward between the hours of 9pm and 11am. That is an exceedingly long time in the life of a newborn baby. It also would have meant that if we had adhered to the rules, K would have missed the birth. (They had actually been yelling for all partners to leave whilst I was busy watching Kirsty and Phil but we had assumed that it couldn't possibly be applicable to us as a) I was having contractions and b) we were in a room and not on the ward - it turns out we were entirely wrong and he should have left just as I was discovering my undiagnosed breach baby was trying to enter the world). However I didn't mind him leaving as the baby, by this point, was very sleepy and so was I. I was also 'buzzing' a bit from the shock and drama of it all and the tea they had given me with about four sugars in it after the birth so needed time to calm down. Although in the morning 11am felt like a very long time coming. I really can't think that such a draconian policy is entirely necessary..... <br />
<br />
So, there you have it. By and large. The safe arrival of our little Dot. Dotster or Dottie. Or, as she is most commonly referred to - the New Baby. The children were all so thrilled to meet her when I got home - even Cybil. Her reaction was my main concern, obviously, but then and even now, her main concern seems to be the baby and her well being. She even sings when Dottie cries. 'Don't cry ickle baby, don't cry ickle baby, mummy's coming' that kind of thing. And my boobs which have belonged to cybs for the last two and half years have been permitted to nurse The New Baby and if Cybs still wants to cop a hold she very kindly holds the one not in use at the time. More of a shock was G's reaction to her. I have never really seen him go all soft over babies but he holds her and even kisses her when he thinks no one is looking. Ted has his usual exuberance for all things in life and can't contain his love and affection for the New Baby. If I pick him up from school he runs out and yells 'the New Baby' as if it is the first time he's seen her. Bea was extremely keen for about a week. Now she is quite variable, sometimes keen and sometimes exceedingly not so. Unless there is someone from outside the family around when she becomes overcome with love and affection for the baby and demands to hold her - purely for acclaim on her mothering skills. I suppose this is precisely why nature didn't intend for 10 year olds to have babies. To be fair, a crying baby is an annoying noise and both her and G have realised that if you get 'stuck' holding a baby you are unable to do anything else, so their desperation to have a 'go' holding her has waned. So, other than not really having any time to do anything other than essential housework and child maintenance because of her, Dot has fitted in well to family life. There have been times when I have questioned how on earth this is all going to work, particularly as K has very selfishly found paid employment and is leaving us to start it in just over a week. I have also spent some time in tears at the enormity of how I am now in charge of an awful lot of shit. Literal and metaphorical. But I have also had an amazing few weeks. Ten days after Dot was born (and one of the main reasons I decided to have an induction) I went down to London to enjoy a fabulous lunch with my SE23 mum chums, who showered me with gifts, cards and cake, and then I had the pleasure of going back to the old school playground to deposit Bea and G with their respective friends so they could go off on their sleepovers. It was indescribably lovely to be able to see lots of old friends and show Dot off to all and sundry. Then I carried on to Kent with Dot and we spent a fabulous weekend in Herne Bay with ten old school friends in a gorgeous house right opposite the sea. It was quite honestly the best thing I have ever done with a newborn. Like Tena Lady pants and a good book in labour, a weekend by the sea with excellent friends and food when you need a rest, is hard to beat. Dottie was held almost all weekend and before we left, two very clever people were left in charge of her whilst I retrieved the car and when I returned she was fast asleep after a bit of a scream and she continued to sleep the entire way home - via London for two pick ups and then on to Suffolk. Four hours in total. Bea and G were shattered and happy from all the fun they had had with their friends and slept too. I had a blissful few hours alone with my thoughts and my music. It was the perfect end to the perfect weekend.<br />
<br />
More apologies. This has become rather long. I have more to say but shall save it for next time.<br />
Enjoy the sun whilst you can, our pool is nearing completion and from then on it will no doubt be constant cold and wet weather. I apologise for that too.<br />
<br />
A toute a l'heure. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-86407874954315799522015-05-04T14:25:00.000-07:002015-05-04T14:25:01.806-07:00First one<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>THE SUFFOLK SECTION</b></div>
<br />
I can't be bothered to change the name. I didn't bother changing my surname for eleven years after I was married ("just in case" but also as I liked my maiden name and also because it seemed like a faff) so as I've only been in Suffolk for four weeks it seems entirely premature to choose a new name so I shall just number them from now on and add the above sub-heading. It will do. <br />
<br />
I have been thinking of writing so often to let everyone know how we are getting on but I have never, ever been so busy. Ever. I now wonder why I was such a major wimp about being pregnant with Cybs as I had nothing to do but look after three children and clean a house. I can't think what the fuss was about. Now I have no choice but to get on with being heavily pregnant whilst the house is being renovated, boxes are unpacked, children are ferried to various schools and clubs and friends and six lives are transplanted in to a new place. However, the worst thing of all is my big swollen fingers and feet (actually worse than the huge stomach). It makes gripping things tricky, walking uncomfortable and both are constantly irritating. It also makes touch typing trickier than usual. Anyway, we are in, I am alive, the children are happy. All is well. Read on for a brief (I hope) summation of the good and bad of our new country life.<br />
<br />
<u><b>THE BAD</b></u><br />
<br />
DAB radio signal is shit. I hadn't thought much about this in the grand scheme of the move, but my daily joy of Radio 2 is being seriously hampered by this problem. We are only four miles from a major town so we're hardly in the flipping sticks. I don't understand why it isn't a crystal clear reception. I had assumed that there must be an easy fix for this but the woman at Currys didn't seem to think there was any solution whatsoever which was very disheartening. So I either go back to FM or somehow rig up a very obvious aerial in my kitchen and keep the stereo at a particular angle in order to hear Chris Evans, Simon Mayo and Jeremy Vine etc without interference. If anyone knows what to do to solve this problem, do let me know post haste. <br />
<br />
The broadband took a while to get set up and the speed is quite slow, but Bea is still able to watch her programmes on her ipad and the boys can still link up to play on each other's minecraft worlds (and then fight to the death in real and virtual life about anything that goes on in the virtual world) and K is able to access Netflix on our new and flashy 'smart' TV (smart for us, btw not for the world at large) so it is entirely fine and within the next few years we will hopefully be getting this new superfast broadband BT are rolling out so it is very liveable with for the moment. Amusingly, my niece had a sleepover with Bea last weekend and before she agreed to come and stay she checked if a. we had broadband and b. if it still worked in Bea's room. I have never before been vetted for my broadband but I am happy to report it met her expectations so it is obviously entirely adequate and I shall have to adjust. <br />
<br />
The schools are all full/or not full but not good. This has caused me quite a headache and a lot of heartache and stress. The very lovely local school which was a big 'PLUS' when we wanted to buy the house had spaces for newcomers but in years 2, 4 and 6. I needed spaces in Reception, year 3 and year 5. Luckily one space became available for year 3 which I quickly applied for and got confirmed for G but that left two more to house. I found another amazingly good school ten minutes away from the house (in the opposite direction to the local school) which had a space for Ted but that wasn't accepting years 5 and 6 until next year. Which left Bea school less. I refused to send her to yet another school so decided to appeal to the local school to admit one extra child in to year 5, making it a class of 31. The problem was that the appeal date was last week, two weeks after term started so she had nowhere to go to school at the beginning of term. The first day we dropped G off and they showed us around the school, Bea was incredibly upset. She was just desperate to get in to school after the Easter holidays and make friends and have some structure and order to her life. Without formal education, I was in charge of 'schooling'. I home schooled her for three days. We did well for two days but then Bea became so upset at bedtime on day two because she missed her friends, I took her on a 'school trip' in to town the following day for shopping and lunch therapy. It worked and she cheered up, but then the absolutely amazingly wondrous head teacher at Ted's school (who must remain anonymous) said Bea could secretly join their year 4 class until she had somewhere permanent arranged. This truly saved the day. I think the last few weeks would have been hellish without this intervention - Bea has been so happy just to go to a school and have friends again, even if they are the year below, she loves the school and the teacher and has been incredibly happy there. <br />
<br />
Luckily, I can now report that Bea does have a permanent place at the local school and will start tomorrow after some form of divine intervention caused a child from year 5 to defect to our 'back up' school for Bea (to a school in town that is closing in just over a year so it really is quite bizarre) and gave in her notice the afternoon before our appeal. K and I still had to attend the appeal and put across our points just in case the local authority had a child in greater need of the place but we found out that they do not and as we won the appeal anyway, there is now nothing stopping her! The relief is quite magnificent. The alternative was a 45 minute and about a ten mile round car trip in the morning and similar in the evening as well as trying to juggle three different schools/uniforms/rules/sports days etc. Plus I really, really, REALLY wanted the local school for Bea. It is small, lovely, has its own heated outside pool and she already has a fabulous friend in her year who we found during the first week of term through mutual friends. I only wish we hadn't had to wait three weeks for her to get in there. <br />
<br />
The midwives are hideously Fatist. I went to my first appointment without expecting too much 'ado'. As you may have guessed, I am a bit of an old pro when it comes to the whole birth thing - in that I pretty much know the form, know what to expect etc (obviously it still hurts and I never, ever emerge looking like Kate Middleton ten hours after birth, I just mean I am fairly well acquainted with the lay of the land when it comes to pregnancy and labour). However, the lovely young midwife I met seemed to take my relatively high BMI and run with it. Within minutes I was being advised to take daily injections to stop blood clots, to attend antenatal classes with 'gentle exercise' included, to see a nutritionist, to take daily aspirin tablets and to be scanned regularly at the hospital (in case the baby was as enormous as me) and put under consultant led care. This was a shock to me. My BP had reduced in the move, not increased. My weight gain with this pregnancy is far less than my gain with Cybs (although my BMI was far less at the beginning of that pregnancy which meant no one gave a shit). It will come as little surprise to know that I politely declined the exercise/antenatal classes. I also refused the daily injections. I promised to take aspirin as a compromise (I lied). I laughed at the idea of a nutritionist but said I would be scanned at least once to prove that I was not having a gigantic baby just because I am gigantic. (I am actually smaller than I was with Ted but my previous experiences of giving birth unharmed seems to fall on deaf ears). I went to the scan. Shockingly, the baby is entirely normal. I am now not attending any further appointments until medical evidence necessitates it. I very much wish I had a sedentary lifestyle but that is just not the case and therefore my risk of deep vein thrombosis or blood clotting is unlikely. There is more risk that I will be unable to stop bleeding after the birth as the uterus can apparently get a bit lazy after the fourth and might not contract efficiently. I feel awful being so mean as she is a very lovely midwife, but really, it is a little tiresome. I do not need extra appointments to attend as I am quite busy with lots of other stuff and I also don't believe I am the 'high risk' fatty bum bum they seem to think I am. I have freaked her out totally by insisting on a home birth. Luckily it is entirely my right to insist upon it but clearly they are very keen to advise a hospital birth. I am enjoying freaking them out though.<br />
<br />
I thought having money and shopping for lots of house stuff would be fun, and
don't misunderstand, it is WAY more fun than having absolutely no money
and needing to get essential stuff, but after the initial excitement of choosing a lovely fridge, TV and sofa, the
daily decision making over every little thing - chairs, wallpaper,
light fittings, table, chest of drawers, curtains, wall colours etc etc. has actually become a chore. I had no idea this was possible. Ideally, I would like someone else to know what I like and want and go and buy it all and then organise its implementation at the house (for free). And sometimes, when it is a really expensive decision like a vast expanse of carpet, I would like someone else to tell me what to do without having any input whatsoever. I hate being entirely responsible for such vast outgoings. Obviously K is a very useful second opinion but he tends to just agree with me (it makes his life a lot easier) unless he absolutely hates my suggestion (or it's way more expensive than he was expecting). I am VERY much looking forward to the house being finished so I don't have to make any more interior design decisions. <br />
<br />
Oh and lack of mobile signal in the house - although this is being rectified shortly with the arrival of our signal booster so it seems churlish to complain but it has been slightly irritating when you are used to using your mobile for everything. We have had to rely on our landline which seems very old school. <br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>THE GOOD</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Where to begin.<br />
<br />
Space. Space cannot be overestimated for what it does it to one's state of mind. The house isn't enormous but it is noticeably bigger than our old house and the garden is at least ten times as big. And it's not just the space in the house and garden, it is the vast expanse of open fields and skies that surround the house that make me feel so much better. I can't actually express why it helps but it really and truly does. The children just love the garden and K seems to be having a love affair with his double garage. Bea even has her own en suite bathroom which makes her feel like she's living in her own flat and she can disappear for hours up to her room (it is a loft conversion without a dorma or proper stairs so doesn't officially count as an extra bedroom but it is surprisingly large and the fact that she has steep steps up to her room means she doesn't get bothered by anyone very often so she absolutely loves it). Cybs' new room is three times the size of her old one (she will probably have to share it at some point so that's not all hers forever) and the boys still have to share a room which will have to be rectified at some point, especially when they get big enough to do serious harm to each other, but all in all everyone is very happy with their new living space. I am writing in our 'grown up' room. On my new duck egg blue sofa. K has his own new chair to my left so this sofa is JUST for me and I am very protective of it. This room is only used in the evening. I LOVE it. And it has an open fire which we have used a lot already. The children are allowed in here, but not for long. And most certainly not with food. They have a big playroom, complete with our old large sofa and Sky TV which leads off the kitchen and so far the segregation is working a treat. <br />
<br />
Garden. We are now the proud owners of a decent sized, south facing back garden, and thanks to me it has an extremely large climbing frame. And thanks to K who agreed to my crazy purchase and then spent three exceedingly long days putting it together. On two of the days he had my lovely Godmother's husband helping him as well. It was a particularly epic build. But it is now up and extremely well loved and it means that the children spend an awful lot of time outside. At the moment. Mother is very quick to point out that no one will use it in a few weeks' time once the novelty wears off. Still, that is not an issue as we are also having a pool put it in! It is EXCEEDINGLY exciting. I am hoping that this will 'do' for an entire summer's entertainment whilst I am busy breast feeding the newbie. Now, it is by no means a full sized, proper pool. It is being converted from the site of the old pond that was here and should make a really decent children's pool - like the shallow end of a normal pool. No one uses the deep end anyway. As long as no one tries to dive in or use it for professional swimming training, we should be ok. I am just desperate for work to start so it will be ready in time for the summer.<br />
<br />
Schools. I am a massive fan of both schools so far. They were almost tailor made for my boys. The week after Ted started at his school the theme in Ted's class was spiders. I couldn't actually believe it. He was even asked to bring a live one in to class. Luckily the house is covered with them (they are taking a while to adjust to the fact that the house is now inhabited after a long time vacant). There is also a forest school which he loves and a great playground. All children are amazed by the expanse of grass they get to play on every day - particularly G. Most of the after school clubs are free - and quite cool - G is starting Gardening club on Thursday, K is quite jealous. And you can chop and choose whether you want packed lunch or school dinners on the day without having to pre-book. This sounds like a crap thing to be excited about but when you have to make three lunches every morning during the chaos of breakfast and pre-school shenanigans, the fact that there are some days the children will stomach the school offerings instead, means a lot to me. Also Bea came home from her first day as a pretend year 4 pupil and told me she was amazed because the head teacher knew everyone's names and didn't just point at them and say 'You', like the dragon Head she had at her London school - this kind of thing makes me very happy. And they get given instruments to learn like the violin for FREE (I used to learn the violin so I am particularly excited about that). Oh and obviously there's the academic side of stuff. But to be honest I care less about that than I do about all the extra stuff like nice parents, nice buildings, good playground, great after school clubs and the outdoor swimming pool. We even get to use the school pool during the summer holidays. Again, we are new to all of this so it might all turn out to be crap but as a wide-eyed ex-Londoner this all seems totally amazing. OH OH OH and the very best bit of it all is that at Bea and G's school there is a car door opener. You literally pull in to a lay by at the gate, the door-opener opens the doors and helps the children out and you say your goodbyes, the doors are shut and you drive off. IMAGINE. K likes to call it the Concierge service. I am thrilled that this means after the baby is out I could sometimes do the school run in my pyjamas without anyone realising. Awesome. <br />
<br />
People. They are SO NICE. So far. Potentially they may turn out to be intensely annoying in the future but for now I have collected lots of numbers from people who seem to be desperate to help me with school pick ups/drop offs and one generous soul who offered to unpack boxes for me whilst I sat on the sofa. What could potentially be a negative in some ways has turned out to be a rather fabulous positive for us as everyone seems to know our business. We are known as the family who have just moved with lots of children who couldn't get them all in to the local school. News of Bea's school place spread like wildfire and G was told at lunch time at his school before Bea even knew about it. It is quite amazing. Not only this but people seem to genuinely want to help. Like the lovely headmistress who wanted to make Bea happy and my life easier by allowing her to illegally join year 4. G has already been over for a playdate with his new best friend and Bea met her new friend because I rang the mother, explained our situation and asked if she would bring her daughter over to play with Bea, and she did. I have been overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers and relative strangers. The morning I arrived at the house I discovered a beautifully decorated box waiting for us with home made flapjacks, a Suffolk magazine, tea towel, loo roll, tea bags etc and a card from an old school friend I hadn't seen for years and years. She lives in the next door village and had tracked down the house from Right Move and left us the lovely welcome. Not that there weren't amazingly lovely people in London, it just took me longer to find them when we moved in there. <br />
<br />
Car. I am a huge fan of driving. Every morning I get to do the school run in the car I am a grateful bunny. Especially at this size. The baby is basically ready to go (I am 37 weeks) and what with my hurty swollen feet as well I am so happy not to be walking the school run. It also means I get to listen to my new CDs which is the best bit of all. Meghan Trainor and Taylor Swift are my new bestest buds. Also as K is still at home (mercifully he is not yet gainfully employed which I couldn't be happier about), he quite often takes Cybs to do G's school run which means I get a beautiful ten minute journey (longer if I decided to find a circuitous route) home after dropping off Ted to myself with my favourite new music. This is pretty much the best thing ever.<br />
<br />
Waitrose. Enough said. <br />
<br />
<b>CONCLUSION</b><br />
<br />
We are all much happier. K and G in particular. It is so noticeable it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Bea and I were pretty distressed as we said goodbye to our old house and we pulled away in the car. We had said a heartbreaking goodbye to the old folks over the road who were there to see us off and to the house. I kept running back in to the house for things I thought I had forgotten, unable to believe we wouldn't be going back there ever again and taking a last look at every room, knowing that we couldn't forget anything as the removals men were about to pack it all up and bring it all to us. The boys were just keen to leave and had their heads buried in Kindles in the back of the car and Cybs just wanted to get on the road to see her Grandma and obviously didn't quite comprehend the enormity of the goodbye she was saying, but Bea and I really felt it. And it was so very hard. BUT, that was the very worst bit of the whole process. The last four and a bit weeks have been some of the happiest we have ever known. It feels like we are on holiday and yet it's real life. Obviously it helps that the sun has shone most days, that K is off work and that there is some slush fund money for fun things like shopping trips and cinema visits and meals out etc. Who knows what it will be like when there is another child (who I am incredibly hopeful will be far less trouble than Cybs but could actually turn out to be far worse) to look after and pay for and it has rained every day for a month and K is at work all day long and we have had to go to Aldi not Waitrose for our evening meal and the children are telling me that they are REALLY BORED. It will clearly not feel like a holiday for ever but for now life is good, Suffolk is good and once the house is finished I will be even happier with it than I am already. Although leaving was hard and we miss our friends and the lovely Honor Oak, we have definitely made the right decision for our family. As far as I can tell. <br />
<br />
Until the next time lovely ones, when hopefully I shall report on the safe arrival of No. 5. The final delivery. I hope. xxxxxxxxxxxxxx<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-21433640599992699782015-03-29T13:50:00.001-07:002015-03-29T13:50:08.288-07:00So long, FarewellSO, that's it. The end is nigh. We have exchanged, the move is happening and we are facing the very last days of living in London before completion. <br />
<br />
I don't know where to begin. I am all over the place emotionally. It's a bit like when you know you have to break up with someone even though you really love them, but you have to go ahead and go through the heartbreak as you know it's for the best. I don't particularly have strong feelings for the structure of my house or any of its features but I have loved our life here (on the whole - obvs the rat in the loo and various periods of time in severe penury weren't particularly enjoyable), but it is the centre of our world. Bea was six months old when we completed on this house ten years ago (almost to the day), two of my babies were born in the house, four of them were conceived here (TMI?), it is the only home any of them have ever known and most of our lives revolve around this place and the surrounding streets. I can't realistically imagine calling anywhere else 'home'. The new baby will be born and raised in Suffolk and have no idea of our former London life. Cybs also won't remember any of the life Bea and G have enjoyed here for almost a decade. It is so odd to think about it. I was fortunate enough to never move as a child, mum still lives in the only family home I have ever known, so to me this feels like a massive upheaval for them and for me. <br />
<br />
It's not that I don't want to move, I am desperate to do so, but I want
to move and stay here at the same time. Ideally I'd like to have kept
this house and move as well but that was obviously never an option. As you know, we haven't always had the easiest of times with money. This last year hasn't been that great and it is just not at all fun. I don't know who on earth thought that money doesn't buy you happiness, they are entirely wrong. Maybe someone with money said it. Living in fear of not having any money is terrifically dull. It dominates everything and makes your decisions for you. It limits your options considerably and makes you feel very vulnerable, particularly when you have children. With this in mind, we decided to be very sensible and went for a slightly smaller and less grand house than my original plans for a 'forever' home, but it will still fit us all in and there is room for improvement and extension for our growing brood. The important things are that it has a nice big kitchen, a garden big enough to play in, a drive to rollerskate on and a school nearby. AND its main advantage is that it is marvellously cheap. (In comparison to our London house I mean, it's not a fiver or anything). So, it means that we will finally have something that I believe 'normal' people call 'disposable income'. We may even finally get on a plane with our brood for a foreign holiday which they are quite desperate to do. (Not that I am keen after all the recent air disasters and the price of buying six passports - K is currently the only person equipped to leave the country. A fact he has mentioned once or twice as an advantage....)<br />
<br />
I am quite scared of doing things like taking a flight. I have a feeling that we weren't meant to have money. It somehow feels as if we are going against the universe's plans for us and I do worry we may feel its wrath in penance. I have a recurring hideous thought that a great tragedy will befall us soon after we move and I can envisage the front pages of the newspapers with pictures of our smiling faces beaming out with headlines screaming of a family who left the perils of life in the wilds of South East London for the safety and tranquillity of the Suffolk countryside, only to be murdered in their beds/burnt alive/mown down by a tractor. That kind of thing. Or, we all die in a hideous pile up on the motorway now that we have to use it far more often. The car pile up thing is actually the fault of the Speed Awareness Course I was forced to attend after being caught on the way back from my first visit to the house (initially I thought this was a really bad 'sign' but then I found lots of other, more positive 'signs' like the owners having a cat called Keith and decided to go for it anyway). They are quite hot on the whole speeding thing in Suffolk. Another thing I will have to get used to. Although the fact that I am still terrifically haunted by what they showed me on the course should help.....<br />
<br />
I will have to get very used to spending a large amount of time in the car from now on. We can't walk to the children's new schools (I will explain at a later date but they can't all go to the local school at the moment...) so we have done our final school run on foot for many years to come. I can't say I'm upset. Not only is it a lot easier to drive than to push a buggy when you are carrying another heavy human and its various add ons inside you, but it also means we don't have to dodge the urine trails, vomit and various poo we usually encounter on our daily commute to their London school. I had the 'final' day all planned in my head. Our final morning school run was going to be jovial and calm, the pick up was going to be emotional and there would be much time spent in the playground as the children and I bid farewell to all our friends. It didn't turn out at all that way. The children didn't get ready in time, I ended up shouting, there were fights over the bags of sweets I'd arranged for them to give out to their classmates, Ted left his bookbag at home with his farewell cards inside and we all ended up at the school gates in bad moods. I tried to turn it around in the final few minutes before they left me, with cuddles and kisses, wishing them a lovely last day etc but it didn't help. Annoyingly I was more angry that they had ruined 'my' final school run. My last wait in the playground and my last chance to chat to the mothers I had spoken to every morning for years. As Ted was finally ushered in by his teacher with a face of thunder it suddenly hit me. Right as someone was saying their final goodbye to me. I started to well up. <br />
<br />
Crying in public is a real no no for me. I don't really like to show emotion. I am fairly traditionally British in that way. Obviously I will happily show anger when provoked but crying is really not something I am at all comfortable with. I don't like other people crying either. It's not that I am cross with them but I would like them to stop, for their sake as well as to ease my own discomfort. I will obviously be sympathetic to start but then I will try and lighten the mood with humour as soon as is appropriate. I don't want people to feel the same discomfort as I do which is why I hate people seeing me cry. Luckily, I am able to bury painful emotions and act as if nothing is happening so that is what I did to spare anyone's blushes. After those few tears on Friday morning I haven't shed a tear about my departure. I have done the final farewells in the playground, said goodbye to my closest friends - both individually and en masse at my goodbye night out, I have seen the children bid sad goodbyes to their best friends and walked the well worn path to the school I've been going to for five years for the last time without even a lump in my throat. Fizzy alcohol has helped. I know it's not good to use drink to stop feeling unpleasant emotions, or to drink (in moderation) whilst pregnant, but seriously, I don't care. It has worked. No one has felt uncomfortable. If I can't stop snivelling and snotting and weeping when we finally say goodbye to our happy family home then only the children and K will suffer and K is incredibly used to it.<br />
<br />
Even though we are literally about to leave I still can't quite believe it is happening. Although I have been going through the motions of finding schools, doctors, midwives, moving utilities and stressing over exchanges and removals people, I have also been assuming that at any moment it would all fall through and we would go back to our 'normal' life. What makes it more surreal is that we are having a full packing service -
obviously we needed it with me being pretty pregnant and fairly
immobile already - but because of this the house has no idea what is
coming. We are living in it as if nothing is happening. Dirty washing is still going in the basket, ketchup is still going back in the cupboard and the floors are still littered with things that should be somewhere else. It is entirely 'normal'. Only very soon the children and I are going to walk out with our suitcases of clothes and a few special toys and most importantly their flipping ipads/kindles and never walk back through the door. I
am taking the children and running away to mother's before the packers arrive so I can pretend
nothing is happening. And to enable the packers to get on with their ninja like packing work without tripping over children or having to deal with an angry Cybs who might assume they are stealing her books (the most important thing to her - they all had a box to pack and hers is entirely filled with story books) and clothes and toys. K is staying on to oversee the packing and completion and then coming up afterwards. It won't feel like we have finally left London for a while I don't think. I won't get to see the empty house, or hand over the keys or anything that might feel like 'closure'. The children and I will just get in the car and go to Grandma's for our usual country break and never come back. Well. Not to live. We will of course visit frequently. <br />
<br />
For a person who doesn't like change or uncertainty, this is pretty much a nightmare for me. I know it will all be worth it in the end and eventually it will all begin to feel 'normal', but for now I am much like the children, varying between utter excitement and total panic. Right now I shall ignore the rising fear and spend time trying to think about what on earth I should now call my blog. In hindsight a geographically specific name wasn't a good idea. The new postcode is IP30 but it doesn't quite have the same ring to it. I will forever be grateful to the wonderful SE23 (and its close postcode neighbours) and to all the magnificent people who live within it to whom I have become incredibly close and who have become so very important to me. I don't 'do' emotion, but if I did, I would be balling my eyes out at the thought of no longer having them near me and how on earth I can live without them.<br />
<br />
There is little more to be said. We need to get ready, get on and ship out. This house needs some tidier residents to inhabit it. I shall of course keep you informed and updated on all my trials and tribulations of suddenly being a new country mother. Until then lovely ones. Wish me luck.<br />
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx<br />
<br />
<br />Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-68521225254269199442015-01-28T14:05:00.000-08:002015-01-28T14:10:26.151-08:00Unrealistic ResolutionsHELLO! Happy New Year! Or Happy New Yeast as my predictive text would have me bid people. I hope you had a suitably non eventful and enjoyable festive period.<br />
<br />
So, as we are still in January (JUST) I will once again start off the new year with a list of highly unrealistic resolutions I shall very likely not achieve in the coming year: <br />
<br />
<b>To Control My Threats</b><br />
For some reason my threats have become wildly out of hand. As my lack of control over the children grows, my desperate threats to get them to do what have I asked become ever more violent. Basic threats of killing and beating grew to chopping off heads, stabbing, removing fingers one at a time until I found myself on one dark December day threatening to stab G, who no surprise said I wouldn't, so I said I would do it whilst he was asleep so that he wouldn't be able to stop me. He looked slightly surprised and said mothers don't do that. For a SPLIT second it crossed my mind to show him the news reports of the hideous massacre in Australia that had recently happened where a woman, who was clearly extremely mentally ill, had stabbed her eight children. It flashed through my mind that showing him that mothers do do it would be a good idea as he might take my threats more seriously in the future and I would finally gain control. Luckily common sense beat me to it and I thought it might also cause irreversible fractures in our mother/son relationship and give him a sleep disorder.<br />
