Yeti Spotting (Part One)

Up until now I have kept work, blog and family fairly separate in that what I do in the confines of my office at home stays there. I don’t ask Dear Charlie to proof read or approve of what I do, though he has been known to stand over my shoulder in that really annoying way he has and breath. Not that I mind him breathing, I’d rather he continue to do so for quite some time but not in that way he has when he’s looking over my shoulder. I digress.

Until now things have been separate but the other week I got an opportunity to put myself forward to test drive the new Skoda Yeti. I honestly didn’t think it would happen but it did on Saturday. We went Yeti Spotting at Woburn Safari Park courtesy of lovely people at Skoda and drove the beast all the way round, twice!

I had many misgivings about the whole thing. From why? To please let my children behave. To don’t let me not make a complete fool of myself. To what on earth have I let my family and I in for? And, it really is a long, long way from home isn’t it? Though that one was said when we were stuck in traffic two hours from home with two extremely tiresome boys in the back just outside Bedford with only 15 minutes to go to get to our destination at the designated time. It was also the moment when Dear Charlie told me roundly to: “For good ness sake stop getting in a panic it’s not the end of the world.” Wherein I promptly snapped back at him waspishly and missed the turning completely. After a few minutes of heated debate and with two now very silent boys in the rear, we got back to where we went wrong and in utter silence we swept up the drive to the Safari Park.

It did not look as though the day would bode well until an awe struck voice from the back announced.

“This is awesome!”

Which suppose it was.

And then we were all chattering and bouncing up and down eager to be the first to spot the wild animals. The Boy claimed the prize as he pointed to a two legged 6’ something sheepskin rug that was waving at us. But it wasn’t until we got out of our car that he asked me what it was.

Me: “A yeti I suppose.”

Him: “A real one?”

Me: “Looks like it”

The Yeti waved again and caution to the wind my eldest skipped right up to it to take a closer look. It’s amazing how he does that so fearlessly. Within moments he was happily chattering away asking questions until he was satisfied that the Yeti was really truly real.

His younger brother was more cautious until he was asked which of the beautifully polished and sparkling Skoda cars in front he would like to drive in – there was no hesitation: “The Red One.”

It was said as reverently as Gollum from Lord of the Rings would talk about “My Precious” in reference to the last ring of the fellowship which he had possessed for 500 years before losing it to the Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins.

It’s good to know that my sons are easily swayed by something as simple as an overgrown talking sheepskin rug or the colour of a car. But their joy and exuberance was infectious and I was coming round to thinking that perhaps the day was going to be OK after all.

Don’t take the Manneken Pis (or why Potty training alfresco can backfire)

There are some things you just wish that your children, or indeed anybody else’s children, would not do. Many of them are things you don’t want them to do in public such as spitting, tantrums or picking their noses.

My parents dislike my boys rather startling habit of peeing anywhere that takes their fancy. In their defence this follows on from the fact that neither of my two boys likes to wet themselves but I fear that this is a rather lame excuse especially when you see both of them trying to see who can pee the highest against the back wall. They look like two very naughty cherubs and frequently put me in mind of the Manneken Pis in Brussels.

When I holler at them to “Stop that right now!” it makes little difference and the result is an excited scream at being caught and much giggling and running round the garden with their pants down.

I have taken the rather lofty view now of not commenting at all as I anything I do to prevent them from continuing with this habit is immediately undermined by the fact that Dear Charlie does it too. No, I don’t mean he runs round the garden with his pants down giggling hysterically, which while endearing in the Under 6s would be rather unbecoming in a man in his 40s, what I mean is that my husband is partial to the odd alfresco pee. And herein lies the problem. How can I stop it?

My parents decided to take matters in to their own hands when they came to stay recently. They had just driven in after collecting Bog Boy and my eldest, The Boy, from nursery and school respectively, and were making their way to the front door when my eldest decided to see how far he could pee while standing on top of the Dumper that the builders had parked up by the side of the lawn.

