Good god, give me strength.....!

Bedtimes are always fun. They are indubitably too raucous, too long, too stalled, too tiring! The way I try and organize myself is to put the youngest two up first with a story and lights out together, sometimes Esmie, the youngest goes up first, and I stagger them all separately, but the best laid plans aft gan agley (as my sister assures me they say?! though unsure who the '"they"are...!)). The big two then come up: I do a puzzle with Lola and Monty plays under his den with his star wars lego.  I then read them a story, Lola goes down, and Monty reads me a story! Actually, I am helping him to learn English, as living in France, he can read in French, but the French phonetic system is obviously very different to the English one. Anyway, he can read in English too, but practice makes perfect! And it is a precious 20 minutes on my own with each of them, which I never get as frequently as I crave. … I stop halfway up the stairs, stooping to pick up all the crap that they have strewn on their way up, Esmie in my arms clinging onto me like a koala on acid!……She is used to me carting her around, tolerating the various bends/skips (oh yes, I skip at times too, eg when I know they are off to bed!), trips, because I do trip often, rarely on my bottom entirely, but it has been known to happen. Here’s where I hear “Oh, mummy watch out!” Too late, the deed is done, and I now have wee everywhere to clear up. The potty I leave them up there every night so as they do not have to come downstairs to wee in the night, one of them had obviously decided to go for an early wee, and I kick it over spectacularly (all that football practice!) and now have wee dripping through the ceiling, down the stairs and all over my legs. Lovely! Thanks kids.

Dog walking in France. Here goes: to begin with in France, I did as I normally do, and went round conscientiously clearing up after my dog, passers-by regarding me as if I was a lunatic. Four kids: one in the front carrier; one on my back; one in the pushchair; one holding on to the buggy for dear life, having orders spouted at them every second, “Come on, sweetheart, a snail could manage a faster pace, keep up! (not wanting to give them a complex about their walking skills, but really...!). No, no, we musn’t do that! Watch out for the shhh….oh it’s too late! Let’s not skip, because it kinda makes the buggy fall to one side, and mummy can’t push it quite so well at a tilt….”,. Also in tow, a dog and Weetabix the cat who liked to tag a long too at the time. Right sight for sore eyes! But that is not why I had onlookers, rather it was due to the fact I pick up my dog’s pooh. They generally do not practise this behaviour, and I am quite sure they were under the impression I was collecting it up just for laughs. As I bend, I make concerted efforts (well, you’d hope so) not to plunge Esmie’s head in the sh*t, as the front carrier is very practical when one is vertical, not so sturdy on the horizontal tilt. The French could not careless where their dogs do their business, whether it be in front of the Eiffel Tower, in their garden, a pavement, a back yard, the beach, who cares? I didn’t believe this when I first moved here- surely it’s just logical to clear up after your dog, and thoroughly rank for everyone else if you do not? But anyway, my parents-in-law tell me of the time they were stunned to witness a French lady bend down after her dog had done what it wanted to do, reaching to get tissue out of her bag, presumably to pick up and chuck the pooh away. Oh no, not here, not in France, she got the tissue out, bent over, and wiped the dog’s arse….!!!!

I shall be off to the Doctor’s tomorrow, a nasty case of conjunctivitis for Esmie has seen to that, makeup lady is due to call too to find out when I am “free” to take her to the shops…….Good god, give me strength.....