As a newbie blogger I'm very honoured to receive the Beautiful Blogger Award, given to me by L'Aussie. It's given by fellow bloggers and as a recipient my duty is to pass it on to 15 other bloggers.
As I'm a newbie and so many already have received the award, this could take some time to do, but I'll keep updating the following list. If you appear on my list and have been awarded the beautiful Blogger award, please spread the joy and pass it on to 15 other blogs you love in the same way I have here.
Apologies if any of you have already received the award, feel free to pass it on to somebody else.
1. You've Got Your Hands Full
2. Magical Meditations for Kids
3. Heather Bestel
4. Hyperbole and a Half
5. Words with Jam
Thank you so much to L'Aussie for my award, I'm highly chuffed!
Beautiful Blogger Award
Thanks to l'Aussie for my Beautiful Blogger award
Tuesday 29 June 2010
Monday 28 June 2010
Hayes House Parenting
I think all parents doubt their abilities, even the ones who appear so composed and diplomatic. I like to imagine these people dishevelled and shrieking at their perfect children, feeling the same murderous tendencies that I do on a regular basis.
We do OK, sometimes we do better than OK. There are days when I have successfully navigated a potentially explosive situation and can't resist feeling a little smug. Yes! I am Mother-of-the-Year! Those days though, are rarer than rocking horse poo...
"Yes, Jamie; you can play outside but don't go further than the end of the road, and DO NOT go in anyone's garden"
Jamie reappears ten minutes later clutching a handful of peonies, which I'm pretty confident aren't native to the pavements of our street. She proudly offers them to me, her little face expectant of the great praise that she knows is about to bestowed upon her.
Instant dilemma, do I thank her for the peonies thereby encouraging her to continue to nick all the neighbours' shrubbery? Or do I tell her off and shoot her gesture down in a ball of flames?
So in true fence-sitting fashion I do both (probably the reason my kids are the most confused children I know). I'm doing OK; calmly explaining that the flowers are beautiful and that it was a lovely thought but I had just told her not to go in other people's gardens. After being met with a blank look I begin to lose my cool and I can't help going from calm mode to lecturing her with abject disbelief that she has not only gone out and done the very thing I asked her not to do, but she has stolen from the neighbours garden as well! I end with a mother-hen-like phrase such as
"I don't know why I bother!"
Hmmm, didn't handle that with the greatest of finesse, I reflect as I down a large coffee and inhale hard on my Marlborough light. Next time I'll do better I resolve.
Next is Nicki. She is hungry (because it has been more than three nanoseconds since lunch). She formally requests chocolate biscuits. I counter with an offer of fruit. Nicki has a full inventory of all the kitchen's contents that she regularly updates. Knowing full well that we don't have any melon, this is what she asks for. When I tell her what she already knows; no melon, she is forced to go back to her original request of biscuits.
"Grapes, apple, or banana" I say. I'm not showing a hint of weakness but I've already withered inside because I know what's coming.
"I don't like banana!" She protests.
"Grapes or apple" I say.
"THEY'RE BORING!"
"Not if you're hungry, Nicki"
In one deft move: folded arms, huffy face, glaring eyes, and deliberate stomping across the house. She slams her feet down on every single step on her way upstairs until she reaches her room. Two-second pause and then SLAM. There goes another set of door hinges. I boil the kettle and look for my fags.
Take incidents like this, have them five times over in a single day with five children of differing ages and personalities and you may be somewhere close to the nightmare that is parenting the Hayes offspring (or any offspring, I suspect).
However, when you chuck a Stig into the equation, this changes things. Usually not in a good way but then you can almost always guarantee that with Stig around, hilarity will ensue.
His top five telling offs of all time are funny, shameful and not particularly effective, but nevertheless deserve a mention.
1. To Nicki: "You're a Brownie, you should know better!"
2. To random squabbling children: "Quit it, you're making my voice go up and down!"
3. When Sam was running away after I'd told him off: "Run Forrest, Run!"
4. Jamie to Stig: "Dad, when will I be able to go to the shop alone?"
Stig to Jamie: "When you've climbed the hill of responsibility"
5. To all kids when bedlam ensues: "What do you think this is, Jonny's F****** Fun Factory?"
We do OK, sometimes we do better than OK. There are days when I have successfully navigated a potentially explosive situation and can't resist feeling a little smug. Yes! I am Mother-of-the-Year! Those days though, are rarer than rocking horse poo...
"Yes, Jamie; you can play outside but don't go further than the end of the road, and DO NOT go in anyone's garden"
Jamie reappears ten minutes later clutching a handful of peonies, which I'm pretty confident aren't native to the pavements of our street. She proudly offers them to me, her little face expectant of the great praise that she knows is about to bestowed upon her.
Instant dilemma, do I thank her for the peonies thereby encouraging her to continue to nick all the neighbours' shrubbery? Or do I tell her off and shoot her gesture down in a ball of flames?
So in true fence-sitting fashion I do both (probably the reason my kids are the most confused children I know). I'm doing OK; calmly explaining that the flowers are beautiful and that it was a lovely thought but I had just told her not to go in other people's gardens. After being met with a blank look I begin to lose my cool and I can't help going from calm mode to lecturing her with abject disbelief that she has not only gone out and done the very thing I asked her not to do, but she has stolen from the neighbours garden as well! I end with a mother-hen-like phrase such as
"I don't know why I bother!"
Hmmm, didn't handle that with the greatest of finesse, I reflect as I down a large coffee and inhale hard on my Marlborough light. Next time I'll do better I resolve.
