It is the new theme of D's life at the moment. Bruises. Ah, the heavy price to pay of being able to toddle.
The particularly nasty one is the enormous shiner that he now has gracing his right eyelid, thanks to a head-on collision with the corner of the coffee table the other day. He looks like some sort of wounded little prize fighter and I dread to think what other people are thinking when they see him - I feel like I might as well be wearing a huge flashing sign that says 'yep, I'm one of those BASTARDS who abuses her child' or something similar. I was tempted to fashion him an eye patch in a piratey sort of style, or even just sticking a plaster over it, so people would presume he'd had some sort of surgical procedure instead, but then I realised that was a bit silly. So I endured the disapproving looks. Not for the first time either (lashings of guilt, oh god, am I a shite parent? Argh!!!)
The bruised buttocks were courtesy of him insisting he could walk unassisted in the park yesterday, despite at that present moment toddling down a fairly steep hill - and then falling on to his knees then his bum. It actually was ever so slightly comedic, it really reminded me of the old Flintstone's cartoons, you know, when Fred Flintstone is about to run, and his legs just whirl maniacally round on the spot before he sprints off? It was exactly the same with D. He just needed to shriek out 'yabadabadoo' to complete the image. Oh yeah, and to actually stay on his feet, rather than doing a prat fall into a huge squidgy pile of mud.
And while D suddenly has found all this amazing energy, I seem to have lost all mine totally. Even dragging myself down up the stairs is too much of an effort. Seriously. I didn't actually bother wearing socks yesterday morning, because I couldn't be arsed to go up to the bedroom. So instead, I got really uncomfortable damp feet in my boots when we went out for our morning trudge, and got really painful blisters. See also, not bothering to clean the sink, even though it was actually swimming in grubby little bits of days old mashed potato and horrid little snaggy bits of canned tomato. And also, not bothering to sew up the sleeve on my cardigan, which now gapes open from my wrist right up to my elbow. Yes, I am still wearing it as well. I'm wearing it right now, for the third day in a row. Do you know why? Because I can't be bothered to wear anything else. Oh dear oh dear. It probably smells as well.
Right, I'd better drag myself off the sofa and play with poor old D, who is being most understanding throughout this severe period of maternal inactivity. He might just implode with frustration if I keep it up much longer though...
Friday, 5 November 2010
Friday, 15 October 2010
14th October - Things they just don't warn you about...
Now I knew that baby nappies (or more specifically, the contents of them) were not pleasant things.
I was never under any illusion about that -right from the first tarry poo that we discovered in his little newborn pants (they warn you about that one - and my word, they are right to...it's a shocker. Truly Hammer horror style.) They even give you a little sheet, with lots of photos of what your newborn baby's poop will look like throughout the first few weeks. It's a conversation I never thought I'd have with my husband; peering keenly into Danny's nappy whilst commenting that 'my word, we'd entered the peanut butter stage earlier than anticipated.'
However, they don't tell you about teething poos. I had no idea that teething could affect the contents of his nappy quite so drastically. Put it like this. We use non-disposibles. Normally, I can flick the contents deftly down the toilet and have done with it. Not so with these VILE teething poos. Oh no. I have to get reams and reams of bog roll and scrape the sod off - getting it all under my nails at the same time, whilst trying to balance the nappy precariously on the top of the cistern. And desperately wishing I had a free hand to pinch my nostrils shut, so they weren't exposed to the hideous aromas wafting upwards into them.
Plus he seems to do about twenty a day at the moment. Hence my nails have been cut extremely short.
Which leads me on to compile a list of things they don't tell you about being a mum - right from the word go. Read it and weep.
1) Some babies don't actually need much sleep. Danny, of course, being one of them. The books all gaily promise you 18 hours a day to begin with. Hmm. Try 10, if that. Hence a very tired pair of parents.
2) Some babies don't actually like food. Again, yes, Danny was one of them. Cue pureed brocolli hitting the wall, and mother in floods of tears, banging her fists in despondency over the kitchen sink. Annabel Karmel cheerfully narrates how 'baby will love sweet potatoes, butternut squash and sweetcorn'. One word for you, Karmel. Liar.
3) Some babies don't like wearing clothes. We have the same ritual every day, of Danny squarking and shrieking and writhing around as though we were trying to kill him, simply because we were attempting to get a t shirt over his head. See also - wearing nappies. The amount of time Danny has been wriggling like a maniac, then body slammed with all his might into a poo, splattering it all over the change mat and himself. Ugh.
4) Children's tv programmes are hideous. They don't warn you about this one. Good god they are awful. Seriously, if you want to feel like a character from 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest' in one half hour - watch In The Night Garden. Surely designed to make one feel as though their brain is slowly being sucked out through their ears. Narrated by Derek Jacobi no less. Jacobi, you corporate whore.
Danny can't get enough of it though. He bounces so hard in front of In The Night Garden and flaps his arms so frantically that he almost takes off. I wouldn't actually be surprised one day to see him suddenly launch off like a bird and go flying round the room before roosting on top of the bookshelf to watch it from there.
5) Not to mention all the things they don't tell you about pregnancy. Don't even get me started. Health visitors and doctors owe it to us all to tell us these vitally important things, so that gullible morons such as myself are prepared for the onslaught.
Awww...I'm only kidding. He's a little star really...
I was never under any illusion about that -right from the first tarry poo that we discovered in his little newborn pants (they warn you about that one - and my word, they are right to...it's a shocker. Truly Hammer horror style.) They even give you a little sheet, with lots of photos of what your newborn baby's poop will look like throughout the first few weeks. It's a conversation I never thought I'd have with my husband; peering keenly into Danny's nappy whilst commenting that 'my word, we'd entered the peanut butter stage earlier than anticipated.'
However, they don't tell you about teething poos. I had no idea that teething could affect the contents of his nappy quite so drastically. Put it like this. We use non-disposibles. Normally, I can flick the contents deftly down the toilet and have done with it. Not so with these VILE teething poos. Oh no. I have to get reams and reams of bog roll and scrape the sod off - getting it all under my nails at the same time, whilst trying to balance the nappy precariously on the top of the cistern. And desperately wishing I had a free hand to pinch my nostrils shut, so they weren't exposed to the hideous aromas wafting upwards into them.
Plus he seems to do about twenty a day at the moment. Hence my nails have been cut extremely short.
Which leads me on to compile a list of things they don't tell you about being a mum - right from the word go. Read it and weep.
1) Some babies don't actually need much sleep. Danny, of course, being one of them. The books all gaily promise you 18 hours a day to begin with. Hmm. Try 10, if that. Hence a very tired pair of parents.
2) Some babies don't actually like food. Again, yes, Danny was one of them. Cue pureed brocolli hitting the wall, and mother in floods of tears, banging her fists in despondency over the kitchen sink. Annabel Karmel cheerfully narrates how 'baby will love sweet potatoes, butternut squash and sweetcorn'. One word for you, Karmel. Liar.
3) Some babies don't like wearing clothes. We have the same ritual every day, of Danny squarking and shrieking and writhing around as though we were trying to kill him, simply because we were attempting to get a t shirt over his head. See also - wearing nappies. The amount of time Danny has been wriggling like a maniac, then body slammed with all his might into a poo, splattering it all over the change mat and himself. Ugh.
4) Children's tv programmes are hideous. They don't warn you about this one. Good god they are awful. Seriously, if you want to feel like a character from 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest' in one half hour - watch In The Night Garden. Surely designed to make one feel as though their brain is slowly being sucked out through their ears. Narrated by Derek Jacobi no less. Jacobi, you corporate whore.
Danny can't get enough of it though. He bounces so hard in front of In The Night Garden and flaps his arms so frantically that he almost takes off. I wouldn't actually be surprised one day to see him suddenly launch off like a bird and go flying round the room before roosting on top of the bookshelf to watch it from there.
5) Not to mention all the things they don't tell you about pregnancy. Don't even get me started. Health visitors and doctors owe it to us all to tell us these vitally important things, so that gullible morons such as myself are prepared for the onslaught.
Awww...I'm only kidding. He's a little star really...
Thursday, 7 October 2010
7th Oct - Mad mad toddling boy.
DB is finally offically a toddler. He has finally twigged that his legs and little eager feet are more than capable of not only suspending him above the floor, but of racing him along it. In the space of a fortnight, he's gone from Mr Tentative, wobbling delicately from foot to foot before tumbling over backwards and connecting his buttocks with the floor with an audible smack, to Mr Cocky-Boots, raring along the floor, his little feet spinning around as fast as Fred Flintstone's in the opening sequence of the cartoon (you know, when he's propelling his car along) - arms splayed out in excitement, cackling with sheer hilarity before colliding with the next inanimate object.
It is extremely funny to watch. Though perhaps not so funny when Mr Cocky Boots gets too over confident, trips over his trouser leg (why are all baby's trousers too long in the leg, before suddenly being far too short? One of life's mysteries.) and wellies his chubby chin into a chair. Or, as was the case yesterday, smacks his forehead into the floor. Or, when colliding with something, chomps down hard on his lip, causing it to bleed. Then, when D's wails reach a fairly deafening crescendo, it ceases to be funny at all. Poor little love. The lessons to be learned in the process of growing up.
But he is enormously good fun at the moment. Watching him trying to speak is just classic. We've got the very excitable 'yeah', complete with vigorous head nodding and waving, when you offer him something he fancies. Eg - 'D, would you like some yoghurt?' Reply - 'YEAH!' and head nodding so frantically that he nearly falls out of his high chair.
We've also got 'Daddy' which is very cute. I asked him today what we needed to take with us to go out on his trike. (the correct answer was HIS JACKET.) The answer given was a very enthusiastic 'daddy'. Aw bless. No sign of 'mummy' though, despite all my best efforts.
And, the two that really get me are 'yum yum' when eating food - bizarrely, even if he doesn't like it, and 'oh dear' when he drops something - he says it in such an old womanish way.
So, in short, life with D is great fun at present. Hard bloody work, yes. Exhausting, yes. (particularly when attempting to work and also attempting to renovate the house). But hugely good fun none the less.
It is extremely funny to watch. Though perhaps not so funny when Mr Cocky Boots gets too over confident, trips over his trouser leg (why are all baby's trousers too long in the leg, before suddenly being far too short? One of life's mysteries.) and wellies his chubby chin into a chair. Or, as was the case yesterday, smacks his forehead into the floor. Or, when colliding with something, chomps down hard on his lip, causing it to bleed. Then, when D's wails reach a fairly deafening crescendo, it ceases to be funny at all. Poor little love. The lessons to be learned in the process of growing up.
But he is enormously good fun at the moment. Watching him trying to speak is just classic. We've got the very excitable 'yeah', complete with vigorous head nodding and waving, when you offer him something he fancies. Eg - 'D, would you like some yoghurt?' Reply - 'YEAH!' and head nodding so frantically that he nearly falls out of his high chair.
We've also got 'Daddy' which is very cute. I asked him today what we needed to take with us to go out on his trike. (the correct answer was HIS JACKET.) The answer given was a very enthusiastic 'daddy'. Aw bless. No sign of 'mummy' though, despite all my best efforts.
And, the two that really get me are 'yum yum' when eating food - bizarrely, even if he doesn't like it, and 'oh dear' when he drops something - he says it in such an old womanish way.
So, in short, life with D is great fun at present. Hard bloody work, yes. Exhausting, yes. (particularly when attempting to work and also attempting to renovate the house). But hugely good fun none the less.
Friday, 1 October 2010
1st October - The 10th Level
There is a little known fact about Hell, as envisaged by Dante in his famous 'Divine Comedy'. What is not widely acknowledged is that, when Dante created his masterpiece, he actually included a further section about the tenth level of Hell, which later got cut by his publishers for being too awful to put into literary form.
The publisher allowed the groteque images of people being chewed for eternity in Satan's big old gob, he permitted people roasting on spits and all the rest of it, he allowed Dante to depict levels for all sorts of sinners, with all sorts of ironic punishments- but he banned Dante from writing about the TENTH LEVEL.
The tenth level is still known to this day as the DIY level of Hell. It is a level reserved for those people foolish enough to invest in properties that require a lot of work. These people are then destined to be trapped forever in an endless cycle of painting, trimming, stripping, tweaking and so on and so on.
I had no knowledge of this obscure level of hell until I moved to this house.
Oh god I am sick of it. The last god knows how many evenings have been spent frantically painting the spare room, in preparation for the arrival of the carpet this afternoon. Mr Carpet Man, who looks a little like an aged and somewhat booze addled Barney Rubble, popped over on Monday of this week, and cheerily informed us that it was best to get the painting done before he showed up armed with a spanking new carpet.
We heartily agreed, and laughingly insisted that it wouldn't be a problem - after all, the walls had already been done, and it was only the skirting boards and the ceiling that needed completing.
Famous. Last. words.
Cue Monday evening. An evening spent with a tin of gloss paint and a dusty room. nobody bloody told us that when it says 'pure brilliant white' on a pot of special gloss paint, actually, what it means is that it is just a slightly misty see-through varnish. I happily slapped it on to the skirting, before twigging that actually, rather than the swan white finish I was hoping for, I was getting just a slightly shinier and milkier shade of plywood.
'Not to worry!' I cheerfully exclaimed. After all, I could just wait for it to dry, then paint over the top with a white base coat, before re-glossing. no problems at all.
Except of course, (as this is the 10th level of hell we are talking about here, complete with all manner of ironic punishments befitting the idiot novice renovater) the sodding matte paint wouldn't sit on the gloss surface and kept rolling off.
At this point, the sensible renovater would have sanded off the gloss and started over.
But in my defence, it was now getting on for 9 o clock and I was more concerned about getting to my waiting glass of wine downstairs. So I simply doggedly kept slapping on more and more paint until eventually it got the hint. Is the skirting board looking a bit...well...shit? Yes. In a word, yes. But I got past caring.
The next evening, we had the second ironic punishment awaiting us. The curse of the never-ending 'trying to get the edges neat'. The ceiling paint went on. 'Not to worry!' I exclaimed again, as I went over the edges a bit. 'I can just touch it up later.'
One touch up later, and I'd managed to reverse the problem, this time spreading wall paint over the ceiling.
'Not to worry!' I still doggedly chanted. 'I'll just have to touch it up again!'
After about five rounds of this, the cheerful demeanour was most definitely slipping, and instead of invisaging a glass of wine downstairs, visions of the whole bottle were swimming before my eyes. In the end, husband and I both unanimously agreed that yes, it looked a bit rubbish, but that we couldn't be arsed to continue with this tomfoolery. Then we retreated downstairs.
Then we had the hilarity of the door frame that just wouldn't stop dripping gloss everywhere. I say hilarity. It wasn't funny though. Not at all. Especially not funny when I knocked the tin over and sent gloss all over the floor. (lucky we opted for carpet, eh!)
It WAS however, quite funny, when other half went to pop the lid on the tin and ended up hitting it at a funny angle, caving the lid in, and submerging his hands into the remaining gloss paint. If you've ever worked with gloss (and I sincerely hope that you've not done anything bad enough in your lives to have to warrent such torture) you will know that it isn't like normal paint. It doesn't wash off. Instead, it sticks clingily to your skin for days afterwards and means that you keep getting glued to things like tea towels and clothing.
I did laugh, I must admit. But then, as further ironic punishment, I managed to slop loads all over my hands as well.
The carpet is due to arrive in two hours. Is the painting finished? Is it hell.
The publisher allowed the groteque images of people being chewed for eternity in Satan's big old gob, he permitted people roasting on spits and all the rest of it, he allowed Dante to depict levels for all sorts of sinners, with all sorts of ironic punishments- but he banned Dante from writing about the TENTH LEVEL.
The tenth level is still known to this day as the DIY level of Hell. It is a level reserved for those people foolish enough to invest in properties that require a lot of work. These people are then destined to be trapped forever in an endless cycle of painting, trimming, stripping, tweaking and so on and so on.
I had no knowledge of this obscure level of hell until I moved to this house.
Oh god I am sick of it. The last god knows how many evenings have been spent frantically painting the spare room, in preparation for the arrival of the carpet this afternoon. Mr Carpet Man, who looks a little like an aged and somewhat booze addled Barney Rubble, popped over on Monday of this week, and cheerily informed us that it was best to get the painting done before he showed up armed with a spanking new carpet.
We heartily agreed, and laughingly insisted that it wouldn't be a problem - after all, the walls had already been done, and it was only the skirting boards and the ceiling that needed completing.
Famous. Last. words.
Cue Monday evening. An evening spent with a tin of gloss paint and a dusty room. nobody bloody told us that when it says 'pure brilliant white' on a pot of special gloss paint, actually, what it means is that it is just a slightly misty see-through varnish. I happily slapped it on to the skirting, before twigging that actually, rather than the swan white finish I was hoping for, I was getting just a slightly shinier and milkier shade of plywood.
'Not to worry!' I cheerfully exclaimed. After all, I could just wait for it to dry, then paint over the top with a white base coat, before re-glossing. no problems at all.
Except of course, (as this is the 10th level of hell we are talking about here, complete with all manner of ironic punishments befitting the idiot novice renovater) the sodding matte paint wouldn't sit on the gloss surface and kept rolling off.
At this point, the sensible renovater would have sanded off the gloss and started over.
But in my defence, it was now getting on for 9 o clock and I was more concerned about getting to my waiting glass of wine downstairs. So I simply doggedly kept slapping on more and more paint until eventually it got the hint. Is the skirting board looking a bit...well...shit? Yes. In a word, yes. But I got past caring.
The next evening, we had the second ironic punishment awaiting us. The curse of the never-ending 'trying to get the edges neat'. The ceiling paint went on. 'Not to worry!' I exclaimed again, as I went over the edges a bit. 'I can just touch it up later.'
One touch up later, and I'd managed to reverse the problem, this time spreading wall paint over the ceiling.
'Not to worry!' I still doggedly chanted. 'I'll just have to touch it up again!'
After about five rounds of this, the cheerful demeanour was most definitely slipping, and instead of invisaging a glass of wine downstairs, visions of the whole bottle were swimming before my eyes. In the end, husband and I both unanimously agreed that yes, it looked a bit rubbish, but that we couldn't be arsed to continue with this tomfoolery. Then we retreated downstairs.
Then we had the hilarity of the door frame that just wouldn't stop dripping gloss everywhere. I say hilarity. It wasn't funny though. Not at all. Especially not funny when I knocked the tin over and sent gloss all over the floor. (lucky we opted for carpet, eh!)
It WAS however, quite funny, when other half went to pop the lid on the tin and ended up hitting it at a funny angle, caving the lid in, and submerging his hands into the remaining gloss paint. If you've ever worked with gloss (and I sincerely hope that you've not done anything bad enough in your lives to have to warrent such torture) you will know that it isn't like normal paint. It doesn't wash off. Instead, it sticks clingily to your skin for days afterwards and means that you keep getting glued to things like tea towels and clothing.
I did laugh, I must admit. But then, as further ironic punishment, I managed to slop loads all over my hands as well.
The carpet is due to arrive in two hours. Is the painting finished? Is it hell.
Wednesday, 29 September 2010
29th Sept - Days spent flying solo...
Now, for those of you already in the know about our affairs, you will be aware that it is most common for the other half to have to jet off to some remote corner of the united kingdom, often at a drop of a hat. Leaving me to keep the home fires burning, as it were.
