Musical Beds

There is a reason we bought a Super King sized bed - the night visitors. Frequently, there are more than one, but even one child on her own takes up an inconceivably large amount of space for the size of person.

I knew it wasn’t going to be a wonderful night’s sleep when I totter through the front door at midnight, to be greeted at the top of the stairs by a moaning Rachel, eyes bleary, her white blonde hair Einstein- esque in appearance.

I had had a lovely evening, taking a rare opportunity to glam up for my friends’ black tie event in the 15 extra minutes I gained because Rachel had conked out asleep on the sofa at half past six. Consequently, that story and bedtime battle had been avoided and I got to paint my toenails instead.

It did strike me that the overall look of my heels, floaty dress, make up and co-ordinated accessories was rather ruined, as I pulled up at the Golf Club and stepped out the driver’s seat of my rather unglamorous people carrier.

It had been fabulous to feel a little bit un-Mumsy for a change but seconds home through the front door and I am back into Mum-mode.

Mark (just in bed after a late shift at work,) and I settled down for the night with Rachel, after a bit of fuss, nestled in between us. It wasn’t long before Mark had had enough of the squirmer, (the superking notwithstanding.) To be honest though, it doesn’t take that much, the sound of a thumb being sucked, a gentle snore, or in fact, even breathing, sends him fleeing for the sanctuary of the spare room, let alone a kicker.

Soon after his departure Emilia appears in the bed. I shoved over a bit and carried on sleeping. Then at 5.30 a.m I am awoken by someone’s ruddy car alarm! I go to the window and peer out to discover it is mine. I lie back down again knowing it will stop before I can get out to it. After listening to the wind for about ten minutes, I am guilted into hunting down my keys and creeping outside in my dressing gown to turn off the alarm function, in fear of a reoccurrence. No bleepy key fobs you can point and effect from a mile away in this house. I have to actually go and put the key in the driver’s door and turn it twice in succession to disable the alarm on our ageing car.

I return to my bed and try and get back to sleep. The two girls fidgeting soon drove me to clamber up into Emilia’s cabin bed in search of peace, and there I stayed until there were footsteps on the ladder and I was shaken awake in the still dark to be asked “Can we go down and watch TV now?”

This was a good night as it goes. There are times when I have to change beds three or more times in order to avoid the different children who follow me round the house to join me for a cuddle wherever I happen to lay my head. I have been known to curl up in the cot bed or resort to the sofa in my quest for a peaceful night.

Ben often used to come into our bed at night, forcing Mark to get into his empty bed, so as to get a better night’s sleep. One night, after kicking Mark out the marital bed, Ben, aged about 3, decides to return to his own bed after about 20 minutes or so. He snuggles in beside Mark, only to announce ‘You can go now!’

Musical Interlude

“How old is McDonalds?” asks Emilia “Did they have McDonalds when you were a kid?”

This conversation over breakfast before school, whilst I am hanging washing, led to the children collectively coming up with a song, sung more than once, with more than one version but the gist was this:

Old McDonald had a farm

E.I.E.I.O

I know you are thinking it is not very original so far but...

On his farm he had some;

Chickens....for chicken nuggets

Potatoes....for chips

Tomatoes...for ketchup

Ham......

“Ham?” I ask

“Yes, for hamburgers”

“Well, they’re beef really”  I correct.

“OK,  Cows... for hamburgers”

E.I.E.I.O

Then he got rich and bought a restaurant....

E.I.E.I.O

“Brilliant. Right, NOW, go and get ready for school”

Also, that morning I had to remember to return some pants belonging to a boy in Patrick’s class (he’d borrowed them when he stayed unexpectedly for a sleepover.) 

On sorting the washing I put them to one side saying “They are Shunyun’s pants.”

“Let me see” says Patrick, examining them for a name label and sounding out, “D.E.B.E.N.H.A.M.S ....I can’t read it Mummy, but they are not Shunyun’s”

You are pulling my....Elbow

I found myself in A and E with Rachel this week. I am amazed, how can we be 10 years in and fourth time round and this ‘Pulled Elbow’ phenomenon be new to us. As parents who ‘rough house’ with our children on a fairly regular basis, doing all the should-nots of swinging them round by their arms, or having them walk up us and somersault over – they love all that – how has this not happened before? Even just through another possible cause, of being tugged along by the hand if in a hurry. Actually, I am guilty of none of these things – in this instance anyway - I have witnesses.

Rachel did not cry immediately afterwards, so I am not certain it was this, but Rachel was holding my hands and let her legs go floppy, as little ones sometimes do. I lowered her to the floor and carried on what I was doing (tallking probably). A minute later came the tears and her cradling her hand.

By dinner time, it was still bothering her, and because crying over an injury is so out of character, we decided to take a trip to Casualty.

As is always the case when you seek medical advice, all symptoms seemed to instantly disappear and she laughed, sang and chatted practically the whole way to the hospital. I was only reassured I wasn’t over reacting when she leaned back in her car seat, closed her eyes and announced “I sleep now, it ‘urting.”

