14 Mar 2009 11:24 Mother's Day blogging competition
Mother's Day is looming (22 March in case you didn't know. Well in the UK anyway, in the rest of the world it's in May so don't panic if you're living abroad).
I find Mother's Day an odd thing. I mean besides being a cash cow for Hallmark, why does it exist? Is it to celebrate being a mother and therefore you should spend time with your family revelling in your all singing, all dancing role of MOTHER (or the Mumendant as my ex-military husband likes to call me). OR is it (as I believe it to be) the one sodding day of the year when you don't have to do everything. It's your annual day off. Enjoy it while it lasts.
Except that despite having been a mother for five years now, Mother's Day still seems to belong to my mother and mother-in-law. So instead of lying in bed, being served a delicious breakfast that I won't have to clean up after, followed by a morning of retail therapy washed down with a spa treatment or two, I'll be up in Yorkshire giving my mum-in-law a day like this instead. Only not quite. She, unlike me, won't feel the need for retail therapy or a spa treatment. Because her son is now 41 and to the best of my knowledge, he stopped drawing on walls and hitting people with plastic swords quite some time ago.
So we'll spend the day watching our little boys trash her house, while I help prepare lunch for her. And that's fine. She deserves it. But it comes back to this whole concept of getting a smidgeon of time for yourself every now and then. Which - as some of you now know - is one of the reasons I'm getting five weeks to myself in the middle of the Atlantic later this year. Not quite the same as an aromatherapy massage admittedly - I'll still have no sleep, back breaking work and lots of cooking and cleaning up to do, but there'll probably be less lego involved.
A client of mine, MamaBabyBliss, conducted a survey with mums at the Baby Show late last year. We asked them questions about how much time in any given day they get to themselves. Here are the results:
* 76.6% of mums feel that they neglect themselves in favour of putting their families first
* 60% of mums spend less than 30 minutes on themselves per day
* 25% of mums have a mere 15 minutes or less to themselves per day
* 67.5% of mums said they only treated themselves to a pampering session - like a massage, beauty treatment or long soak in the tub - ‘a few times a year’ or ‘never’
* 93.6% of the mums said that they wish they had more time to pamper themselves
My response to those bulleted items are:
* exactly, which is why I'm finally doing something about it
* I probably spend less than 30 minutes a day on myself - it used to be less than 15 when the boys were younger. Trying to apply mascara with someone tugging on your trouser leg can result in injury.
* I can't remember when last I had a pampering session. My daily treat is a shower in the morning. I used to have the children in the bathroom with me, trying to climb into the shower, flushing each other's heads down the loo, licking the toilet brush, spreading Bob the Builder and his myriad of hard spiky plastic friends across the floor, just waiting in anticipation of my bare feet. All a very relaxing experience. But they've now been trained to stay glued to Cbeebies giving me a blissful ten minutes alone. My bikini line requires a strimmer and my feet last had a pedicure when we last had a hot summer. So some time ago then.
* And yes, yes, yes I wish I had more time to pamper myself. But I don't think I'll be fitting that in this year. Not in the massage type of way anyway.
So in honour of the impending Mother's Day, Justina from MamaBabyBliss, and I are hoping to get a movement going in which mums actually say: Time out! Time to pamper me. We're hosting a Mother's Day Blogging competition.
You write a blog post about the subject of pampering yourself/time to yourself. We don't mind if it's a funny story, a sad tale of woe, some practical tips, your best escape ever - just tell us your 'me time' story. All we ask is that you include a reference (and link) to MamaBabyBliss - you're free to quote the stats. Then send me the link melissa[at]peekaboocoms[dot]co[dot]uk so that I can have a good read.The authors of the first twenty posts I receive will get a bottle of MamaBabyBliss 'Ooh' Bath Soak sent to you (so I'll need your address for that). It's lovely. It smells of lavender. It'll make you drift off to sleep (only to be woken up at 4am no doubt but it'll be good while it lasts).
Then Justina will judge which post she likes best and will send the winner the absolutely gorgeous Mother's Day Gift box worth £40. We've already got entries in so get writing!
