Any Takers?

Situation: I have two beautiful children who I love dearly.
Dilemma: Who’ll take the buggers off my hands so that I can go to work / get drunk / sleep?

When your baby is born, for about a week afterwards there’ll be an abundance of visitors to your home who’ll coo and fuss and fight over your tiny sleeping bundle. They’ll adorn you and your child with gifts and money, make delicious dinners that you can reheat, promise to be in touch and help you to “wet the baby’s head” then you won’t hear from anyone for a month. Apart from the grandparents who move themselves in. You’re led into a false sense of security that all of the blubbering doe-eyed guests will offer themselves on a platter for all of your childcare needs until they witness this...

 

...and suddenly they’d rather count their nail varnishes or have their eyeballs waxed. We’re very lucky to have a large family who we can harass, nag, beg, stalk, threaten and bribe when we need a babysitter. If we only had evenings to consider we’d be delighted because we can make do with a “date night” once every couple of weeks to remind ourselves that we’re actually irresponsible plonkers, not Stepford Superparents – but we both work full-time and there arises the issue of full-time childcare...

 

 

Being stay-at-home parents was never an option for us. After years of working in rubbish jobs, in debt to our receding hairlines, Dad and I have only just established ourselves in careers that pay well. They probably only pay the national average wage but it’s better than what we were used to before. We no longer have to worry about the electric running out and going into the emergency supply, our cupboards are always full of food (until Ava gnaws her way through them), my Gremlins can wear Clarks shoes that won’t give them bunions in later life and we can holiday abroad and get some culture (in Ibiza). I greatly respect those mothers (or fathers) who can afford to spend extra quality time with their children rather than being superglued to a desk and a telephone, but to be honest I think if I had to spend every second of my day – every day – with my beloved wonderous children, within two weeks you’d witness me throwing myself from the roof. When they’re good they’re very very good but when they’re bad they’re dancing on the dining table, flooding my bathroom and trying to stick things up the dog. I go to work for a rest.

 

 

Finding suitable childcare is a hard task. Your average nursery costs between £35-£50 per day. That’s £175-£250 per week. They’re not always flexible with their days and hours and your gurgling baby won’t get the one-to-one support that they get at home, though their ability to socialise and eat play dough will be far advanced. Child-minders are slave labour at about £3-£5 per hour, but there’s the rigorous process of ensuring that you don't employ Myra Hindley. When choosing a child-minder, don’t pick the one with the “dog cage”, the mysterious metal door covered in chains or the one who asks you not to drug test.

 

 

We were very lucky with Owen and found a fantastic Superminder who we found on our local authority’s approved child-minder list. After nine months of maternity leave, colic, Iggle Piggle and rattle shaking I was ready to offer him to the next person to walk my past house, so I was incredibly grateful to the woman who took him to toddler groups to actually play, not so she could shut her eyes for ten minutes in the hope that somebody else was paying attention. Superminder became a part of our little family for a few years until Owen started nursery, and she was completely funded by the wonders of tax credits - hurrah! Then he started school and they promised to look after him for free – double hurrah!

 

 

Then along came David Cameron who significantly dropped the threshold for financial support with childcare and by the time Ava was born we no longer qualified. So we had to decide whether to fork out £400 per month for three days of childcare per week, to look for an alternative solution or one of us would have to quit our job and our sanity and we’d return to the breadline with malnutrition and bunions.

 

 

We went for the alternative. Our friend Wonderwomum was paying a nursery £50 per day to take care of her (now two-year-old) son Harrison and he would kick, scream and cry on the nursery doorstep, tugging at Wonderwomum’s guilt strings. So we agreed a mutual arrangement whereby Wonderwomum would child-mind Ava for us when Dad and I were at work and we would care for Harrison on our days off. At free, it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than paying for professional day-care but it’s not exactly the most reliable method. If one of the adults are sick, if one of the Gremlins are sick, if work shifts change, if one of us is on holiday, if one of us has an appointment or a power cut or a family emergency then the other is in shit creek with emergency cover to find. This usually takes the form of ringing around the whole family to see who has a day off (and who will answer their telephone once they’ve checked their caller ID) and this tends to fall on 70 year old polio sufferer with arthritis Supergran.

 

 

I’m lucky that I’m employed by an organisation that allows me flexible hours, lieu time and parental leave if I need it. I’ve never had a problem explaining my childcare woes and they nod with understanding when Owen is sent home from school with an egg on his head because he nutted the slide. As you do. Though there’ll always be non-parentals who think it’s “not fair” that a procreator gets “special treatment” because their child has developed fever and dysentery, but considering about 80% of us will be parents of young children at some point in our lives and all of us have originated from a parent at the start of our lives, a little empathy is most appreciated in times of need - and the knowledge that most parents would gladly swop a day of mopping up puke and backdoor trots for a warm office with a cup of tea and reading material that doesn’t involve a Mister Man.

 

 

The Gremlins don’t seem to mind being passed around the family network in an emergency such as when Daddy has a 24 hour shift to contend with or Mammy needs to satiate her Tia Maria addiction. The rules change at different childcare venues - such as at English Gran and Grandad’s house, Owen can play the “I’m not hungry” card to avoid clearing his plate and Ava will vacuum her dummy to her face (at home she’s only allowed it at bedtime). On the occasional evening when we need to let our hair and liver cells down, Ava is usually in bed before we go out and Owen will be wearing his pyjamas and will hardly notice we’re gone, but they make it clear when they need some quality time with their parents:

 

 

Owen: Where are you going Mammy?

Me: Daddy and I are going on a date.

Owen: Have fun. Don’t cut your arm open or fall over and smash your face on some bricks or get stung by nettles.

Me: Errrmmm okay (note to self – pencil in cinema night with Owen).

 

 

I think I might start a petition for all workplaces to contain a free crèche with a “sick room” for any infected tots to sleep in quarantine. It will save the economy millions in sick pay, parental leave and tax credits and would enable all those who want to work to be able to do so without worrying where their child will be the following week and how much it’s going to break the bank balance. Failing that I might have to clear out my bottom drawer, pad it with a pillow and blanket and hide Ava in it on the occasional afternoon. She could chomp her way through my paperwork and reduce my shredding pile. I may rent out the drawer space to other parents and they could claim it as a tax-free expense. The money I make will pay for Ava’s future therapy.





Driving Me Crazy

 

I hate walking. Putting one foot in front of the other is a form of exercise and therefore is on my naughty list. I enjoy taking the Gremlins and Fudge on nature trails to jump in muddy puddles Peppa-Pig-style now and again but otherwise I am in love with my car and have a massive carbon footprint. I would drive from my living room to my bedroom if I could, I hate the process of getting from one place to another and when I need to be somewhere I want to be there NOW. I’m very impatient as I have to tick so much off my to-do list that journeys are a waste of my time. My ideal superpower would be to blink and be transported to exactly where I need to be, taking whoever I was clutching onto. It would be a much easier way of transporting the Gremlins from A to B.