Next is Nicki. She is hungry (because it has been more than three nanoseconds since lunch). She formally requests chocolate biscuits. I counter with an offer of fruit. Nicki has a full inventory of all the kitchen's contents that she regularly updates. Knowing full well that we don't have any melon, this is what she asks for. When I tell her what she already knows; no melon, she is forced to go back to her original request of biscuits.
"Grapes, apple, or banana" I say. I'm not showing a hint of weakness but I've already withered inside because I know what's coming.
"I don't like banana!" She protests.
"Grapes or apple" I say.
"THEY'RE BORING!"
"Not if you're hungry, Nicki"
In one deft move: folded arms, huffy face, glaring eyes, and deliberate stomping across the house. She slams her feet down on every single step on her way upstairs until she reaches her room. Two-second pause and then SLAM. There goes another set of door hinges. I boil the kettle and look for my fags.
Take incidents like this, have them five times over in a single day with five children of differing ages and personalities and you may be somewhere close to the nightmare that is parenting the Hayes offspring (or any offspring, I suspect).
However, when you chuck a Stig into the equation, this changes things. Usually not in a good way but then you can almost always guarantee that with Stig around, hilarity will ensue.
His top five telling offs of all time are funny, shameful and not particularly effective, but nevertheless deserve a mention.
1. To Nicki: "You're a Brownie, you should know better!"
2. To random squabbling children: "Quit it, you're making my voice go up and down!"
3. When Sam was running away after I'd told him off: "Run Forrest, Run!"
4. Jamie to Stig: "Dad, when will I be able to go to the shop alone?"
Stig to Jamie: "When you've climbed the hill of responsibility"
5. To all kids when bedlam ensues: "What do you think this is, Jonny's F****** Fun Factory?"
Friday 18 June 2010
How many more parents am I going to have to apologise to for the behaviour of my wayward offspring? The embarrassment is killing me and even worse is the knowledge that this is just the beginning.
Nicki has her best friend staying over tonight. Nicki's friend has been a regular fixture in our house for some time and so I naively assumed that they were past the initial stages of showing off and making a prat of themselves, and their parents in the process.
Alas, no. Tonight I have had to apologise for Jamie taking it upon herself to give her little sister and her best friend a lesson in sex education.
Jamie is in year 6 of primary school and at our school it has been decided that this is the appropriate time to put the fear of god into them. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for it; information is power, even at that age, but FFS it would have been nice to have been warned! At least I could have prepared her for what was possibly the most uncomfortable day of her childhood. I also think that other parents could have been tipped the wink because it was inevitable that the school playground has become akin to the Daily Sport newsroom over the past week. God knows what some of the younger kids have heard.
Jamie was mortified the day she came home after the first day of it. She parked herself in our bedroom and remained there until we'd had a thorough chat about it, which between making dinner and dealing with the other three kids, who were knebbing by the doorway like a pack of meerkats (Do meerkats travel in packs?), took about three hours.
I should have known that once she got over the initial shock she would feel the need to impart this wisdom on anyone who'd listen to her, and she has a captive audience in Nicki and her young and previously innocent friend. They hang on her every word in the belief that she is that one step closer to adulthood than they are. Never mind that there's only 22 months between them.
So yet another cowardly texted apology ensued. Luckily the Mum in question was lovely about the whole thing, but the fact that she hasn't had "the talk" yet with her daughter made matters worse. This poor woman has had the decision taken from her as to when to deal with this issue, and now has to sit her child down tomorrow to explain the birds and the bees, all because Jamie thinks she is the authority on everything.
I must have done something really bad in a past life, but if not, I may have to do something really bad in this life and gag Jamie till she's at least in her thirties!
Nicki has her best friend staying over tonight. Nicki's friend has been a regular fixture in our house for some time and so I naively assumed that they were past the initial stages of showing off and making a prat of themselves, and their parents in the process.
Alas, no. Tonight I have had to apologise for Jamie taking it upon herself to give her little sister and her best friend a lesson in sex education.
Jamie is in year 6 of primary school and at our school it has been decided that this is the appropriate time to put the fear of god into them. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for it; information is power, even at that age, but FFS it would have been nice to have been warned! At least I could have prepared her for what was possibly the most uncomfortable day of her childhood. I also think that other parents could have been tipped the wink because it was inevitable that the school playground has become akin to the Daily Sport newsroom over the past week. God knows what some of the younger kids have heard.
Jamie was mortified the day she came home after the first day of it. She parked herself in our bedroom and remained there until we'd had a thorough chat about it, which between making dinner and dealing with the other three kids, who were knebbing by the doorway like a pack of meerkats (Do meerkats travel in packs?), took about three hours.
I should have known that once she got over the initial shock she would feel the need to impart this wisdom on anyone who'd listen to her, and she has a captive audience in Nicki and her young and previously innocent friend. They hang on her every word in the belief that she is that one step closer to adulthood than they are. Never mind that there's only 22 months between them.
So yet another cowardly texted apology ensued. Luckily the Mum in question was lovely about the whole thing, but the fact that she hasn't had "the talk" yet with her daughter made matters worse. This poor woman has had the decision taken from her as to when to deal with this issue, and now has to sit her child down tomorrow to explain the birds and the bees, all because Jamie thinks she is the authority on everything.
I must have done something really bad in a past life, but if not, I may have to do something really bad in this life and gag Jamie till she's at least in her thirties!
Wednesday 16 June 2010
Return to Sender
Charlie is having a near death experience, so bad is the bug that has befallen him. He thinks he has Foot and Mouth (it’s a cold; he’s already practising the art of man flu) so I’m now sharing my bed with a “sick” child as well as the farting circus.
