Why have an affair?

After my last post I had an e-mail from Concerned of Crawley;

"Dear Emily, please don't have an affair".

Oh my goodness, I have one titillating encounter in the supermarket and you've got me romping around the tinned peaches in an extra-marital liaison. Even if I felt lacking in that department at home (and remember, this is the girl whose kitchen is used for far more than mere muffin-making) do you seriously think I'd have the time to have an affair? More pertinently, do you seriously think I could be arsed? It would involve far too much sexual gymnastics and leg wax.

Why L is the most important letter in the alphabet

The park is empty; we have the swings to ourselves and can make ourselves nauseous on the roundabout. We lie on our backs on the cut grass and squint into the sun.

“It’s snowing!” G calls gleefully, waving her arms in the air. Against the blue, drifts of dandelion seeds are parachuting on the breeze. There are thousands of them.

The park is full of spent dandelions and I try to recall who first showed me how to carefully pick the flower head and blow away its seeds to tell the time. One, two, three o’clock… I explain to my daughters and we sit in a circle, picking dandelions and blowing the seeds towards each other. It is fortunate we are alone in the park; the girls are only two and lacking in refined pronunciation. They shout “cock, cock!” at the tops of their voices and giggle contagiously. Their own efforts at telling the time are ineffective and they become my runners; piling dandelions next to me and making me blow again and again until my lap is filled with white down.

Warning: this mother is alarmed

The recession has hit us all, and our economy drive has now extended to our days out. Last weekend we visited a Railway Centre in the next county. Not everyone’s cup of tea, granted, and to be frank my pre-children outing list would no more have included a train-spotting expedition than my wardrobe would have included sensible shoes and a humungous pair of pants, but the children will love it, and it’s only £3.50 to get in. We pile into the Galaxy, returning twice to collect the things we’ve forgotten (My husband's wallet, my phone, one of our daughters…) and settle into a few choruses of Wheels on the Bus.

My husband is unimpressed with my choice of family outing.

“It’s not a train museum, it’s a Railway Centre” I tell him primly, folding the copy of Heritage Railway I picked up at the newsagent to get us in the mood. My God it’s dull; the children have eschewed the photos of vintage carriages wafted in front of them in favour of playing with their own socks.

My children use bodily fluid as a weapon

In my quest to write something funny I sought out my husband's views;

"I could shag you in the kitchen again - that seemed to go down well", he said hopefully.

Ignoring his crestfallen face I dismissed his suggestion out of hand;

"That's old hat. It has to be something new, something off the wall. I need to discover you've been wearing my underwear to work, or come home and catch you in an incriminating - yet hilarious - position with the cleaner".

"We don't have a cleaner".

"Then we need to get one..."

Funny ha ha, or funny peculiar?

fun·ny (fn)
adj. fun·ni·er, fun·ni·est
1.
a. Causing laughter or amusement.
b. Intended or designed to amuse.
2. Strangely or suspiciously odd; curious.
Thousands of bloggers nominated their favourite on-line writers in the recently launched Mummy And Daddy (MAD) blogging awards, celebrating the brilliance of British parent bloggers. I voted. And not for myself, either, however a few of you must have done, as it seems I am a finalist in the funniest blog category. I'm chuffed beyond belief to be nominated, whilst also finding myself seized by an insatiable desire to beat the other four fabulously funny contenders...

Is there room in your life for a little fascism?

A few weeks ago the pygmies were rampaging around a friend's house with twenty other children, trooping ant-like up and down stairs, swarming over sofas and leaving a trail of party bag contents behind . I looked at the clock and made some swift calculations; just time for a nap in the car and home by tea-time.

"MY THREE: READY TO LEAVE!"

On the stroke of my bellow, three children fell out from the marching ants. They pushed feet into shoes, arms into coats and dutifully waited by the front door while I said our goodbyes. As I air-kissed the hostess I saw over her shoulder a line of open-mouthed parents staring incredulously at me;

"Blimey, it's the Von Trapps" one muttered.
"Can we stand at ease yet?" said another.

Allow me to introduce myself. I am a Nazi Mother.