A Humdrum Existence

A slip of the tongue

2006-12-31T18:03:00.000Z

"An octopus floated by, and Little Whale called out, 'Can you help me to sing?' But the octopus just changed colour and danced away, moving all his eight testicles."

"Mummy, what's testi...?"

"TENTACLES! Sorry! TENTACLES! Those are the octopus' legs!"

"Oh."

New uses for the humble toothpick #17

2006-12-18T21:21:00.000Z

Scraping out freshly-trodden-in, compacted poo from the imprint of the sole of TS's trainers*.

(This was not in the job description.)

* potty training - saynomore

Resisting the consumerist urge

2006-11-27T21:50:00.000Z

It's hard enough just walking past a closed branch of TK Maxx without fondling my credit card.

But slumped on the sofa in the centrally heated home of a friend, glass of red wine in one hand and oven-warmed finger food in the other?

Well, I turn to mush. Putty. A highly pliable material.

But before the demonstration begins, I steel myself and an internal monologue cranks up inside my (slightly tipsy) head: 'I do not need any new kitchen equipment! I do not need any new kitchen equipment!'.

*******

'Now I'm going to make some savoury mini muffins. Honestly, they're so easy. My kids love them. I'm using the mini muffin tray on page 23. Goodness! I don't know what I did without this! And the mini scoop...'

'I have the mini scoop!' chimes in a fellow audience member. 'It's fantastic! I use it all the time!'

Is she a plant, I wonder. No matter, for I want the mini scoop. And the mini muffin tray.

'So you see how I'm just dropping dollops of mixture into the non-stick tray here? I mean, how long did that take me? Ninety seconds? No more than that.'

Need the mini scoop. Need the mini muffin tray. (And the onion chopper. And the rubber spatula. And the mixing jug with lid. And the snap-tight multi-functional glass ramekins.)

'OK. So while that's baking, I'm going to show you a really easy pizza. Again, you'll be amazed at how easy it is especially when I'm using this stone bakeware sheet. You wouldn't believe how crisp the base turns out! And it's not just good for pizza, it's fantastic for biscuits too!'

Want the stone bakeware. Flick through catalogue. Can't decide on whether to order the rectanglar or the circular one. Will get both. To be on safe side.

*******

The evening wears on in a haze of Merlot and slightly overdone butternut squash mini muffins.

We are all flicking through our catalogues like maniacs. I have sobered up a little and been hit by a wave of steely resolve: I am buying nothing. Sweet FA. Nada.

I smirk a little, proud of my abilities to resist the consumerist urge.

'What are you buying?' asks my sofa-ensconced neighbour.

'Well, probably noth...'

'I definitely want the mini muffin tray...and scoop...and some of those pans look fantastic!'

I swallow a little.

'They do look excellent!' I chip in, enthusiastically.

The demonstrator comes round, like a schoolteacher checking handwriting, snatching up order forms as she glides past the smiling sea of faces.

'Going to be placing an order?'

As she looks away, I quickly scrawl in the code for the stone bakeware (rectangular) - you know, for biscuit making - as well as a couple of 'last minute impulse buys'.

I know. Sucker.

I mean: who am I? Nigella already?

The truth will out

2006-10-16T21:37:00.000+01:00

[The Son (TS) in conversation with his grandfather.]

TS: That your hoover, grandad!

Grandad: Yes, it is. Do you have a hoover in your house?

TS: Yes, Daddy use the hoover.

Grandad: What about Mummy? Does Mummy use the hoover too?

TS: No, Mummy no know how to use hoover.

Ahem.

The best things in life are free

2006-09-14T12:58:00.000+01:00

The Husband (TH) emerges from the bathroom, towel around his waist, scratching his head in wonder.

'Your daughter,' he starts.

(She is always my daughter when she's done something naughty.)

'...got into the bath whilst I was still in it and promptly pee-ed on me from a standing position!'

I stifle a giggle before replying: 'You know, there are clubs in London where people pay for that sort of experience!'

TH ambled off to the bedroom, muttering to himself.

Artistic temperaments

2006-09-01T22:37:00.000+01:00

I have started taking TS and TD to a weekly art class.

It's all very, well, twee (in the nicest possible fashion).

At the start, the teacher makes an attempt to introduce an overarching theme for the week's lesson.

Before she has finished her first sentence ("So, if you were going to the beach, you might take with you a buck..."), TS and the TD are yelling impatiently: "We do painting now!"

[The teacher has perfected the art of the smile-through-gritted-teeth.]

The class begins. The teacher's instructions are usually something like: "Now, carefully paint a long black line to make a stripe on the page...oh, Josh! That's super! It already looks like a zebra!".

Meantimes, TS and TD have tossed their paintbrushes to one side in favour of immersing both their hands in the tray of black paint, so as to ensure a proper smearing all over the paper, leaving not a trace of white background.

"Oh, darling! What a lovely painting!" exclaims TH when the artists return home with their efforts. "What is it?"

