“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine,” says my mother cheerily on the doorstep. I have just dropped off The Toddler, the border terrorist, the puppy, several overnight bags and the football and tennis kit. I am off to London to spend two whole days and nights away without the children.
Needless to say, I have spent the last few days planning my trip and drafting a detailed itinerary. There are the inevitable school pick-ups, followed by a quick snack in the car, after-school clubs and various homework instructions. As always, they are relaxed and say, “After all, we’ve done this before.” As I drive off, I hear a scream and glance in my mirror to see the puppy racing off with The Toddler’s beloved blanket. I remind myself to return armed with a large bottle of whisky for Granny and Grandpa.
The train pulls into Gillingham and my heart beats with excitement. I can read my newspaper, a copy of Hello and listen to my Ipod, with absolutely no interruption. As we roll through the countryside, I relax into the realms of pre-motherhood. Suddenly, I realise I have forgotten to tell my mother not to put butter in my daughter’s sandwiches. I fumble for my mobile and put in a call. She is out. Oh goodness, where has she gone? What has happened to The Toddler? Has the border terrorist made a mad dash across the fields to escape the puppy? I leave a long message reminding her about the sandwiches and ask her to call when she gets back.
A nice lady sits down beside me with her three small children. She apologises for the usual child-like noises. I reassure her and tell her I have children of my own. In fact, half an hour later, with my newspaper lying unread on the table, I realise I have talked of nothing else. She smiles politely as I neurotically tell her about my trip and how my mother is looking after the children. “I’m sure she has just gone out to get some milk,” she says as I relay the answer phone message to her.
Finally, and no doubt with much relief for my fellow mother beside me, we pull in to Waterloo. I am overwhelmed by the amount of smartly dressed people dashing through the station in a desperate hurry. I feel a little lost pulling my little wheelie case behind me. I should be carrying a sign that reads, “Please take care. Dorset mother in town.” I find myself a taxi and give the address of my husband’s office. I am in need of a familiar face to help launch me into London life. I check my mobile. My three children’s faces peer up at me from the screen and the phone beeps with a text message from my mother. “All fine. Hope you’re having a lovely time.” The friendly taxi driver asks where I’m from. “Dorset,” I say proudly. “And, have I mentioned I’ve got three small children aged ….”
Friday, 30 May 2008
Friday, 23 May 2008
Bottom butter
It seems mothers across the country are making mad dashes to their nearest Waitrose desperate to get hold of a pot of ‘baby bottom butter’. However, it is not for treating their babies’ nappy rash – rather to slap on their own faces as a moisturiser. Someone somewhere, most probably after a sleepless night with a small baby, decided to apply the bottom butter to their face and no doubt after mentioning its effects at the local mother and toddler group, word spread across the nation culminating in a feature on GMTV.
Sitting in rural Dorset, I too read about the bottom butter in a national newspaper and read the glowing feedback from bottom butter users. One mother says, “I have taken to putting it on twice a day. I am 18 again.” And another adds, “I have been using it constantly for two weeks and my skin now has the smoothest texture.” Admittedly, my first reaction was to laugh at how ridiculously gullible these poor mothers were. Who on earth would resort to putting butter on their face?
A few days later, as I was reaching for my baby wipes in Waitrose, I noticed a sign beneath an empty shelf, which read, “Temporarily out of stock due to extensive media coverage.” As I continued pushing my trolley into the next aisle, it got me thinking. What if it does work, what if my crow’s feet disappeared forever, what if I could say farewell to the dark lines under my eyes? That was it. I wanted to track the bottom butter down and try it for myself.
However, my merry mass of mothers across the country had bought up every pot of the £2.49 butter, leaving the shelves utterly bare. Sales doubled to 30,000 pots in the first part of 2008 as the suppliers, based in Hampshire, were completely taken by surprise. At Waitrose Gillingham, Dry Goods Section Manager, Andy Hartstone, said, “We have had massive interest, and whilst most of the stock coming into the branch satisfied orders we had taken from customers, the remainder hit the shelf, and was sold within minutes. We expect some more stock between now and the end of May.”
But I am impatient. I launch a full-scale investigation into tracking down a pot, including checking Ebay, where they were selling for up to £30. After several phone calls and a lot of grovelling, my baby bottom butter source arrived at my door carrying two pots. The children watched as I squealed with delight chanting, “Goodbye 34, hello 18.”
This morning, I enthusiastically smeared the bottom butter over my face. It smells of vanilla, which apparently calms your baby and perhaps even the mother too. It is fairly greasy, given the olive oil it contains and is also very warm, given the film it has created across my skin. But it is completely natural and free from any artificial colours. I am excited, and as I skip into the kitchen to prepare breakfast, I feel the effects of youth re-emerging. I will keep you posted.
Sitting in rural Dorset, I too read about the bottom butter in a national newspaper and read the glowing feedback from bottom butter users. One mother says, “I have taken to putting it on twice a day. I am 18 again.” And another adds, “I have been using it constantly for two weeks and my skin now has the smoothest texture.” Admittedly, my first reaction was to laugh at how ridiculously gullible these poor mothers were. Who on earth would resort to putting butter on their face?
