Saturday, 16 April 2011

My real life, true love story!!

Happy Anniversary to my man, 7 years married today, you rock my world baby, and I am so lucky I bagged you!

So here is my true-love real-life love story, as promised…I have been looking forward to writing this blog since I began blogging. As, when I originally started blogging, it was my intention to keep it as a (almost) daily blog, a bit of a diary for the kids when they turn around and ask me in years to come what I did all day as a ‘stay at home mummy’. They will read it and see! So one of my blog entries had to be my very own love story! And here it is:

Once upon a time, back in England, when Smurphs could ski, and the grass was purple, and the trees were clean, I met a guy called Alex. I was working in London, straight from graduating in Newcastle, and had no clue what I wanted to do yet with my life! I did some PR work, promotions, tap dancing, OK I made the tap dancing up, but I would have liked to. I met Alex at a party, he had a girl friend at the time, so he was off limits. He struck a chord in my heart, but I thought nothing of it.

At our friends' wedding last summer. I could not find a wedding pic! will get onto that. TO DO list!

0ne year later, out of the blue, my mobile phone rings,

“Hi Tamsyn, I don’t know if you remember me, it’s Alex, I used to go out with Emily*”

Number 1) yes, I did OF COURSE remember him. Number 2) sly dog for immediately getting in there that he had split up with his girlfriend. He invites me for a drink. I was living about 2 and half hours away from him at the time, so going out for a ‘drink’ was going to be a bit of an adventure. But I said ‘yes’ anyway, why not? His eyes, as I remembered them, and all my kids have them, are blue, and clear (apart from the beer glaze) with huge great eyelashes like an ostriches! Not the most flattering description, but an accurate one nonetheless. I proceed to fly about getting ready for my ‘drink’ with Alex. Then commence the 2 and half hour journey to go out for the drink. We got drunker and drunker, only we went for drinks with a few of Alex’s friends too, and he was chatting me up so much, he stopped drinking the drinks being bought for him and he got behind (never known Alex as much of a talker…;) ). The ‘boys’ were not up for this and made Alex down every last one. That night, in fact I should explain, at that time, Alex was living in his Nan’s house, on a camp bed in the dining room! He’d just got back from travelling. So that night, obviously not drinking and driving, I stay at his Nan’s place with him. I never went home again. On the fourth day he proposed to me, and on the first night I knew he was the ‘one’. Two weeks later, we have a place of our own, renting near London, one year later to move to Whitby, by the seaside to ‘chase the waves, baby’, and where we had our son. Anyway, I digress, Alex also knew I was the ‘one’, but for different reasons. That night after downing the billion drinks he had missed out on from over-talky syndrome, Alex was sick EVERYWHERE. All down the stairs, the bathroom, up the walls. His mum and dad were looking after Nan at the time, and were living there too, his mum greets Alex the next morning with ‘morning love, I’ve just finished cleaning your puke off the walls, good night?’ and I still thought he was the ‘one’. He new he’d struck gold!

Within 18 months from our first date, we had Montgomery Buster, 5 months later we were married in the Whitby Registry Office, with just Alex’s best friend to film it, and both sets of parents and Monty. We had been planning a bigger do, but in the end decided we’d rather be married than not, and did it ‘shotgun’ styley! It took nothing away from our marriage, it only served in making more intimate, and it truly was one of the most (I say one of, as each birth of one of the kids has been the same overwhelming experience that you can never hope to ever put in words, and certainly never fathom, until you are there) significant and overwhelming days of my life. Nineteen months after Monty, we have Lola Grace. 15 months later, we have number three, Mitzi Joy (named Joy after my Granny). Then when she is 5 weeks old we have a conversation. If we do not move to France now, make a break for it, then likelihood was, we never would. When Mitzi is 7 weeks old, Lola 14 ½ months, and Monty just turned 3, we do it. We move to France with 2 suitcases, a few odds and sods, terry nappies and baby wipes, and Mitzi’s cot, we arrive in France. Esmie Rose was born when Mitzi was 23 months, to the day. And we now have 4 killer chickens, a gay dog, 3 stray cats, 4 kids, and a veg patch (growing cherry tomatoes, all colour peppers, strawberries, potatoes and leeks, so far, more to seeds sow…vegetable ones, number 5 is no where on the immediate scenes (yet ;)) although I had better stop mentioning the fifth or there may be no more wedding anniversary stories to write about.

