"Festival Family Glastonauts"

  

"You just haven't had your 'Glasto Moment' yet," the husband said last weekend as we trudged through crowds, the children whining (it was in all fairness the first day and they hadn't caught wind of the kid's field yet - just frolicking drunk people in crazy costumes meandering through mad fields with no apparent destination in mind - and I include the husband and I in this).

No indeed I hadn't.  But it wasn't long after until I did.  In fact I'm not even sure when it happened.  Perhaps it was hooking up with my sis and a load of our friends in a sunny field, sipping vodka-based cocktails and working on our tans whilst the boys gleefully zip-lined across the field and buggered off for sufficient enough time for the husband and I to put our new Cath Kidston picnic blanket to the test.

In the end, the four days we spent at the worlds biggest music festival passed in a delightfully surreal blur of music, laughter, adventure, panic, amusement and downright ridiculousness.  In fact the biggest downside wasn't even at the festival itself, but during the arduous four hour drive home wherein we discovered that our headlight deficient campervan rendered the road ahead utterly invisible and required the husband to keep his finger flexed at all times on the high beam lever just to catch the odd glimpse of tarmac.  Nightmare.

Bear in mind we'd both had next to no sleep and could barely keep our eyes open - so were not at all able to handle the relentless screaming of what was normally our smiley baby.  I had to contort my body around just to hold hands with him, and it wasn't until we stopped for some emergency petrol station coffee that we discovered the poor soul had been screaming not because he was an escaped minion from the depths of hell but rather because he was covered in his own vomit and likely had been for quite some time - clearly suffering from a profound bout of car sickness.  (Gulp).  Oops.

 Add to this the fact that I was openly snoring in what must have been a most attractive stance, head thrown back, mouth agape, drifting in and out of dreams - waking only to have the husband repeatedly ask me whether I'd know what to do if he had a heart attack right there and then whilst driving.  That sobered me up.  But only momentarily.

In the end it was my shitty little speaker hooked up to my iphone which saved the day.  I began playing a selection of tunes - some to wind the husband up and some to keep me in the land of the living.  It must have worked as we arrived alive.

At any rate, suffice it to say that a grand time was had by all.  I was let loose to do whatever I fancied on the Friday night and found that after a few hours of furtive guilt texting to the husband whilst watching The Horrors at The Park Stage (amazing) I soon forgot about anything but having fun, and learned that left to my own devices, much like a homing pigeon, I would eventually find my way back to the campervan and resume normal duty.  Albeit at breakfast the next day, but hey - as I told the husband - at least I came back.

The husband duly returned the favour by taking off to see geriatric rockers 'The Rolling Stones' the next night and not rolling in until 6am Sunday morning - a stunt which pretty much determined that the ride home for him later that day (headlights or no headlights) was going to be U.T.T.E.R. H.E.L.L.

So I'll let the pictures do the talking and bid you adieu now.  I went, I saw, I participated, and i had fun.  What more is there to say?

(Next year the husband and I go it alone)

:)

A friend helps herd the monsters around...

Ready for another day of silliness...

Future circus performer

Dumps and a mate checking out the talent

Mama checking out The Horrors

A near version of '127 Hours'.  But in a campervan.  With Mama sat outside unawares and kids freaking out inside.

Squit decides he's had enough.  And is outta there.

Too many bands...too many girls...too many late nights

My motley crew of disgraces...thanks for a brilliant night well spent :)

Whilst Dada catches 40 winks, Squit uploads pic of his passed out Dada on twitter

Dada happy as a proverbial...  Nuff said.

"Umm...where to next?"

"Dude looks like a lady" (but was most certainly...a dude :)

'Glastonsquit'

There is a lot I could say, posting here from Glastonbury with les monsters adorable. 

But a) I'm trying to type on an iPhone  b) the pics say it better :)

"What To Do When Your Egg Just Keeps Ageing"

Egg's last day of being an 8 yr old...

 Yeah you heard right.  This is a belated birthday post dedicated to the newly minted nine year old, my firstborn son Egg, and NOT a moan about an ageing womb.

