Bringing up boys: When you start to sound like your own parents...

There comes a time when you sound exactly the same as your own parents. It is frightening and is most noticeable when I am telling the children off. Echoing down the years I hear the same familiar phrases, the same intonation and I know rather worryingly that the same gestures and penetraing looks are thrown in for free.
Tonight was a classic. Tonight I offered my children Pasta, one of their favourites. With sausage meat balls and home made tomato and choirzio sauce, obvioulsy not one of their favourites...
The Boy: I am NOT going to eat it. I don't like it.
Me: Just sit down and let's get on with supper. You'll just have to have a little bit.
The Boy: No, I am NOT going to eat it, I will be sick
Me: Stop being so silly, you will not . Now SIT down please.

The Boy crosses his arms aggressively and looks belligerently at me from beneath his brows.
Me: Boy! SIT. DOWN...NOW.
The firmness with which I speak and the careful unnunciation of each and every word conveys the gathering menance. I will not be brooked. He sits down.
Me, brightly: That's better! Now eat up everyone.
Just as The Boy picks up his fork his younger brother pipes up.
Bog Boy: I love this Mummy, it's my favourite!

My heart sinks a bit, typical Bog Boy to open his mouth with that sort of thing! Turning to him: That's lovely Darling, now lets eat it all up.

Bog Boy gives his glowering brother a cherubic smile and I want to throttle him, now The Boy will create a stink. I glance up and across, he's toying with the pasta. With great show of effort and a whimper the one piece is placed in his mouth as if I were making him eat slugs. He grabs at his water and glugs down half of it. I purse my lips and peer over the top of my glasses.
Me: Stop making a fuss now and eat properly.
The Boy wailing innocently: But I AM!
Me: You ARE NOT. Now STOP this and get on with it.
With great show, and furious expression, he stamps down his fork on a poor unsuspecting sausage meatball, which unfortunately for him startled by the force at which it is being skewered makes its escape, along with the fork, across the table sending tomato sauce everywhere.

Me, rising out of my chair: WILL YOU BEHAVE! LOOK WHAT YOU HAVE DONE! You will STOP this RIGHT NOW!
There is a momentary silence then a snivelling starts to emminate from the boy across the table.
Me, quietly: Stop it. Here's your fork and just get on with it now.
The fork is raised valiantly to my son's mouth. I am obviously asking him to eat poison. The sausage meat ball is nibbled.With narrowed eyes I glare at him
Me hissing: Properly!
The meat ball once again resumes its painful journey to my son's mouth to be devoured whole, only for there to be a sudden retching sound as it re-emerges almost immediately falling to the plate.
The Boy: See! It is making me sick. You are SO mean.
Me, verging on losing it:  You didn't even try to eat it. You will eat all of that up now!
The Boy, shocked: You want me to eat my sick!
me: You were not sick you just spat that out!
The Boy wailing: I was sick! You are making me eat my sick!
Me in full tirade: Don't be ridiculous. I am doing no such thing. How dare you talk to me like that. After all the time and effort I went ot to make this lovely meal for you this is how you show your gratitude! You should be so lucky that someone cares for you this much. Eat all your food up now. Think of all those starving millions...
Bog Boy, with genuine concern: Starring Villians??? Whose Villians, is he on TV???

The Wickedest Whippet on motherhood...

There is but one thing I can say about motherhood...

...it's exhausting!

Bringing up boys: Do they speak English???

How many times do you have to say turn off the light before they do it? It’s not a trick question. How many times do you have to ask your sons, husbands, partners, brothers even, dare I say it, fathers before they listen? And then more importantly act upon the information given? It’s no wonder they call me a nag!

I can ask perfectly pleasantly: Please turn off the light/stop picking your nose/remove your fingers from the door I am going to shut it and I am ignored. But it’s not as if they are paying me enough attention to ignore me; I mean that would take an act of will, it’s like they just don’t hear me or that I am talking another language and one that is totally alien to them. I mean is it any wonder I land up shouting??!!

The utter frustration of having to repeat oneself over and over again would send anyone sane round the twist at the best of times.

I note though, that their deafness is selective. Whisper very quietly that you are offering Mars bars to the first person who gets to the dining room table for lunch and it’s like the screaming hordes are about to descend such is their enthusiasm and one has to flatten oneself against the wall for fear of being trampled.

Things that require effort usually on their behalf, such as picking up dirty clothing and putting it in the laundry basket are the worst. You would think by all the fuss made I was sending them to their deaths.

