"DAAAAAD!!!!! HE'S KICKING MEEEEE!!!"
"ARRRGHHHHH! HE'S TRYING TO GET MY FAAACE"
"NOOOOO! IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!"
The boys sometimes enjoy trying to kill each other, in often violent and inventive ways. Some days it's been a full-time occupation trying to prevent Armageddon. Although we've issued a non-violence policy, punishable by raised dad-voice and the devastating loss of favored toys, they still occasionally end up damaging each other, mostly by "accident" when they are "playing".
I sometimes suspect them of whispering mafia-style death threats to each other when we're not in earshot. "Youse gonna wear concrete shoes brother" speaking sideways out of his mouth, "Meet me at the deserted warehouse on the misty docks at midnight, and you'd better come alone".
I also suspect that even when we think the fight is over and dealt with, the grudge is still being harbored. This was validated by overhearing SM muttering sadistically to himself... "mumble, mumble, my brother needs a handbag...". A vicious threat indeed.
Bigmad is getting wise in his old age and starting to become more self-aware. After getting irritated at his brother - as were we too, he was being a pain - rather than swinging a punch at him, told me with a very grown up shrug of his shoulders and a resigned voice "Well, I suppose when my brother was born, at least I got some free lego".
Sunday, 22 March 2009
Growing up,
I'm sure there are moments in the life of any parent or guardian when they'd love to tape-record the things their children say, and play it back to them when they are older.
BigMad was happily walking between me and his dad today chattering about everything, when he said "I hope I don't become hypnotized by those chavvy teenagers and become one when I'm older". We expressed our agreement with his statement but told him that when you become a teenager sometimes you might become a pain in the backside for a couple of years whilst you deal with getting older, and that this was fairly standard. We said if he did this we'd still love him, and would wait for him to become his normal self in a few years.
He replied, full of concern, "I hope I don't do that. I hope I'm a nice teenager and don't smoke or throw things."
When he turns 13 please direct BM to this post.
BigMad was happily walking between me and his dad today chattering about everything, when he said "I hope I don't become hypnotized by those chavvy teenagers and become one when I'm older". We expressed our agreement with his statement but told him that when you become a teenager sometimes you might become a pain in the backside for a couple of years whilst you deal with getting older, and that this was fairly standard. We said if he did this we'd still love him, and would wait for him to become his normal self in a few years.
He replied, full of concern, "I hope I don't do that. I hope I'm a nice teenager and don't smoke or throw things."
When he turns 13 please direct BM to this post.
SharkBait
At tea-time, after a visit to an Aquarium, SmallMad asked me hopefully whether he might one day be eaten by a shark. I explained that Sharks don't generally eat people and if they do, it's because that person was in the wrong place, or was mistaken for a seal. I told him that humans were too bony for Sharkfood, and that they liked fatty animals like seals.
"But what if you were really fat?" He asked. "You'd have to be quite fat for a shark to enjoy munching you!" With a cheeky glint in his eye he asked "How fat... as fat as...... you?"
Slightly piqued, not so much by his comment, but by the muffled sniggers I could hear from the kitchen, I replied "Nope! Fatter than me! Sharks like REALLY FAT things"
He poked me critically in the stomach and instructed me to "EAT MORE! EAT ALL THIS", piling leftover food onto my plate. "this is your FEAST, then we can feed you to the SHARKS!"
The diet starts tomorrow.
"But what if you were really fat?" He asked. "You'd have to be quite fat for a shark to enjoy munching you!" With a cheeky glint in his eye he asked "How fat... as fat as...... you?"
Slightly piqued, not so much by his comment, but by the muffled sniggers I could hear from the kitchen, I replied "Nope! Fatter than me! Sharks like REALLY FAT things"
He poked me critically in the stomach and instructed me to "EAT MORE! EAT ALL THIS", piling leftover food onto my plate. "this is your FEAST, then we can feed you to the SHARKS!"
The diet starts tomorrow.
Friday, 20 March 2009
Smallmad and the Bird.
Children of four (sorry, nearly five) like birds. They chase pigeons, feed ducks, and put bread out for the sparrows. SmallMad has his own ideas about what birds are for however, and I think this might be our fault. I had the patio doors open last Saturday and pointed out a little baby sparrow sitting at the top a bush, tweeting about the joys of spring. "Look SM! A bird!"
He was quiet for a second before letting out an almighty roar.
"GGGGGRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!! BIRD, I'M GOING TO EAT YOU FOR MY DINNER!"
Maybe we've taken the animal/food association thing a little far.
He was quiet for a second before letting out an almighty roar.
"GGGGGRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!! BIRD, I'M GOING TO EAT YOU FOR MY DINNER!"
Maybe we've taken the animal/food association thing a little far.
Stepmonster Blues.
Sometimes this parenting of children who aren't yours is an emotional business. Even when you only have them part time, they are still very much with you all week. You think about their welfare, hoping they are safe, not watching too much TV, that they won't be overloaded with sugar when they arrive later and hoping they are happy. You miss them. Funnily enough their dad knows them a little better than I do, and I can't imagine how he feels when we drop them off for another week. I know it tears him apart, and I am so proud of him for his positive attitude.
I've gone from a childless woman in her 30s, to someone influential to the wee hearts and (deranged) minds of two small boys. When I talk about them I see the eyes of my club-loving, beer-swilling, sub-twenty-five years of age friends and colleagues fill with pity. I'm jealous sometimes of their free weekends which unlike mine provide a respite from the working week, and stretch out magically free, full of trips to the pub, walks over the moors, and lazy mornings in bed (we were woken at 6 last saturday morning by BM standing over us "WONDERING if it was time to GET UP!" I bet they didn't get to bounce around the garden on a space-hopper, brandishing a fake sword like ChaosMan did though.
