Seriously, how hard can it possibly be to organise a wee jaunt abroad with the kids. Very, it would appear.
We've booked a cheeky wee trip to Disneyland. Or Hell as I will probably refer to it after the trip. It's the one in Paris, no way will you get me to America! Can you imagine me on the flight?! Fuck that. We depart at end of February. We kinda booked it without thinking, spur of the moment. Christmas bonus madness I guess and it was a bloody good deal.
After we booked it I remembered that we are leaving Scotland and are flying into a place that requires us all to have passports. That's ok, 3 of us have them, just Imogen to get. So, I hunt out the 3 passports. No fucking idea where any of them are, organisation is not my strong point.
After emptying various cupboards, filing boxes and drawers, I find 2! Tom's (all fine) and Blaine's. Expired. Wtf?! We've only been abroad with him once, he was 4! Why did he get a passport at the age of 2?! Fucking clowns. So he now needs a passport.
I eventually find my passport, in my purse. No idea why it was there. But it's in date. Good.
First step: get application forms, a very simple process, available by the miserable wifey in local post office. Done.
Step 2: get passport photos. A trip to the photo booth proves unsuccessful as Imogen is too small. So it's a jaunt to the local key cutting place. We trail down, brush the kids hair and get their photos taken. NO SMILING. Smiling is bad. £12 later (£12?!??) and we have the photos. This is easy.
Step 3: fill out form, giving a huge amount of information, all in black ink and don't dare go out of the box! Done!
Step 4: Get someone professional to sign said photos. Oh god. Who do we know that is professional?! I have friends who are teachers, are they really professional? I mean, I've seen them pissed. Professional drinkers maybe! However, it appears we do know a proper professional who is happy to countersign the forms. No idea how he fitted all their names onto the tiny photo, but he did. I never thought about passport photos when I gave my kids 2 middle names....... Job done.
Step 5: get birth certificate for Imogen. Again I hunt the house. I find the abbreviated version, but that's no good. It must be the proper one.
Fuck sake.
I hunt everywhere. I find everyone else's, but not Imogen's. Eventually I admit defeat.
I need a replacement. As I only have 1 day off and we leave in 8 weeks, I need it urgently. So I trail the kids into town, on the bus, and head to the Council office where I can get a duplicate.
I arrive, very calm, and I'm informed there's approximately an hour wait. An hour. With 2 kids and nothing to do. That's ok, we'll be fine.
We take our number "692" and grab a seat. Imogen decides she'd rather be naked and starts taking off her shoes, trousers and socks. Erm..... No. Get dressed!! "681" is called - oh good! Hopefully not long to go. Aha. Ha. Ha.
Imogen and Blaine start doing races. Oh joy. They aren't bothering anyone, so I guess it's ok..... 20 mins later Imogen is tired. "682" is called. Then all hell breaks out. Tantrum city. Imogen has a total meltdown. The first 2 mins are bearable. Then the high-pitched squealing starts. I get her in the buggy and move away from all the folk - they are pissed off, rightly so, who wants to hear a screaming bairn in their lug.
40 mins later. Yes, 40. She falls asleep. She's scratched me, kicked my glasses off, screamed, squealed and generally been a pain in the arse. Folk are annoyed. I'm mortified. Even the junkies look pissed off.
Finally, after 1 hour and 15 mins of waiting we are called! A lovely wifey deals with my request and 5 mins later,and £15 poorer, I have the birth certificate. Yippee!
Off to the post office to get the forms checked and sent away. I get called to "cashier number 7 please" off we pop - I inform the manny what I require and he tells me I need to go to "cashier number 1, that's the passport desk, the guy will be with you soon" off I pop to cashier number 1. Then, I fucking kid you not, the manny arrives. It's the same manny that was "cashier number 7" but he appears to have a different jumper on?! Seriously. I near fall on the floor in some manic meltdown, but I compose myself and remain calm.
He checks my forms and takes all relevant documents. Turns out he knows the professional who counter-signed the forms. Then he robs me of a fucking ridiculous amount of cash and sends me on my way.
Passports done.
Now all they have to do is arrive on time.......
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Thursday, 3 January 2013
Wednesday, 22 August 2012
Weekends away. With The Mothership.
I don't think I've really mentioned my mum in my blogs before, so tonight, my friends, you are getting introduced to her.
My mum is great, she really is, she loves the family and would do anything to help us all out - as mother's do. She's always there for us when we need her and we all love her. But, my God, she drives me fucking insane.
My Dad passed away December 2010 - a horrific time for all, and it still is. So mum is a widow and life without Dad is different and difficult at times. You never really realise how much someone did until they are no longer there.......
Last weekend my lovely cousin got married, we were invited and decided to attend. However, the wedding was in Cornwall - a fair trek from Bonnie Scotland. So the decision was made that we would fly, however flying costs a fucking bomb, so Tom and the kids had to stay at home while I got sent down with mum and brother. SCORE! A night away without the kids! Mum booked the flight tickets - due to work commitments we had to fly down on Saturday, arriving at Newquay 2.5 hours prior to the wedding. Loads of time. Then I had a brain wave - which I will regret for the next 50 years - I would fly from Aberdeen. It made sense, I live here, saves me travelling all the way to Edinburgh spending money on petrol and airport parking. I can get a flight at silly O'clock to Manchester then a flight from Manchester to Newquay, arriving 10 mins after my mum and brothers flight from Edinburgh. Perfect. Mum booked a hire car to pick up from Newquay and we would drive to hotel, get changed, head to wedding. Simple eh?
Aye, well. This is the reality...... please bear in mind I hate flying......
Saturday - I head to Aberdeen Airport. I'm slightly panicked as I'm actually going on a plane - I fucking hate flying, it's not right, if the plane crashes I'm going to die. I get through departures and head to the plane. It's on time. It's fucking tiny. It has propellers. I'm seated next to a man in a camouflage coat - clearly a terrorist. Opposite me is a husband and wife. The husband appears slightly agitated and panicking. A bit like myself. Then the engines start and we get ready to take off. At this point the plane starts making a funny noise - the man opposite me says to his wife "What's that noise?! Why is it making that noise??" He looks at me as I'm now clearly shitting myself "It shouldn't make that noise should it?" he says. "No" I reply - but in my head I'm screaming "WE'RE ALL DOOOOOOOOOMED!" The man then puts his head in his hands, another person who hates flying it would appear. I offer him a sweetie, he refuses. I don't offer any to the terrorist beside me. He's too busy looking at his Nuts magazine. We take off and the funny noise stops. I cling on to my seat for the duration of the flight, occasionally letting go to grab another sweetie.
Anyway, we don't die (obviously) and we land safely at Manchester. Great stuff - on time! WOOHOO! I head to the departure lounge area to get a coffee and wait for next flight, departing at 10:30am. Super. I have an hour to kill. This is easy. Then I check the departure board. It's delayed. Fucking delayed. Departing at 12:05. What. The. Very. Fuck.
