Having four children is tough going. They keep us awake at night, on our toes with never-ending demands, constantly criticise our parenting efforts, wreck our house and do their best to eat or destroy everything in their path.
When quietness descends on the house and the dust settles after a busy day, the husband and I often utilise the hour after they all go to bed to contemplate how we can exact revenge for these years of torture.
We smile as we plan ahead, years ahead. We may very well be old and grey when we get our own back. But revenge is indeed a dish best served cold. And we will serve a big bowl of freezing cold spaghetti carbonara, much akin to the substance Finn spilled down the back of the sofa, when our time comes.
We have made a vow to get them back for all the hair-greying, wrinkle-producing, stress-headache inducing tactics they have used to make our lives more ah, colourful. Regardless of where they are in the world, we will travel, we will have our revenge, our day will, as they say, come.
Say our oldest boy is all grown up, living in a big fancy house with a posh wife and a lovely car out front.
Pensioner versions of the husband and I will turn up at his house. We will eat spaghetti bolognaise on his fancy white sofa, covering everything within a metre radius in that nasty red sauce that never comes out. When he shouts at us to stop wiping our hands on his nice cushion covers we'll tell him to catch himself on that it’s only a stupid cushion.
On overnight visits we shall call him into our room approximately every 36 minutes to furnish us with fresh glasses of water, tissues and perhaps a new duvet cover because the one with the dinosaurs on it is really scary. We shall also put in requests for stories about aliens and spend the rest of the night in his bed because aliens are far scarier than dinosaurs.
In the morning the husband and I will spend 45 minutes swinging our clothes around our heads, kung-fu kicking each other and refusing to brush our teeth instead of getting dressed and ready to go back to the old folk’s home, thus leaving him late for his fancy job.
Also, we will throw up in the back seat of his fancy car so that he goes to work late and stinking of vom.
After we have completed our torture of Daniel we shall move on to his younger brother, whom, I am confident, will also have a fancy job, wife and car.
We shall begin our reign of pensioner terror in his kitchen where the husband - grey, old and decrepit as he will then be - will attempt to forcibly part kitchen
cupboards from their hinges. We will both eat everything at and below eye level and within reaching distance, then complain loudly and with bewilderment about feeling sick. We will also ask 10 questions in succession and not listen or care for the answers.We will follow him and his fancy wife around the house asking for more food and whining that we are literally weak with hunger. We mat well rock the TV back and forth until it falls off and smashes on the ground for no reason other than it’s just there.
Then we will make our way to our youngest boy's place of work. While the pensioner version of the husband distracts him by asking him to fill a sink with water and bubbles so he can dunk random stuff – remote controls, loaves of bread, cordless phones ¬– in, I will jam a jammy-covered DVD into his computer disc drive. I will also lie in wait until he has completed, but not saved, a very long and important document then pounce and switch the computer off at the wall.
When he brings us to his, no doubt, fancy abode we will attempt to blow up his kitchen by placing canisters of deodorant into his oven. We shall also busy ourselves eating dog pellets before being sick on his living room carpet.
The baby girl – who by this stage will be a beautiful and successful young woman – we will keep awake for three-week stretches by calling her on the phone at 10-minute intervals throughout the night
There's plenty of time yet to imagine methods of torture that wouldn’t look out of place in a Jean Claude Van Dam movie. Our brain cells and memory may well diminish with age but these pages will serve as a constant reminder and detailed record of days, and torture, gone by.
Tuesday, 31 May 2011
Monday, 16 May 2011
School daze...
The youngest of my boys is due to start playschool in September and as such has to learn to abide by a few of their rules – the most prevalent of those things is not to pee anywhere except a ceramic receptacle in the boys bathrooms.
Problem is he has absolutely no interest in parting ways with his Pampers.
It’s fair to say we’ve been down this road a few times at this stage and know, more or less, what to expect with the potty training experience. There have been certain boys in our house, who shall remain nameless to spare their blushes, who utilised plant pots in doctor’s surgeries, antique rugs, and wooden floors as a tactic to avoid using the actual toilet. One child blew up a fancy freestanding lamp ¬– and in turn fused the lights in the entire house – in the living room by mistaking it for a urinal. An easy enough error to make.
These are the dangers we must now face with our youngest son. But as parents we are fully prepared – mop bucket and bleach in hand – for the challenge. We have to tackle the problem now otherwise the boy will be showing up for his first lecture at university with a thick wad of sodden padding poking out over the top of his futuristic jeans.
