My husband is away at his work Christmas party so I settle into a night at home with my baked potato and an episode of Grand Designs.
I decide to retire to bed early with a pile of unread magazines. The house is blissfully quiet and as I update myself on the latest celebrity gossip, the stresses and strains of motherhood momentarily drift away.
Just as I switch off the light, my daughter appears. “Mummy, I just wanted to check you weren’t feeling lonely,” she says. She looks longingly at the space beside me. I pull back the covers and in she climbs. I drift off to the sound of her voice running through her class register alphabetically.
The pounding of small feet running along the landing into my bedroom suddenly wakes me. The Toddler appears beside the bed; his face inches away from mine. “I need the loo,” he announces. He hops from side to side shrieking that he needs my help. I relent and prop myself up against the bathroom wall trying to keep my eyes closed. “Can I have my breakfast?” he asks. I quickly try to dampen his eagerness to start the day. He begins to cry. I scoop him up fearful that he might wake the Baby and settle him in bed beside my daughter. He wriggles and kicks for the next hour or so but eventually we drift back to sleep.
Suddenly another small figure runs into the room and makes a giant leap onto the bed. It is the six-year-old mumbling something about Sarah Jane’s adventures. I curl up on the very edge of the bed embraced tightly by the Toddler.
Just as I am beginning to drift off again I hear a familiar noise. It is intermittent at first and then more constant. The Baby is awake. I glance at the clock. It is 4.30am. I briefly consider surrendering and going downstairs to prepare the lunch boxes. After settling the Baby I head back to my room to discover the three other children asleep, sprawled across the bed. With not an inch of mattress to spare I head back to my son’s now vacant bed and clamber in.
If I am lucky I can get another hour and a half in before they work out where I am.
Wednesday, 23 December 2009
Friday, 11 December 2009
Father Christmas On Line
This morning Father Christmas sent the children an e-mail. It seems even Santa Claus is now surfing the world wide web and probably Twitters away whilst logging in to check his Facebook page.
Via his Portable North Pole console, Father Christmas now has a video link. He sits in his chair in the North Pole and talks to each child. The children were mesmerized as they opened their e-mails to discover Father Christmas welcoming them personally. He invites them into this study where he opens his book telling him all about the children. The book cleverly displays a photo of the child and he refers to their hair and eye colour.
The three-year-old hides under the table as Father Christmas congratulates him on remembering to brush his teeth before bed. Once he has overcome his shyness, he begins nodding and answering Father Christmas’ questions. “Is he ‘skyping’ us?” says my rather confused seven-year-old daughter. In a round about way I reply. Our six-year-old is praised for not having tantrums anymore and our daughter for going to bed when she is asked. Even the Baby is congratulated on eating all his vegetable mush. Much to the older two children’s delight he lets them into some of his inner secrets. He describes how he manages to visit every child in the world in one night, how his reindeer fly and how he finds out which children have been good.
In our house we take on our own childhood tradition of writing a letter to Father Christmas on Christmas Eve. We sit round the fire toasting marshmallows and then post the letters up the chimney. The children run outside to watch the sparks floating off to the North Pole. I wonder whether Father Christmas and his interactive on-line web page might have an impact on our rather simple tradition.
Sure enough, that evening when I put the children to bed their minds are buzzing with excitement over the personal video link. My seven-year-old is clearly impressed by Father Christmas’ technical ability. “Mummy, does this mean we should e-mail our list to Father Christmas on Christmas Eve now?” she asks. “Absolutely not,” I reply. “Father Christmas loves letters.” My six-year-old adds, “He’s probably got an ‘iPhone’ though so he can check his e-mails while he’s on his sleigh.” I do hope not.
Via his Portable North Pole console, Father Christmas now has a video link. He sits in his chair in the North Pole and talks to each child. The children were mesmerized as they opened their e-mails to discover Father Christmas welcoming them personally. He invites them into this study where he opens his book telling him all about the children. The book cleverly displays a photo of the child and he refers to their hair and eye colour.
