A Tribute

Today is not a day for comic anecdotes, it is a day of great sadness. My husband and I were at University with Jon Egging, the Red Arrows pilot who died yesterday in Bournemouth. I didn't know him particularly well, but my husband was sharing a drink with him only a few months ago. It is a tragedy that has touched us all and our constant thoughts are with Jon's family.

So too are they with mine. It is at times like these that we are reminded how insignificant the little dramas are. I have two children and a husband who are alive and well. Full stop. It really doesn't matter who had the toy first,  or that someone left the tap running and now the bathroom floor is flooded. It doesn't matter if I'm late or one of the kids has fallen over and scraped their knee. They can wait and it will heal. All that matters is we appreciate every second of our lives.

May you rest in peace Jon. 

Boysterous and Girlggly

A few months ago I had a bag full of old tennis balls solely intended for the use of Rosie Dog. Today I couldn't find any left to take on our walk. I usually take two as notoriously one always gets lost in the hedgerow or the river. I am just wondering where all these tennis balls go? There must be a secret mountain somewhere. The same goes for my daughter's hair clips. They can't just disappear...

Even my friends that are the only female in their families say my son is one of the most lively boys they've met, which is a polite way of putting it. We were swimming with friends yesterday and whilst all the other children were messing around Boysterous was running up to the side of the pool, jumping into the air, curling into a tight ball and bombing the water. He'd then emerge, victorious, shouting: 'Again!'. He didn't grow tired of this game for a full 45 minutes by which time I swear the water levels had reduced by a few inches and most of it was on the sides. I did try to placate him, but from experience I know that once the fuse has been lit nothing will stop the bomb going off, and actually I was secretly proud of his dare-devilishness.

Girlggly has been acting all coy since spending a day with her intended yesterday. Despite him making it clear that marriage is not on the cards for the foreseeable future, her love-sickness was quelled by a solid five hours of his undivided attention. So today, the Wedding plans have been back in full swing; princess dresses have been designed and letters written to friends inviting them to the big day. When I told her that it is good to be so prepared but she will have to wait a few more years, she asked how many. I told her at least 25.

"Mummy, how many sleeps is that?"

We are all screaming!

Week four of the holidays and we're supposed to be having a quiet one but apparently that is not to be. My two children are at each other's throats, the dog looks depressed and Mummy is tearing her hair out. My son screams for a solid hour after waking from his afternoon nap and my daughter screams louder so she is not forgotten. 

After three hectic weeks so far, I decided this would be a calm one at home doing good, old-fashioned playing in the garden, baking and craft activities. A lazy week where we don't have to be anywhere by a particular time and we can stay in our pyjamas until ten o'clock and it doesn't matter. But by lunch-time my five year old is asking where we are going today and then gets really upset when I tell her we are just staying at home. I don't remember being bothered by such a day. In fact, those are the days I savour in my memory; the one's where you can let your imagination run wild and relish your freedom. Do today's youngsters just expect everything to be planned out for them? I say, just enjoy the days it's not. 

To me a day of nothing is pure bliss. We spend so much of our lives running from A to B and forget what is important. Like making chocolate fridge cake and being a princess...

And when my mum tells me that my brother and I never made such a fuss, she's lying. This week may feel hard, but next week I'll be willing the holidays to last just a little bit longer.  

Growing up too fast

What do the Summer holidays conjure up for you?

For me, it is the sound of lawnmowers, jumping through the sprinkler in the garden, days spent outdoors, having picnics, building dens, riding bikes, chasing butterflies and when there is nothing better to do, lying on your back watching the clouds.

I tried this with my daughter today. I told her that if you look up at the clouds, sometimes they will make a shape like an animal. "Look, there's a whale, and over there, a duck", I say.
"Yes. Duck", my son agrees.
"Don't be silly Mummy. It is just a cloud", my five going on thirty-five daughter replies. What happened to just being silly for the sake of being silly?

