"And Survey Saaaaaaaaays........"

I certainly didn't have to wee on a stick to put myself out of my misery this morning.  All I had to do was turn on my laptop.

I saw the familiar email address from the agent, followed by one from the husband.  And then I just knew.

Deliberating momentarily I couldn't decide whether fashioning a frothy cappuccino was in order before clicking to read my fate, but decided in favour of a short, hard, fast shock to the system.  Either way I just wanted the suspense to end.  And it did.

Were we going to live happily ever after in 'Dream House No.3'? or were we destined to continue wandering property porn websites like addicts in search of the elusive 'hit'.  Were we going to find ourselves chucked out on the street in a few months time, into some lacklustre rental stop gap?  Or would we be roasting chestnuts on an open fire at Christmas?  (I mean this literally as it so happens that 'Dream House No.3' has a delightful working fireplace positioned regally between two banks of bookcases in the grand Front Room.

But never mind all that.  We didn't get it.

Of course we didn't.  It would have been too easy, too seamless, and too perfect to have sold and found a new house all in the space of a week. It would have been too good a story.

Besides who likes chestnuts anyway?

"The Million Pound Question"

I lie in bed tossing and turning, half drifting off several times before admitting defeat and venturing out of the bedroom and onto a comfy sofa to tap away on my laptop until sleep comes...if it comes.

You see I'm wired.  I feel as though I've just necked seven Redbulls and despite it being long past midnight, I can't blame my insomnia on the chubby fat toes of my youngest, who has crawled into bed with me and has taken up his usual                                                                    vertical positioning.

No, I am properly revved up.  For you see, after about a year and a half of trying to sell our three bedroom London flat, we have finally done it. Last week we officially declared defeat and did what we should have sensibly done months ago: lowered our asking price by a ridiculous amount and accepted a ridiculous offer even lower than that.

Bingo.

So that was that.  I guess like that old sage Kenny Rogers says, sometimes you've got to know when to fold 'em. We finally did, and the mixture of relief/disappointment/excitement/hopefulness and finally despair (after a sobering look at the over-inflated property prices in our area revealed that realistically we should be looking for a four bedroom closet with a cheeky thatch of grass out back) was something to behold.

Needless to say, minutes after our solicitor had been instructed, I had already compiled a shortlist of half a dozen properties to view - most of which were technically in reach should we get a deal and one or two which would mean food stamps and cold baths for the next ten years. At least.

Typically, I ignored the first rule of house hunting:  Do not let agents talk you into seeing properties both you and they know you can't afford.

The first house I viewed on my own, after which followed a frantic call right then and there on the sidewalk, to the husband, the agent looking on with a smirk.

"Can you leave work early?!  I think I've found the one!!"

(Cue disinterested typing on laptop in an office far away and a barely audible grunt having nothing to do with the bomb I've just dropped.)

"Seriously!  How soon can you come here?  The agent is willing to stay late to show it to you!"

I won't bother to recount the rest of the conversation, but suffice it to say it included a variety of expletives, some marital telling off, and ultimately a refusal to comply.  I was gutted...and started to feel panicky.

Not unlike a physically sub-standard fella who has inexplicably bagged the hottest supermodel on the planet and is about to go off to Dubai for six months while she resides at the Playboy Mansion, I was distinctly aware that the house I had just viewed was so 'special' that it was inevitable that some other bugger was going to nose in, discover this, and slipping his black Amex card across to the agent, break our hearts all over again (ie. a repeat of what happened to both 'Dream House No.1' and 'Dream House No.2' we had both loved and lost in the preceding year and a half).

So I did what any (non)sensible wife would do.  I shut up about it and secretly booked an early morning appointment for the next day.  I then coerced the husband into going (maybe I threatened to stop doing his laundry for a month or feed his three children...I don't remember), then proceeded to follow him around the viewing, totally invading his personal space and whispering excitedly all the amazing points the house had - until he stopped in one of the rooms, did a sudden about-face and told me to shut the heck up as he wanted to think/see/feel for himself.

I managed to keep quiet and backed off for as long as I could (sixty seconds tops?) before resuming my creepingly close, 'Gollum-esque' stance - the nervous rubbing of hands and excited whispers proving impossible to stifle.

