Gutter Clips

1.  Reindeer

2.  Remembering

3.  The Lullaby League

Before the boys were born, The Man put up a roller blind in the Blue Room and hole-punched the wall with the end, leaving a golf-ball sized chip through the paintworkand deep in the plaster.  Son 2 aged 2y 1m has, over the last year, excavated it with the interest and determination of an archeologist.  Golf ball, satsuma, tennis ball, orange, grapefruit, melon, pumpkin.  Piles of grey powder underneath.  Today, The Man Got Round To It.  So we had a family trip to B and Q to buy the plaster. Son 2 wouldn’t go in the trolley.   Son 1, aged 5y 1m, and weighing considerably more than the 15kg limit, climbed aboard instead.  So Son 2 tantrummed. “No Son 1! My toll toll! ”  The Man headed off to the Raw Materials.   I took them to look at the Christmas things and was saved.  There was a dancing Father Christmas, who, at a squeeze of his foot, sang “Santa Claus Is Coming To Down.”  There was a turkey who clucked when you pulled its neck. And, best of all there was a Spinning, Singing Reindeer who sang “Sleigh Ride.”   I was strangely drawn to the flashing house decoration reindeer.  £34.99. And gutter clips. £1.99. You need gutter clips if you put lights on your house. I never knew that.  We live on a busy river, where wives of yore will have burned lights in their window to guide their menfolk home.  A glowing cross appears on the opposite riverbank every December.  Oh how I wish I had the nerve.   There’s clearly a reindeer thing in the family, because Son 2 clutched the dancing fluffy one.  ”Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring ting tingling tooooooooo” echoed around the aisles.  We got it off him at the till with the promise of another poppy to replace the one he dropped out shopping yesterday.  

In his carseat, Son 2 dismantled the poppy, threw away the stalk and chewed the chokeable black bit like it was gum.  At home I put the boys in front of the telly, The Man mixed his stuff, I started making stew for tea.  A friend we knew walked past the house with his family.  He was on the phone, looking up at the house. Son 1 answered.  The family had been to a Remembrance Service, and were heading to the Yacht Club for lunch.  Were we coming?  Oh of course we were.  The stew went in the oven, the hole was filled, we got the toy golf clubs out and down we went. The food arrived. “I done poo.” said Son 2.  “Did you bring the nappy bag?” asked The Man. “No,” I said. “I thought you did.”  Staring at my soup, I stood and traipsed all the way  to the house and back again.  The boys didn’t want to eat anyway, they just wanted to play with the family’s girls.  When the indoor golf turned into a sort of under-eight rave, I packed up the toys and declared the outing over. 

Son 1 had been bursting to watch the Wizard of Oz. I let him watch “The Making Of” which was on before, but had to switch back to CBeebies when a black-and-white, facelifted Judy Garland started talking about drunk Munchkins.   During the film,  I had to translate every line of the plot. Son 1 sped behind the chair every time the wicked witch appeared.  For Son 1, there is no difference between the Munchkins and the Oompa Loompas.  For me, yes I know it was 70 years ago and they didn’t have CGI, but man, you’d think they could remake it better so we don’t have to watch it any more.  I sat agonising over whether or not to keep the recording. The boys got bored with the journey to Oz and went outside to plant bulbs with the Man.

Big

1.  Losing My Religion

2.  Shiny Happy People

3.  Everybody Hurts

I’ve just read a Sunday supplement piece about a businesswoman who says her spare time is spent “relaxing with the children.”  A dazzling light has broken through the heavens and rays are streaming down.  I think relaxing with the children would solve my entire life.  My spare time is spent cleaning up after the children, nagging the children, cooking for the children, refereeing the children, yelling at the children and hoping and hoping they’ll fall asleep so I can sit down.  This morning, they would have slept in till 0830, only someone changed the clocks. It has been a very long day indeed. I offered Son 1 aged 5y 1m a trip out, but he wanted to stay in, watch telly and make cakes.  I will Share Time with them, I thought. I sat down. Son 2 aged 2y 1m climbed up on the table with the glass top. “Get down,” I said. “That’s dangerous.” He ignored me. I picked him up and put him on the ground. He climbed up again. “No,” I said. “It’s dangerous.” When he got up for the third time, I went downstairs to the kitchen, Refusing To Pay Attention To His Behaviour. I made fairy cake mix. I mixed yeast for bread-making.   The boys trailed downstairs, pulled chairs up to the worktops and bickered. I struggled with the dough. ”If it’s a bit sticky, add some more flour,” said Annabel K.  It was liquid.  We poured half a packet of bread flour in.  I gave two splodges to Son 2, and 2 to Son 1.  Son 2 ignored them and ate butter from the packet with his fingers. Son 1 tried to make animal shapes like the picture, but just superglued his fingers together.  I put his chair next to the sink so he could wash his hands. Son 2 was up there in a flash.  Rubber gloves, sponges, cups, knives and tubs were all flung in.  I took him upstairs and he screamed and squirmed in protest.