I'm now starting to fret as I know I'm going to miss the wedding. That I can cope with. What I can't really cope with is I have to inform my mother of this. She's going to go fucking mental. So I text my brother, he's the sensible one and he can easily work a mobile phone, unlike mum. Their flight is due to depart soon so I need to get a message to them. My brother is very much like my dad, calm in a crisis and will think with a sensible head. My mum on the other hand, doesn't. I text. "FUCK - plane delayed, not departing until 12:05, will miss wedding" My brother replies, very calmly, "It's OK - we'll book you a taxi, you'll still make it" Simple solution. He even texts me the venue address - clever man. He's calm, I'm OK, then he tells mum. Now, I wasn't actually there at this point but, from what I gather it went something like this...
Brother - deep breath "Mum, Nico is going to be late her flight is delayed"
Mum - "WHAT?! WHAT?! OH MY GOD! YOU ARE JOKING!"
Brother - "It's cool, she can get a taxi"
Mum - "I knew she should have travelled with us. FFS. I knew this would be a disaster. The weekend is ruined. She's ruined it. Why would she want to travel from Aberdeen anyway?! I mean, she could have stayed with me last night, all travel together"
Brother - sigh
Mum - "She won't know where she's going?! How can she get a taxi?! She doesn't have a number. The weekend is ruined" etc etc You get the picture.
My brother is a calm person, by this point he's probably got his MP3 player on full blast and is pretending to listen to her rant. They board the flight and take off. Luckily for him they are in separate seats. She orders a snack "HOW MUCH?! I only got 20 crisps in that tub, I'm putting in a complaint!" and so it goes on......
Tom is in Fife visiting some family, so I text him, he starts looking for train and buses I can get. Basically, it's impossible. Taxi is £60. Great, that's my drink money out the window. Then a miracle happens. The flight time is changed, now it's departing at 11:30. Which means we will land just after 12:30. Mum's flight lands at 11:20, by the time she collects her luggage -all 19.5kg of it, for a 3 day trip, plus her hand luggage and hand bag?! What the fuck has she packed - I'm hoping it's loads of vodka. It's not. As it turns out it's 3 cardigans, 3 pairs of trousers, short trousers, skirts, tops, blouses, going out clothes, 4 pairs of shoes etc etc. So, by the time she collects all that and sorts the car hire it'll be about 12:15, she can easy wait 20 mins for me. Fuck - she's even got time to get changed! Great!
So I text my master plan to my brother, knowing they are in flight and he won't get my text until he lands, by which point I'll be in the air.
Sorted. I pop off to the loo and put on my wedding outfit - cos that's how classy I am. So I'm all sorted and all is well.
Flight departs. Then I arrive in Newquay. I walk through to the arrivals to see my brother, sitting looking drained. Head in hands. Music on. Wearing his kilt. He simply shakes his head. No words need to be spoken, I know she's been doin' his head in for the past 3 hours. "How is she?" I ask. "Fuck sake Nico, just get in the car and you can listen to her stress". Great.
We get in the hire car "The car doesn't have a cigarette lighter - so I can't plug in the satnav" Ahhhh I can see she's still stressed out. She's changed into her wedding gear, so that's a bonus - no need to go to the hotel. We can head straight to wedding. My brother starts hunting about - "Found it" he announces. When mum is stressed she can't see anything that's in front of her face. He plugs in the satnav and then reality dawns. My dad isn't here. My dad, the navigator. Fuck.
Dad was in the army, 4RTR, a tankie for many years. He's amazing at map reading and navigating, a skill that, sadly, he never passed on to myself or my brother. My mum has never needed to navigate as dad always directed her here, there and everywhere. So here we are, in Cornwall, having to get to a tiny village the locals have never even heard of. Totally relying on SatNav. If this goes wrong, we are screwed.
We plug in the postcode. It finds our location and off we pop. Mum gets in full nagging swing "I KNEW you should have travelled with us", "We're going to be late", "I had to get changed in the toilet!! The TOILET!", "People in Cornwall are so slow and laid back - can they not see I'm in a hurry, FFS, I booked the car hire on line so it would be quicker" and so it went on. My brother has obviously heard this a thousand times and is staring blankly into space. I consider opening the Pimms.
We're making good time, satnav telling us it's only 30 mins away, mum decides we should go to the hotel first so she can "freshened up". "Why? You're all ready" note to self - never question mum when she's stressed, it only leads to more stress. The satnav is instructed to take us to the hotel. It shouts out "Take the next exit on the left" Which we do. Then it said that wonderful word that you never want to hear on satnav...... "Recalculating" FFS. We're on the wrong road. Mum - "What?! Why is it recalculating!! We're lost!" Brother - "Calm down, it's fine" eventually we get to the hotel, time is now tight, we only have 30 mins to get to the wedding. According to Satnav it's 10 mins away.
We enter the hotel to check in, but check in isn't until 2pm and our rooms aren't ready. At this point I seriously thought mum was going to crumple in a heap. My brother just rolls his eyes and tells me to get back in the car, mum heads to another toilet so she can "freshen up". One is not amused.
We get back in the car and head to the wedding. The satnav decides to take us over a field. Fucking great. It's like a farm track, single track road. Mum is driving like a rally driver, 2nd gear, revs at 5000, oblivious to anyone and anything. One mission in her mind - to get to the wedding on time. And we do. With 10 mins to spare would you believe!
The wedding is beautiful, the bride looked amazing and everyone was happy! Joy! Now we have to get to the Reception venue. Another tiny village. Here's my plan - follow someone who knows where they are going! Perfect. But mum thinks there's no need "we have the instructions! I can get us there" Fuck. She ends up being miles away from the car I was going to follow anyway, so she pulls in. We are lost. We think. We might not be. We don't have a clue. So we decide to do what I suggested in the first place. We follow another car that is going to the reception. Sorted.
We arrive, I crack open the Pimms and my brother cracks open the cider. Ahhhhhhh...... now we can relax....... Mum? She's trying to relax by drinking some wine, until she's informed she's driving later so can't drink much........"I've only had one or two......it's only 1% anyway!!" No, mum, no it's not.....
Another Pimms anyone?
My mum is great, she really is, she loves the family and would do anything to help us all out - as mother's do. She's always there for us when we need her and we all love her. But, my God, she drives me fucking insane.
My Dad passed away December 2010 - a horrific time for all, and it still is. So mum is a widow and life without Dad is different and difficult at times. You never really realise how much someone did until they are no longer there.......
Last weekend my lovely cousin got married, we were invited and decided to attend. However, the wedding was in Cornwall - a fair trek from Bonnie Scotland. So the decision was made that we would fly, however flying costs a fucking bomb, so Tom and the kids had to stay at home while I got sent down with mum and brother. SCORE! A night away without the kids! Mum booked the flight tickets - due to work commitments we had to fly down on Saturday, arriving at Newquay 2.5 hours prior to the wedding. Loads of time. Then I had a brain wave - which I will regret for the next 50 years - I would fly from Aberdeen. It made sense, I live here, saves me travelling all the way to Edinburgh spending money on petrol and airport parking. I can get a flight at silly O'clock to Manchester then a flight from Manchester to Newquay, arriving 10 mins after my mum and brothers flight from Edinburgh. Perfect. Mum booked a hire car to pick up from Newquay and we would drive to hotel, get changed, head to wedding. Simple eh?
