Of wee and The Sleep Bandit

The bloody cat is incredibly close to being put in the microwave. I caught her pissing up the bath side and on a towel, the pesky house dwelling little shit. She usually does this when on heat and it is the sole reason she is barred from the lounge. However, judging by the significant lack of wailing and yowling like a wanton whore whilst rawling around in readers wives style I'm thinking she's doing it more out of spite.

Anti bacterial wipes, tea tree oil, fresh lemons (allegedly a deterrent) and even bloody lynx spray later and the house still hums of nasty l'eau de cat piss. Great. Just dandy.

If only that was the extent of my woe, if only I tell you.

Then comes The Toddlers latest antics as his role as a trainee sanity assassin.  Having been virtually dry during the day for several weeks he has decided to piss on the floor. Huge great big Willy floods. Despite being dry at nap times and virtually dry during the night.  Trying to ignore it and pretending to not be even slightly perturbed as I adopt that irritating high pitched mummy voice through gritted teeth 'oh dear darling, nevermind, mummy will just clean this up off the floor because we will wee in the potty or toilet next time won't we?' Whilst my internal narrator hisses 'for fuck sake, are you trying to piss me off, that is just vile you cretinous toddler?' This is combined with returning to type and waking every 60-120minutes throughout the night lately.

Then came Friday, Friday was supposed to be trampoline day. Both sets of grandparents clubbed together for Thing One and Thing Two's birthdays and bought them a surprise present to share, an 8ft trampoline. We have purposely been stashing it at The Grandparents so we could erect it on Friday which marks the middle point between their birthdays. So what happens Thursday? Thing One hurts his ankle resulting in a trip to A&E on Friday. Bugger. He has to apparently 'rest' it for two to three weeks and even I'm not mean enough to give him a trampoline when he can't use it. However, if he keeps being a little sod, my stance on this could very well change.

Even the rain is wrong. Rather than pelting it down rhythmically its all crappy and just a constant hiss of sheer bloody wetness that won't even lull you to sleep.

That's assuming you are lucky enough to get any sleep and just so we're clear, if you do....I don't much like you at present. I'm neither compassionate nor nice. Upon hearing The Husband snoring all oblivious in blissful slumber downstairs on the sofa, whilst I stew in a sleep deprived homicidal psychosis, rather then be happy for The Husband, I have to sit on my hands to prevent myself stumbling downstairs to pull out his eyelashes and hold a match to his toe hair.

However according to The Husband he has no iota of sympathy as I 'choose' to breastfeed and cosleep so thus being so, I therefore choose to have no sleep or at the very least deserve it. 

My children made me ugly. Never mind beauty sleep, any would be nice.

It's a good job the little sleep bandits are cute.

Moo Moo Moo

Rewind to around four months ago and you may recall The Teapot Chronicles . I'm sure you will be immensely relieved to discover that the teapot is still here and even more marvellous is the news that so is It's lid, here that is, unlike my sanity but that is somewhat of a no brainer (a bit like The Husband). I'm still rather plagued with the psychosis of ensuring each evening all pieces are present and accounted for and safely in their carry case where they should be. The carry case that is cruelly partially transparent which only serves to make it all the easier to torment me when pieces go awry. Unfortunately there have been several spoons missing in action, presumed dead, yet the 'there is no spoon'mantra has so far prevented me from clawing at the paintwork and ripping up the carpet to find them. If I try incredibly hard and self medicate with copious amounts of chocolate I can temporarily suspend all belief that four spoons existed let alone any notions that they may be indeed necessary.Temporarily.

Recently Thing Two rediscovered the rather charming farm she received from My Mother several Christmas' ago. It's the rather sweet Rosebud Farm from The Early Learning Centre which I try so very hard to adore yet I can't help but be aggravated  by the shocking lack of pigs, I mean really....a farm without pigs? Not to mention the absurd presence of ducklings yet no duck and a cockeral and no hens! How bloody negligent of them! Then there is the horse that looks suspiciously like a giraffe, Yes, on a farm. Irregardless of It's misdemeanors it is awfully cute and yet I can count on one hand the amount of times Thing Two has bothered with It. She simply doesn't 'do' that kind of play as the ignored dolls house will attest to. She appears utterly appalled by the idea of having to set things up.

Until recently that is, when The Husband gutted tidied her pit room. Suddenly she sparked an interest in it and sneaked the buggery thing downstairs much to The Toddlers sheer delight. You see, The Toddler is a real Toddler who actually plays with such things and remarkably enjoys them too. He is deliriously attached to the two cows and goes on these barmy quaint psychotic rampages with them shouting 'Moo Moo Moo' incessantly.

Yet Houston, we have a problem. The farm consists of pieces. Multiple pieces. Multiple necessary pieces.  Vital pieces that are intrinsic to our very existence and should one go AWOL it would render the play farm experience as we know it ruined for ever more.  Just thinking about this is tumulting me into a twitchy state of panic.

Every night at tidy up time I have to launch a full scale animal search and rescue mission enlisting Thing One and Thing Two who usually find many of the animals in The Toddlers oven, roast beef anyone? I try to remain ambivalent for to reveal the true extent of my frantic anxiety only makes the animals hide harder. Gits.

It doesn't stop there though. Seriously. It gets worse. The level to which my scantily clad sanity stoops knows no bounds. The pieces have to be arranged. Yes. What's worse is that I actually have a small perverse pleasure in doing this, It's immensely satisfying for the soul. Everytime The Toddler or Thing Two desecrate and pillage one of my lovingly arranged scenes a voice inside of me cries. A lot. Because quite frankly It's not bloody fair and really rather mean of them!

