I love my son. I can prove it. I love him even though this morning he woke me up from a dream in which, magically single, child-free and wrapped in a towel, I opened the door of my appartment and Josh Holloway was standing outside telling me he would rather spend the evening with me than at his latest film premiere.
I must have done something lovely for my subconcious recently as this is definitively not the sort of dream it normally lets me have... a good dream for me is normally any dream in which I am not working or Charlie hasn't gone missing. Anyway, there I was, sat beside Mr Holloway on the sofa trying to convince him to go back to his party (my subconcious doesn't love me THAT much...) when Charlie crawled into bed having had a bad dream.
Five minutes later the Frog's alarm went off an hour early; the subsequent humphing about trying to get back to sleep then disturbed the cat who spent the next 60 minutes putting his paws up my nose at irregular intervals hoping this might entice me to the kitchen to prepare the first of his many breakfasts.
I think that the fact I have not harmed any of them today is a measure of my undying love and devotion, frankly.
I have however harmed myself trying to stay awake all day; a job that not even coffee could manage. Come bedtime Charlie is all about the stories and being a bear of very little brain I rather led him to certain stories that come with CDs, allowing a tired parent to sit, potato-like, turning pages and smiling beatifically without having to expend any energy actually reading aloud. This is Very Lazy parenting; however I learned it from the best, my own parents.
As children we had a small collection of excellent stories on vinyl; including a wonderful Winnie the Pooh record which my Mother presented to us on our recent visit. We've been reading Pooh on and off for a while and occasionally I brave singing one of the songs; however I am always commanded to stop; already my singing embarrasses my son. So, having the songs on vinyl for him to listen to is not only very sweet, but a big cheat which allows me to kiss him gently on the head, put the needle on the record and creep quietly out of the room.
Despite the Disneyfication of Pooh, the stories are timeless. Charlie sleeps under the same Pooh blanket that I slept under at the same age, we read from the same books and now listen to the same record. While the 100-acre wood is still new territory for him, it's sending my son off to sleep as successfully now as I'm sure it did me; to, I am certain, the same parental sighs of relief.
The Royal Mail have issued a set of Winnie-the-Pooh stamps featuring the original illustrations from EH Shephard; they're so lovely. I know the official Christmas stamps this year are Wallace and Gromit but I know what I'm putting on my cards this year - a celebration of sleeping children and, hopefully, sweet dreams for everyone.
Now fluff up my pillow; I'm heading back to dreamland.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Magic fingers
My Frog has magic fingers. No no no, I'm not about to let you into any marital secrets, it's OK. But he does have a preternatural ability to fix mechanical and electrical items simply by... and there's barely any other way to put this other than by describing it as... er... a laying on of hands.
It goes like this. You have a broken toaster (I am telling a true story here, I'm just making you the protagonist rather than my Mum for bogus literary effect).
You have for some reason allowed the Sparx family access to your house and, while the Spud turns your livingroom into an ersatz train shed, you stand in the kitchen with the Frog and I making conversation, during the course of which you bizarrely admit to a broken toaster. The Frog shifts uneasily.
Telling the Frog that something is broken is probably the most annoying thing you could do to him. More annoying then not taking out the recycling when it's your turn (you're the hero of this story remember. Not me, nuh uh). More annoying than leaving your shoes in the hallway. More annoying even than reading in bed after lights out.
As the conversation continues (we're back in your kitchen now, keep up), the Frog starts darting glances towards your toaster and gets all fidgety. Eventually we decide to move into the livingroom. We sit down, then realise someone is missing. Back in the kitchen, the frog is casually playing with the buttons on your toaster. 'Oh don't worry about that' you'll say. 'That side hasn't worked for over a year. We've had it apart and everything, we think there's a broken wire'.
At this point I like to put him out of his misery and just ask you if you'd like him to fix it for you. Visibly relieved, he'll pick it up and fiddle with it seemingly aimlessly, possibly opening it up and peering inside, while we all top up our drinks. A few minutes later he will hand it back to you, working perfectly.
