Author Archives: An Ounce of Me

On Your Marks, Get Set

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Today at last my eldest son had his sports day, previously postponed because of predictably bad weather, we wrapped up and braved the school field to watch the big event.

Now with three children, this is my second sports day this month. The twins sports day was held on a rare sunny day a few weeks ago. With them both being in Reception, their teacher had not so helpfully divided them into separate teams for all events. So while twin son was balancing his egg and spoon in one area, twin daughter was on her space hopper on the other side of the field. Don’t get me wrong, I am all up for a bit of healthy competition between them and it was probably ‘a good idea at the time’ that the teachers decided to separate them. However, with me, hubby and my parents tag teaming across the field, swapping more hand gestures than John McCririck, it didn’t make for a very relaxing day for us.

It was great to watch the children take part though. My daughter was her usual unenthusiastic self when it comes to sport and was happy to inspect the daisies on the running track, rather than plan to beat anyone to the finish line in the sack race. However, my son more than made up for her lack of competitive spirit, by adopting an Olympian shotput pose to throw a bean bag and was the only child to actually break a sweat in the ‘hit the ball round the cones’ event.

But it was the last race of the day which was the most entertaining. With all prior events having been team events so no child ended up losing (for gods sake). The last race was four children at a time racing down the field to the finish line, where a victory stand had been erected for the medal ceremony. Nice touch.

Twin daughter was facing the wrong way initially on her race, she heard the klaxon go and she casually ran towards the finish, waving at us as she passed in a Baywatch slow-motion kind of style, finishing last which was of no concern to her. Meanwhile, twin son was busy stretching at the starting line, his 3 other competitors eyeing him suspiciously, realising he meant business. The klaxon sounded and it was like the famous scene from The Chariots Of Fire, twin son had his back straight, head back as he plummeted down the field towards the finish, miles in front of the others. To be fair, his main competition had lost a plimsoll and was busy putting it back on, which gave twin son the edge.

Today my eldest son’s events were much the same. However, there was no running race as the Juniors are even less willing to brand any child a loser and therefore only team events take place.

And what exactly are the P.E. teachers smoking these days with the random races they invent for the children to do. In my day, I remember relay racing, egg and spoon and sack race. Today’s events were like something out of It’s A Knockout, with children required to dress up in an outfit, climb through a hoop, balance a bean bag on their head, while bouncing a ball.

The most normal race was the sack/skipping race combo, skipping one way down the track and jumping within the sack back. And I have to say how impressed I was with the sacks they use now, a big contrast to the real sacks they used at my sports day, where you would end the race with small cuts to your fingertips due to the harshness of the sack material.

Thankfully, there are no parent races anymore, so we are spared the humiliation of trying to make out we don’t care about winning. However, last week eldest son thrust a piece of paper in my hand to say that the Juniors were holding a ‘Race for Life’ over the school field and were asking parents to join the children in 4 laps of the field for a £1 donation. We were asked to dress in pink and turn up on Friday to take part. I quizzed eldest son about whether the other parents were going to do it, he assured me ‘everyone was’. So when the time came, I dug out my running shoes, found a suitable sporty pink top and arrived at the school field to greet the other …… 3 (!) parents who were taking part! There were lots of parent ‘spectators’ but only a few suckers parents actually running, including me!

As my eldest son’s class came out onto the field ready for the race, me and the other 3 Mums took our places beside them. I made my son promise that we would stay together throughout the race.

Now I don’t expect professional landscapers to have been working the night shift on the morning of the race, but to mow the field would have been a nice gesture to avoid the ankle high grass that greeted us.

Me and eldest son smiled at each other as the klaxon sounded and then he left me for dust as he flew off with his best mate leaving me behind. So without any alternative I began the race on my own trying to not look as awkward as I felt. I scanned the runners for the other Mums but 2 had raced off in their obvious runner mode and the other Mum was running hand in hand with her daughter so it looked like I was doing this race solo.

I had to remember to breathe, not to go too fast so I wouldn’t end up with a stitch, must not go too slow so I end up last being outrun by the school mascot. I kept a decent pace, trying to ignore the iron like taste in my mouth and the tight chest feeling as I hit lap 3. Luckily, eldest son had overdone it in the first lap so I had managed to catch him up. As we reached lap 4, he suggested we sneak out as some of the faster runners had completed the race and ‘no-one would know’. I could have said yes, it would have got me out of the last lap, but he owed me for leaving me on my own, so we finished it together.