And in case I don't have time, a happy mother's day in advance for all the mums out there. May the peace (and quiet) be with you.
I find Mother's Day an odd thing. I mean besides being a cash cow for Hallmark, why does it exist? Is it to celebrate being a mother and therefore you should spend time with your family revelling in your all singing, all dancing role of MOTHER (or the Mumendant as my ex-military husband likes to call me). OR is it (as I believe it to be) the one sodding day of the year when you don't have to do everything. It's your annual day off. Enjoy it while it lasts.
Except that despite having been a mother for five years now, Mother's Day still seems to belong to my mother and mother-in-law. So instead of lying in bed, being served a delicious breakfast that I won't have to clean up after, followed by a morning of retail therapy washed down with a spa treatment or two, I'll be up in Yorkshire giving my mum-in-law a day like this instead. Only not quite. She, unlike me, won't feel the need for retail therapy or a spa treatment. Because her son is now 41 and to the best of my knowledge, he stopped drawing on walls and hitting people with plastic swords quite some time ago.
So we'll spend the day watching our little boys trash her house, while I help prepare lunch for her. And that's fine. She deserves it. But it comes back to this whole concept of getting a smidgeon of time for yourself every now and then. Which - as some of you now know - is one of the reasons I'm getting five weeks to myself in the middle of the Atlantic later this year. Not quite the same as an aromatherapy massage admittedly - I'll still have no sleep, back breaking work and lots of cooking and cleaning up to do, but there'll probably be less lego involved.
A client of mine, MamaBabyBliss, conducted a survey with mums at the Baby Show late last year. We asked them questions about how much time in any given day they get to themselves. Here are the results:
* 76.6% of mums feel that they neglect themselves in favour of putting their families first
* 60% of mums spend less than 30 minutes on themselves per day
* 25% of mums have a mere 15 minutes or less to themselves per day
* 67.5% of mums said they only treated themselves to a pampering session - like a massage, beauty treatment or long soak in the tub - ‘a few times a year’ or ‘never’
* 93.6% of the mums said that they wish they had more time to pamper themselves
My response to those bulleted items are:
* exactly, which is why I'm finally doing something about it
* I probably spend less than 30 minutes a day on myself - it used to be less than 15 when the boys were younger. Trying to apply mascara with someone tugging on your trouser leg can result in injury.
* I can't remember when last I had a pampering session. My daily treat is a shower in the morning. I used to have the children in the bathroom with me, trying to climb into the shower, flushing each other's heads down the loo, licking the toilet brush, spreading Bob the Builder and his myriad of hard spiky plastic friends across the floor, just waiting in anticipation of my bare feet. All a very relaxing experience. But they've now been trained to stay glued to Cbeebies giving me a blissful ten minutes alone. My bikini line requires a strimmer and my feet last had a pedicure when we last had a hot summer. So some time ago then.
* And yes, yes, yes I wish I had more time to pamper myself. But I don't think I'll be fitting that in this year. Not in the massage type of way anyway.
So in honour of the impending Mother's Day, Justina from MamaBabyBliss, and I are hoping to get a movement going in which mums actually say: Time out! Time to pamper me. We're hosting a Mother's Day Blogging competition.
You write a blog post about the subject of pampering yourself/time to yourself. We don't mind if it's a funny story, a sad tale of woe, some practical tips, your best escape ever - just tell us your 'me time' story. All we ask is that you include a reference (and link) to MamaBabyBliss - you're free to quote the stats. Then send me the link melissa[at]peekaboocoms[dot]co[dot]uk so that I can have a good read.The authors of the first twenty posts I receive will get a bottle of MamaBabyBliss 'Ooh' Bath Soak sent to you (so I'll need your address for that). It's lovely. It smells of lavender. It'll make you drift off to sleep (only to be woken up at 4am no doubt but it'll be good while it lasts).
Then Justina will judge which post she likes best and will send the winner the absolutely gorgeous Mother's Day Gift box worth £40. We've already got entries in so get writing!
And in case I don't have time, a happy mother's day in advance for all the mums out there. May the peace (and quiet) be with you.
