Fuck me. I have to show you this. This is, no shit, my son on his new bike today, going around the local BMX track 20 minutes after we took the stabilisers off.
Sadly all we had was an old phone with rubbish resolution but I had to post this up in the general spirit of being gobsmackingly proud of him. And yes, he is wearing a helmet. And knee pads. And that's the Frog paddling helplessly behind him.
Anyway, that's me regurgitating all over your screen. Over and out!
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
yucky
I'm finding this whole Motherly love thing absolutely shameful. The whole thing is a living cliche - how much a mother loves their child; I mean, who wants to hear about that? If you're a parent, you already know, if you want to be a parent, you can guess, if you don't, you don't care.
I spend a lot of my time telling my son off for various things... sometimes I stand back and listen to myself, it's disgusting. 'Don't do that; you're making me cross; you're making me sad; take that off, put that on, do this, stop, say please, say thank you, put it down, what are you DOING???'
I pretty much spend the rest of my time beating myself up about it. A friend of ours has been berated by his brother for the amount of times he tells his daughter off; the brother feels that no-one has the right to tell a child what to do. I can't actually remember the outcome of the conversation, either the brother has no children or his kids are a nightmare; either way we all laughed heartily at the story... but secretly I bet we all doubted ourselves.
Mums confess things to each other. How we shout at our children, how we sneak up on them at night and cuddle them when they can't squirm, how we secretly like it when they fall over and need comforting; how we lose our cool, how frustrated we get. How guilty we feel all the time; about loving them too much, neglecting them, spoiling them, feeding them crap, forcing them to eat things they hate; guilty about secretly loving them clambering into our bed after a bad dream, about how sometimes every word they say is like a knife in an exhausted brain.
It's good, the confession, it shows us we are all the same, that maybe we have nothing to feel guilty about. But it's hard, really, to admit the truth: we are mothers; we did it to ourselves. Mostly.
Anyway, so nobody needs to hear about it, which is why I'm not telling you about our day today; except that it was lovely. At the end, I got told how much my son loves me. There were a lot of 'really's in the sentence. It ended in 'a lot'.
That's what's become of me. Who would have guessed?
I spend a lot of my time telling my son off for various things... sometimes I stand back and listen to myself, it's disgusting. 'Don't do that; you're making me cross; you're making me sad; take that off, put that on, do this, stop, say please, say thank you, put it down, what are you DOING???'
I pretty much spend the rest of my time beating myself up about it. A friend of ours has been berated by his brother for the amount of times he tells his daughter off; the brother feels that no-one has the right to tell a child what to do. I can't actually remember the outcome of the conversation, either the brother has no children or his kids are a nightmare; either way we all laughed heartily at the story... but secretly I bet we all doubted ourselves.
Mums confess things to each other. How we shout at our children, how we sneak up on them at night and cuddle them when they can't squirm, how we secretly like it when they fall over and need comforting; how we lose our cool, how frustrated we get. How guilty we feel all the time; about loving them too much, neglecting them, spoiling them, feeding them crap, forcing them to eat things they hate; guilty about secretly loving them clambering into our bed after a bad dream, about how sometimes every word they say is like a knife in an exhausted brain.
It's good, the confession, it shows us we are all the same, that maybe we have nothing to feel guilty about. But it's hard, really, to admit the truth: we are mothers; we did it to ourselves. Mostly.
Anyway, so nobody needs to hear about it, which is why I'm not telling you about our day today; except that it was lovely. At the end, I got told how much my son loves me. There were a lot of 'really's in the sentence. It ended in 'a lot'.
That's what's become of me. Who would have guessed?
Friday, September 17, 2010
Fizzing over.
One of the odd things that have happened to me as a result of writing this blog is that companies offer me things. Things to write about. Occasionally, if I think they are good things, I will write about them. I know this is less interesting then, for instance, hearing about me being pulled naked from the sea; but frankly, that's something I'm rather hoping won't happen to me again; ahem.
Click here for a sponsored review of the new Sodastream
Click here for a sponsored review of the new Sodastream
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Toys R... er... everywhere...
This is sort of sponsored by Toys are Us, who keep sending us boxes of toys to test.
