Ok, I admit, this year was not the best year to start this blog.
Yes, I am clearly learning that my actions have consequences...
I mean, who's idea was it to name the blog Giddy Kipper?
Yes, I am aware that was Me.
And this is a recurring theme of being a grown up.
(what a drag to find "blaming the parents" eventually means me?)
I have been a Giddy Kipper for as long as I can remember - but DOH... nobody briefed me on 2009 before blogger.com and I had our virtual naming ceremony.
with hindsight -
WhatTheBloodyHellIsGoingOn.blog may have been more appropriate
or - SickOfTheWholeDamnShootingMatch.blog (copyright Mr Jagger) would have made my entries flow easier...
Or even,
Don'tEvenGlanceAtTheExtraStoneRoundMyMiddleIHaveBeenComfortEatingGodDamYou.blog
2009 has been a BeeAtch.
I officially declare it the most tricky of my adult life - and I have avoided being a grown up quite successfully up until now.
So, no, I have not felt Very Giddy Kipper... (and goodness, that's hard to admit, my fingers typed it all on their own)
I would like to leave you with the wisdom I learnt from my six year old son Cole... ok, I learnt two things - one, that he is funnier than J**** in his class and two, that he was due a haircut:
Cole: Mum, J**** in my class called me a Fat Girl.
Me: Really? What did you say?
Cole: I said, "But am I a Pretty Girl?"
Apparently, this fantastic line is c/o SpongeBob.
Thank you Sponge Bob, I knew those hours of tele watching would come in handy.
And if you can be a six-year-old-boy-being-called-a-fat-girl and still crack a joke then the fact that I called my blog Giddy Kipper THIS YEAR is pretty bloody Hilarious..
For a while there I took it all too seriously.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Hmmm
I've been feeling a little blue.
A little small.
A little like I'd like I'd like to go home now please. Except I am home.
A little like I would rather like a grown-up to tell me I'm doing Ever So Well, or to gently suggest areas of improvement.
A special star or sticker on my chart would help enormously.
And a little reassurance on the modern relationship would go down well.
Is it normal that the man I love and have done 11 years with can be Very Annoying sometimes?
What with his habitual being SO laid back and not stressing or worrying.
How bloody inconsiderate.
The nuggets of brightness in my day today were Cole and I spotting a tree that looked exactly like a bottom and over-hearing Ro say to Reg at bedtime...
"Dad, five more minutes and you're out of here, back down-stairs, lights on, ok?"
If you find my mojo, please send it back to me - or it may well arrive tomorrow with my new IPhone... fickle? Moi?
A little small.
A little like I'd like I'd like to go home now please. Except I am home.
A little like I would rather like a grown-up to tell me I'm doing Ever So Well, or to gently suggest areas of improvement.
A special star or sticker on my chart would help enormously.
And a little reassurance on the modern relationship would go down well.
Is it normal that the man I love and have done 11 years with can be Very Annoying sometimes?
What with his habitual being SO laid back and not stressing or worrying.
How bloody inconsiderate.
The nuggets of brightness in my day today were Cole and I spotting a tree that looked exactly like a bottom and over-hearing Ro say to Reg at bedtime...
"Dad, five more minutes and you're out of here, back down-stairs, lights on, ok?"
If you find my mojo, please send it back to me - or it may well arrive tomorrow with my new IPhone... fickle? Moi?
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Mr Roberts and the Pancake
My mother in law lives in Chapeltown.
Yes, Him Indoors is a Chapeltown Boy born and bred.
Believe it or not, he doesn't own a fire arm nor deal drugs.
We do manage to make regular visits to Chapel Town without selling the children into slavery nor having the car-jacked....
(ok the fact that our car is shit has Nothing To Do With It... they've tried to nick it several times at home in Roundhay)
One of the things I love about Reg is this Chapel Town Bad Ass neither, drinks nor smokes, nor contaminates his temple/body with neither caffeine nor tannine.
This Bingley Girl is by far the Bad Boy in Our House.
His home-turf is a peaceful community where the guy at the corner shop knows who I am and my children's birthday's. I know that we sensible types know this, but Stereo Types are Not Always True.
So... Reggie's Mum (aka Josie/Granma) still lives in Reg's child hood home in the Heart of the Hood (aye)
The first time I ever visited Reg there, he took me to his old bedroom and proudly told me - wait for his killer line:
"You can see St James's Hospital from my bedroom window."
I looked out and could not disagree... you could indeed.
And still no spliffs nor reggae music.
(My sweet full circle came three years later after giving birth to our daughter Romany at aforementioned St James's Hospital... Reg had just visited us and left to pick up supplies... Ro and I stood on the ward looking out the windows and I told her: "We can see Daddie's old bedroom window from here...")
Anyway, throughout our many years of visiting Josie/mother-in-law/grandma - when we visit Josie, as reliable as St James
Hospital in the distance; is Mr Roberts Who Lives Next Door.
Mr Roberts has lived next door since before Time Began. And every day this smart West Indian man has worn a suit. And I have never seen him without his tie and hat.
Mr Roberts has educated me and Cole and Ro in the art of the West Indian accent.
Since the children were born - in particular Cole who he took a shine to - Mr Roberts comes out to have a chat.
For the first few years we could only make out the odd word Mr Roberts said: Beckham! (Cole is blonde and plays football)
And Pancake...
(maybe Mr Roberts knew that Cole came into the world on Pancake Day)
As consistently as Chapel Town gets bad press, Mr Roberts greets us over the fence with - and these days I am Ever So Down With The West Indian Accent.... "Beckham... Where's me pancake?"
It's become a theme. A reliable topic which I enjoy more than the usual "weather" debate. "Where's me pancake Beckham?"
"I will be tossing in my grave thinking of that pancake."
Mr Roberts is at least 403.
Today, I found out something I didn't know.
We were having Sunday lunch at Granma Josie's. Our beloved Auntie Natalina was at home with us taking time out from her globe trotting and SuperNannying Royalty and Generally Showing Us All How It's Done to have dinner with us.
Cole sat still long enough to eat 47 plates of dinner then had to go into the front garden to jump up and down/shriek/play ball/work up space for perhaps one more roast potatoe?
Enter stage left Mr Roberts.
The kitchen windows were open so we all strained to hear what had become a guilty habit.... ear-wigging Cole and Mr Roberts conversations.
It began as normal.
Mr Roberts: "Beckham... where's my pancake?"
Cole: "I posted it through your letter box."
I looked to Reg or Romany or Josie/Granma/SheWhoUsuallyKnowsWhatOnEarthIsGoingOn...
I say: "Why is Cole saying that?"
Then Reg informs me.... "Oh yes... we did... we were making pancakes and Cole wanted to give Mr Roberts one. We wrapped it in silver foil and posted it through his letter box."
So then we all pay great attention to Cole and Mr Roberts in the garden out front.
The penny (and the pancake) clearly drops for Mr Roberts...
"Aah... my days, I was readin my paper.."
actually sorry, I really can't even write the West Indian accent convincingly...
but it turns out that:
Mr Roberts was at home reading his paper.
Mr Roberts found a tin foil parcel drop through his letterbox.
The note that Romany insisted on writing to accompany the parcel remained stuck in the letterbox so it was anonymous.
Mr Roberts looked up from his paper and felt suspicious about the soft parcel that arrived.
He removed a portion of his newspaper to wrap the parcel in.
Then, in order to refrain from touching the parcel used a mirror to view the parcel from various angles.
All in all Mr Roberts decided the pancake was Bad and Wrong and Not To Be Trusted and it was, at arms-length, wrapped in newspaper and dumped in the outside bin.
At approximately 3.30 this afternoon Mr Roberts realised that the soft parcel was indeed a six year overdue request for a pancake and nothing more.
Thus began a half hour of us trying to apologise for worrying him.... whilst Mr Roberts was mortified for not accepting the gift and I think even more, for - his words - "Throwing away good food."
We all had to go out in turn to reassure him that we would have all done the same had an unidentified pancake come through our door.... I told him I would definitely have done the same thing though not sure I would have thought to use a mirror for protection.
Bless him.
He was genuinely, touchingly gutted that he'd missed out on our pancake.
Whilst we were genuinely concerned and gutted that we had inadvertently scared or worried him.
After half an hour of going over the finer details of the confusion he left only to return with £10 for Romany and £10 for Cole - not accepting his money was simply not an option even though we tried.
We are now planning what we can bake or make for Mr Roberts next and how clearly we can mark/deliver the goods. Whatever we do, it's gonna be ace and lovely and from our hearts.
As we digested the afternoon's discovery, Natalina said to me, "That's one for your blog!"
And I thought... nah, I can't write this - how on earth can I convey the different strands and levels of this over-the-garden-fence hoo-ha?
(by cleverly using words like "hoo-ha" obviously)
Maybe it was my 47 glasses of red wine but the whole thing to me encapsulated family and history and multi-cultural-ness and communication and the Little Things being the Big Things and how it's important for six year old boys to chat to old West Indian men about, pancakes....
If it all got lost in translation, all you need know is -
Mr Roberts you are a true gentleman.
(and if I was Cool in da Hood I would say some Street lingo about flippin but I'm not. So I wont. It's for the Best.)
Yes, Him Indoors is a Chapeltown Boy born and bred.
Believe it or not, he doesn't own a fire arm nor deal drugs.
We do manage to make regular visits to Chapel Town without selling the children into slavery nor having the car-jacked....
(ok the fact that our car is shit has Nothing To Do With It... they've tried to nick it several times at home in Roundhay)
One of the things I love about Reg is this Chapel Town Bad Ass neither, drinks nor smokes, nor contaminates his temple/body with neither caffeine nor tannine.
This Bingley Girl is by far the Bad Boy in Our House.
His home-turf is a peaceful community where the guy at the corner shop knows who I am and my children's birthday's. I know that we sensible types know this, but Stereo Types are Not Always True.
So... Reggie's Mum (aka Josie/Granma) still lives in Reg's child hood home in the Heart of the Hood (aye)
The first time I ever visited Reg there, he took me to his old bedroom and proudly told me - wait for his killer line:
"You can see St James's Hospital from my bedroom window."
I looked out and could not disagree... you could indeed.
And still no spliffs nor reggae music.
(My sweet full circle came three years later after giving birth to our daughter Romany at aforementioned St James's Hospital... Reg had just visited us and left to pick up supplies... Ro and I stood on the ward looking out the windows and I told her: "We can see Daddie's old bedroom window from here...")
Anyway, throughout our many years of visiting Josie/mother-in-law/grandma - when we visit Josie, as reliable as St James
Hospital in the distance; is Mr Roberts Who Lives Next Door.
Mr Roberts has lived next door since before Time Began. And every day this smart West Indian man has worn a suit. And I have never seen him without his tie and hat.
Mr Roberts has educated me and Cole and Ro in the art of the West Indian accent.
Since the children were born - in particular Cole who he took a shine to - Mr Roberts comes out to have a chat.
For the first few years we could only make out the odd word Mr Roberts said: Beckham! (Cole is blonde and plays football)
And Pancake...
(maybe Mr Roberts knew that Cole came into the world on Pancake Day)
As consistently as Chapel Town gets bad press, Mr Roberts greets us over the fence with - and these days I am Ever So Down With The West Indian Accent.... "Beckham... Where's me pancake?"
It's become a theme. A reliable topic which I enjoy more than the usual "weather" debate. "Where's me pancake Beckham?"
"I will be tossing in my grave thinking of that pancake."
Mr Roberts is at least 403.
Today, I found out something I didn't know.
We were having Sunday lunch at Granma Josie's. Our beloved Auntie Natalina was at home with us taking time out from her globe trotting and SuperNannying Royalty and Generally Showing Us All How It's Done to have dinner with us.
Cole sat still long enough to eat 47 plates of dinner then had to go into the front garden to jump up and down/shriek/play ball/work up space for perhaps one more roast potatoe?
Enter stage left Mr Roberts.
The kitchen windows were open so we all strained to hear what had become a guilty habit.... ear-wigging Cole and Mr Roberts conversations.
It began as normal.
Mr Roberts: "Beckham... where's my pancake?"
Cole: "I posted it through your letter box."
I looked to Reg or Romany or Josie/Granma/SheWhoUsuallyKnowsWhatOnEarthIsGoingOn...
I say: "Why is Cole saying that?"
Then Reg informs me.... "Oh yes... we did... we were making pancakes and Cole wanted to give Mr Roberts one. We wrapped it in silver foil and posted it through his letter box."
So then we all pay great attention to Cole and Mr Roberts in the garden out front.
The penny (and the pancake) clearly drops for Mr Roberts...
"Aah... my days, I was readin my paper.."
actually sorry, I really can't even write the West Indian accent convincingly...
but it turns out that:
Mr Roberts was at home reading his paper.
Mr Roberts found a tin foil parcel drop through his letterbox.
The note that Romany insisted on writing to accompany the parcel remained stuck in the letterbox so it was anonymous.
Mr Roberts looked up from his paper and felt suspicious about the soft parcel that arrived.
He removed a portion of his newspaper to wrap the parcel in.
Then, in order to refrain from touching the parcel used a mirror to view the parcel from various angles.
All in all Mr Roberts decided the pancake was Bad and Wrong and Not To Be Trusted and it was, at arms-length, wrapped in newspaper and dumped in the outside bin.
At approximately 3.30 this afternoon Mr Roberts realised that the soft parcel was indeed a six year overdue request for a pancake and nothing more.
Thus began a half hour of us trying to apologise for worrying him.... whilst Mr Roberts was mortified for not accepting the gift and I think even more, for - his words - "Throwing away good food."
We all had to go out in turn to reassure him that we would have all done the same had an unidentified pancake come through our door.... I told him I would definitely have done the same thing though not sure I would have thought to use a mirror for protection.
Bless him.
He was genuinely, touchingly gutted that he'd missed out on our pancake.
Whilst we were genuinely concerned and gutted that we had inadvertently scared or worried him.
After half an hour of going over the finer details of the confusion he left only to return with £10 for Romany and £10 for Cole - not accepting his money was simply not an option even though we tried.
We are now planning what we can bake or make for Mr Roberts next and how clearly we can mark/deliver the goods. Whatever we do, it's gonna be ace and lovely and from our hearts.
As we digested the afternoon's discovery, Natalina said to me, "That's one for your blog!"
And I thought... nah, I can't write this - how on earth can I convey the different strands and levels of this over-the-garden-fence hoo-ha?
(by cleverly using words like "hoo-ha" obviously)
Maybe it was my 47 glasses of red wine but the whole thing to me encapsulated family and history and multi-cultural-ness and communication and the Little Things being the Big Things and how it's important for six year old boys to chat to old West Indian men about, pancakes....
If it all got lost in translation, all you need know is -
Mr Roberts you are a true gentleman.
(and if I was Cool in da Hood I would say some Street lingo about flippin but I'm not. So I wont. It's for the Best.)
Saturday, 31 October 2009
Tum ti Tum
Ok... so it's been a while.
I've been Very Busy You Know.
Did you not catch my stadium tour?
Or my book-signing at good book stores throughout my house...
I mean, throughout the country?
Did you not attend the event where I read out loud every other page of Pippy Longstocking (ok.. very select audience of Romany and I - and she shared the vocals... )
The horrible truth is...
I am easily distracted.
I am a bit fickle and if Come Dine With Me looks especially interesting, I may well ignore my clear future as blogger/writer/mummy who is able to make everyday problems and child-rearing hilarious/relatable-to/interesting without appearing smug nor boring...
OK, so you never noticed those talents...
So... you can breath easily again.
Cos I am back at the blogger dashboard.
I am going to attempt to refrain from cutting off my nose to spite my typing skills and write my blog again.
I am after all a Very Talented Typist.
(it really is true. I am Freakishly Fast.. thanks to my teacher Mrs Popple - was she really called that or have I made it up? I had an uncanny skill for repeating asdf over and over.)
I have learnt a lot since I last posted.
I have learnt that if I don't update my blog no-one else will.
I have learnt that my ironing pile could really take over the whole of my house.... and I need to address my rebellion towards it.
I have learnt that you can buy a Wii Fit but unless you stand on it, it's bloody useless.
I have learnt that very few people are impressed that I can play all the chords in You've Got a Friend... which narrows down the number of people I intend to play it to.
I have learnt that I may value the fact that Cole can do a faultless Australian accent but when he gets 4 out of ten in his spellings his skills can be overlooked.
I have learnt that primary schools give No Points for spelling forty like this: 4ty.
I thought he was being clever.
Anyway... rest assured... this Giddy Kipper is Back.
Trick or treat?
And remember - I can type that faster than most.
I've been Very Busy You Know.
