Paddling Pool Panic

The four-year-old leaps onto our bed at 6am fully dressed in shorts, T-shirt, flip-flops and sunglasses. “Can we get the paddling pool out today?” he shrieks. My husband and I let out a simultaneous groan.
The kids won't let it go and finally my husband drags himself off to the shed accompanied by three excited squealing children. The Baby squeals too because everyone else is and commando crawls after them at an impressive rate. My husband disappears amongst old deckchairs covered in cobwebs and numerous unused garden tools. Eventually he drags out a great mound of PVC and shakes the spiders out onto the grass, much to the children’s delight. A quick squirt with the hose and it looks as good as new.
As if prompted by the sight of a paddling pool, the sun comes out and it gradually gets hotter. With the pump nozzle pressed firmly against the PVC my husband begins the gruelling task of pumping accompanied by a gaggle of children desperately eager to lend a hand. Ten minutes later and the pool lies deflated in a heap on the grass. My husband’s brow is dripping but he picks up his pumping pace furiously and shouts, “COME ON!” I head in the direction of the kitchen muttering something about cold drinks under my breath.
An almighty roar erupts behind me. My husband hurls the paddling pool and pump across the hedge into the field and marches off leaving four stunned children behind him. After a cool drink and a cold shower he reappears. He climbs over the hedge and hauls the paddling pool back into the garden. I carefully read out the instruction leaflet. Gradually the sides inflate and the yellow sunshine smiley face pops up to greet us, or rather congratulate us. Once full with cold water from the garden hose (all part of the overall experience) the children tear off their clothes and begin to frolic.


Five minutes later the sun goes in and the children wander inside to watch television leaving a trail of wet grass behind them. Meanwhile, in true British summer fashion, the heaven’s open and the paddling pool sits deserted on the lawn with only a water-loving Black Labrador to keep it company.

Four In The Bed

My husband is away at his work Christmas party so I settle into a night at home with my baked potato and an episode of Grand Designs.

I decide to retire to bed early with a pile of unread magazines. The house is blissfully quiet and as I update myself on the latest celebrity gossip, the stresses and strains of motherhood momentarily drift away.

Just as I switch off the light, my daughter appears. “Mummy, I just wanted to check you weren’t feeling lonely,” she says. She looks longingly at the space beside me. I pull back the covers and in she climbs. I drift off to the sound of her voice running through her class register alphabetically.


The pounding of small feet running along the landing into my bedroom suddenly wakes me. The Toddler appears beside the bed; his face inches away from mine. “I need the loo,” he announces. He hops from side to side shrieking that he needs my help. I relent and prop myself up against the bathroom wall trying to keep my eyes closed. “Can I have my breakfast?” he asks. I quickly try to dampen his eagerness to start the day. He begins to cry. I scoop him up fearful that he might wake the Baby and settle him in bed beside my daughter. He wriggles and kicks for the next hour or so but eventually we drift back to sleep.

Suddenly another small figure runs into the room and makes a giant leap onto the bed. It is the six-year-old mumbling something about Sarah Jane’s adventures. I curl up on the very edge of the bed embraced tightly by the Toddler.

Just as I am beginning to drift off again I hear a familiar noise. It is intermittent at first and then more constant. The Baby is awake. I glance at the clock. It is 4.30am. I briefly consider surrendering and going downstairs to prepare the lunch boxes. After settling the Baby I head back to my room to discover the three other children asleep, sprawled across the bed. With not an inch of mattress to spare I head back to my son’s now vacant bed and clamber in.

If I am lucky I can get another hour and a half in before they work out where I am.

Father Christmas On Line

This morning Father Christmas sent the children an e-mail. It seems even Santa Claus is now surfing the world wide web and probably Twitters away whilst logging in to check his Facebook page.

Via his Portable North Pole console, Father Christmas now has a video link. He sits in his chair in the North Pole and talks to each child. The children were mesmerized as they opened their e-mails to discover Father Christmas welcoming them personally. He invites them into this study where he opens his book telling him all about the children. The book cleverly displays a photo of the child and he refers to their hair and eye colour.

