Ode to my Ma and Pa

Well once again i've let my blogs lapse. Indicative of the state of play round here these days. Today I ran around like a crazy woman trying to get everything ready for Egg's 4th birthday tomorrow. Anyone who knows our family is aware of the (impossibly!) giant shoes I have to fill. For my three sisters and I, my mom made our birthdays the most magical, happy, incredible days of the year. In many respects it was better than even Christmas!

Now that i'm on the giving end of things, it makes me appreciate her even more, as I can't imagine how she ever found the time (or the impetus) for all the many little details which made the day so perfectly special.

The day would start with a breakfast tray of our favourite treat (croissants, yummy muffins, decadent pastry, etc.), a beautiful bloom in a vase, several cards (Hallmark owes her big time), and a few presents to start the day off right. The house would be decked out in colour-coded, themed extravagance, and you could bet that the birthday party later on would be the envy of all my school mates (a reason why my popularity was pretty much guaranteed throughout school years!).

I'd be fitted out with a new outfit to wear on the day - which as a fashionista-in-training was absolutely essential - and if the party happened to be of the slumber variety, you could bet that it would carry on for most of the night, with my parents not so much as making a peep.

The day would culminate in my Dad entering the room, making a dashing figure and having come straight from the operating room, probably not having slept properly in days, bearing a HUGE box and an even bigger smile. The game of 'money or what's in the box' would then commence and much hilarity would ensue as my friends would beg and scream for me to take the vast amounts of cash Dad was proffering in return for the contents of 'the box'. But of course, they didn't know Dad like i did. Year after year he would come up with the goods - buying us our dream present (whatever that might be) and filling the box with enough of our favourite candies and sweets to open a shop.

Anyway, it's midnight now and I must make a sharp detour from 'Memory Lane' as i'm shattered - having painstakingly baked 40 cupcakes (gourmet from scratch of course) for Egg to bring into his nursery tomorrow. It would have only been half that normally, but of course tomorrow just happens to be a combined nursery day (the first all year!) and ALL children are joining for the morning session, so I was gently told that i'd have to provide 40 of anything I wanted to bring (gulp).

I also have to be up early to whip up his favourite requested breakfast of homemade blueberry pancakes with maple syrup and fresh cream. Then i have to blow up about 50 balloons, wrap presents and decorate the terrace.

Oh yeah - and I stupidly have to finish 2/3 of his birthday cake. No, I couldn't go for a simple cake this year. Somehow in my baking mayhem this afternoon I decided that an incredibly complex 3 tiered buttercream and chocolate ganache cake would be just the ticket (sigh). What was i thinking?!

Anyway, expect pics tomorrow and a full run down. I shall drift off to sleep now reminiscing about being in labour with Egg four years ago today (in fact it was right about now that I was in the 'transition phase' and wanting to die. It was also right about now that a good friend of ours somehow managed to get onto the delivery ward and strolled casually right into the birthing room where I was festooned in a big birthing pool moaning as if i was being crucified.) Ah, the memories....

My Garden Gnomes

So 'the babies' (OK they're 18 months and nearly 4 years but they're still my babies) are outside, barefoot on the terrace in the early morning sun, getting filthy feet and no doubt continueing to uproot our expensive patio trees and shrubs. Pretty much everyday I go outside to find them looking like Calcutta street urchins (runny noses, plastered in dirt and whipping things over the black wrought iron rail), and inevitably I'll find some sad, dying plant uprooted and lying forlornly on the hot tiles of concrete, turning brown and about to pass over into the Great Big Garden in the Sky (sigh).

Now that we have outside space I can't imagine what we would have done in our old flat. Boys cannot be contained indoors....that much is absolutely certain. They now clamber onto our expensive black leather dining chairs, find the hidden terrace key high on the bookshelf behind the Jane Austen, and let themselves out without permission. It's not unusual to have them in the kitchen one minute, then hear a gleeful chuckle and turn around to a 'hiya' from Dumps as he's balancing on the white iron rails outside the kitchen window, gripping on with chubby little toes and grinning like a circus monkey.

