I have renamed toddler son spider ‘boy’. Somehow at the tender age of two he has managed the art of ‘spidering’ up the inside of his cot to throw himself over the top and gain exit from nap times. On one hand I am very impressed at his new found skill, on the other I am now scared out of my mind that he will drop out onto his head.
After a particularly bad bout of bum flu ( vomiting and diarrhoea) with the end redsults leaving his mattress uninhabitable, the time really has come to introduce him to sleeping on a bed, tonight.
With the sides of his cot bed now removed and the soiled mattress now replaced I have high hope’s for toddler son. He seems excited at his new sleepnest - proceeding to climb in and out all afternoon.
By evening I am sure that after all the jumping in and out that toddler’s exhaustion will surely lead to a swift slumber. By my sixteenth attempt to persuade toddler to stay in his new bed I realise that I may have been a bit optimistic.
Finally at the 25th occasion I demonstrate to toddler by climbing into the bed myself. Awe, peace at last. Yawning I decide an early night for me, I am asleep before my head hit’s the pillow.
I wake the next morning surprised that I have not been awoke by toddler. Feeling slightly scrunched up in the foetal position I try to straighten my legs. Stubbing my feet on wood, immediately I think that my bed has shrunk. Eyes wide open, I find myself in my son’s cot bed. Dragging myself up I limp into my own bedroom to find toddler boy sound asleep on my side of the bed. The man looks up and laugh’s.
He informs me I had fallen asleep (during my demonstration) much to the distress of toddler. The man tried to wake me but apparently I was in such a deep sleep he offered toddler my space in bed as compensation.
Spider boy is victorious. He may have won this battle but this war ain’t over. (although my night’s in a cot bed sure are.)
Friday, 18 April 2008
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
Step - Hood
The journey through motherhood is a difficult one, no doubt about it. The journey through step-motherhood, now that is a whole different ball game. Like any form of motherhood there is no book, manual or guideline that you are given on being given the name. Just the evil step mother stigma.
The fact that fairytales have tarred all us step mothers with the evil brush doesn’t help either.. I have to admit, I am finding some empathy for Cinderella’s evil stepmother - no matter what move you make you are likely to end up being excluded from the ball - real mothers only. So maybe they do give me some solace.
So how would I describe it?
I guess it is like being a teenager - you think you know it all, and frankly even if you do no one will ever take you seriously until teen is removed from your age. I find the “step” part in my title often has the same effect.
Unlike the rocky road of biological parenthood you are faced with challenges and responsibly that you will never get the full credit for. Just as you think you have got over the last hurdle more often then not (in my case) the biological mother is there to hit me with another. The phrase too many cooks springs to mind.
For example, my purchase of new trendy jean’s (to stepsons delight) matching an older, smaller, pair at his mothers. This has inevitably led to an ongoing battle of ‘who’s the rightful owner‘ . (Obviously, not stepson!) The smaller pair often visit for the weekend leaving me slowly simmering at the nerve of the woman. Although to most this may seem trivial, exposed ankles are not a good look. After being plagued by a reoccurring biblical dream of us both being brought into a court -leading to a judge cutting the jean’s in two, I realise the pettiness must end and let the denim’s go.
My summary is that step-mothers bring out the worst in the mother, but one day I hope that stepson will realise the truth. That I am not the evil stepmother and of course that I bought those jeans!
The fact that fairytales have tarred all us step mothers with the evil brush doesn’t help either.. I have to admit, I am finding some empathy for Cinderella’s evil stepmother - no matter what move you make you are likely to end up being excluded from the ball - real mothers only. So maybe they do give me some solace.
So how would I describe it?
I guess it is like being a teenager - you think you know it all, and frankly even if you do no one will ever take you seriously until teen is removed from your age. I find the “step” part in my title often has the same effect.
Unlike the rocky road of biological parenthood you are faced with challenges and responsibly that you will never get the full credit for. Just as you think you have got over the last hurdle more often then not (in my case) the biological mother is there to hit me with another. The phrase too many cooks springs to mind.
