music I want my kids to listen to…

 ok, I promised Becky over at http://hazelandbluehandmade.blogspot.com/ that I would do this, and I have dilly dallied on the way, but I have finally got here (sorry it took so long Becky!) here we go ...

music I want my kids to listen to…

Mozart. Oh yes, good old classical music. When I was a child, able to sit on my hair, NHS glasses, knee high white socks under ankle length tartan-pleated  skirt (stunner, I hear you all cry, and you’d be right…),  I used to play the piano; Mozart often featured in my repertoires (amongst other such classics, such as Bach, chop-sticks, and that duety one: der der der dun dun der der der dun dun der did op dop der der did op dop der der dun dun dun der der der dun dun…doo di doo di doo di doo doo di doo doodoo doo doo…remember that one? No? oh well, if we ever meet, I’ll play it for you) moving rather swiftly on, Mozart, classical music, music written by musical geniuses. Music, which is our heritage. A different age ago, when computers, internet, indoor toilets (!) and Britney Spears did not exist. It’s history, it’s beautiful, it’s fascinating the narrative within each melody. It has actually been proven too, that it activates babies’ brains, and they are actually more intelligent as a result. IQ’s that surpass Eintein’s…(ok, I made that bit up).

Mozart was a musical genius, intelligent, when we are babies, how do we learn about our world? To express ourselves? To speak? To communicate? All through our comprehension of sounds… you see where I am going with this? Music is at the root of it all!

Second up….drum roll please…Reggae, in particular Bob Marley. He was a reggae prophet. His lyrics, pure poetry, full of depth and meaning. He sings about love and life and our roots. I believe wholeheartedly that art, music, the muses are there to set us free, help us express ourselves and to rid our bigoted and ignorant tendencies. I want my children to grow up loving everyone (within reason, not sure Hitler particular warrants being loved…), being able to express themselves and listen. I genuinely feel Bob Marley was a man to follow. I want my kids to be aware of the depths around them, their depths and understand their soul, of their depth inside…that it’s not at all about what shoes/clothes etc they have, it’s their inner wealth…this will be a constant battle as they grow up, I realize, they are exposed to so much contrary to this from day one. How can we talk to our kids without them thinking we’re telling them what to do? Give them music…

www.picsearch.com/pictures/celebrities/legends/bob%20marley.html

Stevie Wonder. What a dude! What a fantastic lyricist and song writer. So listenable to (well, I know I made that word up, but there is actually no word to describe that. Audible? Doesn’t have quite the same ring. I love the song: Master Blaster, Jammin. I am having a little boogie right now all by myself …and humming…

gearlog.com

As that was all getting a bit deep, I hereby add the Jackson 5, great fun, love it. It is tuneful, mellow. Fun, dancy, you can just have fun, that’s cool to do! And music is also just straight up entertainment too…

And just check out the ‘fros….! WICKED!! LOVE ‘EM!

bongocelebrity.com

“Hey?” one of the naked ones asks...

The dude is stood there, gloves on him that were obviously originally crafted for giant-forearmed people…he is brandishing a huge proddy thing. I didn’t care, I was ready to take him on, I needed fuel, so he was going to have no choice but to stop prodding, and open up for me. I think I wafted enough 'crazed mum, nearly out of fuel in total panic' vibes at him, well, I actually straight out told him to ‘give me fuel, give me fuel now’ I think my exact words were…so he consents. And I do not run out of fuel on the school run, which is always appreciated. Especially as I have 2 different schools to drop the kids off at. I shall, however, avoid the garage in question for a while, till enough time has passed, he may forget me. Well, I can always live in hope…!

As Alex took umbrage over my recent blog-see blog below- where I call him a hulk-wannabe, he chastised me, telling me I made him out to be a 'meat head'-his words- therefore, I retract my statement, and if I replace it with: ‘In fact Alex had wanted to be a fairy’ when he grew up, would that do?? Well, I am sure to find out after he has read this! Joke, babes, god forbid my actions should cause one of those ‘brink-of-divorce’ discussions…! Anyway, The Friday morning, I drop the kids at school, come straight back to the school where my 2 girls are, and I do the Bibliotech (library). It’s great, capricious 5 year olds changing/rechanging their books, me forcing dodgily entitled books (although I think the monster who died of too-small-bum-hole syndrome has been chucked, phew), as I am a bit pushed for time, and children’s snail-like pace does not always suit me. After I have done the book lending, I then rush home, throw Esmie at Alex (literally throw, he missed her once too…ok, not a true story), then race back to my son’s school, to accompany his class of 7/8-year-old kids to go to their swimming lessons. I am volunteered to go in and ‘help with the garcons’,  I apparently wasn’t quick enough off my feet, and the other mums tear off faster than sh*t off a shovel to be with the clean, well-behaved girls. I enter the boys’ changing room. At first I am not even really sure I am supposed to be in there, and come in head based, half closing my eyes, then realise that entering a changing room, head down, you’re actually bang in the wrong eye-level zone of 15, 7-year-old boys. My head immediately shoots up, and I semi-extend my arms to guide me to the bench eyes FIXED on the ceiling. I have walked into another world. And one I am not familiar with either. I was the oldest of 3 girls, I have one son, and 3 girls. I went to an all girls’ school. I AM a girl. Pants/trousers/socks, anything they can get their hands on is being flung round the room, shoes have become weapons and this naked 7-year-old tribe is literally uncontrollable. Clothes are being flung at each others parts, frequent rude gesticulations (so rude), real-live swear words uttered, play fighting, that I am sure will just end in tears (just love that parent expression!). I stand and watch, feeling a wee bit out of my depth (well, it’s like a scene from Lord of The Flies), working out how best to I am to handle this. PLAN! “Hey boys!” note, no response, increase decibels, decibels increased, shriller tones ensue: 

“HEY BOYS!” Remarkably, I get the attention of 3 or 4 of them, but that’ll do. 

“Carry on like this, and you’re going to be big fat losers”...

“Hey?” one of the naked ones asks, looking fairly offended, but I am going somewhere with this.

“Well, surely you want to beat the girls, and be the first in your costumes and out there on the bench?”

Winner! *silent, multiple internal air punches* Appealing to their competitive side (who says men are shallow and predictable?), they cheer gruffly, as do I (it made me cough) and I succeed. I, all by my little self, tamed single-handedly (I am going to drag the ‘all by my self’ bit out for a bit), 15 naked, 7-year-old-boys. Wow. Did I say I did it by myself? No? Oh, well I did.

