Yesterday, my five (going on fifteen) year-old daughter arrived home with a note in her school bag inviting the children to take part in a non-school uniform day in exchange for a small donation to charity. Before I had even finished reading the note to her, she had sprinted upstairs and had begun tearing open her drawers and laying clothes out on her bed, in preparation for 48 hours time.
A while later, I popped my head round her door and told her that I would be in shortly to help her choose what would be most appropriate and practical to wear, taking account of the hot weather, hopscotch in the playground and potentially self-harming accessories, such as wands and crowns. This provoked the biggest outcry I had ever witnessed. She turned on me absolutely furious that I had even suggested that as the mother I might have some say as to what a five-year-old girl should wear. She screamed, shouted and sobbed, throwing herself on her bed amongst a pile of pink accessories.
Not suprisingly, this prompted my husband to look up from his e-mails (in the form of a Blackberry – a remote handheld piece of dreadful technology which never leaves my husband’s side and enables him to keep in contact with work 24 hours a day). Ever the diplomat, he intervenes telling me to relax and let her wear what she likes. “After all, she is only five,” he adds. In fact, he offered to help her get dressed so I could go downstairs and enjoy a glass of dry and chilled wine. And this coming from the man, who once given the responsibility for dressing children, resulted in my daughter going to her London nursery school in a vest (inside out) and a pair of tracksuit bottoms with Minney Mouse on, which had been purposely hidden at the back of her drawer. To top it all, it was the day of the school photo so we are constantly reminded of the little vest standing shoulder to shoulder with smocked gingham dresses.
However, I knew that I had no option but to comply and sat downstairs reflecting on my mother dressing me in scratchy guernseys and sensible brown buckle-ups (slip-ons were not even allowed on the scene until 13!). An hour later, my husband reappeared mouthing to me, “Say nothing.” She proudly entered the room in all her glory. She was dressed in a red floral skirt teamed with a stripy pink pyjama top. My eyes were then drawn to the supersoft tights marked “18-24 months” which meant the crotch was round by her knees, a pair of pink trainers and topped off with the contents of her jewellery box hanging round her neck. She looked at me and said, “Mummy, do I look pretty?” I was having palipitations but with a sip of my drink and a few deep breaths I managed to keep my cool and calmly said, “Lovely darling.”
Friday, 29 June 2007
Friday, 22 June 2007
Sunny Sundays
We had barely opened our eyes as our three-year-old son came running into our bedroom at 6.15am last Sunday, fully dressed in shorts, t-shirt, flip-flops and sunglasses, shouting, “Can we get the paddling pool out today?” My husband and I let out a simultaneous groan, with memories of last year’s battle upon us.
After another fifteen requests and now three completely over excited small children squeling, my husband drags himself off to the shed, known as the ‘black hole’ due to it being crammed full of everything that does not have an obvious home. This includes old pushchairs, a virtually unused baby walker, two lawnmowers, both new and old deckchairs now covered in cobwebs and numerous garden tools crying out to be used more regularly. Eventually he drags the great mound of PVC out and is delighted to find the pump nearby.
As if prompted by the sight of a paddling pool, the suns rays become brighter and hotter and with the nozzle pressed firmly in, my husband begins the gruelling task of pumping accompanied by three children all desperately eager to help. As usual, fifteen minutes later, the pool is still lying in a crumpled heap on the grass. My husband’s brow is dripping, but he battles on with round two. By this stage, he begins shouting at the pool, “Come on,” pumping furiously with no avail and I decide it is safer to head in the direction of the kitchen muttering something about cold drinks under my breath. An almighty roar erupts behind me and I turn to see my husband hurling the paddling pool across the hedge into the field beside our house. He then marches off leaving three stunned children behind him. I cannot hold back a smile, followed by a fit of giggles as I recall the pictures littered thoroughout the brochure of cheery families frolicking in their paddling pools and see ours lying in a ditch, with the pump sitting on top of the hedge.
After a cool drink, and a cold shower, my husband reappears, climbs over the hedge and hauls the pool back into the garden. After I read the instructions and tell him where he’s going wrong, he tries again. This time the sides calmly inflate and the yellow sunshine face on top pops up and smiles at us. Once full with cold water from the garden hose (all part of the overall experience), the children tear off their clothes and begin their frolic.
Within five minutes, the novelty has worn off and the children have marched inside to watch a DVD. Meanwhile, the paddling pool sits deserted on the lawn with not a child in sight.
After another fifteen requests and now three completely over excited small children squeling, my husband drags himself off to the shed, known as the ‘black hole’ due to it being crammed full of everything that does not have an obvious home. This includes old pushchairs, a virtually unused baby walker, two lawnmowers, both new and old deckchairs now covered in cobwebs and numerous garden tools crying out to be used more regularly. Eventually he drags the great mound of PVC out and is delighted to find the pump nearby.
As if prompted by the sight of a paddling pool, the suns rays become brighter and hotter and with the nozzle pressed firmly in, my husband begins the gruelling task of pumping accompanied by three children all desperately eager to help. As usual, fifteen minutes later, the pool is still lying in a crumpled heap on the grass. My husband’s brow is dripping, but he battles on with round two. By this stage, he begins shouting at the pool, “Come on,” pumping furiously with no avail and I decide it is safer to head in the direction of the kitchen muttering something about cold drinks under my breath. An almighty roar erupts behind me and I turn to see my husband hurling the paddling pool across the hedge into the field beside our house. He then marches off leaving three stunned children behind him. I cannot hold back a smile, followed by a fit of giggles as I recall the pictures littered thoroughout the brochure of cheery families frolicking in their paddling pools and see ours lying in a ditch, with the pump sitting on top of the hedge.
After a cool drink, and a cold shower, my husband reappears, climbs over the hedge and hauls the pool back into the garden. After I read the instructions and tell him where he’s going wrong, he tries again. This time the sides calmly inflate and the yellow sunshine face on top pops up and smiles at us. Once full with cold water from the garden hose (all part of the overall experience), the children tear off their clothes and begin their frolic.
Within five minutes, the novelty has worn off and the children have marched inside to watch a DVD. Meanwhile, the paddling pool sits deserted on the lawn with not a child in sight.
Friday, 15 June 2007
Road rage safari
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.
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, 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.
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