Jan 1 2013

You can take your New Years Resolutions and shove them in the wine bottle recycling bin…

I’m hungover. Yes, I know. Shocker. But this is an acceptable state to be in on New Years Day. An evening of heavy drinking to block out the fact that New Years Eve is generally shit is allowed. In fact it’s the law. One must not remain sober on New Years Eve. Unless preggers. I once foolishly managed to mess up my dates and had to endure a sober Christmas and New Year as I was heavily up the duff with F. It was the most depressing week of my life. I was in bed at 7pm every night, just to try to make the week go quicker. I breathed a sigh of relief on January 1st, knowing that most people would now be on the wagon and miserable like me. Anyone who says you don’t have to drink to have a good time is a big fat liar. Fact.

Anyway I digress. I’m sat here in my acceptable hungover state, rocking gently, feral children trashing the house around me and I find myself contemplating making a resolution. Should I be making any? Everyone in this weeks OK magazine seems to have made one, even Rylan. Perhaps I should jump on the bandwagon? Because I’m so good at keeping resolutions. Or am I?…lets see…

I’m not going to drink in the week

This generally lasts until the 2nd January when I realise I have another 5 whole days until the feral children go back to school, and the only way I’m going to survive 5 days of them being cooped up in the house because the monsoon weather outside is preventing us from going out and breathing fresh air, is to hook myself up to an IV drip containing Pinot Noir.

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I am going to exercise every day

This resolution happens because I foolishly weigh myself on New Years Day and have an absolute heart attack. I will then vow to exercise like a mad sweaty woman in an attempt to lose the pounds put on from the Christmas binge-fest. I will of course put this off for a week until when the kids go back to school so I can focus on it properly. But then I will allow myself a week off to relax now they’re back at school, you know, a bit of me-time after the Christmas stress. But then I’ll get a cold and, well, you can’t exercise with a cold, everyone knows that. But then it’s my birthday week and it’s the law of the Exercise Gods that you mustn’t exercise near your birthday. But then..and then.. You get the gist, right? Never. Going. To. Happen.

I will definitely try to cook more

 I will even go and buy some fancy cookware in the sales. They will of course sit there gathering dust. Because I’m a crap cook and I hate cooking. And poor Mr Kipling is struggling in this tough economic climate so he needs supporting. So I’ll just carry on buying, not cooking. Selfless aren’t I?!

I promise I’ll sit down and play more games with the children

This will last approximately 3 minutes into the first game when we all end up arguing and one of us storms off in tears. It’s usually me. I hate losing. And I don’t like being called poo head.

I will clean the oven every week.

Yeah right.

So you see I’m rubbish at this resolution lark. I don’t think I’ll bother. Resolutions are for strong people, not weak kittens like me. I’ll just carry on being a wine drinking slummy mummy I think. Why change a winning combination?

Here’s to 2013 and being ourselves.

Here’s to all of us mummies on the wine, cheers!

 

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Nov 3 2012

The return of the living room

It is 6pm on Friday night. I am sitting in my living room. Twigs with twinkly lights are…well…twinkling next to the fireplace. Candles are on. I have a glass of wine in my hand. The boys, exhausted after a full-on half term, are flaked out in the family room watching a film. I’m pretty bloody contented right now.

This living room thing is new. Until a couple of weeks ago it was a playroom . No sofa, no TV, and shed loads of batman paraphernalia. I only used to walk into it to break up the usual arguments “he called me poo head”, “but he was trying to kiss me”. My beloved living room was long gone. And my living room, and me, were sad.

I fell in love with the living room when I viewed the house, hormonal and pregnant with C. The previous owners clearly had WAY more money than us, and had filled the room with gorgeous sofas and beautiful mahogany furniture. I gasped as I walked in. I knew I wanted the house there and then because of that lovely room with copies of House and Home laid out on the coffee table. Of course when we moved in the living room would never look as nice. But it was still lovely, even with our crappy furniture in it.

Until…

Two months later our lives changed in a way I could never imagine. Out beautiful living room was now filled with rolled up dirty nappies and muslins covered in sick. I spent a lot of time sat on the sofa, blinking vacantly at old reruns of Sex and the City at 3am, feeding, feeding and feeding. I began to resent that room. I felt like a prisoner to that room and the crying baby. I think the living room realised I didn’t have any space in my life to love it. So it stopped caring about its appearance and developed a layer of dust. And went to sleep.