This isn't the first time my daughter sounds too mature for her tender years. When I was heavily pregnant and in pain, she would rub my back and tell me everything was going to be alright. If I'm over-tired and grumpy, she tells me I've got out of bed the wrong side today and I should have an early night. If I'm feeling sad, she tells me that I have a lot to be grateful for so I should be happy. If she's been watching television with her brother, she'll turn it off and tell him that they've watched enough today.

I still think of my two year old as my baby. He's the smallest in our family after all. But there is nothing like visiting a new baby to shock you back to reality. Compared to the newborn, my son was HUGE. I may not want to face up to it, but I am definitely out of that baby period. My two are growing up fast and there is nothing I can do about it, except sit back and enjoy.

Mummy, what colour hair does God have?

I find the subject of God a difficult one to explain. I am by no means an expert.

"If God is all around us, why can't we see him?"
"Well, God is a spirit which means he doesn't have a body. Just his soul is with us". (Mummy)
"Can he be with us and other people at the same time?"
"Yes. He is everywhere; the sky, the earth, the air, the flowers, the mountains, the animals, even you and me". (Mummy)
Eyes wide.
"He's in me? So he's eating my lunch too?" Mmm.
"Not exactly. But he is watching over you whilst you eat".
"So Mummy, how can God and Joseph be Jesus' father?"

Ah.

Welsh Rabbit and Spaghetti Carbanana

I love all these little chestnuts my daughter comes out with. Yesterday she asked me how clouds make rain. I launched into a lengthy description of the water cycle and precipitation which she listened to patiently. Then after digesting the information for a moment she told me that I was wrong. Apparently, clouds float around the sky until they see a plant that looks sad because it needs some water. Then they stop and out comes the rain.

I started a chocolate detox this week, Tuesday to be precise, so I have lasted five days so far. I'm wondering if they could bring out a chocoholics patch for those trying to kick the habit because I'm thinking about its smooth sweetness melting on my tongue approximately every 10 seconds. I'm also starving! Despite just eating dinner. I never really thought of myself as an addict until my husband pointed out that eating half a family bar a day is perhaps a little bit excessive. The problem is, on the tough days, I find a bit of chocolate helps take the edge off the tantrums. A banana doesn't really cut it. Anyway, enough really is enough, and until I can learn to eat a few cubes at a time, I am going cold turkey. I'm salivating just writing about it...

Mrs Mop

What was I thinking?

Two years ago when my son was born, my husband suggested we had a cleaner. I didn't take much persuading as nothing was getting done. But in a moment of martyrdom several weeks ago and in a bid to save some money, I decided to cancel the cleaner and do it myself from now on. I got a little bit carried away, as I also cancelled the wheelie bin and window cleaner the same morning. I must be mad.

Despite more superficial cleaning between the cleaner's fortnightly visit, at first I found the deeper cleaning experience hugely satisfying. I decided to clean upstairs one week and downstairs the next and this would happen on one morning each week. It felt good to be back at the handle of the vacuum again. I am a self confessed perfectionist and after working my way through three cleaners before finding one that was satisfactory I had had to learn to bite my tongue and lower my standards. Hence why I was enjoying returning my home to its former glory.

However, there were a number of factors I hadn't quite thought through:

1) Cleaning with a toddler in tow is a nightmare! My son loves to help, but hanging on to the vacuum making it pretty hard to push is not exactly helpful. Also, they are bored after one room, so it can take up to a week to clean downstairs, which means very little time off before the upstairs cleaning begins, which means, NO DAYS OFF CLEANING. EVER.


2) Wheelie bins have maggots in when they are full of nappies and it's summer time. I know they are only small, but they still make me jump up and down, shiver and run away. I always seem to hold my breath too as if I might inhale one.

3) You still have everything else to do! Cooking, gardening, walking the dog, paperwork etc.etc.

4) Window cleaning with an extendable pole thingy is harder than it looks, and you get very wet.

5) Cleaning is hard work. Boy, am I pooped! I have the upmost respect for cleaners cleaning a whole house in one go.

I guess the only compensation is that I now feel very virtuous. 

