"If You Think I'm Sexy...Come On Dumpie Let Me Knoooowwww"

This week Dumpie has incorporated two new words into his vocabulary: 'sexy' and 'damn it'. As shameful as it is to admit, I am more perplexed than anything. Do I say 'Damn it'? Maybe I do, but I don't think so....

As for 'sexy', that ones a real worry. The last thing I need is to be in a fitting room trying on a dress and have a sales clerk overhear my three year old saying, "You look sexy Mama" (which is what he told me yesterday). Urghhh.

I remember when Egg was around the same age and went through his potty mouth period. We had an electrician in the next room fixing one of our sockets and he yelled at me in the kitchen telling me to 'Piss Off!' (Eggie, not the electrician). I kid you not.

The husband tells me I should just ignore Dumps and he'll stop saying these words. He clearly doesn't understand how hilarious it is to have the expression 'Damn it' emitted from the pursed lips of a toddler as he drops his Pokemon cards into his Rice Krispies.

Speaking of Pokemon cards, those things have become the bane of my life. The husband finally gave into Egg's pleas and bought thirty of them for some ridiculous amount on the weekend from the overpriced and overcrowded toy shop down the road. Apparently you have to ask for them behind the counter.

Egg got twenty and Dumps got ten. After school on Monday a rather sombre Egg came home mumbling about how he only had thirteen Pokemon cards now, as some classmates had asked for 'free cards'. My little angel had, in typical fashion, kindly handed over his newly acquired cards, and not insisting on a 'swap' (which is what you are supposed to do with them).

The next day his Auntie and I told him to ask these same children for a card too, thus perhaps reinstating his now paltry collection to its former glory. No such luck. On Tuesday Egg came home with only twelve Pokemon cards (sigh). Poor little fella.

Dumps is wise to Egg's deepening despair and keeps a tight rein and watchful eye - at all times- 0n his pack of nine cards. He carries them around in a tupperware sandwich box. This sandwich box must accompany him at all times and is tucked away in bed with him each night. He uses his now almost equal number of cards to taunt Eggie with, and as a result the number of fights, wrestling matches, and accidental murder attempts due to being pushed down the stairs, has almost doubled this last week.

I hate Pokemon cards.

"And Then He Was Three..." (The Stinky Chicken That Is)

Yesterday my little Dump-Dumps (aka 'The Stinky Chicken') celebrated three glorious years on this planet.

As befits someone with his larger than life personality, he made his demands clear - and he made them early: a lemon-poppyseed muffin for breakfast (at 'a coffeeshop' I might add), followed by a croissant, followed by a whole bag of chocolate coins in front of the telly for lunch. (Come to think of it, that sounds like my ideal day too....)

As unbeknownst to me, huge quantities of chocolates and sweeties were being consumed in the front room (THANKS grandma for the care package of chocolate miniatures - each morsel being lovingly handled before being gobbled or hidden away for a future pig-out), I was coming to grips with the enormous task I had set myself.

Singlehandedly cleaning the home from top to bottom (our cleaner is 5 months pregnant and her visits these days are sporadic at best), constructing a painfully time-consuming mandarin cake from scratch (homemade buttercream icing included) and preparing for a small gathering of friends for dinner was clearly not enough of a challenge.

No, I had to send out email invitations declaring that homemade pizza's were on the menu. Have I ever made homemade pizza before? Do I have even the slightest affinity with the process of molding and shaping raw dough? Was I aware that the cost of procuring all the ingredients needed would easily be double that of merely picking up the phone and dialing our local Domino's? No, No, and No.

(INSERT giant SIGH)

Stubborn bugger that I am, I persisted, even though I sacrificed a shower and spent most of the afternoon and early evening muttering and swearing to myself like a 200 lb Italian chef in the kitchen. However, triumphantly, at approximately 8:28pm the first of four large pizza's emerged from our humble oven, and were greedily consumed by all. Of course by that time, most of the assembled were onto their third or fourth glasses of wine, so I imagine even trumped up dog food might have garnered the same sort of reaction....nonetheless....

