Days 2 and 3 'glamping' have been a bit blurry, stressful at times but overall a success.
One thing is for sure, the four of us living in such close proximity has meant that for the first time ever we have been able to spend quality time together. Additionally, the fresh air has given baby James a surge in energy. In fact the campsite thinks his name is "Stop James!" or "No James!" or "A.A.A!" (The sound (a) not the letter /a/ as in a triple A battery even though our son has demonstrated that he has more energy than that damn bunny).
I'm no camping virgin but I have learned quite a lot about camping etiquette. For example:
1. You must all let on to each other. If you don't you will be deemed "those rude buggers in that Colonel Gaddaffi size tent in the corner pitch".
2. There is a subversive glamping language a bit like the Freemasons use. For example, one couple were pitching their tent up and shouted across, "Good start to the season, eh?" Looking puzzled and thinking that the football season was coming to a climactic end, the husband pointed to the sky. It clicked! 'The season' on a camping field literally means a camping season.
3. Always mop the floor with the mop provided after having a shower. If not, the bleach blonde matriarchal figure who has many tattoos regarding her previous husbands sported around her arms and lives on pitch 2, will probably attack you with the aforementioned mop.
4. Be prepared for minor injuries and always bring age-appropriate plasters. Poor Rob has Peppa and George Pig plasters dotted all over him. This is mainly due to trip hazards around the tent. N. B. Also bring a big lighter to ignite the gas cooker as Rob has lost the feeling in his thumb using one of those cheap ones.
5. Don't position sibling's beds opposite each other as the resulting bundle, instigated by the younger and increasingly sparky sibling, will give their elder sibling a nosebleed.
6. Be prepared for the inevitable campsite hierarchy. The 'seasoned' campers, those in their caravans and us.
7. You might find yourselves in a tent that belongs in the demilitarised zone. To the right you have the family that blocked booked several pitches and includes a grandma on her electric scooter wrapped in a tartan blanket in 22oC heat who evidently loves John Denver blaring out at 10 pm. On the other you have George and Barbara who are from Chelmsford and have come for a quiet weekend in their caravan. The language missiles have been quite colourful.
8. Finally, enjoy the fact that there is absolutely nothing to do on a campsite but spend time with each other.
I dedicate this blog post to the memory of Rob's parents, Graham and Margaret Hillier; they have not been far from our thoughts this weekend. They were the ultimate Alpha Campers.
Showing posts with label Alpha. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Alpha. Show all posts
Sunday 28th April 2013
It's been four whole days since I resigned and it is now the night before I go back to work for the first time since I resigned. Before the rumour mill could begin to set itself in motion, I made sure that those colleagues whose friendship and support has been invaluable to me over the past 4 and a half years knew of my intentions in that very personal form of a text message.
My plans.
Well, I am busy planning my leaving drinks, James' 1st birthday and a camping trip for next weekend. For the first time in my life I have absolutely no idea what I am going to do after these very important fixtures which reside proudly on my Gruffalo Family Planner (which was free and has actually changed my life). It's bloody scary I can tell you!
Not only do I have to consider the financial implications of this decision, I also have to consider that other very important facet of my life: my sanity. However, I refuse to get completely caught up in these first world worries. As I said to my Headteacher, the worst thing a person can go through is seeing your child fighting for their life and as Rob and I have already been through that, I figure that everything else will work itself out.
Having said that, I can't completely say that the decision to resign hasn't bothered me or weighed heavily on my mind. I think you can probably tell, blog, that the fact that I am still wittering on about it suggests that I am far from being nonchalant about the whole thing.
This anxiety manifested itself in my actions when, on Thursday morning, I decided to take the kids to Music and Rhyme (a fabulous group that my friend runs) to take my mind off things only to find as I was reversing that I had put the children in the wrong car seats. Bethan was shouting, "mummy, I hurt" whilst James looked like he was the cat that got the cream as he embraced the gift of space that he had been granted by my mistake.
I started to laugh like a hysterical shrew which further unsettled Bethan who kept repeating, "What's mummy doing?" to which I replied, "I'm loosing the plot". As I was swapping the children and correcting the natural order of things in the back of the car, Beth kept saying, "Are you loosing the plot, mummy?"
It would have been more reassuring for my three year old child if I said no and she actually believed me which was hard considering I did the exact same thing on Saturday morning on the way home from her ballet lesson.
Indeed, Beth, when you read this entry in twenty years time, mummy was definitely loosing the plot but as you well know, that is a pre-requisite for survival at chez Hillier.
(As an aside, Cath Kidston replied to my tweet and favourited my comments on Twitter. That was the second best 30 seconds of the week. The first was Bethan doing a big poo in her potty this evening :-)
My plans.
Well, I am busy planning my leaving drinks, James' 1st birthday and a camping trip for next weekend. For the first time in my life I have absolutely no idea what I am going to do after these very important fixtures which reside proudly on my Gruffalo Family Planner (which was free and has actually changed my life). It's bloody scary I can tell you!
Not only do I have to consider the financial implications of this decision, I also have to consider that other very important facet of my life: my sanity. However, I refuse to get completely caught up in these first world worries. As I said to my Headteacher, the worst thing a person can go through is seeing your child fighting for their life and as Rob and I have already been through that, I figure that everything else will work itself out.
Having said that, I can't completely say that the decision to resign hasn't bothered me or weighed heavily on my mind. I think you can probably tell, blog, that the fact that I am still wittering on about it suggests that I am far from being nonchalant about the whole thing.
This anxiety manifested itself in my actions when, on Thursday morning, I decided to take the kids to Music and Rhyme (a fabulous group that my friend runs) to take my mind off things only to find as I was reversing that I had put the children in the wrong car seats. Bethan was shouting, "mummy, I hurt" whilst James looked like he was the cat that got the cream as he embraced the gift of space that he had been granted by my mistake.
I started to laugh like a hysterical shrew which further unsettled Bethan who kept repeating, "What's mummy doing?" to which I replied, "I'm loosing the plot". As I was swapping the children and correcting the natural order of things in the back of the car, Beth kept saying, "Are you loosing the plot, mummy?"
It would have been more reassuring for my three year old child if I said no and she actually believed me which was hard considering I did the exact same thing on Saturday morning on the way home from her ballet lesson.
Indeed, Beth, when you read this entry in twenty years time, mummy was definitely loosing the plot but as you well know, that is a pre-requisite for survival at chez Hillier.
(As an aside, Cath Kidston replied to my tweet and favourited my comments on Twitter. That was the second best 30 seconds of the week. The first was Bethan doing a big poo in her potty this evening :-)
Wednesday 24th April 2013
Just seen on my Twitter feed that Cath Kidston (the product, not the actual woman) is 20 today.
Hmmm, I am hoping that if I hint enough to Rob about my infatuation with oil cloth red polka dot satchels, cross-overs and totes that I won't have to wait another 20 years to finally be in receipt of one of her bags.
If, indeed, Cath Kidston did do something along the lines of oil cloth headphones, USB cables, power sockets, computing hardware or anything of a technological ilk, I'm sure that I would only have to wait 20 minutes for him to order something from her website.
In other news...
I handed in my notice today. Yikes!
Mr and Mrs Cameron-Clegg will be pleased as another casualty of this coalition government will receive her P45 and want to claim her masters of the universal benefit whilst watching Jeremy Kyle and letting the kids make their own breakfast.
Too much?
I'm starting to sound like Ben Elton in the 80s and look at how his career has flourished (ahem, nervous cough).
Hmmm, I am hoping that if I hint enough to Rob about my infatuation with oil cloth red polka dot satchels, cross-overs and totes that I won't have to wait another 20 years to finally be in receipt of one of her bags.
If, indeed, Cath Kidston did do something along the lines of oil cloth headphones, USB cables, power sockets, computing hardware or anything of a technological ilk, I'm sure that I would only have to wait 20 minutes for him to order something from her website.
In other news...
I handed in my notice today. Yikes!
Mr and Mrs Cameron-Clegg will be pleased as another casualty of this coalition government will receive her P45 and want to claim her masters of the universal benefit whilst watching Jeremy Kyle and letting the kids make their own breakfast.
Too much?
I'm starting to sound like Ben Elton in the 80s and look at how his career has flourished (ahem, nervous cough).
Thursday 4th April 2013
There's no way you can get into our downstairs loo; it makes The Krypton Factor assault course look like the baby section in Snakes and Ladders. It's fully of buggies of various descriptions that won't fit anywhere else especially since I've gone back to work and the boot of my car looks like a mobile classroom.
This means that we are having to rely on using the toilet on the middle floor and it made me realise just how lazy I had become as I'm saying to myself, "I need to go upstairs for a wee and I can't be arsed" (To be fair, when I use the downstairs loo it means that I can keep a watchful eye on what is happening in the living room because as soon as my back is turned, usually one child teases the other). Ho hum.
Suddenly, as my random train of thought began meandering to the upstairs loo I started to think about how having one toilet between 7 of us when we were growing up never posed a problem at all. Then, I got to thinking even further back about when my mam lived in a two up and two down and the toilet was outside in the back yard. Finally, it got me thinking about some of the lesser developed countries that I have been to and worked in where I've had to do some things so that I can have a wee that makes Glamping in this country look like the bloody Hilton!
I was going to discuss the trouble with buggies in this blog entry but now my train of thought is going right out of the window; I mean, are we on the brink of nuclear war? No one will want to buy a second-hand i-Candy pram then will they?
Crikey! I wish I'd never looked in that damn toilet now - I've completely forgot what I was going to blog about :-s
This means that we are having to rely on using the toilet on the middle floor and it made me realise just how lazy I had become as I'm saying to myself, "I need to go upstairs for a wee and I can't be arsed" (To be fair, when I use the downstairs loo it means that I can keep a watchful eye on what is happening in the living room because as soon as my back is turned, usually one child teases the other). Ho hum.
Suddenly, as my random train of thought began meandering to the upstairs loo I started to think about how having one toilet between 7 of us when we were growing up never posed a problem at all. Then, I got to thinking even further back about when my mam lived in a two up and two down and the toilet was outside in the back yard. Finally, it got me thinking about some of the lesser developed countries that I have been to and worked in where I've had to do some things so that I can have a wee that makes Glamping in this country look like the bloody Hilton!
