A cause for embarrassment

My children love those crappy little rides that can be found in the entrance vestibules of supermarkets and at service stations and amusement arcades. They could quite happily spend an afternoon (and a small fortune) experiencing the thrills of Thomas the Tank Engine’s slow jerky movements whilst pressing the flashing buttons that make an assortment of hoots and beeps.

They never tire of them and could tell you what kind of rides are in each establishment that we visit regularly. For example at Ikea there is a hot dog van, for one silver coin (50p) they can get one ride or for one golden coin (£1) they can get 3 rides. Even at a young age they've worked out which is best value for money. We have to ensure that we always have pockets full of change just in case we should chance upon a ride whilst on our travels.

In some instances these machines are a god send. They can occupy even the most fractious child in a busy shopping centre whilst their dad is in a long queue at the mobile phone shop. And they are also a welcome but expensive distraction in airport lounges. But if I’d saved a pound for every one that has gone in one of those machines I’d have enough money to spend a fortnight in the Maldives.

My children have grown up thinking that if you put a pound in a slot then something will happen. This became evident at the weekend when we were doing some shopping in Asda. I was packing the bags at checkout when I turned around to see both my children riding the guide dogs for the blind collection box. They called over for some money to get the 'ride' started. I think they thought the plastic, life size Golden Labrador was going to get up, bark and give them a piggy back up the soft drinks aisle. I'm all for giving money to a good cause although this was more cause for embarrassment.

Here's some I wrote earlier

This week I've been looking back at some of my older posts so that I can list some of my greatest (I use this word loosely!) works for my new ‘here’s one I wrote earlier’ link. You will now see this to the right of the page. Whilst doing this I have spent a good deal of time berating myself for all the glaring typos, misuse of words and general spelling / grammatical errors I have consistently made.

For example on January 28th I wrote a post about my feelings during early motherhood. I called this post Formally known as Mary, what I meant to call it was formerly known as Mary. Perhaps I should have called it informally known as Mary or formally known as Mrs T, both of which would have made more sense. Not sure whether anyone noticed as I rarely notice faults with other people’s posts.

Next is all those bloody little words that don’t come up on the spell checker because they are spelt correctly but aren't in the right context or tense e.g. than instead of that and if instead of it. Although I regularly proof read my posts for some reason I only notice these mistakes upon revisiting them at a later time.

It’s funny how we notice things about ourselves that no one else would ever pick up on. And then we feel the need to advertise them just in case someone was wondering what the hell had happened to us. Yesterday I was at a team meeting and on entering the room one of my colleagues immediately announced that she was bright red because she’d been on a sunbed called ‘the beast’ in preparation for a big night out this weekend. Firstly, I had no idea there were sunbeds called ‘the beast’ sitting in sunbed shops across the country and I am intrigued by this. Secondly, she looked a perfectly normal colour to me but the more she tried to explain herself the redder she went.

Later on in the same meeting a senior member of staff started to explain the rash on her chin that until this point had escaped my attention. She went on to tell us it's acne and that her doctor said it’s caused later on in life by stress and hormonal changes. I’m not sure what conclusions she thought we might have drawn had she not have explained the rash (which was barely noticeable), but at least we are now safe in the knowledge that she is stressed and going through the menopause.

I find it incredibly endearing when people are prepared to discuss their health and personal issues, especially with their subordinates. I really like people with whom what you see is what you get. Whereas I am extremely irritated by people who bullshit their way through life unaware that those they are trying to impress can see right through their crap.

I admit, I regularly embarrass myself in social situations. Usually the boys are involved but sometimes it's all my own doing. I misunderstanding things, struggle to operate vending machines and I do spend an awful lot of time feeling rather inadequate. I guess it makes me human and I hope people find it endearing.

Every man should have a shed

My husband is an excellent father. He dotes on his little boys and would do anything for them. He was in floods of tears at both their births and fell instantly in love with them. I would have liked to have been more emotional but on both occasions I was too shocked and traumatised. How very lucky men are to be able to appreciate the whole birth experience of their children without the agony and the surreal loss of control that women feel. I will always remember that he was the first dad on the maternity ward the morning following Joel’s birth. He was virtually hammering the door down before visiting hours began like a shopaholic at Harrods on Boxing Day.

