So. Much. To. Tell. Not enough time to tell you sadly. We are on borrowed time as it is although I only rough dried my hair so I could spend more time with you - I hope you appreciate the sacrifice.
Here and now - I am now sitting here in my London Residence listening to Heart FM (it's a little edgy for my tastes but I needed something a bit more up beat than Magic which was bringing me down) on the sofa in the middle of a Sunday with NO CHILDREN. I know. Not a one. I mean K is upstairs obviously, I can't palm him off on anyone, that would be cruel. Here's how - as a lovely twist on an already luxurious break chez mother she very kindly suggested that rather than drive up for the day to see some old school friends today, I should stay the night on Saturday and make a weekend of it. So, here I am just me and K in the house whilst we wait for the rain to stop so we can go and enjoy a picnic in Clapham. Such excitement! I felt ridiculously guilty as I left, naturally. I didn't tell the children I was going off to see their daddy - that would have been too difficult to explain. I told G I was going off on a top secret mission, I told Bea I was going to see friends at a place children weren't allowed and Mum has told Ted I am picking up Bea. They all seem quite satisfied with their respective explanations. And so it was that yesterday I left Bea with my sister at her house for a sleepover with her girls and put the boys to bed at my mother's house before jumping in the car and in an hour and a half I was back home and off out for dinner with K. It is quite amazing not worrying about how much/little sleep you are going to get and just enjoying being out. It took a while to adjust - K kept asking if I was alright. He said it was like we were on a blind date except we knew each other. Don't worry unnecessarily though, I was fine after half a bottle of wine, scallops, sea bass and ricotta cheesecake.
So far the holidays are living up to expectations. I had my hair done the day after we broke up and then on Sunday we packed up, said goodbye to K and off we went to sunny Suffolk to a warm welcome of more food than you could shake a stick at and constant on tap entertainment. Not that I let them enjoy it for long as Monday morning was the start of Stagecoach. I had booked Bea and G in to do five mornings of a singing and dancing holiday course with a final performance on Friday. The theme was Mary Poppins. Bea has done Stagecoach twice before (both High School Musical) but this was G's first time and I was very apprehensive about his reaction. Bea assured me he would be fine and that she would look after him but I was still concerned that it wouldn't be his 'thing'. He was not at all worried and in fact was very excited about it all. Until I picked him up at lunchtime on that first day and he told me he had spent the whole time asking to go home. (Bea told me this was a lie and he had had a great time). Tuesday morning saw him adamant that he wouldn't be going back. Mum and I gave in and said he could miss one day. Wednesday morning saw me feeling quite ill with a very sore throat and muscle aches but quite determined to get G back in to the building to carry on learning supercalafragalisticexpialadocious. I managed to manhandle him with extreme difficulty into the car with my aching muscles, but he got out and ran back to the front door. After a few more attempts I got him strapped him and started moving the car, but he undid the seat belt and opened the door. A few more goes later and we were on the road. He undid his seat belt again so I put the breaks on. He and his car seat flew forward into the seat in front. (A valuable lesson as to why he should always wear a seat belt - fear not he was unharmed). I strapped him back in and this time he did not undo it and after 10 minutes he stopped screaming. Bea and I managed to talk to him in a reasonable manner and by the time we arrived at the school hosting the holiday course he was still not keen but less angry. By this time we were very late and the mornings activities had already started. Bea obviously ran in all happy and I assured G I would wait until he too was happy to stay. After twenty minutes of me feeling crap and being very angry about the considerable waste of money over his lack of participation, I admitted defeat and took him silently back to mum's. (Silent as I was angry with him and because my throat hurt a lot). I did use what voice I had left to assure him he would NEVER again be allowed to do any course ever, ever again and he would definitely not be allowed on stage on Friday. He happily spent the rest of Wednesday playing at Grandma's and relieved that he had 'won'. Thursday morning saw a very happy G skip downstairs at 6.30 in the morning saying how he wanted to go back to Stagecoach today. He merrily got dressed and at 9am was very happy to get into the car with Bea. He stayed for that morning and Friday morning before appearing on stage and mumbling through Let's go fly a kite, Feed the birds and finally four renditions of Supercala etc. Bea was 'the old woman' who fed the birds and was incredibly excited that she had a line and was centre stage for a good section of the twenty minute performance. G was so relieved the whole thing was over that he started to undo his shirt on the third go round of supercala so that his podgy stomach was hanging out and I had to stand in the aisle and shout loudly at him to stop before he went any further in the fourth and final go at the song. All in all it was totally worth it and Bea smiled and sang very loudly the entire way through. It was beautiful. To some extent I did sympathise with G. This wasn't really his thing and the woman who was in charge of the 'early years' section is quite the most unfortunate looking woman there ever was. She didn't look like she was able to move particularly easy as she was incredibly large. I am obviously not one to throw stones, living in the same glass house as her, however she was uncomfortably large and looked to be carrying about 10 stone around her middle alone. She did not carry her weight well and reminded me of a melted candle slightly - it looked as if someone had put a great heat above her head and everything had melted and sagged down settling just at the top of her legs which meant that she was the most unlikely person I have ever seen to teach small and eager young people how to dance and move around stage. It also didn't help that all week she wore black trousers and a black top so she had a quite an imposing and ominous presence - she had short hair and didn't smile much to break up the quite miserable looking face either. G did not warm to her or to the two teenagers who were her assisting her. (The one in charge of dance also had a weight problem, as did the Principal of the entire operation - I was very close to handing out my card and asking if I could help them en masse). I am not trying to be cruel but it isn't what you expect from a dancing and acting course. For the performance on Friday the lady who wore black all week tucked in her black top to her black trousers and finished off the look with a jaunty brown belt to show that she had dressed up for the occasion. I appreciated the effort. I'm not sure G could tell the difference and he certainly wasn't sad to be leaving. I shan't book him in for next year.
The weekend saw me do exceedingly well at a boot sale and we are now the proud owners of many light sabers (or light savers as G calls them), spidermen (Ted's new fixation - 'man' is now everything and we have to carry around five in a 'man' bag as well as 'man's' car), a Polly Pocket cruise ship complete with many, many small accompanying items, power rangers, water pistols, teenage mutant turtles, batman and Ben 10 figures. I was immensely proud of myself and the money saved in buying all the plastic pre-opened and pre-used for a small fraction of the price. It is a good thing too as our staycation in the country has made me realise that the grass is not always greener. I have for many years thought that we would be an awful lot happier if we left my beloved SE23 and moved to a big house in the country with a big garden. I am wrong. We would be housebound. Just taking the kids back and forth to Stagecoach and getting to a boot sale used more Diesel than I would use in two months in London. Maybe even more. It is ridiculously expensive living in the country. All dreams are now dashed and I am now happy to stay here indefinitely without any mournful looks at the RightMove site to see what we could get for our money in Suffolk. We clearly have the best of both worlds as we are so this is how we shall remain. Not least because K's job is going very well at the moment so he is very happy AND my lovely mummy friends are now a stone's throw away from opening the doors to their fabulous new delicatessen. By the time I return from our holiday with the children the doors to Hills and Parkes will be open and I would urge anyone who was ever thinking of visiting the delightful Honor Oak to make the journey if just for the food they have on offer. At the end of my road there is now a Beauticians, Gift shop, Estate Agents and a Deli. I have all I would ever need. There is even a posh looking undertakers slightly further up. I am totally sorted.
Aside from the Diesel, spending too much time in the car has meant that I am now FAR TOO familiar with the works of Justin Beiber. He has officially become the soundtrack to my summer. Even if I am not in the car I find myself singing 'one less lonely girl' and 'baby, baby, baby oooh'. Ted even sings the 'ooooooooo' part of the beginning to baby, baby. I know most of the words to the rap section where some American informs me that no one could ever compare or come above his baby. It is all too much. Come back Hannah Montana, all is most definitely and categorically forgiven. I never thought I would yearn for the days of the toothy, hairy wonder but she most definitely better.
