Tuesday 30 July 2013

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........????

 

Monday 29 July 2013

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.

Sunday 28 July 2013

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!

Friday 26 July 2013

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.

Wednesday 24 July 2013

Spaniel Ears and Tena Lady

 
 V  
 
We have a new Prince - hurrah!! The whole country celebrated at the birth of such a precious little baby and crowds surrounded the hospital for days for a first glimpse at our new future King. Who can blame the Duchess of Cambridge for wanting to look her best in front of the world's media? So the day after she spent hours in painful childbirth - one of the most traumatic "natural" (yeah right) experiences that her body will probably ever go through - she emerges on the steps of the hospital with a healthy tanned glow, perfectly blow dried hair, naturally beautiful makeup, white teeth and a pretty dress (obviously well thought out as it was reminiscent of the dress that Diana wore when she emerged from the same hospital carrying Prince William). With her delighted smile she happily waved to the crowd and pregnant women everywhere probably thought "ahhh I hope I look like that when I head home with my new-born."
 
HA!!! Think again.
 
Kate (and the celebrities that you see in size 6 jeans two weeks after giving birth) have a team of make-up artists, hair dressers, stylists, personal trainers, chefs and dieticians to help them to regain and retain perfection. Not to mention their cleaners, personal assistants, chauffeurs and secretaries to organise their lives and keep their houses in order. We "normal" (she uses the term loosely) Mammies have to be all of these things ourselves, when we have a tiny little person (or people) to put first and who take up 99.9% of our time.
 
When I left hospital (both times) I think I resembled a woolly mammoth. With the first Gremlin coming early, I didn't get the chance to have my bikini wax, and with the second Gremlin being so big no one could find where to wax never mind reach it. Blindfolded you wouldn't know the difference between my legs and Dad's and I had to shampoo under my arms. I looked - and felt - like I'd been hit by a bus. Twice. I was so pale I'd disappear into my bed sheets, and you could only tell where I was by the smell of my breath as I didn't have the energy to lift my arm to brush my teeth. My belly had deflated, I felt like my torso had collapsed internally and if you poked me in it your finger would be sucked into the abyss of saggy skin. The only item of clothing I planned was my giant specially-purchased granny pants.
 
Things improved after about a week when the milk started to fill up my bosoms and I looked like Pamela Anderson. They were so big and round I could rest my chin on them and my cup between them. Dad thought he'd won the booby lottery; but he was mortified and devastated when they were too sore to touch and I'd karate kick him if he came within three feet.
 
Then the boobies disappeared and my previously pert impressive E cups began to resemble two golf balls in a carrier bag. Or "spaniel's ears" as Dad tends to refer to them. Or water bombs. They're still big, but they're now heading for my belly button. That same belly button is now heading towards my lady garden and is surrounded by a sea of silvery stretch marks. When Owen asked what the lines were on my belly, Dad told him I'd been attacked by a tiger. Obviously I won the fight, so now Owen thinks I'm really hard. My muffin top spillover has become a permanent fixture and clingy clothes have become a thing of the past. My bottom has dropped and sits on my thighs - I know this because when I get a spray tan I have white half moons under my cheeks. At the first sight of sun all the fluid in my body drops to my feet, and like a puffer fish, they super inflate. When my feet swell you can't tell what's leg and what's foot and Dad says my toes look like mini sausage rolls. I will never be able to jump on a trampoline again - unless I'm catheterised. And if I need the toilet and sneeze.....game over.
 
So once the spaniel's ears are safely in their hammock, and the muffin top is tucked into my knickers along with my Tena lady, under my baggy clothes and with my flat comfortable shoes on...Once I've sprayed my hair with dry shampoo for the fourth day in a row, and sat my kids in front of Pepper Pig (or listened to them try to kill each other) whilst I apply make-up to hide the black saddlebags under my eyes, then sprayed perfume on to hide the scent of nappies...You can guarantee that before I reach the bedroom door, somewhere on my body or clothing, I will be smudged, dribbled or splatted in either wee, poo, sick, dribble, snot or food. Or all six. Or I'll sneeze and have to change my pants. Or my husband will find it amusing to stick sanitary towels to my back and then send me off to work.
 