Ah, I remember those first few days, when the thought of husband being away for even a few minutes sent me into palpitations - throughout his two week paternity leave, when D had just been born, I pretty much panicked the whole time about how the hell I would cope. I panicked about the most bizarre things. What if he did a poo when we were out? What if he did a poo when he wasn't wearing a nappy? (In fact, I think it simply boiled down to 'what if he did a poo' full stop.) A walk down the road used to be a military operation without the husband in those early days, as I worriedly wrapped D in ridiculously large amounts of fleecy clothes to fend off any faint breeze that might waft through the air on our five minute march.
Then of course, I adjusted, as all mothers do. It soon became fairly old hat and I started feeling not a little bit smug at how well I was coping.
Then the other half went away for the night for the first time. Which sent me into new tremors of maddened panic all over again. What if D was ill? What if he wouldn't stop crying? What if he did a poo in the night? (there's a reoccuring theme going on here, isn't there.)
But then that became old hat as well. If D woke up, he was simply cuddled back to the land of nod, or if I was too shattered to bother rocking him all night, he simply came into our bed and kept me company. (I have to admit, I used to like watching him sleep - his one moment of peace before revving up and running mad like a crazed duracell bunny again...)
But then, since moving house, we've had the new challenge. The 'dealing with D alone for long periods of time' challenge, which I can tell you right now, combines beautifully well with the 'D can now pelt along the floor at 100 mph and is intent upon exploring everything he shouldn't' challenge.
These last few days have posed such a challenge. Here is an insight into my day so far:
12:30am - D wakes up. I don't mind too much and stoically think 'well, it happens sometimes.'
2:05am - D wakes up again. I avoid the temptation to simply stuff my ears into my pillow and pretend not to have heard, and go in again to deliver another quick cuddle.
4:50am - D wakes again. The words 'bloody child' can just about be heard whistling through my lips. Again, I trapse in, swearing that if he doesn't at least have a lie in today, there will be trouble.
6:10am - D wakes up, looking fairly perky. I insistently place him back down in his cot, over and over again, until he gets the point, that mummy is not ready to get up yet. Not in a million years. not unless he wants a crazy witch for a mother all day.
6:50am - D decides it really is time to get up now. I thank him for the 25 mins uninterupted nap time, and get him up. D grizzles whilst I remove his pyjamas and body slams himself on to his wet nappy, sending little sprays of wee across his mat. I sigh and wish other half's helpful pair of hands could help me out - especially as I know the washing machine needs emptying, the dishwasher needs emptying and D's breakfast needs making.
7:10am - We head down for breakfast. D kicks off because breakfast is not ready in 0.001 of a second. He literally chases me round the kitchen, clinging to my legs and screeching, while I try to make sure I'm pouring milk on his weetabix and not apple juice like I did the other day. Though I don't think D would mind, he quite likes apple juice.
7:30am - D kicks off again because he's still hungry after his weetabix and his muffin isn't ready yet. In fact, it's not even in the toaster yet. Well off the 0.0001 of a second window that he allows us for preparation time. He throws his spoon across the table in disgust, sending showers of crusty weetabix mixture across it and over the floor. I pretend not to have noticed and get on with the muffin.
7:50am - D's mood is lifted by the consumption of the muffin and he speedily raises his arm, indicating to me that he is now ready for his playtime. I lower him to the floor, where he promptly races over to the steps leading up to the hallway, climbs up them, then pelts down the hallway, shrieking with naughty little giggles and checking behind him to make sure mummy is watching this incredible feat. Indeed I am, especially when he decides to try to get up the stairs. Then decides to put his fingers in his daddy's shredder, which has been left under the stairs. Then tries to crack open a face painting kit that someone bought him for his birthday. Then tries to pull up the carpet in the dining room, which hasn't been laid properly yet. Then cries because he can't.
8:10am - D gets bored of the hallway and screams to be carried down to the kitchen again (he can't do stairs downwards yet!) Once there, he proceeds to scatter his lego over the floor as thoroughly as he can, ensuring that it is tucked right under the table, that pieces are hidden in the cloakroom, and under the chairs; then tugs on my legs and points until I realise that he's telling me that he wants to play with the recipe books. I dutifully get them down, watching with tired eyes as he then proceeds to scatter them as well. Though it is funny to see him pouring over the Delia Smith book (he really likes that one, it's a good choice for any discerning wannabee chef.)
8:15am - D hatches something unspeakable in his nappy and quickly makes sure that it will be even more unspeakable by bouncing up and down on his bum round the floor. I take him upstairs, uncover the damage and try not to gag, whilst D cheerfully tries to get his fingers in it.
8:25am - D is now bored of the kitchen, and even though I am attempting to sort out the shopping list, he is making it quite clear that he is ready to move to the lounge. Again, lots of leg tugging, lots of grunting, lots of pointing, and eventually lots of shrieking, until i give in.
And so it continues. They make for long days - these days of flying solo with D. Of course, I wouldn't have it any other way, and the amount he makes me laugh makes up for all those little moments where I want to sigh, but I must admit, there is something exceedingly nice about the other half walking through the door, D bounding off into his arms and me finally being able to sit down with a squash in front of the tv for 10 mins. Oh, the simple things...
Ah, I remember those first few days, when the thought of husband being away for even a few minutes sent me into palpitations - throughout his two week paternity leave, when D had just been born, I pretty much panicked the whole time about how the hell I would cope. I panicked about the most bizarre things. What if he did a poo when we were out? What if he did a poo when he wasn't wearing a nappy? (In fact, I think it simply boiled down to 'what if he did a poo' full stop.) A walk down the road used to be a military operation without the husband in those early days, as I worriedly wrapped D in ridiculously large amounts of fleecy clothes to fend off any faint breeze that might waft through the air on our five minute march.
Then of course, I adjusted, as all mothers do. It soon became fairly old hat and I started feeling not a little bit smug at how well I was coping.
Then the other half went away for the night for the first time. Which sent me into new tremors of maddened panic all over again. What if D was ill? What if he wouldn't stop crying? What if he did a poo in the night? (there's a reoccuring theme going on here, isn't there.)
But then that became old hat as well. If D woke up, he was simply cuddled back to the land of nod, or if I was too shattered to bother rocking him all night, he simply came into our bed and kept me company. (I have to admit, I used to like watching him sleep - his one moment of peace before revving up and running mad like a crazed duracell bunny again...)
But then, since moving house, we've had the new challenge. The 'dealing with D alone for long periods of time' challenge, which I can tell you right now, combines beautifully well with the 'D can now pelt along the floor at 100 mph and is intent upon exploring everything he shouldn't' challenge.
These last few days have posed such a challenge. Here is an insight into my day so far:
12:30am - D wakes up. I don't mind too much and stoically think 'well, it happens sometimes.'
2:05am - D wakes up again. I avoid the temptation to simply stuff my ears into my pillow and pretend not to have heard, and go in again to deliver another quick cuddle.
4:50am - D wakes again. The words 'bloody child' can just about be heard whistling through my lips. Again, I trapse in, swearing that if he doesn't at least have a lie in today, there will be trouble.
6:10am - D wakes up, looking fairly perky. I insistently place him back down in his cot, over and over again, until he gets the point, that mummy is not ready to get up yet. Not in a million years. not unless he wants a crazy witch for a mother all day.
6:50am - D decides it really is time to get up now. I thank him for the 25 mins uninterupted nap time, and get him up. D grizzles whilst I remove his pyjamas and body slams himself on to his wet nappy, sending little sprays of wee across his mat. I sigh and wish other half's helpful pair of hands could help me out - especially as I know the washing machine needs emptying, the dishwasher needs emptying and D's breakfast needs making.
7:10am - We head down for breakfast. D kicks off because breakfast is not ready in 0.001 of a second. He literally chases me round the kitchen, clinging to my legs and screeching, while I try to make sure I'm pouring milk on his weetabix and not apple juice like I did the other day. Though I don't think D would mind, he quite likes apple juice.
7:30am - D kicks off again because he's still hungry after his weetabix and his muffin isn't ready yet. In fact, it's not even in the toaster yet. Well off the 0.0001 of a second window that he allows us for preparation time. He throws his spoon across the table in disgust, sending showers of crusty weetabix mixture across it and over the floor. I pretend not to have noticed and get on with the muffin.
7:50am - D's mood is lifted by the consumption of the muffin and he speedily raises his arm, indicating to me that he is now ready for his playtime. I lower him to the floor, where he promptly races over to the steps leading up to the hallway, climbs up them, then pelts down the hallway, shrieking with naughty little giggles and checking behind him to make sure mummy is watching this incredible feat. Indeed I am, especially when he decides to try to get up the stairs. Then decides to put his fingers in his daddy's shredder, which has been left under the stairs. Then tries to crack open a face painting kit that someone bought him for his birthday. Then tries to pull up the carpet in the dining room, which hasn't been laid properly yet. Then cries because he can't.
8:10am - D gets bored of the hallway and screams to be carried down to the kitchen again (he can't do stairs downwards yet!) Once there, he proceeds to scatter his lego over the floor as thoroughly as he can, ensuring that it is tucked right under the table, that pieces are hidden in the cloakroom, and under the chairs; then tugs on my legs and points until I realise that he's telling me that he wants to play with the recipe books. I dutifully get them down, watching with tired eyes as he then proceeds to scatter them as well. Though it is funny to see him pouring over the Delia Smith book (he really likes that one, it's a good choice for any discerning wannabee chef.)
8:15am - D hatches something unspeakable in his nappy and quickly makes sure that it will be even more unspeakable by bouncing up and down on his bum round the floor. I take him upstairs, uncover the damage and try not to gag, whilst D cheerfully tries to get his fingers in it.
8:25am - D is now bored of the kitchen, and even though I am attempting to sort out the shopping list, he is making it quite clear that he is ready to move to the lounge. Again, lots of leg tugging, lots of grunting, lots of pointing, and eventually lots of shrieking, until i give in.
And so it continues. They make for long days - these days of flying solo with D. Of course, I wouldn't have it any other way, and the amount he makes me laugh makes up for all those little moments where I want to sigh, but I must admit, there is something exceedingly nice about the other half walking through the door, D bounding off into his arms and me finally being able to sit down with a squash in front of the tv for 10 mins. Oh, the simple things...
Monday, 20 September 2010
20th Sept - Busy busy bees...
When did it become September? Seriously. I'm seriously asking. I'd only just adjusted to it being 2010, and here we are, in September already. And I somehow missed August. I've no idea where that month went. Up in a little puff of dampened, rainy, somewhat disappointing smoke I presume.
More unbelievably, when did D become 1? I know it's the ultimate cliche, but I still can't quite connect the little dark-eyed, screechy red thing in my arms on 17th September 2009, with the blue eyed boy sitting in front of his cake exactly a year later. (though he does still get red and screechy on a fairly regular occasion.)
It was a nice day, actually. To watch D as he delightedly stormed his way through parcels and parcels of presents was great fun. And of course, he was taken through the traditional rite of passage of my husband's family - the obligatory visit to a bird watching Hide. D was actually fairly impressed, and showed his enthusiasm by hitting the window very hard, scaring the birds away and sort of missing the point of it all. We also took him to a swannery, to look at...yes, yes, that's right, there's a theme here, we went to look at more birds. He really likes birds though. He gets most excited when he sees them overhead and goes quite frantic, waving his arms and pointing and ensuring that Mummy has noticed them. (it's quite difficult to feign enthusiasm when you're looking at the 18th pigeon seen that morning, but somehow I muster up the correct smiley face.)
Though today, a few days after, D has come down with an almighty crash. (perhaps its all the sugar from his birthday cake finally vacating his system.) We've had full on screaming fits today, with the one window of cheerfulness being his visit to the local playgroup, where he hared around the toys like a creature possessed, and insisted on playing with the bigger kids, even though this meant perpetual risk of being mowed down by a series of plastic tractors and trikes.
As a result, I feel like a hurricane has hurtled through the house, which incidentally, looks a bit that way as well. The house is a mass of toys and paint pots and general alarming chaos. But, on the house note, we are getting there. The kitchen is pretty much completed, aside from one wall which needs a paint, and of course, the dust needs clearing up (I will do it at some point. I will do it. If I say it enough, it will come true.)
The project at the moment for hubbie and me is chipping away at the thick layer of revolting sticky grey glue that is coating the Victorian tiles in the hallway. Each tile takes on average about 7 or 8 minutes. Doesn't sound like a lot, until you realise that there are about 300 tiles. Bah. I actually made my wrist stop working the other day, through over-vigorous (and rather bad tempered) chiselling. Seriously, it wouldn't move for the best part of a day. (I think husband at this point wished that the same could be said for my mouth muscles, to silence my tirade of bitching and moaning...)
I have come to the regrettable conclusion that I am not a natural DIYer. I don't relish these tasks at all. I feel no joy in their undertaking. Rather, I get rather venomous towards them, and tend to end up swearing a lot, kicking paint trays across the floor, hitting things rather over-energetically with hammers and storming out of various rooms, declaring that I will never 'chisel those bloody tiles / paint another f***ing wall / sand down another stair as long as I live'.
Bet I do though. Sigh.
More unbelievably, when did D become 1? I know it's the ultimate cliche, but I still can't quite connect the little dark-eyed, screechy red thing in my arms on 17th September 2009, with the blue eyed boy sitting in front of his cake exactly a year later. (though he does still get red and screechy on a fairly regular occasion.)
It was a nice day, actually. To watch D as he delightedly stormed his way through parcels and parcels of presents was great fun. And of course, he was taken through the traditional rite of passage of my husband's family - the obligatory visit to a bird watching Hide. D was actually fairly impressed, and showed his enthusiasm by hitting the window very hard, scaring the birds away and sort of missing the point of it all. We also took him to a swannery, to look at...yes, yes, that's right, there's a theme here, we went to look at more birds. He really likes birds though. He gets most excited when he sees them overhead and goes quite frantic, waving his arms and pointing and ensuring that Mummy has noticed them. (it's quite difficult to feign enthusiasm when you're looking at the 18th pigeon seen that morning, but somehow I muster up the correct smiley face.)
Though today, a few days after, D has come down with an almighty crash. (perhaps its all the sugar from his birthday cake finally vacating his system.) We've had full on screaming fits today, with the one window of cheerfulness being his visit to the local playgroup, where he hared around the toys like a creature possessed, and insisted on playing with the bigger kids, even though this meant perpetual risk of being mowed down by a series of plastic tractors and trikes.
As a result, I feel like a hurricane has hurtled through the house, which incidentally, looks a bit that way as well. The house is a mass of toys and paint pots and general alarming chaos. But, on the house note, we are getting there. The kitchen is pretty much completed, aside from one wall which needs a paint, and of course, the dust needs clearing up (I will do it at some point. I will do it. If I say it enough, it will come true.)
The project at the moment for hubbie and me is chipping away at the thick layer of revolting sticky grey glue that is coating the Victorian tiles in the hallway. Each tile takes on average about 7 or 8 minutes. Doesn't sound like a lot, until you realise that there are about 300 tiles. Bah. I actually made my wrist stop working the other day, through over-vigorous (and rather bad tempered) chiselling. Seriously, it wouldn't move for the best part of a day. (I think husband at this point wished that the same could be said for my mouth muscles, to silence my tirade of bitching and moaning...)
I have come to the regrettable conclusion that I am not a natural DIYer. I don't relish these tasks at all. I feel no joy in their undertaking. Rather, I get rather venomous towards them, and tend to end up swearing a lot, kicking paint trays across the floor, hitting things rather over-energetically with hammers and storming out of various rooms, declaring that I will never 'chisel those bloody tiles / paint another f***ing wall / sand down another stair as long as I live'.
Bet I do though. Sigh.
Monday, 6 September 2010
6th September - Kling on off the starboard bow!
I'm not joking. D is being clingier than a piece of clingy cling film clinging to a Kling on. I just don't know what's going on...
He's always been the cuddly sort, you know, the sort of baby who likes to return to mummy for a reassuring pat, before racing off to play again. But Friday, this all changed. Peaceful, cuddly D transformed, Superman style into 'Clinger-Baby'. I literally couldn't move without finding D desperately wrapped round my ankle, clasping on for dear life, gazing at me with desperate, imploring eyes. And that was just when I was getting up to stretch my legs.
Every minute (and that is no word of exageration) I had to deliver a comforting cuddle to poor, anxious little D, otherwise an alarming barrage of frightened squarking would ensue. We would then have to rock back and forth for a bit, until the yowling became gentle little whimpers. Then, woe betide if I attempted to gently place him back on the floor...the screaming and desperate little limbs would start flailing around again, frantically trying to clutch my person once more.
Food, likewise, went right out of the window. Actually, it nearly literally went out of the window at one point, he threw it that far. It just missed, and rolled into the sink instead. It's left a nice little smurgey red mark on the wall behind the tap actually, which is still there, I've not actually managed to disentangle myself from D long enough to clean it up yet.
D has always been a fairly fussy chap with his food, but now, he has gone, as Madness would put it, One Step Beyond. Now, nothing will pass his tightly clamped pursed up lips, unless it is sweet. Fruit makes the grade, as does yoghurt. That is about it. Even the usual favourite, the big, fortifying bowl of pasta, is being spurned vigorously.
This mad behaviour continued right through the weekend, though a trip to the Oceanarium in Bournemouth (with D in the carrier as he didn't want to be parted physically from his parents for even one second) seemed to help a bit. D was momentarily distracted from his anxious seperation terrors by the sight of a few black tipped reef sharks and spotty eels.
And still continues today! Though I did manage to encourage a breadstick into D's mouth, which was a step in the savory direction. I never thought I'd see the day where I was elated to be able to get D to eat a breadstick. It wasn't even a full sized one. It was a mini 'party' sized one. Hmm.
See, these are the things that no one prepares you for when you are a parent. Yeah, you can buy books, endless weighty tomes that tell you stuff like what to do if the offspring chokes, or how to do up a nappy, but they just don't dole out advice for 'what to do when your child won't actually let go of you, and won't eat anything that doesn't taste fruity.'
He's always been the cuddly sort, you know, the sort of baby who likes to return to mummy for a reassuring pat, before racing off to play again. But Friday, this all changed. Peaceful, cuddly D transformed, Superman style into 'Clinger-Baby'. I literally couldn't move without finding D desperately wrapped round my ankle, clasping on for dear life, gazing at me with desperate, imploring eyes. And that was just when I was getting up to stretch my legs.
Every minute (and that is no word of exageration) I had to deliver a comforting cuddle to poor, anxious little D, otherwise an alarming barrage of frightened squarking would ensue. We would then have to rock back and forth for a bit, until the yowling became gentle little whimpers. Then, woe betide if I attempted to gently place him back on the floor...the screaming and desperate little limbs would start flailing around again, frantically trying to clutch my person once more.
Food, likewise, went right out of the window. Actually, it nearly literally went out of the window at one point, he threw it that far. It just missed, and rolled into the sink instead. It's left a nice little smurgey red mark on the wall behind the tap actually, which is still there, I've not actually managed to disentangle myself from D long enough to clean it up yet.
