Vanished

1.  Lost

2.  Left

3.  Legerdemain

I can do this, I thought, swigging coffee at 6am as I emptied the dishwasher and put washing away. Son 1 aged 5 woke up at about 0630. I put him in front of CBeebies while I had a shower. Son 2 aged 2 cried. I did his nappy, dressed him, dressed Son 1, did my hair and make up and got them down for breakfast. Eaten. No spills. Tonicked.  Hair and teeth brushed.   Out of the house on time, a Good Morning to the Man from the Paper Shop with his fluorescent satchel, and a wave to the recycling men as we passed them at the bottom of The Terrace.  We drove to School singing Doll On A Music Box from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Son 2’s current favourite. We had enough time to park up the Muddy Path. We got out of the car. “Son 1, where’s your school bag?” I checked the seats, the footwells and the boot.  With a slowly dawning dread, I realised I’d put the school bag on the road behind the car while I seatbelted the children in.  Not the end of the world, but next to it was the Nappy Bag. In the Nappy Bag was my card wallet – bank cards, credit cards, loyalty cards, library cards – phone and purse.  And not even on the pavement… on the road. Six or seven cars down from The House. With the recycling men heading on up towards them only minutes away.

The School let me use their phone. The only number I knew was The Man’s. “What do you expect me to do… I’m in France!” Ring the neighbours, I suggested. He has a new phone and his Simcard isn’t working yet.  I drove back. What’s the worst that can happen, I thought.  I will have to cancel a few credit cards and borrow money from Nanna till new ones arrive.   I can get a new phone. It’s Not The End Of The World.  Son 2 fell asleep on the trip back. I double-parked outside The House and sprang from the car. On the doorstep was the organic veg box. With the school bag and nappy bag, contents intact, on top. 

Son 2 and I had a low-key day. We visited one Wednesday Mum at home, and then went round the other’s for lunch.  Afterwards, I drove into The Town, went to the Joke Shop and bought Son 1 a 5+ magic kit and a 99p magic wand.  I put it in his schoolbag and gave it to him when we picked him up. “Where’s my magic wand?” In the car, I said. “Does it have powers?” he asked on the way back. “It’s a toy wand,” I said. “See how you get on with it.”  Back home, we found the magic wand makes bits of magic tricks disappear. “Don’t open the bag with the tricks in until I’ve got Son 2 to bed. You’ll lose the pieces.” Well by the time I’d left Son 2 we were down a rubber pencil and two of our Find-The-Lady white balls.  The balls re-appeared. Son 1 can just about do a swords-through-the-coin trick, and he LOVES the magic paddle.   “Who was the super-good person who helped us with the bags, Mummy?” he asked.   I have considered the suspects.  The neighbours knew nothing. The recycling men – wouldn’t have stopped to look at the bags.  The organic veg man – I didn’t see his van. Step forward…  someone who often sees us leaving for School, who saw us pull away, and who Knows Where We Live.  I think our Secret Hero is the Paper Shop Man.

A Magic Wand

1.  Spellbound

2.  The Evil Queen

3.  New Lamps For Old

And again, I couldn’t get them up.  I have decided to Be Positive and Not Take This Personally.  It is getting darker in the mornings. That is why Son 1 aged 5 and Son 2 aged 2 are struggling in the mornings. Still, it gave me time to tumble dry Son 1’s school shorts. Which he sprayed yoghurt on in the car on the way home yesterday. Bloody Frubes again. So. I was Mrs Perfect Housewife and had them cleaned, dried and ready to be when I finally tow-trucked him out of bed this morning. He tipped milk down them when he was having his breakfast.   

