Happy Christmas!

Seeing as this is my last post before Christmas, I wanted to do something really special. Maybe something a little profound about peace on earth and good will to all men.

Well, a week into the school holidays, kids driving me insane and already pissed off about the giant turkey taking up valuable chocolate space in my fridge, I have little to say about peace, my house is anything but peaceful. And having been to town 3 times this week, and each time been stuck behind a shuffling shopper who has to stop every two seconds to get harassed by a charity collector or a fake perfume seller, even my good will is running at an all time low.

So to cheer us all up I decided I would find out some fun Christmas facts that you might not already know of. Impress your family and friends with these babies at the Christmas dinner table:

• Christ was born on December 25^th right? Well, probably not. Biblical boffins estimate that Christ was actually born sometime between 6BC and 30AD, so there is a very real possibility that Jesus is sitting up there on his cloud shouting “But its not my birthday!” every year.

• Christmas pudding started as a kind of sweet soup, made of raisins and spices. Doesn’t sound any more appealing than the Christmas pudding we have today.

• Up until Henry the Eighth, who first brought turkey to our tables, Christmas dinner in the England was a pigs head. This makes me grateful for my poor old giant turkey taking up fridge space.

• A big part of any British Christmas dinner table is the crackers. For anyone who doesn’t know (apparently many nations do not) these are cylindrical cardboard items that bang when pulled between two people, and one person is “lucky” enough to “win” (note the sarcasm) a paper crown which is either too big for your head or so tight it rips the second you put it on, making you paranoid about your freakishly large head. The cracker also contains a pretty rubbish joke (or sometimes, in posh crackers, a Christmas fact) that is read out for everyone to groan to, and a utterly useless gift, I almost always get a big plastic paper clip (too flimsy to clip any of my regular sized paper let alone big stuff) or a lonely single dice (fun).

• The Christmas wreath is meant to represent Christ’s thorny crown. But there is a contrasting view that holly and ivy kept gremlins and goblins at bay, who liked to come into warm homes during Winter (probably not the same kind of Gremlins from the film though).

• Chocolate coins represent the money St Nick gave to poor children at Christmas time.

• There are twelve days of Christmas because this is reportedly the length of time it took the wise men (or kings, depending on which version of the story you like) to reach baby Jesus when they went visiting. Maybe this is why they chose gold, frankincense and myrrh gifts, as apposed to a box of Celebrations, which lets face it would not have lasted for two days in the hands of peckish men (except maybe the Bounty’s).

• Most male reindeer shed their antlers around Christmas time, so Rudolf is either a female reindeer or a male wearing clip on antlers just for the tourists.

• The poinsettia is actually native to Mexico. Its name comes from Cuetlaxochiti which means “flower that wilts”, very apt considering when I bought my poinsettia this year the checkout lady said “Oh these, I call them buy and die plants”. Which is why I always get one, it’s the one plant I can buy without the guilt associated with inevitably killing it.  

• A brilliant Christmas game played in medieval times, called “Hot Cockles”, involved one blindfolded person being “struck” by another person. The blindfoldee then had to guess who cast the blow. I can’t see this catching on today, as this would be likely be used as an excuse to punch an annoying family member in the face (or maybe that’s just me).

• There is an old wives tale that says bread baked on Christmas eve will never go mouldy, so fire up your bread makers tomorrow.

• Eating a mince pie on each of the twelve days of Christmas is believed to give you good luck for the following twelve months. Finally, a Christmas food tradition I can get on board with.

Have a brilliant Christmas, peace and good will to all men (and women)!!! J

Nurturing their independence

I must have read every single parenting manual going, Gina Ford and Elizabeth Pantley have existed happily next to each other on my book shelf for many years now. But I never found one single approach to suit me and my family. I tried the attachment parenting thing. Breast feeding on demand (did that with son one, I was a human dummy for a year, ended up with incredibly sore boobs and a general disregard for my own privacy – I once answered the door to the postman with a boob out, having just been feeding and forgot to put it back safely into my bra), co-sleeping (I couldn’t sleep for fear of rolling onto baby) and baby led weaning (slightly more successful with son number two but then again, he will eat ANYTHING – even the crusty old Cheerios he finds down the cracks of his car seat – maybe this is a minor success for baby led weaning).

Now that son number one is five I am trying to nurture his independence and encourage him to try more things, even though he might be a bit scared, because I don’t want him to grow up to be over coddled and terrified of the world.

We went to visit my dad yesterday, he has 4 dogs, all Springer Spaniels (and I thought my house was hectic). So now that I am trying to do the independence nurturing thing, when we took the dogs out for a walk I encouraged son one to hold the least pully dog on the lead by himself. We didn’t have dogs when I was a child and I was absolutely terrified of them until I was well into my twenties. You don’t actually realise how many people have dogs unless you are afraid of them. To a dog phobic it feels like there’s a ferocious beast lurking around every corner. I don’t think we’ll ever have a dog as a family (son 2 is enough of a substitute) so I want my kids to experience dogs in a safe environment so that we stamp out any potential phobia at a young age.

So anyway, he was doing really well, until dog saw the field from where it would be released from its lead and lurched forward to its freedom. Son number one, being sensible and responsible, did not let go of the lead until he had flown through the air and been dragged along the road for a few feet, grazing hands and knees. He was crying and demanded a plaster but was relatively unscathed and even helped me hold the lead on the way back (I didn’t want to allow fear to fester), although he did say “I don’t think 5 is as big as a dog” which was his was of saying that maybe he was a bit too little to hold the lead all by himself. He had a point, maybe there is a limit to giving independence at 5.

But sometimes kids just take their independence whether you like it or not. The other day I had given the kids a sandwich, leaving the bread board and bread knife (safely I thought), out of reach on the kitchen sideboard while I nipped off to answer a call of nature. When I returned, son 1 proudly announced that he had cut his own slice of bread. And there he was, with the most perfectly sliced piece of bread I had ever seen. “And I was careful and didn’t cut myself” he said, grinning happily. I congratulated him on his triumph, while explaining the dangers and asked him if next time he wanted to do something potentially dangerous he should ask me first, just so I could be around to make sure he was ok.

But after the initial shock, I was actually pleased. Despite never allowing him to use knives before, he wasn’t scared of them, knew to be careful, but was confident enough to give it a go, and more importantly, not lose a finger in the process. Yay, a minor success as a parent (although admittedly a potential fluke).

My problem with parenting “approaches” in general is that most of them seem to adopt a one size fits all attitude. For me, every child is different, and the best thing you can do is find a way that works for you but more importantly, your child. Breast feeding on demand did not work for me, but I wasn’t put off breast feeding altogether. Son 2 had a strict breastfeeding routine and fed until he was a year old (before he realised that he could get a much fuller tummy from a big plate of dinner and went off the idea). Son one has shown he can be sensible and responsible, but I can’t see son two ever, ever, being allowed anywhere near a knife, even aged 18 he will have to live of crusty old Cheerios unless people are around to serve him proper food.

Time flies...

So that’s son number one’s first term at school completed. First nativity play. First school Christmas dinner. First set of school shoes completely and utterly ruined (note to self, waterproofing spray is worth the extra money, Clarks shoes maybe not). It only feels like a few months ago rather than over 5 years, that I was overdue and awaiting arrival of son number one, let alone number two. I hear myself saying it more and more these days, (I must be getting old) where does the time go?

The weeks don’t seem to be as long as they were years ago. I remember as a child the time between Bonfire Night and Christmas seemed to last forever. So desperate were we to get to the festive period. Now Christmas and Bonfire Night all seem to be a part of the same festive blur. In fact, add Halloween to that too.

Could it be that time is actually speeding up? Is there some great conspiracy out there that is magically changing all of our clocks and making each minute actually last half the time? If that is the case, why do the days when the kids are at there most annoying seem to drag? But no matter how much hard work the kids are being, and how often I have a bad afternoon, it doesn’t seem to change the fact that the weeks and months pass by quicker than I’d care to mention.

It’s ironic that some days we wish the time away (I can’t wait for them to get to bed so I can have some me time), and others we wish time would stand still (one day they’ll grow up and I’ll be surplus to requirements).

The man has a theory. The older you get the faster time goes because each unit of time becomes a smaller percentage of the time you’ve been alive. So a 4 year old feels like a year lasts forever because it’s a quarter of their life, but to a 34 year old it feels like no time at all because it’s only a 34^th of your life. Move over Stephen Hawking. It’s a pretty good theory, and I wonder how accurate it is.

I like to think of my Facebook picture as “recent”, but in reality it is nearly a year old. I need to change it for a slightly more haggard version before I get done for false advertising. Why does it feel like that picture was taken only a few weeks ago, but at the same time, when I think of how much I have done this year I realise it feels like a different person and a different life altogether?