Dumps for his part seemed mildly dismayed at the lack of presents. We had instructed friends to just 'bring themselves' given that great swathes of our home more often than not resemble the rear end of an unsuccessful car boot sale. (Possibly, Dumps was recalling Egg's recent birthday and the plethora of brightly coloured packages which accompanied the festivities.)

Clearly preferring his own company to the raucous gathering of now fairly inebriated adults having a singalong in the dining room with a stylaphone, an out of tune guitar, and some tone deaf participants, Dumpie hid himself and a big tupperware box of sweeties behind the large sofa in the front room.

He was only persuaded out when I started making noises about birthday cake and dozens of candles needing to be blown out. It did the trick. Insisting that Eggie bring the cake in and sing a solo 'Happy Birthday' to him, we watched the choral tribute with a mixture of amusement and anxiety as the cake slipped dangerously on the expensive heavy ceramic platter during the performance...culminating in a giant bear hug between the brothers and even a 'lip kiss' at the end. Ah, bless.

Now three, my little Dumps is not so little anymore. Though remaining resolutely UN-POTTY TRAINED, and despite likely being more clever than the average McDonald's employee (former midwife excluded of course), Dumpie has decided that he will continue to soil himself on a daily basis for the ongoing future.

So be it. For now, I'll let the little guy be. Though naughtiness incarnate, he is also outrageously cute...and funny...and adorable...and...well...this family would just be 'normal' without him. Three years ago yesterday, as Dumpie slithered unceremoniously out onto our bathroom floor at 1:52 am, (the confirmed bachelor downstairs listening on with horror and revulsion to the entire birthing fiasco), our lives changed forever.

Perhaps our family wealth (in terms of assets at least) has suffered a severe blow, given the amount of expensive goods Dumps has either lost/hidden, broken, or heaved out the third floor window. And perhaps our eldest darling child Egg has suffered needless countless blows to the head and body by an over rambunctious, summersaulting Dumps. And yes, perhaps the entire neighbourhood (and fellow revellers at 'The Big Chill' summer before last) are too intimately acquainted with the death knell screams of our tantrum-bound toddler...

But damn it...without Dumps life wouldn't be half as interesting, amusing or special.

Here's to you Dumpie Darling...L-O-N-G may you reign...

:)

"The Exciting Adventures of a Worn-Out, Beige Bra..."

Shameful I know....haven't blogged for quite awhile now. However let me bring you up-to-date on the latest happenings:

1. I am STILL running in the mornings. (I know!) Despite an innate hatred for anything cardiovascular and a propensity for remaining 'earthbound' (this claim having been made (un)lovingly by my amused husband for many years now)...I continue to surprise myself and my other half by hauling myself out of my divinely cozy bed at 7:30am most mornings and propelling my resistant body around the giant Common, until it has either been half an hour or I feel on the verge of a heart attack - which ever comes sooner.

(This activity has several advantages of course: it should it all likelihood soon render me 'in shape' both internally and externally. Though with a history of heart disease on my side being the initial motivating factor, the outward manifestations on my somewhat neglected bottom half haven't gone unnoticed - by either me or the husband. As any woman will admit, however superficial, a shrinking bottom and jeans that actually fit do wonders for ones self-esteem...and make one feel a little less of a tit when running around in the freezing cold mornings like an idiot instead of snuggling or sipping a cappuccino and munching on toast in a cozy kitchen)

2. Now...whilst I have been whittling away at my thighs, the husband has thrown himself into a new 'hobby'. Collecting bicycles. Big ones. This latest passion should have ideally been nipped in the bud some time ago - before it got out of hand - but for reasons which shall become clear later (ie. DUMPIE) I have been otherwise preoccupied. In hindsight of course, it does feel like I have been taking delivery of an inordinate amount of packages arriving almost daily, for some time now.