Mrs Perfect Housewife turned into Mother From Hell this afternoon.  I picked up Son 1, who was leaping and laughing because we were going to the Joke Shop in The Town to see if they have a magic kit.  A reward for coming home with Heavenly Photos.  Son 1 wants a magic wand.  I agreed, thinking he wanted one of the ones he sees at parties – rigid in the hands of the magician, floppy when the children hold it.  Since saying ‘yes’ it has slowly dawned on me that he thinks a magic wand is… er.. magic. Anyway. Outside The House. Heading for The Town.  “I want to ride in the Pram.” “Darling you’re five, you’re too big. And anyway, Son 2’s in the Pram.” “Wark.”  “No, you go in the Pram, then we can get to the shop before it closes.”  “Wark.”  “Oh all right, but you’ll have to wear your reins. And walk, Son 2, no, don’t stop to look at a feather. If you want to walk, then walk. Son 1, I cannot manage you in the Pram and Son 2 on the reins. Son 2 will you walk! Put the stone down!  If you don’t walk you’re getting in the Pram…”  So.  I stuffed Son 2 in the Big Pram “Wark! Wark!” He cried and  corkscrewed and twisted himself out. Everytime he got out, Son 1 got in. I put Son 2 back in. He screeched so loudly people on the other side of the street stopped talking to look over.  And so I marched us all home, with Son 1 crying and begging to be allowed to go to the Joke Shop. At home I stripped Son 2, put him in his sleeping bag (to stop him climbing) pulled the blinds down and shoved him in the cot. Gave Son 1 a vast chocolate bar to stop him crying and poured a large glass of white wine. 

Son 2 and I are also developing a battle of the wills over toilet training. He wants to give it a go. I have just bought 132 nappies in two big boxes. “Wee wee!” “Oh, do it in your nappy.”  “Want loo. Want pot pot.”  He did another poo in the loo this evening.  I wanted to lie on the bed reading books to him. He wanted to get up and wee in the potty every five minutes. I have run out of chocolate buttons. Which should slow the little beggar down a bit.  I got them to bed and then sorted out the recycling.  Two birthday teas, two birthdays and a huge party have passed since the last collection. We have generated mountains of cardboard, paper and bottles.  I have positioned our pile far down The Terrace. To make it easier for the recycling men to load it on the lorry, of course.

Payback

1.  Sleeping

2.  Smiling

3.  Sluicing

And of course I couldn’t get either of them up this morning. The Man left at 0530 on a Business Trip. I got up, had coffee, had breakfast, emptied dishwasher, hung washing out, put washing on, put boys’ breakfast out, showered, did hair and make up and STILL they weren’t bothering.  Why.  Why at the weekend, when I am gripping my bed like I’m on a 20th-floor ledge, do they make me get up? And then why do they not even hear me in the week? Even Son 2 aged 2, the original I WILL WALK 500 MILES AND I WILL WALK 500 MORE hypercharged baby was comatose.   I got them up, and I got us out.

When I picked Son 1 aged 5 up from school, he burrowed in his bag and produced several proof sheets from the school photos taken last week. Wonder Nanny had taken Son 2 along as well, so there were five of the two of them together.  i have long told Son 1 that if he smiles nicely in official photos, Mummy will buy him a present. The pictures are truly fantastic, and Son 1 knew it.  Crumple of small boy when he realised I didn’t have a present with me.  In my defence, I had said I needed to see the smiles first. We have agreed we will try and get to a joke shop tomorrow to see if they have a magic wand. 

I did them corn on the cob for tea. Served with little sharp skewery things in each end.  Kitchen gadgets I bought in the days when I though we weren’t having children.  Son 2 pulled his out and started shoving one through his teeth. Son 1 played pirates with his. The corn was too hot to eat, so I sliced it off onto their plates. Son 1 stared at the pile in disbelief. “I want it back on,” he wailed.  Upstairs Son 2 was in the bath while I sorted washing and Son 1 spoke to Birthday Boy Godbrother on the phone. “Big Poo!” came the battle cry. We went in. There was a toy turtle floating in the bubbles on the top. But nothing sinister. I put my hand in for the turtle. It wasn’t a turtle.  And my hand went straight through it, a five-fingered macerator which scattered the soft turd down, along and up the sides of the bath.    Son 2 couldn’t have had more toys in the bath if he’d piled up every one he owns in there.  Today’s Top Tip.  In net laundry bags (Lakeland and kitchen shops,) in the washing machine, Quick Wash. ”Big Poo,” said Son 2 again. We put him on the booster loo seat. He performed. Four chocolate buttons each for a poo in the loo.  Keeps the children still and quiet for just long enough to spray and wash the bath out.

