Autumn: Take it or Leaf It (See what I did there?)

Take it: Hearty food. Shepherds pies, stews, warming soups.

Leaf it: Spending hours in the kitchen, sweating over vats of bubbling stew, soup and various mince dishes, only for kids to say they wanted chicken nuggets.

Take it: The morning school run. Bracing fresh air, ruddy pink cheeks on the kids, laughing and kicking fallen leaves.

Leaf it: The morning school run. Imminent threat of being knocked out by a prickly conker falling from trees above. Child kicking stealth dog turd hiding under said fallen leaves.

Take it: Yay! Get out the sandals, we’re having an Indian Summer!

Leaf it: Get out the sandals, we’re having an Indian Summer. Put away the sandals, it’s flipping freezing. Get out the sandals, put them away, get out the sandals… for goodness sake, I just want to wear my trainers.

Take it: English apples, pears, blackberries… all the joy of natures bounty.

Leaf it: Natures bounty. Fruit bowl full of wizened apples and glut of pears as hard as bowling balls. Feeling guilty and cross at all the rotten apples littering the garden and getting trodden through the house.

Take it: Christmas is coming!

Leaf it: Oh shit. Christmas is coming. Have mini panic attack in Pound Shop at sight of Advent Calendars, come home have more serious panic attack at distinct lack of stamps in Tesco saving stamp booklet.

Take it: Knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that I am not going to go out in public wearing a bikini anytime soon therefore can relax the diet and exercise routine.

Leaf it: The constant gnawing feeling that underneath extra layers of clothes, an extra layer of fat is forming. Plus the inevitably rubbish feeling that comes with another day passing without working out, and mixed feelings of enjoyment/resentment/guilt about that extra serving of crumble and custard.

Take it: Son number one looking especially cute in his brand new school uniform.

Leaf it: Son number one returning from school with school uniform covered in grass stains and repeatedly having to wash it. Realisation that “no iron” only valid when washed and line dried, not tumble dried to a crispy ball because of changeable weather. When I was a kid we wore the same skirt/trousers for a week. My mum had it easy.

Take it: Gusty winds blowing outside and feeling cosy and warm inside.

Leaf it: Battling gusty winds with the buggy, screaming child freaked out by waterproof bubble, sweating in a rain coat bought online, described as olive green only to arrive neon lime coloured, coming home to find hair not only blown out of neat ponytail but also full of static from damn lime coloured raincoat.

Take it: Not being attacked by wasps and bees when eating outside.

Leaf it: Getting complacent that danger of wasps and bees has now passed, finding two hornets in our bedroom ready to savage us as we sleep. Not eating outside because it’s flipping freezing.

Take it: The excitement of getting dressed up in hats and scarves for the rare treat of bonfire/fireworks night.

Leaf it: Fireworks starting in September and last through till January.

Take it:  Halloween, carving pumpkins, fancy dress parties, cute kids dressed up trick or treating at our door.

Leaf it: Having to hand out sweets to young adults not even bothered to dress up (unless you count a hoody and flesh tunnel) under the guise of trick or treating. Cheeky gits.

Take it: Winter coats, hats, scarves, a whole new wardrobe in fact.

Leaf it: The never ending quest for the perfect Winter coat, resulting in fifteen discarded specimens which aren’t quite right but cost hundreds of pounds over the years so can’t justify sending to charity shop, brought down from loft in October and returned in April, another year unworn and another few added to collection.

Take it: Spending every evening in front of the telly with a blanket over knees, drinking Ovaltine instead of Pinot Grigio, wearing slipper socks instead of sexy cork wedges.

Leaf it: Feeling like should really not enjoy slipper socks and Ovaltine quite so much.

What are your Autumn takes and leaves?

Tax the Fat?

Denmark has just introduced the worlds first “fat tax”. They are now imposing an extra cost on food that contains more than 2.3% saturated fat. But could a fat tax like the one in Denmark be the answer to the UK obesity epidemic, or would it just line the pockets of the government?

I have a complex relationship with food. Like many women I have battled with my weight at various times in my life. I’ve been fat, I’ve been thin, I’ve been pregnant… I’ve now reached a point where I’m happy and find it fairly easy to maintain, mainly because I make a point to be more active. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t sometimes like to eat an entire share pack of Maltesers in one sitting (I am a woman after all). Would I think twice if that pack of Maltesers was twice the price?