Once in hospital, she refused to wiggle her fingers and just looked on, possessively holding back her own hand, while Emilia, myself and the assessment nurse carried out various pantomimes of wiggling and pointing our own fingers and toes in encouragement.

To the question, “Does it hurt?” Rachel aggressively snapped the answer “No!”

“Can we see it?” – “No!”

“Are you going to co-operate at all?” – “No!”

We eventually got her to point her finger, with no apparent difficulty, leaving me feeling like a fraud. I was convinced they’d send us away, adamant as she was, that it didn’t hurt. They recognised her reluctance to use it though, so she went through to the next round, with a sticker.

Emilia was being lovely with Rachel, making her laugh and reading her stories, as we sat in the cramped little waiting area, whilst I wondered what disease we were likely to come home with.

Another professional soon came to examine Rachel and we were led to another little cubicle where her refusal to give up her hand for inspection continued and the nurse/doctor lady rushed off to get her book of stickers. She explained her suspicions of Pulled Elbow. (It is not quite the same as a dislocation but means one of the bones in the elbow is not lined up.) However, it was just a matter of manipulating it back to its proper place.

The sticker distraction began. She was offered a lion, for being brave “No!, a monkey, a snail, a butterfly. She refused all of them, and not politely.

In the end, we gave Emilia the sticker and the nurse, Rachel’s arm, ignoring the protests, and it was a little twist, a little click, audible only to the doctor/nurse, and job done, she is as right as rain, without even a spoonful of Calpol.

After a few minutes back in the waiting room while we watched Rachel push beads round a coloured wire track with the hand she’d previously been nursing, and we were all free to go.

In the car on the way home, I was thanking Emilia for being such a big help and so kind and patient.

“Good Girl, Belia” puts in Rachel for good measure.

“Well you weren’t” I tell her “You were horrid”

“I not horrid” she replies “I, Rachel”. 

Rude Awakenings

How many different ways can a person be woken up in the morning? Yesterday I was woken by Rachel, with gentle little kisses on the cheek and my face being stroked. Followed, by the less serene, “I WANT BREAKFAST!”  Today, it was by a calculator being shoved in my face.

Last week, by Emilia shouting: “Mummy! Rachel has done a poo on the toilet and is stirring it up with the toilet brush. Can you come!”

Frequently, it is with books smashed down over my head and instructions from Rachel; “Read it, READ IT ME!” which get more insistent and increase in volume and violence, the longer I try to ignore her. “This one, Mummy, THIS ONE!,”  whack, whack, as I try to retreat further under the duvet.

I am sure it is an experience that I inflicted on my parents too. In fact, I know it is, or at least my brother did, as my Father documented in 1978.

“One morning, I am aroused from my sleep by cries of:

“Take aim, FIRE”

and a piece of chewed up plasticine hit me in the head.

Sometimes, I wake up to find a farm has been built around my head on the pillow”

Clearly, Dad was an even heavier sleeper than me. I am thinking things might be a lot worse in our house if it weren’t for the TV option first thing in the morning.

The clocks changing, work both ways for me, when they go back, everyone gets a lie in, as it is, by the clock, earlier than you think it is and we can all go back to bed. When they go forward, if the children wake at 6am, it is 7am on the clock, which is psychologically much better, and you don’t feel so cheated. Every way’s a winner.

What you don’t want to do, is what Mark did this morning, when he started his first early shift since the clocks changed. I was startled to find him in the bathroom when I got up in the night for a drink of water. Bleary eyed, I asked him:

“Do you normally get ready for work at half past 3?”

“Oh no! Is that the time? Do you think I didn’t change my alarm clock?”

What a doofus!

Things can only get better though. Emilia, aged 7, made for me, her first unsupervised cup of tea this morning, along with a bowl of Weetabix, and brought it on a tray, to the breakfast table.

Not long now and we will be being brought cups of tea in bed in the morning, rather than calculators, wet wipes, a variety of toys, pens, and books over the head.

Key Performance Indicator

In most jobs of work, you get some kind of official appraisal, or feedback as to how well (or not) you are doing. As a Mum, generally, you don't...unless you are married to Mark.


I was berated yesterday morning for my 'lack of effort' in the fruit naming department.


Mark produces Emilia's breaktime banana, ready for school, onto which I had hastily scrawled her name, in pencil on the skin.


"This....is how it should be done" he says, spinning it round with a flourish, to reveal drawn on the other side, six beautifully, (but laboriously) detailed flowers, petalled and leafed, each with a single letter of Emilia's name in the centre of each. Show Off!


There is a reason his movie producing name is 'Too Much Time on My Hands."

From Toys to Technology

I should have reacted when I heard the first crash from the playroom, it was followed by uproarious laughter from Charlie, then Rachel, so I continued, sipping my coffee and chatting away to my friend in the kitchen, figuring there were apparently no casualties or we’d have been summoned. Liz was in the vicinity too, although also engaged in conversation, on her mobile.

