So today I bring you this, something that MIGHT have happened when I was off work on Tuesday on ‘pox watch’;

Yesterday I might have gone to the dining room to get a banana.

On the way to the kitchen I might have unpeeled the banana and remarked to the 4 year old ‘Ooh what a big banana’.

Once in the kitchen I might have put the banana in my mouth, to free up my hands, so that I could open the bin which is in a cupboard.

I might have then swung round to face the window, with the banana still in my mouth, to wash my hands in the sink which is under the window.

I might have then been greeted by the two workman in next doors back yard who were damp proofing the cellar, all wide eyed.

Wide eyed because they were looking at the woman next door going handsfree with a big banana.

On the first day he brings home an amazing toilet roll/Malteser box/wool sculpture and I display it proudly … “It’s a nest” he says.

“What did you do today?” I ask him at tea time. “Nuffink” is the reply.  As I explain that there is a ‘th’ and a ‘g’ in ‘nothing I notice his sister looks smug, happy that someone else is getting a grilling for a change.

He says, “I don’t like school”.

The 5 year old, with all her wisdom, tells him “You’ll have to get used to it, you have ‘miles and miles’ to go”.

A Mister Maker special

On the second day, when I take him to nursery, I stay for a few minutes to settle him in. In a plastic apron he lays everything out in the ‘art workshop’ ready to use … a bit like Mister Maker.

When he is settled and happily gluing I tell him I’m going, giving him a kiss and a hug. As I turn to go I hear a little voice say “Mummy”. I turn to see my big tall boy looking lost and slightly panicky, looking up at me with big pleading eyes. He says “Don’t go”, so I stay a bit longer.

Later, as I leave, I gaze through the window at my big tall boy wielding a spatula in his blue plastic apron.  I think about giving up work, somehow spending more time with him.

I could home school.

I could teach my children how to sit on the sofa, how to blog, how to get lost on the way to IKEA, how to complete Mushroom Gorge on Mario Kart, how to bake and burn chocolate peanut butter brownies. I could show them how to buy and sell on ebay, match up socks, load the dishwasher and read Red magazine cover to cover.

No, I could not home school. 

I have to let go, but it hurts.

I had another birthday last month, I am now 31 years old. Of course with this quiet passing of birthdays I discovered that I like Emma Bridgewater mugs and that I have bingo wings. The latter was more of a shock than the former. When I pointed out my wingage to the husband he said that it may be more the shoveling of excess food into my mouth than my turning another year older. I can hear you all saying ‘HE SAID WHAT?’ and limbering up for some man bashing, but actually he’s right.

Whilst I work out how best to tackle my shovelling problem without having my jaw wired I have decided to wrap my bingo wings in cling film at night. This will surely reduce them if it is tight enough and the heating is cranked up

With my birthday came the dawn of the pyjama. I haven’t worn pyjamas since I left home at 18, opting for nakedness and then when I had children just plain old big pants. I am now going for comfort. I perused Marks and Spencer online and clicked the wrong button because I was confronted with one of my worst fears … ‘older’ ladies wearing quilted bed jackets. Recoiling in horror I decided that it would be best to go to a real shop where I could avoid such atrocities.

I had some time off last week to bridge the gaping childcare hole. It was lovely to spend some quality time with …

The 5 year old, who was suffering SHF (Summer Holiday Fatigue). Being passed from one form of childcare to the next all Summer has not done her any favours. She has loved the school holiday club which was a relief. She did have to be peeled off me each morning, but then each evening I had to drag her screaming to the car because she didn’t want to leave.

She has more imaginary animals. We have the two dogs, Molly and Sarah who walk with us every night with our REAL dog and then there are some unnamed cats. She still wants a real guinea pig and I am still refusing. When I suggested she get herself an imaginary guinea pig she looked at me as if I were mad. Other than that she is continuing to stalk the neighbours ten year old daughter daily and is now getting the …

… the 3 year old involved in peering in their front windows too. There will be a restraining order arriving shortly.

He has acquired a new noise, a cross between a guinea pig squeal and the screeching metal brakes on the 08:45 Northern Rail to Leeds. This noise is fairly random and I’m not sure if I should worry. He starts nursery at the 5 year old’s school next week which couldn’t come fast enough because he wails each morning as we pull up outside the OAP childminders and can’t understand why he can’t go to ”big boy school’.

