Those of you that regularly read my blog may remember me talking about my fear of birthing a psychopath. Turns out it wasn’t unfounded. Girly no2 is displaying some real tendencies. And with the quiet questioning brain of Girly no1 at her side…I’m concerned. Have I birthed the world’s next political powerhouse? Hillary and Bill? Or is it more like Hitler and Himmler? I’m really left wondering is my toddler a psycho…
I don’t know why I thought I may birth a psychopath. I assume the thought crossed everyone’s mind at some point during their pregnancy. We always knew that a combination of our personalities have the making of a psycho. Husband’s friendly chirpy facade covering a guilt-free, unemotional detachment from all but his closest inner circle. My pensive, calculated mind and my ability to meticulously plan for every eventuality. These personalities combined with our Hollywood good looks (HA!) you basically have Patrick Bateman of Hampshire complete with 150gsm business cards printed in Helvetica. I started to give it real consideration after I read Lionel Shriver’s We Need To Talk About Kevin, although the parents seem surprised in that book. Husband and I would not be.
Sweetness and light
Girly no1 quickly put our fears to rest as her personality emerged. At nearly 4, she’s a carbon copy of me but untainted by age and life! So she is still sweet and kind. She asks questions (interrogates) like I do but it’s with genuine curiosity and keenness to learn. She’s not yet mastered manipulation and she doesn’t really have a temper, only ever having had one meltdown which shook us all so much I wrote a blog about it. She scores highly on the empathy scale. She can be reduced to tears watching someone else be sad. She cries at films and cuddles her friends to try and make them feel better when they are sad. She gently pats her little chubby hands on their cheeks telling them not to worry (this makes me cry when she does it to me). She is emotional like I am (I cried last week when Dani and Jack were reunited). She re-tells events from her day at nursery welling up when Lauren didn’t want to be her friend but was only joking, or when Seb walked too fast so fell and hurt his knee. She feels their pain. So I don’t think she is the next Hitler, Mussolini or Trump (yep, I just bracketed them all together). Unless really heavily influenced I’m not sure Girly no1 has it in her to do anything horrible.
Girly no2 however is a whole new kettle of fish. She is a charmer. She loves to make you laugh. But she will kiss you with that cute smiley face then slap you and run away. She sucks strangers in, attracting their attention with cutesy giggles, a little lisp and y’s instead of l’s when she talks (Heyo!). Then when someone bends down to chat with her, she flings her head to the side ignoring them. Or she growls and lowers her brow looking out under it like Damien in The Omen. She toys with people’s emotions. She only really likes Mumma, Daddy and her sister. Everyone else is a puppet in her show. As I started to type this she was staring at her sister’s back. After a couple of minutes she suddenly launched herself at her, pushing her with all her might. When no1 didn’t respond satisfactorily she had another think, then tried again using her whole body. It’s disturbing to see an 20-month old plotting to take down her nemesis. But she was relentless and she persevered until eventually she knocked no1 over, catching her off balance. She sat smugly watching her afterwards, looking very pleased with herself. I imagined her making mental notes on angel of trajectory, speed and length of approach. I could almost see her slowly, imperceptibly nodding.
As well as already being a master manipulator, enjoying causing pain and lack of emotion, she shows signs of another psychopathic trait. Lack of remorse. A few days ago, Girly no1 was doing her normal thing of making her baby sister laugh by lying on her wriggling. No2 had been laughing when suddenly she sat bolt upright, reached into her sisters hair and pulled out a huge clump. No1 screamed and cried. No2 watched her for a moment then began to mimic the noises and sounds. No tears though. I stood her up and said look how much she had upset her sister, how she should say sorry etc. She stopped her shouting, looked at me and said “No!” with a little pursed mouth. I was momentarily stunned. I sat her just outside the room facing the baby gate at the top of the stairs. She could still see us and sat there watching me comfort Girly no1. I didn’t think for a moment she would stay there, but she did. After a couple of minutes I went and said “come and say sorry to your sister for hurting her and give her a cuddle”.
I left her again for a couple of minutes. “Are you ready to say sorry now?”
A few more minutes passed. To her credit she didn’t move from the spot I had left her. “Come on,” I said, thinking she’d probably forgotten why she was there in the first place. “You hurt your sister and it made her sad when you pulled her hair. It’s not kind”. Slowly and deliberately she stood up, walked to her sister and cuddled her.
