Friday, 24 August 2007

"Big Wink"

Now i know this may be an unsavoury subject to some, but there is just no getting round the fact that Monsieur L'Oeuf is currently somewhat obsessed over his 'winkie'. There - I've said it. Having mentioned before that I grew up in a family of fairly refined (if not a little rough n' tumble in the hair pulling and shoving department) little girls, this is all completely new to me...and rather strange.

I've always known that men have a close relationship to their nether-regions. Fair enough. If i had an extra appendage dangling about between my thighs 24/7, I imagine i'd be fairly aware of it as well. Nonetheless from a child psychology point of view, I am witnessing first hand just how far back this lifetime bond is created.

All this to say that I now have my ears perked for the thrice daily or so sing-song chime of,

"Big Wink...Big Wink"

This means that the winkie is out and is being fondly gazed upon or stroked as we both look, unstaring, at the engorged organ. Now in all fairness, yes, it is quite sizable, but between 3 year old thighs any girth is going to appear substantial. The point is, having Egg naked from the waist down for extended periods of time (due to ongoing toilet training measures) means that said winkie is just a little too accessible for my liking. I also realise that men never get over this fixation, and proof can be seen in such adult pursuits and purchases like motorcycles, electric guitars and 'Testerossa's'...need I say more? (Can you imagine if men never ceased such honest, forthright declarations of their bodily functions? You could be in meetings and the CEO would look down and exclaim joyfully to the assembled shareholders, "Big Wink...Big Wink". Oh but wait a minute - they kind of already do, don't they...just in much more elevated terminology and by flashing Rolex wrist candy and adjusting thousand dollar ties.)

Right now Egg is feeding Dumps his bowl of shreddies. I eat shreddies, so Egg now eats shreddies, and that means that Dumps does too. He prods a huge mouthful encouragingly towards Dumps tiny mouth,

"Come on chubby your cereal"

I don't blame Egg for calling him that, as he is a tad bit chubby (though wears it well, and only upon close examination of the deliciously squishy thighs does it become evident), but it's more his ear-splitting shrieks and squeals which befit the rooster comparison. He clearly loves his brother and the devotion is returned two-fold from Dumps. Several times in the past few days I have witnessed Dumps leaning in for an affectionate open-mouthed kiss and laying his head down on Egg's chest for a cuddle. There is nothing sweeter in the universe to behold.

As for today, I only have until 7pm or so to wait until the return of 'Dada' - a situation Egg is treating like the 'Second Coming'.

"Mama, when is Dada coming back?"

"Mama, how come Dada has to go away?"

"Mommy is it almost time for Dada to come back?"

This question is put forth several times an hour and it's starting to grate. However I am more intrigued by the fact that Egg has started to call me 'Mommy' instead of the usual 'Mama'. It's come out of nowhere, and Egg himself seems to delight in saying the word, using it as many times as he possibly can in any one sentence.

"Mommy, when can we go to the park with 'Diggerman' and dig some holes in the sand Mommy?"

I've asked him why he now calls me 'Mommy' and he says, "I dunno Mommy. But sometimes I will call you 'Patasha' too."

Alrighty then.

Wednesday, 22 August 2007

"Bath or Blog?...Blath or Bog?"

I find myself in the unique predicament of having to choose between bathing myself or expressing myself creatively. I can honestly say that I am unable to make a decision in this case, one way or the other. So I shall attempt what most modern women have to do in the modern age - make a compromise....that is, I shall write a wee little blog AND have a shortened (but no doubt needed) bathing session. See, who says a woman can't have it all?

Today I find myself mildly pleased and also somewhat lethargic. The pleased bit is due to the fact that a lot of my clothes are starting to hang off me, and that means that my 'baby weight' (ie. excess pounds put on by midnight KitKat indulgances and dipping into the Ben & Jerry's more times than was strictly necessary) is finally bidding adieu and my skinny jeans are starting to look the way the designers intended....Skinny...(and not like sausages stuffed into too-small casings).

