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.
Friday, 30 October 2009
Thursday, 22 October 2009
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.
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.”
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.”
Friday, 2 October 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, 24 September 2009
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.
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.
Monday, 14 September 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
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.
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