Sunday, 25 January 2015

The One With The Wine, The Trolley And The Knicker Elastic.




Poor old Grandad Atu hasn't been too well recently. He's had a nasty chest infection that he just couldn't shake and as a result he and Nanny P haven't been able to have the boy over for a sleep over since early December.

Not that I'm complaining you understand. The support and childcare help we get from my parents I consider to be very much a privilege and not a right. I just needed to set the scene as to why I was drinking at lunchtime.

And the reason I was drinking at lunchtime was that my Dad's chest and bouts of coughing were much better in the daytime so my parents had offered to have the boy last Saturday in the day to come over and play. Quite frankly they were missing him, and he was missing them, and the visit would perk my Dad up, but at this stage an overnighter was a step too far.

Lovely we thought, we can run some errands and, in the absence of a night out in recent weeks, we'd go for a sneaky pub lunch instead.

So the microwave that had gone ping, quite literally for the last time that week, needed to go to the dump as did the bottles for recycling. Then we drove to a nice pub out in the countryside and had a very agreeable lunch with a cheeky couple of glasses of red for me as hubby was driving.

Then we stopped at Sainsburys to do the grocery shopping on the way home.

This is where it all started to unravel.

I was a bit giggly and woozy with two glasses of Merlot and a big lunch inside me (prawn cocktail and scampi and chips for those interested in my 70's retro fest). As I was tipsily weaving my trolley around I realised that not only did the trousers I was wearing quite clearly needed a belt and were falling down but underneath them my knicker elastic had gone.

Picture the scene; me giggling like a loon, pushing a trolley with one hand and hitching up my trousers and pants with the other, whilst trying to hold a shopping list and select items to buy with... well no hands at all. 

I'd like to say I managed the situation with class, dignity and aplomb....but we all know that just wasn't the case don't we.

I hobbled around like old man Steptoe,with my hand permanently jammed down my pants, fudging about like they'd cost me a pound and 99p of them were up my arse. 

And where had I bought this garment from in the first place?

Sainsburys, that's where.

Bolstered by the effects of the wine, thank god I wasn't wearing a skirt or I'd have whipped my, quite frankly useless, 'apple gatherers' off and taken them over to customer services to make a complaint, 


'These don't stay up. Can I exchange them for a pair that I don't have to wedge up the frozen aisle to stop me exposing myself please?'

Don't let me drink at lunchtime and go shopping in sub standard knickers again or I could get arrested......













Monday, 15 December 2014

The One With The Tena Lady


Since having the boy I do have quite a few 'oooops' moments, despite having had physio on 'that area' - yes physio! I try to remember to do my pelvic floor exercises, but a sudden laugh, cough, sneeze or jumping out of my skin at a firework, car horn, someone who thinks it's funny to go 'boo' behind my back, (delete as applicable), causes a bit of... well there's no polite way to put this.... leakage.
  
So when Mumsnet www.mumsnet.com/bloggers-network needed some of us bloggers to review the new Tena Lady Lights range, I jumped at the chance. Although I daren't jump that high you understand.

I'm sad to say that I haven't felt 'safe' going out without a pad on for several years now, but I was just using sanitary pads, which can be bulky. 

Before I go on I want to stress I don't just wee myself with gay abandon. We're talking small little leaks here not full on tsunamis. So the Tena Lady Lights range seemed perfect for me.

Thin and discreet there are four types of Tena Lady Lights, all of which I was kindly sent to try - in abundance. 


There are Light Liners, which are shaped to the contours of a ladies body and are only 3mm thin, so they are really comfortable and you barely know they're there. These are good if you're wearing smaller pants, not your Bridget Jones specials, or if you've got tight jeans or trousers on and you could feel self conscience, as they won't show at all. 

Then there are Liners, both loose in a box for using at home and single wrapped for popping in your handbag. Strangely enough I found the loose ones more comfortable and the wrapped pads a bit bulky, but they should be exactly the same at 3.5mm thick. I do however like having the pads wrapped, as they're easier to dispose of when you've got the packet to wrap around the used towel to put in the bin, (no flushing down the loo please). 

