"The One Where I Pretend to be 'Sporty Mum'..."

Triumphant Medal 

I don't think that in the arsenal of descriptive words used to describe me, the word 'athletic' would pop up in the Top Ten.  Come to think of it, it's very doubtful that it would even make it onto the Top 100.

Now don't get me wrong.  I run, swim (strictly warm seas though - I deplore swimming pools and don't do cold), play tennis, table tennis, and once played defence for a whole season in football when I was twelve. Does that count?

What I don't do is cycling (sorry husband, but riding home pissed with you from Soho on my powder pink Brompton at stupid o'clock is about as adventurous as I get on two wheels...I simply cannot abide by the vile spandex costuming required by MAMILS in order not to chafe ones undercarriage. Besides, I have great respect for that undercarriage thank you very much and wish to preserve it in its current state well into my dotage).

I also don't do team sports.  My husbands says that's because I am not (and I quote) "a team player". True.  But I also don't like getting sweaty, running around a field and getting shoved or knocked into. I like my space.  Maybe if I could wear headphones whilst roaring around to "Rage Against the Machine" I could discover some unbridled passion for 'sport' but somehow I can't see it.

I also don't 'get' team sports and all the stopping/starting/scoring and the legions of fans that stand on the sidelines clapping/screaming/chanting.  I will watch Wimbledon, but that's as much for the strawberries and cream as it is for the short white skirts, headbands and tanned legs.  It's a good look.

So imagine my surprise when Squit and I rocked up to Egg's cricket championship against 18 other schools in the borough yesterday (check me out - it's a bonafide fact and it makes me sound knowledgable don't it?).  Husband, if you're reading this, I was the ONLY PARENT there from the class (ahem) cheering from the sidelines with the fat baby yelling, "Go Eggie" every time he came up for bat.

Proud little 'brudder'

(Note: Egg had to jog over at one point during a break in the game and gently explain the finer points of point scoring to me as I had apparently been cheering at the wrong parts...but I think i've got it now.)

Anyway, Egg's amazing coach smiled and walked over after the first match, probably curious about which of his charges belonged to the cheering baby and mum in ripped jeans, bright red lipstick and black RayBans, crashed out on a bright red blanket with her laptop open...in case she got bored?

my dude...being a Sporto...who would have thunk it?

We watched Egg's team decimate two different schools and I even eavesdropped whilst two parents from a losing team gossiped about how Egg's school had this legendary coach who was responsible for all their wins so it wasn't strictly fair (thankfully I managed to keep my mouth shut and stifle my inner hooligan).

I then watched Egg smash some amazing balls, throw like a pro, and dare I say I FINALLY got that feeling of PSP (Parental Sporting Pride) watching my little guy perform like a star.  But more importantly, I finally GOT IT.

I GOT that FEELING that I've only ever seen on sitcoms or dramas (think opening scene in 'Weeds'), of being a real live proper 'Soccer Mum' or 'Hockey Mum' or whatever you want to call it. Grimacing when Egg missed a ball, ears prickling with pride when he was cheered on by strangers...you know what I'm talking about.  In fact I'm probably the last one to 'get it'.

moments after a killer 'thwack' of the cricket ball

So I guess the moral of this story is that you CAN sometimes teach an old broad new tricks.  Which means that the husband probably shouldn't line up a divorce solicitor quite yet (he has been threatening that ever since he announced that he plans to spend his sunset years on the back of a bicycle and I can either join him or bugger off.)

Maybe, just maybe if I can turn into 'Sporty Mum' for a day, then who knows...getting me into some crotch-grabbing lycra might not be completely outside the realm of possibility.

Then again, as I make my second cappuccino of the morning and type, I smile knowingly to myself and think, "the knees...the knees" and wonder if it's not wisest to just sit back, let the years roll by and the husbands joints do the talking.

I'm not giving up on romantic rail or first class air travel just yet :)

"Home Alone 6...Anyone Fancy a Game of Black Jake?"

Bye-Bye husband (far left)...hello week of hell

Yesterday morning the husband departed (with two other equally mad mates) to spend five gruelling days cycling the Pyrenees.  He tells me with nervous glee that it will be the equivalent of doing Everest...twice (gulp).

Normally I'd be sympathetic, but truth is, he gets off on pain (not the Fifty Shades type alas), and besides - he's leaving me with the monsters to single-handedly 'hold down the fort'.  Of the two of us, I'm the one freaking out.

You know in those cheesy Hollywood films where the well-intentioned but useless adult stays home to take care of the kids, and the wife comes back to find everything trashed, the kids re-inacting 'Lord of the Flies', and the lone parent is found dazed in a chair staring woodenly ahead, utterly destroyed?

Well that's me. Pretty much every day.

You'd think that by boy number three I'd be a seasoned, 'broken-in' parent.  Not so.  If anything, I've become even more vulnerable...incredulous that this raving bunch of lunatics not only belong to me...forever...but actually issued forth from my loins...voluntarily!

The other day my Hungarian builder, watching me work alongside him for 11 hours like a crazed washerwoman, scrubbing nose pickings off of our lovely reupholstered chair, magic marker off the walls, and picking idiotically at stickers that will NEVER come off my antique mirror, finally felt led to remark, "Mother of boys is hard, no?  Very much work." I smiled wearily. "Yes...sometimes I just want to die." (Turns out that's T.M.I.)