A Shining Light

1.  You Arrive And The Night Is Alive

2.   These Are The Days

3.   Dark, Divine Intervention 

I wanted to stay in bed. “Up,” said Son 2 aged 2. “Up,” said Son 1 aged 5. I consider anything after 7.30am a bonus. But the boys were crabby and cantankerous. Son 2, as usual, wanted breakfast, and then wanted to lie in front of the telly with his face on the floor. Son 1 wanted to fall out with everything.  The Boat, we felt, not liking the idea of a day at home with over-tired, horrible children just wanting to watch telly and sleep.  We packed up and had a text from friends saying they were taking their boat out with a barbie. So I defrosted some yellow-sticker burgers in their honour. The Man picked us up from the quayside in a dinghy. A beautiful day, with flat water, light winds, scores and scores of yachts, kayaks, cruisers, powerboats, racers, fishing boats… all out pootling.   We pootled off to Lighthouse Beach and anchored off it.  The mother arrived with two small girls in a powerboat, and moored against ours. Maybe I should learn about boats. She looked quite cool zooming up. The girls came aboard, and Mother zoomed off to get Father.

We went ashore in their boat. Lighthouse Beach is only accessible by water or a couple of sheer Amalfi-style zigzag paths.  The bay was busy, the beach less so.  Golden sand, turquoise water, great walls of cliffs with water dripping down them to form pirate caves.  Son 1 was in raptures, Son 2 wanted to stay close to me. Son 2 and I dug, Son 1 rolled around in the beach tent. Other families arrived. I went for a swim in the sea. It was heaven. The best one this year. I think. Can’t really remember and I haven’t got time to look back at this blog.  The water was, as usual, blood-thickeningly cold… but it was still, no current, no rocks, no wind.  I swam up and down, keeping an eye out to make sure all the boats heading for the beach had seen me. Son 1 came down to the shore so I went in. We played in some caves liberated by the outgoing tide… and then we went rockpooling on the ohter side of the beach.  The reason children can skit about on razor-sharp rocks is because they weigh nothing. For the more traditionally-built, like me, walking on upended layers of granite hurts.   Back with the others Son 2 changed into his tiger robe, lay face down on a yoga pillow I’d bought with us Just In Case, and went to sleep.

Son 1 was engrossed with the other children, so I got to wander along the shoreline in the low, September-solstice sunshine, picking at the shells and looking for a stone big enough to Bash A Fish with.  The sea hush-hushed in the background. And then suddenly the golden sunshine vanished and the sky was filled with low, dark clouds. We idly packed up and headed back to our boats. Son 1 was a nightmare all the way back. Crying because he’s tired.  It was gone nine by the time we got them to bed.  They will so not be able to get up tomorrow morning.

Mine Is The Sunlight

1.  A Happy Child

2.  A Blushing Bride

3.  A Respectable Mother

So. A while back, I told Son 1 aged 5 that going to school on your birthday means a party before, a birthday tea on the day, and a Treat the weekend after. He wanted to know what the Treat would be.  Going to the Willy Wonka Sweet Shop and choosing whatever you like. So after breakfast we stepped out, Son 2 aged 2 in the Big Pram, and Son 1 walking.  Son 1 didn’t want to walk.  He wanted Son 2 out of the Big Pram.  I have lurked long and shamefacedly on the parenting threads and established that no-one else is still pushing their schoolage child around in a Pram he outgrew two years ago. When He Is Five, I told myself, we will stop. So. Son 2 stayed in the pram. And Son 1 rode all the way through The Town on the axle of the Pram, holding on to the handles like crutches.  The Sweet Shop was brilliant. Chocolates and lollies and chews and fudges and jelly beans and picknmix and toffee and Everything.  I bought them both a 10p lolly to suck while they peered, pop-eyed, at it all.  Son 1 chose a big colourful Childcatcher lolly, so Son 2 had to have the same. And they chose a walking stick full of jelly beans for later. 

