Part-Timer

My mum has been staying with me this last week and she has been less than complementary about my choice of telly. But when I stayed at her house recently she said that it was her house her rules and that her Freeview box was far too full to allow me to spend telly time watching frivolous things like X Factor. She had to get through her massive list of dramas: police dramas, spy dramas, period dramas (I don’t know how she follows that many different characters, one episode of Dallas and a fence dispute between Paul Robinson and his latest Neighbour per week is quite enough drama for me). So when she’s under my roof she has to watch my telly, and is forced to sit huffing and puffing her way through my selection of cookery programmes (“why is she doing it that way?” “Urgh, I hate ginger”) and reality shows (“I don’t know why you watch this stuff, Downton is so much better”).

Anyway, one of my all time favourite programmes is Sister Wives. It’s a reality programme about the polygamist Brown family in the US. For those who don’t know the background, husband Cody has four wives (one recognised by law, three “blessings” through his church). They were living in a massive home in Utah, each wife had her own wing which were joined by a central living room. Cody rotates his time around each “family”. They have since moved to Vegas where they could not find a home big enough so each wife has her own house.

At first glance, it’s a bit alien to the “normal” way of living. But scratch beneath the surface and for the women (yes, I said the women) it must be an idyllic way of life. When I was “married off” I had a number of single friends who steadfastly refused to give up their single lives, and I couldn’t understand it, surely they were missing out? But I now totally get it. I am pretty protective of my independent lifestyle, my evenings are my own, I can do what I like, when I like, I can put my furniture where I want, and I am getting more and more confident with “jobs” around the house (I fixed a long broken radiator the other day with nothing more than a few minutes on Google, a claw hammer and a screwdriver) and I love having my massive bed all to myself (except when the kids come in with me which is mostly lovely although Son Two has got a mosquito bite at the moment so it’s like spending the night with a large flea ridden dog, scratch scratch). Every day I wake up and know that my happiness is entirely my doing, and my path is entirely of my own making. Bliss.

But there are times when I miss having a man around. It would be nice to have a cuddle every now and then, and sometimes, as much as I hate to admit it, I need a man’s strength to help me get some massive piece of furniture down or up from the loft, and those are the times when I really miss it. Having a part time husband seems like the ultimate in luxury.

The wives get to run their own lives, they only have to be wife for one or two nights a week. Imagine that, you would know exactly what nights you needed to shave your legs, the rest of the time you could relax in your own house; all your own, not tripping over men’s stuff. And one of the best things is that these women are all the best of friends. One of them stays at home and looks after the kids while the others go out to work. I can’t remember who said it but there was a career woman who once said, I don’t need a babysitter, cook or a cleaner, I need a wife. A polygamous marriage would solve that. Shared responsibility for child and husband care, the rest of your time is your own.

Doubters try to say that these women are restricted. But when you watch it you quickly realise that it’s the women that are empowered. Poor old Cody lives out of suitcases, and is more downtrodden than any husband I know, having four women to nag him and is constantly trying to keep everyone happy.

There was one episode when the wives were asked whether they would consider taking on more husbands, and they all looked at each other uncomfortably, shifting around in their seats, explaining that having multiple husbands was not part of their religion. But I think the reason why they were reluctant to go there is because they secretly realise that they have it cushy.

Women have got wise to the fact that ultimately a husband is a massive responsibility and I think being a Sister Wife would be a great way of sharing that responsibility. I love having my freedom but I would happily take on a husband on a part time only basis. Kind of like a job share.

Ask any man if more than one wife would be good for him and he will immediately say it’s a great idea, a perfect way to satisfy his “high sex drive” (incidentally men, just FYI, you all have “high sex drives”, there is no need to advertise it on your dating profile or make sure you tell us on the first date). But ask a woman and she will immediately say “no thanks”. Because we know that more than one husband just means more work. And, as far as the sex drive goes, it’s just like fixing the broken radiator, we don’t need a man to do it for us (although occasionally having someone else to wield the hammer would make a nice change).

Three Steps to Happiness

The most common answer to the question “what do you want out of life?” is “to be happy”. Happiness means different things to different people but the many wishes (a good job, more money, a nice home, family etc) one could make, all lead to the same place for the wisher, happiness. But how do we get there?

You all know I love self help books (I can hear you groaning, shut up), and I briefly mentioned The Secret in one of my previous posts. A documentary about “The Law of Attraction” and how to change your life by following it’s principles, The Secret promises to unlock the power of the universe to give you everything you ever dreamed of. Now, I love self help books, and will devour them at every available opportunity, but I know I’m in the minority here and loads of you will not be convinced by what I or anyone else says. However, if a self help book can help someone be happier, more successful, healthier etc it can’t really be a bad thing, whatever you think of them.

I have been living by The Secret for two weeks and I’m happier than I’ve ever been. But I’ll be honest, there is no real secret to “The Secret” or any other self help book. In fact, having read possibly hundreds of self help books, I feel I am qualified to tell you a secret of my own, shhhh, they all say the same thing.