You will be amazed. 'What did you do?' you'll ask. His reply is the same every time. 'I don't know.' A gallic shrug. 'The usual'. This is when you will hand him your blender, an old watch and your son's gameboy, all of which he will turn over in his hands a few times, press a few buttons, possibly peer inside and hand back to you in perfect working order.
I'm used to this now. It's ceased to annoy me that he is better than I am at fixing things. In fact, if something breaks I take a great deal of perverse pleasure in dropping it into the conversation and watching him lurch about like I've put a pea in his shoe until he slopes off to take a look.
So, imagine my glee when, the other day, I found him kneeling by the not-inconsiderable stack of aging electronics in our livingroom, unable to get the Wii to display on the screen. He had pressed all the buttons. He had fiddled with all the connections. He had switched things on and off and on again. He looked frustrated.
Don't get me wrong. Initially I was gutted and mentally adding the cost of a new TV into our exigent budget; when the frog says something is broken, you've pretty much got to call the appliance undertakers.
No, my glee came when the spud walked over and said 'Daddy you haven't pushed the button' and, ignoring the Frog's fatherly splutterings, protestations and highly-continental rolling of eyes and blowing out of lips, he squeezed past, laid his hands on the junction box, did some fiddling and... miraculously, everything started working.
'Now you know how I feel' I told my stunned Frog.
Magic fingers. There's clearly a gene for that.
It goes like this. You have a broken toaster (I am telling a true story here, I'm just making you the protagonist rather than my Mum for bogus literary effect).
You have for some reason allowed the Sparx family access to your house and, while the Spud turns your livingroom into an ersatz train shed, you stand in the kitchen with the Frog and I making conversation, during the course of which you bizarrely admit to a broken toaster. The Frog shifts uneasily.
Telling the Frog that something is broken is probably the most annoying thing you could do to him. More annoying then not taking out the recycling when it's your turn (you're the hero of this story remember. Not me, nuh uh). More annoying than leaving your shoes in the hallway. More annoying even than reading in bed after lights out.
As the conversation continues (we're back in your kitchen now, keep up), the Frog starts darting glances towards your toaster and gets all fidgety. Eventually we decide to move into the livingroom. We sit down, then realise someone is missing. Back in the kitchen, the frog is casually playing with the buttons on your toaster. 'Oh don't worry about that' you'll say. 'That side hasn't worked for over a year. We've had it apart and everything, we think there's a broken wire'.
At this point I like to put him out of his misery and just ask you if you'd like him to fix it for you. Visibly relieved, he'll pick it up and fiddle with it seemingly aimlessly, possibly opening it up and peering inside, while we all top up our drinks. A few minutes later he will hand it back to you, working perfectly.
You will be amazed. 'What did you do?' you'll ask. His reply is the same every time. 'I don't know.' A gallic shrug. 'The usual'. This is when you will hand him your blender, an old watch and your son's gameboy, all of which he will turn over in his hands a few times, press a few buttons, possibly peer inside and hand back to you in perfect working order.
I'm used to this now. It's ceased to annoy me that he is better than I am at fixing things. In fact, if something breaks I take a great deal of perverse pleasure in dropping it into the conversation and watching him lurch about like I've put a pea in his shoe until he slopes off to take a look.
So, imagine my glee when, the other day, I found him kneeling by the not-inconsiderable stack of aging electronics in our livingroom, unable to get the Wii to display on the screen. He had pressed all the buttons. He had fiddled with all the connections. He had switched things on and off and on again. He looked frustrated.
Don't get me wrong. Initially I was gutted and mentally adding the cost of a new TV into our exigent budget; when the frog says something is broken, you've pretty much got to call the appliance undertakers.
No, my glee came when the spud walked over and said 'Daddy you haven't pushed the button' and, ignoring the Frog's fatherly splutterings, protestations and highly-continental rolling of eyes and blowing out of lips, he squeezed past, laid his hands on the junction box, did some fiddling and... miraculously, everything started working.
