Wednesday, 21 October 2009

"The Dumpie Dilemma"

Dumpie is currently slumped in front of the large screen telly in the front room.  He is there because we both need some 'alone time' given that he recently ingested an entire box of Mikado chocolate sticks.

The reason he was allowed to stuff his face with a chocolate-based product before 10am was directly related to the amount of 'mother guilt' I was suffering due to having earlier dragged him kicking and screaming into the doctors office to receive yet another immunisation.  He was terribly affronted when I pulled down his dark navy corduroy trousers to allow the nurse access to his chubby little thigh.  Furious, he watched her jab him quickly in the left leg, then unbeknownst to her, ducked out of the way just in time before he could swat her on the side of her head.  It was a close call.

Downstairs his wailing drew concern from a kindly receptionist who dipped into her personal supply to procure a chocolate for him in the hopes of getting him to cease and desist in his wailing...especially as it was obviously distressing the elderly man pacing anxiously in reception.  

I must confess I'm not in the best of ways these days either.  This is mostly due to the fact that a certain toddler is now making nightly visits to our marital bed.   From dawn onwards each day I find myself lying awake, ramrod straight, crammed in between an oblivious tossing and turning husband and a fleshy little carbunkle who insists on sleeping one of two ways: either face to face with his little arms wrapped snuggly around my neck (this is adorable for about 2 seconds) OR draped on top of me as if I am a small mountain.  

Sometimes I'll hear, "Mama hold me!" which means I must immediately turn about face and wrap my arms around him from behind as he curls and snuggles back into me.

Yes, yes, I KNOW that I should treasure these cuddly, precious moments before they are gone forever and I am a source of embarrassment and dismay instead of the glorified love object I appear to be at present.  And I know that Egg wasn't the most cuddly of babies and thus I openly longed for a child who would love to curl up and snuggle in my arms...but seriously...this is getting pretty extreme.

These days I can't even wear my favourite Topshop black and white striped top because even though I have a fairly modest cleavage, the cut of the piece shows what I do have to its' utmost advantage and drives Dumpie to distraction.  The last time I wore it Dumps spent the day nuzzling my chest and lovingly stroking the tops of my breasts in a proprietary fashion.  

Still, there are advantages to having such a precocious child.  There is no end to the constant amusement he provides.

The other day Dumpie wandered in casually wearing oversized bright orange plastic 'shutter' sunglasses and proffering a Nurofen Plus headache tablet (don't ask) to the husband who had earlier expressed dismay over the unfortunate onset of a cold, while the three of us had been lying in bed listening to the radio.  

And then that night just after midnight as we were about to turn off the lights we heard a strange noise.  Moments later outside our bedroom door we heard what sounded bizarrely like a A chord being strummed.  We weren't wrong.  In walked the Dumps, half asleep, clutching 'Teddy Bear' and his little guitar.  

He promptly climbed in bed, I hoisted the guitar from his hands and seconds later he was quietly snoring.  The husband and I looked at each other, too tired to laugh but terribly amused nonetheless.  Our little sleepwalker clearly has something of the musician in him.

Little Egg meanwhile continues to shine as 'class mathematician' and now burgeoning 'reader'. Last night I sat through an entire reading from "Green Eggs and Ham" as Eggs astounded me by reading the whole thing cover to cover.  

With any luck in a month or two I can hand over 'bedtime story' duties to Egg while I collapse 
downstairs in front of 'Location Location' with a glass of red wine and try and ignore the screams as Dumps and Eggs fight over who gets to turn the next page.

But for now I must dash.  My giggling toddler is whipping my set of razor sharp keys at my head as I try and type this.  I am seriously in danger of losing an eye. 

Monday, 12 October 2009

"Little Dumpie Scissorhands"

Dumpie has discovered the manifold joys of scissors....again.  We went through this once before as you may recall, and after a brief flirtation with cutting up various bills (fine by me) and other rather important documents, he outdid himself with the cutting in half of two very expensive Apple Mac power cords, before moving on to other forms of "D.D.B." (Domestic Destructive Behaviour). Or so we thought.

The other morning we were woken at 9am (the monsters had been up since 7...?) by Dumpie standing at our bedside, scissors held excitedly aloft, and gleefully declaring, "Anything!" when asked what he had cut up.  ("Anything" these days is a favourite expression of his and is mistakenly used in place of "Everything"...oh joy oh bliss.)

