It's CHRISTMASSSSSSSSS!

It’s Beginning to Look A Lot like Christmas

So this week I’ve been bribing the four year old, pretending to look over his shoulder out of the window at the tiny elves that are making copious notes in little books for Father Christmas, adding their own ammunition to the naughty and nice list! My sister in law had her kids believing that Father Christmas had the place wired up with CCTV cameras – (that were actually the burglar alarms) and every time the red light went on (i.e. someone walked into the room!) Santa was watching.

It worked for a bit but as all these things he soon got fed up and back to his usual challenging behaviour………

This time of year makes me even soppier than usual and much as my brother called me a weirdo for saying, ‘Bad Santa’ was my favourite Christmas  film, (though I have to admit I do love ELF!)  I can still watch ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’ or even ‘A Muppet Christmas’ and develop a little tear……

It might be something to do with the hormones that kick in once you become a mum that even the most ridiculous thing can tug at your heart. My ball breaking , business woman friend re-calls a time not long after her son was born when her husband came home from work to find her collapsed on the sofa baby clutched to her breast in uncontrollable sobs,

‘My God’ he said, ’what is it? What has happened?’

She was unable to speak for a few minutes before she managed to blurt between snorts and sobs…’EMMERDALE!!!!!’

I know the feeling…

I was driving to work last week listening to the radio when amongst all the other festive cheery songs I heard the classic, ‘It’s Beginning To Look A Bit Like Christmas!’  I love an old time quirky tune and sang along happily – it’s funny how you know all the words to most of these songs  through the  39 years of total emersion for  one month a year; when I came to the line,

‘But the prettiest sight to see,

Is the holly that will be,

On your own front door’

It made me cry! ‘Yes!’ I sobbed to myself, ‘It is the prettiest sight, going home, being at home, being with my lovely family’

 It’s a bit Hollywood the reality of being with my family is not always that relaxing….but the sentiment had got me!

I’ll be sobbing my way through to the new year………

Nativity

Last week in my 4 year old’s bag was a request, ‘Please send in brown trousers and a brown long sleeved T-shirt as your son has been chosen to play the Ox in the nativity, please encourage him to learn these lines,

Have you brought a present for the baby King?

Have you bought a special gift just to give to him?’

Wow, I thought brave, giving a kid with speech difficulties two lines, OK, so they don’t really make sense and a talking Ox? Still, better get to it and teach him them.

……and so I began,

‘Right son, repeat after me, Have you brought a present for the baby King?

Have you bought a special gift just to give to him?’

‘No’ says number one son.

‘Ha, ha’, I say, ‘No son, I want you to say it’ (I break into strange over enunciated story voice) – ‘Have you brought a present for the baby King? Have you bought a special gift just to give to him?’

‘No!’ says number one son looking a little perplexed.

‘No, no, no’ I say ‘You have to say it! I’m not asking you!’ after about half an hour of this, I decide to let him practice it at school a bit first, maybe they haven’t started it yet, as he really doesn’t seem to have a clue what I’m talking about!

As the date of the big show due ever nearer I was worried he refused to say these lines and checked,

‘Are you the only Ox?’

‘No, Faisel is an ox too’

Phew, I thought they must have coupled a good speaker with a less able one to do the lines together, yet still he didn’t really seem to understand what was going on.

I was a little sad that due to work commitments I wouldn’t be able to see the nativity but careful what you wish for folks because, the baby’s ear drum burst- gallons of seeping yellow gunk,  blowing all work out of the water and leaving me free to watch with a snuggled, sleeping, doped up tiny one on my lap.

In came the children to the hall, mammoth proportions, 15 of each character, angels, kings, shepherds, sheep, stars, donkey's and oxen – lots and lots of nose picking, play with your hat, yawning, mucking about oxen…..I began to see the peer group my son was in.

The nativity was a little under rehearsed, but pretty cute, the angels did a dance, the kings did a march, the shepherds and sheep a song, the stars a rhyme even the donkey’s did a sort of thing.

The oxen remained, bare foot on the gym mat all in brown trousers and paper bands around there heads with paper ears stapled on.

The lines I’d attempted to teach were a repeat throughout the show said by all – except of course most of the oxen including my little calf who all seemed oblivious to the holy story unfolding all around them.

I told him he was the best ox I’d ever seen and that I was very proud of him……..and I was!

Atishoo, atishoo they all fall down.....

