In two weeks time, our baby will hopefully be ripe and ready to meet us all. In a week’s time as is tradition for anyone expecting a baby we are squeezing in a house move. I am currently living surrounded by packing boxes and bubble wrap. Given the state of my hormones, I have also launched myself into a massive ‘clear-out’, sorting and ordering every drawer I come across. I am determined to use this opportunity to become clutter-free and begin my new role as a mother of four as ordered as possible.
Needless to say, my husband has entered into a particularly busy period at work and with a week or two’s paternity leave looming is cramming in the hours at his desk. So it is my mother and I who have spent the last week bent over packing boxes frantically sorting while the children are at school. Occasionally, I am stopped by a sudden twinge as the baby reminds me to spare a thought for it. “Please don’t come now,” I plead with it. When I remember my first pregnancy, I spent the last month reclining on the sofa regularly refuelling myself with tasty tit-bits, my orderly hospital bag packed and sitting ready by the front door. With this baby, I can imagine myself arriving at Dorchester Hospital armed with a carrier bag and a toothbrush, desperate to lie down and enjoy some time away from packing boxes.
I just have to keep imagining myself in the coming months safely settled in our new house relishing in more space in which to dilute the current noise levels. However, with the new house comes more responsibility in the form of five resident hens, one of which is broody, two cockerels, three ducks and some fish. I also understand that some lambs will shortly join us alongside a whole brood of chicks, just to keep the new family of six, the Labrador and the border terrorist on their toes.
With this in mind, I have decided to sign off on this chapter of Family Ties whilst I tend to my brood. We will be back shortly with the next chapter – one that I know will be full of new challenges for the deranged mother. However, please excuse me for now. I have some serious nesting to do.
Friday, 24 April 2009
Cravings
It began with spinach, rapidly moved on to sushi followed by fresh stir fries. Then it was lashings of milky puddings, preferably from a tin and finally it is large helpings of ice cream. According to the experts, I am just one of the 85% of pregnant women who experience at least one food craving during pregnancy, which is said to be caused by changes in hormonal levels.
A couple of weeks ago, as I was doing my weekly grocery shop, the cashier remarked, “I see you’ve got a children’s party this weekend.” I glanced down at the tubs of ice cream, the boxes of Choc Ices, cornets, small flakes and wafers. Should I brush it off swiftly or come clean, I thought to myself. I decided to confide in her and told her about my latest intense craving. Thankfully, she sympathetically laughed as I piled the tubs of ice cream into shopping bags, desperate to dip my finger in for a quick lick before I even reached the car park. The following week, I was back to the supermarket again pushing ice cream through the check-out. The same cashier politely smiled, leant over and whispered, “Still the same craving then?”
The children have understandably adored the latter stages of my pregnancy, gorging mint choc chip and butterscotch ice cream for pudding on a daily basis, perfectly timed at around 5pm, when my sugar levels need a bit of a pre-bathtime boost. However, in recent days the craving has got a little extreme. The Toddler sleepily came into the kitchen at 6.30am yesterday only to discover his mother perched on a stool in her dressing gown gorging on ice cream with a sizeable serving spoon. It was hardly the time to insist he had a bowl of bran flakes and begin the lecture on the importance of a healthy breakfast, so we indulged together.
Friends tell me that cravings are often driven by nutritional requirements. The ones that require more vitamin C sensibly crave fruit. These are no doubt the ones who leave hospital having just slipped back into their skinny jeans. However, unfortunately for me my sugar craving is far from a requirement and goes hand in hand with maternity jeans well after the baby is born. Perhaps there will be some hope for me by Christmas.
A couple of weeks ago, as I was doing my weekly grocery shop, the cashier remarked, “I see you’ve got a children’s party this weekend.” I glanced down at the tubs of ice cream, the boxes of Choc Ices, cornets, small flakes and wafers. Should I brush it off swiftly or come clean, I thought to myself. I decided to confide in her and told her about my latest intense craving. Thankfully, she sympathetically laughed as I piled the tubs of ice cream into shopping bags, desperate to dip my finger in for a quick lick before I even reached the car park. The following week, I was back to the supermarket again pushing ice cream through the check-out. The same cashier politely smiled, leant over and whispered, “Still the same craving then?”