Another baby came along pretty quickly, bringing another few months of bring trapped in that room day and night. Some more dust gathered. But then, as soon as you could say ‘if I have to walk around that room rocking a crying baby one more time I will scream.. And cry..,’ it stopped and the Toddler Years arrived. Perhaps the living room felt a little bit of hope that things would change. If anything, things got worse for my lovely living room. The fireplace was now covered in horrible protective sponge to stop teetering toddlers cracking their head open on it, and all candles and twinkly twigs were shoved in the dark, cold garage. The carpet was barely visible under a sea of Happyland tat. The living room had well and truly lost its soul.

Things went from bad to worse for the living room. We built an extension with a whole new living space. The new family room welcomed in a big new sofa and a fancy TV. The living room, with it’s second hand bulky tv, and tatty fabric sofa just couldn’t compete. We spent no time in there.

The nail in the living rooms coffin came when I woke up one day, clearly feeling a bit bonkers, and decided that the sofa in the living room was too old and musty and had to go. Right now. Oh and the TV for that matter. I reversed the car up to the front door and in a super human show of strength carried the sofa out and shoved it into the back of the car. Along with the TV. I then looked defiantly back at Mr A who was watching me bemused, thinking I had gone completely mad again. He agreed to take them to the dump. He clearly realised that today I was a bit bonkers and arguing with me would be futile. The living room was empty so I decided that it should now become the playroom. Genius idea. I never have to see toys or children again. By the time Mr A returned from the dump, all the toys, and children, had been deposited in there. He looked at the now toy filled living room and looked sad. I was sad too. And so was the living room, I could tell. That was a year ago.

A few weeks ago, as the weather turned cold, Mr A and I found ourselves lamenting over the loss of our living room. The family room made be all modern, with swish roof light and fancy TV, but cosy it is not. I realised then that I missed the living room more than I let on. And surprisingly so did Mr A. He then uttered four words that was music to my ears; “use the credit card”. I didn’t need to be told twice. Spending on the credit card is my specialist subject.

Before he could change his mind, two sofas were ordered along with a fancy new TV. I bought paint and painted the living room ON MY OWN (yes, really). I bought cushions (too many in Mr A’s opinion) and painted canvases to match them (years of watching Changing Rooms was coming to fruition). And last of all, I rescued the twinkly twigs and candles from where they were dumped in the garage during the Toddler Years.

My living room is at last a grown up room again. In fact I think I love it more than I did when I moved in. With the Dark Days over, the children are old enough to know not to draw on the cushions or pull at the twinkly twigs. They also know better than to disturb mummy when she’s sneaked into the living room with a glass of wine at 6pm on a Friday night.

So let’s raise a glass to the return of the living room. If the living room could talk I know it would say it was happier than ever. And do you know what? So am I.

Personalised canvases anyone?!

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Oct 25 2012

Friday night is all about the school disco

What were you doing last Friday? Relaxing after a hard week, watching a film, with the children perhaps? I love Fridays because the boys are allowed to play on the Wii after school and I get to relax with a glass of wine by 5pm. It’s lovely. I wouldn’t want to be doing anything else. Well, other than relaxing on a beach in the Maldives but I don’t think that’ll be happening in the next two decades.

So why is it that I found myself in a school hall ready to help with the school disco? God, because I’ve been saying yes to things again, this time it was ‘yes I’d love to help out with the school disco’, I can’t think of anything else I ‘d rather do on a Friday night’. *slams head against wall*.

So on a cold dark and wet Friday night, instead of sitting down with a glass of red, I find myself stripping C down to his pants in the school hall and wriggling party clothes on him. Well actually when I say party clothes, it’s just boring jeans and a top, no male equivalent of girly party dresses here. I look around and realise, oh god it’s Halloween fancy dress. I vaguely remember reading something about fancy dress, but as always, I parked that information and did precisely nothing with it. Don’t panic, I tell myself. He wouldn’t want to dress up anyway, he never does, it’s fine. So I say to him ‘it’s fancy dress but I haven’t brought anything for you to wear’, thinking he’ll be relieved. He looks crestfallen. Bugger. So I shove a load of money into his pocket and tell him he can buy as many sweets from the sweet stall as he wants. He smiles and runs off to join his vampire friends.

The children start arriving, already hyperactive and they haven’t even started on the sweets yet. The girls are dressed in the most gorgeous witches outfits, that I suspect pass as princess outfits the rest of the year minus the witches hat. The boys are dressed as skeletons and monsters and some of them look quite scary, all blacked out eyes and fake blood. Clearly the mums of all these children got the memo about dressing up. Damn them.

