Shout outs!

I am now just about ready to go on my holiday which is a small miracle considering I have been suffering with a horrendous hangover all weekend. My body hates me and is screaming at me to go into rehab. My choice of fast and effective hangover cure is a McChicken sandwich with fries and a milkshake but what I always forget is that I can’t eat McDonalds without my Gallbladder flaring up. I was in absolute agony with it all last night but at least it’s coming out on May 13th and I get two whole weeks off work to recuperate and watch daytime TV whilst flying high on pain killers.

Before I go, and have no internet access for a week I want to give a few shout outs.
The first is to my very best friend in the world Lisa. Lisa is responsible for my hangover; Lisa is ALWAYS responsible for my hangover. Lisa you are a booze power house and I salute you. Thanks for an amazing weekend, I haven’t laughed as hard in ages. Good luck with your efforts to sleep with at least one of the Kings of Leon before your birthday on Wednesday. Have a fantastic day, I’ll see you when we get back, I love you! mwah mwah xxxx

The next shout out is for Laura. Have an amazing trip to Florida sans enfant. It’s a shame you couldn’t have joined us this weekend. Do you remember François and Jean Marc from the Tricolore books? We could have done with your input. I’m sure you were in my French class at school. I can’t wait to hear all about your trip and to see the pictures. Try not to eat too many burgers and enjoy the rides! Lovin’ your work as always xxxx

Back to the ironing board

We’re going on holiday next week and in order to minimise the stress of it all, I’m trying to organising every last detail with military precision. We’ve got an early flight on Tuesday morning which requires us to be at the airport for 5:45am. Fortunately the airport is only a short taxi ride away but when we get there I am well aware that my small boys will require both sustenance and entertainment.

Anyone who has ever visited an airport terminal will know that the second you step foot in the place you can expect to pay at least three times the going rate for refreshments and the same applies to motorway services. When we were kids my dad always used to moan about this and I now know where he’s coming from. I don’t know how they get away with it, especially in these belt- tightening times.

The price inflation gets even worse when you board the plane, where you can expect to pay at least £5 for a rock hard panini with a meagre filling that has been festering in the hostesses’ trolley for the best part of the morning. Since we’ve started travelling on budget airlines I have been served some truly offensive items masquerading as snacks. Things so bad that I have considered informing the food standards agency. I have now decided that taking my own food is the only way forward. This requires a level of preparation as it has to consist of matter that doesn’t melt, leak or crumble excessively. I have decided that croissants would be a good breakfast option although they do tend to shed pastry so we’ll have to eat them in the departure lounge where we can move swiftly away from the debris.

Ideally we will be able to situate ourselves near a window in the airport where the boys can see aeroplanes. This should keep them amused for about ten minutes and the rest of the time we will have to fill with rides on the crappy and expensive little machines that I have written about before. I am planning to fill a bag with crayons and puzzles but it’s anyone’s guess as to whether they will find this engaging whilst in the airport environment.

Apart from pre-booking seats to the rear of the aircraft where psychologically I feel we won’t be disturbing as many people, I haven’t given much thought to the flight itself. It’s far too traumatic to dwell on and I hope that at least take off and landing meet the boy’s expectations as they are particularly excited about this aspect of flying. On one occasion Joel had the only window seat on the whole aircraft that didn’t have a window. It was heart-breaking and so bloody typical but there was nothing we could do about it. Joel is also a fan of the flushing mechanism on plane toilets, he loves the loud sucking noise it makes, so there is usually endless trips to the loo leaving other passengers in no doubt that one of us is incontinent.

Most evenings I can be found ironing t-shirts and shorts soon to be daubed with ice cream and I do wonder why I bother. This weekend will be spent completing the packing and making sure we have things for every eventuality. I have lists coming out of my ears and am sure that foreign travel used to be an awful lot more simple. Long gone are the days of slinging a few bikinis, some denim cut offs and a few sun tops into a bag. Better get back to the ironing board.

Tired of using technology

What is it with men and gadgets? On Friday afternoon a parcel arrived for my husband. As soon as he got in from work he excitedly tore into it as if he were a small child on Christmas morning. He knew that within the brown cardboard and cellophane was his long awaited super duper, fancy-pants, Nokia mobile phone that he ordered several weeks ago but unfortunately (note the sarcasm) had been out of stock.