Yes, I probably would. But I don’t see why I should pay more for my Maltesers which I see as a treat, just to cover the extra costs generated by people who choose to eat Maltesers for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

The trouble with taxing food is it costs everyone extra. Smokers pay for their NHS treatment through ridiculously high taxes, as do drinkers. And numbers of smokers and drinkers have decreased in line with higher taxes. I asked the man what he thought, and he reckons people over a certain BMI should have to pay extra council tax. I think targeting those people who are in the morbidly obese weight range, who consistently refuse any attempt to lose weight should be the people that are paying. They are the ones that cost us money. Especially with the number of gastric bands they are now doling out on the NHS. Maybe if people who were in the morbidly obese range were made to pay extra for the privilege, they would think twice before having that extra chocolate bar.

They have made great progress by educating people about the dangers of smoking and drinking, and supporting people to give up. Why can’t they do the same with those struggling to lose weight? When I asked my doctor to help me lose weight I was handed some printed sheets about calories and activity and told to get on with it. I didn’t feel half the level of support some of my friends have got when asking for help to give up smoking. It’s not as if one day you just wake up at 30 stone, maybe if these people had more support at 15 stone, they wouldn’t have got to that point in the first place.

Half the problem is there are just too many excuses not to lose weight, and the number one reason? Not enough time. Lots of people simply don’t have time to think about food, we’re too busy and we need things to be quick. But many people just aren’t aware that you can cook a cheap, family dinner for in half the time than it takes to cook a ready meal in the oven. And we are too busy to learn.

I also hate this new “healthy” obsession. Apparently butter is not healthy, low fat margarine is. But most of the so-called “healthy” or low-fat stuff barely even resembles food. Didn’t they find that the transfats found in so called healthier than butter margarine was a carcinogen? They took them out and replaced them with what? Water? Studies have also shown that the calcium found in full fat dairy products actually aids weight loss. Fat free yoghurts are full of artificial sweeteners and flavourings to make them taste nice, but adding fruit or even jam to plain yoghurt is cheaper and much tastier and yes, less calories too. Believe me I know, I am a calorie geek. But I think the “healthy” label is dangerous, eat too much of anything and it will make you fat.

Why are there only two ends of the scale, healthy or fattening? What about the normal food our parents grew up on?

Something needs to be done to curb the rise of the morbidly obese, but I don’t think taxing food is the answer. People need to be given more support and education on how to live a balanced, healthy life. Including healthy food, plenty of exercise and the odd share pack of Maltesers, because we all deserve a treat every now and again.

They don't have a dream

From what I remember, school careers guidance consisted of a useless interview with a council careers officer, a grumpy woman with massive hair and unfortunate blue eye shadow, who hadn’t even met any of us before. Big hair would suggest the boys go into the army, the girls into hairdressing and those stubborn enough to refuse her first option were encouraged to go into accountancy (I was a stubborn one). Has anything changed?

There has been a lot about university fees in the news these last few years, as the cost of a degree is set to rise to a staggering £27,000. Much opinion about students getting a free ride, and whether or not they should have to pay fees and have access to grants and loans is dominating already pretty depressing news headlines.

But to me, the deeper issue is that kids are often coming out of University having completed a degree they don’t care about, and wasted not only their time and money but the chance to follow their dreams.

I followed school with a wasted 2 years of A-levels (and not a bean of careers guidance offered there) followed by 2 years of working in an office. I knew it wasn’t what I wanted and needed help. After some serious foot stamping I managed to procure a fairly useless appointment with the same big haired blue eyeshadowed lady I had seen 4 years previously, who told me to go travelling. I went to University after doing evening classes. But even at Uni, I received no careers guidance and my degree went virtually unused. Ten years later, having done nothing with my degree, I am now studying again, this time not the skill of writing but how to actually make a career out of it.

The man says he never had a dream, never had a passion for a career and didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life. Many of my peers are only now discovering their true vocation and starting to carve out careers that not only bring in the money they need but also the satisfaction of doing something they love.

“They” have got it all wrong. Stop focussing on exam results, qualifications and the three R’s, go back even further than that and start teaching kids how to form ambition and dreams. Teach them to get to know themselves so they can follow a career that they are passionate about and find rewarding. Give them the confidence they need to make these decisions and the bravery to change their minds if something isn’t working.

Maybe this is the job of the parents. But how can we as parents encourage dreams and ambition in our children if we don’t have any ourselves? Like all education, it should be a partnership between parents and the education system to give those who need support the skills they need.

