The joy of Music

My husband and I have always secretly longed for one of our children to show an interest in music. Not just listening to the latest Girls Aloud album but tinkering away on the piano to a bit of Mozart.

My musical ability as a child was pretty limited. Much to the frustration and now amusement of my father, I showed much interest in musical instruments but had an inability to stick to one for more than a term. I briefly tried my hand at the guitar but gave up after only managing to play the Thorn Birds theme tune. My piano teacher’s love of garlic was unbearable which forced a sudden end to my dreams of becoming a pianist. I tinkered around on the recorder intermittently and finally settled with joining the choir, the novelty wearing off with the endless practising under the watchful eyes of a very strict singing teacher. I could also never quite decide whether I should be sitting with the Sopranos or the Altos. My husband’s musical career was even more limited than mine. He tells me he was far too busy on the sports field.

When my daughter came home from school with a form about recorder lessons we excitedly persuaded her to give it a go. Perhaps this was to be the beginning of a long, professional musical career and a few steps closer to the Royal College of Music. For the last few weeks she has enjoyed lessons at school twice a week and has been encouraged by her enthusiastic teacher to practise every evening. The slight drawback is that she is six-years-old attempting to sight read, with small fingers that struggle to cover the holes resulting in an awful lot of squeaking. She regularly dissolves into tears as her small finger pads make every effort to grip the recorder, searching for the right note. Her determination is admirable and she continues to whistle away late into the evening and early morning. My husband and I wake to squeaky renditions of Au Clair de la Lune and we duly give a sleepy round of applause when she correctly holds her ‘semibreve’.

However, the sound of the recorder is beginning to take its toll. We have just endured a whole weekend of Blow Thy Horn Hunter repeated incessantly throughout the day. The border terrorist has spent much of her time at the bottom of the garden and the boys both slap their hands across their ears whenever the recorder approaches. As a result, the recorder very nearly went missing and narrowly escaped spending the rest of its days buried in the field. I wonder whether with all musical instruments there is a pain barrier that we all have to cross before we get to appreciate the joy of music. Or perhaps we should give recorder a break next term? After all, the thought of carols whistling out during December might just be too much to bear.

Super Mum

A few weeks ago, while the boys were machine-gunning during tea, the Labrador puppy was busy chewing my husband’s slipper and the border terrorist had once more taken herself for a walk across the fields, my six-year-old daughter asked me a question. “Can I have a sleepover this weekend?” “Absolutely not,” came my reply as I desperately rummaged in the freezer for something to give my husband for supper.

She promptly ran upstairs and threw herself on her bed. Later that evening I calmly explained that weekends are for relaxing – a time to switch off from school and enjoy your family. “But that’s boring,” she said. I was not about to admit that the world of sleeping bags, late night whispering and midnight feasts fills me with utter dread. Next came the familiar words, “Annabel’s mum lets her have sleepovers.” “Well, she is Super Mum,” I replied curtly.

Since then Super Mum has featured regularly throughout our day. I am constantly asked why I cannot reach the dizzy heights of Super Mum. In fact, I am lagging way behind her. Super Mum has four children ranging from 9 years to 1 year. She also cares for a hard working husband, two dogs, one hamster, a cat and a pony. Each morning, she is up at dawn to go down to the yard to muck out the pony and then back to no doubt rustle up a full English breakfast for the rest of her brood. She is young, slim and smiley even when she is laden down with school bags with a baby under one arm. She holds down a part-time job and she is on the dreaded ‘Committees’. I hear that Super Mum prepares the most wonderful, nutritious pack lunches each day, which are the envy of the rest of the class. After school, Super Mum collects her children, sports a warm smile and whisks them off to an impressive range of clubs, no doubt offering them a slice of homemade apple cake in the car to keep them well-fuelled.

This weekend, my daughter and two of her school friends are off to Super Mum’s for a sleepover. I was assuming that she had cleverly managed to off-load her other children for the night. Not a bit of it. Another three more will be fun, she laughs. I wonder how she does it. Why is she not the teeniest bit stressed or popping the odd Panadol at the thought of it? Because, of course, she is Super Mum. She was born to be the perfect wife, mother and pet carer. Instead of being green with envy every time I see her, I have now decided to embrace her. We need mothers like Super Mum to keep us on the straight and narrow and to remind us all to stop shouting, stay calm and enjoy our merry broods. But please, please spare us the sleepovers.

Canine Care

My husband has had a cough since we returned from our wet camping holiday. He spent two weeks off work ill in bed, coughing and spluttering like a heavy chain smoker. This led to chest pains that I put down to his stomach muscles taking a pounding from incessant coughing.

Apart from the odd bout of Man Flu, he is rarely ill so we agreed that it was time to make the bi-annual trip to the Doctor. I felt sure that once they saw my pale-faced, dishevelled husband they would offer him something. Unfortunately, he was told he had a virus and was untreatable: “we only treat bacterial, not viral, infections.” My husband returned home clutching a bottle of Benylin and disappeared once more under his duvet. Two months later, he is still coughing. Admittedly, he is now able to go to work and the cough is probably more irritating to those around him. He has since launched himself on a fitness drive, swimming and walking the dogs at dawn, coughing his way across the fields.

