"Back In One PIece (Or Should I Say Pieces...?)"

Dumpie and his 'Mini-Me'

Having arrived back from our trip to Florida a few days ago, I am still dealing with the fall out:  never ending laundry, persistent jetlag, and a lingering sense of injustice and anger over the hellish return journey back to the UK.

The flight itself was of course a nightmare.  How could it not be? Though Dumps, the baby and I were given bulkhead seats for the express purpose of using the pull down cot, the raised eyebrow of the blond cabin steward when I timidly asked whether she might lower the baby cot for me to put Squit into, said it all.  It weren't happening. No way.  Not once she'd clocked the jump suited fat baby clambering on my lap waving his pushpop dangerously close to the ceiling lights.  So I resigned myself to 9.5 hours with a 12 kilo bomb on my lap.

(I say bomb because every time I slightly shifted in my seat to get the blood back into my extremities and prevent what I thought was going to be a certain case of record breaking deep vein thrombosis - Squitty Bang Bang's eyes would flash open with a blood curdling wail and I'd have to - as if against the clock in some sort of game show from Hell - try and attempt to manoever a breast out surreptitiously and stick it in his mouth before the guy to my right clocked yet another eyeful.  I would bet money, that even now, if pressed, the fellow could draw from memory a detailed representation of my mammaries.)

Egg, just like on the flight out, was seated one row behind us. However this time it wasn't an impressionable young boy from Leeds who was blessed with an unending stream of aeronautical facts - some of which were true and some which were clearly invented on the spot - but a young nursing mother who I suspect may not have been as eager a listener.

Luckily this boy had Egg to guide him through his first ever plane journey....!

And I also suspect, that despite my most stringent pleading and threatening, Egg once again spent his 9.5 hours watching age inappropriate movies and horrible tat ('Breaking Dawn' anyone?)....urghh.

At any rate, after countless spills of warm orange juice on my lovely camel-coloured cashmere wrap, and sticky fingers from abandoned lollipops stuck throughout my now matted hair, I was ready to disembark.  But I hadn't counted on the descent from hell (that's twice I've used that word...it's got to mean something).

The captain appeared to be playing 'Pin the Plane on the Runway', and I wouldn't have been surprised to have discover that somewhere over the Atlantic an impromptu Tequila shot party had taken place in the cockpit with a few of the more randy Virgin cabin staff.  I mean I've seen those ads on telly...  That is the only excuse I can come up with for what was a three parts comedy/7 parts horror landing.

As I always do in these situations, I looked to the nearest steward to see what her reaction was and the fact that she was white as a ghost and peering anxiously out the window every few seconds did nothing to instill any any confidence.  However I didn't have long to ponder my potential demise.

My stomach was doing those uneasy flips and felt that deep dark nausea edge its way into my guts and it was all I could do not to throw up right then and there.  For the moment the sickness trumped the fear and I just concentrated on keeping my lips tightly pursed.

I needn't have bothered.  Moments later as we clunkily crash-landed onto the runway (thank you Lord) the baby promptly expelled my nipple from his mouth and chucked up all over himself, me, and poor Dumpie who was thankfully passed out and oblivious.

I wanted to die, but instead graciously whispered 'thank you' to the sweet lady beside me who sympathetically handed over her lovely baby blanket for me to sop up the mess.  Her kindness almost made me cry.

Hanging out with Grandpa in the Florida sun

Luckily however, I saved my tears for a half hour later, when I suddenly found myself in the middle of an impromptu row with a furious 'Chav Dad' and several sympathetic female supporters.  You see I had been given the wrong pushchair (identical model and everything) at the gates when we landed and unbeknownst to me this 'Chav Dad' had specially requested that HIS pushchair be brought to the gates, and you can imagine where this is going....

With an "Oi!  You!  That's my pushchair!  What the ______!!" it all began.  I found myself being verbally assaulted in the most horrendous way across several queues in Customs by an almost frothing at the mouth man.  Women starting shouting their support and telling him to shut up which (as with these types of men) only made him angrier.  With tears burning in my eyes I realised it was futile to defend myself and instead frantically began unhooking the baby from the chair and trying to ignore the braying crowd around me. Two officials were suddenly upon the scene and had to escort me away, at which point I did what I almost never do:  I burst into tears.

