quick photo- butter monster...

Making cakes with Esmie...check out the teeth marks in the butter when my back was turned...!

And here's the culprit...

Butter wouldn't melt... ;)

Jesus cooked smaller meals for the 5000...

I am, to date, still awaiting the either clippperty clopping of my ‘sheep’ from the bus driver, or the silence of the (dead) lambs… I must admit I am rather thankful to have not yet received them, I am not too excited at the thought of having to cook sheep. If he brings me live ones however, now that's something else way too exciting. They’d be better at mowing the lawn than us-practical, Alex, you see? That’s why I am welcoming in my livestock, in their droves. From our chickens (despite their gargantuan proportions and their bullying the new girls Brigite and Blanchette) we get our eggs. From sheep, well, milk, and then you can make your own cheese, wow,  and they mow the lawn without whinging or putting it off for 2 weeks too long, cats catch things, although as we live in 2011 (it is 2011 isn’t it?) and not in the time of the bubonic plague, this is not a necessity for us, still, it’s what they do. And ducks! Yey! And a frog. All agreed they serve little or no purpose, but they change it up a bit…

So anyway, this weekend has been eventful. We have our friends’ son out here for a fortnight with us, so as he eats for 8 large families, seriously, Jesus cooked smaller meals for the 5000, I have been chain-baking. The kids are on super-hyper-over-driven-a-long-while-back-drive kids. They adore this boy, and are so overexcited. So they’re noisy and will be spending the day in a giant sound proof bubble-what the heck, I’ll throw the chickens in there too. It was Mother's day here in France on Sunday, so I even got a lie in till 9am on Sunday morning. Followed by dozens of gorgeous little hand made presents and cards from the kids, and Quality Street chocolates, which I have not had in years...lovely day.

Chickens are bloody fast. My God, I am exhausted, I feel as though I have just been and completed an extraordinarily complicated Anneka Rice challenge. Bloody hell, I’ve been scratting around under the caravan in our garden for what feels like hours, trying to push them out the other side with sticks, they're going nowhere, stubborn b*tch*s.  Monty just came down and sat on my knee as I typed that paragraph, he was laughing so hard at the image of his mum scratting round in the mud under a caravan for our girls. Who incidentally, up close, have proper ugly ass faces. As I was just doing the garden tidy-up, I have been wrestling them to get them into bed. I’ve given up, and now there is a thunder storm. Well, I tried, there’s only so much scratting round in mud one can do. The cats have been chasing me round to feed them, that is now done. The dog, well, he can eat after I have finished my blog, the world is awaiting it…! I have fed, bathed, pyjamad, teeth brushed, hair brushed, storied and put to bed 4 kids. I then hovered and mopped (phew, the world will not implode tomorrow, you should all be grateful), then cooked up the remaining chickpea burger mix from yesterday up for me, made a fresh batch for the will be ravenous, post-surfing hubby and friends’ son. The chickens are now going mental, Monty has finally given into tiredness, and I can hear him playing with his lego under his den-wait, hang on a cotton picking minute, he’s still up. Time to intervene...Right, now he’s not, there is, finally peace…No, no, now it’s the effing chickens again, I got the washing in, that’s safe from thunder and lightening, but the chickens are still out there on mass. The little 2 are still making that cute cheapy-cheap noise, before it turns into the most noisy insulting Boc-Boc-Boccing, that is so intense you find yourself wanting to rip their adorned with a red flap heads off. Ooooof. That was quite cathartic that, admitting it. Good God and Babara Streisand, I hope another one doesn’t drop down dead tomorrow. Another ‘will-kill’ on my hands.  

Well, I am going to make an effort tomorrow and not go round the ENTIRE day with my top on inside out. Thanks Alex for pointing that out to me at 7 pm, when the day was over. The whole day spent looking like I had finally lost it, gone bananas, flipped. So tomorrow is a new day, and I am going out there, head held high, deoderant in place, armed with 4 kids and a top on THE RIGHT WAY round, I shall rule it tomorrow! See ya!

Tamsyn x

my mother's day....

How lucky am I!!! Proper spoiled, chocolates and everything!!

I got a lie in this morning till 9am...and now hubby's gone off for a surf....still, he cooked us all brunch too, so I figured he deserved a surf ticket...yeah right! we're all heading down to join him at the beach as soon as I can this bunch organised...aaaagggrrrrrrr...Help? Anyone? Nope, OK, fair enough. Have a great Sunday anyway, you selfish ********s....*walks off muttering, obscentities stream from otherwise both beautiful and innocent mouth...*

Save the Children...

Drawings by my lot for Save The Children…

In June David Cameron is hosting the global vaccine summit in London, attended by world leaders. Save the Children has launched a campaign to ensure the funding shortfall for vaccinations (4.7 billion) is met by all the donor countries. 8 million children under the age of 5 die each year from treatable or preventable illness. One in five children receives no vaccines at all – they are the poorest, most marginalised children most at risk of killer illnesses such as pneumonia, diarrhoea and measles.

If you do nothing else, please sign the Save the Children petition here.

I have been tagged by Motherporridge, asking me to join in by passing on the petition, The rules are as follows:

1) Get your child to either draw or craft a self-portrait of themselves now or in the future, perhaps imagining what they will look like or what they might do.

2) Sign the Save the Children petition and share news of it with your friends.

3) Come back and join the linky here.

4) Tag 8 bloggers to do the same.

I asked all my kids what they wanted to be when they grew up…here are their responses…

The pictures: from biggest to littlest, we are going to the shops to get more colouring pens as they are on their last legs and Monty and Lola were very frustrated doing their’s saying it ‘wasn’t good’…blaming the tools. But anyway, here they are for the world to judge.

Monty wants to be the following: a Zoo Keeper, a ‘Policemen’, a Climber, a Karate, UFC and Judo champion and an Astronaut. So we’ll see how he gets on after he discovers girls and beer…

He actually called his picture 'rubbish', and pointed out he'd done arms coming out of the Astronaut's boobies.

Lola wants to be a mummy Princess, and have 3 kids. 