 

As most parents will know, travelling even a short distance with small children usually has to be planned down to the finest detail. The first step is packing everything that you need to take with you and when they’re young that could include nappies, wipes, bum cream, bibs, drinks, snacks, dummies, favourite toys or blankets, pushchairs, change of clothing, sun creams and hats if it’s hot, rain coats and hats if it’s cold, toys to keep them entertained and if they’re staying out overnight you can add travel cots, pyjamas, hair brushes, toothbrushes and baby monitors to the list. Not to mention your own bag for the day including money, keys, mobile phone, electronic diary and to do lists etc. In our case, it takes half an hour to get it all together and put it in the car, we’re always 20 minutes late and there’s barely room to squeeze in the car seats and kids. It then takes a further 10 minutes just to get them in the car as Owen will need to be asked forty times to put on his shoes and when he eventually takes notice of the request he’ll move in slow motion and suddenly forget how Velcro works. While he’s staring into space and contemplating the universe, Ava will run and hide under the dining table so I have to move every chair and crawl on my knees to pull her out by the ankles. I’ll fasten her coat – she’ll unfasten it. I’ll put on her shoes – she’ll take them off. I’ll put my shoes on – she’ll have a poo. Then I’ll spend 5 minutes undressing her to change her nappy and by this time Owen will have half a shoe on. When I get the wriggly rugrat to her car seat she’ll stiffen like a board making it impossible to fasten the straps and she’ll howl for manky blanky (this is the blanket she’s had since birth that probably harbours a million tiny creatures even though it’s washed on a weekly basis). Once she’s firmly secured and clutching onto manky blanky, Owen will have both shoes on and he’ll be examining the snails in the garden, ignoring my twenty commands to get in the car: “but look mam this snail is on a leaf!” I have to physically open his door for him like the chauffeur I am and escort him into the vehicle – by which point Ava’s arms will be free of her restraints and she’ll be opening and closing her electric window.

 

Then we’re off....

 

Ava will continuously release herself from her straps so that I have to pull over and stick her back in. The only way to stop her is to feed her and keep her hands busy. If I don’t, she’ll also pick the stuffing out of her car seat and throw it out of the window. I’ve recently learned how to lock these windows, and when her hands are busy with raisins or popcorn she’ll kick the back of my seat instead in a steady rhythm.

 

Owen insists on playing his One Direction CDs, he’ll turn the rear internal light on and off, slouch down and stick his mucky feet in the air, continuously tell me what speed I’m driving at and ask me questions that he knows I’ll say yes to because I’m trying to concentrate on driving:

 

Owen: Mam can I have some chocolate after school?

Me: Uh huh

Owen: Mam can I play in the garden later and make a tree house?

Me: Uh huh

Owen: Mam can I buy a chainsaw to cut down the tree then burn it in a bonfire with a high strength accelerant and smoke the ashes in a cigarette whilst swigging alcopops?

Me: Uh huh

 

If Dad is in the car, we’ll try to have a conversation or a “handover” between him finishing work and me going to work of who’s been fed, what they ate, who’s going where, when they need to be collected, what housework needs to be completed, who called and what they said – but the Gremlins do not allow conversations that don’t involve them, whilst in a moving vehicle, and that’s the time they’ll insist on your undivided attention and HAVE to tell you some really important urgent information:

 

Owen: Dad, dad, dad, dad, dad, dad, dad, dad, mam...

Me: Hang on a moment Owen

Owen: But mam it’s important! Mam, mam, mam, dad, DAD!

Dad: What is it Owen?

Owen: Errrrrrrmmmm....isn’t the sky very pink today!

 

When I try to ignore the attention grabbing and try to continue my handover with Dad, Ava will take off a shoe and launch it at my head. It’s a common misconception that headrests were designed to protect your neck in case of a car accident - they were actually designed to protect your head from children throwing missiles.

 

Driving can be an educational experience for children. My Gremlins have learned most of their bad language from car journeys with Mammy and Daddy. Due to always being late for every appointment, we’re usually in a hurry and feeling harassed and intolerant, so when other motorists forget to indicate, cut us up, drive too slow or drive right up our tail end, we can forget to censor our words and the occasional “shit”, “twat”, “bloody idiot” and “for fluffs sake!” can escape, which of course the Gremlins will repeat over and over in fits of hysterics. The daughter of my friend Wonderwomum discovered the word “wanker” whilst travelling in the family Volkswagen.

 

We have tried public transport in the past but quickly realised that bus journeys are the perfect environment for children to embarrass you and demonstrate to the world what a bad parent you are. Ava would smile sweetly at little old ladies, then take off her shoes and order them to kiss her feet. Owen would sing songs about S&M (thank you Rihanna), call me a motherlover (thank you Lonely Island) and say “hi sexy” to the already horrified elderly passengers. So I tried to entertain them with innocent childhood games such as I-spy:

 

Me: I spy with my little eye something beginning with “D”

Owen: Dick.

 

We no longer travel on public transport.

 

In order to visit Dad’s family, it’s necessary to do regular six-hour car journeys to and from Wales. This used to be a nightmare of feeding, changing, screaming and bored wriggling – and that was just Dad. Most journeys were planned at night in the hope that the Gremlins would sleep and we could listen to some inappropriate rap CDs instead of vanilla pop – fat chance. Until we discovered the wonder that is the portable DVD player! Every parent’s must-have item for long (or short) peaceful, stress-free excursions with young family. The children are entertained with the innocence of Pingu and Ice Age and the grown-ups get to converse with each other and escape prosecution for dangerous driving due to missiles flying around the vehicle. Getting from A to B has never been so calm, effortless and undemanding...

 

...until you’re driving down the motorway and someone pipes up: “I need a wee”.

Baby Daddy

 

It took me a long time to house train Superdad.  When we met he lived with a group of rugby boys and his house smelled of wee, sweat, feet and heavy petting. He slept on a mattress on the floor – I don’t know why because he had enough money to buy a BMW so I assume he had enough to buy a bed – all of his belongings fit in one chest of drawers and I don’t know if they owned a cooker never mind knew how to work one. Life was simple. Food was supplied by KFC, drinks were supplied by the local pub and as a result there were no dishes to wash. When I met Dad, he didn’t know how to peel a banana, had never eaten pasta and couldn’t put his own contact lenses in. Welsh Nanny told him and his brother that they had a cheese allergy because she wanted to eat all the cheese in the house herself (I might try this with chocolate). Dad discovered that he didn’t have an allergy when he accidently bit into a cheeseburger at McDonalds and didn’t die. And he realised that he really likes cheese.