A review of the Jolly Octopus game - all the charm of a classic and regularly played with - click here for more
A review of the Jolly Octopus game - all the charm of a classic and regularly played with - click here for more
Monday, September 13, 2010
Postman Patsy
Charlie has decided he is a postman. This is not, unbelievably, because he's just been given a book about a postman called Charlie (which arrived in the post today from my Uncle Peter) but because... well because for the past 2 weeks he's been obsessed by the post.
What this means practically is that on getting home in the evening he picks up whatever flyers he finds in the hall; says 'I'm just going to be the postman, OK?', then high-tails it heart-stoppingly back outside and shuts the front door behind him.
If one opens the door to chase him, one is met by a small screeching demon brandishing flyers (and we're not even at the Edinburgh Festival) and demanding one goes the hell back inside.
I'm reduced now to peering out the front window and cracking open the front door when he's out of sight so I can peer down the street like some mad stalker. I did grit my teeth one evening and count to 20 before opening the door; when I peered through he was standing right outside talking to two concerned-looking ladies .
"Are you lost?" asked one while the other patted his back reassuringly.
"This is my Daddy's car. He isn't home yet!" he said, randomly
"You poor thing" the other was starting to say (I think) as I burst through the front door with the largest fake smile pasted onto my face that you have ever seen. "Oh, he's just playing postman" I shouted, much too loudly. "I was watching THE WHOLE TIME through the window" I babbled as they backed away slowly in opposite directions...
Ah yes... two random women connected in a moment of mutual humanity over a lost child in the street... how bloody wonderful...
Hasn't stopped him playing though.
What this means practically is that on getting home in the evening he picks up whatever flyers he finds in the hall; says 'I'm just going to be the postman, OK?', then high-tails it heart-stoppingly back outside and shuts the front door behind him.
If one opens the door to chase him, one is met by a small screeching demon brandishing flyers (and we're not even at the Edinburgh Festival) and demanding one goes the hell back inside.
I'm reduced now to peering out the front window and cracking open the front door when he's out of sight so I can peer down the street like some mad stalker. I did grit my teeth one evening and count to 20 before opening the door; when I peered through he was standing right outside talking to two concerned-looking ladies .
"Are you lost?" asked one while the other patted his back reassuringly.
"This is my Daddy's car. He isn't home yet!" he said, randomly
"You poor thing" the other was starting to say (I think) as I burst through the front door with the largest fake smile pasted onto my face that you have ever seen. "Oh, he's just playing postman" I shouted, much too loudly. "I was watching THE WHOLE TIME through the window" I babbled as they backed away slowly in opposite directions...
Ah yes... two random women connected in a moment of mutual humanity over a lost child in the street... how bloody wonderful...
Hasn't stopped him playing though.
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
Spuddy 4th Birthday
It is nigh upon midnight on my son's 4th birthday and I am propping my eyes open with matchsticks I'm so tired.
It's been an enormous day - in the end there were 21 children here, although not all at once and some of them were younger siblings... but still. 21 children. Twenty one. Children.
We also hosted an all-day play-date for 4 of them as part of our 'nursery is closed, let's all look after each other's kids' rota. Luckily one of the Dad's was over offering support or I would have been under the table by noon.
The mistake, I think, was getting the kids doing party decorations at 10am; by the time 11am rolled around all they wanted to do was eat cake and have a party; making them wait until 3:30 when everyone else got here was perhaps a leetle draconian. Still, it was a day.
It's beyond cliche, any mention of how much a parent loves their child and so just assume I've laid down all the cliches for you here, just sicked them up and rolled them out to pulsate pinkly in the light of the laptop screen... Yes, it is true, I love my son... and today he really shone.
He was, in the main, generous with his time and his toys (to the point where many of them are broken or thrown to the wild winds... we will never have a party in the house again), he cleaned up, he helped out, he led games and was among a small coterie of the best behaved children. He didn't push or throw, tease or bully, he didn't snatch or hog; he was a total gent and I'm a whole other hill of cliches proud.
4 is quite grown up, it turns out. Not as grown up as it seems when one is 3, ie, he has discovered to his chagrin that he cannot drive the car or go to the park by himself or ride his new bike without stabilisers or... there was something else he wanted to do today that I told him he couldn't do until he was a grown up. 'So, when I'm 5?' he asked, hopefully.
Still, in the last year he has grown tall enough to reach the taps in the kitchen, the doorbell outside and a whole host of things I sort of reckoned we had another year or two before he could do. He can take things out of the fridge and pour them into cups without spilling, dress himself, wash himself, get in and out of the bath just by stepping over the edge...