Lola is not doing anymore till we get some non dried up pens...fair enough, we get the gist!

Mitzi wants to be a climber, she always has wanted to be, a mountain climber, and eat icecreams in 'clocky' shoes.

These feet could be trotters, or 'clocky' shoes, and she's in the process of climbing, hence the hands in the air look.

Esmie, like Pinocchio, wants to be a real boy or a spider. We may have some full on issues to break through with her…

Pretty full on spider...

I do hope she may change her mind about being a real boy....

So there we have it, and the following, you’re IT!

Notanottinghillmum

SAHMlovingit

Honestmummy

Waterbirthplease

Imjustabitwonkey

Thisisus

bodfortea

diaryofaditzymummy

well, come on...what you waiting for??!

she could be mistaken, and we would find ourselves with a big fat cock in our hands…

who can resist them...?

Right, I have finally remembered, after 8 months of searching, what the big red flappy thing on top of the chickens’ heads is called. And I felt compelled to share it with you all. A ‘crest’ that’s right isn’t it? I have known it in French, une crete, well at least I imagine it is spelled with the feminine ‘the’ –‘une’ as all their nouns have ‘le’ or ‘la’ preceding them, depending on whether the noun in question is a masculine or feminine word respectively. And in my mind, the word for big red flappy thing, must be a girl associated word, correct me if I’m wrong…? I am on the chicken theme because following the untimely death of our chicken Meg (please refer to blog http://manic-mums.blogspot.com/2011/04/im-as-soft-as-moob.html….to find out whys and wherefores…) when she died very suddenly the day after the chicken’s had been driving me to Nutsville on the ‘we’ve been let out for into the community for a day for god behaviour’ bus, I finish (and start) the day by saying loudly and regularly that ‘I want to kill the effing chickens’, well the next day, she snuffed it. Anyway, to cut a long one short, my friend has hatched and is raising chicks at hers, so she tells me to come down and get another one. We do just this, and then went back this evening to get another, and order 2 ducklings for 2 weeks time, after we’ve got some water sorted in the garden, Alex, honey, you’re digging a pond this weekend!! So that’s that.

Mitzi is away tonight, she has gone on an overnight school trip to a nature reserve place. It’s only 20 minutes away, which is reassuring, because I am expecting a call at midnight tonight saying that ‘Madame Wood, we have 65 children who are still not asleep, various mummy volunteers and teachers who are not either. Mitzi  being the culprit. She’s had a proper nasty cough which kept most of us up most of the night, and I didn’t want to send her, although she seems completely unphased by it, the teacher said she should come anyway, they would ring me at 8pm tonight to let me know, and I could always come and fetch her at worst. So I am going to be sleeping fully clothed and shoed up tonight, just in case.

The arrival of the first new chicken really got Margot’s goat up. Is that even an appropriate phrase to use when one is talking about a chicken? What would the animal equivalent be? ‘Yeah, that donkey, he really gets my human up, man.’ It’s all sounding too weird now, I am stopping this nonsense. So she hates the new girl, and tonight, flies at her, flapping wildly and over dramatically, big flappy red thing on head flip-flapping from side to side with vigour, she hurls herself on the new girl, who incidentally is called ‘Blanchette’ ‘Whitey’ (the friend who gave her to me named her). She does a full on belly flop, like some WWF fighter with red flaps and wings, nice. The new, new one is ‘Brigite’. Although the friend did warn me that as they’re young, she could be mistaken, and we would find ourselves with a big fat cock in our hands…now just for the record Facebook banners out there, I am referring to a male chicken, not a male member. It’s true you know, I was blocked for a while for ‘rude, offensive and obscene content’. I even had to contact them and explain all this ‘cock’ business to them, and that I was just a mummy trying to change the world through my blog…Seems to be working too, I hear World peace is just around the corner.

I am now off to take time to pamper my self, after mopping the floor, well, I’ll at least take the time to put some deoderant on, that counts. And then I must break the news to Alex about the duck pond (which we’ve found a frog for-no, not a random French dude squatting in our back garden, going 'ribbit ribbit' with a French accent, a real live one who lives in our garden and talks to Monty, true that, Monty’s fluent in frog) which he will be fashioning this weekend.

QUACK QUACK, RIBBIT RIBBIT! Hey, the old Mac Donald’s farm song is coming along…few more small animals to get. Alex? Alex? …*tumbleweeds* *spooky howling wind sounds*

See ya!

Tamsyn x

PS

Btw, can you help? It’s the names for our ducks, we cannot settle on them. Here’s the suggestions to date: Donald and duck, to Homer and Marge, Brad and Anjelina, to my astoundingly intelligent offering of Posh and Beaks…geddit? How funny am I?

flashlastnight, glimpse of hubby's antics, whilst I blog and thus change the world...

Last night as I did my blog-my man slept it up on the sofa next to me...hard times...

It’s a coming of age when your 7 and a half-year-old son 'ders' you for the first time.

Phoooaaarrrrrr!

Monty is sad when he comes in from school tonight. I ask him what’s bothering him as we have a cuppa and draw at the table after school tonight. He tells me about a boy ‘Justin Bieber’ (say it with a French accent, and pronounce the Bieber, Beebear, and you’re kinda there, it was a good effort for a beginner). He says all the girls are ‘amoureuse de lui’ in love with him. I ask him if this is a new boy in his school (keep reading-I realise my unbelievably behind the times mistake in a minute) he says no, it’s a film star, der. Or something along those lines. The ‘der’ gets me thinking. I am obviously not just wrong, but ‘der’ wrong. It’s a coming of age when your 7 and a half-year-old son 'ders' you for the first time. This was serious. I busy myself Googling Justin Beebear. Oh, OK, only the modern day new Brad Pitt. My son’s der was justified, if a little rude. I have been derred and shamed guys. In my defence, I never read magazines, we do not have a working T.V and I catch up with news on the computer, and rarely do this, thus living in blissful ignorance of the self-destructing planet we are living on with Justin Bieber, lucky us. So you see, I am behind, but I am not taking responsibility. Good philosophy that. Treat life like you’re an insurance firm ‘ah yes, Mrs Wensley (where’d Wensley come from?) we see that your house just burned down, but you see, from the evidence, there are your finger prints all over it, so we’re aware, but taking no responsibility’. As Mrs Wensley cries you w*nk*r, I live there, that is why you have found my fingerprints all over it.