D has always been a fairly fussy chap with his food, but now, he has gone, as Madness would put it, One Step Beyond. Now, nothing will pass his tightly clamped pursed up lips, unless it is sweet. Fruit makes the grade, as does yoghurt. That is about it. Even the usual favourite, the big, fortifying bowl of pasta, is being spurned vigorously.
This mad behaviour continued right through the weekend, though a trip to the Oceanarium in Bournemouth (with D in the carrier as he didn't want to be parted physically from his parents for even one second) seemed to help a bit. D was momentarily distracted from his anxious seperation terrors by the sight of a few black tipped reef sharks and spotty eels.
And still continues today! Though I did manage to encourage a breadstick into D's mouth, which was a step in the savory direction. I never thought I'd see the day where I was elated to be able to get D to eat a breadstick. It wasn't even a full sized one. It was a mini 'party' sized one. Hmm.
See, these are the things that no one prepares you for when you are a parent. Yeah, you can buy books, endless weighty tomes that tell you stuff like what to do if the offspring chokes, or how to do up a nappy, but they just don't dole out advice for 'what to do when your child won't actually let go of you, and won't eat anything that doesn't taste fruity.'
Thursday, 2 September 2010
2nd September - Indecent Exposure.
Oh the neighbours must love us.
Not only have their peaceful days been affected by sawing, drilling, banging, swearing and all the rest of it from our lovely band of builders, but they now have to endure indecent exposure of the most graphic nature.
It all stems from a frosted piece of glass that, to put it simply, just ain't frosted enough. If it were in the kitchen, wouldn't be a problem. If it were, in fact, in any other room, other than the bathroom, it would be ok. Even in the bathroom wouldn't be quite so bad, were it not full length and right next to the shower. And overlooking next door's garden.
We had our suspicions as soon as it was fitted. These suspicions were later put to the test, when I asked hubbie to stand in front of the window, while I pegged it down to the garden and peered up. My gasp of horror must have said it all, as I witnessed not only the 'vague outline' of my husband, but every last detail, down to the zipper on his top and the buckle on his belt. Visions of him soaping himself up enthusiastically in a substantially reduced number of garments flashed through my mind, closely followed by the image of our next door neighbours sitting innocently at their patio, sipping their early morning coffees, then looking up and dropping dead of shock on the spot, at what could only be described as a suburban porn show.
As a result, the following day (after having had the most tentative of showers, crouched right inside the bathtub like some sort of rolled up hedgehog, then leaping as swiftly as possible into my dressing gown, all the while eyes fixed to the window for any sign of movement from next door's garden) I had to hasten to B& Q to invest in a pvc blind.
Not quite the look we were going for. But the BFG happily passed the buck, saying it was 'the craziest patterned glass' he could get, ergo I had to sort it. And fast.
I literally cannot tolerate the thought of our extremely nice neighbours witnessing my pasty naked form in the morning. Nope.
However, indecent window that wouldn't be out of place in the red light district of Amsterdam aside; the building is coming on a treat. It's NEARLY there. Oh so nearly! This time next week, hopefully everything should be complete and the builders should have left the premises. Not that I've minded them too much, in a way it's been quite nice to have the company, especially when I walk in to see them all dancing to 'Build Me Up Buttercup' on the radio. There is something exceptionally endearing about four grown men, bopping around like happy little children and singing along to a song that is as crap, and let's face it, girly, as Build Me Up Buttercup.
The bifold doors have finally arrived and been fitted, and look an absolute treat. Though did I mention...they allow the next door neighbours to see directly into our kitchen? I have visions of them first being scared to death by husband cleaning himself in the shower, and then being scared a second time by his dressing gown flapping about with gay abandon as he makes his morning toast and marmalade in the kitchen. Not to mention when he spreads himself out in front of the window with his newspaper, unaware that his gown has fully become dislodged...
Oh god. They are going to be convinced we are perverts and that we built the house deliberately that way! Argh!!
Not only have their peaceful days been affected by sawing, drilling, banging, swearing and all the rest of it from our lovely band of builders, but they now have to endure indecent exposure of the most graphic nature.
It all stems from a frosted piece of glass that, to put it simply, just ain't frosted enough. If it were in the kitchen, wouldn't be a problem. If it were, in fact, in any other room, other than the bathroom, it would be ok. Even in the bathroom wouldn't be quite so bad, were it not full length and right next to the shower. And overlooking next door's garden.
We had our suspicions as soon as it was fitted. These suspicions were later put to the test, when I asked hubbie to stand in front of the window, while I pegged it down to the garden and peered up. My gasp of horror must have said it all, as I witnessed not only the 'vague outline' of my husband, but every last detail, down to the zipper on his top and the buckle on his belt. Visions of him soaping himself up enthusiastically in a substantially reduced number of garments flashed through my mind, closely followed by the image of our next door neighbours sitting innocently at their patio, sipping their early morning coffees, then looking up and dropping dead of shock on the spot, at what could only be described as a suburban porn show.
As a result, the following day (after having had the most tentative of showers, crouched right inside the bathtub like some sort of rolled up hedgehog, then leaping as swiftly as possible into my dressing gown, all the while eyes fixed to the window for any sign of movement from next door's garden) I had to hasten to B& Q to invest in a pvc blind.
Not quite the look we were going for. But the BFG happily passed the buck, saying it was 'the craziest patterned glass' he could get, ergo I had to sort it. And fast.
I literally cannot tolerate the thought of our extremely nice neighbours witnessing my pasty naked form in the morning. Nope.
However, indecent window that wouldn't be out of place in the red light district of Amsterdam aside; the building is coming on a treat. It's NEARLY there. Oh so nearly! This time next week, hopefully everything should be complete and the builders should have left the premises. Not that I've minded them too much, in a way it's been quite nice to have the company, especially when I walk in to see them all dancing to 'Build Me Up Buttercup' on the radio. There is something exceptionally endearing about four grown men, bopping around like happy little children and singing along to a song that is as crap, and let's face it, girly, as Build Me Up Buttercup.
The bifold doors have finally arrived and been fitted, and look an absolute treat. Though did I mention...they allow the next door neighbours to see directly into our kitchen? I have visions of them first being scared to death by husband cleaning himself in the shower, and then being scared a second time by his dressing gown flapping about with gay abandon as he makes his morning toast and marmalade in the kitchen. Not to mention when he spreads himself out in front of the window with his newspaper, unaware that his gown has fully become dislodged...
Oh god. They are going to be convinced we are perverts and that we built the house deliberately that way! Argh!!
Monday, 30 August 2010
30th August - Wah. Wah. WAH. WAH.
The title is actually just a simulation for those of you wanting an insight into our evening here tonight.
Lots of wahing - of different volumes, tones and general varieties. We've had the over-tired wahs. Followed closely by the furious wahs. Then the saddened, whimpering little wahs. Then the livid, 'bringing the very walls down by their sheer intensity' wahs. (I could hear those up the end of the garden, where I happened to be attempting to put the washing out, after spending the last hour and a half up and down the stairs comforting him.)
And finally, at 8:30, he's down. Completely conked out by the whole ordeal. And the reason for this uncharacteristic evening's entertainment? Basically, it boiled down to a lot of over-excitement and an unwise portion of 'banoffee bonanza' ice-cream.
Yes, we had a lovely time of it for the mother in law's birthday today. The weather positively beamed down upon us all, so we headed merrily off to Lulworth Cove, which was bursting at the seams with burnt tourists and fat people eating fish and chips and ice creams. We ate ice creams too, but I don't think we're too fat.
D, as mentioned before, was incredibly excited and bouncy all day, leaping with gay abandon from Gran, to Grandpa, to Mummy to Daddy, then back again. He LOVED all the attention. The camera was pointed many times in his face, each time, beaming smiles of beneficence ensued.
He is a lovely little chappie when he's cheery. Ah. That gummy little smile. He knows, when he pulls that one out the bag, that mummy is putty in his chubby little hands. more particularly, he knows that if he turns that smile on when mummy is consuming a certain banana flavoured ice cream, that she won't be able to resist giving him a bit. Then a bit more. Then a bit more. Cunning little man! Somehow, he managed to pork his way through more of it than I did!!
But thank goodness, he rests now. Pure sugar probably still coursing round his bloodstream. I wonder if he's having little dreams now about dancing ice creams- perhaps with him skipping ecstatically through a world of cornets, flake bars, and waffle cones.
Lots of wahing - of different volumes, tones and general varieties. We've had the over-tired wahs. Followed closely by the furious wahs. Then the saddened, whimpering little wahs. Then the livid, 'bringing the very walls down by their sheer intensity' wahs. (I could hear those up the end of the garden, where I happened to be attempting to put the washing out, after spending the last hour and a half up and down the stairs comforting him.)
And finally, at 8:30, he's down. Completely conked out by the whole ordeal. And the reason for this uncharacteristic evening's entertainment? Basically, it boiled down to a lot of over-excitement and an unwise portion of 'banoffee bonanza' ice-cream.
Yes, we had a lovely time of it for the mother in law's birthday today. The weather positively beamed down upon us all, so we headed merrily off to Lulworth Cove, which was bursting at the seams with burnt tourists and fat people eating fish and chips and ice creams. We ate ice creams too, but I don't think we're too fat.
D, as mentioned before, was incredibly excited and bouncy all day, leaping with gay abandon from Gran, to Grandpa, to Mummy to Daddy, then back again. He LOVED all the attention. The camera was pointed many times in his face, each time, beaming smiles of beneficence ensued.
He is a lovely little chappie when he's cheery. Ah. That gummy little smile. He knows, when he pulls that one out the bag, that mummy is putty in his chubby little hands. more particularly, he knows that if he turns that smile on when mummy is consuming a certain banana flavoured ice cream, that she won't be able to resist giving him a bit. Then a bit more. Then a bit more. Cunning little man! Somehow, he managed to pork his way through more of it than I did!!
But thank goodness, he rests now. Pure sugar probably still coursing round his bloodstream. I wonder if he's having little dreams now about dancing ice creams- perhaps with him skipping ecstatically through a world of cornets, flake bars, and waffle cones.
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
24th August - Limbo houses and working mamas...
After a fairly busy weekend, spent mostly with my mother in law and D, we have returned to a strangely half finished house. It's almost like one of those Magic Eye pictures; I keep thinking if I squint my eyes up hard enough, I'll be able to miraculously make it look completed, rather than a slightly haphazard mess.
The kitchen units are all in, complete with ravishing white ceramic sink and flashy electric hob, but they are sitting amidst a horrid half smoothed off concrete floor, and set against a backdrop of cardboard and plywood, which is currently serving as our back wall. It looks like an interesting hybrid of lush traditional kitchen and scruffy garage.
Likewise, the bathroom is completely decked out in a range of tiles and swish showers etc, but you just can't escape the fact that the painting is only half finished, there is still an inch thick layer of plaster dust over everything, and the window needs to be taken out and replaced.
So it is interesting to live in at the moment. By interesting, I mean odd. I mean highly unrelaxing. I keep wandering around the house, complete with D balancing on my arm, looking despondently at all the jobs still to do, then deliberately trying to erase them from my mind again, as there are too many, and it sends me into a panic. I need one of those special devices they use in Men in Black to delete the knowledge from my brain, then I can live in happy ignorance, rather than waking in the night in a cold sweat at the thought of having to scrub my way through hideous amounts of dirt. And doing more painting. Ugh. I actually do have nightmares now, awful sinister dreams where pots of dulux are chasing me across bleak wastelands, sending out their armies of rollers and paint brushes to conquer me.
We've had some good news on the financial front though. Which is very lucky, given how horrendously poor we are right now. Yes, suburban mama has an official job again! Phew! Sweat has been duly wiped from my brow...
The kitchen units are all in, complete with ravishing white ceramic sink and flashy electric hob, but they are sitting amidst a horrid half smoothed off concrete floor, and set against a backdrop of cardboard and plywood, which is currently serving as our back wall. It looks like an interesting hybrid of lush traditional kitchen and scruffy garage.
Likewise, the bathroom is completely decked out in a range of tiles and swish showers etc, but you just can't escape the fact that the painting is only half finished, there is still an inch thick layer of plaster dust over everything, and the window needs to be taken out and replaced.
So it is interesting to live in at the moment. By interesting, I mean odd. I mean highly unrelaxing. I keep wandering around the house, complete with D balancing on my arm, looking despondently at all the jobs still to do, then deliberately trying to erase them from my mind again, as there are too many, and it sends me into a panic. I need one of those special devices they use in Men in Black to delete the knowledge from my brain, then I can live in happy ignorance, rather than waking in the night in a cold sweat at the thought of having to scrub my way through hideous amounts of dirt. And doing more painting. Ugh. I actually do have nightmares now, awful sinister dreams where pots of dulux are chasing me across bleak wastelands, sending out their armies of rollers and paint brushes to conquer me.
We've had some good news on the financial front though. Which is very lucky, given how horrendously poor we are right now. Yes, suburban mama has an official job again! Phew! Sweat has been duly wiped from my brow...
Friday, 20 August 2010
20th August - DIY Expletive adventures.
DIY misadventures abounded last night.
It really should have been a simple process. Put a bathroom cabinet up and a shelf underneath. Nothing too arduous. They came from Ikea, that wonderful warehouse of DIY flatpack dreams, where assemblage is a simple case of allen keying a few bits of wood together to create a miraculous piece of complex furniture. We'd even pre-built all the units - all that was required was fixing them to the wall. A plasterboard wall as well. Easy to drill through.
So, by the laws of nature, and indeed, the laws of Ikea, this should have been a doddle.
Why then, did we start the proceedings at 6:30pm and not finish until 10pm? WHY? Why did it take 3 and a half sodding hours of our precious time to drill four holes in the wall and tighten four screws?
Well, things started to go wrong approximately five minutes in, when hubbie realised that he'd drilled the first hole far too large. He realised this at precisely the moment when the rawl plug fell through the wall and landed with a clutter on the other side.
We swore a bit.
Then, we simply drilled another, smaller hole above it, hoping that the cabinet would cover up the enormous gaping mess that we'd drilled into our freshly plastered and painted wall.
Rawl plug in...check. Screw in...check.
Except (and this is problem number two, only five minutes or so after problem number one) we then realise that the screws aren't long enough, and don't actually reach through to the other side of the cabinet.
More swearing ensued, this time a little bit more colourful.
Hubbie raced to Focus down the road to purchase more screws. Wifey paced the bathroom tiles, looking anxiously at the instruction booklet and biting her nails.
Hubbie returns, screws go in fine, (well, I say fine, we had to tie bits of thread round the heads to pull them forcibly through the cabinet, which it definitely DOESN'T tell you to do in the Ikea instruction booklet, but this was only a minor issue...) and cabinet fixes to the wall. Woo hoo!
However, we then encounter problem number 3. We can't get the doors to go on straight. Literally half an hour is wasted fiddling with the damned hinges, tightening, retightening, offering little 'bits of advice' to one another that gradually turn from 'helpful bits of advice' to 'rudely barked orders', right through to 'insulting one another on our crap DIY skills'.
More swearing ensues, and I'm fairly sure our ajoining neighbour would have heard the foul language at this point.
We make the unanimous decision to leave the doors for the time being. The doors had, by this point, started to epitomise everything I loathed and despised about the world, and I was, to be completely honest, only a few moments away from ripping them forcibly from their hinges and lobbing them down the stairs. Then opening the front door and booting them down the road for good measure. Then setting fire to them.
We moved, wisely, on to the shelf.
Hubbie, full of renewed vigour for the fresh task, merrily drilled the first hole.
And then discovered it was far too big. Not even by a little bit. We're talking practially inches too big. A huge chasm of a hole, once again, in a really prominent place, on our lovely new plastered wall. Hubbie, in a moment of desperate optimism and delusion, tried to insert the rawl plug, where it rattled fruitlessly around like a needle in an empty kitchen roll.
The language reached fever pitch. I don't think I've heard my husband say the F word quite so often. Or the B word (which one? Well, I would probably say all of them.) Indeed, he invented a few words that I'd not heard before, but they sounded fairly rude. He woke the puppy next door, who started whimpering in fear. I'm amazed he didn't wake D. Probably he did, without us knowing it. Probably D was up in his cot, sitting there in the darkness, eyes wide, assimilating as many rude words as possible, to make sure he repeated them at the worst times that would be most embarrassing to his mother.
I went downstairs to watch TV, and left hubbie to it. I went back up, half an hour later, to find that he'd done absolutely nothing apart from stare despondently at the hole.
And, to add to his humiliation (men take it so personally, don't they? It's like the unwritten rule - to be a man, one must be able to put up shelves and cook barbeques) I then had to ask the BFG to help us to put the shelf up. BFG thought it was hilarious, and then proceeded to make many jokes at hubbie's expense, who fortunately wasn't there to hear them.
Oh dear.
But hey - it's the last day that the builders are in for a while! We're still in an uncompleted house, due to the company who were supplying our windows and doors all going bust (argh!) but hopefully, it'll all be done by the 3rd September. Fingers crossed...
It really should have been a simple process. Put a bathroom cabinet up and a shelf underneath. Nothing too arduous. They came from Ikea, that wonderful warehouse of DIY flatpack dreams, where assemblage is a simple case of allen keying a few bits of wood together to create a miraculous piece of complex furniture. We'd even pre-built all the units - all that was required was fixing them to the wall. A plasterboard wall as well. Easy to drill through.
So, by the laws of nature, and indeed, the laws of Ikea, this should have been a doddle.
Why then, did we start the proceedings at 6:30pm and not finish until 10pm? WHY? Why did it take 3 and a half sodding hours of our precious time to drill four holes in the wall and tighten four screws?
Well, things started to go wrong approximately five minutes in, when hubbie realised that he'd drilled the first hole far too large. He realised this at precisely the moment when the rawl plug fell through the wall and landed with a clutter on the other side.
We swore a bit.
Then, we simply drilled another, smaller hole above it, hoping that the cabinet would cover up the enormous gaping mess that we'd drilled into our freshly plastered and painted wall.
Rawl plug in...check. Screw in...check.
Except (and this is problem number two, only five minutes or so after problem number one) we then realise that the screws aren't long enough, and don't actually reach through to the other side of the cabinet.
More swearing ensued, this time a little bit more colourful.
Hubbie raced to Focus down the road to purchase more screws. Wifey paced the bathroom tiles, looking anxiously at the instruction booklet and biting her nails.
Hubbie returns, screws go in fine, (well, I say fine, we had to tie bits of thread round the heads to pull them forcibly through the cabinet, which it definitely DOESN'T tell you to do in the Ikea instruction booklet, but this was only a minor issue...) and cabinet fixes to the wall. Woo hoo!
However, we then encounter problem number 3. We can't get the doors to go on straight. Literally half an hour is wasted fiddling with the damned hinges, tightening, retightening, offering little 'bits of advice' to one another that gradually turn from 'helpful bits of advice' to 'rudely barked orders', right through to 'insulting one another on our crap DIY skills'.
More swearing ensues, and I'm fairly sure our ajoining neighbour would have heard the foul language at this point.
We make the unanimous decision to leave the doors for the time being. The doors had, by this point, started to epitomise everything I loathed and despised about the world, and I was, to be completely honest, only a few moments away from ripping them forcibly from their hinges and lobbing them down the stairs. Then opening the front door and booting them down the road for good measure. Then setting fire to them.
We moved, wisely, on to the shelf.
