Imogen is coming up for the grand age of 6 months. Personally, I can't believe I've made it this far without some form of mental breakdown or gone loopy due to lack of sleep. But here we are. 6 months. I've learnt a lot in these 6 months, I have learnt how to survive on approx 2 hours sleep, how to breast-feed and use the lap-top at the same time, how to get a boob out in public without being charged with Indecent Exposure and how to use a Wrap Sling. Amazing achievements I think.
When she gets to this mile-stone we have to trail down to the Health Visitor and get our "6 month review" What a fucking total waste of time. I'm sure there are HEAPS of fantastic HV's out there who give perfect advice, listen, are up to date with everything and even know about baby-led weaning. Sadly, mine don't.
We arrive at the surgery and they are running late. Nothing unusual there. Imogen is not the most patient person in the world, so after about 10 mins of waiting she starts to let the whole surgery know that she's well and truly pissed off with the delay. Eventually, after a 30 min wait, we are seen. In we go, Imogen raging at the HV for keeping us waiting. Then she has to be stripped naked to get weighed. Imogen HATES getting naked, she hates getting dressed and undressed. She's already in a bad mood - now she's just going to erupt.
"Ooooh she's a wild one!" is the comment from the HV. Yes, yes she is. I plonk her naked self onto the scales - she reacts as if I've placed her on a bed of needles. Sigh. After that drama she then has to get her length taken and head circumference measured. Once all that is done I can get her dressed. More screeching.
So, all the checks are done and now we have a wee chat. How lovely. She runs over the usual questions regarding weaning (all fine), rolling (yes), sitting up (yes), babbling (yes - when not crying), reaching out (yes) and then sleeping (no). No? No. I tell the HV my sleeping woes, she doesn't sleep. I'm up 4-6 times a night normally, she hardly naps during the day, I've tried loads of techniques. I'm exhausted. The HV nods sympathetically and offers the following wonderful advice "she'll do it one day" Sorry, what? That's my advice "she'll do it one day"? and when, exactly, would this day be? Sigh.
We get our free books and beaker - so not a wasted journey. We also get a free CD - the HV helpfully points out the relaxing music at the end of the CD that we can listen to together, to help us relax and help Imogen sleep. I nearly ram it in her gob, but I don't. I nod and smile.
The next time we have to go back is when she is a year old, so she can get a needle rammed in her thigh. I think I'll take my ear-plugs....
Friday, 29 April 2011
Monday, 25 April 2011
Can someone please remind me what sleep is?
Blaine has always been, what us mother's call, a "good sleeper". From a very young age Blaine slept through. Two little words that mean the world to every parent all over the world - slept through. As a baby a lot of emphasis is put on sleep. "How does he sleep? How long does he nap? Has he started sleeping through yet?" A lot of conversations with other parents regards sleep. It's the ultimate goal - to get your baby sleeping through. There's loads of books out there by sleep "experts" who offer a variety of top tips to get your baby to sleep, you can do the "Controlled Crying" technique or the "shush pat" technique - sleep training is a Big Thing. Type "sleep training for babies" into Google and you will get 13,300,000 results - I know this as I have done it.
Blaine was in a mentally strict routine as a baby - in fact I rarely left the house for the first 4 months incase it interrupted his sleep routine. All my activities were based around Blaine and his sleep "nnoooooo, I can't meet for lunch at 12, but I can meet at 2 but only for an hour - I need to get back to put Blaine down for his nap" When he started nursery, at the age of 9 months, the staff were warned "He MUST NOT sleep past 4pm and NEVER rock him to sleep - put him in the cot and LEAVE HIM" I was like a demented woman. I never picked him up if he cried, no, no, no. Must not cuddle the baby. From 16 weeks Blaine slept through. A proud moment for any parent and my sleep pattern returned to normal. Bliss. Since then he's always gone to bed at 7pm and slept through. My wonderful sleeping son.
Now, Imogen. Imogen laughs in the face of sleep. Well, not so much laugh more like a high pitched, toe curling shriek! So I have been living on minimal sleep for 6 months now - in fact longer than that as when I was preggy I resembled a beached whale and with a dodgy pelvis lying in any position was not good. Add some heart-burn, swollen ankles that need to be raised, constantly needing to pee and an alien-being rumbling about in your tummy and you kinda get the idea that sleeping when preggy just doesn't happen. Some say it's to prepare you for when the baby arrives. Bollocks to that. Fuck all to do with "preparing for the baby" but everything to do with being so bloody uncomfortable. Getting out of bed was like a gymnastic sport. Bringing the knees up ever so slowly, I would grab hold of the head board and attempt to flip myself onto my side without tipping the bed over or falling out. Not a nice sight I can tell you. Once out of bed my pelvis would crack into some form of shape to allow me to hobble to the loo. I don't do pregnancy well. Tom, of course, was the most supportive of all husbands during my pregnancy "What the fuck are you doing? Be quiet I'm trying to sleep! Stop moving about" etc You get the drift. eventually I had to give up and Tom was told to fuck off to the spare room so he could get a decent kip. Which gave me the king size bed all to myself - still not enough room for all my pillows to "support" me, 2 at the back, 1 under the bump, 1 between the legs, 2 under the head. I'd finally get into position and I'd need a piss. Fuck sake. Honestly - being pregnant is just rubbish.
Imogen has always been a crap sleeper. Apparently I'm due a "bad sleeper" as Blaine was so good - well thanks for that. If Imogen had been born first I doubt we would have had a second one. She is a nightmare. As a newborn (the horrific stage) she had colic. They thought it was "silent reflux" as it was so bad, so she was flung on a heap of medication that didn't work. So all that got stopped. The Health Visitors gave the usual crap advice and sympathetic look, but nothing really worked. She grew out of that and we got excited about a decent sleep at long last. In fact, scrub that - when I say We I really mean I. Tom gets a decent kip most nights as he works. I don't. So I have to get up every single night without fail. Yes, folks, that's correct - being at home looking after the kids is not a job at all. It's not hard work as all I do all day is sit on the sofa drinking coffee and watching daytime TV. This is what Tom thinks. Also, as I'm breastfeeding, Tom has always had this card to play "she needs fed" and shes quickly handed to me as he snores away in bed. There is nothing more frustrating in life than hearing someone snoring and watching them sleep peacefully when you're getting up for the 5th time that night. It drives you mad.
So, nearly 6 months in with a non-sleeping baby and you kinda get to the point of cracking up. No amount of vodka is helping anymore - I even started on the cocktails yesterday to try and stay sane. Didn't work - although they were bliss!
The advice for newborns and non-sleepers is "sleep when the baby sleeps" Ahhhh yes, now this sounds perfect - but in reality it rather sucks. Big style. Imogen sleeps when out in the buggy taking Blaine to school - I can't exactly have a 20 min kip on the pavement. Well I could if I was on Union Street, I'd fit right in. As soon as I enter the house she'll wake up. When she does nap in her cot I have to run about like a loon trying to do the washing, dishes, tidy up - I sometimes even have time to go for a pee in peace, eat some food and drink a hot cup of coffee. By this time she's awake and wanting my attention. Sigh. If I slept with Imogen slept then my house would be in even worse a state than it currently is, Blaine wouldn't go to school and we'd all be naked as we'd have no clothes to wear. Not a sight I want the neighbours to see - Tom prancing about naked, they would wonder why I married him.
Imogen's life is revolved around Blaine going to school, being picked up from school, going to Karate lessons, swimming lessons, mum and baby groups etc Her routine is "flexible" to say the least. Today I look like crap. Been up since 4am, Tom took her at 6am as I had just crumbled in a heap of sheer exhaustion, so I could get 90 mins kip before getting Blaine sorted for school. No school holiday up here today! I drag myself, Blaine and Imogen down to the school. Not even had a coffee so I barely even know what day it is. I did manage to grab an hours kip this afternoon, which means I have had about 4 hours sleep in the past 24 hours - whoop whoop!
So we continue with the crap sleeping. I've even started a diary so I can see for myself how bad it is - as if I need reminding! One day she will sleep through and I will rejoice. In fact I'd probably run about the street naked. My neighbours will be pleased.
Blaine was in a mentally strict routine as a baby - in fact I rarely left the house for the first 4 months incase it interrupted his sleep routine. All my activities were based around Blaine and his sleep "nnoooooo, I can't meet for lunch at 12, but I can meet at 2 but only for an hour - I need to get back to put Blaine down for his nap" When he started nursery, at the age of 9 months, the staff were warned "He MUST NOT sleep past 4pm and NEVER rock him to sleep - put him in the cot and LEAVE HIM" I was like a demented woman. I never picked him up if he cried, no, no, no. Must not cuddle the baby. From 16 weeks Blaine slept through. A proud moment for any parent and my sleep pattern returned to normal. Bliss. Since then he's always gone to bed at 7pm and slept through. My wonderful sleeping son.
Now, Imogen. Imogen laughs in the face of sleep. Well, not so much laugh more like a high pitched, toe curling shriek! So I have been living on minimal sleep for 6 months now - in fact longer than that as when I was preggy I resembled a beached whale and with a dodgy pelvis lying in any position was not good. Add some heart-burn, swollen ankles that need to be raised, constantly needing to pee and an alien-being rumbling about in your tummy and you kinda get the idea that sleeping when preggy just doesn't happen. Some say it's to prepare you for when the baby arrives. Bollocks to that. Fuck all to do with "preparing for the baby" but everything to do with being so bloody uncomfortable. Getting out of bed was like a gymnastic sport. Bringing the knees up ever so slowly, I would grab hold of the head board and attempt to flip myself onto my side without tipping the bed over or falling out. Not a nice sight I can tell you. Once out of bed my pelvis would crack into some form of shape to allow me to hobble to the loo. I don't do pregnancy well. Tom, of course, was the most supportive of all husbands during my pregnancy "What the fuck are you doing? Be quiet I'm trying to sleep! Stop moving about" etc You get the drift. eventually I had to give up and Tom was told to fuck off to the spare room so he could get a decent kip. Which gave me the king size bed all to myself - still not enough room for all my pillows to "support" me, 2 at the back, 1 under the bump, 1 between the legs, 2 under the head. I'd finally get into position and I'd need a piss. Fuck sake. Honestly - being pregnant is just rubbish.
Imogen has always been a crap sleeper. Apparently I'm due a "bad sleeper" as Blaine was so good - well thanks for that. If Imogen had been born first I doubt we would have had a second one. She is a nightmare. As a newborn (the horrific stage) she had colic. They thought it was "silent reflux" as it was so bad, so she was flung on a heap of medication that didn't work. So all that got stopped. The Health Visitors gave the usual crap advice and sympathetic look, but nothing really worked. She grew out of that and we got excited about a decent sleep at long last. In fact, scrub that - when I say We I really mean I. Tom gets a decent kip most nights as he works. I don't. So I have to get up every single night without fail. Yes, folks, that's correct - being at home looking after the kids is not a job at all. It's not hard work as all I do all day is sit on the sofa drinking coffee and watching daytime TV. This is what Tom thinks. Also, as I'm breastfeeding, Tom has always had this card to play "she needs fed" and shes quickly handed to me as he snores away in bed. There is nothing more frustrating in life than hearing someone snoring and watching them sleep peacefully when you're getting up for the 5th time that night. It drives you mad.
So, nearly 6 months in with a non-sleeping baby and you kinda get to the point of cracking up. No amount of vodka is helping anymore - I even started on the cocktails yesterday to try and stay sane. Didn't work - although they were bliss!
The advice for newborns and non-sleepers is "sleep when the baby sleeps" Ahhhh yes, now this sounds perfect - but in reality it rather sucks. Big style. Imogen sleeps when out in the buggy taking Blaine to school - I can't exactly have a 20 min kip on the pavement. Well I could if I was on Union Street, I'd fit right in. As soon as I enter the house she'll wake up. When she does nap in her cot I have to run about like a loon trying to do the washing, dishes, tidy up - I sometimes even have time to go for a pee in peace, eat some food and drink a hot cup of coffee. By this time she's awake and wanting my attention. Sigh. If I slept with Imogen slept then my house would be in even worse a state than it currently is, Blaine wouldn't go to school and we'd all be naked as we'd have no clothes to wear. Not a sight I want the neighbours to see - Tom prancing about naked, they would wonder why I married him.
Imogen's life is revolved around Blaine going to school, being picked up from school, going to Karate lessons, swimming lessons, mum and baby groups etc Her routine is "flexible" to say the least. Today I look like crap. Been up since 4am, Tom took her at 6am as I had just crumbled in a heap of sheer exhaustion, so I could get 90 mins kip before getting Blaine sorted for school. No school holiday up here today! I drag myself, Blaine and Imogen down to the school. Not even had a coffee so I barely even know what day it is. I did manage to grab an hours kip this afternoon, which means I have had about 4 hours sleep in the past 24 hours - whoop whoop!
So we continue with the crap sleeping. I've even started a diary so I can see for myself how bad it is - as if I need reminding! One day she will sleep through and I will rejoice. In fact I'd probably run about the street naked. My neighbours will be pleased.
Saturday, 23 April 2011
Duuurrrty Seagulls
Living in Aberdeen has a bit of a horrid downside. The bastard seagulls. Flying rats, vermin. One of the dirty beasts crapped on my coat when I was out at MacDuff a few weeks ago having a lovely day at the Aquarium. I was wandering along, probably screeching at Blaine no doubt, then this big beast of a seagull felt it appropriate to shit all over my coat. Bloody horrid things. So I'm not a big fan of them - they also steal food. I feel the need to kill anyone who steals any of my food.
Today was a nice spring day up here - 14 degrees, double figures, woohoo! In Scotland when the temperature reaches such dizzy heights we all go a bit mental and start worshipping the great big orange blob in the sky. We don't see it often and it normally doesn't last long, so everyone gets half naked to stock up on Vit D and BBQ's are on all over the place. So you end up with burnt folk with food poisoning. Nice. Today is no exception. As a "treat" (and I use that word very loosely) we take Blaine to Pizza Hut for some lunch. I haven't actually eaten even though I've been up since 5am, nor have I had a coffee, so my mood is not the best to say the least. After lunch Tom is dropped off back at home so he can listen to some crap footie match in peace and I head back to the park with the kids.
At the park it's baltic, the park is at the beach with that nasty North wind blowing a gale. I detest being cold so I wrap up - even when its a boiling 14 degrees. So I have on my jeans, t-shirt, trackie top (chavtastic) and anorak. Imogen is also suitably dressed with tights, hand knitted looped cardigan and cosy fleece. Blaine, being a boy, has on a tiny t-shirt and is , apparently, boiling. So it would appear are half of the other folk at the park. Men seem to think it's the ideal weather to take off their t-shirts and show off the peely wally skin and beer bellies. Boak. Silly girlies in tiny shorts, sandals, skimpy vest tops -showing off some slim figure and pert everything - you can tell they have never had children. Lucky them. I daren't show off any part of my body to the public - the saggy belly, stretch marks in places I never knew could stretch, wobbly bits all over the place. My skin is so pale is practically blue - so not a good look, another reason why I cover up.
After being shocked at the park by these half naked Scottish folk we pop to the shops for a bit of bargain hunting. I need Vaseline for Imogen (teething rash) and a light weight coat for Blaine. How exciting.
We arrive at the shop and get out of the car, Blaine then asks, loudly, "MUMMY! LOOK! THOSE SEAGULLS WANT TO BE IN THE CIRCUS!" What the fuck is he going on about now? "LOOK MUMMY - UP THERE UP THERE!!" He's shouting and is very excited about these remarkable seagulls. So I look up - taking a huge risk incase one of the beasts crap on my head. The dirty wee buggers are shagging. Gee'in' it laldy on top of a bus shelter. Dirty beasts. "Aren't they funny mummy? Look - it's jumping about on the other one's back!" By now his shouting and pointing has, of course, caused the whole of Aberdeen to stop and look at what he's shouting about. Shagging seagulls. Whatever next. Blaine is whisked away and the topic is swiftly changed "how about an ice-cream Blaine?" but all he's going on about is the bloody shagging seagulls "They were really funny mummy, one of them was really loud! Did you hear it?" Yes, I heard it - no wonder it was squawking, it didn't look at all pleased with being taken advantage of. Sigh. I know how it feels......