Still, the children are all very bronzed and happy. Not only do they get to see their cousins every day, a bouncy castle, trampoline, huge paddling pools, sandpit, wendy house, toys a plenty and three cooked meals a day but in order to add to her appeal my mother discovered a school swimming pool you could hire out. (A notice on a lampost in the village - where else would you find out such things?) The school is ten minutes down the road (two and a half renditions of Baby, Baby) and it is part of an infant school so there is no deep end, G and Bea are both able to reach the bottom throughout and there are even brighly coloured paintings of sea scapes all over the walls. There are also floats, toys and large balls to play with and the best thing of all - there are no other children. Hoorah! We have been going every other day and it really is quite the best thing. Bea is desperately trying to swim, although mainly she is moving her arms and kicking off the bottom to propel her forward. Ted even agreed to go in after a few sessions. I didn't realise why he was being such a scardy cat when I had assumed my problem would be trying to save him from drowning not trying to tempt him in. It didn't occur to me straight away but of course, this was the first time he had seen a swimming pool. I have never taken him before but being the third I didn't really think about it. The first two have been in and out of various pools thanks to K's mum's gym, trips to communal pools I have been forced into and a few trips to Center Parcs back in the days Pre-Ted. But of course Ted has only ever seen paddling pools and the sea - nothing in between - so it must have taken a bit of getting used to.
So, all in all, the first two weeks of the summer holidays are going very well. I think Mum might be quite knackered and in need of her own holiday after we leave, but I for one feel exceedingly well on it all. I even got to go out to the cinema - I saw Bridesmaids - it is fabulous. And I have been out for supper with K. And all of this without having to endure a trip to the airport, delays, flight with Ted, transfer to hotel and trying to deal with sleeping arrangements in a room smaller than our kitchen. The sun has even shown up a few times. So, in summary, life is peachy and summer holiday staycations RULE. From here I am going to stuff my face at huge picnic in the park and then enjoy the journey home sans Beiber. This is most definitely the life.
Chim chiminy super cala baby baby oooooooohhhhh
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Sunday, 7 August 2011
Friday, 22 July 2011
Drunken Finale
WE have made it. Yes oh yes - the final school run of the year has been completed, all children are under the same roof and shall remain so, day in and day out for the best part of six weeks. Six weeks doesn't seem much of a reward for all the effort we have had to put in over the last ten months but I will take what I can.
My exuberance over reaching the final day of term is ever so slightly subdued by the hangover with which I am currently suffering. Having not drunk for months on end it seems to be all I am doing these days. Last night was the end of term celebrations with a few of the other mums. We didn't get to eat until 9pm and by that time I had already been drinking for over an hour on an empty stomach which was a total disaster. All my good intentions to just have steak, salad and 'a few chips' turned into me eating everything in sight - the majority of the 'shared' chips, ALL of my friend's portion of chips and almost all of the gravy boat of sauce that was meant for us to share (no one complained at the time which now seems odd in the cold light of day). Anyway, I was wearing my non-stretchy 'proper' jeans which I proudly purchased a few months ago as a reward for my weight loss. Having been in stretchy supermarket jeans for many, many years I was not used to the unforgiving nature of the 'proper' jeans and found myself in a great deal of discomfort for the walk home. Not only that but I was wearing my recently rediscovered Primark shoes and it only dawned on me on the drunken stagger home, that the reason they were hidden away at the back of my wardrobe was because they were deeply uncomfortable for any length of walk. So it was that I found myself half limping, half staggering home whilst trying to maintain an air of sophistication and semblance of dignity as my fat tummy hung unflatteringly over the top of my 'proper' jeans and the tightness of them on my engorged stomach caused me to burp/be slightly sick all the way home. By the time I made it upstairs I fell gratefully into bed. Although I was still clothed so I then attempted to take off the offending jeans - obviously I had undone them from the minute the front door was closed - but they got stuck somewhere around my knees. K gallantly stepped in to assist and then helped me to my unsteady feet so that I might remove my makeup and visit the loo before I properly passed out. Such a gent.
Rather ironically, this morning K mentioned his concern over possible male attention whilst we were out 'on the town' (obviously we didn't leave SE23). I assured him that as pretty a picture as a stumbling, overweight, drunk and burping woman was, the wedding ring clearly scared them off as I was not approached even once. However, that was not the biggest surprise this morning. Suddenly, out of nowhere, G has agreed to wear shorts again. I am genuinely shocked. About two months ago he totally took against them and refused to wear shorts on even the hottest of days. Every time the sun did shine there was a great deal of screaming and shouting (from both of us) as he insisted on wearing black trousers and long sleeved tops - preferably black. He would also be extremely angry at the weather and kept lamenting the lack of rain and cloud cover. With the recent spate of rainy days he has been as happy as a pig in muck so I was incredibly surprised to find that his reaction to this morning's sunny skies was to voluntarily don a pair of shorts and a short sleeved shirt. Wonders may never cease. Such was his angst at me trying to persuade him to wear shorts in previous good weather, he drew me a picture to show his displeasure. This may sound unexciting to the uninitiated but this is only the fourth picture he has ever drawn - he will be five in November. He has never, ever enjoyed putting pen to paper for some odd reason and I have never pushed him to do so. Bea has been such a prolific artist she has created enough works of art to sink a battleship and I was quite grateful not to have another load of art to store indefinitely. But here it is! Please find below George's fourth picture and the first picture I have ever posted. On the left he has a smile as he is wearing trousers and therefore happy. On the right he is very unhappy as he is next to a pair of the detested shorts. Et Voila.
.
So now that we are done with school, the days are ours to do with as we like and my children are mine to do with what I like. Hoorah! And so this Sunday we will be leaving London for our summer break a la country. I like to refer to my mother's house as our country residence, as we tend to spend most long weekends and school holidays there and it sounds more exciting - as if we might actually be wealthy enough to afford two households. An unlikely scenario as we still can't afford to live in our 'main residence'. Talking of which, K will of course stay in our main residence to look after the cat and earn the money needed to keep us whilst I 'struggle' with the three children and being fed and kept at mother's. I will of course be leaving him a hearty list of jobs to complete whilst we are away. I would hate for him to sit idle at the weekends. I'm sure he must appreciate having a focus too. I know how much he would hate to spend all day lying on the sofa watching tv and drinking beer. I am all about his happiness.
My spirits are fading fast - Diet coke is no longer enough to keep me upright and I am desperately in need of sleep. I shall be back of course, rested and well fed with any luck. See you then xxxxx
My exuberance over reaching the final day of term is ever so slightly subdued by the hangover with which I am currently suffering. Having not drunk for months on end it seems to be all I am doing these days. Last night was the end of term celebrations with a few of the other mums. We didn't get to eat until 9pm and by that time I had already been drinking for over an hour on an empty stomach which was a total disaster. All my good intentions to just have steak, salad and 'a few chips' turned into me eating everything in sight - the majority of the 'shared' chips, ALL of my friend's portion of chips and almost all of the gravy boat of sauce that was meant for us to share (no one complained at the time which now seems odd in the cold light of day). Anyway, I was wearing my non-stretchy 'proper' jeans which I proudly purchased a few months ago as a reward for my weight loss. Having been in stretchy supermarket jeans for many, many years I was not used to the unforgiving nature of the 'proper' jeans and found myself in a great deal of discomfort for the walk home. Not only that but I was wearing my recently rediscovered Primark shoes and it only dawned on me on the drunken stagger home, that the reason they were hidden away at the back of my wardrobe was because they were deeply uncomfortable for any length of walk. So it was that I found myself half limping, half staggering home whilst trying to maintain an air of sophistication and semblance of dignity as my fat tummy hung unflatteringly over the top of my 'proper' jeans and the tightness of them on my engorged stomach caused me to burp/be slightly sick all the way home. By the time I made it upstairs I fell gratefully into bed. Although I was still clothed so I then attempted to take off the offending jeans - obviously I had undone them from the minute the front door was closed - but they got stuck somewhere around my knees. K gallantly stepped in to assist and then helped me to my unsteady feet so that I might remove my makeup and visit the loo before I properly passed out. Such a gent.
