I must say that as much as my daughter and I have had hard times together , she truly is my darling, and without her I would be lost. Saying this I am finding her new found attitude problem a serious challenge. When she was born I convinced myself that she would be my mini me, only more clever more beautiful and generally an all round good egg. I looked down on her little toes and thought that I had found a true allie for life….
Forward five years, Daughter darling questions all I do, doesn’t agree with a thing I say and has just picked up the endearing habit of rolling her eyes at me.
But where would I be now without her? This question often pops into my mind. Daughter and I have sure made an impressive journey over the past five and half years, by now I was hoping that she would be the perfect little girl I had imagined that I had always been.
I call my Mom for some reassurance that she will become the sweet and innocent girl I was. Hearing her laughing on the other end of the line I think she has misheard my troubles. Once she has finished her fit of the giggles She proceeds to correct my warped memories, reminding me of screaming rows we had over the most ridiculous things. Horror sinks in as I recall how vile I was. This is all to come, I hear her smile.
Monday, 3 September 2007
Sorting
Okay, I admit I have a problem….
Before The Man moved in, my two bedroom flat was my own little sanctuary. I had little precious items in it but I felt like it was my place and therefore always ensured that all was as organised and tidy as was humanly possible. I knew that adding another two beings and their stuff to my home was going to make things tighter, but I was confident that with my tidying away skills, it would not be a problem. Infant son’s arrival incurred more stuff, but I was coping.
That is until today.
After fighting the ironing board back into the kitchen cupboard full of junk, wading through the hall cupboard for a lost shoe then looking onto the front room table too see a huge pile of The Man’s opened mail with coffee cup balancing precociously on top, I decide enough is enough.
I go into sorting mode and proceed to put everything away in what I feel are appropriate home’s for items. By lunchtime I have regained control of the situation and reward self with doughnut and tea, sandwich and biscuits for kids. Feeding time over, I return to ‘sort’ out more and decide to rearrange kitchen cupboard’s to make life more organised.
By the time Man arrives back home I have managed to moved all of front room around too for good measure. On his entrance to the room he stubs big toe on the sofa and has look of dismay on tired face. I expect some excitement at my attempt to revamp but Man just groans and enters kitchen in search of dinner. (he has become used to these outbursts of organising)
Then does it dawn on me that I have not prepared anything. For anyone. Poor starving children! I realise that they were only so quiet watching TV because they had fallen asleep waiting for food!
I quickly head for the kitchen cupboards hoping to rustle up something , leaving man to fed for self. Reaching for the cupboards everything is so organised I can’t find a thing!
Once all fed I look back at the chaos that is my kitchen… If it’s not broke don’t try to fix it springs to mind, so much for the sanctuary.
Before The Man moved in, my two bedroom flat was my own little sanctuary. I had little precious items in it but I felt like it was my place and therefore always ensured that all was as organised and tidy as was humanly possible. I knew that adding another two beings and their stuff to my home was going to make things tighter, but I was confident that with my tidying away skills, it would not be a problem. Infant son’s arrival incurred more stuff, but I was coping.
That is until today.
After fighting the ironing board back into the kitchen cupboard full of junk, wading through the hall cupboard for a lost shoe then looking onto the front room table too see a huge pile of The Man’s opened mail with coffee cup balancing precociously on top, I decide enough is enough.
I go into sorting mode and proceed to put everything away in what I feel are appropriate home’s for items. By lunchtime I have regained control of the situation and reward self with doughnut and tea, sandwich and biscuits for kids. Feeding time over, I return to ‘sort’ out more and decide to rearrange kitchen cupboard’s to make life more organised.
By the time Man arrives back home I have managed to moved all of front room around too for good measure. On his entrance to the room he stubs big toe on the sofa and has look of dismay on tired face. I expect some excitement at my attempt to revamp but Man just groans and enters kitchen in search of dinner. (he has become used to these outbursts of organising)
Then does it dawn on me that I have not prepared anything. For anyone. Poor starving children! I realise that they were only so quiet watching TV because they had fallen asleep waiting for food!
I quickly head for the kitchen cupboards hoping to rustle up something , leaving man to fed for self. Reaching for the cupboards everything is so organised I can’t find a thing!
Once all fed I look back at the chaos that is my kitchen… If it’s not broke don’t try to fix it springs to mind, so much for the sanctuary.
Brother in Law
Week one of the summer hols and I have managed to be fantastic Yummy Mummy - Daily outing’s to the park, friends over for tea and becoming the board game queen, there have been no end to my talents…but, and there is a big BUT there is only so much sticking and gluing any person can take, I had not realised that I would actually be calling for the school run to recommence so soon but little people are totally underestimated in their knackering abilities.
Just as I was beginning to show signs of serious summer holiday fatigue wonderful brother-in-law and co (currently considering sproggs) step in and offer to remove two eldest for a Friday night, promising to return my angels the following evening. What a result.
I offer them words of warning taking on the squabbling pair, but they convince me that all will be well and mucho fun. Ha Okay then. I wish them luck and settle down to no speaking child zone.
By Saturday evening I feel ready to face their cherry cheeks again, a schedule of activities prepared for following week. Arriving with noise and excitement, I gather that the escapade has been joyous for my terrible two both beaming ear to ear proclaiming that I was not missed at all, … a few moments later in stroll brother-in-law and co. By their pale complexion I can tell that they now reconsider any future plans of visiting the cabbage patch themselves. After a quick cuppa and passing the time I can see them edging towards the door, I have to suppress a giggle when they diplomatically explain how surprisingly demanding two children are. After receiving much praise for handling two plus infant I suggest they go and get a rest, not before reminding them to be back same time next week. Not wanting to hurt my feeling’s they slowly agree.
Walking to the door I thank them again and assure them that it is only a joke, once a month is sufficient. Relief and nervous laughter erupts.. “Thank god for that” they chorus , oh well worth a try methinks
Guess it will have to be more gluing, let’s hope my patience last’s the next yoghurt carton stuck to the telly!
Just as I was beginning to show signs of serious summer holiday fatigue wonderful brother-in-law and co (currently considering sproggs) step in and offer to remove two eldest for a Friday night, promising to return my angels the following evening. What a result.
I offer them words of warning taking on the squabbling pair, but they convince me that all will be well and mucho fun. Ha Okay then. I wish them luck and settle down to no speaking child zone.
By Saturday evening I feel ready to face their cherry cheeks again, a schedule of activities prepared for following week. Arriving with noise and excitement, I gather that the escapade has been joyous for my terrible two both beaming ear to ear proclaiming that I was not missed at all, … a few moments later in stroll brother-in-law and co. By their pale complexion I can tell that they now reconsider any future plans of visiting the cabbage patch themselves. After a quick cuppa and passing the time I can see them edging towards the door, I have to suppress a giggle when they diplomatically explain how surprisingly demanding two children are. After receiving much praise for handling two plus infant I suggest they go and get a rest, not before reminding them to be back same time next week. Not wanting to hurt my feeling’s they slowly agree.
Walking to the door I thank them again and assure them that it is only a joke, once a month is sufficient. Relief and nervous laughter erupts.. “Thank god for that” they chorus , oh well worth a try methinks
Guess it will have to be more gluing, let’s hope my patience last’s the next yoghurt carton stuck to the telly!
Boobies
Big ones small ones…. Saggy ones, … we all have them (kind of) and for some reason few of us have good relationships with our lady lumps.. I am no exception.
I spend all morning with Son ( loveable Lucifer we call him, as is refusing to sleep though nights and keeping the whole family awake!) then head to croydon to hunt new bra. All current bras are now too big, too grey or just too damned ugly to be shown the light of day a moment longer.