The words may be different but the messages are ultimately repeated over and over again. So, to save those of you who aren’t quite convinced about buying a self help book and taking the time to read it, or who just don’t believe they can work, or anyone who’s feeling a little down in the dumps today, I can sum up the principles of happiness, and therefore all self help (more money, better body, healthier life, success) in three easy steps, one blog post, maybe ten minutes of your time.

Step One – Gratitude

Before you all shout “boring, let’s get to the good bit” this is the most important step and if you skip it, you will never self-help yourself. If you have the money to buy a self help book, the eyes to see the words, the education to read it, the friends to gossip about it with, the car to go to the shop and buy it (or the internet) you are already better off than millions of people. Once you start looking for things in your life you can be grateful for you can find them everywhere (last week I had a particularly ecstatic moment being grateful for the return of Dallas, true story). It is only 11am and already today some things I have been grateful for include: my bed, my house, my kids, a great shower, cup of coffee, Raisin Wheats (made a nice change from plain Mini Shredded Wheats), my Hunter wellies, Radio One, the rain (because it’s watering my new container plants which I would normally forget about and end up throwing the emaciated stalks into the bin, wasting money and feeling crap for not being able to look after plants), central heating… I could go on and on. Everyone is different and will be grateful for different things, but we all have something to be grateful for, most of us have many.

Step Two – Positive Thinking

If you think it’s crap it will be crap. If you think negative bad thoughts, you will feel negative and bad. I have read countless self help books and have had two bouts of professional counselling and they have all taught me the same thing: positive thinking is a massive stepping stone towards happiness. And it’s not new-age bullshit either: “What we think, we become” (Buddha), “A joyful heart is good medicine, but a broken spirit dries up the bones” (Proverbs 17:22), “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so” (Shakespeare), “The pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; the optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty” (Churchill). The ability to put a positive spin on anything is a valuable skill that can be learned (simply through practice) by anyone.

Step Three – Action

Do something. This one sounds like the hardest one but steps one and two make it easy. Just do it, whatever you ever dreamed of doing, do it, try it, start it, write it, draw it, make it, change it, don’t waste time waiting until you have more money, a better body, a nicer house, the kids grow up, what is really stopping you from doing it right now? Is it a genuine excuse or just fear? If you follow step two you will discover there really are no excuses. And by the same token, if something you are doing makes you feel bad, stop doing it, it’s that simple.

And there it is. Happiness summed up into three easy steps.

But let me get one thing straight. I will never, ever stop buying self help books, or saying how wonderful they are, because they have brought me comfort in times of need and helped me see all the great things in my life. You may think self help is a load of codswallop, or it's too new-agey, simplistic, preachy just plain icky for you, but it’s simply someone suggesting you be grateful, positive and take action. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it J

Lost

I absolutely hate losing things. But to see my messy house you would think I wouldn’t mind losing things, to the untrained eye that pile of crap on the kitchen side is just a pile of crap, yet I believe I could list exactly what it contains. Organised chaos is alright with me.

It was actually my losing something that started my war on the loft. It was two days before the school term started and I was just getting round to labelling everything (unlike super organised mum who has everything labelled and ironed and ready to go by the last week of the previous term, smug cow) and I had misplaced the funky iron on name labels I had ordered in a desperate attempt to portray an organised image when Son One started year R (I won’t be ordering them again, poor old Son Two will have to be satisfied with his name scrawled across the washing label in an old Sharpie). It was in checking the loft for the misplaced labels that I discovered the level of disorganisation up there.

The other day I lost Son One’s swimming hat. This isn’t just any swimming hat, it’s special. Son One refuses to cut his long hair but it was affecting his swimming so I said he must wear a hat to keep it out of his eyes. He agreed to the hat on the condition that it was a Star Wars hat. So I lovingly sewed a Star Wars patch on either side of a blue and white fabric swimming hat. He loved that hat; you could see his little chest puffing up with pride when anyone commented on it. No one else had a Star Wars swimming hat, it was one of a kind.

The other day Son Two and I swam in the big pool while Son One had his lesson in the teaching pool. Swimming with kids is stressful, you have to take the same amount of luggage as for a two week holiday (and Son Two is still in nappies so that means extra supplies) and try and ram it into a locker far too small before realising that said locker is broken and you will have to go through it all again with the next locker along. But it’s afterwards that’s the worst. Trying to squeeze everyone into a tiny cubicle because a couple of sixteen year olds have decided to use the only two family changing rooms, changing nappy on the bench in a cloud of talc left by the previous occupant, wrestling damp feet into shoes and socks (with children complaining of feeling “sticky”) and then (and this is the really hard bit) get kids to stop fiddling with the door lock while you change yourself (why are they determined to reveal your nakedness to the universe?). When you finally unlock the door it’s like letting the greyhounds out of the trap, and you chase after them, hair dripping wet, all hope of checking face for runny mascara in the mirror forgotten. I returned home (mirror check revealed runny mascara as suspected). But when I took out the wet swimming things I couldn’t find the hat.