But there are other ways we must prepare him for his entrance into the world of academia. He may be two and a half but he needs to know the ways of the world, the rules of the jungle.
I decided to research what areas we need to cover over the summer to get him organised for the school start in September. And as there are no set rules supplied by my boy’s nursery school, I had to look to a few schools in the US for guidance on how my child should behave. I mean, how much different can Derry be to, say, Detroit?
So according to these rules he must not wear chains on his trousers. This is a decidedly awkward one as the boy is already showing signs of worshipping Goth fashion. Just the other day he asked me if I thought his Cult t-shirt went better with his thick black eyeliner and backcombed curly hair look. He is also not allowed to wear spiked jewellery. Bummer.
He must not have creases on his trousers. As in deliberate creases, not the messy ones you get when you don’t iron your threads. This is gang-related thing. He is also forbidden to wear all red, all blue or a plain white t-shirt, lest the little man might be mistaken for a gangbanger. He must also refrain from wearing a comb permanently in his hair.
The child must refrain from other obvious wearing gang-apparel such as sleeveless denim jackets, or any other clothing, such as jumpsuits or long overcoats, which could conceal weapons. He is also not permitted to carry large bags.
All crayons, markers and non-prescription drugs are off the menu, only food must be consumed on school grounds.
He is also not allowed to chew chewing gum, which is unfortunately his most favourite past time, alongside drinking beer which is also frowned upon, by the way. There is also a no smoking, no knives and no firearms policy at most schools.
He is also not allowed to drive a scooter in the corridors of learning or use a bench as a mode of transport to descend stairs. I say whoever invented those particular rules are health and safety nerds and need to get out of their dusty classrooms more. Where I ask, is the fun in that?
So I think we’re clear enough on the ins and outs of school rules. We have the summer to get him off the beer, drugs, firearms and gang apparel. First to get the boy out of Pampers.
Monday, 9 May 2011
First Communion – What Not to Wear.....
We spent last week trying to sort out the boy’s threads for next month’s First Holy Communion.
I dragged the boy through 10 different shops, tried on a positive mountain of occasion wear, matched shirts to his hair colour and made several attempts at gearing him out with footwear. But the boy was not happy.
What kind of suit do you want? I would ask him. He would shrug his shoulders. Is it a grey one you’re after? The shop assistant would inquire. What about this lovely stripey shirt and tie combo? More shaking of his head and shrugging.
As I discussed the hopelessness of the situation with the shop assistant Daniel called me from across the shop to say he had found the perfect suit. It must be perfect, I thought, practically rugby tackling other shoppers to get to the one and only outfit that had actually made my boy smile for the first time that day.
And there it was, in all its glory. The full Darth Vader suit – long black flowing cloak, big black shiny headgear and red light saber, which makes whooshy and whirly noises.
I told him it wouldn’t really go down well in the church.
He didn’t care.
I told him all the other boys would be wearing real suits, as in waistcoat and shirt, not midnight black breastplate with red flashy lights and high boots with knee pads built in.
He said he didn’t care.
He said that people at that chapel on the day would be able to sense his confidence, as well as his off-the-chart midichlorian count as he strode up to the altar to receive his First Holy Communion. He said that once the priest did the whole sign of the cross thing he would be able to say ‘Amen’ in a deep, smoky heavily computerised voice. He said his mates would be so impressed they would high-five him on the way back to his seat. He said that this suit would render him literally unstoppable, except maybe at the buffet afterwards. He said he’d like to dine at a restaurant afterwards that served MGD 64 because chips wouldn't fit in through the breathing gaps in his helmet.
He said he was wearing this suit or no suit at all. That was my choice.
As I pondered the suit I did, for a moment, contemplate the advantages of those sturdy, black shoulderpads, the handiness of those black, padded gloves, the fact that the helmet would infact keep the bright sun off his fair skin. At least it was practical. At least he would get some wear out of it.
As it happened to be World Star Wars Day there was a variety of costumes on display. I’ll admit I had a vision of us in the church that day. And, by golly, it was spectacular.