Shop assistant has an amazing pair of boobies that would make Jordan feel self conscious about breast size, let alone me! Finding a few promising lovelies I head to the changing room… please tell me what the chances are on the day that you are going to try on bras, that all curtains happen to be missing? I will tell you … if you have post preggy boobs that warrant hiding from outside opinion and nosey eyes - then pretty damn likely!
Opposite the mirror I think back to the days where I happily sunbathed topless and was even quite proud of my Pete and Percy’s…. sadly, time and babies have taken their toll on my little buddies. Days of maximum exposure over! I pull, stuff and harness myself into various bras without finding ‘the one’. My disheartened sighs lead to Busty assistant suggesting chicken filets.
Handing me the cold slabs of falseness, I feel cheated. Of all the injustices it would have to be Busty girl to offer me these in my hour of need. I lob them into the cups and look up at the mirror, Amazing! I am Jordan too! (Okay not quite…) I admire the reflection disturbed by bored crying son that has dropping his toy. Reaching down to retrieve his little friend as one of my own becomes dislodged sticking to his hair - Son cries so load that everyone turns and my secret is no more. Bright red I rapidly exit changing room leaving load laughter behind.
Chicken filets? I’m gonna stick to the frozen type thanks.
I spend all morning with Son ( loveable Lucifer we call him, as is refusing to sleep though nights and keeping the whole family awake!) then head to croydon to hunt new bra. All current bras are now too big, too grey or just too damned ugly to be shown the light of day a moment longer.
Shop assistant has an amazing pair of boobies that would make Jordan feel self conscious about breast size, let alone me! Finding a few promising lovelies I head to the changing room… please tell me what the chances are on the day that you are going to try on bras, that all curtains happen to be missing? I will tell you … if you have post preggy boobs that warrant hiding from outside opinion and nosey eyes - then pretty damn likely!
Opposite the mirror I think back to the days where I happily sunbathed topless and was even quite proud of my Pete and Percy’s…. sadly, time and babies have taken their toll on my little buddies. Days of maximum exposure over! I pull, stuff and harness myself into various bras without finding ‘the one’. My disheartened sighs lead to Busty assistant suggesting chicken filets.
Handing me the cold slabs of falseness, I feel cheated. Of all the injustices it would have to be Busty girl to offer me these in my hour of need. I lob them into the cups and look up at the mirror, Amazing! I am Jordan too! (Okay not quite…) I admire the reflection disturbed by bored crying son that has dropping his toy. Reaching down to retrieve his little friend as one of my own becomes dislodged sticking to his hair - Son cries so load that everyone turns and my secret is no more. Bright red I rapidly exit changing room leaving load laughter behind.
Chicken filets? I’m gonna stick to the frozen type thanks.
Dirty Diets
Day one in my week long challenge to stick to dodgy diet. Ensuring bottom and thighs shrink in time for looming posh wedding reception at weekend. After taking nearly two months, ten shopping trips in six different locations to find the near perfect cheap dress, the stress/comfort/pie eating has got to stop before a shoehorn is required to get me into it! It is so unfair that rain or shine a man can wear a black suit, as if being a man wasn’t easy enough. My expanding waistline has not been helped by the fact that on every one of those disappointing shopping escapades (as compensation for my lack of outfit) I had been rewarding myself with bars of chocolate. Then on finding the dress I feel a cube of Galaxy as the perfect celebration!
Yes I have just been making it harder for myself I know. But now the chocolate addiction has taken hold.. I will have to be strong.
Off I go to local supermarket screaming child in tow… I think he is feeling my pain of missing out chocolate Isle. Vegetables, tea, lentils, grapefruit juice, celery, doing well.. Have managed to distract self with amazing new washing pegs on sale. Almost done, tills in sight when out of nowhere arrives a promotions lady offering me cake. WHAT IS THAT? I politely decline patting my stomach indicating that pounds are to be watched and not the money kind, to look up and see her nodding in agreement! Cheeky cow.
Almost running to the tills to prevent encountering other messengers of the devil I rapidly unload my healthy goods onto the belt, pay and leave.
Day one two and three go smoothly if not through gritted teeth. By day four I am feeling quietly confident at my new found air and dust eating habits. That is until I make the grand diet mistake of meeting up with some ex work peoples for coffee and cake. You see I am not a moderation person, give me a slice and I want the whole cake, appreciative I say - Greed I think most people would call it. So of course I am presented with all this amazing choice of fudge and iced cupcakes. Being the weak wreak that I am I break. Unable to resist almost believing that I can hear the sugar calling me. I have not one, two, but three different cupcakes to satisfy my sugar craving. So why is it that once you crumble that somehow it is soo much easier to convince yourself that the takeaway for dinner is cool idea too. Oh dear.
I end up at square one, as I am dressing for the reception I call The man over to do up my dress. Hesitant to take up this task The Man reluctantly moves towards me hoping that I will not kill him if the zipper relents. It’s a tight squeeze but I am there.
Sighs of relief all round. I realise how unfair I have been. Poor man loves me rolls and all.
I vow to make effort to healthy eat always from now on and no more crash dieting!
Walking up the steps of the reception on our second glass of champagne I chat to a good girlfriend of mine, both our men walking ahead. The Man turns to me and points out a women at the top wearing a familiar outfit. Supposedly the Very Posh cousin of the bride. Barely able to see straight I look down on myself and see a matching dress. Laughter erupts from me, can’t be that posh if she shops in Primarni too.
What a joke. For the rest of the evening I eat canapés and sip chilled wine. Only when I feel the tightness around my boobs do I remove myself from the food and go for a boogie.
Dieting. Rubbish. Dancing, now that’s something I can do..
Yes I have just been making it harder for myself I know. But now the chocolate addiction has taken hold.. I will have to be strong.
Off I go to local supermarket screaming child in tow… I think he is feeling my pain of missing out chocolate Isle. Vegetables, tea, lentils, grapefruit juice, celery, doing well.. Have managed to distract self with amazing new washing pegs on sale. Almost done, tills in sight when out of nowhere arrives a promotions lady offering me cake. WHAT IS THAT? I politely decline patting my stomach indicating that pounds are to be watched and not the money kind, to look up and see her nodding in agreement! Cheeky cow.
Almost running to the tills to prevent encountering other messengers of the devil I rapidly unload my healthy goods onto the belt, pay and leave.
Day one two and three go smoothly if not through gritted teeth. By day four I am feeling quietly confident at my new found air and dust eating habits. That is until I make the grand diet mistake of meeting up with some ex work peoples for coffee and cake. You see I am not a moderation person, give me a slice and I want the whole cake, appreciative I say - Greed I think most people would call it. So of course I am presented with all this amazing choice of fudge and iced cupcakes. Being the weak wreak that I am I break. Unable to resist almost believing that I can hear the sugar calling me. I have not one, two, but three different cupcakes to satisfy my sugar craving. So why is it that once you crumble that somehow it is soo much easier to convince yourself that the takeaway for dinner is cool idea too. Oh dear.
I end up at square one, as I am dressing for the reception I call The man over to do up my dress. Hesitant to take up this task The Man reluctantly moves towards me hoping that I will not kill him if the zipper relents. It’s a tight squeeze but I am there.
Sighs of relief all round. I realise how unfair I have been. Poor man loves me rolls and all.
I vow to make effort to healthy eat always from now on and no more crash dieting!
