Moaning Mum

"It's STILL not here yet?" (No...it bloody well isn't)

2012-02-01T14:49:00.001Z

I am in the unenviable position of having to not only cart my heavily pregnant self out in public (trying my damnedest not to waddle or do that cringe-worthy ridiculous lope of the 'close-to-birth-brigade'...you know the one) but also to fend off enquiring eyes being raised every time I show up at the school gates STILL not with child (on the outside that is).

Maybe I brought it on myself by saying that I thought I'd pass my due date with nothing happening save dire acid reflux and up to a dozen loo visits a night. But secretly, yes, I still hope that every twinge is 'it' and that I'll soon be facially impaled upon a gas and air tube at the hospital.

At least I've finally managed to 'almost' pack my hospital bag. I don't know why I'm deliberating. Part of me can't be bothered, half thinking there is every chance that I might give birth in the bathtub here at home or in the back of a minicab en route. Or maybe it's just sheer exhaustion brought about by the senseless need to purge every single crammed cupboard in our home in an attempt to put the place to rights before the baby comes.

On Sunday I spent 8 hours (well I am a beauty product junkie) sorting through the contents of three huge cupboards in two bathrooms, doing an organisational job that would have had Martha Stewart weeping with envy. As a result I've spent the past few days blithely flipping open medicine cabinets each time i pass, just to observe the beauty of my handiwork. What? You think I've lost the plot? Oh bugger off you're just jealous.

Speaking of which, I have a kitchen cupboard just begging for a 'pregnant lady seeing to'...in fact it's taunting me behind my back...I can feel it. There is every chance that when I open the doors, the contents will come cascading all over my head. But then again, the shock might bring on labour. So bring it on I say.

"Some Great Ideas On Ways To Spend Your Last Days Before Birth"

2012-01-12T10:11:00.001Z

There are few better ways to spend an afternoon when you are heavily pregnant, than sat in a doctors office, cradling a fevered child while being violently puked on (just ask my Uggs - they got the worst of it).

I got the call yesterday afternoon that I was to go and collect Dumpie from school as he was unwell. Upon arrival I found him lying unresponsively in one of his teachers arms, red with fever and crying softly.

"We're worried about Meningitis" the teacher mouthed to me as my brain went into sudden panic mode. I felt my heart drop and recalled him mentioning a bad headache that morning before school. Apparently Dumps had passed out during 'carpet time' and was drowsy, in pain and his eyes and head hurt.

In a panic I somehow managed to get Dumps home, calling the husband en route, and watching my Ocado delivery guy drive off because I wasn't there. Hauling the big heavy red pushchair down a flight of stairs, I plopped Dumps inside and took off for the doctors at great speed.

Luckily, it turned out not to be more serious than a bad stomach virus, but unfortunately it took getting completely splattered in projectile vomit for the nice young doctor and myself to realise this.

Later that evening, during a consultation with a carpenter, I watched with horror as Egg ran up behind the fellow and started doing 'Air Karate' moves. I knew what was coming, but I was helpless to fend him off. Once Egg decides to do something he will do it. And sure enough, he karate kicked the fellow in the back of the knee before I began bellowing for the husband and nodding sympathetically with humiliation as the man told me that he had cartilage issues in his knees and was lucky he hadn't just fallen to the ground.

In short, it was the day from hell. And how did I end it? Not by curling up in bed with some hot chocolate and a good movie.

No. I peeled open my second giant pomegranate of the day (pregnancy cravings anyone?) and flopped in front of an hour long birthing special called, "One Born Every Minute," which GRAPHICALLY followed the stories of three women in labour.

One woman who had designed a special red hot 'birthing outfit' for the pool, complete with cute little satin skirt, proceeded to deliver her daughter calmly and easily (lucky cow) whilst her 'totally gay but in denial' boyfriend encouraged her on, all the while showering her with accolades before bursting into hysterical tears of joy when it finally emerged.

Another woman freaked out so badly (by this time I was 'cruise control' crunching my pomegranate seeds at triple speed, oblivious to the stains gathering on my shirt) that they had to stick her like a pig with a giant epidural because she wouldn't calm down.

But the third woman was the most off-putting of all. Hugely obese, she unfortunately resembled nothing so much as a pantomime version of Shrek, and waddled into the delivery room, (legs far apart enough to drive a truck through), her skinny 28 year old boyfriend quietly trailing behind like an afterthought. She face planted herself into a bed, then after a short time, bovine-like, she rolled herself over onto one side, gripped then hoisted her own chunky thigh up in the air, then proceeded (much like one might imagine a cow in a barn to do so) to quietly expel the gargantuan 11 pound baby she'd been carrying.

Bish bash bosh. And that my friends, is apparently how it's done.

"The Waiting Game"

2012-01-11T10:27:00.000Z

So here I am, 37 weeks pregnant, just waiting...and waiting.

Christmas passed in a flurry of wine, cheese, shortbread cookies and carols. Last night officially marked the end of that period when our perfect Christmas tree was finally deflowered of its beautiful ornaments and hoisted unceremoniously out the second story window onto the deserted street below, where it joined other discarded trees.

As predicted, the monsters were spoiled. Not just by us (damn online shopping!) but by their many aunties, grandparents and family friends - nary a one who could turn up with a brightly wrapped parcel for the cheeky chappies. As a result, our household is now made up of 37% plastic and at any given time I have rubber bullets whizzing past my head, micro helicopters hovering up above and little remote controlled race cars zipping around by my ankles. But they are happy.

Dumpie has done a u-turn and is now excitedly awaiting the birth of his little baby brother. Not a day goes by that he doesn't come up to me (in public sometimes - which is excruciating) lift up my top and plant several heartfelt kisses on my swollen belly, murmuring little exclamations of love to his future little sibling.

Egg on the other hand has become more withdrawn about the whole issue and wears an air of resignation. Fair enough, as the eldest he has sussed out that another Dumps Mach 2 is a likely scenario and it's scaring the pants off him. Secretly too I suspect, he is stressed out by the whole 'naming' conundrum we find ourselves in. Again.

It's no secret that with Dumpie, we waited until literally the last day (three weeks after birth) that we could officially register his birth, and equipped with pad of paper and pen, were hastily scribbling and debating 'the name' on the bus all the way to the registry office, with amused passengers looking on.

I see a repeat of that. The husband is not terribly fond of the name the boys and I have chosen for the baby, and hence, is desperately trying to fling suggestions our way in the hope that one will stick. (Strangely he veers between rather bog standard North American names (yawn) and outrageous ones like 'Cauliflower' and 'Barabas'. The scary thing is, I don't think he's joking.)

Alas I have other things to worry about. Like the impending 'natural birth' I face - due to my abhorrant fear of needles, I.V., and all things epidural related (sigh). So it's going to be me, a husband fiddling about with his android phone and mini speakers, and a tube of gas and air which will provide my only distraction - likely in the form of violent vomiting if Egg's hospital water birth is anything to go by. Can hardly wait.

"Naughty Elves and The Dreaded Gift Exchange"

2011-12-22T11:34:00.000Z

Yesterday in the kitchen while eating dinner, Dumpie shook his head woefully. "I don't think I'm going to get any presents from Santa because I've been naughty."

Egg glanced over from where he was cello-taping various kitchen implements together in his latest invention. "That's true Dumps...I don't think you will."

If I'm being frank, the boys haven't exactly been angels this past week, but then again they are little boys and I can hardly expect them to act like little princes I suppose (although how nice would that be?).

If for any reason I end up dying young and the husband is left to raise our charges solo, I suggest he hook up with some perky young camp counsellor or activities co-ordinator...for that's what children really need. Bored, unchallenged children seek their own fun, and if (as Dumpie demonstrated yesterday) that means drawing a Christmas picture reducing your expensive, discontinued lip liner into a useless little nub - then so be it.

The boys are terribly excited about Christmas this year...ridiculously so. Given that this is undoubtedly the last year they shall believe in Santa (and I'm not even 100% sure they do - they are clever chaps and have already had vehement discussions among themselves about the improbability of a fat man gaining entrance via a chimney to deliver toys they haven't even asked for...not to mention the fact that many homes don't even have chimneys...) we are trying to make it as special as possible.

For the husband and I, Christmas is usually an excuse (and an excellent one at that) for guzzling bubbly, sipping fine wines and stuffing ourselves stupid with cheeses and homemade shortbread. However, given my current state of being 7.5 months pregnant (a really sexy look, believe me), the severe heartburn and limited stomach space I suffer from these days - not to mention the fact that I'm supposed to be tee-total at present...it doesn't make for the most indulgent of Christmases I reckon.

Having been together for twenty-odd years now, the husband was (understandably) delighted a few weeks ago, to catch me at a weak moment and declare a mutual agreement that this year we will abstain from giving each other presents. True, the prospect of shopping in claustrophobic crowd formations, aggressively trying to protect my ever-expanding bump, all the while seeking out my next toilet pit stop - well, hardly something I was looking forward to.

However, as Christmas creeps closer, I have found myself acquiring a few 'little' things for the husband - as to have nothing at all would seem rather churlish I'm afraid. This of course is the first he will have heard of this, and may right this second be reading this with a look of horror on his face and every intention of racing out to the nearest department store for some perfume or (god forbid) misjudged 'maternity lingerie'.

But I would just like to say, "Don't worry about it my love." For although I find practical gift-giving between lovers nothing short of depressing (excepting anything with an apple logo on it of course) I nonetheless feel that forgoing present giving altogether is even worse than gifting your other half with a new hoover or kitchen aid.

So really, I do not want anything (or want for anything for that matter)...truly. I just don't want to be one of those sad 'practical' couples who put common sense over sentiment. After all, if it weren't for love and all that gooey stuff, I wouldn't find myself currently knocked up now would I?

So if you're reading this dear husband, don't fret. I've got it covered. In the absence of anything trincketry or jewellery-box-sized under the tree this year, just know that come Feb, after baby boy numero trois escapes from my swollen stomach, I shall be anticipating something small and expensive to compensate for the utter hell I will have undergone to provide you with the much coveted fourth member of your future 'band'. Either way you won't escape unscathed :)

Just sayin'...

"Hark The Herald Eggie Sings..."

2011-12-02T13:05:00.000Z

Egg is very upset today. It has dawned on him that because he joined choir and an after school drama club, he will be expected to don (and I quote) "a stupid, stupid, silver hat" and sing carols around the after school Christmas Fair this afternoon.

He burst into our bedroom this morning, accidentally jumping on my ankle - almost spraining it in the process - and practically BEGGED me to get him out of it. He said he is too shy to do it and that everyone will laugh at him. I sighed...one of those pesky parenting conundrums: get him out of it like a superstar cool mum, or teach him to be strong and do things that he's scared of so he can become a better, stronger person.

I of course went with the latter, but have planned a sneaky escape for him if things go pear-shaped and he really is miserable. One crocodile tear and I'll have no choice but to save my little Egg from social suicide...we'll see.

On another note, in what was either enlightened genius and pure good luck OR crazy pregnant woman hormones, I impulsively bought our Christmas tree while out shopping this morning. It was there, all 6 ft of it, plump and gorgeous and it just felt like it had to be ours. I emptied my wallet on the spot and am taking delivery of it later today, but am now suffering the first pangs of buyers remorse and wondering whether it's going to be greeted by disdain by the husband - who is prone to splash out on obscenely priced and way too tall trees in a rather Griswold manner. Hmmmm....

And so life continues on...I have approximately 9 more weeks in this fat suit before a screaming, squalling bundle of joy arrives to join our shambolic crew. Can't believe how fast this pregnancy has gone, but hey I'm not complaining. I'd be lying if I didn't confess to being mildly petrified about the logistics of labour at a hospital a good 20-30 minutes away in traffic - especially considering Dumpie came so fast that he was born in the bathroom.

And of course, having no car somewhat livens up the scenario a tad.

On the plus side, being the hyper-organised, multi-tasking freak that I am, I pretty much have Christmas sorted: posh Christmas crackers (with silver-plated pressies inside no less - check me out), a rough menu planned out for indulgent stuffing of our respective tummies (though how much room is left in mine for food at that point remains questionable), and all the presents pretty much bought.

Sadly there is one problem I don't quite know how to undo: in a fit of 'man-shed-rearranging' a few weekends ago, the husband unearthed my obviously 'not hidden well enough' box of xmas presents, left it in the hallway, and was as surprised as I when a short while later the monsters came upon it and started pulling things out exclaiming excitedly.

So do I gloss over the whole thing and possibly dispel their belief in Santa Claus forever when they discover 'He' left them the exact same presents that they came upon that fateful day? Or do I defy the recession, go out and buy them a load more presents, thereby ensuring we are buried - avalanche style - in a mountain of remote-controlled plastic come Boxing Day?

Off to mull over this conundrum by way of orgasmic pomegranate inhalation....adios

"Flappers, Monsters and Leaks...Oh My"

2011-11-21T18:54:00.000Z

I can't believe how fast time is going. Here we are, only five weeks till Christmas, and eleven weeks until our family swells from four to five.

My tummy is certainly swelling. I now look like I'm smuggling a basketball beneath my All Saints jumper (thank goodness for that fashion line - all that asymmetrical draping does wonders for concealing my burgeoning bump...well, for the most part).

Amusingly I even had to don a 1920's vintage flapper dress for the husbands birthday party last weekend. It made me realise why women who were pregnant in those days were said to be in 'confinement'. Too right.

Sadly, life is so full-on these days that confining myself to home is the last thing I can do. Egg belongs to not one but three after school clubs, which means that I have to do double pick-ups in the cold dark evenings three nights a week. On foot. With Dumpie...who usually has to be physically prised (and bribed) away from his Nintendo game, a mere forty-five minutes after arriving home himself.

Moreover, Dumpie has just been initiated into the joys that are 'play dates' and is now begging me for them several times a week. (Which of course means more traversing by foot through the neighbourhood to pick up the monsters from various school mates homes...either that or having to spend an hour before bedtime returning their trashed bedrooms to some sort of sane equilibrium.)

It seems like just yesterday that the boys were excited about Halloween and clamouring to go out 'trick or treating'. Of course, this being Europe and not North America, the tradition is not so firmly embedded here, and the majority of home owners do not participate in this pagan holiday of greed and questionable disguise by way of flame (un)retardent polyester. Unfortunately, having begun the process slightly too late in the game (7pm or so) meant that even the few homes that did sport encouraging outdoor decorations, soon had signs taped to their door saying, 'Out of Sweets'.

they have yet to have their hopes dashed...

...by signs such as these

So the poor monsters in this instance got gypped and we ended up calling it a night quite early, with their near empty baskets looking almost as forlorn as the streets. Oh well, there's always next year.

Slightly more exciting was Dumpie's fifth birthday which just passed last week. My little man turned five amidst a plethora of aunties and uncles (both official and non-official) who all showed up mid-week to celebrate. He is now outfitted with so many toy guns and remote controlled paraphernalia that our home resembles an Argos warehouse. We despair.

Dumpie's last night as a four year old...

What could we do? The boy wanted guns...

Dumpie insisted on 'Pass-the-parcel'...comedy style

Big grins from the birthday boy (he insisted on the badge)

Alas here I sit, waiting glumly for a plumber who is gleefully on his way to no doubt relieve me of copious amounts of cash for repairing the latest leak we have. One of the joys of London living in all these lovely converted buildings (sigh).

And to think that one year ago today I was eating fruit salad on a Goan beach, chasing the monsters into the warm sea and dodging semi-rabid dogs on my early morning runs...

"Teeth, Tantrums and Roman Soldiers..."

2011-10-27T16:41:00.000+01:00

Poor Egg. His play date has been hijacked by Dumpie.

So as his school mate and little brother play upstairs, he watches a movie by himself in the front room...having been comforted by a homemade peanut butter cookie, a bit of a cuddle and a knowing sigh from Mama.

We're on half-term holiday at the moment - which would be tolerable were it not for the evil cold that has decimated me for the past ten days. All I want to do is crawl into bed with a box of tissues, a good ol' cheesy movie from the 80's ('Father of the Bride' will do...) and some extra-strength cold and flu Nurofen. Sadly, my up-the-duff state renders the last option impossible - but then again three boys under seven currently trashing the bedroom upstairs at the moment renders the first two laughable.

On the domestic front we've had big news this past week. Egg finally lost his other front tooth (for which i was mightily relieved as it's crooked, hanging stance made him look like he'd just washed up from a farm in Iowa or something...I almost yanked it out myself several times in a stylist intervention.) Fortunately, his lifelong belief in the tooth fairy was salvaged by the sudden last minute recollection early Saturday morning of yours truly, that Dada and I had forgotten to place the requisite £5 note under his pillow and nick the tooth. Oops. So I nudged Dada awake and grabbed onto Egg's leg, tickling and distracting him for the better part of five minutes while the husband did the deed. Whew.

In other news, besides having belted a fellow student only days before, Dumpie surprised us all by bringing home a coveted bright green 'Achievement Award' signed and presented to him by the head teacher in assembly. I had to double check the name and make sure he hadn't swiped if off another kid (as he has inexplicably been bringing home his best friend's artwork for several days now) - but no...it was his. Go figure.

The day before school broke up for half-term holiday, I overheard one of the mothers in the playground saying that she had spent her only day off that week looking for a costume for 'Roman Day' for her son. I of course had not. Foolishly I had taken the husband's enthusiasm for 'Roman Day' the previous week to mean that he was not only going to sort Egg out with a costume, but magically morph into a super-stylist designer to boot.

That would explain why Friday morning saw us snapping at each other while I tried to fashion some red wrapping paper and a bin lid into a formidable shield, and the husband tried to sew a silk red pillowcase onto one of my Bali shirt dresses - the thing hanging limply off his shoulders like a tragic afterthought.

We got there in the end. We always do somehow. And the teacher even congratulated him on his 'inventive' costume, posing for a picture all the while shooting me a look which seemed to convey the fact that she knew that I had not, like my friend, spent a whole day sourcing an authentic gladiator costume.

Fair enough. I suck at costumes - my fashion know-how does not, unfortunately extend to children's dress up. (I got through university costume balls by doing what every other girl in residence did - dressing up like some sort of barbie doll, middle class hooker....).

Anyway, I had better go and explore what's happening upstairs. It wouldn't surprise me if Dumpie had tied up Egg's friend in the bathroom or something and was lording it over him with a sword or a foam dart gun. It truly wouldn't.

"Beyonce My 'Pregnancy Twin'...Blech!"

2011-10-18T10:33:00.002+01:00

Before I go off on yet another pregnancy-related tangent (sorry - but if you were growing an ever inflating beach ball which not only hindered approximately 78% of your mobility and rendered 92% of your wardrobe a no-go zone - I'm sure you'd forgive), I have to say one little thing about yesterday's post re: Little Man Dumps.

If you saw him go to bed last night, zipped up into a tiny blue fuzzy all-in-one pair of pj's, you'd understand how ridiculous it felt to even harbour thoughts of potential 'thug-dom' for a moment. Moreover, the feedback has been overwhelmingly in favour of Dumps (no biases there then!) so perhaps I should step back a bit, stop fretting and worry about something far more potentially disturbing: Beyonce the pregnant superstar.

Okay, here's the problem. Every time one gets pregnant, there is undoubtedly a slew of pregnant 'celebs' also expecting, and I always joke that you get 'paired up' with whichever celeb happens to be sharing your due date.

By this I mean that said celeb is plastered across all manner of digital media, magazines, telly, and even billboards sometimes (remember Demi Moore and her infamous preggie nudie shot?), regaling the 'miracle' that is their pregnancy. They are (inevitably) 'glowing', 'blooming', 'radiant', 'excited', and 'blossoming'.

I on the other hand...am simply...expanding. I do not feel any of those things (except maybe the excited bit - can't wait to meet the newest member of our family - poor guy doesn't know what he's in for). Moreover, I do not have a coterie of make-up artists to plump my sallow face into something resembling a glow.

I do not have hair stylists ready to weave luxurious extensions into my hair - thus turning me into a modern day fecund Cinderella...glass slippers replaced by towering Louboutins, upon which I can perilously wiggle my way from one glamourous restaurant to another.

No. My reality is more beleaguered housewife circa 1950 (minus the killer retro wardrobe). I traipse (who am I kidding...more like trudge) through various supermarkets on a daily basis, arms weighed down with over-priced produce which will get turned into meals which the monsters will later refuse to even try.

I've no personal chef to ensure I'm getting a healthy balanced diet during pregnancy - no one monitoring my sometimes obscene intake of jaffa cakes, diet pepsi and sour skittles. Just little ol' me staring daily down the barrel of an endless to-do list which mocks me at every turn, ensuring my days are spent in the most pointless, meaningless way possible...with very little that is tangible to show for it.

Meanwhile Queen Beyonce is papped in various cities around the world, strutting her long brown legs in obscene mini skirts which only she and Naomi Campbell can get away with - due to the nature of their limbs ('exotic' versus 'skanky'). Her 'bump' is draped in finest designer wear, with just enough give to prove she's not doing the 'buy a baby by surrogate' trick (thereby ensuring a lifelong enjoyment of trampolining and enjoyable intercourse with no vaginal reconstructive surgeon waving scary implements in ones nether regions...but i digress).

Despite going down mother nature's route, there is absolutely no sneaky peeking out of blubbery tum for Beyonce...no way.

On top of it all, she is parading around with what I like to call 'F.T.M.S.' (First Time Mummy Syndrome). Gauging by the unconcealed delight she exudes at having proven fertile enough to begin personally populating the Mega-Jay-Z-Beyonce Empire, one would think she and her mega-mogul hubby had just invented the act of procreation due to their superstar genes exploding in a cacophany of life-giving wonder.

And the worst of it is that she is due in February as well. So that means that for the next 3.5 months I have no choice but to compare myself with a young, fabulously rich, super-fit incarnation of Tina Turner (let's call it what it is), and come up unfavourable each and every time (sigh).

Me? Bitter? Huh.

But I'll tell you what: I bet at night, when she's holed up in some posh hotel and she strips off the sequins, the wigs, the drag queen make-up and rips off the bustier...she's just a bloated, sweat pant suited, matted (real) haired, varicose veined lass...tucking into an heaving room service plate of nachos (extra cheese) and root beer floats.

I guess it could be worse. It could be bloody Gywneth-the-Princess-of-Goop and her mawkish macrobiotic twig limbs mocking me from the front cover of Heat Magazine each week...

"Dumpie the Destroyer..."

2011-10-17T21:29:00.000+01:00

It was really only a matter of time...the husband knew it. I knew it.

Picking up Dumpie from school today (overlooking the fact that he was the second last child of thirty to be collected - damn that huge queue at the supermarket and the idiot woman in front of me who kept dropping her fresh produce on the floor and demanding new items) I knew something was wrong the moment I saw the teachers face.

"I'm afraid we had an 'incident' today" she told me, her face scrunched up and so unlike her usual happy demeanor.

I knew it was one of two things: either Dumpie had wet himself (or worse, done a numero deux in his school issue trousers) OR he'd been involved in a punch up of sorts.

A year ago in India, at only age three, we watched some kid who foolishly picked on Egg, be bombarded by a charging Dumps - racing across the sand and shoving the older child with the words, "You leave my 'brudder' alone!"

We were amazed. Not only at his courage but at his innate protectiveness of his older brother.

Moreover, a few weeks ago, on the way home from his third day of school, Dumps broke some news to me.

"Mama, I have good news and bad news to tell you...which one do you want first?" the cheeky chappie enquired.

"Uh...the good news" I said.

"Well, the good news is that the teacher gave me a sticker for good behaviour."

"Cool" I said. "Where is it?"

He looked disdainful. "I don't like stickers. They're stupid. I threw it away."

"Oh" I said. "Okaaaay, so what's the bad news Dumps?" I asked, somewhat tentatively.

At this he looked up sadly with his big brown eyes. "Two boys tied me up with skipping rope and pulled my hair".

I stopped in my tracks. Nothing like a child being bullied to get ones hackles up. "That's terrible! Did you tell the teacher?" I asked.

"No." He paused briefly. "I punched him in the face."

"Um...okaaaay...then what happened?" a sickening feeling spreading throughout my gut.

"The boy fell down," Dumpie said matter-of-factly.

"Then what happened?"

"Well, he got up and said 'Is that all you got?'"

I was almost afraid to ask, but ask I did. "So then what happened?"

"I told him that I'd punch him again if he didn't leave me alone."

What to say?. On one hand I was kind of proud and relieved that my little man could take care of himself in the playground (which let's face it, will no doubt translate later into real life). But on the other hand, it was only his third day of school...ever...and well....ummm...

Should I have been more concerned?

Turns out yes. Yes I should have.

For today, his teacher told me that the 'incident' in question involved another classmate giving Dumpie's best friend a hard time. Apparently Dumpie responded by issuing the offender with a brusque hand slap to the face.

For this (I am told) he was taken to the teacher's staffroom and made to sit cross-legged in a corner for five minutes.
(To hear Dumpie tell it, he was granted a privilege of sorts, and everyone was very nice to him in there as he amused himself by counting until his teacher came to collect him.)

What's the moral of the story? I'm not sure. But I am left somewhat bewildered. Is my youngest son a hero of sorts? A miniature Robin Hood defending the rights of those unwilling or unable to stick up for themselves?

Or am I raising a little thug?

"On Being A Bad Pregnant Person..."

2011-09-29T15:20:00.000+01:00

That belly ring ain't going nowhere :)

I am a very bad pregnant person. I know I am. Forget the odd glass of wine or champagne I rather enjoy now and again ("I'm like the French," I proclaim to dubious onlookers). By nature I have a (ever so slight) problem with authority and being told what to do. I also have a bit of a 'know-it-all/been-there-done-it' attitude towards pregnancy...especially this, the third time around.

Take for instance blood tests. They like to give them to you at least twice during the nine month period, and the first time round with Eggie I managed to get out of them completely, and with Dumps I only succumbed post-birth because of a severe, potentially life-threatening infection.

I have a severe needle phobia you see, and the odd injection I can just about manage if it's a precurser to a looming exotic holiday or something - but otherwise forget it. Blood tests and their evil uncle 'I.V.'s' are to me akin to the type of torture involving having your eye sockets prised out of your skull by a clumsy thug.

So this time round when the well-meaning but exhausted midwife started preparation for a blood test some weeks ago I just smiled and shook my head.

"No way" I insisted.

"Come on girl!" (She was a rather large, older black woman who been round this particular block many times and was not going to put up with any lip from a girl in black converse and pink lipstick, arms wrapped possessively around her body.)

"Sorry, but there is no way...I'm sorry. I'd rather die."

She looked at me disdainfully, shook her head and let out a long sigh of a whistle while scribbling something no doubt disparaging in my big orange pregnancy book.

"Okay girl but I think you wanna be getting the blood test done at the hospital. You gotta try to be brave - there's a lot worse things than a needle comin' up if you're gonna have this baby," she warned.

Don't I know it. Still, I did not budge, and it was only when I went for my first scan that I was told a blood test was necessary to check for fetal deformities and Down's... Gulp. That did it.

