Thursday, 28 June 2012

Things to do with your child number 12,386 - CORNFLOUR & WATER

So this was supposed to be a nice little 'How To' about making gloop with cornflour and water and food colouring and the awe and wonder experienced by your child when they feel it turn from a solid to a liquid and back again, and blah blah blah.

However, it is being cut short because after 5 minutes of playing with the cornflour and water mixture I went to get some kitchen roll to wipe up any spills that may occur, and while I was in the kitchen, Rory took his trousers and pants off and dipped his willy in it.

Of course he did.  What else would he do?

Just off to chisel dried on gloop off his balls. BRB.

Monday, 25 June 2012

Weekly round up of gin provoking incidents

There are ants in my kitchen.  Not many as yet, but often at least 4 or 5 in the same square metre, which is enough to count as an illegal gathering as far as I am concerned (what is the collective noun for ants anyway?   A herd of ants? A swarm? A nuisance? A nervous breakdown?) Only one flying ant witnessed as yet, but I know what they're doing : they're waiting for us to go away for the weekend, at which point they'll all emerge en masse over 48 hours to ensure that we are greeted by the Flying Ant Apocalypse when we get back.  Not that we're going away for the weekend any time soon as we have approx 30p and a few shiny buttons between us.  You know when the Bash Street Kids go into their clubhouse and open their money box to see what funds they've got to pay for whatever dastardly scheme they're hatching and all that's in there is an apple core and a fly? That's our bank account.  If Richard's boss ever reads this, please can he have a pay rise? Seriously Richard's Boss, it's Just Not Funny any more.  We have needed curtains for 9 months, I haven't had my hair cut for 8 months and we're relying on 19p tins of kidney beans to feed us far too much for my liking.  My child refers to charity shops as 'toy shops' because the only time I can afford to buy him anything it's a 20p car from Oxfam.  Sort it out.

Ants and pennilessness aside, it's been business as usual here.  You'll be overjoyed to hear that I've started running again, which I celebrated by running straight into a big feck off thorny bush when not concentrating the other morning.  Now look like I've had a major disagreement with an angry cat.

Rory has been 'helping' around the house, which is always a recipe for nervous collapse.  On Friday he felt the need to sneak upstairs with a full potty of wee and poo and then tripped over on the top step.  The words "oh dear" alerted me to this atrocity and I ran upstairs to be confronted from a scene that was, if not straight out of a horror movie, at least from some sort of highly specialist porno.  Needless to say, I have been at one with the bleach.

Today, I decided to cut out all possibility of anything going wrong by taking him to soft play.  I hate it and find the whole experience utterly traumatic, but it would be worth it not to have my house wrecked for a whole morning, plus how much trouble can a toddler get into in a padded cell?  It was great.  I sat and read a quality publication* for a couple of hours while Rory roamed free and climbed stuff.  It was nice and quiet - only a few kids there.  All fine.  Until I was alerted to a commotion and looked upwards to see my son, psychotic grin on his face, being chased along the top level of the play barn by a somewhat large and out of breath playworker.  The reason for the chasing was that he'd somehow managed to sneak a tricycle up there without anyone noticing and was now paying homage to the Shining by pedalling it through scramble nets and balloon tunnels and down hazardous whirly slides, all the time singing that much loved 1990s classic 'I'm the Scatman'. Came home to a house that still smells of bleach and a line of ants shuffling across the floor in a "fuck you" sort of a way.  Hurrah.

*Take a Break

Friday, 8 June 2012

Broken Pause Button

My beautiful baby turns 3 on Sunday.  Tomorrow, his four favourite friends are coming over for a party and he's so excited because this year he knows what to expect.  I'm excited too because birthdays get worse the older you get, so at least I get to enjoy his now.

We had a bath together earlier, and as we splashed and made beards out of bubbles, I realised that three years ago tomorrow, I was lying in the very same bath thinking disturbingly violent thoughts about the cow of a midwife who wouldn't let me come into hospital and told me to take 2 paracetamol and have a bath instead.  I remember writhing and moaning, twisting about with each contraction, trying to breathe through it and watching my baby bump kick and wriggle, desperate to get that damn baby out so I could have my body back again.  Now he's 3, and I'm not sure how much longer it's appropriate for us to have baths together and that makes me sad because it's another sign that he's growing up and changing.

I couldn't wait for him to stop being a baby, to sleep a bit better, to talk so he would stop screaming at me.  Then it went and I missed it.  Now I realise that it won't be long before my horror of a toddler will grow out of filling his shoes with mashed potato and weeing in Daddy's slippers (he does seem to have a slight obsession with footwear), and although it will be nice to put my wellies on without encountering a fish finger, I'm going to miss the sparky little bugger.

Someone asked me to write a piece about first love recently, but I just haven't been able to find the words.  Part of what I wanted to say though is this:  Did you ever love someone in the knowledge that they didn't love you back?  And when you were with them you'd try to freeze frame moments of time when everything seemed perfect, when if you wiped your brain of what you knew to be the truth, you could pretend that everything was OK, and that they felt the same?  I'd lie there with him, thinking "if I can store this feeling up in my head; how his skin smells and how my cheek feels against his chest - that will be enough for me when it's finally over and I have to face up to the truth."  Well, that's how I feel about Rory.  I'm so lucky to have a cuddly, affectionate little boy who loves to snuggle up to me and kiss my face and have private, whispered conversations about everything that's important in his brilliant, three year old head.  But I know that one day it will all stop - that he'll roll his eyes at me and tell me to stop fussing, that he'll cringe when I kiss his head and ruffle his hair, that I'll have to bribe him for a quick hug.  I know he'll shut his bedroom door on me and grunt at me to leave him alone and keep my nose out of his life.  And I find myself smelling his hair and feeling it between my fingers, remembering his little baby kisses and the squish of his pudgy arms and trying desperately to store it for future reference, when my little boy is not so little and doesn't need his mummy so much any more.  I try to etch everything onto my memory when he shouts "TEAM HUG" and he, Rich and I all collapse in a pile of limbs, me listening to Richard's heart beating and hoping that his cardiologist will find out what's wrong with it soon and fix it, so I can stop worrying so much about losing those team hugs.

Anyway, I'm getting my melancholia over with tonight because tomorrow is a day for balloons and cake and musical bumps, and on Sunday it's his real birthday, and he's got a BAT CAVE as his main present, so I will be too busy playing superheroes to feel sad.  Normal service will be resumed soon people - rest assured that I have made a 3rd birthday cake so shit that it really should be in a museum.  Plus the flying ants seem to be back, so there's that.  See you all soon for inappropriate swearing and cock-ups.