 

Then along came Supermammy who began to teach him some skills for independent living and he developed these skills very well. Superdad learned to put his dirty clothing in the wash basket, he’s been introduced to food from around the world and is even able to cook it (he can knock up a smashing chicken korma and he loves a carbonara), he can peel a banana, hoover, sweep and mop and he’s the household dishwasher. He has no choice but to put in his own contact lenses as I won’t touch his bloody eyeballs and we’re currently working on how to put the empty packets from the daily disposables into the bin. He has learned not to open the door to strangers who ask for money after he bought shopping vouchers from a doorstep seller –

Dad: Guess what, I’ve just bought £100 worth of shopping vouchers and I only have to pay back £5 per week.

Me: How long do you have to pay £5 per week?

Dad: I can pay it over 30 weeks

Me: So you have to repay £150?

Dad: Errrm.....

Me: Where can you spend these vouchers?

Dad: B&Q

Me: What do we need from B&Q?

Dad: Errrm...we could buy some laminate flooring

Me: Okay. Let’s go and buy £100 worth of laminate flooring for £150.

 

He didn’t learn his lesson. He recently paid for a subscription to the Evening Chronicle even though he doesn’t read a newspaper. But...we’re slowly getting there and at times he can even recognise that the house is untidy without me having to leave a list of jobs to be done.

 

Then after nine years of training, sweat, tears and nagging...Welsh Nanny will arrive to stay with us for a few days, all of my hard work goes out the window and Dad reverts back to the little boy who needs his Mammy to butter his bread. He forgets that he’s a 31 year old father of two with responsibilities and capabilities and he morphs into my third child and sadly pouts at his Mother with eyes that say “I don’t know how to do it.” For example, note the difference between these two conversations –

 

Typical day at home...

Dad: Oh I’m so hungry, what do we have for a snack?

Me: You could make a sandwich or have some toast or a bowl of cereal?

Dad: I think I’ll make a ham sandwich

 

Typical day when Welsh Nanny is visiting...

Dad: Oh I’m so hungry

Welsh Nanny: What would you like love? Do you want me to make you a sandwich?

Dad: Oooo I’ll have a bacon, sausage and egg please Mam

 

I’ve tried this a few times myself whilst visiting English Granny. This was the outcome –

 

Me: Oh I’m so hungry

English Granny: You’d better go home then and make yourself something to eat

 

Eh???!!!!! How is that fair???!!!!! What happened to equality between the sexes? Welsh Nanny will have sandwiches prepared for Dad when he returns from a night out at 2’o clock in the morning. Though I think she does this to stop him from raiding the fridge and eating tomorrow’s lunch. One Christmas she found the beef joint had two bite-size chunks missing out of it. We knew it was Dad because he has a gap between his two front teeth and a teeny tiny mouth. Luckily he left the turkey alone because bones freak him out.

 

When Welsh Nanny is visiting, Dad will suddenly forget how to use an iron and his jeans will keep falling to the ground from the ironing board. He’ll huff and puff and complain about how our iron is rubbish and the board is too low and his jeans are stitched awkwardly, and I’ll observe with a twist in my mouth and deadpan eyes whilst Welsh Nanny takes the iron from his hands and says “here love I’ll do it.” I’m sure the Welshies think I’m the most neglectful wife he could have chosen – that poor boy has to make his own breakfast, he wipes down the benches, she doesn’t iron his clothes for him and he even changed a nappy today! And when Supermam comes home from work all she does is nag at him because he’s watching some TV, because he’s been home all day and hasn’t made anything for her to eat, because he had a nap for an hour, because she tripped over his shoes in the passageway and because he didn’t flush the toilet after his last plop. Poor lamb. And it’s not just Daddy’s parents, my own family assume he’s hard done by, including my grandmother Supergran who is always singing his praises because “that lad goes to work all night then he has the kids all day on his own. He does very well.” Errrrmmmm....I go to work all day and have the kids all night so where’s my round of applause? Dad gets to go to the cinema and have meals at Taybarns then he gets to sleep at work. He recently admitted that he probably gets more sleep than I do when he’s at work, as I have to contend with broken sleep when Ava is thumping the walls for juice or kisses and when Dad’s home I lie awake listening to him snore and count all the ways I could murder him.

 

From my suffering I have learned that I will always be a Mammy to Owen but I will not always be his Mother. If he can reach his teeth he can brush them, if he can reach the sink he can wash his dish, if he has arms he can pick up his toys. I tell myself this is for his own benefit, but it will also benefit his future wife (or husband) and it’ll benefit me too because I’m not making bacon sandwiches for any 31 year old unless there’s one for me too.

 

 

Jamie Oliver's Nightmare

World War One of parenting may be bedtime but World War Two is mealtime.  From birth the media, parenting guides, midwives, health visitors, perfect parents and Jamie Oliver are telling us what we should be feeding our Gremlins - and if we don’t follow the laws of those who have time to cook three perfectly balanced meals per day and recoil in horror at a chicken nugget, then we’re inadequate parents and we get “the frown”.

 

 

We all know that we should breastfeed exclusively from birth until at least six months old and shake our heads at processed formulas – we know the pros and the cons of each so there’s no point in me drawing up lists to compare the two and sparking a grand debate - but there is so much pressure on mothers to be milked by their offspring that it creates this ginormous divide between those who do and those who don’t (or can’t). I was one of those mothers who didn’t, though I did try it. When Owen was born, we immediately had “skin to skin” contact and a midwife flipped my nipple straight into his mouth. I tried for four days with a midwife grabbing, rubbing and yanking my boobs in different directions, testing “position of the fortnight”, encouraging me to keep trying and being so desperate for success that I thought she was going to latch on herself. I thought that breastfeeding would help me to bond with my baby, I knew the health benefits, it was on tap unlike expensive formulas, and less hassle than cleaning and sterilising bottles – but I hated it. I hated the sensation, it felt uncomfortable, my baby was losing weight as he wasn’t feeding enough and instead of bonding, I didn’t want my baby near me in case he wanted to superglue himself to my sore, sensitive teats. So after an internal battle that left me feeling incompetent and selfish, I spent hours persuading a disappointed midwife that I didn’t want to do it, and when she gave me a bottle to feed my little boy, I felt a huge wave of happy relief and the bonding with my baby began. With Ava, I knew I didn’t want her on the breast but I wanted her to have the health benefits of breast milk, so I bought a pump (the perfect contraption to keep a horny husband at bay) and tried to extract it myself. But after giving birth, the midwives were too busy with labouring women to show me how to use it and by the time someone was available to see me the following day I was told that it was too late to try. I later found out that this was rubbish but by that time I’d sold it unused on Ebay and Ava was also formula fed. So in the eyes of nutritionists everywhere I failed my children from the get go.