In the back of my mind I could hear the unmistakable sound of toys being tipped out of boxes and lots of giggling but I imagined them to be just playing nicely, even if making a bit of a mess in the process. The phone rang and I was further distracted, giving the terrible twosome even more time to wreck the joint.

When I eventually went in to check on them they had reached the third level of shelves, some 4 feet up, and seemed to be systematically chucking the contents of every puzzle and game piled there onto the floor.

The devastation was catastrophic. Every toy box had been upended, jenga blocks, packs of cards, counters, dice, stickle bricks and lego littered the floor. At least fifteen different puzzles had been mixed up and scattered everywhere, the tops and bottoms of the boxes they came in, separated, crushed, broken and in random parts of the room. Fisher Price toys, Playmobil people and their impossibly tiny accessories were spread far and wide. Carnage. The toddlers were triumphant and unremorseful.

My kids have too many toys, or maybe just a parent with an inability to cull them. I yearn for the simple life – go and play with a stick in the garden and be content with that.

Patrick is learning about old and new toys in school at the moment, so we sent him in with photos of some, including a couple of my Mum’s partner, Mike’s, impressive collection of classic matchbox vehicles. He has some 150 or so housed in a locked glass display case.

Once, when Ben, aged about 5, was staying with them, Granny found him staring longingly at them all. He told her matter of factly: ‘when Mike’s dead we can break it open and play with all his toys.’

The traditional toys are the best though. My children have all had hours of fun playing with their wooden world train and road track, even now. I remember when Ben was little, him getting really involved in the construction of it all. When he was about three, I called him into breakfast and he called back to me down the hallway, ‘Not now, Mummy, not until you’ve seen my erection’ (He meant his track and bridge.)

Leading on from our old and new toy discussions, the children and I started to talk about changes in TV and computer games. I told them we had a small, black and white television when I was young (I think it came free with our colour TV set from Radio Rentals.)

Emilia said: ‘That’s funny, ours isn’t black and white now, it’s silver.’

As indeed the TV surround is, so strange though, that the idea of the picture not being colour, just didn’t occur to her.

Sometimes I’m not sure why we bother with toys at all, Ben was aged six when he told me ‘All the best things in life involve a screen.’

They were certainly all very fascinated by our neighbour’s  iphone. He was showing them how to play games on it and told them, ‘Just scroll down with your finger until it lights up’ to which Emilia responded ‘But your finger doesn’t light up!’

They love technology, and are often better at it than I am. I received a text from a friend the other day saying ‘Lovely pic Jules!, In your ‘thinking pose’ I see! Has a little person commandeered your phone by any chance...? ‘

What picture? What, Where, How? I anxiously check my sent messages and there it is, a horrendous, grumpy picture of me, taken unawares. I look at the recipient...’to many.’  Little bugger!

RACHEL!!!!!! 

November 6th 2011 - Cleanliness is next to Godliness - apparently

We returned to Box Hill to find our water bottle today and saw and spoke to a man from the National Trust litter picking.

‘Why do people drop litter?’ asks Emilia, on our way back to the car

‘People who don’t love God, drop litter’ answers Patrick ‘that man there, we were talking about (he meant talking to) I bet he dreams all about God every night.’

November 5th 2011 - Bonfire Night

I couldn’t let it go, despite going to Westcott Bonfire last weekend, that was October. I feel obliged to celebrate actual Bonfire night somehow, it is a Saturday and November 5^th after all.... What was I thinking? I know, I’ll just put the kids in the car and just pop up to Box Hill and watch the Brockham firework display. Lovely – we’ll see all the pretty lights over Dorking, not too bangy and get home, putting them all to bed only a little later than usual. Great idea.

Rachel, having initially decided very forcefully that she wanted to stay at Granny’s house, jumped on the band wagon as we were going out the door.

‘I’ll come, I come, I coming’ she announces, piling in the car in dressing gown and slippers. We all set off, whereupon she promptly fell asleep.

We queued for ages for the car park, while I anxiously checked the time, I’m sure it starts at eight, we’re going to pay three quid to park and then miss it. As I unloaded the children, it dawned on me how inadequately prepared I was – no torch and no buggy for starters.

We joined the throng of people descending on the viewpoint and Ben led us to his perfect spot from where to watch, via the steepest slope available. We all sat down on the grass there (I hadn’t thought to bring a rug either) and waited...and waited.

‘Can we have sparklers?’ asks one of the children. ‘No,’ I reply ‘I haven’t got any, and anyway we did all that last Saturday.’

We sat a bit more. Sporadically, we saw four or five little pops and flashes of colour, pitiful really, then nothing.

Patrick says ‘Mummy, since we’ve been here I can smell sausages, can we get some?’

‘Well we could,’ I reply ‘but I left my money in the car.’

Ben says ‘You can go back and get it- we can look after ourselves’ Emilia adds helpfully ‘you can take Rachel .‘

Oh that is ok then, I can carry that sack of potatoes to and from the car park, get some cash and probably to fail to find my remaining children on my return. They seemed to be dressed in the darkest clothes possible- I could barely see them when they were standing in front of me. I ruled that out straightaway.