Aye, well. This is the reality...... please bear in mind I hate flying......
Saturday - I head to Aberdeen Airport. I'm slightly panicked as I'm actually going on a plane - I fucking hate flying, it's not right, if the plane crashes I'm going to die. I get through departures and head to the plane. It's on time. It's fucking tiny. It has propellers. I'm seated next to a man in a camouflage coat - clearly a terrorist. Opposite me is a husband and wife. The husband appears slightly agitated and panicking. A bit like myself. Then the engines start and we get ready to take off. At this point the plane starts making a funny noise - the man opposite me says to his wife "What's that noise?! Why is it making that noise??" He looks at me as I'm now clearly shitting myself "It shouldn't make that noise should it?" he says. "No" I reply - but in my head I'm screaming "WE'RE ALL DOOOOOOOOOMED!" The man then puts his head in his hands, another person who hates flying it would appear. I offer him a sweetie, he refuses. I don't offer any to the terrorist beside me. He's too busy looking at his Nuts magazine. We take off and the funny noise stops. I cling on to my seat for the duration of the flight, occasionally letting go to grab another sweetie.
Anyway, we don't die (obviously) and we land safely at Manchester. Great stuff - on time! WOOHOO! I head to the departure lounge area to get a coffee and wait for next flight, departing at 10:30am. Super. I have an hour to kill. This is easy. Then I check the departure board. It's delayed. Fucking delayed. Departing at 12:05. What. The. Very. Fuck.
I'm now starting to fret as I know I'm going to miss the wedding. That I can cope with. What I can't really cope with is I have to inform my mother of this. She's going to go fucking mental. So I text my brother, he's the sensible one and he can easily work a mobile phone, unlike mum. Their flight is due to depart soon so I need to get a message to them. My brother is very much like my dad, calm in a crisis and will think with a sensible head. My mum on the other hand, doesn't. I text. "FUCK - plane delayed, not departing until 12:05, will miss wedding" My brother replies, very calmly, "It's OK - we'll book you a taxi, you'll still make it" Simple solution. He even texts me the venue address - clever man. He's calm, I'm OK, then he tells mum. Now, I wasn't actually there at this point but, from what I gather it went something like this...
Brother - deep breath "Mum, Nico is going to be late her flight is delayed"
Mum - "WHAT?! WHAT?! OH MY GOD! YOU ARE JOKING!"
Brother - "It's cool, she can get a taxi"
Mum - "I knew she should have travelled with us. FFS. I knew this would be a disaster. The weekend is ruined. She's ruined it. Why would she want to travel from Aberdeen anyway?! I mean, she could have stayed with me last night, all travel together"
Brother - sigh
Mum - "She won't know where she's going?! How can she get a taxi?! She doesn't have a number. The weekend is ruined" etc etc You get the picture.
My brother is a calm person, by this point he's probably got his MP3 player on full blast and is pretending to listen to her rant. They board the flight and take off. Luckily for him they are in separate seats. She orders a snack "HOW MUCH?! I only got 20 crisps in that tub, I'm putting in a complaint!" and so it goes on......
Tom is in Fife visiting some family, so I text him, he starts looking for train and buses I can get. Basically, it's impossible. Taxi is £60. Great, that's my drink money out the window. Then a miracle happens. The flight time is changed, now it's departing at 11:30. Which means we will land just after 12:30. Mum's flight lands at 11:20, by the time she collects her luggage -all 19.5kg of it, for a 3 day trip, plus her hand luggage and hand bag?! What the fuck has she packed - I'm hoping it's loads of vodka. It's not. As it turns out it's 3 cardigans, 3 pairs of trousers, short trousers, skirts, tops, blouses, going out clothes, 4 pairs of shoes etc etc. So, by the time she collects all that and sorts the car hire it'll be about 12:15, she can easy wait 20 mins for me. Fuck - she's even got time to get changed! Great!
So I text my master plan to my brother, knowing they are in flight and he won't get my text until he lands, by which point I'll be in the air.
Sorted. I pop off to the loo and put on my wedding outfit - cos that's how classy I am. So I'm all sorted and all is well.
Flight departs. Then I arrive in Newquay. I walk through to the arrivals to see my brother, sitting looking drained. Head in hands. Music on. Wearing his kilt. He simply shakes his head. No words need to be spoken, I know she's been doin' his head in for the past 3 hours. "How is she?" I ask. "Fuck sake Nico, just get in the car and you can listen to her stress". Great.
We get in the hire car "The car doesn't have a cigarette lighter - so I can't plug in the satnav" Ahhhh I can see she's still stressed out. She's changed into her wedding gear, so that's a bonus - no need to go to the hotel. We can head straight to wedding. My brother starts hunting about - "Found it" he announces. When mum is stressed she can't see anything that's in front of her face. He plugs in the satnav and then reality dawns. My dad isn't here. My dad, the navigator. Fuck.
Dad was in the army, 4RTR, a tankie for many years. He's amazing at map reading and navigating, a skill that, sadly, he never passed on to myself or my brother. My mum has never needed to navigate as dad always directed her here, there and everywhere. So here we are, in Cornwall, having to get to a tiny village the locals have never even heard of. Totally relying on SatNav. If this goes wrong, we are screwed.
We plug in the postcode. It finds our location and off we pop. Mum gets in full nagging swing "I KNEW you should have travelled with us", "We're going to be late", "I had to get changed in the toilet!! The TOILET!", "People in Cornwall are so slow and laid back - can they not see I'm in a hurry, FFS, I booked the car hire on line so it would be quicker" and so it went on. My brother has obviously heard this a thousand times and is staring blankly into space. I consider opening the Pimms.
We're making good time, satnav telling us it's only 30 mins away, mum decides we should go to the hotel first so she can "freshened up". "Why? You're all ready" note to self - never question mum when she's stressed, it only leads to more stress. The satnav is instructed to take us to the hotel. It shouts out "Take the next exit on the left" Which we do. Then it said that wonderful word that you never want to hear on satnav...... "Recalculating" FFS. We're on the wrong road. Mum - "What?! Why is it recalculating!! We're lost!" Brother - "Calm down, it's fine" eventually we get to the hotel, time is now tight, we only have 30 mins to get to the wedding. According to Satnav it's 10 mins away.
We enter the hotel to check in, but check in isn't until 2pm and our rooms aren't ready. At this point I seriously thought mum was going to crumple in a heap. My brother just rolls his eyes and tells me to get back in the car, mum heads to another toilet so she can "freshen up". One is not amused.
We get back in the car and head to the wedding. The satnav decides to take us over a field. Fucking great. It's like a farm track, single track road. Mum is driving like a rally driver, 2nd gear, revs at 5000, oblivious to anyone and anything. One mission in her mind - to get to the wedding on time. And we do. With 10 mins to spare would you believe!