I have visions of them complaining all the way to the Guillotine, them as the poor bedraggled sons of nobility in their tundrel, me the mean spirited Madame Defarge character and tricoteuse extraordinaire:

Bog Boy: You’re so MEAN Mummy I ALWAYS have to do it.

The Boy: You don’t love me do you? You are ALWAYS making me do things.

Me: Ha (in a French accent) ah spit on yer, yer sons of ….

Well they are my sons so of course I don’t do it I just carry on knitting and merely peer over my glasses until the tirade of abuse  is over and they fall to my will anyway…I can dream can’t I???

Now will you PLEASE pick up your socks! How many times do I have to tell you!!!! Do you think the Laundy Fairy does it???!!!

Black, White and Red all over!

We have puppies and they are wonderful except that like all young creatures the more you put in one end the more comes out the other - honestly why not just pour everything on the floor and cut out the middle man for it's going to land up there in one form or another sooner or later.
To stem the tide and to protect my kitchen floor I use newspapers and lots of them and it works that is until you run out of newspapers then everything falls apart and it is not good. So Dear Charlie being he loving and thoughtful chap that he is, says: "What the heck let's treat ourselves to a Saturday newspaper, there's ususally loads of supplements that never get read anyway."
Seemed the perfect solution but I hadn't betted on my husband's ability to tell everyone he meets everything that's going on in our lives. Luckily today he only mentioned the problem we are having with the puppies when he went into the village shop. They, being good people and wanting to be helpful, handed him a small pile of left over newspapers, great. Sitting in the car I was handed the bundle and taking a cursory look noted they were all from Friday and since I had The Times on the top and The Express on the bottom thought nothing of it. That is until I got home and had to put paper down for the pups.
I didn't look intially as time was of the essence, and happily put the pages down two at a time thanking my lucky stars that there were no staples. Then I noticed that there was a rather alarming boob staring back at me, it was part of one of those pictures you get these days that goes across more than one page and I had put down the boob part. I hastily used another page to cover up the boob not wanting my impressionable young sons to get a gander. I covered the boob with a bottom. Getting rather flustered and desperatley trying to cover up that before the children saw, I suddenly noticed that the puppies pen floor looked like a pornography website's home page, there were tits and bums everywhere and because I happened to notice, just when you don't want to, some of the poses were hightly explicit.
The goodly folk in the Village shop had only gone and given me several copies of the Daily Sport! I had to resort the the Daily Express to cover my blushes and the floor for the pen! Talk about black, white and red all over....

Epilepsy - I shouldn't care but I do!

As far as most things go The Boy just gets on and does them. There has never been a need to keep a special eye on things. Just a general awareness helps, for you never know when he's going to have a "Blank" as we call them. A moment when he is just not there.

However, as he gets older there are some things that we cannot be blase about and one of them is contact sports. Up until now it's not really been a problem apart from the time he whacked a friend in the mouth with his hockey stick and broke said friend's tooth in half. However, looking at them all galivanting on the pitch the other day, I'd say that  it wouldn't be unusual for any of them to do that sort of thing. I put it down to "could have hapened to anyone" rather than blaming it on The Boy's Absence Seizures.

Now  there is a problem for next term he's going to start playing Rugby. I like Rugby, it's a great game but for a 7 year old to be playing it as a contact sport rather than doing the Tag or Touch versions, they and their teachers will really need to be on the ball.

I have visions of the poor little mite having a blank in the middle of the game and stopping effectively becoming a static target for all and sundry to leap upon; it's not a pretty image but one that could so easily happen for it already does on the Hockey pitch. However on the hockey pitch the most that happens is he loses the ball but on the Rugby field - well, I've already said. 

So decisions have been made and he won't be playing Rugby next term. And although he seems fine with it I am not. I hate the idea that he suddenly can't do something because his epilepsy has yet to be controlled. And I am so cross that it is taking so long to sort him out. He has never been able to rid himself of the seizures, not one day goes by when he can concentrate properly. I am amazed at how well he copes and how it seems to affect him so little in himself but I know it is holding him back in school work, playing with friends and now on the sports field. I want him to be rid of it, I want him to have all the opportunites open to him, it's such a little thing isn't it. I mean it's not the end of the world if he doesn't play Rugby...

The Wickedest Whippet becomes a Mum and I am pretty exhausted...

Sassy, aka the EBJ, started having puppies at 1:45am.

I was woken by her wanting to go for a wee and wanting a drink. I was rather annoyed because I thought it meant she wouldn't be having puppies anytime soon. I went back to sleep only to be woken almost immediately by Sassy scrabbling about underneath my dressing table!

Now the job truly begins...