I am also pleased to announce that I have added yet another name to my string of ‘the snorts drugs for breakfast-bigly-forearmed-English-copes-so-well-(not)-mother’ names (please refer to earlier blog http://manic-mums.blogspot.com/2010/12/oh-shame.html to *get* my frequent references to snorting drugs!), being that of ‘Murderess’ AND before you judge, read on…On the way home form the after-school Bibliotech trip, in front of me is a dead pet rabbit on the road *audience goes ahhhhhh*, I swerve, and curse the person for not having had the decency after having killed it, to have moved it, at least, to the side of the road. I pull over, and wait for some cars to go by, not wanting them to think I had done it, and the owner sprinting out of their house with a big broom stick to beat me with (or worse, this is France…). I walk up to the rabbit and reach down to gently transport it to the grass curb, giving it it’s last rites (only I am no vicar, and I think once your dead, it kind of negates that too right?) I am about to lift it, when I begin borking uncontrollably, as I had so not expected to see the ‘run over cute pet rabbit’ with it’s guts splayed half way to Egypt, and it’s eyes still attached to the cornea thing but by the same token, popped RIGHT out of the socket, and lying beside it’s face. At this point, a car drives by, and it’s a mum from school. Which is obviously great for me, given my reputation, as at that moment, I had no choice, I had to follow through with my act, and I kind of half pick it up, half scrape it up off the road, and rather than the gentle funeral marching to the grassy curb I had originally had in mind, I hoy this revolting remains of rabbit as far as I can. It hits a wall and slides down. OMG. *borks uncontrollably having flash backs*. Now the mum from school thinks I did it. And I will spend the rest of the week waiting for a knock at my door with the owner of the dead lapin (french for rabbit), big broom in hand, getting whacked for my ‘good deed’. Life is NOT FAIR!!!

Have a good week end!

Quite frankly sweetheart, mummy thinks your painting is a piece of sh*t, biscuit?

 I am trying not to watch the UFC fighting my husband has on- sporting headphones too, so I cannot hear the bloodcurdling screams either- whilst I am tapping away, entering this blog, it is surprisingly distracting…I, unlike my ‘I wanna be the hulk when I grow up’ -hubby, hate fighting. (Play fighting, ok, but the slightest hint of real pain, and I’m tapping out before you can shout  “I’VE GOT MAHOOSIVE FOREARMS…!) And can never bring myself to endure it, not even as a dutiful wife, trying to please her man. No, uh uh, this is why it is seen as a good compromise, I don’t officially have to watch it, and I get to busy myself with my blog. Only, I keep catching glimpses, and throwing a look (out of utter morbid fascination) and crying out things such as: “OMG, WTF?? Woooo that’s f*ck*d up…” and other such highly articulate analogies… It’s, in it’s best moments, both disturbing and brutal. Sheer murder, it seems to me, is being witnessed, and no-one is doing anything about it. It carries on, people are ringing warning bells, they stop for a bit, then carry on and these fighting dudes are caked in blood, and loving it. They actually choose to do it. When they are asked by their teachers what they want to be when they grow up, do they respond: “I want my face to be completely unrecognisable, so swollen that you cannot tell if I am really human or baboon. Ears, I want my ears to be as giant as cauliflowers, my lips to be as red as blood, hair the colour of ebony…” Oh, wait a minute, that’s snow-white isn’t it? Is this what they reply to their primary school teacher? I do wonder.

My cat Bumble got hit by a car the other, and has a broken femur (bastard car, that I WILL hunt down, and destroy…I'll write, like, 'wash me' in the dirt or something really nasty like that...). My son broke down into helpless tears on hearing that we would have to take him immediately to the vets. I put my arm around him, and I do some ‘there-there’-ing and strokey-head actions, and reassure him that Bumble will be fine…this is when he looks at me and says that he is not crying about Bumble, it turns out the reason he was gutted, is because I had promised him I would watch an episode of Pokemon with him that evening, and obviously we wouldn’t be able to. A very  proud *NOT* moment on  my behalf, my son who couldn’t actually give a flying rat’s *rs* about the cat, he just wanted a T.V moment with his mum! On the way back in the car, after being told Bumble would have to have an operation, Monty I think feels a bit guilty for his completely insensitive remark earlier, and asks to hold the cat. As I pass him over, he cuddles him and says, “ahhh, he’s all warm. Why’s he so wa…..oh my gosh, he’s weeing mum, he's just weed all over my leg…” The cat had been so warm because he was busy p*ss*ng on Monty’s leg! Ha! that’ll teach Monty to be insensitive. Oh the hilarity *sigh*, *wipe tear from corner of eye from so much laughter*

Of late, I find myself a little more adventurous. In the sense that, as the kids are the ages they are, they are not quite as dependent on me as they were when I had them all tiny together. I have been turning my attentions to art, and painting, as it is one of my passions, which I have too long neglected, due to mostly, the laundry…! I am doing a lot more, and (god I wish the chicken outside would shut up boc boc buck-off!), the kids love it too, as, of course, ‘mummy-hobby-time’ is usually done with 4 kids in tow. I read a wee while back that in order to prepare our kids for the real world, a good start is by being honest about their pictures, tell them the truth, if it’s not good, tell them. It’s apparently a good way of preparing them for the real world…As if?! So when one of mine comes in with a painting they truly believe is the dog’s nuts, I, in an attempt to prepare them for the real world, am supposed to turn round to them and say “So what exactly is it then? You see, mummy wasn’t sure because your drawing skills are extraordinarily poor, and, quite frankly sweetheart, mummy thinks your painting is a piece of sh*t, biscuit?” so you see, I am not convinced. I prefer to mollycoddle them, and protect them and surround them with mummy adoration for as long as they will let me, then that way, when they do go out in to the big wide world, at least they know that no matter what, they have someone there batting in their corner, giving their sh*t paintings a big thumbs up, air punching and giant raspberry kissing them over every minute achievement…an over zealous, embarrassing mum. But that is, after all, what we are there for right? Not to sledgehammer them into the real world...that's for the real world to do...Mums..you can't pick us kids (despite the fact I threaten them occasionally with the  old trip to  the 'mummysrus' shop to buy them a new mummy  if they misbehave), you're stuck with the one yer got!

5 Things that PROPER freak me out…Here goes…

5 Things that PROPER freak me out…Here goes…

one: Pretend dolls with glass eyes, and real hair….it’s just all wrong. It is just too freaky for words, so here’s an image, which is making me reach for my brown paper bag, as I hyperventilate with fear. (Check out the eyes, she’s evil…)

    

two: Zippy, George and Bungle, and the main dude from rainbow. I spent my childhood, innocently watching children’s programs, that were actually subliminally transmitting messages, such as ‘play with your balls, and if you can’t find your balls to twang…twang someone else’s’…WTF?? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=thp8iVJAH7g   ‘nuff said.

                        

Three: Clowns. Actually, in particular the black and white ones, who insist on drawing a tear under their eye, it’s sad, tragic even. It is more than just that I am freaked out big time by them, I actually feel hate too. Maybe because when I was young, I was taken to a circus, we were in isle seats when it happened…the clown trod *clumsily* (yes how very funny, ha ha, look how big your shoes are, hilarious),I started to tremble, I was not even the victim, it was my younger sister, he stretched out his arm and tickled her with his feather duster (presumably these days, health and safety would do him for the unhygienic feather duster thing, think of all the kids he tickles with it? wrong). The thing is, she hates them too, she bursts into helpless tears, and he carries on, the bastard. Am I being unreasonable??

look at yourself, just look at yourself, and you call yourself a grown man?? Tut. You just scare little kids freaky makeup dude.

Four: Dirty floors. These are the bane of my life, and with all the livestock we have in our little house, this is how my mop addiction originated. Once upon a time, I was rushed to A and E, after the dog rushed in on my freshly mopped floors, and it proved too much for me. Actually I made that up, but it could happen…they freak me out THAT much!

           AGGGGRRRRRHHHHHHH!!!