The outlook seems bleak to even the cleverest and brightest of kids. They hear nothing but unemployment, war, recession, cancer, obesity, STD’s, terrorism… it’s a scary world out there. Is it any wonder that many of them look for nothing more than money and fame, which seem, on the surface at least, to give them some protection against the miserable future that faces them? Teach these kids that they have to power to change the world, and they might just do it.

We need to help kids nurture their dreams, and give them the skills to really understand what kind of career would suit them. There’s no point in people coming out of university with all this debt if they are not going to get a job they enjoy, and there is no point in people giving up education simply because they want to earn some money, sentencing themselves to a lifetime in a job they eventually despise.

Higher education services people who like to learn, and there are just as many people who get more out of learning through doing things, but there needs to be more help for those who just don’t know. Who don’t know what they want to learn, let alone how.

Maybe this would redress the balance between those who are going to Uni for the right reasons, and those just there for the crack. And maybe this would create a better society of employed rather than unemployed and fulfilled not disillusioned.

Get rid of the useless degrees in areas that are not going to lead to a solid career, and make those degrees that are available more relevant and useful. But most importantly, make quality careers guidance freely available to all. Maybe then Big Hair would have found a more suitable profession, instead of being paid to wrongly steer the paths of impressionable youngsters.

How Do They Do That?

Son number one has recently discovered the concept of jokes, although he doesn’t quite understand it. He just takes a bunch of random words, puts them into a sentence and labels it a ‘joke’. “What did the tree say to the poopy?” “Um, I dunno.” “DOG POOPY!” Cue hysterical laughter. Anything involving poo, wee, farts and bums is the comedy flavour of the month.

It was after one of these ‘jokes’ that I decided it was time to introduce him to knock knock jokes, so he at least had a few he could pull out with other people, avoiding the embarrassment of being told his jokes weren’t technically jokes and also trying to quell his tendency to shout the punchline “POOPY!” at the top of his lungs while going round the supermarket.

“I’m going to teach you a proper joke, it’s really funny, OK?”

“Ok.”

“Right, I say “knock knock”, you say “who’s there”? Ok? Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Knock knock.”

“Knock knock.”

“No you say “who’s there?” OK, ready?”

“Ok.”

“Knock knock.”

“Come in.”

“NO! You say “who’s there?” Right, knock, knock.”

“It’s me.”

“You’re really not getting this are you? You say “who’s there”? Ok? Knock Knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Doctor.”

“Um, come in?” Even once we managed to get the joke right he is far too young to even know who Doctor Who is so it was wasted on him and we were back to the “what did the car say to the road?” “poopy poopy brum brum” school of comedy.

Son number two is at that really frustrating age where he’s got lots to say but can’t quite get past the babbling stage. He makes his feelings known through a system of babbling, pointing and patting us on the arm. He has a complicated rule process that everyone must follow. For instance, no work clothes or apron at the dinner table. If I sit down in my apron he won’t eat any dinner until I’ve taken it off, and god forbid if the man sits down in his dirty work t-shirt, apparently it is much less rude of Daddy to sit bare chested and half naked at the dinner table.

He also doesn’t like eating dinner while wearing shoes, likes to watch Toy Story 3 from start to finish at least 5 times a day, and he doesn’t like it when people wear glasses when they don’t need to (Nana is only allowed to wear glasses for reading, nothing else).

He is amused by the strangest things. I spent twenty minutes at the saving stamp machine in Tesco this morning because he found it highly entertaining that it kept rejecting my pound coin. Each time I put the coin in and it rolled out underneath, he would cackle hysterically, red faced, eyes watering. I ask you, what exactly is funny about that? I kept doing it because it was an extra few minutes of not being at home watching Toy Story.

The kids woke me up at 4am today and told me it was morning. I (as usual) was half way to the bathroom to brush my teeth when I realised it was still pitch dark outside and they were at least 2 hours too early. So once safely back in their room, I decided to plug our fan in to drown out the noise of them sorting through Duplo (why kids have to do that in the middle of the night is something I will never understand). As I was fumbling around in the dark on the mans side of the bed trying to find the plug, the man, half asleep and thinking I was one of the kids fiddling with his stuff (this happens often) growled “Leave it”. “It’s just me,” I said “Oh ok” he said, back to his normal voice. But being on the receiving end of that growled “leave it” was not nice, and I realised I speak in that growly (or shouty) voice to my kids hundreds of times a day. They are great kids, but I seem to spend my entire life shouting and being stressed with them. I really need to start enjoying them more. No more shouting, I said to myself.