“Aaaaah” she said.
“Say sorry” I gently coaxed.
She stared at me for what felt like a very long time looking back and forth between her sister and I. Eventually she whispered “Sowee”. I didn’t even know she could whisper.
Is My Toddler A Psychopath?
Other psychopathic traits include narcissism (tick), impulsiveness (tick) and lack of responsibility (tick). Tick tick tick. Oh god. In a hot sweaty moment of realisation, I did some research. I discovered that scientists believe that there is a psycho gene. Should we all get tested?! What do you do about that? I stressed out some more. What have we created? What have we inflicted on the world?! What if my mini Hitler influences my kind little fluff headed no1 and then they become the first notorious psycho sister duo in the UK. I’m not sure I’m mentally capable. The good news is that with real nurture, psycho’s can live normal lives and actually live amongst us. Reflecting on it, I actually think we know a few (wondering how many of my friend’s will question whether I’m talking about them!). You just have to be firm and moral. Lots of apologies and taught empathy – Dexter style. We can do this.
Or Maybe Just A Toddler
Of course it might just be that my hilarious little toddler is just that. A toddler. Pushing boundaries, learning about herself and others, learning about cause and affect. Learning how to communicate, influence and negotiate. It might just be that she is a strong mind and a big personality on tiny shoulders. Or I may have birthed the next Hindley. We’ll just have to wait and see.
If you haven’t read this with your tongue in your cheek then I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. My girls are beautiful and kind hearted. If not a bit weird. But then who isn’t?! If you’ve enjoyed it please like and share!
I haven’t posted anything for a while. And this post isn’t fun or funny I’m afraid. It’s sad and a bit teary. Because that’s what miscarriages are – sad and teary and a lot of other things…
I’ve been very quiet recently because on top of trying to build (by which I mean start) my business That Works For Me. I have fallen pregnant and then had a miscarriage. And it’s really knocked me for six. It’s knocked everything out of me, my energy, my motivation, my smile…I have felt really bloody sad.
Last month I was late for period and filled with dread, I did a pregnancy test. I feel horrible admitting it, but I was really upset that it was positive. As well as the business we had the most fun summer planned. I was feeling fit, the girlies are becoming more independent, we have holidays booked, festivals to go to, gigs to enjoy…a whole raft of grown up activities that I was really excited about enjoying. Mostly though it was about having some time for Husband and I, a little bit of time to enjoy each other because after three years of pregnancy-baby-pregnancy-baby, we needed it. Every couple does. It’s easy to lose each other in the first couple of years of having a child and I can see why so many couples drift apart.
Husband was super excited that the test was positive, as he has been every time we’ve seen the infamous blue cross. I, on the other hand, cried my eyes out. And I continued to cry for two weeks after we found out. I know that this is very selfish and I should have been grateful. I’m very aware. But my inner brat was in full foot-stamping-tantrum-throwing mode and I was really annoyed at the prospect of missing The Killers again. We told immediate family and our closest friends our news…we had to explain my red rimmed eyes somehow and ‘I’m now a drug addict’ wasn’t going to cut it.
After two weeks I was starting to accept my fate. Finally I started talking about bunkbeds and Lanolin (don’t try to breastfeed without it), casting sideways glances at tiny baby clothes in shops. I signed up to the normal baby email updates (poppy seed this week) and booked my first midwife appointment. Whilst I wasn’t yet beaming, I was no longer crying. I was imagining Girly no2 the dolly-obsessed-kamikaze jumping all over a newborn trying to stuff plastic dummies in her mouth while Girly no1 danced, sung and performed magic tricks; anything to try hold my attention. A smile was starting to creep onto my lips.
Exactly three weeks after finding out, I woke up with a mild stabbing pain low down on my left side and ‘early period’ symptoms elsewhere. I left it for a couple of days but it didn’t go away. The incredibly kind GP confirmed my worst thoughts – a suspected ep topic – and we were sent as an urgent case to the hospital. It turned out that urgent meant six hours of sitting in a depressing room with no air or natural light and having my blood pressure taken every three hours. This is a long time to discuss whether you will ever conceive again, if two children is enough, whether you should have bought a puppy, an SUV versus a people carrier, how you will manage bedtime with two parents and three children, and any other imagined problem your head can create.
