It is 8.30pm and I am already asking my husband if it is too early to go to bed. With seven weeks to go until D-day, the pregnancy exhaustion is really beginning to kick in. I haul myself into bed and begin reading my book. And then it starts. The tears begin rolling down my cheeks fast and furiously, until my husband rushes in at the sound of loud sobbing coming from the bedroom. “What on earth is the matter?” he asks. I can barely speak through the uncontrollable tears. “It’s just a sad bit in my book,” I blub. As he glances at Ken Follett’s ‘World Without End’, it is obvious that even some of the most gruesome events at Kingsbridge Priory should not have such an emotional impact on its reader.
My husband continues to watch aghast as the sobbing begins to subside and then comes to an abrupt end as I pull open my bedside drawer and begin unwrapping a carefully hidden bar of Toblerone. “I’m better now,” I say. I can tell that even after three previous pregnancies, he is fairly shocked at these recent emotional outbreaks, but has obviously decided to just quietly hold the box of tissues rather than ask questions that prompt yet more sobbing.
The problem is that the sudden crying thing is not now just restricted to books and animal documentaries at home. In the last few days alone, I have had emotional outbursts in the doctor’s surgery when a receptionist was particularly kind and in Harts of Sturminster when I discovered I couldn’t find the right inset light bulb I needed for the bathroom. Last week, I went into school to ask our headmistress a quick question. Inevitably we began talking about my children, a topic which is a clear front-runner on the emotional front. I felt my voice breaking as she spoke warmly about them. I then realised I was going to have to make a sudden dash for the door to avoid inflicting an uncontrollable sobbing episode on her. Thankfully, I made it to my car before the crying began. It continued for the next couple of hours and eventually came to end thanks to the McVities Penguin I found at the bottom of my handbag.
This week is parent teacher evening which I know concerns my husband. Whether the comments are good or bad, we both know what the outcome will be. The big question is will I make it to the end of the meeting without embarrassing my husband and the class teacher. A large packet of tissues and a bumper pack of Maltesers is the only solution.
Thursday, 19 March 2009
Sunday, 15 March 2009
Fairtrade Fortnight
“Are these Fairtrade?” asks my five-year-old son pointing at the plate of chocolate digestives I have just placed on the table for tea? “Well, not really,” I reply rather sheepishly catching sight of the McVities labelling. “I’m not sure we can eat them then. It’s just not ethical,” adds my seven going on seventeen-year-old.
She gets down from the table, opens her school book bag and thrusts a formal looking letter at me with a disapproving look on her face. I should have known that Fairtrade Fortnight was creeping up on us. After all I suffered the continuous lecturing on Fairtrade when the children were learning about it at school last year. I became used to having my weekly shopping scrutinised for Fairtrade labels. And if a bar of Green & Black’s ever dared to enter the larder, I would be publicly shamed in front of the entire family and labelled as an unethical mother for the rest of the week.
I will now have to endure an extra half an hour in the supermarket over the next two weeks, searching for the familiar Fairtrade stamp and allow for a bit more on the overall shopping budget.
Each day the Fairtrade conversation dominates our household. At one point, my son even asks, “Is Clover (the black Labrador) Fairtrade?” Well, I suppose she is sort of Fairtrade as the family we bought her off were very nice and they didn’t sell her through a large supermarket chain, I explained. It then becomes apparent that there is a little confusion about the meaning of Fairtrade. When I probe my son further he confidently says, “Fairtrade means that the ladies passing the food across the beeper in Waitrose get more money.” He seems to have momentarily forgotten about the Fairtrade tea workers in India and in a true child-like way has focused his attention on matters closer to home, kindly sparing a thought to the cashiers’ pay packet.
However, he was still as eager as ever to scrutinise every item I placed in his lunchbox this morning. He picked up the Penguin bar disapprovingly. Before the lecture could begin I hissed, “Just don’t say a thing. If you mention that word again, I’ll fling the contents of this lunchbox including the Fairtrade banana across the fields.” “That’s not fair,” he whispered.
She gets down from the table, opens her school book bag and thrusts a formal looking letter at me with a disapproving look on her face. I should have known that Fairtrade Fortnight was creeping up on us. After all I suffered the continuous lecturing on Fairtrade when the children were learning about it at school last year. I became used to having my weekly shopping scrutinised for Fairtrade labels. And if a bar of Green & Black’s ever dared to enter the larder, I would be publicly shamed in front of the entire family and labelled as an unethical mother for the rest of the week.
I will now have to endure an extra half an hour in the supermarket over the next two weeks, searching for the familiar Fairtrade stamp and allow for a bit more on the overall shopping budget.