Hubbie, full of renewed vigour for the fresh task, merrily drilled the first hole.
And then discovered it was far too big. Not even by a little bit. We're talking practially inches too big. A huge chasm of a hole, once again, in a really prominent place, on our lovely new plastered wall. Hubbie, in a moment of desperate optimism and delusion, tried to insert the rawl plug, where it rattled fruitlessly around like a needle in an empty kitchen roll.
The language reached fever pitch. I don't think I've heard my husband say the F word quite so often. Or the B word (which one? Well, I would probably say all of them.) Indeed, he invented a few words that I'd not heard before, but they sounded fairly rude. He woke the puppy next door, who started whimpering in fear. I'm amazed he didn't wake D. Probably he did, without us knowing it. Probably D was up in his cot, sitting there in the darkness, eyes wide, assimilating as many rude words as possible, to make sure he repeated them at the worst times that would be most embarrassing to his mother.
I went downstairs to watch TV, and left hubbie to it. I went back up, half an hour later, to find that he'd done absolutely nothing apart from stare despondently at the hole.
And, to add to his humiliation (men take it so personally, don't they? It's like the unwritten rule - to be a man, one must be able to put up shelves and cook barbeques) I then had to ask the BFG to help us to put the shelf up. BFG thought it was hilarious, and then proceeded to make many jokes at hubbie's expense, who fortunately wasn't there to hear them.
Oh dear.
But hey - it's the last day that the builders are in for a while! We're still in an uncompleted house, due to the company who were supplying our windows and doors all going bust (argh!) but hopefully, it'll all be done by the 3rd September. Fingers crossed...
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
17th August - Bloody bloody curtains!
Why, someone pray tell me, why did I imagine for one moment that I would be able to sew a pair of curtains for the spare room by hand? What was I thinking?
I think in my head, I had pleasing images of me sitting diligently in front of the tv in the evening, sewing away merrily like a good little housewife, needle weaving proficiently in and out and a benevolent smile upon my face. This image, I have since discovered, is very far removed from reality. The reality is, me sodding up the curtain right from the start by measuring it wrong. Then swearing a lot and throwing the material across the room. Then me pricking my finger about ten times a minute, resulting in severe bleeding and nasty little hard callousy patches that make me look like a warty old woman. Oh yes, and you can add to this, the curtains looking really really crap because of the lopsided and quite outrageously uneven stitching. Wicked.
And of course, lets not forget the real ironic punchline, that the material probably cost more than a ready made curtain anyway.
Someone tell me why I bothered? Please? WHY???
It has been a frustrating day all round thus far. Once again, we are having a 'D doesn't sleep' day. Which so far has involved me getting so desperate to get him nodded off, that I've had to resort to taking him out in the car. However, today, even the car didn't pay dividends. No, D resolutely remained awake, shrieking and chortling in the back of the car, while I drove doggedly onwards, literally feeling my own hair turn grey and the bags under my eyes get baggier.
Oh boy. Oh yes, and the additional little frustration that our building work is going to be held up, as the manufacturers of the bi-fold doors apparently have gone bust and we've had to reorder from another company. (I KNEW there was going to be some divine retribution for indulging in those doors...)
And it's raining, and I trudged into town earlier and got thoroughly soaked, and yes, once again, I was not wearing any form of rain protection, which meant that yes, once again, the residents of this town witnessed me stomping through puddles and muttering expletives very audibly whilst my trousers merrily soaked up the rainwater and my toes went black with mud. (I WAS wearing my flip flops, yes. I have a rule that I don't wear any other shoes until the end of September, so honestly, I had no choice.)
Oh I am in a BAD MOOD. I am in a STROP.
Now, I should probably rescue D from this appalling silly children's programme that I've plunked him in front of. Good bye.
I think in my head, I had pleasing images of me sitting diligently in front of the tv in the evening, sewing away merrily like a good little housewife, needle weaving proficiently in and out and a benevolent smile upon my face. This image, I have since discovered, is very far removed from reality. The reality is, me sodding up the curtain right from the start by measuring it wrong. Then swearing a lot and throwing the material across the room. Then me pricking my finger about ten times a minute, resulting in severe bleeding and nasty little hard callousy patches that make me look like a warty old woman. Oh yes, and you can add to this, the curtains looking really really crap because of the lopsided and quite outrageously uneven stitching. Wicked.
And of course, lets not forget the real ironic punchline, that the material probably cost more than a ready made curtain anyway.
Someone tell me why I bothered? Please? WHY???
It has been a frustrating day all round thus far. Once again, we are having a 'D doesn't sleep' day. Which so far has involved me getting so desperate to get him nodded off, that I've had to resort to taking him out in the car. However, today, even the car didn't pay dividends. No, D resolutely remained awake, shrieking and chortling in the back of the car, while I drove doggedly onwards, literally feeling my own hair turn grey and the bags under my eyes get baggier.
Oh boy. Oh yes, and the additional little frustration that our building work is going to be held up, as the manufacturers of the bi-fold doors apparently have gone bust and we've had to reorder from another company. (I KNEW there was going to be some divine retribution for indulging in those doors...)
And it's raining, and I trudged into town earlier and got thoroughly soaked, and yes, once again, I was not wearing any form of rain protection, which meant that yes, once again, the residents of this town witnessed me stomping through puddles and muttering expletives very audibly whilst my trousers merrily soaked up the rainwater and my toes went black with mud. (I WAS wearing my flip flops, yes. I have a rule that I don't wear any other shoes until the end of September, so honestly, I had no choice.)
Oh I am in a BAD MOOD. I am in a STROP.
Now, I should probably rescue D from this appalling silly children's programme that I've plunked him in front of. Good bye.
Sunday, 15 August 2010
15th August - Paint paint everywhere and not a drop to drink, apart from a sambuca.
Oh I am so very very bored of paint. And anything to do with painting paraphenalia. Rollers, paint trays, masking tape, white spirit, you name it, I'm sick of it.
When we started on the lounge (in a fetching, if not garish shade of ice blue), I was all abound with enthusiasm. I was literally bouncing off the excitingly coloured walls, all caught up with images of 'Period Living' style rooms and designer shades. I managed to maintain this for D's room, in fetching shades of green, and just about kept it up for the dining room, even though my keenness for removing wallpaper had gone right down the toilet by that stage...hence the fact that we have some very nice chocolate brown paint covering some quite frankly, dated and downright revolting wall coverings.
By the time we'd got to the kitchen, it was definitely on the wane, thus we phoned hubbie's father and pleaded with him to basically come down and do it for us, which, bless him, he did. Our bedroom was a similarly lacklustre affair, which goes a way to explain why bits of the wall are still unpainted and only half the ceiling is done. (oh, I DESPISE painting ceilings especially. The crick in the neck, the paint plopping on the floor, the flecks in the eyes, UGH.) But yes, for your information, yes, we do lie in bed and peer up in bitter resignation at the huge patches of uniform prison-grey plaster mingling with the crisp whiteness of emulsion paint. It doesn't make for a relaxing night's sleep.
And today was the turn of the bathroom. We didn't bother starting until after lunch, and then gave up fairly soon after. The ceiling, incidently, is still unfinished. Yep, still patches of plaster peeking through in there as well. (why did we pick the two rooms where we have to lie down a lot and look at the ceiling???) It may well just stay that way. Maybe we could start a new trend, for incomplete ceilings. The home style magazines might refer to it as 'unfinished chic' or something equally mad, and then we'll be interviewed by people keen to steal our unusual look. Lawrence Lewylln Bowen will probably kick himself, with his designer snakeskin cuban heels, at the fact that he didn't think of it first. 'Derelict condemned house glamour' could be another apt name.
I'll just go and chisel away at a few more ceilings in the house in preparation, I'm sure it'll catch on.
Hubbie and I are both covered in silly amounts of paint spots and splodges, we are both excessively tired and excessively irritable. This was somewhat compounded by a)being rudely awoken at the crack of dawn by a certain someone who had decided it was time to get up and b) that same person being in a very variable mood all day, refusing to go down for a nap until fairly late and moaning shrilly about a number of bits and bobs throughout.
And on that note, I'm going to bed. Paint splodges and all, because I cannot be bothered to have a bath. Particularly when it involves lying in the tub and....LOOKING AT A PATCHY CEILING!! ARGHHHH!!!!
When we started on the lounge (in a fetching, if not garish shade of ice blue), I was all abound with enthusiasm. I was literally bouncing off the excitingly coloured walls, all caught up with images of 'Period Living' style rooms and designer shades. I managed to maintain this for D's room, in fetching shades of green, and just about kept it up for the dining room, even though my keenness for removing wallpaper had gone right down the toilet by that stage...hence the fact that we have some very nice chocolate brown paint covering some quite frankly, dated and downright revolting wall coverings.
By the time we'd got to the kitchen, it was definitely on the wane, thus we phoned hubbie's father and pleaded with him to basically come down and do it for us, which, bless him, he did. Our bedroom was a similarly lacklustre affair, which goes a way to explain why bits of the wall are still unpainted and only half the ceiling is done. (oh, I DESPISE painting ceilings especially. The crick in the neck, the paint plopping on the floor, the flecks in the eyes, UGH.) But yes, for your information, yes, we do lie in bed and peer up in bitter resignation at the huge patches of uniform prison-grey plaster mingling with the crisp whiteness of emulsion paint. It doesn't make for a relaxing night's sleep.
And today was the turn of the bathroom. We didn't bother starting until after lunch, and then gave up fairly soon after. The ceiling, incidently, is still unfinished. Yep, still patches of plaster peeking through in there as well. (why did we pick the two rooms where we have to lie down a lot and look at the ceiling???) It may well just stay that way. Maybe we could start a new trend, for incomplete ceilings. The home style magazines might refer to it as 'unfinished chic' or something equally mad, and then we'll be interviewed by people keen to steal our unusual look. Lawrence Lewylln Bowen will probably kick himself, with his designer snakeskin cuban heels, at the fact that he didn't think of it first. 'Derelict condemned house glamour' could be another apt name.
I'll just go and chisel away at a few more ceilings in the house in preparation, I'm sure it'll catch on.
Hubbie and I are both covered in silly amounts of paint spots and splodges, we are both excessively tired and excessively irritable. This was somewhat compounded by a)being rudely awoken at the crack of dawn by a certain someone who had decided it was time to get up and b) that same person being in a very variable mood all day, refusing to go down for a nap until fairly late and moaning shrilly about a number of bits and bobs throughout.
And on that note, I'm going to bed. Paint splodges and all, because I cannot be bothered to have a bath. Particularly when it involves lying in the tub and....LOOKING AT A PATCHY CEILING!! ARGHHHH!!!!
Friday, 13 August 2010
13th August - Malicious wasps and baronial attitudes.
It is indeed Friday the 13th. Normally I'm not a superstitious person, but I have to admit, things seem to go wrong with a bit more frequency in our household on Friday the 13ths. (Also, is it just me, or are there a LOT of Friday the 13ths? Like, more than Thursday 13ths, or Wednesday 13ths? I think someone should check, just in case it's disproportionate, then share out those 13ths a bit more evenly.)
Today was a very typical example of how a Friday 13th went out of its way to humiliate me and make me look a colossal prat earlier.
I was strolling to Tesco with D happily cooing in his pram, when suddenly, out of nowhere, I was accosted by this hideously large and loud wasp-type thing, which proceeded to hurtle into my earhole, buzz very shrilly, bat around my lobe and get caught in my hair, and send me into a complete panic. Not only did I start leaping around and flapping my hands around frantically in that utterly silly way that only insects seem to be able to make us humans do, but I also then proceeded to tread on my own foot in my terror, which sent me into an alarming nose dive into the hedge next to me.
And then of course, you can imagine the sheer mauveness of my blush, when I emerge from the hedge, complete with bits of twig sticking crazily from my hair and mud all over my knees, to see a group of about five people, all staring at me as if I was completely and utterly insane. Which I suppose, to the onlooker who hadn't realised I was panicking over a wasp, must have been a reasonable assumption. After all, they did just witness a grown woman suddenly start hitting herself in the face and then jump into a hedge, for no discernable reason at all.
To make matters worse, I then got the giggles, and started tittering away to myself, thinking they would surely join in, realising that I had fallen in the hedge by accident, and was showing good humour about it all. But no, they just continued to stare, obviously thinking me even more insane for chortling like a mentalist.
Very embarrassing. This town must be getting a dreadful impression of me. This is, after all, the woman who frequently goes out without any protection in the rain, then mutters swearwords under her breath when she gets wet, again, another slightly bonkers thing to do. This is the woman whose trousers fell down - yes, actually fell down, right to my knees, exposing my buttocks fully, wearing none other than my horrible 'cheeky monkey' pants (oh the shame...) to a large crowd in Waitrose. Oh dear. And now they've seen me jump into a hedge. Hmm.
D is probably mortified by his mother. Poor lad. He endures it well though. He gets this stoic expression every time I do something silly, as if to say 'yes, here she goes again, don't worry, I'm used to it.'
He has been in a fairly awful mood today, I think due to the protruberance of his two front teeth. He is dribbling like a fiend, and gnashing his chops round every item he can get his little mitts on, including my wallet, a photo frame, and my nose. (that one hurt.)
He is exhibiting rather Henry IIIV-like qualities at meal times as well. He sits imperiously in his highchair, like a little lord, nose turned up in distaste as I, his minion, attempt to please him with various foods. Today's lunchtime offering, mince with butternut squash sauce and cream cheese, was met with nothing short of outrage. The spoon got confiscated from my grip and hurled vengefully against the door of the microwave, then the bowl got batted viciously to the ground. The look that D fixed upon me said it all. Those eyes, full of rage, glaring at me as though to say 'you DARE to try to feed me with this...this...FILTH?' If he could talk, I feel fairly sure he would either be swearing at me, or ordering my head to be chopped off for insulting him thus.
It doesn't help when you are attempting to prepare delicious meals in a space about as big as a cupboard, with utensils, cutlery, various random ornaments and furniture all piled up around you, with only one microwave and a single hob. And no way of washing up til the evening.
However, the house is starting to pay dividends. The bathroom floor is down and oh I say, it does look simply scrumptious! (flapping of hands in excitement) Pretty pretty tiles! The tiles are going up on the wall as well, oh I am sooooo excited. Plus we will have an upstairs toilet again and sink as well, ah bliss. The sink is in in the kitchen, as are most of the units, and the lights go in next week. As do the bi fold doors! Can't wait!!
Today was a very typical example of how a Friday 13th went out of its way to humiliate me and make me look a colossal prat earlier.
I was strolling to Tesco with D happily cooing in his pram, when suddenly, out of nowhere, I was accosted by this hideously large and loud wasp-type thing, which proceeded to hurtle into my earhole, buzz very shrilly, bat around my lobe and get caught in my hair, and send me into a complete panic. Not only did I start leaping around and flapping my hands around frantically in that utterly silly way that only insects seem to be able to make us humans do, but I also then proceeded to tread on my own foot in my terror, which sent me into an alarming nose dive into the hedge next to me.
And then of course, you can imagine the sheer mauveness of my blush, when I emerge from the hedge, complete with bits of twig sticking crazily from my hair and mud all over my knees, to see a group of about five people, all staring at me as if I was completely and utterly insane. Which I suppose, to the onlooker who hadn't realised I was panicking over a wasp, must have been a reasonable assumption. After all, they did just witness a grown woman suddenly start hitting herself in the face and then jump into a hedge, for no discernable reason at all.
To make matters worse, I then got the giggles, and started tittering away to myself, thinking they would surely join in, realising that I had fallen in the hedge by accident, and was showing good humour about it all. But no, they just continued to stare, obviously thinking me even more insane for chortling like a mentalist.
Very embarrassing. This town must be getting a dreadful impression of me. This is, after all, the woman who frequently goes out without any protection in the rain, then mutters swearwords under her breath when she gets wet, again, another slightly bonkers thing to do. This is the woman whose trousers fell down - yes, actually fell down, right to my knees, exposing my buttocks fully, wearing none other than my horrible 'cheeky monkey' pants (oh the shame...) to a large crowd in Waitrose. Oh dear. And now they've seen me jump into a hedge. Hmm.
D is probably mortified by his mother. Poor lad. He endures it well though. He gets this stoic expression every time I do something silly, as if to say 'yes, here she goes again, don't worry, I'm used to it.'
He has been in a fairly awful mood today, I think due to the protruberance of his two front teeth. He is dribbling like a fiend, and gnashing his chops round every item he can get his little mitts on, including my wallet, a photo frame, and my nose. (that one hurt.)
He is exhibiting rather Henry IIIV-like qualities at meal times as well. He sits imperiously in his highchair, like a little lord, nose turned up in distaste as I, his minion, attempt to please him with various foods. Today's lunchtime offering, mince with butternut squash sauce and cream cheese, was met with nothing short of outrage. The spoon got confiscated from my grip and hurled vengefully against the door of the microwave, then the bowl got batted viciously to the ground. The look that D fixed upon me said it all. Those eyes, full of rage, glaring at me as though to say 'you DARE to try to feed me with this...this...FILTH?' If he could talk, I feel fairly sure he would either be swearing at me, or ordering my head to be chopped off for insulting him thus.
It doesn't help when you are attempting to prepare delicious meals in a space about as big as a cupboard, with utensils, cutlery, various random ornaments and furniture all piled up around you, with only one microwave and a single hob. And no way of washing up til the evening.
However, the house is starting to pay dividends. The bathroom floor is down and oh I say, it does look simply scrumptious! (flapping of hands in excitement) Pretty pretty tiles! The tiles are going up on the wall as well, oh I am sooooo excited. Plus we will have an upstairs toilet again and sink as well, ah bliss. The sink is in in the kitchen, as are most of the units, and the lights go in next week. As do the bi fold doors! Can't wait!!
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
11th August - A nation which loves chaos!
I was reading Al's copy of Private Eye this morning. Now, normally, to be quite honest, I wouldn't bother, given that I only understand about half of it, and don't get any of the jokes. (I am not gifted with high brow intellectual humour, only toilet humour, sarcasm and children's tv programmes work with me).
I was reading an article where the author absolutely shredded to bits a recent programme that has been showing on TV, called 'Amish - The World's Squarest Teenagers.' The premise of this programme, for those not in the know, is that five Amish teens, kitted out in bonnets and straw hats and stating that they never swear, fornicate or watch tv - are sent to visit various groups of teens in the UK, presumably to highlight how different the lifestyles are. (and, cynically I might add, presumably to cause a bit of a stir and cause some arguments?)
Well, if that was what the programme controllers were hoping, it didn't happen. The Amish teens, who I personally thought all came across as very nice individuals, were all very tolerant of the different teen lifestyles they encountered, and, to give them credit, so were the UK teens as well. Everyone got on famously.
Private Eye obviously were not happy about this. The article basically slags the programme for being boring, due to the lack of confrontation and fighting. Funny that. I remember a similar article being written in a newspaper about the last 'I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here' - getting very het up about the fact that no one was battling with each other.
Which makes me rather sad. Have we really become a nation that only wants to see people being horrible to each other? I personally REALLY enjoyed the last 'I'm a Celebrity'. It gave me warm fuzzy feelings whenever I watched it (and no, it wasn't just because of that hunky Italian chef that won it.) I LIKED watching people getting on and having a lovely time together. Likewise, I really relished watching some deeply religious and sheltered teenagers getting on really well with some streetwise kids from London. LOVED IT. It may have spelt out 'boring' to the Private Eye, but to me it was very reassuring that people are NICE.
