For what we are about to receive

Much to the children's delight, their father and I are prone to outbreaks of ridiculous behaviour.  Entire afternoons pass where one may communicate only in song, or with a balloon up one's jumper.  The family 'team chant' is one such element of this farce, the origins of which are long-forgotten but may well have stemmed from a larger than usual glass of red with the Sunday roast.  Essentially, we link hands and raise our arms aloft whilst adopting extremely poor American accents for a variety of baseball-style motivational shout-outs.  For some reason this continues to be disproportionately funny.  

We have taken the children into town for lunch at a rather nice bistro.  They are on their best behaviour, having been threatened with the removal of CBeebies should they step out of line.  We order the requisite chicken nuggets and chips for the children, something rather more grown-up for ourselves, and the waitress leaves us with the wine menu.  

Two year old G grabs my hand, and that of her sister.  

"Go team!"  She giggles.  

Like Pavlov's dogs we automatically link hands around the table, just as the waitress returns with her pen and paper.  

"Oh, I'm so sorry."  She says.  She takes a step back and waits patiently, pad down by her side.  She bows her head slightly.  How extraordinary.  I notice that the elderly couple at the next table have put down their cutlery mid-meal, and have their hands in their laps.  

"Honey."  My husband hisses.  "I believe they think we're about to say Grace."  

A hush has descended over the restaurant.  A few people are looking across at us expectantly.  Right.  This is awkward.  I could just let go of my children's hands and pour some water or something, just to break the ice. Or I could...

"Dear Lord."  I begin confidently.  Oh shit - what now?  I haven't said Grace in years.  The man at the next table is nodding approvingly.  "Um, we are gathered here today..."  No, that's weddings.  "Thank you for this wondrous feast, delivered to our table by..."  I sneak a glance at our waitress's name badge.  "Angela.   For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.  Amen."  

"Amen."  My husband replies fervently, with a barely perceptible tremor of mirth.

"Amen."  Mutter the couple at the next table, picking up their knives and forks to continue their meal.  

"Go team!"  Cheer my children, seeing nothing amiss in this surreal interlude.  

I sigh and pick up my glass.  Yet another restaurant we won't be able to visit again.  Mind you - that's got to mean a few Brownie points scored with God, so it's not all bad.  

My child? He's the one with the enormous Sovereign ring.

Some time ago the nanny was struggling for inspiration during a particularly wet week.  I suggested she make jewellery with the children and duly provided her with half the contents of Hobbycraft to ensure her creativity was not stifled.  Boxes of buttons, ribbons, brightly coloured beads and shells spilled out from the craft box and I went to work leaving them poring over this box of delights. 

I spent the day - in between bouts of hard graft - imagining what creations would await me on my return.  I knew the girls would love the pretty pink shells and thin ribbons I'd chosen for them, and I wondered if my sensitive son would perhaps fashion me a bracelet from beads of red and green. 

When I came home the craft box had been tidied away, the majority of its contents untouched.  The nanny had used just two items for this display of her artistic talents; pipe cleaners and brass buttons. 

"We've made Sovereign rings!"  She exclaimed delightedly. 

Oh my God.  My beautiful, refined children were indeed sporting huge shiny gold rings on their tiny chubby hands.  I struggled to find the right words - it seemed uncharitable to suggest that something more shabby-chic would have been more welcome. 

"Just like yours."  I remarked.  "How lovely." 

Several weeks later the children refuse to be parted from their "Sov rings", as they so quaintly call them.  As fast as I can lose them, so the nanny helps them make more.  I'm resigned to my off-spring's exposure to a sartorial style far from my own.  I may just have to intervene before she proposes Indian Ink tattoos on their knuckles.

...

Finding my rhythm

It all felt like a very good idea a few months ago. Now that I’m actually here ten kilometres seems like an insane distance to run, especially given that my training regime has largely consisted of eating cake and drinking Pinot Grigio. I really wish I’d gone for a different outfit – this sleek Lycra’s all very well but it does rather give the impression I know what I’m doing. I should have worn a baggy t-shirt and leg warmers to avoid raising anyone’s expectations.

I reach the front of the line in which several seasoned runners are jogging on the spot, and hand my registration receipt to the elderly Rotarian behind the desk.

“Number One, eh? He chuckles. “Bit of a pro, are you?”