Rather ironically, this morning K mentioned his concern over possible male attention whilst we were out 'on the town' (obviously we didn't leave SE23). I assured him that as pretty a picture as a stumbling, overweight, drunk and burping woman was, the wedding ring clearly scared them off as I was not approached even once. However, that was not the biggest surprise this morning. Suddenly, out of nowhere, G has agreed to wear shorts again. I am genuinely shocked. About two months ago he totally took against them and refused to wear shorts on even the hottest of days. Every time the sun did shine there was a great deal of screaming and shouting (from both of us) as he insisted on wearing black trousers and long sleeved tops - preferably black. He would also be extremely angry at the weather and kept lamenting the lack of rain and cloud cover. With the recent spate of rainy days he has been as happy as a pig in muck so I was incredibly surprised to find that his reaction to this morning's sunny skies was to voluntarily don a pair of shorts and a short sleeved shirt. Wonders may never cease. Such was his angst at me trying to persuade him to wear shorts in previous good weather, he drew me a picture to show his displeasure. This may sound unexciting to the uninitiated but this is only the fourth picture he has ever drawn - he will be five in November. He has never, ever enjoyed putting pen to paper for some odd reason and I have never pushed him to do so. Bea has been such a prolific artist she has created enough works of art to sink a battleship and I was quite grateful not to have another load of art to store indefinitely. But here it is! Please find below George's fourth picture and the first picture I have ever posted. On the left he has a smile as he is wearing trousers and therefore happy. On the right he is very unhappy as he is next to a pair of the detested shorts. Et Voila.
.
So now that we are done with school, the days are ours to do with as we like and my children are mine to do with what I like. Hoorah! And so this Sunday we will be leaving London for our summer break a la country. I like to refer to my mother's house as our country residence, as we tend to spend most long weekends and school holidays there and it sounds more exciting - as if we might actually be wealthy enough to afford two households. An unlikely scenario as we still can't afford to live in our 'main residence'. Talking of which, K will of course stay in our main residence to look after the cat and earn the money needed to keep us whilst I 'struggle' with the three children and being fed and kept at mother's. I will of course be leaving him a hearty list of jobs to complete whilst we are away. I would hate for him to sit idle at the weekends. I'm sure he must appreciate having a focus too. I know how much he would hate to spend all day lying on the sofa watching tv and drinking beer. I am all about his happiness.
My spirits are fading fast - Diet coke is no longer enough to keep me upright and I am desperately in need of sleep. I shall be back of course, rested and well fed with any luck. See you then xxxxx
Monday, 18 July 2011
War, peace and able children
FOUR MORE DAYS. I know. You can feel my level of excitement and it is infectious. Enjoy.
Today was report day. I am now far more knowledgeable about what my children are 'able' to do. Gone are the days of personal thoughts or opinions on children in their care, now all the reports we get from teachers tell me what they are able to do. George is able to count to over twenty (interesting - I hadn't noticed but it turns out she is spot on - he can get to 23), George is able to move with "confidence, imagination and in safety" (bizarre observation - especially as he is always, always walking in to and falling over seemingly harmless objects) and my favourite, George is able to "go backwards, sideways as well as forwards and can jump off an object and land appropriately". I think it is slightly disturbing that they need to tell me my four year old is able to move forwards. How do they think I get him to school in the first place? Obviously I am also exceedingly proud of his ability to land appropriately. How embarrassing it must be for the parents whose children have spent the last year landing inappropriately. THE SHAME. Perhaps my favourite insight from the teacher was from her personal comments, 'His contributions to class discussions are valued and he often asks appropriate questions.' This is more of an insight into the life of a nursery teacher than the mind of my son - I can only imagine the horror of twenty five four year olds constantly asking ridiculous and irrelevant questions. I can totally understand why she should appreciate that every now and again G's questions actually refer to something vaguely relevant to the topic of conversation.
Obviously I realise that the poor woman is very limited by the 'rules' on what she can and can't write about my very talented son, so I hasten to add that she is THE most amazingly lovely woman and G has been ridiculously fortunate to have her as his teacher. After all, it is entirely down to her that he can count to over twenty, 'form recognisable letters' and land appropriately after jumping. I have taught him none of the above.
Bea's report was less humorous and more factual. The only silly comment was that 'She knows, with confidence, the names of the main parts of the body.' If they mean head, shoulders, knees and toes then that is rather underwhelming as even Ted can identify most of those and he hasn't yet celebrated his second birthday. However overall it was a glowing report as she is, obviously, brilliant. The only sadness is that she seems to be taking after me in her need for 'more haste less speed'. This phrase was told to me on far too many occasions, together with 'think before you speak' and 'could try harder' which appeared on every single report I received throughout my school career. They were right of course. I could have indeed tried harder, I knew that at the time but much like now, I clearly couldn't be bothered as my lazy gene was far too hard to override. If I got a report for my housewifery thus far it would still be riddled with such phrases. I am greatly in need of putting in more effort, taking more care over the jobs I do manage to carry out and the way I manage my finances is in dire need of more haste and less speed.
Take today, due to my laziness yesterday afternoon on housewifely duties, a sudden call from a WW leader who needed my help at a meeting this morning meant that I had to put Ted back into the car seat that he had thrown up on the day before. I just couldn't deal with a car seat seeping in sick yesterday afternoon and I knew that I could safely put it off until Monday as we didn't need the car before then. But, as a valuable life lesson to me, I did have to use the car again which meant that I had no choice but to put him back into it and travel around today smelling the sweet smell of my failure. Actually, with the windows open it is not as bad as you might imagine. And my lesson was duly learnt and the minute Ted went down for his sleep this afternoon I bothered to take the offending seat out of the car and strip it back for a thorough cleaning. I am hoping the car will now smell pleasingly of washing powder and Dettol.
So, the reason for the sick. It was the result of another great weekend. This whole new world of K having Saturdays off has changed our lives. We actually have whole weekends to fill and we have been doing extremely exciting stuff with them. We used the last one to nip down to Kent and spend the weekend camping at the War and Peace show in Kent. Now, naturally this is not the sort of sentence you expect me to use so I shall break it down for you. K's mum and her husband go most years as he is a big military vehicle fan and they take their little caravan and his military Land Rover and spend nearly two weeks enjoying themselves with like minded souls. Normally, I would dispatch K with the child/ren who would enjoy this most, but this year I thought they were all at an age where they would enjoy big tanks and mud so I rather gamely said that we would all attend. The caveat being that I would not be camping overnight with Ted. HELL NO. I had cunningly realised before I made the arrangements, that my elder sister lived not too far away from the site and being the genius that I am, I knew that I could merrily leave K with the eldest two and the tent and I could nip off to the comfort of my sister's house. Annoyingly I didn't check she was free, which she wasn't. That was a slight fly in my ointment. However, all things work out for the best in the end, and as luck would have it, her daughter was sick on Friday (the sick bug is seemingly everywhere) so their weekend plans were cancelled and once again, my luxury weekend was back on the cards. I did feel slightly guilty as I left K in the mud and the rain with two ridiculously over excited children on Saturday evening, but the guilt dissipated ridiculously quickly as I arrived at my five star boutique hotel experience - aka my sister's house. It was AMAZING. I drank champagne, I ate the most delicious cod and mash (she can follow a Jamie recipe magnificently - it was quite honestly one of the best meals I have ever eaten) and then I slept in the most comfortable bed ever produced. I even had an Orla Kiely hand towel at my disposal. I didn't use it but Ted did turn the tap on without me removing it from the sink first so it got quite wet nonetheless. He also threw his milk bottle out of the window. It landed on the top of a rose bush which we couldn't reach from the second floor window from whence he threw it or from the ground floor. Ted was slightly perplexed by our predicament, he kept pointing to the window and saying 'done?' and 'milk?'. Luckily the quick thinking sister found a stick and managed to dislodge it. Anyway, he drank the milk from the retrieved bottle on the way back to the mud and the exhausted husband and children and then, just as we approached the entrance, he took his turn to experience the sick bug and threw up all over himself and his car seat. (I must add that obviously I did clean up the worst of it with baby wipes - it wasn't like he was sitting in great big chunks of sick - I'm not THAT bad.)
So far, Bea and I are the only members of the family to escape the sick. G took his turn on Friday evening. In the middle of supper he stopped, mid-besghetti bomonaise and looked at me with scared eyes before he said - I'm going to be sick. He duly was in the conveniently located loo, before he returned to the table to finish his meal and that of his sister's. He really is quite unflappable. Mind you, I fear he may have a lot worse to deal with in a few days time. I came around the corner on the way back from the school run today, to find him licking the button you press at the pedestrian crossing to stop the traffic. I believe I may have shouted extremely loudly. It is too revolting to consider the number of totally disgusting things that he has ingested from that button. Just thinking about the people who might have touched it is sending my mind into overdrive. He may be able to move safely in a forward direction and land appropriately after leaping, but there are very clearly areas of his education that are seriously lacking. I shall have a word with his teacher tomorrow and see if she could teach them how to lick safely now that they have mastered landing.