In our house, we have a dog who is frightfully gay, the chickens who are mutating into giant, carnivorous flapping ostriches, we have 3 cats too. One who is the laziest cow in the whole of the animal kingdon. She’s 10, she was abandoned and we found her at 6 weeks old, her name is Angelica the fat cat. Initially it was simply Angelica. She is shizer at catching daddy long legs, when how can this be that a daddy long legs, by name it suggest it’s giant long-gangly-legged proportions, and yet she cannot really even catch one of these. Yesterday, was a monumental moment for us, at the age of 10, she caught her first ever mouse. It was still alive, and unharmed, so I rescued it and set it free, or sent it on to another worse death.

The mouse hid in my arm crease, and I carried it to freedom...

Bumble, the 3^rd cat we got who we found in the field last summer, has not yet had his ‘bits’ chopped off, and is causing issues with Weetabix the 2^nd cat we found. Alex explains to Monty about a little operation to chop off Bumble’s ‘nuggets’ (his Dad’s choice of phrase) and he’ll be less aggressive. Monty wondered whether the 2 naughty aggressive boys at school could have their nuggets chopped off to chill them out. Hmmm, I’ll suggest it to the mums…

I have Esmie throwing the most insane paddies when everyone is back in from school. She’s into everything, apart from sitting down, and is generally good as gold for me in the days when it’s just her. The minute we get in from the school run, she grizzles, follows me round throwing tantrums over nothing-different child. My discipline practice has always been to lock them in a cupboard ignore completely tantrums and paddies, and big up to the point of sounding like mummy Barney (that f*ck*ng annoying American purple dinosaur-how come he survived the extinction? Cruel world that sings relentlessly about ‘happy, happy I’m so happy’ things) when the behaviour’s something you want practiced. But despite many efforts I am not hearing the end of the paddies just yet. It’s not even like she needs to battle for attention, she’s still carried around lots, helps me cook and although I do make it clear that it’s the other’s time for a bit now as they’ve been at school all day, It’s not as though I leave her in the car and get the other 3 in and homeworked/bathed/fed/read to/beded.

Comeon kids, be happy happy happy and sing happy things with me....

I can but try as someone or other said, never a truer word in my case! Tomorrow we’re getting a new chicken! To replace the deceased (R.I.P Meg), then collecting Lola’s best friend and taking her and Lola to a party, after somehow before 2 o’clock getting a present and her dressed up as a princess (yawn) again. So I am now off to prepare mentally for the angel child who got dropped off, to have turned into a e-numbered up, fizzy popped up to the eyeballs..Bejazus, it’s gonna be the real rock and roll tomorrow at party kicking out everyone-else’s-kids-at-long-last-and-now-you-have-to-invite-mine-to-your’s-so-I-get-3-hours-off-too, share and share alike.

There we go, I’m off now, I’m bored-see you all!

Tamsyn x

Madam Wood the Domestic Goddess...(i have made myself my own crown and 'well done to me' badge)

Well this week is vegetarian week, so today I am putting up a recipe for one of my veggie burgers-no they're not disgustingdon'twantit-give them a try, you'll be mighty impressed (possibly). I do make a lot of burgers for us, as it's easy and quick and a good texture replacement for the 'meat' on your plate...Without getting all Nigella on you, here it is:

This will serve 4-6 people:

• 400g white beans (pre-cooked ones, or out of a tin)
• 1 medium red onion
• 1 medium white onion
• 3 cloves garlic
• 1 medium/large finely grated carrot
• chick pea flour or plain flour (although chick pea flour's best) for binding the mixture
• 4 large table spoons soy sauce
• oil

Bung everything (you can tell by my terminology, the use of the word 'bung' I am clearly a budding Domestic Goddess in the making, watch out Nigella, Madam Wood's on her way...). Anyway, bung it all except the grated carrot, flour and soy sauce in a food blender. Whizz it all up (the technical wording gets richer).

Then add the soy sauce, carrot and enough flour so the consistency is not too wet, and makes patties easily.

I feel awfully grown up using the word 'patties'...make them into patties/burger shapes.

Heat about 2 mm of oil in a pan, fry one side till golden brown, then the other side.

And VOILA!! you have yummy veggie burgers...serve however you want, chips, burger bun..go wild.

I would just LOVE to know if there is anyone out there brave enough to try these...! please let me know if you did, and what you think...(hears tumble weeds blowing across screen). 

Have a happy veggie week!!

See you tomorrow, Tamsyn x

I am forced to streak in the garden, forced.

So the world didn’t end on Saturday, second time we’ve been let down. Or maybe it actually did, and this is a brand new one, exactly the same, and we have had our minds brainwashed and have no memory of the world’s end. Maybe. Anyway, whatever, I survived! And so did you, and my blog (and the fooking chickens) so I am happy (enough).

disclaimer: Not an actual picture of Alex's Nan...