I was going to discuss the trouble with buggies in this blog entry but now my train of thought is going right out of the window; I mean, are we on the brink of nuclear war? No one will want to buy a second-hand i-Candy pram then will they?
Crikey! I wish I'd never looked in that damn toilet now - I've completely forgot what I was going to blog about :-s
 |
| On a completely different tangent, I found this book at m'mam's last weekend. How fab is this? Cooking IS Fun (notice, no exclamation mark to lighten the mood) YOU WILL ENJOY IT! (That's my imaginary sub-heading) |
Thursday 21st March 2013
Following The Budget yesterday there was a lot of 'insightful' commentary on morning TV. Contrary to what this blog may suggest, I honestly don't sit down in my pjs to watch Daybreak and the programmes that proceed it. It's on in the background whilst I'm running around like a Whirling Dervish trying to make sure that everyone is happy and nothing can rock the apple cart.
I didn't pay attention to The Budget myself as it's a load of white noise in my ear. Listening to George Osborne trying to speak over lots of old blokes and a couple of women who are trying to out do each other in the 'Yeah, yeah' stakes is a complete waste of my time. In fact, Daddy Pig and Peppa often make more sense than some of these politicians because the Pig household keep it simple. Having said that, Daddy Pig would be a target for the NHS because he is so overweight and at risk of heart disease, cancer and diabetes; so actually, maybe using the Pig household as an analogy for the post-modern ideal of the nuclear family is a bad idea.
Anyway,the BBC will summarise The Budget for me with the following headline (in my seductive Fiona Bruce voice): "There is no money. We will take off Peter to pay Paul. That is all, and now for the rest of the day's news..."
So I started to think to myself, "Let's move on; the weather is crap; the economy is in free-fall; I sound like fag ash Lil oh yes, and I chopped my thumb with a pair of scissors instead of using them to open a packet of instant porridge. Never mind, I have all the love in the room that I need and I am trying to work on happy vibes".
This positive approach was working until, on the TV,...that bloody woman from The Apprentice appeared. (I have since learned she is called Katie Hopkins). She was on Phil and Holly's sofa basically routing for the plight of full-time parents who work their arse off at home looking after their kids...NOT!!! I'm really not sure whether this woman truly believes in the points she makes or whether she just loves being in the media limelight and enjoys being basked in the controversy of 'her beliefs'.
To be fair, Ms Hopkins' views may (I emphasise the word may) sometimes have credence. That is until she completely batters the debate by making inflammatory comments such as "Parents who stay at home wear it like a badge of honour!" and "Why should we pay parents to stay at home? They just hang around in their pyjamas all day (or something to that effect)". At that point Holly and the woman who embodied the counter-argument went off on one; fair play to them. Holly says that she has all day Friday 'off' to stay at home with her children and openly admitted to it being the hardest job of the week. I couldn't agree more. I feel like I work part-time and have a full-time job at home too.
As a mother of three children, I'm not sure why Ms Hopkins doesn't get this; all I can think is that she has had an easy run of it because as much as I love and adore Bethan and James, I find it incredibly hard work when I am at home with them. James is into absolutely everything and Bethan is constantly craving my attention - there never seems to be any 'down time' for me. However, if you are blessed enough to have children, I do agree that is what you subscribe to when you become a parent. You can have your beliefs Ms Hopkins about people not being paid to be full-time parents. Nevertheless, you are on controversial territory when you suggest that for a parent, whether they work full-time, part-time or not at all, it is easier to stay at home than it is going out to work.
Later in the day I was in the car with the kids and as ever, karma put all of the above into perspective as there was an announcement on the radio. The DEC are launching an appeal for the 1 million or so Syrian refugees who have been ousted out of their homes and who have had their daily lives shattered by Civil War. One moment they are leading a 'normal' life like Western families and the next, it all disappears. "Bloody hell", I thought to myself, "What am I and Ms Hopkins moaning about? Why does parenting in the world that is lucky enough to have Peace on a daily basis, have to be so divisive?".
I didn't pay attention to The Budget myself as it's a load of white noise in my ear. Listening to George Osborne trying to speak over lots of old blokes and a couple of women who are trying to out do each other in the 'Yeah, yeah' stakes is a complete waste of my time. In fact, Daddy Pig and Peppa often make more sense than some of these politicians because the Pig household keep it simple. Having said that, Daddy Pig would be a target for the NHS because he is so overweight and at risk of heart disease, cancer and diabetes; so actually, maybe using the Pig household as an analogy for the post-modern ideal of the nuclear family is a bad idea.
Anyway,the BBC will summarise The Budget for me with the following headline (in my seductive Fiona Bruce voice): "There is no money. We will take off Peter to pay Paul. That is all, and now for the rest of the day's news..."
So I started to think to myself, "Let's move on; the weather is crap; the economy is in free-fall; I sound like fag ash Lil oh yes, and I chopped my thumb with a pair of scissors instead of using them to open a packet of instant porridge. Never mind, I have all the love in the room that I need and I am trying to work on happy vibes".
This positive approach was working until, on the TV,...that bloody woman from The Apprentice appeared. (I have since learned she is called Katie Hopkins). She was on Phil and Holly's sofa basically routing for the plight of full-time parents who work their arse off at home looking after their kids...NOT!!! I'm really not sure whether this woman truly believes in the points she makes or whether she just loves being in the media limelight and enjoys being basked in the controversy of 'her beliefs'.
To be fair, Ms Hopkins' views may (I emphasise the word may) sometimes have credence. That is until she completely batters the debate by making inflammatory comments such as "Parents who stay at home wear it like a badge of honour!" and "Why should we pay parents to stay at home? They just hang around in their pyjamas all day (or something to that effect)". At that point Holly and the woman who embodied the counter-argument went off on one; fair play to them. Holly says that she has all day Friday 'off' to stay at home with her children and openly admitted to it being the hardest job of the week. I couldn't agree more. I feel like I work part-time and have a full-time job at home too.
As a mother of three children, I'm not sure why Ms Hopkins doesn't get this; all I can think is that she has had an easy run of it because as much as I love and adore Bethan and James, I find it incredibly hard work when I am at home with them. James is into absolutely everything and Bethan is constantly craving my attention - there never seems to be any 'down time' for me. However, if you are blessed enough to have children, I do agree that is what you subscribe to when you become a parent. You can have your beliefs Ms Hopkins about people not being paid to be full-time parents. Nevertheless, you are on controversial territory when you suggest that for a parent, whether they work full-time, part-time or not at all, it is easier to stay at home than it is going out to work.
Later in the day I was in the car with the kids and as ever, karma put all of the above into perspective as there was an announcement on the radio. The DEC are launching an appeal for the 1 million or so Syrian refugees who have been ousted out of their homes and who have had their daily lives shattered by Civil War. One moment they are leading a 'normal' life like Western families and the next, it all disappears. "Bloody hell", I thought to myself, "What am I and Ms Hopkins moaning about? Why does parenting in the world that is lucky enough to have Peace on a daily basis, have to be so divisive?".
Wednesday 20th March 2013
It's back and this time it's here to stay...
No. I'm not talking about the snow and the crap weather (By the way mam, didn't you once say that March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb? If that's the case, why did it come in like a very cheesed off rhino who couldn't find a free spot in the swamp to bathe and will probably go out like an incredible angry baboon at the zoo because everyone is taking the mick out of its red arse?).
No, no - I'm talking about the lurgy: Voice gone; chest like Deidre Barlow's is back and the humidifier is going full blast in the night. On the plus side, it seems to only have infected me. Fortunately, the bairns and hubby are at present, lurgy free (fingers crossed).
I don't think it's a coincidence that I'm back on the Sudafed, paras and Hot Toddies at the same time that I have gone back to work. My hands are perfectly shriveled from the amount of antibacterial gel I keep applying before I open doors, touch books, take back pens that I have given out to the kids etc, etc...I mean, the teenagers I work with are lovely, lovely people but let's face it, they are teenagers who, when institutionalised in a school environment, spread the lurgy quicker than Twitter spreads litigation.
Being tired and feeling so crappy has made me feel even more guilty about leaving Beth and James on a Monday and Tuesday; I mean, by last night, I literally walked through the door and keeled over; I had absolutely no energy. Bethan came running up to me saying, "Mummy! Mummy!" and my heart melted. She followed the statement through with, "Mummy's got the Cinderella phone!" (the iPad) and the nanny put even more salt into an already large, open wound by saying, "Oh, she has been so funny all day saying that 'Mummy will bring the Cinderella phone home!". In my delirious state I wailed to Rob whilst in the kitchen (out of the children's sight of course), "My child has missed an Apple product more than she has missed me!".
Again on the plus side, looking at the iPad whilst sitting on the potty has meant that Bethan is weeing like a trooper and setting off the music which tells us she has done a number one. She happily sits there either reading the Cinderella story or watching 'Falling Overs' on the ITV player app. Talk about giving a new meaning to reading on the toilet.
I find it ironic that it is a product from the deceased Steve Jobs that helped Bethan gain the confidence to relax whilst on the loo and not the 101+ other tips that we have been given on our intrepid potty training journey. There is even a Potty Training app but she isn't at all interested as she is so fed up of being shown what to do that we now just leave her to it. We're still not there yet but it's miles better than it was because we are a lot more relaxed about it.
Anyway, I'm offsky to bed now and hoping to watch the programme "16 and Counting" on 4OD. A good friend of mine recommended it to me and I am finally getting round to watching it. Just hope I can keep my eyes open long enough to watch it all.
No. I'm not talking about the snow and the crap weather (By the way mam, didn't you once say that March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb? If that's the case, why did it come in like a very cheesed off rhino who couldn't find a free spot in the swamp to bathe and will probably go out like an incredible angry baboon at the zoo because everyone is taking the mick out of its red arse?).
No, no - I'm talking about the lurgy: Voice gone; chest like Deidre Barlow's is back and the humidifier is going full blast in the night. On the plus side, it seems to only have infected me. Fortunately, the bairns and hubby are at present, lurgy free (fingers crossed).