So the seagulls are not only flying around Aberdeen stealing everyone's food and crapping on folk - they are also shagging in public. I think I may have to buy a gun.
Today was a nice spring day up here - 14 degrees, double figures, woohoo! In Scotland when the temperature reaches such dizzy heights we all go a bit mental and start worshipping the great big orange blob in the sky. We don't see it often and it normally doesn't last long, so everyone gets half naked to stock up on Vit D and BBQ's are on all over the place. So you end up with burnt folk with food poisoning. Nice. Today is no exception. As a "treat" (and I use that word very loosely) we take Blaine to Pizza Hut for some lunch. I haven't actually eaten even though I've been up since 5am, nor have I had a coffee, so my mood is not the best to say the least. After lunch Tom is dropped off back at home so he can listen to some crap footie match in peace and I head back to the park with the kids.
At the park it's baltic, the park is at the beach with that nasty North wind blowing a gale. I detest being cold so I wrap up - even when its a boiling 14 degrees. So I have on my jeans, t-shirt, trackie top (chavtastic) and anorak. Imogen is also suitably dressed with tights, hand knitted looped cardigan and cosy fleece. Blaine, being a boy, has on a tiny t-shirt and is , apparently, boiling. So it would appear are half of the other folk at the park. Men seem to think it's the ideal weather to take off their t-shirts and show off the peely wally skin and beer bellies. Boak. Silly girlies in tiny shorts, sandals, skimpy vest tops -showing off some slim figure and pert everything - you can tell they have never had children. Lucky them. I daren't show off any part of my body to the public - the saggy belly, stretch marks in places I never knew could stretch, wobbly bits all over the place. My skin is so pale is practically blue - so not a good look, another reason why I cover up.
After being shocked at the park by these half naked Scottish folk we pop to the shops for a bit of bargain hunting. I need Vaseline for Imogen (teething rash) and a light weight coat for Blaine. How exciting.
We arrive at the shop and get out of the car, Blaine then asks, loudly, "MUMMY! LOOK! THOSE SEAGULLS WANT TO BE IN THE CIRCUS!" What the fuck is he going on about now? "LOOK MUMMY - UP THERE UP THERE!!" He's shouting and is very excited about these remarkable seagulls. So I look up - taking a huge risk incase one of the beasts crap on my head. The dirty wee buggers are shagging. Gee'in' it laldy on top of a bus shelter. Dirty beasts. "Aren't they funny mummy? Look - it's jumping about on the other one's back!" By now his shouting and pointing has, of course, caused the whole of Aberdeen to stop and look at what he's shouting about. Shagging seagulls. Whatever next. Blaine is whisked away and the topic is swiftly changed "how about an ice-cream Blaine?" but all he's going on about is the bloody shagging seagulls "They were really funny mummy, one of them was really loud! Did you hear it?" Yes, I heard it - no wonder it was squawking, it didn't look at all pleased with being taken advantage of. Sigh. I know how it feels......
So the seagulls are not only flying around Aberdeen stealing everyone's food and crapping on folk - they are also shagging in public. I think I may have to buy a gun.
Friday, 22 April 2011
Another day off from school. Groan.
So, after surviving the 2 weeks of Easter holiday hell the schools have decided that a 5 day week in April is too much to ask of their teachers, so the kids are off school today. Again.
My day begins at 5am with Imogen shouting in her room - she's awake and she wants everyone to know it. Ugh. I bring her into bed and shove a boob in her mouth to try and get her to fall back asleep for a wee while - at least until 6am would be nice. But, sadly, this fails miserably and she's awake and wants to be up and about. Joy of joys. Blaine is now also up and about - "MUMMY! SMELL MY BUM!" Pardon me? Smell your bum?! Seriously - he is such a minger. I ask Blaine why would I want to do such a thing, he replies "it smells lovely, like flowers" hmmm.....I'm not convinced, but still refuse to smell it. Not being put off by this he disappears to his room and returns a few minutes later with his toy gun "MUMMY! SMELL MY GUN!" Again I ask why would I want to do it..... his reply "I put it in my pants! SMELL IT! SMELL IT!" I don't smell it. Blaine does. He really is his father's son. What a fucking wonderful start to the Easter weekend. I bet Mary never had this kinda conversation with Jesus.
"What are we doing today mummy?" asks Blaine "Do I have school" "No Blaine - no school today" I reply. Blaine is actually quite gutted at this as he loves school. I am also gutted. A long weekend. Whoopdiwoo.
We venture downstairs and I'm greeted by the chaos that I left the previous evening when I was just far too exhausted to move, never mind tidy up. Kim and Aggie would be welcome in my house anytime - it looks like a bomb has hit it. The kitchen is no better and Bartok and Rimsky are snaking around my ankles begging for food. Imogen is in her bouncy chair being "entertained" by Blaine (he's probably trying to get her to smell his bum, it's keeping her quiet so I really don't care) the kettle gets put on for a strong coffee. Breakfast for the cats is served to shut them up and then I get breakfast ready for the kids.
After brekkie Imogen has a wee nap, this is part of her rather fimble "routine" that we are in, she has a nap while I try to get myself ready, shove a load of washing on, do the dishes, tidy up and sort out Blaine - it is amazing what you can achieve in an hour. Of course I manage to squeeze in a small amount of on-line activity and shove a cake in my gob. Yes cake for breakfast. Oh dear.
Imogen has another settle session at nursery today so she gets dropped off and Blaine and I head to my friend's house for a wee Easter party. Blaine and some of his friends from school - all boys. Chuck in some cake, crisps, outdoor games and you can imagine the fun they had. Us mums all sat about drinking coffee, eating cake and yapping - taking it in turns to go out and use our "mummy voice" and The Look to stop the kids from locking each other in the shed. The threat of "time out" is also used. I find it amusing when you can be in a damn good conversation with another parent and half-way through you suddenly change your whole tone and look and it's "BLAINE! STOP THAT. SHARE!" then you return back to your adult conversation without batting an eye-lid. This happens frequently when parents and kids get together - along with loads of apologising for our children's behaviour. Boys. Sigh.
It was a lovely way to spend the day. I picked Immie up from nursery, she was OK, better than yesterday - in the swing when I went to get her - as soon as she saw me she started to cry and cry and was desperate to be set free from her trap and have a cuddle from mummy. Awwwww bless. She'll be fine, she'll be fine - this is the mantra I'm saying to myself in preparation for her starting "properly" in a few weeks. 2 weeks to get her sorted before I get back to work. Shudder.
So, all in all, a better day today - the sun was even shining. Tom emerges from bed at 4pm, he's working nightshift tonight (overtime) and is off tomorrow. I ask him what we're doing tomorrow "I'm listening to the football" is his reply. Ahhhh wonderful. That's just fanbloodytastic isn't it. Another whole day with 2 kids.
I think I better stock up on the voddy.
My day begins at 5am with Imogen shouting in her room - she's awake and she wants everyone to know it. Ugh. I bring her into bed and shove a boob in her mouth to try and get her to fall back asleep for a wee while - at least until 6am would be nice. But, sadly, this fails miserably and she's awake and wants to be up and about. Joy of joys. Blaine is now also up and about - "MUMMY! SMELL MY BUM!" Pardon me? Smell your bum?! Seriously - he is such a minger. I ask Blaine why would I want to do such a thing, he replies "it smells lovely, like flowers" hmmm.....I'm not convinced, but still refuse to smell it. Not being put off by this he disappears to his room and returns a few minutes later with his toy gun "MUMMY! SMELL MY GUN!" Again I ask why would I want to do it..... his reply "I put it in my pants! SMELL IT! SMELL IT!" I don't smell it. Blaine does. He really is his father's son. What a fucking wonderful start to the Easter weekend. I bet Mary never had this kinda conversation with Jesus.
"What are we doing today mummy?" asks Blaine "Do I have school" "No Blaine - no school today" I reply. Blaine is actually quite gutted at this as he loves school. I am also gutted. A long weekend. Whoopdiwoo.
We venture downstairs and I'm greeted by the chaos that I left the previous evening when I was just far too exhausted to move, never mind tidy up. Kim and Aggie would be welcome in my house anytime - it looks like a bomb has hit it. The kitchen is no better and Bartok and Rimsky are snaking around my ankles begging for food. Imogen is in her bouncy chair being "entertained" by Blaine (he's probably trying to get her to smell his bum, it's keeping her quiet so I really don't care) the kettle gets put on for a strong coffee. Breakfast for the cats is served to shut them up and then I get breakfast ready for the kids.
After brekkie Imogen has a wee nap, this is part of her rather fimble "routine" that we are in, she has a nap while I try to get myself ready, shove a load of washing on, do the dishes, tidy up and sort out Blaine - it is amazing what you can achieve in an hour. Of course I manage to squeeze in a small amount of on-line activity and shove a cake in my gob. Yes cake for breakfast. Oh dear.
Imogen has another settle session at nursery today so she gets dropped off and Blaine and I head to my friend's house for a wee Easter party. Blaine and some of his friends from school - all boys. Chuck in some cake, crisps, outdoor games and you can imagine the fun they had. Us mums all sat about drinking coffee, eating cake and yapping - taking it in turns to go out and use our "mummy voice" and The Look to stop the kids from locking each other in the shed. The threat of "time out" is also used. I find it amusing when you can be in a damn good conversation with another parent and half-way through you suddenly change your whole tone and look and it's "BLAINE! STOP THAT. SHARE!" then you return back to your adult conversation without batting an eye-lid. This happens frequently when parents and kids get together - along with loads of apologising for our children's behaviour. Boys. Sigh.
It was a lovely way to spend the day. I picked Immie up from nursery, she was OK, better than yesterday - in the swing when I went to get her - as soon as she saw me she started to cry and cry and was desperate to be set free from her trap and have a cuddle from mummy. Awwwww bless. She'll be fine, she'll be fine - this is the mantra I'm saying to myself in preparation for her starting "properly" in a few weeks. 2 weeks to get her sorted before I get back to work. Shudder.
So, all in all, a better day today - the sun was even shining. Tom emerges from bed at 4pm, he's working nightshift tonight (overtime) and is off tomorrow. I ask him what we're doing tomorrow "I'm listening to the football" is his reply. Ahhhh wonderful. That's just fanbloodytastic isn't it. Another whole day with 2 kids.
I think I better stock up on the voddy.
Thursday, 21 April 2011
Bad days
I love being a mum, I really do. I love my kids with all my heart and wouldn't change them for the world, but sometimes being a mum is bloody hard work.
Yesterday was, in terms of being a mum, a Bad Day. Now my bad days being a mum are not often. But lack of sleep had finally taken it's toll on my body and my mind. Going back to work was weighing heavily on my mind, if I can't function when all i do is spend the day on the sofa watching Jezza then how will I cope back at work!? Easy - I have an office that has a lock. I have coffee.
Anyway, my bad day started when my night had been horrific - I lost count the amount of times Imogen had woken up. So was wandering about in a bit of a blur. I drop Blaine off at school and head to the doctor's as I had an appointment for Imogen. She has a bit of a chesty cough, been hanging about for a while now, so I wanted it checked. What a fucking waste of time that was. I get in - I'm one of the first appointments of the day and, according to some stupid computer thing, my appointment with be 3 mins late. Already. It's only 9am! So we sit down and wait.....and wait.....and wait.... 25 mins later we are seen. That was a long 3 mins.....
"Probably Viral" is the response from the delightful GP (actually he was very nice, I am blessed with nice GP's who don't think I'm some neurotic mother or suffering from Munchhausen By Proxy) Now - those of you who have kids are probably used to the term "viral" I'm sure it's medic speak for "I don't have a fucking clue, but viral sounds good and will keep you quiet for a few days" Everything is viral - "oh a rash? Viral" "A wee runny nose? Viral" Apart from the one time Blaine had both a rash, temp, runny nose and they thought it was "viral" but it turned out to be Scarlet Fever and he was hospitalised. We leave, non the wiser about Imogen and her mystery cough (she never coughed once when visiting the GP - when we get in the car she starts her coughing nonsense. GAH!)
So after a complete waste of time visiting our nice GP I pondered on what to do. As I was having a shit day all I wanted to do was curl up on the sofa with LOADS of chocolate and shut the world away. But Wednesday is Mum and Baby group day and I do like going to it - it's run by the local church and these lovely wee old wifeys who adore the wee babies and toddlers. I get coffee, biscuit and a chance to see other mum friends. Most of these mums have lovely contented babies, most unlike Imogen, but they embrace us anyway and listen to my tales of woe sympathetically. Also, Tom is night shift this week and he's at home asleep. It's The Law that during his sleeping hours we must be silent when in the house or spend as much time out of the house as possible. So I decide to go. I didn't do much, Imogen actually slept so I just sat looking like a zombie and watching all the other kids run about like loons. Sadly there was no coffee on offer - at this point I did actually think I was going to cry, but a wee cake perked me up a little.
Imogen had a settle session in nursery in the afternoon, 2 hours, I dropped her off - she screamed. A lot. She's not daft - she knew exactly what was going to happen, I was going to abandon her for 2 hours. How very dare I. So off I pop to crash out on the sofa - I manage to score an hour nap (bliss) then I have to pick up Blaine from school and collect Imogen from nursery. Blaine had a good day. Imogen didn't. Not a happy bunny at all. The guilt of being a mum is not nice, but this too will pass.
Ariving home my bad day is about to get about 1 million times worse. The kids are grumpy, hungry, thirsty, tired, the house is a tip, and then Tom gets up. I take this opportunity to be child-free for 15 mins to make the tea - bliss I think. Sadly not. Tom starts to complain about the size of pot I'm using to cook the spaghetti (WTF!?) then moaning about Imogen and her grumps. Imogen is exhausted and over-tired, which is now a total nightmare and she's not wanting to sleep. I have never understood babies - you're tired, don't complain, just go to sleep! You're comfy in bed, cosy, fed, watered, cleaned, nothing wrong - sleep. But, no, not Imogen, screaming is much more enjoyable. At 7pm Tom's had enough and fucks off to band without saying goodbye. Nice one. You can imagine how delighted I was at that. How he still has his testicles in tacked is surely a miracle. Imogen decides that she's not going to bed at all - and I then have a further 90 mins of hell.
Eventually I have 2 kids in bed and I decide that it's been such a shit day i will crack open the wine. There's no wine. Livid doesn't come close. By now I'm actually close to tears - so decide that an early night is in order. I go to bed. Get woken up by Tom dropping off cat litter and muttering loudly to himself at 9:30pm, he then slams the door so loud when leaving he wakes up Imogen.
He will now be in serious trouble in the morning. I have so many nasty words going round in my head I get annoyed and can't sleep. I'm raging. Imogen finally settles. So my bad day was over and done with. But my bad day turned into a hellish night. Ugh.
Today has been a much better day as it involved going out for lunch and Tom realising that, yes, he had been a total twat of a man and in order to save his bollocks he did the hoovering, emptied the washing machine, made the tea, sorted Blaine and was actually a good husband. Miracles do happen. He not back in my good books yet though.... when out for lunch I had a wee wander around the shops and spied some nice jewellery that I like the look of. I also need a new bag for work and some work clothes. Yes, I think that might just do it........
Yesterday was, in terms of being a mum, a Bad Day. Now my bad days being a mum are not often. But lack of sleep had finally taken it's toll on my body and my mind. Going back to work was weighing heavily on my mind, if I can't function when all i do is spend the day on the sofa watching Jezza then how will I cope back at work!? Easy - I have an office that has a lock. I have coffee.
