Saturday, 2 April 2011

Big huge, great-big giant ostrich flaps...

Monty, aged 2, long, long time ago it seems...

Stirring my coffee with a pencil, never quite the same, but the kids nick off with my spoons/teaspoons/cutlery in general, to dig and make mud pies and feed snails (Lola is obsessed with making homes for her pet snails, tucking them all in to their beds, then they all up and leave, leaving nothing but a slimy mass as a reminder), I have a flashback (and strong desire for a teaspoon as pencil coffee, not quite cutting it), which goes a bit like this:

Once upon a time at university, no kid days…yes there really were those days…*sighs reminiscently* I got very drunk on vodka and redbull, and some kind of fizzy lemonade alcoholic drink in a bottle who’s name now completely escapes me (like the purpose of life, every morning…..!! had to put exclamation marks there to suggest I am joking) with my, then, brand new best mate of the night (I had met Keri in Fresher’s week) we decided, after going to the loo, that to pull the toilet seats off, spit clean them (OMG *runs off to bleach hands and face at memory*) and sport them as ‘necklaces’ around our necks would be the most hilarious thing anyone had ever done in their lives. We donned the toilet seats, and discovered the bouncers were after us in no time (I went to Newcastle uni, fyi), and we tore round ‘The Boat’ which was literally a boat on the harbour dressed up as a night club, we’d cue for hours in tiny clothes enduring all weather types, drinking our way through the pain barriers…remember those days? We ran round for what seemed like hours, stumbling and finding ourselves hilarious. I mention this story because today, I saw my toddler following her mother’s hygiene and ‘that was a prank that you found amusing?’ standards, at such a young age too, and sporting the little toilet adapter seat for teeny bums, around her neck.

Anyway, as I, tonight, watch Alex amuse himself as I sweep up outside, by chasing the chickens who incidentally are now referred to as ostriches, I needn’t spell out why, but I will, they’re bloody HUGE! By running at them, arms flailing ‘grrrrring’ at them, making them run away in flap frenzies, flapping terrified. Big huge, great-big giant ostrich flaps at that too (these ‘flap’ jokes are endless, and back to my point-), I reflect on the day. Friday night’s Bibliotech trip has now been replaced by park. All us mummies get to hang out, watching our kids run around manically, tiring themselves out (dinner time is going to be fun…) and secretly eating the snacks we intended for them. Tomorrow is also going to be hot, hot, hot, then Sunday rain. So tomorrow we will be ‘up and at ‘em’, as Alex and I like to leap out of bed roaring at the top of our voices, chest pumping each other and adding a few Tarzan-like fchest fist thumps.… Also heard is ‘CUPOFTEA!’,  along side the cries for ‘Weetabix!’ or ‘Porridge!’, or if Esmie had her way ‘biscuits and chocolate’, she must wake up saying this most mornings, in fact it’s quite often our alarm call “mum, dad?” (yes, although she’s 2 and a half, we are mostly ‘mum’ and ‘dad’ now, long gone is the little cries for ‘mummy’ or daddy’. It happened the summer before last. *violins softly screeching in background as it would be the kids playing them* We thought we’d got away with it, living in France with kids not even calling their parents the same word, us still being called ‘mummy’ and ‘daddy’ was going to be our name forever! Until a family with ‘big’ kids came to stay, and my kids, out of adoration for their 3, picked up on a fundamental difference between them, and the Big kids, the big kids never, ever, ever said ‘mummy, or ‘daddy’. And my life changed in an instant. I had lost my ‘mummyhood’ and find I am now in my ‘mumdom’. So, about Esmie and the alarm call, well basically chocolate and biscuits is all she ever seems to ask for in the mornings, persistent, as she has never been given into ever. Really, never. Well, maybe there was that once…

I am looking forward to the weekend, outdoor activities, and trying to stop our as-yet-unspayed-tom-cat spraying uncontrollably (men… *tuts, rolls eyes*), and crying out like he’s in torturous pain due to the depth of his love for the first lady cat that comes by to check him out and compliment him on his spraying techniques. True love. And then a day of indoor activities on the rainy Sunday. I hope you have a fantabulous weekend, and I’ll see you all soon.

Wednesday, 30 March 2011

The next day I am walking around like John Wayne on laxatives, fabulous look.

Carnival time (and Monty's was the day before, hence 'plain clothes' not Obe-Wan Kenobe, as I have referred to him as in the blog.

