Month: February 2016

Fake Nails

Partner picked up yet another fake nail from the carpet and identified the owner by colour. The girls are off to their dad’s for a few days and it is stressful as they get ready. This is not helped by the fact that daughter 2 stayed with FaceTime friend last night and so has ordered her sisters to pack a bag for her too. We need to do it via video call, she told daughter 1, as I need to try a few different tops. This sounded to me like a very long winded approach to packing and daughter 1 obviously agrees, as they are due to leave in 5 minutes and, as yet, no call has taken place and nothing has been packed for her. 

You are all very stressed this morning, I comment to daughter 1. It’s because we’re wearing fake nails, she replied. Everything is made so much harder with fake nails. It’s true, daughter 4 pipes up, fake nails make life a lot more stressful. 

My god, I thought, as I picked one out of dog 2’s fur. If removing the stresses in my life were as simple as taking off my nails, life would be so much easier. 

The familiar, ‘beep, beep’ thunders from ex’s car and ricochets off every house around our estate.  Nothing is packed for daughter 2, their rooms look like a hurricane has whipped through – which isn’t far from the truth and there is a distinct aroma of acetone in the air. I am not going to see them for a week, so rather than letting rip in my usual manner, I take a deep breath, give them all big hugs and watch them stagger down the path with their bags. 

I come back in and survey the scene. I sit on daughter 1’s bed. I do miss them when they are gone. My phone rings. It’s daughter 2 on FaceTime. Mum, please can you help me pack, they’re on their way back to pick up my things. Please put on my black polo neck jumper and then try on the cropped grey one with no sleeves…I get up from the bed, tread on a nail and wince. 

Mr Potato Head

We’re back in the Previa on the way to my sisters to pick up the chest of drawers. One man’s shite is another man who lives in a house with lots of girls who have lots of clothes’ gold. 

Look at my Mr Potato Head, daughter 3 says. I have no idea what she’s talking about, until I look round to see her pointing at the plastic on the inside of the car door. Do you remember when I drew my Mr Potato Heads in crayon over everything? And this gets me thinking about all the awful things my kids did as toddlers, that I have resigned to my distant memory. The top 5:

Daughter 1 cutting daughter 2’s hair with the kitchen scissors and we’re not just talking a trim here. It was a good 6 inches, without any formal training. 

Daughter 3 cutting her seat belt completely on a journey to Heathrow, using only plastic craft scissors. That cost £180 to get fixed. 

Daughter 4 getting her head stuck in railings, causing a sports event to come to a halt while she was freed.

Daughter 2 getting her finger stuck in wooden chairs on at least two occasions and having to be sawn out (must have been attention seeking).

And the drawing of Mr Potato Heads (who was Mr Potato Head anyway?)

Obviously, this list is far from exhaustive and doesn’t even touch upon incidents that caused or had the potential to cause major physical injury, of which there have been a few, including daughter 4 drinking white spirit, then 2 weeks later dislocating her elbow. Same A&E, seen by the same doctor who said: shall I give you a different colour teddy bear this week? Four kids under 5, we accumulated a good collection of hospital teddy bears. 

Of course, now that they are nearly all teenagers, these incidents, that caused huge stress at the time, can be laughed about at their expense. That faded Mr Potato Head serves as a reminder, that even on the most disastrous of days, we all pulled through.

Arriving at my sister’s, my niece is home alone. I’ve taken the drawers out for you, she says with a smile. The chest of drawers is huge. Definitely bigger than average and partner and I man handle it down the stairs. In a manoeuvre that, in my defence, is to save the kitten’s life, the chest of drawers makes a slight swerve left into the newly painted banisters. My niece looks horrified, my brother in law is a house proud perfectionist. Don’t worry, I say to her, as we all look at the scratch through the barely dry Dulux White. That will fade, I continue knowledgeably, just like all those Mr Potato Heads and one day, he will even laugh about it.  

Postscript
Social Services were never involved. 

Milk Tray Man ❤️

Apparently, teenagers no longer date. From my experience of step-daughter when she first found young love, she struggled to get him off the X Box. Sad times. On the flip side, my heart was warmed when my mum told me that her 82 year old partner had driven over a mile in his electric buggy to post a Valentine’s Day card through her letterbox. Isn’t that thoughtful of him, mum said to me. Yes, I replied, what have you got him?  Some fair trade dark chocolate hearts, she said. I don’t think he likes dark chocolate, but they are better for him. Better for him? I repeated in my head. This is a man, I thought to myself, who travelled over cracked pavements and pot holes to personally deliver that card. A man who battled through wind and rain, with no more protection than a plastic roof. Who risked being splashed by puddles and who negotiated his way around pedestrians, some with pushchairs and all you can think about is his health! He’s the disabled equivalent of the Milk Tray man and you are denying him a treat!

