Pants to 2013 - or is it?

Sitting here freezing cold because HE is on an economy drive (I forgot to fill up the oil tank before Christmas) and all I can think is it’s been a PANTS 2013.

Blogging wise I may as well have  got a monkey to do it for all the sense I have made or actually not done anything at all – it’s not been a stellar undertaking.

I had such high hopes!

It was meant to be my year and… actually it wasn’t. Things just sort of got on top of me and then I decided to do something about it and then things REALLY got on top of me and yet there is a chink of light at the end of the tunnel as long as I keep digging, as long as I keep on going - perhaps 2014 could be better.

It’s not as if 2013 was ALL bad. It was just a bit like a curates egg; bad in parts which tends to make the whole thing rather off putting.

Bad in parts: well I had several visitations from the Black Dog cumulating with a massive appearance over Christmas coupled with mountains of work, too little time and a 10 year old boy with teenage attitude problems.

Hey – what can I say

All of that was over shadowed by the fact that HIS  company came up for sale at the beginning of the year and it was rather touch and go for the rest of it as to whether he would A) keep his job; B) like his new bosses; C) stay in  his job…

We are still out on C but at least he HAS a job and so do I – for the moment and that cannot be a bad thing.

But with all the uncertainty comes stress; a low lying thrumming stress and that has lead too many Black Dog visitations and hence my belief that 2013 was PANTS.

So as an exercise I will catalogue the good and bthe bad and if I am right then 2013 WAS pants and if I am wrong…well I’ll get my arse into gear and prove 2014 is  going to be even better…

January

Sassy Whippet aka wickedest whippet gets pregnant on purpose - good

Hubbie’s work up for sale. Will he still have a job at the end of all this?– bad

Boy passes LAMDA exam – good

I take back the reins and go horse riding after 20 years – good

Hubbie celebrates one year of weekly commuting: I miss him – bad

Boy gives up piano: no battles as I try forcing him to practice - good

Bog Boy (youngest)  takes up piano: now have to FORCE him to practice - bad

February

Got invited out for Valentines night – good

Drowned car – bad

Missed Valentines night  out – bad

Got new car – good

Used up all holiday money to buy new car – bad

March

Had puppies – good

Good mate had massive heartattack – bad

April

But survived – good

May

Boy off epilepsy drugs – good

Sold puppies - good

But fell in love with one puppy and still had to sell it - bad

June

Mums 70^th she is still alive and kicking! - good

I get amazing article to do – good

Having written article get amazing opportunity – good

July

Boy wins school prize - good

College mate dies of cursed cancer – bad

August

Had staycation – surprisingly good!

Article published and everyone thinks it’s – good!

September

Boy takes up trombone: WHAT more practice battles!!!!– bad

Bog Boy takes up recorder – bugger…

Boy gets girlfriend – good

Boy gets dumped – bad

Mate tries to kill themself – very bad

October

Keep getting work opportunities – good

Had amazing birthday party – good!

Boy gets girlfriend back – good

Boy gets dumped again – bad

Boy gets cool haircut – good

Boy gets girlfriend back again - good

November

Have amazing trip for work – good

Meet extraordinary people – good

December

Best friend gets annoyed with Boys flicky fringe and cuts it while I am away – bad

Get back from trip too close to Christmas – bad

Boy gets dumped by girlfriend yet again as not cool with dodgy fringe - bad

Boy pisses off mother on virtually daily basis with severe teenage attitude problems - bad

Fail to write Christmas cards – bad

Major major major crisis of confidence (I can’t do all this! I am going to fail!!) – bad

Manage to meet work deadlines so far – good

Plucking up courage to write all about trip – good

Feeling fragile but hopeful – bad and good

Good: 27  Bad:  20

Roll on 2014….

Anxiety, in-laws and too much chocolate...

