Thursday, 20 January 2011

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, 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 cafĂ© 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?!

Wednesday, 19 January 2011

"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!

Tuesday, 18 January 2011

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 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!

Monday, 17 January 2011

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.