The wedding is beautiful, the bride looked amazing and everyone was happy! Joy! Now we have to get to the Reception venue. Another tiny village. Here's my plan - follow someone who knows where they are going! Perfect. But mum thinks there's no need "we have the instructions! I can get us there" Fuck. She ends up being miles away from the car I was going to follow anyway, so she pulls in. We are lost. We think. We might not be. We don't have a clue. So we decide to do what I suggested in the first place. We follow another car that is going to the reception. Sorted.
We arrive, I crack open the Pimms and my brother cracks open the cider. Ahhhhhhh...... now we can relax....... Mum? She's trying to relax by drinking some wine, until she's informed she's driving later so can't drink much........"I've only had one or two......it's only 1% anyway!!" No, mum, no it's not.....
Another Pimms anyone?
Wednesday, 15 August 2012
Blaine has a birthday party. Mummy has a breakdown.
Blaine turned the grand age of 7 in July. 7. How he's not put me in some loony bin by now is beyond me, but here we are - 7 years on and I'm still learning every single day at being a great mum. Or not.
He decides he wants to have a party. Well, it won't be fucking happening in my house! The kids, the mess, the noise, the mess, the organisation, the mess, the stress. No way. I learnt this lesson on his 1st Birthday - that was hell. Tom decided to power wash the fucking patio an hour before the party kicked off, I'm in the kitchen attempting to make party food (sausages on sticks, crisps in bowls) and trying to keep Blaine clean and stop him from eating all the food. It was a very stressful occasion and one I vowed never to repeat again.
So, it's been soft play, some arty farty thing, tubing at the ski centre etc etc This year he wants a party at Pizza Hut. Yes, that high class kids eating establishment. Sounds easy enough. "BOYS only - I HATE girls!" that's his instructions. We invite all the boys in his class who aren't actually away on holiday. 8 in total. 8 boys. 7 year olds. In Pizza Hut. How hard can this be?!
My friends kinda gasp when I tell them my wonderful plans for Blaine's party. "You're fucking joking?!" is the normal response from those who know me well, "Och, it'll be fine, 8 boys, all eating pizza - wtf can seriously go wrong" Famous last words.
We arrive at Pizza Hut. Some of the boys are already there, they appear to be a tad excited, but they'll chill out once they are seated. Yep, all going fine.
We are shown to our table - it's at the very end of the restaurant, the wifey informs me I can sit in the booth adjacent to the table, so I can have some of my own space. Great stuff - I even get to sit in peace! HURRAH! Then the first problem occurs...... the boys all want to sit next to certain people. Just sit the fuck down. Does it really matter where people sit?! Apparently, yes. Eventually they sit down. Well, when I say sit it's more like they are on springs. 7 year olds can't sit still.
Then the waitress appears to take the drinks order. I'm assuming the little darlings will order water or apple juice. No. Do they fuck. "COKE! COKE! COKE!" Ermmm....wtf?! COKE?!?!? Hold on. Wait one. I ask the boys "Coke?! Are you all allowed coke? What about apple juice?" Blaine probably died of embarrassment at this point. "YES WE CAN HAVE COKE!" They all shout back. 7 year olds can't speak quietly. They can only shout. So the waitress goes off to get all the drinks. I even allow Blaine to have fizzy juice too.
The drinks arrive and they act as if they are dying of thirst and guzzle it down "MORE! MORE!" erm..... OK, it is unlimited I guess........
The waitress then gives them crayons and colouring books "THAT'S FOR BABIES" they holler. So they decided instead of drawing with the crayons they would catapult them across the restaurant using their forks. Genius idea. Then another decides that his juice isn't for drinking, oh no, it's for spraying all over people. Through a straw.
At this point I call the waitress over "Hello. Yes, do you sell Valium? Or vodka? Straight?" the wifey just laughs and informs me she'll be bringing the pizza bases over for the boys to make their pizzas with. Oh good, this will distract them.
The bases arrive, along with all the stuff to put on them. One by one the little animals are ordered up to the table to create their pizzas. One of them calls his "The Volcano" as he's piled it high with crap. Another is "The Mountain" again because it's piled high with crap. And so it goes on. The waitress brings over more and more toppings as it wold appear these kids have never eaten anything in their life. Or so you would think.
The pizzas go away in the oven and then more chaos erupts. "Let's wrestle!" one decides. Wrestle?! Where the fuck do they think they are? "NO! SIT DOWN" but they are past the stage of listening to anything I have to say, hyper on coke, and being 7 year olds, they will do exactly what the very fuck they want. And wrestling it is.
The pizzas arrive. No one has died in the wrestling. I can get through this. Then a miracle happens. They sit down. They eat. They are even a bit quieter. Hurrah.
After pizza they get a pudding. Unlimited ice-cream, with toppings. Lots and lots of toppings. For those of you who have never endured the hell of Pizza Hut let me enlighten you - the toppings aren't fruit, sprinkles or wafers. Oh no, don't be ridiculous. The toppings are Smarties, Jelly Tots and Chocolate Buttons. Followed by lashings of high sugar sauce. Seriously - who the fuck decided this was a good idea? They are hyper on coke, now they are going to be filled with even more sugar thanks to all the bloody Smarties they are piling onto their ice-cream. My advice of "That's enough sweeties boys" falls on deaf ears. "AHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA MORE MORE!" They are possessed - making more "mountains" out of ice-cream and sweets.
They devour their ice-cream, then go up for more, then one decides to tip all of his on the floor. Then one finds a (clean) dog poo bag in his pocket and they all start squabbling over who can wear it on their heads. It's a fucking dog poo bag. Stop arguing. Sit down. Be quiet. Nope, they are not listening.
And then the parents start to appear! Praise the Lord and all that is holy - it's the end of the party, the chaos is over. They are getting collected to go home. "Have they been good?" the parents ask. My reply....."Of course! Not a problem, such lovely boys!"
I pay, I leave. I go home and crack open the vodka.
Next year he wants to go to the cinema with his friends. Tom can take them.
He decides he wants to have a party. Well, it won't be fucking happening in my house! The kids, the mess, the noise, the mess, the organisation, the mess, the stress. No way. I learnt this lesson on his 1st Birthday - that was hell. Tom decided to power wash the fucking patio an hour before the party kicked off, I'm in the kitchen attempting to make party food (sausages on sticks, crisps in bowls) and trying to keep Blaine clean and stop him from eating all the food. It was a very stressful occasion and one I vowed never to repeat again.
So, it's been soft play, some arty farty thing, tubing at the ski centre etc etc This year he wants a party at Pizza Hut. Yes, that high class kids eating establishment. Sounds easy enough. "BOYS only - I HATE girls!" that's his instructions. We invite all the boys in his class who aren't actually away on holiday. 8 in total. 8 boys. 7 year olds. In Pizza Hut. How hard can this be?!