Did you not catch my stadium tour?
Or my book-signing at good book stores throughout my house...
I mean, throughout the country?
Did you not attend the event where I read out loud every other page of Pippy Longstocking (ok.. very select audience of Romany and I - and she shared the vocals... )
The horrible truth is...
I am easily distracted.
I am a bit fickle and if Come Dine With Me looks especially interesting, I may well ignore my clear future as blogger/writer/mummy who is able to make everyday problems and child-rearing hilarious/relatable-to/interesting without appearing smug nor boring...
OK, so you never noticed those talents...
So... you can breath easily again.
Cos I am back at the blogger dashboard.
I am going to attempt to refrain from cutting off my nose to spite my typing skills and write my blog again.
I am after all a Very Talented Typist.
(it really is true. I am Freakishly Fast.. thanks to my teacher Mrs Popple - was she really called that or have I made it up? I had an uncanny skill for repeating asdf over and over.)
I have learnt a lot since I last posted.
I have learnt that if I don't update my blog no-one else will.
I have learnt that my ironing pile could really take over the whole of my house.... and I need to address my rebellion towards it.
I have learnt that you can buy a Wii Fit but unless you stand on it, it's bloody useless.
I have learnt that very few people are impressed that I can play all the chords in You've Got a Friend... which narrows down the number of people I intend to play it to.
I have learnt that I may value the fact that Cole can do a faultless Australian accent but when he gets 4 out of ten in his spellings his skills can be overlooked.
I have learnt that primary schools give No Points for spelling forty like this: 4ty.
I thought he was being clever.
Anyway... rest assured... this Giddy Kipper is Back.
Trick or treat?
And remember - I can type that faster than most.
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
Two weddings, a funeral and a moonwalk off the planet
This time I really have been absent from my beloved GiddyKipperHome due to attending Rather Glamorous Events.
Two weddings in two days - a weekend that will be hard to top.
I got so into the swing of things that I have taken to wearing sky-high heels, silk dresses and flowers in my hair for the walk to school.
I like to propose a toast about 3pm to anyone nice close-by, whilst swigging from a bottle of bubbly.
The kids are a little tired of my insisting on a "first dance" everytime we put some music on.
My DNA is made up of love-hearts, confetti and poetic license.
I would like to attach ribbons to my car, hug everyone in the room and tell stories about how we first met.
Yes you, dear Internet...
Ahem... your attention please...
Dear InterwebSuperHighway
It's been many years now and we have stuck together on our journey, which could be described as virtual.
You have taught me so much: Like, How to be patient.
You minx you - so often you wouldn't be rushed... you'd download when good and ready baby.
I know now your vast knowledge is worth the wait -
How to remove hair extensions?
(if you ever find yourself unable to go back to Toni and Guy to have your wag hair removed due to catching nits from your kids) You know how to do it. Without judgement.
Unsure as to how to actually spell judgement? You informed me.
When do school children go back after half-term? You tell me.
Is Britney ok? You let me know. Sort of.
Where can I buy an orangutang costume? You find it for me.
Of course, there has been hard lessons that I have not always understood... yes, I admit, I held a grudge over the Stevie Wonder tickets that never arrived - a year on I am beginning to be able to talk about it.
Hmmm....
Actually, think I do still hold grudge...............
Probably a good point to stop writing a marriage speech to the Internet.
Cos that would be a very weird thing to do... only really geeky bloggy type people would do that.
Moving swiftly on...
Mr and Mrs Nomie and Stupot - your wedding was everything I knew it would be. Any bride that dances down the aisle with her funky bridesmaids to Fat Boy Slim's "Praise You" is starting out her married life with the right idea if you ask me.
Claire and Gordon - only you guys could get away with an Alice in Wonderland theme, a bride who can wear a black dress SO wide it's a good job we were in a stately home in which to house it - accessorising with a random white parrot shows style and initiative.
Big love to you who tied the knot and big love to all of us lucky enough to share it
.
You almost managed to distract Reggie from his mourning of the King of Pop. In fact, I definitely saw him smile several times and was pretty concerned that that would never happen again.
X X X X
Sunday, 21 June 2009
How to feel like a rubbish Mum
Children's bedtime at our house:
Me - Do you need your inhaler again?
Romany - Yes, but I thought you would tell me off.
Ouch
Thought she knew the difference between extra snacks or stories and life-saving medicines.
I blame the parents. (who's parents exactly does this phrase refer to? cos they responsible for a lot...)
Me - Do you need your inhaler again?
Romany - Yes, but I thought you would tell me off.
Ouch
Thought she knew the difference between extra snacks or stories and life-saving medicines.
I blame the parents. (who's parents exactly does this phrase refer to? cos they responsible for a lot...)
Saturday, 20 June 2009
Hi honey, I'm home
Haven't had much room for GiddyKipBlogging this week.
This has been mostly due to flying first class to Paris to critique couture collections, only to return via Brazil to play surdu in a carnival parade and drop in on Cazzer Vorderman to finish off a particularly challenging word search for her.
It's also been due to working in York 4 days out of 5, Ro being diagnosed with asthma, attending committee meetings and producing databases for the Leeds Primary School Fun Run that took place today.
It's good to be back.
I almost wasn't.....
well, ok, I have been known to exaggerate occasionally but truly did experience potential disaster.
Beware the glass door handle.
I bought a fancy spherical (like that word) chunky posh glass door handle.
Fit it proudly on my front room door.
It fell off.
Glued it back on.
It fell off.
Shoved it on the windowsill and left it there.
Bit like the naughty step for wayward home accessories.
I was speaking on the land line - usually reserved for people who ring us specially to offer us things that had never occurred to us to go out and buy ourselves (like gas or electricity or even phone lines). I usually put one of the kids on the line and encourage them to ask lots of questions. Romany actually found out loads about Neil from the mortgage company...
Whilst speaking on the land line I inadvertently knocked the door handle off the window ledge and onto the floor. Being slightly slovenly I didn't pick it up but sat back on the sofa with the kids....
Then The Carpet Began To Smoke.
I calmly shrieked at the children to Stand Back....
Yes, you got it - hot day, sunshine on glass, posh door handles equals Burning.
It really did burn a hole in the carpet.
(It's ok it complements the burn I made when setting down a pan of freshly made popcorn.)
I bravely saved the day, put out the (potential) fire and led the children to safety. (Cole subsequently required a lot of reassurance about glass and why windows are actually ok - even on cars - and glass vases on shelves are no danger.)
It IS a good job we were in though isn't it?
so we all survived and I also survived the Fun Run today - though that is a whole other story which I will type once my limbs stop throbbing.
Have walked, run, carried and fetched since 7am this morning and what did I learn today? That traffic cones are bloody heavy and our park warden is a twat.
This has been mostly due to flying first class to Paris to critique couture collections, only to return via Brazil to play surdu in a carnival parade and drop in on Cazzer Vorderman to finish off a particularly challenging word search for her.
It's also been due to working in York 4 days out of 5, Ro being diagnosed with asthma, attending committee meetings and producing databases for the Leeds Primary School Fun Run that took place today.
It's good to be back.
I almost wasn't.....
well, ok, I have been known to exaggerate occasionally but truly did experience potential disaster.
Beware the glass door handle.
I bought a fancy spherical (like that word) chunky posh glass door handle.
Fit it proudly on my front room door.
It fell off.
Glued it back on.
It fell off.
Shoved it on the windowsill and left it there.
Bit like the naughty step for wayward home accessories.
I was speaking on the land line - usually reserved for people who ring us specially to offer us things that had never occurred to us to go out and buy ourselves (like gas or electricity or even phone lines). I usually put one of the kids on the line and encourage them to ask lots of questions. Romany actually found out loads about Neil from the mortgage company...
Whilst speaking on the land line I inadvertently knocked the door handle off the window ledge and onto the floor. Being slightly slovenly I didn't pick it up but sat back on the sofa with the kids....
Then The Carpet Began To Smoke.
I calmly shrieked at the children to Stand Back....
Yes, you got it - hot day, sunshine on glass, posh door handles equals Burning.
It really did burn a hole in the carpet.
(It's ok it complements the burn I made when setting down a pan of freshly made popcorn.)
I bravely saved the day, put out the (potential) fire and led the children to safety. (Cole subsequently required a lot of reassurance about glass and why windows are actually ok - even on cars - and glass vases on shelves are no danger.)
It IS a good job we were in though isn't it?
so we all survived and I also survived the Fun Run today - though that is a whole other story which I will type once my limbs stop throbbing.
Have walked, run, carried and fetched since 7am this morning and what did I learn today? That traffic cones are bloody heavy and our park warden is a twat.
Sunday, 14 June 2009
Hallelulah
Much needed uplifting weekend.
Felt pretty drained after Thursday's funeral, not to mention slightly fuzzy headed after downing a bottle of red.
Saturday we were invited a close friend of ours' M, holy communion.
I met his Mum at NCT classes when I was pregnant with Romany and she was pregnant with M.
We were never particularly close during the classes, but the first night out we ever had with the group found just the two of us at 2am in a club dancing to Madonna... our magnificent breasts filled up to the brim as we'd never left our babies for that long. Somehow I knew we'd be friends.
Neither Reg nor I and definitely not Romany and Cole had ever been to the Catholic Holy Communion. Our kids go to a Church of England school so we not strangers to the Methodist Church.
We had to get there for 9.30 which involved much organisation and delivering of ultimatums. Get dressed now, don't argue, clean your teeth or you not going to BBQ celebration after Church... and that was just to Reg. (I know, cheap gag... but makes me laff)
Bribed Ro into a gorgeous dress and wrote her a cheque for my life-savings to get her to wear her hair out. (She has got The Most Fantastic curly hair but wishes for "flat" hair and spends ages brushing and spraying it - which of course makes it bigger and frizzier)
So we all got there on time with our shoes on the right feet... the kids were given a stern talking to on the way about sitting still and not burping loud.
Cole wore his one and only smart-shirt - Tesco's finest - but somehow still looked like he should be surfing the waves somewhere.
The service was interesting. I do like the rituals of religion and I liked the jolly joke-cracking Priest who conducted it. (A different Priest opened the gig by Shhhing us all into the microphone, then reeled off a list of things we weren't allowed to do ie. take photos, cartwheel down the aisle etc etc. He was lacking in charisma to say the least.)
Was relieved when he was relegated to back-up-guy and jolly priest took centre stage.
There was much standing up then sitting down.
Repeating lines and shaking hands.
Romany turned to me at one point and said, "This is very complicated."
As it was my second time in one week to find myself in church - the other being Granpop's funeral - I was amazed to find the exact same hymn my Granpop chose there in front of me again.
I really had to try my best to do the delicate eye-dabbing kind of crying rather than the red-faced, snotty gulping type I specialise in.
Another favourite bit to me was standing up for a rather long speech from Jolly Priest and Ro whispering to me to ask if she could sit down.
I replied with, "Just stand up til the end of this bit, then you can."
I literally ended that sentance and the Jolly Priest said: "And Jesus replied, Let them Sit Down."
Ro just looked at me and shrugged then parked herself back on the pew.
(she also pulled out her MP3 player but no permission was given for that so I put it away)
Cole struggled as at no point in the ceremony were we asked to run really fast or kick a football really high or do a fake burp.
His addition to the goings on were, just after Jolly Priest had sung a couple of lines, Cole whispered in my ear: "Washing machines last longer with Calgon."
Amen.
(What do you mean he watches too much tv...)
The most enlightening part was the service ended, we all went straight into the church hall where THE BAR OPENED. It was only 12 o'clock mid-day.
The rest of the day was spent back at M's house with a huge BBQ and lots and lots of lovely people. The sun shone and the children played in the huge green leading from the garden where we sat.
It was good timing for me and a reminder of beginnings and endings and all that is in between.
Have got a belter of a week ahead of me: lots of work, car with crunchy brakes to sort, final Commitee meetings for Fun Run I am helping to organise which is next Saturday... had a restful day today laying in the park occasionally throwing a frisbee in the sunshine.
Ready to begin again Monday morning, with my new mantra: washing machines last longer with calgon
Felt pretty drained after Thursday's funeral, not to mention slightly fuzzy headed after downing a bottle of red.
Saturday we were invited a close friend of ours' M, holy communion.
I met his Mum at NCT classes when I was pregnant with Romany and she was pregnant with M.
We were never particularly close during the classes, but the first night out we ever had with the group found just the two of us at 2am in a club dancing to Madonna... our magnificent breasts filled up to the brim as we'd never left our babies for that long. Somehow I knew we'd be friends.
Neither Reg nor I and definitely not Romany and Cole had ever been to the Catholic Holy Communion. Our kids go to a Church of England school so we not strangers to the Methodist Church.
We had to get there for 9.30 which involved much organisation and delivering of ultimatums. Get dressed now, don't argue, clean your teeth or you not going to BBQ celebration after Church... and that was just to Reg. (I know, cheap gag... but makes me laff)
Bribed Ro into a gorgeous dress and wrote her a cheque for my life-savings to get her to wear her hair out. (She has got The Most Fantastic curly hair but wishes for "flat" hair and spends ages brushing and spraying it - which of course makes it bigger and frizzier)
So we all got there on time with our shoes on the right feet... the kids were given a stern talking to on the way about sitting still and not burping loud.
Cole wore his one and only smart-shirt - Tesco's finest - but somehow still looked like he should be surfing the waves somewhere.
The service was interesting. I do like the rituals of religion and I liked the jolly joke-cracking Priest who conducted it. (A different Priest opened the gig by Shhhing us all into the microphone, then reeled off a list of things we weren't allowed to do ie. take photos, cartwheel down the aisle etc etc. He was lacking in charisma to say the least.)
Was relieved when he was relegated to back-up-guy and jolly priest took centre stage.
There was much standing up then sitting down.
Repeating lines and shaking hands.
Romany turned to me at one point and said, "This is very complicated."
As it was my second time in one week to find myself in church - the other being Granpop's funeral - I was amazed to find the exact same hymn my Granpop chose there in front of me again.
I really had to try my best to do the delicate eye-dabbing kind of crying rather than the red-faced, snotty gulping type I specialise in.
Another favourite bit to me was standing up for a rather long speech from Jolly Priest and Ro whispering to me to ask if she could sit down.
I replied with, "Just stand up til the end of this bit, then you can."
I literally ended that sentance and the Jolly Priest said: "And Jesus replied, Let them Sit Down."
Ro just looked at me and shrugged then parked herself back on the pew.
(she also pulled out her MP3 player but no permission was given for that so I put it away)
Cole struggled as at no point in the ceremony were we asked to run really fast or kick a football really high or do a fake burp.
His addition to the goings on were, just after Jolly Priest had sung a couple of lines, Cole whispered in my ear: "Washing machines last longer with Calgon."
Amen.
(What do you mean he watches too much tv...)
The most enlightening part was the service ended, we all went straight into the church hall where THE BAR OPENED. It was only 12 o'clock mid-day.
The rest of the day was spent back at M's house with a huge BBQ and lots and lots of lovely people. The sun shone and the children played in the huge green leading from the garden where we sat.
It was good timing for me and a reminder of beginnings and endings and all that is in between.
Have got a belter of a week ahead of me: lots of work, car with crunchy brakes to sort, final Commitee meetings for Fun Run I am helping to organise which is next Saturday... had a restful day today laying in the park occasionally throwing a frisbee in the sunshine.
Ready to begin again Monday morning, with my new mantra: washing machines last longer with calgon
Thursday, 11 June 2009
Update on Carnival/Funeral
A very intense day.
A very lovely day in many ways.
A day that reminds me of when you were a kid and you laughed and cried at the same time and couldn't explain how you were feeling - the only sounds possible to produce were:
haha hee hee boo hooo waaahhh hee HEE HA HAAAA ooh aaahhh BOO HOO
(repeat etc etc)
(I am clearly about to win several awards for my writing skills. Move over Dooce.)
I did a lot of the above.
For most of the day.
Granpop's ashes are going to be mixed with his beloved dog's and chucked into the canal he lived beside for the last 50 years....
ha ha HA HAAA aaahhh ooh Boo Hoo... etc etc
Ended the day with my gentle giant brother with his tattoos and pierced face.
Mutual admiration between him and Ro/Cole on account of burping-on-demand capabilities...
I know when I'm beat and resorted to the stern words: That Is Enough Now.
Burping each word, of course.
(how easy it still is to shock/impress my kids)
Great thanks to my beautiful girlfriends on-hand at the end of the day with large glasses of pinot or a text or phone call.
My very own team of professional life-savers.
Am very glad to be alive.
A very lovely day in many ways.