Do you have those days when it just does not kick start? It fails to ignite and try as you might basically it should be skipped.
Today was one of those days.
I should have just skipped it.
I am getting increasingly  anxious about an imminent visit from my in-laws, which is in fact more than six weeks away, but I am not really looking forward to it.
Suffice to say like a lot of people I find my in-laws are problem. Not that they are bad people or anything; they are not - it's just we don't get on. I rub them up the wrong way and they do the same to me.
I feel not quite good enough and approaching 50 and after 15 years marriage I really should be far more gown up about it. But you can take away the childhood but you may never take away the child and I am that child.
Nervous, anxious and then just badly behaved because I don't want to be nervous or anxious.
I have managed to avoid my in-laws for the past couple of years and personally I think this is a good thing for all of us. I am happy not to see them and truth be known I very much doubt they are anxious to see me. But there comes a point when we must all meet and at least pretend to get along for appearances sake.
So that my children can be free to love them as grandparents and my husband not find himself in a bind  pulled between his love and desire to protect me and his love and desire to be with his family.
Possibly my failure to see my in-laws  has given rise to comment, and this of course must be rectified. I cannot believe they are in any hurry to see me at all. But I think they feel that they ought to be more involved with their sons and grandsons and I am obviously the problem.
So in an effort NOT to be the problem I am hosting a Birthday weekend for my mother in law. I fear it is going to be disastrous and just another excuse for them to say how awful I am and I probably won't let them down - behaving as usual  in a manner  unbefitting.
I have never ever been rude to them bar the once when I told my MIL to foxtrot oscar - though I did have post natal expression at the time. And in general I am very accommodating allowing them to bring their dogs, invite their friends over etc etc but after such a long time away from their company I fear they are now bogeymen so my chocolate intake is increasing as I try to stay calm and days like this drift by  without me getting much done…
Wish I could wave a magic wand and be the perfect daughter in law

What would you do if you were given an extra day?

An unexpected day.
An extra day.
And the thing is, what would you do?
I was given an extra day the other day. It was absolutely glorious.
Guess what I did?
Did I indulge myself with a pampering experience? Did I go for a slap up meal? Was I surrounded by family and friends?
Nope to all of that.
I
Did
Housework.
And more than that I loved it.
I thoroughly enjoyed myself - and I usually hate housework. I avoid it at all costs. I am brilliant at breeding dust bunnies, and expert on the finer points of sweeping stuff under the carpet. I excel at creating more mess without even trying.
I resent housework, I resent its endless monotony. I resent that it's always me that has to do it.
But on my extra day, my bonus day I had the time of my life.
I think I finally got it.
On my extra day I was not doing housework really. I was thinking of all my boys. I was thinking how they would come home and find that I had cleaned their rooms and made their beds, done their laundry, cleaned the bathroom and left everything perfect just for them.
Would that it was always this easy!
Perhaps it could be, if I knew that I would not be doing it again for a couple of weeks. Maybe it's one of those "this is the last time I am having to do this moments", even though I will probably come home to a complete tip after my trip away and be straight back to major groaning and griping about it.
Maybe I felt happy because it's the knowledge that if I leave it perfect they will be obliged to keep it that way and realise during the course of the couple of weeks that I am away that housework is not as easy as it seems and thus on my return I will be all the more welcomed. More appreciated because of my absence.
It doesn't really matter why I was happy about it I am just hugging the thought that for a brief moment in time I was happy doing it.
I'm not going to knock those moments.
What would you do if you had an extra day?

Being Middle Class - Getting the wind up....

There's nothing like an impending emergency to get the old heart thumping or indeed in the case of us Brits to start talking to one another. Even better the impending emergency is all about the weather.
Normally on a Sunday I see the mummies and daddies standing in splendid isolation on the edge of the hockey pitch whiling away the hour or so until their children's training is over.
Every week they come and every week they stand alone together. Occasionally one may break ranks and try to start up a conversation. Usually it is a case of crash and burn not due to meanness or even being unfriendly just a case of chronic social ineptitude and acute embarrassment. I applaud the bravery but would of course never actually say out loud that I did, I mean that would just be embarrassing for all concerned!
But give us an excuse to talk, on a non personal level naturally, and then there is no stopping us. All sorts of secrets come out: like the fact that so and so's husband has run off with the local vicar's wife or that the reason why that nice couple are always up for meeting new people is that they are swingers...the mind boggles, really it does.
While this is all well and lovely but the startling nature of these Bon motes can of course render one speechless, so thank heavens for being able to move the conversation swiftly on with talk of the impending storm. Concern about ones' trees and the question of the probability that one may or indeed  may not get into work on Monday morning covering for the fact that you are now in a serious social dilemma regarding how you are going to gracefully decline the invitation for a cosy soiree next week from the nice couple you have just heard are swingers.
Maybe I'll be too busy clearing up after the storm...