My world travellers

I don't know whether it was the hours spent traveling with three kids on my own, the fact that my baby and I were covered in vomit, or the fact that a complete stranger (and fellow parent!  WTF?!) had been so vile to me...but whatever it was I couldn't help it.  Thankfully, the story has a happy(ish) ending, as we were escorted to the front of the 200+ person queue, given the next available agent, and our taxi driver was waiting right outside the gates to escort us home into the loving arms of the husband.

You can't ask for more than that.  You also can't ask me to travel several thousand miles on my own with my brood again for a long time.  I mean a long time.

Made it!

First Easter Bunny...lifelong chocolate addiction

48 Hours Until Fasten Your Seatbelts

You know when it has been SO long since you've done something (ahem...cough...uncomfortable silence...ie. this blog) that you can't possibly bring yourself to pick it up and do it again because it's so utterly shameful that so much time has passed?

Well there's nothing like an impending long-haul trip (as a SOLO PARENT!) to kick-start the fear, which in turn kick-starts the adrenaline, bypassing any lingering feelings of guilt and shame, and propelling you straight into the arena of 'public broadcasting' in the vain hope that misery shared is misery halved (or have I taken that one out of context?)

At any rate, I'm headed to the 'U. S. of Bloomin' A.' for a few weeks with:  an eight year old, a six year old, a 14 month old, three suitcases, one pushchair, 68 nappies, a too-small-never-worn Abercrombie and Fitch string bikini, and a heavy heart laced with dread.  You see, the husband isn't coming this time.  And the prospect of holding (or let's be honest, RESTRAINING) a 14 month old (who is under the illusion that he's two) on my lap for nine hours with no 'pretending to be sleeping' husband in the next seat to whom I can offload the fat baby to...well, it's no wonder I'm scared.

But I'm nothing if not determined (ask any salesgirl who has initially held the foolish notion that they would not be issuing me a refund), and given that the reward for journeying through hell and back (well you can't discount the return journey can you?) is some much needed time hanging out with my dearest Dad, the much-beloved procurer of copious amounts of chocolate eggs and other Easter goodies (not to mention much needed good advice!) - I'm just going to have to grimace and bear it.  Somehow.

Life being what it is, I was not the least bit surprised when the fat baby leaned over in bed just a few moments ago and puked all over the husband...and the clean sheets.  Of course he did.

Anyone want to take bets on whether I'll be arriving in Florida smelling of vomit, clad in biscuit crumbs (which over the total 14 hour journey time will mean I'll have plenty of time for it to harden into some sort of putrified 'mummy-like' mess) whilst trying to persuade a rather stern U.S. Customs agent that I do indeed have permission from my husband to be taking my kids out of the country despite being not in possession of the necessary letter - due to the fact that I was too busy trying to surreptitiously empty out Egg and Dumpies carry-ons of liquid glue, remote control cars and toy guns to remember to stuff it in my bag.

And so it goes...

Calling All Remaining Passengers...

We are at Mumbai Airport about to board a 9 hour plane ride home. Oh my. That last 'Slice' (sugar masquerading as as a mango drink - which the monsters are now totally re-addicted to) is now looking like a very bad idea. Dumpie is trying to dive bomb my handbag which he knows is stuffed with 'plane treats' and Egg is still pouting about having been shamed into spending 40 of his precious rupees on an airport ice cream cone for he and his brother.

Meanwhile The Fat Baby sleeps. This is not good. I mean it is, but there is no way he is now going to sleep a wink on the plane. The other thing there is no way he is going to do is fit in the bloody bassinet - even if I could squish him in there. On the way over we had to fold his legs into a yoga position (cross legged) and he's even bigger than he was three weeks ago.

All this and on three hours sleep last night. Rock and roll. Wish me luck.

Alls Well That Ends In Chocolate

Woke this morning to the sound of breaking breaking glass...on my head! Yep, the baby had obviously grown tired of sticking his little fingers up my nose and in my ears, and his usual foolproof method of punching and pulling my hair hadn't managed to rouse me from my delicious dream, so my 11 month old grabbed a nearby glass and smashed it over my head. That worked. I woke up screaming and cursing.

I'm pleased to report though that the day got progressively better: aloo parathas, lime pickle and curd for brekkie, followed by swimming in the sea with the monsters in the afternoon then an almost two hour 'porno-massage' which saw me begging the masseuse for one last session before we leave in a week.

