Filling the days in half-term was a challenge given the rain, but on one of the few dry days a friend and I decided to take our children to a local safari park. We thought it would be more fun to share one car, so my friend spent the evening beforehand rehearsing the seating arrangements. Quite a challenge when you are co-ordinating six car seats, two mothers and a large picnic.
It took a cool twenty minutes to clip the six children into their seats and I began to wonder how we would ever manage to get anyone out again. I sat in the third row nestled between two small boys, jubilant at being released from indoors. We set off with renditions of, “You are my Sunshine” ringing out. We were greeted by a large sign warning us of the queues around the safari park but, unphased by a bit of traffic, we drove on. More signs at the entrance instructed us on when windows should be up and, most importantly, to use two lanes allowing for people to stop and take photographs while others to drive on. However, it soon became apparent that our fellow drivers in the safari park had not fully hoisted this in and we were soon nose to tail with ‘people carriers’ packed with small excitable children and parents determined to capture the best full frontal shot of the camel. Initially there was just the odd groan from my friend driving but then she flipped. She nudged her bumper up to the car ahead, braking in frustration and then suddenly accelerated past the traffic onto the grass, narrowly missing the grazing zebra. She waved her fist in the air shouting to the now stunned and rather nervous drivers beside us to, “READ THE SIGNS. IT SAYS TWO LANES.” With that, we bypassed the monkey park due to it resembling the M25 in rush hour and my friend was clearly in no mood to have her car trashed. By this stage the closed windows were steaming up with child’s breath and the heat was taking its toll. We sped past the hippos and lions with the small desperate pleas for the loo, drinks and a biscuit, ringing out around us. Skidding onto the grassy picnic area, we piled out of the car gasping for air. Then, like all true Brits, we laid out the picnic rug at the boot of the car and began munching through our sandwiches beside the exhaust pipe. My advice to anyone planning a day out at a local safari park is beware of the road raged mother in an overheated car with six singing children in the back and do remember to read the signs.
Friday, 15 June 2007
Friday, 8 June 2007
Farewell handbags
This week, it was time to clear out my bag. There used to be a time when I flung rather nice handbags over my shoulder, containing a few light essentials, such as wallet, keys, mobile phone and perhaps even a few items of make-up. Now, the chic little bag has been replaced by a large shoulder bag which does not even live up to the ‘handbag’ status. Its contents are pretty shameful too. One packet of baby wipes, containing just one very dried out wipe. One newborn size nappy despite the baby now being 16 months. One small net of squashed chocolate eggs which I remember hiding from the children on Easter Day. Four old shopping lists. A reminder to bake cakes for the school cake sale which took place a few months ago. Flower petals that my daughter collects wherever we go. One very large grey stone from our driveway which our son had wanted to take to ‘Show and Tell’ last week. A purse containing little money but bulging with receipts from the past few months and not a trace of make-up, not even a blunt eye liner.
The days of a light handbag once used as an accessory rather than a functional item are long gone. So where did it all go wrong? I blame it on pregnancy when you are persuaded to buy a Nappy Bag. They are large enough to hold a mass of pockets of varying sizes – all waterproof of course. One to hold your bottle, one to hold nappies, a small special pouch for wipes and a large space for muslins and a change of clothes. Once you have spent an age packing what is now a bulging bag hanging on your brand new gleaming pram, you can kiss goodbye to your handbag and just slot your purse and keys into one of the many pockets of your new Nappy Bag.
My most memorable handbag moment occurred when I went back to work after the birth of my first baby. My handbag and I went to a meeting at a City investment bank and were sitting around a large meeting table surrounded by six suited men. The meeting began well and my confidence began to re-emerge after many months spent sterilising and changing nappies. Enthusiastically, I went to pull out a business card from my bag only to accidentally whip out a Pampers nappy, which landed on the desk infront of me. With all eyes on the nappy, I swiftly grabbed it and shoved it back into the bag. There was a brief pause but in true British style, everyone simply glossed over it and swiftly moved on to the next item on the agenda.
