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:

1. "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"
2. "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!
3. "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"
4. "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"

And so it went on.... Tom, on the other hand, was having a great child-free time at band practice.

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?

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.....

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.

1. Reading book.  His reading is coming on great so he actually loves this.  Sometimes 2 books a week.
2. Education City - online homework stuff, again he loves it as it's on the computer and easy.
3. Spelling - 10 words that he has to learn to spell by Friday as they get tested on it every Friday.
4. Sentences - he has to write 3 sentences which incorporate the spelling words
5. Maths sheet - this week is subtraction, moving onto fractions soon?!
6. 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.
7. 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.

According to his Homework Contract (yes, they have a signed contract and everything now!) He has to do 20 mins every night.

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.

Silent Sunday

How To Survive The School Holidays.

I blogged at the beginning of July about the school holidays, well it's nearly time to go back......

On Tuesday Blaine will be returning to school after a mammoth 44 days off.  44 days of pure hell.  Who decided that a nice big break during the "summer" would be a good idea?!  Obviously not someone who works that's for sure.  Working full-time and having to organise summer child-care is a pain in the arse.  Living in a place with no family nearby who can help out is also a pain in the arse.  School holidays are a pain in the arse.

They started fine, well except from the pissing on neighbours wall incident.  I had the first 2 weeks off to "entertain" Blaine.  Imogen was still in nursery, it was decided that this would be best as we don't want her being out of her routine.  HA!  What a load of bollocks.  The truth is I wanted to try and get some peace from at least one of them. 

Entertaining Blaine is an expense.  I did consider remortgaging the house after the first couple of days activities - Soft Play, Science Museum, Lunch out  - it was all getting a bit of an expense.  So I looked at a much cheaper alternative - the park and those fab vouchers from Asda that give your kids free sports sessions.  Sorted.

Then the good old Scottish summer weather started - rain, cold, wind.  Braw.  How to make the holidays even more horrific - provide weather so I can't boot his bum outside.  Now he's inside and is bored.  "I'm booooored" he wails.  I offer a variety of things to do "play the DS; watch a DVD; play in your room; tidy your room; pain/draw;" but he doesn't want to do anything. He hates it all and he is bored.  I'm considering selling him.  Some days I did consider opening the wine at 8am.

We did have a couple of nice wee jaunts away.  Remember Haven?  Well we also had a few days in a lovely log cabin in Perth, Tom stayed up here to work and mum came along to help out with the kids. I ended the week with a night out so I could get bladdered - it was therapeutic.

When working full-time the school holidays are an almighty pain in the arse.  Holiday Clubs were booked, I took 3 weeks off in total, Tom took 1 (?! - how is that fair!?) so our childcare bill rocketed.  One day I spent £90 on childcare just so I could go to work - what was the fucking point. £90!? I bet Super Nanny is cheaper.

So here's my top tips for surviving the school holidays:

1. Save up.  About £5k should cover the amount of shit you have to buy to keep your little darlings entertained.
2. Stock up.  On wine/vodka/gin.  It will help.
3. Give up work for 6 weeks - I'm sure all your employers will accept this. Ha fucking ha. Or become a teacher.
4. Hire a nanny/cleaner/cook - much needed unless you want to have a breakdown.

But we have survived.  Next year I will be sending him away to his Gran's for a month, she doesn't know this yet but I'm sure it will be fine.......

I cannot wait until Tuesday morning, he will be at the school gates bright and early.  Blaine isn't as excited as I am.  I have no idea why.  When anyone asks him "Are you looking forward to going back to school?" I reply, with extreme excitement "Ohhhhhh yes!  I can't wait!!" Blaine, on the other hand, mutters something like "no" but I ignore that.  He will be going back and he will enjoy it.

Now I have to plan for the October Holidays.  Sigh.

Kid's Birthday Parties. Pass the vodka.

Blaine turned 6 recently - woohoo and all that - an exciting day for him.  I can't believe he's been on this world for 6 years and that he's not put me in some kind of mental institution.  Surely this is even more of a reason to celebrate!? Every year we organise a party to make this fine occasion.  

For his 1st birthday party we had a small, quiet "do" at home and I swore I would never do it again.  Ever.  It was just horrific.  The house had to get tidied before people arrived, why I do not know as the place was trashed when they left. Tom even power washed the patio before the family arrived, so it would look nice.  Balloons and banners were carefully stuck to the walls and garden fence.  I spent the morning cooking, cleaning and attempting to keep Blaine clean.  A small buffet was put on, complete with HUGE Mr Men cake proclaiming "I AM 1" and the family came over, played a few games, spoiled Blaine rotten, destroyed my house and left.  Leaving me cleaning up food from walls, putting copious amounts of paper in the bin and eating left over cold pizza.  I think I consumed a good bottle of wine once a hyper Blaine was finally in bed. 

I'm not a mum who can organise fab parties at home, I don't have the room, the patience or the desire.  I would rather stick pins in my eyes.  It's just a fucking nightmare.  Screeching children, breaking things, spilling drinks, squashing random crap into the carpets and terrorising the cats.  No thank you.  The aftermath is even worse, it takes approximately a week to recover - finding squashed pizza and crisps in random places, the cats are admitted to the local Vet Hospital with stress and my wage is spent on vodka to recover.

It was after this small party that we made the decision that all future parties would not be held at home.  Never ever again.  So all his subsequent parties have been in soft play or some other similar establishment.  They go there, run about like loons, get hyper, get fed, play a game, eat and go home.  All I have to do is turn up, watch, then go home and open the wine - leaving the place look like a riot has just happened, but its OK as it's not my problem.

This year Blaine decided he wanted to go Tubing for his birthday.  For those not acquainted with "Tubing" I will explain.  Basically it's held at a ski slope (dry ski slope in out case) and the kids haul a big rubber ring to the top of a bendy slope, sit on it and get flung down. I sit and watch. Easy peasy.  So we book and send out all the invites.  10 boys.  10 hyper boys.  How much fun will this be? Loads for the kids, none for me.

The day dawned, Blaine was hyper.  It was a lovely sunny day in Aberdeen, we head to the ski centre with our long sleeved top, trousers and gloves - perfect summer attire.   The boys all arrive.  They get a helmet plonked on them. Then they decide that wrestling on the grass is much more exciting than tubing. The instructor looks on in dismay as the boys jump on each other, screaming, shouting - it was at this point I really wish I'd brought some vodka with me.

Eventually we round them up and they go off to the slope to do some Tubing. Up and down they flee - shouting, screaming, basically making a lot of noise.  Some dad's had a shot too - including Tom, I was a tad worried he might have some kinda heart attack climbing the steps with the heavy rubber ring, but then I remembered I'm covered by Life Insurance - so stopped worrying and encouraged his "exercise". 

An hour later and they are all exhausted, so it's time for food.  Into the party room we go.  I'm stupidly thinking these 10 little boys will be exhausted, so meal time should be fine.  How wrong was I.  10 boys sitting round one table - it was like a Chimpanzee Tea Party.  Complaints of "I don't want sandwiches, I just want sweeties" and "I don't like ham, I want cheese" started buzzing round the room.  Crisps started getting flung about, then they started running around a tiny room.  Sigh.  I decided to play a couple of games "Pass The Parcel"  - a very easy game to play.  Getting 10 boys to sit on their arse on a chair is not so easy.  After a lot of bribery the wee gits lovely children are all seated and the game begins.  But they decide they don't want to "Pass" any parcel, instead they are flinging it about like it's a bomb.  A change of rules enters - if they don't touch it they are put out.  This makes them pass it in a more normal fashion and the game commences.  The prize is a Whoopee Cushion - I'm sure the boys mother was thrilled as she watched in horror as the boys jumped up and down on the cushion and pissed themselves laughing as they "farted".  Yes, hysterical for a 6 year old I'm sure.  Irritating for an adult.

After the game the cake arrives, they "sing" Happy Birthday - well I say sing, it more a shouty, screeching noise. The candle is blown out and party bags are handed out.  It's now time to leave.  I usher the little darlings out rather quickly.  The quicker I get them out the quicker I can get home and crack open the wine.

The boys all declared they had a great time and are now pestering their parents to hold their party in the same place.  I'm sure the parents are really thrilled with this idea after having just witnessed the hell of hyper 6 year olds.

Next year he's going to the cinema with 1 friend.  His dad can take them. I will celebrate his birthday at home.  With my friend Mr Vodka.

London Baby!