The children have understandably adored the latter stages of my pregnancy, gorging mint choc chip and butterscotch ice cream for pudding on a daily basis, perfectly timed at around 5pm, when my sugar levels need a bit of a pre-bathtime boost. However, in recent days the craving has got a little extreme. The Toddler sleepily came into the kitchen at 6.30am yesterday only to discover his mother perched on a stool in her dressing gown gorging on ice cream with a sizeable serving spoon. It was hardly the time to insist he had a bowl of bran flakes and begin the lecture on the importance of a healthy breakfast, so we indulged together.
Friends tell me that cravings are often driven by nutritional requirements. The ones that require more vitamin C sensibly crave fruit. These are no doubt the ones who leave hospital having just slipped back into their skinny jeans. However, unfortunately for me my sugar craving is far from a requirement and goes hand in hand with maternity jeans well after the baby is born. Perhaps there will be some hope for me by Christmas.
Monday, 13 April 2009
Toddler Terrorism
The Toddler and I have been enjoying some quality time together recently. However, I have suddenly noticed that he has departed ‘toddler-hood’ for good. He no longer toddles, willingly accompanies me on my daily chores or sits quietly ‘brrrrming’ his cars around the playroom.
He has now evolved into an independent, confident, testosterone-fuelled little boy. I can no longer rely on him for on-demand, willing cuddles. Machine-gunning his older brother or playing rough and tumble rugby with his father is far more enjoyable than meeting the emotional needs of his hormonal mother.
Recently we were sitting together in a café enjoying some valuable time together ahead of the school holidays. He looked angelic sitting opposite me and I was delighted when an elderly lady sitting on the table beside us remarked how well behaved he was. Despite knowing that the Smartie biscuit in front of him had a lot to do with it, I found myself beaming with pride. The lady turned to him and said, “What’s your name?” The Toddler paused, looked her straight in the eye and said “James Bond.” She looked a bit puzzled and I tried laughing it off until he picked up his straw and began replicating shooting actions at her. “Bang Bang – you’re dead. I’m going to get all the baddies, because I’m a goody,” he continued. I coughed loudly, swiftly drained my coffee and left the rather shocked looking lady behind me. I could imagine her thinking – this one will have an ASBO slapped on him by the time he is four.
That night, my husband and I discussed our Toddler’s tendencies and asked ourselves what Super Nanny would be doing to curb the public shooting episodes. We talked about removing every trace of armoury from around the house. We could ban the older children from watching television, so the Toddler never catches a glimpse of Ben 10 again. We might have to work hard to persuade the two boys to exchange their war games in the field, for ‘Shops’ in the Wendy house.
In the end, we called a friend who is a more professional parent. She advised us to turn a blind eye for the time being given the amount of change that was about to occur in his little life. That night, as I was tucking him up it was hard to believe he could be anything but angelic. He lay clutching his teddy, sleeping soundly. Suddenly I caught a glimpse of something peeping out from under his pillow. I lifted it gently, only to discover a small plastic grey gun. Clearly he had armed himself ready for the 6am battle with his brother. I despair.
He has now evolved into an independent, confident, testosterone-fuelled little boy. I can no longer rely on him for on-demand, willing cuddles. Machine-gunning his older brother or playing rough and tumble rugby with his father is far more enjoyable than meeting the emotional needs of his hormonal mother.
Recently we were sitting together in a café enjoying some valuable time together ahead of the school holidays. He looked angelic sitting opposite me and I was delighted when an elderly lady sitting on the table beside us remarked how well behaved he was. Despite knowing that the Smartie biscuit in front of him had a lot to do with it, I found myself beaming with pride. The lady turned to him and said, “What’s your name?” The Toddler paused, looked her straight in the eye and said “James Bond.” She looked a bit puzzled and I tried laughing it off until he picked up his straw and began replicating shooting actions at her. “Bang Bang – you’re dead. I’m going to get all the baddies, because I’m a goody,” he continued. I coughed loudly, swiftly drained my coffee and left the rather shocked looking lady behind me. I could imagine her thinking – this one will have an ASBO slapped on him by the time he is four.