Yet another lovely dinner on the beach was marred only by dumps taking up with another little boy (older, a hustler) and haranguing people on the beach for money in return for jokes, riddles and mind games. Oh the shame. He made 30 rupees though and is mildly pissed off that the takings weren't divided fairly down the middle - esp as dumps was used as bait to soften the marks up:)

Anyway a day that ends with the sound of waves in our ears and a still warm homemade brownie propped up next to us is no bad thing.

Sexy Swollen Stump Seeks Solace

Upon awaking this morning and feeling the brush of cotton over my left leg I let out a yelp. First it was the initial pain of fabric rubbing against a painful skin wound - then it was the horror that overnight my formerly svelte toe-ringed calf had been switched with that of an injured quadruple-bosomed old Greek lady or some such.

Very disconcerting.


And don't even get me started on what it's like to sleep three on a bed (in what is an Indian 'double' - roughly the size of a spoiled American teenagers 'single').

Somehow we neglected to remember to pack a portable sleeping solution for 'The Fat Baby' (as he's affectionately referred to these days). Turns out we also neglected to pack enough baby snacks and food too. But astonishingly we remembered to pack all manner of computer and gadget-related hardware and masses of accompanying plugs and adapters. Go figure. (Hey we may be suffering somewhat but darn it we will have a digital memory of it all and musical accompaniment no less...)

Anyway, the husband is off to his second rabies shot at the hospital and then on to a beach in north Goa to meet a friend.

The Fat Baby and I have a day to fill. Think I may as well concede defeat, go buy a canister of his beloved sour cream and onion Pringles and find a shady hammock somewhere where I can nurse my fetid leg in private.

Only eight hours and eleven minutes until happy hour.

"Hardcore Holiday?...or Paradise (Re)Visited?!"

Paradise and plentiful grub...

We’re currently smack-dab-in-the-middle of a much longed for three week trip to Goa, India.

Are we having fun?  You better believe it.  Is this holiday without its trials and tribulations?  Heck no.

For one, the husband was bitten a few days ago by a potentially rabid dog who had the unfortunate inclination to chase his light purple Enfield down a village road whilst he was ferrying our eldest son Egg.  By managing NOT to run the thing over the husband was rewarded by four canine shaped souvenirs in his right leg and a surprise trip to the local hospital for tetanus and rabies shots.

Rabies or just a bloody mess?

Not wanting to feel left out, yesterday whilst saddled with a 12 kilo+ baby tied to my front and a gadget and book heavy backpack slung over my already overburdened shoulders (and shamefully, decked out in a pair of bloody useless silver sequinned FitFlops – which Auntie Ba has scolded me for even owning – but probably for different reasons) I took a rather nasty tumble on a little sharp stoned pathway to the beach.  One minute I was gazing at the too beautiful to be real backdrop of sea and giant rocks, and the next I was doubled over in pain with a cut up left leg and a potentially sprained left foot.  Nice.  There was only one thing for it:  “a large Kingfisher and two glasses thank you very much sir.”

Of course as I pointed out to the husband, if called upon, we would make a most excellent team in a three-legged race.  (Either that or comedy fodder for diners watching us hobble down the beach at sunset for dinner – each sporty a gammy leg.)

The little guy is getting into the whole beach bum look....

Thanks to shoddy electrics and ‘do-it-yourself’ wiring, the husband also managed to give himself not one but two killer 220 voltage shocks this morning, trying to repair the broken fairy lights strung across the boys room.  I winced in sympathy having done the same thing myself a few days ago.  Will we never learn?

Being here with the baby has been an interesting learning curve in holiday expectation vs. cold hard truth.  For example, save the hour in the morning and afternoon when the baby slumbers, he is ‘on’ full-time.  Infused with seemingly endless energy and enthusiasm for the Indian subcontinent, he delights in putting absolutely everything in his mouth at the moment – be it a pepper shaker in the shape of a die, the nozzle of the 50 factor sun spray or a shiny 2 Rupee coin that has likely been anywhere and everywhere .

While the rest of us are eating like pigs and gorging on the rich delicious dals, channa’s  and kadai veg dishes mopped up with garlic cheese naan bread and washed down with fresh lemon soda’s and not-quite-ice-cold Kingfishers, the big fat baby is becoming…well, less so.  He’s decided that he no longer deems himself infantile enough to be fed baby porridge or anything mushy for that matter.  Instead, he seems to prefer omelettes and pancakes these days – and inexplicably, sour cream and onion crisps.

