To Do - Lifestyle Review

I love lists. To Do ones. Shopping ones. His and her life goal ones. Accountant looked less keen as I presented him with ‘ourfiveyearplan.doc’ when he walked through the door.

Inspired by a visit to a friend’s pastel dollhouse, I decided it was time for one last push for perfection and jotted down some thoughts before typing up and colour coding our dreams for the future.

More outdoorsey (me)
Triatheletes (both)
Co-ordinated dresser (him)
Smaller boned (me)
Straighter teethed (me)
Gracious, patient, serene (me)
Eager to please (him)
Fluent in French (both)
Grow organic vegetables (expert horticulturist) (one of us)
Shinier hair (me)
Advanced DIY skills (him)
Less spotty (me)
Six pack (him)
Obedient (him/Chickie)

Accountant pulled a pen from his suit and defaced all my hard work. I attempted to read his revisions but he waved them above my head. I made a mental note to add ‘taller’ to the list.

He started reading, “Smaller bottom (her), seasoned camper (her), spatially aware (her), basic arithmetic (her) and buy a caravan (me)”, before thrusting the list in my face and strolling off towards the kitchen. My eyes narrowed menacingly as I noted his sketch of a giant bottom.

Later that night, as I sat reading ‘Growing Vegetables’ whilst listening to ‘Intense French’, Accountant lay wedged in the deepest recesses of the sofa, flicking between Miss Marple and The Professionals.

I paused the French. “Perhaps you should think about getting to work on that six pack, Sweetheart?”

“Yes” he agreed. My mouth fell open as he bounced straight up. I beamed at him lovingly as he walked towards me. He smiled back, gliding past, before coming to rest at the fridge.

He winked at me as he trundled back to his indentation in the sofa, Guinness in hand.

The next night I was reading up on problem complexions, when I looked out the window to see my neighbour’s husband bounding back home from his jog, sports bottle in one hand, buggy and baby in other. I reached for the list. “Multi-tasking – him.” Who knew men were capable of such cunning.

“Sweetheart” I yelled downstairs, eager to update him on his new task. No response. “SWEETHEART!!!” Nothing.

“I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!” I shouted, stomping down the stairs. Muffled oinks greeted me as I stepped into the living room, where my beloved lay sprawled face down, gently sucking the sofa cover in and out of his mouth. A small drool pool at the base of his bottom lip put time of unconsciousness at approximately 8pm.

I returned to the study, watching as super husband did his stretches in the front garden whilst weeding the lawn.

Turning on the computer, I started my column, appreciating as I wrote, how perfect Accountant actually was for someone like me.

Can't Take The Pace!

As I stared blankly across the table at Patrick, cursing the headache I’d had since the summer holidays began, it took me a few seconds to register that Chickie’s little friend didn’t look quite right. He was rocking gently as Chickie prattled on at him about cheese and light sabers.

“SSshhhh” I said, trying to focus on Patrick, who hadn’t blinked in over a minute. Chickie moved onto flip flops and nobblybobblies.

“Patrick” I said softly, waving a hand in front of his colourless face. He continued to stare ahead, through glasses that now rested at a 45 degree angle to his sunken eyes.

“Patrick!” I said, more insistent as I heard his mother walking back towards us.

Chickie joined in the fun. “PATRICK, PATRICK,!!” he yelled, leaping up and down like a ‘Pop-Up-Pirate’.

The gentle force of Chickie’s interest brought Patrick round momentarily before he fell asleep, once again, with his eyes open.

“I’m so sorry” I said to Patrick’s mother as he collapsed into his plate of cheese and pickle sandwiches. “I gave him loads to drink to compensate for all the sweating...” I trailed off as she lifted his head from the worktop and began picking crumbs out of his matted hair.

She tells me it took Patrick over a week to recover from his playdate with Chickie.

Then came Megan. A sweet little girl, with blonde waves in her hair and innocence in her eyes. At Amazon Adventures, she waited patiently as Chickie changed into his thermoregulation sportswear before skipping off holding his hand.

The next time I saw her hand, it was been dragged in the opposite direction to which it wanted to go, up three levels, through a giant mangler, up the rope nets, to infinity and beyond.

Whilst she was being pushed to her physical limits, her mother and I sipped tea and chatted about her night waking.

Megan would reappear briefly every now and again, each time, her hair slightly curlier than before. She’d gulp down some fluids before Chickie would reappear, much like Jaws, to take her again.

At one point, she broke free, hiding behind her hands, cuddling up to her mummy.

Chickie found her and nodded enthusiastically when asked if the girl cowering behind her fingers was his girlfriend. Megan peered through a gap at her mummy, desperate for it not to be true.

“Let’s go again!” he yanked at her, unbothered that Megan’s core body temperature had exceeded recommended levels.

When we left, Chickie skipping, Megan hobbling, I waved another friend goodbye. Forever.

Or so I thought.

Then a text arrived.

“Megan didn’t move all night! She stayed in her bed! Say thanks to Chick!”

So, if your poppet’s not sleeping, just call ‘Chickie Extreme Sleep Solutions’ – so effective, they’ll be unconscious even when they’re still conscious!

Officially Middle-Aged

I don’t know the exact moment in time when I became my parents but I think it was around Monday or Tuesday of last week.

I was stood on my neighbour’s doorstep discussing her new self-styled fringe, the left side of which had been a great triumph in hairdressing terms. The right side - less so, looking more like it had been chewed off.

To ease my neighbour’s suffering, I removed the three extra-strong kirby grips on top of my head, allowing the ravaged hair beneath to poke up into the fresh air for the first time in six months.

“I cut it myself too” I whispered, pointing to my “Something About Mary” style tuft whilst glancing over both shoulders to check the immaculately coiffed occupants of No 98 weren’t laughing at us through their net curtains.

“It’s just that hair cuts are so expensive” she said, stroking her severed hair.
“Oh, I know, it’s ridiculous” I replied, strapping down my quiff again.

After that conversation, came the conversation at playgroup about Tesco Clubcard savings. I brought it up. On purpose. I talked about the credit card benefits, the amazing clubcard deals, the best ways to earn points, bags for life and concluded my findings with a Tesco versus Waitrose essentials range cost/benefit analysis. And I wrote the ASDA Lancing Store grand opening on my calendar.

