In a few days time we will be driving to France to go camping. The children are beside themselves with excitement and so too is my husband, who has spent the last few years trying to convince me to embark on this fun-loving holiday. My excitement levels are low in comparison, verging more on utter panic at the thought of living in a confined space with a whole host of other merry campers in the middle of the summer holidays. And what if it rains? I have been busy logging on to weather forecasts praying for sunshine but not too hot of course. I cannot even begin to contemplate the thought of being cooped up in a ‘static home with decking’ watching the rain pour down outside.
My excitement levels are also lacking due to the huge amount to do in the days leading up to the holiday. Added to the daily household family chores, there are clothes to wash, iron and lay out ready for packing. Needless to say, the children have a regular rummage through them, excitedly trying on swimming costumes and pulling on armbands. The dogs too have to be packed for, ready for their holiday down the road at Granny’s. Unfortunately, the Puppy is going through a particularly tricky phase and displaying all the signs of canine ADHD (I promise to embark on training when I return). My mother is in the midst of a kitchen extension, so is distinctly unenthusiastic about the grand-dogs arriving.
Meanwhile, I continue with my mammoth house clean, sorting through cupboards, changing sheets and washing towels. I never quite understand my rather neurotic desire to return to an immaculate house, but on this occasion the thought of my crisp, white cotton sheets might just help me to survive the camp.
Thankfully, my husband decides to take two days holiday leading up to our Dorset departure offering some much needed distraction for the children. However, he failed to tell me (until a few moments ago) that he has booked himself on a two day sailing course down at Weymouth although he has pointed out he will be back home in the evenings – just after the children have gone to bed.
Everyone I meet assures me how much I will enjoy my first camping experience. In fact, strangely enough I have not heard of a single bad experience. This makes me a little suspicious. However, I promise to join in with my friendly fellow campers, think of Dorset and keep smiling.
Friday, 25 July 2008
Friday, 18 July 2008
Princess mummy
One of the wonderful things about small children is their complete and utter honesty. A few days ago, I arrived down for breakfast and caught my daughter looking me up and down. “What’s the matter? Do I look all right?” I asked feeling a little self-conscious. She glanced down at my feet and pointed at my scruffy old pair of Converse and said, “Mummy, I think you should stop wearing those trainers.” “Why?” I ask. “Because they make you look a bit fat,” she replied bluntly.
She escorts me upstairs and begins rummaging through my wardrobe. After managing to convince her that high heeled shoes are really not terribly practical on the school run, she settles on a pair of pumps. With the footwear getting her seal of approval, she then turns her attention to my clothes. “Why do you always wear jeans?” she asks. “Because they’re comfortable,” I am quick to reply rather defensively. I watch her sift through the hangers searching for something that would meet her approval and shave a few pounds of her poor middle-aged mother. She pulls out a black velvet dress that I wore at a work Christmas party far too many years ago. “This would look much better,” she says excitedly. I explain how uncomfortable I would feel standing shoulder to shoulder with other mothers in the playground wearing a ball dress, but promised I would consider it for the next party – no not the one you are going to at Cool Play next week. She finally submits to my jeans after discovering a shelf devoted to nothing else.
That night, she turns her attention to my accessories. “Why don’t you wear earrings?” she asks. I tell her I don’t really suit them, failing to admit I actually never find a matching pair in my jewellery box. “Can you grow your hair really long?” comes the next question. I am obviously a total embarrassment to my small six-year-old. I will soon be banned from the playground altogether and ordered to stay in the car, trainers and all. As I leave the room, I notice her pull out a book on princesses from under her pillow. Now it all became clear. The children often call me Princess Mummy, particularly when they want something. Therefore, quite understandably my daughter wonders why her mother isn’t living up to the role.
Right. That’s it. The jeans were being shelved and tomorrow I would surprise her by picking her up from school in a skirt. This was the launch of Princess Mummy, with brushed hair although no tiara I’m afraid, a pair of earrings (matching or not) and even a touch of mascara and some lip gloss for good measure. She would definitely beam with pride when she saw me. As she skipped down the steps from school the following day, she looked me up and down, blushed and said, “What are you wearing Mummy?”
She escorts me upstairs and begins rummaging through my wardrobe. After managing to convince her that high heeled shoes are really not terribly practical on the school run, she settles on a pair of pumps. With the footwear getting her seal of approval, she then turns her attention to my clothes. “Why do you always wear jeans?” she asks. “Because they’re comfortable,” I am quick to reply rather defensively. I watch her sift through the hangers searching for something that would meet her approval and shave a few pounds of her poor middle-aged mother. She pulls out a black velvet dress that I wore at a work Christmas party far too many years ago. “This would look much better,” she says excitedly. I explain how uncomfortable I would feel standing shoulder to shoulder with other mothers in the playground wearing a ball dress, but promised I would consider it for the next party – no not the one you are going to at Cool Play next week. She finally submits to my jeans after discovering a shelf devoted to nothing else.