I simply can't believe this nine year old boy is mine.  He is getting so tall and broad shouldered (and so handsome!) that I sometimes have to stop and stare at this marvellous creature that somehow sprung from such two well-meaning but terribly flawed specimens :)

Having put on an Olympics-themed extravaganza for his 8th birthday party, we weren't sure how we could possibly outdo that this year.  Thankfully Egg was very forthcoming and begged for a sleepover. For nine boys.  In our three bed flat.  Night(bloody)mare.  But after much coercion we were able to whittle that list down to a more manageable five (plus Dumpie, made seven).

It was hardcore.  But very fun indeed.  Not for us mind, but for the uber-excited, sweet-gorging, pinata-whacking, pizza-chomping, watergun-toting, sundae-making, movie-watching, tennis-playing, pillow-fighting little guys.

At one point around midnight after trying to at least make a dent in the washing/clearing up downstairs, and having delivered great whacking bowls of popcorn upstairs to the boys room (only to be met with the sweetest and most polite smiles when I begged them to keep it down), I closed the door, counted to five and heard the predictable roar of chaos resume.

Upstairs, much to my horror and amusement, I found the husband passed out cold in bed, under the covers and in for the duration.

Uh-uh that was NOT going to happen.  So after a concerted effort of combined pleas, whimpering and shakage, he awoke with a start and stomped downstairs.  Apparently he didn't have much better luck calming things down as he returned a few minutes later for a brief respite - freaked out that a few of the boys appeared to be twitching spasmodically and mumbling incoherently due to excessive sugar intake (this apparently down to me and my over-the-top provisions).

I was too tired to argue, and as he stormed back downstairs a few minutes later, all I remember is climbing groggily into bed and...well, apparently passing out for the night.  Oops.

Anyway, alls well that ends well, and they eventually fell asleep (so I heard) sometime around 3am!  In what has now become a time honoured birthday party tradition, we rewarded ourselves for a job well done, with a lovely stroll and a restorative tipple at a lovely local pub at noon the next day - trying to ignore a miserable Egg who had yet to receive his big birthday present from us and was gutted to hear that it definitely WASN'T an ipod touch.  (FYI it was better.  So there Egg.)

Bless him, he awoke on his (real) birthday morning a few days ago, begging to unlock the terrace and run outside and see if his 'magic plant' had grown a treat for him.  (Every year since he was little i'd bury a treat in one of the giant plant pots and he'd honestly believe that it had magically grown (a la jack on the beanstalk) for him especially.

I suddenly realised that I had TOTALLY forgotten to do it this year, and made some stupid excuse about not being able to find the keys to let him out and he looked at me, with that sweet smile of his, totally sussed the situation and somewhat wistfully enquired whether I had forgotten.

I did what any parent would do it this situation.  I lied.  Badly.

And later that day after school he went outside and found his box of chocolates and I overheard him telling his friend, "My mum pretends that there is a magic tree but she almost forgot this year."

Any day now he's going to put Bacon the bear on a shelf for good and stop sleeping with him and taking him around the house.  Any day now.

...and I shall weep.

:)

Last sleep as an 8 yr old...

Presents rock (thanks Aunties/Uncles!)

Sharing 'Birthday Weekend' with Dada on 'Father's Day' 

"Manic & Messy: Living The Anti-Rock n' Roll Lifestyle"

A favourite pastime:  removing and playing with dangerous cleaning chemicals

When I was young I imagined my future punctuated by all manner of exciting and adventurous episodes:  I saw myself touring with a band, being a travel writer, going on book tours promoting my latest best seller, attending glamourous parties with my equally glamourous partner, stroking the heads of my darling children as they gathered around me for a bedtime story, living in a big and beautiful house with even bigger beautiful grounds, acting in several cool, under-the-radar Indie films...you get the picture.

Instead, yesterday I found myself in a kiddie playground surrounded by a gaggle of annoying little children (and believe me they were annoying) buzzing around my ankles, and hoping desperately that I would wake up and it would all be a dream.

