Monday 5th August 2013: Keswick

It's incredible to believe that we have been in Keswick, in the North Lakes, for just over 48 hours.

My parents arrived yesterday morning and it's the first time all weekend that I have had time, on my own, to write my blog.

Keswick is stunning and although it is to be found right in the centre of the Lakeland Fells, there is certainly a sense that it could be a Victorian seaside town. A bit like Matlock in Derbyshire but with lots of outdoor walking shops instead of the many bleary lights of the slots to be found in deepest, darkest Derbyshire.

Actually, I would go as far as to say that the number of outdoor shops in Keswick outnumber people by 4 - 1; there are more outdoor clothing shops than there are sheep grazing on the Fells. And that's saying something.

Rob and I made this assertion whilst travelling around the Keswick one-way system a number of times; reminiscent of the Griswalds when travelling around London in 'National Lampoons'. However, instead of saying, "There's Big Ben!" many times we were saying things like, "Oh! There's a Bootles" (Bootles being a very posh food store in the North of England) and "Exciting! There's the Lake!"

10 minutes later...

"There is the flamin' Lake again, now where the bloody hell is our apartment?". It turned out the apartment was 5 minutes from Lake Derwentwater as stated in the brochure; however, our SAT NAV (i.e Rob) took a wrong turn. 

No one could blame him really. After having a poor night's sleep at The Black Bull in Coniston the night before we left, I'm surprised he didn't drive us into the Lake because we were that tired. Bethan's insistence on familiarising herself with the old Inn House (a place famous for its brewed onsite beer and frequenter, Donald Campbell) during the night meant that the hours ticked by very, very, very slowly.

When we arrived at the apartment, things got better...and then they got worse.

As I was frantically unpacking for the second time in two weeks I overlooked the fact that my 14 month old toddler aka The Destroyer was running around under my feet whilst Rob with Beth's 'assistance' (ahem) was bringing things in from the car.

Disaster struck as I walked backed into the kitchen, slipped, but managed to get up again to see James' face looking down at me whilst holding a bottle of cooking oil - with its lid off! Frantically, I tried to clean up the oil disaster with kitchen roll as my parents were about to arrive and I didn't fancy them re-enacting the end of Torvill and Dean's Bolero as they walked in to the apartment. Damn bloody laminate floors. And oil. And me for putting the bottle within easy-reach of, let's face it' a toddler on a mission of discovery.

It's pure luck that I didn't do any damage to my leg. Although, as Rob pointed out, I was in easy reach of the many outdoor shops that surrounded us if I need lint, bandages, cream... Whilst spread-eagled on the floor I kept imagining the headline, "Woman trips and breaks ankle, not on Helvellyn but on a kitchen floor".

The shame.

Wednesday 30th July: Part 2; Dove Cottage and Rydal Mount (just!)

By the time we reached Dove Cottage (which was quite some time after leaving Grasmere as we got lost a number of times on the way, which is weird considering that the cottage is literally 5 minutes down the road from the centre of the village), it was clear that the children were losing the will to live in the back of the car. I sensed this when James started screaming, "Ageee!!!" and Bethan kept repeating, "Are we in Coniston Daddy?" "Mummy, are we in Coniston?"

Observing the pained look on my face knowing that I would be so close to Wordsworth's cottage, yet so far, Rob suggested that although it wouldn't be quite the same as visiting and wondering around his beloved home, I should run out of the car and quickly take some pictures of the cottage and dash back. This would then mean that we could go and have a look around Rydal Mount, where hopefully, the children could have a run around. Ok, I conceded and ran out of the car into...a coach full of tourists that had just pulled up into the car park too.

As I ran past them in the rain, posh camera around my neck in tow, I began to feel like I was in a damp version of dodge-ball. Undeterred, I continue to run up the slippery cobbled streets, flashing the aforementioned camera at anything along the way. At least, I thought to myself, that I would be able to look at Dove Cottage and its surroundings through the screen bit of my camera later on over a glass of Chenin Blanc.

Another sign; just in case...

Pictures taken on the way up to Dove Cottage. Unfortunately,
a rogue tourist ran ahead of me just as I had
thought that I had the game of dodge-ball in the bag!

Finally, Dove Cottage. I might not have had chance to
get in the cottage but I did some serious damage to my credit card in
the gift shop! You can never have too many Wordsworth
fridge magnets

Next stop was Rydal Mount. By our calculations we would be there approximately 10 minutes after leaving the car park at Dove Cottage. Wrong! Again we got lost and the noise in the back of the car got louder and Louder and LOUDER!!! It was like a noisy version of Total Wipeout; trying to work through all of the obstacles just to get to the prize - to sit on a chair in one of Wordsworth's Houses.

