Castle

We were supposed to go to Warwick Castle in the summer. We got tickets and everything but we didn’t quite make it and so as a Christmas treat my brother and sis in law bought us a night in a hotel in Warwick so off we drove through the rain!

Since the summer the then two year was the now three year old and so required his own ticket, I began to struggle with this dilemma – would it make me as morally bad as Starbucks to sneak him in? Technically it would be stealing...

But £22 for a three year old to see a castle? When he’s already a member of English Heritage?

My partner had no such concerns and was busy telling him to pretend to be two with the six year old joining in and maybe over doing the ham acting!

When we finally got there (after what felt like a life time of ‘when are we there yet?’) we saw a large amount of children arrive in push chairs that were abandoned on passing the pay desk!

We had a really lovely day despite the drizzle and lack of trebuchet (Summer only) and my two little knights enjoyed climbing and running around the walls, watching a sword fight and posing for photos with a range of waxworks including the Queen – who they didn’t recognise despite loving all the jubilee stuff this year.

Then on to the hotel – a new one – not known by our Sat Nav after ‘reaching our destination’ for the third time on a deserted industrial estate we called in google maps and made it just in time for dinner. The three year old yawning and visibly tired even saying, ’I’m sleepy Mummy!’ through bites of sausages.

Did I dare to think my partner and I could share that bottle of wine, watch a film, read a book or have a bath... well they were sleepy?

Back in our bedroom only moments later the sleepiness seems to have disappeared. The boys refuse to go into their own beds so they come in with me, I find a Disney cartoon and think they will drift off while watching it... of course they don’t. They get wrigglier, more tired and grumpy and begin to fight.

I send them back to their own beds, they scream and sulk. We end up abandoning the glass of wine, reading books etc. And lie in the dark hoping the grouchy petulant pair will finally sleep. It takes me to lie with first the three ear old then the six year old before sleep finally comes – by this time I’m too exhausted to read any way and sleep for an hour or so before the first one creeps back in!

Still, we look forward to breakfast ...we all manage several courses, the table littered with toast plates, croissant plates, fruit plates, cococ pops (which they’re not allowed at home of course!) yogurts and of course a cooked breakfast for my partner and I.

Over breakfast and despite the pouring rain my partner slips into conversation that Kenilworth Castle is so close it’d be a shame to miss it, he didn’t like to mention it before in case I was all castled out prefering to wait for the warm glow of veggie sausage and poached egg to put mein a receptive mood!

Decoration Dedication

So with ofsted over  I de-frost my car and I rush home determined to ‘start’ Christmas . My partner is in the middle of making the boy’s tea but that does not deter me and feeling there is not a second to spare let alone the ten minutes it might take for pasta to boil I bulldoze my way down to the cellar then thump up the narrow stairs precariously balancing the plastic boxes marker penned ‘xmas’.

In what I can only now describe as a kind of mania I huff-a-lump around the place in a flurry of tinsel, first I try to put up fairy lights at the kitchen window and succeed in demolishing my fitted blind – the kids begin jumping over it like little grand national horses.

‘Get away from that, you’ll snap it!!!’ the Grinch in me screams at them and ushers us all into the sitting room with a plastic tree under my arm.

Desperate to put on Christmas music to make this an ‘experience’ for the two little boys I’d neglected a little this week, I bark at my partner to blue tooth something he refuses with a not unreasonable, ‘I’m cooking dinner.’

‘One thing! ‘ I think exasperated ‘We all have to do at least 2 at once, these days! Man up!’

 I search through the free c.d’s my Dad brings us ever year from The Daily Mail (oh, the shame! – Merry Christmas Everyone (so long as you’re not an immigrant, single mum or gay man wanting to marry!) ) Finally I settle on a small, tinny ‘Radio Christmas’ from my net book – we can’t hear it if we talk or try and sing along or breath... it’s not really working!

The three year climbs into the tree box and coffin like closes it up, I scream at the six year old he’s too big to get it and I don’t want to box to rip before I manage to get it back into the cellar, though I have to admit it does make a good pirate ship!

I rush to put up the tree.

‘Dinner’s ready!’ my partner cries from the kitchen,

‘Coming’ I lie.

Clumsily pulling at plastic branches determined this tree would be up before dinner.

I push the second tier of the tree in and ‘snap’ I break the tree.

Tears are starting to prickle the back of my eyes. My partner comes in – he’s fixed the blind in the kitchen and he’s trying not to laugh.

It is funny.

Me - surrounded by tinsel with a limp tree and a goblin on my lip.

He gives me a cuddle, we both laugh and those prickling tears disappear.

We all eat pasta and I calm down.

My partner manages to fix the tree with an old coat hanger and his super brain!

It needs a gentle touch though and as we carefully unwrap the baubles with baby handprints and lolly stick home made decorations the boys delighted with each new decoration, ‘ Look Mummy a reindeer!’ ‘Wow a present!’ ‘It’s a fairy Mummy! Look!’ Look!’

I look at my lovely family and for a brief moment feel content.

Joy to the World

So this week I’ve noticed a little more glitter hanging round the place and a touch more twinkle even a dash more ho,ho,ho...

I love, love love it! From my six year old carefully helping the three year old find the numbers on his advent calendars to baking mince pies with stars on the top after school –(assembling rather than ‘baking’ would be technically more correct as we used a roll of co-op pastry and ajar of mince meat!)