On a slightly, but only slightly less superficial scale, is the hum-drum British weather, which as we speak resembles a mid-Novembers day: cold, rainy and utterly devoid of any warmth or well-being. On the news today was a segment featuring Brits who have had it with this climate and increasing violence in the capital and are emmigrating to countries like Australia, Spain and America. Jay and I on the other hand are in the process of searching for an over-priced, over-valued new abhode which will likely keep us wage slaves here for the rest of the days of our lives...with interest rates high enough to cause nosebleeds (sigh)...

But you don't want to hear about all that. Boring boring boring. What you really want to hear about are the two monsters I bet, and what latest catastrophes they have visited upon this household. Well, aside from the usual destruction and general mayhem that is our unscheduled everyday shenanigans, I am pleased to report that both boys are thriving. (The fact that with every day I am becoming less and less of a coherant, functioning person is beside the point I suppose.)

Dumpie has now become terribly particular about food and point blank refuses his morning porridge and any baby food. He has been revolting against my lackadaisical daily efforts by going on hunger strike the past two days and will only eat what either I am eating or Egg is. This means that Vegetable and Turkey Casserole was spat into my face at lunch in lieu of some of Egg's peanut butter sandwich. At dinner, the Beef Hotpot was tossed willy-nilly onto Jay's freshly washed jeans in favour of pizza and rocket salad with shaved parmesan.

Strawberries are in but melon is out. Grapes rock but blueberry muffins rule. Yesterday morning (see pic) I made Egg a lovely fruitplate upon request (hey - i'm a lazy bad mother and all that - but I can still see the value in asthetic meal presentations) for I'm nothing if not shambolic 4* service. Dumps immediately set about wailing and shrieking like a dying bat and for the life of me I could not quiet him. It was Egg who said,

"Mama, Dumps wants a fruit plate too"

pointing out the blatantly obvious solution, and minutes later the boys were happily ensconsed in their fruit-binging and pleased as pumpkins.

Well I could go on but I shan't. Next door in our tiny bathroom (where Dumps first entered our world a mere 9 months ago) is a slightly small bathtub going lukewarm and becoming less appealing by the minute. If I don't go now I fear I won't have another chance until Jay returns from his Paris trip Friday night. (Yep, the hubby gets to go to the City of Love sans wife and two monsters and drink wine to his hearts content and pretend he's a man about town for one night.)

I on the otherhand have to negotiate 36 hours of non-stop childcare with one bored toddler and one teething baby and two conspicuously absent aunties (I suspect they're hiding out because our 11th anniversary is coming up next week and they want to dodge the fateful request of, "Do you think you could watch the boys while we go out for hours and get twatted?" question...).

Don't blame them. If i were them I'd make up my excuses now.

Sunday, 19 August 2007

'Just CHILL Out Mama!'

My three year old expounds these words of wisdom to me on an almost daily basis now. Not sure where he got it from, but more often than not he's usually right. (Although in my defense, discovering that he's just pee'd on my brand-new expensive laptop bag for no apparent reason, I find these sentiments rich...but then he is only 3 and I am thirty-___!)

I am pleased to announce that toilet training is coming along swimmingly. We have only had two accidents so far of the 'poo variety' (one was so horrific that Egg had to be hosed down in the shower and scrubbed within an inch of his life....and the other one unfortunately occurred yesterday morning when Jay was lying immobile in bed nursing his hangover and awoke shouting at the top of his lungs about the 'poo-oozing gremlin' plaintively whining, 'Dada....Dada' at the end of the bed).

However with the advent of the 'treat bag' we turned the training corner sharply and Egg obviously decided that he had had enough of torturing us and that his will was a small price to pay for copious amounts of chocolates and candies he could ingest. Now i'm trying to wean him of the habit of dipping his greedy little hand into the treat basket and extricating sugar-coated goods in exchange for no nappies, but he's wised up to my trying to hand off a few m&m's as a treat, and now, before he sits down on the toilet he makes me promise that HE gets to choose the treat from the bag and not me (sigh). So i've now a cleaner but more hyper, probably more unhealthy male specimen ruling the household. Oh well.

