For Sale Signs and Errant Pants

So we've made the decision to try and sell the house.  Again.

There is no more money in the pot, but we need more room.  When we moved here, Gertie was just a few months old, not yet on the move.  For two adults and a tiny baby it was positively palatial.  We bounced around in our big house, and once she did start crawling, I might even lose Gertie for a few moments. These days finding five minutes alone in the bathroom is an unlikely proposition.  Now there are the three little people.  And they are not so little.  They have this habit of just growing bigger.  And bigger.  By the day. Moving towards a time when they will want to spend increasingly long times alone in the one bathroom.

I can remember all the empty rooms when we first moved in and wondering how I'd ever have enough furniture to fill them.  Ha. Now every corner is crammed full of stuff.  Each inch of wall space is covered in pictures and photographs.  There are thousands of books.  Everywhere.  And that count might go up to tens of thousands if you include the boxes in the loft. There are plastic toys in places where toys simply shouldn't be. Like in my shoes. And behind the washing machine. It is impossible to keep tidy. And therein lies the first paradox.  Because in order to sell your house you need to be able to keep it very tidy.  So that it can be viewed at a moment's notice.  Well, we had our first viewing today.  It took me four hours to get things straight.  That's not happening every time, I can tell you. And when we came home there was a pair of toddler pants smiling up welcomingly from the utility room floor, that I must have missed in my final tidy-check.  That subsequently looked like they'd just walked there themselves.  Which I guess they might have done, being Eddie's.

So now I follow the children around hawk-like, beady eyes scanning for any potential mess-making hazard. They will be the first to tell you that this is not fun.

And the house we have our eye on is...'in need of modernisation'.  In other words, a wreck.  And a smaller wreck than our current abode at that.  And it costs more money.  But it is a wreck with the potential to be bigger.  At some point, when the childcare costs stop sucking the lifeblood from our very veins.

We tried to do a similar thing a few years ago, but the wreck of a house we wanted then sold almost before we'd got ours on the market and it felt like a blessing in disguise.

So I've got my eye on the estate agents' window these days.  Today I was drawn to an attractive property in the top right hand corner.  It took me a second to register that it was the one I already own. ( I say 'own'.  I think we might own approximately a square metre of the floor space, by now.  But another paradox:  It looks lovely in the pictures, all tidied up and de-cluttered.  Like somewhere I might actually want to live.

Alien Goo in One Direction

Day one of the Easter holidays means a trip to the barbers for Gilby.  His thick, unruly hair just about makes it through a half term before he begins to resemble a cross between Stig of the Dump and Hagrid (minus the beard).

Usually a 'trim and tidy' will suffice.  On this occasion, however, I am not able to look the barber in the eye as I outline my four-year-old's requirements:

"So, there are two things that you need to know."  (Here I cough and clear my throat.) "Um, he has clumps of alien goo stuck into the left hand side of his head which will need cutting out..."  I pause for a moment, (thinking back to the small pocket money alien-embryo toy that we bought yesterday and regretted almost immediately) and then find that the words, "And he'd like you to cut it like Niall from One Direction," tumble out.

I know which one I feel more unsettled by.

I also never cease to be amazed by the statements I am forced to make as a parent...

Currently reading: Igboland by Jeff Gardiner

If You Go Down to the Woods Today...

The bank holiday weekend has been one endless stream of...fun.  Although, as Jerry Seinfeld says, 'There's no such thing as fun for the whole family,' so possibly not all of us were enjoying exactly the same moments.

Saturday was a birthday party for a four-year-old, and all three of my children were invited: joy.  This eliminated the opportunity for rows to break out over the fact that Gertie receives far more invitations to parties and functions generally than either of her younger brothers.  It was also good for Mummy, who didn't have to be in three different places at the same time (which is my usual weekend party trick).

Sunday began with a christening.  The service began at 10.30 and finished at 12.15.  This was long by any stretch of the imagination, even for mine who are used to attending Mass.  After about an hour Gilby turned to me looking quite pale.  'Mummy, I'm not feeling very well.  I need to get out of here. I'm....church-sick.'  He said it like it was a well-known condition, akin to car-sickness.  Something that would pass immediately, once one was away from the cause.  This, of course, would ensure that I couldn't counter with any suggestion that he be too ill to attend the christening party afterwards.  Clever, I thought.  Though judging by the discomfort on many of the adults in the surrounding pews, they too were suffering from Gilby's affliction.

It was a lovely party afterwards though, in glorious sunshine in the garden of a local pub, and, as predicted, Gilby was soon cured.  We couldn't stay all afternoon, however, since we had to get back and pack up for our camping trip.  Yes, camping trip - our first time.  We were camping in the woods near the house of some friends.  It had all seemed like such a good idea when we decided to it on the spur of the moment the previous evening.  We bought a tent on ebay and picked it up that morning.  No chance to test it out or even check it was all in one piece.  Actually, it wasn't, but that was by design.  Two bedrooms, no less.  No en suite though.

So, a bit of back-to-nature for us.  A roaring camp fire, toasting marshmallows, three in a bed, (the lack of a ground-sheet for the outer living area meant that poor old Gilby couldn't sleep in his cot) last minute checks for lurking gruffaloes: all a great adventure.  Mummy froze, though, in the night, and was too worried about everyone else worrying to drink as much wine as she ought to have done.  I wanted to keep myself under the limit in case a midnight flit back to civilisation was required.  In fact, this couldn't have happened in any case, as the flat battery on the car in the morning testified.  Much huffing and puffing and pushing was required before we were eventually rescued by a digger and jump-leads.  It was not the finest moment. Still, it was an experience.  The kids came home filthy and desperate to do it again.  Mummy will have a couple of glasses of red and think about it.  Cheers!