14 Mar 2009 11:23 Small talk - again
This whole having two blogs and a business to run and a small fund raising mission to complete is all a little time consuming, so this will be brief.
Following on from my last blog post about random conversations with 5 year olds, here was a snippet from today's lastest conversational masterpiece:
"So boys, what do you think daddy will see in America?" (their father's gone there for business this week)
Three year old hears the word America and a lightbulb goes ping in his brain and says: "that man who was the first man to rule America."
Five year old sagely nods, while continuing to shovel dinner into his mouth: "He means Barack Mobama."
"Well remembered both of you," quite gobsmacked that they can remember this, then again they were denied Cbeebies for a full afternoon as I watched the inauguration ceremony so it's probably imprinted on their brains. I do wonder whether Barack Mobama would like to grow a moustache in deference to his new name.
"Can you remember what he's called - what his job is?" I ask.
"He's the president of America," says five year old.
"Well done, yes he is. Do you know what we call the person who runs our country?" I ask ("besides twat," I say under my breath)
"Can't remember," he says.
"He's the Prime Minister. And do you know what our Prime Minister's name is?" I ask again.
"Ummm, no, I think I know but I can't remember," says five year old.
"It's Gordon Brown," I say.
"Oh!" says five year old. "I knew that name, but I thought he was the vicar!"
So there you have it. Based on my son's last conversation about marriage and the fact that God and the vicar get to choose who you marry, it follows that Gordon Brown - being the vicar - can now choose your spouse for you. Now that's what I call a nanny state.
Following on from my last blog post about random conversations with 5 year olds, here was a snippet from today's lastest conversational masterpiece:
"So boys, what do you think daddy will see in America?" (their father's gone there for business this week)
Three year old hears the word America and a lightbulb goes ping in his brain and says: "that man who was the first man to rule America."
Five year old sagely nods, while continuing to shovel dinner into his mouth: "He means Barack Mobama."
"Well remembered both of you," quite gobsmacked that they can remember this, then again they were denied Cbeebies for a full afternoon as I watched the inauguration ceremony so it's probably imprinted on their brains. I do wonder whether Barack Mobama would like to grow a moustache in deference to his new name.
"Can you remember what he's called - what his job is?" I ask.
"He's the president of America," says five year old.
"Well done, yes he is. Do you know what we call the person who runs our country?" I ask ("besides twat," I say under my breath)
"Can't remember," he says.
"He's the Prime Minister. And do you know what our Prime Minister's name is?" I ask again.
"Ummm, no, I think I know but I can't remember," says five year old.
"It's Gordon Brown," I say.
"Oh!" says five year old. "I knew that name, but I thought he was the vicar!"
So there you have it. Based on my son's last conversation about marriage and the fact that God and the vicar get to choose who you marry, it follows that Gordon Brown - being the vicar - can now choose your spouse for you. Now that's what I call a nanny state.
14 Mar 2009 11:23 Bigging up blogs
Blogging is exhausting. It all starts out so simply. A few words bashed out to make some space in your brain. Before you know it, you're replying to comments, making comments, adding blogrolls, linking, meme-ing, reading, reading, reading....often laughing so hard you have a small accident thanks to a non-existent pelvic floor. And sometimes you cry about things that are happening to other people who you don't know at all but can feel their pain from a thousand miles off.
What I love about it is that the people you meet in the blogosphere share real stuff. The kind of stuff that seldom gets discussed at the school gate or coffee mornings. Not even the kind of stuff you share with close real life friends (except after several bottles of wine and you don't really recall any of it in the morning anyway). And even if you did discuss these things in real life, you could never say it quite so eloquently. Blogs are often human poetry.
Take the list of great contributions at the latest Blog Carnival over at Thames Valley Mums. It's a fabulous array of reads that will knock the socks off most TV shows, magazines or even books (then again the books I read most often these days are Chip and Biff books).
It is remarkable how small the world is and how similar we all are. Some people say that blogging and social networking reduce our social skills and our ability to interact with people. That might be true in some regard, but I think it gives many people the chance to be more human. More real. More true to themselves than they ever might be in real life. And I don't see how that can be a bad thing.