I tried to remain calm. I emptied the bag again. I put everything else away. I checked inside all the swimming costumes, inside the hoods of the towels, I emptied my car, I looked under my bed, behind sofa cushions, everywhere I knew it could be before everywhere I knew it couldn’t possibly be. I searched for over half an hour until I had to accept that the swimming hat was gone. And this is the point where my OCD kicks in.

I started to imagine the swimming hat lying forlornly on the tarmac of the car park, maybe getting kicked about by some passing youth. Or I would imagine it in the hands of some other child, who would not appreciate the love and care that had gone into making that Star Wars swimming hat. Or worst of all, being transported to the dump in a bin bag from the leisure centre, nestling amongst used nappies and sodden plasters, where it will stay til the end of time. All of these visions were a disturbing end to a much loved possession. To say nothing of the look on Son One’s face when I had to break the news to him.

And this is what happens to me every time I misplace something. I don’t just mourn their loss, but waste a considerable amount of time and energy thinking about where they could be once they are sucked into the vortex of misplacement. It’s both a blessing and a curse having such an active imagination.

I awoke early the following morning after a fretful night and reordered a new hat and patches in the hope that I could replace it before Son One noticed (which would have been hard given that Son Two loves it just as much and has taken to wearing it around the house when Son One isn’t around). It cost money but I would’ve paid a lot more to avoid the inevitable upset.

But I still couldn’t stop my mind cranking out the visions of the lost hat. So in one last desperate attempt to give myself some peace I went to the leisure centre and asked them if it had been handed in. It hadn’t. I begged them to let me look in the changing room and they reluctantly agreed. And there it was. Sitting on the bench of the changing room where it had been all along, not on any of the adventures I had imagined for it. Mystery solved and hat back in the right hands, my mind was finally calmed. Phew, close one, I almost overreacted there.

Car Booty

Don’t hate me for saying this but there are only 13 weeks till Christmas. My palms are sweating as I type at the thought of not having enough money to pay for it. Not only that, I also have house maintenance to do ready for the winter. Even when I was still with The Dad we never planned or saved properly for Christmas, ending up spending money we shouldn’t and never really recovering from Christmas until the following June. But as part of a twosome that was nowhere near as scary or serious a prospect.

Now I’m on my own the weight of responsibility bears far more heavily. I’ve started getting organised; making lists of what needs to be done, not just for Christmas but to the house to see it through winter. And along with all the practical preparations, I also need to prepare financially.

I don’t have any spare cash to save so I need to find the money through other means. After totally freaking out at the sight of my loft a couple of weeks ago (a footprint the size of my entire house, waist deep in broken toys, scratched cd’s, reams and reams of paper, baby equipment, computer parts and precious memory boxes) I had to sit down and calm myself with a cup of tea and a fag. I am most definitely not a neat freak but I would like to avoid finding myself on an episode of Hoarders (on one episode they unearthed three dead cats, can you imagine?). It was like I could feel the weight of all that crap bearing down on me, to say nothing of how I will be able to dig out the Christmas decorations by myself (that’s if they have even survived being buried under all the crap). But one mans trash is another mans er… probably crap to put in his loft, so I did an impromptu car boot sale yesterday.

My usual car boot routine goes like this: Plan car boot sale at least two weeks in advance, gathering all manner of crap and assembling pasting tables (and pretty table cloths), clothes rails and the like, while putting wildly inflated price stickers on everything and ironing piles and piles of clothes. Go to Tesco on the way to car boot to spend three pounds on snacks and drinks and to break a twenty to provide a float. Arrive at the car boot sale fully intending to make at least £200 (including a tenner for that pair of brand new jeans still with tags that you never quite fitted into but which are musty smelling from two years in the loft). Spend the next two hours refusing to sell stuff for below your starting price. Panic that you are not going to earn back the cost of your pitch. Start selling things for 10p. Buy a bacon sandwich to put something hot in your stomach and spend two pounds on a pair of neon yellow socks from the stall next door to put over your freezing hands. Panic that you are not going to get rid of anything. Start giving things away (harder than you might think). Realise that everyone else has left and you can’t feel your fingers or toes. Pack up 98% of the stuff you arrived with, dropping it off (including the unsold brand new jeans) at a charity shop on the way home. Go home, count money and discover that you made £2.46 loss for all that prep and five hours shivering in a field. But at least you have a new pair of socks.

So this time I took a completely different approach. No planning whatsoever and zero expectations (except to get rid of as much stuff as possible). Sunday morning I calmly loaded the car with bin bags of baby clothes separated into age groups and bits and pieces which were bought at a car boot in the first place and never used, easily grabbed from the precipice of loft mountain. I dismantled my kitchen table and bunged it in, made myself a flask of coffee, grabbed a couple of cereal bars, rummaged around the house under sofa cushions and in the rubber seal of the washing machine unearthing coins to use as a float and set off.

