We had another 5 o clock wake up this morning. I blearily bought D into bed with me (bed consists of mattress on the floor, given that our room is only half plastered and is covered in an inch of aged dust). However, D was having none of it. Let me see now, we had 1) the game of pulling mummy's nose, then 2) the game of climbing on mummy and crying because he couldn't quite stand up on me, then 3) the truly hilarious game of crawling over to the gap between the mattress and the wall and getting his buttocks wedged in it, then crying again. This particular game was repeated at least 5 times until I gave up and got up.
Ugh. I feel like someone has filled up my brain with smoke and cotton wool.
We then had all the fun and games of trying to get D to have a nap. About 7:30am, predictably, he was tired. Not surprising really, given that he'd been quite literally bouncing off the walls like some sort of baby-shaped laser beam, for two and a half hours.
But for D to go to sleep, is obviously tantamount to him admitting defeat. He gets this resolute look to his face - his eyes go flinty with determination, his lips get all thin and straight and he gives me this look as if to say; 'not on my watch, woman.' We had floods of tears every time the cot was even in sight. Then we had more floods of tears when placed in the cot. Then more floods of tears as he manfully pulled himself up to a standing position. Seriously, it was like a wounded soldier on the battlefields, weary, bleary, but still ready for the fight. Sadly, mama was not. So nap time did not occur until, oh, about five minutes ago.
I feel like I've already done a full day's work. And its 9am. God, that is depressing. Still, at least now I am enjoying one of those rare moments of sipping a hot chocolate (its cooled down outside sufficiently enough for me to be back on the hot drinks...) and writing this.
Hubbie is currently in Liverpool, and I am very worried about how much he is working. He was up until 1am last night, struggling to meet this company's insatiable demands - he's worked every evening this last week, he's not home until late tonight, then they expect him to go to London tomorrow. He is starting to look burnt out. I sometimes wonder to myself...is it worth it? I always said to him all along, we could manage with less well paid jobs, we could just get a smaller house and postpone the production of a child number two (god, two of them not sleeping, I'm not sure I'd be able to cope!) I'm not sure any job is worth becoming an exhausted little husk over.
Anyway, back to work, I've got approximately ten minutes before D stirs again, ready for round two...
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
Monday, 28 June 2010
28th June - Mr Tumble is a genius.
I am being very serious as well, about Mr Tumble. I'm not even being slightly sarcastic.
For those not in the know, Mr Tumble is a hilarious character is Justin Fletcher's invention, on CBeebies. He uses the medium of sign larnguage to communicate with his audience.
And, yep, I have reached that age in my life where, on the rare occasions when I get a chance to put my feet up, I end up watching children's tv, as anything else on the tv results in D getting very irritated indeed.
I was watching Mr Tumble today and I was struck with the notion that he was a genius. I watched him as he produced increasingly more convincing interpretations of a lion, elephant and monkey (oh, the monkey! It was his opus, it really was! He gamboled and leapt round the area as though his very life depended on it!)
I was quite literally bowled over with respect for the man, who showed no hint of smug self-awareness, not even a whiff of embarrassment over his actions- no, he was just purely in the moment and performing the role for all he was worth. Nay, I would say he was LIVING the role. Stanislavski would have wet himself with delight over this guy. He was method acting for all he was worth.
And I thought, if only I could be so wonderfully, completely MYSELF. Totally into what you were doing, totally unconcerned with the perceptions of others around you - almost returning to some sort of child-like innocence. See - isn't it marvellous! Children's tv has literally got me philosophically musing!
D likes the programme too. I'm not sure if he has the same reasons for liking it as me though. I think he likes the bright colours instead.
Suburban mama has been a baking today. Yes indeedy. Here are some recipes for those who like to guzzle food and like to cook up yummy stuff for their longsuffering offspring.
Cheesypea mash up
You need:
Flour (about one loaded teasspoon)
Knob of butter
Some grated mild cheese (about 2 tbspn)
milk (perhaps 100ml? Just add as you go along!)
a potato (sweet or normal)
some peas!
Melt the knob of butter over a low heat, then add the flour, whisking to make sure it doesn't all clump together in a right old mess.
Fairly swiftly, start adding the milk (not all at once - slowly slowly is the art form here!)
Keep whisking, to keep those lumps at bay, and gently add more milk until you have a nice creamy consistency.
Dump in your cheese, keep whisking until its all melted, then put to one side.
While all this has been going on, you would have already lobbed the spud in the microwave for 5-10 mins (depending on size and type!) until its all smushy.
Lob it in the oven to finish it off and soften it up a bit.
Meanwhile, cook a few peas on the hob, or in a small steamer if you have one.
Fish the potato out of the oven, scoop it out, slop it in with the cheese sauce and add the peas. Add milk according to the consistency that your little one likes (mine likes it proper milky, surprise surprise!) And its up to you how much you want to mash it!
Easy peasy lasagne
(you can make this one for babies too, just leave out the wine, salt and parmesan!)
You need:
Mince (veggie mince if you walk the path of righteousness like myself...)
One onion
2 garlic cloves, or garlic puree if you are feeling mega lazy.
red wine (not too much you alkies!!)
tomato puree
can of chopped tomatoes.
100 ml milk
lasagne sheets
Cheese sauce (see recipe above - its the same! But you'll need quite a bit more, perhaps 25g flour, 25g butter, 300ml milk and a good old whack of cheese?)
Grate your onion and garlic (yep, grate, not chop - it makes it super smooth and gets the flavour out!)
In a big old saucepan, heat some olive oil - about 2 tbspn. I love to add a bit of walnut oil too for a lush nutty flavour, but this isn't necessary!
Add the grated onion and garlic and fry gently until they are nice and golden.
Add seasoning if you fancy.
Pop in about a tbsn of tomato puree, keep stirring over gentle heat.
Add wine and fry it off (ie until its all absorbed)
Then add your mince and fry it gently until its all cooked.
Finally chuck in the chopped tomatoes and leave to simmer until its all nicely cooked. I like to leave it simmering for a good old time to give the flavours a chance to work their magic though.
Add the milk about halfway through.
Put to one side!
Then, make your cheese sauce. Put to one side.
Then, get a big oven dish and put half your mince mixture in the bottom, making sure its all evenly spread out.
Put some lasagne sheets on the top of it.
Spoon out about half your cheese sauce, making sure it all goes over the edges, as this will seep into the meat / veggie meat below...yum!
Then, add the rest of your mince, again, spreading out.
Pop in another layer of lasagne sheets.
Pour over rest of cheese sauce.
Sprinkle parmesan on the top, according to taste
What I then like to do is whack it in the fridge for a while to really let those flavours get tasty, before popping in the oven for half an hour at around 200c. Et voila! This recipe was basically nicked from Gordon Ramsey, I can't take credit for it - but it works very nicely. And it's, more importantly, easy to make.
You can't say I don't give you anything...
For those not in the know, Mr Tumble is a hilarious character is Justin Fletcher's invention, on CBeebies. He uses the medium of sign larnguage to communicate with his audience.
And, yep, I have reached that age in my life where, on the rare occasions when I get a chance to put my feet up, I end up watching children's tv, as anything else on the tv results in D getting very irritated indeed.
I was watching Mr Tumble today and I was struck with the notion that he was a genius. I watched him as he produced increasingly more convincing interpretations of a lion, elephant and monkey (oh, the monkey! It was his opus, it really was! He gamboled and leapt round the area as though his very life depended on it!)
I was quite literally bowled over with respect for the man, who showed no hint of smug self-awareness, not even a whiff of embarrassment over his actions- no, he was just purely in the moment and performing the role for all he was worth. Nay, I would say he was LIVING the role. Stanislavski would have wet himself with delight over this guy. He was method acting for all he was worth.
And I thought, if only I could be so wonderfully, completely MYSELF. Totally into what you were doing, totally unconcerned with the perceptions of others around you - almost returning to some sort of child-like innocence. See - isn't it marvellous! Children's tv has literally got me philosophically musing!
D likes the programme too. I'm not sure if he has the same reasons for liking it as me though. I think he likes the bright colours instead.
Suburban mama has been a baking today. Yes indeedy. Here are some recipes for those who like to guzzle food and like to cook up yummy stuff for their longsuffering offspring.
Cheesypea mash up
You need:
Flour (about one loaded teasspoon)
Knob of butter
Some grated mild cheese (about 2 tbspn)
milk (perhaps 100ml? Just add as you go along!)
a potato (sweet or normal)
some peas!