The days of a light handbag once used as an accessory rather than a functional item are long gone. So where did it all go wrong? I blame it on pregnancy when you are persuaded to buy a Nappy Bag. They are large enough to hold a mass of pockets of varying sizes – all waterproof of course. One to hold your bottle, one to hold nappies, a small special pouch for wipes and a large space for muslins and a change of clothes. Once you have spent an age packing what is now a bulging bag hanging on your brand new gleaming pram, you can kiss goodbye to your handbag and just slot your purse and keys into one of the many pockets of your new Nappy Bag.
My most memorable handbag moment occurred when I went back to work after the birth of my first baby. My handbag and I went to a meeting at a City investment bank and were sitting around a large meeting table surrounded by six suited men. The meeting began well and my confidence began to re-emerge after many months spent sterilising and changing nappies. Enthusiastically, I went to pull out a business card from my bag only to accidentally whip out a Pampers nappy, which landed on the desk infront of me. With all eyes on the nappy, I swiftly grabbed it and shoved it back into the bag. There was a brief pause but in true British style, everyone simply glossed over it and swiftly moved on to the next item on the agenda.
Friday, 1 June 2007
Bathtime
Bathtime with small babies is a wonderful, calm, bonding experience. Nice gentle moisturising bubbles, a blue-eyed baby looking up lovingly at you while you sponge its little limbs smiling sweetly. A careful rub down with a new, fluffy, white towel that you have warmed on the radiator, followed by a little massage with oil and dressed in a clean, beautifully ironed babygro.
Sadly, this picture of perfection is but a distant memory in our house. Bathtime has become a splashing screaming mob of children, whose aim is to get as much of the bathroom and their mother as wet as possible. It always seems to me to be at the worst time of day when everyone, particularly the mother, is utterly exhausted. Teatime has been a disaster and each child has virtually been counselled through items of food on their plate. Fights break out intermittedly over which coloured cup or plate they each have. Meanwhile, the baby is screaming at every opportunity because he is frankly just fed up with being ignored. Then, there is the clearing up. Do you do it before bathtime dodging the now fully-fuelled children who are raring to go, or afterwards when all you can think about is collapsing on the sofa with a strong drink?
The next phase falls on deaf ears. At first I remain calm and ask politely if the children would come out of the tent they have now erected in the playroom, for a bath. No response. It is almost as if they have become completely immune to the tone of my voice and after 25 requests, I grab the nearest saucepan and bang it as hard as I can with a metal spoon at the entrance of the tent. My daughter pokes her small head out and says, “Calm down Mummy. You only had to ask.” Upstairs the, “Will you get undressed and in the bath?” question is repeated another 15 times while the children have begun a trampolining competition on our bed. I then re-pose the question. “Who is going to be the winner and get in the bath first?” With that, two children come flying into the bathroom and dive into the bath, creating a tidal wave which drenches the baby and pours over the side of the bath onto my lap. The bathroom is now similar to an over-crowded, public swimming pool with children yelling, screaming and splashing. Another six requests to get out of the bath fall on deaf ears, until I hurredly scoop up each child, rub them down with a rather worn towel and throw on any item of clothing I can get my hands on that vaguely resembles a pair of pyjamas. Once the rest of the bedtime routine has been completed, I pass the mirror on the landing and catch sight of a bedraggled, 30 something year-old woman who looks as if she has entered some middle-aged wet t-shirt competition.
Sadly, this picture of perfection is but a distant memory in our house. Bathtime has become a splashing screaming mob of children, whose aim is to get as much of the bathroom and their mother as wet as possible. It always seems to me to be at the worst time of day when everyone, particularly the mother, is utterly exhausted. Teatime has been a disaster and each child has virtually been counselled through items of food on their plate. Fights break out intermittedly over which coloured cup or plate they each have. Meanwhile, the baby is screaming at every opportunity because he is frankly just fed up with being ignored. Then, there is the clearing up. Do you do it before bathtime dodging the now fully-fuelled children who are raring to go, or afterwards when all you can think about is collapsing on the sofa with a strong drink?
