This will be a very brief post.
Have jumped around the decades a little this half term. Despite being a married-mother -of-two thirty-something-year-old, I have been living it up like a twenty year old organising my sister's hen do in London. As a result, I now look like a well worn fortysomething. However, these life lessons aren't just etched on my face. With the clarity that only three bottles of fizz can give you, I realised a few home truths about men through the course of the hen night (dinner/burlesque show/ club).
1) If they're hot and they know it, they're probably knobs. This was the guy that had us all wondering whether we should be married at all (not just the bride to be):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9OmJwzt1Qyg&feature=related He would be welcome to leave dirty rings around the bath in my house.
However, when he came in to the VIP area after the show, he wanted nothing to do with the clacking hens and did not appear to speak a word of English. Strange. I thought we were irresistible.
2) Never underestimate a man who can rollerskate.
This guy http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oNlFiw1lNW0&feature=PlayList&p=E5CFA40365B6D254&playnext=1&index=20 divorced his skate partner 23 years ago but they still perform together in post-marital bliss. He was not averse to clacking hens and took my sister up on the stage to perform move #17.
Despite appearances, we were all slightly in love with him by the end of the night.
3) A man's memory is inversely proportionate to the amount of time he has been married.
As expected, I wrote a long series of 'Mr & Mrs' questions for my future brother in law. He was slightly nonplussed (being American, he wasn't aware of the 'Mrs & Mrs' genre) and slightly bemused by the question about the name of the bride's 'blanky'. My sister has never had a 'blanky'; I'd copied and pasted the questions from another hen night I'd been to and forgotten to delete that one. He had visions of all sorts of post-wedding revelations: blankies, toe nail eating, ex husbands.... However, despite his misgivings, the groom performed impeccably and was not only able to name dates and times of significant events but also longitude and latitude, what my sister was wearing, music playing and current weather. We were impressed.
Returning home, smelling slightly bad and looking forward to a tearful reunion with husband and children (I was right about the tears - oh they must punish you for fun had away), I thought it might be nice to run through the questions with DH after nine years of marriage. Foolish error.
Which leads me on to today's list:
THINGS MY HUSBAND HAS FORGOTTEN:
1) His mother's middle name. Which is why, when I proudly announced to her that DD1's middle name was 'Elizabeth' in her honour, she replied: 'That's lovely, dear. But my middle name's Diane.'
2) Our first wedding anniversary. Which is why we nearly didn't make it to our second. He would not forget again.
3) Our anniversary last year. Which is why he was slightly confused but nonetheless happy to go out for dinner midweek. He will not be forgetting again.
THINGS MY HUSBAND NEVER FORGETS
1) How long it has been since we last had sex.
2) Points scored by Wales in every Six Nations match ever played.
3) How many times he has driven when we've gone out. This is largely so he can reduce #1.
Sunday 22 February 2009
Tuesday 10 February 2009
I LOVE LISTS
I am a 'stand up at meetings/bona fide' addict of the following:
1) ham and HP sauce sandwiches (I want flavour, carbs and convenience in one)
2) cheap red wine (I want to get drunk quicker)
3) Gossip Girl (I want to teach at a High School that cool)
4) Lists.
I have always made lists. My mum has kept one that I made for my little sister when I was 4 and she was 2 1/2 months. It read:
7.00am Get up
7.10am Drink milk
7.30am Lie on Mat
7.40am Go to Sleep.
Today, I am in turmoil because (due to snow days) I didn't finish last week's 'list' so it rolled over to this week.
So, in no particular order (ok .. chronological/ ranked by use/ alphabetical), here are my top three lists:
1) The Conception Database. It's no coincidence that both of my girls were born in February. They are the product of an excel spreadsheet. I spent countless hours devising a database that worked out maternity leave vs childcare costs vs amount of time off anyway due to summer holidays. There was a column titled 'SEX'. That's not a joke. So whilst other seduction rites might involve music, wine and romance, mine was a permutation of maximum maternity£ divided by maximum time off x gestation. It was a case of 'Honey, it's May. Time to have sex!'.
2) The Lightbulb Inventory. I have a Household Management File. It makes me feel like I can manage a house which at any given moment has two children, one husband, dry rot, rising damp (why can't one cancel the other out?), two dogs, an ageing cat, three horses, various relatives visiting from other continents, an overflowing septic tank (the last two aren't related - I hope....) and lightbulbs. So the very first (and possibly only time) my mother-in-law offered to have the children overnight, my husband waved them off and raced inside (trousers virtually around ankles - it was May, after all) to find me making an inventory of lightbulbs. What else do you do with your first child-free hour for three and a half years?