Two and a half years ago, the fourth and the final (?!) was born...

So that’s about it! You are all up to date and have just read my real –life true-love story from the beginning, and a very, very, very long time from the end.

Please feel free to leave me a comment, I LOVE hearing from you all. Thank you!
 See you next time, am joining in on ‘Silent Sunday’ tomorrow, and putting up a photo, so hopefully see you all again here soon!

Tamysn x

*Names changed for privacy rights.

Friday, 15 April 2011

Hoping the fishwife threats worked.

Lola in the front carrier, behind the scenes with daddy, me, Monty and Oliver. 'Back in the day' dog walks.

With catlike dexterity, I negotiate the various poo-traps in the garage, reaching my destination with the self satisfaction of Tom Cruize after he completed his 'mission impossible'. I feel as though I am living a s*** nightmare, quite literally. Between the cats and the chickens, an on occasion the dog too, the garage is officially the poo-room. It is utterly rank, but I have nothing I can do about it, short of putting the cats in cages, and the chickens too. Well, caging the chickens is debatable, as I would rather, and quite happily wring all their bloody ostrich necks as we speak. I have never ever in my whole legged life, EVER come across such ENORMOUS birds, I am sure I have somehow managed to mutate them, and they are now evolving into fully fledged chicken-ostriches a new mutant breed. They will be a giant, nasty breed of chicken-ostrich that devour bacon butties and small children alike.

This is so much so the case, that at meal times, I arm my kids with plastic swords, I keep the cricket bat for myself (sounds dark, but in fact it is simply made-in-china rubber, so although brandishing this may raise some RSPCA eyebrows, they would probably understand my plight, and turn a blind eye). They flap with such almighty power at any rate, that the weapons designated to me and kids alike serve only the purpose of preventative aids from being eaten alive, rather than posing any serious threat to the gargantuan birds. The other day, I ran in the house to grab something (scoop up some sanity I stashed behind the eggs in the fridge earlier on), the kids are happily and contentedly sitting at the table in the garden, I stroll back up, when I suddenly find my self in a race,  against a chicken, screaming in slow motion ‘NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!’ as Margo, now fully recovered from dog-devouring episode, flies up on the table and snatches Esmie’s sandwich out of her hand. Monty is too late with his sword, and I left the cricket bat up at the table, once I get back up off my knees, I sunk down on them with my head in my hands after crying ‘NOOOOOOOOO’. I get back up, full of livid murdering chicken thoughts, and CHARGE! Triumphantly picking up my weapon, I’m on a roll, like Boadicea I whack around violently in the general direction of chickens (although she predominantly dealt with Romans, not birds, and she had a proper sword, lucky b*tch). Missing every time, which is just all the more frustrating, and I nearly die on the spot with stress and over exertion, and from the sheer frustration of the whacking-chicken-missing-EVERTIME-they-are-just-too-fast-and-flappy episode.

dog walks when there were 3...

Tonight, after a looong ol’ dog walk, whereupon we hit upon the ‘we’re sporting cramp-ons and proud of it’ group of walkers. They are lovely and chatty, but it does not aid me in my quest-Esmie on my shoulders, poking every orifice known to man in my face, and thoroughly enjoying herself even if she was gutted that the horses in the field we’d brought carrots and apples for, were not there. Lola the ‘I am only cycling downhill, Mummy’ was a sulky uphill, dragging biker. Monty and Lola, as they both had wheeled vehicles, were wearing cycling hats 4 times the size of their heads. Not a good look, but very funny, if they will strain their neck muscles. Mitzi is happy, drifting about, sometimes on the push-along bike I am pushing with toddler on shoulders, she’s chilling, hanging out, taking it all in, picking the beautiful wild flowers, and every so often the tranquility is interrupted by Monty up front yelling ‘CAR!’ like it’s a bunch o’ badgers with guns that have just stopped us in our tracks, taking us hostage. They’d be no matches for me and my hefty forearms though. I was saying that tonight, I have just left them (now at 8.45 pm) ‘camping’ in Monty's room. All their mattresses are on the floor, the travel cot is up (oh yes, still not ready quite yet to unleash my munchkin of a terrible-two-there’s-never-been-worse-year-old), and I am hoping the fishwife threats worked. Well, in reality, I told them ‘if you go to sleep like good kids now, there will be a special surprise on the table for you tomorrow morning’, I prefer bribing the good behaviour out of them-life is short!