Until this package arrived all had been well with my world. I had a loving husband who was meant to be making my dinner, the boys had an attentive father that played with them, but all this has now changed. For my husband has a new love and currently there is no room in his affections for any other.

Okay, I too can appreciate that she is a thing of beauty. She is sleek and sexy with a touch screen that vibrates when you prod her with the little stick that slots in her side. Instant gratification, what more can a man ask for? Her applications are many and varied, doubling up as a satellite navigation system, an ipod, personal organiser and even a lap top. But why does my husband feel that it is necessary to download every single track in his extensive back catalogue onto her hard drive? Why does he have to programme her with the GPS co-ordinates of the local supermarket and his office? Should he have a momentary episode of amnesia and require her guidance. And as for being organised unless she can tell him where he’s left his shaver, car keys and wallet she’s not going to be much cop.

I should have been prepared for this eventuality as it is not the first time I have caught my husband having a dalliance with an electrical appliance. We started dating in the late nineties when mobile phones were the size of a house brick. Thankfully our student loans didn’t stretch far enough to buy one which frankly wouldn’t have been that much use on its own anyway. Instead my husband (then boyfriend) opted to buy a desk top computer. It was a cumbersome beast, the monitor alone weighed about the same as a family hatchback and it took up a whole corner in his already cluttered student bedroom.

It was an absolute bugger to set up and never did what it was meant to. He gradually added bits to it like an external modem and scanner and most weekends were spend down at PC World. We were still in the early heady days of our relationship and I would try to sit seductively on his bed, perhaps flashing a bit of bra in an effort to steer his attention in my direction but it rarely worked. Eventually I borrowed my dads computer, bought a modem and would communicate with him through the rudimentary email system available at the time. Yesterday I once again found myself making contact with him in a similar fashion when I texted him to inform him that dinner was on the table. She might be able to convert pounds into euros in 0.2 seconds but talk to me when she can cook, clean and iron, that's when I'll be interested.

Hooray for the metrosexual!

I celebrated my 31st birthday on Tuesday and I have to say that birthdays definitely aren't what they used to be. Instead of being the fun filled booze ups of days gone by they now rather signify the slippery slope that is my diminishing youth. Since my late twenties I have stated to notice the odd line developing here and there and am using a variety of lotions and potions to help keep wrinkles at bay. I must confess that the other day I also noticed a faint moustache growing in the corner of my mouth that I swiftly shaved off. Worryingly the only two people I have told about this until now, both immediately exclaimed "You did what? You should never shave it, it’ll grow back twice as thick". Oops we’ll have to see!

There’s an awful lot of pressure put on women to stay looking young and attractive. Gok Wan, Nicky Hambleton-Jones and Trinny and Susanna tell us that no matter what our age we should take pride in our appearance. We are expected to maintain a glossy hair do, we’re encouraged to wear make up and to have a full set of sparkly white teeth. Our cupboards should be full of well fitting clothes that suit our body shape, that we are able to mix and match for a variety of social occasions. We must remember to wear the correct under garments ensuring that our pants and bras hoist, tuck and suck in all the right places. For women there is so much to consider that we could do with a degree level course being introduced.

We are told that once we slip into our four inch heels our self-esteem and confidence will rocket. We are surely bound for success, will secure that promotion, meet and marry the man of our dreams and complete strangers will stop us in the street and give us flowers, although this has never happened to me. We can do all of this whilst wearing a Tena lady discreet pad for bladder weakness if we wish.

There we are spending lots of money and time trying to look aesthetically pleasing whilst many of our men folk are shoving their hairy backsides into baggy grey under crackers and scruffy t-shirts. Why is the media not addressing this issue? Do we really find the sight of this appealing? More pictures of young men sporting large bulges in figure hugging Calvin Klein’s a la David Beckham would be good please. Say no to love handles, vote yes to man girdles and back, sack and crack waxes. Hooray for the metrosexual if only because he's made the effort

Is this for real?

I have my mother to thank for this post as she recently handed me a cutting from The Guardian newspaper. The broadsheets are usually a little highbrow for me so I am grateful to her for passing useful blog fodder my way. This particular article was about a post birth tradition in France known as perineal retraining which is like "an extended course of gymnastics for the pelvic area, which also involves electric devices being used to strengthen the birth canal muscles" Yikes!