Tufty is doing alright, as she is now known chez us…Margo the chicken apparently managed to chop her hair with the aid of her middle sister, the flap happy  (ha ha, had to get that in!) way in which she tackled Tufty’s hair left devastating unseemingly large fringe syndrome.. but we have ventured out in public, and asides the odd look of disbelief, my friends kindly and compassionately ask if she’s been at her own hair with the scissors again…’no’, I explain, ‘This time, it was the chicken’.

With hours going forward this weekend, my kids have been turned inside out by this hour difference. The night, now much lighter, they take as a sign to run around relentlessly in and out of each others’ rooms, honing their ‘I’m a scary monster, although I know I should be in bed’ skills. So much so, that, as the ‘parent’ saying goes, it’ll end in tears’, and it inevitable does. Mitzi has been so terrified by Esmie, her younger sister (a.k.a Tufty) pretending to bite her and eat her (although she cannot even get out of her cot because at 2 and a half, she is still in there. I am not yet physically or mentally at that capability level yet to ‘unleash the balrog’ and allow my toddler total freedom in and out of her bed *rocks in corner at very thought*. So the big-girl bed is still waiting a wee while yet). Mizti gets over this and decides to start climbing on Monty’s bed, he is obviously distraught by the fact she is on his bed whilst he’s trying to read, and cries too. Pleading with his younger sister to ‘leave me alone’, as by this time she has well and truly crossed the line by calling him ‘camembert cheese’ at this point I really do have to intervene, there’s apparently NO worse insult than being called a smelly cheese. I’ll remember that the next time bastard policeman starts to cross the road in front of me when I’m driving, then knocks at my window as he makes me pull over then proceeds to royally rollock me for not leaving the legally required 4 metres between a pedestrian and a car. Err, sorry for not knowing the 4 metre rule Mr Wanky policeman. As if?! That is a true story, I didn’t even manage to play the I’m English me no understand’ which would have left him frustrated on his megalomaniacle power trip, card either this time, as I was so stunned, so weak me, simply smiled sternly and wished him a fabulous day, and wheel spinned off. OK, I didn’t even wheel spin either, nothing, I was lame. Pure , unadulterated lameness. Anyway, the kids, well they eventually went to sleep about 9…

It has been carnival week this week, so I have been baking cakes and putting makeup on little kids and ‘lending a lame hand’ at their carnivals like a trooper. Hence the photo. Desperate to get away from the jedi and princess theme that plays out every single bloody year the same, I encourage other outfits, no-one other than Mitzi concedes, and goes as a bit of a different adaptation, an Indian princess. Lola is straight up princess, Monty the jedi (although he’s forbidden from wearing his mask in front of me as they freak me out too much, and I always run off screaming, arms flailing around, like I am being attacked by the real Obe-Wan Kenobe…).

As I walk around the day of the carnival, they land a surprise 2 mile promenade to the town hall, and back. marvelous. 50 odd kids in disguise, tripping over too long skirts/trousers, plus bedraggled adults trying to enjoy parading the tired, some of them crying, makeup streaming kids in disguise brigade. The next day I am walking around like John Wayne on laxatives, fabulous look. I am in agony. My little cow (in fairness, she was disguised as one) nearly broke both my hips, elbows and knee caps making me carry her ALL the way there AND back. TWO miles. TWO whole, hardcore miles on foot carrying a cow. May as well have been 50 miles in fact, for what my broken body was telling me threw it’s creaks and groans and those little clicky, not sure if a little bone somewhere in my body just snapped, or it’s just one of those weird clicky thing, noises. You know? You don’t? Oh well, I do, and that’s all that matters.

 Tonight as I put the kids to bed, I read Monty’s Flat Stanley book with him. He remarks that it’d be *well cool* to be flat, think of what you could do, he says. To which I answer, well I am pretty flat, I have a flat chest (please see blog: for further 'i'm boobless' jokes, although it’s my sad reality, so don’t fall over laughing or anything too mean, leave me some dignity), he looks at me and laughs and goes ‘Oh yeah, you’re right there, mum!”

On that note, I shall love you and leave you, you can think of me in the rain again, on a Wednesday (no school) with 4 kids on Duracell…

Tuesday, 29 March 2011

Leibster Award!

Right, another 'tag' blog...I am very moved *sobs, blows nose* to have received an award from my friend over at, who does a lovely blog with lots of recipes that make you dribble a bit when you read them...pop by and check her out. Thank you fast and luce!