The three-year-old hides under the table as Father Christmas congratulates him on remembering to brush his teeth before bed. Once he has overcome his shyness, he begins nodding and answering Father Christmas’ questions. “Is he ‘skyping’ us?” says my rather confused seven-year-old daughter. In a round about way I reply. Our six-year-old is praised for not having tantrums anymore and our daughter for going to bed when she is asked. Even the Baby is congratulated on eating all his vegetable mush. Much to the older two children’s delight he lets them into some of his inner secrets. He describes how he manages to visit every child in the world in one night, how his reindeer fly and how he finds out which children have been good.
In our house we take on our own childhood tradition of writing a letter to Father Christmas on Christmas Eve. We sit round the fire toasting marshmallows and then post the letters up the chimney. The children run outside to watch the sparks floating off to the North Pole. I wonder whether Father Christmas and his interactive on-line web page might have an impact on our rather simple tradition.
Sure enough, that evening when I put the children to bed their minds are buzzing with excitement over the personal video link. My seven-year-old is clearly impressed by Father Christmas’ technical ability. “Mummy, does this mean we should e-mail our list to Father Christmas on Christmas Eve now?” she asks. “Absolutely not,” I reply. “Father Christmas loves letters.” My six-year-old adds, “He’s probably got an ‘iPhone’ though so he can check his e-mails while he’s on his sleigh.” I do hope not.
Friday, 4 December 2009
Food Tasting Day
It suddenly occurred to me the other day that I am not a big fan of vegetables. Despite my desperate attempts to maintain a flourishing vegetable patch and my joy at feeding the children our home-grown vegetables I am ashamed to admit that I am more of a frozen pea kind of girl. I religiously encourage my children to eat their five-a-day. I regularly tell them how much faster they will run and how they will crack their times tables in record speed if they eat that large sprig of broccoli.
Our village school recently decided to hold a ‘food tasting’ day for the children. The objective was to encourage every child to try a selection of fruit and vegetables that they might not have tried before. A good idea I thought and a relief to have conquered the five-a-day consumption by lunchtime. The school were looking for some volunteers to help prepare the food. I jumped at it, along with some other mothers, thinking it would make a nice change from loading the washing machine.
We arrived to find large crates stacked full of pumpkins, papayas, sharon fruit, celeriac and countless other produce. It was our good friends at Waitrose who had come up trumps and generously decided to support us. We all marvelled at the food and even I had to admit that it looked quite appealing. Our headmistress popped her head round the corner and casually dropped in that the tasting would be at 10.30am. That gave us one hour to peel, chop and in some cases cook 160 portions. We searched the small school kitchen for peelers, knives and chopping boards and then began our monumental task. Whilst peeling 35 parsnips with a blunt peeler and very sore fingers, I decided that parsnips were definitely axed from the Christmas lunch menu.
We accelerated our chopping at an impressive rate as the countdown began. This was ‘Ready Steady Chop’ personified. Finally, we hit the deadline and the children began their tasting. Thankfully they all enjoyed it and I am told the sharon fruit was a big hit with the aubergine not being quite as appealing to 160 small taste buds.
That afternoon my children arrived back from school chatting excitedly about the Tasting. They both keenly asked what we were having for supper. “Please can we have parsnips,” said my six-year-old. “No, it’s frozen peas tonight,” I quickly replied.
Our village school recently decided to hold a ‘food tasting’ day for the children. The objective was to encourage every child to try a selection of fruit and vegetables that they might not have tried before. A good idea I thought and a relief to have conquered the five-a-day consumption by lunchtime. The school were looking for some volunteers to help prepare the food. I jumped at it, along with some other mothers, thinking it would make a nice change from loading the washing machine.
