Author Archives: An Ounce of Me

Meet The (Smug) Parents

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Becoming a Mum has been one of the greatest moments in my life. It is fulfilling, life affirming stuff crammed full of unconditional love. It is also tiring, monotonous and challenging and that is just the school playground I’m talking about! When you become a parent it forces you to re-evaluate yourself, you are now responsible for an ickle human being whose development is completely in your nervous naive hands. You are up for the challenge, you want to make them happy and fulfilled in life, but this challenge comes with its consequences. And if you haven’t been competitive before, you will feel forced to be worried when fellow parents are achieving milestones with their children before yours get there.

Me and hubby joined NCT Antenatal classes when we were expecting our firstborn. Mainly because the only parenting skills we had were with raising our Collie Barney and I had a feeling children needed more than fresh water and daily exercise. We all gathered in our Antenatal teacher’s living room with other expectant parents. Our teacher was what the word stereotype was created around in her tie-dye clothing, crazy hair and mother earth tactics. She set about explaining that childbirth was a beautiful experience that we were all going to enjoy. She led us through a series of ‘getting to know each other’ exercises as me and the fellow Mum’s bumped our bumps and were forced to talk about bodily fluids in front of our puce looking partners. She also had an eerily calm nature, when one of the Dads complained of a severe allergy to dogs she fiercely defended the fact that her dogs ‘were not allowed indoors’, even though throughout our classes her two dogs glared at us through the patio doors as if to say ‘that’s my sofa you’re sitting on!’, while allergy husband’s eyes started to swell up as he tried to control his sneezing. We did gain a lot of tips from the classes, although the pain bit was heavily dumbed downed in her ’embrace the pain’ mantra which she demonstrated by pressing the base of our spines with her thumbs!!

It was a useful experience and we gained two very dear friends amongst the parents and we have watched our children grow up together. The one thing you don’t realise at the time though, is that this is the first time you are introduced to competitive parenting. The weekly comparisons of who has bought the best buggy or best baby toys and who is planning a water, pain-free, in the forest, natural labour to maximise the child’s entry into the world. We became parents but we also became paranoid competitors as well.

Throughout my three children’s early years I attended numerous baby and toddler groups, mainly to socialise my children, but also for us to have quality time together. From the swish ‘baby gymnastics’ classes at the local sportcentre, to the warts and all church run group in a hall of well-loved toys, I went to them all. And no matter what the surroundings or the people, you will end up at some point in a competitive conversation about who has the best eaters with the best behaviour. Eventually you wheedle out the like-minded parents so you can have an honest conversation about parenting stuff. But no matter how hard you try, at some point you will meet Super-Mum and be told that ‘baby wipes are not eco-friendly, my child absolutely loves dried apricots and doesn’t even like Smarties and I like to play Mozart to my child while we create living art in our lounge rather than let them watch Peppa Pig’. These parents are to be avoided, they will make you feel inferior.

I recently read an article about celebrity parents, you know the ones who name their children after fruit or inanimate objects? Take Gwyneth Paltrow, she declared that she only allows her children to watch television in French or Spanish so it has an educational purpose. OK. Fair enough if you are French or Spanish yourself, if your children are naturally bi-lingual but is English-speaking television that damaging? I read this interview, rolled my eyes at Gwyneth thinking who does she think she is? It’s not practical for us normal parents to do that, she’s off making movies and being forced to attend Coldplay concerts (that has got to be hard on her) and doesn’t understand day-to-day parenting like the rest of us. But I also still found myself asking whether Dora the Explorer counted as Spanish-speaking. No matter if we think another parent is OTT, we as parents still have to take everything on board and analyse whether we should be doing it too, even if it is not out loud.

Madonna was also in the news recently as she was shocked at her 14-year-old daughter Lourdes (its a place-name) being caught smoking! Shock Horror! And she is such an amazing role model, how did that happen? Now, I think Madge has an impressive career, has done a lot to make women feel empowered but this is the woman who made the SEX book after all.  She believes her children should have NO access to television or ice-cream (why ice-cream), this is her right as a parent but with a woman who lives her life in the spotlight isn’t it a bit of a kettle, pot, black situation? I’m not saying one parent is better than the next, I certainly wouldn’t say I’m Mother Of The Year but we have to remember that Katie Price  and Kerry Katona have won this title the last few years even though they don’t really ‘parent’ their children. I think Mother Of The Year should go to us mere mortals who are in the playground with our broken umbrellas in the rain, shivering on the football pitch and glazing over in a ballet class. Power to the normal parent I say.

Eight Legged Freaks

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I love Autumn, it is definitely my second favourite season. The bright blue sky, sunny days with a little chill to them, the beautiful colours of the leaves, the arrival of conkers. However, there is one major problem with Autumn… massive huge spiders! It is the season for normally rational people like myself doing a weird dance when walking down the garden, flinging my arms about like a maniac after walking through a million spider webs.

