She is back

She is back. The woman, lover and mother just trying to keep up the buffalo stance is barefoot and pregnant no more. Six months into maternity leave with my last contribution to society and I am raring to face the world again. This confident woman about Croydon is ready to conquer the work life balance with elegance and grace even with an extra 10lbs in my jeans (wish me luck with that) . Now seriously this is no joke people. Fast approaching is my 31st birthday and I am still yet to be the established yummy mummy that I am supposed to be. Granted the rollercoaster of family life alongside a credit crunch or two has not helped the grey hair situation around here but I think I’m going to give this yummy business one last go. Flawless school runs and skyscraper heels are waiting for me. I can smell them or is that youngest sons burnt toast? Either way I will be the ‘weetabix smeared mother’ no more! I have decided to tackle Project Yummy 2013 head on. There is no point in beating around the bush. The first step towards yummydom has to be a new and improved school run image. Obviously this will take some work! The Man has dropped Darling daughter and Youngest son on route to work and Baby is sleeping soundly. Herein lies the perfect opportunity to glam ones self with minimal distraction. I decide to stick on some music - after all no dramatic transformation can be made without a suitable soundtrack, right? An hour later and I am still knee deep in old cd’s. My enthusiasm momentarily interrupted by tunes I have not heard in ages, I wallow in childfree nostalgia. Just as I think I have found ‘the’ music to transform to… Baby wakes! Strolling down the hall I glance at my watch, in my old school revival I hadn’t realised the time. Only ten minutes to get to the playground! Grabbing keys and Baby I glance down at my maternity leggings covered in a fetching shade of weetabix crust. Guess there’s always tomorrow….

Spare tyre, anyone?

I cannot contain my excitement…the children have gone back to school! Quiet days will return and I can have the telly back for my chat shows. As I snuggle down for my morning coffee I notice that I am resting my mug on something unfamiliar. Almost having a heart attack I realise I have managed to attach a rather decent sized spare tyre of chub around my waist.

I am not sure how it got there, or where it came from, I just assume that the ‘fat fairies’ came to visit me during the festive period and unlucky for me I had not noticed them attaching it, being far too busy with my mince pie munching. It is only now in the cold light of the new year that I have caught the horrifying sight. .

Okay, I am not going to panic. To shift this new found friend of mine I guess I will have to have a couple of lifestyle changes.

Number one - to rid this flat of all selection boxes, sweeties wrapped in coloured foil along with any other festive nibbles that might be lurking.
Number two - Start getting some exercise as lifting remote towards telly is no longer being classed as strenuous movement (apparently).
And Number three not allowing the devilish creamy taste of a certain liqueur to pass my lips for at least another year. Trust me that will be harder than it sounds.

By the end of the afternoon I have managed most of the first lifestyle change. Using a repeating pattern of eat one choc/bin one choc I get through the unwanted nibbles pretty quick. Okay I had intended for them to all go in the bin but waste not want not - there is no need to throw away decent chocolate, especially as my body will be a chocolate free zone for the next year. Eating a box in front of the box can hardly make it much worse..??

I am impressed that by the time the man arrives home from work that I am up to date with all my soaps and programmes.

To celebrate the last evening of slobbing, I decide to finish it off with my creamy liqueur as the perfect ending.

By bedtime my spare tyre is left full to the brim, and admittedly feels quite cosy.

Lifestyle changes two and three? They start tomorrow...

Perfectly Potty

I have read the books, watched the DVD and asked fellow Mummies for advice, but I have finally hit a wall, with my head.

I am trying to potty train Toddler son. Unfortunately the only person going potty around here is me. I have even invested in a flash super funky potty that cost a bomb to try and encourage my little rat - to no avail.

In my struggle over past few weeks I have been reassured by other mothers ‘ you never see a grown man walking around in Pull up’s’ being their support. I am starting to think that they may have to retract that statement. Toddler could well become that man at this rate.

I must give toddler credit where it is due. He has come up with many other inventive ways to use his trendy potty,
Monday it became his hat, Tuesday it was his portable toy box,
Wednesday Potty became a scary monster and was banished to the bathroom for the day, Thursday it was his dinosaurs house, and Friday it is a bin for his empty raisin packets.
Funnily enough the whole week it has stayed dry, yet to see any liquid whatsoever.