As for the other one, Ollie Dumpie (aka Noah) is developing in leaps and bounds as our heads are turned. For instance, twice this week I found him up on the first landing where he had quickly clambered up eight or so stairs. He also now needs no help getting off our high bedroom mattress. He simply wriggles to the end of the bed, stretches out one fat little toe and does a rather elegant hip wiggle until the aforementioned fat toe touches solid ground, then he simply lets the rest of his body down (in the manner of a portly yet graceful middle-aged male ballet dancer) and crawls away to wreck havoc elsewhere.

Much like Egg did, Dumps has also discovered my beloved bookshelf and the treasured collection of books Jay and I have lovingly collected through the years. Everyday I find at least two dozen of them scattered throughout the room, as he has obviously discovered the joy in pulling them down and watching them tumble heavily with a resounding 'Bang' onto the floor. I am sure it is a most enjoyable game for him, but is doing no end of damage to the books and I despair as it is our sole bookshelf in the flat and there is nowhere else to put them (or him!)

Speaking of space, I have been on the hunt for a new house for the past few weeks and I am growing more despondant by the day. Property in central London is now so outrageously expensive that it has become laughable. What would have bought us a lovely 4-bedroom home nearby with a garden two years ago, apparently now only gets us a dodgy, ex-council run-down 2-bed flat in a nasty part of the borough. Ouch. India looms every so temptingly in front of us, but Jay has his job contract to see out and the plans to 'sabatical-ourselves-into-oblivion' seem to have been put on hold for one more year (sigh).

So after a tummy full of delectable homemade blueberry pancakes (drenched in pure maple syrup and fresh whipped cream), a stronger than usual cappucino, and two (relatively) quiet babies chilling out (oh yeah - and a husband returned to normal), I embrace this rainy, cozy Sunday with about as much enthusiasm as i can muster.

I wonder vaguely about the current thinking on when is too early to have the first glass of wine in the it 12 noon or five o'clock?...

Saturday, 18 August 2007

Double Trouble (of the Giant Red Variety)

When I haven't written for a few days you know i've either lost the plot and am locked away in the bathroom screaming and crying alternately, or I'm too busy 'living' to even find a moment spare to sit and reflect in front of my beloved laptop (which has turned into my best friend...saddo that i am).

So it is with great relief that I sit here quietly for a moment (well when i say quietly, I mean aside from the loud, constant humming of Egg from the front room where he is simulating a hoover, and the occasional crashes - whoops, there goes another one - from Dumpie who is now man enough, and strong enough to bring our 10 kilo planters down and various guitars and candle holders.)

Oh well, I digress. I am feeling quite perky this morning, probably due to the fact that I currently have a double espresso swirling around inside of me and a tummy contentedly full of fresh, home-baked blueberry oatbran muffins...yum. Jay lies upstairs asleep, firmly esconsed in the land of the dead (or those under 30's without children who have been out caning it all night and are now recouperating from all last nights sins and over-indulgances.)

For Jay, this took the form of an all-night 'Gambling and Booze' extravaganza down in Wimbledon with five of his best mates, a Chinese takeaway and probably several Jeraboam's of moonshine. I can always tell when he's had too much to drink because the next morning his glazed eyes betray the intelligence of a half-wit and he is likely to plod about like the village idiot, barely coherant and not to be trusted with either of the babies (just how he likes it i bet!).

However I happily gave him permission to go out and indulge given that all work and no play makes Jay a grumpy boy, and better a retard on the weekend than a cranky miserable man...would you not agree? For my part last night wasn't too bad, given that Dumps slept with me all night and every few hours slapped the side of my head so that I could roll over and administer the goods. Egg was a doll, and after bribing him with a whole pack of smarties (bad mom that i am), he allowed me to cut his overgrown mop of hair into a cute little page boy style. I think he looks adorable, but Jay is still insistant on him getting a short back and sides, and therefore blending more suitably into the favoured 'thug-in-training' look of the local neighbourhood kids. So far I'm winning this one, but just.

Both Aunties are away this weekend - Kenz living it up in Budapest and Mo away in the Lakes District visiting her future in-laws with the future hubby. So it's just the four of us, and aside from a 'Roaring 20's' dance performance on Southbank by the river in a few hours, I don't have a lot planned.

