It is 4.15pm on Friday afternoon. We arrive at the childrens’ weekly swimming lesson late as usual. The children are tired after the long school week and the Toddler is furious at the prospect of being a spectator once again. The problem is swimming lessons are like gold dust. Like many others, we have spent months on a waiting list and when the phone rang with an offer of a place, albeit at the worst possible time, I had to grab it.
I try and drum up some enthusiasm as the children lag behind me with their swimming bags. The four-year-old has just woken from a deep sleep in the car and is adamant he will not be co-operating. Shoes and socks removed, we pad around the damp floor of the overheated changing rooms. I try not to think about the amount of other bare feet that have done the same thing that day. Five minutes late and £5 already wasted, I undress the children at record speed. On the poolside, it feels like we are entering a sauna and The Toddler and I are gradually overheating in our winter woollies. I am life guarding him and virtually pin him down as he periodically attempts to take a flying leap into the pool to join the others, or just cool down.
While on duty, my mind wanders back to when I learnt to swim. The swimming pool was never heated at school and we were forced to swim come rain or shine. With arm bands removed by my teacher, I began the mammoth task of doggy paddling across the pool, my head bent upwards to the sky to avoid gulpfuls of water. My teacher, wrapped in a warm parka, shouted, “Do not touch the bottom of the pool.” I remember wondering why anyone enjoys swimming and as a result, I have been put off it for life. My husband’s experience was even worse. He recalls being thrown in the pool and having to madly doggy paddle to the edge. At the point when he thought he would submit to the water and drown, he felt a tug on the back of his Speedos as the teacher hooked him up in the air above the water on a long pole.
So, why am I subjecting my children to the whole swimming lesson lark, when they are tired and hungry on a Friday afternoon. Because us parents have this strange distorted belief that the ability to swim, along with riding a bicycle, and playing a whole range of sport and musical instruments and all by the age of seven are all essential for our beloved super human children. Perhaps we would all benefit from spending our Friday afternoons sitting in front of the fire with a cup of cocoa, watching Jackanory.
Friday, 28 March 2008
Friday, 21 March 2008
The Puppy
We are now fully relaxed and recuperated after our two-week holiday. The children are settled back into school and I have finally reached the bottom of the holiday washing basket. One evening, as I was flicking through my favourite sections of the Blackmore Vale, namely Property and Pets, I came across an advertisement for Black Labrador Puppies. Of course, these adverts are not uncommon but on this occasion I felt drawn to calling the number. Fatal, I hear you say.
We had been planning to get another dog for many months, to give Molly, our border terrorist, a sibling. However, a bit like waiting for your child to walk before planning a second one, my plan was to wait until The Toddler was potty trained before getting The Puppy. I would love to say that I have succeeded and have kissed goodbye to nappies for good, but sadly The Toddler relapsed during our two-week break, so we have had to start the long torturous process again. Now, I digress. Having enquired about the puppies, we went and saw them and within days were the proud, but slightly nervous owners of Clover, a nine-week-old black Labrador.
The children were thrilled although I suspect this will be short-lived, once her small teeth become even sharper and she is chewing into a beloved Spiderman slipper or some nice juicy Toddler toes. The border terrorist is also pretty pleased with her new companion and was happy to give up her bed beside the Aga within a day. She has also learnt to eat at double the pace in the fear that The Puppy will turn her attention to her bowl, in true Labrador style.
So, here I am potty training and rearing The Toddler and The Puppy side by side. In fact, my observations tell me that they are very similar and the same disciplining techniques are effective with both. With accidents, both are swiftly placed either on a potty or on the grass, the Toddler is reminded to say ‘Thank you’ when I put his plate in front of him, just as The Puppy has learnt to ‘Sit’ before hers and the same stern, serious voice is applied to both. However, I have had to train the Toddler not to chew on the small puppy bone that he discovered lying in the grass yesterday.
Many people have remarked, “How are you coping?” Well, the mop and bucket is now a permanent fixture in the corner of my kitchen and my arm muscles are firming up nicely, with the amount of ‘slooshing’ I am doing. My attitude is if I am housebound with The Toddler, I may as well throw a puppy into the mix. I know what you are thinking – the woman’s barking mad, and perhaps I am!