When I met my husband he was studying for a degree in Art and Design and completing his PGCE. It didn’t take him long to realise that only the clinically insane become teachers. Teenagers and glue guns don’t mix so he packed it in for a career in the exciting and fast paced world of insurance broking. Until now he hasn’t really had much use for the skills he acquired at university but having two boys presents him with a good opportunity to start model making.

Joel has developed an obsession with airships. It started when he watched a View to a Kill which is a James Bond film from the 1980s. Highly appropriate viewing for a four year old I'm sure you'll agree but ITV will show these films at 3:30 on a Sunday afternoon. For the last couple of weeks we have been making airships out of balloons and cardboard and decorating them with felt-tip pen but inevitably they kept popping which was very frustrating for all involved.

So the weekend before last my husband took it upon himself to make a papier-mâché airship that should have a longer lifespan. The airship has been a labour of love and Joel has been extremely keen for it to be completed. Each evening my husband has come home from a day in the office and continued work on the airship. I have been teasing him that Joel will be at university by the time it is finished. There have been trials and tribulations along the way, Joel stood on the fiddly little engines that had taken ages to make for which he got a serious bollocking and then the varnish turned the white paint yellow but finally last night the airship was unveiled.

A masterpiece that has been a fortnight in the making, my husband presented it to Joel this morning who delighted, skipped around the house with joy, airship in hand. I was relieved as there were times when I wasn’t sure if my husband was ever going to let him play with it. I hope that this will be the first in a long line of father / son projects and would even be prepared to let them have a shed down the end of the garden for their materials. My husband has been saying for years that every man should have a shed.

Sweating the small stuff

Happy times with all I hold dear.

In the last week there have been several stories in the news that have made me realise that despite the gloomy economic crisis and unemployment hitting 2 million in the UK, all that really matters is your health.

I was moved to hear the news that Jade Goody has finally lost her fight against cervical cancer on Mother’s day. I’m not a fan of Jade and had no real interest in anything she did whilst she was alive but I do find her death at such a young age incredibly sad. She was only diagnosed last summer and within a matter of months has lost her life.

I think this particularly hits a nerve with me because I have two young sons a similar age to hers and I cannot imagine how painful it must have been for her in her final weeks, knowing she’s not going to be able to watch them grow up in to fine young men. Although I would like my own life to be exciting and enjoyable, my children are undoubtedly the main reason for my existence and as long as I can be there for them pretty much every thing else is incidental.

Hearing stories about people like Jade and also Natasha Richardson who died of head injuries last week following a skiing accident (another reason why never to take to the piste) make you realise just how grateful we should all be for our health. I spend many a Sunday frantically charging around the house with a duster in one hand and a pile of washing in the other screaming at anyone who gets in my way, but what does all that matter? I could potentially go out and be hit by a bus, anyone of us could, and in fact my husband nearly did the day before we got married! It’s all too easy to forget how fragile life is when the bathroom needs cleaning and the cat’s peed on the dining room curtains.

It is absolutely heartbreaking to think about how my sons would cope without me should I walk out the door one day and never come back. Who would sit with them and stroke their hair until they fell asleep? Who would bath them or wipe their little bottoms when they call loudly for assistance from the toilet? Who would chase them around the house and blow raspberries on their stomach or tickle their feet? There are many intimate little things that parents do with their children each day yet take for granted how precious those moments are. How could a four and three year old possibly understand the concept of death? I feel terribly sad for Jade’s sons and others like them who have watched their mother’s life ebb away through illness. Or those whose lives are turned upside down by tragic accidents.

Last night when my boys were sleeping I went in to their room and I kissed their soft cheeks like I do every night and I felt incredibly grateful. They had left all their toy cars on the floor and I hurt my foot on a piece of Lego but I pledged silently to stop sweating the small stuff, to stop ranting and raving about insignificant things and to appreciate every day…well until tomorrow at least.

The perfect gift for mother's day?