We haven’t put the decorations up yet... I was so excited about buying a red tree on ebay which turned out not to be the promised BNIB and had a piece missing the following dispute dulled my sparkle for a while but I have to be strong and work my way up to it!   Apparently, though,  in my absence yesterday  three (rather pathetic) trees have been madly decorated in my very small classroom!

I will venture down in the cellar soon and put them up with the kids ‘help’ and a mulled wine on stand by!

I saw a trailer for ‘Elf’ coming soon to a Sunday afternoon telly near you and the boys and I are getting excited after crying our way through ‘Miracle on 34^th Street’ last week we think we’re ready for a giggle! Three cheers for channel 5 at Christmas time hip hip...

Yesterday I went to see my six year olds performance in ‘Santa’s on Strike’ in a busy school hall full of parents holding up iphones.

He had been a little put out that he did not really have a part rather being an ‘important member’ of the ‘choir’ they tried to lessen the blow for these children by putting them in costume (he and his little mates were dressed as cleaners, aprons, dusters and black clothing clutching fairy liquid bottles) and letting them stand at the front for one song – ‘Pitching in and helping out at Christmas!’

Needless to say the very religious in-laws did not wish to see this production (‘Do you fancy coming along to the nativity?’ I overheard my partner on the phone... ‘ Well he plays a cleaner... you’re busy? Oh well may be next year?’)  and are still a little raw at our decision not to send him to the catholic school.

He really wanted to be an elf but I accepted that my clumsy, shy boy with speech difficulties was not going to be chosen for a lead role – not yet anyway.

‘Wouldn’t you think she’d be Mary?’ my cousin asked me about her confident, talented daughter when she was cast as .....a camel.

‘I would!’ I replied ‘At least an angel!!’

Finally I can’t finish without mentioning my clever, beautiful, talented niece who is starring in the Royal Exchange’s Christmas production – ‘Rat’s Tales’ (What you hadn’t heard? I’m sure I’ve mentioned it maybe once or twice!)

She is interviewed on the web site and says she is excited that all her family are coming to see her. It made me warm and fuzzy because family with all its quirks, traditions and let’s face it failings is as important to that eight year old as it is to me.

Treasure

The three year old, ‘John Wayned’ out of nursery last week. Pockets stuffed full of toddler treasure. He empted them on to the kitchen table and proudly showed my partner when they got home 10 corks and 10 sparkly crystal ‘diamonds’.

‘You’ll have to take them back’ I nagged when I got home,

‘Cute little thieves like him are the reason, there’s no lego men left in my classroom!’

So after a suitably serious talk about stealing which involved him nodding a lot in a serious manner as I spoke about how sad all the children would be is they didn’t have things to play with a nursery, we returned the loot to the sunflower room, only to be told he was given them as a reward for counting them.

The six year old whilst being pleased for his brother and praising him in a voice that is (scarily) my own,

‘Well done! You did some good counting, didn’t you?!’

Also looked rather forlornly at the sticker on his school jumper and not so secretly wished for pockets full of his own treasure.

The little one’s said ‘treasure’ is now spread all over the house as he carries parts of it around with him constantly, but drops it just as easily. If I tread on another piece of see-through plastic with bare feet I may just scream! Then again maybe I should just add to the cork collection...

I went to his parent’s evening this week sitting on smaller chairs than even this primary school teacher is used to; I listened to what my little cutie’s day consists of - He’s doing fine, beginning to be happier, making friends and starting to chat more, eating everything.

I left with his file to peruse at my leisure and share with my partner.

Reading through his observations I came across this...

He knew his Daddy’s name but when asked about mine, he said,

‘She’s just called Mummy!’

And when asked about what we did he said,

‘Daddy works and Mummy just ‘doos’ everything!’

Yes, yes I do son, thanks for noticing!

Tooth Fairy Magic

This week I read on facebook about a friend’s child who swallowed their first loose tooth when it finally fell. It really made me laugh. What bad luck I thought to myself with a little smile on my face.

My own enamel-ly challenged six year old has spent the last two years yearning for a wobbly tooth, positively praying for a wobbly tooth, he has spent weeks willing the wobbly until...

Three weeks ago the inevitable happened – HIS TOOTH WOBBLED! He was way behind his now gummy friends but who cares, it had happened! It had finally happened he was on route to growing up, the tooth fairy’s pennies were on their way to him and soon he would be the proud owner of a gappy smile!

So we waited...

And we waited....

And we waited...

Every day slightly more wobble but no serious movement.

So much we began to forget about it.

Then tonight, after story time, my partner came down stairs a little flustered,

 ‘Can you deal with him?’ he asked, ‘He’s inconsolable!’

The tooth had finally fallen! Good news soon turned to desperation when we realised it had fallen down the plug hole.

What followed was tear-filled! Full of real sadness, this rite of passage was lost along with the tiny tooth.

After a barrage of cuddles from which he sobbed (and snotted) under we hatched a plan...

We crept downstairs to write the tooth fairy a note. She is tiny after all and full of magic fairy dust, she MUST be clever enough to find that tooth and still leave the money.

Sobbing subsided and he was keen to get to sleep immediately as he was sure she was on her way.

It amazed me how absolutely completely he believed...