The next phase falls on deaf ears. At first I remain calm and ask politely if the children would come out of the tent they have now erected in the playroom, for a bath. No response. It is almost as if they have become completely immune to the tone of my voice and after 25 requests, I grab the nearest saucepan and bang it as hard as I can with a metal spoon at the entrance of the tent. My daughter pokes her small head out and says, “Calm down Mummy. You only had to ask.” Upstairs the, “Will you get undressed and in the bath?” question is repeated another 15 times while the children have begun a trampolining competition on our bed. I then re-pose the question. “Who is going to be the winner and get in the bath first?” With that, two children come flying into the bathroom and dive into the bath, creating a tidal wave which drenches the baby and pours over the side of the bath onto my lap. The bathroom is now similar to an over-crowded, public swimming pool with children yelling, screaming and splashing. Another six requests to get out of the bath fall on deaf ears, until I hurredly scoop up each child, rub them down with a rather worn towel and throw on any item of clothing I can get my hands on that vaguely resembles a pair of pyjamas. Once the rest of the bedtime routine has been completed, I pass the mirror on the landing and catch sight of a bedraggled, 30 something year-old woman who looks as if she has entered some middle-aged wet t-shirt competition.
Friday, 25 May 2007
Expectant father
You have spent the last nine months obediently attending every antenatal class, studying blurred scan photos of your little ‘peanut’ gradually growing month by month. You have reassured your wife that she looks radiant and not at all like a large pack horse, and handed her tissues when you find her sobbing on the sofa over Animal Hospital whilst tucking into her fourth Cadbury Cream Egg.
Finally, the momentous occasion arrives. The Bag is packed, the contractions are becoming more regular and you try to remain calm whilst driving to the hospital desperately wishing you had paid more attention to the classes rather than wondering what the football score was. In the delivery room, you see a side to your better half you never thought existed. You try rubbing her back, to which she yells, “Don’t touch me.” You offer words of support telling her how brave and clever she is, to which she screams, “I don’t want to be brave. Just make it stop!”
Ninety percent of fathers attend births in Britain and I feel rather sorry for them. It must be very hard watching someone you love in so much pain and be utterly helpless. A friend’s husband was so tense and stressed at the birth of his first child that he fainted. The room promptly filled with medical staff who wheeled him down to A&E leaving my poor friend alone in her delivery room, riding the ‘wave’ of her last few contractions. Now she is about to have another baby and was more concerned about the ‘energy bars’ she was packing for her husband in the Bag than about the cotton wool and new born nappies.
I have to confess, I came under the ‘utter wimp’ category when it came to childbirth and the midwives must have dreaded me coming. I arrived in hospital in plenty of time, ended up in labour for several days and demanded epidurals at the first twinge. My husband, on the other hand, rather enjoyed it, particularly given the wonderful delivery rooms at Dorchester Hospital. With birth number three, he really settled himself in. He lay on the bed glued to daytime television, whilst I continued with my laps of the delivery ward in an attempt to speed things up. When it looked like the baby might finally decide it was time to arrive, he knew not to stroke my back, wipe my brow or utter a word until I turned to him with relief and handed him his new little bundle.
Finally, the momentous occasion arrives. The Bag is packed, the contractions are becoming more regular and you try to remain calm whilst driving to the hospital desperately wishing you had paid more attention to the classes rather than wondering what the football score was. In the delivery room, you see a side to your better half you never thought existed. You try rubbing her back, to which she yells, “Don’t touch me.” You offer words of support telling her how brave and clever she is, to which she screams, “I don’t want to be brave. Just make it stop!”