I quickly chip in: "It's a tiger/beach ball/hedgehog, Daddy!"

"Oh! Of course!", TH responds, merrily.

Still, Jackson Pollock never made it big by colouring inside the lines, did he? (Hoodathunkit...my kids: abstract expressionists!)

Existentialism for mummies

2006-08-21T07:14:00.000+01:00

I'm hoping this book actually exists.

Because I need advice on how to reply to the recent barrage of questions from TS.

'Where's the seaside/waterfall/museum gone?'

'Um...it's where it was when we left it five minutes ago...'

'Where's my home?'

'Um, where your heart is...?'

'If a tree falls down in a forest...'

Arrrrrrrrrrrrgh.

What every man wants to hear

2006-08-10T13:13:00.000+01:00

We are talking about our genitalia.

Again.

TS: I got a willy!

Me: Yes, you do.

TD: I not got a willy!

Me: No, that's right - you don't.

TS: I got a little willy!

[Pause.]

TS: Daddy got a big willy!

Open letter to the Director General of the BBC

2006-07-31T13:38:00.000+01:00

Dear Mr Thompson

My children are really keen on the three-minute film in the middle of the Teletubbies DVD I bought them for Christmas.

When I say 'really keen on', what I mean is 'displaying a frightening obsession with'.

The film involves two four-year-olds (Becky and Alistair) making ice cream sundaes in their parents' kitchen.

It's quite possible that I have had to sit through this mini-movie, um, 376 times in the past week.

So I am writing to enquire whether you might consider giving Becky and Alistair their very own show on Cbeebies.

Truly, they are a comic duo on a par with the best of British (French and Saunders, Morecambe and Wise, Keith Harris and Orville etc.).

A daily slot just after the Bobinogs would go down a treat in this household and might I suggest that you extend their remit beyond culinary tips to wildlife documentaries and catwalk commentaries?

Yours hopefully,
Marnie Sweet

P.S. Their comic genius is only enhanced by Becky's slurred speech and Alistair's missing top left incisor, so please don't be thinking about giving them a makeover before they make it on the big screen.

History rewritten

2006-07-19T21:09:00.000+01:00

The grandparents took TS and TD on an outing to a local museum, at which there is a spectacular (read: bizarre) clock, which draws little kids like the Pied Piper when it chimes three times a day.

As soon as the mechanism cranked up, TS grabbed his grandfather's hand anxiously and tugged him towards the cafe ("Too noisy - no like it! We go cafe...").

When the grandparents called later to confirm what time they would be bringing TS and TD home, they explained the clock incident to me.

However, by the time they returned home, the story had 'morphed into:

"We see clock! Clock too noisy for Gwandad!"

Help me, Mr Freud

2006-07-06T20:22:00.000+01:00

TD is increasingly interested in theories of gender difference.

Specifically, she wishes to know why it is she does not have a willy.

This voyage of self-discovery is manifesting itself in frequent attempts to establish what it is she has in place of this much-coveted body part.

"What's in my dottom?" she demands, pointing helpfully to the area in question.

Thing is, I only know the Latin.

Is it too early to be introducing her to classical languages?

Devalued currency

2006-06-22T15:06:00.000+01:00

No, not Sterling or the Euro or the US Dollar, but the Prefix.

And specifically the following prefixes: special, biggirls and bigboys.

They had worked wonders for us for so long.

'Don't want to go for walk!'

'But Daddy wants to take you out in the special buggy!'

[The sound of TS and TD scrambling towards the front door and the creak of satisfied grins breaking out on parental faces.]

'No eat breakfast!'

'What about if Mummy gives you your cereal in a biggirlsbowl?'

[Half a super-sized pack of Cheerios disappears in the space of seven minutes.]

But the important thing to remember with prefixes, as with so many things in life, is to avoid over-use which might lead to their devaluation.

We have at least half a dozen 'special' creams in the house: the one which helps make grazed knees feel better, the one which Mummy inexplicably slathers all over her translucent skin so that it may glow , the one which Daddy rubs into his walking boots so that they repel water etc. And we wouldn't want an accident. Mummy does not want to wake up to find TS or TD slathering Brasso on her lower legs.

Inspired parenting solutions from the police

2006-06-20T14:53:00.000+01:00

When it comes to finding creative solutions to persistent parenting problems, one must cast one's net wide. And who better to look to for inspiration than our law enforcement agencies?

Inspired by the Metropolitan Police's recent knife amnesty, we decided to use similar tactics to deal with that most pernicious of problems: daytime dummy-sucking.

Yes, it's Day Two of our Daytime Dummy Amnesty.

With the grandparents threatening to apply to the council for an ASBO, we have instituted a regime whereby TS and TD are asked to surrender their dummies before leaving their bedroom after waking up in the morning and after their midday nap.

A dedicated dummy pot (complete with difficult-to-prise-open lid) has been placed by the bedroom door for this purpose.

We are pleased to report that there has been an immediate cessation of daytime dummy-sucking, with decreasing frequency of dummy requests during the day.