We watched “Big.”  Many many years ago, The Man and I were Tom Hanks fans. Way before Philadelphia. Way before his films got meaty and meaningful.  “Big” was always a favourite, and I’d bought the DVD cheap and never watched it.  I told Son 1 the story outline. “A boy wishes he was Big, and his wish comes true.” The film started. Son 1 got his first sight of Josh, aged 12. ”He’s already Big,”  he said, giving a little window into his world which has stayed with me all day. He lived the story: ”Can he change back?” every five minutes till I put him out of his misery. At the salient point: “Is he going to stay Big?”  And “Why doesn’t she make a wish too?” as Josh’s girlfriend runs after him.  “What would you wish for if you found that machine?” I asked. “I would wish for every day to be my birthday.”

Spaghetti hoops and home made bread rolls for lunch. They ate the spaghetti hoops. Nanna came round and we iced the fairy cakes.  I gave the boys dolly mixtures – a gift from Nanna last time – to use as decorations.  Very few made it on to the cakes. They iced and they drew, oblivous to the sprinkles stuck to their faces like multi-coloured five-day stubble. They ate cakes for pudding after tea, and were high as kites when I took them upstairs for bed.  I bathed Son 1, got him in his pyjamas and cleaned his teeth. I bathed Son 2, got him out of the bath and he hid under the towel to play “boo,” like normal. He came out, giggling, burped, and then threw up all over me, getting my hair, ear, arm and trousers. It was fish for tea, and it stunk like seal vomit. “Clear it up, it’s horrible,” said Son 1. I gathered up soiled towels and clothes, showered, and changed into my pyjamas. There was a loud thump from the bedroom. Son 2 had tipped a Christmas Cactus over on the carpet, breaking the plant and scattering compost and plants over the floor. I cleared that up as well.

My First Bible

1.  Rendering Unto Caesar

2.  Why Take Ye Thought For Raiment

3.  Suffer The Little Children

How To Halve Your Shopping Bill.  Walk to Tesco Express, instead of driving to the Superstore. Take a Big Pram, a large partner and two small children.  The grown ups are allowed one basket each. You are limited to what you can put under The Pram or carry home. And you have to race round like it’s a trolley dash because of bored, misbehaving children trying to sneak Halloween sweets into your shopping.    The Man took Son 1 aged 5 to choose a breakfast cereal. They came back with Chocolate Cheerios. “If we get those then we will never get them back on normal Cheerios and that will kill our main snack/emergency meal/blood sugar lift option,” I said, barely looking up from the Mild Chedddar.  Son 1’s face crumpled. “But I said he could choose what we wanted,” said The Man. ”Fine. Get them.  See what happens.” “They’re not Cheerios,” The Man tried. “Look, they’re Wheetabix.”  “Fine. Get them.”  “Well how am I supposed to know? This is the first I know about your new rule.  You should have said something.” “I did. Yesterday. When we were discussing how to get Son 1 to eat breakfast before school, and you said you’d seen Chocolate Cheerios. I said they’ll never eat normal Cheerios again if we get them.” “Oh yeah,” he said.  They trailed off together and came back with a Variety Pack.  So. Half price shopping.  The baguette broke on the way back, and so did the handle of the big box of (special offer) Fairy… but otherwise I feel we saved money, burned calories and even gave up drinking because we couldn’t carry any wine home. Value Was Had.

Granny and Granddad are visiting this week. They turned up with fairy cakes and flapjacks for Son 1 and Son 2 aged 2y 1m.  The boys couldn’t be bothered to leave the toys and telly long enough to go and let them in… but when I said There Is Cake they charged downstairs.  The Man went off on his Business Trip. G and G went off to check in to the Hotel With The River View.  We went upstairs into the Big Bedroom, because I want to move Son 2 out of 9m to 12 m clothes. I want him in 18m to 24m, but I have a nasty feeling that because Son 1 was bigger, he was in spring/summer stuff at that age.    I am The Mother So Efficient She Had Two Same Sex Children At The Same Time Of Year. And they’re different bloody sizes. Have some more cake, Son 2.

The Vicar rang on Friday to ask if we were going to Tea Service this afternoon, so we thought we better had. Granny came too. We did David And Goliath.  The boys made cardboard and silver foil shields. They did ok in the service – legged it during the Lord’s Prayer, but at least they started off still sitting in the pew, and then scoffed their dinosaur shapes, cheesy mash and veg tea. In the bath, Son 1 Sang Hosanna.  I tried to explain the words to him, without committing myself. “You can’t say you don’t believe in God, Mummy, or He’ll die,” Son 1 told me.  Eat your heart out Richard Dawkins, all you need is Peter Pan.   At his christening, well over three years ago, he was given a My First Bible, with child-friendly language and child-friendly illustrations .  Time to break it out, I thought. We did David And Goliath. We did Noah. I left Son 1 looking at it while I put Son 2 to bed. When I came back he’d found pictures of the crucifixion. “What are they doing?” “Seeing how long they can stay up there,” I said, quickly closing it and flicking backwards. Jesus in Gethsemane, being kissed by Judas while Romans stood about with spears and torches. “And what are they doing?” “Going On A Bear Hunt,” I said, putting it away and getting out You Choose. ”Did they catch one?” “I think so.”  Wrong on many levels, I know, but he’s five, it was late, and I am a moral coward.