Time supposedly flies when you’re having fun. So does that mean that our kids (who think ten minutes is a very long time) are bored out of their skulls and us grown ups are having a whale of a time? Seems a little unfair given the amount of energy we put into giving our kids a good time (usually at a cost of fun for ourselves).

There is actually scientific evidence to back up the theory that time flies when you’re having fun. The University of St Thomas, Minnesota, for instance, conducted an experiment where they asked people to comment on their enjoyment of a task set, secretly switching a stopwatch during the task to make one group think that the task lasted 5 minutes, and the other 20. The group who believed the task lasted only 5 minutes, reported greater enjoyment than those who thought it had lasted 20. I would love to know what the actual task was, and who the people were who took part. Different people would report more enjoyment in different tasks. If you set a watching TOWIE task to me and the man, I would report a dramatic quickening of time, but the man would probably report a drastic slowing down of time and increase in general malaise.

There have been many scientific experiments about our perception of time and they all conclude that yes, time does indeed fly when you’re having fun.

So maybe the cure for time going so fast is to have a boring, unpleasant life. I think I’d rather have a speedy happy one, rather than miserably dragging it out just for the sake of it.

I’m quite happy that time flies. Apart from the odd less than positive comment from the man (“we’ll be old and dead soon” – what a cheery thought), as long as time is flying I’m having a great time. I must be. Science says so, and you can’t argue with science right?

Whose Christmas is this anyway?

Like many people around the world this weekend we ventured into our loft (and hopefully unlike many people around the world also discovered a leaking roof, ah what a great time of year), to recover several boxes of sparkly stuff and adorn our house.

I keep hearing people say that Christmas is for kids. But I love Christmas. And kids get play time, toys, millions of dedicated TV programming time, an almost guaranteed birthday cake and party every year (to which all the guests bring presents) and someone else to cook, clean and earn money for them. Let’s face it, they get it pretty cushy. Grown ups get the crappy end of all of that. Frankly, as adults, we deserve Christmas. So if one more person says to me “Christmas is for kids” I might be inclined to whip them with a clipboard holding my “Reclaim Christmas for All” petition.

So anyway, we got our decorations down from the loft. Our Christmas decorations are pretty much limited to tree (and it’s adornments), one set of Santa lights for the playroom and a tiny glitter Christmas tree I got from the pound shop a few years ago in an effort to spread the Christmas joy to my kitchen, which now sits at a bit of a wonky angle. I do love it when people go absolutely mad with their decorations. We often drive around just to look at folks outdoor displays. I would love to have a house like that but I can’t help but imagine the work (not to mention cash) that goes into creating these masterpieces, so may I take this opportunity to thank those who put in so much effort for the rest of us to enjoy.

When son number one was 2, we didn’t have a tree. Not in a sad way, it was just that we lived in a flat with only one living area and we knew a two year old couldn’t be trusted with one. So I made a tree using sugar paper cut outs of handprints, it still got ripped up but at least I didn’t have to keep redecorating it.

Now we have a house and a sitting room. Note I call it a sitting room, not lounge and not front room, because this is a grown ups room, where no toys are allowed and children only under supervision or permission from adults. We also have another two year old, but we have a nice room in which to keep a tree away from his inquisitive little fingers.

Well that was the plan anyway. We hadn’t even got all of the boxes down from the loft before we had a broken bauble being trodden into the carpet, all the boxes and bags ripped open and tinsel and pinecones spread all around the house. Kids just don’t get the organisation that goes into unpacking and packing up Christmas decorations, least of all a two year old who just sees baubles as sparkly bouncy balls (takes a good few broken ones before they realise that they don’t bounce) and pine cones as a potential food source.

So I was already feeling the pressure and didn’t even attempt to do my usual nice organised tree decorating, with my Now That’s What I Call Christmas CD playing in the background, a cup of tea and a mince pie. I gave the decorating over to son number one (supervised by the man) while I took other son up to bed and away from the chaos.

I came down to find the tree, usually tastefully decorated with just the right mix of traditional and contemporary pieces, positively groaning under the weight of our entire Christmas decoration collection. The man had apparently tried to explain that we don’t usually use ALL the decorations, just some of them, but son number one, in his enthusiasm, could not be restrained.

We also let son number one have an old broken fibre optic tree in his bedroom to decorate and another tiny fibre optic advent tree, which plays very irritating Christmas music, the epitome of tackiness but there is no accounting for taste and he loves it. So the few decorations that had escaped being put on our main tree have ended up on those. And he does love to take all the decorations off and redecorate it, so proud is he of his very own Christmas tree.

OK, maybe my enthusiasm for Christmas decorations is waning some what, and doesn’t have the same vigour as that of a child. But that doesn’t mean it’s not for grown ups. I work hard for my Christmas damn it and I am determined to enjoy the Christmas spirit if it kills me. Maybe we have a few broken baubles and our tree chocolates won’t last the week, but I’m not doing all this work just for the kids. With all the Christmas shopping, cooking, planning and let’s face it, stress, us grown ups need some Christmas joy just to get through it.

Girl in uniform

I remember a time when I despised uniforms. I would deface my school tie as much as I could possibly get away with, wore it tied in the latest styles (long and skinny, short and fat, short and skinny but NEVER how it was designed to be worn), I’d take my skirt up so you could “see what I’d had for breakfast” (incidentally, I’ve never understood that saying, I don’t and have never kept Weetabix in my knickers), or bunching it up at the waist and then dropping it down just for inspections.

Now I love uniforms. Not just in a “ooh he looks fit in his white naval uniform a la that film from the eighties that I can never remember the name of” kind of way. Although, personally I’ve never been a big fan of that white uniform, possibly down to a general aversion to white knowing how difficult it is to keep clean. But I do like a nice man in a uniform. Anyway, I digress massively from my point.

I can’t see any negatives to uniforms. Sure at school I said I hated it (as did all of us, funny how we said we all hated them because we wanted to show our individuality at a time when we all would have done anything to fit in), but I think deep down secretly it was a relief. I didn’t have the confidence to come up with something stylish to wear day in day out.

Lucky, lucky people who get up every morning and have a uniform to put on.

For those of us with uniform free jobs, and not blessed with a natural “even looks good in a bin bag” sense of style, trying to come up with something to wear day after a day is tedious, and not having much time because you have two other people to dress (admittedly one in a uniform, yay) means it is easy to end up with the “covered myself in glue, wandered into wardrobe and wandered out wearing whatever has stuck to me” look. If I had a uniform all that would be a thing of the past.

Schools use the standard line that a uniform makes everyone feel like they belong and avoid difficulties arising when people can’t afford the latest trends. But I suspect that the real reason we have school uniforms is because one clever mother, many years ago, realised that having to think of something to wear every day was just a pain in the backside.

I don’t even enjoy shopping (although the man would disagree with that statement). Sure I love having something new to wear but the elation is relatively short lived when I get home and realise I’ve got nothing to go with whatever I thought looked good in the shop but in the cold light of my own bedroom accentuates how utterly out of proportion my boobs are to the rest of my body (and not in a good way). Besides, my mum always taught me to try on anything before buying it, a lesson I have never faltered from, so many a bothersome hour has been spent in a tiny changing room, with a screaming child pulling the curtain back to reveal my greying knickers to some poor unsuspecting fellow just waiting for his wife to hurry up so he can get home.

Nope, give me a nice uniform any day. I reckon schools should offer a uniform service to mothers as well as the kids. Then we could all get kitted out at the beginning of the new term together. A terms worth of clothing would arrive nicely packaged in cellophane all at the same time.

I’ve often thought that I should come up with my own little uniform, some trousers (non-iron) and a couple of t-shirts and jumpers embroidered with the kids names (they are, after all, my employers). But that would just be weird. So I am stuck with trying to think of something to wear every day and the irritating rounds of futile shopping that go with it. Still there could be worse things. I just need to stay away from changing rooms with uncomfortable looking men hanging around outside, although that is possibly a good rule to live by anyway.

Guest post from Manic Motherhood

I have a special treat for you today, a guest post from my bloggy sister across the Atlantic, Laurie Sontag. Laurie writes a fantastic blog called Manic Motherhood, a mom's tales of navigating the wild waters of her son's teenage years by hiding in her closet waiting for puberty to be over. Read more at http://lauriesontag.com or on Facebook/manicmotherhood.

I have a confession to make. It’s a big confession – and it’s one that is slightly embarrassing. First, you should know that usually, I am a perfectly ordinary parent of a teenager. Yes, I have been known to lose my mind on occasion and wear jammie bottoms in the carpool line, but other than that I am a normal parent with a normal life.

Except that I might just be a bit obsessed with the UK.