I suppose as a mother I am slightly culpable for this educational lapse. It's just not good enough. They were right. 'Could try harder'.
xxxxxx
Today was report day. I am now far more knowledgeable about what my children are 'able' to do. Gone are the days of personal thoughts or opinions on children in their care, now all the reports we get from teachers tell me what they are able to do. George is able to count to over twenty (interesting - I hadn't noticed but it turns out she is spot on - he can get to 23), George is able to move with "confidence, imagination and in safety" (bizarre observation - especially as he is always, always walking in to and falling over seemingly harmless objects) and my favourite, George is able to "go backwards, sideways as well as forwards and can jump off an object and land appropriately". I think it is slightly disturbing that they need to tell me my four year old is able to move forwards. How do they think I get him to school in the first place? Obviously I am also exceedingly proud of his ability to land appropriately. How embarrassing it must be for the parents whose children have spent the last year landing inappropriately. THE SHAME. Perhaps my favourite insight from the teacher was from her personal comments, 'His contributions to class discussions are valued and he often asks appropriate questions.' This is more of an insight into the life of a nursery teacher than the mind of my son - I can only imagine the horror of twenty five four year olds constantly asking ridiculous and irrelevant questions. I can totally understand why she should appreciate that every now and again G's questions actually refer to something vaguely relevant to the topic of conversation.
Obviously I realise that the poor woman is very limited by the 'rules' on what she can and can't write about my very talented son, so I hasten to add that she is THE most amazingly lovely woman and G has been ridiculously fortunate to have her as his teacher. After all, it is entirely down to her that he can count to over twenty, 'form recognisable letters' and land appropriately after jumping. I have taught him none of the above.
Bea's report was less humorous and more factual. The only silly comment was that 'She knows, with confidence, the names of the main parts of the body.' If they mean head, shoulders, knees and toes then that is rather underwhelming as even Ted can identify most of those and he hasn't yet celebrated his second birthday. However overall it was a glowing report as she is, obviously, brilliant. The only sadness is that she seems to be taking after me in her need for 'more haste less speed'. This phrase was told to me on far too many occasions, together with 'think before you speak' and 'could try harder' which appeared on every single report I received throughout my school career. They were right of course. I could have indeed tried harder, I knew that at the time but much like now, I clearly couldn't be bothered as my lazy gene was far too hard to override. If I got a report for my housewifery thus far it would still be riddled with such phrases. I am greatly in need of putting in more effort, taking more care over the jobs I do manage to carry out and the way I manage my finances is in dire need of more haste and less speed.
Take today, due to my laziness yesterday afternoon on housewifely duties, a sudden call from a WW leader who needed my help at a meeting this morning meant that I had to put Ted back into the car seat that he had thrown up on the day before. I just couldn't deal with a car seat seeping in sick yesterday afternoon and I knew that I could safely put it off until Monday as we didn't need the car before then. But, as a valuable life lesson to me, I did have to use the car again which meant that I had no choice but to put him back into it and travel around today smelling the sweet smell of my failure. Actually, with the windows open it is not as bad as you might imagine. And my lesson was duly learnt and the minute Ted went down for his sleep this afternoon I bothered to take the offending seat out of the car and strip it back for a thorough cleaning. I am hoping the car will now smell pleasingly of washing powder and Dettol.
So, the reason for the sick. It was the result of another great weekend. This whole new world of K having Saturdays off has changed our lives. We actually have whole weekends to fill and we have been doing extremely exciting stuff with them. We used the last one to nip down to Kent and spend the weekend camping at the War and Peace show in Kent. Now, naturally this is not the sort of sentence you expect me to use so I shall break it down for you. K's mum and her husband go most years as he is a big military vehicle fan and they take their little caravan and his military Land Rover and spend nearly two weeks enjoying themselves with like minded souls. Normally, I would dispatch K with the child/ren who would enjoy this most, but this year I thought they were all at an age where they would enjoy big tanks and mud so I rather gamely said that we would all attend. The caveat being that I would not be camping overnight with Ted. HELL NO. I had cunningly realised before I made the arrangements, that my elder sister lived not too far away from the site and being the genius that I am, I knew that I could merrily leave K with the eldest two and the tent and I could nip off to the comfort of my sister's house. Annoyingly I didn't check she was free, which she wasn't. That was a slight fly in my ointment. However, all things work out for the best in the end, and as luck would have it, her daughter was sick on Friday (the sick bug is seemingly everywhere) so their weekend plans were cancelled and once again, my luxury weekend was back on the cards. I did feel slightly guilty as I left K in the mud and the rain with two ridiculously over excited children on Saturday evening, but the guilt dissipated ridiculously quickly as I arrived at my five star boutique hotel experience - aka my sister's house. It was AMAZING. I drank champagne, I ate the most delicious cod and mash (she can follow a Jamie recipe magnificently - it was quite honestly one of the best meals I have ever eaten) and then I slept in the most comfortable bed ever produced. I even had an Orla Kiely hand towel at my disposal. I didn't use it but Ted did turn the tap on without me removing it from the sink first so it got quite wet nonetheless. He also threw his milk bottle out of the window. It landed on the top of a rose bush which we couldn't reach from the second floor window from whence he threw it or from the ground floor. Ted was slightly perplexed by our predicament, he kept pointing to the window and saying 'done?' and 'milk?'. Luckily the quick thinking sister found a stick and managed to dislodge it. Anyway, he drank the milk from the retrieved bottle on the way back to the mud and the exhausted husband and children and then, just as we approached the entrance, he took his turn to experience the sick bug and threw up all over himself and his car seat. (I must add that obviously I did clean up the worst of it with baby wipes - it wasn't like he was sitting in great big chunks of sick - I'm not THAT bad.)
So far, Bea and I are the only members of the family to escape the sick. G took his turn on Friday evening. In the middle of supper he stopped, mid-besghetti bomonaise and looked at me with scared eyes before he said - I'm going to be sick. He duly was in the conveniently located loo, before he returned to the table to finish his meal and that of his sister's. He really is quite unflappable. Mind you, I fear he may have a lot worse to deal with in a few days time. I came around the corner on the way back from the school run today, to find him licking the button you press at the pedestrian crossing to stop the traffic. I believe I may have shouted extremely loudly. It is too revolting to consider the number of totally disgusting things that he has ingested from that button. Just thinking about the people who might have touched it is sending my mind into overdrive. He may be able to move safely in a forward direction and land appropriately after leaping, but there are very clearly areas of his education that are seriously lacking. I shall have a word with his teacher tomorrow and see if she could teach them how to lick safely now that they have mastered landing.
I suppose as a mother I am slightly culpable for this educational lapse. It's just not good enough. They were right. 'Could try harder'.
xxxxxx
Thursday, 14 July 2011
Sick and song
Hello hello and Welcome. Not the greatest of days. This morning was stressful. I had to prepare for the dreaded event - a school concert. Now if there was no Ted, I'm sure these things would be lovely. I would be able to sit in peace, in a hot and stuffy hall on a child's chair that is far too small for my rear end, smiling madly and waving furiously at my children as they sing their heart out. However there is most definitely a Ted and he is a Ted who really does not appreciate being kept in a confined place for any length of time, let alone a hot, over populated one. So, I think it is no exaggeration to say that I was absolutely dreading it. By 8.30am I had packed a 'survival kit' and Bea's packed lunch and was just about to go up to change out of my pyjamas when I realised K was being violently ill upstairs. Bea then came running downstairs to inform me that he hadn't quite made it to the loo for one episode and there was sick all over the floor. With fifteen minutes to go before it was time to exit the house with three children and then endure, sorry enjoy, an hour and a half of confined stuffiness, I realised that K had had a Korma last night. So, I set about some furious scrubbing. K set about ironing his shirt as he was now very late for work. At this point I became a little irate. Me being late getting out of the house with the children was obviously not as important as a sick person getting to work a little late, who, in my opinion should have stayed in bed to get better.