That’s not a very romantic thought, I say out loud. You may as well just give him a cereal bar. 

I’ve written him a poem too, she says. She hands me the card she has bought him:

‘Your eyes may be red,
Your veins purple and blue,
But you’re a ragged romantic
And I still love you’

‘A ragged romantic’ mum? I’m really thinking she’s got it in for him this year. Oh, I meant to put, ‘rugged’, she says with a chuckle, but I think I may just leave it how it is. 

I look at mum despairingly. What hope have the youngsters got, I think to myself, as she licks the envelope and firmly seals it shut. 

Ulterior Motive

En route to my mum’s for dinner, I get a text from my sister, asking me to pick up my niece on my way past. I think that this is a slightly odd request, but happily swing by. I park on her drive. The handbrake isn’t working properly and the garage have done all they can. If it starts moving forward, I tell daughters 1 and 4, who are left in the car, just bail out. They immediately leap out the door and join me.

After a very quick hello, my sister seems keen to get me upstairs and it is then I realise the ulterior motive. 

Do you want a desk? My sister asks, what I am soon to realise is a rhetorical question. Erm… I begin to reply. It’s from John Lewis, she continues regardless and there are only a few marks on it. I stare down at, what looks like a large scrape across the top. How much do you want for it, I ask sceptically. Oh no, you can have it…if you take it away now, she quickly adds. I look out the window at the poor, tired old Previa sitting on her drive and sigh. Ok, I say weakly. Oh and there’s a couple of bed side tables for mum, she says. 

Getting the desk downstairs is stressful. The hallway has just been painted. Getting it out the door is stressful, the cat nearly gets crushed and then nearly escapes. Getting it into the Previa is not going to be easy. Firstly, I have to remove what is already in there, which includes things that I didn’t even know were in there. My sister is determined. She’s just passed her hostage negotiator course with the police, this is chicken feed. Don’t open that door, I shout at my brother in law, it’s the one that needs the screwdriver to shut it again. No, that seat is broken and doesn’t go forward anymore. Yes, I do need that bag of equipment for classes tomorrow. 

After much to-ing and fro-ing, the desk and the bedside tables are in, but we’ve forgotten about the three kids who need seats. We take it all out, put the kids in and start again, working around them.

I very gently shut the boot, as four legs are dangerously close to the glass. 

There’s also a chest of drawers, my sister says, rather too optimistically… and I speed off, no handbrake to stop me, without looking back.

Just Google It

I’ve gone through five kids, four of those are genetically connected to me and finally, by the fifth, I think I have one who actually likes languages. She even likes Latin, goddammit. In fact this term’s interim report puts Latin top of the pops. ‘Did you learn Latin at school, mum? Because it is an old thing,’ daughter 1 says. ‘I’m completely the wrong side of 40’, I reply, ‘but I’m not a Roman’.

The truth is, despite getting four interim reports every however often we get sent them – I still have no idea what the numbers actually mean and just as I thought I had the hang of it, new school, new number system, no idea. Whenever I show the slightest disappointment in one of the girls’ grades, I’m just met with an exclamation of: ‘Mum! A … is a really good grade’ and I don’t feel that I can check this with anyone, because I was probably told about the grading system at a year 7 induction meeting and have now forgotten. So, I just nod and say ok and cross my fingers behind my back that they are all doing alright. 

Not only does daughter 4 love languages, she is also convinced that dog 2 is Spanish and so only speaks to him in Spanish. Obviously, this is a completely crazy idea, however she is practising her linguistic skills, so I’m going with it. I am ignoring the fact that so far her year 7 Spanish has only covered ‘hello’ and the contents of a pencil case, so I think their conversations are limited. 

Despite my excitement over daughter 4’s linguistic ability and their good grades (so they assure me), I am often surprised at how little they know and I don’t think it’s just them. Google has killed the need to retain anything and just churns out information on a need to know basis. Don’t get me wrong, I love Google, mainly because there is absolutely no room in our house for twenty volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. However, when research is simply an exercise in cut and paste, not a lot extra seems to go in. 

This instantaneous information is also not developing staying power and the art of patience. Which is why I was rather pleased to hear that daughter 4’s friend spent 3 hours translating Adele’s song ‘Hello’ into Latin. Now, that’s what I call patience and commitment. However, she was, of course, using Google translate. Who said Latin’s a dead subject? 

Own Clothes Day

Own clothes day – baton down the hatches. We even have to pay a pound for the privilege – I’d rather give a fiver for it not to happen. I never, ever thought I’d say this, but it’s worse than dress as a character for book day and that is bad. 