Anyway, my bad day started when my night had been horrific - I lost count the amount of times Imogen had woken up. So was wandering about in a bit of a blur. I drop Blaine off at school and head to the doctor's as I had an appointment for Imogen. She has a bit of a chesty cough, been hanging about for a while now, so I wanted it checked. What a fucking waste of time that was. I get in - I'm one of the first appointments of the day and, according to some stupid computer thing, my appointment with be 3 mins late. Already. It's only 9am! So we sit down and wait.....and wait.....and wait.... 25 mins later we are seen. That was a long 3 mins.....
"Probably Viral" is the response from the delightful GP (actually he was very nice, I am blessed with nice GP's who don't think I'm some neurotic mother or suffering from Munchhausen By Proxy) Now - those of you who have kids are probably used to the term "viral" I'm sure it's medic speak for "I don't have a fucking clue, but viral sounds good and will keep you quiet for a few days" Everything is viral - "oh a rash? Viral" "A wee runny nose? Viral" Apart from the one time Blaine had both a rash, temp, runny nose and they thought it was "viral" but it turned out to be Scarlet Fever and he was hospitalised. We leave, non the wiser about Imogen and her mystery cough (she never coughed once when visiting the GP - when we get in the car she starts her coughing nonsense. GAH!)
So after a complete waste of time visiting our nice GP I pondered on what to do. As I was having a shit day all I wanted to do was curl up on the sofa with LOADS of chocolate and shut the world away. But Wednesday is Mum and Baby group day and I do like going to it - it's run by the local church and these lovely wee old wifeys who adore the wee babies and toddlers. I get coffee, biscuit and a chance to see other mum friends. Most of these mums have lovely contented babies, most unlike Imogen, but they embrace us anyway and listen to my tales of woe sympathetically. Also, Tom is night shift this week and he's at home asleep. It's The Law that during his sleeping hours we must be silent when in the house or spend as much time out of the house as possible. So I decide to go. I didn't do much, Imogen actually slept so I just sat looking like a zombie and watching all the other kids run about like loons. Sadly there was no coffee on offer - at this point I did actually think I was going to cry, but a wee cake perked me up a little.
Imogen had a settle session in nursery in the afternoon, 2 hours, I dropped her off - she screamed. A lot. She's not daft - she knew exactly what was going to happen, I was going to abandon her for 2 hours. How very dare I. So off I pop to crash out on the sofa - I manage to score an hour nap (bliss) then I have to pick up Blaine from school and collect Imogen from nursery. Blaine had a good day. Imogen didn't. Not a happy bunny at all. The guilt of being a mum is not nice, but this too will pass.
Ariving home my bad day is about to get about 1 million times worse. The kids are grumpy, hungry, thirsty, tired, the house is a tip, and then Tom gets up. I take this opportunity to be child-free for 15 mins to make the tea - bliss I think. Sadly not. Tom starts to complain about the size of pot I'm using to cook the spaghetti (WTF!?) then moaning about Imogen and her grumps. Imogen is exhausted and over-tired, which is now a total nightmare and she's not wanting to sleep. I have never understood babies - you're tired, don't complain, just go to sleep! You're comfy in bed, cosy, fed, watered, cleaned, nothing wrong - sleep. But, no, not Imogen, screaming is much more enjoyable. At 7pm Tom's had enough and fucks off to band without saying goodbye. Nice one. You can imagine how delighted I was at that. How he still has his testicles in tacked is surely a miracle. Imogen decides that she's not going to bed at all - and I then have a further 90 mins of hell.
Eventually I have 2 kids in bed and I decide that it's been such a shit day i will crack open the wine. There's no wine. Livid doesn't come close. By now I'm actually close to tears - so decide that an early night is in order. I go to bed. Get woken up by Tom dropping off cat litter and muttering loudly to himself at 9:30pm, he then slams the door so loud when leaving he wakes up Imogen.
He will now be in serious trouble in the morning. I have so many nasty words going round in my head I get annoyed and can't sleep. I'm raging. Imogen finally settles. So my bad day was over and done with. But my bad day turned into a hellish night. Ugh.
Today has been a much better day as it involved going out for lunch and Tom realising that, yes, he had been a total twat of a man and in order to save his bollocks he did the hoovering, emptied the washing machine, made the tea, sorted Blaine and was actually a good husband. Miracles do happen. He not back in my good books yet though.... when out for lunch I had a wee wander around the shops and spied some nice jewellery that I like the look of. I also need a new bag for work and some work clothes. Yes, I think that might just do it........
Tuesday, 19 April 2011
Introducing Imogen
I thought for today's blog I would tell you a little about my daughter, Imogen, as nothing exciting has happened today really - apart from the Gas man popping into service the boiler, he then informed me I need a new one, so that's been added to my ever expanding list of "things to buy when I return to work and actually start getting a wage instead of attempting to live off SMP" - along with work clothes, shoes, new blinds for the house, a garden wall, new car, holiday, cooker etc etc etc
I talk a lot about Blaine and all his antics, but not so much about Imogen (I also refer to her as Immie) so tonight we will begin.
Immie is 5 months old (nearly 6 months really) and is, erm, what you might want to call a bit of a drama queen. No idea where she gets that from. At the moment she is the main reason why I'm currently living off the smallest amount of sleep know to man and loads of caffeine. It keeps me sane. And awake.
Imogen was born after a rather amazing birth - I could bore you with all the details of the birth, but here's the short version. Contractions kinda started 3am, kicked in couple of hours later, phoned hospital at 6am and told to get in asap. Phoned Tom to come home and strap my TENS machine to my back. Went into hospital, miserable old bag of a receptionist ignored me while I contracted every 2 mins at her desk - she was obviously far to busy doing fuck all to deal with another woman in labour. After getting booked in I hobble to my room and am introduced to a surgical student who needs to witness a live birth. Lucky man - getting to spend the morning looking at my chuff. Bet he's delighted. By this time it's about 8:30am I think - time kinda goes out the window when you're in agony. Pain relief is discussed - I demand everything, but according to my stupid birth-plan I want a drug free birth. Who the fuck wrote that?! Oh yes, me. Turns out I'm too far dilated for any drugs anyway - so it's TENS and a bit of gas and air - no water birth allowed either. GAH! At one point Tom looked like he was going to collapse in a heap on the floor - great, just what I fucking need during labour, my husband to crash out and get more medical attention than me! Luckily he didn't or he would have had his balls to play with.
After a few hours and 20 mins of pushing Imogen popped out with a kinda "THUD" sound. "OOOOHHH" said Tom "Shes huge - about 8lb i think" To which my midwife replies "HA! She'd not 8lb, she's bigger than that!" Turns outs she'd 9lb 2oz. A heifer. Massive. Apparently it was all the cake I ate during pregnancy. How I got her out nobody knows. Well I do as I felt every bloody second of it. The student is in a state of shock I think and is just staring at disbelief. Typical man.
6 hours after giving birth I go home - no messing about here, home to get on Facebook erm...I mean, home to see Blaine and my mum.......
So life with Imogen began. And it hasn't been the same since. Colic was the first drama that left me with sleepless nights. The constant crying was tiring, a sling was a life saver - she would doze off in that while I wandered aimlessly about. I breastfeed Immie, something that I'm actually quite proud of. I have had many meltdowns over this - many due to lack of alcohol as Immie refused to take a bottle, but we got over that and now she'll suck on anything really. Then, at about 4 months, we got over the colic drama. But still she didn't sleep.
My sleepless nights are well known at the school gates - I drop Blaine off in the mornings looking like a half shut knife, with a crazed almost manic look in my eyes, muttering a few words to the other parents about Imogen "oh yes, a better night last night - only up about 6 times" or something ridiculous. Sometimes I go there with a look of glee and proudly announce "She was only up twice!" and all the other mums cheer and make a lot of enthusiastic sounds to keep me amused. I go along to mum and baby groups with Immie, to meet other mums who are just like me. But, really, they are not. They are all looking amazing and swapping stories about how "X slept for 12 hours last night - I had to wake him for his brekkie!" "OOOOH isn't that fab, Y has slept through since 1 day old, it's amazing, I couldn't cope without my sleep" Then someone will ask about Imogen - how long does she sleep for at night? Without erupting into manic laughter I normally manage to say "oh sleep? Hmmm.... well, she goes to bed at 7pm every night, then gets up anything between 2 and 20 times really" Jaws drop. "Seriously?" is the normal response. Yes. Seriously. I also take Imogen to Baby Yoga and Baby Sensory - both designed to chill out the baby. HA HA HA! Not for Imogen, nah, she'd much rather screech all the way through or demand to be fed.
She might not sleep, she might be a total grumpy bum, she's currently teething and is chewing everything and anything, drooling like a crazed animal. But, she's my grumpy bum. She takes after her dad that's for sure - always moaning about something and nothing. Never happy unless she has a boob in her mouth. Sigh. I have decided that she is obviously a genius. Apparently genius babies do not sleep, they are far too intelligent for sleep - they don't need sleep, they are too intelligent for sleep. Oh yes, I have, in fact, created a genius.
So, that's my Imogen. My wee non-sleeping, grump of a baby girl, but I wouldn't change her for the world. But if she would give me a nice block of 7 hours kip in one night then it would be appreciated.....
I talk a lot about Blaine and all his antics, but not so much about Imogen (I also refer to her as Immie) so tonight we will begin.
Immie is 5 months old (nearly 6 months really) and is, erm, what you might want to call a bit of a drama queen. No idea where she gets that from. At the moment she is the main reason why I'm currently living off the smallest amount of sleep know to man and loads of caffeine. It keeps me sane. And awake.
Imogen was born after a rather amazing birth - I could bore you with all the details of the birth, but here's the short version. Contractions kinda started 3am, kicked in couple of hours later, phoned hospital at 6am and told to get in asap. Phoned Tom to come home and strap my TENS machine to my back. Went into hospital, miserable old bag of a receptionist ignored me while I contracted every 2 mins at her desk - she was obviously far to busy doing fuck all to deal with another woman in labour. After getting booked in I hobble to my room and am introduced to a surgical student who needs to witness a live birth. Lucky man - getting to spend the morning looking at my chuff. Bet he's delighted. By this time it's about 8:30am I think - time kinda goes out the window when you're in agony. Pain relief is discussed - I demand everything, but according to my stupid birth-plan I want a drug free birth. Who the fuck wrote that?! Oh yes, me. Turns out I'm too far dilated for any drugs anyway - so it's TENS and a bit of gas and air - no water birth allowed either. GAH! At one point Tom looked like he was going to collapse in a heap on the floor - great, just what I fucking need during labour, my husband to crash out and get more medical attention than me! Luckily he didn't or he would have had his balls to play with.
After a few hours and 20 mins of pushing Imogen popped out with a kinda "THUD" sound. "OOOOHHH" said Tom "Shes huge - about 8lb i think" To which my midwife replies "HA! She'd not 8lb, she's bigger than that!" Turns outs she'd 9lb 2oz. A heifer. Massive. Apparently it was all the cake I ate during pregnancy. How I got her out nobody knows. Well I do as I felt every bloody second of it. The student is in a state of shock I think and is just staring at disbelief. Typical man.
6 hours after giving birth I go home - no messing about here, home to get on Facebook erm...I mean, home to see Blaine and my mum.......
So life with Imogen began. And it hasn't been the same since. Colic was the first drama that left me with sleepless nights. The constant crying was tiring, a sling was a life saver - she would doze off in that while I wandered aimlessly about. I breastfeed Immie, something that I'm actually quite proud of. I have had many meltdowns over this - many due to lack of alcohol as Immie refused to take a bottle, but we got over that and now she'll suck on anything really. Then, at about 4 months, we got over the colic drama. But still she didn't sleep.
My sleepless nights are well known at the school gates - I drop Blaine off in the mornings looking like a half shut knife, with a crazed almost manic look in my eyes, muttering a few words to the other parents about Imogen "oh yes, a better night last night - only up about 6 times" or something ridiculous. Sometimes I go there with a look of glee and proudly announce "She was only up twice!" and all the other mums cheer and make a lot of enthusiastic sounds to keep me amused. I go along to mum and baby groups with Immie, to meet other mums who are just like me. But, really, they are not. They are all looking amazing and swapping stories about how "X slept for 12 hours last night - I had to wake him for his brekkie!" "OOOOH isn't that fab, Y has slept through since 1 day old, it's amazing, I couldn't cope without my sleep" Then someone will ask about Imogen - how long does she sleep for at night? Without erupting into manic laughter I normally manage to say "oh sleep? Hmmm.... well, she goes to bed at 7pm every night, then gets up anything between 2 and 20 times really" Jaws drop. "Seriously?" is the normal response. Yes. Seriously. I also take Imogen to Baby Yoga and Baby Sensory - both designed to chill out the baby. HA HA HA! Not for Imogen, nah, she'd much rather screech all the way through or demand to be fed.
She might not sleep, she might be a total grumpy bum, she's currently teething and is chewing everything and anything, drooling like a crazed animal. But, she's my grumpy bum. She takes after her dad that's for sure - always moaning about something and nothing. Never happy unless she has a boob in her mouth. Sigh. I have decided that she is obviously a genius. Apparently genius babies do not sleep, they are far too intelligent for sleep - they don't need sleep, they are too intelligent for sleep. Oh yes, I have, in fact, created a genius.
So, that's my Imogen. My wee non-sleeping, grump of a baby girl, but I wouldn't change her for the world. But if she would give me a nice block of 7 hours kip in one night then it would be appreciated.....
Monday, 18 April 2011
I survived! The schools have gone back......
Thank fuck for that. The school holidays are over. Get the flags out - Blaine is back at school! WOOHOO! I couldn't blog much last week as I was staying at my mums and by evening I was so exhausted I could just slob on the sofa and not move an inch - well I could move my arm to reach for my vodka ;-)
So what did we do during our exciting holiday? Well, I've already blogged about my swimming trauma. We also visited Deep Sea World, Almondvale Heritage Centre, many parks, lots of coffee and cake places, soft-play and visited a heap of people. The highlight for me during these 2 weeks? Saturday night, when I was child-free, husband free and having a much deserved drink!
Tom was at a band contest on Saturday night - did I mention he played in a Brass Band? It's like a drug. Tom can't get enough of it. It is how I met Tom and the social side is not too bad, I have made many friends through banding and, at one point, attempted to make a noise through a cornet myself. It wasn't nice and I decided that I should concentrate more on the social aspect of it - my skills are much better placed at the bar. I could rant away about Tom's addiction to brass-banding, but I won't as it will turn into a massive swear-fest!
Anyway - he is playing at a contest with a Fife band as his band have given this one a miss, quite rightly. So he spends the whole day away at band and arrives at my mums about tea-time. By this time I'm on the train heading to Edinburgh to get pissed. WAHAY!
I had an amazing night catching up with friends, enjoying good food and wine/vodka/cocktails - relaxed, laughing, being me again - not just a mummy. But I paid the price the next day - nope, no hangover, just dealing with Tom moaning that he's tired, he's had no sleep because of Imogen (something that I've been living with since the day she was born) Then we started loading up the car to get home. The amount of stuff we had was ridiculous. Tom immediately started complaining about all the stuff he had to fit into the car, on and on and on he fucking moaned. But we fitted it all in. Then he moaned about having to drive. Then he moaned that I actually had a night out. My mum is tutting quietly and saying to me "you married your father! What a bloody grump" Tom is the ULTIMATE Grumpy middle-aged man. I have never, ever heard someone moan so much about such trivial crap. Take today for instance, we have hired a gardener, now please don't think we're posh - we certainly are not, we are just fucking lazy, pure and simple. They are due to start in April - this morning Tom starts ranting on and on about how they should have started by now, what the fuck are we paying them for etc etc All the time waving the sheet of paper in his hand from the company. "Phone them" I say, no point ranting and raving. I thought he was going to combust at my sensible suggestion. Then we head out in the car to go shopping. He's annoyed so drives like an idiot to prove to everyone he's annoyed. He decides to have an argument with a bus "THERES A FUCKING BUS LANE FOR A REASON - USE IT" and I sit in the back praying that the car doesn't get trashed. It wouldn't be the first time he's wrote a car off..........