The biggest Sports Day this country has ever seen is kicking off in Stratford next week. Still not sure if we are going to go, hubby is working all of it, so will probably watch it on the TV. But what is certain are those athletes have got it easy, pristine new tracks and definitely no overgrown school field to run through. And I bet Usain Bolt won’t have as much fun just running when he could complete 100 metres on a space hopper!

The Mane Attraction

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I returned from the hairdressers yesterday feeling a little bit more glam than I had before, but £70 lighter in my bank account. The cost of a haircut never used to concern me as I always looked at it as an important investment, but nowadays I am starting to feel guilty about the money it costs.

When I first worked as a Publishers Assistant in Oxford Circus, I was just 19 and felt the need to fit in within my new, young and funky office. I only ever had my hair cut at an uber trendy hairdressers off Bond Street where I had every angled bob they invented tried out on me. To visit their salon, according to them, wasn’t just a haircut but an “uplifting experience for the soul”. I was a big fan of hair colour and once dyed my locks cinnamon pink, which I realised was a bit extreme when I walked back through Carnaby Street and a group of punks complimented the colour. But I could get away with it then and I certainly could justify the money spent on it.

However, these days a cut and colour is the same as a top-up food shop for the family. And although I can find the money for it, I don’t feel I can justify it any longer. I still think it is important to have a trendy style and I have my hair coloured regularly as a necessity to cover ‘natural highlights’ rather than to experiment with bright colours.

Women’s haircuts have always been a bit more expensive than men’s,  a little unfair in my opinion but I suppose it is a lot to do with the amount of time we spend in the salon.

I consider myself fairly astute in decisions I make but for some reason when it comes to hairdressers I am the most easily led and gullible customer going. I have been told that my hair is “fine in texture but there is lots of it” and that often used phrase “if you want to grow it you need to cut it regularly”. I am no expert on hairdressing and would hate to insult the industry as I have pumped a lot of money into it, but women do seem to be the obvious target for additional costs to a haircut.

On my last visit, my hairdresser advised me that I should have a “Brazilian Blowdry” which consists of coating your hair in a magic formula then blowdrying the formula into the hair shaft to give it better condition over a number of weeks. Sounds good and can be achieved for the bargain price of £99! Amazingly, in my gullible customer mode I sat and calculated whether I could afford it, then mentally slapped myself round the face and politely declined. I fully expect on my next visit to be offered the service of having my hair stroked by a feather to help reduce frizz or my roots massaged by a monkey to avoid split ends, all of which of course I will consider no matter the cost.

My husband consistently is shocked by the cost of my haircut and will always reply with “I can get my hair cut for a tenner”. I try to point out that most men are content with a sheep shearing approach to hairdressing with the main choices being the setting on the razor and the only style offered being ‘a short, back and sides’ or ‘a little bit of texture on top’? I know this isn’t true of every barber and especially with younger men who are sporting big sweepy fringes at the moment. There is more hair styling amongst the members of One Direction then any boy group before them. And lest we forget the styles of the 80s, the mullet, the new romantic or the 90s tramlines and quiffs. Men do have their styling agendas too but at a considerably reduced price.

I am now in the process of looking for a mobile hairdresser, something I promised myself I would never do. And although I feel like I’m letting down my 19-year-old self with the multi-angled pink bob, I do think it is a good option for us now. On the plus side,  the kids and hubby can have their hair cut as well so saves time, but on the down side I do not relish the thought of hanging my head over my bath to shower off my own hair dye.

Perhaps I can persuade hubby that as I will be taking this leap of faith with a mobile hairdresser in order to save money, he can make me feel that I’m not missing out on the salon experience. Perhaps by making me a cup of tea in a cup and saucer, providing me with gossip mags and talking loudly to me about my holiday plans while blaring out pumping music and keeping the hairdryer on in the background, I will feel a little less cheated?

Get Your Motor Running

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A good friend of mine has just purchased a VW Beetle and for the first time in a long time I felt a stab of jealousy over a car. I have never been a car fan, am not easily impressed by the ramblings of Jeremy Clarkson and the other two off of Top Gear and a flash car is not on the top of my wish list in the event of a lottery win. However, I did once love a car more than is healthy with a bit of metal, my  1969 Pink VW Beetle.

Do you remember the days when you took a driving test without the added pressures of a theory test, but instead a question/answer session with your examiner from a well used copy of the Highway Code? I can remember burning the midnight oil studying braking distances in preparation for the test, then he didn’t ask one thing about them, so instead I just casually dropped them into the conversation throughout my test which I sadly failed despite this! I am a 2nd time passer of my driving test and 2nd timers obviously make better drivers as we had that extra tuition and stress! I can remember happily swapping my provisional for a permanent licence, as not only did I now have a licence to drive but also a good form of ID for alcohol purchasing.