And big fat Five: Bin juice. Bin juice has freaked me out all my life. I was once victim to a bin-juice-in-the-eye incident (see blog: http://manic-mums.blogspot.com/2010/11/i-actually-got-bin-juice-in-my-eyes.html ) and I have never been quite the same since…I still struggle with feelings of violation and filth, utter filth…

                                      

Well, there we go, now you know 5 of the things which freak me out. Feel free to let me know below on what freaks you out BIG TIME! And leave me a comment …Laters! 

ps, if you didn't see yesterday's blog, please read below 'Walk for Grace'...thanks 

Walk for Grace...

Recently, I have been thinking a lot. I am loving blogging, and know that there are people out there who read it (thanks mum!), therefore I thought it would be a very good way of telling everyone about my friend Colin’s niece, and maybe achieving actually doing something positive for someone else. To those who blog, please could you ‘tag’ and pass this on? You never know who might read it, and everyone who passes it on, could be helping a thousand fold. So please take the time to tag and pass this blog on…thank you very, very much in advance. Those who do not blog, please read anyway, and support Grace’s cause. Thank you. Here goes, brief explanation…

My name is Colin Stonehouse, and on July 16^th 2011 a group of my friends and I will be walking from coast to coast to raise money for my niece Grace Murray, in order for her to undergo treatment for Quadriplegic Cerebral Palsy.

Grace Murray is my sister’s daughter and was born in January 2004 with Quadriplegic Cerebral Palsy.  This form of Cerebral Palsy affects all four of Grace’s limbs, her speech and her rate of growth.   


Although Grace will turn 7 years old in 2011

she still has the body age of a 6 month old baby.

Grace has been visiting a rehabilitation centre in Mielno, Poland since 2008 called Euromed.

Euromed rehabilitation centre, the owner of the licence for using the Adeli suit, offers the most intensive and the most effective physical therapy.  This is the one centre in the world offering the patented, scientifically proved treatment program – Adeli.  The Adeli suit involves fitting the body with a suit composed of elastic bands that hold the limbs in a proper alignment.  The bands, which are placed between a series of hoops around various parts of the body, provide controlled resistance for exercising various groups of muscles.  The result is a correction of proprioreceptive impulses which advance from joints, muscles and ligaments to the central nervous system.  The Adeli suit method results in a certain normalization of the locomotive and motor actions of the patient’s trunk and lower limbs.  Other treatments and therapies at Euromed are also undergone by Grace which all contribute to her increasing mobility.

Since Grace’s first 4 week treatment in 2008,

she has succeeded in holding her own head up,

and after her second 4 week treatment even sitting up unaided.

The Euromed treatment has helped Grace so much, and her family would like to carry on attending the 4 week treatment sessions twice a year.

The Coast to Coast Walk is a 190 mile walk from St. Bees in Cumbria, to Robin Hood’s Bay in North Yorkshire, and should take approximately 12 days.  By completing the Coast to Coast walk in 2010, my friends and I hope to raise as much money as possible in order to reserve further treatment sessions for Grace in the years ahead.  We are looking to you for help in raising funds for Grace, who will need this treatment for the foreseeable future. The cost of a 4 week treatment programme at Euromed in Poland is £8,000.00.  This is the cost of treatment and accommodation for Grace and her Mum which also includes meals at the centre.  Travel costs etc. are all separate.

Your help in the form of sponsorship, or in any other way you may be able to help,

would be greatly appreciated, to make it possible for Grace’s family to one day be able to

Walk with Grace.

 

Yours faithfully, Colin Stonehouse. The Station Inn, New Quay Road, Whitby, North Yorkshire. YO21 1DH. UK.

Thank you for taking the time

to read this.

Join our Facebook group!

Sponsorship payments can be made to: Payment can be sent via cheque to 

Colin Stonehouse at:

The Station Inn,

New Quay Road,

Whitby,

YO21 1DH.

Made payable to 'Walk with Grace'.

Or it can be sent via Paypal to email address:

station1nn@btconnect.com

* please note that that is the number one after station and not the letter I.

THANK YOU!

http://superamazingmum.blogspot.com/  

http://ghostwritermummy.wordpress.com/  

 http://www.bod-for-tea.blogspot.com 

 http://mummysquared.blogspot.com/ 

http://motherporridge.wordpress.com/ 

 http://helloitsgemma.wordpress.com 

 http://midthirtieslife.com/  

 http://waterbirthplease.wordpress.com/ 

 http://mdplife.blogspot.com/  

https://project365club.wordpress.com/2011/01/16/16365-painting/ 

  http://www.notanottinghillmum.co.uk  

http://sahmlovingit.blogspot.com/ 

 http://chocorangecitymum.blogspot.com/  

 http://katetakes5.blogspot.com/ 

(all ‘grabby-grabby’ and ‘yanky-yanky’)...

The following scenario probably occurs several times a week, varying in intensities. Welcome to groundhog days, my life -the post office saga: I sprint out of the house, needing to get to the post office before it shuts. I grab everything I am supposed to, bag, coat, shoes, keys, thingy to post, 4 kids, coats/shoes x 4, the dog, and 7 medium dwarves, who wandered in this morning…I am out. We pull up to the post office, I leap out the car (as I can never just ‘step’ out all lady-like, well who am I going to fool in all honesty, it’s a small town where I live, word travels fast!), unhook 4 children (I hang them up by their coats on fish-hooks), and we charge into the post office. We never go unnoticed, a woman and 4 kids is always too much for people, and the quiet shuffling people in the queue are rattled to their very bones when we stride in. I finally get to the till…I have forgotten my bag, and the parcel. Back in the car, back home, bag, check, parcel, check. Back to the post office, into post office, wait…realise I have left both bag and parcel in the car. Retreat, grab the appropriate bits, and now back into the post office for the 4^th time (they offered to get me a key cut…) then I realise my purse is not in my bag. Back out, in car, home, purse, check, back to post office (there’s 2 minutes till closing now). Hooray, I am there, I’m up next, there are 2 women on, one of who is alright, although not someone I would necessarily go camping with (the would you go camping with them? Test!), but she will do. Then the other one. Who straight up HATES me. She has never once said ‘hello’ and has never responded to this very day that we walk the earth to my ‘how are yous’, rude b*tch. She has a face on her like she has been chewing, then gobbing out, rats a*** holes, for her entire life. She’s mean, real mean. I have genuinely really p*ssed her off today too, and she humphs and sighs out loud, very deliberately. Really over does it. But in the end, I saved the day and got the parcel away! Yey!

I spent Thursday ‘getting seen to’. No not in any kind of a sordid way, well, actually…no, I had my abscess tooth seen to, and I began my pelvic floor muscle exercises with my midwife. Oh did I not tell you all, I am expecting number 5…HA got ya! Oh, actually I hope none of the elderly members of my family are reading this, I might just have killed one of them from shock. Still, I’ll move on, basically in France after you have a baby, you have to do these exercises throughout 8 sessions with the midwife. Hence my beginning now being scorned upon in France “you mean you haven’t done your pelvic floor re-training yet?” and then them looking at my as though I omitted to put my clothes on before leaving the house today. It’s just ‘the done thing’, however in England it’s not the same deal, hence my tardiness.  But better late than never hey?