<br />
The problem I have is that following through on real, achievable threats is exceedingly hard work. Removal of kindles/ipads is really all I have at my disposal. Going to their rooms is not a punishment - Bea voluntarily does that to be alone and watch some shite Aussie programme called Mermaids. At 8 and 10 the step isn't an option and Ted is totally unable to sit still - he is constantly moving for some odd reason - it is like a permanent 'wee dance' which I find boys do when keen for a wee but haven't quite decided it is desperate enough to formally relieve themselves - except that when I ask him if he needs a wee he says 'no, I'm just dancing'. (I hope to get him in to formal dance training at some point - he may well be my Billy Elliot). I can't actually whack them (although honestly the desire to do so often flits through my head. I think any parent is telling a big, fat, fib if they can't admit the instinct to smack a bottom crosses their mind when pushed to the very limits of patience and endurance). I can't send them to bed without supper because I wouldn't sleep for fear that they were hungry. They don't go on a huge number of after school playdates and I would never stop them going on one because it is a pain having to rearrange them as a parent and that would mean upsetting the expectant child as well. Ditto with parties. I also see no point in removing a favourite toy as they have so many they would barely notice.<br />
<br />
SO, I am left with removing screens. This causes such hysteria I would only use it for the most heinous of crimes. I mean you would have to almost stab someone for this to occur. Bea is the very worst. She goes in to some sort of psychotic episode and also becomes entirely fearless whilst simultaneously crying, such is her determination to retrieve her most prized possession. She will argue and argue and argue with you, ignoring all reason or sense. K tried to take her on the other day for simply not tidying her room when asked. The fallout was intense. She would not stop asking for it back, coming back time and time again, fearless and teary and 'getting all up in K's grille' about her desperate and urgent need for the ipad back. He kept his cool for as long as possible but then resorted (understandably) to shouting. I kept out of it, mainly because I hate conflict but also as she hadn't actually stabbed anyone, I did feel he was over reacting and the subsequent drama was entirely of his own doing. <br />
<br />
Therefore, my resolution I won't keep No. 1 of 2015 - Threaten the children with only normal and child friendly punishments. Also potentially Resolution I won't keep No. 2 - try following through on normal and child friendly threats so that they respond to your requests to come for supper, get in/out of the bath, do homework, pick up their coats, stop fighting, get dressed etc in the future so that there will be no need to break resolution No. 1.<br />
<br />
<b>Stop Shouting as Much</b><br />
I fear I have made this resolution a number of times before. This evening I screamed/shouted so loudly at George to get out of the bath that my throat still hurts several hours later. Although in keeping with my No. 1 resolution I did at least not threaten him with any physical violence. I just kept saying GET OUT OF THE BATH at rising decibels. So in a way, this is a step forward. However, it does seem that bath time is a particular flash point for me. After 7pm all patience and reason evaporates and I become some wicked harridan. Sadly that means that almost all of the bath and bed routine is spent with my anger levels rising. It is only as I finally descend/ascend (depending on whether I am tired enough to go straight to bed or I think I might manage a few hours downstairs) at nearing 8 o'clock that I find I become calm and rational once again.<br />
<br />
I can't help thinking that the newbie isn't helping. I am not at my best whilst pregnant. Even I can objectively admit that I have slight issues with tiredness, anger and hormones when in this state. And even though it is far too early to be doing so, I am finding the bump a bit weighty - there is still a whopping 16 weeks to go and there is no way I can continue a normal life at the end if I am already finding it a bit uncomfortable now. However I need to move house before then so I can't actually think about it.<br />
<br />
Resolution I Shall Never Keep No. 3 - to stay calm and not resort to mad-woman-levels of shouting which should be reserved for life and death situations only. <br />
<br />
<b>Master Using a Sling</b><br />
This is something I have longed for for ten years. A baby sling/carrier looks so lovely on other people. I see the small baby wrapped up inside a Baby Bjorn or one of those wrap around material jobbies, all warm and cosy, sleeping on their mother and I feel a deep sense of longing. I have tried them with each and every sodding baby I've had but the problem I have is that I am jolly large each and every time I give birth to each and every sodding baby. The Baby Bjorn structured thingy seems the best option, but I have to let the straps out a fair bit to fit around my stomach and back but you have to wear it quite tightly in order for it to hold the baby comfortably. Any fat person will know that pulling something tightly around your middle looks awful. That is strike one. The other strike is that my boobs are enormous post baby and my babies are usually heavy (all except the poor starving Bea in the early days), so combined with the excess weight in my boob and tummy I am already carting about every minute of the day, a heavy baby added on to that area means my back gives up fairly early on and results in acute pain.<br />
<br />
For George I bought a stripy hammocky sling thing that goes across your body like a bag. Again, it worked for a few weeks if that. The minute he got huge (G went from 8lbs 8 to 10lbs 4 oz in the first ten days - he was always a massive eater) he was only portable in a buggy. For number three I invested in the wrap around material thingy - it looked very earth mothery and easy to use and I was very keen on the idea of having my hands free to cook and care for the other two. This was vaguely ok for a few weeks except that getting it on and off took a level of care and expertise which wasn't easy to do in a hurry and again, it required me to tie it tightly around my middle. Added to this I stupidly bought it in a cream colour. The last time I wore it, when Ted was a few weeks old, I opened the door to my elderly neighbour and she gasped in horror. I was a little thrown by her reaction but when she asked me what on earth I had done to myself, it transpired that she thought I was swathed in bandages and she was under the impression that I had done my torso a serious harm. I realised immediately that my illusions of looking like the lithe mothers I see walking effortlessly down the street, hands swinging, baby happily attached to their bandage free torsos was in fact all in my head. In real life I looked like a tightly wrapped, fat, Egyptian Mummy. This scarred me so deeply that I didn't even invest in a sling for Cybs. I dug out the stripy hammock which K wore on our holiday in Devon when she was two weeks old as it was easier than a buggy and three children for getting in and out of trains and on and off beaches etc but that was the only time we needed one. She was in the buggy, car or in my arms at all other times. <br />
<br />
Even though I am still fat and my babies are still heavy I am determined to try again with the fifth. I am once again convinced that the perfect baby sling/carrier is out there and waiting for me, regardless of bad back and tummy fat. I am going to track it down. Potentially I shall begin my search in America where there are quite a number of fat people - maybe they produce a nice sturdy baby sling with extra large straps and a sturdy back support. Or I may give the bandage type thing a go once again, but this time in black or a very dark colour - not only is it slimming but it will also look more like a top to save any cause for alarm to the elderly.<br />
<br />
Resolution I will never keep No. 4. Use a sling with the new baby. More than once and for longer than a few weeks.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Enjoy December</b><br />
This is a big one. I really do not like December. <br />
<br />
December and I are not happy bedfellows. It is one long (or short as
it is only actually 24 days long and it races by far quicker than I ever want)
ball of stress as far as I'm concerned. Every waking (and a number of
sleeping) moment is taken up with concern over gift purchasing and keeping the 'magic alive'. There were also a few tense days awaiting the opportunity to book my Tesco
delivery slot. Add to that a number of social engagements (some welcome, some not) as well as three school concerts (some good, some not) and it is hard to find any of it enjoyable. The children's growing excitement and anticipation as the days roll on, just compounds my fear and loathing. Maybe if you have lots of sleep, lots of money and spare time, it is an awful lot of fun preparing for the big day but as I had none of the above this year I really couldn't find the fun in it.<br />
<br />
I am VERY over people believing in the
big man. It was really fabulous when Bea and G were very little but the
novelty wore off after about five years and now it just adds to the stress.
Bea STILL believes and yet she is old enough to be incredibly inquisitive and read and understand that all the boxes arriving in the post can't possibly be for the neighbours because they have my name and our address on them. I am quite keen to rid her of her belief this year.
I need an ally to help decide what to get, what people want and someone to know that I have to work with budget restrictions. K's answer to almost everything I show him for a second
opinion on whether to buy the gift or not is 'they don't need it'. Oddly enough I agree. I would estimate that less than
1% of people in the western world receive items for which they have a
genuine need as opposed to something they want. Potentially homeless
people being provided with warmth, shelter and food but other than that,
the entire point of a modern Christmas is commercialism. Trying to fight it with
reason is pointless. <br />
<br />
As it happens I surpassed myself
with gift buying this year, even with an exceedingly low budget. All the children
were thrilled and the day itself was actually pretty delightful. I felt a massive weight leave me as the last present was opened. Although I felt a little stupid for getting myself in to such a state about the whole thing. G is normally happy for days on end if I return from a shopping trip with a multi pack of socks - why I worried that a pile of gifts containing anything even vaguely relevant to his life would fall short of expectation was entirely idiotic. Ted is pickier and can be quite vocal about his thoughts on gifts but even he was beside himself with happiness at his haul. The girls were naturally happy with each and everything they opened, Bea always is and Cybs is only two so you can pretty much wrap up anything and she would be happy. My meal was pretty
darn good as well thanks to my efficient Tesco slot booking ability. It was probably my most favourite Christmas ever even though the December was my worst. <br />
<br />
So, Resolution I Shall Never Keep No. 5 - Enjoy December more as it always turns out perfectly whether you spend the weeks and months preceding it in a state of misery or not. <br />
<br />
<b>Be More Patient</b><br />
Somehow, from somewhere I need to find more patience. I am not sure it is at all possible but I really have to find a way to deal with Cybbie on a daily basis without going crazy (and potentially this will help with resolution number one and two as well). I am seriously thinking of asking the powers that be at Sandhurst if they have ever considered employing tired two year olds to test the metal of their new recruits. I honestly have no idea how you are meant to stay calm in the face of total illogic and pedantry. And the need to do everything herself. The words I dread most are 'I help you with that!'. She has to help with EVERYTHING I DO, from cooking, hoovering, washing, pouring milk and making tea to me going to the sodding loo. Sometimes I just want to do things quickly and on MY OWN. <br />
<br />
It is also the relentlessness of it all. Aside from the 5/6 hours I am afforded, between putting her to bed and then her joining me in my bed (of which I am awake for only half), I am with Cybs all the time. At her best, she is an utter delight, but as I have discussed before, at her worst she really could try the patience of a Saint (or an entire army barrack). In a good mood you can get her dressed, leave the house and go about your business as needed. On a bad day leaving the house can take such a long time it can stop you wanting to do it at all. Sadly, I have to leave five mornings a week for the school run and she just about lets me most days but for the rest of the day we are pretty much housebound unless we are going out to get sweets or do something she deems acceptable. I am allowed to go to one playgroup a week, IF she consents. The rest of the time she is quite happy to stay in the house until the afternoon school run. It doesn't help that it's the winter. And that before Christmas she gave up nappies and agreed to wear knickers and use the potty. It has been largely successful. She was far quicker on the uptake than the lovely Ted BUT she was instantly aware of the power this gave her. I realised my patience needed a makeover when I was imploring her to do the wee she so desperately needed and after watching her become ever more desperate to wee and yet ever more resistant to the idea of weeing I yelled 'Oh For GOD's SAKE JUST GO FOR A BLOODY WEE'. <br />
<br />
So, my final unachievable resolution for the beginning of the year is To Be More Patient with my truculent two year old. Who is adorable in small doses. But can drive you to distraction in larger doses. <br />
<br />
There. I have a way to go before I reach enlightenment and parenting glory. I don't think 2015 is going to be the year I achieve it. I can't see it in 2016 either if I'm desperately honest. This year I have to get another baby out and to move house and get three children in to an already full school etc etc. Oh yes, we're under offer by the way - turns out being on the internet was pretty vital to the whole house selling thing - the first Saturday after it went on Right Move we got our offer. We have also found a house to move to so if all goes well and no one starts being stupid we should be moved by Easter. The buyers seem keen
but I don't believe that they won't pull out at any moment so I shan't
celebrate until we exchange. K has had a number of idiots pulling out
just before exchange and one who tried to do it post exchange. I will
not pack one thing until we are legally required to vacate the property just in case.<br />
<br />
That's your lot for now. It doesn't really catch you up much and it makes me sounds like I'm having a horrid time which I'm really not, I am quite happy now that it is January and there are no gifts to be bought and I don't have to keep the house spotless for viewings on short notice. I am very excited about the move and now we have our head around the idea of another one, we are also quite excited about the new baby too, so all in all things are pretty good. But this doesn't stop me losing my temper, my patience and, momentarily, my mind as well when it comes to the children.<br />
<br />
I shall be back with more thrilling updates and details of the Great Move shortly. Ish.<br />
<br />
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxAliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-10558127334847830332014-11-19T14:04:00.000-08:002014-11-19T14:04:15.648-08:00Things That Keep Me Awake At NightHello! I'm BACK. I am in my usual spot, the house is silent and mainly tidy, I have hoovered up the cheerios and corn flakes from the living room carpet (never piss off a two year old and then leave her unattended) and I have a full hour and a half before my peace and tranquility are shattered by demands for yet more Peppa Pig and milk. I shall attempt to catch you up with the various excitements that have occured in the last few months.<br />
<br />
Things That Keep Me Up At Night<br />
<br />
1. Worries<br />
<br />
I have various and many worries that keep me from sleeping even when I am desperate to do so. A while ago I couldn't sleep because I was panicking that the children couldn't speak Chinese. It was so unlike me to worry about such stupid things that made me worry more. I began to panic that everyone was secretly taking their children to Chinese lessons and mine would be woefully left behind when the great Chinese take over of the world occurred. How would they get any job if they couldn't converse with their Chinese counterparts? If they got too old to learn would they be able to learn at all? Isn't now the prime time to get their brains around such things? Maybe this would make up for me not teaching them to play the piano?? In the cold light of day I realised that they are not only still learning to spell and write English but potentially extra French or Spanish lessons to compliment what they are already doing at school, might be a better place to start. I also realised that we couldn't afford any extra lessons on top of what they already do so it was an entirely moot point. Quite why I spent a good few hours thinking about trying to get two reluctant learners and one very busy child taking on another very complicated extra language is a total mystery to me. I have gone back to worrying about all the usuals, 'Why will no one buy my house?', 'Should we move?', 'how will I afford x, y and z?', 'how much fatter will I get?', 'Will I ever sleep enough?', 'Is that Ted - does he need his inhaler?', 'Shit did I put the tumble dryer on?', 'Bugger - I haven't paid that bill', 'Should we move?' etc etc etc<br />
<br />
2. Birthdays<br />
<br />
We have finally completed the birthday marathon. All four done and dusted. Four Birthday surprises, three parties, a tonne of cake and hideous, hideous amounts of money on plastic stuff all behind me for another year. The panic beforehand was higher than ever this year. I have no idea why. Before Bea's I awoke in a cold sweat after a nightmare in which I had forgotten to lay her birthday table, wrap presents or in fact do anything to celebrate her big day in any which way because I had managed to fall asleep instead. In the nightmare I had luckily awoken at 2am and screamed at K to wake up and we had set about rectifying the situation. I have no idea if we managed because luckily I woke up before I got to found out and then wallowed in my sweet relief for quite a while before I felt the shock wear off and my pulse rate return to normal. I don't know if, as they get older, the expectations and anticipation is more exaggerated which in turn increases the pressure on me. Or maybe it was my subconscious forcing me to check all the details of her impending extravaganza as the following day I realised the balloon lady and I hadn't actually confirmed a date for delivery and sure enough - her balloons were not scheduled to arrive on time! QUELLE HORREUR. I know normal people would not panic at such things but about seven years ago I stupidly set a precedent when we only had one very cute three year old and a non plussed one year old so it seemed totally ok to over indulge and spoil the then three year old with a pile of gifts and balloons and cakes and a massive and pricey party. And seven years is a long time to get used to something, so I couldn't very well have her waking up with no foil number balloons - particularly as she had reminded me for about six weeks that finally making it to double figures wasVERY important. Anyhoo, there is no point in wallowing in the past. On to the present. I found a local party shop and a very helpful woman was able to come to my aid although sadly she didn't deliver. (This is relevant - keep reading I am not just being dull for the sake of it).<br />
<br />
The morning I picked them up happened to be quite windy and I had unfortunately decided to wear some comfy jeggings on my bottom half. I couldn't park outside the party shop so I had to carry a number of helium balloons, including a large 1 and 0 and a small 'airwalker' dog a little way back to the safety of my car boot. The wind wasn't kind and I had no hand free to yank up the irritatingly saggy jeggings so I was very desperate to deposit the balloons quickly so that I could prevent exposing myself entirely. By the time I reached the car I also realised that we had so much crap in the car which we were hiding from the house viewers, that fitting the balloons in at all was going to be tricky. Just as I managed to shove in what I thought was all of the unwielding and cumbersome balloons I saw a small, cute dog balloon fly off down the high street. My initial thought was to leave it to its fate and write it off. Then by some bizarre luck it didn't get instantly run over by the oncoming traffic so I decided to fight for the dog. I slammed shut the boot ensuring the remaining balloons were safe and well and then set off down the middle of Sydenham high street with one hand on my jeans and the other obsessively pointing the key fob at the car and pressing 'lock' in case any local thief had seen this as an opportunity to steal my car and the blessed balloons. The dog (which had weights on its feet to keep it just above ground level - like a real dog) was quite realistically running away and then tantalisingly stopping when the wind died down. I try not to imagine what an overweight middle aged woman trying to surreptitiously run down the middle of a busy high street whilst holding up her trousers in order to retrieve an inflatable dog looked like, but I do think if I had been an onlooker rather than the victim it may have been quite a funny scene. As luck would have it the dog made it to the other side of the road (albeit quite a way down) entirely unharmed and I managed to scoop it up and place it firmly under my arm before the recalcitrant jeggings had revealed the entirety of my backside. I was quite desperate not to turn around and see if anyone had witnessed the whole thing so I was very pleased to see the shop we had stopped outside was a stationers - I went inside and accidentally bought a number of rolls of hideously expensive wrapping paper I had foolishly assumed would be cheap. Still, it gave me a chance to regroup and calm down before I proceeded to return to the car and make it back home in time to deposit the pesky balloons at my obliging neighbour's house so that Bea wouldn't see them.<br />
<br />
Turns out I needn't have panicked. Bea's Birthday Bash was a huge success, she was thrilled, her slumber party was just what she wanted, mainly thanks to a superb Magic Masterclass courtesy of her Godmother's talented husband, the Magician and a huge number of sweets (slight sore point there in that when I came down in the morning I discovered that half the children had lost teeth during the night. It was quite surreal as one after another they presented me with bloody tissues and tiny teeth that had succumbed to toffee consumption). Equally George's birthday went without a balloon escaping hitch. Aside from a distinct lack of money after the first three had had their turn, and a pesky viewing by a rude woman on his actual birthday, he received the giant stuffed wolf he had been desperate for (I have no idea where he gets his ideas from - for Christmas I have to find a large stuffed Skunk - any tips gratefully received) and he had all manner of hideous and not so hideous creatures at his party with the very thorough (but exceedingly pricey) Ranger Stu. And now that it is all blissfully completed, I finally get to start diverting all available funds towards the money black hole that is Christmas. Wahoo! I want my advent calendar to end with January 1st which is when I truly start celebrating.<br />
<br />
<br />
3. Birthing Sister<br />
<br />
During the rather dull half term (there is nothing to report on that front - I was forced to sit through a frankly terrifying ((I really cannot do suspense or threats of danger or any violence in any film - I am ruined for anything but rom coms - I do not exaggerate - I find some things tricky to get through on Cbeebies and cried real, heartfelt tears in Toy Story 3)) Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles film and the far more enjoyable Book of Life and that was really it) Shiny Life Sister went in to obediently timed labour. Typically for her, she was actually a day ahead of her due date and perfectly timed for me - as she wanted me at the birth I had told her it would have to be during half term so I could abandon the children with mother at short notice and one day in, she obliged. <br />
<br />
Not that I wish to compete in the tiredness stakes when someone is in the throes of labour but it actually wasn't the best day for me - I had only just arrived at mother's in dire need of some long periods of sleep but thanks to the clocks going back and my very beautiful but early rising nephew deciding that that was the morning to start the day at 5.20 am (old time) - I was pretty done in before I even got in the car to return to London. However, much like in actual labour, adrenalin kicked in and I imagined that she was imminently about to push the baby out so I became panicked about my need to get to the hospital. At the first sign of traffic I dumped the car at Tottenham Hale tube and jumped on my most hated form of public transport (I used to use it every week day but now I find it difficult to cope with - so dirty, noisy, everyone is miserable and if it breaks down I am stuck in the dark underground - what is to like about that?) to Warren Street. Again, it wasn't really my moment in the spotlight but I managed to make it to University College Hospital from leaving mum's front door in precisely one hour and forty five minutes. I felt heroic. I rang mother for praise but surprisingly received none (she was not only more interested in what was going on with Shiny Life Sister but she also had nine children at the house and only one other mother (Kent Sister) for help so was understandably not able to recognise my own heroism in the midst of her own) so I saved it for an appropriate time in the birthing room. Mercifully the father-to-be was suitably impressed by my speed and ability and I felt my accomplishment had been justly recognised. On to the birth.<br />
<br />
Well. Turns out that she hadn't been imminently about to push it out and I had become far too used to secondary plus births where things don't tend to take twenty four hours but are mercifully far swifter. As soon as I got in to the room I made the incumbent midwife (who I didn't warm to and mercifully left us very quickly after my arrival) provide my poor suffering sister with some gas and air. This was gratefully received and imbibed. From then on it was just a waiting game. She progressed steadily but slowly and the contractions seemed unfairly strong and painful for the stage she was at. Eventually we opted for some diamorphine to help with the pain, and when that wore off we were lucky enough to get her a birth pool. By the time she entered the pool her husband and I were getting very excited about the birth finally seeming imminent (poor SLS had really had enough by this point - it was about 5pm and she had been in constant pain since 1.30am that morning). By the time she got to fully dilated there was lots of excited speculation about being back in time for Downton and how she was SO close to being out of pain and eating toast in bed. She began to push. She pushed like a 'Mother Fo' (I think that is the term) and she pushed and she pushed and she pushed. The midwife kept putting her bent mirror in to the water to see any sign of a head. I started virtually pushing with her and squeezing her hand in solidarity. Nothing happened. Except that SLS, who was already at her limit of endurance when it had got to the pushing stage, got to a point that there are no words to describe. She was broken. She came out of the pool and tried pushing on a stool. After an hour and a half of pushing she admitted defeat - the baby was not coming out regardless of what she did. Then she suffered an excruciating further half an hour wait whilst plans were put in place to move her to the labour floor as the midwife led unit was not equipped for epidural/forceps etc. The wait was agonising. SLS was in tears and I knew exactly how she felt having had the same experience almost ten years ago to the day. To cut an agonising story short, once she eventually made it to labour ward and the obstetrician eventually made it to our room, it was gone 11pm. I have never seen a more broken human and I would have done anything I could to have taken the pain for her for even a little bit. Finally they wheeled her off to theatre to attempt forceps delivery of this back to back, badly positioned baby girl. At one minute to midnight they managed to drag the reluctant Lia in to the world with brute force and forceps and she was gloriously healthy and well. Finally the ordeal was over. When they wheeled SLS back in to the room her relief was palpable. Although not for long as she started to have a reaction to the drugs and couldn't stop vomiting. So much so that they had to give her anti nausea drugs intravenously. By 2.30am, with her still vomiting, it was my time to leave and finally retrieve my abandoned car and get to bed for a few blissful hours of sleep.<br />
<br />
Since then Shiny Life has lived up to her name. In the first week she went for a shopping trip to John Lewis Oxford Street, had her hair done, took Lia trick or treating and when I took Bea and Cybs back for a visit on the 7th day, found her with full hair and make up, in an immaculate flat with a very happy breastfed baby. I was not in ANY way envious of her ability to adapt or keep her figure or manage great make up and have a tiny new baby. Not AT ALL. All hopes for her to get fat, tired and haggard have been entirely dashed. I bet her boobs even stay perky. Sometimes shit like that just happens. I have decided to just deal with it and be a very grown up big sister and to be happy for her. (Albeit through gritted teeth). <br />
<br />
4. The Accidental Fifth<br />
<br />
It sounds like a musical chord. It isn't though. Somehow, with the excitement of the loft and all the birthdays we have managed to have a small accident. An accident that will get bigger and bigger until in May next year when it rips me in two to enter the world and take its place in this big family. Am I thrilled? Honestly, even with my love of newborns and children I really can't summon too much excitement about it. It sounds ungrateful and I know that 99.9% of people assume it was intentional even with my protestations to the contrary but really, it was truly a surprise to both of us. I am sure once the tiredness eventually wears off (I am hoping that it must be soon, surely - I have been so exhausted I can't stay up past 9pm, and have nearly been to the doctors on a number of occasions to find out if I have some serious, undiagnosed major health issue) I will feel more positive, but at the moment I am just getting through the days. I also seem to be causing issue with the medical peeps because not only am I fat for this pregnancy but I also turned a year older last week so now I am fat AND old. This is not a combination the medical world seem to be keen on. I have been referred to several different consultants to 'consult' on my fatness and elderliness. One supposes that were I to attend these appointments they would tell me to be less fat and possibly try to be less old (I jest). Due to the high blood pressure issues with Cybs I am also 'on the radar' as 'high risk'. SIGH. Oh and also my placenta is lying low (maybe due to the sheer weight of the rest of my body pushing is southwards...) so I have to attend something called the Placenta Clinic. Such Fun. These appointments annoy me immensely. Not only because I would just like to get on with the hell of pregnancy, not keep being interrupted by people wanting to talk about it or take my blood or measure my sodding blood pressure or tell me to eat less and move more. Also each appointment means either leaving Cybs with Lovely Friend or worse, taking her with me. She is adorable, naturally, but as a two year old with a temper she isn't the best appointment partner. Anyway, this is why the Accidental Fifth keeps me awake at night. Not only does it make me need a wee in the middle of the night, it also makes me worry about a. coping b. being hideously fat c. stupid BMI fattists who now have a say in my fat which drives me mad. I will lose weight, I just can't be arsed to do it right now. d. how the hell Cybs, who still shares my bed every night, will cope with something smaller and cuter wanting me and my boobs at night. (Just to clarify, she comes in to me in the middle of the night after going to sleep beautifully in her own cot and also, she is actually off the boob, she just still likes to stick her hand down my top to go to sleep - like a warm, squishy comfort blanket. Much as I hate the hand down my top, I do actually love sleeping with her. I can't imagine not doing it.)<br />
<br />
So, there you have it. That is sort of the last few months in a nutshell, and why I haven't managed to write for two months. I think that brings you all up to speed. Oh, re the house - no one has liked the house enough to make an offer which is intensly annoying. I HATE having to keep the house tidy for stupid people to view - ideally someone would just drive past and decide to buy it from the pictures but people are stupendously picky when it comes to parting with hundreds of thousands of pounds - weirdos. We aren't on the internet at the moment so as not to jeopordise K's job which isn't helping. We are planning to try again in January, all guns blazing and on every property website known to man. Hopefully that will bring a steady stream of people willing to buy. I can't really think ahead until we know where are on the house front so in the mean time we will just settle down to enjoy our final SE23 Christmas and as a family of six.<br />
<br />
Now I shall leave you to your lives. I must go and sleep. As per usual. <br />
<br />
Until the next time.<br />
xxxxxxxxxxxxx<br />
<br />
(As a footnote to all this - how the hellidy hell do people work from home? I have taken hours and hours and hours to write this - an hour and a half was nowhere near enough - I have checked facebook and emails around a hundred times, I have taken a long and leisurely lunch hour, had a little lie down with Cybs ((to get her to sleep but also because it is lying down)), taken an unusually fervent interest in the outcome of an episode of Cowboy Builders and also played a lot of Words With Friends. I think it is quite obvious that if in the unlikely future, I ever had to return to the world of work, it would most definitely need to be in a formal setting with time structures, no kitchen and no TV. And preferably no internet access.)Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-17302616753672958992014-09-22T13:22:00.000-07:002014-09-22T13:22:07.467-07:00Finally, Summer Part 2WARNING: As is now becoming quite normal, this post contains explicit
references to poo. Do not read if you unable to cope with descriptions
of defecation or suffer from a weak stomach.<br />
<br />
Onwards. We eventually made it on to the road with our traumatised
boys and bemused girls and travelled the hour and a half (as K did point
out it wasn't as if we were going very far and we probably didn't need quite
as much stuff as I had packed) to the glorious Suffolk coast. My mood
improved as soon as we arrived at the holiday house and after some
excitable running around the house from the children, K took the big
three off to play whilst I unpacked with Cybs.<br />
<br />
I must
at this point stop the story and take you back a month to when Cybs and I
returned home from a delightful lunch in North London with my old
school friends and all of their many offspring, held at a very brave
friend's house. For some reason, (potentially being with so many other
children she decided it was time to move on a bit with her development),
that evening Cybs removed her nappy and took herself off to poo on the
potty, and then came to tell me about it. This was obviously lovely and I
was justifiably proud of her and did lots of the usual excited 'Wows'
and congratulatory kissing and cuddling that one is expected to react
with in such situations. I didn't however, decide to potty train her.
