Author: Alison

Mamas in Pyjamas

Sitting in our usual spot outside Waitrose this morning (I’m beginning to wonder whether I should start a whole new blog site: observations from a Waitrose car park) the dogs are getting their usual constant attention and adoration, while I am feeling left on the shelf, when two girls walk into the supermarket wearing their pyjamas, dressing gowns and slippers, much to the surprise and amusement of the other shoppers. This reminded me of a post made by one of my Facebook friends last week, where she commented how she had turned up to her son’s early morning Saturday swimming lesson, only to realise that she was still wearing her pyjama top. What made her post even funnier was the fact that it transpired that the person next to her was wearing her pyjama bottoms. All this talk of how disgusting it is that parents are turning up at the school gates in their nightwear, but it goes to show how easily it is done. I remember when partner popped out to our local supermarket one evening and it was only when he was at the checkout that he realised he was still wearing his slippers. The girls were mortified in case one of their friends had seen him. He wasn’t bothered at all! Another time, I popped into our Tesco Metro and bumped into a friend, who was looking decidedly embarrassed and very pleased to see me: I’ve forgotten my purse, she said to me and then in a hushed tone: and I’m in my pyjamas. I only nipped out for a few things, can you lend me a tenner? 

So all this goes to show, that none of us should have been at all surprised by the mamas in pyjamas at Waitrose this morning: it’s called, ‘leisure wear’ and the boundaries are blurred. I have to say, however, I personally would draw the line at onesies. 

Reflections on World Book Day

I felt the need to reflect on WBD – my first year without a child at Primary school for some time. I did 12 years of primary school WBD’s, so I feel it’s worth a few moments’ reflection. 

Those of you who have read my blog: Own Clothes Day, will know that WBD and I have not always been comfortable bedfellows. So it was with much amusement that today I was an observer and not a participator. My first observation was to work out what WBD stood for. I saw it written in a couple of Facebook posts before I worked it out. At first, I thought they were referring to the accountancy firm that I use, who have the same abbreviation. It did occur to me fairly quickly, however, that Harry Potter has little to do with tax. Once I had worked this out, post after post came streaming in, with photos of Hermiones and Harry Potters still seeming to be top of the WBD pops. 

Number 1 friend had been moaning about the fact that her son’s school had given strict guidelines on what was and wasn’t allowed this year – presumably to prevent lazy parenting. These new rules would have f***ed me right over, as a Shrek onesie would no longer be allowed. What schools need to understand is that it isn’t being lazy sending your kid in as Wally, with a red and white striped t shirt and their sister’s glasses, it’s called survival. 

Back to Facebook and I was amazed and impressed at the efforts that had been made. That is, until it got to this afternoon and I realised that the kids who looked incredible, had their photos displayed by proud mummies on fb faster than Mills and Boon publish books. By the afternoon, the quality of effort was showing a marked deterioration: am I the only mother who cheated on WBD, a mother had posted, adding: he went as a footballer with the Liverpool FC Annual tucked under his arm…well it’s a book isn’t it? Then came the photo of the two children holding a toaster and a hairdryer, with the caption: forgot to make a costume…so they’re going as pages 89 and 165 of the Argos catalogue. This, is genius. The final post I saw was of a child dressed brilliantly as a super cute ballerina with dog ears and whiskers and a nose painted on her face. The fb post read: Dogs don’t do ballet. Aaah, I thought, how cute. She’s obviously been put in the ballerina dress as an easy option for mum and has insisted on having her face painted as a dog – that’ll teach the mother for shirking, I smiled to myself. I then looked closer at the photo and saw that she was holding a book titled: Dogs Don’t Do Ballet, and the effort suddenly appeared very real. 

So I have spent all day feeling in awe and relieved, that I no longer have to compete with the creative brilliance that clearly exits in this country. I was feeling rather smug about it, until Daughter 4 just came to me and said: it’s World Book Day tomorrow, Mum. My heart sank into my slippers and I felt a cold sweat coming on, but I’m not going to dress up, she continued, I can’t be bothered. 

