Love and Richard Hammond

I love Richard Hammond. ChaosMan knows this and forgives me for it. Although I am not allowed anywhere near the set of Top Gear, which is probably for the best and would probably contravene the conditions of the restraining order. The boys have also somehow gathered that I love Richard Hammond. I have no idea how.

One day, after I'd finished swooning and clutching my heart at the little cutey on TV, after I'd gathered myself together and wiped the drool from my chin, BigMad asked me whether I loved his Dad or Richard Hammond more. I reassured him that his Dad firmly held the number one spot. He continued "So the two people you love best in the world, apart from your family, are Dad and Richard Hammond?" I replied no, and could I have three people to love best? The penny dropped quickly. "So the people you love the best are my Dad, me and my brother?" I said yes of course I did.

"So you love us more than you love Richard Hammond!!!" He asked wide eyed

"Absolutely"

His face was an absolute picture of pleased incredulity. He must think I'm obsessed or something.

Bad Handwriting

We encourage the children to read, write, draw, make up poems, think about the world, and use their imaginations. Sometimes this backfires on us. I'd recently taught the boys how to write their names in Russian, making them think about language, and how some were very different from English. SM particularly enjoyed this and made me write out lots of words for him.

A few weeks later I was writing a shopping list to give to ChaosMan, with SM sat on my knee. He peered closely at the paper looking very puzzled and asked me "Are you writing in Russian?"

No. I wasn't.

Boys Versus Girls 3

On a trip away recently I was called away from sunbathing and playing backgammon with BM (somewhat mercifully as he is mercenary) to answer a vital call of nature. It's an unfortunate fact that caravans amplify natures' calls and I heard SM giggle, then shout to his dad, "DAAAD! Did you know that ladies have big HOLES in their winkies and when they wee it goes WOOOOOSHHHH everywhere?" His dad spluttered and started giggling uncontrollably as SM demonstrated the wooshing with enthusiastic arm motions.

It's ever so hard to concentrate on nature calling when you are laughing.

Drawing on your stepchildren is fun.

The night before we went camping Chaos-man crept into the boys' room and carefully, amid fits of shaking silent laughter, me standing in the doorway, fists shoved into my mouth, drew large curly mustaches and goatee beards on each of his children with my eyeliner.

In the morning Bigmad woke up first, and appeared in our doorway sleepy and stretching, mustache still proudly sitting above his top lip. Keeping straight faces and trying not to meet each others eyes, we answered his questions about camping and our trip away. SmallMad woke up soon after and came bounding into our bedroom, stopping short when he saw his brother. "YOU'VE GOT A MUSTACHE!" he cried, pointing at his brother, who looked at him incredulously in return. "WHAT? SO HAVE YOU!" They both scrambled for the mirror and examined their faces with horror as we cracked up with helpless laughter.

"DAAAAAAAAAAAAAD! YOU DRAWED ON US!". They were even more horrified when they found out it was girls make-up we used, and they've been plotting revenge ever since. I've told them we sleep with our eyes open, but I'm half-expecting a counterattack and have hidden all the permanent markers and highlighter pens just in case.

Easter in the sun.

The boys were a little worried that the Easter bunny wouldn't be able to find us at the campsite. They explained that he "flies through the air with his ears, carrying Easter eggs for all children." laughing we reassured them that their helicopter-eared bunny loves camping and would find them just fine.

On the Saturday night we had to ban any mention of the E-word due to Easter-egg mention overkill. When we tucked them up that night I told them to go to sleep quickly as the next day would come quicker.
"Yes and it'll be Easter and we'll have our Easter eggs" said SmallMad, correcting himself hastily "though we don't talk about it".

Easter day dawned and a quick scan of the tent by two sleepy boys revealed no Easter eggs. Puzzled, the children allowed themselves to be herded into the car to help their dad get some milk. When they were gone, the pajama-clad Easter bunny balanced 5 chocolate eggs in a small tree next to the tent, and sat back down to enjoy hercoffee in the morning sun. Not a chance. Wildlife likes Easter too and the lads in the tent next to us were treated to the sight of me dancing around in my night attire, throwing empty beer cans at over-interested crows and gulls.

Needless to say the returning children were overjoyed when I pointed out that the silly bunny had obviously aimed a little wide. Ignoring our warning not to get too used to chocolate for breakfast (after the great and terrible chocolate spread tantrums, we've not allowed the stuff across the doorstep when the boys are with us) and happily stuffing themselves brimful "right down into my legs", they commented that they loved holidays like this "like Christmas and birthdays where you get stuff". Mercenary, but honest!

Trepidation and tides.

This weekend I am going camping for the first time with the Mads. I am a little nervous as we've not as yet all gone away together, let alone all slept in the one small tent.

We've just put two overexcited little boys to bed with promises of sausage sandwiches, meeting some crabs, playing in the sea and sleeping in a tent. This weekend promises to be one of the wettest, most inclement weekends in a while and we've packed a lot of towels, a lot of savlon, and a little wine.

Wish us luck, and I'll update this on my return.

The Boys on Water.

Chaos man is sometimes compelled to make impulsive purchases. His latest, fully endorsed by me, is a canoe. At first I was a little nervous about getting in it, especially because our nearest water-body is the Birmingham-Worcester canal. I informed him that I thought canals were full of scum and dead dogs but he reassured me that canals were now nice and clean, and devoid of ex-canines.

After kitting out the boys in little life-jackets, complete with whistles which were fully and enthusiastically being tested until I pointed out they didn't yet need rescuing, we headed down to the canal.

Before we left I mentioned grumpily that the canal would probably be full of scum and dead dogs so they needed to be careful in the boat in case they fell in. SmallMad was very excited and wanted to take his water pistol to "SHOOT THE DEAD DOGS!"

We inflated our craft, and launched it into the surprisingly pleasant-looking canal. Chaos man had a little go, then we plonked BigMad in the front with him. Father and son, with synchronized paddling and much cheering from us watchers on the bank, headed upstream through glorious countryside, past floating branches, a football, and past a dead duck.

On second glance it was realised the dead duck had a tail.

"DEAD DOG!!!!" screamed SmallMad in glee as I looked pointedly at ChaosMan, but he was too busy trying to steer the boat past the corpse to notice. The Jack Russell floated soggily and dead-ly on.

We swapped seats and I took BigMad out for another go. Whilst we were busy trying not to hit the bank, an elderly couple with their small dog had come down to the opposite bank, perhaps to enjoy the view, perhaps to watch this scene of familial joy. Whichever, SmallMad saw the dog and pointed at it, screaming "Dog! It's going to be DEAD!"

I think he may have been taken out of context slightly as the couple rapidly left.

Buy a canoe. It's fun for all the family. Except the dog.

Brothers at arms.

"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".

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.

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.

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.

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."

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!

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!

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.

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!

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.

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?

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.

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!