I wasn’t going to contradict this one any more than I am likely to contradict the three year old who currently believes ‘Far Cris mas’ watches him through the smoke alarm.

My boys don’t often go to bed well or sleep easily so any help I can get I take!

Whatever I do tonight however many glasses of wine or however tired I am I must remember to leave the tooth fairy’s shiny pound coin and maybe even a little glitter note!

I’m not ready to spoil the magic yet!

Poo Pants!

Week 3 of potty training and the two year old proudly shows the wee in his potty, flushes the big toilet by himself and even pulls out his widgy for an ‘eco wee’ against a tree on a country walk.

All good! The occasional puddle accident getting rarer and rarer and only when he’s really engrossed in something.

Number 2’s on the other hand.....

He seems to have no control or awareness of when that’s coming!

So being out and about over the summer holidays has been a nervous venture. With him increasingly angry as every trump, blank expression, withdrawal from the crowd or suspect smell, leads to me anxiously asking,

’Do you need a poo?’

‘Nooo!’ is always the answer. ‘I don’t want to poo!!!’

Last week I met a friend at a rather pleasant garden centre. All scrummy cakes, afternoon teas, Kath Kidson aprons, posh wellies, beautiful wooden toys and scented candles – you get the idea.

We sat amongst the ladies who lunch as the children played on the astro-turfed playground.

All was well.

We watched our offspring swing from ropes, slide, climb, bounce, run and generally have a lovely time playing beautifully together, problem solving without squabbling and being lovely.

While we sipped tea and chatted.

I felt so proud and then......

‘Erm’ I thought, ‘I wonder why the two year old is standing over there?’

He stood looking suspicious a long way from the other kids, a look of concentration on his face, small grunt escaping from his lips....

I ran over – too late.

Down both legs, seeping through his shorts and clinging to his crocs was the waste remains of everything he had eaten last week!

He has spectacularly pooed his pants!

Now, how was I going to deal with this? Firstly I removed him from the astro-turf.....

The baby change and toilet was a short walk away but through the restaurant I felt the sight of a poo covered child might put everyone off their cream scone or lemon merguine so I decided to take action there.

I moved him down wind of the face painter and away from the ever curious small faces staring at the two year olds predicament.

The baby wipes seemed somewhat insufficient given the scale of things but I battled on.

I couldn’t imagine what he had eaten he squirmed as I wiped what looked and felt like apricot face scrub off his legs.

‘Ow! Mummy, it ‘urts!’ he said.

I know I thought but your skin will be very soft afterwards!

We had been to the seaside last week and I wondered if this uncomfortable to wipe faeces was the result of the picnic on the beach, sand sandwiches!

The pants could not be rescued...

Bob the builder made the ultimate sacrifice meeting an undignified end in a nappy sack.

I carried the offending nappy sack plus the two year who needed sloshing out through the restaurant the lovely lady with the dirty dishes trolley approached me.

‘Can I take that for you?’ she kindly asked nodding at the nappy sack (not the toddler).

‘I’d better put it in the nappy bin’ I replied.

In the baby change were three sets of new Mummies with pristine babies and biscuit smelling nappies... I sheepishly placed my sack in the bin and scarpered quickly!

Potty

The washing machine is working overtime, the whirly line forever spinning and I can’t leave the house without a bag full of Bob the Builder pants as this school holiday I have been potty training the two year old.

I find myself frantically checking the weather forecast hoping for not only a ‘good park day’ but more importantly a ‘good drying day’. On rainy days the tiny undies lined up on the sitting room radiator are pretty cute.

(Not so cute when I’m easing them off him with an irate, ‘Careful, careful... Don’t stand in it!... urgh it’s on the mat now.... keep still....’)

‘Where should wee wee and poo go?’ I ask.

Dutifully the to year old replies, ‘Innnn ttthhheeee TOILET!’

I think he’s cracked it and take my eye off the ball for the shortest time and splash! Wet pants, puddle floor and a small cowboy sniffling his way towards me with the sad little cry,’ I did it already....’

He’s getting there, but it does feel quite exhausting!

Both boys are striving forward to independence, the six year came down fully dressed this morning and pretty proud of himself... it seemed a little churlish to point out he was wearing the two year olds trousers. (He is pretty skinny, but very tall so although they did up they only came to his knees!) He is very reluctant to change so I fear we might spend the day like this!

Today we are off to the supermarket to get some ne school uniform for his big year 2!

Last year I bought big and his trousers scraped the ground for most of the year getting raggeded ended and always sitting on his hips with the occasional hitch up to waist.

The jumpers we always have a little problem with due to either the tight neck holes or my six year olds big head – whichever way you want to look at it!

He also has giant feet like me so school shoes last only slightly longer than the silly little toy they put in the heal!

I’m dreading the trip none of my boys are good shoppers....Thank goodness I have my lovely niece to shop with at birthdays and Christmas, who positively rushes to the changing room and can chat about the pros and cons of not just each outfit but accessories too.

I’m hoping there will come a day my boys will do this too!

Olympic Football

We are thinking of moving house but can we move to family friendly, community parked, good school area Firswood?

Out of the question.

We could never have a postal address that said Old Trafford.

He would rather move the family to the (admittedly gorgeous) George Mills designed Maine Road development.

‘Wow’ I say, ‘That house is amazing! But what area is it classed as?’

‘Erm, Moss Side really’ he says.