Walking up the steps of the reception on our second glass of champagne I chat to a good girlfriend of mine, both our men walking ahead. The Man turns to me and points out a women at the top wearing a familiar outfit. Supposedly the Very Posh cousin of the bride. Barely able to see straight I look down on myself and see a matching dress. Laughter erupts from me, can’t be that posh if she shops in Primarni too.
What a joke. For the rest of the evening I eat canapés and sip chilled wine. Only when I feel the tightness around my boobs do I remove myself from the food and go for a boogie.
Dieting. Rubbish. Dancing, now that’s something I can do..
Sleep
Symptoms: Headache, Foot ache, Ringing in ears, Nauseous feeling in pit of stomach, loss of appetite and urge to retreat to duvet cover and hibernate.
Diagnosis: All symptoms are pointing to a heavy night out on the tiles, dancing - shouting to be heard , drinking too much Rose and then walking a mile and a half home in heels. I wish. Actually, the cause of my mysterious illness is not half as complex, or fun. Just Infant Sons new idea of routine that he no longer sees fit to adhere to.
I am starting to really believe that there is a huge conspiracy with Parenting… all the books say, children thrive on routine - that without one you will be a candidate for a visit from Super nanny, or worse if not nipped in the bud even guests on Jeremy Kyle! For five whole years I have agreed with this theory , my daughter was fantastic - in fact she responded so well to a structured day that I often mocked others at their complaints at tiredness and lack of control with a restless child… assuming that clearly they were not ensuring that the child was in a good routine. You could say I am getting payback now. Big time. I am clearly going to get a sleepless night for every time I thought my parenting skills were in the bag, that being the case I may never sleep again!
So at the moment I am cruising through my daily duties in complete daze. If interrupted from my daze I am likely to bite unsuspecting friend/child/relative’s head off whole and probably make a fair few enemies if something doesn’t change quick!
Yesterday morning even Infant son seemed to know that Mummy had issues, could have had something to do with the fact that I was attempting to spread butter on his weetabix…. The day before I had attempted to store up valuable sight energy helping my daughter dress with my eyes still closed, my backfired when I realised I had dressed her back into her Pj’s!!
My normal Patience threshold also seemed to play up today, too. My daughter singing the Lazy Town theme tune at the top of her voice which I can normally take as an endearing aspect of her personality, today seems to be jibbing at me like a woodpecker. I ask her quietly to please refrain from singing so loud - not hearing me she continues, I eventually say that she cannot sing again until bath time. The perplexed look I got back makes me wonder what kind of evil mother this sleep issue is turning me into.
Diagnosis: All symptoms are pointing to a heavy night out on the tiles, dancing - shouting to be heard , drinking too much Rose and then walking a mile and a half home in heels. I wish. Actually, the cause of my mysterious illness is not half as complex, or fun. Just Infant Sons new idea of routine that he no longer sees fit to adhere to.
I am starting to really believe that there is a huge conspiracy with Parenting… all the books say, children thrive on routine - that without one you will be a candidate for a visit from Super nanny, or worse if not nipped in the bud even guests on Jeremy Kyle! For five whole years I have agreed with this theory , my daughter was fantastic - in fact she responded so well to a structured day that I often mocked others at their complaints at tiredness and lack of control with a restless child… assuming that clearly they were not ensuring that the child was in a good routine. You could say I am getting payback now. Big time. I am clearly going to get a sleepless night for every time I thought my parenting skills were in the bag, that being the case I may never sleep again!
So at the moment I am cruising through my daily duties in complete daze. If interrupted from my daze I am likely to bite unsuspecting friend/child/relative’s head off whole and probably make a fair few enemies if something doesn’t change quick!
Yesterday morning even Infant son seemed to know that Mummy had issues, could have had something to do with the fact that I was attempting to spread butter on his weetabix…. The day before I had attempted to store up valuable sight energy helping my daughter dress with my eyes still closed, my backfired when I realised I had dressed her back into her Pj’s!!
My normal Patience threshold also seemed to play up today, too. My daughter singing the Lazy Town theme tune at the top of her voice which I can normally take as an endearing aspect of her personality, today seems to be jibbing at me like a woodpecker. I ask her quietly to please refrain from singing so loud - not hearing me she continues, I eventually say that she cannot sing again until bath time. The perplexed look I got back makes me wonder what kind of evil mother this sleep issue is turning me into.
Bikini
Have I mentioned previously that my daughter is five? Yes, five years old.. Only in reception class at school , still learning to tie her own shoelaces? Well to hear the running debate that has been going on the past week you would be forgiven for thinking she had just turned 15!
This dramatic transformation all started when she suddenly discovered (through being at a friends house) that there was such thing as bikini‘s being on sale to the under 6‘s. Oh how I have tried to hide this fact from her, not as I am totally anti them, but knowing that as soon as the truth was discovered ( and that swimming costume is due for replacement )that there would be fireworks in our house on request for a bikini - mainly being omitted by The Man.
Here’s the picture I came home to, I had been busying myself with very important nail infilling duties in croydon so had relied on The Man to take charge and ensure childcare duties were dealt with..
Darling Daughter has been to swimming and tea with a friend from school, so man has had extra few hours to untidy house and not do the washing… by the time I am walking in, the place looks like Primark on a Saturday and I can feel that the tension is not right here even if they are fearing my reaction to the mess… I turn to my daughter and ask about her day only to get puppy dog eyes and a look of injustice … certain that everyone is taking the mess too seriously, considering that all I had done is raise my eyebrows - I proceed to tell all that It’s okay - today I will not lose the plot about a bit of mess.. Quite big of me I believe.
When this broadcast has little effect I really begin to worry .. What is going on , if it is not the fear of me turning into the she devil herself, then what can be worse.. I look to The man for an explanation but I get the Nod - meaning that what he has to tell me is not for the consumption of children… okay.
I run though the golden bedtime hour of feeding bathing and dressing children for bed with a real worry in the pit of my stomach … I know that daughter Darling is going through a bit of a Veruca Salt stage but I didn’t think she would be capable of bringing The Man to this type of silent anger… Finally children are all cosy in bed and The Man sits down handing me a glass of wine… I start feeling really hot with the anticipation of what he is about to warble when amongst all my fretting I realise that he has already started speaking… ‘Wants a Bikini’ I hear … then I realise that all my fretting has been for nothing … ‘a bikini’ I ask, laughing.
Confirmed. Relief sweeps over me that this clearly has not been any of the disaster scenario’s that I had been dreaming up…like her attempting to leave home etc.
Only, clearly from the expression on The Mans face I could tell that he did not see this as any laughing matter… I start to see where this has all gone so wrong.
Here we have the classic.. Little girl wants to dress up as big lady and The Man is afraid of losing his innocent little girl. It is time for me to get him to wake up and smell the impulse, here comes the years of compromise! After an hour of battling out the pressures society puts on your women I finally manage to persuade The Man that a tankini is more than suitable.
The Man then goes to take a peek at the daughter to see if she is asleep.. Her eyes still wide open he goes in to give her a kiss on the head and tuck her in…
I watch through the door as I see his serious face explaining our decision, a small smile slowly begins to grow across her face.. Then onto his…
Outside I look down onto my new set of nails with a smile and think to myself, alls well that ends well, and of course I’m glad they made it up too!
This dramatic transformation all started when she suddenly discovered (through being at a friends house) that there was such thing as bikini‘s being on sale to the under 6‘s. Oh how I have tried to hide this fact from her, not as I am totally anti them, but knowing that as soon as the truth was discovered ( and that swimming costume is due for replacement )that there would be fireworks in our house on request for a bikini - mainly being omitted by The Man.
Here’s the picture I came home to, I had been busying myself with very important nail infilling duties in croydon so had relied on The Man to take charge and ensure childcare duties were dealt with..