Charlie sleeps the wrong way round in the crucifixion position leaving Stig and I a narrow strip each down either side of the bed. At regular intervals throughout the night I’m jolted into consciousness by a tiny hand slapping me in the face or by one of my limbs sliding off my side of the bed and threatening to take the rest of me with it. Each time this happens I circle my wrists and ankles to check for pins and needles and try to readjust my position in the within the ten inches of space I have been allocated by our son. Stig, who could sleep on a washing line in a hurricane, is snoring soundly through all of this.
After three days of coughing fits I decide that Charlie should probably see a doctor. I may even actually have a modicum of genuine concern. I prise him away from the TV and head out to the doctors. As I watch him jumping the cracks in the pavement I begin to suspect it's all a big conspiracy. My theory carries further weight when I observe the same child (who was on the verge of collapse an hour earlier) make a miraculous recovery in the doctors’ surgery waiting room. He’s now a picture of health and energy; knocking magazines off tables and spreading the contents of the toy box all over the floor. I endure disapproving looks from elderly ladies followed by a polite doctor who secretly thinks I'm one of those overprotective, paranoid mothers or worse; that I have Munchhausen’s by proxy.
Once home again, Charlie’s recovery is complete. He is incessantly pestering to be allowed to play outside. This, of course, is out of the question. All mothers instinctively know it is punishable by death to let your child play out when they are "sick".
I put cbeebies on and ignore Charlie for the next two hours while I attempt to restore some order to the house and prepare the dinner, by which time the rest of my dysfunctional family have arrived home.
I threaten Stig with starvation if he touches the vegetables again, swot him with my spatula, and begin telling him what the doctor has said about Charlie; namely that there’s nothing wrong with him. At which point my Stig disappears into thin air (or the garage), and I lose the will to live. Men complain about women’s verbal diarrhoea because they fail to understand that if we pause for breath, for so much as a millisecond, they assume we’ve finished speaking and they leave the bloody room.
I then realise that Charlie has been very quiet for some time. I look for him whilst trying to rationalise with myself that the odds of him having choked on his own vomit in the last ten minutes are slim. I locate him in our bedroom, where I had left him to watch TV and "recover" in peace.
The scene before me does not quite register at first. Sam is in there with him. They have found my ink stamp. My bedroom is randomly covered in little black rectangles with my name, address, and phone number in them. My shelves, our bedside cabinets, the walls (a new kind of trendy retro wallpaper?). I look down at two mischievous smiling faces, with a hint of uncertainty as they wait for my reaction, hoping that I'll see the funny side of this. Their faces, arms and clothes are covered in the same little black rectangles, slightly reminiscent of prison tattoos.
So this is what a fight in a stamp factory would look like, not a vision I'd ever contemplated before.
There often comes that moment when I can no longer hold my fixed smile through gritted teeth, but just when I’m about to go off like Sputnik, one of the kids gives me a look that melts my heart in an instant, or worse still; they make me laugh.
"Mummy, can you post us?" Asks Sam.
There are certain questions in life that are just too difficult to answer. Realising I can no longer be mad at the kids; I normally follow their father to the garage and give him some verbal abuse. He might as well prove useful, one way or another!
Charlie sleeps the wrong way round in the crucifixion position leaving Stig and I a narrow strip each down either side of the bed. At regular intervals throughout the night I’m jolted into consciousness by a tiny hand slapping me in the face or by one of my limbs sliding off my side of the bed and threatening to take the rest of me with it. Each time this happens I circle my wrists and ankles to check for pins and needles and try to readjust my position in the within the ten inches of space I have been allocated by our son. Stig, who could sleep on a washing line in a hurricane, is snoring soundly through all of this.
After three days of coughing fits I decide that Charlie should probably see a doctor. I may even actually have a modicum of genuine concern. I prise him away from the TV and head out to the doctors. As I watch him jumping the cracks in the pavement I begin to suspect it's all a big conspiracy. My theory carries further weight when I observe the same child (who was on the verge of collapse an hour earlier) make a miraculous recovery in the doctors’ surgery waiting room. He’s now a picture of health and energy; knocking magazines off tables and spreading the contents of the toy box all over the floor. I endure disapproving looks from elderly ladies followed by a polite doctor who secretly thinks I'm one of those overprotective, paranoid mothers or worse; that I have Munchhausen’s by proxy.
Once home again, Charlie’s recovery is complete. He is incessantly pestering to be allowed to play outside. This, of course, is out of the question. All mothers instinctively know it is punishable by death to let your child play out when they are "sick".
I put cbeebies on and ignore Charlie for the next two hours while I attempt to restore some order to the house and prepare the dinner, by which time the rest of my dysfunctional family have arrived home.
I threaten Stig with starvation if he touches the vegetables again, swot him with my spatula, and begin telling him what the doctor has said about Charlie; namely that there’s nothing wrong with him. At which point my Stig disappears into thin air (or the garage), and I lose the will to live. Men complain about women’s verbal diarrhoea because they fail to understand that if we pause for breath, for so much as a millisecond, they assume we’ve finished speaking and they leave the bloody room.
I then realise that Charlie has been very quiet for some time. I look for him whilst trying to rationalise with myself that the odds of him having choked on his own vomit in the last ten minutes are slim. I locate him in our bedroom, where I had left him to watch TV and "recover" in peace.