The last type are my personal favourite, the Long Liners. These made me feel very secure as they were nice and thin but covered the whole of my gusset (I know sorry - I never thought I'd write the word gusset in a blog post but this is important stuff).

I've been trying all of these for about 10 days now and I have to say I'm impressed. They absorb moisture well with no odour and most importantly stay put. There's nothing worse than a pad that keeps shifting about. After all, this is about feeling comfortable and secure, especially in social situations, so staying where they are supposed to is very important to me.

At £1.99 a packet, for any of the four types, they are slightly more expensive than the supermarket own brand sanitary pads I have been using. However they're not so expensive that the cost outweighs the quality and comfort. 


If you'd like to find out more about the Tena Lady Lights range then visit their website, http://www.lightsbytena.co.uk/ , where you'll also find some tips and an App you can download to help improve your pelvic floor muscles. 

I kid you not, there's an App to help you stop 'ooooping' yourself now!  








'I am a member of the Mumsnet Bloggers Network Research Panel, a group of parent bloggers who have volunteered to review products, services, events and brands for Mumsnet. I have not paid for the product or to attend an event. I have editorial control and retain full editorial integrity." 

Thursday, 11 December 2014

The One With the C Word






No I'm not going to be really rude and use 'that' word.

I'm talking about Christmas.

This is our first Christmas at school and blimey the admin involved. I must have had at least one letter back home in the book bag everyday since the beginning of December.

Firstly there's been the school production where the boy was a snowman. Yes I know I don't remember there being a snowman at the nativity either, but then I also don't remember there being an Elf, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer or Santa there, but apparently they all were. He did really well bless him and hubby and I did the proud, slightly teary, parent thing. 

After that there was the Christmas lunch to book in for, then next week it's the school theatre trip. There's a parent 'bake off' too, as well as the class Christmas party, which requires you to provide party food to share, then the 'wear your own clothes and bring a toy into school day' at the end of term. Yes they still do that.

I can't keep up with it all.

And of course it all costs money! A £1 for this, a couple of quid for that. It all goes to school funds and I don't begrudge it, but it all takes some remembering.

Today's activity, in a seemingly never ending stream of Christmas fun, was the school fair and Santa was coming. This caused much excitement from the boy, who has been talking about Christmas since May. I'm not entirely sure he's ever really got over Christmas finishing last year to be honest.

Bugger his birthday it's all about the big C for the boy.

You paid £2 and then your child would be accompanied by their teacher during the afternoon to see Santa before the fair began. A kind of first dibs system for reception pupils before siblings all turned up at 3.30. 

So all the way to school this morning he was firing Santa related questions at me. 

When is he coming? Will he have a present for me? What will it be? What will he say? Where will he be? What does he look like? What time is he coming again?

Oh my god the questions! I answered them all patiently and as best I could, whilst negotiating the school run, the icy rain and the kamikaze lollipop ladies who dive in front of you at any given moment. 

Tonight I picked him up as usual and asked if he'd had a good day?

'I saw Father Christmas.' came the excited reply.

'And what did he say darling?' I asked expectantly 

'Ho, Ho, Ho of course' said the boy with a 'duh Mum' tone in his voice. 'Everybody knows that!'

And that's all he had to say about that. 

This answering questions lark obviously doesn't extend both ways it would seem......










Friday, 14 November 2014

The One With The Cat, The Mouse and the Jam Jar



Out of all of us in the Random household I'm always telling Bob Cat that she's no bother, because bless she is no bother.

Well she was no bother until the other day. 

I knew she was stalking something from the moment we got up, but I thought it was a spider. She would hunker down then leap about, next she'd stop very still and wait with her nose pressed to the floor desperately trying to look under the sofa.

I left her to it as she's a skitty kitty and always darting about so I didn't take too much notice, and then later I forgot all about it.

It was after I'd picked the boy up from school and we'd returned home that things developed. 

I went into the kitchen to put the kettle on and get him a snack when I heard the boy calling me from the lounge,

"Mummy. We have a problem' came the fateful words.

'What is it darling?' I replied thinking it was probably that I hadn't put Frozen on yet!

The boy joined me in the kitchen.

'Mummy. There's a rat.'