And by “a bit,” obviously I mean I am completely obsessed and in fact may need therapy. You know, just so you’re clear about it. Of course, there is no possible way I would ever be able to live in the UK, so you can all breathe easier. My husband prefers to live in the sunshine of California, where he’s always lived. So no crazy, Brit-obsessed Americans are coming to live in London soon.

Unless you count Gwen Stefani. Oh, and Gwynneth Paltrow.

Anyway, my obsession with the UK started when I was young. My cousin and I spent hours watching public television because it was the only TV station my aunt let us watch when we were at her house. So we saw a ton of Monty Python – which made much more of an impact on us than the specials they showed on the rainforest and world overpopulation. You know, because we’re shallow that way.

Also? We were quite devoted fans of the Bay City Rollers. And by “quite devoted,” I mean we were crazed young girls who thought we would grow up and marry them. Ahem. Yeah, that’s a bit embarrassing to admit. Actually, that might even verge on humiliating.

Of course, our craziness didn’t just include watching the Monty Python men dress up as women (really; what the heck was that all about anyway?) or listening to S A T U R D A Y Night a billion times. Nope, it moved into what can only be described as stalking. Yes, I admit this. We were not even teenagers – heck, we didn’t even wear training bras at that point – and yet we were crazy stalkers who had decided that we loved anything British, up to and including your Queen.

So one night, after a marathon of Monty Python and way too many Pepsi’s, we actually called the Queen. Not surprisingly, she didn’t answer her phone. An operator did and was quite nice to two young girls who clearly needed to be medicated and reassured us that, indeed, the Queen was fond of the Bay City Rollers, although she didn’t have a favorite. Not surprisingly, the Queen never returned our call. Presumably, she had other queenly stuff to do like address Parliament or something.

And I think you now have a clear picture now of why I had some issues making friends in elementary school.

But I’ve moved on since those days. Yes, because I am now a mature, responsible parent of a slightly wayward teen I no longer expect to speak the Queen. Instead, I have returned to my love of British TV.

I started watching again with AbFab. Seriously? Who could not love Edina and Patsty? They shopped! They drank! They smoked! They burnt down houses! They were like my dream come true of what I wanted to be when I grew up and moved to the UK. Except for Patsy’s hair, of course. I think she had a bunch of birds living in that beehive at one point.

Once I finished with AbFab, I moved onto the serious stuff, like Footballer’s Wives. Oh, I loved that show. I swear to you, nobody does baby switches like British. We’re talking smut and danger and drugs and naked men in a locker room. What’s not to love? Not so much the other show that came out of it - Extra Time. I watched one episode and they were doing unspeakable things with a vacuum cleaner. Let me just say that I don’t want my Dyson doing that. Ever.

And then I became slightly nutty over My Family – which is still my favorite. And I love Law & Order: UK, even though it hasn’t been the same since they got rid of the cute cop. Not to mention that I have trouble understanding some of the accents.

But don’t worry. I’m sure my obsession is limited to your TV shows. Unless I can find a way to have my husband get a job over there without having him actually know he’s applied for one. And I’ll have to figure out how to move the whole family there without anyone knowing what I’m really doing.

But I bet there’s an episode of Footballer’s Wives that will show me how to do just that.

Add http://lauriesontag.com/ to your favourites now! And if you would like to guest post for me, or would like me to guest post for you, get in touch bethanyritchie@gmail.com

Who wants to be a millionaire?

Not me. All those flash holidays, big cars and houses with no woodchip wallpaper, you can keep it. OK, I’ll take the flat walls but I’m not sure whether or not the time and dedication that goes into being rich is really worth the hassle. I don’t have enough time or energy to paint my toenails these days (seriously, it’s been months) let alone spend all my time looking for the next buck.

There are two ways of being good with money. Making money and saving money. From what I understand, you need to be good at both if you want to be rich. Last week two programmes aired on TV that seemed to explore both sides of money management.

The first was about the increasing popularity of wealth seminars. That is, courses that claim that they can teach anyone how to get rich. Some of them unveil the mystery behind the property and stock market, but many more of them teach a certain frame of mind supposedly common to people who have been successful at making money. Apparently rich people spend a lot of time standing in front of mirrors doing their affirmations, constantly repeating totally untrue statements about themselves, until they eventually start to believe them and magically things start to change.

Can anyone really be rich if they set their mind to it? I know a lot about how state of mind can change results because of my self help habit. There is always an affirmations section in self help books but I tend to skip that bit because if I had five minutes a day to stand in front of a mirror telling myself lies I wouldn’t have flaky toenail polish.

We all know I have a pretty serious self help addiction, but one area of self help I’ve never ventured into is get rich quick. To me it seems the best way to get rich quick is to write a book or a website about how to get rich quick (maybe I need a bit of that action), but this seemed to escape most of the people on the programme who attended these seminars. As did the irony of getting themselves into thousands of pounds worth of debt in order to pay for them. Then standing up and blithely affirming themselves a “good money manager” as part of their daily rituals.

The programme that explored saving money was The Ultimate Guide to Penny Pinching, on which one woman exploited coupons to buy sixty quids worth of shopping for a tenner. I watched with interest at the prospect of a UK version of Extreme Couponing (an American show about people who manage to get thousands of dollars worth of shopping for just a few dollars by exploiting coupons and offers), because I really didn’t think it would ever be possible in this country, what with Rottweiler like cashiers who growl savagely at you if you attempt to use a coupon that is in date, for something you are actually buying and fully complying with all T&C’s. But the woman who used the coupons was just barmy (and is, according to recent reports, allegedly now banned from her local Tesco). At one point she was talking about how they had lived off microwave burgers for weeks, her son kept saying “they were disgusting” but she kept saying “they were fine, they were fine” while smiling crazily at the camera. Then she and her husband sat down to chicken and vegetables for dinner, while her children ate a frozen pizza, which the son had again said he didn’t like but she had insisted he eat it so she could claim the money back using the coupon on the box. I think the programme was deliberately edited to make her look a bit insane but you’ve got to expect it when you put yourself forward for a programme like that. I love using coupons but even I wouldn’t buy stuff just for the sake of getting the money back, or force my kids to eat microwave crap while I eat healthy stuff. I would at least eat the crap myself.

The road kill man was admirable, driving around country lanes and picking up anything freshly killed, from pheasant and squirrel to more randomly, badger. He then cooked up a barbie for all of his mates and refused to tell them what they were eating until they had eaten it. I don’t think I’d have a problem with eating road kill if someone else prepared it for me. Although I think I would draw the line at badger. But I don’t think the man would take up road kill hunting as a hobby even if I begged him.

I am rubbish at saving money and haven’t had much experience with making it either, so my financial history does not bode well for a wealthy future. But that may be set to change as I am now starting to think about my resolutions for next year and I think one of them needs to be to finally start understanding money, making some and learning to save it. But I don’t want to be a millionaire, I just want enough money to have flat walls once and for all. Anyone want to buy a book about how to get rich quick?

Mind your Language

I was taking son number 2 to preschool the other day and the car park is a public car park frequented by a load of kids on skateboards. I don’t have a problem with these kids, in fact my boys love to watch them on their skateboards, it’s a free country. But on this occasion, one lad, who had fallen off his skateboard, shouted “c***” at the top of his voice. And I surprised myself by being absolutely livid.

I’m not usually the kind of person to be offended by swearing. They are just words and do no harm, and I like to think that people are free to express themselves however they choose, but since having children I find myself becoming more and more offended by the language people use, not for myself, but in trying to protect my kids.

When son number 1 said the F-word aged 3 I was shocked at how upsetting I found it. Obviously he was reprimanded and hasn’t said it again. But why are swear words swear words? What is the difference between my kids stubbing their toe and saying “fiddlesticks” as opposed to “shit”? The meaning is the same.

To me people do far more offensive things every single day. Such as not saying their please and thank you’s and not apologising when they have been in the wrong, but often these things aren’t considered as bad as swearing. It’s perfectly OK to not apologise for skinning my ankle with your buggy, but highly offensive to say “bollocks” when it hurts. It’s a strange set of values.

Many people argue that swearing is just for ignorant people, devoid of the education needed to use language properly. To me, swearing is just a different way of expressing yourself and has no bearing on a person’s educational background, gender or age. In fact, you could argue that those with a colourful swearing vocabulary actually have more words at their finger tips than those who refuse to use slang.

I also don’t understand why some swear words are more offensive than others. Some people don’t have an issue with the word “sh*t” but they can’t stand the f word or the even more controversial, c word. I suppose if someone called me a “vagina” (I still can’t say that word without sniggering) I would probably be pretty upset about it, in the same way as someone called me a c-word. But they both mean the same thing don’t they? So why is one bad and one acceptable?