Ninety percent of fathers attend births in Britain and I feel rather sorry for them. It must be very hard watching someone you love in so much pain and be utterly helpless. A friend’s husband was so tense and stressed at the birth of his first child that he fainted. The room promptly filled with medical staff who wheeled him down to A&E leaving my poor friend alone in her delivery room, riding the ‘wave’ of her last few contractions. Now she is about to have another baby and was more concerned about the ‘energy bars’ she was packing for her husband in the Bag than about the cotton wool and new born nappies.
I have to confess, I came under the ‘utter wimp’ category when it came to childbirth and the midwives must have dreaded me coming. I arrived in hospital in plenty of time, ended up in labour for several days and demanded epidurals at the first twinge. My husband, on the other hand, rather enjoyed it, particularly given the wonderful delivery rooms at Dorchester Hospital. With birth number three, he really settled himself in. He lay on the bed glued to daytime television, whilst I continued with my laps of the delivery ward in an attempt to speed things up. When it looked like the baby might finally decide it was time to arrive, he knew not to stroke my back, wipe my brow or utter a word until I turned to him with relief and handed him his new little bundle.
Friday, 18 May 2007
Bank holiday weekend
Bank Holiday weekend, the sun is out and the children are excited about their Daddy being at home. I am excited too. I have spent the past few days carefully drawing up a long list of jobs that my husband is uniquely qualified to do. Painting, clearing out the shed, replacing the numerous halogen bulbs that have blown, washing the car, mowing the lawn and making several trips to the Rubbish Dump, along with every other father in North Dorset. However, the children have a different list in mind which includes making camps, going to Cool Play, lunch in the pub followed by watching the ‘Shaun the Sheep’ DVD.
Saturday morning begins at 6am, an hour earlier than usual, with the pitter patter of feet along the corridor and into our bedroom. We desperately drag out the next hour by hauling a huge wooden box of cars onto our bed, much to the delight of our three-year-old son who ‘bruuums’ small lorries, tanks and buses across the duvet, over our heads and down our arms. The small cold wheels driving across our skin did not have quite the same effect as a massage with warm stones but at least we are still in the comfort of our bed. After the usual discussion over who is going to get out of bed first, the morning routine launches into action.
My husband shouts from the shower, “The water is cold.” Without taking too much notice, I place The List beside his cereal bowl, and decide to cook his favourite English breakfast, to get him in the right mood. Bacon, eggs, sausages and tomato in the grill pan ready for the piping hot Aga. However, not piping hot at all. Stone cold and well and truly off. Trying to remain calm, I say, “Darling, when did you last check the oil?” My husband appears in clothes that definitely don’t shout “gardening” and says, “Not for ages. Why?” He then spends the next few minutes sticking a bamboo cane down the top of the oil tank and calmly declares it empty. It then hits me. Bank Holiday weekend, no heating, no water and no oven. I become hysterical and fly into an almighty panic, while the children dance around the garden in their pyjamas jubilant about the prospect of eating meals out. I walk back into the kitchen subdued at the thought of my carefully planned Piquant chicken and Fondant potatoes replaced with Cheddar cheese sandwiches and Hula Hoops. My list is scattered across the kitchen floor in tiny pieces and as the dog looks up at me, head turned to one side, with a scrap of paper saying “Dump” stuck in its little beard, I realise that this Bank Holiday weekend was not going to go according to plan.
Saturday morning begins at 6am, an hour earlier than usual, with the pitter patter of feet along the corridor and into our bedroom. We desperately drag out the next hour by hauling a huge wooden box of cars onto our bed, much to the delight of our three-year-old son who ‘bruuums’ small lorries, tanks and buses across the duvet, over our heads and down our arms. The small cold wheels driving across our skin did not have quite the same effect as a massage with warm stones but at least we are still in the comfort of our bed. After the usual discussion over who is going to get out of bed first, the morning routine launches into action.
