Murder

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So, call me paranoid but I have a horrible feeling my children are planning my premature exit from the world. And not by the expected routes i.e. sleep deprivation, putrid viruses, exploding arses, heart-stopping exploits or general mortification. Lord knows they have many reasons to wish for my untimely demise. The weird experimental meals. The enduring lateness. The short fuse. The loud music and singing on the school run. The sheer daily embarrassment of being a sweet child of mine. But the truth is, I never thought they’d actually do me in.

So why am I busy looking over my shoulder, and treading on eggshells with my suddenly estranged offspring? Well, the simple answer is that I cleaned under their beds. And what I found was altogether more terrifying than the array of accumulated repulsive debris I expected. Yep, I was ready for dirty socks, well-thumbed paperbacks and miscellaneous Lego body parts. I was even prepared for the odd fake eyeball or mouldering item of food. What I didn’t expect was the arsenal of Nerf guns, bows and arrows, wooden swords, rocks (not stones, rocks!) and sharpened sticks that feathered my beloved children’s nests.

Oh yes, my end is most definitely nigh. And it looks like it’s going to be bloody and violent. So I’m not taking any chances. I’m sleeping with one eye open. I’m wearing extra layers of protective clothing. And I am practising hovering one step behind burly husband (he’s so gonna get it first, by which point I’ll either be half way to the Cuba, or still be busy making a packed lunch for the trip).

And, as I said, it’s not like I blame the nippers. It’s a fair cop. They’re voting with their feet (and a range of frightening self-tooled weapons) for a yummier mummy. What bothers me is whether the punishment will fit their crime, and the ultimate price my babies will pay for their murderous class action. Whilst they are all feisty and arsey enough to survive a life behind bars (I blame the father), I’d just rather they finished their education without handcuffs, communal showers or yard time playing a part.

So I think I’ll be burning the weapons. And holding a gun amnesty. And trying really, really hard to be nicer than nice (probably involving even more tasty bribes than usual). Haribo? You got it. Staying up late? No problem. Gin and tonic? I think I can stretch to that. And in no home worldwide will there be more iPad/TV/YouTube time than here. As long as they don’t get access to ‘Breaking Bad’. Ah, and I will most definitely be mounting a vigilant, nightly clean sweep under the beds… It’s about time cleanliness took a front seat in this house anyway (the car, however, is another matter – work in progress until someone actually pukes on entry). Cleanliness is next to godliness, which surely rules out violence? Every cloud has a silver lining…

Pride

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So, this time it’s different. Not a blog post about being a fairly shit mother. About embarrassing interludes and questionable actions. No. This is the one in which I chronicle the scoring of a hattrick. Where I *think* I am awesome. Yes, AWESOME.

You’re going to have to bear with me on this one. Because it’s more than a little tiger mom-esque. A self-indulgent maternal moment. Blatant bragging. And because, to be honest, it wasn’t me that smashed the ball out of the park. It was my long-suffering offspring.

I’m talking ballet show. The Biannual Ballet Show, no less. In the theatre, with full make up and costumes and a scary stage manager who warns the assembled crowd of 3-17 year olds that “no alcohol is permitted back stage” (nor are knickers, huh?) All three children took part. All three were awesome. I shed tears – the great gulping kind – at the sight of them merrily tapping and tiptoeing their way through several Disney numbers, smiles (awkward in some cases) plastered all over their faces. But it wasn’t just the performance. It was their attitude.

They spent the whole weekend closeted backstage at the theatre. So, no play dates or movie nights or bike rides. No chill out time. No sneaky Saturday snacks from the cupboard of joy. No, they gave up their weekend for the sake of their art. And Chicken was in her element with all her dancing girls and didn’t mind a bit about being so utterly upstaged by her younger siblings (Beefy being bigged up as the only boy, Pudding winning every goddam prize for cuteness). My boy held his own (and his iPad) in the company of dozens of twittering backstage girls, succumbing to makeup and endless rehearsal, and willingly taking to the stage despite sickening nerves (which actually made him look like he was about to vomit, but – I realised – made me look like I’d made him do it). As for Pud, she took it all in her stride and my terrible tomboy did not flinch (or throw anything, including punches) when put into makeup, a sparkly dress (with wings!) and – heaven forbid – a ponytail.

