We have proper wardrobes now so I can no longer justify using the floor.  We even have a working washing machine.  Oh how I miss the launderette *COUGH*.  In excitement I have done six loads of washing since Saturday.  Probably less excitement, more sheer build up of filthy washing.  Imagine my joy this evening when I spent three hours ironing and could have done another three.

To my utter shame I delivered the children to the OAP Childminder  this morning to find that when they took off their sandals their feet were black … and the last tenant reckons she had professional cleaners in before she moved.  If it is true, which I am willing to bet 1 million pounds that I don’t have on it being false, I hope she didn’t pay them.

My shoes have been sticking to the kitchen and conservatory floor like an early 90’s nightclub carpet.  So bad, that even a mop wouldn’t shift it.  Tomorrow, after work, I shall be mostly on my hands and knees like a Victorian maid scrubbing the bejesus out of the floor.

Of late Mr OAP has been ill, so jolly jaunts have been kept to a minimum, which has been reflected in the 4 year old AKA The Caged Animal’s behaviour.  He has been returning home with excessive energy and has spent long periods of time bouncing on the trampoline and riding his bike when the sun is shining.  When the rain is pouring he paces the house crying and being incredibly grumpy.

So, as I got out of the car, and joined them for the short walk to school, I excitedly asked where they had been.

Me “Ooh, looks like you’ve been out, it’s been lovely weather too.  Anywhere nice?”

Mrs OAP “Rheumatology”

And with that I took my boy by the hand and knew we were in for a long night of bouncing.

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?

The OAP childminders have a habit of starting a lengthy conversation when I drop the 3 year old off.  If I step inside their porch I’m a goner, lost forever to ‘weather/housing market/health chat’.

Usually I leave the 5 year old in the car with the radio on as I rush up the driveway, say goodbye then try to escape.  This morning was no exception.  As I got to the door and rang the doorbell I could hear the 5 year old shouting ‘Mummy’.  I was greeted by the husband of our OAP childminding duo and as I said ‘Hello’ the shouting behind me got more desperate.  I turned to see that she had climbed out of her seat and moved over to the driving seat and opened the window.  I asked if she was OK.

She yelled ‘MUMMY! DON’T LET HIM TALK’ and then wound the window up and climbed back over.  Just like that.

I was left to kiss my boy, say goodbye to our DEAF childminder and return to the car for some lessons in shouting etiquette.

I made a concerted effort not to rush the 4 year old before school which was difficult as we didn’t wake up until 30 minutes before we are supposed to leave. Yet another day at the office with my hair looking like an unkempt hedge as I tried to cram two weeks work into my six hour day.

I arrived at school to pick the children up. It turns out that one of our OAP childminding duo is unwell and has spent time in hospital. She is still there, and has been since Boxing Day. This I know because the OAP childminder man shuffled the 2 year old to school to meet me at 3.30pm. He brought the wrong bag and my son was wearing someone else’s trousers. I thought this quite apt as he has watched Wallace & Grommit’s Wrong trousers approximately 347 times during the holidays. He didn’t see the joke. When we arrived home he demanded to go to the toilet and revealed that he was wearing a pull up nappy too. The childminder had got the children and their bags totally mixed up.

This was all by the by, because 10 minutes after we were home the bickering started which fuelled some red in the faced shouting from me. The day was partially saved by the 4 year olds dancing show to the music from Mamma Mia which was accompanied by her brothers wailing. I did snigger at him when he did a swan like dive on the floor. But, the reason for the dive was because I wouldn’t feed him chocolate 10 minutes before bed and it WAS funny.

My husband pointed out, quite rightly that our children had returned from school even more irritating than usual …which was punctuated by the 4 year olds desire to have the last words ‘No we’re not’.