For example, my purchase of new trendy jean’s (to stepsons delight) matching an older, smaller, pair at his mothers. This has inevitably led to an ongoing battle of ‘who’s the rightful owner‘ . (Obviously, not stepson!) The smaller pair often visit for the weekend leaving me slowly simmering at the nerve of the woman. Although to most this may seem trivial, exposed ankles are not a good look. After being plagued by a reoccurring biblical dream of us both being brought into a court -leading to a judge cutting the jean’s in two, I realise the pettiness must end and let the denim’s go.
My summary is that step-mothers bring out the worst in the mother, but one day I hope that stepson will realise the truth. That I am not the evil stepmother and of course that I bought those jeans!
Wax Work
Much to the man’s dismay I have given up the razor. My leg’s now resemble a bears and as for the other area, Sherwood forest does spring to mind. I have decided to let it grow not due to the sub zero temperature’s of late, or because we are too poor for new razors. Simply I am growing to prepare for the waxing of my life.
Once upon a time, way before either of my little cherub’s came along, I was a compulsive waxer. The saying “no pain, no gain” was my mantra and waxing was a monthly affair. Then the pitter patter of tiny feet arrived, as a result so did the razor blade. Pain no longer appealed after labour and shaving commenced. I ignored the fact that I had started to wear trousers more often to avoid doing that too, but once daughter darling asked if I was ever going to wear ladies clothes again I had to face facts, having fuzz was not a good look.
After a month of preparation and intense growth I am now ready. Tonight is the night and the bathroom door is locked. The man under strict instruction to avoid all interruption unless in event of a fire.
I apply the microwave wax ( recommended by friend ) to leg No. 1 Smoothing down the fabric strip I begin a breathing technique usually associated with childbirth. Counting down from three I let rip. Completely involuntary, a howl escapes from my mouth similar to a beaten animal. Composing myself after almost losing consciousness I go in for strip No. 2, reassuring self that it will not be so bad second time. The rip - howl routine continues for a further two before the man is knocking at the door.
I inform him that all is well and that I am just doing impressions of a werewolf in jest. Wiping stress tears away I proceed to do the rest biting on a towel. I do not recall previously the pain being this bad at the beauty salon concluding that self wax (harm) really is not the way to go. Forty minutes later I exit the bathroom with one de- fuzzed leg and very red face.
From now on I am leaving the waxing to the professionals and keeping the razor at the ready, although I may need some garden shears first!
Once upon a time, way before either of my little cherub’s came along, I was a compulsive waxer. The saying “no pain, no gain” was my mantra and waxing was a monthly affair. Then the pitter patter of tiny feet arrived, as a result so did the razor blade. Pain no longer appealed after labour and shaving commenced. I ignored the fact that I had started to wear trousers more often to avoid doing that too, but once daughter darling asked if I was ever going to wear ladies clothes again I had to face facts, having fuzz was not a good look.
After a month of preparation and intense growth I am now ready. Tonight is the night and the bathroom door is locked. The man under strict instruction to avoid all interruption unless in event of a fire.
I apply the microwave wax ( recommended by friend ) to leg No. 1 Smoothing down the fabric strip I begin a breathing technique usually associated with childbirth. Counting down from three I let rip. Completely involuntary, a howl escapes from my mouth similar to a beaten animal. Composing myself after almost losing consciousness I go in for strip No. 2, reassuring self that it will not be so bad second time. The rip - howl routine continues for a further two before the man is knocking at the door.
I inform him that all is well and that I am just doing impressions of a werewolf in jest. Wiping stress tears away I proceed to do the rest biting on a towel. I do not recall previously the pain being this bad at the beauty salon concluding that self wax (harm) really is not the way to go. Forty minutes later I exit the bathroom with one de- fuzzed leg and very red face.
From now on I am leaving the waxing to the professionals and keeping the razor at the ready, although I may need some garden shears first!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