Last week, the border terrorist and black Labrador puppy began coughing too. I phoned the vet and within half an hour I was sitting in the waiting room. The vet examined the dogs and without hesitation prescribed a course of antibiotics for them both. Within three days, they were cough-free and back to their usual bouncy selves.

I happened to mention the canine treatment to my husband when he got home from work that week. “WHAT?” he shrieked, in between a bout of coughing. “So the dogs get the antibiotics and I don’t,” he said. I could see his point. Our vet certainly did not seem to say it was bacterial over viral. Nor did she add that they would not work or that the liberal use of antibiotics on dogs would allow ‘multiplication of bugs that will mutate and become resistant’. Perhaps it had something to do with the approximate £6.50 I paid to the vet over the £1.7 billion cost of human antibiotics to the NHS each year.

That night, as I lay beside my husband, kept awake once more by the familiar cough, I thought of the two dogs sleeping peacefully in their baskets in the kitchen below. I wondered whether the vet could be persuaded to treat an owner for kennel cough and we might all be able to enjoy a peaceful nights sleep again.

Washing Crisis

Last week, the tumble dryer broke down. You might think that is no big deal, but then suddenly this week, the washing machine decided to join it too. Given I spend much of my day bent double loading and unloading piles of laundry, these two events threw the household into an instant state of emergency.

Discovering the washing machine had broken caused a great deal of excitement amongst the children of course. They squealed with excitement as I opened the utility room door to discover water pouring from everywhere. I could barely mop fast enough before yet more soapy suds gurgled out. The Toddler pulled on his wellies and came bounding in for an at-home puddle splashing game. My five-year-old son, who always likes to take the role of master of the house, when his daddy is at work, grabbed the phone saying, “I’m calling 999.” Meanwhile, my six-year-old daughter began whimpering, deeply concerned that her favourite nightie would spend the rest of its life stuck in the washing machine. With ten minutes left before school started, I abandoned the mop and shrieked at everyone to, “Get in the car.”

When I returned home, I had visions of having to wade through water. Thankfully, the cycle had finished but both the border terrorist and labrador puppy had also enjoyed a jolly good splash in the utility room, only to then scamper round the house after each other spraying ‘wet dog’ all over the walls. It is at times like this when I wonder whether the neighbours tire of hearing the deranged mother bellowing, “GET OUT,” on a daily basis.

The washing machine lay idle for a whole weekend, thanks to its decision to very inconveniently flood on a Friday morning when no tradesmen were available until after the weekend. On Monday, I almost threw myself into the arms of the lovely man who arrived to fix the dreaded machine. At this stage, he could barely get into the utility room without being drowned by mounds of school uniform from the previous week. I left him in peace to address what I believed to be a fatal flaw to the machine. Shortly afterwards, he appeared in the kitchen ready to leave. I remarked how quickly he had managed to fix the problem, very impressed by his professionalism. It was then that he handed me a washing up bowl. I peered inside to discover an assortment of hair clips and a pile of soapy gold pirate coins. He looked at me, smiled and said, “I think you’ll find it’s best to check the pockets before you put clothes in the machine Madam.”

Bye Bye Toddler

The Toddler has left home. Well, that is what it feels like to me. He has started his first few mornings at our village pre-school and has officially entered into the world of planting, painting and play dough.

I had spent the last few days of the holidays preparing him and myself for his departure. He was fairly oblivious about where he was going and simply assumed he was to put on a school uniform, grab a pack lunch and join his siblings at their primary school. He was a little bemused as to why he was not given a book bag like the others but merrily climbed into the car chanting, “My going to school.”

My heart began thumping as we approached the gates. He ran ahead excitedly with his little knap sack attached to his back, containing his essential muslin square, known as ‘Muzzy’. Did he realise that his Mummy was about to ‘hot foot’ it to the car in a few moments? He merrily hung his coat up and launched himself into an assortment of tractors laid out on a nearby table. I gave his small cradle-capped head a kiss goodbye and left, not daring to turn round for fear I might dissolve in tears. As I walked towards the car, I had a sudden urge to sprint back to the school, scoop up my baby and take him home forever. Having longed for the day that I had a few hours to myself, I now felt like a spare part, with no small hand to hold and no car seat to belt up.

Back home, I tried to busy myself around the house. The phone rang and I took a flying leap to answer it with a breathless, “Yes – is he alright?” A cheery salesman asks me when I last replaced my windows. “I can’t talk now. I need to keep the line clear.” I said. For the next couple of hours I aimlessly wandered round the house, periodically glancing at the clock and wondering whether I should drive past in the hope I might catch a glimpse of his little auburn head in the playground. Instead, I drained three cups of coffee and ploughed my way through a packet of digestives.

