The Big Turn Out

With the children safely back at school, the house seems eerily quiet. I feel a bit like a spare part, aimlessly wandering round surveying rooms and wondering where to begin with the post holiday clear up.

First I must attend to the felt tip scribbles on the landing that mysteriously appeared one morning, much to the bewilderment of the children and one very red-faced toddler. I must also rub out the equally mysterious pencil marks from the wall beside the Toddler’s bed. “I saw Clover do it,” he said innocently when I confronted him, quick to pass the blame on to the artistic Labrador puppy.

Then my attention turns to the toy cupboard, which requires some serious attention. Armed with my bin bags, I open the door and a box of ‘Pick Up Stix’ tumbles out on top of me. I sift through boxes of playing cards, Top Trumps and Snap alongside piles of arts and crafts, play dough, puzzles, and endless games. It occurs to me that we only played one game in the holidays. This was an attempt at Snakes & Ladders that lasted five minutes at best. It resulted in my daughter running to her bedroom in tears as her brothers nudged their pieces along the board and refused point blank to slide down a snake.

I then stumble on a large box full of Play Mobil pieces. Connected together, they produce the most wonderful aeroplane, ambulance, camper van and police car and entertain the boys for hours on end. The problem is that it requires an adult to remain very patient when asked at least thirty times a day to, “put the wheels back on the plane”, “search for the pin size gun for the policeman,” or extract the, “old piece of apple that The Toddler wedged into the aeroplane’s hold a few weeks ago.” All this pales into insignificance when I unearth the Lego. Hundreds of tiny pieces lie redundant in a box with no trace of an instruction leaflet in sight. Occasionally, I recall my son appearing with the box during the holidays and saying, “Mummy, will you help me make a T14 Assault Tank?”

My bin liner only contains a few items that have been chewed by a dog or have obvious pieces missing. For a moment of madness, I am tempted to sweep the boxes and their contents into the bag without a thought. However, my guilty conscience takes over. The only solution is to embark on a massive building and fixing project. For the next few days, I must spend my time connecting hundreds of small pieces back together again, to reconstruct a mass of vehicles. For now, the Big Turn Out is on hold.

New Year Walk

We set off merrily from our cottage across the fields all suited and booted to avoid any small hands turning blue with cold. My husband cried out from the window, “Are you sure you’ll be able to cope on your own?” I glanced at the three children scampering after the two dogs and nodded confidently. “We’ll be absolutely fine. See you later,” I cried cheerily.

At this point, I must tell you that a few weeks ago, Clover the black Labrador puppy had come into season. For three weeks, she had been confined to lead walking in remote fields away from other dogs. I could certainly not cope with more than one pregnancy in the family for the moment. Now we were finally in the clear, I was not sure who needed the walk more – her or me – but my bump and I were very keen to scamper alongside her, sniffing the fresh crisp air with utter glee.

Into the second field and we came across our neighbour’s dog, Archie. He is the same age as Clover and they are the greatest of friends. Usually, it is wonderful to meet up with him and the dogs can exercise at least three fields worth of walking, just by chasing each other round. However, it soon became apparent that their normal puppy-like frolicking was not quite as innocent as usual. On this occasion, even young Archie was finding the blossoming Clover rather attractive. “Mummy, what are the dogs doing?” asked my daughter. “Just kissing,” I said trying to grab one of the frolicking dogs. “But why is Archie kissing Clover on her bottom?” queried my confused looking son. Thankfully, Clover was as confused by Archie’s canine cuddles as the children and scampered off. However, Archie found her teasing even more enticing.

I could suddenly picture our small baby arriving in the spring to join two dogs, three children and a litter of puppies. I broke into a sprint, chasing the two dogs around the field, screaming under the watchful eye of my jaw-dropped children. Finally, I heard the sweet sound of his owner’s call. Realising my predicament she ran over to grab poor frustrated Archie. Now with Clover firmly back on the lead we continued with our walk at a faster pace, our eyes peeled for any other dogs. Inevitably the children’s questions were now coming thick and fast. Striding ahead my hearing rapidly deafened by the winter wind, I made every effort to change the subject. We arrived at Granny’s house for a much needed pit stop. She took one look at me and said, “You look like you’re been dragged through a hedge backwards,” “She has,” said my son. “She’s been running round the field after Archie who wanted to kiss and cuddle Clover.” “I’ll put the kettle on,” she said with a giggle.

Breaking the News

A couple of months ago, we broke some news to the children. We told them we were expecting a baby and it would be arriving in May. Our six-year-old daughter jumped up and down with excitement totally thrilled. “I thought you looked fatter,” she cried. The Toddler shared her glee, not quite sure why he was cheering but enjoying the moment anyway. Our five-year-old son reacted as if I had just told him supper was ready. He looked up briefly, said nothing and returned to his Power Rangers game.