When I did get up at 7am, to discover they hadn’t actually gone back to sleep but had spent the last few hours trashing their bedroom, son number two didn’t stop whining and crying (because he was tired, surprisingly) and son number one insisted on eating three weetabix flake by flake (still in his pyjamas ten minutes before we had to leave for school), so despite my resolution I was red faced and screaming within minutes of waking up.

I don’t know how kids manage it, no one else in the world has the ability to irritate us and make us cross like they do. But they also have the ability to make us laugh like no one else does. I mean come on, ‘dog poopy’? That’s pretty funny.

Please take your space debris home with you

Somewhere, right now, there is a room full of boffins tracking a satellite the size of a bus as it plummets through our solar system at a rate of 5miles per second, heading for somewhere on Earth. But not, apparently, America. Oh that’s OK then.

I was listening to the radio this morning and they said that there is a 1 in 3000 chance that someone will be hit by a piece of the decommissioned satellite. Just dropped it into the end of the news like it was nothing serious. Chance of rain plus some falling space debris, make sure you pack your helmet as well as your umbrella.

I’m a little bit freaked out by the idea of something flying through the sky, Armageddon style and taking someone out. There is something like a 1 in 21 trillion chance of it being you. Chances of winning the lottery: 1 in 14million, maybe I should start buying a ticket.

One guy on the internet said that this is nothing new, over 400 pieces of debris fall to earth every year. And this is supposed to make me feel better how? Something I had never given a second thought to now apparently happens every day. I wonder what the statistics are for being hit but any piece of space debris, is it more than being struck by lightning?

Only one person has ever been hit by falling space debris, they say the person was unharmed. She must be making a fortune this week, I have seen quotes from Lottie Williams all over the internet. Her advice is to stay outside and look for it coming. As much as that appeals to me for twelve hours on a Friday night, I think I’ll take my chances on a bit of telly and bed thanks.

But this is all part of a bigger problem. The levels of space junk have now reached critical, and NASA have been called upon to start clearing it up. I don’t think it’s as simple as using a big hoover to suck all the crap out of the sky. Maybe they could just get a massive magnet, send it up there and see what sticks instead.

How can they leave so much rubbish up there? It’s like a bunch of messy kids not tidying away their toys after playing with them. It’s clearly men that are responsible, any woman would have factored in a cleaning up plan at the end of the use of the equipment (it’s tidy up time!), the men just wandered off and got distracted by the shiny buttons on some other satellite.

Apparently this is a kind of dress rehearsal for when a much larger satellite hits the Earth in November. This one will include a very large lens, don’t fancy getting a thwack on the head by that. But I think this will all become part of every day life given the amount of crap floating around up there. Pack lunches? Check. School run? Check. Took piece of decommissioned satellite found in garden to Household Waste Recycling Centre? Check.

So watch your back today. I just hope that whoever finds space debris is unharmed enough to milk the publicity for all it’s worth. Tut tut astronauts, when will you learn to tidy up as you go along?

Five Minutes Peace

We all love our kids but jeez don’t they come with noise, chaos and havoc? We’re all just hanging out for that delicious moment when kids actually fall asleep and the countdown to our bedtime begins (technically should be about half hour after the kids given how tired we are), when we all desperately try and fit as much as we possibly can into our few hours of grown-up time. Usually at the mercy of demanding V+ or Sky+ boxes or, in my case, the man insisting on watching a film because then it feels like we’ve actually ‘done something’.

This weekend I enjoyed a very rare few hours of quiet. The man and me went on an organised ghost hunt on Saturday night which mostly consisted of standing in the pitch dark holding hands with strangers. In silence. I didn’t want ghosts knocking and moving furniture around or wailing, not because I’m scared of ghosts, but because I didn’t want my long awaited peace to be broken.

From the moment I wake up in the morning (son number two pulling my duvet off me then heaving my head of the pillow with all his might) to the second I fall asleep (with the telly on to silence my screaming thoughts) it’s nothing but Mummymummymummymummymummymummy followed by whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy or, in the case of son number two mamamamamamamamamamama for ten hours, whilst running around getting drinks, snacks and fulfilling any number of other demands. And I know it gets worse as they get older: “Mum he looked at me.” “Mum tell him!”

