tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42345995726675668022024-03-13T23:36:20.175-07:00Bad Mammy!NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.comBlogger273125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-75950186377636323372013-02-14T13:30:00.002-08:002013-02-14T13:30:19.871-08:00....And Goodnight.All good things, so they tell me, come to an end.<br />
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The same is true of mediocre parenting blogs.<br />
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This will (probably, unless I change my mind) be my last post on this blog. There are a couple of reason for this. One is the second child thing. The Littl'un is wonderful, absolutely fantastic and I am besotted with her. But I keep finding I don't have all that much to say about her, or rather, about the process of bringing her up. It's all, you know, she does some stuff, I do some stuff, we make it to the end of the day, and then the week, and I don't really have anything to say about it. She hits some milestones, eventually I'll notice; she misses some others, I know she'll get there in the end. Blah blah blah. S'all good. Apart from when it's not good, and I think about having a whinge, and realise there's nothing to whinge about that I haven't whinged about already, so I don't. And The Big'un, while still immensely good value (particularly in her self-penned little ditties, all of which include the word "today" said in a very broad Geordie accent, and her imaginary friends, one of which is called Hevs), does not do new stuff very often, so there's less to talk about there too.<br />
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So, I have fewer child-things on my mind, but that, as people who know me will not at all be surprised to learn, does not mean that I don't have things I want to bleat on about. More and more, I find myself wanting to air my opinions on grown-up issues, things that don't have anything to do with naughty corners and Organix crisps and poo reward charts. And this doesn't feel like the right place to air them. This blog has always been a place for me to bore on about "parenting", as much as I hate the term and feel it bears no resembleance to anything I actually do. It's been, as the name suggests, about me as a mother, and a vaguely rubbish one at that. Having got both my kids, somehow, through babyhood though, I now find myself less and less willing to *be* Bad Mammy. I will always be a mum, and it is a massive part of what now, for better or worse, defines me. But the other things that I am are asserting themselves a bit more - I am also a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend. An Excel geek. A Twitter addict. A feminist (although one who still doesn't quite understand what intersectionality is). A person who wants to rant and rave about some of the things that happen in this world. This is not the right place to be all these things.<br />
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I'm fairly sure I will start a new blog in time, where I can say different things, more things. I can't imagine not writing now. Which is thanks to this blog, and to you lot, for reading it and saying lovely, lovely things about it. Thank you, all of you. All of the support when I've been whingeing about stuff has been invaluable, and made me feel so much less alone, and a bit less crap. I hope that you've enjoyed reading it even a little bit as much as I have enjoyed writing it. I'm feeling a little bit sad knowing that I'm about to stop typing, which is faintly ridiculous, as I am perfectly free to start typing again whenever and wherever I want. On the internet, I mean. I can't go and type anywhere, as I have to stay in the house, or I'll get arrested for abandoning my children. Oh look, I appear to be talking complete bollocks. A sure sign that it is time to wrap it up.<br />
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Goodbye all, and thank you once more.<br />
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This is Bad Mammy, signing off.<br />
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Sweet dreams xxxxNothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-75016172273228028882013-02-10T13:20:00.001-08:002013-02-10T13:23:40.186-08:00Lullaby....OK, here is the sleep post. It may be slightly hysterical, as we are in the middle of a crap-sleep phase, but I need something to do while Husband watches Top Gear, so here we go.<br />
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You may have noticed that every now and then, I make vague references to sleep problems without ever going into what they actually are. This has been because I haven't been able to even think about them without wanting to sob uncontrollably, but it means that I can't look back over this blog and check what they were, so this might not be the most coherent account of anything ever. Because normally I'm all about the coherence, obvs.<br />
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I have not been blessed with brilliant sleepers. It could have been worse, much worse. I know this, because I was a horrible sleeper and I honestly don't know how my mother didn't kill me. But it's been bad enough. Up until recently, I hadn't had more than 3 nights sleep in a row for about 3 years. And I'm not being greedy - by a full night's sleep, I mean 6 straight hours without having to get out of bed to put a boob or a dummy or a glass of water in a small person's face, or to argue about whether or not 3am is an acceptable time to go to the theatre. We've had the phase where The Big'un wakes up shouting for me, then says "NO!" to every suggestion of what might be wrong or what I might do to help and flails her arms in my face until I have to remind myself that although you might slap an incoherent adult awake, it is absolutely not acceptable to do that to a three-year-old. We've had the phase where most nights saw us watching BabyTV at 2 in the morning with a completely wide-awake Littl'un. I do not believe that we have seen the back of any of these phases for good.<br />
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Unsurprisingly, this kind of thing makes you TIRED. In time, you do kind of get used to surviving on no sleep. Getting a full 8 hours now is actually kind of a shock to the system. But while I can survive on little sleep, there are days when I can't do much more than that, and things suffer. And one of those things is entertaining my children. That's one of the worst things about the disturbed nights: they make the days crap as well. Even firing on all cylinders, I am not one of these get-up-and-go-and-join-groups-and-do-messy-play-and-have-adventures kind of mothers. When I'm tired, I'm beyond crap. I cannot muster up any enthusiasm for anything harder than putting CBeebies on and waiting until it's bedtime again. Which of course makes them grumpy and bored, which makes the day even harder. It's a rubbish cycle to get into, and some days I manage to have a word with myself and snap out of it and Do Stuff, but very often I don't.<br />
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The other thing that really, really sucks about sleep problems is how much it makes you feel like a failure. A warning - if you ever find yourself with a child who won't sleep, you might think that asking other parents, in real life, or on a parenting website, is a good thing to do. In some ways it can be - you can very often find sympathy, and people who can suggest things you might not have tried. But you are also going to find a whole bunch of implications, real or imagined, that this is ALL YOUR FAULT. It will be your fault for not leaving them to cry, thus making them realise they can manipulate you just for the fun of it. It will be your fault for leaving them to cry, robbing them of the security of a parent who always responds to their needs, and teaching them to be helpless in the manner of a Romanian orphan. You weren't patient enough, weren't strong enough, didn't read the right book, and shouldn't really be whingeing if you're not willing to put the work in, and what did you have kids for if you can't cope with the lack of sleep?<br />
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I must say that, if I think about it properly, most people don't really say that. But it feels like they're thinking it. Because kids are supposed to "sleep through", aren't they? Tiny babies, they're allowed to wake up, but once they pass 6 months or so, you should be putting them down and not having to think about them again until the morning. Isn't that right? And if that's not happening, then you've got to be willing to do whatever it takes to "fix" it.<br />
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I can't fix it, I don't know how. All the approaches that have been recommended to me involve a lot of patience, resolve and consistency. I have very low reserves of these. They are even lower between the hours of midnight and 5am. My younger daughter, however, has seemingly endless reserves of resolve and screaming, and is willing to use them if she deems it necessary. She is not above deliberately smacking her head off her cot, or trying to climb out. Perhaps I could win the battle of the wills, eventually, but not without considerable, considerable distress to everyone in my house, and possibly even my street. It is not worth it, not to me. Things are not, yet, *that* bad.<br />