Each day the Fairtrade conversation dominates our household. At one point, my son even asks, “Is Clover (the black Labrador) Fairtrade?” Well, I suppose she is sort of Fairtrade as the family we bought her off were very nice and they didn’t sell her through a large supermarket chain, I explained. It then becomes apparent that there is a little confusion about the meaning of Fairtrade. When I probe my son further he confidently says, “Fairtrade means that the ladies passing the food across the beeper in Waitrose get more money.” He seems to have momentarily forgotten about the Fairtrade tea workers in India and in a true child-like way has focused his attention on matters closer to home, kindly sparing a thought to the cashiers’ pay packet.
However, he was still as eager as ever to scrutinise every item I placed in his lunchbox this morning. He picked up the Penguin bar disapprovingly. Before the lecture could begin I hissed, “Just don’t say a thing. If you mention that word again, I’ll fling the contents of this lunchbox including the Fairtrade banana across the fields.” “That’s not fair,” he whispered.
Thursday, 5 March 2009
Jet Lag
After a 16-hour flight, including a stop over and two taxi rides, we pulled into our village in Dorset a little shell shocked but thrilled to be home after our trip to Cambodia. The children scampered around the house in excitement and instantly threw themselves back into toys they had not set their eyes on for a few weeks. My husband and I began the mammoth task of unpacking wondering how we were going to get through the long day ahead with the jet lag looming.
After two weeks of spicy food, including countless stir fries and bowls of rice, the children opted for cereal, baked beans, toast and endless glasses of milk throughout the day. As my husband and I began to fade, becoming increasingly spaced out, the children’s hyperactivity levels gradually rose as did the noise levels.
I was in the midst of loading yet more washing into the machine when I was aware of a sudden stillness in the house. The noise of machine guns and shrieking was replaced by silence. I discovered The Toddler asleep with his head on the kitchen table, almost mid-mouthful, my son lying sprawled across the playroom floor mid-Power Rangers and our daughter curled up on her bed asleep mid-Secret Seven book. It was as if someone had cast a magic sleep spell on the house. The problem was that it was 4pm.
A couple of hours later, my husband and I were also defeated by tiredness. We collapsed into bed and I drifted into a dream-like state expecting to be offered a drink by a Singapore Air Hostess at any moment. Instead I was woken by shrieks of, “Can we have breakfast?” Still excited by the novelty of bowls of Cornflakes and fresh milk, I dragged myself downstairs leaving the children to dress into their school uniform. I let the dogs outside and glanced at the kitchen clock. 4am! I knew there was no hope of getting the children or dogs back to bed. There was nothing more for it than a couple of DVDs to take us all through the next five hours until school. As I sipped my tea at the kitchen table waiting for BBC Breakfast to begin, I heard barking outside. Aware of the neighbours, I dashed out to discover the dogs dashing down the lane after a keen jogger. There was no alternative but to run after them. The jogger glanced back stunned as he was faced with a large pregnant lady, dressed in nothing but an inappropriate nightie chasing after him in the early hours. Unbeknown to him, she was beset by jet lag.
After two weeks of spicy food, including countless stir fries and bowls of rice, the children opted for cereal, baked beans, toast and endless glasses of milk throughout the day. As my husband and I began to fade, becoming increasingly spaced out, the children’s hyperactivity levels gradually rose as did the noise levels.
I was in the midst of loading yet more washing into the machine when I was aware of a sudden stillness in the house. The noise of machine guns and shrieking was replaced by silence. I discovered The Toddler asleep with his head on the kitchen table, almost mid-mouthful, my son lying sprawled across the playroom floor mid-Power Rangers and our daughter curled up on her bed asleep mid-Secret Seven book. It was as if someone had cast a magic sleep spell on the house. The problem was that it was 4pm.
A couple of hours later, my husband and I were also defeated by tiredness. We collapsed into bed and I drifted into a dream-like state expecting to be offered a drink by a Singapore Air Hostess at any moment. Instead I was woken by shrieks of, “Can we have breakfast?” Still excited by the novelty of bowls of Cornflakes and fresh milk, I dragged myself downstairs leaving the children to dress into their school uniform. I let the dogs outside and glanced at the kitchen clock. 4am! I knew there was no hope of getting the children or dogs back to bed. There was nothing more for it than a couple of DVDs to take us all through the next five hours until school. As I sipped my tea at the kitchen table waiting for BBC Breakfast to begin, I heard barking outside. Aware of the neighbours, I dashed out to discover the dogs dashing down the lane after a keen jogger. There was no alternative but to run after them. The jogger glanced back stunned as he was faced with a large pregnant lady, dressed in nothing but an inappropriate nightie chasing after him in the early hours. Unbeknown to him, she was beset by jet lag.
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