Granny was NOT amused when she realised that what she thought was a spot of rain turned out to be something else and The Boy was frog marched inside and given a severe talking to. Dear Charlie and I were of course unaware of these events until we returned home and while he happily rummaged in the drinks cupboard for liquid refreshment I got the full details with both barrels, not once, not twice but three times – from both Granny and Grandpa.

Them, sternly: It really MUST stop. We don’t want animals as grandchildren

Me squealing: But what can I do?

Them: You must tell them to stop it. You must be firm

Me: I’ve tried that; they ignore me.

Them: You are just going to have to discipline them. You never did that sort of thing when you were a girl.

Me: But they are boys. Boys are different.

Them: There is no excuse for that behaviour!

I wanted to scream that it wasn’t my fault when it suddenly dawned on me that it wasn’t my fault at all. I wasn’t the one. That’s when Dear Charlie came back into the room smiley blithely.

DC: Everything alright?

They gave HIM a severe talking to…

The next morning The Boy visited his father just before breakfast and was told in no uncertain terms that piddling alfresco was just not done.

The Boy: But you do it Daddy. You taught me!

DC: decidedly uncomfortable with this truth: Well erm, well you have to do it discretely. But you should really use the loo.

The Boy: What’s discretely?

DC: You need to hide behind a tree or a bush or something so other people can’t see you.

The Boy: That’s Ok Daddy.

And with that the whole incident looked like it was sorted. However later, at the dining table, The Boy decided he needed to go to the loo.

The Boy: Please may I go to the Loo Daddy?

DC: Of course Boy. Off you go and don’t forget to wash your hands…

The Boy gets down and instead of heading for the loo goes straight to the French doors and heads outside.

DC: Boy! What ARE you doing!?

The Boy: I am going outside to practise being discrete…

As I said you can’t win….

The curious case of the dog with the missing head (or is it just me who finds technology confusing?)

I love my computer but trust me I am useless with technology. I thought I was OK. In fact at one time I was really good. But that was back in 1982 and I was working in binary to make my own computer programme for the Hertfordshire Computer Diploma (Grade 1).
Things move fast in the IT world and now some 27 years (Berlimey is it THAT Long??!!!)  later, I am hopelessly out of date and frankly struggling on a daily basis just to keep my head above water.
I mean look what has happened to my Avatar - it's headless! It never used to be headless and now it is and to be honest it's not really portraying me at my best. I look ridiculous.
I even struggle with my Canon SLR Digital Camera. I was given it for Christmas three years ago and I just can't get to grips with it. I fear it has more to do with the fact that I did not choose it myself and the little problem I had with the internal mirrors, which in the end cost me £250 to replace. It now sits rather desolately on a shelf in my office gathering dust. I studiously try to ignore it because every time I notice it, I feel very, very guilty. It's one of those things I have on my "To do list" that I must get round to sorting out.

• Pick up camera box
• Take out camera
• Hunt for instructions
• Remember no instructions given as camera bought off e-bay as a job lot by friend of family and sold on at a discount price (Might be why I had to spend £250 and the fact there was no guarantee!)
  
• Search for instructions for five year old digital camera on line
• Realise that instructions for similar new model have nothing at all to do with the camera I own
• After two hours note that if I put "antique digital camera" in the search option I might possibly find I have more luck in tracking down user manual
• Find instructions on weird Korean web site but just when I think I can press download realise that I need to find $19.99 for the priviledge
• Get frustrated by the fact I have forgotten really memborable password for Pay Pal account
• Set up yet another account with Pay Pal
• Type in new password only to find that it is already taken
• Scream!
  
• Choose new new password and cross fingers
  
• Start to download instruction manual of 538 pages of which only three are in English....

All that sounds easy compared to trying to work out how to fix your own avatar. It is NOT easy and try as I might I cannot seem to find anything out there in the great wide ether known as the web to help me - well nothing I can understand. There are 39.6 million hits on Google for "Avatar problems" and I am not trawling them all. I mean I DO have work to do you know!
So for the time being I am known to the whole wide interweb as the blogger with the avatar of a headless dog - that's if anyone recognises that it is a headless dog and not a vase or something.

P.S. Can anyone help please!!!!!