As for me? I revelled in their reflected glory. Smiled benignly at the compliments. As if we were the bloody Von Trapps. As if this perfect parental shit goes down every day in our rose-tinted household. Making like it was all down to me. My own exquisite production. Stressy mum was relegated a back seat. The customary domestic ‘to do list’ awaiting me at home was forgotten. And I relaxed. Basked even.

In fact, I chilled so much that the rest of the week was a total dream. Further achievements came thick and fast: Pudding finally dropping the nighttime nappy, Beefy at last getting to grips with his handwriting, Chicken soldiering through chronic earache to deliver rounders at the school tournament. *more glory basking* This could become a habit.

And then. It dawned on me: these little-big things are always there. Daily, weekly, monthly milestones ticked off. A hundred amazing mini-moments shaping our days. But I don’t always have – or take – the time to appreciate them. Yet I’m so goddam proud of them. These little people making their way boldly through the process of growing up. Making sense of life, and of themselves. Despite my daily disasters and seat-of-the-pants parenting they are growing to be real people. Good people. And all the while, as I puff out my chest with pride, I’m thinking: I MADE them! I bloody did, I MADE them. Who’d have thought? I am a goddam legend.

Unaccustomed as I am to getting it right, I just have one nagging doubt. A small voice inside that can’t help whispering, “is it because of me, or in spite of me”? Because pride always comes before a fall. Doesn’t it?

War

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So, right now Pudding and I are locked in the mutha of all toddler tussles. A war of wills. A fight to the death. An Armageddon, in which I find myself not only losing my cool, but – worse – my sense of humour. And all over something as ridiculous as clothes. Or, rather, the all-too-frequent lack of them.

I mean, how could you not smirk at the sight of a red-faced, white-lipped mother stalking from house to car on the school run with a wriggling, shell-shocked semi-naked child clasped firmly under one arm? Who wouldn’t have to choke down a chuckle as said mother is busted in the school car park by an astonished pre-school teacher who innocently leaned in to say ‘hello’ only to find the child in the back still bare-chested (and chomping on a cold piece of toast she found in the car seat pocket)? And who could fail to find funny the chirpy honesty of Little Lady Godiva, “Hi, I’m naked cos I had a bit of a strop”?

Me. That’s who.

And why? Because I am insane enough to believe I’m the boss. That my little darling will dutifully succumb to being dressed up like a doll. But. Nothing could be further from the truth. In this crazy clothes war I am a mere footsoldier. Cannon fodder. Bowing to the bloodthirsty bidding of a small but determined tyrant. Who I’ve long since given up on attempting to wrangle into a skirt or dress. Or anything pink, flowery or boasting a design remotely resembling a butterfly. Jeans or leggings (no trimmings), red or blue t-shirts only (and no frills) are the easier commands to obey. Others are less obvious, and change day-by-day (hell, who am I kidding, minute-by-minute, more like) to outraged cries of, “No! That’s not cool!” (like I would know what signifies ‘cool’ to an outraged three-year-old) or “I am NOT a princess!” (go figure) or, my favourite, “Eurgh, that looks like a church” (wtf?). Even when dressing up my enraged adversary eschews her sparkling ‘Frozen’ dress and shimmering Elsa shoes (which she has now gifted to her best boy friend, btw) in favour of a smokin’ green dragon outfit, complete with wings, tail and full headdress.

To be honest, this week isn’t the first time I’ve lost it over the now-customary early-morning clothing brawl. The last time I marched her into pre-school wearing only her pants was in February. She refused to admit to being cold and instead cunningly seized the opportunity afforded by an anxious, on-the-edge mother to negotiate an I-get-to-choose-my-own-outfit day the very next day. “Fuck it, just go with it,” I thought. Until I found myself escorting an insanely trippy-looking Christmas reindeer elf in banana yellow crocs and Peppa Pig leggings through the doors of shame at school.

