Tuesday, 16 December 2014

The Nik Naks Nark

It was just a normal Saturday.
It was just a normal shopping trip.
It was just a normal supermarket shelf.

*Oh sorry this is to be said in a blockbuster action movie trailer voice. You need to go back and start again...*

They thought this would be a food shop just like any other.
They did not know what was about to happen. 
And how it would change their lives forever.

No one saw it coming until it was TOO LATE!

THE NIK NAK NARK

Scene one: Nik Naks for 99p

The hunky husband and his wonderful wife are partaking in a basic boring Sainsbury's shop when the husband stops short in amazement.

Hunky husband: "Nik Naks. Six for 99p. Nice and Spicy ones too. I am amazed."
The husband pulls a face to show he just can't believe it.
Hunky husband: "I just can't believe it. Just what I feel like. Let's put them in the trolley."
They put them in a trolley and smile in mutual happiness.

Scene two: Knocked off the conveyor belt or something more sinister

The scene cuts to the hunky husband and the wonderful wife loading their shopping on the conveyor belt. The Nik Naks are no where to be seen. Cue dramatic music.

Scene three: The unloading

The duo are unloading the shopping at home. The husband pulls a face to show he just can't wait to have a bag of Nik Naks.

Hunky husband: "I just can't wait for these Nik Naks."
He searches through the bags but cannot find the Nik Naks.
Hunky husband: "I cannot find the Nik Naks. They must have fallen off the conveyor belt or something more sinister. NOOOOOOOOOO!"

Scene four: Falling down



We all have them. Our Nik Naks narks. That little something that is quite nothing really but can randomly become a huge thing. The hunky husband in this particular tale stomped off and kicked a plastic bag in the air in frustration and it took him a good ten minutes to calm down and laugh at his behaviour. Now when either of us has a random melt down we mention the words "Nik Nak nark" and it has a soothing, disarming effect. 

So far. 
I can see the words "shove your Nik Naks nark up your bum" getting flung out into the ether eventually. But for now it is working a special sort of magic.

As a woman and a mother I reserve the right to have Nik Nak narks more regularly. Just this week  I have Nik Nak narked at the following:
  • Banging my head on the kitchen cupboard that someone left open
  • The person who had ten parcels in the post office when I was waiting behind them
  • Daughter taking 40 minutes to eat one Wetabix
  • The expenses receipt I was keeping somewhere so safe I can't find it
  • Getting lost on my way to meet a friend AGAIN and being 40 minutes late.
  • Feeling too hot after a hot bath.
Most of us are hardly at the level where we need anger management help from Graham from the Jeremy Kyle Show but boy do we let some small things get to us. The festive season tends to bring out the worst in us. Wrapping pressies through gritted teeth, cursing people as we write Christmas cards, crying as the children change their Santa lists again and pushing grannies out of the way to grab the last £4 Celebrations tub (or is that just me!).

Therefore I have the answer to a stress free, relaxed Christmas.
Get plenty of Nik Naks in.
Simples.

P.S. You know the something sinister mentioned above? Well I might have put the Nik Naks back on the shelf as a joke and then by the time we got to the end of the shop I forgot about my funny joke and didn't retrieve them. Don't tell the husband though or he'll might have another Nik Naks nark. And the world doesn't need that.

Gabe says: "You two are bonkers. Everyone knows Nik Naks taste
almost as bad as the orange mush you force on me!"


Tuesday, 2 December 2014

10 most boring things you will say this Christmas

I've written before about how boring I have become since popping out three little people. The things that my mind now ponders on would send the most insomniac person into a coma.

It is just that there is now so many tedious tasks and chores that must be completed to make it to the end of the week - from remembering to buy toilet roll to thinking about washing out the wheelie bin.

Motherhood has rendered me vapid with a capital V. Unless I have had three glasses of wine then I am basically annoying awesome. Oh yes I am. Anyone will tell you!

Christmas seems to bring out the worst in me. I am a one women juggernaut of commonplace conversation. My chat is more ho hum than ho ho ho!