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I can't pretend to be OK with it either, though, like those who chirp "all babies sleep through in their own time", as if this is a developmental phase I should be relishing just as much as climbing in boxes and trying to eat their own fist. It's rubbish and I want to whinge about how it's rubbish. This is where I think most of my feelings of failure come from. I am not strong enough, either to fix it or to just suck it up. Is that OK? Can I opt out of the quest for the Holy Grail of Parenting that is a decent night's kip? Can I feel comfortable with the decision I've made about what to do (ie whatever gets me back to bed in the minimum amount of time each night), and still be unhappy with the consequences of that decision (being tired and grumpy all the time)? And can I get another coffee over here please?<br />
<br />
<br />NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-84138523858595334372013-01-23T13:41:00.000-08:002013-01-23T13:41:08.739-08:00Moving on UpI got the next size of baby clothes down the other day (and by "got", I mean "sent husband into the loft for, then had minor disagreement over the existence of a second box, so sent him back up and refused to let him come down until he had fished said box out from a mouldy car seat and three years worth of Theatre Studies notes"). Today I finally managed to get them all put away in The Littlun's drawers. In truth, the skinny little Littl'un could probably get a good couple months more wear out of her current size, but I am bored of looking at them all, so the poor little love is destined to spend the forseeable future with her (blessedly different) trousers falling down around her knees.<br />
<br />
So I spent a chunk of this morning sorting drawers while the children played with empty nappy boxes and argued over blankets. It was weird. Not the arguing, that's par for the course and I'm not sure I tuned most of it out anyway. But the outfits. The clothes I was putting away seemed to be the clothes of a little girl. There were outfits I identified as "favourites", that I recall there being screaming fits over because The Big'un wanted to wear them to nursery and would not accept that they were in the wash. I folded the top and trousers that The Big'un wore to come and meet her little sister for the first time, whereupon she promptly decided the baby was thirsty and tried to share her beaker of water. I'm not sure I'm ready to put these clothes on my teeny baby.<br />
<br />
Except, of course, she's nothing of the sort. She's a walking, kind-of-talking, fruit-devouring, cheese-demanding proper little toddler. I really should get my head around this.<br />
<br />
There is no point to this charming little anecdote, other than the fact that it freaked me out a little bit. But on a related note, when I did put the clothes away, I stacked them in rows, rather than piles, so you can see everything, in accordance with number 18 on <a href="http://twistedsifter.com/2013/01/50-life-hacks-to-simplify-your-world/">this</a> list of "Life Hacks to Simplify Your World". Mind. Blown.NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-80451988805358675192013-01-13T11:57:00.001-08:002013-01-13T11:57:32.440-08:00Oh well..I promise, I really did have a post half-written in my head. It was going to rock your worlds.<br />
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It was about sleep, again. But instead of another big whinge, it was going to be a look back over some of the sleep issues we've had, and how I felt about them, and was going to be insightful and marvellous. It was the post that I hadn't been able to write while in the middle of them, and after getting a couple of weeks of relatively unbroken nights, I finally felt like I could write it without weeping.<br />
<br />
But then they started being a bit rubbish again, and all my calm and measured perspective has gone out of the window. So no blog post. Bet you're all devastated.<br />
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I am actually struggling for inspiration a bit at the minute. I know my child-things are meant to be my inspiration, but they're actually being quite nice at the minute, and I always find them harder to write about when they're being nice. And I think I am running out of ways to talk about them being horrible too. So if anyone has any suggestions of things I should write about, or ways in which I should write about them, then please do share, and I shall split the profits, of which there are none, with you. <br />
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<br />NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-70245790715194942472013-01-06T12:51:00.000-08:002013-01-06T12:51:00.020-08:00Happy New Year!Welcome to 2013, everyone! Hope it's working out OK for you so far.<br />
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I have a post half-written in my head, which I'm sure will make it on here eventually and will be all kids of awesome, as per. Until then, I would just like to explain that my absence on here can be blamed partly on Christmas, but mostly by the fact that I have replaced my unhealthy addiction to parenting forums with a possibly slightly less unhealthy (although that's entirely up for debate) addiction to Twitter. I'm reading lots about feminism, which is good. There are more words that I don't understand, but fewer arguments about who should have folded their pushchair on the bus.NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-61071211890470849492012-12-21T12:56:00.001-08:002012-12-21T12:56:15.624-08:00A Rest Is As Good As A ChangeYou might have noticed, if you are particularly deprived of more interesting things to think about, that I haven't written much lately. Part of this is because of, you know, Christmas and stuff. But mostly it's because I have spent the last few weeks at what has felt like the very edges of my patience, energy and sanity, and Lord knows it has not been funny or interesting, and I wouldn't want to put you through reading my whinges about it. I have been really starting to question my abilities as a parent, and feeling like something must be DONE about it, to make it all better.<br />
<br />
It turns out, that the thing that needed to be done was going out and drinking several over-priced cocktails. Who would have thought?<br />
<br />
It was both more than that, and not really more than that. I had a work night out on Wednesday, which involved leaving the house at 4.30 pm (and then watching as the bus sailed past me and having to run for it while wearing high heels and miraculously not falling over and breaking my ankle. This has nothing to do with anything, but I am proud of it), going out for drinks and food and then more drinks, going home to bed, and then my lovely lovely lovely husband taking the girls away and leaving me in bed until 10.15.<br />
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And that was all I needed. A chance to properly relax, just for one day, not even that, and not worry about anyone or anything but myself, and whether I was ready to return to gin-drinking after a rather disastrous experience at V99 which resulted in me being sick all over my jeans. To stay in bed until I felt like getting up, instead of when small people start demanding Cheerios. To just have some time off.<br />
<br />
I feel at peace with the world again now (albeit a little queasy remembering that teenage gin adventure). These last two days, I have been enjoying my children again, and when they play up, as they are wont to do, I feel able to deal with it calmly and rationally, instead of either yelling like a maniac or sobbing in despair.<br />
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In the words of Jason Bourne (book, not film), "Rest is a weapon". If you can equip yourself with it, do it. If you can give it to someone else, do it. And if you find yourself in Alvino's this Christmas, have a Raspberry Collins.NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-59539341639310951452012-12-15T13:42:00.000-08:002012-12-15T13:42:04.755-08:00My Daughter, Master Storyteller."Once upon a story about a poor penguin called Peppapig. He got found by a big red owl, and they saw the sun in the sky and they saw the stars in the sky and they saw the moon in the sky and they saw the sky in the sky and a flower came out of the ground and they were happy and that was the end of the poor penguin called Peppapig."NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-5234017082069172632012-12-10T14:29:00.002-08:002012-12-10T14:29:50.413-08:00ConflictedHere is a small list of things which gave me a strange feeling. They give my children such joy (or at least, temporary unwhingey-ness), but are very annoying:<br />
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Mr Tumble (Shut up)<br />
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Soft play (Full of Other People's Children)<br />
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Glitter (My house looks like the bedroom of a 90s teenager going to a school disco)<br />
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Books that make animal noises (We have a cat one, a duck one, and a sheep one. They all sound the same)<br />
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Play-doh (If anyone knows how to get it out of carpet, please do share)<br />
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The Little Mermaid II (Yes, they made it, and yes, it's awful)<br />
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Cheap nursery rhyme CDs (My child now sings in a weird American accent)<br />
