Puppies!

The wonderful Mud in The City has tagged me to show the fourth photo in my picture file on my computer - it was surprisingly painless.
I would like to say I was honest about it but I would be lying and suffice to say I'm a bit shy so will hope instead that this from the fourth folder in My Pictures will suffice.
It was taken when the puppies (L to R: Molly, Pica, Shadow, Mia and Gemma) were five weeks old or thereabouts. A moment of calm when they had probably been fed and were just falling asleep. Puppies like children are at their most endearing at this stage in the day.
For those not in the know and for whom puppies like babies all look a like these are whippet puppies and were Tattie's first and more than likely only litter as she's going to be seven in March and I feel that, well, like me, she's in Middle Age and should not have to deal with the sleepless nights anymore!
However, her daughter Gemma, who is now three, is off for an assignation on St Valentine's Day no less and I hope a week before the Flora London Marathon to really annoy my husband by saying whoops sorry dear the dog is about to whelp and I've got a 20 mile training run to do . So if you don't mind this one's on you... well I wasn't allowed to get out of it with my own kids. In fact all he did was loiter with intent in the corridor while I did all the work. Maybe that's a bit harsh, I think I actually suggested he leave but not quite in those terms. It was more forthright I fear at the time.
I tend to do a lot of husbandry on St Valentine's Day. Before I was married it tended to focus around neutering, I'd like to say that those days are long gone but Dear Charlie failed to inform me that he would be out tonight ...
Rules of the game are to tag a further four, so in turn I would like to tag the following (having never done this before many apologies in advance...)
MOB at http://menopausaloldbag.blogspot.com/
Pondside at http://pondside1741.blogspot.com/
Pam at http://textilosophy.blogspot.com/
Elizabethm at http://welshhillsagain.blogspot.com/

Friday Angels

I should of course have been doing this every Friday but nothing is ever simple in my life. So for those out there who have been my Angels and kindly supported my efforts to raise money for Epilepsy Action as I train for the Flora London Marathon - here's an excuse to Google yourself!!!

Cathrine Harrison - seriously good lass and very dedicated PR!
Jim Darrah - never mess with this man, a hero and great support!
Great Aunt Alice - come on would you quibble with a GREAT Aunt???
Rhiannon Spurgeon - this lass is in training for the Bath Half Marathon (Go for it girl!)
Mauro Marenghi - ad sales extrordinaire
Malory Davies - as close to God as they get ( well he IS my editor!)
Will & Anna-Liisa Gaze - Best Brunch in Suffolk!
Susan Lewis of NR Evans - Operational Support Manager of a seriously good logistics firm (which just happens to have a head office close to Carmarthen in Wales where my Nan used to live - see it's ever such a small world really!)
Peter & Sue James - a magical Godfather and pretty special person (and Sue too!)
Gert & Elizabeth Stern - too generous by half!
Charles Mesquita - well what can I say? He's my bestest mate

OK Money raised so far a whopping £414 only £4586 to go....and then of course I have to run as well. Ever onwards, ever upwards...