The thing is, it's not just that they're smelly, messy destructive creatures who roam the house constantly foraging for 'treats' and other contraband.  They also have the ability to reduce me to tears or screams.  Sometimes both.  And that's despite them being totally adorable and funny and clever and all the rest.

Take last weekend.  Lying in bed semi-awake listening to my beloved BBC6 on the radio, I was distantly aware of Egg creeping in and whispering, "Mama, what's your phone number again?"  I mumbled the digits whilst dimly acknowledging that Egg was probably trying to memorise my mobile in case he ever needed it in emergency.

Not so.  He simply needed it to verify my details in order to authorise a MasterCard purchase of £280 worth of virtual chips on the gambling website he has apparently been frequenting with abandon for some time (using the husband's picture as his avatar to get over the age restriction clause).

Now we're not idiots.  We have been onto this for a long time...ever since we clocked him several months ago, watery-eyed and blinking back tears as he proudly proclaimed to a guest at his cousin's christening that he was currently ranked number 17th in the world in Black Jack on this particular gambling site.  That was in response to a simple, "...we hear you're rather clever at Maths?"  We thought we had closed. that. mother. down.

The thing is, my children are all crack whores of the internet.  Be it ipads, ipods, laptops or my iphone, they will connive, sneak, manipulate and even try and lock me in my bedroom by tying up my doorknob with skipping rope in order to gain unsupervised access to one of the plethora of devices we have littering our (apparently unsellable) home.  (At last count Eggie noted seven odd laptops lying around...) Squit and I are a familiar sight on our road: me propelling our battered old MacLaren pushchair past ladies-who-lunch, loaded up with too much shopping, and a toddler in front glued to an iphone playing video games...(conveniently hanging up on anyone who might ring and disrupt his point scoring).

It's not that I'm freaked out by the amount of time they spend in the virtual world (I am, but bigger fish to fry an' all that...) but shocked that despite the husband being a virtual I.T. genius, more than up to the job of online policing, Egg is nevertheless thriving in his latest twin pursuits of hacking and online gambling. Fully aware that his once sharp parents are becoming more feeble-minded, he is taking full advantage of our limited array of passwords to put his hacking skills to full use.

Still, nearly £300 out of pocket, Egg is insistent that I not share this latest 'disaster' with the rest of the family.  So I'm sharing it with the rest of the world.  (Of course by the time he figures this out he'll be well into adulthood and will no doubt look back on it with a sense of humour...the husband and I may have even rediscovered ours by that point).

Which brings me to my question:

Who has it harder this week?

The husband traversing epic mountains using only his gnarly shaven legs, disgusting liquid gels in lieu of food, and sheer determination...or me - armed with a xanax spiked glass of Pinot Grigio in one hand and a mop in the other, facing down three formidable adversaries, determined to BRING ME DOWN.

(note: it would be unfair of me at this point to omit the fact that on Thursday evening I shall be flying to Barcelona for a long weekend to help the husband celebrate his triumphant feat...leaving les monsters in the hands of my beloved Sis - who I PRAY TO GOD is not reading this blog right now)

"A Disclaimer...And Stuff"

care packet from my mum in Canada...LOVE HER (only she would send me my favourite 'Hickory Sticks' at a heart attack inducing postage cost...bless her, it has made my day :)

To those who don't know me terribly well, and to those who take me at face value, I realise with hindsight that I just may have come off as a bit of a twat the other day.  I mean, what the heck...complaining about not being able to upsize ones domicile in this ISIS age of atrocities and world disasters is not only pathetic, but terribly small minded.

So....to that end let me add a better-late-than-never disclaimer:  

"I, MoaningMum, hereby recognise my inherent proclivity to be consumed with problems that a great percentage of the world's population would love to have to wrestle with.  And I am sorry if my virtual whining has been the cause of any sort of reflux action on behalf of my readers. HOWEVER (and this is a big however), things are never  in 'real life' as they appear online.  We all know that. So bear in mind that some things are just too personal (and too horrible) to make public. Life is hard and a lot of the time it sucks...in a BIG way.  I try and make light of it when I can, and try to make myself laugh instead of sobbing all day in front of box sets whilst shovelling family sized bars of chocolate into my gob." (Ah, wait a minute.  Maybe strike that last bit?)

Truth is, I have merely touched upon, not even properly delved into, the disaster that has been my life this past year.  As an 'Outgoing Introvert', I am loathe to bare my soul over a bottle of wine (make it two or three and it's a different story), nor will I ring friends in time of need and beg for much needed help and support.  It's just not me.  I keep things PRIVATE with a capital P. So when I (truthfully) claim that this past year has been one of the worst in history...I meant it.  (And it ain't just about a house.)

Now let's move along shall we?

Yesterday when I broke the tragic news of Bacon's kidnapping, I neglected to mention that poor Egg had already been in a state of great distress having already lost his two favourite possessions:  a threadbare jumper which he adored and pretty much wore 24/7 for a year (except for when I'd cunningly extract it from his body and chuck it in for a much-needed wash) AND his wallet...containing several years of his savings from birthdays and doting grandparents. (My father in particular is never to know of this as it was he who vastly contributed to the booty during several trips to Florida and Toronto, when he'd hand Egg a wad of cash and lovingly instruct him to buy himself a treat. Only Egg never did.  He'd stash it.)

my beloved Egg...