In the ten days we have been here I have been in the gorgeous Arabian Sea just once, and have sunbathed exactly 0 times.  Instead I have had hot Indian Chai knocked over on my leg, been smeared with dairy cream all over my clean new sarong, had my hair pulled out in clumps by sticky honey coated fingers, and have had my bikini top covered in vomit.

I am officially one of ‘those women’ now, who stare wistfully at the twenty-something year olds who, like show ponies, stroll up and down the beach in slinky bikini’s, aviators and glance at us bedraggled and kiddie-bound types with a combination of horror and relief.
When I ran into an old friend for the first time - the local girl who runs her own little beauty shop and does the best waxing in the world…EVER, she looked at me, clocked the baby, the unwashed and un-brushed hair, and the food-smeared t-shirt and smiled sadly.  “You are looking very different” she said motioning to the face.  “Yeah…no sleep for a year and a very fat and energetic baby will do this to you” I answered drolly – both of us trying to crack a smile but neither of us finding it particularly funny.

Room with a view...

Ah well.  At least I’m on holiday, in the sun, and can hear the crash of waves from our bedroom.  There’s much to be said for that.

And don’t even get me started on the ‘porno-massages’ the husband and I have accidentally on purpose had.  That’s another story for another day.

"Carnage"

Fashioning the 'Birthday Breakfast Table' for Dumps Thursday night now feels like a distant memory!

It's nearing midnight and I sit here tentatively typing on my laptop in bed - the baby breathing heavily beside me and the husband on the other side of him also having a troubled sleep.

I am petrified that I have ahead of me a repeat of what occurred last night.  I'm still in shock, still certainly traumatised, and doubtless still reek of the carnage of the past twenty-four hours.  Literally.

But let me back up a notch.  Last I wrote I was frantically preparing for Dumpie's 6th Birthday Party.  As it turned out, I pulled it off - more or less - but just barely (and certainly wouldn't have without the help of my sister 'Auntie Kenz' and her lovely ex-flatmate who came over to help fashion a riot of six little boys into some semblance of a party).

Suffice it to say it was HARDCORE though I did learn a few things about giving a birthday party for little boys which I thought might be helpful in case anyone is interested:

1.  DO NOT host the party in your home if it is a domicile you intend to keep living in after the party (however if moving vans are already parked in the drive and it's your last night before moving into new digs - then go for it - why not!)

2.  DO NOT give water guns as a party favour in the goody bags.

3.  DO NOT start the party serving up all manner of chocolates, treats and sweets on the heavily laden birthday table (ditto filling the 'pass the parcel' game with layers of cadbury's chocolate buttons)

4.  DO NOT allow the children to leave their seats using whatever means necessary during meal and snack time, thereby lessening the likelihood of finding remnants of popcorn, red velvet cake and apple juice smeared in carpets, mirrors and under sofas for days to come.

5.  DO NOT have the party last for more than an hour and a half.  Two and a half hours is just upping the likelihood of you offing yourself after the last messy little guest leaves.

finally...

6.  DO NOT have boys.

At any rate, I've made it through the birthday circuit for another year and Thursday night is but a hellish memory (I was up till 3am fashioning cupcakes and 'letter biscuits') now superseded by what occurred LAST night (sigh).

Thirty-Six (count 'em) Homemade White Chocolate and Vanilla Cupcakes 

I had just turned the lights out and was desperate to pass out given that i'd had but three hours sleep on Thursday night, and same again on Friday night given that the baby had spent from the hours of 2am until 7am projectile vomiting all over himself, me and the bed due to some sort of sudden viral onset.  Nightmare.

Having been relatively okay the rest of the weekend, I wasn't prepared for the sudden burst of what appeared to be enough pancake batter to feed a family of six issue forth from the baby last night.  I lost it.  I wanted to cry.  I cried out to the husband but he wasn't there.  He had alreadybolted to the toilet, dispensing with what sounded like an entire keg of beer being emptied into the bowl with great force.

I started to laugh manically (this is what happens when confronted with double pukage on 'no-hours-sleep' two out of three nights in a row.

Mopping the sick off myself, the baby and our bed proved a hateful task - almost resulting in a sympathetic puke by yours truly, and by that time the husband was back in bed, moaning with nausea and groaning in agony.