Speaking of Dumps he has all but reverted to nonsense speak after early signs of talking and the only legible words he says are 'Dada' or 'Da' for his father, 'Baaaa' for Auntie Ba, and 'Boo' for book. He also says 'hiya' and 'bye', accompanied by a wave as he exits rooms, but thus far there is no sign of 'Mama', 'Ma' or anything remotely maternal issuing forth from his rosebud lips. Instead he speaks what i call 'Gobbledigook'.

This strange new language makes sense when accompanied by frustrated gestures, but to watch that tongue of his snap expertly in and out of his little mouth is truly a site to behold. The closest I can get to describing it is to refer to the Ethiopian character on South Park (an irreverent cartoon) and the clickety-clack noises he would make when speaking...it's pretty much like that.

Egg on the otherhand has begun to pepper his phrases with distinguished little flourishes like, 'indeed' and 'most certainly not', and instead of refusing outrightly he'll say, "Sorry, I'm afraid No. Thank you." (Oh my). He has also perfected the practice of staring solemnly at you while you explain why he may NOT do something, then upon the end of the lecture, calmly departing and doing it anyway. If there was such a thing as the 'Strong-Willed Olympics' then without a doubt these troublesome twosome would win (smiling adoringly throughout).

Well this will have to be a short one today as the boys have now trampled mud into our recently cleaned kitchen (the cleaning lady was here yesterday - evidenced not by our immaculate home but rather my emptier wallet). Additionally Dumps has just climbed up onto the back of a kitchen chair and has come crashing down in slow-motion backwards, gripping onto the back for dear life. Oh my. He must have a head of steel...what a resilient little fellow he is...my dear little cockroach. Luckily it's nothing that a little cuddle and a tasty treat can't fix :)

The Love Slug

I am not a morning person...i mean NOT at all. Anyone who knows me knows this. It's not that i'm lazy (goodness, i expend more energy these days before noon than i used to in an entire day of university) but just that I do not terribly enjoy the early hours of the day. (The exception to this of course was when Jay and I were cruising around India for seven months on a motorcycle - in which case mornings were my favourite...the whole glorious country just waking up, and the scent of fresh brewing tea, jasmine, spices, etc. was an invigorating and enchanting tonic and...oh I'd better just stop this daydreaming now as it's DEFINITELY not going to help things).
Anyway, as I was saying, mornings present a daily challenge for me. Being rudely wakened from a dream by a gooey kiss from a toddler is indeed one of lifes sweetnesses...and in fact is a rather NICE way to arise. The smell of freshly brewed dark Italian roasted coffee is also another way to entice me out of my bed. However, being molested by the 'Love Slug' is NOT particularly pleasant.

Lest you think this 'family blog' is about to get all pervy and inappropriate, let me assure you that the 'Love Slug' is not my partner of 18 years, but rather my son of 18 months (although sometimes the similarities between the two are shocking). No, we've recently coined Dumps the 'Love Slug' (that boy is collecting ridiculous nicknames at an alarming rate), as it best describes his morning ministrations. He'll climb into your bed, attach his body to yours and smother you in goo, slime, spittle, and whatever mucus is issuing via his nose, whilst groaning happily, kissing you and rubbing his little face all over yours. It really is hilarious (if you're the one watching) but rather dangerous if you're the recipient as he is not adverse to a little head banging as well. He'll lean back, look you naughtily in the eyes then free fall into your face...or your head...or other sensitive body parts...and if your reflexes are not up to par, YOU WILL GET HURT. This will go on for several minutes until you go running and screaming from bed, fly downstairs and make Dumpie his breakfast...(which I suppose is the whole point of the exercise).

Little Egg is looking more and more angelic in comparison. I won't deny that he was a naughty little toddler (aren't all little boys? No? They're not? Oh.....) but the frequency with which he would propogate disasters was a little more realistic. It was once or twice a week or at best. Dumpie on the other hand has now settled into a daily routine of disasters too numerous to recount. In fact, if you ever wonder why these blogs often have gaps of several days in between them it's because I'm too busy dealing with the nightmares to blog about them!

Seriously though, Egg is a darling, and rather excited about his imminent 4th birthday (two weeks and counting). Auntie Ba has ensured that she will be the star of the day by procuring the biggest, coolest 'digger and tracker' riding toy for him (he tried it in a store then sobbed for several days afterwards whenever he remembered how much he loved it and wanted it). Auntie Ba is also aware that he will keep this magical monstrosity of a toy for only the day or maybe a week if we're feeling generous, before we donate it to his nursery or a more suitable home than our beloved terrace!