Of course the delivery of our 'super-duper-delux-as-expensive-as-a-secondhand-car' new pushchair this week, means that we are no longer confined to our neighbourhood. Both boys fit in this bright red monstrosity of a double pushchair (slim as a single one, but HEAVY as a TANK to manoever). Egg sits in front and Dumps below and in back, tucked away like a bag of groceries. Once you get some speed up it's great, and the three big wheels ensure a luxury ride for the boys, it's just getting on buses that hurts (and going up hills....and trying to get around crowded tiny aisles in stores...)...but we had no choice.

Of course the manufacturers failed to realise one big problem with their design. You are not allowed to take the toddler out of the front seat while leaving the younger one in behind as it's liable to tip over. How stupid is that?! Everyone knows that toddlers are fickle little creatures and are forever clambering in and out of things, and if you are on your own, pray tell, how are you supposed to remove a sleeping baby before taking out the toddler? Just gently place the babe on the side of the road while making the transition?

Anyway, that aside it really is a great piece of equipment and I am grateful. It at least inspires more escape fantasies, and in my head I see myself whizzing all about London town, two darling babies in tow, several cafe stops and energising strolls.

In reality (as I've already experienced this week), I feel marked out as a 'MOM' in my utterly obtrusive, bright red, unwieldy, double pushchair, and try as I might, I can't come to grips with the whole 'mother look' and the current retro/punk/indie look I'm working these days.

With a bit of luck people will think i'm the au pair, day-jobbing it as a nanny while playing gigs in smoky bars at night. For surely the cappucino-guzzling, journal scribbling, crazy-haired gal barely paying attention to two wailing infants in a crowded cafe is not the mother...right?....right?!

Sunday, 12 August 2007

Hallellujah! Hallellujah...Hallellujah...Halleeeelluuuujah!!

Yes I know I already posted a blog today. Yes I realise that it is nearing 1 a.m. and I should be partaking of some blessed sleep right now, not hammering away on my Mac keyboard in the pitch dark as I lie here in bed. But I simply must mark this momentous day and let everyone know that today EGG DID HIS FIRST POO POO IN THE TOILET!
Now as i write this I realise how utterly far I have sunk into the depths of pathetic domestic hummdrummery (leave me alone it's my special made-up word). I realise that for all those of you who actually have a life, you must now be shaking your well-groomed heads slowly back and forth and tut-tutting over the lameness of a life whereby a plip-plop in a toilet has been met with excitement, jubilation and celebration more appropriate to someone having won the lottery.

On the otherhand, if you have been following my blog for some time now you will be aware of just how much aggravation I have withstood in trying to get my eldest, my 3 year old (stubborn-like-his-dad) son, my darling little Egg, TOILET TRAINED. You will know that having two children in nappies at the same time is like living in an abbatoir, and that being especially sensitive to smells and yucky boy habits, and being a typically feminine lass, I've had to endure a hellish several months.

But this morning the clouds shifted and a ray of hope suddenly shone through. Expecting absolutely nothing, I deposited Egg on the toilet seat and grabbed the big orange 'trick-or-treat' basket which I keep up high in the kitchen for special treats. It is chock full of chocolate bars, candies, lollipops, and every manner of kiddie bait. For whatever reason people seem to love to spoil Egg - even complete strangers in stores give him free candy - and hence I have to store it all somewhere in an effort to keep his teeth from rotting before he hits nursery school.

Anyway, I digress. This morning, just like any other morning, I had my usual chat with Egg over breakfast about whether today would be the day he does a numero deux in the toilet. And like every other day he said, "Maybe I will. Maybe I won't."

So you see, I didn't hold out much hope. Instead, I dejectedly started pulling out the various chocolate treats and laying them out on the counter in an effort to entice and appeal to his greedy childish nature. I told him that for the small price of only one 'poo poo', all this could be his. I promised him a 'lucky dip' into the 'trick or treat' basket for each specimen he provided.

Egg scrunched his face up and declared emphatically that nothing was coming. I said the magic words, 'Just squeeze Egg', (doing my best impression of labour), and lo and behold, to both of our amazement, a loud 'PLOP' was heard and I whipped him off the toilet and we both stared in wonder and disbelief at the offering sinking to the bottom of the bowl.