The three-year-old hides under the table as Father Christmas congratulates him on remembering to brush his teeth before bed. Once he has overcome his shyness, he begins nodding and answering Father Christmas’ questions. “Is he ‘skyping’ us?” says my rather confused seven-year-old daughter. In a round about way I reply. Our six-year-old is praised for not having tantrums anymore and our daughter for going to bed when she is asked. Even the Baby is congratulated on eating all his vegetable mush. Much to the older two children’s delight he lets them into some of his inner secrets. He describes how he manages to visit every child in the world in one night, how his reindeer fly and how he finds out which children have been good.

In our house we take on our own childhood tradition of writing a letter to Father Christmas on Christmas Eve. We sit round the fire toasting marshmallows and then post the letters up the chimney. The children run outside to watch the sparks floating off to the North Pole. I wonder whether Father Christmas and his interactive on-line web page might have an impact on our rather simple tradition.

Sure enough, that evening when I put the children to bed their minds are buzzing with excitement over the personal video link. My seven-year-old is clearly impressed by Father Christmas’ technical ability. “Mummy, does this mean we should e-mail our list to Father Christmas on Christmas Eve now?” she asks. “Absolutely not,” I reply. “Father Christmas loves letters.” My six-year-old adds, “He’s probably got an ‘iPhone’ though so he can check his e-mails while he’s on his sleigh.” I do hope not.

Food Tasting Day

It suddenly occurred to me the other day that I am not a big fan of vegetables. Despite my desperate attempts to maintain a flourishing vegetable patch and my joy at feeding the children our home-grown vegetables I am ashamed to admit that I am more of a frozen pea kind of girl. I religiously encourage my children to eat their five-a-day. I regularly tell them how much faster they will run and how they will crack their times tables in record speed if they eat that large sprig of broccoli.

Our village school recently decided to hold a ‘food tasting’ day for the children. The objective was to encourage every child to try a selection of fruit and vegetables that they might not have tried before. A good idea I thought and a relief to have conquered the five-a-day consumption by lunchtime. The school were looking for some volunteers to help prepare the food. I jumped at it, along with some other mothers, thinking it would make a nice change from loading the washing machine.

We arrived to find large crates stacked full of pumpkins, papayas, sharon fruit, celeriac and countless other produce. It was our good friends at Waitrose who had come up trumps and generously decided to support us. We all marvelled at the food and even I had to admit that it looked quite appealing. Our headmistress popped her head round the corner and casually dropped in that the tasting would be at 10.30am. That gave us one hour to peel, chop and in some cases cook 160 portions. We searched the small school kitchen for peelers, knives and chopping boards and then began our monumental task. Whilst peeling 35 parsnips with a blunt peeler and very sore fingers, I decided that parsnips were definitely axed from the Christmas lunch menu.

We accelerated our chopping at an impressive rate as the countdown began. This was ‘Ready Steady Chop’ personified. Finally, we hit the deadline and the children began their tasting. Thankfully they all enjoyed it and I am told the sharon fruit was a big hit with the aubergine not being quite as appealing to 160 small taste buds.

That afternoon my children arrived back from school chatting excitedly about the Tasting. They both keenly asked what we were having for supper. “Please can we have parsnips,” said my six-year-old. “No, it’s frozen peas tonight,” I quickly replied.

Lemon Drizzle

It is the school cake sale again and with it comes the usual baking request. I shudder at the thought, given baking is low down on my skill base. I blame it on my school domestic science teacher who sent me packing from her class for a “shameful” white sauce.

With the baking deadline looming, I turn my attention to the cake. I pass the three-year-old and the baby into the capable hands of Big Cook Little Cook and begin turning to my reliable Lemon Drizzle recipe that requires minimum equipment and effort. I realise I am out of eggs and quickly dash out to the hen house to find Hilda sitting on her nest. “Hurry up,” I say wondering what speeds the egg laying process up. A little later she comes up trumps and produces a very small warm egg but needs must.

