The lame mother

The mother is out of action, stuck on the sofa with her sprained foot wrapped in a bandage. It happened while playing a game of netball with some of the other more agile mothers in the village. I leapt into the air to catch the ball and having not played for 20 years suddenly remembered the dreaded static footwork rules and promptly landed awkwardly, collapsing onto the tarmac. From there it was off to hospital with a suspected broken ankle.

Thankfully, when the news came that my bones had survived the fall, I flung my arms round the rather startled doctor in utter delight. I can cope with a Tubigrip any day and with a couple of Paracetemol, I would be dashing round the house at the normal pace by morning. How wrong I was. With one leg definitely out of action for the next few days, my hopping skills were not expert enough to get three children ready for school. My husband happily took the helm, much to the children’s delight. I lay in my bed listening to the commotion downstairs. Every so often, one of the children came bounding in to report on the chocolate mousses Daddy had given them for breakfast. A few moments later, my husband appeared and climbed into bed beside me. “What on earth are you doing?” I said glancing at the clock. “I just need to lie down for five minutes. You’ve no idea how exhausting it is.” 14 years of marriage have taught me to say nothing. However, once the five minutes were up, I ran through the checklist. “Have you got the Show and Tell? Have you remembered the children are wearing fancy dress for charity today? Have you got their swimming kit? Have you made the packed lunches taking into account the likes and dislikes? They have done their homework haven’t they?” He looked at me with a pained expression and headed back downstairs. I hollered after him, “Don’t forget their sun hats and remember to apply sun tan lotion.”

The commotion continued downstairs and I could not contain myself any longer. I began the mammoth hop downstairs. I felt the need to double check that everyone was in fact wearing something suitable and that hair and teeth had been brushed. However, by the time I reached the kitchen they had already left and I was presented with the aftermath. Most of the contents of the fridge had been spread across the table, the dishwasher lay open full of clean dishes from the night before, while the sink overflowed with pans. The puppy and the border terrorist were perched on chairs beside each other lapping up some leftover Cheerios. One leg or two, I set to work hopping round the kitchen clearing up.

The bicycle ride

My husband scrambles around the boot of the car, trying to put the back seats down in preparation for the bicycles. Meanwhile, I refer to the instruction manual and shout orders from the doorway about which lever to try next. Eventually, they fold down and we begin squeezing the bikes into the boot. Crouched in the back, my husband heaves them in, trying different angles to get the boot to close. “We have got to get a bike rack,” he says through gritted teeth.

The children excitedly climb in, sporting brightly coloured cycling helmets in preparation for their first proper bicycle ride. We wave to Daddy, who has the garden shed to build, and tell him we will be back in an hour. We arrive in Sturminster Newton at the entrance to the newly opened North Dorset Trailway. We heave the bikes out and set off with a backpack full of essential rations, consisting of Jaffa Cakes and a bottle of water.

The sun shines down on us as we cycle along the path past water meadows and over the River Stour. As I watch the children ride ahead of me, I realise that a whole new world has opened up, now they have abandoned the stabilisers. My son “vrooms” ahead, occasionally skidding to a stop, to check on his mother steadily pedalling behind him. As we approach walkers I call, “Keep to the left.” They pedal over to the right and then wobble over to the left, just missing a few passers by and their dogs.

Much to the children’s delight, we then come to a hill. “Brake,” I shriek from behind them as I watch them speed down, dust flying up behind them. “We can’t,” they shout. After a quick stop to embark on some ‘brake’ training and to re-energise with a Jaffa Cake, we are on our way again. The children are determined to cycle to Shillingstone and back. Admittedly, I am nervous given we are amateurs on our first bicycle ride which happens to be six miles long. However, we successfully reach our destination and head back with a little less enthusiasm. Suddenly, I hear a yell and turn to see my daughter take a tumble onto the path. She begins screaming, holding her knee. I dab the graze with a bit of tissue from my pocket and instantly regret not having a first aid kit. I know that a plaster would result in an instant recovery. We try to jolly her along with another Jaffa Cake and encourage her to get back on the bike. However, having now also spotted a graze on her arm, the tears roll full and fast. For the next two miles I am bent double pushing a small bike, as well as my own while my daughter hobbles behind me sobbing uncontrollably. “Call the air ambulance,” she cries. Walkers stroll by, greeting us cheerily and I struggle to smile. An hour later, overheated and exhausted we see the car park ahead of us. “I think I’m alright to cycle now,” says my daughter as she climbs onto her bike and speeds off. I watch in disbelief. “Never again,” I mutter.

