Two weeks into the school holidays and I think that the husband and I have survived reasonable well considering. Yes, considering that our house is full to capacity with other people’s noisy children. How did this happen? I thought for sure that the guy who had a garden full of bright and colourful play equipment would have the full quota of street kids, including my own two. I go out of my way to make our house boring and dull. For the love of God why are they congregating here?
Apparently the joy and excitement at the expensive bright lights and colourful plastic that have been invested in by one of our neighbours has worn out. They are bored of all that and would prefer to come round our gaff, leave mucky footprints and sticky handprints everywhere and eat all our food.
Since I am off on what people laughingly refer to as maternity leave and am supposed to take it somewhat easy. I have looked the dictionary. Under ‘easy’ it does not explain that one must physically break up fights between seven year olds about which superhero group is the best – those nice Marvel lads or the dudes from X-men – or use the Heimlich manoeuvre on a five-year-old who is choking on half a worm dropped in his mouth by a well meaning pal.
I’d like to think that my kids are well mannered and are good ambassadors for the O’Neill family when in other people’s company. I’d like to think they’d refrain from insulting people, using bad language and physical violence when they are away from my watchful eye. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. But this week I have discovered that all 7-year-olds are brutally and painfully honest, to the point of inducing real tears in other people’s parents.
In the past week I have heard one of my boy’s friends make a slur on my weight. As in why is your ma fat? I felt like bursting in to the room, brandishing the vacuum cleaner in a menacing way and shouting “I’m pregnant, you scoundrel! I didn’t in fact eat all the pies. You see how the extra weight is confined to around my tummy area only? Do you realise the sacrifice and suffering I have endured to not eat chocolate cake for every meal? This time next week I’ll be back in my skinny jeans, you mark my words.” (At this point waving the vacuum pole in the air for dramatic effect) “Do you hear me boy? SKINNY JEANS!!”
I have also been called, and I quote, ‘stupid and boring’. This was because I was unfamiliar with some of the lyrics from High School Musical. The little girl in question was horrified that I, and here is where I hang my head in total and utter shame, have never watched a programme called Glee. Apparently there are cooler and hipper mums around who know all the words to these songs and quite happily sing and dance their way around their kitchens with their offspring. Am I a bad mother?
I may be wrong here, but the last time I looked singing rubbish eighties soft rock numbers into hairbrushes did not a cool person make. Perhaps they have changed the definition of coolness. I honestly thought that by refraining from wearing elasticated waisted ‘Mom jeans’ and liking Susan Boyle was all the effort needed to make me ‘cool’. Perhaps I should up my game. Perhaps I have been left lonely on the roadside as all the other mas speed past onboard the last bus to Coolsville, waving Enrique Inglasias posters out the windows and wearing Lady Gaga-style outfits. Oh, my coolness where art thou? When did you desert me?
I pondered this apparent lack of coolness for days. Hell I even looked up the lyrics to ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ on the net. Then I wised up.
I suppose everyone’s perception of coolness is worlds apart. As long as my boys at least think I’m borderline cool then that’s fine with me.
And I suppose it’s sweet that for a short time kids think that their mum and dad are the coolest people on the planet, casting a dark, uncool cloud over other parents. The idolising doesn’t last long, however. There comes a time when the coolness is replaced with total and utter parental embarrassment, a stage which I have been preparing for for a long time, an area where I am most skilled. Embarrassing my children is the sole reason I became a parent (alright, one of them anyway).
In the meantime I shall hunt out my Kiss records and Def Leppard t-shirts. I shall hook up the karaoke machine to the front porch and belt out a few tunes full throttle. These kids think their mas are cool? They aint seen nothing yet.
Tuesday 20 July 2010
Monday 12 July 2010
Anyone see my pink highlighter?
The dog, Buddy, ate an entire pink highlighter this morning. When I questioned him on this crime he denied all knowledge of ever even seeing the marker and blamed the youngest boy instead. I don't know who to believe....
Green fingers...
Worms and snails and puppy dogs tails, that's what little boys are made of. Well that's what the contents of the youngest boy's jean pockets are anyway.