Before I could jump in the shower and clean myself off, I heard a great wail from downstairs, which had gone stereo by the time I finally raced into the boys bedroom to find Egg sat upright in his top bunk, projectile vomiting down through the ladder onto a horrified Dumpie who had been awoken by the heavy stream of puke raining down on his hair, face and whole person.

I started laughing like a maniac again.  How could I not?  It was utterly absurd.  The thought that I was stuck in house with everyone compulsively vomiting at the same time was just too much to mentally digest.

I didn't even know who to help first.  I decided that Egg still had some way to go in the vomiting olympics so I grabbed Dumpie out of bed and attempted to calm and change him.  He was of course by this point hysterical and now fully awake - the horror of what had happened hitting him with each new discovery of vomit on his body.  Poor guy.  j

Anyway I shan't bore you with the details.  I'm sure you can imagine how the night went, how I went, how this house currently smells (despite a whole day spent scrubbing, laundering and de-chunking...) and what my current mental state is.

Obviously the husband and children did not - could not - go to work or school today, so I played day nurse and basically devoted myself to the equivalent of cleaning the loos at Glastonbury.  All day.

I cannot say why I am the only one who didn't succumb to this nasty onslaught.

Oh wait a minute - yes I can.  Somebody has to clean up the mess.

The Birthday Boy and the 'Birthday Brudder' pre-pukage onslaught

"Oooh...I'm Wicked And I'm Laaaaaazy" - David Byrne (...and 'The Husband')

*Notice how the L.W.M. (lazy wife and mother) blends into her natural habitat :)

I just looked down at my wrist to see what time it is and discovered that today, for some inexplicable reason I'm wearing two watches.

(True...it's better than wearing two bra's at the same time - though come to think of it, there is much to be said for a firm bust line for a woman of my advancing age.)

Perhaps I'm subconsciously trying to eek out more time during the day so as to make even a tiny dent in the never ending list of daily errands I have breathing down my neck.

Or maybe I'm just so bone tired and at the end of my rope so as to not even be aware of such things anymore.

Perhaps by wearing two watches my subconscious is trying to (albeit stupidly and pointlessly...mostly the former) trying to give me twice as long today, to get everything done that I need ready by tomorrow - Dumpie's 6th birthday.

For tomorrow around 3:30pm, a gaggle of five and six year old little boys are going to descend upon our house for a birthday party.  Between now and then I have to not only bake thirty cupcakes to bring into Dumpie's class tomorrow morning, but wrap all the presents, clean the house, prepare party games and goody bags, blow up a ton of balloons, decorate the house, do the laundry, prepare a big meal in advance for the half dozen or so guests descending tomorrow night for 'Dumpie's/Dada's Traditional Shared Birthday Dinner Party', AND summon enough energy to conjure up the now traditional 'birthday breakfast table'.

I'm exhausted just thinking about it.

Which might explain why I jumped down the husbands throat this morning when he had the audacity to look up calmly from his breakfast porridge and declare that he'd come to the conclusion that he and I are both (wait for it)...LAZY.

I suppose he may have a point in one respect.  If I hadn't been feeling so 'lazy' this morning I believe there is a very good chance that one of us - or more likely the both of us - would have ended up in A&E.

As it was, I was too tired and disheartened to do more than admonish him for this totally untrue and demoralising statement.  Worst of all, I think he truly believes it.

There is nothing for it but for a fairy to come down right now and do a 'Freaky Friday' on us.

I would love nothing more than to suddenly blink my eyes and find myself sitting in some boring meeting right now, dealing with difficult employees and despairing of the work day ahead of me.

And the husband could:

a) change the dirty nappy the baby has festering at the moment
b) clean for the next four hours alongside the cleaner who has just arrived
c) do the laundry
d) race on foot to the mall half an hour away with cranky/bored/hungry/screaming baby to do last minute grocery/party shopping
e) come home and bake thirty cupcakes, a birthday cake, homemade birthday biscuits, a giant lasagna for tomorrow, and sort out dinner for tonight
f) wrap a dozen presents
g) blow up thirty odd balloons
h) make up the goody bags
i) fetch the children from school
j) clean up the boys bedroom and put away the mountain of clean clothes rising like Vesuvius in the middle of their carpet
k) etc...etc...etc.

For you see, at some point today the husband will get to leave the office and wander off somewhere in Soho to clear his head and get some lunch. And after work, he's meeting a friend for a drink.  Or two.