Darling Daughter has been to swimming and tea with a friend from school, so man has had extra few hours to untidy house and not do the washing… by the time I am walking in, the place looks like Primark on a Saturday and I can feel that the tension is not right here even if they are fearing my reaction to the mess… I turn to my daughter and ask about her day only to get puppy dog eyes and a look of injustice … certain that everyone is taking the mess too seriously, considering that all I had done is raise my eyebrows - I proceed to tell all that It’s okay - today I will not lose the plot about a bit of mess.. Quite big of me I believe.
When this broadcast has little effect I really begin to worry .. What is going on , if it is not the fear of me turning into the she devil herself, then what can be worse.. I look to The man for an explanation but I get the Nod - meaning that what he has to tell me is not for the consumption of children… okay.
I run though the golden bedtime hour of feeding bathing and dressing children for bed with a real worry in the pit of my stomach … I know that daughter Darling is going through a bit of a Veruca Salt stage but I didn’t think she would be capable of bringing The Man to this type of silent anger… Finally children are all cosy in bed and The Man sits down handing me a glass of wine… I start feeling really hot with the anticipation of what he is about to warble when amongst all my fretting I realise that he has already started speaking… ‘Wants a Bikini’ I hear … then I realise that all my fretting has been for nothing … ‘a bikini’ I ask, laughing.
Confirmed. Relief sweeps over me that this clearly has not been any of the disaster scenario’s that I had been dreaming up…like her attempting to leave home etc.
Only, clearly from the expression on The Mans face I could tell that he did not see this as any laughing matter… I start to see where this has all gone so wrong.
Here we have the classic.. Little girl wants to dress up as big lady and The Man is afraid of losing his innocent little girl. It is time for me to get him to wake up and smell the impulse, here comes the years of compromise! After an hour of battling out the pressures society puts on your women I finally manage to persuade The Man that a tankini is more than suitable.
The Man then goes to take a peek at the daughter to see if she is asleep.. Her eyes still wide open he goes in to give her a kiss on the head and tuck her in…
I watch through the door as I see his serious face explaining our decision, a small smile slowly begins to grow across her face.. Then onto his…
Outside I look down onto my new set of nails with a smile and think to myself, alls well that ends well, and of course I’m glad they made it up too!
I.I.S
There is a serious rift between The Man and I at the moment, it has lasted two days and shows no sign of being lifted anytime soon.
No, there has not been a serious relationship crisis, adultery or the like - simply the mistake of me asking The Man to accompany me to Ikea. What a drama.
Now I am well aware like many of the weaker sex The Man suffers from a disorder known as I.I.S (Irrational Ikea Syndrome) Whereby at just the mention of the I word, starts coming out in a cold sweat and behaves as though a tic has taken over his face. Because of this I rarely make the request choosing fellow Ikea lover - my mom or best mate instead only bothering The Man as a last result. It is also well known that if your ever on the verge of breaking up Ikea will ensure that your relationship is all over by the time you are leaving the car park - inevitably with one of you walking.
Usually during my annual trips with The Man I ensure that there is purpose to the shop and that I only take the recommended 30 mins in store to prevent the Mans symptoms coming to boil… so far so good.
But this was not to be on our last visit. Hence the Hate Stares currently being exchanged.
After shoe horning him though the front entrance with the promise that lunch is on me, I managed to keep him preoccupied by allowing him to be in charge of the buggy & Infant Son. Daughter and Stepson both elsewhere to keep the mission simple. Although I did notice the odd twitch as I browsed the kitchen area, overall I was impressed that all was going to plan. With still 10 mins on the clock I have got us down to collect various goods. Good stuff.
Unbeknown to me, restocking was taking place. On arriving to the warehouse area we were delayed by forklifts and ultimately unable to proceed to relevant aisles to get bathroom cabernet - then finding the correct aisle only to see that the guy in front has the last one on his trolley. Very frustrating I know, I even considered distracting him so that The Man could steal it off the trolley. But could see that even suggesting something like that in jest could maybe not be seen as funny .
The Man’s hyperventilating and the hulk noises were starting. I got the trolley to the checkout and could see light at the end of the tills. We waited, and waited. By this point the infant son was not too impressed either, finding the washing up brushes not half as interesting as half an hour ago. Grunting and winging Like father like son!
At last we were at the tills and all ready to pay. Only my purse was not in my bag…
nor would it be in the car…a dark cloud was rapidly forming over my head as I know full well I have left it on the bed at home next to The Mans Wallet, had been preoccupied trying to find my stinking mascara!
So there we have it. I not only made him go to Ikea but I also managed to have him queue up with me for twenty minutes only to leave empty handed and with no promise of lunch.
But hay, he will cool down soon ( I hope ) and at least I found my lip balm.
Mascara still missing.
No, there has not been a serious relationship crisis, adultery or the like - simply the mistake of me asking The Man to accompany me to Ikea. What a drama.
Now I am well aware like many of the weaker sex The Man suffers from a disorder known as I.I.S (Irrational Ikea Syndrome) Whereby at just the mention of the I word, starts coming out in a cold sweat and behaves as though a tic has taken over his face. Because of this I rarely make the request choosing fellow Ikea lover - my mom or best mate instead only bothering The Man as a last result. It is also well known that if your ever on the verge of breaking up Ikea will ensure that your relationship is all over by the time you are leaving the car park - inevitably with one of you walking.
Usually during my annual trips with The Man I ensure that there is purpose to the shop and that I only take the recommended 30 mins in store to prevent the Mans symptoms coming to boil… so far so good.
But this was not to be on our last visit. Hence the Hate Stares currently being exchanged.
After shoe horning him though the front entrance with the promise that lunch is on me, I managed to keep him preoccupied by allowing him to be in charge of the buggy & Infant Son. Daughter and Stepson both elsewhere to keep the mission simple. Although I did notice the odd twitch as I browsed the kitchen area, overall I was impressed that all was going to plan. With still 10 mins on the clock I have got us down to collect various goods. Good stuff.
Unbeknown to me, restocking was taking place. On arriving to the warehouse area we were delayed by forklifts and ultimately unable to proceed to relevant aisles to get bathroom cabernet - then finding the correct aisle only to see that the guy in front has the last one on his trolley. Very frustrating I know, I even considered distracting him so that The Man could steal it off the trolley. But could see that even suggesting something like that in jest could maybe not be seen as funny .
The Man’s hyperventilating and the hulk noises were starting. I got the trolley to the checkout and could see light at the end of the tills. We waited, and waited. By this point the infant son was not too impressed either, finding the washing up brushes not half as interesting as half an hour ago. Grunting and winging Like father like son!
At last we were at the tills and all ready to pay. Only my purse was not in my bag…
nor would it be in the car…a dark cloud was rapidly forming over my head as I know full well I have left it on the bed at home next to The Mans Wallet, had been preoccupied trying to find my stinking mascara!
So there we have it. I not only made him go to Ikea but I also managed to have him queue up with me for twenty minutes only to leave empty handed and with no promise of lunch.
But hay, he will cool down soon ( I hope ) and at least I found my lip balm.
Mascara still missing.
Very Bad hair day
As many of you women will already know the road to beauty and perfection is a long tiring and expensive one. With the added pressure of ensuring that my children are dressed cleaned and looking fairly presentable I am currently the last on the list of maintenance in this house.
So my hair is now demanding immediate attention.. The roots are showing so badly that you could question if it has ever seen scissors let alone hair dye.
Right, as the monthly budget has been stretched to beyond its limit there is no use looking there for help.. One thing for it, it’s gonna have to be a home highlighter kit. Against advice of the man and friends ( I am cringing as I Type) How hard can it be methinks??