Suddenly the lights dim and children start excitedly screaming. The disco lights start flashing and ‘I like to move it move it’ starts blaring out across the room. I raise my eyes at the ceiling and wonder how I am going to survive the next hour without some seriously strong alcohol flowing into my veins via intravenous drip. Children start flocking to the sweet stall and I have a slight panic. Is my maths good enough for this? Will I be able to work out how much two refreshers bars and a snake cost and deduct this from £1?? Oh god, I’m rubbish at anything vaguely mathematical. Mr A swears that my complete inability to add up or takeaway in my head is the reason why I am constantly in debt and hopeless with money and for these reasons I am never ever going to have access to the joint account. I don’t blame him, he has a point.

I spend the next hour shouting out ‘and WAIT for your change’ as children hand me £5 notes and walk off oblivious, and ‘now put your change in your pocket/purse/wallet/somewhere safe, NOW, do it now so I can see’. They are practically chain eating sweets, as soon as one is devoured they are back for some more. I am worried there is going to be one almighty vomit fest if this carries on. I’m not good with sick, I hope I don’t have to help clear it up. The disco sprays out foam, and if I close my eyes for a second I can imagine I’m back in Ibiza circa 1998 at a foam party in Amnesia. But then I’m suddenly jolted by the realisation that One Direction would not have been on the playlist at Amnesia, and I come round quickly to realise to my horror that yes, One D’s ‘what makes you beautiful’ is being played at full blast, and most of the children , yes even the boys, are singing along to it, and they know ALL of the words! How??!! Does this mean there are parents out there that play One Direction at home?? Who are these people? Have Social Services been informed??!

The track changes to “I’m Sexy and I know it”, age appropriate it may not be, but the kids are loving it, and the DJ declares there’s going to be a dance off and children can come up to the front and show the audience their best moves. I look across the floor and nearly die of shock when I see that my own little shy angel is up there breakdancing!!! Well, it’s sort of breakdancing, if you can call spinning on your bottom, kicking your legs and arms out now and then, breakdancing. He clearly gets all his dance moves from his father. This is the boy who you can hardly hear speaking in school assemblies, and he’s up there break dancing in front of a load of kids and parents to “I’m sexy and I know it”. What. The. Actual.Hell?!!

He is cheered by the DJ and he retakes his place in the crowd clapping the next dancing child, a girl who is spinning and jumping like a ballerina. C’s friends are slapping him on the back and he looks very pleased with himself. I think that if I don’t get wine soon I am going to pass out. Thankfully, shortly after, the lights go on, and there is a mad rush back to the sweet stall as the children quickly realise that this is their last chance to gorge on sweets. Children are shoving money in my face and I break out in a sweat, handing oversized cola bottles, mini Mars bars and fizzy laces into clammy palms. The crowd disperses and I see this as my chance to make a dash for it. I grab my coat and my child, and run like I’ve never run before.

We sit in the car for a minute, enjoying the silence, well, kind of silence, as C is still chewing noisily on a snake. I ask him if he enjoyed the disco, he yes ‘yeah’. He is red in the face and sweaty. I look in the rearview mirror. So am I. So what about me, did I enjoy it? Actually, I did. Yes, I did. I’m glad it’s over, mind. But boy was I looking forward to that glass bottle of wine when I got home. I think I’d earnt it.

Now if I could just get that bloody One Direction song out of my head….

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Oct 22 2012

Sunday Summary 21st October 2012

This week the world of Mummy’s on the wine has been all about having two children back at school, wondering whether to have a Halloween party, attending a singing assembly, helping out at the school disco, redecorating, getting drunk with the girls and being hungover. Here’s the lowdown;

Number of calories consumed: I don’t want to think of it. The weekend alone consisted of pizza, chinese and a full on roast. And there were 5 extra days of eating on top of that. Let’s just write it off as a bad week and sellotape my mouth as of Monday.

Number of bottles of wine consumed: 4. FOUR?!!!! Yes I am well aware that sounds a lot, but when you factor in Friday night wine to celebrate getting to the end of the week (non negotiable), a Girls Night Out on Saturday Night, and friends over on Sunday, I’m sure that you will be nodding in agreement with me that it easily mounts up (you are nodding, right? That wasn’t a head shake I saw there?)

Number of fitness workouts: 0. I feel wobbly. This has not been a good week. I need to exercise like a woman on a mission next week. But probably won’t.

Number of boys finally back at school:  I was forced to keep F off school while he had his temporary cast and thankfully he got his permanent cast this week. You can read Cabin fever and the case of the missing sanity for more on how well I coped having him off school for a week. In short, I didn’t cope very well!  Thankfully my sanity and my child are both back where they should be.