Nearly there...Crap! As we were driving up a steep hill to Rydal Mount there was a funny smell emanating from inside the car and no, it wasn't wafting from James' nappy. Shock! Horror! It was  a burning smell coming from the engine! Now this was a regular occurrence with our previous car, a Rover 25; in fact, if there wasn't a funny smell on a daily basis I would worry. But the C-Max??!! This could not be happening!

Again, undeterred, I told Rob that he would have to look after the car (and subsequently the safety of our children) whilst I attempted to get in Rydal Mount. In the distance, as I ran across more soggy cobbles I could see Rob's head under the bonnet whilst the windows in the car had got very steamy. However, I knew I couldn't let Wordsworth down, I had to reach the entrance to Rydal Mount! It truly was an epic moment!

Unfortunately, Rydal Mount was closing so I had to settle for taking a picture of the sign :-s

Another sign :-s

Friday 25th July 2013: Coniston, The Lake District

It is hard to believe after a difficult and very tiring 12 months, that I am sat beside the peace and beauty of Lake Coniston enjoying a glass of cool, crisp Chenin Blanc whilst watching my children play by its lapping shore and observing Rob savour a pint of the Lake District's finest beer and navigating a fishing net at the same time.

Even harder to believe is that exactly one week ago I had my work leaving/birthday party and swore I would never touch a drop of alcohol again. I've not been out partying like that for 5 years and on the basis of how I have felt over the last week, it is clear that I will need another 5 years to build the stamina for an evening as epic as last Friday.

Mind you, I will be 40 and based on the fact that it took me 3 days to recover this time (one day for each major organ), goodness knows how long it would take for me to re-hydrate myself after the big 4-0.

It really is the sublime to the ridiculous. 

As much as I loved the partying, the peacefulness of the lakes and the soulful rest that they bring, is my idea of bliss. Being here with my beautiful family and seeing how happy our children are at the fact that they have their parents to themselves for a whole week, is as overwhelming as the lakes and mountains themselves. 

Don't get me wrong, camping has been fun this year; however, I have also found it quite stressful. Trying to get James to stop pole dancing around the gas canister that we use for cooking whilst holding the huge camping lighter is a tad nerve-wracking. I feel like I either need CCTV placed around the tent or I need to get James tagged. Neither of which I associate with a relaxing holiday.

Yes...as we are all paddling around the Lake where Donald Campbell felt it was a good idea to attempt the water-speed record in the 1960's, there is a sense of calm that I haven't experienced with James whilst sleeping under canvas.

Rob is enthralled with the Donald Campbell story. Nevertheless, I could have told Mr Campbell that travelling across the Lake at over 300MPH in a blue vehicle that resembled the green Thunderbirds 2 aircraft, would end in tears. 

However, as I watch Rob sip his 'Bluebird' Bitter, it dawns on me that who am I too add pragmatism to the legend that was Donald Campbell.

Above: Splashing good fun at Lake Coniston

Monday 1st July 2013

I had an interesting conversation with a good friend the other day about nappies; from this point further, I will refer to the following conversation as "nappygate". There are a few reasons that I need to work and getting away from conversations about feeding, nappies and general stay-at-home mum chit chat (in this case, via e-mail), is one of them. If I did, the red mist would veil across my eyes and I would say something that probably wouldn't go down well with a skinny latte and Belgium Bun.

My friend was saying that "nappygate" began by a fellow Alpha mum, who usually stands firmly in the Pampers camp, stating in a group e-mail that she had discovered how wonderful Aldi nappies were. I'm not sure what she was expecting; maybe because they are cheaper she assumed they would be a piece of tissue paper bound by cellotape?

Anyway, my friend replied back to the group that she agreed and said that she had been using them with her son since he was born. Subsequently, the Alpha Mum made a curt reply asking why she had failed to share this information with the group before? My response would have been "Because I'm normal and very busy and unless it comes up in conversation, I don't feel the need to 'spread the word' about nappies; especially via E-mail!" However, my friend is far more diplomatic than me and replied in a way that pacified the situation.

