A Virus has worked its way round our household this week. Not an electronic virus, but the raging sore throat, swollen glands and pounding headache. There is nothing worse than when illness takes control of a house full of small children and over-tired parents. In fact, it throws the whole weekly schedule into disarray. The washing baskets overflow, meals decline into basic menus and the television finds itself permanently on.
Our four-year-old son was the first to be hit but unlike most men, his father included, he took the illness head on and refused to be beaten by it. He continued to speed around on his black motorbike half dressed, sword his siblings at every opportunity, and took advantage of the situation with regular requests for chocolate. It then struck the baby (now 18-months-old but still referred to as The Baby). It was the usual case of a small child who one minute is splashing merrily in the bath, to rapidly deteriorating into a small whimpering ball with a high temperature and regular bouts of vomiting. I spent Sunday night, rocking him, pacing up and down, syringing his little mouth with Calpol and changing both his and our sheets at some unearthly time in the morning. As the dreaded 6.30am alarm call came from our son requesting his breakfast, I had barely slept. Then there came loud screams from my daughter’s room, prompting a mad dash down the corridor to find her sobbing with a mouth full of red roar bulbous tonsils. The rest of the day was spent administering copious amounts of medicine, amongst a household full of crying children, all competing to curl up on their Mummy’s knee.
By 3pm, it struck the mother but as usual we battle on, with supper to cook, washing to hang on the line and phone calls to make. The menu was swiftly changed to a rather processed looking sausage roll, a slice of cheese and a sad looking stem of broccoli. I was declining fast, so bathtime was cancelled (something that only happens in a case of emergency), and all three children were in bed by 5.45pm. I collapsed on the sofa, gargling asprin and furiously popping Nurofen declaring that I will not be beaten by this. It is simply out of the question for the mother to be ill. The night was spent administering more Calpol, singing lullabies and calming down whimpering children. The lack of sleep began to play with my mind prompting to me to wonder whether one can actually die of a sore throat. We awoke in a state of chaos greeted by sticky medicine spoons and sea of dirty tissues. My husband was away this week so he had been spared all this. As I relayed the events of the night to him, he replied, “I hope I don’t get it.” And I must admit, so do I. Otherwise he will undoubtedly demand I call 999 and admit himself to hospital for emergency treatment.
Friday, 27 July 2007
Friday, 20 July 2007
Musical beds
It had taken weeks of planning, co-ordinating two busy diaries but finally we had set a date to spend the weekend with friends.
We arrive at their house early and the children spend the day bouncing on trampolines, speeding around on bikes and generally creating havoc in their once immaculate playroom. We feel sure they are well exercised and will sleep beautifully. After sausages and baked beans, they exert a bit more energy and are then thrown into baths full of Matey bubbles. Tucked into an assortment of sleeping bags on bunk beds, blow-up mattresses and in travel cots they are content with a swift group book followed by lights off.
Downstairs we enjoy a child-free supper and get a bit over-excited with the bottles of Rosé. Once we realise it is after midnight, far too late for any parent who endures early rises and non-stop twittering for 14 hours a day, we too say our good nights to each other. However, little do we know what the night has in store for us. Just as I am drifting off to sleep, I hear the first yell which, as a parent with supersonic hearing, I quickly identify as one of ours. I spring out of bed and into the baby’s room in an impressive few seconds, to avoid waking the other children. My husband and I then embark on a ridiculous exercise of moving the travel cot into our bedroom. It doesn’t fit through the doorway, so we resort to dismantling it in total darkness and re-erecting it beside our bed. After half an hour of the baby shrieking and wondering why on earth we let ourselves have that last glass of Port, we drift back to sleep. Then come the small cries for Mummy, prompting another mad dash to scoop up my daughter and place her in our bed. Shortly afterwards, sharing the 5ft bed defeats my husband and with a few groans, he moves next door to my daughter’s bed. The night continues with yet more cries and corridors full of bleary-eyed parents. At 5.30am, I wake up with a jolt as the baby pours a glass of cold water over me, which he has grabbed from the bedside table. This soaks the rest of the bed and the two children lying beside me (my son joined us too!). As I wander down the landing, I glance into the children’s bedroom to find two boxer shorted fathers - one lying on the top bunk and one on the bottom. Meanwhile, my friend is downstairs on the sofa with two sleeping children beside her watching Big Brother Live, where she has been for the past two hours. It was musical beds in its extreme and by 8.30am, we were waving goodbye to our friends with three small children screaming in the back of the car wondering how on earth we were going to get through the rest of the day.