I don't think it's a coincidence that I'm back on the Sudafed, paras and Hot Toddies at the same time that I have gone back to work. My hands are perfectly shriveled from the amount of antibacterial gel I keep applying before I open doors, touch books, take back pens that I have given out to the kids etc, etc...I mean, the teenagers I work with are lovely, lovely people but let's face it, they are teenagers who, when institutionalised in a school environment, spread the lurgy quicker than Twitter spreads litigation.
Being tired and feeling so crappy has made me feel even more guilty about leaving Beth and James on a Monday and Tuesday; I mean, by last night, I literally walked through the door and keeled over; I had absolutely no energy. Bethan came running up to me saying, "Mummy! Mummy!" and my heart melted. She followed the statement through with, "Mummy's got the Cinderella phone!" (the iPad) and the nanny put even more salt into an already large, open wound by saying, "Oh, she has been so funny all day saying that 'Mummy will bring the Cinderella phone home!". In my delirious state I wailed to Rob whilst in the kitchen (out of the children's sight of course), "My child has missed an Apple product more than she has missed me!".
Again on the plus side, looking at the iPad whilst sitting on the potty has meant that Bethan is weeing like a trooper and setting off the music which tells us she has done a number one. She happily sits there either reading the Cinderella story or watching 'Falling Overs' on the ITV player app. Talk about giving a new meaning to reading on the toilet.
I find it ironic that it is a product from the deceased Steve Jobs that helped Bethan gain the confidence to relax whilst on the loo and not the 101+ other tips that we have been given on our intrepid potty training journey. There is even a Potty Training app but she isn't at all interested as she is so fed up of being shown what to do that we now just leave her to it. We're still not there yet but it's miles better than it was because we are a lot more relaxed about it.
Anyway, I'm offsky to bed now and hoping to watch the programme "16 and Counting" on 4OD. A good friend of mine recommended it to me and I am finally getting round to watching it. Just hope I can keep my eyes open long enough to watch it all.
 |
| Here is the Peppa Pig plaster that I had to use tonight after chopping through my thumb with a pair of scissors. I actually prefer them to the fabric ones that we have. Firstly, they are bright and secondly, they keep water out unlike the fabric ones; you don't just end up with a sore thumb but a sodden one too! |
Friday 15th March 2013
Bethan: "Mummy, I am the teacher"*
Me: "Ok; who am I then?
Bethan: "You are the children"
Me: "If only"
Bethan: (pointing her finger aggressively at me) "You children get to the door!"
(*Bethan is wearing her Red Nose Day Alien bobble head band whilst telling me this. She certainly is a chip off the old block. I feel like setting her on Michael Gove; he'd crap himself).
Actually, I was a little worried because I was wondering where this strict, bordering on coercive, tact had come from. It really didn't help that later that evening I got an e-mail from a parenting website that I had just subscribed to which sent me an e-mail with the heading, "What to expect from your 3 year old". Now, I'm not known for my adherence to these websites; I am very satirical about them (ok, sardonic then).
They are useful for one thing though; telling you how many weeks your baby is. With Bethan I knew the day, minute and second by heart, never mind the week. However, with baby James I am a little more vacant when people ask me. I feel awful but that is the way it is. My mind, especially since going back to work, is everywhere. At least by writing this blog I know that I can look back on things that I would definitely forget.
Anyway, I digress again.
Back to the e-mail from the aforementioned website. The information was actually really useful and pertinent and I could totally relate to what was being said. This may account for my guilt when I read the following statement:
She will devote her days to trying to be like you, copying how you go to work or look after the house or talk to your friends on the phone. This is the process of identification by which she will pick up all your bad habits and retain them until she gets to be a mother, so your inadequacies can be revisited on the next generation.
Now, maybe it's the fact that I am an English teacher and always read between the lines; maybe it's the fact that I am extremely sensitive. However, I felt that the final line of that particular paragraph is borderline apocalyptic. Well, you can imagine that the timing of this e-mail couldn't have been worse. I spent the rest of the evening trying to ascertain where her strict role playing from earlier had come from. Subsequently, I spent the whole night trying to work out when I had been so strict with her.
Rob, as ever, with his Welsh dulcet tones and the voice of reason, exclaimed, "Don't be so daft!" as he poured me a glass of cold, crisp Sauvignon Blanc. Hmm, now what's the likelihood of my perchance for wine being an "inadequacy" for my future offspring's offspring? ...
Me: "Ok; who am I then?
Bethan: "You are the children"
Me: "If only"
Bethan: (pointing her finger aggressively at me) "You children get to the door!"
(*Bethan is wearing her Red Nose Day Alien bobble head band whilst telling me this. She certainly is a chip off the old block. I feel like setting her on Michael Gove; he'd crap himself).
Actually, I was a little worried because I was wondering where this strict, bordering on coercive, tact had come from. It really didn't help that later that evening I got an e-mail from a parenting website that I had just subscribed to which sent me an e-mail with the heading, "What to expect from your 3 year old". Now, I'm not known for my adherence to these websites; I am very satirical about them (ok, sardonic then).
They are useful for one thing though; telling you how many weeks your baby is. With Bethan I knew the day, minute and second by heart, never mind the week. However, with baby James I am a little more vacant when people ask me. I feel awful but that is the way it is. My mind, especially since going back to work, is everywhere. At least by writing this blog I know that I can look back on things that I would definitely forget.
Anyway, I digress again.
Back to the e-mail from the aforementioned website. The information was actually really useful and pertinent and I could totally relate to what was being said. This may account for my guilt when I read the following statement:
She will devote her days to trying to be like you, copying how you go to work or look after the house or talk to your friends on the phone. This is the process of identification by which she will pick up all your bad habits and retain them until she gets to be a mother, so your inadequacies can be revisited on the next generation.
Now, maybe it's the fact that I am an English teacher and always read between the lines; maybe it's the fact that I am extremely sensitive. However, I felt that the final line of that particular paragraph is borderline apocalyptic. Well, you can imagine that the timing of this e-mail couldn't have been worse. I spent the rest of the evening trying to ascertain where her strict role playing from earlier had come from. Subsequently, I spent the whole night trying to work out when I had been so strict with her.
Rob, as ever, with his Welsh dulcet tones and the voice of reason, exclaimed, "Don't be so daft!" as he poured me a glass of cold, crisp Sauvignon Blanc. Hmm, now what's the likelihood of my perchance for wine being an "inadequacy" for my future offspring's offspring? ...
Wednesday 15th March 2013
An epic week and it's only Wednesday!
Yesterday I felt like I was in an episode of Ice Road Truckers as I travelled to work in Felixstowe. When I got there it felt more like an episode of Grange Hill.
Before leaving for work I ODd on the multi vitamin supplements that I take. In fact, I insist we all take them: Well Woman for me; Well Man for Rob; Well Toddler for Bethan and Well Baby for James (it's ironic really because I came home last night from work not feeling particularly 'well'). If they did Well Scraggy Old Cat, I would give some to Smurf too.
Actually, I didn't OD as much as double up by mistake; the only trouble is that it was the Well Man vitamin that I doubled up on. I'm not sure how. I must have been that stressed yesterday morning that I failed to take much interest in the colour co-ordinated, day-labelled pill box that I bought to avoid these type of things happening again.
I spent most of yesterday worrying that I might grow an Adam's Apple or even worse, some wiry chest hair (like I said it had been a rough morning, I was tired and very stressed).
Also on my mind yesterday, for some reason, is the mass marketing ploy with regards to toilet roll paper and the national debate as to whether you scrunch or fold.
Personally I am just relieved that someone has remembered to put toilet paper on the loo roll holder thingy mi jig. I can't list the amount of times I've had a loo break whilst the kids have been distracted only to discover that the wooden tube has a scrap of paper on it.
If I ask Bethan to bring me some more loo roll, she is most obliging and often brings something like her Toy Story 2 DVD instead and says, "You're welcome mummy". Then I am reminded that she has only just turned 3 and is wearing pull ups. Never mind; one day she too will discover the awkwardness of the predicament that I often find myself in.
At the moment she is sharing our bed with me so as not to disturb Rob whilst he holds our resident's meeting. Dennis Skinner, eat your heart out!
Yesterday I felt like I was in an episode of Ice Road Truckers as I travelled to work in Felixstowe. When I got there it felt more like an episode of Grange Hill.
Before leaving for work I ODd on the multi vitamin supplements that I take. In fact, I insist we all take them: Well Woman for me; Well Man for Rob; Well Toddler for Bethan and Well Baby for James (it's ironic really because I came home last night from work not feeling particularly 'well'). If they did Well Scraggy Old Cat, I would give some to Smurf too.
Actually, I didn't OD as much as double up by mistake; the only trouble is that it was the Well Man vitamin that I doubled up on. I'm not sure how. I must have been that stressed yesterday morning that I failed to take much interest in the colour co-ordinated, day-labelled pill box that I bought to avoid these type of things happening again.
I spent most of yesterday worrying that I might grow an Adam's Apple or even worse, some wiry chest hair (like I said it had been a rough morning, I was tired and very stressed).
Also on my mind yesterday, for some reason, is the mass marketing ploy with regards to toilet roll paper and the national debate as to whether you scrunch or fold.
Personally I am just relieved that someone has remembered to put toilet paper on the loo roll holder thingy mi jig. I can't list the amount of times I've had a loo break whilst the kids have been distracted only to discover that the wooden tube has a scrap of paper on it.
If I ask Bethan to bring me some more loo roll, she is most obliging and often brings something like her Toy Story 2 DVD instead and says, "You're welcome mummy". Then I am reminded that she has only just turned 3 and is wearing pull ups. Never mind; one day she too will discover the awkwardness of the predicament that I often find myself in.
At the moment she is sharing our bed with me so as not to disturb Rob whilst he holds our resident's meeting. Dennis Skinner, eat your heart out!
Sunday 10th March 2013
We're back in the 'Swich! Fortunately (or unfortunately if you are betting on the entertainment stakes) it was a straightforward trip that had a few snow flurries along the way.