We went away this weekend. Alex’s Nan and her sister (92-years-old and 82-years-old respectively) flew out to France on their own to see us! Alex’s parents have a mobile home further north in France, roughly 5 hours from us, and they spend 6 months a year there, 6 months in England. So Nan and Aunty Bet have come to stay with her and see us. The kids were stars, Nan and Aunty Bet were blown away by how independent and self sufficient Esmie was-yes, I reason, although I doubt it has much to do with the fact that she is extraordinarily advanced, rather more to do with my mothering skills, she has learned independence, because if she didn’t get herself dressed/do up her own buttons/put her own shoes on/read herself her bedtime stories, then she’d be constantly going round unbuttoned, or worse naked, bare foot and unread to. We managed to get through it without toddlers swearing, and no old women got taken out either, so in my eyes, this is always gonna be a successful trip. However just before I left I decided that as we would be gone for a night, I’d like to give the House the best possible chance of smelling habitable for humans, rather than habitable for animals. I lit an insense stick, locked up and left. Shortly after arriving I realise what I just did. I may as well have lit a match, chucked it in the house and shut the door on it. As if one does that? Lights insense sticks, actually leaves something burning in their house when they leave for the weekend? Me, obviously. I spent the whole time we were there having visions of coming home to ashes where the house once stood, and on entering the street, my heart starts racing, convinced I can smell a cross between BBQ cat and chicken wafting down the road, as we get closer, I think quickly, how to get out of this? I know, and I cover my eyes with my hands so noone can see me anymore, well it works for kids. When I look up, the house is there, not burned to a cinder. Someone’s on my side this week, I have not had to start it having burned downed my own house, which is always a positive.

A strange thing I noticed this weekend-not the strangest thing by a long chalk (by a long chalk? By a LONG, CHALK..? A long one…OK. Point made), but my nail varnish has not chipped. Fascinating. But bear with me-the bigger picture-here it is. A night away meant I had less skivvy jobs to fulfil, and no floors to mop! So I now realise, were I not a mother, I would be stunning-absolutely drop dead GORGEOUS, a veritable Helen of Troy, Angelina Jolie, Alice Cooper (? Now she’s getting  more realistic)…I could sport fashionable heels, have rouged lips (not nivea smeared under my nose making me look like I snort drugs for breakfast), unchipped nail varnish, no bags resembling the Titanic’s safety rings, and above all, absolutely no crippling dire need for Botox. Just think! But then, you know, there’s that, but it would mean sending my kids back, would you believe me if I said I had a lump in my throat saying that? No? Oh, because you actually saw me crack my head on the floor, falling off my seat over-zealously wooping.

Last night, after getting back late from the long drive, I am forced to streak in the garden, forced. There was no conscious decision in it, the heavens, out of nowhere, opened, and the suitcase full of clothes was outside the garage, the lawn mower still on the lawn, I have just had a bath and have to rectify this, there was no choice, a towel would just slow me down, half bent over trying to keep it concealing my ‘bits’. So I go without, we are fairly isolated where we live, I would not practice this type of behaviour if we lived in a built up area, for example, so if you did happen to get an unfortunate glimpse-I am both sorry and utterly mortified, but I hope you understand, I had no choice.

Everyone asleep, including the dog...!

Right I am off to get on with my Monday, after changing the trousers I put on and spilt burning coffee on, the scalding sensation has cooled now, but I am wet, and refuse to start my week going round with inappropriate crotch stains…

Have a good one!

Tamsyn x

Our drive home today...

Introducing the long suffering, long distance trooper driver, Alex...

The Sleeping Beauties (and Minnies)

And the Road...The looooong drive home-but it was worth it.

We drove 5 hours north to see my husband's nan, 92 and sister Aunty Bet 82, who flew here to France to see us! they're staying with my mum-in-law 5 hours from us, hence the weekend escapade...more about it in tomorrow's blog!

happy Sunday night!

x

Dear god, please don’t have left the heads on…

Last night, Esmie kicks off for some reason at about 10pm, she does wake up still a few times in the night (as do the others, but that’s another story for the ‘sleepaholic-depriveds’ anonymous’). I go up, and attempt to cross the room in the pitch black, braying myself on the obstacles which have quite clearly been got out after lights out, and in the interim before the ‘calling’ up goes from just that, calling ‘beds now kids, it was lights out….such and such a time ago’ to ‘GET INTO YOUR BED NOW! OR THERE WILL BE NO TREATS FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIVES!!’, this is what they have been doing, getting everything that’s not nailed to floor out, upside down and on the floor, creating giant hard traps for blinded mummy by the dark to trip over. I succeed in staying upright (although in various versions of this), and reach the crying child not unharmed, and after she’s heard the barrage of ‘ooooh sh*t, f**k, ooo what was that effing thing there?’ out of her own mother's mouth, but I settle her, for a while…

My little angels...!! The two little 'uns...butter wouldn't melt...and then night time strikes...

Dreams are funny things. Many dreams are out there for the subconscious to reinact, and that is why I was rather troubled by mine last night. Since I can remember I have always had very vivid dreams, that feel as though they are real life. Last night, I dreamed that I had somehow taken the most hideous picture (not that difficult of strange) and put it as my face book profile picture. I couldn’t get this picture off, and I had loads of comments from people asking if I was alright, as it was horrendous the picture, just awful. I have no idea what this means…I could stab at a few reasons. But at the end of the day, it didn’t happen, it was all a dream…or was it?

pursed lips...and what are all those straps about too? nuff said.

Monty is onto his 4^th wobbly tooth, the 2^nd top right is now threatening to jump, hanging on with all it’s little might, waiting for the right moment to be inhaled/swallowed/fall down toilet, thus finishing finally his duty, and being kept in a box till our next move when I decide to throw every thing out, and only keep the first. He asks us when he realises it’s wobbly if he can cut it out with scissors-again (yeas, he did this the last time) to which we both simultaneously reply ‘Errrrrrr, no’. It stays in his head. Talking of heads, and you will see why, the bus driver I did the translation for drops Monty off at the girls’ school (very handy, as they are in 2 different locations at the same finishing times).  He asks me how much he owes me, and tell him he’s mad. It was a favour. He will not take no for an answer (and internally I was begging him too, I did not want him bringing round 2 whole chickens for me to dehead *borks* at the memory, again). I laugh and joke to him that no way was I having him bring me round chickens again, and he looks at me and says: ‘Do u like sheep?’ he asks. I look at him, tears in my eyes and squeeze out the word ‘yes’ whilst screaming maniacally ‘nooooooooo!’ in my head. Oh. My. God. Do I like sheep? Is this a practical joke perhaps? And then he verifies with me the numbers in the house, begging myself to tell him there’s noone else, I tell him squeakily ‘six’. I have visions of my kids sitting down to dinner and say, mum, what’s for dinner tonight? And me serving them up sheep, and them going, oh mum, we’ve been eating this every night for 2 years now…when will it ever end?? I should have just said yes to the money…! Not that I am ungrateful, just I could have done more with cash, than sheep. He gives me a knowing look, and says he’ll see me soon. Dear god, please don’t have left the heads on…

BAAAAAAAAA.....

