Saturday, 9 April 2011

‘Didn’t see that one coming’ Town is apparently it’s twin town.

It had been a long old day in Sh*ts Ville. As I had apparently absent mindedly managed to catch the train there today, when I woke up post alarm time this morning. Every minute, it got harder, I was running around, flapping about like a woman that had been drinking cheap white wine for breakfast out of plastic cups, PLUS straw and umbrella (will try this next time), I got through the Bibliotech with class of 30 french kids swapping their books for Noel ones, Christmas ones, who knows why? I don’t even really care, the point is, I made it. I had left the lights on in our car that has a battery condition, which is imminently life threatening. We have, on many occasions, my husband and I, performed life-saving surgery under it’s bonnet, clipping on the battery box charger (which has multi functions too, btw), and ‘CLEAR!’ “Whoobam” (noise of charger shocks, I realise I am pathetic at noises, I think it’s predominantly a boy thing, correct me if I am wrong? To be good at ‘noises’. my son creases with embarrassment every time I 'pretend' shoot him...!), the car sometimes starts, sometimes we mourn it for a bit, thinking this is the end, only to be revving down the driveway and speeding off like an alcoholic late for a pub lunch, and on the way to school (late). Anyway, thankfully it hadn’t been an issue, it starts. Goodo.

I get home in time to paint some plant pots I have been meaning to do (the god damned “to do” list *spits in disgust*), and with one fell swoop the 2 and a half-year-old dips her little paint brush, I have foreseen this and provided her with her own paints and painting station, but as if that’s any fun when mummy’s using black, irremovable treacle paint that DOES NOT COME OFF, EVER. I’m too late, as in Sh*ts ville you get sh*t for brains, you get sh*t arms with no speed or agility, too, the face is painted. ‘Didn’t see that one coming’ Town is apparently it’s twin town. Her clothes were stripped off and binned instantly (as if I have either the time or the inclination to remove the stains of such magnitude) the face, however, is something else. No amount of scrubbing, screaming (her, not me, by then anyway…!), water/soap would remove it. We had to venture out in public to buy some white spirit. I bump into everyone, well of course you would, when your toddler looks like something out of a zebra horror film, and manage to get required white spirit. Too late to use it now, time to pick up kids for lunch from school (yep, it’s not even midday yet), I bump into a friend who enquires about Esmie’s face, wherein I tell her all and she gasps. The part she gasps at is the part where I tell her I am going to use white spirit on a cotton bud to get the paint off. She informs me, a little too desperately, that I could not put white spirit near her face. FGS (for god’s sake) ooo I have found a new triple! WTF, OMG, FGS. In truth, I was hardly going to hoy the contents of the bottle at her face going ‘shut your eyes for a second would you, sweetheart’ whilst telling her to play close to naked flame. But still, she maybe has a point, and I now have to leave, on HER advise, my toddler with black treacle paint stains on her face, and scrub it with butter (?). Wish me luck.

This evening, as the weather is gorgeous, we go to the park after school. We are there far later than we should have been, it turned into a ‘water park’ take over, my kids being the driving force, and thus emptying the park in an instant, of whoosy ‘I don’t like getting wet’ kids…mean, maybe, but it’s just a bit of fun, and my kids did not actually officially ‘start’ it this time (please note the ‘this time’).  Dragging hot, tired, wet, now mostly naked kids back up to the car, I realise on FINALLY arriving that I have lost the effing keys. I search everywhere, and resign my self to the fact I will have to parade my hot, tired, wet, semi naked kids to the nearest supermarket to use a phone. Although I suddenly realise I have no one to call, I have no phone myself, neither does my husband, so I am stuck. In a last ditch attempt, I tip out the only bag I would never have put them in, because it’s already in the car, on the front seat. The car has a dodgy lock, hence being able to access the car without keys. Yes! Thank the heavens above and cherubs that are so cute and the donkeys that go ‘eeeyore’ in the fields. They are there. I won’t go into the fact they were in my bag, already in the open car. Fool.