A day that reminds me of when you were a kid and you laughed and cried at the same time and couldn't explain how you were feeling - the only sounds possible to produce were:
haha hee hee boo hooo waaahhh hee HEE HA HAAAA ooh aaahhh BOO HOO
(repeat etc etc)
(I am clearly about to win several awards for my writing skills. Move over Dooce.)
I did a lot of the above.
For most of the day.
Granpop's ashes are going to be mixed with his beloved dog's and chucked into the canal he lived beside for the last 50 years....
ha ha HA HAAA aaahhh ooh Boo Hoo... etc etc
Ended the day with my gentle giant brother with his tattoos and pierced face.
Mutual admiration between him and Ro/Cole on account of burping-on-demand capabilities...
I know when I'm beat and resorted to the stern words: That Is Enough Now.
Burping each word, of course.
(how easy it still is to shock/impress my kids)
Great thanks to my beautiful girlfriends on-hand at the end of the day with large glasses of pinot or a text or phone call.
My very own team of professional life-savers.
Am very glad to be alive.
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
Granpop's carnival
It's my Granpop's funeral tomorrow.
(or his "carnival" as Cole called it. A title I much prefer.)
I have been gracious and grown up and philosophical about him dying - he was 94.
Yet today, my throat has had a permanent lump and my bottom lip a definite wobble.
A photo in the paper of a soldier coming home and scooping up his little daughter made my eyes fill.
Ro left a note on my bed with drawn-on wonky hearts and declarations of love - she is very generous with her love letters (I intend to keep them all to get me through her teenage years).
An Abba song I'm not even particularly fond of, came on the radio and it reminded me of my Mum - Granpop's daughter - and I imagined them together and bawled.
(And I was driving on the fast lane of the A64.)
I guess this is all pretty standard, healthy and normal - gosh, did I just describe myself as normal? I digress...
My Mother's sisters will be at the funeral tomorrow.
My Aunties.
The Aunts who sound like her, look a bit like her (not as beautiful, of course) and remind me of the time when she was here.
The Aunts who didn't keep in touch with me after my Mum/their sister died and I was 12 years old.
The Aunts who didn't help to educate me about the implications of breast and ovarian cancer - for me and my daughter.
Me, bitter?
Yes, a bit. Sometimes.
I know the day is for Him and I will attend with dignity and grace.
And then I will come back home to my little family to whom I am So Very Grateful.
(And then I will drink gin and look at old photos and draw moustaches on the aunties' pics and make crass jokes at their expense. With maturity and dignity of course.)
Farewell Granpop. The Original GiddyKipper x x
(or his "carnival" as Cole called it. A title I much prefer.)
I have been gracious and grown up and philosophical about him dying - he was 94.
Yet today, my throat has had a permanent lump and my bottom lip a definite wobble.
A photo in the paper of a soldier coming home and scooping up his little daughter made my eyes fill.
Ro left a note on my bed with drawn-on wonky hearts and declarations of love - she is very generous with her love letters (I intend to keep them all to get me through her teenage years).
An Abba song I'm not even particularly fond of, came on the radio and it reminded me of my Mum - Granpop's daughter - and I imagined them together and bawled.
(And I was driving on the fast lane of the A64.)
I guess this is all pretty standard, healthy and normal - gosh, did I just describe myself as normal? I digress...
My Mother's sisters will be at the funeral tomorrow.
My Aunties.
The Aunts who sound like her, look a bit like her (not as beautiful, of course) and remind me of the time when she was here.
The Aunts who didn't keep in touch with me after my Mum/their sister died and I was 12 years old.
The Aunts who didn't help to educate me about the implications of breast and ovarian cancer - for me and my daughter.
Me, bitter?
Yes, a bit. Sometimes.
I know the day is for Him and I will attend with dignity and grace.
And then I will come back home to my little family to whom I am So Very Grateful.
(And then I will drink gin and look at old photos and draw moustaches on the aunties' pics and make crass jokes at their expense. With maturity and dignity of course.)
Farewell Granpop. The Original GiddyKipper x x
Sunday, 7 June 2009
My Granpop
Up to the age of six, I lived next door to my Granpop.
He was father to seven children, one of whom was my beloved Mum.
He named her Susan but she also used the name Maxine when she became a model.
He went by the name of Arthur Clarke and was, quite simply, amongst other things, fantastically bonkers.
Whilst my mum was growing up he was a baker and had his own shop.
He told me a thousand times the story of how my mum sold the sawdust-filled pretend pies from the shop window. I enjoyed the story every single time.
(I'm never sure whether it was actually true, that one man came banging on their door on Christmas day with a fake pork pie in his hand which my then teenage mother had sold him.)
I always felt he was especially fond of my mum and I think she was his favourite - he was very proud that she won a scholarship to private school. He used to call her "Lady Pheobe"... and would naturally expand this title with the byline - "Lady Pheobe, dips her comb in her teapot."
As you do...
He told me that my sister Gemma was actually born without a nose and that he had to make her one out of dough... which obviously then entitled him to sing to her, at every opportunity "There's no business like dough business..."
Granpop specialised in making me laugh.
Over the years he got so confident in my finding him funny that he coined a phrase that I have stolen and use myself - "funny lamp".
(yes I know, innovative and witty...)
He would catch my eye, point to the light fitting and mouth the words. And I would always laugh. Why I laughed I'm never quite sure but it eventually got to the point where he could just nod in the direction of the lamp...
Sometimes I laughed just to humour him and then that would make me laugh for real. I loved his disregard as to who had just died/divorced/stopped speaking/any other family drama - a funny lamp is a funny lamp afterall.
Even when it had been far too long between my visits to his house - I would knock on his door - he would open the door and say, "Dustbin men round the back" and close it again.
(He would let me in eventually...if only to point at his funny lamp.)
Apparently when I was about 3 he pinched a single currant from my toasted tea-cake and I threw an earth-shattering tantrum which he never forgot.
I'm sure this can't possibly have been true...
On Wednesday June 3rd 2009, my Granpop left this planet.
He was 94.
I know he missed my mum/his daughter terribly so I like to think they are together now.
I also like to think when my time comes he'll be waiting at those pearly gates to deliver his line: "dustbin men round the back".
And I will laugh.
Farewell Granpop, I'll keep my eye on that funny lamp.
He was father to seven children, one of whom was my beloved Mum.
He named her Susan but she also used the name Maxine when she became a model.
He went by the name of Arthur Clarke and was, quite simply, amongst other things, fantastically bonkers.
Whilst my mum was growing up he was a baker and had his own shop.
He told me a thousand times the story of how my mum sold the sawdust-filled pretend pies from the shop window. I enjoyed the story every single time.
(I'm never sure whether it was actually true, that one man came banging on their door on Christmas day with a fake pork pie in his hand which my then teenage mother had sold him.)
I always felt he was especially fond of my mum and I think she was his favourite - he was very proud that she won a scholarship to private school. He used to call her "Lady Pheobe"... and would naturally expand this title with the byline - "Lady Pheobe, dips her comb in her teapot."
As you do...
He told me that my sister Gemma was actually born without a nose and that he had to make her one out of dough... which obviously then entitled him to sing to her, at every opportunity "There's no business like dough business..."
Granpop specialised in making me laugh.
Over the years he got so confident in my finding him funny that he coined a phrase that I have stolen and use myself - "funny lamp".
(yes I know, innovative and witty...)
He would catch my eye, point to the light fitting and mouth the words. And I would always laugh. Why I laughed I'm never quite sure but it eventually got to the point where he could just nod in the direction of the lamp...
Sometimes I laughed just to humour him and then that would make me laugh for real. I loved his disregard as to who had just died/divorced/stopped speaking/any other family drama - a funny lamp is a funny lamp afterall.
Even when it had been far too long between my visits to his house - I would knock on his door - he would open the door and say, "Dustbin men round the back" and close it again.
(He would let me in eventually...if only to point at his funny lamp.)
Apparently when I was about 3 he pinched a single currant from my toasted tea-cake and I threw an earth-shattering tantrum which he never forgot.
I'm sure this can't possibly have been true...
On Wednesday June 3rd 2009, my Granpop left this planet.
He was 94.
I know he missed my mum/his daughter terribly so I like to think they are together now.
I also like to think when my time comes he'll be waiting at those pearly gates to deliver his line: "dustbin men round the back".
And I will laugh.
Farewell Granpop, I'll keep my eye on that funny lamp.
Sunday, 31 May 2009
That bigger picture
It's trickier to write stuff when lots of stuff is going on.(This opening sentence clearly proves my point.)
To be frank and earnest - you be Frank and I'll be Ernest - it's all been potentially very worrying in my world recently.
That's the bad news.
The good news is that I'm not falling for any of this nonsense.
Once upon a time - well last year actually, for a few months at a time, I did begin to worry about the wrong things - or indeed about anything and everything.
I began to doubt myself.
I began to take it all too seriously.
I set free my insatiable ability to worry and it really did reach impressive levels... my capacity to worry can find a way to make a fluffy kitten sat on a satin cushion wearing a pink bow seem Very Threatening.
And don't even mention the possibilities for sadness involving puppies and flowers and blue skies and sea-shores.
(Is there an app for that apple?)
For the moment at least, I am able to pick out the many ace parts of my world and acknowledge only with a pityful glance, the rubbish stuff.
In between all this advanced philosophy - sorry I can't explain any further - don't want to get dooced or noosed or whatever the latest blog-term is for virtually offending...
in between, things are great.
We had a lovely few days down in Shropshire with one of my oldest and most-lovely friend and her family. Her daughter Daisy, with her slightly over 365 days life-experience, kept us all firmly in the knowledge of the bigger picture and important matters - like swinging on a swing or how you clearly don't need a spoon to eat a yoghurt. Cole spent at least two hours pretending to fall on the grass to make her laugh. Cool guy or what?
On the way home we went to Chester Zoo.
It was rather impressive as zoo's go... the only animals that I would have preferred not to hang out with were some of the humans - some extraordinary specimens out that day.
Anyway, hope you are all well - thank you to the people who manage to leave a comment - and thank you too to the people who got bored of trying to and emailed me one or facebooked me one.
Comments are always welcome by any system: vanessa@bubble.com
P.S. The picture is of Romany of course.
Wednesday, 27 May 2009
A little PMT
Dear Ro and Cole
Please could you make sure you always come in at 4am to tell me about the dream you had.
And return an hour later to tell me you had a wee.
How did you guess I lay in bed all night wondering about these exact things?
Of course it's better if you eat your dinner on the newly cleaned sofa - I realise now that eating at the table, on the wooden floor, is not as challenging and therefore, exciting and crucial to your development as people.
I think it's really important for you both to argue over every decision of the day. Everybody knows it's shattering for one sibling to give the guinea pigs a carrot before the other. In future we will time it to perfection.
OK, you got me, it's better to keep your shoes out in the garden next to the trampoline - how silly of me to miss the opportunity this holds to loose one of them and then I can join in the Sheer Fun of looking for it.
Getting in the car just wouldn't be the same for me without the interesting debate between you both of: Who Should Sit in the Front.
And please at this point always remind me of who is what age and the bearing this has on where you sit - how perceptive for you to guess I forget when you were born.
I'd also like to apologise for the furniture getting in the way of your break-dancing; you can't work under these conditions. And of course I never liked those glass candle holders silly.
How Many Sleeps Til Back To School?
Please could you make sure you always come in at 4am to tell me about the dream you had.
And return an hour later to tell me you had a wee.
How did you guess I lay in bed all night wondering about these exact things?
Of course it's better if you eat your dinner on the newly cleaned sofa - I realise now that eating at the table, on the wooden floor, is not as challenging and therefore, exciting and crucial to your development as people.
I think it's really important for you both to argue over every decision of the day. Everybody knows it's shattering for one sibling to give the guinea pigs a carrot before the other. In future we will time it to perfection.
OK, you got me, it's better to keep your shoes out in the garden next to the trampoline - how silly of me to miss the opportunity this holds to loose one of them and then I can join in the Sheer Fun of looking for it.
Getting in the car just wouldn't be the same for me without the interesting debate between you both of: Who Should Sit in the Front.
And please at this point always remind me of who is what age and the bearing this has on where you sit - how perceptive for you to guess I forget when you were born.
I'd also like to apologise for the furniture getting in the way of your break-dancing; you can't work under these conditions. And of course I never liked those glass candle holders silly.
How Many Sleeps Til Back To School?
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
Inviting?
Got two invitations in two days.
First one was to a house warning.
The next was to visit a friend and frank wind.
Don't you love predictive text?
First one was to a house warning.
The next was to visit a friend and frank wind.
Don't you love predictive text?
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
Tuesday evenings
Tuesday evenings is my singing group night.
It's a group of women - though Reg does join us most times - that like to sing.
My geniously musical friend Lorraine - in the olden days we used to play in a band together - she works out harmonies for us... in between we drink wine and chat.
It's great.
Most weeks I host it at mine cos I have a Really Fantastic Out House in our garden.
(It used to be the old stables to some grand house round the corner but we converted it into self-contained space. It's very white and spacious and there are NO primary coloured plastic toys... and it really does have a chandelier and a chaise longue. It's great for summer BBQs as has 4 patio doors that all open up to the garden, or its been home to friends that come to stay or a temporary abode to the odd relationship crisis-hit friend of ours... or on Tuesdays a 15 person choir.)
Every time it's at our house
(hey we're a groovy choir: sometimes it's at one members theatre space or another member who lives in a converted chapel etc etc)
I digress... every time it's at our house Romany opens her bedroom window and tries to listen to the tunes waft across the garden.
I have spent the last 4 days in extremely close contact with Romany as she has not been well. Although ill, she has been delightful... though a little limited in her conversation - rotating around the following themes:
My tummy hurts. Or... my throat hurts... Or the more dramatic: I feel dizzy.
I have laid/chatted/calpolled/jigsawed/tried to tempt her to eat... etc etc...
She's been delightful company but she now needs to Go Back To School - and EAT food... mission accomplished today...
So, I asked the 12 strong choir tonight to stand out in our garden, below her window.
I gave her my best mispent-youth-four-fingered-incredibly-loud-whistle and she appeared at her window.
She opened it even wider and stood in her pyjamas on her windowsill.
And we sang to her.
We sang several verses and we All Got It Right.
And she clapped insanely at the end.
Goodness, the lengths we will go to for an audience.
We carried on rehearsing inside our out house but when I went in to make sure she was going to sleep - she had written me the following poem:
I will copy it EXACTLY as she gave to me - only in parts did I worry about her future therapy bills and my success as a parent.
Here you go:
NB: Where necessary, I will write my defense/response IN BRACKETS
Page 1 - My Poem
My mum is very light (aha... so I'm not FAT!)
My mum is very nice (told you!)
This is an poem to
show that she is kind (hope proof wasn't actually necessary)
I don't mind
if mum tells me of
and go's out with her
friends because she
cares for me. (I swear when saying I "go out" she means I move 20 feet across the garden to sing with my friends... )
I don't mind if my mum tells me 100000 times she loves me (very good of her)
and does't let me have coke because she cares for me. (absolutely! Clearly she isn't confused by spotting me with the odd Diet Coke... )
TURN PAGE OVER (ok ok.. goodness, you're bossy)
I'm sorry for all the naughty stuff I've done
an merdered Cole and annoyed you and Daddy (ah.. wasn't aware she'd actually murdered her brother - checked his bed, he sleeping soundly - not dead)
I'll love you forever. (ok, good, still bit concerned for Cole tho)
Stuff you and sinning group NEED to know (she means singing group)
I've got 1 or 2 things to say to you people
1. You were stupendos and
2. don't start caffafing (yes, she does mean caffafing cos I asked her)
now, I've got more
3. I'm going way beyond the limit (aaah.. so you are aware)
PAGE 2
4. Can I be your persinal trainer when your lerning new songs?
5. you o me an appoligy for forcing me to sit at the other side of the bed listening to your beautiful singing!!
(eh??)
6. emmmmmmmmmm (really, that was number six)
7. Hi
8. By
The End
(Should I be worried?)
It's a group of women - though Reg does join us most times - that like to sing.
My geniously musical friend Lorraine - in the olden days we used to play in a band together - she works out harmonies for us... in between we drink wine and chat.
It's great.
Most weeks I host it at mine cos I have a Really Fantastic Out House in our garden.
(It used to be the old stables to some grand house round the corner but we converted it into self-contained space. It's very white and spacious and there are NO primary coloured plastic toys... and it really does have a chandelier and a chaise longue. It's great for summer BBQs as has 4 patio doors that all open up to the garden, or its been home to friends that come to stay or a temporary abode to the odd relationship crisis-hit friend of ours... or on Tuesdays a 15 person choir.)