That night, my husband and I discussed our Toddler’s tendencies and asked ourselves what Super Nanny would be doing to curb the public shooting episodes. We talked about removing every trace of armoury from around the house. We could ban the older children from watching television, so the Toddler never catches a glimpse of Ben 10 again. We might have to work hard to persuade the two boys to exchange their war games in the field, for ‘Shops’ in the Wendy house.
In the end, we called a friend who is a more professional parent. She advised us to turn a blind eye for the time being given the amount of change that was about to occur in his little life. That night, as I was tucking him up it was hard to believe he could be anything but angelic. He lay clutching his teddy, sleeping soundly. Suddenly I caught a glimpse of something peeping out from under his pillow. I lifted it gently, only to discover a small plastic grey gun. Clearly he had armed himself ready for the 6am battle with his brother. I despair.
Friday, 3 April 2009
Pre-Baby Shopping
My husband drags the pram out from the back of the garden shed. We both gaze at the seat padding that has been enjoyed by some resident rats. “Once I’ve given it a good wash, it’ll be as good as new,” my husband says optimistically. However, I think we both know that despite expecting our fourth baby, it really does deserve a little better transport than this.
My mother and me arrange a day trip to Southampton to browse buggies. “Make sure you just buy essentials for the baby,” he says as we drive off. As we arrive in Southampton, we are greeted by a huge building with a familiar yellow sign on it screaming out, “IKEA”. We could not possibly ignore it and decide we should pop in briefly to look at the much talked about new store.
This was our first mistake. Our second error was to pick up a brochure, small pencil and order pad, a helpful large branded shopping bag and a map at the entrance. Once you are armed with the Ikea accessories it is almost certain you will purchase. We wander around the room displays as if we are viewing a new house full of well-designed rooms and perfectly placed, matching accessories. What makes it even more enticing is that there are affordable price tags hanging from each item, appealing to bargain hunters like my mother and I. We busily fling ourselves on nearby sofas and marvel at footstools. Thankfully though the limited boot space of our Nissan Micra curtails us.
Next the yellow arrows lead us to what can only be described as a department full of non-essential accessories. However, using the predictable Ikea pricing guide they cleverly encourage shoppers that you need 100 tea lights alongside the 25 Tupperware sandwich boxes.
Three hours later, we finally leave to rapidly begin our pre-baby shop. We swiftly choose our pram and realising there is no chance it will fit in the car, arrange for it to be delivered the following week. At home, my husband cheerily greets us in the driveway, excited to test drive the new pram. He opens the boot, spots the mound of Ikea bags and lets out a large groan. I quickly reassure him that there is nothing to self-assemble. He holds up a random large lampshade and looks at me with eyebrows raised. “It looked so pretty on display,” I reply. “Where is the pram?” he then asks. I make a quick dash for it, saying “Just putting the supper on.”
My mother and me arrange a day trip to Southampton to browse buggies. “Make sure you just buy essentials for the baby,” he says as we drive off. As we arrive in Southampton, we are greeted by a huge building with a familiar yellow sign on it screaming out, “IKEA”. We could not possibly ignore it and decide we should pop in briefly to look at the much talked about new store.
This was our first mistake. Our second error was to pick up a brochure, small pencil and order pad, a helpful large branded shopping bag and a map at the entrance. Once you are armed with the Ikea accessories it is almost certain you will purchase. We wander around the room displays as if we are viewing a new house full of well-designed rooms and perfectly placed, matching accessories. What makes it even more enticing is that there are affordable price tags hanging from each item, appealing to bargain hunters like my mother and I. We busily fling ourselves on nearby sofas and marvel at footstools. Thankfully though the limited boot space of our Nissan Micra curtails us.