This month Tom and I celebrated our 7 year anniversary.  7 loooong years.  My wedding day was up there as one of the best days of my life so far, I loved it.  I planned the damn thing over 2 years, turned into a total Bridezilla - freaked out at the venue as they didn't have white table cloths, just dusky pink - who has dusky pink?! Not me - so I paid a stupid amount of money for white ones so they would "match" my colour scheme.  Everything was planned to the very last tiny detail and it all went like clockwork - well, except my heel falling off my shoe, but at that point I didn't really care.

7 years down the line and here we are.  Married, 2 kids, working, mortgage....all very dull, boring, mundane shit.  Plodding along.  We don't speak much now- after 7 years you kinda have fuck all to talk about unless it's to do with the kids, money or what to watch on TV.  In fact we spend more time arguing than we do talking (or nagging as I'm sure Tom will call it) Life just ticks along. 

We normally do something "nice" for our anniversary - a wee treat to celebrate not fucking murdering each other or ending up in court filing for Divorce.  Well done us! We normally book a hotel, child free, have a few drinks, maybe a wee spa session, nice meal and all that crap.  I love a spa break, it means I get time on my own, away from Tom for a couple of hours while I have a massage.  Gives us something to talk about later.

This year Tom decided to book me a "surprise" for our anniversary.  I don't "do" surprises very well, I like to be in control and know every minute detail so I can perfect my fake "wow this is great!" look.  I gave Tom a few things I wanted for my anniversary, they were as follows:

1. Spa Hotel
2. Close to home (for child reasons)
3. Must be able to have a long lie

That was it.  My top 3 requests.  Tom decided not to listen to this and booked our weekend away.  He seemed rather excited by it all, until I started asking numerous questions and he began to get a bit fidgity.  "Have you booked me any spa treatments?"; "It's not too far away is it?"; "I can't wait for a long lie"  His wee face kinda changed from happy to "Ohhh shit.  She's going to go mental"  Eventually, after me nipping his head for a few days, Tom caved in and told me what he had planned for our weekend away. 

Now I'm going to sound very ungrateful and selfish - that's because, quite frankly, I am. It's all me, me, me around here.

Tom had booked us a night away in London.  London.  I fucking hate the place (apologies to all you Londoners out there) and it's hundreds of miles away.  Poor Imogen is being deserted by her mummy.  Lets hope I don't need to get home quickly. How are we getting there?  Flying.  I fucking hate flying.  It terrifies me.  Either the plane will blow up in the air, or it'll crash on water and I'll drown, a seagull will get sucked into the plane and will explode.  My "panic list" is endless. So far, not so good.  Then he dropped the bombshell of flight times.  Departing wasn't to bad, I'm up at the crack of dawn with the kids anyway, we had to check in by 8am.  Coming home we also had be at check in by 9am.  Check in at Luton.  We were staying at Picadilly.  That's a very early start - so no long lie. OK- so not my idea of a romantic weekend away, clutching at straws I ask him about the hotel.  It's  3* twin room.  3*!? Twin Room!?! What the very fuck.  I don't think so.  After looking up numerous reviews on Trip Advisor I make the decision to change the hotel, the reviews were awful "tiny rooms!"; "Don't stay here - it's hell!"; "You'll get no sleep it's so noisy" Great.  Just bloody wonderful. Then I'm informed that we're off to see a show on the Saturday night Les Miserables, which I love - so that's good.  Oh - did I mention the tickets were "restircted view" and in the Upper Circle.  Yes, restricted view. Sigh. And I hate heights - the last time I was in the Upper Circle I nearly fainted.  Oh well.

A wee phone call is made to the  booking operator to make a few changes.  I tell my tale of woe to the lovely man on the other end of the phone who appears to sympathise with my situation.  I moan about the shit hotel, twin room, 3*, no spa.  The tickets are shit.  So he upgrades me to a lovely 4* spa hotel at no extra cost, it's also situated at Kings Cross, which means I get an extra 15 mins in bed or something.  Sadly no change to the tickets but he assures me we will still see the stage, I'm not in front of a big pillar and I'll enjoy it.  I just need to get over my fear of heights.

The day of departure arrives and Tom has been up since 1am spewing his load.  Great.  It would appear Tom has a tummy bug.  Poor Tom.  A quick dash to Tesco for Imodium should see him right.  We get to the airport and check in.  We head to departures - Tom heads to the toilet and stays there until we need to board.  We're nearly the last ones on and Tom is really sick and has horrific bum wee. I'm also shitting it as I hate flying.  I'm convinced the man behind me is a terrorist and we're sitting at the wing, not good.  I close the blind so I can't see - but the grumpy air-hostess tells me to open it for take off.  Gah.  Tom is sitting holding his head in his hands.  My heart rate is going mental, panic, panic and then we take off.  "PING!" off goes the seatbelt sign and Tom rushes to the toilet, leaving me alone with Mr Terrorist.

The flight passes without any dramas, and we land safely in London. Once we collect our wee weekend bag it was a mad dash to the bus, then a mad dash to the train, then a taxi to the hotel.  Everything in London is a mad dash.  Not a place for dithering, it's all rush, rush, rush.  We check into the hotel to dump our stuff and for Tom to dump some other stuff..... then Tom insists that he's ok to take me on the tube to Oxford Street, I want to go to Selfridges to look at some posh bag I want and also to check that they don't just sell fridges.  Boom boom.

We wander down to the tube and attempt to work out exactly what tickets we need. It's heaving, we buy 2 ridiculously expensive tickets and head to the tube.  I also hate the tube. It's hot, dirty, sweaty and has more weirdo's in it than Aberdeen - and that's a lot of weirdo's.  We get off and head to Selfridges, Tom starting to really flag now.  We arrive and Tom disappears to the loo, leaving me to hunt down my posh bag.  Which I do, but disappointment looms when it's not the one I want, it's the wrong leather print.  Oh well.  We grab lunch and decide to head back to the hotel so Tom can sleep.  What a fucking waste of a day.

Tom crashed out at the hotel and I dithered about getting ready.  We meet one of our relatives for a wee drink in the bar - one vodka and coke, one brandy and coke.  Not doubles, £16 please.  What. The. Fuck.  £16?! Ridiculous.  Then we head to the show - Tom now slightly more perky.

The show was amazing.  The seats were not as bad as I imagined, I just stayed glue'd to my seat.  Please, do go and see it, Les Miserables is fab!  Once it was over Tom thought he shold be able to stomach some food, so we headed to Pizza Hut and got a couple of pasta dishes.  Tomorrow we would discover that this was a bad idea. 

After a short sleep we're up to get the train.  We arrive at the train station to find all trains to Luton are cancelled, immediatly I'm thinking there's a bomb at the airport and panic starts to set in.  Buses have been put on to transport us all.  Tom hates buses, they make him sick.  You couldn't make it up. We try to calculate the time it will take to get there on the bus, we should make it on time.  A taxi will cost, apparently £80, which I refuse to pay.  So bus it is.

We arrive on time, check-in, get brekkie and head to departures.  Well, I do - Tom disappears into the toilet.  And this is where he stays until we have 15 mins to get on the plane.  Last night's lasagne was a bad idea.  It's a 10 min walk to the departure gate and no toilets available en route. On dear.  But we make it without Tom having any erm....problems... and get on the plane.  The flight goes fine and we land in Aberdeen, exhausted and looking forward to getting home. 

The car has been kept in the Long-Stay car park.  When we collect it we have a lovely discovery.  It would appear Tom hasn't been the only one with the shits this weekend.  Bastard Aberdeen seagulls have taken a shine to my car and crapped all over it.  I'm too exhausted to rage.  I just get in and drive home and pray the kids don't have the shits either. 

Next year I think I'll be planning our Anniversary weekend.  That's if we make it to 8 years.......

Meal Times

Meal times in my household have become a bit of a drama recently.  Nope, in fact, not recently.  They have always been a bloody drama.  4 people live in the house, 4 people and 2 fat furry things.  How hard can it possibly be to feed 4 people an evening meal.  Impossible in this house it would appear.  Now, I'm no Gordon Ramsey in the kitchen, chucking stuff in an oven is about as adventurous as I get.  I have a slow cooker that I do love and do use, but with limitations. If I had time I would love to cook up great feasts - but it would probably cause a drama as a stray carrot would land on Blaine's plate (he will eat carrots - but only if thinly sliced and cut in circles, yes this is how fussy he is)

Let's start with Tom.  Tom is the fussiest person on the planet.  Here is a list of what Tom will eat:

Veggies - potatoes, onions, peas
Fruit - Apples (only Granny Smith and must not be cooked) fresh orange juice and occasionally a banana
Fish - Tuna (tinned) will eat scampi, won't eat prawns.  Figure that one out. Nothing else.
Meat - Steak, venison, chicken, corned beef (can we call that meat?!)
Other - pasta, meat paste, cheese, ham, chips, a variety of frozen shite, pizza and sometimes an omelette.