Every time it's at our house
(hey we're a groovy choir: sometimes it's at one members theatre space or another member who lives in a converted chapel etc etc)
I digress... every time it's at our house Romany opens her bedroom window and tries to listen to the tunes waft across the garden.
I have spent the last 4 days in extremely close contact with Romany as she has not been well. Although ill, she has been delightful... though a little limited in her conversation - rotating around the following themes:
My tummy hurts. Or... my throat hurts... Or the more dramatic: I feel dizzy.
I have laid/chatted/calpolled/jigsawed/tried to tempt her to eat... etc etc...
She's been delightful company but she now needs to Go Back To School - and EAT food... mission accomplished today...
So, I asked the 12 strong choir tonight to stand out in our garden, below her window.
I gave her my best mispent-youth-four-fingered-incredibly-loud-whistle and she appeared at her window.
She opened it even wider and stood in her pyjamas on her windowsill.
And we sang to her.
We sang several verses and we All Got It Right.
And she clapped insanely at the end.
Goodness, the lengths we will go to for an audience.
We carried on rehearsing inside our out house but when I went in to make sure she was going to sleep - she had written me the following poem:
I will copy it EXACTLY as she gave to me - only in parts did I worry about her future therapy bills and my success as a parent.
Here you go:
NB: Where necessary, I will write my defense/response IN BRACKETS
Page 1 - My Poem
My mum is very light (aha... so I'm not FAT!)
My mum is very nice (told you!)
This is an poem to
show that she is kind (hope proof wasn't actually necessary)
I don't mind
if mum tells me of
and go's out with her
friends because she
cares for me. (I swear when saying I "go out" she means I move 20 feet across the garden to sing with my friends... )
I don't mind if my mum tells me 100000 times she loves me (very good of her)
and does't let me have coke because she cares for me. (absolutely! Clearly she isn't confused by spotting me with the odd Diet Coke... )
TURN PAGE OVER (ok ok.. goodness, you're bossy)
I'm sorry for all the naughty stuff I've done
an merdered Cole and annoyed you and Daddy (ah.. wasn't aware she'd actually murdered her brother - checked his bed, he sleeping soundly - not dead)
I'll love you forever. (ok, good, still bit concerned for Cole tho)
Stuff you and sinning group NEED to know (she means singing group)
I've got 1 or 2 things to say to you people
1. You were stupendos and
2. don't start caffafing (yes, she does mean caffafing cos I asked her)
now, I've got more
3. I'm going way beyond the limit (aaah.. so you are aware)
PAGE 2
4. Can I be your persinal trainer when your lerning new songs?
5. you o me an appoligy for forcing me to sit at the other side of the bed listening to your beautiful singing!!
(eh??)
6. emmmmmmmmmm (really, that was number six)
7. Hi
8. By
The End
(Should I be worried?)
Right first time...
Cole: What's that brown stuff with squares in called?
Me: Branston pickle?
It's good to be on the same wave-length.
Me: Branston pickle?
It's good to be on the same wave-length.
Saturday, 16 May 2009
Food for thought
Hmmm... like most things about family life... mealtimes are not how I expected them. Not always the joyous, sharing, enjoyable occasions I imagined. Or indeed had been lead to believe. (Goddamn those Waltons I grew up watching - big fat liars)
Romany has sophisticated taste to say the least.
She will regularly ask for lychees or mango for her fruit she is obliged to take to school each day.
(she generally gets handed a satsuma, but I praise her expectations.)
She can eat a whole jar of olives and has done since about two years. She has recently discovered pickled garlic and can down several at once.
Romany was introduced to rice cakes in her early days of solid food and my sister (experienced mother of 4 boys) laughed at me knowingly, that she'd leave them behind once biscuits were discovered. Romany still chooses rice cakes over cakes, buns or puddings any day of the week.
If she's pushing the boat out, she has a carrot baton on the side.
Cole on the other hand.... this is a boy who began baby rice at 9 weeks old - go on, sue me you rightous mothers... you live with a "baby" the size of a six month old who growled at passing food and cried for the first 8 weeks of his life.
He is heading quickly towards his dad's 6'6" frame and think he was seriously hungry.
(he put on a pound a week for the first six weeks solely on breast milk - I was the star of the baby clinic.)
Cole will eat lots of Everything.
He comes home from school regularly with the "Clean Plate Award" given by the dinner ladies.
He notices immediately if you happen to be chewing but didn't offer him a share.
He can recognise a cooking smell the minute he enters the house. Most of his first conversations of the day involve the quandry of what is for breakfast.
Consequently we have had lots of "snug" trousers... partly it's genetics; he has a fantastically substantial bottom - but let's just say it's a good thing that he does lots of sport and leaping around
I realised Cole would never be a natural slimcea boy when he was not even 3 years old.
We were in our beloved coastal town of Staithes.
We'd been playing on the beach but it was quite blustery and he got cold. Ro and Reg were happy playing so Cole and I nipped in the little cafe by the beach.
He clocked and sized up the display of edibles within 4 seconds at the counter and asked for a muffin.
I got him a muffin and we sat down at the table.
I then watched in awe/disbelief as he proceeded to push The Whole thing into his mouth. This required the use of both hands and happened before I had chance to advise against it:
Then... he tried to swallow.
He began to splutter.
He began to cough.
His eyes began to bulge and water.
Oh my god, he's choking on a muffin.
I tried not to panic but didn't know what to do...
He was trying to speak...
I couldn't make out the words..
I was telling him to:
Calm down, slow down, don't try swallow all at once...
He's still trying to speak...
muffled on the muffin,
it's not clear...
I strain to hear and finally make out the words:
CAN I HAVE ANOTHER?
That's my boy... right to the bitter end, there could be room for more.
(NB: Obviously, Cole didn't choke to death - and clearly I have No Idea where this tendancy to over-induge comes from.)
So, mealtimes are spent trying to encourage healthy eating whilst discouraging overeating whilst not igniting any future eating disorders or poor body image... it's exhausting... and my conclusion is to have a glass of wine - now, can I have another?
Romany has sophisticated taste to say the least.
She will regularly ask for lychees or mango for her fruit she is obliged to take to school each day.
(she generally gets handed a satsuma, but I praise her expectations.)
She can eat a whole jar of olives and has done since about two years. She has recently discovered pickled garlic and can down several at once.
Romany was introduced to rice cakes in her early days of solid food and my sister (experienced mother of 4 boys) laughed at me knowingly, that she'd leave them behind once biscuits were discovered. Romany still chooses rice cakes over cakes, buns or puddings any day of the week.
If she's pushing the boat out, she has a carrot baton on the side.
Cole on the other hand.... this is a boy who began baby rice at 9 weeks old - go on, sue me you rightous mothers... you live with a "baby" the size of a six month old who growled at passing food and cried for the first 8 weeks of his life.
He is heading quickly towards his dad's 6'6" frame and think he was seriously hungry.
(he put on a pound a week for the first six weeks solely on breast milk - I was the star of the baby clinic.)
Cole will eat lots of Everything.
He comes home from school regularly with the "Clean Plate Award" given by the dinner ladies.
He notices immediately if you happen to be chewing but didn't offer him a share.
He can recognise a cooking smell the minute he enters the house. Most of his first conversations of the day involve the quandry of what is for breakfast.
Consequently we have had lots of "snug" trousers... partly it's genetics; he has a fantastically substantial bottom - but let's just say it's a good thing that he does lots of sport and leaping around
I realised Cole would never be a natural slimcea boy when he was not even 3 years old.
We were in our beloved coastal town of Staithes.
We'd been playing on the beach but it was quite blustery and he got cold. Ro and Reg were happy playing so Cole and I nipped in the little cafe by the beach.
He clocked and sized up the display of edibles within 4 seconds at the counter and asked for a muffin.
I got him a muffin and we sat down at the table.
I then watched in awe/disbelief as he proceeded to push The Whole thing into his mouth. This required the use of both hands and happened before I had chance to advise against it:
Then... he tried to swallow.
He began to splutter.
He began to cough.
His eyes began to bulge and water.
Oh my god, he's choking on a muffin.
I tried not to panic but didn't know what to do...
He was trying to speak...
I couldn't make out the words..
I was telling him to:
Calm down, slow down, don't try swallow all at once...
He's still trying to speak...
muffled on the muffin,
it's not clear...
I strain to hear and finally make out the words:
CAN I HAVE ANOTHER?
That's my boy... right to the bitter end, there could be room for more.
(NB: Obviously, Cole didn't choke to death - and clearly I have No Idea where this tendancy to over-induge comes from.)
So, mealtimes are spent trying to encourage healthy eating whilst discouraging overeating whilst not igniting any future eating disorders or poor body image... it's exhausting... and my conclusion is to have a glass of wine - now, can I have another?
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
Allergic off-spring
My humble apologies for the extended interval in my blog posting.
I hope you enjoyed the adverts during this break.
What you didn't notice?
Aha... they were so subliminal and virtual and viral and geeky that you didn't even hear or see them, let alone remember them.
Honest.
Posting has been light for the last few days because I have been attending premiers in between modelling on the catwalks whilst attending award ceremonies to collect trophies for my contribution to life, the universe and everything.
And, I have been dealing with Rash Boy.
Oh my word...
My poor Cole is King Cole of Allergies...
I think I am becoming one of Those Obsessive Parents - you know, those tedious types who have a kid with dyslexia or eczema or asthma or allergies... so they describe every mood, rash, symptom, diagnosis. I now realise there is No Choice, it takes over.
Honestly... there is no joke to be had with a six year old son with a full body rash.
It is simply horrid.
I cannot write a song about it, nor compare it to some past experience I had and romanticise it, nor feel special and unique in my challenging role.
I just feel helpless and fed-up and pissed off. And none of that stops the itching. We have resorted to heavy drugs man.
You prefer I had stayed away didn't you?
Well tough... and you should think yourself lucky... I bet you don't have a rash do you?
I bet your childhood didn't involve swigging piriton from the bottle?
Did I mention my son? Well he has allergies you know.... all over his body...
Err.... come back!
How rude.
Anyway... below this post I will share a song I wrote for him before he got his full body rash... I need to edit few lyrics to make it relevent to now, but I did write it sometime ago.
(hee hee... "I'd pick you some hydracortizone, if you'd only sleep all night... and slather it all over, with love from me...")
So here's a pretty song I wrote - don't nick it and get a number one hit cos I will find you and come round and talk to you about children with allergies. For a Really Long Time.
____________________________________________________________
"I'd pick you the sweetest blossom; from the tallest cherry tree.
And give you it in handfuls; with love from me.
I'd find you the smoothest pebble; in the palest sand.
And send it to you so you could hold it in your hand.
I'd capture the prettiest snowflake and save it just for you.
Or steal a small piece of the sky, when it's clear and blue.
I'd take you and show you where the sun lines with the sea.
And show you my secret place where I let myself run free.
I'd show you the meadow where the greenest grass grows.
And the biggest red apples cos, no-one else knows.
When I'm with you there's nothing I need hide,
Cos you're my best friend, I can say that, with pride.
You're four years old and there's not much you don't know.
Little boy don't change too much, don't change too much as you grow...
I'd pick you the sweetest blossom; from the tallest cherry tree
And give you it in handfuls with love from me."
__________________________________________________________
Yes, I know, he's probably allergic to cherry blossom but I didn't know that when I wrote it.
If you ask very nicely I will record it along with all 4 of the chords I know how to play and upload it - I could be the next Susan Boyle....
I hope you enjoyed the adverts during this break.
What you didn't notice?
Aha... they were so subliminal and virtual and viral and geeky that you didn't even hear or see them, let alone remember them.
Honest.
Posting has been light for the last few days because I have been attending premiers in between modelling on the catwalks whilst attending award ceremonies to collect trophies for my contribution to life, the universe and everything.
And, I have been dealing with Rash Boy.
Oh my word...
My poor Cole is King Cole of Allergies...
I think I am becoming one of Those Obsessive Parents - you know, those tedious types who have a kid with dyslexia or eczema or asthma or allergies... so they describe every mood, rash, symptom, diagnosis. I now realise there is No Choice, it takes over.
Honestly... there is no joke to be had with a six year old son with a full body rash.
It is simply horrid.
I cannot write a song about it, nor compare it to some past experience I had and romanticise it, nor feel special and unique in my challenging role.
I just feel helpless and fed-up and pissed off. And none of that stops the itching. We have resorted to heavy drugs man.
You prefer I had stayed away didn't you?
Well tough... and you should think yourself lucky... I bet you don't have a rash do you?
I bet your childhood didn't involve swigging piriton from the bottle?
Did I mention my son? Well he has allergies you know.... all over his body...
Err.... come back!
How rude.
Anyway... below this post I will share a song I wrote for him before he got his full body rash... I need to edit few lyrics to make it relevent to now, but I did write it sometime ago.
(hee hee... "I'd pick you some hydracortizone, if you'd only sleep all night... and slather it all over, with love from me...")
So here's a pretty song I wrote - don't nick it and get a number one hit cos I will find you and come round and talk to you about children with allergies. For a Really Long Time.
____________________________________________________________
"I'd pick you the sweetest blossom; from the tallest cherry tree.
And give you it in handfuls; with love from me.
I'd find you the smoothest pebble; in the palest sand.
And send it to you so you could hold it in your hand.
I'd capture the prettiest snowflake and save it just for you.
Or steal a small piece of the sky, when it's clear and blue.
I'd take you and show you where the sun lines with the sea.
And show you my secret place where I let myself run free.
I'd show you the meadow where the greenest grass grows.
And the biggest red apples cos, no-one else knows.
When I'm with you there's nothing I need hide,
Cos you're my best friend, I can say that, with pride.
You're four years old and there's not much you don't know.
Little boy don't change too much, don't change too much as you grow...
I'd pick you the sweetest blossom; from the tallest cherry tree
And give you it in handfuls with love from me."
__________________________________________________________
Yes, I know, he's probably allergic to cherry blossom but I didn't know that when I wrote it.
If you ask very nicely I will record it along with all 4 of the chords I know how to play and upload it - I could be the next Susan Boyle....
Thursday, 7 May 2009
Sensitive skin
Oh my goodness
It's 3.30am....
my boy has been awake and itching and scratching, his body a rash, red.
I have learnt to wait....
I have rushed to the all night Doctor before....
I remind myself..
This is what happens...
he has allergies.
He has eczema.
He has sensitive skin along with his sensitive nature.
This is what can happen to him and I must not panic.
(I have learnt my lesson with the meningitus glass trick, never could remember which way it went - "Reg, Reg... check on the internet... the spots disappear is that meningitus?!")
I have been up for the last three hours dispensing calpol, more piriton than I dare count, two stories about the stone owl in Staithes... then half an hour of baby TV - I got desperate... we closed our eyes cos they play classical music....
He's in our bed... Reg has left and got into Cole's bed... Cole and I both fell asleep...
then he woke again scratching and speaking and thrashing around...
He Said... "Ouch, it hurts... I itch mummy, I itch... I love you... ouch... cuddle me... I'm hot"
Who covers this in the books?
Who is supposed to warn me about nights like this?
I know the drill now...
I don't panic...
Remind myself, don't panic... Cole has allergic skin sometimes.
I would like to share with you the first time Cole's sensitive skin happened...
He was about 8 months old...
He could sit, crawl but not quite walk...
He woke agitated... covered in a rash... hot, restless...
I tried for a couple of hours to settle him, then took him downstairs while I rang NHS direct for advice...
I remember sitting him on the floor in his white terry towelling baby gro...
I rang the nurse on the end of the help-line...
she asked me 4 million questions...
He had been uncomfortable for so long I needed to know I was doing it right...
She went through the questions...
he had stopped wailing with the change of scene:
being downstairs...
the phone was next to a box of toys...
He was sat while I answered the questions...
How old...?
Where was the rash?
Was he hot?
Does he have eczema?
What is he doing right now?
Right now?
I turn to look at him... first time in at least 3 minutes since being on the phone...
I turn to look at him - he turns to look at me..
oh my god, he has had his hand in the toy box...
he has pulled out of the box - and put on his face - a plastic nose, moustache and black rimmed glasses...
He is a baby boy, 8 months old... it's 2am and I am panicking...
five minutes on the phone to the nurse and the little git has a disguise on.....
He has a plastic nose, moustache and glasses on.
It's all in one piece... he has it placed perfectly on his chubby red cheeks...
Ha ha bloody ha...
So, I not falling for his drama ever again...
never mind that I can't quite sleep now...
I don't ring the professionals, ever reminding myself of the "night with the plastic glasses"...
So I will lay here while he mumbles and scratches til he peaceful again...
