"Hi-Ho Hi-Ho...It's Off To Stratford We Go..."

Ok so the Fair yesterday was a hit. An expensive affair to be sure. (How can they rob you like that for few minutes worth of amusement? Every time the boys went round on a ride I was thinking, "There goes a new Mac lipgloss....there goes a super grande caramel macchiato...there goes a glossy magazine..."etc.) Ah well, they had a great time and Dumpie came back with a giant plastic football which is almost as large as himself and which I'm currently trying to dodge as I write this (another broken vase anyone?)

I don't know if it was tiredness or not, but last night as I was getting them dressed after their bath, Dumps marched up to me and demanded, "Put 'Wink' away!" I beg your pardon??

"Put 'Wink' AWAY!!" he yelled at me, thrusting a nappie in my face and giving his little manhood a cursory wiggle for emphasis (in case I was too thick to catch on). Apparently he was done having a wee fiddle-dee-dee and wanted his miniature appendage removed from sight until further notice.

It seems everywhere I look there are boys, toys and 'Wink's'. The testosterone level is seriously out of whack in this home. Three strong-willed males, a plethora of dirty socks and pants, all sorts of useless, expensive tools and gadgets (mainly belonging to the biggest boy in this case) and very little regard for manners, decorum or the virtues of eating in a gentlemanly fashion. For some reason they all think it's okay to tip their cereal bowls up to their mouths and slurp out the remains of the sweet milky liquid, however much I try and nip that one in the bud. I've also caught Dumpie drinking grape juice straight from the carton on several occasions, though I think this is an act mainly grounded in rebellion because I insist on diluting their juice and he strongly objects.

Tomorrow we're renting a car and driving to Stratford-on-Avon to spend the night. Three of our very good friends (all bachelors and all very fond of naughty behavior) are spending the weekend there and sort of half-seriously invited us to join them. Well we are. Never one to swerve a social opportunity, the husband is under the illusion that we shall be able to combine a child-friendly short break with their heavily pub-based agenda one. I have a sneaking suspicion that we're just along for the ride and will be summararily tucked up in bed at a reasonable hour before he sneaks off for a night of debauchery with his mates like the alley-cat he is.

I'm bringing a book. And lots of chocolate.

Fairground Attraction

The husband has just tossed a twenty pound note onto the kitchen table, strongly suggesting by doing so, that a trip to the local fun fair on the common today might be a good idea. I have already caught Dumpie floating it in his breakfast cereal, so now the sopping note is drying in the fruit basket and I'm trying to get through my triple shot cappuccino.

Hmmm....a fun fair. Well if this were North America it would be a fairly organised affair, reasonable rides overseen by bored but harmless enough teenagers. This being inner London, however lovely a neighbourhood, you know it's only going to be shambolic. There will be not-so-covert 'dealers' pacing the grounds, looking for impressionable youth to rip off and sell some ground basil to...twelve year olds dressed as twenty-year olds, flaunting pre-pubescent wares to other eager youths or worse -forty-something 'Daddies'...rides that jerk, stop, spin and come to an end just as they're gaining momentum, and causing restless, disappointed children to scream for another round at five quid a go....you know, 'Fun, fun, fun..."

Nonetheless the boys have been 'good' so they deserve a treat I suppose. Although by 'good' I don't really mean 'good' I mean just not horrifically 'bad'. There have been no floods, drawing on walls with indelible marker or shoving each other down the stairs headfirst in quite some time. However there has been a fair bit of pilfering on the sweetie front, a broken vase full of daffodils yesterday, and a still missing dvd remote control that seems to have gone the way of some other past valuables...(ie. is languishing pointlessly in a landfill site somewhere, waiting to be bought up by the Chinese..)

Ah well, it's a new day and newly wired on caffeine, a huge burst of sunshine to entice me outdoors, a milky twenty pounds winking promisingly at me, and the promise of a road trip this weekend, life doesn't seem all that bad.

On the other hand, our tenants have just informed us of a mouse infestation, a dishwasher that needs replacing and a kitchen and bathroom which need to be replaced. Add to that my ever-painful mouth (which sadly doesn't prohibit me from ravishing mini easter creme eggs), falling house prices (our lovely home is now worth 20% less than when we purchased it at the height of property mania in 2007), and airline tickets back to Canada this summer currently costing more than the average used car.