Salutatory lessons in blogging (or how to wreck your family life with the click of a button)

I’ve not posted recently because I am in deep trouble. I don’t think I meant to do it deliberately but I posted when I wasn’t thinking. That post has caused a lot of heartache even though those that read it probably thought it was pretty harmless - but there again those that read it were not members of my immediate family.

I have read about tiffs with friends and family and even bosses and work colleagues but never thought it would happen to me. I thought I was good at this game by keeping names out, not posting pictures and keeping my blogging antics - well private. But privacy on the Internet is basically an oxymoron and you can never be too vigilant.

• Lesson 1: Blogging is NOT like writing in a secret code in a diary that you keep under lock and key in the safe. It is out there and sooner or later someone you know and care about is bound to read it.
  
• Lesson 2: Publish and be damned. Always re-read your posts before you hit publish and ask yourself: “Will anyone be hurt or offended by this if they read it?” And more importantly if you do and they do will the resulting flak be worth it?
• Lesson 3: The truth will out. Always be truthful when you blog especially if you mention your family, friends or boss. That witty one liner never said at the time but you wish it were…well just because you wrote that it did doesn’t mean that it happened in real life and it is extremely embarrassing if you get caught out.

I think with those three lessons now firmly embedded I should keep myself out of trouble but even that aint necessarily so. Only the other week I had to edit a post even though I was praising the company in question to the skies for a brilliant piece of customer care.

• Lesson 4: You can’t please some people.

Great Expectations

It’s never good to have high hopes is it? Knowing what was to come after we arrived at our final destination in France, I had spent hours trawling the internet, researching, refining and finally choosing the best place to stay for our one night of freedom on the way down to Brittany.

I worked hard on Dear Charlie for months to allow me to do this and to spend something in the region of £200 for the privilege. This was going to be the one night that would make the next seven bearable. It was going to be fabulous, stylish, charming – it turned out to be unremarkable, uncomfortable and just a bit tedious especially for the Boys.

I should have known as a friend remarked so sagely when I trilled about my wondrous find: “Gays and children just don’t mix.” I hate it when that happens. You tell someone about all your plans and you are really excited by the whole prospect and then they pour cold water on them – oh but how right she was…

The thing is that we don’t go on holiday often basically because we can’t afford it with everything we earn going straight to the money pit that is our home or else on the boys’ education. It’s a lifestyle choice (or the fact that we are too proud to say we’ve cocked up somewhat but I believe that that IS a kind of lifestyle choice too). Anyway we pretend we don’t want to go on holiday and would rather stay at home. But really I long to go on holidays. I love to visit new places and try out new food. I like exploring and just getting away from it all. I like being abroad if only for the fact that I adore coming home again. But enforced staycations – well come on. Who are we kidding here?

So having the opportunity to go away, even if it is with the in-laws was just too good to pass up and it was all supposed to be so perfect….

But when the start of your holiday doesn’t quite match up to your expectations it seems kind of prescient. We arrive at the Chateau and well it is rather bijou, more hunting lodge than castle. But things look up when our host offers us a drink although I should have worried a bit by the fact that he darted inside to do this leaving us to struggle with our baggage and to dump it untidily in the middle of the hall.

We were left bereft and had to venture into the house with some trepidation to find him with open bottle of champagne talking to two other guests. I was slightly non-plussed to be handed a glass of insipid white wine instead of champagne but didn’t get much chance to drink it as the boys rushed in having been released from their seven-hour confinement in the car. Let’s say they were overjoyed to be free and their exuberance was palatable.

The look on the owners face said it all and my heart did a double flip and belly flopped to the bottom of my stomach. Despite being forewarned about my boys and despite me being reassured that children were more than welcomed – it was clearly not the case. Although no words were said it was made abundantly clear that children and probably my boys in particular we barely tolerated.

I asked feebly where we were to stay and my host graciously deigned to show me stepping over our luggage at the bottom of the stairs raising only one eyebrow, and then preceding me up two flights of wooden stairs wincing at the sound of the two small elephants that accompanied us on the trip.