Anyway, all to say that he's remarkably grown up, an illusion that is swiftly shattered when one sees him next to any child over the age of 8 and suddenly he looks so tiny and vulnerable that I feel the need to swoop over him and carry him home; something about which he would in general be quite happy about; chances of a carry when one is nearly three foot six and weighs in at 43 pounds are pretty slim on the ground.
So, that's that. He's 4. Happy Birthday, baby bear.
It's been an enormous day - in the end there were 21 children here, although not all at once and some of them were younger siblings... but still. 21 children. Twenty one. Children.
We also hosted an all-day play-date for 4 of them as part of our 'nursery is closed, let's all look after each other's kids' rota. Luckily one of the Dad's was over offering support or I would have been under the table by noon.
The mistake, I think, was getting the kids doing party decorations at 10am; by the time 11am rolled around all they wanted to do was eat cake and have a party; making them wait until 3:30 when everyone else got here was perhaps a leetle draconian. Still, it was a day.
It's beyond cliche, any mention of how much a parent loves their child and so just assume I've laid down all the cliches for you here, just sicked them up and rolled them out to pulsate pinkly in the light of the laptop screen... Yes, it is true, I love my son... and today he really shone.
He was, in the main, generous with his time and his toys (to the point where many of them are broken or thrown to the wild winds... we will never have a party in the house again), he cleaned up, he helped out, he led games and was among a small coterie of the best behaved children. He didn't push or throw, tease or bully, he didn't snatch or hog; he was a total gent and I'm a whole other hill of cliches proud.
4 is quite grown up, it turns out. Not as grown up as it seems when one is 3, ie, he has discovered to his chagrin that he cannot drive the car or go to the park by himself or ride his new bike without stabilisers or... there was something else he wanted to do today that I told him he couldn't do until he was a grown up. 'So, when I'm 5?' he asked, hopefully.
Still, in the last year he has grown tall enough to reach the taps in the kitchen, the doorbell outside and a whole host of things I sort of reckoned we had another year or two before he could do. He can take things out of the fridge and pour them into cups without spilling, dress himself, wash himself, get in and out of the bath just by stepping over the edge...
Anyway, all to say that he's remarkably grown up, an illusion that is swiftly shattered when one sees him next to any child over the age of 8 and suddenly he looks so tiny and vulnerable that I feel the need to swoop over him and carry him home; something about which he would in general be quite happy about; chances of a carry when one is nearly three foot six and weighs in at 43 pounds are pretty slim on the ground.
So, that's that. He's 4. Happy Birthday, baby bear.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
The poo on the hill and why Somer never sets
We've just got back from a really lovely weekend in Somerset with friends. The spud loves the countryside and he was in absolute heaven - collecting eggs from chickens, playing with dogs, swinging from apple trees; he was very sweet.
'Where are we?'
'Somerset'
'Will we see it setting?'
'No darling, Somerset is a place, it's not going to set'
'But then it will go down and then it will be winter!'
'No dear, Somerset is a place'
'But it will be setting when we get there and then we will watch!' ... etc...
Saturday our hosts took us to a well known iron-age hill fort which I'm not naming in case English Heritage are watching. We managed to get the Spud all the way to the top under his own steam which was nothing short of a miracle and we set up a picnic under the rim of the old fort walls. A herd of mixed cows were grazing the fort and their ordure was rather everywhere, something that doesn't bother any of us in the slightest but which has some bearing on the outcome of this tale.
We found a spot. We chased off a cow. We spread our blankets. We ate our hard-boiled eggs and sandwiches. There was a Peppa Pig birthday cake for the hosts' daughter. The views were amazing and it was all suspiciously idyllic. The spud, full of lunch, started wandering over to play with the dogs and just as I was languorously contemplating a second honey sandwich the Frog nudged me and muttered 'Uh oh' under his breath in a certain tone of voice. I looked up and sure enough, the spud was doing the poo walk. Bum clenched tight, legs stiff, he was clearly touching cloth and urgent measures were required.
I'll skip to the part where, after scurrying down the outside of the hill, the spud had dropped a massive steamer into a little rabbit scrape among the thistles and I was heroically trying to clean him up with paper towels and spit.