There was a time when we used to go to Tom's grandparents house every Sunday for lunch, it was great.  I remember very vividly on one particular Sunday that Tom was loading up his plate with what he thought was chips.  I sat gobsmacked as Tom piled on the "chips" along with his steak pie and peas.  He bit into a "chip" and nearly spewed.  It wasn't a chip, it was a parsnip.  I nearly pissed myself laughing. I think that was the first and last time he had ever tried a parsnip. 

Blaine is very similar to Tom - fling in super noodles, blueberries, hummus to the above list and you get the drift. 

Imogen is only 8 months - she'll try anything, but favourites include - potatoes, peas, spaghetti, mango, papaya, porridge, neep. 

Me - well, I'm a fat greedy git, I eat anything (except kidney beans - they give me the boak) but will give anything a bash - within reason.  I wouldn't eat eye-balls or anything like that.

I do a meal planner for the week most weeks, this not only saves money but it also should save time.  If Tom and Blaine had their was it would be the following:

Monday - Macaroni
Tuesday - Steak pie, chips, peas
Wednesday - Pizza, chips, beans
Thursday - Spaghetti Bolognaise (NO BITS!)
Friday - Chippy
Saturday - Waflles, beans and some frozen food crap - probably scampi
Sunday - Chilli Con Carni (No bits) Blaine would have Super Noodles

So meal-times can be a very stressful affair.  Lets look at last night. I made a wee Spaghetti Carbonara - something simple.  But I put mushrooms in it. Well, it might aswell have been poison.  Blaine refused to eat it as he doesn't like mushrooms or chicken. Or spaghetti.  He then had a hissy fit as he wanted hummus for his tea and nothing else.  Tom also had a hissy because of the mushrooms, he inspects everything that is put in front of him - incase any stray veggie has made it to his plate.  I'm not allowed to cook with things Tom doesn't like.  He gets a bit pissed off.  So he spent his time picking out every single mushroom before tasting it (I had cut them big enough for him to find easily) Imogen decided that she wasn't keen on spaghetti anymore, so I had to make her mashed potato with peas.  So 4 people and 3 different meals, Blaine eventually had toast.

Tonight was a similar affair - gammon steak, potatoes and beans.  Tom went mental as apparently it would take "too long to cook fucking potatoes, chuck something in the oven"  Blaine also went mental "I HATE potatoes, I want sausages!"  I don't have sausages.  He was given a choice of waffles - he didn't want that either, toast?! nope, beans - nope.  Fine then - nothing for Blaine.  I chose to ignore Toms complaints about gammon and potatoes being a crap tea and carried on making the potatoes.  At least I know Imogen will eat them.  Or maybe not - tonight Imogen decides she doesn't need to eat anything and screams the place down when offered her potatoes with broccoli and chicken thing, she's exhausted, nothing pleasing her, so I pull out the peaches, porridge and yoghurt's.  She eats all that.  Result.  Again 4 people and a total drama.  Give. Me. Strength.  In fact, no - give me VODKA!

Then there was the time I made a Lasagne - but I used a different sauce, it had chunky "bits" in it.  Tom put his in the bin without even tasting it.  Blaine refused to touch his.  What a total waste of time, money and effort.  Of course that went down well, as you can imagine. 

I do sometimes wonder why I bother.  If I had my way we'd eat what I wanted - they could all starve. The only time I get to eat something that I would like is when out at a restaurant and we can't afford to do that every night of the week, sadly.

At Christmas time Tom and Blaine had a different menu to myself and my mum.  We had the whole turkey and trimmings.  Tom wanted a Turkey Leg Roast (a la - Bernard Matthews) with peas and potatoes.  Pate and oatcakes for starters and Vienetta for pudding.  Mum and I had a selection of food for starters, main and pudding - well, it was Christmas - if you can't pig out then when can you!?  He also complained about the amount of food that was purchased, his moaning about this went on for days.  Fucking days.  He complained the amount that was cooked, the amount that was left over, the amount in the fridge, the amount it cost etc etc.

Tomorrow on the menu is mince and tatties.  It was going to be Bolognaise, but Tom went mental as I was going to use tinned tomatoes to make the sauce as we have no Bolognaise sauce that he likes.  So I guess I better not do that then or it'll be another meal in the bin.  Fuck sake.

Maybe one day I will hire a chef.  Pass me the voddy.

Holiday from hell. Part Two.

Last night I gave you a wee blogabout my chavtastic holiday last year, just to prepare you for tonight's installment.  Off we go then.....

This year money was super tight.  Being on maternity pay sucked, how people are expected to live off a measly £124 per week is mental, I was nearly forced to sell Tom or send him down the docks to bring some cash in.  Instead we collected those vouchers from the paper - get 10 vouchers and you to can have a Holiday from Hell for only £9.50 per person.  Well, £9.50 plus money for entertainment passes, linen, upgrades, cot hire etc etc So the total bill was more like £130 - but it's still a bargain.  I dutifully collected the vouchers every day, filled out the form with my top 5 choices and top 5 dates and kept everything crossed that we got somewhere.  And we did!  It was choice number 5 on my list, gah.  But a cheap holiday nonetheless - so can't really grumble. 

Friday morning we loaded up the car with a whole pile of shit, basically the same as in this blog but now I also had Tom's stuff to squeeze in.  That was OK - all he needed was his swim trunks, pants, t-shirt and car keys.  I had my list of usual essentials - straighteners, knickers, vodka, iPhone and charger.  That is all I need for a weekend away.  We said goodbye to the cats, handed our keys to our cat-sitter and off we popped. 

The drive to our holiday destination started well with some arse-hole practically doing an emergency stop for no fucking reason on the dualer - good job we have new tyres and brakes.  We survived that drama - Tom shouting blue murder and the total idiot in the car and my hopes of a nice relaxing nap well and truly shattered. 

We arrived at our destination after about 3 hours of driving.  Imogen was grumping as she'd had enough of being strapped into a car seat.  We drove into the holiday park and then Tom nearly drove over a chav.  A teenage chav at that.  One of these youths who thinks they don't need to look when crossing the road, maybe it's uncool nowadays not to look - far more cooler to be splatted by a car.  Tom was ever so slightly annoyed at this young person walking in front of the car, so decided to stop and remind the young man that he better look when crossing the road.  I think the words he used were "Next time I won't bloody stop" ahhhh.... welcome to our holiday.

We were slightly early for checking in, so went for a wander and some grub.  More over-priced microwave meals, but Imogen enjoyed her macaroni and Blaine, well he was far more interested in the switchies and seeing how much money he can con out of us.  Eventually we checked in.  The caravan was nice, in a quiet location (this time we scored lucky with a quieter park) appeared clean.  Imogen's cot hadn't appeared, but we had been informed it was on it's way. Great!  So far, so good.

We booked Blaine in for all his activities that he wanted to do (more bloody expense) and got chips for tea.  I unpacked and was raging to find out that the vodka hadn't actually made it into the car, Tom had left it in Aberdeen for some insane reason. Great. He would regret this I'm sure.  Then we went out to a show. Imogen's cot still hadn't appeared but, again, we were assured it was on it's way - they were just very busy. 

After the show - DJ Ned, how appropriate - we came back to the caravan to get the kids settled for bed.  Well we would have done if Imogen actually had a bed to sleep in.  Oh yes, no cot.  RAGE.  So Blaine eventually settled in his bed and Imogen had to co-sleep with me while Tom attempted to squeeze his large frame into a single bed.  I say "single" it's more like 3/4 size.  Definitely a bed for a child, not an adult.  Imogen decided that sleeping like a star fish was the way forward and sprawled herself out in our double bed (well, not really a double - a big single more like) so I was dangling on the edge, everytime I moved she complained - so not much sleep was had.  I was up with Imogen at the crack of dawn (caravans don't appear to have black-out blinds, tut) and wandered about the caravan still half asleep.  Eventually Tom woke up and started complaining he was "tired".  At this point I could have killed him but refrained.