Speaking of nursery, yesterday Egg went back to school for the first time after spring break, and my oh my was his entrance grand. As soon as I opened the door, no less than three girls ran up screaming, 'Jake! Jake! Jaaaaake!' and jumped up and down in excitement as he gazed up at me nonchalantly and then (competely ignoring them) sauntered over to his coat hook to hang up his jacket. We then went to the games room, put his little name tag on the attendance board, then I left as he was immediately swarmed by these self-same girls who enveloped him in a giant bear hug almost suffocating the poor boy. I don't think life is going to be too challenging for dear little Egg in this department, and I suspect his father will be green with envy at the ease with which he procures members of the opposite sex.

At any rate it's time to stop nattering on. Dumps has just walked in with soaked feet (he's been playing in our shower again), while my feet are once again stuck to the floor in a delightful concoction of orange juice and Shreddies. At least it's a beautiful day and I can take them to the park and let them run wild like the crazy little beasts they are.

You'll find me slunk down low on a wooden bench, dark shades on, with a double shot cappuccino in hand, daydreaming about motorcycling around India....don't disturb me.

It's the Little Things...

I find myself wondering this morning, what the sure signs of childcare neglect might be ....

a) discovering that your toddler is all but covered in nearly congealed 'Shreddies'

b) discovering your toddler is licking the pink candy-looking bit of the dishwasher tablet

c) discovering your toddler pouring the washing liquid and fabric softeners into an empty washing machine...

d) all of the above.

Hmmm...

Have decided that hiring an expensive cleaning lady to help out one day a week around here is akin to sitting cross-legged in the garden and systematically burning ten pound notes with a lighter. Nonetheless come she does, and although the most lovely woman you could meet (she's Brazilian, about my age and has the sweetest countenance), I do find myself cleaning for several hours BEFORE she comes, and a few hours after she leaves just to get this place into tip-top shape. And that's only one day a week! (Thursdays if anyone is interested, and fancies a visit where you're likely to be impressed and assume we have everything under control!).

Forget my passion for music and my delight in writing; cleaning is my raison d'etre these days. It is marvelous for making you forget about all your worries, gives immediate satisfaction, and even crinkly, hardened 'dishpan hands' aren't enough to erase the glow one feels when surveying a shining, SHINY toilet bowl. I've missed my calling! I could become cleaner to the stars...I could compete in cleaning olympics (if such a think existed), I could later become a judge on 'How Clean is Your House', and one day I could retire to rapturous applause in a room full cleaning ladies, after being presented with a pair of golden gloves or a cast-iron duster with my name on it.

Forgive my mad musings, but if you, a fairly intelligent and somewhat capable person found yourself spending MOST of your waking hours following two messy, naughty little boys around, scrubbing down toilet seats, wiping up crumbs, trying vainly to get out stains, and going through whole bottles of industrial strength cleaning fluids weekly, you too might find yourself regularly going a bit mad. It just never ends!

At least 5 times a day (three meals plus regular snacks) I find myself surveying a demolished kitchen, each time thinking it couldn't possibly be worse (ha!) and that's only one room! In the lounge more often than not I enter to find that the sofa pillows and blankets have all been supplanted in the middle of the room to provide a makeshift shelter for an ambivalent Bacon (courtesy of Egg), and that the grey sooty coals from the fireplace have been removed, crushed and sprinkled lovingly around all four corners of the lounge (and elsewhere in the house too!) thanks to Dumps. It's enough to make even the strongest cleaning lady cry. I kid you not.

Anyway, speaking of crying, Dumps has gotten wise to the fact that a few manufactured tears go a long way in parental manipulation, and often after a spat between the two boys, I'll hear the 'fake crying' before Dumps finds me wherever I am, dramatically clutching a body part, stretching out his hand, and demanding I come to the scene of the crime. He expects immediate punishment for Egg, and if not doled out gets very irate and refuses to 'kiss and make up' with his brother - and instead stands stubbornly in the corner, arms crossed and shaking his head angrily.