Amount of money spent on hospital parking: I am now very familiar with the layout of Hillingdon hospital and the whereabouts of X-ray department, the fracture clinic and children’s a and e. Last week I spend the mind blowingly huge sum of £8 on parking at the hospital. EIGHT POUNDS!!!!!! I am so bloody annoyed, hospital parking is goddamn daylight robbery. I could have bought two bottles of wine for that! And be way less stressed!

Number of times I was last to leave a restaurant: 1. Girls Night Out. Last ones there.  They had started cleaning the tables and there was a distinct smell of bleach. The bill was thrown at us and the lights were turned on to full-on spotlight glare. We just didn’t want the night to end, clearly. The staff on the other hand did.  Thank god I was too drunk to notice the constant glares and looking at watches. Another quality night out.

Number of times I decided that I need to stop agreeing to things: Lots. And that was over the space of an hour and a quarter  on Friday night as I was helping out at the school disco. “I like to move it move it” was going round in my head all of Friday night which is DEFINITELY not a good thing for my very fragile sanity. And I bet that song’s in your head now, MWAHAHAHAH!!!!!

Number of times I decided I’d quite like to be a decorator : 1. That was on Tuesday when I decided to paint the living room, on a whim, as you do. Piece of piss, I thought. In fact, I decided, I will take over all the decorating in the house, who needs to get people in or beg and plead with Mr A to do it, this is easy. And then that thought was quickly banished from my head as soon as I started. A right bloody hassle and it takes too long. I got paint in my hair, on my face, on the floor and on the ceiling. Never. Ever. Again.

So there we have it, too much wine, too much food. Another normal week in the world of Mummy’s on the wine. See you next Sunday for more of the same. And if you see me pour myself a glass of wine, do feel free to shout at me. My liver is crying so next week is all about the detox. Well, maybe.

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Oct 17 2012

Cabin fever and the case of the missing sanity

Before I start can I just reiterate how much I adore my little baby F. Brave star of http://www.mummysonthewine.com/2012/10/09/saturday-and-the-broken-arm/. Very proud of him blah blah blah etc etc. You get the gist right?

OK.

Can I now just go AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you. I needed that. What. A. Week.

After breaking his arm, the hospital put a temporary cast on, whilst the swelling subsided. It is less robust than the permanent cast and so school wouldn’t let F back in until he had his permanent cast on. Which was a whole SIX school days away. Six days of there being absolutely nothing wrong with him other than he’s got his arm in a sling and now and then it aches. He can wee unaided(well, when I say wee, I mean spray all over floor and not in the toilet), eat unaided and play perfectly fine. It was a VERY, VERY long six days. And my sanity went missing. Not that I had much of it to go missing anyway.

Day 1: Day 1 was manageable. I had planned to keep him off school anyway. He was pale, sore and lethargic. We watched back to back Scooby Doo films and snuggled. This is lovely I thought. However…

Day 2: By Day 2 he had made a miraculous recovery and was bouncing around the house. Cabin fever was already starting to set in so I decide we can have a little jaunt to Tesco and he can help me with the shopping. Big mistake. Huge mistake. He claims he is strong enough to carry things one-handed for me. I give him the very important task of getting a tin of tomato soup (as you all know, my favourite lunch choice). He picks it up, drops it and it goes rolling off down the aisle. A granny narrowly misses stepping on it and I think, for health and safety reasons, I need to call time on this exercise. F then has a full on proper crying shouting fit. People are staring. So I do what any other slummy mummy would do in this situation, and tell him he can have anything from the sweet aisle. Anything. The more e-numbers the better. I don’t care, I just want to get this over with. So we leave, him with a Swizzles Bumper Bag and a smile, me with a scowl and a bottle of wine.

Day 3: School send work home. Yes I know, last time I looked a 4 year old’s knowledge of Jolly Phonics wasn’t tested by sitting a two-hour exam at the end of term but I let it pass and think that actually F might like doing some something different. Apparently not. I ask him if he’d like to do some school work. He tells me not today thank you and walks off. At least he said thank you. I’m in shock. An unprompted thank you, that’s a first. So I let him off for now. I try again after lunch, but apparently batman is being eaten by dinosaurs and it was very important that he help batman out by sending in reinforcements. Quite. I see his point. So I then resort to what every other slummy mummy does in these circumstances. A whole packet of Haribos later and the homework is done. A small victory in an otherwise dull day. The day ends on a high with a half hour tantrum, involving throwing all of his books around his bedroom and telling me he thinks I’m rude. The rest of the sweets go in the bin. “Ha! Don’t you dare cross me”, I say to no one. He can’t hear me, he’s still shouting down the stairs that I am rude and he doesn’t like me. It is about now that I realise my sanity is missing in action. I open the wine.