It sort of went down hill from there on in really. What with my boys shouting out they needed feeding, entertaining and of course needing a poo, and mine host was sort of there in the back ground - wincing. A lot.

And the final straw was being handed the bill the next day and realising I had to pay nigh on £15 for a couple of glasses of warm white wine and two small cups of orange squash that both my boys had pronounced yucky. I felt terrible with no way of redeeming the situation.

However, the gods move in mysterious ways and the next morning as I was about to leave and in the middle of shaking hands with the patron, I caught a glance out of the corner of my eye of a tray with our glasses on from the night before, still sloshing with wine.

I am afraid I disgraced myself unutterably and I probably ruined any chance of ever returning to the establishment again. Reader, I sank both glasses there and then and proceeded to wolf down the boy’s rejected orange squash as well to the horror of all. I have no idea what made me do it but I caught Dear Charlie’s eye and that was it we could hardly suppress our giggles. We made an excellent departure, heads held high and on to the next adventure.

Euro tunnel fires, Bio diesel and killer seaweed – why do I always think the worst?

Why is it that I always think the worst? My Boys go with their Dad to visit Granny in Yorkshire and until I know they are there safe I worry. For three hours I worry, I can feel my grief welling up at the thought of losing them all in some freak accident on the A1 involving a high sided Eddie Stobart artic called Dolly Mae or Sally Anne.
I feel the emptiness and I wander their rooms touching their clothes, straightening their beds and putting their toys away.
I can’t settle at all, the TV can’t distract me and I daren’t leave the house in case I get the call from the police or they come round for a visit. I watch the clock incessantly. I have a bath, I read, I restart my elliptical manoeuvres round the house.
I pounce on every telephone call, curt and almost rude with those who ring for a chat too close to the time when I know they should be arriving. Then of course I miss the all important one, I’m outside putting he chickens to bed and it takes me half an hour to check the ansaphone and it’s fine they got there and then, well then I can go to sleep can’t I without a care in the world, until it’s time for them to return.
Now my mind is working overtime about our trip to France. Firstly a kindly dear overhearing me chatting about my trip as I cancel the newspapers in the Village Shop says that wasn’t there a fire in the Channel Tunnel recently and how she couldn’t bear to be trapped underneath all the water. I laugh, albeit a bit nervously, but on the walk back home I start to hyperventilate at the thought of thousands of tons of seawater rushing to swamp me and mine and all the people running screaming along the train but to no avail – strangely the vision looks very similar to that scene in the Dennis Quaid film The Day After Tomorrow when New York gets drowned.
Then my in-laws call to warn me to remember NOT to put bio diesel in my car or was it Gazoil and how will I know which is which? I have visions of my beautiful new car dying and the moment juste on the Autoroute and being flattened by a giant German Juggernaught because of a mistake made by me on the forecourt.
Finally just as I am getting to grips with the inevitability of the vacation, my Mother rings to tell me all about killer seaweed.
Apparently and this is true, tons of sea lettuce is washed up on the shores of the Cotes D’Armor in Brittany and it then rots giving off a bad egg smell. But the killer thing about it is that the sea washes over it leaving the seaweed covered in a layer of sand that then dries forming a crust and it is when the seaweed is rotting and the crust breaks from the pressure of animals and even people walking across it that hydrogen sulphide escapes totally over powering you and making you unconscious and even making you fall in a coma. Obviously the closer to the ground you are the more quickly you will be overcome. Several dogs have died and the Prime Minister of France has even stepped in saying that something must be done.
I can tell you after looking this up on the web, as I did not believe my Mum, my brain has been in overtime. I think I can probably keep my children safe by basically never letting them get more than three feet from me but what of Dear Charlie? The man is on a health kick and insists on going off running. How am I going to be able to protect him – I really, really do not want to be off running with him at 5.30am every other morning and besides who will prevent the children from chocking on their cereal or falling off their bunk beds?

Silver Dream Machine

I am now hooked on getting the most miles per gallon out of my car. I’d like to think this will make me a better driver, safer, more considerate and a better bet for my insurer. But I don’t think so.