I tried changing tactics and tucked all the pieces up safe and sound for the night inside the farm, but it just wasn't the same. It didn't feel right. So I waited until their bath was ready and secretly rearranged them.

The nightly tidy up is about to commence.

The farm and teaset are both strewn across the room.

Be still my beating heart.

Oh shit.

I need gin. Quickly.

Stumpy

Other than the bath my other favourate place is predictably the bed.  This is all well and dandy or should I say it would be yet my bed unfortunately has a tragic form of terminal zombieitis. It died a long time ago yet joined the ranks of the undead and has been losing limbs and randomly trying to devour me ever since. By devour, I'm not talking in a yes please Mr Eric Northman kind of way, this is more of a scabby rabid coyote with a steak kind of way.

The mattress is my twin insofar as to say it's considerably lumpy, bumpy and decidedly saggy yet it pokes, prods and nips like one of those bloody yorkshire terriers or worse still, The Husband. One of the slats long ago broke followed by another resulting in the bottom of the bed being supported by old storage containers to prevent it collapsing.

Yet two weeks ago the bed underwent emergency surgery carried out by Doctor Husband and an old bent saw resulting in necessary amputation. The footer of the bed had come away at one end yet clung on like some starving parasite at the other side due to The Husband previously buggering up the screw making it bloody impossible to remove and dismantle.Arse.  So what we now had was the equivalent of a large swinging metal gate that The Toddler loved to include in his kamikaze stunts. Accident waiting to happen not to mentioned terribly noisy. So, out came the saw. The foot of The bed removed it left an ugly protruding stump of sharp metal, how divinely fetching. Dr Husband then expertly dressed this with a towel and gaffer tape. Yes, really. He's quite the improviser. My bed is now affectionately called stumpy.

It's not done too badly really. It was a cheap bed and mattress to start with, over eight years ago, as we were perpetually skint (some things never change) and my great aunts rather kindly paid for it for an engagement gift. We were happy though as we had a new bed, new! Better still it was handcufftastic and king size. Hell yeah! This was shortly before they brought out super-king-size you know just to piss on your parade, a bit like when you got an A in your GCSES then the bastards introduced A*'s just to ensure your achievements are rendered that little bit more futile.

I dream of a new bed. The Husband and I often debate four posters versus water beds though quite frankly even a camp bed would be an improvement for the sofa relegated husband.

In all honesty I'd be happy with any bed and for once in my adult life, a decent mattress. I have been positively lusting over sites such as 1907 Beds.

Still, the old bed has done us well seeing us through three pregnancies, one miscarriage, 4 years of co-sleeping, illness, depression and three exuberant and very bouncey little sods children and it will have to continue to do so as unfortunately It's at the bottom of a very long list of things that need replacing such as the dead computer, The half dead dyson, the dying toaster, the dead tumble drier, the dying television etc

...and It's still one of my favourate places to be.

Toilet rage

I'm failing to remember the reasons attaining to why potty training is a good thing. It gets awfully tiring having to empty the potty. The Toddler now wakes up early and then proceeds to wake me with a 'WEE! WEE! MUM, WEE!' reminiscent of a fog horn whilst desperately scrambling out of his pj's and night nappy. Once upon a time he'd wake much later and easily be convinced to doze with a flop of a boob in his general direction. Now, I'm expected to catapult myself out of bed in three seconds and accompany him to the bathroom through a gibbering, stumbling sleep deprived haze to snatch his seat and stool before he attempts to which would prematurely wake Thing One. He then insists on turning the tap on full then shrieks at me to turn it off.

I keep my voice to a whisper that is more suspiciously related to a croak, my vocal chords mother evidently slept around. I try and coax him back to bed with urgent shushing and ramblings about it still being sleepy time in what should be English yet my tongue is too thick and i'm far too distracted by the sleep fur on my brain and the rattling of my eyes in my skull as they try to focus so that I probably sound like I'm talking in ancient tongues or more inelegantly, caveman.

The little bugger takes absolute advantage of my delayed reflexes and before I can give chase he's getting carpet burn on his arse as he flys down the stairs on it at astonishing speed and vaults himself into the lounge where The Husband is doing a terribly crap impression of looking awake and in charge of he who wakes ridiculously early, aka Thing One. This means game over.I have zero chance of getting him back to bed. Whilst I attempt to come to terms with this he's already stage diving off window sills and demanding I get him big boy pants at an excruciating volume. It's at this point I'm debating gin on my crunchy nut cornflakes.

And so the day begins.

He's generally amazing at using the potty yet he discovered the other day that he can now manage to get himself on the toilet which sounds like formidable good luck until you factor in the aforementioned tap issue and his extreme delight at wasting copious amounts of bog roll.

A rather recent development is toilet rage. Yes, really. I was rather spoiled before I met The Husband insofar as to say, I can't remember a time when my family home's (Yes, plural, we moved) didn't have three toilets yet here at The Party of Five we have but one solitary toilet. Oh the woe. The Toddler sees Thing One or Thing Two on the toilet and decides that it is infact his toilet and nobody else is possibly allowed on it as he screams 'MOVE' at them then proceeds to become possessed by psychosis which makes him embark on shoving his siblings off the loo as he screams. Quite off putting to whichever Thing is trying to pee at the time.