10 most boring things I will say this Christmas
  1. Are you all set for Christmas? (to everyone I meet; said from November 10th)
  2. Where are you having your Christmas dinner? (to everyone I meet; said from November 10th)
  3. Do you have any Elsa dresses? (to everyone I meet; said from November 10th)
  4. I need snowman kitchen roll.
  5. I am going to write my Christmas cards tonight.
  6. What is so and so's baby boy called? You know the one they had five years ago. Begins with a P or an S? Or was it a girl? (to the husband whilst writing Christmas cards)
  7. I'm off to buy a sparkly top.
  8. If I go to (insert supermarket) and spend £390 then I get £3 off. 
  9. Do you want to see what I've brought? (to the husband every day for everything purchased from November 10th; even a box of Twiglets)
  10. What is this reindeer food that everyone is making?


10 most boring things I will think this Christmas
  1. Will I look like a tramp if I put second class stamps on the Christmas cards?
  2. Will I look like a tramp if I don't send Christmas cards?
  3. Where did I put the decorations?
  4. Oh yum peanuts.
  5. Oh yum Mini Heros.
  6. Oh yack dates.
  7. Why don't they just make some more bloody Elsa dresses?
  8. If I don't go the shop at 5.30am all the turkeys will be sold out (like the Elsa dresses).
  9. Should I buy this sparkly top that looks so very like the sparkly top I got last year and the one the year before?
  10. How the blinkin' heck do you make reindeer food?

10 most boring things I will do this Christmas
  1. Spend 156 hours looking for a Christmas present for Granny before buying her another scarf
  2. Hoover and mop the floors for Christmas 23 times
  3. Tidy up for Christmas 38 times
  4. Go to 67,890 shops looking for an Elsa dress
  5. Wrap presents early and then forget what they all are and have to unwrap and start again on Christmas Eve
  6. Buy a Radio Times and highlight all the things I want to watch
  7. Cry at Christmas adverts. Still! After the 90th viewing!
  8. Research turkeys on the Internet
  9. Buy a Celebrations tub for a mate, eat it during X factor final, buy another one, eat it. Repeat. Repeat.
  10. Google reindeer food

Then there are the awesome things I will say this Christmas...
  1. Who wants another Baileys?
  2. Oh is that Sara Lee Double Chocolate gateau?
  3. I've just finished work for two weeks
  4. Who likes my Christmas pyjamas and socks?
  5. Another Baileys anyone?
  6. No mummy is not spunk drunk. 
  7. Darling, yes it is okay to change your mind about an Elsa dress two days before Christmas. Santa won't mind.
  8. Of course I'll take that Crunchie off your hands. They only put them in the selection boxes for the mummys.
  9. More Baileys? 
  10. See you in the pub in half an hour. And YES I am wearing a sparkly top.
Gabe says: "It is the season to be jolly mundane"


Tuesday, 25 November 2014

Let's talk about therapy, baby!

The definition of therapy when you DON'T have a child with additional needs:






The definition of therapy when you DO have a child with additional needs:






Therapy.
I have a love/hate relationship with therapy.
Before Gabe the only therapist I had any contact with was a beauty therapist and even that alas was quite limited (there was also that hypnotherapist on holiday but that is a whole different story).

He was just five months old when he got the first member of Team Gabe - a physiotherapist - and to date has seen at least 30 more in various guises.

When your child is struggling with development and the experts start swooping in with their exercises and encouragement you feel like you are in the middle of a film. You know that one where the man has a car crash and loses the feeling in his legs but through blood, sweat, endurance and the love of a hottie woman, wins a dance competition a hour later.

At the end of every session I would be: "Hell, yeah. Let's do this. Let's get this dude walking. In yer face doctors". All to the backdrop of power ballads galore. Think: We Built this City and Eye of the Tiger.

Then after a few months my enthusiasm would be waning, the soundtrack more Running up that Hill and Don't Stop Believing with a little bit of The Climb thrown in the mix.

A year in and with so very little to show for all our efforts, the play list was becoming dire - I'm All Out of Love and Mad World.

No matter how much I rolled this baby back and forth, forced him to kneel on floppy little knees or strapped him into a suffering standing frame it was becoming a bit obvious that the dance competition was going to have to be in a MUCH later sequel (and the hottie female lead wasn't so hottie either).

What was the point? Seriously!

Comparing notes with other special needs mums we came to the conclusion that the NHS only provided physiotherapists to keep the antidepressant bill down in the early days - they lull you into a false state of mind to stay positive and believe that there is actually something you can do to make your child develop faster.* A therapeutic measure for all the family, so to speak.

Screw that, for a game of soldiers.
My therapy of choice was muttering excellent swear words under my breath at impatient drivers that cut me up (see you at the lights) and snotty sales assistants. That and wine chocolate. Not physio terrorists that made my child wail.