1.53am: She's lying quiet now, her breathing heavy but calm. I'd say she's resigned. There have been several periods of heaving getting longer each time. Sometimes she just lies there accompanying each massive heave with a deep grunt like sigh. Other times she stands or semi squats trying to expunge the pup. There is much licking and cleaning.

2:18am: Water breaks.

She's doing so well and I am so proud of her and oh how I feel for her but there is one thing I am eternally grateful for; Thank God the natural imperative to clean up everything, and I mean everything, has not remained in force to the same extent in humans as it is with other species…

The heaves come in spates and seem to get deeper, her agitation increases then she calms. Then it starts over and she cleans. Occasionally the depth of the push is accompanied by a strangulated bark -almost surprised.

2:37am: There is a tiny lull, then the contractions start again accompanied by much heavier panting...

I stroke her as there is not much else I can do. She either doesn't mind or couldn't care less her mind on more important matters...

I wish it would be born. I begin to worry what if it's mal-presented?  What of it's stuck? Please let it go alright...

2:47am: I talk calmly to her though I feel anything but. Good girl, there's a good lass all over soon. What a good mummy whippet! As she heaves again, she stands up and turns about, constantly turning about, never comfortable and I so want it to be over for her, to get this first one out. There is silence.

Then the heavy panting and skyward gazing start all over again.

Come on Whippet! Come on the Mummy Whippet....

2:58am: I go to leave her to fetch some more blankets and some water and when I return she's out of her box on her way to find me. Clearly there is no way I'm going to be able to leave her to take the boys to school, though by that time I sincerely hope it's all over.

3:12am: Still no pup...

There’s nothing for it now I must call the vet.  I get through and a sleepy voice asks me what the problem is I explain all the time stroking the dog. The nurse says she’ll get the vet to call in tem minutes…ten minutes has never felt so long…

3:29am: Berludy long 10 minutes that…I tell the vet what’s happening and as I do I note a pair of feet. The vet says to grab them and hold on – way more tricky in practice that! Have you ever tried? Every time the dog heaves the feet pop out and then I try to grab them but they are slippery little blighters and she’s wondering what the heck I’m doing so is constantly peering over her shoulder at me and then moving to get a better look and I’m trying to give the vet a running commentary. I swear he’s laughing at me. Isn’t it typical though? You call in the Cavalry and then it’s not needed. The vet signs off with a cheery: “Well it should be over by breakfast…” Great!

First puppy born 3:51am

Second puppy born 4:04am

Two little girls; the first almost all black with a white nose and a real squeaker, the second a blue grey with pretty white nose and stripe. Both similar in size. Both squeak! A lot!!

There is a simple wonder about birth, it being so commonplace but a miracle every time.

I am going to be very, very, tired at the end of this. Poor boys the excitement of puppies and the dread of a seriously grumpy mum!

Third puppy's water broke at 5:01am. Born at 5:16am. A little blue grey boy, a bit smaller than his sisters but feisty!

Fourth puppy immediately on its way at 5:25am hopefully born very soon...5:27am number four makes an appearance. This one is really quite big.

Number five born at 5:41am.

I am not sure where we are I think we have two more girls...

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…

Writing under the influence…

Have you ever done it? I mean tried writing when you were drunk? I am doing it now and perhaps that is not a good thing but I suppose it depends on what kind of drunk you are. Of course I am not saying that I am drunk; merely sort of unhinged, no not unhinged that would be me about to go to the nut house when actually I am already there. What I meant was liberated but that’s pretty close to unhinged isn’t it?

There are a lot of squiggly red lines when you are liberated and the question is should one care? Or is that part of the process?

I am merrily drunk, happily pissed, unilaterally uninhibited. If it were warmer I swear I would divest myself of clothing and go frighten the chickens by swanning about nymph like in my wood but I don’t think it would be appreciated. By neither my neighbours nor my husband.

However there’s the devil in me wishing I was really as uninhibited…

I find it fascinating how after all these years my writing reflects how much I feel and how I can tell by those first few lines exactly what I was thinking and feeling at the time even though mostly what I write is fairly prosaic. I am sure we all notice it when we give ourselves the time. It’s a bit like looking at a photograph; you are slightly divorced from the moment and then you are there. It’s all in your mind’s eye and the scents, feelings and sensibility of the occasion all come rushing in as you fight your way back to the time when…

I am a writer but until right now I never admitted it. It’s kind of a bitter secret for by admission I feel I am announcing that I am merely an observer of life rather than one of its participants but it has always been thus. I have never quite fitted in either in my family or with my friends. Maybe I am kinda autistic but perhaps that is wishful thinking. There should be no excuses.