Then, I started darning, without even realising it. One night, I sat happily for hours, with Accountant’s fermenting socks composting in my lap, smiling contentedly as I held up the mended article to the light.

And I inexplicably have loads of money off coupons. I’ve started unconsciously cutting them out and putting them in a drawer. Just like my mother-in-law.

I also read the August Somerfield magazine cover to cover, lifting up the page with ‘Credit Munch of the month’ to show Accountant. “Cod with a Spice Rub, feeds 4 for £4” I chirped.

But the chilling moment when I suddenly realised I belonged in a Doris Day film was when my dad began his weekly ‘roast chicken’ report.

Historically, I have always been blessed with the ability to completely ignore him when he excitedly details the weight and class of the chicken, how he was just there at the right time (3.58:03pm every Sunday), and they were marking them down and he bought 3 for £2.99 instead of £14,72.... BUT last week, not only did I listen but I found myself equally enthralled at the prospect.

So, if you should see me and I start talking to you about fabric conditioner or I’m bulldozing you out the way at the Special Offers cabinet, you have my permission to slap me (gently) with a roast chicken.

Charity Case!

Accountant seemed unusually pleased with me as he came over to dollop a big kiss on my head.

Confused, I looked round at him from where I sat at the kitchen table. He nodded at the computer in front of me, beaming broadly. I turned to look at the screen, wondering what was going on.

“That’s excellent” he commended, patting my shoulder as he nodded approvingly at the Oxfam website I’d been checking out before he’d wandered in.

I wasn’t sure why it was so excellent but Accountant’s love levels were clearly soaring. It felt like a good time to ask for stuff.

“Any chance of a cup of tea?”

“Of course” he responded before zooming off towards the kettle. Whilst he clattered around, I continued my online activities.

On his return, he seemed less pleased, craning his head towards the computer before enquiring as to what it was exactly that I was doing. I felt it safest to clarify what it was exactly he’d thought I’d been doing.

Fundraising, fighting climate change, organising outreach projects were some of his suggestions.

I nodded as if in deep ethical contemplation whilst casually guiding the cursor towards the minimiser icon in the corner of the screen.

“Mmm” I stalled for time as Oxfam’s Secondhand Clothes Store “1000s of women’s clothes and accessories” became a neat rectangular giveaway on my lower toolbar.

Accountant shook his head. “Shopping is like donating..” I began as his disappointment sent him shuffling off.

A few days later, my charitable nature found me in a clash of wills with a pensioner in the ‘Help the Aged’ shop. At stake, a pair of vintage Carvella shoes.

The nanna won and followed me into ‘Link Romania’, taunting me with her bargain. “Yours for 20 quid” she cackled from behind the paperbacks.

I consoled myself by finding Accountant a pair of shoes for £6. He trotted off to work in them the next day, almost agreeing with me as I wittered on about how my love of shopping and his love of saving could finally co-exist and he seemed pleased with me again.

Until 9.30am, when he left a message on my mobile. “There’s a massive crack in the soles of these shoes.”

A text followed at 10am, “The soles are crumbling all over my floor.”

11am: “There are bits of shoe all over the office.”

And 1pm. “I have no shoes on now and the Partners are asking who it is leaving black stuff all over the office!”

When Accountant arrived home in his socks, he explained how his heel fell off in the middle of a client meeting, landing on the floor, £6-price-sticker side up.

As he wandered away, leaving a trail of black bits in his wake, I decided it might be time for an Accountant Outreach Programme.

All donations payable to me!

Chickie and the Thunderstorm

At the first clap of thunder, against all my instincts, I played it cool. Chickie was peering at me from under his duvet and I knew better than anyone how a mother’s reactions to life’s little dramas could end up costing you a fortune in counselling fees.

Chickie was sporting the same expression he’d worn the first time he’d heard a balloon go pop. A full blown phobia naturally followed. The first bang at any party now his starter gun for a 100 metre sprint to the car.

“Is there light-er-nin?”
“Shall we see?” My acting was brilliant. Calm, nonchalant. I even managed to sound excited.
“Yeah!” Chickie was fooled.
Inching towards his bedroom window, I reached out a cautious hand to pull up the blind.
Chickie clambered up onto the bay windowsill, reaching for his toy telescope.
When the first flash came, I tried to style out the scream that had been waiting in my throat since my charade had begun.
Chickie eyed me suspiciously through his giant lens.

Then something astonishing happened. Chickie arose, short and stout, but magnificent with the added height advantage of the window ledge beneath him. The thunder crashed and his fearless, hyperactive shadow dazzled as firebolts filled the blackness surrounding him.

With each boom, Chickie appeared to gain more power. He was beginning to remind me a lot of He-Man at the ‘POWER OF GREYSKUL’ bit. It was at this point, I became as scared of Chickie ‘The Electromagnetic Toddler’ as the thunderstorm.

But then, storms when I was young, had been dealt with differently. My mother made no attempts to hide her naked terror and although I’m sure she didn’t actually run around screaming, “we’re all going to die!” I definitely got that vibe.

In the event of a storm, my mother had a simple plan.

1. My sister wore wellies
2. I wore marigolds
3. Mum took tranquilisers

Then came the running. Instructed to take off directly after the last lightning bolt and before the next clap of thunder, we would sprint, for what my sister and I could only assume was, for our lives, to the car. There we would sit. In the darkness. In the garage. Wearing rubber.

Personally, I liked to spend this special family time praying that the 100 foot Ilex tree directly opposite the garage wouldn’t be hit by lightning. Mum liked to hyperventilate.

Now watching Chick as he demanded that I watch ‘HIS’ storm, I was struggling to believe how any blood relative of mine could actually be suited to thunder. Personally, I was more a mild summer’s day. Accountant, by profession, probably drizzle. My mother, a force of nature unto herself.

A Fabulous Find!

“So, are you having anymore?” The girl asking the question nodded in my son’s direction. I followed her gaze as Chick, now one of the biggest boys at playgroup, practised his t-rex impression on all the babies, delighting in the way they vibrated, and then wailed, in their bouncy chairs.

“He’s a limited edition” I replied as I scurried off to apologise to all the mummy’s frantically cooing at the neat row of open mouths.