I had a nice morning planned - top of the list was a trip to Guest Services to enquire as to the whereabouts of Imogen's cot.  After a sleepless night I wasn't in any mood for some bollocks.  Off I popped.  Some poor wee lassie was on the desk of Guest Services, there was a few folk in front of me with their complaints - moaning about how unclean their caravan was or how cold etc  Then I came to the desk.  Ahhh this poor wee girl, what a shite job she has, my heart almost softened at the sight of her being driven demented by the demanding public.  Almost. "Good Morning" she said.  "Yes, morning indeed" I decided that was enough of the niceness so continued  "I had ordered a cot for my 8 month old daughter.  I phoned here 5 times yesterday to find out where it was, my husband even came down once to speak to someone about it. I was assured it was on its way.  Guess what?  It never appeared"  Silence. In fact the whole room went silent.  Some random wifey standing next to me did that whole sucking in of breath between teeth thing and said "oh dear, that's not good"  No.  No it's not.  The wee lassie behind the desk scuttled away to make a phone call.  She arrived back full of apologies and they are a  bit confused as they are sure the cot was delivered.  But, fear not, a manager is on his way now to my caravan with my cot and also my DVD player (which was missing from the caravan - probably stolen) so I can speak to him about it.

So I head back to the caravan and wait on this manager to appear.  And appear he did, with cot and DVD player in hand.  He's a bit bemused as to how the cot wasn't delivered, but we can rest assured that whoever didn't deliver it will be getting a bollocking.  Great!  He then attempted to fit the DVD player - on doing so he managed to break the TV cabinet (leg fell off).  So another man was called who could fix that.  He appeared with a hammer in hand, knocked off the remaining 3 legs and declared that it "looks much better without legs anyway" and off he popped.  Ahhhh....DIY Tom style.  Great.

The rest of the weekend went smoothly, no more attempted killing of chavs, Imogen refused to sleep in her cot so it was a weekend of co-sleeping, Tom got fed up and wanted to lie on the sofa all day watching crap TV, Blaine just wanted to bleed us dry of all our cash in the slot machines.  On one machine you could even win a Sovvy Ring.  Quality.

So this year it was a better holiday.  Nicer park, quieter location, an "older" clientele - no groups of youths getting pished and looking for some ladies to "entertain". 

We left on Monday and drove home, all exhausted.  Blaine pipes up "Mummy, are you working tomorrow?"  "No" I reply "I'm off all week"  Blaine shows great excitement "Oh great Mummy!  We can come back tomorrow then - can you book it when you get home"  Hmmm.... let me think. No.

Holidays from Hell. Part one.

Family holidays - you see the adverts on the TV, kids having fun, parents looking all chilled out, loads of fun-filled activities for the family to enjoy and at a bargain price. Perfect.  Blaine is an avid viewer of kids TV - where they hammer home these said holidays.  Last year he went on and on and on about going on holiday - staying in a caravan, going to kids clubs, he went on about it so much that in the end his Papa booked us a family holiday for Blaine's birthday (my dad would do anything for his grandkids, just to see them happy) he got a "good deal" and off we popped.

Let's now look at the reality of these "perfect" holidays.....

The caravan was a top of the range thingy, it even had heating in the bedrooms - see, this is how posh we are. 3 bedrooms, one en-suite, kitchen and open plan living room - sounds lovely.  A home from home.  Yeeesss, that is if you live in a box.  By looking at the website it shows loads of kids having fun, loads of activities for the lovely, well-behaved children to enjoy, delicious meals served in their clean and welcoming restaurant/pub things and luxury caravans.  Sounds good eh?

Last year this is what happened.  We arrived at midday, greeted at the door by a bunch of chavs who had a staffie bull-terrier type of beast on a lead with a muzzle on (I suppose I can be grateful that it had a muzzle on) The chavs were all smoking, swearing, spitting - usual chavvy behaviour, wearing their Rangers/Celtic tops and a variety of sports gear - mainly tracksuits and, of course, the Sovvy Rings. Nice.  Fucking great.  Just so you know - I don't consider myself as posh by any standards, but compared to this lot I'm like the fucking Queen. 

We check in and the lassie at the desk shows us how to get to our luxury caravan.  I have requested a caravan in a quiet area of the park.  She kinda laughed and looked at me as if I was totally mental.  I didn't think it was too much to ask..... but I soon realised that there's no such thing as a "quiet area" in these establishments. 

Our caravan is situated next to the Karting Track.  Great.  From 10am-6pm I hear music blaring and the sounds of go-karts zipping past the caravan.  There is also a walkway beside the caravan which the local piss-heads use to stagger to and from the pub at all hours of day and night. 

So we unpack and decide to make the most of it - Blaine is hyper, he thinks this place is amazing.  To be fair the pool was great - loads for Blaine to do, lots of opportunity to drown some chavs and it was even clean.  Perfect.  So that's where we spent the majority of the holiday.  Tom and I were deranged by the end of Friday, we were exhausted, Blaine was hyper - all the flashing lights, loud noise, thousands of other screaming hyper kids made Blaine turn into some sort of Ferrel animal.  Great.  Stressed out our heads and I couldn't even turn to wine or vodka to help me out as I was preggy.  Bed-time was erm...fun....in the end I think we gave up and just let him jump about until he had worn himself out so much he crashed out - normally after we'd crashed out ourselves. 

The food was horrific.  Like proper minging.  We had also booked Half Board.  It was in some kinda canteen type place, the food was just slopped onto your plate, the staff were the most unhelpful bunch - it was basically like being back at school, they even had lumpy custard.  But, again, Blaine loved it - scoffing up the greasy chips, even going back for seconds.....

On the Saturday evening we decided we would sample the evening entertainment.  We had our "tea" and headed up to the entertainment complex.  Being preggy and suffering badly with PGP I wasn't the fastest thing on my crutches, hobbling about, which gave us time to enjoy the scenery.  Tom suddenly became quite disturbed and started nudging me "pppppsssssttt.....look at that....look at THAT"  "What?" I ask   "over there....that old wifey on the wall, look, look"  So I look.  And I wish I hadn't.  There, sitting on the wall was this wifey - possibly about 50 (but probably about 30, chavs age fast) with horrific bleached blond hair - dark at the roots, yellow blond, not the thinnest of folk, smoking a fag, squawking at her bairns "Britney, get the fuck down fae that wa' and leave that fucking bairn alone, pass me ma fags - fuck sake" - stereotypical chav -  and then I saw it.  She had a tight white vest top on and a tiny demin skirt.  Sitting on the wall.  Short skirt.  Legs akimbo,  and no knickers.  I saw what this wifey had for breakkie and it wasn't nice.  Trust me.  And that's basically the type of clientelle this certain caravan park had on offer.  To fit in I was going to have to remove my knickers- not an easy task when preggy, bending is a problem.  So I decided to keep them on, it will also keep me warmer at night - as the caravans are baltic.

The evening entertainment was more ridiculously loud music - kids running about screaming, parents sitting there who couldn't give a toss and are just getting bladdered on strong, cheap cider or lager.  Or maybe even a Snakebite.  Sometimes they look up from their pint to shout some abuse at their kids, who pay no attention what so ever.

After our weekend away Blaine was so excited he wanted to go back.  Tom and I are not as impressed and vow to come back when Hell freezes over.  Or when I can actually drink to get through it.

So the reality is more like this:

• Freezing caravan, even in July, in a LOUD area as there are no quiet areas in these places.
• Spending a ridiculous amount of money on the puggys (slot machines) that are there to entice the kids to play them - you spend about £50 to get 200 tokens to "spend" only to discover that 200 tokens only gets you a pencil.  Fuck sake.
• Food is like old school slop, the pub food is over-priced microwave meals.  Go self-catering (that is if you remember the matches to light the cooker)
• Relaxing!?!?  No, not in the slightest, spending the weekend with crying/screaming/hyper kids everywhere is not my idea of fun. 

And after that weekend I needed another holiday to recover, preferably child-free. 

We did do another caravan holiday.  That's the next blog.....

The School Holidays Commence............

Friday was the last day of Blaine's first year at primary school.  We have survived the first year without some form or metal breakdown, not turning into a raving alcoholic (although being pregnant helped with that) and Blaine never got expelled.  Result.  He was in a right grump in the morning, didn't appear to happy about this (he seems to like school for some mad reason) so wasn't really co-operating at all.  Unfortunately I had to leave early for work so Mum was left to deal with him. Shame.  Mum somehow managed to get him to school without having a breakdown/resorting to wine or selling him on E-Bay, so well done her.  So off he popped - for his very last day, with instructions to "remember and hand out your party invitations - they are in your bag"  Of course he forgot.

Blaine finished school at 3:15pm, I was still stuck at work so mum picked him up.  So the holidays commenced......