My parents had awarded my older brother our old Morris Marina as they had bought a new car so I would have to purchase a car from elsewhere. My parents and I decided that if I can stump up some of the cash for the car they would cover costs such as insurance and tax. So as I was a student and working part-time in an Elvis themed restaurant, I used my hard-earned tips and not so hard-earned wages to fund my car shopping trip.

My parents and I discussed suitable cars and with Fords in a neighbouring town, decided a Fiesta or an Escort would be a sensible choice. Now, I wasn’t a particularly sensible 17-year-old, I studied hard-ish at college, I worked hard-ish, (serving Fajita’s and learning the routine to “All Shook Up” isn’t exactly taxing) but I was quite an impulsive person and still can be in a more diluted manner. So, with the money for my car burning a hole in my money-box and a dear friend of mine looking to sell her VW Beetle I thought it would be a genius decision to buy it from her. We exchanged £500 for the car and the log book and MOT certificate, which if I had bothered to look at would tell me that it had limped through its last service.

I thought that my parents might not warm to the idea straight away but with the fact that the car was over 30 years old they wouldn’t have to pay tax so that should please them surely? My parents are lovely patient people, very reasonable and supportive but as you can imagine were none too pleased when they heard the Sherman tank noise coming down the road and me pulling up in a bright pink beetle along with extended wheel arches to accommodate massive wheels.  The words ‘on your head be it’ I think were used in the resulting conversation, but I was unable to see sense, I was in love!

My Beetle had so many lovable features that any rational person would probably would think of as a negative. The vintage flat windscreen with one faulty windscreen wiper, which used to stick so when it rained my passenger would have to help it move quicker. The horn and windscreen wash were little levers on the dashboard which I often mistook for each other. One day when stuck in traffic I tried to wash my screen and pressed the horn lever by accident, which then jammed so I was stationary with a loud horn on a continuous noise while I tried to shout “my horn is stuck!” out of the window to not very amused drivers around me. The heating was two holes in the back seat which when turned on would burn the ankles of anyone sitting in the back and not reach the people in the front. The wheels were enormous and on my first MOT the mechanic pointed out that one of the tyres was from a van and I should really change it to a car wheel!

But despite its many flaws, it was such a lovely car to drive, I can still hear the chugga chug of its engine and the feeling of safety in its huge interior. However, it wasn’t built for speed and when I used to go on the motorway and it reached 65mph the car would shake and you had to shout to be heard. On one particular journey to Brighton, we stopped to get petrol and as I queued a man in front said to his girlfriend, “look at that bug, it’s eye is falling out”, to which I spun round to see my car’s headlight dangling from one wire!

After a few years of service, my beloved Beetle succumbed to rust and corrosion. I was planning a permanent move to Brighton and after a not very successful campaign to sell it in Loot, we sold it to a scrap dealers for £50. It still brings a lump to throat remembering it being towed down the street feeling like I had let it down through neglect. However, my parents were now happy with the fact I was going to be driving the long-awaited Fiesta they had given me and my brother to share.

Now I drive a “Mum’s car”, a Citroen something or other. I am fond of it as it is roomy and fairly easy to park but it will never replace my old Beetle. And if we ever do win the lottery a 1969 VW Beetle is the car I will purchase, but this time I will study the log book and MOT certificates to make sure it is roadworthy!

The Great British BBQ

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We haven’t had the best summer so far, something I remember saying last year too. As a child I can remember my 6 weeks holidays mainly being warm, we always holidayed in this country and I have photographic evidence of me on the beach in a swimming costume. But in the recent years, the summer weather has been a bit pants, not exactly a meteorological term, but fitting I think.

And even though July and August have become quite rainy months, the price of holidays, weddings, etc during this time have not been reduced to make up for it. But we are learning to adapt to the rain, rain and constant rain. Having said that, it is a sunny day today and as I sit and write this blog, I also have one ear tuned to the radio for a weather update and I am remembering to keep an eye on the cloud coverage, as I have decided to chance the washing on the line.