Although I have a fairly active role in the upbringing of the two mads, there are things I am, as a step-person, automatically excluded from. Although this hurts sometimes, it's right that both the boys natural parents be involved over me. Parents Evening this week highlighted this. Although I spend a lot of time encouraging the children to learn, educating them, monitoring their progress and finding out about their school lives, I'm excluded from going to the school, meeting and talking to their teachers and sharing parents evening pride that they're doing well. Maybe one day there will be room for three chairs opposite their teachers but I doubt it.
Their are certain advantages to being a step-person though. The boys tend to come and talk to me about stuff that is bothering them, BM especially. He asks me a lot of questions about his parents divorce, about what my family is to him, about friendship and about school. I answer him honestly and openly, like his Dad would, and I feel privileged that he feels he can come to me. He also shares his knowledge of grossness and bad jokes as he knows I find them as funny as he does. After putting SM to bed, Mr C comes downstairs sometimes to find us rolling about on the sofa in fits of giggles after BM has shared some disgusting but random snippet of information.
When your partner has children there is no guarantee that you'll like them, they'll like you, or that you'll get on at all. Luckily in our case we all seem to quite like each other but it's an odd feeling. Parents have blood bonds with children, and in most cases, automatically love them. Not so with the step-person. That bond might happen instantly, take time, or never happen at all.In any case it takes understanding, patience, and sometimes a very thick skin. I read something which struck home the other day though, which I must remember to tell BM next time he asks me about his newly reconstructed family. "Blood is thicker than water, but love is thicker than blood."
I've gone from a childless woman in her 30s, to someone influential to the wee hearts and (deranged) minds of two small boys. When I talk about them I see the eyes of my club-loving, beer-swilling, sub-twenty-five years of age friends and colleagues fill with pity. I'm jealous sometimes of their free weekends which unlike mine provide a respite from the working week, and stretch out magically free, full of trips to the pub, walks over the moors, and lazy mornings in bed (we were woken at 6 last saturday morning by BM standing over us "WONDERING if it was time to GET UP!" I bet they didn't get to bounce around the garden on a space-hopper, brandishing a fake sword like ChaosMan did though.
Although I have a fairly active role in the upbringing of the two mads, there are things I am, as a step-person, automatically excluded from. Although this hurts sometimes, it's right that both the boys natural parents be involved over me. Parents Evening this week highlighted this. Although I spend a lot of time encouraging the children to learn, educating them, monitoring their progress and finding out about their school lives, I'm excluded from going to the school, meeting and talking to their teachers and sharing parents evening pride that they're doing well. Maybe one day there will be room for three chairs opposite their teachers but I doubt it.
Their are certain advantages to being a step-person though. The boys tend to come and talk to me about stuff that is bothering them, BM especially. He asks me a lot of questions about his parents divorce, about what my family is to him, about friendship and about school. I answer him honestly and openly, like his Dad would, and I feel privileged that he feels he can come to me. He also shares his knowledge of grossness and bad jokes as he knows I find them as funny as he does. After putting SM to bed, Mr C comes downstairs sometimes to find us rolling about on the sofa in fits of giggles after BM has shared some disgusting but random snippet of information.
When your partner has children there is no guarantee that you'll like them, they'll like you, or that you'll get on at all. Luckily in our case we all seem to quite like each other but it's an odd feeling. Parents have blood bonds with children, and in most cases, automatically love them. Not so with the step-person. That bond might happen instantly, take time, or never happen at all.In any case it takes understanding, patience, and sometimes a very thick skin. I read something which struck home the other day though, which I must remember to tell BM next time he asks me about his newly reconstructed family. "Blood is thicker than water, but love is thicker than blood."
Wednesday, 18 March 2009
The Career Path of Small Mad. An Update
SmallMad and I were making chocolate rock-cakes the other day. He was having a great time carefully measuring out the flour, adding cocoa, a pinch of salt and chocolate chips and luckily I caught the gravy granules before they were poured earnestly into the bowl."But we NEED some in there!" He broke the egg, picked out the shells and beat it for me.
As he was stirring the mixture he told me he was going to become a butcher. Thinking he'd gotten confused between his professions I asked him if he meant a baker.
"No. I can't become a baker when I'm growed up" he said sadly. I asked him why, and with a surprising amount of self awareness he told me that he'd only probably eat all the cakes.
He paused, cocked his head to the side, and much-cheered up told me that "actually, Yes. I AM going to be a baker. Yum"
I'm glad. His rock cakes were great!
As he was stirring the mixture he told me he was going to become a butcher. Thinking he'd gotten confused between his professions I asked him if he meant a baker.
"No. I can't become a baker when I'm growed up" he said sadly. I asked him why, and with a surprising amount of self awareness he told me that he'd only probably eat all the cakes.
He paused, cocked his head to the side, and much-cheered up told me that "actually, Yes. I AM going to be a baker. Yum"
I'm glad. His rock cakes were great!
Monday, 16 March 2009
Girls VS Boys 3.
"Have you ever had babies?" I was asked by BM at the weekend.
"Nope! I'm sure you would have met them if I had" I answered.
"Oh. Oh yeh. You know, I'm glad I'm not a girl. It saves me from having all that PAIN. URGH". Which I thought was rather sweet.
SmallMad, listening carefully to this conversation, stuffed a knobbly ball up his jumper, hands pressed into the small of his back, and belly thrust out, "LOOK AT ME! I'm gonna lay a big SPIKY EGG!".
Glad I'm not!
"Nope! I'm sure you would have met them if I had" I answered.
"Oh. Oh yeh. You know, I'm glad I'm not a girl. It saves me from having all that PAIN. URGH". Which I thought was rather sweet.
