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.
Thursday, 19 March 2009
Sunday, 15 March 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, 5 March 2009
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.
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.
Friday, 13 February 2009
Snow, Glorious Snow
“Why doesn’t it ever snow in Dorset?” said my daughter a few weeks ago. Little did she or I know that just round the corner was heavy snowfall preparing to cover the Dorset countryside. Despite being warned by the cheery BBC Weather lady that snow would hit the West, I had visions of a bit of sleet and a couple of days with the thermostat turned up. I was shocked when I drew back the curtains and discovered a blanket of snow covering the surrounding fields.
For the children it was a dream come true. They sprung from their beds enthusiastically and dressed in record speed, keen to get going on a snowman. Finally, I managed to lure them back inside with the bribe of hot chocolate and porridge before we began the mammoth task of suiting, booting and searching for gloves ahead of school. Just as the car was sufficiently de-iced and I had nipped back inside to grab the water bottles, the phone rang. It was my husband calling to let me know he was stranded at Basingstoke station on his way to London and needed rescuing. I mentally rattled through the morning’s schedule, which involved various appointments and packing ahead of our annual trip to Cambodia to see my brother. With a bit of juggling I could just about drive to Basingstoke and get back in time to pick up The Toddler.
I arrived at school and delighted in finding the most convenient parking space right outside the school gates. There were very few other people around but perhaps we were a little earlier than usual. The headmistress greeted me at the door standing by a large notice stating the school was closed. Help, I thought. That would mean driving to Basingstoke with three excitable children and two hyperactive dogs desperate for their morning walk. The worst of it was that we would have to drive at a snail’s pace due to the treacherous driving conditions, drawing out the agonising experience. At first, they were all entertained by the snow and the odd car stuck nose down in a ditch. However, after an hour of driving the arguments began. “He keeps touching me,” my daughter whined, “I need to go to the loo,” cried the Toddler, “Are we nearly there?” whinged my son.
Finally, we did manage to rescue my stranded husband who returned home to work in the kitchen seated with his back to the AGA for the rest of the afternoon. The children revelled in the snow and I attempted to start packing, constantly interrupted by endless requests for help with boots and gloves on and off.
Today, the school is closed again. So, it’s off for a leg wax and pedicure accompanied by three twittering starlings.
For the children it was a dream come true. They sprung from their beds enthusiastically and dressed in record speed, keen to get going on a snowman. Finally, I managed to lure them back inside with the bribe of hot chocolate and porridge before we began the mammoth task of suiting, booting and searching for gloves ahead of school. Just as the car was sufficiently de-iced and I had nipped back inside to grab the water bottles, the phone rang. It was my husband calling to let me know he was stranded at Basingstoke station on his way to London and needed rescuing. I mentally rattled through the morning’s schedule, which involved various appointments and packing ahead of our annual trip to Cambodia to see my brother. With a bit of juggling I could just about drive to Basingstoke and get back in time to pick up The Toddler.
I arrived at school and delighted in finding the most convenient parking space right outside the school gates. There were very few other people around but perhaps we were a little earlier than usual. The headmistress greeted me at the door standing by a large notice stating the school was closed. Help, I thought. That would mean driving to Basingstoke with three excitable children and two hyperactive dogs desperate for their morning walk. The worst of it was that we would have to drive at a snail’s pace due to the treacherous driving conditions, drawing out the agonising experience. At first, they were all entertained by the snow and the odd car stuck nose down in a ditch. However, after an hour of driving the arguments began. “He keeps touching me,” my daughter whined, “I need to go to the loo,” cried the Toddler, “Are we nearly there?” whinged my son.
Finally, we did manage to rescue my stranded husband who returned home to work in the kitchen seated with his back to the AGA for the rest of the afternoon. The children revelled in the snow and I attempted to start packing, constantly interrupted by endless requests for help with boots and gloves on and off.
Today, the school is closed again. So, it’s off for a leg wax and pedicure accompanied by three twittering starlings.
Friday, 6 February 2009
Birthday Bonanza
The birthday bonanza is once again over for another year. Last week, we celebrated my daughter’s seventh and The Toddler’s third birthday. I wondered why on earth I didn’t do everything possible in the labour ward on January 21st 2006 to stop The Toddler from arriving to share his sister’s birthday. I should have pleaded with the midwives, got down on my knees and begged them to give me large doses of Oxytocin. I simply had no idea what it would be like to celebrate two children’s birthdays on the same day post Christmas in the middle of bleak January.
This year was also more made more difficult because The Toddler now fully grasps the concept of birthdays and presents, having had much practice the previous month. We agreed that they would both open their presents at teatime in one mammoth opening session, accompanied by a joint chocolate cake with carefully divided candles to allow for individual blowing. We sang two rounds of Happy Birthday and our son kept a brave face as he watched his two siblings jointly celebrate their day.