That night, she turns her attention to my accessories. “Why don’t you wear earrings?” she asks. I tell her I don’t really suit them, failing to admit I actually never find a matching pair in my jewellery box. “Can you grow your hair really long?” comes the next question. I am obviously a total embarrassment to my small six-year-old. I will soon be banned from the playground altogether and ordered to stay in the car, trainers and all. As I leave the room, I notice her pull out a book on princesses from under her pillow. Now it all became clear. The children often call me Princess Mummy, particularly when they want something. Therefore, quite understandably my daughter wonders why her mother isn’t living up to the role.
Right. That’s it. The jeans were being shelved and tomorrow I would surprise her by picking her up from school in a skirt. This was the launch of Princess Mummy, with brushed hair although no tiara I’m afraid, a pair of earrings (matching or not) and even a touch of mascara and some lip gloss for good measure. She would definitely beam with pride when she saw me. As she skipped down the steps from school the following day, she looked me up and down, blushed and said, “What are you wearing Mummy?”
Friday, 11 July 2008
Sports day
In recent weeks, I expect many children and parents have celebrated or commiserated over their school sports day. In our house, there were two very different attitudes towards the upcoming day. Our six-year-old daughter barely mentioned it and seemed to gloss over any mention of the word ‘sport’. On the contrary, our five-year-old son could barely contain himself in the days leading up to the great event and could talk of nothing else. Whilst our daughter is totally uncompetitive in life, our son was born with a stopwatch round his neck. Life, for him, is one big race, and the desire to win.
On the morning of the big day, our son consumed three Weetabix and enough fruit to tick off his six portions before 8.30am. He then sped around the garden on his bicycle, limbering up for the day ahead. Meanwhile, our daughter quietly sipped her orange juice totally engrossed in her latest edition of The Tiara Club.
As we were driving to school, my daughter said, “Mummy, you won’t embarrass us by shouting out during the races will you?” What? No shouting? Isn’t that what sports day was all about? Adrenalin-fuelled parents shouting from the sidelines and quietly limbering up for the parent’s race taking place later. On the contrary, the role of parents now seems to have shifted towards taking some first class video footage and capturing some great shots of a child running down the field with a small beanbag on their head. Here were the parents from Thatcher’s generation who were reared to claw their way to the top, suppressing their shouts and bellows and telling their children it was all about taking part and not winning. I felt I was going to burst when it came to the sack race, to the point where I would have gladly grabbed the nearest reusable shopping bag and jumped with them towards the finishing line.
When the cup was awarded, we all clapped politely as the winners stepped forward. Later, my son struggled to hide his disappointment. I told him how well he had done and how it was all about taking part. “No, it’s not,” he said. “It’s all about winning.” I could see his point. I mean how was I to tell him later that it was all about ‘applying’ for the job, rather than getting it? “And we probably would have won if you had shouted out our names louder,” added my daughter.
On the morning of the big day, our son consumed three Weetabix and enough fruit to tick off his six portions before 8.30am. He then sped around the garden on his bicycle, limbering up for the day ahead. Meanwhile, our daughter quietly sipped her orange juice totally engrossed in her latest edition of The Tiara Club.
As we were driving to school, my daughter said, “Mummy, you won’t embarrass us by shouting out during the races will you?” What? No shouting? Isn’t that what sports day was all about? Adrenalin-fuelled parents shouting from the sidelines and quietly limbering up for the parent’s race taking place later. On the contrary, the role of parents now seems to have shifted towards taking some first class video footage and capturing some great shots of a child running down the field with a small beanbag on their head. Here were the parents from Thatcher’s generation who were reared to claw their way to the top, suppressing their shouts and bellows and telling their children it was all about taking part and not winning. I felt I was going to burst when it came to the sack race, to the point where I would have gladly grabbed the nearest reusable shopping bag and jumped with them towards the finishing line.
When the cup was awarded, we all clapped politely as the winners stepped forward. Later, my son struggled to hide his disappointment. I told him how well he had done and how it was all about taking part. “No, it’s not,” he said. “It’s all about winning.” I could see his point. I mean how was I to tell him later that it was all about ‘applying’ for the job, rather than getting it? “And we probably would have won if you had shouted out our names louder,” added my daughter.