After shopping we finally get home and lo! The gardeners are in the garden! Blowing our leaves everywhere and mowing our very tiny lawn. So that shuts his moaning up about the gardeners.....until he looks to see what they have done "where they not supposed to do the edging? Well, they haven't fucking done it"; "they haven't done the weeding....how many times are they supposed to do the weeding?" I reply that I don't know - and I get moaned at for not knowing. How very dare I not know! So he hunts out the list of duties that they are supposed to do and starts ranting on and on about that. Then, finally he goes to bed, muttering things like" don't make any noise", "what the fuck is all this crap on the bed" (clothes that need put away) etc etc
So Blaine is at school, Tom is in bed, I do sometimes wonder how I survive........
I leave to pick Blaine up from school and hang about the school gates, speaking to another school mum "Is the school closed on Friday?" she asks. What?! School closed this Friday....no, no no no no no, ppplllleeeeaassee no! I'm not too sure, but Blaine comes running out of school "MUMMY! We have no school on Friday" Oh joy - that's that confirmed then. In April Blaine is attending school for 8 whole days. 8 days. He thinks this is amazing. I think otherwise. I could cry, but I think I'll just pour another voddy.
So what did we do during our exciting holiday? Well, I've already blogged about my swimming trauma. We also visited Deep Sea World, Almondvale Heritage Centre, many parks, lots of coffee and cake places, soft-play and visited a heap of people. The highlight for me during these 2 weeks? Saturday night, when I was child-free, husband free and having a much deserved drink!
Tom was at a band contest on Saturday night - did I mention he played in a Brass Band? It's like a drug. Tom can't get enough of it. It is how I met Tom and the social side is not too bad, I have made many friends through banding and, at one point, attempted to make a noise through a cornet myself. It wasn't nice and I decided that I should concentrate more on the social aspect of it - my skills are much better placed at the bar. I could rant away about Tom's addiction to brass-banding, but I won't as it will turn into a massive swear-fest!
Anyway - he is playing at a contest with a Fife band as his band have given this one a miss, quite rightly. So he spends the whole day away at band and arrives at my mums about tea-time. By this time I'm on the train heading to Edinburgh to get pissed. WAHAY!
I had an amazing night catching up with friends, enjoying good food and wine/vodka/cocktails - relaxed, laughing, being me again - not just a mummy. But I paid the price the next day - nope, no hangover, just dealing with Tom moaning that he's tired, he's had no sleep because of Imogen (something that I've been living with since the day she was born) Then we started loading up the car to get home. The amount of stuff we had was ridiculous. Tom immediately started complaining about all the stuff he had to fit into the car, on and on and on he fucking moaned. But we fitted it all in. Then he moaned about having to drive. Then he moaned that I actually had a night out. My mum is tutting quietly and saying to me "you married your father! What a bloody grump" Tom is the ULTIMATE Grumpy middle-aged man. I have never, ever heard someone moan so much about such trivial crap. Take today for instance, we have hired a gardener, now please don't think we're posh - we certainly are not, we are just fucking lazy, pure and simple. They are due to start in April - this morning Tom starts ranting on and on about how they should have started by now, what the fuck are we paying them for etc etc All the time waving the sheet of paper in his hand from the company. "Phone them" I say, no point ranting and raving. I thought he was going to combust at my sensible suggestion. Then we head out in the car to go shopping. He's annoyed so drives like an idiot to prove to everyone he's annoyed. He decides to have an argument with a bus "THERES A FUCKING BUS LANE FOR A REASON - USE IT" and I sit in the back praying that the car doesn't get trashed. It wouldn't be the first time he's wrote a car off..........
After shopping we finally get home and lo! The gardeners are in the garden! Blowing our leaves everywhere and mowing our very tiny lawn. So that shuts his moaning up about the gardeners.....until he looks to see what they have done "where they not supposed to do the edging? Well, they haven't fucking done it"; "they haven't done the weeding....how many times are they supposed to do the weeding?" I reply that I don't know - and I get moaned at for not knowing. How very dare I not know! So he hunts out the list of duties that they are supposed to do and starts ranting on and on about that. Then, finally he goes to bed, muttering things like" don't make any noise", "what the fuck is all this crap on the bed" (clothes that need put away) etc etc
So Blaine is at school, Tom is in bed, I do sometimes wonder how I survive........
I leave to pick Blaine up from school and hang about the school gates, speaking to another school mum "Is the school closed on Friday?" she asks. What?! School closed this Friday....no, no no no no no, ppplllleeeeaassee no! I'm not too sure, but Blaine comes running out of school "MUMMY! We have no school on Friday" Oh joy - that's that confirmed then. In April Blaine is attending school for 8 whole days. 8 days. He thinks this is amazing. I think otherwise. I could cry, but I think I'll just pour another voddy.
Friday, 15 April 2011
Spanx
Tomorrow I have a much looked forward to night out in Edinburgh. Edinburgh is my home of sorts. I moved about a lot as a child, my dad getting posted from prison to prison (he wasn't an inmate - he worked for the prison service) so we would have to up sticks and move frequently. But Edinburgh is where I spent most of my life. I lived in the City for a couple of years during uni - spent all my student loans on holidays and alcohol, then moved home when the cash ran out. Mum and dad lived in Mid-Lothian, nice wee village. So, Edinburgh is where I feel at "home".
Tomorrow is an evening with 3 very wonderful friends :-) Girls from uni, but we're all grown up now and don't see each other much - but when we do it's normally a drink filled evening. In preparation for tomorrow night's booze-fest I thought I better get something to wear - any excuse for new clothes. So my heels are coming out to play and a new vest top with skinny jeans.
Sadly after having 2 kids my body is slightly erm....flabby to say the least. Those of you out there who have had children will be able to understand my muffin top drama. So a pair of Spanx have been purchased - apparently they will make me super skinny with a waist like a wasp. They claim to be "High Powered, High Waisted, Power Pants" Power Pants eh? I feel a bit like Wonder Woman. Tom will be pleased. They even come with a hole in the gusset so you don't need to take them off when you go for a piss. I can see that going horribly wrong after a few voddys. Reading the instructions on the box I find my size. Apparently it's a B. This is a lie. I should have bought a Z. I purchase them and have lovely images in my head of me wearing my skinnies and looking all slender, how fabulous! Then I get home and try the things on. Have you ever tried on a pair of Spanx? It's hard work. A bit like squeezing a lion through a drainpipe. But maybe less hairy (on a good day)
I take them out of the packet - they are tiny, surely this is a mistake? I must have purchased a size for a Barbie doll, but no, apparently they should fit. I'm having doubts my ankle will fit never mind my huge arse and tummy. So, off we pop to put them on. A lot of huffing and puffing later and I'm bright red and sweating. I have now managed to wrestle them above my knee. How the fuck do I get these things over my arse? With a lot of acrobatic movement let me tell you! After squeezing, jumping, squirming and a lot of swearing they are finally over my arse. I need a rest so decide I best sit down before attempting to get the damn things over my waist and tummy. But sitting down can prove difficult when your thighs are squished so much the fat is pushing up towards your tummy. After a brief rest I attempt to pull the damn things up above my waist - much more jumping about and they are up. Phew. But now they have to go right up to under my bra. Jees - it's like a bloody work-out. I'm exhausted. I wrestle with the Spanx and they are finally on. Hurrah - but I can't actually move or breath. "It's OK, I will look super skinny" I think to myself and I look in the mirror.
What a fucking disappointment. I'm bright red after my aerobic workout to get the damn things on, sweating and look like a crazy lady. But do I look super duper skinny? Well, quite frankly, NO. Do I fuck. Now instead of having loads of blobs - I'm one BIG blob. From under my boobs right down to my thighs - one big roll of flab. Nice.
Now I have to get the damn things off (no wonder they come with a hole in the gusset to pee through, no way would I be able to get these things on and off all evening!) which results in my lying in a variety of positions on the bed (Tom would have thought his luck was in. It wasn't.) and wrestling with a pair of Spanx. Finally the awful things are off. Flung on the floor in disgust.
I will, of course, be trying this all again tomorrow evening - it'll be easier to put on after a few vodkas. Or maybe if I cover myself in oil I will just slide in? I need to ensure I have room for my copious amounts of food and drink - I can see them being taken off during the course of the evening, after a few drinkies I won't care about my flabby bits anymore. I suppose they make me who I am. A fat, flabby, mum. Wahay!
Tomorrow is an evening with 3 very wonderful friends :-) Girls from uni, but we're all grown up now and don't see each other much - but when we do it's normally a drink filled evening. In preparation for tomorrow night's booze-fest I thought I better get something to wear - any excuse for new clothes. So my heels are coming out to play and a new vest top with skinny jeans.
Sadly after having 2 kids my body is slightly erm....flabby to say the least. Those of you out there who have had children will be able to understand my muffin top drama. So a pair of Spanx have been purchased - apparently they will make me super skinny with a waist like a wasp. They claim to be "High Powered, High Waisted, Power Pants" Power Pants eh? I feel a bit like Wonder Woman. Tom will be pleased. They even come with a hole in the gusset so you don't need to take them off when you go for a piss. I can see that going horribly wrong after a few voddys. Reading the instructions on the box I find my size. Apparently it's a B. This is a lie. I should have bought a Z. I purchase them and have lovely images in my head of me wearing my skinnies and looking all slender, how fabulous! Then I get home and try the things on. Have you ever tried on a pair of Spanx? It's hard work. A bit like squeezing a lion through a drainpipe. But maybe less hairy (on a good day)
I take them out of the packet - they are tiny, surely this is a mistake? I must have purchased a size for a Barbie doll, but no, apparently they should fit. I'm having doubts my ankle will fit never mind my huge arse and tummy. So, off we pop to put them on. A lot of huffing and puffing later and I'm bright red and sweating. I have now managed to wrestle them above my knee. How the fuck do I get these things over my arse? With a lot of acrobatic movement let me tell you! After squeezing, jumping, squirming and a lot of swearing they are finally over my arse. I need a rest so decide I best sit down before attempting to get the damn things over my waist and tummy. But sitting down can prove difficult when your thighs are squished so much the fat is pushing up towards your tummy. After a brief rest I attempt to pull the damn things up above my waist - much more jumping about and they are up. Phew. But now they have to go right up to under my bra. Jees - it's like a bloody work-out. I'm exhausted. I wrestle with the Spanx and they are finally on. Hurrah - but I can't actually move or breath. "It's OK, I will look super skinny" I think to myself and I look in the mirror.
What a fucking disappointment. I'm bright red after my aerobic workout to get the damn things on, sweating and look like a crazy lady. But do I look super duper skinny? Well, quite frankly, NO. Do I fuck. Now instead of having loads of blobs - I'm one BIG blob. From under my boobs right down to my thighs - one big roll of flab. Nice.
Now I have to get the damn things off (no wonder they come with a hole in the gusset to pee through, no way would I be able to get these things on and off all evening!) which results in my lying in a variety of positions on the bed (Tom would have thought his luck was in. It wasn't.) and wrestling with a pair of Spanx. Finally the awful things are off. Flung on the floor in disgust.
I will, of course, be trying this all again tomorrow evening - it'll be easier to put on after a few vodkas. Or maybe if I cover myself in oil I will just slide in? I need to ensure I have room for my copious amounts of food and drink - I can see them being taken off during the course of the evening, after a few drinkies I won't care about my flabby bits anymore. I suppose they make me who I am. A fat, flabby, mum. Wahay!
Wednesday, 13 April 2011
Flumes
So I'm another day into my holiday and another day closer to an evening of fine chat and vodka. Hurrah!
On today's agenda was a trip to a fab shop in Bathgate - very, very cheap baby/toddler stuff, where I purchased Imogen some fine frocks and also the cutest hat and cardi set. Some people may think I'm a cruel parent when they see her in it. It's hand knitted and pink. Very hard to describe so I will attempt to wrestle her into it tomorrow and post a pic. I think she looks adorable! Others will think it's verging on child cruelty, but I'm sure she'll thank me for it when I show her the pics in 20 years lol then it was a quick lunch with my lovely friend and drinking buddy on Saturday then home to get Blaine to go swimming.
But before we went swimming I had to find some sort of swimsuit I could wear. Mum threw all hers at me to try on, apparently, according to my mother, it doesn't matter what size you are - any size swim suit will fit. I tried on two - the first was OK but a bit worn due to the age of the damn thing, so I figured I didn't want to scare anyone wearing a see through swim suit and the 2nd was huge. Baggy thing - everything was showing. So I decided a quick dash into Asda for a swim-suit was required. Asda had a lovely range of swim-suits for those of us who are skinny and have no boobs - not me. Sadly they didn't do any with built in scaffolding and most of them had pads in the boob area. Why oh why do they do this? Not all of us want additional padding you know. I got a nice black thing (slimming apparently) which had "medium support" pmsl that is a big fat lie. It had sod all support and how I didn't give myself, or someone else, an injury I will never know.
Eventually we arrive at the swimming pool. Due to Imogen's hatred of the water it is decided that mum will go out for a walk with her and I will take Blaine into the pool. It's the school holidays and during the holidays the kids get in the swimming pools for free. So guess how busy it was? HEAVING is the answer. 30 min wait to get in the damn place (so I fed Imogen while we waited so mum wouldn't have to worry about her screaming the place down as there was no boob in the vicinity) After 30 mins we were let in, along with about 1000 screaming bairns. Shudder.
Blaine loves swimming, he has no fear, splashes, jumps about etc all the things I hate. The water is Baltic of course, so my pale skin is now an appealing shade of blue. The place is full of hyper kids - jumping on each other, dunking each other, screaming, splashing - I even gave one The Look as he managed to soak me. Wee bastard. Then it happened. Blaine saw the flumes. As a rule I don't "do" flumes. Theres many reasons for this 1. I'm terrified of heights 2. I'm terrified of enclosed spaces 3. I hate the bloody things. But Blaine is really wanting to go on them - but he can't go down himself as he will drown. Fuck. So I have to go with him.
We venture towards the stairs and I wave feebly at my mum who's now in the spectator area enjoying a nice warm coffee - she sees where I'm going and her jaw drops to the ground. I can see what she's thinking - she's in shock. I'm actually taking my son on a flume. We start the climb to the flume. The stairs sway slightly with all the kids running up them, I start to feel a tad sick. I'm convinced the thing is going to collapse around me. We get to the end of the line, theres a wifey in front of me - skinny thing in a string bikini. She's even had kids. Bitch. She looks at me clinging onto the rail and says "scared of heights hen?" Fuck me - it must be totally obvious" aye" comes the reply. "So am I hen, just dinnay look down" then she proceeds to give me some advice - "go on the flume on your right, it's lighter and slower" Now I'm in a predicament - is she taking the piss or actually being kind? She has her son with her - she going on the one to the right as she hates the flumes too. So I accept that she's actually being kind.
We get to the front of the line. The young man tells us to go to our flume. He must have been about 12 - how he'd save me from drowning I'd never know. So off we pop. I sit down and Blaine sits in front of me, then I realise that I actually have to hold onto Blaine - so I have nothing to use to slow me down. Great. So it'll be breakneck speed all the way down. Oh well, best get it over with. Blaine is hyper - he sits down and I cling onto him then off we go "wweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" screams Blaine. I just scream. Round and round, down slops, round corners - eugh, bloody awful. Then we come fleeing out into the water like a bullet. Blaine emerges laughing. I emerge slightly shell shocked. We get off the flume and descend down the steps. We get to the bottom and Blaine is making his way back to the bloody flume "again mummy, again!" What the very fuck? Pardon? Again? 3 bloody times I had to go on that damn thing and every time it was worse. The last time he wanted to go on the faster flume - I think not.