So pregnant women or those planning children - do not be fooled by Heidi Klum's washboard abs or Katie Price's gravity-defying mammaries. Without a personal trainer, team of stylists and plastic surgeon, you too will find that your stomach resembles a zebra and everything heads either East or West, swells or falls out.
 
Though I actually feel a bit sorry for Kate and other new mothers in the public eye. Every pound of weight, item of uncomfortable clothing and hair on their blow-dried heads will be under the microscope of every celebrity magazine. Within 24 hours, the media began to speculate how long it would take Kate to lose her baby weight and be back in her size 6 Zara dresses. At least the only person that I have to suck my belly in for is Dad and he wouldn't dare comment on the size of my pants unless he wants me to cut the crotch out of his.
 
I wish Kate had walked out of hospital in a onesie with sweat still in her hair and eyes half-open rubbing her sore fairy area like she probably wanted to do. Looking glamorous when you have babies or young children takes a great deal of effort, energy and time management. I know I've achieved something great when Dad hugs me and says "mmmm you don't smell like me today love."


Sunday 21 July 2013

Wees, Poos and Potty Training

 
 
Wees and poos...its what conversation comes down to over a cup of tea and a custard cream, when you're a parent. What it looks like, what it smells like, the colour, the area that it covered, how much of it got on the bed / your jeans / your fingers and whose turn it is to change the next one. The sooner the Gremlins are potty trained, the better for the bank account, though talking about wee and poo doesn't end when you wave goodbye to nappies. At the age of 5, Owen delights in telling us in the middle of a restaurant at the top of his voice that he needs a poo, and when you accompany him to the loos, he'll ask you to pull his finger then you hear every strain, fart and plop followed by "did you hear THAT???!!!!" while you smile politely at the bemused person beside you washing their hands. He won't wipe, he won't flush and he won't wash his hands so every action has to be verbally prompted. I even have to remind him to aim or he'll stand with his hands on his hips and a smile on his face and soak the bathroom floor. Like his father.

"I've got a kink," says Dad.
"So sit down!" is my unsympathetic response.

Wet socks are the norm in this house. As is sliding off the wet toilet seat. Yes, wee and poo are a big part of parenthood. We've all had that small brown smudge on our sleeve and tentatively held it to our nose praying that its chocolate. Changing little boys nappies is a race against the clock to see if you can get it done before you get sprayed in the mouth. Little girls just end up in a puddle with wee in their hair. My dog has eaten the odd turd filled nappy. I recall the screams of horror coming from the bathroom when Owen was about two years old, had crapped in the bath then threw it at Welsh Gransha. I've learned through experience not to give Ava more than one Satsuma per day unless I want to hose her down in the shower following an up-the-back explosion. You know you have achieved maximum skill when you can remove a baby's vest following immense nappy leakage without smudging fudge in their hair. And you quickly learn to block off your nose and breathe through your mouth - though I learned that skill when I met Dad way before the Gremlins came along.
 
Finding somewhere to change nappies in public places can also be a trial of sorts. I've sat on a loo whilst balancing a baby across my lap, laid them across the car seats, done it in the middle of a shop, in the park and in an airport waiting area. What boils my beef the most is public places not having a baby change area with a toilet for the parent. Where am I supposed to put my child whilst I spend a penny (or a two pence)? On the floor? Leave them outside? Or leave the toilet door open so that I can see my child whilst the world can see me letting one out? One time when Owen was a baby, I was flying on my own with him from Bristol to Newcastle. Whilst at Bristol airport, with no pushchair, I needed the toilet. The regular toilet cubicles were tiny. The disabled toilet had nowhere for me to lie my baby and unlike a man I can't get my bits out with one hand whilst balancing a child in the other. The baby change room had no toilet, so after ensuring that Owen was safely strapped onto the change table, I hopped up and weed in the sink. Then I told everyone about it on Facebook.
 