Nevermind, my new resolve is to try and live each day as it comes. Therefore I shall not worry about: bikini season, mortgages, home renovations, upcoming surgeries, creditcard bills, encroaching middle age, or the fact that Dumpie has now taken to hiding bits of unwanted food morsels in various 'secret locations' around the house.

(Note the toast and raspberry jam found in utility cupboard above)...

This is my 190th post. It's amazing to me that i've had this many things to say. I wonder if you divided them into categories: the trivial...the really trivial...hardcore moaning...petty....pointless drivel....mildly amusing - where the bulk of my words would slot in? Ah you see, it's all perspective isn't it...

To me, Dumpie climbing fully-clothed into a bidet and trying to give himself a bath is 'mildly amusing' but to a businessman in say Buffalo who accidentally comes across my site while searching for some low-grade porn (let's not go there again), this stuff is 'really trivial' or perhaps 'pointless drivel'. (If my husband was allowed to have an opinion he'd slot the whole lot - plus most of my daily discourse - into 'hardcore moaning'...but then as stated before, by virtue of being wed to yours truly he ain't allowed to express any negativity about his wife outside a 5 mile circumference of our home...nixing cyberspace then.)

Dumpie is clearly immune from any sort of child/parental protocol. Today I accidentally swiped his knee whilst closing a cupboard door and he muttered (rather pissed off I might add), "Ouch that hurt!" and was actually sneering at me when he said it...sneering!

On another note, my mouth surgery has been reinstated. I was lost (in the NHS system) but apparently now I've been found. Hurrah. (I think.) They have offered to sedate me with a needle, but given my needle phobia I can't see that happening anytime soon (this from the girl whose phobia is so pronounced that when pregnant with Egg, the thought of an epidural sent me screaming towards towards the 'natural labour' ward - ha - little did i know).

Well, I'm off now. Have to get ready for our nightly fix of 'The Wire' - a realistic cops n' robbers show which we've recently gotten into the habit of watching from semi-prone positions on 'the world's most comfortable bed'. The whole series is on BBC2 nightly at 11:20pm and it's brilliant because a hefty dose of escapism centred around drugs, death and corruption is just what we need before resting our weary heads for the night to begin the whole rigamorole of child rearing and corporate prostitution for another day. Really.

"Deep in the Doldrums"

I haven't written for a few days as I've been in a rather strange mood. On paper (or rather over the internet) strange moods can often translate into something far more sinister than is intended. However lovely the thought of 'being sectioned' might seem sometimes (lie-ins, making paper doilies in a common room, medicated strolls through gardens followed by long periods of inactivity in a quiet, white room...with more medication...) it's not a very convenient time to lose the plot as it were. So i'm going to have to continue to 'hold it together' until such time as I can deal with all the overflow taking up valuable brain space.

As you may have gathered from my less-than-cheery tone, the hospital appointment for my mouth went as expected (ie. I was not miraculously cured of condition, i still need surgery, and furthermore was told, "No Natasha, sedation is not an option as we only give it to children". Lovely. To add insult to injury (who was it who said that to be reliant on cliches in writing is to be sadly devoid of creative thought?...or did I just make that up?...brilliant if I did, demonstrative of former point if I didn't) it appears as though I have in the past few days gotten 'lost in the system' and have been accidentally discharged from the NHS before even undertaking the procedure. (At least this is what a bored sounding 'Kiandra' on hospital reception informed me when I rang up - interrupting my distraught protestations to bid good-bye to a colleague before confirming that yes, I had indeed been accidentally discharged.)_

I suppose I shouldn't worry though as Kiandra has promised to try and remember to call the relevant department first thing on Monday morning and get me reinstated in the emergency operations queue...assuming she has a shift on Monday that is. So you see there is no need to worry about the raging infection deep in my gums, which could at any moment potentially become a threat by poisoning my bloodstream, thereby ending my life a wee bit sooner than was originally intended. Nope. Kiandra's on it so everything's fine.

This week has been terribly busy. As per usual, most of it has NOT been spent creatively fashioning works of genius (be that brilliant writing, new music, or 'throwing together' incredible looks from the expensive avalanche that is my clothes cupboard). No...instead I have had mop and broom semi-permanently molded to my un-manicured hands, chasing after three messy males who appear to have absolutely no regard for the fact that I am developing both 'dish pan' hands and a bad temper.