3) The Packing List. Lists aren't official until they're laminated. Unfortunately, my addiction is co-dependent upon the laminator at work. So, pride of place in the Household Management File went to the 'Holiday List' printed on a jaunty shade of pink and laminated to within an inch of its life. It was a masterpiece detailing every household item which needed to accompany two infant daughters whenever they left the house; from a two week stay with the grandparents in America to a weekend with friends in London to a trip to Sainsbury's on a Wednesday afternoon. And every excursion was prologued by a dusting off of the list and assembling of various tupperware pots of pureed pear, petit filous and sudocreme. So when we got ready for our holiday in July (two weeks in a villa with friends and their two boys), I dusted off the list in February - preparation is key - and began assembling. Pureed pear ... they were now partial to kettle chips and beer; Petit filous ... needed five pots at least before they were full; sudocreme ... not a nappy in sight. The 'list' was redundant. Having been used to travelling with the amount of luggage which normally accompanies the Beckhams, I was now a footloose and 'filous' free. I need a 'list fix'. So here is my list for today:
THINGS I RATHER REGRET ON A TUESDAY AFTERNOON
1) Agreeing that Blossom (nearly three) can choose a name for the (imminent) kitten. She's settled on Jesus.
2) Twanging my own bra strap in a Senior Management Meeting after school. I was engrossed in new budget forecasts (actually, that's worse than the strap admission), it was itching so I gave it a snap. It made the Head jump.
3) Starting this blog. It is now item #43 on my 'To Do' list along with watching all the 'Gossip Girl's on Sky Plus, throwing out all the Petit Filous which expired in July, buying kettle chips, ham, hp sauce and red wine and updating the lightbulb inventory. Thank god it's not May!
Saturday 7 February 2009
PINK IS THE COLOUR
Pink was the colour of my newly five year old's dress that she wore to her birthday party - cinema and pizza with three friends. Pink was also the colour of her tights, top, cardigan and hair band. She got to choose her outfit.
Pink was the colour of Little Girl#3's vomit half way through the 20 mile journey to the cinema. Cue much retching and scraping off of vomit with used wrapping paper (why, oh why did I celebrate the day I stopped carrying babywipes in my handbag? And why, oh why in the name of all that's holy was her vomit pink?).
Pink was the colour of my cheeks in the cinema as seventeen children all around us kept asking "Eeewwww... What's that smell?". Wrapping paper is not up to a babywipe job.
Pink was the colour of my cream top after an overambitious trip to the Ice Cream Factory. Damn that strawberry sauce and those tiny Pizza Hut bowls!
Blue was the colour of my language after I returned three oversugared little girls home (I hope mum of Little Girl #3 didn't think that plastic bag had party favours in it?) only to have my smug triumph (as sole party chaperone) destroyed by husband howling about the state of his car and weeping into a bottle of Febreeze.
Pink was the colour of Little Girl#3's vomit half way through the 20 mile journey to the cinema. Cue much retching and scraping off of vomit with used wrapping paper (why, oh why did I celebrate the day I stopped carrying babywipes in my handbag? And why, oh why in the name of all that's holy was her vomit pink?).
Pink was the colour of my cheeks in the cinema as seventeen children all around us kept asking "Eeewwww... What's that smell?". Wrapping paper is not up to a babywipe job.
Pink was the colour of my cream top after an overambitious trip to the Ice Cream Factory. Damn that strawberry sauce and those tiny Pizza Hut bowls!
Blue was the colour of my language after I returned three oversugared little girls home (I hope mum of Little Girl #3 didn't think that plastic bag had party favours in it?) only to have my smug triumph (as sole party chaperone) destroyed by husband howling about the state of his car and weeping into a bottle of Febreeze.
Friday 6 February 2009
Endings ... and ...Beginnings
I have just had my last visit from the Health Visitor. My almost three year old baby girl has been 'signed off'' and I am officially 'babyless'. Last night my best friend had a baby girl and the life neatness of this and the resulting overwhelming combination of sadness/relief for the former and joy/jealousy for the latter was the nudge I needed to start a blog.
Visits from the health visitor have this life changing effect on me. Our health visitor is an anomaly on two counts. Firstly, he's a man which means that he goes through that little red book with an even redder pen changing all the feminine pronouns to masculine with militant precision. As in: Your Health Visitor is ___________ and you can contact her him at: ... ... . Secondly, despite the fact that 'reassuring manner' must come pretty near the top of the job specification, you come away from every appointment convinced that you are suffering from severe post natal depression (even when your child is two and a half) and said child has cerebral palsy/ADHD and food allergies. Conversations go something like this:
HV: So, is Araminta/Liam/Colin holding a spoon?
Mum: Mmmm, I suppose so?
HV: Good, good. Because that's one of the signs of muscular dystrophy and we're seeing an awful lot of that recently.
Mum: Silence. Remembering that Araminta/Liam/Colin still eats fishfingers with his/her fingers. Now convinced that Araminta/Liam/Colin has cerebral palsy/ADHD and food allergies.
My girlfriends and I have a pact. After every visit, we phone each other with reassurance that you are not suicidal; that everyone does not know that you are severely depressed whilst you are blissfully unaware; that you child is developmentally normal and that we all still eat fishfingers with our fingers.