For the second time today I screamed for Jay to come (turns out it's not just a wife screaming him awake which really irks but 'wife screaming' in general that he's not a huge fan of) and we rejoiced like a family on crack for several minutes whilst doing a victory dance in our tiny bathroom.

So you see, just when you least expect it, the very thing you've been hoping and praying for can 'BAM' suddenly like that come upon you and change your life.

One small step for Egg is a huge step for 'Mom-kind'. Ah, the sweet smell of success...

Saturday, 11 August 2007

The Sins of the Fathers (and Mothers)

This morning, just after eight o'clock, the plaintive voice of Egg finally got through to my dazed, exhausted brain as I lay in bed literally unable to open my eyes and drifting in and out of bizarre dreams. Jay lay lightly snoring beside me - dead to the world and no doubt in his 'happy place' (driving a motorcycle round India with two bikini-clad babes riding shotgun). On second thought, maybe it wasn't Egg's voice but his rising giggles which suddenly alerted me to disaster and caused me to sit upright and scream out.
Our floor was covered in socks, clothes, toys, and what looked like the entire contents of Egg's bedroom, and my initial instinct was to get annoyed, but then I suddently spotted a fat white little monster rising out of the mess....a snowman with big round blinking blue eyes, staring solemnly back at me. I strained to focus (as I wear contacts and don't have the best sight without them) on the little white creature - briefly wondering whether it was a stuffed toy - but no - it blinked and smiled back at me. I certainly wasn't dreaming, and with horror I jumped up and screamed "Jay"!!

What had happened to our sweet little baby?! Instead there was a completely white sticky little gremlin at the foot of our bed, cooing and munching on the self-same white stuff in which he was completely covered. (Yes, under Egg's watchful eye Dumpie had gotten into the 'Penaton' creme - for those childless among you, it is that dreadful white sticky stuff used on babies' bums to help get rid of rashes.)

Unfortunately, it was a nearly new can as I hate the stuff and have only used it once, under duress, for it is abominably sticky and never comes off. Apparently my infant son does not share my distaste, as he had paper-mached himself in it, and finding it pleasing, had subsequently began spooning great handfuls into his mouth and sucking contentedly.

You think Jay would be used to it by now but it turns out he is not a great fan of being woken from deep slumber with a scream. Even a well-meaning wifes' scream. I pondered this thought minutes later as I painstakingly tried to scrub the hideous white stuff off Dumps in the bath, realising after the third attempt that I'd have better luck getting bubblegum out of hair. So I heaved the sticky chicken out of the bath and attempted to smear most of it off with towels and elbow grease.

I needn't have bothered. He's just had his usual morning breakfast of baby oatmeal and blended fruits, and turns out that when hardened, it forms an almost cement-like consistancy on top of the white cream. So now my second-born resembles a corn dog.

Oh yeah, and it's only 9:36 a.m. Doesn't bode well for the day.

Thursday, 9 August 2007

I Will Survive

There is a level of abuse that comes with this child-rearing lark. On a daily basis i get slapped in the face, hair pulled out in alarming clumps, poked in the eye, bitten (nipples or otherwise), defecated on, pee'ed on, burped on, tooted on, and screamed at. In addition to this I am required to adhere to a stringent schedule of food preparation, toy participation and general unhooking of maternity bra at whatever time is deemed desirable (ie. 24/7).

My body is not my own, my time is not my own, and my tempting pile of fashion magazines sit forlornly and neglected on the dining room table - teasing me with new fall fashions that I'll not get to view, let alone purchase or even wear. Much of the time I feel like a bouncer in a rather dodgy nightclub. I am forever breaking up fights and potential fights between the current reigning champ 'Egg' and his up and coming rival, the soon to be nine month old 'Dumpie'. Unlike a few months ago, Dumps is now asserting himself and can often be found slapping Egg upside the head, pulling his hair, or shrieking in his ear loud enough to wake the dead, in a effort to procure some toy or another for his own. Egg will of course (with much plaintive pleading on my behalf) put up with this behaviour for about, say, 5 minutes, before turning around and shoving him to the floor or yelling abuse in his face.

Sometimes my current state is more like being a rather unimpressive hill which the two of them climb over, abuse, and litter atop of. At night I retire to my ultra-comfortable bed and sink down in exhaustion, wondering how I'm going to make it through the next day...and the next...and the....nevermind.