I can remember how unprepared for rain I was at my first festival. We all travelled down to the V festival in Chelmsford, me and hubby were in the early stages of dating so practical hadn’t been on the agenda when I chose my outfit that morning. I opted for unpractical boots with short skirt and trendy top. I hadn’t bargained for the fact that it had rained the night before so everywhere was a mud pit, the chemical toilets were less than sanitary under foot and unless you had a picnic chair strapped to your back, the only seating available was a well trodden muddy field. I came to the conclusion my boots and outfit wouldn’t be the same again and embraced the mud and rubbish, it was only when it started raining mid afternoon that I realised that I hadn’t brought a raincoat but a denim jacket as it was a lot more fetching. Thankfully future hubby gave me his waterproof in a gentlemanly gesture and fashioned himself another with a plastic bin liner.

After we got too soaked to care anymore, helped along with a lot of warm beer, the first day of the festival drew to a close so we headed back to the car to get some sleep. We figured that the car would be more comfortable and warmer than a tent at that point. Luckily, hubby in Scout mode had brought an inflatable mattress, so we pushed the seats down in his battered up BMW and laid the mattress on top. I removed my boots, wrung my socks out and we crashed out in a beer induced coma. A few hours later we awoke to find ourselves sat forward where the mattress had leaked air through the night and slowly had delivered us into a seating position! With my outfit wrecked from the day before, we nipped back to our homes, showered, ate and changed into more suitable clothing to go back for the second day of even muddier surroundings for bands and beer.

My Dad turned 65 at the weekend and has also retired from work, which meant a double celebration was in order. With an 80% chance of rain we decided to have a BBQ anyway as that is what we do with summer celebrations. We prepared ourselves by erecting a gazebo, for rain coverage not sun.  I dressed the children in their party outfits and packed their rain coats and wellies, then we layered up to brave the garden setting on a fairly cold cloudy June day.

We all love a summer BBQ as it is a good way of getting everyone together to eat, drink and be merry. But there are aspects of the event that always make me chuckle. Any other dinner time, if I was to serve hubby up a paper plate with a heavily grilled sausage in a dry bun, he may think I had lost the plot but if we are out in the garden and the said sausage has been heavily grilled on a BBQ that is a different matter. However, BBQ food has evolved and on Saturday we went to a lot of preparation with side dishes of salad and rice and a Jamaican family friend arrived with curried goat so there was lots of variety. With a few vegetarians in the family, we have to run two BBQ’s in order to not transfer ‘meat juices’, so whoever is chef needs to have a good supply of utensils and know where to use them.

We made a vat of Pimms, bizarrely the only drink where it is completely normal to have a cucumber stick and strawberries in, which seemed an acceptable tipple for daytime consumption. The kids loved the fact I wasn’t pushing vegetables and my daughter could get away with consuming processed burger cheese in large supply.  The BBQ was a great day, the drink was flowing and even when a ‘fine rain’ arrived we all put on a jumper and huddled under the gazebo until it passed over. Unlike the Iceland adverts where their summer is permanent, I think perhaps the rain at a BBQ is what brings us together after all.

 

Our Four Legged Friend

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Apologies that my blog is a little late this week, the reason being is very much due to the subject of the blog…. Our new dog!

I must be mad. That is the general consensus from my friends and family when I decided to add to our family unit with a puppy. Raised eyebrows was a common reaction from most people I told of my intentions. Many of our nearest and dearest are dog lovers so appreciated my ‘need’ but were also of the opinion of “you have 3 children, the twins have just started school, why are you giving yourself the extra work?” . Or I was accused of falling into the category of getting a dog instead of having a baby, as a lot of Mums once all their children are at school, have that urge to pop another one out. This is SO not true in my case, after twins I have pretty much had any broody bone ripped from my being. The only urge I have when I see a newborn is to appreciate the fact I don’t have a sleepless night ahead of me. Don’t get me wrong, I love playing “Auntie” to my friends offspring but I will happily hand them back without a moments thought of wanting another one for me.

But that same insane need you have to get pregnant, I felt a touch of it recently on the hunt for a puppy. When you decide that you want to get pregnant, and in most cases there is often a wait involved, you go from being a rational person to a slightly mental one calculating ovulation dates like Carol Vorderman, introducing strange ‘fertility’ foods into yours and hubby’s diets and dribbling with bump envy at every passing pregnant woman. And why is it that there are so many pregnant women around when you are feeling a bit barren? Do they radio through to each other when they see you coming, “Desperate to get pregnant woman approaching Costa Coffee, all pregnant women fall in immediately, over!”