My friends kinda gasp when I tell them my wonderful plans for Blaine's party. "You're fucking joking?!" is the normal response from those who know me well, "Och, it'll be fine, 8 boys, all eating pizza - wtf can seriously go wrong" Famous last words.
We arrive at Pizza Hut. Some of the boys are already there, they appear to be a tad excited, but they'll chill out once they are seated. Yep, all going fine.
We are shown to our table - it's at the very end of the restaurant, the wifey informs me I can sit in the booth adjacent to the table, so I can have some of my own space. Great stuff - I even get to sit in peace! HURRAH! Then the first problem occurs...... the boys all want to sit next to certain people. Just sit the fuck down. Does it really matter where people sit?! Apparently, yes. Eventually they sit down. Well, when I say sit it's more like they are on springs. 7 year olds can't sit still.
Then the waitress appears to take the drinks order. I'm assuming the little darlings will order water or apple juice. No. Do they fuck. "COKE! COKE! COKE!" Ermmm....wtf?! COKE?!?!? Hold on. Wait one. I ask the boys "Coke?! Are you all allowed coke? What about apple juice?" Blaine probably died of embarrassment at this point. "YES WE CAN HAVE COKE!" They all shout back. 7 year olds can't speak quietly. They can only shout. So the waitress goes off to get all the drinks. I even allow Blaine to have fizzy juice too.
The drinks arrive and they act as if they are dying of thirst and guzzle it down "MORE! MORE!" erm..... OK, it is unlimited I guess........
The waitress then gives them crayons and colouring books "THAT'S FOR BABIES" they holler. So they decided instead of drawing with the crayons they would catapult them across the restaurant using their forks. Genius idea. Then another decides that his juice isn't for drinking, oh no, it's for spraying all over people. Through a straw.
At this point I call the waitress over "Hello. Yes, do you sell Valium? Or vodka? Straight?" the wifey just laughs and informs me she'll be bringing the pizza bases over for the boys to make their pizzas with. Oh good, this will distract them.
The bases arrive, along with all the stuff to put on them. One by one the little animals are ordered up to the table to create their pizzas. One of them calls his "The Volcano" as he's piled it high with crap. Another is "The Mountain" again because it's piled high with crap. And so it goes on. The waitress brings over more and more toppings as it wold appear these kids have never eaten anything in their life. Or so you would think.
The pizzas go away in the oven and then more chaos erupts. "Let's wrestle!" one decides. Wrestle?! Where the fuck do they think they are? "NO! SIT DOWN" but they are past the stage of listening to anything I have to say, hyper on coke, and being 7 year olds, they will do exactly what the very fuck they want. And wrestling it is.
The pizzas arrive. No one has died in the wrestling. I can get through this. Then a miracle happens. They sit down. They eat. They are even a bit quieter. Hurrah.
After pizza they get a pudding. Unlimited ice-cream, with toppings. Lots and lots of toppings. For those of you who have never endured the hell of Pizza Hut let me enlighten you - the toppings aren't fruit, sprinkles or wafers. Oh no, don't be ridiculous. The toppings are Smarties, Jelly Tots and Chocolate Buttons. Followed by lashings of high sugar sauce. Seriously - who the fuck decided this was a good idea? They are hyper on coke, now they are going to be filled with even more sugar thanks to all the bloody Smarties they are piling onto their ice-cream. My advice of "That's enough sweeties boys" falls on deaf ears. "AHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA MORE MORE!" They are possessed - making more "mountains" out of ice-cream and sweets.
They devour their ice-cream, then go up for more, then one decides to tip all of his on the floor. Then one finds a (clean) dog poo bag in his pocket and they all start squabbling over who can wear it on their heads. It's a fucking dog poo bag. Stop arguing. Sit down. Be quiet. Nope, they are not listening.
And then the parents start to appear! Praise the Lord and all that is holy - it's the end of the party, the chaos is over. They are getting collected to go home. "Have they been good?" the parents ask. My reply....."Of course! Not a problem, such lovely boys!"
I pay, I leave. I go home and crack open the vodka.
Next year he wants to go to the cinema with his friends. Tom can take them.
Wednesday, 12 October 2011
Tom is left home alone......
Before I begin I would like to remind you all that Tom is my husband. Not one of my children. He is 36 years old (I'm sure he won't mind me telling you all that......)
Last Friday I departed Aberdeen with the kids and went to visit my mum. Tom had to stay in Aberdeen for brass-band commitments (don't get me started) so he was left home alone. For one night. How bad could it be?!
I left the house at approximately 18:15, the place was a tad untidy - which is not unusual - and Tom was practically pushing us out the door with glee. He had band to get to, so we had to get away so he had time to get ready (lie on sofa and do fuck all in other words) I drove for 3 hours to get to mum's - dealing with 2 delightful children. Blaine decided this drive would be a good one to question me about God. Not a topic I'm all that great on but I tried my best to answer his question, which included the following:
Fast forward to Saturday morning.
I receive a phone call from Tom at approximately 9am on Saturday morning. Tom is a tad excited as he thinks he can see a dead person from the bedroom window. Yes, you did read that right. Dead. The back of our house overlooks a small wooded area, people use it walk their dogs, short cut to other areas etc. Tom has woken up, opened the curtains and while taking in the view (God I hope he wasn't naked) he has spied a man lying on the ground outside. So Tom is told to get dressed and go help the poor man.
Tom got dressed and rushed outside and bumped into our neighbour Joe - old geezer - Tom fills Joe in about the body in the woods and Joe, helpfully, runs back into his house to look out of his bedroom window to keep an eye on Tom. Tom goes to this body on the ground and, using all his medical knowledge, gives the bloke a kick. Nothing happens. Tom can see he is breathing so decides to use more of his medical knowledge - so he kicks him harder and shouts "YOU ALRIGHT MATE?" This stirs the man from his sleep and he wakens up - to see Tom towering over him and kicking him. It's a youth - drunk from a party the night before, his hands are blue. Tom helps him up and asks him "Where you going?" the youth replies "Danestone, I was at a party and on my way home". "Oh right, you better get home and get a hot bath and something hot in you - your hands are blue" That's Tom's wonderful medical advice. With that the youth wanders off.
Tom is now running late for band so, in a mad panic, rushes home to get ready. Then he spies something. Something that Tom hates. A spider. A big, scary spider. So big he can hear it breathing as it scuttles past - laughing at Tom and flicking him the v's on all legs. Tom now turns into a big girl's blouse. I'm the one who has to deal with any spider invasions - but Tom is home alone and he needs to get rid of the spider incase it crawls into his ear or mouth one night when he's asleep or something ridiculous.
So Operation Kill Spider commences. Tom decides the best way to get rid of this enormous beast is to use the glass technique then flick it in the toilet. The glass technique is very simple. Place glass over spider. Slide paper under glass, lift and put spider safely outside. Or down toilet. Tom finds a HUGE glass as the spider was massive apparently, puts it over the spider and slides the paper under the glass. So far, so good. Then he very carefully lifts it up and carries it over to the toilet. Now, it's at this point I get slightly confused as to what happened. It would appear that the spider decided that today was not his day to die, and started to try and escape from the glass - Tom freaked out as it was moving and (squealing like a girl no doubt) started to panic madly and rush to flick the big scary spider out of the glass into the toilet. Which he did. But while doing so he dropped the glass and it broke. In the toilet.