Someone help me please!


For a while, I went the other way and did no therapy whatsoever. I am a rebel like that.
I just got to know my child. My wonderful, beautiful child that was trying hard in his own special way.

Yep, all ready for physio.

Then with a bit of time, love and nurture (a period where we all chilled the feck out for a bit), he started making his own small strides.

Suddenly we felt ready to give it all a go again. And the twice-yearly episodes of NHS physiotherapy just didn't seem enough. He deserved more. So we started to investigate different types of private therapy.

BIBIC

We were lucky enough to access two Lottery-funded sessions with BIBIC. They made us look at Gabe as a whole child instead of one not achieving gross motor milestones. They assessed how his brain registers, interprets and uses information from the sensory systems – these include sight, hearing, touch, smell, body awareness and balance. Because he was not exploring in the way a typical child would we wasn't getting the right messages about his place in his environment so he kept getting freaked out every time his body moved. The era of vibration was born.

Yep, still pumped up for physio

By massaging his little body with vibrators and tickling him with feathers and the such (I know snigger away) we got him to recognise his body more and he started to know where it was in space. Before long we got him to sit with support without throwing himself back, which freed up his hands to play for the first time.

A wine glass is an excellent toy
Come on who has stolen my booze? Bet it was Mum!

Conductive Education

It was slow, don't get me wrong. Too slow, we thought at the time. When our funding ended we again got lucky and managed to get a free place in a local Centre for Conductive Education. This therapy was the opposite of what we had been doing. This service assumes a child will hit those big milestones and under their weekly input we got Gabe sitting without support and we got him (gasp!) standing.




That was an epic moment. We celebrated that achievement but it was double edged. Yes, he could stand but he couldn't get up or down. He didn't like it. It wasn't comfortable for him. In fact it scared the bejesus out of him. We needed to go back to the drawing board and fill in the gaps in between.

Brainwave

Like the tale of Goldilocks and the three bears, we found Brainwave.
This programme was just right.

It combined all the sensory elements of BIBIC rolled into a traditional physio programme. The sting in this particular fairy tale was that this therapy is expensive. So instead of pawning my jewellery (beads from Top Shop anyone, anyone?), we held a fund raiser. It was a cringe-inducing thing to do. But I am so glad that we reached out to our community who didn't let us down (thank you all again.)

Since we have started the Brainwave programme, therapy has for the first time started to make sense.
The power ballads are coming back on the Ipod. *hums Here I Go Again*

For the first six months we went right back and tried to fill in some of the missing gaps he had in his early development. We started those once annoying rolling exercises again, we threw him around the room (literally) and we roughed him up (so he got all that lovely feedback that toddlers get from flinging themselves around).

Yield, I say yield.
We giggled with him as he bounced on physio balls and we reminded him time and time and time again that those old hands were actually his and he could do with them as he pleased.

wow amazeballs!






And the prize? He starting using his hands to propel himself around and on the cusp of his fourth birthday, he gained independent mobility for this first time in the form of bum shuffling.

Now his therapy, both in school and through the Brainwave programme, is about gaining that core strength so his centre of gravity is strong. For the next six months the focus will just be getting up off the floor and getting back down.

Small simple steps to steps.

So therapy... after four years what are my take-home messages?
(I've given up on being the hottie female lead so I'll be the wise one in this film that uses words like "take home messages".)

  • Therapy is not a quick fix - you need the patience of Job (and his mate)
  • You are not a bad parent if it does not consume your waking day
  • You are not a bad parent if it does consume your waking day
  • There is always an element of a child will do something in their 'own time' no matter what programme you are using
  • Having fun and doing normal things is ace (and keeps you sane) 
  • Don't compete - there will always be that parent who is doing so much more than you
  • A typical child overtaking your baby is one thing, but another special needs child hurtling ahead stings like crazy. But they all get their moment in the sun eventually (honestly they do)
  • There is no holy grail - what works for one might not work for another
  • Ask around in support groups for programmes that might suit your child
  • Fund raising is always an option - it was not that cringey (honestly)
  • Lots of charities will help fund certain therapies (most are means tested)
  • Tomorrow is always another day... like the diet it can always start again on Monday



Gabe says: "I obviously find therapy totally exciting. What time is X-factor on?"


*I am obviously joking (everyone knows you have zero chance of actually scoring any antidepressants). 

P.S Mr Hollywood director can I play myself and can Bradley Cooper be the husband. Please. Thank you.