The shaking of the head is a new development and one we all find hilarious. Instead of saying 'No' he vehemently shakes his head to everything these days: bedtime, finish your dinner, get in the bath, you name it.

This behaviour is not to be confused with the sticking out of his tongue - a recent and now frequent display. The other day he fell off his change table and that afternoon we noticed that he had his big fat pink tongue hanging out of his mouth a fair bit. Coincidence?!. Whatever the case, he now knows it makes us laugh, so like the true clown he is, he can often be found grinning, tongue stuck out and making silly noises. (If this continues people are going to think he's not normal.)

Is this a sign of things to come? Probably....Will I ever regain my dignity? Unlikely....Is Dumpie now standing beside me with the smelliest nappy known to mankind? Abso-bloody-lutely.

Poetry In Motion

So I'm sitting here at my kitchen table, surveying the world at large through a big window which now faces our lovely, ENCLOSED terrace. After too many recent sunny days when I became aware that some of our neighbours were taking a more than appropriate interest in our goings-on, I decided (with too much fervor my husband would say) to get us some privacy.

And so with the same zeal normally reserved for a big West End shopping sale, I proceeded to order some bamboo screens and bully my husband into helping me put them up at the weekend. Job done, everyone agreed it was a good move, and now I can enjoy my morning cappucino without fear of inspiring lust (on a good day) or pity (on a normal day) from the youths who live in the building behind us.

Dumpie just shoved a loaf of bread into my lap, begging for his second breakfast of the day. (He's already polished off a giant bowl of banana-blueberry oatmeal, two glasses of mango smoothie, and is now angling for a stack of peanut-butter toast.) Poor Dumpie hasn't recovered from the emotional abuse levied by Egg a short while ago when he pushed Dumps off the sofa and wouldn't let him watch cartoons with him because he was 'dirty' (Ok Dumps did have dried oatmeal remnants stubbornly hanging off him from breakfast, but still...)

Having set the boys up at their mini kitchen table with a box of crayons and a huge pad of post it notes (don't ask - Egg LOVES the small square pieces of paper), Egg has resorted to his favourite arts and crafts hobby, which is scribbling like a madman on the post-it notes, then taping random pieces together and depositing the whole mess into a plain white envelope. Bless.

Yesterday we had a bit of excitement as Pest Control showed up to eradicate our mouse problem. Ok, so maybe it's not a full-blown problem, but we did spot a mouse dashing across the kitchen floor (URGHH!) two days in a row, so that qualifies as a national emergency in my book. Two hapless Asian lads turned up, for about five minutes, laid down a few traps, mumbled a bit of nonsense, and then promptly relieved us of a huge sum of money, with a promise to be back in a couple of weeks. Okey dokey then (sigh)...

I do wonder whether it is possible to live in this city and not come across a rodent. Apparently everyone in London is only ever a few feet away from a rat/mouse at any given time. That's a nice thought to start the day with. Give me bugs any day. Termites, cockroaches, spiders...it doesn't matter. As long as it doesn't 'scurry', have a tail, or beady eyes I can handle it.

Yesterday at Egg's nursery I noticed that the mean French lady (who got bigger than a person should humanly be able to expand unless they are having quadruplets) FINALLY gave birth...to a little baby girl. Hmmm. She also chopped her cleopatra bob into a close-shaven androgenous do and now resembles a flabby pensioner from behind. (Will I go to hell for mocking a new 'mommy'? Do i care?)

Anyway, I've got bigger fish to fry. Dumps STINKS and has to be changed and fumigated. Egg is taping up everything in site in the kitchen and my cappucino sits beside me getting cold. Will this be a good day? Maybe. Or maybe not. Perhaps I'll learn something about the world, develop a new friendship or prove instrumental in changing someones life.

Or maybe nothing will happen and I'll potter about picking up after the boys, mopping up the floor, doing the laundry, absentmindedly applying lipgloss and daydreaming (a la 'Walter Mitty') about a life not yet lived...one where I am not an overworked domestic slave, covered in crumbs, with too-long hair, too short a fuse, and dish-pan hands.

Waiting Room Blues

So this morning it was back to the stern but jovial Dr. Kahn, to see if Egg's Pee-Pee Problem had been cured by a weeks worth of sticky sweet orange antibiotic syrup. Nope. We waited in a crowded, stale, depressing waiting room for almost two hours this morning, only to discover that there was no sign of last weeks urine sample results.