The waiting game
I am formally playing the baby waiting game. This baby is due to arrive in six days time, but at this stage I feel like I can’t possibly go the distance.
It truly feels like this has been the longest pregnancy in history – peppered with such sparkling highlights as five-month long bouts of morning sickness, cleaning products sniffing obsessions and spaghetti bolognaise phobias.
I’ll be glad to be ‘normal’ again. In fact I plan a maternity-style bonfire to rival any eleventh night affair, except mine will be packed to the rafters not with tyres, old sofas and placards bearing derogatory remarks about people of another persuasion but stacked with horrendously unflattering elasticated waisted maternity jeans, matronly looking flowery tops and bottles of gloopy Gaviscon.
Something peculiar happens to a girl in the last weeks of pregnancy. People no longer converse normally to a heavily pregnant woman – they want to talk about babies and nothing else. I find myself starting conversations with people about topics as broad ranging as the recent budget to the situation in Iraq. No matter what the subject people turn it around to bumps and babies.
“What about that budget eh? Bit dramatic, everyone’s up for the chop.”
“Never you worry your pretty little head about that silly old budget, you concentrate on cutey little baby blankets and pink fluffy bunnies.”
“Ammm, OK then.”
And why is it that people feel that it is OK to invade the space of a pregnant woman? Complete and utter strangers, who would walk past a ‘normal’ person without saying a word, are suddenly over patting the bump and taking great pleasure in scaring you with their nightmare birth story.
The last few weeks of pregnancy are torturous enough without having to hear about ladies whose actual heads exploded in childbirth or who went actually mad, as in like seriously mad – mooing like a cow and everything – with the pains of labour.
Forget the cutesy ‘Baby on Board’ t-shirts mums-to-be are prone to wearing, I’ve put in an order for a few ‘Back off the Bump or Die!’ and ‘Pregnant and Dangerous, stay well clear for your own safety!’ t-shirts.
I was to take a tour of the new wing at our hospital last week to familiarise myself with the place. The midwife who had been explaining the place described the new multi-million facility as ‘like a hotel, a spa even.’
I don’t know what these midwives do of a weekend but the last time I went on a luxury break it did not involve excruciating pain, and abundance of drugs – perhaps I’ve been frequenting all the wrong places – and the most I went home with was a ‘complimentary’ bathrobe, not a tiny human being who will drain my finances for the next 18 years. Also, as far as I know you can stay in these hotels for a little longer than six hours before they chuck you out.
I seem to be suffering from severe grumpiness; no one is safe from my wrath.
As for those scoundrels who call, Facebook and text constantly asking for news of the baby I’ve taken to switching the phone off and have left a message along the lines of….
“You have reached the O’Neill residence. There is currently no news, no sign, no shifting and no ‘word of me yet’. I am still the size of a small semi-detached house and extremely, extremely irritable. If you’d like to leave a message please do so, refraining from mentioning anything that will tip me over the edge to insanity – topics to avoid include jump start cables, 10-month-long pregnancies and 15 pound babies. Should your message annoy me in any shape or form I shall dispatch my children to your abode, have them daub poster paint stick men on your living room curtains and bad words all over your car. This will then be entirely your fault. You have been warned. Ba-Bye!
It truly feels like this has been the longest pregnancy in history – peppered with such sparkling highlights as five-month long bouts of morning sickness, cleaning products sniffing obsessions and spaghetti bolognaise phobias.
I’ll be glad to be ‘normal’ again. In fact I plan a maternity-style bonfire to rival any eleventh night affair, except mine will be packed to the rafters not with tyres, old sofas and placards bearing derogatory remarks about people of another persuasion but stacked with horrendously unflattering elasticated waisted maternity jeans, matronly looking flowery tops and bottles of gloopy Gaviscon.
Something peculiar happens to a girl in the last weeks of pregnancy. People no longer converse normally to a heavily pregnant woman – they want to talk about babies and nothing else. I find myself starting conversations with people about topics as broad ranging as the recent budget to the situation in Iraq. No matter what the subject people turn it around to bumps and babies.
“What about that budget eh? Bit dramatic, everyone’s up for the chop.”
“Never you worry your pretty little head about that silly old budget, you concentrate on cutey little baby blankets and pink fluffy bunnies.”