Once again, I explained to him the principles of pleasantness and how, if applied often, harmony and inner-peace would surely follow. Chick charged off towards the Rich Tea Fingers.

As he worked the biscuit lady in charge of distribution, I mulled over the ‘anymore?’ question which, lately, someone seemed to be asking me every day.

It had been over three years and, despite promises that I’d change my mind about never, ever, ever having a 10lb 1½ oz baby EVER again, I was still very comfortable with the idea.

Plus, Chickie’s energy levels were equal to that of three regular children and five springer spaniels.

But then came the ‘only child’ sympathy gaze. Wistful eyes would be cast over the little boy who faced a life of solitude because his mother was a wimp.

“He has friends round every day” I justified, but their expressions remained the same.

A few days later, my friend asked me if I might be able to have her son for the afternoon. Initially, I was scared. Two boys, co-incidentally born on the same day, in my sole charge.

So, that afternoon, Patrick was delivered. Looking a lot like Chick, but with glasses, he bid me a good afternoon. Chickie galloped around in circles, foaming at the mouth. Patrick excused himself to play trains.

Then the magic happened. The Patrick magic. His soothing, managerial style, a damper block to Chickie’s constant vibrations. It was the most peaceful afternoon I’ve enjoyed since Chickie gave up naps.

At 7pm, I reluctantly buckled Patrick into his car seat next to Chick. As we drove into the hills, Patrick directed us.
“Right at those arrows and then over there by the double garages”. He was so helpful.
“Mind that car” he added thoughtfully.

At the front door, Chickie and I tried not to cry as Patrick walked out of our lives.
“Thanks for having me” he chimed back over his shoulder.

Chickie began to sob. I bit my lip.

“How are you feeling?” I asked his mum.
“So so” she answered.
“I could have Patrick again tomorrow for you if you like?” Before she could answer I’d arranged collection.

Chick and I skipped back to the car, overjoyed with our discovery of the perfect ready-made twin!

Stop The Car!

And there they were. Eight little words that every mother longs to hear. I hit play again on the answering machine, enjoying it for a second time.

My mother’s recording, cautious but still loud enough to be legally binding, asked the question. “Would Chickie like to come for a sleepover?”

“Why yes, yes he would”, I answered aloud, as I skipped off to find the stick that opened the loft hatch.

Climbing the ladder, I made a mental shortlist of restaurants for that evening and began imagining me at 9am the following morning, stretching, yawning and then pulling the duvet back over my head because I’d no need to get up. Not for hours.

I was in the process of unwedging the suitcase from the hatch when another question was presented from below.
“What you doing mummy?”
“Getting your suitcase sweetie!” I chirped.
“We going on holiday?” Chickie sounded excited. “On a boat?”
“You’re going in a car!” I informed him with my most enthusiastic expression.

Making my descent towards Chickie’s happy little face, I beamed at him, basking in all the joy.
“Nanna’s having you for a sleepover!”

The joy suddenly stopped, his smile flipping itself over on his face to convey deep dissatisfaction.
“I don’t want to...” he began.

Feeling the dream was now in mortal jeopardy, I frantically interjected. “You can jump on all the beds, play with grandad’s golf clubs and go to bed really late.”
He mulled this over for a moment before continuing, “no.....”
“I think Nanna’s made some ginger biscuits” I cut in again, lifting my eyebrows as far as they’d go.
He was waivering, I could feel it. “You could squirt Grandad with the hose!”
His lips curled devilishly. I began packing.

Hours later, I bundled him into the car before Nanna and Grandad had brought it to a stop. “Too-da-loo” I began waving, wishing old people didn’t take so long to drive away.
“I want to sleep at mummy’s house.”
I quickened my pace towards the front door.
“I WANT TO SLEEP AT MUMMY’S HOUSE!”
I broke into a light jog. Mum and Dad still hadn’t pulled away and, with all their windows open, it was hard to pretend I couldn’t hear but I kept trying.
As my foot crossed the threshold of my now quiet house, I heard the worst word of all, “Elizabeth!”
I considered making a run for it and hiding behind the front door but then dad had a key.
“Yes” I smiled sweetly, pivoting round to see three unimpressed faces looking back.

Waving Nanna and Grandad off, I looked down at my son, who smiled back.
“Mum” he said
“MMMmmmm”
“I want to sleep at Nanna’s house.”

Nanna finally sped up as I began chasing after her car.

Another Good Idea!

“They’ll come back - just shout ‘CHICKEN’” my sister had instructed.
“Chicken” I trilled, waving my empty hand to fool the ‘husky-with-attitude’ who couldn’t even be bothered to look up.
“CHICKEN!!!” I screamed more shrilly, as she bolted in the opposite direction.

A couple moseyed over. “Morning” the chap said, all smirks as ‘Toula’ leapt over a stream, ears flat back as she whizzed even further out of my family’s life.

“CHICKEN!!!!!!!” I yelped, “CHICKEN!”
The couple moved on.

I fully intended to kill my sister when she got back from sipping cocktails in the Royal Albert Hall whilst I stood in a field clutching a sandwich bag filled with her belligerent pet’s steaming poo, pointlessly yelling about poultry.

It wasn’t the only lie she’d told in order to coerce me into house, dog and babysitting her life for the weekend.

For instance, she’d mentioned nothing of her youngest’s tendency to be sick on short car journeys. It seemed he didn’t feel the need to mention it either. With no forewarning, it proved a smashing surprise.

Nor had she mentioned the nightly wart treatments that I was to be so intrinsically involved in.

Chickie groaned from his buggy as he woke from his nap, instantly hysterical as he remembered that he had a sore throat and matching cough. Bo, the good husky tied to his buggy, licked him better.

Whilst I wiped him over with antibacterial wipes, Toula reappeared. I pretended to be pleased to see her, grabbing her whilst she sniffed out treats. “Oh, they’ll be no treats” I informed her once her lead was back on.

Too ill to walk, Chickie remained in his buggy. Too stroppy to walk, Toula lay down. Too young to walk, Bo pulled us all along.

Accountant and nephews were waiting on the beach so I stumbled towards the sea entangled in leads, wheels and dogs legs.

Once on the shingle, Chickie still wouldn’t walk so, with Bo’s lead between my teeth, I dragged him backwards through the stones in his buggy whilst he held Toula.