We were eventually scanned. It was confusing. Not because of the sonographer, who was amazing with her explanations, but because on the surface everything looked ‘really healthy’ (her words) and it seemed I just pulled a muscle and had a bleeding cist. She said there was a possibility that the fetus wasn’t as developed as it should be for seven weeks so it could be what she termed a ‘failing pregnancy’ but on the surface everything else looked really healthy and it was likely to be date confusion. We were sent away for 48 hours to see what would happen. At the time you listen and nod and blurt out the questions you think you need answers to. It’s not until you have left that you start to analyse things and then the real questions come. For example, without going into great detail, we were clear on dates. We have a one year old and a three year old and….well, need I say more?! Let’s just say we knew our dates! But we questioned everything – when do you start counting weeks? Why is there a weird 10-day period when you’re not pregnant but is counted in how pregnant you are? Had we made this up so were we actually where we should be from a development point of view? The more questions we asked, the more likely a failing pregnancy seemed.
We picked the Girlies up, who had been collected by my Super Mum, put them to bed and then sat staring at each other. Waiting. It was a long evening and an even longer next day. We busied ourselves with the usual Friday activities. I spontaneously burst into tears throughout the day. Goodness knows what they thought in the hairdressers. I did manage to smile though when the receptionist came over to ask how long she should book in for “the lady who comes in for colour from the Ghetto in France”. It turned out to be a Chateau, but I was distracted for at least 5 minutes by this hilariously innocent mistake.
The following morning was our ten-year anniversary. A real landmark we were excited to celebrate. But instead of dropping the Girlies off to their Nanny and heading to Portobello Road as we had intended, we headed back to the hospital for blood tests to confirm what, by this point, we knew. It was a miscarriage. I had started bleeding quite heavily and the pain seriously ramped up. It wasn’t quite the anniversary gift I had in mind and I spent most of the day in tears.
The doctor at the hospital was amazing. She let us go as quickly as possible telling me to go home and rest. She promised to call later with the blood test results. I re-did my make up and we headed to the nearest pub via a couple of antique shops. It wasn’t quite Portobello Road but we managed to buy a few bits. It was clear that my body wasn’t going to let me get drunk but we had a couple anyway, staring at my phone waiting for it to ring. Eventually the Unknown Number flashed up. I hung up, wet eyes again, and told Husband that the blood test confirmed my hormone levels had halved. Our phones were buzzing constantly with loving supportive messages…every one of them made me, and sometimes Husband, cry again. We looked like a couple on the verge of divorce, on our phones, crying and holding hands. I’m surprised no one asked me if I wanted to Ask For Angela. We played Ker Plunk (you know how cool pubs are now by what board games they stock), went for dinner then we both fell asleep in the taxi home. We were in bed, cuddled up tight, for 11pm. Happy anniversary Husband.
The pain and bleeding went on for another week or two then it was gone. Physically it wasn’t too bad. The drain, for me, has been the rollercoaster of emotions that the last month has brought with it. The initial shock of finding out I was pregnant coupled with premature but gut-wrenching FOMO; the acceptance of my body changing and consequent re-planning of our grown up summer; the uncertainty of not knowing what an ache and pain will lead to; and then the deep deep sadness for both of us at losing a baby that wasn’t even a baby yet.
A few weeks on, I still find myself with wet eyes at strange times, as does Husband. It’s not that we don’t know that this one wasn’t meant to be, or that we can try again in a few months, or that it’s normal to cry, it’s just that you don’t expect it to feel as sad as it does. I went through the inevitable “this is my fault because I wasn’t happy when we found out” phase immediately afterwards but I know that’s not true. I keep trying to work out what I’m crying over. Is it the loss of the picture of our family of five? The chance of seeing my Girlies with a little tiny sibling? The fact it might have been a little Husband clone growing in me? All the things I think. All of those things coupled with cramps, hormones, nausea and sore boobs. Who doesn’t love to be a woman?!
Until I experienced it myself, I’ve never given a miscarriage too much thought. I know it’s sad for the couple going through it. I know that it’s particularly sad for people that are desperate for a baby and people that have been trying for ages. And I know that much worse things happen than this. We have been made aware of at least two couples in the last few weeks who have lost babies at delivery. That is something no one should ever have to go through and my heart goes out to them. But it doesn’t mean we can’t be sad about our loss. We thought we would have a new little baby in time for Christmas but now we won’t. And it’s ok to be sad about that. I would like to apologise to everyone that has been through this horrible experience though and send out love and kindness to you and your families. I get it now. And I’m as sorry for you as I am for myself.
