Wednesday, 29 April 2009
Monday, 27 April 2009
Saturday, 18 April 2009
Dumpie and I are currently embroiled in a row. It's my fault really - and due to a simple misunderstanding. It began in the kitchen when Dumpie gestured upwards toward a bulging jar of chocolate Easter eggs perched high up on a cupboard and demanded, "Nannie!" I outrightly refused,and we went back and forth for some time saying, "Nannie", "No", "Nannie", "No", etc. until I finally muttered "Like it or lump it..." which Dumpie misheard as 'blahblahblah...or crumpet'. Dumpie LOVES crumpets (especially when toasted with butter and melted cheese).
Friday, 17 April 2009
Last night bedtime didn't exactly go to plan. For some strange reason (maybe the 'be-bops' during bathtime?) last night was the night that the monsters decided to 'dismantle' their bedroom. Having thought about it afterward, I realised that it may not have been such a great idea to let them watch "The Cat In The Hat" movie the other day, especially when they expressed such absolute delight for 'Thing 1' and 'Thing 2' - the naughty troublemakers who trash the family home.
Tuesday, 14 April 2009
A total and utter 'Choc-apocalypse'. Enough said.
Stratford proved to be a most enjoyable outing. Thanks to special motion sickness pills, the boys managed to keep the contents of their stomachs on the inside and not splashed throughout the VW rental car, which was worryingly pristine when we took possession of it. Aside from a missed exit and an extra 40 minutes correction time the trip went smoothly (mental note: do NOT distract husband with mortgage concerns when exiting a service stop).
Upon arrival we checked into our rather punky smelling 'family' hotel room, headed out for a tour of the town and got utterly drenched in the relentless rain. We drank hot chocolate and trashed a sweet little cafe after a giant muffin and baby cappuccinos proved too much for the monsters to resist. We then went on to wreck havoc in Stratford's oldest pub, "The Garrick Inn', with the help of sticky orange juice and an old newspaper - which the monsters discovered could be adhered to the ancient wooden table top rather easily...but not removed. We shortly thereafter made a quick getaway back out into the rain.
Eventually we hooked up with our three merry pranksters, who amicably joined us, thereby helping create a convivial yet somewhat shambolic crew. Pubs were sampled, fish and chips greedily gobbled, and we happily enough ambled around the town (Guinness will do that to you) until such time as it was deemed inappropriate to continue avec two children under 5. Fair enough. So back to the hotel we went.
What followed was a night of unmitigated hell on earth as we found ourselves prisoners in a non-soundproof hotel, and the captive audience of a child with lungs of steel and a terrifying fit of the night terrors. Much like our horrific experience at last year's 'Big Chill' festival (http://eggandollie.blogspot.com/2008/08/big-chill-and-dumpie-monster.html ), Dumpie screamed like a torture victim for the better part of two hours and I suspect the hotel staff were only minutes away from calling the police to investigate. It was that bad. Eventually he was bundled up and trundled out of the hotel as a last resort.
So 2am found the husband and the two year old trampling around town, eventually ending up at our friend's rental cottage where Dumpie proceeded to rather enjoy himself I am told. Beers were had (hopefully not by Dumps) and much frolicking ensued.
If I wasn't sure before, I am now definitely of the mind that I am worryingly headed for slippers and robe territory. When your two year old (by whatever means) ends up partying later than you...well...what is there to say?
Thursday, 9 April 2009
Ok so the Fair yesterday was a hit. An expensive affair to be sure. (How can they rob you like that for few minutes worth of amusement? Every time the boys went round on a ride I was thinking, "There goes a new Mac lipgloss....there goes a super grande caramel macchiato...there goes a glossy magazine..."etc.) Ah well, they had a great time and Dumpie came back with a giant plastic football which is almost as large as himself and which I'm currently trying to dodge as I write this (another broken vase anyone?)
I don't know if it was tiredness or not, but last night as I was getting them dressed after their bath, Dumps marched up to me and demanded, "Put 'Wink' away!" I beg your pardon??
"Put 'Wink' AWAY!!" he yelled at me, thrusting a nappie in my face and giving his little manhood a cursory wiggle for emphasis (in case I was too thick to catch on). Apparently he was done having a wee fiddle-dee-dee and wanted his miniature appendage removed from sight until further notice.
It seems everywhere I look there are boys, toys and 'Wink's'. The testosterone level is seriously out of whack in this home. Three strong-willed males, a plethora of dirty socks and pants, all sorts of useless, expensive tools and gadgets (mainly belonging to the biggest boy in this case) and very little regard for manners, decorum or the virtues of eating in a gentlemanly fashion. For some reason they all think it's okay to tip their cereal bowls up to their mouths and slurp out the remains of the sweet milky liquid, however much I try and nip that one in the bud. I've also caught Dumpie drinking grape juice straight from the carton on several occasions, though I think this is an act mainly grounded in rebellion because I insist on diluting their juice and he strongly objects.