The most exciting it got was James throwing every single dummy I gave him between himself and the car door. Normally when James throws out his dummy either Rob or I will shout, "Dummy down!" but we lost our sense of humour after the fifth time.
Also, every time we drive through Penistone before or after we go over the tops, Rob sniggers uncontrollably. It really is like having 3 children at times.
I asked Rob if, when we got home, I could have a Mother's Day bath. This differs from a normal bath because it is an annual event whereby Rob can act as security and I am guaranteed a bath without having Bethan wanting to wash my hair at every given opportunity.
I wanted to relax in the suds whilst listening to the new Radio 4 production of Ibsen's 'A Doll's House' on BBC iplayer.
As the journey progressed I couldn't contain my excitement because a) after being 13 years away from uni I finally remembered Ibsen's first name and b) I would be able to shave my legs for the first time in 13 days without the fear of hacking off my ankle because I am so worried about what Bethan is up to whilst I'm giving myself the fortnightly MOT.
My enthusiasm spilled over into reliving memories of my time in Edinburgh when I went to see Chekov's "Three Sisters" at The Festival Theatre.
As Rob pulled off onto the slip road of junction 53, he said, "I didn't know Chekov from Star Trek had written a play". That and the Penistone saga got me thinking about alimony as we drove around the big roundabout outside the Asda's (where I'm from all of the major supermarkets are preceded by the definite article. If you just said "outside Asda" people would think you were daft).
It has been a beautiful weekend and now I'm back I feel sad but also very lucky. Seeing a good friend of mine dealing with raw grief made me realise, yet again, just how lucky I am.
22:39pm
Can't sleep so I thought I would listen to 'A Doll's House' finally on iplayer but it isn't 'A Doll's House', it's Hedda Gabler. I finally remember Ibsen's name and then forget what bloody play it is! Might just watch the Dancing on Ice final on ITV player instead.
The most exciting it got was James throwing every single dummy I gave him between himself and the car door. Normally when James throws out his dummy either Rob or I will shout, "Dummy down!" but we lost our sense of humour after the fifth time.
Also, every time we drive through Penistone before or after we go over the tops, Rob sniggers uncontrollably. It really is like having 3 children at times.
I asked Rob if, when we got home, I could have a Mother's Day bath. This differs from a normal bath because it is an annual event whereby Rob can act as security and I am guaranteed a bath without having Bethan wanting to wash my hair at every given opportunity.
I wanted to relax in the suds whilst listening to the new Radio 4 production of Ibsen's 'A Doll's House' on BBC iplayer.
As the journey progressed I couldn't contain my excitement because a) after being 13 years away from uni I finally remembered Ibsen's first name and b) I would be able to shave my legs for the first time in 13 days without the fear of hacking off my ankle because I am so worried about what Bethan is up to whilst I'm giving myself the fortnightly MOT.
My enthusiasm spilled over into reliving memories of my time in Edinburgh when I went to see Chekov's "Three Sisters" at The Festival Theatre.
As Rob pulled off onto the slip road of junction 53, he said, "I didn't know Chekov from Star Trek had written a play". That and the Penistone saga got me thinking about alimony as we drove around the big roundabout outside the Asda's (where I'm from all of the major supermarkets are preceded by the definite article. If you just said "outside Asda" people would think you were daft).
It has been a beautiful weekend and now I'm back I feel sad but also very lucky. Seeing a good friend of mine dealing with raw grief made me realise, yet again, just how lucky I am.
22:39pm
Can't sleep so I thought I would listen to 'A Doll's House' finally on iplayer but it isn't 'A Doll's House', it's Hedda Gabler. I finally remember Ibsen's name and then forget what bloody play it is! Might just watch the Dancing on Ice final on ITV player instead.
Friday 8th March 2013
It's so good to be going home to Droylsden to celebrate Mother's Day with m'mam. It is a shame, however, that my little town which is 3 miles from Manchester City Centre is now synonymous with a spate of hideous gun crimes.
However, the spirit of the place and the people is still very strong and I can't wait to catch up with everyone during this brief visit.
The journey so far has been relatively calm but definitely entertaining. I'm not sure if it is a blessing or a curse to have one of those small rear view mirrors in front of the main rear view mirror which gives you a blow by blow account of what your children are getting up to in the back seat.
So far I have seen Bethan picking her nose whilst watching Toy Story 2 again (yes, yes we gave in and bought one of those portable DVD players. I know we are terrible parents depriving our children of eye spy games but seriously, we can't see anything through this bloody fog. I just want Rob to concentrate on the road and not what may or may not be behind the pea soup 'beginning with 'T' in front of us).
I can also see Sherman (after the tank and my new nickname for James) planning his escape. Every now and then he tells us what for as if to say in babble speak, "Are we nearly there yet? I'M BORED!!"
However, when he goes quiet, I look into the small mirror and see him rubbing his hands, crossing his chubby feet, looking carefully around the car and letting out an evil genius laugh. All he needs is a white fluffy cat and a grey Mao suit and bang! we've got our very own Blofeld on the back seat.
I had second thoughts about giving him his little toy hammer that rattles but he can't use that to escape surely? It's a Ford Grand C Max not Shawshank prison.
As well as the back seat shenanigans we have the erudite and annoyingly condescending sat nav lady telling us that "there are traffic disruptions on route" Rob is screaming, "No crap Sherlock! That's why my car hasn't moved in 10 minutes!!". Talk about rubbing salt in a very raw rush hour traffic wound.
Now the car is moving but very slowly and James is getting more wound up and vocal. Rob has told him that we are nearly there but for some reason our 10 month baby doesn't seem to understand this and is getting more and more fractious.
No! No! The smell of poo is emanating slowly from the back seat to the front seat. Which one of them is it and will we make it to Droylsden in time before mini Blofeld takes us all out as we hover around Meddow Hall????
To be continued...
However, the spirit of the place and the people is still very strong and I can't wait to catch up with everyone during this brief visit.
The journey so far has been relatively calm but definitely entertaining. I'm not sure if it is a blessing or a curse to have one of those small rear view mirrors in front of the main rear view mirror which gives you a blow by blow account of what your children are getting up to in the back seat.
So far I have seen Bethan picking her nose whilst watching Toy Story 2 again (yes, yes we gave in and bought one of those portable DVD players. I know we are terrible parents depriving our children of eye spy games but seriously, we can't see anything through this bloody fog. I just want Rob to concentrate on the road and not what may or may not be behind the pea soup 'beginning with 'T' in front of us).
I can also see Sherman (after the tank and my new nickname for James) planning his escape. Every now and then he tells us what for as if to say in babble speak, "Are we nearly there yet? I'M BORED!!"
However, when he goes quiet, I look into the small mirror and see him rubbing his hands, crossing his chubby feet, looking carefully around the car and letting out an evil genius laugh. All he needs is a white fluffy cat and a grey Mao suit and bang! we've got our very own Blofeld on the back seat.
I had second thoughts about giving him his little toy hammer that rattles but he can't use that to escape surely? It's a Ford Grand C Max not Shawshank prison.
As well as the back seat shenanigans we have the erudite and annoyingly condescending sat nav lady telling us that "there are traffic disruptions on route" Rob is screaming, "No crap Sherlock! That's why my car hasn't moved in 10 minutes!!". Talk about rubbing salt in a very raw rush hour traffic wound.
Now the car is moving but very slowly and James is getting more wound up and vocal. Rob has told him that we are nearly there but for some reason our 10 month baby doesn't seem to understand this and is getting more and more fractious.
No! No! The smell of poo is emanating slowly from the back seat to the front seat. Which one of them is it and will we make it to Droylsden in time before mini Blofeld takes us all out as we hover around Meddow Hall????
To be continued...
Wednesday 6th March 2013
By all accounts, this has been a difficult week. This culminated last night when I was really beginning to feel sorry for myself. I could feel some force drawing me to a big block of Galaxy and a glass (or two) of cold, crisp Pinot.
I'd become a 'mood hoover' as my fellow Manc friend, who also lives in Suffolk, would say. This in turn meant me sniping at all those who dared get in my way. This then meant that the kids also became fractious. Finally, this then meant utter chaos at bath time and bed time and I came to the conclusion is letting trivial things that I deem difficult in my life really worth it?
This week I managed to watch Lorraine's Real Life Story Interview on ITV player. If I loved her before, I absolutely adore her now. She is, as I had assumed, a thoroughly decent person.
Two things from the interview really stand out for me: Dunblane and her feelings towards her miscarriage.
When Lorraine described how, after becoming good friends with one of the victim's parents, she was paying her respects in the little girl's room. One of the girl's parents drew her attention to a set of wee handprints on the window. This is where the little angel had seen something outside and run to the window excitedly and stamped her handprints on the glass as she was discovering something outside.
Normally, after James has been crawling around and discovering the world and his handprints are everywhere as if to say "Been there, done that, got the t-shirt", I want to get the Mr Muscle glass cleaner out to make sure that my French Windows sparkle like those on TV adverts. Now I am loathed to quickly rub out his innocent journey of discovery and the excitement which that brings.
Even more pertinent to my own personal experience was Lorraine's succinct yet candid account of how she felt following an early miscarriage.
Like Lorraine I too found the grief insurmountable at times. I also remember it being a very lonely experience as people aren't as tolerant to mother's who lose a child that can't be seen, heard or felt by others. Losing the babies at scan and then having to have an invasive operation both times was one of the worst times of my life; however, the physical pain does eventually go.
What remains is a void. Lorraine is right, you are grieving for the life that never was. As soon as you become pregnant you become a mum and instinctively you start to plan and think about the new life ahead of you.
Also, like Lorraine, I often think of my babies that weren't meant to be. Lorraine said that the child she lost would be 15 now.
For Rob and I, our first child would have been 7 in June this year; we were convinced it was a girl and that we were going to call her Poppy. Our second child would have been 4 in October. I pray to them both every night to be the Guardian Angels of Bethan and James. Even though my life is the busiest it's ever been, I will never forget them. It's such a shame that miscarriages are a taboo subject.
Today I am going to Clarks to get the children measured for shoes and I am dreading it. No, I WAS dreading it. In the midst of the screams and tantrums, I am determined to stop being a mood hoover and enjoy it.