When step daughter moved in and book day came around with its usual wave of trauma, I said to her: at least you don’t dress up on book day at senior school. She looked at me with complete incredulity, oh yes we do, she said, I got a prize last year…aargh, more pressure and the Alice in Wonderland costume I wheel out every year won’t fit a 14 year old. 

Back to the here and now and it all started before our alarm clock had even gone off – a commotion over skirts going on in daughter 1’s bedroom. I groaned to partner, before dog 1 kindly sat on my face and blocked out some of the ever increasing noise. 

Next come the phone calls: are you wearing your skirt today? Daughter 2 asks FaceTime friend. Are you sure? But I don’t have a coat to wear with it. What shoes are you wearing? 

Daughter 2 barges into my room and seems to be able to ignore the fact that I am starkers. Does this skirt look alright, mum? She asks. Yes you look gorgeous, I reply. And then the ultimate put down comes, as she asks her sister for a second opinion. 

She comes in again and asks: is it too short? Now I’m worried. I don’t think it is, but if a teenager is showing concern, then perhaps I should be more responsible. I look at my watch, ten minutes until they leave. Just time for five more changes of outfit. I think I’ll take the dogs out early, partner announces and within seconds, he’s gone. 

There is a thick frost clearly visible on the ground, yet the debate over whether coats are required continues. Every now and again I put in a: yes, you do need to wear coats, but I am being completely ignored and they carry on regardless. Mum, does this coat look ok? Yes. Good cos it’s the only one I’ve got. No it’s not, you have the one that matches your sister’s. Yes, but I can’t wear that because we’ll match. 2 minutes until they go. I feel a pang of guilt about willing the the time away, but remind myself that they will be back in 9 hours, picking up from where they left off. 

Shoe Chew* *Friday night takeaway – may contain dog

We are having a real shoe crisis in our house. Daughter 4’s shoes are still somewhere between the hospital and an orthotics manufacturer, so she is wearing the closest thing we could find to school shoes in her size, which are daughter 1’s black leather converse. They are slightly too big for her, but the cool factor seemed to offset that and there wasn’t a fuss. 

After daughter 2 being initially quite sceptical about the Oxfam shoes that I bought her, to replace the expensive shoes dog 2 chewed, her and FaceTime friend found the very same model, brand new in Jones with a price tag of £87 reduced to £45 and that seemed to give the shoes enough kudos to start wearing them. She did, however, have to have a short break to let the blisters heal. In the meantime she is wearing black Nike Air Max trainers to school, again, without a fuss.

Last Thursday evening she announced that the next day was the day she would start wearing her Oxfam shoes again – the blisters had all but healed and I was happy. 

It was later on Friday evening that it occurred to me that wine, dogs and shoes with tassels are not a good combination, when, with an air of deja vu, dog 2 appeared in the sitting room with the Oxfam shoe, tasselless in his mouth. Yet again, we had taken our eyes off the shoes. We were back to square one. Back to the trainers. 

Yesterday daughter 2 came home from school with an update. Student Services took my shoes, she said, so matter of factly that I wondered whether it was for some sort of social experiment; and they gave me a horrible pair to wear, she continued. I have to report to Student Services every day to get a horrible, uncomfortable pair of shoes to wear and take them back at the end of the day, when they give me back my shoes.  This is a school, I thought to myself, that has come across the problem of girls wearing inappropriate footwear before. After we had all managed to stop laughing at the thought of the incredibly style-conscious and easily embarrassed daughter 2 in a ill fitting pair of someone else’s pumps, I did feel slightly sorry for her and promised to have a quick scout round the charity shops today. Please can I have proper shoes from a proper shop, she pleaded. What if someone had a smelly feet, or dirty toenails, she keeps going, clutching at straws. I give dog 2 a withering look. It’s Friday tomorrow, I reply. Perhaps I’ll leave shoe buying until the weekend. 

If (More apologies)

If…you are a teenager, this is all about you – of course

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and always blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself not to put an open party invite on Facebook, when parents doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too; (remember last summer and the trashed sitting room?)
If you can wait until you are old enough to drink legally and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about by people who call themselves friends, don’t deal in lies,
Or being lonely in your room when everyone seems to hate you, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good in your sister’s top, nor talk too wise: (despite knowing everything)

If you can dream of life without a curfew—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think about others for once —and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph: a 100 likes on Instagram and Disaster: getting less than 25
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the half-truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by your mum to make a trap so she finds out what really happened,
Or watch the selfies you (literally) gave your life to taking, lost when your phone got broken,
And pose and build ’em up with endless pouts:

If you can make one heap of all your minimum wage earnings
And risk them on one really good night out,
And lose your new iPhone 6 in a bush, and start saving at the beginning
And never breathe a word to mum and dad about your loss;
If you can force yourself off the X Box
To help out the fossils long after they have asked,
And so hold on to thoughts that the World’s against you
But no-one cares so tell them to: “Jog on!”