Wanting to look like one of those adventurous outdoor mummies, I don my crampons, grab my hiking stick and set out on a dog walk, not convinced people will be fooled. The walk is going well, I have esmie on her push-along-trike, and she is chatting away to me, I cannot hear an effing word as the bike is so noisy, but gaily mouth back “Oh, reallys?” and “Wows”, and this charade continues for the most part. The things that kids enjoy, are not always our best ideas of fun, though, for example this trike before me, it is so noisy it hurts my ears, it has ruined any conversation potential, Esmie has no concept what so ever of the word 'steer', or what it entails. It is all I can do to stop us going round  constantly in teeny circles as she insists on steering at full-lock left the whole way! Then there was the brief moments of her wanting to be on my 'boulders'…shoulders, to us lot, but I must look like a hulk to my tiny 2-year-old, so boulders are actually quite apt, maybe? Why do we do the ‘shoulder-rides for kids’? it is a parental obligation, yet it is harmful to us as parents, and sometimes even life threatening. They sit up there, completely unaware of the fact that in their apparent absolute need to *squeeeeeeze* your face, they are rapidly depleting you of hair (all ‘grabby-grabby’ and ‘yanky-yanky’) and generating crazy numbers of red blood vessels bursting in your eyes (where you have been poked and grabbed for what feels like an eternity, whilst they are up there). Your whole body thinks it is under attack, as you are outwardly, patiently going “Oooo, careful there sweetheart, yep, let's just get our fingers out of mummy’s eyes and earhole shall we, that’s it…oh, no, not pulling on the hair quite as hard as that…that’s it…” and so on, staggering around, being brutally injured every few seconds. I  am considering setting up an 'Abstention from harmful child-inflicted activities'  group, anyone interested? And then the dog goes and spies a MAHOOOSIVE pile of horse s***, and straight up, dive-bombs into the middle of it. Now listen, my dog does not even leap into the car…I have to lift him, every time, paying extra-careful attention to where I grab him, as god forbid I should touch dog-bits, eeewwww. Call, and call, and CALL him, I do (that sounded like Yoda said that sentence!), but my calling is to no avail, he will not come. I steam up to him (probably not the best descriptive word I could of used , given the circumstances, and what I was going to have to pull him out of), I woman-handle my horse s*** covered animal out of the field, with my bulging fore-arms (!) and arrive home fooking shattered, I tell yer.

That’s been my last day or so. How was yours?

7 things you don't know about me...and she's off...

Well, I got it all wrong it seems, hopelessly wrong, I am in fact meant to write my blog on the subject “7 Things you don't know about me” then do some tagging, then tell those who have been tagged, to do their version…spreading some bloglove! Thanks for putting me in the know superamazingmummy…so ‘fankooo’! Some really wicked people and blogs, http://superamazingmum.blogspot.com/ http://ghostwritermummy.wordpress.com/   http://www.bod-for-tea.blogspot.com http://mummysquared.blogspot.com/ http://motherporridge.wordpress.com/ http://helloitsgemma.wordpress.com http://midthirtieslife.com/ http://waterbirthplease.wordpress.com/ http://mdplife.blogspot.com/ https://project365club.wordpress.com/2011/01/16/16365-painting/  http://www.notanottinghillmum.co.uk http://sahmlovingit.blogspot.com/ so check these girls out...I am 3 short on the ‘choose 15 people’, but this is because I actually am billy no mates in the blogging world. . . .! (that made me a teeny bit sad acknowledging that :( )

ONE: I talk to myself, like all the time, I often answer my own voice too.

TWO: I too, actually have snogged a member of a very famous band…(@super amazing mummy, that parallel lives thing going on…!).

THREE: I used to run for Surrey, I was long distance runner (I used to be called the ‘Road runner’ I was so speedy, and bird-like, actually I had no nick-name, but I was alright at it) then I hit adolescence.

FOUR: Who says getting a degree sets you up for life? I went to Newcastle  uni (which fyi nearly called itself Central University of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, then, when having to abbreviate it for a prospectus, realised the initials were…well you can spell, I cannot even bring myself to say the word, let alone write it for my dad to see!), studied psychology, and have only worked 2 years in 10 (babies/breastfeeding. Pregnancy years) since graduating.

FIVE: I am a self-confessed mopaholic. I ‘googled’ mopahloics’ anonymous, doesn’t exist…so I may well create a support network. A mopaholic mother of 4, can u imagine how hard that is to handle??

SIX: I love David Hockney, the artist. I used to go to Salt’s mill where he has his exhibitions, and eat THE BEST sticky toffee pudding with icecream *wipes up a little bit of dribble*,  in the café there.

SEVEN: I moved to France back in December 2006 with a 2 ¾ old, a 17 month old and a 7 week old, 4 suitcases and a travel cot, front carrier and some terry nappies…and I have never looked back, I am proud of having done it, as hard, at times, as it has been.

There, done! I hope I got it right this time?!

"Oh, look, there goes Big-forearm lady!”

I have never been renowned for my powerful forearms. I’ve never heard “Oh, look, there goes Big-forearm lady!” And a round of applause ensues as I flex for the masses…But today, I was blown away by my astonishing weakness.  I jump out of the car, handbrake on, and step out the car to open the gates. This is when the car just decides to carry on regardless, and bust through the gates of it’s own accord. Ploughing through the gates like a river would do through a damn, if a really sh*t beaver had been at work. I do a huge flying leap, Mighty mouse styley, landing horizontally across the front seats with the gear stick ramming into my dinted shin, reaching round I strain with all my might to crank up the hand brake a few more notches. The 3 girls (who are ALL in the car, I might add), stare at me in shock and wonder at my genuinely super-human efforts to stop the self-joyriding car. I did it! But there are white paint scratches on the front of the car, and the gates are now pretty wanky. (I shall leave my typo, it looks funnier, I did mean, however to write wonky, but wanky’ll do!).

This morning Alex was woken by the warm sensation of the cat pissing on his shin, what a start to the day. This means a) a trip to the laundrette, and b) that Alex and I were, from 5am this morning, livid, for the most part of the day, at animals in general, tired, and man, did I not enjoy the leap out of bed avoiding cat piss at the same time. I mean, the bed? Why, oh why, the bed? There’s like, a garden, firstly, not to mention the fields and fields surrounding us. Anyway, needless to say, I don’t imagine by Alex’s reaction, the cat will be doing it again in a hurry…Or maybe he will, out of pure spite.

With various ill children, sleep is something I need, but am so not getting. I have never been good with out sleep, there is this huge fish wife inside me that is just begging to escape “Go on, let me out, let me at ‘em, I’ll show them..” I am fairly well self-coached at the suppressive technique, even if I do have to take my self off to the loo for a second or two to ‘centre’, and breeeaaathhhheeee., then to re-emerge fishy free. This is usually the time one of my cats spies an opportunity. He is obviously so deprived of attention, that every time I go to the loo, the cat does a flying leap at the door, pounds it down, with all it’s might and drags himself up my legs to sit in my lap, purring. I cannot even have a wee on my tod. You see what I’m dealing with? Flying animals who barrage their way through doors just to have a ‘moment’, kids who, well, who can ignore kids? They don’t even need to barge through doors; they are like God, omnipotent. But to be honest, I just wouldn’t change it (the fish wife is having a little scream inside, as I say this, trying to type), but I will use less obscenities, “Go away everyone, let me have a number 1 on my own, it is after all, only an effing WEE…!”