I will kneel tonight in prayer ‘dear god, please sdon’t let the bus driver bring me round headed or unheaded sheep…’. And then finish off dehairing the dog (which is like trying to get fly sh*t off a pinhead with boxing gloves on...in all honesty. I clip the dog from head to paw, twice a year. Today, mid clip, they die on me. Would you believe it the bloody most essential piece of equipment, as it too, shave Alex’s beard regularly, and head occasionally, although he doesn’t know yet I do this and use them to shave round the dog’s bits…wonder how that’s gonna go down? The dog looks abominable, half wild, matted dirty, nested in hair (not going to point out again that they are also my husband’s clippers…), half freshly shaven and clean looking. S disgrace to the dog world. I had to finish off with scissors, which was worse that trying to get fly sh*t off a pin head with boxing gloves on, far worse. I have blisters on my hands from the friction, and have still not finished him. He has huge hairy paws and a big hairy bum. It’ll get done when my blisters have healed…anyway, I was in the middle of signing off, so I shall-Good bye!

Tamsyn x  

flashtoday, quick pic...

This morning, Monty at school, Lola has twisted her ankle jumping out of the forbidden tree, Mitzi, I only put in school Friday morning, and Esmie, well, she's always there......!

why in Latin did they insist on spelling everything with 'anus' at the end...?

Well, I have to say, I really enjoyed my mopping sesh tonight. Most satisfactory. About the most satisfactory thing that has happened to me all week. I’m about 2 steps forward, one thousand five hundred and eighty nine back these days. Whether it’s the befuddled ‘there’s too many kids, we should have watched more T.V, Alex’ trying to think swarmed by kids, or general lack of brain function due to me just being me, battling giant ostriches pretending to be chickens in my back garden, me. I have taken issue with my flock. They have not had any eggs for 3 days-we are going on an egg hunt tomorrow, I do hope I have not left the door of the caravan in our garden open. All hell would have broken loose. And we’re due about 9 eggs…

You know what? As I write, I frequently made outstandingly aware of my lack of knowledge surrounding fowl language. Is it a ‘flock’ of chickens? I don’t really care, I am using it anyway even if it is wrong, as it ‘fitted’. And whilst we’re on the topic of fowl, I opened up a whole can of worms yesterday in declaring firstly that peacocks pew, correcting myself after a Google search to find out they ‘lou-lou’. Now it seems that for half of you out there, this is your word for a girl’s front bottom. The equivalent of these majestic creatures with Turrets’ syndrome yelling out ‘front bottom-front bottom’ in all our faces. Even the queen keeps them-so are they in fact greeting the Queen, courtsying and yelling ‘front bottom!’ ‘Oh, do excuse me your Highness’? And then, there are some of you who correct me too. It is neither ‘pewing’ they do, NOR ‘lou-lou’-ing that they do, they do ‘sreeeeeeem’ noises, it turns out. To my mind this is crap. With a tail as magnificent as that, a peacock damn well warrants shouting ‘front bottom, front bottom’, not ‘sreeeeem’. So what the hell was I listening to? This is all getting too complicated. But I must give credit to that very knowledgeable lady with a life story you can read (and oh my golly gosh it’s so worth the read) here- http://fastandluce.blogspot.com/ . It was she, that let me into the fact peacocks ‘sreeeeeam’. I am forever grateful.

Still on the topic of birds (sorry, unless you’re a member of the RSPB, and you’ll be really enjoying my account, I should well imagine…) we went on a dog walk today, it’s been beautiful and hot here for a few days. Monty spots a bird in the field and tells us all to shhhhhhh and slowly creep up on it. It flew off, but I told him to hold a mental image of it, then ‘Google’ it when we got in. I imagine it set him off thinking for a while what ‘Googling’ meant. So Googling went well, we went onto an RSPB site, and discovered, after disregarding some suggestions which went from the ‘spotted skint’ to the ‘little tern’ to the ‘little ringed plover’ all of which sound like porn stars. I had no idea the RSPB were into that. It got kinkier, so Monty settled on the ‘frocolanus africanus’ bird, (which doesn’t sound kinky at all). Which turns out to be a wild turkey cross-bred, that live in South America. So I told him it must have got a plane over, just trying to keep my little boy’s dream alive…! Just a quick question-why in Latin did they insist on spelling everything with 'anus' at the end...?

This is an actual frocolanus africanus

I managed, finally , to get all the books covered and repaired and re-issued for Monty’s school today. We then made gooey chocolate cakes to take to a friend’s who lives in the house at the bottom of our dog walk, so we sometimes call in. Anyway, we were almost there, I had got the paddying Esmie to agree to go in the pushchair, not on my shoulders or the scooter, which were her ultimatums, oh, and she can ultimate! It was safer for her to be tied down strapped in somewhere, as I let the others take bikes/scooters. I could at least, worse case scenario, hoy the pushchair into the ditch and run down to rescue a fallen child this way. It took FOREVER finding shoes, too dirty to take out in public, although totally OK with it all day in the house quick clothes changes x 4, tripping over the insanely excited dog who can’t even see his hair’s so long, 45 minutes to get out. But I did it, we were ready, I place the cakes on top of the pushchair, and my friend drives passed and bibs and waves on her way out…still, at least we had more cakes for us!

Lola's 5th Birthday cake-this year, she's ordered Strawberry Shortcake, damnit, insects are so easy!

Talking of which, I am going to go and eat one now, although the kids did request I hide them from Daddy and not tell him we had been baking, as if he knew we had chocolate cakes, the kids would not have any the next day…!

See you tomorrow!

Tamsyn x

flashback, quick pic...