Atishoo, atishoo they all fall down……

When I got home tonight, through the sleet and slippery roads, I was greeted with the news from my mother – in – law (almost anyway, I’m not actually married to my man) that the baby had a ‘weeping’ ear. Clear discharge had been squelching out of it throughout the day……must say not a total surprise and answered a few questions really like -  Why has he been crying through the night? Why has he been so grumpy? Why has he been banging the side of his heard whilst making blood curdling baby dinosaur noises? Ah-ha Miss Marple so maybe it’s not his teeth / the cold/ growth spurt hunger or all of the above…..

We’d taken his ear rubbing as a sign of tiredness – not the sign of agonising pain it might be…. Hey ho! Am I still in the running for this year’s bad mummy award?

But, you see, although my first thought was concern for the weefella my second was,’ Will I have to take any time off work?’ – You see it’s only last week I was at the doctors with him for – now let’s just call it an eye infection…..

I took an hour off work to go to the doctors and was forced to ask that mummy divider question,

‘ Erm, (slight cough) is he O.K. to go into nursery?’ my voice tailed off into the void…..

I fortunately have a lovely doctor who does not make me feel bad about asking this question and even sympathises, ‘Well’ she says ‘There’s no official ruling to say he can’t go in with conjunctivitis’ – yes, my friend the shame, he had that highly contagious eye nasty and here I was trying to shove him into nursery to spread it round the other pure little babies – ‘It’s really up to individual nursery policy’

So eye drops in hand – (I surprised him with the first set of one every two hours, so surprised was he that a treat to follow suggested by the pharmacist went unswallowed.) I sheepishly made my way to the kindergarten….

Armed with the knowledge that the doctor did not think it bad enough to be off nursery, (What? That’s not the way you heard it?) Yet conscious that the nursery may indeed have its own policy on it I dropped him off and chatted to his key worker using a number of words to describe what was clearly conjunctivitis.

‘gunk eye’, ’snot’ ,’mucus’,  ‘stickiness’, ‘mild infection’ and my own personal favourite, ‘ cold in the eye’

‘And what are the drops called?’ she asked as she filled in the medicine form for me to sign………..

‘Conjuncticure’ I Said…….Busted!

If you are lucky enough to stay at home with your children or work for an understanding boss or have a job that you can do at home in your own time you will not understand me, if you’re not get thinking of less serious ways to say ‘discharge from left ear’ for me please!!

We Are Dectectives!

Now I know about school, I spend a lot of time in these places, I understand how ‘they’ teach long multiplication these days, I know what the initials P.S.H.C.E. and S.E.A.L (all your children do it you know!) stand for, I know all the songs there is to know that count up and down to 10 and I know all the actions to jolly phonics from a a a ant – crawling up your arm to z z z z- buzzing bee elbows in, hands flapping…….

I don’t know if it’s because I know so much about school – a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing - or if it just highlights a previously unknown controlling side to my nature but I’m greedy for more I’m desperate to know what my four year old does all day, I would be unsatisfied with a minute by minute account of his day, I need more!!!

Maybe fuelled by this information or maybe because he inherited his father’s skill for sharing – (is it just a boy thing?) My boy is stone to my vampiric tendencies and there is no red liquid forthcoming!

Our conversations used to go something like this,

‘What did you do today?’

‘Nothing’

 ‘Who did you play with?’

‘No one’

Or when he was feeling tricky….

‘Who did you play with?’

‘Mr No-body!!!!’

Recently he has started to feel a little sorry for me though because now as I start my line of questioning he says…

‘All of them, (weary sigh from his young lips) I played with all of my friends today!’

Oh it takes patience, lots and lots of patience to wait for him to slowly let me in on his day, asking few questions lest he clam up again….it’s too hard for me!

A friend of mine recently told me about the impressive, rolling, grandiose bow her little one showed her after the question, ‘Do you know how a king bows?’

She rather cleverly deduced that the nativity rehearsals had begun – (in November too, shame on them…and I love Christmas) She managed to probe a little further and discovered her bouncy four year old had been someone type cast as a cracker!!!! The parts involve lots and lots of lively, energetic jumping!

So back to my own secret squirrel, last week he told me,

‘All the girl’s were getting married and wearing dresses but he couldn’t get married because he is a boy (this might be a little like his dad too!)’

Aha! I thought nativity! Angel frocks!  But apparently not - just some role play as the nursery nurse is getting married next year in a princess dress. (Not sure why he thinks boys don’t get married, or who Miss is marrying, but this is Chorlton….)

Don’t get me started on wanting to spy on the one year old at nursery….is it so wrong to want to web cam the daisy room?