SmallMad, listening carefully to this conversation, stuffed a knobbly ball up his jumper, hands pressed into the small of his back, and belly thrust out, "LOOK AT ME! I'm gonna lay a big SPIKY EGG!".
Glad I'm not!
Winkies.
Winkies. We all know what they are. The boys, being boys, find them hilarious, and were fascinated to learn that a Blue Whale's winkie is about three of me standing on top of one another. "DAAAAD!!! SHE's being NAUGHTY!" from SM and from his brother. "I didn't even know whales had THOSE!"
Over dinner we were asked, "Is your Winkie your funny bone?". Whilst I was spluttering into my roast, his dad answered, "Yes, it's a very funny bone"
"So You've got two funny bones then, one in your elbow and one in your Winkie?" "I'd say so", answered irresponsible-but-unable-to-help-himself dad.
I hate to think about the confusion this is going to cause at school.
Over dinner we were asked, "Is your Winkie your funny bone?". Whilst I was spluttering into my roast, his dad answered, "Yes, it's a very funny bone"
"So You've got two funny bones then, one in your elbow and one in your Winkie?" "I'd say so", answered irresponsible-but-unable-to-help-himself dad.
I hate to think about the confusion this is going to cause at school.
Stinky Hobo Children
It's shocking the insults one hears in this house. Where's the respect gone? Admittedly I did call BigMad a a fairy princess with pink frilly knickers on, but surely there was no need for him to shoot straight back with "yeh, and you're a munchkin girl. Hmph.
I overheard SM say that his dad was hairy and covered in goo. Both of which are accurate, but as is his want, slightly obscure. He's holding his own against his older sibling now too. "My brother is a girl-pants" caused a minor war between the boys, whilst we were busy trying to look stern.
I've decided that they need to use their imagination when they insult us, but this got me into trouble. "DAAAAAD! SHE called my brother a RANCID SNOT FEATURES!" and "I'm NOT a stinky hobo child!!" He is. Calling BM a "bag of rats" went down well though.
Prize for the most timely and best executed insult goes to SmallMad this week. When I commented on the way his dad was yelling in the garden when they were attacking hhim with fake swords (I'm training them up. The real ones arrive soon) he held his hands up to his face, let out a camp "ooooOOOOOOOOooo! Dad squeals like a girl, like this! oooooOOOOOOOoooooo".
High Five to that boy!
I overheard SM say that his dad was hairy and covered in goo. Both of which are accurate, but as is his want, slightly obscure. He's holding his own against his older sibling now too. "My brother is a girl-pants" caused a minor war between the boys, whilst we were busy trying to look stern.
I've decided that they need to use their imagination when they insult us, but this got me into trouble. "DAAAAAD! SHE called my brother a RANCID SNOT FEATURES!" and "I'm NOT a stinky hobo child!!" He is. Calling BM a "bag of rats" went down well though.
Prize for the most timely and best executed insult goes to SmallMad this week. When I commented on the way his dad was yelling in the garden when they were attacking hhim with fake swords (I'm training them up. The real ones arrive soon) he held his hands up to his face, let out a camp "ooooOOOOOOOOooo! Dad squeals like a girl, like this! oooooOOOOOOOoooooo".
High Five to that boy!
Friday, 13 March 2009
The Career Path of Small Mad.
BigMad is quite clear on what he wants to do when he grows up. He wants to invent things, make people laugh, and write poems. Sometimes he wants to be a theme-park owner (more on this at a later date), an explorer, and a scientist. He is going to build a Natural History museum and make people pay an entrance fee. If you are invited please be aware that his prices are exorbitant and slightly mercenary, and I seriously doubt the validity of some of his exhibits. The prehistoric dinosaur bone sitting in the front garden looks remarkably like a rock to me.
We are, or course, encouraging all of his interests. An active, engaged mind staves off delinquency, and it'd be nice to not have to chastise him for stealing cars or nicking the wigs off pensioners just yet.
SmallMad on the other hand, is not so sure what he wants to be. Comedian is out because his jokes are enthusiastically rubbish. An example is "Why did the bird fly?, Because it had wings". Nyarrgh.
That's not to say he isn't funny, he's naturally utterly hilarious. He makes us cry with laughter, usually at a point when we shouldn't be seen to be laughing and have to do that stern-faced, tight-lipped, shoulder-shaking walk out of his view before we double over.
He might become a sustainable energy scientist. He doesn't understand why the water that goes down the drain in the sink doesn't then go into the radiators and the toilet to be used again. "but you NEED water THERE! Why does it go down the drain?" He's got a point!
Owing to his slight obsession with insane food I think he'll become a deranged chef. As well as wanting to eat small animals, I've caught him dipping beef hula hoops into hot chocolate and loving it, putting ketchup on jelly and mixing blackcurrant squash (his) with coffee (mine). He likes asking me if we can "MAKE something".
Which is great, it means he's interested, and sees the fun in food. Like most chefs though he's temperamental. When I asked the boys when they were going to cook us dinner because we always did the cooking, SmallMad burst into tears, ran into his dad's arms and shouted at me tearfully "NO!!! I'm cooking you NOTHING!!!".
Cue shoulder shaking tightlipped room-leaving. Worryingly, I've been asked if when he comes on Saturday, he could pop out his eyeballs, roll them in golden syrup, and eat them. "LIKE THIS" Gulp!
I've said no.
Although he has years to make up his mind, only being four, he has in fact decided what he wants to be himself. From the back of the car (where he comes up with all his best lines), out of the blue, this little earnest voice announced "When I grow up, I want to be a toaster." Like we do with his brother, we'll try and do the best we can to nurture his dreams.
We are, or course, encouraging all of his interests. An active, engaged mind staves off delinquency, and it'd be nice to not have to chastise him for stealing cars or nicking the wigs off pensioners just yet.
