It’s four thirty in the morning and I’m lying on the floor staring at the dark grey shadows dancing across my bedroom ceiling. I have a shooting pain in my lower back which has caused a tingling sensation to both my legs and is making its way to my feet, which are numb as the flee ridden cat blanket isn’t big enough to cover the large expanse that was once my stomach
I don’t think I’ve been this uncomfortable since the unfortunate, short-lived camping expedition to West Wales, which resulted in my sleeping on lump of rock comforted by the warmth of four towels after Lola, our 4 stone lab decided to pee all over the sleeping bags and the tent. I have to say it was the longest most over-rated night of my life and ended any romantic notions I might have had of ever camping again.
However, tonight I am not in West Wales. I am actually in the warmth and comfort of my own home. But, my adored even worshiped king-size sleepeze bed is now home to the Darling Duo, who have decided - despite my best intentions - to take control of every aspect of my life, including my sleep.
Three months ago I decided that the time had come to confront the fact that the Angelic Two were no longer ‘babies’ but, in fact, little people who had outgrown the confines of their milk-stained cots.
After three days of dismantling the wooden shacks with a hammer and a chisel, and re-arranging their room in preparation of housing the ‘big beds,’ it suddenly dawned on me , ‘How the hell am I going to stop them from climbing out of bed at night?’
Oh dear God, the books! I am going to have to refer to the ‘how to’ section of those books.
After reading and re-reading the chapter on ‘bed time’ from the eminent author of ‘I’ve never had a baby but I’m going to tell you how to raise one,’ I was beginning to think that maybe this wasn’t going to be as challenging as I first thought.
Wrong again! It is a bloody nightmare.
Having installed them in their new beds (one pink and one blue) and confronted my irrational thoughts that they would somehow manage to dislocate an arm or a leg after rolling out of the towering bed or, even worse suffocate themselves by the killer man-sized duvet and pillows, I embarked on the new bedtime ritual.
At 9.0 pm, I would tuck them into bed with promises of bed time story (or five) then lights out while I hold their hands gently rubbing them anti—clockwise until they go to sleep. Finally, once their delicious eyes have closed and their breathing slows to an occasional snore, I take those long awaited few steps from their room to Freedom.
As I lie in my king-size sanctuary, savouring the delights of new Egyptian cotton sheets, free from toys and wet patches, I slowly drift off into my alternative world free from debris and destruction.
But, around 2.0 am I will receive the first blow to the head. Is it a foot or can it possibly be an arm? I will instinctively roll over and let the 2 stone male take charge of the left hand side of the bed. A mere few minutes later and another punch will land - this time to my cheek -from his angelic sister. She will resort to physical violence as a means to ensuring her rightful place centre stage in my bed.
Admitting defeat, I will concede, roll over and offer my only place of sanctuary to my Beloved Duo, grabbing the flimsy blanket and taking my rightful place on the floor and wondering silently how I arrived here.
P.S. Must remember to buy a bigger blanket!
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
Barefoot in the Park
Don’t you just love the British summertime? Scorching hot weather, blue skies, ice creams and BBQ’s in the park, whilst wobbly pink bodies roast happily in the blazing sun.
But living in the Welsh capital, one generally gives up hope of ever seeing an inkling of sunshine, let alone experiencing the delights of the sizzling heat. It is not simply a myth that once you make that mile-long trip over the Seven Bridge leaving England behind and enter the land of sheep and love spoons, the heavens open to continuous downpours of rain.
Over the past two years, I have customised myself to this freak of Mother Nature and purchased for myself and my Darling Duo outdoor wet weather gear. We resemble an oversized canary, a cute green dinosaur and a bumble bee.
The problem is that rain and children are like a Chateaubriand and ketchup, they just don’t go together no matter how much in principle you like the idea. Sure it’s fun to have another valid reason to shop, purchasing cute, funky rainwear from Scandinavia and hearing my mother say, ‘Isn’t it marvellous what they can make today. When you were a baby, it was black bin liner.’ But really, once dress-up has finished and you take those first few steps from the front door to the outside world, the problems really begin.