WHAT??????

It'd all gone a bit Fawlty Towers. 

I raced into the lounge. Luckily it wasn't a full scale outbreak of the bubonic plague but there in the middle of the living room floor was a small grey/brown mouse lying on his side and not looking too lively. 

I deduced it's presence was Bob's work from earlier. Bless Oscar, but at 17 years old with the best will in the world he'd do well to catch a cold let alone a mouse.

The mouse hadn't been there when we first got in, so he must still be alive to come out from under the chair, where I assumed he'd been hiding since Bob's stalking spree that morning. So I took it he was playing dead.

The cats? Oh they were nowhere to be seen. Neither use nor ornament those two. They were asleep on the bed. 



'Can you get rid of it please Mummy?' asked the boy. 

He wasn't scared, just inconvenienced. This apparently dead mouse was currently lounging all over his Octonauts Deep Sea Octolab and he wanted to be getting on with his adventure thank you very much. There are no mice in the ocean. They are not legitimate sea creatures. We'll gloss over the fact Captain Barnacles is a polar bear; mice are not part of the game. 

I made that noise you do when you don't know what to do. You know the one. That sort of whining,

'Errrrrrrrr... ummmmmmm.....ahhhhhhh......'

Then a flash of inspiration struck me. I ran to the recycling and grabbed a jam jar and lid. 
The offending rodent was still laying motionless on the carpet so I tiptoed towards it and scoped Mr Mouse up with the jar. I popped the lid on the top and moved quickly to the front door, where I let the little fella go into the front garden.

All the time the boy was following my adventures and when it was done he clapped his hands enthusiastically and declared,

'Well done Mummy. That was brilliant. Can I have a snack now?'

'Yes of course you can darling' I smiled 'Just let me disinfect everything within an inch of it's life first.' 

Bloody cat......... 




Friday, 7 November 2014

The One With The First Week Back




I think half term discombobulated the boy.

Don't get me wrong, he loved being at home, seeing both sets of grandparents, trips to the zoo and the park, going bowling with some of his NCT mates, having play dates with Lemon Cake Boy and Vintage Songstress and her lad and finishing the week with a Halloween tea party and trick or treating.

We packed a lot in.

I just think, especially when he started playing up and being on the want all the time, that this holiday lark was slightly overwhelming. 

The boy needs structure. That has become abundantly clear this week on our return to school. On Sunday we talked about going back and getting everything ready again after half term. Luckily he didn't seem phased. I thought he might because when he was at nursery and pre-school he still went even during the holidays, albeit on shorter hours. The only time we ever had a holiday was when we actually went away somewhere. So the whole concept of half term and then going back was pretty alien to him.

I needn't have worried. When it came to pick up time from school on Monday he was like a different boy. 

Sat in the back of the car with his snack and drink he suddenly enquired,

'Did you have a lovely day Mummy?'

He then proceeded to tell me what he'd had for lunch and something about what he'd done that day. Unheard of. He's since been a darling all week. No bother at all. 

All a far cry from the screaming, sobbing child having a tantrum on the floor of the local museum gift shop because we wouldn't buy him an £18 dinosaur, which led hubby to unceremoniously pick him up and bundle him out of the door after our trip had lasted... oh.. all of 2 minutes. 

It was probably our fault for trying to do too much. School takes up such a huge chunk of the week that when you do get some time together there's this need to make it special. In reality the boy would've probably been just as happy watching Scooby Doo and Frozen over and over again whilst drinking strawberry milk and eating digestives. It's us parents who feel that we have to provide endless activities.

And for this I blame Facebook.

Confronted with constant statuses of ever more elaborate fun filled days out by parents and their kids over half term 'keeping up with the Jones' is now on a global scale.

And it's not just fancy holidays and self congratulatory selfies on family days out with everyone looking happy and no one crying or screaming or throwing their water bottle at a llama. My timeline is full of proud boasts of how little Johnny, who is probably only 3 and a half, can play Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata or is fluent in Arabic or can read the complete works of pissing Shakespeare already! 

I'm pleased for them, no I really am (she says through gritted teeth) but in this house it's all about little victories. If the boy picks up a crayon and does a scribble we feel like we're won the FA Cup. 