Maybe it was because I was on a fast and had low blood sugar.  Or maybe I was just desperately bored.

Whatever the case, I'm finding life particularly tiresome these days.  Ironically the baby (aka 'Squit') has recently started sleeping through the nights...IN HIS OWN BED...so that's not the problem.  And the older two, Egg and Dumpie, though messy, loud and strong-willed, are basically normal little boys who are no better or no worse than any other 6 and 8 year old boys.  I think.

No, whatever malaise haunts my soul these days has to do with me, and only me.  When one's favourite hobbies are wine drinking and sleeping, it is cause for thought non?

Still, life is not without its little joys.  The baby has turned into a right little snogger, and getting random heartfelt little kisses at unexpected moments can make even my stone heart turn mushy for a moment :)
(And it makes it easier to forgive the little rug rat when moments later he whacks me hard across the head with a drumstick or abandoned tennis racket.)

Perhaps I'm stressed and just not admitting it to myself.  For example, in just three weeks the husband and I will be carting our progeny to the worlds largest music festival for 3-4 days:  the mighty 'Glastonbury'.

At one time the thought would have filled me with glee and sent me scouring through ebay for the cutest wellies I could find.  Not this time however.  I basically stopped going to 'Glasto' several years ago after Egg was born.  Hedonism and dirty nappies aren't the most natural of bedfellows - just like hangovers and childcare.  See where I'm going with this?

The husband is of course gleefully contemplating time off work and excited about sitting in a field with his mates being stupid and silly. Bless him...he is woefully disillusioned about what the reality of a 'family Glastonbury' is going to mean.

But let him have his happy thoughts.  I love him and he deserves to be happy.  If even for a short time.  (Which is how long it will be until it dawns on him - probably about the time the tent is set up - what a big, big, ever-so-big mistake he has made.)

"Back In One PIece (Or Should I Say Pieces...?)"

Dumpie and his 'Mini-Me'

Having arrived back from our trip to Florida a few days ago, I am still dealing with the fall out:  never ending laundry, persistent jetlag, and a lingering sense of injustice and anger over the hellish return journey back to the UK.

The flight itself was of course a nightmare.  How could it not be? Though Dumps, the baby and I were given bulkhead seats for the express purpose of using the pull down cot, the raised eyebrow of the blond cabin steward when I timidly asked whether she might lower the baby cot for me to put Squit into, said it all.  It weren't happening. No way.  Not once she'd clocked the jump suited fat baby clambering on my lap waving his pushpop dangerously close to the ceiling lights.  So I resigned myself to 9.5 hours with a 12 kilo bomb on my lap.

(I say bomb because every time I slightly shifted in my seat to get the blood back into my extremities and prevent what I thought was going to be a certain case of record breaking deep vein thrombosis - Squitty Bang Bang's eyes would flash open with a blood curdling wail and I'd have to - as if against the clock in some sort of game show from Hell - try and attempt to manoever a breast out surreptitiously and stick it in his mouth before the guy to my right clocked yet another eyeful.  I would bet money, that even now, if pressed, the fellow could draw from memory a detailed representation of my mammaries.)

Egg, just like on the flight out, was seated one row behind us. However this time it wasn't an impressionable young boy from Leeds who was blessed with an unending stream of aeronautical facts - some of which were true and some which were clearly invented on the spot - but a young nursing mother who I suspect may not have been as eager a listener.

Luckily this boy had Egg to guide him through his first ever plane journey....!

And I also suspect, that despite my most stringent pleading and threatening, Egg once again spent his 9.5 hours watching age inappropriate movies and horrible tat ('Breaking Dawn' anyone?)....urghh.

At any rate, after countless spills of warm orange juice on my lovely camel-coloured cashmere wrap, and sticky fingers from abandoned lollipops stuck throughout my now matted hair, I was ready to disembark.  But I hadn't counted on the descent from hell (that's twice I've used that word...it's got to mean something).