Tum tum ti tum...
Get better baby and sleep - motherhood digs deep and I wouldn't be anywhere else but right next to him but will so get him back one day with a false moustache....
To all you carers doing the night-shift - We Rock x x
It's 3.30am....
my boy has been awake and itching and scratching, his body a rash, red.
I have learnt to wait....
I have rushed to the all night Doctor before....
I remind myself..
This is what happens...
he has allergies.
He has eczema.
He has sensitive skin along with his sensitive nature.
This is what can happen to him and I must not panic.
(I have learnt my lesson with the meningitus glass trick, never could remember which way it went - "Reg, Reg... check on the internet... the spots disappear is that meningitus?!")
I have been up for the last three hours dispensing calpol, more piriton than I dare count, two stories about the stone owl in Staithes... then half an hour of baby TV - I got desperate... we closed our eyes cos they play classical music....
He's in our bed... Reg has left and got into Cole's bed... Cole and I both fell asleep...
then he woke again scratching and speaking and thrashing around...
He Said... "Ouch, it hurts... I itch mummy, I itch... I love you... ouch... cuddle me... I'm hot"
Who covers this in the books?
Who is supposed to warn me about nights like this?
I know the drill now...
I don't panic...
Remind myself, don't panic... Cole has allergic skin sometimes.
I would like to share with you the first time Cole's sensitive skin happened...
He was about 8 months old...
He could sit, crawl but not quite walk...
He woke agitated... covered in a rash... hot, restless...
I tried for a couple of hours to settle him, then took him downstairs while I rang NHS direct for advice...
I remember sitting him on the floor in his white terry towelling baby gro...
I rang the nurse on the end of the help-line...
she asked me 4 million questions...
He had been uncomfortable for so long I needed to know I was doing it right...
She went through the questions...
he had stopped wailing with the change of scene:
being downstairs...
the phone was next to a box of toys...
He was sat while I answered the questions...
How old...?
Where was the rash?
Was he hot?
Does he have eczema?
What is he doing right now?
Right now?
I turn to look at him... first time in at least 3 minutes since being on the phone...
I turn to look at him - he turns to look at me..
oh my god, he has had his hand in the toy box...
he has pulled out of the box - and put on his face - a plastic nose, moustache and black rimmed glasses...
He is a baby boy, 8 months old... it's 2am and I am panicking...
five minutes on the phone to the nurse and the little git has a disguise on.....
He has a plastic nose, moustache and glasses on.
It's all in one piece... he has it placed perfectly on his chubby red cheeks...
Ha ha bloody ha...
So, I not falling for his drama ever again...
never mind that I can't quite sleep now...
I don't ring the professionals, ever reminding myself of the "night with the plastic glasses"...
So I will lay here while he mumbles and scratches til he peaceful again...
Tum tum ti tum...
Get better baby and sleep - motherhood digs deep and I wouldn't be anywhere else but right next to him but will so get him back one day with a false moustache....
To all you carers doing the night-shift - We Rock x x
Sunday, 3 May 2009
Who's that girl
There is a girl about town and she looks like me.
She even has the same name as me.
She has a couple of kids that look exactly like mine.
She has a very tall, very handsome, but not very obedient husband with the same name as mine...
except...
when I am tucked up in bed or at home ironing...
This girl misbehaves:
She gets drunk on a school night.
She dances in people's front rooms when they only invited her round out of politeness.
She stays til the early hours.
She tells her children to "go away and watch TV downstairs" on a Sunday morning and bribes them with promises of afternoon delights...
which she does provide but this girl is Unorganised and her son has to pooh in Ilkley Bluebell Wood and she wipes his bottom with a fern.
This girl gave her children a cornetto for Sunday lunch and then took them to pizza express for tea - and only cos she had a 2-for-1 voucher.
This girl laughs at her poor 3 year old nephew when he can't wee standing up in the aforementioned wood - and doesn't help him when he resorts to complex press-up position to relieve himself.
This girl has a sister who looks exactly like mine, who encourages the heartless laughter and terrible parenting....
do not approach either of them - especially when they are together.
There is nothing that can be done.
Many have tried and failed.
Thank goodness she is nothing to do with me - I'm even pretty sure if That Girl had a blog, she wouldn't even use punctuation responsibly on her blog headings.
She even has the same name as me.
She has a couple of kids that look exactly like mine.
She has a very tall, very handsome, but not very obedient husband with the same name as mine...
except...
when I am tucked up in bed or at home ironing...
This girl misbehaves:
She gets drunk on a school night.
She dances in people's front rooms when they only invited her round out of politeness.
She stays til the early hours.
She tells her children to "go away and watch TV downstairs" on a Sunday morning and bribes them with promises of afternoon delights...
which she does provide but this girl is Unorganised and her son has to pooh in Ilkley Bluebell Wood and she wipes his bottom with a fern.
This girl gave her children a cornetto for Sunday lunch and then took them to pizza express for tea - and only cos she had a 2-for-1 voucher.
This girl laughs at her poor 3 year old nephew when he can't wee standing up in the aforementioned wood - and doesn't help him when he resorts to complex press-up position to relieve himself.
This girl has a sister who looks exactly like mine, who encourages the heartless laughter and terrible parenting....
do not approach either of them - especially when they are together.
There is nothing that can be done.
Many have tried and failed.
Thank goodness she is nothing to do with me - I'm even pretty sure if That Girl had a blog, she wouldn't even use punctuation responsibly on her blog headings.
Friday, 1 May 2009
Moral debate
One of the mind-blowing realisations of parenting - yes, I'm sure it was obvious to most - is the responsibility and power we have to shape their little minds. (mwah ha ha HA)
Children are forever asking questions that are not easy to answer - granted I also sometimes struggle with the "What's for tea?" type too, but for example:
Cole in the car was watching the speedometer and reading out the numbers, even occasionally getting them right. Twentyeleven is my favourite speed. When he got to the big numbers, 100 and over he started to ask if it was against the law to go that fast? And do people go to prison if they go that fast? Then why do they make the cars that go that fast?
As Romany already knows everything she has a different approach to working things out, for example:
Ro: It's impossible to be perfect at everything.
Me: Absolutely.
Ro: So you just try and then you can be perfect at some things.
Me: That's it babe.
Ro: But Emma says it's impossible to be perfect.
Me: That's kind of true but then, but who decides what is perfect?
Ro: ME
(Cole: God) Amen
I try to strike the right balance between teaching them to play by the rules and a healthy attitude to knowing when to break them.
In St Tropez in France, Romany was desperate for the toilet so I told her we had to pretend we were eating in the fancy restaurant (rather than sitting in the square outside it)... we waltzed in confidently and asked where the toilets were. I think she enjoyed that wee/oui - more than most. (sorry unforgiveable shit play on words there...)
I once did something that I considered to be mild rule breaking, for the greater good - but which has had even good friends of mine gasp in shock...
See what you think - I reserve the right to say "only joking!" if I get arrested by the moral brigade.
When Romany was about to start school full-time her and I, plus one of my best friends D, and her daughter B, went to London for the weekend. It was a girl's weekend away filled with trips to Covent Garden, Camden, London Eye, lots of theatre etc etc. We took a polaroid instant camera and documented the whole trip... it was fantastic.
One of the treats we booked was to go see Chitty Chitty Bang Bang at a top West End Theatre. The tickets were £35 each and in the stalls - the flat bit in front of the stage but a few rows back. So the total price was £140 - a big chunk out of our budget.
We got to our seats and quickly realised us adults could barely see, let alone the children... we tried balancing them on our knees, sitting up so straight my back hurt, kneeling on their chairs on their knees; no good.
Five minutes into the performance, I glanced around the Theatre to see if I could spot any empty seats.... the only empty seats I could see were in the Box. Sat there, grand, proud, right next to the stage. Empty. Empty and we were down below and couldn't see.
I started to wish I had the money to just march to the box office and demand an upgrade, but of course I couldn't afford to do that.
Then it started to niggle me.
Just cos we not rich we have to sit where we can't see?
I thought some more then whispered my dasteredly plan in D's ear... she looked a little shocked but a little mischievous too, so off I went...
I snuck out of my seat and asked the staff if I could speak to the manager.
The manager wasn't there but the Nice Lady asked if she could help...
I told her... gulp:
"We have come to London with our two children. One of whom is erm... poorley. She is ill."
Pause for affect whilst maintaining eye-contact...
"We have seats but we can't see... I noticed the box was empty and, if I had the money I would pay, but could we move to it so that the children can see?"
(OK, but I didn't say HOW ill... Ro had had conjunctivitus around that time... and chicken pox the year before....)
The Nice Lady - and nice she was - immediately agreed and told me to go get them (!)
We were then lead to the box.
(During the second half Chitty Chitty Bang Bang flew over the audience and right past our box - Jason Donovan waved at us and I did feel a few moments of shame imagining he'd been told to wave at the Sick Kid in the box)
So we got to see the show in style. And I still believe it's better for the actors to have kids there who can see.
And surely it's immoral that, just because we cos we couldn't afford the box, it had to stay empty?
Forgive me?
(No? Then I was only joking silly!)
Children are forever asking questions that are not easy to answer - granted I also sometimes struggle with the "What's for tea?" type too, but for example:
Cole in the car was watching the speedometer and reading out the numbers, even occasionally getting them right. Twentyeleven is my favourite speed. When he got to the big numbers, 100 and over he started to ask if it was against the law to go that fast? And do people go to prison if they go that fast? Then why do they make the cars that go that fast?
As Romany already knows everything she has a different approach to working things out, for example:
Ro: It's impossible to be perfect at everything.
Me: Absolutely.
Ro: So you just try and then you can be perfect at some things.
Me: That's it babe.
Ro: But Emma says it's impossible to be perfect.
Me: That's kind of true but then, but who decides what is perfect?
Ro: ME
(Cole: God) Amen
I try to strike the right balance between teaching them to play by the rules and a healthy attitude to knowing when to break them.
In St Tropez in France, Romany was desperate for the toilet so I told her we had to pretend we were eating in the fancy restaurant (rather than sitting in the square outside it)... we waltzed in confidently and asked where the toilets were. I think she enjoyed that wee/oui - more than most. (sorry unforgiveable shit play on words there...)
I once did something that I considered to be mild rule breaking, for the greater good - but which has had even good friends of mine gasp in shock...
See what you think - I reserve the right to say "only joking!" if I get arrested by the moral brigade.
When Romany was about to start school full-time her and I, plus one of my best friends D, and her daughter B, went to London for the weekend. It was a girl's weekend away filled with trips to Covent Garden, Camden, London Eye, lots of theatre etc etc. We took a polaroid instant camera and documented the whole trip... it was fantastic.
One of the treats we booked was to go see Chitty Chitty Bang Bang at a top West End Theatre. The tickets were £35 each and in the stalls - the flat bit in front of the stage but a few rows back. So the total price was £140 - a big chunk out of our budget.
We got to our seats and quickly realised us adults could barely see, let alone the children... we tried balancing them on our knees, sitting up so straight my back hurt, kneeling on their chairs on their knees; no good.
Five minutes into the performance, I glanced around the Theatre to see if I could spot any empty seats.... the only empty seats I could see were in the Box. Sat there, grand, proud, right next to the stage. Empty. Empty and we were down below and couldn't see.
I started to wish I had the money to just march to the box office and demand an upgrade, but of course I couldn't afford to do that.
Then it started to niggle me.
Just cos we not rich we have to sit where we can't see?
I thought some more then whispered my dasteredly plan in D's ear... she looked a little shocked but a little mischievous too, so off I went...
I snuck out of my seat and asked the staff if I could speak to the manager.
The manager wasn't there but the Nice Lady asked if she could help...
I told her... gulp:
"We have come to London with our two children. One of whom is erm... poorley. She is ill."
Pause for affect whilst maintaining eye-contact...
"We have seats but we can't see... I noticed the box was empty and, if I had the money I would pay, but could we move to it so that the children can see?"
(OK, but I didn't say HOW ill... Ro had had conjunctivitus around that time... and chicken pox the year before....)
The Nice Lady - and nice she was - immediately agreed and told me to go get them (!)
We were then lead to the box.
(During the second half Chitty Chitty Bang Bang flew over the audience and right past our box - Jason Donovan waved at us and I did feel a few moments of shame imagining he'd been told to wave at the Sick Kid in the box)
So we got to see the show in style. And I still believe it's better for the actors to have kids there who can see.
And surely it's immoral that, just because we cos we couldn't afford the box, it had to stay empty?
Forgive me?
(No? Then I was only joking silly!)
Monday, 27 April 2009
Don't forget to remember
At what age is it reasonable for children to remember some things for themselves?
Like, their PE kit on the right day or that they have homework to do - or in my daughter's case the more, dare I say, "trivial" last-minute fashion conundrums.
Clearly if she leaves the house in Those Skinny Jeans rather than the Other Skinny Jeans, people will point and stare and ridicule. News at Ten will headline the fact and Channel 4 will commission a documentary on us; The Family, Rubbish Dressers.
(My suggestion of the triangular-shaped-scarf being in the same league as the square-shaped one proved my lack of knowledge on these matters and she will no doubt have a blog on the subject very soon.)
Romany always remembers her Important Issues either as we are leaving the house or as I am switching out her lamp to say good-night.
I am at my least patient when trying to get us all out on time or indeed get kids to sleep - so last night gave her a bit of a lecture about being more organised - she is 8 now for goodness sake. (so what if I'm a bit older and not quite mastered it yet, am good enough to fool small children)
This morning while she is begging for her hair to be plaited, of course too late....
(Ro has Very Big Morning Hair which I'd already tamed) I piped up about "planning ahead".
She thought for a while then announced - her plan was "to get her hair plaited at the last minute."
Smarty pants... (of the fashionable variety of course...)
Like, their PE kit on the right day or that they have homework to do - or in my daughter's case the more, dare I say, "trivial" last-minute fashion conundrums.
Clearly if she leaves the house in Those Skinny Jeans rather than the Other Skinny Jeans, people will point and stare and ridicule. News at Ten will headline the fact and Channel 4 will commission a documentary on us; The Family, Rubbish Dressers.
(My suggestion of the triangular-shaped-scarf being in the same league as the square-shaped one proved my lack of knowledge on these matters and she will no doubt have a blog on the subject very soon.)
Romany always remembers her Important Issues either as we are leaving the house or as I am switching out her lamp to say good-night.
I am at my least patient when trying to get us all out on time or indeed get kids to sleep - so last night gave her a bit of a lecture about being more organised - she is 8 now for goodness sake. (so what if I'm a bit older and not quite mastered it yet, am good enough to fool small children)
This morning while she is begging for her hair to be plaited, of course too late....
(Ro has Very Big Morning Hair which I'd already tamed) I piped up about "planning ahead".
She thought for a while then announced - her plan was "to get her hair plaited at the last minute."
Smarty pants... (of the fashionable variety of course...)
Wednesday, 22 April 2009
F You, F2
We are decorating the front room/or lounge/or reception room, depending on how posh you are.
Actually, Reggie is decorating - with my helpful advice, input and direction.
He is not always very appreciative of my vast wisdom/suggestions/questions.
He didn't praise my eagle-eye that spotted that the first two "drops" of the wallpaper were one shade - then the next "drop" was a different shade.
It was not a design feature.
It was Not Supposed To Look Like That.
I had come down from my office to do my stand-by-the-door-and-offer-praise-say-wow-a-lot-and-lear-at-his-ass-a-bit etc etc.... but all I could see was:
Two Different Shades of wallpaper.
Side by side.
Glaring at me from their pasted position on the wall.
Stuck there to taunt me and remind me that I'm a front room kind of a girl and may as well dig out that pot shire-horse that I used to own (moi? not really of course.... honest.... as if....) and display it on my stone hearth next to my ill-matched walls...
Reggie had worked til midnight the previous night so I stood and deliberated long and hard as to whether or not to mention it. I pondered for a at least 7 seconds before tactfully announcing:
"Shit, babe, they're two different colours. Shit. Oh Shit..." then adding, "and you've hung them so beautifully too...."
So, then we checked the batch numbers on the roll.
Yeah, yeah, yeah...
I do KNOW NOW that it's what you do when buying wallpaper.
I do KNOW NOW that I was the Only Person in the entire universe stupid enough to not check the batch numbers blah blah BLAH
Who is responsible for not telling me this type of stuff that everyone else knows?
I want to know.... there could be other stuff that I'm walking around unaware of.
Anyhow, we set off to try find some more in the same F2 batch.
(Funny how F2 starts to sound like F You)
To cut a long and fascinating story short - F2 doesn't exist anymore.
