Saturday, 21 May 2011

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 4th wobbly tooth, the 2nd 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…


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 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  

Friday, 20 May 2011

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......!

Thursday, 19 May 2011

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- . 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

Wednesday, 18 May 2011

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...)

Tuesday, 17 May 2011

'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

Monday, 16 May 2011

flashback, quick pic...

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

Sunday, 15 May 2011

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 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