It's the same with magazines and newspapers. Next time you look at one, particularly the odious 'chick' publications like Heat magazine, check out how many articles slag people off. It is an alarmingly large percentage. Is that really what we want to read? Do we really get pleasure from laughing at Jordan's latest failed publicity attempt, or how some model has put on half a stone and looks 'fat', or how some actress has lost half a stone and looks 'anorexic'?
I really hope not. It is a very depressing reflection on our society if so.
Gosh, I got a bit heavy there, didn't I? The suburban mama got a bit reflective. Frivolous silly ramblings will no doubt resume next post...
I was reading an article where the author absolutely shredded to bits a recent programme that has been showing on TV, called 'Amish - The World's Squarest Teenagers.' The premise of this programme, for those not in the know, is that five Amish teens, kitted out in bonnets and straw hats and stating that they never swear, fornicate or watch tv - are sent to visit various groups of teens in the UK, presumably to highlight how different the lifestyles are. (and, cynically I might add, presumably to cause a bit of a stir and cause some arguments?)
Well, if that was what the programme controllers were hoping, it didn't happen. The Amish teens, who I personally thought all came across as very nice individuals, were all very tolerant of the different teen lifestyles they encountered, and, to give them credit, so were the UK teens as well. Everyone got on famously.
Private Eye obviously were not happy about this. The article basically slags the programme for being boring, due to the lack of confrontation and fighting. Funny that. I remember a similar article being written in a newspaper about the last 'I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here' - getting very het up about the fact that no one was battling with each other.
Which makes me rather sad. Have we really become a nation that only wants to see people being horrible to each other? I personally REALLY enjoyed the last 'I'm a Celebrity'. It gave me warm fuzzy feelings whenever I watched it (and no, it wasn't just because of that hunky Italian chef that won it.) I LIKED watching people getting on and having a lovely time together. Likewise, I really relished watching some deeply religious and sheltered teenagers getting on really well with some streetwise kids from London. LOVED IT. It may have spelt out 'boring' to the Private Eye, but to me it was very reassuring that people are NICE.
It's the same with magazines and newspapers. Next time you look at one, particularly the odious 'chick' publications like Heat magazine, check out how many articles slag people off. It is an alarmingly large percentage. Is that really what we want to read? Do we really get pleasure from laughing at Jordan's latest failed publicity attempt, or how some model has put on half a stone and looks 'fat', or how some actress has lost half a stone and looks 'anorexic'?
I really hope not. It is a very depressing reflection on our society if so.
Gosh, I got a bit heavy there, didn't I? The suburban mama got a bit reflective. Frivolous silly ramblings will no doubt resume next post...
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
10th August - Weird dreams!
I had such an odd dream last night. I quite often have utterly random dreams (like the one I had a while back, where I was entertaining the painter, John Constable's son, and really worried about meeting his father - that was pretty odd) and this most recent offering continues the trend.
I was the proud owner of a really swishy flat that was being, yes, you guessed it, renovated, but the builder had added in loads of strange things without consulting us, such as thermostatically controlled heated dining room seats that warmed your bum cheeks when you sat down and shower heads that jetted water all over the bathroom. It was, on the face of it, a fairly bizarre thing to be dreaming about. I woke up feeling oddly panicked. Have I checked our dining room chairs, just to make sure that the BFG has not secreted special heated pads underneath them? No. Have I had a peep in the box that contains our shower head, to check it's normal? Very nearly. But I resisted. Fortunately good sense got the better of silly paranoia, for once.
It was wonderful to enter the house yesterday (after a lovely day visiting my sister again - lovely even despite D breaking a plate and managing to hurl polenta cake crumbs all over himself, the table, the neighbouring tables and the people sitting at the neighbouring tables in a cafe...) and see what had been going on though.
In short, the kitchen is really starting to take shape - wall units are sprouting up all over the place and the cooker is in! Oh and it is a BEAUTY! For anyone who thinks cooking is about as fascinating as watching two fat blokes idly playing snooker in a pub, they will not be able to understand my elation at this piece of equipment. To others, it is just a metal box that heats up. To me - it is endless possibilities, all resulting in hugely delicious things that I can ram into my greedy chops. Oh it is so shiny as well! So shiny and so new! I give it...oooh....two weeks before I make it look filthy and food spattered.
And apparently, by the end of the week, we should have a functioning kitchen, sink and cooker and everything! It is quite remarkable how badly you can miss a sink when you have to wash up in the bath every night. (and then have a bath in the same bath, and try to ignore the bits of floating food that drift around you.)
My mother asked me recently if I was pleased that we had opted to go down this route - of buying a sh*theap of a house and doing it up, rather than just buying a house already in good condition. It was a question that made me ponder for a bit. Yes, there have been a few moments when I have wrung my hands in my hair and wanted to scream 'what are we doing??' at the top of my lungs, but mostly, no regrets at all. There is something enormously fun, not to mention priviledged, in being able to create your home exactly how you want it, to fit in with your lifestyle and your requirements. So nope, no regrets - I am starting to very much love this house! Particularly the literary connection to Thomas Hardy...I am convinced that we have Charles Lacey's friendly ghost up in the attic, no doubt shaking his head at all the mess we are making of his old abode!
I was the proud owner of a really swishy flat that was being, yes, you guessed it, renovated, but the builder had added in loads of strange things without consulting us, such as thermostatically controlled heated dining room seats that warmed your bum cheeks when you sat down and shower heads that jetted water all over the bathroom. It was, on the face of it, a fairly bizarre thing to be dreaming about. I woke up feeling oddly panicked. Have I checked our dining room chairs, just to make sure that the BFG has not secreted special heated pads underneath them? No. Have I had a peep in the box that contains our shower head, to check it's normal? Very nearly. But I resisted. Fortunately good sense got the better of silly paranoia, for once.
It was wonderful to enter the house yesterday (after a lovely day visiting my sister again - lovely even despite D breaking a plate and managing to hurl polenta cake crumbs all over himself, the table, the neighbouring tables and the people sitting at the neighbouring tables in a cafe...) and see what had been going on though.
In short, the kitchen is really starting to take shape - wall units are sprouting up all over the place and the cooker is in! Oh and it is a BEAUTY! For anyone who thinks cooking is about as fascinating as watching two fat blokes idly playing snooker in a pub, they will not be able to understand my elation at this piece of equipment. To others, it is just a metal box that heats up. To me - it is endless possibilities, all resulting in hugely delicious things that I can ram into my greedy chops. Oh it is so shiny as well! So shiny and so new! I give it...oooh....two weeks before I make it look filthy and food spattered.
And apparently, by the end of the week, we should have a functioning kitchen, sink and cooker and everything! It is quite remarkable how badly you can miss a sink when you have to wash up in the bath every night. (and then have a bath in the same bath, and try to ignore the bits of floating food that drift around you.)
My mother asked me recently if I was pleased that we had opted to go down this route - of buying a sh*theap of a house and doing it up, rather than just buying a house already in good condition. It was a question that made me ponder for a bit. Yes, there have been a few moments when I have wrung my hands in my hair and wanted to scream 'what are we doing??' at the top of my lungs, but mostly, no regrets at all. There is something enormously fun, not to mention priviledged, in being able to create your home exactly how you want it, to fit in with your lifestyle and your requirements. So nope, no regrets - I am starting to very much love this house! Particularly the literary connection to Thomas Hardy...I am convinced that we have Charles Lacey's friendly ghost up in the attic, no doubt shaking his head at all the mess we are making of his old abode!
Sunday, 8 August 2010
8th August - Minty tones and Klang-style dribbling.
Is it called Klang? That alien from The Simpsons, who has a see through helmet and always drools? Anyway, whatever it is called, that is very much what D is reminding me of at the moment. He has gone from gentle streams of dribble down his chin to a veritable waterfall - seriously, it's as if some dam has burst within his mouth and let forth the most violent protrusion of sticky dribble that you can imagine. Our furniture is quite literally glistening with smeary puddles of D's oral offerings. Like ectoplasm or something. Fairly grim.
On the 'ghostly' note, when D chooses to clamber over me and liberally smear his saliva ALL over my face and hair, like a sticky slug entrail, then he puts me more in mind of a certain famous Ghostbusters character. Yes, this suburban mama got well and truly SLIMED earlier on. It's quite disturbing, the slime has combined with all the dust from the renovating, to create little piles of boggy mud round the house. Once again, I am choosing to turn a blind eye. It can wait until the 'big clean' next weekend...
We've been hard at it today. Well, I say we. I mean ME mostly. It was indeed moi who mounted the rickety step ladder this morning at 9am, and slapped a load of emulsion over the (not quite dry...eek) plaster in the kitchen. However, the grand application of our new greeny blue paint was a joint event of myself, hubbie and The Wolf (hubbie's father who very kindly offered to come down and lend a hand).
Boy oh boy, it is a fairly...er...in yer face colour. I had envisaged it looking fairly classy and subdued. However, in keeping with the rest of the quite frankly loud colours that I have selected for the house (purple in the bedroom, bright blue in the lounge, green in D's room...) it doesn't really whisper as much as bellow at the visitor to the kitchen.
But hey, where is the fun in tasteful things, eh? I'm about as bad taste and crass as you can get, so it seems only appropriate that our house reflects this to some extent.
On an entirely different note, we watched Shutter Island last night. (That Martin Scorsece film?) VERY good. I was so spooked that I made hubbie come up to bed with me, even though he wanted to stay up to get some work done. There was no way I was sitting in the dark all on my own though, after watching that.
I am such a complete wimp when it comes to spooky films. Take The Ring for example. The premise being - the characters watch a horrid spooky video, then they get a phonecall, saying that they've got 7 days to live. Then after a week, they die in a horrid gruesome way. I literally didn't sleep for 7 nights. I was a haggard, neurotic mess for the whole bloody week. (This, incidentally, was not assisted at all by a friend, who I had gone to see it with at the cinema, who thought it would be hilarious to phone me after the film and whisper 'seven days'. Cow.)
But, I would recommend Shutter Island. Very clever, very atmospheric, very film noir, if you are a film buff. I shall watch it again at some point. When it's daylight. And there are lots of other people around.
On the 'ghostly' note, when D chooses to clamber over me and liberally smear his saliva ALL over my face and hair, like a sticky slug entrail, then he puts me more in mind of a certain famous Ghostbusters character. Yes, this suburban mama got well and truly SLIMED earlier on. It's quite disturbing, the slime has combined with all the dust from the renovating, to create little piles of boggy mud round the house. Once again, I am choosing to turn a blind eye. It can wait until the 'big clean' next weekend...
We've been hard at it today. Well, I say we. I mean ME mostly. It was indeed moi who mounted the rickety step ladder this morning at 9am, and slapped a load of emulsion over the (not quite dry...eek) plaster in the kitchen. However, the grand application of our new greeny blue paint was a joint event of myself, hubbie and The Wolf (hubbie's father who very kindly offered to come down and lend a hand).
Boy oh boy, it is a fairly...er...in yer face colour. I had envisaged it looking fairly classy and subdued. However, in keeping with the rest of the quite frankly loud colours that I have selected for the house (purple in the bedroom, bright blue in the lounge, green in D's room...) it doesn't really whisper as much as bellow at the visitor to the kitchen.
But hey, where is the fun in tasteful things, eh? I'm about as bad taste and crass as you can get, so it seems only appropriate that our house reflects this to some extent.
On an entirely different note, we watched Shutter Island last night. (That Martin Scorsece film?) VERY good. I was so spooked that I made hubbie come up to bed with me, even though he wanted to stay up to get some work done. There was no way I was sitting in the dark all on my own though, after watching that.
I am such a complete wimp when it comes to spooky films. Take The Ring for example. The premise being - the characters watch a horrid spooky video, then they get a phonecall, saying that they've got 7 days to live. Then after a week, they die in a horrid gruesome way. I literally didn't sleep for 7 nights. I was a haggard, neurotic mess for the whole bloody week. (This, incidentally, was not assisted at all by a friend, who I had gone to see it with at the cinema, who thought it would be hilarious to phone me after the film and whisper 'seven days'. Cow.)
But, I would recommend Shutter Island. Very clever, very atmospheric, very film noir, if you are a film buff. I shall watch it again at some point. When it's daylight. And there are lots of other people around.
Friday, 6 August 2010
6th August - It doesn't rain, it pours...
Where has our clement summer gone?
i've only ventured out twice today, and both times, I received a proper good soaking. My hair now looks as though someone has run it through with a pair of hedgeclippers, then backcombed it for good measure. Even D wasn't impressed, and shouted a lot about it, even though he was being mostly sheltered by his running suburban mama at the time.
In fact, shouting has been the order of the day thus far for D. He started off the day with a thoroughly satisfactory shout over breakfast. Mainly due to the fact that he wasn't allowed to decorate the room with weetabix. (I suppose he did have a point in suggesting that it wouldn't actually make an awful lot of difference, given the room was already adorned with a thick layer of plaster dust and grease.)
The next big shout (and this was a biggie) was during our visit to B & Q in Weymouth, while I was checking out tiles for the bathroom and paints.
'Aren't these sandy coloured tiles lovely?' mummy asks. D disagrees, and disagrees loudly. His bellows actually reverberated round the corrogated steel walls of the B & Q warehouse. People actually stopped what there were doing in order to look and see where the tremendous noise had originated from. I shrank in embarrassment as D then launched into a full-on opus of shrieking and yelling, throwing himself around the trolley in the most alarming of fashions, while I hastily scuttled him over to the check out.
Of course, at check out, as soon as the check out girl smiled at him, he was all sweetness and light and little cute cooing noises, as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Which left me, harrassed, sweating, flustered as I rummaged through my handbag to find the purse, only to realise that I'd already got it out, looking a little bit silly. Thanks D. Thanks a lot.
We then had a little shout about the nappy (didn't want to take it off, then didn't want to have another one on, so that's two shouts really), closely followed by a further shout about lunch, though he soon stopped shouting when he realised it was his favourite pasta and sweet potato cheesy sauce. Then he got stuck right in, only to start shouting again when I wouldn't allow him to cover his hair with the sauce. (I wouldn't mind so much, but he makes such a fuss when I try to clear him up!) And orange just isn't D's colour. He needs to learn these important life lessons.
All this while we attempt to wheel our way in and out through the swarms of builders. It's all activity today. After a week of seemingly not much going on, the new kitchen units have finally arrived, and everything is galvanised into action. Though regrettably, this does mean that the time has come for me to don my DIY cap once more and paint the kitchen. Groan! It's a big bloody room now, as well! (and I've still to finish the ceiling in our bedroom, blagh!!)
Though, the good news is, apparently (and I shall believe this when I see it...) the bulk of the work will be completed by this time next week...eek!! And then we'll have to start the massive 'dustathon'... the task of clearing the house of the huge abundance of filth, plaster, debris and general grottiness that has accumulated over every conceivable surface. I'm really looking forward to that bit...
i've only ventured out twice today, and both times, I received a proper good soaking. My hair now looks as though someone has run it through with a pair of hedgeclippers, then backcombed it for good measure. Even D wasn't impressed, and shouted a lot about it, even though he was being mostly sheltered by his running suburban mama at the time.
In fact, shouting has been the order of the day thus far for D. He started off the day with a thoroughly satisfactory shout over breakfast. Mainly due to the fact that he wasn't allowed to decorate the room with weetabix. (I suppose he did have a point in suggesting that it wouldn't actually make an awful lot of difference, given the room was already adorned with a thick layer of plaster dust and grease.)
The next big shout (and this was a biggie) was during our visit to B & Q in Weymouth, while I was checking out tiles for the bathroom and paints.
'Aren't these sandy coloured tiles lovely?' mummy asks. D disagrees, and disagrees loudly. His bellows actually reverberated round the corrogated steel walls of the B & Q warehouse. People actually stopped what there were doing in order to look and see where the tremendous noise had originated from. I shrank in embarrassment as D then launched into a full-on opus of shrieking and yelling, throwing himself around the trolley in the most alarming of fashions, while I hastily scuttled him over to the check out.
Of course, at check out, as soon as the check out girl smiled at him, he was all sweetness and light and little cute cooing noises, as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Which left me, harrassed, sweating, flustered as I rummaged through my handbag to find the purse, only to realise that I'd already got it out, looking a little bit silly. Thanks D. Thanks a lot.
We then had a little shout about the nappy (didn't want to take it off, then didn't want to have another one on, so that's two shouts really), closely followed by a further shout about lunch, though he soon stopped shouting when he realised it was his favourite pasta and sweet potato cheesy sauce. Then he got stuck right in, only to start shouting again when I wouldn't allow him to cover his hair with the sauce. (I wouldn't mind so much, but he makes such a fuss when I try to clear him up!) And orange just isn't D's colour. He needs to learn these important life lessons.
All this while we attempt to wheel our way in and out through the swarms of builders. It's all activity today. After a week of seemingly not much going on, the new kitchen units have finally arrived, and everything is galvanised into action. Though regrettably, this does mean that the time has come for me to don my DIY cap once more and paint the kitchen. Groan! It's a big bloody room now, as well! (and I've still to finish the ceiling in our bedroom, blagh!!)
Though, the good news is, apparently (and I shall believe this when I see it...) the bulk of the work will be completed by this time next week...eek!! And then we'll have to start the massive 'dustathon'... the task of clearing the house of the huge abundance of filth, plaster, debris and general grottiness that has accumulated over every conceivable surface. I'm really looking forward to that bit...
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
3rd August - Anniversaries, birthdays and mad, panicked mamas.
3 years, my hubbie and I have been wed. 3 years! Goes quickly, doesn't it. Ahhh. Back then, two fresh faced (well, sort of fresh faced. From a distance. If you were squinting, and a bit short sighted.) young lovers, saying 'I do' and agreeing to spend the rest of their lives together, romantically entwined and gazing lovingly at one another for eternity.
Fast forward 3 years, and what have you got? A conversation that runs a little like this.
Wife: (slumped on sofa in front of TV): Shall we just not bother getting each other an anniversary present?
Husband: (eyes never leaving the screen.) Yeah. Alright. (pause). Actually, we could get that Arcade Fire album.
Wife: That's not really a present though, is it. It's just because we want it.
Husband: (after another pause) Yeah.
Wife: (after a longer pause.) Alright then.
Who said romance was dead, eh? Who needs flowers and chocolates and saucy underwear, when you have Gok Wan on the TV, a bottle of discounted booze and an Arcade Fire album?
Seriously though, we are sometimes romantic. But the laws of the universe are greatly stacked against us at present. Loud child who insists upon waking at all hours of the night - check. House a complete shambles, only use of candle light is to guide the way to the toilet in the dead of night cos the electrics are down - check. Job for husband utterly demanding and requires him to work about 16 hours a day - check.
I could go on...
On a completely different note, I had a really nice day today. D and I drove down to Exeter to see my dear friend /business partner and her little lad, for her birthday celebrations and we had a splendid meal out, despite D deciding to shriek fairly loudly at various intervals throughout. (turns out he was nestling something rather smelly and probably uncomfortable to sit on in his nappy, so that might have been the reason...) Pizza was eaten by my friend and I, nibbled on by her son, and lobbed all over the floor by D. Blush. He is such a .... wayward...child!