Now, I've got some more reading to do...
What I love about it is that the people you meet in the blogosphere share real stuff. The kind of stuff that seldom gets discussed at the school gate or coffee mornings. Not even the kind of stuff you share with close real life friends (except after several bottles of wine and you don't really recall any of it in the morning anyway). And even if you did discuss these things in real life, you could never say it quite so eloquently. Blogs are often human poetry.
Take the list of great contributions at the latest Blog Carnival over at Thames Valley Mums. It's a fabulous array of reads that will knock the socks off most TV shows, magazines or even books (then again the books I read most often these days are Chip and Biff books).
It is remarkable how small the world is and how similar we all are. Some people say that blogging and social networking reduce our social skills and our ability to interact with people. That might be true in some regard, but I think it gives many people the chance to be more human. More real. More true to themselves than they ever might be in real life. And I don't see how that can be a bad thing.
Now, I've got some more reading to do...
14 Mar 2009 11:21 Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah!
Why you ask?
Last night son 2 - aged 3.5 - slept without a nappy and kept the bed dry. First time ever.
He normally manages to fill a nappy with so much wee that it leaks. But last night he said he didn't want to wear a nappy. And he was fairly adamant about it.
I was willing to give it a go. He emptied his bladder before bed and I managed to put him on the loo at 10pm (on the few occasions I've tried this before, all of hell's fury has been unleashed by the small boy).
I put him back into bed, crossed my fingers (and his legs) and this morning he woke up DRY!!
Ironically I bought a new pack of pull up nappies yesterday, cursing under my breath that I was still buying sodding nappies, five years on (taking both boys into account).
Now it seems that our nappy days might be over. Small miracles.
Last night son 2 - aged 3.5 - slept without a nappy and kept the bed dry. First time ever.
He normally manages to fill a nappy with so much wee that it leaks. But last night he said he didn't want to wear a nappy. And he was fairly adamant about it.
I was willing to give it a go. He emptied his bladder before bed and I managed to put him on the loo at 10pm (on the few occasions I've tried this before, all of hell's fury has been unleashed by the small boy).
I put him back into bed, crossed my fingers (and his legs) and this morning he woke up DRY!!
Ironically I bought a new pack of pull up nappies yesterday, cursing under my breath that I was still buying sodding nappies, five years on (taking both boys into account).
Now it seems that our nappy days might be over. Small miracles.
14 Mar 2009 11:21 The question of marriage
Can men marry men mummy? asked five year old son yesterday.
Hmmm. Tricky question alert.
"Why do you ask?" I deflected.
"Just because. So can they?"
"It depends on where you live but yes they can, although it's more common for men and women to get married."
"Oh."
"Why? Do think you'd rather marry a man or a woman?"
"A man," he says.
Ok then. He's five and fairly anti girls which might be why .... or not. He has always preferred pink and is a massive Abba fan and did ask for ponies in my pocket for his birthday.
"Why's that?" I ask.
"Dunno," he says kicking a football repeatedly against the kitchen cupboard.
More kicking. I slice vegetables for dinner.
"Mummy, do you have to get married?" he starts up again.
"No, you don't," I say.
"What happens when you get married?" he continues.
"Well you see what mummy and daddy do. We live together. We do the chores. We play with you boys. We go on holidays together. We do stuff together because we're married," I attempt.
"No, I mean when you actually get married, at the wedding," he says.
"Oh right. Well that can happen in lots of different ways. Often it's in a church and the lady wears a pretty dress and the man wears a smart suit. All your friends and family are there. You stand in front of the priest..."
"What's a priest?" he interrupts.
"Like Daniel's dad," I explain.
"He's not a priest, he's a vicar," he informs me.
"Right, same sort of thing really. Anyway, you stand in front of the vicar and you make promises to each other about how you will always love each other and look after each other no matter what. And because you're making these promises in a church, you're making the promise to God too, so it's really important that you don't break the promise. And you wear a ring to remind you of the promises you made," I say sounding far more religious than I actually am.
"Oh.." he contemplates.
A few more kicks of the ball.
"Do you get to choose who you want to marry then?" he asks.