I know I’m not alone with my lack of love towards the Arachnid. In my 20s my fear of spiders was at an all-time ridiculous which came to a point after a face-to-face with a spider as a tenant at my parents house. I was alone one Saturday morning and decided to run a bath, I glanced at the plug hole as I went to run the hot water, there was something dark there, I reckoned it was probably hair so left it and ran the tap. As the water splashed down and I guided the plug towards the plug hole, the ‘hair’ sprouted 8 legs and started running, in a weird sort of race I headed in the same direction to get out of the room as the spider ran to the end of the bath. I closed the door and weighed up my options. There is a massive huge spider in the bath, the hot water is running and I need to deal with it. Not brave enough to do anything about it and with no-one to help I remembered that next door had some landscapers in to redesign their front garden. So in my irrational panic I forgot that I was in my pink towelling dressing gown and sheep slippers and went outside to get help. Obligingly, one of the gardeners agreed to ‘help the little lady’ out. “Where’s the  monster then darling?’ he asked giving his co-worker a wink as I pointed at the bathroom door murmuring, “Spider, bath”, unable to speak in sentences as if I just been discovered in some wild log cabin. Mr Bravado swaggered in as I cowered behind the door, I heard him shout ‘ Jesus he’s big!’. He emerged about 5 minutes later (presumably after he calmed his nerves) balancing the spider on the end of his trowel. I responded with a strangulated whimper and then shouted ‘Thanks’ just before the door slammed. When I retold the story to my parents later, they decided it was time to take action on the basis I could crash my car if a spider popped up in it. I said I would probably pull over calmly and happily donate the car to the spider and walk back home. This was again enough reason for them to seek help for me.

So, for my 24th birthday my parents gave me a ‘Arachnophobic day’ at London Zoo. We were asked to arrive bright and early for our day course to cure our fear of spiders. It was quite a big class which was mainly female with a few embarrassed looking men. There were a lot of very nervous looking women that you could probably hiss ‘spider’ at and would reduce them to tears. But I wouldn’t do that, I was one step away from nervous wreck and was suddenly ecstatic to be there. First up was the ‘why spiders are good for the world’ lecture taken by the spider zoo keeper who informed us he was once as scared as us but now owned 3 pet tarantulas, everyone raised an eyebrow, no-one believing this statement. We were all told about how spiders are good for the environment, how they rid the world of pests such as flies and mosquitos and we would literally be over-run by bugs if we didn’t have spiders. My initial thoughts were ya da ya da ya da, I knew this, I agreed with it, I didn’t want to kill them, I just wanted to re-train them to not enter my house and if they accidentally did then to walk slower and immediately go back out the way they come in rather than run towards me. We also learned how spiders mate in September and is the reason why during this month you see bigger spiders as they are the females looking for a male. Again, is there not a way we can re-condition them to have a meeting point in the garden for their reproductive needs. We were asked individually to say how we got rid of spiders, my response was ‘phone a friend’ or not re-enter that room until someone comes home’, lame I know. The woman next to me said she wore socks on her hands while on her own and would walk in loud steps to scare any from running into the room, she was so petrified that she couldn’t eat tomatoes due to the spider-like green topping. I stared at her in disbelief starting to feel a bit less of a scaredy cat. When they asked one of the few men in the room what he did to remove spiders, he explained that he was a carpenter and would see quite a few in his work shed. The way he dealt with them was by turning on his electric sander and liquidising them, the zoo keeper looked almost tearful.

Next we were taken into a room and told to sit down, a charismatic American man introduced himself as our hypnotist who would re-train our brains to like spiders, I glanced over at the sock woman who was shaking her head. We were asked to lay down and close our eyes, keeping completely still. He then asked us to visualise 10 steps leading down to a water’s edge, we had to imagine ourselves at the top of the stairs looking out to sea. We then had to imagine a big white cloud drifting towards us, we had to focus on the cloud and walk slowly down the steps as he counted us down. As we reached the last step he informed us that we were now in hypnosis, I tried to open my eyes and they felt stuck together, my arms felt weighted down, it was a really strange feeling. He told us to look at the cloud and push all our hatred of spiders into the cloud and to turn it to grey, after which we had to blow it away and watch it drift out to sea and disappear. We then had to mentally re-climb the 10 steps and were told to open our eyes, which I could now do quite easily. And then we had to clap our hands to congratulate ourselves on our freedom of hatred to spiders. I wasn’t convinced yet and was nervous at what was next as we were led from our function room and into the zoo.

Once inside, our zoo keeper suddenly re-appeared as if we were now in an episode of Mr Benn. He led us into a room off the ‘creepy crawlies’ section where a large clear plastic box with a lid was full of house spiders scampering about. Before we had time to protest and still sleepy from our hypnosis, a plastic cup and a card was shoved in my hand and I was suddenly in a queue in front of the spider box. With a semi-forceful ‘lets see you catch a spider’ request, the zoo keeper picked up a house spider released it on the table and we were expected to put our cup over it, card underneath and then told to walk round the room and release it back into the box. Sock woman was rifling through her bag, I suppose looking for her socks and I was third in the line. Everyone seemed to be either brainwashed or cured as one-by-one they completed the exercise. My turn was up, zoo keeper smiled as he flung a spider on the table, the spider as if briefed by the zoo keeper, started to run towards me, without knowing how I did it I put my cup over it and my card underneath then circled the room the fastest I’ve ever walked and literally threw my cup at the box. I had done it, slightly still in hypnosis and a massive amount of pressure on my shoulders, but I did it. Then zoo keeper shouted over the excited/hysterical squeals the word ‘Next…’ to which the whole room went deathly quiet, there’s more?? He continued, enjoying the atmosphere he was causing, ‘Next, we meet Freda.’ Who is Freda? His colleague? his girlfriend? Wrong! It’s his pet tarantula! The hypnosis wasn’t that good! He held Freda in his hand as if it was a gerbil gently tickling it. Most of the people took a few steps back, sock woman I think was now vomiting in her handbag. ‘Who wants to hold Freda and I’ll take a picture?’. A line started to form, how were these people cured enough to do this? Suddenly, I found myself in the queue and before I knew it I was holding my hands together for the zoo keeper to place Freda on top of my grip. As he said ‘smile’ to take my picture, I looked down and actually realised I was holding a massive huge spider with fur, it felt warm, it didn’t seem scary until it moved a leg onto my wrist and I nearly threw it far enough to make a home run. Zoo keeper sensing my change of heart, unhooked (!) Freda from my hands, wasn’t till then I realised that’s how they climbed walls! He gave me my Polaroid, a photo of  me holding a tarantula with an expression that would probably warrant me an overnight stay in an asylum!

