Author: Alison

Curveball

I don’t know about you, but I feel life trots along quite well when you are confident with what you are dealing with, when things aren’t new, but are routine. Then I find, just as complacency/happiness begins to set in, along comes the curveball. For me it can be illness, not serious illness but just pain in the arse illness, that keeps you/partner/daughters battling on, but seriously feeling like s**t. Change of routine is a killer too. I used to call myself spontaneous, but now I am happy to admit that I like to know what I’m dealing with and plenty of advance warning is preferable.  

As we all know, kids are the same. Which is why I grinned to myself at class today, observing a dad dealing with a change of routine, caused by a new baby. When I saw him two weeks ago, freshly on paternity leave, with back-up provided by his son”s friend’s mum, he was decidedly cocky. It’s easy this looking after the kids lark, he said jovially. I don’t think I’ll go back to work. Fast forward two weeks and today he appeared on his own with his son and son’s friend. He looked really worried. I’m on my own with them today, he told me, with a look of dread on his face. I smiled reassuringly, telling him he’ll be fine. After all, they are with me for the majority of the time. I went into the studio to prepare for the class. From here I could hear snippets of conversation: which way round does the t shirt go? Are these your trousers? No, leave your pants on. I breeze out to set up some chairs: everything ok? I ask, smiling. He gives me a withering look. I disappear back into the studio. Squeals of delight are filling the waiting area and they are not coming from the dad. I pop my head round the door, as it sounds as though he might need rescuing. His son is clinging to his back and son’s friend is actually sitting on his head – much to the amusement of the au pair who is sitting opposite him. 

As he is leaving after the class, I ask him whether this is to be the new routine. I’m ringing work tomorrow, he said. I need to feel human again.

If only that’s all it takes, I thought to myself, a phone call. 

Feeling Young Again

Daughter 2 discovered that I’ve been using her hairspray, at same time as daughter 1 discovered that I’ve been using her perfume. Big stress. However, this is pay back for daughter 2 stealing my lipstick and daughter 1 using my cleanser. Karma. All this is inevitable when 6 females share a house. Living here is sometimes reminiscent of living in student digs and I’m sure step daughter would agree, that life in this madhouse prepared her well for university. 

All daughters share clothes, as they are fairly similar sizes. Of course, while at its best, this is really quite sweet to see, the majority of the time this is the source of most of the anger in our house. Daughter 1 was given a coat by her cousin. The same as daughter 2’s. Daughter 2 was mortified when they both had it on to go to school. You cannot wear that coat! Daughter 2 exclaimed. An argument ensued, which made tight war look like toy soldiers. 

The best feeling in the world is when a teenage daughter tells you that you look nice (except when it’s spoilt with the addition of, ‘lend us a tenner’). So, I was very excited when this morning, daughter 1 asked to borrow my new top to wear to school. Make sure you tell everyone it’s your mum’s, I said. Yeah right. Did you get any comments on the top? I asked her this evening. Someone said it looks like something her mum would wear, she replied. Ah well, I sighed to myself, I had 10 hours of feeling young again and at this stage in life, I’ll take it. 

Dishing the Dirt

The floor is not a shelf, I tell daughter 4, looking at her pile of school uniform, strewn across the bedroom. I enter daughter 2’s room, the floor is not a shelf, I’m now raising my voice, as a wet towel is staring at me from below. I go into daughter 3’s room, I am now screaming the mantra that my Nanna used to say in her lilting, Scottish accent, THE FLOOR IS NOT A SHELF! I’m sick of sniffing knickers, like a dog on heat. If they are dirty, put them in the dirty laundry bag, I drone on, you can’t miss it – it says: ‘dirty laundry’ on the front. Leave your rooms tidy, I yell in a now slightly demonic and threatening tone, that I feel sure will have some impact. 

They leave for school like a storm cloud, moving out of the door and down the road, creating thunderous noise and sparks of lightening, as they move on mass, leaving peace and tranquility behind. 

I go and check their rooms. There are lumps under daughter 1’s duvet. I presume it’s fat cat, scaredy cat and possibly partner, hiding from the storm. I go into daughter 2’s room and see similar lumps. I’m now suspicious and pull back the duvet to reveal a wet towel. I march back into daughter 1’s room, whip back the duvet to reveal half her wardrobe plus a collection of biscuit wrappers. I peel underwear off the floor, as well as single, lonely, dirty socks. At Christmas I adorned a Christmas tree with all the odd socks I had collected since September. I always believe in carrying a threat through. 

Partner hands me a cup of tea, with the same look on his face as the morning before and the morning before that. What did you threaten them with this morning? he asks wearily. Airing their dirty linen in public I reply – job done. 

Big Brother (partner, daughters and number 1 friend) is watching you

Walking past an off licence today, I saw a sign in the window: did you know that 2 to 3 glasses of wine per day can reduce your risk of giving a s**t. I like this sentiment, as it is the slightly rebellious antidote to the chief medical officer’s statement today, that every time we lift a glass of wine to our lips, we must think about how that glass is taking us a step closer to cancer. Cancer is horrible and scary, but the thought of being held to ransom through fear on a Friday night, glass in hand, is even more scary. 