Ethans Escapades

Tuesday, 11 November 2014

The difference between us

To my dear friend

We've come a long way from discussing boys on the school playground, dancing to Abba before the student bop, drinking Pinot Grigio in our PJs whilst watching Friends box sets and yawning over coffee at the start of another working day.

We've done, seen, experienced a lot. Mostly good, some bad.

Now we are firmly entrenched in this new stage of our lives and the highs and lows it brings. I love sharing this part with you. Getting teary eyed as our babies take their first steps, as they start school in over-smart uniforms, as they muddle up their words in the school assembly but soldier on all the same. We've been on the same page as they've cut teeth at 4am and woke the dead with their wails. We've said over and over how much we love this journey and guiltily admit with a bashful giggle it's not always so easy. Often we're lost, not always in control, days can be long. We hark back to the time when our biggest worry was not being able to find a new dress to wear on a Saturday night, but we know we wouldn't change a thing.

It's nice to be one of the gang. To have our in jokes. To be in this world with little people as our epicentre. Encased, so to speak, in the shared experience.

Yet sometimes I stand alone.

Everyone has their own crosses to bear. Their own fears, worries, stresses - whether health, monetary or otherwise. I know that. Even that lady with the 'perfect' life (you know her at the school gate, in the office, the one who parks near you at the gym) might be a cauldron of insecurity and unhappiness. We are a complicated myriad of chemical compositions after all.

To quote Michael J Fox, we all get our own bag of hammers.

Gabriel is mine.

I am not saying my life is any harder than yours. It's not. But it is different. He makes it different. Good and bad different. I am still like you in so many, many ways but there will always be a difference between us.

As time passes, this will start to become more and more apparent. Will you leave me behind?

Sleep 

This has been our topic of choice for many years. The lack thereof. That bit was tough. Some days much more than others. We giggled a lot about it though. In it all together and all that. The rite of passage of parenthood. I bet now with older children you want to go back in time and whisper in your own ear. This shall pass. It won't always be thus. It just won't. I get that - my oldest two go to bed and stay in bed and actually have to be dragged out of bed some days for school. But my fear is this - I don't think I'll ever sleep soundly again. Gabriel does not do sleep very well and I've read a lot about how special needs children are prone to sleep problems long term. I want to joke about the 4am starts, his three-hour awake periods and how I sobbed in solidarity when he couldn't fall back asleep the other day despite being bone tired. Somehow it's just not that funny. No matter how I dress it up.

Feeding

Again a subject of much frustration and mirth. They are stubborn little things these children. What they liked yesterday, they hate today. My daughter would live on chicken and rice cakes if you let her. We've laughed hard over the years about their diet choices as we give in yet again to another McDonalds or pizza. What joker declared 'if they're hungry, they'll eat', we'd say through gritted teeth. But my friend, with Gabriel we still struggle here so much. It consumes our day. He is little enough now that there aren't too many stares when spoon feeding him out and about. But what about in five, ten, fifteen years - will you will feel comfortable dining with us, meeting me for lunch as I wipe pureed mush from the mouth of a teenager? Will our get togethers still feel like fun?

There is much to juggle

I know it drives you mad when I don't return calls or texts, when I forget about stuff I am supposed to be doing. I know it's a little bit boring when I go on about school statements or hospital appointments (they are). But man, it's busy. I was distracted yesterday as I remembered I hadn't called school to rearrange an appointment for a sleep system assessment to protect his hips as he gets older but you see he had a double gastroenterology and endocrinology consultant appointment to review his medication (see told you it was boring). We still have many medical appointments so I am constantly juggling this old work-life-balance. Fitting in work when I should be watching Made in Chelsea. Then there is the therapy to slot in - the expensive, privately funded by our wonderful community, therapy. I feel if this child ever takes a step it will have to be because we walked a million steps with him first. If he ever picks up a fork, it will be because we have shown him, hand on hand, more times then he'll ever need. Time. There is never enough. And this makes me cross sometimes. But lovely person, there is always time for a natter and a laugh. For a glass of wine or two. Please keep asking.