I’m sad to say it didn’t cure me. It has eased my irrational fear. I no longer run into the street in my dressing gown to find someone to help me. I can deal with smaller ones with the cup and card technique and I have allowed a spindly one to live in my conservatory. I think the hypnosis has made me love them a bit too much, I can’t bear them to be hurt and when I get a big one, which I still can’t deal with, I tend to cover it with a mixing bowl until hubby returns or my long-suffering neighbour gets called in to chuck spider outside, all the time I worry if there is enough air for the spider and if he is lonely in the bowl! We’re halfway through September, I have had 4 big spiders this week in my living room. It is true what they say, knowledge is power, I know that September they will mate, the female then kills the male, the female produces her egg sack and fills it with spider eggs, then she dies and the spider orphan babies start the cycle again. Roll on October….

Totes Amazeballs #

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I am a monthly subscriber to Marie Claire magazine, it started off as a birthday present from my Mum years ago and bless her, she keeps renewing it every year as ‘a little something to provide quality me time’. I first received it before I became a Mum and was able to sit and read it cover to cover then place it down in perfect condition on my coffee table. Over the years that has inevitably changed. I no longer read it cover to cover but in more sporadic 5 minutes to myself moments. It is normally read in the bath, so is often water-logged and is shoved in the magazine/toiletries rack in the bathroom and ends up too dog-eared to finish by the time the next one arrives. But I still relish it’s arrival, as it allows me to read articles and check out latest fashion trends like a normal woman.

This month’s issue was delivered by the Postman actually knocking at my door, who passed it to me packaged in bubble wrap as if he was delivering some covet papers in a scene from a spy film. As me and my daughter ripped it open in anticipation of a free gift I found just a much thicker version of the magazine instead. I turned the first few pages to see why it was so heavy and was met with a D&G advertisement on a really thick page. I inspected the back of the page and picked at it expecting to find a perfume dispenser but discovered some wires, how weird. I turned back and then noticed a little tv screen on the page and as I laid the book flat a television advert started to appear on the screen complete with music. Me and my daughter watched wide-mouthed in disbelief, actually I was wide-mouthed, my daughter was very nonchalant about it saying ‘look Mummy a tv in your magazine’, to which I replied slowly spelling out the words, ‘there-is-a-tv-in-a-magazine’ sounding like Metal Mickey (80s robot children’s programme for younger readers). The quality of the picture was perfect and the oh-so-beautiful models, decked out in black and white, breathlessly pouted and danced to the sultry tones of a french singer.

Now I know this is hardly Blade Runner but I was completely astounded by this revolutionary new way of advertising. We are all so used to how quickly technology is changing. Our smart phones have so much capability it has become completely normal to check our emails, update our Facebook status and purchase something on Ebay within 5 minutes by just using our mobiles. I am desperate to keep up-to-date on modern technology, even though that statement alone makes me sound incompetent!

I recently wrote the blog entry, Finding Our Blind Spot, about a Blind Football Paralympic event me and my eldest son went to for Mumsnet. Part of the requirements were to talk about it on Twitter to give it some publicity by using various hashtags ## to discuss the topic. I didn’t have a clue how to do this, I had to read other people’s posts and then had a bash at it myself. And with Twitter you only have a very short window to write your comment, something I am not very good at it seems. I like to waffle about things and use detail to explain myself, I really didn’t feel comfortable using Twitter speak to get my point across, but you have to reduce your comments to fit them in. For instance, my tweet (get me!) could say: A?4U instead of a question for you, or my particular favourite, A3 which means Anytime, Anyplace, Anywhere. Everything is abbreviated which is intentional to encourage a fast bulletin board style of conversation. But what is the rush?

I am branching out into the world of Freelance Writing, Twitter, Facebook, etc are a necessity for me to get to grips with if I want to be heard and be noticed. However, no matter how ‘down with the kids’ I get, I will always be picking up my kids on ‘talking properly’ and absolutely no text/twitter speak is allowed to appear in any of their homework or mine for that matter!

All The Fun Of The Fair

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So here we are on the last Sunday of the 6 weeks hols, 2 days left before I find out that I have mis-spelt the name on the kids iron-on tags or I’ve forgotten some essential part of their uniform for their first day back. It feels like ages since they were at school, but it also feels like the summer has flown by. And although I will miss our lazy breakfasts, the old routine will be welcomed with open arms. Don’t get me wrong, I have enjoyed spending some quality time with my little cherubs, but 6 weeks with 3 children is expensive and tiring! I found myself suffering with a degree of OCD when it came to child-friendly activities, I have literally not been able to pass a craft event leaflet or kids activities booklet without stuffing it in my handbag. It’s not that I relish these events much, I like to see my children happy obviously, but with my (reluctant about anything) 8-year-old son and (energetic with a short attention span) 5-year-old twins, I need to have plans set in place in order to survive school holidays! So, when last weekend the Havering Show came to our local park I had it firmly penned on the calendar in black ink!