The man and me very occasionally, and always regret it afterwards, sleep in while the kids sneak about downstairs creating havoc. A few weeks ago we got up to find that one of them (or possibly both I can just imagine them gleefully encouraging each other on this one) had put bubble mixture in the cats drinking fountain, creating a small but elaborate jacuzzi which could have provided one of the small mammals slain by Expensive Cats a nice pre-death treat (thankfully the kids had not thought of that and the only thing found floating in the bubbles was a Toy Story pencil).

But I can’t just blame my kids for the chaos that is our house, Expensive Cats also enjoy a spot of early morning mayhem. Every day, before dealing with destroyed boxes of cereal in the dining room (why can’t kids understand the wording “slide finger under flap”) and after crunching through a sea of coco pops (that’s another two quid down the drain) I get to the kitchen to find any number of slaughtered creatures littering my floor. Some of them have been skinned, disembodied heads lie a foot away from other random body parts and sometimes just small piles of entrails remain. Step on some poor creatures innards barefoot every morning and you quickly learn to put your shoes on before you even come downstairs.

There’s a kids book called Five Minutes Peace, where Mrs Large (the matriarch of the Large family of elephants) tries to have a bubble bath while caring for her 3 children. Quite what she was thinking even attempting to have a quiet bath in the middle of the day with three kids around is beyond me. She even takes a tray of tea with her. I mean, really? I’m lucky if I get a chance to have a wee in peace without a small child  sitting bare bummed in my lap because he needs a poo right that second. Anyway, predictably she doesn’t get her peaceful bath and the kids eventually get in with her. She then leaves them to it and gets three minutes and forty-five seconds to herself downstairs. That’s where the book ends. It doesn’t say that her penance for those three minutes and forty-five seconds was a tsunami in the bathroom, emptied out bottles of shampoo and the most expensive ‘treat for mummy’ conditioner used to “clean” the shower screen floating in the remaining one inch of water that’s left in the bath (with a foot of bubbles on top which will take ten minutes to wash away), and 3 rolls of soggy toilet paper and an emptied out waste bin floating in the flood water on the floor. Was it worth it for three minutes and forty-five seconds?

So I really enjoyed my ghosthunt, if nothing else for the peace and quiet that I never seem to get in my house. But however much I wish for silence I know that there will come a day when I long for this mayhem, and I will miss CBeebies being on at full blast and having to clean marmite off radiators, whilst being used as a human climbing frame. No, really.

I ain't 'fraid of no ghosts

If there’s something strange in the neighbourhood, who you gonna call*? It’s me and the man on our first ever ghost hunt. It’s our anniversary on Sunday, 12 years of un-weddded bliss, and, not being able to face yet another boring steak dinner in one of the unmemorable pubs or restaurants in our local vicinity thought it was about time we did something a little more exciting. (Don’t get me wrong, a meal out is better than nothing – take note the man - but we hardly live in a gastronomic paradise, unless you count the 27 Chinese or Indian takeaways and a lonely chain Italian restaurant. 12 years is a long time and we are in danger of turning into George and Mildred. And if the secret to a long happy relationship is shared experiences, I want to make sure we have more than a few rubbery steak with crap chips dinners to talk about in our old age).

So I came up with this ghosthunting idea as something that would be more memorable and a bit more exciting. What could be more romantic than wandering around the ruins of a burnt out WW2 hospital at 2am? I have absolutely no idea what to expect. Will there be a Mystery Machine and a dog? The man could just about pass for Fred, but I think as much as I’d like to be Daphne, I’m probably more of a Thelma type.

In all my bravery and excitement at the time of booking it, I’m now actually quite scared. Ghosts have never bothered me, I grew up in a really old house which I believe was rammed full of spirits, but never felt in any danger from any of them. There was a fierce old man spirit, who wasn’t very nice, but there were a couple of lovely lady spirits and lots of children who made me feel safe. I loved that feeling of there being something “there” when I was home alone; it made me feel less lonely. I’m sure a scientist or psychologist would find ways of completely rubbishing what I think I’ve seen, heard and felt but there was a time that scientists believed the earth was flat and despite their know all beliefs, they still can’t explain how a bumble bee actually flies, so I don’t think ‘they’ know as much as they think they do.