The baby is now screaming so I strap him to my front in the faithful papoose. I continue with my baking jiggling up and down to calm him down. Whilst singing Rock-a-Bye-Baby I realise I have added plain rather than self-raising flour. Oh well flour is flour after all. It will still taste good I think to myself. I wait by the Aga knowing full well that with my post-natal memory loss I am bound to forget about the sponge until 5am tomorrow. Then the phone rings. It is a friend who wants to chat through some crucial lift sharing arrangements. Just as my call ends the doorbell rings. A cheery man hands me the Border Terrorist who he spotted taking herself for a walk down the road.

Then I suddenly remember the Lemon Drizzle. I dash to the Aga and pull out my cake tin. Inside is a rather limp slice of dark brown sponge. It certainly lacks its self-raising status and resembles a piece of over cooked toast. With no more egg-laying hens and a screaming baby I decide to sprinkle it with sugar, wrap it in cellophane and slap a label on using my neatest handwriting. I wonder whether I should rename it “Lemon Biscuit Cake.”

At the cake sale I notice my Lemon Drizzle sitting in prime position in the centre of the table. I wonder whether to buy it myself but opt for the very fluffy looking coffee cake beside it. Before I leave I go back to the stall and discover the table empty apart from a few jam tarts and - a lonely Lemon Drizzle. My daughter says loudly, “Mummy, your cake is still there.” I’m ready to head for the door. Thankfully I hear later that the Lemon Drizzle was finally sold – to my faithful friend, Capable Karen who has come to my rescue once again.

A Date at Ikea

“I’ve decided to take a few days off,” says my husband casually. “Perhaps we should spend the day together without the children.” Great idea I think to myself seeing as most of our conversation these days is dominated by sleep deprivation and whose turn it is to take out the rubbish. Thankfully Granny also thinks it is a good idea and nervously agrees to have the children despite it being half term and Grandpa being away on business.

The day before our big break my husband asks if I have booked a nice restaurant and were we going for a gentle walk along the Dorset coastline? “We’re going to Ikea,” I mutter. “WHAT?” he shrieks. “We spend our first day on our own together in years and we’re going to Ikea.” I spend the rest of the day convincing him that an Ikea trip is something you just cannot do with children and I needed some support in deciding upon my toy storage unit. After much convincing he reluctantly agrees to the trip on the condition that he does not have to go near an Allen key.

As we pull into the car park he says, “We need to stay focused in here.” It is clear he does not share my joy of mulling over different storage styles without children and straying off the shopping list. At the entrance we are greeted by the first Ikea-dressed sitting room. My husband’s eyes light up at the size of the plasma television nestled into smart high-tech media shelving. He reclines on the L-shaped leather sofa, puts his feet up on the perfectly parked poof and closes his eyes. I sit down next to him and start chatting about the Christmas holidays. We spend the next few hours walking from room to room in a distinctly unfocused way lying on sofas and generally catching up on the past few months. We even browse through the toy boxes arm in arm.

We witness a number of other couples bickering over the choice of clip frames, however we remain positively calm during our Ikea experience. In fact, in a strange way we affectionately rekindled our relationship amongst the storage boxes and array of tea lights at Ikea. As we pull out of the car park with the car bulging with boxes, my husband says, “That was great. We must come here again soon.”

Paddington Comes to Visit

The three-year-old comes bounding excitedly out of pre-school. He is clutching Paddington Bear and a small brown suitcase. “We’ve got Paddington for the weekend,” he shrieks. His teacher hands me a book explaining that it is Paddington’s Diary and that each child takes it in turns to have him for a few days. “How lovely,” I remark, thinking to myself, “Help, not more responsibility.”

In the car my little boy busily straps Paddington into his car seat. At home he runs upstairs and unpacks his suitcase, which consists of a yellow toothbrush.

When the other children get home, they are equally excited at having a visitor for the weekend. He sits on his own chair at teatime, beside the bath at bath time and then snuggles up beside the three-year-old at bedtime.