A few days later, as I was reaching for my baby wipes in Waitrose, I noticed a sign beneath an empty shelf, which read, “Temporarily out of stock due to extensive media coverage.” As I continued pushing my trolley into the next aisle, it got me thinking. What if it does work, what if my crow’s feet disappeared forever, what if I could say farewell to the dark lines under my eyes? That was it. I wanted to track the bottom butter down and try it for myself.
However, my merry mass of mothers across the country had bought up every pot of the £2.49 butter, leaving the shelves utterly bare. Sales doubled to 30,000 pots in the first part of 2008 as the suppliers, based in Hampshire, were completely taken by surprise. At Waitrose Gillingham, Dry Goods Section Manager, Andy Hartstone, said, “We have had massive interest, and whilst most of the stock coming into the branch satisfied orders we had taken from customers, the remainder hit the shelf, and was sold within minutes. We expect some more stock between now and the end of May.”
But I am impatient. I launch a full-scale investigation into tracking down a pot, including checking Ebay, where they were selling for up to £30. After several phone calls and a lot of grovelling, my baby bottom butter source arrived at my door carrying two pots. The children watched as I squealed with delight chanting, “Goodbye 34, hello 18.”
This morning, I enthusiastically smeared the bottom butter over my face. It smells of vanilla, which apparently calms your baby and perhaps even the mother too. It is fairly greasy, given the olive oil it contains and is also very warm, given the film it has created across my skin. But it is completely natural and free from any artificial colours. I am excited, and as I skip into the kitchen to prepare breakfast, I feel the effects of youth re-emerging. I will keep you posted.
Friday, 9 May 2008
Sunday lunch
There is nothing nicer than a family Sunday lunch. However, I have realised that Sunday lunch is not quite the same when you are at the helm as the Mother.
Last weekend, I spent most of Sunday morning peeling, chopping and basting, regularly checking the clock to ensure I am on the track with the timings – something my mother says is critical for the perfect roast. Needless to say, by midday I am surrounded by three small people saying, “Can I have something to eat?” I distract them with a small bowel of peanuts and glance again at the potatoes, which are as usual letting me down with not a crispy edge in sight. My husband looks up from the Sunday newspapers and asks, “We have got bread sauce haven’t we?” Oh woops, I knew there was something I needed to get. I fob him off with some feeble explanation and appease him with a new jar of redcurrant jelly. He disappears back into the Business section mumbling, “It’s just not the same without all the trimmings.”
The cries ring out from the playroom as the hunger sets in and arguments begin. If I don’t accelerate, this could evolve into temper tantrums, resulting with at least one child missing lunch altogether, choosing instead to spend it face down in their pillow. Red-faced, I speed up my gravy-whisking, pleading with it to thicken. Just to add to the pressure, the timer periodically beeps announcing each vegetable. Finally, I’m there and summon my husband to take his traditional place before the carving plate. I watch him pull my beautiful free-range bird apart, having learnt never to criticise a man when he is carving. Finally, we all sit round the table and for a small moment we are the perfect Sunday lunchtime family. From then on, one or other, or all three children periodically slide on and off their chairs. We battle and bribe over eating their vegetables and say, “You wouldn’t behave like this at Granny’s”. My husband and I eat at record speed, trying to remain calm. Suddenly I smell burning. I make a dive for the oven door, only to discover the very crispy, charred roast potatoes, which I had forgotten about. I know the sight of anything ‘black’ will cause the children to burst into a group “Urrgh”, so I quickly shovel them into the bin.
Having spent hours cooking the Sunday roast, it is over in a matter of minutes. I am left standing in the kitchen alone, leaning against the oven. I glance across at the piles of pans in the sink, close my eyes, enjoy the silence and count to ten. At least it is over for another week.
Last weekend, I spent most of Sunday morning peeling, chopping and basting, regularly checking the clock to ensure I am on the track with the timings – something my mother says is critical for the perfect roast. Needless to say, by midday I am surrounded by three small people saying, “Can I have something to eat?” I distract them with a small bowel of peanuts and glance again at the potatoes, which are as usual letting me down with not a crispy edge in sight. My husband looks up from the Sunday newspapers and asks, “We have got bread sauce haven’t we?” Oh woops, I knew there was something I needed to get. I fob him off with some feeble explanation and appease him with a new jar of redcurrant jelly. He disappears back into the Business section mumbling, “It’s just not the same without all the trimmings.”
