Two days ago Egg flooded yet another room in our new home. Once more it was a bathroom, but this time the master bedroom one. I am pleased to report that the bidet did not play a part in the deluge like last time, however the bloody toilet brush and a whole roll of toilet paper were sufficient enough to clog the toilet, cause a serious overflow, and direct streams of water into our actual bedroom.
I wanted to murder him. Again. Instead I put him on the stairs, got all the towels in the house in an attempt to stem the flow of water, and had to spend 20 minutes elbow deep in the toilet, up the U-bend - in an attempt to fix the blockage. I have to hand it to the little guy - he did a most thorough job in F__ing it i up.
I have to say that Egg showed very little remorse this time around, and instead queried whether I still loved him. Of course I gave the correct answer, though fuming, and explained that I loved him but that i was VERY ANGRY with him. Later when Jay came home and asked him about the flooding, Egg very solemnly declared, "Let’s not talk about that Dada. Let’s talk about nice things." So that was that.
Alarmingly, Dumpie just yesterday learned how easy it is to slide a kitchen chair across the linoleum, bang it right up to the cupboard and clamber onto it like a circus monkey. Once up, he has complete and direct access to ... well, to everything. Initially favouring the big sweep - literally sending everything crashing down onto the floor for his own personal amusement - today he seems rather fond of exploratory taste testing. An hour ago I walked into the kitchen to find both boys side by side on a chair, on tiptoe, knuckle deep in peanut butter. Oh joy.
Now as I type Dumpie is systematically relieving the utility cupboard of every toxic and non-toxic substance used (pointlessly I must add) to clean this house. He has a constant runny nose, an impish grin and a smile which would melt anyone and anything. He’s going to be alright. I am not.
When I complain to Jay, his response is, "Well go find yourself a cleaning lady. It’s your own fault." Although it would certainly help the situation, let’s face it, with this crew it’s akin to putting up ’Healthy Eating’ posters depicting fruit and seeds next to a ’Cadbury’s’ vending machine... well intentioned yet utterly useless.
Thursday, 27 March 2008
Thursday, 13 March 2008
"Rain Rain Go Away"
It’s 6:40pm on a rainy, cold March evening here in London, and I’m listening to Annie Lennox ’Why’, allowing it to drown out the screams behind me. Egg is trying to play with his play-doh and keep Dumpie from eating it (something he’s not too successful at given that I spot a large dayglo chunk of green in his mouth right now). I’ve just fished out Dumpie’s sippy cup and various baking implements from our large dirty bin for the fifteenth time....this hour...and I’m so exhausted that I’m contemplating a quick nap on the floor by the oven.
Now lest you think i embellish these little anecdotes, let me just say that as we speak Dumpie is dragging the toilet brush all around my kitchen and has just deposited ANOTHER new roll of toilet paper in the toilet bowl...the whole thing (sigh). So much for having a bathroom on every level - i thought it was supposed to be a good thing, not a curse. How was I supposed to know how enticing a toilet brush is to a 16 month old??
Today I picked up Egg from nursery at 3:30 pm as usual - only it was raining and I was early (for once)...in fact I was the first one there. Shortly after I arrived, my favourite fellow ’mom’ arrived to cart home her FOUR toddler boys. I refer to her as ’Nice Mom’. How does she do it? I’m sure she’s blissed out on happy pills because everytime I see her she has a perpetual grin lighting up her face and looks utterly chilled. We haven’t yet broken the ice and spoken to each other, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. We do the smile, nod and ’hi’ though, so that’s something. Mom politics...wonder if i’ll ever get the hang of it - or the inclination to get the hang of it.
Shortly after ’nice mom’ my nemesis arrived "short, fat, mean French mom’. She is a nasty piece of work. For the past two months she’s looked as though she should be in hospital stirrups not on the school run, as she is a short, toady looking thing who is just as wide around as she is tall. Sporting rimless frames and always with a severe look on her face, she has taken a great dislike to Egg and I. You could blame this on the hormones or the fact that one day, many weeks ago, Egg accidentally took her daughters spot at the ’painting’ table - illiciting a tantrum of which I haven’t seen the like before, from her very spoiled, very annoying blond little girl. Of course with my luck, she and Egg will grow to become best friends and ’Mean French Mom’ and I will have to glare our way through birthday parties and school functions....urghhhh
Anyway, Dumpie is yanking on my jeans demanding another cup of juice and Egg is insisting I try his play-doh pie. I wish I drank scotch or had a valium prescription. Or both.
Now lest you think i embellish these little anecdotes, let me just say that as we speak Dumpie is dragging the toilet brush all around my kitchen and has just deposited ANOTHER new roll of toilet paper in the toilet bowl...the whole thing (sigh). So much for having a bathroom on every level - i thought it was supposed to be a good thing, not a curse. How was I supposed to know how enticing a toilet brush is to a 16 month old??
Today I picked up Egg from nursery at 3:30 pm as usual - only it was raining and I was early (for once)...in fact I was the first one there. Shortly after I arrived, my favourite fellow ’mom’ arrived to cart home her FOUR toddler boys. I refer to her as ’Nice Mom’. How does she do it? I’m sure she’s blissed out on happy pills because everytime I see her she has a perpetual grin lighting up her face and looks utterly chilled. We haven’t yet broken the ice and spoken to each other, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. We do the smile, nod and ’hi’ though, so that’s something. Mom politics...wonder if i’ll ever get the hang of it - or the inclination to get the hang of it.