As country fairs go, it’s not a bad event and as it is advertised with free entry it is definitely worth a look. However, my kids have a talent for turning any free event into an overdraft busting experience quite easily. There was a free circus tent which was a nice treat, free because they were circus students! I didn’t even realise there was such a thing as circus college, but we got to see their abilities so far. To be fair, they were quite good, very brave trapeze artists in skimpy costumes and a ringmaster with a booming voice to wake you up between acts. However, it was the knife throwing duo that were the most difficult to watch mainly because they couldn’t do it! A very nervous looking assistant stood against a wooden wall with a manic smile on her face while the knife thrower didn’t throw the knives hard enough, so they kept bouncing off the assistant to the amused gasps of the audience. It can’t be a good act to ‘study’ and it felt particularly awkward when they finished and we all half-heartedly clapped them as the assistant checked herself for stab wounds.

In the centre of the park they had erected an arena for acts to perform for us. There was a stunt motorbike act who was jaw-droppingly mental and the overkeen medieval tournament players who treated us to a ‘jousting’ competition where they clearly tried NOT to knock each other off. They were entertaining enough but really need to be told that they are not actually from the medieval age with their over use of ‘hazzars’ and ‘fair maidens’. There were other tents dotted about the fair such as the horticultural tent where local allotments competed to sell their marrows to the general public or the ‘craft and sweet’ tent which has an unhealthy amount of fudge on sale. There is also a little homage to Glastonbury with Havering’s very own music stage showcasing a bizarre line-up of has-beens and wannabe music acts. Although Suzi Quatro did rock the field quite impressively, even if she has now progressed to elasticated leather trousers.

The outskirts of the field were predictably covered in fairground rides courtesy of the nearest traveller population. My kids had been desperate to go on the rides as soon as they saw them being erected while we were at the swimming pool a week earlier. As we checked out the rides on offer, weighing up which ones look less like death traps, I noticed that all of the rides were priced between £3-5 per child, bargain! My daughter thrust her purse in my hand as if reading my mind suggesting she paid for her own rides to help me out. Massively touched I looked in her purse to find 15p, bless, I thanked her anyway and thanks to our grandparent chaperones were able to allow the kids 3 rides each. As most of the rides are the inside of a lorry trailer there isn’t much to them, so as the twins did a fourth round of their ‘funhouse’, I decided to take eldest son on one of the scarier rides as an extra treat. I had seen The Twister earlier in the day and had been transported back to my teenage years, hurtling around it with my friends to the sounds of ‘On A Ragga Tip’ and as I wasn’t prepared to revisit my 99 flake on this occasion I decided to drag my eldest son on The Sizzler instead. Back in my teenage years, The Sizzler was a bit too tame for me and my mates so I thought it would be a good choice for us. We happily jumped into our seats without having watched the previous ride so was unaware of what was in store for us. For those not experienced in The Sizzler, the ride basically consists of 2 people seated in a car with the heavier person on the outside, the car is on the end of an arm and when it starts moving you are flung from side to side as the cars race back and forth in diagonal directions. I don’t remember it being particularly fast and it was always over so quickly, but not today, for me and my son were in for a bit of a shock. It started off at a fairly normal pace and with a smidge of g-force my son was pushed against me as we flew about, still able to wave at our family members. But then it picked up the pace… A LOT! Suddenly, I felt like I was in the space simulator scene from James Bond. I was unable to check on son as the g-force had disabled all ability of speech apart from the odd slurred groan which was emitting from our mouths. As our car was flung in the direction of the cabin which housed the ride operator, with great effort I craned my neck to see if perhaps he was slumped against the controls to explain our sudden speed, but he was fine, sat upright displaying his toothless grin. The delighted screams of the passengers had now transformed into horrified shouts as the ride seemed like it was never going to end. Thankfully, it eventually started to slow down and I knew the torture was almost over. I felt too dizzy to feel nauseous and as I tried to untie mine and my sons limbs from each other my green coloured son looked at me and told me that he had loved it. I made some weird noise in reply as I gazed at the other weary parents on the neighbouring cars, the Dad next to us was rubbing his temples trying to re-engage his brain. With our wobbly legs we rejoined our group, where the twins had completed their allocated rides with much less stress and we were more than ready to head home.

Finding Our Blind Spot

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When I was younger, pre-marriage, pre-kids, I would often imagine what type of parent I would end up becoming. In that total naivety you have pre-parenting, I would imagine that I would be the most patient, coolest Mum on the planet with a (tidy) houseful of kids whilst I looked fresh-faced, hair nice (no greys) and my children hanging on my every word of wisdom. Obviously the reality of parenting is a little bit different, I am fairly patient, I’m sometimes regarded as ‘cool’ when I buy the right sort of ice lollies, my house is full of 3 kids, my 8-year-old son and 5-year-old twins (boy/girl), my house is definitely not tidy and fresh-faced with nice hair is not something that comes naturally to me much these days! However, trying to pass on my words of wisdom to my children is something I strive to do, even if sometimes it is met with a roll of the eyes from my eldest! Children are such blank canvases and eager to learn about the world from their parents. My twins have the ability to break a Guinness world record for the amount of questions they ask on a daily basis from ‘why is the sky blue?’ to more weighty issues such as ‘how does Spiderman have a wee?’.