A grumpy old man sitting next to us complained fairly loudly about children being in restuarants, which did get me equally grumpy for all of about 2 minutes, but then I just decided to ignore him. I do find it a bit sad actually, how people in society seem to detest children. It makes no sense! Destest the parents who fail to shut their offspring up by all means, but not the kids themselves! I should like to point out that I was also doing my level best to try to chill D out, including pacing him around to the other side of the restuarant - but this obviously was not good enough for this jowelly, pompous faced old git. Ha ha. I must confess, I did make a comment whilst leaving (it's the pikey Essex girl in me) about intolerance, which in retrospect, was somewhat childish.
But hey, never cross a suburban mama when it comes to her precious little offspring! He may be loud, he may be the wriggliest little man I've ever come across, but he is MY wriggly little yappy whippet of a lad and I think anyone who doesn't think he's amazing is an IDIOT. So there. Ha!
I then proceeded to go completely mad on returning home.
There was a reason for this, I didn't just walk through the door and go crazy (though the thought often crosses my mind when I walk in to see piles of dust and plaster and many builders stomping around). The reason was when the BFG (the head builder) approached me and informed me that not only would I need to paint the bathroom and spare room by Thursday, but I would also have to strip the wallpaper and polyfilla the walls. (which would need CONSIDERABLE polyfilla-ing).
To say I went a little bit potty would be a bit of an understatement. Put it like this, I felt my own eyeballs uncontrollably twitching and the vein in my forehead start to do some sort of salsa dance of anger.
See- I'd agreed to do the painting, to save costs. But NEVER agreed to do wallpaper stripping and wall smoothing! And certainly not over the space of a day and a half, whilst looking after a 10 month old!
So, to put not to fine a point on it, I raged, then I sulked. I stormed into the den, muttering under my breath like a stroppy teenager. The BFG looked a little bit bemused. Then a little bit scared. He was probably right to be. I'm a horrid old cow when cross. He wisely retreated to the kitchen again while I shovelled pasta into D's mouth, brow furrowed, mouth pursed like an old lemon.
His parting shot was to assure me that he would try to find someone cheap to peel the wallpaper off. Yes, that would probably be wise.
I am slightly pacified, but not much. Ha ha!
Fast forward 3 years, and what have you got? A conversation that runs a little like this.
Wife: (slumped on sofa in front of TV): Shall we just not bother getting each other an anniversary present?
Husband: (eyes never leaving the screen.) Yeah. Alright. (pause). Actually, we could get that Arcade Fire album.
Wife: That's not really a present though, is it. It's just because we want it.
Husband: (after another pause) Yeah.
Wife: (after a longer pause.) Alright then.
Who said romance was dead, eh? Who needs flowers and chocolates and saucy underwear, when you have Gok Wan on the TV, a bottle of discounted booze and an Arcade Fire album?
Seriously though, we are sometimes romantic. But the laws of the universe are greatly stacked against us at present. Loud child who insists upon waking at all hours of the night - check. House a complete shambles, only use of candle light is to guide the way to the toilet in the dead of night cos the electrics are down - check. Job for husband utterly demanding and requires him to work about 16 hours a day - check.
I could go on...
On a completely different note, I had a really nice day today. D and I drove down to Exeter to see my dear friend /business partner and her little lad, for her birthday celebrations and we had a splendid meal out, despite D deciding to shriek fairly loudly at various intervals throughout. (turns out he was nestling something rather smelly and probably uncomfortable to sit on in his nappy, so that might have been the reason...) Pizza was eaten by my friend and I, nibbled on by her son, and lobbed all over the floor by D. Blush. He is such a .... wayward...child!
A grumpy old man sitting next to us complained fairly loudly about children being in restuarants, which did get me equally grumpy for all of about 2 minutes, but then I just decided to ignore him. I do find it a bit sad actually, how people in society seem to detest children. It makes no sense! Destest the parents who fail to shut their offspring up by all means, but not the kids themselves! I should like to point out that I was also doing my level best to try to chill D out, including pacing him around to the other side of the restuarant - but this obviously was not good enough for this jowelly, pompous faced old git. Ha ha. I must confess, I did make a comment whilst leaving (it's the pikey Essex girl in me) about intolerance, which in retrospect, was somewhat childish.
But hey, never cross a suburban mama when it comes to her precious little offspring! He may be loud, he may be the wriggliest little man I've ever come across, but he is MY wriggly little yappy whippet of a lad and I think anyone who doesn't think he's amazing is an IDIOT. So there. Ha!
I then proceeded to go completely mad on returning home.
There was a reason for this, I didn't just walk through the door and go crazy (though the thought often crosses my mind when I walk in to see piles of dust and plaster and many builders stomping around). The reason was when the BFG (the head builder) approached me and informed me that not only would I need to paint the bathroom and spare room by Thursday, but I would also have to strip the wallpaper and polyfilla the walls. (which would need CONSIDERABLE polyfilla-ing).
To say I went a little bit potty would be a bit of an understatement. Put it like this, I felt my own eyeballs uncontrollably twitching and the vein in my forehead start to do some sort of salsa dance of anger.
See- I'd agreed to do the painting, to save costs. But NEVER agreed to do wallpaper stripping and wall smoothing! And certainly not over the space of a day and a half, whilst looking after a 10 month old!
So, to put not to fine a point on it, I raged, then I sulked. I stormed into the den, muttering under my breath like a stroppy teenager. The BFG looked a little bit bemused. Then a little bit scared. He was probably right to be. I'm a horrid old cow when cross. He wisely retreated to the kitchen again while I shovelled pasta into D's mouth, brow furrowed, mouth pursed like an old lemon.
His parting shot was to assure me that he would try to find someone cheap to peel the wallpaper off. Yes, that would probably be wise.
I am slightly pacified, but not much. Ha ha!
Monday, 2 August 2010
2nd August - Attack of the evil peanut.
Oh. My. God.
My nerves are still completely shot, even 16 hours after the event. Which just goes to show, I am one rather flakey Suburban Mama, when it boils down to it.
It all started at a normal dinner time with D yesterday. Normal for us entails:
'After all, he's got to try it some time!' I chirruped cheerfully. (Also, in the back of my mind, I was thinking 'yeah, and he'll definitely eat it, because its all sweet and sickly, which is definitely where D's palate tends to veer towards.').
The other half looked at me dubiously. 'Are you sure?' he said hesitantly. 'After all, if he does have a reaction, the car is absolutely f***ed at the moment and getting to hospital would be a bit of a mare'.
But no, despite that warning, I insisted cheerfully that the Annabel Karmel book said it was ok, and that lots of other mothers fed it to their chubby offsprings far earlier. (despite having ridiculed Ms Karmel about a week earlier for her outdated ideas...)
So in the peanut butter went, into D's initially suspicious little mouth. And, as predicted, D tucked into it with relish, slurping it off the rice cake (then dumping the stripped rice cake on the floor, an empty husk stripped of sticky peanutty sweetness.)
Imagine if you will, my horror, as I suddenly witnessed D start to shriek.
Loudly.
'Perhaps it's just because he wants to get out of his high chair?' said hubbie helpfully.
I eyed D with growing alarm, as his face began to swell and turn red.
'Er... I don't think so' I squeaked.
When D started to break out in huge angry welts all over his body, we hurtled out of the door and into the car faster than a pair of rats up a drainpipe, with me chanting 'oh my god, oh my god' under my breath like some deranged old biddy. Matters were not made any calmer by D going unconscious in the car, all the time while hubbie was desperately trying to steer a car safely through narrow roads and bends, when it didn't have any functioning brakes.
Fortunately, the hospital were AMAZING, and, a large injection and a huge amount of screaming later, D was back to his usual self, though looking very puffy eyed and resentful of his STUPID mama. (totally understandable, given that yes, I'd just unintentionally poisoned him.)
We left the premises with me feeling rather chastened. It had to happen some time, after all, a nut allergy can rear it's ugly head at any point, but oh, the terrible guilt of knowing that you've hurt your own child! It was like a boulder pressing down upon me, a terrible weighty boulder of solid heart-stopping guilt. And that terrible feeling of 'if anything should happen to you, it would be ALL MY FAULT.'
Still, thankfully this time, D is none the worse for his experience. And I've lobbed away the offending jar of peanut butter, and (more reluctantly) the half full bag of peanut M&M's in the fridge.
We're at home today, due to faulty car, and it is most fascinating listening to the builder's conversations outside. Honestly, there is so much sweat and testosterone flying around the house at the moment, it's like a football ground changing room or something. Lots of grunting and 'arrrgh-ing' and that sort of thing, and big old manly pattings on backs and rude sweary jokes that I don't quite understand. Miraculously, D is currently napping through the tremendous amounts of noise. Which begs the question - how is it, that when I try to settle him in peaceful surroundings, he doesn't want to know, but as soon as there are loads of drilling and hammering and shouting noises, he nods off almost straight away. Contrary or what?
My nerves are still completely shot, even 16 hours after the event. Which just goes to show, I am one rather flakey Suburban Mama, when it boils down to it.
It all started at a normal dinner time with D yesterday. Normal for us entails:
- Us optimistically feeding D all sorts of exciting new foods and flavours
- D throwing them unceremoniously to the floor.
'After all, he's got to try it some time!' I chirruped cheerfully. (Also, in the back of my mind, I was thinking 'yeah, and he'll definitely eat it, because its all sweet and sickly, which is definitely where D's palate tends to veer towards.').
The other half looked at me dubiously. 'Are you sure?' he said hesitantly. 'After all, if he does have a reaction, the car is absolutely f***ed at the moment and getting to hospital would be a bit of a mare'.
But no, despite that warning, I insisted cheerfully that the Annabel Karmel book said it was ok, and that lots of other mothers fed it to their chubby offsprings far earlier. (despite having ridiculed Ms Karmel about a week earlier for her outdated ideas...)
So in the peanut butter went, into D's initially suspicious little mouth. And, as predicted, D tucked into it with relish, slurping it off the rice cake (then dumping the stripped rice cake on the floor, an empty husk stripped of sticky peanutty sweetness.)
Imagine if you will, my horror, as I suddenly witnessed D start to shriek.
Loudly.
'Perhaps it's just because he wants to get out of his high chair?' said hubbie helpfully.
I eyed D with growing alarm, as his face began to swell and turn red.
'Er... I don't think so' I squeaked.
When D started to break out in huge angry welts all over his body, we hurtled out of the door and into the car faster than a pair of rats up a drainpipe, with me chanting 'oh my god, oh my god' under my breath like some deranged old biddy. Matters were not made any calmer by D going unconscious in the car, all the time while hubbie was desperately trying to steer a car safely through narrow roads and bends, when it didn't have any functioning brakes.
Fortunately, the hospital were AMAZING, and, a large injection and a huge amount of screaming later, D was back to his usual self, though looking very puffy eyed and resentful of his STUPID mama. (totally understandable, given that yes, I'd just unintentionally poisoned him.)
We left the premises with me feeling rather chastened. It had to happen some time, after all, a nut allergy can rear it's ugly head at any point, but oh, the terrible guilt of knowing that you've hurt your own child! It was like a boulder pressing down upon me, a terrible weighty boulder of solid heart-stopping guilt. And that terrible feeling of 'if anything should happen to you, it would be ALL MY FAULT.'
Still, thankfully this time, D is none the worse for his experience. And I've lobbed away the offending jar of peanut butter, and (more reluctantly) the half full bag of peanut M&M's in the fridge.
We're at home today, due to faulty car, and it is most fascinating listening to the builder's conversations outside. Honestly, there is so much sweat and testosterone flying around the house at the moment, it's like a football ground changing room or something. Lots of grunting and 'arrrgh-ing' and that sort of thing, and big old manly pattings on backs and rude sweary jokes that I don't quite understand. Miraculously, D is currently napping through the tremendous amounts of noise. Which begs the question - how is it, that when I try to settle him in peaceful surroundings, he doesn't want to know, but as soon as there are loads of drilling and hammering and shouting noises, he nods off almost straight away. Contrary or what?
Saturday, 31 July 2010
31st July - Maracas and American Footballs.
Hubbie and I were just attempting to play tennis with a pair of D's maracas and one of his soft squidgy toy balls (which happens to be american football shaped.) It wasn't the most easy of games and quite frankly, getting a rally going was hard work. Particularly as hubbie kept sending the ball sailing into my oesophagus. (was it deliberate? Should I be worried?)
Why, one may ask, were we playing this rather silly game? Well, I think the answer to that lies in our location at present. We have now returned from the safe, warm, inviting havens of the in-laws, to our detritis filled hovel of a house. And really, in all honesty, only two of the rooms are half way habitable. And one of those is D's room, which isn't really all that fun for two adults, though thankfully D seems to like it.
So we are holed up in the lounge, searching fairly vacuously for things to entertain ourselves with, and the maracas and the football was about the best we could come up with. It lasted all of about thirty seconds.
The house is looking somewhat eerie. The kitchen, now a fully fledged shell of a kitchen-diner, resembles a working garage rather than a swish cooking / socialising arena, but I suspect it'll all come right in the wash. The den is a mass of hugely inconveniently placed kitchen appliances, plates, bins, food products and badly labelled boxes, all covered in a horrid layer of thick, insipid dust. Miss Havisham's sinister, uncleaned chambers have nothing on this room. Even the spiders wouldn't dare enter the mess and chaos in there. (and yet this is the room I happily prepare our meals in. Eek!)
As for our bedroom, well, it more closely remembles a jumble sale than anything else at the moment. Heaps of dirty clothes piled up all over the furniture, footprints on the floor, rugs so laden with dirt that they've ceased to be black and are now a jaded charcoal grey.
BUT... we have a bath. And hot water. Ahhhh...the bliss of a bath this morning! Never mind that the neighbours probably copped a good eyeful of the naked Mrs B's flabby little bod as she clambered in eagerly. Never mind that the sodding pipe in the kitchen below leaked water all over the floor when I took the plug out. Never mind that I promptly got dirty again as soon as I got out, thanks to the airbourne dust. Nope. It was bliss at the time, and I shall enjoy the same again EVERY MORNING until we have a shower installed.
We're getting there.
My big sister, husband and our neice and nephew came visiting today. It was fab to see them and to play with them all in the park, it really made me desperately wish they lived closer. Boo. I suppose the only way we'd live close together again is if we moved back to the South East. Hmm. Let me consider that for a moment. Crapper scenery, more miserable, rude, ill mannered people, dour, grim little link towns that are basically just built for people to commute from into London and for no other purpose...yes. Thanks but no thanks.
I recommend Dorset very highly indeed...
Why, one may ask, were we playing this rather silly game? Well, I think the answer to that lies in our location at present. We have now returned from the safe, warm, inviting havens of the in-laws, to our detritis filled hovel of a house. And really, in all honesty, only two of the rooms are half way habitable. And one of those is D's room, which isn't really all that fun for two adults, though thankfully D seems to like it.
So we are holed up in the lounge, searching fairly vacuously for things to entertain ourselves with, and the maracas and the football was about the best we could come up with. It lasted all of about thirty seconds.
The house is looking somewhat eerie. The kitchen, now a fully fledged shell of a kitchen-diner, resembles a working garage rather than a swish cooking / socialising arena, but I suspect it'll all come right in the wash. The den is a mass of hugely inconveniently placed kitchen appliances, plates, bins, food products and badly labelled boxes, all covered in a horrid layer of thick, insipid dust. Miss Havisham's sinister, uncleaned chambers have nothing on this room. Even the spiders wouldn't dare enter the mess and chaos in there. (and yet this is the room I happily prepare our meals in. Eek!)
As for our bedroom, well, it more closely remembles a jumble sale than anything else at the moment. Heaps of dirty clothes piled up all over the furniture, footprints on the floor, rugs so laden with dirt that they've ceased to be black and are now a jaded charcoal grey.
BUT... we have a bath. And hot water. Ahhhh...the bliss of a bath this morning! Never mind that the neighbours probably copped a good eyeful of the naked Mrs B's flabby little bod as she clambered in eagerly. Never mind that the sodding pipe in the kitchen below leaked water all over the floor when I took the plug out. Never mind that I promptly got dirty again as soon as I got out, thanks to the airbourne dust. Nope. It was bliss at the time, and I shall enjoy the same again EVERY MORNING until we have a shower installed.
We're getting there.
My big sister, husband and our neice and nephew came visiting today. It was fab to see them and to play with them all in the park, it really made me desperately wish they lived closer. Boo. I suppose the only way we'd live close together again is if we moved back to the South East. Hmm. Let me consider that for a moment. Crapper scenery, more miserable, rude, ill mannered people, dour, grim little link towns that are basically just built for people to commute from into London and for no other purpose...yes. Thanks but no thanks.
I recommend Dorset very highly indeed...
Thursday, 29 July 2010
29th July - Birds that have swallowed plates.
'You look like a bird that has swallowed a plate' - says Blackadder, referring to Lord Percy's ridiculous Elizabethan ruff.
Well, I may not be a ruff wearer (why not, I hear you cry? Good question, I believe firmly that the decorative neck ruff is well overdue a comeback.) but the line did come to my head this morning when I woke up and discovered that my sore throat had gone from merely 'sore' to 'flipping red raw and uncomfortable'. Less like having swallowed a mere plate, and more like having swallowed a sizable plate lined with razor blades, with salt accompaniment like a margerita, but without any of the pleasurable after effects.
In short, I feel like utter utter crap.
In fact, to return to the ruff theme of today, a ruff would indeed be of some use to me, in disguising the huge proportions that my glands have swollen to. You know those Borneo Orangutans that have very flat, disc-like faces, with huge jowels? That's what I look like. An orangutan. A sodding orangutan.
Combined to this the pervading feeling of severe nausea, the upset stomach, the exhaustion and yes, the conclusion can be that I am one sick simian indeed. (no ironic comedy comments please, soooo not in the mood.)
D is not sick. This in itself is great. I don't like it when my little boy is all snivelly and poorly and looking all sad. However, it wouldn't be too much of an undesirable thing for D to just be...how can I phrase this...a leeeeetttlle bit calmer. Just a smidge. Chasing after D while he hares from room to room is one thing. Hands always ready to grab when he reaches for remote controls, flower pots, dvd players, cups of boiling hot honey and lemon, I can just about still manage. But when D decides to have an enormous tantrum about not being able to hold the wooden spoon (which I was trying to stir his soup with at the time), which results in his shrieking loud enough for the neighbours to hear (let alone his poor gran, attempting to see another client in the neighbouring room) and then seizing a glass in a huff and throwing it to the floor...that I draw the line at. Picture if you will, a snotty, groggy me, trying to balance a screaming D on one hip, the other hand scrabbling round on the floor for bits of sharded glass, narrowly missing severing several major arteries, both in my hands and my bare feet.
So, in short, I think I may well retreat to bed soon. Ruffless and somewhat glum.
That is, if a certain someone feels like having a nap...
Hmm. Maybe not then.