First thing the husband does upon arriving home each day is to check eagerly for new arrivals on his tragically over-piled desk in the dining room. Slowly it has dawned on me that he is having his latest bike purchase delivered piece by piece, so as not to have me freak out in one big go. Clever - I'll give him that. Unfortunately, this means that not only is yet ANOTHER bike going to hang precariously from our already overcrowded front entrance hall (we have four bikes and counting), but whatever scant attention the husband reserves for his wife and progeny is now spent lusting after bits of steel and leather on his laptop. It is getting tiresome. Though I have now banned said laptop from the bedroom, it doesn't stop him going on about bikes and bike parts like a crazed devotee the other 98% of the time (sigh).

3. Egg is quietly and quickly becoming something of a Mathematician it appears (or should I say, "Magical Mathematician'). He mutters numbers under his breath in the mornings as he skulks about the place. "One thousand one hundred and five....One thousand one hundred and ten...one thousand...." etc.

I do wonder whether he is getting any sleep what with all his obsessive counting of sums, but he seems happy enough. And perhaps his meditate chanting makes him less of a target for the Dumps who is always on the prowl for a good ol' wrestle. I do wonder what his teacher is making of this constant counting, though it would appear to be positive as yesterday he arrived home with a giant certificate proclaiming him 'Star of the Week'. (Though the certificate states that he excelled at 'bench work' in P.E., Egg insists that it was the only certificate left and that really it's for doing such brilliant counting all week and being the bestest Mathematician in the class. He even claims to have been the recipient of a handshake from the Deputy Head for his achievements. As one would expect, he has been justly rewarded with a multitude of hugs and kisses, several Jaffa Cakes, a celebratory chocolate bar and two shiny fifty-pence pieces to deposit in his newly acquired globe piggy bank. Bless).

4. DUMPIE. Well, where do I begin? Do I mention how the other day around 5:30pm I found myself hunched naked and shivering on the bathroom floor with bobby pins and tweezers, trying to get the door unlocked? I had tip-toed upstairs for a quick bath while the boys were watching telly, and Dumpie must have sensed that I was indulging in the first spot of relaxation I'd had all week. Having just slid into the hot, fragrant bubbles, he came charging in and proceeded to throw all his manky toys into my nice bath. Then he picked up his hated plastic potty with bits of dried urine on it, and chucked it into my bath as well. I lost it. Egg heard the ruckus and came upstairs to investigate.

Soon both boys were fighting (a common occurance these days as Dumpie has turned into a mini 'Goliath') and the potty was being hurled about with some vehemence from me in the bath and then back in again. One of these times it skimmed the right side of my temple and I screamed out in pain. I tried to kick both boys out but Dumpie was a touch faster and ran quickly to the door and broke the handle off. I kid you not. He yanked off the ancient white knob and poked through the rest of the handle with his chubby little finger before I sussed what was going on and could grab him. He then turned triumphantly toward me while I registered the muffled 'thunk' of the other handle falling out of reach on the other side of the door, and lifting the knob high in the air, added insult to injury (literally) by lobbing the heavy doorknob into the bath as well.

I was livid. Even moreso when I realised that we were now all trapped in the bathroom. I didn't have my mobile on hand to ring for help, and being that it was merely 5:30pm, at best, the husband might be home by 7:30pm. It's amazing what ingenuity surfaces when one is desperate. It was this frame of mind which saw me master - in the longest half an hour of my life - the handy art of picking a lock. (Of course, should I ever become destitute I can now add 'burglar' to my list of possible career options if necessary.)

At any rate, we got out. I caught a chill and was in a foul mood for the rest of the night, but what do you expect? It wasn't until yesterday that Dumpie outdid himself on the naughty front. In fact it's yesterdays antics which have earned me a few scant minutes of peace sans kiddies today, as I sit here typing (venting?!) as the husband takes it in turn to run the monsters round the neighborhood for a change.