Captain Chaos and family go to school!

More Chaos!

So what a lovely half term the kids and I had, busy, activity filled fun, but Monday morning soon rolls back round and I’m back to work. I drop the baby off at nursery and go into work – it’s a training day so I turn off my phone and get filled in on a great programme to encourage talk, stimulate conversation and improve literacy skills.

My partner takes the four year old to the school breakfast club.

His spidery senses tingle. His suspicions become aroused, a lonely caretaker is polishing the floor where normally 50 kids scramble over breakfast. He checks his watch – has he, (like we did last year for a theatre visit, after the clocks went forward) arrived an hour early? He has not.

Bad Mummy did not read the term dates letter properly and so he is left holding the kid with one hand and his briefcase bursting with work in the other.

Fortunately, he bumps someone who lets him know the after hours care club is holding a session in a local church of course you usually have to pre-book but he persuades them to  slip the four year old (complete with school uniform) into the club and he’s a little late but all is well. Off he hurries to work, his frantic calls to me left unanswered – phone off training day.

About an hour after he gets into work, he gets a call from the club, number one son has wet himself – this is a new place, he leaves it till the last minute anyway especially when playing and he doesn’t know (and struggles to ask) where the toilets are.

So briefcase still loaded down with unfinished work he treks back to pick him up. He finds him wearing tiny girl’s knickers and leggings! Which he gives back to the staff being unaware of the wash it and bring it back courtesy and takes number one son home pant-less and trouser-less! (And indeed coat-less – the school coat he leaves somewhere in the church hall!) His frantic calls to me left unanswered – phone off training day.

By now I turn on my phone and feel tremendous embarrassment. What sort of a crapster am I? Getting the date wrong like that! (It barely crosses my mind that he could have checked too!)

When I arrive home my beautiful four year old is dressed in clothes his father found him from the tidy and labelled drawers and wardrobe – his best party trousers and the one year olds top!

‘Didn’t you think it was a little small?’ I ask, ‘I don’t really want to push it after the day he’s had

‘I did a bit’ he says – I look over at the four year olds midriff a la Kylie and quietly shake my head.

I pour him a beer, it’s been a tough day and resolve to turn off my phone more often for a little bit of peace.

Take It Easy On Yourself

Take it Easy on Yourself

I remember the day I got my dish washer. I was visiting a friend (already a mum of three) for lunch with my eldest son - (the little one was just a glint in his daddy’s eye at this point!)

I was so pleased, with my new time saving purchase. I had wasted so much of my life washing dishes, stacking dishes, drying dishes….surely this kitchen gadget was life changing!

My friend and her husband, smiled as they told me it wouldn’t be long till I was rowing about whose turn it was to load the dish washer, empty the dishwasher, fill the dishwasher with salt, clean the dishwasher and I would never feel the benefit of the extra hours in the day this miracle of white goods would give me.

I laughed certainly those piddling little tasks would feel like a breeze to do and became even more determined to appreciate this little blessing.

Well, here I am four years later and guess what?

The novelty of unloading the dishwasher has definitely worn off; the rows about whose turn it is to load the dishwasher are increasing and that extra hour a day stolen by other mind numbing chores.

It isn’t fair!

Would the same thing happen if I did win the lottery and got that house keeper I’ve been dreaming of?! It’s enough to nearly make me want to cancel my Camelot subscription. (Actually, better keep it going just in case, scientific research, just to see what I would appreciate!)

I’ve never been one to enjoy cleaning or get that satisfaction people sometimes talk about, that’s not to say I don’t enjoy and appreciate a clean and tidy house – I definitely do (especially if my mum comes to visit and does it while I’m at work – pure joy to walk through the front door greeted by nice smells, gleaming surfaces and empty recycling bags.)

Why does life feel so hard sometimes? I’m pretty lazy, I sort of do as little as I can get away with chore wise, you know somewhere between Stig of the Dump and 1940’s hospital ward. I don’t do any ironing and try and feel no shame as I crease down the street and dress my kids in non-natural fibres as often as possible!

I’m from a very clean and tidy family so I’m sort of the rebel in that way. I know my Gran (super tidy lady who travelled down from Scotland bi-annually, tabard and ironed duster packed for her holiday at our house) loved me very much, but when I went to medium once, I wasn’t surprised when she came through to complain about my pans being kept on the kitchen floor -  we had just moved house – spooky!- this did quicken up the process of buying a pan rack so I guess she would be happy!

Would I be spooked out if the dishwasher began to mysteriously empty itself? A little. It would be more likely a poltergeist than my partner!