Tomorrow we're renting a car and driving to Stratford-on-Avon to spend the night. Three of our very good friends (all bachelors and all very fond of naughty behavior) are spending the weekend there and sort of half-seriously invited us to join them. Well we are. Never one to swerve a social opportunity, the husband is under the illusion that we shall be able to combine a child-friendly short break with their heavily pub-based agenda one. I have a sneaking suspicion that we're just along for the ride and will be summararily tucked up in bed at a reasonable hour before he sneaks off for a night of debauchery with his mates like the alley-cat he is.
I'm bringing a book. And lots of chocolate.
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
The husband has just tossed a twenty pound note onto the kitchen table, strongly suggesting by doing so, that a trip to the local fun fair on the common today might be a good idea. I have already caught Dumpie floating it in his breakfast cereal, so now the sopping note is drying in the fruit basket and I'm trying to get through my triple shot cappuccino.
Hmmm....a fun fair. Well if this were North America it would be a fairly organised affair, reasonable rides overseen by bored but harmless enough teenagers. This being inner London, however lovely a neighbourhood, you know it's only going to be shambolic. There will be not-so-covert 'dealers' pacing the grounds, looking for impressionable youth to rip off and sell some ground basil to...twelve year olds dressed as twenty-year olds, flaunting pre-pubescent wares to other eager youths or worse -forty-something 'Daddies'...rides that jerk, stop, spin and come to an end just as they're gaining momentum, and causing restless, disappointed children to scream for another round at five quid a go....you know, 'Fun, fun, fun..."
Nonetheless the boys have been 'good' so they deserve a treat I suppose. Although by 'good' I don't really mean 'good' I mean just not horrifically 'bad'. There have been no floods, drawing on walls with indelible marker or shoving each other down the stairs headfirst in quite some time. However there has been a fair bit of pilfering on the sweetie front, a broken vase full of daffodils yesterday, and a still missing dvd remote control that seems to have gone the way of some other past valuables...(ie. is languishing pointlessly in a landfill site somewhere, waiting to be bought up by the Chinese..)
Ah well, it's a new day and newly wired on caffeine, a huge burst of sunshine to entice me outdoors, a milky twenty pounds winking promisingly at me, and the promise of a road trip this weekend, life doesn't seem all that bad.
On the other hand, our tenants have just informed us of a mouse infestation, a dishwasher that needs replacing and a kitchen and bathroom which need to be replaced. Add to that my ever-painful mouth (which sadly doesn't prohibit me from ravishing mini easter creme eggs), falling house prices (our lovely home is now worth 20% less than when we purchased it at the height of property mania in 2007), and airline tickets back to Canada this summer currently costing more than the average used car.
Nevermind, my new resolve is to try and live each day as it comes. Therefore I shall not worry about: bikini season, mortgages, home renovations, upcoming surgeries, creditcard bills, encroaching middle age, or the fact that Dumpie has now taken to hiding bits of unwanted food morsels in various 'secret locations' around the house.
(Note the toast and raspberry jam found in utility cupboard above)...
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
This is my 190th post. It's amazing to me that i've had this many things to say. I wonder if you divided them into categories: the trivial...the really trivial...hardcore moaning...petty....pointless drivel....mildly amusing - where the bulk of my words would slot in? Ah you see, it's all perspective isn't it...
To me, Dumpie climbing fully-clothed into a bidet and trying to give himself a bath is 'mildly amusing' but to a businessman in say Buffalo who accidentally comes across my site while searching for some low-grade porn (let's not go there again), this stuff is 'really trivial' or perhaps 'pointless drivel'. (If my husband was allowed to have an opinion he'd slot the whole lot - plus most of my daily discourse - into 'hardcore moaning'...but then as stated before, by virtue of being wed to yours truly he ain't allowed to express any negativity about his wife outside a 5 mile circumference of our home...nixing cyberspace then.)
Dumpie is clearly immune from any sort of child/parental protocol. Today I accidentally swiped his knee whilst closing a cupboard door and he muttered (rather pissed off I might add), "Ouch that hurt!" and was actually sneering at me when he said it...sneering!
On another note, my mouth surgery has been reinstated. I was lost (in the NHS system) but apparently now I've been found. Hurrah. (I think.) They have offered to sedate me with a needle, but given my needle phobia I can't see that happening anytime soon (this from the girl whose phobia is so pronounced that when pregnant with Egg, the thought of an epidural sent me screaming towards towards the 'natural labour' ward - ha - little did i know).
Well, I'm off now. Have to get ready for our nightly fix of 'The Wire' - a realistic cops n' robbers show which we've recently gotten into the habit of watching from semi-prone positions on 'the world's most comfortable bed'. The whole series is on BBC2 nightly at 11:20pm and it's brilliant because a hefty dose of escapism centred around drugs, death and corruption is just what we need before resting our weary heads for the night to begin the whole rigamorole of child rearing and corporate prostitution for another day. Really.
Saturday, 4 April 2009
I haven't written for a few days as I've been in a rather strange mood. On paper (or rather over the internet) strange moods can often translate into something far more sinister than is intended. However lovely the thought of 'being sectioned' might seem sometimes (lie-ins, making paper doilies in a common room, medicated strolls through gardens followed by long periods of inactivity in a quiet, white room...with more medication...) it's not a very convenient time to lose the plot as it were. So i'm going to have to continue to 'hold it together' until such time as I can deal with all the overflow taking up valuable brain space.