The captain appeared to be playing 'Pin the Plane on the Runway', and I wouldn't have been surprised to have discover that somewhere over the Atlantic an impromptu Tequila shot party had taken place in the cockpit with a few of the more randy Virgin cabin staff.  I mean I've seen those ads on telly...  That is the only excuse I can come up with for what was a three parts comedy/7 parts horror landing.

As I always do in these situations, I looked to the nearest steward to see what her reaction was and the fact that she was white as a ghost and peering anxiously out the window every few seconds did nothing to instill any any confidence.  However I didn't have long to ponder my potential demise.

My stomach was doing those uneasy flips and felt that deep dark nausea edge its way into my guts and it was all I could do not to throw up right then and there.  For the moment the sickness trumped the fear and I just concentrated on keeping my lips tightly pursed.

I needn't have bothered.  Moments later as we clunkily crash-landed onto the runway (thank you Lord) the baby promptly expelled my nipple from his mouth and chucked up all over himself, me, and poor Dumpie who was thankfully passed out and oblivious.

I wanted to die, but instead graciously whispered 'thank you' to the sweet lady beside me who sympathetically handed over her lovely baby blanket for me to sop up the mess.  Her kindness almost made me cry.

Hanging out with Grandpa in the Florida sun

Luckily however, I saved my tears for a half hour later, when I suddenly found myself in the middle of an impromptu row with a furious 'Chav Dad' and several sympathetic female supporters.  You see I had been given the wrong pushchair (identical model and everything) at the gates when we landed and unbeknownst to me this 'Chav Dad' had specially requested that HIS pushchair be brought to the gates, and you can imagine where this is going....

With an "Oi!  You!  That's my pushchair!  What the ______!!" it all began.  I found myself being verbally assaulted in the most horrendous way across several queues in Customs by an almost frothing at the mouth man.  Women starting shouting their support and telling him to shut up which (as with these types of men) only made him angrier.  With tears burning in my eyes I realised it was futile to defend myself and instead frantically began unhooking the baby from the chair and trying to ignore the braying crowd around me. Two officials were suddenly upon the scene and had to escort me away, at which point I did what I almost never do:  I burst into tears.

My world travellers

I don't know whether it was the hours spent traveling with three kids on my own, the fact that my baby and I were covered in vomit, or the fact that a complete stranger (and fellow parent!  WTF?!) had been so vile to me...but whatever it was I couldn't help it.  Thankfully, the story has a happy(ish) ending, as we were escorted to the front of the 200+ person queue, given the next available agent, and our taxi driver was waiting right outside the gates to escort us home into the loving arms of the husband.

You can't ask for more than that.  You also can't ask me to travel several thousand miles on my own with my brood again for a long time.  I mean a long time.

Made it!

First Easter Bunny...lifelong chocolate addiction

48 Hours Until Fasten Your Seatbelts

You know when it has been SO long since you've done something (ahem...cough...uncomfortable silence...ie. this blog) that you can't possibly bring yourself to pick it up and do it again because it's so utterly shameful that so much time has passed?

Well there's nothing like an impending long-haul trip (as a SOLO PARENT!) to kick-start the fear, which in turn kick-starts the adrenaline, bypassing any lingering feelings of guilt and shame, and propelling you straight into the arena of 'public broadcasting' in the vain hope that misery shared is misery halved (or have I taken that one out of context?)

At any rate, I'm headed to the 'U. S. of Bloomin' A.' for a few weeks with:  an eight year old, a six year old, a 14 month old, three suitcases, one pushchair, 68 nappies, a too-small-never-worn Abercrombie and Fitch string bikini, and a heavy heart laced with dread.  You see, the husband isn't coming this time.  And the prospect of holding (or let's be honest, RESTRAINING) a 14 month old (who is under the illusion that he's two) on my lap for nine hours with no 'pretending to be sleeping' husband in the next seat to whom I can offload the fat baby to...well, it's no wonder I'm scared.

But I'm nothing if not determined (ask any salesgirl who has initially held the foolish notion that they would not be issuing me a refund), and given that the reward for journeying through hell and back (well you can't discount the return journey can you?) is some much needed time hanging out with my dearest Dad, the much-beloved procurer of copious amounts of chocolate eggs and other Easter goodies (not to mention much needed good advice!) - I'm just going to have to grimace and bear it.  Somehow.