Last Saturday, I couldn’t take it anymore. The sky was grey and it had rained continuously for 24 hours (nothing new of course). By two o’clock, we had exhausted every single ‘fun indoor activity for kids’ (and Mumsnet– just to say they’re really not that fun). We’d made twelve fairy cakes, painted a warehouse full of pictures, watched Toy Story 1 & 2, had a teddy bears’ tea party, two baths and tortured the cat. I decided that the only sane thing to do to preserve the mental well-being of us all was to brave the torrential downpour and venture out into the wilderness of the local park.
Thirty minutes later, all dressed up in our plastic wellies, macs and trousers and a butterfly and princess umbrella in tow, we hit the pavements.
Within seconds the singing and laughing had stopped and the repetitive whinging had started.
‘I don’t like it!’ screamed child number 1. ‘Mummy, I am cold.’ chips in off-spring number 2.
‘Don’t be so silly.’ I say, with a strained smile across my face trying to ignore the pain of being hit in the face by pellets of ice-cold rain. ‘You’re big people now. Big people don’t moan.’
'It will be great fun… we can jump in the puddles.’
I don’t necessarily think that reverse psychology, or bribery works, on three year olds in these situations, but sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures. And quite frankly, I had a whole six hours before bedtime and free entertainment was non-negotiable.
As we dodged the minefield of obstacles, the flooded streets and the wet dogs galloping towards us with mischief in their eyes, I was just about to relax into a false sense of security when –oh, dear God no- as if in slow motion, my Darling Duo made a bee-line for the largest muddiest puddle within a five mile radius and threw themselves bottom first onto the floor.
I quickly turned away, not only to avoid being spray tanned by the muddy water, but also for just one moment, to avoid dealing with the reality that my two off-spring were sitting in a two foot deep pothole, sodden and caked in mud. To make matters worse we were a good half an hour from home.
As they laughed and splashed their feet, concerned passers-by sniggered as they mumbled ‘Oh bless.’ Not helpful people!
I looked down at my Dinosaur and Bumble Bee and couldn’t bring myself to shout at them, after all, they were only three. They didn’t realise the potential side effects (pneumonia and hospitalisation, which in turn would mean a week off work and cabin fever.) Oh dear Lord, when did I become a grown up? Three years ago after a few vodka tonics I would have joined in.
Suddenly, I felt a huge blow to my head. I raised my hand to rub the sore spot and felt the wet, grainy mud caked in my hair. It was a first - I had been hit in the head by Bob the Builder. I looked down and watched as my two kicked the remaining wellies off into the air.
In my best, I’m not in the mood to negotiate tones, I loudly said ‘That’s it. I’ve had it. Get up!’
I bent down to scoop up my brown children, delicately balancing the umbrella between my ear and shoulder and I suddenly felt water dripping down my back. I shot up, turned around and within seconds, my demon child had picked up his offending wellie, filled it with muddy water, and poured it down the inside of my water proof trousers.
Why? What did I ever do to deserve this? And, what in God’s name ever possessed me to think that on possibly one of the wettest days in Spring it would be fun to venture out to the park with two three year olds?
Armed with two pairs of muddy wellies, two umbrellas and six stone of children, I realised that -as with most things involving my Darling Duo - I had two choices: a) I could sit down on the side of the road and plead for help or, b) carry six stone of my own flesh and blood all the way home.
I heaved each child onto a hip and braved the walk home, slowly putting one foot in front of the other, gauging progress by the distance from one lamppost to the next, until, I could see it. There in the distance, home!
Twenty minutes later, I flew in through the front door and deposited him and her onto the sofa having literally lost sensation in both my arms, face and feet. It was 2;45pm and I was ready for bed!
Never ever again…! If there was one thing I'd learnt that day it’s that - if in doubt - throw yourself upon the mercy of the grandparents and plead for help. After all, grandparents really are a child's best friend.
But living in the Welsh capital, one generally gives up hope of ever seeing an inkling of sunshine, let alone experiencing the delights of the sizzling heat. It is not simply a myth that once you make that mile-long trip over the Seven Bridge leaving England behind and enter the land of sheep and love spoons, the heavens open to continuous downpours of rain.
Over the past two years, I have customised myself to this freak of Mother Nature and purchased for myself and my Darling Duo outdoor wet weather gear. We resemble an oversized canary, a cute green dinosaur and a bumble bee.