I’d be in Princess Lea’s get-up – granted the metallic bikini may be uncomfortable for a particularly long mass but I’d be willing to pay the price for fashion. We could pray that we get a priest who prefers a short and sweet service as the husband will only be able to endure a brief period dressed as the rather hairy Chewbacca. Caolan would be a fabulous Stormtrooper. Finn the terrible will make a great R2-D2 and the wheeled underbelly of the robot will prevent him from running up and down the aisles shouting obscenities during the quiet bits of the mass. The baby will, of course, is the perfect size for Yoda. It may take a while to paint her skin green, and I suppose we could get baby-friendly super glue for the pointy ears, but if we are going to do it, we are going to do it right.
We will surely turn heads.
The countdown is on. Only four weeks to go. May the June fourth be with you – Sith Lord and Jedi alike.
I dragged the boy through 10 different shops, tried on a positive mountain of occasion wear, matched shirts to his hair colour and made several attempts at gearing him out with footwear. But the boy was not happy.
What kind of suit do you want? I would ask him. He would shrug his shoulders. Is it a grey one you’re after? The shop assistant would inquire. What about this lovely stripey shirt and tie combo? More shaking of his head and shrugging.
As I discussed the hopelessness of the situation with the shop assistant Daniel called me from across the shop to say he had found the perfect suit. It must be perfect, I thought, practically rugby tackling other shoppers to get to the one and only outfit that had actually made my boy smile for the first time that day.
And there it was, in all its glory. The full Darth Vader suit – long black flowing cloak, big black shiny headgear and red light saber, which makes whooshy and whirly noises.
I told him it wouldn’t really go down well in the church.
He didn’t care.
I told him all the other boys would be wearing real suits, as in waistcoat and shirt, not midnight black breastplate with red flashy lights and high boots with knee pads built in.
He said he didn’t care.
He said that people at that chapel on the day would be able to sense his confidence, as well as his off-the-chart midichlorian count as he strode up to the altar to receive his First Holy Communion. He said that once the priest did the whole sign of the cross thing he would be able to say ‘Amen’ in a deep, smoky heavily computerised voice. He said his mates would be so impressed they would high-five him on the way back to his seat. He said that this suit would render him literally unstoppable, except maybe at the buffet afterwards. He said he’d like to dine at a restaurant afterwards that served MGD 64 because chips wouldn't fit in through the breathing gaps in his helmet.
He said he was wearing this suit or no suit at all. That was my choice.
As I pondered the suit I did, for a moment, contemplate the advantages of those sturdy, black shoulderpads, the handiness of those black, padded gloves, the fact that the helmet would infact keep the bright sun off his fair skin. At least it was practical. At least he would get some wear out of it.
As it happened to be World Star Wars Day there was a variety of costumes on display. I’ll admit I had a vision of us in the church that day. And, by golly, it was spectacular.
I’d be in Princess Lea’s get-up – granted the metallic bikini may be uncomfortable for a particularly long mass but I’d be willing to pay the price for fashion. We could pray that we get a priest who prefers a short and sweet service as the husband will only be able to endure a brief period dressed as the rather hairy Chewbacca. Caolan would be a fabulous Stormtrooper. Finn the terrible will make a great R2-D2 and the wheeled underbelly of the robot will prevent him from running up and down the aisles shouting obscenities during the quiet bits of the mass. The baby will, of course, is the perfect size for Yoda. It may take a while to paint her skin green, and I suppose we could get baby-friendly super glue for the pointy ears, but if we are going to do it, we are going to do it right.
We will surely turn heads.
The countdown is on. Only four weeks to go. May the June fourth be with you – Sith Lord and Jedi alike.
Tuesday, 3 May 2011
Happy Birthday Sunshine
My eldest son turns eight years old today.
It’s hard to believe that exactly seven years and 364 days ago the husband and I were just ordinary Joes, floating through life without so much as a care. In a heartbeat universes aligned, worlds collided and we became Mum, Dad and son. Forever.
It’s fair to say that we hadn’t the first clue what to do with our new baby boy. For the first few weeks of his life we fumbled through, regularly thinking the child was in mortal peril or broken because he slept too much/slept too little/cried/ or because we let the temperature in the room reach 19c. Then there was that projectile vomiting incident when I thought the child was possessed by the devil and rang the emergency parish priest hotline at Finaghy while the husband rang the doctor on his mobile.