Having thought about it overnight, it seemed a bit of a hassle, I didn't
particularly want to spend our entire holiday asking her if she wanted a
wee, worrying about her wetting herself or worse, and trying to
understand whether she was saying she wanted a wee a poo or something
else that sounded just like it in her very babyish speech (her language
skills are still lamentably slow and so an awful lot of her words sound
extremely similar and you also can't rely on a nod meaning yes - hence
all the 'do you need a wee' queries from me would have her nodding away
but it wouldn't necessarily mean that she wants one at all - in her
mind, she could be agreeing to go to a park and slide down the big
slide.) So, I did what all good lazy arsed mothers did and put her back
in a nappy the very next day. The reason I inform you of such things is
because that was not a once off. From then on she would sporadically do
the same thing but with the added excitement of trying to empty it in
to the loo herself with various delightful outcomes. Also wiping. With
or without loo roll.<br />
<br />
So, (back to the story) when she
went for an explore whilst I was busying myself unpacking the millions
of things we probably didn't need but I had deemed essential, I didn't
think much of it. However, after quite a long silence I went to
investigate and opened the door to the downstairs loo to discover that
Cybs had discovered that there was no potty in this loo so had chosen to
use the floor instead. My opening the door had simply helped to smear
it in an artistic arc, over the tiled floor. As we were renting this
house I was already pretty worried about keeping it clean and well cared
for, and less than an hour after entering, Cybs had managed to create
quite a scene of devastation in the smallest room of the house. I set
about clearing her up and then plonking her elsewhere whilst I dealt
with the walls and the floor. As anyone who has read this before will
know, I am most accustomed to levels of disgusting that most would find
stomach churning, so that was not the problem. The issue I was faced
with was that there wasn't actually enough room between the bottom of
the door and the tiled floor in order to be able to remove the poo from
it. Which meant that however much I cleaned the floor, one move from the
door and it needed to be done all over again. That is when I hit upon
my genius use of the now empty loo roll. I cut the cardboard down the
length of the roll. slid it under the door and moved it back and forth
several times. Et Voila! An ideal under door poo scrapper. (Patent
pending so don't go stealing it). It did sterling work and very soon
there were no traces left of the unfortunate event. Shortly afterwards K
arrived back and decided to query why I hadn't managed to get any bags
upstairs to unpack. As I say, things didn't start THAT well.<br />
<br />
After
that first rather un-holiday-for-me like day, things did mercifully
improve. I do find that it takes a good three to four days for a family
used to working separately to adjust to being together all day every
day, and for us all to adjust to a 'holiday' pace of life. It took K
that long to adjust to the change from work mode to
holiday-with-four-children mode - it is a very different kettle of fish.
I also became a tad upset when the boys decided to take against the
beach for the first time in their lives. For me and Bea, the beach IS
the holiday - it is the very thing that makes a holiday a holiday for
me. Cybs loves it too but then for chocolate and a bottle of milk Cybs
will do almost anything for anyone so I couldn't really use her in my
argument 'for' spending all our days there. In an ideal world, the boys
wanted to spend all day everyday playing on Minecraft and on the inhouse
Playstation 2 unless a particularly interesting day trip was suggested.
Eventually though, we all got the hang of it and we ended up, yet
again, having the best holiday ever. Bea and I got more than enough
beach time thanks to some unexpectedly
good weather and some compromising with the boys, we also got a lovely
bit of mother and daughter shopping
fun (I am now the proud owner of the most fabulous Diane Von Furstenburg
shoes which I will almost definitely never ever wear but will adore forever) and we saw lots
and lots of friends who were either staying in the area or came up
specifically to visit. Cybil LOVED turning two and having her birthday
and K and I got to go out for one of the loveliest meals I have ever
had. We flew kites, we played, we had great day trips, we went for
lunches, we 'mooched', G and K even got to walk a dog which made them
both extremely happy - all in all it was everything to everyone.<br />
<br />
Although
it wasn't without its problems, naturally. Unbeknown to us, Cybs had
worked out how to open the garden gate and whilst K was in charge and
momentarily occupied, she used her new found skill and went for an
unauthorised walkabout - eventually being rumbled a few streets away by
some very useful old ladies who then went door to door knocking on
houses to try and find her owner; G trapped his finger in the car door
the day before Cybil's birthday and I was almost ready to send him to A
and E there was so much blood and tears, but thankfully the bleeding did
stop and I used my very useful made up medical knowledge to decide he
hadn't broken anything so he got to spend the day on the sofa playing
Minecraft with K instead; G also fell out of bed the following night and
split his lip open on the bedside table, which left him with a very fat
and very sore lip for quite a while..... and obviously there was some
less than wonderful behaviour from each of them at some point or other,
but on the whole, for a family holiday with small children in England,
it was marvellous. It was terrifically sad to leave, all bronzed and
relaxed and happy together as we were, but we at least had the utter
thrill of the loft progression to look forward to.<br />
<br />
Bea
stayed on with mum for five days as she had her best friend staying
there, and I took the younger three back to London a few days after K
returned for work. The stairs to the loft were in, the bathroom plumbed
and the whole thing painted. It was amazing what had happened
during our three week absence. The only down side was the quite
remarkable levels of dust on the first floor. Up until they had 'broken
through' to fit the stairs, the dust had been at a very manageable level
and I was finding the whole thing very un-stressful. When I arrived home
with a car full of our stuff, three children used to a summer holiday
of entertainment and a house full of dust that needed at least a week of
unadulterated cleaning, I became terrifically stressed very quickly.
And very tired. However, as soon as was humanly possible (and well
before the builders would have liked) we decided to 'move in' to the
loft and Bea moved in to her longed for own room. We were effectively
camping up there for the first week, there was no electrics to begin
with, no carpet, we had to cover the bed every morning with plastic
sheeting and for 24 desperate hours, we couldn't find the remote for the
newly mounted TV (SUCH excitement - we have never, ever had a wall
mounted TV - it feel JUST like being in a hotel room). Still, it was all
desperately exciting and quite romantic and the children were besides
themselves with the thrill of it all.<br />
<br />
Before the carpet went down, every evening I had
to hoover the stairs and the room to stop us getting very dusty feet, then remove the
sheets and put the bed back in its position and put the rugs down etc etc in order for it to be
habitable. After a few nights G decided he would like to do it for me
'as a surprise', Bea then got involved and eventually they were all
insisting on bathing in double quick time, throwing on their pjs and
running up the stairs to help with 'the surprise'. It was very sweet -
Ted was usually on 'look out' and kept running down the stairs squealing
with excitement and telling me to 'stay downstairs'. Bea and G went to
great lengths to make sure all was perfect for us and even put the
pillows in different formations each evening and then her and G photographed it so they could remember how to do it differently the following night.
Cybs took to hoovering the stairs and the sight of her naked bottom
struggling with the hoover at the top of the stairs will be hard to top.
(Cybs couldn't wait to be pyjama'd so just got out of the bath and went
straight to it). It was an odd end to the holidays but lovely
nonetheless. Although I have to say that the last few weeks of 'freedom'
could have been immeasurably improved if it hadn't been for the daily
battles getting the big two to finish their holiday homework. It was, in
some instances, like having root canal surgery without anaesthetic.
Getting G to do more than a few minutes at a time was almost impossible.
Every letter he wrote seemed to be simultaneously burning his hand (I
mused at the time that Harry Potter made a lot less fuss when it
actually did).<br />
<br />
And then came Ted's 5th Birthday.
Another triumph (I know - even if I do say so myself, but seriously -
even I was proud of this one and I don't say that lightly). I managed to
get a huge Spiderman helium balloon (it was crouching so it was difficult to measure him but he took up most of a room when in it and was noticeably bigger
than K in a crouching position - I know because I put them side by
side and took photos.) As well as many fabulous presents he also had a stupendous party in the afternoon - mainly thanks to the wonderful Magician who once
again did an amazing job. I am not sure how it could have been better for him. (That
is rubbish actually - I could have given him a live spider as a pet
which is his dearest wish, but I have, I think rather reasonably, said
that if anyone moves a live tarantula in to my house, I will move out.
Oh and we could have taken him back to Legoland which he is incredibly
keen to do....)<br />
<br />
For the final day of the holidays I took them out for a last magical day
in London to end on a high. We started off with the big three volunteering for cognitive
studies at Birkbeck college (which oddly enough they all love doing - I
would highly recommend - it's called The Babylab but they need all ages
for different studies and they pay travel and hotels if you need to
come from afar) then we did an amazingly efficient whistle stop guided tour of the British
Museum, courtesy of a very patient and kind friend of mine from school
who is not only a PHD and very important in the whole museum world, but is
also able to seek out a 1cm squared spider, engraved on to the side of a
small glass bottle, displayed on the bottom of a glass cabinet, inside the vast
Museum in order to appease a spider obsessed, newly five year old. That
to me is even better than a PHD. It took some looking and some phone
calls and some searching on the internet to find it, but find it she
did. Although obviously their favourite part of the entire place was
the shop. And actually they quite liked the loos. But their favourite part of the day was an impromptu trip to Southbank and the beach there. G found (what he truly believes) to be a dinosaur bone, Ted couldn't believe I had kept this place a secret and we had an actual beach so close to home and they all managed to walk inside an epic sandcastle creation being built. After
some ice creams we wandered back to London Bridge for the train home. It was such a perfect
day. The sun shone, the children were happy and I even bumped in to
some school friends on our walk back to the station. It was such a
lovely day it was almost sad to send them back to school the next day.<br />
<br />
But send them
I did. They were actually thrilled to go. In fact they were so excited they were up, dressed and ready to
go by 7am and I was pretty pleased to finally get back in control of the housework in their absence. Sadly since then the boys have reverted back to type and are
now complaining daily about how much they hate school. Just as they did on holiday, they would like to
spend their every day in pyjamas, watching TV, eating and playing
Minecraft or watching Minecraft videos on You Tube (Stampycat and I are not friends...). School really gets in the way of that. Ted was fine for the
first week when he was doing half days but as soon as he hit full days
it has gone massively downhill. Reception has come as something of a
massive shock to him. He is the very oldest in the year and I can't
really understand why he is finding it such a shock to the system. I also can't believe I have said goodbye to my third baby in to full time education. It seems madness. If I want to, I can send Cybs to nursery for three hours every day from next September. Madness upon Madness. In my mind they were all born about five minutes ago and how we have managed to arrive here is totally beyond me.<br />
<br />
So, there you have it, other than another wedding (I was bridesmaid again - so exciting) and a weekend away with the local mums (I know - my life is a social whirlwind at the moment) you are pretty much up to date with toute. Oh and I still haven't bothered to train Cybs. Although she does now have some very lovely 'nicks' (as she calls them) which she is very happy to wear, but is still so incredibly unreliable she is not in them full time. I will get around to doing it soon.... <br />
<br />
In the next thrilling instalment I will amaze and entertain you all with details of the great build and redecoration debacle. As per usual, it may be a while....<br />
<br />
Until then my lovelies. x <br />
<br />Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-14834228711055541212014-09-21T14:16:00.000-07:002014-09-21T14:16:07.454-07:00Finally, the Summer. Part 1GOOD evening. I have been staring at this page and the TV for nearly an hour not really knowing where on earth to start. Or end. Or fill in to the middle. An awful lot has occurred in two months - most of it is not noteworthy so don't panic - it won't take you two months to read - not only have I reduced it to the bare essentials but I have also helpfully divided it in to two parts. One today, one tomorrow. Such excitement for you all. <br />
<br />
I shall cast you back to the end of term, or the middle/end of July for those of you who don't live in terms. (I cannot imagine such a world. I am quietly confident I shall mentally inhabit a world of school terms for the rest of my life. Long after the youngest has left formal education.) So, all sports days were attended (by moi) and I even ran in the mother's race for the last one. This was a first for me. I don't usually agree to such blatant demonstration of my unfit and unhealthy body, but Bea was upset AGAIN after her running race (it happens every year now - it is always her last activity after tug of war, throwing, catching, hurdles etc and she always finishes the race and then collapses in a heap, complaining of leg pain) but this year I was moved by her tears and decided to humiliate myself to take her mind off it all. I still don't know what came over me. BUT in huge excitement I didn't come last. I quite obviously didn't come anywhere near winning either, but with a small advantage of a staggered start for the old/fat amongst the throng of willing racers, I did admirably well for someone of my stature and levels of fitness. <br />
<br />
After sports day came Legoland. The surprise worked beautifully, with the boys being thrilled by our naughtiness at skiving off the day from school - complete with fake phone calls to the schools saying they were sick. (Although it would appear that my letter to the head informing the school that we were taking the days off appears to have not been read properly or passed on as I had two messages informing me that the boys had officially been marked as absent and I needed to explain why - I really should have made Actual phone calls...). We got nearly all the way there without them having any idea (Bea had to have some of the information beforehand as she was so flipping desperate to go to school and wouldn't even hear of skiving off - loser - so in order to stop her ruining it all K spilled a few of the beans) but we eventually had to spill the beans when G started to get rather upset that we weren't going to go to London Zoo and began to start crying. I handed him my phone and asked him to read the words at the top of the map - he said, 'Why does it say Legoland' and then seconds later the penny dropped to much excitement and whooping and even Cybs awoke from her slumber and even though she had absolutely no idea what was about to happen, started joining in the whooping. <br />
<br />
Obviously the stay itself was incredibly hard work - from the moment we entered the hotel and pretended to see if they had any rooms left on the off chance - we were 'on duty'. The children were in a constant state of hyper excitement for about 36 hours. It was also incredibly hot. The heat on the second day topped 30 degrees which made everything very sweaty and tired out the children even more. However, we did it. The hotel was awesome (for them) and had a great swimming pool and splash area (which they loved) and the restaurant were even incredibly helpful on the whole coeliac front and provided entertainment in the form of 'hilarious' kids shows. I even managed a glass of something fizzy whilst the children played outside and the sun went down over the Legoland lake. The heat was so intense even at that stage of the day that it felt a teeny tiny bit like being on holiday. For about ten minutes - until someone fell off the seesaw and we had to abandon it all and put them to bed. Legoland is definitely not my most favourite of places to stay or spend two days in, (and spend a FORTUNE on), however with the hotel, Qbots and refillable drinks on tap, it was definitely far better than I feared and the children were totally amazed by the whole experience. It was worth all of the sweat, tears and ludicrous sums of money just for how bowled over they were by the whole thing.<br />
<br />
Then they broke up and we all breathed a sigh of collective and tired relief. It is always a bit of an anti climax though. On that thrilling last day when I pick them up I expect fireworks to be let off in the playground, tears of joy from the teachers and rousing music over a loudspeaker - but it is never like that. The teachers doll out the children just like they do every other day of the year and the only difference with the parents in the playground is that we all say 'enjoy the holidays' or similar instead of just the standard 'hi' when we see each other. At the very least the teachers could pop a party popper every time another child leaves the classroom door for the last time. Hey ho. I shall suggest it to the PTA. The following morning after the anti-climactic last day of term I took delivery of two extra children for the day and then we all nipped off to the doctors for a blood test (Bea) and an asthma check up (Ted). I had deliberately engineered it this way so that they didn't expect too much from their six weeks off - nothing sets the tone of a summer holiday more than a trip to the doctors on the very first morning - it makes them grateful for any future seemingly mundane trips to supermakets and similar. I say, start shit and you've got somewhere to go - only fools go big on the first day/week. The rest of the time spent here was so incredibly dull I shall not waste anyone's time explaining what went on. We lived, we breathed, we went to parks. Blah Blah. <br />
<br />
On to the holiday. It had an inauspicious start. The packing of the car with everything we might need for two weeks of indeterminate weather wasn't a major issue to begin with, but as the hours passed and I put more and more and more in to the car I began to get quite stressed about the pressure of it all. And then I misplaced my phone. Normally I rely very heavily on the Find My Iphone App in such situations but sadly, as I was packing at my mum's, my phone had no signal and was basically lost until proven otherwise. When I have lost something and I am under time pressure and imagined pressure I become quite tense. The HILARIOUS jokes about my crapness at losing things from my mother and subsequently K when he eventually arrived did not add to my mood - along with the OH so helpful "Where did you have it last" questions (NEVER ASK ANYONE LOOKING FOR ANYTHING THAT QUESTION). And then we heard terrific shrieking and 'My life is in danger' screaming emanating from the new 'tree house' (it is two foot off the ground - technically it should be called a 'raised playhouse' but that seems a rather unromantic title) at the bottom of mum's garden. I saw in the distance an extremely panicked face at the small window screaming for me to help and I suddenly for some reason decided that the tree house was on fire and they were trapped and burning inside. (It sounds silly now but in the split second my mind had to process the information that it was given it really was the best it could come up with). K and I legged it down the garden, flung open the door and found perfectly well, unburnt and unharmed children. Two were my nieces who were laughing and three were mine, two of whom were screaming and tearful. I yanked the boys out and began a full scale shouting rant demanding to know what the hell was going on. Ted was shaking in my arms and as they weren't on fire, or in any other life threatening danger my mind made another snap decision and decided to start shouting at my older nieces, who I assumed had been scaring them in to this frenzy. After I stopped the rant, the truth emerged. The older girls had not been filling their heads with scary stories, there had not been a fire, in fact not a hair on their head was damaged. It turns out that the door had been stuck and they couldn't open it. PAUSE.<br />
<br />
I got "pretty" cross at the boys, who K then tried to stand up for and so I ranted at him instead, and then my mother told us all to calm down. I stropped off to finish the packing and resume my frantic phone searching. When K joined me he asked me what I was doing. Being the grown up that I am I replied grumpily, "What do you think?" to which he said "Are you STILL looking for your phone". This was not wise. AS IF I would stop and jolly along on a two week holiday without it - not only am I surgically attached to the thing but I was also rather in need of it to remotely oversee the loft conversion and organise all the other bits and pieces we were having done to the house whilst we were away and also WHO on earth just shrugs their shoulders and says - sod it, it's only a phone - and stops looking?? My thoughts towards him at this point became venomous and he became pretty prickly in return. I then decided the only way to find the sodding phone was to empty the entire car (it is, as you may already know a rather large Ford people carrier type thing which had all its seats down and was rammed to the ceiling with crap I thought was vital) and start from scratch. K disagreed. We disagreed. Then as I was walking around to the front of the car to commence my angry emptying, I found it. It had fallen down off the dashboard (where I suddenly remembered was where I had put it last) and was wedged between the small triangular part of the passenger side front window and the side of the dashboard. I hastily retrieved it and pretended to mother and anyone else who would listen that it was actually somewhere very hard to find indeed, in order to cover my embarrassment.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-67935635062587858182014-07-11T15:13:00.004-07:002014-07-11T15:17:17.799-07:00Onwards and UpwardsOnce again I lament the fact that you are not all telepathic. I write so much in my head as I go about my day, but by the evening I am too tired to translate that on to screen, which means you have missed out on several instalments of my Thrilling Life. However the Sky is not working and I am totally up to date with Nashville so I had nothing else to do this evening except for talk to K, and we have had a conversation already today so there really was nothing left to do but finally come on here and talk to you. I shall endeavour to catch you up with some edited highlights.<br />
<br />
On to why the Sky doesn't work. There has been a seismic shift in the M&O household since the half term holiday. A great occurrence has occurred. YES, we finally have the builders in situ and they are busily turning our hideous loft in to a rather spiffing bedroom and bathroom. The excitement is overwhelming (although obviously tinged with sadness by the loss of our Sky - hopefully very temporarily until we work out a suitable place for the aerial). K and I have waited nearly a decade for this to happen. When we first moved in to this house it needed entirely gutting. Stripping, plastering, electrical overhaul, plumbing, walls knocked down and put up, painting, carpeting etc etc the whole shebang. I was very confident that our HUGE budget of about £15k would be enough to turn the entire house around AND turn the loft in to a fourth bedroom. I had watched property ladder, I had overseen an overhaul of the bathroom in our old flat. I knew it all. K gave up his job to do the labouring and oversee the trades he couldn't manage like the electrics, plumbing and plastering and I sought refuge at my mother's with our little baby Bea and waited for the magic to happen.<br />
<br />
It turns out I didn't know anything. We needed tens of thousands more than I thought (particularly as I spent quite a bit on the furniture and furnishings section) and that didn't even include the loft. It transpires that trades are expensive, it turns out that not having an income means money you do have dwindles spectacularly quickly and it also turns out that trying to remortgage whilst no one in the household is earning money, is actually almost impossible. So, we ended up in something of a financial pickle <strike>hideous black hole of near destitution</strike>. K went back to work, mum stopped us starving and then a bank of dubious accreditation finally offered us a remortgage. We were saved, and so was the house. Since then we have tried to get the loft done a few times but failed miserably. Then the rats moved in up there and to be honest I just wanted to move as quickly as possible and leave them for someone else to deal with. However, just as we are planning to up sticks and move to the country we have decided to splash out (with the help of a bank obviously, we weren't just sitting here on hoards of cash wondering what to do with it all) and have the (previously) rat infested storage hell converted. The preparation of the start of works has actually taken up quite a lot of my time, what with getting plans, agreements, building regs, quotes etc so that we could start the work and then of course the weekends spent entertaining the children so that K could empty the loft of all our rat infested possessions and past lives. But as I sit here now, the roof is off, the dormer structure is up and insulation has gone in and in a few days it will be watertight and the floor will be down. It is surreal. I never thought it would happen. I am literally finding it hard to wait for it to be completed. The builders worked throughout last weekend and on the Sunday evening when we returned home the children fully expected it to be ready to move in to and although I was telling them not to be silly, I shared their feelings. Bea (who is doing her best to fully inhabit the role as 'tweenager') is very keen to move in to the 'master suite' once it is finished, as she feels she deserves it, K and I have put our collective feet down and insisted that this luxury is to be ours and ours alone. She will have to put up with her old bedroom which K and I will helpfully vacate. Not that she has to cope for long....<br />
<br />
On to the moving part. Yes, we are planning to up sticks and start 'the good life' in the country. The loft is the final part of the puzzle. When it came to it, I just couldn't leave the house for someone else to do it. Also I couldn't bear the idea of not getting the most money out of the house as was humanly possible (so sue me - four bedroom places seem to be going for so much more than three beds that the cost and inconvenience of converting the loft seemed like a no brainer). Plus the delay will give the children a final term at their beloved schools and for us all to say our goodbyes and tie up all the loose ends. So once the loft is finished and the bathroom is re-tiled we are putting it on the market and finally finding 'the forever house' in the Suffolk countryside. I am scared and excited in equal measure. When I am in Suffolk and the children are all playing outside in the sunshine I can't think of a single reason to stay in London. When I am in London I can think of quite a few and worry I will make a terrible full time country dweller. I am sure that there will be times when I think I am a fool for moving, and times when I think I was a fool for not doing it sooner. Much like I can't quite imagine the loft actually being finished, I can't quite manage to picture our final goodbyes or leaving the house never to return, but I remain convinced that it is the best thing to do for all concerned. A smaller mortgage, bigger house, huge garden, smaller schools and hopefully a nice new job for K - it all seems to me to be the best thing for everyone. If I am wrong then there is really nothing much I can do about it other than live with my mistake for the rest of my life. We can't even afford to buy the house we currently inhabit, let alone move back should it all turn out to be a disaster.<br />
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Mother is adamantly opposed to the move. Which is odd as you would assume it would make her ridiculously happy to have me and the brood nearby. But you can never second guess what the woman is thinking. She has come up with a myriad of reasons why I will hate it, but I tend to ignore her, particularly her concern over what I will do when 'one of them needs to go to a party' (she is very concerned about the amount of time I will have to spend in the car and her party scenario was to highlight the fact that when one of them has a party, should I be alone, I will have to put all of them in the car and take them to and from the party....). Potentially she worries that I am moving purely for free childcare and that she will be forced to spend her retirement being dumped with a number of small children whilst I galavant about the place. I must admit, the idea of having her to help out on an occasional basis with childcare was definitely a bonus, but the whole point of the move was to enable us to spend more time altogether as a family. We can't wait to have a big garden that we can all spend the weekends enjoying and a house that is big enough to accommodate us both together and separately. It just seems to us that the stars have aligned and everything seems to suggest that this is our opportunity, and we intend to make the most of it. <br />
<br />
Anyway, back to the here and now. We are tantalisingly close to the end of term - a week and a half to go! I have watched two sports days, with one more to attend, the children are up to date with all jabs, doctors appointments and dental checks. I have even given in the registration forms for Ted so that he can start school in September. I am totally on the ball. I have also attended Bea's end of year dance show which was something I hope I will never forget. <br />
<br />
If I could live a different life I would love to be graceful and dance. I was desperate to be Penny from Dirty Dancing and have the ability to move with rhythm and beauty (and be tall and really skinny). Sadly it was never to be. Aside from the weight issue I was not one for learning to dance, I hated ballet and I was the only child who had a written excuse to get me out of having to do 'pli<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">é</span>s'. I have watched elegant dancers and felt an ache that I will never be able to do anything like that. However, watching my first born prance effortlessly across the stage made me cry with an odd mix of emotions. Naturally pride, love, joy, but also an overwhelming happiness that she gets to experience something I will never know. I am at a loss as to where she inherited it from - K is lovely but I wouldn't say he sets the dancefloor alight with his dance moves although he is arguably more rhythmic than me. My mother and I are very much the 'galumphing' sort of folk - we have big hands and feet and are naturally quite clumsy. There were definitely some dancers on stage at various times who reminded me of me. The ones that 'have it' are mesmerising for all the right reasons; those without draw attention for all the wrong reasons. But I mentally high fived them for going ahead with it anyway. I would never have had the confidence. <br />