In I went to sit across from a middle aged Kiwi man (what is it with all these Kiwi's??) who barely registered my scared mutterings about having a severe phobia and didn't even glance up when I warned that in all likelihood I would faint.

"Roll up your sleeve...come on now," he ordered, and then proceeded to rue the day he got stuck taking blood from the snivelling, soon sobbing, hyperventilating wreck of a woman sat before him. It wasn't pretty. I probably ruined his day. (I know he ruined mine.)

Anyway, today I saw the same midwife for my 21+ week appointment. She looked at my notes then at me.

"I remember you," she said, whilst glancing down and shaking her head at my silver belly ring. "You gonna keep that thing in?" she asked disbelievingly.

"Yep," I answered. "I kept it in for my other two pregnancies and it was fine," answered little Miss Know-It-All...

She didn't look impressed. Fair enough. And even less so when I shook my head no to joining any ante natal classes or pre-birthing programmes. Frankly, until someone comes up with a totally pain-free method of birthing (in which case sign me up asap) I'm not interested in any classes, books or advice.

I know exactly what I'm in for, approximately how many screams and cries of "Kill me now! I want to DIE! I want to DIE! You raise this baby cuz I'm going to die and I'll see you in heaven!" wait in my not so distant future...

Eggie and Dumpie were, until recently (thanks to Auntie Ba), under the impression that the baby would come popping out of my stomach somehow...much like a burst Jiffy Popcorn I imagine. However now that they are aware of the true birthing path, they share a somewhat awed opinion of my lady parts.

When told they were expecting a little brother and not a sister, their reactions were typical.

Eggie had been hoping for a sister (who can blame him) as he was of the belief that 'another Dumpie' would be too great a burden for his weary little shoulders, and that a little girl would be gentler and not break all his toys. The night before the scan he told me not to tell him when I picked him up from school, but rather to let him look at my face and he'd just 'know'. Bless him...for he did.

For sure enough, when I picked them up last week, having just returned from the hospital a few hours before, Egg came exploding out of the school and ran straight up to me. He peered through my darkened shades and thought for a moment.

"It's a boy isn't it Mama," he said knowingly, then looked away for a moment. "You know, I knew it was going to be a boy, ever since you told me you were having a baby," he admitted.

"How did you know?" I asked confused.

"Because sometimes when you really want something badly you get the opposite of what you want," said my wise little man, before scootering off out the school gates, leaving me somewhat shell-shocked at his understanding of one of life's little ironies.

Dumpie on the other hand stood leaning against a tree, gazing up at me with a little smirk on his face.

"I KNEW it was going to be a boy. I TOLD you it was going to be a boy. Why didn't you listen to me Mama?" he said.

Little scamp.

"Resistance Is Futile..."

2011-09-27T08:29:00.000+01:00

...So there I lay, waiting to hear what the sonographer was going to say. I realised I was shaking ever so slightly. For days I had obsessed over whether I was at long last going to get my little girl, or whether I was going to forever be the mother of THREE(!) strapping lads. I had suffered bouts of severe insomnia, waking up in the middle of the night and playing out the various reactions I might have to the news either way. And here I was, on the cusp of finally finding out. You could cut the silence in the room it was that thick and heavy.

Then the husband interrupted with, "So have you seen anything which might give you a clue?"

She turned to us and smiled. "As a matter of fact I have!" she chirped brightly.

And with that, I knew. It could only be one thing: a tiny penis waving about between the little ones legs.

And sure enough, seconds later, there it was, visible to all: my little baby boy.

I was rendered speechless. In those seconds which followed, I found my head full of a million thoughts and feelings. Content in the knowledge that it was by all accounts a healthy, perfectly formed baby, I watched as the internal movie in my head played out:

(Two little babies - one a girl and one a boy...the girl baby smiled and suddenly POP went the cartoon bubble surrounding her and she disappeared in a plume of smoke. I was left with a chubby little male cherub smiling broadly at me, who got bigger and bigger and took over my whole headspace. But then he started to grow, and I saw Egg and Dumps enter from corner stage and they were all teenagers and they were all HUGE and they were tearing food out of cupboards and stuffing their faces and dumping loads of laundry on the kitchen floor and being so LOUD and trekking in mud everywhere and....and...)

"You okay?" the husband asked kindly, rubbing my arm and shaking me out of my reverie.

At once I was back in the hospital, staring soberly at the screen. But I ignored him for the moment and addressed the sonographer one last time.

"Are you sure it's a boy? I mean are you 80% or 90% sure?" I asked.

She grinned her happy, healthy Kiwi grin, swinging her luscious blond locks over her shoulder and winked knowingly, "I am 99% sure...look!"

And there is was. That little penis, up there on the screen. My future...in black and white, practically waving at me.

Spun out doesn't even cover it. I had secretly 99% believed it was going to be a girl. I 'knew it' deep inside and even had her full name picked out.

Going to be a crazy few weeks mentally and emotionally as I get my head around not just the fact that I was so, so wrong, but that I am soon to be the mother of three(!) boys.

I'm not even one of those hearty, sporty women with ruddy cheeks who I imagine whip up weekend hog roasts for their big sons and all their mates. I'm already drowning in a sea of dirty laundry, spills and stains, and I can guarantee that every single toilet in this house, is right now, as we speak, decorated in a sea of urine.

The husband is of course taking the news much more in stride. Already over the shock, he is now amusing himself by thinking up potential boy names, and looking at me quizzically out of the corner of his eye, wondering if I'm going to hold up or lose the plot.

I suppose my biggest worry right now is making sure the poor little guy doesn't get named something ridiculous like 'Barabbas' or 'Hallellujah' - the strong contender at the moment.

And giving away the cute little girl outfit I purchased ages ago, which was simply too darling to resist (sigh)...

"Three (BIG) Milestones..."

2011-09-26T11:47:00.000+01:00

My goodness...can it really be THAT long that I've ignored my public outpost for all things of a maternally moaning nature?

Heartfelt apologies for having been silent for so long. Life just caught up with me, lassoed me head to toe and toppled me over on one side is all...

But I'm back. And boy do I have news to tell. In fact, you could say we've recently bridge three big milestones:

1. Eggie lost one of his front teeth!

Yes, yes, I know...it's not the first tooth or anything, but given its prominent placement in his little mouth it's nonetheless a 'face changer' and he's morphed into this adorable, cartoonish character with the slightest hint of a lisp on certain words. Too cute.

More importantly, when it happened, he was so utterly ecstatic to lose it, that he let out a blood curdling scream so intent that I thought Dumpie must have chopped off his arm or something. It was almost anti-climatic when he awoke the next morning to find a crumpled fiver under his pillow.

2. Dumpie started proper 'big-boy' school!

Dumps doing his favourite activity 'Tap-Tap' in the outside classroom area

Okay, I know I've been looking forward to this day for a long time, but my goodness was I choked up when I dropped him off at school for the first time last week (sniff).

I think it was the sight of him in his slightly too big hand-me-down school uniform, clutching a book bag nearly half his size, that gave me the true perspective of what a little guy he still is (despite possessing one of the biggest personalities I know). Or maybe it was the realisation that the end of an era has passed...one I shall never get back - nor he.

Clowning it up (and refusing to even touch his school lunch...fair enough - look at it!)

Dumps has been my partner in crime for a few years now. We'd drop Eggie off at school then head out for grocery shopping, long walks to strange parts of town, Starbucks (so much so that before he could read he could point out the familiar company logo in cities as far afield as Kuala Lumpur...shameful I know), and occasionally clothing stores - where he would sneakily slip out of his pushchair and make a run for the nearest locked change room, under which he would wriggle out of reach, leaving me red faced and half naked trying to find someone to unlock the door.

My little man at the start of his first day (not entirely sure this school gig is for him)

Oh those were the days. Still, you'd never know the little tyke wasn't thrilled to be at school, for after initial hesitancy during an open house day and an impromptu 'hide and seek' nightmare on the first day of school (when Dumpie went 'missing' for almost three quarters of an hour only to be found buried amidst rubble in 'The Room of Doom'), he has taken to it like the proverbial duck to water....

Big smiles at pick-up time (possibly because we're about to go and buy him a big reward treat!)

3. I had my 21 week scan last week and it all looks good. The baby appears to have the right number of fingers, toes and such and by all accounts it appears to be a healthy baby (whew!).

A lovely YOUNG blond Kiwi girl did the ultrasound, and as the husband and I waited with baited breath to hear those immortal words, "Do you want to know the sex?" a hush fell over the room. Without hesitation, we both said "Yes!"

So she once again turned to the screen, slid the monitor over my belly and turned to us, uttering the words that would (WILL) seal our fate for the next...oh who are we kidding - the REST of our lives...

(to be con't)

"The Shed" (Not To Be Confused With Bestselling Novel 'The Shack')

2011-08-27T13:25:00.000+01:00

One day in and 'the Shed' is already expanding again (sigh)...

Lest you think I was exaggerating my distress over the whole 'cleaner incident' the other day, let me just make one thing clear.

I WAS NOT.

Perhaps there are women out there who are quite happy to potter about in a messy, toy-strewn creche - I mean home - complete with freshly laundered pants drying on radiators and the contents of last night's supper on the kitchen floor. But I am not one of them (despite the alarming frequency with which my home resembles the aforementioned hell hole).

Mess makes me depressed. It always has. My mother still tells the story of how when I was a little girl I was often to be found in her walk-in closet arranging her myriad of shoes into perfect rows of paired up prettiness. That's just who I am.

So you can imagine how distressing it is living in a predominantly male household where 'tidiness' comes right after 'must remember to empty dishwasher' and 'replace toilet roll' in order of importance.

And fair enough I suppose. What four and seven year old boys are going to take delight in helping keep a room clean? (Not unless I can magic myself into some sort of all singing and dancing modern day Mary Poppin's figure complete with requisite singing mice...or is that Cinderella?)

And the husband of course has little if any interest in our home outside the dining room, which he has pretty much taken over as his 'shed'. We jokingly (lately with slightly less mirth and more annoyance on my part) refer to it as such because it's where all his STUFF (and believe me, for a guy, he has a LOAD of stuff) ends up: various guitars, electronic equipment, random bicycle parts, tool kits, commemorative knick knacks (three beer festival pint glasses anyone?), empty tea cups, odd socks, old hard drives, cameras, shoes, clothes....you get the picture.

Yesterday with a zeal which surprised even me, (second trimester anyone?) I ventured into the 'Room of Doom' (more on that later) grabbed the biggest box I could find, tore down the stairs and proceeded to downsize all the husbands possessions I could see into said box. With a pride I haven't experienced since finally mastering the world's yummiest lemon and poppyseed loaf, I proudly stepped back and gazed happily at my handiwork. Result! I had my beloved dining room back and now instead of a shed masquerading as a dining room, I realised that I had magically compressed said shed into a 12 x 16 inch container. Brilliant.

(Now, regarding the 'Room of Doom', it's actually a third bedroom masquerading as yet another indoor shed. All manner of things lost, forgotten and missing can be found inside. Generally I find that keeping the door shut allows me to believe that it doesn't exist and causes no real anxiety when I pass. So for all intents and purposes at present we live in a rather spacious two-bed home. Suits me. I wouldn't be surprised if one day many months from now I open it to find squatters residing inside, or someone having a car boot sale out the window...but I digress)

The husband is less than impressed (okay, downright offended) that his 'shed' is no more and that all his 'play things' (ie. most important things in the world) have been crammed into a green plastic storage box. He does not share my glee at being able to see, let alone use our lovely Habitat hardwood dining table again, or allowing the children to start up play dates again on account of not being horrified of their parents entering our home.

The irony is that I have way more STUFF than the husband. I can't even admit to myself let alone the world at large, how many pairs of shoes I own, lovely leather bags I have hidden away, armfuls of jewelry and scarves I possess, or fabulous clothes I have squirrelled away. But (and this is a big but) I am an expert 'stasher'. You should see me fill a suitcase. I learned this amazing skill from my father - making room where this is none. There is a science to it honestly. It's a bit like 3-D life size 'Jenga'.

So I've told him that either he gets more clever about stashing his stuff out of sight, or he better get used to living out of a box.

Either that or we have to buy a bigger place (with a cellar-like dungeon which he can use to house his many bicycles, computers, guitars and contents of his imaginary 'shed').

I reckon he'll get used to the box.

"If Cleanliness Is Next To Godliness...What Does That Make Us?"

2011-08-25T20:38:00.000+01:00

Like butter wouldn't melt right?...WRONG

I was so excited today. After literally weeks of trying to secure a new cleaner to help me keep this place in a state that would discourage the breeding of small insects and animals, I finally managed to hound down a lovely young girl named Olga.

She came recommended from a website, and it took me literally days of thinly disguised pleading and text-begging to pin her down to this initial visit. I fear this shall be her last.

Not only is she still cleaning (we've just rounded the four hour mark here...three is standard in these parts), but she's having to do so amidst the din of screaming, feral little boys armed with Nerf Blasters...who, I might add, have, for the last few hours, been taking aim at her pretending she's 'the enemy'.

Before Olga came today I spent three (count 'em...three) solid hours running around 'pre-cleaning' the place in anticipation of her arrival. But it wasn't my normal frantic scouring, tidying and wiping. No, I couldn't do it properly because then there would be nothing left for her to do. But at the same time I had to get it into an 'clean-ish' state (I was aiming for around 75%) so as not to repel her and increase the likelihood that she stayed with us for awhile and didn't develop some mysterious illness or fake pregnancy around week 3 which concluded her services with us.

As it turns out, I very much doubt she'll darken our doorway again anyway. Not after today. (Oh why oh why didn't I hold off and ask her to come when the monsters were at school in a few weeks? And why did they choose today of all days to act out like savages? Anyone would think that I had been feeding them E-number rich blue smarties all morning in preparation...)

Inexplicably they have both insisted on going trouser-less today and have been running around in just their pants. It's been futile trying to forcibly dress them as the trousers have been shorn as soon as my back has been turned. They have been involved in hardcore role play, screaming orders at each other and yelling '"Attack! Attack!" every time poor Olga has come into view. I struggle to think of which television cartoon or show has inspired this 'Lord of the Flies' behaviour today...but to be safe I think I'm banning channel 72 for awhile.

That way we will have blessed silence for the coming days...as we sit...the three of us...watching the place gradually gather in dust, crumbs and general debris, until it resembles its 'pre-Olga' state. And I shall go online shopping and spend the money I would have given to dear Olga, on something pretty and pointless.

And why the heck not I ask you?

As soon as Olga catches sight of the hallway she just finished hoovering minutes ago (thanks Dumpie for your inspired idea of sprinkling finely-grained play sand onto the floor - thus turning a bog standard hallway into an indoor sand pit) it's going to be some head down incoherent mumbling about getting in touch again, followed by my shoving the contents of my wallet into her outstretched hand...followed by her pressing 'Delete' under my phone number as she hurries off down the street....

The perfect way to ensure a new cleaner doesn't return to your home ever again...

"Wilderness Festival...Rocked"

2011-08-22T15:07:00.002+01:00

Dumps ready to take on Wilderness Festival 2011

It's been a week since we've been back from Wilderness Festival, and still I find myself thinking fondly back to our time there and wondering whether parts of it were just a dream (clean toilets! that smelled good! Even on the Saturday night! I mean come on...).

Things had gotten off to an ominous start before we even left home. As the husband was packing the rental car he noticed that he was being watched rather too intently by a local 'hoodie' (sorry, I mean local youth who may or may not have been a delinquent involved in the recent riots, and who happened to be adorned in a tracksuit top with the hood concealing most of his face) standing on the street corner. As he brought another load to the car he mentioned in passing that he wouldn't be surprised if we got broken into while we were away.

Well that was all I needed to affirm my own uneasy instincts, and what followed was a frantic half hour delay as I ran around the house gathering up assorted laptops, ipads, and random electronic gadgets and sliding them under sofas, whilst simultaneously grabbing handfuls of jewellry only to end up stashing them in entirely obvious places that practically screamed 'LOOK HERE'. Finally, despite envisioning some local teenager adorned in all my rings and bracelets, we attempted to leave (a mere three hours behind schedule at this point) when suddenly, half out the door, it dawned on me that we didn't yet have contents insurance.

What followed was (strictly in retrospect) a comical race to procure one of the stashed laptops, followed by me being locked out of my account with the wrong password, an increasingly irate husband, one child parked lazily in the pushchair in the entrance hall and the other pacing the streets outside with his bear talking quietly to himself, and the frantic typing in of facts and figures (how on earth am I supposed to know when this place was built?!) resulting in the signing up for a year of expensive contents insurance set to become in effect immediately. 'Hoodies' be damned :)

Two hours later as we neared the Oxfordshire destination it became apparent that the husband would be setting up the tent in the dark. He was not well pleased about this. Egg kept up a moaning monologue from the back seat that he was sick after having gulped down several of his beloved cheese and pickle sarnies and having long since abandoned his 'Sea Bank Sickness Bracelets' (which Dumpie wore contentedly in his sleep) I had the sinking feeling that this was not going to end well.

Sure enough, in the parking queue to the festival entrance, Egg threw open the door and jumped out, proceeding to projectile vomit all over the side of the road - in full view of the stopped festival goers behind us. I jumped out (momentarily repulsed and necessitating a prompting from the husband), stood in the drizzling rain and began to question the wisdom of a family camping adventure in my pregnant state.

I'll tell you what though. The moment we walked into the festival, welcomed by funny, laid back gate staff, through gorgeous grass and amongst happy smiling people, that all changed. No queuing in the mud, no rude staff, no jostling drunkards knocking over tired children. It was all simple, easy, clean and organised. I was quietly impressed.

Once inside, the husband took Egg off to scout for a good camping spot and Dumps and I sat down on our luggage and people watched. (At this point, if I could go back, I would have reminded the husband that regarding toilets, NEAR was good and FAR was bad. Considering that it's not uncommon for a pregnant person to visit the loo on average a total of five times a night, this perhaps should have fared higher on the 'things to look for in a good camping spot' rating chart. oh well...)

At other festivals (I'm thinking Glastonbury and The Big Chill here), if you are not one of the first people in, you end up having to camp in awkward spots, virtually on top of others, and it's not uncommon to have your entrance face the rear of another's tent. Not so at Wilderness. The family camping area was not only green, vast and spacious, but the giant trees scattered around had lovely fairy lights dangling from branches, turning the whole area into something out of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'. I kid you not.

Leaving the husband to get on with the task of putting up our shambolic tent (more on that later) I took the boys on an exploratory journey through the grounds, excited at all the cool tents, art installations and live music playing everywhere. It truly felt magical, and I was loving the fact that there were enough people (3000 odd it turns out) to make it feel like an exciting gathering, but not too many (like 190,000 at Glastonbury) to make you feel like you were in a rather hectic rural city. People were laughing, dining, drinking, strolling, dancing, dressed up, and there were enough parents and children about to reassure me that I wasn't a bad mother for not having the monsters already tucked up in bed somewhere - but not enough to make me feel like I was in a giant creche.

An hour later as we rocked up back at the tent, the husband stood sipping a beer with his new mate. His new mate had apparently taken pity on the husband, watching him struggle for ages with two wrongly coded, mistakenly mismatched tent poles, before taking pity on him and climbing out of bed to come help construct the rest of the tent. Thank goodness for the kindness of strangers (especially booze toting ones). Turns out he was a keen cyclist as well, and the two sat comfortably in the dark, sipping whiskey and speaking 'bike-anese' whilst I begged off to bed and fell asleep in a cozy heap.

Wilderness Festival felt like a couple of festival aficionados had gotten together and decided to start the best festival ever - eliminating all the horrible parts and adding all the coolest elements they could think of. Turns out I was not far off.

Gone were the disgusting unhygienic toilets which are often a source of freak show revulsion at festivals ("You saw what in there?!). I personally have been known to flirt with dehydration over a weekend in order to limit my visits to the onsite pits of hell to as few as possible. If it means I lie about feeling mildly ill and lacking in energy so be it. Not so here. The toilets were not only cleaned regularly, they smelled good(!), had working antibacterial spray gel inside and always (with one exception) had full rolls of toilet paper! On the last night I even found a set of loos that were mirrored and carpeted and wouldn't have been out of place in a pub dining room. It blew my mind.

The other thing they got so right was the Boutique Babysitting on offer. With day or night slots (7:30pm - 2:00 a.m.) your little ones, for a fee, could be taken into a mini-festival of their own and cared for by loads of staff while you got on with the business of partying...how good is that? Finally - someone looking out for the poor parents, and realising that life as we knew it (and loved it) doesn't end with the onset of tiny pitter-pattering feet. Amen.

I haven't even gotten to the best part: THE FOOD. You know how after being at a festival you feel positively ill from all the junk food you've imbibed? Well at Wilderness, they had taken care to choose decent food venders and as a result I had the pleasure of partaking in delicious cream teas, homemade pasty's and soup...not to mention THE BEST COFFEE i have ever had in the UK. Go figure. Proper luxe gourmet lattes in the morning couldn't be beat, and if you fancied a picnic by the gorgeous manmade lake (I kid you not) you could simply purchase a tapas selection of cheese, olives and other gourmet delicacies...it was inspired.

Not only that, but each of the three days a giant banquet was held in a huge white marquee, where for £27 per person you could dine on a sumptuous several course gourmet feast prepared by top chefs, complete with banqueting tables, wine, and serving staff. It all looked and felt terribly decadent. (Sadly the tickets to this sold out before we could get our hands on some, but next time it's a definite.)

But about the lake: there was free boating, swimming and general cavorting amongst the trees on shore whilst indulging in glasses of refreshing Pimm's if one wanted. Honestly it felt like being at someone's posh stately home for a big weekend party. That was the vibe. Rolling green hills straight out of 'storybook land' spread out on all sides of the gorgeous stately home. The main musical stage was decorated in woven twigs, perfectly blending in with the theme of Wilderness and there were plenty of places to sit and chill out if you didn't feel like plopping yourself on the ground to listen to the likes of Laura Marling, Toots and the Maytals, and Antony and the Johnsons.

On the Friday night there was a Secret Garden Party in a hidden location in the woods, complete with bunting, giant campfire and amazing sound system which went until the wee hours of the morning - ending in an explosion of fireworks. On the Saturday night there was an exciting Masked Ball which also went on till the wee hours, and watching everyone dressed up in outrageous costumes and resplendent in exotic masks throughout the evening was something to behold. There were several places where you could dress up and borrow fanciful costumes, some of which were for sale if one so desired to take their 'new look' back into real life. Hats, waistcoats, bustles, gowns, masks and assorted outlandish costumes were there for the taking. They had it all.

The monsters loved their time at the festival. They made loads of friends, loved dancing around to thei music, and enjoyed hours of free entertainment in the Kid's Field (circus shows, craft and drama workshops, even a place where they could examine bugs close up in microscopes and handle real snakes and lizards). Over the course of the weekend they developed a rather severe hot chocolate addiction, but came out of it feeling like they'd had a great adventure - Egg even having a go at walking on a tightrope and learning some magic tricks. Simply put, they had a blast (and the husband and I got to indulge ourselves with gourmet lattes on the green grass whilst poring over the weekend papers a fair distance away...ah bliss).

Frankly, I don't have a bad word to say about Wilderness Festival. Not a one. In fact my only horrid moment was brought about by my own foolishness. The toilets were so clean (yes, I know I'm going on about it, but seriously I'm still blown away) that when I took the boys to use them for the first time I mistook a set of urinals for a hand washing latrine and tried to get the boys to follow my example of rubbing the big yellow chunks of what I mistakenly took for hand soap onto their wet hands. (I think at some point my hormonally-addled brain cottoned on to the fact that the 'soap' simply wasn't lathering up, and moreover, the suddenly distinctive acrid smell alerted me to my horrid faux pas).

Anyway, if that was the worst thing to happen at a festival that's something I can totally live with. Not only are we definitely going next year, but this time we're going to drag all our friends with us as well...and anyone reading this would do well to follow suit - kiddies or no kiddies. It's an incredible weekend with something for everyone, and can even please the fussiest of campers. Is it a bit posh? Only in the best way possible: no drug zombies wondering around at dawn, crashing into your tent and freaking out the kids with wasted eyes. No bands of drunken yobs puking up all over the place and no needing to sidestep passed out lasses with last night's knickers in a twist.

Just an up for it, cool all ages crowd of people who want to have fun but don't necessarily feel you have to be filthy, wrecked and steeped in last night's vomit to be able to say you had a blinder of a time.

And like all good festivals, there are enough hidden delights on site that you can't possibly sample them all in a weekend. Whether it's gastronomic delights, breathtaking scenery, or having a daily swim in the gorgeous lake, where it's possible to wash the daily grime off before dipping into an outdoor hot tub, having a massage at the spa or sipping a glass of civilised wine as the sun goes down....

Anyway you look at it, Wilderness Festival rocked. And I feel so lucky to have sampled it on it's inaugural run. Bet this one goes and goes...

Proper GOURMET coffee...at a festival...(now that's what i call heaven)

The boys get to grips with their morning smoothies

Egg gets hit on by a wee lass who will minutes later sidle over to Dumpie and steal his biscuits...little minx!

Big one the night before...

I wasn't joking about the breathtaking scenery....

Egg contemplates an art(ful) installation....

"Mama and Dada...I WILL go to the (Masked) Ball!"

Festival Die-Hards...(sponsored apparently by Gap)

"So Four Are To Become Five (Gulp)"

2011-08-17T14:24:00.000+01:00

Me in all my festival glory (Wilderness Festival August 2011)

The husband and I had an interesting exchange of words on the drive up to Wilderness Festival, brought on by some lovely well-meaning messages and calls of congratulations as his phone starting beeping whilst traversing the late rush hour traffic of London.

"What?" he asked. "Did you drop the bomb...on your blog??"

(gulp) "Uh...yeah. What's the big deal? We discussed this and you agreed."

Apparently he did not remember the discussion in question, and was none too pleased that I had issued forth such massive news on the blogosphere without letting him know exactly how and when I was doing so.

"Well it's not like it's our first child or anything...I mean it's our third...it's more casual no?" I offered.

Apparently not.

You see, it's the funniest thing. I've always been like this. No matter how big a deal something is to me at the start (like buying a new outfit you've been lusting after for weeks and simply MUST have - which after a wearing or two ends up strewn at the back of your closet), once I get used to it I become very laissez faire about things (which makes the fact that we're about to celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary nothing short of extraordinary...).

Anyway, I'm just very laid back and casual about the whole 'having another baby' thing. Maybe it's because I've done this twice before and it feels like no big deal, or because it's still months away (five and a bit to be exact), or because I have the gruelling 'swelling up like a star of Supersize Me' period to come and THAT is what is causing me anxiety if anything.

Babies are adorable, precious and truthfully not too much trouble until they reach the mouthing back stage. Besides, the monsters are old enough now that they will be of some help I'm sure (well Egg will be - Dumpie remains to be seen) and as Dumpie is starting full time school in September, it's not like I'll be saddled with three little ones underfoot all day every day (whew!).

I think it's been timed perfectly to be honest. If this had happened any sooner it would have been a disaster with the sibling dynamics as Dumpie continues to persist in referring to himself as 'Baby Dumps' - besides being more prolific than the average twelve year old. As it is, he isn't going to take terribly well to being usurped by something smaller and in need of more constant cuddles than himself.