 

 

Now they both have teeth and the ability to chew, feeding time has become the ultimate battle of wills, wit, cunning, diversion, competition, patience, willpower, temper and perseverance. Both of my Gremlins come with their own set of hurdles when their bellies are rumbling. Owen will eat nothing. He would happily go for days without eating a meal and it’s common for him to lose weight, especially when he’s having a growth spurt (and he’s very tall for his age). When he does eat he will usually only eat something that’s made of potato – like chips, waffles, alphabites and smiley faces – but he won’t  eat actual potatoes unless they’re blended into a puree and covered in mounds of butter.  He’ll eat chicken nuggets but not chicken, pizza with cheese but not cheese, fromage frais but not yoghurts, fish fingers but not fish and he won’t eat a single vegetable. We’ve tried coercion, bribery, threats, promises, shouting, force feeding, indifference, distraction, hiding vegetables in or under other things, dying stuff with food colouring, funny shapes and pictures, persistence, scare stories, punishment and keeping him at the table for hours at a time. Nothing works. Owen will only try food when Owen wants to try food and when that happens a fanfare sounds and we all parade around the house like we’ve won the Euromillions.  And when my friend, Wonderwoman, declares that her son will only eat vegan, non-processed, sugar-free, salt-free, 100% Omega3 vitamin enriched green substances, nuts and seeds and wouldn’t even know what a sausage roll looks like, I smile in false agreement that my children would never visit McDonalds and in my head I flick her the middle finger.

 

 

Ava is Owen’s exact opposite (of course) and will eat everything in sight – even if it’s not edible. She’s like a human hoover and expects to be fed every ten minutes. When she’s not eating she expects to be drinking and will loudly demand a “dink of doocee NOW” (translation: a drink of juice immediately). If she finishes her meal quickly she’ll start tucking into everyone else’s (to Owen’s joy) and I’ll often find her grubby hands splatted in my ketchup. She wakes up in the night demanding food and drinks, heads straight to the kitchen when we visit friends and family and can chew her way through any packet or container. She eats the dog’s biscuits as well as my placemats, picks crumbs off the ground in the park and will swipe candy from any baby whose parents are looking the other way. She’s developed a stealth operation that involves pushing chairs across the kitchen, to stand on and reach the top shelf of our fridge so that she can steal yoghurts, which she’ll eat with her fingers whilst hiding under our dining table...

 

 

People would think we starved the girl if she didn’t resemble a Weeble by the end of each day. So needless to say, mealtimes are not the most enjoyable experience in our house. We try to have family meals wherever we can where we all sit at the dining table and talk about our day whilst enjoying a wholesome home cooked meal. But usually Daddy’s at work, Mammy’s just finished work and is exhausted so can only muster the energy to reach into the freezer and switch on the oven, Owen will have a meltdown and dangle off his chair in dramatic protest before kicking Ava repeatedly under the table and deciding he needs a poo halfway through his dinner; and Ava will screech at Owen, launch most of her meal at my walls and curtains, feed some to our increasingly overweight dog then she’ll clamp her jaws on my plate. At some point Owen will knock a whole glass of juice all over the table, Ava will swipe a plate onto the floor, Owen will roar like a monster which will scare Ava who’ll scream some more, I’ll take five deep breaths then declare mealtime is over and spend ten minutes wiping down the walls and mopping up drinks (Fudge takes care of the floors – hence his obesity).

 

 

I used to adore eating at nice restaurants that served an array of dishes from around the world and take my time to savour the quality meal that I’d purchased and enjoy the ambience of my surroundings and the fact that I had no washing up to do afterwards. Now I prefer to take a packed lunch out and eat on a picnic bench, as when we try to dine out we have to choose somewhere that will cater for noisy, messy, moaning Gremlins who’ll fire fries at the waiters and try and eat the candles. On the rare occasions that I meet friends for lunch or go for an evening meal, if I spot a family struggling with a crying or excitable child, while my childless friends scowl in annoyance, I flick the parents a look of pity that says “been there”.

 

 

And as always, Mammy and Daddy do enjoy getting their revenge on the little darlings from time to time and one can be very creative with food substances to play with.  When Owen had been for one of his mid-meal poos one day and of course “forgot” to wipe his toosh – Dad wiped his bottom for him with some toilet roll and without Owen noticing he stuck his fingers into a pot of chocolate mousse. “Urrrrggghhh Owen look at all this on my hand because you didn’t wipe your bum,” he said. Owen stood in silence for a few seconds and scrunched up his face in mild disgust until Dad began licking his fingers and Owen screamed, ran away and almost passed out.

 

 

We may not win the battles now but we will win the war!

Sleep....whats that?????!!!

Sleep.....what’s that?????!!!

I was going to end this chapter right there just for dramatic effect – but there is so much to say about sleep - the lack of it and the longing for it. Non-parents will always smile and nod in apparent understanding when a parent complains about being tired and how many times their child has been up during the night – but seriously – until they have survived on about six hours of broken sleep continuously for two years they have absolutely no idea what tired is or how doolally it can send you.

In the “olden days” before babies, whilst at university or at the weekend, I could easily sleep until lunchtime. Anything less than 12 hours sleep was deprivation. I only had two meals a day because lunch was breakfast; that’s probably why I was a stone lighter then even though I survived on cereal and Chinese takeaways.  There were times after a wild night that I’d get to bed at 7am and be up at 8am for work – but I got by on Red Bull and E-numbers and knew I would sleep for 2 days afterwards so it wasn’t a problem and my lethargy was a sign of a good social life.

When I fell pregnant with Owen, we jointly decided that the first thing we’d nail was the sleeping. And we did. I read every parental guide possible on sleep and formulated my golden rules –

1. Put the baby down awake so that they learn to fall asleep by themselves without being soothed and rocked. We did this from birth, swaddled cosily in blankets.
2. Let the baby establish the difference between day and night. Day naps can be had in a moses basket in the living room (or elsewhere) but the room will remain light, and when baby awakes, you can pick them up and make a fuss.  At night, baby sleeps in the bedroom, keep the room dark, don’t take the baby out of the room even for night feeds and minimise talking and stimulation.
3. Never bring baby into your bed until a reasonable time in the morning so that this doesn’t become a difficult habit to break.

By six weeks old Owen was sleeping through the night from about 11pm until 6am and we were very happy new parents. He still sleeps like a log today and when he’s out he’s gone, which we feel is our greatest achievement to date. When Dad and I are feeling particularly evil – or if Owen has been particularly naughty and we want to get our own back - we like to play tricks on him to see if he’ll wake up. He’s had shaving foam on his hand and a tickle on the nose. Dad’s pumped on him once or twice. We’ve told him it’s time for school at 10pm, we’ve tickled his feet and licked his ear. My favourite is dressing in my red onesie with the hood up and saying “ho ho ho” while Dad shouts “Santa’s here!”  You may think we’re cruel but he never wakes up. So he’s unaffected and we have a chuckle.