Not anywhere. In any of the stores in Leeds anyway
(No lie, in EVERY shop today, including supermarket checkout, no joke, shop-ladies said to Reg: "Oooh aren't you tall?" or "What did your Mum feed you?"
Or, to me, "Goodness, he's a biggun!" "Don't you get neck ache?"
Or, my personal favourite: "Do you play baseball?" when they actually mean basketball... that one actually does make me smile - or snort if I catch Reggie's eye, as he's always too polite to point it out to them and patiently explains he "used to".
Anyway, by this time I HATED the wallpaper. Never ever want to see that wallpaper again.
So, anyway, if you are still even reading this fascinating article....
We bought a New Wallpaper.
From a fancy la-di-da-type shop.
And it was half-price!
And it is much nicer than that old bitch of a pattern...
And all rolls are from the SAME litter.
No in-breeding in my reception room.
Actually, Reggie is decorating - with my helpful advice, input and direction.
He is not always very appreciative of my vast wisdom/suggestions/questions.
He didn't praise my eagle-eye that spotted that the first two "drops" of the wallpaper were one shade - then the next "drop" was a different shade.
It was not a design feature.
It was Not Supposed To Look Like That.
I had come down from my office to do my stand-by-the-door-and-offer-praise-say-wow-a-lot-and-lear-at-his-ass-a-bit etc etc.... but all I could see was:
Two Different Shades of wallpaper.
Side by side.
Glaring at me from their pasted position on the wall.
Stuck there to taunt me and remind me that I'm a front room kind of a girl and may as well dig out that pot shire-horse that I used to own (moi? not really of course.... honest.... as if....) and display it on my stone hearth next to my ill-matched walls...
Reggie had worked til midnight the previous night so I stood and deliberated long and hard as to whether or not to mention it. I pondered for a at least 7 seconds before tactfully announcing:
"Shit, babe, they're two different colours. Shit. Oh Shit..." then adding, "and you've hung them so beautifully too...."
So, then we checked the batch numbers on the roll.
Yeah, yeah, yeah...
I do KNOW NOW that it's what you do when buying wallpaper.
I do KNOW NOW that I was the Only Person in the entire universe stupid enough to not check the batch numbers blah blah BLAH
Who is responsible for not telling me this type of stuff that everyone else knows?
I want to know.... there could be other stuff that I'm walking around unaware of.
Anyhow, we set off to try find some more in the same F2 batch.
(Funny how F2 starts to sound like F You)
To cut a long and fascinating story short - F2 doesn't exist anymore.
Not anywhere. In any of the stores in Leeds anyway
(No lie, in EVERY shop today, including supermarket checkout, no joke, shop-ladies said to Reg: "Oooh aren't you tall?" or "What did your Mum feed you?"
Or, to me, "Goodness, he's a biggun!" "Don't you get neck ache?"
Or, my personal favourite: "Do you play baseball?" when they actually mean basketball... that one actually does make me smile - or snort if I catch Reggie's eye, as he's always too polite to point it out to them and patiently explains he "used to".
Anyway, by this time I HATED the wallpaper. Never ever want to see that wallpaper again.
So, anyway, if you are still even reading this fascinating article....
We bought a New Wallpaper.
From a fancy la-di-da-type shop.
And it was half-price!
And it is much nicer than that old bitch of a pattern...
And all rolls are from the SAME litter.
No in-breeding in my reception room.
Sunday, 19 April 2009
Growing up
How come one day I feel far too much like a grown-up and other days wonder if I will ever feel like a Real Grown Up.
I am pretty sure that I don't like the grown-up business full-time.
This last week away at the coast with Reg and the kids was the exact prescription I needed - and it barely involved pinot grio... though did a bit...
My recent experience of insomnia altered into that other condition, who's name I can't remember cos it's too tiring, but involves falling asleep a lot.
I had so much fresh air my lungs were cold turkeying for some traffic fumes.
I was such an outdoor-girl-type I found myself lingering outside establishments that sell walking clothing - even admiring the particular design of a fleecy zip up....
A FLEECY ZIP UP.
I even gave Reg one of the best presents he says he's ever received - and no, it wasn't that one....
it was a hiking stick.
I'm pretty certain it's appealing to his theatrical eccentricity - this is the man who designed, and had made, his very own blue plastic shirt.
And looks good in it. Honestly.
Being 6'6" and mixed race allows for all kinds of exceptions from rules.
Even our own son asked me, at the age of 4, why black people are so cool.
To which I answered: "Hey whaddya mean, I'm white and I'm cool? Aren't I? Just a bit then? I am!"
Clearly making my point.
At the coast we all went cycling! Cycling... stop laughing....
cycling like a proper outdoors type family.
We nodded at other passing cyclists and I wanted to laugh cos they didn't spot that I was only pretending to be a grown up with her family allowed out on bikes together...
And I enjoyed it and it made me feel about 12. And I did it one-handed and everything.
Only wore trainers or wellies for a whole week, didn't miss my shoe collection - though did stroke a pair on the stairs when we got home, just as I was passing... nothing too weird.
I spent the whole week in practically one pair of the 25 different style of jeans I took.
Cole spent each day changing into the least wet/stained/muddy pair of trousers in rotation.... he has spectacular talent for looking grubby even freshly laundered.
(Tho, he does have other talents... Ro and I discovered that if you put his front hair in a pony tail, with pink bobble, he looks like a - sorry stop reading if dedicated to PC correct literature - he looked like a rather pretty but rough girl... we called him "Our Sharon". He played "Our Sharon" for a whole morning, complete with "Our Sharon" conversations. Just so you know we not prejudiced, he can also play old man Yorkshire and of course his beloved Caribbean-man complete with dance routine.)
The sea-gulls in Staithes and Whitby are the hugest hardest toughest meanest you have ever seen in your life. Honestly, you would not mess with that foot long beak and DO NOT make eye-contact with that beady eye that leaves you transfixed.... before you know it, you're ignoring the signs telling you not to and throwing your fish and chips at them cos it's too scary to not.
Romany continues to prove her lack of fear and love of the "buzz".
At 8 years old it's manifesting in wanting to spin the tea-cup ride far faster than is necessary, nagging continually to take the Tour through the Dracula Museum
(I gave in, I nearly fainted)...
she waded up streams and rivers while Cole stood aside - he even sees the difference himself now and says in his best Yorkshire Old Man voice: "I'm just doing health and safety"
She managed to blag herself two free tokens to go on the playhouse funhouse twice and another go on the tea-cups... she found a crab so big it wouldn't fit in our bucket and managed to co-ordinate her outfit every day making full use of her leg-warmers that she bought for 50p with her own money.
Ro also lost a tooth whilst in Staithes, though to be honest the frisbee in the mouth helped it along its journey a bit - it had been wobbly for ages and spent an impressive final 24 hours sticking at right-angle out of her gum.
when it finally came out and we discussed current Tooth Fairy rates - apparently immune from the credit crunch - the little monkey then laughed her head off whilst confessing to the last time the Tooth Fairy visited...
Hmmmm.... I bloody knew it...
A few months ago I woke at 2am to go to the loo and realised I'd forgotten to do the Tooth Fairy thing...
so went into her room, blithered around trying to find the goddamn milk tooth under her pillow, then froze like a statue as she stirred in her sleep.
I remained crouched and still in the dark - reminding myself I was keeping her magical dream alive...
Something about the expression on her "sleeping" face made me suspicious at the time, but I could hardly question her... finally, I made the switch.
After her confession, I swore her to secrecy for Cole's benefit. Despite cole being freakishly big has no sign of any wobbly teeth and is the type to believe in the Tooth Fairy til he is 42. He has a very active imagination,
(he made it through the door of the Dracula Museum before falling apart and being carried out to the safety of outside...)
So, Monday morning is looming and I have made my list of things I need to tackle - strangely the boiler fairies didn't come whilst we were away and we still have no hot water/heat.
It's top of the list in the morning.
Amazingly, cainer.com survived without me - and I survived without my laptop for 7 whole days.
I am like some weird addict now reunited...
my Inbox is bursting at the seams and I'm looking forward to my routine of coding horoscopes, my cutting and pasting skills functioning in many languages and I can spot a birth data input error from 20 paces.
I missed our amazing, fantastic, readers who come each day and read Jonathan's scopes from all around the world - and write to us with such open-ness and honesty (sometimes a bit too honest... ok, ok... so very occasionally "technical" problems happen and the site is 10 minutes late updating... couldn't possibly be my mistake... must be mercury retrograde)
When I grow up I want to be like www.cainer.com
I am pretty sure that I don't like the grown-up business full-time.
This last week away at the coast with Reg and the kids was the exact prescription I needed - and it barely involved pinot grio... though did a bit...
My recent experience of insomnia altered into that other condition, who's name I can't remember cos it's too tiring, but involves falling asleep a lot.
I had so much fresh air my lungs were cold turkeying for some traffic fumes.
I was such an outdoor-girl-type I found myself lingering outside establishments that sell walking clothing - even admiring the particular design of a fleecy zip up....
A FLEECY ZIP UP.
I even gave Reg one of the best presents he says he's ever received - and no, it wasn't that one....
it was a hiking stick.
I'm pretty certain it's appealing to his theatrical eccentricity - this is the man who designed, and had made, his very own blue plastic shirt.
And looks good in it. Honestly.
Being 6'6" and mixed race allows for all kinds of exceptions from rules.
Even our own son asked me, at the age of 4, why black people are so cool.
To which I answered: "Hey whaddya mean, I'm white and I'm cool? Aren't I? Just a bit then? I am!"
Clearly making my point.
At the coast we all went cycling! Cycling... stop laughing....
cycling like a proper outdoors type family.
We nodded at other passing cyclists and I wanted to laugh cos they didn't spot that I was only pretending to be a grown up with her family allowed out on bikes together...
And I enjoyed it and it made me feel about 12. And I did it one-handed and everything.
Only wore trainers or wellies for a whole week, didn't miss my shoe collection - though did stroke a pair on the stairs when we got home, just as I was passing... nothing too weird.
I spent the whole week in practically one pair of the 25 different style of jeans I took.
Cole spent each day changing into the least wet/stained/muddy pair of trousers in rotation.... he has spectacular talent for looking grubby even freshly laundered.
(Tho, he does have other talents... Ro and I discovered that if you put his front hair in a pony tail, with pink bobble, he looks like a - sorry stop reading if dedicated to PC correct literature - he looked like a rather pretty but rough girl... we called him "Our Sharon". He played "Our Sharon" for a whole morning, complete with "Our Sharon" conversations. Just so you know we not prejudiced, he can also play old man Yorkshire and of course his beloved Caribbean-man complete with dance routine.)
The sea-gulls in Staithes and Whitby are the hugest hardest toughest meanest you have ever seen in your life. Honestly, you would not mess with that foot long beak and DO NOT make eye-contact with that beady eye that leaves you transfixed.... before you know it, you're ignoring the signs telling you not to and throwing your fish and chips at them cos it's too scary to not.
Romany continues to prove her lack of fear and love of the "buzz".
At 8 years old it's manifesting in wanting to spin the tea-cup ride far faster than is necessary, nagging continually to take the Tour through the Dracula Museum
(I gave in, I nearly fainted)...
she waded up streams and rivers while Cole stood aside - he even sees the difference himself now and says in his best Yorkshire Old Man voice: "I'm just doing health and safety"
She managed to blag herself two free tokens to go on the playhouse funhouse twice and another go on the tea-cups... she found a crab so big it wouldn't fit in our bucket and managed to co-ordinate her outfit every day making full use of her leg-warmers that she bought for 50p with her own money.
Ro also lost a tooth whilst in Staithes, though to be honest the frisbee in the mouth helped it along its journey a bit - it had been wobbly for ages and spent an impressive final 24 hours sticking at right-angle out of her gum.
when it finally came out and we discussed current Tooth Fairy rates - apparently immune from the credit crunch - the little monkey then laughed her head off whilst confessing to the last time the Tooth Fairy visited...
Hmmmm.... I bloody knew it...
A few months ago I woke at 2am to go to the loo and realised I'd forgotten to do the Tooth Fairy thing...
so went into her room, blithered around trying to find the goddamn milk tooth under her pillow, then froze like a statue as she stirred in her sleep.
I remained crouched and still in the dark - reminding myself I was keeping her magical dream alive...
Something about the expression on her "sleeping" face made me suspicious at the time, but I could hardly question her... finally, I made the switch.
After her confession, I swore her to secrecy for Cole's benefit. Despite cole being freakishly big has no sign of any wobbly teeth and is the type to believe in the Tooth Fairy til he is 42. He has a very active imagination,
(he made it through the door of the Dracula Museum before falling apart and being carried out to the safety of outside...)
So, Monday morning is looming and I have made my list of things I need to tackle - strangely the boiler fairies didn't come whilst we were away and we still have no hot water/heat.
It's top of the list in the morning.
Amazingly, cainer.com survived without me - and I survived without my laptop for 7 whole days.
I am like some weird addict now reunited...
my Inbox is bursting at the seams and I'm looking forward to my routine of coding horoscopes, my cutting and pasting skills functioning in many languages and I can spot a birth data input error from 20 paces.
I missed our amazing, fantastic, readers who come each day and read Jonathan's scopes from all around the world - and write to us with such open-ness and honesty (sometimes a bit too honest... ok, ok... so very occasionally "technical" problems happen and the site is 10 minutes late updating... couldn't possibly be my mistake... must be mercury retrograde)
When I grow up I want to be like www.cainer.com
Saturday, 18 April 2009
I heart Staithes
We back.
Splendid week away by the sea-side -
(even though it did include sliding inelegantly down several rocks, streams and landing in a waterfall. My bottom has never had such a dangerous year.)
Kids having sleepover at Grandmas this evening, Reg and I off out to watch Denapoli at Seven doing his thing.
This also means we get to sleep in tomorrow as no children or seagulls in/on our house.
Life feels good today - but as my friend Lorraine reliably informed me once, "don't worry, it will pass." Strangely comforting.
Splendid week away by the sea-side -
(even though it did include sliding inelegantly down several rocks, streams and landing in a waterfall. My bottom has never had such a dangerous year.)
Kids having sleepover at Grandmas this evening, Reg and I off out to watch Denapoli at Seven doing his thing.
This also means we get to sleep in tomorrow as no children or seagulls in/on our house.
Life feels good today - but as my friend Lorraine reliably informed me once, "don't worry, it will pass." Strangely comforting.
Friday, 10 April 2009
I don't sleep through the night anymore
I don't know why.
I used to be Very Good at sleeping all the way through.
Now it's 4.21am and I am wide awake.
It's quite boring these days being up at this time.
Not sure what I should be doing.
Wish I was the kind of person who cleaned when stressed/can't sleep.
My house would be immaculate. At least I would be tired but with a clean kitchen floor.
Instead I am the sort that writes songs or poetry that I think are really good and then read them in the morning and have to remind myself that I am not 17 and rubbish lyrics are not what is expected at my age.
I have a guitar with broken string so can't strum.
I have had sleepy tea and played 4 games of online backgammon - I'm trying not to do that as think I could become cyber backgammon loner geek....
Any suggestions?
Right now, would resort to any drug/tablet that my virtuous ideals usually avoid....
I have even searched for Cole's piriton for when his eczema gets bad but he must have had it all. How rude.
Four nurofen have not touched me.... I must be hardcore... rock and roll.
One last point - please leave me a comment if you visit - I feel a bit like a BillyBloggerNoMates. I know some people are reading.... go on, say hi.
It will make me feel dead popular and important and may cure my insomnia and then if you ever visit again you wont have to read this boring tripe.
I will leave you with the lyrics that are in my head to a song that I probably shouldn't write:
"I hold in my stomach, while you hold in your farts
Then we go ahead and break each others hearts."
Catchy huh?
Yes, I know, my time would be better spent cleaning....
I used to be Very Good at sleeping all the way through.
Now it's 4.21am and I am wide awake.
It's quite boring these days being up at this time.
Not sure what I should be doing.
Wish I was the kind of person who cleaned when stressed/can't sleep.
My house would be immaculate. At least I would be tired but with a clean kitchen floor.
Instead I am the sort that writes songs or poetry that I think are really good and then read them in the morning and have to remind myself that I am not 17 and rubbish lyrics are not what is expected at my age.
I have a guitar with broken string so can't strum.
I have had sleepy tea and played 4 games of online backgammon - I'm trying not to do that as think I could become cyber backgammon loner geek....
Any suggestions?
Right now, would resort to any drug/tablet that my virtuous ideals usually avoid....
I have even searched for Cole's piriton for when his eczema gets bad but he must have had it all. How rude.