We had begged him not to bring his beloved wallet to Goa, had tried to take it off him a thousand times, but to no avail.  Wherever he went - it went. One evening, panic-stricken, he felt in his pocket and discovered it was gone.  We all ran desperately up and down the beach straining our eyes in the hazy twilight, but to no avail.  (Here I must confess that we were not so much fuelled by empathy, but greed...)

Anyway, such is life.  Losing Bacon would of course eclipse the jumper and wallet fiasco, and with the addition of what we now refer to as 'The Airport Incident' and returning home to find that we had been outbid on our 'Dream Home on the Common'...well, I should have just thrown in the towel there and then.

Cuz guess what...it was all downhill from there.

"Once In A Lifetime..."

"And you may ask yourself What is that beautiful house? 
And you may ask yourself 
Where does that highway go to? 
And you may ask yourself 
Am I right?...Am I wrong? 
And you may say to yourself yourself 
My God!...What have I done?! "

Okay, so it's been a while.  Fine...a long, long while since I've posted.  I could lie and say that I've been 'too busy' (true, but not valid), or that I have been too despondent (getting closer to the truth), or that we've been so preoccupied with moving into our new home that we simply haven't had time for creative pursuits (downright bollocks - there IS NO new house dammit).

Ah, and there's the rub.  "THE HOUSE" situation.  Or rather, the utter lack thereof.  There is no house and I can't even imagine there ever being a house for us lot.  True dat.

I'm not used to losing...but maybe I should start getting used to it.  It would make my current life more habitable emotionally.  For you see, starting from January 2014 it feels like we've (barely) survived one loss after another.  Let me explain:

January 2014 saw us returning back from a lovely sojourn in Goa.  It also saw us missing our flight back to London due to being ensconced in a 5* still-under construction Mumbai hospital en famille, as little Squit (nearly two at the time) almost lost his pinkie finger due to an accident in the airport involving a heavy cement door.  Nightmare.  After an emergency nail-biting operation followed by a few days convalescing in a private room (during which the husband slept with the baby in his hospital bed, I crashed on the couch, and the other two shared the other hospital bed), we were finally ready to head back home.  But not before a middle of the night theft (we suspect the male nurse) of all cash from the husbands wallet, several group selfies from various members of staff (including surgeons) who kept up a constant stream of visitation and insisted on getting their picture with our fat blond baby in a cast, and countless reruns of 'Vampire Diaries' whilst we gorged on takeaways and tried to figure out the 'hot water running times' for our private shower.

But I digress.  Thankfully Squit got to keep his finger (very close call), and my penance for not having anticipated this spontaneous near-amputation was to be months of doctors visits in hospital and two additional surgeries.

However that wasn't the only thing lost that trip.  En route through security at the airport, Egg somehow managed to lose his best friend in the world...his treasured teddy bear 'Bacon' who he has literally had since birth and spent every day/night of his life with (aside from Bacon's few month sojourn in Florida when he was accidentally left at Grandpa's after a visit).  It was only as we wearily waited to board that Egg sat upright and started screaming.  I thought he'd been burnt or something, but he'd realised that Bacon was missing and he had no idea where he was.

last sighting of Bacon in Mumbai airport :(

What followed suit was a panicked race through the sprawling Mumbai airport (the husband and Egg going one way and me the other - leaving 7 year old Dumpie to fend for himself with all our luggage), begging airport officials and staff to look in 'lost and found' for us.  We should have realised: India ain't so big on 'lost and found' for the simple matter that whatever is misplaced will no doubt be fingered thankfully by a lowly-paid worker, assuming it to be a gift from the gods.  I mean, who wouldn't?

So long story short, Bacon was never found, and our family grieved (truthfully, i'm still grieving...on Egg's behalf) as a piece of his heart and his history went 'bye-bye's' forever.  (I must interject here and possibly apologise for the look of pure hatred and puzzlement I shot the husband - no doubt accompanied by some choice swear words - when he and Egg finally raced over to board at the last minute, Egg clutching this god awful gigantic powder blue bear the husband had insisted he buy 'as a replacement'(!?).  It has long since gone, and now with time I see what the husband way trying to do, but at the time I was like, WTF?!

Egg isn't the only one who misses Bacon :(

Anyway, all last year was spent trying to sell our current home and buy a bigger one.  How bloody boring and middle class I know (so pathetic compared to our goals of 2009/2010: to compose an album each and write our respective novels whilst taking a 1.5 year long sabbatical to the Far East).

But guess what?  We failed.  Spectacularly I might add.  In fact, truth be told, I am still so annoyed by my total waste of 2014, that I simply couldn't bear to write my blog and have to regularly face up to what a complete waste my everyday life was - consumed with the never-ending Herculean task of prepping for constant viewings - and how badly I was failing at such an important task (for our rambunctious three-boy family already spilling out the sides of our now painfully too small three bed flat).  So I didn't.  And that, Dear Readers (are there any of you left I wonder?...) is the bona fide reason my once bubbling along blog has sunk into the quagmire and been left to stagnate indefinitely.