'Now you know how I feel' I told my stunned Frog.
Magic fingers. There's clearly a gene for that.
Monday, November 08, 2010
Why you always get sick on planes...
Well that was a laugh. We're back from 2 weeks in Canada, having contracted a wicked lurgi on the flight between Vancouver and Calgary. No fun really. It took the shine off the last week, however it was a brilliant holiday. Here's a bit of what we did:
I watched while my brother let Charlie push the ignition button on his car:
...Then he revved the engine, really high so the car roared. You have never seen a happier boy. And Charlie was pretty thrilled too...
Then there was a bit of this behind the Frog's back (he hasn't forgiven me quite yet...)
...Charlie's used to it now but I'm not sure I am...
Then we did a bit of seasonal stuff which was way fun:
A few days later we headed to the grandparents and did various cosy snowy things with which I shall not bore you... stuff like this:
...yes, that's my Pa, BBQing breakfast in the snow. Well. In a few patches of snow.
Then we went further into the mountains. Charlie was very impressed. You can tell, can't you?
After that there was a lot of whinging about being homesick, at least until the day we took off into the cold to trek to the two nearest neighbours for sackloads of trick-or-treat. Nothing like walking home along a dark and deserted country road with one's 4-year-old to make one wish one had taken the bear horn along for the ride; all we saw were stars, however. Then there were fireworks. Then it was bedtime.
After that we laid low and enjoyed the family until our very good friend Allen came and picked us up for a rip-roaring night in Calgary with old mates. Shortly after that Charlie decided he had a fever. I debated missing the plane and settled for dosing him up. The fever abated. We got on the plane. I apologise to everyone who was on that plane.
I have worked out why one always gets sick on planes however. I reckon loads of people fly out and back in a week. This is just long enough to pick something up on one plane and still be infectious on the flight home, thus infecting another load of people. I see us as just one cog on the great wheel of international plague. I may never fly again.
We spent the last four days in bed. Would have been lovely if we'd been able to move.
I watched while my brother let Charlie push the ignition button on his car:
...Then he revved the engine, really high so the car roared. You have never seen a happier boy. And Charlie was pretty thrilled too...Then there was a bit of this behind the Frog's back (he hasn't forgiven me quite yet...)
...Charlie's used to it now but I'm not sure I am...Then we did a bit of seasonal stuff which was way fun:
A few days later we headed to the grandparents and did various cosy snowy things with which I shall not bore you... stuff like this:
...yes, that's my Pa, BBQing breakfast in the snow. Well. In a few patches of snow.Then we went further into the mountains. Charlie was very impressed. You can tell, can't you?
After that there was a lot of whinging about being homesick, at least until the day we took off into the cold to trek to the two nearest neighbours for sackloads of trick-or-treat. Nothing like walking home along a dark and deserted country road with one's 4-year-old to make one wish one had taken the bear horn along for the ride; all we saw were stars, however. Then there were fireworks. Then it was bedtime.After that we laid low and enjoyed the family until our very good friend Allen came and picked us up for a rip-roaring night in Calgary with old mates. Shortly after that Charlie decided he had a fever. I debated missing the plane and settled for dosing him up. The fever abated. We got on the plane. I apologise to everyone who was on that plane.
I have worked out why one always gets sick on planes however. I reckon loads of people fly out and back in a week. This is just long enough to pick something up on one plane and still be infectious on the flight home, thus infecting another load of people. I see us as just one cog on the great wheel of international plague. I may never fly again.
We spent the last four days in bed. Would have been lovely if we'd been able to move.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
He shoots - he scores!
We're in Canada. By 'we', before any enterprising sod thinks it would be a good idea to work out where I live, I mean just me and the spudlet; the frog has ducked out of this particular cross-Atlantic trip to stay home and look after the cat.
This is fine, although the spud is beginning to wonder exactly what's going on. He woke up this morning and looked at me hard, then said pointedly "we're having a lot of sleepovers here, aren't we?" "Yes" I said. "And we miss Daddy, don't we?" "Yes we do" I concurred.