We were going to a Young Friend’s wedding. Late lunchtime kick off. The boys wouldn’t eat their lunch because they were full of lolly, so I took a packed lunch for the church. I put them in the purple velvet waistcoats I bought them for Son 2’s christening. Son 2 was christened when he was 8 months old.  His waistcoat did look a little strained across the tummy, but otherwise it did ok.  A 2 year old in 6m – 12m clothing. He really is small. I wonder if I should get him looked at. The vicar was grumpy, and stumbled all over the Dearly Beloved bit. No photos. No confetti here, there or there. No videos. And there’ll be a collecting plate at the back for you to pay to restore our historical but crumbling church. Son 2 dropped a mango smoothie all over the historical floorboards.  The bride was radiant, with a sunbeam smile which almost cheered the vicar up. Her parents cried throughout.  ”Chitty Bang Bang” said Son 2 during the ceremony. “Big Poo,” he said during the signing of the register. Outside they loved throwing confetti, and with other children, picked it up and threw it over each other after the bride and groom had moved on. It was a grey afternoon, but a great shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds as they got into their open-top wedding car to drive away.

Nanna babysat Son 2 while The Man and I took Son 1 to the Evening Do. The plan was that we would let him be grown up, and then leave early. We pushed him across The Town in The Big Pram – whoops, there went my good intentions – with him talking about Kung Fu Panda all the way.  He was delighted to find there were cameras on every table… although as a child of the digital age it was news to him that you have to wind film on.  He danced a bit in my arms, but he was incredibly tired.  I’d brought a pillow and a blanket, and he made himself a little bed behind a row of chairs and off he went to sleep. We stayed till midnight, decanted him back into the Big Pram and pushed him back home through The Town. A drunken reveller cat-called something like: “Take that child home! Call yourself a respectable mother?”  Clearly referring to the five-year-old in the pushchair. Can’t have meant anything else, can they?

Burnout

1.  Multi-tasking

2.  Multiplying

3.  Multi-coloured

Bone Tired. It has been a very long week.  I don’t know about children getting tired when they start reception but the five early starts a week are killing me.  We’ve been whirling at a cracking rate since the party last Saturday.  Son 1 aged 5 is truly dropping.  He is a saint.  Poor child. Opens a massive pile of presents on Tuesday and  hasn’t actually had the time to look at them since.   I wrote him 12 thank you letters last night. Because I Don’t Have Enough To Do.  I managed to work out what all but 2 children had given him. It made me late starting Office work and I fell asleep over my laptop.  This morning he was, all things considered ,a little angel.  Out of the house on top, breakfasted, teeth cleaned, telly watched and clutching his thank you notes. He posted them in the other children’s drawers as soon as he got to school.

Another high octane day at The Office, although there was a Friday lunchtime drink which was nice. Too much talk about young children though. I do realise that when people ask after your children they’re expecting one word answers… it’s just I never manage.  I picked Son 1 up from After School Club and he looked cross and wrecked.  “He’s been sitting looking out for you,” said the Teaching Assistant.  I heard a subtext which probably wasn’t there: “Can’t you pick him up any earlier, it is Friday.”  He’s got another full sticker card.  We went to Tesco, and again, he was fantastic. He was allowed some new Ben 10 pants for his stickers. He wanted plasticine. Or a comic. Or a toy.  40+ new toys lying around the house and he’s still nagging.

When we got back, The MAn had taken Son 2 aged 2 down to the Yacht Club. I took Son 1 for a quickie before I had to start work again. The Man and Son 2 were with two parents we know with their daughters.  Son 2 spotted me through the window, laughed, waved, and came running out to see me. The boys behaved disgracefully.  Loud shrieking, loud shouting, pushing over, pestering…  Textbook out. Look up symptoms. Ah. They are also shattered. I think what we all need is a quiet, relaxing weekend. We have a trip to the Olde Sweet Shoppe, a wedding and a Boat Trip planned. Looking on the bright side, Flossy and Coupon are flourishing, seem to think the new tank is great and are very relaxing to watch.  And the fish shop woman said we can have some more after four days or so.