I laid my bin bags out on the grass and stuck an age label on each one. Random crap went on my kitchen table and I sat down with my book, cereal bars and flask of coffee. People were queuing up to have a rummage in my bin bags, and apart from one snotty lady who muttered “tut tut, bad presentation, the lady up there had the right idea” nodding towards a beautifully laid out baby clothes stall with not a punter in sight, everyone else said that my bin bags were genius. And that coupled with my pricing strategy (a pound each or whatever you want to offer) obviously worked. Some of the bulging bin bags were empty by the time I packed up. Lesson learned; people go to car boot sales looking for a proper bargain, not to spend £4 on a pair of second hand trousers they could get for the same price in Asda. After four hours I packed up maybe 40% of the stuff I went with, went home for a sandwich and worked out I had made £46 profit, a good start to my Christmas savings.

It barely looks like I’ve made a dent in the loft but with a little hard work (OK a lot of hard work, eBay is my next mission), I’ll have saved up for Christmas in no time and might even have a little left over to treat myself. And I’ll be able to put up my Christmas decorations without the fear of discovering a festering dead thing. One nil to me in the me vs Hoarders challenge.

Oh, Grow Up

We all grow up sometime, for the most part anyway. We start seeing bank holidays as an opportunity to do DIY rather than take road trips to the beach, and spending what little spare money we have (if it hasn’t already been spent on DIY) on mortgage over payments and children’s school shoes rather than bad fashion and booze. It’s all fairly boring really.

So I am grateful for the parts of me that stubbornly refuse to grow up, they make life just a little more interesting…

Bodily Functions

Admittedly there is a time and a place, but in your own home, bodily functions can provide hours of entertainment. Recently a friend and I held a burp off while eating pizza. The kids watched in awe as we downed whole cans of Coke and tried to create the loudest, longest burps. The kids were crying with laughter and bursting with pride when Mummy performed the winning burp, proving that girls too (in the appropriate setting) can enjoy and execute impressive belching (thanks Big Bro for teaching me that particular talent).

Naughty Words

I’m not talking about swearing, I mean the silly childish words that can raise a snigger in situations which really call for a straight face. Even as a grown mother of two I find it hard to go to the doctors and discuss faeces, penises or anuses (should the plural of anus be ani and penis be peni?) and prefer to use poo, winky or bum, and I still struggle to avoid a smile when I do. And sometimes naughty words pop up in unexpected places. I stayed at my mums recently and giggled for an entire day after finding a packet in the garage containing a “Drain Off Cock”. The images it brought to mind left me feeling slightly disappointed and bereft to find a boring old piece of plumbing inside the packet.

I am currently reading Bill Bryson’s Notes From A Small Island, and he noted that Bournemouth Pleasure Gardens used to be called the Upper Pleasure Gardens and Lower Pleasure Gardens, but in recent years they saw how dangerous it was to have Lower and Pleasure in the same title so we now just have the Upper Pleasure Gardens and the plain old Pleasure Gardens. I don’t really blame them, but if you ask me simply Pleasure Garden itself is rife with slightly naughty connotations (snigger).

Watching Neighbours

It started hundreds of years ago with a media storm around kids bunking off school to watch it and yep I still tune in. And to those of you that are asking “my god, is that still going?” (I get asked this question a lot when I tell people I still watch it), yes it is still going, and no Bouncer is no longer in it (although Paul Robinson is still going strong). There is something comforting about watching Neighbours, it has none of the depression or angst of the UK soaps (all of which make me want to jump off the nearest bridge with all their moody weather, dark, dank streets and chavvy irritatingly depressing characters), even when it’s raining on Ramsay Street it looks sunny and happy.

Making Wotsit Structures

For the benefit of my international readers Wotsits are type of corn snack, much like Cheetos, only smaller. Turning a packet of Wotsits (never tried it with Cheeto’s, this could be a new avenue for me next time I’m on the continent, wow imagine the possibilities) into one massive long cheesy stick and poking someone with it is the most fun you can have with a convenience snack on a long car journey. In fact, I think making Wotsit models overtakes Eye Spy as my number one car entertainment.

Ok so we all have to grow up, but come on, sometimes kids have absolutely the right idea. Every week I drive Son One to his swimming lesson and we park in the multi story car park. And every week he asks me to park at the very top. But being a sensible grown up I take the ‘sensible’ option, by finding the space as low as possible, as close to the door as possible, squeezing my mummy mobile in between two massive 4x4’s slightly parked over the lines, spend ten minutes trying to get out of the door without bashing the paintwork of the badly parked beast next to me, all to save valuable seconds walking from car to lift/stair well. But this week I finally gave in, and man, am I glad I did. I think I would go so far as to say the very top level of the multi story car park is the best kept secret in my town. Not only was our car the only one there (everyone else had obviously wedged themselves between two 4x4’s slightly on the wrong side of the lines) but the view was phenomenal. We excitedly looked over the edge and could see for miles around. It felt like we were the only people on the planet and ran about with our arms out in this huge space that for that moment belonged to just us. I don’t think I’ll ever park on a lower level again, even when I don’t have the kids with me (although I may not do the twirling around with arms in the air thing, there are some things a grown up really can’t get away with when not accompanied by children).

