Gaaaaaaah!

Well I haven't managed to blog for quite some time - apparently having a one year old, a two year old*, a dog and returning to work doesn't leave an awful lot of time for hilarious musings on t'internet. I'm hoping my blog wasn't just a project for maternity leave as I want to keep it up so my children can laugh about how incompetent I was in the future, and I have written evidence to excuse my future actions. (I can't wait for Mattie to have his first hangover. I will be in his room every two hours throughout the night shouting "I'm hungry! I'm cold! I'm thirsty!" And then I will make him get up at 5am to make me breakfast). 
As well as thoroughly neglecting my blog, I have found my return to work has seen me swiftly slip sliding headlong into slummy mummyhood. If I was a tad haphazard before, I'm now positively disastrous. Mattie had his first birthday party at the weekend, a lovely if slightly chaotic day full of children, cake and far too many presents. On waking up on his birthday morning, I realised I hadn't bought him a birthday card. I do realise he can't read yet, but I've saved all their birthday cards for the future so they can grumble "we're not girls mum, what the hell do you want us to do with this? sit and look delightedly through a scrapbook full of their birthday memories in years to come. So there probably ought to be a card from his actual parents in there somewhere. I will find time, at some point, to retrospectively write one.
 Poor M is definitely feeling the pinch of being the second born, and having a part time working mummy. We went for a walk in the woods the other day, where a lovely well meaning lady laughed at the fact that he was toddling about in his socks, and sympathised with me having a child similar to her own who kicked off when we tried to get their shoes on. I just laughed along and neglected to mention that I haven't actually bought him any yet. The shame. If there are other working mummies reading this post, I'd love to know how you fit everything in. We seem to be existing purely on a diet of fish fingers and cbeebies. I turn up at work, my brand new, should-be-on-top-form-to-impress-colleagues work, with dried weetabix and snot crusted to the side of my face. Which of course they are all far too polite to point out, and I discover at ten thirty, having already greeted all the parents and had a chat with the head. It's a good job I'm not easily embarrassed.
Onwards and upwards!

*My boys are 21 months apart. This means for three and a half months of the year, if I tell people their ages, they sound even closer. For the months of September, October, November and December I will be dropping into every conversation, whether its appropriate or not, that I have a two year old and a one year old. If I'm going to be stupid enough to have my children close together, I'm damn well going to get maximum sympathy/admiration for it whenever possible. "Yes I will sign for this parcel Mr Postman. Do you know who else likes to sign for things? My two year old and my one year old." "No, checkout lady, I don't have a loyalty card. Do you know who else doesn't have a loyalty card? My two year old and my one year old." You get the idea.

Room 101

The lovely Charlotte at Distressed Housewife tagged me in to the Room 101 meme, started by Stickers Stars and Smiles, and as being sarcastic and moaning are my absolute two favourite things to do, I jumped right on it. There have been a few of these now, all of which are a lot funnier than the one you are about to read, so have a look at the other links if you fancy a giggle. 

I have three things to banish into Room 101, and I'm going to kick off with my most controversial one, that will instantly get the backs up of 50% of the people reading it. Here goes.

1. Cats. I know, I know, a lot of people love them. But seriously? The little feckers make direct, prolonged eye contact with you. They just stare. And see into your very soul. This is not in a good way. Whatever you cat owners think they are thinking, they are NOT sensing that you are a little down today, and planning a purr and a cuddle on your lap for therapy. They are plotting ways to bring you down and then kill you. And they don't like you. Cats don't like anyone. My spaniel greets me every time I come in the room by haring around trying to find me a present. Usually a shoe. Even if I've literally walked out, and then walked back in again. She bloody loves me. I will accept that this also probably means she's a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic, but I'm happy with that. Why would I live with a pet that is a) more intelligent than me and b) wants to kill me? Why?

2. Mike The Knight. I had a few issues choosing this irritating little brat, as cbeebies is positively swimming with them. I've already said my piece about Postman Pat, world's crappiest postman, in another post. Mike is the one I shall banish forever. For teaching my sons and any other under five that basically life is all about behaving as brattishly (real word) as possible at all times, and then when it all goes tits up making a half arsed attempt at sorting out your mess and apologising for it afterwards. "Hey kids! Do whatever the hell you like! Smear poo on the walls! As long as you use a biro afterwards to colour eyes on it and make a turdy hedgehog mural everything is OK!"

3. Rides outside shops. I have a little secret. I am one of those mothers. I wore my babies in a sling, I feed them home cooked organic food, and I knit them jumpers out of my own hair. One of those isn't true. I also only let them watch cbeebies because I don't want them exposed to adverts. I love plonking them in front of the TV so I can play candy crush  make them dinner as much as the next person, but I just hate hate adverts aimed at children. I was also under the foolish misguided impression that if my sons don't watch adverts, I will avoid the whiney "I want I want I want" requests surrounding toys etc. It was working wonderfully, until J worked out that the ride on machines outside shops were there for him. Now I am that mother with the child screaming "I don't want to go home! I want to ride on noddy/thomas/scoop for the 400th time" that I used to pity and swear I would never be. 