I had a big internal debate with myself over whether to write this as it’s something that’s so private and like most people, we keep early pregnancy news to a very tight circle. For many of my friends, this is the first they will know of it. But blearily staring into the doctors’ sad eyes listening to her tell me that miscarriage affects one in four pregnancies, I feel like I should share it in case it brings just one person a little comfort. Some friends of mine recently ran the London Landmarks Marathon to raise money for the charity Tommy’s who raise money for research into miscarriage, stillbirth and premature birth. If you would like to donate to them, please do so here. I promise to cheer up next week.
Last night we were sat playing and reading before bedtime when everything went pitch black and silent. After a shocked couple of seconds, the sirens began. Nope, not the air raid sirens of a blitzkrieg but the deafening screams of our toddlers. “Mummy, why is it dark? Daddy, put the TV back on! Mummy, why I can’t see?!” Power cut chaos ensued…
Moments before we were all applauding Girly no2 for climbing on to her Scuttlebug all by herself (big achievement when you’re one!). She did not appreciate being plunged into darkness on her own on the other side of the room. Girly no1 was snuggled into Daddy reading a book but still had an absolute meltdown. Her little three-year-old mind could not get her head around it. Understandable. We’d never given her a lesson on electricity and we’re not very basic campers (our tent has a disco ball in it) as you may remember from a previous post. I peeked through our shutters at the house I normally hate at the bottom of our garden, and for once was comforted by its’ presence. That and the fact it was all dark-windowed. It was just a good old-fashioned power cut.
We snapped into practical mode. “Grab the power cut kit!” I shouted. In my head, as I grabbed said kit from my imagination. Rummaging through boxes, I found torches in the garage and candles from the…oh no, I threw those away in a fit of annoyance when they kept falling out the cupboard and all over the floor. Torches would be fine. Luckily I have a battery fetish (nope, not that kind gutter mind) so we have packs of them in the garage. No2 rescued, everyone armed with a light of some description, we started to answer the onslaught of questions from Girly no1. “Why is it dark? Who turned the TV off? What is electricity? Has Nana stolen our lights? Will my night clock work? How will we find our teeth?” Most answerable, some less so. Ever tried explaining electricity to a 3-year-old? I think I’m going to have to do some sort of teaching qualification. I totally nailed the teeth question though. We strategically placed torches in the bedrooms and bathroom making the rooms look lit up from the hall. Lifting no1 up to check the other houses at 5-minute intervals made bedtime last rather longer than normal. But we cosily put our pj’s on all in the same room and then put both Girlies into bed, promising that Shimmer and Shine would be back to life by the time they woke up.
Netflix and Chill
We made our way downstairs, having left little camping lights in place of the usual night lights. “So what shall we do with our evening?” Husband asked, having established from Twitter that this power cut would last for at least a couple of hours. “Well I need to finish the washing….oh, no….I need to carry on working on the holding pages for That Works For Me….oh, no….” I answered. “Haha!” he laughed, “you can’t do any of those things! You’re going to have to sit and cuddle me and talk to me! Gutted! Let’s snuggle up and watch Netflix on the laptop!” I glanced at him waiting for the penny to drop. “We can tether to a phone!” he declared triumphantly.
“With your 15% of battery phone or my phone with no service?” I asked. “We need to keep at least one phone working in case the power doesn’t come back on and we freeze. In which case, we’ll drive to my Mums.” I pictured us shuffling up to my Mum’s house in the snow with rags for clothes, no shoes and our hands out-stretched in an Oliver Twist-esque manner. Then I remembered it’s 2018, we’re not homeless and we drive a 4×4 that isn’t dependent on electricity. I did ponder over just how much we rely on all things electric though. Phones, TV’s, heating…we can’t even boil water in our house without electricity. Then there is how we spend our time. How do you operate in today’s world without the internet, Sky, Netflix and EE? Can a marriage survive?!