Perhaps to stave off the 'pnd' diagnosis, I was always slightly manic before his visits and raced around slapping on touche eclat ("baby is sleeping through from 10 days"), washing the kitchen floor ("i am domestic goddess") and frantically hiding all the dummies/ expressing kit etc ("no nipple confusion here"). I would then sit at the kitchen table, a vision of serenity, nodding knowledgeably about thrush and routines. I did the same at my 'booking in' appointment with the midwife. I thought she had to 'approve' my pregnancy and give me a licence to bear children. Hence the immaculate house, freshly baked cake and lies about units of alcohol drunk.
But times have moved on. Like most of the country, we had a snow day yesterday. As I'm a teacher, this doesn't fill me with the same dread other working parents experience. But it did mean I could schedule Blossom's three year check. HV said he would call by late afternoon giving me five straight hours to apply pledge and touche eclat. However, as the snow moved in, he rang just before lunch to say he would come straight over as he was finishing early. I was bare faced, the children were bare arsed (we have three wardrobe changes before lunch) and the spaniel was dripping dirty melting snow apologetically all over the kitchen floor. I ran through my revision notes on thrush and routines and pasted on a beatific smile. High points of the visit were DD1 playing openly with pliers, DD2 refusing to be weighed/ measured/ answer to her name or desist from a break dancing routine on the floor and HV stepping in cat sick on the way out. I think my baby licence may be revoked.
However, after he left, my overwhelming emotion was not shame but sadness. No more baby weigh ins - I've always measured my success as a mother by centiles. 'Top 2% .. good, good'. He's right. I am depressed. But it's Post Baby Depression.
So before I go and visit my best friend with her baby so new she's still got the tags on, I wanted to write my first post. As a reminder that I now have 27 minutes uninterrupted in which to write this. And as a reminder that there will be new milestones and I will have this blog, rather than a little red book, to mark them with.
Visits from the health visitor have this life changing effect on me. Our health visitor is an anomaly on two counts. Firstly, he's a man which means that he goes through that little red book with an even redder pen changing all the feminine pronouns to masculine with militant precision. As in: Your Health Visitor is ___________ and you can contact her him at: ... ... . Secondly, despite the fact that 'reassuring manner' must come pretty near the top of the job specification, you come away from every appointment convinced that you are suffering from severe post natal depression (even when your child is two and a half) and said child has cerebral palsy/ADHD and food allergies. Conversations go something like this:
HV: So, is Araminta/Liam/Colin holding a spoon?
Mum: Mmmm, I suppose so?
HV: Good, good. Because that's one of the signs of muscular dystrophy and we're seeing an awful lot of that recently.
Mum: Silence. Remembering that Araminta/Liam/Colin still eats fishfingers with his/her fingers. Now convinced that Araminta/Liam/Colin has cerebral palsy/ADHD and food allergies.
My girlfriends and I have a pact. After every visit, we phone each other with reassurance that you are not suicidal; that everyone does not know that you are severely depressed whilst you are blissfully unaware; that you child is developmentally normal and that we all still eat fishfingers with our fingers.
Perhaps to stave off the 'pnd' diagnosis, I was always slightly manic before his visits and raced around slapping on touche eclat ("baby is sleeping through from 10 days"), washing the kitchen floor ("i am domestic goddess") and frantically hiding all the dummies/ expressing kit etc ("no nipple confusion here"). I would then sit at the kitchen table, a vision of serenity, nodding knowledgeably about thrush and routines. I did the same at my 'booking in' appointment with the midwife. I thought she had to 'approve' my pregnancy and give me a licence to bear children. Hence the immaculate house, freshly baked cake and lies about units of alcohol drunk.
But times have moved on. Like most of the country, we had a snow day yesterday. As I'm a teacher, this doesn't fill me with the same dread other working parents experience. But it did mean I could schedule Blossom's three year check. HV said he would call by late afternoon giving me five straight hours to apply pledge and touche eclat. However, as the snow moved in, he rang just before lunch to say he would come straight over as he was finishing early. I was bare faced, the children were bare arsed (we have three wardrobe changes before lunch) and the spaniel was dripping dirty melting snow apologetically all over the kitchen floor. I ran through my revision notes on thrush and routines and pasted on a beatific smile. High points of the visit were DD1 playing openly with pliers, DD2 refusing to be weighed/ measured/ answer to her name or desist from a break dancing routine on the floor and HV stepping in cat sick on the way out. I think my baby licence may be revoked.
However, after he left, my overwhelming emotion was not shame but sadness. No more baby weigh ins - I've always measured my success as a mother by centiles. 'Top 2% .. good, good'. He's right. I am depressed. But it's Post Baby Depression.
So before I go and visit my best friend with her baby so new she's still got the tags on, I wanted to write my first post. As a reminder that I now have 27 minutes uninterrupted in which to write this. And as a reminder that there will be new milestones and I will have this blog, rather than a little red book, to mark them with.
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