We arrived to find large crates stacked full of pumpkins, papayas, sharon fruit, celeriac and countless other produce. It was our good friends at Waitrose who had come up trumps and generously decided to support us. We all marvelled at the food and even I had to admit that it looked quite appealing. Our headmistress popped her head round the corner and casually dropped in that the tasting would be at 10.30am. That gave us one hour to peel, chop and in some cases cook 160 portions. We searched the small school kitchen for peelers, knives and chopping boards and then began our monumental task. Whilst peeling 35 parsnips with a blunt peeler and very sore fingers, I decided that parsnips were definitely axed from the Christmas lunch menu.
We accelerated our chopping at an impressive rate as the countdown began. This was ‘Ready Steady Chop’ personified. Finally, we hit the deadline and the children began their tasting. Thankfully they all enjoyed it and I am told the sharon fruit was a big hit with the aubergine not being quite as appealing to 160 small taste buds.
That afternoon my children arrived back from school chatting excitedly about the Tasting. They both keenly asked what we were having for supper. “Please can we have parsnips,” said my six-year-old. “No, it’s frozen peas tonight,” I quickly replied.
Friday, 27 November 2009
Lemon Drizzle
It is the school cake sale again and with it comes the usual baking request. I shudder at the thought, given baking is low down on my skill base. I blame it on my school domestic science teacher who sent me packing from her class for a “shameful” white sauce.
With the baking deadline looming, I turn my attention to the cake. I pass the three-year-old and the baby into the capable hands of Big Cook Little Cook and begin turning to my reliable Lemon Drizzle recipe that requires minimum equipment and effort. I realise I am out of eggs and quickly dash out to the hen house to find Hilda sitting on her nest. “Hurry up,” I say wondering what speeds the egg laying process up. A little later she comes up trumps and produces a very small warm egg but needs must.
The baby is now screaming so I strap him to my front in the faithful papoose. I continue with my baking jiggling up and down to calm him down. Whilst singing Rock-a-Bye-Baby I realise I have added plain rather than self-raising flour. Oh well flour is flour after all. It will still taste good I think to myself. I wait by the Aga knowing full well that with my post-natal memory loss I am bound to forget about the sponge until 5am tomorrow. Then the phone rings. It is a friend who wants to chat through some crucial lift sharing arrangements. Just as my call ends the doorbell rings. A cheery man hands me the Border Terrorist who he spotted taking herself for a walk down the road.
Then I suddenly remember the Lemon Drizzle. I dash to the Aga and pull out my cake tin. Inside is a rather limp slice of dark brown sponge. It certainly lacks its self-raising status and resembles a piece of over cooked toast. With no more egg-laying hens and a screaming baby I decide to sprinkle it with sugar, wrap it in cellophane and slap a label on using my neatest handwriting. I wonder whether I should rename it “Lemon Biscuit Cake.”
At the cake sale I notice my Lemon Drizzle sitting in prime position in the centre of the table. I wonder whether to buy it myself but opt for the very fluffy looking coffee cake beside it. Before I leave I go back to the stall and discover the table empty apart from a few jam tarts and - a lonely Lemon Drizzle. My daughter says loudly, “Mummy, your cake is still there.” I’m ready to head for the door. Thankfully I hear later that the Lemon Drizzle was finally sold – to my faithful friend, Capable Karen who has come to my rescue once again.
With the baking deadline looming, I turn my attention to the cake. I pass the three-year-old and the baby into the capable hands of Big Cook Little Cook and begin turning to my reliable Lemon Drizzle recipe that requires minimum equipment and effort. I realise I am out of eggs and quickly dash out to the hen house to find Hilda sitting on her nest. “Hurry up,” I say wondering what speeds the egg laying process up. A little later she comes up trumps and produces a very small warm egg but needs must.
The baby is now screaming so I strap him to my front in the faithful papoose. I continue with my baking jiggling up and down to calm him down. Whilst singing Rock-a-Bye-Baby I realise I have added plain rather than self-raising flour. Oh well flour is flour after all. It will still taste good I think to myself. I wait by the Aga knowing full well that with my post-natal memory loss I am bound to forget about the sponge until 5am tomorrow. Then the phone rings. It is a friend who wants to chat through some crucial lift sharing arrangements. Just as my call ends the doorbell rings. A cheery man hands me the Border Terrorist who he spotted taking herself for a walk down the road.