Later I turn to the diary sitting on the side. It is full of entries from other families, accompanied by photos of smiling happy faces enjoying beach trips, visits to Father Christmas and other treats. I did not think our weekend would remotely live up to Paddington’s previous visits, particularly given tomorrow was our weekly supermarket shop. The next day, Paddington sits in the trolley being pushed up and down supermarket aisles. I am told that apparently he can only eat Penguins, Wotsits and Jaffa Cakes. My shop budget is blown by his visit.

During the weekend, Paddington joins us for a rugby match on Sunday. He cheers from the touchline alongside the other children. As we leave the pitch I realise he is missing. I am told he went to relieve himself earlier behind a nearby tree. I rummage behind the bushes and discover him staring up at me, still clutching his small brown brolly.

That night, Paddington once more decides to disappear. We launch a full scale Bear Hunt searching high and low for the small brown bear. I begin to hyperventilate at the thought of telling the teacher that Paddington is missing. Suddenly the biddable Labrador prods me with her nose. From the corner of her mouth, I spot something blue. We wrench her jaws open and there is Paddington nestled comfortably beside a large wet tongue. Thank goodness we have found him and all intact. Tomorrow it is back to pre-school and safely into the hands of another family.

Come Sniffing

Our border terrorist is misbehaving again. She has taken advantage of the fact that her owners are nicely distracted by a baby and pigs and has decided to work her way up the pecking order.

Since moving to the new house, she sits at the gate barking at any passersby delighting in her territorial status in the centre of a bustling village. The problem is that in true terrier style, her bark is more of a shrill yap. A few local villagers have remarked on our vocal dog. A polite way of telling us that the petition against the terrorist is being drafted à le Stalbridge Coq.

When we are out walking in the fields, people regularly turn around and scuttle off in the opposite direction when they see us coming. In fact, they are most definitely fearful of our little terrorist so it was time to call in the professionals.

I enrol once more in local dog training classes, as if I have got time on my hands with a new baby and three other starlings to attend to. When I arrive, the dog trainer says she would like a moment to ‘observe’ us. No pressure then. I open the boot slowly. The two dogs come stampeding out barking and jumping up in excitement. Somehow I manage to get leads on to the leaping canines. They ignore my pleas to ‘Sit’ and the Labrador abandons her ‘oh so biddable’ status and chases after the dog trainer’s nearby tabby cat. I was in disgrace.

During the lesson the dog trainer observes the little terrorist and watches her closely with other dogs. At the end, she runs me through her psychological profile. “Your dog needs to be sniffed by as many dogs as possible, she says.” With that she promptly turns the terrorist’s bottom towards the nearest dog and lifts her tail. The terrorist is clearly horrified by this most undignified act.

Since the lesson, I have been scanning the fields for other dogs. When we meet one I leap across to the owner and say, “Morning. Could your dog sniff my dog please?” Clearly they think that we are a little odd to say the least, but to my amazement it is working and her terrorism is improving. So to all my local village dog walkers, please don’t turn the other way when you see us coming. Just come and have a sniff.

Sausages

“Tonight we are having roast chicken with all the trimmings,” I announce to the children. Cheers ring out from the two eldest followed by a loud shriek and subsequent sobbing from the three-year-old. “I don’t like chicken,” he cries. “I only like sausages,” he says.

The problem is that his diet is limited to just that – the great British sausage. He is happy to try a variety of different sausages, his favourite being a chipolota from the local butcher and he is quite partial to the odd frankfurter. His sausages regularly sit alone on his plate, refusing to be joined by any sort of potato, pasta and spare the thought of a vegetable unless it is a baked bean.

Over the past three years we have tried various methods to try and expand his diet. We have encouraged him with star charts, stickers and even the odd chocolate button in return for him just popping a pea into his mouth. We have also tried the more firm approach of placing bowls of lasagne and shepherds pie in front of him, leaving him there shrieking. We talk about food, he helps prepare meals and we have even got children’s books out from the library to try and whet his appetite for new things. None of these methods have worked and he will quite happily go without supper or any other meal until his beloved sausage appears once more on his plate.