I think it’s hard to say for definite whether or not you believe in something like ghosts, because the term ghost is very hard to define. What is a ghost, is it an imprint of time? Maybe our energy creates a kind of photograph of ourselves that is only visible at certain times. Life after death? If everyone who ever died automatically became a ghost we wouldn’t be able to move for spirits, it’s hard enough getting a seat on a train as it is. Maybe it’s people between worlds, either because they have unfinished business in this one or can’t bear to leave it? Either way I can’t say I believe in ghosts because I don’t actually know what one is.

In some ways I like that there is no definitive answer, the romance and mystery of not knowing. We know too much these days, so much can be explained away by science. There is fun in the fact that science is yet to find an answer. This is unfamiliar territory for me, someone who likes to know everything.

The man was away last night and I hate being in our house alone. It just feels empty to me. I have never felt anything here at all, and I usually get quite a strong sense of a place the moment I move in. But we have lived here for a year and so far, nothing. I was talking to a friend about it recently and she said she thinks she is less sensitive to spirits since having kids. Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe our new house is full of spirits but I just don’t feel them because I’m concentrating on keeping children from eating entire jars of Marmite with a spoon.

There are lots of reports that say ghosts don’t actually exist, it’s all in the mind. If you’re in a spooky place, with a spooky atmosphere and want to see something, you will. Well I was trying to feel something last night, willing a chair to move a little, or to get a funny smell or a cold draft, just so I knew I wasn’t alone. But despite our creaky old house, full of cobwebs and a mystery past, I felt nothing at all.

Either way I’m looking forward to our ghosthunt with a mixture of trepidation, excitement and total terror. On the one hand I hope we experience lots of ghostly phenomena, but on the other I kind of hope we find nothing so I don’t embarrass myself by being terrified. Think I’ll take the Rescue Remedy just in case.

*Ray Parker Jnr. (1984). Ghostbusters Theme

Toppers, Samers, Downers... and Oversharers

Just dropped son number one off for his first morning at big school, which means he is now part of the big wide world and will finally be exposed to playground politics. Social politics don’t change as we get older, comments may get a bit more sophisticated (“you smell like poopies” to “new perfume? Lovely”) but the rules are more or less the same.

Thanks to the plethora of random TV channels offered to me by my V+ box I have access to an ever increasing selection of American talk shows (much to the mans dismay, he’s always complaining that I use up all our space with my “tat” and there isn’t enough space for his UFC). Recently on “The Talk” (Darlene from Roseanne, Sharon Osbourne, and a couple of American sitcom actresses sitting around discussing their home lives. More fascinating that you’d think - did you know Sharon and Ozzy are at it 5 times a week?) they brought up the theory of Toppers, Samers and Downers.

The idea is that everyone is either a topper (someone who always has to one up the other person), a samer (someone who agrees wholeheartedly with everything you say) or a downer (someone who points out the negative). I’m not sure whether or not it’s actually that simple, people rarely fit into such neat boxes, but it’s quite interesting to try and spot toppers, samers and downers.

As one whose finger is always firmly on the pulse of social etiquette (ha)I would like to add a category, if I may. Oversharers. I was born an oversharer but over the years have managed to carefully cultivate a pretty solid tact mechanism, with one exception. As soon as I get some wine into me (truth juice) I’m right back there making people squirm in their seats with inappropriate stories.

If I’m with BFF or the man there is no such thing as oversharing, we are all samers. We tell each other everything anyway, and a big part of any close relationship is knowing everything about one another, when you give so much of yourself to someone it can’t help but strengthen bonds. But often when I don’t know someone so well, or am feeling uncomfortable, or there is a gap in the conversation, I’m likely to come out with a detailed birth story or two (or worse). It’s not just about trying to make myself feel more comfortable but also others, although it usually does the opposite. I’m, somewhat naively, trying to create that closeness that I have with people who know everything about me. If you know someone really well it’s hard to be uncomfortable around them. But oversharing in the presence of stubborn undersharers can make us overs fell quite ungainly and inelegant.

I could name at least one topper, samer, oversharer and downer in my life (but I won’t, that would be oversharing), and I personally have gone through phases of each. When wine is not involved I’m a pretty consistent samer, I like to think I’m the same as everyone else and I’m not very competitive. Being a samer also increases social bonds, it’s nice when everyone feels like they are going through the same thing. There’s nothing like being able to say to someone “I’ve had the hardest day” and them genuinely knowing what you’re on about. We all like to feel like we’re in the same boat.

But it depends on who I’m in conversation with. If I’m talking to a blatant topper I can easily slip into topping ways myself, there are some people that can make even the least competitive person feel a bit ruthless.