Shortly after ’nice mom’ my nemesis arrived "short, fat, mean French mom’. She is a nasty piece of work. For the past two months she’s looked as though she should be in hospital stirrups not on the school run, as she is a short, toady looking thing who is just as wide around as she is tall. Sporting rimless frames and always with a severe look on her face, she has taken a great dislike to Egg and I. You could blame this on the hormones or the fact that one day, many weeks ago, Egg accidentally took her daughters spot at the ’painting’ table - illiciting a tantrum of which I haven’t seen the like before, from her very spoiled, very annoying blond little girl. Of course with my luck, she and Egg will grow to become best friends and ’Mean French Mom’ and I will have to glare our way through birthday parties and school functions....urghhhh
Anyway, Dumpie is yanking on my jeans demanding another cup of juice and Egg is insisting I try his play-doh pie. I wish I drank scotch or had a valium prescription. Or both.
Monday, 3 March 2008
'Jetlaggia'
Arrived home this morning from ten days in St. Lucia avec Jay's famille. We had the good luck to be jammed in a train carriage from Gatwick full of grumpy monday morning commuters, and Dumpie's loud shrieks and Egg's constant jabbering likely did much in the way of making our fellow passengers wish they were dead (or we were).
Yesterday at the airport I sufferred the embarrassment of Egg staring doggedly at an overweight lady opposite him, cramming her mouth full of crisps whilst devouring a romantic novel. Soon he started whining for crisps too and moments later the lady beside him got up and returned with a can of sour cream and onion Pringles - a large handful of which she felt obliged to hand over immediately to the salivating Dumpie (who was gesturing at them with his arm and making grunting noises) and Egg (who was plaintively staring the can down). Humiliating....especially when Egg continued to loudly request more.
I'm simply too shattered to go into detail about our week away in the Caribbean, but suffice it to say that we've all returned a) browner (we were pretty much the only 'Johnston' contingent to not suffer sunburn at some point b) fatter (thanks to the 24 hour all-inclusive buffet and open bar - hiccup burp hiccup) and c) disgruntled (when you've spent your days stuffing your face, lying prone in the hot sun and moving only to shunt yourself around the 'lazy river' - a manmade inner tube ride which slowly lulls you around the grounds much reminiscent of a hippo - it's a wee bit tricky to adjust to real life again and a faster pace of life.
At any rate, the boys upstairs have finally stopped screaming themselves to sleep (they are jetlagged within an inch of their lives and are likely going to wake bolt upright sometime around 3 am) and Jay has just finished drying out the flood which happened in our kitchen while we were away. I would be a fool not to roll myself into bed now and try to get some rest before the screeching chicken rears its ugly/cute head and tomorrow is upon us.
I have an early morning visit from a spun out cable guy to look forward to. If his visit is anything like his last he shall be climbing out our various windows like a monkey, spilling cups of tea and dirtying up the house with muddy trainers. And for this I'll get the pleasure of handing him a load of cash and running around keeping two boys from leaping out the open windows. Fun fun fun.
Yesterday at the airport I sufferred the embarrassment of Egg staring doggedly at an overweight lady opposite him, cramming her mouth full of crisps whilst devouring a romantic novel. Soon he started whining for crisps too and moments later the lady beside him got up and returned with a can of sour cream and onion Pringles - a large handful of which she felt obliged to hand over immediately to the salivating Dumpie (who was gesturing at them with his arm and making grunting noises) and Egg (who was plaintively staring the can down). Humiliating....especially when Egg continued to loudly request more.
I'm simply too shattered to go into detail about our week away in the Caribbean, but suffice it to say that we've all returned a) browner (we were pretty much the only 'Johnston' contingent to not suffer sunburn at some point b) fatter (thanks to the 24 hour all-inclusive buffet and open bar - hiccup burp hiccup) and c) disgruntled (when you've spent your days stuffing your face, lying prone in the hot sun and moving only to shunt yourself around the 'lazy river' - a manmade inner tube ride which slowly lulls you around the grounds much reminiscent of a hippo - it's a wee bit tricky to adjust to real life again and a faster pace of life.
At any rate, the boys upstairs have finally stopped screaming themselves to sleep (they are jetlagged within an inch of their lives and are likely going to wake bolt upright sometime around 3 am) and Jay has just finished drying out the flood which happened in our kitchen while we were away. I would be a fool not to roll myself into bed now and try to get some rest before the screeching chicken rears its ugly/cute head and tomorrow is upon us.
I have an early morning visit from a spun out cable guy to look forward to. If his visit is anything like his last he shall be climbing out our various windows like a monkey, spilling cups of tea and dirtying up the house with muddy trainers. And for this I'll get the pleasure of handing him a load of cash and running around keeping two boys from leaping out the open windows. Fun fun fun.
Thursday, 21 February 2008
Breasts, Glorious Breasts
I realized I had sunk to new lows this morning in bed when I sleepily gave Egg permission to take Dumpie downstairs and 'play' while I slept. Jay was showering at the time and yelled out,
"Do you really think it's a good idea to send the boys downstairs unsupervised?!"
Umm. Yes i did think it was a good idea. I would have allowed them to boil an egg on the stove unsupervised if it meant I could snatch a few more minutes of desperately needed sleep.
Before you condemn me, let me explain my current predicament. Dumpie is addicted...addicted to me...well actually he's addicted to my breasts. There, i've said it. Instead of slowly weaning himself OFF the breast, he has done a u-turn and now I find my mammaries in demand 24/7. It's relentless and it's taking over my life.
A typical 24 hours goes like this: bedtime (feed)...middle of the night (feed)...early dawn (feed)....breakfast (feed)...late morning (feed)...lunchtime (feed)....mid-afternoon (feed)...early evening (feed)...dinner (feed)...and then the cycle begins all over again.