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Sadly for me I was gifted with musicality which is all well and good if you like playing in an orchestra (I hated it) and practising for hours on end every day (I hated it) and you liked performing said instruments in front of an audience (GUESS how much I hated that). The minute I stopped having to play them, I did. Dance is something you can do all the time and I am so happy that she has it. She performed four dances in all and we were all there to watch her - a first for us - we have never before taken children who can move to any of her performances lest it <strike>annoy us</strike> distract us<strike></strike>. We clearly had a point as Cybs attempted to join her on stage at one point. After doing quite a lot of 'twirling' in the aisle and some balletic arm moves throughout the rest of the show, for Bea's final dance Cybs decided that she would chance her luck and make a run for the stairs to the side of the stage, so that she could get up and there and take part. Luckily a woman grabbed her before she achieved her goal as I was too far away to stop her, although it was more that I was sort of interested to see what would happen if she did. It would have made a lovely family video for us. Akin to the bit in the film Parenthood when the younger boy gets on stage to protect his sister. I love that film. <br />
<br />
So, that is really it, apart from an INCREDIBLY exciting surprise trip to Legoland to stay in the hotel next week. Two whole naughty skive days spent blowing their tiny minds and a night in a themed room with a view of the park. K and I are beside ourselves with anticipation and the excitement of surprising them. We have decided to act like it's a normal morning, making them get in school uniform and everything, before getting in the car and seeing how long we can last with their constant questioning about where we are going before we give in and spill the beans. We have envisaged getting all the way to the first sign post for Legoland, however I am pretty sure that half a mile down the road and we will want to rip out our ears. It is bad enough when they do know where they are going, let alone without and with seemingly deranged parents who have decided not to take them to school for some peculiar reason. Whatever happens, it is literally the most exciting thing to ever happen to us.<br />
<br />
One of the best parts of my half term was a trip to and from London entirely on my own. The reason for the trip was rather dull - boring banking stuff to help get the money for the loft - I was only going up for a half an hour meeting so it was decided the children were best left at home with Mum. It was four and a half hours of utter bliss - just me, the car and four Nashville CDs. Awesome. Like being in a spa but without stressing about the fact that the 'one size fits all' dressing gown doesn't quite fit 'all' of you and with traffic.<br />
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And finally, I shall leave you with my favourite comment from Ted from the half term - I was lying in bed and trying to grab a few more seconds of lying down before I forced myself upright, so I asked Ted to go behind the curtain and see what the weather was like. He was quiet for a bit and I said, 'what can you see'. He replied, 'I can't see anything'. I asked if he was looking from behind the curtain or in front of it. He said 'I'm behind the curtain, but I can't see any weather through all this rain. I think it's a bit windy'. That amused me for a long time.<br />
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So, yet again I shall make hollow promises about getting in touch shortly and not leaving it nearly two months, but we both know the truth. I may come on briefly to brag about my new snazzy room, but I may be too busy sitting in it watching tv in my new comfy bed to come down the two flights of stairs in order to retrieve the laptop. But, with the shiny long stretch of holidays ahead of us, anything is possible.<br />
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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx<br />
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<br />Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-88832359544895073842014-05-21T14:22:00.001-07:002014-05-21T14:22:28.279-07:00Pregnancy Perspective Glad tidings! I greet you with the happy news that Shiny Life Sister is with child. Mother's eleventh grandchild and Shiny Life Sister's first child, is cooking nicely and due for arrival in November. <br />
<br />
So exciting. Obviously you can imagine that at first I was thrilled - finally a mewling infant to take some of the shine off her life! Mwa ha ha ha ha ha (evil laugh - wasn't sure if it was obvious). I was hopeful that she would look slightly less polished and manicured too - I was thinking weight gain, greasy hair, lack of up to date clothing, baby sick etc etc. BUT, then she started to feel terrifically sick. And then she started being terrifically sick. She has been suffering a lot - especially with her final work trip to China where she felt dreadfully ill. And then last week there was a mad hospital dash in an ambulance (demanded by me), in severe abdominal pain which turned out, after an excruciatingly long wait, to be a horrible cyst, twisting her ovary. All is mercifully fine with the baby and she will be closely monitored from now on but she is still being sick which is really not fun. (AND quite gallingly, she still looks amazingly glam and not at all like she is suffering so all my hoping for her looks go to pot are in vain - I have had to come to terms with the fact that she will no doubt even have immaculate hair and make up for the birth and post birth pictures - I have made peace with it, I advise you to do the same).<br />
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So, all in all, her pregnancy has not been easy thus far and there is still a long way to go. And that is just the pregnancy. There is an even longer way to go after that. So, in order to make her feel better about how horrid pregnancy is, I thought I would dedicate this post to some of the crap that comes after. To help her put all the pregnancy crap in perspective. I do like to be helpful. So, here are some of the highlights:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>You become the unofficial goddess of all that is disgusting. The Goddess of Gross. I know there must be some homes where this isn't the case obviously, (Blonde Bombshell's husband is responsible for the sick in her house because she can't stomach it) but by and large the poo, wee, sick, dog poo on shoes, stringy snot, plug hole gunk, nits, blood, worms and any other associated gross, is entirely up to you, and only you, to sort out. </li>
</ul>
Example: Last week I was upstairs when I heard my lovely cleaner scream and yell my name in a panicked sort of way. I came downstairs to discover her up against the wall outside the playroom looking as if she had seen a ghost. It would appear that the cat had had a go on a mouse and left the decapitated head complete with blood and trailing veins, on the rug in the playroom. I had been in the room frequently in the lead up to my cleaner's arrival and had failed to notice it, (which gives you an insight in to the state of our playroom on a day to day basis) and so, going about her business, she had gone to pick it up, assuming it was another bit of a toy, only to make the grizzly discovery. At this point it really does fall to the only other grown up in the house to sort it out and that was obviously me. Luckily the 'rug' on which the decapitated head lay, was in fact a large off cut of carpet so rather than scoop up the grossness in a plastic bag, which was my initial plan, I just rolled up the carpet and chucked it in the bin. This week I did a THOROUGH sweep of the floor before she tentatively tip toed inside to begin the clear up.<br />
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This is the least of my gross encounters though. On Easter Sunday I was called downstairs by the children because the cat had either been taken very ill, was very naughty or was potentially trapped in the room overnight and had defecated three times on my new carpet. It was a hideous start to the day, particularly because he clearly wasn't that well for some of it so it was hard to clean up, because it was the same colour as the chocolate the children were all merrily eating whilst watching me clean up and because Cybs seemed to want to step in it, which made cleaning up all the harder. K was at least in the house at that point but there was little point in trying to get him to deal with it - by the time I had woken him up and got him down to help, Cybs would have achieved her wish to walk in it which would have made the whole situation far worse and to be honest, I knew he wouldn't clean it the way I wanted him to, so it was just easier to do it myself. The cat has also taken to pooing in the bath far more frequently than is at all acceptable. Although it is the most practical of places for him to do it and very easy to clean, it is still majorly gross and not really something I want to wake up to - particularly when there is a perfectly good flipping cat litter that is actually designed for him to use. Hey Ho.<br />
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And finally, on Sunday evening, after a lovely day in the sun, I got in the bath with the little two. Ted got out to do a wee and when he started to get back in, he commented on the fact that it looked like someone had been sick in the bath. No one had been sick. Unfortunately, it was a matter of the other end and I was mid hair wash. Obviously I vacated the bath pretty quickly and took Cybs out too but then there was a drainage issue. The water was not going down fast enough which left us all staring at a bath full of poo water. Eventually I decided enough was enough. I shan't go in to the gory details but I managed to use a wire coat hanger to dislodge whatever was causing the issue in the drain and eventually the bath was cleared enough for the clear up to commence. After a thorough bleaching we all took turns to shower as it seemed the best option in light of what we had witnessed. After what seemed like the longest bath and bed session ever, everyone was clean and dry and the children were in bed. For five minutes. Just as we breathed a sigh of relief downstairs, we heard a huge commotion upstairs. It turns out that the sore tummy G was complaining about pre-bed was in fact the tummy bug going around and we arrived upstairs to find a big pile of sick on their bedroom carpet and a poorly George. Bea was being very motherly but also retching slightly. Ted, who had not yet had his fill of grossness (he was the one that kept pointing out recognisable bits of food from the bath debacle) came over to have a peek and quickly ran back to his bed and hid under the duvet. It was quite late by now due to the bath delay and it being a Sunday night n'all so I was quite keen to get them back in to bed so my sick clear up window was brief. I clearly didn't do a good enough job of the interim clear up because the following morning the stench of sick was really quite bad. The splatter had gone further than I had thought possible and so I spent Monday morning scrubbing quite a large area of carpet with anything I could think of to try and rid us of the smell and the stain. (That is the end of the story but for those of you caught in a similar situation I would highly recommend Bicarbonate of Soda which I used to great effect today. Sprinkled a whole box of the stuff over the area, left for two hours and hoovered up - et voila, no sick smell.)<br />
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<ul>
<li>You are CONSTANTLY preparing food. </li>
</ul>
In the early days when they can't yet have food, you look forward to the day when they are able to eat and the first few times they do so are big occasions and jolly exciting events for which picture taking is mandatory. However, after the novelty wears off and they stop being small and cute and eating small amounts of things with their hands and potentially that child is not your only offspring, the entire day is centred around the preparation of food, the serving of food and then the clearing up of food and then the packing of snack food to have when you are out lest a child be suddenly struck by hideous hunger pangs in the few hours that you are not serving it a meal. I know it sounds like something obvious that I should have considered before multiple reproduction occurred, but there are times when the need to constantly think about food and its preparation seems ridiculously overwhelming. The big two have packed lunches, so I am entirely responsible for three meals a day for four children, every day. I am in the kitchen for a disproportionate amount of my day. The lack of their adventurous taste buds also means that I prepare the same meals over and over and over again and it can feel like groundhog day very quickly. And I have further to go than I have already come. Another sixteen-ish years. That is a flipping long time to be in the kitchen. I hope I can persuade Cybs to take up cooking from a young age so she can do the last stint for me. I may well never want to see a baked bean or a sausage for the rest of my life by that point. <br />
<ul>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>You become the parent you never thought you would. And not in a good way. </li>
</ul>
Even after I had Bea I still had very hard and fast rules about what sort of parent I was/would be. I merrily judged other parents of older children as they did a 'terrible' job of parenting (whilst also smugly knowing that my beautiful tiny baby was not only the MOST beautiful baby that ever lived but also that she was never going to grow up, just like I am never going to get old or grey). Not that it was an example of the parent that I judged, but an example of my changing standards, my sister had four by the time I had Bea so her fourth and my first were these lovely little blonde twins who spent an awful lot of time together. On one occasion we were in the car and her daughter wanted something she couldn't have or some such (it was a long time ago) and so my sister promised her a packet of crisps which she duly pulled over to purchase. I sighed, or similar and asked if she HAD to buy them as Bea would then want them and I really didn't want her eating crisps at the tender age of one and I maybe said that perhaps she shouldn't give them to her daughter either as they were terribly bad for her. Luckily she was able to just smile and say, 'wait until it's your fourth'. And proceeded to buy the crisps. Fast forward to Cybs who probably had crisps shortly after she was six months, has had more lollipops than you can shake a stick at and quite often eats her lunch in front of Peppa Pig (another of my absolute parenting no-nos was eating in front of the tv). <br />
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Food is just one example. There are millions of others. Telling them to 'shut up'. If I heard a parent tell their child to shut up in the supermarket when Bea was little, I may well have tutted and/or given the child a sympathetic look. I must say it almost every day now. As well as 'bloody' - swearing in front/at children is most certainly not what I would have wanted. Also I say things my mother used to say which I hate. 'Because' as an answer. 'I'm Friday' to yet another yell of 'I'm Thirsty'. I shout. I swear. I tell them to shut up. I feed them shit. I yank their arms when they won't walk and we're in a hurry. I am fat (I didn't want to be a bad example). I don't exercise (ditto). I don't listen to them read very often at all (please don't tell anyone - I feel terrifically guilty about it). These are all things I would have been horrified by as I sat, smugly waxing lyrical about the type of parent I would be as I rubbed my swollen, first pregnant tummy. That 'me' would have judged this 'me' very harshly. But this 'me' would think that 'me' had absolutely no idea what was coming....<br />
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<ul>
<li>You enter an unofficial, unspecified, never ending competition. Even if you are entirely uncompetitive or incredibly lazy like me.</li>
</ul>
You are competing for brilliant children as well as being a brilliant parent whether you want to or not. Intelligence, development, manners, behaviour - it is ALL judged. And sometimes commented on. A friend who lives in Chelsea is apparently repeatedly asked 'how many words' her daughter has - from when she was only a year old. It is mainly so the enquiree can brag about how many words their genius offspring has mastered 'already'. Even if you are not remotely interested in the competition, thousands of others are, and they rope you in to their weird game. A brilliant child is, by association, the product of a brilliant parent/gene pool, therefore to the competitive, children are the perfect fodder. Sadly even I am beginning to be bothered by Cybil's lack of vocabulary. She is twenty one months old and rarely forms a word. She has Mummy, more, George and something that sounds like 'stop'. She also makes a noise like scooter but isn't actually scooter but I know that that is what it means. Babies far younger than her are more understandable. Sigh. No doubt she will be a late bloomer in that department. She can scooter to school and back very competently and stops and waits to cross the roads, so she has talents in other departments which are incredibly useful. And she makes herself understood without words so maybe she is alarmingly intelligent and has realised that she has no need to actually speak and therefore won't waste her time doing something so mundane. Like Maggy from The Simpsons. Or that evil baby out of Family Guy. Or perhaps a mix of both. <br />
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The Internet has taken competitive parenting to all new levels. You can't JUST take your child to Euro Disney, which is, in my book the very pinnacle of great parenting, you have to keep it a secret and then let them know in a 'magical' way just before you go, which has to be filmed and then posted on the Internet to show exactly how happy you have made your child and by insinuation how unhappy our children are in comparison. And it isn't enough to just throw money at the parenting competition, you also have to be amazingly creative which is hideously time consuming. Every day there is another 'what an amazing parent' link on facebook, twitter or even worse - making the news. From elaborate 'themed' packed lunches (do not get me started on that), to taking a photo every day for eighteen years to make a tear jerking time lapse video for their coming of age, to the Dreamworks animator who makes 'superhero' films of his son, to the inexplicable month long, nightly shenanigans putting toy dinosaurs in different creative and amazing situations for the excitable children to find in the morning.<br />
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Every now and again I put some effort in to the whole parenting shebang, just for the hell of it, but I certainly couldn't guarantee 'effort' every day for a month. I see the efforts of other 'brilliant' parents and I feel exhausted. Maybe that is why my children are so average. Although that is actually a relief. Gifted children require an awful lot of attention and looking after - that also seems exhausting. <br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>You can NEVER rely on attending anything ever again. </li>
</ul>
This one never ends actually, although obviously lessens over time. However, when they are young their illnesses mean that any number of nights out, weekends away etc can be cancelled at short notice.<br />
<br />
For example. For the last year I have been looking forward to a very special long weekend away with my very special friends from school. It was to be three nights of blissed out magnificence in a lovely big house near the Suffolk coast. On the Thursday night, the day before I was due to drop the little two off at my mum's, Cybs started to cough. It appeared that she just had a cold which I thought mum could handle so I merrily left her on the Friday afternoon and drove with indecent haste and happiness to our holiday house. The Friday night was just bliss. It was all that was right with the world. My Saturday morning phone call to mum revealed that Cybs' breathing was quite heavey and that she was coughing badly. I was quite hopeful it was just a cold so told mum to keep giving her pain relief. By the afternoon mum assured me she was fine and I stayed for the second night, which was even better than the first, eight old friends eating delicious food, drinking way too much wine, playing games and living the life. I could have stayed for a week, but the following morning mum put Cybs to the phone and her breathing was so incredibly laboured I was immediately terrified. I rang 111 who rang mum to try and organise a doctor's appointment whilst I threw my stuff in to a bag and drove far too fast, back to mum's. On my way there I spoke to mum who told me that the 111 operative had called an ambulance. I drove a tad faster. I got home and found the paramedic still there who had been largely useless. Cybs became so upset whenever he went near her that he hadn't been able to listen to her chest or in fact do anything. He decided she wasn't an emergency and made us an out of hours GP appointment. <br />
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Anyhoo, to cut a long and dull story short, we ended up having to wait hours for the GP appointment, I started crying in the waiting room when we got there, we got bumped up the list and managed to avoid the hour delay, saw the GP who agreed she was struggling to breathe and we ended up in A and E for steroids, nebuliser and monitoring. So, instead of my lovely last few days with my lovely gal pals of old, I spent a very scary and long day with a very ill Cybs and finished off the day in the paediatric ward of West Suffolk hospital (which is very lovely for anyone wondering - I highly recommend it as paediatric wards go). I was obviously very upset for poor Cybs but I was bitterly disappointed for me. I do not go away for weekends - it isn't really 'me'. I don't do it out of martyrdom but I am with the children 99.9% of the time (I mean outside of school hours obvs) and this weekend was so incredibly important to me that I was a bit heartbroken for about 48 hours. (I KNOW Cybs is more important. I mean I didn't wallow or anything, I was just silently heartbroken whilst also being very grateful that I was able to get immediate medical help for my poor baby. I am able to see both sides.)<br />
<br />
Interestingly <strike>not really</strike> it turned out that Cybs didn't have croup as everyone (except me) said, because on the Wednesday when we were safely back in London, I took her back to A and E after her breathing, which had never fully recovered, became ever worse. They did all the same sort of stuff, only this time they also took an x ray which revealed a chest infection (my original diagnosis). Happily, she is much improved and back to her wicked but wonderful ways. <br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>You HAVE to know where the hell they are, all the time. And even when you think you know where they are you quite often have to triple check. </li>
</ul>
Example. During the Easter Holidays we were lucky enough to go to Center Parcs for the day as a guest of Bea's best pal. All was going 'swimmingly' in the Subtropical Paradise (which is a misleading title as it is really nothing at all like paradise and the headache you get after a few minutes inside it, lasts for an awfully long time) until the last twenty minutes when we were trying to wrap things up and have the 'last go' on things. I was giving G his last go on the rapids, Bea and Alice were having their last go on the Tropical Cyclone and Ted was shattered from the two hours he had spent racing around the pirate ship and baby slides in the children's area and was happily sitting in 'our' spot outside the pirate ship wrapped in a towel and tucking in to a bag of crisps and an apple juice, patiently waiting for Alice's mum to return.<br />
<br />
G and I finished our ride down the rapids and were just going to chance another final run when I heard a worrying alarm. At first I thought it was telling people the waves were beginning again - but a few seconds later I realised there was a different air to the tropical paradise and like meerkats on the Savannah, all these heads were popping up looking for something. It was then I knew, deep in my mothering bones, that Bea was dying. I saw a group of lifeguards running in the direction of the Tropical Cyclone. I grabbed G's arm and yanked him in the direction of the running life guards. I pushed through the crowds with a hammering heart and tears in my eyes as I thought I saw Bea's friend, with fingers in her mouth, looking scared and bewildered. I think I actually started crying at that point but it all happened so fast. I was busy looking for the lifeguards who would surely be trying to resuscitate my beautiful daughter who had obviously fallen off the stupid rubber ring thing on the death defying ride and was in serious trouble, WHEN, a small child grabbed me. I looked down and saw Ted clinging to my side and I remember thinking what the hell are you doing, get off me I need to save Bea. Then a lifeguard asked me if he was with me and I said yes - again annoyed that everyone wasn't trying to save Bea - she then said 'He can't swim' which was when I realised that all the lifeguards were all stood still, staring at me and Ted. As were a number of fellow guests in the incredibly noisy SubTropical Paradise. It transpires that the alarms were actually for Ted. Bea and Alice had admirably managed not to drown. G was with me and Cybs was safely at home with my mother. Ted had been the missing link, and instead of waiting for Alice's mother, he had evidently decided that he would go for a wander. He had wandered up the stairs that G and I had gone up and then he had found an unattended flume ride and as it seemed quite fun, he sat at the top and pushed himself off. He didn't realise that at the bottom of the flumes that aren't in the children's area, there is a deep pool in which to splash land. So, as he splashed down at the end of the flume he was probably somewhat taken aback and a little scared as he realised he was drowning. <br />
<br />
As luck would have it, a very kind man who came down after Ted had seen him unsuccessfully trying to save himself as he attempted to grab hold of the circular floats that divided the plunge pool in to two, and realised that the man in front of Ted was in fact nothing to do with him and that this little boy was on his own and in some distress, so he saved him. It was then that the alarm was raised and all the lifeguards had come running. I was in total shock. All I kept thinking was that he couldn't possibly have nearly drowned as he was sitting on a chair eating crisps. But I knew it was all true as I had a very wet and scared Ted clamped to me and a calm and rational lifeguard telling me that he could have drowned but for a very nice man who was luckily using the flume at the same time.<br />
<br />
An hour or so later as we were using the swings in the playground Ted casually said, 'that's the man that saved me when I was drowning' and we went to say thank you, and thank you and a bit more thanking. He told me all the details the lifeguard didn't know and that I hadn't taken in at the time. I am most extremely grateful to him. But, people like him aren't always around and I was clearly in the wrong by assuming that an exhausted and troublesome four year old would stay where I left him for a few minutes. You must always know where they are. Do not rely on assumptions.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>There will forever be 'stuff' - lots of it and very little of it will be yours. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Leaving the house will always take five times longer than you hope - for an extremely long time to come. Even longer if you have more than one. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li> If you are anything like me your jeans will always be slightly falling down and needing to be yanked up. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Leftover children's food will always be appealing even if you are fat and trying not to be. </li>
</ul>
There are many, many more but this will have to do for now.<br />
<br />
On the flip side there are also some good things. Obviously. Or the world would be very sparsely populated. In the interest of fairness here are some: They are quite cuddly and sometimes they have moments of loveliness. And when they get older they can be very good company. And on the whole they are a lot more fun and a lot more smiley than most adults. And they find getting wet more fun and are more open to spontaneous outbreaks of dancing. Dressing them up in fancy dress is also jolly good fun. <br />
<br />
And there you have it. I apologise to anyone reading this who hasn't had children or has no interest in having them. It's a bit late to point this out, but this isn't the post for you.<br />
<br />
Until we meet again,<br />
<br />
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx <br />
<br />
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<br />Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-71229767226865089932014-04-12T13:54:00.000-07:002014-04-12T13:54:10.666-07:00KApril has begun. This means three things. Easter Holidays, Easter and Anniversary time.<br />
<br />
I have decided not to bore you with the ins and outs of illness, tiredness, child antics and poverty but instead I am dedicating this post to the long suffering (and cause of long suffering); K.<br />
<br />
Last Saturday marked eleven years of marriage to the man. This is not a momentous amount of time in the grand scheme of long marriages, but it feels like a jolly long time. It is, I am pleased to announce, a year longer than the power couple Gwynnie and Chris managed. News of their 'conscious uncoupling' after ten years, means that we have beaten them. It may be wrong to feel a sense of satisfaction about that but I couldn't care less - I do. Other people have their careers to take pride in which would clearly be very peculiar for me to crow about, (although I was once responsible for making Kerry Katona Celebrity Mum of the Year which I think you will agree, is something of which I should be magnificently proud), so my ability to stay in holy matrimony affords me a small modicum of pride. I/we have, at times, found staying married pretty hard work. Over the years there have been times (as my blog will attest) where I have thought I might welcome his demise, other times I have thought I would jump in the ground after him, should the worst happen. Most of the time however, we just spend our days happily getting through them. As we were unable to celebrate the first major milestone of ten years last year due to illness and a small baby (we spent the evening in front of the TV with my mother....), I have decided to make a small fanfare over eleven years. To that end I planned a small surprise for him in the shape of a romantic getaway (I even booked a secret day off work and everything), I changed my surname (finally) on FaceAche and I had also planned to make an old fashioned 'mix tape' as a gift - although I failed in my task of trying to 'burn' things to a CD (all of this technology totally eludes me) and I have no idea where to start on making a play list for his ipod/iphone. Therefore, please use your imagination and open your ears to my 'Open Mix Tape' below. (Open letters seem to be very popular with the celebrities, so I thought I would emulate it - it isn't quite Sinead O'Connor to Miley Cyrus or Gordon Ramsay to his Mother in Law but then we are not s'lebs - but hopefully you get the idea.)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><u><b>K's Anniversary Open Mix Tape</b></u></span></span></div>
<span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><u><b>A Side </b></u></span></span><br />
<br />
<b>1. Common People, Pulp</b><br />
<br />
Do not be alarmed. I am not being rude. (I would never be so insulting to his mother!). However, at the time we got together, K was living in the most horrideous shared flat in Chelmsford with three other boys. It was a shit hole. I had never seen anything like it before and I was a student living in a shared student house. According to K this wasn't even the worst place he had lived since leaving home which seemed impossible at the time but he later showed me the window over the sex shop which was his previous 'home', so he was clearly telling the truth. However, and it shocked me to learn, but there was a bit of me that rather liked slumming it. I went all Charlotte Church in her wild days and revelled in being able to smoke inside and not worry about spilling things and eating in bed. In return for me 'feminising' the room (I bought a whole new set of sheets for the bed and other bits to prettify his room) and in return he taught me more about Mcdonalds, Burger Kind and KFC and took me to some clubs I wouldn't normally have chosen to frequent. I found myself loving it all. The best thing was returning to my very comfortable, daddy funded, student house, which had a beautiful and large room I had had re-carpeted as soon as I moved in. And that is why I find this Pulp song so amusing. It was very 'me' at the time, especially the line in the song about 'calling dad' to stop it all. <br />