Egg didn't mind too much as for the first hour there was a 4 year old girl named Olivia who spurred him on to chase her round the room and mess up the vast array of pamphlets by the door. I even minded them both while her mother gratefully conducted her appointment with Dr. Kahn in private and I tried to keep their combined shrieks down in order to minimize the dirty looks of the other patients.

When we had been there for just over an hour, Egg started to get bored...really bored...and began looking for amusing distractions. He found one...in the form of the slightly 'slow' receptionist who was packing about an extra 100 lbs and had doleful eyes and a crew cut. She and Egg began playing silly 'games' involving whispers, jerky hand movements and comedy faces. I ignored it at first, but after some time it became obvious that she had let her office duties fall by the wayside in favour of some very engaging childs play.

They began to get louder...and louder...until everyone was staring and Egg suddenly turned to me, bored, and said, "Mama, how much do you love me?" As this is a game we play, I answered, "More than this building" and Egg looked around and said, pointing to his receptionist playmate, "More than that BIG gwirl?"

I started to blush and tried to change the subject, but Egg's next question, as he directed his gaze around the room was even worse. He pointed to an obese young Asian man slumped in the far corner and asked, "Do you love me more than THAT big man?" At this point there was nothing to say as Egg had singled out the two most obviously overweight people in view to measure my motherly love, and everyone there watched me squirm in embarrassment.

Just when I though it couldn't get any worse, Egg thought for a moment, then asked loudly, "Mama, can we measure that lady and that man and see who is the biggest?" I kid you not. I rustled around frantically in my handbag for sweets or anything to distract Egg, but for once I was without anything. He asked again, louder and more determinedly, "MAMA, I WANT TO MEASURE THAT BIG GWIRL AND THAT MAN AND SEE WHO IS THE BIGGEST!"

Moments later we were called in to see the infamous Dr. Kahn who looked a bit worse for wear. Egg was prescribed more antiobiotics after the doctor failed to find the results from last weeks test. He was greatly annoyed with my innocent question about whether I might get a call with the results when they come in and was told in a very stern tone, "Young lady, I have over 3000 patients and I cannot possibly be expected to ring you. You must come and uncover the results yourself."

Okey dokey then. Time to find a new doctor.

"Pretty As A Princess"

Dumpie was 18 months old on Friday. He is going through the stage where he likes to carry his favourite possessions around the house with him. These currently comprise the following: a tiny brown bear named 'Lemmie Winks', a few Mr. Men books, pieces of my expensive blender, and random objects which fluctuate daily but may include sippie cups, an ill-gotten piece of chocolate, a sock or a toy hammer.

Given that Dumpie has now decided that he is too mature to crawl up the stairs and now insists on gingerly ascending in an adult-like manner, having his arms bulging with 'things' is a great cause of distress for me. What is also a distress is the ongoing 'picking' of beautiful blooms on our terrace. Because we cannot access the terrace from our kitchen, it is agonising to watch Dumps grab a cluster of daisies and gleefully throw them up in the air before going for another handful - knowing that it will take me at least 15 seconds to get out to him, and by then the lovely blooms will be much depleted (sigh). It doesn't help that we blew a small fortune at the garden centre last weekend and all for the destructive enjoyment of our youngest it seems.

The boys now have their own cd player and radio in their bedroom. I have decided that a little bedtime music wouldn't go amiss and might actually stop the occasional indignant bedtime screaming. I wasn't wrong. After bath has proven a good time for impromptu disco moves and grooves and both boys are quite happy to indulge. Dumps favours the metal 'fist-in-air' thrusts and is also partial to the odd twirl. Eggie however insists on his own rather peculiar donkey kicking, galloping, odd jerky moves (reminiscent of his father at many a university disco as i recall). This apparent lack of cool grooving on Egg's part is not yet dampened by peer mockery as it is still confined to non-public venues. In fact, he is utterly unaware of his lack of grace, and in his head he is probably John Travolta, for the other night as he lept about clumsily with glee he proclaimed (to a terribly amused Auntie Ba and I), "Look, I'm like a Princess!!"

Ummm. No you're not Egg. Goshhhhhhh....