Tomorrow will be my 7 year wedding anniversary, I am putting up my real-life true-story up for all to read, as I for one, am very proud of my man, of us, but not the chickens decision, that was a bad decision, definitely not a ‘proud’ moment…I’m sure they were his idea…!

Thursday, 14 April 2011

my minnies...

Esmie with all her minnies. Photo from Christmas at friends' house, having just received the 3 minis; big mini, medium mini and mini-mini, blurred and sliding off into the corner.

Wednesday, 13 April 2011

Nostrils flared like a dragon on steroids.

‘They’re mating’ I reply to Monty’s request as to what the ‘gendarm' beetles (no idea what the English is, don’t think we have them) are doing with their 'bums stuck against each other’. Here’s the enevitable ‘what’s mating?’ 

me: ‘well, it’s how they make babies’ 
Monty: ‘with their bums stuck against each other?’ 
me: ‘yep, exactly that, cuppa?’

I still think at 7 he’s a bit young to fully comprehend the intricate ins and the outs of the birds and the beeses. When I was little, my birds and bees talk was communicated to me predominantly through a book. A book, as I can remember it, which I was told to read, then ask questions about to mummy and daddy after. It was no Mills and Boon. Oh, no. far, far, far worse, traumatising. It was like ‘R2D2’s’ version of love-making, all nuts and bolts, and very confusing at the age of 8. There was this one male robot, at least I assume with the giant spring he was brandishing between his legs, it was a male robot, and a lady one, which she was obviously so, when I tell you that she had a giant box for a front bottom. I watched as the giant spring did it’s thing in the giant box, and have never had sex as a result. All mine were found underneath the vegetable patch, damned gardening fetish of mine. So you see my dilemma? Short of pulling out a similar book, and awaiting question time after, which probably, and forgivably would go a bit like this: ‘WTF was that about mum?’.  My verdict is; he’s too young. What do you reckon?

'show me some luuuuurve, baby'
Some American/Australian friends pointed out to us the other day, as to whether or not we would go outside to drink our tea. ‘Is it raining, raining?’ I ask Alex, ‘or just raining’ the fact we were prepared to go out in rain full stop, let alone rain, rain, was a very British idea! But I did it again today. We have been dished up rain, rain, and more rain for the start of the hols, which I am not grateful for. My one main goal of any given day, they all blur into one these kid days…is to tire the four Duracelled-up kids out. My energy is never any match for theirs, and so ‘art and craft’ activities serve a purpose, but don’t wear them out in the physical way they need. Papier maché does not require a ‘pause for breath’ break, no matter how slap happily you are approaching it. So this morning, we are up and out, walking the dog down to the recycling bin station at the bottom of the hill. Now down hill is one thing in the drizzle. Drizzle always feels like an insult on your skin-extremities poking out the rain mac.  It gets you so very proper wet. And then just as you’ve reached the bottom, your 4 and a half-year-old is moaning about her dead legs, thus I end up with two in the buggy for the uphill retreat (it was a retreat, I, nor the kids, could face it any longer).  So I commence heave up the hill, taking no prisoners, or moaning kids.  Arms outstretched with big fore arms pumping, (for explanation, see legs taking the strain, the wrestling girls would have been proud! Nostrils flared like a dragon on steroids, I set about the uphill struggle, did I mention it was in the rain? Well, it was. I finally make it, and undress, bath and redress four kids. Esmie is confused as to why it was then ‘lunchtime’ not ‘bedtime’. And this takes some explaining.

The weather brightened up later on this afternoon, so I am hoping to outdoor activity it tomorrow…but you never know, well, with me, you probably do! Night all!

