Is it really only Tuesday?

Okay… so in my last post I wrote about how family life seems to be gradually getting easier. However during the first few days of half-term I realise that I may have spoken a little too soon. So far this week (is it really only Tuesday?) my life has been made a living hell by the sweet little imps that reside in my house.

Monday
Because of the bloody clocks going back they decide it is time to get up at 6:30am. I hear Joel padding downstairs to raid the biscuit tin but have no energy to do anything about it. I make a mental note to bring it upstairs that night and put it on top of the wardrobe. This is the only place in the whole house where he can’t reach it. Several minutes later they burst into our room covered in mint chocolate aero.

Thankfully Supergran comes over for a few hours whilst I go into the office. When I return she looks more frazzled than usual and explains that unbeknown to her Joel has taken a piece of red chalk into the bath with him. The result is a pink bath tub, bath mat, shower curtain, several pink coloured flannels (which had previously been cream) and a pink towel. You would not believe how hard it is to get chalk off plastic; even Kim and Aggy would have a job.

Whilst Supergran has been sorting this mess out Louie has made a den in the wardrobe, part of this process involves pulling all of the clothes I store in there off their hangers and damaging one of my going out tops. Grrrr, I sling it into the growing pile of things to sew when I can be bothered. By this point I am hoarse and coming down with a cold.

Tuesday
They get up at 6:05am but potter about in their bedroom without making too much noise; I’m awake anyway because I feel like crap. They fight all morning; Joel mainly instigates the battles by taking Louie’s toys off him. They make another den in the aforementioned wardrobe. It is the only time they play nicely together so I let them get on with it. I have a cup of tea and fear for my clothes.

My old school friend calls in at lunchtime to share the happy news that she is expecting her first baby. I’m so excited for her but then Joel starts playing up and I feel embarrassed. I am comforted by the fact that she is a primary school teacher and well used to demented children cavorting about the place. The husband likens our boys to a pair of Red Setters that need exercising or should that be exorcising, which ever it is they clearly are in need of fresh air so I take them to the park.

Later I phone my mum to see if my 29 year old brother has left for Australia. He is meant to be travelling over there until next June. She was feeling very down and had hit the whiskey, I realise that no matter what age they are, my children will still reduce me to tears. I visit the bathroom to find that the toilet water is green; I fish green chalk from the bowl.

To be continued…

Telling it like it was...

There is a photograph that sits in a frame on the window sill in our living room. In it my boys sit side by side in colour co-ordinated outfits. Joel is about two and a half years old and Louie one. Louie has his little fist clenched tightly resting on his brother's leg. It's one of many lovely images of my sweet little boys taken when they were babies and toddlers. In other photos I am pictured brimming with pride with them in my arms or sitting on my knee, but back then all was not as it seemed.

I started to lose the plot shortly after Louie was born, I simply could not cope. I hadn't planned on having two children so close in age and never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined how hard it would be. They drove me mad with their constant demands and needs that had to be met before my own. I was great at the practical stuff, the washing, the ironing, the housework, things that gave me a plausible excuse to busy myself away from them.

I'm ashamed to admit that sometimes I would shout at them so loudly that they would jump out of their skins. I realise that it was totally inappropriate as they were far too young to respond to this kind of discipline. It was usually for doing something trivial like drawing on the paintwork rather than to save them from danger.

Two and a half years down the line I am still driven insane by their constant fighting, fiddling and mess making but gradually they / we are becoming more civilised and I am better able to cope. Joel has just turned five and I commented to my friend just the other day that family life is finally starting to become enjoyable rather than one long chore. Sometimes I lie awake at night and cringe at the memory of my appalling behaviour but then I think of my bright, happy, growing boys asleep in the next room and I realise that I must have done something right.

An Ordinary Whistler

My mother who's 63 has just started her very own blog. So what does the average grandma blog about? Recipes for nice cakes or how to make the perfect Sunday roast? Or perhaps use it as a forum for sharing sewing patterns?

Nah, not my mother, but then she's not the average grandma. In her words her blog is an extension of many a pub discussion, and will she hopes allow her to express her profoundly held beliefs without being interrupted!

Obviously as I'm her daughter I'm her number one fan. But that aside, I urge you to visit her at An Ordinary Whistler as she's an excellent writer as well as an excellent mum.

Phonics are not funny

During a moment of madness I decided to put my name forward for the position of Parent Governor at Joel’s school. I’m not exactly sure what the role involves but I’m happy to volunteer my time and would like the opportunity to input into the way the school is run. The egomaniac inside me thinks that I’ve got exactly what it takes despite the fact I have no idea what would be expected of me. I submitted a letter to the head teacher last Thursday.

That evening all parents of children in reception were invited to attend an information session where we would get the opportunity to see how our children are being taught to read and write. Joel’s teacher had asked if we could bring him along so that he could take part in one of the demonstrations. Only a few children had been selected so we were delighted that he had been chosen. He was a little star and we were so proud of him. He had to pick a shape out of a bag and describe its size and texture. This was in front of about 40 adults but he wasn’t fazed. I hate public speaking and would have crapped myself.