You Shall Have A Fishy

1.  Mr Bump

2.  Mr Clever

3.  Bash A Fish

The Man took Son 1 aged 5 to school, so Son 2 aged 2 and I could bond at home.  He chose the activity. Sitting on my knee while he watched The Wiggles.  At the party, a Mum-Of-Three kindly donated 3 Wiggles DVDs which hers have outgrown.  Another friend gave him a “Mister Bump” sweatshirt, which I put him in today, thinking it was hilarious.   I went upstairs to do my hair and make up. I went downstairs to put on washing, clean up and get our packed lunch ready. ”Mummeee!  It’s Bished (Finished)!” called Son 2’s distant voice. “Ok!” I called back. Bump-Thump-Crash-Waaaaaaah.  Down the stairs again.  I couldn’t see him, but I know what happened. He thought I was upstairs and was heading on up… he heard my voice from downstairs… swung round and splat.  Never happens with Wonder Nanny. Always happens with me.

I pushed him over to the Rockpool Beach to see the Wednesday Friends. Another Mum from breastfeeding group five years ago was also there.  Two little Wednesday brothers, who’d both been at the Birthday Tea yesterday, were knackered. One cuddled his Mum and slept… the other played and sat.  They were in rainsuits and fleeces.  Son 2, within seconds of arriving, demanded to play in the water. I put him in his neoprene swimsuit, with his sunsuit over the top. He’ll freeze soon, I thought, and then he’ll sit with everyone, so I’ll play with him for a bit first.  Clutching the fishing net I’d transported upright on the Big Pram, he led me to the rockpools.  They were all full of shrimps.  Poor old Son 1 and I have been to that beach time after time. He loves catching shrimp. And we really had very little luck.  It’s one of the reasons we moved onto crabbing. And yet, just after high tide, there they all were, darting around in every one.  It was great. It probably means another polar bear somewhere with no ice cap to live on, but it was great. We caught three before Son 2 demanded we look for crabs. Which we couldn’t find.  He didn’t get cold. He didn’t sleep.  

We walked back via The Square. I had a coffee and got Son 2 a hot chocolate.  He fell over on the concrete – this is where he fell and ended up in casualty – and blacked his cheek. He pointed at something. “Big SeeSaw,” he said.  I kept trying but didn’t get it.  “Seahorse?”  “No.  ‘Mine. Mine. Mine.’ Like Nemo.”  “Oh, seagull!” “Es.”  We rounded up The Man and went to collect Son 1.  “You can bring siblings in for the school photos tomorrow,” said Smiley Teacher. Of course we can. Because Son 2 has a great swollen red mark on his cheek. On the way back we stopped in at The Fish Shop with a sample of water from our tank. Hooray. We can buy two fish.  Son 1 picked some little sparkly silver ones.  Back home, they watched his new Kung Fu Panda DVD, while The Man and I tried to sort the tank. When he set it up, he left the plants in baskets. And they have to be planted. So I stuck two in the gravel and tied one to the bogwood. Then we couldn’t get the airpipes into the skull and the treasure chest properly.  And the tank looked all stirred up and murky. So we put the fish bag in it. The boys ate tea, and then, at last, we released Flossy and Coupon into the water. They seemed to like it.  Then, upstairs, while I was putting Son 2 to bed, Son 1 asked if he could go down and have another look at the fish.  When I’d finally got them both to sleep, I went downstairs and there was only one. “I think we’ve killed the other one already,” said The Man. “Son 1 frightened it, it swam behind the bogwood and that’s it. That was an hour ago. ”  Bugger, I thought. I’d liked those fish.  I went downstairs for the paper while we were eating our meal. Two fish. It vanished again while we were washing up, and then came out when we switched the light off.  I do hope they live. We can have some more at the weekend, according to the woman in the shop. I am having one. When the boys have chosen theirs, and when they are settled, I am going to get one more.  i will put it into the gang and see how long it takes for them to notice. But it will always be Mine.