Thankfully they closed the flume - hurrah! But they closed it so they could open up the Rapid Rivers. Everyone is now piling into the rapid rivers- getting sucked in by the fake current. Great - off we pop. After about 100 trips round the damn thing it's time to get out. We get dried and dressed and I meet mum for a dose of caffeine, which is vile. Swimming has now been ticked off the list - and Blaine can't wait to go another day so we can ride the flumes again. I quickly inform him that next time his daddy will be taking him so i can sit in the spectator area and be cosy and dry.
Tomorrow it's a tad more civilised - coffee and cake in the morning, a trip to the Disney Store then maybe Deep Sea World in the afternoon - depending how well behaved Blaine is. Another fun filled day. Pass me the voddy please.
On today's agenda was a trip to a fab shop in Bathgate - very, very cheap baby/toddler stuff, where I purchased Imogen some fine frocks and also the cutest hat and cardi set. Some people may think I'm a cruel parent when they see her in it. It's hand knitted and pink. Very hard to describe so I will attempt to wrestle her into it tomorrow and post a pic. I think she looks adorable! Others will think it's verging on child cruelty, but I'm sure she'll thank me for it when I show her the pics in 20 years lol then it was a quick lunch with my lovely friend and drinking buddy on Saturday then home to get Blaine to go swimming.
But before we went swimming I had to find some sort of swimsuit I could wear. Mum threw all hers at me to try on, apparently, according to my mother, it doesn't matter what size you are - any size swim suit will fit. I tried on two - the first was OK but a bit worn due to the age of the damn thing, so I figured I didn't want to scare anyone wearing a see through swim suit and the 2nd was huge. Baggy thing - everything was showing. So I decided a quick dash into Asda for a swim-suit was required. Asda had a lovely range of swim-suits for those of us who are skinny and have no boobs - not me. Sadly they didn't do any with built in scaffolding and most of them had pads in the boob area. Why oh why do they do this? Not all of us want additional padding you know. I got a nice black thing (slimming apparently) which had "medium support" pmsl that is a big fat lie. It had sod all support and how I didn't give myself, or someone else, an injury I will never know.
Eventually we arrive at the swimming pool. Due to Imogen's hatred of the water it is decided that mum will go out for a walk with her and I will take Blaine into the pool. It's the school holidays and during the holidays the kids get in the swimming pools for free. So guess how busy it was? HEAVING is the answer. 30 min wait to get in the damn place (so I fed Imogen while we waited so mum wouldn't have to worry about her screaming the place down as there was no boob in the vicinity) After 30 mins we were let in, along with about 1000 screaming bairns. Shudder.
Blaine loves swimming, he has no fear, splashes, jumps about etc all the things I hate. The water is Baltic of course, so my pale skin is now an appealing shade of blue. The place is full of hyper kids - jumping on each other, dunking each other, screaming, splashing - I even gave one The Look as he managed to soak me. Wee bastard. Then it happened. Blaine saw the flumes. As a rule I don't "do" flumes. Theres many reasons for this 1. I'm terrified of heights 2. I'm terrified of enclosed spaces 3. I hate the bloody things. But Blaine is really wanting to go on them - but he can't go down himself as he will drown. Fuck. So I have to go with him.
We venture towards the stairs and I wave feebly at my mum who's now in the spectator area enjoying a nice warm coffee - she sees where I'm going and her jaw drops to the ground. I can see what she's thinking - she's in shock. I'm actually taking my son on a flume. We start the climb to the flume. The stairs sway slightly with all the kids running up them, I start to feel a tad sick. I'm convinced the thing is going to collapse around me. We get to the end of the line, theres a wifey in front of me - skinny thing in a string bikini. She's even had kids. Bitch. She looks at me clinging onto the rail and says "scared of heights hen?" Fuck me - it must be totally obvious" aye" comes the reply. "So am I hen, just dinnay look down" then she proceeds to give me some advice - "go on the flume on your right, it's lighter and slower" Now I'm in a predicament - is she taking the piss or actually being kind? She has her son with her - she going on the one to the right as she hates the flumes too. So I accept that she's actually being kind.
We get to the front of the line. The young man tells us to go to our flume. He must have been about 12 - how he'd save me from drowning I'd never know. So off we pop. I sit down and Blaine sits in front of me, then I realise that I actually have to hold onto Blaine - so I have nothing to use to slow me down. Great. So it'll be breakneck speed all the way down. Oh well, best get it over with. Blaine is hyper - he sits down and I cling onto him then off we go "wweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" screams Blaine. I just scream. Round and round, down slops, round corners - eugh, bloody awful. Then we come fleeing out into the water like a bullet. Blaine emerges laughing. I emerge slightly shell shocked. We get off the flume and descend down the steps. We get to the bottom and Blaine is making his way back to the bloody flume "again mummy, again!" What the very fuck? Pardon? Again? 3 bloody times I had to go on that damn thing and every time it was worse. The last time he wanted to go on the faster flume - I think not.
Thankfully they closed the flume - hurrah! But they closed it so they could open up the Rapid Rivers. Everyone is now piling into the rapid rivers- getting sucked in by the fake current. Great - off we pop. After about 100 trips round the damn thing it's time to get out. We get dried and dressed and I meet mum for a dose of caffeine, which is vile. Swimming has now been ticked off the list - and Blaine can't wait to go another day so we can ride the flumes again. I quickly inform him that next time his daddy will be taking him so i can sit in the spectator area and be cosy and dry.
Tomorrow it's a tad more civilised - coffee and cake in the morning, a trip to the Disney Store then maybe Deep Sea World in the afternoon - depending how well behaved Blaine is. Another fun filled day. Pass me the voddy please.
Tuesday, 12 April 2011
Happy Holidays - really?
Hello all. Many apologies for not blogging in the past few days. My Internet access is few and far between at the moment as I am on "holiday". Apparently.
I had a brainwave a few weeks age, I decided that during the hell of school holidays I would take the kids and spend a week with my mum. Tom can stay up the road in Aberdeen and work a lot. Or not. I would get a week at my mums to socialise, do loads of fun things with the kids and be nice and relaxed. What a fucking stupid idea. I'm sure I must have been pissed when I thought of it (or maybe so sleep deprived that my brain malfunctioned)
So on Saturday Tom drives us down to mums, 150ish miles away. He can't wait to get rid of us. The car is loaded up - one of our neighbours asks of we're moving somewhere as the amount of stuff we need for a week away is just ridiculous. Pram, steriliser, pump, bottles, food stuff, clothes for 3 of us, toiletries, nappies, dummies, Blaines toys (which he packed himself - remember the finger, spider - all rubbish that he won't even look at) Bumbo for Imogen, sling, bedding - and on and on and on...... Tom drives down, in a very good mood for once (I wonder why....) and we arrive at mum's in excellent time. Good job I dozed off on the way down, I'm assuming Tom was going a teeny bit over 70mph.
Tom unloaded the car at break-neck speed, I sorted out the bedrooms with all our junk, mum put the kettle on and shoogled Imogen. Blaine, well he just moaned about being hungry or thirsty or got in the way really. After tea Tom left. Quickly. The look of glee on his face was un-bearable. Lucky git - a whole week to himself. Humph. And so my holiday began......
Blaine had made a list of things to-do on this holiday. They are as follows:
1. Go swimming
2. Go to the zoo
3. Go to Almondvale Heritage Centre
4. Go to the park
5. Visit Deep Sea World
So far we have done 3 of the above mentioned items (2, 3 and 4), swimming is tomorrow. I have a different list, here it is:
1. Meet friends for tea and wine.
2. Meet different friends for lots of vodka and food, but mainly vodka
3. Relax.
So far I have completed 1 of the above items. It involved wine. The vodka session is happening on Saturday with 3 fabulous uni friends, I can't wait for Saturday. I think relaxing will come into the equation on Saturday too.
So today we visited one of my said uni friends for a civilised coffee and play with the kids - then I headed into Edinburgh with mum, she had a boring solicitor appointment, so I took Blaine and Imogen into Rae Mac's music shop. Blaine wanted a recorder so I bought him one - how bad can it be? Very is the answer. I have forgotten how bloody awful a recorder sounds - screeching away like some dying animal. Eugh. But it's a start in his musical life. Blaine WILL be musical. He has no choice - it's in his blood apparently, and a recorder is more bearable than a brass-bloody-band. So we bring the recorder home, I also got him a wee book so I could teach him how to play it. After 2 mins he's sent outside with the god awful thing to make a noise in the garden. My ears are bleeding from the noise. It's horrific. "SSSCCCRRREEEEAAAACCCHHHH" very loud and very high pitched. Give me strength. He, of course, thinks he's some kinda world class musician and is too good for the beginner's book - he want's to play proper music as the book I have isn't proper music as the notes aren't high enough. WTF?! Not high enough? Are you kidding me - the squealing is just horrendous. So it's put away. Imogen needs to sleep so the recorder needs to go away. Now. I swear Blaine, if you don't put it away I will put it in the bin. We can play it nice and QUIETLY tomorrow. Honest. The kids go to bed, mum goes to choir and I pour myself a vodka alcopop thingy which mum has kindly purchased for my "holiday".
Tomorrow involves swimming and shopping, sounds nice but please do remember that I will have the 2 kids and my mum, Imogen hates the water so I'm reluctant to take her swimming - but mum wants to see her in the pool. Ok - you can deal with her going purple with The Rage. Blaine will strop as I don't go down the flumes. Oh - did I mention I don't actually have my swimming cossie with me, but mum has kindly offered me hers. Nice. Apart from the fact shes about 4 dress sizes bigger than me and the cossie is about 20 years old. So it might be a big saggy and well worn. What an image. So it'll be a trip to Asda in the morning for a cheap swim suit with no boob or tummy support.
On Friday I'm visiting another uni friend and her wee boy. Saturday I will be bladdered. Absolutely hammered. Tom is arriving at mum's on Saturday after some brass-band contest, so he will have to deal with the kids for a whole day. How's he getting on I hear you ask (or not) - he's having a ball. He found cat sick on the window-sill when he arrived home on Saturday. He's working lots, going to band lots, getting takeaways willy nilly, and he might even just do a wee bit of housework tomorrow night if he has the time apparently. Alright for some eh? Me, well I think I'll be a raving alcoholic by the time this week is up.
I had a brainwave a few weeks age, I decided that during the hell of school holidays I would take the kids and spend a week with my mum. Tom can stay up the road in Aberdeen and work a lot. Or not. I would get a week at my mums to socialise, do loads of fun things with the kids and be nice and relaxed. What a fucking stupid idea. I'm sure I must have been pissed when I thought of it (or maybe so sleep deprived that my brain malfunctioned)
So on Saturday Tom drives us down to mums, 150ish miles away. He can't wait to get rid of us. The car is loaded up - one of our neighbours asks of we're moving somewhere as the amount of stuff we need for a week away is just ridiculous. Pram, steriliser, pump, bottles, food stuff, clothes for 3 of us, toiletries, nappies, dummies, Blaines toys (which he packed himself - remember the finger, spider - all rubbish that he won't even look at) Bumbo for Imogen, sling, bedding - and on and on and on...... Tom drives down, in a very good mood for once (I wonder why....) and we arrive at mum's in excellent time. Good job I dozed off on the way down, I'm assuming Tom was going a teeny bit over 70mph.
Tom unloaded the car at break-neck speed, I sorted out the bedrooms with all our junk, mum put the kettle on and shoogled Imogen. Blaine, well he just moaned about being hungry or thirsty or got in the way really. After tea Tom left. Quickly. The look of glee on his face was un-bearable. Lucky git - a whole week to himself. Humph. And so my holiday began......
Blaine had made a list of things to-do on this holiday. They are as follows:
1. Go swimming
2. Go to the zoo
3. Go to Almondvale Heritage Centre
4. Go to the park
5. Visit Deep Sea World
So far we have done 3 of the above mentioned items (2, 3 and 4), swimming is tomorrow. I have a different list, here it is:
1. Meet friends for tea and wine.
2. Meet different friends for lots of vodka and food, but mainly vodka
3. Relax.
So far I have completed 1 of the above items. It involved wine. The vodka session is happening on Saturday with 3 fabulous uni friends, I can't wait for Saturday. I think relaxing will come into the equation on Saturday too.
So today we visited one of my said uni friends for a civilised coffee and play with the kids - then I headed into Edinburgh with mum, she had a boring solicitor appointment, so I took Blaine and Imogen into Rae Mac's music shop. Blaine wanted a recorder so I bought him one - how bad can it be? Very is the answer. I have forgotten how bloody awful a recorder sounds - screeching away like some dying animal. Eugh. But it's a start in his musical life. Blaine WILL be musical. He has no choice - it's in his blood apparently, and a recorder is more bearable than a brass-bloody-band. So we bring the recorder home, I also got him a wee book so I could teach him how to play it. After 2 mins he's sent outside with the god awful thing to make a noise in the garden. My ears are bleeding from the noise. It's horrific. "SSSCCCRRREEEEAAAACCCHHHH" very loud and very high pitched. Give me strength. He, of course, thinks he's some kinda world class musician and is too good for the beginner's book - he want's to play proper music as the book I have isn't proper music as the notes aren't high enough. WTF?! Not high enough? Are you kidding me - the squealing is just horrendous. So it's put away. Imogen needs to sleep so the recorder needs to go away. Now. I swear Blaine, if you don't put it away I will put it in the bin. We can play it nice and QUIETLY tomorrow. Honest. The kids go to bed, mum goes to choir and I pour myself a vodka alcopop thingy which mum has kindly purchased for my "holiday".
Tomorrow involves swimming and shopping, sounds nice but please do remember that I will have the 2 kids and my mum, Imogen hates the water so I'm reluctant to take her swimming - but mum wants to see her in the pool. Ok - you can deal with her going purple with The Rage. Blaine will strop as I don't go down the flumes. Oh - did I mention I don't actually have my swimming cossie with me, but mum has kindly offered me hers. Nice. Apart from the fact shes about 4 dress sizes bigger than me and the cossie is about 20 years old. So it might be a big saggy and well worn. What an image. So it'll be a trip to Asda in the morning for a cheap swim suit with no boob or tummy support.
On Friday I'm visiting another uni friend and her wee boy. Saturday I will be bladdered. Absolutely hammered. Tom is arriving at mum's on Saturday after some brass-band contest, so he will have to deal with the kids for a whole day. How's he getting on I hear you ask (or not) - he's having a ball. He found cat sick on the window-sill when he arrived home on Saturday. He's working lots, going to band lots, getting takeaways willy nilly, and he might even just do a wee bit of housework tomorrow night if he has the time apparently. Alright for some eh? Me, well I think I'll be a raving alcoholic by the time this week is up.
Friday, 8 April 2011
Lists and Bogies!
Today started well, Imogen had a settle session at nursery for 2 whole hours. During this time I completed a mountain of ironing and managed to drink a coffee in peace and it wasn't even cold! Hurrah! I also made a list of items I need to pack for our "holiday" tomorrow. We are going to stay at my mums for a whole week. Tom isn't coming, he has to work. Which means he'll get a decent night's sleep, go to band, work, eat take-aways, and not get nagged. Lucky Tom eh? My week will be slightly different, dealing with 2 kids and my mum, I dunno who'll be driven mad first! The list for the holiday is horrific. Imogen needs a ridiculous amount of stuff - from sleeping bag to steraliser, bumbo seat to breast pump the list goes on and on and on. Blaine helpfully packs his case - cars, severed finger from Magic Box, toy spider and pants. That's all he needs for a week apparently. Perfect. I'm looking forward to having a babysitter on tap for a whole week, i'm also looking forwad to the variety of days/nights out I have planned - child free, adult company here I come! WOOHOO! Tom will not be amsued.
We had some visitors pop over this afternoon, my auntie, cousin and 2nd cousin. Fab! Although Blaine is a wee bugger when we have visitors. He goes really weird and, quite frankly, horrible. Today was no exception. He excelled himself by throwing a ball in his cousin's face on purpose and being a wee shit. Demanding "DRINK!" like that drunk old man from Father Ted. "DRINK! DRINK" Needless to say he didn't get a drink. I will not be ordered about like that by anyone - especially not a 5 year old!!