<br />
<b>2. Yellow, Coldplay</b><br />
<br />
The words aren't especially important in this one although I always 'thought' they were rather lovely, (see later) it is the song as a whole that is noteworthy. When K and I first moved to London we lived above a launderette on Battersea Park Road, which sounds more glamorous than it was, although one of the advantages was the beautiful park just behind the flat. The first November after we moved in, we went to watch the firework display they put on every year. One of the songs that accompanied the grand finale of the spectacular display was Yellow, and it was so lovely, being there with K, near our first home together, watching the fabulous fireworks (which I totally love) and it just felt like one of those 'magic moments' and so from then on it sort of stuck as 'our song'. After we got engaged quietly at home in the very same flat a few months later, we decided to go to Asda and pick up some treats and bubbles to celebrate (we have always been terrifically classy) and as we walked through the aisles this song came over the tinny tannoy and I took that as a very clear 'sign'. Clearly this was the official stamp of approval for this to be 'our' song and the universe approved of our engagement. It was also, inevitably, the song we had our first dance to as man and wife at our wedding eleven years ago. Sadly someone has recently told me that the meaning behind the song is not that nice and Chris Martin wrote the song as a sort of joke, but I have decided never to find out as I don't want it ruining the song for me and so I try and forget that piece of information and not imagine what sinister meaning the words have. Instead, I look at the stars and see how they 'shine for me' with no hidden meaning.<br />
<br />
<b>3. Nobody Does it Better, Carly Simon</b><br />
<br />
Embarrassingly, I decided to sing this to K at our wedding reception. I can only blame the folly of youth for this. I was in my early 20s and had clearly not matured sufficiently to learn that singing along to a karaoke machine at my wedding reception was not a brilliant idea. Worse still was that it was filmed so there is a permanent record of my epic fail. Luckily I have only seen the video of it once and briefly at that - enough to understand why people on the X Factor are shocked to learn they cannot sing having previously assumed that they could. Also, on reflection, it sounds a bit saucy. I wasn't going for that angle I can assure you. It was meant to be sweet. Although I was a big fan of karaoke at the time, I would raise an eyebrow or two if I went to a wedding with that as the evening entertainment now. Although in my defence, it did come very late in the day, after a professional singer had had a 'go' and everyone had had quite a bit to drink, so it was quite popular and I wasn't the only one to get up and sing. But still, hindsight and all that. It still makes me cringe a bit whenever I hear the song, although obviously I still sing along. Naturally.<br />
<br />
<b>4. Fix You, Coldplay</b><br />
<br />
As most of you will know, Gwyneth and I have more in common than our skinny frames, blonde hair and bank balances (only one of those is actually true and only half of that as I can't afford a whole head of highlights); we have also both lost our lovely Fathers. Regardless of who you are, if you have a good and loving relationship with your father and he dies, the pain is really unimaginable. (I am sure it is the same for either parent but I wouldn't know about mothers as 'luckily' mine is sitting in the same room and making terrifically annoying comments to the TV as she watches it. I know it sounds disrespectful to those who have lost their mothers but if you were here you would entirely understand. People who have received awards from the Queen have suffered less.) Anyway, this song always makes me stop and think. K can't write songs and he was pretty useless at times, but there were many more times when he was entirely magnificent. This song makes me think of both him and my brilliant Father whom I still miss. <br />
<br />
<b>5. All That She Wants (Is Another Baby), Ace of Base</b><br />
<br />
I'm not sure this needs much explanation. After the first one came along I pretty much constantly badgered K for the next. Each and every one has been at my request, although naturally K was happy (ish) to go along with them all. He was always keen to have children, which was part of his original allure, and he assures me that if we won the lottery we would have a few more, but for now, this part of our lives is very much in the past. I heard the song the other day and it made me chuckle as I finally don't want another one and K is safe. Although we are playing the lottery a lot more. Just in case we change our minds. <br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: blue;"> B Side</span></b><br />
(It was a short tape - no pricey 90 minutes for me)<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>6. I Won't Give Up, Jason Mraz</b><br />
<br />
Again, do not be alarmed. The words in this song are more important than the title. Eleven years has seen a lot; four pregnancies (I don't 'do' pregnancy that well), four crying babies, a death, a miscarriage, poverty, house renovation, redundancies, four demanding children, a house that isn't quite big enough for us all etc etc With all this going on, it is, I hope, not hard to imagine why K and I might, on occasion <strike>weekly</strike>, have an argument. We have, on occasion <strike>quite a lot in the early days</strike> had huge shouting ones with storming-out type of outcomes. It is quite easy on those occasions to feel sorry for oneself and despairing of one's life choices. In the very early days I assumed it meant we were ill matched and should quite clearly divorce. I think that when Bea was small and we were broke and the house was still unrenovated and K was temporarily unemployed, I may well have mentioned it to him, because I assumed 'happy marriages' were nothing like this. Mercifully we loved each other enough that this was never a real option and now we are this side of ten years, being married feels a whole lot easier and a whole lot more fun. Not that there wasn't any fun in the beginning, it was just that there was a lot more to work on in between the fun. We married relatively young and had to grow up together, and fairly quickly, with an awful lot going on in the background. But we did. And we carried on. The words of this song resonate with me and stopped me in my tracks when I first heard it. I don't 'do' soppy or gushy but I do think 'we're worth it'.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>7. Lady Madonna - The Beatles</b><br />
<br />
This is 'me' as far as I'm concerned. Children at my feet, baby at the breast (although mercifully not for the past few months) and never enough money. Not only is it my ring tone but I think it should be my theme tune. <br />
<br />
<b>8. Happy - Pharrell Williams</b><br />
<br />
Because, not only do the children and I LOVE this song, but because on the whole, we are.<br />
<br />
THE END<br />
(It's a very short B side)<br />
(Apologies for the two Coldplay songs btw - I know they aren't 'cool' but then I am not. If K were doing this tape there would be far more 'Absolute Radio' type tracks and Elvis and The Prodigy and Esser and Rage Against the Machine etc. We have incredibly different tastes in music. I don't want you judging him by association)<br />
<br />
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<br />Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-18676946952638626932014-03-16T15:06:00.000-07:002014-03-16T15:06:09.719-07:00Things I don't Understand - Part 24. Why I Can't Just Sit Down and Write<br />
<br />
Almost everything in the world is more appealing than sitting and writing in the evening. I have no idea why. I meant to sit down and write this the day after I posted the last one. A month on it would appear I didn't quite hit my target. <br />
<br />
<br />
5. February half term plagues<br />
<br />
Every year the first half term is a total germ fest. This year was no exception. Ted began proceedings by turning totally white and demanding to sleep upon his return from swimming on the first Sunday. He seemed to have recovered slightly once we got to Mum's later that day but that was short lived and he spent most of the following week being incredibly ill. I enjoyed three visits to the doctors with varying waiting times and only one course of antibiotics to show for my troubles. I became ill on the Wednesday as did Bea and Cybil soon followed. Only G bucked the trend by staying decidedly well for the entire duration. I managed to venture out for three expeditions during the nine day break, other than to the doctors - once for an afternoon in to town so that Bea and George could spend some vouchers, once to the park and once to see the fabulous Lego Movie (I really didn't think I would enjoy it but it was a genius film and I highly recommend it). G was happy as Larry that he could spend almost the entire time in his pyjamas which is his idea of the perfect holiday. The Lazy Gene is strong in that one and the very idea of staying in your pyjamas for nine days is like a bespoke luxury holiday for him. He was largely unaffected by the swathes of groaning people who occupied sofas and required almost constant medication. I took a tray of medicine bottles and syringes (the ones you give babies medicine with, not the needle ones) to bed every night - it looked like a calpol crack den on my bedside table. It was hard to find any joy in the half term really and Bea and I felt exceedingly cheated by the whole thing. We returned home and felt like we hadn't had a break at all. Me in particular.<br />
<br />
6. Gendering Animals<br />
<br />
This is odd. Cats are 'female',
Horses tend to be 'female', Dinosaurs are 'male' Crocodiles, foxes,
monkeys etc are all male and happily adorn male
t-shirts along with dogs, lizards and spiders etc but I have never seen a
boy's top with a cat or a horse on it. WHY? If you try to buy a cat
outfit for a small boy it is quite hard to find one that doesn't have
pink or sparkles or some reference to it being for a girl. I know
because I tried for Ted last year. It bugged me then but I didn't think
about it until Ted refused to call Charlie The Spider a 'he' because
'she' was small and cute and a kitten. He got quite angry when I
insisted that he was wrong and that kittens come in both boy and girl
categories and boy kittens are just as cute as girl kittens. This
reminded me of the female cat outfit and I am now mystified as to why
popular Animals are assigned to a particular gender. Dog outfits are
quite boyish and you rarely find them with pink sequins adorning the
collar. Horsey toys are almost exclusively aimed at girls with
potentially the exception of the hobby horse and rocking horse although
even the rocking horse seems to be more for 'girls'. And obviously
Dinosaurs belong in the 'male' category (although I have no idea why as I
know a lot of girls who love them but you would never find any in the
'girl' aisle or pictured on 'girl' tops). Now, I don't want to jump on
the bandwagon and the current zeitgeist for demanding non pink, gender
neutral toy stuff - I 'get' that there are some over-the-top-crappy
girl toys which are laughable and I understand that sometimes
manufacturers take it too far (Early Learning Centre take note - a Till
does not need to be produced in both a primary colours version and a
pink version - girls will 'cope' with the primary colour version...) but
on the whole I think girls prefer to pet and preen and mother their
toys and boys are more physical and enjoy building and destroying and
fighting and setting up 'battles' with their toys. On the WHOLE.
Obviously having two of each I am well aware that Bea enjoyed playing
Ben 10 with G as much as G enjoyed playing 'mums and dads' with her and
they all like science and chemistry sets etc BUT animals? They all play
vets, they all like/have liked dressing up as animals so why are cats
only for girls and dogs mainly for boys? It doesn't make sense. Both
animals come in both the female and male form or the species would
clearly die out. Potentially the 'fe' in feline and the 'fe' in female
are matches and therefore as a society we have dictated that cats, much
like cupcakes, are female and dogs who are the messier, muddier, more
simple species, are male. But I am not happy about it and I don't fully
understand it. Ted shows a great deal of solidarity with my
misunderstanding and proudly wears his cat pyjamas which were kindly
handed down from a family with three daughters. And he still
occasionally dresses up in the cat outfit I did find. With a purple
collar.<br />
<br />
7. How I can Be so Stupid<br />
<br />
I am not entirely without sense or intelligence so sometimes I am entirely baffled by my own stupidity. On a recent shopping trip G decided he wanted a knitted weasel toy which was sadly not for sale so, instead I had to purchase the pattern and wool to knit it for him. I began in earnest after the worst of the half term illness had abated. I was excitedly about to cast off the main bulk of the knitting which had taken about five days to complete (fitted in and around the children during the day and in the evenings) only to realise that I had in fact, knitted the entire thing in the wrong colour wool. I had assumed, exceedingly wrongly, that I was knitting the underbody of the blasted weasel when in actual fact I was knitting the 'body back' as it CLEARLY STATES above all the instructions I had begun. So, I managed to correctly follow all the casting on, increasing, knitting, decreasing, alternative row this, that and other crap and yet I couldn't read the word 'beige'. Baffling.<br />
<br />
Before half term I took Ted to a party at the wrong venue. Even though I absolutely knew it wasn't at the venue I took him to. I knew because the invite had been on the noticeboard for a month with the logo in large writing of the correct venue all across the invite - a place we had been for previous parties. The invite had been on the notice board for around a month and discussions had taken place to ensure Ted's best friend would also be attending and whether we would make it in time for the party which followed not long after. And yet I managed to walk him down to entirely the wrong venue, much to the bemusement of the university hockey players who were trying to use the venue as it was intended and must have thought a woman pushing around a baby with an excited four year old in tow was a peculiar sight for a Sunday. There was then a mad dash for K to come down in the car and whisk poor Ted off to the actual venue which I knew was in Dulwich at exactly the same place as the last party with exactly the same invitation. I felt irrationally guilty that Ted missed half of the party and almost cried at my spectacularly stupidity.<br />
<br />
I say very stupid things. A lot. A lot more than you would think. And then I worry about what I have said to people for weeks on end and sometimes even apologise to them and sometimes they have no idea what I am talking about. Or at least they pretend not to know. For example, last week, when a lovely friend of mine said that her son really enjoyed babysitting for us (potentially this was the shock that put me in to such a silly frame of mind), she said that one of the reasons was because he felt like it was just like being at home, and for some reason I then GROANED and said 'Oh No - is it because it's so messy!' WHY on earth would I say that. WHY? It is so rude and she was being so nice. There have been others but this was my worst of recent weeks. It haunts me. I have only ever been to her house when it was extremely tidy so it is mind boggling as to why I would say that.We were sadly cut off by the school spewing out children so I was left unable to rectify my mistake and don't want to bring it up again in case she is reminded of my rudeness. I also spent a good few drunken minutes at a party earlier in the month telling a heavily pregnant and therefore sober woman, how it made me feel sick just looking at her bump. NICE. I meant, because I am very over being pregnant and having babies and now the very idea of me ever having another one turns my stomach. I felt so bad about that one I did find her in the playground and apologise. I mean honestly, what the hell is wrong with me. Although my feelings on pregnancy are understandable because of Cybs. Which leads me on to number eight.<br />
<br />
8. How I was cheated of an easy fourth<br />
<br />
I was told that the fourth 'just fitted in' because they had to, that they were 'no trouble', that they practically 'raised themselves'. Somehow I have been cheated and given Cybs. As delightful as she can be at times, she is constant hard work from the minute she wakes up. If she is not having a horrible tantrum about something, then she is quietly emptying cupboards, bins, bags or bookshelves, packets of porridge oats ALL OVER THE FLOOR, the fridge of its contents or putting dirty things in the dishwasher full of clean things, or tearing up precious pieces of paper or eating tea bags and spitting the leaves EVERYWHERE or various other many, many incredibly messy and irritating things. She makes the most amazing mess. And the tantrums are spectacular. She hates to get dressed in to her pyjamas at night. I usually have to hold her down with my elbow as she screams and struggles and fights to flee my grip. Ditto with tooth brushing. On any given day she can flip out about one or all of the following: waking up, going to sleep, getting in to the buggy, getting out of the buggy, having her nappy taken off, having a nappy put on, putting on clothes, taking off clothes, putting on shoes, taking off shoes, eating, not being given food, brushing her teeth (actually this happens every single day regardless), me going to the loo, me walking upstairs, me not allowing her to walk on a main road, me not letting her eat butter with a spoon etc etc. Before half term I was quite keen to get rid of her and find someone else to bear the brunt. Post half term I only felt marginally less like that. Luckily last week I finally decided to take her for her inoculations which were long overdue and included the all important MMR. I have no idea what it does to other children but after a sleep on the way home from the doctors Cybs woke up and has been remarkably improved ever since. It is magic. She is finally bearable and has periods of being quite nice and vaguely charming in between the major tantrums. If you have a tricky toddler I thoroughly recommend overloading them with vaccines to major viruses. It works a treat. <br />
<br />
9. How Bea is Coeliac<br />
<br />
This is a total doozy. At 9 years old we have finally got the answer as to why Bea has suffered from tummy troubles for the last few years and why she has always had quite a pronounced tummy even though she is quite slim. It turns out that she is totally unable to tolerate Gluten and is now part of a very exclusive club. It has a society and everything and you can only join it once you are officially diagnosed which does make it feel quite elite. Bea started suffering before Cybs was born but the problem became unbearable about a year ago when we went to our local Doctor and he prescribed some medicine which Bea has duly been taking daily ever since. The meds helped but without them the problem returned immediately. Every time we returned to see the Doctor, he just gave us a repeat prescription and told us to keep on going and watch her diet. So, after half term I decided that a year was long enough to be on a daily dose of medicine and to take advantage of the lovely private medical insurance we are lucky enough to benefit from courtesy of the late, great Mr T (my dad). Within a week we had seen a very nice Doctor in Blackheath and had the results to her blood test and it showed that she was most likely Coeliac. For confirmation we had to go through the drama of an Endoscopy and Colonoscopy under General Anaesthetic.<br />
<br />
Luckily for Bea we got to do it at the Portland which was total luxury. We were showed to her room by a Concierge. A flipping Concierge. Imagine. There were touch screen TVs and nurses in abundance - we were vaguely excited, although Bea was also quite scared. Within an hour of our arrival I was crying and Bea was under (via the gas from a mask and not an injection which was also a blessing). Four hours after we arrived I got to half carry (she is surprisingly heavy considering she hasn't been fully absorbing her food) and half limp my first baby back to the car and take her home. She was sore and tired and desperate to see her daddy but surprisingly brave and brilliant. I was less so and found it so hard to see her in distress when she came round after the procedure. It took an hour for her to calm down properly and relax - mainly due to the cannula in her hand and the pain from her wrist where they had taken bloods (in her wrist? so odd) although there was some stomach pain from where they had taken two biopsies. I know that this made the lining of her stomach bleed because bizarrely enough - along with the lovely decor, ensuite bathroom, smart TVs, amazing cleanliness, abundance of attentive and friendly staff and unrivalled service all round - the private hospital experience also provides you with a DVD to take home. AND A PICTURE. We now have a lovely snap shot of Bea's insides as well as a film showing us the journey from her mouth to her stomach and what a biopsy looks like. The boys loved it. Poor Bea had to leave the room. K never entered the room. Still, it will make an interesting souvenir for her when she is older.<br />
<br />
Bea is recovering well and even attempted her Street Dance exam the following day which was above and beyond - particularly as we didn't get home until 10pm. She managed to complete the rehearsals and the exam but came out and cried from the pain in her wrist which was upsetting, but I was immensely proud of her for going along and trying. She is an amazing dancer which is another thing I don't understand - I have no idea how I produced a person with rhythm and the ability to follow dance steps. I couldn't even manage to follow the short steps in Zumba. She is an anomaly. And now, to add to her long list of physical quirks - long sighted, glue ear, dyslexia and the alopecia she suffered at five, she now has confirmed Coeliac to boot. She will no doubt be entirely fine with it all, as she has been with all her odd quirks, but it means that I have to be far more fastidious and not my usual laid back self in regards to food buying and preparation which is a total pain. It is just so not like me. Still, at least I can still eat every type of cake available which poor Bea can't so I shall put up and shut up and try to be anally retentive. I wonder if there is a course you can go on?<br />
<br />
So there it is, the end of another one. I will leave you with this from my physically flawed daughter - as we half hobbled, half carried our way back to the car down the dark London Street, I remarked about something being magic and she asked me if 'Magic was just science we don't understand yet'. 9.15pm and groggy from a GA and in pain, even if she was just repeating something from one of her crappy American TV programmes, I thought it was just brilliant.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-14600737669315914332014-02-20T14:56:00.000-08:002014-02-20T14:56:19.283-08:00Things I don't understand - Part 11. How I have developed a stoop<br />
<br />
One of the plus sides of Bea's ipad is that she makes many, many films - some are charming and some are less so but many of them show you how to make food. Bea, George and latterly Ted have all developed a fascination with the You Tube videos of 'Nerdy Nummies' which is an American woman showing you how to decorate cakes in to various popular characters/themes from the confines of her teeny tiny kitchen. It isn't the most obvious of You Tube sensations for children but it keeps them occupied for many a happy hour and Bea has attempted to recreate the Nerdy Nummies format in many a video. Last weekend as we were making a rather fabulous birthday cake for the lovely Gwen over t'road (who I thought was going to be 86 and we thusly decorated the cake to correspond however she turns out to be 86 and even at that age apparently an extra year matters.....) Anyhoo, Bea was also decorating a batch of cupcakes and was patiently explaining 'to camera' how to cut out coloured fondant and stick it on to the cupcake and when I watched it afterwards I saw that I had made a cameo appearance as I busied myself at the oven in the background. To my total horror I realised that my shoulders were so hunched forward my top was riding up at the back and my head was further away from the rest of my body than it should be. I STOOP. Obviously as soon as I saw it I sat up straight and rolled my shoulders back which bought about a distinct pain in the muscles which I clearly never use as I am always and forever hunched over. I was horrified. I have no idea what has happened to me. I sometimes see those elderly women who are permanently facing the floor because their back has hunched right over and they are no longer able to stand upright. I have felt inordinately sorry for them and wondered what on earth had happened to them - but without realising it I too could very easily become one of their number. (obviously I have no medical background whatsoever and it is probably something to do with arthritis or somesuch but to me they are just people who slouched too much and their muscles 'set' them like that - it is a very plausible explanation).<br />
<br />
Immediately I began to wonder why. These are a selection of my explanations:<br />
a. An apologetic stance - being fat is shameful - it is very well documented and the Daily Mail have written endless features about how it does this, that and the other to all aspects of your health, wealth and happiness so I wonder if I have been subconsciously hunching myself over to try and cover myself or bow my head in shame and avoid eye contact with those who have not let their gluttony run away with itself.<br />
b. I am worried my tops are too short and exposing my bulging tummy and I have subconsciously started to bend forward slightly to lengthen the top and therefore avoid exposure.<br />
c. The recent wind and rain has forced me in to a permanent buggy pushing posture where you automatically bend over to force the buggy through the gale force winds and protect your face from the rain.<br />
d. Our worktops are the wrong height and I spend so much of my time standing at them I have had to develop a stoop in order for my hands to comfortably work at their height.<br />
e. Gravity is forcing the weight of my upper torso downwards. My brain, bust and belly weigh an awful lot when combined and my bottom is rather flat so there is nothing anchoring me from the other side - hence my head naturally falling towards the ground.<br />
f. Severe tiredness leading to excessive slouching which in turn led to permanent slouching<br />
g. Hunching over a laptop on my knees<br />
h. Pregnancy (it can be blamed for absolutely everything that ever goes wrong with your body from the moment you conceive - even health professionals agree with me on this - from the dentist to the chiropractor via your GP, when you ask 'but why though' they say - "it's probably the effects of the pregnancy"...) <br />
i. All of the above.<br />
<br />
It is so upsetting. I am now making a huge effort to keep my shoulders back and my head up. It feels very wrong and as if I am trying to show off my cleavage (again something I very rarely try to do as I am very conscious of looking a bit 'Ma Larkin' which really isn't the look I'm going for). So, if you see me slouch feel free to yell 'stand up straight' or similar in my direction - I am hoping that standing tall becomes second nature very soon and it has the benefit of making me look taller and slimmer instantly which can only be a bonus.<br />
<br />
2. Mumpreneurs<br />
<br />
WHY OH WHY are they not just Entrepreneurs - why is there this new hideous word to let the world know that this clever businesswoman/inventor has also reproduced and is therefore different to her non childbearing female counterpart or any male entrepreneur? I understand that there was a sudden boom of 'modern' women who, once on Mat leave from their brain busting jobs, got bored, and decided to invent something/start up a company to 'help make life easier' for parents and therefore because the ideas were started with small babies and the ideas were usually for small babies, I can see that there was an editorial need to distinguish these women as a new 'trend' of entrepreneurs. I understand that whoever invented dribble bibs and those clever towels that I saw on Dragon's Den which allow you to get children/babies out of the bath hands free and cushions to put under you whilst breastfeeding etc - I sort of get why they would be referred to as mumpreneurs BUT it seems that every time I read anything about any woman who produced any offspring then had an idea for a business/product which she happened to start after the birth - suddenly they are only referred to as 'Mumpreneurs' and not simply as an entrepreneur. It BUGS ME. Whatshisface Dyson is not referred to as a Dadpreneur - he has three children. That one from Dragon's Den, Peter Jones - he has FIVE children (according to Wikipedia) - but again no Dadpreneuer moniker for all his clever company start ups. The creator of Ella's Kitchen baby food is a phenomenal success story - each packet tells you that Ella's Daddy started the company because he wanted to make organic baby food free especially for her, free from all the crap but full of taste etc etc etc. Ella's daddy is never referred to as a Dadpreneur as far as I can see. And yet more and more I see interviews with women or I see things on TV when they tell us amazing things they have done and yet crowbar in how they have children as if it is as relevant as whatever amazing thing they are being recognised for. I can't think of a time they have done it for men. In fact I pretty much get angry at anything with the word 'mum' stuck on the front of it - like we are all a brand of total lemmings who must be all the same. I don't even LIKE the word mum. I HATE it when health professionals dealing with my children refer to me as 'mum' or ask if I'm 'mum'. My hair actually stands on end - although if it was life and death and they were trying to help the child on to the side of life I may be more lenient, but whenever they begin by asking me if I'm 'Mum' or asking if 'mum' would like this or that I immediately hate them and find it hard to like them again. If, from this point forward, I ever invent anything totally life changingly brilliant and become very rich I will take particular pleasure in suing anyone who ever refers to me as a Mumpreneur. (LORD save us I have just put that vile word in to google and there is even a Mumpreneur Directory which is 'fast becoming the ultimate business directory for Mums' WHY, WHY, WHY can't 'we' just use a normal business directory? Why does it all have to be segregated in such a ridiculous way? I have no answers I just beg you to stop using the word as well and let us all hope it dies a death and in 40 years time we can laugh about how silly it all was - like smoking in cars with children as passengers which will now hopefully be made illegal forever more)<br />
<br />
<br />
3. Hair growth<br />
<br />
It would appear that not only does
Cybil look and act just like Bea but she also seems to share her
follicular challenges. The boys - in particular George - had the most
amazing crop of hair when they were young. They both had blonde and
curly angelic locks which I only cut when people started assuming they
were girls and they were old enough to understand and object. Not so for
the girls. It just DOESN'T GROW. 18 months in and Cybs is just like Bea
and has a mild scattering of thin dirty blonde hair with a bit of length at the back which basically gives them a mullet. I was constantly
asked if Bea was a boy - even dressed in red t-bar shoes and pink
dungarees - such was her lack of hair. I was even more aware of it because I
felt horrideous guilt over what I had assumed was my part in her lack of
hair. The great thing with Cybs having no hair as well means I can
finally relinquish nine years of guilt I have been carrying around with
me. You see, far from being the 'earth mother' who was a 'natural' as
soon as Beatrice was pulled out from my paralysed body through layers of fat,
uterine wall and a teeny bit of muscle, I was in fact, a bit of a mess.