I have never understood why a person would want to be a nurse. A nurse seems like the very worst job ever; crap hours, crap pay, actual crap and all that for not as much respect as the Doctors. I am exceptionally grateful that people ignore all of these facts and go ahead and train anyway but I have never been able to stomach other people's effluence and can't understand anyone wanting to work with it. However, I now realise that I have, unwittingly signed up for nursing duties. I spend most of my days dealing with other people's effluence for no pay, no respect, no set hours and not even a staffroom to go and seek refuge and eat donated chocolates in. For most of the day I have been trying to scrub regurgitated korma out of our pale carpets and then just as I finished, Ted went on a wild wee and poo rampage upstairs pre and post bath so that I then spent the early evening scrubbing the carpets again. I have not really enjoyed today.
I am also shattered. I can no longer handle late nights. Not only did I have a night out on Saturday but I also went out on Monday with my old school gal pals. Admittedly I was home by 10 and I didn't drink, but two nights out within 48 hours has totally floored me. I am now metaphorically crawling along on my knees to get through the last week of term. OH WHY oh why for the love of all that is holy do we have to have yet another week before we break up?! All the pampered kids at their lovely private schools have already broken up. When I was young and we broke up two weeks before all the poor kids I just felt smug and looked shocked whenever they said they hadn't broken up yet, but now the shoe is most definitely on the other foot and I do not like it. Why is it that if you pay for the education you get so much less of it? I am serious. I never gave it a second thought when I was young - who would question an eight week holiday - but now I really am trying to understand why on earth it is so. Do they learn faster? Learn less? Who knows. Maybe it is to attract only the very best teachers in the land who couldn't possibly imagine working anywhere where there are less than fourteen weeks holiday a year.
So, back to the concert. I found a spot right at the back and perched Ted on a piece of gym equipment so that he could sit in relative comfort surrounded by his snacks and toys. After he slapped me round the face a few times he eventually acquiesced to my demands and sat down. He was happy for about fifteen minutes - right up until the start of the singing. And then more singing. And then recorders playing, lots and lots of recorders playing. Then more singing and then ye god of gods; guitars. A small group of small people playing guitars. Now, I can't judge as I can't play the guitar and I'm sure it's incredibly tricky but, it was awful and too long. Around the time of the guitar solo which was played slowly, pluck by pluck with large pauses in between, all of my heroic efforts to keep Ted quiet and entertained went flying out of the window and Ted's insistence on going 'ome' became louder and more insistent so that for the first time ever, I left before the end. I had resorted to putting my hand over his mouth at one point and although I'm sure they all wanted me to do it, I couldn't help but think the other parents might judge. So, we escaped before the end and I came home feeling bloody angry at Ted and sad that Bea might have been pissed off as she saw us leave. G was, as always, oblivious to everything.
I arrived home to a shit pit. The house was revolting and there was a foul smelling aroma emanating from somewhere unspecific downstairs (the sick had happened upstairs and did not smell - puzzling). So, I started in the kitchen, spent an hour in there then went back to school, picked up G, got home, put Ted to bed and spent two and half hours tidying the rest of the house before Ted awoke and we went off for the dreaded school run again. On this last run, I had a moment of clarity and realised why the private schools are able to break up two weeks early - they DON'T have a summer concert. With the fourteen or so songs the poor children have to learn and endlessly rehearse leading up to the bloody thing, that could easily take up ten days of schooling - so, it all becomes clear. I don't pay for my children's education so that at the end of the year I get the pleasure of sitting in a crowded room placating a small, irate child while my other children spend a miserable hour of their lives singing happy songs to smiling parents. NOW I understand why people in private schools are all so bloody smug. They knew this already.
Six school days, eighteen school runs and NO more summer concerts until we break up. The finish line is finally in sight people. x
I have never understood why a person would want to be a nurse. A nurse seems like the very worst job ever; crap hours, crap pay, actual crap and all that for not as much respect as the Doctors. I am exceptionally grateful that people ignore all of these facts and go ahead and train anyway but I have never been able to stomach other people's effluence and can't understand anyone wanting to work with it. However, I now realise that I have, unwittingly signed up for nursing duties. I spend most of my days dealing with other people's effluence for no pay, no respect, no set hours and not even a staffroom to go and seek refuge and eat donated chocolates in. For most of the day I have been trying to scrub regurgitated korma out of our pale carpets and then just as I finished, Ted went on a wild wee and poo rampage upstairs pre and post bath so that I then spent the early evening scrubbing the carpets again. I have not really enjoyed today.
I am also shattered. I can no longer handle late nights. Not only did I have a night out on Saturday but I also went out on Monday with my old school gal pals. Admittedly I was home by 10 and I didn't drink, but two nights out within 48 hours has totally floored me. I am now metaphorically crawling along on my knees to get through the last week of term. OH WHY oh why for the love of all that is holy do we have to have yet another week before we break up?! All the pampered kids at their lovely private schools have already broken up. When I was young and we broke up two weeks before all the poor kids I just felt smug and looked shocked whenever they said they hadn't broken up yet, but now the shoe is most definitely on the other foot and I do not like it. Why is it that if you pay for the education you get so much less of it? I am serious. I never gave it a second thought when I was young - who would question an eight week holiday - but now I really am trying to understand why on earth it is so. Do they learn faster? Learn less? Who knows. Maybe it is to attract only the very best teachers in the land who couldn't possibly imagine working anywhere where there are less than fourteen weeks holiday a year.
So, back to the concert. I found a spot right at the back and perched Ted on a piece of gym equipment so that he could sit in relative comfort surrounded by his snacks and toys. After he slapped me round the face a few times he eventually acquiesced to my demands and sat down. He was happy for about fifteen minutes - right up until the start of the singing. And then more singing. And then recorders playing, lots and lots of recorders playing. Then more singing and then ye god of gods; guitars. A small group of small people playing guitars. Now, I can't judge as I can't play the guitar and I'm sure it's incredibly tricky but, it was awful and too long. Around the time of the guitar solo which was played slowly, pluck by pluck with large pauses in between, all of my heroic efforts to keep Ted quiet and entertained went flying out of the window and Ted's insistence on going 'ome' became louder and more insistent so that for the first time ever, I left before the end. I had resorted to putting my hand over his mouth at one point and although I'm sure they all wanted me to do it, I couldn't help but think the other parents might judge. So, we escaped before the end and I came home feeling bloody angry at Ted and sad that Bea might have been pissed off as she saw us leave. G was, as always, oblivious to everything.
I arrived home to a shit pit. The house was revolting and there was a foul smelling aroma emanating from somewhere unspecific downstairs (the sick had happened upstairs and did not smell - puzzling). So, I started in the kitchen, spent an hour in there then went back to school, picked up G, got home, put Ted to bed and spent two and half hours tidying the rest of the house before Ted awoke and we went off for the dreaded school run again. On this last run, I had a moment of clarity and realised why the private schools are able to break up two weeks early - they DON'T have a summer concert. With the fourteen or so songs the poor children have to learn and endlessly rehearse leading up to the bloody thing, that could easily take up ten days of schooling - so, it all becomes clear. I don't pay for my children's education so that at the end of the year I get the pleasure of sitting in a crowded room placating a small, irate child while my other children spend a miserable hour of their lives singing happy songs to smiling parents. NOW I understand why people in private schools are all so bloody smug. They knew this already.
Six school days, eighteen school runs and NO more summer concerts until we break up. The finish line is finally in sight people. x
Sunday, 10 July 2011
Fritatta pool party
I can't stay long. I am recovering from a hideous hangover. Excitingly I was taken out for dinner with K last night - totally out of the ordinary. K and I eat out regularly, every April and November. One is our anniversary and one is my birthday. His birthday is also in November but we don't go out for that. So obviously last night was a great break from our routine - K's new bosses took us out for a slap up meal! Now, it turns out that we were in fact very, very wrong about these poor people. They actually really like K and they themselves are very likeable. We had a fantastic night and I even had lobster. Anyone who buys me lobster gets my seal of approval. They also plied me with wine, hence the hangover. I ended up getting far more drunk than I had ever intended and by the time I collapsed into bed at midnight the room was spinning and I was unable to form words. It is actually a lot harder to speak than you might think - I realised why babies and stroke victims get so frustrated. Forming words requires a huge amount of concentration. K was not impressed in the slightest. It's not my fault I can't handle my drink. This morning it felt like my brain was loose inside my skull. I stayed in the safety of my bed until gone 10. Thank God K was not similarly affected and was able to care for the small people.