It is for this reason that we are asking people to put to one side Sir Iain Blair's terrorism-related blunders and consider how his more inspired policing solutions might be successfully applied in other areas of life.

Moral relativism

2006-04-24T12:36:00.000+01:00

I am in the kitchen loading the dishwasher.

There is a loud wail from the living room.

It is clear that there is something of a brouhaha taking place.

It is clear that I must intervene.

TS is crying and proffers his right hand saying: 'Bite me! Bite me!'

I turn to TD and ask sternly: 'Did you bite your brother?'

She replies: 'No, not bite him - that's naughty. I pushed him over.'

Thou shalt not es-double-you-ee-ay-are

2006-04-23T14:44:00.000+01:00

In common with most parents of young children, TH and I are in the habit of filtering out swear words from our conversations and spelling out certain words (B-I-S-C-U-I-T-S and S-W-E-E-T-S and so on).

Sometimes we even spell out the swear words, because sometimes you just gotta swear.

Me: 'He can be a little bee-you-gee-gee-ee-are sometimes, can't he?'

TH: 'Yes he can!'

Having listened intently to the exchange, TD chipped in: 'Mummy, I want to gee-gee-ee-are!'

So, I guess we are close to calling time out on the spelling trick.

D-A-M-N.

Competitive parenting

2006-04-18T20:22:00.000+01:00

TH and I take TS and TD on a flight.

All the books suggest factoring in the possibility of long delays, unscheduled stopovers in Abu Dhabi and failed provision of hot inflight meals. So, although we are only taking a one hour internal flight, we decide to cater for all eventualities and duly pack two rucksacks containing everything barring the proverbial kitchen sink.

We have countless Tupperware boxes containing foodstuffs of varying levels of excitement.

We have books. Books with holes in them (including a classic of its genre: Eric Carle's 'The Very Hungry Catepillar'), lift-the-flap books and books with pictures to talk about.

But most importantly, says TH, we have our imagination.

Before we get to the departure gate, following heavy resistance to being strapped into their buggies, we very quickly play what I regard as our trump card: chocolate buttons.

Not only that, but biscuits are promised "later".

Finally, we board the aircraft. It has been decided that I will sit with TS and TH with TD.

Things do not start well.

TS is not overly keen on wearing his seatbelt.

After some extended riffling, I produce a small packet of raisins.

Rejected.

I rummage around some more for a Tupperware containing a favourite dry cereal.

This is marginally more appealing. TS's attention is diverted for about ninety seconds before he begins tugging at his seatbelt again.

Next a box of apple juice is produced. This seems popular.

Briefly.

So we revert to the remaining chocolate buttons. Whilst these are being smothered over the lower parts of TS's face, I stick my nose between the two seats in front which contain TH and TD.

'So, how's it going?' I inquire.

'Fine,' replies TH, as he casually flicks through his magazine. 'How 'bout you?'

'Not too bad, although I've pretty much used up three quarters of our bribery implements.'

'Oh dear,' he laughs. 'We've just been chatting and she's had a few sips of water from her beaker.'

I lean back in my seat, somewhat despondent.

The plane begins to taxi down the runway. Just as we leave terra firma, I experience a brief surge of pride as I manage to convince TS of the entertainment value of shaking some raisins in an unused sick bag.

Purchase-induced paralysis

2006-03-29T12:22:00.000+01:00

I contemplate the purchase of a train set.

Nowadays, there is no such thing as a spontaneous purchase on an otherwise mundane mooch around Mothercare. A lengthy and extensive consultation period is required.

So I decide to seek counsel from those fonts of all toy-related wisdom: Other Mums.

'Oh! A train set, eh? Riiiiiiiiight...'

Yikes, I think.

'Well, for God's sake, make sure it's B-R-I-O C-O-M-P-A-T-I-B-L-E!'

'Brio Compatible?' I ask, puzzled.

'Brio is the best make of train set, but it is more expensive. However, if you're not actually buying a Brio set - if, for instance, you're buying an [sharp intake of breath] unbranded train set - if it's compatible with the Brio make, then you can still buy extra parts from Brio.'

'Oookay,' I reply, wondering whether I should be taking notes.

I casually mention to another friend that I have seen a train set on sale in Asda.

She arches an eyebrow: 'Well, you could get it from Asda, but I'm pretty sure it isn't Brio compatible. However, the Tesco train set on the other hand is Brio compatible.'

Lawks.

Tesco is not my normal choice of supermarket but I am coming to understand that the purchase of a train set is up there with the purchase of your first car, flat, yacht etc., so I look out my A-Z and draw a ten mile radius around our house before Googling to find all the Tesco stores in the vicinity.

As luck would have it, there is a Tesco not so far from my house, so I head out there at the first opportunity.

The basic set has sold out. The teenager staffer I approach has 'no idea' if or when they will be getting any more, so I skulk home, my heart heavy in the knowledge that TS and TD will have to suffer yet more train set-free days (which will probably lead to all sorts of mental health problems in later life).