Now any normal human being would do the sensible thing and remove the glass from the toilet - you know, just to make sure it doesn't block the toilet. But, no, Tom is not normal. The spider is in the toilet bowl, giving Tom evils and refusing to die. Because of this Tom could not put his hand in the toilet and pick out the glass. Oh no, instead Tom flushes the toilet to get rid of the spider. HA! That showed the spider - DIE DIE DIE! And, indeed, the spider does die. But now the toilet is blocked.
What does Tom do? Nothing. That's right, sweet fuck all. He fucks off to band and leaves the house like a bomb site, the toilet blocked and some poor block staggering around Aberdeen with hypothermia and bruise marks on his legs where he's been kicked.
And that was a day in the life of Tom, my husband, aged 36.
Is it any fucking wonder I drink vodka?
Last Friday I departed Aberdeen with the kids and went to visit my mum. Tom had to stay in Aberdeen for brass-band commitments (don't get me started) so he was left home alone. For one night. How bad could it be?!
I left the house at approximately 18:15, the place was a tad untidy - which is not unusual - and Tom was practically pushing us out the door with glee. He had band to get to, so we had to get away so he had time to get ready (lie on sofa and do fuck all in other words) I drove for 3 hours to get to mum's - dealing with 2 delightful children. Blaine decided this drive would be a good one to question me about God. Not a topic I'm all that great on but I tried my best to answer his question, which included the following:
- "Mummy, how do you know when God is speaking to you?" Me - "erm.... you hear it in your head and heart, but no-one else hears what he's saying" Blaine "Does he whisper very quietly?" Me - "yes"
- "Mummy, Jonah was sent on a trip by God. Where did he have to go?" Me - "erm...Bethlehem?" Blaine "NO MUMMY! THAT'S WRONG!" Me "erm.... Jerusalem? Nazareth?" both wrong too apparently. To this day I still don't know where Jonah had to go - so if anyone can help then please let me know!
- "Mummy, God makes it rain doesn't he? I mean, he made it rain lots so Jonah got eaten up by a whale!!! Will a whale eat me if it rains?" Me "Well, no, God doesn't make the rain. It's all to do with the ocean and clouds and stuff. Science stuff. Ask daddy"
- "Why does Jesus have 2 daddies but not 2 mummies?" Me "erm...well, God is the Father of everyone I suppose. Joseph was who Jesus called Dad, I think." Blaine "Did God pick up Jesus from school" Me "No, that was probably Mary as Joseph would have been working and God didn't live with them" Blaine "why did Mary not work? Was she lazy? You work mummy, was Mary not a boss like you?" Me "No, Mary was not a boss, play your DS now Blaine"
Fast forward to Saturday morning.
I receive a phone call from Tom at approximately 9am on Saturday morning. Tom is a tad excited as he thinks he can see a dead person from the bedroom window. Yes, you did read that right. Dead. The back of our house overlooks a small wooded area, people use it walk their dogs, short cut to other areas etc. Tom has woken up, opened the curtains and while taking in the view (God I hope he wasn't naked) he has spied a man lying on the ground outside. So Tom is told to get dressed and go help the poor man.
Tom got dressed and rushed outside and bumped into our neighbour Joe - old geezer - Tom fills Joe in about the body in the woods and Joe, helpfully, runs back into his house to look out of his bedroom window to keep an eye on Tom. Tom goes to this body on the ground and, using all his medical knowledge, gives the bloke a kick. Nothing happens. Tom can see he is breathing so decides to use more of his medical knowledge - so he kicks him harder and shouts "YOU ALRIGHT MATE?" This stirs the man from his sleep and he wakens up - to see Tom towering over him and kicking him. It's a youth - drunk from a party the night before, his hands are blue. Tom helps him up and asks him "Where you going?" the youth replies "Danestone, I was at a party and on my way home". "Oh right, you better get home and get a hot bath and something hot in you - your hands are blue" That's Tom's wonderful medical advice. With that the youth wanders off.
Tom is now running late for band so, in a mad panic, rushes home to get ready. Then he spies something. Something that Tom hates. A spider. A big, scary spider. So big he can hear it breathing as it scuttles past - laughing at Tom and flicking him the v's on all legs. Tom now turns into a big girl's blouse. I'm the one who has to deal with any spider invasions - but Tom is home alone and he needs to get rid of the spider incase it crawls into his ear or mouth one night when he's asleep or something ridiculous.
So Operation Kill Spider commences. Tom decides the best way to get rid of this enormous beast is to use the glass technique then flick it in the toilet. The glass technique is very simple. Place glass over spider. Slide paper under glass, lift and put spider safely outside. Or down toilet. Tom finds a HUGE glass as the spider was massive apparently, puts it over the spider and slides the paper under the glass. So far, so good. Then he very carefully lifts it up and carries it over to the toilet. Now, it's at this point I get slightly confused as to what happened. It would appear that the spider decided that today was not his day to die, and started to try and escape from the glass - Tom freaked out as it was moving and (squealing like a girl no doubt) started to panic madly and rush to flick the big scary spider out of the glass into the toilet. Which he did. But while doing so he dropped the glass and it broke. In the toilet.
Now any normal human being would do the sensible thing and remove the glass from the toilet - you know, just to make sure it doesn't block the toilet. But, no, Tom is not normal. The spider is in the toilet bowl, giving Tom evils and refusing to die. Because of this Tom could not put his hand in the toilet and pick out the glass. Oh no, instead Tom flushes the toilet to get rid of the spider. HA! That showed the spider - DIE DIE DIE! And, indeed, the spider does die. But now the toilet is blocked.
What does Tom do? Nothing. That's right, sweet fuck all. He fucks off to band and leaves the house like a bomb site, the toilet blocked and some poor block staggering around Aberdeen with hypothermia and bruise marks on his legs where he's been kicked.
And that was a day in the life of Tom, my husband, aged 36.
Is it any fucking wonder I drink vodka?
Thursday, 29 September 2011
A trip to the photographers......
As a mother you have this kinda duty to ensure you have heaps of photos of your little darlings growing up and doing loads of fun filled things. It's nice to look back on and think "Fuck me, I'm surprised I've not had a breakdown"
Then you get the "professional" photos done. Blaine had his done at school - which went well, no picking of the nose, no sullen face, which is huge progress from last years disaster where he just looked miserable and told the photographer to "Go away" as he hates getting his photo taken. Nice child.
The Mum and Baby group that I go to had a Professional Photographer come along to take photos of the little cherubs - siblings were more than welcome. I thought it would be a wonderful idea to have a charming picture of Blaine and Imogen together. My mum had requested that they wore outfits that complemented each other and matched.... a hard task when Blaine won't wear a dress...... In my head my 2 delightful children would sit and happily smile and laugh at each other - dressed to perfection and behaving like angles.