You might tell me to grow up, but I will firmly say that you are missing out (before sticking my tongue out and poking you with my two foot long Wotsit).

Carry On Camping

I love camping. There’s something about sleeping under canvas, being freezing cold yet lying in a pool of your own sweat, trying to get comfy in a twisted sleeping bag and of course the inevitable wee roulette (do I absolutely have to go outside and walk for 2 miles through the elements to get to the toilet or can I hold off until the morning?) that I find really exciting.

So as the weather was fine this weekend, I decided the kids and I would camp out in the garden together. It came in a flash of inspiration. It’s totally free and what could be more exciting to a three and a five year old than getting close to nature and sleeping under the stars? I was a little nervous, I have only just got used to sleeping in the house alone at night, how would I fare being outside? But the kids were excited so I was determined to be brave.

I spent the daytime working in the garden. I have recently admitted to myself that far from the Barbara from the Good Life I had expected to be, I actually do not enjoy gardening very much. I can appreciate gardens when the weather is nice but the rest of the time they just seem to be a drain on resources and energy. Because of that my garden looks like the outside of a trailer park, discarded and broken toys litter the “lawn”, patches of rough ground, untended plants and a jungle burying the vegetable planters The Dad had kindly put in for me. So, in a bid to stop dragging down the house ceiling price of the road, I painted a couple of ugly walls, while the kids begged me to hurry up so they could put the tent up. Kids Auntie came round for a cuppa so I asked her to help them erect it, to get them off my back while I was otherwise engaged (covered from head to toe in paint, perching precariously atop a step ladder, sloshing paint onto walls).

The tent had been festering in its bag for well over five years, and, given that it was my old festival tent and all manner of unsavoury activities had taken place in there, it didn’t smell particularly fragrant. But this didn’t seem to put the kids off, who excitedly got all their camping essentials, bedding, cuddly toys, a Ben and Holly magnifying glass (I have no idea) and my bedside clock and set it up ready for bed. After supper I read them a story and told them to go to sleep and that I would be outside until my bedtime when I would come into the tent and sleep in between them.

I suppose I should have added to the fun by staying in there with them. But at the end of the day I do need some time to myself to recover after a day unsuccessfully wrestling kids away from paintbrushes (and if I’m honest, I wanted to spend as little time in that stinky tent as possible). So I sat on the patio with a shandy and read my book. The children, unsurprisingly, did not settle. The tent from the outside looked like a cartoon bag of frantic cats. Son One eventually got sleepy, but Son Two (aged three) was far too excited to do anything other than play with his Action Man, loudly.

I started to get cold. So I lit a fire in our barbeque pit perched in the middle of the garden table, which warmed everything upwards from my eyebrows. At this point I was really hoping that they would get bored and want to go back inside, so that I could sit on my comfy sofa and watch X Factor. It began to get dark, and I was totally unprepared, so ended up reading my book by the light of a Lego wind up torch. Eventually it got so dark and so cold that I decided I may as well go to bed myself. At 8.45pm. So rock and roll for a Saturday night.

I squeezed in between the boys and realised why it had taken them so long to fall asleep. It was bloody uncomfortable. The two cushions I had used as a mattress had separated so that my head was off the ground, as were my hips and legs, but everything in between was lying on bare ground sheet. And I couldn’t sort it out without disturbing the kids. I had the wee roulette (I gambled and won, darting desperately into the house in the morning to relieve myself) and wrestled with my twisted sleeping bag. At one point Son Two woke up and complained that he was cold, grasped me round the neck and fell asleep strangling me. Son One woke up at 5am and complained that he was wet from the condensation drips falling from the walls of the tent, went out for a wee then returned to declare “I hate camping!” before falling back to sleep.

That afternoon Big Bro popped round for a cuppa, I proudly told him that we had camped out all night and I wasn’t even scared. “So did you like camping?” he asked Son One, “No. It was wet and horrible.” Son one replied. Still, least I enjoyed it.

Retro Repost: Children's Party Hell

Having had a very busy Friday, and having used up all my organisational skills this week trying to keep up my new school years resolutions I of course have not been organised enough to write a new blog for today. 

Screaming at me from the top of my ever-expanding-at-this-time-of-year to do list for the last few weeks has been to organise The Son's birthday party (I am doing a joint one this year, why put myself through the trauma twice when their birthdays are quite close together?).  So on that note, I decided rather than to leave you lacking a Friday blog, I would repost this one I wrote about a year ago (with a few revisions!)...

Most parents dread kids parties, whether planning one: what if it’s not good enough? What if child hates it? What if child says he wants a pirate party but then 24 hours before the party decides he wants a fireman party instead? Or attending: what if my child won’t play? What if they are rude about the food or entertainment? What if they won’t even go through the door – I have spent many hours in village hall car parks coaxing son number 1 into a party he refuses to take part in because there are balloons, an unfortunate phobia for a 3 year old. Thankfully we’re over that one.