I admit however that I am somewhat of a wuss and put him in a nappy if I dare to leave the house not relishing the prospect of a wet buggy or even more likely a wet back if he pissed whilst in the sling. Despite having a nappy on he livend up a trip to Asda with his volume turned all the way up to eleven as he demanded 'WEE' several times, refusing to wee in his nappy instead forcing me to complete the wretched obstacle course otherwise known as trying to get to the bloody toilets which is remarkably difficult. Thanks Asda. Obviously people can't possibly need a wee during shopping.

On several occasions however upon returning home I've found his nappy to be in fact dry, how fabulous! Further impressive is that twice now he has had unexpected naps with pants on, breastfeeding obsessively and yet remained dry. His night nappies are now half the size with barely any boosting and are suspiciously light in a morning despite his excessive night feeds.

It all sounds rampantly positive and yet each trip outside is now plagued with the worry that he appears to refuse to pee in a nappy and often we wall miles with no toilets in sight which will result in the cumbersome addition of carrying a potty everywhere for impromptu public al fresco weeing.

Talking of potties....if you think shitty nappies are grim you have obviously not yet become aquainted with shit in a potty.

All we have to work on now is the toilet rage before he scares the shit quite literally back up the bums of his siblings. He's such a bully.

....and my legs aren't enjoying the step aerobics of constant trips to the loo with him.

Oh for a downstairs loo. I have downstair loo envy, how abysmally tragic. Oh god.... how disgustingly middle aged. Excuse me whilst I re-dye my roots Purple and pretend I'm still young.

Eight years

So it would appear that I am the mother of an eight year old as of yesterday as Thing One celebrated his eighth birthday. Quite where these eight years have gone is somewhat of a mystery and yet I managed to squeeze in two house moves and another two pregnancies and a miscarriage in that time which makes me sound rather busy, very unlike me.

By journal rights I should dedicate this entry to my beloved big little dude and bore you all shitless with tales of the last eight years and exercise your scrolling finger with copious amounts of photographs that would make any womb purr of him as a baby and toddler, you know before they turn into pesky children back when they were jolly well cute and far easier to carry.

Alas you are spared due to having no access to photographs of his babyhood on my phone. I will however return, so think of this as a page holder for Thing One's entry.

I do often feel considerably guilty that through being the eldest of three we often forget that he is still only wee himself and possibly expect far too much of him and understand far too little. He is our beloved prototype. Granted he's also a little sod, a tremendously advanced sanity assassin who drives us to the very brink, daily. Yet I wouldn't change him for the world. He is perfectly, him.  He is bloody hard work yet I suspect I am rather hard work myself.

It's okay. You can put the bucket away now.

How the fuck I have survived eight years of motherhood with considerably little alcohol is quite frankly beyond me.

I feel beastly old and tired yet It's more then worth it.

Maybe when the teenage years strike I'll be an alcoholic... or a dribbling incoherent mess.  I don't much like teenagers. They give me an awful case of the fears.

A pox on you.

So that's Chicken Pox done and dusted. Thing One came home from school with it in December 2008 kindly sharing it with Thing Two who erupted in pox two weeks later suffering infinitely worse. Then a few weeks ago I spotted a suspicious red spot on The Toddler. I though nowt of it, It's not that unusual and yet a small insidious voice inside my head, The Doom Imp, gleefully  hissed 'Haha a pox a pox on your house!' Known to speak paranoid bollocks I reserved my judgement and pretended to ignore the little head Imp despite feeling another spot on The Toddlers back that was somewhat related to a blister. Afterall I'm a hermit, where on earth could he have got it?

Alas it was indeed The Pox and pretty soon The Toddler was all out rocking the spots. I must confess the depth of my shallowness was revealed when my heart went squelch like an over ripe fruit at the appearance of them on his perfect little face as I silently bemoaned 'no, his face, not his face!' Yet the worse effected area by far was that which lurked under his nappy. The poor little sod was covered with the rampant pox, even between his teeny arse cheeks which made for a rather harrowing chore of cleaning him after a dump. Convinced that in conjunction with the warm weather the Pox would fester and go skanky (Yes, that is a technical term) we made the rather brave decision to have nappy free time. This had the rather unexpected effect of The Toddler deciding to ruddy well potty train himself, just like that. In the past week he has had a mere two wet accidents and they were that epic he'd obviously merely forgot. Even his night nappies are suspiciously light of a morn despite still feeding throughout the night.

He was admirably perky and indeed somewhat chipper throughout the whole pox ordeal with only one 'poorly' day and one utterly horrendous night. Phew.

So whilst exercising my google-fu, as one does, I came across a rather absurd practice of pox lollipops. Yes, indeed! How grossly bizarre! Now pox parties are an age old happening (not one I'd ever personally partake in) but to buy and have posted lollipops and tissues used by a child with the Pox in an attempt to infect your own child is a tad macabre even to me. I understand that It's often much less severe to have the Pox as a child then as an adult and many parents are relieved to get it out of the way yet I cannot ethically process deliberately infecting a child to something which although oft minor in the grand scheme of things is still rather uncomfortable and indeed can make a child remarkably poorly and awfully miserable.  So the thought of consciously subjecting a child I profess to adore to this is a hard concept to digest. Not to mention the sheer ick factor, I mean really? A lollipop licked by a stranger? Even the voice of doom is positively shuddering at that.

But yes, he caught it by sheer chance from gods knows where and is now plagued with the last few remaining scabs so Hoorah and all that jazz. Phew. Thank fuck that's the Pox over and done with.

It's not a whale...don't harpoon me.

We all have our vices, the more fortunate amongst us may find theirs in the auspicious chime of wine o'clock once the little darlings have finally gone the fuck to sleep or the stolen exodus to the back door step for a cheeky smoke whilst Mr Bloom educates the sweethearts with his spitting image vegetables.