‘Let’s re-think Firswood’ I say.

Anyway our family trip to the Olympics (or at least one little bit of it!) has been abandoned.

My brother managed to get tickets to the men’s football tomorrow – no excuses about weak playing there, Spain V Morocco. So me and the two year old are staying home as the other two go and get even more football crazy!

Doctor Who?

When I was a kid I believed in Father Christmas for far, far, far too long. It wasn’t because I was gullible or stupid or even because I had a song in my head and a wish for magic in my heart – it was because my parents told me he existed. I refused to believe that they would ever ever lie to me. The knowledge that they did...

It wrecked my trust in my parents forever.

Over dramatic? Maybe, but so memorable I vowed not to do the same to my kids. I am always as honest as I can possibly be with my boys... so honest they have often decided to stop listening and run off to go down the slide half way through my elaborate and heart felt explanations for things!

So why then did I send my eldest son a postcard from Doctor Who?

I have begun an elaborate lie!

Last week as we were playing my six year old found an exciting shiny green plastic crystal ring.

‘That’s The Master’s’ he said amazed and locked in the game.

‘We have to send it to The Doctor!’ he squealed excitedly, ’So The Master doesn’t come back!’

‘Ah, yes!’ I said instantly spotting an opportunity for ‘writing with purpose’ – always the teacher!

He wrote a letter to Doctor Who his best possible spelling and his neatest smallest hand writing and we thought long and hard before thinking of a place in time and space we could leave it for him to collect.

We decided on that most magical place and most likely stop off point for a self respecting Time Lord was the chimney...

And there it stayed...

Until playing around with my phone I happened across the free postcard app from Touchnote and I happened across a photo I took of my precious first born next to a cardboard cut out of The Doctor when we were both in hospital with his fractured skull – me I was suffering from severe anxiety and Mummy stress!

The two things went together well enough and a plan was hatched!

I hid the ring on the window sill on my Grandma’s silver pot and wrote 220 characters as Doctor Who, explaining how I had de-activated the ring but thanking him for bringing it to my attention and sonic – ed it back into his own very front room in the pot on the window sill where it would now be safe to play with.

The postcard had a photo of him with cardboard cut out Doctor but taken with a retro camera app and blurry enough to look real!

Have I created a monster?

Will he believe it’s from him or me?

I’m hoping he’ll just realise that I love him so much I’ll do a crazy thing, a small thing, an embarrassing thing or basically any thing to make him smile...

Car Key Crazy!

We were away over the weekend, a lovely stay with my cousin on the east coast a bit chilly but a relief to be away from the constant Manchester drizzle.

As got home I was chatting to my next door neighbour who asked if we could look after her animals for a fortnight as she was off on her holidays. I was freaking out a little - picturing fox butchered rabbits and cats in her garden and quizzing her about safety techniques. (Secretly thinking thank god she got rid of the Giant African Land snail and wondering how she manages to keep the gerbils away from her two killer cats, mice and baby birds unwelcome gifts they have both left lying around).

All this chat and instruction meant I missed that most tiresome of chore the unpacking of the car.

Unremarkable.

Unremarkable until I tried to leave to go to work in the morning to realise my car keys were missing.

I grumpily woke up my partner who despite many, many years of my gentle reminders (or nagging as he prefers to see it!) had not put said key in the correct place.

So we searched.

In shoes, under sofa’s, behind pouffes, next to doors, inside pockets, underneath rugs.....

Nothing.

The spare key had been lost many moons ago - by him, he did not feel it was a helpful time to remind him of this!

Finally, I had to go to work in my partners car, slightly more macho, testosteroned tyred, football blue car and leave the mum mobile redundantly parked outside the front door.

He continued to search.

Emptying washing machines, scouring the pavement even searching through the bins and our two year is still in nappies and our rubbish is collected fortnightly...

Begging the kids, ‘Have you seen Mummy’s car keys, come on think!’

Nothing.

He called me at lunchtime.

‘Are you sure, you haven’t got them?’

‘Yes. Very sure.’

‘It’s just I’ve searched everywhere...’

‘Keep looking...’

He told me about when his lost car key turned up under the six year olds bed actually under the fitted carpet.

He’s getting spooked. His ‘poltergeist in the house’ theory is driving him mad. He’s threatening to move house if the keys don’t turn up soon...

As I write this, he is again emptying my handbags on the kitchen table. I don’t know where else to look but we are both gearing up to emptying the toy boxes, lifting the mattresses and tipping out kitchen drawers.

More wasted hours...

Caravan open mike night

At work today, I had to shut the blinds, open windows and blink away the sunshine, all the while cursing the British weather which left me a week and a half ago in a wet caravan in Whitley Bay and now stripping off my cardigan and contemplating open toes  at work.  Why is it always sunny when the kids go back to school and is there a way to trick it?

I shouldn’t complain about the caravan and Whitley Bay is a great family holiday but can’t help feeling just the tinsiest bit miffed about the weather and of course the inevitable state the weather will return to in four weeks times when the kids break up for the summer.

My boys were so excited about staying in a caravan, so excited that the, ‘Are we there yet’s?’ started at Stretford... making it a long drive to the north east. The two year old finally falling asleep as we tunnelled under the Tyne leaving him grumpy as a goblin as we arrived.