Melt the knob of butter over a low heat, then add the flour, whisking to make sure it doesn't all clump together in a right old mess.
Fairly swiftly, start adding the milk (not all at once - slowly slowly is the art form here!)
Keep whisking, to keep those lumps at bay, and gently add more milk until you have a nice creamy consistency.
Dump in your cheese, keep whisking until its all melted, then put to one side.
While all this has been going on, you would have already lobbed the spud in the microwave for 5-10 mins (depending on size and type!) until its all smushy.
Lob it in the oven to finish it off and soften it up a bit.
Meanwhile, cook a few peas on the hob, or in a small steamer if you have one.
Fish the potato out of the oven, scoop it out, slop it in with the cheese sauce and add the peas. Add milk according to the consistency that your little one likes (mine likes it proper milky, surprise surprise!) And its up to you how much you want to mash it!
Easy peasy lasagne
(you can make this one for babies too, just leave out the wine, salt and parmesan!)
You need:
Mince (veggie mince if you walk the path of righteousness like myself...)
One onion
2 garlic cloves, or garlic puree if you are feeling mega lazy.
red wine (not too much you alkies!!)
tomato puree
can of chopped tomatoes.
100 ml milk
lasagne sheets
Cheese sauce (see recipe above - its the same! But you'll need quite a bit more, perhaps 25g flour, 25g butter, 300ml milk and a good old whack of cheese?)
Grate your onion and garlic (yep, grate, not chop - it makes it super smooth and gets the flavour out!)
In a big old saucepan, heat some olive oil - about 2 tbspn. I love to add a bit of walnut oil too for a lush nutty flavour, but this isn't necessary!
Add the grated onion and garlic and fry gently until they are nice and golden.
Add seasoning if you fancy.
Pop in about a tbsn of tomato puree, keep stirring over gentle heat.
Add wine and fry it off (ie until its all absorbed)
Then add your mince and fry it gently until its all cooked.
Finally chuck in the chopped tomatoes and leave to simmer until its all nicely cooked. I like to leave it simmering for a good old time to give the flavours a chance to work their magic though.
Add the milk about halfway through.
Put to one side!
Then, make your cheese sauce. Put to one side.
Then, get a big oven dish and put half your mince mixture in the bottom, making sure its all evenly spread out.
Put some lasagne sheets on the top of it.
Spoon out about half your cheese sauce, making sure it all goes over the edges, as this will seep into the meat / veggie meat below...yum!
Then, add the rest of your mince, again, spreading out.
Pop in another layer of lasagne sheets.
Pour over rest of cheese sauce.
Sprinkle parmesan on the top, according to taste
What I then like to do is whack it in the fridge for a while to really let those flavours get tasty, before popping in the oven for half an hour at around 200c. Et voila! This recipe was basically nicked from Gordon Ramsey, I can't take credit for it - but it works very nicely. And it's, more importantly, easy to make.
You can't say I don't give you anything...
Sunday, 27 June 2010
27th June, boo hoo for England!
What a pathetic display of football today. I really wish I had not wasted 90 minutes of my life watching it. Well, I didn't really waste 90 minutes, about 3o minutes in, D was scared into gales of tears by his father, father's best friend and his grandfather screaming in unison at the television. (Thanks for that, boys!) So it was a swift exit for us after that, only to return after half time to watch the humiliating 4-1 drubbing.
Still, at least England are out of it now. At least I don't have to get interested in filling in our wall chart any more and scrutinising it carefully to see who we'll be playing in the semi finals. I can now officially state that I DO NOT CARE. Come on Ghana. Ghana are my new team of choice. I want to see a victory to an African Nation!
We've been so hard at it this weekend, painting D's room. I must confess, I also managed to paint a lot of the carpet (lucky it's coming out in a week's time), some of the built in cupboards and a bit of D's cot. Whoops. But it looks bloody fantastic. D's new jungle room is coming on a treat, he has a positively glistening bright green wall now! Unfortunately, this meant that we missed out on all the gorgeous sunniness, and the aroma of all our neighbours having barbeques was tempting in the extreme. Oh the temptation to bunk off DIY and swan off to the beach for the day!
D himself though has been hard work. It's those little toothy pegs and also the ferociously hot weather, I'm sure. He's been grizzly about pretty much everything recently, grizzly because he doesn't like eating x, grizzly because he doesn't want to sleep at time y, grizzly because he doesn't like tone of voice z, etc etc. I do hope my lovely little possum is feeling better tomorrow!
Still, at least England are out of it now. At least I don't have to get interested in filling in our wall chart any more and scrutinising it carefully to see who we'll be playing in the semi finals. I can now officially state that I DO NOT CARE. Come on Ghana. Ghana are my new team of choice. I want to see a victory to an African Nation!
We've been so hard at it this weekend, painting D's room. I must confess, I also managed to paint a lot of the carpet (lucky it's coming out in a week's time), some of the built in cupboards and a bit of D's cot. Whoops. But it looks bloody fantastic. D's new jungle room is coming on a treat, he has a positively glistening bright green wall now! Unfortunately, this meant that we missed out on all the gorgeous sunniness, and the aroma of all our neighbours having barbeques was tempting in the extreme. Oh the temptation to bunk off DIY and swan off to the beach for the day!
D himself though has been hard work. It's those little toothy pegs and also the ferociously hot weather, I'm sure. He's been grizzly about pretty much everything recently, grizzly because he doesn't like eating x, grizzly because he doesn't want to sleep at time y, grizzly because he doesn't like tone of voice z, etc etc. I do hope my lovely little possum is feeling better tomorrow!
Friday, 25 June 2010
25th June - Hot place hot.
Before you think I'm mad, 'hot place hot' was actually something hubbie and I saw on a sign in Thailand, which made us chuckle a bit. So any time the weather is particularly clement, we refer to it as 'hot place hot' or 'scorchio', (Fast Show reference) depending on our mood at the time.
Today, it is both hot place hot and scorchio, all rolled up into one smouldering package. Seriously, it is a swelterer of a day. D and I ventured to the park today, but then ventured back pretty quickly, due to D actually being covered in sweat within about ten minutes. (He's such a little bloke, sweaty, windy, into his football, next it will be beer, won't it. Has to be. Look at him, even now he's choosing to play on his baby workbench. I'll have to build him a baby shed to retreat to in the garden, and a baby sports car to polish outside...)
When it's hot like this, it does always make me reflect on our travels round the world. I have to say though, walking round the leafy suburbs of Dorchester, with the sunlight casting dappled patterns across the roads, I do think that England gives any country across the world a run for it's money in terms of natural beauty. Particularly round these parts, the undulating hills, the peace and quiet... my word, I do believe I'm warming to Dorset after all! Well there's a shocker, and there was me thinking I'd miss Devon for much longer! (though I do miss my friends A LOT.)
It does seem a long time ago though, well over two years now. I just can't imagine swanning off for a big old self-indulgent jaunt round the world now...
Today, it is both hot place hot and scorchio, all rolled up into one smouldering package. Seriously, it is a swelterer of a day. D and I ventured to the park today, but then ventured back pretty quickly, due to D actually being covered in sweat within about ten minutes. (He's such a little bloke, sweaty, windy, into his football, next it will be beer, won't it. Has to be. Look at him, even now he's choosing to play on his baby workbench. I'll have to build him a baby shed to retreat to in the garden, and a baby sports car to polish outside...)
When it's hot like this, it does always make me reflect on our travels round the world. I have to say though, walking round the leafy suburbs of Dorchester, with the sunlight casting dappled patterns across the roads, I do think that England gives any country across the world a run for it's money in terms of natural beauty. Particularly round these parts, the undulating hills, the peace and quiet... my word, I do believe I'm warming to Dorset after all! Well there's a shocker, and there was me thinking I'd miss Devon for much longer! (though I do miss my friends A LOT.)
It does seem a long time ago though, well over two years now. I just can't imagine swanning off for a big old self-indulgent jaunt round the world now...
Thursday, 24 June 2010
24th June - Blimey, they did it!
Why do I even care that England won yesterday and have thus now gone through? Why? Answer me that? But no, as per usual, I have been swept along into the annoying frenzy of World Cup obsession, and yes, I too was shouting happy expletives at the television yesterday afternoon when Defoe scored. Get in.
D was not quite so impressed. In fact, the poor mite nearly leapt out of his skin when his father screamed a particularly rude word at one point, and was possibly more shocked still when said father scooped him up and hurled him into the air in a celebratory fashion.