Oh terrific. My keenness to register online following a few too many glasses of wine has meant my application was first to be processed. Now I’m sporting a deeply smug race number. That’ll be ironic as I stumble in last, nursing a strained hamstring and a perforated lung. I want to go home.

Right, a warm up. I need some sort of warm up. I spy some sporty looking individuals over in the far field, and casually jog over to them. Steady pace, steady pace... Gosh, that’s quite hard going – I’d better take a bit of a breather. Don’t want to peak too soon. Some of the men are doing some complicated sprint manoeuvres between trees – I think they might be a bit out of my league – but there’s a guy over there who’s adopting a slightly gentler pace. I’ll do what he’s doing. I lollop along behind him until I realise he’s heading behind the bushes for a pee. He eyes me suspiciously and I hastily drop to the floor for some stretches. Bugger, I don’t think he was fooled.

Actually, I could do with the loo myself. I’m not going behind a bush though – it took me twenty minutes to get these trousers on in the first place, I daren’t try it in public. There are some Portaloos back near the registration tent so I head back across the field. That’s enough of a warm-up anyway, in fact I could do with a lie down if I’m honest. I check my watch as the queue for the loo inches forward – come on, girls, get a move on! Finally there’s a free cubicle and I wiggle out of my Lycra. Typical – I don’t need a wee after all. Must just be nerves. I nearly fall off the loo as a loud klaxon sounds and a megaphoned announcement tells us to get in position for the start of the race. Oh shit. I throw caution to the winds and leg it from the loo to the starting line still pulling up my pants.

Bloody hell, I’m knackered. I must have run at least a mile already and we haven’t even started yet. Gosh, everyone around me looks a bit serious. They’ve all got running vests on with different club names, and they’re synchronising watches. We’re being held in a sort of ribboned pen with a board at the front. I strain to make out the small writing – estimated time, 30 to 40 minutes... Oops, I think I may be in the wrong bit. I shimmy through the group and duck underneath the tape to make my way to the rear, where I take my place among the three-legged runners and the inflatable bananas. This is probably more my scene.

Oh shit, we’re off! Okay, let’s stay calm, just keep the rhythm... How do I know what rhythm to keep? Everyone’s running differently. I start trying to run in time with my music, but my iPod shuffles from Kylie to Eminem and I’m thrown off beat. We had some friends over for dinner last night who gave me some advice about my running style. They’re both frighteningly fit and the type to do a couple of triathlons before breakfast, so I’m slightly in awe of them. Apparently my strides are too long and I should be trying to shorten them. I mean, obviously this is completely wrong, but I was too polite to say anything. I’m looking to cover as much ground as possible, therefore surely my graceful, gazelle-like canter is the best way to achieve that? I looked it up in my running book and they must have it wrong too.

Blimey, this is hard. I think I must have hit The Wall. I’ve read about it in interviews with marathon runners – I just have to keep going and suddenly I’ll get this huge adrenalin rush. Any minute now... Oh my God, my lungs are bleeding. I wonder if anyone has actually ever died doing this race? I am overtaken by an inflatable banana. Ah, now he’s taking very short strides. Maybe there’s something in that after all. Mind you, it’s difficult to do anything else in a banana suit... We must be half-way by now. I check my GPS – two kilometres? TWO?  It must be broken - we've done at least seven. 
 
And then it happens - I find my rhythm.  I run and I run, and the kilometres pass, and suddenly I'm actually doing it.  I pass the inflatable banana with a cheery wave. I realise it's just like anything else in life - problems at work, struggles with the kids...  you just have to keep going.  Because if you keep going, eventually you find your rhythm.

I hear my children cheering my name as I approach the finish line and I am bursting as much with happiness as with shortness of breath. 

My husband, proud beyond measure of everything I achieve and even of some of the things I don't. 

My children, in awe of everything I do, even if my trainers don't have flashing lights in the sole. 

My family, there at the finish for me, whatever the journey has been.

.

Safe sex

The chemist in my town is suffering from  spate of shoplifting.  I know this because there is a shiny new CCTV camera pointing at me as I herd the children inside out of the rain.  In a further defensive move they have placed particularly tempting items in bulky Perspex cases which can only be removed at the till.  Disposable razors and perfume are thus incarcerated and somewhat annoyingly so are condoms. 