We had been planning to get another dog for many months, to give Molly, our border terrorist, a sibling. However, a bit like waiting for your child to walk before planning a second one, my plan was to wait until The Toddler was potty trained before getting The Puppy. I would love to say that I have succeeded and have kissed goodbye to nappies for good, but sadly The Toddler relapsed during our two-week break, so we have had to start the long torturous process again. Now, I digress. Having enquired about the puppies, we went and saw them and within days were the proud, but slightly nervous owners of Clover, a nine-week-old black Labrador.
The children were thrilled although I suspect this will be short-lived, once her small teeth become even sharper and she is chewing into a beloved Spiderman slipper or some nice juicy Toddler toes. The border terrorist is also pretty pleased with her new companion and was happy to give up her bed beside the Aga within a day. She has also learnt to eat at double the pace in the fear that The Puppy will turn her attention to her bowl, in true Labrador style.
So, here I am potty training and rearing The Toddler and The Puppy side by side. In fact, my observations tell me that they are very similar and the same disciplining techniques are effective with both. With accidents, both are swiftly placed either on a potty or on the grass, the Toddler is reminded to say ‘Thank you’ when I put his plate in front of him, just as The Puppy has learnt to ‘Sit’ before hers and the same stern, serious voice is applied to both. However, I have had to train the Toddler not to chew on the small puppy bone that he discovered lying in the grass yesterday.
Many people have remarked, “How are you coping?” Well, the mop and bucket is now a permanent fixture in the corner of my kitchen and my arm muscles are firming up nicely, with the amount of ‘slooshing’ I am doing. My attitude is if I am housebound with The Toddler, I may as well throw a puppy into the mix. I know what you are thinking – the woman’s barking mad, and perhaps I am!
Friday, 14 March 2008
The Jungle
We have now enjoyed a week of our holiday in Cambodia on the beach and beside the pool. My brother arrives one morning and says, “I think it would be fun to go up to the jungle for the weekend.” My husband and I look at each other. Had he momentarily forgotten that we have a six, four and two-year-old. He assures me the children will love it and that we have to experience the ‘real’ Cambodia.
We relent and set off on our expedition armed with numerous cans of mosquito repellant. We strap the travel cot to the back of the car; one of my conditions on going. Our four-year-old son is ecstatic and dressed the part in full camouflage, ready to fight off “snakes and local baddies”. Half way there, the car overheats and we come to an abrupt standstill. Needless to say, we are in the middle of nowhere and an AA call-out is out of the question. We donate our bottled water and turn to a nearby river for help. Finally, we set off again and later arrive at our destination, Kep Lodge. We are greeted by a variety of dogs, which instantly throws me into a panic as I had been warned that they were highly unpredictable with children. Laden down with children, bags and the travel cot, we are led to our accommodation; a large wooden hut on stilts with a straw roof. Below it is a pond which looks as though it could well be the home to a few crocodiles. “It looks like the family rooms are the most basic,” my brother says, highly amused.
If it had been our gap year, with just a backpack and not a care in the world, this place would have taken our breath away. However, as a parent I was struggling. As night falls and the children lie asleep next door beneath their mosquito nets, we listen to the jungle noises around us. “They will be all right next door won’t they?” I say. Five minutes later, we are moving the three children into our bed and bolting the doors and windows. Later, we are woken by loud thuds on the roof followed by screeching. My husband jumps out of bed ready to face our intruder, but soon realises it is probably some lively monkeys. I am ecstatic when the sun rises. I untangle myself from the mosquito net and step out of bed. There on the wooden floor is a spider the size of my hand. The children giggle with delight. The final straw is the two enormous tree frogs staring up at me in the bathroom.
On reflection, the children revelled in the whole jungle experience but my husband and I were stuck in ‘parent mode’. We were in the zone of wet wipes and travel cots, rather than rustic huts and jungle wildlife. One day we’ll return though, barefooted and child-free to take on the jungle again.