You Are What You Wear!

You Are What You Wear!

Today my beautiful one year old is dressed in second hand clothes….nothing unusual about that. I love getting a big bag of old clothes from my friends with older kids and also re-discovering my elder son’s clothes up out of the cellar. Each little cute top a memory and perfect re-cycling.

Today however, the baby is wearing a top that proclaims,’ My Mummy is Yummy!’ Obviously I would never buy this top myself it’s something you buy for one of your girlfriends kids. (It’s a well known fact that all women – sometimes mistakenly (though definitely not in my case!) think that their  friends are all gorgeous!) Even the gorgeous friend whose son it originally was I expect given it.

 My partner did buy me a badge one Mother’s Day that said ‘yummy, mummy’ in a funky little font. That was it! No flowers, chocolates, perfume, jewellery –just the 50p badge, as all of you who have pushed out a baby know a real present is absolutely necessary, every year!……(especially if he expects a lie in and a beer on father’s day!) Anyway that disappointment aside…..

I admit to somewhat discretely zipping up the little one’s coat as I crept round the supermarket make up free and wearing lycra leggings (nearly 40 and definitely without the shape for them) when I spotted a suited, serious looking man in glasses with a clipboard,

’ Erm excuse me madam, my name is Horace Jenkins , Chief Inspector, Trading Standards, South Manchester…….Is that YOUR son?!’

‘My Mummy is Yummy’ blazoned across his cuddly chest, big unsuspecting smile on his face!

Of course my mind was working overtime and fortunately he was only trying to get me to change my gas supplier!

I do think I may over think things a little. I remember standing in a card shop liking the card that said ‘World’s Best Mother’ but choosing another for my poor long suffering mum because I was sure there probably were better more self sacrificing mums in the world…. And actually I really thought she’d handled a few things in a way that wouldn’t even put her in the top 100!

I however in one of the now famous rages of my teenage years threw back at my dad a glass award he had engraved himself and fitted into a block of hand polished wood that said, ‘World’s Best Daughter – Donna Rankine’

A few years later I found it again, pieces collected and painstaking glued back together…..the shame and guilt overwhelming.

It is an amazing thing to be on the end of unconditional love.

I don’t expect to find myself on the ‘Best of’ list let alone, ‘World’s Greatest’ ever again…….

Big 'Ed

Now I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this but I have two beautiful boys.

Both handsome, appealing and both pretty amazing. I have never considered them out of proportion in any way in fact I have always considered them both perfect.

It dawned on me recently while struggling to fit a gorgeous new robot top (12 – 18 months) on my newly one year that they may indeed have big heads!

The four year old spends at least 10 mins before bath time naked from the waist down or occasionally naked but for stripy socks with his school shirt and jumper like some peculiar Halloween mask empty arms flapping by his ears as he shouts, ‘It’s not doing it! It’s not coming off!’ muffled in red sweatshirt.

Erm and now I come to mention it the baby who has steadily grown around the 75th  centile has strangely remained on the 90^th for head circumference since birth. (Water melon anyone?) I do like to dismiss these measurements as archaic and unnecessary. (But am I secretly pleased I have big strong boys? Well, maybe a little.)

Their dad, my partner has a pretty normal sized head….I on the other hand…..think I know where they get it from.

One of my best friends (herself no pin head) and I were forever commenting on our great big moon faces throughout our low esteemed twenties. We made it so funny that it ceased to be a problem, in fact we began to feel sorry for the poor saps with average bonces and so up until recently in my thirties (as I still am – for now)  I’d forgotten what a humungous spud head I had.

My four year old also has my wide almost to the point of square feet. Last time I was in Clarks they fitted him for the most ridiculous shoes that were constantly popping off as there was just not enough touching Velcro in play. He also suffers from blisters like me.

What you pass on physically to your children is hit and miss, but even the things you don’t like so much in yourself can be endearing and charming in your offspring.

My partner is ill. He has Crohn’s Disease. Usually he manages it reasonably well but it’s serious and affects not only his life but all of ours.

He will be devastated if either of the boys ends up with that disease.

But it won’t be his fault.

My partner and I both have big noses it wasn’t what attracted us to each other but maybe it didn’t repulse! We used to joke about the accumulative effect our noses might have on our poor offspring (So far so good, but so were both of us until puberty!) But now my offspring are real and sleeping upstairs as I write, I worry about all the many many terrible things that could happen and having a big nose, wide feet or even a ginormous noggin doesn’t seem half so bad any more.