Not only are my poor breasts suffering from over-exposure, but all my lovely bra's have been bent out of shape given that i long ago (optimistically) threw out all my nursing bra's and now have to wrangle with straps and bows and wire and elastic constantly - just to feed the hungry little beast.
I had a eureka moment this morning when I surveyed my darling little munchkin who at the time was sat quietly behind me in the bathroom, surrounded by a pile of tampon wrappers, trying to bite the actual tampons in half after having liberated over a dozen of them in the misguided notion that they were sweets. He grinned at me, flashing his 100 watt smile, then glanced down at my chest, stood up and waddled over to me hands outstretched headed for his..well, his bits.
It suddenly dawned that my breasts are HIS. Unlike Egg who formed an early alliance with one particular brown bear early on (and to this day still conducts most of his daily duties with 'Bacon' in tow), Dumpie has never particularly cared for or taken notice of the multitude of inanimate stuffed animals which litter his nursery. Why would he when he has such a superior substitution?
Embarrassingly, he's lately taken to stroking the other breast lovingly whilst nuzzling contentedly, and even if i try and cover his ever-expanding frame with a jumper or shawl, there is still the small problem of his fat chubby wrist protruding up towards my neck - making people wonder whether it's an over attached toddler or perhaps a horny little dwarf (or 'little person' as i believe they like to be called these days) wreaking havoc below.
So you see, I realize now that i'm dealing with more than just the problem of trying to wean an attached baby from his beloved breasts. By cutting Dumps off I shall in effect, be ripping his 'teddy bear' from his arms, tearing it in shreds, and shoving it piece by piece down the toilet as he looks on sobbing and inconsolable. I hardly suspect there is a blanket or bear anywhere in the world which is going to compensate for such a loss. I also suspect that high necklines and loose fitting blouses are going to be the order of the day for the next little while.
It hardly bodes well that I'm off on a beach holiday later this week. That should be interesting.
"Do you really think it's a good idea to send the boys downstairs unsupervised?!"
Umm. Yes i did think it was a good idea. I would have allowed them to boil an egg on the stove unsupervised if it meant I could snatch a few more minutes of desperately needed sleep.
Before you condemn me, let me explain my current predicament. Dumpie is addicted...addicted to me...well actually he's addicted to my breasts. There, i've said it. Instead of slowly weaning himself OFF the breast, he has done a u-turn and now I find my mammaries in demand 24/7. It's relentless and it's taking over my life.
A typical 24 hours goes like this: bedtime (feed)...middle of the night (feed)...early dawn (feed)....breakfast (feed)...late morning (feed)...lunchtime (feed)....mid-afternoon (feed)...early evening (feed)...dinner (feed)...and then the cycle begins all over again.
Not only are my poor breasts suffering from over-exposure, but all my lovely bra's have been bent out of shape given that i long ago (optimistically) threw out all my nursing bra's and now have to wrangle with straps and bows and wire and elastic constantly - just to feed the hungry little beast.
I had a eureka moment this morning when I surveyed my darling little munchkin who at the time was sat quietly behind me in the bathroom, surrounded by a pile of tampon wrappers, trying to bite the actual tampons in half after having liberated over a dozen of them in the misguided notion that they were sweets. He grinned at me, flashing his 100 watt smile, then glanced down at my chest, stood up and waddled over to me hands outstretched headed for his..well, his bits.
It suddenly dawned that my breasts are HIS. Unlike Egg who formed an early alliance with one particular brown bear early on (and to this day still conducts most of his daily duties with 'Bacon' in tow), Dumpie has never particularly cared for or taken notice of the multitude of inanimate stuffed animals which litter his nursery. Why would he when he has such a superior substitution?
Embarrassingly, he's lately taken to stroking the other breast lovingly whilst nuzzling contentedly, and even if i try and cover his ever-expanding frame with a jumper or shawl, there is still the small problem of his fat chubby wrist protruding up towards my neck - making people wonder whether it's an over attached toddler or perhaps a horny little dwarf (or 'little person' as i believe they like to be called these days) wreaking havoc below.
So you see, I realize now that i'm dealing with more than just the problem of trying to wean an attached baby from his beloved breasts. By cutting Dumps off I shall in effect, be ripping his 'teddy bear' from his arms, tearing it in shreds, and shoving it piece by piece down the toilet as he looks on sobbing and inconsolable. I hardly suspect there is a blanket or bear anywhere in the world which is going to compensate for such a loss. I also suspect that high necklines and loose fitting blouses are going to be the order of the day for the next little while.
It hardly bodes well that I'm off on a beach holiday later this week. That should be interesting.
Friday, 15 February 2008
"VOMITUS DIARRHEA ERUPTUS GRAVITAS"
Vomit vomit everywhere
In carpets, kitchen
and my hair
But that's not all we've also got
Diarrhea
And loads of snot!
It's ruined our sheets and soiled our beds
This non-stop spewing
Makes me wish i were dead
When it comes from both ends you never know
Just when to expect
The next fetid show
Another one's due in moments i fear
As the sick 'Dumpie-lumpagous'
Is moaning quite near
Eggie lies prostrate and whining in pain
Is it possible this virus
Is going to go another round..again?!
Now i must be gone and deal with the pain
And in a few short moments
There will be another stain
No rest for the wicked and by that they mean moms
I've got two sickly boys
With two sickly tums...
(GIANT SIGH).....
In carpets, kitchen
and my hair
But that's not all we've also got
Diarrhea
And loads of snot!