Tomorrow I am off to see a friend, who has a little farm. I shall be coming back with the clip clopping of donkey hooves ringing blissfully in my ears…Watch out Alex!

Part 2: Stopping for a quick pant...

So part 2, the weekend. The Friday afternoon, after picking everyone up for lunch, and dropping them back off at school, except Mitzi who gets some mummy time, whilst Esmie has her nap, I go to pick up the leaflets that are to be collated and delivered for the week. There, I must be the smallest little lady going, not that the other women are hulks, well, not that I’d say it to their faces anyway, (joking), but I am quite a slight build, I have heard expressions shouted vaguely from distances such as: seen more meat on a jockey’s whip, where’s Santa? (As in I am one of his little helpers, or an elf, for those who did not get that extreme wit). Anyway, about me, I go in, and try for a while desperately negotiating the trolley thing. It’s worse than the supermarket ones. You have to guide the forky things under the pallet, navigate your way passed everyone, through the warehouse and to the boot of your car, to stack. I triumphantly manage to get half way, stopping for a quick pant, bending double, then straighten back up for the final stretch…This is when the descent down to the car park suddenly steepens. It is in fact my worst nightmare that I now experience, as all of a sudden the trolley starts picking up speed, almost hurtling out of control, someone goes, “Everything ok?” As I am now nearly killing myself trying to control the beast that is trolley, I say oh, it’s all fine, they reply, well it’s going awfully fast there…and I put my knee up to stop it before it crashes into the car at what feels like 85 miles an hour, and dint my knee. Straight up. I suppress a scream of agonising pain, and reply to the gentleman who has just re-checked, with concerned face if it was still all alright, and with squeezed-shut-face-suppressing-agonising-pain-from-dinting-shin-incident face on, reply, that ‘It’s fine, it’s all fine, nothing to see here, thank you, move along now’, well not exactly that, but he still thought I was a right weirdo, so that’s good. I finally manage to get all the leaflets in the car, hoying them in with gay abandon, as I am so conscious of the time, don’t want to be late for the kids. I limp back dragging my personal enemy number one behind me, and replace it, wincing still in dinted shin pain.

The weekend is lovely, warm, sunny, mild, and we take the kids to the beach, park and merry-go-round. The beach was fine, park, nothing to report, except I think I broke a see-saw with my big adult pie ass, but no-one else saw, so I think I got away with it. The merry-go-round, however, was something else. As a child, I found masks, quite simply, terrifying, I was as equally freaked out by furry things, dolls, clowns…and to this day, still am. Especially dolls. Those like, collectable doll ones though, glass eyes, real hair, those types (that sent shivers down my spine, that description). Monty gets on, choosing the giant luminous pink sea horse (where do they come up with these creatures? Are they left over from some very keen hippi tete-a-tetes? French, hippi tete-a-tetes aswell…)) Lola climbs into a yellow bus with 2 seats (how impractical?) Mitzi takes her time wandering around all the merry-go-round creations, unable to decide…I get on to help her out, although I’m struggling too, they are all pretty freaky to be fair, as we are still making our mind up, the merry-go-round dude obviously loses patience, and launches the thing. “Bastard!” I shout, (please see very first blog http://manic-mums.blogspot.com/2010/11/i-actually-got-bin-juice-in-my-eyes.html to completely understand my Pavlovian response to this poor man). I cannot help myself, and I shove Mitzi into something green and slightly shell-like with a few arms/legs splaying about, few bulbous details going on too, and feeling as though I have just downed a litre of vodka, try and negotiate my way off the spinning nightmare, full of weird freaky, traumatising-to-look at animals. I literally have to fling myself off this thing, stringing together vulgar words under my breath. I land, not gracefully, but at least I did not impale myself on any merry-go-round animals, which had been an overwhelming fear. Then Mitzi decides she doesn’t want a go anymore, starts crying and reaching her arms out for me to get her off, the merry-go-round stops spinning for no-one, and her little arms are reaching out, and I keep missing her as it goes round, I pick up pace round the outside, but I am not fast enough, and have to hurl myself back on the merry-go-round, like a long-jumper, extract the child, legs flailing round, wobbling at the knees, I then have to re-fling myself and Mitzi off the ride.

I am never ever going any where near a merry-go-round again. As long as I live, this is a promise to my mental well-being. I simply can’t cope anymore. Children’s entertainment is too much for me these days. And b*ggar me, I’ve got 4 of them to entertain!

Well in a nutshell, there was a monster who was huge and terrifying.

It took me a wee while to realize that in fact I had just stroked my hoover. Bleary eyed, groggy from the antibiotics that I am still collecting in my upper throat apparently (they honestly won’t go down), it’s also very dark, this is probably why I mistake the black hoover for my hunched up black cat. Still, it did leave me wondering a little, after all, it may be black, but it is not hairy, so to have actually stroked it? Hmmmm…

Last year I used to go into school a couple of mornings a week and read stories to the kids. This year, I am doing the same, only once a week this year, as there’s so much else going on, only it appears that I have been demoted. I am convinced that this is due to the fact that (and those who are my friends on facebook, may remember this story) once last year, when presented with the children’s story, we all sit down, get comfortable, kids hanging off me with noses snottier than frogs in a blender (it was threatening to my health too, this reading stories to kids malarkey), and I begin: “Once upon a time…” Well in a nutshell, there was a monster who was huge and terrifying, only not that terrifying, as he could only eat flies, you see he had a teeny weeny mouth. One day a plastic surgeon opens a clinic in his village, he goes and asks for a bigger mouth, as he gets laughed at for his current mouth. The surgeon makes him promise he will still only eat flies. He duly promises. Astonishingly, one day, the monster breaks his promise; he sneaks out, and devours a teacher and her whole class! (This I am reading the whole time with ‘is this real? Am I really reading this all out loud to 4-year-olds?’ voice on, but I plough on, as I am hoping it maybe gets better, or at least a little less horrifying for the kids. I’m not sure that ‘better’ is the word I would use for the conclusion of the story, as in fact, that very night, after having eaten all these children, the monster gets the most excruciating stomach ache. And, dies. He dies because (and wait till you hear this French author’s children’s story-writing abilities reveal themselves well and truly here with the reason…) when he had a teeny weeny mouth, and just ate flies, he also had, accordingly, a teeny weeny bum hole (oh yes, I am still reading this all to the 4-year-olds, but I can’t help it, I am fascinated, truly, desperate to know why he died, why this book was ever even written, let alone published), as he still had a teeny weeny bum hole (the surgeon had not corrected this) he was incapable of pooing out the remnants of the teacher and her class. The end! Magnificent. I mean, as if? As if you write, publish, or read these kind of things to kids. I fail to see the moral of the story. You are free to enlighten me, if you are any the wiser. 17 of the 23 children I read the story to, have never been back to the Bibliotech (library) since…

Needless to say, the English mummy who spends half her time with her clothes on back-to-front, wafting chicken pooh when she swings by, snorting drugs for breakfast and reading entirely inappropriate books to tiny children. (Please read earlier blogs if you have even the slightest bit of confusion, with reference to my snorting drugs..(it’s not true!)) has been demoted to simply doing the book exchanges now. Yep, no stories, just the book register. Not even allowed to help the kids pick their books, no, not allowed to ‘get involved’ just sign the books out.