I wait for a man free evening with the kids tucked up in bed for my moment to strike.. I proceed to remove wand from packaging and mix the peroxide.. Extra courage is needed so I present myself with a glass of chardonnay to help me along the way.. Here we go…
Halfway through I get adventurous believing I have actually missed my calling as top colourist in trendy salon, I am confident enough to manage the whole of my head …big mistake - I drop splodges everywhere and have not been watching the time, was it half an hour ago or what? I don’t think that no pain no gain applies to hair colouring!
I quickly head for the bathroom cursing for doing this myself , as clearly the burning on my head cannot be a good sign. All washed and to my relief none of my barnet is away with the suds..
I towel dry and commence to blow-dry , on lifting my head to the mirror I am alarmed at the brightness of my hair, I deliberately leave hall light off as the rays from my hair are bright enough..
Keys In the door and the man is home.. For some reason I run for cover in the bedroom as the thought of the I told you so’s cannot be faced with grace at this present moment, I head for the Ghd’s and straighten within an inch of its life. There, okay slightly bright but passable.. I head for the kitchen and for judgement.
From the expression on The Man’s face it is not “ well what a success, you look fantastic!” more of a
“ Lord please remove me from this place as there has been carnage to this woman’s head and my comment could clearly mean carnage to mine!”
Ever the diplomat the man encoragly raises his eyebrows and smiles,
“ well I have always liked the retro look”
Smoothly I pour myself a large glass of wine and face the prospect of a month in a ponytail, sympathetic disapproving looks from friends and family and ultimately a complete mistake on my head.
Ever the optimist I convince myself that there has always got to me someone ready to start off a new trend.. And that any strange looks I will take as compliments. But somehow my son screaming at me on sight the next morning tells me otherwise…………
So my hair is now demanding immediate attention.. The roots are showing so badly that you could question if it has ever seen scissors let alone hair dye.
Right, as the monthly budget has been stretched to beyond its limit there is no use looking there for help.. One thing for it, it’s gonna have to be a home highlighter kit. Against advice of the man and friends ( I am cringing as I Type) How hard can it be methinks??
I wait for a man free evening with the kids tucked up in bed for my moment to strike.. I proceed to remove wand from packaging and mix the peroxide.. Extra courage is needed so I present myself with a glass of chardonnay to help me along the way.. Here we go…
Halfway through I get adventurous believing I have actually missed my calling as top colourist in trendy salon, I am confident enough to manage the whole of my head …big mistake - I drop splodges everywhere and have not been watching the time, was it half an hour ago or what? I don’t think that no pain no gain applies to hair colouring!
I quickly head for the bathroom cursing for doing this myself , as clearly the burning on my head cannot be a good sign. All washed and to my relief none of my barnet is away with the suds..
I towel dry and commence to blow-dry , on lifting my head to the mirror I am alarmed at the brightness of my hair, I deliberately leave hall light off as the rays from my hair are bright enough..
Keys In the door and the man is home.. For some reason I run for cover in the bedroom as the thought of the I told you so’s cannot be faced with grace at this present moment, I head for the Ghd’s and straighten within an inch of its life. There, okay slightly bright but passable.. I head for the kitchen and for judgement.
From the expression on The Man’s face it is not “ well what a success, you look fantastic!” more of a
“ Lord please remove me from this place as there has been carnage to this woman’s head and my comment could clearly mean carnage to mine!”
Ever the diplomat the man encoragly raises his eyebrows and smiles,
“ well I have always liked the retro look”
Smoothly I pour myself a large glass of wine and face the prospect of a month in a ponytail, sympathetic disapproving looks from friends and family and ultimately a complete mistake on my head.
Ever the optimist I convince myself that there has always got to me someone ready to start off a new trend.. And that any strange looks I will take as compliments. But somehow my son screaming at me on sight the next morning tells me otherwise…………
Reunion
Oh here we go.
Clever me has taken up chatting to old school friends on stupid addictive internet site. Face book.
I have some how been influenced by old school friend to join conversation with other long lost school friends over internet site.. What’s the harm, lets see what we have all been up to over the last ten years.. Bit of nosey fun methinks. Methinks wrong. I am now scheduled to attend a Reunion.
Now this should again, just be harmless fun right? Yes? Maybe if I went to a normal comprehensive with normal average people, I can see how a catch-up could be great , but no you see. I don’t know if I should be Proud or ashamed to admit this but I attended a Private Convent Boarding school a million miles away from my heavenly croydon somewhere past a really big field. I attended this privilege with other shall we say even more privileged people all of which have excelled in their careers, life, image etc.
Although never unpopular I hasten to add , unlike many of my classmates I was always on the lookout for more excitement.
Hence me = no degree, 2 ½ children and no swimming pool , drinks wine on discount.
Them = All childless, all further educated career driven and frankly quite scarily independent women with swimming pools filled with champagne.
Now believe me I am proud of attending the university of life and am very content with my lot thanks, But there is something very intimidating about meeting them all again in one room that is not the school common room and therefore having to reintroduce myself as a grown woman.
No longer can I be miss where’s the excitement, or laugh at those who mocked my imminent stardom and pity them for not seeing my potential. Sadly the stardom boat has sunk when I grasped the reality of competition! And excitement for me now is getting to Tiger occasionally without Rusk in my hair!
To add to my distress there is the rather large fact that I have stupidly exaggerated my success and beauty in conversation with these old chums ( as you do? Don’t you?) therefore serious action is required to amend these white lies.. Yes I know. I am a Div. The darling issue of nothing to wear and roots that are coming out of my head like overgrown weeds, really is the least of my worries!
Must proceed to do dodgy exercise video at least twice a week and take up running, all to visually enhance myself before reunion. I persuade The Man to invest in a new tracksuit for me with the promise that by the end of the month he will be married to fittest ( in both sense of the word) woman in Corydon, no, South London.. Ha ha..
Have agreed with friends and family that maybe I am taking the reunion too seriously, as why does any of this matter anyways?
Yes, well easier said than done…14days and six hours to go…my sense of Yummy ness will not let me fail… bring it on!
Clever me has taken up chatting to old school friends on stupid addictive internet site. Face book.
I have some how been influenced by old school friend to join conversation with other long lost school friends over internet site.. What’s the harm, lets see what we have all been up to over the last ten years.. Bit of nosey fun methinks. Methinks wrong. I am now scheduled to attend a Reunion.
Now this should again, just be harmless fun right? Yes? Maybe if I went to a normal comprehensive with normal average people, I can see how a catch-up could be great , but no you see. I don’t know if I should be Proud or ashamed to admit this but I attended a Private Convent Boarding school a million miles away from my heavenly croydon somewhere past a really big field. I attended this privilege with other shall we say even more privileged people all of which have excelled in their careers, life, image etc.
Although never unpopular I hasten to add , unlike many of my classmates I was always on the lookout for more excitement.
Hence me = no degree, 2 ½ children and no swimming pool , drinks wine on discount.
Them = All childless, all further educated career driven and frankly quite scarily independent women with swimming pools filled with champagne.
Now believe me I am proud of attending the university of life and am very content with my lot thanks, But there is something very intimidating about meeting them all again in one room that is not the school common room and therefore having to reintroduce myself as a grown woman.
No longer can I be miss where’s the excitement, or laugh at those who mocked my imminent stardom and pity them for not seeing my potential. Sadly the stardom boat has sunk when I grasped the reality of competition! And excitement for me now is getting to Tiger occasionally without Rusk in my hair!