After this the teachers played us a CD explaining how they use phonics to teach the children to read. The woman on the CD sounded out all the letters the way they should be pronounced. It sounded really funny, like she was either a bit drunk or doing something rude, oooh and aaa and puh, I could hear someone sniggering behind me and it set me off. I was biting my lip so hard in an attempt not to laugh hysterically. There I am putting myself forward for the responsible role of Parent Governor and I’m wetting myself laughing at an educational CD. This was made worse by the fact I was sitting on a small yellow chair designed for a five year old and I was on the front row. There was nowhere to hide. The only saving grace was that the head teacher had been unable to attend because she had slipped on a rogue roast potato in the dinner hall earlier in the week and broken her arm!

It's a miracle!

Ladies, ladies, ladies thank you so much for sharing some of your hair disasters with me. It has highlighted (note clever use of pun here!) what a common problem this is. After spending an epic four and a half hours in the hairdressers on Tuesday my hair has almost been returned to its former glory. Quite frankly it’s a miracle that I’m not walking around with a bunch of straw on my head.

It was cleansed twice which sent it bright ginger which is apparently quite normal. Then I had to have a full head of foils and a semi permanent colour put on the ginger bits. It cost so much money that I could have gone on holiday to Ibiza for a week for the same amount, and still have brought home a few loose euros. I am gutted, still we live and learn. My hairdresser has it on file that if I ever ask for anything like that again she is to send me away.

Thanks to my mother for looking after Louie all day and for kindly bringing me a sandwich at lunchtime.

Why oh why...?

One of the things I hate most about being a woman is my complete and utter inability to control my emotions. I don’t cry all that often but when the proverbial floodgates open there is little I can do to stop the flow. I tend to choose the most inappropriate of social settings for these episodes which are usually triggered by something relatively trivial. Over the years this has caused me and those unfortunate enough to be in my presence no end of embarrassment.

When I was pregnant with Louie I cried hysterically all the way through one of my midwife appointments because the fridge freezer had broken. Anyone in the doctors surgery that afternoon must have thought that I’d received some horrific news about the health of my baby. But no, the cause of my upset was my Bosch Excel Frost Free. Oh and then there was the incident when I had to be sent home from work after becoming distressed because I’d burnt my hand on some macaroni cheese. I still cringe at the memory of this.

However my most recent break down tops the lot. On Saturday I went to the hairdressers to get my roots done or at least that was the plan. I sat down in reception (my hairdressers is quite posh!) and started to read Harper's Bazaar. As I flicked from page to page of adverts for expensive designers one in particular caught my eye. The model in the picture of the ad for Gucci had lovely chestnut brown hair, so without much thought I made the decision that this would obviously suit me, and I should have my lovely blonde hair dyed that exact shade instantly. Fast forward two hours and my hairdresser is just running the straighteners through my new hair whilst I grit my teeth and hope it looks an awful lot better when I get home. Of course it didn’t, nor did it look better when I woke up on Sunday morning, or this morning. It matters not how much others say they like it, I hate it and it has to go immediately.

So I get on the phone to the hairdressers directly and organise a consultation to discuss what can be done. Luckily they can fit me in so off I go in haste, the sooner I am blonde again the better. I’m met at the salon by Graham a man in his late forties who’s still trying desperately to hang onto his youth. I explain the situation I’ve found myself in, one of the hairdressers responsible is only a few feet away, I feel the need to apologise profusely (despite the fact I’m actually lining their till) and then it happened, the tears came. For god's sake Mary it’s just your hair I mentally tell myself. How the hell would you cope if you had to have cancer treatment and it all fell out? Nobody’s died, you still have your health, what are you thinking you stupid bitch? I hate myself for being so vain and for not being able to live with ‘the hair’ which is a lovely colour, just not on me, even for a few weeks until my next appointment.

Anyway tomorrow I must return once again to the salon where they are going to cleanse my hair and give me a full head of highlights. Why oh why….?

This is NOT an advertisement...

Because if it was it wouldn't be a very good one!

I was in the dentists waiting room leafing through one of those free catalogues that fall out of the tabloid newspapers. The things being advertised literally beggar belief, they are the sort of inventions, gadgets, gizmos and novelty items that wouldn't even make it onto Dragon's Den.

It's getting to that time of year again when we all need to start thinking about what to buy our friends and relatives for Christmas. This year I'm considering buying Lisa this delightful velvet kaftan with matching turban that also comes in British racing green. It offers great comfort whether you're entertaining at home or relaxing alone.

I can picture her walking around her house picking fluff off the carpet whilst Danny's busy sorting his coins into this special purse made from soft nappa leather. I'm going to send this frilly sofa cover to my dad and his wife Di in Italy. Made of soft boucle fabric it stretches to many times its original size. It reminds me of the curtains you got in local cinemas in the 1980's, I'm sure they'll appreciate this piece of nursing home chic. My mother would surely love a cats in hats calendar. Yes cats does rhyme with hats but it still doesn't make this right.
And for Laura this 'Happiness is being loved by a Labrador' cushion is just perfect.