I realise that it could be worse, but in my current state I'm not so sure how. Tomorrow is Friday and there is a small chance that I shall be in a slightly better mood given the fact that Friday is generally followed by two days of assisted childcare. Only this weekend I'm hatching up a plan whereby I race out the flat, text Jay that i've gone and tell him that his children are locked in the front room and need sorting out. I'm serious. I really am planning a ditch mission. Damn it I deserve it. (And so do all you other haggard, exhausted, weary women out there.) RUN LIKE THE WIND. I dare you.

Friday, 3 August 2007

And The Beat Goes On

This afternoon as I was dealing with the most devastating bowel movement Egg has ever inflicted upon me in his three short years, I happened to glance over at Dumpie who was standing in his crib, holding onto the rail and whipping my breast pads out onto the floor, one by one. From his prostrate position on the too-small change table, Egg began cheering him on and howled as a pad hit the side of my head. I was able to take myself out of the situation and see how utterly hilarious the scenario was (or maybe it seemed funnier in my sleep-deprived state) and felt grateful that throughout this whole mothering thing I have kept a steadfast grip on the comedy element. Believe me, sometimes it's all that gets you through life.

Lunch was partaken of in the West End with Jay and a few of his work collegues at an Italien eatery just steps away from where the most recent bomb scare was. It was a sweltering hot day today and even though both Egg and Dumps were doused in sunscreen I still feared for their well-being. Munching on pizza crusts and generally being well-behaved they no doubt amused their lunch companions and aside from spraying Jay's new shirt in pizza sauce the meal passed without incident. Afterwards we went upstairs to see where 'Dada' worked, and quickly made our exit after Egg destroyed one of the marker pens and began talking too loudly.

Now I sit here at the kitchen table with Egg, having a remarkably interesting conversation about all the things that he 'helps' me do. He is quick to point out what a great help he is to me given that there is a pan of freshly-made Rice Krispy Squares cooling on the counter (one of his faves) and given todays naughty behaviour he is clever enough to realise that he has some major point scoring to make up for before bedtime.

Tomorrow morning at 9am we are picking up a rental car, strapping the two fella's in car seats and taking off for an adventure 'Johnston/A-K' style. We're headed for the coast, sleeping in a motel near Rye, then taking little Egg to his mecca, 'Digger Land' on Sunday. No, it's not a spa weekend, nor is there bound to be lots of shopping opportunities or a restful nights sleep, given that we've booked a room with three single beds and we all know that Dumps and I will be doubling up. However there will be variety and comedy and a fair dose of misery I imagine (double projectile vomiting anyone?) and apparently coupled with time that equals A-D-V-E-N-T-U-R-E don't you know. Later…..

Thursday, 2 August 2007

It's A Mystery

Reality has settled back in again. Like a well-worn and ratty jumper it settles comfortably but unflatteringly around my weary shoulders and looks set to stay. Having been back in London a few days now, today feels like one of those 'today is the first day of the rest of your life' days....but not in a good way. Though it's high summer, London has yet to hear about it, with slightly overcast skies, a wee chill to the air, and fully lacking that delicious warmth which propels you to the nearest park to sink in lush grass.
No, a London summer is at best short, uncomfortable (either too hot or too cold), a tease, and tourist-ridden. I suppose if I were writing this from the comfort of my seaside home or country cottage, I would have an entirely different view. There is nothing like a lovely country garden, sipping Pimm's, hearing the birds tweet and flies buzz, and smelling the lovely flowers and dozing off in a comfy chair to the distant sound of the radio....but i digress.

It looks and smells like rain today, and I've had to stop writing this twice in order to keep Dumpie from swallowing little toy pieces, and stop Egg from administering discipline to a supposedly 'naughty' Dumps. The jealousy looks here to stay for some time at least, and the lovely Egg is torn between giggling and playing with him and wanting to throw him down the stairs. We've re-installed the stairgates and put Mama (that would be me) on high alert for any suspicious behaviour.