Then I suddenly remember the Lemon Drizzle. I dash to the Aga and pull out my cake tin. Inside is a rather limp slice of dark brown sponge. It certainly lacks its self-raising status and resembles a piece of over cooked toast. With no more egg-laying hens and a screaming baby I decide to sprinkle it with sugar, wrap it in cellophane and slap a label on using my neatest handwriting. I wonder whether I should rename it “Lemon Biscuit Cake.”
At the cake sale I notice my Lemon Drizzle sitting in prime position in the centre of the table. I wonder whether to buy it myself but opt for the very fluffy looking coffee cake beside it. Before I leave I go back to the stall and discover the table empty apart from a few jam tarts and - a lonely Lemon Drizzle. My daughter says loudly, “Mummy, your cake is still there.” I’m ready to head for the door. Thankfully I hear later that the Lemon Drizzle was finally sold – to my faithful friend, Capable Karen who has come to my rescue once again.
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
A Date at Ikea
“I’ve decided to take a few days off,” says my husband casually. “Perhaps we should spend the day together without the children.” Great idea I think to myself seeing as most of our conversation these days is dominated by sleep deprivation and whose turn it is to take out the rubbish. Thankfully Granny also thinks it is a good idea and nervously agrees to have the children despite it being half term and Grandpa being away on business.
The day before our big break my husband asks if I have booked a nice restaurant and were we going for a gentle walk along the Dorset coastline? “We’re going to Ikea,” I mutter. “WHAT?” he shrieks. “We spend our first day on our own together in years and we’re going to Ikea.” I spend the rest of the day convincing him that an Ikea trip is something you just cannot do with children and I needed some support in deciding upon my toy storage unit. After much convincing he reluctantly agrees to the trip on the condition that he does not have to go near an Allen key.
As we pull into the car park he says, “We need to stay focused in here.” It is clear he does not share my joy of mulling over different storage styles without children and straying off the shopping list. At the entrance we are greeted by the first Ikea-dressed sitting room. My husband’s eyes light up at the size of the plasma television nestled into smart high-tech media shelving. He reclines on the L-shaped leather sofa, puts his feet up on the perfectly parked poof and closes his eyes. I sit down next to him and start chatting about the Christmas holidays. We spend the next few hours walking from room to room in a distinctly unfocused way lying on sofas and generally catching up on the past few months. We even browse through the toy boxes arm in arm.
We witness a number of other couples bickering over the choice of clip frames, however we remain positively calm during our Ikea experience. In fact, in a strange way we affectionately rekindled our relationship amongst the storage boxes and array of tea lights at Ikea. As we pull out of the car park with the car bulging with boxes, my husband says, “That was great. We must come here again soon.”
The day before our big break my husband asks if I have booked a nice restaurant and were we going for a gentle walk along the Dorset coastline? “We’re going to Ikea,” I mutter. “WHAT?” he shrieks. “We spend our first day on our own together in years and we’re going to Ikea.” I spend the rest of the day convincing him that an Ikea trip is something you just cannot do with children and I needed some support in deciding upon my toy storage unit. After much convincing he reluctantly agrees to the trip on the condition that he does not have to go near an Allen key.
As we pull into the car park he says, “We need to stay focused in here.” It is clear he does not share my joy of mulling over different storage styles without children and straying off the shopping list. At the entrance we are greeted by the first Ikea-dressed sitting room. My husband’s eyes light up at the size of the plasma television nestled into smart high-tech media shelving. He reclines on the L-shaped leather sofa, puts his feet up on the perfectly parked poof and closes his eyes. I sit down next to him and start chatting about the Christmas holidays. We spend the next few hours walking from room to room in a distinctly unfocused way lying on sofas and generally catching up on the past few months. We even browse through the toy boxes arm in arm.