We relent and set off on our expedition armed with numerous cans of mosquito repellant. We strap the travel cot to the back of the car; one of my conditions on going. Our four-year-old son is ecstatic and dressed the part in full camouflage, ready to fight off “snakes and local baddies”. Half way there, the car overheats and we come to an abrupt standstill. Needless to say, we are in the middle of nowhere and an AA call-out is out of the question. We donate our bottled water and turn to a nearby river for help. Finally, we set off again and later arrive at our destination, Kep Lodge. We are greeted by a variety of dogs, which instantly throws me into a panic as I had been warned that they were highly unpredictable with children. Laden down with children, bags and the travel cot, we are led to our accommodation; a large wooden hut on stilts with a straw roof. Below it is a pond which looks as though it could well be the home to a few crocodiles. “It looks like the family rooms are the most basic,” my brother says, highly amused.
If it had been our gap year, with just a backpack and not a care in the world, this place would have taken our breath away. However, as a parent I was struggling. As night falls and the children lie asleep next door beneath their mosquito nets, we listen to the jungle noises around us. “They will be all right next door won’t they?” I say. Five minutes later, we are moving the three children into our bed and bolting the doors and windows. Later, we are woken by loud thuds on the roof followed by screeching. My husband jumps out of bed ready to face our intruder, but soon realises it is probably some lively monkeys. I am ecstatic when the sun rises. I untangle myself from the mosquito net and step out of bed. There on the wooden floor is a spider the size of my hand. The children giggle with delight. The final straw is the two enormous tree frogs staring up at me in the bathroom.
On reflection, the children revelled in the whole jungle experience but my husband and I were stuck in ‘parent mode’. We were in the zone of wet wipes and travel cots, rather than rustic huts and jungle wildlife. One day we’ll return though, barefooted and child-free to take on the jungle again.
Friday, 7 March 2008
The aeroplane
We are on our way to visit my brother and sister-in-law. The problem is it involves a two hour car journey to Heathrow, a 13 hour overnight flight to Singapore topped off with a 2 hour flight to Phonm Penh in Cambodia.
I feel the glare of other passengers as the children run down the corridor to the cabin door of the plane with shrieks of excitement. We take our seats and are greeted by some friendly cabin crew. We wait for the other passengers to board and watch as they frantically check their seat numbers, praying they are not beside the young family.
I am apprehensive as The Toddler’s experience of travel is limited. I am convinced though that the television screens on the back of the seats will save the day and he will be engrossed in Dora the Explorer for a few hours. However, he yells when I attempt to put his earphones on, which promptly slip straight down his face. By now, he bored of sitting in his seat and decides it is time to get down before we have even taken off. I smile sweetly at the air hostess as my hand presses firmly down on his belt clasp pinning him to his seat. He hollows and shrieks, drowning out the Captain’s welcoming words. I feel like screaming out, “Forget the pleasantries, just get this aircraft moving.”
Finally, we are on our way and for the next few hours we pace up and down the plane, hand in hand with The Toddler, much to the annoyance of the cabin crew and their trolleys. Eventually, he is defeated by sleep, much to the relief of the suited man in front of us who has had to endure a small pair of Crocs kicking the back of his seat throughout supper. With the lights now dimmed, and everyone reclining their chairs for the night, the Toddler awakes, screaming at full pelt. I am in total panic and try to console him. “Do you want to sit on Mummy’s knee, have a cuddle or a gallon of chocolate?” People begin turning round putting me under more pressure and I run out of options. I lock us both in the loo and stay there for half an hour until the screams subside and he falls asleep. I return to my seat and carefully place him in his seat with his head on my lap. And there he remains for the next six hours. Meanwhile, I am motionless, not moving an inch for fear of waking him. My feet begin to tingle, my legs are totally numb and my hands are incapable of reaching into my bag for my book. I resort to reading the safety instructions in the back of the seat and wonder if it will all be worth it when we get there.
I feel the glare of other passengers as the children run down the corridor to the cabin door of the plane with shrieks of excitement. We take our seats and are greeted by some friendly cabin crew. We wait for the other passengers to board and watch as they frantically check their seat numbers, praying they are not beside the young family.