Footballing shenanigans aside, D and I had a productive day yesterday, as did the plasterer who has now finished D's bedroom, which is now a fetching shade of soggy grey. (God, how does one go about painting a room that a baby needs to sleep in? Time to go and camp at the in-laws perhaps...)
I have nearly finished painting the (sodding, blasted, damned) dining room, though am sick to death of the sight of it. Oh the irritation of watching fresh paint slide merrily off shiny wallpaper and not even be able to swear at it, because you know deep down, that if you had been less lazy and took the wallpaper off first, not only would it have looked better, but would have been far easier to paint as well. Hmm.
But will I learn a lesson from this? Nah. Already, my response when hubbie peeled up the carpet in D's room and stated that there weren't quite the lovely floorboards there that we were hoping for, was to just say 'put another carpet in then'. I just cannot summon up the enthusiasm for the prospect of having to hire a sanding machine, get a carpenter to replace some of the knackered old floorboards, and paint the bloody thing three times over with varnish. Nope, at this stage, after a month of slogging, I am fully whole-heartedly for the notion of paying someone to do it for me.
I made D a lovely pancake last night with a bit of maple syrup as a treat. Do you know what he did with it? Do you? He threw it on the floor.
Then he cried. (I'm not quite sure why. Perhaps an inate aversion to egg-based commestibles?)
Then I felt like crying, as I could have quite happily consumed it instead, but since being on the floor, it had accumulated an unfortunate layer of plaster dust (from upstairs, how did it travel so far?) and a few of my hairs. It didn't look quite so tasty after that.
We're off back to the homelands today to go and visit my friend / ex neighbour / business partner and her lovely boy, who D adores, and watches with great fascination. I may well go and rap on the door of our old house - mainly to ask for the bottle of wine back that we so kindly left the new inhabitants, given that they are WRITING THREATENING LETTERS via their solicitor, over the fact that there are (wait for it, this is genius) 1) a few holes in the wall, where some pictures were hung, 2) one of the hobs won't light (it did when we left!) 3) the extractor fan is a bit noisy and 4) one of the curtain rails is missing. It cost £5.99 in Ikea.
It was actually so bletheringly pitifully trivial that I couldn't even be bothered to get annoyed about it. Some people really are very delusional about what living in a 100 year old house is like. (perhaps in his homeland of America, they don't have houses that old?)
Oh, D is awake. That was quite good for him...twenty minutes!
D was not quite so impressed. In fact, the poor mite nearly leapt out of his skin when his father screamed a particularly rude word at one point, and was possibly more shocked still when said father scooped him up and hurled him into the air in a celebratory fashion.
Footballing shenanigans aside, D and I had a productive day yesterday, as did the plasterer who has now finished D's bedroom, which is now a fetching shade of soggy grey. (God, how does one go about painting a room that a baby needs to sleep in? Time to go and camp at the in-laws perhaps...)
I have nearly finished painting the (sodding, blasted, damned) dining room, though am sick to death of the sight of it. Oh the irritation of watching fresh paint slide merrily off shiny wallpaper and not even be able to swear at it, because you know deep down, that if you had been less lazy and took the wallpaper off first, not only would it have looked better, but would have been far easier to paint as well. Hmm.
But will I learn a lesson from this? Nah. Already, my response when hubbie peeled up the carpet in D's room and stated that there weren't quite the lovely floorboards there that we were hoping for, was to just say 'put another carpet in then'. I just cannot summon up the enthusiasm for the prospect of having to hire a sanding machine, get a carpenter to replace some of the knackered old floorboards, and paint the bloody thing three times over with varnish. Nope, at this stage, after a month of slogging, I am fully whole-heartedly for the notion of paying someone to do it for me.
I made D a lovely pancake last night with a bit of maple syrup as a treat. Do you know what he did with it? Do you? He threw it on the floor.
Then he cried. (I'm not quite sure why. Perhaps an inate aversion to egg-based commestibles?)
Then I felt like crying, as I could have quite happily consumed it instead, but since being on the floor, it had accumulated an unfortunate layer of plaster dust (from upstairs, how did it travel so far?) and a few of my hairs. It didn't look quite so tasty after that.
We're off back to the homelands today to go and visit my friend / ex neighbour / business partner and her lovely boy, who D adores, and watches with great fascination. I may well go and rap on the door of our old house - mainly to ask for the bottle of wine back that we so kindly left the new inhabitants, given that they are WRITING THREATENING LETTERS via their solicitor, over the fact that there are (wait for it, this is genius) 1) a few holes in the wall, where some pictures were hung, 2) one of the hobs won't light (it did when we left!) 3) the extractor fan is a bit noisy and 4) one of the curtain rails is missing. It cost £5.99 in Ikea.
It was actually so bletheringly pitifully trivial that I couldn't even be bothered to get annoyed about it. Some people really are very delusional about what living in a 100 year old house is like. (perhaps in his homeland of America, they don't have houses that old?)
Oh, D is awake. That was quite good for him...twenty minutes!
Wednesday, 23 June 2010
23rd June - England teetering on the brink of disaster...
Oh the English. We are a funny race, aren't we. I think, buried deep within us all, is still that 'little island' mentality, combined with an ancestral belief that we are still one of the superpowers of the Earth. Hence our complete disbelief at a) The current financial quagmire that we're all unwillingly wallowing in and b) England's performance in the World Cup so far.
But what about '66? I hear the masses cry indignantly. I shall spell this out only once, England. It. Was. 44. Years. Ago. Get it? Got it? Good. Winning it once in half a century does not mean we are entitled to presume we will thus win it every time from here on in. Plus, we had a decent team then, not the bunch of scuzzy cheating scumbags and arrogant petty berks that we have now (Suburban Mama speaking for the females of the population - Ashley Cole, how could you, to the lovely Cheryl! And as for the ultimate evil villain of the piece...oh John Terry, you monster!)
I love my husband's delusion in particular.
'We drew our first two games in '66 and went on to win it!' he states, with a measure of desperation in his eyes, nervously wringing his hands together like a worried old spinster.
Er...and that proves what, precisely? That, by some secret supernatural laws of football, the same will automatically happen this time? I even heard on the radio this morning, some poor bloke proclaiming that, because they were playing in their red strip today, they would win. As they've 'never lost' in their red strip. If this is the case, Capello surely is missing a (hat)trick by not having them in it permanently. Tut tut.
Anyway, I digress massively. It was just an observation about our 'great' Britain and our somewhat hilarious expectations. I myself do not care really. I have done in previous years. But not this one. The only thing I am enjoying is seeing the equally smug countries such as France, Germany, Italy and Spain, also playing like utter crap. I'm supporting Ghana. I like those boys. Come on Ghana!!
I am currently attempting to get D to sleep. D has decided, since mastering the subtle art of mobility, that he doesn't want to bother with sleep any more. He has also mastered the hilarious art of doing anything in his cot apart from chilling out and getting a bit of shut eye. We now get...1) Rolling over and over until he hits his head on the bars, which results in tears. 2) Flipping on to his belly and crawling around until he falls over and hits his head on the bars, which results in tears. 3) Sitting up then being really tired and not knowing how to get down again, which results in tears and 4) standing up in his cot, falling over, which results in, yes, you guessed it, tears again.
So he's now in the pram, where he can't roll. Or sit up. Or stand up. And we've got more tears. Hence the fact that this post has taken me 40 minutes to write so far.
Oh! Silence! I think he's nodded off. Not meaning to sound like a harsh Suburban Mama...but phew! Looking after the new, improved, 0 to 60 in ten seconds D is hugely fun but doubly exhausting. Right, I'll enjoy this ten minute window then, before he's up again. Oh, did I forget to mention? Yes, I have one of those rare babies who actually doesn't really need sleep. Which explains why I am a very tired suburban mama.
Well, that was a record. Two minutes. He's awake. Sigh. Off I go...
But what about '66? I hear the masses cry indignantly. I shall spell this out only once, England. It. Was. 44. Years. Ago. Get it? Got it? Good. Winning it once in half a century does not mean we are entitled to presume we will thus win it every time from here on in. Plus, we had a decent team then, not the bunch of scuzzy cheating scumbags and arrogant petty berks that we have now (Suburban Mama speaking for the females of the population - Ashley Cole, how could you, to the lovely Cheryl! And as for the ultimate evil villain of the piece...oh John Terry, you monster!)
I love my husband's delusion in particular.
'We drew our first two games in '66 and went on to win it!' he states, with a measure of desperation in his eyes, nervously wringing his hands together like a worried old spinster.