As The Husband will concur I'm a proper boring bint who due to co-sleeping and breastfeeding I choose to forgo the usual common vices. Other then a penchant for vampires on paper and screen and slap dash baking my vice is the bath. Yes, the bath. I'm terribly rock and roll.

It's the one time, in theory at least, that I get to unwind and best of all, be alone! No clambering mauling boob junkie of a toddler, no Thing One and Thing Two to referee and no fruity husband who thinks its hilarious to randomly grope me trying to tempt away my virginity. Just me, bubbles, lots of hot water (Sorry dad), my mp3 player, a book and my phone (Yes, I do indeed blog and tweet in the bath, brain bleach anyone?) I can spend a good hour whaling in the bath.

Or like I said, that is the theory. In practice I get multiple visits from The Toddler who begs The Husband to let him 'see mum!', either Thing One or Thing Two tattling on the other and the other sitting on the throne for a long fragrant dump (the joys of being a one bathroom family). That's not to mention the crane fly.... argh! Leave me alone!

I've never had the luxury of designing my own bathroom, my own little water paradise (nor my own bedroom or kitchen. Trust me to marry a skint rock star) I remember lusting after a corner bath for years and finally moving into a house that had one (It's only redeeming feature, a simply dreadful sphincter of a house in a location that was an armpit of the borough) despite the rest of the windowless bathroom being vile I didn't care because I had a corner bath! Turns out that corner baths aren't really all that and are awkward and rather naff all use for soaking. A total bath fail.

If I ever got to design my own I'd want a large light and airy room with twinkly lights, large windows, Maybe even a sky light, sparkly flooring with underfloor heating and a huge deep claw footed roll top bath....oh and a separate wet room with a huge shower head .... bliss.  Then comes the accessories, I'd adore huge, fluffy, matching bath towels, big enough to turn me into a human sausage roll and fluffy enough to want to fall asleep on. A little piece of heaven. Granted it would also help to have a better suited house for such grandeur.

Suppose I'd better buy a lottery ticket.....

Old yet useful

It's not often I babywear The Toddler around the house. He is simply far too active and independent and would much rather be wrecking the lounge, stage diving off the window sill or making puddles on the carpet with his beaker.

However there are times when needs simply must, times when quite frankly I need to know exactly where he is and be assured he can't go anywhere. Not that he minds in the slightest he is rather enamoured with being worn on my back happily peering over my shoulder, restyling my hair with sticky fervent hands and burping repeatedly down my ear.

I have never been fortunate to be a true slingaholic, predominantly down to the financial bones of it or rather the lack of finance not to mention an inability to justify the albeit practical, frivolity of it. The most slings I have possessed at one time has been four with generally two of those up for sale. I have flirted briefly with pouches, rings and wraps yet I fundamentally lack the necessary patience and skill to be aquainted with them long term. I'm strictly a soft structured carrier mama.

My current 'stash' is my beloved toddler Wompat which I use everytime I babywear him out and about (selling both my fabulous Madame Goo Goo and a decidedly pretty Oh-Snap to fund) and my sentimental old Joey Sling which is the first 'real' sling I fell in love with when Thing Two out grew our bushbaby cocoon. There's something awfully poignant about a sling you have worn more then one of your babies in and as such I simply can't bare to part with it. IT has remained throughout the comings and goings of numerous other slings.

Yet It's not been used regularly since he was wee and is no longer knee to knee on the little chap.

Yet when I need to wear him at home its the Joey I turn to. I adore the familiarity of it, snuggly and soft like an old cherished t-shirt and even with a 26lb 28month old, still so comfortable. Unlike my stunning custom Melkaj I once owned, the Joey has much shorter and more manageable straps for a quick up.

So wether It's hanging washing in a wet garden or cooking tea whilst The Husband runs errands and the elder spawn play outside, if I need to sling him at home, the Joey comes out to play (he often resents being in his highchair whilst I cook and should I let the little bugger loose he turns the stereo on, the microwave on, the washing machine on, shouts at the dog, helps himself to biscuits from the cupboard and generally causes sweet bloody mayhem)

Although as I mentioned previously It's no longer knee to knee on him he always seems decidely happy and remarkably comfortable in it.

It's so easy to forget how lovely old outgrown slings were and so nice to see them in use again. So although often neglected and retired from daily duty, replaced by the Wompat, it does still have its place and use and not just within my heart.

Hopefully we have a lot of babywearing days left yet and get to venture into pre-school carriers, perhaps reviewing and road testing (first I'll need a lottery win) a few to banish the idea that you can only wear little babies and show case some of the amazing talent out there such as Up & Away carriers, Opitai, Monkey Mei Tai, Madame Goo Goo, Softai etc to name just a few of the immensely talented and creative sling makers out there.

I'll leave you with a few snapshots of The Toddler in our old Joey this evening.

Review: Smencils

We have very kindly been sent a starter pack of Fruit Shoot Smencils from Learning Resources to try out on The Party Of Five.

Smencils are the worlds only scented, yes scented, pencils with this particular release being based around popular Robinsons Fruit Shoot flavours including apple, orange, blackcurrant & apple, summer fruits and tropical.

Sounding good so far? Well, also bare in mind that they are made from 100% recycled newspaper! Fun, funky and Eco friendly.

At pocket money prices they're affordable for kids to buy themselves and would also prove popular in party bags.

I was hoping to covet them for a while but all three of The Spawn quite literally pounced on them as soon as I received them foiling my plans to sniff them at my leisure.