Today it's a gloriously sunny Sunday and all feels well with the world. Of course I have not yet gotten out of bed, and as i sit here tip-tapping on my laptop, I am blissfully unaware of the holocaust which awaits me in the kitchen. (Jay earlier got up, poured two bowls of cereal and hot-footed it back to bed with two strong cappucino's).

From the screams, crashes and general din I can surmise that all hell has broken loose and it is very possible that Auntie Ba has had her dreams brought to a sudden, agonizing halt by two gate-crashing midgets bearing cheerios. Ho Hum.

Dr. Kahn and the 'Pee-Pee Problem'

About a week ago Egg developed a bit of a 'pee-pee problem' (those are of course HIS words, not mine). This has manifested into random, five-an-hour toilet visits, bothersome at home but lethal when out in public. Egg still holds real terror and fear over...wait for it...HAND DRYERS! They don't even have to be on; merely the thought of a hand dryer attached to a public restroom wall is enough to inspire real terror and dread in his little mind.
Therefore you can imagine Auntie Ba's dilemma when last week in Starbucks (having treated him to a smoothie there after nursery school) Egg suddenly jumped up, said he had to pee and tried to drag Auntie Ba outside to look for a bush on which he could drain his tiny bladder. Auntie Ba (the person least likely in the world to ever publicly, let alone condone such behavior) was horrified, and tried to get Egg to accompany her to the toilets. Egg began screaming and they attracted the attention of a severely anorexic young lady who got involved in trying to cajole my stubborn 3 1/2 year old into stepping inside the bathroom (even going so far as giving him a chocolate bar..which apparently SHE needed a million times more).

Eventually they had to race down the street toward home, Egg making clutching motions towards his groin and threatening to use the street if they didn't get there quickly enough. All this to say, that when he finally did get to the toilet at home, a mere drop came out and it was clear that something was amiss in his waterways and he should get to a doctor pronto.

After 24 hours of Jay and I freaking out that our son might be diabetic (he was after all exhibiting several of the symptoms) I took him into a local doctors office for an emergency appointment. I had two offices to choose from, and given that I had once observed a crazy black lady screaming for her prescription through the outdoor intercom of one, I went for the other as default.

After waiting for AGES in the aptly called 'waiting room', Egg and I were finally ushered into a shambolic but welcoming back office where an elderly Pakistani doctor asked Egg about his symptoms before making him pee in a cup and administering some homeopathic pills.

Five days later the pills had not worked so I took Egg back to Dr. Kahn, where Egg thoughtfully volunteered the information that his 'pee-pee problem' was down to the gingerbread that 'Dada' had recently bought him. Dr. Kahn was much amused and responded to Egg in a fashion that prompted Egg to moments later reflect aloud, 'Mama, doctors can sometimes be pretty funny, can't they?"

Dr. Kahn was much amused by the 'prognosis' and expressed amazement over our precocious little "Egg", clearly taken with him. Next thing I know the session ends up with the two of them in a big bear hug and clutching a prescription we saunter through the office, with Egg loudly proclaiming that Dr. Kahn has the 'best ever in the whole world' bathroom simply because the rather modest facilities are without a hand dryer. (I do wonder whether onlookers may have questioned what sort of a bathroom Egg uses at home in comparison...but oh well).

Anyway, Egg now has to take four doses a day of antibiotic orange syrup, and Dumpie is terribly jealous of this as he suspects Egg is getting sweeties which he is not. Therefore Dumpie has now reverted back to emptying the contents of the fridge on a whim, and at any given time it's not unusual to see my fresh goods scattered in a rage throughout the kitchen, or the fridge door propped open and a little chubby chicken perched on his tippy-toes on the salad crisper, reaching in vain for something higher up.

Given his voracious appetite, I do wonder how we are going to survive the boys' teenage years without one or both of us getting a second job. Already loaves of bread disappear in a day or two and I spend most of my days doling out foodstuffs to eager grubby, grasping hands. It's not unlike feeding animals at a zoo. Only the zoo is my beloved kitchen. And I am also the zookeeper. And of course I don't appear able to tame these naughty monkeys....