We arrive at their house early and the children spend the day bouncing on trampolines, speeding around on bikes and generally creating havoc in their once immaculate playroom. We feel sure they are well exercised and will sleep beautifully. After sausages and baked beans, they exert a bit more energy and are then thrown into baths full of Matey bubbles. Tucked into an assortment of sleeping bags on bunk beds, blow-up mattresses and in travel cots they are content with a swift group book followed by lights off.
Downstairs we enjoy a child-free supper and get a bit over-excited with the bottles of Rosé. Once we realise it is after midnight, far too late for any parent who endures early rises and non-stop twittering for 14 hours a day, we too say our good nights to each other. However, little do we know what the night has in store for us. Just as I am drifting off to sleep, I hear the first yell which, as a parent with supersonic hearing, I quickly identify as one of ours. I spring out of bed and into the baby’s room in an impressive few seconds, to avoid waking the other children. My husband and I then embark on a ridiculous exercise of moving the travel cot into our bedroom. It doesn’t fit through the doorway, so we resort to dismantling it in total darkness and re-erecting it beside our bed. After half an hour of the baby shrieking and wondering why on earth we let ourselves have that last glass of Port, we drift back to sleep. Then come the small cries for Mummy, prompting another mad dash to scoop up my daughter and place her in our bed. Shortly afterwards, sharing the 5ft bed defeats my husband and with a few groans, he moves next door to my daughter’s bed. The night continues with yet more cries and corridors full of bleary-eyed parents. At 5.30am, I wake up with a jolt as the baby pours a glass of cold water over me, which he has grabbed from the bedside table. This soaks the rest of the bed and the two children lying beside me (my son joined us too!). As I wander down the landing, I glance into the children’s bedroom to find two boxer shorted fathers - one lying on the top bunk and one on the bottom. Meanwhile, my friend is downstairs on the sofa with two sleeping children beside her watching Big Brother Live, where she has been for the past two hours. It was musical beds in its extreme and by 8.30am, we were waving goodbye to our friends with three small children screaming in the back of the car wondering how on earth we were going to get through the rest of the day.
Friday, 13 July 2007
Summer holidays
In three weeks time, the summer holidays will be upon us. Looking at the current weather conditions, I am beginning to panic at the thought of three small children, a border terrorist and me in a confined space for 6 weeks, or 45 days to be precise.
We have had eleven months to plan for it, but as usual with a few weeks to go, my husband and I finally sit down, stare at pages of blank spaces in the diary and try and decide how to fill them. My mother and mother-in-law both often remark, “It is good for children to be bored and entertain themselves.” This is all very well, but I remember that feeling of boredom in the summer holidays, with limited television, and a dog walk being my mother’s answer to it all. I am also a little concerned about my own sanity dealing with three starlings twittering, “I’m bored. What can we do?” for 45 days.
As we run through the holiday options, albeit a touch late when no doubt most things have been booked for months, we endeavour to find the perfect summer holiday solution. Hotel is one option but is ruled out partly due to our 18-month-old’s regular high pitch attention-seeking screeches - not something we want to inflict upon other fellow holiday makers. A Villa in Europe, where our children can be free to launch into tantrums or screech to their hearts content. However, the thought of my husband being on constant life guard duty to three non-swimmers and me feeding the washing machine with sweaty beach towels, whilst trying to prepare meals in someone else’s kitchen, don’t exactly appeal. A Family Resort, full of other people’s children all screaming in a shared swimming pool, surrounded by rows of parents reclined on sun loungers all desperately hoping their children will make friends so that they can enjoy a couple of pages of John Grisham or Jilly Cooper undisturbed. However, the last time we tried this it was so hot that our two year old spent the week playing with his dinky cars inside the public loos as eveywhere was too hot. My husband’s final suggestion was camping which I instantly vetoed – at least for this year - on the grounds of nappies.
After much debate, we have settled on spending a week in Wales with friends who have children of similar ages, and the other 38 days at home in Dorset. We plan to fill the garden with obscene amounts of plastic play equipment and throw in the odd treat in the form of a walk across the fields to the village shop to buy a Mini Milk, come rain or shine. Any other suggestions though for the school holidays would be gratefully recieved.
We have had eleven months to plan for it, but as usual with a few weeks to go, my husband and I finally sit down, stare at pages of blank spaces in the diary and try and decide how to fill them. My mother and mother-in-law both often remark, “It is good for children to be bored and entertain themselves.” This is all very well, but I remember that feeling of boredom in the summer holidays, with limited television, and a dog walk being my mother’s answer to it all. I am also a little concerned about my own sanity dealing with three starlings twittering, “I’m bored. What can we do?” for 45 days.