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Kids magazines (always an effective bribe, but I've now got about 700 plastic phones)<br />
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Rice cakes (They smell weird)<br />
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I don't know whether I want to give the inventors of these things a big kiss or a punch in the face.NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-4366216734928687112012-11-25T12:35:00.002-08:002012-11-25T12:35:49.431-08:00Dear Sleep.....It's been so long since we were last together, uninterrupted. Far too long since I used to spend all night, every night, wrapped in your warm embrace. I miss you more than can be said. Life is so hard without you, and my every waking moment is filled with wondering if I will ever see you again.<br />
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I was not naive. I knew there would be changes, that our relationship would suffer when they came along. But I truly believed that once they got to know you, they would love you as I do, and we could all live together in peace and harmony. How was I to know that they would shun your company for so long, and drive such a wedge between us?<br />
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I took you for granted, I realise that now. All those years when you were right there, waiting for me whenever I needed you, so reliable. If I had known then how things would turn out, I would have held on tighter, I would have made sure I appreciated every single moment I spent with you, and I would have woken each morning knowing exactly how lucky I was to have had you.<br />
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Oh, but how could you be so cruel? You never let my hopes die, never let me resign myself to life without you. Just when I think all is lost, you come back to me for one, sweet, stolen night, and it is as if we have never been apart. But then, once more, you are gone from me, and the next night is so hard to bear, knowing what a fool I am for daring to dream that I could have you back in my life.<br />
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And yet, fool that I am, I still believe that, one day, you will return. That one day, all will be as it once was, and that you will never desert me again. I can only hope that day comes soon, and when it does, I promise that I will cherish every moment that we share.<br />
<br />
Yours yearningly<br />
<br />
Bad MammyNothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-29739150852937593112012-11-16T13:52:00.000-08:002012-11-16T13:52:29.636-08:00And The Award Goes To....<i>Serious muso journalist/interviewer-type bod: So, I am here with Bad Mammy, fresh from celebrating her first Ivor Novello award. How does it feel to win such a prestigious accolade?</i><br />
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Bad Mammy: It feels wonderful, serious muso jouranlist/interviewer-type bod. When we create music, we want to be heard, so to know that this song has struck a chord with so many people is really humbling.<br />
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<i>SMJB: Can you tell us about the creative process behind this most extraordinary work, "Mashed Potato Baby"?</i><br />
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BM: Well, it was really a very organic thing, born, as so many things are, out of a very everyday situation.<br />
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<i>SMJB: The best art usually is</i><br />
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BM: I agree. Anyway, I was bathing my children one night, and feeling very at peace with the world, and feeling very, connected to these little people, you know? And I just looked at The Littl'un and thought "You are COVERED in mashed potato"<br />
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<i>SMJB: Which, of course, became the first line of the song </i>.<br />
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BM: Yes. And the second. And, indeed, the third. And the reaction that it received was just so visceral. It was really inspiring, and I knew that I just had to share this song with the world.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>SMJB: And I think, even just that first part of it would have been an instant hit. But it's what happened next that made it such a revolutionary concept...</i><br />
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BM: And again, it was a very organic process, the collaboration. I really owe this award to my elder daughter, the song literally wouldn't have existed without her. The improvisational quality of the fourth line, where instead of "Mashed Potato Baby", we have "Mashed Potato Teddy", or "Mashed Potato Mammy", or "Mashed Potato Toothbrush", comes completely from her just interacting with her environment, and her completely instinctual response to the things she sees.<br />
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<i>SMJB: And that's really what makes the song so special. Are we going to see great things from her in the future?</i><br />
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BM: Oh definitely. Her lyricism is really astonishing for one so young. She has a way of expressing herself in such a way that it really makes you think, and wonder what deeper message she's trying to convey. Right now, she's developing set of re-workings of "Row, row, row your boat", which includes the lyric "Rock, rock, rock your boat/ Gently down the stream/ If you see a mouse/ Tapping on the wall". She blows my mind.<br />
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<i>SMJB: Like mother, like daughter, clearly. Well, I think we'll all be keeping an eye out for her in the future. Thank you, Bad Mammy, and congratulations on getting the recognition you deserve for your musical efforts.</i><br />
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BM: It's been my pleasure, Serious Muso Journalist/Interviewer-type bod.NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-4549492297185288962012-10-30T13:19:00.003-07:002012-10-30T13:19:50.898-07:00It Speaks! Kind of.It appears, that at some point over the last....erm.... some period of time, The Littl'un has learned to talk. Ish. She is definitely saying some things that sound like proper words, and she seems to even mean those words. I have no idea when this happened. Poor little Littl'un. It seems that, as my second child, she has to be practically debating for Oxford before it occurs to me that something is different. With first children, at the first hint of a word, you excitedly spread the word of your offspring's genius - "She said Mama! She's talking!!!" before realising that she will say "Mama" at you, her father, the checkout operator at Sainsbury's, a sheep, and a crisp packet, and that you have perhaps jumped the gun. But second time around, having got used to holding fully comprehensible, if often frustrating and/or surreal, conversations with a child, I don't seem to have paid much attention to the early burbles.<br />
<br />
So now we have some actual semi-words. Admittedly, they are not the most useful of words. She cannot yet, for example, tell me what she is looking for when she tries to stick her head down the toilet, or why exactly she felt that 2am this morning was the perfect time to get her scream on. But she can say "bear" and "ball" and "moo" and "quack" and "baa" and "hiya!" and "bye" (ish, this is still mostly "aye". Maybe that is what she means. Being a proper Geordie and that) and "ta" and "ba-a" (banana) and "ap-ap" (apple) and "gap" (grape. She knows her food) and "keddle" (cuddle) and "pleh" (please) and it's all very cute. I'm very proud. As is she. She claps herself a lot, this girl. No problems with self-esteem there.<br />
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I like this talking thing. I especially like the early talking stage. It's great when they have learned enough language to begin to tell you what they want, but not quite enough to argue with everything you say, or announce to everyone that you did a big pump. I shall enjoy it while it lasts.NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-65798940445879135472012-10-23T11:50:00.004-07:002012-10-23T11:50:57.293-07:00Why bother....?A story from the Daily Mail did the rounds on Facebook the other day, and I will confess that I read it. It was about a "new" parenting test they'd come across (apparently it's not new, it's been around for years, but since when did the DM let silly things like "facts" get in the way of what they wanted to say?). This test consisted of 14 exercises that prospective parents should undertake to prepare themselves, including such things as "Dressing Small Children" (trying to stuff a live octopus into a string bag) and "Grocery Shopping (take an unruly goat to the supermarket with you). It was quite funny, and horribly familiar to many of us with small children, but Google it if you want to know more, as that's not what this post is about.<br />
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No, this post has come about because of something that I hardly ever do, which is read the comments below a Daily Mail article, and something that I really try and avoid doing under most circumstances, which is read them by "Worst Rated" (I usually don't partake in this kind of activity, because it hurts my head when I smack it off my keyboard in despair). Many of the worst-rated comments went along the lines of "Well this is complete rubbish. My children slept through from 2 days old and have never once run away from me or tried to put crayons in the DVD player. No wonder the world is in the state it's in if people have no standards and this is why we have feral children running round the streets and excusemeletmewipemymouthIappeartobefoamingatit". Good for them and their perfect children, I say. I only hope that sense-of-humour failure isn't hereditary.<br />