Then along came Ava....I stuck to the same golden rules but she came with her own set. She didn’t sleep through the night for the first time until she was six months old. To some parents that may not seem too bad but to us it was torture. She’s now two years old and it’s still extremely rare for her to sleep through without disturbing. She went through a stage of asking for “juice” about every half an hour all through the night and it killed us to drag ourselves out of bed to meet her demands. I’ve spent many a night screaming into my pillow (not in a good way), thrashing about in my bed (not in a good way), deep breathing (not in a good way), crying, stomping, slamming doors, sending crazed text messages to Dad on his night shift at work, trying everything in my power to contain my rage and despair when for the eighth night in a row my daughter has decided that she won’t let my eyes close for a moment – and the following day I have to go to work for nine hours. There are nights where I’ve had to let her cry herself back to sleep, with a pillow over my head and my heart breaking because I didn’t have the energy or the sanity to move from my bed.  Lack of sleep has been the hardest part of being a parent of small children and after two years of sleepless nights I was ready to admit myself to a secure unit. Or put Ava up for adoption. Or hire a night nanny with her own sound proof annex. We would put her to bed awake and she would drop off to sleep no problem, but keeping her asleep was impossible. Then one day – resisting the urge to dope her with Nytol - I made the overdue decision to forbid juice in the bedroom.  Ava has plenty of fluids during the day and has a small sip before bed, but bedroom drinks are now banned. We had a couple of nights of screaming to contend with and she tried the throw-the-dummy-across-the-room game for a while, but we stayed strong and she got bored and now....(fingers, toes, knees and elbows crossed)...she only wakes up about once a night. She’s recently moved from a cot to a toddler bed, however, and her new game is let’s-get-out-of-bed-and-dance-on-the-landing-for-an-hour-at-bedtime. Or let’s-eat-the-Sudocrem. Or let’s-escape-and-put-Mammy’s-Clinique-makeup-all-over-my-face. Or let’s-spread-Welsh-Nanny’s-hard-skin-remover-all-over-the-walls. One baby gate on the bedroom door, all cosmetics out of reach, and all objects she could stand on removed from the room and we are almost getting there with the littlest Gremlin...

And THEN....Dad develops Sleep Apnoea and starts snoring like a tractor revving in the lowest gear while running over a pig attached to a megaphone! Dad has a teeny tiny mouth, which is a standing joke between us (it really is the tiniest mouth ever seen on a fully grown human), but the noise that comes out of it is not from this world. He falls asleep within seconds of his head hitting the pillow so I don’t even get a head start - I think his record is eight seconds from pillow to snore - and it’s beginning to affect our relationship because I want to murder him in his sleep. Instead of missing him when he’s working a night shift, I now whisper a subtle “get in”, spread out like a starfish under my duck feather duvet and enjoy my six to seven hours of sometimes unbroken shut eye. When he’s at home, he tops up my supply of extra thick earplugs or he sleeps on Owen’s bedroom floor – because luckily Owen could sleep through an atomic bomb.  Unfortunately, Ava can’t and he contributes to her night waking even though the bedroom doors are shut and there’s a wall between them. Those are the nights when he sleeps on the sofa. He’s sought medical advice and the doctor basically said “you’re fat”. I creased myself laughing at this diagnosis but Dad didn’t find it funny when the GP prescribed him some Slimming World vouchers.

But despite wanting to throw myself out of a window to run away forever between the hours of 11pm and 6am, and despite wishing for two or three more hours of slumber when Ava begins the morning wake up call, I do enjoy seeing their little faces pink and fresh from their sleep as they clamber into bed with us for morning cuddles. At least until Ava stands on my head whilst trying to look out of the window, or her piddly nappy leaks all over my sheets, or the two Gremlins begin their morning chinning session, or Dad farts under the covers and we all choke and suffocate.

Best of Frenemies

We try to encourage the Gremlins to be best friends. As we get older we learn how important connections and relationships are, especially when times are hard and we need someone to turn to. If the children are best friends then they will always have someone there for them, because we parents aren't going to be around forever (especially if one of us decides to cash in the life insurance). But trying to get the Gremlins to agree to this lifelong contract is proving harder than we first thought.

 

When Ava was born we bought Owen so many toys it was like a June Christmas. We told him that the baby had bought them for him because she loved him very much. With some verbal prompting and gentle shoving, he reluctantly gave her a kiss on the forehead and from that day forth they became Frenemies.

 

Owen likes to show off his baby sister, he'll introduce her to complete strangers in Asda with an attitude that says "yeah look at me, I've got a sister, what have you got? A Tikka Massala? Phfft. The thing in my trolley can pump the theme tune to Balamory." He'll strut around like her mini bodyguard and if any bigger boys go near her in the park he'll be at her side like a shot, eyeballing them and tensing his weeny arms. He'll offer to fetch her yoghurts and snacks from the fridge, he'll call her to play in his bedroom, he'll take her hand when they're racing through the kitchen and he'll push her around on her trike. And we'll sit back and admire how adorable they both are...for about three seconds...

 

It didn't take us long to figure out that Owen introduces Ava to everyone in the hope that they'll take her away. He doesn't eye up what people have in their trolleys, he's measuring the space to see if she'll fit. He seeks out the bigger boys in the park and assesses whether they're strong enough to carry her, so they can grab an arm and a leg each and turf her into the sand pit. He'll fetch her a yoghurt and give her a knife to eat it with.  He'll give her a lolly, leave the wrapper on and watch her scream and try to gnaw her way through it. He'll call her upstairs to play so he can tattoo her arms in Angry Birds, shut her in the dark and scare her witless with monster noises. He'll hold her hand whilst running so he can pelt her into a wall - and when they're not holding hands he'll stick his foot out and watch her fly then slide across the room - and he'll push her on her trike so he can let go. He taught her how to slide head first on her belly down the staircase and how to jump from the back of the sofa onto the beanbag below...then yanked the beanbag away. When they're eating together, he'll gesture to her to throw food around the kitchen and when I go mad because I have Porridge dripping down my walls, his jaw will drop in practiced shock horror while he points to his grinning sister.

 

But don't be fooled by the large innocent blue eyes that belong to my two year old daughter as she can hold her own. When we're not looking, she'll sneak up behind Owen and yank him by the hair and when he lunges at her she lets out an ear-splitting piercing scream, so when we all come running we catch Owen with his hand in the air - and those innocent little bluies narrow with satisfaction as he's sent off to his bedroom. Ava will instigate a light saber fight then swipe the legs from under him and clonk him round the ears. She'll wait till he's running at full pelt through the house then slam a door in his face. She knows he'll scream if he gets his hair wet so she'll empty a jug over his head. When Owen is playing happily with his marble zone she'll dash into his room and kick down the towers before making off with half the marbles. She hit him on the head with a Barbie doll and licked his DVDs.