My need for a dog started a few weeks ago when we met up with some dear friends of ours over the country park with the kids and their new puppy. I had thought about getting a dog since the twins had started school, hubby wasn’t keen so I brainwashed encouraged him with the usual mantras of, “it’s good to teach the kids the responsibility of owning a pet” and “I feel I need that added security when you’re on a night shift”, but we had agreed that it would be too much to deal with. So quite like handing a baby to a reluctant husband to hold, we met our friends new dog so I could manipulate encourage his heart strings. Their puppy is adorable and the kids loved it so was able to add “it will enrich our family unit” to the list. My hubby was tempted, as he does loves dogs, but was able to hand it back and forget about it, but it had switched something on in his mind and had also got the kids on my side to bug him about it too!

Two weeks later I had been ‘keeping my eye out on dog rescue sites’ which really meant scouring every dog home in the country for my desired breed, a Labrador puppy. To buy new from a breeder they are £600+ but it wasn’t just the expense that put me off, I really wanted to help a dog in need of a home. Sadly there were endless offers of other breeds such as Staffordshire Bull Terriers and Collies being the most available. I was tempted with one Collie puppy called Chaos but thought would sound a bit mad shouting that across a park, like I was trying to incite some sort of riot!

Ironically enough it was hubby who finally found our dog via Gumtree whilst looking for motorbike gear, he reckons. He found a 6 month old Golden Lab called Chester who was looking to be rehomed as his owner was moving and couldn’t take him. He was a pedigree so would still have to pay for that privilege but at a second-hand price – bless. We made the fatal mistake of making a visit to its foster home to see how we felt about him, well unless you are pretty soulless, visiting an Andrex puppy in cramped conditions looking at you like the cat from Shrek, it was pretty impossible not to say yes to him.

So Chester has come to live with us. He is very kind natured although has a habit of nipping which we are trying to stop, he is great company, loves the kids and is so at home with us already. The kids are happy to walk him with me and my son hasn’t even picked up his DS since Chester arrived so I think I’ve fulfilled all my previous mantras. All except one that is, the security issue. Last night while hubby was working a night shift, there was a noise in the garden next door, Chester shot up and ran to the door to be let out. I opened the door and he looked at me as much to say “come with me it’s a bit dark out there..” I had worked out it was next door’s Springer Spaniel so wasn’t worried so I accompanied my ‘guard dog’ out into the back garden at which point the Spaniel barked and Chester went flying back indoors with his tail between his legs leaving me outside in the dark, on my own! Oh well at least he is starting to look a bit big and scary, even if he isn’t!

Surviving Disney!

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“It’s a small small world after all….”

Anyone who has visited Disneyland Paris will have this song stuck in their brain on repeat. We’ve just returned from a 4 day break from the Mickey Mouse inspired theme park and repetition is something Disney are good at.

With hubby’s job banning all summer leave, we were given the Willy Wonka style letter from the powers be at Police HQ, allowing the kids a few days off school during term time. So last Wednesday we bunked off and took the kids and grandparents to Ebbsfleet International to board our Eurostar train to Paris. The children were beside themselves with excitement as we hurtled through the Kent countryside towards the tunnel. The train was packed with other families having used every excuse in the book to get their kids out of school too and with the constant sounds of “are we there yet?” echoing around the carriage, my youngest son had his face pressed against the window looking for sharks in the tunnel as he informed us that “we were under the sea!”.

We are almost there after 3 hours of sticker books and a very limited game of I-Spy – “is it a tree? track? chair?” and with my twins still learning to read, their something beginning with T could be a seagull or a sandwich, making you feel like you’re playing word games in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest!

After disembarking the train and using the pointless Disneyland Express Luggage service, pointless because we had to drag all our bags away from the station exit and instead upstairs to the luggage desk, queue up to hand the bags over, then take the 2 minute empty bus to our hotel, wait 2 hours for our bags to arrive, then had to walk past the hotel entrance to collect them from the hotel luggage hold, then take them back to our rooms, still not sure how this allows itself to be named the “Express” Luggage Service.

The hotel was perfect for our needs and each morning one of the Disney characters arrived to see the children in the lobby. This can induce a bit of a mad frenzy, with pushing, shoving, elbowing, all to get an autograph and a photo with the character and that’s just how the parents behave! The crowd practically went into a meltdown when Mickey and Minnie turned up one day, we did the typical British thing and pointlessly queued to meet them. As we patiently waited, the families in front took advantage of the situation by arranging different group situations with the plastic headed mice, I’m still at a loss why the grown ups feel the need to have their picture taken? The Mum in front of me  put on her Minnie Mouse headband in readiness for her photo shoot with her daughter, when their turn arrived the Mum sent her daughter forward then swiftly pulled her out of the shot so that she could put her vice like grip round the masked Mouse, I would have loved to have seen the look of panic on the ‘actor’ inside Mickey!