“Ammm, OK then.”
And why is it that people feel that it is OK to invade the space of a pregnant woman? Complete and utter strangers, who would walk past a ‘normal’ person without saying a word, are suddenly over patting the bump and taking great pleasure in scaring you with their nightmare birth story.
The last few weeks of pregnancy are torturous enough without having to hear about ladies whose actual heads exploded in childbirth or who went actually mad, as in like seriously mad – mooing like a cow and everything – with the pains of labour.
Forget the cutesy ‘Baby on Board’ t-shirts mums-to-be are prone to wearing, I’ve put in an order for a few ‘Back off the Bump or Die!’ and ‘Pregnant and Dangerous, stay well clear for your own safety!’ t-shirts.
I was to take a tour of the new wing at our hospital last week to familiarise myself with the place. The midwife who had been explaining the place described the new multi-million facility as ‘like a hotel, a spa even.’
I don’t know what these midwives do of a weekend but the last time I went on a luxury break it did not involve excruciating pain, and abundance of drugs – perhaps I’ve been frequenting all the wrong places – and the most I went home with was a ‘complimentary’ bathrobe, not a tiny human being who will drain my finances for the next 18 years. Also, as far as I know you can stay in these hotels for a little longer than six hours before they chuck you out.
I seem to be suffering from severe grumpiness; no one is safe from my wrath.
As for those scoundrels who call, Facebook and text constantly asking for news of the baby I’ve taken to switching the phone off and have left a message along the lines of….
“You have reached the O’Neill residence. There is currently no news, no sign, no shifting and no ‘word of me yet’. I am still the size of a small semi-detached house and extremely, extremely irritable. If you’d like to leave a message please do so, refraining from mentioning anything that will tip me over the edge to insanity – topics to avoid include jump start cables, 10-month-long pregnancies and 15 pound babies. Should your message annoy me in any shape or form I shall dispatch my children to your abode, have them daub poster paint stick men on your living room curtains and bad words all over your car. This will then be entirely your fault. You have been warned. Ba-Bye!
Monday 5 July 2010
My name is Leona and I'm a cleanaholic...
Two weeks to go know until the new baby arrives and I’ve become a lean, mean cleaning machine. Well maybe not so lean, but big, fat, mean, cleaning machine doesn’t really have the same ‘roll off the tongue’ ring to it.
I have quite literally gone mad cleaning our house in preparation for the new arrival. It’s not really surprising really. One of my biggest pregnancy cravings this time around has been the delicious smell of Sainsbury’s disinfectant floor wipes. I carried a packet of them around in my bag in case of emergencies – like random cleaning emergencies. Like the time we went to a restaurant and the highchair needed a swift wipe before we deposited the youngest boy there.
Our waitress tried to fob us off with a quick spritz of, frankly inferior, wishy, washy spray and a swipe of a damp cloth. After she left I produced my emergency wipes and I can safely say that that particular highchair has never, ever been so gloriously clean and beautifully sweet smelling. The thing was quite literally reflective.
Yes the husband, other punters and restaurant staff thought me crazy, but may God forgive me, once I get a whiff of those lime and eucalyptus infused wipes I just go into a hazy trance. God knows I would have cleaned the entire premises from top to bottom had I been permitted.
They say that this nesting urge in pregnancy is thought to be caused by both biological and emotional factors. Most females in the animal kingdom experience similar patterns of cleaning and preparation when they are pregnant. Yes, but how many female gorillas are you aware of who feel an overwhelming urge to colour code their wardrobes or thoroughly vacuum their front lawns?
From birds to bears, female animals appear to have an intrinsic need to prepare ahead of time for our new arrivals. It is believed that females are programmed to experience this nesting instinct in order to ensure that their offspring will be cared for properly after birth, and, of course, have superbly clean cupboards and adequately colour co-ordinated relatives.
This week I have kind of gone off the Sainsbury’s wipes and find myself strangely drawn to Cif Multi-Purpose anti-bacterial spray. The air in our house is thick with the aluminous blue liquid drops. Everything and everyone who is stationery for more than two minutes is sprayed and scrubbed down.