Then we came to The Party. Thankfully, we managed to persuade The Toddler that he would absolutely love to do a spot of pottery painting, or splodging, with a couple of close friends, whilst his siblings were at school. He went along with it still oblivious to the world of Musical Bumps and Statues, surrounded by a mass of tearful pre-schoolers all accompanied by their tea-sipping parents. My daughter, who spends the entire year building up to her big event, decided she wanted a disco. She also wanted to invite her entire class of 24. Therefore the celebrations continued throughout the week and the excitement levels escalated. With flashing lights, loud booming music and Wayne from Groovemix at the helm, the children danced their small legs off. My husband was as excited as the children and enthusiastically joined in alongside my daughter shrieking, “It’s like the 21st I never had.”
That evening, we were exhausted and barely managed to keep an eye open to watch Casualty. It had been a week of birthday jubilation with an abundance of presents, cakes, cards and balloons. My daughter now felt a little deflated although instantly pulled a notepad out and began party planning for 2010. Meanwhile, The Toddler looked up from his bed and sleepily said, “Mummy, why didn’t Father Christmas bring me my stocking?”
This year was also more made more difficult because The Toddler now fully grasps the concept of birthdays and presents, having had much practice the previous month. We agreed that they would both open their presents at teatime in one mammoth opening session, accompanied by a joint chocolate cake with carefully divided candles to allow for individual blowing. We sang two rounds of Happy Birthday and our son kept a brave face as he watched his two siblings jointly celebrate their day.
Then we came to The Party. Thankfully, we managed to persuade The Toddler that he would absolutely love to do a spot of pottery painting, or splodging, with a couple of close friends, whilst his siblings were at school. He went along with it still oblivious to the world of Musical Bumps and Statues, surrounded by a mass of tearful pre-schoolers all accompanied by their tea-sipping parents. My daughter, who spends the entire year building up to her big event, decided she wanted a disco. She also wanted to invite her entire class of 24. Therefore the celebrations continued throughout the week and the excitement levels escalated. With flashing lights, loud booming music and Wayne from Groovemix at the helm, the children danced their small legs off. My husband was as excited as the children and enthusiastically joined in alongside my daughter shrieking, “It’s like the 21st I never had.”
That evening, we were exhausted and barely managed to keep an eye open to watch Casualty. It had been a week of birthday jubilation with an abundance of presents, cakes, cards and balloons. My daughter now felt a little deflated although instantly pulled a notepad out and began party planning for 2010. Meanwhile, The Toddler looked up from his bed and sleepily said, “Mummy, why didn’t Father Christmas bring me my stocking?”
Friday, 30 January 2009
The Cinema
This weekend, we moved one step closer to clawing-back our adulthood. We took the three children to the cinema. There are moments in a child’s upbringing where you have cause to celebrate, such as when they grow out of nappies, when everyone can last at the table for Sunday lunch without getting down, or when every child can climb into the car on their own in under a minute. Such break-throughs prompt a collective sigh of relief.
We were fully prepared for one of us to make a quick exit from the cinema with the wriggling Toddler who has not yet fully grasped the art of whispering. At the very least, we were anticipating having to crawl out periodically throughout the film at the beck and call of every small bladder alert.
The Toddler was a little overwhelmed when we arrived at the Multiplex, convinced we were in the departure lounge of Heathrow. However, once he saw his brother and sister make a mad dash towards the popcorn counter and the vast array of sweets, he was ecstatic. He sprinted towards the chocolate covered raisins as if his life depended on it. In true Toddler style, his little legs did not quite do what they were supposed to under extreme levels of excitement. He slipped and did an impressive dive along the carpet, smashing his head on the lid of the Lemon Bonbons. Then came the familiar piercing scream as the egg shaped bruise rose on his small forehead. Meanwhile, our daughter busily scooped up and filled a bag with the most ludicrously expensive sugary items she could find whilst our son politely ordered some popcorn from a helpful man behind the counter. While I tended to The Toddler my husband battled over the sugar intake and cries of, “But Granny lets us have Slush Puppies.”
We head into the darkness of the cinema and park ourselves in a row of seats close to the exit. The children perch on small booster seats for optimum viewing and The Toddler nervously clutches his familiar muslin square. Amazingly, they stay sitting there for the next hour and a half, only moving to pick out another piece of popcorn or a strawberry bootlace. The Toddler is totally transfixed by the whole experience and even Dotty, the unborn baby, kicks with delight. As the credits roll, my husband and I can barely believe it. It has been a while, but we have made it through a feature length film at the cinema. It may be short lived but whether it’s Madagascar 2 or James Bond, we delighted in a glimpse of pre-parenthood.
We were fully prepared for one of us to make a quick exit from the cinema with the wriggling Toddler who has not yet fully grasped the art of whispering. At the very least, we were anticipating having to crawl out periodically throughout the film at the beck and call of every small bladder alert.