The best character meeting has to be meeting a Disney Princess from 1pm each day in the “Princess Pavillion”. My daughter like most 4-year-old girls are princess obsessed, so having put on her favourite dress up outfit we headed to the queue forming to meet one. We saw ‘Sleeping Beauty’ approach doing a bit of method acting, walking on tiptoes, fingers pinched together, manically smiling, led by 2 bouncers so no-one could touch her, as she was whisked in the back door of the pavilion with all the little girls beside themselves with excitement at the prospect of meeting her. As the bouncers walked back we asked how long the wait was to see her, as the queue was getting longer by the minute, he informed us the wait would be 2 hours. Two hours! I wouldn’t wait 2 hours to meet the real Queen, I glanced down at my daughter clutching her princess book and pen and realised I was there for the long haul!

As hotel residents you are given a privilege pass this allows you 2 extra hours in the parks from 8am till 10am, before the  general public are allowed in. This is definitley a perk to avoid queueing for rides, however, it also means you need to get up and out of the hotel by 7.30am! On our first day, with my parents taking the children on a Toy Story ride, me and hubby were walking up to the legendary Space Mountain rollercoaster, just 30 minutes after breakfast. As a teenager and into my 20s I used to go any theme park ride, the scarier the better, but now in my 30s I find myself questioning the safety of any ride, analysing the seatbelt situation before alighting and then worrying about whether there will be an impact on my blood pressure afterwards. As we were shown to our seats on Space Mountain, the seat belt came down over our heads complete with grip bars to hold, this is not a good sign, grip bars means we’re going to go very fast and probably upside down at some point. What am I doing? It’s 8.30 am, I have just had a leisurely breakfast of coffee and croissants and now I’m wedging myself into this situation. A loud trumpet noise echoed  in our ears as we were thrust into a dark tunnel at god knows what speed, the next 7 minutes consisted of being catapulted upside down, spinning around a tunnel, being rocketed up in the air then back down again, on the few occasions I opened my eyes, I could see hubby’s face pinned to the seat with a manic g-forced inspired look on his face. As my head was flung about my head rest, I  pretty much screamed until I was  hoarse and we were flung to a sudden stop. We peeled ourselves out of our seats and I tried to bring some feeling back into my hands as I  had been gripping so hard. My hubby looked at me and suggested we “did it again”, I hadn’t regained the ability to speak at the point but I think my face said it all!

There are some excellent rides for the kids and they particularly loved the Peter Pan ride which involved sitting in individual pirate boats and ‘flying’ above the streets of London and Neverland. It was magical the first time, even the second and third time, by the sixteenth time the magic was wearing a bit thin. There is so much variety in the parks and over 4 days we did our best to cram it all in, from early in the morning till dinner time we covered all areas, parades and character meetings. Each evening we dragged our exhausted legs back to the hotel and with rooms consisting of a double bed, a bunk bed with adjoining rooms, once the kids were in bed, we had to talk in sign language and watch the TV on mute, taking it in turns for each couple to spend an hour in the hotel bar.

The parades are excellent though, the first night we lined the streets waiting for the floats to arrive, my daughter had prime position on my shoulders, youngest son was on hubby’s shoulders and eldest son was firmly placed in front of my parents. As the first princess float made it’s way past us I looked over at my Mum’s face to gauge how my daughter was reacting, my Mum had tears streaking down her cheeks so I craned my neck to look up at my open-mouthed, wide-eyed daughter as the likes of Cinderella and Rapunzel went past on their colourful coaches. Youngest son was manically waving at Buzz Lightyear, jumping up and down with excitiment on hubby’s weary shoulders, even eldest son was grinning as Lion King and Jungle Book waved in his direction, to see their faces makes the whole experience worth the money and energy.

 

 

Hi Ho Hi Ho It’s Off To Disney We Go!

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Checklist

  • Credit card maxed out after deciding to treat kids to a 4-day break in Disneyland Paris, in light of hubby working all summer at the Maj’s Jubilee and a little sporting event taking place in Stratford.
  • Exhausted kids due to being too excited to go to bed, then too excited to stay in bed so demanding breakfast at 5am!
  • Oblivious parents agreeing to come along as helpers to see the kids enjoy the ‘magic’, have pointed out that our privilege passes mean we need to be in the Park by 8am each day. This holiday is not for the faint hearted!
  • Stressed out husband trying to repack the suitcases after our daughter has sneaked in 5 princess dress-up outfits to “show Cinderella” and youngest son having squeezed in 15 cuddly toys “who want to meet Mickey Mouse too!”
  • Air hostess smile firmly in place as trying not to shout at kids on this ‘special day’.