http://www.justgiving.com/lizasmarathon

Looking like something the cat sicked up…

When I next manage to go out running I am going to look like something the cat sicked up. And I will do this voluntarily. I will walk out of the house knowing exactly what I look like, which will be seen by my mother as a step in the right direction, as I have never been known to check what I look like before leaving the forgiving environs of my own home.
In fact I have never been known to check what I look like even within my own home, as for many years my dressing mirror was obscured by a huge pile of pictures waiting to be hung on the walls. It wasn’t until recently when the walls were ready for pictures to grace them that I remembered there was a looking glass in my dressing room. It came as quite a shock, I can tell you. I could not figure out who the slightly crazed apparition was before me, I couldn’t remember having a portrait of my Grandmother and then it dawned on me that I was looking at myself – a far cry from the image I had been carrying around in my mind all these years. That had been of a more youthful version, less grey, slightly firmer round the jaw, more defined. I’d like to say that when I finally brushed the dust off the mirror I was all I ever was, but reality, like bright mirrors, is harsh.
However, I digress, despite the changes wrought in me over the years, there are many who can verify that I don’t look like cat sick on a daily basis. No, the reason why I will be looking highly dubious, is that The Boy and The Littlest feel I need to be seen. I need to be violently seen or seen violently. To be honest anyone who does see me will attest to the violence of the apparition that will be me. I just hope I won’t be the cause too many accidents for that is the whole reason why the Boys are determined Mum will be seen.
They have just watched a video all about The Girl Who Didn't Dress Bright in the Dark part of the Government’s road safety campaign this winter and having worked out that they have plenty of bright stuff to be seen in it has dawned on them that their erstwhile parent goes out training for the Flora London Marathon dressed head to toe in black.
Now, the whole point of running attire is that it is black, or at least a dark colour, because that is what is the MOST flattering for the majority of us who run. Come off it, not all of us are built like whippets especially those who have only just taken up the call. I mean there have to be some perks as you abase yourself publicly on the open road. In fact I have taken to silently saluting the courage, chutzpah and well, just down right grit of all those ladies young and old I note jogging round Stowmarket and its environs – J-Lo eat your heart out the booty on these sisters is magnificent to behold!
Having raided my drawers, chests, cupboards, and an unending variety of boxes, bags and other interesting receptacles in the hunt for things eye wateringly bright the boys settled on an array of garments and accessories that when added together look like something the cat sicked up and I am going to have to wear it. The things I am doing to raise money for my charity Epilepsy Action I am beginning to feel are beyond the call of duty...
The violence of the ensemble would make even Vivienne Westwood pale. Upon my head is an old red cycling bandanna appliqued with day glo yellow pom poms left over from my Parent Trumping Christmas Card making blitz last year, this is teamed by an awe inspiring, and again day glo yellow, oversize jumper with 1980’s string vest top twist also in day glo yellow and adorned with silver stripes both front and back. My once pristine Nike trainers have been customised with pink sparkly pom poms tied to the laces. Around each cuff I have old bicycle lights, which I am told, most seriously, I will have to have switched to intermittent flash for the best protection. My worry is not for myself anymore but to other poor innocent road users…luckily though I have yet to recover sufficiently from the dreaded lurgy to launch myself upon an unwitting audience - take heed now they won't let me incarcerated for long however much I cough!

Is it Ok to PANIC?

At what point is it perfectly acceptable to panic? At the moment of realisation, at the dawning of comprehension or when it’s too late to do anything about it?
I am not quite sure where I am on that scale but there is a burgeoning sense of panic starting at the pit of my stomach and rising. It is causing a slight jittery feeling and making me feel, well frankly nauseous for much of the day and no it is NOT the Winter Sickness Bug – would that it were.
I am becoming concerned about the fact that I have committed myself to run in The Flora London Marathon and my training seems to be going backwards. When I started I was able to bumble along quite happily running 6 miles in an hour but despite training – throughout Christmas – I have got steadily slower. In fact if I continue this way I will only just be finishing when they start next years!
I try to get the thought out of my mind but like all semi-apocalyptic contemplation it won’t go away. It manifests itself in my dreams, interrupting traditional nightmares from being chased by unspecified horror to the realisation that the horror is the least of my worries and the problem is I will never get any faster and said horror shoots past leaving me somewhat deflated in it’s wake.
The thought stalks my day, turning the innocent school run into a potential half marathon circuit if only I weren’t in my car; my coffee break into a test run of trying to drink and keep moving at the same time - a feat I am assured is easier to do when the liquid you are drinking isn’t scalding hot.
Good grief even the washing is turning into a marathon but that’s possibly because it’s now on epic proportions as I was too lazy to do any over the holiday and now we’ve run out of sheets, towels and other minor necessities such as school uniform, pants and socks.
I suspect that my worries are unfounded or maybe even that I am not actually focused on the things where I should have concern such as the fact that I promised to raise £5,000 for Epilepsy Action as part of the marathon ordeal.
Perhaps the real issue of the day is fact that I have yet to start doing my tax return…excuse me I think I need to PANIC!!!