Before I cross a road, I don’t immediately think of death. I think about assessing the risk in order to prevent death. I suppose that this is essentially what the CMO is telling us to do, but it gets our middle class drinkers’ backs up. Remember your Green Cross Code, as Tufty Fluffytail can’t always be looking out for you, but the Nanny State can.

In today’s paper it also says that an extra hour spent sitting down over the course of each week is linked with a 22% increased risk of having type 2 diabetes. So I shall make sure that I drink at least 3 of my allowable 14 units this week, whilst standing. This, coupled with the fact that red wine is apparently good for you and an article last week stating that half a bottle of red wine a day keeps you trim, especially when washed down with a couple of cups of coffee, all makes me agree with Dad when he used to tell me: you can always find a newspaper article to back up your vices. I have to say though, I am struggling to find articles condoning chewing pen lids, picking the fruit bits out of the Fruit and Fibre packet late at night and using daughter 1’s Lady Million perfume without her knowledge, but I do know for sure, that in this house, people are watching me…

It’s been emojinal

I have noticed that I am reducing the lives of the people around me, into a series of emoticons. As I summarise their life and emotions into this neat little package, I do wonder whether the receiver is irritated by it. Friend has flu, I have the answer: not sympathy and flowers, but an emoticon with a mask over its face, which is basically telling her: don’t come near me or my family at this time. Friends’ entire family is struck down by flu. Do I offer to cook them dinners for a week? No, I text 4 emoticons with masks over their faces. 

Similarly love. Love has been reduced to easy sound bites through the emoticon. I can send partner nine different hearts in two seconds flat to illustrate my deep and sincere love…so much easier than organising a romantic meal out and we certainly don’t have time for dirty weekends, so the aubergine and cherry emoticons just have to do. 

I find myself getting irritated when I can’t quite find the one to fit the sentiment. I scroll through, searching for that perfect emoji, that will save me the bother of a phone call. 

Sometimes I receive a text with an emoji that I don’t know and I spend ages trying to work out what spin the sender is putting on their words. It’s easy to get paranoid with emojis: they have the ability to change meaning, to convey irony, sarcasm and wit in a way that leaves me wondering how the Brontë sisters managed without them. But now I have discovered that there is an emojipedia. Look out – coming to a library near you! 

Emoticons roll with the times: one for a man and woman kissing, but also for two men and two women kissing. But where is the one that says: ‘just piss off and leave me alone’? We need one that sticks two fingers up. I was amused when I got my new phone and saw that I can now add skin tone to my hand signals. This would be useful if I want to give someone the ‘V’. I’d choose dark brown and say, ‘that wasn’t me!’

What they don’t know, won’t hurt…

These days I think a great deal about dog poo. I’m pretty sure I spend more time considering dog poo, than I considered my own kids’ poo when I had three in nappies. (Although I do recall when daughter 4 pooed in the bath when all 4 girls were in it, because that was very funny). 

Anyway, these days it’s all about the dogs and I was very amused to hear that the first London borough to introduce DNA testing to name and shame dog owners who don’t pick up after their dogs, is Barking! 

Partner and I are very anal (sorry) about picking up after dog 1 and dog 2, even when they run straight past the poo bin to the opposite side of the rec, poo where there is no bin and say, ha! Be my poo slave, human.

This morning, dog 1 ran off and pooed. Partner and I dutifully went over to the poo site, only to find three perfect dollops of poo in front of us. Which is his? Partner asked, what I presumed was a rhetorical question. You’ll have to pick one and if it’s warm then it’s his, I said, helpfully. We both stood and studied the poos. It was like a Saturday night TV show. Now, we could have picked up all three, but I have to say that I have the same aversion to other dogs’ poos as I used to have changing other kids’ nappies. As if knowing what went into the making of that poo makes all the difference. Partner plumped for the middle one. I had already thought it would be the one on the right. It’s warm! He exclaimed. You’d have thought he had won the lottery. A fellow dog walker passed by. We tried to hide our excitement for partner’s win. 

Our friends’ Great Dane eats items of clothing, which then get pooed out, washed and back in the airing cupboard on a 24 hour turnaround. I asked if anyone in the house ever objects to this, as I imagined what daughter 2 might say if her Jack Wills’ pants went through this cycle on a regular basis. What they don’t know, won’t hurt them, she said with a smile. Yes, I thought. That’s exactly what went through my mind when dog 1 swallowed daughter 1’s earring and threw it up an hour later. She’ll never know. 

The Truth Fairy

Teeth are falling out of mouths in our house at a rate of one a day: daughters 3 and 4 both lost a tooth this week, as did dog 2 who is teething. Step son has been told he may have to lose a few and seemed genuinely surprised when the dentist told him the reason for this was sugar. Mine are all still in tact at time of writing this, but there is definitely something in the air. 