I am apprehensive as The Toddler’s experience of travel is limited. I am convinced though that the television screens on the back of the seats will save the day and he will be engrossed in Dora the Explorer for a few hours. However, he yells when I attempt to put his earphones on, which promptly slip straight down his face. By now, he bored of sitting in his seat and decides it is time to get down before we have even taken off. I smile sweetly at the air hostess as my hand presses firmly down on his belt clasp pinning him to his seat. He hollows and shrieks, drowning out the Captain’s welcoming words. I feel like screaming out, “Forget the pleasantries, just get this aircraft moving.”
Finally, we are on our way and for the next few hours we pace up and down the plane, hand in hand with The Toddler, much to the annoyance of the cabin crew and their trolleys. Eventually, he is defeated by sleep, much to the relief of the suited man in front of us who has had to endure a small pair of Crocs kicking the back of his seat throughout supper. With the lights now dimmed, and everyone reclining their chairs for the night, the Toddler awakes, screaming at full pelt. I am in total panic and try to console him. “Do you want to sit on Mummy’s knee, have a cuddle or a gallon of chocolate?” People begin turning round putting me under more pressure and I run out of options. I lock us both in the loo and stay there for half an hour until the screams subside and he falls asleep. I return to my seat and carefully place him in his seat with his head on my lap. And there he remains for the next six hours. Meanwhile, I am motionless, not moving an inch for fear of waking him. My feet begin to tingle, my legs are totally numb and my hands are incapable of reaching into my bag for my book. I resort to reading the safety instructions in the back of the seat and wonder if it will all be worth it when we get there.
Friday, 29 February 2008
Family-friendly fun
The brochure‘s description of a “family-friendly hotel on the beach with luxury interconnecting rooms,” sounded perfect. It was just what we needed. My husband had very thoughtfully decided give me a break from the daily ritual of mothehood and had booked two nights away. The children were delighted with Daddy’s thoughtful idea and set about packing their bags including passports, despite the hotel being on the Dorset coast.
We arrived to find the hotel was certainly child-friendly. There were small people everywhere and what seemed to be few parents dotted around hotel sofas trying to enjoy an article or two of the newspaper. We were taken to our room which did indeed have an interconnecting room which was just large cnough to house the much talked about bunk bed. In the corner of our room was a cot for the Toddler. We were happy with our close knit room and the children were excited about their new sleeping arrangements.
As in many child-friendly hotels, there are different eating options but given our children are a litle shy, we knew the prospect of having a quiet dinner without them was out of the question. We compromised with a 7pm sitting in the dining room, with the children seated around us in true family-friendly style. After a lively meal full of bribery, to ensure they stayed in their seats, we called it a night. At 8pm, everyone was in their beds including my husband and I. The children were scared sleeping with the door shut and wanted to be able to see us and The Toddler was furious at us calling time. So, here we were - the five us huddled together in the family-friendly room. My husband and I lay there in silence, hardly daring to move, to try and encourage the children to go to sleep. When we wanted to speak to each other, we would shuffle down under the duvet and whisper. It reminded me of a school dormitory, trying not to get caught talking after lights out. Throughout the night, I constantly sat bolt upright with the slightest snuffle from one of the children. Occasionally, I would be met with The Toddler bobbing up like a meerkat, peering over the edge of his cot and letting out a loud cry. Just as I began drifting into a much needed sleep, the morning crept up on us and we were all greeted by family-friendly screams of excitement from other children in the corridor. My husband turned to me and said, “Well, at least you aren’t cooking the breakfast!”
We arrived to find the hotel was certainly child-friendly. There were small people everywhere and what seemed to be few parents dotted around hotel sofas trying to enjoy an article or two of the newspaper. We were taken to our room which did indeed have an interconnecting room which was just large cnough to house the much talked about bunk bed. In the corner of our room was a cot for the Toddler. We were happy with our close knit room and the children were excited about their new sleeping arrangements.