Getting back in the Groove

Refusing to stick my head in the ground!

It's been a long time.
A very long time and no it's not about the blog, even thoughit has been so long since I posted that my rankings are now totally off the scale and I am in danger of being forgotten.
It's about work.
And I am in danger of being forgotten there too.
Not only forgotten - which may imply that I once was remembered - but there is also the realisation that for some I have actually never existed.
And now I am trying to get back.
Get into the groove.
I feel as if I have been in some kind of stasis - frozen in time like Austin Powers and totally without any mojo.
I haven't been doing nothing for the past 12 years. I have managed to keep my foot wedged in the door so to speak- while renovating our home and birthing and bringing up two boys - but the foot has been so long wedged that I think it has mortified.
I do have some work but lately it has been squeezed and I fear that because I am not in the office on a daily basis I am fading fast in everyone's collective memory.
Hence the need to rejuvenate myself; be reborn - faster, stronger, better than before.
And I feel an utter fraud.
I fear I may never work properly again.
Why on earth would anyone want to give me gainful employment?
I have forgotten how to do it.
Not that I have forgotten how to write, I can do that OK. I write 1,000 words a week and get paid for it. But I am beginning to fear that all my eggs are in one basket and if that magazine were to decide to close down my column - then what?
No one knows who I am!
I wasn't widely known when I was working full time but at least all the PRs knew where to send the press releases and would ring me up with useful bon mots and stuff. I'd get invited to functions and press days and the like.
Now I find I am having to scrabble about on line searching for stuff more and more and increasingly I am having to telephone PR Execs, begging them to put me on their mailing lists. They invariably mispronounce my name, get confused and then ask me again just who I am and why I am calling.
It's so scary.
Scary that I am going to have to risk rejection, ridicule and condescension from editors and publishers young enough to be my kids as I start all over again at the bottom.
I am going to have to prove, not just to them, but to myself that I can do it
I am terrified.
Can I make it?
Can I do this?

Being Middle Class: Acting like a fishwife

Today is a day NOT to mess with me....

If I were terribly, terribly, middle class and frightfully, frightfully proper I wouldn’t have done wot I did in the Tesco Car Park at lunchtime.

I think my father would have described me as acting like a fishwife. At least that would be the polite version.

Mea Culpa

I hold up my hands.

Guilty as charged

BUT

But  I did have an excuse.

Honest.

Come on have you ever had to work from home AND get your kids to do holiday work?

It’s a recipe for disaster and there is a lot to be said for just giving up and giving in and letting them kick back in front of the TV all day eating crisps. It would be so much easier if I did and I’d get a heck of a lot more work done.

But I know better of course.

I get my kids to do their holiday work come hell or high water and it’s usually both.

They whine, I rumble.

They whine some more and muck about, I growl loudly

They stubbornly refuse to get on with it and I start to shout

They shout back and I explode and there are lots of tears.

After about two hours they settle down for five minutes to get on with it and are then distracted and start to whine all over again about how unfair it is that they have to do holiday work when surely none of their friends have to do any…at this point I go into melt down and basically everything all goes horribly wrong.

I storm out of the house leaving a rather shell shocked family behind. I jump in the car and slew my way down the gravel drive before hurtling into town and Tesco where I intend to pick up sandwiches for lunch and grab some cash – any excuse to get me out of the house so I won't actually carry out my threat of murdering my two boys.