Maybe I'm just jealous because with a child with SEN, I don't feel like we have much to boast about.

So I gave it some thought and realised, yes we do..... yes we bloody well do.

So here goes. Excuse me while I have a damn good boast

The boy is:

Funny - he has a wicked sense of humour and can time a joke to perfection. He's a natural at it.

Creative - his imagination is amazing. He can also weave his current favourite book, TV show and film along with everything and everyone around him into a story.

Musical - he will sing, dance, drum and strum in time and learn the words to songs really quickly. He'll even start riffing new lyrics to tunes once he knows them well.

Kind and Caring - he doesn't have a spiteful bone in his body. He may be hyper and over exuberant at times but he never means any harm. He genuinely loves people and is just so happy to see you. He hates to see his friends cry and feels upset for them. 

Polite - he's got lovely manners even down to saying good morning to the cats when we all wake up. 

Playful - he immerses himself in his games but he doesn't always need toys to have a good time. Give that boy a pile of cushions, a blanket and some cardboard tubes and he'll build dens, forts and castles for hours. 

Good looking - I know I'm bias but the boy is proper handsome. If he does end up being 6ft 6in he could be a top model and keep his mum in style in her old age.

Loving - he tells us he loves us everyday and we tell him too. Then at night just before he goes to sleep he lists all the people in his life he loves. 

Helpful - he tidies his toys away at the end of the day without complaint and helps me cook and bake. He will lay the table and take his cup and plate out to the kitchen. 

He may not be showing many academic traits, yet, but he's the most gorgeous, gentle, loving, kind and wonderful little boy I've ever met and I'm honoured to be his Mummy.

I'll take that over being able to speak 10 languages and having grade 8 clarinet any day. 









Friday, 24 October 2014

The One With Half Term





So we've made it to half term! 

We've had no tears or major tantrums and the boy seems to be enjoying himself. He is however getting tired and I fear the novelty may be wearing off. He keeps asking,

"Where am I going today?"

When I answer  "School darling", he looks forlorn and exclaims "What again? I have been to school a lot you know."

I think he's ready for the break and I have to admit so am I. 

The school run isn't too bad, (7 minutes door to door if the traffic is ok), but I am still negotiating the politics of the playground, and I pride myself that I have managed to get to half term without having actually spoken to any of the other mums.

I know, I know I'm a miserable bugger, but to be brutally honest with you I can't be doing with getting into all that playground mum, coffee morning stuff.

To quote Lemon Cake Husband, when he went to their first NCT meeting, "I've got enough friends thank you."

The mornings are ok because there's no hanging about. It's pick up time that's the problem. That awkward 5 minutes between 3.15 and 3.20 when we stand shivering in the playground waiting for them to come out. I'm not blatantly rude and there are a couple I nod and say hello to, but I really don't want to start being chummy chummy, certainly not at this stage. 

My view is we're in this for the long haul and I want to let the boy form some friendships before I start getting chummy with the mummies.

Also I don't want to get coerced into 'helping out' with school trips, swimming lessons, PTA meetings or running the tombola at the school fete. 

I know I'm mean and horrible but I just don't want to be deal with other people's kids. I love my boy and my friends kids but quite frankly I can't be doing with the rest.

And I bet there's loads of mums who feel the same but aren't brave enough to say it. 

Just because I'm a mum it doesn't mean I suddenly became an earth mother. I'm much better with children than I used to be - I mean loads better - because I used to bloody hate kids. Even as a child I used to hate kids. I wanted to be with the adults and listen to their mystical adult conversation. I couldn't wait to grow up and be like them.

Be careful what you wish for hey!

You know how some girls from about aged 10 onwards are really good with young kids and display that 'motherly' instinct when they play with them? You'd have thought someone had poisoned me if you stuck me near a small child. Cuddling babies! No chance. 

I ditched the toy pram and dollies very quickly in preference of fluffy animals, who I used to marry off to each other most Saturday afternoons. I'd hold a mock service for the happy cuddly couple, followed by a bears wedding reception with tiny little sandwiches, bits of 'Mr Kipling' Victoria sponge and a free bar consisting of a selection of unopened miniature bottles of booze my Nanny had brought back for us off the Felixstowe to Hook of Holland ferry. 