Apparently French women are encourage to undergo this procedure so that they can make love soon after giving birth, therefore increasing the chance of becoming pregnant again quickly. The article then goes on to say that instead of breastfeeding – frowned upon in France as it ruins your breasts! – one should really be concentrating on pleasuring their husband! What a load of tripe, if this is for real I sincerely pity these downtrodden French women, it’s 2009, get with the programme sisters. Granted I think it’s incredibly important to remain continent and indeed alluring to your partner (this applies to men too) and to make an effort i.e. a few pelvic floor exercises, but this is a step too far. Having children the natural way leaves your bits looking like a melted welly and quite frankly he can like it or lump it, no pun intended.

Dirty daycare - the benefits of jelly and shaving foam

Having followed several lines of enquiry I have eventually managed to ascertain that my first born has acquired his knowledge of Phil Collins from nursery. This doesn’t come as a surprise as both Joel and Louie pick up all kinds of things from their daycare. Overall most of the things they learn are positive, although Joel did recently demonstrate that he knows how to put other children into a headlock, which in my opinion is not a desirable skill. They have also become kleptomaniacs and I regularly find small toys stuffed into their trouser pockets. I returned a job lot to the nursery manager with an explanation but to my relief she said it happens all the time and not to worry.

Both my children have attended private day nursery since they were six months old. I rave about it’s benefits to anyone who’ll listen as I genuinely believe that it has presented them with far more opportunities than they would have had if I were a stay at home mum. I only look after them one day each week and I still struggle to fill it with interesting activities. I have tried painting and baking but it always ends up with me tearing my hair out because of the mess. I sincerely salute stay at home mums, I really don’t know how they do it. My mum stayed at home with me and my brother and she says she has absolutely no recollection of how we filled the days nor did she sound nostalgic. I do wonder if this is because it was so horrific she’s chosen to repress the memory. She’s fabulous with her grandsons and always turns up to care for them on a Monday morning with a bag full of stickers and crayons. She’s incredibly patient with them, far more so than me, but the house is usually in a terrible state by the time I return home from work.

At nursery (where they are far, far away from my carpets and upholstery) they can partake in all kinds of messy activities. They’re even allowed to wang trays of jelly at each other which certainly is not something I would encourage at home. They can squirt shaving foam at their friends and I’ve lost count of the number of times they’ve come home with green hair. When Joel first started I used to send him in nice clothes so that the staff would see that he was from a good home. How laughable, I was so naive. They now attend in their scruffiest attire, half-mast trousers covered in food stains and misshapen t-shirts, they could rival a pair of truck drivers in the fashion stakes. I read on a blog somewhere about a mother who sends her child to nursery in expensive designer clobber. Is she fucking crazy? Unless you are a Beckham your small children do not need designer clothes, let alone stuff that they wear to nursery, who is this woman trying to impress? George at Asda, Matalan and Primark will do for us and maybe some Next stuff for the weekend.

Most days my children love nursery and it has undoubtedly helped them to develop self-confidence and interpersonal skills. A lot of women get criticised for returning to work and sending their little blighters into daycare but I simply can’t see an argument against it, apart from the fact it’s bloody expensive. We get to spend more than enough ‘quality’ time with each other at the weekend which leaves us all frazzled and ready to go back to work for a break.

A Groovy Kind of Love

The radio was playing one of my favourite songs, my four year old having heard it many times before was signing along enthusiastically. As a family we love music and even at a tender age Joel has a good knowledge of current bands. We are very proud that he can usually identify the Kings of Leon and knows his Killers from his Kaiser Chiefs. I asked him who was singing the song and he said Phil Collins?

It was not Phil Collins, I have never played him Phil Collins, we have no Phil Collins CDs in our collection, they do not play Phil Collins on radio 1. In fact I’ve no idea how he has heard of Phil Collins. I must investigate this before he becomes and fan of Neil Diamond, The Bee Gees and Barbara Streisand. I wonder if he’s secretly been tuning into radio 2?