Ah, but what is this then you ask?  "Moaning Mum" raising her world-weary head and taking a new look around and realising that yes, we buggered things up spectacularly last year, but gosh darn it we're all still fairly healthy and definitely still alive, and should shut the heck up because we are 'the lucky ones'.  (In recent months, our lives have been punctuated by the loss of more than a few beloved souls of friends/family and there is nothing like the rude shock of death and disease to transform your bitter heart into a thankful one.)  Okay sermon over.

So here I am, it's a sunny day, my lovely Hungarian builder is downstairs repainting our entranceway in shiny bright white, and we have today slashed a great giant chunk off of our previous asking price and are re-listing our well-loved home at rock bottom prices people.

And so it all begins again...(sigh)...though with double stamp duty, a massive increase in price of local real estate since we started this whole process (ours excepted), and brutally aware that are lives are now again going to revolve around constant subterfuge involving our bursting at the seams possessions being shoved last minute into drawers/under sofas/squeezed into our already crammed camper van parked round the corner (aka 'our spare room', as it can't even be used for transport it's so damn full)...it does rather make one want to stick one's newly appreciative head into a bright pink Aga.

"Bah-Homebug"

This morning we had a proper lie-in, only vaguely aware of our various trois enfantes terribles wandering in and out of our bedroom sanctuary, demanding batteries, food, and attention (in that order).  We weren't too worried about child neglect as an Auntie and a Grandma were somewhere in attendance, but what finally propelled us out of bed was the deep need to continue stuffing our faces with quadruple calorific intake (the better to run off in the New Year dear) and to begin our unofficial 'BED DAY' in earnest.

What we hadn't counted on was:
a) a milk flood in the kitchen (that's what you get when you leave a two and a half year old to get breakfast cereal on his own)
b) a potential fire hazard (dozing Grandma only vaguely watching 'Frozen' with grandchildren whilst a roaring gas fire flared near an entire pile of instruction manuals for all the various train sets the boys were gifted with (not one of which has yet been constructed)
c) the discovery that not even a single swatch of loo roll was to be found in any of the bathrooms

How ironic that with a heaving fridge (which necessitates an impromptu and usually unsuccessful game of 'Jenga' each time you need to get anything bloody out of it), healthy looking wine rack, and enough sweets to rot the teeth of a small village in India, we should run out of something as vital as loo roll.  Nightmare.

No mind.  That was eventually remedied after an emergency run to the local Co-op, requiring a somewhat garish (according to the husband) application of green eyeshadow and an all black ensemble.  Whatever.  I can't help it if I'm a frustrated artist - and besides, I'm sure I was a drag queen in my former life.  That's the only way to explain my love of all things glittery, leopard print and leather. C'est la vie.

Anyway, rather regretfully our 'BED DAY' never came to fruition and instead ended up as a domestic version of Survivor as our riot of stir-crazy boys spent the day chucking popcorn around the front room, stealing all batteries from various remote controls to get their toy cars careening around the place all at the same time, and tried to wrestle to death and prematurely end each others lives, and the husband and I were forced to fortify ourselves by substantially depleting our wine rack beginning as we intended to go on - with a 15% Rioja we thought might be up to the task.

Now here we sit, Christmas cartoons blaring on telly, Grandma and Auntie hiding upstairs from crazy sugar-fuelled monsters, and stuffing our faces with candied nuts, shortbread, turkish delight and red wine. Dinner needs to be prepared, but I find myself staring longingly at my lit-up-from-within gingerbread house (which thus far has managed to sustain the attempted attacks from the boys to crack the enticing melted jolly rancher windows) and wishing I lived in it...by myself...or at the very least wishing that we had been able to move to a bigger house this year.  One with a basement where mental children could be locked up with bags of Haribo and all three Toy Story movies whilst the husband and I sat upstairs in 'the library' listening to classical music, sipping port, and reclining peacefully, with only the sound of turning pages to distract from the crackling fire....

Yeah right.  Off to make homemade Oreo Cookie Ice Cream.  Because why stop now?  But first I must wrestle the giant can of Pringles from Egg, make sure the baby doesn't electrocute himself trying to charge up his black mini cooper remote controlled car from a live plug, and try and cajole Dumpie out of his new Xmas pj's for the second day running.  I'll take one out of three.

A Month of Babies...Bruises...and Bands

Okay okay...I hold my hands up.  Have totally fallen off my self-imposed blogging bandwagon I am angry that I have failed to issue forth even a minute missive on the goings-on of the past month...for they have been fairly significant.

Firstly (given that, rightfully so, a new little person on the planet trumps the husband and I pulling a 'Sonny & Cher' - or more like 'Kurt n' Courtney' - for the first time ever) a few short weeks ago I became an Auntie...yes, me!

My gorgeous baby sister issued forth from her loins a most precious little boy child (if it hasn't already become obvious to all and sundry, it appears as though my three sisters and I are destined to only produce heirs of the male variety...'winkie farmers' as it were) who is as cute as a button, with upturned nose and a rather startling brunette thatch of hair.  He weighs about as much as a ripe melon and secretly I'm jealous that he gets to wear all manner of adorable 0-3 months baby clothes, when all mine came home from hospital in age 3-6 month gear.