Er...and that proves what, precisely? That, by some secret supernatural laws of football, the same will automatically happen this time? I even heard on the radio this morning, some poor bloke proclaiming that, because they were playing in their red strip today, they would win. As they've 'never lost' in their red strip. If this is the case, Capello surely is missing a (hat)trick by not having them in it permanently. Tut tut.
Anyway, I digress massively. It was just an observation about our 'great' Britain and our somewhat hilarious expectations. I myself do not care really. I have done in previous years. But not this one. The only thing I am enjoying is seeing the equally smug countries such as France, Germany, Italy and Spain, also playing like utter crap. I'm supporting Ghana. I like those boys. Come on Ghana!!
I am currently attempting to get D to sleep. D has decided, since mastering the subtle art of mobility, that he doesn't want to bother with sleep any more. He has also mastered the hilarious art of doing anything in his cot apart from chilling out and getting a bit of shut eye. We now get...1) Rolling over and over until he hits his head on the bars, which results in tears. 2) Flipping on to his belly and crawling around until he falls over and hits his head on the bars, which results in tears. 3) Sitting up then being really tired and not knowing how to get down again, which results in tears and 4) standing up in his cot, falling over, which results in, yes, you guessed it, tears again.
So he's now in the pram, where he can't roll. Or sit up. Or stand up. And we've got more tears. Hence the fact that this post has taken me 40 minutes to write so far.
Oh! Silence! I think he's nodded off. Not meaning to sound like a harsh Suburban Mama...but phew! Looking after the new, improved, 0 to 60 in ten seconds D is hugely fun but doubly exhausting. Right, I'll enjoy this ten minute window then, before he's up again. Oh, did I forget to mention? Yes, I have one of those rare babies who actually doesn't really need sleep. Which explains why I am a very tired suburban mama.
Well, that was a record. Two minutes. He's awake. Sigh. Off I go...
Saturday, 19 June 2010
20th June - Father's Day
Well. D made Daddy's first father's day extra special by throwing an absolute fit at breakfast time...mainly due to the fact that he was livid that he'd been served porridge instead of his beloved yoghurt. Dear god, the fuss made. Porridge got savagely batted off spoons, lobbed angrily on to floors, smeared vengefully over the highchair (and indeed his own face, as he clutched at it in spasms of rage). Even attempting to pacify him by offering him some philadelphia on toast had no effect, it made not a dent in D's furious mood.
So that was a relaxing start to the day. And now we are sitting in the lounge, feeling somewhat shellshocked, while D continually presses the same button on his horrid electronic walker. If I have to listen to that artificially chirpy female voice telling me what 'puppy says' one more time, I might suddenly start growling, rip throw my clothes, turn green and Hulk my way out of the house.
D is happy though. Aw. See, the Hulkiness disappears when he does that little giggle. You know the one. Your babies probably do it too (if you are a parent of course, if not, I don't think its the same when a husband / wife does it.) Oh D, it is lucky you are cute.
We're off to have a nice father's day meal later on today, with Al's parents. And his sister. And...er...some friends of Al's parents. I am sure it will be very pleasant.
So that was a relaxing start to the day. And now we are sitting in the lounge, feeling somewhat shellshocked, while D continually presses the same button on his horrid electronic walker. If I have to listen to that artificially chirpy female voice telling me what 'puppy says' one more time, I might suddenly start growling, rip throw my clothes, turn green and Hulk my way out of the house.
D is happy though. Aw. See, the Hulkiness disappears when he does that little giggle. You know the one. Your babies probably do it too (if you are a parent of course, if not, I don't think its the same when a husband / wife does it.) Oh D, it is lucky you are cute.
We're off to have a nice father's day meal later on today, with Al's parents. And his sister. And...er...some friends of Al's parents. I am sure it will be very pleasant.
19th June - So much to do, so little time!
I had the most bizarre dream last night. I'm not even sure why I'm sharing this, given that it is a rather alarming insight into my highly erratic and eccentric brain. I dreamt that I was living in a flat, one of those swanky little pads you get in big cities (obviously fantasising about not living in a house with woodchip...), and I awoke one day to find a haunted car in my living room. Yes, you read correctly. A haunted car. It was one of those old jobs from the 1920's, all big bonneted and headlamped, but it was all covered in thick dust and cobwebs and just sat in the middle of the room looking all malevolent and mean. And in order to make it go away, I had to select someone for it to guzzle, and write their name on a piece of paper. And I wrote Jordan's name! (well, Katie Price, I'm glad I was accurate in my dream...). Poor girl, she may be a complete nightmare of silicone and pink voile, but she doesn't deserve to be eaten by a zombie automobile.
Which led me to seriously question my own subconscious at 5 am this morning. Freud would have had an absolute fiesta over my twisted old head, I'm sure.
Anyway. Moving on. It's been one of those days where I feel we've been incredibly busy, but actually have done nothing of any use whatsoever. I indulged in my annual haircut today, which really was quite a pressing task to get done, given that my fringe was hanging down below my nose and I couldn't actually see where I was going half the time, hence all the bruises on my legs. Oh, it was good. I may just have to say sod the expense and go and get my hair cut every weekend now, just for the fun of it. I do so love being sprayed with unctions and potions, and being preened and poufed within an inch of my life. Did I go for some new and exciting style? No, of course not. I instead opted for a slightly shorter version than the hairstyle which I've now had for 6 years.
We then went to visit some new friends in Dorchester, I say new friends, as we don't really know them that well, but they were really lovely and had such gorgeous children, one of which was a little laddie just a couple of months older than D, who was totally fascinated with D's 'Ed the Duck' hairdo and kept poddling at it with his chubby little hands. D didn't seem to mind, and just sat there obligingly, whilst engaged in the task of trying to stuff as many of the nearby toys into his mouth as possible. (I'm pretty sure it was three at once, at one point, his lips were literally stretched to maximum capacity.). We all enjoyed some chocolate cakes, apart from D, who was more intent, rather embarrassingly, on mashing it into their carpet. Oh dear.
I invented a truly spiffing new recipe tonight, which I shall now duly share with the world. Read it, make it, credit me with it please.
Kickin' chilli Risotto
Risotto rice (dunno how much, just do a bit of guesswork)
White wine
Vegetable stock (again, do your guesswork)
Chilli powder
Chilli flakes
Basil
Cheddar Cheese
Sweet potatoes.
Knob of butter
Get your knob of butter and melt in a saucepan at a high heat. Chuck in the rice and give it a quick toasting, only about a minute max. Start adding your stock gradually, stirring regularly, so it doesn't get all stuck to the bottom.
Add the white wine fairly early on.
Meanwhile, whilst still adding stock to your rice when it needs it, be grating your cheese, and cooking your sweet potatoes in the microwave (how long depends on how big they are!)
When the rice is nearly done, add your herbs and spices according to taste, then scoop out your softened sweet potatoes and welly that in as well. Then at the last minute, add the cheese, and just cook it a tiny bit longer to melt it.
Then serve. Bob is then your proverbial uncle.
Maybe I should try it for D's tea tomorrow night. But then again...er...perhaps not.
Right, I'm off to bed, hopefully to have nice dreams about fluffy rabbits etc, and not beastly dreams about sentient evil cars from the past. Argh!!
Which led me to seriously question my own subconscious at 5 am this morning. Freud would have had an absolute fiesta over my twisted old head, I'm sure.
Anyway. Moving on. It's been one of those days where I feel we've been incredibly busy, but actually have done nothing of any use whatsoever. I indulged in my annual haircut today, which really was quite a pressing task to get done, given that my fringe was hanging down below my nose and I couldn't actually see where I was going half the time, hence all the bruises on my legs. Oh, it was good. I may just have to say sod the expense and go and get my hair cut every weekend now, just for the fun of it. I do so love being sprayed with unctions and potions, and being preened and poufed within an inch of my life. Did I go for some new and exciting style? No, of course not. I instead opted for a slightly shorter version than the hairstyle which I've now had for 6 years.
We then went to visit some new friends in Dorchester, I say new friends, as we don't really know them that well, but they were really lovely and had such gorgeous children, one of which was a little laddie just a couple of months older than D, who was totally fascinated with D's 'Ed the Duck' hairdo and kept poddling at it with his chubby little hands. D didn't seem to mind, and just sat there obligingly, whilst engaged in the task of trying to stuff as many of the nearby toys into his mouth as possible. (I'm pretty sure it was three at once, at one point, his lips were literally stretched to maximum capacity.). We all enjoyed some chocolate cakes, apart from D, who was more intent, rather embarrassingly, on mashing it into their carpet. Oh dear.