"Yes."
"So God and the vicar don't choose?"
"No."
Silence. More kicking.
"Why are you interested in marriage, is it something you talked about at school?" I ask wondering where this is all coming from.
"Just wondered," he said and sauntered off.
What on earth is going on in that small brain? Is this normal five year old conversation?
Hmmm. Tricky question alert.
"Why do you ask?" I deflected.
"Just because. So can they?"
"It depends on where you live but yes they can, although it's more common for men and women to get married."
"Oh."
"Why? Do think you'd rather marry a man or a woman?"
"A man," he says.
Ok then. He's five and fairly anti girls which might be why .... or not. He has always preferred pink and is a massive Abba fan and did ask for ponies in my pocket for his birthday.
"Why's that?" I ask.
"Dunno," he says kicking a football repeatedly against the kitchen cupboard.
More kicking. I slice vegetables for dinner.
"Mummy, do you have to get married?" he starts up again.
"No, you don't," I say.
"What happens when you get married?" he continues.
"Well you see what mummy and daddy do. We live together. We do the chores. We play with you boys. We go on holidays together. We do stuff together because we're married," I attempt.
"No, I mean when you actually get married, at the wedding," he says.
"Oh right. Well that can happen in lots of different ways. Often it's in a church and the lady wears a pretty dress and the man wears a smart suit. All your friends and family are there. You stand in front of the priest..."
"What's a priest?" he interrupts.
"Like Daniel's dad," I explain.
"He's not a priest, he's a vicar," he informs me.
"Right, same sort of thing really. Anyway, you stand in front of the vicar and you make promises to each other about how you will always love each other and look after each other no matter what. And because you're making these promises in a church, you're making the promise to God too, so it's really important that you don't break the promise. And you wear a ring to remind you of the promises you made," I say sounding far more religious than I actually am.
"Oh.." he contemplates.
A few more kicks of the ball.
"Do you get to choose who you want to marry then?" he asks.
"Yes."
"So God and the vicar don't choose?"
"No."
Silence. More kicking.
"Why are you interested in marriage, is it something you talked about at school?" I ask wondering where this is all coming from.
"Just wondered," he said and sauntered off.
What on earth is going on in that small brain? Is this normal five year old conversation?
19 Feb 2009 19:00 Boys vs girls - the great top removal debate
Cast your mind back to when you were a teenage girl (obviously if you're a bloke reading this it might not apply unless you've had some dramatic surgery since then.) Anyway, you'd be standing next to the rugby/football/cricket/field/pitch thing. You'd be looking glam, watching the teen boys strutting their stuff and looking manly. And whenever you saw one of them change tops or take a sweatshirt off - getting a glimpse of honed tummy - you noticed something.
Boys pulls their tops off over their heads. They reach behind their heads, grab and yank. This causes maximum belly revealing. It also means that they tend to get their heads stuck particularly if it's a tight fitting top resulting in maximum messed up hair effect. At the time, you think they do this because it looks cool....
Fast forward to now. Two small boys aged 3 and 5. They haven't got a clue what cool is. They don't know how to impress and couldn't give a flying fig about doing it even if they did. Yet they too pull their tops off in the exact same bizarre manner.
Girls don't do this. Girls cross their arms over the front of their bodies, clutch the bottom edge of their shirts/tops and pull them off upwards so that they go over their face first before finally going off the back of their heads. This is a slightly more elegant way of doing things although it can also result in maximum belly revealing unless you have a friend near by to hang onto your underneath layer so that it doesn't creep up too revealing your boobs in all their glory.
Why is it that men and women do this simple task so very differently? I mean really? This isn't a rhetorical question. I want to know. It's as though we're hot wired that way. My children watch me getting undressed far more regularly than they do my husband so it follows that they'd copy what I'd do. But they don't. They continue with the very masculine backward shirt pull.
Is the boy way of doing it more effective? Less time consuming? Is it so that their line of sight is unobscured for longer so that they can see potential baddies coming for them? Are girls more protective of their bodies and so wrap their arms around themselves this way?