As she zoomed past me, the buggy suddenly became nice and light. I watched as Chickie flew past on his belly, still holding her lead. Whilst he howled face down in the stones where he’d finally come to a stop, Bo escaped, almost taking my teeth with her, to join Toula in eating the horse droppings that had proved so enticing. Toula, not one to share, attacked Bo.

With such an audible range of snarling, screaming and genteel seaside mayhem, most of the beach were watching. All except Accountant who I could see sat on a bench outside the cafe, slowly sipping a coffee.

“What?” was all he could say when I finally collapsed before him with a bleeding child and two freshly fertilised huskies.

Turf Wars

Accountant huffed past me, scowling and sweating heavily. He glared ahead as he dumped his 15th wheelbarrow of turf onto my wellied feet. I could tell he was beginning to hate me. And I was beginning to hate gardening, despite an enthusiastic start and the stirrings of a curious crush on Alan Titchmarsh.

Perhaps Accountant had been right. Laying a whole new lawn over the weekend may not have been one of my better ideas. Unwilling to accept that that could ever be the case, I’d ignored him, badgering him relentlessly until he broke. My victory was short lived when he informed me that I’d be laying it alone.

So I spent everyday working the land - digging, excavating, stamping, levelling and raking then re-raking in readiness for the Bank Holiday weekend. When Chickie slept, I raked. When Chickie went to playgroup, I raked. When Chickie went to bed, Accountant dug and I raked.

Twenty hours of hard labour and hands that would never look womanly again and we were ready.

As I surveyed the 27 squared metres of levelled mud, the 4ft high piles of turf and my husband’s retreating silhouette, I did wonder what I’d been thinking. It definitely hadn’t looked that hard on Groundforce but then Alan was a skilled professional and they had featured his lawn laying in fast forward.

Upon unrolling my new green carpet, my spirits wilted further. Rather than the lush, thick bowling green grass I’d expected, I found a sad looking offering, yellowing and smelling of something familiar.

Whilst Accountant barricaded himself in the house, I plundered on. One hour and four squared metres later and I decided a call to the garden centre was overripe as was my, now steaming, lawn.

Me: "It's yellow and smells funny"
Penny at the Garden Centre: “What does it smell like?”
Me: “Horse poo”Penny at the Garden Centre: “It shouldn’t smell like that, that means it’s fermenting and won’t root. You need to bring it back”
Me: “Marvellous”
I knocked on our back door, which Accountant had thoughtfully locked. I watched his peanut shaped head poke through the curtains which he’d also closed.
Me: “We need to take the lawn back”Accountant: “@#;!in& b@#%!** hell!”

That was the last time I heard him speak for a while. He didn’t speak at all as he began reloading all the grass he’d previously unloaded back into the wheelbarrow and then into his car.
He didn’t speak much this weekend either as he trundled back and forth with his wheelbarrow piled up with all the new grass.

On Sunday evening, my green (literally) fingers ached and everything else hurt but I had one last thing to do before I could rest.

Collapsing next to Accountant on the sofa, I poised myself.

“Sweetheart” I began, “I’m sorry.” Deep breath. “You were right.”

It had taken ten years, but it had finally happened and Accountant couldn’t have looked smugger.

Outbid

“It’s time you earned some money” declared Accountant as he peered at me from over the top of his spectacles and our bank statement.

If it hadn’t been for the boiler breaking down and then the washing machine chasing me across the kitchen whilst on its rinse cycle, I wouldn’t have had to sit there watching my face droop in the reflection of Accountant’s glasses.

And now I had to get a job to pay for boring things I could neither wear nor eat. The injustice.
What could I do that would fit around Chickie’s hectic social life? I did some research and presented my findings to Accountant.

Referring to my notes, I began. “Well, apparently there’s a newspaper round up for grabs in Wallace Avenue?”
He shook his head, continuing to look at me expectantly.
“What? I said.
“Well? What else is there?” He nodded down at my A4 pad.
“That’s pretty much it!”
From his face I could tell he’d expected more.
“I thought I’d run for Prime Minister next year, when I’ve got more than 2½ hours available a day and fewer childcare issues? “

Later that evening, as I paid for my lotto ticket online, I racked my shrinking brain for some money making ideas. My friend worked the nightshift at Sainsbury’s but, as a result, didn’t sleep for two days a week.

“You just don’t sleep at all?” I squealed when she’d first told me.
“Nope” she nodded at her one year old, solely responsible.
“What, not at all?”
“Nope.”
“Really?”

Whilst I admired her endurance, I knew I was made of more delicate stuff. After eight hours sleep every night, it took a good thirty minutes for me just to be able to open both eyes at the same time.

“How about selling stuff on ebay?” my other friend suggested as we mulled over my predicament.
“I’ve got loads of Chick’s old clothes I could start with!” I enthused, stroking my chin as the idea took shape.
After eight hours taking over 300 photographs of Chickie’s old clothes, I liked the idea much less but I was committed.

Whilst Accountant sat on his laptop downstairs, I began uploading my photos on the old laptop upstairs. It took ages.

Bored, I took a little peek at some of the stuff for sale.

“What you doing?” Accountant shouted up to me, no doubt sensing danger.
“Just selling stuff on ebay” I shouted back.
“Good” came the reply.

I flicked back to the photo upload but nothing had happened. Then back to items for sale. Vintage jewellery to be precise.

There was a nice brooch. And a lovely bracelet. A small bid wouldn’t hurt. Accountant never need know. I clicked on ‘Confirm Bid’, for the bracelet. And the brooch.

And then ebay emailed Accountant, downstairs, kindly re-confirming my bids.

Contented Little Baby

Following years of intensive research, I’ve devised a recipe which, whenever Chickie is scheduled for public display, I whip out and follow precisely to improve my chances of presenting a happy, well-balanced show bambini.Be warned though, if any of the quantities are altered in anyway, it can become a Recipe for Disaster.

That’s why I was less than pleased when Chickie spent the thirty minutes he should have been power napping, vigorously protesting on his bedroom floor. An hour later, a red eyed Chickie was scraped off the carpet and bundled into the car ready for delivery to his friend’s house.