SmallMad on the other hand, is not so sure what he wants to be. Comedian is out because his jokes are enthusiastically rubbish. An example is "Why did the bird fly?, Because it had wings". Nyarrgh.
That's not to say he isn't funny, he's naturally utterly hilarious. He makes us cry with laughter, usually at a point when we shouldn't be seen to be laughing and have to do that stern-faced, tight-lipped, shoulder-shaking walk out of his view before we double over.
He might become a sustainable energy scientist. He doesn't understand why the water that goes down the drain in the sink doesn't then go into the radiators and the toilet to be used again. "but you NEED water THERE! Why does it go down the drain?" He's got a point!
Owing to his slight obsession with insane food I think he'll become a deranged chef. As well as wanting to eat small animals, I've caught him dipping beef hula hoops into hot chocolate and loving it, putting ketchup on jelly and mixing blackcurrant squash (his) with coffee (mine). He likes asking me if we can "MAKE something".
Which is great, it means he's interested, and sees the fun in food. Like most chefs though he's temperamental. When I asked the boys when they were going to cook us dinner because we always did the cooking, SmallMad burst into tears, ran into his dad's arms and shouted at me tearfully "NO!!! I'm cooking you NOTHING!!!".
Cue shoulder shaking tightlipped room-leaving. Worryingly, I've been asked if when he comes on Saturday, he could pop out his eyeballs, roll them in golden syrup, and eat them. "LIKE THIS" Gulp!
I've said no.
Although he has years to make up his mind, only being four, he has in fact decided what he wants to be himself. From the back of the car (where he comes up with all his best lines), out of the blue, this little earnest voice announced "When I grow up, I want to be a toaster." Like we do with his brother, we'll try and do the best we can to nurture his dreams.
Wednesday, 11 March 2009
Alas poor Gormity.
This is a Gormiti. Or rather, this is THE Gormiti. I hate it with a passion bordering on the psychotic. I would quite happily take a blowtorch to its face and watch as it melted. I'd even sing as it died. Don't tell Smallmad that though! He loves the damn thing.
Gormitis, for the over fives amongst us, are small plastic collectable figurines, like Pokemon or in my day, Star Wars action figures (or so Chaos man tells me - I collected bees in jars, and glow in the dark Ghostbusters stickers out of cereal packets). Gormitis are THE toy du jour and kids love them.
One day I was in the middle of plucking a swan in the kitchen (or something) when a perplexed SM wanders in and says mournfully, "I can't find my Gormiti" I advised him where I thought they might be but soon I felt a tug on my sleeve and looked down from my suckling pig or whatever I was making.
"Errrrm, I still can't find my Gormiti". He then proceeds to urgently tell me, with his arms stretched out behind him, that it wasn't just any Gormiti, it was the one "With straight WINGS". I turned the heat down on the peacock I was roasting and went to help him look.
After a good half an hour searching in vain, and with SM getting more and more teary, "STRAIGHT wings remember!" I asked him, "Are you sure you've had it at this house?" He looked at me like I was mad and said, "No, it was at NANNYS house". Graaaaa!
He was inconsolable when I told him we couldn't go to Nanny's to get it as it was too far away, and the Lobster I was bisquing would burn. "Ohhhhhhh STRAIIIIIGHHT WIIINGS!"
Over the next few weeks we'd be walking through the woods and we'd hear, "I think my Gomiti might be under my bed" or sitting down for tea "My Gormiti might be in the shed, can we go and look?". It became known as "THAT BLOODY GORMITI" and when his Nan visited, bearing a small, straight-winged plastic eagle-man we were as happy as SM to see it.
As we were running the boys home, SM suddenly patted his pockets and wailed that he'd not got his GORMITI. Heads in our hands we turned the car around and went to fetch it. Unfortunately, one of the wings had come off during the reunion. Not wanting to crush SM's already bruised spirit I carefully laid it on a bed of soft tissue in a clear plastic box. I took it back out to SM and explained that there had been an accident and the Gormiti was in hospital waiting for an operation. Wide-eyed he listened carefully as I told him to ask his mum to stick it back on with glue when he got home. He solemnly nodded and peered anxiously at his patient.
The journey was a happy one as he spent it making ambulance noises playing Gormiti Hospital and fortunately didn't listen to his macabre older brother cackling "It's DIED! It's in a COFFIN!,Lets BURY it!"
Is it uncharitable of me to say that I hope he's right?
Saturday, 7 March 2009
Boys Versus Girls 2
I tried on BigMads jacket the other day. It went over my shoulders but wouldn't do up. BigMad enthusiastically described, with much waving of hands, how if I tried to zip it up my boobs would explode "and there'd be milk EVERYWHERE! URGGGH"
I indignantly explained that only pregnant women had milk in their boobs and that I most certainly was not with child, already having my hands full of him and his brother. He nodded wisely, then thoughtfully told me about a boy in his class who had told him that cows produce milk because they eat women.
Sigh.
I indignantly explained that only pregnant women had milk in their boobs and that I most certainly was not with child, already having my hands full of him and his brother. He nodded wisely, then thoughtfully told me about a boy in his class who had told him that cows produce milk because they eat women.
Sigh.
Boys Versus Girls
I'm the only girl in my house. At the weekend I'm utterly outnumbered by boys. They are both at that age where they are noticing differences between lads and lasses and my boobs get punched a lot. I do not encourage this.
Recent conversations regarding these differences include: -
Smallmad "I've got a winkie"
Me "really! I'm glad to hear it!"
Smallmad "Have you got a winkie?"
Me (trying to ignore the muffled laughter of his dad) "no, girls don't have winkies" (trying to ignore the suggestion from his dad that girls in Thailand do)
Smallmad (utterly mystified)" but...but... HOW DO YOU WEE?"