When your child gets older, the next issue is going to public toilets together without your child opening the door as you're pulling up your pants and flashing where they came from. I suffered this embarrassment recently in Asda using a "family" toilet, which to my mortification, was a large cubicle with a door that was so far away I couldn't jam it closed with my outstretched foot, it opened outwards into the shop and had a lock at fiddle-height for a small child. So after Owen decided to open the door wide for all to see, I had to hop up mid-flow with my knickers round my ankles to slam the door shut in front of a crowd of open-mouthed parents shielding their children's eyes from my front bottom. Then pulled Ava's hands out of the sanitary towel bin.
 
What also frustrates me is businesses that don't let small children use their facilities. Children are not like grown ups - they can't suck it back up or squeeze it in. When Owen was about three, he chose an inopportune moment to inform us that he was bursting, so Dad politely asked a restaurant owner if Owen could use the little boys room. He said "no" because we weren't paying customers. So Dad took Owen around the side of the building to pee against his wall instead.
 
Now that Ava's decided she'd like to help us wipe her bottom during a nappy change (sometimes without a wipe), we decided the time may have arrived to start potty training. We've spent many a day chasing around her bare behind with a potty in hand. She'll sit on it...look in it...then wee on the floor. We've tried bribery. We've tried dangling food. Owen delighted in showing her how to do it, though because she doesn't have a visible device to do it with, this may have just confused her. She stayed at her Grandparents' house recently and they decided to assist with the toilet training mission. After she crapped on the bathroom floor she then peed in English Grandad's slippers (he doesn't yet know this - he might now). But I think that's progress. At least she's doing it in something now and not just letting it run down her leg. I can't remember how we potty trained Owen but I remember it being one of the hardest things that we've had to teach him so far...and are still teaching him...but I'm beginning to understand that this is one skill that men never fully grasp anyway. Dad feels a sense of pride when he farts without having to change his pants.
 
So even though Ava delights in telling us when she's pumped or done a poo, even though she helpfully stands guard, stares and hands us the toilet roll when we use the toilet ourselves (and sometimes sits on our knee during the process), and even though she enjoys weeing in objects (such as slippers), we've decided that she may not be ready for potty training just yet so we'll give it another month or so before we try again. The big girl pants are ready. As is the kitchen roll, face mask, rubber gloves and sieve. For the bath, if you were wondering.


Thursday 18 July 2013

Death



Before kids I was fearless - I did a skydive from 13,000 feet, a zip wire from Blackpool pier, a bunji swing, would go on every ride at the fairground that would spin me upside down until my shoulders were bruised from the harness, I tried fire eating at university and drove my car past 100mph. I would walk home alone from a night out at 4am, I ran shifts at a bar where I had to kick out the drunks at closing time and didn't flinch when I was threatened with a pool cue.

After kids I hold onto the handrail when I walk down stairs, I test my smoke alarms every week, I enjoy watching the kids on the teacups, turn everything off at the plug socket in case of a power surge and regularly check the oil, water and brake fluid in my car. I keep blankets in bags in case of emergency, live 100 yards from a hospital and have life insurance. I share taxis home and run away from conflict.

I've suddenly discovered my own mortality and I'm petrified of dying as I worry about what will happen to the kids if Dad was their sole carer. They'd be washed once a month, Ava would still be in nappies at the age of 12, their teeth would fall out and they'd be sucking their daily intake of waffles. The only books that Dad has read include "The Twits" and Gavin Henson's autobiography, so I can't see him teaching the Gremlins about Peter and Jane, though they may learn how to glue the furniture to the ceiling. Self-preservation has never been so important.

In addition, Owen has developed a rampant curiosity of death and enjoys bombarding us with difficult-to-answer questions or morbid observations. For example -

Owen: Mammy am I going to die?
Mam: (long pause) Everyone will die some time sweetheart.
Owen: What time will you die?
Mam: Nobody really knows when they'll die.
Owen: Will you die tomorrow?
Mam: I hope not.
Owen: When I'm a grown up will you die?
Mam: Hopefully not until you're very old and you can look after yourself.
Owen: When I'm a grown up, how many sleeps will it be until you die?
Mam: Too many to count.
Owen: I don't want you to die.
(Uh....sound of my heart breaking!)