Dad had died two weeks ago to the day that I came round in a
recovery ward in West Suffolk hospital with a nurse who wasn't even
aware that I had had a baby, let alone what sex it was or whether she
was fit and well. And I was exhausted, bewildered and in pain. <br />
<br />
The birth had started off well enough, albeit steeped
in grief and misery - far too many people trying to live in mum's
house as we all tried to cope with our collective but equally very
personal grief. I had got to 8 cms without any pain relief or any
serious pain. But then I failed to progress. At the hospital by this
point I/we did everything we could to get things going - walking,
bathing, walking, bouncing, walking etc. At one point a midwife
suggested she could distract my mother and sister and shut the door on
me and K so we could attempt nipple stimulation. I told her to leave - I
wasn't THAT desperate to get things going. So, eventually they broke my
waters, I got in to the birth pool and things again seemed to be going
jolly well. They told me to push, I did. I pushed and pushed and nothing
happened. They put mirrors in the pool and looked for signs of
something. Nothing ever materialised and after quite a while they
decided to take me out of my happy place in the pool and lay me flat on
my back - and this is when everything went totally tits up. I screamed and wailed
and begged to be shot just to end the agony. They told me that the baby was back to back, had
not turned and was therefore not going to be descending down the birth canal anytime soon. From then on all the
drugs in the world were administered - including a wonderful epidural.
By the time I was hooked up to a syntocinon drip and the contractions were coming
thick and fast, the epidural started to wear off and still the baby had made no progress. By this point I had been in hospital for
about 18 hours and I was so weak from it all I couldn't sign my name for
consent to the Cesarean. I signed a cross. They tried a last minute
ventouse in the theatre but to no avail, in a very scary environment with people
milling around everywhere I was told that the new epidural wasn't working
and I would have to have a general anaesthetic. K was pushed out the room
and that was all I remember, luckily, until I came round in the recovery room. Once I was wheeled out of there I was dumped
in a ward with a drip in each hand and a tiny baby who I had expected
to meet some 20 hours earlier. I was shattered and scared. My sister and
K were ordered to leave as visiting hours were over. I attempted to
breastfeed. I spent the next three days attempting to breastfeed and
recover before being let out to return to mum's house and a house
already full with Cupcake sister and her four children who had moved in
before all the drama whilst their new home was renovated. Breastfeeding
did not work - or not how it should at any rate - she sometimes went on and seemed to be sucking but mainly she screamed and screamed when presented with the boob. I tried
everything I could think of to sort it out but nothing was doing. I sat
up at night and cried to myself as I had no idea what on earth I was
going to do or how I was ever going to sleep again. I assumed it was
wind. I assumed it was illness. But two days after I arrived home and
five days in to her life, the midwife came to weigh her and she had lost
weight - a lot. She had dropped from 7lbs, 9oz to 6lbs, 4oz. It was
incredibly upsetting. I had clearly not been feeding her properly.
Mercifully on that same day Cupcake sister came to my aid and bought me
nipple shields. These were life changing. For the first time in her life
Bea had a full feed and came off sated. It was miraculous. I cried in
relief. From then on in she gained weight exceedingly slowly but
steadily and I eventually relaxed.<br />
<br />
A bit. I still had sleepless nights I
couldn't cope with and bad days when she cried for no reason but all in
all everything was going well. Except for the nagging doubt that I
wasn't doing the whole breastfeeding thing 'properly' - particularly as I had been told
by a breastfeeding counsellor that I should only use the shields for a few weeks and then 'try to get off them as soon as possible'. So, by four months-ish I
decided to do away with them as they were a total faff and I had assumed
that Bea and I were established enough with our feeding that we didn't
need them. Unfortunately I also decided that it was about time that I
stopped being the size of a house so I also enrolled in Weight Watchers
and followed their breastfeeding plan. All was going well and I was
confident I finally had the 'hang' of it all. So, after about three weeks on
my new regime I went back to the clinic to get her weighed. Yet again I
had a nasty shock as it turned out that she had dropped off the all
important 'growth chart' and had actually lost weight since I was last
there. I was chastised for leaving it so long and told to do something
immediately. I felt sick. I went to the shop and bought formula and a
bottle and that night K gave her her first bottle which she drained
without fuss. She had been starving. Yet again. The GUILT of starving
her twice in her short life had made me believe that I had stunted her
hair growth. I had decided that her body, so small and frail and hungry,
had clearly decided to stop producing hair and once stopped, the
follicles never fully recovered. From then on Bea was almost overfed and
became totally rotund. Like the Michelin tyre man. She had folds of fat
on her folds of fat. I loved it but she remained short of hair until
very recently. I have enviously stroked the bunches of girls half her
age and yearned for her to need a hair cut etc and it is only in the
last few years that we have achieved that. Of course it doesn't help
that an older cousin once gave her an unprompted and very unwanted hair
cut and then of course she suffered from Alopecia Areata after suffering
badly with Chicken pox. So all in all the hair debacle with Bea has
affected my mother guilt complex greatly. Now, although I am a tad disappointed that I have another girl with no hair who is often mistaken for a boy I am thrilled to learn that it is clearly something genetic and not something I can be blamed for. Although I still dont understand why. Why did my boys have loads of beautiful curly hair and my girls only grow an inch of the delicate stuff a year? It is mystifying. <br />
<br />
(Part 2 to follow. This is a genius idea, I don't know why I didn't think of it before - keeping to my shorter and more frequent posts resolution - I am just splitting the longer ones in two. Genius!)Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-64501868177660792652014-01-30T14:37:00.002-08:002014-01-30T14:37:41.027-08:00Still JanuaryGood Grief, is it STILL January? Does this month never end? If you include the last week of December (which you should as December ends with Christmas - the following week is no man's land) then it really is over five weeks long but feels more like seven. It is ridiculous. Thank goodness tomorrow finally marks the end of it so that we may once again welcome the warm embrace of February and all collectively sigh with relief. Although January has not been all bad - it has been an odd mix of miserable weather and high jinx celebrations. There are an unfeasibly high number of birthdays in January - an awful lot of my friends and their children seem to have been born in the longest month of the year. Either I just particularly get on well with Januarians or the beginning of Spring is when people feel at their friskiest and ovaries are at their most opulent. It surely cannot just be a coincidence. <br />
<br />
It is such a long month I have managed to get on here twice. That is not an occurrence that happens oft enough. It is however one of my resolutions/goals for this year. To write more. And to be better at it. After three years I sometimes find it a tad tricky to get motivated to write and I usually find passing out on the new sofa a far more alluring prospect. This year I am going to force myself to write more frequently so the posts are shorter (as per sister's request) and I shall attempt to write them without the TV on in the background so that I am better able to concentrate. To that end I have removed myself from 'my spot' and am now positioned in the slightly less comfortable surroundings of the playroom. The only distractions in here are toys and the mess and luckily I am neither a child or OCD so I am able to ignore both. <br />
<br />
Here are the rest of my resolutions/goals for the year:<br />
<ul>
<li>Get Charlie (the cat) and K (the husband) 'done'. I have made inroads with Charlie after he attended his very first appointment with the vet, although sadly it turns out you need more than one. He has had his first round of immunisations but he needs yet more before we can finally take him back to be 'de-sexed'. Although having him immunised will mean he can finally go outside and I can therefore finally stop foraging around in cat litter for poo - it really is the very worst kind of Lucky Dip. Charlie is on the right path but sadly K is still very much not. I forwarded an interesting article to him about a U.S. man who had donated one of his testicles to medical research for the princely sum of $10,000 - the heading of the email I sent was 'two birds, one stone'. I tried to reason with him by pointing out that we would be nicely on the way to affording our loft conversion if he had two of his (now useless) appendages removed and generously donated them to advancing medical knowledge. He is being unashamedly selfish and refusing. Tsk. Failing that idea I shall keep on trying to persuade him to be 'snipped'. I have suffered enough what with all the palaver of pregnancy and birth four times over and I feel now the ball (or balls in this case) should really be in his court when it comes to a permanent solution. It is a shame no one wants Charlie's for any research. I have a feeling that that appointment isn't going to be cheap.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Shout Less. Particularly in the mornings. And evenings. There is an unfounded presumption that I am an 'earth mother'. I have no idea of its literal meaning but in my mind an earth mother is less shouty, more hairy and far more holistic than I am. Whilst I am able to stay at home and look after my children without going clinically insane I don't think this makes me 'earthy' (now I sound like a mushroom or a red wine). Examples of my non-earth motherlyness: I never give the children homoeopathic remedies to any of their ailments; I do not 'juice' vegetables for them; I wear deodorant; I allow the children to skip their reading practise if we can't be bothered/are all too tired; I let them watch far too much television (I mean really lots. Hours. Once I turned it off and G asked if it was broken - in front of adult guests I was clearly trying to impress - hence turning it off) and spend far too much time on the ipad (again, I mean hours - sometimes Ted spends a whole afternoon on it if I can't be bothered to fight him off it); their diet includes an awful lot of sugar (I notice that this is now the new 'hate' food to follow fat and carbs before it - all food groups are created equal in my world - let's stop the hate people it is so dull) and I am also a terrific shouter. If we are running short of time this increases tenfold. When I ascend the stairs a good twenty minutes after sending G up in the morning to get dressed and discover him standing in the middle of his room, naked save for a pair of socks, busily swirling his pants/top/trousers/jumper around on his finger in his own little world, entirely oblivious to the urgent need for clothing, when I know we have to leave the house in five minutes flat - my shouting goes crazy. It is not a side of me that I am keen on. If it were up to me I would waft around all benevolent smiles, calm voice and loving hugs but quite frankly they are so annoying at times that far from wafting around I would like to start swatting them away like flies. Particularly Cybs. There is some bullshit crap 'study' doing the rounds on FB (do not get me started on the crap that circulates) which assures us that three children is in fact, easier, than having four. I had endured quite a few hours of Cybs whining and crying at me and pulling on my leg whilst I was trying to cook supper for umpteen children and then clearing up from umpteen children eating - when I clicked on to FB to be greeted with that joyous 'news'. My comment on the survey was less than polite. When Cybil is happy, she is a joy to behold and makes me wonder if we could manage one more, but when she is vile she really makes you want to open the front door and hand her to any passer by brave enough to take her on. She has a hideous temper and if you say
no to her - even if it is purely for her own benefit (e.g 'No, you can't eat a stock cube it really won't taste very nice', but she
thinks it's a chocolate and you are trying to keep it from her...), she can
be very angry for a VERY long time. And if she wants to be held, regardless of how much stuff you want to get on with, then she can also be back breaking and exhausting. This is not 'easier' than not having her. She is a human being who will need care and attention and money spent on her for the rest of her life which is a pretty big undertaking so how this can 'be easier' than not having that extra child is a big pile of doggie do do. I try not to allow myself to be taken in by spurious surveys and studies - as I used to work in the world of PR I am well aware that they are to be disregarded at all costs - however this caught me unexpectedly and could not go without comment. Sorry. </li>
<li>I also need to swear less. I am pretty sure earth mothers do not swear like I do. Or in fact most mothers. I have to tell the extra children not to tell their parents what I say within their earshot on an almost daily basis. I live in fear of Cybs clearly saying 'Shit' - it is a surprisingly easy word to say and she hears it so much she might think it is an important word - potentially more important than 'stop' and 'more', her current favourite words. G asked me yesterday if Ducking was a 'bad word' as well as the 'f' word (I think K is to be blamed for this one though - I say Ducking very infrequently.....). Walking home from school pick up I accidentally called an inconsiderate driver a wanker. Loudly. In front of a lot of children, who once again, weren't all mine (in my defence I thought I had only said it in my head). I found myself saying <strike>shouting</strike> to Cybs "I just wanted a "FUCKING" wee" (the swear word was quasi under my breath hence the inverted commas) when she ran after me crying YET AGAIN as I tried to escape for a minute of privacy and relief. This is not how I imagine myself. I want to be a cool, calm, consummate, in control mother, able to bake brownies before breakfast and still sweep up the cheerios and put the dishwasher on before we calmly leave for a slow amble to school all smiles and merriment with absolutely no tears (from me or them) and no swear words shouted loud enough for neighbours to hear through the walls. I am determined I shall achieve such greatness this year.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>To appreciate something from each and every day. Regardless of how crap the day may have been. I get incredibly annoyed by the phrase, 'Live every day like it's your last'. If you lived every day as if it were your last and then live to see tomorrow, and the next day and the next day etc then eventually you will end up very fat, very broke and I should imagine your family will all be incredibly fed up with spending 'quality time' with you. There was an article once about a woman who was suing a hospital for wrongly informing her that she only had months to live. Although relieved when she was told that they had made an error and she was not imminently for it, by that point she had spent all of her life savings and put on three stone (or some such amount) so she was suing them because far from learning a lesson about what was important in life, she awoke the day after being told the good news to realise that she was broke and fat. This gave me comfort. It confirmed to me that you can't run around whooping for joy every day just because you are lucky enough to be alive to see another day or wearing uncomfortable fancy pants matching underwear just in case you get knocked down by a bus. However, it IS important to find something good about your day and be happy about it. Even on a day where you feel hideously fat and it doesn't stop raining all flipping day long so that all three school runs are conducted in the wet and your youngest screams about being in the buggy for the school run because you feel it is only kind to try and protect her from the freezing, driving rain with a rain cover (all toddlers HATE these) and you realise that your coat is 'shower proof' not 'water proof' which is actually what you wanted from it and then you come back to make yet more supper with an angry child around your ankles - even on days such as these it is important to find something to make you smile - I think that is the point and what I am trying to achieve in 2014. </li>
<li>To that end I also want to go out more. January has been full (relatively) of nights out for me and I have enjoyed it far more than I imagined I would. I even stayed out for a whole night! Not out out, obviously, I am not that sort of person, but I went out to celebrate The Replacement's birthday at a fancy pants place in Chelsea and then I stayed overnight with The Magician and the Magician's Wife. It was my first night away from Cybs and it was glorious. I am still relatively fresh from giving up breastfeeding so it did feel incredibly decadent. Especially because it was like staying in a very comfortable hotel with Sky TV, ensuite bathroom and a Ferrero Roche on my bedside table - bliss. It wasn't even tarnished by my early alarm call at 7.15am so that I could get up and return home by 8am in order to ensure the big three could get to swimming. The hangover wasn't particularly pleasant but it was entirely bearable and I was still 'high' from the decadence of the night before. So, now I know that leaving Cybs for the night is possible and we all lived to tell the tale, I shall be attempting it more frequently in 2014 and beyond. In order to truly enjoy going out though, I shall have to adhere to my final bullet point....</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Lose weight. Always. I shall always and forever be in the throws of some weight loss scheme. It doesn't really need to be stated. I am back on track with the 5:2 diet (finally lost 2.5 pounds this week) so I am hopeful that this year will result in me looking a lot better at the end of it than I do at the beginning. It is just jolly slow going. Some days I think I look ok for someone of such girth and then other days/nights I look in the mirror and my soul cries for me as I am sure I look just like White Dee from Benefit Street (albeit with better breastal support). This is not acceptable. I am definitely doing something serious about it this year. </li>
</ul>
And there it is. The end of January THANK flippety jibbets. A less fish-wife-worthy me for 2014, less of the physical me and less of me on each post. Let us all raise a drink to that. Chin Chin. <br />
xxxxxxxx<br />
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<br />Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-67370055668971107512014-01-12T15:19:00.002-08:002014-01-12T15:19:51.717-08:00Happy New YearHELLOOOOO! WELCOME. Welcome to this shiny, brand spanking new year. I do love a fresh new year. And I have been enjoying it all the more since Tuesday when I finally got to offload some children in to the care of others. It was a lovely moment.<br />
<br />
We are already quite far in to the new year but for some reason I have been entirely unable to put finger to keyboard and write eloquently about the Christmas break. I attempted to write many times but gave up each and every time. I think it's because Christmas is pretty much the same for every one and a lot happens but none of it is really noteworthy. However, I am determined to break the writers block and get over the hump so, I am in my spot, K is out, my new fleecy onesie is ON and the TV is OFF so I can concentrate. Let's get this written. <br />
<br />
I hope you all had a wonderful festive break. It seems like a ridiculously long time ago now - I can't believe how long the build up to Christmas is and yet how quickly it is all over. My favourite part of the whole time is seeing the fruits of all my labour - going to bed on Christmas Eve knowing that all the presents are wrapped, present and correct under the tree and knowing I have managed to keep the gifts from being discovered by any child in the lead up to the big day. It is quite a feat with the number of gifts there were this year. I even managed to pack up and drive to Suffolk with all children and
all gifts in the car without the two parties crossing paths. I thought
that was rather clever. The magic of the big FC still remains and
despite many, many, many naysayers who tell her to the contrary, Bea is
still an ardent believer so the stakes are high. There is nothing like the feeling of knowing you have pulled it all off and all they have to do now is open them and be happy. (Although when we have Christmas in London I do spend quite a bit of my pre-sleep time in bed worrying about being burgled because I think I once heard of this happening and the arseholes had stolen all the gifts from under the tree - this thought haunts me and I encourage K to sleep in the chair downstairs until the wee small hours to give me greater piece of mind). When they see their piles is my second favourite - they are so amazed and so happy - Bea and G did their 'happy dance' this year when they came down and saw it all. It does make all the stress and money spent feel worth it. Although the opening of the gifts never lasts as long as I hope it would. Ted opened all of his gifts in a matter of minutes - it was like a frenzied attack on wrapping paper. G was less frenzied but still incredibly enthusiastic so his pile lasted a fraction longer. However Bea was a total pleasure to buy gifts for - she took her time with each and every one and had most of hers left to open long after the boys had moved off and started pointing out what they didn't get (Ted was most put out that FC hadn't read his mind and delivered a cuddly Luigi of Mario Kart fame and G - who had the most of everyone - became a little jealous of Bea's Furby Boom and wondered why he hadn't had one as well - I had expected as much from Ted but G was a surprise - although as I suspected the allure of the boom wore off very quickly and he hasn't once mentioned his lack of furby since).<br />
<br />
So, Christmas was pretty standard fare. Although it never works out
quite how I imagine it will. There was a lot less sleep than I imagined -
Cybs
seemed to find the excitement too much to bear on Christmas Eve and was
awake for around three hours which meant the night was extraordinarily
short but the day itself was extraordinarily long. Lovely, but long. My
gifts weren't quite what I imagined either. K had seemingly forgotten
(he says not but he quite obviously had) that he was meant to be getting
me the replacement to the wrongly gifted DAB radio alarm clock from my
birthday, so in its place I received a series of things I hadn't asked
for. Always a mistake. Most of them will get used (although the Gary
Barlow CD might not) and so are not going to go to waste but none of
them were really what I had in mind. Yet again I now have a voucher for
the beautician's at the end of our road to use up. I had only just
managed to get through the ones from my birthday 15 months ago so I was
surprised to find more waiting for me. All I wanted, and had foolishly
assumed would be waiting for me, was this sodding swanky stereo system
on which to dock my iphone, listen to my CDs
and tune the exciting DAB radio in to BBC 2 and enjoy crystal clear
Chris Evans in the morning and Simon Mayo in the afternoon. I found it
pretty hard to hide my disappointment. I fell short of throwing a full
on Ted tantrum but my frustration at not receiving my longed for gift
twice in a row was pretty evident. <br />
<br />
The biggest surprise of the day was Ted's epic dislike of what I had rather excitedly thought would be his most treasured present. It was a personalised Spiderman book which was dedicated to him and included 'him' (in name only) in the story, helping Spidey with all the crime fighting. K had predicted that he wouldn't like his surname being included (Ted cannot stand, stomach or even entertain the idea that he has a surname or is known as anything other than Ted - obviously a middle name is also totally out of the question - so I did know that this probably wasn't the best idea but I wanted to make it entirely clear that this wasn't a generic spiderman book for all Ted fans but one specifically for him) but I was so excited and sure that he would LOVE it I thought the surname would be a minor issue. It turns out that in fact any part of his name being included was actually a disastrous idea. Ted is a Spiderman purist and was absolutely furious that the book referred to Ted and not Peter Parker. My attempts to interest him in the book led to a bit of a tantrum (one of a number on the big day - I'm not sure being a hyperactive 4 year old gels that well with the excitement and over stimulation of Christmas) and it took quite a while to calm him down. You live and learn. In other successes G was thrilled with his scooter and Skylanders, Cybil loves her kitchen (since we got home where she found it built), Bea LOVED her vintage/old Singer sewing machine - a beautiful manual one - and was totally amazed that Father Christmas had got her one even though she hadn't written it on her list. I was particularly pleased with this find - on the Monday before Christmas on a last minute shopping trip. Just happily waiting for me in the Cancer Charity shop. Having done 95% (roughly) of my Christmas shopping online it was rather nice to get out and about in the 'real' world to source gifts. I was child free as mum had kept all the children to make it less of a chore and mercifully so as it was the busiest I think I have ever known a town centre to be. Nothing is guaranteed to make a fat and clumsy person feel more fat, clumsy and generally cumbersome than attempting to manoeuvre around shops armed with many shopping bags two days before Christmas. I think I said Sorry approximately a million times and only half of it was unwarranted. I must be thinner for next Christmas if only to make it easier to shop and less dangerous for my fellow shoppers. <br />
<br />
Other than that and the incident when Ted was hit in the eye by a Nerf bullet (a very long and emotionally draining debacle ensued) the break was a very lovely, family Christmas. There was a LOT of food. I ate an awful lot of it. My Brother in Law ate more. That was comforting. I also got some great presents (always a bonus) - Shiny Life sister made me some rather beautiful Liberty print cushions (she is annoyingly talented as well as shiny), mum gave me a gorgeous handbag and the scarf Keith gave me turned out to be rather pretty and useful so all in all I was happy. We also had a very enjoyable day with K's family where we got to eat even more and open even more presents which does help to elongate the fun. My favourite gift from that day was my fleecy onesie. It is fabulous. Although according to those close to me (mum and K) it shouldn't be worn in the company of others as I look terrible in it, but this worries me not - it is magnificently comfy and like wearing a slanket (another favourite gift from many moons ago) and luckily enough I don't have to look at me wearing it so it isn't going anywhere soon. <br />
<br />
After the festivities in Essex with K's family, Shiny Life sister left and Kent Sister joined in the fun at mum's (Cupcake Sister had visited on Christmas Eve with her brood so it was a very family Christmas this year). We got in to the swing of keeping our pyjamas on until lunch, watched films, played with toys and avoided the persistent rain outside. G got an ear infection (standard) and K spent two hours waiting with him at the out of hours surgery for penicillin. K departed for the silence and solitude of London shortly afterwards with his brand spanking new Chimenea (my fabulous Christmas gift to him which he was remarkably underwhelmed with at the time and has taken the piss out of many times since but actually turns out to be totally fabulous - many happy hours have been spent in the garden burning stuff and roasting marshmallows with the children since our return). My sister and I ventured to the cinema with the children to see Frozen - the BEST Disney film for many years and a huge hit in our house. I have downloaded the album which is epic and I am going to spend the year getting all the costumes together for the children to wear in next year's Christmas card. I am just waiting for some spare cash so that I can go crazy in the Disney store. That, Gangsta Granny and Death Comes to Pemberley were my screen highlights of the holidays.<br />
<br />
And that brings me on to New Year - a thrilling, once in a lifetime fun factory of fabulousness naturally. K and I couldn't really be bothered to drive to either of our locations in order to be together so we spent the night apart - him at home alone and me at mum's alone after she went to bed at 8.30 leaving me with the laptop (I tried to write to you then but it was crap) and Midsomer Murders (a repeat which I realised I had seen a couple of times before once it got to the end). It was rocking. I have decided that next year I am going to open a child hostel and make some money out of NYE. Parents can pay £20 a head (discount for multiples) plus a bottle of nice booze to drop their children here for the evening for a great big slumber party. As they are not my children I won't really care what they get up to so they can spend the evening watching films and eating crap until their parents return to collect. I shall most likely lock myself in my bedroom with headphones. I'm pretty sure I am a GENIUS. <br />
<br />
And that brings us back to the brand spanking and shiny new year. I love the new year and January. I am so relieved Christmas is all over and safely done and dusted and that this joyous month contains no reason whatsoever for me to buy any toys or presents of any kind for any member of this family. I LOVE it. And it just gets better and better as I can officially announce that Cybil had just completed 5 days NOT breastfeeding. WAHOOOOOOO. Enough is enough and 17 months in I have given up trying to encourage her to move straight from the boob to the cup and have instead allowed her to regress to a bottle as I am so very keen to have a little detachment from her. The big transition started over the holidays whilst we were staying with mum who very kindly moved Cybil's cot in to her room so that I could get some sleep and finally culminated in me watching in shocked awe as she accepted a bottle of warm milk at bed time. The relief was immense. Although I didn't realise at the time that that was going to be my last ever breastfeed and I must admit to feeling a tad emotional since. Not emotional enough to give in to her still daily demands for me to whip them out though. I am resolute. No more boob. <br />
<br />
The New Year is looking rather rosie actually. Not only are my breasts my own once again but last night K and I even went OUT. I know, big stuff. I believe nowadays the 'youth' refer to it as a 'date night' but when I was young and mum and dad used to go out we called it 'mum and dad going out'. Whatever it is known as it was a stunning way to start the new year - we failed to celebrate much last year due to Cybil and her lack of sleeping prowess so this was long overdue. I have already had my hair done, attended a 40th Birthday Party for the Magician, I have another night out planned next week for The Replacement's birthday and this half term is also incredibly short so it's only a month before we get another week of lying around in pyjamas all day - so, all in all 2014 has started off very nicely indeed. No doubt there will be many ups and downs to the rest of the year but I am very pleased to have welcomed it so happily so far. The only fly in my ointment is a rather unattractive weight gain from my prolific Christmas eating. I have only missed one fast day over the last three weeks but have managed a decent four pound gain. I have decided not to panic and am attempting to wean myself off chocolate and overeating gradually. There is no hurry.<br />
<br />
So. There you have it. A pretty bog standard one for us - gifts, food, family and festivities. I'm not sure how long my happiness with 2014 will last but I really hope we will at least get through January. All that remains to be said is Happy New Year. xxxAliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-19726947685865652282013-12-18T14:56:00.001-08:002013-12-18T15:05:52.130-08:00All I want for ChristmasSurprise! It turns out that if you ignore the ironing pile, the dirty washing and the present pile that needs wrapping then there is more than enough time to pop on here and write. Sadly the keyboard is very sticky thanks to Cybs who has smeared God knows what all over it but I shall persevere regardless, such is my desire to share. <br />
<br />