*sighs*

“Don’t worry, she’s just asserting her personality,” all the clever child psychologist-types will tell me. “Aw, she’s finding her identity. Looking for her own little bit of control.” Bollocks. She knows exactly who she is. How to dig in and get what she wants. And how to rule the entire, quivering cohort with her tiny but imperious rod of iron (and spine-tingling roar).

Given this mutinous history, imagine the trepidation with which I approached The Birthday Party. Ever the pacifist and keen to avoid another soul-destroying diva scene on the big day, I determined to take her shopping to choose her own outfit. Genius. No room for tantrums there. Of course I knew she wouldn’t go near your usual definition of a party frock but had hopes we might get away with a sparkly top and pretty leggings. Something with ribbons, or sequins maybe? Given her beloved co-host and partner-in-crime had already laid out a delicate white satin dress and glittery shoes, I thought I might *just* be in with a shout. But, no. Again. I emerged from the store clasping a new pair of (blue) jeans – and a Captain America t-shirt. From the boys’ section. Obvs.

Nonetheless, whether punch-drunk or battle-weary, I was deluded enough to think I might have won the skirmish. But what is abundantly clear is that I have most certainly lost the war. The war of the wardrobe. And everyone knows exactly who is wearing the trousers now.

Censored

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So, it’s not every day you get invited to take tea with the Queen. Yeah, the actual Queen. And, despite my populist leanings, I have to admit to being a bit excited. To think I could be scoffing cucumber sarnies with Liz (who I am convinced must have a pretty decent repertoire of dirty jokes given the sheer volume of boring dinner parties she has to enliven) and romping across the impeccably manicured gardens of Buck Pal (trying to identify the likely spot our future king might have chosen for a crafty teenage smoke) just tickles my fancy. But clearly not that of my youngest…

Oh, each of my offspring displayed their true colours in their respective reactions to the news that daddy and mummy have been invited to a Royal Garden Party. Beefy was open-mouthed with astonishment (“but why YOU mummy?”), whilst Chicken couldn’t wait to exercise full bragging rights (“oooh, I can’t wait to tell my friends”). Not so Pudding. No. An entirely different (and characteristically inexplicable) response from the toddler-cum-teenager: “I am NOT telling my friends. Uurrrgh. No, it’s EMBARRASSING mummy. EMBARRASSING.” *stomps off, slams door* Even recall to her favourite ‘Peppa Meets the Queen’ book couldn’t shift her from her angry diatribe. Nowt so queer as a nearly-four-year-old.

All of which got me thinking about stuff children say. You know, the ‘out of the mouths’ gems that make you laugh, even though you know – as a supposedly responsible adult – you shouldn’t. And my nippers have a lot – I mean, a LOT – to say for themselves.

10 Things I Wish I’d Never Heard My Children Say…

  1. “No mummy, I didn’t wee in the pool. Cos I weed on your back.”
    After mega swim session with buoyant 3-year old. *torn between laughing and crying*
  2. “Nice muffins mummy.”
    Text via iPad, from 8 year old son. Who has just consumed several of my finest banana choc chip offerings. *wrong, just wrong*
  3. “Let’s Marvin Gaye and get it on.”
    Sung to grandparents and the (considerable) assorted family gathering as appropriate post-Christmas dinner entertainment. In full. By sweet-voiced 10 year old daughter. *awkward*
  4. “It’s ok mummy, you’re just tired.”
    Following an abject apology from the mummy who just lost it over something silly. *wise beyond years*
  5. “Mummy, you’re silly.”
    When uttered by small child wearing pants on her head. *fair comment*
  6. “No mummy, I really don’t need a wee before bed. Because I always do one in the bath.”
    The ‘please go to the loo’ debate with a nighttime nappy training three-year-old. “no words*
  7. “Soon I’m going to be a big girl. A big girl who goes to school. I’m going to grow up, and be like Beefy and Chicken, and go to big school – and I’m going to get a hairy bottom.”
    *accompanied by jazz hands flourish*
  8. “Why don’t YOU put the bike away, then YOU can have the chocolate biscuit?”
    When two-year old is asked to put her bike away in return for a biscuit reward. *can’t fault the logic*
  9. “It’s not the size that counts, actually.”
    Uttered by nine-year-old son during competitive debate with his mates over the relative size of their TVs. *so proud*
  10. “I’m not eating my tea because I’m not hungry.”
    But you must be hungry, I say to truculent toddler. “No. Not hungry. Cos I just had a bogey snack.” *gags*