It was a harrowing labour, and sneaking Eggie past the snarky receptionist at the hospital with a giant tray of rice krispie squares (my sisterly attempt at an inventive post-labour snack), it was no surprise to find my little sis receiving visitors on the ward looking like an escaped princess from a Disney film, despite having been in labour for nearly two days.

Anyway, here's a pic of the little munchkin for all you lovers of small kittens and cuddly babies...

'scrump-diddly-umptious'

Obviously for reasons of privacy involving social media blah, blah, blah, I cannot reveal his true name, but suffice it to say that Squitty's moniker for him is even better, and therefore from here on in, my new little nephew shall be referred to as (and I quote) "New Cousin Zebanay".

The other big news this past month was that I took up running.  Again. In typical shallow (fashionista) fashion, the lure of the new Lululemon black ruffled Pace Setter Skirt was too difficult to resist and thus I purchased this wildly expensive item simply because it was simply too adorable and thus had no option but to take up running again just so it could get an airing, after having back-burnered my running career for almost two years now.

But that's not the point.  One morning I was pounding away on the pavement and thought I'd give off-piste a go, veering onto the grass only to go catapulting headlong several metres upon meeting an upturned root I hadn't noticed (so captivated had I been by Ghost Poet on my ipod). Face down, caked in dirt and gushing blood, several worried onlookers rushed over to see if I was okay (i wasn't damn it) but I simply blinked back the tears, painstakingly got to my feet and for reasons which fail me now, forced myself to hobble around for a final lap, sobbing as I went, and freaking out young and old alike.

the sexy knee in question...one week after

After a tearful phone call to the husband, the sympathy I had been awaiting never appeared, for that night, on HIS way home, he and his beloved bike met an unexpected pothole unawares and he limped up the stairs an hour later than usual that night with wounds as horrific and deeply gouged as mine - only on the opposite leg.  If I didn't know better I might have thought some serious one-upmanship might have been at play here.  (I need not tell you the absolute state of our bedclothes for the next week as we gingerly rolled about, trying to get comfortable at night, our matching sores weeping like mad and making any physical contact impossible.  We still have souvenir stains on our 800 thread count sheets and I have been banned from wearing any non-Mennonite issued clothing (ie. above the knee) until such time as my nasty looking wounds are fit for human viewing (so sayeth my not unreasonable sister, who still blanches every time she catches sight of it).

Anyway, if this past month began with brilliant news, then descended into near fatal dour direness, then I suppose the events of this past week once again tilted the life balance back into favourable, as the husband and I got the chance to perform in the SAME band, TOGETHER (I kid you not), when we performed at our friends' amazing wedding last weekend.

Despite having been saddled with a ten song set not technically in tune with either my personal tastes or vocal range (an eclectic playlist straddling everything from 'Fever' by Peggy Lee to 'Shook Me All Night Long' by AC/DC), by all reports it was a success, and was tremendous fun to perform. (So fun in fact the husband and I were probably momentary candidates for a 'Sliding Doors' scenario had the devil in a blue dress come and tried to tempt us with an alternate life as rock stars, trading our weekly Waitrose shops and habitual school runs for champagne bubble baths and private jets. Alas...)

I'm also fairly sure that Eggie and Dumps (who no doubt took great amusement from seeing their parents wailing to strangers on stage as opposed to in the kitchen yelling) will never forget the scene...just as I will never forget Eggie wandering onstage after the first number, totally oblivious to the fact that we were mid-set, wanting to show me the footage he'd just shot on his ipad...right there and then bless him.

So here we are, at the end of another busy cycle, our home newly back on the market with yet another agency, ready to begin the whole hellish process of not just selling/buying/moving home, but also the nightmare of open days, registration fees, tutors and interviews as we attempt to procure a suitable place for our eldest to continue his studies next year. I'm already tired at the prospect and that particular circus hasn't even barely begun (sigh).

And then of course in the meantime I'll have to use my carefully honed interior decorating skills to strategically place pillows and other odd bits of mismatched textiles around the home for the foreseeable (paying special attention to our bespoke bloodied duvet) to hide the numerous yoghurt/mud/cereal/wine stains that litter nearly every square inch of every single piece of furniture in this house, during the many scheduled upcoming 'viewings'.

Kill me now.  Seriously.

"Eighteen Years" (...Plus All That Other Stuff)

So here I sit, in desperate need of a shower and spruce up after a day spent doing the 'right thing' (ie. the 'parental right thing'- given we have sprogged three spogs and all...) on a comedy family bike ride (Fat Baby wobbling both precariously and hilariously from the back of the husbands 'fixie') to Battersea Park on what just happens to be our Eighteenth Wedding Anniversary.

In a perfect world we'd be in our fave Brighton hotel, downing whisky, or maybe wine, and a dozen Krispy Kremes to boot - pre-posh dinner - reclining in total slothfulness upon a high thread count duvet, metaphorically moaning in ecstasy over the luxury of being sans kiddies and able to actually a) listen to music - actually LISTEN to it and not strain to hear what band is playing above incessant whining/quarrelling/screaming of three little boys  b) stay in bed all day if we want  c) read...read...and read some more (the papers, novels, kindles, room service menu, whatever...)