I now don’t know whether to feel relieved or guilty that my WBD negativity has obviously rubbed off. 

By the way, just to prove that, at some time in the distant past, we did all try:

IMG_0288

I’ve worked out Pippi Longstocking, far right, but haven’t got a bloody clue who the other two are. Any ideas?

Erectile Dysfunction

When the message came though on my phone that daughter 4 was following me on Twitter, I was quite surprised. At nearly 12, I felt it rather young to be on Twitter. However, I had hardly had time to worry about it, when another message popped up, saying that she had liked my tweet:MHM DysfunctionTo be honest, I had forgotten about the combination of my post being linked straight to Twitter and my youngest daughter having an account. I felt I had better talk to her about what she had seen. So, you liked my post, I started tentatively, did you understand it? Well, she said, I think so. What is it about then, I continued. About reptiles I think, she said. Reptiles who don’t work properly. Yes, I replied to her truthfully. You got the gist.

Postscript
I showed this to Number 1 friend saying: here’s what happened last night (meaning my conversation with daughter 4) I don’t want to know, she replied…oh how we laughed!

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, which knickers today, to make me comfortable?


Partner is hanging his twenty third pair of knickers on the airer this morning. So many pairs of knickers, he’s muttering to himself. Well, we have to wear knickers, I say, curtly and anyway, your pants take up more room on the airer than our knickers do. 

I’m not sure that men ‘get’ knickers. They don’t understand the intricacies involved in buying them and then the heartfelt choice over what pair to wear in the morning. We don’t just have one size fits all pants like they do. No, our lives are so much more complicated than that: period knickers and within that category depends on what day of the month it is, big knickers, for when we know they will not be seen by anyone (however, we’ve all been caught out on that choice more than once in our lives), a thong to avoid the vpl, or  alternatively the flesh coloured ‘very unflattering but sheer’ knickers that ride up your bum and give a wedgie – that no one can see because that’s the point of them, the body shaper control knickers if it’s a fat day, the knickers husband bought for you last birthday that are really impractical and the lace makes you itch, but you haven’t worn them for a while and it has been mentioned, the crotchless knickers – for no other reason than the dog ate the crotch (see blog: crotchless knickers)…lets be honest, the list goes on*

Us females take all these decisions in our stride every morning, but I don’t think a man could cope with the range of options and choices available to him. 

When daughter 4 was born, my younger sister came round and whereas most people bring a card and a cute present, she came and emptied out my knicker drawer. Get rid of those, she said, flinging knickers over her shoulder. My stitches haven’t even healed yet, I remonstrated with her. You can’t have these, she carried on without remorse, chucking another pair out. What are you thinking? She scolded me, throwing big, grey knickers onto the floor, you’ll never get another baby wearing those monstrosities. I don’t want another baby, I wailed, those knickers are my best form of contraception. Please can I keep them, I pleaded. Finally, she finished and stood back looking pleased with herself. I peered into the drawer and looked at the five remaining pairs. You haven’t even left me a pair for each day of the week, I said. You can’t be trusted with any more than that, she retorted. Stick the kids in the car, we’re going knicker shopping!

*Please feel free to add 

Keep Two Dogs and Bark Yourself

Living with three daughters, my dad’s favourite saying was: you don’t keep a dog and bark yourself. I could pour a perfect pint from the age of 7, I knew his exact measure of whisky aged 9 and could fill a pipe by the time I was 11. All useful skills that have, over the years, stood me in good stead (perhaps not the pipe filling, yet). 

Now living with my own daughters, I find myself frequently using this phrase – it’s one of my favourites, along with: the floor is not a shelf and, what did your last slave die of, exhaustion? 