I know this isn't up there with solving global warming or coming up with a cure for cancer. But it is vexing me all the same. Enlighten me please.
Boys pulls their tops off over their heads. They reach behind their heads, grab and yank. This causes maximum belly revealing. It also means that they tend to get their heads stuck particularly if it's a tight fitting top resulting in maximum messed up hair effect. At the time, you think they do this because it looks cool....
Fast forward to now. Two small boys aged 3 and 5. They haven't got a clue what cool is. They don't know how to impress and couldn't give a flying fig about doing it even if they did. Yet they too pull their tops off in the exact same bizarre manner.
Girls don't do this. Girls cross their arms over the front of their bodies, clutch the bottom edge of their shirts/tops and pull them off upwards so that they go over their face first before finally going off the back of their heads. This is a slightly more elegant way of doing things although it can also result in maximum belly revealing unless you have a friend near by to hang onto your underneath layer so that it doesn't creep up too revealing your boobs in all their glory.
Why is it that men and women do this simple task so very differently? I mean really? This isn't a rhetorical question. I want to know. It's as though we're hot wired that way. My children watch me getting undressed far more regularly than they do my husband so it follows that they'd copy what I'd do. But they don't. They continue with the very masculine backward shirt pull.
Is the boy way of doing it more effective? Less time consuming? Is it so that their line of sight is unobscured for longer so that they can see potential baddies coming for them? Are girls more protective of their bodies and so wrap their arms around themselves this way?
I know this isn't up there with solving global warming or coming up with a cure for cancer. But it is vexing me all the same. Enlighten me please.
17 Feb 2009 20:21 Cue trumpet fanfare - the new blog is unveiled
Thanks to the efforts of the lovely Tasha and my colleague Helen, I now have a brand spanking new blog that will track my countdown to my sailing adventure.
It is www.moretolifethanlaundry.com. It's still a work in progress and I've yet to add everyone to my blogroll but I'm too excited about it to not post the link. I will hopefully have a little logo thingy that anyone who wants to help promote the blog can have for their blog - otherwise please just add the link to your blogroll and spread it around so that I get lots of people going to it, which will hopefully convince me to get more corporate sponsors signing up.
And of course if you fancy sponsoring me, but all means feel free to click the Paypal donate button and let me know if it works!
Hopefully I can still keep this blog up to date too but the focus for the next while is going to be on Moretolifethanlaundry. I will hopefully have a subscribe button on it soon too.
Ironically, I must now sign off to go do a vast pile of laundry. Go figure.
It is www.moretolifethanlaundry.com. It's still a work in progress and I've yet to add everyone to my blogroll but I'm too excited about it to not post the link. I will hopefully have a little logo thingy that anyone who wants to help promote the blog can have for their blog - otherwise please just add the link to your blogroll and spread it around so that I get lots of people going to it, which will hopefully convince me to get more corporate sponsors signing up.
And of course if you fancy sponsoring me, but all means feel free to click the Paypal donate button and let me know if it works!
Hopefully I can still keep this blog up to date too but the focus for the next while is going to be on Moretolifethanlaundry. I will hopefully have a subscribe button on it soon too.
Ironically, I must now sign off to go do a vast pile of laundry. Go figure.
15 Feb 2009 22:13 We are perfect parents
This weekend has been a singular disaster in terms of 'having a fun day out'. We were meant to visit a zoo or museum or something other than our living room, but we didn't. The children wanted to stay at home and play zingo (again). My husband wanted to stay at home and watch rugby. I wanted to hit the shops and spend wildly on my husband's credit card. Neither my husband or my children would let me do that.
At lunchtime today my cabin fever had hit an all time high so I convinced everyone that we should go out for lunch to ASK pizza. They have a three course kids meal with fun pack for £5.95 - more importantly, they have pizza for me and I don't have to cook or wash dishes.
I always believe that these excursions to restaurants will be fun. They seldom are. They usually involve a lot of stern whispering of 'sit down', 'don't shout', 'stop stabbing your brother with the knife' type of conversations.