On arrival, my partner pleasantly surprised at the flushing toilet his own childhood holidays having less mod cons, collapsed on the ‘L’ shaped fitted sofa (that disappointingly didn’t turn into a double bed with a winch of the dining table!).... leaving me to unpack.

I marvelled at the use of space! Opened tiny cupboard after tiny cupboard, narrow wardrobe after narrow wardrobe and handy little shelf after handy little shelf. I laid out the toothbrushes, the dirty washing bag, the noodles and tin of beans and revelled in the role of (holiday) home-maker.

‘Put that in the bin, honey’ I would say.

 ‘Do you mean the MINI bin Mummy?’ the five year old responds.

‘Time for bed, honey’ I would say.

‘Do you mean time for MINI bed Mummy?’ the five year old responds.

‘Fancy a shower?’ I would say.

‘Do you mean a MINI shower?’ the five year old responds.

You would think that would get boring wouldn’t you?

Not for me!

I am the woman who spends Halloween putting the word SPOOKY (with a quivering voice) before even the most mundane noun... ‘I’m going to eat my SPOOKY special K, and watch the SPOOKY Wright Stuff then clean my SPOOKY teeth’ do I need to go on?

I am the woman who spent the week before rainy Whitley Bay giving my work colleague a daily countdown to her holiday in South Wales.... ‘Oneby today, mate!’ ‘ Twoby today mate’, ‘Threeby today mate! ‘All the way to ‘Tenby tomorrow mate!’ she stopped even pretending it was ironically dad jokeish by Fourby but I just couldn’t stop myself ....

I am the woman who along with her deranged flat mates spent almost a week saying, ‘I cannae hear yea’ in a mock Scottish accent to anyone who refused to speak in a mock Scottish accent back.

Yes, I am a firm believer of the mirth accumulator!

Anyway, the holiday was fine. The two year old even ended up with sun burn (bad Mummy) during a rock pooling day we spent wellied and kagouled up! And cream scones can be eaten any weather can’t they?

‘

Hospital Again

Yesterday I rushed out of work after my partner called to say his symptoms had got worse and the G.P. said he needed to go to hospital immediately. I had mixed feelings as always, the same feelings that won when the five year was sent to hospital after a fall in the playground three weeks ago and I finished the school day before joining him only to realise later he had fractured his skull in three places and probably could have done with his Mummy earlier... We certainly get our money’s worth out of the NHS... I’m thinking of applying for a season ticket in the car park and expecting the woman on Reception to say, ‘Ooh new hair cut D! Still at number 40?’ as I offer assistance to new-comers showing them the way to x-ray, phlebotomy and the canteen... I am suitably shamed thinking about the people who are really at hospital daily and the unbelievable pain that must come from having a sick child. Anyway off I drove after organising with the Head Teacher who would take over my day and cancelling my after school ‘Street Dance’ Club – (as I’m sure you can imagine I don’t do a particularly good job of that one anyway! – over ambitious volunteering from this 41 year old who realised all the ‘cool’ music she had at home was older than the kids! For me dancing will always stay as it was in 2001! – You see Kylie I really ‘Can’t get you out of my head!’) All the journey I’m thinking, if he’s in hospital next week I can ask my Dad to..., drop early?, speak to in laws..., leave work at..., ask a parent at the school to.... wishing I could work from home and imagining my year 5’s rocking up to mine in a school bus on Monday afternoon to make Greek Pots in my kitchen ... It is only now when I write this I realise it’s the distraction my mind needs to stop the ‘what if’s... My partner lives with a chronic incurable condition which means the whole family does, lots of families do and when he feels depressed about it and moans about wanting to be ‘normal’ and how he would be able to do this or that if he could get to 100% instead of living his life at 60% on a good day I remind him of that and that of course there are a lot of people a lot worse off than we are. He doesn’t thank me for it! The doctor at the hospital disagreed with our G.P. and decided to send him home and see if symptoms got worse. They have. This morning he can’t walk and we wait to see what will happen next... We are well supported with lots of lovely friends and family. Last night some Thai sweet potato, coconut milk and chilli soup and freshly squeezed juice thanks to one lovely friend and I believe a fish pie may be on its way from another! Life can be tough but we are lucky...

Little Explorer

We spent last weekend in a huge farm house, kids full of adventure, exploring the world around them, hands dipped in ponds, feet squelched in mud, cushion dens built and demolished. We remarked how wonderful communal living was, especially for the kids. There was the occasional, ’Poo Poo head’ said. The odd bite. Generally the kids sorted themselves out, apologised, found compromise and carried on playing. It was quite idyllic. When we got home my own home seemed woefully small and my boys found each other totally inadequate as playmates. I got down to sorting out the washing and unpacking the case. They got down to irritating each other, screaming and general noisy unpleasantness... After a while my pleas of: ‘Be nice to your brother!’ ‘Can’t you share it?’ followed by my threats of, ‘If you want to watch Doctor Who later...’ ‘I will have to take a toy away...’ and ‘I’m counting to three...’ and all went quiet. Maybe I was tired from the weekend or my ‘Mum Senses’ were dulled a little I don’t know but all was quiet. All was quiet and I didn’t question it. All was quiet and I carried on unpacking. All was quiet and I didn’t even pop my head in. Later the two year came for a ‘duddle’ – his face was purple. ‘What’s that on your face?’ I questioned and picked him up for a cuddle, the faint smell of pine forest wafted over me. He looked a little sheepish. He did not answer. I shouted the five year old. ‘What’s this on your brother’s face?’ he looked... ‘It’s paint!’ he said. ‘From where?’ I said. The five year old took me downstairs to the kitchen where he got his paints out of the cupboard. ‘But darling, these paints are dry!’ I said and the mystery deepened. I asked my partner, hidden in his office, had he been using ink? We both examined his face. Deepest purple, finger trail marks at the edges. He lovely chubby face looked like a blueberry! I examined my make-up bag, nothing that would make the distinctive stain. We asked him again what it was. Nothing. Then I realised. It wasn’t purple, it was blue, actually it was bloo... My explorer of a baby son had spent the last hour dipping his finger in the toilet and patiently finger painting a toxic mix of bleach, colour and fragrance on his face. My little ‘Brave Heart’! I washed it off with a warm soapy flannel. Explained to him that the toilet was dirty and carried on with the unpacking!