The scene before me does not quite register at first. Sam is in there with him. They have found my ink stamp. My bedroom is randomly covered in little black rectangles with my name, address, and phone number in them. My shelves, our bedside cabinets, the walls (a new kind of trendy retro wallpaper?). I look down at two mischievous smiling faces, with a hint of uncertainty as they wait for my reaction, hoping that I'll see the funny side of this. Their faces, arms and clothes are covered in the same little black rectangles, slightly reminiscent of prison tattoos.
So this is what a fight in a stamp factory would look like, not a vision I'd ever contemplated before.
There often comes that moment when I can no longer hold my fixed smile through gritted teeth, but just when I’m about to go off like Sputnik, one of the kids gives me a look that melts my heart in an instant, or worse still; they make me laugh.
"Mummy, can you post us?" Asks Sam.
There are certain questions in life that are just too difficult to answer. Realising I can no longer be mad at the kids; I normally follow their father to the garage and give him some verbal abuse. He might as well prove useful, one way or another!
Saturday 12 June 2010
Yummy Mummies
Why is it that my bed is the warmest and comfiest place to be at 6.29am on Monday morning just before the alarm clock starts screaming its head off, whereas the night before, when I need to sleep, it’s the most hostile environment on earth? It’s cold, lumpy, hard, and it contains a duvet-hogging man who is the ringmaster of the all-snoring, all-flatulating circus.
As I lay in the darkness willing myself to sleep, the LCD display on my bedside clock taunts me. It may be the only visible thing in the room; a gentle red glow that is deceivingly comforting. Make no mistake though, the clock is evil. With every glance in its direction it gloats at me that in less than five hours it will, at a crucial moment, catapult me out of my blissful Johnny Depp dream using a sound akin to a robotic cockatiel, causing me a mild heart attack.
If I’m lucky, by 8.50am, I’ll have successfully dressed, groomed and fed our four zombie-like children and made it to the school yard without losing one of them on the way there. After very little sleep I’m scruffy, aggravated, and dragging several uncooperative children along with me. So why does every other woman in the schoolyard look as though they’ve just stepped off the cover of Vogue? A “Yummy Mummy” is the new fashionable thing to be, anyone who knows me would find that prospect hilarious.
I’m filled with admiration for these women. How do they do it? There just isn’t the time on frenzied school mornings in our house to apply make-up, do something Nicky Clarke-like to my hair, choose a knock-out outfit, and don killer boots. Between yelling at the girls, dressing Charlie, and removing toothpaste from ear holes I’m lucky if I manage to shove a banana clip through my hair, let alone brush it! I’m just not prepared to get up an hour earlier; that’s an hour’s sleep I’d lose. I’m already at the mercy of the ringmaster and the shrieking clock.
I seriously believe anyway, that no amount of make-up, no matter how expertly applied could make me look remotely human before midday. I also know that the effort would be wasted as it would inevitably slide off my face as I speed-march the kids to school, sweating profusely. Either that or my foundation, and all it supports, would be battered like the Norwegian coastline by anything from fine drizzle to torrential rain.
I once straightened my hair before leaving for school. By the time we reached the end of our street my freshly straightened hair was whipped around my head by the autumn wind creating a lovely bird's nest effect, nicely finished it with a few stray twigs and leaves. I can only conclude that the women in our school yard must use hairspray created by nuclear physicists.
Yummy Mummy my arse!
As I lay in the darkness willing myself to sleep, the LCD display on my bedside clock taunts me. It may be the only visible thing in the room; a gentle red glow that is deceivingly comforting. Make no mistake though, the clock is evil. With every glance in its direction it gloats at me that in less than five hours it will, at a crucial moment, catapult me out of my blissful Johnny Depp dream using a sound akin to a robotic cockatiel, causing me a mild heart attack.
If I’m lucky, by 8.50am, I’ll have successfully dressed, groomed and fed our four zombie-like children and made it to the school yard without losing one of them on the way there. After very little sleep I’m scruffy, aggravated, and dragging several uncooperative children along with me. So why does every other woman in the schoolyard look as though they’ve just stepped off the cover of Vogue? A “Yummy Mummy” is the new fashionable thing to be, anyone who knows me would find that prospect hilarious.
I’m filled with admiration for these women. How do they do it? There just isn’t the time on frenzied school mornings in our house to apply make-up, do something Nicky Clarke-like to my hair, choose a knock-out outfit, and don killer boots. Between yelling at the girls, dressing Charlie, and removing toothpaste from ear holes I’m lucky if I manage to shove a banana clip through my hair, let alone brush it! I’m just not prepared to get up an hour earlier; that’s an hour’s sleep I’d lose. I’m already at the mercy of the ringmaster and the shrieking clock.
I seriously believe anyway, that no amount of make-up, no matter how expertly applied could make me look remotely human before midday. I also know that the effort would be wasted as it would inevitably slide off my face as I speed-march the kids to school, sweating profusely. Either that or my foundation, and all it supports, would be battered like the Norwegian coastline by anything from fine drizzle to torrential rain.
I once straightened my hair before leaving for school. By the time we reached the end of our street my freshly straightened hair was whipped around my head by the autumn wind creating a lovely bird's nest effect, nicely finished it with a few stray twigs and leaves. I can only conclude that the women in our school yard must use hairspray created by nuclear physicists.
Yummy Mummy my arse!
Monday 7 June 2010
Earthquakes at Tesco
There's nothing better than a calm reassuring presence in a crisis is there? I wouldn't know. In a crisis the person I usually have to guide me through the misfortunes of life is Stig (the phrase "the blind leading the blind" springs to mind).