Thankfully arguments were averted due to there being enough to in round as Thing One and Thing Two instantly disappeared off to their rooms to write with them, repeatedly inhaling the scents en route with audible 'mmm's!!!'

Each pencil comes in It's own plastic tube to keep the scent nice and strong and has the added bonus of making then harder to lose! They were also pre sharpened so ready to use without faff. Even The Toddler has his eyes on then and managed to 'borrow' Thing Ones.

All in all Smencils were a hit here, encouraging the children to write even more then they already do! The only downside being that they wished their writing and drawings smelled too! (And colours that match the scents would prove popular here too)

If you'd like to try Smencils, hop on over and enter their Facebook competition! Be quick though as the closing date is Friday 7th September 2012.

Disclaimer: all opinions expressed are my own and that of my children. This is a genuine review and I received no payment in doing it.

Fatty fatty bum bum

I seem be doing tremendously well at perpetually committing gross diet fail. I was a mere stone away from target thanks to the aid of illness a while ago and yet the target is now a guilty 21lbs away.  Plateaued or simply stagnated, same difference, either way the biscuits are calling me and if I don't have at least one chocolate bar a day I turn remarkably homicidal. Yet needs must in the absence of alcohol consumption and cheeky smokes one must seek alternative vices, I just wish they could be less calorific ones.

I suppose the one small grace is that whilst full miss piggy mode is activated my weight appears to fluctuate a mere pound or two, rather a far cry from previous obesity. There is an element of comfort in the knowledge that I don't turn into a complete heffer the instant I up my calories.

Yet I can't deny the wretched feeling of self sabotage. So close and I have to ruin it. My target is in sight, compared to what I have lost (3st 9lbs) a mere 21 pounds sounds ridiculously achievable, does it not? Yet egads It's proving to be a bugger of a challenge.

There is an element of rather false complacency in wearing size 12 jeans, finally.

However there are many contributing factors besides a piss poor level of will power that have the rather unfortunate effect of devouring my diet mojo such as stress (check), illness (check), a rather unfortunate impromptu lack of zoloft (check) and .... The School Holidays.

Now don't get me wrong I love the little sods to the moon and back but it doesn't change the fact that they are rather adept at driving me round the proverbial bend. Bickering day in and out requiring tiring never ending refereeing worsened by the atrocious bouts of weather resulting in us being unable to chuck then outside to play.

Due to a dire lack of money, no transport and bad weather not to mention the Chicken Pox interlude with The Toddler we haven't really been anywhere or done anything. We couldn't even let then spend more time with The Grandparents as first they had decorating going on and now The Mother has pissed off to Spain again as per the norm when the kids are off school.

Thing Two turns into a quivering wreck in busy places and all the decent parks are bursting at The seams with unsupervised hyperactive asbo kids and tremendously annoying teenagers with inappropriate language and unsavoury behaviour who seen intent on hogging all the children's play equipment. Not forgetting that just to get to many of the decent parks in the first place costs a small fortune on public transport.

Thing One is incredibly good at walking and regularly walks 5-7 mile round trips with The Husband yet poor Thing Two's limit is an admirable 2-2.5miles which although awfully impressive does somewhat limit where we can go. When they're at school, since assassinating my obesity I've found that I too can actually walk a 5-7 mile round trip, with a 26lb toddler on my back too and better still in some strange twist I actually, dare I say, enjoy it (or rather I mightily enjoy the tremendous amount of extra calories it allows me to stuff my face with)

All of these factors culminate in boredom too hence my over eating again to compensate. 

I have an astonishing lack of self control.

So to conclude this drivel, I need to get back on track yet have accepted that I have A better chance of success when The kids are back at school.

I will reach my target. I will. I owe it to myself.

Fanpottytastic

Whilst stricken with The Pox of Doom it became apparent that The pesky little buggers deigned it necessary to congregate in a party in his pants. Or should I say nappy. Resorting to somewhat desperate measures to air them so as they wouldn't sweat and fester we took the brave decision to temporarily put him in cotton underpants figuring that carpet puddles were marginally preferential over willy rot.

Only The independent Toddler appears to have had ideas of his own and taken the opportunity to voluntarily and seemingly effortlessly potty train himself. We've not had a Single accident yet (touch wood) however I must confess that I'm not brave enough yet to test this at nap time nor the two times we've been out and obviously he is still also in a nappy at night.

He is doing tremendously well, independently going to his potty whenever he needs to even if engrossed in play, television or breastfeeding. When upstairs he simply stops whatever he is doing, tells us he needs a wee and waits for us to take him to the loo. Clever little sod.

One thing that has come into its own again is our stash of baby leg warmers. He spent the majority of his first summer in just a cloth nappy and leg warmers, a marvellous idea especially when changing nappies all the time. However as he became more adept at mischief we had to change to trousers as he found it wonderfully amusing to take off his nappies and turn the lounge into an adventure world of piss puddles.

However, now that he is in 'big boy pants' they allow him to use the potty with ease without the struggle and frustration of removing pants and trousers each and every time.

He is so enamoured with aforementioned big boy pants that he greeted his grandparents with a pelvic thrust whilst proudly stating 'big boy pants!' Gesturing excitedly at his crotch.

My baby is growing up far too fast. Today is The third day running that he has point blank refused a nap too. This being a tremendously less enchanting development in my eyes.