To start the school holidays Blaine decided that he might as well be a tad naughty and piss in next door neighbours garden. Over her wall, while her visitors are watching. The visitors thought it was funny.  My neighbour didn't.  Luckily I was at work...... Mum, being all old and experienced, dealt with the neighbour in a polite manner and without any violence, while Blaine hid in his room.  The neighbour was a tad pissed off (rightly so) and now thinks Blaine should probably get an ASBO.  When I arrive home from work my mum tells me the news and I have to speak to Blaine.  Sigh.  "I'm sorry!" He said immediately - first sign of guilt.  "Sorry for what?" I ask..... he ponders, I can see his mind working, he's thinking "hmmmm....I don't think she knows, so I think I'll lie"  "Nothing" is his reply "I didn't do anything" Ahhhh the phrase that just hammers home the guilt "I didn't do anything"  I ignore his plea of innocence and ask him what on earth possessed him to piss on the neighbours wall "I needed to pee" was his innocent response, "I was proper bursting, I couldn't keep it in" another sigh.  "Blaine - the next time you need to pee you must do it in the toilet, you can't just pee anywhere!" Blaine ponders this for a moment..... "can I pee in our garden?"  "No" "Can I pee in the shed?" WTF?!?  NO! NO PEEING OUTSIDE!

I think it's going to be a looooooong summer holiday......

I then went to the pub.

So - Father's Day.

I was supposed to Blog about Father's Day on actual Father's Day, but work got in the way.  Work gets in the way of all my fun - which is not good.  So - here it is..... Father's Day.....

I'm sure some of you will remember my fun-filled delight that was Mother's Day a truly wonderful day.  Father's Day is Tom's special day.  Lucky Tom.

His day began very early, he had to go to work.  Which isn't such a bad thing as he gets away from the kids for a few hours.  While he was out and about I started on the Father's Day celebrations.  A trip to Asda to purchase the cards, gift (DVD that I wanted and some chocolate - hmmm.....I think I actually ate that....) and baking.  Blaine was determined to bake cakes, Toy Story ones - Tom's a lucky man.  I also decided that it might be a good idea to book somewhere for lunch, leaving it to the last minute but I managed to book a lovely place in town called Simpsons  - kids eat free and dad's get a free pint for Father's Day.  For some bizarre reason us mum's didn't get  a free drink, which I think it ludicrous considering the amount of effort we put into sorting out Father's Day.  Most disappointed.

Tom arrived home from work to be greeted by Blaine's lovely card, gift and home-made buns (well, more like rock cakes) and Imogen was probably crying about something.  Then we all got ready and headed out for lunch. 

Lunch was supposed to be a civilised affair, however Blaine put a stop to that.  Blaine decided that Simpsons was more like a monkey's tea-party and started pissing about, rolling on the seat (well, more of a sofa) sliding about, refusing to eat, blowing bubbles in his juice.  He even managed to lose his tie.  Blaine does like to wear a tie when going out somewhere nice - I think he thinks it gives the illusion to other's that he's a good wee boy, maybe slightly posh even, which is totally not Blaine. Imogen then also decided that Simpson's was the ideal place to suddenly decide to hate sitting in a high chair - although, I will admit, satin knickers and a wooded hair chair are not a good combination - it was a tad slippy for her.  She did, however, manage to eat her lunch and pudding.  Yes, Imogen also decided that Father's Day would be an ideal time to sample my Creme Brulee - I think it was very tasty, but I wouldn't really know as she scoffed most of it. 

Once that joy was over we returned home so Tom could "relax" - so I took both the kids to swimming lessons and Tom enjoyed some time to himself on the sofa. A stark contrast to Mother's Day may I add...... but I think he had a good day. 

On a more sober note (which I don't do often) - I raised a glass to my dad, who I miss very much, although I'm sure's not missing all the crap pressies that I used to buy him lol

Being a working mum - the reality kicks in...

I've added some pics to this blog, inspired by another blogger they are not actual photos - but home drawn things lol

Well, I've been back to work fulltime now for 5 weeks and 2 days and I've not turned into a raving alcoholic (yet)  But reality is kicking in.  Working full-time with one child wasn't so bad, but two is a bit of a drama. 

The mornings I have down to a fine art now, the kids get fed (I don't), we run about like lunatics trying to get washed, dressed, make lunches/bottles, remember homework and leave the house looking half decent.  When I first returned to work it was all fine - I got things ready the night before, woke up before Imogen to get ready, it was all peaceful and calm. I even managed to do my hair and make up, I kinda thought it would make me look slightly more human!  However I have decided that sleep is much more important as trying to be "professional" on limited sleep is hard enough, then when I finally get in the door at night I can't be arsed getting anything ready - the sofa calls my name as I collapse in a heap and promise myself that I'll get up early tomorrow to sort it all....... So I go to work looking slightly harassed, no makeup on, hair kinda done (but not really) and I probably have baby puke or bogies splattered randomly on my work clothes.  But I'm there and the kids are dropped off so I don't really care.  We kinda look like this:

Work is plodding on nicely - it's like I've never been away really.  I savour going for a piss in the toilet with the door locked and in peace.  I also drink copious amounts of coffee - this keeps me awake and also reminds me how good it is to be able to drink  a hot cup of coffee without forgetting it's there then taking a huge gulp and it's stone cold.  Bleeeeuuuurrrrggh.

After my long day at work I run about picking up the kids then come home to what I can only describe as a total disaster area.  The house is a tip.  Let's start in the hall - as we enter the front door.  Washing is hanging up on the airers, God only knows how long it's been there.  The floor needs hoovered.  Random crap (mainly Blaine's toys) are dumped at the bottom of the stairs.  Shoes/coats/bags - flung everywhere, even though we have a lovely coat stand to put them on.  Then I enter the "living room"  - more like a tip. It needs polished, breakfast dishes left from the morning, more of Blaine's crap.  Pyjamas randomly scattered where Blaine decided to throw them.  I then go into the kitchen.  Fuck sake - it's just a disaster, no tea made, dishes not done, washes is just a mountain getting bigger and bigger, the cupboards are bare and I have paperwork that needs to get sorted urgently.  I kinda sigh and try to imagine it's not there.

After chucking some random frozen crap in the oven I listen to Blaine read his book (praying he doesn't swear) then chuck some food down our necks and it's time to get sorted for bed.  Imogen first as she's normally exhausted after her busy day at nursery, she normally goes to bed OK, once she's down I get about 20 mins to try and sort out some of the chaos that is my house.  Blaine jumping about like a loon in the living room, yapping on about Batugans or some other random crap. I run about picking things up, moving things about (mainly Blaine's toys and mainly to the bottom of the stairs)  shoving a load in the washing machine - that can go on in the morning - then i get Blaine sorted and he's in bed.  Hurrah!  2 sleeping kids, 1 knackered mummy and one sofa calling my name. 

So once the kids are in bed i kinda look like this:

and this is where I stay until bedtime calls at about 9:30pm.  This is how I rock.  Check me out.  I'm in my jammies by the way.

So there it is the reality of working fulltime - looking deranged, the house a bomb site and totally exhausted.  But I'm surviving! Wine helps.......

"MUMMY! I just accidentally........"

Those of you who have boys will understand their obsession with a certain part of their bodies.  In fact, scrap that, those of you who happen to know anyone of the male species will know about their obsession with it.  Willies.

The day a baby finds his little tinkle is a Bad Day.  They become obsessed by the bloody thing.  Blaine is no exception to this rule.  He can make a grown mans eyes water by the way he stretches the damn thing. I'm forever telling him to get his hands out his pants, leave your willy alone, it will fall off you know etc etc  Tom is just as bad - lying on the sofa, watching some crap on TV with his hand in his pants. Nice. How on earth can I win when he's following in his dad's footsteps.

Potty training was fun, once he finally got the knack of peeing in the potty (and not on the floor, sofa, bed, pants etc) he then had to be trained to pee standing up and into the toilet.  Of course I left his job to Tom as he knows what to do. So that was another willy trick mastered. Then Blaine discovered he could use his willy as a hose when peeing, I think I may have mentioned this before,  when I was heavily preggy with Imogen I nearly crippled myself by cleaning up piss after Blaine had decided to use his willy like a hose.  He thought it was funny.  I didn't.   So he thinks his willy is amazing.  I think all blokes think this. 

Tonight Blaine learnt a new willy trick.  It was 6:30pm, Imogen was creating a big noise as she was exhausted and wanted to go to bed.  So I'm wrestling her into her vest and sleepsuit and Blaine is in the bathroom pissing about.  Literally.  He's supposed to be getting himself ready for bed (nasty mummy I am, Blaine goes to bed at approx 7pm, he's tired.... nothing to do with me wanting peace.....) Finally Imogen is sorted in her sleepsuit and I settle down to feed her and Blaine announces the following....