As I was reminiscing about the fridge palaver the other day, another buried memory surfaced. In 2002 we lived in Wrexham, where an earthquake struck. Wrexham was not the epicentre but nevertheless the effects were felt in Hayes House, and indeed across most of North Wales. It was late at night and the girls were in bed (this was pre Charlie and Sam era). Stig and I were laying on adjacent sofa's watching crap telly because we couldn't be bothered to get up and go to bed.
When the earthquake struck there was an eerie rumble and the sofas seemed to gyrate towards each other. It was quite startling and for a moment I was reluctant to put my feet down on the floor because a second ago it had looked like a sea of carpety fluid.
Stig, on the other hand, approached the whole thing from a more practical standpoint.
"The chimney!" He said
I gave him my what-the-hell-are-you-on-about? look.
"That chimney isn't stable".
Our house was a big red brick building and the wonky old chimney towered high above the roof. Stig went on to explain that the chimney could have been destabilised during the quake and that if it came down, it would crash through the roof and kill us in our beds. In fact the whole house could be unstable.
Fair enough, I could see his point about the chimney, it did look like it had been built by a drunk person. Stig went outside to look at it (in the dark) and concluded that it was more "rickety looking" than before, and that the only safe thing to do was evacuate the house.
Ah, that familiar sinking feeling. We woke the girls and bundled them, along with copious amounts of bedding and baby supplies (Nicki was only about a year old), into the car. As I glanced round from my front passenger seat and saw two pairs of wide eyes looking back at me from over the top of a large pile of duvets, I wasn't even surprised at the ridiculousness of the situation. This was typical Hayes House.
"Now what?" I asked Stig, who was deep in thought, complete with muttering.
"We need to go somewhere flat" he decided.
Was this decision based on years of earthquake training on the San Andreas fault, I wondered? Maybe in a prior life he was a secret government agent and encountered many situations like this?
Any such notions were soon dispelled however, when he drove to Tescos.
As he stopped the car in the middle of the vast car park, I felt a pang of incredulity at how impossible it was to find a space here when the shop was open. Again I asked the "Now what?" question, this time by glaring at him because saying the words out loud would have inevitably been followed by a huffy torrent of abuse on my part.
"Phone the police" He said.
"WHAT?"
Well you never know, Wrexham police may well have a resident geologist, but I doubted it. So, humouring him, I phoned the police, who in turn humoured me and confirmed that Yes; there had been an earthquake, and No; they didn't know if we could expect any aftershocks, nor could they comment on the structural integrity of our house, but given that the only reported damage was the odd broken roof tile, and the fact that our one-hundred-year-old house was still in standing, they thought that it was probably safe to return to it.
We drove home, too tired to be embarrassed. Only as we pulled up outside our house did it occur to us to check that our neighbour was OK as she had a baby son the same age as Nicki. A sleepy voice answered the phone and I explained that we were just checking that they were alright after the earthquake.
I had forgotten, in the midst of our "crisis", that my neighbour had lived in LA for ten years and earthquakes of this magnitude (piddly) were a regular occurrence there. She went on to say that the quake had woken her so she had got up to get a glass of water and seen us trudging out of the house complete with bedding and children but she figured, after the fridge incident, that we were just a tad weird.
Even our neighbour's (the only person we knew with ten years of earthquake experience) reassurance wasn't enough for Stig. We spent the rest of the night "camping" in the living room.
So if you want to be embarrassed in front of your neighbours, the local police, and spend an hour or two in Tesco's car park in the middle of the night; Stig is definitely your man in a crisis situation.
As I was reminiscing about the fridge palaver the other day, another buried memory surfaced. In 2002 we lived in Wrexham, where an earthquake struck. Wrexham was not the epicentre but nevertheless the effects were felt in Hayes House, and indeed across most of North Wales. It was late at night and the girls were in bed (this was pre Charlie and Sam era). Stig and I were laying on adjacent sofa's watching crap telly because we couldn't be bothered to get up and go to bed.
When the earthquake struck there was an eerie rumble and the sofas seemed to gyrate towards each other. It was quite startling and for a moment I was reluctant to put my feet down on the floor because a second ago it had looked like a sea of carpety fluid.
Stig, on the other hand, approached the whole thing from a more practical standpoint.
"The chimney!" He said
I gave him my what-the-hell-are-you-on-about? look.
"That chimney isn't stable".
Our house was a big red brick building and the wonky old chimney towered high above the roof. Stig went on to explain that the chimney could have been destabilised during the quake and that if it came down, it would crash through the roof and kill us in our beds. In fact the whole house could be unstable.
Fair enough, I could see his point about the chimney, it did look like it had been built by a drunk person. Stig went outside to look at it (in the dark) and concluded that it was more "rickety looking" than before, and that the only safe thing to do was evacuate the house.
Ah, that familiar sinking feeling. We woke the girls and bundled them, along with copious amounts of bedding and baby supplies (Nicki was only about a year old), into the car. As I glanced round from my front passenger seat and saw two pairs of wide eyes looking back at me from over the top of a large pile of duvets, I wasn't even surprised at the ridiculousness of the situation. This was typical Hayes House.
"Now what?" I asked Stig, who was deep in thought, complete with muttering.
"We need to go somewhere flat" he decided.
Was this decision based on years of earthquake training on the San Andreas fault, I wondered? Maybe in a prior life he was a secret government agent and encountered many situations like this?
Any such notions were soon dispelled however, when he drove to Tescos.