Five minutes later he was upstairs in one of his three default positions - talking non-stop to his Grandmother, fawning over the dog or hard at play over one of the thousand new toys his grandparents thought would be a good idea to buy for him.
Today we dragged up from the cellar our 30-year-old Crossfire game, sadly no longer on the market. This, for the un-initiated, is a large board with a wire goal at either end and a large ball-bearing wrapped in a plastic puck in the middle. Each player gets a plastic gun sort of thing that fires ball bearings down a shute and essentially all one does is fire at top speed until the puck lands up in someone's goal.
What I remember about this game is my brother getting all tactical about the ammunition and waiting for me to fire all my ball bearings across the board so he could hoard them. He would then shoot them manaically, giving me no chance to retaliate. The puck inevitably slid through my goal. I thought this was unfair. Apparently not.
Well, it turns out that either this is a boy thing, or blood runs thicker than fair play. Two minutes into our first game and the spud had all the ammunition and a devilish gleam in his eye.
Two minutes ten seconds later, the puck was in my goal.
SOOOO not fair...
This is fine, although the spud is beginning to wonder exactly what's going on. He woke up this morning and looked at me hard, then said pointedly "we're having a lot of sleepovers here, aren't we?" "Yes" I said. "And we miss Daddy, don't we?" "Yes we do" I concurred.
Five minutes later he was upstairs in one of his three default positions - talking non-stop to his Grandmother, fawning over the dog or hard at play over one of the thousand new toys his grandparents thought would be a good idea to buy for him.
Today we dragged up from the cellar our 30-year-old Crossfire game, sadly no longer on the market. This, for the un-initiated, is a large board with a wire goal at either end and a large ball-bearing wrapped in a plastic puck in the middle. Each player gets a plastic gun sort of thing that fires ball bearings down a shute and essentially all one does is fire at top speed until the puck lands up in someone's goal.
What I remember about this game is my brother getting all tactical about the ammunition and waiting for me to fire all my ball bearings across the board so he could hoard them. He would then shoot them manaically, giving me no chance to retaliate. The puck inevitably slid through my goal. I thought this was unfair. Apparently not.
Well, it turns out that either this is a boy thing, or blood runs thicker than fair play. Two minutes into our first game and the spud had all the ammunition and a devilish gleam in his eye.
Two minutes ten seconds later, the puck was in my goal.
SOOOO not fair...
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Gratuitous launch party post
OK, so I wrote a book. About 21 years ago, mind you, but I did write it and the very brave Punked Books have published it. In fact, they opened a new Children's imprint for me - Grimoire books. I swear, I did NOT drug them.
So on Thursday The Big Green Bookshop were brave enough to allow me and a bunch of varigated friends into their premises to launch the thing.
OK, so this was a launch for a book I wrote over 2 decades ago. I'm over it. I'd given up on it. It will never make me rich. So this is like, blah blah blah. Right? So I was being all blase about the entire thing until a few weeks ago when I realised I should probably take it seriously and invite a few people. Beg a few people.
So I did. And then I got Very Nervous. By Thursday morning I was essentially a bag of nerves and by the time I got to the bookshop I was pretty wired. I had, however, bought 2 cases of wine for the occasion. This was a good thing.
People started filtering in around 7 and by 8 the locusts had already demolished a case of wine and numerous packets of Wotsits. I did a reading from the book. I tried to make it interesting. People shuffled. But they clapped at the end... I guess that counts.
It was kinda like getting married, launching one's first book. I mean, it might happen again; who knows? One makes a major public committment to the book, the publisher, everything is rosy, all one's mates come out in support and by the end of the night one can't remember anything except... er... that it was a shedload of fun. Then it's just you and the book, heading into the sunset.
There are people to thank. Parents. Sibling. Spouse. Friends. Agent. Publisher. You know. The usual. I'll thank them if the damn thing ever wins anything.