I'd become a 'mood hoover' as my fellow Manc friend, who also lives in Suffolk, would say. This in turn meant me sniping at all those who dared get in my way. This then meant that the kids also became fractious. Finally, this then meant utter chaos at bath time and bed time and I came to the conclusion is letting trivial things that I deem difficult in my life really worth it?
This week I managed to watch Lorraine's Real Life Story Interview on ITV player. If I loved her before, I absolutely adore her now. She is, as I had assumed, a thoroughly decent person.
Two things from the interview really stand out for me: Dunblane and her feelings towards her miscarriage.
When Lorraine described how, after becoming good friends with one of the victim's parents, she was paying her respects in the little girl's room. One of the girl's parents drew her attention to a set of wee handprints on the window. This is where the little angel had seen something outside and run to the window excitedly and stamped her handprints on the glass as she was discovering something outside.
Normally, after James has been crawling around and discovering the world and his handprints are everywhere as if to say "Been there, done that, got the t-shirt", I want to get the Mr Muscle glass cleaner out to make sure that my French Windows sparkle like those on TV adverts. Now I am loathed to quickly rub out his innocent journey of discovery and the excitement which that brings.
Even more pertinent to my own personal experience was Lorraine's succinct yet candid account of how she felt following an early miscarriage.
Like Lorraine I too found the grief insurmountable at times. I also remember it being a very lonely experience as people aren't as tolerant to mother's who lose a child that can't be seen, heard or felt by others. Losing the babies at scan and then having to have an invasive operation both times was one of the worst times of my life; however, the physical pain does eventually go.
What remains is a void. Lorraine is right, you are grieving for the life that never was. As soon as you become pregnant you become a mum and instinctively you start to plan and think about the new life ahead of you.
Also, like Lorraine, I often think of my babies that weren't meant to be. Lorraine said that the child she lost would be 15 now.
For Rob and I, our first child would have been 7 in June this year; we were convinced it was a girl and that we were going to call her Poppy. Our second child would have been 4 in October. I pray to them both every night to be the Guardian Angels of Bethan and James. Even though my life is the busiest it's ever been, I will never forget them. It's such a shame that miscarriages are a taboo subject.
Today I am going to Clarks to get the children measured for shoes and I am dreading it. No, I WAS dreading it. In the midst of the screams and tantrums, I am determined to stop being a mood hoover and enjoy it.
Sunday 3rd March 2013
Considering the fuss in getting there and the fact that we were late, the ballet dancing went well, I think. The teacher said she was fine and Bethan seemed pretty nonchalant about the whole thing. When she came out into the waiting room I asked her what she had done to which she replied, "dancing" and then for the next 10 minutes she started wittering on about "Falling Overs (aka 'You've been Framed').
Despite my earlier prejudices about the class and what it involved in terms of being an Alpha Mum, everyone was absolutely lovely. Ok, to begin with it felt like a film called "Attack of the Pink Clones". However, they all looked very cute but more importantly, they seemed to be very proud of what they were wearing and what they were doing. One mum must have seen me waiting anxiously and staring fervently into my phone as I wrote my blog trying to avoid eye-contact with anyone else. After the class she asked me how Bethan had got on and I started to feel like I, Liz Hillier, could be part of the waiting room posse. I was cross at my juvenile feelings of insecurity and not being able to 'fit in' when really we are all in the same boat. I'm a bugger for judging situations as soon as I become part of something new; sometimes I get them right and other times I get them wrong, like today for instance.
The one thing thing that we parents all had in common as we were sat in the waiting room was the fact that we want the best for our children. I know Bethan loves to dance and yes, it is a blinking bother getting from a to b on a Friday afternoon but I really wanted her to have a go to discover if she enjoyed it or not.
This is then followed by swimming lessons on a Saturday afternoon which are expensive (Rob said to me, "How much?! At least Dick Turpin wore a bloody mask"), on the other side of town and a real hassle to get us all there fed, watered and changed before we all sing a rousing chorus of "Splish Splash" around the pool.
Swimming is important to us because Rob and I aren't particularly strong swimmers and we want the kids to feel confident and safe in the water. Plus, the ritual after the lesson as we head back to our home is that we start rubbing our egos and commenting on how swimming makes us spend quality time together; just the 4 of us, doing something which is (for all of my moaning), good fun.
Why all this justifying????
Well, as ever, I was reading something on the BBC news app on my phone (on the toilet as this is the only time I get to read anything or text anybody without being interrupted; well, usually anyway), and I could feel my hinds rising up from the toilet seat.
Tory MP and advisor to the PM, Claire Perry, has "criticised parents for filling children's lives with too many organised activities". In an interview she gave to 'The Times', Ms Perry says that "we've created a treadmill" and that "it's usually the mother that is orchestrating...and doing all the driving" (metaphorically I assume because I don't literally do all of the driving as I am a crap driver and worry for my children's safety).
Controversially, the MP who is a working mother of 3 (I really hoped she hadn't have been because then I could have had a real go at her like I do with Gina Ford) says that, "we worship this feminine motherhood thing and I don't think our children have benefited actually. They're babied a lot".
Crikey! That's scathing and made me feel like squirming into the toilet bowl on which I was sat.
This was written the same weekend when American parenting author Pamela Druckerman, who lives in Paris, has been publicising her new book, "French Parents don't give in" (damn it, another working mum; why oh why can't Gina Ford have written something this weekend for me to moan about?). This book is the sequel to "French Children Don't Throw Food". Morally I don't want to but I can't help it, I've already ordered it from Amazon. I'm keen to know what makes my children want to throw their fruity toast when a French child doesn't want to launch a piece of bread across the room.
To summarise: not a good weekend to be a British Alpha Parent; according to the experts, we're all crap.
Despite my earlier prejudices about the class and what it involved in terms of being an Alpha Mum, everyone was absolutely lovely. Ok, to begin with it felt like a film called "Attack of the Pink Clones". However, they all looked very cute but more importantly, they seemed to be very proud of what they were wearing and what they were doing. One mum must have seen me waiting anxiously and staring fervently into my phone as I wrote my blog trying to avoid eye-contact with anyone else. After the class she asked me how Bethan had got on and I started to feel like I, Liz Hillier, could be part of the waiting room posse. I was cross at my juvenile feelings of insecurity and not being able to 'fit in' when really we are all in the same boat. I'm a bugger for judging situations as soon as I become part of something new; sometimes I get them right and other times I get them wrong, like today for instance.
The one thing thing that we parents all had in common as we were sat in the waiting room was the fact that we want the best for our children. I know Bethan loves to dance and yes, it is a blinking bother getting from a to b on a Friday afternoon but I really wanted her to have a go to discover if she enjoyed it or not.
This is then followed by swimming lessons on a Saturday afternoon which are expensive (Rob said to me, "How much?! At least Dick Turpin wore a bloody mask"), on the other side of town and a real hassle to get us all there fed, watered and changed before we all sing a rousing chorus of "Splish Splash" around the pool.
Swimming is important to us because Rob and I aren't particularly strong swimmers and we want the kids to feel confident and safe in the water. Plus, the ritual after the lesson as we head back to our home is that we start rubbing our egos and commenting on how swimming makes us spend quality time together; just the 4 of us, doing something which is (for all of my moaning), good fun.
Why all this justifying????
Well, as ever, I was reading something on the BBC news app on my phone (on the toilet as this is the only time I get to read anything or text anybody without being interrupted; well, usually anyway), and I could feel my hinds rising up from the toilet seat.
Tory MP and advisor to the PM, Claire Perry, has "criticised parents for filling children's lives with too many organised activities". In an interview she gave to 'The Times', Ms Perry says that "we've created a treadmill" and that "it's usually the mother that is orchestrating...and doing all the driving" (metaphorically I assume because I don't literally do all of the driving as I am a crap driver and worry for my children's safety).
Controversially, the MP who is a working mother of 3 (I really hoped she hadn't have been because then I could have had a real go at her like I do with Gina Ford) says that, "we worship this feminine motherhood thing and I don't think our children have benefited actually. They're babied a lot".
Crikey! That's scathing and made me feel like squirming into the toilet bowl on which I was sat.
This was written the same weekend when American parenting author Pamela Druckerman, who lives in Paris, has been publicising her new book, "French Parents don't give in" (damn it, another working mum; why oh why can't Gina Ford have written something this weekend for me to moan about?). This book is the sequel to "French Children Don't Throw Food". Morally I don't want to but I can't help it, I've already ordered it from Amazon. I'm keen to know what makes my children want to throw their fruity toast when a French child doesn't want to launch a piece of bread across the room.
To summarise: not a good weekend to be a British Alpha Parent; according to the experts, we're all crap.
Friday 1st March 2013
Currently writing this whilst waiting tentatively for Bethan to finish her first ballet lesson. We have had to rush straight here from pre-school and change her by spinning her round like wonder woman.
As ever, we were late and everybody was looking at us as if to say, you're late but what can you do? We're late for absolutely everything. We are 'that family' that are always late. Rob even got told off for being late to pre-school lunch club by the play leader; he was terribly affronted.
Apart from create a time machine to get us from A to B, I'm not entirely sure what to do. And even if I wanted to I couldn't tonight because I've got to make a macaroni cheese otherwise it will be another take away.
Oops, one little girl whose first lesson it is too, has just been guided into the waiting room by the teacher to find her mum because she is weeping. Feeling very nervous that Bethan will follow shortly behind.
Poor Beth. It's been a week of firsts for her and she has already done a lot of weeping. Feel guilty. Again. Not even sure why I have brought her here. She loves Brucie and Tess so much and she loves to dance.
When I was her age I was sent Irish dancing as was most of the kids from the Anglo-Irish community of Droylsden. This was pre-Flatley and that blummin Riverdance. I did ok until I went to a competition, did a kick, and my dancing shoe went flying past one of the judge's heads. Thank God it was my light shoe and not my heavy fiber-glass one. That, plus my tendency to let my left hand do whatever it wanted rather than keep it tied to my left side because I was concentrating so much on what my feet were doing, meant that my Irish dancing career ended rather prematurely.