As he stopped the car in the middle of the vast car park, I felt a pang of incredulity at how impossible it was to find a space here when the shop was open. Again I asked the "Now what?" question, this time by glaring at him because saying the words out loud would have inevitably been followed by a huffy torrent of abuse on my part.
"Phone the police" He said.
"WHAT?"
Well you never know, Wrexham police may well have a resident geologist, but I doubted it. So, humouring him, I phoned the police, who in turn humoured me and confirmed that Yes; there had been an earthquake, and No; they didn't know if we could expect any aftershocks, nor could they comment on the structural integrity of our house, but given that the only reported damage was the odd broken roof tile, and the fact that our one-hundred-year-old house was still in standing, they thought that it was probably safe to return to it.
We drove home, too tired to be embarrassed. Only as we pulled up outside our house did it occur to us to check that our neighbour was OK as she had a baby son the same age as Nicki. A sleepy voice answered the phone and I explained that we were just checking that they were alright after the earthquake.
I had forgotten, in the midst of our "crisis", that my neighbour had lived in LA for ten years and earthquakes of this magnitude (piddly) were a regular occurrence there. She went on to say that the quake had woken her so she had got up to get a glass of water and seen us trudging out of the house complete with bedding and children but she figured, after the fridge incident, that we were just a tad weird.
Even our neighbour's (the only person we knew with ten years of earthquake experience) reassurance wasn't enough for Stig. We spent the rest of the night "camping" in the living room.
So if you want to be embarrassed in front of your neighbours, the local police, and spend an hour or two in Tesco's car park in the middle of the night; Stig is definitely your man in a crisis situation.
Having Trouble Relaxing?
It seems there's more to relaxing than I first thought. In my quest to restore Stig with some sanity, I discovered the website of the wonderful Heather Bestel. Heather is a qualified psychotherapist and hypnotherapist. She also specialises in relaxation techniques. "Helping you move from mad dash to organised serenity" is her mantra.
I've always been sceptical of the whole positive thinking and loveliness approach, but given Stig's condition, two autistic kids, and a very short fuse, it's time I accept that Hayes House could do with some serenity. Desperate times...
I have got to know Heather a little over recent weeks and she is fantastic. She is very frank and open on her website about her past and the reasons for choosing her career. Heather's motives to pass on the wisdom that has been so helpful to her in escaping a turbulent past are clear. Not that you have to be traumatised in any way to benefit from the art of relaxation. She has a free download called More Me Time which is aimed at busy women primarily, but contains advice and know-how that most people could benefit from.
Heather has a range of CDs for sale including Just Ten Minutes; all you need for total relaxation, Deep Sleep, 7 Secrets for Quitting Smoking and she is launching a new range of CDs in July called Magical Meditations 4 Kids, for 4-7 year olds and 8-11 year olds.
Sam had the privilege of a sneak preview of the new 4-7 year olds CD, as Heather was looking for reviews from children about her material. Sam loved the recording and it definitely had the desired effect. He lay on my bed with his eyes closed and smiled all the way through the "Magical Space Adventure", one of the special relaxation stories. Never have I seen him so calm and relaxed. You can read what he had to say about it, along with reviews from other children, on Heather's new Magical Meditations 4 Kids Blog.
Heather has been nothing but friendly and helpful to me, without so much as a sales pitch. There are few like her left in the world and her material, what I know of it so far, is definitely helpful. So I'm pitching for her, and for me because I have become an affiliate. I can't wait for the full kids' CDs to come out and in the mean time I'm getting Stig her relaxation CD.
If you're on the verge of mental meltdown, struggling to find a bit of "me" time, or just looking for the proverbial warm fuzzy feeling, have a look at her stuff.
You can read about Heather or buy any of her material, as well as download her free More Me Time e-book (PDF) here
Heather is also on Twitter and Facebook.
I've always been sceptical of the whole positive thinking and loveliness approach, but given Stig's condition, two autistic kids, and a very short fuse, it's time I accept that Hayes House could do with some serenity. Desperate times...
I have got to know Heather a little over recent weeks and she is fantastic. She is very frank and open on her website about her past and the reasons for choosing her career. Heather's motives to pass on the wisdom that has been so helpful to her in escaping a turbulent past are clear. Not that you have to be traumatised in any way to benefit from the art of relaxation. She has a free download called More Me Time which is aimed at busy women primarily, but contains advice and know-how that most people could benefit from.
Heather has a range of CDs for sale including Just Ten Minutes; all you need for total relaxation, Deep Sleep, 7 Secrets for Quitting Smoking and she is launching a new range of CDs in July called Magical Meditations 4 Kids, for 4-7 year olds and 8-11 year olds.
Sam had the privilege of a sneak preview of the new 4-7 year olds CD, as Heather was looking for reviews from children about her material. Sam loved the recording and it definitely had the desired effect. He lay on my bed with his eyes closed and smiled all the way through the "Magical Space Adventure", one of the special relaxation stories. Never have I seen him so calm and relaxed. You can read what he had to say about it, along with reviews from other children, on Heather's new Magical Meditations 4 Kids Blog.
Heather has been nothing but friendly and helpful to me, without so much as a sales pitch. There are few like her left in the world and her material, what I know of it so far, is definitely helpful. So I'm pitching for her, and for me because I have become an affiliate. I can't wait for the full kids' CDs to come out and in the mean time I'm getting Stig her relaxation CD.
If you're on the verge of mental meltdown, struggling to find a bit of "me" time, or just looking for the proverbial warm fuzzy feeling, have a look at her stuff.
You can read about Heather or buy any of her material, as well as download her free More Me Time e-book (PDF) here
Heather is also on Twitter and Facebook.