I don’t like buying condoms.  Unless I can furtively slip a pound coin into a discrete vending machine, whilst wearing a trilby with the brim pulled low, I consider it to be a man’s job.  Invariably condoms are placed behind the till so you actually have to ask for them – the thought of the knowing look on the cashier’s face as he slips me a three pack of strawberry flavoured Durex is just too much to contemplate.  Self-service condom shopping I can just about cope with, and I cover my Perspex pack with some innocuous shower gel and a few packs of baby wipes.  I really would rather not be doing this with the children swarming round my basket – they do ask such awkward questions and I’m not sure I can fob them off with the water balloon explanation for much longer without them demanding a demonstration. 

I join the queue and try to keep tabs on my marauding toddlers, who are ransacking shelves in search of vitamins they hope to be sweets.  Once at the cash desk I adopt a nonchalant air as I pack the baby wipes into a carrier bag and wait for the protective casing to be removed. 

“Sorry, we’ve only just started using these things – I can’t seem to get the box off.” 

Terrific.  I’d leave it for another day, only there’s nothing on television tonight, and I’m in the mood for a bit of a romp.

“Cherryl, can you come and give me a hand?”  She yells to another girl on the other side of the store.  A large queue has formed behind me, many of whom are now craning their necks to establish what the hold up is. 

“Oh golly, I’ve got no idea.  Shall I get Brian down?”  Cherryl is no more adept than her colleague, and is more concerned about breaking one of her bright red acrylic nails.  She pages the store manager and we all wait in silence for a few seconds. 

Halfway down the queue a man pipes up, “I’ve got a pen-knife here, do you want me to have a go at it?” 

Oh dear God – no.  I am rooted to the spot with embarrassment as Cherryl passes the box of condoms down the queue.  The man whips out a Swiss Army knife and begins whittling away at the clasp.

“Look.”  I say.  “It’s frightfully kind of you, but really there’s no need.  I’ll just leave it.  I really don’t need them.” 

The man glances at my children, who have swept an entire shelf of Sanatogen to the floor and are pretending to brush their teeth with tubes of Anusol. 

“Are you sure about that, love?” 

He redoubles his efforts but to no avail, handing the box back up the queue to Cherryl, who has now explained our predicament to Store Manager Brian.  Brian makes a valiant attempt at releasing the contents of the box, but he too is defeated by the anti-theft mechanism. 

“I’m terribly sorry Madam,”  he says.  “Would you like someone to drop them round to you later on?” 

Home delivery birth control?  That really is service with a smile...

“No thank you.”  I say.  I spy a stack of promotional gift items by the till, already displayed for Christmas.  “I’ll just take this travel Scrabble set instead.” 

I’m sure it’ll be just as much fun. 

Going it alone

My son asks me if he can walk to nursery on his own today.

“I’m a big boy now” he says.  He will be four next month.  I look at his earnest face and see how important this is to him. 

“Of course you can.  I’ll just walk behind you in case you need anything.”

We set off up the hill, a few paces apart.  I wonder if he will look back, but his head doesn’t turn.  He is but a pair of legs beneath a duffle coat and enormous backpack.  As we approach the first crossing I clench my fists to try and release the tension which would see me sprinting forward to hold his hand.  I creep forward by a few paces just in case, as though playing Grandmother’s footsteps.  He waits patiently by the white stripes until a car stops for him, then checks both ways and trots across to the other side, waving his thanks as I have taught him to always do.  He still doesn’t look back. 

I’m gripped with sadness that this has come so soon – that before too long this journey will become a daily walk to school, completed solo or with friends.  No need for my guiding hand or my chatter about the day ahead.  It seems seconds since I took this path pushing him in a pram – since I panted my way up the hill with a bump weighing me down.  It will be mere minutes before he walks this way with children of his own.  How can time go so quickly? 

Another crossing and we are nearly at the nursery.  I can hear the early arrivals playing as they wait for the doors to open.  I catch up with my grown up son and help him open the gate he is too small to reach. 

“How was that?” 

He thinks for a while and I crouch down to see him at his level.  His green eyes are flecked with brown, like mine, and they carry wisdom beyond his years. 

“It was okay.  A bit lonely.  You can walk with me tomorrow, if you like.”