Bizarrely that morning I had made dinner (balsamic chicken) in the slow cooker – something I haven’t done more than three times in the last year. At least we wouldn’t starve. We were down to two rubbish torches but managed to scoop some dark food into our dark bowls and we ate at our dark table. It was actually one of the most romantic meals we have had at home, often opting to eat on our laps in front of the TV at the end of our respectively exhausting days. We talked over our (for once) nice-tasting dinner, and did what any couple would do in these circumstances. Realised how totally unprepared we are for any disaster that would leave us without access to mobiles, supermarkets and takeaways.
We spent the rest of the meal making a plan for what we would in the event of disease outbreak or zombie apocalypse (Husband was nervous about missing the first Walking Dead episode of the season). We decided our safe haven would be Dad’s boat or our friends’ farm (who will thank us later when we arrive armed with Baked Beans and toilet rolls) and decided that we should probably buy a camping stove and some ‘tinned food’ (mmm! Ravioli!). We made each other laugh and remembered why we loved each other, as we often do left alone without children and devices. It was certainly more romantic than our valentines day dinner at the local curry house a week before, which had been prickly, for reasons we still don’t understand. It just happens that way sometimes.
“You know, they say this is why so many babies were born during wartime…the power cuts…” I said glancing at Husband (I would like to use the word ‘seductively’ here but I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m just not very seductive). Even in the near darkness I could see that his eyebrows had lifted. He looked at me hopefully and I smiled back at him. Then, as if by magic, all of the lights pinged back on and everything whirred and beeped back to life. “You best go finish those emails!” I laughed, heading towards the washing machine.
Thanks for stopping by dear reader. If my ramblings continue to make you smile, or you would like to offer me lessons in the art of seduction, then please do comment, like and share. Until next time I bid you adieu!
It’s not often in your life that you buy a house, have a baby and quit your job in the space of 12 months. All this change has left me feeling reflective and I’m drawing some strange parallels. For example, friendships, if you think about it, are just like poo…
Girly no2 is having digestive issues. At 14 months, she’s really struggling with her poo. I think it’s quite common as the nurse wasn’t at all surprised when I told her that Husband and I had spent the weekend pulling poo from her bum. Nor did the girls at nursery, though they did at least pull a slightly disgusted face, much like the one on your face now. We spoke to the doctors after two gruelling days of grunting and sweating from her, and us. It culminated in us pinning her clammy little body to the floor, bicycling her legs and grabbing hold of the big brown log peeking in and out like a tortoise head, eventually pulling it out. Yuck.
It’s just not the relaxing family Sunday you picture when you imagine what life will be like. After cleaning the carpets, towels and bath mats and scooping up nappy sacks full of skid-marked nappies, we flopped onto the bed exhausted staring at the wall and wondering what had just happened. As we laid there, not speaking just touching little fingers, my mind wondered to the three pictures we have hanging above our bed.
Then, Then and Now
The first picture is of us at our wedding dancing happily around a grassy maze (you have to see it to understand) posed, but real at the same time. The second picture is us with Girly no1 when she is about 6 months old looking baffled by life. We all were. We (I) look pretty good in this picture, mainly due to all the fake tan, bleached hair, whitened teeth and, ahem, Photoshop-ing I demanded. I needed it, I didn’t know what was going on. The third picture is of the four of us as we are now, taken on my birthday last year looking happy, if not slightly tired and chubby (again, me). It was right before we dropped the babies off with Mum-In-Law to go out with friends for my birthday. A completely different set of friends to the ones that watched us dance in the maze at our wedding. Which I think is kind of sad.
We had a small wedding in Italy attended by just 34 people. I think there are at least 10 of those people that aren’t in our lives any more. Isn’t that really sad? I voiced this to Husband and he looked up and said “they’re all pricks, it’s not our fault” then immediately went back to making lion noises with the Girlies. I later voiced it to my besty, The Northerner, who is not known for her delicacy with words – “yeah that is bad, what you doin’ wrong?”.
More interested in analysing it with me than Husband, who prefers to deal in facts, figures and Twitterati, we went through the list. There were some obvious reasons for some of them, the ones that sued my Dad after our UK reception (yep, that happened), one family member that hasn’t spoken to me since our connecting family member died (obviously waiting for a reason to never have to talk to me again) and a couple of people from work who should never have been there in the first place and have since placed career over friendship (enjoy that in your old age, suckers!). Then there are the less obvious people, the ones from whom we just seem to have drifted apart.