Me and the kids 2 summers ago, semi naked and hot, we didn't make it over the hill behind us to the actual beach...(oh, and a brief dying hair brown phase...)

'We’re not ever having them in our home again, Roger’

Listening to the peacocks pewing, I felt almightily impressed with myself for knowing that word. Funny, now I am in complete and utter self doubt as ‘spell check’ on Word has underlined it insistently in bright red. It’s only other option it has given me is ‘pawing’, and I know full well you have to have paws to warrant that. I must now go on a swift ‘Google’ quest to check, before I put this up and thus make a complete Tinsel out of myself *laughs to self as possibly only I get this* (brief fill in: my son referred to The Little Mermaid as having ‘big Tinsels’ in her shell bra).

You know what? Scrap the above paragraph, it took me ages to find it-and it turns out, they do not ‘pew’ at all. My son had visions of them pretend shooting each other going ‘pew, pew’ like his useless-at-making-shooting-noises mum. The real name is ‘lou-lou’. So peacocks do not ‘pew’, they ‘lou-lou’ (golly my blog is turning into a right Really Wild Show, remember that show back in the 80’s? With the mad dude with a speech impedement and peroxide hair?). I suppose it had to be a posh noise, peacocks are posh after all. In fact in searching for what their noise was, I saw a question from someone asking whether peacocks were of a loud or quiet nature, he was after a quiet bird to keep as a pet, and although a peacock was his outright preference, he lived in a tower block and didn’t want the neighbours to alert the land lord he had pets, thus a quiet bird required. I made the livin gin a flat bit out, but it was stupid anyway. Idiot, as if you aren’t aware that a peacock makes a noise.

The Really Wild Show- remember it?? It was WILD...roar.

Following my bronchitis, which I just had to forget I had in the end, what option do I have with my bunch of keen Whippets on amphetamines? But I now have Monty with larangitis, and Mitzi came out of school red eyed and hot and floppy looking (noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo, sinks slowly to knees, forgetting age…gets stuck) so I may be able to get Lola to school tomorrow, but not the rest. The girls came home with 3 Birthday invitations tonight. Great, they’re popular (well in that they have not managed to get a naughty kid, 'we’re not ever having them in our home again, Roger’ reputation amongst the parents) but at the same time, OMG, THREE, all in the same weekend, and all with presents to buy, and no pound shop (that's a joke...or is it...?). So again I cry ‘Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo’, as I think of the after effects-they are sent home by parents going ‘yes, it went really surprisingly, as they got hold of the real whisky, and liqueur chocolates, but you know, they’ll sleep well, goodbye now’ and with that, you are left, stranded on the outside, with a child you fail to recognise, having drunk themselves silly on fizzy pop, eaten sweets like they thought they warded off broccoli or something, they then enter the house, they puke on occasion, on entry too. Then to fly around the house, e-numbered and super sugared up till you can’t take it anymore and they end up in bed, still fully clothed, derobing would just not have been worth it, and once, without even brushing teeth too-I know, after all that sugar, bad mother, in my defence it was not after the puking incident.

Esmie's 2nd Birthday party last Summer, the gypo encampment we offered waifs and strays (well, friends) in our garden.

Monday I did the school drop off, then onto pick a parcel up from the Post office from ‘I’ve been chewing wasp arses my entire life, and now they’re beginning to sting my tongue’ face, then back home to put second wash load on, to chuck back in remaining ill kids in car, to pick up Make-up lady to take her to the next town where she needed to get to. I then came back, put littlest and illest to bed, did a translation of a letter for the authorities that be in Russia (the local school bus driver and his wife adopted a boy from Russia 2 years ago, and there’s a report of progress to do for the 2 years following adoption, so today I did it for the last time), and I hope to god in the heavens that he does not bring round 2 HUGE badger sized chickens that I have to cut the head off to eat (even though I’m vegetarian, as I explained once before in a blog, the way my husband and I are vegetarians is  like this: if you know me, know I am a vegetarian, and you invite me round for dinner, I would feel comfortable telling you I’d prefer a veggie dish…if I do not know you, you do not know I am vegetarian and you invite me for dinner and you have cooked me meat, I will grtatefully eat it. For me, it would be worse karma to refuse your efforts and thoughtfulness, than to eat the meat. I hope this makes sense, and that I have put it across in the right way, I mean to offend noone, honestly! So on this occasion last year, I ate chicken, as to have turned round to him and said, thanks for the chickens, but I’m gonna cook ‘em up for the dog’, I believe that would have been far worse. So there we go, it’s like that. The day carried on and finally ended at 7pm tonight when I had had enough. Everyone went to bed, and they were asleep by 7.30, which in this house is a rarity, and a treat, every once in a while…! A quiet house …ooooooo, think I’ll go and blog.

Night all, Tamsyn x

flashback, quick pic...

Monty, Lola, Mitzi. Only 3 kids, 1 dog and a cat at this point in time-how things have a changed!

ze wrong kinda animal lovin’...

You will soon learn of his relevance... I'm a HUGE fan, in weality...

Ze way zings are pronounced ‘ere in France, are not ze (I’ll stop this now, my point is made) same quite obviously, they speak French and not English. It means that for the grown up tongue, it’s ever so hard to get it round some sounds. My kids have an advantage, they have no accent, apart from the local one, which, as long as it’s not the equivalent to a thick Brummy accent (really sorry folks, but it’s quite something the Birmingham accent!!) then I am alright with that. I like to think it is akin to the Cornish accent, it has a twang and seems to be the French equivalent (she hopes). What it does mean, is that as an adult, I will always have my accent, and sometimes the odd word is particularly difficult to pronounce, despite one’s best efforts. For me, I have called people incorrect names (not the end of the world, but when you call someone it for 2 years until they finally get the courage to tell you you’ve been calling them ‘Basil’ for the last 2 years when in fact their name is Cillia, then it’s somewhat embarrassing). They say (literally translated in French) that you ‘do’ a sport. You ‘do’ horse riding for example. The problem with my husband’s preference of sport is that for me as a Brit trying to pronounce it, I often end up pronouncing quite audibly the word for ‘fawn’. ‘Surf’ is surf, and ‘cerf’ is fawn, although spelled differently, pronounced, the vowels are said slightly differently. I have often enthusiastically told people that my husband has gone off to ‘do’ fawns, so we Brits in France may be getting an unfavourable reputation for ze wrong kinda animal lovin’. It nearly got me sterilised too, the word for the coil and sterilisation is very similar, and I was met by a stern refusal, I was too young. I, confused was quite adamant that this should be a common procedure, especially seeing as I now had FOUR kids…and may need a little break…(nervous breakdown kinda break came later…). To cut a long one short, I’d said the wrong word, and it got sorted in the end, without drastic measures. Hallelujah.