As we run through the holiday options, albeit a touch late when no doubt most things have been booked for months, we endeavour to find the perfect summer holiday solution. Hotel is one option but is ruled out partly due to our 18-month-old’s regular high pitch attention-seeking screeches - not something we want to inflict upon other fellow holiday makers. A Villa in Europe, where our children can be free to launch into tantrums or screech to their hearts content. However, the thought of my husband being on constant life guard duty to three non-swimmers and me feeding the washing machine with sweaty beach towels, whilst trying to prepare meals in someone else’s kitchen, don’t exactly appeal. A Family Resort, full of other people’s children all screaming in a shared swimming pool, surrounded by rows of parents reclined on sun loungers all desperately hoping their children will make friends so that they can enjoy a couple of pages of John Grisham or Jilly Cooper undisturbed. However, the last time we tried this it was so hot that our two year old spent the week playing with his dinky cars inside the public loos as eveywhere was too hot. My husband’s final suggestion was camping which I instantly vetoed – at least for this year - on the grounds of nappies.
After much debate, we have settled on spending a week in Wales with friends who have children of similar ages, and the other 38 days at home in Dorset. We plan to fill the garden with obscene amounts of plastic play equipment and throw in the odd treat in the form of a walk across the fields to the village shop to buy a Mini Milk, come rain or shine. Any other suggestions though for the school holidays would be gratefully recieved.
Out for tea
In the days before children, we lived in a City, I carried a handbag, wore make-up, read newspapers, looked fresh-faced from regular lie-ins and occasionally even wore shoes with heels during the day. I was also a regular at local coffee shops, and had time to enjoy my small, regular or large Latte, Cappacino or Macchiato, whilst sitting at my favourite table in the window, reading newspapers, phoning friends or just people watching.
Last weekend, I decided to re-live this experience and visit a local coffee shop. On this occasion, I had no trace of make-up, wore flat comfortable shoes and a rather grubby puffa jacket with a purse stuffed in one pocket and a nappy in the other. Oh yes, and I was pushing a buggy containing a teething one-year-old and two small excitable children hanging off each handle. With caffeine and sugar beckoning, we arrived at the cafe and spent the first few moments wrestling with the doors, apologising to the small queue of people forming behind us.
Finally, we made our entrance, albeit a bit flustered and red-faced, and searched for a table. This is always challenging as it needs to be away from ladies lunching or from small groups of business meetings. However, it had to be close to the loos and ideally an emergency exit, in the event of our three-year-old’s award winning temper tantrums. I spotted the table at the back of the room and spent the next few minutes apologetically steering the buggy between chair legs and shopping bags.
I glanced around for any signs of a highchair and saw one at the far side of the room. Dashing across to get it, prompted high pitch screams from the baby distraught at his mother turning her back on him for a nano second. I return to find three children munching their way through a small white dish of sugar cubes. Once the table has been cleared of any more temptations, such as the salt and pepper mill, the cutlery and the flowers in a vase, we ordered. Sure enough, the first argument kicked off once the food arrived. My son decided he wanted my daughter’s flapjack instead of his Brownie. As the noise level picked up, people glanced at us. Through clenched teeth, I threatened them with a two day television ban. This fell on deaf ears, and as the whining escalated, alarm bells rang in my head signalling it was time for a rapid exit. With a large gulp of my Cappacino, the remains of a flapjack and brownie thrown into a napkin, and a baby clutched under the arm, I steered the buggy towards the door at top speed.
I wrestled with the door as if trying to escape from a bad nightmare and with two sugar-filled children hollowing behind me, emerged into daylight, a bedraggled wreck of a mother. From behind me, a rather nervous voice said, “Excuse me Madam. You forgot to pay your bill.”
Last weekend, I decided to re-live this experience and visit a local coffee shop. On this occasion, I had no trace of make-up, wore flat comfortable shoes and a rather grubby puffa jacket with a purse stuffed in one pocket and a nappy in the other. Oh yes, and I was pushing a buggy containing a teething one-year-old and two small excitable children hanging off each handle. With caffeine and sugar beckoning, we arrived at the cafe and spent the first few moments wrestling with the doors, apologising to the small queue of people forming behind us.