Yesterday we were in a department store. There happened to be a great sale on and I found myself with a huge handful of clothes, queuing outside a crowded fitting room. Dumpie chose this moment to fill his nappy with a giant stinking mess, but having waited so long I thought I could just hurry in and try the stuff on before changing him. No sooner had I hauled the pushchair, clothes and my stinking toddler into the tiny change room, when Dumps crawled under the door and escaped. In my bra and pants I had no choice but to call "Dumpie?" tentatively and hope that he responded. He didn't. After several more (increasingly louder) calls he finally did crawl back in but not without accoutrements. He was bearing four big white plastic air fresheners which he had somehow procured from various other cubicles. (I wondered vaguely whether anyone had noticed a chubby little hand reaching under and snatching it while they changed....but that is neither here nor there)

It wasn't until I was trying to quickly get dressed and shuffle myself out of there that I noticed that my son was again missing. And so was my bra. Jeans on, and completely topless I again called out, "Dumpie?" and of course got no response. After several more attempts I got wise and yelled, "Do you want a sweetie Dumps? Come and get one!". Immediately I heard the faint shuffle of his little slipper shoes before my second-born once again appeared from under the door and stood obediently before me. I noticed that he had procured another two air fresheners. As he added them to the pile in the corner, I realised that despite the sheer number of air fresheners now occupying my cubicle, the scent of nappy rot was overwhelming and likely making everyone else feel ill as well.

I put on my most serious face and bent down to look him square in the face....terrified but yet desperate for the answer.

"Dumpie...do you know where Mummies bra is?"

His eyes glinted and he giggled, shaking his head. "Anywhere!" he declared triumphantly, arms widespread to encompass the entire universe.

Bloody hell. I knew it. "Dumpie! Mummy needs her bra and I need you to go and find it for me NOW?!" I hissed desperately. "If you do I will take you out and buy you the biggest treat EVER. So please go and bring it back from wherever you put it okay?"

Out of greed or sensing my encroaching misery (it WOULD have to be my shitty beige, worn bra I was wearing that day...) he scurried back out under the door and after a long wait of several minutes he returned, holding my bra triumphantly aloft, PAST the huge queue of waiting customers, and screaming out, "Here you go Mama...me got it!"

I was mortified. Utterly. If only it could have ended there. But no.....having rushed so quickly out of the store in an effort to put as much distance between myself and all those who now knew exactly what sorry state my undergarments were in, I failed to notice until we were standing on the street that in all my haste I had left my sunglasses inside. Urghh!!

Now there is dignity and there is common sense. I wasn't about to sacrifice one for the other, so back up in the lift we went (you will be pleased to know that I had at least shuffled my putrid-smelling son into the toilets to change his foul smelling nappy moments on the way out). As I shamefacedly retraced my steps, avoiding the somewhat familiar faces of those still in the fitting room queue, I failed to notice that Dumpie had mysteriously escaped and that I was indeed talking to, and pushing maniacally around, an EMPTY bright red push chair. When at last I miraculously located my beloved aviators hooked onto the string of the bikini top I'd tried on, my joy was short-lived when I realised that I had no idea where or at what point I had lost my son.

Let me cut to the chase. The next ten or so minutes were spent speeding round and round the now fairly busy first floor of the department store, calling, 'Dumpie!....Dumpie!...Dumpie!" and making a spectacle of myself. Some other mothers noticed my panic stricken face, and taking pity, joined in the search. "Dumpie?.....Dumpie?....Dumpie?!" we were all calling, peering up and down aisles, behind mannequins, looking for a naughty little midget...but to no avail.

Just as I started to get that really sick feeling deep in the pit of my stomach (though in retrospect, Dumpie is probably one of the least likely potential kidnapping victims I would imagine) a lady from the far end of the store called out, "Ooh...over here!"

About five of us rushed over (my 'lost child' had become a storewide event) and peered up on our tipee-toes into a tall rack of coats. Clutching onto the silver pole in the middle like a little monkey/pole dancer was my Dumps. That would explain why we missed him and couldn't see his feet. I didn't know whether to throttle him or cover him in kisses. But for the benefit of the assembled mothers I chose the latter, and wearing a slightly crazed grin, plopped him inelegantly into the push chair and barreled us into the lift before anyone knew what had hit them.