Next the yellow arrows lead us to what can only be described as a department full of non-essential accessories. However, using the predictable Ikea pricing guide they cleverly encourage shoppers that you need 100 tea lights alongside the 25 Tupperware sandwich boxes.
Three hours later, we finally leave to rapidly begin our pre-baby shop. We swiftly choose our pram and realising there is no chance it will fit in the car, arrange for it to be delivered the following week. At home, my husband cheerily greets us in the driveway, excited to test drive the new pram. He opens the boot, spots the mound of Ikea bags and lets out a large groan. I quickly reassure him that there is nothing to self-assemble. He holds up a random large lampshade and looks at me with eyebrows raised. “It looked so pretty on display,” I reply. “Where is the pram?” he then asks. I make a quick dash for it, saying “Just putting the supper on.”
Dog Training
I don’t take my dogs for a walk anymore. They take me for a walk. During recent months, the black Labrador puppy has developed into a large, gregarious teen displaying some obvious symptoms of canine ADHD. She has gradually picked up strength and has become utterly fed up with her now rather plumper owner who resembles a plodding packhorse across the fields. Canine obedience in our household was certainly flagging so there was nothing more for it than to call in some emergency dog training.
The dog trainer listened patiently on the other end of the phone as I emotionally offloaded my dog issues. The list was endless – pulling on the lead, blatantly ignoring me when I call them across the fields and worst of all - jumping up enthusiastically on numerous pairs of pale trousers. Oh, and did I mention that we are shortly inheriting some poultry, much to the border terrorist’s delight. Finally, I would be enormously grateful if you would conduct some voice management training for the border terrorist who drowns out the nearby cockerels first thing in the morning. “Please help me?” I say whilst sobbing into a nearby tissue.
He suggests we join him on a nearby farm at the weekend and tells me to bring the family, “so I can see what the dogs’ relationship is with you all.” Oh help, I think to myself as visions of muddy paws throwing themselves all over the children when they come in from school spring to mind. I feel we need to do some emergency training ourselves prior to meeting the professional to avoid total humiliation.
Thankfully, on the day itself the dogs behaved themselves quite well and just like children with their grandparents, were more sedate and attentive than ever. I am sure the dog trainer thought the bad dog behaviour I was talking about on the phone was more than likely down to the neurotic hormonal owner. When we returned home, I was eager to try out my new dog training skills and enthusiastically set off for a dog walk. A few minutes in and the Labrador spotted something across the fields. She shot off with me shouting commands behind her in my most ‘assertive’ voice. It was too late and the commands fell on deaf black ears. After all there was a wonderful pair of gleaming white trousers on the horizon.
The dog trainer listened patiently on the other end of the phone as I emotionally offloaded my dog issues. The list was endless – pulling on the lead, blatantly ignoring me when I call them across the fields and worst of all - jumping up enthusiastically on numerous pairs of pale trousers. Oh, and did I mention that we are shortly inheriting some poultry, much to the border terrorist’s delight. Finally, I would be enormously grateful if you would conduct some voice management training for the border terrorist who drowns out the nearby cockerels first thing in the morning. “Please help me?” I say whilst sobbing into a nearby tissue.
He suggests we join him on a nearby farm at the weekend and tells me to bring the family, “so I can see what the dogs’ relationship is with you all.” Oh help, I think to myself as visions of muddy paws throwing themselves all over the children when they come in from school spring to mind. I feel we need to do some emergency training ourselves prior to meeting the professional to avoid total humiliation.
Thankfully, on the day itself the dogs behaved themselves quite well and just like children with their grandparents, were more sedate and attentive than ever. I am sure the dog trainer thought the bad dog behaviour I was talking about on the phone was more than likely down to the neurotic hormonal owner. When we returned home, I was eager to try out my new dog training skills and enthusiastically set off for a dog walk. A few minutes in and the Labrador spotted something across the fields. She shot off with me shouting commands behind her in my most ‘assertive’ voice. It was too late and the commands fell on deaf black ears. After all there was a wonderful pair of gleaming white trousers on the horizon.
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