Do you ever stop to wonder how a newspaper report would describe you if you were killed in some horrific accident? No? Just me, then… Anyway, as of this morning, I would be described as a ’35-year-old mother of two.’ Possibly ‘writer and 35-year-old mother of two’ if the reporter was feeling generous, but the emphasis would definitely be on my age and parental status.
That doesn’t sound like me. I may be just as close to 50 as I am to 20 (noooooo!) but in my head, I’m still not grown up yet. I bought myself a pair of bright blue DMs the other week, don’tcha know.
Birthdays are a bit of an anti-climax when you get to a certain age (I presume I am a woman of ‘certain age’ now). This was the scene all set for my daughter’s third birthday last week; by contrast, I’ve spent my morning doing housework, stripping the beds and booking a Tesco delivery.
Until a couple of years ago, I was never that bothered about ageing – mainly because I felt that I hadn’t started to yet. I remember being most indignant when I went for a facial while pregnant with The Girl, and the therapist recommended I start using anti-ageing cream. Now, though, I can see that she was right. I have wrinkles and grey hair aplenty (and a big zit today – how unfair is that?) and although I can still fit into kids’ shoes – the joys of a size three foot – I can’t remember the last time I got asked for ID. I’m more likely to get asked if I’m interested in life insurance, to be honest. Continue reading
It felt like the end of an era when, last week, The Girl and I had our last parent and child swimming session together. Both of my children have been to swimming lessons with me since they were a few months old – and with the same lovely teacher. For all the moaning I’ve done over the two separate blocks of almost three years about the temperature of the water, the tedious drag of getting changed afterwards (especially in winter) and the amount of washing each weekly session generates, I loved swimming with my babies, and was slightly choked up as The Girl and I headed back to the changing rooms after our final session.
The Girl wasn’t remotely upset, though. She was just excited – jumping up and down excited – that she was now old enough to go to proper lessons with a proper swimming hat, just like her brother. In fact, she was just as excited – if not more so – about that red latex cap as any of her other birthday presents, bike included.
Pre-school stage 1 swimming lesson
I had reservations, though. The Boy was (and still is) a very good swimmer at this age; he actually started swimming lessons independently a month or so early, and progressed quickly through the first few levels. He spent as much time underwater as on the surface, and was already able to swim a few metres without aids. On the other hand, The Girl, although water-confident, has certain things that she really does not like doing, including putting her face in the water. Add to this her stubborn streak, and I was suspecting that her first swimming lesson might be a 30-minute tantrumfest. Continue reading
Time seems to pass very quickly for second-born children. It seems no time at all since my daughter made her grand (speedy, surprising) entrance to the world, and yet she is now a week into being three. I still think of her as my little baby – a sentiment that she vehemently opposes – but it’s becoming harder and harder to deny that she is not just not a baby, but not a toddler either. She’s a pre-schooler, a little girl, a girl who’s getting bigger by the day.
The Girl at three is scarily grown-up and opinionated. Whereas The Boy was a quiet and mild-mannered pre-schooler, The Girl has attitude in spades. This swings from being absolutely infuriating (when she’s screaming at her brother because he dared to look at her) to totally hilarious. It’s very hard not to laugh when she indignantly puts her hands on her hips and announces, ‘Daddy, you are annoying me!’ Continue reading
I messed up. I messed up big time. I posted a thoughtless rant, and, understandably, half of our village took against me. I don’t blame them. I was stupid and superior and insensitive.
But I miss my blog. More to the point, I feel sorry every day – almost 18 months on – for the upset I caused.
This half-term, I have felt so wonderfully at home in our village. I’ve had great times with friends, celebrating my daughter’s third birthday, and life in general.
I am fed up of spending my life walking around the village, feeling scared of who I might meet. I want to put my stupid error of judgement behind me. I am posting this, and laying myself bare, in the hope that the people I know and love will share it with the people who hate me, and that those people will accept that I know I was stupid and bigoted and self-important, and that I respect each and every one of them - far more than I do myself. I don’t want to duck and dive and feel scared of bumping into certain people – even via Facebook. Maybe I’ve taken things too much to heart, but I was torn apart – deservedly – by being at the heart of a whispering campaign.
I want to be able to live here comfortably again. I want to be able to write. I am open to messages if people feel I shouldn’t. But I love my local friends, and I miss my blog, I hope that my apology is well received and I can get back to the present I know and love.