I check another branch of Tesco, but it is not a Premium store, so there is no toy section.

Despair sets in...

*******

Then one day my mother calls.

'Just thought I'd let you know that I've bought TS and TD's birthday present. I've got them a train set,' she says, casually.

'A train set? Oh...' I mutter.

'What's the matter? Do they have one already?' she inquires.

'No, no. It's just that it's very complicated. It's got to be a certain type, you see,' I ramble.

'Well, it was on offer at Toys R Us...'

'I don't suppose you know the make?'

'Um, not sure...'

Oh God.

'I think it begins with 'B'...'

Praise be! The dark cloud of social pariahhood hanging over my childrens' heads has been lifted!

Premature world weariness

2006-03-23T13:31:00.000Z

It's mid-afternoon and we are in the midst of a banana pancake cookathon of epic proportions.

There is a loud rat-a-tat-tat at the door.

'Daddy!', squeal TS and TD in unison.

'I don't think it's Daddy unless he's bunking off work...', I reply.

My enthusiastic knocker is a salesman who wants to sell me a broadband connection.

'Did you receive one of these through the door?', he asks, waving a leaflet in my face.

'No...um, maybe, can't remember...'

I can smell burning bananas.

'Do you have a computer?'

'Yes...'

I can hear the scrambling of little knees on kitchen table.

'Because with our broadband service...'

'Sorry! Don't want it! My kids! The stove! Pancakes! Gotta go! Sorry!'

And off I dash.

Once resettled in their chairs, TD enquires hopefully: 'Daddy?'

'No, darling. Not Daddy,' I respond apologetically.

'Oh, people,' she sighs wistfully, casting her eyes heavenwards.

Yes, people.

[How many years did I say until teenagerhood?]

The short road to monosyllabism

2006-03-14T12:35:00.000Z

Despite being a clear decade away from teenagerhood, The Daughter has already mastered the art of The Minimalist Response To Parental Questioning.

Her instructions to me today went like this:

[In bed.]
Me: Hello, darling! Did you sleep OK? Do you want to get up?
Her: Milky.

Me: OK. You stay there. I'll go and get your milky and bring it up here.
Her: Downstairs!

[In kitchen.]
Me: Right, let's get your milky.
Her: Nice'n'warm.

Me: There you go! Milky - nice and warm!
Her: Living room.

[In living room.]
Me: Do you want to sit on the sofa and watch Cbeebies?
Her: Blanket!

Yep, positively relishing the prospect of the teenage years.

Peace for the homeworkers

2006-02-16T12:19:00.000Z

Change is afoot. The Husband (TH) plans to work from home more in future to enable us to 'spend more time together as a family'.

I am excited.

I am picturing us all breakfasting together over pancakes and maple syrup in the style of a latter day advertisement for Bisto.

Ah...

*******

So we have a trial run.

'Now, remember that I am working, so I don't want the kids disturbing me,' he says.

'Right, ' I nod dutifully.

'And I've got a teleconference at 1pm, so I'll need some peace and quiet then for sure.'

'Fine. They'll probably be napping then anyway,' I reply.

I try to keep The Son (TS) and The Daughter (TD) entertained with supposedly 'quiet' activities, such as puzzles and drawing, after I have cleaned the kitchen following a cereal throwing incident.

TH pops upstairs to make a coffee.

TS and TD look excited. Daddy is home from work already!

I tell them that Daddy is going away again any minute now to work some more and shuffle them back into the living room.

The morning passes off without too many noisy ructions and TS and TD disappear upstairs for a nap.

TH reappears to make us both some lunch, which, he says, we will sit down together to eat. How civilised and quaint! I say I will sort through the laundry in the meantime.

But then he hears his mobile ringing downstairs.

'Damn, the teleconference is now - must have got the times muddled up. Don't suppose you could finish making lunch and bring me down my soup and sandwich when it's ready?'

I abandon the 15ft high pile of dirty sheets and towels and rush upstairs to grab the almost-burnt sandwich from under the grill and put the soup into a pan.

After delivering lunch to TH who is spouting acronyms at a rate of one every fifteen seconds, I wolf down my own lunch and then sit down at the computer to sort out a few bills online whilst TS and TD are still sleeping.

Suddenly a small box appears on the bottom of the screen (must be the new instant messaging service TH said we were signed up to):

'Please bring me down a glass of water and a coffee - still on teleconference.'

The cheek!

I carry on with the bill-paying and make a quick phonecall to rearrange a doctor's appointment before darting downstairs to shove on another load of laundry.

Ten minutes later, my mobile rings.

TH is talking in a whisper: 'Hey! Where's my glass of water and coffee? I IM-ed you ages ago!'

'Al-right!' I mutter, irritatedly.

So I dart back into the kitchen to prepare a tray of hot and cold beverages for his delectation.

I place them carefully in front of him and tiptoe out of the room.

'Psssssst!' he hisses and points at the soup bowl and plate, which I duly relieve him of before going back upstairs.