 

So we're not off to the best start.

 

Then again, isn't it normal for all siblings to try and choke hold each other? There are ten years between me and my brother and when I would babysit him for half an hour I would tie him to the dining table and play Cowboys and Indians. Every time we passed a gutter in the street I'd push him onto it and yell "the crocodiles will get you!" When he was a baby he fell from his high chair face first into some ice cream and I almost asphyxiated from laughing. I'd chase him from my room with a book end and take photos of him on the toilet (I still have those somewhere). But if anyone had harmed a hair on him I would've put that book end to good use (and still would).

Owen's been in Wales with his grandparents for a week and Ava hasn't asked for him once. I think she's enjoying all of Mammy and Daddy's attention without competition. Owen is being spoiled with love, attention and presents as I type but it doesn't prevent that ache of guilt from gnawing away at my gut because I get very little opportunity to shower him with my time in this way when he's home. Being the oldest, its easy for me to send him off with his cars or sit him in front of the computer whilst I attend Ava in the bath, change a nappy, dress her, undress her, fetch and carry for her and jump to her squeals. He must be tired of hearing "one minute Owen", "not now Owen" "hang on Owen" when Ava is being demanding. I can understand why he'd want to yank away the beanbag as Ava absorbs everybody's time. And when Ava is occupied, I have food to prepare or dishes to wash or bathrooms to clean or a shower to have. When Ava's in bed I have an opportunity to spend an hour with Owen on our own and give him my full attention, but by that time I'm usually ready to drop and just want to put my feet up with a Chinese and an episode of Big Brother.

So I will make a mental note to timetable in some quality one-to-one time with my son as soon as he returns home from his little holiday - and I will write that quality time onto my daily "to do" list as I don't want my boy to ever feel that he is less important than the laundry. Or a TV programme that's been pre-recorded anyway. Perhaps when Ava is slightly older and more self-sufficient and the age gap appears less relevant, perhaps with some quality time spent with both Mam and Dad together and apart, the Gremlins will stop trying to colour each other in with permanent markers and begin to look out for each other instead. I thought we'd made some progress recently when Owen said -

"Mam when I'm a grown up I'm going to marry Ava."

Although I told him that this was wrong and illegal, I thought it was sweet. Though when I asked him why he wanted to marry his sister he replied...

"Because I'll lock her in a cupboard and eat all her sweets."

Hmmm. Maybe not then. His suggestion to paint her green so she'd look like a jelly baby didn't reassure me either.

Its a Birl!

Gender......how do boys know that they're boys and girls know that they're girls?

 

In my social circle, masculinity is determined by the size of your toolbox (this is not a euphemism), the ability to change a plug, the ability to change a tyre, the ability to assemble flat pack furniture, driving in too low a gear so the engine roars at pedestrians and being able to flame-grill meat on a barbecue. Femininity is determined by how many shoes you own, a love of shopping, the ability to pluck eyebrows, exfoliation, moaning about the house being untidy and asking if you look okay twenty five times in ten minutes. That makes me the man in our house.

 

Do boys become masculine because we dress them in blue, buy them action figures, feel their muscles and tell them to "man up" when they fall down? Do girls become feminine because we put them in pretty dresses and frills, buy them little kitchens, put their hair in pigtails and tell their brothers to take care of them? Walk into any branch of Smyths and there'll be a candyfloss pink aisle packed to the ceiling with Tiny Tears, prams, doll houses, My Little Pony, plastic irons and hoovers, Bratz, Hello Kitty, teddy bears with changeable outfits, Fashion Wheel and Dreamphone - everything for girls involves bagging a boyfriend, raising a baby, shopping, cleaning the house or snuggling an animal. The masculine dark blue aisle contains Batman, Spiderman, Ironman, Superman, (everything ends in "man"), Ben 10, Pirates, Lego, Transformers, Hotwheels, Turtles, dinosaurs and WWE - boys toys are about strong ambitious men, fast cars, fighting, building and engineering. Their animals are not cute and cuddly, they eat pizza, fight crime and live with a rat or they'll rip your head off.

 

So how would our children turn out if we dressed them in white, never styled their hair and allowed them to be drawn to their own toys instead of forcing domesticity or construction on them? We've never forced "boy" toys on Owen. He had a tea set as a toddler and enjoyed trampolining. At this moment in time he may be a bit confused about gender but that's not surprising when Mammy thinks its funny to do this....

Oh he's going to hate me when he's 18 isn't he?

 

Owen enjoys putting cream on his skin. He knows the words to every One Direction song. He loves women's handbags and has a habit of putting on his English Granny's red stilettos. He also likes to wear my black kneelength boots whilst washing the dishes (you think I'm joking!). His favourite toy is Princess Peach who sleeps in his bed at night. He's scared of anything that's too fast, too high or too loud and his three best friends are Lacey, Leni and Lexi. He stole all of Ava's Barbie dolls and enjoys watching Peppa Pig. At his school sports day he was photographed playing with his friend's hair....

...Apparently he came second in the sprints. I think he was probably chasing a butterfly. Dad reckons Owen has a plan and he's hanging out with girls and doing their hair because he's a player. I reckon I won't be getting any grandkids from this one.

 

Ava, on the other hand, likes dressing up as Supermario, playing with dinosaurs and rolling around on the grass. She only plays with her dolls when she's crashing their pushchair into the walls (or the dog), likes to launch herself off the staircase, does somersaults off the sofas and stands up when she wees. She turns to squiggling jelly when you try to cuddle her and last week when Owen sat on her she kicked him in the eye. He cried.

 

Owen is a very emotional child. He can cry on demand and has that moany whiny tone to his voice when he tells tales on his sister..."Maaaaaaaammmeeeeeee Aaaavvvvaaaaa hiiiiiiiiiiiiit meeeeeeeeee" and "Maaaaaaaaaaaameeeeeeee Aaaaaaavvvaaaaaa iiiiiiiiis touchiiiiiiing my dolllllllll". The whine is like nails down a black board and when you feel it coming it makes you suck in breath and clench your bum cheeks together. Whatever horror Ava's committed is lost in the agitation of the whiiiiiiine and  when he's told off for dragging each word out for at least five seconds, he spins on his heels, flicks his head and yells "ITS NOT FAIR" and suddenly he's thirteen.

 

Dad predicts that Ava will follow in her Daddy's footsteps and play rugby for her country and Owen will be her cheerleader. But I really don't care if Owen ends up as a cabaret dancer, presenting Supermarket Sweep with a better shoe collection than me. I don't care if he wants to redesign the interior of his Wendy House or play Dress Up with Baby Annabell. I don't care if Ava gets a short back and sides and works at Ikea. As long as they're both happy, one of them gives me grandchildren and one of them earns their first million by the age of twenty-two and pledges to keep me for the rest of my life.