Because I worked nights at the Irish News the boy would frequently stay up till midnight watching back to back Terminator or Lord of the Rings movies with his father. And because I wasn’t there in the evenings to supervise his musical development, the child was also subjected to an unhealthy amount of bad 80s rock music in his infancy which may, or may not, have affected his brain. He will surely recite these points as the reason for his issues when he books himself into counselling in a few years time.
But we’ve got him this far without accidentally killing him or totalling messing up his life, which is a victory in anybody’s eyes.
We’re not throwing a party this year due to the sheer volume of injuries that marred last year’s shenanigans.
As I sat in the ruins of a deflated bouncy castle I vowed never again to torture myself by inviting 35 seven year olds into my home.
Seven people had black eyes, two had bumped heads, one was a suspected concussion. Two girls got chewing gum stuck in their hair, one child had to wear a pirate’s patch on their eye for days after taking a direct hit from a foam machine gun pellet at close range. There wasn’t one single flower left in our garden and I was picking crisped rice out of our carpet for months afterwards. There’s still a large pinkish stain on the rug where one girl threw her Red Alien Milkshake at another girl for ‘dissing’ her hair clips and one child was still with us at 10pm that night after his parents ‘forgot’ him.
I bought 35 white t-shirts for all my little party-goers to decorate with markers and paint. They did the t-shirts then moved to their faces, their legs, the walls, our car, the bouncy castle, the neighbour’s fence/dog. By the time they went home – what with the black eyes and the bandages and the red paint – many of them looked like survivors of some manner of major disaster. There were precisely four odd shoes left behind and never claimed. There was talk of limbs being lost, and therefore no need for the shoes, but this rumour has never been confirmed.
So we’re thinking of going for something slightly little less stressful this year – maybe climbing Mount Everest or jumping from a plane without a parachute.
Regardless of what we do we’ll celebrate the joyous occasion that made me a mother, my husband a father and our son the centre of our universe.
Happy birthday my sunshine.
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
Working from home makes people crazy...
When I tell people I work from home I tend to get two standard responses. The first is ‘lucky you!’ and the other is ‘you lazy cow!’
For some reason people who don’t work from home imagine that the daily routine for those who do is to have a big lie-in, get up for Jeremy Kyle, sit in their jim-jams to 2pm, tinker on Facebook for a time then go back to bed.
Nothing, NOTHING could be further from the truth.
Working from home demands super tough self-discipline. And working from home with kids requires saint-like patience and juggling abilities that would make a circus clown sob with envy.
In my naivety I honestly thought working from my house with my kids and my dog would be positively idyllic. Granted this was before I even knew my kids and the dog had yet to arrive from his home planet.
Up until a few years ago I had a good office job and often dreamed the work from home dream. In this dream I wandered peacefully around in my perfectly furnished home office, cup of fresh steaming coffee in hand, and gazed out my window to survey my land (3 ft by 4ft with a fetching pea green coloured 2ft by 3ft oil tank). I would send witty emails to my intellectual acquaintances and negotiate top deals with global companies from a comfy sun lounger in the garden. My children would potter around on the grass, intermittently smiling, waving, being consistently and beautifully quiet.
In my dreams my perfect children would know when Mummy had to concentrate and busy themselves with art activities in another room. They would understand that Mummy had to take a phone call and know not to wrestle the receiver from me so that they could scream their demands for bananas at 332 decibels at the person on the other side or call random people on my mobile to inform them how the potty training is going.
At no time during this vision of sheer loveliness did the image of me fishing a Thomas the Tank Engine DVD smeared with margarine out of the disc slot on my laptop enter my mind. At no stage did I envisage having a 3,000-word story erased in a mili-second by a sugar-crazed plastic hammer-wielding toddler. In this vision of heavenly proportions there was no image of me trying to type with one hand while a fussy baby screams into my ear or trying to conduct a Skype call while being attacked by lightsabers.
With working from home the fun never stops. There is no clock off time. There is no end to the working day. There is always something that has to be finished or someone looking for something. While the rest of you office worker scallywags relax in front of the telly in the evenings I am still fielding phone calls from crazy workaholics who ring at 10pm, sometimes even midnight, for a brainstorming session or because they thought of some revolutionary way to make money.
Yes I choose to work from home because it allows me to spend time with my kids, be flexible for them and still pursue my career. But if you are considering it, be warned it is a hard slog, let no one convince you otherwise.