Recipe for A Contented Toddler – Guidelines Only

Makes 1 Portion

Ingredients1 toddler (wash before use)
1 full tummy containing 2 pieces of honey on toast (crusts removed)

1 punnet of red grapes (cut in half)

4 mild cheddar sandwiches,

1 portion of Spaghetti Bolognese
Plenty of fluids
1 poo
12 hours of high impact activity to include 30 minutes trampolining, 40 minute brisk walk, 1 hour tantrum, 20 minutes water play, 1 hour cycle ride, 30 minutes arts and crafts, 1 hour digging, 7 hours debating
30 minute power nap at 11am
5ml Calpol (if teething, windy, snotty)
1 threat of ‘if you show me up, your Batman gets it.’
1 promise of ‘if you’re a good boy, you can bounce on daddy when he gets home from work’1 knackered mummy

TIP: AVOID carbohydrates

Instructions: Approach arrival at any play date much like you would Airport Customs.

1. Nothing To Declare.
Toddler has followed the recipe to the letter and smug mummy can sit back and relax whilst eating all her hostess’ chocolate fingers, safe in the knowledge that poppet is good to go. Satisfaction levels will be further enhanced if other toddlers in attendance haven’t followed the recipe and their misbehaviour then highlights your child in an even more favourable light.

2. Declaration on Arrival.
You admit failure to get toddler to follow recipe, which you blame on factors outside of your control such as tiredness, colds, immunisation (delete as applicable). However, you’re absolved from any judgment as you were humble enough to declare that you got it horribly wrong. Toddler can’t be disapproved of for assaulting and battering others, as they’ve now got a bona fide pre-existing excuse. Mummy still allowed chocolate fingers.

3. Smuggling.
Only for the bravest of mummies. You and poppet both know that the recipe has been breached but mummy keeps quiet, unleashing her child, in the hope that their increased adrenaline levels will see them through. A risky strategy that can end gloriously or hideously. Mummy only allowed chocolate fingers in the event of happy ending.

Being a wuss, I went for Option Two and, before my friend could even ask how we were, she had the full low down on Chickie’s naplessness. Free of all responsibility, I toddled off to find those choccie fingers.

Fatty Bum Bums

“Your bottom seems to start a lot higher up these days” commented Accountant, as I bent over to pick something up off of the floor. I pinged upright and scurried off to the mirror, glaring at him as I flew past.

Bottoms are always tricky to properly assess without being able to rotate your head around like an owl (or Chickie, mid-tantrum). I got as far as my spine would allow but still couldn’t see properly.

Turning side on, I hoiked up my shirt for a better view. I looked up to find Accountant’s eyebrows telling me what I didn’t want to admit. I seemed to have a second bottom growing out of the top of my jeans.

I suppose I had eaten quite a few packets of Party Rings during Chickie’s latest “challenging" phase. Plus the odd Martini, everyday at 7pm sharp. And all those easter eggs everyone kept buying Chickie. But then it was a mother’s duty to protect her child from excessive cocoa solids wasn’t it - what choice had I really had?

I wandered into the kitchen and stared dreamily at the nine remaining Easter Eggs I’d planned to spend that evening with. Now they were forbidden, the longing became deep and chocolately.

But wouldn’t it really be sensible to start a diet with a clean plate? To remove all temptation? Yes, I decided - it definitely would and began plans to eat the contents of the ‘yummy’ cupboard immediately.

A week later, engorged and looking slightly pregnant, the diet began. No mid-morning packet of Jammy Dodgers with my tea, no scrumptious butter lathered on sweet waffles, no dastardly mayonnaise. Just boiled rice with boiled peas and boiled fish for dinner.

The weight loss initially was encouraging. A 4lb bag of sugar was stationed, like a bodyguard, in front of the cracker cupboard - my usual stop after the 'yummy' cupboard. It obstructed entry and served as a reminder that the equivalent weight in blubber just wouldn’t fit into my jeans no matter how vigorously I tucked.

It was going well, my resistance strong, until today, when, for the second day running, I was a 1lb heavier. Where that pesky pound had come from, I didn’t know but I hated it and it needed to be punished.

After making a serious effort to eat my "Weightwatchers" tomato and lentil gloop that evening, I could take no more. Scrumptious wafts of Accountant's 456 calorie four cheese pizza bubbling in the oven wafted up my nose. I floated towards it, carried along by its vapours. Four slices of pizza and a Bart Simpson easter egg later and the diet was over. High from the sugar rush, I felt an odd mixture of elation and shame.

But then, perhaps having two bottoms wasn’t so bad? At least I’d have a spare if anything ever happened to the first one?

Happy Families

Lying in bed, I looked on top of the wardrobe where the yummy, leather weekend bag I’d bought years before now resided. A gentle sprinkling of dust had settled on the soft taupe leather with its silky, striped lining and studded feet.

I remembered buying it, imagining the pair of us, gliding into glittering hotel foyets in all the major cities across the world. I was wearing heels and ‘Jackie O’ sunglasses. I had a substantially smaller bottom and my boobs were still pointing in the same direction as when God had designed them.

I clambered out of bed to give it a quick buff and a cuddle but it was out of reach. I tried my bounce and grab approach which had served me well in the past but, like a sulking friend, it evaded my advances.

I traipsed back to bed as Accountant wandered into the room.
“Well?” he said.
I pretended not to understand.
“Have you found anything?” he nodded at the 'Siblu' holiday brochure that lay on my bedside table.
“Erm, no, not yet” I replied.
“What’ve you been doing then?”

Deciding not to tell him I’d been fantasising about luxury luggage, vast marble bathrooms, shimmering crystal chandeliers, fabric lined walls and 24hr room service, I made my excuses.

“Just readjusting my expectations, sweetheart.”
Accountant’s face set to one of deep disapproval so I cautiously reached for the brochure, grimacing through the effort. Accountant settled down beside me as I opened to the first page.

Screaming children, primary colours, a slithering entanglement of waterslides, banana boats, caravans, lilos, outdoor sports, tents... I shut the brochure with a decisive snap.

Feeling Accountant’s eyes boring into me, I declared myself exhausted and turned off the light. Before I’d shut both eyes, the light was back on and, apparently, Accountant was keen to chat.

