Monday, 29 July 2013

My children are mini evil geniuses

Geniuses? Geniui? I don't know what the plural of genius is, but I do know that my children are slowly plotting a military style coup and it will only be a matter of time before they BRING ME DOWN and are in full charge of the household, and Husband and I are locked in one room of the house, feeding on scraps that the boys occasionally push under the door. Think I'm overreacting? I've been stealthily observing their tactics over a number of months, taking notes with which to protect myself/use as leverage when we are held hostage. Take a look, and then try and tell me I'm overreacting;

Evidence A: Mealtimes. 
Around two hours before any mealtime, said children will start adopting their best bereft and unfed look, and whingeing about being hungry. J will sigh and give mummy a disappointed look when told what todays offering is. Both J and M will tuck in heartily when plates are proffered. I will spend five minutes carving a Phoenix rising from the ashes from a cucumber as requested by J, slicing my finger in my hurry to sit down with them so we are having a family mealtime and they are getting all the necessary skills to become fully functional members of society as adults, blah blah blah. As I sit down, mouths clamp shut. And I discover that they weren't actually scoffing down mummy's wonderful homemade food, they were lobbing it on the floor and feeding the dog. No amount of aeroplanes and funny voices will budge them. They are hanging on for the good stuff that mummy will inevitably crack and give them at the end - raisins, yoghurt, yoghurt covered raisins. Yoghurt with raisins sprinkled in. You get the idea. Slowly, meal by meal, showing mummy who's boss. Not mummy.

Evidence B: Bedtimes.
This is a torture technique that J has solely franchised out to M. Being the main perpetrator of the day time terror, J needs his beauty sleep, and happily conks out for twelve solid hours. Enter M, his willing protégée. This one is a corker - Jack Bauer would be quaking in his boots. It's the Pretend Sleep. This is how it goes down. 

Step One: Have milk feed. Fall fast asleep. Stay fast asleep until the very second you hit your cot mattress. Open eyes, wail. When mummy picks you up, fall asleep before she's even finished picking you up. A few seconds later, eyes open and wail. Next time, take a little longer to drift off. When mummy puts you down, eyes open. Repeat 5 - 7000 times. Then it's time to implement the next step.

Step Two: The 'Pretend Sleep' stage. This is the most important part to get right if you are truly going to break mummy. When you fully believe that stage one has got mummy at her wits end, pretend to fall asleep. This takes acting skills of the highest order. Get it right. Quiet, snuffly breathing. Delicately fluttering eyelids. A relaxed fart or two. Then wait till she sighs with exhausted relief and backs away. When she hits the doorway, eyes open and wail. Repeat 5 - 7000 times. Then the icing on top of the cake - repeat pretend sleep stage, but hold your nerve. Let mummy get down the hallway. Into her room. Into bed. Just drifting off to sleep........BAM. Eyes open and wail (An important note - it takes willpower to not actually fall asleep during this last manoeuvre. Stay strong).

Evidence C: Love.
While implementing all of the above and more, my children have ensured we unequivocally, without question, unconditionally, love them. They make us laugh, melt our hearts, learn

from us, teach us, make us cry, make every day better just by being there. They are wonderful, amazing and beautiful human beings.

Dammit they have won.

Sunday, 21 July 2013

And so it begins.....

Ah, hello toilet humour. I was wondering when it would surface, and It has begun. And I know enough grown up boys to know that once started, they never actually grow out of it. Poo, farts and willies are eternally funny if you are male. Much as I would like to rise above it though, I'm afraid I can't help but snigger when J waddles around the room playing his "bum drums" and singing "if you're a bottom and you know it do a trump, trump trump." But although I can allow myself a self indulgent smile when J sees how many times he can say "poo" in one small conversation, it has been causing some blushes out in public. We've been having another not-terribly-successful attempt at potty training, and with this gorgeous weather, J has been wandering around without a nappy on, and has rediscovered his 'bits'. He barrelled over to me the other day with a grin and proudly showed me his testicles; "it's another part of your willy darling, now stop poking them" obviously being translated as "poke them at all times darling, and please describe them in great detail constantly for at least 48 hours". This was all fine, until J did his now trademark trick of finding random people on the street to say inappropriate things to. At least two nice ladies in the village and a couple of my friends have been sidled up to by my butter-wouldn't-melt son and had the casual enquiry "would you like to see the other part of my willy?". J is very put out that no one else is as fascinated as he is, and that mummy keeps apologising, instead of backing him up with confirmation that he has in fact got something terribly fascinating in his nappy to share with them. He is definitely on to a winner with the bum drums routine though.

Monday, 8 July 2013

Dear Circus

Dear Generic Circus,

I am writing this letter in application to be part of your circus. I don't have a specific post in mind, but I feel I would be an asset to your team in many a different role. I have two young boys, you see, and my experience can be summed up as follows;

I can spend an entire rainy day indoors entertaining two demanding boys, and only cry a little bit. One is ten months old and eats everything in sight. One is two and a half and is, ummmm, lets say challenging. I can make the following things amusing - a sock, a spider, a piece of fluff, my nervous breakdown. I think this pretty much means I'd be a kick ass clown.

I can face down a toddler who is having an almighty, half hour tantrum about his toast being too pointy. I laugh in the face of danger. Your lions don't scare me. Bring them on. I'll stick my head inside their mouths. Covered in pâté.

Need a chimp handler? Today my ten month old chewed a mouthful of food, then spat it at me. And then clapped. And then farted. Enough said.

I can imagine that a travelling circus with many animals can get pretty gross. I'm guessing you don't get many offers to muck out the enclosures. Well, motherhood has reduced me to new heights of depravity. A little poo won't put me off. The other day I was too busy to make myself lunch. I hadn't had breakfast. As I was clearing away the boys food, I noticed a piece of sandwich. It had been pre chewed. I ate it.

By nine o'clock in the morning I have normally showered, got me and two wriggly children dressed and breakfasted, put a load of washing on the line, washed up, played Chase The Imaginary Lizard Around The Lounge (don't ask), chased the non imaginary children around the lounge to get coats and wellies on, and got out of the house to walk the dog. I may as well do all that whilst on a sodding unicycle. Juggling.

I reckon I can train some parrots to be pretty darn amusing. For my own entertainment I have taught my precocious two and a half year old to say long words. It's funny until you tell them off, and they reply "I'm not naughty mummy, I'm enormously brilliant" and you have to keep a straight face.

My personal interests are getting more than two hours sleep at a time, wearing clothes without vomit or porridge on them, and brushing my hair. I usually get to indulge in these about once a year.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Wot So Funee?