My husband shouts from the shower, “The water is cold.” Without taking too much notice, I place The List beside his cereal bowl, and decide to cook his favourite English breakfast, to get him in the right mood. Bacon, eggs, sausages and tomato in the grill pan ready for the piping hot Aga. However, not piping hot at all. Stone cold and well and truly off. Trying to remain calm, I say, “Darling, when did you last check the oil?” My husband appears in clothes that definitely don’t shout “gardening” and says, “Not for ages. Why?” He then spends the next few minutes sticking a bamboo cane down the top of the oil tank and calmly declares it empty. It then hits me. Bank Holiday weekend, no heating, no water and no oven. I become hysterical and fly into an almighty panic, while the children dance around the garden in their pyjamas jubilant about the prospect of eating meals out. I walk back into the kitchen subdued at the thought of my carefully planned Piquant chicken and Fondant potatoes replaced with Cheddar cheese sandwiches and Hula Hoops. My list is scattered across the kitchen floor in tiny pieces and as the dog looks up at me, head turned to one side, with a scrap of paper saying “Dump” stuck in its little beard, I realise that this Bank Holiday weekend was not going to go according to plan.
Friday, 11 May 2007
The weekly shop
The children are all at school, the baby is with Granny and I have a wonderful rare two-hour break – the perfect opportunity to relax in a nearby coffee shop sipping a Cappacino. However, the fridge is looking dangerously empty, the fruit bowl contains a few rather sad looking grapes and we are down to the last few loo rolls. The weekly supermarket shop beckons.
I drive into the car park, turn into a space and then wonder why there is a rather angry looking woman staring at me. I have parked in a Child’s bay, quite forgetting this time that the car seats behind me are empty. After re-parking, I play around with the trolleys, choosing the right size and trying to find one without a faulty wheel. I then rummage in my bag looking for my list, only to discover I have left it on the kitchen table. I glance at the vast array of magazines on display, and move swiftly on to the fruit and vegetables. This is always my most time consuming aisle. There are just so many decisions to make. Organic, English, Fairtrade, Local? Weighing also eats into another precious few minutes. Once I have found some scales that work, I vacantly try to remember the name of the little brown hairy fruit in my hand (ah – yes a kiwi!) and then scroll through items, tap in the name which results in ‘Search Unknown.’ By then I have two people peering over my shoulder, so the pressure is on.
On to the next aisle and I bump into a familiar face. Smiling sweetly and with a confident, “How are you?” I am frantically trying to remember where I know her from and glance into her trolley for any clues. But we are only in aisle two and lemons, lettuce and pasta give nothing away. We pass the time of day and move on. With the trolly now overflowing with the ‘Buy 2 get 1 FREE’ offers (why do I need three bottles of bleach?), I arrive at the checkout. The customer behind me gazes disaprovingly into my trolley at the doughnuts I have thrown in for the children (not for me, of course!). “Would you like any help?” the friendly cashier asks me. “Yes please,” I cry out trying not to sound too desperate. With the bags neatly packed, I steer the overloaded trolley across the carpark trying to avoid any collisions with nearby cars. As I leave, I hear the contents of the neatly packed bags rolling across the car boot and realise I have forgotten the loo paper. Suddenly it occurs to me that the familiar face I had stopped to chat to earlier was in fact a total stranger who I had sat next to in the Surgery last week.
I drive into the car park, turn into a space and then wonder why there is a rather angry looking woman staring at me. I have parked in a Child’s bay, quite forgetting this time that the car seats behind me are empty. After re-parking, I play around with the trolleys, choosing the right size and trying to find one without a faulty wheel. I then rummage in my bag looking for my list, only to discover I have left it on the kitchen table. I glance at the vast array of magazines on display, and move swiftly on to the fruit and vegetables. This is always my most time consuming aisle. There are just so many decisions to make. Organic, English, Fairtrade, Local? Weighing also eats into another precious few minutes. Once I have found some scales that work, I vacantly try to remember the name of the little brown hairy fruit in my hand (ah – yes a kiwi!) and then scroll through items, tap in the name which results in ‘Search Unknown.’ By then I have two people peering over my shoulder, so the pressure is on.