I think it went well. We drank a case and a half of wine. The shop sold out of their copies of my book, the lovely Kevin from Punked (Grimoire) had to unload extra copies from his Bat-Case and then I think some of those might have been sold. And possibly signed. I think I signed some things. I hope they were books.
These are some of my besty friends. That's me on the left with the big schnoz and the target on my boobs.
I had a steaming hangover the next day.
Anyway, so that's it, the book is launched. God bless her and all who sail in her.
Now buy a copy.
Please?
PS, I'll be selling and signing at Witchfest International on November 6th. Put on your duds and come along. You know you want to.
So on Thursday The Big Green Bookshop were brave enough to allow me and a bunch of varigated friends into their premises to launch the thing.
OK, so this was a launch for a book I wrote over 2 decades ago. I'm over it. I'd given up on it. It will never make me rich. So this is like, blah blah blah. Right? So I was being all blase about the entire thing until a few weeks ago when I realised I should probably take it seriously and invite a few people. Beg a few people.
So I did. And then I got Very Nervous. By Thursday morning I was essentially a bag of nerves and by the time I got to the bookshop I was pretty wired. I had, however, bought 2 cases of wine for the occasion. This was a good thing.
People started filtering in around 7 and by 8 the locusts had already demolished a case of wine and numerous packets of Wotsits. I did a reading from the book. I tried to make it interesting. People shuffled. But they clapped at the end... I guess that counts.
It was kinda like getting married, launching one's first book. I mean, it might happen again; who knows? One makes a major public committment to the book, the publisher, everything is rosy, all one's mates come out in support and by the end of the night one can't remember anything except... er... that it was a shedload of fun. Then it's just you and the book, heading into the sunset.
There are people to thank. Parents. Sibling. Spouse. Friends. Agent. Publisher. You know. The usual. I'll thank them if the damn thing ever wins anything.
I think it went well. We drank a case and a half of wine. The shop sold out of their copies of my book, the lovely Kevin from Punked (Grimoire) had to unload extra copies from his Bat-Case and then I think some of those might have been sold. And possibly signed. I think I signed some things. I hope they were books.
These are some of my besty friends. That's me on the left with the big schnoz and the target on my boobs.
I had a steaming hangover the next day.
Anyway, so that's it, the book is launched. God bless her and all who sail in her.
Now buy a copy.
Please?
PS, I'll be selling and signing at Witchfest International on November 6th. Put on your duds and come along. You know you want to.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Eeek!!
Prompted by the lovely DJ Kirkby whose second novel 'Without Alice' has appeared on the Amazon Bestseller list, I thought I'd venture on and see how my children's book The Green King is doing...
...and I'm up to 106,000th on the list! OK, this is not very high, admittedly but considering I was 1.3 millionth a few weeks ago and 306,000th a few days ago, I reckon I may have sold another book.
AND - STOP PRESSES: THE GREEN KING IS AVAILABLE ON KINDLE: right here for all you techno-bods...
Thanks everyone!
The launch is tomorrow, I will spare you the tedious begging to come and join me for a glass of wine - if you do fancy it, details are here.
One day I might actually write about my son. At the moment, all I have to tell you is that on weekends we are spending considerable amounts of time on the BMX track where I get all puffed up with pride as the seasoned BMXers admire his bravery. He can now make it up all but the 3 steepest hills by himself and we've been invited for proper training next weekend... finally, my potato is turning into a bean-pole - with all this cycling he's becoming leaner and stronger... my little boy is really growing up... sniff...
...and I'm up to 106,000th on the list! OK, this is not very high, admittedly but considering I was 1.3 millionth a few weeks ago and 306,000th a few days ago, I reckon I may have sold another book.
AND - STOP PRESSES: THE GREEN KING IS AVAILABLE ON KINDLE: right here for all you techno-bods...
Thanks everyone!
The launch is tomorrow, I will spare you the tedious begging to come and join me for a glass of wine - if you do fancy it, details are here.