Now the conception behind this idea is as follows...

The Liebster Award is designed to be awarded to 'small' blogs with less than 300 subscribers to spread the blog love and get them out to a wider audience. The rules are:

1. Post displaying the award (done), linking back to the person who awarded you (done)
2. Choose your own blog picks (below) and let them know they’re awarded
3. Hope everyone discovers some new favourites
4. Revel in the blog love!

I choose to award the following soooper doooper (and sorry if you've already got the award, take it as a compliment!) bloggers:

a little edit, and FIRST UP, how can i possibly have forgotten my bestest bloggy mate?...!

Sunday, 27 March 2011

The chicken apparently has been brandishing flappy wings and 'flap' cutting her hair.

'Tufty' the self-hair dressing toddler, having a little nose pick too, nice.

Wandering round the house, the garden, and finally looking in the car, I find the culprit. Clutching, the now, four tufts of hair that my 2 and a half-year-old has ridded herself of, she has obviously been working on the principle that hair is an unnecessary accessory. When I see her, I cannot even believe it, she looks atrocious. I stare her out, raising my eyebrows and listening to her, and this is how it goes:

‘I didn’t cut my hair mummy, nooo, not meeee, not Esmie cut her hair…’ denials. Yes, we have been here before. The last time she cut her hair.

Then I question her, ‘well if you didn’t, sweetheart (teeth gritted), then who did?’

Shrugs, then answers, ‘Margo and Mitzi’.

So by all accounts, her next sister up, and the chicken have been in on this too. The chicken apparently has been brandishing flappy wings and 'flap' cutting her hair, my 2-year-old tells me, scissors in hand, more tufts around her on the car seat. In her defence, at least she’s making an effort and looking in the car mirror to do it this time, not just chopping in the slap-happy fashion she has become accustomed to when she is in charge of scissors and possesses her own hair. Were it her barbies, well, this kind of sh*t is only to be expected, every girl goes through the urge to re-style, always dreadfully, and so the hair gets shorter and shorter, till barbie is now really no more than a tranvestite Ken, and gets shame binned. Poor unsuspecting barbies. Us girls all go through this stage, that ‘I have both scissors, and an uncontrollable desire to just hack at her hair’ stage. The thing is, OK, I could hide all the scissors, but the other kids love to cut and stick and paste and the like, so I cannot punish all four kids for one of them having an OCD about cutting her own hair, badly. I am in a right pickle, and looking at her right in front of me, I have the urge to either put a wig on her so we CAN actually venture out in public, without her looking like she has some kind of disease, or looking like she has a mother that is actually OK and possibly even encourages ‘self-hairdressing’ in 2-year-olds. Or do I super-glue a hat on her head? I have never seen such a tufty, mahoooosive fringe. It starts from the middle of the back of her head, and stretches from behind ear-to behind and down a little bit, the other ear. Super.(see her above...check it out in real life, it's no joke).

The Friday I had some free time in the afternoon (I know, in real life, free time!) so I decided to paint stuff that I have been meaning to paint for months, possibly years. I re-paint some plant pots with special metal paint, it’s like ‘painting-with-mollasses’, I am aware of Esmie and Mitzi, making sure (as they are painting outside too whilst I do this) they come nowhere near. I suddenly see Esmie sneaking up, she is on a mission, I however, with ninja-like speed intercept (believe me, with toddlers as obsessed with doing anything and everything they can, from cutting hair, to all the leaves off the pot plants (please note the plural use, ALL the pot plants), to painting on walls and stealing sugar cubes and chocolate, to name but a few things), i am just in time to grab her hand before it plunges into the paint pot, which she no doubt intends to rub into her head, just to take the focus off her tufty-hair. In my haste, I fling black metal paint everywhere, up the outside wall, the floor, and over my leg. My friend unexpectedly arrives, so I rush around trying to clear up the molasses paint, failing miserably to get it off my leg. I give up and put jeans on, to cover it. We go to school together to pick up the kids, and I walk around with my jean stuck to my leg for the next 3 hours, as we go to the park after school.

I am forced to take a bath that night, and rip the jean off the leg, no matter what I do, it’s not coming off, it’s just got stickier in the hot bath, I decided shaving it off is the way forward, I am wrong, ever tried shaving your legs with treacle on them? No? Well then, I wouldn’t bother.

I wonder what next week will bring, there is definitely something in the air at the moment, and it’s polluting my household…anyone have the anecdote? Let me know…