Trip to London

We are sitting having a picnic in Green Park, on a half-term trip to London. My four-year-old son suddenly asks, “Mummy, why are there so many baddies in London?” For a moment, I think he is referring to the national publicity about London’s knife crime and begin to tell him that whilst there are some baddies, there are many more goodies. He pauses for a moment before adding, “But why are the baddies all sitting on benches eating their lunch?” I glance across to look at a mass of men in suits enjoying their sandwiches in the sun. Why does he think they are baddies? “Because they’re wearing black and baddies always wear black.”

Now everything becomes clear. Earlier as we had walked along the busy pavements, he had been careful to step aside when any man in a suit walked past. I had mistaken this for politeness. Actually, he was quite terrified and had convinced himself that anyone wearing a suit was a member of a large London baddy gang.

The three children finish their lunch and bound off into the park to let off some steam, after a morning’s trailing round a museum. They rugby tackle each other to the ground, shrieking and I feel instantly relieved that they are wearing old jeans. However, I am horrified to see The Toddler suddenly whip down his trousers and ‘widdle’ on the grass, much to the amusement of his brother. At that moment, three small girls scoot past him staring. They are dressed in matching floral smocked dresses, their hair neatly held back off their face with velvet hair-bands. Meanwhile, my daughter, with her mass of brown hair unleashed around her face, is busy picking up litter from the ground. The girls’ smartly dressed mother looks aghast as my daughter scoops up old tissues and a crisp packet stuffing them into her coat pocket. “Just leave it,” I shout. “But Mummy, the litter might kill the birds,” she cries.

Suddenly, I hear high pitched screams and see the two boys running towards me terrified. “The big birds are chasing us,” shrieks my son. A small group of pigeons are following behind them, desperately hoping to be fed. With the three children huddled around my legs, I shoo the birds away, much to the amusement of the lunchtime workers. The pigeons refuse to budge and more join them. I fling the Toddler in the buggy and yell, “Run.” We sprint out of the park and return to the safety of our small flat, away from the urban baddies, litter and pigeons.

The haircut

The Toddler is a fairly amiable little chap. Most of the time he is placid, content and happily follows behind his siblings with his grubby rag in his hand.

However, the one thing he just can’t abide is The Haircut. A year ago, he happily sat on my lap, having his baby curls snipped for the album. When his new Toddler hair began growing ready for the next cut, he dug his heels in and refused to let a pair of scissors anywhere near his small auburn head. Despite knowing our lovely hairdresser Sally well, he simply refused to cooperate. Sally quite sensibly suggested we leave it for a while so as not to traumatise the poor little mite. However, as his mother I was perfectly happy to pin him to my lap, hold his head in my hands and shout, “Cut”.

As the hair gradually grew and he began looking up from under his fringe, a friend suggested we try cutting his hair at home. She thought he would be less worried in a familiar environment, with Balamory to distract him. We duly tried this, but predictably he began screaming once he saw the scissors and even Josie Jump couldn’t distract him while I made a desperate attempt to snip at a side burn. It continued to grow, but not in a small, cool surfer kind of way – more like small thin rat’s tails falling around his neck. People began to make comments such as, “How sweet,” while his Granny, never one for holding back, said, “When are you going to cut that dreadful hair?” I was at my wits end, so Granny, who is often quick to remind me that children only behave badly with their parents, stepped into the frame and said she would take him. An hour later, she returned red-faced and fairly dishevelled, handed me the Toddler and said, “I need a drink.”

Finally, I was left with my last option. As night fell and The Toddler drifted into his golden land of slumbers, I tiptoed into his room with my rather curved edge nail scissors. I set to work on one side under the dim light of the landing, and then gently turned his head to start on the other. He stirred and murmured, “No,” sleepily, at which point I ducked down beneath the bed, so as not to wake him. As I edged back up, he sat up and stared at me. It was all over for one night at least. The next night, I was back with my scissors to do the other side. Job done. He now has probably the worst haircut in Dorset, with long and short strands scattered across his small head. I am just utterly relieved that we have at least a month or so before I have to embark once more on my midnight haircuts.