Day 4: I decide we both need to get out and become friends with each other again. I sneak Mr A’s credit card out of his wallet before he goes to work, buy F a magazine and we read it over lunch in Pizza Express.We have a lovely time, we laugh, cuddle and eat ice cream. The battering on Mr A’s credit card is worth it.

Day 5: I have the Friday feeling. I trade him an hour or so of me cleaning the tip that my house has become this week and agree that when I am finished he will have my undivided attention. The cleaning doesn’t even scratch the surface, as always, and we spend the rest of the day playing on the hotwheels track on the floor. My bum goes numb but that’s OK as I’m on countdown to Friday wine o’clock. Which starts two hours earlier today. Well, special circumstances and all that. I’ve lost my sanity.

Day 6: The weekend passes too quickly, as always, and we are at Monday already. This is the Holy Day that we have been focussing on since he broke his arm, the day he gets his permanent cast, and the passport to returning to school. We are at the hospital a full 45 minutes before our appointment. Not that I’m keen or anything. He chooses a fancy blue cast with red glitter, and on the way back home I pop into school to demand that he comes back to school ask whether it is OK for him to return to school. They say yes and I swear that F’s sigh of relief was as big as mine. We get home and spend a nice afternoon getting along with each other, not having tantrums and not calling each other rude. Which makes a change.

He wakes up early the next day, clearly very excited about going back to school and seeing his friends. I also wake up early and excitedly cross off the day in the calendar that’s says ‘BACK TO SCHOOL!!!!!’ . We find ourselves at the playground in record time, and as I help him into his classroom and kiss him goodbye, I linger at the doorway watching him go in. A gaggle of children flock round him like moths to a flame, girls are stroking his arm, and boys want to see his cast. I look at his face and he has the BIGGEST smile I’ve seen in a long time. He is clearly thrilled to be back. And whilst I am also pleased he is back, my heartstrings tug a little as I realise I will miss him. And then I get home and look for my sanity. It’s buried under the pile of books that he threw about in his bedroom. I pick it up, it’s looking a bit battered but otherwise unscathed. I may miss him a bit today but boy is it nice to have my sanity back!

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Oct 9 2012

Saturday and the broken arm

On Saturday Little F broke his arm. I will never forget that scream. One minute he was high up on a wobbly bridge on a play area, the next he was lying on his side on the ground. Screaming like I’ve never heard him scream before. As luck would have it, an off duty doctor came running over to examine him and said she thought it might be broken. Which was good as I do have a tendency to dismiss all potential illnesses in both the children and Mr A as ‘nothing’. This time, however, I knew that it wasn’t just ‘nothing’. On Saturday I knew it was different.

On Saturday I discovered I was actually bloody calm in a crisis. I knew I had to get him to a hospital and I didn’t panic. OK, so I may have broken the speed limit all the way there, but that’s generally how I drive anyway. Mr A was gripping onto the side of his seat, with white knuckles and a face of full of fear, but I like to think that it was shock and concern for his son rather than abject terror as a result of my driving. I also had the presence of mind, when we stopped to drop Big C off at home (not home alone, social services, there was a responsible-ish adult with him before you come knocking) to pick up some snacks. Which of course F couldn’t have because he was under observation but I had eaten them all by the time we left hospital. Well I had to keep my strength up didn’t I? Genius idea, bringing snacks. I also spent the whole of the car journey to the hospital calmly singing to F to distract him. I like to think that his increased crying was due to the pain getting worse, not any reflection on my singing ability. I’m bloody good I’ll have you know. Well, I am in my head. I haven’t had this independently verified. So yes, on Saturday, my calmness amazed me. I wasn’t expecting that at all.

On Saturday I developed superhuman strength. I carried a 4 stone lump all the way from the hospital car park to A and E, then stood waiting an age to be seen by reception, still carrying him, and then walked to children’s A and E. I did not put him down once. I stopped carrying him two years ago when he got to lump-ish proportions and I could no longer lift him without doing my back in. So to carry him for all of this time is a show of superhuman strength that Geoff Capes would be proud of. For my next trick I will lift a car. On Sunday however I ached.

