Accidental Kissing

Sunday. 

As a treat I nipped into the supermarket and bought some branded ice creams for after lunch. As I returned to the car holding the box aloft there was excitement and jubilation (which rather belies how infrequently I do such spontaneous treat-buying.) Eddie, acting without thinking, embraced his brother in delight. 

Gilby was utterly horrified - and outraged. "Uggh! Mum! Eddie just kissed me on the cheek!"

"Well," I countered, "I think that's a rather lovely thing for a brother to do to a brother."

"No it isn't," squealed Eddie, wiping his lips. "I'm totally never doing that again!"

Oh. Brotherly love, then.

Currently reading: Winter by Ali Smith

The Dark Side of the Gloom

I've posted before about how much hard work Saturdays seem to be.  Not the relaxing weekend experience I always anticipate. 

Last weekend was Gertie's ballet show.  Gilby was his usual 'Eeyore' in the morning, claiming that he was 'shop-sick' as we gathered groceries.  I say 'Eeyore', though indeed he makes Winnie the Pooh's friend seem like the life and soul of the party.  His glass isn't just half-empty, it appears to have sprung a leak.  On this occasion, however I do him a little injustice.  We came home and he took an unprecedented day-time nap.  For two hours.  Eddie also slept, and Gertie was already at the dress rehearsal.  It was unexpectedly peaceful.  So much so that I was reluctant to wake both boys up.  I

We left for the show with not much time to spare.  Gilby got sick in the car so great clothing improvisation took place and we arrived just seconds before the performance began.  It was beautiful, but long, and I spent three hours wrestling with a one-year-old in a darkened room, which is exhausting.  He didn't seem to want to sit still and watch the ballet for some reason.

We left to be greeted by a flat-tyre on the car.  Yes, Cheryl had let us down.  Let herself down.  Well, let her tyre down, anyway.  Balls.  Hungry children.  Very late.  Call Daddy and head for the Harvester.  We stayed the night with the grandparents and my string of pearls broke at the supper table, cascading across the dining room. 

Bed was a blissful release, I'd had enough of Saturday.  Ah, perhaps that's where Gilby gets it from: the Eeyore-gene.  I have only myself to blame.

Christmas Mysteries

Christmas is full of mystery and magic...the star, the virgin birth, the angel appearing to the shepherds, the three wise men, how Santa manages to get around the whole world in just one night (though thankfully, today, there are websites that track his progress...) but in our house, one major mystery remained unsolved this Christmas.  What exactly happened to the Christmas tree lights? 

In mid December Daddy was sent to the loft to retrieve all Christmas decorations (a job he secretly loves, though pretends to hate.  I have to believe this.)  The tree went up; favourite decorations appeared.  Joy came to the household. 

Except that...there were no fairy lights.  I know I packed them up carefully last year. What on earth could have happened to them?  Daddy was sent to the loft again to double-check that there wasn't a single box remaining...(see, I told you he really liked it up there).  Alas, no lights. 

We decided that the Christmas tree really did need them, and also, when we invested in new ones, that things really had moved on in the fairy-light-world since our last purchase. 

I was also delighted to discover that I had evidently done diligent January-sale Christmas card buying, and that I had even bought one or two Christmasy books and a few odd little bits and pieces that would make lovely presents for our neighbours' children - go me. 

There was a lovely little pack of toy cars - they'd be brilliant for Eddie.  I wrapped them up.  The big day came.  I have found that it arrives whether you are ready or not.  Usually I am not.  But this year, I was in control (ish).  Christmas morning brought shrieks of delight, just as it should, and we let baby Eddie sleep in whilst the 'big' kids opened their pressies.  They then took great pleasure in opening the gifts in his stocking on his behalf. 

So...try explaining why Santa had given Eddie the gift of a set of Christmas tree lights masquerading as a trio of cars.  Yep.  Mystery solved.

Happy new year!

P.S. Best Christmas telly?  Louis Smith's showdance on Strictly Come Dancing!

Pushing the Boundaries (or not)

I have self-diagnosed a severe case of bad parenting.  I have one 'ailing' baby at the boundaries of the weight chart, one explosive three year old in reference to whom the phrase, 'pushing the boundaries' can only be used as a polite euphemism, and an angelic eldest child who wouldn't know how to push a boundary if it bit her.

Gilby's behaviour is deteriorating exponentially, if that is possible.  Added to the tantrums (now indescribable) is the refusal to sleep alone, or, in fact, go to bed at all.  This then impinges on 'grown-up' time in the evenings, which is an absolute requirement for maintaining sanity.  If you see me on the front pages of the County Times on a murder charge, you'll know instantly that I am guilty.  I could cheerfully throttle him fifty times a day.  (Rhymes with a book I'm reading...)