Children’s parties are far more stressful than you would think pre-parenthood, on son number 1’s first birthday party we had 12 kids all with their parents (we served beer and wine to the parents to help them get through it – that was a controversial choice, possibly the rookie mistake of a first time mum) squished into our tiny flat, and I was so relieved that it was finally happening and going well that I drunk half a bottle of wine in an hour and was intoxicated and asleep before everyone left.

But I realise I have created my own party monster. Son number 2 was due a month before son number 1’s birthday. Heavily pregnant and needing a project, I threw myself into planning the ultimate pirate party for son number 1’s third birthday. The Dad, as the appointed MC, spent a week making a pirate costume to wear and I made a little pirate pack for every guest including sash, eye patch and bandana, with the pirate captains hat for son 1. Even son number 2, only a month old, wore a stripy sleepsuit and a little eye patch. It took a huge amount of planning, and was meant to be a one off. Make son number one feel loved and special while dealing with the transition from only child to big brother. But of course the following year he wanted a Buzz Lightyear party. I’d made the mistake of setting the bar too high. The Dad got his costume making hat on again and we arrived at the party as family Buzz, the kids in supermarket Buzz costumes, us parents in slightly too tight white jogging bottoms and home made wings. I was terrified The Dad would take some poor kids eye out with his wings, fashioned out of motorcross body armour and a car undertray (mine were far more child friendly, made out of carpet tiles).

And then there’s the cake. For at least 24hours before every party I am stuck in my kitchen, sweating and stressed, coughing under plumes of icing sugar. For son number 2's second birthday I did Lightning McQueen. But I’ll let you in on a secret, neither of my kids even like cake. I do it because I love the artistic side of it, and the pleasure I get when people say, wow what an amazing cake! It’s all self indulgence.

Sometimes I wish I had just started with a nice simple soft play centre party and a supermarket cake. Minimal planning, no ridiculous costumes, no panicking because Lightning McQueen looks slightly boss eyed. Just show up, pick up the presents and go home. The kids don’t even mind. They always have a brilliant time at soft play parties. But when our parties are over and we can all relax at last and son number 1 says “Mummy, that was the best party ever in the world” I know I’ll be doing it all again next year.

The Dad says he doesn’t enjoy the big parties so much, it’s all too stressful. You could have fooled me when he’s up til 2am the night before making pirate boots out of an old PVC skirt he’s bought from the charity shop. He says he would rather just play on the soft play with the kids and he really doesn’t care whether the cake is homemade or not (which is a shame because he’s kind of the only person who actually eats the cake).

Every year I say I will just do a MacDonalds or soft play party. Easy and simple. But before I got the chance to suggest it to him he says “Mummy, I want a Lego City/ Star Wars/ Spongebob party this year.” And now Son Two is old enough to pipe up with "and I want Peppa Pig party". Yep, I’ve definitely set the bar too high. 

New (School) Years Resolutions

Ooh I love the start of the school year. It makes me want to sharpen all my pencils and begin a new notebook. Even in the years between me finishing full time education and having school age kids, I still loved the beginning of September for all its crisp newness, the delicious promise of learning new things and stepping out on a sunny morning in a shiny new pair of shoes.

Unfortunately, this vigour and enthusiasm doesn’t tend to last. By the end of the first month back (OK, first week) we are usually late, fed up and new shoes have been scuffed and ruined. This year however, I intend to stay on the ball…

1. I will iron all school uniforms

Ironing is rather pointless in my opinion. You spend hours getting the creases out of things only for them to get all scrumpled up in messy drawers (and neat drawers is a NYR I have tried and failed to keep many, many times, so it’s time to admit defeat on that one). However, ironing school uniforms should be a bare minimum, I really don’t want my kids to get the “scruffy” label (whoops, too late) so at the very least I will endeavour to iron their uniforms instead of relying on the rather unreliable cheap supermarket school uniforms “non-iron” feature.

2. We will make it to school on time

And not dashing in five minutes late, apologising to the waiting teacher as Son One says “We’re late ‘cus Mummy was doing a poo”.

3. I will do Son One’s reading with him every day straight after school

Instead of only when I remember, and desperately trying to think of things I can fill up his reading diary with on Thursday mornings. Playing with fridge magnet letters, and reading “level one” on Angry Birds counts, right?

4. Sons will get dressed every morning in their bedroom, before coming downstairs, in clothes I have laid out the night before

No more rooting through the washing basket at 8.30am, desperately trying to find an acceptably clean school t-shirt and kids getting dressed in front of Dora. And while we’re on the subject, matching socks, every day.

5. Now that I know stain remover works I will use it

Rather than sending Son One to school in greying, dinner stained t-shirts by half term.