Sorry

My two year is cute. He’s definitely got the ‘Ahh’ factor, the cheeky smile, the big blue eyes, the twinkle of a shoulder shrug. You’ve all seen Puss in Boots, you get the idea! Even when he’s grumpy it doesn’t last long and his ‘goblin on his lip’ face is so cute it makes everyone smile. My beautiful niece, who is a bit of a giddy giggle pants anyway, can’t stop laughing at anything he does. ‘Tee he, he, he, Look! He’s walking /sitting / eating!!!!’ – or any number of mundane not particularly cute activities. One of his latest things is apologising. Cute apologising He thinks it is an enchanted incantation that takes away any trouble. I think he might be right.# Sometimes, he utters the magic phrase, ‘Dorry!- A ded dorry!!!’ after biting / hitting / scratching my five year old, and it is all I can do to smother the smile through the wailing of the big boy to continue to tell him off – he probably knows this! It took me a long time to realise the power of an apology. When I was a child I was more like my five year old – stubborn and a little unappealing - not being blessed with the cute factor and as the eldest child burdened with a responsibility beyond my years. It made life harder. I’d spend hours, evenings and sometimes days in my room (no T.V. in those days, only a ‘taped from radio’ version of the top 40 to keep me entertained!) banished from family life until I apologised for some misdemeanour or other usually something I’d said. I had a harsh tongue in those days and a mouth full of ‘I hate you’s!’ and a stubborn personality a little too much like my mothers – fuel and fire! My little brother was the opposite he would do or say anything to put it right and have everything back to normal again ( – not with me I might add) Sometimes to the point of begging my mum for forgiveness and cuddles. Weird thing is now, he almost never apologises. He never really thinks of himself as wrong, but that’s a different issue! I on the other hand, have finally learnt my lesson and apologies fall easily from my lips. Life is too short to stay angry. Anyone important to me gets an abundance of apologies for even the slightest slight. Now just got to work on the sulky five year old who screams his apologies in temper or is struck dumb at the thought, too embarrassed about whatever he’s done to speak, awkward at the attention. ‘Apologise when you need to, sincerely and without condition - life is easiest this way, son.’ falls on deaf ears....

Soft Toy Softie!

So today, we passed a load of baby stuff onto my cousin, him indoors is adamant that there will be no more pitter patter of tiny feet in our house and anyway there is only so much stuff you can cram in a loft before the ceiling caves in...

There was a real joy in sorting and tidying and having a nice big pile of stuff waiting in the hall to go off to another little baby. A relief that some of that bulky, brightly coloured plastic infection was finally leaving the building...

I did panic a little once I’d put it all together in one place, (there seemed an awful lot of it) would they have room in their boot? Would they sort through it there and say,

’ Thanks but we already have a copy of Hairy McClary from Donaldson’s Dairy... a pair of frog patterned wellies ... a mass of drinking cups... a packet of safety plugs... numerous building blocks?’

Would all my sorting be in vain as it seeped back into general use?

But no, they appeared grateful for the gear, maybe politeness or maybe it’s true that one mum’s junk is another mum’s treasure!

Earlier in the week I had some difficulty with some of the younger members of the family searching through the stuff and playing with it, things they hadn’t played with for years, things they had definitely forgotten about, things they were happy to pass on to another baby but just wanted one last play with.

That was O.K. it just meant another search under the bed after they had finished and re-collecting the scattered hoard.

Annoyingly, some things disappeared completely like one of the pegs from the hammering bench, argh! But much as it pained me to send it on incomplete I did, knowing that if it turned up I could pass it on but that very probably once baby was mobile the rest would be scattered to the four corners of their new home too!

I was much more surprised to see peeping out of my partner’s wardrobe, freshly laundered, in anticipation of his new home a sheepish looking Iggle Piggle!
‘What’s this doing here?’ I asked.

My partner instantly in defence mode,

‘ You can’t give that away! He loved it!’

‘I know’ I said ‘But he doesn’t play with it now – he’s nearly six and anyway it’s not his long term favourite, I could never get rid of Monkey, Monkey or Ted but that one can go, surely!’

I thought of his bed covered in tumbling teddies and mountains of soft toys. It depressed me.

Iggle Piggle was special, he was taken everywhere for a while. He went with us to Greece when the eldest was a toddler and the youngest was just a hope!