Once my visitors had left Blaine was sent to his room to sit there until he could behave like a good boy. Technically he should be there for about a week at least. He lasted 15 mins then came down stairs in his underwear looking sollom. God only knows why he took his clothes off, I have no idea. He apologised for his behaviour and I finally got him a drink. At this point I should have poured a vodka, but I didn't.
Blaine had a Martial Arts class arranged for this evening - he's been harping on and on and on about going to Karate class, he saw it on some kids tv show or something. Blaine has tried many activities in the past, but his sporting ability is poor to say the least. Take football class for example - we went along a few times, at first he enjoyed it, but he kept running away from the ball, away from anyone and was terrified incase someone bumped into him, so he asked if he could stop going. I agreed. So now we try karate.
We arrive at the class, the lady is lovely and explains that the key thing is for the kids to have fun! Great - so far so good. He's really keen to join in and off he goes. After about 10 seconds his attention has gone and he's far too busy picking his nose to be paying any attention to what the teacher is saying. Mortified I try giving some hand signals to him to stop picking his nose. He thinks i'm waving. I'm not. He is obsessed with his nose picking - it was so bad at one point he actually infected it as he'd picked it so much. It wouldn't stop bleeding and we had to take a trip to A&E - the young doctor there was lovely, turns out he lives in our street (oh the shame) and he had a charming conversation with Blaine about bogies. Nice. Blaine loves bogies - it is disgusting. After a good examination, which involved a simple procedure of the doctor shinining a light up Blaine's nose then describing in detail the amount of bogies he could see (the things you have to do to get kids to co-operate) we leave with some cream and a very happy Blaine as the doctor could see all his bogies. Blllleeeerrrrrggghhh, Vile. Just vile. Sadly it didn't stop his nose picking. I swear his finger will get lodged up there one day.
The karate class goes well, they get to play dodge ball at the end - Blaine has no idea what he's doing, he is hit by the ball on multiple occassions but is still running about like a loon. He's eventually told to sit down. He does and the nose picking continues. The lady thinks he did well for his first class - I beg to differ, but, hey ho, he won't turn into The Karate Kid after one lesson.
Both kids are now in bed and my list for tomorrow is getting bigger and bigger as I remember random items that I need - camera charger, mums house key etc. Must remember to take stuff for myself. My list is simple - pants, make-up, straightners, push up bra, vodka. Fuck it, that will do.
We had some visitors pop over this afternoon, my auntie, cousin and 2nd cousin. Fab! Although Blaine is a wee bugger when we have visitors. He goes really weird and, quite frankly, horrible. Today was no exception. He excelled himself by throwing a ball in his cousin's face on purpose and being a wee shit. Demanding "DRINK!" like that drunk old man from Father Ted. "DRINK! DRINK" Needless to say he didn't get a drink. I will not be ordered about like that by anyone - especially not a 5 year old!!
Once my visitors had left Blaine was sent to his room to sit there until he could behave like a good boy. Technically he should be there for about a week at least. He lasted 15 mins then came down stairs in his underwear looking sollom. God only knows why he took his clothes off, I have no idea. He apologised for his behaviour and I finally got him a drink. At this point I should have poured a vodka, but I didn't.
Blaine had a Martial Arts class arranged for this evening - he's been harping on and on and on about going to Karate class, he saw it on some kids tv show or something. Blaine has tried many activities in the past, but his sporting ability is poor to say the least. Take football class for example - we went along a few times, at first he enjoyed it, but he kept running away from the ball, away from anyone and was terrified incase someone bumped into him, so he asked if he could stop going. I agreed. So now we try karate.
We arrive at the class, the lady is lovely and explains that the key thing is for the kids to have fun! Great - so far so good. He's really keen to join in and off he goes. After about 10 seconds his attention has gone and he's far too busy picking his nose to be paying any attention to what the teacher is saying. Mortified I try giving some hand signals to him to stop picking his nose. He thinks i'm waving. I'm not. He is obsessed with his nose picking - it was so bad at one point he actually infected it as he'd picked it so much. It wouldn't stop bleeding and we had to take a trip to A&E - the young doctor there was lovely, turns out he lives in our street (oh the shame) and he had a charming conversation with Blaine about bogies. Nice. Blaine loves bogies - it is disgusting. After a good examination, which involved a simple procedure of the doctor shinining a light up Blaine's nose then describing in detail the amount of bogies he could see (the things you have to do to get kids to co-operate) we leave with some cream and a very happy Blaine as the doctor could see all his bogies. Blllleeeerrrrrggghhh, Vile. Just vile. Sadly it didn't stop his nose picking. I swear his finger will get lodged up there one day.
The karate class goes well, they get to play dodge ball at the end - Blaine has no idea what he's doing, he is hit by the ball on multiple occassions but is still running about like a loon. He's eventually told to sit down. He does and the nose picking continues. The lady thinks he did well for his first class - I beg to differ, but, hey ho, he won't turn into The Karate Kid after one lesson.
Both kids are now in bed and my list for tomorrow is getting bigger and bigger as I remember random items that I need - camera charger, mums house key etc. Must remember to take stuff for myself. My list is simple - pants, make-up, straightners, push up bra, vodka. Fuck it, that will do.
Thursday, 7 April 2011
Does the constant chatter every stop?
Since 6am this morning I have heard Blaine talk non-stop. Or, if he's not talking, he's making random noises for example "ooga booga"; "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"; "BOOOOOOO!"; "Weeeee" etc etc. The list of his noises is rather endless and gets very, very irritating. He even yaps to himself when he's taking a pee. I'm sure those of you with kids can relate to this (well I hope you can, or I have a very odd child) he has been described as "quirky" by many health professionals. "Quirky" is another word for pain in the arse.
So today was another glorious day in Aberdeen, so to block out his constant noise we take a trip to the beach. The thing about Blaine and his constant yapping is I soon turn off and say things like "uh-hu"; "Hmmmmm" which can, at times, get me into trouble as I agree to something I have no idea what I agreed to and Blaine gets very excited. Today was one of these days.
The beach in Aberdeen is located next to Cadonas. Cadonas is owned, apparently, by the same people that own Blackpool Pleasure Beach. But this is a teeny tiny version. Blaine LOVES Cadonas - we call it "The Shows". I HATE it, with a passion. It's expensive, loud, full of slot-machines and the rides are crap. He rarely gets to go as it sends him hyper - totally mental. We go to the park, it's bitterly cold, the wind from the sea is bitter, it may be sunny but I still have my winter hat on. I do like to be cosy. Blaine is still talking. Going on about maths "mummy, whats 7+5?" or "5+2" or "1,000 + 10,000" the list is endless. He then moves on to another conversation about holidays - what are we doing next week at grans house. He starts yapping on and on and on, I'm distracted by the bitterly cold wind freezing me to death and switch off to Blaine, doing my usual "uh-huh" which results in Blaine screeching "REALLLLLLLLLLLY! Can we? Oh mummy I can't wait" WTF have I agreed to. "Can't wait for what Blaine?" and here is the dreaded answer "we can go to The Shows today! Can we go now? Please, now?" Fuck. I have agreed to take Blaine to the Shows. This can't happen for a variety of reasons 1 - I'm skint and 2 - I can't go on any of the rides as I have Imogen. I'm sure she'd love being flung about on a roller coaster or log flume, but I hate the bloody things. I now have to explain to Blaine why we can't go. It didn't go down well to say the least. A stroppy 5 year old is probably as horrendous as a stroppy teenager. But I have promised him that Daddy will take him another day. Great. We went to a coffee shop for hot drinks to get some feeling back into our bones. Then headed home. Day 4 of Easter Holidays is over. I'm surviving it, vodka is helping in the evening.
Oh, and Tom was remarkable helpful today - he hasn't moaned at me once yet, although I did have to witness him take a shower so we could have a conversation in peace, just to get away from Blaine for 5 mins. Please, Blaine, Haud Yer Wheesht - I really don't need to witness Tom naked in the shower on a daily basis just to have a conversation with him.
So today was another glorious day in Aberdeen, so to block out his constant noise we take a trip to the beach. The thing about Blaine and his constant yapping is I soon turn off and say things like "uh-hu"; "Hmmmmm" which can, at times, get me into trouble as I agree to something I have no idea what I agreed to and Blaine gets very excited. Today was one of these days.
The beach in Aberdeen is located next to Cadonas. Cadonas is owned, apparently, by the same people that own Blackpool Pleasure Beach. But this is a teeny tiny version. Blaine LOVES Cadonas - we call it "The Shows". I HATE it, with a passion. It's expensive, loud, full of slot-machines and the rides are crap. He rarely gets to go as it sends him hyper - totally mental. We go to the park, it's bitterly cold, the wind from the sea is bitter, it may be sunny but I still have my winter hat on. I do like to be cosy. Blaine is still talking. Going on about maths "mummy, whats 7+5?" or "5+2" or "1,000 + 10,000" the list is endless. He then moves on to another conversation about holidays - what are we doing next week at grans house. He starts yapping on and on and on, I'm distracted by the bitterly cold wind freezing me to death and switch off to Blaine, doing my usual "uh-huh" which results in Blaine screeching "REALLLLLLLLLLLY! Can we? Oh mummy I can't wait" WTF have I agreed to. "Can't wait for what Blaine?" and here is the dreaded answer "we can go to The Shows today! Can we go now? Please, now?" Fuck. I have agreed to take Blaine to the Shows. This can't happen for a variety of reasons 1 - I'm skint and 2 - I can't go on any of the rides as I have Imogen. I'm sure she'd love being flung about on a roller coaster or log flume, but I hate the bloody things. I now have to explain to Blaine why we can't go. It didn't go down well to say the least. A stroppy 5 year old is probably as horrendous as a stroppy teenager. But I have promised him that Daddy will take him another day. Great. We went to a coffee shop for hot drinks to get some feeling back into our bones. Then headed home. Day 4 of Easter Holidays is over. I'm surviving it, vodka is helping in the evening.
Oh, and Tom was remarkable helpful today - he hasn't moaned at me once yet, although I did have to witness him take a shower so we could have a conversation in peace, just to get away from Blaine for 5 mins. Please, Blaine, Haud Yer Wheesht - I really don't need to witness Tom naked in the shower on a daily basis just to have a conversation with him.
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
A trip to the park
Today is a sunny day in Aberdeen. So it's a trip to the park for a picnic. Sadly pay-day isn't until Friday and the cupboards are bare, but I manage to scramble together some form of picnic which consists of: Diluting juice, tuna sandwiches, bananas, apples, cheese strings and raisins. No crisps, chocolate or cake - they were all demolished a long time ago...... Imogen had a settle session at nursery this morning, while she's there I manage to top up my caffine levels and grab some Jezza Kyle - a classic, chavtastic show this morning. I pick Imogen up at 11 and we head to the park.
The destination for today's outing is Duthie Park. One of the good things about living in Aberdeen is it has some lovely parks. It also has some of my favourite shops - Bravissimo, Radley, Wagamama to name but a few - sadly I can't afford to buy anything from these establishments as Blaine bleeds me dry of my finances. Any spare cash I have is spent on him, or clothes for Imogen. Aberdeen is a weird city - a city in the country. One minute your in the heart of the city centre, surrounded by the usual homeless junkies, prossies, unemployed lay-abouts, mobile phone shops, Fat Rons and Game shops. The next you're at the beach or driving through beautiful scenery. Although the beach is always baltic - it's on the North Sea, so it's never ever going to be warm. Not even luke-warm. For the time being Aberdeen is while I live, but it's not, and never will be, Home. It's a means to an end at the moment, here for work, work and more work. Well, Tom is, I sit at home and do nothing apparently....... I do have a "proper" job, which I am returning to in May (currently on maternity leave) Believe it or not I'm some kinda manager, working with Autistic Adults. In May my blogs will be filled with rants about my job, mainly due to staff who are appalled if I even ask them to do an ounce of work - they look at me as if to say "sorry?! You expect me to work when I'm in this building? Is it not a holiday camp?" No it's not, get back to fucking work. You're not paid to sit about and do nothing. I am, but that's different.
Anyway, back to the park. It was a lovely day actually, nothing went wrong, Blaine didn't hurt himself, Imogen didn't grump and the sun was shining. All good. We had our picnic - threatening Blaine within an inch of his life not to feed the birds as the sea-gulls are circling over our heads ready to swoop down and steal our tiny lunch. Or crap on my coat. We wandered round the Winter Gardens (lovely massive greenhouse basically), had a wee ice-cream in the cafe - not making eye-contact with anyone as they all looked a bit, well, scary. I, of course, look totally glam in my minging gutties, jeans that don't fit, belly overhang, boobs at my waist due to rubbish nursing bra (yuck, yuck, yuck) silly coloured coat, no make up and hair a mess. So I can't really comment on others, but I do. Then we headed home. Via Tesco.
Tesco is Blaine's favourite shop. That and Asda. I kid you not. He bloody loves it, the reason he loves it is it has toys and a coffee shop. Asda even has a play area that he gets chucked into so I get peace to wander aimlessly round and round the aisles enjoying the peace. Until Imogen demands to be fed. Then all hell breaks loose and it's a rush to the coffee shop for a coffee (from a machine, bllleeeerrrggggh) so I can get a seat and whap her on the boob before she dies of starvation. Or that's what she thinks. She's massive, she will not starve in the space of 5 mins - but her screaming makes me think she thinks otherwise.
Tesco - we go in for cat food (for Rimsky, she gets cheap crap so Bartok can have his ridiculously expensive posh stuff) and a scrap book. I have this mad moment of creativity that we will do a scrap book for the Easter holidays - it's not going to work, but we'll give it a bash. As I'm wandering Blaine disappears to the toy aisle and returns with a "thing" that he wants. "Pppppllllleeeaase can I have it mummy?" Normally the response is a NO as his behaviour is not the best and he's on, what some people would call, "a tight rein" but it's a wee bouncy ball thing with sticky arms and a funny face and he's been really good today. I check the price, it's do-able. so we buy it and he's sooo excited. Apparently everyone in school has them. Hmmmm..... the time, at this point is approx 14:30. By 17:00 it is broken and lost. Arms ripped off and it's in the garden "somewhere" apparently it "bounced too high" Whatever. Sigh. I could have spent that cash on cake. Or wine. *weep*
Tom drags himself out of bed at 17:30 and proceeds to start his usual moaning and tutting and sighing technique that really, really, pisses me off. It's macaroni for tea - which I refuse to make as he always complains about it, so he now has to make it. Imogen is now over-tired and ridiculously grumpy. So tea is shovelled in with one hand while I shoogle her about with the other. She's in bed before 7pm, which means she'll be up to start the day at about 4am tomorrow. But thats ok, I don't do anything anyway apparently, so it's ok for me to live with minimal sleep. FFS. Theres football on the TV so Tom is pissed off as Blaine is still up and he has to put him to bed. I dealt with Imogen so it's only fair. Blaine went to bed at 19:30. Now Tom's lying on the sofa, in his dressing gown, legs akimbo, sighing as I'm typing - what a bloody sight. I bet you ladies out there are thinking I'm a lucky lady eh? Some English football match on TV, teams he doesn't even support so why watch it?! He's heading into work soon - a "proper" job, not like my current job. Nooooo looking after the kids isn't hard work - all I do is lounge about the house all day, watching Jezza Kyle and drinking copious amounts of coffee. Or wine. Depending how bad the day is going....