Nope. There is a tiny, iddy biddy bit of a glitch about all this, although it will help me save money on fuel and of course make me feel all warm and green woolly as I can do my bit for the environment - even if I am driving a turbo charged diesel around the country lanes – what they have done is kinda distracting.

It’s all VW’s fault, honest! They’ve got this computer thingy in my new Volkswagen Bluemotion Golf Estate that tells me how efficiently I am driving. Of course, the better I do that, the better my miles per gallon is and it tells me in real time too - there on the screen, in front of me; all in bright, angry glowing red so I can see it even in the dark.

It also has a clever arrow icon that comes on telling you when to change gear but I think it’s a bit slow on the uptake and I am already a little ahead of it. I tried to follow it on the drive home from the showroom earlier today, moving through the gears as, and when, it suggested. It got a bit exciting on the very steep left hand corner at the top of the hill where there is a reverse camber in the road and it told me to change up to fourth. I sloshed round the bend mightily fast with the big back end doing a cracking imitation of J-Lo shaking her derriere.

Good thing was I also got to test the ABS braking system at the same time, as I narrowly avoided ploughing into a tractor carting corn off the field next to the road. The farmer was pretty impressed too as he stopped to wave at me as I darted past – a flash of silver, a swirl of dust and all at 54mpg.

I don’t think that the short four-mile run from Barnards to home has helped me to get accustomed to the sheer size of the new car and I think I was a tad previous when I overtook the Tesco courtesy bus - but there again things are supposed to look larger in your rear view mirror are they not?

I was sad to say goodbye to the VW Polo but to be honest it was a bit of a mistake to buy it in the first place. The BIG idea last year was to exchange my beautiful but defunct Land Rover Discovery for a car for everyday rather than every eventuality. However, we went too far on the scaling down side and it became a bit of a problem deciding whether to bring home the weekly shop and the children at the same time. Eventuality I solved the problem by getting a lovely aerodynamic Thule Roof box and the shopping, rather than the children, came home in that – but it was usually a close run thing. Space was a premium in the Polo and with two booster chairs in the back there wasn’t much between, which usually led to much Argy Bargy, screams and whining and me blowing my top and vowing to attach the boys to the Thule just for the sake of some peace! Needless to say this was one threat my boys practically begged me to carry out. But, as I have said to them in the past, the purpose of a parent is to continually disappoint its offspring.

Another problem that came with the Polo was that I could not for the sake of love nor money get Bog Boy my youngest’s Mclaren buggy in the back without twisting the chassis and/or scratching the rear window – suffice to say Bog Boy learned to walk distances a tad earlier than his brother.

But these were minor day-to-day problems and easily outweighed by the fact that the savings on running costs compared to the Land Rover were in the region of £150 per month on fuel alone. Then there was the fact that being a much smaller, closer to the ground sort of vehicle, the school run was done considerably faster and dare I say it more safely, with less queasiness than previously.

The decision to get a slightly more spacious vehicle came about after the annual camping trip to Wales. This was when my husband, Dear Charlie, became personally aware the problems of trying to accommodate four dogs, two children, one Kyham six berth tent, four sleeping bags, four wet suits, two boogie boards, two double lilos, four pillows, buckets, spades, teddies and food for a small army - as he hates to shop when we are down there - all into a vehicle with a somewhat limited cubic capacity.

We still managed to get down there and back, not once but twice just to make sure. But the second time down we took the sports car too tossing a coin for who would drive the Mazda MX5 and have the relative luxury of only having to cope with one vomiting whippet plus sundry goods.

So, as with all decisions in our nuclear family, once made plans have to be put into action as swiftly as possible. It is with many thanks to the long-suffering folks at Barnards in Stowmarket, in particular David Webster, that within the space of three weeks the exchange was made.

Getting the score (or why it pays to play sport at prep school)

There are many unwritten rules at school and not just for the children. I have just come back from the secretary’s office fuming at the injustice of it all. Thinking myself well organised and ahead of the game for once, I popped in to return the Holiday Sports Club form.

“I’m sorry your too late – there’s no more room.”

“What do you mean too late? The form said get your reply back by Monday -it’s Thursday afternoon and you only sent them out yesterday!”