I explained that I had to crouch down and couldn't stand up. He feels very sorry for me as he particularly enjoys weeing outside. I think he sees it as a handicap that I have to crouch.
His elder brother, trying to be provocative one day, asked me about why girls had such big bums. I told him that girls store fat like camels do, except in their butts as they needed to be able to survive in times of hardship in the olden days, to protect their young. He glared at my bum thoughtfully for a while and then said. "I suppose yours really isn't very big actually, not like my mums is!"
Cue me being filled with a self-satisfied warm glow of not very generous-of-spirit smugness. For about five minutes BigMad was the perfect child!
Recent conversations regarding these differences include: -
Smallmad "I've got a winkie"
Me "really! I'm glad to hear it!"
Smallmad "Have you got a winkie?"
Me (trying to ignore the muffled laughter of his dad) "no, girls don't have winkies" (trying to ignore the suggestion from his dad that girls in Thailand do)
Smallmad (utterly mystified)" but...but... HOW DO YOU WEE?"
I explained that I had to crouch down and couldn't stand up. He feels very sorry for me as he particularly enjoys weeing outside. I think he sees it as a handicap that I have to crouch.
His elder brother, trying to be provocative one day, asked me about why girls had such big bums. I told him that girls store fat like camels do, except in their butts as they needed to be able to survive in times of hardship in the olden days, to protect their young. He glared at my bum thoughtfully for a while and then said. "I suppose yours really isn't very big actually, not like my mums is!"
Cue me being filled with a self-satisfied warm glow of not very generous-of-spirit smugness. For about five minutes BigMad was the perfect child!
A Free Weekend!
This weekend we don't have the boys. Much as we love having them it's also nice to get a bit of time to ourselves. We've been planning what to do for ages and had decided that we'd go for a really long walk and blow the cobwebs away, followed by maybe catching up with friends and throwing a few pints down our necks, relaxing, messing about outside and spending some time together doing the things we love doing. Yippee!
The weekend rolled around and promised to be mild and springlike. On Friday the sun shone and the wood-pigeons in the trees at the back of the garden cooed their approval. Chaos-man came home from work full of cheer, happily making plans for our weekend. I felt a little sweaty but thought nothing of it. We were going to kick off the weekend in style, and go to the pub with our friends, get toastedly drunk, come home and finish some wine off, get drunkenly amorous, and fall asleep in each other's arms. Perfect!
At the pub I was finding I needed to sit stiller and stiller as I felt sicker and sicker. Mr C and my friends were merrily knocking back the pints as I got stiller and quieter, suggesting possible cures for my nausea. These included a vast array of drugs, Redbull, crisps, holding my breath, and incredibly a pickled egg! At the thought of the rubbery vinegery texture of pickled egg-white I had to do a runner and I chucked my poor suffering guts up.
You know how it is. You throw up, you feel better for a while. And I did, laughing at a drunken Chaos-man trying to pick a name for the new incarnation of his band. He didn't like the suggestion "Winter-Flowering Pansies", and flatly refused to consider "Midget Man and the Stumps". All my best artistic endeavors go to waste sometimes.
This stomach bug was relentless though, and quickly I was feeling green again, and when time was called we went home. I'd had the reckless amount of just under half a pint of beer. Rock N Roll! We got home and I went straight to bed with a hot water bottle, a cup of peppermint tea, and a bin by the bed. Romantic or what?
This morning I'm feeling a little better after Chaos man made me some porridge laced with Cinnamon. I still don't feel up to doing what we'd planned, and I'm not ruling out seeing my porridge again, but as I lie here in my sunny bedroom listening to Him crash around the kitchen, washing up and pottering, his music on loud, ignoring the pain in my stomach, I'm actually feeling pretty content.
The weekend rolled around and promised to be mild and springlike. On Friday the sun shone and the wood-pigeons in the trees at the back of the garden cooed their approval. Chaos-man came home from work full of cheer, happily making plans for our weekend. I felt a little sweaty but thought nothing of it. We were going to kick off the weekend in style, and go to the pub with our friends, get toastedly drunk, come home and finish some wine off, get drunkenly amorous, and fall asleep in each other's arms. Perfect!
At the pub I was finding I needed to sit stiller and stiller as I felt sicker and sicker. Mr C and my friends were merrily knocking back the pints as I got stiller and quieter, suggesting possible cures for my nausea. These included a vast array of drugs, Redbull, crisps, holding my breath, and incredibly a pickled egg! At the thought of the rubbery vinegery texture of pickled egg-white I had to do a runner and I chucked my poor suffering guts up.
You know how it is. You throw up, you feel better for a while. And I did, laughing at a drunken Chaos-man trying to pick a name for the new incarnation of his band. He didn't like the suggestion "Winter-Flowering Pansies", and flatly refused to consider "Midget Man and the Stumps". All my best artistic endeavors go to waste sometimes.
This stomach bug was relentless though, and quickly I was feeling green again, and when time was called we went home. I'd had the reckless amount of just under half a pint of beer. Rock N Roll! We got home and I went straight to bed with a hot water bottle, a cup of peppermint tea, and a bin by the bed. Romantic or what?
This morning I'm feeling a little better after Chaos man made me some porridge laced with Cinnamon. I still don't feel up to doing what we'd planned, and I'm not ruling out seeing my porridge again, but as I lie here in my sunny bedroom listening to Him crash around the kitchen, washing up and pottering, his music on loud, ignoring the pain in my stomach, I'm actually feeling pretty content.
Friday, 6 March 2009
Kids are gross.
Well, they are! Really gross. I know as a parent you're somewhat immune to the grossness of your children. You share some of your DNA with them, and as such don't mind their grossness as much as you'd mind the grossness of other peoples children.