Hooray for boobies

As a girl I spent the first half of my life wishing for boobs or rather bigger boobs and the second half wanting smaller. It's a no win situation. Many of you may remember my previous posts on the woes of bra shopping or should I say shopping for scaffold.  Gone are the days when I was young slim and a saucy C-D cup with a draw full of underwear delight. Shiny, sexy, colourful pieces of confidence lego.... I had Bras Galore. I could happily go into any department store and let my purse feast on pretties that looked amazing and more importantly made me feel amazing. Underwear shopping was a thrill, a treat.
Nearly five years of breastfeeding and three children later not to mention battling obesity and winning and It's a whole different story. I don't need a bra I need scaffolding, better still....a miracle. I keep telling them jokes with the futile hope that they may actually perk up but to be honest, they are the joke.
If you bear in mind that most 'normal' bras stop at an H then factor in the fact you need nursing bras your choice becomes depressingly limited and you can forget about one of those much needed underwired nursing bra jobbies, its nasty granny bras all the way in white, black or if you're incredibly lucky...... flesh coloured (seriously, Wtf?) All of which give a hilarious unattractive shape (conical....how very 80's) don't forget that you also get The pleasure of paying a fortune for each of these. I resent paying a fortune for a necessity and more so when quite frankly It's fugly and makes you feel more like Madame Doubtfire then a hot mama.
You could have the most amazing outfit in the world yet if you're Bridget Jonesing underneath it, you may as well have your dressing gown on.
Trust me, going braless is not an option. I should require a license for these boulders, I already get black eyes if I contemplate running down the stairs.
So the search is forever on for comfortable, feminine, sexy, supportive bras for us poor sufferers of hugeboobitis that won't leave us weeping in bankruptcy, brownie points if they're actually nursing bras too.
Thankfully there are now several companies who have not only accepted that the average bra size has increased but are actively doing something about it and are stocking gorgeous bras in larger cup sizes, like Bras Galore . Shop in the comfort of your own home, search by size to avoid that spirit crushing moment of finding the bra only to realise it only goes up to a maximum size that is about five cup sizes smaller then what you need. Oh and free delivery too! (Always a factor that sways me when choosing where to shop)
Hopefully The Toddler will self wean within the next 12-18months so I can throw away there skanky vile nursing bras I had the pleasure of forking out way too much money for and finally start to have a draw of fun, sexy, gorgeous Bras Galore again.
Never underestimate the power a well fitting and pretty bra can exert on both your confidence and your figure. Seriously, something like 80% of woman are wearing the wrong size bra. Take a look around next time you are out, if a bra is fitted right a woman's cleavage should not be dusting her knees nor should a woman find it uncomfortable. That well known equation that far too many shops rely on along with a tape measure, if you're well endowed is quite frankly as true to life as rocking horse shit.
The back should not ride upwards, The band not The straps should take the weight and support you, the band should be tight on the loosest setting (yet loose enough to fit two fingers down) so that as the elastic becomes worn you can keep tightening it.  If you can easily pull the band away from your back, its too big! Remember generally if you go down a back size you go up a cup size and if you go up a back size you usually go down a cup size.
Several chains and many independant shops now offer a no measuring fitting service. Seriously, find one and go. You may be amazed. I ended up finding out I was actually four back sizes smaller and 6 cup sizes bigger then What the tape measure and equation had come up with. I instantly had better posture, a better shape, went down a clothes size up top and felt human again.
Having hugeboobitis doesn't have to be misery, we can be proud of them and look awesome too.

Sigh...

Sorry for the lull in posting, I have pictures to share and thoughts to air yet my typing thumb is withering at the thought of it. I really do miss my computer. Not to mention that should I dare to try and post multiple pictures the Blogger app very rudely devours my posts into some absurd black hole. We've had chicken pox, adventures in potty training, flying sheds and abysmal weather. Not to mention the tragedy of no latex gloves left and hair that desperately needs re-dying. Woe is indeed I.

Bear.

The Toddler managed to find an old toy belonging to The Cat, its a cuddly spider with super long family legs that have bells on the ends. He brought it to me with glee in his eyes and proclaimed...

The Toddler: 'bear!'
Me: 'hey, you've found one of the cats toys, its a spider!'
The Toddler: 'bear'
Me: 'spider'
The Toddler: [adamantly] 'BEAR'
Me: 'spider'
The Toddler: [getting pissed off] 'BEEAAARRR'
Me: 'spider'
The Toddler: [beyond furious and full of indignation] 'BEEEAAAARRRRR'
Me: 'okay. It's a bear'

....because sometimes life is too short to be arguing with a toddler.

Oops....

Don't you just have it when after you have a wee your clothes are tucked into your grundies....

Easy banana bread.

The rain returned and washed away the childrens smiles turning their mood greyer then the heavy pregnant clouds. This summer holiday malarky sucks.

I rather stupidly had a silly notion of sympathy and felt Sorry for them. More fool me.

I should know by now by the large 'vacancy' sign hung where my sanity used to reside that I should ignore any and all thoughts of a remedy for Thing One and Thing Twos boredom when they are together. What can I say? Childbirth ate my brain.

So despite vowing to never, ever, under any circumstances including the end of the world to bake with both Thing One and Thing Two, together. Don't get me wrong they're utter darlings, regular little sunbeams....who just happen to be a tag team of deadly sanity assassins with namely yours truly being their target.

I'm usually a solitary baker. I like it that way. I like element of control and the transient moment of stolen alone time.

So, I agreed to bake some easy peasy banana bread with Thing One and Thing Two. I must admit, it was the lesser of two evils, the greater being attacked constantly by the pox ridden ninja boob junkie that is The Toddler.

