Gender confusion in the hen house

Last year we acquired chickens.  After a traumatic first week, during which I staple-gunned myself inside the hen house, the chooks settled in well and became part of the homestead.  The children gave them names; Mrs Greedy, Queenie and Princess Layer, which cemented their roles as family members and made it difficult for us to consider eating them when they destroyed my vegetable patch and scratched the lawn back to bare earth.

Over the last few months a disturbing change has occurred in Princess Layer.  Her comb, the small red crest on her head, has swollen to twice its size and deepened in colour.  Beneath her beak her wattle mirrors this newly acquired mohican; the heavy red flaps wobbling indignantly like an old man's dewlaps as she struts up and down the run.  Princess Layer has appointed herself Guardian of the Hen House, waiting until the others are in bed before she checks the run is free from intruders and retreats into the house, no doubt to break wind and hog the duvet.

Each morning it is Princess Layer who emerges first into the run, waking at the crack of dawn to demonstrate her husky morning voice.  Midway between the happy bok-bok of her flatmates and the fully-fledged crow of a rooster, she is like a thirteen year old boy with no control over his vocal chords.  I fear it is only a matter of time before Princess Layer takes charge of the remote control, leaves her socks balled up on the bathroom floor and the top off the toothpaste.  In short, our chicken puts the he into hen.

Mrs Greedy and Queenie seem unaffected by this unusual turn of events, seemingly happy to be bossed about by one of their own.  The children are mildly confused by Princess Layer's apparent sex change, and should she continue to perfect her crow I suspect the neighbours will be plotting her demise.  Me, I just think it's a bit of a cockerel-up.




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Between Ourselves: multiple births

Thank you to everyone who tuned in to listen to BBC Radio 4's discussion programme, Between Ourselves, which today focused on what it's like to be a mother of twins or triplets.  If you've made your way here after listening to the show, please have a look around the site.  I hope you enjoy it.

I had two sets of twins in just over a year and despite all the ups and downs of the past four years I wouldn't change a thing.  My experiences don't make me an expert any more than any other parent of twins, triplets or more, and it's been wonderful hearing the views of other multiple parents since the show aired.  If you listened to the programme I'd love to know what you thought.  You can leave a comment below or get in touch via Twitter.

If you've not had a chance to hear the show it will be repeated this evening (Tuesday 19th April) at 9.30pm, or you can listen to it here

Emily speaking on motherhood and multiple births on BBC Radio 4's Between Ourselves. by EmilyCarlisle

X marks the spot

I have been teaching my four year old son to read.  He starts school this autumn and for a while has been trying to sound out words from the letters he knows.  So we sit each evening for a short time and make up stories from three letter words.

Not wanting to cause confusion with teaching practices he will encounter in a few months' time, we have been using phonics for some time, making the sounds of each letter on his alphabet poster.  The hardest one for him to grasp has been X.  The poster shows us a picture of a fox.  "F for Fox".  My son rightly says.  "Yes."  I tell him, but in fact that letter makes the sound "ks".  It's a tricky one.

Drinks company Innocent invited us to play an alphabet game with their new magnet collection.  It fitted so beautifully with our reading practice that we were delighted to join in.  Imagine, if you will, the rolling of eyes when I opened the package to reveal that the letter we had been allocated was X.

The challenge was to take a picture of the letter magnet in an appropriate place.  I had planned to take the magnet into hospital and place it strategically against an X-ray sign, but strangely enough when I was there it slipped my mind.  I simply couldn't bring a fox home - the chickens would never forgive me - so I asked my Facebook followers for inspiration.  They were their usual amusing selves, suggesting that my recent review of a relationship book could be classed as X-rated, or that I swiftly knocked up an X Factor set for the children.

In the end I gave into the easiest option.  Here is a rare photo of the More than Just a Mother pygmies, clutching a xylophone complete with their letter X magnet.  Which of course meant an explanation that X also makes the sound 'Zz'.  Honestly, it's a wonder anyone ever learns to read.

You can play the Innocent magnet game yourself, and win some great prizes.  You'll find all the information you need on their website.

French Kisses

I saw a friend yesterday I haven't seen for some time.  As I leant forward to kiss her she recoiled in horror.  "What on earth are you doing?"

I had forgotten that she doesn't 'do' kissing.

Once I'd reassured her that my sexual preferences had not changed, I wondered what the etiquette was around greeting one's friends.  For two years I lived in Paris, where kissing was de rigueur yet still not without its pitfalls.  You have to listen carefully to the accent of the person you're meeting, in order to ascertain whether to touch cheeks once, twice or three times.  There are even certain French towns where "chez nous, c'est quatre!" and the kiss lasts longer than any subsequent conversation.

Back in England I found it hard to lose the habit, much to the enjoyment of some (male) friends, and the confusion of others.  Many of my friends were from the kissing contingent anyway, with a public school twist which saw a single or double cheek kiss accompanied by an elbow squeeze.   Public school kisses however are strictly confined to the girls.  The men greet each other with a firm handshake, occasionally followed by a peculiar move which is half hug, half back slap.  Whatever they do, it is performed in an overtly masculine way far removed from their continental counterparts.

Nowadays my friends fall into three camps; those who kiss, those who hug, and those who find the prospect of physical contact positively unnatural.  Which one are you?

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The Impatient Patient

I am not a good patient.  Active people generally make very poor patients and as it is only the lure of unwritten words which keeps me still for very long, I feel terribly sorry for anyone assigned to look after me when I'm ill.  It can't be a welcome task.