Well the weekend is upon us, and the holidays too. I am planning on doing some serious hanging out and chilling, and beginning tonight, by eating the first round of Easter eggs we bought for the kids, there’s still time to replace them…!

Thursday, 7 April 2011

'i'm going for the chop', he announces minutes after number 2's birth....yeah yeah.

A very proud daddy with a 2 month old Bo Bo. he asked the midwives for the 'chop' after number 2...!

Wednesday, 6 April 2011

‘Look how big mine is’

A little Lola, with a chocolate smudge on her face, it's not, for once, pooh, and throwing everyone a Shaka..

Heads cocking, and ‘boc’, is the response I hear from my four girls, the chickens, luckily my kids speak words, not bocs, and my son would be pretty gutted were I to refer to him as a girl too. Marjorie, Margo, Meg and Molly reply to my questioning them OUTLOUD why they were insisting on flapping on the roof, and not going into their beds. I was not at all disturbed by the fact I had asked them, or the fact I was conversing with chickens,  I was genuinely disturbed by the fact they replied. They actually understood me. Does this mean there is hope? OK, so it’s a giant flapping beasty ostrich, posing as a chicken, but it’s something, right? No? OK, moving swiftly on then. To Nohopersville for the gimps…i.e. me (but I think you got that bit earlier on).

Another of our electrical appliances has decided to commit suicide than carry on seeing out its duties here in our ‘maison’. (I shall teach you all French, a word a day, no, no need to thank me *blushes*). Our electrical appliances have a bad habit of committing suicide chez us, I have gone through a washing machine a year, sometimes months was all it took, a dishwasher lived for 6 months, and then sat dribbling and leaking sporadically this browny kind of water for weeks (seven, to be precise) as I awaited the new motor, you see, not just a little flippery bit, the actual motor, which took SEVEN weeks to get apparently, yeah Mr. fix it dude, I see you sipping your black sugary coffee, on your two hour siesta everyday, it’s been noted buster. This has been a rather long winded way of saying we all had to go up to ‘Top Office’ to print out various important bits. In the car park, Alex runs in to print out important bits, and some ‘look how big mine is’ dude drove up and parked his Ferrari in front of us, which had FOUR exhausts btw, As if?! As if you need four, I mean come on, he is only carting himself around too. Really! Anyway, the people in the car park start to drift over, stroking his ego, and a couple of guys ask to take a picture of the car. Another couple wander up, reckoning they are car-bound, I think nothing of it, but they stand, she poses, in front of the car, he then proceeds to take 8 photos of this car, even through the roof top, then turn around and wander back to their car, they came over deliberately, again, I cry AS IF?! I cannot help myself shout it’s a piece of metal you fools, ever so bravely, in English, in my car with the windows shut…but I still don’t *get* what the fuss was about. I tell Alex as he gets back in the car, cursing the material world, I got pretty deep, out of sheer jealousy…! Actually I wouldn’t even want a Ferrari, not even if you gave one to me. That’s true that. Alex sees the couple post-photo session, and asks the guy ‘d’ya wanna a photo of our car, mate?’ whereupon I deck myself laughing, as he looks confused (probably coz Alex asked him in English with the window shut too, such a brave, hilarious couple we are). What between the scrunched up, scrunched in breadstix, and the big chicken hoof scratches down the bonnet, remnants of the chickens'  escapades finding a decent place to lay an egg these day, the dude quite understandably, gave it a miss.

Tonight, I am typing late as we got in late, and the end of day clear up took me a looooong while. Tomorrow it’s going to be hot, hopefulllly (I am leaving this typo as I was obviously ‘tired tying’ and leant on the ‘l’ for longer than necessary, well it tells a story…) they’re accurate with this promise this time, or I will take action. And I am also left wondering about my sense of humour, more over, our sense of humour, my hubby and me, after the car episode, it’s sadly obvious that it doesn’t take much to amuse us these days …*clings on mentally*

Tuesday, 5 April 2011

pulling out my teeth out with scissors, by a 7-year-old.

My 7-year-old son, who got bored of a wobbly tooth, and hacked it out with a pair of scissors, butchery...shameful.