Goldfish and Wedding Vows

Wouldn't it be great if you could train your children like you do the dog? Rosie Dog was at dog school this morning and does practically anything for a piece of sausage. Sit, down, bow, stay, twirl, you name it. It does worry me though that I seem to have more control over my dog than I do my children. Not only does she do what I ask but there are also no screaming fits or tears when she doesn't get what she wants. If she is running towards a road, I call her and she comes (unless furry rabbits are involved). If I tell her to wait, she does. If I tell her to sit, she does, but all the time my children are running around like untrained beasts. She'll listen and look at me intently when I speak to her instead of ignoring every word I say. She doesn't push me away when I cuddle her and gets really excited when I suggest going out for a walk, even in the rain.

But, like any man or beast, she is not perfect. We were invited for lunch today (children and dog). Just like a classic children's story the kids amused themselves for hours with only the odd cause for concern, whilst Rosie played with her Jack Russell friend in the garden. All seemed well until she appeared dripping wet at the back door. It wasn't raining, so we trooped outside to find the source of the water. A tell tale puddle and paw prints beside the neighbour's coveted fish pond gave her away. I'm hoping one of the prized gold fish didn't become an early supper or we may not be invited again.

For several years now the master of the house we visited has held a very special place in my daughter's heart. So special in fact, that she already has their wedding and married life planned down to the smallest detail. Her dress is going to be 'knitted' by Grandma, they are going to live in a farm house and her intended is going to be a farmer. His parents will live one side whilst we live the other. They are going to have children and lots of farm animals and Chloe is going to do all the cleaning, (I'll have to speak to her about that!). They both have photographs of each other in their bedrooms and when they hug or kiss goodbye it is like watching an old married couple. Even after her first year at school as one of only five girls in a class of twenty-six, she is still loyal to her prince, as she calls him. I wonder what the chances are of this lasting and should I be planning my wedding outfit? Of all you bloggers out there, have any of you married your childhood prince?

Not so pearly whites...

Today I am feeling like the World's Worst mother. I took my five year old to the dentist as she has been suffering tooth pain only to find out she has an abscess and two decayed teeth which will have to be removed. In shock, I asked the dentist what has caused this to happen and he pointed at Ethan sitting in the buggy happily chewing on a fruit stick and said "That. Sugar". I was too shocked to say that they very rarely have that kind of thing and only for a special treat or if I really do have to keep them amused, like now.

Short of kneeing the dentist in the chest and brandishing a tooth drill over his head, I let his comment simmer for a few minutes. It was no good, the simmer turned to a rapid boil. I had done everything I could to keep my children healthy, including their teeth, and I was not going to be accused otherwise:

"May I just say that I resent being tarnished with the same brush that you obviously use for your other clients. I have done my upmost to ensure my children have a healthy diet and look after their teeth. My daughter has had regular dental check up's and drinks milk like there is no tomorrow. I do not like it being implied that this is due to parental negligence".

At which he looked rather taken aback and apologised about four times in a row.

Important lesson = Accusing or even merely implying that a woman is a bad mother may result in intense physical pain somewhere below the belt.

I have just purchased my daughter the mother of all electric toothbrushes (in pink). She is not going to be the first child with dentures...

Short Circuits and swords...

Little boys are dangerous, or mine certainly is! We've just returned from a fortnight's stay with Grandma and Grandpa and I plan to batten down the hatches and lay low for a few days in the vague hope it may prevent any further dramas!

Last week we visited a castle and on passing a stall selling toy helmets and swords, I decided that my two year old was now of a suitable age to play with such items in a relatively safe manner. I had been putting off the inevitable fighting role play for as long as possible and felt guilty I was depriving him of his natural instincts. Hey, we were in a safe environment, all the other kids had them and he had his big sister and three adults to keep him in check. I couldn't have been more wrong! With helmet on he pulled the sword from its sheath with film star perfection and immediately adopted a professional looking en garde pose. Where did he learn that? I can only assume it is embedded deep within his genetic make-up somewhere. Not wanting to be outdone by her baby brother, my daughter followed suit (this was after I relented and bought two sets instead of the one I originally said they could share. Huh, who was I kidding). A vicious dual then commenced around the castle grounds, up the steep steps and along the battlements. It was a sight both to adore and wince at. Of course it ended in tears and after being stabbed in the neck through the headrest of the car seat whilst driving home, the swords have mysteriously gone missing, although I wouldn't mind a go myself sometime...