To add to my distress there is the rather large fact that I have stupidly exaggerated my success and beauty in conversation with these old chums ( as you do? Don’t you?) therefore serious action is required to amend these white lies.. Yes I know. I am a Div. The darling issue of nothing to wear and roots that are coming out of my head like overgrown weeds, really is the least of my worries!
Must proceed to do dodgy exercise video at least twice a week and take up running, all to visually enhance myself before reunion. I persuade The Man to invest in a new tracksuit for me with the promise that by the end of the month he will be married to fittest ( in both sense of the word) woman in Corydon, no, South London.. Ha ha..
Have agreed with friends and family that maybe I am taking the reunion too seriously, as why does any of this matter anyways?
Yes, well easier said than done…14days and six hours to go…my sense of Yummy ness will not let me fail… bring it on!
Back to work
Due to my contract terms with my previous employer, a condition in taking maternity leave were that I would need to return to work for one calendar month before proceeding with my career break..
Fine okay. Plans were put in place for The Man to take annual leave to care for my two Angels and that in effect our roles would reverse for this month of duty..
Well, well how this time would enlighten me to the life of a working woman with a stay at home Dad. Totally Yummy methinks.
Of course I would now be expecting The Man to perform this job to the same standard of the previous employee (me) and ensure that the running of the home is smooth and obviously as immaculate as I manage week on week … Little did I know what a tall order this would be…
The Man’s first reaction to the bullet point daily schedule that I had presented him with was a smile and laugh with the attitude that I was plain mad and obviously have too much time on my hands to have complied this home aid for his use. Clearly he thought that Child/home responsibilities were going to be a doddle. Punk
I must admit the first week I was in my element. As was He. No more night shifts for me seeing to Infant son, and thankfully no more small chat with the other parents at the school gate.. I was a real grown up again.. Ignoring the fact that no cleaning or washing seemed to be moving and that The Man had clearly given up shaving - getting to wear tidy suits and flawless make up made up for these niggles.. Life felt good. At the end of the day kisses were planted on my cheeks by my Angels and off to bed they went.
Oh how easy.
By the second week The Man was starting to show signs that the “Dad at home” novelty was wearing thin.. Bags under eyes and a new dishevelled look, The Man was not happy. Nor were the family wardrobes, by now we were all pulling on the back of cupboard reserves as all decent clothing was in overflowing wash basket. Admittedly I couldn’t help my smugness at his impending decent from ‘cocky Man thinks staying at home is easy’ stance. But I begin to worry as son seems to be wearing daughters pjs.
Week three and four I receive constant text’s from the Man exclaiming my brilliance at childcare/cleaning and pleas for him to go back to work.. All of course I relished in.. but I have to say it, the novelty for me was wearing thin too… I had began to hate fellow commuters again and I am ashamed to say was begrudging pushchair users for travelling before nine narrowing my eyes as they rolled over my kitten heels … Yes I wanted the dirty nappies back.. the normal rational husband…and of course the ballet pumps.
On my return home I am cruel… I lead the wreck of a man into believing that I like the change and suggest that we both work part time to share the childcare… he promptly turns a shade of green that only sambuca can usually achieve.. I take pity and advise The Man that he is off the hook and that I will return to normal duties with the precaution that there is a lesson learnt from his time as ‘Me’ The Man returns to usual colour and showers me with compliments..
What a result… Yummy me? Apparently!
Fine okay. Plans were put in place for The Man to take annual leave to care for my two Angels and that in effect our roles would reverse for this month of duty..
Well, well how this time would enlighten me to the life of a working woman with a stay at home Dad. Totally Yummy methinks.
Of course I would now be expecting The Man to perform this job to the same standard of the previous employee (me) and ensure that the running of the home is smooth and obviously as immaculate as I manage week on week … Little did I know what a tall order this would be…
The Man’s first reaction to the bullet point daily schedule that I had presented him with was a smile and laugh with the attitude that I was plain mad and obviously have too much time on my hands to have complied this home aid for his use. Clearly he thought that Child/home responsibilities were going to be a doddle. Punk
I must admit the first week I was in my element. As was He. No more night shifts for me seeing to Infant son, and thankfully no more small chat with the other parents at the school gate.. I was a real grown up again.. Ignoring the fact that no cleaning or washing seemed to be moving and that The Man had clearly given up shaving - getting to wear tidy suits and flawless make up made up for these niggles.. Life felt good. At the end of the day kisses were planted on my cheeks by my Angels and off to bed they went.
Oh how easy.
By the second week The Man was starting to show signs that the “Dad at home” novelty was wearing thin.. Bags under eyes and a new dishevelled look, The Man was not happy. Nor were the family wardrobes, by now we were all pulling on the back of cupboard reserves as all decent clothing was in overflowing wash basket. Admittedly I couldn’t help my smugness at his impending decent from ‘cocky Man thinks staying at home is easy’ stance. But I begin to worry as son seems to be wearing daughters pjs.
Week three and four I receive constant text’s from the Man exclaiming my brilliance at childcare/cleaning and pleas for him to go back to work.. All of course I relished in.. but I have to say it, the novelty for me was wearing thin too… I had began to hate fellow commuters again and I am ashamed to say was begrudging pushchair users for travelling before nine narrowing my eyes as they rolled over my kitten heels … Yes I wanted the dirty nappies back.. the normal rational husband…and of course the ballet pumps.
On my return home I am cruel… I lead the wreck of a man into believing that I like the change and suggest that we both work part time to share the childcare… he promptly turns a shade of green that only sambuca can usually achieve.. I take pity and advise The Man that he is off the hook and that I will return to normal duties with the precaution that there is a lesson learnt from his time as ‘Me’ The Man returns to usual colour and showers me with compliments..
What a result… Yummy me? Apparently!
Museum
As both eldest are off school today for teachers training, I have planned an exciting trip to London’s natural history museum. This is cultured, educational, interesting and maybe even something to boast about. Yes me, the one who finds co coordinating a journey to central croydon with one child a mission has decided that single handedly I will educated and stimulate my little angels with something greater than the local park today. Then to return home before rush hour with plenty time to cook for the man before his arrival home. Perfect plans for perfect day.
Now please bear in mind that in my previous life I did commute though rush hour on a daily bases therefore consider myself a pro. Three kids London return no probs.
I leave East Croydon prepared, calm and even maybe enjoying the company of these little people.
On arrival at Victoria I soon realise that I may have underestimated the difficultly that would be presented to me -a load of big fat dirty stairs. Well of course these things had not been an issue in my previous career as I skipped and hopped my way to work up and down them. I could now see that baby in pushchair would not be partaking in this pastime with me, suddenly I remembered falling out with them during the last few months of my pregnancy and often cursing them one by one wrenching my lump of a bump amongst them. While this all flashes though my mind I smile at the passing commuters as though I am completely in controlled just composing myself in all my yumminess ( made special effort with make up this morn! Trendy chic is today’s look )
After a fair bit of sweat and clenching teeth we mount the circle line and thankfully arrive at south ken unscathed. Children are still finding whole thing a huge adventure but are becoming concerned with mummy’s strange noises and sweat patches. Not to worry the museum is in sight. As we walk up to the main entrance I smugly laugh at all those parents that would be dragging their kids up here next week during the chaos of half term, there is a straight walk to the entrance no quos, no agro, I have struck gold.
After two long hours I manage to prize my big ones (kids) away from the stuffed ferrets to retreat to a café for lunch. On arrival to our table I finally see the first mirror mounting the opposite wall since applying my trendy/chic make up, I laugh at the reflection believing some other monster must be walking behind me, only to realise the stinking refection would actually be me. From the pushchair escapade earlier my sopistacat look sadly was more on my neck than my face and the well ghd’ed locks now resembled the “dragged though bush backwards look” only without the twigs or trend. The children chow down while I attempt to recreate some sort of normal composure.