Friday 4 June 2010
The Perils of Supernoodles and Freon
I just read a Facebook comment (yes - even us old farts know about Facebook) by a friend of ours about the discovery of the use of a hair dryer to defrost a fridge/freezer. It reminded me of life before frost-free freezers and that very same method.
I'm not very good at maintenance. I will live in blissful denial that our fridge doesn't need defrosting until it contains more glacier than fresh produce. At this point I would normally bash chunks off the ice-stricken fridge with my best kitchen knife and a steak hammer. Resourceful, that's me.
This method, despite causing abject frustration to Stig, suited me just fine, until I was pregnant with Nicki and had taken to midnight snacking. I would sit at my kitchen table, basking in fridge light whilst I "made" Supernoodles. Given my compulsion for multi-tasking, I would chip away at the resident ice sculpture whilst I waited for the microwave to turn my noodles nuclear.
So one evening, heavily pregnant and starving, there I sat, chipping away. Then I heard a faint "puff" above the humming of the microwave. I'd got carried away with my rhythmic tapping and punctured the fridge. I mightn't have panicked if it hadn't have been for the high-pitch hissing sound that followed. If I'd have consumed the normal amount of alcohol that my non-pregnant self would have drunk on a Friday night, I would have been forgiven for thinking that there was a schizophrenic serpent overthrowing me in my own kitchen.
I contemplated going back to bed and pretending that the fridge must have had a spontaneous pneumothorax in the middle of the night, but being pregnant I thought I'd better be safe than sorry (For those of you who've never been pregnant; everything from cat poo to a north-westerly breeze to a farting tramp could maim your unborn child). I woke Stig up and explained what had happened, expecting my calm, reassuring husband to take charge and check that everything was fine.
Instead what I got was a bollocking...
"You've done WHAT?"
Followed by a scampering, desperate man. Have you ever had to travel down a flight of stairs in an urgent situation? In my experience it seldom goes well but it's amusing when you get to watch someone else doing it.
Having cannonballed himself into the kitchen, Stig forbade me to cross the kitchen doorway threshold with a Hitler-like salute. He then stood stock-still with his neck craned in the general direction of the fridge.
F****** Hell, it's leaking freon!"
I was instantly transported back to year one highschool chemistry, trying to remember what the hell Freon was.
"We'll have to get it out of the house" He said. Aw, my hero.
Actually my heart sank because it was 1am, I was seven months pregnant and I knew that I was going to have to drag a fridge down a flight of stairs in the middle of the night with him. I was also profoundly aware that my noodles were sure to be a cold, rubbery blob of stodge by now.
Stig then began rummaging wildly though the kitchen drawers.
"Tea Towels!" He shrieked at me, again in Hitler-like fashion.
I pointed at the secret tea towel drawer. He grabbed a handful of them (which instantly concerned me) and proceeded to fold one longways and wrap it round his face, covering his mouth and nose and tied it in a knot at the back of his head. Like a cross between a surgical mask and a tea towel-wearing child at a nativity play. He then folded another one in the same fashion and handed it to me. It's amazing how little verbal comunication is required in a marriage. He didn't say anything but I knew that I was expected to truss my face up like a gay ninja before he'd even consider letting me enter the kitchen. It was a moment that didn't need any words.
We then had to carry (one step at a time) the fridge down the stairs (our kitchen was on the second floor) and out of the side door into our garden. My one saving grace was that at least at this time of night, no one would see us. I really should have known better. Our neighbour later told us that we looked like desperately inept suicide bombers.
I don't know where Stig found the breath, but on the return journey up two flights of stairs to our bedroom he managed to lecture me about the advantages of regularly defrosting one's fridge, and not attacking it with a steak knife in the early hours of the morning.
So, with regard to the hairdryer solution, even thought water and electric don't mix, neither do steak knives, freon, paranoid husbands, and Supernoodles.
I'm not very good at maintenance. I will live in blissful denial that our fridge doesn't need defrosting until it contains more glacier than fresh produce. At this point I would normally bash chunks off the ice-stricken fridge with my best kitchen knife and a steak hammer. Resourceful, that's me.
This method, despite causing abject frustration to Stig, suited me just fine, until I was pregnant with Nicki and had taken to midnight snacking. I would sit at my kitchen table, basking in fridge light whilst I "made" Supernoodles. Given my compulsion for multi-tasking, I would chip away at the resident ice sculpture whilst I waited for the microwave to turn my noodles nuclear.
So one evening, heavily pregnant and starving, there I sat, chipping away. Then I heard a faint "puff" above the humming of the microwave. I'd got carried away with my rhythmic tapping and punctured the fridge. I mightn't have panicked if it hadn't have been for the high-pitch hissing sound that followed. If I'd have consumed the normal amount of alcohol that my non-pregnant self would have drunk on a Friday night, I would have been forgiven for thinking that there was a schizophrenic serpent overthrowing me in my own kitchen.
I contemplated going back to bed and pretending that the fridge must have had a spontaneous pneumothorax in the middle of the night, but being pregnant I thought I'd better be safe than sorry (For those of you who've never been pregnant; everything from cat poo to a north-westerly breeze to a farting tramp could maim your unborn child). I woke Stig up and explained what had happened, expecting my calm, reassuring husband to take charge and check that everything was fine.
Instead what I got was a bollocking...
"You've done WHAT?"
Followed by a scampering, desperate man. Have you ever had to travel down a flight of stairs in an urgent situation? In my experience it seldom goes well but it's amusing when you get to watch someone else doing it.
