Happy New Year!

It was the last day of the school Christmas holidays. It was 6.30am and I was awake.....but the children were not. Knowing that they were still snoozing I snuggled down into my duvet thinking of all the things we could do today before reality kicked in and the school run reared its ugly head. We could cook, paint, ride bikes, play games...I had another hour sleep before Darcie Doodlebug decided to let me know she was awake and ready to play. I went in to find her standing up in her cot and grinning from ear arms flailing, desperate to escape the confines of her little bed. I grabbed her bottle and took her back to my room where we snuggled up and I told her all about the fun stuff we could do once her (still snoring) brother woke up...I had everything planned; she had other ideas...

7.30am – snuggles in bed

7.40am – Guzzle guts drains her bottle in a record breaking 30 seconds

7.41am – Madame burcoughs (that’s a combined burp and cough) and I get a face full of vomit.

7.42am – I get a lap full of vomit.

7.44am – I attempt to get my t shirt off as the smell of milky sick is making me want to throw up myself.

7.46am – Lewis comes in to see what all the commotion is about. He promptly turns round and shields his eyes screaming ‘Why haven’t you got any clothes on?!!!!’

The next ten minutes are spent putting clothes on so as not to traumatise my children further and stripping the bed whilst pulling lumps of what looks suspiciously like sweet potato and fishcake out of my hair.....

Scooping up the sick sodden bed sheets and stupidly thinking I may have had the situation under control I made my way out onto the landing. Lewis was happily playing with a dragon, Darcie happily playing with a nappy. That had previously been on her bottom. Which was now full of baby poo. Actually; strike that. Baby poo conjures up images of milky inoffensive browny smudge. Darcie eats what we eat. Her nappy was full of man poo. Actually strike the ‘full of’ comment. The wall, her hands and her hair were full of poo and there was a lovely creative  brown pattern emerging on the carpets working its way towards her bedroom. In the midst of it all, a little poo stained urchin grinning, one hand grasping the nappy, the other holding up her Little Duckling Sticker Book. Lets just say it wasn’t stickers sticking the pages together...

Lewis saved the day with his ‘don’t worry mummy, we’ll get this cleared up in no time!’ statement. ‘We learnt about this at school’ he said....’we just need some of that stuff that the Egyptians used to clean up with when they didn’t have Flash’... intrigued I watch him rack his brains until he triumphantly came up with the answer ‘I’ve remembered what it is...it cleans everything....they used it on anything that needed cleaning....its called uh...oor....or..ur...thats it....urine!!!!’

Anyone got a Rug Doctor to hand?

Five things mummies can do to appear to "have it all under control"

1. Install low energy lightbulbs in your house and invest in some 'light diffusing' blinds. The house may be a tip but if you can't see it properly it doesn't count.

2. Only invite friends over for supper or evening hot chocolates. See above.

(Alternatively get a cleaner and never speak of it so to appease the guilt of not being able to do it all yourself)

3 Fake tan. Not only will you look like a sundrenched Goddess, your skintone will match the circles under your eyes.

4. Pray for alopecia from the neck downwards.

5. When the school decides to run a bake sale save a bit of time by popping to your local supermarket (preferably after 10pm when you don't run the risk of bumping into teacher/parent situation) and purchasing fairy cakes. By taking them out of their cases and adding icing sugar/cherries and/or a light dusting of decoration you are able to pass them off as all your own work. So long as you don't answer 'Yes' when asked if you made them yourself its a mere technicality. Just smile.

Puppy love...

For those of you who don't know...we have a pup. A now nine week old Labradoodle....and boy do I have my work cut out. Don't get me wrong, she's adorable and already part of the family but Lord can she poo. And wee. And chew. Its like having twins...the pooing, the weeing and the chewing always seems to start at the same time. Does that make me sound mentally unstable? That I think my dog and daughter are conspiring against me in a poo off, challanging me to choose which one I should clean up first? This week has mainly seen me knackered, smelling of a heady combination of Dettol and baby wipes. Stairgates have been installed, yet I am currently unable to tell you which one is to keep dog in or children out or vice versa. I came downstairs this morning to find my flip flop in a very sorry state, rather more flop than flip. The pooch had chewed right through the toe post. More fool me leaving my shoes laying around, only it then occured to me I hadn't - the dog had up ended the shoe basket and taken her pick. Lewis adores the pup...until she begins to play and nibbles on his bottom as he runs past. Darcie has had her nose well and truly put out of joint as she is no longer the baby and as I shut the stairgate on the kitchen door at lunchtime with the dog on one side and us on the other Darcie looks over and gives a triumpantly smug smile and a 'ha!' at the prospect of having five minutes without the dog attempting to lick her face off. Despite the fact that the poor puppy (she's called Lexie by the way) has been wrenched from her mummy and siblings she has settled into the madhouse relatively well......with the exception of having a bit of a reaction to her jabs, spending five hours at the vets having blood work and rehydration treatment she's just happy as Larry now. As is our vet whom I'm sure will look forward to seeing her again, especially if he gets another £200 every time she turns up.
In reality we're all waiting for the day we can take her out into the big wide world for walks. I love having her cuddle up on my lap in the evenings . I fully intend to make the most of it, as like the children she won't be a little for long and with the size the vet reckons she'll grow to it won't be physically possible for her to get on my lap. I have also just noticed that Cath Kidston do a lovely range of doggie bits and bobs.............