As in many child-friendly hotels, there are different eating options but given our children are a litle shy, we knew the prospect of having a quiet dinner without them was out of the question. We compromised with a 7pm sitting in the dining room, with the children seated around us in true family-friendly style. After a lively meal full of bribery, to ensure they stayed in their seats, we called it a night. At 8pm, everyone was in their beds including my husband and I. The children were scared sleeping with the door shut and wanted to be able to see us and The Toddler was furious at us calling time. So, here we were - the five us huddled together in the family-friendly room. My husband and I lay there in silence, hardly daring to move, to try and encourage the children to go to sleep. When we wanted to speak to each other, we would shuffle down under the duvet and whisper. It reminded me of a school dormitory, trying not to get caught talking after lights out. Throughout the night, I constantly sat bolt upright with the slightest snuffle from one of the children. Occasionally, I would be met with The Toddler bobbing up like a meerkat, peering over the edge of his cot and letting out a loud cry. Just as I began drifting into a much needed sleep, the morning crept up on us and we were all greeted by family-friendly screams of excitement from other children in the corridor. My husband turned to me and said, “Well, at least you aren’t cooking the breakfast!”
Friday, 22 February 2008
The Dolls House
We have just given my daughter a Dolls House for her sixth birthday. Admittedly, it isn’t a beautiful Georgian regency town house but what makes it appealing is that this was the same dolls house given to me by my parents as a child. I distinctly remember when I opened it for the first time and spent hours and hours playing with it. It has sat in my father’s shed for the past 28 years and has narrrowly escaped the rubbish dump during regular clear outs and a house move. When we dug it out recently, I was shocked to see how much smaller and less impressive it was than I remembered. As well as the cobwebs and mouldy bright orange carpets and brown flowery wallpaper, it was extremely basic, with not an original feature in sight. I duly brought it home and was going to put it outside by the bins, when our daughter spotted it. Even in its sad looking state, she loved it and was adamant that this was the Dolls House she wanted for her birthday. She brought it inside and spent ages cleaning it. She loved the fact that this was the house that her mummy had played with as a child.
Grandpa has spent weeks restoring the house, updating the electrics and generally gutting it. He and I spent much time in ‘Sherlock Homes’, the Dolls House shop in Shaftesbury, leafing through interior books and mulling over wallpaper and carpets. I probably put more effort into this than I did in my own house! Once fully renovated, it would be described by any estate agent as, “lovingly restored.”
My daughter’s face was priceless when she unwrapped it on her birthday and she has since spent hours pondering over where furniture should go and, most importantly, what the house was to be called. She has already decided that she wants to spend her pocket money on a small television set, a newspaper and some curtains. “Afterall Mummy, it must be horrid for them going to bed with no curtains.” The only sad thing is that the Dolls House shop in Shaftesbury is due to close this month. Therefore, she will not be able to enjoy spending her pocket money on the range of little items displayed on the counter, like little one penny chews. We will now have to resort to scrolling through pages on the internet instead, which is not quite the same but it is unfortunately a sign of the times. Despite this, at least we know that something so treasured has been lovingly restored by one generation and passed down to be enjoyed by another.
Grandpa has spent weeks restoring the house, updating the electrics and generally gutting it. He and I spent much time in ‘Sherlock Homes’, the Dolls House shop in Shaftesbury, leafing through interior books and mulling over wallpaper and carpets. I probably put more effort into this than I did in my own house! Once fully renovated, it would be described by any estate agent as, “lovingly restored.”
My daughter’s face was priceless when she unwrapped it on her birthday and she has since spent hours pondering over where furniture should go and, most importantly, what the house was to be called. She has already decided that she wants to spend her pocket money on a small television set, a newspaper and some curtains. “Afterall Mummy, it must be horrid for them going to bed with no curtains.” The only sad thing is that the Dolls House shop in Shaftesbury is due to close this month. Therefore, she will not be able to enjoy spending her pocket money on the range of little items displayed on the counter, like little one penny chews. We will now have to resort to scrolling through pages on the internet instead, which is not quite the same but it is unfortunately a sign of the times. Despite this, at least we know that something so treasured has been lovingly restored by one generation and passed down to be enjoyed by another.
Friday, 15 February 2008
Granny's outing
Granny has a soft spot for The Toddler. They have a special relationship, most likely due to the amount of time he spends there, whilst his frenetic mother madly dashes about after his older siblings.