I excitedly arrived at the pre-school 15 minutes early. As the clock struck midday, I had to stop myself from breaking into an Olympic sprint to reach the door. There he sat patiently waiting in his little coat, clutching his bag. He came out smiling, eager to tell me about the biscuit and apple he ate for snack. I wanted to cradle him in my arms but the few hours of pre-school seem to have matured him already. He pulled away from me, took a flying leap into the nearest puddle and said, “My didn’t miss you Mummy.”

The Birthday present

“What do you want for your birthday?” asked my husband. For a moment I thought about telling him what I really wanted. How I would long for a day off cooking, cleaning, washing, bathing children and being asked questions. I would love a day when I did not have to think about anything and could lie in a hot, oily bath reading a magazine in peace. However, I then reminded myself that this would utterly disappoint the children as it couldn’t be wrapped up and did not involve candle blowing and rounds of ‘Happy Birthday’. I opted for my second best present – a coffee machine, so I could enjoy cappuccinos at home.

A week before my birthday, my husband asked if I had looked into the coffee machine and done any research on which one I liked. This was a sure sign that he had not. I ‘googled’ for a while and spoke to a very helpful man in John Lewis customer service who talked me through his own personal cappuccino machine and the amount of frothy milk it produced. However, it soon became obvious that I was going to have to drive to a shop to take a look at one, so a dreaded trip to Southampton beckoned. My husband had just had two weeks off so the closest he was going to get to a cappucino machine was when he grabbed one from the nearest Starbucks during his lunch hour. There was no other option than to hit the china and glass department, with three small children in tow.

We had barely entered the store before the Toddler began grizzling and cries of “I’m hungry” began ringing out. In fact, the thought of a cappuccino to calm my nerves was very enticing, so off we headed to the canteen. With a dose of caffeine under my belt and the children given a quick sugar burst, we were better prepared. I glanced at a few machines on the shelf and was instantly baffled. Thankfully, a member of the Partnership’s staff came to my rescue, sensing my stress levels rising as the two boys began flicking on the switches of the rows of kettles beside us. She began to explain the differences between the machines and I felt like pressing a fast forward switch. “Which one would you get,” I asked. She pointed out a machine that looked nice and was not too pricey. “Great. I’ll take it.” I glance around to look for the children. I can hear them but not see them. I frantically dash around the department and find them by the fine Waterford crystal. They have launched into their familiar poking game, whereby the five-year-old prods the Toddler who rolls around on the floor laughing so much he has an accident. Virtually hyperventilating, I drag them out of the shop, under the gaze of other shoppers. Happy, happy birthday, I hiss to myself.

Travelling Home

After several phone calls to our tour operator, we had been squeezed on board the hovercraft and were heading back to ‘Blighty’ having cut our camping holiday short. I felt like whipping out the Union Jack flags and waving them vigorously from the deck as we pulled out of Calais. After ten days away in a caravan, regular downpours and far too many sausages on the barbecue, I’m excited to be heading back to Dorset.

A nice English voice welcomes us on board and tempts us all with a full English fry-up from the café. Thankfully, we had stopped in a French service station earlier that morning and gorged on our final ‘pain au raisins’ so the children were willing to give the fried egg and hash browns a miss. As we cruised along, I noticed it becoming a bit choppy. “Can I have my wrist bands?” asked our six-year-old daughter, convinced that their very presence on her small wrists would keep the sickness at bay. No sooner had I put them on, her face became pale and she began to whimper. I scooped her up and made a mad dash to the nearest loos, only to be greeted by a friendly member of staff filling up the sick bag dispensers. “The best thing to do is to lie flat on the floor,” said the nice lady. I glanced down at the floor, and politely disregarded her sea-fairing words of wisdom.

As the hovercraft began rocking more vigorously I too began to feel waves of sickness. Alarm bells rang with the prospect of the mother getting ill too and I mentally fought off the sickness. Meanwhile, my daughter was rapidly flagging. I suddenly remembered my naval father-in-law and sea doctor father’s tips on looking at the horizon, so I hauled my little girl on deck. We sat on a bench beside numerous other pale-faced mothers comforting their ill children, whilst clutching sick bags. There we sat in the driving rain for 2 hours, shivering with cold. My daughter held her head in the bag, whilst I fixed my eyes on the grey horizon thinking of the green ‘static’ hills of Dorset. The decks were littered with green-faced bodies on their way home from their fun-filled holidays.

Finally, we began slowing down and people let out weary cheers as we spotted the beaches of Studland. Faces around us regained their colour and suntans gradually reappeared. We stumbled back to our seats with a distinct smell of disinfectant in the air. My husband was sitting with our green-faced five-year-old on his knee, holding a couple of sick bags in his hand. The Toddler was curled up like a cat on the seat beside him. As the boat came to a standstill, we breathed a sigh of relief. We had made it. Our holiday was over and we were home.