He slips his hand into mine and we walk into nursery.  I have him for a while longer, then. 

...

Yummy Mummy versus Scummy Mummy

Yesterday I wore a Jack Wills dress over skinny jeans. Today I'm wearing my husband's tracksuit bottoms and a pyjama top.

Yesterday my hair was blow-dryed and styled into sexy flicks. Today it is standing on end as though I've spent the entire morning rubbing myself with a polyester cardigan.

Yesterday I wore kitten heels. Today I'm wearing chicken poo. On the sole of my Uggs. Which aren't even real.

Yesterday I ate home-made falafel from Cath Kidston plates.  Today I am scoffing Coco-pops from a plastic mug because all our crockery is dirty.

Yesterday I greeted my husband with a come-hither smile and the smell of fresh-baked bread.  Today I screeched at him from the landing as I caught child-vomit in my hands.

Yesterday I baked fairy cakes with the children. Today I am eating them. All.


Yesterday I was a Yummy Mummy, today I am a Scummy Mummy.  Tomorrow I may not bother getting up at all...


...

Which one’s the evil twin?

I’m quite sure it’s terribly bad form to declare your child to be Satan’s spawn, but that’s precisely how I felt when my daughters were small.  From the outset G was charming and compliant, whilst her twin sister E was anything but.  Her high-pitched scream curdled blood across a five mile radius, causing several complaints from neighbours as the ultra-sonic frequency of her cries set off a cacophony of barking dogs.  Nothing was right for E.  She was too hot, too cold, too tired, too alert, too hungry, too full.  As pretty G gurgled in her cot I became increasingly frustrated with the unhappy, angry ball of red-faced baby in the next bed.  I was frequently to be found weeping on my knees at her side, beseeching her to tell me just why she was making my life so difficult.  I was post-natal and rational thought didn’t come easily – unsurprisingly, she didn’t reply.   

We contacted the hospital to double-check we hadn’t inadvertently been handed the Devil’s own child.  Unfortunately continuity records confirmed she was definitely mine.  We tried everything – medical checks, dietary changes, cranial osteopathy, baby massage, classical music, organic sleepwear made from wool hand-combed from the underbelly of a Tibetan goat... 

Just as I was about to book the Vicar for an exorcism, the screams stopped.  Virtually overnight, at around a year old, Evil E became a sweet natured, agreeable, good humoured baby.  And guess what?  The horns began to grow on her sister instead.

Twins feature throughout history and mythology as the personification of good versus bad.   The evil twin is the backbone of popular plots from soap-land to Shakespearian theatre, and people frequently ask me which of mine is ‘the naughty one’.  Nowadays the girls exchange personalities on a daily basis, with neither occupying the naughty step on more than two days running, and my sister’s eight year old twins follow a similar personality-swapping pattern.    E is still a challenging child at times, but the air-raid siren scream can now be silenced in seconds and no longer does she fight all attempts at parenting control.  She’s a delight to be with and I am immensely proud of her feistiness.  An extremely affectionate girl, she will seek out my lap in order to rest her head against me and have me drop a kiss on her curls.  Of course, when she thinks I’m stroking her hair, I’m actually feeling for the return of those horns...

.

Writing a book? That's novel.

Did I mention I am writing a book? 

I started it early this year - or it may have been last year.  I stalled for a while, then polished up my first three chapters and sent them to an agent.  The very next day she asked for the rest of the manuscript. 

I e-mailed a friend.  "Oh shit." 

"You've not actually written the rest, have you?" She replied.  My friend is astonishingly perceptive. 

Rule one (I suspect) of finding an agent or a publisher is to actually finish your book first.  It's obvious really, only I was so convinced that I would spend months hawking my tatty manuscript round agents that I would have masses of time to actually finish it in the meantime. 

That was July and since then I have written another eleven chapters and have another six mapped out before I can type THE END.  I am desperate for more time to write.  I write in the middle of the night.  I take precious leave days from my full-time job and sit in cafes typing as my coffee gets cold.  I write in bed, in the kitchen, on the sofa - I write whenever and wherever I can.  I aim to finish this first draft in the next two months so I can send the completed manuscript back to the agent in the New Year. 

Who knows what next year will bring?