When we got dog 1 and dog 2, I had high hopes for what we would be able to teach them to do for us. I found a: ‘Teach your dog tricks’ in a charity shop. In it, a woman wearing gold spandex (I’m not sure why) gives a step by step guide on how to teach your dog to do useful things, like fetching your paper and getting a can of beer out of the fridge. She even demonstrates how to teach it to empty the washing machine. My kids still haven’t perfected this trick, let alone the dogs – I feel there is little hope. 

On the dog walk today, I decide to take a tennis ball. Partner is sceptical, as so far, the only balls they have shown much interest in are each other’s. I insist, however, inspired perhaps by the woman in spandex, that we need to persevere, and the ball comes with. 

At a suitable point I show the dogs the ball and chuck it ahead, accompanied by the iconic doggy word: fetch! Surely, dogs are just born knowing this word? Not ours. Initially it looks promising, as dog 2 chases after the ball, with dog 1 in hot pursuit. You see, I say to partner, they love that ball. They both run straight past the ball. ‘Fetch!’ I screech excitedly and then a second time, somewhat desperately. They both stop and look at me, heads cocked to one side, as if they are saying: what, are you talking to us? Oh for gods sake, I think to myself, as I go and fetch the ball. I can’t find it, so am stomping around the undergrowth. Partner and dogs are all looking at me with cocked heads. Well don’t just bloody stand there you lot, I shout in an irritated voice. I see the fluorescent yellow of the ball and decide to try again. I lob the ball towards partner and dogs and it ricochets off partner. Dog 2 retrieves it – success! I wave my hands madly at him: leave it! Leave it! I shout determinedly. He turns and runs in the opposite direction, ball in mouth. I rejoin partner and we continue walking. Work in progress he says , putting his arm around my dejected shoulders. Keep a dog and fetch yourself, I think to myself, feeling that I have let my dad down.

Wattle Happen Next?

Partner mentioned wattle∗ and not three days later, Caitlin Moran is talking about it in the Saturday Times at the weekend. I’m a great believer in things happening for a reason and this cannot simply be a coincidence – there are darker forces at work here. I had no concerns about my wattle, I wasn’t even sure that I was sporting a turtle neck, but they have both now got me looking. 

Partner’s comment was in relation to his, you can hide a lot of things about being old, he said, but you can’t hide your wattle – unless you wear a scarf, he added, knowledgeably. Paranoia then set in – were his comments actually aimed at both of us? I hot footed it into the downstairs loo, where the natural light that floods in is like the second coming – you can’t hide anything in that downstairs loo. It’s the loo you drag kids into who are itching their scalp or their bum. I examine myself carefully. When I was a teenager, my younger sister told me to do exercises on my neck every time I applied my moisturiser: you’ll be glad of that advice when you’re older, she said as a nine year old in the know. Thirty years on, peering into the mirror, poking at my neck, I’m feeling quite pleased that I listened to her. 

I return to partner, confident that I am currently wattle free. Well, he says, as he looks at my smug face, you may not be part of the wattle club yet, but the way you were peering into that mirror, I reckon you should get your eyesight checked. I reached into the under stairs cupboard and threw a scarf at him, let’s walk the dogs, I said bruskly and I suggest you cover yourself up. 

*wattle: A wattle is a fleshy bit hanging from the neck (but not mine)

Tits

Now I’ve got your attention…
and don’t teenage girls know it. Mother and step mum to five girls I see tits displayed over Facebook and Instagram (not theirs – they know I’m looking) like a badge of misplaced honour. Friends ‘like’ and comment ‘so beautiful’, while I’m bumping into their mothers in the supermarket in a moral dilemma: do I mention the fact that your daughter’s tits are currently gathering ‘likes’ on Instagram faster than holes in tights. How do I approach the subject: now I’m in no way, shape or form criticising you, your daughter, nor her beautiful tits, but while I can safely admire that she is growing into a lovely young lady, so can all the stalking 55 year old perverts, who are slathering over them as we are choosing our veg.