He was thrown up in the air and landed in the sea on a dark, still moon lit night... the eldest was distraught. Tears, tears, tears and real sadness.

One phone call to Nannie and Grandad later (a quick rush out to the local supermarket for them!) and he happily realised Iggle Piggle had managed to swim all the way home to Manchester.

When we arrived home a week later there he was sat on the sofa. (New tags on but no questions asked!)

He did love him...

But I’m not keeping him! If I let him stay I’ll have to let Upsy Daisy and Makka Pakka stay too and I fear I would never see the carpet again... and if that makes me the bad guy then minwah wah wah to the lot of you softies!

Night Off

After a busy week at work, serious irritability brought on by him indoors, sinus infection and conjunctivitis the last thing I felt like doing on Saturday night was going out.

So six o’clock and my hair in rollers and the little one constantly wanting to be lifted, ‘duddle, duddle duddle!’ he takes his baby brush and bashes me on the head in his attempt to help me look beautiful! I manage to shove them in the bath before I start my make up.... fortunate as a two year old applying my mascara and lipstick would definitely give me away as batty old woman (a look I live in fear of - coloured tights? Funky addition or crazy old hag?) and not young thing on the town!

The boys are constantly fighting and teasing each other, snatching toys, chasing, screaming the usual chaos.

I get dressed - knickers big enough to hide an army (should it be necessary!) some concern that the dress just looks tight but my friend assures me it’s bootylicious – (that’s what friends are for!) so we knock back a homemade cocktail...

Just as we leave my partner tries to read The Hungry Caterpillar to the little one with the five year old downstairs, I hear an argument about him being left alone (they can’t go to bed at the same time, the laws of physics don’t allow it...)

“But the t.v. is NOT A PERSON!!!!”

I hear the five year old scream authoritively up the stairs!!!
I close the door and run as fast as my painful high heels will let me (a short stop at Morrison’s for a pair of party feet and I’m off!)
We drink and chat and discuss how smelly bars have got now there’s no smoke to hide the human stench. We talk about impending holiday romance. We laugh. The worries of the week disappear...

When we get into town we refuse to feel old... but we are wise, we quickly secure a sofa to view the world with and even when we want to dance we manage a strange burlesque like wiggle that incorporates the sofa we know we’d be crazy to give up this spot and the youngsters that try and muscle in by sitting on the arm or shuffling chairs near it are just too inexperienced to battle with the likes of us and slope off to snog in less comfy corners!

I get a text to say the two year old has fallen out of bed twice and the five year got sleepily lost on the way to the bathroom and peed on the landing.

I text back, hope all ok now and get another round in!

We spend a good half hour taking special effects photos of ourselves and find it hilarious when we have blue teeth or red faces or angular noses, it doesn’t knock our confidence we feel good.

When we get home we have a nice cup of tea and toasted pancakes.

When I wake up in the morning full make up still in place, hair grips in and jewellery on a little hung over but nothing a diet coke, omelette and two paracetamol can’t fix I feel alive and I feel like the old me again not just the mum me again.

security

There was a mini panic last weekend when my sister in law realised her keys were missing. Had she been the victim of that sneakiest of crimes ‘fishing’? Was there a baddie wafting her keys loftily in the air secure in the knowledge he could just walk in and be off with her valuables.

Living with my security conscious brother she called the police  and in her words.....

‘A lovely young copper came round - really sympathetic and helpful. I signed a statement which included the words: 'after a few drinks, I returned home, ate my kebab and went to bed' (classy eh?) . I then deadlocked the front door and worried about the impending burglary.... ‘
Later the next evening my treasure seeking niece shouted down the stairs,

'I've found your keys! '
......And there they were nestled between the ‘Hello Kitty’ duvet, and pink flannel sheets, not fished, not nicked, not even outside the house!

At least she knows however tipsy she always checks up on the kids, tucks them in and kisses them ‘goodnight’, breathing stale vodka and chilli sauced kebabs on their beautiful sleeping faces!

Kids always look so sweet when they’re asleep!!

The story however funny wheedled its way into my partner’s brain and squirmed worm-like till it had turned black and rotten and lost its humour.

This resulted in us having the same ‘discussion’ we’ve had since we first lived together.

I think our difference of opinion divides our view of the world. He was born and bred in the city and mistrusts everyone.

The first time we went on holiday together he wouldn’t let us go into the sea at the same time, one of us had to stay with the clothes on the beach.

..... in the end I insisted and still in that first flush of love he reluctantly agreed. The next year he’d bought a waterproof plastic neck purse........

And so we find ourselves on a Sunday night arguing about the worst situation we can imagine......

He wants to put the mortis lock on the door nightly because he worries about the scallies smashing the window and opening the deadlocked yale.

I worry more about accidents and illustrate the point by squeezing my eyes shut so tight I create a new wrinkle across the bar of my nose that no amount of mothers day oil of ulay will smooth – to simulate smoke filled room.

I thrash around the place, knocking off letters, toys, the mirror as my fingers grasp for the keys, I cough and choke on the floor, tripping over shoes, more toys, bags, quite the amateur dramatics.....

‘O.K. O.K!’ ‘ he relents.

‘We’ll just put the bolts on!!’

I win again.

My fear of being trapped and on fire and trumping his fear of baddies!