And so there you have it. But a little snapshot of the goings-on in my shambolic household these days. Perhaps the time I used to spend blogging is now being spent, hands shakily holding a much-needed cup of Earl Grey and recovering from Dumpie's latest shenanigans. I kid you not. There are many stories I could tell, but it would take a whole books worth to catalogue them all.

So I'll bow out now, and leave you with the so not endearing vision of my youngest last night, scrubbing down our wide-screen telly in the front room with the filthy toilet brush from the first floor bathroom. I scooped him up under one arm, yelled for Egg to come upstairs with us for bath time, and grabbed my mobile with my one free hand.

One can't be too careful these days...

"The Dumpie Dilemma"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With any luck in a month or two I can hand over 'bedtime story' duties to Egg while I collapse 

downstairs in front of 'Location Location' with a glass of red wine and try and ignore the screams as Dumps and Eggs fight over who gets to turn the next page.

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

"Little Dumpie Scissorhands"

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's All Coming Apart...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pathetic really...

"Destined for Dirtiness"

Our new cleaner (a lovely Lithuanian woman who has only been here twice so far, and is indeed the fifth cleaner we've had in the past few years) yesterday announced that she is pregnant.

This would explain why she texted last week to say she was sick and couldn't come.  (And here I was thinking that it was yet another in the string of notorious texts from cleaners making up all manner of excuses why they can no longer clean our shambolic home.)

Having gone through this once before with our beloved Polish cleaner Dorothy, it is not fun having a pregnant cleaning lady.  For starters, there is the gut-crushing guilt that someone in 'that' condition is heaving hoovers up three flights of stairs and breathing in all sorts of potentially toxic cleaning fluids (sigh).  Then of course there is the fact that you feel obliged to 'help out' - thereby rendering the whole idea of roping in help kind of pointless.

I did what anyone would do when faced with such a predicament.  I reached into my wallet and gave her a pay raise on the spot, all the while calculating her due date and realising with dismay that we'd be lucky to have her stay on till Christmas.  

Still, that's not the least of my worries...not even close.  Dumpie has taken to foraging for bits of old chewing gum and popping them into his mouth to achieve a once again soft consistency.  I was alerted to this today when leaving the library and proudly being shown a piece of bright green chewing gum in his mouth, which he no doubt procured on the floor behind the 'New Fiction' aisle while I wasn't looking.  URGHH!!!!

Dumpie is also going through his 'Terrible Two's' and as such is terrorising the household.  

The other day in church we actually got kicked out (in as much as one can be politely asked to depart and cease disruption in the house of God.)  Unfortunately it was an 'All Ages' service - which though fine in theory is actually a nightmare.  As horrific as it was to observe them racing up and down the aisles during the hymns, this was nothing compared to the humiliation of witnessing their very public wrestling match right up in front of the alter a short while later.

Auntie Mo and I each grabbed one under an arm and shuffled our disgraceful selves out of there in full view of the congregation.

Sometimes my life seems like an unsuccessful sitcom about to be cancelled after it's first season.  Truly.

"Run Mama Run"

In an effort to amuse myself (and also, i confess, to get killer thighs for after Christmas when I hope to be languishing on a beach, writing a bestseller and composing a penultimate album, clad only in a tiny black bikini most of the time....) I have taken up 'running'.

Okay, so I've only done it four times so far.  But I've done it!  And so I only 'run' for twenty minutes at a go, so it's not really hardcore....but still.  And okay, fine, so perhaps my lumbering along is more akin to a 'jog' than a 'run' but i'm still moving, my feet are (kind of) rhythmically pounding the ground and I'm always on the verge of a heart attack so...doesn't that count?

The husband was terribly amused the first morning I came down, before 8 o'clock (that in itself a small miracle), dressed in black Adidas shorts, a tight white vest and looking like he'd never, ever seen me...dare i say 'sporty'?