“What’s your problem?”
It was more like problems, really. The biggest one being my husband.
He went for the jugular. “Chick will love it.”
“I know he will but where am I going to plug in my hair straighteners?”
Accountant growled.
“How do people even wash?”
“It doesn’t have to be a tent, we could have a mobile home” he said re-opening the brochure to illustrate his point.
A shiver ran down my spine, “I can’t spend a week with those curtains” I whined.

An icy atmosphere settled in the room as Accountant began muttering about how inflexible I was. I turned away. Compared to three years ago, I had more child-friendly features than ever but still it wasn’t enough. They wanted my very soul.

I went to sleep guilty. Guilty I wasn’t ‘outdoorsy’. Guilty for hating Aqua-parks. Guilty of loving pastels and gingham, mints on my pillow, toilet paper folded into a ‘v’ and miniature toiletries.

The next morning, brochure open in front of me, I dialled the number slowly.

“Siblu– French for happy families” the cheery voice answered.

JUST a Housewife

To my dear friend (obviously a male) who kindly enquired how I was finding JUST being a housewife, I've rustled a little something up by way of an answer, in a format that you'll hopefully understand:

Job Title: JUST a Housewife

Job Overview:

A lifetime contract, reporting to a three year old male, you will be solely accountable for his development and wellbeing. He can be prone to mood swings, unreasonableness and constipation so a strong will to survive is necessary.

Key Skills:

Problem Solving:

You will need to think creatively in order to apply innovative and entertaining approaches to gain co-operation in the undertaking of any basic daily task. Previous experience as a Children’s Entertainer/Puppeteer would be beneficial.

Judgment:

Sound evaluative skills are required to assess and avert threats, tantrums, accidents and medical emergencies. First Aid training is essential.

Resilience:

You must possess the ability to remain calm and rational whilst your patience is being tested beyond all endurance. Previous acting experience would be useful in order to appear nonchalant and relaxed, especially in public, when really you’re frenzied and about to cry.

Communication Skills:

You must be a top level negotiator, able to resolve bitter disputes with outcomes agreeable to all vested toddlers.

Flexibility:

You must be adaptable as anything planned, especially if you’re looking forward to it, is going to be cancelled.

Numeracy:

Basic numeracy would be useful to ensure alternating dosages of Calpol/Nurofen do not exceed maximum limits.

Strategic Thinking:

Forward thinking and able to anticipate potential issues before they arise, you will intuitively steer your child around those triggers that may result in increased stress levels.

Organisation:

Responsible for the management of a hectic diary, you will possess excellent planning skills. Child must approve all activities and be briefed at the start and end of each day on all forthcoming events and changes to the pre-agreed schedule. Previous experience of contingency planning would be beneficial.

Other Requirements

Applicants with Psychology, Nutrition and Medical Degrees are preferable.

You must be as energetic as a Duracell bunny and require minimal amounts of sleep.

Familiarity with The Health and Safety at Work Act, particularly, COSHH (Control of Substances Hazardous to Health), would be useful as you will be in daily contact with dangerous deposits.

Understanding of the Bristol Stool Chart would be beneficial but not essential as on-the-job training is provided.

There will be heavy lifting and dragging involved in this position.

Please Note: Anything you say or do will be held against you for the rest of your life should you be saying or doing it wrong.

Remuneration and Benefits:

No Holiday, No Pay, No Lunch Hour, Overtime Expected.

Ear Plugs and Marigold gloves provided.

No training given.

Further Reading

Setting Limits with Your Strong-Willed Child
Family Medical Guide
The Relaxation and Stress Reduction Workbook
Lose your Mummy Tummy
Budgeting Basics

Make It Stop!

“I love you Liz, I always have”
“I love you too, George” I whispered, leaning into his chest, lips puckered, eyes closed.

“MUMMY! It’s 20 o’clock! We’ve got to go NOW!”
“Er” I whimpered, disorientated. I cranked an eye open. Chickie was so close, it was like viewing him through a magnifying glass. I jolted back into the pillow.
“Mummy’s dreaming – go and play in your room for a little bit” I mumbled, anxious to return to George Clooney’s lips.
“You smell yucky mummy. Can you play with me?”
“Sweetheart, it’s too early for mummy, just go and play in your room for a few hours”
Chickie began singing. “Silent night, ho-ey night, round yon mergin mother and child, sleeping, sleepy, sleep, never sleep”

Unable to open both eyes at the same time, I viewed Chickie through a small crack in my right eye. He looked so awake. My eyeball crept over to the clock. 5:59am. God, it was still night.

I groaned and slid under the duvet. Chickie climbed on top and began bouncing up and down. I turned over and toppled him onto his father, before quickly rolling away.

It seemed God had giveth and God had taken away. Finally, after a year of night waking, Chickie was sleeping through. And our punishment was that he now woke up at 5.59am every morning.

Later that day, I patted myself on the back for showing such enterprise. ‘That should do it’ I thought as I practiced locking the new gate on Chickie’s bedroom door. All his toys were in there so I could see no reason why he shouldn’t happily while away those pesky twilight hours playing with Buzz Lightyear instead of mummy.

05:59am the next morning. “MMMUUUUUMMMMMMYYYY! LET ME OUUUUTTTTTTT NOW!!!”
I grunted in shock. “What? Erm?” I floundered in confusion, lost between sleeping and waking.

“OUT NOW!” Chickie reiterated loudly.
“Just play.. wiv.toys....” I mouthed into the darkness.
“IT’S NOT FAIR”
I opted to ignore him, confident the futility of his efforts would soon find him lost in a world of imaginative play.
A strange scratching started. Then a pinging noise.
“Stop it” I shouted. It got louder.
I scrambled out of bed just as a car flew over his gate and down the stairs.
“Sorry mummy” he said, grinning at me from behind the bars. “Can I come in your room now?” he smiled smugly.

As he burrowed down the middle of the bed, he placed two ice cold feet on my bum, I yelped. Then followed a sharp blow to the back. “NEE NAW NEE NAW”. Chickie off roaded his ambulance down my spine.

“Give daddy cuddles” I suggested, trying to roll Chickie over to face Accountant.
Accountant rolled him back, Chick’s nose now pressed up to mine.