I had several nurses during my recent stay in hospital.  The first - let's call her Jane (because that was her name) - was a kindly lady in her early fifties, with a misplaced sensitivity which caused her to lower her voice to an impossible hush when referring to anything gynaecological.  "Now I see from your notes you've had your inaudible whisper removed,"  she said when she took over.  "Together with your inaudible whisper and both your inaudible whispers."   At her side like an ever-present shadow was a pasty looking nurse seemingly around twelve years old, on her first placement with the ward.  Each step of my care plan was explained in painstaking detail to this student nurse, who appeared not to mind such patronising tutelage, making copious notes in a shiny blue notebook on which was written 'Gyny' with a childish flourish. I wish I could have seen what how she translated the inaudible whispers.

At eight o'clock the night nurses took over and Jane and the student shadow would bid me farewell, hoping my inaudible whisper wasn't too uncomfortable overnight.  They were replaced by a sullen, mealy-mouthed girl with a name badge which inaptly read 'Sunny'.  It became my mission to extract a smile from Sunny, so I beamed with vigour as she administered painful injections and read from my notes with staccato honesty and none of her predecessor's discretion.  No chink appeared in her less-than-sunny vista and I resigned myself to her impeccable yet impersonal professionalism.

I spent the day of the operation in a morphine-addled haze in which Jane and Sunny merged into an alarming double act, finally coming round the following morning.  I felt well enough to sit up in bed, fire off a few emails from my phone and drink copious cups of peppermint tea.  I was bored within an hour.  Neither of the aforementioned nurses were on duty and I was distinctly lacking in entertainment, so I persuaded my nurse-of-the-day (Liz, a rotund redhead with a vague smile and unsteady hands) to get out my laptop on the pretext of watching a film.  I spent the morning pitching feature proposals and was embroiled in an email discussion with an editor when my consultant walked in.  I shut the laptop guiltily.  "Is that work?"  She asked.  "No."  I replied, with my fingers firmly crossed.  She eyed me suspiciously and bade me stash away the laptop and watch daytime television.  "It's the only time it's acceptable."  

By the third morning I'd had enough.  It was time to escape.  If necessary I would tunnel out using the little plastic stirrers which came with my tea, hiding the rubble in my pyjama pockets.  Fortunately my consultant agreed that I'd be better off at home, and asked the nurse to remove the one remaining tube in the back of my hand.  After waiting over an hour ("We're just doing the ward rounds, I'll be along later to take it out")  I decided I couldn't wait any more.  I'd just take it out myself.  I've had dozens of them in my time - how hard could it be?  Lacking a third hand, I used my left foot to apply pressure to the back of my hand as I pulled the tube out with my other hand.  Simple.  A small bleeding issue ensued, but nothing I couldn't stem with some balled-up DVT stockings and a pillow.

I finished my packing and pressed the buzzer to request my discharge papers and meds, confident that Jane wouldn't mind my DIY approach.  Footsteps marched along the corridor and Sunny opened the door with an impatient air.  She took in the blood-stained cloth, the abandoned Elastoplast and tubing, and I braced myself for my flogging.

"You took it out yourself?"  She grinned.  "Fantastic - saves me a job!"

A funny sort of Mother's day

It's been a funny sort of Mother's day.  I've had all sorts over the years.  I've had the ones where I've spoilt my mother with flowers and cards, with breakfast in bed and a mess to clear up.  I've had the ones I stubbornly ignored, hating the absence of cards from the children I had failed to produce.  I've had the glorious First Mother's Day, with a card from my son and a gap after his name where it should have read 'and'.  I had a Mother's day in hospital with two angry red newborns and here I am again - in hospital on Mothering Sunday.

You have to acknowledge the beautiful irony of being admitted for a hysterectomy on Mother's day.  Now that I'm sitting in my room filled with peace and quiet and a room spray called Floral Indulgence, perhaps I should see this as a treat.  After all, I have space to write, I have the film channel on standby, I have a basket of tempting goodies to my side...  Except of course I don't want it.  Any of it.  I want to be at home with the children pestering me, with CBeebies on a loop and my husband sighing as I open the laptop again.  I want the perverse right to have more children even if I don't want them.  The sad fact is that I will always have one child too few.  That wouldn't change even if I were to have a dozen or more - I'll always be missing a boy.  

There's something shameful about this type of surgery.  You're made to feel as though you're confessing to some sordid secret, or acknowledging a secret addiction to pickled eggs.  Various work colleagues have, over the years, shared intimate detail about their hernia ops or their ingrown toenails, yet I find myself swallowing the word 'hysterectomy' in an effort to spare their blushes.  I lower my voice, look furtively around the room and just about stop myself from folding my arms under my bosom like a Les Dawson tribute act.  "I'm having a hysterectomy".  I say, mouthing the word apologetically.

The men fall into two camps; those who look aghast as though I'm suggesting they take a cheese grater to their testicles in sympathy, and those who pull up a chair and talk sympathetically about hot flushes and my menstrual cycle.  I don't know which is worse.

So here I am.  In hospital on Mother's day simultaneously wishing for tomorrow to be over, and wanting it never to arrive.  There are positives of course.  Where else would I be offered legal morphine on tap, a bed to myself and meals on wheels?  Then there's the eight weeks off work at exactly the point where I have copious rewrites to do on my first book.  It really couldn't be better.  Happy Mother's day.