Last week, he came back from pre-school claiming he had tried a carrot stick. I doubted whether this was the case and checked with his teacher. She told me that he had indeed tried a carrot and seemed to quite like it. The next day I filled his lunchbox with carrots. My enthusiasm backfired and he has not touched one since. A few days later he told me he had tried a “potato circle” at a friend’s house. Once more I went into overdrive on potato gratin, so much so that he has decided it is definitely now off the menu.

My last resort is to go with the sausage but modify it myself. This morning I have bought his beloved banger, opened the end of its skin and stuffed a few small peas and carrot pieces down it. It looks a bit bulky and a little discoloured but I am hoping that this might be my cunning solution to the sausage-loving toddler.

Pigs

“We can’t live on a farm without pigs,” my husband says in his usual enthusiastic way, having spent weeks reading books on pig rearing. I am a little less enthusiastic about the prospect of yet more mouths to feed and more pens to clear out particularly given he is away much of the time. However, with the sty currently lying dormant and the children pestering me daily I finally submit and agree to two weaners joining our merry brood.

We begin preparing the five star luxury accommodation for our new arrivals in the pigsty beside the henhouse. “At least they’ve got the hens to talk to at night,” says the three year old. We decide that we would buy one of the pigs and a friend known as ‘Capable Karen’ would buy the other. Capable Karen rears lambs, owns ponies and confidently picks up chickens by their feet, un-phased by flapping feathers. In summary she is efficient on the farm and totally in tune with rural living. Most importantly she knows about pigs. We arrive at a nearby farm with my daughter wearing a pair of pink ballet pumps that are shortly immersed in farmyard mud. The friendly farmer asks us which ones we would like. We agree to whichever girls he can catch. This was no easy task. Unfortunately, I am manning the gate during this whole squealing episode and as a group of pigs come running towards me, I step back allowing the gate to swing open and a couple of them to escape. They scatter across the farmyard in all directions.

We sprint after them trying to herd them back to the pen. But the little Babes are having none of it and begin trotting off down the lane towards the road. Capable Karen, her daughter and the farmer efficiently herd. Meanwhile my daughter, her pink pumps and I make feeble attempts to catch them, knowing full well that if they come anywhere near us, we would be making a mad dash for the road instead.

Finally, we get our two weaners safely into the back of the horsebox and the farmer enthusiastically waves us off delighted to see the back of us. We return home exhausted and I feel distinctly nervous about what we have let ourselves in for. That evening my husband arrives home and excitedly runs out to the pigsty. Staring at the two small pigs with a broad smile across his face, he says, “Now we’re complete.”

Getting Back in Shape

It is almost five months since The Baby arrived and time to reach into the back of the cupboard for my favourite pair of jeans. It soon becomes obvious that they are not going to slide on easily. I lie on the floor, hold my tummy in and edge the zip up. The three-year-old walks in and stares at me wrestling with the pair of denims on the floor. “What are you doing Mummy? Have you got a tummy ache?” he asks. “Not yet,” I reply.

Ten minutes later and the jeans are ‘uncomfortably’ on. I congratulate my postnatal tummy. Then I discover that my once faithful jeans will not allow me to sit down. I cast my mind back to the regular grazing I have been relishing in over the past few months and the hoovering up of children’s leftover pasta and half eaten Petit Filous. I then recall a friend telling me about a weekly Boxercise class she runs in the village school hall. She raved about the benefits of boxing telling me that it burns calories at an impressive rate. This was what I needed – a quick fix to combat the jeans.

That evening I squeeze into my joggers and find the baggiest most shapeless t-shirt I can lay my hands on. The Boys are thrilled at the thought of their mother going to a boxing class and offer me their Light Sabre as extra back-up against my boxing opponent.

I arrive to find the hall full of jolly ladies of all different ages who certainly look far from aggressive. I am warmly welcomed but feel nervous about what is in store for me. I must be on my guard and anxiously await the first left hook from my opponent. To my surprise I enjoy every minute of it. I am soon exerting all the stresses of the day’s school runs and packed lunches in flying kicks and punches. I leave the class thrilled and exhilarated. The battle of the jeans has begun. Ninja Mum here we come.