(can I just add a wee thank you to my followers! Feel free to share my blog if you think people might like it, I don't mind people laughing at my life lol)
The destination for today's outing is Duthie Park. One of the good things about living in Aberdeen is it has some lovely parks. It also has some of my favourite shops - Bravissimo, Radley, Wagamama to name but a few - sadly I can't afford to buy anything from these establishments as Blaine bleeds me dry of my finances. Any spare cash I have is spent on him, or clothes for Imogen. Aberdeen is a weird city - a city in the country. One minute your in the heart of the city centre, surrounded by the usual homeless junkies, prossies, unemployed lay-abouts, mobile phone shops, Fat Rons and Game shops. The next you're at the beach or driving through beautiful scenery. Although the beach is always baltic - it's on the North Sea, so it's never ever going to be warm. Not even luke-warm. For the time being Aberdeen is while I live, but it's not, and never will be, Home. It's a means to an end at the moment, here for work, work and more work. Well, Tom is, I sit at home and do nothing apparently....... I do have a "proper" job, which I am returning to in May (currently on maternity leave) Believe it or not I'm some kinda manager, working with Autistic Adults. In May my blogs will be filled with rants about my job, mainly due to staff who are appalled if I even ask them to do an ounce of work - they look at me as if to say "sorry?! You expect me to work when I'm in this building? Is it not a holiday camp?" No it's not, get back to fucking work. You're not paid to sit about and do nothing. I am, but that's different.
Anyway, back to the park. It was a lovely day actually, nothing went wrong, Blaine didn't hurt himself, Imogen didn't grump and the sun was shining. All good. We had our picnic - threatening Blaine within an inch of his life not to feed the birds as the sea-gulls are circling over our heads ready to swoop down and steal our tiny lunch. Or crap on my coat. We wandered round the Winter Gardens (lovely massive greenhouse basically), had a wee ice-cream in the cafe - not making eye-contact with anyone as they all looked a bit, well, scary. I, of course, look totally glam in my minging gutties, jeans that don't fit, belly overhang, boobs at my waist due to rubbish nursing bra (yuck, yuck, yuck) silly coloured coat, no make up and hair a mess. So I can't really comment on others, but I do. Then we headed home. Via Tesco.
Tesco is Blaine's favourite shop. That and Asda. I kid you not. He bloody loves it, the reason he loves it is it has toys and a coffee shop. Asda even has a play area that he gets chucked into so I get peace to wander aimlessly round and round the aisles enjoying the peace. Until Imogen demands to be fed. Then all hell breaks loose and it's a rush to the coffee shop for a coffee (from a machine, bllleeeerrrggggh) so I can get a seat and whap her on the boob before she dies of starvation. Or that's what she thinks. She's massive, she will not starve in the space of 5 mins - but her screaming makes me think she thinks otherwise.
Tesco - we go in for cat food (for Rimsky, she gets cheap crap so Bartok can have his ridiculously expensive posh stuff) and a scrap book. I have this mad moment of creativity that we will do a scrap book for the Easter holidays - it's not going to work, but we'll give it a bash. As I'm wandering Blaine disappears to the toy aisle and returns with a "thing" that he wants. "Pppppllllleeeaase can I have it mummy?" Normally the response is a NO as his behaviour is not the best and he's on, what some people would call, "a tight rein" but it's a wee bouncy ball thing with sticky arms and a funny face and he's been really good today. I check the price, it's do-able. so we buy it and he's sooo excited. Apparently everyone in school has them. Hmmmm..... the time, at this point is approx 14:30. By 17:00 it is broken and lost. Arms ripped off and it's in the garden "somewhere" apparently it "bounced too high" Whatever. Sigh. I could have spent that cash on cake. Or wine. *weep*
Tom drags himself out of bed at 17:30 and proceeds to start his usual moaning and tutting and sighing technique that really, really, pisses me off. It's macaroni for tea - which I refuse to make as he always complains about it, so he now has to make it. Imogen is now over-tired and ridiculously grumpy. So tea is shovelled in with one hand while I shoogle her about with the other. She's in bed before 7pm, which means she'll be up to start the day at about 4am tomorrow. But thats ok, I don't do anything anyway apparently, so it's ok for me to live with minimal sleep. FFS. Theres football on the TV so Tom is pissed off as Blaine is still up and he has to put him to bed. I dealt with Imogen so it's only fair. Blaine went to bed at 19:30. Now Tom's lying on the sofa, in his dressing gown, legs akimbo, sighing as I'm typing - what a bloody sight. I bet you ladies out there are thinking I'm a lucky lady eh? Some English football match on TV, teams he doesn't even support so why watch it?! He's heading into work soon - a "proper" job, not like my current job. Nooooo looking after the kids isn't hard work - all I do is lounge about the house all day, watching Jezza Kyle and drinking copious amounts of coffee. Or wine. Depending how bad the day is going....
(can I just add a wee thank you to my followers! Feel free to share my blog if you think people might like it, I don't mind people laughing at my life lol)
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
Easter Holidays - Soft Play (or Hell as I prefer to call it)
So the Easter Holidays are in full swing. Who's stupid idea was it to have the holidays when it's not Easter? The schools are off until 18th Monday (that date can't arrive soon enough). Easter is then the Sunday after it - then they are off for that bloody Royal Wedding, then an inservice day, another day off then polling day. FFS They are hardly in at all! I'm dreading the summer holidays - 7 weeks off?! AAARRRGGGHH!
Week one, day 2 and we're heading to Soft Play. For those of you who have never experienced the world of soft play let me describe it to you briefly:
A big room with a MASSIVE play area, filled with things like slides, ball pools, rope things, climbing things, and all covered in soft material so the little cherubs can't hurt themselves. The room is filled with LOADS of loud, screaming, hyper-active children. The adults sit in the room at cheap plastic tables and chairs (in some establishments these are bolted to the floor so you can't move them, a bit like being in prison) Some places provide a decent coffee and nice food. Others don't. They provide crap coffee from a machine, fried food, sweets and the dreaded Fruit Shoot (a horrid drink filled with E numbers that sends Blaine hyper) Most kids are horrendous wee chavs, bullying the other kids while the parents sit looking totally glakit and couldn't care less. You take your life in your hands if you dare speak to them regarding their child's behaviour.
Today we were trying out a new establishment. In Aberdeenshire. Please never confuse Aberdeen City and Aberdeenshire. Two different places. Aberdeen City has horrific soft play establishments, really minging, so we rarely go. Aberdeenshire has nicer ones - normally decent coffee, home made cakes, freshly cooked food. Nicer class of people in Aberdeenshire lol I have persuaded one of my school mum chums to come along with her daughter (who was going to be Blaine's future wife - but Blaine has now decided he wants to marry a boy..... Tom is not amused..... but that's another story) so she picks us up and off we pop. To Hell.
I have a voucher, but the big fuck off notice at the entrance proclaims that the vouchers cannot be used during the Easter holidays. Pissed off at not saving £4.50 we go in and prepare ourselves. Shoes and coats off we open the door and stand there as the wave of noise that greets us almost knocks us off our feet. It's heaving. Brats everywhere and it's boiling. Ugh. Blaine runs off with his friend and we head for a table and caffeine.....
Sadly the caffeine is from a machine. It's minging. So strong you could stand a spoon in it. Boak. But it's drunk anyway, anything to keep us sane! Food is purchased, paninis for the adults and a Kids Box for the kids. It's edible - will do the job. No decent cakes so I'm not impressed. The kids are roasting hot with running around so much. Then IT happens. Blaine comes over looking sollom. "Whats wrong?" I ask..... "a boy just hit me in the tummy" Now what I want to say Where is this wee bastard? Let me find his mother!! But what I do say is "ok, that's not nice, don't play with him and if he hurts you again show mummy who he is" Blaine goes off and the wee git starts harassing Blaine. He's wearing some army commando style t-shirt and combats. Shaved head. Looks like a right wee thug. Great, I think, his parents will no doubt be just as adorable. Blaine comes over "mummy, he keeps following me" So I get up off my seat and go into the play area with Blaine. The child in question is waiting round a corner for Blaine to come his way and he jumps out - right in front of me. I give him THE LOOK. Those of you who are parents will know what this look entails. It's a deathly stare, you look right at them sternly so they know you are pissed off. You don't need to say a single word. The Look is enough. He runs off towards his parents and Blaine is saved. Well done mummy! I now start praying that his parents are the "couldn't care less" type of parent and ignore his moaning about some nasty woman giving him a nasty look. My prayers appear to be answered and the wee git goes on his way without bothering Blaine again. So that's one disaster avoided.
2 hours later (yes, you go into these places for hours) and we decide that enough is enough and we head home. Ears ringing from the constant noise, head thumping, dragging 2 kids - sweating buckets from all the running round, moaning that they don't want to leave. I do wonder why I put myself through this. But I do. Blaine loves it. Even though he was punched he still loves it.
Arriving home I collapse on the sofa with Imogen (she was dragged to soft play too, poor wee soul) shes obviously traumatised by her outing so has a massive feed and we both fall asleep for about 90 mins. Blaine must have thought all his Christmasses had come at once - he was on the computer for 2 hours without me moaning at him. I wake up at 5:30. Great. No tea is ready, Imogen has slept past 5pm, Blaine is now hyper as he's been on the computer for hours and Tom has emerged from bed.
I make tea, pizza and wedges. Now I used to be quite a good cook - not a Nigella by any standard, but I can rustle up a good home cooked meal when I have the time. Tonight it was frozen food chucked in an oven - easy peasy. Except the pizza stuck to the shelf of the oven so had to be binned and the garlic bread got totally burnt. So I chucked some sausages under the grill. What a disaster. Tom was not amused. Luckily I had a big cream bun for supper to save my sanity, sadly I forgot to get one for Tom - he threatened to take mine with him to work....I gave him The Look too, he left it for me. He's learing......slowly.....
Kids are now in bed, Tom is at work. Heading to bed myself shortly to recover from Soft Play. Tomorrow is a new day, I think it's a trip to the park if the weather is nice.......
Week one, day 2 and we're heading to Soft Play. For those of you who have never experienced the world of soft play let me describe it to you briefly:
A big room with a MASSIVE play area, filled with things like slides, ball pools, rope things, climbing things, and all covered in soft material so the little cherubs can't hurt themselves. The room is filled with LOADS of loud, screaming, hyper-active children. The adults sit in the room at cheap plastic tables and chairs (in some establishments these are bolted to the floor so you can't move them, a bit like being in prison) Some places provide a decent coffee and nice food. Others don't. They provide crap coffee from a machine, fried food, sweets and the dreaded Fruit Shoot (a horrid drink filled with E numbers that sends Blaine hyper) Most kids are horrendous wee chavs, bullying the other kids while the parents sit looking totally glakit and couldn't care less. You take your life in your hands if you dare speak to them regarding their child's behaviour.
Today we were trying out a new establishment. In Aberdeenshire. Please never confuse Aberdeen City and Aberdeenshire. Two different places. Aberdeen City has horrific soft play establishments, really minging, so we rarely go. Aberdeenshire has nicer ones - normally decent coffee, home made cakes, freshly cooked food. Nicer class of people in Aberdeenshire lol I have persuaded one of my school mum chums to come along with her daughter (who was going to be Blaine's future wife - but Blaine has now decided he wants to marry a boy..... Tom is not amused..... but that's another story) so she picks us up and off we pop. To Hell.
I have a voucher, but the big fuck off notice at the entrance proclaims that the vouchers cannot be used during the Easter holidays. Pissed off at not saving £4.50 we go in and prepare ourselves. Shoes and coats off we open the door and stand there as the wave of noise that greets us almost knocks us off our feet. It's heaving. Brats everywhere and it's boiling. Ugh. Blaine runs off with his friend and we head for a table and caffeine.....
Sadly the caffeine is from a machine. It's minging. So strong you could stand a spoon in it. Boak. But it's drunk anyway, anything to keep us sane! Food is purchased, paninis for the adults and a Kids Box for the kids. It's edible - will do the job. No decent cakes so I'm not impressed. The kids are roasting hot with running around so much. Then IT happens. Blaine comes over looking sollom. "Whats wrong?" I ask..... "a boy just hit me in the tummy" Now what I want to say Where is this wee bastard? Let me find his mother!! But what I do say is "ok, that's not nice, don't play with him and if he hurts you again show mummy who he is" Blaine goes off and the wee git starts harassing Blaine. He's wearing some army commando style t-shirt and combats. Shaved head. Looks like a right wee thug. Great, I think, his parents will no doubt be just as adorable. Blaine comes over "mummy, he keeps following me" So I get up off my seat and go into the play area with Blaine. The child in question is waiting round a corner for Blaine to come his way and he jumps out - right in front of me. I give him THE LOOK. Those of you who are parents will know what this look entails. It's a deathly stare, you look right at them sternly so they know you are pissed off. You don't need to say a single word. The Look is enough. He runs off towards his parents and Blaine is saved. Well done mummy! I now start praying that his parents are the "couldn't care less" type of parent and ignore his moaning about some nasty woman giving him a nasty look. My prayers appear to be answered and the wee git goes on his way without bothering Blaine again. So that's one disaster avoided.
2 hours later (yes, you go into these places for hours) and we decide that enough is enough and we head home. Ears ringing from the constant noise, head thumping, dragging 2 kids - sweating buckets from all the running round, moaning that they don't want to leave. I do wonder why I put myself through this. But I do. Blaine loves it. Even though he was punched he still loves it.
Arriving home I collapse on the sofa with Imogen (she was dragged to soft play too, poor wee soul) shes obviously traumatised by her outing so has a massive feed and we both fall asleep for about 90 mins. Blaine must have thought all his Christmasses had come at once - he was on the computer for 2 hours without me moaning at him. I wake up at 5:30. Great. No tea is ready, Imogen has slept past 5pm, Blaine is now hyper as he's been on the computer for hours and Tom has emerged from bed.
I make tea, pizza and wedges. Now I used to be quite a good cook - not a Nigella by any standard, but I can rustle up a good home cooked meal when I have the time. Tonight it was frozen food chucked in an oven - easy peasy. Except the pizza stuck to the shelf of the oven so had to be binned and the garlic bread got totally burnt. So I chucked some sausages under the grill. What a disaster. Tom was not amused. Luckily I had a big cream bun for supper to save my sanity, sadly I forgot to get one for Tom - he threatened to take mine with him to work....I gave him The Look too, he left it for me. He's learing......slowly.....
Kids are now in bed, Tom is at work. Heading to bed myself shortly to recover from Soft Play. Tomorrow is a new day, I think it's a trip to the park if the weather is nice.......
Monday, 4 April 2011
Fat Cats
So it's here, the Easter holidays. Two weeks to spend with my lovely son. This is Day One....... all about the cats.
6:50am I am rudely awakened by the sound of one of my fat cats boaking up a fur ball. I have 2 fat cats. I lie in bed thinking "please don't wake up Imogen, please don't wake up Imogen, please don't....." fuck it. Too late. The boaking noise has woken her up. So now I have to get up and deal with Imogen then clean up cat sick. What a fucking great start to the day. It's Monday. It's not even 7am. It's day one of the school holidays and here I am, on my knees cleaning up cat sick. Can my life get any better?! Rimsky, Fat Cat 1, will be getting a swift boot up the arse when I see her. Now Blaine is also awake and is reminding me it's the school holidays. Yes. I. know.