A few hours later we get a telephone call from Welsh Gransha. Apparently Owen phoned him and asked him when he was going to die - he was worried that we knew something he didn't. What on earth do you tell a five year old about death??? I don't want to lie to him but I don't want to scare him either. For example -

(Driving past a graveyard)
Owen: Mammy that's where people go after they die - I don't want to go in the ground I want to go to Heaven.
Mam: Those people will be in Heaven babe.
Owen: How can they be in Heaven and be underground?
Mam: Well you are like a tortoise. Your body is your shell and you are inside of that shell. When you die, your shell sometimes goes in the ground and you go to Heaven. Sometimes people's bodies get burnt in a fire instead...

WHOOPS!!! Cue ten minutes of a screaming five year old begging not to be burnt in a fire!

A few days later there were further questions about Heaven...

Owen: What's Heaven like?
Mam: Heaven is the best place ever! It has all of the things that you love and there'll be people there to take care of you.
Owen: If my body is in the ground, how will I walk? Can I take my legs to Heaven?
Mam: You'll have a new body and new legs
Owen: But I like these legs. Can I take these legs?
Mam: Errrmmmm.....
Owen: Can I take my head?
Mam: You won't need it, you'll have a new head.
Owen: What about my arms?
Mam: You'll have new arms too.
Owen: Will there be rides in Heaven?
Mam: Oh yes. Loads of rides.
Owen: I'd rather go to Flamingo Land.

A few days later...

Owen: When Daddy dies can we get a hamster?
Mam: No but we can buy a house!!!

Recently, however, he seems to have come to terms with the topic of death -

Owen: Mammy are you older than Daddy?
Mam: Yes
Owen: YESSSSS!!!!
Mam: Why?
Owen: Because if you're older then you'll die first and then I can play with Daddy (sad face) I'll miss you.

Ava is now my favourite child - and now Owen uses death as a form of emotional blackmail -

Owen: Maaaam get me some raisins or I'll kill myself!

Sorry honey, I don't negotiate with toddlerists.

SO...death. I'm scared of it. Dad doesn't acknowledge it (Ebay and Amazon are much more important topics of conversation) and Owen is obsessed with it. He gapes at graveyards with unanswered questions and searches the clouds for people sitting on them. He makes me address things that I don't want to think about. As a result I've planned my funeral and have a living will. Both myself and Dad have had full medicals and I keep checking my boobs for lumps (and Dad offers to help). Living seems so much more important now and I take so many pictures to make memories with, that my kids now say "cheese" at the end of every sentence. I stare at the kids every night when they sleep in case there's no tomorrow and I feel like I'm always prepared for the worst.

In the meantime, Dad and Ava will remain merrily oblivious and Owen will continue to plan the death of all of his future pets and the new pets he'll get after each funeral, whilst counting down the sleeps till he's an orphan. O happy days!

Quick note to our readers....


Hi folks

My apologies for there being such a large gap between blog posts, but life as it happens, just got in the way and I found myself struggling to write even 200 words a week. However, Supermammy is back and determined to pick up where she left off. Much has happened in the past year -

* We moved house (though not with the mortgage that we hoped for...we're still renting unfortunately and trying to save).
* Owen turned 5 and has had a whole year in the Reception class at primary school and he'll be transferring to Year 1 this September.
* Ava turned 2 (going on 20) and hasn't changed much, except she talks more than her brother now and can run faster than me. She still eats as much as a fully grown man.
* I now work four days a week and on Fridays I take care of a little boy called Harrison, also aged 2, so that his mother can go to work (obviously I'm a gluten for punishment). In return, she cares for Ava one day per week so Dad can work midweek.
* I've lost two stone via the wonders of Slimming World - though I still look about four months pregnant.
* I'm now a school governor! (Yes!!! Me!!!)
* I have a new Samsung S4 Galaxy phone - I have no idea what to do with it and I've developed an addiction to Candy Crush.
* I'm still shattered.

So back to business...back to life!