"MUMMY!  I just accidentally pee'd on my face!"

Yes.  That's correct.  Apparently he's pissed on his face.  Sigh.  I had to ask the dreaded question "What?!  How on earth did you do that?"  and he replied, ever so innocently, "I just pointed my willy up and pee'd - it hit my face!" I mean, why, why oh why would you want to do such a thing.  It's been a long day, Imogen needs to sleep and here is Blaine standing in the door as proud as punch as he pee'd on his face.  I don't even think this is possible as it defies the law of gravity surely?!  But according to Blaine he managed it.

Give me strength.

Nights out...and hangovers....bleurrrrgggghhh

Life with 2 kids means I don't get out much.  Pre-kids I used to have a pretty damn good social life, getting pished most weekends, most of them now a total blur in my memory bank - although I'm sure there's a few folk out there who have stories they could tell...... but life with kids kinda put a stop to that and drink fulled evening out are few and far between.  This means that when I go out I get drunk ridiculously quickly and that I really suffer for it in the morning.  Gah.

Having had Imogen on the boob also meant that my drinking skills took a massive bashing - although the latest research out tells us that you can be 4 times over the drink drive limit and still whap a boob out for feeding, as long as it's not every night then it's groovy apparently.  Why this information wasn't available last November I'll never know, my Xmas "nights out" were a sober affair, normally involved dragging Imogen along to them as well or popping off home to feed her - not the most exciting of evenings as she's not the most entertaining of things at a party and she doesn't like vodka.

I had an opportunity last weekend to pop out for a few drinkies with some mums from school.  A civilised affair, take-away, few glasses of wine, then off home.  With Imogen taking the bottle and actually beginning to realise Tom is her Dad I thought I would take full advantage of a wee night out.  With booze. 

So off I pop, skinny jeans and heels on, cocktail in hand.  After a couple of glasses of wine I start to feel slightly tipsy, fling in some more wine, cocktails then a large voddy and I'm pished.  WAHAY!  It's been a while....  the alcohol was flowing nicely and then I had to call it a night and head home. 

At home the reality hit me of how drunk I was.  Head spinning in the living room I know the porcelain truck would be calling my name anytime soon.  And it did.  Boak.  Not nice.  I crashed out in bed at silly o'clock, got up at 5am to deal with Imogen, then crashed out until 7am.  I woke up feeling like shit.  When I was younger, pre-kids, I had a great technique of dealing with a hangover - curl up in bed and ignore the world or get up, and do it all again.  Sadly that can't happen now so I have to attempt to carry on as normal while feeling like someone is battering my head with a hammer, my stomach doing somersaults and tired beyond belief.  Also, I have to endure a family birthday party in the afternoon.  Which means a 2 hour car journey with Tom driving, eating a meal, attempting to hold civilised conversation and not throwing up everywhere.  What a drama. 

The drive down the road was OK, I wasn't sick.  We stopped for hangover food - Skips and Irn-Bru, but Blaine insisted on having my Skips so I had his Monster Munch, it didn't have the same effect, but it was better than nothing and I really couldn't face Blaine having a hissy fit beside me in the back of the car - my head was sore enough.  His constant wittering wasn't helping, but luckily he fell asleep.  I did try to fall asleep but Tom's driving makes it nearly impossible -  I get battered about and worry that he's falling asleep at the wheel and things.

Tom flung the car round roundabouts, driving like he was in some kinda F1 race - thinking it's hilarious as my face turns a shade of green.  He won't be laughing when I vomit all over him.  Git.

We arrive at the in-laws and all is well.  I manage to eat a 3 course meal (even being hungover can't put me off food) and the ridiculous amount of coke manages to keep me awake and feel slightly more human.  I manage to hold conversations with all the rellies, Blaine runs riot (I'm sure someone must have slipped him some coke) Imogen refuses to eat her baked tattie and just wants held (what a surprise) and I just prayed I didn't spew.  But I survived!

I have, of course, vowed never to mix my drinks again, in fact I think at one point I did mutter something about never drinking again (probably when I was being very sick) - which won't last long as I have another night out planned in a few weeks.  This time I will make sure I have nothing planned the next day so I can just curl up in my duvet and hide. In fact I wish I could do this most days!

Blaine's reading skills

Blaine started school last August, he loves it.  His reading skills have taken a wee while to develop.  At first we started with the usual phonics sounding out of words and he had loads of words in a word tin to learn - he hated it at first.  Tears, tantrums, and lots of shouting "NO MUMMY! YOU ARE WRONG THE WORD IS NOT PAN IT IS PIN" etc etc.  He's a stubborn wee so and so (no idea where he gets that from) so sometimes there's just no reasoning with him.  He would sound out words like "T....A....P" and would say "banana", or "I.....S" would be "sausages" - you get the drift. So reading was not his forte to begin with.

Fast forward to January this year and Blaine had finally "got it".  The reading just kinda clicked into place and he started whizzing through his words and getting "proper" books home with words in it that he could read.  Of course I was as pleased as punch and encouraged his new found enthusiasm for reading.

He gets heaps of homework from school - reading, maths, science and some craft pish that I normally have to end up doing. He hates craft, he just scribbles all over the page and it looks like the cat made it.  So I "help" which is not much of an improvement as I'm not a crafty type either - Blaine normally goes mental as my work is as equally shite as his.  But we get thorough it.

This week Blaine brought home his reading book - he gets 2 a week - "The Trunk and The Skunk" it was called.  I sat with Blaine and he started reading his book with great enthusiasm.  When he gets stuck on a word he sounds it out, lots of praise is given when he gets a word right.  Now the word "skunk" is a new word for Blaine.  He's reading the sentence "The mammoth said to the skunk" and he's stuck on the word Skunk.  So he sounds it out "ssssss....kkkkkk.....uuuuu....nnnnn....kkkk"........ "sss...kkk...uuu..nnn....kkk"  "AHA! CUNT!" 

What the very fuck.  I doubt Blaine has ever heard the word, he just thought skunk was pronounced cunt - easy mistake to make I suppose.

I look at Blaine with a look of sheer horror on my face "what did you say"  I ask thinking I must have misheard, "cunt mummy" HORROR.  "No, no, no you must never ever say that word - it's a naughty word.  The word is Skunk" "but mummy, what does cunt mean?" Blaine asks, "OK Blaine - I've asked you not to say that word.  It's a horrible word.  It very insulting" Blaine thinks over this and continues reading using the correct words. We get to the end of the book without anymore swearing.  Result. I send him to school and spend the day dreading the phone ringing incase it's the head teacher phoning to give me a bollocking for my son's use of the C-word. Luckily my phone didn't ring.  Relief.

Daddy is left holding the baby.......

As I'm now back to work full-time, Tom has to take some responsibility for the child-care.  Ha. Ha. Ha.  It's about time he got his finger out his arse and introduced himself to Imogen anyway.  Tom was nightshift last week, he finishes on a Friday morning, so, to save forking out MORE money on nursery fees, it has been agreed that he comes home, goes to bed for a few hours, gets up at midday and I head into work.  Leaving him with Imogen and having to deal with the school run, make tea and get Blaine to karate. 

To allow Tom to get a decent few hours kip I went out with Imogen in the morning, for coffee (may have slipped a wee cake in too) met a lovely friend of mine, Angela, and her son.  Haven't seen her for ages so it was good to have a natter or more a moan about working, husbands and kids.

Once I was home I quickly popped online to see if Facebook has anything exciting on it and I find Tom's status update asking if anyone is free for coffee this afternoon as he's home alone with Imogen and she likes to socialise.  Or, in other words, SHIT - I have my daughter to look after and I don't have a clue what to do - HELP! One kind friend took him up on this offer, so he'd sorted out a couple of hours entertainment before picking Blaine up from school.

I wake Tom up and he decides to take forever to get ready, I needed to be in work at 12:30 latest.  It's 12:30 and he decides to have a shave.  Then he rants as he can't find his razor (his own fault, he still hasn't unpacked half his stuff since last weekend) and he starts asking a million random questions about Imogen "what will I give her to eat?" "when is she due a bottle" etc etc Sigh. Eventually he's organised and I get dropped off at work.  Tom is left to deal with Imogen.

Work kept me busy and stopped me thinking about what state the kids were in.  Tom sent me the occasional text "what time is karate?",  "what is for tea?" , "when are you coming home?" etc etc But I guess he's coping so reply and get back to work. Then, at about 6pm, I receive a text from my friend Donna "Tell Tom Paul will meet him in the Mains 7:15-7:30"  Paul is Donna's husband.  The Mains is the local pub.  Tom has arranged a wee night out it would seem - without my knowledge.  It would appear looking after the kids for an afternoon has driven him to drink.  I text Tom to ask him what the fuck was going on and it does appear that he's arranged a wee drinky, obviously forgetting I'm actually back at work. 