At the other end of the spectrum is Gertie.  We went shopping in the village the other day and she wanted to bring her bike (stabilisers on, of course).  She was very good at sticking to the designated areas whilst I went into each shop.  My careful boundaries, "So - you can cycle round between here and here but not go up to the road, Ok?"  were met with an obedient, "Yes, Mummy."

Peering over the counter at the post office to check that she was in the right place, I noticed that she had confined herself to a thin sliver of pavement and was riding up and down on that, even though I'd offered the whole of the pedestrian end of the precinct.

"What was wrong with over there?" I joked, as I came out.  She pointed to the blue plastic National Lottery pointy-finger by the window. 

"But Mummy, the sign said, 'play here', so I did."

What's Current on Currants?

I am amazed at the retail diversification prompted by the current economic climate.

Gilby comes home from nursery singing, not, "Five currant buns in the baker's shop..." but "Five caravans in the bacon shop..." He is adamant that those are the right words, though he is unable to explain quite why the proprietor of this strange establishment would wish to sprinkle sugar on the top of such wares.

Cunning old butchers branching out into the motor-home market, I say.

Sack of Potatoes

Saturday was our village 'fest' where the car park and shopping precinct are given over to stalls selling everything from olive oil to handicrafts to sponsored bricks for African classrooms. There are tombolas and home-made cakes and even a fair-ride. So my little people were happy, especially when, around lunchtime there was a cheer-leading display. After a couple of routines I suggested that it might be time to go home, but Gilby was adamant that he wanted to stay and watch more of the 'dancing'.

In an effort to stave off the now-frequent-terrible-twos-tantrum I acquiesced. How silly. Because then he just kicked off with even more of a vengeance when they actually finished. He sobbed in the street and refused to walk back to the car, stepping out behind parked cars shouting, 'No, no, no...' continuously at the top of his voice.

I think he was lamenting the dancing being over, but by this time he had lost most of the power of meaningful communication and wouldn't listen to reason. I was pushing the pram and holding hands with a skipping 4-year-old, and just wanted to be home. So - I picked Gilby up under one arm, pushed the pram vigorously with the other and let Gertie fend for herself. It wasn't a good look, and it certainly wasn't my finest hour of parenting. But we got back to the car in one piece, eventually. What I didn't need was a total stranger to wind down the window of a passing car and scream, "Don't hold him like a sack of potatoes!" at the top of her voice.

Who did she think she was? How dare she interfere? Don't scream out of car windows at stressed families!

Baby Sale Hate

It's a year since I wrote my first blog post: a whole twelve months of revealing little secrets about my children to a small community of strangers. It still feels like a rather odd thing to do, but I'm hooked now.

Yesterday we went on our bi-annual pilgrimage to the local 'baby-sale'. I have to mentally prepare for these days; a necessary evil, it seems to me. Children's clothes, shoes and general stuff is so expensive that the only way we can do it is by making considerable purchases of nearly-new goods at a fraction of the price they would be in the shops.

The trouble is that the baby-sale is not a pleasant shopping experience. It is a frantic, frenzied grabbing competition where only the toughest will survive, snatching out dangerously in an effort to locate that Jojo Maman Bebe bargain or Monsoon special.

In exchange for waiting patiently and keeping her baby brother entertained whilst I wrestle with clothing racks, Gertie gets to choose a toy to take away. So it was odd to hear her say, very firmly, "I hate baby sales, Mummy," as we were en route in the car. (Of course, I hate baby sales, but I can't imagine why she should have this strong reaction.)

I thought I should get to the bottom of this, so decided to probe a little further. "What exactly is it that you don't like about them?"

This floored her for a minute. She thought very carefully, then said, "What does 'hate' mean?"

"Um. It's when you really, really, really don't like something..."

Later, as we came out (me, armed with bags of winter stuff; she, clutching her new cuddly hippo, which she christened 'Vanessa'...?) she told me that actually she didn't 'hate' baby sales. I think she genuinely didn't know what the word meant.

I felt quite pleased that it had taken her three and a half years to come across the concept of hate.

Then, on reflection, worried that she had now encountered it too early in her little life.

Ketchup Lips

I hate supermarkets.

Really, really hate them.

I know that I am not alone in this, but I can only manage about three quarters of an hour before I start going mad. I think it is the lighting, the terrible acoustics, the other shoppers, (particularly the grumpy trolley bargers) the queues...collectively.

And then if I factor in Gertie, who won't stay in the trolley but likes to 'help', and Gilby, who will go in for about ten minutes then cries unless I am carrying him, which makes adding groceries to the trolley whilst chasing after a toddler even more difficult, then the whole thing becomes some sort of horrible nightmare.

I can't cope with it and so I usually shop online. But every now and then I am forced to go. And when I do, I have to treat myself to something; a reward for having survived the ordeal.