5. We will always walk to school

And learn more about the changing of the seasons, play games and discuss our day on the walk. No more taking the car for the two minute journey because we are either a) running late, b) thinking it might rain or c) feeling lazy. And the kids WILL love it rather than spending the whole walk moaning that their shoes are too tight, they wanted to go the other way, or they have "run out of energeeeeeeeee".

6. I will learn the rules of what is allowed in a packed lunch

I got told off by Son One for putting a packet of mini Smarties in his lunch box last year, as a treat, on his birthday. These are apparently contraband. A KitKat however, is allowable. And I really don’t know the schools standing on crisps either. All very confusing.

7. I will not shout at the kids in the mornings

I will also be strict about not being allowed to take their light sabres for the walk to school then having to face the inevitable screaming match outside the classroom when I try to take it away.

8. I will go easy on myself

No more beating myself up for taking a tin of out of date butter beans as a raffle prize and no more baking ‘til 3am creating a show-stopping cake for the bake sale (this is not the Great British Bake Off). OK, this one is definitely not going to last, especially when I remember that the pumpkin carving competition is only weeks away…

P.s. It has just dawned on me that I have now reached over ten thousand page views (and that's not counting my own)!!! Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone for reading, liking and sharing this blog, please keep it up. Here's to the next ten thousand page views :-) xxxxxxxx

Mettle Detecting

The minute the ex and I split I promised myself I would never, ever moan about how hard it is to look after kids on my own. Because frankly, being a mum, not being a mum, being single or married, stay at home, working, makes no difference. Some people can’t have kids, so I’m lucky. Some people have a shitty, useless husband, so I’m lucky again. Tough times come to everyone and you can’t compare your own tough times to someone else’s, because how can you know?

(And by the way, I hate the term “single mum”. It has such negative connotations. I prefer “lone parent”. It has far more cowboy/girl esque grit about it.)

So anyway, this isn’t a moaning post about being a single mum, ahem, lone parent. But the other day, I had one of those moments where I, like everyone, parents or not, single or not, regularly do. There was a moment where I thought, I can’t bloody well do this.

I had had a nice day writing while the kids were at the childminders. OK I’ll be honest, it wasn’t that nice, and I didn’t do that much writing. In the aftermath of a break-up everyone has the odd time when you hear a song that reminds you of how bloody good things were once, and the true meaning of that song suddenly dawns on you, and you just sit and cry while listening to it over and over again, howling into a babywipe because you are too wracked with sobs to get up and find a tissue. Yep, it’s depressing but it’s all part of the process. It doesn’t happen to me that often (I’ve got the cowgirl grit) but after a highly emotionally charged few days and very little sleep I was in the mood where frankly anything could set me off.

So I had spent the day crying while the kids were at the childminders, and stuck in the grips of the blues. I went to the supermarket with puffy eyes (and a noticeably new grey hair, honestly, this break up has a lot to answer for) because I had decided just to get one area of my life sorted. You have to start somewhere and to me the simplest place to start was to just cook a nice meal for me and the boys. They always eat well. I, on the other hand, have been living off croissants by day and Cheerios by night. I’m so laden with carbs I could power a jet engine with the amount of fuel I have to burn off. Sitting down with the kids and a nice meal would cheer me up, I was sure of it.

After my healthy eating trip to the shops, I picked the kids up. It was hammering down with rain. Son Two refused to get in the car because he was intent to play in the rain, and then refused to get into his car seat. I eventually got him in, not before I got a soggy bottom which had spent an added seven minutes sticking out of the car door while I wrestled Son Two into his seat.

We got home, the kids settled themselves in front of the telly and I started my second attempt at home made pasta. My first attempt was like chewing through a saddle and I was determined to get it right this time. Son Two (who’s now nearly three) wanted to help squidge the little rectangles into bows (we make farfale) so I sent him off upstairs to wash his hands while I lost myself in the welcome mindlessness of squidging pasta shapes. About ten minutes later he returned and took his place beside me. We sat in relative peace for a while squidging away, when I suddenly heard a drip. It appeared to be raining in my kitchen. I rushed upstairs to the bathroom to find the plug in the sink, tap running and a plastic Mr Incredible attached to the plug chain (presumably he was trying to save himself from certain drowning). I gathered all the towels I could find to mop up the water (with the help of Son One) and then dashed downstairs remembering that I had left Son Two alone with the farfale. I turned the downstairs lights off at the fusebox (thanks to my friend who phoned me up to tell me to do it), put a bucket under the dripping and powered through. After we had eaten, the boys started in with their tired mummmmmeeeeeeee whining. Son Two had gone under the table and found an as yet unnoticed pile of cat sick and had trodden in it. Son One wanted a drink. The kitchen was covered in flour and every pot and pan in the house was dirty. There was a bucket in the middle of the floor catching the drips. Every single towel in the house was sodden, and I couldn’t hang them out to dry because it was raining and I couldn’t even put them in the washing machine because my washing machine was broken (over the weekend my well meaning mum had brought me some three hundred year old feather pillows (I needed new pillows and couldn’t afford to buy any), attempted to wash them in my machine and they split, filling the entire thing, including the motor (if the billowing smoke was anything to go by) with feathers, and will require a visit from the washing machine man (which likely will take weeks) to fix it), my landline was ringing (mum wanting to know how the washing machine was) and my phone was going ten to the dozen with texts from friends in need. And this was when I had one of those moments where I just thought, I can’t bloody do this.