I invented a truly spiffing new recipe tonight, which I shall now duly share with the world. Read it, make it, credit me with it please.
Kickin' chilli Risotto
Risotto rice (dunno how much, just do a bit of guesswork)
White wine
Vegetable stock (again, do your guesswork)
Chilli powder
Chilli flakes
Basil
Cheddar Cheese
Sweet potatoes.
Knob of butter
Get your knob of butter and melt in a saucepan at a high heat. Chuck in the rice and give it a quick toasting, only about a minute max. Start adding your stock gradually, stirring regularly, so it doesn't get all stuck to the bottom.
Add the white wine fairly early on.
Meanwhile, whilst still adding stock to your rice when it needs it, be grating your cheese, and cooking your sweet potatoes in the microwave (how long depends on how big they are!)
When the rice is nearly done, add your herbs and spices according to taste, then scoop out your softened sweet potatoes and welly that in as well. Then at the last minute, add the cheese, and just cook it a tiny bit longer to melt it.
Then serve. Bob is then your proverbial uncle.
Maybe I should try it for D's tea tomorrow night. But then again...er...perhaps not.
Right, I'm off to bed, hopefully to have nice dreams about fluffy rabbits etc, and not beastly dreams about sentient evil cars from the past. Argh!!
Friday, 18 June 2010
18th June - NumNumNumNums.
As posted in the title, 'Numnumnumnum' is the word of the moment for D. Sounds cute, doesn't it. And indeed it was when he first started doing it. However, he has now been shouting (yes, full on shouting, echoing off the lounge walls type sound) this word over and over again for, ooh, about two hours solid? I had some nursery rhymes playing for him on Spotify, but actually just had to turn them off in the end, as they were drowned by D's over-enthusiastic bellowing.
Shame, I rather liked the last obsessive sound-byte from D, which was to blow very loud raspberries, particularly in public places, the most amusing of which being some poor old dear in the local charity shop, who scuttled away from D faster than you would have thought someone with a walking stick could travel. He looked embarrassingly chuffed at having had this effect as well and was beaming from ear to ear.
He's definitely had some sort of developmental upgrade at the moment. My husband and I like to imagine it in Super Mario terms - you know, when Mario eats a little mushroom and gets to be a big Mario and do all sorts of cool stuff. So D has woofed down his proverbial mushroom and is now doing a wide variety of super duper whizzy things; the most exciting of which is his moving around.
He's now pulling himself up on every available ledge (and falling over backwards straight away, not a great move on freshly stripped floorboards...) and crawling, albeit in entirely the wrong direction. He's mastered the art of travelling backwards, but he does it incredibly trendily and slinkily, like a sort of 'mooncrawl' as opposed to moonwalk. I was suitably impressed.
I've literally just finished giving him a 'power shake' which has sent him into turbo over-drive, he is like a little laser beam bouncing around the lounge. If any of you mamas out there are interested, here is what goes into a powershake...
Turbo baby powershake
About twenty or so blueberries
Half a banana
Two plums (skinned, obviously!)
A good old healthy dollop of yoghurt.
Then whisk all together using a hand blender and serve!
He does love 'em.
We really enjoyed seeing our Yeovil buddies yesterday, and thankfully D managed to keep his trousers firmly up. I was somewhat alarmed at how chubby he looked in comparison...hmm, perhaps D has had one too many powershakes after all. I am now going to dutifully run down to the doctors to find out where he can be weighed...oh, yet another thing for me to worry about, accidentally overfeeding my offspring!!
Shame, I rather liked the last obsessive sound-byte from D, which was to blow very loud raspberries, particularly in public places, the most amusing of which being some poor old dear in the local charity shop, who scuttled away from D faster than you would have thought someone with a walking stick could travel. He looked embarrassingly chuffed at having had this effect as well and was beaming from ear to ear.
He's definitely had some sort of developmental upgrade at the moment. My husband and I like to imagine it in Super Mario terms - you know, when Mario eats a little mushroom and gets to be a big Mario and do all sorts of cool stuff. So D has woofed down his proverbial mushroom and is now doing a wide variety of super duper whizzy things; the most exciting of which is his moving around.
He's now pulling himself up on every available ledge (and falling over backwards straight away, not a great move on freshly stripped floorboards...) and crawling, albeit in entirely the wrong direction. He's mastered the art of travelling backwards, but he does it incredibly trendily and slinkily, like a sort of 'mooncrawl' as opposed to moonwalk. I was suitably impressed.
I've literally just finished giving him a 'power shake' which has sent him into turbo over-drive, he is like a little laser beam bouncing around the lounge. If any of you mamas out there are interested, here is what goes into a powershake...
Turbo baby powershake
About twenty or so blueberries
Half a banana
Two plums (skinned, obviously!)
A good old healthy dollop of yoghurt.
Then whisk all together using a hand blender and serve!
He does love 'em.
We really enjoyed seeing our Yeovil buddies yesterday, and thankfully D managed to keep his trousers firmly up. I was somewhat alarmed at how chubby he looked in comparison...hmm, perhaps D has had one too many powershakes after all. I am now going to dutifully run down to the doctors to find out where he can be weighed...oh, yet another thing for me to worry about, accidentally overfeeding my offspring!!
Thursday, 17 June 2010
17th June
Happy birthday D! Well, happy 9 month birthday anyway. 9 months ago, I was suffering all the agonies of hell to bring you to the world (you owe me, boy.)
He seems happily oblivious to all of this, of course. He's been very quiet this morning. I think he was slightly perturbed by the sight of his mama wilfully chiselling great lumps out of the bedroom wall. Bloody woodchip. I quite literally want the person who invented the bloody stuff to stand before me and hold himself accountable. Why would anyone want strange little scruffy bits of sawdust stuck to their walls?
I myself was more perturbed by the removal of the masking tape on the dining room wall. I'd painted said wall a lovely sexy shade of chocolate (our feature wall, dahling) and had dutifully put masking tape all round the edge to keep it nice and neat. Why then, when I removed it this morning, did I discover that all the sodding paint had leaked out underneath it (not quite creating that razor-sharp line of perfection that I was hoping for) and to add insult to injury, it also tore chunks out of the aged paint on the ceiling. Which now means I have to paint that as well. And the skirting board. And the window sill. Grrr!!!
Work breeds more work in this house, I swear. I am sure it is conspiring against me. For example, why is it, when I clean the kitchen floor, there is always a layer of dirt on it about ten minutes after? How else can that be explained apart from the house meanly scattering dirt back on itself when my back is turned? Same goes for the horrible cheap bathtub which always has grimy footprints up one end, no matter how many times I polish and scrub at them.
Thankfully, we're off out today, to see some old work colleagues who happened to have babies pretty much exactly the same time as me. Two girls. D will be in his element, he likes the ladies. He has an unfortunate habit of dropping his trousers in front of them. I do hope this isn't a sign of future adult behaviour, it won't stand him in good stead at all. And it is a beautiful day. I am having lovely visions of sitting outside in the garden with three cheerful, smiling little babies. (Tenner says the reality doesn't quite match the vision... chances are it might be D who doesn't quite manage to fit into it, his poor old teeth are really giving him gyp at the moment...)
He seems happily oblivious to all of this, of course. He's been very quiet this morning. I think he was slightly perturbed by the sight of his mama wilfully chiselling great lumps out of the bedroom wall. Bloody woodchip. I quite literally want the person who invented the bloody stuff to stand before me and hold himself accountable. Why would anyone want strange little scruffy bits of sawdust stuck to their walls?
I myself was more perturbed by the removal of the masking tape on the dining room wall. I'd painted said wall a lovely sexy shade of chocolate (our feature wall, dahling) and had dutifully put masking tape all round the edge to keep it nice and neat. Why then, when I removed it this morning, did I discover that all the sodding paint had leaked out underneath it (not quite creating that razor-sharp line of perfection that I was hoping for) and to add insult to injury, it also tore chunks out of the aged paint on the ceiling. Which now means I have to paint that as well. And the skirting board. And the window sill. Grrr!!!
Work breeds more work in this house, I swear. I am sure it is conspiring against me. For example, why is it, when I clean the kitchen floor, there is always a layer of dirt on it about ten minutes after? How else can that be explained apart from the house meanly scattering dirt back on itself when my back is turned? Same goes for the horrible cheap bathtub which always has grimy footprints up one end, no matter how many times I polish and scrub at them.