Green Thumbs

Hola People!
Yes, it's been ages since I've written, but if i told you what I've been caught up in you wouldn't believe me anyway, and indeed would think me a possible lunatic, so instead I'll just keep that to myself and continue on relaying the domestic trials and tribulations which make up my everyday.

Most recently, the big dilemma at home has been the advent of divine weather, and the subsequent refusal of the boys to stay inside and play...preferring instead to cavort on our outdoor terrace like feral children. Our ample terrace is just off the dining room and provides just enough of an enticement for Dumps (being one level up from ground) to continue with the 'heave-ho' antics he indulged in whilst in Florida....who needs a piddly balcony when you have a terrace at your disposal?

This week we have lost the following items to his good overhead right arm (sound familiar?): sippee cups, two balls, several stuffed animals, a spoon, a broom and some play-doh toys. In addition to gleefully hoisting domestic items over the rail (never to be recovered again given that they fall into a locked, closed area which does not belong to us, is rarely frequented, and requires keys to enter) Dumps is a rather fond perpetrator of flower annhilation.

The lovely purple blooms outside of our kitchen fell victim to the snatch n' grab sweaty palms of Dumpie this past week and are sadly much depleted. Meanwhile Egg has discovered some fun digging tools and has used them to joyfully uproot some of our lovely plants and desoil many small potted trees, while at the same time littering our terrace with mud, uprooted greenery and a few smashed ceramic pots (sigh).

Egg has also made friends with the waiter of the excellent Italian restaurant next door. He and Dumps have discovered several large glass ceiling windows outside which when opened, provide a perfect view into the restaurant kitchen, whistling chefs and endless possibilities. Egg and Dumps perch tippy-toed on the iron guard rails, and chat amicably (or if it is Dumps, scream and grunt) to the chefs in the hot kitchen, with whom they are forging new friendships. It is only a matter of time till a sock or a sippee cup falls from the 'sky' into a great big pot and a deep satisfying chortle is heard from above.

Right now Jay is researching our local garden center to see if they deliver. We are planning a 'family fun day out' (smell my sarcasm) to dispense with a decent amount of her Majesty's banknotes, in order to jazz up our terrace for the summer. Of course in a mere few days I expect it will be mere rubble - a graveyard for massacred greenery; but we all need our illusions and delusions and on this front i'll allow my idealistic hubby his.

And I won't even say 'I told you so". How's that for a good wife?

"Bye Dada!"

So Dumps said his first sentence this morning. Stood at the top of stairs alongside Eggie, he was waving off a lycra-clad 'Dada' in all his biking gear glory. Suddenly, out of nowhere, just as Jay was wheeling his bike out the door, we heard clear as anything, 'Bye Dada!' We couldn't believe it!
Of course he hasn't uttered a tangible word since, content instead to direct orders with gesticulation, grunts and nonsensical vowel pairings as par usual. We completely understand what he is saying, as in a charades-like fashion he impatiently repeats himself until we 'get it'...sometimes making us feel like 'slow' idiots with a lesser I.Q. whom he has to frequently indulge.

This afternoon he decided to partake of burning hot salsa with his tortilla chips, even though he would wince with disgust after every bite. It was as if he had to be included in the ritual of dip, munch, swallow and dip again, in order to enjoy the snack alongside we adults. Finally the inevitable happened, and Dumps puked spectacularly and spontaneously into longsuffering Auntie Ba's cupped hands (who gratefully took 'it' for the team in order to preserve my newly purchased and much-adored black luxury throw. We love you Auntie Ba.)

Eggie attempted to explain a string of naughty behaviours today by blaming it on my consistently doled out 'time-outs' . Apparently the more I discipline him the more he feels himself prone to naughtiness. Wonder if I should let 'Super Nanny' in on this little nugget of wisdom? Saying that, Egg did display a remarkably controlled temper upon finding his beloved stuffed bear Bacon stuffed deliberately in the toilet bowl (newly handwashed this week by 'Dada' after Egg declared him to be too stinky even for his accustomed nose). A guilty Dumps grinned proudly in response to his dirty deed being discovered, not a glimmer of remorse on his cherubic little face. Bacon did not look (or smell) pleased.

On a final note, little Egg has been suffering from nightmares as of late, and has now decided that saying not one goodnight prayer, but rather three "Dear Jesus'" is the key to keeping bad dreams at bay. Bless him.