Monday, 4 April 2011

‘mum, well, dad’s a cock, isn’t he?’...


Play dough frolics, big sis giving lil sis the food colouring...NOOOOOOOOOOO!

The horn in the car beeeeeeeeepppppppssssssss, I jump, startled. It doesn’t take  very much to give me a coronary these days, this house has damaged my nerves beyond repair, shot to pieces, little nerves strewn around, floating about in my body, drinking vodka and chatting drunkenly amongst themselves going

“maaaan it’s crazy in here dude, how’d d’we get out?”

And the other pissed nerve going “Well, man, I kinda don’t think we really can, unless we give her a coronary and hence end our service”.

And then they get all militant, on a mission to ‘coronary’ me. The sergeant major giving them their orders: “Every noise, nerves, make her jump like a fool, anything that drops, make the obligatory automatic response in front of kids ‘ohforfuckssake’, any car that pulls up, let her truly believe it’s finally THOSE men/woman/ladymen in white coats to put her away!”…

Anyway, back to the horn, I am not aware of having left any kids in the car, but quick head count anyway, one, two, three, yep, four, all there, how is it that the horn beeped on it’s own? I wouldn’t put it past the car, the bibby car lock thing has given up the ghost, and there is now no way of locking our car either, as the front lock with the hole specifically designated for the key opening/locking role, does not work either. We have also lost the one and only house key we possessed, and we have now, an open house, and an open car, 24/7.  But that’s by-the-by, who beeped that horn?  No need for  Poirot, thankfully, as, when I look in the car and open the door, I let out a very belligerent Marjorie, who had been inadvertently shut in there mid egg-lay. She flaps out, and trots off. Kicking her egg out on the way, and thus smashing her efforts to splodge and goo on the floor. Sudden carnage, as the other three chickens rush over, and Marjorie realises she’s missing out, and trots back over, cocking her head at me, and getting stuck in. You see, something has happened to my chickens, and they are actually eating their own eggs. In truth and in the most rankly terms, they are eating either their own future offspring (they’re not to know it’s not been fertilised, well I wouldn’t imagine so), or their own period. There, told you that was rank, but an egg is actually like the equivalent of a chicken period. Nice that. Hope I’ve not put you off your scramblies?

Lola’s reaction to this feast was as though she were observing some tribal massacre, devastated she was, I cuddle her and ask her what’s up? To which she replies, ‘well now that means we’re not going to have any poussins’ (chicks in French). My son intelligently responds, ‘but Lola, there won’t be any poussins without a cock. Everyone knows that, right, mum?’ Well, yes, in his defense he is right, I stifle, to little success, my guffaw, childish I know, but come on…! Mitzi my four and a half-year-old, turns to me wide, big blue eyes, ostrich eyelashes, and also comes up with an equally intelligent response, ‘mum, well, dad’s a cock, isn’t he?’. Brilliant, I won’t tell you what my reply was…! Joke, babes…!

This weekend, we did not have nice weather, as promised (bastards) it rained…so we made play dough, hence the picci, and 'baby' caked in flour, made decorations for the new dolls' house (christmas prezzie form gamma, gampaa, grandma and grandpa to the over twos in the house), painted our little hearts out and coofed too. I have just read this back, and I have no idea what coofed could possibly mean, typos, very frustrating when you have a brian (!) like a sieve) oh, hang on, don’t go, it’s alright, cooked, that’s what I meant to write *phew*. Esmie tonight, after a long day, comes to me in tears, I kneel down and sit her on my lap, and ask her what’s going on, she nods her head, she nods for no, and shakes her head for yes sometimes, confuses me, and herself a bit each time, I think, and tells me she is sad because she cannot hop. I hold her hand, get her to stand on one leg, and help her to hop. And OMG I wish I had never started it, because now she can hop, she just wants to ALWAYS hop, and my arm hurts…someone make this weeny hopping child stop…!

Have a good Monday, see you soon x

Sunday, 3 April 2011

when there were 2...

...(and I was taking the picture, pregnant with number 3!) oh, and my gorgeous man...!