Generally in past ventures into baking, in some futile attempt to limit damage to everyone I strategically pre-weigh out ingrediants blue peter style. Today in an uncharacteristic moment of being text book motherly I let then write out the recipe, weigh out the ingredients, mix the ingredients and I refrained from gagging then and duct taping them to the walls. Just

I did however manage, rather impressively, to nearly flood the kitchen. Arse.

I would bore you with baking photographs but the Blogger app keeps eating my posts.

Is it vodka o clock yet?

The craft gene?

It would appear that some people are naturally predisposed to certain talents with the old adage of it 'running in the family' such as art, music or sport (the latter partly to do with the 'ace gene' no, really. Google it. ) things that many people can learn to do yet there are lucky gits are born with a natural talent for it and simply excel. Unfortunately other then my rapier wit and bad looks the only talent I have inherited is sarcasm and a filthy sense of humour seeing as I can't sing, draw or play an instrument for toffee and I'm allergic to sport.

So it got of thinking that perhaps there is a craft gene, no stay with me here, I'm actually being serious! Some people just seem naturally adept at crafting being able to fathom and charm their hand at a multitude of crafts adding them to their armory of talents.

Then there are cack handed craft inepts like myself who spectacularly balls up anything they touch. I have an immense capacity for creative ideas yet zero talent. The first time I tried to crochet I had a tantrum and threw my yarn and hook in absolute frustration when I couldn't even fathom the knot never mind attempt a stitch. I have serious lack of patience and precision and an excess of petulance.  I simply lack any ability whatsoever. I just can't craft. At all. It's the equivalent of of trying to lip read someone who is speaking fluent Japanese. My brain just can't process nor understand the process.

In conclusion, I'm a talentless bint really but It's okay, I inherited my talentless. It's a gene thing. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Fairy GodsMother

Despite being a rampant heathen, The Toddler has a Fairy GodsMother. She is a wonderfully creative, clever, thoughtful, funny, beautiful and generous friend who quite frankly spoils him (& me) rotten.

Thankyou for giving us both a much needed smile this morning. Thing Two was quite giddy that we had a pink parcel.

One day The Husband and I will manage another holiday down there and I'll finally get to meet you.

Trees can't Dance....

I Know I should be rambling incoherently about the woes of The Pox and believe me I will (Sorry!) However, right now time for something totally unrelated because quite frankly I'm all poxed out and worse still, I'm all out of chocolate (and somewhat temporarily unmedicated). Happy days.

I have small inconsequential obsessions. Random things that I'm drawn to and that incidentally give me small isolated pieces of happiness, even peace. Pocket size life treats. Things like sky, water, pebbles, vampires, storms, rainbows and trees etc. I have taken far too many pictures of random solitary trees, usually when they're bare. One day, I'll find a sugar daddy and he'll pay for me to have one tattooed on my back.

So imagine the inner rave my mind had when I happened to come across a company named Trees Can't Dance. Possibly one of the most memorable company names I've seen in a long time. It tickled that abnormally quirky part of my brain.

At first I didn't actually care what the company was about or what they did, I was insanely enamoured with just repeating the name in my head and then out loud (in private, obviously. I'm not quite that mad, yet) Just to hear how it sounded and if it felt as good rolling off my tongue as it did in my head.

Eventually a combination of curiosity and middle of the night induced boredom prodded me into actually looking at the link.

In all honesty I would never have guessed that Trees Can't Dance would be cooking porn! It's incredibly saucey stuff (Sorry, I couldn't resist) how had I not heard about then before? My family are huge foodies who centre around cooking, eating and talking about food (note that I never once said my family were interesting!) My dad frequently bores us with his insistent recipe reciting (not that the majority of my family can actually follow a recipe, they're cooking anarchists who have to rebel and alter recipes)

Some like it hot, especially my family not to mention aromatic so it's no surprise that chillies are a prominent feature in their dishes. Me? I'm more of a wuss, flavour? Yes. Heat? Not so much.

The website is a chilli lovers honeymoon suite.... seriously, Jams, sauces, marinades, chutneys, pickles, pastes with recipes galore. Surprisingly, thanks to one man's vision and persistence the chillies are uk grown!

I'm a bit miffed that my dad and brothers birthdays have already been because a gift from there would have beaten the usual book token and Amazon voucher and may have actually surprised them for once, especially as they're within my usual tiny budget. I much prefer kooky gifts like these.

Okay...now I'm hungry! Serves me right for looking at foody sites...

P.s .... I believe trees can dance.

The great British summer

Thunder and lightening very very frightening .....

Over the rainbow

Today was a grey day lacking in both motivation and inspiration yet filled with heavy swollen clouds and squabbling children.

Whilst The Husband was out playing kirby with Thing One  and Thing Two I took The Toddler out the front of the house to play (seeing as the back garden in bogland at the moment) briefly after tea hoping some fresh air may encourage better sleep and also to get a break from his boob junkie behaviour.

Some bubbles and some skittles and he was incredibly happy. The dark clouds seemed to be sucking the light from the sky as they hung bloated as it was nearing 8pm. So, imagine our surprise and delight when we caught sight of a vibrant surprisingly bright rainbow and a much fainter rainbow next to it.

It's the small unexpected things that stoke our embers and keep our personal flames alight.

We watched it for seemingly ages, it was still there just as bright when we went inside (due to The Toddler stepping into a puddle of water under a drain pipe soaking his shoe and sock)

Far too often by the time we spot a rainbow it seems to fade and disappear within minutes.

Hoopla!!!