All this to say, the predictable thing happened.  The rest of the homes we saw paled in comparison. This was likely due to the fact that they were all pretty much in our realistic price range as opposed to a post lottery win.  And the other "Would have to sell our best kid on the black market" one was temptingly huge but stuck in the Edwardian times from a design perspective, and given that even putting up a mirror in our home takes months, I knew we would always be living in a place with old-fashioned bright yellow creepy crawly wallpaper so....

...here we are.  I'm still unable to sleep, despite trying to rid myself of all the anxious excitement generated by the latest (YAWN) property adventures of the severely middle-class.  For you see, we have predictably/stupidly been bidding low on the magical house for the past week, and just tonight put in our final, literally can't go five pence higher, final bid.

After rejecting every single offer we've submitted, with a polite but firm 'NO', the vendors have at last decided to put us out of our misery, promised to discuss things one last time tonight, and let the agent know first thing tomorrow whether they'll give it to the salivating Ex-Pats or whether they're going to take their chances and hold out for the next Chelsea Banker to stroll past and buy it up as casually as one buys Park Place with a lucky roll of the dice.

Do you see why I can't sleep??

"My Wee (Wee) Problem"

Squit and I have a problem.  We have reached an impasse.  At 3 1/2 he is clever, funny, and easily possesses the best disposition of anyone in our entire family - extended or otherwise.  But he's still not potty trained.  Not even close.

In fact, if there was a neutral position on the subject, he would be to the far LEFT of that.  It's not even something he's willing to discuss anymore, and should I be foolhardy enough to drop it casually into conversation, he will stop what he's doing, fix me with a unwavering glare, cross him arms insolently and leave the room (usually with an entirely age-inappropriate expletive that would have Super Nanny huffing in horror).

A few weeks ago he had an induction afternoon at the nursery he starts part-time in September. There are strict guidelines regarding the soiling of oneself, and should I fail to deliver a wee-free toddler in  6 weeks, he shall not be going to nursery and I shall not be kiddie-free five mornings a week.  This cannot be allowed to happen.

One day a few months ago, whilst untangling the daily mountain of damp towels on the bathroom floor, I noticed that someone had placed the blue potty seat on top of the regular toilet.  Further inspection revealed a few tell-tale amber droplets left behind and a big sopping wet discarded nappy I had NOT had any dealings with, plopped triumphantly by the bidet.  Now curious and confused, additional sleuthing in his nursery revealed a turned over top dresser drawer, an empty plastic packet devoid of its new undies and an incredulous peek at Squits bottom downstairs revealed the tell-tale Gap band peeking above his little Levi's.

I was flummoxed.  I assumed it had been a brother job, but Egg and Dumps were as astounded as me. It suddenly dawned on all of us that incredulously, Squit had quietly taken matters into his own hands, potty trained himself, and had gotten on with it stealthily and without fanfare.  

At that moment, believing that I had given birth to an utter genius, excited calls to Aunties and Grandparents ensued, and an impromptu family celebration was declared for the evening: pizza, popcorn, chocolate, a movie, sleepover with his brothers, etc.  For the remainder of the day Squit was treated like a Saudi Prince - no request too big and no pleasure denied. The little man plopped himself into the best chair in the front room whilst we all scurried around doing his bidding, practically worshipping the chunky little deity for his ingenuity and potty pragmatism.  Shaking our heads in wonder and awe, laughing at the absurdity of it all, we couldn't believe that months of worry could be over just like that.

That night after bath time he insisted we cover his chubby white bottom in a nappy again.   Which he promptly then soiled. 

The new Gap superman undies were flung with derision across the room, landing unceremoniously askew on his little stuffed monkeys head. Squit stood with his arms crossed, stubbornly clutching his little elbows and refusing to budge.

So there you have it.  Impasse.  I need to be smarter.  I need to be brimming with cunning maternal genius and resolve.  I need to attack this situation with the military precision of a general.

Instead I'm sitting here defeated in my front room, in our home which will not sell, staring glumly out the window at the cold wet grey day that perfectly encapsulates the state of my aching head and spasming back. Our cleaner arrives in a few hours and two out of three of our bathrooms are currently not fit for human occupancy.  Squit is demanding his third breakfast of the morning and I am dimly aware that in a few days we shall potentially be heading to the Suffolk countryside for a weekend of likely WET family camping.