The cries ring out from the playroom as the hunger sets in and arguments begin. If I don’t accelerate, this could evolve into temper tantrums, resulting with at least one child missing lunch altogether, choosing instead to spend it face down in their pillow. Red-faced, I speed up my gravy-whisking, pleading with it to thicken. Just to add to the pressure, the timer periodically beeps announcing each vegetable. Finally, I’m there and summon my husband to take his traditional place before the carving plate. I watch him pull my beautiful free-range bird apart, having learnt never to criticise a man when he is carving. Finally, we all sit round the table and for a small moment we are the perfect Sunday lunchtime family. From then on, one or other, or all three children periodically slide on and off their chairs. We battle and bribe over eating their vegetables and say, “You wouldn’t behave like this at Granny’s”. My husband and I eat at record speed, trying to remain calm. Suddenly I smell burning. I make a dive for the oven door, only to discover the very crispy, charred roast potatoes, which I had forgotten about. I know the sight of anything ‘black’ will cause the children to burst into a group “Urrgh”, so I quickly shovel them into the bin.
Having spent hours cooking the Sunday roast, it is over in a matter of minutes. I am left standing in the kitchen alone, leaning against the oven. I glance across at the piles of pans in the sink, close my eyes, enjoy the silence and count to ten. At least it is over for another week.
Friday, 2 May 2008
Summer holiday planning
It is about this time of the year, when I am frequently asked, “What are you doing in the Summer Holidays?” In the middle of April, this question immediately stresses me out. I have just about coped with 17 days of Easter holidays, but the thought of 42 days of Summer holidays fills me with total panic. In fact, put like that, Easter is just a warm up – a rehearsal for the long stretch that will hit us all at the end of July.
As usual, we have left it to the last minute, despite saying to ourselves year after year that we will get our acts together earlier. Finally, as I stood shoulder to shoulder with other mothers discussing holidays in the playground last week, I felt compelled to set my mind to the task. As always, the difficulty is finding one that bridges the gap between what parents would call a holiday, versus what a six, four and two year-old would call a holiday.
I gave up on the idea of sitting in the local travel agent leafing through brochures, after The Toddler decided to join in, resulting in a whole row of Safari holiday brochures toppling down from the shelves around him. It was now all down to The Internet with The Toddler parked in front of an extended episode of Balamory.
My husband and the children’s fist choice is camping, one that fills me with dread. However, last year I made the fatal mistake of saying to my husband (and printing in a Family Ties article) that I would not consider a camping holiday, “on the grounds that camping and nappy changing do not go hand in hand.” Now that The Toddler is fully ‘potted’, I have no excuse so camping is back on the agenda. I made a feeble attempt to ‘google’ a few campsites, but promptly gave up when I stumbled upon a website containing a whole blog of unhappy campers’ feedback, from talk of rats to dangerous caterpillars! This prompted me to switch to my ideal family holiday, involving sun, sea, pool, beach and some very nice friendly kids clubs nearby.
Meanwhile, my husband persisted with his investigation of the perfect camping holiday, refusing to believe any of the negative feedback, swiftly labelling them all as, “amateur campers.” It soon turned into a race. We sat in bed with our laptops on our laps, surfing like mad into the early hours, utterly determined to find the perfect option. Unfortunately, my perfect holiday stumbled at the first hurdle when we realised that camping was a fifth of the price. I had lost and had to submit to the idea of joining the merry camping fraternity, water slides, kids entertainers and the rest. Thankfully, my husband did compromise on sleeping under canvas and has booked us into a static mobile home. “It will be great,” he says and then adds, excitedly, “It’s even got decking!”
As usual, we have left it to the last minute, despite saying to ourselves year after year that we will get our acts together earlier. Finally, as I stood shoulder to shoulder with other mothers discussing holidays in the playground last week, I felt compelled to set my mind to the task. As always, the difficulty is finding one that bridges the gap between what parents would call a holiday, versus what a six, four and two year-old would call a holiday.
I gave up on the idea of sitting in the local travel agent leafing through brochures, after The Toddler decided to join in, resulting in a whole row of Safari holiday brochures toppling down from the shelves around him. It was now all down to The Internet with The Toddler parked in front of an extended episode of Balamory.
My husband and the children’s fist choice is camping, one that fills me with dread. However, last year I made the fatal mistake of saying to my husband (and printing in a Family Ties article) that I would not consider a camping holiday, “on the grounds that camping and nappy changing do not go hand in hand.” Now that The Toddler is fully ‘potted’, I have no excuse so camping is back on the agenda. I made a feeble attempt to ‘google’ a few campsites, but promptly gave up when I stumbled upon a website containing a whole blog of unhappy campers’ feedback, from talk of rats to dangerous caterpillars! This prompted me to switch to my ideal family holiday, involving sun, sea, pool, beach and some very nice friendly kids clubs nearby.
Meanwhile, my husband persisted with his investigation of the perfect camping holiday, refusing to believe any of the negative feedback, swiftly labelling them all as, “amateur campers.” It soon turned into a race. We sat in bed with our laptops on our laps, surfing like mad into the early hours, utterly determined to find the perfect option. Unfortunately, my perfect holiday stumbled at the first hurdle when we realised that camping was a fifth of the price. I had lost and had to submit to the idea of joining the merry camping fraternity, water slides, kids entertainers and the rest. Thankfully, my husband did compromise on sleeping under canvas and has booked us into a static mobile home. “It will be great,” he says and then adds, excitedly, “It’s even got decking!”
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