This was no different. Son 2 has no idea about volume control and must shout everything he says. So I told him that we were secret agents and that everyone else in the restaurant were potential baddies who might overhear our secret plans unless he whispers. He then spent the rest of the lunch pointing at our neighbouring tables and shouting: 'Are they baddies mummy?'
What's more, ASK pizza Newbury is apparently staffed by people who donated their brains to a medical research facility. We got there at 1pm. We left at 4pm. Three hours in a pizza joint. With two kids. I could have whipped up the dough and made all the pizzas for the entire establishment in that time.
Anyway, despite my husband putting his angry eyes in with extra loud sighs thrown in for dramatic effect, the children were actually reasonable, thanks to playing eye spy and two little dickie birds on repeat cycle. It wasn't fun but we were surviving it.
Then the table next to us got up and the old gentlemen turned to our boys and said: 'You two were immaculately behaved. I think I'll send my grandson to come and live with your parents for a while so that he can learn some manners." (This despite him being labelled as chief baddie by son 2)
PREEN. Yes, we are indeed perfect parents. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. With two little angels who are the height of perfect children. Well done us.
If only the lovely gentleman knew the truth.... But I could have kissed him. I really could have.
At lunchtime today my cabin fever had hit an all time high so I convinced everyone that we should go out for lunch to ASK pizza. They have a three course kids meal with fun pack for £5.95 - more importantly, they have pizza for me and I don't have to cook or wash dishes.
I always believe that these excursions to restaurants will be fun. They seldom are. They usually involve a lot of stern whispering of 'sit down', 'don't shout', 'stop stabbing your brother with the knife' type of conversations.
This was no different. Son 2 has no idea about volume control and must shout everything he says. So I told him that we were secret agents and that everyone else in the restaurant were potential baddies who might overhear our secret plans unless he whispers. He then spent the rest of the lunch pointing at our neighbouring tables and shouting: 'Are they baddies mummy?'
What's more, ASK pizza Newbury is apparently staffed by people who donated their brains to a medical research facility. We got there at 1pm. We left at 4pm. Three hours in a pizza joint. With two kids. I could have whipped up the dough and made all the pizzas for the entire establishment in that time.
Anyway, despite my husband putting his angry eyes in with extra loud sighs thrown in for dramatic effect, the children were actually reasonable, thanks to playing eye spy and two little dickie birds on repeat cycle. It wasn't fun but we were surviving it.
Then the table next to us got up and the old gentlemen turned to our boys and said: 'You two were immaculately behaved. I think I'll send my grandson to come and live with your parents for a while so that he can learn some manners." (This despite him being labelled as chief baddie by son 2)
PREEN. Yes, we are indeed perfect parents. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. With two little angels who are the height of perfect children. Well done us.
If only the lovely gentleman knew the truth.... But I could have kissed him. I really could have.
14 Feb 2009 18:16 Move over romance, pass the remote controlled robot
Five years ago today I was lying in a hospital, staring at a small wrinkled creature who despite being only a few hours old was already demonstrating drama queen tendancies. My first born. I was a mother. I was bewildered and very, very tired.
Son 1 had very, very nearly been born on Friday the 13th (which might explain some of his devil like tendancies from time to time) but just made it into Valentine's Day. We should have called him Romeo. We didn't.
It was an amazing Valentine's Day. I got a brand new baby, an enormous bunch of roses and a shiny eternity ring from my lovely husband to say congratulations on pushing a 7lb 9oz lump out of my fanoir without saying fuck too many times.
Since then, the romantic music and candlelit dinners of Valentine's past have been replaced with the noisy toys and family birthday meals of hotdogs with jam donuts. Even if we have managed to remember that it's Valentine's Day, it's usually a card and small pressie thrown at each other as we charge around trying to find batteries for a new birthday toy. By the time evening comes, we're so knackered, the thought of going out or doing anything remotely amorous gets shunted in favour of lolling in front of the TV with a bottle of wine.
This year has been less romantic than that.
Today my husband completely omitted to get me anything - not even a card. This is very unlike him. He is usually the excellent gift giver and I am rubbish. I however got him a card and tiny red hot water bottle with a heart on it (because he keeps whinging that he's the only person in our house without a hot water bottle and that he has to warm his cold feet on me). In the past if I'd had no card or gift for Valentine's day I would have pretended that I didn't care but secretly would. This year I genuinely don't care.
