Tuesday, 16 December 2008

Wishful thinking

Knock. Knock. Knock.
From the warmest depths of my duvet I hear it.
Knock. Knock. Knock. “Let me out!”
A plaintive cry from the youngest, enough to tug at any normal mother’s heartstrings but, I am afraid, not mine. It has yet to strike six in the morning and I am in no mood to get up. It is cold out there. I can tell this as I can see the streams of breath rise to the ceiling of my bedroom. And I do not want to get up.
Mummeee! Daaaadeee! Let me out!”
Perhaps if I ignore him he’ll give up and start playing with his Duplo – after all that is the whole reason why I allowed him to have a huge box of it in the first place. I try to sleep again.
“Let! Me! Out!”
OK! So that plan isn’t working. Better get up and sort him out. Some of you may be wondering exactly where my youngest is, I promise you he’s in his bedroom and a very nice room it is too, unlike mine his has curtains. The only problem, as far as he’s concerned, is that the latch is too high for him to reach – for other parents out there you, like me, will see this as a positive bonus. Let’s face it how many times in your life have you been disturbed in flagrante delicto in your bedrooms/bathrooms/or even on kitchen tables? I rest my case – although will add that the positioning of The Littlest’s bedroom door latch was not a deliberate act it was merely one of fortunate joinery.
As I reach the top of the stairs to descend and release the tyrant before he causes structural damage to the fabric of the house, I hear The Boy’s door open and am in time to catch a glimpse of him as he dashes to his brother’s aid with the immortal words: “Don’t worry, I’ll rescue you!”
The Boy is as heavily into heroics and being a hero. Occasionally, of course, he gets a little carried away and I am attacked on the stairs, in the bathroom or even as I get into bed, by boy brandishing a squidgy and much battered sword with the cries: “Hold Hard!” “Stop!” and of course “Die!”
I believe it is in a mother's best interest to die as often as possible. So now I tip[ toe back to bed to play dead perhaps they'll go away and leave me alone to sleep...or perhaps that's just wishful thinking!

Friday, 12 December 2008

What I do when He's away...

I have just scoffed eight very delightful and extremely superior chocolates, a very large glass of wine and a small packet of Hula Hoops as I watched Emmerdale.
This is the sum total of my Friday night's supper. I will regret it I know but for now, for these brief few hours, while it digests, I have regressed to an I am not an adult but nor am I a child state and I refuse to have any guilty feelings about it at all.
Tomorrow as they say is another day but for tonight as I sit here in a warm and fuzzy glow brought about by the unusual consumption of alcohol I do not care.
And why do I not care? Well, I have been left on my own. My better half has swanned off to be feted, wined and dined by academe in Cambridge, and I am basically feeling left out, lonely and bored. This is not the usual state of affairs. Usually HE is at home on Fridays and though we rarely these days do anything but have a hasty TV supper and zone out in front of the box, it is comforting. It is something I look forward to all week.
For on Saturdays he will not leave me, on Saturdays he will be around for breakfast. There will be eggs, and bacon, burnt toast and shouting, squabbling, laughing children, excited dogs, cats wending their way across the table most unhygenically. There will be the badly tuned radio and such a mess, such an awful mess that will immediately set me off and I will huff and puff and grumpily sit down to be poured tepid tea and passed rubber toast with eggs that look as though they have travelled a hundred miles and despite it all he will be there even if I will wish him otherwise at the time.
But tomorrow I will be on my own again.

Monday, 1 December 2008


Tonight has been a night of milestones.
Firstly, The Littlest - all blond hair, big blue eyes and the cheekiest smile on the planet - did something other than twist me round his little finger. He found his own name tag among the other tags velcroed on the wall at Nursery.
OK. I know, but I didn’t say these were earth-shattering milestones! Suddenly I realised that: "Heck he’s learning." “I, Baby”, as he calls himself, especially to wind up his elder brother, is not quite as much of a baby anymore.
I should say that on my way home I had time to cherish that moment in the Nursery, but “I Baby” wound up his brother so much in the car that barely five minutes into the journey I had banned them both from watching CBeebies and had sent them straight to bed with no supper.
From the gloomy depths of the back seat came:
“I sad.”
Then from The Boy, my eldest:
“Would you like a huggies?”
The Littlest: “Want huggies - Mumum want huggies.”
Me: “Darling I can’t. Mummy’s driving.” – though if I could I’d have immediately stopped and held him tight in a trice. Why does it always seem as if I’m saying no? – “Don’t be sad little one.”
The Boy: “I’ll give you a huggies.”
Which he did and then came the second milestone.
The Boy: “Shall I tell you a joke?”
Now, I love my boys to distraction and will indulge them all I can, but however much I gloss it, my eldest’s jokes to date have been, well... NOT jokes. If you were polite then perhaps surreal jokes…but not ones I’d say that have any cohesion, or in fact any sense and to be frank, I have yet to find the humour in many. Most of this is down to the fact that my Darling Boy has Absence Seizures, a form of Epilepsy, which leaves his concentration a lot to be desired. I kid you not he frequently misses the punchline - so being an inventive little chap comes up with his own. I'll say this 10 out of 10 for effort but content well...
For example: Why did the dinosaur cross the road? I don’t know why did the dinosaur cross the road? It was dead/pink/flying etc I think you get the idea. He’s been bringing out these jokes for about two years now and the "Doctor! Doctor!" ones are excruciating, while the "Knock! Knock!" ones are totally incomprehensible. And for The Love of God, don’t get me on the subject of his toilet humour! But tonight, tonight I heard:
“Why do cows lie down together?”
Me, with not a little amount of trepidation: “I don’t know darling, why do cows lie down together?”
The Boy: “Because they like to lie next to each udder!”
I was a bit stunned and had to ask him to repeat himself. Ohmygod! A comprehensible joke! A quite funny joke! Then, just as I was about to laugh out loud.
The Boy: “Mummy - what’s an udder?”

Go on you know you want to...


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