The next major event occured whilst I was trying to have a half hour lie in, but, as usual, it was not to be. Ethan burst in, waddling along in his grobag and threw himself up on to the bed, knocking over my very full glass of water on the bedside table. The water cascaded down the wall behind straight into an electric socket. Chloe, who was downstairs watching some television, told Grandpa when the screen went black that the electricity must have gone off. She is well accustomed to her brother's antics. Anyway, Grandpa diligently dealt with the matter mopping up the water and drying out the socket and the electricity came back on. Having just read how dangerous this was on the internet, I am counting my blessings that he is still alive to tell the tale.

Cricket balls and cats up trees

We've had Rosie Dog six months now and I've got her sussed. Anything round or anything furry = chase (see previous blog: In Memoriam). I took the brood to the park which is a mean feat in itself as with two kids and a dog all heading off in different directions with varying agendas, I tend to be stuck in the middle wondering which one will hit disaster first. This time it was the dog.

Despite the filthy tennis ball I was dilligently hurling as she dropped it at my feet (I'm sure those thrower things give you tennis elbow), Rosie decided the cricket ball flying through the air from the match going on at the other end of the park was a far greater challenge. With her head cocked to the sky and eyes locked on her target, she set off in hot persuit. The young man clad in white also running after the ball,saw he had competition and raised the game, speeding up considerably, as did Rosie. Images of a dog with no teeth having had them knocked out by a fast moving cricket ball flashed through my mind, but shouting "No, Rosie, STOP!" was utterly pointless. Except to amuse the other smug dog owners watching all this comotion from the sidelines with their well behaved hounds sitting obediently at their feet. Fortunately the cricketer was tall and caught the ball before Rosie had a chance and threw it effortlessly back towards the pitch. I breathed a premature sigh of relief, but it wasn't over yet. Rosie obviously decided she wasn't to be defeated so easily and spun around to stampede after her slippery prey. At the point she hit the green barking madly and looking for the ball (already caught), I wanted to disclaim ownership and run, but by now the kids thought this all looked like great fun and had made a beeline to join the dog, so I was forced to intervene. Let's just say it wasn't a smooth operation.

If I had a tail, it would be between my legs as we vacated the park shamefaced. But even though Rosie was panting faster than a steam-train, when we entered the back garden and removed her lead, she saw another opportunity for rebellion. This time, it was in the form of Grandma and Grandpa's overweight, very furry, elderly, cat. Within a blink of an eye, Rosie was gone through a gap far tinier than her solid labrador body should be able and into the next door neighbour's garden. After a cocophany of barks, miaows and scraping of paws on wood, she returned looking like she'd been dragged through a hedge backwards and collapsed at my feet happy that her day's work was complete. We peered up into the huge fir tree from which a tirade of loud miaows now emanated and there was Ebony, marrooned in a cage of branches. She did eventually come down, but Rosie certainly hasn't earned herself any brownie points with the grandparents for that one.

Today I am having a what's the point of blog moment. I think I have had only two readers so far, other than my husband. I guess a blog is only a glorified diary and I guess I'd be flattering myself to think that anybody would want to read about the mayhem that goes on in my life, but I am wondering whether there is any point doing it if nobody reads it? To all you other bloggers out there, and without looking too desperate, how do you achieve fame?

Sun, sea, travel sickness and the birds and the bees....

Oh, the joys of travelling with two young children, a dog and two grandparents, who good-naturedly offered to take us away to the sea for a few days whilst Daddy is away. It took about two hours to pile all the luggage and the above passengers into the now, bursting at the seams car only to find that my son had another dirty nappy and my daughter needed another visit to the loo. Finally we were on our way to the coast, a three hour journey, and it was already nearly lunch-time.