I am becoming quite bored of this dancing around the potty game. I am also feeling quite poor after investing half my life savings into character pants to try and encourage some ‘big boy’ toilet behaviour. Broken willed and broke of money I decide that I will just give it a break for a while. Surely he will learn with time.

Just as I sit down with a cup of tea I hear a sneaky tinkle noise coming from the bathroom. Almost knocking my cup over, I run in to find toddler sitting upright on trendy potty. In my excitement I grab him and praise his achievement.

In my overjoyed state I don’t realise that toddler was in fact mid flow. I have been sprayed as has the rest of the bathroom. Toddler is distressed at my interruption. I clean up quickly and reward him for his potty efforts with some chocolate. It is only as he is chomping down that I think - what if he thinks that he is being rewarded for weeing on me?

Two steps forward a wee one back.

Fairy Christmas

The Man and I are at odds.

We are sticking to tradition and opting to act like Panto characters for the Christmas period. I am doing my usual Christmas Fairy role, while his interpretation of Scrooge could win him an Oscar.

Picture the scene, we are at the supermarket doing a festive shop.

While I stock up on exciting bits like chocolate pennies and more selection boxes The Man is having a nervous breakdown by the fruit and veg.

Okay, I understand that there is a credit crunch (as will the rest of the family when they use the value toilet roll that is already in the trolley). I can make cutbacks like the best of us, BUT when it comes to the sheer volume of Christmas goodies that are calling from every other aisle some I cannot resist.

By the time we reach the fourth aisle I am beginning to get Fairy rage. If Scrooge asks me to account for another goodie that may or may not have fallen into the trolley I may have to pick up my Fairy wand and ping him into a frog.

Scrooges face is red as a beetroot once we get to the cashier. I am quite worried that I may well have a heart attack on my hands when the total for my goodies is called out. I carefully pack the bags (ensuring my golden pennies don’t get crushed) as quickly as possible so as I can make a run for the car as soon as payment is requested. I am not worried that he will not have enough to pay but more like if he will force me to put a tube or two of my sweeties back. The cashier on the other hand seems to have other plans when the last item ( a Santa candle) refuses to scan. I stand with baited breath waiting for the grand total, knowing that my great escape is now unlikely.

Tapping in the serial number, the total hits her screen and proceeds to be sung out of her mouth. The man stands for a moment in disbelief, while I start humming ‘silent night’. By the look on his face I can tell my evening will probably be very silent.

I am not wrong, for the last three hours Scrooge has ignored me for my frivolous Santa buys. I offer him a golden coin as a peace offering.

On yer bike buddy.

In the mans quest to become the yummy man, he has bought himself a bike. With fuel costs rocketing it may reduce his blood pressure as well as save a few quid. I am in full support of this health kick until he attempts to kick me with it too.

As we are free of children, toddler at nursery and daughter darling playing at a friends, he somehow persuades me to take the bike out for a ride. Okay, it has been a fair few years since I have cycled (unless back pedalling counts), but I agree that a ride to get the paper wont kill me and could in fact do me some good. Although I am disappointed that there is no bell.

After trying to mount the damn thing for five minutes, once I am finally on the man advises me that trainers may be more suitable for the task. I kick off my kitten heels, and send him in for my pumps. Now that I am on I am damned if I am getting off. He returns and kindly fit’s the yellow shoes to my feet.

It would have helped if he had adjusted the seat and I could reach the floor - but I wont worry about that for now. Without wanting to admit it I am actually having fun, so instead of stopping at the shop as planned I decide to carry on for a while. Being that I live right next to Lombard roundabout this was probably not the wisest decision that I have ever made.

Reaching the junction I realise that I truly am out of practice, while pushing on the brakes I forget to put my feet down to the floor. Stupid I know, but as I was more concerned at getting squashed by a truck or something I chose the less life threatening option. I promptly fall to the side and clunk my noggin on the pavement. What is worse, much, much worse is that I have grazed both knees. How I managed this I am unsure due to squeezing my eyes shut on impact.

I am not happy. I knew there was a reason you cannot pedal in kitten heels, that is simple because I was never meant to ride a bike. Give me a packed bus any day.

