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.