Losing the baby weight

When you’re pregnant there comes a point where you worry you’ll stay that big forever.  It’s around the time you start wearing flip-flops because you can’t reach your feet and your husband’s gone to work without putting your socks on for you.  You wonder if eating your own body-weight in Haribo was such a good idea, and you resign yourself to wearing maternity clothes to your son’s graduation. 

Whenever the subject of weight comes up amongst friends, everyone goes to great lengths to reassure you that “the weight will positively fall off once you’ve got a baby to run around after!”  I hate to point this out, especially if you’ve been relying on this tactic to get rid of your muffin top, but babies can’t move.  So who exactly are you going to be chasing?  I seem to recall the vast majority of my maternity leave was spent sitting on a sofa eating Jamaican Ginger cake to fill the time between meals.  There was very little running involved.  Except to the corner shop when I’d run out of cake. 

There will always be the ones who just snap back into shape of course.  There’s at least one in every post-natal group and annoyingly they’re not even the ones turning down the biscuits.  Short of slipping molten lard in their herbal tea to add a few inches to their waistline there’s not a lot you can do about this injustice.  They were just born lucky. 

You could take up an exercise class if you’re really hell bent on finding your belly button again – nowadays there are all sorts of celebrity DVDs and routines to do at home.  These are thoughtfully designed for you to do while baby is sleeping.  My baby would only ever stay asleep if he was cradled across my left arm.  It made for pretty good ballast when I did sit-ups, but he objected to the star jumps so we had to knock that one on the head. 

At the end of the day your partner thinks you’re amazing for creating an actual real person, and genuinely doesn’t give two hoots that your stomach has turned into play-doh.  When you have baby number two you’ll just get fat again anyway, so why waste time dieting now?  Have another slice of cake – it’ll make you feel better. 

But darling, can't you be friends with someone wearing Boden?

My son has his first best friend.  It's not that he's spent the last three years in solitary confinement, you understand, just that up until now I have always chosen his friends for him.  (My husband points out this trait of mine is not solely directed at the children). 

When your babies are tiny they play with the off-spring of your own friends, they don't catch a bus into town and strike up conversations of their own.  At toddler groups and music classes you instinctively gravitate towards mothers with whom you feel you have a common bond - those who drink gin on the stroke of six, for example, or wear killer heels to soft play.  Regardless of how your children interact, if you become firm friends then by Jove your children will too. 

"Isn't it sweet how they play together?"  you exclaim, as little Johnny rips chunks of hair out of Rupert.
"So very sweet.  I wonder if they'll be friends forever...  More cake?"
"Mmm, why not?  Shall we open the wine?"

As soon as external influences such as nurseries or schools come into play you cease to have influence over your children's social lives.  If Charlie wants to be friends with Joseph, he'll be friends with Joseph.  Or with Tom, Dick, Harry and indeed Wayne. 

My son has spoken of little other than his new best friend since term started, so I was determined to encourage this fledgling friendship.  I set off the other day to collect him from pre-school, and with thoughts of inviting J's new pal to his forthcoming birthday party.  I stood for a while at the gate, watching the children play, and identified some possible contenders.  Perhaps the small shy looking child with the mini-Boden trousers and the attractive father?  Or the pretty curly-haired girl whose mother runs an advertising agency? 

As I came through the gate J bounced up to me and introduced me to his "bestest friend", a snub-nosed stocky child twice his size.  Widthways.  I knelt down and flashed this sullen boy a winning smile, only to be rewarded with stony silence and something that sounded extraordinarily like "bollocks".  I'm quite sure it couldn't have been - this is the Cotswolds, after all. 

I stood up to greet his mother, thinking perhaps we should arrange a play-date for half term.  She was a carbon copy of her son, with a face that could curdle milk. 

"Hello!"  I said, brightly.  "I gather our children have become good friends." 

She gave a sort of grunt and looked me up and down, slowly and without embarrassment.  I had a sneaking suspicion she was not about to suggest a mummy date. 

"Shoes like that'll give you bunions." 

Well, it was an improvement on "bollocks", I suppose.

Whilst J and his little bullet-shaped friend will undoubtedly continue their relationship for at least another fortnight, I fear his mother and I are unlikely to be found chatting over a latte at the shopping mall. 

I put the birthday invitation in bullet-boy's shoe bag though.  Just in case.