I get that "pang" at times

Gabe is Gabe. I wouldn't now change him for all the tea in China. Fact, To me, he is the funniest little boy in the world. I never tire of picking up the DVDs he flings around the room. I'm happy to have In the Night Garden on loop (but man isn't it annoying). But you know it doesn't matter how far down the road of acceptance I go, that pang will come at the strangest times. I can watch your baby waddle or sing or jump a hundred times and it bothers me not a jot. I don't notice such is its normality. Then on that 103rd time the sad pang will come. The "oh we'll never have that" feeling. The "what will become of us" panic. But then it disappears and normal service resumes. Just pat me on the back, force feed me a Twix and I'm good. I'll be back on my way. You are always quite marvellous you know that.

A cold is never a cold

You must despair when I stress out in winter. It's a cold, you must secretly think as I fuss over a Gabe snuffle and cough. A cold alas is never quite a cold. A cold can become a chest infection, a chest infection can become pneumonia, pneumonia means no feeding, no feeding means becoming weaker, weaker means becoming static, static means collapsed lungs, collapsed lungs mean blue lights. Blue lights mean intensive care. Intensive care means... well... He gets stronger each year but he is no where near out of the woods - his body can't function well enough to feed, to walk, to do the most basic things. In acute illness there are no reserves, there is no hidden strength. And illness brings with it the cruel mechanisms of regression - that rob and steal that celebrated development.


We can't look too far ahead

Remember how we laughed that our boys would be weather men so we could see them every night on TV and be part of their working day. How we giggled that the girls would be pop stars as they murdered another Katy Perry number. With Gabriel, I look as far as next week. Not much more. His future is an open book and I'll just live each page as it turns. I can't do much more. I don't want to think about him being an over-sized baby in his teens, whether he'll reach adulthood. I don't like to peep at the prospect of adult disability services. I don't think it's good for the soul. What about even later? When we've gone? To whom will his care fall? 

No, I'll just take today.
Today as he giggles in the bath with his sister after eating up all his orange mush over two episodes of Iggle Piggle.
This moment as he nods off over a much loved bottle of Neocate and I lay him down for a sleep that doesn't ever last the night.
I'll celebrate now as I go downstairs and pick up the 48 DVDs, collect the Forbes Daily he manages to programme on my printer and read again the wonderful note in his school book about what a lovely day he has had.

I'll get up again tomorrow and look forward to the day with all my children. The children that bond us and the child that sets us slightly apart. 

And all will be well. Everything will be fine.

Because I know if it gets too heavy you'll help me carry this bag of hammers.
Just as I will always help you carry yours.

With much love.
x




Post Comment Love

Wednesday, 5 November 2014

Man the hell up woman

It started when I was pregnant with my oldest and a story was on the news about a penguin whose baby had been stolen from the zoo. They kept showing a picture of the mother pining for him.

Oh my days. I was a sobbing wreck before the day had begun.
The new husband was a bit shocked and scared truth be told.

You see I am a bit of a hardy lady and before children was not the most sentimental. I laughed at Valentine's Day, partied through Christmas and often forgot birthdays (and probably still do).

And you certainly wouldn't catch me breaking my heart over a flippin' (see what I did there) stolen baby penguin.

Now well... I well up at the stupidest thing.

Just this week I've shed a tear at the RSPB Give Nature a Home advert where a little girl builds hedgehog hotels and frog swimming pools.

What the hell! If I found a hedgehog in my garden I would probably freak right out (and move out). The idea of mini beasts makes me want to vomit. And a frog seriously or even a toad (shudder).  See you later alligator. Yikes.

Source: RSPB

Yet after watching this I was nearly pulling on my fake Hunter Wellies from Asda and setting up Disney Land for all things slimy and creepy and crawly in my back garden (and I don't mean ex-boyfriends boom boom!).
Source: RSPB

The week before it was the Coleman's advert where the Dad makes a cottage pie for his recently dumped daughter. It made me look forward almost to the day when my girl comes home after her first heartbreak. I will rustle up a pie and she'll smile and everything will be okay again (obvs she won't make sick faces at my cooking, slam the door on me and shout "I hate you and my life.")

Source: Coleman's
And those Lloyds TSB For the Journey adverts got me EVERY single time. They make me want to have triplets and keep buying houses (I am joking husband if you see this. It is safe to come home. I promise).

Source: Lloyds TSB

Do advertising executives know what they are doing to me? I am getting worse not better. Which leaves me in fear of how I am going to get through the festive TV period without looking like a overgrown panda. What must my children think?!

It is supposed to be the season to be jolly yet I always spend a proportion blubbering over Chrimbo adverts.

Well not this year. No way. Not a chance. I am manning myself up.
This year I will be immune. Nothing is going to get me all in an emotional fuddle.