It's ruined our sheets and soiled our beds
This non-stop spewing
Makes me wish i were dead
When it comes from both ends you never know
Just when to expect
The next fetid show
Another one's due in moments i fear
As the sick 'Dumpie-lumpagous'
Is moaning quite near
Eggie lies prostrate and whining in pain
Is it possible this virus
Is going to go another round..again?!
Now i must be gone and deal with the pain
And in a few short moments
There will be another stain
No rest for the wicked and by that they mean moms
I've got two sickly boys
With two sickly tums...
(GIANT SIGH).....
Tuesday, 12 February 2008
Ode to Life In a Barn
Today was fun. Egg awoke and had some horrific diahrea incident which Jay (mumbling) alluded to before positively tearing out the front door with what I can now identify as a relieved expression masking his face. He was wise not to go into detail as I might have been tempted to O.D. on childs 'Calpol' medicine instead of getting out of bed and stomping sickly downstairs to see what chaos ensued in the kitchen containing the two monsters. At the very least I might have gotten a cheap high from the medicine which may in turn have prevented me from nearly losing it when the first (of several it turns out) incident of projectile vomiting kicked off minutes later.
As I sat rubbing Egg's back as he covered not one but two bathrooms in yellow vomit, I was thankful that we don't live in a home with carpeted bathrooms. Naively assuming that it was a one-off eruption, you can imagine my surprise and horror when shortly afterward a half naked Egg somberly whimpered as he stood before me saying,
"Sorry Mama. I made a diahrrea. It was an accident not on purpose. I'm sick Mama."
Sure enough the poor angel was. And so was I by the time I finished cleaning that one up. Who knew that there is actually such a thing as projectile diahrea? Live and learn. I shan't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that there will several more incidents over the next 16 hours...each one even more impressively catastrophic than the last.
I sit here now, baby surgically attached, Egg moaning upstairs in bed, and wondering how sexy i must smell to my husband who is due in any moment. It's almost 11pm and he's been at Bass class across town. This is one of those days that makes me yearn to be an alcoholic. If ever I deserved to swig down several glasses of the hard stuff - today would be it.
As I sat rubbing Egg's back as he covered not one but two bathrooms in yellow vomit, I was thankful that we don't live in a home with carpeted bathrooms. Naively assuming that it was a one-off eruption, you can imagine my surprise and horror when shortly afterward a half naked Egg somberly whimpered as he stood before me saying,
"Sorry Mama. I made a diahrrea. It was an accident not on purpose. I'm sick Mama."
Sure enough the poor angel was. And so was I by the time I finished cleaning that one up. Who knew that there is actually such a thing as projectile diahrea? Live and learn. I shan't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that there will several more incidents over the next 16 hours...each one even more impressively catastrophic than the last.
I sit here now, baby surgically attached, Egg moaning upstairs in bed, and wondering how sexy i must smell to my husband who is due in any moment. It's almost 11pm and he's been at Bass class across town. This is one of those days that makes me yearn to be an alcoholic. If ever I deserved to swig down several glasses of the hard stuff - today would be it.
Wednesday, 30 January 2008
The Return Of Mr. Hanky Poo
Yesterday I was getting on with the boring tasks which seem to make up the bulk of my life these days when the phone rang. It was Jay.
"Aw Nis, you have to get down to Egg's school. They just rang and said that he's soiled himself."
"What?! Oh No!" I moaned, and quickly hung up the phone and scurried around for a change of clothes, wet wipes and whatever remotely relevant products I could find within reach. I raced out the door and minutes later was somberly directed towards the kiddies' toilets where my first born stood 'shittily' defiant and without remorse, inside the stall.
He neither appeared terribly bothered (either about my horror stricken face OR the small group of children who had gathered at the bathroom door and were staring in fascination at their newest classmate, trying desperately to break past one of the teachers - a kindly woman named 'Val' - clad in elbow length gloves and staring pityingly at me.
Looking me straight in the eyes she asked, "Is Jake toilet trained?"
I affirmed that yes he most certainly was, but she didn't look convinced. Apparently this had not been a simple case of a wipe job gone wrong, or even the typical 'load in the drawers' scenario. Nope. Jake had soiled first himself, then proceeded to 'soil' - manually - the two sofa's in the reading area, several unfortunately placed toys, and the entire inside of the toilet stall including the toilet itself.
Now you'll recall that we had a similiar incident involving our fecally-fixated Egg when he was but a mere toddler, and of course it was at home...behind closed doors.
This time however we had an audience, and crouched down on all fours, derierre escaping my skinny cord hipsters, my humiliation was complete.
It was not fun. It took a long time. Eventually I conceeded defeat and had to bundle his filthy lower half into clean clothes and slink out of there with as much dignity as I could muster. I was mortified. I still am.
Only a few weeks into his new school and already he's established himself as something of a character. Will the children remember and tease him mercilessly? Will he turn into a maladjusted adult with psychotic leanings...citing early childhood trauma as a cause? Will he forever be labelled as 'Poo Boy'? My poor little Egg. Saying that - if he pulls this stunt again there will be big trouble. Not only will he be boycotted from any decent school within a five mile radius, but I shall be forced to stop baking my beloved homemade bran muffins (of which it transpires he partook of yesterday...possibly more than one?...oops).
"Aw Nis, you have to get down to Egg's school. They just rang and said that he's soiled himself."
"What?! Oh No!" I moaned, and quickly hung up the phone and scurried around for a change of clothes, wet wipes and whatever remotely relevant products I could find within reach. I raced out the door and minutes later was somberly directed towards the kiddies' toilets where my first born stood 'shittily' defiant and without remorse, inside the stall.
He neither appeared terribly bothered (either about my horror stricken face OR the small group of children who had gathered at the bathroom door and were staring in fascination at their newest classmate, trying desperately to break past one of the teachers - a kindly woman named 'Val' - clad in elbow length gloves and staring pityingly at me.