We had an estate agent scheduled to visit our home the other day to give us an estimate on rental income should we decide to 'tune in and drop out' of society later this year (ie. drag our lazy, self-indulgent selves to Goa for a creative sabbatical which will hopefully precipitate the production of great works of art from the husband and I and NOT turn us into permanent beach bums, causing a permanent aversion to steady employment and proving a fatal financial handicap).

I had been cleaning like a whirling dervish for three hours, and literally three minutes before the doorbell rang, Dumpie took his full bowl of disintegrated Shreddies and milk and naughtily called out, "Mamaaaa" to make sure I was watching as he tipped the entire sodding mess onto the newly mopped floor. C'est la vie.

This week also saw my firstborn experience social embarrassment on such a scale as to engender several big fat crocodile tears. We rolled up to school yesterday and saw a playground littered with rejects from a 'Benetton' ad. Yep, it was a 'non-uniform' day that we apparently not privy to. Unlike other non-uniform days, whereby there are always a smattering of children whose parents are too vague/self-obsessed/retarded to remember and thereby cause their children to weather out the day in the customary blue, grey and white - this time there was not A ONE who was not dressed in civilian clothes aside from little Egg. Not a one.

Anxiously I started quizzing nearby parents and was told that it had been a last-minute decision passed on from school to parents via the children. Ummm, is it just me or is it a wee bit irresponsible to entrust a four year old to pass on information like that when in all probability, the thought of an ice lolly or a hastily-arranged playdate in the park might take precedence in his already preoccupied young mind?

Of course I had to race back home, grab some clothes for him, then race back to the school, sweating profusely and mumbling apologies to both the class assistant and my despondent son, then go and meet some of the class mother's for a pre-arranged coffee morning at a local cafe wherein I had to spend the first ten minutes or so explaining to the table that I was not a negligent, lame mother - merely an uninformed one (sigh).

All's well that ends well I suppose (what harm another cliche eh?) and Egg is off school for two whole weeks now. Sadly, little Egg has also been rendered immobile by a flu bug and was up most of last night vomiting, moaning and feverish. He is claiming his brain 'hurts' and I feel like saying, "I totally get that Egg. Mine hurts a lot of the time too".

Like a typical male, the advent of a minor virus has brought about enough outward misery and sympathy inducing groans, that you might mistakenly assume he is on his deathbed. Moreover, he is under the impression that he has to let me know via thrice-hourly updates just how poorly he is feeling on a scale of one to ten and what the current likelihood is that he shall again 'throw-up' in the next few minutes.

Between Dumpie who has already this morning shouted gleefully, "Look Mama...Wee-weeeeee" as he stood legs apart, nappie-less but pajama-bottomed in front of the dishwasher and emptied his full bladder of the contents of about a litre and a half of apple juice, and Eggie who has initiated the newly scrubbed toilets by decorating them in 'throw-up' - this isn't looking like one of the best weeks on record.

If I know what's good for me I'll take advantage of the fact that all three boys are currently lying prone in various rooms around the house, and hightail it out of here with my current read ("The Believers' by Zoe Heller) and find a cafe...any cafe...to rest my weary bones and even wearier mind.

If I don't, there is a broom and mop with my name on it staring insolently at me from across the other side of the kitchen, and I just know that if I look down I shall see legs in desperate need a waxing so....I'm outta here.

"Doctor Drama"

Dumpie just came in from the terrace, wiping his mouth with a grimace and bearing a rotten strawberry and a plastic cup of ancient apple juice with at least a dozen dead ants floating in the bottom.  "Dumpie did you drink this?" I asked horrified.  "Yep.  Yuck."  

Yuck indeed.  It is a wonder that boy hasn't succumbed to something or another in the two short years he's been alive, seeing as he tastes first and asks questions later (except when it pertains to vegetables of course). He's just walked back in now, this time bearing a tiny plastic bowl of rotting melon, also rife with ants (but of the alive variety), and has handed the whole swarming mess over to me to dispose of...urghhh.

We were sooooo late to pick up Egg from school this afternoon because Dumpie had hidden my keys.  He does this a lot.  The worst thing about it is that we have the kind of front door that needs to be locked shut or it just swings wide open - so you can't even just chance leaving it unlocked and hope for the best.  Egg was not pleased about being the second last child to be collected, and therefore 'punished' me by careening down the dangerous sloped road on his little blue scooter at a million miles an hour as I frantically raced after him screaming.  Other mothers watched with open-mouthed horror, gasping with fear or perhaps disgust (it was hard to tell) as Egg hurtled toward oncoming traffic - only narrowly swerving in time to take a sharp left and avoid sudden death.  I HATE that slope - it's almost enough to make me want to change schools.

