The Dolls House

We have just given my daughter a Dolls House for her sixth birthday. Admittedly, it isn’t a beautiful Georgian regency town house but what makes it appealing is that this was the same dolls house given to me by my parents as a child. I distinctly remember when I opened it for the first time and spent hours and hours playing with it. It has sat in my father’s shed for the past 28 years and has narrrowly escaped the rubbish dump during regular clear outs and a house move. When we dug it out recently, I was shocked to see how much smaller and less impressive it was than I remembered. As well as the cobwebs and mouldy bright orange carpets and brown flowery wallpaper, it was extremely basic, with not an original feature in sight. I duly brought it home and was going to put it outside by the bins, when our daughter spotted it. Even in its sad looking state, she loved it and was adamant that this was the Dolls House she wanted for her birthday. She brought it inside and spent ages cleaning it. She loved the fact that this was the house that her mummy had played with as a child.

Grandpa has spent weeks restoring the house, updating the electrics and generally gutting it. He and I spent much time in ‘Sherlock Homes’, the Dolls House shop in Shaftesbury, leafing through interior books and mulling over wallpaper and carpets. I probably put more effort into this than I did in my own house! Once fully renovated, it would be described by any estate agent as, “lovingly restored.”

My daughter’s face was priceless when she unwrapped it on her birthday and she has since spent hours pondering over where furniture should go and, most importantly, what the house was to be called. She has already decided that she wants to spend her pocket money on a small television set, a newspaper and some curtains. “Afterall Mummy, it must be horrid for them going to bed with no curtains.” The only sad thing is that the Dolls House shop in Shaftesbury is due to close this month. Therefore, she will not be able to enjoy spending her pocket money on the range of little items displayed on the counter, like little one penny chews. We will now have to resort to scrolling through pages on the internet instead, which is not quite the same but it is unfortunately a sign of the times. Despite this, at least we know that something so treasured has been lovingly restored by one generation and passed down to be enjoyed by another.

Granny's outing

Granny has a soft spot for The Toddler. They have a special relationship, most likely due to the amount of time he spends there, whilst his frenetic mother madly dashes about after his older siblings.

In the days leading up to my daughter’s birthday party, where eleven little girls would be sticking sequins and butterfly gems to their heart’s content, he was once again booked in for a morning at Granny’s. However, given it was also his second birthday, she took pity on him and decided that she would take him on his very own birthday trip. They were to take the train from Gillingham to Salisbury, have a brief biscuit in the station coffee shop and return on the next train home. Based on his obsession with his own wooden train set, this was sure to be a huge treat and a great success. Granny arrived fully prepared, with a small bag containing a change of clothes (she had not envisaged he would be part potty trained!) – and his obligatory muslin square. As they stood on the platform watching the train arriving, his eyes were on stalks. After all, this train was a lot bigger than Thomas the Tank Engine.

The doors opened and Granny led him onto the train. The only problem was that as far as he was concerned, you played with trains, you did not get on them. He lay on the floor of the carriage screaming with all his might, “No, No. Mama, Mama,” whilst a queue of commuters waited behind them. Granny lifted the now rigid little body into the compartment, to be faced with a man who promptly put his hands over his ears, making it quite clear he found the whole scene extremely offensive. Granny, now flustered and hot, trying to cope with the terrified little boy, made a quick exit into the corridor, where she desperately tried to divert him. “Look at the sheep. Look at the tractor,” she said frantically pointing out of the window as they sped through the countryside at high speed. By Tisbury, he finally began to calm down and realised he was not being taken away from his mother on this huge, loud, rolling beast. They arrived at Salisbury rather shell shocked and Granny was weary to say the least. After enjoying a run up and down the ramp to cross the platforms, with cries of, “Weeeeeee,” they parked themselves in a nearby café and enjoyed a much longed for strong double expresso and a flapjack. Back on the train, the Toddler began to delight in the whole experience, waving at passing trains and passengers. Meanwhile, Granny leant back, heavy eyed, wondering how he was to cope with his first forthcoming trip on an aeroplane. The thing about children is they are so wonderfully unpredicatable – you just never know if the treat is tremendous or traumatic!

Potty training

It is day five of potty training and I am close to relapsing towards a packet of Pampers. Days one and two were novel, a challenge and a touch exciting as I introduced the Toddler to the potty. We began well and I was confident that third time round it would be a breeze and my potty training expertise would come into its own. As is always the way with the whole ghastly, laborious exercise, just when you take a giant leap forward, you rapidly find yourself scuttling back again.