The degradation of ones social skills is probably the worst aspect. One month in, your former colleagues will still recognise you. You’ll still be the peachy colour humans are supposed to be. You’ll still be capable of stringing words together to form sentences.
Six months in your colleagues will be hard pushed to recognise you under the big bushy beard (yes, even the ladies grow beards eventually) and pasty skin. And your mutterings will be barely English… ‘home work at, no go out much, daylight no see, English is speak becoming hardness..’
A year in and the bushy beard is bushier. There’s crazy hair, crazed eyes and you’re three stone heavier. Your conversations contain these words and these words only. ‘Hooba, Hooba, porkrind, choppy hurr hurr, Tayto Crisp Sandwiches, whee!! Ha, ha, happy Jeremy Kyle!’
But this is the life I chose. It may not be a dream come true, indeed it is probably many people’s worst nightmare. But I suppose it’s my nightmare and I love it...sometimes.
For some reason people who don’t work from home imagine that the daily routine for those who do is to have a big lie-in, get up for Jeremy Kyle, sit in their jim-jams to 2pm, tinker on Facebook for a time then go back to bed.
Nothing, NOTHING could be further from the truth.
Working from home demands super tough self-discipline. And working from home with kids requires saint-like patience and juggling abilities that would make a circus clown sob with envy.
In my naivety I honestly thought working from my house with my kids and my dog would be positively idyllic. Granted this was before I even knew my kids and the dog had yet to arrive from his home planet.
Up until a few years ago I had a good office job and often dreamed the work from home dream. In this dream I wandered peacefully around in my perfectly furnished home office, cup of fresh steaming coffee in hand, and gazed out my window to survey my land (3 ft by 4ft with a fetching pea green coloured 2ft by 3ft oil tank). I would send witty emails to my intellectual acquaintances and negotiate top deals with global companies from a comfy sun lounger in the garden. My children would potter around on the grass, intermittently smiling, waving, being consistently and beautifully quiet.
In my dreams my perfect children would know when Mummy had to concentrate and busy themselves with art activities in another room. They would understand that Mummy had to take a phone call and know not to wrestle the receiver from me so that they could scream their demands for bananas at 332 decibels at the person on the other side or call random people on my mobile to inform them how the potty training is going.
At no time during this vision of sheer loveliness did the image of me fishing a Thomas the Tank Engine DVD smeared with margarine out of the disc slot on my laptop enter my mind. At no stage did I envisage having a 3,000-word story erased in a mili-second by a sugar-crazed plastic hammer-wielding toddler. In this vision of heavenly proportions there was no image of me trying to type with one hand while a fussy baby screams into my ear or trying to conduct a Skype call while being attacked by lightsabers.
With working from home the fun never stops. There is no clock off time. There is no end to the working day. There is always something that has to be finished or someone looking for something. While the rest of you office worker scallywags relax in front of the telly in the evenings I am still fielding phone calls from crazy workaholics who ring at 10pm, sometimes even midnight, for a brainstorming session or because they thought of some revolutionary way to make money.
Yes I choose to work from home because it allows me to spend time with my kids, be flexible for them and still pursue my career. But if you are considering it, be warned it is a hard slog, let no one convince you otherwise.
The degradation of ones social skills is probably the worst aspect. One month in, your former colleagues will still recognise you. You’ll still be the peachy colour humans are supposed to be. You’ll still be capable of stringing words together to form sentences.
Six months in your colleagues will be hard pushed to recognise you under the big bushy beard (yes, even the ladies grow beards eventually) and pasty skin. And your mutterings will be barely English… ‘home work at, no go out much, daylight no see, English is speak becoming hardness..’
A year in and the bushy beard is bushier. There’s crazy hair, crazed eyes and you’re three stone heavier. Your conversations contain these words and these words only. ‘Hooba, Hooba, porkrind, choppy hurr hurr, Tayto Crisp Sandwiches, whee!! Ha, ha, happy Jeremy Kyle!’
But this is the life I chose. It may not be a dream come true, indeed it is probably many people’s worst nightmare. But I suppose it’s my nightmare and I love it...sometimes.
Monday, 18 April 2011
I'm quitting my day job....
The trouble with having an army of kids is when one gets sick it sets in motion a catastrophic chain of events which results in me going temporarily insane through lack of sleep.