On to the next aisle and I bump into a familiar face. Smiling sweetly and with a confident, “How are you?” I am frantically trying to remember where I know her from and glance into her trolley for any clues. But we are only in aisle two and lemons, lettuce and pasta give nothing away. We pass the time of day and move on. With the trolly now overflowing with the ‘Buy 2 get 1 FREE’ offers (why do I need three bottles of bleach?), I arrive at the checkout. The customer behind me gazes disaprovingly into my trolley at the doughnuts I have thrown in for the children (not for me, of course!). “Would you like any help?” the friendly cashier asks me. “Yes please,” I cry out trying not to sound too desperate. With the bags neatly packed, I steer the overloaded trolley across the carpark trying to avoid any collisions with nearby cars. As I leave, I hear the contents of the neatly packed bags rolling across the car boot and realise I have forgotten the loo paper. Suddenly it occurs to me that the familiar face I had stopped to chat to earlier was in fact a total stranger who I had sat next to in the Surgery last week.
Friday, 4 May 2007
Tennis with a difference
The phone rings. It is a friend asking if I would like to play tennis. I leaf through the diary and mentally work out a convenient time between school pick-ups and the baby’s sleep time and warn her that I have not played since school. Thankfully, she assures me that she too struggles with ‘back hands’ and we agree it would make a nice change from catching up on the latest tantrum or sleepless night over the usual cups of coffee around the kitchen table.
Predictably, the childcare arrangements fall apart at the last minute so I call to cancel. “Bring them with you and they can all play on the side of the court,” she says casually. I am a little sceptical but the sun is shining and I am eager to work off the remains of my daughter’s Easter Egg which, until this morning, had been sitting at the back of the fridge begging to be eaten. Dressed in an old pair of track suit bottoms and a white t-shirt, which has now turned a dull shade of grey, I spend the next half an hour rummaging through the contents of the understairs cupboard searching for my tennis racket.
I arrive with tennis racket in hand, baby on the hip and a small three-year-old trailing behind me. My friend is carrying two large baskets of toys which we take down to the tennis court and set up a mini play area in the corner. Things begin well and I have visions of regular weekly tennis games ahead, with children happily playing beside me. However, towards the end of the first game, the baby begins to cry, so we stop and hand him a drink and the obligatory box of raisins. Final point and the ‘brooming’ noise coming from my son becomes louder as he pushes cars around the court. Two minutes into the second game and my friend lets out a shriek and runs off. She has left her casserole on the stove. The baby’s screams are now at full pitch and I struggle to hear whether my ball is in or out, let alone remember which point we are on. The court is littered with PlayMobil and Lego and for health and safety reasons plus a school run looming, we declare the game over. Despite all the distractions, at least I have made an attempt to shed one mini egg.
Predictably, the childcare arrangements fall apart at the last minute so I call to cancel. “Bring them with you and they can all play on the side of the court,” she says casually. I am a little sceptical but the sun is shining and I am eager to work off the remains of my daughter’s Easter Egg which, until this morning, had been sitting at the back of the fridge begging to be eaten. Dressed in an old pair of track suit bottoms and a white t-shirt, which has now turned a dull shade of grey, I spend the next half an hour rummaging through the contents of the understairs cupboard searching for my tennis racket.
I arrive with tennis racket in hand, baby on the hip and a small three-year-old trailing behind me. My friend is carrying two large baskets of toys which we take down to the tennis court and set up a mini play area in the corner. Things begin well and I have visions of regular weekly tennis games ahead, with children happily playing beside me. However, towards the end of the first game, the baby begins to cry, so we stop and hand him a drink and the obligatory box of raisins. Final point and the ‘brooming’ noise coming from my son becomes louder as he pushes cars around the court. Two minutes into the second game and my friend lets out a shriek and runs off. She has left her casserole on the stove. The baby’s screams are now at full pitch and I struggle to hear whether my ball is in or out, let alone remember which point we are on. The court is littered with PlayMobil and Lego and for health and safety reasons plus a school run looming, we declare the game over. Despite all the distractions, at least I have made an attempt to shed one mini egg.
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