I am not feeling particularly powerful.  Nor optimistic.  Rather I have the sinking feeling that Squit is purposely holding out on the potty training for the sole purpose of putting off further education indefinitely and staying ensconced in the safe cozy realm of 'Mama-land' here at home.  And who can blame him?  A bit of wet discomfort in the nether regions in exchange for lie-ins, endless repeats of Mr. Tumble (fyi I swear I might top myself if I have to listen to even one more jovial exclamation from that televisual terror of an entertainer) and of course - three breakfasts daily.  

There's no competition.

"Latitude Festival En Famille..."

Like everything fun in life, there is always a price to pay.  And as any 80's kid will recall, that hard-as-nails dance teacher in Fame said it all: "Fame costs...and here's where you start paying!"

Tell me about it.  Festivals cost...and laundry, camper van clean up, and three nights of bad/no sleep is where I start paying.

Truthfully we had a blast.  Once I accepted that every morning was going to be HELL (nothing worse than three bored little people screaming/jumping on you/fighting each other/chucking food around the camper van at stupid o'clock, while you nurse a hangover of apocalyptic proportions and would happily donate a kidney for even a micro second more sleep) the rest of the day was a lark in comparison.

Five of us in a camper van was a stretch.  The two big boys slept up top, and the husband, myself and the ever increasing in girth Squit shared what amounted to a small double bed down below.  What fun.

I spent the nights swatting mosquito's (which involved slapping myself repeatedly in the face and head like a mental patient), tried (to no avail) to ignore the husbands bear-like snoring, and got bashed about the head like clockwork by Squit.  Sleep not an option, I was sorely tempted to venture back into the festival for late night frolicking.  Had we not been camped in the furthest outskirts of the festival, and had I not already removed my contact lenses (having stupidly omitting to pack specs) I most certainly would have been found dancing the Honkstep in the hilarious and rowdy Ukrainian tent we stumbled upon one night in the forest.

The boys (11, 8, 3) had a great time.  How could they not?  Hitting us up for cash on an hourly basis in order to stuff their faces with ice-cream, chips and whatever overpriced junk food they came across, was bound to please.  As a large group of us went together, the children formed a tribe of their own and spent most of the time wandering the grounds like a sugar-crazed pack of orphans...figuring out new scams to rid the parentals of pounds in order to buy all manner of leather bracelets and bubble guns.

The husband and Squit proved best bosom buddies - the pair of them loafing about like groupies in various tents and fields listening to bands like 'Warpaint' and 'Young Fathers'.

Me?  As with most festivals, in hindsight it seems like a good 40% of my time was spent queuing for the toilet.  Seriously.  It was so baking hot that liquid intake was a necessity and hence....you get the picture.

Speaking of toilets, one of the worst things is having to go wee in the night and stumbling for ages across damp fields to the portable loos.  So a few years ago I found a solution:  "Travel John's".  A genius invention, they allow one to quietly and discreetly empty ones bladder in the privacy of a tent.

The husband duly set up a small two man tent next to the campervan for 'Mama's loo'.  Brilliant. Except one morning Dumpie poked his head in whilst I was mid-stream, tights around my ankles, and yelled out to all and sundry, "Gross!  Mama's weeing in the tent!"  I shooed him out only to have Squit pop his head in moments later to confirm for himself that his mother was indeed 'weeing in a tent.'

Predictably, a short while later whilst queueing for the toilets with all three boys in tow (giving the husband a much needed quiet 'moment' to read and finish off an entire pack of Bacon himself in the glorious morning sunshine), Squitty shouted out in front of perhaps fifty odd people, "Mama, why did you make a pee pee in the tent this morning?"  Dumpie snorted with laughter and I died a small death.

"Squitty" I stage whispered, "Mama did NOT make a wee wee in the tent...ok?"

"Yes you did Mama!  I saw you!  You had your trousers down and were making a wee wee!" he confirmed with glee...grinning at his growing audience of amused onlookers.

By now, the rest of the queue, most of whom had been queuing for almost half an hour, were not even pretending to not hear.  Many of them were downright shaking with laughter and sneaking peeks back at 'Wee Mum'.