He guffawed, (hurt my feelings), expressed incredulity, then watched with amazement as I let myself out into the cold morning, ipod in hand.  

Eggie and Dumps could care less, though Egg has expressed his desire to come and run with me, whilst Dumpie accusingly tells me i'm 'stinky' when I come back in and try and grab him in a bear hug.  He accepts that I need to 'Ekkercise' but can't help himself from jumping onto my stomach when I try and do crunches (sigh).

I do wonder how long this current phase shall last.  When the mornings get increasingly cold and dark I doubt I'll be able to show the same strength of will to hurl myself out onto the miserable streets with the same level of enthusiasm.  Saying that, if it means I can keep up my current level of cheese and wine consumption without bulging out of my low waisted hipster jeans...well...it just might prove incentive enough.

Truth is, I'm chasing that exercise 'high'...that adreneline...that free drug your body dispenses to your brain to make you feel good.  I need to 'feel good' these days.  Dumpie is going through the 'terrible two's' at the moment and seriously depleting my natural stores of Seratonin.

I march the streets with a manically screaming child, drawing all sorts of looks and accusatory frowns.  Not only can I not handle my child, but I'm ruining the quiet peacefulness of the street with my devil child who is using noise pollution to disturb all those serene Starbucks-swilling 'Mum's' and 'Mums to be'....

Moreover Dumps now insists that he get to ride his little scooter when we drop off and collect Egg from school.  This means simply, that a formerly five minute journey now takes up to twenty minutes depending on how many tantrums and refusals to move we have to endure as a certain little man asserts his independence and acts according to his toddler-ish whims.

He's also inherited his Auntie Kenz's lungs, and I was told by another parent the other day that he could hear us coming from four streets away. 

Charming.  I love raising boys.

A Spit and a Polish...

Today our new cleaner started. This is our third one this year. We are not entirely sure why we seem to be going through domestic help at such a ridiculous rate, but both the husband and I have our opinions.

HE thinks that it's because we should pay them MORE money than their other clients, thus keeping them sweet. (And no, he isn't referring to bonuses for holidays or special occasions, he means that we should just voluntarily up their rates for no apparent reason. I try to imagine the conversation...)

ME: "Thanks so much _____. Great job today. Listen I'm giving you a bit extra because I want you to know how pleased I am with your job performance."

HER: "What? I no understand..."

ME: "No, my husband and I thought that you deserve a little more than you're getting, so just keep the change...ok?"

HER: "Me no understand."

ME: "Umm...."

The husband doesn't understand that to up someone's hourly rate when a friend was kind enough to put in a good word for you, could result in your friend being made to look cheap - or worse - the cleaner demanding that her other clients match your generous offer. It's a lose/lose situation any way you look at it - especially as I am convinced that money has precious little to do with the fact that cleaners ain't too keen on cleaning for us.

I have a few theories myself. Maybe it's because we have three bathrooms to clean? I mean, how horrid is that? Or perhaps it's because the husband insists on maintaining his Mount Everest pile of clean clothes balanced precariously in the corner, making our room resemble a student dormitory at times. Or perhaps we've got two little boys, too many flights of stairs, and are simply...unlikeable...? We're getting a complex about it now...

At any rate, we didn't start this new relationship very well this morning with the sweet, lovely woman who rang our doorbell at 8:30am. (They're all lovely in the beginning...before I get the inevitable text saying, "Sorry I no come no more"...)

Dumpie squeezed a whole tube of bright blue kiddie toothpaste on the upstairs landing, just as she walked in. And then I proceeded to call her the wrong bloody name all morning until she was leaving and gently corrected me (calling me by my right name of course), "Natasha, my name is ____ not _____...though that is nice name too!"

Urghh....

I give her seven weeks. The husband predicts three or less. Especially since he helpfully pointed out that me speaking in pidgin English to her might be construed as patronising...

I give up...