I am like a drug addict, any excuse for another hit. I cleaned and disinfected the husband’s car – seats, windows, doors, boot space and all. It had been cleaned recently yes, but it hadn’t been really thoroughly disinfected since, like ever.
I go home after work and seek not the comfort of the sofa, the mop and bucket is my new friend. I collapse in a heap come 11pm, exhausted by the effort of steam cleaning the inside of my kitchen cupboards and vacuuming the garage’s cement floor. Many nights, after hours of constant cleaning, I haven’t even the energy to converse with my nearest and dearest. Unless it’s to converse about cleaning or the availability of new cleaning products.
The kitchen is on fire, is it? No, no I simply can’t find the energy to lift my head from this cushion, just leave me here, go and save yourselves. I would truly like to lie here until my head stops spinning. What’s that you say? WHAT? The patio doors have mucky paw prints on them? Get me some Windolene spray and some kitchen roll STAT!! Those windows will be gleaming if it is the last thing I do.
If you’re looking for me this week I shall be in the cleaning product department of my local supermarket and sample sniffing new forms of disinfectant. I am also available, for the next two weeks only, to clean houses at reasonable rates, say the price of Sainsbury’s floor wipes.
I have quite literally gone mad cleaning our house in preparation for the new arrival. It’s not really surprising really. One of my biggest pregnancy cravings this time around has been the delicious smell of Sainsbury’s disinfectant floor wipes. I carried a packet of them around in my bag in case of emergencies – like random cleaning emergencies. Like the time we went to a restaurant and the highchair needed a swift wipe before we deposited the youngest boy there.
Our waitress tried to fob us off with a quick spritz of, frankly inferior, wishy, washy spray and a swipe of a damp cloth. After she left I produced my emergency wipes and I can safely say that that particular highchair has never, ever been so gloriously clean and beautifully sweet smelling. The thing was quite literally reflective.
Yes the husband, other punters and restaurant staff thought me crazy, but may God forgive me, once I get a whiff of those lime and eucalyptus infused wipes I just go into a hazy trance. God knows I would have cleaned the entire premises from top to bottom had I been permitted.
They say that this nesting urge in pregnancy is thought to be caused by both biological and emotional factors. Most females in the animal kingdom experience similar patterns of cleaning and preparation when they are pregnant. Yes, but how many female gorillas are you aware of who feel an overwhelming urge to colour code their wardrobes or thoroughly vacuum their front lawns?
From birds to bears, female animals appear to have an intrinsic need to prepare ahead of time for our new arrivals. It is believed that females are programmed to experience this nesting instinct in order to ensure that their offspring will be cared for properly after birth, and, of course, have superbly clean cupboards and adequately colour co-ordinated relatives.
This week I have kind of gone off the Sainsbury’s wipes and find myself strangely drawn to Cif Multi-Purpose anti-bacterial spray. The air in our house is thick with the aluminous blue liquid drops. Everything and everyone who is stationery for more than two minutes is sprayed and scrubbed down.
I am like a drug addict, any excuse for another hit. I cleaned and disinfected the husband’s car – seats, windows, doors, boot space and all. It had been cleaned recently yes, but it hadn’t been really thoroughly disinfected since, like ever.
I go home after work and seek not the comfort of the sofa, the mop and bucket is my new friend. I collapse in a heap come 11pm, exhausted by the effort of steam cleaning the inside of my kitchen cupboards and vacuuming the garage’s cement floor. Many nights, after hours of constant cleaning, I haven’t even the energy to converse with my nearest and dearest. Unless it’s to converse about cleaning or the availability of new cleaning products.
The kitchen is on fire, is it? No, no I simply can’t find the energy to lift my head from this cushion, just leave me here, go and save yourselves. I would truly like to lie here until my head stops spinning. What’s that you say? WHAT? The patio doors have mucky paw prints on them? Get me some Windolene spray and some kitchen roll STAT!! Those windows will be gleaming if it is the last thing I do.
If you’re looking for me this week I shall be in the cleaning product department of my local supermarket and sample sniffing new forms of disinfectant. I am also available, for the next two weeks only, to clean houses at reasonable rates, say the price of Sainsbury’s floor wipes.
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