Friday, 7 January 2011

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 fa├žade 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??”

Thursday, 6 January 2011

Wednesday, 5 January 2011

“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!

Monday, 3 January 2011

“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 4th 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!