Ice Cream, Dad Screams and Bees Stink

With a two year old, inevitably a large proportion of conversation concerns 'poo'.  It crops up everywhere, so to speak.  For example, I might say, "What would you like for dinner?"  "Poo!" might come the unprompted (and undesired) response. I try to ignore it and not make a fuss, hoping that it is a phase that will pass. 

But I was surprised by a recent conversation that went like this:

Gilby: Mummy, do you like bees?
Me: (Slightly thrown by question, but anxious not to communicate any fear of anything creepy-crawlie) Yes, of course."
Gilby: But you mustn't touch them, Mummy, must you?"
Me: (Pleased at self-preservation instinct displayed by usually accident-prone toddler) That's right, Gilby, you mustn't touch them, because they might sting.
Gilby: Yes. (Firmly)  Like poo.

I puzzled over this for a moment, before he continued, "And skunks are very smelly too, aren't they?"

Ah, so bees stink, which is why they mustn't be touched.   I have some explaining to do...  Except that there wasn't time. Because whilst I was working that out, Gilby and his sister were pretending that their ice-creams were sun-creams and had smeared them all over their faces. Which is the point at which Daddy joined in the conversation.

Daddy: (In tone of despair slightly disproportionate to situation) No, no, no, no, no, NO!

I Blame Mister Maker

Now that the big day has passed once more, I find that not only is my house bulging with even more than our fair share of brightly coloured plastic but there are also more dangerous weapons lurking everywhere...

The pen is indeed mightier that the sword, since it can ruin new furniture in a matter of seconds in the hands of an enthusiastic two-year-old; and this Christmas seemed to have 'crafts' as a major theme. Mister Maker has an awful lot to answer for as paint pots, felt-tip pens, gloopy glue, sand art, crayons, glitter, felt shapes and items generally associated with 'messy play' now lurk in every corner, despite my protestations that works of art may only be created in the kitchen.

So I really do need to have eyes in the back of my head if my house is not to resemble a New York subway in terms of graffiti levels. And with three children all activities must be undertaken with military precision. Mealtimes provide an excellent opportunity to get the baby into the bath first, since I can be fairly confident that the lure of food will be enough to keep the big ones in their seats and away from potentially lethal crafts.

So it was that yesterday, Eddie had already had his bath and lay kicking on his changing mat in the bathroom. I prised Gilby away from the remains of his cupcake and got him into the water, whilst Gertie carried on at the table. She is eminently sensible and can be trusted not to autograph the walls, so I wasn't too worried. But I took the opportunity of hanging out some washing in the hallway whilst listening to Gilby's monologue in the bath.

"Right, come on then, Eddie; time to get you into your pyjamas!" I said, folding the last of the laundry in the hallway.

"Mummy, why are you talking to Eddie? He can't talk back to you," observed his big brother whilst blowing bubbles with his bath-water and covering the bath sides in wild red and green circles. Who knew that you could get soap-pens?

"Well I know that he's only a baby, but it is important that he learns how to communicate, and he will understand lots of things we say even though he can't talk yet," I explained as simply as I could.

"No Mummy. Why are you talking to him when he is asleep?"

Poor old Eddie had obviously got bored with waiting for his mother to return and get him dressed and had, well, nodded off. So much for my multi-tasking. Still, at least no permanent scribbles on priceless objects occurred in the interim. Though the bath took a bit of scrubbing...

Order! Order!

Gertie has an obsession with organisation and cleanliness. I am a fan of order myself, though this luxury has been removed by the arrival of my children; it must be genetic though, because my classification-conscious daughter notices immediately if anything is out of place in the house, and becomes quite disturbed if I have rearranged furniture or just had a move around of things in the kitchen.

At breakfast time she is physically unable to eat her cereal if I have inadvertently left the cupboard door open, and will burst into tears until the crisis is addressed.

She is dreadfully offended if anyone dares to walk into the sitting room with their shoes on, and is obsessed by what belongs to whom and where things have come from. She is quite happy to 'help' with housework, takes delight in pointing out where I have 'missed a bit' and is highly critical if any area of the house is particularly 'messy'.

If she spills food down her clothes, a complete change of outfit is required immediately, and she is fixated by her various aprons. She has a 'cooking apron' and a 'painting and colouring apron'. Woe betide me for suggesting that the wrong apron be used for a particular activity.

They even commented on it at nursery when we went for parents evening a few weeks ago. They noticed that she is not happy to do finger painting or anything likely to get her really messy. She does like painting but will always ask for a brush and is fastidious about removing all the paint afterwards.

I am not unduly worried by this behaviour. I see it as her trying to make sense of the world around her.

My question is simply this: why do the same rules clearly not apply in her bedroom????

Three Wise Mothery Things

I am thinking in threes this week due to nativity overdose: three wise men and three shepherds (and only three more presents left to get).

So here are my three gifts in Christmas week, my Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh. Three things which I have learned since becoming a mother, and which have featured with varying degrees of drama in my life this week:

1. Never wear a long dangly scarf or beads while supervising a potty situation.
2. 'Messy play' is a great idea, in theory.
3. Sick over one shoulder is perfectly acceptable; over two, suggests carelessness.

Number one speaks for itself, really. In number two, whilst my back was turned red paint became lipstick and an ugly scene ensued. Number three was pointed out whilst I was at a Christmas party. Nice.