Tonight I have to go to a local hospital for a consultation for an upcoming surgery on my mouth.  Seems the root canal I paid an utter fortune for here in London several years ago has ultimately caused an abscess.   Talk about a dental waste: two root canals and a crown on the same bloody tooth which now has to be removed...and after all that pain and expense...how depressing.  Anyway, as it is my mouth, of course a simple extraction cannot be performed (assuming I was high enough to let my current dentist have a go), but rather demands a complicated surgery involving bone graft and all sorts.  

I am of course utterly devastated, quaking in fear and hoping against hope I'll go tonight and hear that it's all been a huge mistake and off I'll pop with a sugar-free lollipop in hand (for being such a good girl) and a tap on the bottom.  Okay maybe not a tap on the bottom...  

I just want to be one of those lucky ones who gets medically miraculous news and can't believe her luck as she skips gaily out of the doctors office and dispenses the full sum of all her loose change into the upturned hat of the first homeless person she passes and does a bit of 'Singing in the Rain' style click-clacking of heels as she boards the number 47 bus triumphantly....

This of course being real life, and not a technicolour Disney family movie, I suspect I shall have to endure a horrid, smelly bus ride in rush hour traffic, get hopelessly lost within the confusing hospital complex, show up panting and soaking wet, and then be examined by a disinterested specialist who had garlic for lunch.  I'll then hear the inevitable, fight back tears of dismay, and go outside to wait in the cold for a bus which will be so horrendously late that I'll be beset upon by a violent gang of youths who will mug me for my handbag (containing a near empty wallet, uncharged ipod, and half-eaten bits of toddler snacks).

The only (and I do mean only) positive spin I can put on this whole situation is that maybe I'll be given nitrous oxide.  Then I can spend the whole harrowing procedure giggling idiotically at the surgeon's nose hairs as I breathe in more and more of the potent gas.  And when I get home I can curl up on the sofa, feel terribly sorry for myself and attempt to get through an entire tub of Ben & Jerry's 'Phish Food'...

"Pole Dancing Midgets" (or "Vertically Challenged Gyrators")

Here I am, sat at my well-worn kitchen table (once brand-spanking new it now boasts crayon marks, unidentifiable stains and is a bit wobbly due to Dumps practising his pole dancing by swinging off the fruit basket and gyrating like a randy little midget). Dumpie, as always, is in the background making some mess or another which eventually I'll have to see to. He's my naughty shadow, my ever-constant sprite, and even now as I type he's on his hands and knees enthusiastically 'scrubbing' our kitchen floor with a big mug of apple juice and a sopping wet dish towel.

I've said this before, but I feel like in Dumpie I'm raising my father and my husband combined. Both men being the most strong-willed, complex and sometimes difficult creatures I've ever known, it is no surprise then that I find myself challenged every single bloody minute. Sometimes he's my miniature Mussolini and rules this household with a will of iron, screaming orders at me like "More milk MaaaaMaaaa!" and "Buy me looons!" (balloons) and whipping unwanted vegetables across kitchen when I have the audacity to adorn his dinner plate with broccoli, carrots, or anything not crisp or carbohydrate-based. At the ripe old age of two he has a definite idea of the clothes he wants to wear and will simply un-dress himself if you force him into an outfit he's not 'feeling' that day.

Other times he is the most charming, loveable creature that ever lived. He'll clamber onto my lap, stroke my cheek and say lovingly, "Maamaaa...." making me feel like I am the madonna personified. (True, this behavior often occurs just after he has once again raided my secret sweetie drawer and is riding high on chocolate-fueled seratonin...but still) The thing is, he is rather good company; we often have ridiculous back-and-forths in changing rooms when he'll say "Like" or "Don't like" to various outfits I'm trying on, and I'll try and persuade him otherwise. The salesclerks must think I'm a touch unbalanced as who in their right mind would ask a two year old their thoughts about the new seasons fashions? (Um...a socially starved fashionista with a 'two-going-on twenty' toddler perhaps?).