 

Isn't that right.......Dad........????

 

When the kids are away......

This post is more of a rant than my usual light-hearted daft ramblings. An acquaintance on Facebook wrote a comment about "these parents who dump their children on other people so that they can act like childish idiots". She said she would much rather have her daughter with her 24/7 than be so irresponsible. I deleted her immediately with a massive "how dare she??!!!!!"

I may be a Mam but I am not a robot. I adore my children to the end of the universe and back, but I also need to have time for me, time for my family, time for my friends and time for my marriage. Family and friends are regularly put on the backburner because the children come first, because I don't have childcare (or it would be unfair to ask for childcare again when I need childcare in order to work), because I have no money as Owen has grown another 6 inches and needs his wardrobe replacing, because Dad is working a 48 hour shift or because I'm so blooming tired. Dad and I can go for weeks without having a conversation that isn't an instruction or a child handover when he's on his way to work and I'm just finishing. So to judge me for "dumping" my kids on their grandparents from time to time so that I can remember who I was before I became "Mam" really boils my blood.

My children adore spending time with their grandparents. As I type, Owen is spending two weeks in Wales with the Welshies (the longest he's ever been there on his own by the way) and Ava is there with Dad for a short visit. I couldn't go because I have to work. Owen will spend 90% of his days in the park at the back of the house with his 12 year old cousin, he'll spend the other 10% of his time down the woods with Welsh Gransha, throwing stones in the river and making up stories about fairies and dragons on their matching mobility scooters. He'll come back home with colour in his cheeks, an increase in confidence from his days spent socialising - something he doesn't get to do at home because we live on a main road and our neighbours are elderly - and he'll have a hundred stories to tell. Ava will run around Welsh Nanny's ankles and stick her face in the Jaffa Cakes every two minutes. When not on holiday in Wales, they stay at English Grandparents' house overnight about once every three weeks so that Mam and Dad can blow off some steam, catch up with friends, have a date at the cinema, fall down drunk somewhere or sleep. With English Granny and Grandad, the kids will feed the ducks in the park, have trips to museums and go to the beach.

 

And their grandparents love spending time with them too when the Gremlins are not weeing in their slippers, pulling off their letterbox, picking the flowers in the garden, drawing in the interior of their cars, smearing moisturiser on their walls and eating them out of house and home. The Gremlins get to have fun times without being nagged about healthy eating and bedtimes. It helps them to increase their independence, confidence and social skills not to be attached to their parents' apron strings until they gain full-time employment. The grandparents get to have childish fun then hand the kids back when they're worn out (the grandparents - not the kids). And Mam and Dad get to strawpedo a bottle of wine and have a conversation that doesn't involve nappies. Everyone benefits.

95% of the time my children wake up with me in the morning, I bathe and put them to bed every night and they get three full days per week with me as I work four days. I may have a thousand things to do each day and I don't enjoy playing Mousetrap, but I'm there when they need me and I'm probably there when they wish I wasn't (like when Owen is feeding raisins to the fish or Ava is playing with the toilet water).

So as long as my children are safe, secure, happy and well cared for, I can only see the benefits in having a well-earned night out now and again. I feel sorry for those who don't have the benefit of caring grandparents like we do.

And if I want to have a Tia Maria or ten and attempt some fire eating (done), Irish jigs (done), dance with drag queens (done ten times), go to a strip club (done with my husband), fall on my backside in the rain (done last week) or pole dance at a hen party, then I bloody well will.

Mammy vs Daddy

Mammy vs Daddy.....

 

or

 

Primary Care Giver vs Children's Entertainer

The definition of "Mammy" in our house: Person who ensures that children are clean, appropriately dressed for the weather, eat food other than waffles, have everything they need for the day ahead, have homework completed, do physio exercises (that's another chapter...), do extra-curricular activities, learn how to do new skills such as potty training, have clothes that don't flap around their ankles, attend health appointments, have childcare when necessary, watch age-appropriate films, read, brush their teeth and go to bed at an appropriate time.

The definition of "Daddy" in our house: Person who puts up a bouncy castle in the dining room.......

...blows up a double air bed in the living room to do somersaults on and pitches tents in the house for indoor camping....

Daddy is the person who won't cook fish fingers as fish freak him out, refuses to clean little ears in case he breaks them, thinks its okay for his two year old to have tea and biscuits for breakfast and bought our five year old "Jaws" on DVD because he likes sharks.

Every morning Mammy can get both children fed, washed, dressed, teeth brushed and hair brushed, open all of the curtains in the house, make the bed, have a shower, wash hair, dry hair, straighten hair, apply body lotions, take off yesterday's makeup (naughty), apply todays makeup, brush teeth, make a cooked breakfast, feed the animals, make packed lunches, plan dinner, check Facebook, Twitter and have a game of Candy Crush...in the same amount of time it takes Daddy to have a poo. Mammy and children will be strapped into the car waiting to go while Daddy throws on some clothes and follows us out of the door. I don't understand how it can take a bald man who showers in the evenings and who pops chewing gum in his mouth so he doesn't have to brush his teeth, so long to get out of the house in the morning.

Daddy thinks he can multitask because he can wash the dishes whilst also minding the children. Mammy can read the news and talk on the phone whilst eating toast, changing a nappy and planning the working day.

Daddy thinks he's organised as he writes his work shifts on the kitchen calendar. Mammy has 6 lists inside every kitchen cupboard, 9 long memos in her phone, keeps a phone, paper and electronic diary, has 5 notebooks for different purposes, has planned the next 3 months of childcare and social gatherings, keeps a food diary, has spread sheets for bills and knows what the next 6 months of her salary will be spent on.

Daddy is the person who lets the kids bounce on the beds (and bounces with them). Mammy is the person who patches them up when they fall off.

Daddy may believe that he's the head of the household but Mammy is the neck and she turns the head whichever way it needs to go.

And although Mammy will huff and puff and nag Daddy to do this, do that, hurry up, slow down, sort this, build that, clean this, change that, Mammy envies Daddy more than he will know. Daddy seems so happily relaxed when he cruises along leaving mess and havoc in his wake, he doesn't care if he has egg on his face (literally...he usually has egg somewhere on his face), it doesn't phase him that the toilet hasn't been cleaned for a week or that Ava is snogging the dog. He gets to play football in the garden, doctors, pirates, Supermario and Mousetrap. Mammy is usually so physically and mentally exhausted and frazzled after a day of strict planning and organisation that she's too tired to play at the park and will allow the TV to babysit the kids while she puts her feet up for two minutes with Chat magazine to recharge. Mammy has the task of ensuring that the children grow up healthy with all of their teeth and as few diseases as possible. Daddy has the task of making memories.