We talked about how dynamics just change over time. Partners change, people move, babies come out. I nodded, pensively. “It’s a bit like poo really” I declared, having thought long and hard about it. Met with her blank face, I explained. “You know, sometimes a poo is really hard and difficult to get out, and you need someone else to intervene and tell you what to do. These are like those friends that are just a pain. They’re a drama. They need blood sweat and tears while they’re there, and then you’re left feeling violated afterwards.” She arched an eyebrow which I took to mean she wanted me to go on. “You need a fine white powder to fix these poos (meaning Movicol). With the friend, a fine white powder would result in a sweaty, self-obsessed fidgeting figure with verbal diarrhoea but maybe that’s what they were all along.” As my analogy drifted away from me, she laughed and urged me to go on. “The other end of the spectrum,” I continued, “are the wet, sloppy ones who just get all over the place. They come with a bit of a pain at the time and a bit more afterwards but they’re explosive. They’re your fun-time friends. Great on a Saturday night, but leave you with a hangover so you need a bit of a gap before you see them again!” By this point I couldn’t even keep a straight face but I carried on anyway. “Then there are the really good poos that slip out effortlessly. There’s no cleaning up afterwards. They’re easy. They might have some funny colours and indentations but they’re your funny bits so it’s OK. These are the Holy Grail of friends. The Perfect Turds!”
We fell about laughing and I didn’t say it at the time, but I thought about how she is my perfect poo of a friend. I wish I had recognised it at the time and made her my bridesmaid. I know she’ll be around forever. As will some of the other incredible new friends we have made in the last few years since having our Girlies. People who are so close to us it’s hard to imagine a time when they weren’t in our lives. If we were to have our wedding again now, our ‘now’ 34 would look very different to the ‘then’ 34. Life has changed a lot. But we’re a bigger unit than we used to be, and we know who we are now and what really matters. So maybe it’s OK that friends change. Poo changes too.
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January is such a weird time. Fresh and hopeful new year resolutions swiftly become cold, depressing disappointments. A short dry, alcohol–free spell followed by a soaking, epic collapse and hangover. Ups and downs. Mine has been no different. No2 is walking (yaaay); no1 was been bitten by a swan and wet herself at the shock (booo); I’ve lost half a stone (yaaay); I climbed up on my kitchen cabinet in a need-chocolate-right-now frenzy (booo); booked a holiday (yaaay), had the car broken into (booo)….this could go on a while….
New Year Resolutions
Fundamentally the New Year is just another number, though this will take me 3 to 5 months to grasp. I like a New Year. My only real issue with is that it’s a year closer to old age. This year, I will be 36. Thirty-bloody-six. How do you even get that old?! I know it’s not old if you’re older than 36 but if you’re not then it seems so old. I’ve always thought 40 is the age at which you start to get old. And here I am, about to hit the downward slope to 40. If my age was being rounded, then I would be 40, not 30. If I achieve something big I won’t be talked about in a “Bright Young Thing” capacity, I’ll be that Bitter Old Mum who wanted to get her own back on someone. As an aside, I totally plan on doing this. I think I’ve got “something big” left in me to do before I get old. I’ll tell you more about that next week though. Watch this space for the reveal of my Grand Plan!
Is Forty just a number?
As well as me getting older, it’s another year older for my babies. Now, I have two toddlers. Or a toddler and a child. What’s the criteria for going from toddler to child? No2 started walking at Christmas time and now follows me round the house like a happy little zombie. She’s so pleased that she can transport two rice cakes in one go, she laughs as she’s walking and does a happy little hum. There’s definitely something to be learnt from these small goals and giant celebrations! No1 (age 3) seems infinitely happier to have a more interactive sister. Admittedly she spent most of yesterday pushing her over and lying flat on top of her as she tried to crawl away. They both laughed a lot the first few times she did it so it became a game. Inevitably though, no1 didn’t know when to stop and it all ended in tears and naughty steps, but it was fun while it lasted. We established over Christmas that no1 has a whole new energy level that we didn’t know existed and is no longer exhausted by a 3-mile walk. Or she is, but then a short post-lunch re-charge leaves her bouncing off the furniture like we’re at Flip Out. On a bright day, it’s really good for us as we get out and do more. So much so that I’m thinking we should maybe get a dog…
These words will make my husband go rigid, his eyes nearly pop out of his head and his balls jump back inside him. I have tried to convince him we should get a dog twice before. Both times it has turned out I have been pregnant. Worry not Husband! I’m definitely not. If I were this would be the most bizarre announcement! We do talk about no3. Should we, shouldn’t we? He’s already 36, I will be soon. Some days I am positive this is a good idea. “Give me twins!” I say, as though he has the power to make this happen. Other days, when I’m cleaning piss out of wellies because No1 didn’t let go of the duck food quickly enough and was distracted by a hat she liked, I think I must be mad. Where would this poor child be in the chaos? Are there enough rice cakes on the planet to keep everyone happy while I deal with no1’s latest disaster? And aren’t they like cocaine for kids? I’m sure you’re not really meant to feed them too many. Other events put me off too. The other day, a screaming match ended in a nosebleed for me because they both wanted to sit on my left knee. My left knee?! It’s not even that great! My left boob, maybe, but my knee? No. It is a conversation though, dear readers. I can’t think of many better ways to throw the towel in on this diet. Of course this blog represents a pretty accurate account of the first year and therefore a deterrent for any more. Certainly within the next 12 months anyway!