'Me time'

This weekend I’m having some ‘me time’. It’s going to start at lunchtime today when I’m taking a half day from work. The boys are at nursery and their dad is picking them up as I will be far too busy enjoying myself to collect them. I have a whole afternoon in which the house will be mine, all mine. They’ll be no children’s TV on, or any shrieking or bickering, just sighs of pleasure as I lounge around. I won’t have to act as a referee or intervene in any fights. There’ll be no hiding in the cupboard if I fancy a bit of chocolate, does anyone else do that or is it just me?

I love being alone in the house and there’s loads I could be getting on with. The windows need cleaning, I have lots of smelly pants to wash (none of which are mine) and a seven foot pile of ironing but today all that can go to hell. I’m not entirely sure how I became this domesticated anyway. I think it must have coincided with when I first moved in with my husband (then boyfriend) because I never gave a damn when I house shared with other girls one of whom was Laura. We were absolutely filthy we never dusted, rarely vacuumed and you entered the bathroom at your own risk. The place was a health hazard, but we were only 20 and were far too busy going out to nightclubs to worry about how much washing up was in the sink

I must have wanted to impress my husband when we rented our first home together which was a pokey little flat in a dodgy neighbourhood. I was 21 and still far too busy going out to nightclubs. But ultimately I was hoping he might ask me to marry him. It was 1999 and women had long since broken free from the kitchen sink but I still thought that keeping a tidy house was a suitably wifey attribute. He did eventually ask me to marry him, I’ve now lived with him for 10 years and in all that time he’s not once cleaned the bathroom, not once. He might occasionally give the toilet a little scrub with the toilet brush but he doesn’t use any bleach and it’s only because he’s left a rogue poo stain. I’d love to borrow one of those infrared gadgets that the hotel inspector uses to see how much wee is sprayed about the place. I give my bathroom a thorough weekly clean but I’m quite sure it’d still be all up the walls, splattered across the tiles and probably some on the ceiling. A friend of mine makes her boyfriend have sit down wees at home in case he splashes. She says he loves it because he’s lazy anyway, I think she’s on to something. Get the buggers trained before you marry them.

There’ll be no bathroom cleaning this afternoon though; the hotel inspector isn’t likely to call in anytime soon. Instead I will be painting my nails, slapping on some make up and doing my hair for I am going out this evening. Oh yes, Mary will be visiting some wine bars ce soir with some old friends and colleagues.

Tomorrow will be spent at the hairdressers, I don’t go often but when I do I spend a ridiculously long time there. I was nearly reported missing on one occasion. I have lots of hair I argue, it takes a long time. The fact that I like to take a little excursion before and after my appointment is irrelevant. ‘Me time’ is a luxury that one must savour and cannot be rushed by impatient husbands.

Little boys are ace!

My friend texted me yesterday to pass on the happy news that she’d just given birth to a baby boy. He is the perfect little addition to their family as they already have a three year old daughter.

I am always incredibly envious of people who have one of each. I only ever wanted two children and I wanted both of my sons to be girls especially Louie who’s the youngest. I suppose if I’m honest I wanted a mini me, I wanted to be able to match her outfits with mine and fill her room with fluffy, frilly things. Yes, I realise that this is all rather shallow but I also wanted a girl because I’m close to my mum and I wanted the chance to replicate that with my own daughter. Of course there is no guarantee that it would ever have happened. There was always the risk that she’d end up a big butch lesbian covered in piercings and tattoos that couldn’t stand the sight of me. At first I was going to call her Eve but then I decided that it was becoming a little too common and decided on the name Violet. Naturally she was going to have a pink bedroom and lots of teddies and dolls.

As it turned out I ended up with Joel and then Louie, they share a yellow (not blue!) room which is full of diggers and action figures. For a while after Louie was born and despite struggling to cope with the two I already had, I harboured crazy notions that I might actually have another, in the hope it would be a girl. I was willing to try all the techniques for what they’re worth and adopt a special diet etc. but my husband put his foot down and thank god he did. So far I'm still on his side and have put pregnancy and babies firmly in to the past.

Indeed, I had no interest whatsoever in little boys although in retrospect I realise that this was absolutely ridiculous. Little boys are ace, they might fill my house will cars and scooters and bikes but they also fill it with energy and laughter. They do piddle all over the toilet seat but they’re tender and affectionate and sweet and all any mother could wish for.

Fruity!