Carpe deum should be my motto but I fear it is more mea culpa and sometimes even cave canem.

Maybe that’s how I should describe my life –apologising for seizing the day then blaming it on the dog…

Well they do say In Vino Veritas….

The Big Spending Review

So there you have it cuts all round and unlike the French I doubt we'll really squeak for the nature of the average Brit is to grin and bear it especially if we think that probably here's a hint of truth in all the talk.
For without doubt someone somewhere along the line has been a bit flash with the cash. If we look at our own personal lives I'd say a lot of us have been tempted and in many cases have indeed splashed out on stuff that is not strictly necessesary and the problem is we've got used to being a bit loose and a bit off hand about it and basically irresponsible.
There's no point trying to pin the blame on someone else and say: "Oh but they made me do it by making it too easy to borrow etc". You really do have to wise up in this world; nothing is for free however much we'd like it to be. I know that sounds harsh but I've been there, borrowing cash for what I don't really know just living it up  and stuff and getting myself into trouble. Basically I was asset rich and cash poor so tried to borrow myself out of a hole, when what I should have done was radically changed the way I lived and got rid of some of the assets like my car when I lived in London, perhaps not gone on holiday when I really could not afford to and certainly not gone out clothes shopping etc!
It was acutely embarrassing and indeed humiliating to be bailed out by my boyfriend when he became my fiance and I have been paying for it ever since. I am known as fiscally irresponsible and have to put up with sarcastic comments about my lack of economic nouse - still going strong 11 years on. I am much wiser down the line and realise I was indeed fortunate ( as I am reminded every other week) but oh how I wish I had been taught how to be savvy with my money all those years ago...
It's not a good allegory but one that helps me make sense of all that is going on around. We cannot rely on the State to sort things out in fact we have to fix our own mess too. I suspect the less we rely on the State the better things will be I just hope that the lesson won't be as long or as harsh a one as I have had to learn these last 11 years...

Review: Toy Story & Toy Story II...PS. Desmond Morris I love you...

Minding my own business on the way back from the school run the other day I overheard on the radio that watching good quality musical films with your toddler was as good as, if not better than reading a book to them...and with those few simple words a whole weight was lifted from my shoulders, the sun came out, the blue birds sang and as I raced up the hill my arms opening as wide as the mountainous vista before me...sorry that moutainous vista bit is hardly likely to be found in Suffolk and anyway I was driving home not running up a mountain to skive and sing my little heart out: but you get the picture.
Joy.
Thank you so much Mr Desmond Morris, I no longer need to feel guilty as I skive off work on an afternoon, cuddle up with Bog Boy and do Toy Story  and Toy Story II back to back with a large bowl of popcorn.
Desmond's entertaining commentary  has caused a bit of a whiff among those who take this parenting lark a bit too seriously, relax live a little! The thing I have learnt in life is that a little of what you fancy is Ok - and I do mean a little..and of course DO use common sense, a much maligned and little used commodity. I do not mean hard drugs and any other illegal substance, activity etc etc.
Now let me settle down and watch something my boys and I have seen time and time again as well worn as The Gruffalo and equally as well loved. Toy Story. Such a simple tale and just, well so brilliant. Do you know I bought the video, yes I acquired my original copy of Toy Story way back when..actually long before The Boy was born and I had to wait years and I mean years before I could share it with him. I love it. My boys love it and on a wet afternoon before hurtling off on the school run to fetch The Boy, Bog Boy and I loved it all over again and this time it was just like being that the movies with perfect picture and great quality sound thanks to having at last a copy on Disney Blu Ray. For a classic like this I would fork out the extra esp if like me the only other copy you have is a seriously well worn video tape!
I'll admit over the Summer we all hurtled off on a glorious sunny day, actually one of the very few we had on our annual  pilgrimage to visit my forefathers in Wales, to see Toy Story III in 3D in Carmarthen. I wasn't expecting much but I was totally blown away not because of the 3D which was nice but because the story  was just as brilliantly put together as the previous two!  Attention to detail, an  understanding of childhood and more importantly of growing up and putting away childish things. I blubbed, thank heavens for those 3D glasses and of course waterproof mascara...
I think family movies are great when they themselves are great movies, there are plenty that are not but only time will tell about the classics whether they be books or films, they are the ones you share and talk about, the ones that inspire and delight that provide a bond where child and parent and even grandparent behold something on an equal footing...
So  to get back to things important, sometimes its kinda good not to feel guilty when you plonk yourself down and watch a really good film with your kids... as Mr Morris has said it may even be a bit educational and not juts for the children!