So, I left you pre-fritatta. Not only did I make it but I also went to the International evening. I know! I am a proper school mummy. I felt terribly grown up as I dropped my cold fritatta off on Thursday morning. I felt official. I hadn't intended to attend the actual evening but then Bea got all excited about the fact I had made something and was desperate to see it in situ - she also came up with the genius idea of wearing her belly dancing outfit and with that I was sold. So, at a time I usually think of as 'the end' (after tea and before I shove them up the stairs for bath) I embarked upon the fourth trip to school that day. (I am very over the incessant school runs and cannot WAIT for the summer holidays). I was pleasantly surprised when we arrived. There was an awful lot of food - far more than just my fritatta and some victoria sponge as I had feared and there was also an awful lot of people. For about 15 minutes all was rather peachy. Ted and G were beautifully behaved and looked angelic sitting at a table in the hall eating their chocolate cake and listening to the steel drums being expertly played. Bea was sitting nearby with her best friend and was relishing everyone commenting on her belly dancing outfit. Then, as the sugar from the cake and the relatively (for them) late hour hit the boys' system, all hell broke loose. We went out for air and G set about the nursery playground with a maniacal fervour, climbing up the playhouse, jumping off things, throwing the discs from the giant Connect Four game around etc. Ted joined in, but soon tired of vandalising the nursery equipment, grabbed the scooter from the buggy and headed for the gates at quite a speed. From them on I was trying to run between the three, Bea in the hall, G in the nursery playground and Ted in the large playground. Largely unsuccessfully. I took a brief moment to cuddle a BEAUTIFUL newborn baby and as I turned back towards Ted I found him surrounded by open mouthed small children who couldn't believe he was actually laying down, fully clothed in the biggest puddle he could find. It was as if he was trying to float on it. (I didn't even shout - he looked so peaceful and happy with his muddy cold puddle, it was hard to be cross). However, it wasn't that warm an evening and I didn't have a change of clothes for him or even a blanket to put over him for the walk home. I did however have an old t-shirt of Bea's I was planning to recycle so I put that on him when I eventually managed to grab hold of him after yet another lap of the playground in soaking wet shorts, top and shoes. Another friend kindly lent me a welsh rugby shirt to put on top of that so he ended up with a layered pink and red dress effect over a very wet nappy. By 6.45 I had most definitely had more than enough but Bea still hadn't reached the front of the queue to have her henna tattoo applied. I sat down inside the hall to keep Ted warm until her tattoo was completed but three minutes in and Ted had managed to throw a man's supper on the floor - the plate that had been guarded from 5pm that evening for a man who was starving hungry and imminently about to arrive from work. I scooped up as much as I could from the floor (at least his pudding plate was still intact) and then went back outside to warn G we were about to leave. He was NOT HAPPY, having reached a place of total and complete madness. Eventually Bea got her hand and wrist covered in brown paint, I convinced G to leave and dodged the flailing arms that ensued and I also managed to elbow a screaming Ted back into the buggy and finally left the school for the fourth and final time. I have never been so pleased to get home.
I have to come clean, I can't pretend any longer - I'm not concentrating. I'm watching Marley and Me. It is a sodding lovely film. Although K is trying to pressurise me into getting a dog. I'd rather have another baby. They're less hassle. We are both adamantly against each other's choice. We will have to agree to differ.
Only two more weeks til our long Suffolk staycation - yippeeeeeee. I am counting down the days. xxx
So, I left you pre-fritatta. Not only did I make it but I also went to the International evening. I know! I am a proper school mummy. I felt terribly grown up as I dropped my cold fritatta off on Thursday morning. I felt official. I hadn't intended to attend the actual evening but then Bea got all excited about the fact I had made something and was desperate to see it in situ - she also came up with the genius idea of wearing her belly dancing outfit and with that I was sold. So, at a time I usually think of as 'the end' (after tea and before I shove them up the stairs for bath) I embarked upon the fourth trip to school that day. (I am very over the incessant school runs and cannot WAIT for the summer holidays). I was pleasantly surprised when we arrived. There was an awful lot of food - far more than just my fritatta and some victoria sponge as I had feared and there was also an awful lot of people. For about 15 minutes all was rather peachy. Ted and G were beautifully behaved and looked angelic sitting at a table in the hall eating their chocolate cake and listening to the steel drums being expertly played. Bea was sitting nearby with her best friend and was relishing everyone commenting on her belly dancing outfit. Then, as the sugar from the cake and the relatively (for them) late hour hit the boys' system, all hell broke loose. We went out for air and G set about the nursery playground with a maniacal fervour, climbing up the playhouse, jumping off things, throwing the discs from the giant Connect Four game around etc. Ted joined in, but soon tired of vandalising the nursery equipment, grabbed the scooter from the buggy and headed for the gates at quite a speed. From them on I was trying to run between the three, Bea in the hall, G in the nursery playground and Ted in the large playground. Largely unsuccessfully. I took a brief moment to cuddle a BEAUTIFUL newborn baby and as I turned back towards Ted I found him surrounded by open mouthed small children who couldn't believe he was actually laying down, fully clothed in the biggest puddle he could find. It was as if he was trying to float on it. (I didn't even shout - he looked so peaceful and happy with his muddy cold puddle, it was hard to be cross). However, it wasn't that warm an evening and I didn't have a change of clothes for him or even a blanket to put over him for the walk home. I did however have an old t-shirt of Bea's I was planning to recycle so I put that on him when I eventually managed to grab hold of him after yet another lap of the playground in soaking wet shorts, top and shoes. Another friend kindly lent me a welsh rugby shirt to put on top of that so he ended up with a layered pink and red dress effect over a very wet nappy. By 6.45 I had most definitely had more than enough but Bea still hadn't reached the front of the queue to have her henna tattoo applied. I sat down inside the hall to keep Ted warm until her tattoo was completed but three minutes in and Ted had managed to throw a man's supper on the floor - the plate that had been guarded from 5pm that evening for a man who was starving hungry and imminently about to arrive from work. I scooped up as much as I could from the floor (at least his pudding plate was still intact) and then went back outside to warn G we were about to leave. He was NOT HAPPY, having reached a place of total and complete madness. Eventually Bea got her hand and wrist covered in brown paint, I convinced G to leave and dodged the flailing arms that ensued and I also managed to elbow a screaming Ted back into the buggy and finally left the school for the fourth and final time. I have never been so pleased to get home.
I have to come clean, I can't pretend any longer - I'm not concentrating. I'm watching Marley and Me. It is a sodding lovely film. Although K is trying to pressurise me into getting a dog. I'd rather have another baby. They're less hassle. We are both adamantly against each other's choice. We will have to agree to differ.
Only two more weeks til our long Suffolk staycation - yippeeeeeee. I am counting down the days. xxx
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
Boring
I know, I'd say not to bother, but you've got this far so you may as well continue. It won't take long. The most exciting thing to happen to me today was that I finally sorted out our tupperware cupboard. I don't want to rub it in too much, I realise it must be galling if you've spent all day at work being important and speaking to other vaguely interesting and important adults to get home and find out that I have been having so much fun stuck in the house. The good news is that due to all my 'fun' you can now open the cupboard door and plastic clutter no longer rains down on your head. So pleased was I by my achievement, I took a picture of it on my phone and was about to email it to K when I had a sudden moment of clarity and realised that outside of this house, it might not be as exciting as I thought and could actually be seen as a pretty pathetic act from a bored housewife, so I deleted it.