The problem is that rain and children are like a Chateaubriand and ketchup, they just don’t go together no matter how much in principle you like the idea. Sure it’s fun to have another valid reason to shop, purchasing cute, funky rainwear from Scandinavia and hearing my mother say, ‘Isn’t it marvellous what they can make today. When you were a baby, it was black bin liner.’ But really, once dress-up has finished and you take those first few steps from the front door to the outside world, the problems really begin.
Last Saturday, I couldn’t take it anymore. The sky was grey and it had rained continuously for 24 hours (nothing new of course). By two o’clock, we had exhausted every single ‘fun indoor activity for kids’ (and Mumsnet– just to say they’re really not that fun). We’d made twelve fairy cakes, painted a warehouse full of pictures, watched Toy Story 1 & 2, had a teddy bears’ tea party, two baths and tortured the cat. I decided that the only sane thing to do to preserve the mental well-being of us all was to brave the torrential downpour and venture out into the wilderness of the local park.
Thirty minutes later, all dressed up in our plastic wellies, macs and trousers and a butterfly and princess umbrella in tow, we hit the pavements.
Within seconds the singing and laughing had stopped and the repetitive whinging had started.
‘I don’t like it!’ screamed child number 1. ‘Mummy, I am cold.’ chips in off-spring number 2.
‘Don’t be so silly.’ I say, with a strained smile across my face trying to ignore the pain of being hit in the face by pellets of ice-cold rain. ‘You’re big people now. Big people don’t moan.’
'It will be great fun… we can jump in the puddles.’
I don’t necessarily think that reverse psychology, or bribery works, on three year olds in these situations, but sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures. And quite frankly, I had a whole six hours before bedtime and free entertainment was non-negotiable.
As we dodged the minefield of obstacles, the flooded streets and the wet dogs galloping towards us with mischief in their eyes, I was just about to relax into a false sense of security when –oh, dear God no- as if in slow motion, my Darling Duo made a bee-line for the largest muddiest puddle within a five mile radius and threw themselves bottom first onto the floor.
I quickly turned away, not only to avoid being spray tanned by the muddy water, but also for just one moment, to avoid dealing with the reality that my two off-spring were sitting in a two foot deep pothole, sodden and caked in mud. To make matters worse we were a good half an hour from home.
As they laughed and splashed their feet, concerned passers-by sniggered as they mumbled ‘Oh bless.’ Not helpful people!
I looked down at my Dinosaur and Bumble Bee and couldn’t bring myself to shout at them, after all, they were only three. They didn’t realise the potential side effects (pneumonia and hospitalisation, which in turn would mean a week off work and cabin fever.) Oh dear Lord, when did I become a grown up? Three years ago after a few vodka tonics I would have joined in.
Suddenly, I felt a huge blow to my head. I raised my hand to rub the sore spot and felt the wet, grainy mud caked in my hair. It was a first - I had been hit in the head by Bob the Builder. I looked down and watched as my two kicked the remaining wellies off into the air.
In my best, I’m not in the mood to negotiate tones, I loudly said ‘That’s it. I’ve had it. Get up!’
I bent down to scoop up my brown children, delicately balancing the umbrella between my ear and shoulder and I suddenly felt water dripping down my back. I shot up, turned around and within seconds, my demon child had picked up his offending wellie, filled it with muddy water, and poured it down the inside of my water proof trousers.
Why? What did I ever do to deserve this? And, what in God’s name ever possessed me to think that on possibly one of the wettest days in Spring it would be fun to venture out to the park with two three year olds?
Armed with two pairs of muddy wellies, two umbrellas and six stone of children, I realised that -as with most things involving my Darling Duo - I had two choices: a) I could sit down on the side of the road and plead for help or, b) carry six stone of my own flesh and blood all the way home.
I heaved each child onto a hip and braved the walk home, slowly putting one foot in front of the other, gauging progress by the distance from one lamppost to the next, until, I could see it. There in the distance, home!
Twenty minutes later, I flew in through the front door and deposited him and her onto the sofa having literally lost sensation in both my arms, face and feet. It was 2;45pm and I was ready for bed!
Never ever again…! If there was one thing I'd learnt that day it’s that - if in doubt - throw yourself upon the mercy of the grandparents and plead for help. After all, grandparents really are a child's best friend.
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