Life being what it is, I was not the least bit surprised when the fat baby leaned over in bed just a few moments ago and puked all over the husband...and the clean sheets.  Of course he did.

Anyone want to take bets on whether I'll be arriving in Florida smelling of vomit, clad in biscuit crumbs (which over the total 14 hour journey time will mean I'll have plenty of time for it to harden into some sort of putrified 'mummy-like' mess) whilst trying to persuade a rather stern U.S. Customs agent that I do indeed have permission from my husband to be taking my kids out of the country despite being not in possession of the necessary letter - due to the fact that I was too busy trying to surreptitiously empty out Egg and Dumpies carry-ons of liquid glue, remote control cars and toy guns to remember to stuff it in my bag.

And so it goes...

Calling All Remaining Passengers...

We are at Mumbai Airport about to board a 9 hour plane ride home. Oh my. That last 'Slice' (sugar masquerading as as a mango drink - which the monsters are now totally re-addicted to) is now looking like a very bad idea. Dumpie is trying to dive bomb my handbag which he knows is stuffed with 'plane treats' and Egg is still pouting about having been shamed into spending 40 of his precious rupees on an airport ice cream cone for he and his brother.

Meanwhile The Fat Baby sleeps. This is not good. I mean it is, but there is no way he is now going to sleep a wink on the plane. The other thing there is no way he is going to do is fit in the bloody bassinet - even if I could squish him in there. On the way over we had to fold his legs into a yoga position (cross legged) and he's even bigger than he was three weeks ago.

All this and on three hours sleep last night. Rock and roll. Wish me luck.

Alls Well That Ends In Chocolate

Woke this morning to the sound of breaking breaking glass...on my head! Yep, the baby had obviously grown tired of sticking his little fingers up my nose and in my ears, and his usual foolproof method of punching and pulling my hair hadn't managed to rouse me from my delicious dream, so my 11 month old grabbed a nearby glass and smashed it over my head. That worked. I woke up screaming and cursing.

I'm pleased to report though that the day got progressively better: aloo parathas, lime pickle and curd for brekkie, followed by swimming in the sea with the monsters in the afternoon then an almost two hour 'porno-massage' which saw me begging the masseuse for one last session before we leave in a week.

Yet another lovely dinner on the beach was marred only by dumps taking up with another little boy (older, a hustler) and haranguing people on the beach for money in return for jokes, riddles and mind games. Oh the shame. He made 30 rupees though and is mildly pissed off that the takings weren't divided fairly down the middle - esp as dumps was used as bait to soften the marks up:)

Anyway a day that ends with the sound of waves in our ears and a still warm homemade brownie propped up next to us is no bad thing.

Sexy Swollen Stump Seeks Solace

Upon awaking this morning and feeling the brush of cotton over my left leg I let out a yelp. First it was the initial pain of fabric rubbing against a painful skin wound - then it was the horror that overnight my formerly svelte toe-ringed calf had been switched with that of an injured quadruple-bosomed old Greek lady or some such.

Very disconcerting.


And don't even get me started on what it's like to sleep three on a bed (in what is an Indian 'double' - roughly the size of a spoiled American teenagers 'single').

Somehow we neglected to remember to pack a portable sleeping solution for 'The Fat Baby' (as he's affectionately referred to these days). Turns out we also neglected to pack enough baby snacks and food too. But astonishingly we remembered to pack all manner of computer and gadget-related hardware and masses of accompanying plugs and adapters. Go figure. (Hey we may be suffering somewhat but darn it we will have a digital memory of it all and musical accompaniment no less...)

Anyway, the husband is off to his second rabies shot at the hospital and then on to a beach in north Goa to meet a friend.

The Fat Baby and I have a day to fill. Think I may as well concede defeat, go buy a canister of his beloved sour cream and onion Pringles and find a shady hammock somewhere where I can nurse my fetid leg in private.

Only eight hours and eleven minutes until happy hour.