We witness a number of other couples bickering over the choice of clip frames, however we remain positively calm during our Ikea experience. In fact, in a strange way we affectionately rekindled our relationship amongst the storage boxes and array of tea lights at Ikea. As we pull out of the car park with the car bulging with boxes, my husband says, “That was great. We must come here again soon.”
Paddington Comes to Visit
The three-year-old comes bounding excitedly out of pre-school. He is clutching Paddington Bear and a small brown suitcase. “We’ve got Paddington for the weekend,” he shrieks. His teacher hands me a book explaining that it is Paddington’s Diary and that each child takes it in turns to have him for a few days. “How lovely,” I remark, thinking to myself, “Help, not more responsibility.”
In the car my little boy busily straps Paddington into his car seat. At home he runs upstairs and unpacks his suitcase, which consists of a yellow toothbrush.
When the other children get home, they are equally excited at having a visitor for the weekend. He sits on his own chair at teatime, beside the bath at bath time and then snuggles up beside the three-year-old at bedtime.
Later I turn to the diary sitting on the side. It is full of entries from other families, accompanied by photos of smiling happy faces enjoying beach trips, visits to Father Christmas and other treats. I did not think our weekend would remotely live up to Paddington’s previous visits, particularly given tomorrow was our weekly supermarket shop. The next day, Paddington sits in the trolley being pushed up and down supermarket aisles. I am told that apparently he can only eat Penguins, Wotsits and Jaffa Cakes. My shop budget is blown by his visit.
During the weekend, Paddington joins us for a rugby match on Sunday. He cheers from the touchline alongside the other children. As we leave the pitch I realise he is missing. I am told he went to relieve himself earlier behind a nearby tree. I rummage behind the bushes and discover him staring up at me, still clutching his small brown brolly.
That night, Paddington once more decides to disappear. We launch a full scale Bear Hunt searching high and low for the small brown bear. I begin to hyperventilate at the thought of telling the teacher that Paddington is missing. Suddenly the biddable Labrador prods me with her nose. From the corner of her mouth, I spot something blue. We wrench her jaws open and there is Paddington nestled comfortably beside a large wet tongue. Thank goodness we have found him and all intact. Tomorrow it is back to pre-school and safely into the hands of another family.
In the car my little boy busily straps Paddington into his car seat. At home he runs upstairs and unpacks his suitcase, which consists of a yellow toothbrush.
When the other children get home, they are equally excited at having a visitor for the weekend. He sits on his own chair at teatime, beside the bath at bath time and then snuggles up beside the three-year-old at bedtime.
Later I turn to the diary sitting on the side. It is full of entries from other families, accompanied by photos of smiling happy faces enjoying beach trips, visits to Father Christmas and other treats. I did not think our weekend would remotely live up to Paddington’s previous visits, particularly given tomorrow was our weekly supermarket shop. The next day, Paddington sits in the trolley being pushed up and down supermarket aisles. I am told that apparently he can only eat Penguins, Wotsits and Jaffa Cakes. My shop budget is blown by his visit.
During the weekend, Paddington joins us for a rugby match on Sunday. He cheers from the touchline alongside the other children. As we leave the pitch I realise he is missing. I am told he went to relieve himself earlier behind a nearby tree. I rummage behind the bushes and discover him staring up at me, still clutching his small brown brolly.
That night, Paddington once more decides to disappear. We launch a full scale Bear Hunt searching high and low for the small brown bear. I begin to hyperventilate at the thought of telling the teacher that Paddington is missing. Suddenly the biddable Labrador prods me with her nose. From the corner of her mouth, I spot something blue. We wrench her jaws open and there is Paddington nestled comfortably beside a large wet tongue. Thank goodness we have found him and all intact. Tomorrow it is back to pre-school and safely into the hands of another family.
Friday, 30 October 2009
Come Sniffing
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)