On Saturday I realised I have absolutely zero patience. Actually what am I talking about, I knew that already. Mr A was sent home from hospital after I’d had enough of him asking the nurses stupid questions because he was anxious, and because he was fiddling with his hands too much. My patience ran out about two hours in. Which I think it actually quite good for me. And then there was the waiting. I am not a waiter. So the waiting was torture. I took to staring at the doctor everytime he passed by, willing him to come over and do something practical, like examine him, bandage him or send him home. The nurses must have sensed that I was no good at waiting as they kept coming over and telling me how many people were to be seen in front of F. So no, Saturday’s lack of patience is not a new thing. But it’s always good to have it reconfirmed.

On Saturday I learnt that my lovely little 4-year-old is incredibly brave. He stopped screaming his head off after a couple of spoonfuls of Calpol, and every mother knows that Calpol is about as effective at pain relief as chocolate. Similar outcome though, cheers up children no end. And it did. He didn’t cry after that. Not once. They pumped him full of Ibuprofen all the same in hospital, but by then he was showing the nurses his winning smile and asking to see pictures of his bones. On Saturday I was very proud of my little boy. And still am.

20121009-192919.jpgI’m hoping this Saturday is going to be less eventful. I’m thinking we may even have a pyjama day and not go out. Little F however is very proud of his cast, and I reckon that as soon as his cast is off he’ll be back on that wobbly bridge. For now though I think we’ll be staying well away from play areas. Snakes and ladders on Saturday anyone?

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Oct 5 2012

Beware of the grumpy old bag

Today a mother talked to me throughout the whole of my childrens’ swimming lesson. I am so appalled by this invasion into my half hour of silence that I love, I am considering moving them to another lesson. Seriously.20121005-115528.jpg

OK, I know this sound irrational, yes antisocial even. I agree it is. I know. But here’s the thing. I have held this half hour of peace and quiet sacred since they started their lessons back in May. I love this half hour. It’s when I do my Tesco shop on my iPhone. I know, I sound so dull don’t I? But it’s when I get the whole of the weeks shopping ordered, to arrive the next day. If I don’t do it then I forget and then we have no food and the children starve and Mr A shouts. I of course occasionally glance up to watch my cherubs swimming/half downing and smile encouragingly at them whilst thinking ‘god they really can’t swim can they?’. But most of all I don’t have to talk. Or do anything else. If I was at home I’d be cleaning. Or separating arguing children.

Don’t get me wrong she seemed lovely. Really friendly. Really nice. Her son had just started in the lesson. She clearly wanted to make friends. But I don’t!!! Darling, don’t take it personally, it’s not you it’s me.

I’m a grumpy old bag. I am. I freely admit this. Some days I want to speak to people , some days I don’t. Mr. A can gauge my mood first thing in the morning and knows that these are the days when he must leave for work without engaging me in conversation. So sometimes we don’t talk till he’s home after work, which suits me fine, because we’d probably end up rowing about me being a grumpy old bag, again. On these particularly grumpy days I don’t answer the phone. I make sure I arrive late for the school run, throwing children into classes and rushing back out before anyone sees me. Head down.

The Girls, when we go on our mini break (yes, mini breaks are for girlfriends, not for you and your husband to have a romantic getaway, perish the thought) know not to talk to me before 11am at the earliest. I don’t do mornings. I sit there in the corner, squinting at the daylight, reading the paper and drinking tea until I feel ready to unlock my jaw and speak. Which normally coincides with when we get the champagne out (yes, this is why everyone should have mini breaks with girlfriends, Mr A would tut tut at me drinking before midday, amongst girlfriends it’s the absolute norm).

Perhaps I should make a do not disturb sign for next weeks lesson. Perhaps I should spend the lesson in the loo. Where I don’t have to talk to her. Or anyone. No, I think I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt, perhaps it was first lesson excitement. If she does it again though I’m dunking her. And then I’ll going to go back to finishing my Tesco shop on my phone. Yes, I’m a grumpy old bag. Beware.

 

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Sep 30 2012

Sunday Summary 30th September 2012

What a strange week. The world has gone mad. Seriously bonkers. Has there been a full moon this week? Because last I heard, school teachers were meant to teach your children. Not run off with them. To a different country. That was never going to end well. Must have been a full moon because that man has clearly lost leave of his senses. The thought of running off with a school teacher makes me slightly nauseous. I think back to my old maths teacher, handlebar moustache and leather patches on the elbows of his jacket, and the only direction I would be running is well, well away from him. I remember bumping into my history teacher in a local curry house and being horrified that he had a life outside school. Really, properly shocked that he liked to go out and have fun. There he was, smiling and enjoying himself, and for once not shouting or throwing a board rubber. But Britain’s Most Wanted Teacher of Maths Ever is not the only bonkers person in the news this week. A Hong Kong businessman has offered a reward of £40 million to any man who will marry his lesbian daughter. This is proper mad, right? But still, I have suggested to Mr A that he gives it a shot, we could have a quickie divorce, he could head off to Hong Kong, marry her, stay married for, say 6 months, divorce and hey we’re £40m better off. Happy days are here again. I think he’s thinking about it. It’s a good plan, yes? Please don’t steal it. I’m already mentally spending the £40 million.