I am given a pitying look and before I can say anything more in my defence she answers the telephone and I realise I am being summarily dismissed.

I flounce out of the office and although I would dearly love to slam the door I am prevented by the mechanism at the top - mentally I berate Health & Safety.

Normally I would not be worried by this setback. So what if my son can’t play cricket and football during the holidays but it matters - trust me

The car park at picking up time at the end of term had been alive with rumours about the latest 11-year old sporting prodigy at the school. He was spotted at a Cricket match by one of the leading private schools’ sports masters, who was acting as umpire, and there and then the boy was offered a bursary. As the child was already accepted at another school the father approached the aforesaid school to say sorry that the child would not be accepting the place as he had been offered a golden opportunity elsewhere. Short story long the school he was meant to go to offered the boy a Sports Scholarship on the spot without even seeing him play only for the other to offer a full Scholarship. It was, as they say, too good an offer to pass up – what a position to be in especially in the light of the Recession.

How I had laughed at the increasing number of mothers dolled to the nines who had come to watch their little darlings at After School Sports Club. I thought it was because everyone had heard that the new sports master Mr French was rather dishy and more excitingly, recently divorced. Now I realise that it was for far more sinister motives -to secure little Johnny a place on the Holiday Club list.

Those lucky enough to get into the Holiday Club will get the notice of Mr French, which will stand them in good stead for the rest of the year, and those with sporting prowess no doubt will be fast tracked. For sport at school is not just about keeping fit and working as a team it is about the kudos the top teams bring to the school and about the rewards that those individuals can earn – those unwritten rules of life.

The more I learn about the system the more I realise that it is a far cry from the civilised and polite environment I had always thought I was paying for. Getting ahead here is not about money, it’s about being cut throat, determined, even underhand. It was quite obvious that the word had got out and there had been a run on places even before the rest of us were officially told.

Luckily I have been given an even better tip off. I have found out that if I want my son to get the best sports teachers in the school he will have to secure a place in the Under Nines’ A or B teams by the time he’s eight otherwise he’ll be taught by the Gap year student and have even less of a chance to succeed.

So I have grabbed the yellow pages and frantically called up all the Cricket, Rugby and Football clubs in the area expecting them to laugh at my pretension but lo! they even have Under Six training sessions and my boy is signed up for the next three years. If you can’t join ‘em - beat ‘em…

The Last Great Show On Earth (or reasons why it is the last Royal Show ever)

Well in a few minutes I'll be on the road heading for the last Royal Show ever - bit of an historical moment I suppose, a bit sad. Maybe it's been on the cards for years. Farming is a sideline and no longer as important as it once was - but should we really have given up on the Royal? Should we really give up and give in at a time when our rural and urban societies are still so divided? Surely shows such as this are important to bring these two disparate tribes together. And where better than at The Royal, which brings together all the best from the whole country?
I don't know.
I haven't been to The Royal in 20 years - the last time I had just finished at Seale Hayne Agricultural College and got wildly drunk and landed up asking anyone who was anyone to: "Gi'e us a job".
I got taken on by Farming News but to this day believe it was really all down to the fact I was wearing a very tight white T-shirt and my more obvious attributes sealed the deal rather than my scholarly mien.
I wonder how it has changed....the Show, folks not my attributes: they remain the same (or at least that is what Dear Charlie says!)
Some time later - actually the next day...
I can understand why it's the last one. Not because it is not a great day out, it was and anyone who is within an hour or so do go because you will be so welcomed and it will be such fun.
I spoke to loads of people there from livestock folk, trade stands and retailers, from the guys picking up the litter to the punters walking around - there are lots of reasons why they think it's the last one but probably the most telling thing I saw was the Flower Tent.
Twenty years ago you had to pay extra to go in and when you did it was like walking into a sultry Eden, heavy with the perfume thousands of exotic blooms. At every turn there were simply stunning flower creations, sculptures and concoctions in every hue imaginable and plenty that defied description. I used to be so jealous of all that talent as however much I try I just cannot make flowers do anything but die in a vase.
Now when I walked in it felt half empty, lack lustre and the grass underfoot had not even been mown. It was full of weeds ready to trip you up. At one end there was a table where a florist was preparing to demonstrate the art of flower arranging to a few desultory show goers.
There were some lovely displays but no care had been taken in their placing, there was no drama, no anticipation and to be frank one felt that well - they had given up. Perhaps this really was Eden but after Eve had eaten of the apple.
Down the cattle lines and in among the pigs and sheep there was a much livelier atmosphere but also a kind of desperation; I felt that everyone was looking for that last rosette confirmation that they had been there, when something great had died.
Somewhere along the line something went badly wrong at The Royal Show for I can tell you other shows I attend are jumpin' The Royal Welsh, The Suffolk and The Great Yorkshire Show seem, at least to me the mere punter, to be packed out and thriving.
Yesterday I asked what had heralded The Royal's demise and these were tha answers I got:
Too much emphasis on the corporates
So busy chasing down sponsorship that the fundamentals were forgotten
Letting a management company in who alienated the smaller trade folk
Lack of care for the details
Cutting corners on hospitality
In essence failing to care for the members, their wants and needs and letting greed get in the way. But there again haven't we all been doing that?