Not the cute kid counting down the days to hand his parents a present (Thank you John Lewis).

Source: John Lewis

Not the hibernating bear and his bunny mate (John Lewis you again).

Source: John Lewis

Not the even the soldier coming home during his children making him a Christmas video (Sainsburys just stop it).

Source: Sainsbury's

Yep. This year I will scoff at the mushiness dressed up as magical advertisements.
I will.

What's that you say? They have already started playing the Coke adverts with the Santa train. Oh no.
Must go and find a tissue and start bulk buying Celebrations tubs. I just can't believe the Holidays are coming!!!

Gabe says: "Oh no I thought this orange outfit was bad enough.
I forgot about the snowman jumpers and matching socks. This is bad!"






Friday, 17 October 2014

The tale of the mad woman and the slaughtered phone

Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful princess called Alison.

*yeah alright you are going to have to use your imagination for this one - Jeez*

Like all ladies of her time she had an olde worlde device called a mobile phone. She loved this mobile phone as she used it to chat to all manner of friends (some she had never met and were probably just stalkers taken with her youthful beauty).

It was forever close to her and in random poppets of time she would access the world inside her phone for a few minutes here and there:
  • Waiting for the kettle to boil she would send a message on What's App 
  • Running late for school she would stop mid frazzlement and make her children pose by an interesting leaf for Instagram #interestingleaf #posingchildren #iamredinfacefromrunningtomakebell #shouldgetupearlier #butIlookperfectonInstagram 
  • Cooking up a mean stir fry, she would boast about her cooking endeavours on Twitter 
  • When tidying up the sloppy mess of mushy vegetables and chewy chicken that no one ate, she would hunt down new recipes she'd never make on Pinterest 
  • Skiving from the bath-time madness in the pretence of fetching a towel from the dryer, she would catch up on the vital 20 minutes she had missed on Facebook
  • And finally when all her children were slumbering in their beds, she would start boring everyone on her random musings on blogger - her mum and her sister were apparently fans (or so they said when pissed pressed!) 
Like every beautiful princess, there was a mean baddie out to steal her fun. In this particular tale it was a little boy called Gabriel.
The scary baddie
Gabriel would steal her phone at every opportunity and when he was bored of phoning all her friends and leaving heavy breathing messages and tweeting out pictures that looked like blurry bums (but were just interesting leaves) he would throw the phone and giggle as it smashed (mwahahahaahhaha).

The princess would be distraught as it would take at least three minutes for the scattered battery to load back up. Slowly, over time though the battered phone started to take longer to load back up, and its features became frailer and less effective. It was clear that it was ill, perhaps even dying.

First it stopped accessing What's App (it's too big for me now it said), then it would only load the first 20 tweets on Twitter (soz it sobbed) and recently it would flash error messages on Facebook (I feel so bad but it’s all too much, it wheezed). The end was nigh though when its volume control went and the beautiful princess would have to do a Dom Jolly impression - WHAT. I CAN'T HEAR YOU!? if someone rang on the street and a car passed.

It was becoming more of an ornament than a mode of communication.

She knew it was time to replace her faithful old friend but with a big birthday looming she held off on getting a new one in case any of her rich princess friends brought her the latest iPhone 6 (this is a fairy tale after all).

With no phone to play with in those spare moments in the day, the princess had to find other things to keep her busy. It was a strange old time. She found herself doing weird random things:
  • She started to get obsessed by storage and kept buying all manner of plastic boxes and Aldi ottomans 
  • She started getting house envy from buying posh interiors magazines and would bulk order from Next Home 
  • She would then spend the rest of the week arranging couriers to send items of furniture back (there was no room with the plastic boxes)
  • She painted the kitchen door - badly as she couldn't be bothered to sand it down so it had a snazzy marble effect
  • She organised the children's underwear drawers
  • She went to all five supermarkets in her area looking for bargains - and saved £2.33 (but spent £30.55 on posh magazines)
  • She managed to actually clean the bathroom a couple of times a week. She even scrubbed the grouting in the tiles.

The moral of the tale:

Life with no mobile phone is terribly dull and boring; having a clean bathroom and painted kitchen door is not the road to happiness; supermarket shopping makes you crave wine and there are no hottie courier men (only pissed off ones who are sick of coming to your house).

P.s. Houses look well crap with loads of plastic boxes everywhere. Timeless fact.




Wednesday, 1 October 2014

Patience: wherefore art thou patience?