I have become increasingly irritated this week by the number of adverts bombarding me with ideas for the perfect mother’s day gift.

The supermarkets are the biggest culprits and have been putting the hard sell on a selection of CDs. If you watch TV you cannot have avoided this, for instance:

Lionel Richie (clip of Lionel singing then smirking seductively in to camera) then voice over man comes on and says "The perfect gift for mother’s day". The best bit about this album is that it is titled ‘Just Go’. How appropriate, and only the perfect gift for mother's day if your mum actually likes Lionel Richie. My mother does not.

Barry Manilow (clip of Barry singing then smirking seductively in to camera), voice over man…"The perfect gift for mother’s day" etc. This album is called ‘Greatest Songs of the Eighties’. So essentially what you’d be giving your mum is Barry singing 80s songs. Could it get much worse?

How about…

Faryl Smith’s solo classical debut album (as above although Faryl replaces seductive smirk with sweet smile)…"The perfect gift for mother’s day". Faryl is the 13 year old going on 25 who found fame on Britain’s Got Talent along with Paul (since I’ve found fame my terrible teeth have been replaced with perfect veneers) Potts and break dancing teen George Sampson.

Nope, my mother would sooner book herself in for a colonic irrigation, what else you got?

Tickets to see The Priests sing live at MEN Arena in June…dear god, I don’t think so!

How about Big Brain Academy for the Nintendo Wii? Some age defying face cream? A foot spa? Some Egyptian cotton bath sheets? A Mama Mia DVD?

Love you mum!

Bloggers block

Dear Readers,

For over a week now I have been suffering with a terrible case of bloggers block. I don't think it's terminal but am not sure when my condition will improve. I have started to write a couple of blogs but have been forced to abandon them as they were neither interesting or amusing.

I'm quite sure that no one wants to read about a conference I attended for work over the weekend, although Warwick University does have extremely good facilities including an award winning chef, nice grounds and a swimming pool that I did not venture in to.

My children have been relatively well behaved and have not achieved anything outstanding at nursery although my youngest did do an amazing poo in his pants whilst in their care. I am hoping they will present me with a nice mothers day card covered in enough glitter to supply a transvestite for the rest of their life.

There are terrible roadworks where I live but I can't even muster up the strength to complain about them.

I would be grateful to hear from any fellow bloggers who have found themselves in a similar predicament.

Yours sincerely

Mary

Adventures in exercise

For sometime now I have been thinking about doing some formal exercise. I have never been a fan of the gym, the thought of it scares me witless. They are sure to be full of toned people with stamina who know their pilates from their powerplates. The machines look too technical for me and I would undoubtedly make a complete tit of myself. I have no desire to work up an unattractive sweat outside the privacy of my own home. I don’t know what kind of exercise attire is considered fashionable these day and would probably end up looking like a rejected member of the cast of Fame. Is it still der rigueur to wear leggings with thong back leotards over the top?

I have considered going swimming but the last time I went was in 1988 and I’m not sure how far I’d get before I had to be rescued by the life guard. The thought of parading my pale flesh at a local authority baths does not give me much enthusiasm. The chlorine would turn my highlights green hence the need for a swimming cap and I would have to wear verruca socks to avoid catching them rather than spreading them. At least I would be earthed with rubber on my head and feet in the unlikely event that lightening should strike.

When Joel was a baby I dabbled for a few weeks with step aerobics classes. I’d put on quite a lot of weight during my pregnancy and was so desperate to lose it I was willing to try anything. Anyone that has ever tried aerobics within a group environment will know that it’s quite important that you are able to keep in time with the others and that there are moves with names such as ‘the grapevine’ that you need to master. Despite considering myself a bit of a demon on the dance floor, I lacked the ability to learn the routine which caused no end of embarrassment. My vodka fuelled nightclub moves weren’t included and I would be going one way whilst the rest of the group was grapevining in the opposite direction. It was hell in jogging bottoms and I don’t regret giving it up as a bad experience.

