Saturday, 29 January 2011

“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 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!

Thursday, 27 January 2011

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 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!

Wednesday, 26 January 2011

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??   ‘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!


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: ) 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 

Tuesday, 25 January 2011

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 16th 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,
North Yorkshire.
YO21 1DH.


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,
YO21 1DH.

Made payable to 'Walk with Grace'.

Or it can be sent via Paypal to email address:

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

Sunday, 23 January 2011

(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 4th 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?