Milestones and Meltdowns...

This week has seen two monumental milestones which have quite literally sent me into meltdown...

Now my Darcie has never been a petite baby. Even when pregnant and having growth scans to check that she was developing correctly (my son was only 3lb when born) she was off the chart. At 33 weeks pregnant I was measuring 49 weeks pregnant. How is that even possible?? Anyway, she didn’t come out at the 13lbs that my 'expert' consultant predicted she would be - she was a respectable 7lb12oz  but soon set about making 13lb her target weight as soon as possible. From the off she was a guzzler, I felt like having Dairy Crest emblazoned across my boobies and nothing changed when we started weaning. She’s currently just less than eight months and I still enjoy the look on people’s faces when they ask her age and you can tell they’re clearly shocked. ‘Oh’ they say ‘she’s going to be a big girl isn’t she?’ Her dad is 6’3’’ and I’m nearly 5’9’’...we were never going to have a wee tiddler of a babe. In fact I'm seriously considering changing her name to Miranda...you know the comedienne on BBC 2? I have visions of Darcie being her double. 

Well, we took one look at her sumo-sized body  in her baby car seat and decided enough was enough. Getting her into the seat was like juggling clouds and once she was in the car her knees were practically resting on her chin (s). So off to a well known and reputable car seat selling shop we went.

The man was very helpful and very nice and very lovely... even if a little garlicky. In his defence he apologised as he'd had garlic bread with his lunch....great luncheon choice when dealing with the general public. Well he took one look at gigantor baby and didn’t feel the need to weigh her as she was clearly big enough. We sat her in a number of seats before we decided on a particular one. When I say ‘we’ decided it was more her deciding really as she whooped for glee when sat in a particular one! Out to the car we went for the ‘tutorial’ on putting the seat in carefully and correctly. It was at this point I felt the tears starting to threaten to spill. Again. This situation could be particularly embarrassing due to a) being in a public place b) there was no real reason to cry and c) I didn’t want lovely, kind car seat man to think he’d done something terribly wrong (apart from smoother me in garlic fumes) but the truth had smacked me in the face as I realised my baby was ‘growing up’ and there was nothing I could do about it. She was no longer little. I’d dealt with the other things up until now but this was public confirmation that before long she’d be a real life walking talking little girl. I cried all the way home until the OH threatened to call my Mother.

When I woke up on Sunday morning and Darcie gave me her wide eyed grin I spotted it.  Sitting there.  Mocking me. After the car seat mental breakdown yet another reminder that time was flying. Sitting right there in her pink little gums...... a gleaming white peg of a tooth.

Mother Nature really is a cow sometimes, she could've at least made it a month between baby growing events.

                                                                                                                                 

This week has been an emotional one. Sadly Lynn, one of my dance friends from years ago passed away. Well more of a had her life whipped out from beneath her than a gentle passing but the sad news is she has gone. It was a shock to everyone concerned, she was the bubbliest, loudest, life-loving woman you could've imagined with an absolutely filthy laugh, a wicked sense of humour, a young family and everything to live for. As I stood in the church at her funeral and saw just how many people had turned out to pay their respects and say goodbye I couldn't help feeling proud that I'd known her and shared some good times. It struck me that pretty much every single memory I had of her involved laughing about something and usually discussing boobs - my lack of, her not so! As the music started up and I watched her coffin make its way into the church I began to well up. Now one thing reader....I don't 'do' crying. It's not because I think it's weak, childish or meaningless. It's because I'm about as deep as a puddle and I look reeeeaaaally really ugly when I cry. I'm talking red nose, red lips, puffy eyes, snot...the works. It's enough to make someone cry. So I looked around me in order to distract myself, trying to find something to stop the salty pools threatening to spill. It was at that point that I saw it. Or rather them. I knew straight away that even in the afterlife she'd clearly retained her sense of humour as next to me on the shelf was a book about an African family. The picture on the front cover? Naked lady, almost parading her boobs in a mocking fashion. I looked up. Ceiling moulding? Lady with massive boobs. I looked down. Reading material? Virginal lady perhaps but also the proud owner of a majestic heaving bussom. Now you may think this highly innapropriate but believe me, had Lynn been there by this point she'd have already been out for a ciggie and chatted up the vicar....