I settle down in front of the computer again and just as I am rebooting, I hear a some crying from upstairs: TS and TD are awake.

Great, just great.

*******

So, assuming I can find a nearby building in which to spend the hours between 9am and 5.30pm with TS and TD, I reckon that TH's 'working from home' thing could be a great success.

Role reversal

2006-02-09T12:28:00.000Z

The Daughter (TD) and I are having a bath together.

A stream of bubbles rocket up from TD's vicinity.

'Faht!' she giggles.

The Husband wanders in, keen to be in on the joke.

'Has somebody here done a fart?' he asks.

More giggles.

'Who's done a fart then?'

'Mummy faht!'

*******

Seems like only yesterday we were blaming the children for any foul odours about our person (and getting away with it).

Will clearly have to develop a new strategy in future.

Suburban debauchery

2006-02-07T12:45:00.000Z

One day last week, there was a knock at my front door.

It was a besuited young man, not quite old enough to be my child.

But nearly.

'Come on in,' I beckoned.

He shuffled his feet back and forth over the mat in the hallway.

'Can I just leave you to it? I'm a bit busy just now. Feel free to go upstairs on your own - I'll be up in a minute,' I gabbled.

'Sure,' he replied, very business-like.

*******

So this is how is happens, I thought.

Housewives and stay-at-home mums, strung out on daytime television and an overdose of Cbeebies, devoid of adult conversation, drinking their third cup of cold coffee...

Not that that's me, you understand.

(I always take the time to microwave the two-hour-old coffee.)

But I'd be lying if I didn't say that I hadn't given a second thought to the men who come calling at my house during daylight hours.

First up: the postman. Nope. Not only does he suffer from something of a dowager's hump (possibly explaining the recent acquisition of a post trolley), but he is always rather surly, more so since we complained to the Royal Mail about missing items of post. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if he was sprinkling anthrax on our Next and La Redoute catalogues as revenge.

The window cleaner. Uh-uh. Call me ageist, but he's a grandfather! (Although, round here, that could mean he's anything upwards of thirty-two). And then, of course, his is a very hazardous profession. And one has to think of one's future. One doesn't want to be left on one's own with one's young children to bring up after one's new lover has been horribly incapacitated following a tumble from a twenty foot ladder.

Next up: the gas and electricity meter readers. Thing is, staff turnover seems to be an issue with this company. We never see the same guy twice. So if you're talking about building the foundations of a lasting relationship, well, it just ain't going to happen. And those luminous jackets? They don't flatter even the most Adonis-like specimens.

The best contenders yet are the landscape gardeners. I suppose it's no surprise, really. They work outside all year long, digging and humping big bags of compost. So what you're getting is well-toned, bronzed (and in summer, T-shirt-less) bodies. And ours was something of an aspirant Monty Don (PPE, Oxbridge, did the City thing then 'downshifted', wanting to 'work the land just like our forebears').

But you can't be calling a landscape gardener every six months to rearrange a 15ft X 20ft patch of grass, can you?

*******

Anyway, back to the young man.

Having done what he needed to do (and believe me, it took a lot longer than I had anticipated), he sauntered into the living room.

'Well, Ms Sweet, what a well-preserved home you have! I don't think we'll have any problems selling. I'll stick a letter of valuation in the post when I get back to the office.'

And, without so much of a backwards glance, he was off.

Meantimes, I ran a hand through the mini oil slick on top of my head and decided, after some extensive internal dialogue, that it was indeed four days since I had washed my hair.

'Can probably hang on for another day,' I decided.

And with that, I flicked the TV back to 'This Morning'.

Co-conspirators

2006-02-01T12:02:00.000Z

The Son (TS) and The Daughter (TD) want a post-prandial biscuit.

This is fine. When it comes to food, I am very firmly in the 'live and let live' branch of Motherhood (as opposed to the fascist 'no sugar until they're 21' camp).

Of course, we have to resort to various forms of subterfuge when other mothers coming a-calling with their untainted-by-evil-foodstuffs kids.

So I have a small stash of rice cakes, multi-grain breadsticks and the omnipresent mini packets of organic raisins prominently displayed in my kitchen.

'Would Felix like a rice cake?'

'Ooh, I'm sure he would! Would you like a rice cake, Felix?'

(Of course, it's a rhetorical question, seeing as Felix is only nine months' old and can't yet speak to proclaim his hearty dislike of this disc-shaped styrofoam substitute.)

TS and TD are very good. I hand them a rice cake each too and they don't say 'ooh, what are these, Mummy?' or 'but can't we have a jaffa cake?'. They crunch through at least three each before I move onto the raisins. And, if offered a banana instead of their habitual chocolate chip cookie as a mid afternoon snack at a friend's house, they don't so much as bat an eyelid between them.

I'm ever so proud of them!

However, if the other mother hints at a diet which may include 5% of the RDA for saturated fat, I might consider confiding that I do also have some biscuits.