The reality is, as always, something slightly different. Prior to getting the photos taken I inform Blaine of what is about to happen, he has a tantrum. "I HATE getting my picture taken. I'm NOT going it. I HATE it. I HATE YOUUUUUUU!!" Great - wonderful. This starts Imogen off on one of her mini rants towards her brother. So, 2 crying children and I need to get Blaine in his outfit. Of course he refuses point blank to wear anything remotely smart, but eventually he's dressed in jeans and a shirt and we walk up to the centre to get the pictures taken.
We are ushered into the room where a family are currently having their photos done - they are lovely, perfect smiling children, sitting nicely, smiling away and following instructions. Blaine is standing beside me sulking as I attempt to tidy his hair "Don't touch me" he hisses.
Then it's our shot. Blaine flings off his coat, socks and shoes and plonks himself down on the white paper thing. Imogen is placed beside him and then I move away. At this point Imogen freaks out as I have moved one millimetre away from her and starts greeting. Blaine starts moaning "Imogen, stop it" the woman is attempting to restore some sort of normality by using children's TV characters to capture Imogen's attention. Blaine gets all huffy as it's all "BABYISH - I HATE IGGLE PIGGLE HE'S A BABY!!" and Imogen cries even more and is frantically attempting to get away from the camera lens and back to the security of me. Blaine then resorts to rolling his eyes and picking his nose.
After a few attempts the photographer gives up. Luckily it was free. Blaine gets himself ready then has a strop about nothing.
The week later we got the photos - not bad, I think she captured one when Imogen was paused between screams, so she just looks grumpy and not actually screaming. I refrain from purchasing any.
The following week I receive a letter home from Imogen's nursery. A Photographer is coming to the nursery and we have a place booked at 16:45 so Blaine can come along too. Groan. This time I'm much more prepared....
In the morning I tell Blaine that after school he is coming home to get changed into nice clothes and he is getting his photos taken. "NO, I HATE IT" is the response. "Oh dear, that's a wee shame" I reply "I was going to get you something nice if you were good" ....... Blaine processes this information, he's good at haggling so I know he'll try for anything. "What's that then mummy?" he asks all innocently, "I dunno, depends how good you are" "Oh I'll be super good if I get a new DS game" Hmmmm the stakes are high for this one. I need to wangle him down from a DS game to something more realistic and affordable. Pay day is tomorrow. I'm skint. "OK Blaine. If you want a DS game you have to be very good and collect 20 things in your reward jar. That's the rule for DS games. For today, IF you are VERY good, you can get a mouse for the laptop" Blaine is rather excited about this and the promise of a new mouse goes down well.
To explain Blaines reward jar - every time he does one of his "Star Jobs" without a tantrum he gets a wee thing in his jar (paperclip normally) - once he gets 20 he gets a reward. He has NEVER achieved 20 yet. This is how good his behaviour is. Sigh. His Star Jobs aren't anything dramatic like "clean all the windows in the house"; "climb Mount Everest" no, no - it's things like "Get washed every day nicely with no tantrum"; "Get dressed every day nicely with no tantrum" "Eat meals NICELY with no distractions and NO tantrums" You can see the focus on tantrums here...... It's all a bit like SuperNanny.
After school he came home and got changed - even wore a tie! Imogen is in her nice outfit, with matching hair band, and off we pop to nursery. This time it is slightly more successful. We last about 5/10 mins before Imogen starts going mental, she wasn't the most enthusiastic person in the world but she tolerated it. The photographer used feathers for her to play with and I think she may have caught her slightly smiling once. Or maybe she farted. Who knows.
Blaine got his computer mouse. Imogen got a biscuit. It all ended well and not one tantrum. Until it was time for homework.....
Then you get the "professional" photos done. Blaine had his done at school - which went well, no picking of the nose, no sullen face, which is huge progress from last years disaster where he just looked miserable and told the photographer to "Go away" as he hates getting his photo taken. Nice child.
The Mum and Baby group that I go to had a Professional Photographer come along to take photos of the little cherubs - siblings were more than welcome. I thought it would be a wonderful idea to have a charming picture of Blaine and Imogen together. My mum had requested that they wore outfits that complemented each other and matched.... a hard task when Blaine won't wear a dress...... In my head my 2 delightful children would sit and happily smile and laugh at each other - dressed to perfection and behaving like angles.
The reality is, as always, something slightly different. Prior to getting the photos taken I inform Blaine of what is about to happen, he has a tantrum. "I HATE getting my picture taken. I'm NOT going it. I HATE it. I HATE YOUUUUUUU!!" Great - wonderful. This starts Imogen off on one of her mini rants towards her brother. So, 2 crying children and I need to get Blaine in his outfit. Of course he refuses point blank to wear anything remotely smart, but eventually he's dressed in jeans and a shirt and we walk up to the centre to get the pictures taken.
We are ushered into the room where a family are currently having their photos done - they are lovely, perfect smiling children, sitting nicely, smiling away and following instructions. Blaine is standing beside me sulking as I attempt to tidy his hair "Don't touch me" he hisses.
Then it's our shot. Blaine flings off his coat, socks and shoes and plonks himself down on the white paper thing. Imogen is placed beside him and then I move away. At this point Imogen freaks out as I have moved one millimetre away from her and starts greeting. Blaine starts moaning "Imogen, stop it" the woman is attempting to restore some sort of normality by using children's TV characters to capture Imogen's attention. Blaine gets all huffy as it's all "BABYISH - I HATE IGGLE PIGGLE HE'S A BABY!!" and Imogen cries even more and is frantically attempting to get away from the camera lens and back to the security of me. Blaine then resorts to rolling his eyes and picking his nose.
After a few attempts the photographer gives up. Luckily it was free. Blaine gets himself ready then has a strop about nothing.
The week later we got the photos - not bad, I think she captured one when Imogen was paused between screams, so she just looks grumpy and not actually screaming. I refrain from purchasing any.
The following week I receive a letter home from Imogen's nursery. A Photographer is coming to the nursery and we have a place booked at 16:45 so Blaine can come along too. Groan. This time I'm much more prepared....
In the morning I tell Blaine that after school he is coming home to get changed into nice clothes and he is getting his photos taken. "NO, I HATE IT" is the response. "Oh dear, that's a wee shame" I reply "I was going to get you something nice if you were good" ....... Blaine processes this information, he's good at haggling so I know he'll try for anything. "What's that then mummy?" he asks all innocently, "I dunno, depends how good you are" "Oh I'll be super good if I get a new DS game" Hmmmm the stakes are high for this one. I need to wangle him down from a DS game to something more realistic and affordable. Pay day is tomorrow. I'm skint. "OK Blaine. If you want a DS game you have to be very good and collect 20 things in your reward jar. That's the rule for DS games. For today, IF you are VERY good, you can get a mouse for the laptop" Blaine is rather excited about this and the promise of a new mouse goes down well.