To be fair to them, sausages was a legitimate request as I had failed to cook them a proper tea. Granny had stuffed them up with toast, buns, biscuit and cereal all afternoon while we worked together on Emilia’s Viking Costume. I reasoned they’d eaten enough but they like their routine and don’t easily let me forget if I’ve done them out of a meal.

Anyway, they accepted my point and Ben and Emilia proceeded to play hide and seek....- in the dark- I ask you? Last Saturday night, Ben had perfected the skill of commando style stalking us on our walk back through the Nower. That time we did have torches (Mark being in charge, he also had a flask of hot chocolate for the children, beer for the adults, a large box of yum, yums, sparklers, fireworks at home afterwards and enough money for those wretched glow sticks – I am such an amateur in comparison.)

We would periodically flash the torch around to check Ben was still with us. As soon as the light picked him up he would hit the deck sharpish to camouflage himself in the long grass, or grab a branch and pretend to be a tree, hide in a ditch or flatten himself against a wall. Today, however he contented himself lurking in the shadows or hiding behind the three of us in order to outwit Emilia.

Luckily, the Brockham display kicked off and they were temporarily distracted, until that is, they discovered that our water bottle was missing, presumably having rolled down the steep slope, and all three older ones went off in pursuit. This was fine until I lost sight of them and started to fret, this really isn’t very responsible of me- I’m on my own, a sleepy Rachel in my lap- and I’ve let them disappear. I didn’t want to shout for them, disturbing the quiet on the hill over the quite frankly very impressive display Brockham was putting on – but I couldn’t see them. I shouldn’t move – surely they would come back and find me- they knew where we’d been sitting, we could end up chasing each other in circles if I followed them. Gingerly, I edged a few feet down the hill and to my relief spotted a tiny red light that Patrick had on a toy he was carrying. I called quietly to them and they made their way up, disappointed and empty handed. Then I made them sit with me and enjoy the bloody fireworks and we had our nice cuddly moment, which is what I hope they will remember from it.

Emilia was doing my head in a bit with her constant refrain of ‘Are you scared, Rachel?, are you scared? You don’t like the bangs do you Rachel? They’re not loud from here though, you’re not scared are you Rachel, do you like it Rachel? it is not scary is it Rachel? Shall I cuddle you then you won’t be scared will you?’

‘All right Emilia!’ I snap ‘she is fine, she is not scared but she will be if you keep insisting she is, leave her alone, and just watch.’

Before it finished, wanting to get ahead of the traffic, I suggest we make a move. This is initially rejected by Emilia who wants to stay until the end. I try again a few minutes later and Patrick admits he’d like to go home, with one on my side, I seize on it and lead them away with Rachel waving and saying ‘Bye, bye Fireworks.’ We walk backwards so as not to miss the spectacular finish.

I bundle everyone into the car as the crowds start to surge on the car park and back out slowly, anxious not to run into anyone or anything in the chaos. I get the children to check out their windows too, someone waves me on and we make our escape.

A few moments later, as we wind our way down the zig zags, Patrick pipes up from the back

 ‘Mummy, when can we have a car crash?’

It transpires he just means he wants to be picked up by a tow truck and drive in a lorry like when you break down, but it is already gone 9pm and with the bedtime shenanigans still looming, I am starting to think it would have been nice to have had them all in bed by 7pm and had an early night!

November 4th 2011 - Blog of an FTM

I should explain. Officially, well according to an article in the Sunday Times,  – my ilk are known as SAHMs, Stay At Home Mothers. I personally don’t like the acronym, apart from the fact it sounds a bit too posh, if you pronounce it Sarms, as no doubt they do in Clarm (Clapham – home of the yummy Mummy.) I prefer Full Time Mum (FTM) mostly because that sounds as if we do more somehow.

Full time mum should not be confused with another FTM, that is First Time Mum, of which my sister Liz is one, albeit a mostly chilled out version. However, there are still some significant differences between her first time attitude to things and my last time round perspective. My ten years into it, jadedness is all too apparent in comparison. Liz does possess a rare quality in a first time Mum, and that is the ability not to take everything pertaining to parenting too seriously. She is totally able to laugh at her own keenness and enthusiasm, for example in this email she sent me regarding Charlie’s packed lunch for nursery.

Having a little laugh at my own expense:

Charlie's lunch for tomorrow is as follows:

Peppers, carrots and cucumber with homemade curry dip

Grapes & dried mango

Rice pudding

Corn on the cob

Five raspberries

Man shaped marmite sandwich

Lady shaped marmite sandwich

And, wait for it...

Teddy-bear shaped ham slices

Tiny heart shaped pieces of cheese

Make of it what you will. Possibly too many cutters, too much time on my hands.

Love Liz x

Love it! Please compare Emilia’s begged packed lunch of last term, I made her make it herself (age 6,) as follows;

Butter sandwich (unevenly spread and cut)

Something pilfered from the fruit bowl

Some digestives from the biscuit tin

Something got from the fridge: maybe a yogurt, blueberries, raspberries or strawberries if she’s lucky

Raisins

Not quite the same. She was on a promise. September 2010 – I bargained “You can have a packed lunch for the last half of the summer term IF you go into school without the clinginess” (And hopefully by that time you’ll have forgotten about it). She didn’t.