Think about it. If your child vomits on you it's icky, but manageable. After all, they've probably vomited on you before. You've been in contact with your child's poo, wee, snot, mucus, everything. If somebody elses' child vomits, poos or wees on you, you may well not cope with it quite as well.
Please note. There is an age limit to this. I'm sure if I were to vomit, poo or wee on my mum she'd be appalled.
The Mads are both utterly gross. I love them both dearly but as they are not my children I am well-placed to comment on their grossness. I still shudder slightly when a small warm snotty (or worse) hand is slipped into mine. Or when SmallMad spits food he doesn't like out. He does this slowly, deliberately and grossly out of his mouth, and usually into a hand, or onto the floor. I've never seen anyone try and eat spaghetti through their NOSE before.
BigMad is a little better, being older. He is very proud of the fact that he washes his hands after going to the loo and his brother doesn't. I'm very glad he told me this, as now I carry around wet-wipes to avoid getting a handful of wee. They both pick their noses (I wonder whom they take after) and I've seen both of them eating their own bogies. I know, many of us do this, but I've never seen people do it with such GUSTO!
Think about it. If your child vomits on you it's icky, but manageable. After all, they've probably vomited on you before. You've been in contact with your child's poo, wee, snot, mucus, everything. If somebody elses' child vomits, poos or wees on you, you may well not cope with it quite as well.
Please note. There is an age limit to this. I'm sure if I were to vomit, poo or wee on my mum she'd be appalled.
The Mads are both utterly gross. I love them both dearly but as they are not my children I am well-placed to comment on their grossness. I still shudder slightly when a small warm snotty (or worse) hand is slipped into mine. Or when SmallMad spits food he doesn't like out. He does this slowly, deliberately and grossly out of his mouth, and usually into a hand, or onto the floor. I've never seen anyone try and eat spaghetti through their NOSE before.
BigMad is a little better, being older. He is very proud of the fact that he washes his hands after going to the loo and his brother doesn't. I'm very glad he told me this, as now I carry around wet-wipes to avoid getting a handful of wee. They both pick their noses (I wonder whom they take after) and I've seen both of them eating their own bogies. I know, many of us do this, but I've never seen people do it with such GUSTO!
The Mads Vs Estate Agents.
When Chaos-man and I were looking for somewhere to live, we decided to involve the boys from the off so they would feel included, and understand that the new house would be their home too. This meant we dragged the poor things around several million houses in our chosen area one freezing Saturday.
Viewing rental properties can be a grim task, and we saw some right heaps that day. One house, now famously known as "the mouldy cracked house" had a two inch wide crack running round the external walls, had a thin coating of dusty green mould all over the kitchen, had an amazing array of crappy furniture, including inexplicably, three fridges, and blood splatters up the end of one of the divan beds. Thankfully the boys didn't notice that. To be fair the guy who showed us this house had the decency to be embarrassed about the state of it.
Kids are brutally honest and can cut through the bullshit spouted by estate agents like a knife through a marshmallow.
"LOOK! You can see outside!" (through the cracked walls). And in another house "UGHH! The bathrooms sicky mouldy green!""I think you'll find it's called avocado" muttered the estate agent.
OK so hauling two highly excitable boys around empty houses is asking for trouble, and yes, tempers were frayed (mine) and parties involved may have been a little snappy (me) and someone didn't really make faces behind my back after one particularly fraught exchange (Him), and at one point the boys had to be spoken firmly to as their energy and noise levels were a tad difficult to cope with.
However, the last house we visited ("just one more honest"), took the biscuit. As we drew up we knew we'd not like it, and even more, the agent waiting for us outside was the epitome of estate agent stereotype. Slick, smarmy, barely old enough to drive, and looked like he was playing dress-up in his dads cheap suit. By this time we'd all had enough and one of us (I can't remember who, I blame Him) turned to the boys and said "You know how we told you to be quiet and behave, in this house you can make as much noise as you like, and run around as much as you want." I know. Wrong and irresponsible. Naughty people.
They did us proud. On coming up the drive they both loudly declared "Urrrghh!!! It smells of PIGS!" It did as well. The agent was as slick and smarmy as he looked and over an incredible background of shrieking children chasing each other, Chaos-man and I had fun talking about the thickness of the walls "for his steel band practice", and where we would put "all his other kids" when they visited.
Fantastic fun.
NB. Himself doesn't have a steel band, although I am sure he'd love to try bashing at them, and as far as I or he know, he doesn't have any other children. We also have a lovely new house which we, and the boys are really happy with.
Viewing rental properties can be a grim task, and we saw some right heaps that day. One house, now famously known as "the mouldy cracked house" had a two inch wide crack running round the external walls, had a thin coating of dusty green mould all over the kitchen, had an amazing array of crappy furniture, including inexplicably, three fridges, and blood splatters up the end of one of the divan beds. Thankfully the boys didn't notice that. To be fair the guy who showed us this house had the decency to be embarrassed about the state of it.
Kids are brutally honest and can cut through the bullshit spouted by estate agents like a knife through a marshmallow.
"LOOK! You can see outside!" (through the cracked walls). And in another house "UGHH! The bathrooms sicky mouldy green!""I think you'll find it's called avocado" muttered the estate agent.
OK so hauling two highly excitable boys around empty houses is asking for trouble, and yes, tempers were frayed (mine) and parties involved may have been a little snappy (me) and someone didn't really make faces behind my back after one particularly fraught exchange (Him), and at one point the boys had to be spoken firmly to as their energy and noise levels were a tad difficult to cope with.
However, the last house we visited ("just one more honest"), took the biscuit. As we drew up we knew we'd not like it, and even more, the agent waiting for us outside was the epitome of estate agent stereotype. Slick, smarmy, barely old enough to drive, and looked like he was playing dress-up in his dads cheap suit. By this time we'd all had enough and one of us (I can't remember who, I blame Him) turned to the boys and said "You know how we told you to be quiet and behave, in this house you can make as much noise as you like, and run around as much as you want." I know. Wrong and irresponsible. Naughty people.