To explain Blaines reward jar - every time he does one of his "Star Jobs" without a tantrum he gets a wee thing in his jar (paperclip normally) - once he gets 20 he gets a reward. He has NEVER achieved 20 yet. This is how good his behaviour is. Sigh. His Star Jobs aren't anything dramatic like "clean all the windows in the house"; "climb Mount Everest" no, no - it's things like "Get washed every day nicely with no tantrum"; "Get dressed every day nicely with no tantrum" "Eat meals NICELY with no distractions and NO tantrums" You can see the focus on tantrums here...... It's all a bit like SuperNanny.
After school he came home and got changed - even wore a tie! Imogen is in her nice outfit, with matching hair band, and off we pop to nursery. This time it is slightly more successful. We last about 5/10 mins before Imogen starts going mental, she wasn't the most enthusiastic person in the world but she tolerated it. The photographer used feathers for her to play with and I think she may have caught her slightly smiling once. Or maybe she farted. Who knows.
Blaine got his computer mouse. Imogen got a biscuit. It all ended well and not one tantrum. Until it was time for homework.....
Wednesday, 28 September 2011
Homework. AKA Blaine's teacher is a maniac!
Blaine entered the world of P2 in August. Hurrah! He was flung back to school at great speed as soon as the bloody holidays were over and he soon settled back into his old routine. That routine being something like this: Up at 7am, tantrum over breakfast as he's not allowed cake/biscuits/crisps, finally get him to eat a bowl of Rice Krispies. 7:45am tantrum over getting washed and dressed as he hates his school uniform. 8:15am tantrum over what to have for play piece and lunch. 8:40am tantrum over getting shoes and coat on. 8:45am leave house and walk to school. While he's having all these hissy fits I'm also trying to get Imogen ready for nursery, do her bottles, and get myself organised for work. It's a bit mental. At 8:50 I leave him at school gates, head into work make strong coffee and relax.....
So he's been back for a good few weeks now, and he has a new teacher! She's a probationer. Groan. They all have to start somewhere I suppose and, for some mental reason, the headteacher of Blaine's school have decided that she'll get flung straight in at the deep end and have a class of hyper active 6 year olds who would rather wrestle than read. She's a young lady, at the moment she doesn't look like she's turned into an alcoholic or had a mental breakdown. I'm sure this will come. She's also far too enthusiastic and obviously has far too much time on her hands to do marking as she's suddenly turned into a homework slave.
This is what Blaine has to do in a week. Mon-Thurs.
So tonight it went like this. Bearing in mind I get home at 5:30pm due to bastard work.
5:30 - Blaine needs a drink. This is the start of the distraction techniques. He has millions of these. He then needs a pee. Then he wants tea.
6pm - tantrum over teatime due to the food being hot or something. Eventually calms down to eat it.
6:30pm - tantrum over getting the TV turned off as he needs to do homework.
6:45pm - I put Imogen to bed, Tom in shower. Blaine takes this opportunity to fuck off outside to play with his friends. Grrrrr..... homework still not started.
7pm - Blaine brought back in and told he has to do homework
7:20pm - tantrum over. Bargaining begins - "If you do your homework you can get 5 mins on the DS" Blaine - "I want 10 mins on DS"; me "No, 5 or nothing" Blaine "FINE! I HATE YOU!" Good, good. Sigh. I contemplate cracking open the vodka, however I'm on call for work so can't even do this......
7:25pm - Blaine decides he'll do Education City. Which he completes with ease, but I get distracted by a phone call and while doing so he's managed to access the Lego website and is playing some shooting game when I return from the call.
7:30 - time to turn off PC and go to bed. No tanturm, but instead he plays deaf. I end up turning the computer off for him and he goes to bed.
So, this week we have managed to complete the maths sheet and Education City. The project is due in next Friday, so that can wait. The Common Nouns need done by tomorrow. So I can see exactly what's going to happen tomorrow morning. Luckily my on-call ends at 7am, so I can quite happily have a splash of vodka over my Special K.
Oh - and it's parent's night tomorrow night. I'm sure that will be enlightening. Best stock up on the voddy.
So he's been back for a good few weeks now, and he has a new teacher! She's a probationer. Groan. They all have to start somewhere I suppose and, for some mental reason, the headteacher of Blaine's school have decided that she'll get flung straight in at the deep end and have a class of hyper active 6 year olds who would rather wrestle than read. She's a young lady, at the moment she doesn't look like she's turned into an alcoholic or had a mental breakdown. I'm sure this will come. She's also far too enthusiastic and obviously has far too much time on her hands to do marking as she's suddenly turned into a homework slave.
This is what Blaine has to do in a week. Mon-Thurs.
- Reading book. His reading is coming on great so he actually loves this. Sometimes 2 books a week.
- Education City - online homework stuff, again he loves it as it's on the computer and easy.
- Spelling - 10 words that he has to learn to spell by Friday as they get tested on it every Friday.
- Sentences - he has to write 3 sentences which incorporate the spelling words
- Maths sheet - this week is subtraction, moving onto fractions soon?!
- Jolly Grammar - trust me, it's far from Jolly. This week he is learning the -ar sound and focusing on Common Nouns. He has a worksheet to complete.
- Research Homework (to be fair this is a 2 week project) researching jobs that people do at sea. Make a poster to show the class and present it to them next week.
So tonight it went like this. Bearing in mind I get home at 5:30pm due to bastard work.
5:30 - Blaine needs a drink. This is the start of the distraction techniques. He has millions of these. He then needs a pee. Then he wants tea.
6pm - tantrum over teatime due to the food being hot or something. Eventually calms down to eat it.
6:30pm - tantrum over getting the TV turned off as he needs to do homework.
6:45pm - I put Imogen to bed, Tom in shower. Blaine takes this opportunity to fuck off outside to play with his friends. Grrrrr..... homework still not started.
7pm - Blaine brought back in and told he has to do homework
7:20pm - tantrum over. Bargaining begins - "If you do your homework you can get 5 mins on the DS" Blaine - "I want 10 mins on DS"; me "No, 5 or nothing" Blaine "FINE! I HATE YOU!" Good, good. Sigh. I contemplate cracking open the vodka, however I'm on call for work so can't even do this......
7:25pm - Blaine decides he'll do Education City. Which he completes with ease, but I get distracted by a phone call and while doing so he's managed to access the Lego website and is playing some shooting game when I return from the call.
7:30 - time to turn off PC and go to bed. No tanturm, but instead he plays deaf. I end up turning the computer off for him and he goes to bed.
So, this week we have managed to complete the maths sheet and Education City. The project is due in next Friday, so that can wait. The Common Nouns need done by tomorrow. So I can see exactly what's going to happen tomorrow morning. Luckily my on-call ends at 7am, so I can quite happily have a splash of vodka over my Special K.
Oh - and it's parent's night tomorrow night. I'm sure that will be enlightening. Best stock up on the voddy.
Sunday, 14 August 2011
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