We'd been completely alone on that bloody hill for at least half an hour but just at the point where I was crouched with my son's nearly-clean bottom a few inches from my face and the guilty evidence gleaming out from the hillside scant inches from my toes, a family peered over the edge and looked down.
I smiled grimly and they gestured for the rest of their group to catch up. I started talking very loudly at my confused son 'That was a good wee-wee wasn't it! No wee wee on your trousers, that was good! Ha! Why don't you put your trousers back on? Go on! Ha ha! Good boy!'; all the time dropping bits of grass and rabbit droppings onto his delivery in a futile attempt to disguise it.
The first group moved on and a second approached.
As my befuddled son put his trews back on, I noticed near my other foot a dried cow-pat and in a flash of brilliance, bent down, snapped a bit off and then stuck it onto the crime scene. Within seconds, and this is a tip I highly recommend if you're ever caught short in the country and don't want anyone to know what you've been up to, I had created a cow-pat mosaic with poo grouting just in time for the final onlookers to stop and gaze down at me as though I was part of the whole iron-age experience. Me and the cow pats.
The journey back to our digs with 3 sorts of shit on my hands was not my finest hour but after all, it washes off and thankfully the rest of the visit passed without incident.
We left this morning with a very happy boy in the back seat.
'I love Somerset' he said. 'Can we have our house in Somerset?'
'No sweetie, sadly not'.
'Are we leaving Somerset now?'
'Yes'
'But we didn't see it setting yet'
'Where are we?'
'Somerset'
'Will we see it setting?'
'No darling, Somerset is a place, it's not going to set'
'But then it will go down and then it will be winter!'
'No dear, Somerset is a place'
'But it will be setting when we get there and then we will watch!' ... etc...
Saturday our hosts took us to a well known iron-age hill fort which I'm not naming in case English Heritage are watching. We managed to get the Spud all the way to the top under his own steam which was nothing short of a miracle and we set up a picnic under the rim of the old fort walls. A herd of mixed cows were grazing the fort and their ordure was rather everywhere, something that doesn't bother any of us in the slightest but which has some bearing on the outcome of this tale.
We found a spot. We chased off a cow. We spread our blankets. We ate our hard-boiled eggs and sandwiches. There was a Peppa Pig birthday cake for the hosts' daughter. The views were amazing and it was all suspiciously idyllic. The spud, full of lunch, started wandering over to play with the dogs and just as I was languorously contemplating a second honey sandwich the Frog nudged me and muttered 'Uh oh' under his breath in a certain tone of voice. I looked up and sure enough, the spud was doing the poo walk. Bum clenched tight, legs stiff, he was clearly touching cloth and urgent measures were required.
I'll skip to the part where, after scurrying down the outside of the hill, the spud had dropped a massive steamer into a little rabbit scrape among the thistles and I was heroically trying to clean him up with paper towels and spit.
We'd been completely alone on that bloody hill for at least half an hour but just at the point where I was crouched with my son's nearly-clean bottom a few inches from my face and the guilty evidence gleaming out from the hillside scant inches from my toes, a family peered over the edge and looked down.
I smiled grimly and they gestured for the rest of their group to catch up. I started talking very loudly at my confused son 'That was a good wee-wee wasn't it! No wee wee on your trousers, that was good! Ha! Why don't you put your trousers back on? Go on! Ha ha! Good boy!'; all the time dropping bits of grass and rabbit droppings onto his delivery in a futile attempt to disguise it.
The first group moved on and a second approached.
As my befuddled son put his trews back on, I noticed near my other foot a dried cow-pat and in a flash of brilliance, bent down, snapped a bit off and then stuck it onto the crime scene. Within seconds, and this is a tip I highly recommend if you're ever caught short in the country and don't want anyone to know what you've been up to, I had created a cow-pat mosaic with poo grouting just in time for the final onlookers to stop and gaze down at me as though I was part of the whole iron-age experience. Me and the cow pats.
The journey back to our digs with 3 sorts of shit on my hands was not my finest hour but after all, it washes off and thankfully the rest of the visit passed without incident.
We left this morning with a very happy boy in the back seat.
'I love Somerset' he said. 'Can we have our house in Somerset?'
'No sweetie, sadly not'.
'Are we leaving Somerset now?'
'Yes'
'But we didn't see it setting yet'
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Many hands make boxes difficult to open...