It is all down to the emotion behind the word and the situation you are in I suppose. Being a mum I’ve had to take the kids to the doctors with toilet trouble on more than one occasion and still find it impossible to say when they have had a “bowel movement” as opposed to a “poo”. But if you think about it, most words that we think of as swear words have 3 versions, the clinical (bowel movement), the everyday-some-people-might-be-offended word (poo), and the swear word (shit). Think about it. You can do it with most swear words, it’s great fun. Although I can’t see it catching on as a car game but school is always telling us parents to use games to increase kids vocab.

I have wrestled with this argument all morning, trying to think of just why people find these words offensive, and why I don’t have a problem with people swearing around me but I can’t stand people swearing around my kids. Kids might copy everything they hear and see but we can’t protect them from everything. I often worry (amongst other things) that my kids will grow up and get flesh tunnels then change their mind and take them out and end up with massive droopy ear lobes for the rest of their lives. But flesh tunnels are not considered offensive or something that shouldn’t be seen around kids. Loads of teenagers have them.

The crux of it all is, it doesn’t matter why swearing is offensive, there is no point in arguing the case for or against it. I’m sure we could debate this subject all day but it won’t change the fact that some people find things offensive and therefore, in certain situations, swearing should be avoided so as not to upset people. While researching this piece I came across a guy on a forum who said that swearing should be thought of in the same way as farting, used only when you really need to, when you can’t restrain yourself, for comedy value and/or only in the right setting, which I think is a pretty good set of rules to go by. Now piss off and enjoy your weekend.

Just a quick note – I am coming up to my hundredth post in the next few weeks and thought it might be fun to throw it out there and ask you guys if there was any topics you would like to see covered on my blog. No pressure, but it would be interesting to hear some of your ideas. Please comment anywhere on the blog or email me at bethanyritchie@gmail.com with your ideas. Please note this is NOT a competition, no rules apply and there are no prizes, sorry! J

Facebook killed the Christmas Card

It now appears to be socially acceptable etiquette to do a Facebook status update on Christmas day saying “Happy Christmas to everyone I know”, hoping that people might see it (on the off chance they are surfing Facebook and it pops up on their news feed), rather than send actual Christmas cards. This new way of doing things is attractive to me because it is potentially another thing I can strike off my bulging Christmas to-do list (or not put it on there in the first place). But I just can’t shake the feeling that I am not doing things properly. I am a proper grown up with a proper Christmas card list and everything, but every year around this time I am faced with the same dilemma, to send cards or not?

Christmas cards are a great way to reconnect with people you haven’t seen for a long time. Let them know that you still care in a personal way. Just like emails, which can be written in half the time without the need to buy stamps or go out in the cold to find a post box before the last posting dates for Christmas.

Houses bereft of cards at Christmas time is a pretty depressing state of affairs to find ourselves in, as I do, almost every year. I have never needed more than one short ribbon to display my own Christmas cards, how sad. Although since Son number 1 has been at preschool (and now big school) he seems to get one from everyone in the school (probably written by their mums, as I do his, which is not really in the spirit of things but better than nothing) which have to be displayed and this bumps up our numbers somewhat. My mum gets millions, strung up in every room as a free Christmas decoration and announcement to any visitor of how popular she is. Although technically she is cheating because a lot of her card buddies were inherited from her parents who came from a time when a card at Christmas was the only contact distant friends would have year on year.

I can’t bare the thought of another tradition dying out. Our kids already don’t understand cassettes, phones you had to stay in one place to use and only having 4 telly channels, what will become of them if we let Christmas cards die out? They can “talk” to their friends over Facebook, they don’t even need to be in the same room as each other to play games together, so won’t see the need for Christmas cards at all. But I really want them to experience the joys of Christmas cards. Getting an email is not the same as getting real post, where’s the excitement in a tiny “pop” sound compared to a nice thud of post on the mat?

I love to write Christmas cards in theory. I feel all festive sitting down with my address book and list, Christmas songs in the background, and writing a personal message in each one… “Congratulations on your exam results!”, “New house, how exciting!” “How is Uncle Bob’s hernia these days?”, for the first ten. After that they slowly get less and less elaborate until the last few unfortunate people on the list get “[names] Happy Christmas (which is already printed in the card) love [names]” I mean really, what is the point?

Stamps are expensive, cards are expensive, it’s all added cost at a time of year when we are already over spending and trying not to think about the fact that we will still need to eat in January. And don't think handmaking your cards will save you any money either, the craft shops saw us coming.

The environmentalists out there have the best excuse. Don’t send cards because they all end up in landfill anyway. You could argue that there are specialist recycling places which will recycle them for you. But we all know that despite the good intentions of most of us, Christmas cards get taken down and shoved in a pile on twelfth night, where they stay until March when they unceremoniously and guiltily get chucked in the bin when no one is looking. If you’re thrifty and organised (I would like to think I am both, but my bank balance and the fact that I still haven’t bought any Christmas presents tells me otherwise) you can cut up the cards to make tags for presents the following year. But then you are left with tags that don't match and its even more hassle and you still have to chuck half of it away.

I still don’t know what to do. I think there should be a national referendum about this, then at least everyone would be doing the same thing.

But just in case I don’t get around to sending Christmas cards this year, I want you all to know how special you are to me, each and every one of you. See? Who says the internet can’t be personal?

The Message

If my life had a soundtrack right now, it would be the chorus of Grandmaster Flash’s “The Message” which keeps going round and round in my head. In fact, if recent conversations with friends are anything to go by, those lyrics pretty much sum up the feeling of every woman out there at this time of year. You might wonder how an 80’s American rap song about inner city violence, drugs and poverty relates to a 21^st century English housewife, but if you read the lyrics below you might get a clue.

The man and me used to be a pretty good DIY team. But since we had kids, the man tends to do the work while I try and keep the kids from decapitating themselves with a circular saw, hammering a hole in the wall or transferring paint to a sippy cup to feed their dolly, or more scarily, themselves.

When we first looked around this house the woodchip in every room was a big problem for me but it was the sitting room with its 4 different designs of artex “decorating” the walls that filled me with the most dread. I knew we had a mammoth job on our hands and have been trying to ignore it but there is only so long you can tell yourself that the faux pub look is not skin crawlingly hideous.

So on Sunday morning, while the man and me were still revelling in our child free bliss, sitting in our PJ’s with a cuppa watching Something For The Weekend (it’s the little things), the man had a thought that maybe, just maybe the artex might just chip off. So we went at it with a butter knife and 5 days later no artex remains on the walls (shame the same can’t be said for our lungs, floors and sofas, being a spontaneous DIY job we didn’t take the usual precautions of masks and dustsheets).

But I was slack. In the midst of all this chaos, real life has to continue. Washing and cooking needs to be done, cleaning needs to take place, and lets not forget that 2 little people (one a two year old with a nasty cold, getting less sleep than even he is used to) also need to be fed, watered, kept (semi) clean and got to school on time. Oh and I also have a fledgling writing career and a writing course to attend to. But because I have been so occupied with DIY mayhem, I naively let everything except the bare essentials slip. Kids were fed and put to bed, but other than that, cleaning, washing and tidying (and even cooking) has taken a severe hit.

I thought I was coping with climbing over piles of dust covered stuff removed from the sitting room to get to bed, and that it didn’t matter that my washing pile wasn’t even a pile anymore, just random clothing draped across surfaces around the house. But this morning, after a harmless and only mildly sarcastic comment from the man, I got a bit weepy. He left to go to work, already late, son number 2 screaming because he’d thrown his Cheerios all over himself and son number 1 upset because he wanted to wear his Star Wars Tshirt and not his Superman T-shirt for dress down day, while Expensive Cats screamed at me for their breakfast, tripping me up as I tried to wipe Cheerio milk from the walls. Then I lost it. I shouted at son number 2 and walked off in a shaking rage.

The thing is, just the decorating, just the Superman T-shirt, just the 2 year old with a cold, just the housework, on their own are such tiny things that they hardly bare mention. But add it all up, plus the constant spectre of Christmas looming (and the knowledge that I haven’t done any Christmas shopping whatsoever, bad mummy) and it’s no wonder that women across the land are having meltdowns.

I have a sign in my kitchen that says “There are two choices for dinner, take it or leave it”, the words are good but the picture portrays a far more powerful message. It’s a 50’s housewive with a sparkling grin, immaculate hair, a nice pussy bow and a totally unnerving wild look in her eyes. It is a look that says “I’m smiling, I don’t have a hair out of place but I’m so close to the edge that if one person complains about their veg touching their sausage tonight they may end up with a fist in their mash.” But I know that this woman doesn’t just represent me. She represents every single woman out there, just skating along in the ice rink of life, enjoying the thrill but hoping we don’t smash into the ice and break a bone or three.