And breathe. That was fun. I now tag in the lovely @Redpeffer at http://redpeffer.me.uk/

An answer for everything

I popped in to my new place of work today. Everyone was very lovely, very welcoming, and I'm truly looking forward to starting in September. However, being the new girl after seven years in the same job is uber wierd. I don't know where anything is. I took a wrong turn every time I left a room I was in, and had to pretend I had walked down the corridor and back again for a Very Important Reason. I picked stuff up to sort it, then just sort of, put it back, because I didn't really know what to do with it. I don't do well in this sort of situation - I like to be in control, sure of myself, and lets face it, a bit bossy. 

So I have decided to adopt my eldest sons method of dealing with life, and have a few key answers to any question or situation. I'm quite confident they will get me through any tricky spots.

J's Method of Dealing With Awkward Questions: 
Me: "Why are you squashing your brother between the sofa cushions?" 
J:"Because it's brilliant". 
Quite confident I can breezily shout "because it's brilliant!" When someone questions why I have announced I am off to the staff room and instead have walked in to the toilets three times in a row.

J's Method of Getting Your Own Way: 
Me: "J, I have asked you not to eat that play dough/throw things at the dog/dig up my plants/ wee on the floor..." 
J: "Mummy, go and make yourself a cup of tea/go and sit down/go inside".
This is NOT done in a caring suggesting type of voice, it is barked at full volume. The aim is to order the offending person OUT of your airspace so you can continue misbehaving. I'm hopeful that my lovely new colleagues will respond to me shouting "go into the staff room IMMEDIATELY!" In their faces to cover up the fact that I'm a bit lost and therefore not actually doing anything constructive. They'll love it.

J's Method of Not Doing As He's Told:
Me: "J, tidy up your toys please".
J: "Can't mummy, I'm too small. I'll tidy up when I'm a man".
I think, "I can't, I'm too new, I'll do it when I've been here a few years" will probably be my safety net for a while.

If all else fails, I'll go for a direct J quote of "I can't hear you, the clouds have fallen out the sky and got in my ears".

I might start J up as a motivational speaker. How To Progress In Your Career And Impress Your Lovely New Boss.

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.

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.

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.

So I've done half a job......

Today I took J for his first settle in session at play group. It was with a slight sense of impending doom that I shuffled round the corner, having endured the mother of all Random Tantrum mornings, very aware that the session was slap bang in the middle of his usual nap time. Gulp. We had had, in no particular order, a tantrum because;

• "I don't want my wellies on!" Would these be the wellies you just found and then put on your own feet, yourself? Yes. Yes they would.
• "My spoon is too spoony!" Can't help you with that one darling.
• "I don't like that window!" Again, what?
• "My raisins are scaring me!" Sigh.......

Now, my children tend to get a bad rap on my blog. Mostly because the bits where they are naughty are funny, and the bits where they aren't, aren't. But J excelled himself at his first session, and made me just glow with pride (if you are thinking this whole post is a thinly veiled attempt to boast about my kids, you are wrong. It's not even thinly veiled).

But I couldn't help thinking two things during it. 1: I'm glad the stuff I'm banging on about day in day out is sinking in, and 2: Why then do you point blank refuse to do that at home?

I heard him talking to one of the lovely play leaders. The conversation he was having with her over the plastic fruit and veg was strikingly similar to one I had had with him at lunchtime, with a few key differences. Their conversation went like this;

 J: Would you like a sandwich lady?

Lady: Oooh yes please J.

J: Can I have one too please?

Lady: Yes of course.

J: And a juice please?

Lady: Yes, seeing as you asked so nicely.

J: Oh, thank you.

Lady: You're so welcome.

Our conversation earlier had gone like this:

Me: J, I have told you a bazillion times to put your feet down off the table.

J: You're a bazillion. You're a table.

Me: Would you like a sandwich?

J: OH THE GRAND OLD DUKE OF YORK........

Me: J, I asked you a question.

J: Get me a sandwich.

Me: Pardon?! Do you think you could ask me that in a different way?

(Pause while he scans head for all the manners I have diligently drummed in to him.)

J: Get me a sandwich. QUICKER!

Still. We are half way there.

I have linked this post up to the very funny Actually Mummy's Wot So Funee Blog Hop. Despite her patiently explaining to me on twitter how to get her badge, I'm still fumbling about trying to work it out, so take a look at http://www.actuallymummy.co.uk/ for a giggle x