Patience. It has left the building.

I knew it would eventually. Impatient git.

Although I have never been the most tolerant of women (think slow walkers and call queues), having children has tested me to the limits at times.

Take last night as an example. I had a grumpy little boy up in the dead of the night. He was outraged by the fact he had done a poo. But this was no ordinary poo. No. This was a stealth poo. It took half an hour of him wriggling and flicking me in the face for me to realise it was lurking underneath. After I had freshened him all up (not a problem my little gorgeous prince), I settled him beside me for some squishy, sleepy cuddles to help him drift back to the land of nod.

Or so I thought.
Replace squishy with kicky,
And sleepy with wide awake,
Cuddles with grumbles,
And land of nod with Isle of you are a fool if you think you are getting any more kip.

Three hours later,
My patience was wearing out.
What am I saying - my patience had picked up rational and gone and slept in another room.
It was a long night.


Since becoming a mother, especially a mother to a child like Gabe, I've had to dredge up patience from the pit of my stomach. But there is an overdraft - it just means that someone else like my husband gets the love later (the - do not even think of putting that cup on that mantelpiece without a coaster you big loser - type of love).

I can't be alone so I've devised this Just 17-style quiz just to see where all the other moody mummys are. Want to see what type of mother (or father) you are?



The Comp Gorg how patient are you really quiz?


Scenario 1

You are knackered (quelle surprise!) and fancy a little quiet sit down with a brew (you are an optimist after all) but your three children are simultaneously jumping from sofa to sofa, knocking all the DVDs off the shelves and telling you repeatedly that they are hungry. The jumping bean suddenly jolts the tea cup from your hand all over your new rug.

Do you?:
A. Smile sweetly, shake your head in a minor exasperated fashion saying: "these things happen" as you fetch the carpet cleaner. You clear up the mess with minimum fuss, before making a healthy snack for the hungry children and commencing sensory play for all three.
B. Run out of the living room and weep loudly in the kitchen until you have calmed down and can face the world again with the aid of a Double Decker.
C. Smile sweetly at children and then send angry texts to your husband. Because it is all his fault.

Scenario 2

You've done the school and nursery drop off by the skin of your teeth and now need to race to work. However, someone has blocked in your car in the nursery car park. You can see them through the window having a chat with the nursery teacher, now their child, now another mum, now a different mum. You were already going to be late. And with every creeping second, it is getting later.....

Do you?:
A. Put the radio on and enjoy the peace for a bit. Use the time to think of fun things to do with the children later like making puppets from the P45 you will probably get when you arrive in the office. Hey ho!
B. Start sobbing and hunt in your bag for that chipped Minstrel you noticed yesterday left over from a trip to the cinema. And there is a half chewed Refresher bar in the bit by the hand brake; that will do.
C. Smile sweetly at the woman and then send angry texts to your husband. Because it is all his fault.

Scenario 3

Your mother in law is coming around and you have tidied every nook and cranny and even sorted out the stored clothes under your bed. All you ask for is for the house to remain tidy for the first five minutes. After that you don't care. But daughter has decided now would be an ace time to play an epic game of card shop laying cards on every available space, son has weed all over the toilet seat, and the littlest one has pulled all the DVDs off the shelf (it is kind of his thing).

Do you?:
A. Tidy up the 507 cards, wipe the toilet seat (floor, walls, blinds: aim ain't great yet) and pick up the DVDs for the 309,876 time singing nursery rhymes before ruffling each child's head and calling them messy pups.
B. Flounce into the garden wailing, taking with you the Sara Lee Double Chocolate Gateau you've defrosted for desert and hide in the play house until midnight.
C. Smile sweetly at the peed up bathroom and then send angry texts to your husband. Because it is all his fault.

Isn't this a great game Mum. Shall we play every single day!



Mostly As
Do you have children called Topsy and Tim? Or is your name Granny Murray? Come on, you are not a real live person are you? Please say you are not. Please. No. You can't really exist. Do you do yoga at 5am, followed by Zen studies. Bravo. Hats off to you.

Mostly Bs

Welcome, my friend, to parenting. Tears and that chocolate cupboard are your only true friends from now on. My advice: always have Wispas. And wine. At a push Jaffa Cakes (if you are desperate). Embrace this new lifestyle and your fattening bum.

Mostly Cs

You are right. It is all his fault.

Gabe says: "So let me get this right, we are really called Topsy and Tim?"








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