I get picked up with a pile of crap to bring home with me (working from home, what fun) and get dropped back off at the house.  A very quick conversation happens "how was your day? "  "aye fine, kids were fine, been good"  Then he disappears like a bat out of hell and practically runs down the road to the pub.

The house is a bit chaotic, the kids need fed, both need put to bed, I've just finished work and he's off on a jolly jaunt with his new best friend.  Sigh.  Secretly I hope he chokes on his pint.  I then start to plan my next night out.  It's only fair! So, I think it all went well.....

Today Tom informs me "oh, I forgot to mention.  Imogen pissed all over the sofa on Friday", "oh right" I reply, "Did you clean it up"  Tom - "well, I gave it a wee wipe with a baby wipe"  Fuck sake.

The weekend away.....

Right, finally I have time to tell you all about my fun-filled weekend away in Blackpool.  2 kids, 1 husband and 1 long car journey.  What fun!

We decided that it would be very sensible to stop over at my mum's house on the way down to Blackpool.  Mum lives about 2.5 hours away, Blackpool is about 6 hours from Aberdeen - no way will Imogen cope with that (and there's no way I can cope with Tom driving for 6 hours) So we departed Aberdeen on Thursday.  The car was jam packed with a heap of shit that we needed for 3 nights away, mostly random stuff for Imogen "just incase" and, of course, Tom's band crap (baritone and uniform) which was packed with great care. I ended up organising everything for the kids and myself, while Tom chucked in a pair of pants, his band crap and some head-ache tablets.  That's basically all he needs.  So we depart. 

Imogen decided she really wasn't in the mood for a day trip in the car, so half way to Dundee we had to stop.  Sadly on the way from Aberdeen to Dundee there's no service station to stop at - there is, however, a McD's.  Fab for me - I do love a Big Mac, but not so fab for Imogen.  Imogen had scoffed her sweet potato and mackerel food before we left, so she couldn't be hungry.  She better not be. So we pull into McD's and order our food - 1 happy meal, 2 Big Mac meals and some carrots for Imogen "just incase".  Then the wee bloke behind the counter informs us there's "no been any carrots delivered today, or apples"  Fucking great.  I can see images of Imogen scoffing into my Big Mac. So we stand there and deliberate over what to get her "just incase" she wants to eat...... hamburger? erm...no. Chicken nuggets? no....Mcflurry!? again no.  We opt for fish fingers and decide to peel the breaded stuff off it and just pop in the white fish.  That should do the job.

Imogen ended up acting like she was starving and had some of my breaded burger bun and a bit of fish.  That seemed to please her and we could now continue with our journey.  Luckily Imogen eventually fell asleep (must have been all that salt) and we arrived at mums. 

After a good feast (she loves to feed us) we stayed over then were all up bright and early to head to Blackers.  Blaine was hyper, Imogen was hungry/grumpy/tired/who knows and Tom was.....well...Tom. 

We arrived in Blackers about lunch time, popped to our hotel "The Big Blue" but our room wasn't ready, so we decided to go to The Pleasure Beach.  What a bloody drama.  When I was wee you could waltz on in for free, pop on a few rides, then pop back out. Not now.  Security all over the place ensuring you buy your tickets before entering the ground.  The wifey at the desk informed us that we had to pay £5 just to enter the park.  My jaw dropped to the ground "£5 just to go in and wander about - £5 each!? You're joking?!" Nope, she wasn't.  And this is where our real Scottish-ness kicks in.  We stood at the desk for a good 10 mins trying to figure out the cheapest way to get into this park and get Blaine on a few rides.  It was decided that we would purchase the £5 park entry tickets to "have a look" and if Blaine wanted to go on any rides then he could get  a wrist band (£21!) but the fiver is deducted or something.  Then we could work out if Tom needed tokens and, if so, how many.  Easy peasy.

In we went.  Blaine wanted to go on everything, so a wrist band was purchased.  The few hours there cost us a bloody bomb.  I think we blew about £70 on those bloody tickets/wrist bands and then some random hook the duck game where you can win a Spongebob Square Pants toy.  Just what I always bloody wanted.

We left when Tom had run out of tokens and headed to the hotel.  For once we had picked a decent hotel in Blackpool, normally they are sex-shops in disguise or lap dancing bars.  This one was, in fact, a very nice, clean, friendly hotel.  So that was Friday - over.

Saturday saw Tom disappearing very quickly as he had to go to his band contest, leaving me in charge of the kids in Blackpool.  Oh great.  Luckily I had plans to meet some weirdie Internet friends from some forum I frequent, so that would keep me occupied (they turned out to be lovely people and not weird at all!)  We were meeting at North Pier, I was at the South, so a wee tram ride would get us there no bother.  But there was some mental problem with the trams and they were delayed so we walked.  I estimate that the walk between South and North Pier is about 25 miles. At least.  Or that's how it felt.  Every shop Blaine wanted to look in at all the tat.  "Ohhhh mummy, can I get that hat?" "Ooooo mummy, look at that pinny- it has a willy stuck on it!"  "OOOOOH MUMMMY!  BOOBS!" yes, you can imagine.  Blackpool is full of tacky shit. Tacky shit and stag/hen parties - that's about it.

I met my friends and we descended on a local cake shop, Blaine decided to use my t-shirt as some form of art easel, scribbling on my sleeve in crayon - as I was with company I kinda smiled sweetly and asked him not to do it, in my head I was a fishwife screeching bloody blue murder.Imogen just created her usual moaning, but did charm a few locals with some gummy smiles.  She also decided that tins/pouches of baby food are minging, so a weekend of bananas it was. Tom's band didn't win, but he had a nice time with his fellow brass-banders.  Lucky gits having a few pints in the bar while I was shoogling Imogen and trying to keep an eye on Blaine.  Saturday ended with a rather rubbish meal in some Steak House kinda establishment.

On Sunday we had promised Blaine a trip to The Sandcastle water park.  Que more complaining about the price to get in - I had to pay £7.50 for the privilege to watch, Imogen hates the water so no point taking her in as she'll just erupt in a rage.  My £7.50 did entitle me to copious amounts of free drink (sadly, non-alcoholic) so I took advantage and stocked up on caffeine.  2.5 hours later we decide to begin the long journey home. 

I kinda napped  a little on the way home, Tom was driving but it's hard to sleep when he's nipping in and out of traffic and muttering to himself about the useless drivers on the road.  We stopped at mums for tea, Imogen delighted to be given her mashed tatties and peas - she's probably sick of bananas now, having lived off them for 2 days.  Then we drove back to Aberdeen. 

On Monday it was back to normal, Blaine to school, Imogen to nursery and Tom to....erm.... the sofa?! Tom was nightshift Monday night so needed 12 hours to lie about on the sofa to prepare for such a shift. I arrived home from work to the sight of nothing being unpacked, the house a tip, no food in the house and nothing for tea.  So pizza it was.  After a long day at work I couldn't bare to start unpacking properly.....that can wait until tomorrow..... instead I cracked open the Morgan's and sat down to watch a very classy Scottish TV program - The Scheme.  Makes me feel dead posh.

Week one over! Bring on the weekend!

So my first week of being back at work is over.  Get out the flags.  Thank fuck for that.  This week is only a short week as I'm off on a jolly jaunt to Blackpool this weekend.

I got through the first few days, relatively unscathed, and I've not turned into a raving alcoholic overnight.  Bonus. Kids have also survived - homework complete, lunches made and I even remember to drop them both off in the mornings, always a good thing.

As previously mentioned, this weekend we are all heading away to Blackpool.  How on earth did that happen? Well a few months ago Tom came bounding in the house, after a band practice, and had, apparently, had a "brilliant idea!"  This idea was a nice family weekend away to Blackpool.  Blaine could go to The Pleasure Beach and The Sandcastle, he would love it.  I won't but that's beside the point. Now, I'm not daft, Tom never ever suggests such things with such glee - there's always a hidden agenda.  I've been married to him too long to know that a "family weekend in Blackpool" is not his idea of fun.  I've also been living in the world of Brass Bloody Bands for the past erm...... 15 years or so.  I know when certain contests of the year happen and I know that Blackpool hosts one of them.  And I was right.  "Contest is it?"  I ask...... "erm, well, I dunno if the band is going yet" translated this means "YES! It's all sorted, we're going" So that's that decided.  We're going to Blackpool.