Four nurofen have not touched me.... I must be hardcore... rock and roll.
One last point - please leave me a comment if you visit - I feel a bit like a BillyBloggerNoMates. I know some people are reading.... go on, say hi.
It will make me feel dead popular and important and may cure my insomnia and then if you ever visit again you wont have to read this boring tripe.
I will leave you with the lyrics that are in my head to a song that I probably shouldn't write:
"I hold in my stomach, while you hold in your farts
Then we go ahead and break each others hearts."
Catchy huh?
Yes, I know, my time would be better spent cleaning....
More kipper than giddy
The last couple of weeks have been a tad trying.
My new dongle doesn't work on my laptop.
Our boiler has finally given up - no hot water or heating now.
My mobile phone only works when it feels like it and has attractive crack on front cos I dropped it whilst trying to get out of car with shopping/kids/school end of term easter "art projects"....
My tyre went flat - the car's tyre not my own spare.
(I was positively trim after doing the Nil By Mouth NHS diet recently.... it's based on being admitted for an emergency operation that they don't have time to do for three days. Works wonders)
Ermintrude the guinea pig mysteriously got behind the sofa without Either Child lifting her out of the cage.... incredible - and Ermintrude does not respond to her name and generally has very bad manners and is unhelpful in this type of crisis.
Reggie took some clothes to the dump which included a cardigan belonging to a friend I am just getting to know who only popped round for singing practice last week..... yet he didn't take all the clothes our children have grown out of, they remain in a pile in their room.
I am hoping to find similar cardigan for her - bit like when you're a kid and your goldfish dies and your mum buys another. It was black and white stripes so if you see one, let me know....
Took the children to see 3D film and fell asleep almost all the way through with my 3D glasses on, no idea whether it was good... kids liked it.
Found popcorn in my cleavage hours later when getting ready for bed. I showed Reg and think he just thought I was being practical - and asked was it sweet or salty? .... oh how things change after 10 years together.
Anyway, tomorrow we are all going to Staithes for a week by the sea-side.
We've been a few times and it always works it's magic.
Little cottage, next to beach, open fires, rock pools, no phone signal, fresh air.
Obviously it being England, will have to pack for all seasons but hoping it will lift my spirits and put the giddy back in the kipper.
Will post some pics when I return - oh no, forgot, my camera wont work either - yes, the one I spent a lot of money on 18 months ago...... breathe in... and breathe out....
I think inspired by my parenting skills this week Cole made up a joke:
What did the Mummy door say to the little door?
Shut It.
My new dongle doesn't work on my laptop.
Our boiler has finally given up - no hot water or heating now.
My mobile phone only works when it feels like it and has attractive crack on front cos I dropped it whilst trying to get out of car with shopping/kids/school end of term easter "art projects"....
My tyre went flat - the car's tyre not my own spare.
(I was positively trim after doing the Nil By Mouth NHS diet recently.... it's based on being admitted for an emergency operation that they don't have time to do for three days. Works wonders)
Ermintrude the guinea pig mysteriously got behind the sofa without Either Child lifting her out of the cage.... incredible - and Ermintrude does not respond to her name and generally has very bad manners and is unhelpful in this type of crisis.
Reggie took some clothes to the dump which included a cardigan belonging to a friend I am just getting to know who only popped round for singing practice last week..... yet he didn't take all the clothes our children have grown out of, they remain in a pile in their room.
I am hoping to find similar cardigan for her - bit like when you're a kid and your goldfish dies and your mum buys another. It was black and white stripes so if you see one, let me know....
Took the children to see 3D film and fell asleep almost all the way through with my 3D glasses on, no idea whether it was good... kids liked it.
Found popcorn in my cleavage hours later when getting ready for bed. I showed Reg and think he just thought I was being practical - and asked was it sweet or salty? .... oh how things change after 10 years together.
Anyway, tomorrow we are all going to Staithes for a week by the sea-side.
We've been a few times and it always works it's magic.
Little cottage, next to beach, open fires, rock pools, no phone signal, fresh air.
Obviously it being England, will have to pack for all seasons but hoping it will lift my spirits and put the giddy back in the kipper.
Will post some pics when I return - oh no, forgot, my camera wont work either - yes, the one I spent a lot of money on 18 months ago...... breathe in... and breathe out....
I think inspired by my parenting skills this week Cole made up a joke:
What did the Mummy door say to the little door?
Shut It.
Sunday, 5 April 2009
Wife wanted
I have realised what it is that I need in my life.
And it's a wife.
I can totally understand how fantabulous it would be to have one.
A gorgeous babe who does the shopping and cooks the food.
She would remember on what day which child goes where and with what.
She would re-cycle our household waste properly and NEVER sneakily stuff the odd leaflet in the other bin as the paperbox wouldn't be overspilling...
She would keep up the glass re-cycling so I don't ever have to face the reality that the wine bottles far out-number the other empties....
(am trying to name other glass items we re-cycle.... eerrrrm jam jars.... yes, that's what takes up all the goddamn room )
She would congratulate me on completing a week at work.
Listen sympathetically to how unfair it was that I was robbed of promotion/payrise/the last salad sandwich on granary with no mayo.
All these years I have been a feminist
(and yes, a feminist is allowed to own a pair of Jimmy Choos and be held together by Touche Eclait and Beauty Flash Balm)
But I see it all so clearly now.... the men were right all along.
I would like a wife too please, what a marvelous idea.
Marry me?
No?
God, you are so mean internetsuperwebhighway....
then at least leave me a comment - a wife would.
And it's a wife.
I can totally understand how fantabulous it would be to have one.
A gorgeous babe who does the shopping and cooks the food.
She would remember on what day which child goes where and with what.
She would re-cycle our household waste properly and NEVER sneakily stuff the odd leaflet in the other bin as the paperbox wouldn't be overspilling...
She would keep up the glass re-cycling so I don't ever have to face the reality that the wine bottles far out-number the other empties....
(am trying to name other glass items we re-cycle.... eerrrrm jam jars.... yes, that's what takes up all the goddamn room )
She would congratulate me on completing a week at work.
Listen sympathetically to how unfair it was that I was robbed of promotion/payrise/the last salad sandwich on granary with no mayo.
All these years I have been a feminist
(and yes, a feminist is allowed to own a pair of Jimmy Choos and be held together by Touche Eclait and Beauty Flash Balm)
But I see it all so clearly now.... the men were right all along.
I would like a wife too please, what a marvelous idea.
Marry me?
No?
God, you are so mean internetsuperwebhighway....
then at least leave me a comment - a wife would.
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
Dressing for dinner
Oh how our standards have slipped...
this was only 3 years ago and these days I barely tie my bonnet.
In My Hood
When I was growing up I lived in the back streets of Bingley....
Actually, it was neither cool nor edgy nor cosmopolitan.
Though we did have Martin's Bargain Centre which sold Everything.
My walk from home into the "town centre" -
ie. Martin's Bargain Centre plus the grocers, chemist, Boots and supermarket -
plus all important Bus Stop to take me to Faraway Exciting Lands like Bradford or (if feeling particularly brave) Keighley.
On my walk Downtown on the Upper East Side of the back streets of Bingley (aka Dubb Lane), I would cross over the canal via the green bridge. Turn right and follow the road.
On the left was a disused building that I think was a bakery in a former lifetime, but boarded and derelict whenever I passed it.
The building was tall and stood alone.
Right at the Very Top...
on the only large, smooth piece of stone, someone (Bingley's Banksy?) had sprayed - graffitied...
in huge letters:
Spuddy Fat Crisp
I still wonder how.
And why?
And why do some things stick in my mind and others are stored so far away I can't reach them?
I sometimes wonder about things I've forgotten, but then, this made me smile then and it still makes me smile now.
So seeing as though being a grown-up is extremely tedious and not very rewarding at the moment;
It's the best I have to offer.
Spuddy Fat Crisp
Feel free to use it.
Actually, it was neither cool nor edgy nor cosmopolitan.
Though we did have Martin's Bargain Centre which sold Everything.
My walk from home into the "town centre" -
ie. Martin's Bargain Centre plus the grocers, chemist, Boots and supermarket -
plus all important Bus Stop to take me to Faraway Exciting Lands like Bradford or (if feeling particularly brave) Keighley.
On my walk Downtown on the Upper East Side of the back streets of Bingley (aka Dubb Lane), I would cross over the canal via the green bridge. Turn right and follow the road.
On the left was a disused building that I think was a bakery in a former lifetime, but boarded and derelict whenever I passed it.
The building was tall and stood alone.
Right at the Very Top...
on the only large, smooth piece of stone, someone (Bingley's Banksy?) had sprayed - graffitied...
in huge letters:
Spuddy Fat Crisp
I still wonder how.
And why?
And why do some things stick in my mind and others are stored so far away I can't reach them?
I sometimes wonder about things I've forgotten, but then, this made me smile then and it still makes me smile now.
So seeing as though being a grown-up is extremely tedious and not very rewarding at the moment;
It's the best I have to offer.
Spuddy Fat Crisp
Feel free to use it.
Thursday, 26 March 2009
Pick of the pops
Cole: I like killers
Me: Pardon?
Cole: You know, they sing that song: are we humans or are we hamsters?
Aaah.... yes, me too.
Me: Pardon?
Cole: You know, they sing that song: are we humans or are we hamsters?
Aaah.... yes, me too.
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
Lost and Found
Funny old tea-time today.Romany goes to ballet/tap on Tuesday - Cole and I do something of his choice...
(my Stupid Suggestion as he never chooses magazine reading/chardonnay drinking)
Tho he is very good company at colouring in which at least takes place sat down, but mainly we have to Move.
A Lot.
Last week it was football in the park - apprently I'm quite good.
What do you mean, he's a six year old boy and has no discretion?
I am clearly Bending It like Beckham.
Our Tuesday park also has a basketball hoop so we shoot some hoops -
I was goal shooter in netball 100 years ago, so I casually blow his mind with my goals...
Cole is Really Good at shooting hoops.
As he is abnormally large like his Dad
(No, really, not being heartless... he's huge.. just turned six, wears 8-9 clothes and size 3 shoe)
he has his Dad's natural height advantage - and a pretty good aim, which clearly comes from me.
As we got Ro changed at her dance class after school; her leotard was missing from her bag....
dum dum DUM....
How frustratingly cliched that motherhood Really Does involve an awful lot of "Put that straight back into your ballet bag, then we know where it is..." every Tuesday.
(Library book Thursday, spelling Tuesday, swimming Wednesday... blah blah blah.... how I had planned to inspire her and not nag....)
but I restrained from saying "I told you to blah de blah de blah..."
and then convinced her as she had her pink wrap-top and skirt - and her pants were cool groovy short style, it wouldn't matter she had no leotard on underneath, so off she went.
It was Cold and Windy.
So I told Cole we had to play inside - jedi-mind-tricked him with reminders of how the dust got in his eyes at the weekend in the wind (though we were not in fact anywhere near the building site that caused the dust... but hey, he's six, I'm not)
Went home, we played Wii Sports... he beat me a zillion times at Tennist - argue with Cole about the pronunciation cos I no longer care and only notice if someone calls it Tennis
Then we got a phone call from Ro's dance teacher saying she was upset.
This had never happened in the two years she's been going there.
We drove straight to pick her up early - the teacher told me she said she was crying as she was missing her Grandma Maxine.
Hmmmm...
on Mother's Day, I had been a bit sad, as was missing my Mum.
Ro saw me cry and I thought it best to be honest so I told her I still miss her.
Ro sadly never met my mum as I was only 12 when she died, but I talk about her lots.
I took Ro home from dance early, fed her her fave tea and then we had a cuddle and a chat.
Call it Mother's instinct but I gently said...
"And did you feel a bit silly and then sad cos you had lost your leotard and had to do it in your wrap and dance skirt?"
She immediately agreed....
"Yes! I couldn't raise my arms properly.... or tap dance properly"
I immediately felt that lovely mother's guilt....
I fell back on an old joke that always makes her smile even in her grumpiest-first-thing-in-the-morning-get Dressed Now" moments:
"Hey Ro... do you think anyone else in the world calls their knickers, "Knickington-knackington-noodles" like us?"
She laughed... and then made me say it again... and again...
Then I gently concluded:
"So, it was very sad today at dance because we miss Grandma Maxine? And a lot cos you felt a bit silly without your leotard?"
"Yes, my back kept showing and my knickington-knackington-noodles..."
"Anything else?"
"No, not really."
You see, it's sometimes a fine line what makes us feel upset.
She laughed out-loud when I told her I cried once when I spilt my corn-flakes - it's true. It was very sad.
I told her sometimes we can cry for lots of reasons - like when she was the angel in the christmas nativity play - or when Daddy had messed up the hire-car arrangements on arrival at Nice airport and we couldn't get our car (hold a grudge, moi?)
But I'm pretty sure, on this occasion, she cried cos her knickington-knackington-noodles were on show... no-one can do a good tap dance under those conditions - even with a living grandmother.
We are going to buy a new leotard this weekend.
These topics are not covered in parenting manuals - she's 8 now - and there will come a time, I'm sure when I can't guess which bits are really making her sad and it wont always be so easy to make her laugh.
I get the distinct feeling Cole will continue to respond pretty rapidly to some rice, chicken and peas or learning some new guitar chords or drum-playing.... so far, he's pretty goddamn clear, "Wow mum... you can play guitar. But you can stop now, I'm hungry."
Thursday, 19 March 2009
Bottom's up
Ahem…. confession time
My name is Vanessa and I recently had an operation.
I had to stay in hospital for five days.
I had a Very Very Large Abscess on my derriere, my booty, my bottom, ok, my ass…
In the last six weeks I have shown my bottom to SO many people I began to get quite glib about it.
The stay in hospital was followed up with having my dressing changed three times a week by the nurses first at home then at local surgery – hmmm lovely.
I am now able to converse quite readily with my bum in the air whilst some poor nurse packs, cleans and describes my wound as “looking beautiful”…. she really did.
And I was grateful.
It was quite simply one of the strangest experiences of my life.
When I was first ordered to Hospital A&E by my GP, I waited two hours to be seen.
Not bad, could have been up to four hours wait.
My turn finally came, and my name was called.
Was it the kind, old, wise-looking doctor I had seen coming in and out? No.
Was it the pretty cool looking young hip nurse? No.
Was it the matronly nurse who looked like she’d seen it all during at least 700 years of A&E. No.
No. It was of course, a young, tall, dark and handsome Doctor with an unplaceable accent and a twinkle in his eye.
Takes me into a cubicle and asks what my problem is….
How much did I want to invent ingrowing toenail? Or suddenly…. is that tummy ache I feel?
Instead, I tried to maintain some cool, dignity and think I said, something like:
“Although, this is clearly not the look I have been aiming for this season, and it certainly isn’t feeling very glamorous…. but I have a large abscess on my bottom and my GP says to come straight here as I can no longer sit or walk without Muchos Pain.”
(medical term for handsome doctors with foreign accents)
I definitely saw a flicker of humour/empathy/HAHAHA cross his face but, bless him…. he put me out of my misery immediately by explaining:
“I won’t ask you to show me as the surgeon will make the operational decision so wait here while I go get her.”
I thanked him as he left the cubicle, when he poked his head back through the curtain and said,
“I won’t ask you to take a seat.”
How very intuitive that I would rather stand…
The operational guru in charge admitted me to the ward. Reggie was with me by this point and I handled it all really maturely by crying and saying I didn’t want to stay in hospital and wanted to go home.
It didn’t help that my bay had a resident Crazy Lady. And by that I mean the Crazy Lady types that are easy to spot as they throw their zimmer frames around and ask all the patients which shopping centre we were in. After a couple of days I became quite fond of her and was brave enough to chat but it was a tad intimidating on day one.
Anyway, I waited a couple of a days for my op. Torturing myself over the thought of a general anaesthetic. Last summer, I past the age my Mum was when she died. It’s been kind of a new era having outlived her.
I convinced myself that the irony would be, I would survive potential hereditary cancer this long and then die having an abscess removed from my bum.
I told the anaesthetist.
I told the Nurses
I told the pre-op people...
I cried all the way to theatre telling them how my mum had died and I didn’t want to….
Right before they put the mask over my face I even confessed to something I may or may not have done a thousand years ago at a rave, but could have caused an undetected heart problem??!!
When coming round in recovery… I thanked the nurses 4 thousand times…. I cuddled the lady who I think just came to change my water jug. I thanked the person in the lift, I thanked the nurse who gave me the morphine (wow…. good shit man)
I was SO happy to be on this planet.
I clearly learn my lessons in not the most traditional ways.