If you can talk with your parents and keep humouring them,
Or walk with them —then lose them as soon as you see your mates,
If foes and loving Facebook friends’ comments can hurt you,
If all opinions count with you, but none too much; (because ultimately YOU’RE right)
If you can fill every single unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of FaceTime every night,
Yours is the 24/7 hotel and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Teenager, my son/daughter/consummate professional at driving me to the edge and often over it

By Kipling, MadHouseMum, partner and daughters

I’ve been shortlisted in the Best Writer category for the Mumsnet Blogging Awards! Please vote for me by clicking on the link below – it takes literally a millisecond. Thank you 🙂

http://www.mumsnet.com/events/blogging-awards/2016/best-writer

If (Apologies to Kipling)

If…You are dealing with raging hormones on a daily basis, then this is for you, my friend

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing their socks and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself that you are doing the right thing taking phones away at 9pm, when all your children doubt you,
But make allowance for their door slamming histrionics too;
If you can wait for the bathroom every morning and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about on Snapchat, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated and hated and HATED, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good in their selfies, nor talk too wise in front of their friends:

If you can dream that one day they’ll be normal —and not make dreams your master;
If you can think that one day they’ll leave home—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph: no wet towel on the floor this morning! and Disaster: 12 dirty mugs in their bedroom
And treat those two impostors just the same;  (no pocket money)
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by teenagers to make a trap for parents,
Or watch the things you gave birth to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with tissues, hugs and chocolate.

If you can make one heap of all the washing
And risk asking for help with sorting it out,
And lose, and start again with another heap the next day
And never breathe a word about your loss; (Because they never listen anyway)
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To keep your sanity long after they are gone out the door to school,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to you: “Hold on – eventually their grunts will return to normal speech!”

If you can talk with crowds of their friends in your kitchen eating biscuits and keep your alcohol untouched,
Or walk behind them so they’re not embarrassed  — nor lose their iPod touch,
If neither being told you’re stupid nor so old can hurt you,
If all their comments count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill a minute of their unforgiving music
With sixty seconds’ worth of your choice of radio station in the car,
Yours is the House and every child that’s innit,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Parent, my sympathy.

By Kipling, partner and me

Crackerjack!!

Since the 5p bag charge was introduced, I have been concerned that partner looks like a professional shoplifter, as he stuffs his large dog-walking coat pockets full of foodstuffs, because, yet again, we left the twenty bags we keep in the car…well, in the car. 

I have spent the past few months sitting outside Waitrose with the dogs, drinking my free coffee and watching, with much amusement, the towers of produce people are exiting with – because they left their bags in the car. It takes me right back to my childhood and Crackerjack* and on the odd occasion someone drops something I expect Stewpot to run over and stick a cabbage on top. I also see the smug shoppers with their hessian bags and I view them with a mixture of awe and jealousy. 

Although I think the reason behind the charge is a fine one, I’m really still not getting the hang of it. I have developed a technique, however, to get shopping out to the car without a bag – it involves laying the free paper on the counter and building up the food items on one half, then folding the other half over to form a sort of package. This works, up to a point. Obviously this technique isn’t one for the weekly family shop. 

So, I am not at all surprised to read in the paper, that in some supermarkets, thefts are up 50%. What I am surprised at, however, is the lengths I will go to and judging by my observations, I’m not the only one, to avoid paying 5p for a bag. There’s not much you can get these days for 5p, so you could say it’s a bargain, but it just grates to pay it. Then I get offered the bag for 10p and a queue forms behind me as I weigh up whether I can afford it. Double the price! Is it worth the expense? 10p bags have never been free, but I never previously bought one, because they felt like a luxury item, with their arty designs and thick, sumptuous plastic. They always seemed out of my price range and there was a free alternative for the less extravagant. It’s a ‘bag for life’ – not just for Christmas, or for one blow out shopping trip, where you were feeling flush! A bag for life, that will spend its entire life hanging behind the kitchen door. So we don’t buy any bags. We stuff coat pockets, make newspaper packages, build towers and vow to remember the bags in the boot the next time. (But we do pay for the shopping first). 

* Cultural reference to a children’s tv show I watched in the 70’s/80’s. Apologies if you are too young to remember, but for those of you who are older: “It’s Friday, it’s five to five and it’s Crackerjack”!!