Picture me if you will, wrapped up in blankets on my new spot, storm raging outside, beautifully decorated Christmas tree in front of me, stockings hung by the chimney with care, delicious red wine to hand (courtesy of mum obvs - we only buy cheap shit), laptop on lap, two remotes to the side (Cybs has managed to lose our skyplus remote which means we have had to 'make do and mend' with the old sky remote and the TV one for volume - I imagine this was a common post war issue...) and I am surrounded by the scent of overwhelming tea tree oil emanating from my hair which is smothered in a hearty dose of nit treatment. K is out the lucky swine so he isn't suffering. Far from it.<br />
<br />
He left me, all suited and booted, to spend the evening being wined and dined in Mayfair. Admittedly it is for his Work Christmas Do and it wasn't like he had a choice, but still, the polar opposites of our evenings was a little stark. I was scraping a comb through Bea's hair with Cybs emptying out all the cupboards by my feet, Ted was requiring a bottom wipe on one loo and G needed to 'go' on another next to us just as K bid me a jolly goodbye. He was off to enjoy the Michelin star rated food and views from the 'Windows' restaurant on Park Lane - I was to finish scraping nits out of hair, wipe bottoms, wash all hairs, treat my own hair, eat a cold beef burger leftover from the children's tea and clear up all the crap from the day. I know one mustn't grumble but seriously - as he was busy enjoying pre-dinner drinks in Dulwich I was desperately trying to convince the boys to let me scrape their hair too. Mercifully they have short hair so it took mere minutes to actually comb, unlike the half an hour for Bea but rather crucially, she is a far more willing victim and needs less cajoling and consoling so it ended up taking about the same amount of time in the end. I managed the task and was beginning to brighten as they showed no signs of infection, when I turned round to see that Cybs had helpfully left a few deposits on the bathroom floor and mat. Sigh. I am more than used to shovelling shit but it just seems a tad less appealing when I know K is out enjoying himself in such style.<br />
<br />
This morning I did the school run and ran a number of errands before returning home and finally looking in the mirror (I had eschewed my normal make up application in favour of getting to school on time. I am a saint) where I discovered a smear of Nutella left on my jawline courtesy of Cybs. I hope it was obviously Nutella and no one thought I had left the house with poo smeared on my face but who knows. Sometimes I find dubious stains on my clothing and to be honest I am never a hundred percent sure whether it is nutella or poo. Cybs fondness for malt loaf has caused a number of false alarms in the house as well - she has a tendency to walk around with it hidden in her fist so I don't notice until I am asked by another child or adult to investigate a suspicious smear. These are the times when I think going to work really is the better option. That and when I derive an unhealthy level of pleasure at successfully pairing up socks I had previously assumed unpairable. I ALMOST wrote a blog post about the fact that I had only a few odd socks left in my odd sock bag. Thank goodness I thought better of it. Although it would have meant all the working mothers could have slept soundly, safe in the knowledge that they would never, ever be that dull. <br />
<br />
Is it wrong that as I look out of the window and see the pouring, driving rain I think that at least K's views will be obscured and he won't get the full benefit of the amazing vista? That is so mean. Even I feel bad thinking that. But then he isn't sitting there looking at the rain with nit cream on his head, so, it could be worse. I shouldn't be so mean hearted. I did have my Christmas 'do' with the local mums on Saturday when we went to Fortnum's for a slap up afternoon tea. I left K with the children and a screaming Cybs (she was very tired and very pissed off - although she has warmed to K considerably recently - it wasn't enough for him to be acceptable in those circumstances) and I trotted off to central London to gaze in awe at the lights and huge Christmas trees and eat incredibly expensive sandwiches and scones. Upsettingly the cake part of the tea was not that great but we more than made up for it with our constant requests for sandwich replenishment. It was a lovely afternoon and I made it home in time for the children's bed time so I still got to enjoy the X factor final which in retrospect made the afternoon even more enjoyable.<br />
<br />
I EVEN managed to pop in to a new huge Cath Kidston shop on the way back to the tube. It was more of a visual pleasure than a shopping one as my bank balance is now frighteningly tiny, but I managed to get some pleasing stocking fillers for Bea and a birthday present for her friend so I experienced a small frisson of excitement. I have done so well this year on the present front - even if I do say so myself. Yesterday I got all the children's presents out and put them in piles and I am thrilled with what I have achieved so far. (The Internet really has revolutionised Christmas shopping. My life would be hell if I had to spend the month preceding Christmas trudging around the shops - especially if my trip in to 'London proper' at the weekend was anything to go by. Hideous.) Even their stockings are brilliant. I really have excelled myself this year. Cybs has the most beautiful little wooden kitchen which I am thrilled with - who knows what she will think of it. There is an hilarious viral blog post doing the rounds at the moment which is a 'letter' from a 10 month old baby to Father Christmas about what he really wants for Christmas. It lists the hilarious things babies find fun to play with in place of the expensive, 'educational' toys their parents have lavished them with e.g. computer cables, iphones etc. I could go one better for Cybs. Ideally, under the tree this Christmas, Cybs would like to find a block of knives, a pack of dishwasher tablets, a box of tea bags and a pack of sanitary towels. Quite often throughout the day you will hear me say very firmly 'Cybs, put the Knife DOWN' - she is excellent at handling them but I still worry. It wouldn't take much for it to all go horribly wrong. Especially with some of the bigger ones. She loves to pull them out of the dishwasher whilst I'm emptying it or to pull them straight out of the knife block and then she likes to put them in the block of butter and attempt to eat from it. Ideally I would put her out of the way of the knives or the knives out of her way, but the problem is she spends an awful lot of her time following me around in the kitchen and knives are an inevitable part of that environment. I am hoping that eventually she will get the message if I just keep reiterating my firm denials of their toy-ness. I do try to stop her getting at them - I don't keep them on the worktop where she can climb up by herself - I mean I am vaguely safety conscious.<br />
<br />
The worktop she can get up to has the kettle and the teabags etc on it and I recently walked in to the kitchen to find her sitting next to the kettle, with it on and boiling, a mug in her hand and an annoyed look on her face that I had discovered her. She is a huge fan of tea. It is almost impossible to have a cup of tea in her presence without her demanding some. So, having observed me make a number of cups of the stuff, she was clearly planning to help herself from hence forth rather than waiting for me to make it. She also loves moving tea bags from one mug to another and pouring water on to them and in particular pulling them apart so the little bits of tea go flipping everywhere. The dishwasher tablets are more understandable I suppose. They come in pleasingly bright colours, they are brick shaped and there are lots of them. They are terrific fun to empty out all over the floor and to put in the dishwasher before turning it on, 'just like mummy' - that and the teabags are understandable. The knives are shiny I guess, which could make them appealing BUT I have struggled to find the appeal of the sanitary towels. I have had to put them all out of reach as she cannot resist. I suppose it is like a mini gift to her - they all come wrapped up and contain a large 'sticker' toy inside. She is a big fan of sticking them to things. Or using them as nappies on her dolls. It is something I really wish she wouldn't enjoy playing with - I hope people don't judge but there must be times that I have missed a rogue one and rather than saying anything, people have assumed that I have left a used sanitary towel in the playroom or in her bedroom - it is an almost unbearable thought. Urgh. K is not mad keen either. Hopefully you will remember his total aversion to anything related to 'feminine hygiene' or the 'P' word and to see his baby merrily walking around using them as toys really turns his stomach. Not as much as the new advert for a product to help women who sweat in their 'intimate' area though. I am surprised he even lets the commercial channels on to the tv now that that is in circulation. Even I was surprised by that one though. Who knew you could get a deodorant for 'down there'. I am on the edge of my seat to see what they will come up with next to sell to poor unsuspecting women. One assumes that men also sweat in their 'intimate' area but they are unlikely to have an advert extolling the virtues of a specialist deodorant made by a stupidly named company like Penisil or somesuch to ease their problem......<br />
<br />
Anyhoo, moving swiftly on. I have managed to view all three nativities/carol songs/curriculum assemblies with huge success. I even sat at the very front for Ted's show which is a first and meant Cybs had a clear view of the action so she sat still for almost all of it. Until the end anyway, when she could wait no longer and attempted to join in with the final carol. Bea's was a bit more hectic as Ted was off sick after an asthma attack and a high temperature so I had to look after him and Cybs whilst trying to film/watch Bea say her bit. She also did a short mime to illustrate the narrative and even had her Christmas card flash up on a huge screen behind the stage which was all very exciting. I knew it was her card instantly - not only because of her distinctive drawing style but because hers was the only card wishing the recipient a 'Marry Chritmas'. Yet another advantage of having a dyslexic daughter - their work is far easier to recognise. G's was eventful because it took place on a Monday morning and he HATES Mondays so it took an awful lot of patience and persuasion to get him there and through the doors and I was quite convinced that he wouldn't open his mouth to sing a word. As there was only one performance of the carol concert - approximately 300 people tried to cram in to half of a small hall to watch, which made it all a little stressful but mercifully I was lucky enough to have dumped Cybs on a friend in the playground and I got a chair in the fourth row so I had a great view of G - who SANG. And did the actions. I was amazed. So there you are - every single one has been ill, three have performed in various stage performances, Cybs has attended a playgroup Christmas party dressed as Mrs Claus and we have ALL been to the doctors or dentist in a flurry of appointments over the last fortnight and I have remained resolutely ill with a cough and cold that won't go away for nearly three weeks now. I am hoping that this will have it all firmly out of the way before the big day itself. I know that at least we will definitely be nit free. Although I have given up all hope that I shall ever regain full sinus and lung function ever again. But I at least feel less 'ill' which I will happily accept until the sun comes back out and I can feel properly 'well' again.<br />
<br />
I must bid you goodnight now. I have finished the chocolates off and I need to rinse the nit crap out of my hair before I can crawl in to bed. Have a WONDERFUL Christmas and I shall no doubt be in touch before the New Year to thrill you with our Suffolk/Essex festive extravaganza and fill you with open mouthed awe at the amount I have managed to consume. My fasting diet has resulted in a loss of a stone (minus a pound) however I fear my Christmas Consumption will wipe most of that out. Although the food will be entirely worth it so I shan't complain.<br />
<br />
Let's hope K hasn't got me another pair of slippers for my collection or some nit shampoo and the children don't see any of their gifts on the drive down to Suffolk. As Ted would say - We Wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New York!<br />
<br />
Joyeux noel toutes les monde! <br />
<br />
<br />Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-78206589549012519922013-12-08T14:35:00.003-08:002013-12-08T14:36:25.771-08:00Dino Snores and Exotic CarrotsHi. You are in it for the long haul so don't think of going anywhere. I have to stay up until midnight so I am just going to write my way through it. I am full of nervous energy and there is an awful lot to catch up on so I apologise in advance for the length and waffling nature of this post - I had promised a friend that I would keep my paragraphs short and Shiny Life Sister has often requested shorter posts for ease of reading but I'm sorry - if I am staying up late then you are keeping me company and I am too tired to worry about brevity.<br />
<br />
It is eerily quiet in the house as well as extremely messy and I only have X factor to keep me company. Even Ted found it weird - he kept freaking out in the bath because it was too quiet and kept whispering to himself about how he wished 'Daddy, Bea and George were here'. In fact he became so upset by the quiet that he kept crying if I spoke without warning as it 'scared him'. To be honest it began to freak me out in the end so we got out of the bath, got in to my bed and put the telly on to give him a comforting and reassuring background noise. He has had to go to sleep in my bed too - with me staying with him, as he couldn't face being in the 'dorm' room alone. I fear he will grow up never being able to be alone.....<br />
<br />
So, on to why we are all freaked out by the silence. Bea, G and K are all staying overnight at the Natural History Museum for G's belated birthday party. When I first decided on letting him join a 'Dino Snore' event in place of a proper party I paid scant attention to finding out all the fine details. All I heard was - dinosaurs, sleepover and Natural History Museum. I thought 'Fab'. I found it online, realised it was almost the same price as a party (ish) and quickly went about encouraging my friend to book it for her son's birthday as well (a friend of G's and the same age so helpful for splitting the cost) as you had to have at least five children all of over 7 years old in order to book. She agreed and wheels were put in motion. However, just as I was about to sign on the dotted line back in July, my lovely friend, Cybil's Godmother, took the time to read all the information and it emerged that the sleepover began at 7pm (when I would normally be putting the children to bed), it went on until midnight (neither child has ever stayed up to midnight) and girls were not allowed to sleep with the boys or male adults (even if that adult was their father) and so Bea would require her own female adult companion. At this point the worry set in. The long suffering and splendid Replacement was quickly roped in to stay with Bea which solved one problem but from the moment I booked the tickets I have worried about how on earth we were going to keep the children awake to enjoy this rather immense event. My children are not like others I hear about - those children who can be taken out for evening meals and sit there happily until you are ready to leave; can stay up on New Year's Eve and then walk home in the wee small hours; can attend weddings and hog the dance floor until the bitter end - these are mythical creatures to me. My children need to sleep. They are hideous creatures without it. Not only do they start crying at about 9pm (we did try one New Year's Eve - unlikely to do it again for a while) or tantruming spectacularly - but even if you do manage to get them to 10pm (I did manage with the big three for their Uncle's wedding) putting them to bed late does not mean that they just wake up later the following day - it means that they wake up at the same early time, but spend every waking moment arguing, crying or throwing epic tantrums and the whole day feels like an endurance test.<br />
<br />
After much worrying I decided that I would finally let them have diet coke to drink - they have been desperate to have one and keep trying to sneak a sip of mine, so this seemed a great way to inject them with sufficient caffeine in order to make it through to the literal middle of the night. I have packed them off with a bottle each, and lots of sweets and chocolates after seeing the effects it had on the girls at Bea's sleepover (although again, she was asleep by 9.30 on that occasion.....). People have assured me that the fun of it all and the adrenalin will keep them going to midnight and beyond but I am not so sure - they have had all the fun of the school Christmas Fair this afternoon and they have both had days off school with illness this week - it isn't a promising start.<br />
<br />
We got back so late from the fair (I couldn't find Bea who, it turns out, was happily having her hair styled - to great effect - but I wasn't even aware that there was a hairdressing station so I didn't look there for half an hour) that I only had time to pack the picnic and make sure everyone had their sleeping bags, pants and diet coke, before it was time for them to rush back out of the door. So not only am I worrying over whether they will manage to stay awake I am also beginning to panic that they will faint with hunger before they reach the time allotted for eating. I also want G to enjoy his birthday treat; it was a lot of money and quite a bit of effort to organise so I am very keen that it should be a success. I have already found out that as they were queueing to get in to the museum they realised that G had left his sleeping bag on the train - so either he or K will be pretty chilly tonight as I can't imagine it is the warmest of places and the only thing between them and the floor is a thin camping mat. So. That is why I am here, full of nervous energy, pouncing on the phone with every text or email for any updates, and why Ted was freaking out about the silence surrounding us when we were in the bath. I am intending to stay up until midnight to ensure that they are both happy and well and my money was well spent before I can sleep. <br />
<br />
In other news I have a great big announcement - I am sitting somewhere entirely new! I know. I am now positioned in the corner of the living room on MY NEW SOFA!! We can finally all fit on one sofa with space to spare with our new giant L shaped beast of new sitting-furniture. I am on the chaise longue part which is my new 'spot'. It is ideally positioned for the TV, the window, the arm for putting drinks on and now for blog writing. It has caused huge levels of excitement with me and the children. Although if I were to split hairs I would say that our new sofa glut (four in two rooms) is making me anxious. We could now comfortably seat around 25 people should they all turn up unannounced, however there isn't enough floor space to swing a cat (I know this for a fact as Cybs and Ted try on a regular basis). I decided to be charitable and donate the two surplus sofas to the British Heart Foundation but I am waiting for them to come and collect and have so far missed the calls to finalise the details. What with the arrival of our huge (magnificent) Christmas tree today as well, the living room is feeling a little over full and therefore my sofa is not fully able to shine and bask in its true glory.<br />
<br />
I built the sofa - it being from Ikea it came in a lot of boxes - (pleasingly so for the children obviously - they built a mini homeless city in their bedroom and then insisted on sleeping in it in sleeping bags with varied success) and it took most of an afternoon, hindered as I was by two small children and a school run. However I was thrilled by my hands on brilliance and informed my mother on our subsequent phone call. She immediately told me I was a fool and should have waited for K to return and build it (I momentarily assumed it was because she was concerned that I already had so much on my plate that this was the last thing I needed but no....) because he was a man and therefore so much stronger than me he would have been able to tighten all the bolts much better and therefore it is unlikely to last as long. You can just never anticipate what she will say. So far so good though. It has stayed together nicely for the last three days. I shall keep you posted. I suspect that the staining and general wear and tear from the children will do for the sofa far before my screwing ability effects it stability. (Ha Ha - I said screwing ability - this has tickled my funny bone greatly. Potentially I need to go to bed.)<br />
<br />
More news: As soon as I finished the last post - the loo blocked. Clearly Karma thought me moaning about my poo quota required immediate attention and therefore decided to up the ante. It may not have been Karma's fault though. There is a small chance it was actually mine. When it was my turn to empty the cat litter I had decided (wisely I thought) to put the little deposits straight in to the loo. It seemed a very effective way to deal with it and better for the environment than using plastic bags. This was all fine at the start when we had the fancy pants cat litter that seemed to dissolve in water but then we bought normal stuff which clumps, and although I was careful not to put too much in along with the poo deposits, clearly I was not careful enough and it managed to clump together to make a big enough lump that it blocked the pipe. I assume. K, whose misfortune it was to unblock it, didn't mention the cat litter but he wasn't keen to go in to the true horror of it all and I didn't want to push for details just in case it was my fault. Although now I dispose of all deposits in nappy sacks along with Cybil's dirty nappies. The loo has not blocked since. Who knows what it was......<br />
<br />
In other news, K has also turned 35. He had a lovely birthday with gifts and everything. Coming at the end of November and at the end of all the family birthdays, he does tend to suffer. But we managed to scrape together enough to make him feel special. He got a fancy pants pair of hummer trainers to keep him 'down with the kids' and just like the boys with their high top trainers; Bea decorated a shoe box with pictures and wrapping paper and labelled it 'Daddy's Tuck Box' which we filled to bursting with all his favourite chocolate and crisp treats; the same great cake baker who made my cake whipped up a Guinness cake and finally but most importantly, Blonde Bombshell had us over for a slap up steak meal in the evening. It was the best a man, who had the misfortune to be born a few days before payday, could have hoped for.<br />
<br />
We also got to go out a few days later. Events Organiser had arranged a large local Christmas dinner celebration at a great local restaurant and loads of our friends were going. I had been looking forward to it for months but sadly I had been ill since K's birthday and I was so full of ill and cold I was in a really bad mood and terrifically bad company. The only reason I went and didn't cry off was because there was salted caramel cheesecake for pudding (we had had to pre-order our menu) and nothing could keep me away from tasting it. I suspect both K, the lovely Blonde Bombshell and her husband all wish I had imagined what it tasted like instead and stayed in bed. Eventually I ran away (literally, to escape them trying to make me take a minicab) at 11.30 and caught a train home. (Only one stop and happily completely free! The ticket machine was locked up and the gates were open. Oddly, this fact made me feel a lot better and I was quite chipper by the time I got home. Although it could also have been because I had eaten the salted caramel cheesecake and was just about to get back in to my pyjamas and bed. All of my favourite things).<br />
<br />
More news: It appears that Bea has inherited my genius for getting lyrics terrifically wrong. My Macy Gray 'I Try' mistake still makes me laugh out loud if I ever hear it on the radio. (In case you missed it I thought she sang, 'I walk cobbles when you are not near' instead of 'My world crumbles when you are not near' - I think it is a pretty easy mistake to make and I was at University in Exeter at the time where there was a cobbled road around the Cathedral which was terrifically difficult to walk over if one was wearing high heels). Bea has taken my baton and run with it. This week as she was getting in to the bath she was singing Michael Jackson's, Thriller. Instead of 'you start to freeze, As horror looks you right between the eyes, you're paralysed', Bea managed to invent the words "I got the goods, now nothing in this room will be exotic. Exotic.' Instead of 'Thriller, thriller nights' she was belting out 'Street lights, street liiiiights.' It is surprisingly catchy though and after the initial hysteria at her dancing around to the words 'Exotic, exotic' in the nude (slightly worrying but it also transpires that she had no idea what Exotic meant) I have found myself singing her version an awful lot. Potentially she has a future as a lyricist.<br />
<br />
And finally - I have wanted to ask someone this for ages - why do they use bananas for condom lessons? Surely carrots are a far better substitute? I think this every time I peel a carrot. They come in all shapes and sizes - some of the carrots I get are enormous but many of them are average penis sized. I have never encountered a male member shaped like a banana - I can't understand who came up with the idea originally - unless carrots used to be very different when the whole sex-education thing began and potentially bananas were smaller and less curved. If anyone teaches teenagers about condoms and how to apply them please could I recommend a bag of organic carrots from Tesco. They are far better for your purpose. <br />
<br />
- Interval -<br />
<br />
NEWSFLASH - they survived! After I wrote about the carrots I felt it best for everyone that I went to bed. I managed to keep one eye open long enough to see a picture of a sleeping G and receive a reassuring text from the Replacement before I passed out. For about ten minutes as it turns out as Cybs then woke up with YET ANOTHER COUGH. I didn't bore you with it last night but we have been the house of ill for a fortnight now and I am really VERY, VERY, VERY OVER illness. Not that that matters - what matters is that by some miracle both children were persuaded through to 11.30pm (when they were allowed to lie down)! K had to carry Bea around for the last hour and G was very keen to sleep from 10pm BUT they made it. The reports are all glowing and I am so happy and relieved that it all worked out. They arrived home jolly tired and a sleeping bag down but they had hand drawn t-shirts, pictures of G and his friend holding a great big horrible snake, Certificates and lots of tales of the amazing time had by all. They slept next to the skeleton of a Diplodocus (always makes me think of One of Our Dinosaurs are Missing which is one of the top ten British films ever made and a huge favourite of mine) and managed to sleep through all the noise and disruption of a large hall full of 450 adults and children - G was asleep within minutes of getting in to 'his' bag even before the lights were switched off at midnight and Bea managed to sleep not long after. K did not fair so well on the sleep front. Deprived of warmth (he did obviously donate his sleeping bag to his dozy twit of a son) and comfort, he lay there being kicked on the feet as people stumbled past to get to the loos, listening to a man snore very loudly, getting irritated at badly behaved and very noisy older children and then apparently at least once an hour a man farted so loudly and stinkily that it was impossible to sleep through it. I didn't think he was going to get much sleep ( I was exceedingly grateful to Cybs for still being on the boob so that I couldn't go) but I didn't think he was going to suffer that badly and I did feel for him a bit. He did enjoy an awful lot of it though, especially the fab lecture they were given and watching how much the children loved it. All in all it was a major success and I am chuffed. It was definitely worth all the worry and I would heartily recommend it to anyone - as long as you don't have to be the one who goes along..... The Replacement assures me that she also really enjoyed it and that it was a pleasure - which I hope is true - potentially she didn't hear or smell the farting man as keenly as K did.......<br />
<br />
So, now that we can all rest easy I shall leave you to it. I must get on as I have MUCH to do before Christmas Day. I have a list on Amazon that needs ordering and Minions to pick up at various Argos stores around London, three nativity/carol singing/curriculum assemblies to attend and I also need to sort out the sofas. I am struggling not to go a bit loopy at the lack of space we are currently suffering with. I am hardly the tidy type but even I can't cope with this level of mess. If it doesn't get sorted soon I shall pull them out on to the pavement myself and hope the council remove them due to complaints from the neighbours. I can order my Amazon list on Wednesday which I am incredibly excited about. The children are going to be very spoilt yet again by the generous and bountiful Father Christmas. Ted is expecting a lot. Two recent trips to see the big FC have left him less than impressed - he declared that he didn't like the face of the first one - to his face and has since referred to the time he saw the 'not real Father Christmas' (he was so unlike the traditional version of FC I was totally with Ted on this one) and then at the Christmas Fair yesterday he walked in to the grotto and said straight away - 'This isn't the real one either'. And NEITHER sodding man gave him a spider as a gift which has made him quite cross. I need to restore the big man's reputation. Ted has high expectations and I can't disappoint.<br />
<br />
(Also, did you notice? I managed to go back over it today and make my paragraphs shorter. I hope this has aided your reading pleasure and you appreciate the effort. ) <br />
<br />
If I do not get back in touch before the 25th then Happy Christmas to you! Have as good a time as it is possible to have and eat, drink and be merry, for in no time at all it will be January.<br />
<br />
Good night, silent night and make sure nothing in your room is exotic. :-) xxxxxxxxxxAliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-82529574756417974272013-11-19T15:08:00.000-08:002013-11-19T15:08:19.995-08:00Excitingly mid 30sHello and good evening. England are playing football again so I have the evening to myself to catch you up on all the happenings. A lot has occurred in a short space of time - I have turned 35, I have become lodged in a multi storey car park, adopted a kitten and most importantly, I have new boots.<br />
<br />
So,
shortly after I left you K arrived home one evening with a surprise. A little black kitten which would go on to be named Charlie The
Spider (Ted can think of little else than spiders and was pretty insistent that Spider should be his only name but the other children objected heartily to calling something so cute such an un-cute name so a compromise was met). His cuteness is in no question but he does actually need quite a lot of looking after which I am less than thrilled about. Particularly as his arrival now brings my poo quota up to a new high with the frequent emptying of his litter tray. Even with only one child in
nappies, you would be surprised how much of the stuff I have to deal with on a
daily basis and from the most surprising of sources. Aside from the
rancid nappies from the baby who eats everything and anything and the
kitten who does the same (I must investigate what they can actually eat -
he is quite obsessed with melon and the milk from their cereal but is happy to try soy sauce, curry and spag bol - I am unsure if this is dangerous/normal?) I am also chief bottom wiper to Ted
who refuses to wipe his own bottom which means that wherever I am in the
house (even in bed trying to sleep) if I hear the plaintive and
repetitive 'muuuuuuuuum' I have to hurry to find him in either of the
loos where he will be naked from the waist down and facing the wall in
what I have named the 'prison search pose'. He is so against having
anything to do with the business end of proceedings he closes his eyes
and rests them on his hands against the wall and will only open them once he has ascertained that I have
'finished'. No one is allowed to see
what goes on preceding my role in matters - there is a strict privacy
role to Ted's lavatorial habits. He refuses to allow anything to happen until
the door is closed and he's definitely alone. He told Cybil's lovely Godmother on a recent
sleepover that she best close the door and 'give him 5 minutes' which is far more polite
than I ever get - should I ever be attempting to use the
bathroom/utility room at the time he needs it, I am yelled at to get out. 'Now'. Other than
this, I also get the daily 'oops I forgot to flush' moment when I walk in and
discover an horrific gift from the previous tenant. Now, I am sympathetic
when it comes to the 7 and 8 times tables, spelling 'accommodation' and
all the 'there' options, I am exceedingly understanding when it comes to not
realising where countries are in the world (I could hardly comment after
placing Vietnam in the wrong continent for two decades) however,
flushing the loo is so simple some cats and dogs have mastered the art.