Amazingly we make it home in one piece, me vowing to offload smallest and pushchair elsewhere on future adventures. We find The Man leaning sadly into the fridge looking at watch puzzled as to where dinner plate may lie. Acknowledging our arrival his eyebrows raise two inches only to attempt to return to normal on seeing my interesting facial collage. I can see the urge in him to ask about dinner but the fear of sending me over edge as a result preventing the words exiting, instead offers of fish and chips. Gold Star to The Man Yummy.
Now please bear in mind that in my previous life I did commute though rush hour on a daily bases therefore consider myself a pro. Three kids London return no probs.
I leave East Croydon prepared, calm and even maybe enjoying the company of these little people.
On arrival at Victoria I soon realise that I may have underestimated the difficultly that would be presented to me -a load of big fat dirty stairs. Well of course these things had not been an issue in my previous career as I skipped and hopped my way to work up and down them. I could now see that baby in pushchair would not be partaking in this pastime with me, suddenly I remembered falling out with them during the last few months of my pregnancy and often cursing them one by one wrenching my lump of a bump amongst them. While this all flashes though my mind I smile at the passing commuters as though I am completely in controlled just composing myself in all my yumminess ( made special effort with make up this morn! Trendy chic is today’s look )
After a fair bit of sweat and clenching teeth we mount the circle line and thankfully arrive at south ken unscathed. Children are still finding whole thing a huge adventure but are becoming concerned with mummy’s strange noises and sweat patches. Not to worry the museum is in sight. As we walk up to the main entrance I smugly laugh at all those parents that would be dragging their kids up here next week during the chaos of half term, there is a straight walk to the entrance no quos, no agro, I have struck gold.
After two long hours I manage to prize my big ones (kids) away from the stuffed ferrets to retreat to a café for lunch. On arrival to our table I finally see the first mirror mounting the opposite wall since applying my trendy/chic make up, I laugh at the reflection believing some other monster must be walking behind me, only to realise the stinking refection would actually be me. From the pushchair escapade earlier my sopistacat look sadly was more on my neck than my face and the well ghd’ed locks now resembled the “dragged though bush backwards look” only without the twigs or trend. The children chow down while I attempt to recreate some sort of normal composure.
Amazingly we make it home in one piece, me vowing to offload smallest and pushchair elsewhere on future adventures. We find The Man leaning sadly into the fridge looking at watch puzzled as to where dinner plate may lie. Acknowledging our arrival his eyebrows raise two inches only to attempt to return to normal on seeing my interesting facial collage. I can see the urge in him to ask about dinner but the fear of sending me over edge as a result preventing the words exiting, instead offers of fish and chips. Gold Star to The Man Yummy.
P.E Kit
Right not a problem, Friday has rolled around yet again so fast that I could believe it’s got a grudge.
PE at school and not a kit to be found in this pit we call our home.
Of course in the book of yummy this would be ironed bagged and smelling fresh as a daisy, but yet again this task seemed to be overlooked as I lunched yesterday and now daughter looks at me as though I am complete failure as standard mummy let alone yummy. It is 7:45 I recover kit from wash basket and have sinking feeling that with all attempts will not be smelling like daisy today. Resolve problem by finding clean clothing that resembles PE kit, make peace with daughter by promising fairy cake session after school and then move on to mirror.
Okay refection is not kind today and feel that only option is to cover with make up quick… 8:10 and feel on top of things when 11 month old chooses to vomit, husband surfaces with face like thunder as did night shift. Change son, we are out the door…
Manage to arrive at school in record stomping time, kiss daughter goodbye then on to croydon.
Today sadly my quest is not to entertain my son with books and educate but to hit shops in an attempt to find yummy outfit for a ( rare ) night out in croydon with girl Friends tonight.
Now I really do feel that when I comes to shops croydon has seriously got it, king’s road ? blue water ? No give me croydon any day the choice is vast in fact on this particular day too vast . I spin round the whit gift occasionally stopping to chat with various random others but to no joy.. Off to central.
Find dress and attempt to squeeze buggy into changing room. Get hot and give up. Dress to expensive anyway…walk to surrey street and get nails done instead , I must admit with all that I have let slip on my road to motherhood shallowly nails has not been one of them. Yeah that was me at mayday with my newborn and fresh nails, come on I am from croydon … but on the up side nails must give me points towards my pending yummy ness?
Head back home for the feeding of the son , on arrival at front door have argument with pushchair, brake a fresh nail, buggy wins battle - but war not over.
Have safe domesticated afternoon with son and collect daughter from school with ease. Have prepared cake materials before hand and feel quite smug with my organised yumminess.
Correction Forgot to get flour in croydon , yummy ness erased.
The man arrives home , I manage a whirlwind and children are in bed.
Minus a nail and some flour not a bad day , get ready and exit home to meet childless friends in tiger
Look okay.. Rusk in hair from son but don’t realise until too late and barmaid is pointing mouthing “yummy”.
PE at school and not a kit to be found in this pit we call our home.
Of course in the book of yummy this would be ironed bagged and smelling fresh as a daisy, but yet again this task seemed to be overlooked as I lunched yesterday and now daughter looks at me as though I am complete failure as standard mummy let alone yummy. It is 7:45 I recover kit from wash basket and have sinking feeling that with all attempts will not be smelling like daisy today. Resolve problem by finding clean clothing that resembles PE kit, make peace with daughter by promising fairy cake session after school and then move on to mirror.
Okay refection is not kind today and feel that only option is to cover with make up quick… 8:10 and feel on top of things when 11 month old chooses to vomit, husband surfaces with face like thunder as did night shift. Change son, we are out the door…
Manage to arrive at school in record stomping time, kiss daughter goodbye then on to croydon.
Today sadly my quest is not to entertain my son with books and educate but to hit shops in an attempt to find yummy outfit for a ( rare ) night out in croydon with girl Friends tonight.
Now I really do feel that when I comes to shops croydon has seriously got it, king’s road ? blue water ? No give me croydon any day the choice is vast in fact on this particular day too vast . I spin round the whit gift occasionally stopping to chat with various random others but to no joy.. Off to central.
Find dress and attempt to squeeze buggy into changing room. Get hot and give up. Dress to expensive anyway…walk to surrey street and get nails done instead , I must admit with all that I have let slip on my road to motherhood shallowly nails has not been one of them. Yeah that was me at mayday with my newborn and fresh nails, come on I am from croydon … but on the up side nails must give me points towards my pending yummy ness?
Head back home for the feeding of the son , on arrival at front door have argument with pushchair, brake a fresh nail, buggy wins battle - but war not over.
Have safe domesticated afternoon with son and collect daughter from school with ease. Have prepared cake materials before hand and feel quite smug with my organised yumminess.
Correction Forgot to get flour in croydon , yummy ness erased.
The man arrives home , I manage a whirlwind and children are in bed.
Minus a nail and some flour not a bad day , get ready and exit home to meet childless friends in tiger
Look okay.. Rusk in hair from son but don’t realise until too late and barmaid is pointing mouthing “yummy”.
Recovering
Okay, I am getting quite lost in my new Profession. This career change has not worked out to be as smooth a transition as I had planned. Now I had hoped in my training to be Yummy that I would come across some sort of guide to being a mother, you know top tips to succeed. Well I haven’t, and by the day it seems that I am in continuous recovery. Let me explain..