The "nappygate" conversation took an unexpected turn when one of the mum's, a stay-at-home Alpha mum, piped up about the conservationist implications of disposable nappies. Instead, she told the group that she used the re-usable nappies that you can now buy. You know the ones, they are like the terries that you used to wear as a baby with a fabric re-usable nappy over them. Unlike terries, you don't have to have them drying everywhere for example, over the boiler and there is no fear of mutilating your baby with a safety pin.

Suddenly, my friend became like Switzerland in the online conversation with both disposable and reusable camps throwing verbal, sudocream-lined missiles across the virtual space of the internet.

The whole online debacle got me thinking about priorities and whether choosing disposable or re-usable should be one of them. Initially, when I was pregnant with Bethan, I was completely committed to using the re-usable kind because it was ethically the right thing to; or so it had been sold to me.

However, when Bethan was born, what type of nappies she would be wearing was low on my list of priorities as I sat by her incubator and watched her fight for her life. In fact, I'm not sure in the haze of it all, how Bethan actually got her nappies. The only thing of interest to me was being able to see how much the nappy weighed and whether it had any poo in it and what colour the poo was. Green good: brown bad.

Maybe what I am trying to say is that although the "nappygate" issue maybe environmentally important, it's all relative. A great deal of new parents don't get the choice as to which type of nappy you can use. Whether it's due to circumstances or the fact you live in the middle of a war-zone, sometimes spending your time fighting over your choice in nappies isn't worth it. Use your time more effectively by really appreciating the baby that is in it.

As my friend and I finished the conversation she said something very pertinent; stay-at-home mums are not full-time mums. We are all full-time mums whether we choose to work or not. This enlightening conversation with my good friend made me realise that there are a lot of Alpha Mums of the different variety; we are the alpha mums who don't spend as much time as we should trying to out-do each other or make others feel crap about their parenting skills. No. We are the alpha mums who do our best everyday and hope to God that we get it right and gracefully and modestly learn from a situation when we get it wrong. So there! ;-p

June 2013: Week 3

Mid-June at Chez Hillier began with a haircut - or half a hair cut in James' case. Even having Rob there couldn't stop the Greek Tragedy that unfolded before us.

Laurie, our wonderfully patient and talented hairdresser comes to our house every six weeks to give us all a cut and trim; everyone except Rob.

No. Rob's loyalties lie with his barber of 14 years. The man who makes more jokes about his wife and mother-in-law than Les Dawson and Bob Monkhouse put together. He uses all of the cliches to describe me, 'The other 'alf'; 'the ball and chain' and my favourite, 'the trouble n strife'. I take no offence at this last one as this piece of Cockney rhyming slang quite literally applies to me, at times, in a domestic and professional capacity. 

However, I do take issue when Rob's barber says, "Is the trouble n strife at home with the bin lids?". Now Sweeney Todd, you can call me what you want but associating my children with refuse disposal is one step too far. I know he is the one armed with sharp blades but I pack a mean punch!

Mind you, on our wedding day 5 years ago, at least the barber gave Rob a free haircut; I can see his strapline now, Come to the barbers for 9 years and get 1 haircut free! Like I said, Rob is a very loyal person and that's why we're married.

However, this admirable quality of loyalty was of no importance to me 2 months ago. To summarise, I was trying to console James whilst I was in the middle of having my hair cut. This is no mean feat I can tell you. Trying to calm a strong and feisty one year old whilst there are scissors, hair products and blow-driers about, behind a cloud of crocodile clips that framed my sodden head, was one of the more challenging episodes I have experienced as a mother.

In desperation, I called Rob at work and all he could hear was James wailing and me shouting, "Help! He is pulling on my crocodile clips!" which meant that Rob had to do a SOS call home; consequently, he had to leave the office during an important meeting. I can tell you - no meeting with fellow computer blokes could have possibly over-shadowed the hysterical scene that he encountered when he walked through the front door. I honestly have no idea where Bethan was during all of this.

Following this particular distressing experience, I insisted that Rob was there to help me restrain James whilst he was having a haircut. It made no difference. At least this time we managed to get James to have half a haircut; it's just a shame that one half of his head is trimmed and neat and the other half looks like an overgrown meadow in the summer.

Poor lad.

Dentist or hairdresser? Dentist or hairdresser? Hmmm... which is worse?

Saturday 25th May 2013: London, Part 2. A Family Affair

I've been to London many times but going with my own little family and my brother's family was the best. It reminded me of going to the zoo and not because the Capital is full of animals. No, it reminded me of when we went to the zoo last year for the first time with Bethan. Seeing something that you have seen many times before and taken for granted each time, suddenly becomes a whole new world when looking at it through the eyes of a child.