So new year, new dreams. We don’t make new year resolutions in this house but we do write down some goals each year. We have about a 70% success rate, which I’m happy with. I must have been pretty pushed when I decided last year that we would all learn Japanese. I don’t even know anyone Japanese. Personally I have a few aims: send more emails to the girls’ email addresses I have set up to give them access to when they’re old enough to understand sentimentality (I have a vision or tears, cuddles, “Mum you’re so amazing”, you know like in the movies); lose 2 stone to get back to wedding weight (standard); stop eating sugar (you’re welcome family); and launch my business (see earlier note on Grand Reveal next week). I have actually made moves on all of my goals already. I am going to see a nutritionist next week. She is also my yoga instructor, and incredibly beautiful, lovely and warm. I have a total girl crush on her. So much so that the first time I spoke to her I got stuck in my own hoody. It was very embarrassing. So now we only talk over email and phone. 2017, err 18, is off to a strong start. I’ll decide on dog or baby, finally name my new business, and either make a permanent home for No1 on the naughty step or just ban her from touching her sister. As long as I stay away from swans and beautiful Yoga instructors, I’ll be fine!
Happy new year everyone! Do let me know about your new year resolutions, I mean, intentions. Even better, how quickly you broke them! All likes and shares very much appreciated (return to Facebook). Namaste 🙏
I listened to a radio call-in the other day; a lady, her husband and their two children. She was worried about spoiling her children and losing the true meaning of Christmas so she had invited 8 lonely people to Christmas dinner at their house. “How amazing!” I thought. “What an incredible experience for your children” I thought. Then, “how big is your kitchen table?! And what if one of them is an axe murderer?!”….
I, like many mums I’m sure, worry about how to make Christmas all about what it should be, not just presents and over-indulgence. I bumped into a friend the other day who said they weren’t buying their son anything for Christmas because everyone else would. My inner 5-year-old staggered backwards in horror. “Nothing?!” I exclaimed in as low-pitched-voice as I could summon. Even though mine have all of the things, I couldn’t contemplate buying them nothing. That feeling of walking into a room of brightly coloured presents around the tree still makes my tummy bubble with excitement. Wriggling your toes and finding a full stocking is something I still do now at 35! I make Husband put my stocking on the bed especially so that I can! In fairness to Girly no1, all she wanted was a Frosty Girl. Don’t know what that is? Me neither. I watched 25 adverts on Nick Jr, still no idea. Luckily, a week or so after she asked I heard her singing along to an advert…for Flipzee dolls. Conundrum solved! No2, has obviously asked for nothing, unless “Burrr” or “Marrr” actually mean diamonds and pearls in which case that girls’ taste is as rich as her Mummy’s! With her, we’re upgrading. Like when your kitchen pans change from IKEA to Le Crueset. Her main gift this year is a little wooden trolley from the GLTC as a replacement for the £5 (inc. postage) one Auntie bought on eBay from China 3 years ago. The price and shipping destination are not my issue. It’s that the paint comes off every time it gets wet (by which I mean licked) and it collapses each time someone (namely the learning-to-walk-one-year-old) leans on it. So I could have not bought them any presents but it’s not fair. That’s not true. no2 has no idea what’s going on. The truth is I can’t help myself because I love Christmas and Christmas presents! I look forward to one day drowning in a sea of Chinese plastic and Vietnamese fluff. What better way to go?!