I mean, as long as you've clocked the exit and have made provisions to bustle the two of you out at a moments notice, there is no reason why you can't enjoy the odd Starbucks or Cafe Nero visit - even if Dumpie thinks it's funny to pop extra sugars or even some salt into a coffee mug of some neighboring unfortunate who has been foolish enough to turn away for a moment. Given your undivided attention, in public, Dumpie will reward you with all number of pranks, which given his diminuitive size is made all the more hilarious.

He loves to hop out of his pushchair when we're grocery shopping, and unbeknownst to me, fill the bottom compartment with all manner of odd confectionary and any products which happen to catch his eye. I now know to check the pushchair for unpaid goods before exiting, but of course occasionally I forget and hence sometimes arrive home, confused, with a jar of pickled beetroot or something else equally as random.

Once we were exiting a clothing store and just seconds before we passed through the alarmed doors I just happened to glance down and see that Dumpie's arms were tangled up in some weird black and red polyester material. It turned out to be some slutty, cheap 'lingerie' that he's obviously grabbed off a passing rail, and I just KNEW that we would have been stopped and I would have been blamed for trying to use my young innocent to set up Mummy for a night of third-rate passion. Panicking, I yanked the horrid panties and garter belt out of his hands and and flicked them into the pile of empty carts near the door, hightailing it out of there before I could be questioned by the glaring security guard.

Eggie in contrast is a lot like myself at that age. He has inherited his grandmother's sweet and sensitive soul, but has also inherited his genetic share of clever craftiness, a touch of moodiness, and a rather alarming propensity to lie as of late. I am hoping that this compulsive lying is merely a stage, as I don't much relish seeing my beloved firstborn on a televised 'Most Wanted' special about some genius but botched white-collar crime in the future.

Most of the time though he's just a cool little kid, whizzing down the streets of Southwest London, blond hair flying in the breeze, Adidas All-Stars on his size 10 feet and decked out in his little black leather jacket, managing more effortless style than his father ever could (sorry but it's true my darling former 'Chino-wearing', sport-socked hunk of burning love...lucky thing you ended up with a fashion-crazed wife or you might have been relegated to 'Dad-wear' for the rest of your days).

Egg is happiest when surrounded by OUR friends, and his upcoming birthday party this summer shall be interesting given that he's now into the 'birthday party circuit' at school and will for the first time in his life have a celebration that doesn't involve a load of thirty-somethings lounging around drinking wine, playing loud music and giving him pointers on how to pick up girls :)

When I was five I remember being terribly precocious and lecturing my dear mother on relationships, spiritual matters, and even advising her on consumer purchasing. Not much has changed I suppose, except now I have learned to keep some of my more controversial thoughts hidden away and tucked out of sight where they shall not offend or cause problems. Though how I am supposed to reconcile my love of honest discourse with a totally public, easily accessible BLOG I do not quite know.

To that end, I have now turned on the COMMENTS option on this blog and would love to hear from anyone who has an opinion on anything or everything. If you are not a screaming two year old or lying four year old - all the better.

So please, if you care to, do feel free to enlighten, scold, mock or deride, where and as you see fit (oh, and by the way I hope you know that this does not include YOU dear husband - you forfeited that right the moment you put that ring on my finger and promised to make out like I was a goddess for the rest of your days).

"Sunday (Bloody) Sunday"

I took the boys to Sunday School this morning. Bad move. In retrospect I should have spent the morning in bed with the Sunday papers bemoaning the collapse of the financial world and sipping on a lukewarm cappuccino. Dumpie was a disaster. He refused to join in with the singing and lay face down on the floor screaming unintelligible insults at me, occasionally interspersed with the demand for "NANNIE!!!!" (candy). I don't know exactly how it has happened, but Dumps now expects that his inherent right as a two year old is that he should be showered with sweets every day. He's got hardcore "Nannie-on-the-brain" and if none are forthcoming he's not afraid to spur you on to action with whatever means necessary.

Thankfully, this week I was spared the 'Exorcist' voice (which as you can imagine does not go down terribly well in a place of worship, the exception being perhaps a satanist gathering...). Instead I got the full fury of a 2 foot despot leveled at me, and from his formidable, legs-apart stance and steely eyes I knew I was in for it.

"Nannie Mama" he started matter-of-factly. "No Dumpie, after Sunday School I will take you to the store and buy you a treat ok?" I countered desperately, glancing apologetically to the other parents and teachers watching this scene unfold. "No...Nannie!" Dumps repeated stubbornly, standing his ground and wrinkling his little brows in anger.