Finally, we made our entrance, albeit a bit flustered and red-faced, and searched for a table. This is always challenging as it needs to be away from ladies lunching or from small groups of business meetings. However, it had to be close to the loos and ideally an emergency exit, in the event of our three-year-old’s award winning temper tantrums. I spotted the table at the back of the room and spent the next few minutes apologetically steering the buggy between chair legs and shopping bags.
I glanced around for any signs of a highchair and saw one at the far side of the room. Dashing across to get it, prompted high pitch screams from the baby distraught at his mother turning her back on him for a nano second. I return to find three children munching their way through a small white dish of sugar cubes. Once the table has been cleared of any more temptations, such as the salt and pepper mill, the cutlery and the flowers in a vase, we ordered. Sure enough, the first argument kicked off once the food arrived. My son decided he wanted my daughter’s flapjack instead of his Brownie. As the noise level picked up, people glanced at us. Through clenched teeth, I threatened them with a two day television ban. This fell on deaf ears, and as the whining escalated, alarm bells rang in my head signalling it was time for a rapid exit. With a large gulp of my Cappacino, the remains of a flapjack and brownie thrown into a napkin, and a baby clutched under the arm, I steered the buggy towards the door at top speed.
I wrestled with the door as if trying to escape from a bad nightmare and with two sugar-filled children hollowing behind me, emerged into daylight, a bedraggled wreck of a mother. From behind me, a rather nervous voice said, “Excuse me Madam. You forgot to pay your bill.”
Friday, 6 July 2007
Train journey
Sitting on the train from Gillingham to London a few weeks ago, I could not help but overhear a mother’s unutterable panic as a result of one brief phone call. She was obviously on her way to work in London, so I imagine she had spent the previous 24 hours preparing for the trip, carrying out the usual chores that go with looking after a home, children and a husband, and then turning her attention to herself, her appearance and shifting her mind from meal preparation to business mode. As usual, the train was busy with mid-week commuters sitting thigh to thigh, leafing through their newspapers with the odd few enthusiastically tapping away on a laptop.
This smartly dressed mum, trapped next to the window in a group of four seats, picked up her mobile to make a call. Little did we all know that what was about to happen would throw her and, inadvertently us, into an almighty panic for the next hour. She was calling home, as it turned out, just to check her teenage son was up, dressed and on his bus journey to a 9am GSCE Chemistry exam. The call then went something like this, “What? How could you have fallen back to sleep. Your exam starts in less than an hour?” She then shouted at him to get dressed and that she would call back in five minutes once she had sorted out a lift. She hung up, distraught. My fellow passengers and I sympathetically witnessed her spend the next ten minutes making panicky calls trying to find someone who could drive him to school. Her husband was at work, and her options seemed to be running out. By now, all our hearts were pumping as she made a final call to a neighbour. The look of relief across her face as the neighbour came to the rescue meant we could return to our newspapers. She got back on the phone to her son and very firmly told him to get ready to be picked up and grovel like mad. It was undoubtedly, the most impressive display of co-ordination skills I had ever witnessed under extreme pressure, in front of a carriage full of suited and booted commuters and all before 9am.
What I and perhaps other passengers would love to know is if her son actually made his GSCE exam on time. So if you were this poor mother on the Exeter train to Waterloo on Thursday 21st June, do please get in touch and let me know.
This smartly dressed mum, trapped next to the window in a group of four seats, picked up her mobile to make a call. Little did we all know that what was about to happen would throw her and, inadvertently us, into an almighty panic for the next hour. She was calling home, as it turned out, just to check her teenage son was up, dressed and on his bus journey to a 9am GSCE Chemistry exam. The call then went something like this, “What? How could you have fallen back to sleep. Your exam starts in less than an hour?” She then shouted at him to get dressed and that she would call back in five minutes once she had sorted out a lift. She hung up, distraught. My fellow passengers and I sympathetically witnessed her spend the next ten minutes making panicky calls trying to find someone who could drive him to school. Her husband was at work, and her options seemed to be running out. By now, all our hearts were pumping as she made a final call to a neighbour. The look of relief across her face as the neighbour came to the rescue meant we could return to our newspapers. She got back on the phone to her son and very firmly told him to get ready to be picked up and grovel like mad. It was undoubtedly, the most impressive display of co-ordination skills I had ever witnessed under extreme pressure, in front of a carriage full of suited and booted commuters and all before 9am.
What I and perhaps other passengers would love to know is if her son actually made his GSCE exam on time. So if you were this poor mother on the Exeter train to Waterloo on Thursday 21st June, do please get in touch and let me know.
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