Son number 1 knows me so well. After my meltdown he calmly brought son number 2 to me and told him to apologise, then got the washing basket and filled it right up with as much washing as he could find. He came up to me and gave me a hug and said “I really like your look today Mummy”, then quietly went and put his Superman T-Shirt on. Take note all men, that’s how to deal with a woman on the edge.

Grandmaster Flash – The Message

(Chorus)
Don't push me cause I'm close to the edge
I'm trying not to lose my head, ah huh-huh-huh
It's like a jungle sometimes it makes me wonder
How I keep from going under
It's like a jungle sometimes it makes me wonder
How I keep from going under

Something from Nothing

For the first time ever I have really struggled with my blog today. I have had lots of ideas floating around for days, one in particular, but I didn’t strike when inspiration hit and now have written, re-written and started again and it still just doesn’t feel right. I’ve tried all the usual tricks, just get started and write. Set the timer, bullet points, everything, but nothing is working.

I just can’t seem to commit to anything today, and that is the crux of all creativity, indeed doing anything, taking an idea and committing to it.

The trouble with creating, whether it’s a blog post, a set of shelves or a work of art is always getting started, deciding which that is the best way to do something and being brave enough to allow it to take shape. And I think that is often what puts people off giving something a go. What if I do the wrong thing? What if I put my time and energy into something that isn’t right? But then if you don’t try you are putting your time and energy into nothing, and you will always be wondering what if?

We finally put in for planning permission for our extension in August, permission still hasn’t come through and that’s actually a good thing because we still haven’t decided what it is that we want. We have the bare bones of an idea, but the final layout is constantly changing. Because putting a building down on paper and actually committing to it are two different things. We will have to live with it for the rest of our lives, what if we do the wrong thing? There are so many things we can do, I can’t picture us ever committing to one idea (but we must because we need a second bathroom, I am fed up with having to share my shower time with a pooing child).

The man did a brilliant tiling job in our last flat. I thought it looked beautiful. But every day when he went in there he came out irritated and annoyed because he felt he could have done a better job. It would have looked better with smaller gaps, he had used the wrong size spacers, etc etc.

For me it was more important that we actually had tiles, white ones, not the brown (yes brown) tiles that resided there previously. If he had thought about it any more than he did, it may never have got done at all, and I was proud of him for creating a bathroom for us from a few boxes of tiles and bare walls.

Whether you like it or not you are always creating something. It might be a shepherds pie, a spreadsheet or a working car, but in every activity there is that same difficult time when you have to decide on how to do something and allow yourself to do it, and thinking too much and trying to get something just so is the enemy of getting things done. It’s the ultimate procrastination technique. If we all stood around all day trying to think of different ways to do something nothing would ever get done. And sometimes you just have to be brave and let it fly.

But maybe that is the thrill. Maybe that’s what I love about creating. You can never be sure how it will turn out in the end, maybe you’ll be proud of it, maybe you’ll wish you had never started it and be slightly embarrassed that it actually exists, but the journey, and the end result is why we do it. To be able to see that there is something where once there was nothing.

Clarification: In Fridays post I said the man had been on at me for years to watch the Twilight films and I apparently need to clarify that the only reason he said I should watch them is because he thought I would enjoy the story, not because he loves Twilight himself. He likes manly films like 300 with real men, lots of blood, gore and heavy weaponry. Sorry for any confusion or threats to masculinity caused.

On or off the bandwagon?

I haven’t seen any of the Twilight films. Not one. I suspect there will be few people out there who think that’s a bit weird. Like when I was 21 and found out that one of my friends had never tried cheese and onion crisps before. How can you get to 21 and have never tried cheese and onion crisps? The same way as getting to 33 without watching a Twilight film I suppose. (Incidentally I didn’t try a Pot Noodle until I was 23, which some people also thought weird, but it wasn’t that nice anyway so I haven’t tried one since).

One of the reasons I haven’t watched any of the Twilights yet is because they are supposed to be so amazing. Everyone seems to love them. It’s like one big Twilight bandwagon. And it’s not that I’m being strange for stranges sake, but in a weird way when loads of people love something it tends to put me off. There’s a sceptical part of me that feels like I’m just playing into those money makers hands by liking something. It’s not as if I’m the kind of person to end up buying a Twilight toilet roll holder, or some other equally pointless and offensive merchandise, but I would like to think that film makers need to work a little harder to impress me.

But the trouble is, as it often turns out, the masses are usually right. And the bandwagon is usually worth the ride.

It happened with the Harry Potter books. I didn’t read them at first because everyone was going mad about them, you couldn’t move for people saying how good they were. I was convinced Harry wasn’t my thing at all, and flatly refused to read them. Me? Like books about wizards and giants? Purrr-lease. But then I couldn’t take it anymore, I did read them, and realised that everyone kind of had a point. I hate it when that happens.

This week I read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon. It was another of those books that years ago lots of people were reading and saying how wonderful it was. So when I started my list of books I should have read by now I put that one down so that if people started talking about it again I could say I’d read it. I secretly hoped I would hate it, but I loved it. Grrr.

Anyway, this weekend is the man’s birthday. I always complain about his birthday because there’s nothing he wants and there’s nothing he wants to do. Not like my birthday. I make it nice and easy for everyone involved because I know exactly what I want and I know exactly what I want to do. But the man says there’s nothing he wants, so I end up buying him something rubbish and taking him somewhere that he’s not impressed with. And because it’s so much more satisfying to give than to receive I end up feeling rather cheated out of the joy you get from giving someone you love something they love. So, having managed to secure a child free 24hours (and as he has been on at me for years to watch the Twilight films), as a birthday gift to him, we are going to watch all three back to back. And I’m kind of looking forward to it. I saw a trailer for the new one and actually thought it looked good until it got to the end and it said it was the new Twilight. It kind of grated that it had tricked me like that.

There has got to be something good about it right? I have been reliably informed by many of my friends that they are worth watching just for the sexy men alone. I am yet to be convinced. From what I’ve seen in magazines I have not seen anything in R Pattz that presses my buttons, but everyone else seems to be in love with him so there must be something happening in the films that makes him irresistible.

But these things always get me in the end. Harry Potter, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, Pot Noodles… maybe I should just save myself some time and start trying these things when they first come out. Because when something is good, it’s good, and it makes no difference whether I refuse to get involved, it just means I could miss out on something really cool. But you will never, ever convince me about Pot Noodles.

Christmas Countdown

The festive period has started. Don’t hate me for mentioning it but there is only 40 days until the fat man comes down the chimney to stuff our stockings. I’m sure there are plenty of hotshots out there who have already done their Christmas shopping (and wrapping no doubt), smugly sipping a mulled wine and listening to their Michael Buble Christmas album while the rest of us run around like lunatics looking for the obscure and incredibly rare Lego set requested by son number one, and trying to think of something more exciting than socks or novelty mouse mat for Grandad.

Some people don’t like it if you mention Christmas before December 1^st. I love Christmas, so the sooner the better for me. And I am glad that advertising starts in September because otherwise I’m likely to leave everything until Christmas Eve, the kids will end up with presents from the pound shop, and we’ll all be tucking into M&S Christmas dinners for one (x 8) on the big day.

The first sign that Christmas is coming, and indeed the first thing on my festive to do list every year, is to stock up on chocolate covered gingerbread from Lidls. I’m not quite sure what they put in it but I can’t stop eating it once I’ve started. Wow, just thinking about it now my mouth has actually started watering. I know people who start their Christmas stores in the summer, squirreling away barrels of sweets and chocolate biscuits. These people must have some serious will power (or have not experienced Lidl chocolate covered gingerbread), because I’ve already bought 4 boxes of gingerbread but only 2 remain untouched. And if it wasn’t me eating the gingerbread, it would be the man eating the barrels of chocolates. No matter how I hide them, even if they are gifts for other people, he will find them, and say “Oh but I haven’t got anything nice to eat, you can get some more can’t you?” And as I’m easily guilt tripped and don’t like saying no to someone I love he eats them, starting in October.

Maybe there are some men (and children) out there who take an active interest in Christmas preparations but in our house, apart from feasting on the spoils of my labour and putting up the tree (the best bits), everyone else’s input is rather small. I’m sure all men have been in the situation where a guest has said “Thank you so much for our gift, we loved it” to which the man replies “You’re welcome, we just saw it and thought of you” before turning to the woman and whispering “What did we get them?”