Thankfully, we're off out today, to see some old work colleagues who happened to have babies pretty much exactly the same time as me. Two girls. D will be in his element, he likes the ladies. He has an unfortunate habit of dropping his trousers in front of them. I do hope this isn't a sign of future adult behaviour, it won't stand him in good stead at all. And it is a beautiful day. I am having lovely visions of sitting outside in the garden with three cheerful, smiling little babies. (Tenner says the reality doesn't quite match the vision... chances are it might be D who doesn't quite manage to fit into it, his poor old teeth are really giving him gyp at the moment...)
Wednesday, 16 June 2010
16th June, continued...
We had the builders over this lunchtime. Again. Poor sods, they must be getting so sick of us continually changing our minds, you can see their eyes starting to glaze over every time I announce that I have another idea...
The extension plans have been laid to rest in the graveyard of dreams, alas, we simply cannot afford it. Plus, if I am brutally honest, the thought of my house being a nightmarish pile of rubble for six months is daunting. So, the new plan is...divide up the existing third bedroom into an upstairs bathroom (albeit a tidgy one) and a single bedroom.
Sounds simple in theory, doesn't it! Mind you, the bathroom will be not even a 'can't swing a cat' in it sized bathroom. It'll be more a 'can't fit the cat through the door' job. But still, it will be an upstairs bathroom! Yip yip hooray! No more trundling downstairs in the wee small hours and tripping over in the darkness to have a pee. (I need the loo an excessive amount in the night, this is a big issue for me!)
I am officially excited though. Especially at the prospect of some swish, fancy bi-fold doors leading out into the garden (yes, now we get to it, the silly little things that make this mama a happy bunny, anything that has appeared in Period Living is a winner for me).
I am amazed, on an entirely different note, to discover that it is possible for a child to begin having whopping great tantrums at the tender age of 9 months.
We've had several today. The most fun was when I dared to remove the calpol spoon from his vicinity. My word. The speechless look of fury on his face as he went redder and redder, he actually physically couldn't breathe for a bit, as he was so livid. Then the screaming came. And the fist pounding. Eek!!
The extension plans have been laid to rest in the graveyard of dreams, alas, we simply cannot afford it. Plus, if I am brutally honest, the thought of my house being a nightmarish pile of rubble for six months is daunting. So, the new plan is...divide up the existing third bedroom into an upstairs bathroom (albeit a tidgy one) and a single bedroom.
Sounds simple in theory, doesn't it! Mind you, the bathroom will be not even a 'can't swing a cat' in it sized bathroom. It'll be more a 'can't fit the cat through the door' job. But still, it will be an upstairs bathroom! Yip yip hooray! No more trundling downstairs in the wee small hours and tripping over in the darkness to have a pee. (I need the loo an excessive amount in the night, this is a big issue for me!)
I am officially excited though. Especially at the prospect of some swish, fancy bi-fold doors leading out into the garden (yes, now we get to it, the silly little things that make this mama a happy bunny, anything that has appeared in Period Living is a winner for me).
I am amazed, on an entirely different note, to discover that it is possible for a child to begin having whopping great tantrums at the tender age of 9 months.
We've had several today. The most fun was when I dared to remove the calpol spoon from his vicinity. My word. The speechless look of fury on his face as he went redder and redder, he actually physically couldn't breathe for a bit, as he was so livid. Then the screaming came. And the fist pounding. Eek!!
16th June - The first day of the diary of the suburban mama
Well, here it is, you've had the intro, now lets get down and dirty with it. Let's proverbially put on our marigolds, roll up our paisley encrusted sleeves and get stuck into the soapy water that is my life.
It's only 8:30 in the morning, and already I am completely shattered. Not that it was a bad night's sleep, D only woke the once (yes, yes, I know, he's 9 months old, he really should be sleeping through, believe me, I've heard it all before. But he's NOT, ok?) but that was at the annoyingly inconvenient time of 4 in the morning, which made getting up at 7 somehow harder.
I'd had a horrid realisation at 4 in the morning, in the dark of our room, whilst D was having a sleepy feed, that the plasterer was coming round next week to plaster the walls and ceiling of our bedrooms. Why was this a horrid realisation? You'd think I'd be excited to be rid of the woodchip and finally stripping the ceilings of the god-awful polystrene tiles (why did anyone think polystyrene tiles would be a good idea for ceilings anyway??) .
And indeed I was, but the sudden horrid realisation was that a) I'd very foolishly and somewhat cockily told the plasterer that I would strip the woodchip for him, to save a bit of money and b) at some point we had to move the furniture out, which involved moving a very large double wardrobe, a huge chest of drawers and an enormous king sized bed. The moving of it was going to be tricky enough, as to where we were actually going to put it, and where we were going to bloody sleep while it was moved, well, that was just a complete puzzler.
Stressful thoughts to be having at 4 in the morning.
Hence the chisel is positioned, primed and ready, sitting on the radiator in our bedroom, to kick some serious woodchip butt when D goes down for his morning nap later on. Brilliant. I just never get a chance to sit down these days.
By the way, I like to think of myself as a useful suburban mama as well as a moaning one, so here is a brilliant little recipe for baby breakfast, specially custom designed for a stressful mama on the go:
Porridge cakes.
Get a bowl.
Add a layer of porridge oats to the bottom.
Pour a little bit of milk in, just until the porridge is submerged.
Blast it for all its worth in the microwave, for about thirty-forty secs.
Chuck in the fridge to set.
Peel out of the bowl and deliver to the open and expectant mouth of your offspring.
You can also add fruit if you are feeling lashings of guilt about their diet, as I do on a frequent basis.
Oh, D is bored of his loud electronic toys now. I will return later...
It's only 8:30 in the morning, and already I am completely shattered. Not that it was a bad night's sleep, D only woke the once (yes, yes, I know, he's 9 months old, he really should be sleeping through, believe me, I've heard it all before. But he's NOT, ok?) but that was at the annoyingly inconvenient time of 4 in the morning, which made getting up at 7 somehow harder.
I'd had a horrid realisation at 4 in the morning, in the dark of our room, whilst D was having a sleepy feed, that the plasterer was coming round next week to plaster the walls and ceiling of our bedrooms. Why was this a horrid realisation? You'd think I'd be excited to be rid of the woodchip and finally stripping the ceilings of the god-awful polystrene tiles (why did anyone think polystyrene tiles would be a good idea for ceilings anyway??) .
And indeed I was, but the sudden horrid realisation was that a) I'd very foolishly and somewhat cockily told the plasterer that I would strip the woodchip for him, to save a bit of money and b) at some point we had to move the furniture out, which involved moving a very large double wardrobe, a huge chest of drawers and an enormous king sized bed. The moving of it was going to be tricky enough, as to where we were actually going to put it, and where we were going to bloody sleep while it was moved, well, that was just a complete puzzler.
Stressful thoughts to be having at 4 in the morning.
Hence the chisel is positioned, primed and ready, sitting on the radiator in our bedroom, to kick some serious woodchip butt when D goes down for his morning nap later on. Brilliant. I just never get a chance to sit down these days.
By the way, I like to think of myself as a useful suburban mama as well as a moaning one, so here is a brilliant little recipe for baby breakfast, specially custom designed for a stressful mama on the go:
Porridge cakes.
Get a bowl.
Add a layer of porridge oats to the bottom.
Pour a little bit of milk in, just until the porridge is submerged.
Blast it for all its worth in the microwave, for about thirty-forty secs.
Chuck in the fridge to set.
Peel out of the bowl and deliver to the open and expectant mouth of your offspring.
You can also add fruit if you are feeling lashings of guilt about their diet, as I do on a frequent basis.
Oh, D is bored of his loud electronic toys now. I will return later...
Tuesday, 15 June 2010
And so the suburban mama is born...
That just about brings us up to date. We moved into The Project (I still think of it as that, rather than 'home', I am sure this will change soon enough, maybe in the next few decades) and I began my existence as the suburban mama in earnest.
But what, I hear you ask, is a suburban mama? What exactly does it involve, to become this strange, somewhat ambiguous persona? You're probably not asking that at all, but I will tell you anyway.
In my opinion, a suburban mama wears a pinny in the kitchen (a pinny, note, not an apron. Suburban mamas wear pinnies. Big old Cath Kitson floral pinnies). She plans her meals out for the week in advance (on her iphone you hear!). She spends time considering enriching activities for her precious offspring and worries considerably about raising them right and stretching them intellectually. She luxuriates in baths and indulges in facial peels and exfoliating lotions.