Five

1.  Happy Birthday To You

2.  Gifts

3.  Birthday Tea

A mad day yesterday, which involved an evening meeting for The Office in The City and driving back over midnight, when I scarily became the Mother Of A Five Year Old. I got back after 1am, and went into the Double Bed so I didn’t wake The Man. I woke before 6am and went upstairs.  Son 1 was in the Big Bed with The Man. 5.  How?  When?  Why don’t they tell you when you’re scraping marmite-like poo off a tiny bottom that in an eyeblink baby will be lying on the bed singing “I’m five! I’ve five!  I was four, but now I’m FIVE!” 

Son 1 and Son 2 aged 2 opened the presents from Saturday, Son 1 fizzing with excitement, Son 2 confused but happy enough.  Activity books and cars and Lightning McQueen and Ben 10 and pirate toys. White milk chocolate buttons were tucked into one of Son 2’s presents.  He bit his way in at once.  Cards and wrapped presents drifted apart.  I now have to do a pile of thank you notes… and quite a few will get “Thank you for the lovely… present.” We got him a skateboard, a couple of art kits and a couple of books.  Plus half the fish tank of course.  We tipped out of the house and piled into the car for the trip to school. When we got there Smiling Teacher sang Happy Birthday as we walked in. 

The late night meant I could pick him up when school finished.  He slept on the way home, and then perked up for his birthday tea. One set of Wednesday Brothers were already there, together with 6 year old friend, who we haven’t seen for a while.  The other set arrived. Son 1 ripped paper of presents, ran about with the boys, changed out of his school uniform.  The Man had done another fab job in making all the food.  The children fought and charged and trod toys in and out of the house.  We spread the pirate plastic table cloth outside in the yard and fed them. We did cakes.  And candles.   Next Door looked over the fence with presents for both boys. We sent birthday cake back.  They got tired, the sugar kicked in, grizzles and gripes began. We waved goodbye to our guests. And we didn’t get Son 1 to bed till nearly 9pm.

Bash A Fish

1.  Sardines

2.  Flounder

3.  Shark

So. After yesterday’s triathlon, what sort of a lie in do you think our perfect children game us? 6am.  Little Baskets.  We put them in the Double Bed with us.  Son 2 aged 2 tried pestering The Man. Didn’t work. Tried pestering me. Didn’t work. Reached over me to bat at Son 1 aged 4 y 11m.  Giggles to the left.  Giggles to the right. “Sweets,” said Son 2. ”Son 2, are you hungry?” “Es.” “Do you want your breakfast?”  “Es.”  Son 2 ate nothing but peas-in-the-pod and biscuits yesterday afternoon.  They promised they’d have a sleep during the day. 

The weather was fine, the water was flat.  We knew we were for it if we stayed in.  We rang round for reinforcements for a Boat Trip.   A Wednesday Mum and her family came. We packed leftover quiche and chocolate cake.  We went to the Yacht Club. The Man brought The Boat into the quay.  We chugged around, fishing.  The Wednesday Mum had a real, live fish on the end of her line. It Got Away.  And then… she, Retired Army Captain husband and The Man started catching fish. RACH took them off the line… And he’d brought a large stone with him.  For killing the fish with a blow to the head. At first, he did it. Then, his son, Five Year Old Friend, did it. And then, Son 1.   I watched him do it.  He’s killed a living creature before he’s five. Forty years older, I still haven’t.  I can clean and gut a fish, and always enjoy meat-eaters’ squeamishness when they see my matter-of-fact technique. But I have no idea whether or not I could kill a crittur.  I just felt as Son 1 lives on The River, he should be able to catch a mackerel.  And put it out of its misery.  He walked round clutching the stone.  “Anyone want to bash a fish?”