I don’t consider myself to be easily shocked and I certainly don’t want to be that person who tuts and says: it’s all changed since I was young, because historically girls have always got their tits out – look at the Tudors and their heaving, corseted bosoms. The difference is that with social media, it’s not just Henry the eighth who got to lust, it’s friends, friends’ dads, their teachers, their prospective employees, old Uncles and all and it really bothers me.

Now I’m no prude, but I am a great believer in more is less: more clothes (and I’m not talking a nun’s habit) means less unwanted attention – because at the end of the day, the message us parents want to get across, is it isn’t your tits that define you as a woman, however bloody amazing they are, they are just one part and if your tits are stealing the show, then the rest of you sure is missing out on a whole lot of ‘likes’.

Teenagers are Cute

Bear with me – I know this sounds really schmaltzy and that isn’t usually my style. However, it suddenly struck me how cute teenagers can be and how this is a word so rarely used to describe them, except in a sleazy sexual context. We don’t think anything of attributing the word ‘cute’ to a photo of a baby, or to something sweet that a toddler does, but not to describe the teens. 

Obviously there are various reasons for this: 

  1. No teenager on this planet wants to be called ‘cute’.
  2. They are quite often not cute: they are selfish and rude and oblivious to others and so we tend to forget the cute bits.

So, in an attempt to readdress the balance, here are some genuinely cute things that teenagers do (and by ‘cute’ I don’t mean all the kind and helpful things that teenagers are, occasionally, capable of):

Teenage boys actually ‘do’ their hair. They actually get up in the morning and style it. This is cute.

Teenage girls buy cheap dress after cheap jumper after cheap shorts on ASOS. They wear them on holiday with you and you spend the whole holiday thinking how cheap their clothes look, but they have bought them themselves and this is cute.

When they babysit for other people’s kids, they genuinely care about the children they are looking after. They read them bedtime stories and tell you about it when they get in at midnight. This is cute. 

They still want Father Christmas to visit. This is cute – but obviously the motive behind their cuteness is getting more presents. 

They still like having sleepovers with their sisters. This is cute – especially when they top and tail. 

They plait each other’s hair. Cute. 

They will look out for each other and give reassuring hugs. This is cute, especially when siblings do it, because you then know that, deep down, they actually do love each other. 

Their awkwardness in social situations is cute. 

They love spending time with their grandparents, especially shopping. This is cute because it simply melts the generation gap and has huge benefits for both. 

Their relationship with their pets is cute – their genuine love for them (which doesn’t mean they will poo pick in the garden, because they don’t find that part of having dogs cute).

There are many, many more examples of teenage cuteness: please add 😃

Great Expectations

Dog 1 is lying with his head right on dog 2’s balls and it got me thinking just how different dogs are to humans and then I was thinking how different, different types of dogs are, which led on to me thinking about how different, different dog owners are and how the sort of dog you have seems to affect the sort of dog owner you are and vice versa ( imagine just how exhausting it is living with me). 

Partner and I are both new to dogs, so we feel like the new parents, where how you react to bad behaviour is judged, the state of their coats is judged, the food you give them is judged. In fact, the puppy manual we had, reminded me of: The Contented Little Baby book – after a few days I wanted to chuck it out the window (sorry Gina) and follow my gut. Which worked on the girls, but I’m not sure it’s always working with the dogs. 

Partner and I have observed that it is sheepdog owners who are the most judgemental. This is probably because their dogs are so incredibly well trained and ours, well, aren’t. When dog 1 or dog 2 bound over to the sheep dog, the owner tells it to ‘sit’. This is the equivalent of refusing to let your child go on a play date with mine. You immediately feel judged. Why don’t you want my dogs to play with yours. Do you think they will be a bad influence? Dogs 1 and 2 react to this rejection by circling the beautifully behaved dog, seemingly taunting it with jeers of: you’re not allowed to play! Sheep dog owner then crosses his or her arms. Dog 1 responds to this sense of humour failure by jumping up and barking: let him play, let him play! By which time, I’ve told partner to run over with treats and sheep dog owner stomps off, muttering what awful parents we are. Partner and I are left looking at our gorgeous, happy dogs, now sitting perfectly in front of us, wondering if we are bad parents. 