I had always envisaged the 'how babies are made' question to come at a time when I could carefully mull over my answer and present the facts in a way that didn't freak my daughter out. But when you are driving on the M25 with a toddler loudly protesting at being strapped in his car seat, a Grandpa telling you when to break, speed up and indicate, a Grandma nervously asking if you've seen the enormous lorry on your inside and a dog barking at a motorbike on your tail, any ability to think up a maintaining innocence for as long as possible but truthful answer flies out of the window. So far I had managed to avoid an in depth description by telling my daughter that Mummy and Daddy have a special cuddle and because they love each other so much, they are lucky enough to have made two wonderful babies. This was obviously no longer satisfying her curiosity and the next step was the "but what happens when you have a special cuddle to get the baby inside you?" question. Despite the odds, my multi-tasking abilities were on form and I managed to abate her by telling her that male and female body parts entwine together which makes the baby. So now I'm just waiting for the "which body parts exactly?" and hopefully this time it won't be in front of Grandma and Grandpa.

After the previous bout of travel sickness that afflicted my son, when he announced that his "tum, hurt", I thought we could be in for another dousing. Five people in a car smelling of dog and sick would be almost too much to bear. Fortunately disaster was averted with a couple of digestive biscuits. Either my son is a considerate little lad with the foresight to warn his mother of impending doom, or he's worked out that claiming you feel sick gets action, and fast.

Finally, we arrived just before tea time and went straight to the beach. Relishing their freedom, the kids and the dog ran in and out of the sea getting covered in sand and water. This was the kind of mess that didn't bother me in the slightest even though by the end of the two days the car had a stench of wet dog and seaweed and was covered in sand. Seeing two happy kids enjoying the simplest pleasures in life was more than worth carrying a screaming, wet toddler back to the car, it was worth the dog being sick from swallowing too much sea water, it was worth the tedious journey. It was what life was really about.

Eau du Vomit

Unfortunately I am not one of those mums at the school gates that looks calm, well-presented and in control. I am the one that looks dishevelled and harassed, running up and down the pavement chasing my son. Other mums casually chat with each other whilst their offspring play close by. Not me. I start conversations but never finish them, having to break off and run after Ethan. Wonderful , exuberant and full of the joys of life but you'd think he was fed on a diet of fireworks and coca-cola. Who needs a gym when you've got an Ethan?

Today, when I pick up my daughter on her last day of school before the Summer holidays, I will probably smell of sick. Things didn't start well. By 9.30 am I had missed an emergency dental appointment for a sore tooth which will just have to remain sore, due to poor Ethan projectile vomiting three times down the back of my neck in the car on the way there. The icing on the cake was returning home to find the hallway strewn with the stuffing from Rosie Dog's bed. The limp casing discarded in the corner. Well that didn't last long, like everything else in this house. Ignoring the dog and thinking that she will just have to sleep on the bare floorboards tonight, I concentrated on getting poorly Ethan in the bath and then bed. At least I managed this successfully and it afforded me three glorious hours in which to disinfect the car.

Two loads of washing, one gleaming car inside and out, and a blog later, my son still hasn't woken up. Ironing, cleaning and packing still left to do for a two week trip to grandparents but for once in my life, I think I might sit down, finish my breakfast which is now more of a brunch, and wait for him to wake up. Bliss.

Ode to Blog

Whatever did I do before Blog?
With you I can laugh out loud or sob
It doesn't matter what I write
Or how late it is at night
Tales about the kids or the dog
You are my trusted, faithful Blog.

Driving the car or out on a jog
I think up the next story I must tell Blog
So many little things that happen in my day
If it wasn't for Blog they might drift away
I spend much of my life in a constant fog
But when the kids are in bed I turn to Blog.

Writing for a living would be my dream job
One year I have vowed to dedicate to Blog
Who knows where this will lead?
I've simply sown the seed
But at least I'm no longer on my tod
From now on, it's not just me, it's me and Blog.