Our middle child is a bug magnet. If I didn’t know better I’d swear he was deliberately kissing snotty-nosed girls to get off school for a few days to watch the Fireman Sam marathon on Cartoon Network. He’s always the first man to fall. He deals with his sickness by boking, mostly. On the nights he’s sick I can be found standing in the hall sleeping with my head resting atop a mop handle. There really is no point in sleeping while lying down. It just heightens the pain.
Next to succumb is usually Daniel. When he’s sick – regardless of variety of bug – it flares up his asthma so I spend the night ferrying basins of boiling water up and down the stairs, administering inhalers at hourly intervals and reading him books about aliens and dinosaurs.
Next to hit the decks is Finn the Destroyer. From the moment he feels that lurgy hit until the moment he feels better he screams. The ear-piercing wailing can last for four days and four nights. I still wake in the night in a cold sweat recalling the time he had chickenpox. That child screamed for two weeks. He screamed about being sick, screamed about the spots, about the itching, screamed about the application of cream, about the non-application of cream. The husband and I doubted we would ever smile again.
Our baby girl is usually the last of the lot to fall ill. She expresses her displeasure at being sick by refusing to sleep.
Not A wink.
For weeks.
She is the sole reason I look and feel 70-years old today.
When the kids are done with the bug and the puking and the screaming and the not sleeping I get a super-concentrated combined version of the lurgy bug, which is always something I look forward to.
And when the tables are turned it’s a whole different ball game. No matter how much I shout for their assistance in the night they conveniently sleep through my pleas. I could actually die for the want of a hot lemon and honey drink or someone to read me a book about aliens stealing underpants at 3am. I doubt they would care, or notice until their demands for seven different brands of breakfast cereals mixed together in the one bowl went unanswered the next morning.
And no matter happens in the night and no matter if I can count actual sleeping times in minutes instead of hours I still have to get up and go to work in the morning. Sometimes this is a hindrance, sometimes a help.
For example I was at a meeting recently with an incredibly boring and terribly obnoxious man. I caught sight of a large goldfish in a tank just behind his head. As he ranted on the giant goldfish seemed to be mocking him, opening and closing his fishy mouth in time with his conversings. This may well have been a sleep-deprived hallucination. None the less it made me laugh and fret less about losing an hour of my life I’ll never get back.
It may have been sleep deprivation that also pushed me to think about going back to university. It may well have been lack of shuteye that propelled me into a chair at a careers advisor’s office. God knows I would do quite literally anything for a sit down and a cup of tea.
The nice lady asked me questions and tapped the answers into her computer, then got me to do some sort of psychological word quiz which would profile my true character. I could have really saved her the bother and told her I was a ‘neurotic, knackered, super-hypochondriac with an unhealthy obsession with Harry Potter’. But she insisted the quiz would be able to tell me which career would best suit me. I sat like a fool and circled words like ‘team player’, ‘emotional’ and ‘reserved’ thinking the smart computer would tell me that I was perfectly matched to ‘journalism’ and hence the last 15 years of my existence where not a total waste of time.
She tapped my answers into the computer, looked at me, looked at the sheet, printed out the results and handed them to me.
Apparently I’ve got a ‘supporter’ personality.
And my ideal occupation is ‘funeral director’.
Our middle child is a bug magnet. If I didn’t know better I’d swear he was deliberately kissing snotty-nosed girls to get off school for a few days to watch the Fireman Sam marathon on Cartoon Network. He’s always the first man to fall. He deals with his sickness by boking, mostly. On the nights he’s sick I can be found standing in the hall sleeping with my head resting atop a mop handle. There really is no point in sleeping while lying down. It just heightens the pain.
Next to succumb is usually Daniel. When he’s sick – regardless of variety of bug – it flares up his asthma so I spend the night ferrying basins of boiling water up and down the stairs, administering inhalers at hourly intervals and reading him books about aliens and dinosaurs.
Next to hit the decks is Finn the Destroyer. From the moment he feels that lurgy hit until the moment he feels better he screams. The ear-piercing wailing can last for four days and four nights. I still wake in the night in a cold sweat recalling the time he had chickenpox. That child screamed for two weeks. He screamed about being sick, screamed about the spots, about the itching, screamed about the application of cream, about the non-application of cream. The husband and I doubted we would ever smile again.
Our baby girl is usually the last of the lot to fall ill. She expresses her displeasure at being sick by refusing to sleep.
Not A wink.
For weeks.