Anyway, in Brighton we are not.  So armed with some fine boozes for laterz and hazy dinner plans at our local Italian (did I mention we are channeling new heights of hardcore laziness these days?) we decided that having spent the morning in bed in decadent fashion whilst our two year old sorted himself out with pink milk and cheerios (not together - although that would probably be rather tasty fare to a toddlers palate come to think of it) and Egg stayed glued to his ipad (hopefully straying occasionally from the online casino he has, much to our horror, discovered and become disturbingly addicted to in the past few weeks), and Dumpie amused himself building strange and ergonomically questionable creatures out of Lego, we would at least put on a decent show of being decent parents.

So we carted them out en masse early afternoon with vague promises of a pub lunch and a playground visit after our Battersea Park bike ride, and off we went.  It was a lovely sunny summers day, and for a moment it felt perfect - almost too perfect.  Then we ventured into a peaceful pub garden, immediately rendered it un-peaceful and proceeded to gorge ourselves silly on overpriced battered cod and chips with extra chips (boys....what are you going to do?) whilst the husband carried on a most sincere and animated conversation with our flattered but confused Swedish server and I tried to keep the contraband bag of M&M's I'd smuggled in my backpack safe from renowned sugar addict Egg by randomly swatting his hands whilst taking surreptitious slurps from my giant goblet of Pinot Grigio.  A typical family pub lunch in other words.

Fat Baby immediately spilled his £3 orange juice, burst into tears, and peace was only restored after the husband and I dutifully doled out our respective iphones into eagerly waiting hands and cast sympathetic glances at one another as we wearily sipped away our collective angst, and for a moment life was okay again.  Sort of.

Then Egg nearly crashed into a pedestrian at the playground entrance, and the baby escaped one too many times to go chasing after him (potential kidnappers be damned) and we decided that playgrounds are supremely depressing places (don't ask why - that's a whole other blog post for another day) and that the bottle of chilled champers at home was pleading to be released from its frigid fridge prison.  And so we rounded up the lads and scarpered.

Peace is now restored, and as we lie on our beds in companionable silence (one of the benefits of marrying your best friend and staying together for a gazillion years), sipping the last of our champagne and trying to summon up the energy to get showered, dressed and slip out for the obligatory 'Anniversary Dinner' (despite being rather full from a rather misjudged chocolate-covered-pretzel binge less than an hour ago), it comes to mind that those 'Talk Talk' fellows had it right all along.

Life is what you make it.  If you look too closely at the myriad of cracks which adorn any relationship, you miss out on the lovely messy collage of your life and instead focus on all the needling bits that you want or think you need to fix.

My sage advice for the day is that if you find someone who makes you laugh, who you make laugh, and still fancy each other after a million years and can demolish a whole dozen donuts and a bottle of Merlot together with no shame whatsoever - not to mention procreating a tiny horde of little people who will push you to the brink of insanity each and every day for years to come - and STILL not want to kill each other...

...well that my friends is lurve.  It just is :)

Purchased by Egg with his own pocket money...bless

(Happy Anniversary husband.  May we continue to grow young in disgraceful fashion, march to the beat of the (non-existent?) drummers in our respective (perhaps deluded?) heads, and never forget that like only yesterday, we were seventeen and desperately in love and had our whole lives ahead of us.  And this is what that looks like nearly a quarter of a century on (to those of you  who may be just starting on a similar crazy journey...)

"Dettol Deliberations"

I think the world over it's quite common for one to 'clean up for the cleaner' before they arrive.  A sort of pre-wash stain treatment as it were, for the extraneous filth which can settle like dust over the general mess and disarray of the typical kiddie-fied home.

But I wonder if anyone has ever had to clean up after their cleaner?

I ask, because after taking the children out for four hours today to let the lady do her job, I arrived back to find that she wanted a word with me before she left.  Immediately I was filled with trepidation.  For two weeks ago she broke into smithereens a very expensive limited edition designer bedside lamp I adored.  And last week when she was upstairs doing our bedroom there was an almighty crash that caused me to jump out of my seat and tear upstairs, only to discover that my lovely art deco mirror had come crashing to the floor.  I solemnly asked her to just leave the polishing to me from now on.

So today when she wanted a word, I was relieved to hear that nothing was broken - only that our large creme John Lewis bedroom rug was soaked from having been left outside and not brought in during the sudden deluge that hit around 2pm today (sigh).

So....

The bigger problem you see is that our cleaner is apparently nicking things as of late (a friend of mine fired her a month ago over the continued helping herself to fairly substantial quantities of gourmet chocolates and some self-tanning gel.  Go figure.  Even my sis (who I also recommended my cleaner to) has openly caught her trying on her expensive makeup (urgh....the hygiene implications don't bear thinking about).

As for me?  Well, I guess I have noticed the odd thing missing, but then I'm a silly old stupid softie at heart - and unless she takes something expensive or irreplaceable I guess I've given to turning a blind eye. The husband, wisely, has insisted we tell bid her 'bye-bye' for several months now, but frankly I've been incredibly reluctant to do so.

First off, the weekly four hour clean keeps this place from looking like the set from 'Slumdog Millionaire'...for a day or so anyway until the boy scum builds up again. Thief or not I ain't letting her go until I find a replacement.  End of.

Secondly, I can't help imagining what I would feel like in her place.