The Toddler was a little overwhelmed when we arrived at the Multiplex, convinced we were in the departure lounge of Heathrow. However, once he saw his brother and sister make a mad dash towards the popcorn counter and the vast array of sweets, he was ecstatic. He sprinted towards the chocolate covered raisins as if his life depended on it. In true Toddler style, his little legs did not quite do what they were supposed to under extreme levels of excitement. He slipped and did an impressive dive along the carpet, smashing his head on the lid of the Lemon Bonbons. Then came the familiar piercing scream as the egg shaped bruise rose on his small forehead. Meanwhile, our daughter busily scooped up and filled a bag with the most ludicrously expensive sugary items she could find whilst our son politely ordered some popcorn from a helpful man behind the counter. While I tended to The Toddler my husband battled over the sugar intake and cries of, “But Granny lets us have Slush Puppies.”
We head into the darkness of the cinema and park ourselves in a row of seats close to the exit. The children perch on small booster seats for optimum viewing and The Toddler nervously clutches his familiar muslin square. Amazingly, they stay sitting there for the next hour and a half, only moving to pick out another piece of popcorn or a strawberry bootlace. The Toddler is totally transfixed by the whole experience and even Dotty, the unborn baby, kicks with delight. As the credits roll, my husband and I can barely believe it. It has been a while, but we have made it through a feature length film at the cinema. It may be short lived but whether it’s Madagascar 2 or James Bond, we delighted in a glimpse of pre-parenthood.
Friday, 23 January 2009
The Mother In Trouble
A rather official looking letter landed on the doormat. It was from Dorset Police telling me I had been captured on camera in Poole, marginally exceeding the speed limit. They must have got the wrong car or even worse perhaps someone had been joy riding my car, I thought. Then I remembered driving through Poole on my way to Bournemouth a few weeks ago. I had three children in the back, we were late for a Pantomime and I was suffering from severe bouts of morning sickness. Unfortunately, the police were disinterested in my excuses and invited me on one of their Driving Awareness Courses.
At first, I kept quiet about my shameful ticking off but then my daughter discovered the letter and quizzed me about it over her cornflakes one morning. “Does that mean you’re going to prison?” asked my son. I explained that sometimes grown-ups get in trouble and have to get told off too.
I barely slept the night before the course. With my pregnancy hormones on full throttle, I worried about getting lost and turning up late for the course or worse – getting a speeding ticket en route. I arrived promptly in front of some large security gates. “Here for driving awareness?” bellowed a uniformed man. “Yes,” I replied rather sheepishly. Inside Reception, people sat around with their name stickers slapped to their chests, staring in humiliation at the ground. We were all there for the same reason. I felt like pleading, “Please let me go home. I’ve got three children and I was always good at school.”
The morning was spent in a classroom listening to various statistics on speeding. Then it was time for the various shocking film clips. We were given the option to leave the room if we found it too upsetting but none of us dared. No sooner had the film clip begun with a mother driving her son to school, I could feel the tears coming. I desperately tried to hold it together but my hormones were shrieking, “I’m a pregnant woman, get me out of here.” Even if they had shown us a clip from Animal Hospital I would have blubbed uncontrollably. Thank goodness for the cups of tea and, in my case, a handful of biscuits, which got me through it.
I arrived home exhausted and a little shell shocked. I popped my head round my son’s bedroom door. “Hi Mummy. Did you sit in a cell all day?” he asked. He almost seemed a little disappointed to hear about the classroom. As I closed the door he shouted, “I told all my class and my teachers that you were spending the day with the police.” Yes - I thought you might have.
At first, I kept quiet about my shameful ticking off but then my daughter discovered the letter and quizzed me about it over her cornflakes one morning. “Does that mean you’re going to prison?” asked my son. I explained that sometimes grown-ups get in trouble and have to get told off too.
I barely slept the night before the course. With my pregnancy hormones on full throttle, I worried about getting lost and turning up late for the course or worse – getting a speeding ticket en route. I arrived promptly in front of some large security gates. “Here for driving awareness?” bellowed a uniformed man. “Yes,” I replied rather sheepishly. Inside Reception, people sat around with their name stickers slapped to their chests, staring in humiliation at the ground. We were all there for the same reason. I felt like pleading, “Please let me go home. I’ve got three children and I was always good at school.”
The morning was spent in a classroom listening to various statistics on speeding. Then it was time for the various shocking film clips. We were given the option to leave the room if we found it too upsetting but none of us dared. No sooner had the film clip begun with a mother driving her son to school, I could feel the tears coming. I desperately tried to hold it together but my hormones were shrieking, “I’m a pregnant woman, get me out of here.” Even if they had shown us a clip from Animal Hospital I would have blubbed uncontrollably. Thank goodness for the cups of tea and, in my case, a handful of biscuits, which got me through it.
I arrived home exhausted and a little shell shocked. I popped my head round my son’s bedroom door. “Hi Mummy. Did you sit in a cell all day?” he asked. He almost seemed a little disappointed to hear about the classroom. As I closed the door he shouted, “I told all my class and my teachers that you were spending the day with the police.” Yes - I thought you might have.
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