""The Super Giant Mega Kitchen Bubble bath Fiasco"

So my blogging hiatus has come to an end. Sorry to those who were following me and now likely think I've dropped off the end of the earth....and sorry also to those who found my protracted silence a blessed relief from self-obsessed ranting.

I am back. Back in black. Well kind of.  A visit to my newest (and most amazing) hairstylist in the universe has rendered my long, tired tresses a thing of the past.  He restored my sun-lightened multi-coloured hair back into exotic dark hues and now I find that I have a compulsive urge to replace my cut-off denim levi's with an Audrey Hepburn-esque little black dress as a result.  Ah, the benefits of a good old head massage and two hours of pure attentiveness from a young, talented man...

Him:  (massaging my head under warm soapy jets) "Is this too hard?  Does it feel okay?"

Me:    (quietly moaning...then moaning some more) "Oh Noooo...this feels Amaaaaaazing"

Him:  (embarrassed chuckle) "Oh. Good. Ummm...Ok.  Time to cool you down now.  No really." (He then proceeds to douse my head in coldish water, bringing me out of my near-hypnotic state.  Shamefully, I am drooling.  I make mental note to self to send husband to study massage therapy on threat of divorce when next in India) 

Anyway, I digress.  We're back in the London now for the start of yet another scholastic year. Egg's new teacher is a pretty blond just out of teacher's college who I mistakenly took for someones Au Pair.  Oops.  But she looks sweet and I'm sure what she lacks in authority she will more than make up for in massive crushes (and I'm talking about the Dad's here, not the children).

I have to say though, despite having STILL not fully unpacked our eight suitcases (do you blame me?!) yesterday alone was enough to prompt me back onto my blog for more protracted and public moaning.

While on ichat with my father, Dumpie wandered in and rubbed a lovely smelling but very sticky lotion on me.  I wondered vaguely what it was as I distractedly sniffed at it, but it wasn't until I tried to rub it into my arm that I noticed it was producing a heavy, thick white foam.

That's when I noticed that Dumpie's legs and arms were covered in a thick glaze, as if he'd been dipped into a giant cauldron of melted icing sugar in preparation for becoming a human donut. 

I ran shrieking into the kitchen to discover that the new bottle of 'All-In-One Super Foamy Shampoo and Body Wash' I'd bought earlier in the day, had been squeezed out onto the entire kitchen floor.  (Given that the bottle proudly states that a mere pea sized dollop of the stuff can lather and foam up an entire child's body, imagine what a whole bottle can do at once...no really)

After half an hour of mopping it became clear that I was doing nothing but turning the room into a giant slippery bubble bath - not to mention a complete safety hazard.  The more water I put on, the more foam bubbled up, until it became so ridiculous that I just flopped, sodden, onto the floor and tried to stop myself from having a tantrum.  Dumpie and Egg watched from the door, greatly amused, clearly finding the whole situation hilarious.  

(I took the several deep breath's that the anti-abuse commercial on telly suggests when you're about to have a melt-down...took some more...then decided that my doomed kitchen was in all likelihood a preferable environment to the alternative domecile in Her Majesty's Prison if indeed I acted on any crazy impulses involving throttling and the like...)

This morning was no better.  After a long morning of errands and countless stops in various stores along our street, I made one last pit stop before going home.  In the library, I looked down to discover that not only was Dumpie happily munching his way through the second of two gourmet cupcakes I had bought the boys for a treat, but realised he was SHOE-LESS.

Horrified, I asked Dumpie where his shoes were.

"Me throw dere" he said munching happily on a sugary violet flower...

"Where Dumpie?!  Where did you throw your shoes?!" I begged, exhausted and at my wit's end.

"Out dere" he said, motioning vaguely at the door, leaving me to retrace my steps up and down the street for the next half hour.

Fortunately, I did manage to recover the shoes.  (They were found in two different stores, and turned over by bemused shop assistants.)

Unfortunately, I have yet to recover my former good mood.  As it stands, it is M.I.A....