They did us proud. On coming up the drive they both loudly declared "Urrrghh!!! It smells of PIGS!" It did as well. The agent was as slick and smarmy as he looked and over an incredible background of shrieking children chasing each other, Chaos-man and I had fun talking about the thickness of the walls "for his steel band practice", and where we would put "all his other kids" when they visited.
Fantastic fun.
NB. Himself doesn't have a steel band, although I am sure he'd love to try bashing at them, and as far as I or he know, he doesn't have any other children. We also have a lovely new house which we, and the boys are really happy with.
Eating the Creatures of the World Part 2
In the car the other day, SmallMad declared he wanted a "Dead Duck for Dinner". We told him that we couldn't this weekend but perhaps soon. After asking what else he fancied and suggesting rabbit pie with the ears sticking out (they sniggered at that), he declared he wanted to eat "some hamsters and a tiny puppy!". We are now reluctant to ever take him to a petting zoo.
Eating the Creatures of the World.
At Christmas we took the boys to the park to feed the ducks. They had a great time pelting the mostly-appreciative birds with bread and what they lacked in accuracy of aim they made up for with enthusiasm. We had a great time getting the ducks to come as close as possible until a bouncy dog snaffled the last of our bread and was seen off by shouts of "BAD dog, NAUGHTY dog" by an indignant SmallMad.
When we got home we announced that we were having duck for tea, and told them we'd smuggled one home from the park. They were delighted but strangely didn't question where the feathers on the duck had gone. We quite deliberately were trying to get them to equate their dinner with the live animal so they understood where their food came from. Chaos-man fishes, so they understand that they eat the fish he (sometimes) catches but we weren't sure whether they got the bird/meat thing. They were more than happy with it though.
When we sat down to eat, and after poking the meat a bit suspiciously, they both tasted it and pronounced it delicious. "It's better than NORMAL meat Dad!" "Can we have this again?" "I Like eating ducks". Their plates were cleaned and the meal was deemed a success. We overheard them telling their cousins the next day that they'd caught a duck in the park and had it for dinner and that it was really nice. Being very happy that they both understood the origins of meat we thought no more of it.
However, they both now regularly ask for duck for tea and view chicken as an inferior meat. As catching ducks in the park isn't really an option we've made a rather costly rod for our own back I think. I'm just glad we didn't start them off on Goose.
When we got home we announced that we were having duck for tea, and told them we'd smuggled one home from the park. They were delighted but strangely didn't question where the feathers on the duck had gone. We quite deliberately were trying to get them to equate their dinner with the live animal so they understood where their food came from. Chaos-man fishes, so they understand that they eat the fish he (sometimes) catches but we weren't sure whether they got the bird/meat thing. They were more than happy with it though.
When we sat down to eat, and after poking the meat a bit suspiciously, they both tasted it and pronounced it delicious. "It's better than NORMAL meat Dad!" "Can we have this again?" "I Like eating ducks". Their plates were cleaned and the meal was deemed a success. We overheard them telling their cousins the next day that they'd caught a duck in the park and had it for dinner and that it was really nice. Being very happy that they both understood the origins of meat we thought no more of it.
However, they both now regularly ask for duck for tea and view chicken as an inferior meat. As catching ducks in the park isn't really an option we've made a rather costly rod for our own back I think. I'm just glad we didn't start them off on Goose.
Hello!
For the purposes of this blog you can call me step-monster. I'm not a monster really, and I'm not actually even a step-anything, not being married to my partner, but I don't think that matters.
At 31 I found true love, with an old friend no less. I'd lost touch with him for years, and when we met again, ten years after waving goodbye to him after university and promising to keep in touch, the connection between us was undeniable. Finally I understand what a good relationship is all about. He's my mate, my partner, my lover, and perhaps most importantly my friend.
He is perhaps the most unselfish, loving, kind, honest, gentle man I have ever met. He's a rock of sense in a senseless world and I adore him. He'd do anything to protect the people he loves, is very talented, sexy, funny, and interesting. He's not perfect of course, being human. He's clumsy, chaotic, flighty, clicks his toenails and picks his fingernails, but he is him, and all these things make up the amazing person he is. I've never met anyone so full of vitality and life before, and I never ever want to be without him. This blog isn't about him, but he plays a central role and is at least partly responsible for creating the Mads so a bit of background is a little necessary.
Being involved in his life means being involved in the lives of his two children. I knew this when I fell in love with him, and rather than scaring me witless I took it on the chin. Ha ha. That's a complete lie. It scared me witless. Utterly. I'm not a mum. I'm a good auntie to a nephew I don't see enough, and I've worked with lots of children, but responsible for two small hearts and minds, even on a part time basis? Scary scary stuff. I can honestly say there were points before I met the Mads that I wanted to run away very very very fast and never look back.
After we met again, it took a while for me and Him to get to the point where we lived together. This was mostly due to reasons involving jobs, distances and logistics but that's another story, which I'll write when I feel up to tackling it! Suffice to say, we are now firmly ensconced in a house together. It's got a garden, a lean-to (kinda like a connected shed, very useful) some walls, some rooms, and we love it. We still look at each other sometimes and laugh at how we ended up here. There was so much effort and emotion required from both of us to get us to this point that we still can't believe we actually managed it. Us! We're both very disorganised but have found that together we compensate for the knowledge that this trait is strongly present in the both of us and manage to form a highly efficient, hard-working, powerful ninja-style SWAT team. Need a house moved? No sweat! Overthrow a dictatorship in a small oppressed country? no problem! Killer Bees? We'll handle it! But I digress.