 However, the novelty soon wore off as she found it quite a chore having to make her lunch while the others were doing something more interesting, and was quite happy to return to school lunches. Hooray!!! 

I know you shouldn’t see parenting in terms of winning or losing battles... but ..I won.

I don’t do packed lunches – even though my laziness costs us £800 in school dinners a year. I can’t face it every single day, either making them, three times over, or cleaning out their lunchboxes afterwards. I will, on occasion, do Mark’s sandwiches to take to work.

I have a friend of three children who counted up that in the course of a day, whether they were at school or not, she prepared in total 15 meals, not including providing the children snacks and drinks and the odd cup of tea for herself. Chained to the fridge we are.

So, no packed lunches for my kids, I don’t do ironing either, and I won’t get a dog as that would just give me something else to do.

Maybe SAHM is a better name for me, as looking at it now, in terms of my Not To-Do list, I’m not sure anymore what qualifies me as so Full Time. 

October 22nd 2011 - Last Time Mum

I think it was the vicar who said that your youngest child will always be the worst, the one who acts as the ultimate contraceptive, after whom there will be no more. It was years later I remembered his comment and gazing adoringly at my fourth and final, sleeping baby bundle, I couldn’t believe that to be true.

Now I can.

Rachel was a great baby; happy, smiley, a good sleeper, she was very easy and just fitted in. She was really no trouble. As she has got older, and louder, and less supervised, she is a NIGHTMARE! And the worst thing is that she is almost impossible to discipline because she is so funny. She cracks me up and I have to look away so she can’t see me laughing, which is completely ineffective. Is it a deliberate diversionary tactic? Does she think, I know I have just smacked my cousin in the face and should apologise, but look at me. I can stand on one leg “Whoaah, whoaah!” (pretending to overbalance.)See me up here on the chair, I’m swaying now, doing a little dance for you, do you like my jig? I’m pulling a funny face too, look at my eyes roll in my head and dart from side to side (guiltily) in a comedy way. I’m being really cute no? Cue: cheeky, knowing smile. You can’t be cross with me. I’m hilarious.

Even my own Mother, a school teacher once remarked “You know how you see families of children coming up through the school and the first couple are sweet, lovely, well behaved children and the last one is a monster...?......I can see Rachel being like that.”

A lot has to do with having to be heard, and competing with three other children for attention. She definitely gets louder and more opinionated in the holidays. She has an excited, shrill shriek stroke scream which is totally unnecessary, ever, and we are trying to discourage. She dictates what she wants us all to listen to in the car. “ Bang, bang. WANT BANG BANG.” (Chitty, Chitty Bang Bang soundtrack) and specifies the volume “Louder. LOUDER, MUMMMEEE!” but then is so adorable as she sings along, lisping Truly Scrumptious as if butter wouldn’t melt. She also likes to get a laugh by singing aggressively in a gruff, shouty, screechy  way as if she is in some heavy metal band.

Much of her ‘naughtiness’ has to do with the lack of supervision and free reign she gets. She is often just trying to copy what she sees me do, washing up, squeezing out flannels or dish cloths, pouring drinks and cereal, stirring and mixing or putting on make up. She just makes a hell of a lot more mess doing it than I do. I’m not sure that I ever empty bookcases and drawers the way she does, and I can’t say I’m guilty of squeezing toothpaste into a drawer,  then adding half a cup of water, all over the sanitary products inside so they explode, then shutting it again for someone else to find later...that was entirely her own idea.

One of her worst stages was when she started getting up in the night or early hours of the morning and cause mayhem then. She would come into my bedroom usually with suncream, toothpaste, moisturiser or handwash all over her hands and announce to my sleeping form. “Look Mummy, Look!...MESS, did it Mummy, did it!” I’d find myself then at 4am, washing her off and scrubbing the carpet and cupboards clean of whatever mass spillage she’d created. Sometimes she’d use my distraction with the clean-up operation to go and do something else, like fill her nappy. She’d then throw a fit loud enough to wake the others and refuse to let me change it. Battle would commence, keeping her quiet versus not letting her get her own way.

I would wake up sometimes to the sound of running taps. She did cause a flood once. Does anyone else have to actually permanently  turn off the water in all the bedroom sinks, tighten the bathroom taps before they go to bed, and have even locked cupboards and drawers(she uses drawer handles as ladder rungs) turned to face the wall to disable them from a baby? Is any other house as child proofed as ours, to absolutely no avail?

That child can create havoc out of nothing. Even when, in fact, especially when, she is trying to be helpful. Look I can empty my own potty and rinse it out in the bath. I can change my own nappy and empty the contents of that down the toilet too, and I can use three hundred babywipes to make myself nice and clean!