Looking me straight in the eyes she asked, "Is Jake toilet trained?"
I affirmed that yes he most certainly was, but she didn't look convinced. Apparently this had not been a simple case of a wipe job gone wrong, or even the typical 'load in the drawers' scenario. Nope. Jake had soiled first himself, then proceeded to 'soil' - manually - the two sofa's in the reading area, several unfortunately placed toys, and the entire inside of the toilet stall including the toilet itself.
Now you'll recall that we had a similiar incident involving our fecally-fixated Egg when he was but a mere toddler, and of course it was at home...behind closed doors.
This time however we had an audience, and crouched down on all fours, derierre escaping my skinny cord hipsters, my humiliation was complete.
It was not fun. It took a long time. Eventually I conceeded defeat and had to bundle his filthy lower half into clean clothes and slink out of there with as much dignity as I could muster. I was mortified. I still am.
Only a few weeks into his new school and already he's established himself as something of a character. Will the children remember and tease him mercilessly? Will he turn into a maladjusted adult with psychotic leanings...citing early childhood trauma as a cause? Will he forever be labelled as 'Poo Boy'? My poor little Egg. Saying that - if he pulls this stunt again there will be big trouble. Not only will he be boycotted from any decent school within a five mile radius, but I shall be forced to stop baking my beloved homemade bran muffins (of which it transpires he partook of yesterday...possibly more than one?...oops).
Tuesday, 29 January 2008
WE'RE BAAAAAAAAAACK!!
Ok Y'all, BIG apologies for being so quiet and absent for so long. In cyber terms we dropped off the face of the virtual earth when we moved and the phone company found themselves flummoxed with the straightforward task of appointing us a telephone number and hooking us up to broadband (a task they do about 10,000 times a day around the country).
At any rate, late last night around midnight we went LIVE once again, and I find myself maniacally typing away at my laptop whilst uploading new software and keeping half an eye on Egg and Ollie (who are wreaking havoc next door in the front room - last i checked Ollie was emptying the fireplace of coal and Egg was playing guitar with eyes glued to his favourite telly program 'The Night Garden')...oh well.
We've only just recovered from a very hardcore couple of months. If you've been following our trials and tribulations you'll know that in November we started packing up our old flat in preparation for the house move 1st December (which also coincided with the day that we were to fly to India for a two week holiday). Well we pulled it off (though it wasn't without casualty in the form of Auntie Ba who got deathly ill afterwards for ten days likely due to the nonstop childcare, lack of sleep, any nutricious meals and the insanity that comes from containing two stir-crazy monkeys 24/7 with no let-up.
At any rate, a week after we got back from India (which itself was very pleasant thank you very much) was Christmas and all the chaos which ensues as a result, and of course both boys got very ill with colds, and passed them onto the rest of us - my poor Dad taking the brunt of it (and who has only this week recovered from the nastiest virus in history).
Nonetheless Christmas was lovely (spirits helped on by copious amounts of champagne and the usual gluttony) and just after New Years we saw the arrival of my lovely in-laws who made the trip to see our new place and be here for Auntie Mo's wedding the first week of January. It was the first time we had ALL four grandparents in London at the same time and was nothing short of exhilarating for little Egg and Dumpie.
Auntie Mo being 'Auntie Mo' she swanned through the whole lead up to the wedding whilst the rest of us (mostly Auntie Ba, my mom and myself truth be told) killed ourselves trying to get everything sorted in time. It all came together beautifully on the day though - with Auntie Mo looking like a movie star of old in her glamourous silk gown and the rest of us yet again fuelled on by champagne and unbelievable amounts of delicious food. Weddings...what's not to love?
So you see, here at the wrong end of the year (or the 'right end' if you're an optomist and have someone in mind for cuddles on the approaching 14th of Feb) I find myself just beginning to settle into something which resembles normality (not for the average person of course - for me).
So much has happened in the past month that it would take a novel to contain it all, but suffice it to say that my little terrors have reached new levels of deviousness and inspire more fear than is healthy in me most days. I remember when I used to save up funny anecdotes to blog about...but these days it's more about editing OUT the bits that are too horrid to mention or too numerous to recount.
I shall leave you with a personal disaster which I still have not recovered from and which just about sums up despair of the toddler years I'm currently experiencing....
Last week I was cooking dinner and Egg was helping me with little clean up chores. The last thing I remember asking him was to empty out the bin in his upstairs bathroom (a lovely huge room with a large bathtub, toilet, bidet, and separate shower). Big mistake. Twenty minutes or so later (or maybe half an hour?) it suddenly dawned on me that it was quiet. Too quiet.
I ran upstairs and only then did the soundproofed walls give forth the sound of rushing water and as I appeared on the landing I saw a soaked one year old Dumpie slosh out of what appeared to be a swimming pool and onto a waterlogged hall carpet and disappear into his bedroom. I screamed.
Inside the bathroom was Egg, trouser legs rolled up, wading through 4-5 inches of water carrying a garbage bag in his hand and trying to pick up all the floating toys and debris swirling around the bathroom.
Words cannot describe my despair/anger/anxiety and without thinking about it I grabbed a huge container and started heaving bucketloads of water back into the bathtub like a maniac - trying in desperation to get the water level down before the ceiling collapsed (a very real scare if you saw what kind of water volume we were dealing with!).
Intermittantly I was frantically speed dialling Jay and Auntie Ba - hoping for a soundboard to vent and also advice on what to do when you find yourself wanting to wring your childs neck and on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Jay raced home and arrived about 45 minutes later. By that time the place stank of mildew, our lovely new dining room table below was covered in water, the ceiling stained a hideous brown and spreading, and I was livid and in shock.