I made it through the service until her beautiful and brave girls made their speeches about their mummy, at which point I swear I heard my heart crack. Having two young children and seeing just how unpredictable life can be I promised myself there and then that I'd live every day to the full. You hear and read  people moaning and complaining about things that are easily rectified, making something out of nothing and not seeing the bigger picture. I was standing in front of the bigger picture and it made me want to seize the day and let everyone I care about know just how much they mean to me.

We made our way outside and the sun (which had previously been hiding behind the clouds) had decided to make a massive appearance and beam down on the entire congregation. As I watched the family drive away with my heartfelt sympathy I counted my blessings and promised myself I'd give the kids (and my long suffering other half) an extra big cuddle as soon as I got home as you can never be certain when life as you know it will be no more.

Run Forrest, Run......

So the other day my son comes home from school, mega excited. He announces that it’s Sports Day on Wednesday and he just couldn’t wait as it was soooooo exciting.

I think back to my Sports Days at school, back to the days when I could run more than seven steps without having to hold my boobs in place and I to when I actually enjoyed exercise. I have fond memories being quite athletic (lanky legs and there being more fat on a spare rib than I) and the thrill of overtaking someone, going all out and being rewarded with a medal at the end of it. I used to come home with a load round my neck, proud for having legged it and having really pushed myself to achieve something.

I looked at my little man, very petite and not the fastest at running and felt very proud that he was still excited about participating. Off he went upstairs to dig out his ‘sports gear’ which he ensured me would help him win all the races. Bless him. When he came down stairs he looked like an evacuee. I pointed out that Bermuda shorts and a tank top weren’t exactly sports wear and that we needed to re-evaluate the get up pronto. We settled on his outfit and off he went to bed full of high hopes and relay dreams.

The morning dawned and at 6.07am he tiptoed (like an elephant) into my room to ‘just to check mummy hadn’t overslept and missed any races’.  He insisted on a ‘runners’ breakfast (don’t ask me what it consisted of but the kitchen looked like we’d been burgled once he’d finished) and set off to school.

I arrived at Sports Day to find him frantically waving, excitedly pointing out he was on the Red Team and that was the greatest colour ever! There was eight different ‘races’ set up around the field, whereby the kids had to move from one to the next in order. There were beanbags on heads, hurdles and hoops and my personal favourite ‘The Welly Wanging’...

Off they set, over the hurdles, through hoops, running like their life depended on it, to the finish line. Cue eager faces, panting and cheering and the winner (by a mile I have to add, we should’ve gone to his house for power breakfast) happily smiling....only for every child to be given a sticker and told ‘Well Done, EVERYONE'S A WINNER!’......................................Errrrr, let me stop you right there. No. Everyone isn’t the winner. Some people are losers (fact) and they didn’t win, because they didn’t come first!! Now I’m all for equality and what not but it bothers me that the competitive element has been completely obliterated from Sports Days the country over. Even my son, who came fourth announced that he wasn’t the winner, funnily enough – because he didn’t win. In a maths test, are we going to start giving the children marking 3/20 and ‘A’ along with the children marking 20/20....because ‘everyone’s a winner!!’ ? - I think not. Some children just aren’t academic and sports are where they shine – why take that away from them?  The children’s reactions speak for themselves though, as after every event they’d automatically rank where they’d come, who’d ran the fastest and who’d jumped the highest. Lewis was overjoyed when after actively ‘not winning’ he wanged his welly the furthest. Bless him. He even asked if welly throwing was in the Olympics and if so could he train to compete?

I told him it was and we’d get practicing that very weekend.

So if anyone has some spare wellies just laying around (preferably Hunter or Joules ones, size five) could we borrow them for *ahem* some hardcore training?

I can’t believe I used the word ‘mega’.

Things I have pondered upon today..

I'll keep this one short and sweet....

Why do I continue to spend vast amounts of money on miracle creams that promise me "a youthful complexion" or that "dark circles will be banished". Take my new 'Radiance Balm'. Unless the latest definition of radiant is 'looking like shiny dog turd' then I want my money back.

Why when walking in the countryside you see a million and one signs reminding us to pick up our dog poo and dispose of it in the correct bin, but what about the horse poo?? Bigger, smellier and stickier, I appreciate it would be difficult to pick a dollop of horse waste with a poobag but Poo is Poo. Horse poop scoops would possibly need to be carried in a trailer or strapped to the riders back but fair's fair!

Why when driving in the countryside down small winding lanes that have just about enough room to squeeze one car down do I always meet the 4x4 off road driver who refuses to take their car off-road ? Isn't that a passing bay you've just passed? Sorry. My mistake. I'll just pull my 2x2 onto the mud and attempt to drive off when you've gone shall I? Oh I did a wheel spin did I? Yes, I wasn't trying to be cool. My car is shite and won't drive through fields as funnily enough it belongs on a road.

The HMRC 'Help'line. Pah. They're being ironic, right?