Our daughter quickly said, “I’m happy to do any night feeds for you. Perhaps the baby should sleep in my room to make it easier.” Hooray for daughters enthusiastic about taking on the role of a maternity nurse.

The Toddler has now adjusted to the idea of having a new sibling, helped by my daughter’s constant talk of babies. With his head bent down towards my tummy, he shouts, “You be good for Mummy.” Not surprisingly, he has no concept of time and as far as he is concerned the baby is arriving at any moment. Each morning, he goes into the baby’s room and peers into his old cot. “Baby not here yet, Mummy,” he shouts. If only it were that simple, I think to myself.

The other regular topic raised by my forward-thinking daughter is what to call the baby. Desperately hoping that she may finally have a sister, to dilute the boys, she runs through lists of girls’ names, focusing heavily on all those featured in Mamma Mia and High School Musical. Our five-year-old has been making lists of all the boys’ names in his class, ignoring any suggestion that it could be a girl. He says, “I just have to have a brother because I’m bored of the one I’ve got.” Eventually, they settle on the name, ‘Dotty’, which is now what the baby is referred as. They came up with this based on the simple reason that at that time the baby was tiny, not much bigger than a dot or a full stop.

Each day, my daughter asks, “Do you feel Dotty is a girl or a boy today Mummy?” I reply truthfully that I have absolutely no idea as all the symptoms are different from any previous pregnancy, be it male or female. My son looks up, “Oh I know. Dotty is a border terrorist.” Let’s hope not. Happy New Year.

The Nativity

This year, the children have shown much interest in the Nativity story. This has largely been helped by school plays and our son’s role as one of the three kings. We have also had the Travelling Holy Family visit us, which has caused much discussion. This a group of nativity figures, knitted by our village Mother’s Union, who travel around different families in the village in the weeks leading up to Christmas, finally arriving at the Church on Christmas Eve. Each family keeps it for a night and is allowed to keep one of the knitted sheep as a memento. This thrilled the children and as I set about reading them the Christmas story accompanying it, I was a little unprepared for the mass of questions that followed.

My five-year-old son, needless to say, was most interested in The Baddy, also known as King Herod and was desperately disappointed that his picture did not appear in any of the nativity stories we have in our house. He was also interested in what jobs Mary and Joseph did. My daughter answered this question without hesitation, “Mary was a cleaner and Joseph was a builder,” she said. When asked why she thought Mary was a cleaner, she confidently replied, “Because she carries a broom.” I should have known that any child would have come to the same conclusion, as Mary is indeed often portrayed sweeping around the stable – impressive when you have travelled on a donkey for hundreds of miles before giving birth. Joseph’s tools explain his obvious building expertise.

The questions then moved onto the gifts presented to Jesus. I gave a brief explanation backed up by Grandpa’s box of frankincense that he had helpfully collected on one of his many travels. They were clearly a little puzzled by the appeal of a rather potent resin. My son then asked, “Did Father Christmas come to the stable that night and leave Jesus a stocking?” Oh help! Thankfully, my daughter changed the subject and said, “So, it was a bit like a christening. The kings and shepherds were Jesus’ godparents.” Yes, that is exactly what it was like. Thankfully, we were on safer territory than Rudolph and his sleigh landing on the roof of the stable.

Later that afternoon, I caught sight of my son peering at the small wooden nativity scene in our sitting room, clearly deep in thought. He turned to me and said, “Mummy, how did they all go to the loo in the stable?” I pondered briefly as to whether I should launch into the inventions of modern appliances and decided against it. I expect they just used a corner of the stable, I explained. That evening as I passed the stable, I looked down to see a small wooden loo, which had been moved from the dolls house to pride of place at the front of the stable beside the crib. Happy Christmas.

Curse of the Christmas Catalogue

Since November, there has been a noticeable thud of post landing on the doormat. The Toddler makes a mad dash to collect it and struggles to carry it to me. Unfortunately this is not because we have been inundated with lovely brown parcels tied in string, or the rare site of a hand written envelope. Instead we have received piles of catalogues. No doubt we have the Internet to blame and the small print at the bottom of web pages requiring us to tick an invisible box if we do not want to receive further information.

Needless to say, the children love them. They busily sift through pages of toys and mark their names beside the most inappropriate items, usually the biggest, loudest or something they already have which looks a bit more presentable in the catalogue. I have tried hard to manage expectations and explain why it is highly unlikely that Father Christmas will drag a motorbike down the chimney. It also means that as far as the children are concerned the Halloween pumpkin will soon be replaced with the Christmas tree.