Today it was a new lipstick. I was really pleased with it. The colour was 'hint of red' and as soon as we had got home, unpacked the shopping and put it all away, I rushed up to the bathroom to try it on.

I came back downstairs. Gertie noticed immediately. "Oh mummy, your lips look a bit sticky." Short pause as she studied my face more closely. "Are they ketchup-lips?"

Maybe more than a 'hint' of red, then.

Going Postal

It was hard to choose a prompt for this week's writing workshop from Josie at Sleep is for the Weak. (The voices in my head often comment on the things that people wrongly assume about me...) But I have gone for number one: tell about a time when you refused to compromise.

I refuse to compromise over poor service, particular when shopping, banking, or dealing with utilities.

I have just spent six weeks switching bank accounts for the sake of a £22 charge. It was an awful lot of bother to go to, switching all the payments in, direct debits and standing orders, but I absolutely knew that I was in the right. And I was absolutely determined not to let 'them' win. Why should they? It just made me so angry. I have closed the two bank accounts of my children which were held there too, opening simple building society savings accounts for them instead. So I feel quietly smug about it now. That will teach them to try and take £22 from me. And I have taken great delight in writing a letter to the bank in question explaining all my reasoning. Again, a ridiculous amount of bother to go to, but it made me feel much better.

I am quite a letter writer. It only takes a few minutes and always seems much more satisfying, as well as often being more productive, than a request or complaint by email or in person.

As well as the bank thing, I am waiting to hear from my local supermarket. I was overcharged for the third time in a row: you know, when something is on special offer so you pick it up for that reason and then when you get to the counter it doesn't register on the till? In the olden days, BC, I would have noticed it immediately and been able to rectify any descrepancy on the spot, but these days I am always busy at the counter trying to persuade Gertie that she doesn't need the packet of crisps/biscuits/sweets that she has managed to pick up from somewhere, whilst simultaneously trying to soothe Gilby as for some reason he always seems to need a feed the moment I start trying to select groceries. So I am somewhat distracted and just hand over my card to pay with barely an acknowledgement of the total, only realising the error when I get home.

And I know it sounds a little petty, but it is an awful lot quicker to bash out a short letter than to load up the car again with children to return to the store.

And it makes a trip to the post-box quite entertaining; there is always an interesting reply waiting for me.

Blue Shoes

I am delighted to be responding to Josie's Writing Workshop prompts this week at Sleep is For the Weak, because here is someone inviting me to talk about shoes: A dangerous topic, since, like most women, I have a long and complex relationship with my footwear. The challenge is to identify shoes which somehow reflect your personality. I wonder how a pair of shoes that you choose to wear could not reveal something of you in someway...

These objets d'art are my current favourites.

Bright blue and always commented upon.

Saved for special occasions like Gilby's baptism and some summer weddings. But only with the dress that you can just about see in the picture that has the same electric blue tones.

So what exactly do they say about me? Poised, sophisticated, impossibly glamorous, a little bit showy but not afraid to make a statement, perhaps? I wish.

In fact what they say is 'bought really cheaply at TK Maxx, pretending to be something they're not, and the straps at the back need to be continually hoisted up when no one is looking.'

Just about sums it all up really.

I thank you.

S.A.D: Supermarket Affective Disorder

I take in a happy, giggling child to the supermarket and inevitably leave with a red-faced screaming toddler. Equally, I have to steel myself for the trip; I skip in nonchalantly but leave on the verge of a migraine.

Now my question is why? Gertie is generally well-behaved and helpful, and Gilby will often sleep through the whole process, so it has nothing to do with the children being difficult. What exactly happens then, between the vegetable aisle and the checkout?

I have tried to analyse the experience. My mood takes a dive with the initial battle for a parking space. I don't even bother with the parent and child parking: those sacred spots are evidently reserved for more divine beings.

And then I put it down to a combination of terrible acoustics that amplify and simultaneously muffle the sound of other screaming toddlers, the unnatural headache-inducing lighting, and the trolley rage caused by overcrowding in too-narrow aisles.

Finally, and this is the clincher - the dispute over the special offer prominently displayed (and probably prompting a spontaneous purchase) that then doesn't materialise when you get to the till.

Depending on which supermarket we are in (and I change regularly in the vain hope that things may be better elsewhere) this results in either a 'supervisor to checkout 3' or another queue at customer services. Is it worth it for the 87p saving, I have to ask myself. "Yes," I screech back internally, 'Or they have won"!

Somehow all these things must impact on Gertie too, so that for no discernable reason she is in her own two-year-old rage by the end. I will monitor the age at which it seems to effect Gilbert. Or perhaps it is a gender-thing: my husband seems far less prone to Supermarket-Affected-Disorder.

Thank goodness for online grocery shopping. Worth every single penny, I say.