In the days leading up to my daughter’s birthday party, where eleven little girls would be sticking sequins and butterfly gems to their heart’s content, he was once again booked in for a morning at Granny’s. However, given it was also his second birthday, she took pity on him and decided that she would take him on his very own birthday trip. They were to take the train from Gillingham to Salisbury, have a brief biscuit in the station coffee shop and return on the next train home. Based on his obsession with his own wooden train set, this was sure to be a huge treat and a great success. Granny arrived fully prepared, with a small bag containing a change of clothes (she had not envisaged he would be part potty trained!) – and his obligatory muslin square. As they stood on the platform watching the train arriving, his eyes were on stalks. After all, this train was a lot bigger than Thomas the Tank Engine.
The doors opened and Granny led him onto the train. The only problem was that as far as he was concerned, you played with trains, you did not get on them. He lay on the floor of the carriage screaming with all his might, “No, No. Mama, Mama,” whilst a queue of commuters waited behind them. Granny lifted the now rigid little body into the compartment, to be faced with a man who promptly put his hands over his ears, making it quite clear he found the whole scene extremely offensive. Granny, now flustered and hot, trying to cope with the terrified little boy, made a quick exit into the corridor, where she desperately tried to divert him. “Look at the sheep. Look at the tractor,” she said frantically pointing out of the window as they sped through the countryside at high speed. By Tisbury, he finally began to calm down and realised he was not being taken away from his mother on this huge, loud, rolling beast. They arrived at Salisbury rather shell shocked and Granny was weary to say the least. After enjoying a run up and down the ramp to cross the platforms, with cries of, “Weeeeeee,” they parked themselves in a nearby café and enjoyed a much longed for strong double expresso and a flapjack. Back on the train, the Toddler began to delight in the whole experience, waving at passing trains and passengers. Meanwhile, Granny leant back, heavy eyed, wondering how he was to cope with his first forthcoming trip on an aeroplane. The thing about children is they are so wonderfully unpredicatable – you just never know if the treat is tremendous or traumatic!
In the days leading up to my daughter’s birthday party, where eleven little girls would be sticking sequins and butterfly gems to their heart’s content, he was once again booked in for a morning at Granny’s. However, given it was also his second birthday, she took pity on him and decided that she would take him on his very own birthday trip. They were to take the train from Gillingham to Salisbury, have a brief biscuit in the station coffee shop and return on the next train home. Based on his obsession with his own wooden train set, this was sure to be a huge treat and a great success. Granny arrived fully prepared, with a small bag containing a change of clothes (she had not envisaged he would be part potty trained!) – and his obligatory muslin square. As they stood on the platform watching the train arriving, his eyes were on stalks. After all, this train was a lot bigger than Thomas the Tank Engine.
The doors opened and Granny led him onto the train. The only problem was that as far as he was concerned, you played with trains, you did not get on them. He lay on the floor of the carriage screaming with all his might, “No, No. Mama, Mama,” whilst a queue of commuters waited behind them. Granny lifted the now rigid little body into the compartment, to be faced with a man who promptly put his hands over his ears, making it quite clear he found the whole scene extremely offensive. Granny, now flustered and hot, trying to cope with the terrified little boy, made a quick exit into the corridor, where she desperately tried to divert him. “Look at the sheep. Look at the tractor,” she said frantically pointing out of the window as they sped through the countryside at high speed. By Tisbury, he finally began to calm down and realised he was not being taken away from his mother on this huge, loud, rolling beast. They arrived at Salisbury rather shell shocked and Granny was weary to say the least. After enjoying a run up and down the ramp to cross the platforms, with cries of, “Weeeeeee,” they parked themselves in a nearby café and enjoyed a much longed for strong double expresso and a flapjack. Back on the train, the Toddler began to delight in the whole experience, waving at passing trains and passengers. Meanwhile, Granny leant back, heavy eyed, wondering how he was to cope with his first forthcoming trip on an aeroplane. The thing about children is they are so wonderfully unpredicatable – you just never know if the treat is tremendous or traumatic!
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