A week later the ceiling has still not dried completely, our lovely new home smells like an abandoned old cottage by the sea, and day after day the monsters are plotting and succeeding in tormenting me - their poor mother - in new and delightfully ingenious new ways.
Long live the blog...it just might be the thing which saves my sanity in the long run. Instead of locking them up in a cupboard like 'Flowers in the Attic' I will simply escape here to my laptop, pop a few happy pills (must look into getting some sort of a prescription) and smile idiotically while the walls fall down around me. Literally. Happy New Year all :)
At any rate, late last night around midnight we went LIVE once again, and I find myself maniacally typing away at my laptop whilst uploading new software and keeping half an eye on Egg and Ollie (who are wreaking havoc next door in the front room - last i checked Ollie was emptying the fireplace of coal and Egg was playing guitar with eyes glued to his favourite telly program 'The Night Garden')...oh well.
We've only just recovered from a very hardcore couple of months. If you've been following our trials and tribulations you'll know that in November we started packing up our old flat in preparation for the house move 1st December (which also coincided with the day that we were to fly to India for a two week holiday). Well we pulled it off (though it wasn't without casualty in the form of Auntie Ba who got deathly ill afterwards for ten days likely due to the nonstop childcare, lack of sleep, any nutricious meals and the insanity that comes from containing two stir-crazy monkeys 24/7 with no let-up.
At any rate, a week after we got back from India (which itself was very pleasant thank you very much) was Christmas and all the chaos which ensues as a result, and of course both boys got very ill with colds, and passed them onto the rest of us - my poor Dad taking the brunt of it (and who has only this week recovered from the nastiest virus in history).
Nonetheless Christmas was lovely (spirits helped on by copious amounts of champagne and the usual gluttony) and just after New Years we saw the arrival of my lovely in-laws who made the trip to see our new place and be here for Auntie Mo's wedding the first week of January. It was the first time we had ALL four grandparents in London at the same time and was nothing short of exhilarating for little Egg and Dumpie.
Auntie Mo being 'Auntie Mo' she swanned through the whole lead up to the wedding whilst the rest of us (mostly Auntie Ba, my mom and myself truth be told) killed ourselves trying to get everything sorted in time. It all came together beautifully on the day though - with Auntie Mo looking like a movie star of old in her glamourous silk gown and the rest of us yet again fuelled on by champagne and unbelievable amounts of delicious food. Weddings...what's not to love?
So you see, here at the wrong end of the year (or the 'right end' if you're an optomist and have someone in mind for cuddles on the approaching 14th of Feb) I find myself just beginning to settle into something which resembles normality (not for the average person of course - for me).
So much has happened in the past month that it would take a novel to contain it all, but suffice it to say that my little terrors have reached new levels of deviousness and inspire more fear than is healthy in me most days. I remember when I used to save up funny anecdotes to blog about...but these days it's more about editing OUT the bits that are too horrid to mention or too numerous to recount.
I shall leave you with a personal disaster which I still have not recovered from and which just about sums up despair of the toddler years I'm currently experiencing....
Last week I was cooking dinner and Egg was helping me with little clean up chores. The last thing I remember asking him was to empty out the bin in his upstairs bathroom (a lovely huge room with a large bathtub, toilet, bidet, and separate shower). Big mistake. Twenty minutes or so later (or maybe half an hour?) it suddenly dawned on me that it was quiet. Too quiet.
I ran upstairs and only then did the soundproofed walls give forth the sound of rushing water and as I appeared on the landing I saw a soaked one year old Dumpie slosh out of what appeared to be a swimming pool and onto a waterlogged hall carpet and disappear into his bedroom. I screamed.
Inside the bathroom was Egg, trouser legs rolled up, wading through 4-5 inches of water carrying a garbage bag in his hand and trying to pick up all the floating toys and debris swirling around the bathroom.
Words cannot describe my despair/anger/anxiety and without thinking about it I grabbed a huge container and started heaving bucketloads of water back into the bathtub like a maniac - trying in desperation to get the water level down before the ceiling collapsed (a very real scare if you saw what kind of water volume we were dealing with!).
Intermittantly I was frantically speed dialling Jay and Auntie Ba - hoping for a soundboard to vent and also advice on what to do when you find yourself wanting to wring your childs neck and on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Jay raced home and arrived about 45 minutes later. By that time the place stank of mildew, our lovely new dining room table below was covered in water, the ceiling stained a hideous brown and spreading, and I was livid and in shock.
A week later the ceiling has still not dried completely, our lovely new home smells like an abandoned old cottage by the sea, and day after day the monsters are plotting and succeeding in tormenting me - their poor mother - in new and delightfully ingenious new ways.
Long live the blog...it just might be the thing which saves my sanity in the long run. Instead of locking them up in a cupboard like 'Flowers in the Attic' I will simply escape here to my laptop, pop a few happy pills (must look into getting some sort of a prescription) and smile idiotically while the walls fall down around me. Literally. Happy New Year all :)
Wednesday, 19 December 2007
Moving In
I just walked into the large family bathroom of our new home and lo and behold the floor is flooded in about an inch of water.
"Egg, what's going on! What did you do?" I ask…
"It's the 'bum-bum' water Mama. I turned on the bum-bum water and it made a big mess!" he declares gleefully.