Struggling my way back halfway up the road I flick the gears to see if it makes any difference. All of a sudden the peddles start spinning extra fast and in a panic I fall off again. I assume that I look a state as I see a group of teenagers sniggering at me across the road. Tears are pricking my eyes now, and I just want to get home.
Thankfully I arrive back at the flat without further ado.

So much for this health kick buisness, the only kick around here will be aimed at the man.

Might wait till the knees are healed first..

Housemouse

After a weekend of weddings and Bbq’s by Monday night I am more than a bit pooped. With the kiddies all in bed I am ready for a snoozy evening on the couch. To make my slouching time a touch more cosy I grab a blanket, some crisps, and the man to accompany me. Intending to not move more than an inch all night. Bliss.

Thirty seconds later I am standing on my coffee table screaming blue murder.

We have a guest, uninvited and not housetrained. A furry brown mouse has just pelted across my floor, and under the telly.

Thinking that I am actually going to vomit I stand shaking like crazy, I have never encountered one of the furry fiends before so I have never encountered this apparent irrational fear I am suffering from. I am totally unnerved by my own reaction. The man quickly suggests that I help block mousy in. I suggested something rather unprintable back at him and remain table topped. Blocking the thing in is the last thing I want to do, knocking his block off maybe.

I manage to jump down and run for our rounder’s bat. Grabbing it from the toy cupboard a million piles of cutter fall over on me. Convinced that mousy may have somehow got in there I start battering toddlers Makka Pakka. Once sure that there is no sign, with baited breath I head back into the living room to assist the man.

Two and a half hours later there is still no sign of our little friend, we decide to call it a night. The man sleeps soundly while I keep one eye open. Every squeak and creak wakes me with the fear, leaving me paralysed visualizing Marvin mouse (he looked like a Marvin) tucking into whatever discarded guard crumb he can find.

The morning arrives and I wonder how and when I managed to let my guard down to sleep. Feeling rough I head into the kitchen to discuss day two of operation mouse hunt.

One look at the blocked in TV set and I realise that this place is not big enough for the two of us. I do the only option left to me - promptly pack an away bag to my mothers.

Marvin mouse may have won the battle but he sure as hell isn’t gonna win the war. Handing the man a lump of cheese, some peanut butter and a mouse trap I assure him that he is the best guy for the job. Kids all accounted for I kiss the man goodbye and wish him luck.

Marvin, your days are numbered mate, the man is waiting. (as am I, from a safe distance) Come out come out wherever you are… I want to come home!!

Failed, failed, FAILED!

After weeks of tears sweat and pain behind the wheel, my driving test is finally upon me.

Off I totter to the Croydon test centre feeling sick to my stomach. It is no good, my nerves are in pieces.

I meet my examiner and shake hands. Looking into her eyes I hope that she will take pity on me. Into the driving seat and off I go. I try to cover my nerves by concentrating extra hard, something that has never come easy to me (unless I am shopping for clothes).

All seems to be going okay, ( apart from another learner trying to crash into me at the entrance to the test centre) I think to myself. How I wish I hadn’t. Right around the next turn is a large truck with a crane on top. Traffic is stuck all around it. Great. I manage to get by okay but am then alarmed to find that I have stalled. Fantastic. I try to take a deep breath but feel like there is no oxygen left in the car. I finally get going again but from that moment on I cannot contain my shaky hands. Or leg for that matter, why it is just the one I have no clue. My right leg is behaving nicely.

I get my first manoeuvre out of the way, but still find myself struggling to breath. This is not good. Try as I might I cannot relax and successfully manage to stall the car again. I can feel the examiner subconsciously roll her eyes at my stupidity.

Finally back at the test centre and I do a perfect reverse park. She then takes a moment to gather my fate and hit’s me with the last fatal blow.

I have FAILED.

She attempts to console me by reminding me that at least I don’t have a long journey to come and do it again. Yeah, thanks. I silently nod and contain my anger.

My instructor returns to the car and offers her condolences. Second time lucky, she reassures. I thank her and head home to smoke a packet of cigs and book a new test.

After an hour of wallowing I decide that all is not quite lost yet. I throw the empty cigarette packet in the bin and return to my sensible non smoking self.

What’s that saying?

If you don’t succeed try, try, try not to stall again?