Car-less Whisper

Twinkle, twinkle chocolate bar,

My Mummy drives a rusty car,

Start the engine, pull the choke,

Off she goes in a puff of smoke!

Twinkle, twinkle chocolate bar,

My Mummy drives a rusty old car!

So this week my car wouldn’t move……..The first guy -  from the AA’s ‘partners’ (felt a bit like a community support officer)  said it was a suspected snapped clutch cable, but my rusty old car doesn’t have a clutch cable, it’s all done by hydrolics people! The next day the real AA man came (a proper copper but no Gene Hunt) full of smiling efficiency.  He said it was the thingy , you know the whatits – he told me, it made sense, I understood it…..then……now I have no idea. My poor little brain can’t hold that kind of information no motivation I guess.

Cars don’t really interest me, I don’t recognise any of my friends or collegues cars, I wouldn’t be able to tell you who had parked where and who’d blocked who in…….I do recognise mini’s (obviously iconic) and capri’s (first boyfriend with a car, what an old banger that was…but quite sweet memeories of near constantly being towed home!) -  I’m pretty sure I couldn’t recognise another car by shape, I can read of course so this is n’t really a problem.

My brother at three years old could name every car we drove past, I thought it was impressive even then. Me? no interest at all then, no interest at all now.

Well, not exactly no interest, when they go wrong I’m interested,  more bothered.

 I did miss my car  – hardly surprising, modern life is driven -  it just has to be and much as I wish it wasn’t it seems like a fantasy to be without a car given the time pressure we are all under. Everything had to slow, slow right down without my car. It took me 2 hours to get to work, less after the first day cause I got picked up from the station near work. It took nearly 2  hours to get home, despite a lift to the station because I had to walk to nursery and then to school and then home no other way to do it.

So, you think I would have been a bit fed up, actually it was like a mini-holiday. I had to leave work on time in order to get to nursery / school before  they closed.  I read the paper in the morning and cleaned out my phone in the evening, went through my purse, had a little think, slowed down  and  actually it was very relaxing. I had a gentle hour stroll home in the evening, throwing ‘helicopters’ with my son and the sun remained shining.

Responsibility was taken out of my hands, so my partner had to get the boy’s to breakfast club and nursery and get me to the station – so I guess it wasn’t much fun for him, and obviously I can’t leave work on time all the time to much to do and we do get the ocassional drop of rain in Manchester.

Obviously careful what you wish for, but my car-less whisper was a sigh of relief.  

I love a party, where they have the atmosphere

It’s my kid’s party and I’ll cry if I want to!

I heard on the news recently that the average children’s party apparently costs around £500 – it seems an extraordinary amount. My dad who, has always been a voice of doom and is somewhat in his element currently, constantly reminded me that,’ bad times are coming’ even before the recent, ‘credit crunch’ and possible ‘double dip’ recession finds this figure staggering, if it were up to him a party would consist of out of date tunnocks snowballs, stick chasing and playing the radio. (His party speciality is curried eggs)

Not true actually, I had fantastic parties as a kid, ‘Disco’ in the dinning room with my mum organising games with balloons and handing out refresher lollies to the best disco dancers and  my dad dishing out the hot dogs. Me - glitter eye shadow and a side pony tail blowing out the candles of a Cash and Carry Cake.

I have a friend who basically dropped  out of circulation for a while due to the sheer number of parties her 4year ols was being invited too every weekend………quite a competition!

Here in South Manchester there is no shortage of professionals who will take the stress out of organising your child’s birthday party for you. None of it comes cheap, but mostly it takes a lot of the stress and hassle away.

My three year old went to a party at a house recently and I said,’ You are brave!’ to the mum, who had labelled the fruit shoot bottles and had a big bag of prizes and a bouncy castle. However this mum has a big house, with mostly wipe down surfaces, she has 4 kids including a set of twins and does the school run and life in a way which appears effortless. She wasn’t being brave she was just getting on and being a mum.

So for my son’s 4^th birthday party. I didn’t spend five hundred quid but I did really want it to be a hit! It surely won’t be too long till he is permanently embarrassed by me and I want to savour spending time with him now…in a few years time he’ll be asking for money to take his mates dry slope skiing or go carting or laser shooting.

I hired a hall and a magician. I served carrot sticks and organic raisins. I bought fair trade treats for the party bags and even had a go at making a space cake (no not the kind we had as students, just one with Lunar Jim on it!)