My man catchin' a wave...watch out for that Jaws....

The other problem with living here, is that I cannot send my kids to a Speech Therapist to aid in their pronunciation of the ‘th’ sound or the English ‘r’ sound. As it’s not a sound that’s around them, I have to reinforce it. It is painful thinking I have moved my kids to a foreign country, and thus forcing them to speak like mini-Johnathon Rosses. The ‘th’ sound, which is ‘ze’ here (come on, make an effort French nation…) and the ‘r’ sound is a different one. It is also an extraordinarily sound to explain to do-try it, and you yourself will see that this woman speaks a lorra, lorra sense.  Thankfully my sister is a Speech Therapist, and with some handy tits tips, I am gently trying to encourage correct pronunciation in a healthy, fun and educational way…HA! I will put them all in front of an interview with Johnathon Ross, where every answer he gives begins with an ‘r’, and tell them this is where they are big fat headed for, their destiny if they don’t make an effort…!  By the way Johnathon Ross, if you are reading this, and I am convinced that you are, no offense, at least you always know who’s on the phone when you call.

I spent the afternoon in bed on Friday, I have managed to get myself Bronchitised up, thankfully it’s not pig flu, as suggestions began in the morning from a few other mums. They’re still obsessed, the French. I HATE being ill, it stops me from doing things that if do not get done, a volcano would erupt somewhere, mopping my floors are that important. But my husband held the fort like a Trojan, no nonsense, all of us fed and cleaned and he managed to get a late evening fawn surf in (he’d put the kids to bed before he went, bless). Today I’ve been a wee bit zonked, the horse-pill sized antibiotics, which I’m not entirely convinced the size of them is really necessary, although I shan’t be trying them elsewhere-you never can be sure in a country with a penchant for suppositories. Don’t get me started!

There we go, am a broken lady, and am sure my (prescription) drugs are about due, geddin…!

Have a peaceful Sunday, Tamsyn x

flashback, quick pic...

I have decided that inbetween blogs, I will put up a 'flashback, quick pic' a photo and caption, to fill in the blanks. And in my mind, there are many. So, here's the first of many more!!

A baby mitzi, photo was taken a few weeks after we moved to France, this is in our first House there. (She lost the baby chubble!!)

A woman would have done it already, with bells on.

Two summers ago...how it flies...

I have been trying to put this blog up, with full on bronchitis, horse sized antibiotics and my blogger thing being 'unavailable' all day. most frustrating, I have been in bed since 3pm (thanks hubby for holding the fort) and have got out of bed just this once to post up my blog...what dedication! mind you, probably won't be worth it now!

I ask Alex to grab me a cup of water as he went to the kitchen, he hands me a cup nearby, and I realise just as it touches my lips that it is the bath Lola had made for her plastic rabbit bath toy thingy. It’s luke warm soapy bath water that my daughter (littlest) weed in just to add to the flavour, and the sterility, although I hear wee is sterile, so that was potentially not the worst thing in there. Now with plastic toy in tow, I mention to Alex I would probably prefer a glass of fresh water. That is how my day ended yesterday, almost consuming wee, that and putting the small semi-psychotic herd of wart hogs to bed, end of day hoover/mop/tidy/stack dishwasher etcetera, etcetera (posh voice needed).

So Thursday morning, I am up with the sparrows, and on the right side of the bed! Wowsers, I really thought that was just a myth. But it turns out, it is possible to get up on the right side. Then I wake up, at the crack of sparrows, and it had all been a dream. There is no right side, and I, as every morning, bleary eyed and wishing I could just grab and extra 24 hours worth of sleep, and pretend the day I have got up for never existed, must continue on. Never gonna happen, sleeping through a whole day, unluckily for me I was not named Sleeping Beauty and until Monsieur Time-Machine sorts himself out and actually fulfils his family name, I’ll be weathering it out. Come on Time Machine man, a woman would have done it already, with bells on. Still, I persevere with the day, and press on like a donkey after a carrot. I had no idea how I was possibly going to fit in all I had to do, phone calls to make, Make-up lady to take to the shops, letters to write, translations to be done, places to collect things from, places to take things too, recycling to be done, tidying, cleaning, kids…you get it, right? Good, then I shan’t add the latter half of the list. Do you know what? I got almost all of it done, and even managed to polish the bin, who does that??! Have you ever polished your bin? No? Well, don’t, imagine the results: ‘Oooo I can even see my face in the bin, not to mention I could drink off my floor’ because you know what? I reckon no one is ever, ever going to mention that to dinner guests, like ever. Something weird came over me, and the polish frenzy whilst toddler slept took me over. But I really nearly did it! Oh well, better luck tomorrow. 

The Time Machine ... come on someone, fashion it...

Yesterday, as there’s no school here on Wednesdays as all regular readers know, but that I still have to state, in case there are newbies (poor sods), so I booked in to go on like a locally arranged garden walk thing. Being a mummy who would like to live 24/7 outdoors (better out than in, you see, just keeps it’s relevance), and also that I have ‘nature’ children (hmmmmm, WHACK across face with ‘nature’ leaf and twig handbag to posh bitch mum in St. Albans), the children share my outdoor enthusiasm. I had been sceptical; it was in public after all, with the 4 kids. But it was amazing. I was brimming with pride as my son asked nonstop questions about the flora and fauna, and tasted every leaf going (the edible ones I might add). He kept looking around ‘wowing’ at trees and getting his sisters to taste the plants (the daisy didn’t go down too well) and putting his hand up, bouncing round the Leader dude, what would their title be? Chief Garden Walker of Groups? Anyway, around him, asking questions and answering everything before the guy had finished (not always right, but nice effort!). It was such a wonderful walk, and such a success that I shall sign up for the next one! To the Wood-mobile to go to the shop to buy everyone crampons!