Apart from the big presents, for the kids and myself, the man isn't really interested in Christmas shopping. I always ask him “what shall we get your dad/mum/sister etc this year?” and at best get a suggestion of exactly the same thing as last year or at worst know that he’s not even listening to me (his ears glaze over anytime a birthday or Christmas is approaching and I start my sentence with “what shall we…”, I don’t blame him my ears do the same the minute he starts explaining the rules of UFC). Son number one wants more Lego, despite already having enough to build our house extension. Son number two wants, well he still can’t tell us what he wants so I’ll spend weeks trying to decide which of the latest brightly coloured plastic items will engage, entertain and educate him only for him to spend the whole of Christmas day playing with an orange.

I know there are people out there who are so organised that they save for Christmas from January. I buy two or three savings stamps from Tesco, usually in February, then completely forget about it until, oh about November, when I start waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat wondering how on earth we are going to pay for the turkey, which by the time Christmas dinner is served, I’ll be so sick of I’d rather eat my own arm.

The other burgeoning to do list I have in my head is the “stuff to do on the house before Christmas decorations come down from the loft and take over” list. Because as much as I love getting my Christmas tree out, and festooning my house with tinsel, fairy lights, holly and home made decorations, I do worry that they are just providing more hiding places for kids to leave half eaten sandwiches, and Expensive Cats to leave rotting animal carcasses, so I need to ensure that the place is as clear as possible to help keeping the place clean, and lets face it, sanitary, while the decorations are out.

I love Christmas, I love the preparations and I even love all the work that goes into it. My favourite time of year has officially started, and I can’t wait. 

All my own work

There’s a moment at school pick up time that all parents dread. Home time has begun like any other, everyone smiling awkwardly at each other as we wait for our children to be released. The door opens and a look of abject fear passes on all our faces as the teacher appears with a gargantuan junk model. Everyone is thinking the same thing, "please god don’t let that monster sculpture be coming home with me". An audible sigh of relief can be heard amongst the crowd as some poor woman attempts to balance a creation the size of a block of flats on the top of her buggy, to screaming protests from the toddler within, while older sibling, the proud sculptor, explains that its his chocolate sorting machine and has to have pride of place in the home forevermore. Everyone else smiles at her sympathetically, while thinking “thank fuck for that.”

But you’ve got to admire the kid’s creativity. And at least they made them themselves.

The trouble with school is there are far too many opportunities for parents to elbow their kids aside and flex their own creative muscles. And the most irritating thing to me is that schools allow this to go on.

There was a pumpkin carving competition a few weeks ago at school. Being new to the whole “school mum” thing, I presumed this was something for older children to enter. And given that son number one has only just turned five and can barely get out of bed without giving himself a black eye, handing him a pumpkin and a sharp carving device could only have resulted in yet another trip to A&E. So I had expected lots of crudely carved pumpkins, scary only when you consider the danger of a seven year old wielding a paring knife. Imagine my surprise to find that the majority of the entries were beautifully carved examples, which would not have looked out of place at an elaborate Autumnal wedding (I can spot a beautiful pumpkin because I have carved pumpkins for an Autumnal wedding). Surely a seven year old didn’t do that?

I am torn between feeling incredibly miffed that I hadn’t been informed that this type of thing goes on (the man and me are expert pumpkin carvers and would have thrashed the competition), and my belief that parents should not be allowed to help children with this kind of thing.

It just seems so unfair that the children of mothers like me, who believe that children’s competition entries should be all their own work, are competing against competitive mothers who wait for child to go to bed before getting out the glue gun and doing an online Hobbycraft order totalling a mortgage payment. The crafty (in both senses of the word) mums always win, leaving the kids who have entered their own creations heartbroken.

Thankfully I have yet to experience this myself but other mums have told of five year olds being given elaborate projects to do as homework. Most five year olds can barely write their own names, yet are expected to produce a project detailing the lifecycle of a volcano. But like the dedicated parents we are, most people will gamely stay up till 3am to complete a project for their child. Please tell me that the teachers in charge of our children’s early education are clever enough to be aware of this? And don’t they realise that a) having parents completing pupil’s projects is completely defeating the object of setting the task in the first place and b) parents have far better things to do that sit up half the night printing out pictures and ripping scientific explanations off Wikipedia?

On principle, I have told myself that I will never do a project or competition entry for either of my children. But when I saw those beautiful pumpkins I could feel my resolve weakening. How easy would it be to slip into competitive mum mode and show off how creative I can be with the junk modelling when I really set my mind to it? And I do love a good project. I can understand why people do it, I really can.

Yesterday I got a letter home about the Christmas Fayre, and there was an invitation to enter a homemade cake. The letter specifically said “Dear Parents” and the invitation to enter a cake did not mention children at all, so I may have found my opportunity to shine without compromising my principles. Not one to be competitive usually, I like to think I am the queen of cakes round here and this could be my chance to earn and defend my crown. There might just be a new competitive mummy in town. And I won’t be passing it off as my son’s cake, I want all the credit for this one thank you very much.

Keeping up appearances

You’ve got to feel sorry for celebrities sometimes. Being followed and papped at every available opportunity can’t be much fun (although the money and the celebrity friends make up for it a bit, no doubt).

Poor old Kelly Clarkson got a load of stick about a month ago for going out without any makeup on. Admittedly she looked nothing like the Kelly Clarkson we know, in fact you’d be forgiven for walking straight past her, she looked like a bit like Sonia from Eastenders, aged 12. But to me, she still looked lovely and fresh and clean, although not as glamorous as you would expect of a celebrity.

My problem is that as much as I love to wear makeup and make an effort to look groomed, quite often I just forget. I went to Sainsbury yesterday and realised when I got home that I had a blob of something as yet unidentified in my hair (could’ve been pumpkin soup, could’ve been treacle, who knows), I was too busy remembering to write porridge oats on my list that I just didn’t think to look in the mirror before I left. Epic fail.

But at least I didn’t run into anyone I knew, and at least there was no one waiting to take a picture from a highly unflattering angle and put it in the paper, just a funny look from the check out girl which didn’t click until I got home and looked in the mirror.

Personal grooming has taken a noticeable dip since having children, particularly the second time around. I have two other people‘s appearance and well being to consider before my own so rarely get around to myself. I’d love to have the time to put on a full face of makeup and do my hair everyday, but mostly a swipe of mascara has to suffice.

As a result of repeatedly over zealous playtime with his brother and friends, son number one has spent the last year or so with a perpetual black eye. I took him to casualty last weekend because he had a lump on it that hadn’t gone down for 2 weeks. It turned out to be a haematoma, a sack of blood surrounding a bruise, commonly found on boxers. It came just in time for his first ever school photo, so at least he had a nice big shiner for that. He is also a picker. He’s had a bite on his face for nearly 6 months that he won’t stop picking, I keep warning him that he’ll have a hole in his face if he doesn’t let it heal, and he stops, but I know for a fact he picks it when I’m not looking. He also has massive hair, rarely brushed, he’s a standard five year old ragamuffin.

I don’t do ironing as a rule, I just can’t see the point, but now that son number one is at proper school, with his persistent black eye and huge hair, I worry that he will have “sloppy appearance” forever and indelibly marked on his school file. So I now find myself joining the ranks of the other mothers who spend Sunday morning ironing school uniform, hoping that a crisp trouser crease will detract from his otherwise unkempt appearance.

I tell myself that I don’t care about what people think, and appearances don’t matter, it’s what’s inside that counts, but we all know that most people don’t think like that, as the media interest surrounding Kelly Clarkson’s naked face has proved.

It’s like with the house. I love my house to be clean and tidy, I’d love it to be like that all the time, but the sheer effort it takes just to keep on top of the marmite smears on the curtains and bodily fluids dripping out of the sides of nappies on to the floor is more than enough. That extra level of cleanliness and neatness eludes me. It lacks polish, as do I.

One day I will work out how some people manage to keep a perfect house, have ironed, scab free children AND a full face of makeup before 830am (there must be some secret to it) but until then people will just have to take me as they find me, sticky hair and all.

Living the dream

I had a bad dream the other day, the stabby, slashery kind. I woke up when in my dream I got so scared I couldn’t breathe. Bolt upright, heart pounding, trying the shake the feeling of imminent danger that was hanging over our lives, I attempted to rouse the man from his slumber. I told him I was scared because I had a bad dream, he just said “oh bless” and turned away, still snoring. So I had to get over my dream myself, sitting in the brightly lit bathroom, doing breathing exercises and reminding myself that I was safe. And feeling like a right tit.

The dream was so vivid and real that it got me thinking how does my brain manage to conjure up these images?