So in the slightly less mad world of the Family A, it’s been a momentous week. Two children in school full-time. One mummy with time on her hands. It’s a landmark week. Here’s the lowdown:

Number of calories consumed: Monday to Friday – an amount that Weightwatchers would be proud of. If I kept that up I’d be a size zero in no time. Well, there’s only 236 calories in a tin of tomato soup and 175 calories in a bag of hula hoops. Positively diet food.

Number of calories consumed: Saturday and Sunday: Off the scale. If I kept that up I’d be a size 20 in no time. Good job I don’t. Shame, as it’s so much fun pigging out.

Number of bottles of wine consumed: More than 3. That’s all I’m saying. My liver is crying.

Number of ‘OH MY GOD MY CHILDREN ARE IN SCHOOL FULL-TIME’ moments I’ve had: 5. One every day this week. Next week will be better. I hope.

Number of hours spent thinking about Christmas: 1. Yes, I am well aware that it’s September. But somehow I appear to be redesigning the schools’ Christmas grotto. For the love of god. I have got to stop agreeing to things when I am drunk. I will probably have to stop going out so that this doesn’t happen again. And answering my phone.

Number of fitness workouts: 4. Bloody good effort. *Pats self on back*. I even think I lost half a pound or something. Of course I’ve put this back on and more after this weekends calorie fest.

And to end the week on a high, number of proud moments: 1. This is relation to my big boy, Mr A who ran his first (and last I expect) half marathon today. He was absolutely dreading it, but he did it, he kept running, he looked wrecked when we spotted him and cheered him on at the 12 mile mark, bless him, but he kept going. So here’s one proud Mrs A tonight. I may even let him have some of my wine.

Have a good evening all, cheers!

 

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Sep 25 2012

I’m a Smug Stay at Home Mum – sort of

This week my baby settled into the routine of being at school full-time. I’ve talked at length on this blog about how pathetic I was about this I totally took this in my stride. Thankfully it’s been four loooong weeks of breaking him into school life gently, mornings first, then after lunch but finally on Monday he went in, a proper grown up full-time boy. I can’t say he’s that impressed with this prospect. He scowled as I waved him off, telling him I’d pick him up at the end of the day. I’m sure he didn’t mean it, I mean what’s not to love about being at school all day?!

So for the first time in six long knackering years I am neither working nor looking after children.My children are both in school. All day. And I am at home. All day. I have officially entered the Smug Stay at Home Mum’s Brigade. Apparently.

I didn’t know anything about this. I didn’t know such a thing existed. No one sent me the memo. But yes, that’s what apparently I’m meant to be. And the smugness is just the beginning. There’s a whole heap of things I should be doing. I feel like a fraud.

I’m meant to be a fantastic cook, whipping up a homemade quiche or some scones at least twice a week. At this I will fail. I am an awful cook. My meal plans consist of the same easy meals each week (beans on toast, egg on toast, I can stretch to sausages if I’m feeling brave and if not distracted.) And I absolutely cannot bake. My cakes are so dry they come with a complementary pint of water. But that’s what bakeries are for, hey? If it weren’t for people like me in the world, they’d go out of business. It’s called a public service. No, don’t thank me.

Now I am a Smug Stay at Home Mum, I am apparently meant to hang around the playground with my fellow smug mummy friends discussing yoga and botox. Here’s the thing. I am usually very hungover in the playground and as soon as the bell goes I am rushing back to the car so that I can get home and eat crisps and drink coke. Or on the days that I am not hungover, I am dying for a wee. So again I am dashing back to the car before my pelvic floor lets me down. I feel like I’m missing out. Oh well. Yoga’s for bendy people. I can’t even touch my toes. And, well, I quite like my wrinkles. There, I’ve said it.

Apparently the Smug Stay at Home Mum has a uniform to make them easily identifiable. Who’d have thought? Very clever. Apparently I’m meant to be a walking Boden catalogue, shoes and all. So not Primarni or Tesco then? Oh. (Off to sell some toys to be able to afford a Boden vest).