One day I might actually write about my son. At the moment, all I have to tell you is that on weekends we are spending considerable amounts of time on the BMX track where I get all puffed up with pride as the seasoned BMXers admire his bravery. He can now make it up all but the 3 steepest hills by himself and we've been invited for proper training next weekend... finally, my potato is turning into a bean-pole - with all this cycling he's becoming leaner and stronger... my little boy is really growing up... sniff...
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
All about meeeee!!
This post is all about... meeeee!!!! Me me me me me. Or rather, my book.
No WAIT!! Don't go!!!! Sheesh.
Seriously, this will only take a moment and you can scroll right on down to the toy give-away just underneath this post. Seriously. I promise. It won't hurt.
Anyway, so I sort of have a book coming out. It's called er... yes that's it over on the right... it's called The Green King. It is an actual book and not followed by the letters IPA; it is not therefore a beer. Or a pub. No, it's a children's book in fact.
No no no, don't bugger off quite yet, I'm about to invite you out for a drink. Settle down a moment.
A drink? Yes, I'm launching the Green King, with wine, at the Big Green Bookshop in Wood Green, North London on Thursday October 14th, 7pm to 9pm, which is in no way nearly in a week and I am in no way panicking about it not even slightly. Not at all. So there.
OK maybe I'm panicking a little teensy bit.
Anyway, so I'm inviting you all, yes you! All 2 of you who have read this far... there will be some wine and a few little munchie things (cough cough crisps cough). Yes, my hospitality will be unparalleled. And there will be juice, just in case there are actual children, or people who perhaps want to get up one day.
A bit about the book perhaps: it's aimed at children 8-14 but, apparently, the odd grown up has been known to read it and, shockingly, quite actually like it. Or so they say...
And, if you do know any children of around the right age, you might consider it a wild-card Christmas present? Hm? And in case you're wondering if the child in question might actually like it, here are some excerpts from actual letters I got from a class of 9-year-olds, to whom I read bits of it the other day:
OK, so I would seriously be over the moon if anyone fancied making the trek up to the shop and downing a few vinos at my expense, maybe even buying the book and making the bookshop happy and, most importantly, saying hello so I can put a few more faces to bloggers.
Oh, and there will be air-kisses too! I go left then right, just so you don't get confused.
Please won't you come? And, er, bring someone?
Hmmm?
And if not, the book is available either here on Amazon or from the publisher here or from the link in my RH menu. I'm loving watching it climb the rankings in Amazon - I went from eleventy million to around 40,000 in one day after reading in the schools. Am now back down to 306,000 so help!
No WAIT!! Don't go!!!! Sheesh.
Seriously, this will only take a moment and you can scroll right on down to the toy give-away just underneath this post. Seriously. I promise. It won't hurt.
Anyway, so I sort of have a book coming out. It's called er... yes that's it over on the right... it's called The Green King. It is an actual book and not followed by the letters IPA; it is not therefore a beer. Or a pub. No, it's a children's book in fact.
No no no, don't bugger off quite yet, I'm about to invite you out for a drink. Settle down a moment.
A drink? Yes, I'm launching the Green King, with wine, at the Big Green Bookshop in Wood Green, North London on Thursday October 14th, 7pm to 9pm, which is in no way nearly in a week and I am in no way panicking about it not even slightly. Not at all. So there.
OK maybe I'm panicking a little teensy bit.
Anyway, so I'm inviting you all, yes you! All 2 of you who have read this far... there will be some wine and a few little munchie things (cough cough crisps cough). Yes, my hospitality will be unparalleled. And there will be juice, just in case there are actual children, or people who perhaps want to get up one day.
A bit about the book perhaps: it's aimed at children 8-14 but, apparently, the odd grown up has been known to read it and, shockingly, quite actually like it. Or so they say...