Monday, 11 April 2011

Nonchalantly, she picks up her own pooh, and hoys it with gay abandon out onto the bath mat. Nice.

I started off last week having my blog blocked on facebook, as it had been blocked by some straight-arsed b*st*rd for, and I quote, ‘obscene and abusive content’. All I have to say to that is (turn away, dad) B*LL*CKS SH*T B*LL*CKS! and FYI Mr Facebook moderator, a 'cock' is  a male chicken, not a reference to male member.

But there you go. Life goes onwards and onwards…you can but go with it. I am writing this blog whilst Alex, as usual when I am ‘playing’ on the computer, watches UFC fighting. This time  however, it is with a twist, the fighters are women. I just saw a glimpse of one, and remarked to Alex, ‘Oh, poor , poor girl, she’s no longer recognisable as a woman, she looks like a man’ to which Alex replies ‘that’s because it is a man, Tamsyn’. Thank goodness, wouldn’t wish those powerful thighs on any woman!!

it's not right, they're ladies...!

Well it’s the holidays here, and they have kicked off with rain (many expletives), some almighty paddies, and a few time out sessions. Yesterday however, we had some guests, a family have moved here from Australia, and we were delighted to meet them at long last. The kids were angels, and so today we took them to the shops in an attempt to reinforce this behaviour, and treated them to 2 things of their choice that they could feast upon. Their choice was bubble gum (soooooo against fyi, but they had carte blanche, so I had to go with it, and they got them because each one has a tattoo in, which they love, as wrong as I genuinely think 'chewing like a cow, spit it out', is, like my old English teacher used to say to me, sorry, but it's just not 'nice'! And so much for my principles. If my most important principles are not giving in to guggle bum, then I have some stepping up in motherhood to do, I know, but thanks for rubbing it in). Esmie was not allowed one, and thus paddies all the way home kicking her little chubby-chubster legs, thumping her fists and crying ‘guggle bum, meeeeeeeee want guggle bum, give me guggle bum, NOOOOWWW!’ But her cries are to no avail. Unfair? Well, yes, most probably, but at 2 and a half, I don’t think she’s big enough yet to get the whole ‘it may still be flavoursome, but you gotta spit that sucker out now, no swallowing here’. So I suffered the paddy, at least she was literally strapped in (in the car) to see it through. And OMG, she saw that paddy through. The second choice was marsbars. And for the first time in their lives I let them eat a whole one each. That shut Esmie up for a bit. Hopefully they will rememeber being good, followed by huge treats, and I am training them up like Pavlov’s dogs would have been had they had been fed guggle bums and marsbars. Watch this space!

Esmie wakes up at around 11.30 pm. I go up to see what’s up, staggering with tiredness. In honesty, I was a wreck, I usually am come 7pm, immobile, my body goes on strike, nothing moves how I am pleading, rocking in a corner, in tears willing it to. Plates get flung on the floor instead of slid elegantly into my WORKING (yey!) dishwasher, cups hoyed in the sink, I was meaning to ‘gently place’, but something jerky happens to me around evening time. I try and console Esmie, swaying and proceed to burst into lullaby, almost passing out with the exersion, the effort was too much, and I didn’t get past the first syllable. Thankfully she finally went back off without my dulcet tones.

Oh, mum, you're not about to tell everyone that I hoyed my own s*** out the bath with gay abandon are you? Nope, honest.

In the bath tonight, Esmie apparently can’t control her urges, and poohs in the bath. Everyone freaks and starts climbing out going ‘pull back! Jump ship! Run! Esmie’s POOOOOOHEEEEDDDDDDD!’ Esmie is obsessed with her baths, and is often asking me at two in the afternoon for a bath. Nonchalantly, she picks up her own pooh, and hoys it with gay abandon out onto the bath mat. Nice. Quite happy to still stay in there, I have a right slippery struggle to get her out. But I win! So I think that’s 3 to me today, and big fat zero to you baby! Is it wrong to be that competitive, that I feel both right and just in competing with my toddler? Well, whatever gets me through, I say! See y’all soon!!