Ha ha, only joking! No, the REAL suburban mama (or at least in this household) tries to do about fifteen hundred things at once. (painting the dining room whilst cooking D's lunch, whilst on the phone to sister. Beat that.) Planning meals, yes. Perfecting them? Er...no. Burning them? Definitely. Poor D, he already pulls a long suffering expression when he sees a bowl of food coming towards him. Luxuriating in the bath? What a joke. Seizing the odd ten minutes after I've been in the bath being copiously splashed by D, perhaps. As for the facial peels, actually yes. But only because I found one on Ebay for two quid. See, the real suburban mama shops for a bargain.
And the purpose of this blog? To share my experiences adjusting to this role. To snigger at myself when I make yet another enormous elephantine blunder. (Yesterdays classic was my jeans actually falling down past my thighs in Waitrose, oh the shame! And today's? Foolishly allowing D to hold a two metre long piece of dowelling in Focus, which he then managed to bang someone on the head with in the queue. Whoops.)
Stay tuned, we start in earnest tomorrow. I apologise in advance for the utter twaddle that is about to be unleashed upon the world...
But what, I hear you ask, is a suburban mama? What exactly does it involve, to become this strange, somewhat ambiguous persona? You're probably not asking that at all, but I will tell you anyway.
In my opinion, a suburban mama wears a pinny in the kitchen (a pinny, note, not an apron. Suburban mamas wear pinnies. Big old Cath Kitson floral pinnies). She plans her meals out for the week in advance (on her iphone you hear!). She spends time considering enriching activities for her precious offspring and worries considerably about raising them right and stretching them intellectually. She luxuriates in baths and indulges in facial peels and exfoliating lotions.
Ha ha, only joking! No, the REAL suburban mama (or at least in this household) tries to do about fifteen hundred things at once. (painting the dining room whilst cooking D's lunch, whilst on the phone to sister. Beat that.) Planning meals, yes. Perfecting them? Er...no. Burning them? Definitely. Poor D, he already pulls a long suffering expression when he sees a bowl of food coming towards him. Luxuriating in the bath? What a joke. Seizing the odd ten minutes after I've been in the bath being copiously splashed by D, perhaps. As for the facial peels, actually yes. But only because I found one on Ebay for two quid. See, the real suburban mama shops for a bargain.
And the purpose of this blog? To share my experiences adjusting to this role. To snigger at myself when I make yet another enormous elephantine blunder. (Yesterdays classic was my jeans actually falling down past my thighs in Waitrose, oh the shame! And today's? Foolishly allowing D to hold a two metre long piece of dowelling in Focus, which he then managed to bang someone on the head with in the queue. Whoops.)
Stay tuned, we start in earnest tomorrow. I apologise in advance for the utter twaddle that is about to be unleashed upon the world...
Fussy Mama...
It couldn't be modern.
It had to have a big garden.
Had to have three bedrooms or more.
Had to be in a nice area.
Had to be in walking distance of the town.
Had to have parking.
Had to have a fairly good sized kitchen.
Had to have a nice, open plan layout.
I wasn't asking for too much. Was I?
First house we saw...gorgeous sprawling 17th century stone house, shame about the lethal garden that a toddler could potentiall kill themselves accessing (the steps were like a miniature mountain range in themselves).
Second house - great kitchen diner, top of the range appliances, very posh, shame about the parking. Or lack of. Because yes, there was none. (there was a carpark fifteen minutes walk away though, the estate agent helpfully told us).
Third house - no. Just no.
Fourth house- My word, the damp was so prevalent that the air was practically wringing wet with droplets. Again, no. And the estate telling us to 'look at the super-sized shed' in the garden wasn't going to win us around either.
It was an ongoing excursion of touring round unsuitable property after unsuitable property. We had to face it, whgat our money bought us in Exeter, was not going to buy us the same here. Not by a long shot.
Then, the following week, we went to look round 'The Project'. I use capital letters, as that was how the estate agent introduced it on the phone, with that level of gravitas and solemnity. The Project only had a downstairs bathroom. The Project had not been updated inside since the 60s. (1860s that is). The Project, in short, was a complete dump. But it was in the right area. It was semi detatched. It had a big garden. I had to see it.
From the outside - perfection achieved. Cue the oohs and ahhs over the red brick (I know, I'm obsessed), the wonderful bay window, the sheer, sturdy squatness of its aspect. I liked it already.
It had to have a big garden.
Had to have three bedrooms or more.
Had to be in a nice area.
Had to be in walking distance of the town.
Had to have parking.
Had to have a fairly good sized kitchen.
Had to have a nice, open plan layout.
I wasn't asking for too much. Was I?
First house we saw...gorgeous sprawling 17th century stone house, shame about the lethal garden that a toddler could potentiall kill themselves accessing (the steps were like a miniature mountain range in themselves).
Second house - great kitchen diner, top of the range appliances, very posh, shame about the parking. Or lack of. Because yes, there was none. (there was a carpark fifteen minutes walk away though, the estate agent helpfully told us).
Third house - no. Just no.
Fourth house- My word, the damp was so prevalent that the air was practically wringing wet with droplets. Again, no. And the estate telling us to 'look at the super-sized shed' in the garden wasn't going to win us around either.
It was an ongoing excursion of touring round unsuitable property after unsuitable property. We had to face it, whgat our money bought us in Exeter, was not going to buy us the same here. Not by a long shot.
Then, the following week, we went to look round 'The Project'. I use capital letters, as that was how the estate agent introduced it on the phone, with that level of gravitas and solemnity. The Project only had a downstairs bathroom. The Project had not been updated inside since the 60s. (1860s that is). The Project, in short, was a complete dump. But it was in the right area. It was semi detatched. It had a big garden. I had to see it.
From the outside - perfection achieved. Cue the oohs and ahhs over the red brick (I know, I'm obsessed), the wonderful bay window, the sheer, sturdy squatness of its aspect. I liked it already.
The Shift to Suburbia...
Anyway, as I said, redundancy loomed over our happy little household.
What were the implications? Well, for one, there was the frightening prospect of NO MONEY. Then, there was the equally unappealing concept of me returning to work early (bye bye suburban mama before she's even had a chance to appear!)
Or, there was the option of my husband finding another job. Fast.
In theory it sounded easy enough. Save for one issue. My husband is an ornithologist by trade. Yes, you read right. He is a professional twitcher (his chat up line to me when we first met was to tell me he had a PhD in pigeons, but that's another story).
And there aren't an overwhelming amount of jobs for bird experts.
It was a panicky time. I tried to be as upbeat as possible, but every time I looked at our son, I got a feeling of dread at having to give it all up, to relinquish my time with him. I loved teaching, but I just didn't want to return, not just yet. It was perhaps selfish of me, but I just couldn't bear to not be there to see DB growing into a toddler.
However, on one rainy Saturday afternoon, when we were stuck inside watching drivel on tv, my husband discovered it. A job. And not just any job either. A custom-made, absolutely shiny, sparkly perfect job. I could almost hear the choir of angels chanting halleleujah above our heads.
There was only the one problem though. It was situated in Dorset.
Ah, but that's not an issue surely, I hear you cry. Dorset's gorgeous! Dorset's charming! When you think of Dorset, you think of rolling hills, of miles upon miles of creamy yellow beaches and imposing coastlines. You think of some quaint milkmaids busy churning butter in some ramshackle barn somewhere out in the sticks. All picture postcard stuff.
Yes, yes, I agree, it is absolutely charming. But I liked Devon! No, lets go further than that. I loved Devon! I loved the roughened, slightly craggy landscape. I loved the way Exeter sat in its cosy little basin, surrounded by nothing but sprawling fields as far as the eye could see. I loved the way the Exe rolled fervently into the estuary. I loved the way the people said 'oud' instead of 'old' and called you 'lovey' in the post office and kept thinking my London accent was Australian.
My friends were there. My new business venture, set up with a neighbour and close friend, was there. My redbrick house of gorgeousness was there.
And in short, I wasn't sure whether or not I was ready to give it all up. But my husband needed a job. With a baby alongside us, we needed money coming in. End of.
So off went the application form. Predictably, an invite to interview followed shortly after. (well, he is one of the world's leading voices on pigeons, after all). The interview took place. The job offer came about twenty four hours later.
Another twenty four hours after that and the deal was done. We were officially moving.
But oh, the delicious and horrible irony....
We then found out that he wasn't going to be made redundant after all.
Sigh.
And so, it was off to Dorset with the three of us...