I mean working for a young(okay fine...young-ish) woman with a wardrobe to die for, top of the line cosmetics, and enough shoes to rival Imelda Marcos would drive a minimum wage young foreigner batty were she that way inclined.  As for my jewellery - until recently I used to have it splayed out like some sort of pop-up Portobello Market around the bedroom, and could totally picture her trying some of it on and maybe slipping the odd piece into her pocket thinking - no, KNOWING - that i would never  notice its absence.

Finally, like I said yesterday, I've kind of gotten used to losing a lot of what I hold dear.  The boys have all gone through stages of nicking my stuff (sparkly expensive jewellery being a favourite) and many a time I have found a treasured ring buried deep in a pile of plastic Go-Go's and broken toy cars.  Since springing the sprogs I've been conditioned to accept personal possession loss and destruction on a big scale.

On the other hand, today when she left and I found that SHE had left a little mess for me to clean up?  Well I saw red.  I was like 'WTF??!'....clearing up after ONE more PERSON?!  Are you KIDDING me?

Seriously??...AND a soaked rug?!

Yeah so...maybe it's time to start making plans for other options.  In fact after I post this I'll open my reminder app on my iphone and add it to the ever growing list of things I desperately need to do. (Think i'm up to number 17 actually - and that's not including long term to-do's like my most shameful:  claim travel insurance for emergency dental work in Bali in 2010.  I kid you not.)

But you know what?  Even as I type this, I think we both know that my sticky fingered duster and (former) polisher ain't going nowhere.  In fact has nothing to worry about.  For a long, long time.

"I'm Ready for My Mug Shot"

Who the heck put US in charge of three kids...seriously?!

There's this prison drama called 'Orange Is The New Black' which I recently devoured (fine, a little late after the rest of the world cottoned onto it - but you're speaking to someone who still has yet to check out the much acclaimed 'Mad Men' now into its umpteenth season...if it's even still going??)

The point is i have NO TIME to even blog most days, so how I'm supposed to find time snuggle up the husband (who incidentally loves snuggling up, but ain't so keen on telly - or even movies for that matter) and consume box sets is beyond me.

But still, somehow, between breaking up hourly wrestling matches between Dumpie and Egg, keeping Fat Baby from jamming screwdrivers into power sockets, and doing 2-3 loads of laundry a day (not to mention the usual toilet scrubbing/food prep/constant dishwasher loading/emptying, etc, etc, etc, ... i bore myself even mentioning it so how much more any readers...urgh), I have managed, stealthily, and with the aid of early evening coffee - to get through the first two series of a most addictive show (Lauren Laverne is a huge fan and I rate her - so I can't be totally deluded).

Of course the one problem with literally inhaling hours upon hours of a story and its characters, is that (at least for me) you begin to completely relate to them and their situation, and it's extremely difficult for me to not look around and make (un)favourable comparisons to my current living situation...and PRISON.

Let me explain.

1.  Much like prison, I am not allowed to sleep in.  Ever.  Egg makes sure of that by creeping in daily at dawn like an ipad-addicted Gollum, nicking the husbands power supply and rustling about for his contraband ipad.  He nearly always finds it.  More often then not the husband is too exhausted to chase him down the stairs and retrieve it, but when he does, it is not unlike a peeved prison guard on the warpath, and either way the shouting out to cease and desist nearly always permeates my blissful Anne of Green Gables-esque dreams and sends me hurtling back into the reality of our clothes-strewn bedroom and the finicky British summer weather.

2.  Much like prison, I occupy the majority of each day doing meaningless menial tasks with no compensation.  At least on the prison show they make 11 cents/hr or something.  All I get for my troubles is the odd bag of crisps if I can get to them before Egg does.

3.  Much like prison, I often have my personal possessions rifled through willy nilly with no thought as to breakages or valuables or privacy.  Just now for instance I walked into my bedroom to find my entire bedside drawer emptied onto the floor and my favourite playing cards trampled on and crushed. In the past month alone I have had the cables from my headphones cut in half, and the arm from a beloved pair of vintage sunglasses broken off.  No one cares.  Not even the husband.  (He says I have too many sunglasses anyway.)

4.  Much like prison, I am riding out a sentence, but likely not eligible for early release due to good behaviour because a) you cannot kick your youngest out of the house until they're at least 18 - correct?   and b) I certainly would NOT quality for 'good behaviour' - that's for sure.

5.  Finally, much like prison I have NO PRIVACY.  I can't even take a shower or bath in peace (more often than not the first stirrings of the taps bring at least one or two of the little rug rats scurrying in, shedding their clothes as they come, eager for a much sought after 'bath with Mama'...(except Egg I guess.  Come to think of it I think he may have actually outgrown that particular compulsion without me even noticing.  He is ten.  And we are not German.  So this is probably a good thing.)

Anyway, that's my moan for the day.  I'm done.  I feel like an inmate, most days I resemble an inmate, and the husband often feels like a visitor who gives me pep talks before work and at bedtime (although to be fair, they less resemble pep talks and more resemble ill-advised 'you have it easy compared to me' speeches - which not only leave me cold, but leave me wishing I could yell out:

 "Guard!  Guard!  We're done here!"

and have me led out into some electric wired enclosure where all I have to contend with are some beefed up horny lesbians out to cop a feel and not three bored, water-balloon crazy little monsters intent on destroying this prison-like cell we inhabit.