We discovered that he had been weeing in the bidet a few weeks ago. After much berating he has ceased this activity and now favours cleaning the bidet with the 5 year old’s flannel instead. Apart from that he is obsessed with Mario Kart on the Wii and has probably said the phrase “can I play on the car game” 40 times a day for the last six weeks. This isn’t the only time he repeats himself either “Can we go on a scooter ride”, “Can we go on a scooter ride”, “Can we go on a scooter ride”, “Can we go on a scooter ride”, “Can we go on a scooter ride” gets a bit tiresome too. In fact if he wants something and gets the answer ‘no’ he will attempt to wear me down with asking the same thing over and over to the point that …

… the husband is now worried that the 3 year old is actually part goldfish.

The husband has taken to swearing excessively recently, but understandable seeing as he managed to kill his computer last week, which as a graphic designer is integral to his work.

The TV is currently tuned to ‘cricket’ and only ‘cricket’ which the children find disgusting especially as it clashes with Mister Maker. He’s going to the One Day International at Durham next week to meet up with ‘Glaswegian Jim’. We met Glaswegian Jim and his lovely family when we went camping in August. Their friendship formed over their love to drink alcohol and talk b*llocks into the early hours of the morning. One of our neighbouring campers got quite razzed by the early morning discussions. She came out of her tent and shouted angrily at Glaswegian Jim “I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR YOUR SCOTTISH VOICE AGAIN TONIGHT” . Over the last few weeks by medium of text and email the husband has taught Jim everything there is to know about cricket.

He mentioned the word ‘vasectomy’ in my presence last week. I laughed it off nervously. I am of course still holding out for him having an accidental head trauma and subsequently the revelation that he would in fact like more children. This isn’t going to happen, but a vasectomy? It seems so final. Usually it is the woman pushing for the man to have the vasectomy, surely not the man openly willing to have his bits hacked at with a machete snipped. To be honest I think if he could do it himself with a pair of garden shears he would.

The dog… is mostly moulting. She is looking a bit thin, which for a Labrador is unheard of, I’ll have to start supplementing her diet with her favourite past worktop steals … pomegranates …. candles … frozen mince … whole loaves of bread … tubs of margarine. Maybe she’s dog-a-rexic?

A photo shoot sounds exciting, especially when you’ve never experienced one first hand.

I had visions of a Hello magazine ‘At Home With The Drivers’ style shoot … Me draped on a chaise longue, looking svelte, wearing a long floaty dress (and THE magic pants) … the children, pristine and happy, looking on admiringly … the husband wafting me with a large palm.

It won’t surprise any of you that have been reading for more than a few weeks that it was ABSOFOOKINGLUTELY nothing like that.  I can verify that a photo shoot with two adults, a dog, a teenager and two bickering children is worse than applying to Wife Swap and finding out you’ve got Hannibal Lecter as your new husband.

We were told to wear autumnal clothes as the interview will be in the November issue.  Wearing our long sleeved tops we went out into the Summer sunshine and pretended to play gaily in the garden for a ‘natural shot’.

It was natural in that the 3 year old wouldn’t cooperate, the 5 year old wanted to growl and the dog wanted to slaver all over the photographer. The teenager, who was the reason for the article in the first place, was exemplary.  If I apologised to the, very patient, photographer once I apologised 500 times.

When asked to move from playing cricket to sitting on the slide with his sisters the 3 year old declined.  After much cajoling he agreed, but refused to smile.  When asked to go back to playing cricket he cried.  If he was asked to be in close contact with the 5 year old where they might, god forbid, have to touch he started shouting like an old shouty person.  I was so proud.

The only thing that kept me going throughout our 90 minutes from hell was the fact that at 7pm we would be leaving MarMar in charge of our children overnight and going to stay with my sister so we could go out to get shitfaced celebrate my birthday.

Eventually we went inside where all five of us pretended to be happy, if not slightly sweaty on the two seater sofa.  The 3 year old tested the theory that if you repeat yourself 50 times a minute you can make your parents ears bleed as he asked if he could play Mario Kart.  The husband saved the day by muttering through gritted teeth, “If you all smile I’ll buy you all an ice cream”.

I didn’t get to see any of the pictures but I can guarantee that I, being un-photogenic, will have looked like the elephant woman.  There is evidence below that proves that I am only at my best if I am sporting false facial and chest hair.

Note that I had to state ‘false’ there … just in case any of you were wondering.