So yes, I’d have to agree this child will be the last

October 8th 2011 - Spoilt Rotten - Cake ahoy

It was mine and Charlie’s birthdays this week. He got a brand spanking new bike, which he was delighted with. However, as in the way of these things, as soon as Rachel got on his old bike, that was the one his heart most desired. (We got around it by leaving his old bike behind and giving Rachel her scooter to ride on, which is not nearly so covetable.) They did do some good sharing that day though. Charlie let Rachel ride on his new bike whilst he had a ride on mine. He also had less good moments, when he decided that his Daddy was not to cycle past near Rachel at all and he told her that all the grass area was out of bounds to her and her scooter. When Charlie’s parents despaired of his not seeming so happy on his birthday, he dramatically confessed “No, I not... I, Mr Miserable. “

Usually, it is totally, six of one, half a dozen of the other, but for some reason Rachel was playing her angelic card that morning (only one act of violence against him.) Charlie had played his, with Mum the day before, when Rachel was the villain of the pair. The hot chocolate, muffin and ice cream at the cafe soon improved the situation. It always works for me.

On Tuesday, Emilia (age 7) was doing her maths homework and rounding numbers.  My age, 34, was rather pleasingly rounded down to 30. That is no age, I thought, I’m still young. On Wednesday I turned 35 and she is suddenly rounding me up to 40. That felt less good.

I was spoilt rotten on my birthday, I had several cards, flowers, a phone call from Hong Kong and one from my brother!!!, 20 texts, and some messages posted on my facebook wall. The whole week was great.

Monday - Rachel and I were taken out birthday shopping by my Mum, the trip finishing up with hot chocolate and carrot cake in the sunshine at an outdoor cafe.

Tuesday - we met friends, for a cup of tea and chocolate fridge cake at a farm shop/cafe/kids play place.

Tuesday evening - I went up to London to meet friends and my lovely friend curly Jo, bought me a birthday dinner in Pizza Express.

Wednesday - I was bought tea and toast after toddler group, in a cafe with another mate and her daughter. Liz and Charlie came too and we went to a park afterwards, but not before they terrorized the old folks of the pedestrian precinct in Leatherhead, with their unruly scootering/biking and their bellowing at each other outside the shop, whilst I changed some shoes.  We couldn’t bear the embarrassment and the tutting of the pensioners, so got out of there as soon as we could. Liz also bought me my lunch, half a turkey, brie and cranberry sandwich which we scoffed in the car.

My lovely neighbour Dom arrived just before the school run bearing a box of 6 individual cup cakes piped with the initials of my name J.U.L.I.E.T. (I like that the number of letters in my name is equivalent to the number of members of my immediate family.) The children and I worked out that Emilia should have the one with the E, PaTrick the T, BenJamin, the J, and RacheL, the L, which left U and I for Mark and me. How sad are we?

After school, at tea time, we had our traditional family birthday sing, candles and cake with the children, when I was presented with an amazing homemade open story book cake, with beautiful animal illustrations in icing, and the words “Once upon a time there was a lovely girl called Juliet who had a birthday...” Although, what with Emilia’s unflattering rounding up. My sister thought that “lovely middle aged woman” might be more appropriate now. It was a delicious cake and all the more special since my sister had to spend all of a beautiful weather day inside to make it. What a sacrifice.

Once we’d got the kids to bed, my special day ended in a pub up near Heathrow at a Retirement do, for some nice old engineer guy who worked with Mark. It was nearly all men, very friendly and amenable, but many of them of the overweight and toothless variety, one of whom, kissed my hand- eww!  My husband sure does know how to show me a good time!

Thursday – I was taken out by friends for a surprise birthday lunch, which turned out to be at a fab new restaurant in Gomshall. After that, we had coffee and brownies in the park opposite.

Thursday evening - I went over to my friend’s house for our usual girls’ night and there were more cards and the most enormous cream and jam filled chocolate cake with thick chocolate icing baked for me by Sarah. It was gorgeous, and again, the very effort of it all, baking, while simultaneously dealing with two small children, was very touching and much appreciated.

I haven’t even started with the presents yet. I am actually one of these people who aren’t very good at getting presents – unless you can eat it, smell it, read it, wear it or use it, I don’t want it. Anything else and my heart sinks as I despair at having something else to clutter up my already full to capacity, bursting at the seams house. I am absolutely delighted if it is something we needed to buy anyway and it is wrapped up and given in the name of my birthday. Wrapped up anything is exciting. Consequently, my set of saucepans, graduated measuring jugs and new toilet seat were enthusiastically received. I am fairly sure Mark’s Dad was nearly hit over the head with a saucepan he bought his wife as a present. I have a feeling that really appreciating such Christmas presents as a new kitchen broom, dustpan and brush and front door mat, may be considered a little strange. I am obviously cut from the same cloth as my Great Auntie Bill, who would not consider a piece of sandpaper, a strange choice of present for her great nephew. I hasten to add – I do not actually give the ‘useful’ type of present I like to receive, I’ve more sense than that.

My least favourite part of my birthday was being woken up by my children at twenty to six in the morning in order to give me presents. The best present would be a little more sleep.