It is one of my ambitions as a parent to raise children that are well-mannered, open-minded, considerate and non-judgemental of others. And with this is in mind, I was extremely lucky to be invited by Mumsnet to attend the Sainsbury’s Active Kids Blind Football event. With the Paralympics just round the corner, Sainsbury’s have launched the million kids challenge which has enabled 2.4 million British children to play a Paralympic sport. And my eldest son and I were happy to join that statistic on Monday. We turned up at the venue, a little doorway under the railway arches in London, which in true Willy Wonka style, led into a huge indoor football centre housing individual Astroturf pitches for football games. We found our team of other enthusiastic volunteers and to my eldest’s disappointment no David Beckham. I had tried to explain on the journey there that Mr Becks is quite a busy man and would probably find it difficult to fit it into his schedule. He soon forgot about Becks though as we were led into the changing room to receive football tops and blindfolds. The training session was run by the super patient and very amiable Gary Knight, who is the FA’s Blind Football coach and works with the Paralympics GB football squad and the England Blind Football team, so definitely knows his stuff!

The children once blindfolded, were led back onto the pitch in a scene reminiscent of the elephants from Jungle Book, each with their hand on the shoulder of the child in front. They were told to keep the blindfolds on so they could really experience the blindness that a blind footballer would be used to and they were all good sports listening intently to instructions and getting stuck in. Gary Knight led them through some simple training exercises by asking the adults to roll the ball to their feet and for the children to kick the ball back. I volunteered to help and was paired with a capable child who had to put up with me misfiring when I rolled it to him and really stretching his blind football abilities! Each ball makes a bell-like noise when it moves to help the player locate it and with the encouragement of talking to each other throughout the game, it really feels like a team sport where it is essential to instruct and help your team-mate.

As the children gained confidence in their newly visually impaired state, they were led through a game of penalty shoot-outs where they had to rely on their sense of hearing and concentration to gauge where the goal was in order to score. The winner of the shoot-out was awarded with a football shirt signed by David Beckham, so he was there in pen form if nothing else. My son came third in the shoot-out and in true Paralympic style, we awarded him Bronze position. The hardest part of the day was trying to drag my son home as he was enjoying himself so much. It was a fantastic experience for the children taking part and an important lesson in how fortunate they are to be able to take their blindfolds off at the end of the session. However, it also encourages the children to not see blind footballers as victims but as credible sports participants.

Next week, my eldest is attending the Paralympics with my parents. Before this event I bought the Paralympic tickets with the intention of showing my son how lucky we are and to be inspired by the sports people who have disabilities but are still capable of getting involved. Following the blind football event, I believe my son no longer has to see the athletes as less fortunate then him, but in fact extremely capable sports people. It was a truly inspirational experience. Thanks Mumsnet.

Disclosure: I am a member of the Mumsnet Bloggers Network, a group of parent bloggers picked by Mumsnet to review products, services, events and brands. I have not paid for the product or to attend an event. I have editorial control and retain full editorial integrity

Putting The Great Into Greatstone

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As I sit here and swelter in our (bit late really) humid summer, amongst the unpacked bags and mountain of sand sodden holiday clothes, I actually feel relaxed following a fab holiday away with my family.

Over the last few weeks, hubby has been stuck in his never-ending Olympic shifts and the rain has ensured that days out with the kids have needed inventive planning to save on costs, deter whingeing and conquer boredom. I have managed to cover my quota of soggy country park picnics, messy and bizarre make-a-craft events, swimming with the masses, overdraft busting cinema trips and the time consuming (but will be good for them) summer library reading challenge.

Early August culminated in the twins 5th Birthday party, 30 children, 3 bouncy castles, thankfully taking place at a playcentre and not in my house! We came to this decision following the twins 4th Birthday party, when we removed a fence panel between ours and our neighbours gardens to create a bigger space for our bouncy castle party with special guest Roger the Magician. Until it rained that is and we all ended up crammed under a gazebo with Roger the Magician and a few hardcore kids braving a dangerously slippery bouncy castle.

While organising this party of the century (according to my kids), my parents mentioned they were looking to book a week away and would I and the kids like to join them to alleviate my 6 weeks with lack of hubby? After I shouted Yes a bit too loudly in response to their kind offer we set about finding somewhere suitable. We quite often holiday on the Kent coast as it is only an hour’s drive, has some gorgeous sandy beaches and now in light of our new family member, a long stretch of dog friendly beach to use during the summer months.  Me and Mum trawled through numerous holiday websites looking for dog friendly/child friendly cottages, feeling like J.R. Hartley after constantly being turned down once they knew we were bringing our beloved Lab.