Of course the question on everyones lips is, "Do you know the sex?" No, we do not. Though we wait with baited breath to find out in four weeks or so.

Will it be a much-longed for girl to help right the imbalance of testosterone and provide a calming influence on our very loud, energy ridden household? Or will it be another boy child (we do make them rather well after all) destined to be groomed as Dumpie's little man servant until he leaves home?

Hmmm...only time will tell. But in the meantime I have pressing issues. With no real nausea to speak of - only sheer CONSTANT exhaustion (which shows no signs of abating) - my biggest dilemma at present is how on earth I'm supposed to get through the next several months with my once fabulous wardrobe drying up by the day.

I'm in the unhappy stage of not looking obviously pregnant per se, but am sporting a beer belly of sorts - looking like I've been boozing it up at my local whilst eating all the pies in sight. Great.

Sayonara skinny jeans and cheekbones...hello big girls blouses and water retention.

(Note: I have to devote another whole blog post to our festival weekend...as it was SO amazing and we all had such a brilliant time, that even Dumpie deciding to wee surreptitiously on the husband's leg underneath the table where we sat indulging in afternoon tea, did little to dampen the enthusiasm. I think.)

No bath or showers for three days...yippee!

" 'Tramping' Not 'Glamping' "

2011-08-12T17:30:00.000+01:00

Dada, Egg and Dumps...my soon to be tent-mates (God help me)

For anyone not familiar with the term 'Glamping' - it's basically 'posh camping'. Instead of trying to erect a threadbare £19.99 Argos tent in blustery British summer weather, you get to sleep in an already erected Tee-Pee, or Pop-Up Boutique Tent, or some such. There are usually warm showers, decent caterers, and the toilets are less 'trench warfare'- more 'petrol station' (not unlike the loo in our beloved abode in India - which was such a shambles that a good friend who visited got caught out taking souvenir pictures of it...but I digress)

Though I can scarcely believe we're doing this, in a matter of hours we shall be taking the monsters to The Wilderness Festival on a beautiful estate in Oxfordshire. By all accounts it looks gorgeous, and there is a lake, swimming, boating, a spa, 5 course banquets, and even boutique babysitting where you can drop your 'I love them but I don't like them right now' rugrats off for up to six hours of kiddie festival fun while you either bunk off back to your tent for a decadent nap, or get up to no good with your significant other somewhere else on site (Masked Ball anyone?).

However (and this is a BIG however), we have done this once before - at The Big Chill Festival three years ago - and it was....an unmitigated D.I.S.A.S.T.E.R.

To be fair, fun was had, but strictly during daytime hours. As soon as the sun fell from the sky, so did any hope of surviving the coming nocturnal night from hell, as our normally darling little Dumps was transformed into a screaming demon from hell.

(Dumpie, as you may or may not recall, did not take to camping very well. In fact he hated it. A light sleeper at the best of times, he would wake shortly after midnight and spend the next several hours before dawn issuing forth with the most torturous screams such that offers of 'Do you want some milk for your baby?' from disgruntled strangers in nearby tents, was easily translated into "Are you torturing that poor child?! Should we be getting the police in?!") It was enough to traumatise us to such extent that we've never attempted festival camping since.

So you see...even though Dumpie is a few years older now, indeed nearly the age Egg was when we last went camping - and he was fine - Dumpie is NOT Egg. Not even close.

Dumps has already developed a taste for the finer things in life. He likes his utensils to be sparkling clean or he won't use them...tables must be shiny and devoid of spills (even if he made them!) before he will deem to put his plate down...he will NOT sit on a toilet that is dirty in any way. OOPS. That could be trouble...big trouble. Wait until he gets a look in at the festival toilets....there is NO way he is going to deem them fit for use (a fair point) - so does that mean he's going to spend the weekend soiling himself and his little Gap skinny jeans as a makeshift porto-potty?! Urgh. I hope not...but yet I can see it (sigh).

It's been a crazy week what with the riots - one of the worst just down the road from here. Tuesday night I was upstairs in bed watching the breaking news on telly, idly wondering why the husband wasn't doing the same, or indeed even in bed at 2:30am. Turns out it's because he was down at the riots of course - filming scenes of hooliganism on his little nikon and trusting his big red bicycle to transport him safely home through the skirmish.

I don't know why I was surprised. Of course he was there. One of the benefits to living in a tall skinny home is that when you're on the top floor (lately more and more my escape hideaway...my lovely balconied bedroom) you cannot hear what is happening on the lower floors. Usually this is grand - especially when the monsters are watching 'The Octonauts' at ear splitting volume downstairs - but in certain cases it makes it tremendously easy for the husband to slip out for whole evenings of frolicking of which I have no idea about. Oh well.

Nonetheless, with local shops still boarded up and the whole area feeling a touch too 'inner city' at the moment, it's not a bad thing to be getting out of the city, to walk amongst beautiful green farm land and get back to nature for a few days.

I hope this is a good idea and that i'm not being totally delusional - which is always a risk. Are we 'the camping sort'?? I mean we have two boys so I guess by proxy we are but...hmmm...I can't help but wonder whether twenty-fours or so from now will see me standing outside a set of loo's, trying to cajole Dumpie inside as opposed to soiling his very last pair of clean trousers. In the rain. While the husband is off watching 'Toots & The Maytals' in a field somewhere...oblivious to his wife's mental anguish. His PREGNANT wife's mental anguish.

(Yep, you heard it correctly folks...and on that bombshell...)

...to be continued...

"How To Make A Mama Cry"

2011-08-08T17:56:00.000+01:00

Tomorrow the husband starts his first day of gainful employment in over a year and a half.

Anyone would think he'd be sad, given that this signifies the official end of our "Adventurous Year And A Bit Away," but actually, I think he's kind of relieved.

This being home 24/7 (mysterious last minute bike trips and music festivals aside) has really gotten to him (well to the both of us truth be told). I think he is seriously relishing his swish out the door every morning at 8:30am, knowing that he's a free man for the next ten hours.

I on the other hand am not. I am like a microcosm of Britain right now - what with all the cuts in public service funding. I'm like a care worker for young delinquents who has just gotten her workforce slashed in half.

From now on any arson attempts, kitchen blender mishaps, deliberate property damage and public scenes of parental humiliation are MY problem - and my problem alone (sigh).

Yes, I know there are thousands of mothers in Britain who deal with their children alone every day while their husbands conduct meetings, lunch in Soho establishments and meet up with mates and colleagues in central London pubs after work...only are they raising a four year old terrorist and his seven year old accomplice?

In all fairness, Egg isn't so much a handful as an enabler. He is (unfortunately) talked into all manner of mischievousness by his younger brother, and due to the forceful persuasiveness and threatening tactics of Dumpie, he honestly appears perplexed when I confront him with that good old "But you should KNOW better Egg - you're the older brother!" Anyone would think that he had no choice but to go along with Dumpie's latest naughty shenanigans.

Take last week for example. I was climbing upstairs with my umpteenth load of folded laundry, and my nose crinkled in disbelief at the smell of acrid smoke permeating the entire second floor. I looked around for open windows, wondering if one of our neighbours were having a bonfire. Then I remembered that we were no longer living in India and the smell of burning rubber and plastic is not terribly common in SW11.

Sure enough I found two little boys huddled over a small flame in the bathroom - burning up the cardboard which forms the centre of the humble domestic toilet roll. Upon hearing my shriek they dropped the evidence and went scampering down the stairs, but I managed to grab Egg's shirt collar and demanded an explanation.

Truthful to a fault Egg proceeded to unearth all the burnt artifacts they'd had a go on: a bag of marbles, a piece of a train track, a storybook and a pencil. He also reluctantly handed over two lighters and confessed that he had caught Dumpie torching things and had been warned that his teddy might be next if he told Mama - but could have a turn lighting things himself if he didn't tell. Easy choice it seems.

One would have thought I'd be traumatised over this, but truthfully, the previous weekend had proven much more nerve wracking and I suppose that much like growing up in Jerusalem must be like, I'm just getting desensitised to the level of danger that living in our home at present entails.

The husband and I had bid farewell to our friends on the street after a lovely afternoon wandering on the Common. In what I didn't recognise as a foreboding sign of things to come, we suffered mild embarrassment as we tried to cajole Dumpie from through the letterbox on the street into letting us in our home, after he snuck quickly inside and put the chain lock on the door.

As cute as this was for the first minute or so, it quickly became tiresome and irritating as our friends refused to leave until they knew we were safely inside. (Do you know how hard it is to whisper threats through a letterbox without tarnishing your reputation as a decent level headed parent to a 'spirited child'?)

We finally bribed/threatened our way in and the husband made like a tornado and was in and out like a flash - zipping off on his bike for a prearranged get together across the city. His last words were, "I'll probably be really late," or something to that effect.

Now to fully appreciate what followed, you must be provided with the following facts. Sometime during the previous week the boys had mysteriously dismantled all the doorknobs on the first floor and hidden them. This was highly irritating to say the least, as more often than not the door wedges were also misplaced and we had to use great big cushions to keep the doors propped open. (I suspect the boys were just being canny and clever - knowing that by keeping the front room door shut they could sneak telly at all hours undetected.)

Anyway, about an hour after the husband had left, the boys had already eaten and were watching a movie in the front room whilst I finished off my meal in a leisurely fashion before bath time. I was aware of some muffled banging and screams, but of course this sort of clatter doesn't really even register on my mangled maternal mind anymore. It's like white noise.

I finally got up to get the bedtime ritual started and threw open the door of the front room (using a pair of kitchen scissors I might add) to find that the boys had been locked in there for ages! Egg jumped into my arms and started kissing me he was so relieved.

Dumpie on the other hand took the scissors out of my hand, tossed them back out the door then slammed it shut as I (in slow motion) lunged for the door just a fraction too late and watched it hopelessly click shut with a bang as I dropped Eggie and wiggled my fingers pointlessly against the door frame.

"Hahahaha Mama!" laughed Dumpie. "Now we is ALL locked in here!"

Indeed we were.

With no scissors or any other implements to use to escape, it would seem that whilst my husband spent the next several hours sampling vino in a trendy wine bar in Hackney, the monsters and I would be sitting out the next eight or so hours in our front room. Without any water or food. Or toilet facilities.

As I frantically glanced across the room I ascertained the grim reality of our situation. I eyed up the hearth and wondered who would be the first to relieve themselves there. My throat already felt dry and parched. I thought longingly of my ice cold Diet Pepsi languishing in the kitchen...right beside my mobile phone.

I couldn't help it. I sank to the floor in defeat and started sobbing.

Egg came up to me and started rubbing my back, soothing me saying, "Don't worry Mama - I'll get us out of here - we'll think of something." Dumpie came up, bent down with his little arms behind his back and peered into my teary eyes.

"Mama is crying...Mama is locked in," he uttered decisively, then (wisely) moved out of reach before I could throttle him in a moment of insane frustration and anger.

After almost an hour of tearing the (for once spotless) room up for anything to help us magically unlock the door, I gave up and resigned myself to a night of hell. Eggie, bless him, refused to give up.

"Mama you said that you should never give up when you have a problem...remember?" Ah, the poor naive boy. Didn't he realise that sometimes giving up is but a stage on the way to acceptance and inevitability?

But turns out the boy was right. After persuading me to move our ancient and heavy corner sofa several inches, we unearthed half a pencil, a random silicone earphone bud and some unidentifiable crumbs (earlier the husband had been charged with hoovering the front room in preparation for our guests).

Somehow...miraculously (and don't think I wasn't fervently praying aloud as I did so - making all sorts of plea bargains with God) I managed, over the next fifteen minutes or so, (despite having no engineering degree) to construct those two items into something that was able to click us to freedom.

The next day when the husband sauntered in during the early hours of dawn, I woke up (albeit from the comfort of our glorious king size bed and NOT our alcatraz of a front room downstairs) and sleepily glared at him. He had no idea of the ballistic scene he might have walked into, had he done a decent job of hoovering up the day before.

"All The Live Long Day..." (Groan)

2011-07-19T21:49:00.000+01:00

I am not a happy puppy. Nor am I a happy camper - or anything with the prefix 'Happy' attached to it.

You remember that movie 'Groundhog Day' wherein Bill Murray gets stuck for days on end, filming in some hick town in winter? Well at least he had the very pretty Andy McDowell to provide entertainment of the carnal/fantasy kind, and eventually worked out how to make life bend to his wishes.

With me, it's that but without any of the chance for redemption that getting to truly live each day identically over and over would afford. You see the days are still tick-tick-ticking by, the calendar is progressing through July, and the state of my unwaxed legs would attest to the fact that yes, indeed a touch too much time has passed since I properly turned a much needed critical eye toward my personal grooming habits....but I digress.

What I mean to say is that every morning I wake up to either Egg or Dumpie jumping on me (more on that later, and why this is the absolute worst possible wake up I could endure under present circumstances) and whooshing open our balcony door to declare either 'It looks like it might rain Mama" or the more usual, "Look Mama, it's raining...what are we going to doooooo today?" (Insert random bored whines, sighs, and rustling through bedside drawers for treats or neat things to break.)

Like the husband said the other day, it feels like we're on some sort of really bad reality tv show, only there are no cameras here to film our descent into madness and squalor. Mores the pity I guess. But taking that theme to heart....

"Week Seven in the Non-Big-Brother House and the contestants have all now resigned themselves to getting on each others nerves 24/7. The Father of the bunch wears a look of perpetual weariness and defeat, choosing to harness himself to his laptop at the dining room table most of the time, doing all manner of who knows what all daylong - only breaking occasionally for killer bike rides across Britain - (which may or may not have been fabricated in a desperate attempt to escape his family for a time.....the jury is out on that one).

Approximately twelve days ago the Mother figure awoke in the middle of the night to such piercing neck pain that it made her pause briefly and shuffle the 'Pain-o-Meter' in her head such that giving birth (previously the most pain she had ever experienced) reluctantly took second place to this new and excruciating neck spasm-y thing.

Since then, despite being bedridden on and off, feeling utterly claustrophobic (never mind the danger that crossing roads take on when one cannot subtly glance over ones shoulder to ascertain whether there is indeed advancing traffic coming quickly up one side) and a total grouch (chronic pain will do that to you - you betcha), there are still beds to make, food to be procured and meals to be made, and two lively little boys to entertain all day every day. Oh joy oh bliss.

The little boys have long since given up the daily battle for power in this household. There is no need. They won fair and square a long time ago. This is their world and we are merely living in it...at least as concerns the various four walls of this domestic purgatory the four find themselves cohabitating within.

The little one has taken to carrying around a tiny polished teaspoon in his shorts pocket, the better with which to randomly help himself to the Ben and Jerry's Cookie Dough Ice Cream he rather favours, dipping into the freezer whenever he fancies himself a little treat.

The elder boy has taken ownership of a gigantic cardboard box which has the remnants of five or so rolls of tape decorating it's outer layer, and inside hosts an assortment of expensive leather pillows, cotton throws and all manner of kiddie bric-a-brac. He insists on carrying it up and down the stairs and when it's in situ in a hallway there is no way around it, it is so large. If anyone so much as threatens to do away with it, inconsolable tears are wept and brows are beaten and it's just too much to take, so the little guy is allowed to further cramp up our home with a structure large enough to house a small family in the Indian slums."

"Get a cleaner!"I hear you roar. Well we would, if only a cleaner could as much as step over all the clutter threatening to bury us alive in here (like the people on that BBC Documentary about hoarders a long time ago). We are at least a week away (maybe more if this neck thing don't sort itself out pronto) from even beginning the dialogue about hiring a cleaner to come and help us out once a week.

In fact, it's laughable. I forgot how cleaners usually visit weekly, for a mere three hours a time. Ha! I do three hours of senseless ceaseless (PAYLESS) domestic labour each morning - and that's just in order to imbibe my breakfast Kellog's Special K in a room that doesn't make me want to a) scream b) throttle my husband and children with rage c) off myself with an overdose of vitamins.

Who are we kidding. I need (in this order):

1. Live-in Osteopath (to daily sort out my messed up neck until I no longer sob upon awakening)
2. Live-in Pembantu/Nanny/Au-Pair (must be fat, ugly and hairy)
3. Live-in Cleaner/Cook (so I can spend my time actually DOING something with my life besides ageing my hands with cleaning products and breaking my back mopping all the live long day)
4. A bigger house (to accommodate the above-mentioned staff)

In my dreams right? (That's what the husband more or less intimated when I brought this up earlier, bent over the dishwasher having a right old moan about the current state of things).

Well in that case I'm off to bed...perchance to dream...

"Oh Life...Where Art Thou?"

2011-07-05T16:35:00.000+01:00

Well you'll be pleased to know that the husband eventually DID come back from Glastonbury...but not until precisely five days and nine hours later. I won't get into the state of him, for it would be unkind, but you do the maths: almost six days with no shower, a mud-fest followed by a heatwave, too many ales, a diet of 100% fried and processed food, and next to no sleep. Ummm...yeah. Sexy.

Anyway, once he unceremoniously deposited his giant filthy backpack full of mud-encrusted filthy clothing onto our clean dining room floor, he promptly fell asleep and the monsters and I stood looking at this patriarch of ours with a mixture of incredulity and mild aversion (well the newly grown comedy beard wasn't helping).

At any rate, he's been home for a week now and things have settled into...into chaos if I'm being honest. What momentum we had for settling back into our lives has been exchanged for two giant helpings of apathy and frustration.

For one, we simply cannot imagine how the contents of all these packing boxes once fit into our home...I mean honestly! Having used up every available inch of storage space, those possessions of ours not lucky enough to find a home during the over-zealous, caffeine fuelled first few weeks (when we actually gave a toss) ..now sit forlornly in uncomfortable corners, staring miserably at us each time we pass, knowing that they have either found their permanent resting place out in full view of the monsters who will no doubt trash n' destroy OR they'll be given to the local charity shop in a moment of uncontrollable madness.

But that's not the biggest problem. The reason for our ever increasing facial stress lines and poor sleeping patterns, are the monsters. They are B.O.R.E.D. They tell us this several times a day, every day. They let us know that we are not living up to our roles of 'Super Duper Adventure Happy Clappy Play Makers' and are failing them miserably.

After 16 months of frolicking in sand, monkey forests and swimming in warm tropical waters, a couple of Commons, CBeebies, and our outdoor terrace just ain't cutting it. It doesn't matter how many ice lollies or salt n' vinegar crisps you throw in. Unless the 'Aunties' are involved, London life just isn't doing it for them.

Of course every other four and seven year old in the country are currently sat in stuffy classrooms learning their sums and singing silly songs about strings and so forth. But ours are following the husband and I around the house little determined little shadows, moaning, complaining and admonishing the husband and I for not being entertaining enough. They have unlearned independence. They think that we are here to amuse them and that the four of us should remain an inseparable, tight, family unit of four every hour of every day. (Even as I write this they are squeezed onto the master bed beside me, having ignored my pleas not to turn on the telly, and are engrossed in a loud episode of Scooby Doo, their small little feet curled into my thighs...)

Well think again little ones. If you haven't quite caught the looks of panic, fear, despondency and downright frustration on your Mama and Dada's faces as of late, look again. We are on the pathway to 'Lost'...having stopped for a brief time in 'Losing It', and a heck of a long way from Paradise.

Help.

"Bye Bye Hubby...And Hello Headaches..."

2011-06-22T20:53:00.000+01:00

This morning at approximately 6:45am (I didn't actually stir enough to sit up properly in bed and confirm what the blinking digital numbers on the clock radio read, given I was still half asleep and a touch grumpy about being abandoned if truth be told), the husband departed for five to six days of hedonistic camping at what is known as the mother of all music festivals, 'Glastonbury'.

Though it's true that I technically gave him my blessing to go (long time readers of this blog will know it's the husbands 'high holiday' - his favourite time of year - eclipsing even Christmas and his birthday), this morning the reality kind of hit and I couldn't help feeling mildly sorry for myself and if I'm honest, a touch jealous.

There was a time when the husband and I would take off for fun adventures such as this together. In fact, we have the tendency to be as naughty as each other at times, and hence, are very adept at making merry as a twosome - especially when relieved from the yoke of childcare.

Nonetheless, he who cares the most wins, and as I have declined to go to Glastonbury for the past several years now (for reasons varying from, "I'll only go if I have a backstage, VIP pass" to "I"ll feel ancient set amongst all those revelling 18 year olds" to the honest predicament of "Who the heck is going to watch our children for 3-6 days solo") the husband has been 'allowed' to go off and relieve his adolescence on a yearly basis, with the proviso that he better darn well be amazingly nice to me afterwards and make it up to me in some way.

At any rate, for some reason this year I really had a hankering to go. Maybe it's because U2 are headlining, or because I quite fancy some crazy hijinks with my mates in a field full of clowns and idiots, or perhaps because I SO DON'T fancy the next several days which stretch out endlessly before me...days of child-full-ness and no release or distraction from the "three meals, bum-wiping, bathing, teeth-brushing, tidying up, tucking in" monotony.

I do love being a mother...I do. But sometimes, just sometimes I feel I could be a far better specimen with the aid of an English speaking au pair or foreign speaking nanny. Motherhood is supposed to teach you patience, but I wouldn't be surprised if I were reincarnated as a mother of eight next time round, as I still haven't learned how to s-l-o-o-o-o-o-w down and do things in 'toddler time'.

I clearly haven't learned either how to do things with good grace. This morning as the husband snuck out the door, barely capable of disguising his utter glee at being let loose for the biggest party this country puts on it could be argued, he bent over and kissed me tenderly on the cheek.

"I love you" he whispered.

"Harrumpth" I grunted, and rolled over.

"Shattered, Shattered, and Even More Shattered"

2011-06-17T00:42:00.000+01:00

So we've been back home in London, England for nearly two weeks now, and what do I have to show for it? A nasty chest infection, a plethora of packing boxes (which I swear are multiplying when I'm not looking) and two housebound monsters going crazy and subsequently making me crazy.

It looks like my worst fear is to be realised. Egg, Dumpie and I look set to spend the next three months together...in our home...sans school. Great. They've already discovered the joys of dismantling every sofa and bed in the place and turning the front room into one almighty 'Fort'. This means that every night before I go to bed I have to dismantle their days work and clean up a room which looks as though a band of chimpanzees have had a go at interior design.

The boys have also found their old toys and have been quick to take up sword fighting, fencing and Star Wars battles again. This has resulted in the breakage of not one but two vases this week and I'm waiting any day for our big dining room mirror to come crashing down.

Now being that this is Britain, despite it being June it has rained nearly every day that we've been home. Shockingly I've even found myself retreating up the haven of the family bathroom upstairs for a few warm baths to fend off the chill in my defenceless bones. What's going on? It feels like November!

Anyway, suffice it to say that I haven't even had time to process what it means to be back, or even mull over how it feels to have come 'home' after 16 month away.

Our first day back was a cushioned re-entry into sunny bliss and catching up with good friends. One of my delightful sisters (Auntie Mo) kindly/foolishly volunteered to take the monsters to her place for the weekend and the husband and I were treated to the kind of bliss parents rarely ever get to experience once they breed: a lie-in.

But then reality sunk in, and as the husband dashed here, there and everywhere on his bicycle, hustling for work, I found myself housebound with two very bored children. A typical morning would involve several hours of back-breaking work in one room, only to discover that they had opened the contents of several of the boxes in another room and had turned the place into a plastic toy tsunami.

One afternoon Dumpie surveyed the kitchen and smiled at me with happiness in his twinkling eyes:

"I like this place Mama...I like the ice machine, the cookie maker (he pointed to the oven) and the smoothie maker..."

I like this place too. But I'd like it a heck of a lot more if it didn't resemble the inside of a skip. I'd like it more if I somehow knew that it would not look like this for the next two months.

I despair. And on top of that, tomorrow is Eggie's 7th birthday, and in an effort to compensate for not supplying our eldest with a 'proper' birthday party, I've gone out of my way to make and bake all his favourite treats and decorate the place like the inside of a bouncy castle.

What's a little more mess eh?

"All (Amazing) Things Must Come To An End"

2011-06-02T09:29:00.000+01:00

Old habits die hard...(sitting cross-legged pigging out on mango)

It does bear questioning...what on earth am I doing up at 4:07am, feeling strung out and wired...?

I've neither 'latte'ed' (yes people it's a verb...) myself into caffeine toxicity, nor have I just come back from slouching around some Toronto hotspot celebrating the recent heatwave and saying goodbye to my temporary city this past month.

Rather, I've spent a lovely evening sipping wine (thankfully not by myself...that would be worrisome) and socialising, followed by hours of what I like to think of as "Luggage Tetris".

After nearly a year and a half carting these selfsame clothes and possessions around, I don't mind saying that I'm damn near sick of it - and sick of the sight of all our stuff. Urghh...I know each piece intimately, having been the sole 'packer' for our travels (by choice I might add - there is NO way i'd trust the husband to do it - and no, I'm not so much a control freak as I am a 'Holiday Houdini' - managing to fit way more into a given space than physics should allow. But I digress...

I'm currently staring at a slooooowly receding pile of STUFF on the bed, as I pseudo frantically cram bits into bags (the Second Cup coffee shop doesn't open for three hours after all), sitting on suitcases and wiggling about, trying to cram just one last thing into already heaving carry-ons...I tell you, it's (almost) enough to make one take up Monasticism. Almost.

Anyway, there are two reasons I'm not in bed right now:

1. I am trying something new. I'm going to see what it feels like to spend my last day here NOT freaking out and spending the whole day panic packing. If this necessitates an all-nighter then so be it. Nothing a few triple shot lattes can't fix in the A.M. right? (Besides, it has to be pointed out that the husband and I have this flying ritual which we rarely deviate from, which makes being well rested and in a good mood pretty pointless.

We argue about how early we have to get to the airport (he's one of those types who like to be there before the check-in desk opens, whereas I favour sliding in at the last moment, get teary-eyed with goodbyes, then scarper through security sniffling and trying to make it seem like my grossly overweight carry on isn't cutting through my shoulder.

The husband can be counted on to shoot rude looks my way as we're checking in, muttering inanities about our baggage and how we have so much STUFF and what the hell is in there anyway?? It never fails to piss me off - especially as I've spent hours painstakingly arranging that stuff.

(Strangely, once we're on the plane and seated comfortably, we are more likely than not to be found cuddled up, studiously ignoring our offspring and trying to pretend that there is nothing wrong with our four year old standing on his seat and yelling out his drink requests.

2. Anyway, the other reason that I'm not in bed yet (and here I'd now like to point out that it's now 4:10am) is that I could hardly let the chance go by to blog about how momentous tomorrow is. It's officially THE LAST DAY of our YEAR (plus four months) AWAY!!

I can't believe it. It feels surreal to be honest. Am I excited? You bet. Am I also anxious? Totally.

I can't wait to land on British soil (I shan't kiss it but I may just celebrate with an M&S Cheese and Celery sandwich) and sleep in MY OWN BED. Ahhhh...bliss.