October 6th 2011 Argy-Bargy

“Charlie, please don’t argue” protests my sister Liz.

“Don’t arg ME” he says “I want to arg!”

And then they do. ALL THE TIME. Charlie and my little one, Rachel, are like the seagulls in Finding Nemo. “Mine, Mine, Mine, Mine.” They adore each other but fight like cat and dog. I don’t know where they get it from, it is not like they see my sister and I at each other’s throats. We get along quite well.

We were at a deserted park the other day, they had the whole place to themselves, and yet they kept coming to blows about this one steering wheel and gear lever on the pirate ship. They were having fun too, there was plenty of “Ahoy my hearties” and “Aye, aye Shipmate” on their ship but when one was at the helm, the other would muscle their way in, in front of the other ‘Captain’ to take control. Amid very noisy protests from the one who’d been usurped, we’d try “You have the wheel, and you have the throttle, share it please” which worked...some of the time. We split them up again and again, insisting “now if you ask nicely instead of just taking, she’ll/he’ll let you have a turn. Once a reasonable request was made (in a low voice) the one ‘driving’ would often acquiesce and game play would resume until the next time...literally a few minutes later. Then again, would come the shoving and shouting; “My turn” “No. Mine” “I want it!” “Noooooooooo!” Their two faces would be inches apart roaring their demands. The frustration and argy bargy would culminate in a slap, push or attempted bite and my sister and I would again wade in with our endlessly patient, ask nicely suggestions, distraction techniques or good old fashioned separation, to opposite ends of the park.

It is said, when two dogs are fighting over a bone – take the bone away- although this proves rather harder when the said bone is at a fixed point in the playground. It was actually quite funny watching what space invaders they are. One child would sit on a bench at a miniature picnic table and the other would run over and squeeze in beside them, leaning across the table, moving their backside to practically sit on the other ones lap until she was altogether ousted. Finding herself pushed out of her position, she would take his hat off his head and run away with it. Cue; more tears and rage and off we’d go again. More argg-ing.

Sometimes Liz and I would just watch them fight it out, a lot of the time we’d have to intervene. There has been several bitten fingers, slapped faces, scratches, falls from an aggressive push and the imprint of a full set of teeth in recent months, and yet they think the world of each other, and many tears ensue when we have to leave because they can’t bear to be parted. 

21st September - Woman's Work Workout

I should wear a pedometer. I think even without my weekly tennis I still get quite enough exercise. Let’s see, there is the fairly hilly school run twice a day, there and back, usually at a quite a pace because I didn’t leave early enough, and often pulling a scooter or pushing a buggy, usually with just one child in it but sometimes an older one muscles in too. 

Then, there’s the shopping trips, I never take the car into town, I just don’t feel I can justify it. It takes as long to drive and park and the idea of nipping in quickly for something never quite pans out like that. So, even if I am not in a hurry, which I usually am, there is the weight of the shopping under the buggy to push up the hill home.  I don’t need to go to the gym for my cross training. I’ve got it all here. At the height of my poundage pushing, I was probably hauling at least 8 pints of milk, plus an overspend on market day, on apples, oranges, potatoes, carrots, bananas plus the lighter fruit and vegetables, boxes of cereals, wipes, nappies,  not to mention a baby in the push chair plus a toddler on the buggy board, and a scooter. Is this an Olympic sport, because it should be. And this is me, in between my monthly bulk ordering, when I make sure I order the majority of our food, particularly the heavy stuff, on line. Imagine trying to do the whole lot locally – I’d have to get a trailer. Or just do what most sensible people do and take the car. Although, shopping is insane when you actually think about how much you handle your food. Off the shelf into the trolley, out of the trolley at the till, back into the trolley, to the car out of the trolley into the car, out of the car up the steps into the house,  and finally from the table or floor where you’ve dumped it,  into the cupboards. If you don’t take the car you miss out a step as it goes straight under the buggy from the till, but even so, why wouldn’t you get it delivered? Someone even brings it up the steps – only a fiver – worth every penny and a whole morning or afternoon of my time. Fantastic.

So, exercise; the bike ride (if it is not raining) to Tumble Tots with added child weight, the walk to and from ballet the other end of town, walking or cycling with the children over to Granny’s or Grandma’s at the weekend or trawling the grounds of the National Trust with them. I’ m not even trying to factor in exercise into my day yet.  An after- school game of netball in the garden, climbing a tree to rescue a stuck child. The stairs, I forgot about the stairs, numerous trips up and down those, (we don’t have a downstairs toilet,) carrying a child or full washing basket, does that count? Also, there’s to and from the outside, basement, freezer, more steps.  Stretching when hanging the washing... I don’t think I need bother with the tennis and yoga next week.

September 20th 2011 - Dog Days

‘Blood, sweat and tears’ does not cover even half of it in the average day of a stay at home Mum, particular with pre-schoolers. As well as having my own menstrual melt downs, I have, so far, been wetted with urine, cleaned up a bloody toe, dealt with several potties and nappies of wee and poo and finally mopped up a load of sick, not to mention placating a few tantrums, refereeing  between two 2 year olds,  two school runs – with bikes and scooters, helping with three lots of reading, spelling practice and maths homework, found in the school bag at bedtime. But all in all it was a fairly uneventful day really.