I'd hold all this in the corner of our lounge, as close to the record player as possible, so I could be the DJ and spin those discs at the 'evening do', where yet more fluffs and stuffs would arrive. The light show for the disco would involve a torch and a variety of coloured wrappers from Quality Street chocolates, that were whipped in front of the light very, very quickly. 

You may think that this story shows a little girl who was desperate to get married, but no. I was a little girl desperate to be a DJ and party planner. As long as the guests were all made of nylon stuffing and fake fur and the buffet was in miniature then I was sorted. 

So I know the day will come when one of the mums approaches me to introduce herself, as 'our children seem to be such great friends' and 'maybe we should organise a playdate'? But until then I'm keeping my head down, nodding it occasionally and getting the hell out of that playground the moment the boy comes running towards me Because I'm dreading it. 

Unless of course their kid fancies playing 'bears wedding reception'? 

Wednesday, 8 October 2014

The One With The Great British Bake Off



My mate Clementine once suggested that I should apply for The Great British Bake Off. 

This was way back when it was still on BBC2 and 3 old ladies and a goat watched it. 

Not like it is now. Prime-time BBC1 with millions of people watching and those same millions all taking to social media to comment as they watch.

We've just this minute found out who has won this series and congratulations to Nancy. You're a better woman than I am.

Now don't get me wrong I can bake. It's not for nothing that the Lemon Cake family have nicknamed me 'Cakie', because I invariably have a freshly baked cake about my person. 
I'm not a bad baker. I'm not fancy though. I make a respectable plain cake. Ginger, lemon drizzle, carrot, chocolate, Victoria sponge - you know the score. I don't ice. I don't adorn. 
I don't decorate.

I don't make my own fondant! (feels the icy death stare from Mary Berry). 

So there's that against me, because as moist (snigger) as my cakes are I can't make the Taj Mahal out of them. Neither can I construct the Hanging Gardens of Babylon from shortbread. 

I make a lovely sausage roll but, as I haven't made pastry since I was at school, I buy it I'm afraid and the only bread I make involves a trick with a bottle of beer (oh grow up - not like that for goodness sake, people have got to eat it).

So all in all I'm on a non, sour dough, starter to be star baker.

But the main reason I can't apply for The Great British Bake Off is this.

It's nothing to do with Mary Berry looking disapprovingly at me when I say I've never made my own filo pastry (seriously who the hell does? even professional chefs don't do that).

It's nothing to do with hubby fancying Sue Perkins (do you want to tell him he's barking up the wrong tree with that one, or shall I?)

It's not even to do with wilting into a middle aged hormonal mess if I come within 5 feet of Mr Paul Hollywood.

It's this.

I'd swear.

I mean I'd really, really swear.

Proper swearing. Not just 'bloody hell' or 'oh bugger this'. It's so tense in that tent that, to quote Mrs Doyle in 'Father Ted',  I'd say feck and worse than feck!  

How in the name of iced fingers do they not eff and jeff like a docker? I would be effing and blinding with the best of them when it all went tits up or I burnt myself on a Swiss roll tin or someone left my ice cream out of the freezer! 

If my dough hadn't risen, or my cake had collapsed, there is no way on this earth I wouldn't utter my Mum's favourite saying "Well that's pissed on the matches!" 

Or when the steely eyed Hollywood was on the prowl, trying to un-nerve me, I couldn't help but muse "He's everywhere him, like shit in a field." 

They literally wouldn't be able to broadcast a single word I said. 

It's not that I'm a foul mouthed person in general it's just that when they're no kids about.. well I do like a a good swear up. Me and Lemon Cake Lady love a bloody good swear when we're away from the boys. We 'apply ourselves' to quote hubby. A good old fashioned, Anglo Saxon swear is relaxing. Just like baking. 

Only it's not relaxing baking in a tent with millions of people watching you and not being able to shout 'bollocks' when you've got your flavours all wrong and your meringue tastes of soap!

Lavender... my arse.....