Currently, one of his favourite past times  is to cut out the toes on socks - preferably while he's wearing them.  If his chubby little toes weren't peeking so adorably out of his customised footwear, I swear I'd throttle him.  I have no choice but to add them to the growing pile of mangled but otherwise perfectly new collection in the upstairs bin.  (He intercepted a freshly laundered pile of clothes on the weekend, and as a result Egg's sock drawer is looking pretty sparse these days.)

This morning I shrieked in bed (mental note to self:  I think I may be turning into one of those frazzled, 'scary mothers' who scream more than not on a typical day) when Dumpie deposited a mangled plastic object of some sort on my ear.  He has lately taken to bestowing upon us, 'noctural visitations' a few times a week due to the 'big monsters' who have apparently recently taken up residence in his room. 

Personally, methinks the hot duvet-clad thighs of Mama are too delectable for his freezing little feet.   Unlike Egg the perspiring little midget, Dumpie has obviously inherited my poor circulation - and upon waking he scurries upstairs to the far superior "Mama-Dada Bed" for some pre-dawn nuzzling and snuggling.  As the husband refuses to let him in on HIS side of the bed, that means it's me who gets chubby toddler feet rammed into my thighs or worse - my derriere.  (That'll teach me to sleep in the nude.)

Whatever the case, Dumps obviously saw fit to bring his scissors along last night.   As I grasped at the object trying to gain entry into my ear canal with cries of "What's this?!   I can't see?!"  the glaring light was switched on by the husband, long enough to ascertain that the object in question was MY (newly) mangled credit card.  URGHHHH.  

Monday, 5 October 2009

It's All Coming Apart...

It is with great dismay that I acknowledge the ongoing physical deterioration of our home.  On the weekend the lovely tap in our en suite sink broke off in one messy, rusty chunk.  This now means that all face washing and tooth-brushing has to be conducted one flight down in the family bathroom.  Although a larger space, it is nonetheless littered with waterlogged plastic bath toys, suspicious dark brown smudges, and the odd festering nappy in the bin, which all detract from what would otherwise be a pleasant if mundane experience.

Moreover, downstairs by the front door Dumpie has obviously spent far too long waiting (im)patiently for a scooter ride on many an occasion, and has thus had the opportunity to begin the laborious process of removing the white wallpaper and plaster from the wall.  He has made great inroads and now huge bits of white crumbly material litter the doormat and make the wall look ghastly.  With any luck, by Christmas he'll have burrowed a proper hole right through to the place next door - which conveniently belongs to the buildings Freeholders.  

I could go on, but it's merely going to upset me....(the biro scribbles on the pristine white painted window frames which will absolutely not come off...the sunken bits of carpet in the monsters bedroom which will likely never give up their musty smelling stains on account of the bucketloads of water which have been ferried from the bathroom with great regularity...the orange-juice-stained pull cords for the kitchen blinds which Dumpie insists on submerging in his breakfast juice each morning...the gaping holes visible on our bamboo fence enclosure outside on the terrace, where Egg decided to break off sticks in order to see 'what was on the other side'...the small but noticeable dents in the various landings in our home which bear scars from having had my heavy 5 lb weights lobbed down at me from a pissy toddler one too many times...ah, I could go on, but why bother?)

I might as well accept that our family is not built for grace, elegance or refinement.  No, three boys ensure that I spend approximately 80% of each waking day trying to keep utter chaos, filth and disorder at bay.  (I include the 'big boy' here too, for his domestic habits don't seem to have progressed much since the teenage years...)

We are "The Housewreckers" and as such are capable of reducing a home's core value by at least 40% within the first  year, with little or no effort.  The only time I feel a sense of well-being in my surroundings is when the husband is out for the night and the monsters are tucked up in bed.

Then, I turn into some sort of demented Martha Stewart.  I happily scrub, wipe and mop until surfaces are fragrant and gleaming.  At which point, with a bit of strategic mood lighting, I can swan around to my heart's content, imagining I live in a lovely CLEAN home and am not the downtrodden washerwoman that I am sometimes mistaken for (for whatever else would compel my three fella's to heap pile upon pile of dirty and not-so-dirty clothes into laundry baskets, and thousands of cups, bowls and utensils into the sink...ensuring my hands most closely resemble those of a pensioner??)

I wish I didn't care.  I wish I could just be a slob and adhere to the old, "If you can't beat 'em...join 'em" motto.

If only I weren't hopelessly terrified by rodents, I might just relax a bit and give in to the haphazard domestic rhythm of this household.   Really, it's just the thought of a giant brown rat scampering across the kitchen floor which keeps me elbow-deep in soap suds and cleaning products.

Pathetic really...