My mind is wandering again...Sat in this waiting room is already filling me with dread and unnecessary pressure. It is full of Alpha Mums and Dads. Some are telling their children not to dirty their socks; some are competitively comparing how well their daughters are limbering up; some have Cath Kidston bags and vanity cases. I am sat here writing this blog so at least I can look down and not catch anyone's attention.
Lord! The doors are opening after the lesson. Bethan is about to appear. I can feel my buttocks squeezing tightly. How has she got on?
As ever, we were late and everybody was looking at us as if to say, you're late but what can you do? We're late for absolutely everything. We are 'that family' that are always late. Rob even got told off for being late to pre-school lunch club by the play leader; he was terribly affronted.
Apart from create a time machine to get us from A to B, I'm not entirely sure what to do. And even if I wanted to I couldn't tonight because I've got to make a macaroni cheese otherwise it will be another take away.
Oops, one little girl whose first lesson it is too, has just been guided into the waiting room by the teacher to find her mum because she is weeping. Feeling very nervous that Bethan will follow shortly behind.
Poor Beth. It's been a week of firsts for her and she has already done a lot of weeping. Feel guilty. Again. Not even sure why I have brought her here. She loves Brucie and Tess so much and she loves to dance.
When I was her age I was sent Irish dancing as was most of the kids from the Anglo-Irish community of Droylsden. This was pre-Flatley and that blummin Riverdance. I did ok until I went to a competition, did a kick, and my dancing shoe went flying past one of the judge's heads. Thank God it was my light shoe and not my heavy fiber-glass one. That, plus my tendency to let my left hand do whatever it wanted rather than keep it tied to my left side because I was concentrating so much on what my feet were doing, meant that my Irish dancing career ended rather prematurely.
My mind is wandering again...Sat in this waiting room is already filling me with dread and unnecessary pressure. It is full of Alpha Mums and Dads. Some are telling their children not to dirty their socks; some are competitively comparing how well their daughters are limbering up; some have Cath Kidston bags and vanity cases. I am sat here writing this blog so at least I can look down and not catch anyone's attention.
Lord! The doors are opening after the lesson. Bethan is about to appear. I can feel my buttocks squeezing tightly. How has she got on?
Wednesday 27th February 2013
Bethan did her first wee in her potty! Yay! :-)
Unfortunately it happened whilst I was at work, Boo! :-(
When I got Rob's text I started shouting with happiness in the English Office; I'm sure my colleagues were confused and thought I was getting overly excited about meeting my new Year 8 class. When I explained why I was so euphoric I got the customary "Aww!"
Bethan's first wee on the potty isn't just a rite of passage for her it's also a huge confidence boost for me because I had got my knickers (no pun intended) in a right twist. I had started to convince myself that there was a problem when all I really had to do was promise Beth a trip to Snakes and Ladders at the end of her toiletry exploits and voila! It comes and goes for Bethan - she does it when she can be arsed to be honest. It's exactly the same as when we were waiting patiently (not!) for her to walk.
I suppose this is something most working mothers have to get used to. You do all of the ground work and the moment your back is turned and you are trying to explain the difference between a transitive and intransitive verb to a group of confused looking 13 year olds, your baby or toddler decides to take their first step or crawl or wee in their potty.
The kids are definitely as unsettled as I am, as is the cat but she's always pissed off to be honest. Besides the guilt of leaving them I have a) the guilt of missing important rites of passage b) the guilt of not being as entertaining as the nanny when I am off work and c) the guilt of being a Roman Catholic (I was a HUGE Alanis Morissette back in the day).
Another thing that cheesed me off today was that bloody woman famous for being on 'The Apprentice' again. Not content with offending parents who have children called Charmaine or children who have soft play birthday parties (to summarise, she is a snob and assumes these children have no academic rigour) one week later she is telling Phil and Holly and a rather large lady who is well-qualified and looking for a job, that she "would not employ a fat person because they are lazy and lack ambition". The This Morning team in their sub-heading labelled her a "fattist".
This was then followed by a commercial break where MacDonalds are claiming to be the Kofi Annan of the 21st Century non-nuclear family. Apparently all a young teenage boy needs to do is share a Big Mac with their prospective step-father and bang! Peace will reign in your household.
I give up.
Unfortunately it happened whilst I was at work, Boo! :-(
When I got Rob's text I started shouting with happiness in the English Office; I'm sure my colleagues were confused and thought I was getting overly excited about meeting my new Year 8 class. When I explained why I was so euphoric I got the customary "Aww!"
Bethan's first wee on the potty isn't just a rite of passage for her it's also a huge confidence boost for me because I had got my knickers (no pun intended) in a right twist. I had started to convince myself that there was a problem when all I really had to do was promise Beth a trip to Snakes and Ladders at the end of her toiletry exploits and voila! It comes and goes for Bethan - she does it when she can be arsed to be honest. It's exactly the same as when we were waiting patiently (not!) for her to walk.
I suppose this is something most working mothers have to get used to. You do all of the ground work and the moment your back is turned and you are trying to explain the difference between a transitive and intransitive verb to a group of confused looking 13 year olds, your baby or toddler decides to take their first step or crawl or wee in their potty.
The kids are definitely as unsettled as I am, as is the cat but she's always pissed off to be honest. Besides the guilt of leaving them I have a) the guilt of missing important rites of passage b) the guilt of not being as entertaining as the nanny when I am off work and c) the guilt of being a Roman Catholic (I was a HUGE Alanis Morissette back in the day).
Another thing that cheesed me off today was that bloody woman famous for being on 'The Apprentice' again. Not content with offending parents who have children called Charmaine or children who have soft play birthday parties (to summarise, she is a snob and assumes these children have no academic rigour) one week later she is telling Phil and Holly and a rather large lady who is well-qualified and looking for a job, that she "would not employ a fat person because they are lazy and lack ambition". The This Morning team in their sub-heading labelled her a "fattist".
This was then followed by a commercial break where MacDonalds are claiming to be the Kofi Annan of the 21st Century non-nuclear family. Apparently all a young teenage boy needs to do is share a Big Mac with their prospective step-father and bang! Peace will reign in your household.
I give up.
Saturday 23rd February 2013
I started writing this blog on Thursday.
However, I found it difficult to type with one hand because on Thursday, my incessant need to sterile everything meant I ended up sterilising my left hand by mistake. I ended up pouring water that had just boiled from the kettle over James' tippee cup lid and the aforementioned hand.
It's times like this I'm so pleased that I have watched the embedded YouTube tutorials on the British Red Cross website.
I wrapped my hand in cling film after it spent 15 minutes under the cold water tap. Fair play, it looed like a sweaty half-eaten sandwich found in the bottom of Bethan's bag after lunch club at pre-school but at least it wouldn't blister like a bugger. The two brandies I consumed and the pain relief made me feel like I had a bionic hand and not a shrivelled one.
Bethan seemed positively disappointed when we told her there was no trip to see Dr Brown Bear at the hospital. She loves the toys in the a&e department.
Boiled hand or not, I was desperate to have a rant about that woman "who was on The Apprentice" (apparently that is what she is famous for) who, last week, wrote an article for The Daily Whale (sorry Mail). Now I know this not because I bought The Daily Whale (sorry Mail) but I saw it was being discussed on 'Lorraine' on ITV player whilst I was cooking the tea (prior to boilingwatergate).
The introduction to the article says,"'I won't let my children play with friends that I deem beneath them... that's what caring mothers do': Apprentice star admits she targets playmates who are a good influence".
When she says "good influence" she means those who have names that are traditional names; if their names are Latin-based that's even better; she doesn't like her children mingling with children who have invited them to soft-play parties (that's us out then); she doesn't like her children associating with children who have all the latest gadgets, blah, blah, blah...the article went on and on.
The inverted snob in me wants to say that if she and her children knew me when I was a child there is no way I would have been accepted into that circle of friendship primarily because of where I came from, where I schooled and what I got up to. However, my social background did not affect me or many of my friends from back home in Droylsden, Manchester from being academically rigorous or wanting to pursue our dreams. One Masters Degree in Literature later and being fortunate and proud to have friends from all walks of life who have all influenced me in one way or another, I wouldn't change anything.
That being said, the article got me thinking about trying to socially engineer my children as I am not totally innocent. I am not going to say that I let Bethan choose and do whatever she wants because I am totally guilty of living vicariously through her. Growing up with three brothers meant I was more likely to be 'Face' in the A-Team than Daisy from The Dukes of Hazard. Now I am blessed with a beautiful little girl, I do tend to veer on the cliched side of 'girlie things' which, at the moment, she seems to love too.
However, how long the pink bedroom will last is anyone's guess. I know that as she becomes a teenager experimenting with her identity is absolutely crucial to her development. Therefore I am quite prepared for the Emo stage. In fact, I'm quite looking forward to it. Moshing to Nirvana, the Foo Fighters, any Dave Grohl band really, will be right up my street too. I think after being an Emo I went on to being an Indie chick during Cool Britannia oh! and then there was my love of House music and wearing luminous clothing, and don't forget.....
However, I found it difficult to type with one hand because on Thursday, my incessant need to sterile everything meant I ended up sterilising my left hand by mistake. I ended up pouring water that had just boiled from the kettle over James' tippee cup lid and the aforementioned hand.
It's times like this I'm so pleased that I have watched the embedded YouTube tutorials on the British Red Cross website.
I wrapped my hand in cling film after it spent 15 minutes under the cold water tap. Fair play, it looed like a sweaty half-eaten sandwich found in the bottom of Bethan's bag after lunch club at pre-school but at least it wouldn't blister like a bugger. The two brandies I consumed and the pain relief made me feel like I had a bionic hand and not a shrivelled one.
Bethan seemed positively disappointed when we told her there was no trip to see Dr Brown Bear at the hospital. She loves the toys in the a&e department.
Boiled hand or not, I was desperate to have a rant about that woman "who was on The Apprentice" (apparently that is what she is famous for) who, last week, wrote an article for The Daily Whale (sorry Mail). Now I know this not because I bought The Daily Whale (sorry Mail) but I saw it was being discussed on 'Lorraine' on ITV player whilst I was cooking the tea (prior to boilingwatergate).