We booked a lovely hotel - The Big Blue.  Sounds like a giant smurf. I've stayed in a few hotels/B&B's in Blackpool - some been OK, others been - well shite.  I mind of one hotel - holes in walls, really minging, I'm sure it was actually a squat.  Some of the band people actually slept in their cars as it was so minging.  But not me, hard-core, and it can't be worse than sharing a bed with Tom. Then there was the year Tom got so pissed he slept on the street - prick. I was so pissed off I went out in the morning and got a tattoo.  He hates tattoos, I don't. Then I had to drive all the way home as he was still pished.

My adventures in Blackpool are mainly a bit of a blur, pieced together with the help of my partner in crime - Kerry-doll. Kerry has been my partner in crime for many many years.  It's all her fault I'm married to Tom.  It's all her fault I started hanging out in brass bands.  We met at college - I was trying to look dead cool in my Adidas Gazelles, hooded trackie top, ripped jeans and in my mums Rover Metro. Kerry pulled up beside me and gave me a look, she tells me I looked "well 'ard" and she was hoping I wasn't on her course. I was.  We got inside college and hung about  - I asked "You here for music?", "Aye" she replies.  "Me too, I'm Niki" "I'm Kerry" and that was it.  My partner in crime was found. I think she was too scared to not be friends with me LOL

Anyway, this time my Blackpool weekend will not be a drunken affair, well a few tipples will of course be sampled, but there will be no sleeping on the street.  I'm meeting up with some internet weirdo friends from one of the forums I frequent, for cake and coffee.  If the weather is nice I may hope on a donkey. I'm taking the kids to see all the Blackpool sights - oh and, apparently, it's Gay Pride weekend, so maybe Tom will get lucky! 

Day 1 of being a fulltime working mum - over.

Well, that wasn't so bad now was it?  Day 1 of going back to work is complete.  I somehow managed to get the kids organised and get out the door for 8:30am.  Amazing.  I even put on some make-up and straightened my hair, so I looked a little bitty more respectable than normal - not a "yummy mummy" (SPEW!) yet - more a "working mum with 2 kids, oh is that sick on my shoulder?" kinda look.   Imogen got dumped at nursery, Blaine school and I made my way into work. 

So, that's me - a full-time working mum.  Joy of joys.  My first day back wasn't too bad - a nice meeting over bacon rolls and coffee to "catch up" on the past 7 months.  All I will say is this - things don't change. I then went into my actual place of work and saw some staff, most seemed pleased to see me - so that was good, others couldn't really give a toss, nothing new there then. I made sure I had a hot cup of coffee (well, a few of them) I went to the toilet in peace and I managed to have conversations with people that didn't involve talking about Imogen's sleep, my boobs or school.  Bliss.

After work I collected Blaine and Imogen, arrived home and Tom got out of his bed (he's nightshift this week - which means he's as miserable as sin) Now on a Monday Blaine attends Karate club at 6pm - so before then he has to have done his homework, had tea and got changed.  It's a struggle at the best of times, so Tom flung something in the oven, had a shower then popped off to Asda for some random crap.  Blaine pissed about with his food, wriggled on the seat like he had ants in his pants and yapping the biggest load of nonsense ever - "Why is Yoda called Yoda?" Who gives a toss - just to quickly add I didn't actually say this, I replied with something like "because that's what his mum called him" or some other dull answer.  Blaine is currently going through a Star Wars phase, one of his school friends has Star Wars Lego on the Wii or something - I dunno, anyway he yaps on and on and on about it - thinking I know the answer to absolutely anything to do with Star Wars. I am a fan, sometimes I think I'm a Jedi, normally when drunk.  

Imogen inhaled her tea at a dramatic speed, grumping if I dared put the spoon down.  How very dare I! I ate my tea with one hand - it is amazing the tricks you learn when you have kids. I'm very skilled at doing a lot of things with one hand  - no sniggering please!

After tea it's a mad case of tidying up, Tom getting ready for work, Imogen getting washed and ready for bed, then Tom takes Blaine to Karate.  Imogen pops off to bed very early - so it looks like I'll be up at 4am tomorrow, which gives me loads of time to get ready for day 2.

So the kids are now in bed, the house is in a reasonable state and Tom has disappeared to band.  I think I managed to conduct some form of conversation with Tom in the 20 mins that I saw him - it went something like this:

T - "how was work?"
Me - "usual, nothings changed"
T - "I'll take Blaine to karate and head to band"
Me  - "OK"
T- "Do you need anything from Asda"
Me - "cat food, something for Blaine's packed lunch and cheese"
T - "OK, bye"
Me - "bye!"

And that was about it. What more needs to be said?  Being married for so long has it's perks - you don't have to actually speak to each other anymore, you kinda sit in this dazed silence, listening to the noise of the kids as you try not to go insane. 

So here I am, in my pyjamas, with a glass of fruity cider, slobbed out on the sofa.  Day one of work is over, I survived. 

An end of an era......goodbye daytime TV, hello work.

Ah fuck.  Today is the very last day of my maternity leave.  I have had 7 months off work and tomorrow I go back.  Gah, I really can't be arsed but sadly needs must - I could give up work but we would be homeless very quickly.

So, what exactly does maternity leave entail?  Well, for the first 4 weeks I hobbled about on my crutches doing not very much, to move anywhere was agony, so it was in my best interests to sit on the sofa and do fuck all. I would take Blaine to school, come home, make coffee and park my ever expanding arse and bump on the sofa and watch mind-numbingly boring daytime TV.  I would then hobble back down to school to collect Blaine.  Not bad eh?

Then Imogen was born. 

From the moment we brought her home I kinda figured she was going to be slightly more demanding than Blaine, and I was right.  She entered the house looking like a cabbage patch doll - big, fat, dimpled face, red from crying.  My mum kinda looked at her and said "oh dear, erm...she's lovely?!"

So my time off work soon became slightly more hectic.  Imogen fed on demand - and boy, was she demanding. Days and nights were all a blur, colic was hell and Imogen was just a grump.  Quite early on I knew I would have to get out and about with Imogen.  So we joined a couple of mum and baby groups and a baby sensory class.  All very good fun - I get to pop along, meet other mums, share stories and drink coffee.  All good.  If Imogen allowed I would even manage to do some housework - shove a load of washing in, empty the washing machine, wash the dishes, maybe even fling the hoover round on a good day. My Facebook addiction soon reached an all time high, as Imogen fed there wasn't much else I could do - so internet it was ;-) Breastfeeding has a lot of perks. You can do it with no hands.

Being on maternity leave also meant I could sample the daytime TV.  How people cope watching this shite day in, day out is beyond me.  It is just dire.  To start the day it would be Jeremy Kyle - normally a bunch of drunken chavs doing lie detector tests or getting a DNA test done as they've all been to pissed or high to know who they have shagged.  Duuuuuurty bastards.  Then it's This Morning - which is normally bearable.  Then it just goes downhill.  The news is always worth a watch, but after that you might as well give up.  I mind watching one program - House Gift, or some bollocks.  Quite frankly - what a load of shite.  3 designers have to choose a gift for some poor couple's house.  They get a budget, which they have to pick, then they get a car (size depends on what budget you picked - smallest budget = smallest car) then they all fuck off on a jolly jaunt to buy a house gift for the poor sods.  The gifts are normally guff. After that it was off to school to collect Blaine.

My life kinda turned into Groundhog day, same shit, different day.  But, I soon began to enjoy this life - a new found freedom, not being tied to work rotas, arranging lunch/coffee at the drop of a hat.  Being home with the kids - it's bloody hard work, a thankless job really - but it's been kinda nice. Although SMP is a joke - who can survive on that pish? So Tom's had to work all the hours available (except if it interferes with band of course) to make ends meet.

However, all that is about to change.  As I become, once again, a full-time working mother.  But, this time, with 2 kids. I am looking forward to a few things about returning to work, the mains ones being:

• Going to the toilet, LOCKING the door and peeing in peace.  Absolute peace.  No kids barging in, no baby crying because you dare to leave her for a nano-second. 
• Drinking a hot cup of coffee/tea without moving it out of harms way or forgetting about it then it goes cold
• Having adult conversations. 
• Not watching crap TV
• Wearing makeup and not slobbing about in my trackies and jeans (well I'm not really looking forward to this as it means I have to actually find the time in the morning to make myself look respectable. Hmm.)

To prepare for tomorrow's hectic morning I've decided to have a cider.  I may aswell celebrate my last night of freedom.  Fuck it, I can go in hungover.