Having cannonballed himself into the kitchen, Stig forbade me to cross the kitchen doorway threshold with a Hitler-like salute. He then stood stock-still with his neck craned in the general direction of the fridge.
F****** Hell, it's leaking freon!"
I was instantly transported back to year one highschool chemistry, trying to remember what the hell Freon was.
"We'll have to get it out of the house" He said. Aw, my hero.
Actually my heart sank because it was 1am, I was seven months pregnant and I knew that I was going to have to drag a fridge down a flight of stairs in the middle of the night with him. I was also profoundly aware that my noodles were sure to be a cold, rubbery blob of stodge by now.
Stig then began rummaging wildly though the kitchen drawers.
"Tea Towels!" He shrieked at me, again in Hitler-like fashion.
I pointed at the secret tea towel drawer. He grabbed a handful of them (which instantly concerned me) and proceeded to fold one longways and wrap it round his face, covering his mouth and nose and tied it in a knot at the back of his head. Like a cross between a surgical mask and a tea towel-wearing child at a nativity play. He then folded another one in the same fashion and handed it to me. It's amazing how little verbal comunication is required in a marriage. He didn't say anything but I knew that I was expected to truss my face up like a gay ninja before he'd even consider letting me enter the kitchen. It was a moment that didn't need any words.
We then had to carry (one step at a time) the fridge down the stairs (our kitchen was on the second floor) and out of the side door into our garden. My one saving grace was that at least at this time of night, no one would see us. I really should have known better. Our neighbour later told us that we looked like desperately inept suicide bombers.
I don't know where Stig found the breath, but on the return journey up two flights of stairs to our bedroom he managed to lecture me about the advantages of regularly defrosting one's fridge, and not attacking it with a steak knife in the early hours of the morning.
So, with regard to the hairdryer solution, even thought water and electric don't mix, neither do steak knives, freon, paranoid husbands, and Supernoodles.
Wednesday 2 June 2010
Marriage vs Kids
About six-and-a-half years ago, I was laying on a chair-come-bed with a bladder full of vimto, holding Stig's hand while we stared at the grainy image of our unborn child on a screen. We were expecting our third baby and I was already huge, even at sixteen weeks.
This was the first time were going to find out the sex of the baby before the birth so we were quite excited, but I knew in my heart it was going to be a boy. Sure enough Sam was happily flashing his tackle for his parents, the sonographer, and the three students in the room so we were left with little doubt of his sex. The bump was promtly renamed "Baby Sam". They gave us a due date of 1st June. Great, I thought, babies never come on their due dates so maybe our wedding anniversary (also 1st June) was safe...
Nope. I spent our second wedding anniversary in labour, trying to part with a 10lbs baby. 10lbs, 1oz to be exact, and believe me, that extra ounce is relevant. Every ounce counts when you have a baby that big. Around the time I should have been having a romantic meal with my long suffering husband, I was giving birth to a toddler.
The first of June is Sam's day and always will be. Yesterday he turned six. He got his first bike without stabilisers (that will be interesting) and he had a party with half of his classmates and other friends. This was the third wedding anniversary we have spent in Johnny's Fun Factory surrounded by shrieking children; not the most romantic of locations but ultimately, how can we top the look on his face when he saw his shiny, new big boys bike, and squealed with excitement each time another one of friends arrived?
Stig and I held hands as we watched him running about with his new toys, just like we have on all our kids' birthdays and at all of the scans when we saw them for the first time. That should be what anniversaries are about, celebrating the life and the family you have nurtured and treasured all those years (casually disregarding the many times of being on the verge of a nervous breakdown).
Finally when they were all settled in bed, we had the last few hours of the day to ourselves; flopped on the sofa, knackered but smiling, the same way we've spent our last few anniversaries. Plus, like a friend of mine once pointed out; Sam's eighteenth birthday will be our 20th wedding anniversary, and we'll have one hell of a party!
This was the first time were going to find out the sex of the baby before the birth so we were quite excited, but I knew in my heart it was going to be a boy. Sure enough Sam was happily flashing his tackle for his parents, the sonographer, and the three students in the room so we were left with little doubt of his sex. The bump was promtly renamed "Baby Sam". They gave us a due date of 1st June. Great, I thought, babies never come on their due dates so maybe our wedding anniversary (also 1st June) was safe...
Nope. I spent our second wedding anniversary in labour, trying to part with a 10lbs baby. 10lbs, 1oz to be exact, and believe me, that extra ounce is relevant. Every ounce counts when you have a baby that big. Around the time I should have been having a romantic meal with my long suffering husband, I was giving birth to a toddler.
The first of June is Sam's day and always will be. Yesterday he turned six. He got his first bike without stabilisers (that will be interesting) and he had a party with half of his classmates and other friends. This was the third wedding anniversary we have spent in Johnny's Fun Factory surrounded by shrieking children; not the most romantic of locations but ultimately, how can we top the look on his face when he saw his shiny, new big boys bike, and squealed with excitement each time another one of friends arrived?
Stig and I held hands as we watched him running about with his new toys, just like we have on all our kids' birthdays and at all of the scans when we saw them for the first time. That should be what anniversaries are about, celebrating the life and the family you have nurtured and treasured all those years (casually disregarding the many times of being on the verge of a nervous breakdown).
Finally when they were all settled in bed, we had the last few hours of the day to ourselves; flopped on the sofa, knackered but smiling, the same way we've spent our last few anniversaries. Plus, like a friend of mine once pointed out; Sam's eighteenth birthday will be our 20th wedding anniversary, and we'll have one hell of a party!
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