This euphoria will be short lived I reckon (a few months tops?) but for now I'm going to revel in the excitement of at last completing our long, long journey...and enjoying the novelty of seeing our much missed friends, having picnics in the park, and resuming my subscription to Elle...

At least I won't have to pack anymore bloody suitcases.

Doing my best 'Indie girl' impression at an Echo and the Bunnymen concert in Toronto

Captain Dumps at Canada's Wonderland...

Later, the little man just scrapes through on the height restriction and rides the roller coaster with me!

My Little Men...(wonder how much of this big trip they'll remember?)

"Happy Birthday Auntie Ba!"

2011-05-16T00:00:00.000+01:00

Lucky girl doesn't look a day over eighteen...(jealous? moi?)

Okay there is a part of me that is doing this because as a big sister I simply can't resist the urge to tease - especially on a such a public scale. My sister is seriously going to kill me when she reads this blog post (which hopefully she won't do until much later in the day when she has been plied with so many treats and alcoholic beverages that she finds it touching and amusing - as opposed to mortifying and completely uncalled for!)

But you see I simply couldn't let today go by without proclaiming to all and sundry just how fabulous my sister is (and why Egg and Dumpie are the luckiest little boys on the planet to have her as their 'Auntie'....)

Here is my Top Ten List as to WHY Auntie Ba (totally) rules:

1. Since they were born she has been like a second mother to the monsters (and dare I say it, at times a far superior one - given her untold devotion and insistence on bubble baths and hot meals when I was simply too exhausted to care).

2. She has kept them from being illiterate and mistakenly corralled into a 'Special Ed' class (it was my sis who first noticed that we had neglected to teach Egg basic counting, letters of the alphabet and to identify colours - too thrilled had we been by Egg's nightly naked post-bath dancing ritual to Goldfrapp's 'Supernature' album that we failed to notice that basic skills were perhaps being ignored.)

3. She is one of the few people who still willingly accompany me to cafe's without the least show of embarrassment for my particular ordering style and subsequent disgruntled-ness (is that a word?) when my hot beverage is invariably made incorrectly ("Sorry to bother you but there is just a wee bit too much milk in here - so let me tell you again exactly how I would like it done okay?"...)

4. She never makes fun of me when I purchase yet another 'Ra-ra skirt', despite the fact that I am technically way to old to be wearing one.

5. She has the most impeccable taste in film and music and is always surprising me with something amazing that I can't believe I've never heard or seen (like the other day when she made me watch the most excellent "Last Night" with Keira Knightly...brilliant film for so many reasons)

6. She is kindest person I know and gives to a fault - mostly of herself. If I were to add up the number of hours and days and weeks she has tirelessly stepped in the fill the parenting gap I so often leave open ("Just popping out to the shops for a wee bit"..."Do you mind if I just have a bath?"..."Pretty please could you give Dumpie his fifth bath of the day - I just can't face it"...etc.) I would never show my face in public again for the shame of it.

7. She has lost count of the number of times one (or both!) of the monsters have crawled into bed with her during the night and crammed their stinky little toes into her face while she pointlessly attempted sleep, made a wee in her bed, or woken her up at the break of dawn to start chatting about which 'treats' they would like her to procure for them that day (in fact Dumpie is currently snoring away in her bed right now...)

8. She is the one who always finds the BEST presents for birthdays and goes to great lengths to ensure that no one goes to bed on their special day without falling asleep next to the thing they coveted most. (To that end, Dumpie spent this evening listing possible presents for his Auntie Ba: "Sparkly shoes...boots...a star dress...a watch...lipstick" etc. but then kind of dropped the ball when he gamely offered up, "A bin?....some hair elastics?")

9. She is F-ing FUNNY. End of. No one can make me laugh like my sister. She is the wittiest person I know and that's when she's not even trying to be. She deserves her own comic. Her insanely hilarious insights are unparalleled and I feel sorry for people who don't have her in their lives on a daily basis and hence aren't privy to her totally unique, utterly spot on and so-funny-they-almost-make-me-wee utterances.

10. I'd be lost without her. She is my muse...my rock...my sounding board...my partner in crime...and so much more. She has been sister, auntie, best friend, marriage therapist, beauty consultant, resident health expert, travel agent, fashion advisor, life coach, confidante, and guardian angel.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BEAUTIFUL AUNTIE BA!!

WE LOVE YOU MORE THAN YOU WILL EVER KNOW...

Mama, Dada, Egg and Dumpie xxxx

The Long-Awaited Catch Up (Or 'Why I Have Been So Lame')

2011-05-12T14:02:00.000+01:00

Can i GET anymore tanned? Time to leave Florida (sigh)...

Once more ensconced in the bosom of our respective families here in Toronto, Canada, (it being nearly two years since we were last here), it has dawned on me that I have yet to make good on my promise of a proper 'catch up' on my blog. We arrived here a week ago and (as it always does when one is enjoying oneself) the time has literally flown by in a flurry of dinners, drives, visits, wine...you name it.

But I am a woman of my word (or I'd like to believe I am) and thus what follows is a CONDENSED VERSION of what I like to think of as "So what the heck happened AFTER Panama?"

Looking like butter wouldn't melt (all three of them). Ha.

First off, I do recall mentioning that two amazing things happened recently. No, I am not pregnant, nor did I win any sort of lottery or get asked to host the next series of the rather dire 'Britain's Got Talent'.

Rather, I allowed a tiny piece of roasted bird flesh (turkey) to pass my vegetarian lips on Easter. I have been a fairly hardcore vegetarian for about fifteen years or so, and only in the past few years have i deemed fish (of the battered and fried variety mostly - and usually after one too many glasses of ice cold sauvignon blanc it must be said) mildly acceptable. But this was the first time I ventured out of Pescatarian waters and hence, a bit of a milestone.

Did I like it? No. Despite my father being one of the best cooks in the world, the texture of the meat was off-putting. But was I proud of myself for overcoming years of revulsion and doing it? Yep. Still, Nando's and Swiss Chalet have nothing to worry about for the time being. I'm still a 'Veggie'. You shan't find me lurking in butcher's shops anytime soon, haggling for the best cuts of beef or anything.

My two favourite men (three if you include Bacon)

The second bit of astounding news was that the husband overcame years of protestations ("Over my dead body are our kids ever going to go to Disney World") to suggest that...we take the monsters to Disney World(!) before we left Florida for good.

I can't say I wasn't shocked. We have always argued vehemently on this subject. Having personally been to Disney World something like seventeen times growing up (spoiled? moi?) there was no way I was going to deprive the monsters of at least one chance to experience the 'Magic Kingdom'...even if it is an over-hyped, over-priced temple to fluff and western materialism.

However the husband has bad memories of his visit(s) there, citing the rate at which his father's wallet was emptied (as overpriced food and tat was purchased), as being one of the main reasons. Fair enough I suppose, but when the husband embarks each year to Glastonbury for the world's biggest music festival, he probably spends the same amount as a family of four would fork over for the privilege of riding Pirates of the Caribbean umpteen times. So....

So we went. My father declined the offer to accompany us, and thus just the four of us took off one morning for the short hour and a half ride to Disney. I don't know what I expected, but certainly more than the happy yet blase reaction which followed the handing over of the $332 U.S. dollars entry fee (gulp) upon arrival. The husband and I caught ourselves chattering away like inane idiots, "Look you guys, there's Goofy! Wow - is that Dumbo?! Who wants to go into the Haunted Mansion? Isn't it scaaaary looking?!" etc.

"Come on kids...smile damn it! Each minute here is costing us around £1.17"

In retrospect, perhaps the Pirates of the Caribbean swords were misjudged...

The monsters, it has to be said, seemed bemused at our forced frivolity, and though they good-naturedly tried to summon up the requisite joy and amazement we appeared to be gagging for, there just seemed to be something missing. It wasn't until a few days later that I realised that perhaps the problem was that the boys have had so many REAL LIFE adventures in the past year or so, that no amount of robotic singing puppets, lurching rides through poorly constructed tableaus, or costume-clad actors suffering under the weight of fake fur in the hot Floridian sun, have a chance of competing against giant paper mache dragons (Bali), powdered paint fights on 'Holi' (Goa) or flying past rice paddies and fields on the back of a motorcycle (Bali/Goa)...you know?

We've been there, done it, bought the t-shirt...now let's get the heck. out.

For Easter in Florida we took the boys to a giant 5000 egg Easter Egg Hunt. It was insane. Luckily it was divided up by age groups and I got saddled with Dumps while the husband happily took off with Egg (who, it has to be said, was traumatised when we got there and discovered that most of the other children were wielding pretty wooden baskets for collecting their loot - not two tatty Walmart bags Mama had dug out from the boot of the car...oops). Luckily Dada wandered off and was able to procure two baskets for the boys, whilst simultaneously stuffing the Walmart bags in his shorts pocket and casting me a disparaging eye. I should have known that my 'be confident and strong - it doesn't matter what you have but who you are!' speech would not have much effect on a six year old.

I still say using old plastic Walmart bags would have 'built character'...

Post-hunt spoils...

Why Egg's Easter Dinner was ruined...

Grandpa insisted on spoiling the boys rotten for Easter and let them choose whatever candies and chocolates they wanted in the store. (Note to Grandpa: 'carte blanche' at Easter for a six and four year old will only result in a killer grocery bill and a heaving trolley.)

A small sampling of the Easter goodies on offer for the monsters...

Our last few days in Florida were spent doing 'repairs' on my father's condo. The husband attempted to right at least some of the wrongs our boys had been responsible for, and in typical fashion the morning we were leaving, Dumpie, in one last final grand gesture, managed to break the closet door in the bedroom, pulling the whole thing off it's hinges with a great crack of the wood. Nice.

Despite the carnage to his condo...Grandpa adores his little home wreckers

This could win a really bad photo competition...non?

Possible career opportunity for me in London should we run into financial difficulties?...

I suppose the biggest news was that while en route to Orlando airport, it was suddenly discovered that 'Bacon' the bear, Eggie's best friend and confidante, who has only spent two weeks apart from him in almost seven years, was missing. Yep, turns out that in the rush of leaving, Bacon was somehow left behind, and seriously, I almost started crying when Eggie turned to me in the back seat, eyes wild with pain and fear as the realisation dawned on him, cried out, "Mama please don't say Bacon isn't here or I'm seriously going to freak out!" Bless...

To his credit, despite an hour or so of sobbing, Egg has held up pretty well (though two nights ago at bedtime, big crocodile tears slipped out as he beseeched me to please get Bacon back for him). Given that the husband somehow also managed to leave our only (shared I might add) Apple Mac power supply back there in Florida as well, there is even more of a likelihood that we will somehow figure out a way to remedy this disastrous situation.

And so life goes on. The husband and I, although we are enjoying this last brief(ish) stop here in Canada before we head back to 'real life' and all that goes with it back in London, England, are aware that the real challenges lie ahead.

What will become of us? Will we fit back into our lives, or find that WE are now a different shape and can no longer go back to how things were before we got the chance to see how many different versions of our lives can be had with just a little imagination and a lot of courage?

Hmm...should be interesting.

With stupid head gear and killer tans, we're ready to take on the future. sorta.

Middle of the Night Ramblings From A Female Zombie...

2011-05-04T08:28:00.000+01:00

So it's 3:07am and in mere hours we are due to depart for Orlando Airport and fly 3 hours to Toronto, Canada where we shall nestle in the bosoms of our respective families - or something like that - for the next month before (FINALLY!) heading back to London...

It has been amazing living here on the beach and spending time with my father. Dumpie now declares openly that he has no intention of ever going back to London and intends to come back here to Florida and live "forever and ever" with his Grandpa.

I will miss my morning runs along the gorgeous beach, afternoons spent on a park bench reading while the monsters terrorise the local playground, popping across the road to the (giant) grocery store for a few sundries and returning hours later laden with bags full of crazy and amazing stuff(!), getting to know the staff at Abercrombie & Fitch on a personal basis (I kid you not - saw one of them on the news the other night commenting on a local fire), and basically indulging that hidden white-trashiness which I obviously can lay claim to.

Easter passed in a flurry of chocolate, freak outs (from the chocolate) and a big Easter feast rustled up by yours truly. Since then, a few amazing things have happened. But more on that later (tomorrow or the next day - promise - complete with pics from the past month, which will do a far better job of explaining just what the heck I've been up to these past few weeks.)

But for now, I sit, exhauseted, contemplating the horror which is three hours sleep, and too many things to fit in too few bags. The usual then...

"Bye Bye Panama-a-a-a-a-ahh...And Hullo Florida...Again"

2011-04-20T19:35:00.000+01:00

Ok, ok, I know...I've been terribly lax on the blog-front for the past couple of weeks...but seriously...sometimes you are so busy living it's hard to find a moment to plop oneself down in front of a laptop and tip-tap-type about your adventures.

Well the obvious news is that after a whirlwind three weeks in Panama we're back in Florida, staying with my father at his beachside condo and finding ourselves strangely rather content these days. Two weeks today we conclude yet another chapter of our "Year Plus A Bit" family adventure, and fly back to...nope, not London - not just yet - but Toronto, Canada to give the rest of our family a look-in. After all, why not? It's not like we haven't spazzed a veritable fortune on airline tickets already this past year (take overpriced high season tickets and multiply by four...groan). Moreover, it's not like there's a terribly pressing need for us to return to the UK asap.

Last time we checked, a rather troublesome type from Wandsworth School Services summarily informed us that our boys not only remain devoid of a spot in either school nearby, but are not even on the waiting lists - given the audacity we demonstrated by fluttering off to North America after only a few brief nights stay in Ol' Blighty. Oopsy daisy. We'll continue to hope and pray that by some miracle September finds the monsters suited and booted, sat in an institution of greater learning nearby and not at our dining room table - enrolled in the 'Home School From Hell'. Doesn't bear thinking about.

But back to Panama. It was amazing. We re-connected with our best friend from University (the three of us were inseparable back in the day) and his lovely wife. A few times the crazy passage of time dawned on me, what with the three of us 'all grown up' now(!) and both parents of two (lively/naughty/precocious) little boys. But we were quick to remedy that, what with the help of their three staff, much sneaking out at night for lush dinners (at night nannies turn into babysitters dontcha know), fun cocktails and much frivolity. It is safe to say that during our three week stay we made up for lost time (clocking under four hours sleep most nights proved to be very handy at achieving this goal) and quickly found ourselves reverting back to shall we say, slightly more juvenile behaviour at times. FUN FUN FUN!

One of the highlights of our trip was Dumpie amazingly teaching himself to swim one day as we lounged about in a resort pool, sipping Pina Colada's and stuffing our faces with amazing Sea Bass baguettes. He just shrugged off his water wings, informed us that he was going to swim...and by george he did it. It was amazing!

As for Egg, he got to ride a horse, by himself, for the first time unaided (I was alerted to this by his panicky screams of joy/terror as his horse took up a little canter behind me in an attempt to get out of the rains! There was nothing to do but seek shelter in an Irish Pub of all things, after the kindly geriatric manageress of a lovely upscale elegant dining room took one look at our assembled four little boys and wisely concluded that perhaps we should dine elsewhere (Eggie flipping the restaurant lights on and off erratically as she pondered, I think helped seal the deal.)

Our friends also had the good fortune to live beside a lovely family with eight kids. Let me say that again: EIGHT CHILDREN! Puzzlingly, we noticed that those eight kiddies (ranging in age from four to sixteen - four of them adopted and with special needs) proved less troublesome and more well behaved than our combined four. Go figure.

Our last week in Panama we rented the most divine beach house. Perched on an empty bit of coastal property, and featuring four bedrooms, a guest house, mini playground and private pool, it was the perfect way to end our divine stay. (Fyi there is no better hangover cure than to emerge puffy-eyed from ones bedroom around 9am, find strong coffee already brewed, pop an Advil and 1000 mg Vitamin C and stumble out to a chaise by the pool to crash out for the next few hours while an assortment of nannies tend to your children...bliss)

All in all Panama was amazing and the icing on the cake of our year away. It was a total indulgence in every way, but deliciously so, and several mishaps (Dumpie continually locking our friends' three year old in dark closets and Egg cutting up all the television and video cables on the tv's one morning at the beach house) did nothing to detract from what was, in the end, a fantastic trip.

(I'm not sure our friends would entirely agree however. On our last night, as we attempted to plie them with loads of pizza and glasses of Chianti in the old town square whilst conveying our thanks for their hospitality, they did mention that they hoped that they would soon regain use of their downstairs bathroom. When I enquired further, they sheepishly admitted that it had somehow been locked from the outside by Dumpie almost two weeks ago and that their maid wasn't too happy as she couldn't use that bathroom anymore and they had lost the key to open it. Oops. For all I know it remains locked to this day - a tribute and testament to our youngest and his burgeoning locksmith skills.)

Horseback riding...Panama style

Cables? Who needs cables? (thanks Egg)

Budding equestrian

Thrilled that Dumps has just learned to swim (equally so by my welcome cocktail it would appear)

View of the warm Pacific from our beautiful beach house...

So expansive and serene...

Outdoor barbeque...fountain...jacuzzi pool...it had it all (sigh)

Little Lord of the Manor...

View from indoors...everything so light and airy

The newest little swimmer (bless)

Our little beach bums...

Relaxing in the Old Town (Panama City)

Our gorgeous hostess Wynter...

Still "BFF's"...after all these years (only it's martini's not Tim Horton's coffees!)

Last day in Panama...outfitted in traditional garb

"We Could Get Used To This..."

2011-03-26T01:07:00.000Z

Home is where the telly is...

Today I partook of two sinfully delicious things: Oreo Cookie ice-cream for dessert at lunch, and a manicure/pedicure with my girlfriend SANS monsters.

My poor fingers and toes didn't know what hit them, and symbolically I suppose it was the first real ritual 'back into civilisation' after 13 months away (if you don't count my recent Sephora.com purchases...ahem).

Our friends are being truly lovely hosts and there is much swimming, tennis playing, movie watching, cake making, fine dining and cocktail sipping going on at present...bliss. If they are not careful we're going to have our post redirected here to Panama, set up local bank accounts and move in permanently - manners be damned.

Of course, you could argue that this isn't the 'real' Panama...especially when driving through local areas with brightly coloured shacks, dirt roads and crowded Spanish neighbourhood grocery stores. Our drive through another part of town today confirmed that certain local parts have much more in common with India than an exclusive Golf Club Resort.

But you know what? I've roughed it plenty this past year. I've eaten bugs in my breakfast cereal, slept in sandy, too large sheets which bunched up during the night and always seemed to contain crumbs in the crevices, and showered twice daily in a glorified petrol station. I bore mosquitos, a four-in-a-bed scenario most nights, and sun damaged dreadlocked hair. I did a few harrowing stints of solo parenting, survived more than a couple bouts of unpleasant illnesses and kept it together during some rather hellish plane, train and automobile journeys. (Oh yeah, and I kept my behind small enough to ensure that our five month stint in Bali during which we rode 'four-on-a-bike' several times daily, was even a possibility. That in itself is some feat, no?)

So you know what? As I look down at my finely manicured hands and toes (covered in a gorgeous, sexy black cherry colour appropriately called 'Naughty') I say bring it on. Civilisation that is. I could get used (again) to this I feel.

Mind you, talk to me in a three or four months when I'm wrestling through pedestrian traffic with two tearing M&S bags ripping into my palms, trying to coerce two bored boys through the hectic streets of London simply by barking commands (so not effective), and you know what? I might wish I was still sporting dirty fingernails, dirty hair and a sandy bum...if it meant I was staring at the Arabian Sea and not two little hooligans messing about at a crowded bus stop.

Just sayin'...

We could get used to this...

The Note

2011-03-23T16:35:00.001Z

Hanging out with friends in lovely Panama...

The gorgeous guest bedroom...(you can see the note propped up on bedside table)

So we arrived safely and happily in Panama without too much palaver. Having scored bulkhead seats, the three hour flight was a relative breeze (discounting the fact that Dumpie was sat between me and a bleached blonde honey with a heaving bosom which must have undoubtedly proved a distraction for the Dumps who spent the trip alternately fluttering his eyelashes at her and repeatedly trying to plug his earphones into her seat jack.)

Our friend was waiting for us at the airport and despite having followed this blog, still willingly brought our shambolic crew back to his breathtakingly beautiful home. Brave soul. As we were tucking the boys into bed last night Egg chirped up, "I like this house...I wish we lived in a house like this." (Umm...us too Egg!)

It is a beautiful home, and not only has it's own outdoor pool and lush garden, but has double height ceilings, is all glass and full of beautiful art and furnishings - with a lovely piano to boot. I feel like I'm walking through the pages of Elle Decor or something. If all that weren't enough, they also have two gorgeous singing birds in a gilded cage, two adorable four month old little black puppies, and two darling little boys aged three and five.

With a mixture of shock and delight we were, on our arrival, introduced to not one but three lovely nannies (one thoughtfully brought in especially to help with the monsters while we're here) and for most of yesterday the husband and I gratefully sat back and relaxed as Egg and Dumpie were fed, watered and taken off to the park for playtime and swimming while we got to dine in civilised fashion with our friends and sip lovely wine. Ah, bliss...

Everything was perfect...too good to be true. Until one of the nannies interrupted us mid-afternoon to ask if we knew where Egg was. Um...no we didn't.

A giant search then ensued, with even the neighbours roped in to help us locate our missing child, once it had been ascertained that he was nowhere inside the house. After some time I started to quietly panic, and everyone was dispatched to various places around the neighbourhood to search for our missing Egg. The security guard at the entrance of the complex was alerted and our friend chose this time to mention how a crocodile was sighted a few weeks ago crawling around the area. (Gulp.)

All three nannies were (understandably) upset, given that the nanny to child ratio of 3:4 should have made this occurrence rather unlikely, and they insisted I check our bedroom for the third time. I was on my hands and knees, looking under the bed when one of the nannies pointed to a slightly ajar wardrobe door. I raced over, threw open the door, and there in the dark, sitting scrunched up at the back, clutching Bacon the bear and playing his new Nintendo, sat Egg. Urghhh.

The search party was called off, Egg was made to apologise to all and sundry, and it wasn't until later that the husband noticed the 'note' on our bedside table, written by Egg before he 'disappeared'.

It said,

"I am in a secret hiding place where you will never find me bye bye love from Eggie"

How right he was.

It was all there...in black and white

The Politics of Packing

2011-03-21T01:39:00.000Z

So here I sit, staring hopefully at my laptop, as if somehow writing a blog will magically make the mountains of clothes and things spread out behind me disappear. It's after 9pm and the husband and I have spent the day frittering away valuable time by all manner of little errands - none terribly important but somehow utterly time consuming.

I think that as a result of that last fiasco leaving India, when I had to ditch half my luggage during a frantic check-in in Goa (when I was informed that baggage restrictions had changed during the year we were away), I have lost my traveling confidence. My packing muscle has certainly turned flabby at any rate. I have no idea whether I'm bringing a ridiculous amount of things, or stupidly too little. Let's put it this way: I am not on good form at the moment.

Part of the problem is that I couldn't sleep last night, and so instead of doing the sensible thing and lying there until I drifted off, I had the brainwave of getting up at 4:30am and finishing off a novel I'd been reading. This is all well and good until you get to evening of the same day, and find yourself negotiating four lanes of traffic and almost dozing at the wheel (got to keep a watch out for those pesky Sheriff's at the very least).

As we are currently in Daytona Beach and are flying to Panama from Miami Airport, the husband predicts that we have a six hour drive ahead of us. I'm reckoning on five, give or take an extra hour for random puke stops, Starbucks refills and at least one wrong exit. However I have long ago learned that it's not worth fighting over our 'timing discrepancies' the husband and I...No, better to let him have his way and be a tad bit early than race in just at the nick of time and do something stupid like leave your brand spanking new laptop at security. Just saying.

I think my Dad will miss us while we're gone. But then again, maybe not. Maybe he is secretly looking forward to the peace and quiet we shall leave in our wake. To the cessation of 24/7 Cartoon Network on full blast. To the random assortment of crumbs and candies and stains on the carpet.

As for our friends in Panama (who are the sole reason we're going there), we hear they have a nanny. Actually I think they may have two. And a 'Manny' if rumours are to be believed. And, they have two little boys similar ages to Eggie and Dumps. It's a recipe for a brilliant time - or a nightmare depending on who is doing the childcare I suppose.

Hmm...four little boys under one roof. Better go double check those mountains of stuff and make sure that the husband remembered to pack the valium.

"Branches For Jesus"

2011-03-16T22:45:00.001Z

Moments before it all kicked off...

Seven is my favourite number. It always has been. However today, as I sit here and mentally calculate all the 'incidents' I've suffered through today avec 'Les Monsters', I realise that there have been seven. Maybe it's not my lucky number after all - not anymore.

The monsters and I are currently 'not speaking'. They are sitting down watching a Disney movie and I am sat here in front of my laptop sipping a strong latte and wondering if I can make it through until tomorrow night when the husband (hopefully) comes home.

You see I've had it. HAD IT.

"Why?" you ask.

Well, let's see. I'm in a fairly bad mood to be honest, yet I can't quite pinpoint exactly which of the various incidences that occurred are to blame. Which one exactly was responsible for pushing me figuratively over the edge? Hmmm...I wonder. Let's take a tally shall we?

Incident #1:
While on my morning run, Egg and Dumps availed themselves of my expensive lotions and potions and made a 'potion' of their own. As I walked through the door, perspiring and talking myself down from a mini heart attack, I was met by two grinning little boys proffering a concoction of goo. (Said 'goo' must be the most pricey stuff on the planet given it's made from the best Biotherm, Ole Henriksen, MAC, Korres and Murad have to offer. URGHHH!) I mentally calculate that their 'experiment' has cost roughly $40 or so.

Incident #2:
I discover three new stolen screwdrivers by the toothbrush holder and the bathroom light fixture falls off when I go to turn on the light. Of course it does. There are no screws left holding it in place. Thanks Egg.

Incident #3:
Upon sitting down on the loo (us girls do that you know) I feel that familiar horrible feeling as I realise that for the millionth time I've just sat down on a wee-coated toilet seat. My freshly scrubbed thighs are now sopping wet and coated in little boy urine. This necessitates another shower.

Incident #4:
I discover that my stash of (sugar-free) bubble-gum has been discovered and pilferred. Once I start looking around the bedroom I find odd little pale pink piles of discarded chewing gum everywhere. Thanks guys.

Incident #5:
Driving to the park, Dumpie suddenly undoes Egg's seatbelt in the back seat, followed by his own, then despite my shouting and gesturing like a mad woman, launches himself into the front passenger seat and grins over at me. I am livid (and panicking - there is no where to pull over as we are on a bridge) and Egg is screaming, "Dumps get back in your seat or the police are gonna stop Mama and put her in jail!"

Dumpie: "I don't care I will just get a gun and shoot the police if they take Mama!".

At that moment I look over and see that the next car over is a Sheriff's one. It's the first one I've seen in three weeks. I tell Dumpie to duck his head down so we don't get stopped. Moments later we pass yet another Sheriff and I am already concocting a story to tell the officer when I am pulled over. Lucky escape.