Finally, we happened upon a place called Dune House, slap bang on the Greatstone seafront, dog friendly, spacious and available! We motored down last Sunday with hubby planning to join us on the Tuesday once he had begged some leave to tag onto his allocated days off.  When we arrived, we were not disappointed. I reckon Terence Conran would even be up for a week away at this place with its white washed walls, wooden flooring and decked garden backing onto the sand dunes of Greatstone beach. And with 6 bedrooms and 3 bathrooms it was a far cry from our pig chalet experience in March! The backing onto the beach bit was a massive highlight for all of us, especially Chester our dog who was being treated to a pre and post breakfast walk, a day on the beach followed by a pre and post dinner walk. By the end of the week we managed to make our 8 month old Lab look like an arthritic old dog with his stiffened legs! The beach was thankfully sandy and the sea was clean, however, the tide was often out and in its place was a deep clay type sand. Pretty much every day, the children wanted to ‘walk to the sea’ when the tide was out, which meant wading through sludgy sand praying not to find some crab claw or washed up jelly fish or worse! And this isn’t for the faint-hearted walking, as you couldn’t stop and stand still, for as soon as you did and the sand took hold and were left looking like a weeble with arms flailing around trying to pull your foot back out as the rest of us went into fits of giggles and ended up stuck as well. One particular evening it was such a trek on our ‘walk to the sea’ that my Dad said he could hear the faint sounds of accordion playing drifting over the Channel from France! Then after reaching the water and the kids agreeing that we had ‘reached the sea’ we had to trek back through the sludge and one of us had to tiptoe to the sink, fill up the bucket with soapy water to wash our ‘mud socks’ off before entering the cottage.

Throughout the week, we didn’t venture far from the cottage and our back garden beach, as the kids and dog were happy with our lazy beach days. However, one day we made the short trip to Dungeness to visit the Lighthouse and miniature steam train ride. And for those of you that haven’t been to Dungeness, the word barren would be an understatement. It is a bizarre area, a nature reserve full of wild flowers, but mainly covered in shingle with every house resembling a shack from the 19th Century. It has a desolate quality with its provinicial shed type houses and sparse distances between each property. I fully expected to see a blue boiler suit and mask hanging from one of the washing lines with a chainsaw  propped up against one of the shacks. However, it does house a lot of artists and is a fascinating place to visit, though wouldn’t fancy it at night, not for fear of safety but more for feeling like an extra from The Woman In Black!

We cooked most nights, but on our last night we decided to look for a nice place to eat. I fired up my laptop to look for our usual criteria of ‘dog friendly/child friendly’ venues and stumbled upon an old pub called The Shepherd and Crook in the neighbouring village of Burmarsh. We deliberated whether we would be welcome as it would probably be a locals pub and they might not appreciate our over-excited Lab and twins incessantly asking questions about everything, ‘Mum, what is a pub? will I like the pub? will the pub like me? can we live in pub?’. However, we were very much welcomed by the staff and found a corner we could stow Chester and could steer the kids questioning to the random wall hangings, ‘Mum, is that a real gun on the pub wall? can I hold the gun in the pub? why is there a gun in a pub? does the farmer come to the pub? will he shoot me in the pub?’. After getting a word in edgeways we were pleasantly surprised by the menu, a rare sighting of vegetables on the kids menu and a choice of vegetarian dishes other than pasta bake.

We arrived home today majorly feeling the holiday blues. Chester keeps heading to our back gate looking for the sea, the kids keep asking when we can go back and if we can buy Dune House as they have £47 between them – bless. Hubby is heading back to work in a few days and I am back on the circuit of local kids events for the last 2 weeks of the school holidays. But we have happy memories of simple holiday pleasures and with Britain finally getting a bit of sunshine, Kent definitely delivered.

Every Loser Wins

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It was such a long time coming but here we are approaching the end of the London 2012 Olympics. There have been so many mixed feelings about us hosting the games, it all got a bit political with the government acting out their playground taunts of “it was our idea!” when we won the bid and then when the expense of hosting it starting going through the roof they were quick to say “it was the last government’s idea!”. But whether you are sick of the sight of it and cross over the cost impacted on the tax payer or you’re waving your team GB flag and it’s a dream come true, it is happening and it has all gone pretty well so no point ignoring it anymore. And what we Brits are especially good at is feeling  patriotic (when we’re doing something well) and glossing over the bigger picture. But forget politics, the question that everyone really wants answered is why are the women’s Beach Volley teams wearing bikini’s and the men’s Beach Volley teams not wearing speedos?! It’s obscene! And probably containing the most willing spectators other than Athletics!

My parents have always been big fans of Athletics and I was brought up in a house where it was encouraged to shout our encouragement to the likes of Sebastian Coe and Steve Cram. This was back in the day when Seb Coe was a long distance runner and before he was leader of the universe (in his opinion). This was back when footballers were not hearthrobs like David Beckham but sported mullets and perms like Glenn Hoddle. I can’t say I watched any of the Beijing Olympics other than expressing a little bit of interest at Michael Phelps 15 gold medals or whatever he earnt and is just me or is that man actually morphing into a fish? I swear he is actually growing gills in the sides of his throat!  However, the London Olympics has becoming bizarrely addictive, maybe because we’re a little bit proud of its success or perhaps because we’re actually winning some medals!

Danny Boyle did not disappoint on his opening ceremony and I know people gave him grief by saying it was all a bit bizarre but we have to remember this man is responsible for the toilet scene in Trainspotting, I thought it was pretty tame to be honest. My only complaint was Sir Paul McCartney destroying his own song! I love Hey Jude, it reminds me of the end of drunken family parties and also when me and my friends took part in a massive sing-song on Brighton beach after the Fat Boy Slim concert, but what is worrying is the fact that the man who actually wrote it manages to make it cheesy! From adding too many high-pitched Ju Ju Ju Ju Judy’s to actually conducting the crowd with his hands, we were all secretly praying for Stella to come and put a blanket round his shoulders and lead him off stage. And I did wonder whether any foreign visitors were a bit confused with why Kenneth Brannagh was ordering a lot of heavily soiled men about. But I did think it was a memorable although probably hugely expensive opening ceremony.