She is the sole reason I look and feel 70-years old today.
When the kids are done with the bug and the puking and the screaming and the not sleeping I get a super-concentrated combined version of the lurgy bug, which is always something I look forward to.
And when the tables are turned it’s a whole different ball game. No matter how much I shout for their assistance in the night they conveniently sleep through my pleas. I could actually die for the want of a hot lemon and honey drink or someone to read me a book about aliens stealing underpants at 3am. I doubt they would care, or notice until their demands for seven different brands of breakfast cereals mixed together in the one bowl went unanswered the next morning.
And no matter happens in the night and no matter if I can count actual sleeping times in minutes instead of hours I still have to get up and go to work in the morning. Sometimes this is a hindrance, sometimes a help.
For example I was at a meeting recently with an incredibly boring and terribly obnoxious man. I caught sight of a large goldfish in a tank just behind his head. As he ranted on the giant goldfish seemed to be mocking him, opening and closing his fishy mouth in time with his conversings. This may well have been a sleep-deprived hallucination. None the less it made me laugh and fret less about losing an hour of my life I’ll never get back.
It may have been sleep deprivation that also pushed me to think about going back to university. It may well have been lack of shuteye that propelled me into a chair at a careers advisor’s office. God knows I would do quite literally anything for a sit down and a cup of tea.
The nice lady asked me questions and tapped the answers into her computer, then got me to do some sort of psychological word quiz which would profile my true character. I could have really saved her the bother and told her I was a ‘neurotic, knackered, super-hypochondriac with an unhealthy obsession with Harry Potter’. But she insisted the quiz would be able to tell me which career would best suit me. I sat like a fool and circled words like ‘team player’, ‘emotional’ and ‘reserved’ thinking the smart computer would tell me that I was perfectly matched to ‘journalism’ and hence the last 15 years of my existence where not a total waste of time.
She tapped my answers into the computer, looked at me, looked at the sheet, printed out the results and handed them to me.
Apparently I’ve got a ‘supporter’ personality.
And my ideal occupation is ‘funeral director’.
Monday, 11 April 2011
Pramnesia, Calpoholics and Baby Doomers....
Apparently there is an entirely new language around to describe the highs and lows of modern parenting.
A recent poll has suggested that all us Yummy Mummies are last year’s news. This year it’s all Dummy Mummies and new mothers suffering from Pramnesia, kiddie Calpoholics and Baby Doomers.
As if we don’t have enough to be getting along with – I don’t know about you but the actual act of parenting takes up my every waking moment – we now have to practically do a night class on what the cool mums and dads are saying.
But I’m willing to put in the hours for the sake of my street (and mum’s) cred.
I don’t want to be left on the side of the road while the bus to Cool Parentsville thunders past so I conducted extensive research on the subject.
For those of you not yet savvy with the Parentionary terms of reference, here’s the glossary, with a few of my own inventions peppered in for good measure.
Calpoholics
Children who display early predisposition to mood-altering, pain and fever reducing medications.
TV McFee
The electronic babysitter, otherwise known as the television set, which provides hours of entertainment for little ones and hours of Facebooking peace for mummies.
Baby Doomers
Couples who warn other young couples not to have a baby due to the huge cost/stress/worry/boke involved in bringing up baby.
Nappie Cash
The ever-ready money parents need to spend on disposable nappies.
Flabbergasted
The name given to your sense of shock at how much weight you have gained during pregnancy.
Dummy Mummy
Paralysis of the section of the mind which deals with intellect and interest in current affairs. This unfortunate condition, which affects one in 10 mothers, renders a woman utterly incapable of conversing on any subject apart from her children.
Dadmin Department
Father of children heads up this particular department, carrying out such duties as fixing broken prams and depositing stinking nappies in the wheelie bin.
Baby Gaga
Total diva in waiting. Screaming, stomping, attention-seeking little girl.
Balderdash
A rapidly receding hairline that weary fathers often sport.
Blamestorming
When parents blame each other for their child-related failures – it’s his fault he has a mouth on him like a sailor, it’s her fault he likes Cliff Richard etc etc.
Pramnesia
The sleep-deprived forgetfulness caused by endless nights of little to no shuteye. It is this condition that also enables a female who has gone through labour to ever consider having another child.
Swiped Out
When a banklink card is rendered useless because the magnetic strip is worn away from extensive use buying child-related paraphernalia.