The journey was indeed an intrepid one. It involved: The train (by the way, if you upgrade to First class for an extra £7.00 why do all the people who have paid in advance look at you whilst your children are climbing the table as if to stay, What on earth are children doing in First Class?); the tube; an open top-bus; a taxi (the driver told us off because Bethan had a wet bum. I tried emphatically to reassure him that she had spilled orange juice on herself in the first class carriage on the train but I'm sure he thought it was wee) and a boat trip.

First stop was the greatest toy shop in the world: 'amleys (Still dropping those /h/s). I don't know who had the most fun; Rob and my brother or the kids! The fun continued on our preferred method of transport - Open-top buses are certainly the best way to see a place: Final. I always thought it was such a 'touristy' thing to do and felt like a bit of an inverted-tourist snob but no, it was brilliant because we saw EVERYTHING! We even witnessed Crystal Palace fans singing and cheering on their way to Wembley (they eventually beat Watford 1-0 and I was very pleased because their singing and chanting far exceeded those of Elton John's chosen football club). Apart from being a little wind-swept and having chapped cheeks, it was so much fun.

Favourite time of the day was by the Tower of London because: a) We changed James' pooey nappy outside it and we didn't get arrested for bum exposure in public (according to our own tourist guide, Mr Robert Hillier the Tower is still a prison) and b) We befriended 3 Chelsea Pensioners who humbled us. In fact, one of them, Joe, invited me to visit him at The Royal Hospital in Chelsea. Rob said that only I could visit London with my family and befriend a Chelsea Pensioner.

Lots of amazing memories were made that day. Even the English Defence League who were 'protesting' outside Parliament Square with a huge police presence, couldn't spoil our day. It's ironic really considering they were protesting loudly in one of the largest multi-cultural and diverse cities on earth. Their need to push, shout and generally try to intimidate those who were around (they failed by the way) reminded me of the quote made by Archbishop Desmond Tutu's father who said to him, "Don't raise your voice. Improve your argument".

If only...

Beth's interpretation of her trip to London
(with a little help from me ;-)

Our new friends: Joe is the 3rd in from the left

Sunday 5th May 2013: Day Four: No visitors today, just us (eek!)

Today was the first day on the campsite where we four were glamping, sorry, camping alone. For the previous couple of days we have had some visitors and it was fantastic to see them as they really helped with "Stop! James" who had a penchant for pulling himself up onto the free-standing and slightly unstable, gas cooker.

One of my friends who came to visit, brought her beautiful little girl who has been friends with Bethan since they were about 6 weeks old. This particular friend who I met when the girls were still babies completely knows and understands the PTSD I suffered in those first few months following Bethan's difficult birth. I credit meeting her and the other 3 mothers that I also met at that time with helping me learn to laugh and relax around what I considered to be my sick baby.

Back to the campsite.

So, this friend is a Therapist and I was telling her about the difficulties that I thought I would have with my OCD whilst living in a tent on a campsite. Let's face it, campsites aren't known for their 5 star award rating for cleanliness and my knuckles were already cracking and bleeding from the amount of washing and cleaning I had done in the lead up to our camping expedition. Unfortunately, this need to wash my hands before layering on copious amounts of anti-bacterial gel in addition to cleaning door handles at every possible opportunity, stems from being institutionalised on a neonatal ward where the cleanliness has to be meticulous, especially around the premmies.

However, my friend praised me for going on the campsite with my baby and embracing the whole 'back to nature' thing (even though we had an electric fridge and heater, to me I was still heading 'back to nature'). She continued to say that it is good to get out of your comfort zone and build your confidence and the children will benefit from that confidence too.

I'm not even going to suggest for one minute that my OCD is cured as I was on pins about not being able to sterilise (even though James was eating soil sandwiches) but I started to become accustomed to the fact that you can't control everything and dare I say it; I started to relax! Watching Bethan and Rob relax (James kind of did but he was on a Dora and Diego mission to get to the gooey geyser most days; at one point he crawled and climbed through our picnic so he could get to the purple, plastic spoon) really helped and for the first time in about 20 months, I managed to read my 'Time' magazine from cover to cover in one sitting. However, we still brought the cordless Dyson; just in case.