All I want is for the batteries of the sodding new Wall.E remote control robot to die, die, die because it is the loudest, most obnoxious toy I've ever had the misfortune of coming across.
And I want the children to go to bed. The whinging has been going non stop since 7am. Son 1, the birthday boy, isn't 100% well. So he didn't want to go to the zoo or science museum (which was our plan). He didn't really want to go get the fish for his new fish tank. All he wanted to do was play game after game of Zingo, another new present (which thankfully is quieter than the Wall.E toy). That and accompany me for a trip around Sainsburys. I spent a small fortune on crap so that my husband can feed the children all of next week. He's taken half term off so that I can work. The only way any of them will survive is if there are snacks and plenty of them.
While in Sainsburys, I attempted another vague stab at romance by buying fillet steak and bits to go with it, pink champagne and some Gu chocolate puddings so that we can have a romantic Valentine's meal. But I think my husband would have preferred a curry and a shag.
Anyway, time to go bathe small beasts before transforming into a sex goddess. I fear my brown Tesco tracky bottoms that have shrunk to half way up my calf, set off nicely against my blue socks and baggy jumper, might not set the right tone for the evening. Wish me luck.
Son 1 had very, very nearly been born on Friday the 13th (which might explain some of his devil like tendancies from time to time) but just made it into Valentine's Day. We should have called him Romeo. We didn't.
It was an amazing Valentine's Day. I got a brand new baby, an enormous bunch of roses and a shiny eternity ring from my lovely husband to say congratulations on pushing a 7lb 9oz lump out of my fanoir without saying fuck too many times.
Since then, the romantic music and candlelit dinners of Valentine's past have been replaced with the noisy toys and family birthday meals of hotdogs with jam donuts. Even if we have managed to remember that it's Valentine's Day, it's usually a card and small pressie thrown at each other as we charge around trying to find batteries for a new birthday toy. By the time evening comes, we're so knackered, the thought of going out or doing anything remotely amorous gets shunted in favour of lolling in front of the TV with a bottle of wine.
This year has been less romantic than that.
Today my husband completely omitted to get me anything - not even a card. This is very unlike him. He is usually the excellent gift giver and I am rubbish. I however got him a card and tiny red hot water bottle with a heart on it (because he keeps whinging that he's the only person in our house without a hot water bottle and that he has to warm his cold feet on me). In the past if I'd had no card or gift for Valentine's day I would have pretended that I didn't care but secretly would. This year I genuinely don't care.
All I want is for the batteries of the sodding new Wall.E remote control robot to die, die, die because it is the loudest, most obnoxious toy I've ever had the misfortune of coming across.
And I want the children to go to bed. The whinging has been going non stop since 7am. Son 1, the birthday boy, isn't 100% well. So he didn't want to go to the zoo or science museum (which was our plan). He didn't really want to go get the fish for his new fish tank. All he wanted to do was play game after game of Zingo, another new present (which thankfully is quieter than the Wall.E toy). That and accompany me for a trip around Sainsburys. I spent a small fortune on crap so that my husband can feed the children all of next week. He's taken half term off so that I can work. The only way any of them will survive is if there are snacks and plenty of them.
While in Sainsburys, I attempted another vague stab at romance by buying fillet steak and bits to go with it, pink champagne and some Gu chocolate puddings so that we can have a romantic Valentine's meal. But I think my husband would have preferred a curry and a shag.
Anyway, time to go bathe small beasts before transforming into a sex goddess. I fear my brown Tesco tracky bottoms that have shrunk to half way up my calf, set off nicely against my blue socks and baggy jumper, might not set the right tone for the evening. Wish me luck.
10 Feb 2009 18:24 The fat envelope has arrived
It came in today's post with a satisfying thunk through the door. It contained a letter saying that my application was successful and that I've been offered a berth on the race. It also had a long contract outlining just how much it's going to cost me, my commitments and many other scary things. So I promptly signed it, enclosed a cheque for
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