Wishful thinking

Knock. Knock. Knock.
From the warmest depths of my duvet I hear it.
Knock. Knock. Knock. “Let me out!”
A plaintive cry from the youngest, enough to tug at any normal mother’s heartstrings but, I am afraid, not mine. It has yet to strike six in the morning and I am in no mood to get up. It is cold out there. I can tell this as I can see the streams of breath rise to the ceiling of my bedroom. And I do not want to get up.
“Mummeee! Daaaadeee! Let me out!”
Perhaps if I ignore him he’ll give up and start playing with his Duplo – after all that is the whole reason why I allowed him to have a huge box of it in the first place. I try to sleep again.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
“Let! Me! Out!”
OK! So that plan isn’t working. Better get up and sort him out. Some of you may be wondering exactly where my youngest is, I promise you he’s in his bedroom and a very nice room it is too, unlike mine his has curtains. The only problem, as far as he’s concerned, is that the latch is too high for him to reach – for other parents out there you, like me, will see this as a positive bonus. Let’s face it how many times in your life have you been disturbed in flagrante delicto in your bedrooms/bathrooms/or even on kitchen tables? I rest my case – although will add that the positioning of The Littlest’s bedroom door latch was not a deliberate act it was merely one of fortunate joinery.
As I reach the top of the stairs to descend and release the tyrant before he causes structural damage to the fabric of the house, I hear The Boy’s door open and am in time to catch a glimpse of him as he dashes to his brother’s aid with the immortal words: “Don’t worry, I’ll rescue you!”
The Boy is as heavily into heroics and being a hero. Occasionally, of course, he gets a little carried away and I am attacked on the stairs, in the bathroom or even as I get into bed, by boy brandishing a squidgy and much battered sword with the cries: “Hold Hard!” “Stop!” and of course “Die!”
I believe it is in a mother's best interest to die as often as possible. So now I tip[ toe back to bed to play dead perhaps they'll go away and leave me alone to sleep...or perhaps that's just wishful thinking!

What I do when He's away...

I have just scoffed eight very delightful and extremely superior chocolates, a very large glass of wine and a small packet of Hula Hoops as I watched Emmerdale.
This is the sum total of my Friday night's supper. I will regret it I know but for now, for these brief few hours, while it digests, I have regressed to an I am not an adult but nor am I a child state and I refuse to have any guilty feelings about it at all.
Tomorrow as they say is another day but for tonight as I sit here in a warm and fuzzy glow brought about by the unusual consumption of alcohol I do not care.
And why do I not care? Well, I have been left on my own. My better half has swanned off to be feted, wined and dined by academe in Cambridge, and I am basically feeling left out, lonely and bored. This is not the usual state of affairs. Usually HE is at home on Fridays and though we rarely these days do anything but have a hasty TV supper and zone out in front of the box, it is comforting. It is something I look forward to all week.
For on Saturdays he will not leave me, on Saturdays he will be around for breakfast. There will be eggs, and bacon, burnt toast and shouting, squabbling, laughing children, excited dogs, cats wending their way across the table most unhygenically. There will be the badly tuned radio and such a mess, such an awful mess that will immediately set me off and I will huff and puff and grumpily sit down to be poured tepid tea and passed rubber toast with eggs that look as though they have travelled a hundred miles and despite it all he will be there even if I will wish him otherwise at the time.
But tomorrow I will be on my own again.