Hindsight
What one might experience from changing too many nappies.
Puddlemagnetism
When small bodies of water draw other small bodies wearing dry shoes and socks into it.
Floordrobe
Place where coats, schoolbags and discarded clothes are kept.
SITCOMs
What people who might have once been described as yuppies turn into when they have children and one of them stops working to stay home with the children. Stands for Single Income, Two Children, Oppressive Mortgage.
Comprom-lie-sing
The art of dividing a cake/bar of chocolate/last biscuit in the house in such a way that everybody believes he got the biggest piece
Nansformer/Nannanator
Granny who turns into a super-efficient domestic helper when baby arrives. Nansformers often possess superhuman dish-washing powers and the incredible ability to make lovely cups of tea.
Emergency numbers
Police station, ambulance, fire brigade and pizza delivery services.
Disneyfying
Making things like household chores sound cooler than they actually are. “Guess where we’re off to today? Yes that’s right! Tescoland!! We’re going on the trolley ride.. Yeah!”
Perhaps the phrase that will ring true with most parents…
Code Brown.
It needs little explanation.
A recent poll has suggested that all us Yummy Mummies are last year’s news. This year it’s all Dummy Mummies and new mothers suffering from Pramnesia, kiddie Calpoholics and Baby Doomers.
As if we don’t have enough to be getting along with – I don’t know about you but the actual act of parenting takes up my every waking moment – we now have to practically do a night class on what the cool mums and dads are saying.
But I’m willing to put in the hours for the sake of my street (and mum’s) cred.
I don’t want to be left on the side of the road while the bus to Cool Parentsville thunders past so I conducted extensive research on the subject.
For those of you not yet savvy with the Parentionary terms of reference, here’s the glossary, with a few of my own inventions peppered in for good measure.
Calpoholics
Children who display early predisposition to mood-altering, pain and fever reducing medications.
TV McFee
The electronic babysitter, otherwise known as the television set, which provides hours of entertainment for little ones and hours of Facebooking peace for mummies.
Baby Doomers
Couples who warn other young couples not to have a baby due to the huge cost/stress/worry/boke involved in bringing up baby.
Nappie Cash
The ever-ready money parents need to spend on disposable nappies.
Flabbergasted
The name given to your sense of shock at how much weight you have gained during pregnancy.
Dummy Mummy
Paralysis of the section of the mind which deals with intellect and interest in current affairs. This unfortunate condition, which affects one in 10 mothers, renders a woman utterly incapable of conversing on any subject apart from her children.
Dadmin Department
Father of children heads up this particular department, carrying out such duties as fixing broken prams and depositing stinking nappies in the wheelie bin.
Baby Gaga
Total diva in waiting. Screaming, stomping, attention-seeking little girl.
Balderdash
A rapidly receding hairline that weary fathers often sport.
Blamestorming
When parents blame each other for their child-related failures – it’s his fault he has a mouth on him like a sailor, it’s her fault he likes Cliff Richard etc etc.
Pramnesia
The sleep-deprived forgetfulness caused by endless nights of little to no shuteye. It is this condition that also enables a female who has gone through labour to ever consider having another child.
Swiped Out
When a banklink card is rendered useless because the magnetic strip is worn away from extensive use buying child-related paraphernalia.
Hindsight
What one might experience from changing too many nappies.
Puddlemagnetism
When small bodies of water draw other small bodies wearing dry shoes and socks into it.
Floordrobe
Place where coats, schoolbags and discarded clothes are kept.
SITCOMs
What people who might have once been described as yuppies turn into when they have children and one of them stops working to stay home with the children. Stands for Single Income, Two Children, Oppressive Mortgage.
Comprom-lie-sing
The art of dividing a cake/bar of chocolate/last biscuit in the house in such a way that everybody believes he got the biggest piece
Nansformer/Nannanator
Granny who turns into a super-efficient domestic helper when baby arrives. Nansformers often possess superhuman dish-washing powers and the incredible ability to make lovely cups of tea.
Emergency numbers
Police station, ambulance, fire brigade and pizza delivery services.
Disneyfying
Making things like household chores sound cooler than they actually are. “Guess where we’re off to today? Yes that’s right! Tescoland!! We’re going on the trolley ride.. Yeah!”
Perhaps the phrase that will ring true with most parents…
Code Brown.
It needs little explanation.
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