The School Run

“Are we going to be late?” says my daughter as I run back into the house turning off the alarm for the third time to collect the water bottles from the fridge. I glance at my watch. 8.34am – four minutes behind my rigid schedule which could mean parking at least another four cars away from the school gates.

Back in the car with four children belted into an assortment of car seats I run through the checklist. Book bags, lunch boxes, jumpers, coats, wellies, homework, money for school trip and Show and Tell. A quick time check tells me I am now ten minutes behind schedule. As we drive out of the gates my son suddenly shrieks, “I’ve forgotten my glasses.” We reverse back up the drive and I run back indoors. I sprint madly around the house up and down stairs desperately searching for the glasses. Finally, I find them wedged down the side of a sofa cushion. I run back to the car gleefully waving the glasses in the air.

We arrive at school to find a long trail of cars parked up the road. The children shriek for me to open their doors and off they run towards the school gates. I am left with The Baby and a whole mass of bags and coats lying abandoned on the floor of the car. I spend the next few moments wrestling with the pram, cursing the manufacturer for not making the opening mechanism work smoothly for mothers under pressure. The Baby looks up at me smiling clearly amused by his red-faced mother. He lies in the pram surrounded by book bags something he has become accustomed to over the weeks.

I dash into the school playground madly pushing the pram around distributing everything. I glance at the impeccably made-up mothers standing calmly beside their groomed children. Tomorrow I must set my alarm clock earlier to allow for the lost glasses and a touch of mascara. I quickly comb my daughter’s hair with my fingers and rummage around my handbag for a random hairclip. The whistle blows and they all run in leaving a shell shocked, bedraggled mother behind them. I glance at my watch. 9am and I am frazzled.

A New Beginning

Now we are six. Two deranged parents, a seven – going on seventeen – year old daughter, two testosterone fuelled boys aged six and three and our new four-month old Baby Boy.

I also have to mention the Border Terrorist and the ‘Oh so Biddable’ Black Labrador. And just to keep us busy, we have now inherited Bertie the Cockerel and his harem of hens, Hilda, Helen, Hilary and Harriet. There are also three ducks, three lambs and a few goldfish, all who are to be shortly joined by two pigs, as yet unnamed.

It was on a sunny May Bank Holiday weekend that we moved into our house and began our new more rustic life on a small farm in the centre of a bustling village. Five days later once the worst of the packing boxes were out of the way, The Baby decided it was time to make his appearance. Sadly he was not greeted by the calm sounds of whale music and there was certainly no birthing pool in sight. Instead his mother was drugged up to the eyeballs with every pain relief drug available on the planet and his father had just woken up after a nice long kip on the recovery bed beside them. After 48 hours of blissful care by the midwives at Dorchester Hospital, my brief stay was over and it was time to face reality.

I returned home to two very excited small boys who were thrilled to have another brother to join their football team and a daughter who was equally excited about the shopping trips she was promised as the only girl in the family. Meanwhile out on the farm Hilary hen was also expecting. Sadly her chick did not make it and in true postnatal form I found myself sobbing in the chicken house consoling Hilary and sharing my maternal concerns over sleepless nights with Helen, Hilda and Harriet. In those weeks I formed a special bond with my feathery friends and now regularly seek refuge in the hen house when I need to escape.

Four months on, the odd sleepless night and sterilising endless bottles are the least of my worries. The challenges facing me are only just beginning. Raising four children, weaning the Baby, rearing animals and tending to a large vegetable patch are just a flavour of things to come.

Family Ties back soon

Thank you to all of you who have kindly asked when Family Ties is returning to the Blackmore Vale. I'm busy compiling material and will begin publishing the column again in September, once school holidays are over and our new baby boy is a little more routined. Until then, happy holidays and stay sane.

Nesting

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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 Tearful Mother

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.