Milestones

Tonight has been a night of milestones.
Firstly, The Littlest - all blond hair, big blue eyes and the cheekiest smile on the planet - did something other than twist me round his little finger. He found his own name tag among the other tags velcroed on the wall at Nursery.
OK. I know, but I didn’t say these were earth-shattering milestones! Suddenly I realised that: "Heck he’s learning." “I, Baby”, as he calls himself, especially to wind up his elder brother, is not quite as much of a baby anymore.
I should say that on my way home I had time to cherish that moment in the Nursery, but “I Baby” wound up his brother so much in the car that barely five minutes into the journey I had banned them both from watching CBeebies and had sent them straight to bed with no supper.
From the gloomy depths of the back seat came:
“I sad.”
Then from The Boy, my eldest:
“Would you like a huggies?”
The Littlest: “Want huggies - Mumum want huggies.”
Me: “Darling I can’t. Mummy’s driving.” – though if I could I’d have immediately stopped and held him tight in a trice. Why does it always seem as if I’m saying no? – “Don’t be sad little one.”
The Boy: “I’ll give you a huggies.”
Which he did and then came the second milestone.
The Boy: “Shall I tell you a joke?”
Now, I love my boys to distraction and will indulge them all I can, but however much I gloss it, my eldest’s jokes to date have been, well... NOT jokes. If you were polite then perhaps surreal jokes…but not ones I’d say that have any cohesion, or in fact any sense and to be frank, I have yet to find the humour in many. Most of this is down to the fact that my Darling Boy has Absence Seizures, a form of Epilepsy, which leaves his concentration a lot to be desired. I kid you not he frequently misses the punchline - so being an inventive little chap comes up with his own. I'll say this 10 out of 10 for effort but content well...
For example: Why did the dinosaur cross the road? I don’t know why did the dinosaur cross the road? It was dead/pink/flying etc I think you get the idea. He’s been bringing out these jokes for about two years now and the "Doctor! Doctor!" ones are excruciating, while the "Knock! Knock!" ones are totally incomprehensible. And for The Love of God, don’t get me on the subject of his toilet humour! But tonight, tonight I heard:
“Why do cows lie down together?”
Me, with not a little amount of trepidation: “I don’t know darling, why do cows lie down together?”
The Boy: “Because they like to lie next to each udder!”
I was a bit stunned and had to ask him to repeat himself. Ohmygod! A comprehensible joke! A quite funny joke! Then, just as I was about to laugh out loud.
The Boy: “Mummy - what’s an udder?”

“You get Smarties on your pillow at bedtime in Heaven.”

It was said with such utter matter of factness that even if you wanted to there was no room for discussion. I had wondered if the fact that I had to put our old Jack Russell down yesterday afternoon had had any affect on either of my boys – they just seemed to have taken it in their stride.
In the morning there was Biggles and in the afternoon he was gone.
The Littlest has said nothing and I’m not sure if he has noticed. But the Boy has obviously been considering the matter very seriously.
After demanding biscuits and other foodstuffs on immediate entry to the car at pick up time from school this afternoon and as we meander back along the windy Suffolk lanes, he suddenly pipes up from the depths of the back seat.
Him: “What happens when you die?”
Momentarily flustered and veering slightly in the road, bringing us rather too close to the answer in a practical way, I avoided the question with one of my own.
Me: “Who’ve you been talking to about that?”
Him, nonchalantly: “Daniel, Henry … what happened when you killed Biggles?”
Well there you go then. No beating about the bush, no putting a gloss on it, no putting him down or putting him to sleep, just straight out there – when YOU killed him.
Me: “Well,” - not actually trusting myself to commit to the word kill and unsure quite where the conversation is heading – “what do you want to know?”
Him: “Everything!”
Everything?!
Me: “What from the start?”
Him, slightly losing his patience: “I want to now everything from the beginning, what happened.”
What happened? So I start by telling him that Biggles was old and probably not very well. I tell him that Biggles had got too grumpy and that when dogs are grumpy it means that something is wrong, perhaps they are in pain. I remind him about Biggles snapping at people and how horrid that was. The Boy takes it all in and I have a feeling he’s not interested in the reasons behind the decision. It seems as if he takes these as read. Would that it were so for me. I am uncomfortable with the word kill – but that is what I did. I don’t want to say it was because Biggles had become too unpredictable and that I was scared.
My musings are brought to a sharp halt.
Him: “Muuuum, what happened at the vets, when you killed him…”
Me: “Right well, um, well, er, I took him into the vets’ on his lead and we went through to a room, which was nice and warm and comfortable, then the vet put him on the table and got a needle out and injected him then Biggles sort of fell asleep and that was that.”
Him: "Where? Where did he put the needle in??"
Right details as well ok then. Blood thirsty little monster.
Me: "His front leg you know sort of like your arm when you have injections…."
WARNING WARNING NOT A GOOD ANALOGY NOW HE’LL THINK THE DOCTOR WANTS TO KILL HIM!!!!!
Him: "Like my injections?"
PANIC!!!!!
Me: “ER, well no, um, not really, but in the same place but we don’t do that with humans, you see we have a duty of care with animals and we have to look after them and you see it’s important that we do these things so they never suffer..”
Him: “Like being God?””
Oh Phew!
Me: “Yes. Like God.”
That was close…
Him: “So now he’s dead - is he in heaven?”
Right. Now Heaven. OK. Dogs and Heaven. Should I say yes ‘cos that’s what I believe or should I sort of fudge it? What has he been told at school? Maybe dogs are not heaven material as far as the Church is concerned? Well I bloody hope they do though ‘cos I love my dogs and it wouldn’t be much of a place if they wern’e there. Right then here goes…
Me: “I’m sure he is.”
Him: “What’s heaven like?”
Why has he chosen now for this conversation? Why when I am driving home has he chosen now to ponder these questions? Next he’ll be asking me how many Angels dance on the head of a pin!
Me: “It’s the best of places. Just think of all the good things you like doing and eating and stuff like that and that’s what it is like I expect.”
The Boy ponders for a while then starts rattling off a list of things he likes doing and it feels like we are on safer ground.
Him: “You get Smarties on your pillow at bedtime in Heaven.”
Not bad…
Him: “Mummy, you wouldn’t have to wash up in Heaven!”
Heaven!