I now have various pieces of exercise equipment scattered around the house including an exercise bike / clothes horse and an ab toner / underpants dryer. Both of these instruments of torture have seen better days and are missing integral parts. For instance if I were to do a bit of cycling (which is highly improbable) I would have no idea at what speed I was going or how far I had travelled as the boys have broken the monitor. This is as good an excuse as any not to get on it. These ugly bits of exercise furniture clutter up the already limited room in my house and I try cunning ways of disguising them. There are only so many ways you can drape a throw over a treadmill before it looks more suspect than if you just had the damn thing on display. Visitors might even be lulled into thinking you are a fitness fanatic rather than leaving your home thinking you were trying to hide something far more dubious.

Would you like shavings with that?

I discovered this morning that my hotmail account has been spamming people, how does this happen? Technology is such a bizarre thing, I have spent the last 30 minutes trying to work out how to increase my security. Having now achieved this I would like to go on to complain about the JML Ped Egg, technology at its finest.

I haven't actually purchased a Ped Egg although after months of wedging my feet into thick socks (I enjoy wearing specialist walking socks in the winter) and boots, I could probably do with one. I ignore my feet in winter, no one need see them until at least May. I will embark upon a programme of improving their appearance in mid-April before sandal wearing time.

I am sick to death of sitting down on the sofa with my cereal or other delicious snack and then being faced with the Ped Egg advert. The advert shows a number of people from different walks of life shaving their feet for prime-time viewing. Apparently Ped Egg "Leaves feet pedi-perfect" and "With PedEgg you get that incredible, super-soft look and feel that everyone loves. Forget expensive pedicures! It’s a compact and cost effective solution to help rid dry, cracked skin on your feet. Safe and easy to use, this precision exfoliating treatment will transform the skin on your heels and toes, making it caressably smooth and irresistible to the touch.The unique egg shape not only looks great, but is ergonomically designed to fit perfectly into the palm of your hand for easy and convenient use. Best of all, PedEgg collects all the skin shavings in a convenient storage compartment, allowing you to use it anywhere with no mess. Emery pads are also included to buff your way to a baby-soft finish."

I am eating, I don't want to see it! The worst part is at the end when someone goes to empty all the bits of their feet into the bin. It is totally disgusting and I may complain to the advertising standards agency.

Carry on nurse

I had an appointment yesterday at one of the smaller district hospitals in Leeds. I'm on the waiting list to have a Laparoscopic Cholecysectomy which to you or I is the removal of my gall bladder. In the words of my consultant it is 'knackered' which I don't think is a medical term but at least it's a description I can understand. My gall bladder is shrivelled up like a manky old prune and it causes me a lot of pain especially following binge eating of cheese which I like to participate in frequently. Once it is removed I will be able to eat cheese and cheese based products to my heart's content.

My appointment yesterday was for my pre-op assessment and I was seen by a pair of nurses who wouldn't have looked out of place on the set of The Last of the Summer Wine. I guestimate that their joint age was about 160 years old but at least with age comes experience. This pair of formidable women were strictly from the old school of nursing which was strangely comforting. That said, they had some new test to conduct on me that they hadn't entirely got to grips with yet. The first was the MRSA screening swabs that they have to take from all patients coming in for scheduled operations. This involved them shoving a large cotton bud up my nostrils and then swabbing my armpits and groin with two other cotton buds. There was a lot of faffing around and I wouldn't be at all surprised if all the swaps from various parts of my anatomy had been completely mixed up.

Following this initial ordeal I had to have some blood taken so that they can check my liver function (yikes!) and so that they know my blood group in the unlikely event of me needing a blood transfusion. I had stressed that I am terrified of needles and that having blood taken scares the shit out of me. They decided it would be best to send me to the haematology department where my blood could be taken professionally. I dread to think what might have happened to me had I not have mentioned my phobia.

Finally I was sent on my way with no less than 9 leaflets one of which is 'The Role of the Carer' which I took great enjoyment in handing to my husband when I got home.

Cheeky

This is my four year old son...look at the mad expression in his eyes, this is what I have to put up with on a daily basis. If you look closely you can see a circular mark on his forehead, this is where he stuck the hoover to it. I'll not go on....