But lest you start to think that I am one of those mothers, please appreciate that I have my standards. I insist my biscuit offerings have healthy-sounding names, such as Digestive and Malted Milk.

Besides, this works well alongside my non-diet. Who, jittery and in need of a sugar rush, will want to reach for something so dull and wholesome?

*******

That said, if in the act of reaching for two such biscuits whilst holding a small child under one arm, one biscuit was to fall to the ground and break into three pieces, I may have to make an exception.

I mean, it's a well known fact that broken pieces of biscuit have a lower calorific value than they would whole.

UN-trained house sellers

2006-01-26T13:03:00.000Z

There comes a time in everyone's life when they are forced to interact with that other breed: The Estate Agent.

Only these days, The Husband and I notice, they are going under a different guise: Negotiator.

That's right.

Yesterday: second in command to Kofi Annan, passing resolutions and chastising China about its human rights record.

Today: selling over-priced arrangements of breeze blocks and plasterboard in a large metropolitan area.

It's what management gurus call 'skills transfer'.

Diddled

2006-01-18T11:50:00.000Z

I was changing The Son's bed when I noticed the following label:

"A baby who is being sick will want watching."

Gosh, I thought. It's true that I don't have much time to watch TV or read books these days, but I hadn't considered observing a projectile vomit as entertainment.

Clearly I need to think outside the box a bit more often.

This little nugget of wisdom was closely followed by:

"This mattress may not soak up vomit."

What?

I didn't buy a vomit-absorbing mattress?

I sighed.

Once again, it seems I have stumbled and fallen at one of the many Hurdles of Parenthood.

*******

So I delved around a bit in my amnesiac brain to remember the moment: the moment when I failed to purchase a vomit-absorbing mattress.

Ah yes.

We were doing that first-time parently tour of the nursery section of a major department store. A sweet young woman with a glamorous-sounding title was trailing us past shelf after shelf pointing out 'essential items for Mother and Baby'.

Whenever we veered towards a product, she merrily proclaimed 'oh, that's a very popular model with our parents!'. (The shop equivalent of seeing lots of people eating in the window of an otherwise iffy-looking local restaurant. "Weren't sure we wanted it before but want it now!")

But I can see now that we were being distracted from the business of cot mattresses by having to make earth-shattering choices such as: disposable breast pads or washable breast pads, and one pack of maternity pads or seven?

We grabbed a well-known brand of sling (which, when we unfurled it at home, turned out to be a long - not to mention expensive - length of stretchy cotton with a cute pocket...probably for carrying breast pads).

'Oh, Baby will be very comfy in that!'

I seem to remember The Husband and I making a pact in the car park not to be swayed by persuasive sales-talk and to leave with just a few choice bits and pieces, but already our three wire baskets contained four cot sheets, two cot blankets, four pram blankets, a sparkly-twinkly gadget that shone weird images onto 'Baby's' ceiling, seven packs of maternity pads, disposable and resuable breast pads, sunshades for the car windows, two snuggle-cuddle robes, an expensive plastic two-compartment container ('a must for topping and tailing!' - I thought this sounded like a technique for chopping French beans but it seems to be the universally-accepted phraseology), mini nail clippers, three soft toys and an industrial-sized bag of cotton wool balls.

Weary from this heady bout of consumerism, our wills were weak by the time it came to the major items (a very clever sales trick indeed).

So I don't remember being shown the vomit-absorbing mattress, although I do vaguely remember being given a choice.

It was something along the lines of:

'Well, there's the cheap-as-chips mattress, which will probably fall apart after three weeks of use and the chemicals contained therein are quite likely to asphyxiate Baby. But it is just five pounds, so you gets what you pays for, I suppose!'

or

'We do also have a premium, spring-loaded, coconut-hair-lined*, deluxe mattress, which is that bit more expensive, but when it comes to your precious bundle of love, most of our parents don't want to compromise on safety!'

Doubtless she went on to mention add-on features ('by special request to the manufacturers') which included the ability to absorb regurgitated carrot, but if they were mentioned, we were too busy feeling guilty about buying a chemical-laden scrap of recycled foam.

Bloody Miriam Stoppard.

Too busy advising how best to hold our babies and how to resist throwing them out of a third floor window when they cry for hours on end, she failed to tell us about the importance of vomit absorption when it came to mattresses.

I blame her.

* I'm not actually making this bit up

Dead rats and washing machines

2006-01-12T11:48:00.000Z

Duller still than dieting, our washing machine* is broken.

'It's the module,' proclaimed Mr Service Engineer (SE) after a thirty second inspection.

Sorry? The module?

That sounds to me like Service Engineer Speak for a complicated-sounding part whose name (extensive in-house market research has revealed) will most likely befuddle your common-or-garden British housewife, bringing on a short fainting fit and necessitating a house-wide search for Great Aunt Florrie's smelling salts.

SE: 'Is your parts warranty still valid?'

Me: 'No, ran out about three weeks ago...'

SE: 'Well, a new one is about twenty five quid, so you're looking at a hundred all in, what with the call-out fee.'