I had a brill weekend, but I will have to do a part 2, I think, as I have already used up my quota of your attention spans now with my monster-dying-of-too-small-bum hole-death anecdotes. On that note, I hope your Monday is a very good Monday, in fact, I hope it’s the best you’ve ever had, and I hope too, that you are not eaten by a monster who has just had his mouth fixed… Part 2 tomorrow.

World record...!

Spot the world's smallest egg... you can't see Margo's effort, a splatted egg on the floor.

I really am tired of looking like mother druggie…!

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My John Mcenroe mini-me, get that attitude!

Well 3am Wednesday morning, that was it, I was up, the night was gone. And yes, Wednesday is the day they have no school in France, so with toothache, the likes of which I have never had before in my long legged life, I was more than a little pissed off that I was going to have to run and entertain my self-created kindergarten, with toothache, agonising shooting pains and temperature, oh, yeah, and no sleep…

I have to ring the dentist, there is no way this is normal, I ring, sounding a bit drunk, as I can hardly open my mouth it’s hurting to breathe. His only appointment is not till 7 pm that evening…I would have to spend the whole day like this. OMG. So I did 4 loads of washing, cooked, cleaned, entertained the masses and got on with the day. Returning from the dentist, I wonder whether I was in fact mistaken, and had accidentally swung by the vets. The horse-sized dose of antibiotics (it turns out, it’s an abscess), that he gave me are just not compatible with human beings. How does one swallow a pill the size of a small hamster? With great difficulty, I can assure you. This set me off wondering whether in fact they were meant for elsewhere…As the French are renowned for their penchant to use ulterior routes for their medicines. Although I very much doubt I’ll be giving it a whirl…”Excuse me kids just a mo, you carry on with what you’re doing, mummy’s just off to the bathroom to see whether this pill is meant for elsewhere…! “.

At one point, whilst I am making the tea, all goes quiet…time to panic, time to panic big-time. Quiet where there are four children=kids in the process of silently destroying things/walls/bed covers/sofa throws/animals, that general type of thing. I sprint into the bedroom like a crazed lady, the 3 big ones are quietly drawing, complimenting each other on their masteries (very sweet), then my eyes fall on the littlest, Esmie, she gets a little fright in seeing me, and looks at me with HUGE big black panda eyes, yes, she’s discovered my mascara’s hiding place…black everywhere. Still, I console myself, at least it’s not indelible ink. Thursday was all too quiet for me. I was still feeling rough and some weird drug induced shakes going on (prescrption drugs I must add), I had such a relaxing day! It is unheard of usually, all there was was the school run (the mother with toothache and drug induced shakes, this was gonna look good…), few loads of washing to do, hang out, bit of ironing, entertainment for the toddler who is now going through a John Mcenroe mini-me phase, insisting on self-hairdressing (scissors NO where to be found; I have learned, we are still growing out her ‘tufts’) with a hair band that she has taken to. Oh yes, my lazy day, I had a lil mop too, you know, as you do, and I hung out all by my little self for 27 minutes and 8 seconds (I have a stop watch) and had a coffee in the garden, occasionally being pecked by a chicken. Then Esmie woke up from her 4 hour sleep…I know, 4 hours, this is an absolute record, and I am stamping on my own feet as I write this for not having recording every element of the day, military style, to reflect upon and copy to the T the next day. But I didn’t, so we’ll be back to one hour, but there’s worse things that happen at sea apparently, according to my dad that is. As I am outside, I witness my chicken Margo, laying her egg over the back of the box they have found to lay their eggs in. I mean, really, what is the use in that? It plopped out of her backside and landed splat! Right on the ground. Useless chicken. Well, I have a busy week end ahead of me, and typing with these shakes is doing my head in! I hope they wear off soon, as I really am tired of looking like mother druggie…! Have a great weekend every one!

Just a little post blog beg, please can you all do me a BIG favour? It’ll only take a second, I promise! Please, if you read my blog, can you go up to the top left hand side, and click on ‘follow’ fill out the teeny weeny detail bit and be an official follower?? It will make me look better you see! Thank you!

I could have been telling her she was uglier than a hatful of bottom holes for all she was paying attention!

I was in the shop today, briefly, before meeting Make-up lady to take her to the Brocante, and there, I hit upon old lady supermarket-sweep-a-thon-pay-with-luncheon-vouchers time…I am trapped, and in there for what seems like years of my one short life, wondering to myself if I will still be here at Easter? I am busy answering all their “Oooh, they’re not all yours are they?” and how lucky I am, I am standing there “Oh yes, terribly lucky, so very lucky, yes, o lucky me”, when my 4-year-old daughter turns round to one of the old ladies who cornered us near the pickles, and tells her she is a “conass” this, in English means approximately a w*nk*r…smiling a big smile, and flashing her big blue eyes as she says it. Thankfully, the old lady did not drop down dead in shock, as I had feared, how would I explain that to the shop? “Oh, I was the last to see her, she was chatting to me, my 4-year-old daughter called her a w*nk*r, then she just kinda dropped down, like this” (demonstration over, and I am thinking I am NOT guilty?). No, that would not do at all. The nice old lady did let me explain we were English, we were only 4 (now I am sure she didn’t believe me!) and that we didn’t realise that we had just called her a w*nk*r, and how dreadfully sorry we were. I think she was more confused in my patronising look whilst telling her, and my insistence on calling one person ‘we’.

So, my date with Make-up lady, well it was, interesting. It went like this: I fly back from the doctor’s, skid round the corner to her street (well, not literally, I had my self-popping daughter in the car to think of, no, she has not been javelling her way out of the permanent/durable/non-flammable/non-eatable/biteable/ bubble I have decided to let her grow up in, she keeps unpopping her seat belt in the car, I am honestly having real issues…), I pick Make-up lady up, and off we go. I am suddenly transported, after the 4th time she recounts her life’s history to me, to a world where I am apparently opening my mouth, and making all the right facial gestures, but there’s no sound coming out, Make-up lady answers questions I never asked, laughs at things I was not even joking about, and genuinely, I only saw her breathe twice. I could have been telling her she was uglier than a hatful of bottom holes for all she was paying attention (she is not, I might add). As soon as we get there, she grabs her bag and basically ran off quicker than sh*t off a shovel, with the instructions to not forget about her, she needed a ride home, but she was off on her own!! Good god. What have I done? Well Esmie and I had good fun looking at all the second hand toys, much to the chagrin of my mother-in-law! They do have some cool stuff though M-i-L! And Make-up lady did offer to highlight my hair for me, so that’s nice. But probably, no thanks.

I am late for the kids, I see my friend, who asks me if I phoned her the other day. I hadn’t, but she tells me that actually I had, in error, I had congratulated her, on the answering machine, on the birth of her son and rabbled on incoherently for a bit, she thinking I had been drinking and ringing as a practical joke (err, what?!). It hadn’t been that, obviously, I had rung the wrong friend; they both have the same first name. And then I realised they had the same surname too, and she was astounded as it is apparently a really uncommon surname, and could they in fact be related it’s that uncommon, and as this is being discussed, I realise, she had her answering machine message with her name and surname, and I was still thinking that it had been the answering machine of the friend I had meant to be in contact with (did you get that? Re-read it then!). By now it’s gone too far, I can’t back track, if I do I am going to look like one complete and utter fruit cake, a total “conass”! On that note, my bed calls, despite the fact I shall be staring at the ceiling all night fretting about the fact that I have to potentially follow through with a big “fake” family reunion, because I’ve been and had one of my intensely thick moments, which befall me all too frequently…Night!