Incident #6:
At the park, Egg idly picks up a cypress branch and starts waving it. We discuss how in Easter stories people are always waving branches as Jesus rides through Jerusalem on a donkey. I go back to my book. Next thing I know there is a full scale attack as Dumpie, wielding two sharp heavy sticks and spinning them Kung-Fu style, whacks Egg's wrists and arms repeatedly in an effort to get him to drop the branch so he can have it for himself (have I mentioned his amazing aim?). Everytime Egg gets whacked he screams out in agony, "This branch is for Jesus! This branch is for Jesus!" sobbing and trying to run away.

At this point people start to take notice. I suspect the screaming of Jesus' name has something to do with it. A few people stop what they're doing and stare openly as the 'attack' goes on for another five minutes or so. All that time I am pleading with them to stop fighting and almost lose an eye as I attempt to get close enough to Dumps to take one or both sticks off him. Finally I succeed and drag both children to the car, informing them that park time is now OVER. As I fish for my keys Dumpie runs back across the road by himself, back into the park and climbs atop the highest slide, sitting cross legged and resolutely refusing to come down.

After several minutes of cajoling, I retreat in defeat to the car, buckle Egg in and start the engine. Egg is still clutching his 'branch for Jesus' and insists on taking it in the back seat with him. I see parents gesturing, having noticed that I've left one son in the park and for all intents and purposes look like I'm about to drive off and abandon him (fyi that's one thing I don't have to worry about - anyone attempting to kidnap Dumps...good luck to them) and am aware what this looks like but have run out of options. Only as I'm backing out of the parking lot, eyes glinting with fury and frustration, does Dumps tentatively come down and stroll over as if nothing is the matter.

Incident #7:
In the pharmacy a short while later (oh why oh why didn't I just go home and call it a day?) I am standing in a queue anxiously tapping my feet as the old dear in front of me rings through enough toilet rolls and instant coffee to get her through the next decade, then after painstakingly counting her change and getting her receipt, discovers that she's not used her special 'points'. The cashier says, "Do you want me to ring everything in all over again?" The old dear nods solemnly, "Oh yes, I must use my points."

(Normally, let it be said that I have all the time in the world for older folk. I know I'm going to be one some day and the way I see it, if I am this vacant and shattered at my age now, goodness knows what state I'll be in once I'm a pensioner; so let's just say I have a lot of empathy. However, as all this is going on, I am dying because Egg and Dumpie are clutching two giant Nerf machine guns and demanding I buy them. They are threatening to open the packages and trying to leave the store with them. I don't want to lose my place in line and am clutching onto the back of Dumpie's t-shirt, reasoning that if I can keep him under control, then I have a small chance of keeping Eggie in line with furtively whispered threats.

All of the sudden Dumpie stops struggling and I momentarily relax my grip. He makes a dive for it and races over to the giant display of Easter Creme Eggs and faster than I can fathom, has one open and in his mouth before I can stop him. I am (familiar theme here folks?) again livid and angrily whisper "Dumpie come here now that is very bad you are stealing!"

He laughs then dips his hand back into the huge display case and grabs another one. I give up all pretence of being a sane and together parent and leave my place in line to go over and wrestle another one out of his little hands on the floor, as he flings the discarded wrapper aside and pops yet another giant easter creme egg into his already bulging cheeks. (I'm trying to keep track of how many he's eaten and how many Egg has surreptitiously slipped in his pocket while all the commotion has been going on, mentally calculating not only how many to tell the cashier to ring up, but how I'm going to discipline the monsters when we get home, and how we have pretty much run out of places to shop and hang out.)

So you see, here I sit, a beaten woman. I love my little darlings, truly I do, and honestly, the times they are adorable and sweet and hilarious and angelic almost make up for days like today.

Almost. But not quite. Time for a glass of wine. (Sorry, did I say glass?)

How do they go from this...

To this...?!

"Despicable Me"

2011-03-16T02:48:00.001Z

The monsters monopolising the slide at the playground

This afternoon as I was sifting through my online shopping cart at Sephora, busy choosing my free samples and pondering the merits of SPF vs. non-SPF Primers, if only I'd actually looked up long enough to clock that Egg was clutching a handful of loose screws, muttering to himself and dipping in and out of my father's improvised indoor 'tool shed' (which is actually a closet but surprisingly stocked and spacious) perhaps I could have stopped Dumpie's later brush with disaster.

Allow me to explain:

Following his passion for the depressing coin-operated gambling den which is 'Joyland' (which incidentally he hasn't been back to since his father left for his cycling trip nearly three weeks ago), Egg quickly became obsessed with jewels and gems of all sorts. This involved several days of covert rifling through my jewelry bag for the shinest baubles he could procure. In the end I fobbed him off with a fake diamante bracelet, and thankfully he's stopped the thieving and stockpiling of my precious gems underneath his pillow, so that's a result.

Anyway, ever since he clocked Grandpa doing some minor DIY in his bedroom, Egg's new passion is now carpentry. Hence the pile of screws on his bureau top, the stealthily hidden screwdrivers and the bizarre assortment of nickel and gold plate fixtures which litter our bedroom.

Today after taking them to a matinee of 'Despicable Me' (excellent by the way - my enjoyment marred only slightly thanks to Egg's enthusiastic LOUD proclamations throughout the film, and Dumpie's noisy crunching of popcorn and periodic declarations of 'I'M HUNGRY!"), we were in the lift coming upstairs and I happened to glance down and see this shiny circular thingamabobby Egg was clutching. It had one giant, dangerous looking screw hanging out of it, and with much cajoling Egg admitted he had taken it from the parking garage and that it was attached the the automatic exiting contraption (sigh).

Later, as I got set to hoover (a daily necessity with the monsters) and went to plug in the machine, I recall vaguely wondering why the socket looked bare and there was a hole in the wall around it. Turns out it was one of the many fixtures Egg thought to remove, and I mentally made a note to tell Grandpa about it.

Right before bath time as I was chatting to the husband on ichat, there was suddenly a scream behind me, several giant sparks flew and a flame manifested from the wall. As the smell of acrid smoke wafted through the socket, Dumps, in all his naked glory stood shocked and still beside us all (Grandpa being alerted by Eggie's screams), staring in horror at the screwdriver still hanging out of the (live) socket. Oops.

I was reminded of my conversation this morning in the car with the monsters, racing to make the movie in time. They were asking what 'despicable' meant, and I gave them a very distracted non-Webster definition of, "extremely naughty...when someone is absolutely horrible and rotten."

They paused. Then Eggie sincerely asked, "Are WE despicable Mama?"

I paused (in all fairness a touch too long, given I'd just finished chasing Dumpie round the car park, almost tripping and spraining my ankle in the process, and probably wasn't completely 'feeling the love' as they say).

"No my darling. You and and Dumpie are NOT despicable. You're a bit naughty...well A LOT naughty these days...but I'm sure you'll be good boys for Mama for the rest of the day right?"

Ah, yeah, right.

Butter wouldn't melt...

"Making Friends With The Neighbours"

2011-03-15T03:39:00.002Z

It's been 'one of those days' (sigh)...

This morning we were kicked out (sorry, 'escorted out') of the public library by a curmudgeonly old man...a security guard who (almost literally, i swear) snarled at Dumpie as he sort of 'flushed' us out the sliding glass doors - shooing us out with his liver-spotted hands like so much bad rubbish.

I was so horrified I couldn't even put on my 'how dare you' face and defend my youngest son, for truthfully, I had been unsuccessful in my earlier attempts to catch said four year old as he whipped up and down the aisles, laughing with glee and freaking out pensioners, imploring me to catch him. It didn't help that I wasn't wearing contacts and had only dark prescription specs on, which were propped up on my head in an effort to not try and appear as though I thought I was some kind of a rockstar or something. I could barely see him and yet strangely I was aware of every eye in the vicinity on me.

Three times we (and by 'we' I mean, inadvertently 'me') were publicly told off and cautioned, and were basically cased by the security guard the entire time we were there. He was practically breathing down our necks. (Truth be told he was a mean old grinch of a fella but still...it wasn't completely unjustified I suppose...I guess 'redistributing' the hundreds of dvds in the adult section in an attempt to locate Winnie The Pooh didn't make Dumpie any friends...or maybe it was the impromptu game of hide and seek through the shelves??)

At any rate, just when I thought it couldn't get worse, we arrived back home, and stepped into a lift with a biker type fellow who was sporting a longish grey beard and apparently some rather squiffy armpits.
Dumpie immediately made a big show of plugging his nose and staring disgustedly up at this man as we climbed nine flights, and I found myself wanting to convulse with laughter and also simultaneously die of embarrassment. He refused to unplug his nose and thankfully Egg was there to engage him in friendly chit-chat (something his father also excels at) while I willed the lift to move faster before the man noticed. (Who am I kidding...he totally clocked Dumps.)

When we finally exited, Egg still chattering away to the fellow as the door closed on him and he continued up, I asked Dumpie why he had plugged his nose.

"Because that man had a bad smell and it was making me sick."

Okay then.

During dinner, as my father and I tried to pretend like there was nothing wrong with the fact that Dumpie was sat astride Eggie, riding him like a cowboy around the coffee table, I idly wondered when the husband was coming back.

When he does...I'm outta here. Time to reboot the motherboard...time to download a more recent version of mothering software. Seriously.

'Baby Bin Laden' and 'Egg The Terrible'...

2011-03-09T02:24:00.000Z

Yesterday morning on my beach run, I could have sworn that I spotted the husband (or someone who looks remarkably like him) a few miles down. Then I realised that of course it couldn't be him because he was somewhere down in the Keys - as evidenced by this pic he sent me of his alfresco hotel experience the other night.

But THEN I thought, no really, what if he's just pretended to go away for a cycle trip and really just booked himself into a cheap and nasty Daytona hotel for a few weeks of peace and quiet from the monsters. I wouldn't put it past him (or me come to think of it). He could spend his days typing in some dodgy hotel, motel, holiday inn...and then at night head out to a local biker bar or perhaps Hooters if he was missing the Missus.

Every day now my father asks when le husband is coming back. My poor Dad has taken to retreating to his room for peace and quiet, door closed, with a disturbing frequency as of late. (So have I to be fair, but the monsters always come roaring in, plastic guns or homemade whips at the ready, laughing, wrestling each other and jumping on the beds, disturbing any semblance of peace I may have managed to whittle together for a few precious moments of 'me time'.)

Before he left, the husband thoughtfully put together a 'daily schedule' for me and the Monsters (he loves powerpoint and I have reason to believe that spreadsheets have a similar effect on his libido as say oysters do for others...but i digress). He felt that routine and pre-planned, predictable activities might be the way forward while he was in absentia. I recall trying to wipe the smirk off my face as he earnestly penciled up a 'typical day', and although, in all fairness it wasn't the craziest idea on the planet, I knew he was off on an unrealistic one, simply by noting the absence of any 'telly time while Mama hides out in the bedroom and tries to read a book'. (Nor was any allowance for 'drink wine and moan online' time given for yours truly at the end of the day. Perhaps he thought I'd see to that myself.)

But then how could he have known that our already fragile hold on the Monsters would completely unravel in tornado-like fashion into a domestic free-for-all that would see Dumpie lassoing me about the head with a ingenious flying pen after tying my legs together with utility rope as I sat typing at the table - while Egg surreptitiously helped himself to six donuts and a family pack of Salt n' Vinegar crisps in a sneaky gobble-down behind the sofa.

I won't even mention the living room, which now boasts asymmetric creme curtains thanks to a rather frenzied re-enactment one afternoon of a Wild West showdown between 'Buffalo Egg' and 'Calamity Dumps'. Or the expensive soft green sofa pillows which now look rather misshapen and odd, having had their lovely trimming 'trimmed' thanks to the expert manoevers of a scissor-happy Dumps.

Then there is the expensive Jacuzzi bath which my father had installed to help his aching back. It's proven to be the perfect implement with which to turn a bog standard bathroom into foam party heaven. All it requires is a heavy handed pour of the Mr. Bubble combined with the jacuzzi on full blast in a not-yet filled tub and voila...party time (sigh).

Taking them out in public, unfortunately necessary, results in a daily exercise of humiliation wherever we go. If it's the park, then the Monsters will commandeer the biggest and best slide and spend hours trying to throw each other off the side - refusing to let any other children use it for it's proper sliding down use. I spend a lot of time apologising, and when that runs thin, I find burying myself in my book on a park bench, casting disparaging looks of mutual disgust to the other parents and pretending they're not mine, works a treat.

God forbid I bring them into a store - any store. Today it was Walmart. When in doubt, that mega shrine to disposable materialism and 'everything-under-the-sun' mentality is a great place to lose yourself in...for hours. I figured that based on the myriad of mad, colourful and strangely obese specimens who often lurk the aisles in the Walmart's that litter Southern Florida, that a couple of hyper, badly behaved, mini wrestling champions might just fly under the radar. How wrong I was.

I don't know why I never realised how BIG the superstore is, and how TEMPTING those long, long aisles must be to little boys who love nothing more than chasing each other with various food products they've grabbed off the shelves mid-run. Having at last finally corralled them by the Check-Out (by way of bubble-gum machine bribery...i don't care...i'm not proud) I noticed a commotion in the Customer Services area nearby. The monsters had commandeered the two drinking fountains and were holding a couple of sweet old ladies hostage with an impromptu waterworks display given that they had newly discovered how to use their little thumbs to only partially block the stream of water. A crowd had gathered by the time I finally made it over there, having had to give up my place in the queue, and by now a fuming, bright red.

Then, I made the mistake of allowing Dumpie to hold the container of candy sprinkles. (I WAS you see, going to make the boys red velvet cupcakes with fluffy vanilla icing as a treat, but after they suddenly took off in an impromptu 'shriek and chase' back through the store, I not only abandoned all hope - I unceremoniously dumped my basket and went storming off to hunt them down. I did catch them you'll be glad to know, but sadly the sprinkles met a disastrous end as they went flying somewhere in the nether regions of Aisle fourteen I believe, turning what was once an innocuous area into a sea of colour. Strangely, I don't actually recall storming out of the store, but I do suspect I was muttering furiously to myself (a worrying habit I've taken to lately), utterly humiliated and hoping they'd have to good sense to follow me, but then again not overly concerned at that point if they didn't.

Can you tell I've (almost) had it? Why are they so naughty? Are they taking advantage of a kind-hearted Grandfather and a maniacal mother who has all but given up trying for any semblance of order and discipline?

Left with no other options, I did what any other desperate mother might do in my situation. I begged Grandpa to present Egg with his birthday present three months early, and went out and procured a brand spanking new limited edition red Mario Bros. Nintendo Dsi XL (he lost his beloved old Nintendo on some plane or another during our big shift from South East Asia over to North America last month).

Spoiling him? Yep. Rewarding him for bad behaviour? You betcha. Do I care? Not a bit. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and this is my last full blown attempt to restore order before I just give up altogether and the husband returns in a few weeks time to find my father holed up in his part of the condo, too terrified to come out, and I am found passed out in the bedroom, tied up, and surrounded by empty wine bottles and a plethora of white powdered donuts.

"Joyland"

2011-03-03T22:32:00.002Z

About a week ago, Grandpa made the fatal mistake of taking us for a walk along the Daytona Beach boardwalk. Our progress toward the faraway ferris wheel was halted when we came upon a somewhat rundown, seen-better-days amusement arcade, aptly named 'Joyland'.

Amused by the irony, I made the monsters stop and pose for a picture beneath the retro looking sign, not realising at the time the significance 'Joyland' would have to our family (and my sanity) in the coming days.

Grandpa reached into his pocket, emptied some quarters into the monsters outstretched hands, then smiled indulgently as he watched them rush off to deposit the coins into whichever games took their fancy. While Dumpie wisely pocketed most of his change (no doubt recalling that at the next visit to a grocery store they could be exchanged for a handful of bubblegum from the candy machines) Egg raced to the long line of 'Skee-Ball' machines and excitedly began whipping the balls up the ramp and into the little holes, exclaiming as a band of tickets came out of the machine according to his score.

He was hooked. That was it. And those Skee-Ball machines gobbled up the equivalent of several more dollars until we dragged Egg off them, propelling he and Dumps to the back of the arcade where all their tickets could be exchanged for 'prizes'.

I use this term loosely, for the prizes mostly consisted of bits of useless plastic, or tiny little penny candies - clearly one had to spend a weeks salary to get even close to earning enough tickets to nab one of the tantalizing prizes on the upper shelves. Much to our humiliation, the monsters put up such a stink about the useless 'prizes' they could choose from, that they elicited sympathy (or should I say pity) from a passing couple who felt compelled to stop and offer up their tickets to the cause. I felt like a charity case. And the sad part is that we STILL didn't have enough tickets to trade in for anything even remotely interesting.

Then Egg spied something twinkling in the glass shelves over by the other end - spotting a selection of totally fake (and cheap) sparkly big 'diamonds'. He shrieked with glee (Egg is into all things jewel right now - sparkly gemstones, crystals, diamonds...) and exclaimed that THAT was what he wanted. (At this point he was positively jumping up and down for joy, clapping his hands and generally making a racket in all his excitement.)

Glancing at the 120 points worth of tickets in our hand, I shot a look of defeat at the husband. The ring would need 1200 points - a minimum of thirty dollars or so worth of decently scored Skee-Ball games the husband reckoned.

So amongst vehement protestations we traded in our fistful of tickets for two microscopic plastic lizards and two giant plastic dice, one of which immediately broke, and the boys turned away disappointed, eyes downcast, Egg mumbling about the fact that all he ever wanted in the whole wide world was a diamond and now he had found the biggest one in the whole world and he couldn't have it.

I thought this would be the end of it, but sadly not. Every single day since then Egg has begged to go back to Joyland. He doesn't care about the beach, isn't interested in theme parks or playing games. He just wants to go back to Joyland and play enough Skee-Ball games to win the bloody diamond.

The day before the husband left for his crazy three week Key West Cycle Excursion, out of guilt, or perhaps misplaced glee about being able to escape his domestic confines for such a blissfully long time, he took Egg back to Joyland to win some more tickets...dragging Dumps and I along for the ride.

Egg was ecstatic to be back and promptly, with dizzying single-mindedness, set about emptying the husbands wallet of all the cash he could beg, borrow and plead for, and Skee-Balled himself mental. (To his credit, he's getting rather good...disturbingly so). Even Dumpie got in on the action - finding another gambling machine where you have to punch a button to stop these twinkling lights when they land on a certain place.

When Dumpie first came running up proudly clutching a whole long strip of tickets, we assumed he had been given them or stolen them from a machine someone had abandoned. But no. With shock I followed him over to this flashing light game, watched as he popped in a quarter and proceeded to concentrate with all his might (though he could barely reach up on his tippy-toes to see the lights) and 'WHAM' - whacked the button at the exact right time and glanced upward gleefully as the machine beeped manically and spit out a huge row of tickets. Well I'll be darned.

Maybe Dada doesn't have to go back and get a job after all. Maybe we've been blind to the fact that a gambling genius abides in our house and all we need to do is foster this illicit skill of his and get him on the Vegas circuit asap.

Craps....here we come...

"Hit The Road Jack..."

2011-03-02T05:11:00.001Z

trying to contain his glee about seconds from being FREE!

So the husband has taken off. Literally. But not long term (one would like to hope). After a full year in close quarters en famille, he has taken leave of the monsters and me and has departed on his spankin' brand new red retro bicycle (this time of the non-motorised variety) from here in Daytona Beach, heading southward on Highway Numero Uno to Key West.

Key West is not only the gay capital of the world but also boasts tropical weather and a plethora of head shops. Most importantly it's also a few hundred miles south of us and that's probably part of the appeal. And who can blame him?

Of course it doesn't help that he's just finished reading Paul Theroux's 'My Other Life' about the authors search for adventure and travel within the framework of a conventional family.

Never mind. I've given him my blessing. A hilarious Indian family man we once met in Goa years back, a tad merry after a few too many Kingfishers at dinner one night, clapped the husband vigourously on the back and imparted these great words of wisdom:

"Happy wife...happy life!"

He's not wrong:) But conversely, a happy husband makes for a happy(er) wife too, so it is with my blessing that I packed him off a few days ago, with instructions to:

a) not get killed (we have no life insurance...and he has another thing coming if he thinks I am going to raise the monsters on my own)

b) steer clear of 'dangerous types' (hey, we are in Florida after all - a notorious breeding ground for weirdo serial killers)

c) come home (if he's not back in three weeks there is going to be hell to pay. seriously.)

In the meantime, Eggie, Dumps and I are spending some much needed (and very overdue) time with 'Grandpa' - my father who winters here in Florida every year. Every day we take long walks on the beach, cook up lovely meals together, and when I can, I sneak out to places like Target, Walmart and Publix superstores to roam the aisles like the consumerist junkie I (secretly) am.

After a year spent in South East Asia, I am simply blown away by the sheer amount of THINGS FOR SALE here in America.

I could easily spend an hour just gazing at the shelf containing various ice-cream toppings for instance. And don't even get me started on the baking section. Oh, and the glories that await me in the kitchen implements section!

In fact, I'm thinking of regaling y'all (notice the ease with which I've picked up what I like to call 'hick-speak' with apparent ease after only having been here two weeks...as if to the trailer born) with pictures and details of all my latest 'finds'...kind of like a daily 'Check THIS out'!

But of course that may have to wait until I get my laptop back. IF I get my laptop back.

In fact the reason I've not been blogging since we got here has been because I have still not recovered my beloved MacBook. Nope. And since the husband has commandeered his for his little 'On The Road Odyssey' I've been fighting to get onto my father's computer, which is hotly contended for given that he and Egg are currently using it to play online poker 24/7...

Stay tuned...

a big squeezy hug good-by for Dada from the Monsters...

"Seat Politics...And To Smack or Not To Smack, That Is The Question"

2011-02-19T22:07:00.001Z

The ONLY good thing to come from a day from hell...

Excuse the silence the past few days. Think I'm still in recovery from all the traveling palaver. 'Part Two' of our journey across the globe (London to Florida) was not nearly as traumatic as the Goa to London leg. But that is not to say that it was not without incident.

For starters, we suffered two casualties: my Elle magazine (okay, okay, but I love it and unfortunately forgot to retrieve it from the seat back) and Egg's beloved Nintendo Dsi (tragically this also got left behind in some seat back...and unlike my Elle mag, cannot simply be replaced by a few quid).

Unable to get seats all together, the husband and I had divvied up childcare as such: he got to sit beside Egg for the eight hour flight to Toronto, and then we switched and I got to sit beside Egg for the three hour flight to Orlando.

I didn't mind so much...at first. After all, Dumps and I scored the bulkhead seats while the husband and Egg were crammed into the row behind us. However before we even took off, a flight attendant moved the man sitting next to Dumps - a rather portly fellow who looked relieved if I'm honest and was never seen or heard from again - somewhere back in the rear part of the plane. This could have been down to Dumpie's non-stop chatter or insistence on getting all his 'treat bags' out and preparing to launch an all out attack on mini bags of crisps and easter creme eggs. Or it could have been the removal of his little Vans and socks and his ordering me about in a loud voice. Who knows.

But tellingly, even when this bulkhead seat was vacated, the husband refused to move up and sit with us. He preferred to spend the next eight hours with Egg's feet on his lap instead of plop himself down next to youngest. In a bulkhead, extra legroom seat. Nuff said.

At U.S. Customs in Toronto, during our two hour stopover, things were going swimmingly until Dumpie was quizzed by the officer about the little bag of chocolate coins he was clutching. (The husband likes to make pleasant small talk with customs officials - and he's rather good at it - while I try and catch the scurrying rugrats and keep them from crossing the line and incurring the wrath of humourless stamp providers.)

At any rate, the officer commented on the chocolate coins and the husband chirped up.

"Are you going to share some of those with Dada?"

"Only if you stop hurting me" deadpanned Dumps.

Whoops.

(The 'hurting' Dumpie was referring to may have been the 'child punting' the husband had been forced to resort to, up and down the terminal earlier as Dumps refused to walk, and ladened down with loads of heavy carry on luggage the husband had sort of slid Dumpie down the shiny and surprisingly slippery floor at various times with the toe of his Vans.)

Luckily the official didn't blink an eye at this utterance, and instead said,

"That's okay Sir. Here in America we believe in corporal punishment so smack away."

(Gulp). He then proceeded to tell us a story from his youth about his father going off the Vietnam. Gotta love America.

For the flight to Orlando, the husband and Dumpie were sat four rows ahead on the other side of the plane, but that didn't stop us (or anyone in the first half of the plane to be honest) from listening in on the pretty much non-stop chatter between Dumpie and a child two rows back who kept up a dialogue about whatever came into their little heads. This 'free entertainment' culminated in our son publicly announcing as we landed, that he was going to make a wish on all the twinkling lights outside.

other little boy: "I want a truck"

our son: "I want a real gun"

We got off the plane, sorted our rental car, then promptly took the wrong turn on the motorway, having to make an emergency stop at a weird, out of the way 7-11 because the husband couldn't figure out how to turn on the headlights and we were in danger of incurring the wrath of the notorious unsympathetic American 'cops'. Not to mention we couldn't see a bloody thing. This was not helped by the fact that my latest two month supply of contact lenses is the wrong prescription and so my general visibility has decreased to around 50%.

All this aside, it was a joy to see the reunion between the monsters and their beloved Grandpa later that night as we rocked up to my father's condo around 11pm after a 20 hour day of traveling. He hadn't seen them in almost a year and a half and has pretty much not stopped laughing (or shaking his head) over the antics and utterances from the monsters.

So far he finds it funny. In a week, I'm thinking not so much.

"Happy 'Vile-Times Day'!"

2011-02-15T06:22:00.000Z

I have yet to recover from the horror which was our departure from Goa, India after a year.

In theory, it should have been smooth (if bittersweet) sailing: bags were packed (ahem...solely by me...all bloody 13 of them), our friend from London sat up and kept us company on our front porch until the taxi came at 3:30am, and our landlady got out of bed to trudge outside and wish us good-bye (despite us losing her only extra house key after Dumpie upended my entire handbag on the beach one night several weeks ago.)

At any rate, there was no foreshadowing of the trauma which was to befall us for the next twelves hours:

*We would be informed one hour before take-off in Goa that our luggage limitations had changed in the twelves months since our outward journey - meaning that the 240 kilo's we were allowed to bring out had shrunk to a more modest 184 kilo's. Whoops.

*We would be checked-in by a total (ahem) female of the bovine persuasion who immediately took a dislike to me and I to her (she had beady eyes and I had not slept or eaten in 24 hours)

*We would be told that our excess charges amounted to £500, payable in local currency or credit card. Gulp. As if. I made a (panicked) executive decision and promptly emptied a bag containing exactly half of my clothes onto an empty conveyer belt. In full view of a crowded airport I could only mourn my loss for mere moments before the husband anxiously informed me that our flight was due for take-off in twenty minutes and we were on the verge of missing our flight. That was the last I ever saw of my skirts, bathing suits or knickers. (Much to my horror, I discovered upon our return that had I only had the sense to cull my book and magazine collection - numbering 32 and 9 respectively - I may have been able to save my wardrobe. And I call myself a fashionista...)