I am more than grateful to still be here, will do what I can to dodge the cancer that wiped out my mum. And I will try my best to enjoy every day – or at least remember a shit day is still an advantage.
And I am very grateful two months on, to sit down on Both Buttocks.
My name is Vanessa and I recently had an operation.
I had to stay in hospital for five days.
I had a Very Very Large Abscess on my derriere, my booty, my bottom, ok, my ass…
In the last six weeks I have shown my bottom to SO many people I began to get quite glib about it.
The stay in hospital was followed up with having my dressing changed three times a week by the nurses first at home then at local surgery – hmmm lovely.
I am now able to converse quite readily with my bum in the air whilst some poor nurse packs, cleans and describes my wound as “looking beautiful”…. she really did.
And I was grateful.
It was quite simply one of the strangest experiences of my life.
When I was first ordered to Hospital A&E by my GP, I waited two hours to be seen.
Not bad, could have been up to four hours wait.
My turn finally came, and my name was called.
Was it the kind, old, wise-looking doctor I had seen coming in and out? No.
Was it the pretty cool looking young hip nurse? No.
Was it the matronly nurse who looked like she’d seen it all during at least 700 years of A&E. No.
No. It was of course, a young, tall, dark and handsome Doctor with an unplaceable accent and a twinkle in his eye.
Takes me into a cubicle and asks what my problem is….
How much did I want to invent ingrowing toenail? Or suddenly…. is that tummy ache I feel?
Instead, I tried to maintain some cool, dignity and think I said, something like:
“Although, this is clearly not the look I have been aiming for this season, and it certainly isn’t feeling very glamorous…. but I have a large abscess on my bottom and my GP says to come straight here as I can no longer sit or walk without Muchos Pain.”
(medical term for handsome doctors with foreign accents)
I definitely saw a flicker of humour/empathy/HAHAHA cross his face but, bless him…. he put me out of my misery immediately by explaining:
“I won’t ask you to show me as the surgeon will make the operational decision so wait here while I go get her.”
I thanked him as he left the cubicle, when he poked his head back through the curtain and said,
“I won’t ask you to take a seat.”
How very intuitive that I would rather stand…
The operational guru in charge admitted me to the ward. Reggie was with me by this point and I handled it all really maturely by crying and saying I didn’t want to stay in hospital and wanted to go home.
It didn’t help that my bay had a resident Crazy Lady. And by that I mean the Crazy Lady types that are easy to spot as they throw their zimmer frames around and ask all the patients which shopping centre we were in. After a couple of days I became quite fond of her and was brave enough to chat but it was a tad intimidating on day one.
Anyway, I waited a couple of a days for my op. Torturing myself over the thought of a general anaesthetic. Last summer, I past the age my Mum was when she died. It’s been kind of a new era having outlived her.
I convinced myself that the irony would be, I would survive potential hereditary cancer this long and then die having an abscess removed from my bum.
I told the anaesthetist.
I told the Nurses
I told the pre-op people...
I cried all the way to theatre telling them how my mum had died and I didn’t want to….
Right before they put the mask over my face I even confessed to something I may or may not have done a thousand years ago at a rave, but could have caused an undetected heart problem??!!
When coming round in recovery… I thanked the nurses 4 thousand times…. I cuddled the lady who I think just came to change my water jug. I thanked the person in the lift, I thanked the nurse who gave me the morphine (wow…. good shit man)
I was SO happy to be on this planet.
I clearly learn my lessons in not the most traditional ways.
I am more than grateful to still be here, will do what I can to dodge the cancer that wiped out my mum. And I will try my best to enjoy every day – or at least remember a shit day is still an advantage.
And I am very grateful two months on, to sit down on Both Buttocks.
Monday, 16 March 2009
Mum's the word
Introducing Maxine Lawton - isn't she lovely?Sadly, she left this planet when I was only 12 which is still Very Inconvenient and can still ponder endlessly about her.... especially now I am a Mum myself.
Today something so lovely happened.... I wrote about her to Culture Vulture as they were offering comedy or opera tickets to deserving mum's.
I will copy it below:
Dear Vanessa
Our heartstrings were tugged, pulled and twanged by the reasons why our Mums deserved a good old night out with flowers.
Although your reason "As my Mum died when I was 12, I have always hated Mother's Day. But since having little ones of my own I am making the very most of it now. I have also now got a mother-in-law who, is the most wonderful Grandma to my two little ones. This helps tremendously to have one amazing grandma for them even though mine isn't here. So I would love comedy and flowers for both of us!" was very worthy it did not win the comedy prize. However because it was a very close second we thought you may like to choose a night out at the newly opened Howard Assembly Room at Opera North, where there is a very eclectic programme of music and performance between now and the end of April.
Just drop an email to let us know what you and your Mum in Law would like to go see!
With lots of love (having a wee six month chicklet called Georgie has made us clucky, in fact she choose from the shortlist as we were stymied!)
Wednesday, 11 March 2009
What a feeeling.....
Went to Theatre tonight to see Flashdance!
No, it wasn't Shakespeare.... nor did it challenge my mind with thought provoking issues or break any boundaries within performance art....
But it did, make me feel 17.
And wonder if I could get my hair permed?
And wonder if I could dance and spin and stretch and sing.... is it too late to become a dancer?
It also made me relieved for Noel out of Hearsay as he had a prominent role and did a very good New York accent. As did one of the Nolan sisters.
Oooh we've got it all going on in Leeds you know.
Thanks to Karen, Emma-Jane and Abi for organising, driving and being the kind of friends I don't yet know very well or see very often but always feel comfortable with, and they all have such goddamn style, make me laugh and always look forward to the next time I will see them.
Cole got 11 out of 11 in his maths test today. This is such an event that you have probably already heard about it on News at Ten.
Ro is being a bit grumpy - needs a couple of early nights. This morning on the way to school she told me the sound of her own breathing was annoying her..... and the sound of Cole and I laughing at that annoyed her even more.
I'm sure when she is Older and Completely In Charge, she will get someone in to do the breathing for her.
Anyway... am off... really.... am definitely not going to fiddle on t'interweb and drink more wine... cos that would be silly... promise... well not for long anyway.
No, it wasn't Shakespeare.... nor did it challenge my mind with thought provoking issues or break any boundaries within performance art....
But it did, make me feel 17.
And wonder if I could get my hair permed?
And wonder if I could dance and spin and stretch and sing.... is it too late to become a dancer?
It also made me relieved for Noel out of Hearsay as he had a prominent role and did a very good New York accent. As did one of the Nolan sisters.
Oooh we've got it all going on in Leeds you know.
Thanks to Karen, Emma-Jane and Abi for organising, driving and being the kind of friends I don't yet know very well or see very often but always feel comfortable with, and they all have such goddamn style, make me laugh and always look forward to the next time I will see them.
Cole got 11 out of 11 in his maths test today. This is such an event that you have probably already heard about it on News at Ten.
Ro is being a bit grumpy - needs a couple of early nights. This morning on the way to school she told me the sound of her own breathing was annoying her..... and the sound of Cole and I laughing at that annoyed her even more.
I'm sure when she is Older and Completely In Charge, she will get someone in to do the breathing for her.
Anyway... am off... really.... am definitely not going to fiddle on t'interweb and drink more wine... cos that would be silly... promise... well not for long anyway.
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
Girl Geek Dinners
Am v excited....
just signed up to go to the Girl Geek Dinner in Leeds on Thursday.
Thanks Abby - one of The Bezziest mates, clevergirl and definite giddykipper
I love my work as part of the team on cainer.com and do have regular work days with the great astrologer himself (and yes, he really is that good and and wise and can even make tofu taste nice)
Sometimes I even work with other real humans on our team - but I also work Alone from Home A Lot.
I absolutely know I'm lucky and appreciate combining work and motherhood, but sometimes it's solitary when my online conversations are more frequent than real ones.... and I can definitely type as fast as I can think (but maybe that's nothing to show off about).
Anyway, I think a Girl Geek Dinners sounds right up my interwebsuperhighway.
Will let you know oh zillions of readers
Nessa
just signed up to go to the Girl Geek Dinner in Leeds on Thursday.
Thanks Abby - one of The Bezziest mates, clevergirl and definite giddykipper
I love my work as part of the team on cainer.com and do have regular work days with the great astrologer himself (and yes, he really is that good and and wise and can even make tofu taste nice)
Sometimes I even work with other real humans on our team - but I also work Alone from Home A Lot.
I absolutely know I'm lucky and appreciate combining work and motherhood, but sometimes it's solitary when my online conversations are more frequent than real ones.... and I can definitely type as fast as I can think (but maybe that's nothing to show off about).
Anyway, I think a Girl Geek Dinners sounds right up my interwebsuperhighway.
Will let you know oh zillions of readers
Nessa
Monday, 9 March 2009
Ace genetic recipes
My son and his Dad
He wrote on his letter to Father Christmas that he would like a Nintendo Wii, Mouse Trap, a book and a take away from Maureen's Caribbean Cafe in Chapletown.
Bonjour Croissants madame?
Last summer we had our Best Family Holiday yet.
One of the many tricky bits of parenthood is finding a holiday that suits all involved. I had travelled a lot in my life before parenthood but realised quite quickly how different it is with kids in tow. I wanted enough style, adventure and facilities to suit the traveller in me but couldn't quite stomach the "family package holiday" nor have enough time or bravery for a real adventure.
When Ro was just 2 years and Cole only a few months we even tried a second-mortgage priced Mark Warner holiday... the kids wouldn't go near the kids club and I had overwhelming yearnings to shout "poo, poo, wee, wee sick and blood" over the never-ending conversations about "little Hermione's tennis serve". Or how ski-ing is best learnt under the age of two.
We've had lots of lovely cottage in England experiences but last year went to Eurocamp in South of France.
It was like Woo Hooo! Hurrah! Eureka!!
OK, so we didn't actually stay in a tent but a mobile home so I could still blow dry my hair, find the loo in the middle of the night and keep out the mosquitoes.... but we all slotted into the laid back, very French but still family atmosphere.
The photo is the kids coming back from the morning croissant run.
On our campsite, you simply had to speak French. The croissants and bread were baked on the premises; Ro and Cole learnt how to ask at the counter on their own for "quatre croissants et quatre pain au chocolait s'il vous plait".
This photo is them returning with their supplies after going on their own for the first time.
They had bikes on the campsite was contained so totally safe for them to cycle off together and return with breakfast.
One morning Cole decided he wanted to do the breakfast run on his own. He'd had a week or so with his big sister queuing at the counter, saying the French phrase and coming up with the goods.
So, we let him go it alone.
Off he went on his bike.... he was only 5 years old but pretty sure about the whole thing.
On his return he was still trying to play it cool.....
"Er Mum, I couldn't quite remember what to say, so I got this instead..."
He placed on the table some Toilet Blue Loo freshener and a bottle of water.
What I would give to have been a fly on the wall in that little French shop.... to say we laughed hard is un petit understatement, thankfully Cole knew full-well he'd deviated a little from the shopping list and think he already knows I will still be mentioning it when he is 24.
By the way, another stroke of luck on that holiday was we ended up being asked to do a photo shoot for the Netherlands Eurocamp brochure.... and they just wrote to us offering a free week's holiday in payment for it. It was quite fun though harder than I thought. The scene was two families having a meal outside so we all sat round and I had to pretend to serve up food and drink which we got to eat at the end of the shoot.
Again, Cole does not react well to waiting for permission to eat, he just couldn't get his head round the fact that I was putting it on his plate then back in the dish and he was supposed to smile.
I had to do a lot of cajoling to get Cole to smile whilst putting spaghetti on his plate that he wasn't allowed to eat - then the director of the shoot had the cheek to tell me I was over-acting!!! Moi?! The cheek of it.... our family are used to having our Toilet Blue the minute it's served thank you.
Saturday, 7 March 2009
Gladiators ready? Erm.... actually no.
I have learnt lots today.
I have learnt that I do not enjoy being in the same room as 23 six year old boys, high on gladiator games and party food.
I have learnt that it's more complicated than I thought to give the right food to the nut-allergy-kid and spot the right moment to give the inhaler to the asthmatic one.... (I learnt pretty quickly it's when they seem unable to breath very well)
I have learnt that they are not bothered about pass the parcel as it doesn't involve running/jumping/racing.
I have learnt that it is a very silly idea to provide them water pistols as a going home gift (my stance against party bags).... I got desperate in the last 10 minutes and gave them out early and then seriously wanted to gladiator body slam a few of them for aiming straight in my eye/hair.
I have learnt that Cole tends to spit quite a lot whilst blowing out candles.... no thanks, don't fancy the cake.
I have learnt that coming home from party with only a few children and some ace parents who bring vodka, wine and a handsome husband who makes amazing spicy chicken helps tremendously.
Although it is not sensible to go on trampoline with children after consuming vodka and spicy chicken.
One of my favourite moments was watching Cole join the end of a line of girls running through our house shouting about being excited.... Cole jumped up, joined the line, ran through the house with great enthusiasm shouting: "What are we excited about?!"
Who the hell knows babe?
Happy Birthday My Sweet Funny Gorgeous Boy Who Is Six
I have learnt that I do not enjoy being in the same room as 23 six year old boys, high on gladiator games and party food.
I have learnt that it's more complicated than I thought to give the right food to the nut-allergy-kid and spot the right moment to give the inhaler to the asthmatic one.... (I learnt pretty quickly it's when they seem unable to breath very well)
I have learnt that they are not bothered about pass the parcel as it doesn't involve running/jumping/racing.
I have learnt that it is a very silly idea to provide them water pistols as a going home gift (my stance against party bags).... I got desperate in the last 10 minutes and gave them out early and then seriously wanted to gladiator body slam a few of them for aiming straight in my eye/hair.
I have learnt that Cole tends to spit quite a lot whilst blowing out candles.... no thanks, don't fancy the cake.
I have learnt that coming home from party with only a few children and some ace parents who bring vodka, wine and a handsome husband who makes amazing spicy chicken helps tremendously.
Although it is not sensible to go on trampoline with children after consuming vodka and spicy chicken.
One of my favourite moments was watching Cole join the end of a line of girls running through our house shouting about being excited.... Cole jumped up, joined the line, ran through the house with great enthusiasm shouting: "What are we excited about?!"
Who the hell knows babe?
Happy Birthday My Sweet Funny Gorgeous Boy Who Is Six
Friday, 6 March 2009
Can I serve vodka at kids parties?
Not to the children.... obviously.... unless they are Very Annoying.
I now have an 8 year old girl and a 6 year old boy.
Tomorrow, my boy Cole is having a Gladiator party at the local sports centre.
We rather enthusiastically invited many friends assuming some couldn't come - but they are All Coming.
And I am a tad concerned that "Gladiator Party" sounds a bit more exciting than it actually is. Scott Hall sports centre, last time I was there, was in possession of at least 4 triangle shaped foam objects, a tired looking spring board, a few grubby balls and a stroppy teenager referee....
I have told Cole that Wolf or Trojan or Cobra probably won't be there.... I am hoping to manipulate their six year old minds with the offer of sweets, marshmallows, crisps and some weird sour snake things....
I genuinely big-time, seriously love hanging out with my six year old boy. It's certainly more interesting than a lot of grown ups. Cole is a deep-thinker - and no I'm not biased.
He laughs really really loud at all of my jokes, which proves his high intelligence. He has excellent manners - after burping he can follow it with burping the words "excuse me".
Cole's "friend" Percully - you know, the type of friend no-one else can see/hear/speak to - sadly died whilst bass jumping on top of a mosque. Let that be a lesson to you all.
I now have an 8 year old girl and a 6 year old boy.
Tomorrow, my boy Cole is having a Gladiator party at the local sports centre.
We rather enthusiastically invited many friends assuming some couldn't come - but they are All Coming.
And I am a tad concerned that "Gladiator Party" sounds a bit more exciting than it actually is. Scott Hall sports centre, last time I was there, was in possession of at least 4 triangle shaped foam objects, a tired looking spring board, a few grubby balls and a stroppy teenager referee....
I have told Cole that Wolf or Trojan or Cobra probably won't be there.... I am hoping to manipulate their six year old minds with the offer of sweets, marshmallows, crisps and some weird sour snake things....
I genuinely big-time, seriously love hanging out with my six year old boy. It's certainly more interesting than a lot of grown ups. Cole is a deep-thinker - and no I'm not biased.
He laughs really really loud at all of my jokes, which proves his high intelligence. He has excellent manners - after burping he can follow it with burping the words "excuse me".
Cole's "friend" Percully - you know, the type of friend no-one else can see/hear/speak to - sadly died whilst bass jumping on top of a mosque. Let that be a lesson to you all.
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