Like many people, my imagination (conscious or unconscious) can easily put me into most scenarios – good and bad. My mind makes connections with things I see and goes off in it’s own little world. I could see a National Lottery sign and imagine the feeling of getting the final number, then spend the next twenty minutes shopping in Kings Road and eating at The Bluebird (anyone else watch Chelsea?). On the other hand while waiting to cross the road, I might see a lorry, and imagine what it would feel like to be crushed beneath those huge wheels, bones shattering, brain exploding all over the road. It wasn’t my mind that thought that up. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve seen people run over in films or TV programmes. What can I say? I’m from the Casualty generation, I can’t have a chip pan in my house because it means hideous burns covered in cling film, not yummy chips.

I admit to totally over indulging my imagination, enjoying the sensation of letting a thought fly, on the off chance that I stumble upon a really enjoyable daydream. I also have an expert ability to multi task, so I could be paying for coconut and mango shampoo in Poundland but in my head I’m on a dessert island building a coconut phone and feeding bananas to a pet monkey. I’ve seen Treasure Island (and a million and one films and programmes with similar scenarios), haven’t we all? That’s what makes it so easy to think these thoughts.

So it begs the question if a person had never seen such images, good or bad, on TV, the internet, wherever, would they avoid having these kind of dreams and thoughts? Or would our minds come up with some way of filling in the gaps?

It’s out of our hands really. I try to protect my kids from seeing bad things but in a trip down the Halloween aisle in Sainsburys last week there were plenty of disturbing masks and costumes to fuel a juicy nightmare or two. And even if you can avoid supermarkets (or just leaving the house) in the month leading up to Halloween, a fairy story or even a kids film will provide enough baddies and villains to scar a person for life. Poisoned apples (“I’m not eating that apple, I’m far safer with a McDonalds”), Sleeping Beauty (“what if I don’t wake up for a hundred years? I better stay up and watch another episode of Fireman Sam”) even Toy Story (“don’t send me to nursery what if there’s a mean bear that smells like strawberries, come to think of it I’m not eating strawberries either”). And even if you can protect them from all of that, there’s the news, far more terrifying because it’s all real.

So how are we to protect our children, indeed ourselves, from images and scenes which could fuel bad dreams and anxiety?

We don’t and we can't.

I like my finely tuned imagination, even if it does occasionally get me into trouble (bad dreams, dark thoughts, even secret crushes – don’t ask, I’ll never tell), I’ll take all those dodgy things just to enjoy the infinite opportunities for joyous dreams and imaginary scenarios, and the ability to entertain myself even when I’m bored out of my wits (long journeys, meetings with mortgage advisors/builders/architects/anything to do with building really, when I hope the man is listening because I’m too busy imagining what it would be like to stand on the moon and look back at the earth). I just need to learn to block out the bad and nurture the good.

And maybe that’s what we need to focus on with our kids. How to filter the bad stuff. Coping mechanisms for the horrid things they will inevitably come into contact with in our world today, not matter how fiercely we protect them. They will watch horror films aged 12 with their mates and a can of Top Deck (showing my age), whether we forbid them or not. But even if by some amazing coincidence they don’t, not matter how much we try to protect them, they will experience the dark side of life, we just need to help them focus on the good.

There’s nothing wrong with a little daydreaming, it can provide a welcome and useful holiday from real life. As long as you’re not so busy daydreaming or worrying about what might be that you forget to appreciate all the great stuff that is real and right in front of you.

Very few people have no imagination. Most of us, like me, can be living an incredibly vivid day dream while doing the most mundane of tasks. I used to worry that this made me a little crazy, but the more I talk to people, the more I realise I’m the same as everyone else. It’s just we don’t often like to admit it, in case people think we’re mad. Reading this blog post back to myself, I suppose they’ve got a point, but life is mad. Enjoy it and live the dream. The good ones anyway.

Sorry...

...but I’m one of those people who apologises at the drop of a hat. In fact I’d probably apologise if you dropped your hat, such is my nature to apologise for things that are nothing to do with me.

It might be polite to apologise if you have done something wrong, but I have taken it to extremes and now seem to preface almost every sentence with “sorry”: “Sorry you stepped on my foot” “Sorry but could you tell me where I could find the frozen peas please?” “Sorry I’m in your way” “Sorry my kids are so noisy” or drop it in at the end “Excuse me, sorry”. In fact I’m thinking of getting “sorry” tattooed on my forehead then I could be pretty much mute.

Being overly apologetic is supposedly a very British affliction. But I don’t notice many other people saying sorry as much as I do. I think it’s my most used word after “no” (but that comes with the territory of being a mother to two boys).

I have always apologised a lot but didn’t become an extreme apologiser until I became a mum and felt like I was constantly having to apologise for my kids “I’m so sorry my child just pushed your child down the slide”, “I’m so sorry my son just pushed your child into the ball pit”. I have become so used to having to apologise for my kid’s behaviour that when the tables are turned and they are on the receiving end I don’t know what to say: “Sorry, do you mind not hitting my child over the head with that foam frog? He doesn’t like it, sorry.” It is completely ineffective and frankly weak. But if I was the kind of mother who shouted “OY, if you don’t stop hitting my kid with that foam frog I’m gonna give you a smack with that massive Lego block over there, see how you like it” I might get some results.

My mum has been staying with us and she went to the shops yesterday, came home and said “Sorry, I bought myself something” Um, and why does that qualify an apology to me? She said “Well I didn’t get one for you.” I just laughed (didn’t want a pot plant anyway), because that is exactly the kind of pointless apology I churn out day after day.

Being assertive is one thing. Being rude is quite another. But I don’t think it’s easy to find the right balance. Madonna recently got some stick for being a bit ungracious when she received a hydrangea from a fan. After thanking him with a smile she immediately put the hydrangea on the floor and said to her friend “I absolutely loathe hydrangeas”. OK, that comment could have waited until after the press conference, when her microphone was turned off, but it wasn’t like she said it to his face. She did say thank you after all. See I am the complete opposite. I would have made a massive show about how kind it was and how much I loved it, so much that they would think “ooh she obviously loves hydrangeas” and I would then get them every year for the rest of my life (for the record I do actually like hydrangeas, it’s carnations I can’t stand, but you would never know that if you got them for me).

It does bring up an etiquette issue though. If you don’t like something are you better off to admit it and apologise “Thank you so much but I’m sorry I don’t care for hydrangeas” or just, as I was always taught, say thank you, be gracious and smile. We’re working on teaching the kids to be gracious around food. Son number one is pretty picky. But I find it absolutely infuriating and incredibly rude when people say “I don’t like that” to someone who has cooked something for you. If someone is good enough to cook for you, you eat it and shut up or go hungry. Good manners 101. Son number 1 is getting to the age where I am not always there to correct bad behaviour and am paranoid that he is going to be invited to tea with a friend, be served up liver and say “Yuck I don’t like that.” I would be absolutely mortified (I can’t stand liver but I use it as an example because I would try to eat at least one bite, then probably apologise too much for vomiting all over the carpet, although that is probably one of those situations where over apologising is entirely appropriate). So, in preparation for that day we are trying to teach him to at least try everything on his plate, and leave whatever it is he doesn’t like on the side and say nothing. Anything else, including unappreciative face making or uttering a single word of disgust is completely unacceptable.

Saying sorry in every single sentence I utter has become another entry on my very long list of bad habits that I need to break.

Sorry this post has been a bit long. Are you an over apologiser?

If mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy

I’ve been working on my “things I should have read/watched/done/understood by now” list (it’s quite extensive) and I’m reading Little Women on the Kindle app on my phone. I’m a bit late to the whole kindle thing, I prefer to actually hold a book, feel its paper and sniff its pages (nothing kinky, I just like books) but we have to sit with the boys until they fall asleep at night (lest they trash their bedroom and not sleep til the early hours) and I wanted something to do in the dark that was a bit more productive than playing Angry Birds.

So anyway “Marmee” in Little Women, the gentlest, kindest woman you could ever meet, admits to having an anger problem, and says she often needs to disappear for a moment to compose herself. This struck me as pretty inspiring, given that she is the mother of four girls (imagine the hormones in that house) whose husband is away in the forces and she doesn’t even have CBeebies or the Xbox to shut them up when they get bored.

Apart from the screaming rows I had with my mum as a teenager, I’m not a very shouty person. I hate confrontation of any kind and am more likely to sulk or have a panic attack if I’m angry. That all changed when I had kids. Suddenly shouting until I was hoarse became as every day as making a cup of tea.

I don’t like myself when I shout. It doesn’t make me feel any better about the situation, it just makes me, and everyone around me, more stressed. I hate the thought that my kids might look back and remember me snarling at them, and I don’t actually think it makes the slightest difference in their behaviour. It doesn’t even scare them anymore they got so used to it.

So in the last two weeks I have been making a concerted effort not to shout. I have found myself taking an awful lot of deep breaths, shaking with rage and wondering what on earth I was doing this for. But it’s getting easier, I am starting to realise that for me at least, getting angry and shouting was a bit of a habit, and like most habits, it can be broken with a little will power.