*We would be escorted speedily to the plane by two airline staff with only moments to go - one ironically being the check-in lady, who now looked pitifully upon the self-same lunatic who had publicly dispensed with her wardrobe like so much rubbish, and had cut her hand in two places as a result of frantic open-air repacking, and was now bleeding all over her small child's hand which she now had in a vice grip. She actually went off and produced two plasters - hardly meeting my eye as she did so.

*I would lose my laptop to an overzealous airline employee who forgot to collect it with the rest of my carry on luggage as we were propelled through the last security gate before plane entry. I was to discover this moments before take off, strapped in and close to tears. My laptop was a mere four months old. It was an Apple Macbook Pro. I was inconsolable by this point.

*At Mumbai airport, checking in for our transferring flight to London, I would discover that in my sleep and food deprived state I had accidentally packed my temporary passport which contained my Indian visa. I was informed that without this, I would not be allowed to leave the country. I would realise that I possessed not a flicker of recollection of even packing it, and that it could be in any one of the eight bags which now rested somewhere amongst millions of passengers suitcases somewhere deep down in the bowels of Mumbai Airport cargo - having been transferred automatically from Goa. On the other hand, it could also be buried among the pile of clothing castoffs which now littered a conveyor belt back in Goa airport. Oops.

*Near tears, I would pointlessly plop down on the concourse floor, frantically emptying all our hand luggage for the millionth time, in the vain hope that the passport in question would fall out - Egg sympathetically rubbing my back while Dumpie was taking up a mantra of, "You are pretty Mama...you are lovely...you are so pretty Mama..." Meanwhile I would try to hold off a burgeoning anxiety attack whilst blindly wondering whether I would be spending a week in Mumbai by myself while the rest of my family continued on to the States without me.

*I would be ordered by Immigration staff to in turn order airline staff to remove all eight pieces of our luggage from the gigantic hold down below. I would then be escorted all through the warren-like hidden passages which make up Mumbai airport by a non-English speaking airline employee and security guard, in order to hopefully procure the missing passport. Having been unfortunately clad in super low-rise jeans I would create quite a spectacle a short while later, on my hands and knees on the pavement, rifling through five of our eight suitcases while a small army of fascinated cargo employees looked on. I would be suddenly informed during examination of suitcase five that due to security reasons, it would be the last suitcase I would be allowed to open. I freaked...and stared in disbelief moments later when i gazed down to find the passport in question hidden in paperwork at the bottom of the case. I held it aloft triumphantly.

*We would have our bulkhead seats replaced with those one row behind bulkhead, where unfortunately, for the duration of the ten hour day flight back to the UK, not one but two babies would keep up a constant stream of crying, whining, and defecating - cheered on by a mother excitedly (and inexplicably) waving about a loud sleigh bell. I kid you not. (If further proof were needed that our entire trip had been cursed, three out of four of our seat back tv's were busted...meaning the monsters had nothing to entertain them throughout the journey, and would subsequently spend the entire time torturing the husband and I in various ways until we seriously contemplated ending it all.)

*Finally arriving in the UK after a hellish sixteen hours of travel, we would 'lose' Dumpie in baggage claim as he went barrelling away up the 'up ramp' as bleary-eyed (and possibly certifiable by this point) we searched the conveyor belt for our luggage. Unable to find him we would be mortified to spot him coming down the escalator a short while later, accompanied by a severe looking official, holding his hand and sternly surveying the assembled masses, wondering which horrific parents were responsible for such gross neglect. I helpfully presented myself to him at once, having to undergo a humiliating public telling off, produce our passports yet again, and all the while keep myself from glaring at Dumpie who was innocently gazing up at me without even a flutter of regret tainting his cherubic little features.

You can understand how after a journey like that, we were overcome with such sheer joy and relief as to want to fall prostrate in devotion at my sisters feet an hour later after a (praise be!) uneventful taxi ride into central London where we were welcomed with open arms into Auntie Mo's beautiful flat for a surprise home made dinner complete with candles and wine, and beds made up especially for us to sink our weary, defeated bodies into.

Thank God for sisters. We would live to see another day it seems.

(Is this a foreshadowing of things to come as we re-enter so-called 'normal life'??)

"Goa...Goa...Gone"

2011-02-14T16:10:00.031Z

Bye-bye Goa...it's been real

So this is it. The BIG departure. One year ago today we landed on these Goan shores and set up shop in a funny Miami-vice-like pink and blue tiled home across the road from the beach.

We looked forward to a year of living creatively, spending loads of time with the monsters, and indulging in our one fantasy - namely, what would it feel like to come here to our beloved holiday destination and just never leave.

Well we found out. It was amazing. (And also, sometimes, not so amazing...but more on that later.)

As is typical, with just mere hours before we depart these shores for the 'frightland' which is London Heathrow, we are berating ourselves about things we wish we had done (more of):

*road trips (sans kiddies that is)
*swimming everyday in the Arabian Sea (I think I averaged only about a pathetic two swims a week)
*becoming a yoga goddess (or rather, ending up with a mega-taut yoga body)
*learning tabla (the husband bought a 'teach-yourself-tabla' book yesterday - does that count?)
*gone to at least one 'Silent Disco' on the beach (not our fault - couldn't secure a babysitter to save our lives)
*learned Hindi (I know how to say 'too expensive', 'have you seen my son?!' and that's about it)

And things we thoroughly enjoyed:

*dining out under the stars virtually every night, feasting on inexpensive delicious food
*living next door to the kindergarten (talk about ridiculously short school run)
*meeting some strange and wonderful people whom we never would have met otherwise
*the view from our amazing porch (a perfect dress rehearsal for old age...we clocked a lot of hours there)
*fitting in/joining our local beach community and the weird and wonderful characters we met
*our gorgeous Enfield motorcycle (we've stored it there - couldn't bring ourselves to sell it)
*morning runs through the local villages past wild water buffalo and amused villagers

And then of course there are the things we will NOT miss:

*mosquitos. full stop. (see also: cockroaches, ant infestations, etc.)
*a fan that went from barely moving to hurricane level whirring with no option for anything in between
*no air-conditioning in HOT April and May...
*sand....everywhere...especially sheets - URGH!
*our disgusting, impossible-to-get-clean bathroom
*dog fights on the beach (or worse, frothing dogs chasing you down the beach)
*random food poisoning/24 hour flu
*the lack of any decent wine(!)
*breaking our 'we've never had nits' cherry (which is, for the record, ancient history!)

I could go on (and likely shall, in a nostalgic, annoying fashion as the weeks go by) but for now I feel like it's time to leave - however loathe I am to depart my own little parcel of Paradise. The big bad world awaits and that in itself is an adventure I feel (almost?) ready to meet head on.

As I stand here, sifting through all our clothes, toys, books, and random accoutrements, I don't know what to do. Take everything? Take nothing (but the clothes on our back and some radom Balinese tupperware I bizarrely can't find myself able to part with)?

The husband isn't being much of a help with the packing. He claims he'll make up for it by lugging all eight checked bags and four carry-ons up our our dirt driveway and through the bowels of Mumbai's airport. We'll see.

(Stay tuned for our 'next chapter' wherein we drop in on London for two nights - expressly for the purpose of seeing Auntie Mo and halving our luggage - before embarking on a three month tour taking in Florida, Panama and Toronto...friends and family beware...we are a-comin'...footloose and nit-free we're headed to shores near you...)

Oh how I'll miss this...(sigh)

This...not so much

"Mr. Johnny and His Magic Fingers"

2011-02-13T10:38:00.000Z

All week the husband has been giving me grief.

"When are we going to go to Mr. Johnny's and have dinner with him?"

Mr. Johnny, in case you didn't know, is the masseuse here on the beach who has been pummelling our flesh for several months now - usually on a weekly basis. Well at least in the husband's case. For me, it's been his meek wife Aruna who has timidly rubbed me into submission probably twice as often, whilst a random assortment of music has played on the their boombox.

The husband is to thank for this. A while back he introduced Mr. Johnny to dub reggae and offered to burn him some cds. While he was at it he must have also burnt some hardcore trance, because the other day during my massage (solo - the husband had opted out for some reason or another) Mr. Johnny proudly popped a disc in and pumping tunes suddenly started belting out of the little hut - totally disturbing my reverie and completely ruining my massage. I didn't say anything, just smiled, trying to keep the towel modestly covering my upper region while Mr. Johnny and his wife nodded enthusiastically and exclaimed, "This your husbands music!"

Yep. Sure wish they'd left it for my husband.

At any rate they've been insisting on making us a feast for a few weeks now - no doubt enamoured of us and feeling in debt to us simply because of all the business we've brought their way thanks to the constant stream of visitors we've had all season.

They've been waxing prolific about all the delicacies they want to make us ("lollipop chicken...chana masala...dal...") with such wistful conviction, that the husband has become convinced that to not take them up on their effusive offer would be akin to a slap in the face. I on the other hand have argued that although I believe they really want to do it, it is an expense they do not need and can't we just have an extra few massages instead?

And so like 98% of our arguments, it has become a moot point anyway given that we've run out of time (like we knew we would) and cannot have a big epic dinner party with Mr. Johnny and his family as intended. Mr. Johnny is upset about this.

We had our last couples massage today and at the end he sighed and with a little groan said, "You know I am so very, very sad that I cannot cook for you and make you big dinner."

"We know Mr. Johnny, but next season okay? Promise!" (This from me as I hightail it out of there, frantic about the amount of packing still left to be done in the next 12 hours before we depart...ie. 80% of it)

I leave the husband in the midst of a moving song and dance about how much they value each other's friendship, how they're best friends, how until the day he dies Mr. Johnny and his wife will never forget Jay and I, etc. and as I turn onto the beach I overhear one last frantic plea of an offer to cook at home and then home deliver us a big tasty parcel tonight...

Aruna comes running after me with a wet plastic bag, and pressing it into my hands, smiles and says, "I give you gift. You my good friend."

Once home I discover the contents to be an assortment of bright plastic hair clips - the likes of which my sister has never seen and can't resist decorating my head with.

(I'd like to see Neal's Yard dole those out to customers after a £50 Aromatherapy Massage...)

I'm going to miss India. Equal parts hardship and comedy, beauty and decay. There's no place like it...

"Finding Yourself on Accidental Honeymoon"

2011-02-11T17:38:00.000Z

Back from our precious little break away in north Goa with the husband. It was perfect in every way - the only thing marring it being that we had to leave after only one blissful night and hadn't had the selfish foresight to secure two consecutive 'freedom passes' when they were naively offered by my unsuspecting mum and sister.

As we sat by the fresh water lake, munching on fresh pineapple bought from the same lovely drunk who has paraded up and down the beach in a decrepit Mickey Mouse hat for the past decade or so muttering, "Pineapple, Coconut, Watermelon, Cheese Sandwich..." (you wot?!), the husband and I grinned at each other with delight.

We have been going to that beach for so many years that it felt like a homecoming, though it did spin us out to discover that a little muppet of a girl we had known since she was a smooth talking pig-tailed sarong seller (and the only beach seller who could ever part me from ridiculous amounts of Rupees for bits of dolled up cloth I so didn't need) is now a nineteen year old married mother of two (gulp).

Our big disappointment was that we didn't get to see our 'Mendhi Man'', Ulash, who is singlehandedly responsible for poring over my brown belly year after year, painstakingly creating masterpieces of temporary tatooed art on a tum-tum that has grown less taut and no doubt less wonderful as the years have passed. And still he's treated my aging gutular area with the same reverence that one might reserve for the Sistine Chapel. Bless him.

At one point, after a deliciously refreshing swim, spread out on a comfy sun lounger as the sun's late afternoon rays beat down on us, gorgeous lemon cocktails in one hand, a great book in another, and a can of Salt n' Vinegar Pringles nestled close by, poised for guilty consumption - it hit me that I felt exactly as one would feel if they were on Honeymoon.

The husband and I had enjoyed a perfect 3-4 hour ride up on our too-cool-for-school retro Enfield. Buzzing along, covering nearly the whole length of Goa whilst marvelling at the picture perfect natural beauty seeping from the pores of the wild countryside, we made the inspired decision to stop off at one of our favourite restaurants for a midday feast of chana masala, puri, samosa and masala dosa. Though our faces were coated in road grime (a fact the husband neglected to properly convey as we sat down to eat, and which led to a horrific fright once I clocked myself in the loo mirror afterwards) we were beaming like serotonin-riddled idiots let out from a mental institution on a day pass. Which, in a way, we were.

But back to the Honeymoon. We had all the ingredients: all by ourselves, in a drop dead gorgeous (ie. romantic) location, perfect sunny skies, delicious alcohol fuelled drinks, reclining on loungers, romantic cliffside cabin from which we were afforded a perfect view of the Sea, succulent dinner served up under the stars from the world's sweetest and most subservient waiter...I mean...it was all there.

In fact, recalling our actual Honeymoon umpteen years ago in Costa Rica, there was just no comparison. I don't know whether it was the competitive tennis match which soured things, the constant rain and subsequent (distinctly unromantic) chess games on repeat, or the fact that the husband spent a great portion of our honeymoon nights holed up in the guest house owners home, playing old Floyd tunes together on guitar...hmm...

So I have decided to reinvent the past, and from now henceforth, whenever I think of the most amazing time we have ever had together - just by ourselves - this will be it. Even the break of dawn hike up the mountain to see the sun rise (I am SO not a 'hiker') and the subsequent precarious scramble down the mountain side over the next hour or so in the hot sun did nothing to quell my enthusiasm. And even though we had no blanket and had to cuddle up close throughout the chilly night, with only two small, mildly damp sarongs as warmth...it still didn't matter.

What have I learned?

1. Children are great but sometimes being away from them is great
2. India rocks
3. Few things beat the feeling of holding onto someone you love as you hurtle through lush scenery with the sun on your hair, and no sound but the addictive whir of the Enfield engine (save the times you plug in your ipod and turn the journey into the best ever music video in your head)

And I would be remiss if I didn't yet again thank my mum and sis for making this break possible. You accidentally gave us another Honeymoon and helped us end our year in SouthEast Asia as perfectly as one ever could.

(Oh yeah and sorry Mum that Dumpie vomited all over you and your new pashmina in the taxi...and that Egg almost burnt down the laundry ladies beach stall with the lighter he nicked...and that Dumpie snuck off, hid in a beach shack for ages and made you think he'd been kidnapped...and all the other stuff...sorry...)

xx

Nothing beats a yummy, still hot Masala Dosa washed down with sugary chai!

"Parents Go M.I.G. (Missing In Goa)"

2011-02-07T17:56:00.000Z

Like butter wouldn't melt...yeah right

The husband and I can't quite believe our luck. In what must surely be a bout of temporary insanity, my sis, my mum, and two other friends have offered to watch the monsters for us while we sneak away on a little motorcycle road trip tomorrow to the hippie enclave of Arambol in North Goa.

Being the selfish (desperate!) types that we are, we have allowed pure unadulterated lust for the open road (and for adventures of yesteryear) to cloud our judgement and have gleefully accepted said invitation to flee our parental responsibilities. How could we not?

Long before the monsters were a twinkle in either of our eyes, the husband and I were rather footloose and fancy free backpacker sorts - cavorting all over the globe in adventures that we wouldn't dare brave nowadays (corrupt cops in Cairo, dubious Arabs in a blacked out Mercedes in Turkey, traversing treacherous washed out roads in the Himalayas on motorcycle...need i go on?)

But it has been ages since we've been given carte blanche to go away BY OURSELVES and relive some of the beauty that is India, and which can only really, in our humble opinion, be properly appreciated on the back of an Enfield.

Okay, so the journey will take under four hours...and we'll only spend a night away...but make no mistake: we shall enjoy every last child-free nano-second of it.

Imagine...we can read our books in peace in the sand, play backgammon during dinner without having Dumpie chuck pieces over the side of the cliff, float in the Sweet Water Lake without doing periodic checks to make sure no one is in the process of drowning, be responsible for wiping only our own bottoms after using the loo....ah the bliss.

Actually I can't imagine it.

So until we are actually on the road by 7:30am tomorrow (hey we know a good deal when we see one - we're getting the heck out of here as soon as we open our eyes in an effort to squeeze every last drop of blessed freedom out of this brief interlude) I don't really believe it will happen.

Thanks in advance 'Auntie Ba', Mum, 'Uncle Cory' and Helen...without you guys this wouldn't be possible.

(And we know this is a one time offer and after twenty-four hours with the monsters none of you will ever, ever offer to do anything even remotely this selfless (CRAZY) for us again. Ever. Or at least until the monsters reach university age.)

And we solemnly swear to turn up at the agreed meeting point in Anjuna in exactly 32 hours time. We promise.

(I think.)

The one-of-a-kind, super-amazing, Auntie Ba...without whom we'd die :)

You're smiling now...but in a day's time you'll be cursing us

"Money Doesn't Grow On Trees...Except In India"

2011-02-06T18:27:00.000Z

In a bizarre turn of events I find myself hearkening unto my eldest child Egg (age: 6 1/2) as regards recent naughty behaviour.

I am SO used to moaning about Dumpie's latest exploits that Egg rarely gets a look in - except for me to go on about how obedient and sweet-natured he is.

However, the other morning I awoke with quite a fright to find Egg holding aloft a lit candle, proudly proffering it to me in bed.

"Look Mama...look what I did!"

The husband was away on his bike trip and hence I had no one to share my early morning panic and horror with.

"Egg! Put that out right now!" I shouted, startled.

(Of course any normal, non-sleep-deprived parent would have sat up in bed, grabbed said LIT candle and extinguished it - as well as perhaps even administering a little tap on the naughty child's bottom - the better to instill the fear of God and all that...)

However it was still dark out, I was disoriented, and what felt like minutes later (but was probably moments) groggily queried, "Egg...did you put that candle out?"

I registered a large sigh then heard him blow it out, and satisfied, fell immediately back asleep.

Big mistake.

(Note to self: confiscation of dangerous lighting implements can often be a successful deterent for future pyromaniac tendencies in young children)

I awoke some time later to find two things:

1. our front door was open and Egg was nowhere to be seen
2. our home smelled faintly of something burning

Normally the missing child thing would have taken precedence over a burning smell, but this being India (and with faulty electrics the norm) I panicked and moving round our kitchen area like a crazed sniffer dog, tried frantically to locate the source of the worrying stench.

I didn't have to look too long before I spotted the culprit: a still smouldering ten rupee note lying in a green plastic garbage bag.

Several screams of "Egg! Eggie! You get back here right this second or you will be in such big trouble you'll not have ice-cream for a whole month!" were rather effective in coaxing Egg out of our landlady's house where he'd been (wait for it) burning matches with her.

He came shooting across the yard toward me, clad only in jammie bottoms and clutching Bacon.

"Egg what on earth??!!! Why did you burn money?! Where have you been?! What are you doing?! Mama is VERY angry with you!"

Not able to prioritise which of his wailing mother's queries to address first, he simply stared up at me as I herded him inside, all the while muttering like a crazy old lady (something to the effect of "We could have all burned in our sleep...") and stared calmly at the still warm rupee note which I shoved madly in his face.

"Why?! Just tell me why?!"

Looking up at me with those big eyes of his, appearing bewildered by the severity of my reaction, and shrugging his shoulders he said, "Because I didn't need it."

(You wot?!)

I guess the boy really does believe that money grows on trees - at least here in India anyway.

Either that or the twelve preceding months having witnessed his parents living out their desert island fantasies, (pre-retirement), have convinced our six year old that his Beach Bum Bohemian Parents have such an inexhaustible supply of rupee notes shooting their way through the ATM slot each week, that the mere burning of a note here or there ain't going to make too much of a dent in the family finances.

Time to get a job?...

"It's A Hard Nit's Life For Us...It's A Hard Nit's Life..."

2011-02-03T02:16:00.073Z

"Please don't blog about this" my sister begged several days ago.

"Why not?" I asked, knowing full well what was coming next.

"Because it's disgusting...and everyone will think you're dirty hippies...and they'll always remember."

"But it's true. And I have to be honest...I'm always honest on my blog."

(I could feel her sighing, wondering how we could be sisters...)

"Umm yeah. But this is too honest. And honestly, it's so gross. Just trust me. Don't."

So I hearkened to her wise words for some days (because she is usually right about these things...and after all, there are some things that I don't blog about - either because it's inappropriate, I forget, or because the husband might divorce me...) but eventually I caved in.

I confessed to the world at large (well, 'my world' at any rate: friends, family, readers, and randoms) that our family had come down with our first ever plague of NITS (that's for you Sis...in bold and caps).

The worst part is that my sister is fastidious about cleanliness, and even though I told her that things like fleas, nits, ringworm and bedbugs are pretty much unavoidable somewhere in the tropics like Goa, it's still off-putting enough to have scared her senseless about her upcoming visit.

So I shouldn't have been surprised when she and my mum turned up with not one but two industrial strength 'Nit Treatment Packs'. Soon clocking that every embrace and head scratch was met with a grimace, the husband and I obediently decided to do our third treatment in a week...the first night they were here.

Unfortunately this coincided with an impromptu cocktail party we invited everyone to on our front porch after dinner. We thought it would simply be a matter of a quick shampoo, a run through the hair of the special comb and bam - Nits be gone!

Wrong.

When everyone showed up a little while later, they found us towel clad, in our bedroom, trying to painstakingly run these impossible combs through the monsters hair...and nowhere near ready to mix drinks.

So after a polite (and mildly horrified) half hour of voyeuristic 'entertainment', our family and friends slipped off with a "We'll do this another night okay?" and were gone.

(I'm sure it must have been off-putting to witness the yelps of glee which followed discovery of a squirming bug and the subsequent smashing of it between fingertips as it exploded in little bits of blood.)

In hindsight it could have been the bickering between the husband and I which prompted their swift departure. One look at my tangled long locks and the smurf-sized comb that needed to go through it and the husband was like, "No way."

"But you haaaaave to," I whined.

"No."

"But if you don't do it then this is all in vain and they won't come out and we'll just all get it again!"

"Can't you just do your own hair?"

"No of course I can't! I can't see anything in my hair...how am I supposed to find and kill them?!"

(and so on...and so on...)

And so once again, we found ourselves alone. With Nits. And monsters.

"Riding Out the Last Days of Goa..."

2011-02-02T02:04:00.044Z

So one of my readers WAS right...(and thankfully encouraged me to overcome my natural inclination toward laziness regarding hesitation about getting up in time to form a pre-dawn welcoming committee for my mum and sis!)

The other day at precisely 5:15am my phone alarm went off, and I rolled my deathly tired body out of bed, put on some coffee and gently prodded Egg awake.

"Egg...time to go meet Grandma and Auntie".

Quick as a flash he was up, putting on his little hoodie and grabbing Bacon the bear under one arm. Momentarily we were off, he excitedly chattering away in the pre-dawn darkness and me sipping my still warm coffee for dear life.

Of course as luck would have it we missed their arrival by five minutes, but that didn't stop us from barging in on them and grabbing them in bear hugs and sloppy kisses (Egg that is, not me...I'm not one for mushy sentimentality....ahem).

Since then it's been a whirlwind of giggles, excitement and contentment. Egg and Dumps are over the moon to be reunited with their Auntie and Grandma, and last night as we bid them adieu at bedtime, Dumps reluctantly let go of Auntie's hand and blew her a kiss saying, "Goodnight Sweetheart....goodnight Lovely!" Says it all really.

Postscript: The husband has of course taken advantage of good spirits all round to 'escape' yet again on a road trip through India...he's calling it his 'farewell tour' on the bike (this time hopefully for less than a week though?...)

He's also being accompanied by 'Uncle Cory', a dear friend of ours from London who has squeezed in a visit before we leave and also has a penchant for Enfields and 'Indian Road Trips'. I've gotten one text so far from the husband stating that they're in a place with bad reception - so he can't ring - bedded down in a single bed with Uncle Cory. Cozy.

I just hope they drive safely and return...eventually. Despite spending several hours at a mechanics yesterday getting seven spokes replaced, they departed in high spirits clad in turquoise sunscreen, a cravat and a snug-fitting Hawaiian shirt respectively. May the force be with them....(and umm, may I get some sort of 'wife of the year' accolade for allowing the husband a second solo road trip in as many months, 'sans famille' - or at the very least some sort of appreciation in the form of a bit of twinkling jewellry. There's this gorgeous silver ring I've had my eye on you see...)

"The Trials and Tribulations of Being An Egg..."

2011-01-29T06:46:00.004Z

Egg has gone through a fair bit of trauma recently. Firstly, the other night he left Bacon (his bear, his best friend, and the best loved flea-ridden plush toy ever) on the beach. Yep, on the beach.

It was pre-bed shower time when this was discovered, and a freak out of such proportions ensued that the husband and I were left quarrelling about who should trek back out to the beach and go on a hunt for the lost bear (which Egg said he thought he'd left on the sand 'somewhere'.)

I hadn't even gone out to dinner that night, so was arguably annoyed that the husband thought it my responsibility when in my opinion it was his fault for a) letting Egg take his bear out to dinner in the first place b) not ensuring Egg brought bring it back home again (esp. given Egg's predisposition to lose anything not tied onto himself or otherwise permanently affixed to his person).

The husband countered with the argument that his right foot was weepy and infected, and that it would cause him considerable discomfort to walk back out there.

We were at an impasse. Egg was inconsolable. However a sudden brainwave courtesy of the husband resulted in a cleverly executed phone call to the restaurant whereby we were informed that another little boy from Egg's school had found Bacon and taken him home for safekeeping.

Egg immediately calmed down. And Dumpie (who usually shows absolutely no interest in HIS teddy bear - hence it's usually found at the bottom of a heap of dirty laundry or discarded toys) came strutting by, proudly clutching his teddy and proclaiming, "I am sleeping with MY teddy tonight Eggie." Little rascal.

Then, a few days ago, Egg began furiously scratching his head. It would appear that after dodging the dreaded scourge of 'nits' for over six years (yes, I can proudly state that as a family, we have had a perfect record of having being 'nit-free', despite all those dreaded mimeographed sheets handed out by teachers informing us of yet another 'outbreak' in the school) we've tragically succumbed.

(Oh how fast and hard the proud and mighty fall...For years I would affix a kindly but hesitant grin on my face when hearing of how other mothers had found 'bugs' in their children's hair. The very thought disgusted me and I prayed I'd be able to get through the primary years unscathed. Wrong-o. Now it's my turn to feel all the other parents eyes on Egg and Dumps, watching each scratch with lowered lids and an accusatory glare...alas.)

To make matters worse, Egg has been anticipating the arrival of his beloved 'Grammitay' (my mum) and 'Auntie Ba' (my sis) with the same fervour and anticipation as many religious folk eagerly await 'The Second Coming'.

He has been counting down the number of 'sleeps' for the past fifteen days, and thus when two days ago we were informed that due to severe storms their flights had been cancelled, Egg went into a depressive meltdown. Not only that but their trip has been delayed by an extra two days.