The Boys
The two characters central to this blog are Smallmad and Bigmad, collectively known as The Mads. This is because they are both utterly bonkers. Smallmad is four (nearly five as I'm sure he'd be quick to point out), interprets the world in his own unique but completely barking mad way, has a strong sense of justice, and enjoys tormenting his elder brother. He likes chocolate spread, grapes, eating ducks and other animals (more on that later), and head butting his dad in the vulnerables. Some of his jokes are so bad they make us whimper. He's an incredibly funny, smart, stubborn and loving little boy.
Bigmad is 8 and very bright. He's questioning the world around him and his role in it, particularly at the moment what's happened to his family and how we all fit together. He wants to be an inventor, a comedian and a poet. He's sparky, funny, loving, bullheaded, has a strong sense of justice and enjoys tormenting his younger brother. He likes Pokemon, his Nintendo DS, You've Been Framed, Bad puns, fart jokes, exploring, camping, and hearing us accidentally swear.
Through knowing the Mads I've become acquainted with the heady world of Pokemon, Gommity, Nintendo and Child logic. Children's Trivial Pursuit, Scrabble, Captain Underpants, Horrid Henry and much more besides. We see The Mads every weekend, and will see them more during the holidays. Our house during the week is quiet and mostly tidy, full of things we love, namely guitars and books. OK so we don't sit in silence nodding politely to each other over our respective newspapers and knitting. His arms are way too short to hold a broadsheet, and I'd end up strangled to death by my dropped stitches, but you get the picture.
Our house at the weekend transforms into a noisy madhouse of activity, blackcurrant squash, small plastic figures, shoes, mud, coats, battles of will, cuddles, tears and fun, and I hope you enjoy reading about it. I'm not going to mention any names of course, and personal details will be left out as they are not important. If you do know me, I'd appreciate you not identifying me, my partner or the boys, but all feedback is welcome.
At 31 I found true love, with an old friend no less. I'd lost touch with him for years, and when we met again, ten years after waving goodbye to him after university and promising to keep in touch, the connection between us was undeniable. Finally I understand what a good relationship is all about. He's my mate, my partner, my lover, and perhaps most importantly my friend.
He is perhaps the most unselfish, loving, kind, honest, gentle man I have ever met. He's a rock of sense in a senseless world and I adore him. He'd do anything to protect the people he loves, is very talented, sexy, funny, and interesting. He's not perfect of course, being human. He's clumsy, chaotic, flighty, clicks his toenails and picks his fingernails, but he is him, and all these things make up the amazing person he is. I've never met anyone so full of vitality and life before, and I never ever want to be without him. This blog isn't about him, but he plays a central role and is at least partly responsible for creating the Mads so a bit of background is a little necessary.
Being involved in his life means being involved in the lives of his two children. I knew this when I fell in love with him, and rather than scaring me witless I took it on the chin. Ha ha. That's a complete lie. It scared me witless. Utterly. I'm not a mum. I'm a good auntie to a nephew I don't see enough, and I've worked with lots of children, but responsible for two small hearts and minds, even on a part time basis? Scary scary stuff. I can honestly say there were points before I met the Mads that I wanted to run away very very very fast and never look back.
After we met again, it took a while for me and Him to get to the point where we lived together. This was mostly due to reasons involving jobs, distances and logistics but that's another story, which I'll write when I feel up to tackling it! Suffice to say, we are now firmly ensconced in a house together. It's got a garden, a lean-to (kinda like a connected shed, very useful) some walls, some rooms, and we love it. We still look at each other sometimes and laugh at how we ended up here. There was so much effort and emotion required from both of us to get us to this point that we still can't believe we actually managed it. Us! We're both very disorganised but have found that together we compensate for the knowledge that this trait is strongly present in the both of us and manage to form a highly efficient, hard-working, powerful ninja-style SWAT team. Need a house moved? No sweat! Overthrow a dictatorship in a small oppressed country? no problem! Killer Bees? We'll handle it! But I digress.
The Boys
The two characters central to this blog are Smallmad and Bigmad, collectively known as The Mads. This is because they are both utterly bonkers. Smallmad is four (nearly five as I'm sure he'd be quick to point out), interprets the world in his own unique but completely barking mad way, has a strong sense of justice, and enjoys tormenting his elder brother. He likes chocolate spread, grapes, eating ducks and other animals (more on that later), and head butting his dad in the vulnerables. Some of his jokes are so bad they make us whimper. He's an incredibly funny, smart, stubborn and loving little boy.
Bigmad is 8 and very bright. He's questioning the world around him and his role in it, particularly at the moment what's happened to his family and how we all fit together. He wants to be an inventor, a comedian and a poet. He's sparky, funny, loving, bullheaded, has a strong sense of justice and enjoys tormenting his younger brother. He likes Pokemon, his Nintendo DS, You've Been Framed, Bad puns, fart jokes, exploring, camping, and hearing us accidentally swear.
Through knowing the Mads I've become acquainted with the heady world of Pokemon, Gommity, Nintendo and Child logic. Children's Trivial Pursuit, Scrabble, Captain Underpants, Horrid Henry and much more besides. We see The Mads every weekend, and will see them more during the holidays. Our house during the week is quiet and mostly tidy, full of things we love, namely guitars and books. OK so we don't sit in silence nodding politely to each other over our respective newspapers and knitting. His arms are way too short to hold a broadsheet, and I'd end up strangled to death by my dropped stitches, but you get the picture.
Our house at the weekend transforms into a noisy madhouse of activity, blackcurrant squash, small plastic figures, shoes, mud, coats, battles of will, cuddles, tears and fun, and I hope you enjoy reading about it. I'm not going to mention any names of course, and personal details will be left out as they are not important. If you do know me, I'd appreciate you not identifying me, my partner or the boys, but all feedback is welcome.
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