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The other type of comments seemed to come from people who are not parents, yet find themselves surrounded by them. I have some sympathy with them. Parents can be terribly boring, let's be honest. We have shrunken vocabularies, and an apalling disregard for normal social boundaries when it comes to discussing bodily functions. These commenters had clearly had enough of this kind of talk, and were using this opportunity to have a bit of a rant. "Self-indulgent nonsense! Why do people even bother to have children if they're going to do nothing but whinge about them?!! And why, if I have no interest in hearing people talk about parenting, have I even read this article, let alone commented on it?!"<br />
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Which brings me, finally, and clunkingly, to the point of this post. It occurred to me that the test was pretty similar to a lot of my posts on here. So perhaps some of you lot are wondering why I bothered having kids if all I was going to do was complain about them. And if you are, well, here's why:<br />
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1. Because kids are freaking awesome.<br />
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No, really, they are. Especially mine. You might not believe it from everything I write about them, but they are, absolutely, without a doubt, the most delicious, fantastic, cleverest, wittiest, cutest, funniest, adorablest things in the whole entire wide world. The Littl'un opens her whole face to give kisses. The Big'un, if you look sad, comes over and says "Do you need a cuddle? Give me a smiley face." These kind of things make my heart scrunch up. I am prouder that The Littl'un knows what noise a sheep makes, and that The Big'un can recognise and sometimes write the letter 'L', than I am of anything I have ever achieved on my own. But no-one wants to read that, really, do they? The things they can do are of no interest to anyone who is not related to them. And it is really, really hard to write well about the nice stuff. This love is bigger than words. If you try to find the words, they come out corny and sickening and will put people off their lunch. And I'm a feeder, the thought of causing other people to not eat is very concerning for me. Far easier, and far funnier, to focus on the more trying stuff. There is a certain amount of surreal comedy to life with small people that I, for one, find quite easy to write about.<br />
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2. Because kids do this weird thing called "growing".<br />
<br />
Yep, you heard it here first, folks. Babies do not stay babies. Toddlers do not stay toddlers. There may well be people who actually don't particularly agree with my first statement, and are not that fond of having "kids". But perhaps, the years of arguing about how to eat sandwiches and singing "The Wheels on the Bus" are not the whole reason that people enter into parenthood. You don't just have a baby, you have a whole person. I am still my mother's daughter at 31 years old. And she probably gets more out of our relationship now that I can hold a semi-intelligent conversation and go shopping with her, than she did when I would do nothing but scream in her face (that was when I was a baby/toddler, by the way, it wasn't last week or anything). Unfortunately, even if they're not your thing, these early years have to be done, but I am not aware of any law that says they have to be enjoyed.<br />
<br />
There are other good reasons to have children, such as getting to play with Lego, and being off work for a while, and being able to park in parent and child spaces at the supermarket. But despite all of these undeniably attractive perks, life with small children is bloody hard work. It is messy, and frustrating, and veers wildly from being quite boring to unbelievably eventful. It contains many things that are downright not fun. So you will have to forgive us if, every now and again, a little bit of complaining slips out. Or maybe a big bit. Because, while there may be people out there who get bored of the whingeing, there are also people out there who NEED the whingeing. They need to know that there are children out there who aren't perfect. That they are not the only people who are struggling. That they are not the only people who constantly worry that they are doing it all wrong. The blog posts that have described your own hellish day to a T. The Facebook statuses that we could have written ourselves. The sympathetic wry smile from a stranger who's been there, dealt with that tantrum. All these things make us feel a little less alone.NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-5129301844199560102012-10-11T11:16:00.000-07:002012-10-11T11:16:02.375-07:00RumbledAh.<br />
<br />
The Big'un appears to have noticed something. Namely, that during this evening's bedtime story, I skipped a page. Actually, I skipped two. The story in question is "Love You Forever", that beloved American story made especially famous by Joey out of Friends. In case you are unfamiliar with this story, it is about a mother who sings to her baby a little song: "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, As long as I'm living, My baby you'll be". She then continues to go into his room when he is two, and eight, and a teenager, to sing him the song. But then, but THEN, he grows up and gets a flat on the other side of town. And in my version of the story, she respects her son's privacy and space, and sees him twice a week for dinner, and that is that until the mother is very old and sick and the story heads towards its touching conclusion. I have been refusing to read the pages wherein she gets a bus across town, lets herself into her grown son's apartment and sits next to his bed and sings him the song, as I feel this mother may have some boundary issues.<br />
<br />
But the beady-eyed Big'un is clearly not going to be fooled by this approach much longer, so it may be that I have to swallow my disapproval of such shennanigans and read the whole thing. Or bury the book at the back of the shelf, and stick to other stories, such as the story of Crumpet the Dragon, or The Gruffalo. Much more realistic.NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-69933933231138471582012-09-30T12:50:00.002-07:002012-09-30T12:50:45.601-07:00Too Scary!I might be 31, married with two children, two mortgages, and a Ford Focus in a sensible colour, but it has taken until now for me to find something that makes me feel like a grown-up. Actually, that's a lie. It doesn't make me feel like a grown-up, it makes me want to run away and hide my head under a duvet and pretend that this is something I don't have to think about.<br />
<br />
It is time to apply for schools. I am in a state of disbelief over this. I thought I had years before I had to think about the whole business, but, as it turns out, those years have somehow happened without me really noticing, and now I have to apply for schools. I have already put off the preliminary thinking that most of my friends have already done on the subject when they were deciding on pre-schools, and I kept The Big'un in the nursery she was already at (for practical reasons, not just because I was procrastinating). But now there is no escape. I must do The Thinking.<br />
<br />
And there is apparently much thinking to be done. Much thinking and reading and listening and researching and deciding. One must consider league tables and Ofsted reports and catchment areas and over-subscription criteria and appeals processes. Somehow, it is necessary to become a sudden expert in what makes a "good" school and how to spot one. Because, if you listen to just about anyone, it is the most important decision you will ever make in your whole life and if you get it wrong your child will be doomed to a terrible and depressing life. And you're only making the decision about which ones to apply for. Then someone else gets to decide which one you will actually get a place at. <br />
<br />
It all makes me angry and tired. I could, were I in the mood, launch into a lengthy political rant about how terribly wrong it is that every child can not just walk into their nearest school and be assured of a decent education, about how much pressure is put on parents to make great sacrifices and go to great lengths in order to secure a place at a good school, but this is neither the time nor the place for such tirades, and I am trying to watch Cool Runnings. So, instead, I extend my sympathies to all parents out there who are applying this year. I look forward to the day my application goes in and I can stop worrying about it. And start worrying about how the hell I am going to get my child somewhere, dressed and with all the appropriate paraphernalia, for 9am, FIVE DAYS IN A ROW. I need a lie down at the very thought.NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-31198921513262299392012-09-18T14:14:00.002-07:002012-09-18T14:16:58.589-07:00Many ThingsSeptember's been pretty busy so far. I keep waiting for life to get back to normal and stop being busy, but perhaps life is always busy when you have a job, two small children, a house that, sadly, does not clean itself, and friends and family who will insist on doing such things as getting married, having birthdays, or just having the audacity to want to do spend time together.<br />