Me: 'Right...'

SE: 'Although, it might not be the module...'

He seems to be backtracking now. Aha!

Me: 'How will we know if it is or not?'

SE: 'Well, we fit a new module and if the machine still doesn't work, then it's probably the motor.'

Me: 'Right. And that costs how much?'

SE: 'About a hundred quid. So you might not want to bother, what with the cost of a new machine.'

Me: 'OK. So you can fit a new module now?'

SE: [a small smile breaks out on his otherwise expressionless face] 'Oh no. I'll have to order one. If we've got one in the warehouse, then I might be able to come back in a day or two. Otherwise we'll have to place an order and that'll take about a week to ten days.'

Me: [rolling eyes and issuing quiet tutting noises] 'Riiiiiiiight...'

So I call the helpline later in the day:

'Ah yes, Ms Sweet. I'm afraid it was out of stock so we've ordered one and it's going to be ten days as the part is coming from Italy.'

Good grief.

If I had known my washing machine was Italian, I would have demanded a British replacement, which would have had the added benefit of supporting our ailing economy. Although it occurs to me that I don't know a British washing machine brand ('Will jolly well clean your togs' or 'Gosh, those ketchup stains have come out a treat!'??).

Well, the module had damn well better look well-fed on Mamma's penne arrabiatta not to mention snappily-dressed (on account of it coming from Milan).

*******

Meantimes, I am madly inviting myself to tea at friends' houses, humping large bags of laundry with me and commandeering their washer-dryers for whole afternoons.

Then today I spotted Mr Service Engineer crossing the street in front of my house and skulking back towards his van. So I ran to the front door and yelled: 'Hello? Did you just knock on my door?'.

He looked as if I had just pushed him against the wall of a disused alleyway and pressed a revolver against his skull.

'Er, no. I was at your neighbour's place.'

Oh.

Oh! So the washing machines in our identikit, Stepford-wifely, high-density homes have conked out at the same time, just a few weeks after the parts warranty ran out.

Now, I ain't no Sherlock Holmes, but a distinctly rodent-flavoured odour is overwhelming my nasal passages...

* whose brand name may or may not rhyme with Girl-Tool

My non-diet

2006-01-11T06:59:00.000Z

'Just popping out to Asda, darling!' I hollered at The Husband (TH) as I grabbed the car keys and made for the front door.

Of course, I had no such intention.

My intention was to scour the Next sale racks and then scoot into Asda for a lemon and some semi-skimmed milk and pass these off as the essential items lacking in our kitchen.

Well. I had vouchers. And they had to be spent.

Today.

I slipped into the changing room with three pairs of trousers, a plum-coloured cardigan which looked as if it had been put in a hot wash by mistake (a 'shrug', apparently) and a flesh-baring sparkly top.

The shrug and sparkly top hit the floor first. (What was I thinking?)

However, the black 95% cotton/5% elastane bootleg trousers were an instant hit.

I twirled and paraded round the 4ft by 4ft changing cubicle, ooh-ing and ah-ing at the trimness of my behind and the way the material clung to my thighs in a not unflattering fashion.

But finally I had to breathe out and then I spotted it.

A slab of flab beginning under my breasts and hanging over the top of the trousers.

'That will go!' I said to myself smugly. 'No need to worry about that!'

Go where, though?

Background note: I've never been one to go on diets. Not because I haven't needed to, but I always felt that a woman on a diet was a walking cliche (in some cases, a waddling cliche).

That's right. It wasn't a case of 'I'm not dieting because I am thin!' or 'I'm not dieting because I am happy with the way I look!'. It was 'I'm not dieting because it's a cliche!'.

I managed to string this position out until this time last year when I realised I was certifiably overweight (you know, I typed some figures into an online test and it said 'you are overweight!' oh, I thought I was just a tad pudgy).

Anyway. Back to the slab of flab and its final destination.

I am not on a diet but I'm trying to lose a few pounds, preferably those contained in the aforementioned slab of flab.

I remember asking TH where the fat went when you 'lost' it.

'Do you pee it out?' I wondered aloud.

'I think I would find it hugely incentivising if it were to drop off in blobs as you walked along the street. What people want when it comes to weight loss is visual evidence of the loss as it happens.'

'Yuk!' protested TH.

'It's just not enough for the diet groupies to show us the equivalent number of packets of lard. I want to see my fat!'

'Stop it!', said TH.

So today I had porridge for breakfast. And we have Quorn Chicken Style Pieces and reduced fat hummous in the fridge.

Hey, I tell you: I am well on my way...

Don't do as I do

2006-01-10T09:15:00.000Z

Parenthood forces one to explore the outer reaches of one's imagination and creative abilities.

Note to non-parents: if you think a train set and some building blocks and fifteen different types of toy car and a pretend tea set and half a dozen flashy, battery-driven gadget-y toys are going to cut the mustard for longer than four minutes in every hour, you are very much mistaken.