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Little stinger
I know many adults who have never been stung by a bee or a wasp, but as of today Charlie has collected his 3rd sting after treading on a wasp in the kitchen. This is his 2nd foot-sting as well as a bumble-bee sting on the lip (and he's not even a teenage model...)
Sadly wasp #2 left part of its stinger in Charlie's foot so we had to spend 20 minutes picking it out with the tip of a needle while he emitted the sort of shrieking one normally associates with teen slasher movies. After five minutes of him howling like we were dismembering him without the Frog ever managing to get needle close to foot, we closed all our doors and windows. Not, you understand, to save the neighbours but rather to save ourselves from the ministrations of social services.
That was Sunday. Today, with no nursery to go to the Spud spent the entire day in his pyjamas. That's right folks, all day and back into bed. Someone give me the Good Mother award, I need somewhere to put my vodka.
We spent the morning doing precisely nothing, by which I mean the spud lay on the sofa watching 'Ben and Holly's Little Kingdom' on repeat; a DVD I've not been able to get off the machine since it arrived - all the charm of Peppa Pig (same production company) with the added bonus of fairies and elves and magic wands. I probably watched it all the way through twice without irritation or boredom - result.
Anyway, 'Little Kingdom' took us from a shameful 10am through to... Crap I'm not sure I can actually type this... 2pm. Yes yes yes. In that time he failed to finish his breakfast but gamely choked down a cheese toastie. Little hero. Sometimes I think kids actually need time when nothing is happening to them, a rainy day to recoup.
After this, but without the social niceties of, say, getting dressed we had 4 of his friends to play and make pasta together, enabling the shut-off of the DVD without having my eardrums pierced. One friend has stayed over and they are currently giggling in the dark while the frog and I are feet up, martini-down.
I could handle a few more days like this, to be honest.
Tomorrow morning we're off to the country; I'm packing the Piriton and on the lookout for a size 4 child's bee-keeping suit.
Sadly wasp #2 left part of its stinger in Charlie's foot so we had to spend 20 minutes picking it out with the tip of a needle while he emitted the sort of shrieking one normally associates with teen slasher movies. After five minutes of him howling like we were dismembering him without the Frog ever managing to get needle close to foot, we closed all our doors and windows. Not, you understand, to save the neighbours but rather to save ourselves from the ministrations of social services.
That was Sunday. Today, with no nursery to go to the Spud spent the entire day in his pyjamas. That's right folks, all day and back into bed. Someone give me the Good Mother award, I need somewhere to put my vodka.
We spent the morning doing precisely nothing, by which I mean the spud lay on the sofa watching 'Ben and Holly's Little Kingdom' on repeat; a DVD I've not been able to get off the machine since it arrived - all the charm of Peppa Pig (same production company) with the added bonus of fairies and elves and magic wands. I probably watched it all the way through twice without irritation or boredom - result.
Anyway, 'Little Kingdom' took us from a shameful 10am through to... Crap I'm not sure I can actually type this... 2pm. Yes yes yes. In that time he failed to finish his breakfast but gamely choked down a cheese toastie. Little hero. Sometimes I think kids actually need time when nothing is happening to them, a rainy day to recoup.
After this, but without the social niceties of, say, getting dressed we had 4 of his friends to play and make pasta together, enabling the shut-off of the DVD without having my eardrums pierced. One friend has stayed over and they are currently giggling in the dark while the frog and I are feet up, martini-down.
I could handle a few more days like this, to be honest.
Tomorrow morning we're off to the country; I'm packing the Piriton and on the lookout for a size 4 child's bee-keeping suit.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Marmaduke and other shaggy dog stories
We get quite a few offers to review movies, but I have to say that Charlie's not that keen really, he gets scared easily and films are loud and take place in big dark rooms. Case in point, he counted down the days to the release of Toy Story 3 for months, but he came out and cried for half an hour after not really watching it. Apparently, there is a scary doll.
So, when the team promoting Marmaduke contacted us to see if we'd like to go I rather thought not, however I passed it on to friends of ours whose daughter is very keen on films and asked them to give us the scoop. Click here for more.
So, when the team promoting Marmaduke contacted us to see if we'd like to go I rather thought not, however I passed it on to friends of ours whose daughter is very keen on films and asked them to give us the scoop. Click here for more.
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