Sometimes (often) I fall so far short of being the mother I want to be.
This morning was one of those occasions. It was Wacky Hair Day at The Boy’s school. It started off okay – I’d bought red hairspray, and managed to use it to mould his hair into a suitable crazy style. But within minutes of me saying, ‘Whatever you do, DON’T TOUCH IT,’ he came downstairs telling me he had a ‘little bit’ of red dye on his sleeve.
A little bit turned out to be a lot. All the way from cuff to shoulder of his shirt, to be precise. And, of course, he was wearing a proper (expensive) crested polo shirt, rather than a cheapo Tesco version. Continue reading
There’s a bit of upstaging going on in our house at the moment. The Boy is busy rehearsing for his first ever drama exam, which he’ll be taking in just under three weeks’ time. He’s totally unsporty and hasn’t a musical bone in his body, but acting has always been his ‘thing.’ He just does it well: he’s natural and confident with a great sense of comic timing, and not at all show-offy about it. Music lessons would be a monumental waste of money for my tone-deaf son, but with acting, he has the potential to do quite well.
Of course, private lessons of any sort don’t come cheap, so when we agreed to let The Boy take them, we extracted a promise that he would work hard and take it seriously. He was quite happy with his side of the bargain, keen as he is to learn the skills he needs to be ‘a proper actor.’ Continue reading
I am so stupid sometimes. So stupid and easily led.
Take Friday night, for example. One of my Facebook friends mentioned that her teenage daughter was hankering after a second set of ear piercings. ‘I can’t very well refuse, as I have five visible holes in one ear,’ she said.
Me too, me too! My first set of ear piercings was sanctioned by my mum, but I also have another four holes in my left ear and three in my right that most definitely weren’t. These days, I only wear my cartilage piercing, but my friend’s post prompted me to see how many of my old holes were still functioning. The answer: all but the fifth in my left ear. Ouch.
Then, yesterday, I washed and dried my hair and thought how awful it looked. My roots needed doing, and my ends were dry, frazzled and split. I spent the whole day fiddling with it, brushing it, trying to make it look okay, and failed. It looked awful.
Then my mind lit upon something I’d seen online a while ago: the so-called Mumsnet ponytail haircut. You pull your hair into a ponytail on top of your head, chop the ends off, take the hair band out, and hey presto, you have a beautiful layered haircut for free. Continue reading
Life has been very hard on The Boy lately. He has been waiting, and waiting, and waiting and waiting and waiting to lose his first tooth.
With a November 2nd birthday, he’s one of the eldest in his class (the third eldest, in fact, as he often tells me). So by rights, he should have been one of the first to lose a tooth. But his gums weren’t listening.
The Boy is approaching the end of Year 2. A couple of his classmates lost their first tooth in Reception, and by Year 1, more than half had bade farewell to a milk tooth or two. Over the past nine months, just about all – in fact, quite possibly every single one – of his friends have been visited by the tooth fairy; even the ones who are still a month or so away from their seventh birthday. But not The Boy. And he was not happy.
When his classmates started losing teeth, he was sure he would be next in line. ‘I am the third oldest in the class, after all,’ he told me. But the months passed, and the teeth stayed firm. Continue reading
It’s early. Even for us, it’s early. But The Toddler is awake.
I go in. I put her back down. I go back to bed.
Five minutes later: ‘Muuuuummmeeeee!’
I go back in.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I want to get out of this bed.’
‘You can’t. It’s still night time. Go back to sleep.’
‘Go back to sleep’
‘Go back to sleep’
‘Okay, okay, come on then, come into my bed.’
The Toddler: ‘Yes, *that* is what I meant.’
I have this form on my bread bin.
It’s been there since last May. A whole year.
It’s the form that will enrol my daughter for pre-school.
At the time I was given the form, I was perfectly okay with the idea of The Toddler going to pre-school eventually, probably in September 2013, when she’d be exactly two and a half. But over a year ahead of her provisional start date, there seemed no rush to actually submit the paperwork. So I didn’t.
At various times over the past year, I’ve spotted the form while trying to rationalise the pile of paper that accumulates on top of the bread bin, and put it back, meaning to turn my attention to it soon.
It’s still there. Continue reading