"Please Dumpie, let's sit down and you can sing some songs and ------" "NAAAAAAANIIIIIIEEEEEEEE!!!!!!" he screamed, throwing himself dramatically face down onto the floor and kicking his legs, causing some concerned glances from onlookers. I grabbed all 18 kilos of pure brute will off the floor and managed to bundle him outside into the corridor, all the while stepping delicately over the bodies of all the nice little children who were sat down quietly to hear Bible stories.

Once outside, I did the one thing you're never supposed to do to a two year old tyrant, and I turned my handbag inside out and produced a chocolate biscuit. He grabbed it out of my hands accusingly, as if I had been depriving him on purpose, carefully unwrapped it, and then proceeded to nibble on it contentedly whilst enquiring with a mouth full of chocolate and crumbs, "More Nannie?" as if it was the most logical question in the world. I temporarily forgot that I was a good thirty years older than him and thus glared silently at him, checking my watch. "Be-Bop?" (lollipop) he suggested helpfully a moment later, bearing absolutely no resemblance to the ill-mannered brute who had just screamed an entire church down and put my parenting skills into question.

"No, after Sunday School", I lied, grabbing him by the wrist and leading him stubbornly back into the hall. I then made an impulsive getaway and raced downstairs to join the service before he could follow me. I imagine he was alright after I left as there were no ear piercing screams, nor was a frenzied assistant dispatched to find me because all hell had broken loose upstairs. No, when I went to collect him an hour later, he was standing near the window, attempting to shove aside a sweet little blond girl who was obstructing him from collecting an armload of big coloured blocks. We made eye contact, and without missing a beat he ran right up to me and said, "Nannie?"

Urghh....

"This Woman's Work"

I truly don't think that popular culture encourages realistic visions of parenthood. I just don't. You know the 80's movie, "She's Having A Baby" with Elizabeth McGovern and Kevin Bacon? You don't? Okay, well whatever. But if you're a bit of a John Hughes junkie or a retro chick like moi, then perhaps you'd like it. It's about a sexy loved-up couple who get pregnant and go through the whole "are we ready to be parents" rigamorole (and by 'they' i mean the fellow-she is totally ready). Despite the fact that the Kevin Bacon character has a fantasy affair with some model in his mind, by the end of the film he is a smitten new father, adores his wife and even beautifully plays out a tear-jerking scene wherein the labour goes wrong and the life of his wife and baby hang in the balance whilst the poignant Kate Bush song, "This Woman's Work" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r3dnFmwQy04 plays in the background and he sheds what look like genuine crocodile tears, slipping painfully down his teen idol face. He realises then that he is the luckiest man on earth and even manages to extract himself from his shitty corporate job by writing a book about his journey from selfish young 'f__k' to responsible, doting Dad.

There are countless other films which also convey the journey that men make towards 'fatherdom', and although there are often hiccups along the way, the fellows always seem to re-emerge out the other end with a newfound respect and adoration for their wives, a mysterious dollop of responsibility and a sudden, deep desire to cradle a mewling infant lovingly in their arms while swaying to 'Simply Red'. But I digress.


What no one ever tells you is that a few short days/weeks/months after giving birth, you and your beloved will be having whispered fights in the middle of the night about who should go check on the baby, who changed the most nappies that day, and whose turn it is to bathe the little bugger. You will find yourself defending your pockets of 'me time' while your partner tries to garner sympathy for having to venture out into the big wide world on a daily basis to earn enough money to keep your offspring in Huggies and you in elasticated Topshop cargo's. As it stands, my husband and I have an ongoing trick (which we're both wise to by the way) whereby as soon as the first whiff of dirty nappy permeates the room, he suddenly has to make an important work phonecall and I suddenly have to empty the washing machine. Eventually Dumpie will lumber up to one of us (why is it always me??) and say "Make poo-poo Mama" and after a few feeble attempts to coerce my husband (who is studiously ignoring me in the other room) pointlessly with guilt, I will bend down, heave the chubby chicken under one arm, and lumber up the flight of stairs to put things to right in the bottom department.