Ted is so keen on flushing that the ritual has to be performed before I
am permitted to enter and he has only recently turned 4 - which begs the
question - WHY WHY WHY do the older ones not have it sorted yet? I
don't mind (I do actually) having to clean the loo every day because
other people are too little/don't feel it's their job (it is) but not
even making it to the flushing process is beyond lazy. I shout very
loudly every time I make a new grizzly discovery but to no avail. Just
as Cybs will no doubt be breast feeding until she hits puberty I am quite sure
that G's girlfriend will be calling me up in 20 years and asking why I never thought to
fully toilet train him. (Bea is less forgetful but it does happen,
although girls get to an age where everything is so mortifyingly
embarrassing that I am hoping there is no chance of her getting past
13 and still not mastering the art). Extra poo quota aside, Charlie The Spider (hereonin known as CTS) makes an
excellent addition to our family. After initial shyness he decided to
become part of the pack after 24 hours, when the children devoted their
after school time to 'training' him and coaxing him out from under the
playroom sofa. Cybs is now very adept at picking him up and throwing him
before pointing her finger and yelling (my new daily routine requires
me to remove him from the work tops/table tops/beds/pillows/children's
faces about a million times before shouting at him in what I hope is a
scary arsed manner - so far he seems terrifically unafraid); George has
decided to channel all the animal husbandry expertise he has gleaned over the last few years, in
to caring for the cat and is constantly picking him up for a cuddle or more
'training'; Bea is acting like he is her new baby and as well as lavishing attention on to him has devoted much memory space on her ipad to cute pictures and films of him; Ted is happy to have found
something more energetic and naughty than he is and is most pleased that he even loves Spiderman. A friend bought Ted a knitted spiderman finger puppet which
was very lovely for Ted, but he only had it for a day before CTS decided
it was a mouse substitute and runs from one end of the house to the
other chasing it and jumping around catching it and biting it. I am most
hopeful that he will be an excellent rodent deterrent (the main factor
behind his purchase) - whilst he may not be much cop in a ring with a
rat quite yet, they will hopefully not know he is only a baby from his smell and will
therefore stay away on the off chance. Mice, which I now view as an almost welcome
alternative to rats, should be very afraid as I am pretty sure he would
decapitate them on sight even at his tender age. <br />
<br />
Anyhoo, on to brighter things. Let me
explain the car park. I must add that although I am quite large as
normal-sized people go, I am not quite American-fat sized so I am
unlikely to physically get trapped in a multi-storey carpark in any
capacity - it was in fact my car. Ever since Cybs was born and we went away on holiday we have been borrowing a roof box from K's brother and as it is quite useful every time I go to mum's, we have left it on. The car is already quite tall as it is one of those seven seater people carriers and with the roof racks and roof box added on to that it makes us the height of a van. I give the height of my car such little thought on a yearly basis that none of this has ever bothered me. It was exceedingly tight in the Bromley car park when I visited in October so i gave it a bit of thought then, but it did fit and I managed to exit sans incident. Lewisham is a different story. Whilst G was at a party last weekend, I had promised Kent Sister that I would journey in to Lewisham (a task not performed for many years) and procure the last Flutterbye Flying Fairy doll on sale in what appeared to be the whole of the UK. With no children on board and a whole hour to achieve my task, I was quite looking forward to the fun and larks I may get up to in a town centre full of shops. My excitement ended as I exited the one way street and went up the one way ramp and discovered at the top of the ramp, was a low hanging sign warning me of a low ceiling height in the car park. It was then that I casually pondered what height my mini-bus-sized car with roof box might be. It was mere seconds as it turned out, as I then hit the said sign and ascertained that the car was too tall. At this point there was nothing I could do as there were cars behind me and so, hoping for the best, I ventured further in and collected my ticket from the machine. My trepidation grew as I looked forward and saw that this car park did indeed have the lowest ceiling height I had ever seen, ever and I panicked. I drove slowly forward and realised that as I did so I was making a loud scraping sound. Once through the barrier I truly panicked and decided to attempt a U turn. I have no idea why - there was nowhere I could go. The cars trying to come through the barriers were now beeping at me and getting pretty irate. I decided to abandon the U turn and continue further in to the too small car park. This was an error. I scraped loudly up the first ramp and turned on to the first level. This was slightly better and I had about an inch clearance overhead. I pulled over where I could and panic dialled K. "Helpful" people pulled up beside me and "helpfully" pointed to my roof box. I wound down the window. They did too. They said, "It's your roof box". It's at times like these I wish I wasn't British and I could respond "no shit Sherlock - did you think I was such an idiotic woman that I might think my inability to advance forward freely might be something to do with the gear box?????". Alas I am British so I said - "yes I know!" (apologetically obviously for causing them this momentary delay) - "I don't know how to get it off - any ideas?" They replied no, wished me good luck and drove off - being unencumbered as they were, by a giant vehicle. K failed to answer the phone for quite some time as he was, as it turned out later, dealing with Cybs. The time I spent sitting and waiting for him to answer allowed me to survey the lay of the land and I realised that I could just about scrape through the car park as long as I avoided the strip lighting which was affixed to the beams and reduced clearance by a good three inches. I slowly advanced forward skillfully avoiding the lights and as a car exited their space I attempted to get in to it, going in at a peculiar angle to avoid yet another flipping light. K called. I spoke to him. He had no idea how I could remove the box without tools. He said to rip the lid off. I thought that was genius. Until I realised that I couldn't even open the box as you need space above it in order to allow the hinge to serve a purpose. Defeated, I abandoned the car parked at a peculiar angle in its space and went in search of the fricking fluttering fairy. I felt sick the entire time but managed to achieve my task and return back to the scene of devastation. As I tried to drive away more "helpful" people pointed to my box. Again, I asked if they could help. Again they could not. There was only one thing to do. G needed collecting and I was becoming panicky at the idea of spending the night in Lewisham multi storey car park. I was going to just keep going regardless of damage to box or car park. So I did. Although I had to first negotiate the ramp on to the next level to get to the freedom of the car park exit. The ramp I had to drive up had a bloody light hanging down and there was no room for manoeuvre either side. That was unless I put one set of tyres in the pedestrian path which was separated from the car ramp by a 5 inch concrete wall. I attempted to turn on to the ramp keeping the wheels in their allotted spaces. Failure. I scraped the side of the car on a sign which was rather unhelpfully stuck to the wall. I reversed and swung out further before turning up the ramp and this time I managed it - just about avoiding the strip light and not scraping the car too badly on the other side. Then I just had to mount the 5 inch concrete divider whilst not bursting my tyres and I was a few inches nearer freedom. Mercifully the tyres stayed in one piece and the next level up had a few more inches on it so the scraping was only bad when there was something hanging low and we collided. The next ramp was downwards and had another low flying light but there was no room for shenanigans with this one and as I was so close to freedom, I just drove straight at it. The noise as the box and light scraped together was not easy to hear but by then I could see the sky and I was determined to get out in to the open. However one more hurdle stood in my way. As I handed the machine my ticket I noticed that the barrier allowing my exit didn't fully open up - it was hinged in the middle and gave a very low clearance height, yet again. There was nothing for it. I just drove at the barrier and hoped it wasn't going to fly off as my box collided. I also noticed that there was a rather large camera aimed right at the barriers and exit pay machines. At this point I really had no choice so I just drove forward and didn't look back. I didn't see the barrier fall in front of the car but I also didn't look in my mirror to see if it had fallen behind. I was so happy to have open space above the car and the chance to get to G in time I just kept going regardless of cameras. I am dreading a letter through the door asking me to compensate the council for damage to their lights and barrier but luckily nothing yet. The car needs a bit of TLC and the box isn't quite what it once was but at least I am not living in a car park and my niece will have the toy she wants for Christmas. (Even though all the reviews say it doesn't actually work that well, at least she can discover this for herself on the big day. The car and an hour of my life were totally worth it).<br />
<br />
What else. Ooh yes. I turned a year older. This is largely uneventful. I went to bed 34 and I awoke 35. The day itself was lovely and full of being made to feel special which is what a birthday was designed for. I do not quibble over the age gain. I used to dread the whole getting older thing but then I realised how lucky I am to have birthday after birthday so I have decided to enjoy each and every one. I started with this one. After a mini lie in and a bath I went downstairs to discover that K had decorated the room with banners and balloons and had even got me a cake, complete with burning candles. The children sang happy birthday and I opened my gifts. I had been expecting a pair of boots as my gift. I had sent the link, a follow up email confirming size and colour and a follow up follow up email with a discount voucher to K in the hope that this subtle help might aid his present buying. It did not. He went, as expected, to Sainsbury's, and purchased a number of more random gifts I wasn't expecting at all. An extra pair of slippers - lest my other two be out of reach; a collection of 3 Christmas CDS - lest my other collection of 3 CDs be lost forever; Jennifer Saunder's biography - I have finished my last book and although biographies aren't totally my bag, I did enjoy Micheal McIntyre's, which is where he got the idea; and finally an alarm clock - lest I want to awake long before dawn and the awakening children..... Actually that is not fair - the alarm clock was not what he thought it was. Since the change of my iphone I have been requiring a new docking station to charge it and listen to my music through and I had also said I wanted a digital radio so, he had failed to notice the 'alarm clock' signage on the box, but had seen the 'docking station' and 'digital radio' information and decided it would do be the perfect gift and do the job required. Sadly it didn't even do that as it wasn't compatible with iphone 5s (he took it back for a refund and will retry at Christmas). Odd present choices aside, I appreciated each and every gift and was very grateful to have something to open. He had even wrapped up my sisters' gifts which had arrived via the post direct from their suppliers. All in all it felt very birthdayish and lovely. Quick school run over and I raced (literally - thanks to a traffic jam slowing things up I managed to beat a truck - a triumph for a fat mid-30yr old pushing a buggy) up the Honor Oak hill and to the home of Events Organiser who had organised a birthday coffee morning and lunch in my honour. It was delightful and full of yummy treats, yummy people and the most delicious cake ever. I drank a little too much Cava which I probably shouldn't have done but it made the tricky afternoon with small children far more bearable so who cares. That evening I went to the beautician's at the end of my road and utiltised my birthday vouchers from last year for a luxury facial. It was bliss. If I had the money I would go for one on a weekly basis. Although, as I was lying there I couldn't help but think of all the things the money for one 45 minute session could have bought instead. Most pertinently I imagined how exceptionally clean my house would be if I paid my lovely cleaner to clean for six whole hours a week. It would also pay for school dinners for half a term for one child. That is a lot of hot meals and cleaning in place of 45 minutes. Mercifully I wasn't paying hard cash for the treatment so I did enjoy it immensely but I can't imagine a time when we are so rich that I would ever be able to lie there and not think about what the money could have bought in place of such luxury. Also I am not convinced that they do your skin any good whatsoever. It is a nice luxury having a woman smear gloop on to your face and then clean it off again, before applying more gloop and repeating over and over again, but I don't think my skin is any more rehydrated or rejuvenated which was kind of what I was expecting for £60. The birthday celebrations continued with a manicure the following evening (K's gift from last year), hair do (K's main gift to me for this year but as it couldn't be wrapped he felt I needed smaller gifts in compensation to open on the day) and a fantabulous night out with girl pals at the local tapas place that coincidentally also had a live band playing which made the night feel a lot more celebratory. All in all I definitely marked the occasion and am happily and officially now mid-30s. What a relief. <br />
<br />
And finally the boots. Sadly missing from my birthday table my lovely lady friends took pity on me and gave me a card stuffed with vouchers at my meal celebration. I was so happy - it was the perfect end to a great deal of celebration and my new exciting boots arrived yesterday to great fanfare from me. I love them.<br />
<br />
And that is about that. You are by and large up to date. I must go to bed now as today has been an incredibly long one as Cybs and Ted are both ill. Not that I don't feel sorry for the ill baby who is just lying around being ill and whiny and looked after and stuffed with medicine but I feel far more sorry for the poor adult who has to look after it and attempt to carry out menial tasks with a clinging chimp hanging on to them constantly looking for boob to latch on to for comfort. It really makes the day a ridiculously long one. yawn. Buenos Noches. <br />
<br />
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Aliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923036288557198918.post-57785862336052213222013-11-03T14:09:00.000-08:002013-11-03T14:09:27.067-08:00The Tedium of LifeWell hello and good evening. Isn't this a treat? Just you, me, a laptop and the X factor. K is out watching our eldest offspring skip the light fantastic in her annual dance show so I have the sofa and the remote control all to myself which means I can sing along to X factor unchecked - wahoo. Although sadly this also means there is no chocolate and no one to get me any. I have some Maltesers which will just have to do but they really are not a good substitute for the good stuff. They certainly don't count as actual chocolate in my eyes. <br />
<br />So, let's get on with all the tedium. On reflection 'The Tedium of life' would have been a far better blog name for me. I am kicking myself that it has taken two and a half years to realise this. I might re-launch. Anyway, wrong name aside there has been an awful lot of tedium over the last few weeks. If you live a high octane kind of life you might find it all a bit much so best rejoin me for another post. <br />
<br />I will start where we left off last time - which I believe was just as the teachers went on strike. I am all for a bit of striking as it goes. Although I am never thrilled at the prospect of a weekday with all of the children, the plus side is that I get to earn money looking after the poor unfortunates whose parents can't also strike. I did idly wonder, when I heard they were striking yet again, how many stay at home parents would need to join together to form a Union of Stay at Home Parents so that we might also go on strike. Our pay conditions, pension and holidays are SHOCKING so we could legitimately strike on a very regular basis which would be quite fun, but I cannot imagine it would do anyone any good and we would just wake up the next day to a filthy house and feral children. But, back to reality - as the teachers enjoyed their day off (all except G's year who very kindly agreed to go ahead with the year 2 school trip regardless) I took five children to Crystal Palace Park and spent an enjoyable-ish three hours messing around in the mud whilst fielding endless questions as well as trying to placate Ted who was tremendously disappointed with the whole experience. It appears that when I told him we were going to see the Dinosaurs at the Dinosaur Park, he was expecting actual, real life ones in all their gigantic, vicious beauty and the impressive statues we actually saw were an extraordinary let down. I suppose, in a world where Father Christmas is able to drop off presents to every child in the world in one night, fairies appear and donate money in return for lost teeth and magic bunnies give you chocolate eggs - real dinosaurs are totally a possibility. An extra child did valiantly try to convince him that a T Rex had eaten all of the dinosaurs which was why the statues were the only things left, but it did little to pacify a newly four year old who was looking forward to a Jurassic Park experience. An attempt to steer his attentions towards the live spiders at the farm was also thwarted when we walked in and saw that the whole 'exotic animals' room was closed for refurbishment. By that point I deemed the trip had lasted long enough, particularly as another extra child had done a full on mud splat and was covered head to toe with the stuff. All this combined with the fact that Bea was having a particularly 'special' day. I have no idea what goes on internally with children, but I am pretty sure there are occasional chemical imbalances which causes the most improbable behaviour from them. Bea had been having a chemical imbalance episode for quite a while and the strike day was the very pinnacle. By bed time that evening I had stropped out of her bedroom vowing to never parent her again and that she was 'on her own from hereonin'. There is only so much a person can take and I had totally reached my limit. She was rude, stroppy, a total know it all and although I'm not a big fan of the word 'disrespectful'. And not just to me. Her siblings and the extra children were not safe either. It is just terrifically wearing. I was also terrified that it was how things were heading on a permanent basis as she moved in to the dreaded 'Tween' stage. It made me tearful to think about it. Mercifully my strop finally seemed to make her see sense and her chemicals have been far more balanced since then. <br />
<br />George took his chemical imbalance turn last week when we visited the dentist to check out a filling he thought had come out. Due to his rather weak teeth and potentially my terrible parenting, we have had cause to frequent the dentists on a number of occasions, so I wasn't expecting anything particularly out of the ordinary. That is always how these episodes get you - you are going about your daily life not worrying about anything and then BAM a class A chemical imbalance of a melt down hits you right between the eyes. This one was over an Xray. Initially G was particularly jovial to the lovely female dentist as he sat in her chair - answering her questions and seeming genuinely excited about the prospect of an xray. But THEN the lovely dentist attempted to put the plastic instrument that holds the xray film, inside his mouth. The hell that broke loose started off innocently enough with him exclaiming that he didn't like it and that it hurt. Further attempts to convince him only served to rattle his cage and push him further in to the path of full on hysteria. By some miracle and quite a bit of stern talking by me, we just about managed to get an xray by me holding the film next to the tooth in place of the plastic instrument and the lovely lady dentist grabbing Cybs just as the Xray was taken. However we didn't realise this attempt had been successful as no one had heard the beep and he had struggled loose before we could be sure, so as i tried to (quite forcefully) get him to let me hold it next to his tooth once again - he became manic and his shouts, cries and protestations became louder. He tried to escape - I got angry, the dentist and technician became desperate. Cybs continued to potter around. Luckily, just as it looked like G and I might enter in to a physical fight they discovered that the xray had come through and we had enough to go on. We all relaxed and returned to the dentist's chair - all except G who was still sobbing and hyper ventilating and very keen to leave. He did agree to get back in to the chair and I thought we were almost through the ordeal as he opened his mouth and the dentist began her work. However by that point G had decided that nothing further was going to happen and he kept moving his head and forcing them to halt proceedings after a few seconds of each attempt to work on the tooth. The lovely dentist managed to, eventually, remove the half of the filling that was still remaining and was all set to try and refill it. However G was still sobbing and refusing to stay still. Me holding his hand, the technician being kind, me getting cross, the dentist being firm, none of it convinced him to stay still or cope with even slight discomfort. At one point he said it hurt too much before they had even touched the tooth - it was then that everyone in the room lost patience and I saw the technician roll her eyes and sigh more than once. I became increasingly angry. None of it helped. We gave up. The dentist agreed to put a temporary topping on to the exposed tooth. G relaxed. He lay back and was suddenly able to hold still. She applied the temporary fix. G went crazy. He was screaming about his tongue. He went red and started gagging. He tried rinsing. It didn't help. We left as soon as possible and as I stood at reception trying to book another appointment, G started acting as if he was going to be sick. He went bright red and doubled over making throat grunts and retching through his hysteria. I was so cross and the woman waiting next to him seemed so alarmed, that I sent him outside where he just alarmed a number of passers by with his grade A performance of a child in great distress and about to be sick. I was having none of it. AS soon as Cybs and I walked out I began quite a tirade of angry hissing before we shut the car doors and I did a lot of actual shouting. Luckily for G the car journey was ridiculously short as we stopped to pick up Ted from a friend's house. Within minutes G was able to control his hysteria and the tongue issue disappeared. I am a tad apprehensive about returning on Monday for round two. I hope this isn't the beginning of a full of dentist phobia..... I really need lessons for how to cope with this sort of thing. <br />
<br />I have had my fair share of tantrums recently as well. My last one culminated in a rather unfortunate incident with my phone. After a quick swim in the bath, the phone had become increasingly temperamental, eventually becoming almost unusable as the 'home' button kept sticking meaning that it was impossible to navigate the phone, and even if you did manage, the voice of Siri (an allegedly helpful service apple provide) piped up asking if he could help me with anything. By the time he had asked me for the millionth time and was preventing me from doing something vital (I forget what it was now) I threw it down with such force that it smashed in to a million little pieces. So for a ridiculously long time (not hours or days but actual weeks), I had no phone. It has been quite an eye opener. We have no land line or Internet (an ongoing battle) either so it meant I really had no way of ringing anyone or using the Internet until K came home each night. There were no doubt texts I failed to reply to and events I missed out on but as I have no idea what they were, I have to conclude that it wasn't much. When the schools rang to inform of bumped heads or lost fillings, K passed on the message via email (my ipad worked for emails and selective texts with my phone sim) and I did what i could through the ever helpful FB in the evenings. After a week we discovered that my new iphone was not going to be arriving for some time and it was then that I had a small (big) breakdown and began to panic. Luckily Kent Sister very kindly sent me her old iphone to help out. Sadly her help wasn't reciprocated by the Royal Mail who are exceptionally annoying. They delivered it a day late when I wasn't home. I had to wait until the following day to pick it up from the sorting office a mile away. The exciting day came and I set off full of hope that I might be reunited with cellular communication. I drove the mile, parked the car, exited the car, put Cybs in the buggy, walked the short distance to the sorting office and proudly produced my red card and driving licence which had my address on it. However, the package was addressed using my married surname and my licence still had my maiden name (I STILL haven't changed anything - I am definitely planning on it though I promise) and as it was a special delivery package the man behind the glass was not at all impressed with my lack of surname organisation and refused to hand over the package. My subsequent imploring fell on deaf ears and it became quickly apparent that he was not to be moved and insisted I return another time. I almost cried. I did the reverse journey - buggy, car, collapsing buggy, drive keeping cybs awake by opening windows and shouting etc. I couldn't park near the house so had to park a way off, get out, carry an angry Cybs who was quite keen to stay put and fall asleep, walk home, find Marriage Certificate even with a screamingly unhappy cybs, walk back, drive the mile there, exit car, put even angrier Cybs in buggy, walk to sorting office where a different man took an extremely cursory glance at my ID and handed over the package with very little ado. Finally I thought - a phone. NOT so. Kent sister is with O2 so the phone needed unlocking for me to use my Orange sim card. Cybs was not going to undertake another trip so I retreated home and let her sleep until we picked up Ted. With Ted collected and a packed lunch proffered, I set off with more high hopes towards the delightful Catford and the shop that had fixed my ipad. Parking was yet again an issue so we opted for Halfords car park and a small walk over a potential parking ticket and convenient parking space. This involved emptying both children, looking around Halfords (I know they don't actually know I am not intending to use the shop but I feel guilt quite intensely so felt obliged), walking under the bridge courtesy of a vile subway, up the other side and triumphantly in to the shop through the fog of fag smoke. I produced my broken phone and asked how much to fix it - he sucked in breath and said "£65 - if you can find the home key" (I had thrown it away that morning) - I asked how long it would take and he said "while you wait". I gave him my sister's phone and asked how much to unlock it. He said "£45". I asked how long it would take. He said "5-7 days". I sighed loudly, bundled up the children and walked out. I was a broken woman. Neither option seemed a good one and I knew for a fact that many people had had their phones unlocked within minutes so I was very suspicious of a man who needed a week to do it. I went back through the stinking subway and up the other side, down the hill and back in to halfords to purchase the Spiderman bell Ted had seen and taken a fancy to. As he was buying it i saw an O2 pay as you go sim for 99p and purchased it. It worked. On a different number obviously but I was once again 'mobile'. Relief.<br />
<br />Unexpectedly and two weeks earlier than promised, my new iphone arrived 48 hours later. I was THRILLED. In time for half term and G's bday. However as we had no internet I couldn't get it up and running which was crashingly disappointing. I had to bundle the children in to the car, drive to a friend's house (who was out) but whose wireless broadband was already set up with my laptop which meant that we could sit there and configure my new phone via itunes without having to get out of the car. The children were remarkably patient and eventually the phone was raring to go. We were all jubilant. Until I inserted the new sim once we got back home and it failed to work. I had to wait another 24 hours for EE to sort it out and then I was finally, finally back up and running. It was actually something of an anticlimax as I was expecting a deluge of missed texts and voicemail messages. However the phone remained belligerently quiet. Nothing momentous occurred. And nothing momentous has occurred since either. Although I am greatly relieved to be back in the world of modern technology. <br />
<br />That was duller than you thought wasn't it? <br /><br />
INTERMISSION<br />
<br />Hello and welcome back to another weekend and another X factor. I wrote that bit before half term but then fell asleep and didn't have a chance to finish it. You didn't miss much - there was just a Halloween disco for G and Ted (it wasn't that much fun for me but they had fun) and a 'date' with G's hot teacher left to fill you in on. Sadly the date didn't go as planned as he kept talking about G and even gave me targets for him and what with me having to keep half an eye on the three children who were also on the 'date' with me and him dismissing me after ten minutes, it was not entirely what I had hoped for. The fresh make up application and perfume were a total waste of time. <br />
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<br />Half term has been and gone - I went to see Bea's dance show which was fabulous, and then we packed up and braved the storm and travelled safely to Suffolk. It was an incredibly busy time with a lot to cram in to an abbreviated trip - particularly with halloween and G's birthday. It actually flew by. I had no time to get anything sorted or even finish off this post. Still, I am back now and G's birthday is well and truly over and done with. He has been exceptionally spoilt and has had an awful lot of celebrating. Oooh and thanks to a bit of a tummy bug and the fabulous 5:2 plan I managed to lose weight on a school break! My new exciting total weight loss for the month is a heartening 9.5 pounds! I am beyond thrilled. Other than that life is pretty much as it ever was. The children are all getting bigger, the house gets messy and then gets clean and then gets messy again, money comes in and then goes straight back out again. Cybs and Ted keep me on my toes so i don't tend to get too bored. Cybs is developing at an alarming rate and can now scooter which makes life a bit tricky as she can't even see over the handlebars of Ted's microscooter but that doesn't stop her thinking she should be allowed to scoot off as he does - albeit at a much, much slower pace. On one of the last days before half term she was casually scooting across the playground with one hand on the handles and the other by her side holding a cereal bar. She occasionally took a mouthful of it whilst still on the move. It was then that I really missed having my phone. I would have loved to have that on film. I write it now in the hope that I can bring back the memory if I ever re-read this. She insists on her breakfast being just the same as the others - Cheerios served in a bowl with milk and a spoon and she also likes to drink from a glass and isn't a big fan of the sippy cups that i keep trying to force upon her. She is still not a fan of milk but I am now really and truly over breastfeeding. I think I have now reached a point where I could happily put my baps firmly back in my bra never to release them again.<br />So, that is all that there is to report. We had a jolly half term, I now have a phone back and I am less fat than I was at the end of September. It really is a thriller of an entry. I shall go and investigate if The Tedium of Life is already taken as a blog title.<br />
<br />Let's re-group when I am 35 and see if I am a bit more interesting then. It is beginning to sound decidedly middle aged which doesn't sound decidedly fascinating but you never know. <br />Goodbye 34 - you were just as useful as all the other years. I thank you. <br />xxxxxxxxxxxAliciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01383487940956457092noreply@blogger.com0