Of course, it all comes down to expectation. Partner and I need to raise our expectations of our dogs. I look back down at them. Dog 1 has removed his head from dog 2’s balls, but by way of a thank you, dog 2 is now licking dog 1’s nob. I always had high expectations of the girls, but dogs really are so different. 

Dear daughters, Please give me back enough head space for me to remember your names

I find that the hardest thing, above all else, about having kids, is the lack of head space they leave you with. For me, this comes above the money they cost and the heartache they cause. They are human white noise, that as well as playing in the kitchen, the sitting room and the bedroom, it carries on playing in the toilet.

It doesn’t get any better when they get older. They still shout: mum, where are you? This is just seconds after you’ve darted into the loo, to try to get a moment on your own to gather your thoughts. If you don’t answer them, they text you and if you ignore the text, then they’ll ring. ‘I’m in the bloody loo, trying to escape the incessant drone’, you want to scream. ‘I’m not even having a crap. I’m just sitting here, on a half comfy seat, staring at the lino and trying to clear my head.’

Sometimes, your head feels as if it is literally going to explode. In fact, it does explode and out of your mouth comes a whole day’s worth of white noise frustration. It’s like a banshee wailing. Words come out that make no sense, so it does absolutely nothing to improve the situation: you lot are driving me…uuuurrrrggghhhh…I’m just so…grrrrrr….it makes me feel really…angreeeeeee…and the kids all stop what they are all trying to tell you at once for exactly 5 seconds, wondering what the hell you are going on about, which would give you 5 seconds of head space, but you are now filling that 5 seconds with your own screams.

When my kids were all much younger, I devised a plan. I would always strap them into their car seats 10 minutes before we had to leave to go anywhere. I would leave them each with a book or a toy and scarper back into the house, where I would get my shit together, both mentally and literally ie all the paraphernalia that was required for the day. This plan only worked because I had a driveway, but it was my only way of staying sane. Even now, I try to follow the same plan. However, after 10 years they are wise to it and resist. No longer able to strap them in, I am thwarted.

This human white noise also accompanies me to supermarkets. When the girls were little, I could shove them in the trolley and if they were pissing me off, I could leave them at the end of the aisle I was in. Nowadays it is pure hell supermarket shopping with teenagers. Their incessant dialogue of what they feel is missing from our cupboards, makes focusing on the weekly shop impossible. If a toddler throws a tantrum in a shop, people either try to ignore it, or give you looks of sympathy. When a teenager tantrums because you won’t buy her the latest type of superfood to have been discovered in South America, people look at you as if you are both freaks. It is literally exhausting. I leave the shop with half of what I had intended to get still on the shelves and an armful (because we always forget the bloody bags: see blog: Crackerjack!!) of two extremes: organic goji berries for some godforsaken recipe from google that daughter 1 wants to create and mars bar cookies, because they were reduced to 10p.

The three most annoying things about the human white noise, are firstly, it results in nobody in the house being called by the correct name. Invariably, the girls are called by a sort of hybrid of all their names, until I reach the correct one and partner has gone by Fatcat’s name, on a couple of occasions. I frequently have entire conversations with the wrong daughter, because I have started the conversation with another daughter’s name. Secondly, that it turns me into a teenager myself: all I end up hearing is: bla, bla, bla. This frequently leads me to miss out on some really quite vital information, such as where they are going to be staying for the weekend and I then spend the weekend wondering where they are and sending text messages that aren’t directly asking: whose house is it you’re at, because then they will know that I wasn’t listening. Thirdly, when the human white noise isn’t there, I miss it and that irritates me much more than the noise itself.