To be fair, I like the honesty as much as anything else. Always the best policy. So, back to the point; perhaps one I could employ at said garden party? “So, Liz, I bet you’re fond of a smutty joke. Tell me the one about the fighter pilot and the prostitute…” Dare me…

Baggage

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So, I’ve recognised ‘a thing’ whilst preparing to head home from holidays. It’s something I’ve kinda recognised about myself for some time, but just thought was one of my own quirky character flaws (oh, I have so many of those – like restacking the dishwasher when the husband fails to get The System). Ahem, anyway, having holidayed with other families quite a bit of late, it’s become abundantly clear that this particular tick is most definitely not mine alone. So what the hell am I on about? Packing. Or, more accurately, re packing. That joyless activity that is agonising enough before your holiday, but infinitely gloomier (and odorous) at the end of it.

The truth is: you simply don’t mess with a packing momma.

This is how it goes… It’s all rather lighthearted to begin with. You start with a bit of mild procrastination – maybe a cup of tea or a quick swim. You fanny about and put it off. But the clock is ticking and the husband is starting to panic, and fume (and might even start throwing a few crumpled items into the bag, or even offer to change a nappy or two instead of you in the hope that you just bloody get on with it). So then you DO get on with it (possibly with the help of a glass of wine). Brain whirrs into action. Mental lists of items not to be forgotten swing into place in front of your eyes – a bit like The Terminator when he’s assessing a particularly killer-robot-heavy situation. You develop a military-like precision of movement otherwise absent in your life (even if sorely needed). That’s when everyone should beware…

Don’t get anywhere near. Don’t offer helpful advice. Or aid. Or pick anything up. Or make suggestions. Or, God forbid, start putting things in helpful little piles. Because that momma is In The Zone. I’ve seen the look in other mums’ eyes, and felt it in my own. You Do Not Mess with a mum who’s packing. They know where their shit is. And they do NOT want your help. You are merely an irritant in what is already a soul-destroying, futile, humourless process. The clothes in the room. The swim stuff by the pool. The miscellaneous items in the bathroom/bar/barbecue. The weird location of all your holiday paraphernalia is known only to you. And woe betide anyone who dares to get in your way. Let alone a ‘well-meaning’ husband, offering ‘helpful’ tips about what’s been ‘left behind’ (it’s not left behind, arsehole, it’s item 53 on the Terminator console). However close you are to departure, stay away. There is nothing useful you can say, do or be to a momma on a mission.

So, ladies, gents, children, just do yourself a favour; slink off for another ice cream and leave us to it. We will get that shit done perfectly well on our own. And no messing.

FOOTNOTE

Whilst I’m on the clearly emotive subject of packing, here’s my helpful list – momma to momma – of things you should never ever bother packing for holidays:

  • Socks for children (they NEVER wear any)
  • Nail varnish/face pack/massage oil (cos that’s NEVER going to happen, right)
  • Half the clothes you take for yourself (you NEVER wear more than a couple of (baggy) favourites anyway)
  • Suncream (weighs a fucking ton, costs you dear in extra baggage, and frickin’ EXPLODES all over your bag before you even arrive)

And then there are the essential things you SHOULD pack but never remember:

  • Toothbrushes (cue a week of chewing toothpaste – if you’ve remembered it – and molar rubbing)
  • Hairbrush (cue elation from daughters who see no issue with cultivating holiday dreadlocks)
  • Swim nappies (cue the ‘going commando’ dilemma, and disappointed shitty optimism)
  • Pants (cue a week of wishing you had brought a bikini instead of one piece halter neck)

Or is that just me?