Aha I’m almost there with this next Smug Stay at Home Mum trait. Apparently I’m meant to spend all day at the gym. Well, today I did the 30 Day Shred DVD in my pants and bra. That counts doesn’t it? Maybe?

What I’m most looking forward to is the fact that us Smug Stay at Home Mum types are ladies who brunch, coffee and lunch. Except that, well, I quite like my Heinz tomato soup and hula hoops that I have EVERY day for lunch. And I don’t like coffee. And actually, no ones invited me. I’m sure they want to, though. But if they did I wouldn’t go, of course. Coffee and lunch dates? I’d much rather be cleaning the toilet. Honest.

I don’t think I’m going to be very good at this Smug Stay at Home Mum thing. I think I’ll buck the trend. I’m far too slummy to dress in Boden, bake like Nigella, and work out like Davina. I’m happy enough cleaning the house in my pyjamas. And as for lunch dates? I’ve just put a tin of soup on. Thanks for asking.

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Sep 20 2012

Mummy’s on the wine does some exercise – and it’s all about winning

I have sweat dripping into crevices it really shouldn’t be, my fingers are shaking as I type. In Jillian Michael’s words, ‘I am well on the way to being shredded’ and I feel like I’m going to be sick. What the hell am I putting myself through this torture for?!

The reason is this; my slummy-ness was taken to new levels this summer, my first summer holiday off work in years, I did no exercise, no walking to school, no runs (well, when I say run I think that would probably fall foul of the trade descriptions act, grannies overtake me for gods sake). There were trips to McDonalds, and of course I couldn’t let the children eat alone, because, well…actually I don’t know why I couldn’t..but it’s OK because a Big Mac has salad in it doesn’t it? That’s got to be at least one of your five a day? And then there was wine, oh my goodness so much wine…because there was no school run in the morning, no standing in the playground, barely being able to open my eyes, no praying that the bell would just hurry the fuck up so I could run (well, stagger) back to my car and go home and die. And eat bacon. There were quite a few lazy pyjama days this holiday (for that read mummy’s got a hangover and so we’re not going out, or getting dressed).

And then suddenly it was the first day of term, and I felt wobbly. And my clothes had shrunk in the wash a bit (never trust a man to put the washing on) but had they really shrunk or had I grown? GASP! I’ve put weight on over the summer. Oh. My. God. PANIC!!!!!

So I did what everyone else does in a time of crisis and googled how to get fit fast. And everywhere I turned, the answer was Jillian Michael’s 30 day shred. A fellow blogger Lydia Sherlock happened to review it too here and the clincher was the promise that just 20 minutes over 30 days was enough to firm up this summer ravaged body. I haven’t followed a fitness DVD since the trauma of watching the Green Goddess reveal far too much in an overly tight green leotard in the 80′s (camel toe, eughhh, my eyes). When I pressed purchase, my heart was thinking this was a great plan, exercising from the comfort of my own home. No need for staggering round the local cricket pitches in the rain, wheezing like a 40 a day-er. My head was saying it would just sit on the side, gathering dust. My head is generally right. A few more clicks and it was winging its way to me. When it arrived I eagerly opened it, thought I’ll do it the next day, and put it on the kitchen counter.

And there it sat, on the kitchen counter for a week. Jillian Michael’s smug shredded face was staring up from the front of it, willing me to pick it up again. I didn’t, but it made an excellent coaster. Then a chance conversation with The Girls meant that I was grabbing this DVD, dusting it down and reaching for my trainers quicker than you can say “my body is a temple, no wine for me thanks.”

You see it’s all about competition. Competitiveness is a great thing. I mentioned to The Girls that I’d bought 30 Day Shred, and a couple of them said they’d do it too. There and then we decided to tweet whenever we exercised #tweetyourexercise to motivate us to match each other in workouts day by day. This is the sole reason I found myself one Saturday morning with a raging hangover sweating red wine out of my pores whilst doing star jumps (albeit half-hearted ones). Because I cannot fall behind, I’m too competitive. Although not as competitive as C, who is now 5 days ahead of me now (I think I may have to break into her house and steal her DVD player to stop her doing it) as she gets up at 6.30am EVERYDAY without fail to do it. She’s some corporate professional type in an alpha male environment, she lives and breathes competition. She was always going to win. Annoyingly.

I am now on Day 11, and a third of the way through. Whilst I haven’t lost any weight I have definitely toned up so I’m happy with that. And it’s all thanks to a bit of friendly competition. Well, when I say friendly, if C beats me to 30 days I may have to beat her round the head with the DVD case. Game on!

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