As you may have gathered from my less-than-cheery tone, the hospital appointment for my mouth went as expected (ie. I was not miraculously cured of condition, i still need surgery, and furthermore was told, "No Natasha, sedation is not an option as we only give it to children". Lovely. To add insult to injury (who was it who said that to be reliant on cliches in writing is to be sadly devoid of creative thought?...or did I just make that up?...brilliant if I did, demonstrative of former point if I didn't) it appears as though I have in the past few days gotten 'lost in the system' and have been accidentally discharged from the NHS before even undertaking the procedure. (At least this is what a bored sounding 'Kiandra' on hospital reception informed me when I rang up - interrupting my distraught protestations to bid good-bye to a colleague before confirming that yes, I had indeed been accidentally discharged.)_
I suppose I shouldn't worry though as Kiandra has promised to try and remember to call the relevant department first thing on Monday morning and get me reinstated in the emergency operations queue...assuming she has a shift on Monday that is. So you see there is no need to worry about the raging infection deep in my gums, which could at any moment potentially become a threat by poisoning my bloodstream, thereby ending my life a wee bit sooner than was originally intended. Nope. Kiandra's on it so everything's fine.
This week has been terribly busy. As per usual, most of it has NOT been spent creatively fashioning works of genius (be that brilliant writing, new music, or 'throwing together' incredible looks from the expensive avalanche that is my clothes cupboard). No...instead I have had mop and broom semi-permanently molded to my un-manicured hands, chasing after three messy males who appear to have absolutely no regard for the fact that I am developing both 'dish pan' hands and a bad temper.
We had an estate agent scheduled to visit our home the other day to give us an estimate on rental income should we decide to 'tune in and drop out' of society later this year (ie. drag our lazy, self-indulgent selves to Goa for a creative sabbatical which will hopefully precipitate the production of great works of art from the husband and I and NOT turn us into permanent beach bums, causing a permanent aversion to steady employment and proving a fatal financial handicap).
I had been cleaning like a whirling dervish for three hours, and literally three minutes before the doorbell rang, Dumpie took his full bowl of disintegrated Shreddies and milk and naughtily called out, "Mamaaaa" to make sure I was watching as he tipped the entire sodding mess onto the newly mopped floor. C'est la vie.
This week also saw my firstborn experience social embarrassment on such a scale as to engender several big fat crocodile tears. We rolled up to school yesterday and saw a playground littered with rejects from a 'Benetton' ad. Yep, it was a 'non-uniform' day that we apparently not privy to. Unlike other non-uniform days, whereby there are always a smattering of children whose parents are too vague/self-obsessed/retarded to remember and thereby cause their children to weather out the day in the customary blue, grey and white - this time there was not A ONE who was not dressed in civilian clothes aside from little Egg. Not a one.
Anxiously I started quizzing nearby parents and was told that it had been a last-minute decision passed on from school to parents via the children. Ummm, is it just me or is it a wee bit irresponsible to entrust a four year old to pass on information like that when in all probability, the thought of an ice lolly or a hastily-arranged playdate in the park might take precedence in his already preoccupied young mind?
Of course I had to race back home, grab some clothes for him, then race back to the school, sweating profusely and mumbling apologies to both the class assistant and my despondent son, then go and meet some of the class mother's for a pre-arranged coffee morning at a local cafe wherein I had to spend the first ten minutes or so explaining to the table that I was not a negligent, lame mother - merely an uninformed one (sigh).
All's well that ends well I suppose (what harm another cliche eh?) and Egg is off school for two whole weeks now. Sadly, little Egg has also been rendered immobile by a flu bug and was up most of last night vomiting, moaning and feverish. He is claiming his brain 'hurts' and I feel like saying, "I totally get that Egg. Mine hurts a lot of the time too".
Like a typical male, the advent of a minor virus has brought about enough outward misery and sympathy inducing groans, that you might mistakenly assume he is on his deathbed. Moreover, he is under the impression that he has to let me know via thrice-hourly updates just how poorly he is feeling on a scale of one to ten and what the current likelihood is that he shall again 'throw-up' in the next few minutes.
Between Dumpie who has already this morning shouted gleefully, "Look Mama...Wee-weeeeee" as he stood legs apart, nappie-less but pajama-bottomed in front of the dishwasher and emptied his full bladder of the contents of about a litre and a half of apple juice, and Eggie who has initiated the newly scrubbed toilets by decorating them in 'throw-up' - this isn't looking like one of the best weeks on record.
If I know what's good for me I'll take advantage of the fact that all three boys are currently lying prone in various rooms around the house, and hightail it out of here with my current read ("The Believers' by Zoe Heller) and find a cafe...any cafe...to rest my weary bones and even wearier mind.
If I don't, there is a broom and mop with my name on it staring insolently at me from across the other side of the kitchen, and I just know that if I look down I shall see legs in desperate need a waxing so....I'm outta here.