Egg is of course referring to the bidet (which is fitted in two out of three of our bathrooms and which I never even imagined would be a problem. How could I not have foreseen the potential disaster of a would-be water fountain on tap? Dumpie too has cleverly sussed the operation and now I know for certain that we are doomed and that flooding shall be a regular occurance in this household. I'm too horrified to even be questioning Egg's understanding of the bidet and wonder vaguely whether Jay might be responsible…
So as you can no doubt gather we are firmly ensconced in our new home and after only two days it feels like a real home. This is due mostly to me and my obsessive compulsive nesting instinct which has seen me almost break myself trying to unpack the 70-odd boxes we moved with, and scour every inch of this not exactly tiny new abode to within an inch of its life.
Yesterday I clocked 16 hours of solid multi-tasking frenzied cleaning/unpacking, and this was on only six hours of unrestful, jet-lagged sleep…with both boys in our bed kicking, fidgeting and demanding more covers. This morning our poorly time-adjusted three-year old woke us at 3:48 a.m. demanding cereal and telling us it was daytime and to get out of bed. (Jay had been out till midnight at his work xmas party and was comatose and oblivious. My mother guilt bade me to wait until the slightly less ungodly hour of 4:30 a.m. at which point I got up and made toast and cereal for my rather too-chirpy toddler, and sat with my head in my hands contemplating putting my head in the smashing new oven. I am NOT a morning person. Never will be.)
At any rate, my current dilemma involves Christmas in only one week, no internet connection set up at home yet, no home phone line, a missing mobile phone, and no way of communicating with the outside world. Add to that a list of urgent tasks a mile long, a sofa which is stuck in Yorkshire and now, I'm told, won't be delivered before the New Year, and you can see why I'm just a teensy bit stressed out today.
On a positive note, I'm really pleased with the new place and am 100% sure we did the right thing in buying it – even if we did pay top dollar for it. If I can ignore the hundreds of empty boxes and miles of bubble wrap which litter the place, I can even imagine how wonderful it's going to be when everything is unpacked.
After a hellish 10 hour flight home from India on Sunday (I wanted to die) we marched straight out and bought a lovely six foot Christmas tree. Then, whilst hallucinating and seeing bright yellow spots in front of my eyes (whether this was from extreme sleep-deprivation, delerium, or merely the bottle of celebratory champagne we'd just polished off) I proceeded to decorate the tree well into the night with the many gorgeous decorations my darling mom has furnished me with over the years (thanks ma – if it were up to me it would be a bare, 'Charley Brown' tree!)
At any rate, Egg is rather taken with the tree and lovingly 'redecorates' it daily, adjusting the chocolate santa's, candy canes and brightly coloured baubles until he is content. I'm just waiting for the whole thing to topple over one of these days.
Dumpie has mastered the stairs already and has discovered that by rolling over onto his rather ample tummy and pushing off, he can travel down three stories in seconds flat by adopting a reverse Jamaican bobsledding manouvre which has him giggling and me covering my eyes in terror.
I swear, if I don't have grey hair now, it's only a matter of weeks. These boys are hardcore. I'm serious
"Egg, what's going on! What did you do?" I ask…
"It's the 'bum-bum' water Mama. I turned on the bum-bum water and it made a big mess!" he declares gleefully.
Egg is of course referring to the bidet (which is fitted in two out of three of our bathrooms and which I never even imagined would be a problem. How could I not have foreseen the potential disaster of a would-be water fountain on tap? Dumpie too has cleverly sussed the operation and now I know for certain that we are doomed and that flooding shall be a regular occurance in this household. I'm too horrified to even be questioning Egg's understanding of the bidet and wonder vaguely whether Jay might be responsible…
So as you can no doubt gather we are firmly ensconced in our new home and after only two days it feels like a real home. This is due mostly to me and my obsessive compulsive nesting instinct which has seen me almost break myself trying to unpack the 70-odd boxes we moved with, and scour every inch of this not exactly tiny new abode to within an inch of its life.
Yesterday I clocked 16 hours of solid multi-tasking frenzied cleaning/unpacking, and this was on only six hours of unrestful, jet-lagged sleep…with both boys in our bed kicking, fidgeting and demanding more covers. This morning our poorly time-adjusted three-year old woke us at 3:48 a.m. demanding cereal and telling us it was daytime and to get out of bed. (Jay had been out till midnight at his work xmas party and was comatose and oblivious. My mother guilt bade me to wait until the slightly less ungodly hour of 4:30 a.m. at which point I got up and made toast and cereal for my rather too-chirpy toddler, and sat with my head in my hands contemplating putting my head in the smashing new oven. I am NOT a morning person. Never will be.)
At any rate, my current dilemma involves Christmas in only one week, no internet connection set up at home yet, no home phone line, a missing mobile phone, and no way of communicating with the outside world. Add to that a list of urgent tasks a mile long, a sofa which is stuck in Yorkshire and now, I'm told, won't be delivered before the New Year, and you can see why I'm just a teensy bit stressed out today.
On a positive note, I'm really pleased with the new place and am 100% sure we did the right thing in buying it – even if we did pay top dollar for it. If I can ignore the hundreds of empty boxes and miles of bubble wrap which litter the place, I can even imagine how wonderful it's going to be when everything is unpacked.
After a hellish 10 hour flight home from India on Sunday (I wanted to die) we marched straight out and bought a lovely six foot Christmas tree. Then, whilst hallucinating and seeing bright yellow spots in front of my eyes (whether this was from extreme sleep-deprivation, delerium, or merely the bottle of celebratory champagne we'd just polished off) I proceeded to decorate the tree well into the night with the many gorgeous decorations my darling mom has furnished me with over the years (thanks ma – if it were up to me it would be a bare, 'Charley Brown' tree!)