Within the mummy circle the subject of sleep is a constant source of topping. “Aloysius had me up five times last night, I had to have an espresso this morning” “That’s nothing, I haven’t slept for two weeks AND I’m allergic to caffeine, I’m running on pure adrenalin” There’s something about motherhood that makes people competitive. From the “my labour lasted 106 hours” or, on the flip side “I was only in labour for 15minutes AND I had a fourth degree tear” (lots of oversharing toppers when it comes to birth stories), it’s no wonder that kids arrive in the school playground and start trying to top each other (my dad is bigger than your dad). They have watched their mums do it from birth.

I fully expect son number one to be a topper, I think it’s normal at his age. Although having had such an uncompetitive mum he might have some ground to make up.

Do you think that people fit neatly into one of each category? Which one are you?

Children's Party Hell

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’ve 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 man, 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 man got his costume making hat on again and we arrived at the party as family Buzz, the kids in supermarket Buzz costumes, the man and me in slightly too tight white jogging bottoms and home made wings. I was terrified the man 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 I recently 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 man 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).

I said that this year I would do a MacDonalds or soft play party for son 1. Easy and simple. But before I got the chance to suggest it to him he said “Mummy, I want a Lego City party this year.” Yep, I’ve definitely set the bar too high. 

Fresh Start

The household was a flurry of activity yesterday as son number one is starting infant school next week and his term started with a visit from his new teachers this morning. I get nervous anytime I’m supposed to be making a grown up responsible, impression because I don’t actually feel very grown up or responsible (is it just me that finds it really hard to remember the appropriate term for bogey, fart and poo when talking to teachers and doctors?) While being nervous about my choice of vocabulary I also want to ensure that the house is spotless so son doesn’t have “dirty house” indelibly written on his school record.

I spent the entire day with a really clean and welcoming home in mind, 2 quiet and ironed little boys playing sweetly with a jigsaw puzzle when they arrive. And not screaming kids still in Coco Pops stained pyjamas simultaneously playing Xbox, watching cartoons and hitting each other with a door stop amid a pile of primary coloured plastic toys, as is the general norm in our house.

I had a head start on my cleaning mission because BFF and her boy came down this weekend to help us celebrate son number 2’s second birthday (at least I was able to offer homemade birthday cake to teachers, hopefully a nice big tick on sons report). BFF is a cleaning whirlwind so my house always looks like a How Clean is your House after photo when she leaves. I clean for 4 hours before she arrives, thinking it’s spotless, but no sooner has she put her handbag down, she is whizzing round the house merrily swishing and swiping at the sticky jam handprints on the cupboard doors while keeping a sideways eye on her little boy picking raisins up off the floor (by 10am everyday my floor resembles a buffet table). I don’t think she even notices that she’s doing it, it’s just as much part of her nature as leaving a trail of mess and destruction is part of mine. And I’m very grateful to her for it too, as she sees things I don’t, always good to have another pair of eyes and hands.

It’s not just the thought of the teacher visit that had me on a cleaning mission, but the beginning of the new term feels like New Years Eve. I can’t bear starting the year with lots of washing in the washing basket and always do a thorough clean on New Years Eve. I’m not sure where I’ve got it from (my mum says not from her) because the rest of the year I’m messy.

I remember the excitement as a child of the new term, getting in supplies and having everything laid out the night before. Being organised would only last a day, after that I would be running out the door with books falling out of my bag and always having to use the school lost and found PE kit because I’d forgotten mine (not much fun playing netball in the freezing cold wearing trainers of 2 different sizes and obscenely too small PE knickers flossing your bum crack).

I read somewhere that the new school year holds the same opportunity for change and resolution as January 1^st, but without the guilt of having to give things up, it’s all about new starts and new shoes. I like that. Any opportunity to make a fresh start is one I will reach out for with both hands. Son’s new uniform is ready and waiting to receive name labels (uncharacteristically organised of me to have ordered them in June, characteristically disorganised to have left it till the last minute to attach them).

So I went to bed last night happy in the knowledge that my house was clean and son will not have to live with “manky house” on his record forever more.

But typically they showed up ten minutes early while I was still washing up the breakfast things, the telly was blaring Cbeebies and a sea of Peppa Pig toys had to be negotiated before being able to sit down. And I actually used the word bum in conversation. So that report probably won’t be squeaky clean after all.