“It’s 20 o’clock, Mummy. Are you getting up?”
“Yes” I groaned, accepting yon merging of mother and child. Sleepy, sleep, never sleep.

Spicing Things Up!

Although we were still experiencing the odd derailment, Chickie seemed to be getting back on track. As such, I turned my attention to the other problem in my life. Also male.

After catching Accountant reading over my shoulder as I stood cuddling him, I politely enquired as to what he was looking at, peering back past him to check out his laptop.

“Nothing” he’d spluttered, pulling me closer whilst making desperate ‘mmmming’ noises.

I leant back further for a better look. Accountant’s grip on me tightened. My mouth fell open in horror as I looked up at him, my confusion clear.

“Is that a balance sheet?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s a set of accounts.”
“Oh, much better” I cried, wondering if it was as bad as it seemed and whether my next door neighbour might have a textbook on the subject.

Thirty minutes passed in which he ate his dinner, still perusing company accounts and I, sat staring at him from the lounge, arranging a babysitter. We were going on an emergency date.

“Be home by 6pm, mum and dad are coming round early tonight” I reminded him when the big day arrived. He grunted his affirmation, cycling off in the pyjama trousers he always mistook for jogging bottoms, towards the Downs.
At precisely 6pm, the phone rang. Praying he wasn’t down A&E like last time, I answered tentatively.
“Hi, it’s me” he said. It was a good start, he sounded unharmed. “I’m just at a pub in Steyning.” My mind began to wonder how that could be - what with him due home and all. I articulated my concerns.
“You should have told me I had to be home by 6pm” he growled.
“I DID!” I screeched, thinking how much easier life would be if men came with even basic functionality.

Afterwards, I sat fuming, when my mobile phone beeped. A photo message awaited. The screen revealed Accountant, sat in the pub, smiling broadly. In his extended hand, he held up a full pint in ‘cheers’ mode.

“Why that good for nothing, ggrrrr....” I muttered, pulling off my wedding ring before placing it on top of the toilet seat and photographing it with my phone. Send. (Apologies to our marriage preparation course leaders, I know this isn’t what you meant by positive acts of love.)

Romance was not in the air as we drove over to Brighton. We were seated opposite each other in the restaurant and Accountant began playing with his mobile which he’d upgraded that day to include internet access.

When he popped to the loo, I ordered our dinners, making a slight alteration to his usual Sloppy Guiseppe pizza. Accountant didn’t notice as he tucked in. He noticed soon after though as he began taking long, slow, swills of beer. His eyes gently watered as his ‘Etna’ pizza erupted in his mouth, spicing up ‘date night’ splendidly.

I've Got A Secret!

It was official - Chickie had crossed to the dark side and my neighbours had begun works to block up the chimney on their side of his wall. Whether it was his sheer volume or concerns he may actually crash through into their spare room, I didn’t know but I decided it was time to do something drastic to help guide my toddler back to the light. Typically, I had no clue whatsoever what I was meant to do but hoped my prayers alone may cause a solution to present itself.

And, they did. Like a golden angel sent by Supernanny herself, my lovely neighbour stood before me, shrouded in a Ready Brek style glow, holding out the answer to my prayers. A book.
I like books. Especially ones that promise big answers to big problems. Happy little faces beamed back at me from under big, blue words - “The Secret of Happy Children”. And what a well kept secret it had been. But now, 145 pages later, I’m in on it.

In fact, this actually happened this morning.
Mummy: “Don’t eat my cardigan please, sweetheart”
Chickie: “I’m sorry, mummy. I won’t do it again. I love you, mummy!”
Hugs, twirls and kisses followed.

Chickie then fetched his stool and began preparations for breakfast, popping the toast in the toaster, getting the butter and filling up drinks. He chatted whilst he worked, informing me that he was married to Elizabeth and Hannah from nursery and telling me how the donkeys at Tilgate Park had been his favourite (there weren’t any donkeys).

I watched him as he waited for the toast to pop up. He stood statue still, his eyes never looking away. When it finally popped, he turned to me, giggling.

I felt like Ben, Elizabeth Jim Bob, Mary Ellen, and John Boy might just skip through my door at any minute.

Coupled with the relief that Chickie seemed much happier when engaged in activity from the moment his eyes opened in the morning to the moment they shut at night, came the guilt that I kept having to refer to text books to navigate my way through something I’m sure was supposed to come much more instinctively.

Accountant was quick to encourage. “So, it was all your fault then?”
“Probably,” I accepted, now completely comfortable with being inadequate.

Whilst I cooked dinner, he gave Chickie his bath. What seemed to start as some low-level squealing soon developed into some high-energy interaction between father and son.
“Stop that splashing right now!” warned Accountant in his bestest stern voice.
“NNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooo” splashed Chickie.
“If you do that once more you’re going straight to bed!”
“NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”
“One more time and you’re going to bed, do you under.......”
“.........NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooo”
“Stop......”
“...NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

I took a long sip of Martini, and pretended not to hear Accountant’s anguished cries for back-up. Picking up ‘The secret ...’ book, I placed it on the table, popping it down, next to his Shepherd’s Pie.

It's Not Going Well

“He’s obviously in one of his moods, so adapt!” said Accountant, shutting the door as he went off to work.

I wanted to snarl at him in much the same fashion as Chickie had been snarling at me lately. I turned around to find him watching me. Feeling much like the pork chop that got shoved through the feeding hatch at the lion enclosure, I wondered how I was going to get out of this one without a tranquiliser gun.

It had been two weeks and there were no signs of any uplift in Chickie’s mood. Relations were strained. I was being bullied by a three year old.

"Oh, my niece was like that” soothed my friend as I described his behaviour, “and she was fine by the time she got to eleven!”

“ELEVEN!” I yelped. I hung my head in despair, wondering if she might let me spend the next eight years at her house.


“How’s he been?” enquired Accountant on his return home.
“Swell” I mumbled, picturing his devilish grins as he’d tormented me for hours.
“Where is he?” Accountant asked.
“On the naughty step” I replied.
“Why?”
“He won’t come off”
“Why?”
“I don’t know” I cried. Why did everyone expect me to know how he worked? Supernanny never mentioned what to do when poppet pants wouldn’t come off the step. It wasn’t like he’d come with an Owner’s Manual. My mobile phone had come with more instructions and you could restore the default factory settings if you made a programming error!