<br />
So we have been doing quite a lot of things. The first thing we did was attend a family wedding, where the children were flower-girls. I had been feeling somewhat anxious about this for a while, but refrained from saying anything on here for fear of upsetting the already-nervous bride. I don't know if you've ever tried to persuade a three-year-old and a 15-month-old to walk in a more-or-less straight line, and in a specific direction, at a specific time. Try it sometime, if you should ever have two such children at your disposal. Preferably ones you know, don't just grab them off the street, that gets you in trouble. Anyway, it is not easy, and as the big day edged closer my visions of them running away, refusing to move, screeching at the registrar or eating the flowers grew more vivid. But in the event, they were lovely. The Big'un walked beautifully and scattered her petals. And The Littl'un...well, she sat down in the middle of the aisle, then stood up and gawked around her at all the people, then tried to walk the wrong way for a bit, while I was crouching in the aisle frantically calling and gesturing and waving a packet of chocolate buttons at her, but people thought she was funny, and she did not have a tantrum, so I'd say that was pretty successful. And they very much enjoyed the soft-play bus that had been hired to entertain the children. It was amazing. I want it to come and live in my garden.<br />
<br />
The next thing that happened was my birthday. And for my birthday, my wonderful mother got me the best present ever - a train ticket to London and two days of babysitting. I went and had a lovely time with my sister, wandering around the shops, going for brunch and sitting in the sunshine in Soho drinking wine. And not once did I have to threaten to put anyone in the corner, or stand in the street remonstrating with a child who will not remove herself from the window display of a shop. It was just a shame that motherhood has made me so feeble that after going for dinner, my honest answer to the question "What do you want to do next?" was "I want to put my pyjamas on and watch telly".<br />
<br />
There have probably been a few more things that we've done, but I can't think of anything particularly interesting to say about them. If you want to know how the children are doing, they are fine. The Littl'un has some new teeth. Not entirely sure when they appeared. She spends most of her time either shouting and shrieking in her own, entirely incomprehensible, language and climbing on to or into stuff. Oh, and eating. And she thinks everything that looks remotely like a bird is a "cak-cak".<br />
<br />
The Big'un is being a bit rubbish with the sleeping again. You know how that goes, I can't be arsed to whinge about it again. Her current thing to try and get out of trouble is to tell me that she's scared. She did a poo on the loo the other day, and we all got over-excited. She now goes to nursery two days a week, and I think she's happy. She tells me every day that she has been playing with Talesha. I found out yesterday that Talesha left in July. It seems that my daughter has simply replaced one little blonde girl with another and now plays with Grace, just does not trouble herself to call her the correct name. At least not to me, hopefully she calls her the right name to her face. And she also seems to have developed a weird accent when she says certain words, like "silly". It sounds very like Mickey Rourke's accent in Iron Man 2.<br />
<br />
Thus concludeth the update. Thanks for stopping by.NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-51937739989312996182012-08-30T14:17:00.002-07:002012-08-30T14:17:13.528-07:00A Film ReviewReturn of the Jedi aka "The Green Star Wars!", as reviewed by The Big'un.<br />
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"I like the green Star Wars. Look, there's the story! I don't know the story. Daddy knows the story, but I know the baddie's name is DARF VEEADER. He is angry.<br />
<br />
Jabba the Hood is green and I don't like Jabba the Hood.<br />
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It's Princess Leia in there! She's hiding. I love Princess Leia.<br />
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I think there's a nasty mouth and wiggly worms in there.<br />
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Where's the cheeky robot? He's called DeeDee Artoo.<br />
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I think Luke Skywalker likes Princess Leia. I like Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker and Hanson Swallow, but I don't like Darf Veeader.<br />
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The baby bear does a roly poly and goes "yip yip".<br />
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It's a trap!<br />
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Luke Skywalker has a light saver. Luke Skywalker uses the green one and Darf Veeader uses the red one and the big angry baddie does some NASTY THINGS.<br />
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They all happy now. I want a snack."NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-21819099270865269722012-08-20T14:08:00.001-07:002012-10-03T12:22:52.117-07:00Where Did My Baby Go?No, I haven't misplaced her. But The Littl'un appears to have had something of a developmental spurt of late. She is getting big (well, not physically big, she's still a titch, but you know what I mean), and good at stuff (Yes, sorry, it's a "Look, look! Look what my child can do!!!!!-type post). Said stuff includes.....<br />
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- Climbing on things, as already reported, but also, she can now get down from things too. Which is very good, because I can leave her on the bed watching TV while I have a shower, instead of her crawling around the bathroom floor sticking her head in the bin and unwrapping my tampons.<br />
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- Using cutlery. She is very nice and civilised. In fact, somedays she eats more of her tea with her fork than The Big'un does, which is simultaneously a source of great pride and intense frustration.<br />
<br />
- Answering questions. She can nod and shake her head, and I think she might actually know what she means when she does it. Well, I say she can shake her head, but to be perfectly honest, she hasn't quite got the hang of it, so she's pretty much throwing her head around as if she's taking the piss out of a Timotei advert. Still, this is a vey exciting development. It means that I am nearing the end of that phase of parenting where you have to "follow your motherly instincts". Or, if like me, you are not entirely sure you have those, "guess". Now, we can do actual communication. I like.<br />
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- Pointing at her hand while saying "Gar-DAH!", then scratching herself on the chest and making a clicking noise. I eventually figured out that she wasn't just being weird, she was trying to do 'Round and Round the Garden'. She can also sing an approximation of the "Roll over" bit of 'Five in the Bed', usually while whacking me with the book that said song lives in, which is pleasant.<br />
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- Starting to grasp the concept of animal noises. It would be a major exaggeration to say that she could do any, thought, as they all, apparently, say "Oooooooh". <br />
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There's possibly some more, but the poor little Littl'un suffers from being the second child, where I am too busy trying to answer a three-year-olds' relentless questions about which of my friends I saw yesterday, and trying to unravel what of what she is telling me actually happened outside of her own head, and persuading the two of them that they don't both have to play with the same toy, and here have some raisins, to sit there eagerly awaiting and watching out for each milestone. These ones have all just crept up on me, and Lord knows how long she's been doing them for. But I'm proud anyway. <br />
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Right, there you go. I'll return to whingeing about them next time.NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-87804410740113354352012-08-16T12:03:00.000-07:002012-08-16T12:05:06.667-07:00An Inventory of Bedtime2 over-tired and sweaty children<br />
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2 tired parents<br />
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1 bath<br />
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17 bath toys<br />
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400 warnings not to use the bath toys to drink the bathwater<br />
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2 children feigning deafness<br />
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1 premature removal from bath (for water-drinking)<br />
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1 massive tantrum<br />
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2 flailing child-arms<br />
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4 slaps to the chest<br />
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3 trips to "the corner"<br />