I thought it couldn't get worse, but of course...

"Mama" yelled Squit after a few moments "You made a poo poo in the tent!"

"I did NOT Squitty!"

"Yes you did...you made a huge big smelly poo poo in the tent I saw you!"

Yeah, so at that point I gave up trying to maintain any sense of dignity.  Squitty is a natural clown, and with such a rapt audience I knew there was no point.  Whatever.  (For the record, I did no such thing...just sayin').

So that was our festival: Fun, chaotic, messy, no sleep, junk food diet, hot sun, great bands and hanging out with friends.

We shall be going again next year.  And in the meantime I'm going to practise my Honkstep.

"The GRINCH (ie. 'Chelsea Banker') Who Stole Christmas"

I came across this blog post which mysteriously was never published this past Christmas.  It perfectly encapsulates how gutted and unhealthily possessed i have been in this mammoth housing nightmare for the past year.  It is testament to how fixated one can become over something as basic as a home...losing sight of L.I.F.E. in the meantime and letting a loss derail your entire life...(sigh)

Okay fine, I'll admit it.  This year, for the first time I can remember, I am finding it near impossible to muster up any sort of 'Christmas Spirit'.  I've been meaning to blog about this for a few weeks now, but couldn't quite bring myself to wax prolific about such a 'first world problem' and out myself as the entitled brat that I clearly am.

For you see, the entirety of 2014 has been spent in the attempt to finally procure a bigger home for our ever increasing brood.  (Relax - there are no future offspring on the agenda - I just mean that the three little boys we already have are increasing in mass in what feels like a daily basis, and we are desperate for more space...like yesterday.)  I yearn for a kitchen where I can scramble around, possibly hungover, without being hip-checked by various members of the family whilst trying to assemble some sort of packed lunch which won't have Jamie Oliver reporting me to the authorities (Cheesy fish, fruit roll-ups and a blueberry muffin do NOT a lunchbox make.  I know this.  Truly I do.)

I yearn for a KitchenAid mixer.  For me, "The Queen of Baked Goods" not owning one is like Katie Price not owning a bra, or Kim Kardashian not owning Spanx in every colour of the rainbow, to contain that famously bulging derri-scare of hers.

But I digress.  I've put off begging the husband for one (bless him I know he'd get me one in a flash if I bartered with a series of killer back rubs for which I am semi-famous) because I've nowhere to put it! I've long ago run out of counter space, cupboard space, and let's face it - headspace.

So it should come as no surprise to find that having found the house of our dreams, one street over, earlier in the year, and having dedicated ourselves to procuring said PERFECT HOUSE for our family, with a desire and singleminded attentiveness we haven't even applied to parenting thus far in our lives, to have lost it - suddenly and permanently - in one fell swoop last month, has plunged us (and by us I mean primarily ME) into a severe, dark, deep depression which appears to have no escape.

I hate myself for it, I really do.  I hate that I have become so bloody middle-class minded that the loss of this dream home has rendered me void of all joy and hope for the future - despite it being my favourite time of the year, having all my family around me - healthy and well no less - and having so much more to be grateful for than the majority of humans.

HOWEVER...it was a damn good house.  The best.  The biggest.  The most beautiful.  And I am a lesser person for having coveted it so badly that I lost sight of everything else important in my life for so long, that now I can't find my way back to 'normal'.  You see, the house was magic.  I've never in my twenty odd years living in London seen a home I loved as much as this.  It was like someone read my mind and created a home encapsulating every last wish and whim I've ever had since I was a child.

This past year (fantasising in this covetous head of mine) I lived through 'Nigella-esque' Christmas parties, caught Egg making out with his first girlfriend downstairs in the basement, had candlelit baths by the dozen in the sumptuous en-suite bath, hosted brilliant outdoor cocktail parties in the twinkling garden, and had friends to stay in the glorious guest suite.  In short, I found 'the house' that was going to transform our shambolic lives into something resembling a Hollywood movie.

Now I must backtrack from my year-long fantasy, shake off the deep, deep despair, and make a call to our estate agent this weekend, telling him that we are taking our home off the market until the Spring.  The housing market has flatlined, we are NOT moving in the foreseeable future, there are no other properties that even come close to being 10% as perfect as the one we lost, and as we speak there is a Chelsea banker with his (probably) beautiful wife and (only) one bloody child, making plans to move into our dream house in the New Year.

