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.