Meanwhile the catalogues begin piling up in the corner of the kitchen. I happen to overhear a mother in the playground say, “I’ve just finished wrapping all my Christmas presents.” Despite trying hard not to be influenced by other playground chat this threw me into the most almighty panic. I dash home, reach for the catalogues and flip open the laptop. Finally, after an hour or two I proceed to the virtual Check Out. The site promptly freezes. I call customer services and speak to Sanjay who speaks English but with a heavy Indian accent. I finally establish the site is temporarily out of action. I begin the lengthy task of giving him my order by phone which is a struggle given our language barrier. To my amazement, most of my items are already out of stock – even before the festive period has begun. Afterwards, I feel disappointed, exhausted and distinctly un-festive. I long for the day I can stroll down the high street on a cold crisp December morning, enjoy the wonderful shop window displays and all to the tune of the Salvation Army. It seems the catalogue companies and their websites have collared many mothers like myself who battle with pushchairs, numerous school runs and huge Christmas shopping lists.

Now it is December, the doors of the Advent calendar are swinging open and we can mention the word ‘Christmas’ without a trace of guilt. And finally there is no thud on the doormat. It seems for the catalogue companies, Christmas is long gone.

The Costume

It is that time of year again. The requests come thick and fast in the book bag ahead of the school event of the year – the Christmas Play. Brown tights, reindeer antlers (“no bells”) or Father Christmas hats must all be in school within the week. A trip to Woolworths beckons – what will we do without them. Parents up and down the country are making a mad dash around the shops competing over the last pair of green tights for their precious elves. Then comes the thankless task of counselling their little boys into wearing them, insisting that elves definitely can’t wear Spiderman socks.

Last week, my daughter arrived home in a state of extreme excitement. She could barely get the words out fast enough about the school play and what she needed to bring in. As usual, it is the highlight of her year and she rehearses as if she is about to hit the West End stage in mid-December. “I have to buy a Father Christmas hat by Monday,” she says. But it is only Friday November 21st and we have a very busy weekend ahead of us. By bedtime, she has mentioned it another six times and urges me to re-arrange my busy weekend schedule to squeeze in a shopping trip. She assures me that she recently spotted a Father Christmas hat at the checkout of a nearby shop. Later, I rummage through the book bag for precise instructions, only to find it empty. Clearly she was ahead of the game and thrown into action before her teacher had time to draft and print the crucial costume request to parents.

On Saturday, we dashed out to buy the crucial hat. After trawling round three shops it soon became clear that other Dorset elves had beaten us to it. By this stage, she was distraught. “I’ll get told off if I don’t bring it in on Monday. You simply HAVE to find one Mummy,” she cried. I too was beginning to feel under pressure. Perhaps I should have bought the one I had spotted the night before on the Internet and paid for Special Delivery. We continued on with our search and finally we found one whereupon we threw our arms round each other in elf-like delight.

Yesterday, my daughter came back from school with a letter from her teacher. It was a very jolly letter kindly asking us to bring a, “woolly hat to school by Monday 8th December.” I re-read it. It definitely says a woolly hat, not a Father Christmas hat, and it really does say 8th December, not 24th November? “Well, it’s still a hat and it’s better to be ready early,” says my daughter.

Home Alone

The taxi pulled away and we all stood waving, huddled together in the pouring rain. My daughter sobbed, “We’re going to miss him so much.” My husband was off on business although admittedly only for one week. Nothing like my sister-in-law who recently waved off her husband ahead of a six-month posting to Afghanistan. We all went back inside and I cheerily called for a round of hot chocolate and a plate of Hobnobs to put the smiles back on our faces. I mean, how hard could it be to survive for six days or 144 hours alone with three small children and two active dogs.

As we mopped up our tears and drained our hot chocolate, my son said, “What are we going to do for the rest of the weekend without Daddy? It’s going to be so boring.” Good point, I thought. However, this could be my opportunity to shine as a mother. I could give them my undivided attention and prove that life without Daddy was not that horrendous.

On day one, we played endless games of Snakes and Ladders and Snap which involved an awful lot of cheating and masses of arguments. We baked cookies and cakes and licked out bowls until we felt sick. We glittered, glued and coloured a whole heap of loo rolls and built a whole city of Lego towers. They enjoyed a whole heap of home-cooked meals for which even Nigella would have been proud. I even managed an attempt at a game of rugby in the garden that abruptly ended when the border terrorist scampered off across the fields with the ball. At bedtime, I let them frolic in the bath and turned a blind eye to the amount of water pouring all over the carpet. I then spent an hour reading them a whole pile of books. After all, my solitary baked potato and Strictly Come Dancing was not that enticing.

On day two, I took them to church for some much needed quiet time and revelled in the opportunity to see other adults. We spent the afternoon role-playing Mummies and Daddies, Doctors and Teachers. I was impressed by my newfound motherhood. Perhaps I had even edged closer towards the dizzy heights of Super Mum. Even the children decided I was not quite as boring as they thought.

It is now day five and I am beginning to feel the strain. Motherhood is flagging. The television has crept back on, the fish fingers have re-emerged from the freezer and the wine beckons. In fact, in two days time I will lie in wait for the taxi and when it appears round the corner I will leap up and down, wave a banner and shriek, “WELCOME HOME.”