The introduction to the article says,"'I won't let my children play with friends that I deem beneath them... that's what caring mothers do': Apprentice star admits she targets playmates who are a good influence".
When she says "good influence" she means those who have names that are traditional names; if their names are Latin-based that's even better; she doesn't like her children mingling with children who have invited them to soft-play parties (that's us out then); she doesn't like her children associating with children who have all the latest gadgets, blah, blah, blah...the article went on and on.
The inverted snob in me wants to say that if she and her children knew me when I was a child there is no way I would have been accepted into that circle of friendship primarily because of where I came from, where I schooled and what I got up to. However, my social background did not affect me or many of my friends from back home in Droylsden, Manchester from being academically rigorous or wanting to pursue our dreams. One Masters Degree in Literature later and being fortunate and proud to have friends from all walks of life who have all influenced me in one way or another, I wouldn't change anything.
That being said, the article got me thinking about trying to socially engineer my children as I am not totally innocent. I am not going to say that I let Bethan choose and do whatever she wants because I am totally guilty of living vicariously through her. Growing up with three brothers meant I was more likely to be 'Face' in the A-Team than Daisy from The Dukes of Hazard. Now I am blessed with a beautiful little girl, I do tend to veer on the cliched side of 'girlie things' which, at the moment, she seems to love too.
However, how long the pink bedroom will last is anyone's guess. I know that as she becomes a teenager experimenting with her identity is absolutely crucial to her development. Therefore I am quite prepared for the Emo stage. In fact, I'm quite looking forward to it. Moshing to Nirvana, the Foo Fighters, any Dave Grohl band really, will be right up my street too. I think after being an Emo I went on to being an Indie chick during Cool Britannia oh! and then there was my love of House music and wearing luminous clothing, and don't forget.....
Wednesday 20th February 2013
You know your return to work is imminent when your sleep is plagued by weird and wacky dreams. For instance, you turn up on your first day back, for morning briefing in the staff room, with a pair of bowling shoes on having just scored a perfect 10 strikes (that is definitely a dream; I'm lucky if I knock down one pin on a good day).
Really going to miss my bairns on Monday :-(
Really going to miss my bairns on Monday :-(
Tuesday 19th February 2013
I know I'm going to sound like a right old whiner but, have you seen the price of batteries nowadays? I think they cost more than the toys in which they belong. You need to buy decent ones too because if you get the cheaper supermarket ones or those 'bargain' ones from the pound shop, then you might as well throw them away as soon as you take them out of the packet because they're crap.
Also, I would definitely be wary of those recyclable batteries. My parents have them and they have nearly led to the end of 49 years of marriage. This is because when my mum does the ironing in the boxroom (my old bedroom), she takes out the thing which holds the batteries, from the plug socket, so that she can plug in the iron. However, when she has finished ironing she always forgets to plug the thing back in and you can hear my dad shouting, "For crying out loud Alice, you know my digital radio runs out of batteries quickly. How am I going to listen to Talk Sport now?". The other thing about these recyclable batteries is that the quality of them is like the cheaper supermarket and the pound shop ones; crap. When we were at the Sacre Coeur we were about to take a beautiful picture and all I could see was the zoom lens retreat back into the camera. My mum was like, "This camera takes great pictures when it's working. It's always broken. Darn it!" and I said to her "It isn't broken, it's those rechargeable batteries you use in them; they're crap!".
Anyway, Rob and I listed all of the toys where the batteries had run out (or at least the ones we knew about) because the kids were just looking at them as if to say, "Is that it?". Unless these things burst into a pan pipe version of Twinkle Twinkle or have some child singing Wind the Bobbin Up in a high-pitched voice whilst the lights are flashing more than they do at an illegal rave, they are just not interested. They (the toys that is, not the kids) are like a soulless hard piece of coloured plastic. And Rob, he doesn't want to know either. Years ago I bought him a Scalextric and as soon as the batteries went in those gun shaped remote controls, he just wasn't bothered. Or maybe it is just my kids and Rob that aren't interested in dormant toys (I feel like I should have shares in bloody V-tech). Fortunately, James is now at an age where he is more happy with the box that the toy comes in as opposed to the toy itself but this box phase doesn't last forever.
It transpired that we had a number of toys (and they were the ones that we knew about) that had run out of batteries; these included two pretend hairdryers (which still terrify Bethan even though we try to reassure her that they aren't real); a Dyson...yes, you heard correctly, our daughter has a mini Dyson that actually sucks. I remembered when I had hours of fun with my Gran's Eubank. I would run around her living room with it and it left more dust than it picked up but at least it was electric-free. There was also a walker; a keyboard; a till that calculates, recognises bar codes and has a tannoy system built in (it also takes your hand off like Arkwright's till) and lots of other plastic fun stuff.
When we finally listed the batteries we needed, Rob went to the Coop and came back saying that because we needed so many batteries of different sizes, the bill came to £25!!!!!! What the...???? It would take years for us to raise that amount in Coop Dividend vouchers. After a whole year of having 'shares' in our local shop we are lucky if our divvy vouchers come to the price of a bottle of bog-standard Soave.
It's funny though that amongst all of the 'must-have' electrical toys and gadgets, James is happiest playing with an empty box or bashing a wooden spoon on one of my pans. Bethan's favourite thing in the world is when she is reading or being read to. Rob is happiest when he is watching 'The Professionals' or telling me about a steam train that ran out of steam 150 years ago or something like that (I do try to listen).
However, I think that the most popular toy for toddlers at this particular moment in time is the 'Little Tykes' red car. You know the one. It's red and got a yellow roof. No? It's the one where the toddlers inside have to move around in it with their feet; a bit like Fred Flintstone's car. Whenever I have been to playgroups or parties where that car is, all the toddler parallel playing stops when the red car is present. All of a sudden, the toddlers become aware of each other and start fighting and crying because they want to drive the car with their little size 6 1/2 G fitting feet around the hall.
Bless them.
Also, I would definitely be wary of those recyclable batteries. My parents have them and they have nearly led to the end of 49 years of marriage. This is because when my mum does the ironing in the boxroom (my old bedroom), she takes out the thing which holds the batteries, from the plug socket, so that she can plug in the iron. However, when she has finished ironing she always forgets to plug the thing back in and you can hear my dad shouting, "For crying out loud Alice, you know my digital radio runs out of batteries quickly. How am I going to listen to Talk Sport now?". The other thing about these recyclable batteries is that the quality of them is like the cheaper supermarket and the pound shop ones; crap. When we were at the Sacre Coeur we were about to take a beautiful picture and all I could see was the zoom lens retreat back into the camera. My mum was like, "This camera takes great pictures when it's working. It's always broken. Darn it!" and I said to her "It isn't broken, it's those rechargeable batteries you use in them; they're crap!".
Anyway, Rob and I listed all of the toys where the batteries had run out (or at least the ones we knew about) because the kids were just looking at them as if to say, "Is that it?". Unless these things burst into a pan pipe version of Twinkle Twinkle or have some child singing Wind the Bobbin Up in a high-pitched voice whilst the lights are flashing more than they do at an illegal rave, they are just not interested. They (the toys that is, not the kids) are like a soulless hard piece of coloured plastic. And Rob, he doesn't want to know either. Years ago I bought him a Scalextric and as soon as the batteries went in those gun shaped remote controls, he just wasn't bothered. Or maybe it is just my kids and Rob that aren't interested in dormant toys (I feel like I should have shares in bloody V-tech). Fortunately, James is now at an age where he is more happy with the box that the toy comes in as opposed to the toy itself but this box phase doesn't last forever.
It transpired that we had a number of toys (and they were the ones that we knew about) that had run out of batteries; these included two pretend hairdryers (which still terrify Bethan even though we try to reassure her that they aren't real); a Dyson...yes, you heard correctly, our daughter has a mini Dyson that actually sucks. I remembered when I had hours of fun with my Gran's Eubank. I would run around her living room with it and it left more dust than it picked up but at least it was electric-free. There was also a walker; a keyboard; a till that calculates, recognises bar codes and has a tannoy system built in (it also takes your hand off like Arkwright's till) and lots of other plastic fun stuff.
When we finally listed the batteries we needed, Rob went to the Coop and came back saying that because we needed so many batteries of different sizes, the bill came to £25!!!!!! What the...???? It would take years for us to raise that amount in Coop Dividend vouchers. After a whole year of having 'shares' in our local shop we are lucky if our divvy vouchers come to the price of a bottle of bog-standard Soave.
It's funny though that amongst all of the 'must-have' electrical toys and gadgets, James is happiest playing with an empty box or bashing a wooden spoon on one of my pans. Bethan's favourite thing in the world is when she is reading or being read to. Rob is happiest when he is watching 'The Professionals' or telling me about a steam train that ran out of steam 150 years ago or something like that (I do try to listen).
However, I think that the most popular toy for toddlers at this particular moment in time is the 'Little Tykes' red car. You know the one. It's red and got a yellow roof. No? It's the one where the toddlers inside have to move around in it with their feet; a bit like Fred Flintstone's car. Whenever I have been to playgroups or parties where that car is, all the toddler parallel playing stops when the red car is present. All of a sudden, the toddlers become aware of each other and start fighting and crying because they want to drive the car with their little size 6 1/2 G fitting feet around the hall.
Bless them.
Friday 15th February 2013
Last night was...
A SUCCESS in the Romantic stakes!
Initially I thought it would be as successful as Gwyneth Paltrow's 1998 Oscar speech. The 'fresh' peppercorn sauce, that was in a sachet, burst everywhere in the shopping bag. I found James eating the hard cat food which meant that he was coughing and spluttering everywhere whilst soaked in the cat's water as he had pulled her drinking bowel over (I'm convinced that baby James is either a. from the planet Krypton or b. preparing himself to be the next Usain Bolt).
However, the thing that made me cry, even more than Gwyneth did in 1998 if that's possible, was the fact that the two children slept for over 2 hours on Valentine's Day afternoon. Ordinarily I would be over the moon as it is extremely rare that I get two hours to myself on any day. I have already planned what I would do if I had a free two hours one afternoon...nothing! I would sit on the sofa, close my eyes and maybe, just maybe if there was time, listen to the afternoon play on Radio Four (with my eyes shut of course).