Friday, 4 July 2008
Birthday preparations
Watching my four-year-old in the days leading up to his fifth birthday, I realised that nothing else compares to the excitement a small child feels. Every time it was mentioned or he caught a glimpse of wrapping paper his whole face would light up and he would bounce off in the best of moods.
Meanwhile, I have been silently panicking. Being temporarily lame after my recent netball injury, preparations have been slow to say the least. Each morning, my son has arrived early in my bedroom, peered over me and said, “Mummy, how is your foot?” How considerate and caring I thought. He then added, “You will be alright to wrap my presents won’t you?” Presents! Oh yes. The day before the big day, I dash off to Yeovil and drag The Toddler and my leg around to find a much longed for Pirate Ship. Back home, exhausted and a little stiff I realise that I must now turn my attention to all the other paraphernalia that goes with a five-year-old birthday party. I turn to the Internet for some much needed help and stumble on www.partypieces.co.uk. Here was the solution to all my last minute problems. The following day a large box arrived full of reasonably priced pirate plates, hats, filled party bags and balloons. Also, to my utter relief a ‘make your own party cake pack’, containing cake mix, icing, disposable tray and a basic step-by-step guide, that even the amateur cake baker like me could follow. For the first time ever, I was able to shift from the chocolate sponge with Cadbury’s buttons, to an impressive treasure box, complete with gold coins. I was up there with the mothers who create the most impressive train and then try and convince me it was just cobbled together the night before.
That evening, I turned my attention to wrapping up the pirate ship and imagined the look on his small face when he discovered what lay beneath the Dr Who wrapping paper. I opened the box and out rolled out several small bags containing lots of small pieces and a five-page instruction leaflet on putting the ship together. “Aaaaargh”, I shrieked. Late into the night, after several glasses of wine and under the watchful gaze of the border terrorist, I hand-built the ship. I collapsed into bed and wished myself to sleep, rather than worrying about the weather forecast.
At 2am, a small hand nudged me. “Is it my birthday yet?” “No,” I groaned. For the next few hours, I drifted back to those early morning contractions five years ago and before I knew it, the nudge returned. “Mummy, it’s raining.” I jumped up, flung open the curtains and looked out onto driving rain drenching the fields. Oh help! However, as I turned to catch a glimpse of my excited son standing tall and flexing his muscles in the mirror, I could not help but smile. “Look, I am definitely bigger now. I look as though I’m five don’t I?”
Meanwhile, I have been silently panicking. Being temporarily lame after my recent netball injury, preparations have been slow to say the least. Each morning, my son has arrived early in my bedroom, peered over me and said, “Mummy, how is your foot?” How considerate and caring I thought. He then added, “You will be alright to wrap my presents won’t you?” Presents! Oh yes. The day before the big day, I dash off to Yeovil and drag The Toddler and my leg around to find a much longed for Pirate Ship. Back home, exhausted and a little stiff I realise that I must now turn my attention to all the other paraphernalia that goes with a five-year-old birthday party. I turn to the Internet for some much needed help and stumble on www.partypieces.co.uk. Here was the solution to all my last minute problems. The following day a large box arrived full of reasonably priced pirate plates, hats, filled party bags and balloons. Also, to my utter relief a ‘make your own party cake pack’, containing cake mix, icing, disposable tray and a basic step-by-step guide, that even the amateur cake baker like me could follow. For the first time ever, I was able to shift from the chocolate sponge with Cadbury’s buttons, to an impressive treasure box, complete with gold coins. I was up there with the mothers who create the most impressive train and then try and convince me it was just cobbled together the night before.
That evening, I turned my attention to wrapping up the pirate ship and imagined the look on his small face when he discovered what lay beneath the Dr Who wrapping paper. I opened the box and out rolled out several small bags containing lots of small pieces and a five-page instruction leaflet on putting the ship together. “Aaaaargh”, I shrieked. Late into the night, after several glasses of wine and under the watchful gaze of the border terrorist, I hand-built the ship. I collapsed into bed and wished myself to sleep, rather than worrying about the weather forecast.
At 2am, a small hand nudged me. “Is it my birthday yet?” “No,” I groaned. For the next few hours, I drifted back to those early morning contractions five years ago and before I knew it, the nudge returned. “Mummy, it’s raining.” I jumped up, flung open the curtains and looked out onto driving rain drenching the fields. Oh help! However, as I turned to catch a glimpse of my excited son standing tall and flexing his muscles in the mirror, I could not help but smile. “Look, I am definitely bigger now. I look as though I’m five don’t I?”
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