Well, I may not be a ruff wearer (why not, I hear you cry? Good question, I believe firmly that the decorative neck ruff is well overdue a comeback.) but the line did come to my head this morning when I woke up and discovered that my sore throat had gone from merely 'sore' to 'flipping red raw and uncomfortable'. Less like having swallowed a mere plate, and more like having swallowed a sizable plate lined with razor blades, with salt accompaniment like a margerita, but without any of the pleasurable after effects.
In short, I feel like utter utter crap.
In fact, to return to the ruff theme of today, a ruff would indeed be of some use to me, in disguising the huge proportions that my glands have swollen to. You know those Borneo Orangutans that have very flat, disc-like faces, with huge jowels? That's what I look like. An orangutan. A sodding orangutan.
Combined to this the pervading feeling of severe nausea, the upset stomach, the exhaustion and yes, the conclusion can be that I am one sick simian indeed. (no ironic comedy comments please, soooo not in the mood.)
D is not sick. This in itself is great. I don't like it when my little boy is all snivelly and poorly and looking all sad. However, it wouldn't be too much of an undesirable thing for D to just be...how can I phrase this...a leeeeetttlle bit calmer. Just a smidge. Chasing after D while he hares from room to room is one thing. Hands always ready to grab when he reaches for remote controls, flower pots, dvd players, cups of boiling hot honey and lemon, I can just about still manage. But when D decides to have an enormous tantrum about not being able to hold the wooden spoon (which I was trying to stir his soup with at the time), which results in his shrieking loud enough for the neighbours to hear (let alone his poor gran, attempting to see another client in the neighbouring room) and then seizing a glass in a huff and throwing it to the floor...that I draw the line at. Picture if you will, a snotty, groggy me, trying to balance a screaming D on one hip, the other hand scrabbling round on the floor for bits of sharded glass, narrowly missing severing several major arteries, both in my hands and my bare feet.
So, in short, I think I may well retreat to bed soon. Ruffless and somewhat glum.
That is, if a certain someone feels like having a nap...
Hmm. Maybe not then.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
27th July - Sell-by dates and nostalgic dreamings...
D and myself are having to eat absurd amounts of food at the moment, due to poor planning on behalf of this suburban mama. I bought in lots and lots of fresh fruit and veg about a week and a half ago (slightly smugly of course, parading the healthily laden trolley through Tesco with a beneficent grin on my face, an expression of 'ooh look how healthy my child must be, given all the fresh organic produce I stuff down his little neck'...which is actually a fallacy of the highest order...) and of course, forgot that a) the fridge would be turned off at intervals, due to builders needing the electrics off, and b) that I wouldn't actually BE THERE. And being the clod that I am, I of course, forgot to bring it with me the first time round, so had to wait until the weekend to retrieve it, hence the fact that D and myself are wading through ludicrous sums of fruit and veg.
I think the apple crumble went down a treat with D and the in laws though. Can't beat a bit of apple crumble. I'd give you the recipe, but it is that embarrassingly simple, that I wouldn't want to patronise you. Basically, it's peel apples, cook apples, pour crumble mix on top and cook. Sorted. (and add a bit of cinammon to give it a middle class edge, ha ha.)
As the title suggests, I have also been floating off into little dreamworlds recently. (well, I do that a lot anyway, but more so than usual at the moment.) I keep having flashbacks; back to the days when hubbie and I were young, free and boozy, and touring the world with not much else than a bundle of sweat riddled clothes and a backpack. For example, I looked out of the window this morning to see a jackdaw, sitting somewhat pompously on next door's roof (a burr, D triumphantly identified) and was suddenly transported back to walking down a street in the suburbs of Sydney, in the pouring rain, and watching a wild cockatoo perching miserably on the electric wires overhead. It was that vivid a flashback that it quite surprised me when I realised I was still sitting in a quiet room in Somerset, dutifully spooning soggy Weetabix into my son's open mouth.
Or yesterday, when a very strange vehicle drove slowly past myself and D, pulling behind it a cage with a model dinosaur and a king kong type ape thing, making a horrific tinny jungle noise through a pair of dodgy speakers attached to the back. (It was advertising the wonders of the Wookey Hole caves, in case you were wondering.) And it must have been something about that sound, because all of a sudden, I wasn't pacing the streets of Taunton, munching Haribo and desperately trying to get D off to sleep... no, for that split second, I was back in the Amazon rainforest, at 4:30 in the morning, standing in the wooden lodge and peering into the dense undergrowth, trying to spot some of the howler monkeys that were roaring like harley-davidsons.
But, would I swap this life for that one? Would I pass up being a mummy for swanning off round the world again? Not for a second.
Though, admittedly, if someone gave me a couple of grand, I'd be quite happy to do it again with D strapped to my back in a papoose... hee hee!
I think the apple crumble went down a treat with D and the in laws though. Can't beat a bit of apple crumble. I'd give you the recipe, but it is that embarrassingly simple, that I wouldn't want to patronise you. Basically, it's peel apples, cook apples, pour crumble mix on top and cook. Sorted. (and add a bit of cinammon to give it a middle class edge, ha ha.)
As the title suggests, I have also been floating off into little dreamworlds recently. (well, I do that a lot anyway, but more so than usual at the moment.) I keep having flashbacks; back to the days when hubbie and I were young, free and boozy, and touring the world with not much else than a bundle of sweat riddled clothes and a backpack. For example, I looked out of the window this morning to see a jackdaw, sitting somewhat pompously on next door's roof (a burr, D triumphantly identified) and was suddenly transported back to walking down a street in the suburbs of Sydney, in the pouring rain, and watching a wild cockatoo perching miserably on the electric wires overhead. It was that vivid a flashback that it quite surprised me when I realised I was still sitting in a quiet room in Somerset, dutifully spooning soggy Weetabix into my son's open mouth.
Or yesterday, when a very strange vehicle drove slowly past myself and D, pulling behind it a cage with a model dinosaur and a king kong type ape thing, making a horrific tinny jungle noise through a pair of dodgy speakers attached to the back. (It was advertising the wonders of the Wookey Hole caves, in case you were wondering.) And it must have been something about that sound, because all of a sudden, I wasn't pacing the streets of Taunton, munching Haribo and desperately trying to get D off to sleep... no, for that split second, I was back in the Amazon rainforest, at 4:30 in the morning, standing in the wooden lodge and peering into the dense undergrowth, trying to spot some of the howler monkeys that were roaring like harley-davidsons.
But, would I swap this life for that one? Would I pass up being a mummy for swanning off round the world again? Not for a second.
Though, admittedly, if someone gave me a couple of grand, I'd be quite happy to do it again with D strapped to my back in a papoose... hee hee!
Monday, 26 July 2010
26th July - Dada, burrd and NARNAR!!
As the obscure title of this entry might suggest (to those with children around the 1 year mark-ish), D is starting to use words. It's very endearing. For a while now, he's been chanting 'dada' obligingly, all smiles and increasingly toothy giggles for his old papa. Any attempts at 'mama' tend to be purely coincidental, and are generally formulated due to D mashing his lips together in the pain of teething, rather than out of love for his mum. Typical.
But now, D is branching out a bit on his vocabulary. Today, for the first time, we had 'burr', whilst pointing at a chimney in the neighbouring garden that happened to have a bird on it. (this may have been a case of suburban mama getting excited and claiming words out of thin air though...it does happen.) However, there was no mistaking the next big word. When I say big, I mean it as well. D literally bellowed it out as loudly as he could, scaring said 'burr' away and probably half the neighbourhood as well. This word happened to be his favourite food. NAR NAR! (banana for those of you a bit slow on the uptake.)
I would have found this unseemly bellow amusing and fairly cute, had it not been for the fact that D timed it at the precise hour that his poor grandmother was attempting to do a counselling session in the room nearby. So, presumably, some poor sod was emptying their heart out about all their deepest problems and issues, and was rudely interrupted by the rousing, earthy cry of NAR NAR. Probably fairly distracting, I should think. D - sensitive as ever. (did I mention the time he terrified a geriatric old dear in the supermarket by screeching as loudly as possible when behind her, making her jump, then having the audacity to snigger about it when she turned round? It's obviously becoming a bit of a habit...)
We are still sojurning at the in laws - the angels for putting up with us yet again! I entered the house at the weekend, then fled again, resolving never to return. The dust! The piles and piles of dust! I actually break out in a hot sweat every time I stop to think about it.
But now, D is branching out a bit on his vocabulary. Today, for the first time, we had 'burr', whilst pointing at a chimney in the neighbouring garden that happened to have a bird on it. (this may have been a case of suburban mama getting excited and claiming words out of thin air though...it does happen.) However, there was no mistaking the next big word. When I say big, I mean it as well. D literally bellowed it out as loudly as he could, scaring said 'burr' away and probably half the neighbourhood as well. This word happened to be his favourite food. NAR NAR! (banana for those of you a bit slow on the uptake.)
I would have found this unseemly bellow amusing and fairly cute, had it not been for the fact that D timed it at the precise hour that his poor grandmother was attempting to do a counselling session in the room nearby. So, presumably, some poor sod was emptying their heart out about all their deepest problems and issues, and was rudely interrupted by the rousing, earthy cry of NAR NAR. Probably fairly distracting, I should think. D - sensitive as ever. (did I mention the time he terrified a geriatric old dear in the supermarket by screeching as loudly as possible when behind her, making her jump, then having the audacity to snigger about it when she turned round? It's obviously becoming a bit of a habit...)
We are still sojurning at the in laws - the angels for putting up with us yet again! I entered the house at the weekend, then fled again, resolving never to return. The dust! The piles and piles of dust! I actually break out in a hot sweat every time I stop to think about it.
Thursday, 22 July 2010
22nd July - Suburban Mama in flight...
I fully admit it, I am a big fat coward. A massive big pansy. It wasn't even a case of not being able to take the heat, it was a case of lifting up skirts and shrieking at lukewarm temperatures. Hence the fact, that I 'got out of the kitchen' (or empty hole that used to be a kitchen, argh!) and indeed, fled the whole house.
We survived Monday ok, the day that the builders started. Despite the fact that they announced that a) the architect's plans were wrong, b) we had a pipework system about as primitive as you can get. I.e - first man made fire, then he made the one-pipe system that we've got, and c) we had a huge gas leak that could potentially have finished us all off, if it had remained undetected.
It was when they started to rip up the lounge (the lounge! The lounge! My lovely, polished, finished lounge!) that I started to get skittish. When they moved into ripping up our bedroom (my bedroom! My bedroom! My lovely, polished, finished bedroom!) I felt rather a few too many palpitations and hot sweats coming on. When they moved into ripping up D's bedroom (his bedroom! His bedroom! Yes, you get the picture...) and I felt a full blown heart attack coming on, I started to doubt my sanity at remaining in the house. After all, we were now living in a house where I actually couldn't put D down anywhere and had to carry him at all times- not an easy task with the world's wriggliest little boy, screeching to be let down so he could crawl around in the filth below.
It came to a crunch when I opened the front door on Tuesday, and was greeted by a cloud of thick, viscious dust and about 5 sweaty builders, who looked as though they'd been working down a coal mine. I was then greeted with the BFG, huge hands on hips, towering over me without his usual look of reassuring calm on his face, telling me 'not to panic about the hole in the kitchen floor.' Substitute the word 'hole' for 'crater' and you're not far off.
'Should we move out for a bit?' I meekly asked.
'Yes.' was the resounding reply.
So I turned tail and fled, complete with wriggly son and exhausted husband, to the solace of the in laws.
Dare I ever return, is the question...
We survived Monday ok, the day that the builders started. Despite the fact that they announced that a) the architect's plans were wrong, b) we had a pipework system about as primitive as you can get. I.e - first man made fire, then he made the one-pipe system that we've got, and c) we had a huge gas leak that could potentially have finished us all off, if it had remained undetected.
It was when they started to rip up the lounge (the lounge! The lounge! My lovely, polished, finished lounge!) that I started to get skittish. When they moved into ripping up our bedroom (my bedroom! My bedroom! My lovely, polished, finished bedroom!) I felt rather a few too many palpitations and hot sweats coming on. When they moved into ripping up D's bedroom (his bedroom! His bedroom! Yes, you get the picture...) and I felt a full blown heart attack coming on, I started to doubt my sanity at remaining in the house. After all, we were now living in a house where I actually couldn't put D down anywhere and had to carry him at all times- not an easy task with the world's wriggliest little boy, screeching to be let down so he could crawl around in the filth below.
It came to a crunch when I opened the front door on Tuesday, and was greeted by a cloud of thick, viscious dust and about 5 sweaty builders, who looked as though they'd been working down a coal mine. I was then greeted with the BFG, huge hands on hips, towering over me without his usual look of reassuring calm on his face, telling me 'not to panic about the hole in the kitchen floor.' Substitute the word 'hole' for 'crater' and you're not far off.
'Should we move out for a bit?' I meekly asked.
'Yes.' was the resounding reply.
So I turned tail and fled, complete with wriggly son and exhausted husband, to the solace of the in laws.
Dare I ever return, is the question...
Monday, 19 July 2010
19th July - Send for the straight-jackets...
I am going mad already. And they've only been building for...er...half an hour.
We've (predictably) already run into problems. Nibbler the architect not only positioned a velux window above a partition wall (not a good look, having half a window in each room) but also forgot to factor in a chimney breast. A big chimney breast. In a very small room.
Deep breaths.
This morning was spent clutching a very wriggly D (who was intent upon scaling up and down the entire length of my body whilst hanging on to my shirt and my hair) whilst listening to the two builders humming and harring over the architect plans, and basically saying they were all rubbish. They then calmly informed me that I would have no hot water until Friday. Let the weeping commence.
However, I have to say, the head honcho, the builder in charge (lets call him the BFG for now, as he's about 6ft 7") is marvellous at calming my shattered nerves. 'It'll be ok' he keeps telling me reassuringly, as I trail around the house after him, like a worried school kid. He then tells me that he'll strip our doors and strip the staircase too, hopefully revealling all the original stair spindles and banisters. I feel myself relax. Spindles and banisters. We're on familiar ground again. Keep chanting it like a mantra. Spindles and banisters. Spindles and banisters. S p i n d l e s and b a n i s t e r s......
And now, D and I are holed up in the lounge, barricaded in from the plumes of dust and the stomp of endless feet, of builders and plumbers and electricians plodding up and down the hallway. Our little peaceful haven! (If only I could just completely ignore the wallpaper in here, which is currently creeping down the walls, at the rate of about 2mm a day. We really did do a CRAP job of wallpapering in here...)
Fingers crossed that the BFG makes our house beeeyoootiful....
We've (predictably) already run into problems. Nibbler the architect not only positioned a velux window above a partition wall (not a good look, having half a window in each room) but also forgot to factor in a chimney breast. A big chimney breast. In a very small room.
Deep breaths.
This morning was spent clutching a very wriggly D (who was intent upon scaling up and down the entire length of my body whilst hanging on to my shirt and my hair) whilst listening to the two builders humming and harring over the architect plans, and basically saying they were all rubbish. They then calmly informed me that I would have no hot water until Friday. Let the weeping commence.
However, I have to say, the head honcho, the builder in charge (lets call him the BFG for now, as he's about 6ft 7") is marvellous at calming my shattered nerves. 'It'll be ok' he keeps telling me reassuringly, as I trail around the house after him, like a worried school kid. He then tells me that he'll strip our doors and strip the staircase too, hopefully revealling all the original stair spindles and banisters. I feel myself relax. Spindles and banisters. We're on familiar ground again. Keep chanting it like a mantra. Spindles and banisters. Spindles and banisters. S p i n d l e s and b a n i s t e r s......
And now, D and I are holed up in the lounge, barricaded in from the plumes of dust and the stomp of endless feet, of builders and plumbers and electricians plodding up and down the hallway. Our little peaceful haven! (If only I could just completely ignore the wallpaper in here, which is currently creeping down the walls, at the rate of about 2mm a day. We really did do a CRAP job of wallpapering in here...)
Fingers crossed that the BFG makes our house beeeyoootiful....
Saturday, 17 July 2010
17th July - Riddled with paint.
Ugh.
Painting.
Not the fun type either, not the 'sitting outside in clement weather dabbing brushes gently on canvas' type painting. I like that sort. The sort I'm talking about, is the 'straining to reach the sodding ceiling with a paint-saddled roller that spatters you copiously in the eye whilst getting repetitive strain injury in your wrist from holding up the bloody paint tray' type.
Definitely not fun at all.
I am covered in little flecks of whiteness, I look like a snowman has sneezed on me. The paint spots on the lips are probably the worst, from a distance, it looks like I've been dribbling. Mind you, given that I look like a mad person at the moment anyway, with hair sticking randomly in all directions because I can't be bothered to style it anymore, it probably fits in quite well with the general image.
And still it's not finished! Not even half way finished! I now have a ceiling that, when I look at it, starts to make me feel a bit queasy! It's a half splodgy, white streaked mess, with a big ladder that I can't be bothered to move that is going to be looming sinisterly over me tonight as I sleep, and a mass of dust sheets, which actually, if I'm honest, I didn't bother using, hence the fact that all our furniture now has flecks of paint on it too, and the duvet cover actually has an enormous blob of paint about the size of a 50 pence piece on it. Same goes for my clothes, which are actually nice clothes, because yes, I was also imbecilic enough not to put on old ones.
As Homer Simpson might say, Doh, doh, and double-doh.
Anyway, enough about the ceiling. It has taken up enough of my time today already. D's mad moods continue unabated, though at the moment, he is pleasantly cheery. He has discovered the delights of climbing in and out of an upturned cardboard box. Seriously, he's just been climbing in and out of it for the last 20 minutes now, giggling uproariously as he does so. I tried to join in, but he gave me a really disgruntled and, quite frankly, pissed off look, as if to say 'go and find your own box.' I felt quite peeved actually, as it did look quite fun.
Mind you, he's been in a ratbaggy mood for the rest of the day. Especially round meal times. Oh, I am starting to dread meal times. Today, it was the breadsticks and the carrot batons that bore the brunt of D's passionate rage. The breadstick was literally smashed into smithereens and discarded as though it was something unspeakable. The poor carrot suffered worse though, D sat on it, and then voided his bowels. Fortunately he was clothed at the time, but none the less, the smell alone should have sealed the deal for the poor vegetable. It was a dirty protest of the worst kind. Even worse than puking on the Gina Ford book, which he did the other day. (For those not in the know, Gina Ford endorses controlled crying and strict routines. I think D made his feelings on that matter VERY clear, judging by the dribblings of sticky sick running all over the front cover.)
I shall sign off for the day. I'm off to get D to bed, then off to pour myself a frighteningly large glass of wine. Adieu.
Painting.
Not the fun type either, not the 'sitting outside in clement weather dabbing brushes gently on canvas' type painting. I like that sort. The sort I'm talking about, is the 'straining to reach the sodding ceiling with a paint-saddled roller that spatters you copiously in the eye whilst getting repetitive strain injury in your wrist from holding up the bloody paint tray' type.
Definitely not fun at all.
I am covered in little flecks of whiteness, I look like a snowman has sneezed on me. The paint spots on the lips are probably the worst, from a distance, it looks like I've been dribbling. Mind you, given that I look like a mad person at the moment anyway, with hair sticking randomly in all directions because I can't be bothered to style it anymore, it probably fits in quite well with the general image.