At this point I don't think Egg actually still believes that they're coming. But coming they are. And now I have to figure out a way to get OUT of the promise I foolishly made to Egg a week ago saying that he and I could get up in the middle of the night and sit across the road and wait for their arrival.

Don't get me wrong: I love my family and I'm absolutely dying to see them. But the thought of fending off potentially rabid dogs in the pitch black pre-dawn with an over excited six year old repeatedly asking, "Are they coming yet? Why aren't they here? I'm cold...I'm hungry...Mama WHEN are they COMING?!" is so not my idea of a good time.

Perhaps I'll make it up to him by letting him take some time off school while they're here. I suppose it's not going to harm his chances too much of getting into Oxford one day if he misses the opportunity to fashion yet another finger puppet out of straw and cardboard or brush up on his meditative yoga chanting.

Though Egg has already pipped us to the post in that regard, having apparently informed his teacher and classmates several weeks ago that he shall cease attending school for good once his visitors arrive.

Maybe things are about to take a turn for the better for wee Egg (especially as I have it on good authority that some Reeces Peanut Butter Cups - his absolute fave - are winging their way towards us as we speak).

As for me? I am too heavily traumatised over this nit thing to be caring about much else at the moment. If I didn't think it would freak my mum and sis out so badly I'd be sorely tempted to pile the whole family onto the Enfield right now and head for the local barber and have us shorn en masse.

Seriously.

"Baby Casanova"

2011-01-28T07:17:00.002Z

Dumpie: "Mama you are cute."

Me: "What Dumps?"

Dumpie: "You are cute...and pretty...and beautiful...(he pauses for a moment)...and lovely"

Though suspicious of such flattery being in all likelihood the preemptive buttering up, uttered for the express purpose of getting his grubby little paws on a pre-dinner biscuit....I fall for it nonetheless.

And to his credit, in this instance he merely follows up such heartfelt admonitions with a cheeky grin and a kiss to my arm before toddling off - taking his four year old self off to see what mischief he can get up to.

Perhaps it's just that he's coming into himself - or should I say his masculine ways - and practising up for a lifetime of wooing the ladies, starting with his exhausted, world weary Mama.

For the other day as I dropped him off next door at the Kindergarten, one of the male teachers greeted him with, "Good morning Casanova!"

I looked at the teacher, smiling but puzzled, then glanced over to where he was gesturing. Hanging off the swinging wooden school gate where no less than five little girls shouting excitedly at Dumpie, waving and bouncing up and down.

I was rather shocked. Didn't know what to make of it. The teacher smiled and said, "You see why we call him Casanova? All the girls love him very much."

I'll say.

Glancing over at Dumps I could see a mixture of pride and embarrassment clouding his features. So what did this tiny testosterone-bundled munchkin do? He stopped a few feet from the entrance, spread his legs in a warrior stance and Judd Nelson-like (as in the last scene of the Breakfast Club) punched his fist into the air in a triumphant gesture and just stood there, scrunching up his features like a little tiger growling, 'Grrrrrr'.

Okay, so the little guy has some work to do on his follow through...but I reckon with continued development in the charisma and flirtation stakes, he's on course to become a real life Casanova.

The husband anticipates that we shall be in for some very difficult years fielding phone calls from irate fathers of daughters...

And where shall I be in all this? Probably letting Dumps get away with murder on account of his continuing to state, "You are so pretty Mama...and so nice...and I love you so much...and you are so lovely...and so cute." (And this when i'm a greying toothless old crone with bunions or some such...just wait.)

"All Curried Out"

2011-01-27T17:16:00.002Z

We have to leave India. We really do. We've only two and a half weeks left in this South-East Asian paradise before we board the airline with a beer for a name (good ol' Kingfisher) and head back westward toward dreary skies (and an even drearier economy). Amusingly, we shall be departing on Valentine's Day. Sipping lukewarm beer, eating sodium rich nuts and watching banal Hollywood inflight films, is how the husband and I shall spend our umpteenth V-Day together.

I suppose I would be more gutted about leaving if it weren't for one small fact: I have TOTALLY gone off Indian food. If I never see another Indian curry it will be too soon (of course feel free to remind me of this in say six months time when I'm spotted lurking outside the Spice Palace on Brick Lane, hankering after a poppadom or four).

Ironically, in years past when we have come to for a two week getaway, it would be fair to say that a great proportion of our time has been spent gorging ourselves on the delicious food, contemplating our next meal, and generally stuffing ourselves to the point where we lie there afterwards, groaning on the bed (and I don't mean in a sexy way), gently rubbing our distended bellies and swearing we won't order so much next time. But we do...and so the cycle continues...such that we end up returning back from holiday as slightly browner, rounder manifestations of our formal selves.

However after months of eating at the same dozen or so restaurants, having sampled all the divine fish tikka, tarkha dal, channa masala, raita, roti, vegetable papad, malai kofta, kadai veg, etc WITHIN AN INCH OF OUR LIVES....my stomach - and taste buds - are in a full-scale revolt.

I have finally reached my limit, and have therefore been forced, for the past few weeks or so, to subsist within the borders of a terribly confined culinary selection. In other words, I've been mainly subsisting on fruit, breakfast cereal and peanut butter toast. My body is crying out for BLAND food, for Western food (as inferior as it could be argued it is) because frankly I've had about as much ghee (butter), creamy curry and savoury naan breads as I can take.

You know what I'm most looking forward to? A Mark & Spencer's Cheese and Celery sandwich, devoured with a bag of salt n' vinegar crisps. Yep. If I were on death row right now that is what my last meal request would be.

(Of course as I say this I am wondering why I'm advertising to the world at large, my favourite sandwich...not only do I sound like a daft cow but I risk the likelihood that this delicious partnering of moist bread, creamy cheese and tart celery will become even harder to come by on the shelves if more people are to discover just how yummy it is. As it is I have had many a disappointing foray into good ol' M&S only to find that particular shelf laid bare and have had to resort to a disappointing Ploughman's to ease the hunger. But I digress....)

The point is, that I think I am finally ready to leave. Seriously. When I am daydreaming about what is essentially a bloody sandwich, and am ready to trade sun, seas and spectacular sunsets for said sandwich....well...it says it all really doesn't it?

2011-01-21T05:52:00.000Z

Yesterday at the fruit market I saw some delicious watermelons.

"Are these good ones?"

"Oh yes Madam...very good"

"Are you sure? Last time you sold me some and they were rotten inside."

"No Madam...these ones very good...very cheap. You take two?"

I take two.

I go home, cut them open, and...they're rotten. (sigh)

In a lot of ways that sums up India. Major problem with quality control. That is why you will sometimes find ants in the sugar bowl, flies in your cornflakes, and buy something only to have it break apart minutes later (like the mickey mouse on Egg's newly purchased 'Crocs' last night - for a fiver).

I had dragged Egg into a roadside stall to purchase him new (fake) 'Crocs' after his old (authentic) ones were lost on the beach (the graveyard to most of his hats and footwear this past year). I had an amusing back and forth exchange with the owner until I succeeded into bullying him into a fair price (just stopping short of getting Egg to recite some Hindi words to prove we weren't 'tourists'). I could have hammered him down further, but got distracted by his adorable baby daughter toddling around wearing comical over sized sunglasses, and realising he was a family man...softened.

Then of course we got home, Dumpie tried them on, and the Mickey Mouse decal promptly broke off. Didn't feel so bad after that.

Though sometimes they take things too far here. At our local Baskin Robbins (a weekly indulgence) I never fail to become amused by the sight of the counter staff popping our cones onto a little scale to ensure that not even an extra gram of ice cream gets mistakenly doled out to a greedy Westerner (a local would have to think twice about parting with 80pence for a cone). Talk about meticulous.

If only my fruit stall fellow could employ even a fraction of this meticulousness and stop stacking his shelves full of deceptively green but internally rotting melons. It would mean that I would probably stop casing the Baskin Robbins as often as I do, waiting for it to open and get my mint chocolate chip fix. And I would look less like a tourst. Which would mean I would probably stop getting quoted tourist rates when attempting to buy my child imitation Crocs at inflated prices.

"Watching the Rupee Drop"

2011-01-13T16:57:00.000Z

Lately, Dumpie has turned our cheap blue porcelain Hindustan toilet bowl into a little wishing well - tossing shiny silver one and two rupee coins down to the bottom where they settle and glint in ironic fashion.

Last week it was Egg's Nintendo stylus which was sacrificed to the cause.

I suppose I should be grateful that my pearl earrings haven't (yet) made it down there.

Problematically, these coins are procured from Egg's glass piggy bank (which originally began life as a jar of green pesto), since Dumpie does not possess one himself, long ago giving up on the whole idea of nightly 'allowance'.

In truth, the scheme fell flat several months ago. You see Dumpie would go days without getting his allowance (due to naughty behaviour) then would torment Egg (who always got his) by stealing his coins and causing a huge uproar.

Given that they rarely got to actually spend their allowance (the choice being horrid Indian sweets or nasty plastic toys), the currency became quickly devalued. Literally.

So now neither boy collects allowance, but Egg still has a jar stuffed full of coins...which Dumpie continues to pilfer and toss into the toilet as the desire takes him.

It's clear that we've failed miserably in trying to teach the boys about the value of money. What with all their starting up of 'tabs' in the local beach restaurants and the way Dumps tosses full glasses of expensive juice down the kitchen sink after a mere sip or two to quench his thirst, it's clear that the monsters have a steep fiscal learning curve to traverse in their futures.

I already shudder imagining them helping themselves to items in cafes in London, thinking it will all just 'go on a tab', and being mortified by the icy stares from store staff assuming I'm using my little ones to nab free smoothies and muffins. We're still in a recession after all.

Sharon Osbourne for ASDA (not that the plastic Queen of Darkness has EVER set foot inside an Asda - aside from filming the bloody stupid advert) claims that 'every little bit helps' as she double pats her own pantsuit-clad arse with a cheeky grin.

And they say (whoever 'they' are) that one must watch the pennies and the pounds will take care of themselves.

I wonder if watching them gleam from the bottom of a dirty toilet bowl counts? Maybe next time I go to the loo I should make a wish. Wish for a cleaner to fish the coins out of the bowl and scrub the toilet while they're at it.

"Please Pass the 'Schhlocket' "

2011-01-06T06:16:00.001Z

Why use a glass?

Dumpie has inexplicably begun speaking with a Dutch accent. Well actually more like a Dutch baby. Friends of ours recently visited and their two year old was just getting to grips with language. Dumpie must have decided somewhere along the line that cute blurted out words, winning smiles and pointing are the way forward in terms of garnering adult attention.

For why else would he be addressing me thus:

"Me schleepy...go schleepy now Maaaamaaaa."

As opposed to what he would have typically said previously:

"I am NOT going to bed now because I am NOT sleepy. If you are sleepy than YOU go to bed. I am going to stay up and watch Star Wars."

I seem to recall that 'acting like a baby' behaviour is totally normal and will usually cease on its own, and that it's best to just go with the flow and tolerate your child's linguistic and behavioural regression. However, given that some of this 'baby behaviour' is manifesting itself in a sudden surge of 'wee accidents' is not encouraging.

Though I suppose in one sense it does make a nice change from being mouthed off to by a four year old too clever for his own good. And one who, until the recent Dutch affectation, was speaking with a mild Indian accent (something my sister on ichat found to be most amusing).

The husband and I have now given up all pretence of trying to 'tame' the boys while we are here. When we are out they quickly disappear, swallowed up in bands of marauding little savages who roam the beach, building forts, hassling each others parents for money to buy ice cream, and chase each other around waving big sticks. It all looks like great fun, and if it weren't for the nervous fear hovering around the edges of my consciousness, that we may never fully be able to 'socialise' them back into 'normal society', then I suppose I wouldn't give it a second thought.

But at some point they are going to have to realise that wearing shoes is NOT optional, that dirty fingernails are NOT okay, that running up tabs for mango drinks and milkshakes in various restaurants is NOT on, and that taking off for ages at a time without letting us know is NOT going to be tolerated forever.

Of course it's not all bad. Both boys can now sit in the lotus position, little fingers curled gracefully by their knees, and Egg can even chant a Hindi meditational singsong. It's rather cute actually. And they have both made so many new and amazing friends from all over the world. (Egg even recently procured the email address of a rather fetching ten year old girl from England who expressed an interest in keeping in touch via their respective Nintendo's!)

With just a month and a half left to go in India I suppose I should just let them roam wild and free while they can. And if that means, in Dumpies case at least, being a Dutch speaking serial bed wetter...then so be it.

The world's best playground?!

"All Is Quiet(ish)...On New Year's Day!"

2011-01-03T07:40:00.000Z

A stunning start to the New Year!

So it's the new year, and we're back to our daily routine of hustling the monsters off to school before 9am amidst a flurry of toothbrushing, muesli eating and multiple clothes changes (courtesy of Dumps). At least we didn't come across another dead chipmunk en route today (or 'chickmonk' if you're Dumps) which made me both recoil in horror and wonder why the dogs hadn't eaten it.

We have now all adequately recovered from New Year's Eve festivities - even our friend from Kuala Lumpur who sadly came down with a case of 'Delhi Belly', as did another friend of ours, on the great night itself...meaning that a couple of fresh lime soda's were as raucous as things got for them.

I kept it moderate, given that the husband spent the majority of the 12 hour 'rave-a-thon' up near the bar behind his beloved decks, spinning tunes and air thumping along to others when his mate was at the helm...leaving me as sole carer to two simultaneously hyper and exhausted little boys.

Being Goa, there were tons of little ones about - either dancing with the parentals on the homemade dance floor inside the beach shack (something I cannot imagine ever happening in the UK), waving glow torches and lighting magic kite lanterns up and down the beach, or cuddling up en masse in the sand playing made up games together in a 'Lord of the Flies-esque' posse (minus the sinister element, obviously).

Though many of the little ones were too excited to sleep and thus wide awake for the seemingly endless 'Apocolype Now' type rendition of amateur firecracker displays up and down the beach around midnight, Eggie and Dumps crashed well before then, curling up like two little sleepy sausages in my sarongs. I rarely left their side, afraid that some oblivious party goers might mistake their sleeping forms for rather comfy cushions, and instead enjoyed watching the flow of human traffic up and down our beach.

As the husband dropped 'Salt N' Peppa's PUSH IT' at midnight, the sky was alight with crazy crackling and coloured constellations and as I looked around at all the happy faces and the grinning smiles of our friends who had traveled all this way to spend New Year's with us, I felt really blessed. Some old friends, some new, they all helped make this occasion a memorable one and I had to try and recall a better New Year's Eve in recent memory (I couldn't).

Surprisingly the monsters slept through all the craziness and sometime after midnight, after a few bottles of celebratory champagne were quaffed, the husband stole off with me, laden with Egg (and I with Dumps) as we trudged through the sand to deposit the monsters into their rightful beds. Given the sheer size and weight of Egg these days, and the fact that I was wearing a floor length black dress at the time which was impossible not to trip on, the husband and I did not enjoy the journey back IN THE SLIGHTEST.

However he somehow managed to find the energy to slip back out and continue in the festivities, whereas I was quite happy to call it a night and crash with the monsters. Of course the next morning when the monsters woke us up at 8:30am, it was payback time as I was rewarded for my abstention whilst the husband was punished for his lack thereof...attempting to get through the first day of the year on a mind numbing two and a half hours sleep :)

Nonetheless, it turns out that we made history by putting on the first ever proper dance party on this particular family beach...ever! (And if that weren't enough, surely the presence of a reality show celebrity and a supermodel spotted on our beach proves that our little bit of paradise is now in the ascendancy?!) The shack owner is so pleased about his reputation as the 'best place on the beach' now, that he's offered the husband a bottle of champagne as thanks and now greets him as a long lost friend.

That's great and all, but I think I'll pass on the champagne thank you very much.

Two sleepy bundles of boy

Not even a fresh orange juice can help two and a half hours kip!

"Roll On...Last Day of the Year"

2010-12-31T11:12:00.000Z

Dumpie helping out with the rubbish

Dumpie is not too happy with me at the moment. It's so easy to lose track of time here (I don't even wear a watch) such that we're never exactly sure what day of the week it is. Thus, I mistakenly informed Dumpie yesterday that it was Friday - and hence the weekend.

He was not amused to find out this morning that Mama had made a mistake, and let me know it by way of admonishing me severely, his little face a mere two inches away from mine as he told me off.

Dumpie loves the weekend because then he doesn't have to go to school. Not that he doesn't like school (for he's happy enough when he's there and loves playing with his little friends, climbing trees, rolling around in the dirt, chasing girls in the 'kissy game' etc.) but he likes the weekend more.

Maybe that's partly our fault, for we allow the monsters either a milkshake or their beloved mango 'Maaza' drink on the weekends. Also, on the weekends we tend to eat brunch on the beach and they get to stuff their little faces with lemon sugar pancakes and fresh fruit juices to their hearts content.

Speaking of food, I did a very bad thing today. We have been so overrun with friends and subsequent socialising lately that we have let our already meagre larder run dry. Add to that Dada's occasional midnight snacks of muesli and/or toast, and it's understandable why this morning, when attempting to rustle together Dumpie's snack, I was forced to pack him off with a small bag of crisps and three little chocolate biscuits. Oh the shame.

I tried to disguise this white trash offering by taking the crisps out of the bag and putting them in a little tupperware container - hoping against hope that the teachers think it's some kind of Indian dried vegetable (well it is sort of, isn't it?). As for the chocolate biscuits, they are only one-sided, so there is a fifty-fifty chance that I'll get away with it (though I doubt it considering children can sniff out chocolate from a mile away, and I expect Dumpie will get mobbed by the more feral of his little classmates.)

At any rate tonight is New Year's Eve, and the husband and another mate of his have managed to secure the most excellent beach shack here (by virtue of having the biggest and best speakers, not to mention the most consistently good food) for a party. There will be firecrackers, dancing, cocktails, and all manner of frivolity I imagine.

Obviously, we haven't managed to secure a babysitter for tonight, so the challenge will be how to tuck them up somewhere warm and cozy within sight and preferably away from the speakers.

As for the husband and I? Mostly we can't believe we've come to the end of 2010. Our year away is slowly drawing to a close...only a few more months left.

And on that note, time to go to the beach and properly enjoy the last day of the year.

Happy New Year!

Egg practising his best karate chop moves at a Pirate Party

"The Undesirables"

2010-12-28T18:05:00.000Z

Tonight the husband and I joined a dozen or so friends for dinner at a local Thai restaurant. This in itself was not newsworthy but the fact that we were sans kiddies was.

For you see lately, it has become virtually impossible to secure the services of a babysitter amongst the local Indian women here in Goa. Our friends seem to have no problem, and other parents round here are often seen enjoying child free dinners on the beach without their offspring in attendance...which leads me to believe that there is something fishy going on.

Having suffered a string of unsuccessful babysitting requests, for somewhat flimsy reasons like, "Your house too far away" (we live across the road from the beach), or "No like the dogs" (our landlady has a few pets who occasionally bark at strangers but the husband always offers to go and pick the ladies up so....), it is clear we are 'undesirables'...but why??

What makes this rejection so hard to bear (aside from having such a detrimental impact on our post 8pm social life) is that we are offering good money - I mean REALLY GOOD money, especially by Indian standards - for a job which involves virtually nothing more than sitting down and watching the monsters watch a string of movies on their dvd player.

It's the social equivalent of offering your average Primark shopper a one hour no holds barred shopping spree at Marc Jacobs and being told, "No thanks, I'm not really into his look this season." Seriously. It's confounding!

Try as I might I can only come up with a few reasons why this may be:

1. Our house is haunted or considered bad luck in some Hindu spiritualist manner, depositing a horrific curse on any locals who step inside...

2. The 'universe' is trying to tell the husband and I that our time would be better spent doing Suduko or practicing yogic postures at home, rather than sipping yet more Kingfishers on the beach.

3. Something is 'wrong' with our family, of which we are utterly and completely unaware (making the option of starving, or continuing to live in a tiny straw shack preferable to bringing home an excellent salary for doing sweet bugger all.)

I so want to believe it's not the latter reason, but then I recall the 'little problem' we had last year in London concerning our utter inability to keep the same cleaner for any decent amount of time. Fine, the ones who got pregnant maybe had a legitimate cause, but the others who made up lamer than lame reasons to ditch us suddenly, inexplicably, and without reasonable cause ("I must pick up brother from airport" etc.) maybe cottoned on to something that these local babysitting women have.

Then again, tonight over dinner a friend mentioned that her babysitter had told her that Dumpie sometimes pinches her. However tonight, returning a good hour later than promised (umm...maybe this bears considering?) we found Eggs and Dumpie quietly cuddled up in bed watching "101 Dalmations" looking as cute - and innocent - as can be.

Any/all in possession of a reasonable (or unreasonable) hypothesis/explanation, please send your answer on the back of a postcard to:

"The Undesirables"
Little pink concrete house
Goa, India

"The (ALMOST) Best Christmas Ever!"

2010-12-25T18:39:00.000Z

It's 10:42 pm and as I sit here contemplating the double issue of Grazia lying temptingly on my bed (delivered by a well-meaning friend from the UK today), I think to myself, "Ah, what bliss, and what a perfect way to end an almost perfect day".

For the 'Almost The Best Christmas Ever' (more on that later) began officially last night, after 'marshmallowgeddon', wherein Egg and Dumpie consumed almost their combined body weight in marshmallows over the campfire, while the husband and I looked on with a mixture of wonderment, then later mild revulsion.

It wasn't until Dumpie turned to me and said, 'No more marshmallows Mama' that I realised that perhaps I should have put the bag away sometime after consumption reached double digits. Uh oh. But then I'm a pushover when it comes to sentimental occasions involving food and making memories :)

Bath time was skipped (though I'm pleased to inform that tooth brushing was NOT), and the munchkins were cosily tucked into bed - the husband stretched out face down between them. I downloaded the proper (ie. long) version of "Twas the Night Before Christmas" and began reading the famous poem. By the time I reached the last verse they were both sound asleep, and I even had to nudge the husband to make sure he was awake.

This morning at EIGHT (they must have been in a mild marshmallow coma from last night??) they woke up, grabbed their bulging sacks, their three gifts each, and bundled onto our bed to rummage through their loot.

Egg loved his magnetic dart board and chess set, as well as his 'Travel Connect Four' and his plastic beach ball. Dumpie showed mild interest in his cheap imitation play-doh set, mixing all the colours together into one great lumpen ball, only to discard the mess under our sheets where I expect it will eventually harden and crumble into sharp little pieces which will further condemn us to more sleepless nights in the coming days. However the 'counting beads' I bought him were given a desultory glance before being tossed ceremoniously to one side, never to be thought of again. Oh well.

After a quick video chat with various assorted family members, we headed across to the beach and met our newly arrived friends (they of the visa nightmare conundrum) for a lovely breakfast of fresh fruit salad, omelettes, lemon sugar pancakes and porridge. I however chose instead to ring in the day with a large mug of masala chai and a protracted bingeing session with the mince pies 'Aunty Kenz' had ever so thoughtfully included in her generous care package for the monsters (thanks again 'Aunty Kenz' you rule! And no, I will not pilfer the boys sweets...okay not all of them).

Champagne was cracked, music was played and DJ Dada hit the decks and helped switch our section of our beach into a festive frame of mind. General smiles of blissful contentment were exchanged all round (thought truthfully, I was still on a massive high from my recent mini mince pie face stuffing session).

Late afternoon a large group of us descended upon a local hotel for their big 'Reggae Sunsplash Christmas Party' where DJ Dada once again got out his virtual decks and filled the dance floor with grooving party goers twisting shapes to his cool ska vibes. He rocked it. And while he did that, the rest of us took over a large table in the back and proceeded to chat and sip our way through the day.

Delicious barbequed fish, jerk chicken, fish burgers, bean burgers, salads and baked potatoes soon followed, washed down with festive rum and fruit cocktails and banana fritters and lethally sweet Christmas cake bringing up the rear. We gorged ourselves. Egg and Dumps ate rolls with butter...but that may have been because they kept getting fed sweets from the young waiters, and were too busy chasing girls around the pool.

It was a most lovely Christmas, as good as one could hope for. Were it not for the absence of our beloved friends and family (you know who you are!..Aunties, 'God-Uncles', Grandparents, 'pets'...) it might have been...quite simply...THE BEST CHRISTMAS EVER!

Happy Christmas MoaningMum readers far and wide. Thanks for following the trials and tribulations of my shambolic family this past year and for proving a most brilliant outlet for my many (albeit trivial) 'moans' which constitue the bulk of these pages...xx

"TwasThe Night Before (Our Goan) Christmas..."

2010-12-24T18:36:00.002Z

It's the night before Christmas, and I'm pleased to report that not a creature is stirring, not even the Dumps. Having spent a glorious sunset down on the beach with all of their friends whilst the husband dj'ed and spun us into the night with some amazing tunes at our favourite beach shack...they were tired little rug rats by the time we wandered back home.

Egg made the journey shoe-less as his beloved flip-flops went missing on the beach, and was only consoled by landing the privilege of being sole torch bearer in order to ensure he didn't squish his bare toes into any gooey cow pats.

Dumps was too busy muttering 'marshmallows...marshmallows' to notice what he was stepping in. Several days ago, knowing that the lack of a Toys R Us or equivalent was going to somewhat hamper the quality (and quantity) of gift-giving this year, I suggested that we have a family campfire on Christmas Eve and roast marshmallows. They went for it big time and the husband valiantly whipped up a campfire a boy scout would have been proud of, in just a matter of minutes. Okay, so he used some petrol from his bike to get things started - but still - if left to my own devices I would have had the children holding marshmallows on forks over our two ring gas hob.

I think we did a fairly good job this year, all things considered. The boys have bulging 'santa sacks' filled to the brim with sweets and little toys (all of which will break within minutes but hey that's not my problem) and a few little presents each. Based on how spoiled they were last year, I reckon it will be just enough to keep their attention before they launch themselves onto a stratospheric sugar high from all of those Indian additives and preservatives.

Our local town has a little shop where we procured a tiny plastic christmas tree for the boys the other day. It's so small it's comical, and perched atop an old plastic chair, it's certainly not going to win any awards in Home & Garden. Their bedroom is bathed in a magical hue thanks to the little blue fairy lights which must go some way towards compensating for what must undoubtedly be a sandy bed ce soir, and our kitchen/living area is festooned with red tube lighting, making our home feel like the inside of a psychedelic hindu temple.

Tomorrow we will be breakfasting on the beach with fresh fruit salad, banana porridge and cheese omelettes. If we were back home it would be homemade blueberry pancakes drenched in maple syrup, fresh whipped cream and strawberries, copious amounts of champagne and orange juice, and toasted cheese croissants.

Instead of warming up to a fire in the hearth after a long walk on the Common, we'll be baking in the hot sun, sipping fresh lime sodas like they're going out of fashion, and diving into the Arabian Sea to cool off.

Later, for Christmas dinner, instead of roast potatoes, homemade mince pies and a cheese board, we're heading to a Reggae Barbeque Feast at a local hotel which boasts the only swimming pool in the area. The husband will once again get to flex his dj muscles there and we'll spend a no doubt lovely day mingling and giggling with loads of our friends - both old and new.