And so it was that I resorted to flinging The Son's and The Daughter's toy dolls* up in the air until their moulded plastic heads hit the ceiling. As they did so, I offered up an exclamation of 'boink!'.

This was (excuse the pun) a big hit. Much hysterical laughter and repeated cries of 'Again! Again!'.

Their appetite for this wondrous new game seemed insatiable.

But suddenly, I felt the need to bring it to an end. These, after all, were the dolls I had bought in the vain hope that they would help bring out the nurturing side of my children. ('Aw? Is your baby crying? Better give her/him a cuddle! Oooh! Has (s)he done a wee-wee? Shall we change her/his nappy?')

Two little bewildered faces looked up at me.

'Now, see. This isn't what we'd do with a real baby.' [At this point, I invited them both to give their babies a much-deserved cuddle.] 'We don't throw real babies, now, do we?'

Silence.

'But you know that, right?'

The wall clock went tick tock tick tock tick. Brows furrowed confusedly for the briefest of seconds before two little doll-laden hands stretched out towards mine:

'Again! Again!'

* no gender stereotyping in this family

PVSTS

2006-01-09T09:40:00.000Z

My friend M called last week.

M: 'Happy New Year, Marnie! Did you have a good Christmas?'

Me: 'Yes. Hectic but fun! (This is a euphemism for 'I was knackered but the kids seemed to enjoy themselves'.) How 'bout you?'

M: 'Yeah, alright, but I've had this horrible bug thing since mid December. Still haven't shaken it off.'

Me: 'Tell me about it! I was ill over the break too. Had a hideous sore throat for weeks. No cold or flu symptoms just a raging sore throat. Paracetomol wouldn't touch it.'

M: 'Oh my God! Me too! Kills at night time especially.'

Me: 'Yeeeeeeees!'

M: 'I saw the GP twice and all they said was...'

Me: '"It's a virus"! Right?'

M: 'Right! Said my throat was really red and inflamed, though.'

Me: 'Yep. Me too. So, what, is it still sore now?'

M: 'Yeah, but not as bad. Although it's weird, 'cause my tongue seems to be swollen now.'

Me: 'Oh my God! My tongue is swollen too! That is so weird!'

M: 'Wow! But d'you know what? And don't take this the wrong way, I feel a lot better just knowing how ill you've been.'

*******

The next night, some mutual friends of me and M came round for dinner. They asked after M and I replied that he was unwell.

Me: 'Well, he's a bit better but now he's got a swollen tongue. In fact, so do I. We think we must have had the same thing.'

The Husband (TH): 'A swollen tongue?! Don't be ridiculous!'

[Gosh, he can be so uncaring sometimes.]

Friend #1: [diplomatically] 'Is it possible to have a swollen tongue?'

Me: 'Look! [leaning over table and sticking out tongue for inspection] See? There are toothmarks all round the edges...that's 'cause it's so swollen that my teeth are champing down on it all the time.'

[Actually, what I said sounded more like 'Theeee? Thair uh thooth mahks aw wound tha ed-thes...tha's coth ith tho so-len tha ma theeth a thampin dan on ith a tha thime.']

TH: 'You're being ludicrous! Tongues are muscles! They can't swell!'

Me: [madly racking brain to summon up knowledge gained from 'O' Level Biology] 'Well, I think you'll find that muscles can swell up!'

TH: 'Oh yeah! Um, ooh look! My biceps are swollen!'

Between the four of us, there were four undergraduate degrees, one Masters degree and two Doctorates, but of those only one was science-y (Physics, Third Class, 1989). I could see it was going to be hard to move this argument along.

So I dropped it.

But I resolved to ring M the following morning to further commiserate over our shared bout of Post Viral Swollen Tongue Syndrome (or PVSTS as it's known to readers of the BMJ).

Multi-tasking

2006-01-08T19:53:00.000Z

Last night I ate a yoghurt whilst sitting on the loo*.

Although I didn't know it at the time, I guess reading the newspaper on the loo was the first step.

To be frank, it's quite a novelty to be going the loo without my entourage (The Son and The Daughter). So I tend to get rather excited when it is a solitary affair and I start to harbour all manner of crazy notions.

Like the yoghurt thing.

I can't say I planned it. But I had decided to retire early (leaving The Husband watching 'Downfall' on Sky Plus - goodness! who can face something like that on a Saturday night?) and I could think of no more thrilling way to spend my pre-slumber minutes than with a Yeo Valley organic fat free rhubarb yoghurt and a book.

I got to the bathroom, sat myself on the loo and thought: 'Hey! I could speed things along a little by eating the yoghurt now, so the book-reading can commence as soon as I get into bed. Bingo!'

Or maybe that should have been: 'Eureka!'.

It occurred to me that it is exactly this sort of multi-tasking that we women are supposed to be so skilled at.

Well done us!

Anyhoo. Off to bed I sloped to snuggle up in my brushed cotton jimjams with my book when I realised I would need to go back to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

Blast.

* it was a Number One, thank you very much (one has one's standards)