PS. If you are still waiting for my report have a look at The Best of British Mummy Blogger Carnival over at http://britsinbosnia.blogspot.com/

Are you a Saint Mummy? ( or Why I will never be canonised…)

“Are you a Saint Mummy?”
As much as I would have liked to say: Yes! I had to admit that no, I was not and probably never would be.
I always feel the discussions I have with The Boy on the school run must be a bit like travelling through Helmand Province; you have to tread warily as you are never quite sure where the next bombshell will land or indeed if you will get away with none going off at all. While that may keep you on your toes, it is quite exhausting and I will admit I am very relieved when I am back in the relative safety of camp and can escape the more generally lobbed questions round the dinner table leaving it to someone else to take the full brunt.
But it got me thinking. Are there any Saints who were also parents? I asked Google - No results found was the reply. Looking on it logically I shouldn’t have been surprised but I am not one to give up so easily. So I decided to check out if there was a Patron Saint for parents and lo and behold St Rita of Cascia came up in 0.43 seconds. But what I found rather disconcerting was that St Rita is better known as the Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes.
With that happy though to sustain me I pottered downstairs to re-enter the fray that is my daily life. In the few minutes of my absence a situation had occurred between my offspring that required my immediate mediation.
Bog Boy, my youngest and most determined, had taken over the hammock under the tree and was not allowing his elder brother to join him. I was requested to reason with him. Bog Boy is just three. No one reasons with a three year old, especially one that has such a rigid view on the right and wrongs of fair play. He also knows that he has a strong hand to play being: A, the smallest, B - the youngest and C – the most blue eyed and blonde headed of my two children.
Assessing the situation as I clear the garden of Dog doings, I start off softly.
Me: Be kind boys, both of you can play in the Hammock
BB: No
Bog Boy responds without hesitation from the shroud he has made within the Hammock.
Me: Go on Bog Boy let your brother in
BB: No
Me: Let your brother in Bog Boy
BB: No
Me: Bog Boy share!
BB: No
OK a straightforward tack isn’t going to work and I see that Bog Boy is getting entrenched. Bribery!
Me: Do you want to have any treats Bog Boy?
BB: No
Well that was quicker than most days, usually we manage to have a discussion about what treats are on offer before he makes up his mind whether to give in or not. Today it is definitely a “Not” day. Revert to Plan A: straight forward ask.
Me: Bog Boy let you brother in the Hammock.
BB: No
Me: Let your brother in Bog Boy
Getting a tad more exasperated as I miss scoop a Doing and nearly tread in it.
BB: No
Me: I’m warning you …
Bog Boy raises his head from the depths of the Hammock and peers at me as if to say ‘And…’
He looks at what I am carrying and well a thought suddenly crosses my mind and it is far from saint like.
Me: Bog Boy if you do not share the hammock with your brother I am going to dump all these Doings on you.
I leave my children playing happily in the hammock under the tree together a picture of filial bliss.