That is all.

"Top To Tail"

So we're here in Canada for but a few days this summer.  Having permanently shunted ourselves over to the British Isles nearly two decades ago, we long ago established a tradition of spending portions of the summer here, though giving it a miss entirely last year meant that convenient or not, this year we had to make a fly-by visit, if only for a week, the result being that an entire month's worth of things need to be crammed into an almost impossible timeframe.

So it was with some delight that I discovered that the 'official family spreadsheet schedule' for this 'holiday' (I kid you not - one actually exists - the fact of which causes me great mirth) allowed me the blessed chance to indulge in a luxurious facial.  I know, I know, there are many 'Yummy Mummy' types who regularly indulge in what I can only refer to as 'damage management'.

Sadly, I am not one of those.  Not that I'm against the concept per se, but frankly, with three little boys and no time to call my own (save when the last one is in bed and I want nothing more than to free fall backwards onto my 800 thread count clad goose down - snatching an Advil PM on the way down), the concept of luxury 'Me Time' is laughable these days.

So my divine sister (the bestest friend and partner in crime a girl could ever hope for) thoughtfully arranged this lovely surprise for us (though why she needs a facial when she is a mere few years younger than me but still looks eighteen - the lucky cow- is beyond me).

What ensued was the most dopamine fuelled high I have felt in a loooong time.  Probably since the days of acid house and tearing around India on a motorcycle with the husband, high on freedom and the impossible longevity of youth...

I swear I almost reached Nirvana, (certainly enlightenment:  something to do with running away and reinventing myself - snagging a fat balding Russian oligarch and getting to indulge in daily facials/massages/Chanel handbag bingeing for the rest of my days) and the fact that I actually looked (if not years younger - less like a washer woman and more like someone who might employ such a person) was merely the icing on the proverbial cake.

Afterward, for the remainder of the day, I found myself glancing at my visibly tightened visage, marvelling at the transformation of my now nearly invisible pores, tighter jawline, and general glow of...could it be...youth?!

Hurrah, I thought, maybe something can be done to halt the ever widening gap between carefree youth and adult nappies that doesn't involve needles, surgery or turning myself into a gurning Madonna-esque clown face with elevated comedy cheekbones and strangely shrinking cat's eyes.

But then my Mum happened.  I love her so much, and she makes me laugh all the time.  I consider her one of my best friends in the world and always will, but sometimes when I haven't seen her for awhile I forget about her occasional absent-mindedness.

So when I was getting ready for bed the other night, and asked if she had any gentle face wash (as I had been sternly instructed by the esthetician to only use tepid water that night and nothing else) but alas had found the allure of the MAC make-up counter impossible to resist, what with its' new limited edition line of what I can only describe as 'Scary Stephen King Clown meets 90's Homeless Goth' without doing my customary round of trying out every single new crazy colour of face paint - emerging thereafter looking like a stripper/drag queen/mental patient and grinning at the look of horror on my Mum and sister's face at my lime green eyeshadow and ice pink lip stick.

(Limited edition or not, I was promptly instructed to wipe my face clean or I was on my own for the rest of the day, as there was no way they were going to go around with me looking like a mental patient who'd gone berserk during Arts & Crafts.  I good-naturedly obliged, but not before sneaking out having purchased the amplified lipstick and an inky black eyeshadow.  It's heavenly and looks amazing on - even if, as they suggested later over dinner - I have reverse facial dysmorphia and think I look great when in fact I look hideous.)

Anyway, I digress.  The reason I needed to obey the strict orders to keep any chemicals at bay was to let the expensive ingredients soak into my skin and do their (not inexpensive) job.  So what did I do? Blithely neglect to properly read the packaging on the 'gentle facial wipes' my Mum handed to me whilst typing away on her ipad, and scrub the heck out of my new and improved face, before crashing for the night.

The next morning I awoke to find my face awash in spots and blemishes.

"Maybe it's the impurities coming out?" my sister gently suggested later that morning when we met up...her own face aglow from the facial and making her look even younger than her usual half her age.

"Hmphh" I grunted, wondering how to cover up the huge boil that seemed to be developing in real time on my right cheek.  I had woken that morning and gently used those expensive facial wipes again, so it wasn't like I had trapped Toronto dirt stuck in my newly virgin pores...I just didn't get it.

Later that day I heard the most startling guffaw as my Mum emerged from the loo, clutching the facial wipes, doubled over with laughter and barely able to stop chortling long enough to utter the words,

"The wipes!....Hahaha...the wipes I gave you.....!  They aren't for your face!  They are bottom wipes!  Oh Honey I am so so sorry!  Hahahahahahaha....."

I glared.  I screamed.  I glared at my boil.  My sister started choking with laughter.  I lost it and gave into fits of hysterical laughter which took some time to subside.

Many years from now my temporarily tightened visage will be but a distant memory...but I will always remember my beloved Mum inadvertently giving me harshly chemical 'Bottie Wipes' to use on my post-facial face.  And I will laugh and laugh to myself as I rock myself further and further into dementia in my rocking chair in my old age home...face plastered in make up in all the colours of the rainbow...thinking I look rather a picture.