And still it's not finished! Not even half way finished! I now have a ceiling that, when I look at it, starts to make me feel a bit queasy! It's a half splodgy, white streaked mess, with a big ladder that I can't be bothered to move that is going to be looming sinisterly over me tonight as I sleep, and a mass of dust sheets, which actually, if I'm honest, I didn't bother using, hence the fact that all our furniture now has flecks of paint on it too, and the duvet cover actually has an enormous blob of paint about the size of a 50 pence piece on it. Same goes for my clothes, which are actually nice clothes, because yes, I was also imbecilic enough not to put on old ones.
As Homer Simpson might say, Doh, doh, and double-doh.
Anyway, enough about the ceiling. It has taken up enough of my time today already. D's mad moods continue unabated, though at the moment, he is pleasantly cheery. He has discovered the delights of climbing in and out of an upturned cardboard box. Seriously, he's just been climbing in and out of it for the last 20 minutes now, giggling uproariously as he does so. I tried to join in, but he gave me a really disgruntled and, quite frankly, pissed off look, as if to say 'go and find your own box.' I felt quite peeved actually, as it did look quite fun.
Mind you, he's been in a ratbaggy mood for the rest of the day. Especially round meal times. Oh, I am starting to dread meal times. Today, it was the breadsticks and the carrot batons that bore the brunt of D's passionate rage. The breadstick was literally smashed into smithereens and discarded as though it was something unspeakable. The poor carrot suffered worse though, D sat on it, and then voided his bowels. Fortunately he was clothed at the time, but none the less, the smell alone should have sealed the deal for the poor vegetable. It was a dirty protest of the worst kind. Even worse than puking on the Gina Ford book, which he did the other day. (For those not in the know, Gina Ford endorses controlled crying and strict routines. I think D made his feelings on that matter VERY clear, judging by the dribblings of sticky sick running all over the front cover.)
I shall sign off for the day. I'm off to get D to bed, then off to pour myself a frighteningly large glass of wine. Adieu.
Friday, 16 July 2010
16th July. Le Freak. C'est NE PAS chic.
Freak out! Has been the theme of this morning. And, as the title of this entry suggests, unlike the song, it has not been chic. Not even moderately stylish. It's been an all out shambles of freak, if we're talking fashion metaphors here, it's been like the biggest wardrobe malfunction since Timmy Mallet. The biggest hair-style no-no since Ann Widdecombe. The biggest shoe disaster since Alvin Stardust broke his ankle wearing 6 inch platforms (get in for musical knowledge, girl...)
D has gone mad! Who has stolen my happy little son? I just tried to feed him some pasta a moment ago and I'm not sure whether he thought I'd mixed cyanide into it or something, but the reaction / freak out was immensely severe. The meatballs went the same way. It's a shame, they were damned nice, but not so nice after being thrown under the washing machine and accumulating a layer of dirt and hair. The carrot didn't even get a look in, and as for the cucumber, I didn't even bother to take it out of the fridge. It was safer in there. To be dealt into D's hands would have meant instant doom.
The weather isn't helping our general frame of mind either. There is no other way of putting it - it sucks. It sucks balls. I headed out to Tesco earlier and got caught in the most mega rain shower ever; which I admit, I got really needlessly ratty about and started walking along the puddle-riddled streets muttering and swearing under my breath, which may have convinced the people of the town (all sensibly wearing macs and cagouls, grr) that I was completely off my rocker. Yes, I admit, it was a teeny tiny bit prattish to go out wearing just a thin jumper and a skirt. (pause). And flip flops. Yes, the flip flops were definitely a bit silly. Especially when all the leaves on the ground went mulchy in the rain and I ended up nearly sliding on my arse about ten times.
Nashings of teeth. Boo.
D has gone mad! Who has stolen my happy little son? I just tried to feed him some pasta a moment ago and I'm not sure whether he thought I'd mixed cyanide into it or something, but the reaction / freak out was immensely severe. The meatballs went the same way. It's a shame, they were damned nice, but not so nice after being thrown under the washing machine and accumulating a layer of dirt and hair. The carrot didn't even get a look in, and as for the cucumber, I didn't even bother to take it out of the fridge. It was safer in there. To be dealt into D's hands would have meant instant doom.
The weather isn't helping our general frame of mind either. There is no other way of putting it - it sucks. It sucks balls. I headed out to Tesco earlier and got caught in the most mega rain shower ever; which I admit, I got really needlessly ratty about and started walking along the puddle-riddled streets muttering and swearing under my breath, which may have convinced the people of the town (all sensibly wearing macs and cagouls, grr) that I was completely off my rocker. Yes, I admit, it was a teeny tiny bit prattish to go out wearing just a thin jumper and a skirt. (pause). And flip flops. Yes, the flip flops were definitely a bit silly. Especially when all the leaves on the ground went mulchy in the rain and I ended up nearly sliding on my arse about ten times.
Nashings of teeth. Boo.
Thursday, 15 July 2010
15th July - The Violent Highs and the Violent Lows...
Oh dear, the boy really is getting to be a chip off the old (maternal) block.
For those who know me, you may also be aware of my rather alarmingly capricious and, lets face it, somewhat silly personality. I can leap from the peaks of cheeriness to the depths of despair faster than you can say 'blimey, is it that time of the month'. Seriously, I just don't know how hubbie puts up with it. (Well, I do, he simply sighs and pours himself another glass of wine. Then inserts the ear plugs.)
It would appear that our beloved D is learning the tricks of the trade with the mood swings. Today, we have had no less than about 20 hugely alarming screechy tantrums. They were over the following things:
1) Having his nappy changed.
2) Having to wear clothes.
3) Us not psychically knowing that he had finished his breakfast.
4) Us not miraculously being able to release him from his highchair in a millisecond.
5) Turning off the tv before the closing credits of Waybaloo had completely finished (that one was a big one).
6) Trying to feed him couscous.
7) Not immediately having a substitute for the rejected couscous.
8) Not allowing him to eat the computer lead.
9) Not allowing him to eat hubbie's flip flops.
The list goes on. Each strop evokes a terrifying transformation in our normally chirpy little laddie. The face darkens to a worrying shade of aubergine. The mouth opens so it almost encompasses the whole head, then the most shrill wail audible to the human ear emerges from the tiny, yet thoroughly determined wind pipes.
And yet, just as quickly, like a switch has been flicked, he'll be all smiles again, looking at you all sweetly, with a hint of bemusement, as if to say 'why are you looking so harrassed and worn out, mummy? Surely it's nothing to do with me!'
I just can't keep up with him at the moment. Bless him. It's divine retribution for me being like that for 28 years... ho ho...
For those who know me, you may also be aware of my rather alarmingly capricious and, lets face it, somewhat silly personality. I can leap from the peaks of cheeriness to the depths of despair faster than you can say 'blimey, is it that time of the month'. Seriously, I just don't know how hubbie puts up with it. (Well, I do, he simply sighs and pours himself another glass of wine. Then inserts the ear plugs.)
It would appear that our beloved D is learning the tricks of the trade with the mood swings. Today, we have had no less than about 20 hugely alarming screechy tantrums. They were over the following things:
1) Having his nappy changed.
2) Having to wear clothes.
3) Us not psychically knowing that he had finished his breakfast.
4) Us not miraculously being able to release him from his highchair in a millisecond.
5) Turning off the tv before the closing credits of Waybaloo had completely finished (that one was a big one).
6) Trying to feed him couscous.
7) Not immediately having a substitute for the rejected couscous.
8) Not allowing him to eat the computer lead.
9) Not allowing him to eat hubbie's flip flops.
The list goes on. Each strop evokes a terrifying transformation in our normally chirpy little laddie. The face darkens to a worrying shade of aubergine. The mouth opens so it almost encompasses the whole head, then the most shrill wail audible to the human ear emerges from the tiny, yet thoroughly determined wind pipes.
And yet, just as quickly, like a switch has been flicked, he'll be all smiles again, looking at you all sweetly, with a hint of bemusement, as if to say 'why are you looking so harrassed and worn out, mummy? Surely it's nothing to do with me!'
I just can't keep up with him at the moment. Bless him. It's divine retribution for me being like that for 28 years... ho ho...
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
14th July - Terror sets in...
For the past few weeks, I've been very much living on my own little 'Planet Happy' when thinking about our building works. For those of you who are computer buffs, it was a bit like 'Little Big Planet' in my head, lots of lovely little scenes of me skipping blithely through perfect shiny kitchens and polished, gleaming bathrooms, with big friendly builders waving and saying hello.
This morning was different though. 'Little Big Planet' disappeared in a puff of noxious smoke. What replaced it was an image that actually made me whimper out loud with panic, much to D's surprise. Instead, that horrible, turgid beast, REALITY, hit me.
The reality of no kitchen for two weeks. 'It'll be alright!' I had breezily said to hubbie, only a week ago. WHAT??!! What was I thinking?? A whole fortnight with no cooker, no washing machine, no sink... in short...ARGH!! How am I going to cook meals? How am I going to wash up? How HUGE is the pile of our stinky smelly clothes going to be?
Then, the additional reality of NO BATHROOM. No means of washing. No means of giving D his bath. No running water.
I suddenly had awful visions of D crawling round, hair matted and caked in food, face as grimy as a Victorian chimney sweep, smiling cheerfully as another fly alighted on his food stained clothing.
I had visions of hubbie and me, huddled round the microwave, like desperate cavemen round a campfire, fishing out yet another revolting ready meal.
Oh, the horror, the horror.
I am probably making a little too much of this. It is, after all, only two weeks. But it is going to be two weeks of HELL.
Now, I need to pull myself together here. Eyes on the prize. Keep the visions of pristine perfect kitchen/diners, with happy sons toddling round in it. Keep the image of relaxing under a shower that doesn't involve you sitting perched on the most painful bathmat in history (seriously, I know it was only three quid, but it has these spikes like bloody nails digging into your vulnerable buttocks), holding the shower head over you, while it decides whether it's going to douse you in boiling hot or arctic water. Keep the image of TWO toilets. No more racing downstairs every morning to be the first one to have a desperate wee. (I normally win though, just for the record).
Deep breaths. I can do it.
On an entirely different note, D has been tough work these past few days. The tantrums and all out strop-attacks have continued unabated. Today's fury was leveled at the spaghetti bolognaise that I served up to him. To be honest, I'm not sure I blame him. It came from a jar (his first ever jar food!) and it looked like something a wild animal might sick up in the garden. It smelt pretty much the same. I wouldn't touch it. But...(nashings of panic) if he won't eat from jars, what on earth am I going to cook for him (without a cooker!) for the next fortnight?? Man (and baby) cannot live on Philadelphia and toast alone!
Oh darn it, I'm worrying again, aren't I. I think this might be a theme over the next few weeks...
This morning was different though. 'Little Big Planet' disappeared in a puff of noxious smoke. What replaced it was an image that actually made me whimper out loud with panic, much to D's surprise. Instead, that horrible, turgid beast, REALITY, hit me.
The reality of no kitchen for two weeks. 'It'll be alright!' I had breezily said to hubbie, only a week ago. WHAT??!! What was I thinking?? A whole fortnight with no cooker, no washing machine, no sink... in short...ARGH!! How am I going to cook meals? How am I going to wash up? How HUGE is the pile of our stinky smelly clothes going to be?
Then, the additional reality of NO BATHROOM. No means of washing. No means of giving D his bath. No running water.
I suddenly had awful visions of D crawling round, hair matted and caked in food, face as grimy as a Victorian chimney sweep, smiling cheerfully as another fly alighted on his food stained clothing.
I had visions of hubbie and me, huddled round the microwave, like desperate cavemen round a campfire, fishing out yet another revolting ready meal.
Oh, the horror, the horror.
I am probably making a little too much of this. It is, after all, only two weeks. But it is going to be two weeks of HELL.
Now, I need to pull myself together here. Eyes on the prize. Keep the visions of pristine perfect kitchen/diners, with happy sons toddling round in it. Keep the image of relaxing under a shower that doesn't involve you sitting perched on the most painful bathmat in history (seriously, I know it was only three quid, but it has these spikes like bloody nails digging into your vulnerable buttocks), holding the shower head over you, while it decides whether it's going to douse you in boiling hot or arctic water. Keep the image of TWO toilets. No more racing downstairs every morning to be the first one to have a desperate wee. (I normally win though, just for the record).
Deep breaths. I can do it.
On an entirely different note, D has been tough work these past few days. The tantrums and all out strop-attacks have continued unabated. Today's fury was leveled at the spaghetti bolognaise that I served up to him. To be honest, I'm not sure I blame him. It came from a jar (his first ever jar food!) and it looked like something a wild animal might sick up in the garden. It smelt pretty much the same. I wouldn't touch it. But...(nashings of panic) if he won't eat from jars, what on earth am I going to cook for him (without a cooker!) for the next fortnight?? Man (and baby) cannot live on Philadelphia and toast alone!
Oh darn it, I'm worrying again, aren't I. I think this might be a theme over the next few weeks...
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
13th July...A breakthrough?
Well, who would have adam and eve-d it? (to coin an old cockney phrase.)
It only took 40 minutes to get D to have his nap this morning! 40 minutes! That's nothing! Yes, I know, all you other smug suburban mamas out there whose sproglings simply nod off as soon as you lay them in the cot, yes, I know it's not that great really. But to me it is!
Just to fill you in, the standard practice in this household is that D starts yawning around 8:30, we go upstairs, we have a bit of quiet time, we read a book, we have a cuddle, D lies in his cot...and then the screaming starts. Then I get him up, give him a cuddle, pop him back down...more screaming. You get the picture. And so it continues for at least an hour and a half normally, all the time D still yawning and rubbing his angry eyes furiously, but refusing to give in to it.
So 40 minutes is good! And...I scarcely dare say it, but he's been asleep for 25 minutes now! This must be a record.
However, on a more negative note, 25 minutes has afforded me some dangerous time to make dreadful inroads into the pack of jelly beans that I bought the other day. (I KNEW it was a bad idea at the time, why did I do it?) The green ones are particularly succulent and juicy. Worse still, I've put them right next to the apples, in a bid to force my grabbing little fingers to seize something healthy instead, but no, the fingers creep surreptitiously into the jelly bean bag instead, every time.
We had the architect's drawings come through yesterday. The architect is really very nice, he gets so excited about everything, but he keeps suggesting these whizzy technological things that we really can't afford. Such as:
- Velux windows that open up or close according to temperature. (no.)
- A mirror in the new bathroom that lights up when you wave your hand in front of it. (er..no.)
- An extremely expensive set of bi-fold doors so we are flooded with light. (er...no. Oh, now, hang on, bugger, YES. We said YES to this one. Oh blimey. That's another couple of grand in debt then, whoops!)
He also keeps saying the word 'nibble'. It's almost like a nervous tic. Everything needs 'nibbling'. He's going to 'nibble' the step at the back door. Last week he came round to 'nibble' some exploratory holes in the ceiling. (Yeah, where loads of bloody house flies poured their way through, thanks for that particular nibble!) So we have duly renamed him Nibbler. He even looks a bit like that particular character from Futurama, so it suits him well. I like him all the more for being a Nibbler.
We have a terrible habit of nicknaming people. The plumber has been nicknamed Pippin the Second. Not even the original Pippin, poor bloke! Basically, anyone young, rosy cheeked and earnest gets called Pippin by myself and hubby. We are quite strange, aren't we.
So, what with Pippin the Second and Nibbler on the case with our house, its getting more and more like an Enid Blyton book every day. I shall start drinking Fizzy Pop and 'having larks' soon, just to fit in.
I've not done a recipe for a while, so here is a simple one that I am going to make in the near future to test it out on the supremely fussy D.
Meatballsss
You need: -
Mince (go on, make it vegetarian, you know you want to join the good guys...)
An egg of magnificent proportions.
An onion, finely finely chopped, or better still, grated within an inch of it's life.
Mix em all up.
Roll them into little ping pong balls of loveliness.
Whack em in a pre heated oven (200c) for about 20 mins.
Voila! How simple is that! And rustle up with a tomato or bolognaise sauce and you've got a winner with the little 'uns. Having said that, I bet D still spurns them and sends them imperiously to the floor, as he so often does to my lovely home cooked food. Hmmph.
It only took 40 minutes to get D to have his nap this morning! 40 minutes! That's nothing! Yes, I know, all you other smug suburban mamas out there whose sproglings simply nod off as soon as you lay them in the cot, yes, I know it's not that great really. But to me it is!
Just to fill you in, the standard practice in this household is that D starts yawning around 8:30, we go upstairs, we have a bit of quiet time, we read a book, we have a cuddle, D lies in his cot...and then the screaming starts. Then I get him up, give him a cuddle, pop him back down...more screaming. You get the picture. And so it continues for at least an hour and a half normally, all the time D still yawning and rubbing his angry eyes furiously, but refusing to give in to it.
So 40 minutes is good! And...I scarcely dare say it, but he's been asleep for 25 minutes now! This must be a record.
However, on a more negative note, 25 minutes has afforded me some dangerous time to make dreadful inroads into the pack of jelly beans that I bought the other day. (I KNEW it was a bad idea at the time, why did I do it?) The green ones are particularly succulent and juicy. Worse still, I've put them right next to the apples, in a bid to force my grabbing little fingers to seize something healthy instead, but no, the fingers creep surreptitiously into the jelly bean bag instead, every time.
We had the architect's drawings come through yesterday. The architect is really very nice, he gets so excited about everything, but he keeps suggesting these whizzy technological things that we really can't afford. Such as:
- Velux windows that open up or close according to temperature. (no.)
- A mirror in the new bathroom that lights up when you wave your hand in front of it. (er..no.)
- An extremely expensive set of bi-fold doors so we are flooded with light. (er...no. Oh, now, hang on, bugger, YES. We said YES to this one. Oh blimey. That's another couple of grand in debt then, whoops!)
He also keeps saying the word 'nibble'. It's almost like a nervous tic. Everything needs 'nibbling'. He's going to 'nibble' the step at the back door. Last week he came round to 'nibble' some exploratory holes in the ceiling. (Yeah, where loads of bloody house flies poured their way through, thanks for that particular nibble!) So we have duly renamed him Nibbler. He even looks a bit like that particular character from Futurama, so it suits him well. I like him all the more for being a Nibbler.
We have a terrible habit of nicknaming people. The plumber has been nicknamed Pippin the Second. Not even the original Pippin, poor bloke! Basically, anyone young, rosy cheeked and earnest gets called Pippin by myself and hubby. We are quite strange, aren't we.
So, what with Pippin the Second and Nibbler on the case with our house, its getting more and more like an Enid Blyton book every day. I shall start drinking Fizzy Pop and 'having larks' soon, just to fit in.
I've not done a recipe for a while, so here is a simple one that I am going to make in the near future to test it out on the supremely fussy D.
Meatballsss
You need: -
Mince (go on, make it vegetarian, you know you want to join the good guys...)
An egg of magnificent proportions.
An onion, finely finely chopped, or better still, grated within an inch of it's life.
Mix em all up.
Roll them into little ping pong balls of loveliness.
Whack em in a pre heated oven (200c) for about 20 mins.
Voila! How simple is that! And rustle up with a tomato or bolognaise sauce and you've got a winner with the little 'uns. Having said that, I bet D still spurns them and sends them imperiously to the floor, as he so often does to my lovely home cooked food. Hmmph.
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