What is Christmas anyway?
We do need to teach them that it’s not all about presents though, I know that. Last year Girly no1 wouldn’t go near the chimney for 3 weeks before Christmas Eve for fear that a big fat bearded man might drop down the chimney and try and kiss her. She was so scared that we had to leave her stocking outside her bedroom door so he didn’t come in. This year she knows a bit more. When she came home singing about Baby Jesus, I asked her if she knew who he was. She looked at me blankly and then launched into an explanation about how the animals eat hay from the baby bed. “Not bad!” I thought, “but not great” scrambling through the bookcase looking for the Nativity book someone gave us a few years back. At the time of receiving it, Husband had scoffed something about religion being forced on us until I reminded him why we have Christmas. “Ok, as long as we teach her about other religious celebrations too” he had said. Yep – fine. You can be in charge of Non-Christian Events in our household because I don’t know how to celebrate Diwali or Hanukah and I really don’t see where the fun is in Ramadan. Christmas, Easter, Mother’s Day and our September to November birthday gauntlet is enough. After reading the Nativity book 25 times she got it. Hopefully her cutest-thing-in-the-world concert made a little more sense.
We’ve tried to compensate for the lavish decorations, excessive food and drink and mountains of beautifully wrapped presents (yep, well done me) with a few different activities. We did the shoeboxes which I talked about in a previous post – cue videos of poor and half-dressed children living in shacks being shown to a trembly-lipped 3-year-old. This helped teach empathy and doubled up as a great threat for when no1 just wants to sit and watch TV – “right well I’ll just send all these toys to the Shoebox Kids” (not an entirely appropriate naming convention I know). I’m sure you’re not meant to benefit from charitable acts but I can’t help it, it’s the modern day equivalent of (but slightly more relevant) “think of the children in Ethiopia…” that was thrown at me when I wouldn’t eat all my dinner. We have made lots of things and spent less time on Amazon (me) and Twitter (Husband). I have watched all of Kirsty Allsopp’s Handmade Christmas episodes, marvelled over others’ talents and then picked the three easiest activities to attempt. Obviously reminding myself that it took me three months to make a cushion for my Textiles Technology GCSE and my Mum still had to step in and make it for me at midnight the night before it was due in (please don’t take my Textiles Technology GCSE away from me! Said no one ever). We made our own Christmas cards complete with cotton wool ball snowmen; potato print wrapping paper (no1 was bored after about 7 prints so that was mostly me); some crackers in bright pink and purple because they’re no1’s favourite colours; paper chains – technically they’re still in the packet; and then Husband attempted snow globes – we ended up with Tim Burton’s fog globes. Whilst the effort of doing these things was gratifying and no1 and I had some lovely quality time making them, I feel no less commercial. I spent £100 in Hobbycraft on all the materials and my Dad asked me the other day if I had swallowed a craft book as he laughed at our handmade cards.
Potato Print Wrapping Paper a la Kirsty
We could of course have gone without all of these things. Perhaps a better lesson. The thing is I’m not entirely sure that depriving my family of crackers and M&S gift wrap would really help, especially when they know no different. I think the lady on the radio is right, it is seeing things first hand that leave an impression. Inviting lonely strangers might be the only way to really deliver a message on what Christmas is about. You just have to check their pockets for axes on the way in. It’s not for us this year though. We’re already feeding 8 adults and 2 children and, practically, I have no extra space. My over-sized Dad will already be (actually) treading on toes and blocking the oven. When my Girlies are of the age that they’re writing Christmas lists as long as their arms and tearing at wrapping paper like there is a dying puppy inside, we’ll do more. For now we will talk lots about what Christmas means, who Jesus is, and why Sheppers have to wash foxes at nighttime (No1’s interpretation of the whole affair).
Thank you to each and every one of you who has read any or all of the crap I have written this year. The fact that anyone takes time out of their day to read what I write baffles me, and anyone that has mentioned it to me in person, that awkward shuffle and look at the floor I did was me being deeply grateful. This will be my last post of 2017 so that just leaves me to wish you the happiest Christmas. Enjoy the time with your families and please do share with me how you keep it real in your home. And as your Christmas gift to me, please like and share this post! See you next year! xx
Girly no1, throw your hands up and shout happy Christmas…..