I spent most of the two hours I had free yesterday afternoon panicking. I was panicking because I knew that this would mean the children would not go to bed until later than usual which would spoil the romantic itinerary I had planned.
Following James' attempt to try baby-led weaning with a packet of Iams, I then panicked about forgetting what to do if I found my child choking. Then, I spent the rest of this free time reading the 'the new edition of 'First Aid for Babies and Children Fast'', analysing the 'What to do if your baby chokes' chapter. This was quite difficult because I was using Bethan's My First Tiny Tears as a model whilst trying to keep the book open. I suppose it would be 'Fast' if you were practicing with someone else. Finally, I found their website which is amazing. They have these short YouTube videos embedded on their website showing you what to do in a whole host of emergencies. So, for the final 15 minutes of my unexpected free time, I could sit down with a cup of tea and a Hobnob, watching what to do if my baby was choking, as many times as I liked on my laptop! I have now put this website as a 'favourite' on my tool bar.
The day was certainly picking up.
Ok, so we ate at 09:30 that evening and we watched Question Time after. In fact drunkenly discussing and having a heated debate on politics with my husband on Valentine's Day is almost a tradition for the Hilliers now. Except last time I got thrown out of the restaurant with it's 'special Valentine's Day' £45 per head a la carte menu (that didn't even include drinks) because I was rather loudly saying how much I disliked Tony Blair.
However, it is the fact that we love discussing politics and watching re-runs of the superbly Laurence Olivier narrated 'World at War', that Rob and I know that we are made for each other. We have been through so much together and are still passionate about the things that matter to us. Passion, hmmm...well, I was tucked up in bed by 11:15pm; desperately counting on my fingers how many hours sleep I would get before the children woke up. I missed the end of the increasingly annoying debate about who's to blame for the horse-beef meat fiasco but Rob stayed up to watch the drama unfold under the watchful eyes of David Dimbleby and filled me in this morning, over a cup of tea.
That's love, that is.
A SUCCESS in the Romantic stakes!
Initially I thought it would be as successful as Gwyneth Paltrow's 1998 Oscar speech. The 'fresh' peppercorn sauce, that was in a sachet, burst everywhere in the shopping bag. I found James eating the hard cat food which meant that he was coughing and spluttering everywhere whilst soaked in the cat's water as he had pulled her drinking bowel over (I'm convinced that baby James is either a. from the planet Krypton or b. preparing himself to be the next Usain Bolt).
However, the thing that made me cry, even more than Gwyneth did in 1998 if that's possible, was the fact that the two children slept for over 2 hours on Valentine's Day afternoon. Ordinarily I would be over the moon as it is extremely rare that I get two hours to myself on any day. I have already planned what I would do if I had a free two hours one afternoon...nothing! I would sit on the sofa, close my eyes and maybe, just maybe if there was time, listen to the afternoon play on Radio Four (with my eyes shut of course).
I spent most of the two hours I had free yesterday afternoon panicking. I was panicking because I knew that this would mean the children would not go to bed until later than usual which would spoil the romantic itinerary I had planned.
Following James' attempt to try baby-led weaning with a packet of Iams, I then panicked about forgetting what to do if I found my child choking. Then, I spent the rest of this free time reading the 'the new edition of 'First Aid for Babies and Children Fast'', analysing the 'What to do if your baby chokes' chapter. This was quite difficult because I was using Bethan's My First Tiny Tears as a model whilst trying to keep the book open. I suppose it would be 'Fast' if you were practicing with someone else. Finally, I found their website which is amazing. They have these short YouTube videos embedded on their website showing you what to do in a whole host of emergencies. So, for the final 15 minutes of my unexpected free time, I could sit down with a cup of tea and a Hobnob, watching what to do if my baby was choking, as many times as I liked on my laptop! I have now put this website as a 'favourite' on my tool bar.
The day was certainly picking up.
Ok, so we ate at 09:30 that evening and we watched Question Time after. In fact drunkenly discussing and having a heated debate on politics with my husband on Valentine's Day is almost a tradition for the Hilliers now. Except last time I got thrown out of the restaurant with it's 'special Valentine's Day' £45 per head a la carte menu (that didn't even include drinks) because I was rather loudly saying how much I disliked Tony Blair.
However, it is the fact that we love discussing politics and watching re-runs of the superbly Laurence Olivier narrated 'World at War', that Rob and I know that we are made for each other. We have been through so much together and are still passionate about the things that matter to us. Passion, hmmm...well, I was tucked up in bed by 11:15pm; desperately counting on my fingers how many hours sleep I would get before the children woke up. I missed the end of the increasingly annoying debate about who's to blame for the horse-beef meat fiasco but Rob stayed up to watch the drama unfold under the watchful eyes of David Dimbleby and filled me in this morning, over a cup of tea.
That's love, that is.
Thursday 14th February 2013
Looking forward to my Valentine's meal tonight. The Welsh Wonder is cooking me a hearty steak :-)
I think it will be more successful in the romantic stakes than last year. I was 7 months pregnant nursing a flat spritzer and Bethan was sat on my knee for most of it.
I had two Valentines with me (three if you include the bump) , oh and the cat...
I think it will be more successful in the romantic stakes than last year. I was 7 months pregnant nursing a flat spritzer and Bethan was sat on my knee for most of it.
I had two Valentines with me (three if you include the bump) , oh and the cat...
Tuesday 12th February 2013
I've given in and decided to take the second lot of antibiotics that I have been prescribed since January 1st (note to self: maybe I need to state on next year's New Year's Resolution List that I need to try to limit the number of antibiotics taken to 1 dose, before the end of February).
It's not my Roman Catholic sympathies that make me want to suffer without the aid of medication. No, it is a report that came out by Dame Sally Davies last week which said "there was risk that within 20 years people going for simple operations would die of routine infections because we may ‘run out of antibiotics’ that work.
The Daily Whale (sorry Mail) put their spin on the report by gleefully basking in what they described as an 'apocalyptic scenario'. I'm not sure what is more shocking; the headline or the fact I was reading The Daily Whale (sorry Mail). Apparently, "Penicillin is no longer effective for staphylococcal wound infections, ampicillin (a form of penicillin) is no longer used for infections of the urinary tract and ciprofloxacin (a synthetic antibiotic) is now useless in treating gonorrhoea. Many more are under threat". Now, I'm not sure what all of that means but it doesn't sound too good to me.
Between exhausting coughing fits, I recited this to Rob. He in turn tried to reassure me that I wasn't becoming 'allergic' to antibiotics and he would be extremely worried if I suffered from the list of infections stated in Dame Sally Davies' list; especially the last one.
He's right.
I'm in no position to be mulling this over in my weakened state. I have two very young children who need a mum who can run around and look after them; not a woman who sounds like she smoked twenty fags by the time she gets to the bathroom (the downstairs one). I've realised that being a mum is a full-time job that doesn't allow for any sick days so you just need to get the help where you can. I just hope in 20 years that I don't get any "staphylococcal wound infections...(or) infections of the urinary tract" otherwise, I'm buggered!
I often think that this bitterly cold weather isn't helping either. I was watching my second favourite programme, 'ITV Weather', (a close second behind 'Home and Away'), which rouses more anger in me than a debate on the Welfare State in The House of Commons. However, I am shocked that the ITV Weather programme is now sponsored by 'Seven Seas Vitamins: How to get Pregnant'. I mean, how random a sponsorship is that? I would understand if, at this time of year, it was 'Seven Seas Vitamins: How to get rid of your Bloody Cold", but helping you to get pregnant?
Maybe people look at the weather report and figure that they can't go out anywhere because the weather is too crap and decide that they might try for a baby instead. I'm not entirely sure they do but I am really trying to get inside the head of a top ITV executive there.
Thank God it isn't a sponsor of The Jeremy Kyle Show. Every cloud and all that...
It's not my Roman Catholic sympathies that make me want to suffer without the aid of medication. No, it is a report that came out by Dame Sally Davies last week which said "there was risk that within 20 years people going for simple operations would die of routine infections because we may ‘run out of antibiotics’ that work.
The Daily Whale (sorry Mail) put their spin on the report by gleefully basking in what they described as an 'apocalyptic scenario'. I'm not sure what is more shocking; the headline or the fact I was reading The Daily Whale (sorry Mail). Apparently, "Penicillin is no longer effective for staphylococcal wound infections, ampicillin (a form of penicillin) is no longer used for infections of the urinary tract and ciprofloxacin (a synthetic antibiotic) is now useless in treating gonorrhoea. Many more are under threat". Now, I'm not sure what all of that means but it doesn't sound too good to me.
Between exhausting coughing fits, I recited this to Rob. He in turn tried to reassure me that I wasn't becoming 'allergic' to antibiotics and he would be extremely worried if I suffered from the list of infections stated in Dame Sally Davies' list; especially the last one.
He's right.
I'm in no position to be mulling this over in my weakened state. I have two very young children who need a mum who can run around and look after them; not a woman who sounds like she smoked twenty fags by the time she gets to the bathroom (the downstairs one). I've realised that being a mum is a full-time job that doesn't allow for any sick days so you just need to get the help where you can. I just hope in 20 years that I don't get any "staphylococcal wound infections...(or) infections of the urinary tract" otherwise, I'm buggered!
I often think that this bitterly cold weather isn't helping either. I was watching my second favourite programme, 'ITV Weather', (a close second behind 'Home and Away'), which rouses more anger in me than a debate on the Welfare State in The House of Commons. However, I am shocked that the ITV Weather programme is now sponsored by 'Seven Seas Vitamins: How to get Pregnant'. I mean, how random a sponsorship is that? I would understand if, at this time of year, it was 'Seven Seas Vitamins: How to get rid of your Bloody Cold", but helping you to get pregnant?
Maybe people look at the weather report and figure that they can't go out anywhere because the weather is too crap and decide that they might try for a baby instead. I'm not entirely sure they do but I am really trying to get inside the head of a top ITV executive there.
Thank God it isn't a sponsor of The Jeremy Kyle Show. Every cloud and all that...
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