"Hardcore Holiday?...or Paradise (Re)Visited?!"

Paradise and plentiful grub...

We’re currently smack-dab-in-the-middle of a much longed for three week trip to Goa, India.

Are we having fun?  You better believe it.  Is this holiday without its trials and tribulations?  Heck no.

For one, the husband was bitten a few days ago by a potentially rabid dog who had the unfortunate inclination to chase his light purple Enfield down a village road whilst he was ferrying our eldest son Egg.  By managing NOT to run the thing over the husband was rewarded by four canine shaped souvenirs in his right leg and a surprise trip to the local hospital for tetanus and rabies shots.

Rabies or just a bloody mess?

Not wanting to feel left out, yesterday whilst saddled with a 12 kilo+ baby tied to my front and a gadget and book heavy backpack slung over my already overburdened shoulders (and shamefully, decked out in a pair of bloody useless silver sequinned FitFlops – which Auntie Ba has scolded me for even owning – but probably for different reasons) I took a rather nasty tumble on a little sharp stoned pathway to the beach.  One minute I was gazing at the too beautiful to be real backdrop of sea and giant rocks, and the next I was doubled over in pain with a cut up left leg and a potentially sprained left foot.  Nice.  There was only one thing for it:  “a large Kingfisher and two glasses thank you very much sir.”

Of course as I pointed out to the husband, if called upon, we would make a most excellent team in a three-legged race.  (Either that or comedy fodder for diners watching us hobble down the beach at sunset for dinner – each sporty a gammy leg.)

The little guy is getting into the whole beach bum look....

Thanks to shoddy electrics and ‘do-it-yourself’ wiring, the husband also managed to give himself not one but two killer 220 voltage shocks this morning, trying to repair the broken fairy lights strung across the boys room.  I winced in sympathy having done the same thing myself a few days ago.  Will we never learn?

Being here with the baby has been an interesting learning curve in holiday expectation vs. cold hard truth.  For example, save the hour in the morning and afternoon when the baby slumbers, he is ‘on’ full-time.  Infused with seemingly endless energy and enthusiasm for the Indian subcontinent, he delights in putting absolutely everything in his mouth at the moment – be it a pepper shaker in the shape of a die, the nozzle of the 50 factor sun spray or a shiny 2 Rupee coin that has likely been anywhere and everywhere .

While the rest of us are eating like pigs and gorging on the rich delicious dals, channa’s  and kadai veg dishes mopped up with garlic cheese naan bread and washed down with fresh lemon soda’s and not-quite-ice-cold Kingfishers, the big fat baby is becoming…well, less so.  He’s decided that he no longer deems himself infantile enough to be fed baby porridge or anything mushy for that matter.  Instead, he seems to prefer omelettes and pancakes these days – and inexplicably, sour cream and onion crisps.

In the ten days we have been here I have been in the gorgeous Arabian Sea just once, and have sunbathed exactly 0 times.  Instead I have had hot Indian Chai knocked over on my leg, been smeared with dairy cream all over my clean new sarong, had my hair pulled out in clumps by sticky honey coated fingers, and have had my bikini top covered in vomit.

I am officially one of ‘those women’ now, who stare wistfully at the twenty-something year olds who, like show ponies, stroll up and down the beach in slinky bikini’s, aviators and glance at us bedraggled and kiddie-bound types with a combination of horror and relief.
When I ran into an old friend for the first time - the local girl who runs her own little beauty shop and does the best waxing in the world…EVER, she looked at me, clocked the baby, the unwashed and un-brushed hair, and the food-smeared t-shirt and smiled sadly.  “You are looking very different” she said motioning to the face.  “Yeah…no sleep for a year and a very fat and energetic baby will do this to you” I answered drolly – both of us trying to crack a smile but neither of us finding it particularly funny.

Room with a view...

Ah well.  At least I’m on holiday, in the sun, and can hear the crash of waves from our bedroom.  There’s much to be said for that.

And don’t even get me started on the ‘porno-massages’ the husband and I have accidentally on purpose had.  That’s another story for another day.