At no point do I ever recall my husband stroking my face tenderly and saying, "Thank you for giving birth to our precious child", or even massaging my swollen ankles or aching back during pregnancy. Instead I got, "Have you eaten the rest of the Ben & Jerry's?" when he found me exhausted, slumped in front of the telly, spooning the stuff mechanically into my mouth while watching late night re-runs of 'Big Brother' in an attempt to garner enough energy to trudge up two flights of stairs to bed before the next feeding. Or how about the time I agreed to a several kilometre country-walk 'hike' just days after giving birth to Egg - in a feeble attempt to prove that I was still cool, up for anything, and that birth hadn't fazed me....Huh!


The bottom line is that women when they become mothers have NEEDS. They need to believe that you still find them attractive (even if they perpetually live in track pants and baggy t-shirts for weeks on end)....they need you to realise that deep inside they are STILL that sexy, fun, party girl who shone and inspired envy in all your single friends (even if the only outings they get these days are 'Tumble Tots' sessions)....and most of all they need to feel loved, adored, appreciated and...not just glorified waste disposal units.


Hence, that is why I purchased a lovely glam piece of uber-trendy jewelry for myself on Mother's Day. It is a present for the REAL me, and not the "me" who nags about dirty socks left on the dining table, inspects nappy contents with a studied gaze, or the me who silently acknowledges the landmark washing of my 1000th bowl this year...sans acknowledgement.

No....this jewelry symbolises that the REAL ME is still in there....presently buried elbow deep in toilet bowl cleaner perhaps...but alive nonetheless and liable to emerge at any moment...in skinny jeans....without a sippie cup in sight.

"Him Make Burp!"

I miss my mom (sigh)...she flew back to Canada this week. Dumpie is especially going to miss her as he has enjoyed keeping a steady inventory of her various moves throughout the house and has delighted in keeping a runny tally of all her misdemeanors. He has definitely inherited his Grandfather's naughty side as was evidenced when he patted his little behind, called it his 'Mum-Mum', then pointed at his Grandma and giggled, spontaneously naming her "Mum-Mum". So now, probably till the end of all time, poor Grandma shall always know that however cute the moniker of "Mum-Mum" might be, it does actually in fact originate from a two year old's witty attempt to correspond his most loving relative to his beloved and most smelly behind. C'est la vie.

When Mum was here I was constantly alerted to her whereabouts by Dumps, who especially liked to note her periodic visits to the toilet. "Mum-Mum make poo poo" was a favourite of his, and my mum would exit the lavatory not understanding why I was giggling and Dumpie was standing guard outside the door with a rather impish smile upon his face. Whether she had in fact just been innocently brushing her teeth or having a bath was not the point - Dumpie was steadfast in his verdict and insistent that a 'number two' had taken place. The other morning breezing into the kitchen after a much needed lie-in, I was alerted to Grandma's serious breach of etiquette when Dumpie pointed accusingly at her and said, "Him make burp."

Poor Mum. Being the most ladylike of women, and priding herself on never broaching certain standards of etiquette (this being the self-same mother who enrolled her four young daughters into 'Charm School' after all) she was I think quite horrified to hear this particular accusation being leveled publicly against her. Even worse, after a few days it had morphed into "Mum-Mum make Toot!" and no amount of indignant protestations on Grandma's part would make Dumps renege on his story. Any attempt to do so would lead to infectious giggles on Dumpie's part and a reddening of face on Grandma's.

I am not in the greatest of moods it has to be said, given that I had another distressing visit to my dentist yesterday. The drill broke halfway through the procedure and by over-numbing my mouth with two excruciating needles, she left me looking like a stroke victim for the rest of the day. As a dentist she is lackadaisical at best about the health and upkeep of my mouth, and doesn't seem too bothered about my legitimate health concerns regarding regular check-ups and any preventative measures I might embark upon, so as to limit the amount of time we are forced to spend in each others company. Her motto is not so much preventative dentistry as 'patch-up dentistry', and it puts honest-to-goodness fear in me when she scratches her head and admits to being perplexed about what treatments might be needed.

I don't know why I'm so surprised. It's not like I haven't run into similiar worrying levels of commitment in health professionals in this country. I mean Dumpie was born on the bathroom floor of our old flat after all. My midwife had been too busy scribbling fastidiously in her files in the front room to actually register that her patient was on the verge of giving birth and she had botched any chance of me getting to the hospital in time because she was too busy sipping mint tea and filling in forms. (Then again, she did later admit that she had only been working as a midwife for less than a year, after having grown disenchanted by her last job...at McDonald's.)