Broadly, there are two schools of thought with potty training. There are those who sensibly leave it until the sun is shining warmly and the toddler is two and a half and understands more about what they are doing – most importantly they can be bribed easily with smarties or stickers. Then there are those like me who just as the clock strikes midnight on the second birthday, whisk off the nappy to make room for a very smart pair of Thomas the Tank Engine briefs. My view, albeit fairly old fashioned and probably adopted from my mother, is simple. If he can ask for a biscuit and a drink, then he is quite capable to ask to use his potty. I also simply loathe nappies, particularly on a child that can walk. There is also the small matter of cost. I have estimated The Toddler’s small derrière has used up more than five thousand nappies over the past two years costing me approximately £793. This is what I have to remind myself when I’m mopping the kitchen floor for the umpteenth time that day.

So, we continue with the task asking him, ‘Do you want to use the potty?’ every ten minutes. When we finally get a hit, we cry out in jubilation, rejoice with a round of applause and loud cheers. We encourage him to the potty using every tactic we can think of, including perching the older children on it, if necessary. This successfully makes him become extremely protective of his new throne. In true toddler style, he takes the potty training experience one step further. He places his PlayMobil figures and his collection of dinosaurs on the edge of the potty and even tries to encourage the border terrorist to perform. Finally, when I appear from the bathroom he applauds in delight and runs to get a sticker from the drawer which he places on my jumper. “Good girl Mama,” he cries. The message is getting through albeit slowly but I feel we have got quite a way to go. Wish me luck.

The Norovirus attack

In my recent article on Man Flu I said how lucky we were to have been spared the norovirus. I spoke too soon. Within hours of clicking ‘Send’ to file my story, my four-year-old son arrived back from school and promptly fell asleep on the sofa. From the moment he woke up, he was hit with the most horrible bug. The virus was unrelentless in its attack and I was confined to disinfecting buckets, changing sheets, and cuddling his sick little limp body for the next few days.

So far, the rest of us had been spared. Admittedly, as far as my husband was concerned, I took extreme measures. He was confined to London until the end of the week. Afterall, I could not cope with a hospital case on my hands!

Suddenly, the phone rang. It was the school, asking me to come and pick up my daughter. One look at her green coloured face and I knew what lay in store for us both. What made matters worse is she does not deal with illness in quite the same way as my son. Whereas he had just deteroriated into a quiet little puppy, my daughter wailed and screamed, demanding I did not leave her side. This was impossible, as The Toddler was suddenly struck by the norovirus too. I made an SOS call to my mother for more towels and sheets and spent the night dashing between rooms, all the while wondering when it was going to hit me too. I kept saying to myself, “You are not going to get it,” whilst scrubbing my hands. Worse still, was the fact that it was both children’s birthdays looming and we had 11 six-year-olds coming to our house for a party in three days’ time. Thankfully, the virus disappeared as quickly as it appeared and like many, the children were soon back to their usual whittering selves, albeit a bit shell shocked. I, on the other hand, was utterly exhausted and now had three children at home jumping from the walls with new found energy. And I had two birthday parties to organise. Parents began to phone to check the party was going ahead and I nervously said that it was. I consulted my friend who is a doctor to get her medical approval on the likely level of infection in my house. Taking her advice to the extreme, I set about with my dettol wipes on door handles, loo flushers, chair arms and scrubbed the top layer off the kitchen table. The party passed and the children had a wonderful time.

However, today I discover to my horror that there is one child absent from school with a sick bug – typically it had to be the doctor’s daughter!

Chickens

“What is a free range chicken?” my six-year-old daughter asked me over breakfast. I was not about to enter into a discussion on the intricacies of chicken rearing. I gave a brief explanation of the chicken’s ability to run merrily around on the grass rather than being shut inside. She quickly related it to dogs or more specifically, our border terrorist, Molly. She likened it to keeping her inside for days on end and never giving her a walk – a rather good simple analogy I thought, once you added in a few extra tins of Pedigree Chum.

The whole chicken chat arose because I had been talking to friends about Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s current “Chicken Out” campaign to encourage people to buy free range chickens. Hugh is trying to open our eyes to intensive farming which is the way 95% of the chickens we eat in the UK are reared. He is emotional in his demonstration of the intense pressure farmers are put under to produce poultry as quickly and as cheaply as possible. Hugh packed 2,500 chickens into a rearing facility for 39 days, with no natural light, with only 1 in 24 hours of total darkness. This encouraged the chickens to feed as much as possible and put on unnatural weight so they were ready for the supermarket shelves as quickly as possible.

His campaign is thought provoking but, for many, it largely comes down to money. Many people say they cannot afford to pay double for a free range chicken. This is a very personal decision and who are we to judge whether people decide to spend their money on a free range chicken for their kids’ lunch, the latest trainers or a Nintendo DX?