So my cats. Rimsky and Bartok. Yes, you read correctly, Rimsky and Bartok, named as I'd recently graduated from uni and had spent God knows how many years attempting to understand the world of classical music - how I passed that Degree I will never know, but I did, with Honours. PMSL. Seriously. Anyway. They are named after composers. Google them as I know fuck all about them now - I graduated 9 years ago, I don't even know if I can read music anymore! Rimsky is a big black hairy beast......precious, spoilt and looks at you as if you're a piece of shit. Bartok is fat and a noisy bastard. He is the cause of most of my financial woes as he suffers from urinary problems - and no insurance company will touch him. In the past year he's been hospitalised twice, a catheter shoved up his arse, shaved and humiliated. All at a ridiculous expense - the vet bloody loves us. He's on a specialist diet. It's £7.80 or something ridiculous for 12 pouches. He gets 3 a day. You do the maths - it's bloody expensive. He needs to lose weight as he's fat. In December he was 7.4kg. Fat Bastard. So a diet started. He was weighed last month - "oooooh he's lost too much weight" said the nurse, "tell you what, lets take some blood and make sure he's not got something wrong with a/b/c at the most ridiculous cost of £50" No - he's lost too much weight as he's on a diet. But the blood was taken and the bill was paid. Again. Today it's been 4 weeks since his last weigh in and he has to go back.......(his blood results were fine by the way, he's losing weight because he's on a diet - stupid bloody nurse, I'm sure she's on commission)
This is Tom's job. Tom who was on night shift last night. Tom who is a grumpy git at the best of times, fling in night shift, less sleep than normal and a trip to the vet with Bartok - you can imagine the look of joy on his face. So out comes the cat basket, Bartok suddenly develops the speed of a ninja and disappears under the futon bed. Tom slams the bedroom door shouting at Blaine "Keep the door closed!!! Don't you DARE open this door" Bartok is clinging on to the carpet under the bed for dear life. He knows whats coming - every time he goes in this bag he's taken to a place where they shove not nice things into him. So, understandably, he doesn't really like it. Tom has a towel. If you're a cat owner you will know why he has a towel.
The futon bed is moved and Tom is tripping over a million and one things shouting and cursing like a mad man before managing to squeeze his belly in behind the futon to grab Bartok. "Fuck Sake Bartok! Get out from under there" Yeeeesssss.... Tom believes Bartok can speaka de English. He can't. He's a cat. He understands the noise of the electronic tin-opened (yes, I'm posh) and his name. Everything else is just "blah, blah, blah" so shouting instructions at him really doesn't help the situation. Best not mention this to Tom, he will just erupt.
He gets him, flings him in the bag and I think he's now in shock that he got him in first time, but the zip is stuck. "FUCK! FUCK! DON'T JUST STAND THERE, GET IT ZIPPED" He screeches at me as he holds Bartok down in some head-lock wrestling move that The Rock would be proud of. Calmly I zip up the bag, the zip wasn't stuck - Tom is just totally incompetent. Bartok is RAGING. And off they pop to the vets. Bartok fighting with the cat bag. Tom covered in sweat. Blaine and Imogen looking totally bemused as they wave good bye to Bartok "is he going to be a star mummy?" asks Blaine (in Blaine's world you become a star when you die, it's how we explained my dad's death to him) "nope, not a star......" then I mutter "unless your dad's driving kills him on the way to the vets"
So he's weighed. He's now 6kg - which is good. And the nurse is probably furious as she can see no reason for him to have any procedures. Normally we walk out of that vet with a hefty bill. Last time I went with Rimsky she convinced me Rimsky was stressed and we left with Feliway cat diffuser thing, some herbal spray and ointment for her fur balls. I only took her in to get weighed (which is free) I can't remember that bill - I think I've blocked it out of my memory. She's not stressed, she just hates the vet and is "precious" - looks a bit like the Queen. But without the tiara. She has nothing to be stressed about - she has the life of Riley, lounges about on my bed all day, gets fed on demand, refuses to leave the house if it's too hot/cold/raining/snowing/windy/dirty - so she stays in 24/7. Tom even leaves the kitchen tap on for her to drink from. She cries - Tom responds. Rimsky is HIS cat. And she knows it. She has the vet next Monday to get weighed, Tom will also deal with that.
So, I've now introduced you to my Fat Cats. They will probably pop up now and again in my blogs. I could go on and on about them - I have a few stories to tell, but I won't.
Oh, did I mention it's the school holidays - will fill you in on that tomorrow. I'm going to soft play - or Hell as I prefer to call it. Best stock up on wine.
6:50am I am rudely awakened by the sound of one of my fat cats boaking up a fur ball. I have 2 fat cats. I lie in bed thinking "please don't wake up Imogen, please don't wake up Imogen, please don't....." fuck it. Too late. The boaking noise has woken her up. So now I have to get up and deal with Imogen then clean up cat sick. What a fucking great start to the day. It's Monday. It's not even 7am. It's day one of the school holidays and here I am, on my knees cleaning up cat sick. Can my life get any better?! Rimsky, Fat Cat 1, will be getting a swift boot up the arse when I see her. Now Blaine is also awake and is reminding me it's the school holidays. Yes. I. know.
So my cats. Rimsky and Bartok. Yes, you read correctly, Rimsky and Bartok, named as I'd recently graduated from uni and had spent God knows how many years attempting to understand the world of classical music - how I passed that Degree I will never know, but I did, with Honours. PMSL. Seriously. Anyway. They are named after composers. Google them as I know fuck all about them now - I graduated 9 years ago, I don't even know if I can read music anymore! Rimsky is a big black hairy beast......precious, spoilt and looks at you as if you're a piece of shit. Bartok is fat and a noisy bastard. He is the cause of most of my financial woes as he suffers from urinary problems - and no insurance company will touch him. In the past year he's been hospitalised twice, a catheter shoved up his arse, shaved and humiliated. All at a ridiculous expense - the vet bloody loves us. He's on a specialist diet. It's £7.80 or something ridiculous for 12 pouches. He gets 3 a day. You do the maths - it's bloody expensive. He needs to lose weight as he's fat. In December he was 7.4kg. Fat Bastard. So a diet started. He was weighed last month - "oooooh he's lost too much weight" said the nurse, "tell you what, lets take some blood and make sure he's not got something wrong with a/b/c at the most ridiculous cost of £50" No - he's lost too much weight as he's on a diet. But the blood was taken and the bill was paid. Again. Today it's been 4 weeks since his last weigh in and he has to go back.......(his blood results were fine by the way, he's losing weight because he's on a diet - stupid bloody nurse, I'm sure she's on commission)
This is Tom's job. Tom who was on night shift last night. Tom who is a grumpy git at the best of times, fling in night shift, less sleep than normal and a trip to the vet with Bartok - you can imagine the look of joy on his face. So out comes the cat basket, Bartok suddenly develops the speed of a ninja and disappears under the futon bed. Tom slams the bedroom door shouting at Blaine "Keep the door closed!!! Don't you DARE open this door" Bartok is clinging on to the carpet under the bed for dear life. He knows whats coming - every time he goes in this bag he's taken to a place where they shove not nice things into him. So, understandably, he doesn't really like it. Tom has a towel. If you're a cat owner you will know why he has a towel.
The futon bed is moved and Tom is tripping over a million and one things shouting and cursing like a mad man before managing to squeeze his belly in behind the futon to grab Bartok. "Fuck Sake Bartok! Get out from under there" Yeeeesssss.... Tom believes Bartok can speaka de English. He can't. He's a cat. He understands the noise of the electronic tin-opened (yes, I'm posh) and his name. Everything else is just "blah, blah, blah" so shouting instructions at him really doesn't help the situation. Best not mention this to Tom, he will just erupt.
He gets him, flings him in the bag and I think he's now in shock that he got him in first time, but the zip is stuck. "FUCK! FUCK! DON'T JUST STAND THERE, GET IT ZIPPED" He screeches at me as he holds Bartok down in some head-lock wrestling move that The Rock would be proud of. Calmly I zip up the bag, the zip wasn't stuck - Tom is just totally incompetent. Bartok is RAGING. And off they pop to the vets. Bartok fighting with the cat bag. Tom covered in sweat. Blaine and Imogen looking totally bemused as they wave good bye to Bartok "is he going to be a star mummy?" asks Blaine (in Blaine's world you become a star when you die, it's how we explained my dad's death to him) "nope, not a star......" then I mutter "unless your dad's driving kills him on the way to the vets"
So he's weighed. He's now 6kg - which is good. And the nurse is probably furious as she can see no reason for him to have any procedures. Normally we walk out of that vet with a hefty bill. Last time I went with Rimsky she convinced me Rimsky was stressed and we left with Feliway cat diffuser thing, some herbal spray and ointment for her fur balls. I only took her in to get weighed (which is free) I can't remember that bill - I think I've blocked it out of my memory. She's not stressed, she just hates the vet and is "precious" - looks a bit like the Queen. But without the tiara. She has nothing to be stressed about - she has the life of Riley, lounges about on my bed all day, gets fed on demand, refuses to leave the house if it's too hot/cold/raining/snowing/windy/dirty - so she stays in 24/7. Tom even leaves the kitchen tap on for her to drink from. She cries - Tom responds. Rimsky is HIS cat. And she knows it. She has the vet next Monday to get weighed, Tom will also deal with that.
So, I've now introduced you to my Fat Cats. They will probably pop up now and again in my blogs. I could go on and on about them - I have a few stories to tell, but I won't.
Oh, did I mention it's the school holidays - will fill you in on that tomorrow. I'm going to soft play - or Hell as I prefer to call it. Best stock up on wine.
Sunday, 3 April 2011
Mothers Day = Morgans and coke.
So, this is my first attempt at blogging. Fuck me. Off we go...
Today was Mothering Sunday. A day when all the mums, like myself, get loads of pressies and handmade cards (that you swoon over but really struggle to see what the fuck they have drawn - is it a flower? An animal of some sort? Who knows) and the promise of a long-lie with brekkie in bed. How fanfuckintastic is that.
So my Mother's day begins at 6am (I think.... maybe it was 5:30?) with the dulcet tones of Imogen. The 5 month old child. Several attempts at the dummy later and I drag myself out of bed, tutting and sighing so Tom (The Husband) knows I'm well and truly Pissed Off that I have to get out of bed. On Mother's Day. Bastard. A short while later I'm joined by Blaine, the 5 year old. His constant yapping begins immediately - but he's rather annoyed that his daddy is still in bed as he wanted to make me breakfast. Hmmmm.... I suppose being up early has it's bonuses - not having to eat anything made by a 5 year old.
So, Tom finally emerges from bed, wonders why I'm pissed off and proceeds to complain about everything. The house is a mess, stop talking Blaine, why is Imogen crying, why are you pissed off. Ugh. SHUT UP. Que me disappearing to the shower to block out his moaning.
I decide - in the shower - that it's a nice day and rather than waste it by being miserable I will take the kids to Brechin Castle Centre. Of course it takes approx 2 hours to get everyone organised. Including Tom- I did tell him to keep his miserable puss at home, but he refused. And he drove. Fuck sake. He drives like an idiot.
We arrive at Brechin - the website looked fab, said it had tractor rides, animals to pet (eeeewwwww) and the promise of caffeine. Blaine just wants to run about like a loon. Imogen is in the sling and Tom is moaning that it's "fucking baltic". The tractor rides aren't on. There are no animals. But there is a restaurant - so I'm saved.
I get my big cake. Banana thing with cream. Blaine has a hissy as he doesn't want his cake - oh well, I'll have to have it then, Imogen scoffed her pureed food (butternut squash then papaya) and the caffine probably saved me from having a breakdown. I then wandered aimlessly round the garden centre, wondering if a soup bowl at £6.99 is good value or over-priced crap. I decided that I could probably get 4 for a fiver in Tesco - so it's over-priced crap. We then head home, Blaine scoffing a Wham bar in the car.
Home. Tom goes to bed - he's night shift so needs must. I then have to juggle the kids, make tea and stay sane. The hours between 4-7 are the worst of my day. Everyday is the same. Imogen gets grumpy, Blaine moans he's hungry, Tom refuses to help (well he can't if he's asleep) and I try to keep calm and carry on.
Steak pie got burnt. Imogen screamed when her neep was finished so a banana was quickly mashed. Blaine decided he "couldn't eat a lot" and had half a potato. Tom looked glakit.
Bedtime. It's my "job" to deal with Imogen - well, I kinda half to as she's like a permanent feature on my boob. Which means it's Tom's job to deal with Blaine. Imogen goes to bed at 7pm. On. The. Dot. Blaine 7:30.
Kids in bed. Morgan's and coke in hand. Mother's Day? DONE. Oh my present's - I forgot to mention what I got. A mug and some Nivea body stuff. Imogen got 2 new bibs proudly proclaiming "I LOVE MUMMY" which she HAD to wear to prove it to the world. Of course she loves me, I provide her with boobs to feed from. That's the only realson she loves me I think.......Of course I got a handmade card, butterflies on it (I think - could be ants) made by Blaine with "Max's Glitter Pen" Joy of joys.
Tom now lying on the sofa. Complaining that I'm "typing too loudly" "WTF are you doing?" "Shhhhh.... go upstairs and type"
Shit. Just remembered - I need to phone The Mothership and wish her a happy mother's day....... double Morgan's anyone?
Today was Mothering Sunday. A day when all the mums, like myself, get loads of pressies and handmade cards (that you swoon over but really struggle to see what the fuck they have drawn - is it a flower? An animal of some sort? Who knows) and the promise of a long-lie with brekkie in bed. How fanfuckintastic is that.
So my Mother's day begins at 6am (I think.... maybe it was 5:30?) with the dulcet tones of Imogen. The 5 month old child. Several attempts at the dummy later and I drag myself out of bed, tutting and sighing so Tom (The Husband) knows I'm well and truly Pissed Off that I have to get out of bed. On Mother's Day. Bastard. A short while later I'm joined by Blaine, the 5 year old. His constant yapping begins immediately - but he's rather annoyed that his daddy is still in bed as he wanted to make me breakfast. Hmmmm.... I suppose being up early has it's bonuses - not having to eat anything made by a 5 year old.
So, Tom finally emerges from bed, wonders why I'm pissed off and proceeds to complain about everything. The house is a mess, stop talking Blaine, why is Imogen crying, why are you pissed off. Ugh. SHUT UP. Que me disappearing to the shower to block out his moaning.
I decide - in the shower - that it's a nice day and rather than waste it by being miserable I will take the kids to Brechin Castle Centre. Of course it takes approx 2 hours to get everyone organised. Including Tom- I did tell him to keep his miserable puss at home, but he refused. And he drove. Fuck sake. He drives like an idiot.
We arrive at Brechin - the website looked fab, said it had tractor rides, animals to pet (eeeewwwww) and the promise of caffeine. Blaine just wants to run about like a loon. Imogen is in the sling and Tom is moaning that it's "fucking baltic". The tractor rides aren't on. There are no animals. But there is a restaurant - so I'm saved.
I get my big cake. Banana thing with cream. Blaine has a hissy as he doesn't want his cake - oh well, I'll have to have it then, Imogen scoffed her pureed food (butternut squash then papaya) and the caffine probably saved me from having a breakdown. I then wandered aimlessly round the garden centre, wondering if a soup bowl at £6.99 is good value or over-priced crap. I decided that I could probably get 4 for a fiver in Tesco - so it's over-priced crap. We then head home, Blaine scoffing a Wham bar in the car.
Home. Tom goes to bed - he's night shift so needs must. I then have to juggle the kids, make tea and stay sane. The hours between 4-7 are the worst of my day. Everyday is the same. Imogen gets grumpy, Blaine moans he's hungry, Tom refuses to help (well he can't if he's asleep) and I try to keep calm and carry on.
Steak pie got burnt. Imogen screamed when her neep was finished so a banana was quickly mashed. Blaine decided he "couldn't eat a lot" and had half a potato. Tom looked glakit.
Bedtime. It's my "job" to deal with Imogen - well, I kinda half to as she's like a permanent feature on my boob. Which means it's Tom's job to deal with Blaine. Imogen goes to bed at 7pm. On. The. Dot. Blaine 7:30.
Kids in bed. Morgan's and coke in hand. Mother's Day? DONE. Oh my present's - I forgot to mention what I got. A mug and some Nivea body stuff. Imogen got 2 new bibs proudly proclaiming "I LOVE MUMMY" which she HAD to wear to prove it to the world. Of course she loves me, I provide her with boobs to feed from. That's the only realson she loves me I think.......Of course I got a handmade card, butterflies on it (I think - could be ants) made by Blaine with "Max's Glitter Pen" Joy of joys.
Tom now lying on the sofa. Complaining that I'm "typing too loudly" "WTF are you doing?" "Shhhhh.... go upstairs and type"
Shit. Just remembered - I need to phone The Mothership and wish her a happy mother's day....... double Morgan's anyone?
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