To be fair to Daddy, he has learned a few things from Mammy and has his own little skills too. He can colour co-ordinate a little girl's outfit, make some delicious meals and buy wicked Christmas presents. He can pluck his own eyebrows and will clean the house without being left a list anymore (big achievement). When Mammy is having a panic attack because the floor hasn't been swept, Daddy will strip naked and dance Gangham Style to make her laugh. Mammy needs to take a leaf out of Daddy's book on occasion - throw away the diaries, forget about the dishes, stop watching the clock, breathe and throw some Weetabix around the kitchen - and remember that the children's memories won't be about whether they had their five portions of fruits and veg that day. And of course the Gremlins don't appreciate my efforts to ensure their health and comfort, or my efforts to teach them some independent living skills so that I don't have to run around after them until the end of days -

Owen: Mam, Ava wants a biscuit
Me: Could you get her a biscuit please?
Owen: Why?
Me: Because that's a nice big brother thing to do.
Owen: Awwwwwwww Mam I'm calling the police!

Those funny little things...

The thing I love the most about the Gremlins is their ability to make me laugh and not take life too seriously.  There's no better way to start the day on a sunny morning than dancing around the kitchen to One Direction in our pyjamas. Owen sings with an American accent (oddly) while Ava head bangs and I pretend that I actually have some rhythm. Ava thinks there's nothing funnier in the world than making farty noises into a plastic cup and Owen thinks there's nothing funnier than doing it for real (Dad also shares this view).

 

They also come out with some cracking questions such as: "Do zombies eat tomatoes?" and "Can Gran fly?" A friend's five year old boy insists on being called "Mr Candyfloss" and when asked to go to bed cries, "You've ruined my life!"

 

Sometimes the innocent anecdotes and observations from the mouths of our babes would have us run and hide, while we shake our heads and deny any genetic connection, but they always give us a good giggle afterwards. For example, in the changing room at our local swimming pool, a rather plump woman walked past us in her bathing costume...so of course Owen followed her with his eyes then pointed and loudly proclaimed, "oooOOOooo she's big!" Horrified (and feeling sorry for the poor woman) I hid behind a locker and pretended my son belonged to someone else.

 

Owen rather enjoys saying what he sees. While trying to get Dad's watch fixed at the jewellers Owen pulled on my sleeve whilst staring at the man behind the counter and said -

Owen: (in clear earshot) Mammy that man has no hair

Me to Man: (playing plan ignore) Okay, so how much will that be?

Owen: (louder) MAMMY I said that man has no hair

Me: Okay Owen, thank you

Owen: But Mam he has NO hair!

Me: Okay Owen, that's not polite but I heard you

Owen: Why does he have no hair Mam? Is it because he's old?

Me: No...Daddy has no hair remember

Owen: But Daddy is only 30. This man is old. I think its because he's old.

Needless to say, the price quoted for fixing the watch was incredibly high and we didn't get it done. I think the man was even less impressed when Owen began licking the glass of the jewellery counter.

Our funny little Gremlins also like to make sure that you never look like a good mother in front of your friends. We decided to have a play date with an old friend and her two (very polite and well behaved) daughters at the park. While my friend was telling me about the joys of being a full-time mother and a leader at The Girl's Brigade, Owen stomps over disgruntled and states, "That bitch is in my castle". Let the sand pit swallow me up. Ava recently had her two-year-old development check from the Health Visitor and within a minute of her stepping through the front door the Gremlins ran into the room hacking at each other with Owen shouting "Mam I've got a gun and Ava has a knife and I'm going to chop her up and feed her to the hamster." Cue awkward silence and polite smiles from the Health Visitor who was probably on the phone to social services as soon as she got in her car.

When putting our weekly shop on the conveyor belt at Asda, Owen held up a pack of sanitary towels and told the male shop assistant that these are Mammy's nappies because she doesn't go to the toilet before she goes to bed.

Then Owen developed a habit of "playing dead" - a part of his new fascination with death. He would lie in the middle of the floor with his tongue poking out of his mouth and if you absently stepped over him he'd croak, "Mammy...I'm dead." The response was usually "okay son". Then he did it at school. The Grandparents' house. The park. And in the middle of shops. One day, I arranged to go to my Slimming World group whilst English Grandad took the Gremlins to the soft play downstairs. Suddenly one of the play workers came running into the room and told me I had to "come quick" because Owen had collapsed on the bouncy castle. I ran to my little boy who was sobbing his heart out on English Grandad's knee. Apparently he'd been bouncing happily then "nobody saw what happened" but suddenly he was motionless on his back with his tongue poking out and was completely "out of it". Ava went home with English Grandad, I called Dad at work and we raced Owen to hospital to get checked over, with visions of epilepsy and brain tumours swirling around in my head. We were sat in the waiting room of A&E when suddenly it dawned... I sat Owen on my knee, promising that he wouldn't be in any trouble and asked him if he'd been pretending? It turned out that he'd been "shot by an alien" and when he opened his eyes he had four shocked looking panicky grown ups staring at him and flapping - he freaked out - he ran around for about ten seconds trying to get away from them - which panicked them even more - then one of them told him he couldn't go back on the bouncy castle (for health and safety reasons as he had just "collapsed") so he'd burst into tears. That was the end of "playing dead" and of visiting that particular soft play.

(Owen playing dead on a disused railway line at a museum....as you do)

 



Of course Dad likes to get in on the act at regular intervals with his twisted sense of humour, enjoying nothing more than seeing me squirm with embarrassment at every given opportunity, especially in front of my family. For any family gathering my mother (English Granny) usually makes a steak or a corned beef pie. Before any family gathering, Dad will ask..."Are you bringing your pie Gran? I love your pie. Its always moist. The best tasting pie I've ever had. I love the way the juice slides between the gap in my front teeth..." English Granny looks so pleased, thinking that my husband really loves his corned beef and when she asks "do you want a big piece?" he replies, "DO I?!!!!" (Sorry Mam).

My Stepdad (English Grandad) is quite a straight, proper fella who says the occasional soft swear word but winces at the topic of sex. English Grandad and Dad were enjoying a pint one night and English Grandad asked if Dad was staying out for another? Dad replied, "no, if I'm home before eleven I get to do your daughter" and then proceeded to tell him that Friday is experiment night and the starter tonight is naked hide and seek. I'm so glad I wasn't there to see him choke on his pint.

English Granny and I were sat in the living room one night talking, when Dad walked through in his underpants carrying a pair of latex gloves and a can of WD40 and said "coming to bed love?"

So although I spend a great deal of my time stressing out, organising, planning and panicking, and the rest of it trying to hide under a table, behind a locker or in a sandpit, I'm grateful that my funny little family has the ability to make me laugh and enjoy life as that has to be the most important thing.

And I'm also grateful that Ava can't talk properly yet.