This is how I caught my leggings on the line, "Please leave me here, don't wear me, noooo"...Not even my clothes want to be worn by me! Oh, and no, it is not a dodgy white stain on the crotch...it is the label!!

I feel about as useful as a jam sandwich to a drowning rabbit…

The sound of mugs sent hurtling to the floor and being smashed to smithereens, makes me doubt my sanity (this thought plagues me on a daily basis), putting mugs on top of a spinning washing machine is never going to be the brightest of places to put them, especially when your washing machine is on the verge of breaking, and hops around the garage, trying desperately to find an escape-route from the madhouse, every time it spins…!

Yesterday evening, I was busy mopping, cooking, bread rising, children still up and down out of bed, feeding animals, sweeping outside, and knitting with my ears; when I hear the phone ring. For some reason, the sound of the phone ringing frequently sends me into a silent (but deadly) rage. I quite often find myself looking at the phone and shouting (before I pick it up), “Yes? Well, then, yes, what? What now? Oh, so I haven’t got enough on, and you think by making a noise you’ll get my attentions too?”. Realising it is in fact an inanimate object that I am focussing my inner anger upon, I check myself, take a deep breath and I pick up, smile, add sweet voice and away, “Yes, helllooo?”. Mrs Hyde… In fact, it is Make-up lady, after inadvertently adopting Make-up lady (please read earlier blogs if you have no idea of whom I am talking about!) a few weeks back, and I have apparently become Counsellor/walking laundrette/’getting her out’ woman in the process. This, coupled with the endearment ‘Chicken-woman’ from my husband, renders me in a position of overwhelming surges of self doubt, and “Am I really?”,"Really, am I?” Questioning each time I look in the mirror (not that I am obsessed). These titles make me feel about as useful as a jam sandwich to a drowning rabbit…Tuesday, I have a date, to wash her sheets (OMG, what am I doing? out, again with the latexs...) and to take her to the Brocante (France's equivalent of second-hand shops). I want today to be Tuesday...! Not.

Friday afternoon, I am on my way back from picking up the publicity to collate, and distribute on foot to various surrounding countries (well, may as well be, the walking my husband does!). All of a sudden, in my rear view mirror, I can just about make it out in the mirror, as it is covered in little grubby finger prints, courtesy of young-lings, and claw prints from the chickens checking their appearance after they have laid another egg in the car, Esmie, wandering around, gay as you like, in the car…Please note here, the fact that she is wandering around. No child should ever be wandering about in the car, unless it is immobile. Esmie had decided to pop herself, bored, evidently of her ride in the car, and do a bit of exploring. Driving like an alcoholic late for a pub lunch, I pull over in the nearest stop off place, re-attach self-detached child, and get stuck at traffic lights a little further on. There is a dude with dreadlocks, wearing nothing but purple, looking very disconcerting, and purple, strolling round the cars stopped at the lights asking for stuff. I look down, and avoid eye contact at all cost. I press the ‘lock your vehicle in presence of freaky, purple-clad road strollers, NOW, NOW, NOW!’ button, and see many arms reaching up in various other cars doing the same thing…! The lights turn, and I speed off before I encounter any more purple-clad dudes wanting stuff… and arrive safely home. Ooof.

Tomorrow there is school again (I try not to cry with relief), and thankfully it will be the last day I drug my 4-year-old daughter too. The steroids shall be at an end, no I have not been trying to create the next child body builder at 4-years-old, they are prescription, and for poorly ears! Happy Monday everyone!

Proud of my little stunt...

To be fair, part of me would have rather been picking fleas out of a baboon’s *rse…but the other part realises, that as a mother of 4 young children, there are certain criteria on the job description that I have to follow through with, i.e., in this instance, wiping bums. The same ritual occurs, a child backs out of the toilet, bent over double, bum in the air, issuing me with “Mum, wipe my bum!” instructions. I duly obey, replacing the tiny scrunched up pieces of toilet roll they give me, with a large baby wipe, latex gloves, and scrub. Ok, so I don’t actually own any latex gloves (except the secret ones), but it’s a rank task.

I had an extraordinarily hectic meeting people day today. Sometimes, energies must be moving in certain ways, and these periods of time we come across. I met an artist who has moved here from Paris, fascinating guy, he knew I painted and wondered where I had my exhibitions…Err, ok, maybe he thinks I am someone else. So I wonder whether I carry on this façade and pretend to be this artiste, exhibitions globally, but I figure he must realise in looking at, firstly me, and then at our little rented 3 bed in the sticks, and cotton on…I realise that somehow, of late, I have become an in-voluntary supporter and social worker for all these waifs and strays who drift in from big cities, then feel completely drowned by the reluctant, slow pace of a village. I have had Make-up lady on the phone A LOT. I am going to be washing her sheets, and she pleaded with me, I mean asked me to take her with her whenever I could. Just to “Get her out”. What can I say? Look into her panda/Alice Cooper eyes and tell her where to go? Not me, not my style, not because I am patient and forgiving and kind, but because whenever I actually go to say “No”, my tongue goes into spasm, my mind grabs the nearest staple gun and WHHEEERRCHUNK! (Never was too good at shooting noises, ask Monty, each time we play at star wars outside, shooting baddies and droids entering our garden, I do a forward-roll (rather awkwardly) then make “Pitchoo, pitchoo!” noises, looking all GI Jane, well Leia I suppose, and fearsomely proud of my little stunt, Monty disappointed looks over, “Ohhh muuum, it doesn’t go like that”, and proceeds to make the best shooting noises I have ever heard…). Anyway, I was saying, my mind staples my tongue to the roof of my mouth, and I end up always saying (whilst refusing to cry) “Yeeeaaas”. Boo to confidence issues forcing verbal defeat on you, and being bullied by your own body, will I never learn? Back to the in-voluntary “Just moved to Thomas the Tank engine village, and on the brink of a nervous break-down” support group leader, me. I have no idea how I have managed to attract these people, but my life is more the enriched for knowing them (even if it is just my “Getting to know crazy people” list enriched!).

Monty was grey when I picked him up from school tonight. He slumps on the sofa telling me he can’t face any tea, he feels sick. I am used to seeing Monty ‘slump’ after school, and give him some bread and butter, a drink of milk and an apple, and he is back to his old self. I reckon it is just this, and tell him they can have tea early, and he’ll feel loads better. He looks at me, almost begging me not to give him tea, but I insist, as I think it’ll make him feel better. He takes one mouthful, and then projectile vomits all over himself, the table, the floor. But he has made his point, right? Yet again, I have failed my child. Tomato chunks galore, I reflect on my day as I bellow at everyone to “Pull back, get down, get out while you still can!” and drag Monty out at arm’s length in the direction of the toilet, whereupon I plonk him down, in my haste to get toilet-side, I had picked him up around his middle, good foresight that, squeezing him around his post-vomit tummy, my legs nearly buckling under the effort and strain (at 7, he is almost as tall, and as heavy as me, no he’s not big for his age, I am small for mine!). As I reflect, I realise I began today wiping bums, I have finished it off by clearing up puke, I have somehow got an invisible (but only to me, apparently) tattoo “Walk this way lost city people in small village, hello, and well come, and by the way my name is Tamsyn, and I am the leader of the club”. Alright, more of a complete all over your face and neck tattoo with all that script, but more importantly, how did I manage it? This question I have not stopped posing to myself today, and I only hope that tomorrow it will be a different question. Like an “OMG! Where the bleep did I put the effing library books?” Kind of a question. In fact it’s Friday tomorrow, oh sh*t, WHERE THE BLEEP DID I PUT THE EFFING LIBRARY BOOKS??”