It started badly when Rachel peed her pants on the walk back from taking the older ones to school. She had insisted that she need not wear a nappy and since she had been sat on the potty a good few minutes before we left with no result, she convinced me we could probably risk the 20 minute school round trip commando, as she didn’t need to go. Oh the fool I was! Yes, sometimes it is worth the argument. The basis for this belief, I should explain, is the fact she was pretty much potty trained before the summer holidays, day and night. I prematurely rejoiced in the end of an era (nearly 10 years) of nappies, but then it all started to go horribly wrong, and in the chaos of four children at home, the dog sitting, the neighbourhood fish and cat feeding in various houses in the street, plus the picnic making and social arrangements of the holidays, I admitted defeat and temporarily brought back the pull-ups.

I blame the dog. We offered to have our neighbours’ lovable cocker spaniel Roscoe for them whilst their family went on holiday to France. He is a great dog, but quite an old man in terms of his medication, ear drops twice a day, eye drops twice and a concoction of tablets wrapped in ham morning and evening, an hour before food. The kids loved him and it gave them the experience of having a dog without us actually having to own one. I have a theory that children’s memories of childhood are very selective – they’ll see a couple of photos, have a few recollections of dog walking and whammo, they’ll grow up believing they had a dog and will never complain they were deprived.

Anyway, the very worst part about dog ownership these days is the picking up of the poo. It is gross, but necessary, but here is where my daughter’s confusion came about. Roscoe literally taught my child to shit in the garden, and in the woods, and on the path. You could see how her mind worked –hang on a minute – this is easier – the dog comes along has a wee and a crap wherever it pleases and in the case of a number two, Mummy just comes along with her pink plastic bag and pops it in – job done. The dog doesn’t get shouted at or reprimanded in any way at all – I’m giving that a go! I am not exaggerating when I say Rachel not only went in the garden, in the wendy house etc but would happily whip off pants or pull up and squat down on a woodland path while we were out walking. Later she did not even bother removing pants – after all the dog doesn’t have to.

I digress, back to my day. So, there’s Rachel, with a huge sopping wet patch in the crotch and all down the legs of her pink shorts, which she has to wear home, as taking the decision to chance it, I have come out completely unprepared with just my keys, phone and her scooter. Full speed ahead home and with my help, I might add, she hits her scooter on a stone and spectacularly catapults herself into the gutter. Loud wails ensue and she clings her wee drenched body to mine in search of comfort and sympathy and won’t be put down. I then have to carry her and the scooter practically all the way home for a change of outfit for both her and me.

It is now 11pm and we are ending the day with even more changes of clothes required and the washing machine whirring loudly beside me. Rachel is in her third set of pyjamas as despite the bowl and towels laid out to protect the bedcovers and carpets she has still managed to spray the sheets and herself with vomit. The first puke managed to include the carpet and books in the bookcase too. It may be a long night!

September 19th 2011 - Monkey Child

We’ve just completed our final session of Tumble Tots. There is partly a financial reason for stopping, what with football, judo, ballet, Cubs, Rainbows, and swimming lessons at school, for the other three – it is just all adding up, but mostly, it is because I have the most badly behaved child there,  and I despise being shown up. She doesn’t do a thing she is supposed to, crosses her arms and says “Don’t want to” at joining in the train, and “Don’t like that!” at the songs, and tops it all off by standing up in front of all the well behaved little children, sitting on their mum’s laps in the circle and blowing a big raspberry at the leader. Having said all that, she loves it – they all did.

Despite initially having viewed Tumble Tumble Tots, as in essence, a Dog’s Agility course for children, I approached our first session with all the enthusiasm of a first time Mum looking for an outlet for her toddler’s energy and something to do together. It also seemed infinitely preferable to standing outside in a freezing cold park all winter.

I will never know whether Tumble Tots just honed my children’s natural born climbing ability or whether it gave them the idea in the first place, but it did teach them to climb with confidence and how to climb safely.

I won’t be pointing the finger at Tumble Tots when my 2 year old triumphantly stands on the draining board brandishing an empty flowerpot  and once full bottle of washing up liquid, the contents of both, which fill the sink. I won’t despair when my toddlers can scale stair gates or when the bars of their cot no longer imprison them, at a fearfully young age. I won’t pull my hair out when there seems to be no cupboard too high, as long as there are movable pieces of furniture or toy boxes to help their ascent. I’ll try to keep calm when the nappy cream on top of that very tall cupboard still proves to be within reach,( by way of toddler bed, changing table and small pile of books,) and is consequently smeared over every available surface. When my little one is climbing over monkey bars, 2 metres up, and in a potty training era, has the balance and co-ordination to poo from her position at the top of the climbing frame, or even when she teaches her friend to climb up into the basin, I will just laugh and be a teensy bit proud!