Amazingly, the general mood of the entire household has changed. There’s a saying “If mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy” which I never believed before. Living in an all male household, I thought no one even notices Mama let alone gives a crap whether she is happy or not.

But actually, the clues were there all along. I could never understand why the more I got cross, the more the man seemed to get cross too. If I was in a mood, he would instantly be in a mood too. I would get even more angry with him, “For goodness sake, can you not just let me be the pissed off one for once?” which of course didn’t help the situation.

We went to Legoland the other day. Family outings are usually the cause of so much stress that I have to take rescue remedy before I even get up. But while the old me would have been shouting and screaming, stressing and straining, and the man mirroring my behaviour, the new me was calm and collected, we left later than planned, the house still in a bit of a mess but the difference was clearly marked, everyone was happy and excited.

I have noticed a lot less shouting from the boys too. Everyone seems to be happier. But the biggest, most exciting change is in how I feel. I am getting better and better at keeping calm, more practised in the art of not getting angry, and I genuinely feel like I am much nicer to be around. The kids punishments are more conscious and have better results and I don’t wake up still feeling the remnants of yesterdays stress on my shoulders.

Whoever said you should let all your feelings come out had obviously never read Little Women. Maybe bottling things up is not good for you, but having a think about why you’re feeling the way you do and deciding whether or not it’s the most productive way to be, and becoming practised in the art of putting on a happy face even in times of stress is just good sense, because it not only makes yourself feel better, it makes others happy too. OK, having the mood of the entire family is just another responsibility for poor old mama to shoulder, but if Marmee can do it, so can I. 

Be Prepared

It’s 9am on Sunday morning and I have just realised in a panic that I am not going to be able to do my blog tomorrow, because later today we are going visiting my cousin and won’t be returning until tomorrow evening. Until now, come rain or shine, hell or highwater, I have managed to get out a blog on Monday and Friday and I won’t let that change now.

If I was better prepared I would have a blog post already done and dusted and tucked away all ready to pull on out occasions like these. But as we all know I’m not organised, at all.

I love the whole “be prepared” concept. I loved it when I was a Brownie and had to carry a safety pin in my brown leather purse strapped to a waist belt. I never ever needed that safety pin but the lesson stays with me and I still carry a safety pin in my handbag (again, I’ve never needed it, I’m not quite sure what I would need it for, but it gives me comfort knowing it’s there).

My mum takes being prepared to a whole new level. Her handbag is straight out of Mary Poppins. She has her purse plus an emergency purse, and in the days when we went on day trips a lot she would always carry her French purse too. Just in case while in Sainsburys she suddenly decided on an impromptu trip across the Channel and needed some Francs to get some cheap wine or baccy. Carrying three purses is quite a feat of being prepared. She used to carry a small kitchen knife as well as a tin opener, so she was ready when called upon to rustle up a tin of baked beans or slice a nectarine when out and about. Times have changed though, and she would probably be arrested if discovered carrying her innocent but potentially deadly kitchen implements, so she no longer does.

When you have kids being prepared becomes a bit of an art form. Tissues, wipes and raisins are absolute essentials, whether you are leaving the house for 5 minutes or five hours. Many a night out with my mates I have found myself trying to cram raisins into my tiny sparkly purse before I remember that as an adult going out on the lash I probably won’t need them, unless the kebab house is shut.

The man had a bit of a situation yesterday when he took the kids out for a couple of hours. The dudes are 5 and 2 now so we have recently stopped carrying a spare set of clothes for anyone, as we never seemed to need them. Big mistake. While sitting in MacDonalds happily eating his Happy Meal and flirting with some young pretty girls, son number 2 had a toilet situation which, according the man’s account, resembled an erupting volcano, as bright green poo rose from his waistband like expanding foam. It didn’t stop until it reached his armpits, and having no spare clothes, the man has to do his best clean up job in the toilet. Son number two had to spend the rest of the outing in nappy, socks and a hoody, while the man valiantly continued his errands, albeit slightly traumatised. Needless to say we will go back to carrying a spare set of clothing from now on.

But there has to be a limit. Any mum (or dad) knows the importance of raisins (or some form of snack), baby wipes and maybe a nappy. But how can you predict a Vesuvius nappy? Over the years I have been known to carry the following in the name of being prepared: plasters, hairbands and brush (both my boys have long hair), up to 6 nappies for a two hour outing, small packets of tissues, 2 changes of clothing, Calpol sachets (I always, ALWAYS have paracetamol and Imodium in my handbag, my mother carries the contents of a small chemist in hers), a colouring book and pens, a Lego figure or entire Lego Lightning McQueen, drink, an emergency drink, wellies in summer, toilet roll, M&S Percy Pigs (bribe material), a remote control (both babies liked to press buttons) and a Thomas the Tank Engine toilet seat. Looking at the list now I am panicking slightly that I ever risked leaving the house without any of that stuff.

The thing with being prepared is you can think you are going over the top until the moment when something happens and you actually need that thing you took out of your bag at the last minute. You can guarantee that there will be a smug mum saying “I ALWAYS carry a spare set of clothing for Aloysius” when you are desperately trying to wipe baby poo with a napkin and dry trousers in a public toilet with a hand dryer.

So I now need to get packed for our trip away. And I must resist the urge to be over prepared. My cousin has a child too so I won’t need to take too much, we’re only going for one night. 4 changes of clothes for each child should do the trick. And I’d better take the Thomas toilet seat. And plenty of safety pins.

Balancing Act

Before having kids the man and I said that we would never become those parents who let their kids take over their lives. We would have at least one date night a week, go on regular romantic mini breaks and would never lose sight of who we are as people.

6 years later, with Shrek playing on the PC and Cbeebies on the TV beside it in one room (son number 2 inches away from the screen flicking his head back and forth, ever said to your kid “you can’t watch two things at once!”? Well, you’re wrong) and Xbox Lego Harry Potter taking a battering in the other, the man and me hole up in our tiny kitchen (the only area where toys are not allowed, although as I write this I can see a number of infringements just from where I’m sitting) and I am suddenly reminded of our promise. How is it that we have allowed the kids to take over our world and lost the balance between being parents and being people?

The more I think of it the more I realise that balance is key in pretty much every single area of our lives. And most of us struggle to find it.

Our oven has gone haywire this week, it started a month ago when Expensive Cat knocked a speaker down off the fridge freezer and smashed two radiant rings of the ceramic hob. After we discovered the £300 excess on our home insurance we patched it up with a bit of cardboard box, and sellotaped the knobs of the affected rings down. But a month on, the oven bit of it now isn’t working properly either. Sometimes it will turn on and others it won’t, a problem when you’ve just defrosted a chicken ready for roasting, can’t exactly stick it in the microwave.

So we have spent the last week trying to work out how on earth we will manage to afford a new oven and bemoaning that as a result of said new oven, our promised family holiday (which was to be the first in 5 years) and romantic mini break (first time ever) next year may not happen. On the other hand, some very dear friends of ours are getting married and details of stag and hen weekends have been released. While initial reaction is to RSVP in the affirmative instantly (they are our friends, it’s an important time for them after all, we’ll find the money), on reflection we need to think about finding a balance. We are scraping together the money for the oven (and holiday), yet not even flinching at going on hen and stag weekends which will cost almost as much. We need to find some kind of balance between spending money on kitchen appliances and leisure breaks for the family, and being there for our friends.

I don’t think I will ever find a balance between binging on chocolate and dieting, being lazy and obsessively working out. The key is a healthy, balanced diet, and regular exercise with a balance between cardio and strength training, you hear it all the time. But even though I seem to comfortably maintain my weight with my “good during the week, naughty at weekends” philosophy, I don’t feel as if it’s particularly balanced. Wouldn’t a balanced person find a happy medium between “good” and “naughty”?

If my life were a set of scales I feel like it would be frantically swinging up at one side and down at the other, I just can’t get my scales to balance in the middle.

I have been trying to come up with a conclusion to this blog for ages. Usually I can say how I think I could find a balance, offer some kind of pearl of wisdom as to how I think other people do it. But I honestly don’t think there is any such thing, no one has a perfect balance because we all have a finite amount of money and time, and constantly shifting priorities.

Maybe at the moment our kids are taking over our house and we’re feeling the weight of the scales being tipped heavily in their direction, and maybe those scales are also leaning closer to having safe kitchen appliances and being able to roast a chicken rather than holidays and hen do’s, but there will come a time when the scales tip back the other way. I hope so because I want to reclaim my sitting room, watch something other than Shrek and actually be able to afford a flipping romantic mini break for the first time in my life.