My eldest son is loving the Olympics and has enjoyed every event, constantly flicking between the interactive channels to check out the hockey or the handball. And speaking of Handball, was this game made up the night before the opening ceremony with the referee’s making up rules as they go along? I do love the historical field events though and can’t help questioning whether the hammer throw and the shotput have much relevance today, but they are enjoyable nonetheless, if not for just rather manly looking women roaring after each throw. I find myself watching any Olympic event that is on. If cycling was on Grandstand on a Saturday morning at any other time of the year I can guarantee we wouldn’t be sitting there watching it with interest, but chuck in Chris Hoy and the possibility of a gold medal then we’re transfixed! I’ve even become an amateur expert on events that I have no prior knowledge of, such as diving where I can now tell you if Tom Daley made too much of a splash when he took his dive!

It is nice when we win though, especially in the Athletics when me, hubby and eldest son were pretty much screaming at Jessica Ennis in her recent success as if our lives depended on her winning the gold. I can pretty much say I have never shown that much passion in sport before! And the effect it has on me emotionally is pretty shocking too, I was completely choked after the Jessica Ennis finale as if she is a member of my family, how proud I felt! And the medal ceremonies are pretty much flooring me and not just when it is GB, the minute a national anthem strikes out and the bottom lip wobbles I’m right there with them. Apart from when the men are receiving medals and are looking pretty awkward about the little posy of flowers they were presented with.

And whether you’re proud of our achievement or still incensed at the thought of paying it off for the next ten years, I reckon we’ll all be checking to see where we finish in the medal table. My money is on third place which of course us Brits will find a way of saying is the best place to finish. Let’s just hope Paul McCartney doesn’t want to sing us out at the closing ceremony!

Just Call Me Barbara

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Just Call Me Barbara.

Just Call Me Barbara

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Forget Zumba, spinning or running, if you want a good workout, take a mad adolescent puppy to a dog training class and spend an hour wrestling with his lead in front of a room full of people, just like I did last night. I feel at least half a stone lighter this morning and my shoulders ache as if I  have been weight training!

Our dog Chester is an 8 month old golden Labrador puppy. He is a rescue and we are his third home. He is good-natured and patient with the kids but has that whole Marley and Me delinquent naughty behaviour down to a fine art. Most Labs expect the world and its wife to be their best friend so whenever we’re out walking him and he sees another person or dog he tends to go into a bit of a jumping, slobbering, over-excitable mental state. I have dealt with this by only walking him in the ‘off the beaten track’ farmers fields to ensure I will not come across another living person. However, this does not solve the problem, in fact makes it worse as now Chester is so starved of meeting other dogs and people that when he does, he turns into rabid dog mode, foaming at the mouth as he tries to choke himself, pinning the complete stranger against a wall.

Recently, the gas man came to read our meter, I had Chester in a tight grip holding his collar and situating him in a sitting position as I opened the door. Once he saw ‘new person’ he went into mental mode which resulted in me wrestling with his collar looking like I was on a bucking bronco ride, as the gas man eyed him warily and reconsidered his choice of career. I forced Chester back into the living room so I could let the reluctant gas man in to look under the stairs, whilst Chester was taking run ups at the living room door, forcing the whole door frame to shudder. I explained my favourite excuse, “well he’s a rescue so we have a lot of work to do with his behaviour.” He read the meter quicker then he had ever read it before and was out of the house before I could say goodbye. Hubby was pleased with my retelling of the story later that day, as he explained, if the gas meter man had been bogus at least we looked like we had the scariest guard dog in the world, even if we know he was only after a crutch sniff and not interested in attacking him!

But this lack of control I have has forced me to investigate the option of dog training. I figure that it will be easy to train Chester as after all, Labrador’s are guide dogs for the blind, bomb dogs for the police and even search and rescue dogs. If they can be working dogs, surely a bit of simple controlled behaviour will be a breeze to teach Chester. Or so I thought.

Last night me and hubby turned up the dog training school having agreed that I would take the lead as I had the least control with him. We entered the room to find at least 7 other dog owners with their array of breeds, including an overweight Rottweiler and a terrified looking Chihuahua. Chester, on cue, went into lunatic mode as soon as he saw his nirvana, a room full of dogs and people. I wrestled with him while trying to introduce ourselves to a not very impressed instructor who had an ex-army ‘no dog gets the better of me’ look about him. I rolled out my usual mantra, “well he’s a rescue so we have a lot of work to do with his behaviour”. I was instructed to take my place at the back of the room, a foot apart from the nervous Chihuahua who didn’t seem too pleased as Chester tried his best to drag me closer.

Another, female, instructor led us through some “simple warm up exercises” which inolved walking to the centre of the room leading your dog round in a circle then back to the wall. Chester dragged me to the centre of the room then to the other side of the room to try to meet a Collie, then I dragged him back while he spent most of the exercise just on his hind legs. Ex-army instructor came to my rescue and was none too pleased as Chester repeatedly jumped up at him. He was incensed that Chester was allowed to do this, informing me to ‘never let your dog jump up, you must not let him do this’. I agreed explaining that ‘we never ever let him jump up’ as if it was a new thing he was doing, trying to ignore the flashback of Chester and hubby dancing that morning paw to hand as he jumped up for more!