What were the implications? Well, for one, there was the frightening prospect of NO MONEY. Then, there was the equally unappealing concept of me returning to work early (bye bye suburban mama before she's even had a chance to appear!)
Or, there was the option of my husband finding another job. Fast.
In theory it sounded easy enough. Save for one issue. My husband is an ornithologist by trade. Yes, you read right. He is a professional twitcher (his chat up line to me when we first met was to tell me he had a PhD in pigeons, but that's another story).
And there aren't an overwhelming amount of jobs for bird experts.
It was a panicky time. I tried to be as upbeat as possible, but every time I looked at our son, I got a feeling of dread at having to give it all up, to relinquish my time with him. I loved teaching, but I just didn't want to return, not just yet. It was perhaps selfish of me, but I just couldn't bear to not be there to see DB growing into a toddler.
However, on one rainy Saturday afternoon, when we were stuck inside watching drivel on tv, my husband discovered it. A job. And not just any job either. A custom-made, absolutely shiny, sparkly perfect job. I could almost hear the choir of angels chanting halleleujah above our heads.
There was only the one problem though. It was situated in Dorset.
Ah, but that's not an issue surely, I hear you cry. Dorset's gorgeous! Dorset's charming! When you think of Dorset, you think of rolling hills, of miles upon miles of creamy yellow beaches and imposing coastlines. You think of some quaint milkmaids busy churning butter in some ramshackle barn somewhere out in the sticks. All picture postcard stuff.
Yes, yes, I agree, it is absolutely charming. But I liked Devon! No, lets go further than that. I loved Devon! I loved the roughened, slightly craggy landscape. I loved the way Exeter sat in its cosy little basin, surrounded by nothing but sprawling fields as far as the eye could see. I loved the way the Exe rolled fervently into the estuary. I loved the way the people said 'oud' instead of 'old' and called you 'lovey' in the post office and kept thinking my London accent was Australian.
My friends were there. My new business venture, set up with a neighbour and close friend, was there. My redbrick house of gorgeousness was there.
And in short, I wasn't sure whether or not I was ready to give it all up. But my husband needed a job. With a baby alongside us, we needed money coming in. End of.
So off went the application form. Predictably, an invite to interview followed shortly after. (well, he is one of the world's leading voices on pigeons, after all). The interview took place. The job offer came about twenty four hours later.
Another twenty four hours after that and the deal was done. We were officially moving.
But oh, the delicious and horrible irony....
We then found out that he wasn't going to be made redundant after all.
Sigh.
And so, it was off to Dorset with the three of us...
Introducing the Suburban Mama
I wasn't always a suburban mama.
In fact, if you rewind only a year ago, I was very much a young, free and singular boozer about town; living in a city, working hard, playing hard, spending money on frivolous and quite frankly ridiculous activities, purely for my own enjoyment.
My husband (yes, I said SINGULAR earlier, not single!) and I had just returned from a lavish and utterly self indulgent trip round the world, and had settled in Exeter. We owned a fabulous three storey terrace, a wonderful solid abundance of red bricks and period features. Sure, it was the 'wrong side of the river', and admittedly, the neighbour to the left of us liked to play horrible euro-pop at three in the morning and liked to bellow obsenities at the tv when Liverpool were playing, but it was all ours and we loved it. We didn't invite people round, we held soirees. We didn't have a bedroom, it was a boudoir. We were living the life we wanted, I was teaching, my husband working as an ecologist.
Everything was splendid.
Then, a really funny thing happened.
I remember it well, peering into the damp bathroom mirror at 6:30 in the morning, studying the face that peered back at me. I was suddenly overwhelmed by a powerful thought. I wanted something else in my life. My perfect, perfect life...but somehow, it wasn't perfect for me anymore.
Oh my god, I whispered out loud, as I picked up the toothbrush. I wanted a baby!
A month later, and I was in the same room, holding a pregnancy test in my hand, and laughing at the faint pink line. (and telling my husband to please turn off the radio, which was playing Foreigner's 'I want to Know What Love Is' - a very crap choice of theme tune to finding out one of the most important things in your life...)
Nine months later, and I was holding a wriggly, eagle-eyed little boy in my arms, and whispering 'oh my god' again.
Our lives changed forever and the suburban mama began to be born, emerging from the red-bricks like Venus from the waves.
Life was different, but fantastic. I was on a heady 'baby-high', a potent mixture of endorphins and pure love coursing through my much-abused body. I felt cleaner than I ever had before (probably due to the absence of white wine and sambuca) and I felt purposeful. Instead of living for going out, I was living for staying in, for seeing D's first gummy smile, for his first tentative roll across the (red wine stained) carpet, his first bite of pureed food (the rest of the bowl went on the floor).
Life was truly awesome.
I quit my job in teaching. I don't have any issue with nurseries at all, but for us, when we had the option there, it just seemed like the right choice, to enjoy those valuable first few years with D. Yes, it would involve belt-tightening of the most frightening degree, but we were prepared for it. New clothes went out the window. Haircuts were a thing of the past (an interesting look with a fringe, which is now currently down to my nostrils). Takeaways became a treat, rather than a weekly occurance.
Then, in March, a bombshell descended into our lives.
(no, not another baby, jesus, that would have been a bombshell of truly terrifying proportions).
No, the bombshell was of a rather more financial variety. My husband went into work happy, then came back with a face which looked as though it had aged by about ten years. The dreaded word. Redundancy.
Well, not quite redundancy. But threatened redundancy. Out of twenty odd people in his office, my husband had been informed that only four would be keeping their jobs. And he had been the last one to join the team.
It didn't bode well.
In fact, if you rewind only a year ago, I was very much a young, free and singular boozer about town; living in a city, working hard, playing hard, spending money on frivolous and quite frankly ridiculous activities, purely for my own enjoyment.
My husband (yes, I said SINGULAR earlier, not single!) and I had just returned from a lavish and utterly self indulgent trip round the world, and had settled in Exeter. We owned a fabulous three storey terrace, a wonderful solid abundance of red bricks and period features. Sure, it was the 'wrong side of the river', and admittedly, the neighbour to the left of us liked to play horrible euro-pop at three in the morning and liked to bellow obsenities at the tv when Liverpool were playing, but it was all ours and we loved it. We didn't invite people round, we held soirees. We didn't have a bedroom, it was a boudoir. We were living the life we wanted, I was teaching, my husband working as an ecologist.
Everything was splendid.
Then, a really funny thing happened.
I remember it well, peering into the damp bathroom mirror at 6:30 in the morning, studying the face that peered back at me. I was suddenly overwhelmed by a powerful thought. I wanted something else in my life. My perfect, perfect life...but somehow, it wasn't perfect for me anymore.
Oh my god, I whispered out loud, as I picked up the toothbrush. I wanted a baby!
A month later, and I was in the same room, holding a pregnancy test in my hand, and laughing at the faint pink line. (and telling my husband to please turn off the radio, which was playing Foreigner's 'I want to Know What Love Is' - a very crap choice of theme tune to finding out one of the most important things in your life...)
Nine months later, and I was holding a wriggly, eagle-eyed little boy in my arms, and whispering 'oh my god' again.
Our lives changed forever and the suburban mama began to be born, emerging from the red-bricks like Venus from the waves.
Life was different, but fantastic. I was on a heady 'baby-high', a potent mixture of endorphins and pure love coursing through my much-abused body. I felt cleaner than I ever had before (probably due to the absence of white wine and sambuca) and I felt purposeful. Instead of living for going out, I was living for staying in, for seeing D's first gummy smile, for his first tentative roll across the (red wine stained) carpet, his first bite of pureed food (the rest of the bowl went on the floor).
Life was truly awesome.
I quit my job in teaching. I don't have any issue with nurseries at all, but for us, when we had the option there, it just seemed like the right choice, to enjoy those valuable first few years with D. Yes, it would involve belt-tightening of the most frightening degree, but we were prepared for it. New clothes went out the window. Haircuts were a thing of the past (an interesting look with a fringe, which is now currently down to my nostrils). Takeaways became a treat, rather than a weekly occurance.
Then, in March, a bombshell descended into our lives.
(no, not another baby, jesus, that would have been a bombshell of truly terrifying proportions).
No, the bombshell was of a rather more financial variety. My husband went into work happy, then came back with a face which looked as though it had aged by about ten years. The dreaded word. Redundancy.
Well, not quite redundancy. But threatened redundancy. Out of twenty odd people in his office, my husband had been informed that only four would be keeping their jobs. And he had been the last one to join the team.
It didn't bode well.
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