Today however I have my cloths, cleaning fluid and a bad temper on hand to deal with the advent of 'Toilet Training Attempt No. 7'. As Jay was ironing his shirt for work this morning we realised that in only six weeks there shall be a home visit from Egg's prospective nursury school, and in that home meeting we shall be forced to reveal the status of Egg's toilet habits, and in so doing either ensure he begins on 1st October with all the other children, or indeed waits until the next term (after Christmas!) until he is potty-trained. Therefore it is with renewed vigour that we attempt yet again the daunting task of training this strong-willed little fella in the joys of cleanliness and hygiene.

Already this morning we've had an incident whereby I was making Dumpies breakfast and Egg stood before me defiantly and just pee'd on the kitchen floor. For no apparant reason. Not the best of ways to start the day...but not nearly as petrifying as the looming noon hour when a little someone is prone to bowel movements and is resolutely insisting that 'NO WAY' will he go on the toilet. He's probably right. I've got nothing but tears lined up I imagine.

Ollie Dumpie on the otherhand is an adorable bundle of soft, squishy cuteness and cleverness and I could spend all day everyday cuddling him and making him laugh. He's currently taking advantage of Egg's absentmindedness and playing with Egg's baby mop, swinging it round like a baton and trying to balance a plastic bowl on the end. Circus protege perhaps? Why do I feel like Dumps will be wearing big boy pants before Egg?

Whoops - gotta go. Egg has now taken back his mop and is running to the bathroom to wet it so that he can 'clean Dumps'. Best nip this one in the bud.

Wednesday, 1 August 2007

THE FLIGHT...The Aftermath

Well i'm sure you're all wondering whether my flight home with two babies on my own was as hellish as I had expected. The answer is yes...and no! The very worst thing that happened occurred ten minutes or so before touchdown, when a pale looking Egg violently vomited twice - once on me and once on himself. Luckily I managed to grab Bacon the bear out of the way in time, so it was only the two of us who smelled faintly of sick when Jay met us outside the arrival gates an hour or so later.
Aside from that it was only my poor bladder and my sore breasts which paid the price, as both were put to the test during the seven hour flight. Dumpie basically fed the entire way, regardless of whether he was dozing or not! I must have run out of milk somewhere over the Atlantic, but that didn't stop him from guzzling and nuzzling like a drunk little piglet the entire way regardless. In fact, if i even tried to gently ease his drooling limp mouth off me at any time, myself (and the entire cabin) were subjected to such loud wails and screams that I had no choice but to put him back on and glance up apologetically at the passengers bold enough to be staring.

As for my poor bladder, well I'd watch the trolley-dolly's dole out icy cokes and gin and tonics to those around me, salivating for some liquid. But all I'd allow myself were tiny sips of tepid tap water from a plastic cup which a kindly steward had placed precariously in my one remaining hand early on in the flight. I knew that one toilet visit would be the most I could hope for and thus I got more and more dehydrated as the flight went on, noticing the build up of the most awful headache in my liquid-parched brain.

Alas, I got so desperate at one point that I positioned Dumpie (with all all the finesse of a bomb handler) in my chair, did up the seatbelt and tore off to the loo. Amazingly he was still there and asleep when I returned, and I was sorely tempted to slink off and go sit in an empty seat somewhere. However I can't complain. Thanks to the judicious administrations of a wee bit of 'Gravol' upon entering the aircraft, both boys appeared 'out of it' for most of the flight, and the disapprovingly, raised eyebrows of those observing Egg and Dumps open little mouths as I spooned in the medicine, were well worth it in my opinion.

It has to be said that given their good behaviour there was little, if any, need for the reactions displayed by a nearby couple who 'tut-tutted' the entire way, commented on my mothering skills throughout (as if I were not there), and would snarl, 'Shshshsh!' in unison if Dumpie so much as made a wimper. Saying that, I suppose the rather unattractive obese couple (he a good twenty years older than she) were simply annoyed that I had caught them early on trying to make hanky-panky in their economy class seats…he having guided her hand to his nether-regions before silently instructing her to have a bit of a fiddle. It really doesn't bear mentioning.

At any rate, I'll end this by saying that every torturous hour was worth the lovely time we had back in Toronto….and I'd do it again in a heartbeat. (But I hope I don't have to!)