Wish me luck! Returning Saturday, next blog will be “Surviving Disney”!

 

The Inbetweenies

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The Inbetweenies.

The Inbetweenies

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My eldest son is a lovely child, he is kind, considerate, funny, intelligent, adventurous and brave. He is also stroppy, lazy, incoherent, fickle and has selective hearing.

When I became a Mum for the first time it was an amazing experience for me. I had been told that I was unlikely to fall pregnant due to “women’s problems”, so in the early years of mine and hubby’s relationship, we decided to put the parenting issue on the back burner, as it looked unlikely to happen and enjoy our free time.

I booked a flight to America to visit a dear friend of mine who lived in Atlanta, my first long haul flight alone. I’m not the keenest flight passenger but I managed to endure the 9 hours  thanks to 2 back-to-back Lord of the Rings films and copious amounts of chocolate. Once on American soil, without the experience of being prepared for their tough immigration and a lack of postal address for my friend’s house, I was escorted to a holding room much to the glares of my fellow passengers and seated beside a rather pleasant bearded man who had roused suspicions. The Immigration Officer tried calling my friend’s phone number while I tried to explain that she was in Arrivals waiting my arrival. Thankfully, without the use of a lie detector test I was allowed into the country. Over the next few days I found myself feeling completely exhausted and incredibly hungry all of the time. My friend after nudging me awake for the umpteenth time at a restaurant was concerned I was having an extreme reaction to jet lag. And even when I had taken to eating 3 breakfasts consisting of cream cheese and tomatoes on toast with a smothering of maple syrup, I thought my appetite was in “holiday mode”. Needless to say, I was not alone, a little stowaway had joined me for my trip but this revelation was still furthest from my mind.

When I arrived home, complaining to hubby that I had put on 8 lbs in a week I decided to join Weight Watchers with my Mum as clearly my metabolism had slowed down, I was approaching my 30s after all. When I had been weighed, measured and lectured at my first meeting, I returned home via the supermarket to get a pregnancy test, on the off-chance.  Me and hubby sat and watched the little pee stick with smug anticipation that it would be a negative when all of a sudden I saw the 2 lines appear,  shocked would be the understatement of the century! After another 5 tests all producing the same result, my Doctor confirmed that I was with child!

I really enjoyed my pregnancy and I know that sounds a bit Earth Mother of me but I really didn’t expect that I would ever get to do it. I had my moments with morning sickness having my back rubbed by a London Underground train guard after having to jump off the central line when the nausea awoke. But I was so excited about becoming a Mum, more so then I ever expected I would be. I took a year off from my high-flying career in television without a moments  doubt, pretty certain I would never be the same employee even if I did return to work, which I knew was unlikely.

On 24 December 2003 at 9.47pm, after 27 hours of labour (that is such an accurate word for the experience!), our baby boy was born. He was a gorgeous baby though fairly demanding with his feeding and lack of sleeping. Our nightly feed routine consisted of me feeding baby, then passing him to hubby who burped him. He was quite a nocturnal baby and I remember one night after the fourth twilight feed, passing him to hubby and dosing off only to wake up an hour later to find baby in his Moses basket and hubby burping the dog. Sleep deprivation is a peculiar thing!

After I decided to not return to my job and just do the odd bit of temping to make ends meet, me and baby boy had oodles of time together. We did every play club, swimming, picnics in the park and spending a whole day in a homemade camp in the living room. It is easier with one, I realise that now with 3! We had our moments, he was a fussy eater and would drive me insane with his food refusal, especially as I had prepared some complicated Annabel Karmel recipe from scratch. Try explaining to a 2-year-old how infuriating it is blanching and peeling tomatoes for a pasta sauce when he is only going to feed it to the dog.

But I was his world in those formative years, clinging to my leg on the first day of pre school while I literally dragged him in and watched through the window as the tears kept coming, mine that is not his. Me and hubby helped him to  learn to swim, ride a bike, make cakes, everything he did, Mummy and Daddy had to do it with him. I was dwarfed with affection to the point where he wouldn’t go to sleep unless I laid on the bed with him so he could play with my ear lobe, this became increasingly difficult when I was heavily pregnant with twins! And when the twins arrived, he was so good, very welcoming and considerate to them and me. All the family made sure he wasn’t excluded and I told him almost hourly that he was still my special boy.