I needed a psychology degree and a martini.

The next day I ate a whole packet of Party Rings for lunch whilst I retraced my parenting footsteps. I’d obviously gone hideously wrong somewhere.

Then I collected my son, with trepidation, from nursery. “He’s so lovely isn’t he?” one of the ladies said to me.
“Sorry?”
“So sweet natured!”

I got her to point out the child she was talking about, to clear up the confusion. She identified Chick from the line up.

He bared his teeth when he caught me watching him but she wasn’t looking. I felt like tugging on her sleeve and telling her he’d just been horrible to me before remembering I was 32 and no one could help me. It was just him, me and 7 hours until bedtime. Or was it?

“I know” I said to Chickie, who ignored me, “let’s go and visit Nanna and Grandad!”
He almost smiled.

When Nanna produced ginger biscuits, he became polite and loving. Until they ran out. Nanna was packed off to the kitchen and told not to return until she’d baked a week’s supply.

“I’ll be back on Wednesday for more” I instructed as we left. “And don’t even think about changing the locks.” I added.

Mum and dad exchanged glances, no doubt wondering when their daughter was ever going to grow out of her ‘difficult’ phase.

Break Away

Stuck in a 12 mile traffic jam, somewhere on the A30, east of Cornwall, two sets of parents, in two separate cars, were experiencing two very different starts to their short ‘break’ away.In the precision packed Vauxhall Estate, an impeccably coiffed 3 year old girl was perusing her mobile library, contemplating whether “Cornwall: Leisure Walks for All Ages” or “Truro and Falmouth – Roseland Peninsula” would be stimulating enough to amuse her for the rest of the journey.

In the VW hatchback behind, it was hard to tell just how many people were in the car thanks to Accountant’s ‘ram and squish’ packing policy. Despite the limited amount of air pockets available, the smallest, yet most audible, passenger was selfishly gulping up all the oxygen as his initial grumblings developed into howls of general outrage.

By mile 11, the little girl put down her book which she’d found to be a thoroughly informative read. She couldn’t wait to tell Mummy about the route she’d planned for the family hike but she’d wait until Mummy finished her nap.

In the other car, Accountant and I were enjoying an in impromptu game of dodge ball as Chickie launched his toy collection at us. Although I knew that hitchhiking was illegal, I was keeping an eye out for a lay by, imagining myself leaping out of the passenger side of the car ‘fugitive’ style, rolling down a side embankment before coming to a neat stop outside a health spa.

Unfortunately, I was scuppered by the child lock and arrived watery eyed, avec dependants, for our relaxing seaside break. Chickie, indisposed to alterations to his established routine, repaid our kindness of allowing him to remain in the car despite my suggestion of giving him some “time out” on the roof rack, by going on sleep and hunger strike for the rest of the week. Every night he would appear in the darkness at 2am, before circling me twice and curling up on my head.

Then came the conjunctivitis. Two more outlets to add to his ‘oozing illuminous yellow goo’ list. Eye drop administration proved a two man job and could take anywhere from 15 minutes to a whole morning. Accountant was employed as resident heavy, instructed to sit on all flailing bits whilst I jimmied his eyes open.

By the end of the week, tired and withdrawn, we presented the “Best in Show” Award for the third year running, to his little girlfriend who had outperformed in every category. Compliance, Attitude, Slumber, Sanitation & Hygiene, Regularity & Ease of Bowel Movements, Consumption, Vocabulary, Critical Reasoning, Congeniality and General Well Being.

As she took her lap of honour, hindered slightly by her covering of red rosettes, Chickie was too busy to care as he took to peeling off the sellotape now covering all the plug sockets after his foiled attempt to stick a key into one earlier in the week.

Is It Just Me?

“You must be looking forward to half term” my friend said.

I tried to rearrange my expression which had been well on its way to ‘grimacing horror’, when I’d realised that she was actually being serious. Whether my sudden “mmm” whilst choking on my custard cream was convincing, I doubt.

I vaguely listened as she told me about the bird boxes she and Maya would be making on Monday, pottery-painting on Tuesday, candle-making on Wednesday, blah blah on Thursday. All the while my brain reverberated with the knowledge that there were real, live women out there who weren’t scared of the prospect of a week alone with their children. They were actually excited.

I looked at Chickie whilst my friend provided details of blacksmithing on Friday. He sat grinning atop his castle of sofa cushions. I counted 20 in total. I wondered where Maya was?

“What plans have you got?” she enquired, taking a sip of peppermint tea.

What had I got planned? Besides my stash of 35 Disney dvd’s, 20 packets of Percy Pigs and the Pro Plus? I struggled to remember and that muffled squealing noise wasn’t helping my concentration. “He’s going round some friend’s houses and he’s seeing Bolt on Thursday!” I replied triumphantly. She didn’t look impressed.

I wondered whether to explain that craft projects and Chickie didn’t mix. I had found he had little interest in painting anything other than his friends (and I don’t mean portraits). On the basis he ate ear wax, candle making was probably out. And handing him a red hot poker to play with went against all my natural survival instincts.

Movement from under the heaving pile of cushions sent Chickie tumbling from his throne. He cried heartily as Maya crawled through a small air hole at the bottom of the heap, her hair static and her face purple.

After they’d left earlier than scheduled, I kept seeing my friend’s eyes filled with genuine expectation that a magical seven days of fluff, love and gluing was there for every mother’s taking.

Were they? Or was I missing something? Perhaps I was approaching this week all wrong? I suddenly felt inspired. I’d once subscribed to the idea that motherhood could be a calm, ordered affair all tied up in a big, blue, gingham bow. Of course, that was before I’d actually had a child but she’d made me feel like it was definitely worth trying again.

I entered the week full of renewed hope. I would be that crafty mummy and Chick would spend a contented week carefully gluing sequins and beads onto pieces of felt. Or my tablecloth. And the curtains.

Perhaps a puzzle would play to his strengths? It started well. It ended badly with pieces of jigsaw being snacked on in between discussions about not eating cardboard.

But now pre-school is but a breath away and the twitch that I’ve developed on my right eyelid has begun to subside.

Thank you Walt Disney and Marks & Spencer - I couldn't have done it without you!