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.

Fairtrade Fortnight

“Are these Fairtrade?” asks my five-year-old son pointing at the plate of chocolate digestives I have just placed on the table for tea? “Well, not really,” I reply rather sheepishly catching sight of the McVities labelling. “I’m not sure we can eat them then. It’s just not ethical,” adds my seven going on seventeen-year-old.

She gets down from the table, opens her school book bag and thrusts a formal looking letter at me with a disapproving look on her face. I should have known that Fairtrade Fortnight was creeping up on us. After all I suffered the continuous lecturing on Fairtrade when the children were learning about it at school last year. I became used to having my weekly shopping scrutinised for Fairtrade labels. And if a bar of Green & Black’s ever dared to enter the larder, I would be publicly shamed in front of the entire family and labelled as an unethical mother for the rest of the week.

I will now have to endure an extra half an hour in the supermarket over the next two weeks, searching for the familiar Fairtrade stamp and allow for a bit more on the overall shopping budget.

Each day the Fairtrade conversation dominates our household. At one point, my son even asks, “Is Clover (the black Labrador) Fairtrade?” Well, I suppose she is sort of Fairtrade as the family we bought her off were very nice and they didn’t sell her through a large supermarket chain, I explained. It then becomes apparent that there is a little confusion about the meaning of Fairtrade. When I probe my son further he confidently says, “Fairtrade means that the ladies passing the food across the beeper in Waitrose get more money.” He seems to have momentarily forgotten about the Fairtrade tea workers in India and in a true child-like way has focused his attention on matters closer to home, kindly sparing a thought to the cashiers’ pay packet.

However, he was still as eager as ever to scrutinise every item I placed in his lunchbox this morning. He picked up the Penguin bar disapprovingly. Before the lecture could begin I hissed, “Just don’t say a thing. If you mention that word again, I’ll fling the contents of this lunchbox including the Fairtrade banana across the fields.” “That’s not fair,” he whispered.

Jet Lag

After a 16-hour flight, including a stop over and two taxi rides, we pulled into our village in Dorset a little shell shocked but thrilled to be home after our trip to Cambodia. The children scampered around the house in excitement and instantly threw themselves back into toys they had not set their eyes on for a few weeks. My husband and I began the mammoth task of unpacking wondering how we were going to get through the long day ahead with the jet lag looming.

After two weeks of spicy food, including countless stir fries and bowls of rice, the children opted for cereal, baked beans, toast and endless glasses of milk throughout the day. As my husband and I began to fade, becoming increasingly spaced out, the children’s hyperactivity levels gradually rose as did the noise levels.

I was in the midst of loading yet more washing into the machine when I was aware of a sudden stillness in the house. The noise of machine guns and shrieking was replaced by silence. I discovered The Toddler asleep with his head on the kitchen table, almost mid-mouthful, my son lying sprawled across the playroom floor mid-Power Rangers and our daughter curled up on her bed asleep mid-Secret Seven book. It was as if someone had cast a magic sleep spell on the house. The problem was that it was 4pm.

A couple of hours later, my husband and I were also defeated by tiredness. We collapsed into bed and I drifted into a dream-like state expecting to be offered a drink by a Singapore Air Hostess at any moment. Instead I was woken by shrieks of, “Can we have breakfast?” Still excited by the novelty of bowls of Cornflakes and fresh milk, I dragged myself downstairs leaving the children to dress into their school uniform. I let the dogs outside and glanced at the kitchen clock. 4am! I knew there was no hope of getting the children or dogs back to bed. There was nothing more for it than a couple of DVDs to take us all through the next five hours until school. As I sipped my tea at the kitchen table waiting for BBC Breakfast to begin, I heard barking outside. Aware of the neighbours, I dashed out to discover the dogs dashing down the lane after a keen jogger. There was no alternative but to run after them. The jogger glanced back stunned as he was faced with a large pregnant lady, dressed in nothing but an inappropriate nightie chasing after him in the early hours. Unbeknown to him, she was beset by jet lag.