And, if you do know any children of around the right age, you might consider it a wild-card Christmas present? Hm? And in case you're wondering if the child in question might actually like it, here are some excerpts from actual letters I got from a class of 9-year-olds, to whom I read bits of it the other day:
- “I liked your book the Green King I think that it will be a best sellers list” – George, 9
- “When it comes out I am going to buy it” – William, 9
- “Your book is realy good and adventures” – Megan, 9
- “I like mystery books and yours is the one” – Ellie, 9
- “I loved your book it was amasing” – Jamie, 9
- “I loved your book and it was awesome, it was the cind of book that I love” – Reegan,9
- “The whole thing was absaloutly brilliant” – Alex, 9
- "I thought your book was great. I really enjoyed it" – Harry, 9
- pictures
- a d.v.d. to go with the book"
OK, so I would seriously be over the moon if anyone fancied making the trek up to the shop and downing a few vinos at my expense, maybe even buying the book and making the bookshop happy and, most importantly, saying hello so I can put a few more faces to bloggers.
Oh, and there will be air-kisses too! I go left then right, just so you don't get confused.
Please won't you come? And, er, bring someone?
Hmmm?
And if not, the book is available either here on Amazon or from the publisher here or from the link in my RH menu. I'm loving watching it climb the rankings in Amazon - I went from eleventy million to around 40,000 in one day after reading in the schools. Am now back down to 306,000 so help!
Friday, October 01, 2010
...that sort of day
We had plans today - involving, unsurprisingly, the BMX track - which were rained out. The entire day was pretty much rained out to be honest. I woke up with Charlie's feet in my back and as I shifted out of his way I woke the cat.
Waking the cat means instant access to cat-paw hell. First he sits beside our heads and swats us in the face. This escalates rapidly into a quick-march across our heads, back and forth and back and forth. He then goes for the soft parts - eyeballs mainly but he's recently started stomping across my nipples every morning and occasionally the frog's balls. He's also worked out that waking Charlie is the best way to get us up and so if Charlie is in bed, Charlie becomes the main target.
This morning however he interrupted himself halfway through the process in order to be sick on the floor. Shortly after I cleaned it all up I realised that he'd also taken a poo on the bed; a much better way to get me up as it turns out, particularly as he'd been pawing me in the mouth and I had a sudden, over-powering urge to scrub my face with bleach.
So that was us up and looking glumly out the window at the bucketing rain. Not getting to the BMX track was OK as it turns out, which was a surprise as Charlie has been wearing his new full-face helmet everywhere this week in anticipation of his next go around the circuit. He's worn it to bed, to nursery, and, hilariously, in the playground like some sort of mini-Stig going down the slide. He's still quite wobbly on the bike but really gaining in confidence; I was actually quite looking forward to watching him go.
Anyway, so my little spudlet voted with his tum and instead of lurching out into the cold, we washed the sheets and had a rainy-day sort of day which, it turns out, involves a lot of cake; a pleasant diversion from the cat's insides.
Waking the cat means instant access to cat-paw hell. First he sits beside our heads and swats us in the face. This escalates rapidly into a quick-march across our heads, back and forth and back and forth. He then goes for the soft parts - eyeballs mainly but he's recently started stomping across my nipples every morning and occasionally the frog's balls. He's also worked out that waking Charlie is the best way to get us up and so if Charlie is in bed, Charlie becomes the main target.
This morning however he interrupted himself halfway through the process in order to be sick on the floor. Shortly after I cleaned it all up I realised that he'd also taken a poo on the bed; a much better way to get me up as it turns out, particularly as he'd been pawing me in the mouth and I had a sudden, over-powering urge to scrub my face with bleach.
So that was us up and looking glumly out the window at the bucketing rain. Not getting to the BMX track was OK as it turns out, which was a surprise as Charlie has been wearing his new full-face helmet everywhere this week in anticipation of his next go around the circuit. He's worn it to bed, to nursery, and, hilariously, in the playground like some sort of mini-Stig going down the slide. He's still quite wobbly on the bike but really gaining in confidence; I was actually quite looking forward to watching him go.
Anyway, so my little spudlet voted with his tum and instead of lurching out into the cold, we washed the sheets and had a rainy-day sort of day which, it turns out, involves a lot of cake; a pleasant diversion from the cat's insides.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Holy crap
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!
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!
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?
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