In Memoriam

On our walk this morning, Rosie Dog caught a rabbit.

Despite learning to 'Leave It' in dog class, this fluffy, bouncing bunny was apparently worth a lapse of obedience. She bounded back out of the woods extremely proud of herself, and if it wasn't for the fur in the way, I'm sure she was smiling. It wasn't as if she was aggressive, she was holding it gently between her ancestral retriever lips, but she had no concept that what lay in her mouth was not in fact the best toy she had ever laid eyes upon, it was a living, breathing rabbit, terrified out of its mind. She laid it on the ground at my feet and seizing its opportunity, the rabbit made a run for it. But Rosie was faster. She held it a while longer, than deposited it on the ground once more. Again the rabbit made a bid for freedom. I tried to grab her collar, but in her frenzy of primal urges I had no chance. My son was watching this whole sorry affair from his buggy which finally came to a halt as the bunny lay lifeless on the ground. Rosie lost interest and went off into the bushes following another scent.

I stepped closer. The rabbits eyes were open and he was still breathing, but he looked pretty roughed up. There was no blood but he was lying very still. I burst into tears. This was all my fault.
"Bunny. Hurt" my son said pointing. Sobbing, I nodded my head. Then I called my Dad. Even though he was miles away, he would know what to do.
"Either walk away and try and forget about it, or pick up a heavy stick and aim it, look away and put it out of its misery", he said. I could do neither of these things.

Instead I resorted to walking back down the path to see if I could find someone to help. Outside a house was a removal lorry. I explained the sorry plight of Mr Bunny to the band of burly men and managed to convince one of them to come to my aid. It had been about twenty minutes since I'd left the rabbit and I half expected it to already be dead, but it wasn't. The removal man thought that Rosie had probably broken its spine and the most humane thing to do was kill it. He told me to walk away. Taking one last look, I did just that and as I came out of the woods I heard the dull thump of finality behind me.

I'm so sorry Mr Bunny. May you rest in peace.

Cleaned and polished

Today I can add another sub-title to my ever expanding repertoire in my vocation as 'Mummy'. Teeth. Human and canine.

This evening I spent half an hour coaxing my five year old daughter, Chloe, to open her mouth wide enough so I could extract a raspberry seed which had been stubbornly wedged between her two back teeth for the past few days. It is understandable that she found it hard to believe that the dentists' spike I'd found at the back of my husbands side of the medicine cabinet and now wielded in front of her face would indeed offer any relief to her discomfort. After resorting to the "you do trust Mummy don't you?" line, she eventually yielded and allowed me an inch of entry. It took some prising, but finally the seed popped out. Relieved that Mummy had removed the scary spikey thing from her mouth she clamped it shut. Visualising the cause of all this disturbance and the prize of my efforts disappearing down her throat, I shouted louder than I intended, "No, don't swallow". She obediently opened and miraculously there was the seed resting on her tongue. With it safely on my finger I handed it to her, certain she would treat it with the reverence I did. Instead, she flicked it on the floor, leapt up and strutted off to her room without even a thank you. "Can I have a book now Mummy?". Incident over.

With teeth on the mind and the children in bed. I decided tonight was the night to open the toothbrush and meat flavoured toothpaste I'd bought for our dog, Rosie. Advised by the vet that teeth care in dogs is just as important as it is in humans, I was doing my upmost to be a diligent dog owner. I imagined brushing dog's teeth would be a completely different ballgame to childrens, but I was pleasantly surprised at how easy it was. Dare I go as far as to say, it is easier. It wasn't long ago that I had to straddle my toddler on the floor to get anywhere near his teeth, whereas Rosie, only slightly fazed by the sensation of a brush in her mouth, was good naturedly compliant. I found it strangely satisfying to brush her slightly yellowing teeth to a brilliant white shine, enough to give any celebrity a run for their money. Whatever is in that meat toothpaste it is good stuff and could put a lot of dentists offering whitening treatments out of business. I could do with a bit myself...

So now, with three sets of teeth brushed, as always, Mummy comes last. But at least I can brush mine in peace.