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4 serious discussions about hitting<br />
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30 screams of "I'm really tired!"<br />
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35 screams of "I'm not tired!"<br />
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1 flailing 3-year-old<br />
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1 split lip (mine)<br />
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2 children eventually in bed<br />
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2 huge sighs of relief<br />
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3 requests to go to the toilet<br />
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20 minutes of screaming<br />
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12 attempts to put dummy back in toddler's face<br />
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2 glasses of water<br />
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1 dose of teething powder<br />
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1 threat to take toys away<br />
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1 toddler brought downstairs to watch 'How I Met Your Mother' <br />
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1 suspiciously quiet 3-year-old<br />
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1 more attempt to put the toddler down<br />
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4 crossed fingers......NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-90290002784909698682012-08-10T13:19:00.003-07:002012-08-10T13:21:08.455-07:00A Little Trip OutRight, I think I have sufficiently recovered and gained enough distance to tell you about our day out on Wednesday.<br />
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On Wednesday I took the girls out for the day, to meet some people I chat to on the internet (don't worry, it was a public place, and people knew where I was just in case they happened to turn out to be crazed, axe-wielding psychopaths instead of perfectly pleasant mothers of small children). This involved taking the two of them on a train, on my own, to York, then letting them loose in the National Rail Museum all day, and then taking them back on the train, still on my own. As you can probably already tell, this turned out to be not the easiest thing I have ever done in my life.<br />
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The bit that was scaring me the most was actually getting them through the station and safely on to the train without losing one of them. Memories of my little sister toddling towards the edge of the Metro platform and getting her leg stuck between it and a train perhaps have something to do this anxiety (I was supposed to be holding her hand while my mother folded the buggy, which I was, I just kept holding it while she walked forwards, instead of making any effort to keep her still. Ah well.). As it turned out, I didn't really need to worry about that part. The Littl'un was strapped into the sling, so she was safe. Heavy, but safe. And The Big'un was BRILLIANT. She held my hand, stopped when I said stop, stood where I told her to, and just generally behaved in an exemplary manner. Perhaps my vague-but-dire warnings about falling near trains (it's quite tricky to try to instill caution but not sheer terror in small children) had some effect and she actually did some listening for once. Wonders will never cease.<br />
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Once safely on the train, I immediately went for my fall-back parenting plan, entitled Operation Give Many Snacks. This can usually be relied upon to buy me peace for as long as the food keeps coming. It worked well. However, eventually, The Big'un decided she needed a wee. Anticipating this, I had cleverly booked seats near to the toilet. Which was broken. So gathering up my stuff and my children, we schlepped down the carriage to the working toilet, whereupon, naturally, she decided "I don't need a wee-wee!". Schlepped back. You can guess what's coming, surely? Yup, five minutes later "I need a wee-wee!". Four wee-less trips we made to that bloody toilet. The people around me were wearing amused smiles. They'd been there, I sensed. (The situation, not the toilet. Although maybe the toilet, I don't know).<br />
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Train trip one, done. Now for the museum. For some reason, I had thought this would be the easy part. Pahahahahahhahahahahah! No. It seems that unleashing two small children, in what is essentially a very large shed filled with giant things to climb on and hide behind, in the company of older and bolder children who they are desperate to play with and impress, is not actually all that relaxing. Who'd have thought? After a couple of hours of "Get down off there!", "Share!", "Come back here right now!", and "Has anyone seen my other one?", I couldn't take any more and headed for the play area, where there were fewer hazards and places to hide. There was a flaw in this plan, however, and it was that eventually, I would have to get her to leave it. This did not go well. If you happened to be in the play area of the National Rail Museum on Wednesday and saw a very harrassed-looking woman literally dragging a screaming three-year-old in the direction of the toilets, that was me, and I hope you didn't call Social Services. The tantrum only got worse when I tried to get her to actually go to the toilet, and I had less than no idea what to do about it. You'll probably know that I am not the best at the discipline anyway; discipline while out and about is bloody impossible for me. When you're far from home, booked on a specific train so you can't leave early, you don't have favourite toys to take away or naughty steps to utilise (although I did plonk her in a random corner at one point), and you know she's far too tired for a promise of later sanctions to be effective in any way, you got nothing. And she knew it. Boy, did she know it. Defiant is not the word.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I finally managed to bundle them back onto a train. The Littl'un had missed both her naps and veered from screaming to hysterical laughter every couple of minutes. The Big'un played with her tray table the whole. freaking. time. Thankfully, my mum came to pick me up at the station. If I'd had to do bedtime on my own I think I would have just sank into a heap on the floor and hoped they'd put themselves to bed. They had Burger King for their tea because it was nearest and quickest and finding anything else to eat might have finished me off.<br />
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Still, they had a lovely day. And so did I, between the bouts of stress. But I'm not doing that again in a hurry. I might not take them both on a train trip on my own for several years. Possibly about 50 years, and then it will be their turn to take me to the toilet and run around trying to find where I've wandered off to.NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-12604003988454629062012-08-07T11:54:00.001-07:002012-08-07T11:55:10.938-07:00Thinking Of Titles Is Really HardSo I'm just going to not, if that's alright with you?<br />
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I had a lovely moment when I picked the girls up from nursery tonight, of the type that makes you love being a mother. I came through the door, saw them both, looking happy, then they spied me and both came running towards me, arms outstreched, shouting "Mammy!". Actually, that's a lie. The Big'un was shouting "Mam!", which I am not impressed with - I want to be Mammy for a good while longer - and The Littl'un was shouting "Mumumumumumumum", but close enough. We had cuddles, I found out they'd both been lovely all day and had fun, then they laughed and chattered/babbled all the way home. 'Twas very nice.<br />
<br />
But then came bedtime. I do not like bedtimes when Husband is not in. To be perfectly honest, I am not a fan of bedtimes when he is there, but at least then there's someone to share the load. Tonight it was me, and me alone who got to witness the full splendour of the tantrum The Littl'un threw when I stopped her from climbing in and out of the shower - a tantrum which not stop for stories, or milk or even "Wind The Bobbin up". I also had the sole pleasure of The Big'un deciding that she did not want to brush her teeth, although that tantrum was slightly shorter, as she can now be persuaded into or out of most things (not pooing in the toilet, or wearing trousers though) with the promise of a story about Boris the Dragon. Boris the Dragon is going to become either the saviour or the bane of my life, I can't tell which yet. Boris the Dragon is something that I invented out of sheer desperation during one of last week's flying-solo bedtimes. He is pink with purple spots, and accompanies me on mundane trips to places such as work, and the supermarket to buy yoghurts. Boris the Dragon is an outrageously stupid concept/character, and everytime I am telling one of these inane stories, I am simulataneously kicking myself in every part of my body that i can mentally reach (which is all of them, my mental self is more flexible than my phsyical one) for not coming up with something better. I once wanted to be a writer. Several of you people who read this blog have told me that I have a way with words. And yet Boris the Dragon comes to work and types my letters for me - THIS IS WHAT SMALL CHILDREN DO TO YOUR BRAIN!!! But she adores them, and they cheer her up instantly, so I end up weeping with self-loathing and profound gratitude all at once.<br />