In the meantime, I'm going to grudgingly attempt to bake my Christmas biscuits this afternoon, make myself promise to stop running past the dream house every morning like some sort of stalking freak, and try and get into the Christmas Spirit by purchasing more tree lights this afternoon and finish decorating the tree which has stood magnificent but essentially unloved and only half-decorated for a week now in our front room due to said bad attitude.

The other morning in bed the husband asked me what I wanted for Christmas.

"That house" I replied.

He groaned, rolled over and told me to grow up.

He's right.  I officially (and now publicly) SUCK.

(But I still love that house and always will, and cannot promise not to turn this frown upside down in time for the 25th.  A girl wants what a girl wants...what can I say?  Maybe it's time to sell and/or give away all our possessions and move back to India and live like the happy beach bums we were.  Either that, or pool all our money into Egg's further education at the best schools money can buy and hope that one day in the not too distant future our Maths genius will become horribly wealthy and buy that dream house from the Chelsea banker...in cash...one Christmas morning in 2034 with a "Here you go Mama - now will you finally stop sulking and get up and make me your famous Christmas shortbread biscuits already?")

"Happy Daughter Day"

(this post is dedicated to all those celebrating Father's Day today by fondly sifting through delicious memories and special moments and not necessarily with the tangible presence of their beloved Dads...)

The other day I was chatting to my mum when she mentioned that she was only a few years older than I am now when cruising around Amsterdam with me and the husband pre-marriage in our yellow camper van 'Mellow Yellow.'  Let's not even get into how highly unorthodox it was (though a testament to how cool my mum was) to have a parent tag along with you and your boyfriend for three weeks on the continent when barely out of your teens...or that in hindsight, Amsterdam may not perhaps have been the natural destination for such a threesome.

What freaked me out was the fact that TIME IS RACING BY with such disconcerting speed that my brain keeps internally flashing a "DOES NOT COMPUTE" sign when confronted by a timescale as skewed as this. It cannot be. No way am I that old.  I call time and insist on a recount!

I am so busy being preoccupied these days by banal issues such as housing, schooling, child rearing, etc. that I am missing le grande picture.  For real.

Today being 'Father's Day' was a rude awakening to how precious life is and how much I should be grateful for.  Without getting too mushy and 'faux deep' about it, I just want to say that spending today with my nearly 81 year old Dad was a special privilege that jolted a healthy dose of much-needed reality into my weary brain.

I have so many (too many) friends who today, were not able to sit across the table from their father and clink glasses and share a smile.  Many friends who would have given anything to have one more afternoon with their beloved Dad and get the chance to tell him how great a guy he is and how much they have loved having him in their lives.  Or maybe to just share a beer and a few stupid jokes.

I got that chance.  And for that I feel so lucky.  My Dad isn't just a loving parent, but one of my best friends.  I adore his dry sense of humour and the way he sees the little girl in me when most only see a weary mother of three.

I love how my Dad is almost always right about people and situations...even when it pisses me off. How many people can lay claim to having their very own Yoda - one who not only doesn't dispense advice unless asked - but truly believes you could be ruler of the universe should you so desire.  (fyi MasterCard...that is priceless.)

There are many things I lack:  the ability to make a spreadsheet, organisational skills, a UK driving license, the ability to walk by a designer sale and not have a wee little peek inside, etc...just to name a few.  But one thing I have never lacked is foresight.

Since childhood when I recall sobbing in the bath after my grandparents bid me goodbye and it dawned on me that they were getting older and wouldn't be around forever, I have always been aware of the transitory nature of life.  It has plagued me forever, even through the reckless, relentless and seemingly endless days and years of University and Travel.

And now, at this age, this stage, and with a perspective one has to earn not learn, I gratefully accept the gift of my parents, and that is something I am going to continue to treasure and make a priority in my life.

And after a fabulous day spent with my one and only Dad on Father's Day, I have (as my mother likes to call it) yet another 'golden coin' for my 'memory bank'.

Lucky girl.

my wise ol' mum

oh what a perfect day...

"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.