So there I am wondering around the Tesco car park and I see a space; I drive into it then notice there is a space in front that I can drive into allowing me a quick forward getaway when I have finished my chore. But there are two, I’ll call them ladies, gossipping in the space. I nudge my car forward to get them to move so I can park.They stop talking and glare at me momentarily before carrying on.

I wait for them to move.

They don’t.

I rev the engine a little more in case they don't realise that I wish to park where they are standing. I expect them to raise their hands in apology and move away.

They don't instead older woman barks out: “What’s your problem.” Before turning her back on me to carry on talking to her friend.

Normally I would have got all embarrassed and apologised for trying to park and all that but today I have had enough.

Today I am NOT going to be polite.

Today no one had better get in my way.

I flip.

Today I am a real witch.

I rev the car more and hit the horn LONG and LOUD as I drive forward.

"What do you think you are playing at!!" she hollers at me.

"I am parking my car..."

"You could park anywhere!"

"But I don’t want to park anywhere," I say sweetly through gritted teeth."I wish to park here..."

"Well am talking to my friend and I can talk to my friend wherever I like!"

"Great next time try doing it in the middle of the motorway. In the meantime I am parking my car right where your standing - so shift…"

I am not sure if I would have driven right over them but I am glad that they thought I might have driven straight over them.

They even backed right off when I got out of the car still hurtling insults as they walked away.

I should have left it like that.

But as I said: NOT today.

I stalk after them with murder plainly written across my face.

"You want to take this further? Do you? Come on then…"

I honestly believe that I would have got into a full on scrap there and then in the middle of the Tesco car park – talk about anger transference!

They scarpered and I felt…

Brilliant!

It was a total relief.

No shaking, no guilt, no shame.

Went into Tesco and was utterly charming to everyone.

Frightfully Middle Class….

Being shamelessly middle class – and apologising for it…

You go away for 24 hours and you come back fully aware that you need to shout it loud and proud.

My kids go to private school because it never entered my head that there was an alternative. Or words to that effect.

My name’s Tattie Weasle and I AM Middle Class.

If there’s one thing I learnt during my brief sojourn in Town (London for the uninitiated) at the glorious Britmums Live event, is that to have an authentic voice you need to be true to yourself.

For years I have been apologising for being Middle Class. In fact that is one of the traits of being Middle Class (pronounced “Clarse” as in arse) – forever saying that you’re sorry for being so.

That being so, I now humbly beg forgiveness.

If I were Working Class I’d tell everyone to “Foxtrot Oscar” and “What You LOOKIN at” and if I were Upper Class – well I wouldn’t speak to you anyway, or if I deigned, I might raise an eyebrow in askance.

I think being Middle Class is very confusing as you vacillate between being very proud for being so and worrying what others may think of you.

There’s a lot of guilt being Middle Class.

In fact there are 9.63 million Google hits about it and I think that is a lot.

Secretly though it’s not so much guilt as fear; fear of being laughed and derided by the Upper Classes or else beaten up by the lower orders and having everything taken away.

Thus you land up trying very hard to be invisible by seamlessly blending in to one and frantically claiming solidarity with the other. One requires expensive shopping trips and claiming that you know who won this year at Burghley and that yes you do know your chukka from your bump; and the other renders you incomprehensible to English speaking nations as you reclaim your Working Class roots (Class now pronounced as in ass) along with dropping you aitches and hastily adopting a mockney accent even though your antecedents hailed from Wales.

So it is with a great deal of trepidation and frantic crossing of fingers that I promise to speak with my own voice – possibly for the very first time in my life.

And I won’t be apologising…well, not all the time!

Bringing up boys - one dog at a time!

One boy and his dog...