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Ah well. They are in bed, and, if not asleep, then at least not screaming at me. I believe that makes it wine o'clock.NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-58262867469311321742012-07-27T13:24:00.001-07:002012-07-27T13:24:32.082-07:00A Post About ThingsInspired title.<br />
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Apologies for the lack of blogness. I have, instead of spending my evenings wandering around the internet, been Doing Stuff. I decided, quite abruptly, that I hated the colour of my living room walls, and was going to paint them. After completely bemusing Husband with my new-found obsession with tester pots, we settled on a colour and started painting. Unfortunately, gone are the days when we could just decide to paint, put a few days aside, and get on with it, because we have a couple of those small children-things who need looking after, and who, I'm sure, would have LOVED to join in the painting fun, but who would probably not have achieved a very high-quality finish (not that Husband and I did, either). So we had to paint in the evenings, one wall at a time. And now it is finished. And now I have decided that I want new lightshades. And a rug. And a new throw. And maybe a mirror. I persuaded Husband that we could afford to redecorate because "we've got enough for a couple of tins of paint!". Hmm.<br />
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I have also been doing some bandwagon-jumping lately. People have been going on about an exercise DVD called the 30-Day Shred, which promises great results with only a 20-minute workout a day. So, now I am back at work where there is cake and no small hands trying to steal it from me, I decided to give it a go, because I cannot pretend any longer that 90 minutes of yoga a week is really burning any of these cake-calories.<br />
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I think this woman is trying to kill me. She will not be happy until I have fallen down in a big sweaty broken heap on the living room carpet, never to rise again. It's only 20 minutes, but they are 20 minutes during which I want to curl up in a ball and die. But, at the end of it, you realise that you have not died! It's terribly life-affirming. Besides, the pain is just fear leaving the body. Apparently.<br />
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So, those are my reasons for not having written anything for a while. Now I should probably actually write something about something. My kids maybe?<br />
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Not much to tell really. The Littl'un's love of climbing in things has developed into a love of climbing ON things. Particularly the stools and chairs in our kitchen, which are the perfect height for a 3-year-old to sit on to eat her tea, and also the perfect height for an adventurous one-year-old to give her mother a mini-heart-attack by standing on. She is a menace. But an unbearably cute one.<br />
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The Big'un is a challenge, as always. We are trying very hard to stop the very bad habit of making ridiculous threats in order to get her to do something, as she is starting to realise we don't mean a word of it. So she has been to bed with no bedtime story a couple of times in recent weeks, which is a delight. Honestly, why can't she behave like a reasonable human being? Oh, yes, because she's three. People who are three are annoying. But they also say things like, "Grandad, your hair is grey. Has it gone all wrong?". I like having that in my life.NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-23189613324674589742012-07-15T11:28:00.002-07:002012-07-15T11:28:40.684-07:00Finding Her FeetSo, just under three weeks ago, I posted that The Littl'un was starting to take more than three steps in a row without falling on her arse, and it was very wonderful and I was very proud.<br />
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She can now take many more than three steps. I haven't counted, but she can probably take, oh about a MILLION. OK, that is possibly something of an exaggeration, but she has taken to this walking lark astoundingly quickly. I'm bloody exhausted. The child NEVER stops moving. No wonder she stays firmly in the part of the stupid weight chart that is officially marked "Skinny Minnie", despite eating all the livelong day. She's always going somewhere, and now that she can do it on two feet, and very fast, I frequently turn around and discover she is not at all where I thought she was. (She's usually in a box. This is her new favourite game, climbing into things. And then getting a bit perturbed when she can't get out again.)<br />
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It's all a bit unnerving. The Big'un didn't get the hang of walking until a bit later, so I've never had a just-turned-one-year-old who can run around. It's pretty fun though. Today we have been to the beach, and I didn't have to do much to entertain The Littl'un - she just toddled about a bit, fell down, dug her hands in the sand, got back up again and toddled some more. I just had to retrieve her every now and then when she looked as if she was heading for the sea, or tried to bury her head. So although I now have to cover more ground, I have to put in less actual effort into keeping her busy. Lazy me approves of this.NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-72734235732854873592012-06-26T13:59:00.001-07:002012-06-26T13:59:17.290-07:00Birthdays and Holidays... Part Three!Right, so the negatives are out of the way. Here are some things about my holiday that made me very happy:<br />
<ul>
<li>Food - Food always makes me happy. French food even more so. I do not know how anyone is thin in France, when they are constantly surrounded by croissants.</li>
<li>Sunshine - I had been checking the weather forecast religiously in the week leading up to our departure, and on the basis of this, had mentally prepared myself for a week of clouds, rain and thunderstorms. The first day was pretty miserable, but after that we got some real and actual sun! And warmness! It was rather lovely, and I didn't even burn the children overly much. The Toddler's left arm got a bit singed, but other than that, I actually managed to be vigilant enough to keep them pretty much un-burned. Result.</li>
<li>Seeing my sister - I adore seeing my sister. As do my children. And as she is not a haggard, lazy, sleep-deprived mother-of-two who spends most of her life in the company of two small people, but an energetic aunt for whom said small people are still very much an exciting novelty, they run around playing together, while I sit and watch, eating croissants.</li>
<li>Sleeping - as a result of playing all day, and going to bed at ridiculous hours (well, they went to bed at fairly reasonable times, but then, fired up by the excitment of sharing a room, they sat and giggled at each other for hours before finally falling asleep), the kids actually did some pretty good sleeping. The Toddler fell out of the very narrow bed a couple of times, and The Littl'un still usually had a litttle bit of a yelp about something or other at some point, but overall, much better sleep was had by all. It has, sadly, not continued now we are home.</li>
<li>Not having housework - The best thing about holidays is not being in your own house, surrounded by all the things that you know you should be doing. We did have to keep on top of the cleaning - the house was so tiny that I would have swung a cat in it, but only because I don't really like cats so wouldn't care if it took a few knocks to the head, so it got messy really quickly - but being able to switch off from thinking about the constant cycle of dusting and hoovering and washing and ironing and tidying and sorting is all kinds of awesome.</li>
</ul>
And, you know, all that general stuff about being with the people I love, doing fun things, seeing nice places, seeing my children happy. That's all pretty good too.<br />
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And now we are back, and the washing is almost under control, and today is The Toddler's third birthday. (I have decided to re-christen her, as The Littl'un is starting to toddle, and The Toddler just walks. Henceforth, she shall be known as The Big'un, until I get fed up of it)<br />
