Bringing up boys - Top tip, Never forget to listen...

Why is it that when you have a feeling that they are really really telling you the truth you ignore them? Especially when you have something important to do like promising a friend you’ll all go to London for the day?

So despite the fact that The Boy says, Mummy my head hurts I bundle him in the car drive for two hours and then force him to walk miles all round town only to land up at our destination: The Natural History Museum with a miserable child plus a roaring temperature and still I pretend to myself and everyone else that everything A OK only to have to back track rapidly and high tail it all the way back to Suffolk when said Boy virtually collapses in my arms. Bad Mummy.

So after that one would think I would not do the same thing again in a hurry but no less than 10 days later when The Boy says: “Mummy my tummy hurts”, I ignore it as I have to take Bog Boy to a party and we’ve been invited out for lunch and then there is the school Bonfire Party/Halloween Fest and well, blooming heck it’s all organized and it would be way too much hassle not to do everything.

Actually the Boy seems fine and downs two Coca Colas at lunch much to my chagrin but hey it’s not my place to gainstay him when his hosts are so generous. It’s not as if it happens all the time. The lunch passes fine although I note The Boy is not as hungry as he normally is.

At the Bonfire Party appetites have returned and he wolfs down a beef burger and some rather dodgy tomato soup…I am not fond of that tomato soup and you’ll find out why in a moment.

Well safely at home a full on exhausting day behind us and The Boy and his little brother are fast asleep in bed. A little too self-satisfied turn over to drift off to sleep only to be woken what seem moment later by a plaintive wail: Mummy I’m going to be sick…!!!!

I don’t bother with the "Hold on Darling, Mummy’s coming!" by the sound of his panic stricken voice I know it’s far too late. Thinking quickly in the fog of sleep I holler: "Run Boy! Run! Run to the bathroom and for heaven’s sake don’t be …"

Too late I hear the first up chuck and I know as I thunder down the stairs from my attic hideaway that it’s going to be a messy interlude.

In my haste I have forgotten to turn the landing light on and as I dart across to follow  The Boy to the bathroom I step  in it warm and squidgy and seeping between my toes. I pause momentarily do I continue knowing that I will be leaving behind potato print footsteps all along the cream carpet down the corridor but am there to look after my son or do I stop to clean my foot and just yell instructions to him not to throw up in the basin? As these thoughts flit across my befuddled brain I hear another huey and my mind is made up no time to worry about feet, I’ll just have to hop. Then I hear more and I wonder just how much food has he eaten and when will it ever stop? It’s not until later after reassuring The Boy that all is Ok and that Mummy still loves him that I start to assess the damage.

Switching on the lights the full horror is laid before me. My Boy has managed to leave multi textured ruddy brown splodges about two and a half feet in diameter on not one but two Persian Rugs and as I retrace our footsteps  I note that the cream carpet along the corridor doesn’t look nearly as nice as it did only a few hours before.

I have a funny feeling this is what they call Schadenfreude and make a mental note to listen to my children when they say they aren’t feeling too good…

Schadenfreude terrier style...

Don't you believe that butter wouldn't melt in his mouth!

Never, ever think you've got your terrier taped, even if he is 11 years old. And never, ever even think that perhaps your terrier is better behaved than anyone else's.
Today, minding my own business or not as the case maybe, I perused the blogosphere and came across The Miracle courtesy of Asbo Jack, Exmoor Jane's wonderful JRT doing exactly what JRTs are supoposed to do - surprise you, lull you into a false sense of security and then do exactly what it is they've been wanting to do all day - pick a fight with somone larger than they are. Classic small dog syndrome. I laughed safe in the knowlegde that that sort of thing doesn't happen to me anymore on the basis that the JRT ( Jack Russel Terrier) in our house is permanently grounded and only taken on walks or runs when there is little chance of him meeting anyone at all let alone another dog. This can be facilitated by either walking said dog in the middle of the night or else at 5am in the morning.
Back to today and my slighly, dare I say it superior feeling about my JRT Tigger. No that sort of thing would never happen to me...but pride does come before fall and I have fallen hard. Just as I was writing my witty little comment ( I can dream people, I can dream and I can also expand the truth a little too) I heard a cacophony of barking, the postman had arrived. Every day we go through the same ritual. Post van drives up drive, Tigger goes bonkers and looks a little like Krull as he squashes his head against the kitchen window trying to bite the poor postman. We all laugh and indulge his little whims safe in the knowledge that he cannot get out. Sometimes I have noted the postman teases the dog a bit by deliberatley slowing his pace and waving the post about - bad move. Tigger has a long and ferocious memory even if he cannot see all that well anymore.
Everything should have been all right, the postman should have slotted post through the door into the wire cage and returned to the van, got in and driven away.
BUT...
But today, Bog Boy decided he'd help Mummy who was workign upstairs. He opened the door...
Ohmygodheopenedthedoor!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tigger got out! I only saw it from the corner of my eye as my office window overlooks the back door. There was a horrendous barking and growling. The whippets took up the challenge and shot downstairs too woofing, I shot after them, didn't bother to put on shoes. There was shouting asnd growling and what seemed to my ears like somthing being dragged over the gravel - Oh please God! NO!! Not the Postman!!!
I bolted out the door slamming it shut on three demented whippets who then bounced up and down barking more ferociously than ever trying to get a better look out the glass panels on the back door.
It was a horrible sight, schadenfreude always is, with the Postman ineffectually batting at the terrier who kept leaping up at him trying to get a better purchase on the his shorts. I saw the dog make contact and the postman whizz him round all four feet off the ground. As he turned I lunged at the dog, grabbing him and in the process nearly pulling the poor Postman's shorts off. I have never had to apologise more profusley and so fast. Mortification was NOT the word. I HATE Jack Russels, I really do!
Needless to say Tigger went back into the house well satisfied with the day's work while Bog Boy round eyed handed me today's post. "Can we do that again tomorrow?"