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.
Monday, 30 August 2010
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?
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