He started school and I immersed myself in toddler twins, no easy task I can tell you but that’s a whole other blog! He asserted his independence from me, which I encouraged as he made new friends and his teachers replaced me in the hierarchy during the day, but he was a good boy and so keen about school. Loved homework, folded his uniform, read his books to the twins who in turn tried to chew them.

Then last September he started Junior School and something changed. His enthusiasm had started to deplete, his hunger for learning was replaced with a hunger for all things not school related, Football, his Nintendo DS, Football, Wii, Football and did I mention Football? From the minute he wakes up to the second he closes his eyes it’s Football Football Football. I’ll ask “how was school today?”, he’ll reply “S’alright, did you know Drogba is considering a move to Barcelona?” I now know more about the formation of football teams in the Premiership than most sports commentators on Sky! But I try to indulge his interests as they are so few and far between now, he is in a football team and hubby takes him to see a game when we can afford it.

I think back to my 2-year-old boy, who would hang on my every word and get excited about my every suggestion. And now I look at my 8-year-old boy who gives a big sigh whenever he is asked to do anything, asks “do I have to go?” when I suggest a trip out somewhere and sulks when anything other than football is on the TV. What’s most frustrating is when he answers me back with a stroppy reply and when reprimanded by me, he will stare back with a blank expression so I’m left thinking all he heard, while I was ranting my lecture to him, was the voice of the teacher from Snoopy!

Don’t get me wrong, I adore my children equally but I miss the innocence of number one son, we still have our moments when he grabs me for an unexpected cuddle or asks my advice about school. But these moments are too infrequent and the feet dragging, “it’s so not fair” and bottom lip pouting have increased. I understand I’m not alone and that things can only get worse in some ways when he hits the real teenage years. But I have faith in him, he is still that sweet little boy, just sharing a personality with Kevin the Teenager at the moment.

 

We’re Not All TOWIE Tan-aholics!

4 Replies

I am an Essex Girl and proud! It hasn’t always been the case, the proud bit that is. When I left college and started working in my late teens, an unhelpful radio DJ created the infamous “Sharon & Tracy” stereotype Essex Girls, with their white stilettos and loose moral behaviour which swept the nation and unfortunately stuck in people’s minds.

On my first holiday abroad with my friends at the age of 19, we felt forced to ‘exaggerate the truth’ and say we were from East London rather than Essex, to avoid every young virile man in Corfu to expect us to live up to the Sharon or Tracy character. Despite Essex being a diverse county with beautiful countryside and beaches, steeped in history and with a cultural mix of people, Essex Girls are still today regarded as brainless sluts thanks to the introduction of the programme The Only Way Is Essex!

Now I can take a joke, I have had to cope with a bit of ridicule having worked in the media with colleagues mainly from London or surrounding ‘posh’ areas such as Surrey or Sussex. However, it does get my back up when shows like TOWIE do not seem to give a balanced view of the people in the area I live, as it is filmed only 5 miles from my house.

I am prepared to forgive any girl under the age of 20 to feel they need to wear the TOWIE uniform of fake tan, eyelashes and hair extensions. In our formative years we all feel the need to experiment with our style, often adopting a similar look to our friends or celebrity idols. My cousin and I pretty much had a prayer mat dedicated to Susannah Hoffs from The Bangles in our teenage years, adopting the crispy backcombed perm and hooped earrings, along with the pearlised pink lipstick and pout. This is human nature and important that we try out different looks and express ourselves when we are at an immature age. But the danger of the TOWIE cast is the amount of surgery the female cast members indulge in, pretty much all of them have had a boob job, botox and veneers. TOWIE cast member Chloe, who has admitted to having her “teeth done to go for the look of a horse”, has also had bottom implants to make her “bum more uplifted!” Jeez, I’m glad I don’t have a teenage daughter being influenced by this programme.

What really gets my back-up with TOWIE though is the sheer stupidy of the cast. With the likes of Joey Essex wearing shoes 2 sizes too small in order to avoid a crease across his toes, to Amy Childs asking ‘Is Ireland a different country to Wales?”

I can happily say that none of my friends are anything like the cast of TOWIE, they might indulge in the odd beauty therapy but have also held down impressive careers in banking, fashion and journalism, can hold a conversation  without using the words ‘reem’ or ‘well jel’ and we never tell each other to ‘shuttup’!!