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.

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?

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?

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?)

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.

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?

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....

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

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.

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!)