I was quick to reassure my daughter and rather righteously claim to have always bought free range chickens. However, moments later I began to reflect on my confident claim. Was I really the free range mother I claimed to be? Afterall, it was most unlikely that all the chicken my children had consumed in restaurants, pubs or even at friends’ houses were free range. I simply cannot deny that I have turned towards the occasional fast food item, when I realise there is nothing scheduled for supper. Like many, my children are quite partial to the odd chicken nugget and have declared the crème de la crème of nuggets are those nestled together in a MacDonalds bag. That definitely puts me in the part-time free range camp. I wholeheartedly support Hugh’s campaign and am happy to pay the difference for our free range feathery friends, particularly in supermarkets. However, I am guilty of the occasional rushed relapse. Sadly, I do not think Hugh’s campaign will ever reach the fast-food industry, which I am afraid is here to stay. Ronald has kindly introduced salads to his golden arches but I think the free range or even organic McNugget might be a little way off but we can only hope.

Man Flu

Thankfully, we have been spared the deadly norovirus that is circulating the British Isles. However, we were inflicted by a rare strain of the most powerful and deadly flu – commonly known as “Man Flu”.

My husband has spent ten days roaming around the house in his dressing gown, wearing a woolly hat which he says is essential to keep his head and ears warm. The heating has been pumping around the clock just to ensure the germs are kept cosy in our close knit cottage. The open fire has been banned for a week as the smoke, “irritates his sinuses.”

He has embarked on a lengthy ritual of remedies and scattered tissues around the house that are unable to make it to the bin. At night, I have endured the strong aroma of TCP with which he has gargled together with the Vick that he has smothered across his chest. He tosses and turns, groans, huffs and puffs at the sheer agony he is experiencing.

The only thing that seemed to relieve the pain temporarily was a film, preferably a thriller but no sooner were the credits rolling, the virus struck again it its most virulent form yet. He has conducted a full investigation of where he contracted the deadly virus sniffing out any guilty party who happened to sneeze near him in recent weeks.

Admittedly, at times he did look a bit pale and peaky but unfortunately there is something about Man Flu that promptly turns me into a ‘no nonsense’, unsympathetic wife. Perhaps unfairly, I was tiring of the patient in the woolley hat. I wanted to be spared the regular updates of the symptoms throughout the day. “Go for a brisk walk across the fields and blow the germs away, I suggested.”

He is quick to point out that I have never suffered from this strain of virus before. He is indeed right as according to the Urban Dictionary, Man Flu is, “an incurable virus which has been adapted to only effect the XY gene found in men. The virus attacks the immune system 10,000 times harder than the average flu virus, causing excruciating pain for the victim. The often deadly virus is mostly laughed at by women who sadly cannot contract Man Flu.”

The Baby

In a few week’s time it will be The Baby’s second birthday. I therefore feel it is now time to promote him to the role of The Toddler in forthcoming Family Ties articles. Like most youngest children in a busy family, the last two years have flown by and it is only now that it has become obvious to us all that he is in fact no longer a baby and scarily his first morning at pre-school is looming. When I think back over the past couple of years I am suddenly struck with a sudden feeling of guilt.

The two older children were born in London so they travelled on buses, tubes and taxis regularly. Since we have been living in Dorset, we still try and take the odd trip to London on the train and enjoy day trips out to the theatre, ice creams in Harrods ice cream parlour and walks down to Buckingham Palace. I am ashamed to admit, The Toddler has never been on a train, bus or taxi to London or anywhere else. In fact, as my five-year-old daughter pointed out, he has not even had a Babycino in Starbucks. Last year, he did not make our holiday in Cambodia and instead spent two weeks with Granny and Grandpa In fact, that is where he has spent much of his first two years. And more often than not, he is accompanied by his best friend, Molly, our border terrorist. In fact, over the past two years, he has barely left the village other than on the weekly shop to the local supermarket.

At home, he is a very relaxed little boy. Thank goodness, I hear you say. He is perfectly happy to play with all the old toys that his siblings were given. He is satisfied being dressed in perfectly good clothes passed down from his brother, with only the odd button missing. He is content with his Mummy reading him a rather sticky old book at bedtime, albeit at record speed as her mind turns to homework, laying out school uniform and reading to the other two.

With his birthday looming, which unfortunately he shares with his sister, my mother casts my mind back to my daughter’s second birthday. We hired a room in a children’s restaurant in London where she enjoyed an afternoon of soft play alongside fifteen of her two-year-old friends. The photographs show her sitting at the end of a large table, wearing the most beautiful dress, with the most phenomenal tea displayed before her. For ‘The Toddler’, I was thinking more along the lines of his three little friends, or rather my three friends’ children, coming over for a round of lunchtime sandwiches in the kitchen. But as the guilt sets in, I will buy him a new shirt to wear, rummage around for some balloons and perhaps take him on his first bus ride to Sturminster Newton.