The next exercise involved female instructor handing out carpet tiles to teach your dog how ‘to go to bed’. Chester, who is not known for his barking ability, in fact in the 2 months we’ve had him, he has only barked 4 times in total at next door’s dog, which have been high-pitched playful barks. Last night, when the female instructor literally threw the carpet tile at me to avoid Chester’s manic greeting style, Chester starting barking. And not the high-pitched barking I was used to, but a loud throaty bark complete with a lunging forward movement. Ex-army instructor headed my way again, both us with the look of  ‘it’s going to be a long hour’. Meanwhile, hubby sat as a spectator giggling with another husband who was watching his wife wrestle with the collie from across the room. The female instructor used her golden Labrador (typical) to effortlessly show us the ‘bed’ exercise without the use of a lead. I tried the ‘bed’ technique which the female instructor suggested I did facing the wall to avoid other dogs. I shouted ‘bed’ and then mainly ‘leave’ as Chester attacked the carpet tile. Ex-army man took the lead in a ‘I’ll show you how it’s done’ way and with the promise of a treat managed to get him into a ‘down’ position and ‘bed’ with very little effort.

With each passing failed exercise, Chester was getting more excited which in turn was affecting his bowels and he was emitting the most toxic wind ever created by a dog. So as ex-army man pretty much headed my way at each exercise, he mainly spoke on out breaths to avoid the stench, hopefully thinking it was Chester and not me!

Finally, it was time for the last exercise of the night as I was starting to feel like I wanted to cry as the sweat dripped down my nose, I never sweat! This exercise was ‘fetch’ where we threw a dog toy for the dog to fetch on a long lead and bring back without being distracted. As I wrestled once more with Chester, I threw his ball and shouted ‘fetch’ as he lunged for the Chihuahua, perhaps showing the only time he nearly completed an exercise even if it was fetching a dog rather than a ball!

At the end of the class I filled out the forms to say I would be returning next week as a glutton for punishment. Ex-army man walked Chester up and down the room with ease shouting ‘heel’ with Chester obeying his every command. I narrowed my eyes at my dog and plastered a begrudgingly grateful smile on my face for ex-army man’s efforts. The next class had started to arrive, who were all show dogs, a Doberman and his owner stood next to us and both of them eyed us smugly. The Doberman stood in a professional stance, actually looking at Chester with a sympathetic stare as he tried to lunge at him. We left with our tails between our legs having bought Chester a new ‘choke’ collar and been given a lot of homework to practise, before we return next week for another helping of embarrassment served with a side order of aching shoulders.

 

Schools Out For Summer!

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So here I am day 4 and the kids are having a lie-in. No alarm clock had to be set, no lunch boxes have to be prepared, no uniform needs ironing and I don’t need to scream raise my voice at my children to eat their Coco Pops in a given time limit. If it wasn’t for our new puppy, I could still be in the land of nod myself, but he decided to exercise his whimpering technique at 6.30am this morning!

I still feel like I am recovering from the last week of school as each day brought another slip of paper in the kid’s book bags requesting either party clothes for one day, a board game for another, or a plate of party food for the last day. And each afternoon I collected them, I was presented with a folder of work, PE bag, spare jumpers, etc, so while I looked like a pit pony struggling out of the playground with my many bags, the weary looking teachers seemed relieved to get the chance to finally clear out their classrooms.

My eldest is in the Juniors and every year they have a party in the classroom on the last day of school. Last year was his first year and as I scanned the 18th piece of paper that I had received that week, I read “please provide your child with a plate of party food for Friday”, so I naturally assumed, in my lack of attention paid method of reading, that each child brought a different kind of food for ‘the party’. So I cooked up 30 sausage rolls, wrapped them in foil and placed them in a Tupperware container for eldest son to take in for his last day.

That afternoon when he came out, he wasn’t happy. He thrust the half empty box of sausage rolls at me relaying the information, “the teachers asked for each child to bring in their OWN plate of party food as we are not allowed to share food, so everyone had a plate with sausage rolls, crisps, party rings and cupcakes and I was the ONLY one who had a container full of sausage rolls!” Ooops! I apologised and he was good-natured about it telling me how he tried to eat as many sausage rolls as he could while he looked on at his friends with their more exciting platters of treats. So this year I read the slip of paper properly and made sure he had a good selection of food. I do try really hard to not be that parent who sends their child in on non-uniform day in their uniform but you need an Executive PA sometimes to deal with the amount of paperwork that is sent home. However, I don’t wish to complain too much as it does mean that the children have fun at school in the last week.

The last week of school also means school reports. My 3 brought home very good reports with only a few minor moans, eldest sons untidy handwriting and youngest daughters lack of enthusiasm but on the whole no complaints and apparently I have focused, well behaved children.

However, it was my youngest son’s report that made for good reading. As you will know from previous blogs, my youngest son can be a bit of a live wire, is often described as “a character” by people, as he is a very energetic child, quite cheeky, very adventurous, has quite bad selective hearing and will do anything to get a laugh! Well, I did expect his report to contain words such as “easily distracted” and “has trouble listening”, but no, his report was outstanding. I read it, then checked the name on the front was right, then read it again. “He excels in every subject, is very helpful and often helps other children when they are struggling, gets involved in every activity, listens to instructions and is very popular with his friendship group” and my favourite line, “he has built up strong friendships with the other children and adults in the class”. I was half expecting a teacher to call round to see if he wanted to ‘play out’. But we were overjoyed, very proud and very grateful of his teacher’s kind comments. There have been occasions over the last week where I have to refer to the report to make sure we are talking about the same child, but I have faith he is good in spite of his sometimes ‘characteristic behaviour’!