Mercifully the weekend was rather more interesting. Saturday started early as Bea and I left at 7.30 for our girly weekend. We've never split up the sexes like this before but it was incredibly successful. K had a fabulous time with the boys and Bea and I revelled in our girlyness. (I was slightly less happy about the three hours or so I spent listening to Justin Beiber but at least she didn't moan at me singing along loudly). Bea spent Saturday enjoying the girl-tastic beauty-fest that was her cousin's 10th Birthday 'Beauty' party and I had a great time sans children. After I collected my fully made up, hair plaited and nails painted girl, we drove on to the magnificent Southwold on the Suffolk coast to stay the night with my sister and her family on the first night of their holiday. Sunday was spent chilling on the beach and shopping for things we didn't need, which are two of my favourite activities in the world. We even went for a swim in the North Sea. Bea, like me, is a huge fan of the sea - I'm not sure she has much of a clue that there are other seas in the world which are clear, blue and warm so for now she's very content with the brown and freezing North Sea. She might be slightly less keen now that we almost drowned, but hopefully she'll get over that quickly. Towards the end of our sea dip, I suddenly found myself unable to stand, just as a big wave crashed down on us and as Bea panicked, her grip around my neck tightened considerably so that I also found myself terribly concerned for our welfare. As you now know, we did survive, although Bea was upset for a while afterwards and as I carried her out of the sea my sister ran towards us to tell me that my boob was hanging out. Hey ho. A small price to pay for survival.
I am flashing the flesh a little too often for my liking at the moment. George seems to have no clue that I might not want people to see my knickers and every now and then likes to lift my skirt up, totally without warning. Outwardly, the weight loss has brought about a rather pleasing effect but underneath it is a total car crash. My stomach has not coped well with the pregnancies and subsequent weight loss and really it needs permanent structured support to look even vaguely acceptable. Anyone but K seeing it makes me feel quite ill. (I suppose it was lucky I was wearing a one piece and not a bikini on the beach so that it wasn't my boob as well as my stomach hanging out.) I do worry about the lack of elasticity my skin now possesses. If I were able to go back in time and show my 18 yr old self what became of her beautiful unadulterated skin she would collapse with shock and probably ask why my hair was so frizzy. I am going to start scouring the internet for miracle creams that might once again make my skin soft and taught.
Oh God even Lewis is a bloody repeat. SOD. I was really looking forward to it as the highlight of my Wednesday. That's my night ruined. I will just have to go and make a bloody Frittata for International Week at the school. WHY oh WHY did I say I would? I was feeling quite guilty about my lack of cake baking which I should never have confessed to in the last post. I must remember that the head of the school's parents group is the mother of the 'extra' child I care for and a regular reader. I am my own worst enemy. Talking of which, after a brief euphoria on Friday when my weight finally started with another new number, all hope has been lost after I stupidly stepped on the scales at the meeting I worked at on Monday night and almost burst in to tears on the spot. It appears that the cake and ice cream I happily hoovered up over the sunny weekend had an almost instant affect on the scales. Desperately unfair. I have spent the last two days feeling whale-like. I am more and more and more over trying to lose this last half stone.
Ooooh I can't believe it, I've just remembered that the day did in fact contain some excitement. As the children sat eating their 'besghetti bomonaise' I opened the fridge and realised we DID in fact have butter which I had spent the day assuming we did NOT. As I squealed with joy at my discovery, Bea asked me what was so exciting. I told her and without looking up she said, 'Mum, that is definitely not exciting'. I fear I may be desperately in need of the summer holidays. I certainly need to get out of the house more. Maybe I should go to the International Evening at the school tomorrow and sample my own frittata. Although then I would have to converse with other adults who would be more polite than my six year old daughter and just nod along whilst secretly wondering how anyone could be so terribly dull. It would be too embarrassing. I'll just stay here in safety and watch another repeat.
I'm off to peel potatoes and crack eggs. Whatever is to become of me.
YAWWNNNNNNNNNNNNNN x
Mercifully the weekend was rather more interesting. Saturday started early as Bea and I left at 7.30 for our girly weekend. We've never split up the sexes like this before but it was incredibly successful. K had a fabulous time with the boys and Bea and I revelled in our girlyness. (I was slightly less happy about the three hours or so I spent listening to Justin Beiber but at least she didn't moan at me singing along loudly). Bea spent Saturday enjoying the girl-tastic beauty-fest that was her cousin's 10th Birthday 'Beauty' party and I had a great time sans children. After I collected my fully made up, hair plaited and nails painted girl, we drove on to the magnificent Southwold on the Suffolk coast to stay the night with my sister and her family on the first night of their holiday. Sunday was spent chilling on the beach and shopping for things we didn't need, which are two of my favourite activities in the world. We even went for a swim in the North Sea. Bea, like me, is a huge fan of the sea - I'm not sure she has much of a clue that there are other seas in the world which are clear, blue and warm so for now she's very content with the brown and freezing North Sea. She might be slightly less keen now that we almost drowned, but hopefully she'll get over that quickly. Towards the end of our sea dip, I suddenly found myself unable to stand, just as a big wave crashed down on us and as Bea panicked, her grip around my neck tightened considerably so that I also found myself terribly concerned for our welfare. As you now know, we did survive, although Bea was upset for a while afterwards and as I carried her out of the sea my sister ran towards us to tell me that my boob was hanging out. Hey ho. A small price to pay for survival.
I am flashing the flesh a little too often for my liking at the moment. George seems to have no clue that I might not want people to see my knickers and every now and then likes to lift my skirt up, totally without warning. Outwardly, the weight loss has brought about a rather pleasing effect but underneath it is a total car crash. My stomach has not coped well with the pregnancies and subsequent weight loss and really it needs permanent structured support to look even vaguely acceptable. Anyone but K seeing it makes me feel quite ill. (I suppose it was lucky I was wearing a one piece and not a bikini on the beach so that it wasn't my boob as well as my stomach hanging out.) I do worry about the lack of elasticity my skin now possesses. If I were able to go back in time and show my 18 yr old self what became of her beautiful unadulterated skin she would collapse with shock and probably ask why my hair was so frizzy. I am going to start scouring the internet for miracle creams that might once again make my skin soft and taught.
Oh God even Lewis is a bloody repeat. SOD. I was really looking forward to it as the highlight of my Wednesday. That's my night ruined. I will just have to go and make a bloody Frittata for International Week at the school. WHY oh WHY did I say I would? I was feeling quite guilty about my lack of cake baking which I should never have confessed to in the last post. I must remember that the head of the school's parents group is the mother of the 'extra' child I care for and a regular reader. I am my own worst enemy. Talking of which, after a brief euphoria on Friday when my weight finally started with another new number, all hope has been lost after I stupidly stepped on the scales at the meeting I worked at on Monday night and almost burst in to tears on the spot. It appears that the cake and ice cream I happily hoovered up over the sunny weekend had an almost instant affect on the scales. Desperately unfair. I have spent the last two days feeling whale-like. I am more and more and more over trying to lose this last half stone.
Ooooh I can't believe it, I've just remembered that the day did in fact contain some excitement. As the children sat eating their 'besghetti bomonaise' I opened the fridge and realised we DID in fact have butter which I had spent the day assuming we did NOT. As I squealed with joy at my discovery, Bea asked me what was so exciting. I told her and without looking up she said, 'Mum, that is definitely not exciting'. I fear I may be desperately in need of the summer holidays. I certainly need to get out of the house more. Maybe I should go to the International Evening at the school tomorrow and sample my own frittata. Although then I would have to converse with other adults who would be more polite than my six year old daughter and just nod along whilst secretly wondering how anyone could be so terribly dull. It would be too embarrassing. I'll just stay here in safety and watch another repeat.
I'm off to peel potatoes and crack eggs. Whatever is to become of me.
YAWWNNNNNNNNNNNNNN x
Friday, 1 July 2011
Waiting for K and Takeaway
As you might have guessed by the extraordinarily cryptic title of this little post I am currently awaiting the arrival of K and then hopefully our evening meal. There is nothing like having supper delivered to make me feel chipper. Not that I'm one of the wives that cooks for her husband every night and this could be considered a rest for my poor put upon self. Far from it. I am a slummy wife. I don't tend to beat myself up about it. He's lived this far.