Total catch: 10 mackerel and 21 crabs. The crabs went back in the river.  Back home, we wrapped up four fish in greaseproof paper and hung them in a bag on the neighbours’ front door. She told Son 1 that if he ever caught any mackerel, she’d buy them from him. He was heartbroken when she wasn’t in. The Man lit a barbecue, I made new potatoes and broccoli, and we barbecued the two fish we’d kept. The Man wasn’t sure, but I told him he had to eat them to Be A Good Example For The Boys. Son 1 wouldn’t. Sucked a few bits in his mouth, but that was it. Son 2 wolfed it. We had just started to suspect Son 2 may have been a fish in a previous life.  It would explain the unswerveable fascination with both fish and wah-wah.   From the way he gobbled the mackerel, he must, of course,  have been a Big Fish.

Making A Day

1.  Making Bags

2.  Making Sandwiches

3.  Making Merry

27.  The vegetarian boy’s Mother called off, two older boys turned up… no-one dropped out and I have absolutely no idea who The Last One was.  I am Toast.  Charred and chewed.  Ringing head. Rabid sciatica.  Twitching eyelid.  Compulsive hair twiddling.  Hope you’re ok.  So. Up at the crack.  Son 1 aged 4y 11m with one goal. Doing The Party Bags.  I read to Son 2 aged 2, but we finished too soon. The second we got to the kitchen, Son 2 started unpicking the bubble wands Son 1 and The Man had just carefully sellotaped to the Scooby Do bubbles. Son 1 screamed.  The next thing to go in was the sweets. ”Can we eat them?” said Son 1.  ”Yes. If you eat your breakfast you can have them as your treat in Tonic, Treat and Teeth.”  They gorged parma violets and lollies and chews.  Son 2 gobbled boiled sweets. Choked. Spat out.  The advantage of eight months’ reflux hell is the best gag reflex this side of an eating disorder.     Son 2 happily plopped sweets into each party bag. 

The Man was a Marvel.  He started making sandwiches at 0830, went down into Town twice, made all the party food – sandwiches, vegetable fingers, topped strawberries, packed up all the stuff, made two trips to the Church – with Son 1 – and presented it all beautifully. He was singing as he washed up 15 minutes before we had to go. A Magical Moment which is going in The Album.

And The Party.  27 + children, 24 party bags, 30 balloons and a bouncy castle. Acoustic Armageddon.   Son 1and Best Friend were, by several streets, the Worst Behaved Children there.   The Bouncy Castle Man, because I asked him nicely, turned up 45 minutes ahead of start time so Son 1 and a handful of friends could have a Good Old Play before the rest of the guests arrived.   I thought it would calm them down.  Nope.  They were orbiting at sub-atomic speeds, and then the Gentle New Children from Son 1’s reception class arrived with their bewildered parents.  The Children’s Entertainers were amazing. Party games, a puppet show, magic tricks.   Son 1 had the time of his life.  Son 2 less so… he needed me to help him enjoy it and although I did my best I couldn’t always do it. Nanna just sat on her chair throughout, watching.  I had Great Help.  Son 2’s wonderful Godmother queened it in the kitchen with The Man, serving squashes, teas, coffees… and, when I got up the nerve, beer and bucks fizz. She washed up, she did the party bags.  She’s a miracle.  Best Friend’s Mother got the most outrageous gossip from her chatting.  All to do with ex-boyfriends, impossible overlaps between Reception Dads and Breastfeeding Group Mums, and a jaw-dropping “I should have chosen you” moment.   Bloody Hell. If “He” goes off with “Her” it’ll be my fault.   And the present pile, oh God the present pile.  It was for two children remember…. but a small, church hall table piled with 50 plus presents does not look good.   In my defence, Son 2 had money for the Children’s Hospice instead of presents for his christening. And I promise they’re having goats next year.   ”Did you like your party, Son 1?” “Yes I really enjoyed it.”  And still they both span bedtime out to get more time with Mummy.