"If that little bugger goes anywhere near my new boots!!"
I'll what? - Sell it after all?
Of course not.
They are as bad as each other. No blooming respect for anything.
Out the kitchen door, straight up the stairs and into the bedrooms. Slippers, socks, biros, teddies - nothing is sacred. He's been up on the table, in the dishwasher. He's stolen from the fridge and piddled on the carpet. Chewed two baskets and nearly given me a heart attack appearing from the laundry room with my knickers in his mouth
That puppy is worse than his mother, and I thought she was the ultimate Wicked Whippet. This one! Well, he is the devil incarnate, a diablo and not helped one iota by his new master.
Thick as thieves. One forever in search of the other.
I don't know whether to congratulate or kick myself.
You might have guessed but I finally gave in - he's got his dog.
I suppose it was kind of inevitable that I'd let him but I hope he never really knew that. I hope he felt that he has really earned his dog. It was certainly hard going.
I cannot count the times he 'lost' the dog for continually answering back, showing attitude. For lack of respect and thumping his brother.
But for all of those mistakes there were a thousand good ones in their place. Being kind to others, laying up the table, clearing up the dog mess without asking, and more than that for keeping on trying at school even though it never seemed as if there was any progress at all.
There he'd be struggling away with no reward; being knocked back countless times but still trying.
He's won the ultimate challenge. He kept his end of the bargain - just.
So I am keeping mine.
Another wicked whippet enters the annals - welcome to the pack - Jet Bag!

Bad Mother Moments #4 - A case of not believing when your youngest says he’s feeling sick while looking at a plate of salad…

This is What I Think of Greens!

It is a truth universally acknowleged, that a small boy in possession of a dish of greens, must be in want of a way to get rid of it. And if that way is to throw–up then throw-up one must.

Problem is this does not endear you to your parents - in particular your Mum, who lives in fear that you will never grow because you don’t always eat your one a day let alone your five.

Thus was I faced with a rebellious small boy on Sunday evening flatly refusing to eat his salad.

“It makes me sick!”

“Horrocks! Greens never made anyone sick!”

“They will you know! They’ll make ME sick!”

Shades of Violet Elizabeth  Bott, I thought murderously. We have been battling for months with Bog Boy to get him to eat fruit and veg, especially the green stuff, and after a long half term, and an equally long Sunday, this latest mutiny was one too far and I flipped:

“If you throw up I will make you eat it all back up!”

I didn’t think he was going to be sick, honestly I didn’t! I just wanted him to stop being a pain in the neck and just get on and eat his supper including his greens. I was tired and I wanted both my boys in bed so I could finally relax safe in the knowledge that tomorrow it would be someone else’s problem.

I gave him a gimlet-eyed stare and stomped off in to the TV room before I said anything further. Sometimes it is safest to leave them to it.

There was very little sound from the kitchen and all seemed to be going well but then there was the most almighty wail. The kind of wail that has any parent up in a flash. The wail when you know your child is not mucking about and that this is an emergency.

The sight before my eyes was not pretty but it was the terrible moans escaping from Bog Boy that wracked me most:

“Oh NOooooooo” he sobbed almost incoherently, “I’m going to have to eat it all up!”

Of course I didn’t make him do anything of the sort but I was still angry. Little toad had drunk so much water he’s effectively made himself sick.

Fast forward to Monday and off they trundled to school with Bog Boy still behaving  in a ridiculous manner saying he was going to be sick if he ate breakfast.

He was still complaining at suppertime but everything had gone well at school so he had to be alright surely.

Supper was lovely Spaghetti Bolognese with a rich homemade tomato sauce. I promise he did not eat that much but at 10 o clock just as I was going to let the dogs out and trundle off to bed I heard a creaking on the stairs and was met by a wan little face with the most enormous eyes.

“I really have been sick this time Mummy and I didn’t make myself!”

Oh boy had he been sick several times along the corridor, the bathroom and oh dear god all over his bed the floor and everywhere – even bless him on his teddies Jelly and Puppy! There was not a hope in heck that he had made himself do this!

I felt SO very guilty! My poor little mite had been telling me he wasn’t well and I bad mother had totally ignored him!!!

PS. My Poor little mite is not going into school until Thursday and in the meantime he is sitting next to me playing on my ipad. The best cure for being sick he says….