At any rate, Egg is rather taken with the tree and lovingly 'redecorates' it daily, adjusting the chocolate santa's, candy canes and brightly coloured baubles until he is content. I'm just waiting for the whole thing to topple over one of these days.
Dumpie has mastered the stairs already and has discovered that by rolling over onto his rather ample tummy and pushing off, he can travel down three stories in seconds flat by adopting a reverse Jamaican bobsledding manouvre which has him giggling and me covering my eyes in terror.
I swear, if I don't have grey hair now, it's only a matter of weeks. These boys are hardcore. I'm serious
Friday, 14 December 2007
"Pseudo-Celebrity Babies"
So we're officially 'grubby' now. Our babies are sandy and brown (in the case of Dumpie), and covered in facial welts and biscuit crumbs (Egg). We've noticed a hilarious trend which pertains to our offspring. Everytime we set foot on the beach, we are beset with Indian tourists clamouring for photo's with the boys. The popular shot has thus far been little Egg building sand castles with his bright yellow plastic bucket and spade – clad in a camoflauge hat and red bathing trunks. However today, with the addition of three angry red welts on his face (likely bites of some sort) and the unwelcome addition of a sty in his left eye (possibly due to the flea-ridden kitten who's taken up residence on our balcony?) he has fallen in the photo stakes and it is Dumpie with his flaxen curls and huge toothy grin who is most in demand for 'souvenir photo sir'.
Jay finally had to appease his curiosity today, and with a mixture of broken English and bit-part Hindi, was able to ascertain that the Indian tourists simply find the boys 'very cute'. We wouldn't mind so much except that with each gaggle of tourists comes the necessity that each and every one strike a pose with the baby, and this is not only time consuming but irritates Egg and Dumps after a time, and invariably leads to tears.
Today we took a taxi to hippie enclave 'Vagator' and set up camp on the end of the beach where we were pleasantly harrassed by various beach hawkers and a rogue German tourist who was both nerdy and perverted. He spent the afternoon 'collecting' pretty young female sellers on the beach, buying cheap bits of tat from them to keep them hovering within arms reach, supplying them with bottles of Coke, and taking photo's of himself in various poses with them on his camera. Most amusing. Just when it couldn't get anymore ridiculous, he took up position on the beach and proceeded to do the 'hippie twirl' to a vast audience (a practise seen at festivals the world over whereby in the manner of rhythmic gymnasts two balls at the end of long strings are swirled recklessly through the air in figure eights and in all matter of intricate motions). This would have been merely amusing had it been ten or fifteen years ago, and had he possessed any manner of grace or rhythm. Unfortunately, this frizzy-haired would-be lothario, with his too-short legs and leering grin, possessed all the grace of a baby elephant and the exercise was nothing short of tragic.
Presently we're being eaten alive by mosquitos, it's time for dinner, and I've gotten sand all over our clean sheets. It's time to sign off.
You'll be pleased to know that my tailor and I arrived at the only logical conclusion given our seven days of recent shenanigans and disappointing 'fittings'. I am to pay him 400 rupees tonight (£5…or $10), take the black leather skirt, forget about any alterations on the original skirt I brought in (which shall be binned I imagine or sold to another hapless tourist this season), and basically bugger off. He is not interested in making anything further for me, and I am not interested in salvaging my original piece.
We shall leave each other in peace to pursue other business arrangements and take this particular one no further. I am happy. He is happy. The skirt is merely an amusing souvenir which will no doubt make me smile for some months to come. Whether I look like a cheap hooker in it shall be ascertained at a later date I imagine.
Jay finally had to appease his curiosity today, and with a mixture of broken English and bit-part Hindi, was able to ascertain that the Indian tourists simply find the boys 'very cute'. We wouldn't mind so much except that with each gaggle of tourists comes the necessity that each and every one strike a pose with the baby, and this is not only time consuming but irritates Egg and Dumps after a time, and invariably leads to tears.
Today we took a taxi to hippie enclave 'Vagator' and set up camp on the end of the beach where we were pleasantly harrassed by various beach hawkers and a rogue German tourist who was both nerdy and perverted. He spent the afternoon 'collecting' pretty young female sellers on the beach, buying cheap bits of tat from them to keep them hovering within arms reach, supplying them with bottles of Coke, and taking photo's of himself in various poses with them on his camera. Most amusing. Just when it couldn't get anymore ridiculous, he took up position on the beach and proceeded to do the 'hippie twirl' to a vast audience (a practise seen at festivals the world over whereby in the manner of rhythmic gymnasts two balls at the end of long strings are swirled recklessly through the air in figure eights and in all matter of intricate motions). This would have been merely amusing had it been ten or fifteen years ago, and had he possessed any manner of grace or rhythm. Unfortunately, this frizzy-haired would-be lothario, with his too-short legs and leering grin, possessed all the grace of a baby elephant and the exercise was nothing short of tragic.
Presently we're being eaten alive by mosquitos, it's time for dinner, and I've gotten sand all over our clean sheets. It's time to sign off.
You'll be pleased to know that my tailor and I arrived at the only logical conclusion given our seven days of recent shenanigans and disappointing 'fittings'. I am to pay him 400 rupees tonight (£5…or $10), take the black leather skirt, forget about any alterations on the original skirt I brought in (which shall be binned I imagine or sold to another hapless tourist this season), and basically bugger off. He is not interested in making anything further for me, and I am not interested in salvaging my original piece.
We shall leave each other in peace to pursue other business arrangements and take this particular one no further. I am happy. He is happy. The skirt is merely an amusing souvenir which will no doubt make me smile for some months to come. Whether I look like a cheap hooker in it shall be ascertained at a later date I imagine.
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