For lo and behold, Christmas wishes do come true. After several abortive attempts it appears that our friend DID get his visa at the last possible moment and is currently squished into a seat in a big Air India jumbo jet hurtling his way east towards us now as we speak. Our other friend sadly won't arrive till Boxing Day, but I'm betting that some major chilling out, a few Kingfishers and his first swim should put paid to any lingering hostility towards the Visa granting officials. Grrrrr...

As for me, I've now got to re-fill the santa sacks, place the six presents around the tree for the monsters and hope neither of them get up for a wee break in the middle of the night and ruin the surprise.

And I've also got to empty the plate of treats Dumpie left out for Santa (two marshmallows, some assorted broken cookie pieces and some dried up raisins and cornflakes), and steal away the sweet letter Eggs wrote to Santa.

Then this tired elf is going to bed...visions of champagne and cheeseboards dancing in her head (...seriously)...

"The Holiday Curse?"

2010-12-23T11:41:00.001Z

It would seem that the husband and I appear to be cursed at the moment. Three different sets of friends have been planning to fly out and join us for Christmas festivities, but EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM have been beset by the most unbelievably bad luck and currently have their exotic festive holidays stuck in the no man's land of Indian Bureaucracy.

And it's not like you can even blame the 'Great British Freeze of 2010' (as it will no doubt go down in history) or the third-world-esque conditions of the formerly mighty Heathrow.

No, it's plain and simple Indian Bureaucracy from the sounds of it. One friend submitted the requisite photos needed for the visa application, as did his girlfriend. They were procured from the same photo place, and indeed the only thing different were their respective mugs, but his was accepted and hers was rejected!

Another friend has also had his visa application curiously rejected today (he was due to fly in the next 24 hours), after having submitted it three weeks ago through a specialist visa service!

And our other mate was due to arrive a few weeks ago but had to rebook his trip for the end of the month due to...you got it...visa problems.

What's going on? Are we bad luck? Why do the official powers that be want us to be alone this year?It's starting to feel a bit like 'Lost', only we're not stuck on an island but rather the Indian subcontinent. And it's not like we can't leave - only no one can come to us!

And that kind of sucks. For this year the focus was going to be less about the 'presents' and more about the 'presence' (of our good mates).

Here's hoping they make it. All of them. And that we're not REALLY cursed. Because that would really suck for all our friends and family. Besides - it's pretty hard to believe we're cursed when we're currently residing in one of the Top Ten Destination Spots (according to a recent Guardian online poll) for Christmas 2010...

"A Family That Parties Together..."

2010-12-22T11:47:00.002Z

Last night we did something that many families across the world indulge in around this time of year...we attended Dumpie's Kindergarten Christmas Party.

Of course this being Goa, it was less lukewarm canapes and £5 bottles of plonk, and more watermelon juice, Kings beer and veg thali's accompanied by little clay pots filled with curd. The husband even played a rousing duet of Jingle Bells with Dumpies guitar wielding kindergarten teacher as 'Santa Clause' (a huge tanned Spaniard) lumbered into the restaurant trying to escape the swarm of greedy little munchkins clustered at his feet demanding their presents.

I was none too surprised to discover that Dumpie was leading the charge and subsequently secured himself a front row standing room only place for the handing out of loot. Upon receiving his present he calmly ripped it open, revealing a cheap plastic taxi car whose roof rack busted within the first few minutes. (What do you expect when there are only three little toy stores in town, all with the same cheap plastic garbage, and you have a proviso of 100 Rupees per gift...basically £1.50!)

Despite my best 'vroom-vroom' sounds and energetic manhandling of said plastic junk, he was none too impressed with his little gift and spent the remainder of the party hunting for the now departed Santa in order to trade his gift for a better one. (Ah, if only that were allowed, no doubt there would be a queue longer than the boxing day one outside Selfridges, comprised of disgruntled housewives clamouring to exchange power tools, ill-fitting lingerie and Paris Hilton perfume...)

The husband made himself fairly scarce throughout most of the night, choosing instead to chat to the most interesting person in the room. No, not a fellow parent, but rather the somewhat elderly dutch dj of somewhat indeterminate sex, puffing away on a suspicious looking homemade cigarette...Apparently he/she owns 11,000 odd pieces of vinyl, has lived here in Goa for the past seven years and never made it home last night (this last little tidbit gleaned when seeing her/him ride by on a scooter this morning in the same bright blue t-shirt)

Fair enough. I suck at small talk and so was doing my best to keep myself to myself, whilst monitoring the dessert table where Dumpie once again stood in prime position, waiting to get his grubby little paws on the first slices of the chocolate cake. He was welcome to it. I know from experience (and a tiny bite was conclusive) that Goans just don't 'do' good baked goods. It was an eggy, bland creation which looked like is should have been oozing with dark chocolate goodness and instead left me mildly gagging and Dumps spitting up his remains onto my Havaianas underneath the table.

Aside from the general chaos resulting from a plethora of wild haired, sandy children running around tables and occasionally escaping outside onto the sand in a 'Lord of the Flies-esque' formation, it was a fairly moderate affair. Even the sight of two progressive nursing mothers (their children easily able to talk, walk, and probably do beginners calculus) failed to elicit any real interest from my roving eyes.

Ho ho ho...

"Mummy Giveth...and Mummy Taketh Away"

2010-12-14T07:56:00.001Z

So 'Sprinkle' the kitten is no longer with us. No, we did not kill it. (Though had we continued to 'foster' it for even a few more days that would have been fairly likely I imagine).

After cradling it for four hours in my t-shirt yesterday morning, stroking its little head with my index finger, and risking incontinence just because I didn't want to disturb its slumber...I was somehow able - despite the great emotional attachment - to hand it over to a stranger on the beach last night.

Now in all fairness, this stranger does volunteer at a local animal welfare place, but she also confessed that there was no way she was going to stay up all night and feed it milk every two hours through an eyedropper. She made it clear that her three dogs took priority and that the best she could do was put it safely in another room till morning.

The husband looked hesitant, Egg looked distraught, and Dumpie kept repeating, "Why that lady take our puppy?" (Poor Dumps never got over the sudden 180 on the 'species switcheroo'.)

Being the voice of reason, and not wanting dear Sprinkles to die on my watch, I handed over the box resolutely and said, "No here - you take it. It's better." Then I marched off down the beach, Egg's hand in mine, trying to explain why we had to give his first 'pet' away, whilst simultaneously trying to decide upon which beach restaurant we should inflict ourselves for dinner.

It didn't go over well. Poor Egg is still upset and bless his little heart this morning he took himself off privately to write Sprinkles a little letter begging him to come home. Reading it brought tears to my eyes and I got a little catch in my throat.

The only thing for it is to distract him with thoughts of inventing. The husband recently got a miniature lab coat made up for him in town, which Egg wears when he's 'off-duty' at home. He has even made a sign on his bedroom door which says, "Inventor Eggie".

I bet that right about now Egg is wishing he could invent a new mother. One who didn't insist on the husband bringing a tiny UNIDENTIFIED infant animal home to nurse, only to casually give it away to a lady on a beach 48 hours later.

Hmmm...it's going to take an awful lot of Maaza's to make up for this one (sigh).

"I Think I Smell A Pussy Cat"

2010-12-13T08:34:00.000Z

"Change your blog post" the husband advised, upon finding out that it was a kitten not a puppy we had rescued last night.

"No," I stubbornly said. "Besides, I'm still not convinced it's a cat."

A mate dropped by today and raised his eyebrows when we showed him our 'puppy', declaring, "You know that's a cat right?" Gulp. No. We did not.

Okay, so it turns out that we are in possession of a newborn kitty-cat - not puppy as we formerly thought.

(Mind you, the jury is still technically out on that one for me, given the gargantuan size of its 'paws'...but I digress.)

This morning I was greeted by an email from my sister saying, "Are you sure it's not a rodent you've rescued and are sharing your bed with?" She was doubtful given the fact that we'd had to Google in order to suss out exactly which gene pool our new pet hailed from.

In fact the husband confessed last night to also waking up and double checking that we hadn't just begun nursing a newborn rat (you should see its tail).

Anyway, I'm kind of glad it's a kitten because there is no way I could give up a puppy. I am after all, a dog person. And the husband is a cat person. Which might explain why he was up several times throughout the night, feeding the little thing through a straw and stroking it to sleep, while I, with the best intentions in the world, could do little more than gaze on through sleep deprived eyes, my only task being official 'light switcher-on person'.

Now it all makes sense. Inherently I must have known that it was of the feline variety, and vice versa the husband.

But don't get me wrong. I have spent the entire morning with this little ball of mewling fluff wrapped in my all saints cardigan, stroking its tiny head and rocking it to sleep.

Nonetheless, the case remains that as a 'dog person', I am not willing to take on any more dependents at present - especially the aloof, non-licking, non-wagging-of-the-tail variety.

(But it's still darn cute. Check it out this morning as the husband gave our 'puppy' a bath in our pasta pot. Priceless.)

"The World's Tiniest Puppy...Or The Case Of The Criminally Cute Critter"

2010-12-12T17:29:00.000Z

The husband and I are on our bed, gazing in wonderment at the tiniest of tiny newborn pups, swaddled in our old bedclothes.

What is a newborn puppy doing in our bed you might ask?

Good question.

On the way home from dinner on the beach tonight, the husband stopped when he heard this faint sound of mewling by the side of the road. He bent down and scooped up a tiny abandoned newborn puppy (hey, this is India after all.)

It immediately stopped crying and I pointed out the obvious.

"We have to take it home you know."

"What about its mother?"

"Do you see any other pups about? It's obviously been abandoned and if we leave it here it won't make it through the night - not with so many hungry predators about."

He sighed, knowing I was right. Egg and Dumpie piped up chanting, "We want a pet please can we have a pet we've never had a pet pleeeeeeaaaaaaaase Mama Dada pleeeeeeaaaaaase?!"

So you see, what could we do?

As we trudged home, the husband delicately cradling this miniscule new life in his palms, he gently stroked it and muttered, "I've always liked cats better than dogs anyway."

It sure didn't seem like a kitten to me, but then who was i to argue? It was dark and he was at least consenting to bring it home with us, so I kept my mouth shut. And, assuming it survived the next crucial few weeks, it would provide two adoring boys with a darling pet until we leave India.

Once home we heated up a milk and water combination, made sure it wasn't too hot, then proceeded to feed it droplets of liquid through a straw...mostly unsuccessfully, but some made it in.

Having looked up some information on Google, the husband has ascertained that it is indeed from the canine genetic pool and not feline as he had suspected/hoped. Oh yeah, and he's discovered that it needs to be fed every 2-3 hours.

Oh no. We've gone through this twice before with the monsters and night feeds consisted of one of us grabbing the baby, latching him onto me and falling promptly back asleep. Somehow I don't see this working the same way.

What have we gotten ourselves into?? Currently it is 'feeding' then napping for twenty minutes then crying, then feeding, then napping for twenty minutes, then.....(get the picture?!)

All I can say is its lucky it's so darn cute. Criminally cute. Off the richter scale cute. Seriously. Will that be enough to ensure that the sleep deprived husband and I manage to pry our exhausted selves out of bed ad infinitum through the night? I'd like to think so but...

Stay tuned...

"Sending Out An S.O.S....Husband Come Home!"

2010-12-10T04:22:00.003Z

The countdown is on...the husband comes back today. This past week's experiment 'solo parenting' the monsters has felt like the looooongest week in personal history.

(The week I was overdue waiting to birth the Dumps felt shorter.)

Indeed, I am heralding the husbands return with as much excitement as I would Santa Claus (if indeed he were real), or a six hour carte blanche shopping spree binge-a-thon at Selfridges. I kid you not.

I got the phone call yesterday afternoon. The motorcycle had broken down about four or so hours south of here. Something about a battery. (I wasn't really listening...merely absorbing the fact that I'd be alone yet another night, and had ANOTHER nightmarish dinner to survive and yet ANOTHER bedtime ritual to complete on my own.)

Dumpies kindergarten teacher suggested that he may just be dealing with a surge of testosterone these days, or in need of an outlet to vent. To that end we have been 'loaned indefinitely' the school's little Mickey Mouse punching bag.

He loves it. He makes me stand there holding it aloft several times a day while he jabs and gives it a right, a left, a quick right and then two sharp lefts. The boy is a natural. Should I be scared?

Meanwhile he's holding me hostage over dinner each night. The deal is, Dumpie gets a milkshake for dessert if he finishes his dinner and doesn't cause trouble. Of course this has meant that he's taken to burying his expensive freshly made fish fingers in the sand (much like I found him burying his 'toilet' in the front yard the other day using his sand shovel and sporting a cheeky grin - explaining that he just 'felt' like doing it outside...nice), and continuing to terrorise Egg for a go on his Nintendo DSi.

I am sick of breaking up sand throwing fights, stick warfare and water bottle tippage for laughs. I am sick of being followed home by a chanting four year old, "Silly Mama stupid Mama...etc." while the local Indians look on with mirth - no doubt finding my rebellious, defiant, very naughty child the most fun they can have without watching telly.

I am sick of it taking 2+ hours to get Dumpie dressed in the morning, only to have whatever I've managed to get him wrangled in, lassoed into the bathroom courtesy of his 'light saver' and into the dirty toilet - rendering it good for nothing but the laundry bag.

I am sick of nightly chasing Dumpie up and down the beach after dark (his beloved birthday torch is STILL around believe it or not, but out of batteries due to almost constant use), stepping on cow droppings and utterly self-conscious in front of rows of assembled diners under the stars.

I am sick of having to pick out discoloured bits of wheat in Dumpie's porridge because they do not make the grade, whilst he stands over me with his toilet brush night stick, tapping me on the wrists if I do not do it fast enough. And at the end of it all he is just as likely as not, to tip the whole mess over the side where it will be fought over by stray dogs and vicious crows, while Dumpie demands, "Toast and jam Mama!"

Can you tell I've nearly lost it?? It's so bad that Dumpie's teacher the other day gazed at me with great compassion and kindly asked, "Are you doing okay?"

Am I doing ok? Ummmm....no. I most definitely am not.

What lessons have I learned this week?

1. Don't give in to a terrorists demands...however tempted you may be. Chocolate milkshakes are just the beginning.

2. Running up and down the beach after a startlingly fast little runner may be good for the heart but bad for the self-esteem. Make sure you are not wearing flimsy bandeau at the time. Not a good look.

3. If you suspect you have spawned an uber-naughty child and find yourself 'between relationships', do something about it now. It takes two to tango with a 'challenging' child. One to be on the front line whilst the other self medicates with a cocktail or a massage. Trust me.

Bring on the husband....

"Down in the Dumps"

2010-12-06T04:42:00.000Z

This morning, trying to get Dumpie dressed for kindergarten, was akin to trying to rope a headstrong rodeo bull.

Shielding all vital organs, I grasped his giggling, wriggling form whilst attempting to reach over and manoever a t-shirt over his thrashing head.

He got away, grabbed his most recent version of a 'light saver' (the remains of a discarded toilet brush found in a junk pile near the beach a week ago) and went hurtling out the open door into the yard - gleeful and victorious.

This went on for the better part of half an hour until I managed to sneak up on him, grab him from behind and wrestle a shirt on. A pointless endeavour as it turns out, for moments later he had undressed and stood laughing in the corner as he whipped the shirt across the room, overcome with mirth. What fun.

Dumpie's N.F. ('Naughty Factor') has risen to an uncomfortable 10/10 I miserably told the husband when we spoke last night on the phone. I think Dumps is taking advantage of his Dada's absence by seeing how far he can push his Mama over the edge. So far it's Dumps 8 and Mama nil.

Every time we go to the beach, I spend a good portion of the time depositing Egg somewhere and begging him to stay put while I chase his little brother up and down the sand, trying to catch the little scamp whilst inadvertently putting on a show for tourists eating at the beach shacks. As I am not wearing a high cut sexy red bathing suit at the time, and at any rate do not possess the assets needed to shift the scene into anything resembling an R-rated mode, I imagine the image is less 'Baywatch' and more 'World's Mummies Gone Mad'.

I really have no recourse but to hold on for a few more days until the husband returns from his motorcycle odyssey - hopefully refreshed, revitalised, and ready to deal with his second-born son who is clearly in method acting training for a role in the upcoming remake of the exorcist.

Might As Well Face It You're Addicted To...Umm...The Internet?!

2010-12-04T10:26:00.000Z

Okay, okay...guilty. I've been absent from not only my blog, but various bits of my life as well these past few weeks.

I've received some emails asking where the heck I've been, and I started wondering why it is that I never seem to have a spare moment to sit down and write anymore.

Two reasons (in no particular order):

1. Brand-spanking new Internet Connection recently installed in our Goan village home...ah let's see...around two weeks ago

2. Dumpie. Nuff said.

First off, the husband and I have had to admit to ourselves that we're internet addicts. Hardcore ones. We had a connection in Bali of course, but it was intermittent at best and we had to log on each time, frugal with our usage as we were getting billed by the minute.

Now however, with all the worlds information at our fingertips 24/7 (!) once again, it has come to our attention that we have a BIG problem. We just can't stay off it!

Whether it's emails, facebook, myspace, news sites, downloads, skype, ichat, youtube or whatever, there's always just 'one more thing' we need to click on, and before you know it, whole hours have passed with the husband and I staring intently at our laptop screens, barely acknowledging each other except by email (I kid you not).

So...going to have to work on that one. After all, there is something inherently ridiculous about living the simple life, dressed in little more than a bikini and sarong everyday, yet manically browsing my favourite online fashion stores for clothes I'll never buy, simply because I'm in need of a fashion fix.

The internet is like crack. (Note to self: "SORT YOURSELF OUT SELF! GET OUTSIDE, FROLIC IN SOME WAVES AND STEP AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER... NOW!")

The other 'problem' (is it wrong to refer to your second born son as a 'problem'?) is Dumpie. (Hmmm...one to bring up at the next weekly parenting course...which fyi really exists and the husband and I - much to our amusement - actually attend...more on that some other time.)

I liken my darling four year old son to a character in 'Lord of the Rings'. He is growing in power and strength daily, and I am finding it increasingly difficult to win even a fraction of the daily battles we have over...pretty much everything. He is clever, manipulative, strong, fast, and cunning. First thing in the morning before we've even awoken, it is common to come to and find him beating the husband and I about the head with a big pillow demanding we 'wake up and get out of bed'...even if it's still dark outside.

Nightly it's a constant battle to first get him ready for bed (coercing him into the shower, then chasing him down - often half naked - through the yard in the pitch dark following the light of his little torch) and then of course KEEPING him in bed long after Egg has fallen asleep.

He thinks nothing of terrorising fellow diners in restaurants, and just this morning I had to physically carry him away from his perch atop a nearby chair where he was heckling an Israeli man for having pakora for breakfast and eating too quickly.

I then found him minutes later chastising our waiter for being a 'bad boy' and not bringing his banana lassi fast enough. I died.

Can anyone out there tell me whether there is such a thing as the 'Filthy Fours?' I don't know what it is these days but the husband and I are being run ragged by the adorable but uber-naughty Dumps. He is well known in the area...local waiters greet him by name, and often scoop him up for a cuddle as he walks by, before dropping him to the ground as he whacks them on the side of the head with his little light sabre and wriggles out of their grasp.

At any rate, in the spirit of camaraderie, I have insisted that the husband take off on a much-needed road trip for a few days. There is no point the both of us suffering, and hopefully he'll come back with strength and determination anew.

Besides, I like a good challenge, and surviving alone with two little boys, no help and no husband for the time being will show me what i'm made of.

I shall not be sharing my revelations with you. (Nor, does it seem, should I be returning to the parenting course to learn further ways to 'reason' with my children and pacify them using soft words and gentle little tricks. The money would be better spent on an extra round of Kingfishers at dinner each night...in my humble opinion.)

"Happy Birthday Mr. Dumpie!"

2010-11-16T16:48:00.004Z

I can't believe that four years ago today...in the middle of the night...I gave birth on our bathroom floor (sisters looking on in horror)...and Dumpie was the result.

Ah, I recall it fondly...

My sisters had made the mistake of picking up the phone when the husband rang in the early hours of the morning. Wandering over in their pj's from where they lived a few doors down, they had been promptly ushered into the bathroom to 'deal' with me whilst the husband busied himself in the kitchen, rustling up tea for the novice midwife. In retrospect, perhaps rustling up a tea party in the kitchen whilst I lay beached in the bathtub moaning that i wanted to die, was perhaps not the best use of his time...but I digress...

The poor girls. All they'd signed up for was babysitting duty for Egg - not accidental birthing partners. Nonetheless, they were present for the whole shebang, and secretly I suspect that their reluctance to spawn up until now may have in some way been a result of witnessing firsthand the horrors of live birth sans ANY pain relief.

And then of course moments after a push or two (my mum on speakerphone across the ocean) the husband cried out incredulously 'It's a BOY!" shocking all of us - especially me - who had been certain a little girl was on the cards.

Now four years on I can honestly say that I wouldn't trade 'The Dumps' for even the sweetest, most darling girl in the world. I really wouldn't. (And that despite me having the most divine accoutrements to hand on to a daughter...what a waste!)

No, once you've spent some time in Dumpie's universe, you realise that he's a one-of-a-kind force of nature...a charmer...a scamp...a clown...a total and utter delight...and well - pure comedy from morning til night. Since Dumps has come into our lives my scowl to smile ratio has gone off the scale. Everyday is an adventure waiting to happen, and whether it borders on horrendous or hilarious is pretty much luck of the draw. But I wouldn't have it - or HIM - any other way.

(NOTE: Please consider these sentiments null and void if, in the coming years, Dumpie manages to do any/all of the following: sets fire to our home, impregnates one of his classmates, kills a family pet, runs us into bankruptcy due to abuse of premium number lines, submerges my laptop into the bathtub, etc.)

My father teasingly tells me that Dumpie is his revenge on me after all I put him through growing up. And he may be right. For Dumpie is a carbon copy of my father in so many ways. Whether it's his rogue-like wink of "Hey Lookin' Gookin'", his naughty smile when he knows he's just done something utterly horrid but sees I'm trying to keep from breaking out in laughter, or whether it's the confident way he meanders through life, charming all he meets...they share the same soul - of that I'm sure.

Today Dumpie celebrated his fourth birthday with not one but two birthday cakes. The first was for his kindergarten class of thirty. Let me just say that again. THIRTY!! Have you ever tried wrapping a 'pass the parcel' gift with THIRTY layers of toys and treats?! Not fun. It gets bloody big by the end of it I'll tell you.

Despite burning the skin off one finger while lighting the twenty odd candles (Dumpie likes to blow things out), the party was deemed a success.

Party Number Two consisted of Dumps opening 14 birthday presents, all wrapped up in gaudy silver and green foiled paper, later that day before dinner. Pressie highlights included:

*his own torch (runs on three AA batteries...will likely be left at a restaurant and never seen again)
*a hula hoop (don't ask - was all the rage in the Gilli Islands a few months back)
*a 'light and sound' army rifle (husband abhors it but Dumps adores it - our neighbours not so much)
*Ben-10 Action Figure with sounds (from big brother Egg...in retrospect not ideal to bring to candle-lit restaurant...a tad disruptive)
*Lego 'Indian Stylee' (ie. looks like Lego but pieces probably won't fit together and will be lost within a fortnight is my bet)
*Ben-10 t-shirt (already stained with Baskin Robbins Bavarian Chocolate Ice Cream)
*giant coloured chalk (with which to decorate his walls with his own particular brand of graffiti)

Of course no birthday would be complete without the presence of 'Sandkelp' - Dumpie's 13 year old best friend from next door. He came bounding in with a present of sand toys and a big grin. Dumps gave him some chocolate birthday cake but then made him clean up all his toys and transport all his loot to the bedroom. Luckily Sandkelp adores Dumpie and has a very obliging nature.

Dumpie insisted on carrying out his own birthday cake whilst singing Happy Birthday to himself - and who were we to argue? Despite a near miss when his fine little locks almost caught fire, he did an admirable job. And if you discount the fact that he insisted on opening every single present - even the few we got for Egg (who was greatly suffering from birthday envy to the extent that we invented a 'Birthday Brother' role which garnered him a few presents himself), he was on fairly good behaviour.

For a day which started with me chasing him from the landlady's house where he was yelling Sandkelp awake with cries of 'You've got a stinky bum bum!" to now, where he lies curled up with Eggie in bed next door, clutching his teddy and glow in the dark light sabres, looking like butter wouldn't melt...

I for one am glad the day is over. It was fun, but I'm good for another year thanks. Birthdays are exhausting.

Now I've just got bloody Christmas to worry about...

"The Beer Vs Bikini Conundrum"

2010-11-07T07:51:00.003Z

Isn't it funny how beer ads and commercials often feature at least one bikini-clad babe prancing around with a bottle suggestively clasped in hand, laughing and joking around with her mates on a beach somewhere? Well if anyone stopped to think about it, they'd realise how ridiculous that notion is. Yep, young people are always gathering for parties with their friends, drinking beer and frolicking about...but I guarantee there will not be a bevy of size 0 beauties prancing about with concave, 'Victoria's Secret' tummies and putting away several bottles in a session.

Why?

Simple. Beer makes you fat. It gives you a beer belly. It is notorious for filling up your tummy with empty calories and air and has no nutritional value whatsoever. So....

A more realistic representation of beer commercials would be a bunch of overweight dudes sitting about with their pudgy, beer-loving, muffin-topped girlfriends, chomping on crisps and asking their mates to toss another one over (being too lazy to get up and get one themselves). There would be little if any frisbee playing and less flirtatious looks and more burping. Yuck.

So it is with all this in mind that I was rather relieved to put an abrupt halt to my short-lived but not insignificant beer drinking career. You see, a long-timer here in Goa informed me a few days ago that my beloved Kingfisher Beer is made with glycerine and that if you open a bottle under water, keeping your thumb firmly pressed against the opening, it is possible to see the globules of glycerine float in revolting liquified dollops to the top. Eeeeew!

That's all I needed to hear. After all, I became a vegetarian for almost equally off-putting scenarios which I was never able to fully exorcise from my mind.

And so the beer drinking curse has been lifted. I now order fresh lime soda's and water with my meals and have lost all in interest in beer. Which is good I suppose, as 90% of the coming months will be spent in a bikini and given the choice I'd prefer not advertise my love of Kingfisher beer by posting a free advertisement on my waistline.

The other benefit I suppose is that when I go to pick up Dumpie from kindergarten in future, it is likely that he will have made me a little bowl or a picture frame - and not (as happened last week) proudly be displaying the 'beer opener' he made for Dada and I at craft time (oh dear).

Of course, the lack of beer means that I will have nothing to wash down the deliciously spicy 'Masala Papads' with, and more importantly, have no means with which to take 'the edge off' when the monsters start throwing sand or chasing each other around the table at mealtimes.

Instead I suppose I'll have to glean comfort from my rather flatter belly and try and not stare longingly across the table at the husband who shall be imbibing with a knowing smirk on his face...wondering when I'll cave in.