Today's Little Treat

There's a photo doing the rounds on Facebook at the moment. Some company have created t-shirts for three siblings. I don't wish to promote them, nor would I ever suggest that my children wore them, but I do agree with the sentiment, which basically goes along the lines of: Oldest child makes the rules, middle child is the reason we have rules and youngest child knows that the rules don't apply.

I may have mentioned some or all of the following before in relation to Eddie:

• Eddie doesn't understand consequences
• The word 'no' is something of an enigma when he is on the receiving end of it (though definite when he delivers it)
• He can go from grinning cutie to fiendish horror quicker than a new Porsche gets to 60mph.

So, what was today's little treat for mummy?

Pushing the 'Emergency Stop' button on the supermarket trolley escalator.

Sigh. As you were.

Currently reading: The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman

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.

I Didn't Sign Up For This

Parenting is a 'lifestyle choice', apparently.

I knew some of what I was signing up for: anticipated sleepless nights, dreaded terrible twos and supermarket tantrums, and definitely pictured myself making lots of mushy food.

But it is replete with other stuff I wasn't aware of. The small print of parenting; the way you just become immune to things that would be otherwise revolting.

I never thought I would be picking dried snot from a bedsheet, for example, because it was clean on last night and I do enough washing without changing the linen daily...

It never once occurred to me that gradually, over time, it would be come acceptable to leave the house with dribble and/or vomit on my clothes.

And frankly, the thought of scooping a poo from the bath with my bare hands would have been abhorrent three years ago. I can now do it with my 'matter of fact' face on, and barely notice it at all.

What did you not sign up for?

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.

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.