For a dog…

My eyes ache with unshed tears
And I am oh so tired
The lassitude of grief has taken over
I travel in a cocoon
All is muted
All is numb.
Neither hot nor cold.
The chimes from the clock are from another world
Out of time with mine.
And why do I mourn?
For a dog. For a dog.
But it is more than that.
It is for all the other griefs
For all I have not been able to mourn
It is for the guilt
For the things done wrong
For the things done not well.
Things only he bore witness to
For the links to the past, which will never be again.
For the betrayal of trust,
Promises not kept
I sigh, such a deep heartfelt sigh
Give my self up to the inevitable
And cry.
For a dog. For a dog.

When ironing becomes interesting...

I'm as bad as The Boy and bit worse than The Littlest. I am in serious procrastination mode and just can't seem to settle down to work.

The Boy will use almost any excuse NOT to go to bed and if forcibly put there will inevitably find legitimate ways of not staying there. These run along the lines of:

• I need to do a pee
• I need to go to the loo
• I need to do a poo
• I need a drink
• I had a bad dream

and my personal favourite:

• I need to tell you something

This one gets me every time as I am too curious by half and if and when I do send him packing without taking the bait I can no longer get back to doing what I was doing because all I do is wonder what he was going to say, so land up bombing up the stairs to ask, which of course completely undermines what I was trying to achieve in the first place. Discipline.

In the past the things he has to say to me which are too important to wait until the morning run along the lines of Knock Knock jokes and the like but the one he came up with last night was quite simply:

I love you - definitely worth an extra cuddle don't you think?

The Boy's younger brother will actually stay in bed, which is good. The problem is getting him there in the first place.

It's a mixture of promises and threats.

I promise to read you a story and if you don't stay in bed you will have to sleep in the greenhouse. I don't think he knows what a green house is but he is suitably in awe of it and thinks that bed is a more preferable place to kip.

We go through a bit of a rigmarole before I use the threat, down the lines of:

• Where's Jelly? (His unique Jellycat - in that I have not been able to find a spare so live in permanent terror of losing said Jellycat as he refuses to sleep without her. Jelly of course gets lost lots. Mostly she is kidnapped by the Dog and usually found either hiding in the long grass or the Dog's basket. Luckily none the worse for her adventure - I on the other hand am worse and require a medicinal brandy to restore my equilibrium)
• Where's my water?
• Where's Daddy?
• Mummy sleep now?
• Huggie?
• Kiss?

Repeat as often as you can get away with before Mum blows a fuse then:

• I sorry....kiss?

If they procrastinate about going to bed where do I start? Well it actually involves work - which is what I should be doing now - but hey there's the ironing...