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We had nice plans for today. Due to her current obssession with princesses, and her disappointment that Caen castle was just the battlements, and not "where the princess lived", we decided to take her to a castle which looked like a princess might live in it, so thought we'd drive up to Alnwick for the day, then go out for tea with my parents. It was all going to be very lovely, and I was looking forward to it immensely, until Husband decided to contract some kind of stomach lurgy, which has made him so ill that I'm even being sympathetic and kind to him. He managed to get up and see The Big'un get her drum kit ("It's my favourite! I can't belieeeeeve it!!"), but anything more was beyond him. My mother had it too, which meant even the tea with them was off the agenda. Obviously, it couldn't be helped, but it made me a little bit sulky anyway. I tried my best to make a nice day for her anyway. I allowed her to ride her trike to the shop, where she brought a smile to several people's faces because she was wearing her new fairy princess outfit, complete with wings and tiara. I even tried not to despair over the fact that the trip, which is 10 minutes maximum sans children, took nearly an hour. We made it to a castle, which, even though it was "broken" (ie, in ruins), she was quite impressed with, where we met up with a friend and her little boy (he taught her to say "It's boring!", even though they were clearly having a whale of a time, she taught him to roll around in the grass, so they even had a mutual exchange of useful life skills). I bought a chocolate cake and let her decorate it with chocolate buttons. But I fear that large portions of the day still ended up being how they always are when I am tired and have to deal with them both alone when they are in high and defiant spirits, which is with me being tetchy and impatient and a bit useless. Ah well. Her party is still to come so we have another chance to give her the perfect birthday day. If your definition of "perfect" involves several small children hyped up on icing, of course.NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-83318913361228439562012-06-25T12:47:00.001-07:002012-06-25T12:47:37.157-07:00Birthdays and Holidays and Apologies - Part Two!Sorry! Again. I said I would continue last night, but I watched the football instead. I really shouldn't have bothered. I could have done something much more exciting, like watch paint dry. Actually, that would be pretty exciting, I have just bought some tester pots because, inspired by pictures of other people's houses on the internet, I have been suddenly gripped with a mad desire to re-decorate my living room.<br />
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Anyway, I think talking about the brilliant things about my holiday (which I am honestly going to do, I wasn't just going to leave it with my usual whingeing) will have to wait at least another day, as I've got to wrap The Toddler's birthday presents. She is three tomorrow. Three! Can I even call her a toddler anymore? It seems too little a word for my sturdy and sassy little madam. A madam who, tomorrow, will become the proud owner of a drum kit. Yes, a drum kit. I know. Yes, I probably have lost my mind. Or if I haven't, I'm sure I soon will.<br />
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Oh! And also! Walking baby! The Littl'un can walk! Ish. She's been taking one or two steps for a couple of weeks, but not very well, and not very often, but tonight, she took at least four little staggery steps across the landing, and then repeated it a few more times. I am very proud. And amused, because she looks like a drunkard.<br />
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Oh God. Sudden grave misigiving. Why have I bought a drum kit, which in theory is for the exclusive use of my eldest child, when the youngest one is into EVERYTHING? And can now use her feet to get to EVERYTHING. This was a mistake. Oh dear.NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4234599572667566802.post-51008014208007203672012-06-23T13:56:00.002-07:002012-06-23T13:56:35.357-07:00Birthdays and Holidays and Apologies!First - the apology, for not having written anything for ages, just in case you were sitting there thinking "D'you know? What I really need in my life is the incoherent rambling of a woman who is barely in control of herself and her two children, and it's not there!". I haven't had time to write much lately. Partly this is because I have surprised myself with a new-found dedication to housework (no, really), so my evenings are spent finding things to clean. This is most unnerving behaviour on my part, but I am enjoying living in something resembling a neat and tidy home, even if there is still just too miuch STUFF in it.<br />
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But mostly, the reason I haven't had much chance to blog is because June has been fecking BUSY. Not content with having two children's birthdays to sort out this month, we, for reasons which now escape me, decided to go on holiday in between the said birthdays. So it's all been a bit busy, and we're not even done yet, but I am going to tell you about some of it anyway. Aren't I kind?<br />
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So, yeah, The Littl'un is now 1. One whole year old. We celebrated by having a little party for her, attended by all of her friends. Well, strictly speaking, they were mostly The Toddler's friends, as one of the many ways in which second children are deprived (or at least my second one), is that you don't spend your whole maternity leave seeking out things to do and people who have children the same age to do them with. You spend it taking your first one to soft play and drinking coffee with the friends you already have. As a result, The Littl'un only hangs around with nearly-three-year-olds, and is fascinated any time she sees a baby of her own age. I think she enjoyed her party anyway. There was food, and she got a trike, which she liked. And by "liked", I mean "crawled on top of the box, sat on it and refused to move".<br />
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Then came the holiday: a week in France with my parents, and my sister and her boyfriend joined us for a few days too (although they almost didn't make it due to an almighty farce involving them locking their car key in the boot of the car in the South of France, and them having to have new one forged in the fires of Mordor, or some other such nonsense). We had a very lovely time, although, naturellement, I found things to despair over as well.... <br />
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Things that pained me:<br />
<ul>
<li>Driving (well, passengering. Husband makes fun of my driving, therefore I refuse to ever do it if I can make him do it) - I do not live very close to France. Getting to France involves driving from the Tyneside coast, to Portsmouth. That's far. Although, to be honest, the drive down was not actually as bad as I thought it was going to be. Or at least, not after Wetherby Services, where I decided that rather than sitting in the front, it was best to wedge my arse in the gap between the car seats and keep the kids supplied with a constant stream of rice cakes. So that bit was OK. The painful bit of driving came once we disembarked. This is because we were in convoy with my dad. My father is a wonderful man, with many admirable skills and qualities, but it has to be said that getting directly from our point of arrival to our accommodation on any given holiday is resolutely not one of them. My childhood holidays to France always commenced with some kind of circuitous wandering around mysterious back roads, with the whole family on the lookout for road signs, or some kind of significant landmark like the sea, or Paris, to confirm for us that we were, in fact, heading in the wrong direction. Ah well, we got there in the end.</li>
<li>Eating out - There is apparently a book out called 'French Children't Don't Throw Food'. If that is true, then all of the restaurants must have been slightly shell-shocked by my children, who cannot eat anywhere without redecorating the walls and upholstery with bits of fruit and partially-chewed chip. The Littl'un has an excuse for this behaviour, in that she is only one, and still working out the best way of getting food into her face (and fails to realise that smearing it in her hair is not it). The Toddler has no such excuse, she's just a pain in the arse. She lolled on chairs, she crumpled up bits of food in her hand, she refused to eat anything that wasn't a chip, she showed everyone the contents of her mouth at every opportunity, and generally made me look like one of "those" mothers who is incapable of making her child behave nicely. By the last night, I had resorted to telling her that princesses (which is she is currently and suddenly obsessed with) sit and eat nicely, so if she wants to be a princess when she grows up, she had better do as she is told, while the feminist in me cringed.</li>
<li>The Littl'un - The Littl'un seemed to spend the week vying for the title of Clingiest Baby In The Whole Entire World. The first weekend, it was quite funny, as her affections were almost exclusively directed at my sister's boyfriend, who she adores. She would fling herself towards him the second he was in sight, and if he dared to leave her, she would cry as if her heart was breaking. It was pretty cute, and I don't think he minded too much. Or at least I hope not. But once he had gone, the clinginess was turned my way, or my mother's, and if she knew that one of us was there and not cuddling her, she would let us know, in no uncertain terms, that she would like us to rectify this situation. Husband was a bit put out by her behaving as if he was some kind of evil stranger every time he held her, and I was a bit put out by being constantly clambered on and pulled at by tiny hands. It's a good job she's cute.</li>
<li>The ferry home - It was choppy. It was unpleasant. I was ill. The Toddler was so ill that she put her Haribo down. Poor thing.</li>
</ul>
So that's my whingeing out of the way. There were many, many lovely things as well, but I will write about them tomorrow, as now I am tired, and I have to make sure I am well-rested for my fresh assault on the washing mountain that awaits me in the morning.<br />
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To be continued....NothingLikeAGiraffehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05758223129841542290noreply@blogger.com0