A friend of mine once told me of her fear of baddies coming up the stairs in the dead of night and getting to her children’s room first, because that’s the lay out of most houses, and it’s the lay out of mine too.

I keep the stair gate on, partly cause the two year old could run down the steep stairs in the middle of the night and off we go on another a and e run, but also cause my ears are finely tuned to it’s creak.

‘Don’t go downstairs the alarm’s on!’ I scream instantly wide awake, hair crazy, eyes more so!

Surely that I mean business Mum –voice would scare off even the toughest cat burgular!

Rush.....

Today I feel tired, rushed and slightly panicky.

In fact not just today, every day.

This feeling caused me to eat a packet of biscuits, surprise, surprise they didn’t help!

I feel like I’m gasping for breath, running through treacle and falling down the rabbit hole all in one go.

The two year old has started saying, ‘One Mint’ little index finger poised up in the air, which he got from me constantly saying, ‘One minute, one minute’ when he asks me to play, open something, look at him, read or generally help him in anyway. That should make me slow down, realise he’s the most important thing and leave the clothes washing, wiping the table, filling the dish washer, tidying the toys or whatever other task I think is pressing right now.

It doesn’t.

It just fills me with more guilt.

The five year old just screams my name, over and over again to get my attention, getting stroppier and stroppier until I finally snap,

‘I’m listening, now!’

Only to be met with a frustrated yelp and an

‘AWW! I’ve forgotten NOW!’

‘YOU MADE ME FORGET MUMMY!’

It only adds to the guilt, my language challenged son had something to tell me and I ruined it! (The fact this quiet, shy boy who struggles to tell his teacher his name never stops chattering, demanding attention and questioning me does not make it easier!)

Yesterday I was trying to read with the five year old, clear the clothes from the floor, spray a dry shampoo and put my make up on.  The eye shadow palette a luxurious present from my sister in law, huge- too big to fit in my make up bag lines upon lines of similar shades a row of ten browns, a row of ten pinks, ten greens, ten greys designed to make me pretty.

I did one eye in grey and then distracted by a fight, the two year old jumping on the bed and a shout from him indoors, I came to do the other eye and choose a grey a few shades lighter by mistake..... I realised this at lunchtime when I had a second to go to the loo at work and glanced in the mirror.

‘Looking good girl!’  I grimaced at the lank haired monster staring through my soul.

I drive to and from work, hunched over, neck thrust forward, willing the car in front to go faster, jumping the lights and zipping in and out of traffic queues, is this lane going quicker? manoeuvre manoeuvre, manoeuvre, cursing the minutes, hours, days, wasted that I should be spending with the children or spending at work, both roles getting enough to be ticking over in the tightrope walk most working mums carefully balance across, but not enough, not what I want, not what I know I should be capable of.

I just want to breath.......

Worry

So last night as I lay awake worrying, worrying , worrying about my five year old and how he is managing at school. I heard gentle dazed footsteps, slam of the soft close toilet seat and then flush and then the same dazed footsteps went back to his own bed.

I felt a little redundant, it wasn’t too long ago that every time he woke in the night he would creep into my bed and snuggle in for warmth, reassurance and love (as well as sideways sleeping and elbow bashing of course!). He doesn’t need to now, not every time, of course some nightmares, portliness and worries still warrant finding Mum and that is how it should be....... that didn’t stop me wishing he’d come for a cuddle last night because frankly, I could have done with one.

Yesterday we received yet another report from yet another education team who have observed my beautiful, funny and clever boy.

It was grim reading.

You didn’t need to have an honours degree in psychology, a post grad certificate in education or a post graduate diploma in complex needs specialising in ASD to understand what it meant (although ironically, I do have all those things)

Amongst the upsetting news was that he never smiles or laughs at school, that he has cried only once and that he displays a neutral expression even when asked about his favourite things...

(Personally I find answering anything on ‘favourite’ things extremely difficult it feels so definitive, it put’s tremendous pressure on the answer to be exact. I hated being asked, ‘Who’s your favourite band?’ when a gawky teenager)

That he is unable to adapt his games at playtime and prefers to look at his reflection in the window.......

(He did tell once he sat on the ‘Buddy Bench’ all play time waiting for someone to play with, a little girl came but didn’t want to play with him so they both sat there waiting.....)

This on top of him being, ‘the poorest ever seen’ by the reading recovery teacher.......

(Yes folks ever! That’s what the report says!)

I occasionally find myself having day dreams where my boy a famous author of the J.K. standing accepts another award, ‘I could never have been here’ he chokes, ‘Without the love, help and support of my mum, the reading recovery teacher at school said I was the worst she’d ever seen!’ Guffaws from the literary audience, standing ovation from the crowd, OBE from the Queen for all the charity work he does with underachieving boys.......

The problem is he presents so differently at home and at school. The team at school think he has an ASD......  I don’t.

I see an extremely shy, anxious boy with speech and language difficulties who a year ago would rather soil himself than ask someone unfamiliar where the toilet was...... he’s come a long way since then!

A boy scared of being laughed at, of making mistakes, of not being understood....

A boy so self conscious he visibly freezes and malfunctions when in the school jungle.

I also see an imaginative, playful, cheeky, fun kid.

It rips out my heart.

So tomorrow morning at 8.30, I’m off for another meeting, to try to get my boy the support he needs to show himself as the funny, clever, beautiful and alright sometimes quirky kid he really is.