------------------------------------------------

Camping Etiquette - the children's playground *9

*Rob said that I forgot to include this in my previous camping etiquette guide. When on the children's playground, know your place. Priority for the swings and co goes in the following descending order:

1. Recurring visitors to the campsite.
2. Age - the older you are, the more likely you are to be able to go on the swings and flirt with the other teenagers from Meadow 4 who you see each Bank Holiday.
3. Bog - standard young campers like Bethan and James. They didn't care as Beth loved running after the frisbee, bat and ball and plastic skittles that we had brought with us and James enjoyed eating them :-)

Sunday 21st April 2013

Good Lord! What a weekend! Alpha Mum and Beta Dad have been in sixth gear whilst towing the kids along for the ride. At one point I though, "oh eck, I've become one of those pushy mums". You know the ones.

They stand at the side of the stage during the 'Britain's Got Talent' auditions whilst their 4 year old is singing Charles Gounod's Ave Maria, proceeded by a dance from musical theatre featuring a copious amount of jazz hands before ending their act with the soliloquy from Juliet's death scene. At the end Simon Cowell says, "I didn't like it...(CROWD BOOS - CHILD CRYING INCONSOLABLY)...I loved it! (CROWD CHEERS, AFORESAID PUSHY MUM RUNS ON THE STAGE AND EMOTIVE MUSIC SUCH AS 'THE FLOOD' BY TAKE THAT IS PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND; CHILD STILL CRYING BUT WITH A WRY SMILE)

Just to rewind back a little, our Friday night started calmly and routinely. By that I mean red wine, a take away and my weekly texts from my friends at Pizza Hut and O2 Priority Moments. When I started to receive these texts I was initially cheesed off with spam infiltrating my messages. However, I then realised that they were two out of possibly four, five at a push, text messages that I receive each week so if they stopped, I'd probably be gutted.

To summarise the weekend as it happened:

Saturday am:

Bethan's Ballet Lesson (a different class where some lovely lady plays the piano)

Saturday pm:

Swimming Lesson 1 - Bethan
Swimming Lesson 2 - James
Children's Birthday Party

Sunday am

Mass and Sunday School

Sunday pm:

Family photo shoot
Gardening
G&T o'clock (well, why should the kids have all the fun?)

It is a sad fact that our children have a better social life than us. Mind you, going to birthday parties for the children is the only time that you can get a group of good friends together to have a catch-up. Ok, so we might be catching-up whilst our third eye is on constant guard for crying or injured children but nevertheless, I think I look forward to these events more than the children as I get to see what has been going on outside of the Hillier bubble.

This is why I've decided to organise a BBQ for 3 weeks time under the guise of celebrating James' 1st Birthday. In all fairness, James could not be bothered if he has a party or not as long as he can chew on someone's foot or shoes (they tell me it's a phase). The planned BBQ is founded on purely selfish reasons; I just want to have another catch-up with friends again. It will be like the old times except that we will be dancing around potties and Little Tikes playing equipment as opposed to our handbags.

The only problems with my cunning plan is: a) I forgot to put the date in the virtual invite I sent out (ok, a text message then) and b) we don't actually have a BBQ because the last one we had was used to help hold up our fence after a big gust of wind knocked it down. That poor thing rusted away against the fence for some time - it ended up looking like some kind of post-modern art work.

I digress. Again.

Whilst it was indeed a very busy and tiring weekend it was fab and full of funny memories! To top it off, the sun shone on the garden whilst I listened to Chaka Khan and watched the kids play with each other in their wee playpen. Bliss...

Monday 1st April 2013

So happy! Not only is Bethan now fully potty trained, she can also wipe the seat down of her Fisher Price 'toilet' with the Dettol wipes and put some toilet duck under its rim :-)

Only joking - April Fools!!! There's 6 minutes left until midday and I couldn't resist. Besides I'm bored. Stuck in the car on the M6 Southbound on the chevrons that are supposed to keep 2 cars apart (yes, like that's going to happen) and thought I would have a go at writing my blog.

Had a top Easter weekend with family and friends. Highlights include: a trip on Tommy the tram; shopping in the city; Bethan's first wide-eyed visit to the Disney Store; eating tapas and drinking good wine; James getting more confident in his intrepid crawling adventures; laughing and spending time with the Kirwins and the Sheldons; celebrating Easter services in the church I grew up in.