I won't even get into how three days after giving birth I had to be admitted to the hospital due to a mysterious and severe infection because the instruments she had used to get the last little bit of Dumps out into the world had been dropped outside onto the muddy, wet pavement by my sis who had been frantically dispatched to retrieve them from the midwife's car down the road. I suspect it was my scream of, "I can see the head it's coming NOOOOOOOOOOWWW!!" which alerted her to the fact that she'd best put aside her notes for a moment and see what the heck was going on in the bathroom. Apparently my running from the front room in utter agony minutes before hadn't been a clear enough indication that birth was immanent. Anyway, I digress. The point is that I am well seasoned in the varying standards of healthcare in this country.

The other night as I was cooking dinner I happened to wander out in the hall and much to my horror I looked down and saw our front door swinging wide open and my 4 year old outside on his scooter about to head off into the great dark unknown. I ran down the stairs screaming for him to stay put and managed to drag him back inside only to discover that he was off to "find another family". When i asked him what had prompted his first runaway attempt he admitted that my failure to locate his beloved Nintendo game AND my forgetfulness in not bringing his scooter to school that day had caused him sufficient distress and anger so as to begin the search for better, more thoughtful parents. He then confessed that the fact that he had magically just figured out how to unlock the outside door might have played a part in his impromptu escape plan.

If that isn't worrying enough, the other day Dumpie figured out how to unlock and open our giant front room windows which when open, lead directly to a potentially lethal fall of several metres below. URGHHHHH!! We are really in for it now. The monsters are clearly gaining in intelligence and ingenuity every day whilst their father and I, judging by our ever-increasing wine consumption appear to be worryingly heading in the opposite direction and are disposing of much-needed brain cells willy-nilly. (I have always wanted to use that expression...don't be alarmed...it's a one-off)

Just keeping Dumpie in his cot these days is an exercise in futility as he is growing ever more spry and athletic. He now doesn't even need Eggie's help to lift him out of bed - he merely high jumps over the rails with the dexterity of a gymnast and lands with a loud, satisfying thump on the floor. Now in the mornings I am greeted by my own personal alarm clock, "Hi Mama...WAKE UP...WAKE UP!..." he shouts in my ear while attempting to wedge his mini plastic toys ("Go-Go's") into my ear cavity. The other morning I was even greeted by the perplexing site of his motorised 'choo-choo' train bearing down on me from the headboard as I pointlessly tried to cover my facial area so as to avoid a painful collision round about the eye area.

The one good thing of course is that here in Britain it is perfectly acceptable to send ones miniscule offspring off to boarding school when they're barely out of nappies. Though saying that, Dumpie is adamantly refusing to give the toilet even a cursory attempt and looks set to be in nappies for a good many...years (sigh). Better come up with a Plan B.

"Happy Mama Day"

This morning two tousle-haired hobbits trundled up the stairs into our top-floor bedroom, bearing precariously-balanced plates of chocolate croissants and special 'Mother's Day' cookies. Egg gave me a quick kiss and cuddle before disappearing back downstairs to pummel his beloved Nintendo some more, but Dumpie was not to be separated from such scrumptious fare and so took up position at the side of our bed staring pointedly at the plate and gently fingering the pastry.

"Do you want a bite Dumpie?"

"Yep," said Dumps, and promptly bit into the croissant spraying chocolate slivers all along the bed. I couldn't get a bite in edgewise after that and so a few minutes later I sent Dumps down with one of the plates and instructions to share the rest with Egg. (In all likelihood Eggie never saw a crumb as it's a pretty good bet that a quick pit-stop was made en route for a sneaky gobble before the goods ever made it to the kitchen.)

Anyway we went to church this morning and right after prayers Dumpie thought it would be a good time to pull out his 'Exorcist voice' (he does this scary hoarse voice once in awhile) and hankering after something sweet all of the sudden demanded, "Nannies!" I tried to ignore him, but of course that was futile, and he continued in his louder and louder scary voice to hold me ransom for candies. All I had was some bubblegum, so with strict whispered instructions I doled it out to the monsters and bought myself ten more minutes.

Anyway, I had a lovely Mother's Day and my dear husband pretended not to notice the extravagant display of my new jewelry (pics of the 'bling-bling' to follow tomorrow). Moreover he got top marks for having picked up the not-so-subtle request for CHOCOLATE loud and clear and I'm pleased to announce that I am now the proud recipient of a gourmet box of two dozen hand-picked choccies....oh yeah - and some killer jewelry :)