Not me.  Even as I type this, it's over the prostrate body of a nursing baby on my lap.  And make no mistake: alongside all the tasks listed above, I will be nursing, bathing, feeding, playing with and generally keeping out of harms way the aforementioned baby.  While I carry out all these tasks a chubby nine month old infant will either be on my lap, trying to climb my leg, or hanging off one or both nipples.

With enough coffee and a whole lot of determination I could probably get through the next 48 hours with my sanity intact.  But with the added handicap of a 9 month old joined-at-the-hip baby (who, I might add, has just entered that period of 'making strange' - meaning I can't even venture out of his sight or he'll go mental) I feel like a contestant on one of those crazy Japanese game shows...for which there's not even a decent prize if you win!

Or maybe I'm just lazy :)

"Come On...Hook A Brother Up!"

Nine months old and proud (yes, I am aware he looks like a toddler)

It's nice when you're reminded periodically throughout your marriage, exactly why you chose the partner you did.  Last night was one such time.

Already incredibly good natured about the twelve odd pound Squit who has been bunking down in the marital bed for nine months now (gulp), I am amazed that the husband can still keep a sense of humour when all about him, others are losing theirs (ahem...).

With all the chubby cuteness, precocious comedy value and squidgy fat cheeks to pinch (all the live long day) it is easy to forget that having a(nother) baby means that you willingly forego uninterrupted, delicious sleep for the foreseeable.  And this can make you cranky.  Especially in the middle of the night when said twelve pound squit is slapping you upside the head (why do all my baby boys do this??) demanding to be put back to sleep...courtesy of le nipple.

So, last night I just ignored the plaintive whining, covered my exposed facial parts with a forearm and tried to fall back asleep.  The Squit wasn't having it.  Nor was the husband.

"Come on...hook a brother up," the husband muttered.

I ignored this.

The husband repeated himself, this time with a plaintive tone creeping into his voice.

"Come on...hook a brother up!" 

It was all I could do not to snort out loud, but being bloody exhausted and half asleep, all I could manage at the time was a responding snuffle as I pulled the Squit close and made good on the request.

This morning I reminded the husband what he had said, and he barely remembered it - claiming he had probably been dreaming.

I daresay a new family catchphrase has been born.

"Email Egg"

Egg hard at 'work' in the dining room :)

The other day an email arrived in my inbox from my eldest son Egg, who was sequestered away in the dining room on his computer.  I thought he had been doing his homework but clearly he was dealing with more important matters:  his 'Christmas Wish List'.

Copy and pasted at the top of his email was this picture:

...and the following message:

dear mama and dada this is my favorite toy can we dicuss this one together.

LOVE EGGIE!

Bless.  It made me laugh out loud and I immediately forwarded it to my family for their amusement.  (Particularly endearing was the hopeful exclamation mark after his name.  A nice touch.)

Shortly after, Egg mooched on into the kitchen and sidled up to where I was still tapping away on my laptop, keeping one eye on the baby who was busy practising his Houdini skills by repeatedly wriggling and writhing his way out of the leather Abercrombie restraints I'd fashioned around his high chair.

"Umm Mama...did you get my email?" he enquired with a huge grin.

"Yes Egg.  It was very sweet.  I promise to think about it."

He yelped with glee then ran out of the kitchen without a backward glance.

Sometime thereafter I received another email from him, this one with a plethora of attachments.  Apparently he had been very busy online shopping and narrowed his wish list down to a manageable forty six attachments.  

Last night however I received this latest.  Best one yet if you ask me.  (Though clearly taking after his father he appears to have dispensed with any opening formalities):

this is actully what i want for christmas. TIP:you can get it from toys- r -us. 

i like it becuase it has 6 legs can shoot 3 different types of amo and can do a full 360 degree turn.

£69.99  

How very thoughtful of him to have provided this 'tip', included the price, and of course explained exactly why the best part of seventy quid should be dispensed with in these recessionary times for an object which will undoubtedly join all of the other broken remote-controlled has-beens in the corner of his bedroom.  

I have yet to fashion a response to Egg, but secretly am rather impressed with his computer skills.  Nice move blanking out the background.  I'm not even sure I know how to do that.  When I brought this up to the husband in bed last night, a proud smile danced across his face and you could tell he was secretly gloating that his amazing computer wizardry skills have traveled down the gene pool into our eldest.  I just better hope that he doesn't one day get hold of one of my credit cards and figure out the missing link between desire and wish fulfilment by way of Mastercard (sigh).