A year ago the tooth fairy stopped needing the teeth in our house for her fairy dust and now the loss of a tooth is just met with: ‘give us a pound please, mum’ and ‘shall I put it in the bin.’

Partner and I were truly shocking tooth fairies. Our record for leaving a tooth under a pillow was four nights – the tooth fairy was very busy that week too. 

Tooth fairy scenarios became very elaborate with daughter 4 and that piled on the pressure. Letters were written, requiring replies and once a walnut shell bath was left out, with water and a piece of cloth as a towel. 

I tried to stop being Father Christmas last year too. I thought I’d kill off two logistical birds with one stone. However, this was met with cries of mutiny, resulting in partner and I still creeping around the landing at 1 in the morning, eating mince pies, feeding the dogs carrots and drinking whisky. At least now though, we get proper thanks for our efforts – it used to kill me watching them open presents I’d sweated over choosing and buying and some bloke who doesn’t exist getting all the credit. 

The one about the Irishman, the Scotsman and the Fireman

Back at the hospital for another MRI. I have to have dye injected into my shoulder. This time the radiographer is a young woman – I worry that she is too young. Last time it was an older man and I worried that he was too old. At the end of the procedure she reties my gown. I appreciate the subtle female touch. The older man had left me flapping open all the way down the corridor. I expect he feared being sued for sexual assault. Perhaps a sign of the times. 

I wait outside the MRI room for my scan. ‘And breathe, in and out, slowly. It’s all ok, breathe for me…’  is all I can hear and so it goes on. I feel my breath slipping into perfect synchrony with the MRI’s present victim. 

I am met for my MRI by an Irishman and I instantly feel calmed by his voice. The thought of being rolled into a tiny wind tunnel for 20 minutes, suddenly doesn’t seem like a scary prospect. 

He asks me to get on the scales. I check behind me for a dog.

Perfect! He exclaims. More good feelings gush through me. 

Earplugs in, headphones on and in I go. I keep my eyes shut. Rather unnervingly, ‘looking down the barrel of a shotgun’ booms through the headphones. ‘And breathe’ I tell myself,  ‘in and out slowly’. I become fixated with two things: not opening my eyes and not accidentally pressing my panic buzzer. It’s freezing. I now worry about the effect of the cold on my nipples and only a flimsy gown between me and the Irish accent. Number 1 New Zealand friend travelled from Dunedin to Dublin for no other reason than to hear the Irish voice. Because I have time to, I then wonder how it was that she ended up in Scotland with a fisherman, but is now happily married in New Zealand to a fireman…I then wonder, that if I always had this sort of down time in my life, what other things I would wonder. 

I’m rolled back into reality: ‘that’s grand’ the Irishman beams at me. 

Number 1 NZ friend travelled 11,893 miles to hear that, I think to myself, instinctively moving an arm to my chest,  just in case that’s what he is referring to, and now, twenty years later, I completely understand why. 

The Dying Hours of January. Part 2: Always trust people who like big butts. They cannot lie.

I jump, confidently onto the scales for my final January weigh in. I’ve put on 2 kilos, I wail to partner, so loudly that the kids all come running in. Partner is laughing. I’m outraged – how can he be laughing. The scales have just torn my world apart. I’ve been denying myself bread and potatoes for four weeks. It must be the granola, I scream accusingly at daughter 1, who is lined up with her sisters at my bedroom door, eyeballing my naked misery. Or it could be the fact that dog 1’s paw was on the scales, partner is exploding with mirth.
‘Watch out boy she’ll chew you up’ the kids all chorus and then scarper.

I don’t know why you’re worried anyway, partner says, as only a man would, apparently big bums are still in for this year. Dog 1 is cocking his head to one side and has his worried face on. Be afraid, I thought to myself, be very afraid.

 

The Dying Hours of January. Part 1: Beads of Greatness

We are finally getting rid of January. It’s so drawn out with its 31 days, that it eeks out every last bit of spirit that’s in you. Perhaps soon we can at last move on from meals adorned with quinoa and daughter 1’s obsessive exercise regime, which has involved ever increasing amounts of burpees being performed loudly, late into the night.  ‘You’re gonna reach greatness!’ Mr Motivator has been telling her all month, ‘you are sweating beads of greatness!’

It occurs to me that in January’s dying hours, I should try out some of this language in my Taekwon-do classes, although I don’t think I could pull them off in quite the same way as he can. I can’t think of many people who can sidle up to a lady at the back of a class and get away with singing, ‘you’re a man eater,’ as she performs her jumping lunges, but somehow he does. 

Looking for inspiration to get me through the first half of February to Valentine’s Day, where there’s finally an excuse for champagne, I look up the rest of the lyrics: 

The woman is wild

A she-cat tamed

By the purr of a Jaguar

Now you’re talking, I think. Let’s go make February rock!