I was a teenage mum, you know, the classic (I think) been dating guy for while - think that I am invincible of the pregnancy disease only to discover pregnancy can be caught by sitting on dodgy chair. Only kidding, obviously I was not careful enough and low and behold my life was turned upside down.
My beautiful daughter arrives and Her Dad decides to go. Tragic, no afraid not, pretty standard I would say.
Any way as I emerged as a new teenage- single- mother, there was light at the end of that subway for me… I like to think I became a “recovering” teenage mother, growing and embracing the role that I had decided to enlist myself to. I became slightly wiser and could finally ditch the “teenage” off my title, but not yet the stigma as I still looked quite young. Right, so I became the Single mum, working full time thankfully and making my way though the first years of my daughters life.. Time moves on and it comes about, that the time is right to recover from my singlemotherdom and look towards a growing new relationship with The Man himself….great, am no longer teenager, am no longer single am now credible mother? Don’t be silly Now my title is step-mum. Am I destined to always be a double barrelled mother??
So during all this you would think that though my need to prove myself, by reading up on half the parenting books ever known to Croydon Library by gaining my step son and ultimately by going to the cabbage patch again through choice, that I would have half a clue to what this full time motherhood requires.
Nope, only that whatever it means I want to love , care and educate them… but by also staying trendy sassy and not beyond my years, therefore a tad Yummy.
Do you know I am actually perking myself up, that has got to be a sign of maturity?
So is my quest for yummy hood all a sad cover up for the fact that I have “Missed out” or that I am “Making up for lost materialistic youth”? should I allow myself to aim for another double barrelled existence to recover from?
Yeah why not!! Better to regret something you’ve done and all that, while ballet slippers are still in fashion and pointy boots still fit under the buggy I have got give it a go.
I was a teenage mum, you know, the classic (I think) been dating guy for while - think that I am invincible of the pregnancy disease only to discover pregnancy can be caught by sitting on dodgy chair. Only kidding, obviously I was not careful enough and low and behold my life was turned upside down.
My beautiful daughter arrives and Her Dad decides to go. Tragic, no afraid not, pretty standard I would say.
Any way as I emerged as a new teenage- single- mother, there was light at the end of that subway for me… I like to think I became a “recovering” teenage mother, growing and embracing the role that I had decided to enlist myself to. I became slightly wiser and could finally ditch the “teenage” off my title, but not yet the stigma as I still looked quite young. Right, so I became the Single mum, working full time thankfully and making my way though the first years of my daughters life.. Time moves on and it comes about, that the time is right to recover from my singlemotherdom and look towards a growing new relationship with The Man himself….great, am no longer teenager, am no longer single am now credible mother? Don’t be silly Now my title is step-mum. Am I destined to always be a double barrelled mother??
So during all this you would think that though my need to prove myself, by reading up on half the parenting books ever known to Croydon Library by gaining my step son and ultimately by going to the cabbage patch again through choice, that I would have half a clue to what this full time motherhood requires.
Nope, only that whatever it means I want to love , care and educate them… but by also staying trendy sassy and not beyond my years, therefore a tad Yummy.
Do you know I am actually perking myself up, that has got to be a sign of maturity?
So is my quest for yummy hood all a sad cover up for the fact that I have “Missed out” or that I am “Making up for lost materialistic youth”? should I allow myself to aim for another double barrelled existence to recover from?
Yeah why not!! Better to regret something you’ve done and all that, while ballet slippers are still in fashion and pointy boots still fit under the buggy I have got give it a go.
Sunday, 2 September 2007
Well this is She...
Here we go… 25 yr old female, wife, mother of two and a half seeks sanity and refuge in exposing her quest to become yummy mummy.
Now I know this may sound crazy being that I have been a mother in name for the past five years but on the arrival of my second child I have finally decided to become the organised well groomed woman that I know deep down I have been destined to be since my own birth.. (just haven’t got round to being!) also the fact that my firstborn arrived unplanned to me as a croydon facelift teenager now is time to prove all the critics wrong that as a teenage mother living in the borough it isn’t all rose but we can be yummy with the best of them..
So what are my aims??
Well as always to attempt to rise early perform near miracle with make up and emerge from my home for the school run appearing flawless and escorting two angels effortlessly. Now note that my second born is now 18 months and has an obsession with rusks - sadly this is not as easy as it sounds.
Reality is running out of the door in less than co coordinated clothing, Rusk attached to unbrushed croydon facelift children in tow begging for mercy at my frantic pace…please tell me I am not alone..
You see us Croydon mums, regardless of age are clearly under pressure to be glam city luvvys, with the elegance of the surrey etiquette. Sadly I think that I for one end up being a bit of a crazy looking trendy hillbilly.
Once the school run (literally) is over my next task is to head to central croydon on a mission to educate my son in croydon library. ( the children’s books are great!) on arrival my son claims that he is not feeling up to Julia Donaldson and the gruffleo and more up to a gruff and a sleep. So there I sit children’s section reading books to myself.
On leaving the library I am not defeated in my mission to be yummy, I promptly move on to be a lady that lunches while feeding son with another of my yummy friends. we head to the closest most child friendly spot for a coffee and a chat only for my friends child to parade as though auditioning for a role on super nanny, lying on the floor and screaming “happy meal now!“ I smile with sympathy and am eager to remove myself from this very un-yummy situation.. not good. It is now time to run again before my daughter is last at the gate.
Okay so today not so yummy but there is always tomorrow.. As for being yummy tonight the man (husband) is expecting a clean shirt for work tom, Stepson has arrived for the weekend and dinner is to be arranged. Rusk has also taken over front room rug..Oh then maybe I’ll wash my hair…
Now I know this may sound crazy being that I have been a mother in name for the past five years but on the arrival of my second child I have finally decided to become the organised well groomed woman that I know deep down I have been destined to be since my own birth.. (just haven’t got round to being!) also the fact that my firstborn arrived unplanned to me as a croydon facelift teenager now is time to prove all the critics wrong that as a teenage mother living in the borough it isn’t all rose but we can be yummy with the best of them..
So what are my aims??
Well as always to attempt to rise early perform near miracle with make up and emerge from my home for the school run appearing flawless and escorting two angels effortlessly. Now note that my second born is now 18 months and has an obsession with rusks - sadly this is not as easy as it sounds.
Reality is running out of the door in less than co coordinated clothing, Rusk attached to unbrushed croydon facelift children in tow begging for mercy at my frantic pace…please tell me I am not alone..
You see us Croydon mums, regardless of age are clearly under pressure to be glam city luvvys, with the elegance of the surrey etiquette. Sadly I think that I for one end up being a bit of a crazy looking trendy hillbilly.
Once the school run (literally) is over my next task is to head to central croydon on a mission to educate my son in croydon library. ( the children’s books are great!) on arrival my son claims that he is not feeling up to Julia Donaldson and the gruffleo and more up to a gruff and a sleep. So there I sit children’s section reading books to myself.
On leaving the library I am not defeated in my mission to be yummy, I promptly move on to be a lady that lunches while feeding son with another of my yummy friends. we head to the closest most child friendly spot for a coffee and a chat only for my friends child to parade as though auditioning for a role on super nanny, lying on the floor and screaming “happy meal now!“ I smile with sympathy and am eager to remove myself from this very un-yummy situation.. not good. It is now time to run again before my daughter is last at the gate.
Okay so today not so yummy but there is always tomorrow.. As for being yummy tonight the man (husband) is expecting a clean shirt for work tom, Stepson has arrived for the weekend and dinner is to be arranged. Rusk has also taken over front room rug..Oh then maybe I’ll wash my hair…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