Lowlights include: 1. A near death experience; this happened when my mum convinced us all that a road which we were crossing to get to Deansgate was 'No Entry'. That was until a taxi came hurtling around the corner and nearly took us all out. Thank God Rob is nippy with the pram and buggy board. 2. James the Ripper's Pooey Bum: James' perchance for ripping up the weekend supplements and envelopes and then eating them meant that the two Easter Sunday poos were challenging to say the least. Sat in the snug in the Club changing his bum was a rite of passage for our son as all Kirwin descendants have been privy to that experience (Rob said it was more like a rite of a back passage). Anyway, the various bits of coloured paper that we found in the nappy told their own story. Rob said that all James needed to do was swallow some sticky back plastic and it would have come out gift wrapped. 3. Saying TTFN to our loved ones.

Had to laugh before we left my mum's this morning though. As my dad saw us packing our car with way more stuff than we actually needed he said, "Good Lord! No wonder you got a bigger car!".

This made me think about a beautiful Indian Summer during October half-term 1984 when my parents, three older siblings, myself and a week's worth of food climbed into our white Austin Allegro (equipped with a roof rack) and travelled from Manchester for a holiday on the Norfolk Broads. One of my earliest memories is when we all had to get out of the car so my dad could drive over the bridge at Wroxham because the car couldn't take the weight. No one batted an eye-lid as it seemed like the most normal thing to do.

Like I said, I couldn't help but look in our car this morning and giggle when I saw all of the crap stuffed into the back. If I took out Bethan's portable DVD player and asked her to play with a pack of cards she would look at me as if I was daft. On the other hand, James would probably be in his element because he could rip them up and eat them.

Wednesday 27th March 2013

Tears, tantrums, questioning and nervous giggling. Ah, yes, the joys of Parent's Evening and that's just from the teacher's side of the desk.

It wasn't until last night that being on the other side of the desk, in the parents' seat (or next to the teacher on one of those tiny toddler chairs in my case) did I fully realise that it was a hundreds time worse for a mam, dad or carer. I came home with cold sweats and Bethan's first school report not to mention sore buttocks from bum clenching on a tiny seat for half an hour that could just about hold one of my ample arse cheeks.

At 3 years old, I thought I would take Bethan's first 'parent's evening' with a pinch of salt. However, after reading her 'Reflection Journal' and having a chat with the lady who observes her objectively in a play school environment, I got a taste of what is to come. Subsequently, I realised that it wasn't what was said but my reactions to my daughter's progress that made me feel well and truly out of my comfort zone.

I assumed that having done parent's evenings on the teacher's side of the desk for over 10 years that I would know how I would react having seen a whole host of reactions from the sublime to the ridiculous. However, I felt sensitive, guilty, over-protective and judged even though I have a very good relationship with Beth's Key Worker. The majority of what was said I couldn't help but agree with and as usual, the ladies gave me some great advice and reassurance; however, it just took one reasonably negative comment and I couldn't let it go.  Having taught teenagers all day and having a tantrum-filled evening with my own kids meant that I was completely exhausted and would probably have taken things out of context anyway.

Nevertheless, as I walked through the door to fill Rob in on what was said, this huge realisation that this parenting business meant I was responsible for the social, physical and emotional development of someone that I love more than life, absolutely pole-axed me. Even the cold crisp glass of wine that I had been looking forward to all day couldn't settle my nerves.

Yes, my nerves. These often lead to my foot in mouth disorder whereby I start giggling nervously and say something completely inappropriate and vaguely humorous which often makes the listener feel uncomfortable and confused. In this case the recipient of my verbal disorder was Beth's teacher. I started wittering on as my bum was getting number about how I would write a parenting book and it was probably get to the top of the New York Times Best Sellers' List. You can imagine the deathly silence and wind howling that followed that unbelievably stupid comment but honestly, it really is a reaction to having bad nerves.

Following my completely unexpected reaction last night, I was slightly worried about how I would get on at the Pre-School Easter Activities Morning where I had volunteered to help. I was sure that I would witness a group of toddlers and parents who had it sussed and that I would be stood there with a huge Belisha Beaon on my head that said, "I am crap at this - any ideas, please help!". It wasn't; it was absolutely fine although I found myself people-watching even more so than usual just to see what other people do.

As ever at the end of pre-School, I was handed a piece of artwork that Bethan had done. I have that many but I feel completely guilty about binning some of the less impressive ones. As a result, my kitchen wall is full of a host of multi-coloured pieces of Bethan art. In fact, the whole wall could be considered an abstract, post-modern work of art and be placed alongside Tracy Emin's bed at The Tate Modern.

Mind you, they would never be appreciated by the likes of Brian Sewell which doesn't bother me at all; the love and the joy that has gone into them always makes me smile.

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?".

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? ...