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!”
Friday, 29 February 2008
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!
Friday, 8 February 2008
Potty training
It is day five of potty training and I am close to relapsing towards a packet of Pampers. Days one and two were novel, a challenge and a touch exciting as I introduced the Toddler to the potty. We began well and I was confident that third time round it would be a breeze and my potty training expertise would come into its own. As is always the way with the whole ghastly, laborious exercise, just when you take a giant leap forward, you rapidly find yourself scuttling back again.
Broadly, there are two schools of thought with potty training. There are those who sensibly leave it until the sun is shining warmly and the toddler is two and a half and understands more about what they are doing – most importantly they can be bribed easily with smarties or stickers. Then there are those like me who just as the clock strikes midnight on the second birthday, whisk off the nappy to make room for a very smart pair of Thomas the Tank Engine briefs. My view, albeit fairly old fashioned and probably adopted from my mother, is simple. If he can ask for a biscuit and a drink, then he is quite capable to ask to use his potty. I also simply loathe nappies, particularly on a child that can walk. There is also the small matter of cost. I have estimated The Toddler’s small derrière has used up more than five thousand nappies over the past two years costing me approximately £793. This is what I have to remind myself when I’m mopping the kitchen floor for the umpteenth time that day.
So, we continue with the task asking him, ‘Do you want to use the potty?’ every ten minutes. When we finally get a hit, we cry out in jubilation, rejoice with a round of applause and loud cheers. We encourage him to the potty using every tactic we can think of, including perching the older children on it, if necessary. This successfully makes him become extremely protective of his new throne. In true toddler style, he takes the potty training experience one step further. He places his PlayMobil figures and his collection of dinosaurs on the edge of the potty and even tries to encourage the border terrorist to perform. Finally, when I appear from the bathroom he applauds in delight and runs to get a sticker from the drawer which he places on my jumper. “Good girl Mama,” he cries. The message is getting through albeit slowly but I feel we have got quite a way to go. Wish me luck.
Broadly, there are two schools of thought with potty training. There are those who sensibly leave it until the sun is shining warmly and the toddler is two and a half and understands more about what they are doing – most importantly they can be bribed easily with smarties or stickers. Then there are those like me who just as the clock strikes midnight on the second birthday, whisk off the nappy to make room for a very smart pair of Thomas the Tank Engine briefs. My view, albeit fairly old fashioned and probably adopted from my mother, is simple. If he can ask for a biscuit and a drink, then he is quite capable to ask to use his potty. I also simply loathe nappies, particularly on a child that can walk. There is also the small matter of cost. I have estimated The Toddler’s small derrière has used up more than five thousand nappies over the past two years costing me approximately £793. This is what I have to remind myself when I’m mopping the kitchen floor for the umpteenth time that day.
So, we continue with the task asking him, ‘Do you want to use the potty?’ every ten minutes. When we finally get a hit, we cry out in jubilation, rejoice with a round of applause and loud cheers. We encourage him to the potty using every tactic we can think of, including perching the older children on it, if necessary. This successfully makes him become extremely protective of his new throne. In true toddler style, he takes the potty training experience one step further. He places his PlayMobil figures and his collection of dinosaurs on the edge of the potty and even tries to encourage the border terrorist to perform. Finally, when I appear from the bathroom he applauds in delight and runs to get a sticker from the drawer which he places on my jumper. “Good girl Mama,” he cries. The message is getting through albeit slowly but I feel we have got quite a way to go. Wish me luck.
Friday, 1 February 2008
The Norovirus attack
In my recent article on Man Flu I said how lucky we were to have been spared the norovirus. I spoke too soon. Within hours of clicking ‘Send’ to file my story, my four-year-old son arrived back from school and promptly fell asleep on the sofa. From the moment he woke up, he was hit with the most horrible bug. The virus was unrelentless in its attack and I was confined to disinfecting buckets, changing sheets, and cuddling his sick little limp body for the next few days.
So far, the rest of us had been spared. Admittedly, as far as my husband was concerned, I took extreme measures. He was confined to London until the end of the week. Afterall, I could not cope with a hospital case on my hands!
Suddenly, the phone rang. It was the school, asking me to come and pick up my daughter. One look at her green coloured face and I knew what lay in store for us both. What made matters worse is she does not deal with illness in quite the same way as my son. Whereas he had just deteroriated into a quiet little puppy, my daughter wailed and screamed, demanding I did not leave her side. This was impossible, as The Toddler was suddenly struck by the norovirus too. I made an SOS call to my mother for more towels and sheets and spent the night dashing between rooms, all the while wondering when it was going to hit me too. I kept saying to myself, “You are not going to get it,” whilst scrubbing my hands. Worse still, was the fact that it was both children’s birthdays looming and we had 11 six-year-olds coming to our house for a party in three days’ time. Thankfully, the virus disappeared as quickly as it appeared and like many, the children were soon back to their usual whittering selves, albeit a bit shell shocked. I, on the other hand, was utterly exhausted and now had three children at home jumping from the walls with new found energy. And I had two birthday parties to organise. Parents began to phone to check the party was going ahead and I nervously said that it was. I consulted my friend who is a doctor to get her medical approval on the likely level of infection in my house. Taking her advice to the extreme, I set about with my dettol wipes on door handles, loo flushers, chair arms and scrubbed the top layer off the kitchen table. The party passed and the children had a wonderful time.
However, today I discover to my horror that there is one child absent from school with a sick bug – typically it had to be the doctor’s daughter!
So far, the rest of us had been spared. Admittedly, as far as my husband was concerned, I took extreme measures. He was confined to London until the end of the week. Afterall, I could not cope with a hospital case on my hands!
Suddenly, the phone rang. It was the school, asking me to come and pick up my daughter. One look at her green coloured face and I knew what lay in store for us both. What made matters worse is she does not deal with illness in quite the same way as my son. Whereas he had just deteroriated into a quiet little puppy, my daughter wailed and screamed, demanding I did not leave her side. This was impossible, as The Toddler was suddenly struck by the norovirus too. I made an SOS call to my mother for more towels and sheets and spent the night dashing between rooms, all the while wondering when it was going to hit me too. I kept saying to myself, “You are not going to get it,” whilst scrubbing my hands. Worse still, was the fact that it was both children’s birthdays looming and we had 11 six-year-olds coming to our house for a party in three days’ time. Thankfully, the virus disappeared as quickly as it appeared and like many, the children were soon back to their usual whittering selves, albeit a bit shell shocked. I, on the other hand, was utterly exhausted and now had three children at home jumping from the walls with new found energy. And I had two birthday parties to organise. Parents began to phone to check the party was going ahead and I nervously said that it was. I consulted my friend who is a doctor to get her medical approval on the likely level of infection in my house. Taking her advice to the extreme, I set about with my dettol wipes on door handles, loo flushers, chair arms and scrubbed the top layer off the kitchen table. The party passed and the children had a wonderful time.
However, today I discover to my horror that there is one child absent from school with a sick bug – typically it had to be the doctor’s daughter!
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