My mum can’t understand why I hired the magician, she knows I’m quite capable of pressing pause on the stereo to play musical statues or bumps. She also knows I know all the words to the Okey Cokey – and that’s what it’s all about!

My baby is one this month and I think it’ll be a quiet affair, family tea and a little cake with single candle…….  

Jungle in the Classroom

‘It’s my Ben 10 watch!’ said my boy to the four coolest kids in the class - the kids he really wanted to play with.

‘My watch’ he said again bouncing towards them with an enthusiasm only seen in the under fives and showing off a jam jar lid stuck to a strip of card that we had just made together on the creative table.

‘Waps?’ the leaders face scoffed,’What’s a waps?’ he slowly looked around at the others with a smug look on his face.

‘No watch’ (pronounced again waps) said my little one completely unaware that this child was using him as the fool to make himself king, and only thinking that like him that this boy struggled to say words properly.

‘Waps! Ha ha ha!’ said the child his face contorted to a sneer that really should never be seen on a three year old.

I wondered where he had seen that look and why he thought such cruelty was funny, I imagined his father, tramping over the little guy, getting a range of somewhat timid laughs from those around him knowing next time the joke might be on them, then again he could just have been a normal kid from a normal home who had (duh, duh der, - older siblings…….

I dreaded the day my beautiful son’s innocence would be gone like that, when he would understand the power we all have to hurt others, I could see the day racing towards us just a few more encounters like this and poof!

I had to go over, I didn’t want my boy to realise that he was the joke. Almost Mamma Bear like, (almost but smiling not growling) I walked over.

‘Would you like a watch? – shall we make you one?’ I said to the scowling and unashamed child – he just stared at me, like I’d spoiled all the fun and finally spat,’No’.

My heart was breaking, I could not believe that three year olds were behaving like this, such sophisticated spitefulness. Fortunately a bit too sophisicated for my three year old to grasp so in a way he was protected from it ….. not like the time someone said he was two when he was three which provoked untold anger or the time someone said he liked vegetables when he doesn’t like vegetables or that he deosn’t like football when he does like football – clearly the ‘your mum’ for the nursery generation.

How was I ever to protect him?

Then it hit me – I couldn’t. I never could he would be subject to cruelty, sadness, random acts of meaness, injustices and he probably would be involved in dishing a bit out as well, because after all no one’s perfect and most of us have done a thing or two we’re ashamed of ( – Joanne Mottram apologies from me now for trying to make you say durex instead of dulex and the many paint based hilarious conversations I tried to start!)

Going Back to Work

I am in the process of completing my child care arrangments for my return to work. It’s exciting, I ‘ve been back to work but my mum, the great Grandma Ellie came to look after the kids helped by my in law the equally great Nannie. Work was challenging and I loved it, my brain firng again in a different way to being at home and I could actually forget about the boys knowing they not just happy but being doted on.

My mum’s take on this was it was fine for a couple of weeks but she could now see the absolute craziness of having children in your sixties and wished all the luck in the world to those unfortunate woman who chose that plan!

I tried to negotiate some flexibility in my working hours – I work 4 days and wanted to do 5 mornings and 3 afternoons, so I could still pick up from school twice a week but no dice! Bit of a cock and bull story from the powers that be but that’s what happens to both mother’s and part time workers alike. I’m not fighting this battle just now.

Now remember I work part time also remember my in laws do childcare for one day a week so I’m only looking at paying for 3 days a week, also remember my eldest son is at school, also remember that son will attend a non-profit making co-operative for out of hours school care, also remember I have only 2 children……..

Right you got all that ………

My monthly child care costs will be just short of seven hundred quid!

I guess a lot of you out there are paying a lot more you know cause of the remember this and remember that bit. Blimey. Actually Double Blimey!

It is in effect another mortgage, it’s nearly half my salary and I’m not sure how we will manage. That’s not being over dramatic and I’m not very good with money at all so my fibberdy-jibberdy ways of trying to cut back probably are n’t going to cut it in the slightest.

My partner says that fifteen quid a present for every birthday party the 3 year old goes to is four hundred and fifty quid a year. The fiver a week football session is probably going to have to go. We already use second hand toys and clothes mostly donated by my gorgeous nephew but some from ebay. I guess we could cut back on the cook. Oh hang on that’s me, so maybe the cleaner. Only kidding that’s me too – even the window cleaner is me!

The holidays are just gone I expect for the next few years.

I mean I know it’s worth it, and I love the time I get to spend with my family and I love, love, love my boys. I have a lot to be thankful for but I can’t help thinking this is going to be hard……….