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“Come-on, you’re the chicken woman”

Everyone is bed, everyone is quiet, except for the animals, who now want their turn in feeding and attention. I open the garage door to feed the noise which is, in this case, my cats,  like flies to sh*t, they are at my feet so I get not much further than the door, they are intent on tripping me up, then eating the food off my fallen, broken body, as the bag of their food would most definitely land all over me. Kicking cats off my feet to reach their bowls, it is a never-ending task. They have attached themselves to my feet and lower ankle, and are not budging. I slowly, very slowly walk towards the goal in sight- cat bowls, dragging the 3 cats as I go. I partly walk this pace due to the handicap of having 3 cats pinned to my shins (by now, they’d climbed), partly for fear of killing one of them in my mission. Finally they are fed, and I walk back into total bedlam! No-one is asleep, no-one is quiet! apparently whilst out on my cat-feeding mission, Monty had turned the landing light off, Mitzi started crying out of pure fear, she had frightened both Lola and Esmie, and they are all now crying and terrified. Next time, the cats starve, I think.

Back in the day, when there was only one baby in the house, my son Monty, was never allowed to watch television. Ever insistent that outdoor play or sticking and cutting, cooking etc were better means of entertainment, I was vehemently adamant that none of my kids would ever watch T.V.  But, it is true, the more kids you have, the more things change. Whether it be your complete inability to think or construct a very simple sentence, or whether it be your body generally giving up on you, deciding there’s not much point now keeping a waist in tact, a flat tummy, who needs to see their own feet anyway? Whether it be the fact that you wear sensible flat shoes every day as a rule now, or just the fact that adult conversation, is very much a thing of the past. Times change, with each one, more T.V time has encroached on our days, and for this past year I have found myself, actually actively encouraging my youngest, Esmie 2 ½, to watch the T.V. She, however has not the slightest bit of interest in the television, and so being able to take/make important phone calls, wanting just to sit down for 20 minutes and have cuddles (because DVD time is really sprawl all over and cuddle time), are nonexistent. I have had a breakthrough, however! I have found out some “Baby Einstein” DVDs, and she is transfixed! The only problem now, is that, when I put them on for her this morning (this T.V watching thing is very recent!), I went out to make a few phone calls that were in need of some concentration, and as she so loves the DVD, she is guffawing with laughter so hard, that I cannot tell if she has suddenly let out a “Mummy! I have just fallen on a pair of open scissors” scream, or whether it is real laughter. I kept hanging up on people, sprinting in faster than I’ve sprinted in my life before, realising no harm had come to anyone or anything, then re-making the phone calls. It has ended up being a complete waste of a discovery, an impotent discovery. They are the worst! I accomplished nothing, and now feel guilty for forcing her to become a T.V. addict…! Well, she’s not as yet covered in crisps, swigging coke and burping as she watches baby T.V. But who knows what this could become in future?

“Come-on, you’re the chicken woman”. This encouragement came from my husband, Alex. What a woman and a wife I must be, one of life’s real winners…Chicken woman. This is what I have become. In the eyes of my soul mate, I am now “Chicken woman”. I got the chickens to bed, with a ‘Note to self’ typing itself rapidly in my memory of things never to ask again, Alex’s response had been to my asking him to put the chickens to bed. To be honest, in reflection, I think I would rather be called “Make-up lady”! I am now off to feel guilty about my mothering ineptitudes,  plaster myself in make-up and start boccing around the lounge…! Good night!

“Sorry,” I say, “That’ll be the steroids”.

Some days make me actually want to spoon my own eyes out…….To date I have not followed through with the preference of this over and above carrying on with the day, but there’s always tomorrow……

I blink my way hunched up like a prematurely aged 32-year-old, hair covering my face, perhaps best left that way too, unearthing my face is avoided usually till the last minute, whereupon I slap a bit of bronzer and mascara on, and off I go, ready to face the day……..! Today I am not well, glands throbbing, sore throat and ears about to burst, but as there is no choice in this house full of living beings but to “Carry on regardless” and I bumble my way through to the kitchen, whereupon I tread on something large and squishy, I expect to see the usual; pooh or puke, when I look down, but to my joy (oh, it was joyful), I see a kiwi, the remnants of. It had obviously committed suicide sometime in the early hours of the morning, it, lacking legs and thus the ability to walk, had stayed there till I had finished it off just then.

Today is the penultimate day before the gang are back at school…..and I realise blind-panic styley that I have not given their bags/homework a second thought the entire holiday. Task for the day; cahiers (homework books in France). Finally at 11 am we are washed, dressed, breakfasted and ready for the mammoth homework session. Pot of tea on, and we’re sat down at the table and away. I trawl through their huge folders and workbooks full of their year’s work, hopping up every now and again to put a wash on, feed the chickens, stir something on the hob. Esmie is bored and looking for self-entertainment; sending mummy fully over the edge style. I steer her away form the big scissors we have found, suggesting in the kindest voice that “Ooooo we don’t want to use scissors that big at 2-years-old, now, do we?” and approaching her slowly (no sudden moves) as if she’s wielding a gun at me or something! Big scissors retrieved, no lost digits, thankfully, and I realise, whilst Esmie is now blowing raspberries on my arm and laughing wildly, that it is getting on. I throw everyone out in the garden, see to a few chores and we hang out for a while. Then they are thrown in the bath, unmuddied, fed, pyjamad, storied and bedded in one fell swoop. The day worked! I made it through ill, and not having died from Big scissor death! (Always a risk).

The day before had not been such a success, I had had to go to the Dr’s, after Mizi’s 4^th ear infection in as many weeks, she had to see a specialist, and now it was back to the Docs, for an update, phew! Inspecting her ear with an implement, she cannot help herself bouncing up and down on the Dr bed. “Sorry,” I say, “That’ll be the steroids”. And it is true. The specialist has put her on a course of strong steroids "Out of necessity", the b*st*rd….! The “excitable” one in the family is put on excitable steroid drugs. As the specialist had written down the prescription, he lowered his glasses, took on a stern, concerned facial pose and starts, “Now, out of necessity I have had to give her a weeks’ course of steroids” he leans over, lowering his voice, “They can make one rather, excitable, so best give them first thing in the morning, or she’ll never go to bed.” Absolutely genius! Exactly what any mother wants to hear! Especially as she is the worst sleeper too!

Well little Mitzi is back at school tomorrow, and I shall have to warn the teacher that, as things stand, until the steroids have worn off, there will be no keeping Mitzi in one place for too long…….Good luck teacher! Apologies in advance, and here’s to the night before the first day back at school, a coffee date with Make-up lady, and a Monday morning, with all that that entails…..Bring it on!