I'm not much better as a mother. This morning I told Bea I didn't really want to go in to help out at her school. She was making the point that lots of mums go in to listen to the children reading or to help with baking or even to accompany them on a school trip (horrific). I don't even take cakes in for the cake sale (SHHHHHHH - I do buy them though and that must count for something) anyway, she asked why. I made the Ted excuse. She said Harini's mum does. I said maybe Harini's mum doesn't have lots of children. She said yes she does Harini has four brothers and a sister. I was stuck - and slightly amazed as six children is a lot. She said, well when Ted is older can you. I still said no. I know that at this point I should have just said yes to shut her up but I thought I'd nip this in the bud. She said why. I said, because I don't care about other people's children. And there is the simple truth of it. I just don't. I mean I don't want to appear mean I am a huge lover of children and all, it's just that obviously mine are the best. If it was just Bea I was going in to help I would make it my priority but it isn't - there are 29 others and I feel no love for them so I couldn't really care less how they are doing or if they need help with anything. I cannot be alone in this - it's not like I have no feelings for other children - there a quite a number of whom I am particularly fond but let's be honest, Other People's Children are mostly annoying, they don't smell right and the stories about them are on the whole, quite dull. Anyway, in the end I conceded the point and agreed that Harini's mum was just a better mother than me. Bea agreed and then, with just the right comedy timing (as she is mine she is perfect and amusing and you must love hearing about her) she said - 'but at least she doesn't have style.' I know the sentence wasn't formed correctly but in essence she meant I was a better dresser. I was immensely proud. Of myself for having style and of course of her for realising these things are what really matter. (I later found out in the park that Harini is, in fact, an only child - I am less proud of the lying but I think it shows determination. It is just plain old lying in OP'sC.)
It must be different for other people because I can only assume that they love my children and find them totally adorable because of course they are just that. Also I now have a genius - I haven't had one before and had become quite used to revelling in their lack of academic prowess - but Ted is now a bone fide genius. An evil one which will be problematic as he grows but a genius nonetheless. Not only can he point at his nose and say, nose, he can say 'three' if you say one and two. SEE. You are amazed. And, and, and, he can wee on a potty when asked. COME ON - he isn't yet two. I know you are gobsmacked. Don't worry about your own inferior children, I'm sure they'll catch up eventually.
One more child-related tale for this Friday night. On Wednesday I took Bea out of school at lunch time for an Optician’s appointment. (The teacher suggested we go as Bea is having trouble with her writing – I think she just isn’t particularly good at it but I thought I ought to rule it out just in case) When I made the appointment I had no idea the sheer level of excitement it would bring about for Bea. She literally couldn’t wait for Wednesday to roll around and awoke at 5.30am with the anticipation. (I could sort of understand the excitement over visiting the Doctor at the private hospital ‘up west’ but an Optician down the road? Mystified) I picked her up and tried to curb her enthusiasm on the walk down. By the time we got there it became apparent that she needed the loo. I asked the receptionist if she could use theirs. ‘No’, she said ‘it would be far too dangerous’. My mind boggles wondering what hazards the receptionist and the optician were able to overcome several times a day in order relieve themselves but which could be potentially life threatening for my daughter. I didn’t argue the point, I left the receptionist with a sleeping Ted in the buggy and ran down to the pub with B and G. I went in to the adjacent cubicle to G and experimented with the lock – I then repeated to G that he just needed to lift the lock up. He kept trying but to no avail, even though he assured me in a panicked tone that he was ‘twying with all his might' (again his inability to say 'r' is adorable as he is mine - that isn't necessarily true of OP'sC). He tried to get out under the door but his head was too big. I was seriously panicking at this point. Then we tried again, with me pushing his head down and pulling at the same time - this time it worked, he got out without a scratch. Relief. Then I felt bad about leaving a locked, empty stall in a nice pub in which I had spent no money. So I sent Bea in, back under the gap (might have scratched her a bit) and she got in, pushed the lock down (this stall was evidently different to the other three) and we were free to leave to get back to her sight test. Crisis averted.
Turns out she did indeed love the opticians and all the sight tests and as we left, pronounced it to be 'the most fun ever'. I am seriously never going to take them to Legoland. It would blow her mind and she might never be that excited again about mundane health appointments. Oh, and her sight needs testing again in six months as there is some issue with her not seeing the very small letters. She is thrilled.
Take away here - I have to go. K is losing patience.
Bon appetit x
I'm not much better as a mother. This morning I told Bea I didn't really want to go in to help out at her school. She was making the point that lots of mums go in to listen to the children reading or to help with baking or even to accompany them on a school trip (horrific). I don't even take cakes in for the cake sale (SHHHHHHH - I do buy them though and that must count for something) anyway, she asked why. I made the Ted excuse. She said Harini's mum does. I said maybe Harini's mum doesn't have lots of children. She said yes she does Harini has four brothers and a sister. I was stuck - and slightly amazed as six children is a lot. She said, well when Ted is older can you. I still said no. I know that at this point I should have just said yes to shut her up but I thought I'd nip this in the bud. She said why. I said, because I don't care about other people's children. And there is the simple truth of it. I just don't. I mean I don't want to appear mean I am a huge lover of children and all, it's just that obviously mine are the best. If it was just Bea I was going in to help I would make it my priority but it isn't - there are 29 others and I feel no love for them so I couldn't really care less how they are doing or if they need help with anything. I cannot be alone in this - it's not like I have no feelings for other children - there a quite a number of whom I am particularly fond but let's be honest, Other People's Children are mostly annoying, they don't smell right and the stories about them are on the whole, quite dull. Anyway, in the end I conceded the point and agreed that Harini's mum was just a better mother than me. Bea agreed and then, with just the right comedy timing (as she is mine she is perfect and amusing and you must love hearing about her) she said - 'but at least she doesn't have style.' I know the sentence wasn't formed correctly but in essence she meant I was a better dresser. I was immensely proud. Of myself for having style and of course of her for realising these things are what really matter. (I later found out in the park that Harini is, in fact, an only child - I am less proud of the lying but I think it shows determination. It is just plain old lying in OP'sC.)
It must be different for other people because I can only assume that they love my children and find them totally adorable because of course they are just that. Also I now have a genius - I haven't had one before and had become quite used to revelling in their lack of academic prowess - but Ted is now a bone fide genius. An evil one which will be problematic as he grows but a genius nonetheless. Not only can he point at his nose and say, nose, he can say 'three' if you say one and two. SEE. You are amazed. And, and, and, he can wee on a potty when asked. COME ON - he isn't yet two. I know you are gobsmacked. Don't worry about your own inferior children, I'm sure they'll catch up eventually.
One more child-related tale for this Friday night. On Wednesday I took Bea out of school at lunch time for an Optician’s appointment. (The teacher suggested we go as Bea is having trouble with her writing – I think she just isn’t particularly good at it but I thought I ought to rule it out just in case) When I made the appointment I had no idea the sheer level of excitement it would bring about for Bea. She literally couldn’t wait for Wednesday to roll around and awoke at 5.30am with the anticipation. (I could sort of understand the excitement over visiting the Doctor at the private hospital ‘up west’ but an Optician down the road? Mystified) I picked her up and tried to curb her enthusiasm on the walk down. By the time we got there it became apparent that she needed the loo. I asked the receptionist if she could use theirs. ‘No’, she said ‘it would be far too dangerous’. My mind boggles wondering what hazards the receptionist and the optician were able to overcome several times a day in order relieve themselves but which could be potentially life threatening for my daughter. I didn’t argue the point, I left the receptionist with a sleeping Ted in the buggy and ran down to the pub with B and G. I went in to the adjacent cubicle to G and experimented with the lock – I then repeated to G that he just needed to lift the lock up. He kept trying but to no avail, even though he assured me in a panicked tone that he was ‘twying with all his might' (again his inability to say 'r' is adorable as he is mine - that isn't necessarily true of OP'sC). He tried to get out under the door but his head was too big. I was seriously panicking at this point. Then we tried again, with me pushing his head down and pulling at the same time - this time it worked, he got out without a scratch. Relief. Then I felt bad about leaving a locked, empty stall in a nice pub in which I had spent no money. So I sent Bea in, back under the gap (might have scratched her a bit) and she got in, pushed the lock down (this stall was evidently different to the other three) and we were free to leave to get back to her sight test. Crisis averted.
Turns out she did indeed love the opticians and all the sight tests and as we left, pronounced it to be 'the most fun ever'. I am seriously never going to take them to Legoland. It would blow her mind and she might never be that excited again about mundane health appointments. Oh, and her sight needs testing again in six months as there is some issue with her not seeing the very small letters. She is thrilled.
Take away here - I have to go. K is losing patience.
Bon appetit x
(Stupid computer yet again lost half of the text when I posted it. ARGGGHHHHH. If you clicked on it when it was first posted there was a large chunk missing. Apologies)
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