But tough times are there to show us how strong we are. And when you’re on your own you get a chance to really test your mettle. There is absolutely no not being able to cope. The moment the thought crosses your mind you pull out the grit and put some tunes on (to drown out the kids whining) and you just get on with it. And the sheer satisfaction you get two hours later, sitting in the dark with only a laptop for light (can’t turn the lights on until the ceiling has dried out), when the kids are asleep, the flour has been cleaned away and the sodden towels are at least in a neat pile, comes from knowing I did this, all by myself.

When the going gets tough, enjoy it. This is a rare chance to prove to the world, and more importantly yourself, what you’re really made of. Relish it and know your mettle has been tested and found worthy. Big tick, smiley face, gold star for us all.

I don't get it

I like to think I’m relatively intelligent. I have been university educated. I can do some of the numbers problems on Countdown and can complete a Sudoku on medium setting in under fifteen minutes. But despite this, there are still lots of things about life which I just don’t understand. I spend lots of time pondering over the following things in particular.

Why, if they have the ability to make “no more tears” shampoo for kids, can’t they make everything “no more tears”? It’s not just kids that get sore eyes. When you think about it, there’s a lot of stuff that comes close to our eyes and it would make life so much easier if we didn’t have to remember to shut our eyes all the time. Having to shut our eyes is just inconvenient. Adults use shampoo, face wash, shower gel, to say nothing of makeup. I am constantly jabbing myself in the eye with a mascara wand, it stings like acid, and makes my eyes run so ruining my makeup and I have to start again. Why can’t they make mascara so that it doesn’t hurt your eyes? Don’t they know that you are meant to put it right next to your eye?

And while we’re on the subject of products, why does the colour on the box of hair colourant bear no actual resemblance to the colour it will turn out? We spend ages in the supermarket, craning our necks trying to match our own hair up to that “before and after” example photo, wasting an extra ten minutes that could be better spent doing something else. Like phoning an actual hairdresser and making an appointment. But it does mean we can dye our hair at random times of the day, it’s ten pm on a Wednesday night and I want to dye my hair, damn you, this time it might actually turn out brown instead of red. But don’t count on it. I am tempted to buy a red one next time in the hope it might actually turn out brown.

My mum brought down some Cadbury’s mini rolls down at the weekend. Now, I love my mum, she is brilliant, and I also love mini rolls, but my lovely mum does have a tendency of keeping food way, way after it’s use by date (to say nothing of best before, I remember we once found some custard powder in her cupboard that was a full 8 years past it’s best before, no wonder it never thickened up properly). So needless to say, when my mum generously donates to my food stores I always have a little look just to see whether or not it will still be at its “best” (and usually eat it anyway, I can’t afford to be choosy). The mini rolls were no longer in their multipack but each mini roll still had a “best before end” box and in the box was printed, “see main pack”. Why is there a blank box? And if they are going to go to the effort of including a blank box, and printing ”see main pack” why not just print the date?

Out of all the needless packaging we have in our society I think egg boxes are where we have it absolutely spot on. The boxes are recyclable, they protect the eggs for the most part, fit eggs of all sizes and the box sits neatly in the fridge or on the sideboard (depending on where you choose to keep your eggs). Why then, do new fridges still come with a plastic egg holder, encouraging people to do away with the only decent packaging there is? Does anyone really ever use that little egg holder? It doesn’t even fit all sizes of eggs, small ones drop through the holes and big ones poke out too high meaning they run the risk of being mashed up when you close the fridge door. I don’t get it. It would be far more helpful if my new fridge came with a beer can holder, so that the few beers I try to keep in my fridge in case Big Bro comes round are not rolling around all over the place, a spare bulb or a way to stop things getting frozen to the back of the fridge and going all manky. I think my new fridge was illuminated for about two weeks before it was plunged into darkness and I then lost the old bulb so my fridge will now be dark for ever more, meaning that it is a common occurrence for things to languish at the back, forgotten and fused to the frost.

Recycling. Urgh. Just when I have got my head around what I can and can’t put in the recycling bin I go and visit my mum and find that her recycling service takes completely different things to mine. Hers takes glass but no cardboard. Mine takes cardboard but not glass. If they have the facilities to recycle all this stuff why don’t they all just take everything? Surely my mum throwing a cardboard box away is just cancelling out the good I’m doing by recycling my cardboard box. To say nothing of glass (although admittedly I do make yearly embarrassing trips to the bottle bank, car weighed down with the weight, me muttering to people staring “this is a years worth ok?”, it would be far less embarrassing if the glass was just picked up kerbside).

Why does a single train ticket often cost more than a return? It’s basic maths.

Is it just me that finds these things irritatingly hard to understand?