I did mention that I went to see make up lady, to take her to shops. In actual fact she reads cards, (clairvoyance, I think?) and without realising, as she was on the phone, I shuffle the cards and lay them out, and she read them for me (wasn’t planned, just happened, I thought I was just putting the cards out for her, as I am not 100 % comfortable with knowing your future...it's in our hands, and I am not sure playing with it by predicting it is wholly wholesome, if you see what I mean, but I am open to everyone's discussion!)….I am choosing to keep it to myself, what I was told! My lips are sealed! (Unless there's some heavy-ass Twiglet and Cadbury chocolate bribing going down).

Well, until tomorrow peeps,

Tamsyn x

Reminiscing photos....

Aunty Catherine, my youngest sister, with baby BoBo....

Easy peasy lemon squeezy...

Everybody now, and 'aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh'

On the way home from school, I am informed by Monty that his best mate Enzo is giving him a kitten tomorrow, and it would be fine apparently, he’d bring it home by carrying it in his sack, so I didn’t have to carry it. Thoughtful. And erm, NO! He tries to convince me by telling me how cute and fluffy and white it is…I nearly fall for it too, who can resist a cute fluffy pussy? But I stand my ground, as I know it would be a “It’s me or the kitten” chat from my husband, and who knows where that’d end up?

I have realised of late, I am a compulsive volunteer. I just cannot help myself. It ranges from baking cakes for school, to doing the Bibliotech (library), to face painting at school fetes, to looking after school pets (and killing them, disclaimer: accidentally), to being a real live ‘pin the tail on the Donkey mum’ (never actually happened, but I probably would volunteer for that too). The most recent of volunteering my little self has seen me carting home dozens of books from the Library at my son’s school, to repair, cover and categorise. I have no idea where the HELL I have put the fooking library books. On some tidying frenzy I must have stashed them away somewhere ‘safe’. ‘Ooo I’ll remember where that is, as it’s such a random place to put something’ I tell myself, as I gaily chat to myself on clearing duties. But I never find it again. I am hoping I will come across these books, as I have no inclination to be hauled infront of the Headmaster, demanding me with menaces what I did with the Bibliotech books. We shall see. I don’t know what the volunteering myself for everything is all about, but at least it gets me out. In fact I am now the ‘go-to’ mum, if anything needs doing at school, it’s all ‘oh, Madame Wood, we are asking you as we know you don’t work, so would you be free to….’ Yeah, I don’t ‘work’…HAVE YOU ANY IDEA???!!!! (Don't get me wrong, I am for no second saying I do more than the next person, all I am trying to justify is the fact I definitely do not sit on my pie-ass all day) I feel like screaming in their faces, although probably not the best tack to take considering they teach my kids. I already have a more than dodgy reputation, so wouldn’t want to push it.

I have been on a quest today, to sort all kinds of French things out, I have painted the toilet white (the walls), cooked, cleaned like a trooper, stitched up throws/trousers/a skirt, seen to the kids, the school runs, baked cakes for some event tomorrow, and I am still going. I have felt like I have passed better days, if I am honest, I went everywhere I was supposed to go, went to ring everyone I was supposed to, when the phone died for no apparent reason (another electrical appliance committing suicide, contagious), so phone calls were not done, I went to pay the rent, 2 times, and noone was in (not an entirely easy task with 4 kids in tow), so now we look like we’re late with it. And everyone I went to see, I did not have the correct paper work for, and have to go away and do more homework. I even was on time (despite the considerably unfavourable odds) to my long awaited (2 months) dentist appointment, only to be turned away as the 4 kids I had in tow with me would not wash. He couldn’t possibly tackle my teeth with 4 kids in the same room. Why? Coz I will scream like a snake being tied in a knot, and scare them stupid? Or because he is secretly afraid that my ‘nature’ children (please see previous blog for explanation http://manic-mums.blogspot.com/2011/05/negotiating-with-toddler-hitler-is-not.html) will secretly be syringing each other and pulling out each other’s teeth whilst he performs. Well, the crux of it is, I was turned away. I have had better times licking my own feet clean. In fact I even caught myself wishing I was a chicken today. I watch them boc round, flapping about in the dust, wandering around eating and pecking at anything and everything that wriggles or doesn’t. Easy peasy lemon squeezy (did you used to say that too? No? Oh well, I did) life. But then, I’d be a giant orange beaked flapping ostrich beast, that people may or may not take to, so I’ve left my options open. 

Tomorrow I am going AT the world, I shall rip open my pyjamas, without un-buttoning them, eat my slippers, all roaring and chest pumping the kids over their weetabix. With Rhino-man like prowess (does a Rhino-man exist?) I shall be unbeatable, unstoppable, un…forgettable, gorilla warfare, Madame Wood style. Wow, that’s quite a mission statement, We’ll see how it goes…

I took them up to bed one by one tonight (yes, a bit like loading them onto an Ark, only not in pairs, and they’re going to bed, not off to sea in a giant boat built by a dude called Noah, as the whole world's been flooded, but there’s a little likeness), and read them a story. Lola and Monty were looking at a storybook together when I came down to fetch Lola. I colour it in with Lola for a while, and she remarks that Ariel (the Disney character) has big boobies in her shell bikini. Monty looks over, goes yeah, Lola, you’re right, she has got big Tinsels’…Lord only knows where he got that expression! ‘Alex…!!!!’

That’s it for today *deafened by calls of ‘phew’*. So I’ll see you all tomorrow,

Tamsy x

Ps, look, you see that, I cannot even spell my own name thesedays…!