Sometimes The Toddler excels himself in being heart pulpingly adorable.

Having helped (read: supervised) me tidy up the exploded toy shop we call our lounge he found a stray mega blok 'oh ..no...mum, more more!' Searching for the tub I'd secured out of his reach to stop the little bugger emptying it again. I reassured him we'd put it with The others later so he jubilantly made up a game of tossing it around the lounge shouting 'hoopla!!!' Until that is, he accidentally lobbed it my eye. Ouch. No really, Ouch.

The little charmer had the decency to look suitably saddened, gave me kiss then......ran and got his doctors kit and have me an examination.

I admit, my heart went squelch.

Splish Splash

Seeing as Thing One is out running errands with The Husband (also known as enforced separation as all Thing One and Thing Two have done today is squabble) I had another of those spontaneous hair brain ideas that never bode well. Obviously I still haven't learned from previous disasters.

This time my idiotic idea was to fill the bath, add washing up liquid for bubbles and loads of bath toys (oddly empty bottles seem to reign as the preferred toys) and voila, an improvised water play area.

The Toddler didn't quite understand that it wasn't actually bath time per se and kept trying to get his leg over the bath side despite me intercepting this on numerous attempts.

I utilised distraction tactics by blowing bubbles yet when I went to put them away Thing Two started throwing handfuls of bath foam all over and The Toddler clambered into the bath.... Yes, complete with trousers and nappy.

A portion of hair please with a side order of fringe.

Many of you will have come to the conclusion by now that I am somewhat fickle when it comes to my hair. It's currently Purple and Green.  I'll dye it black then want it blonde, I'll get close to blonde then dye it bright red which I will then dye Purple or turquoise whilst contemplating copper.  It's not just colour either, I'll have long hair then chop it off only to want it long again, then there is the whole fringe debate.

In all honesty I'm dreadfully grateful and indeed astonished that I haven't managed to kill my hair dead (yet...)

There is an easier way though, I should just literally buy hair. Seriously, why not? Think about it... a colour and length to suit each of my, erm, personalities (what? Did I even once say I was sane?) No more bleaching whilst praying to the hair faeries to please pretty please not make me bald this time. No more Purple ears and Green hands. No more stained bathrooms. No more insomnia induced boredom breakers with The scissors.  No more petulant procrastination on wether to fringe or not to fringe as you can even.....buy clip on fringes! I can see a slight obsession in the making here. 

I am currently lusting after this I can never ever get that ethereal white blond, the nearest I get is cat piss yellow. Also loving this , this and this.

I need to stop looking.....really. where is a sugar daddy when you need one?

This is nearly as cruel as looking at shoes.

Gits.

Or as they are better known as, nits, though I do believe the title name is far more apt.

I have on idea why but fortune shone upon me when I was a child and I thankfully never endured nits, which was a mercy since I had incredibly long hair. The one and only residential brownie trip I attended (which I hated and was thoroughly pissed off throughout) one of the other girls had nits so alas we all had to be treated 'just in case' despite it turning it she was the only one. I was incandescent with rage, how very dare they put nits lotion on my hair?! It took forever and I think I grumbled the entire time that my mum would kill them when she found out.

My Mum back then was obsessed with cleanliness, her hands always smelled of bleach. I was lead to believe that nits were horrible, filthy things that nice decent children never got.

So you can imagine my absolute horror when Thing Two brought then home from school. To be blunt, my anxiety went postal. I spent weeks convinced I was itchy nearly tearing chunks out of my hair with a nit com even cutting my hair.  I never once found a Single nit nor any lice yet I'd be unable to sleep at night. I spent the days googleing like a woman possessed.

Here's the thing though, they're just really one of those things. They hold on prejudice, anyone can get them. I just wish other parents at school were a bit more proactive and vigilant about it. Bring back the nit nurses I say, at least then they may be caught and dealt with earlier and not be so ignored.

It's one of those funny taboo subjects really though, isn't it? Like worms, thrush and the runs that people just don't talk about.

Nobody else in the house got then either. I guess we caught them early. Despite using that godawful noxious stuff on her hair and doing many many many conditioner and comb sessions resulting in absolute trauma due to the length of her hair, I only ever found two lice and some eggs.

So fast forward about 18m and I found some in Thing Two's hair this week. Out came the Nitty Gritty comb of doom and Oodles of conditioner. We bypassed the noxious stuff this time as in all honesty, simple conditioner and comb is infinitely cheaper and more effective and without all the nasty chemicals too.

Oh how he cried. And cried. And cried.  If The Husband had his way Thing One would have just had an asbo but aka skin head to get rid of them. No way Jose.

Then I decided to be on the safe side and do The Toddler too which was incredibly heart breaking making him cry yet I refuse to chop off his beautiful long hair just in case he has nits (Whe doesn't have them)

So two down and one to go. The one being knackered, sad, having an emo day Thing Two.

Her hair had grown long again, not because she actually desired long hair but rather she refused to let anyone but it. Her first two trips to the hair dressers went fine yet the next two she burst into tears and point blank refused.

So last night to try and limit the trauma of the comb she permitted of to cut her hair without a Single tear nor protest. Just a shame I'onm crap at it.....

Unfortunately the long and tedious date with the Nitty Gritty wasn't so calm....in fact it was 30-45 minutes of blood curdling screaming, so much she was near vomiting from the upset. I think my heart broke.

Thankfully she had no lice and barely any nits at all.

I have nits. Hate, hate, hate them. I abhor making my children cry.

....and to think I'll have To do it all again in a few days just to be sure. Urgh