Goddesses

1.  Who Disturbs My Slumber?

2.  The Little Mermaid

3.  Chicken Run

Tired, tired, tired.  Son 1 aged 5 was trying to get into the Big Bed before midnight last night, so I took him back to his bed, got back in with him, got him back to sleep, woke up in the wee hours and headed off to the Double Bed to try and sleep. “Mummmeee!” called Son 1.  I put him back in his bed, explained I had to sleep alone or I’d be grumpy, and went off again. Not a creature was stirring and everything was still dark when Son 2 aged  2y 1m hollered for me. The Man went in. Son 2 had hysterics in disappointment. “NO! MUMMMEEEE!” The Man brought him in to me. He snugged. Son 1 padded in after. The line-up was Son 2, me, Son 1, The Man. Son 2 span round like a drill bit.  Son 1’s arms snaked out,  insistent fingers seeking my eyebrows. The Man gave up and went back to The Big Bed. In the end, I asked Son 1 to go back to his own bed. And begged Son 2 to go to sleep.  We were wakened well after 9am by the phone. Nanna ringing to find out today’s plans.  The Man and Son 1 were upstairs in the Big Bed watching Sponge Bob.  Son 1 wanted to make a spoon pirate.  “After swimming,” I said. He ignored me, and made one while he was eating his pancake.

We went to the Town Pool. Nanna sat at the side and watched. Teenaged Niece is 18 and a champion swimmer, with a Sharon Davies figure, natural blonde hair, huge baby-blue eyes,  Californian-style braces on gleaming white teeth and an unstoppable laugh.  She was dazzling.   Into the pool, laughing and splashing, came Best Friend and Best Friend’s Little Brother.  Wednesday Mum followed behind. She took one look at Teenaged Niece and said “What did you bring her for?” “Because now I know no-one will be looking at my skanky swimsuit,” I said.  Son 1 and Best Friend were overjoyed to see each other, inseparable, and high with happiness.  Son 1 hasn’t seen Best Friend since his birthday.  The fact that they’re in different schools is a secret source of regret. But they live 200 yards from the Outstanding Village School with the 16-place reception class. And we don’t.   I spent all the time with Son 2… Teenaged Niece played with the older boys, diving in, popping up and swimming under, sleek as a seal. Son 2 is also a natural swimmer, doing two widths – each time because he wanted to go somewhere else.  Plenty of jumping, playing in the bubble baths and splashing in the warm water coming out of the jets.

Back home Nanna, Teenaged Niece and the boys went upstairs to watch telly.  I made cups of tea and started on lunch. After a coffee and a little read of the paper. I went upstairs and announced I was going to sit down for five minutes. Son 2 dropped his frog bottle on the carpet and, because he’d loosened the top, it burst open, spilling what seemed like several gallons of pineapple juice. Oh I wish I’d taken it better. I made dinner, roast chicken, roast potatoes, sweetcorn, spinach, carrots and leeks. The Man came in and made onion gravy. Son 1 came down with Teenaged Niece and made another spoon pirate.  By the time the meal was ready, Son 2 could hardly stand. He managed a bit of food, but just wanted to flop on me.  Son 1 did better. After TN and Nanna had gone we rubbed our latest anti-lice goo – which we think is neat petrol – into the boys’ hair and combed through. When they were asleep  The Man and I put the petrol on our heads and checked each other.  Love is…

Free Dawdling

1.  Hand Prints

2.  Footsteps

3.  Hand Outs

We did a bit better today, although writing this in the evening, me on the sofa, and The Man on His Chair, we are pale, fatter, worn out shadows of our BC selves.  Son 2 aged 2 woke in the night wailing for Mummy. I have decided he can’t have Mummy, Daddy is his reward for antisocial behaviour, so off trogged The Man to sort him out. And then Son 1 aged 5 arrived in The Big Bed. It was 8am before anyone tipped me out of bed, which is a Good Thing. “Can we get Granny now?” asked Son 1, the moment his eyes snapped open.  He swiftly moved on to the plaster-of-paris handprint kits I gave both Son 1 and Son 2 for their birthdays. After breakfast, I said, sternly. You make a mould, and then pour plaster in, and then lo, a spooky Pompeii-style memento of the size your child used to be. Well I like them. And so does Son 1.   And they were cheap in TK Maxx. We messed up the first kit by spreading the gel too thin. And decided to make two out of Son 2’s. Son 1 sat, Perfect Child, his hand absolutely still, flat in the gel. Son 2 cried at having to keep his hand still. So we tried his foot. He cried. The gel crept up his fat little thigh.  We tried his hand again. He crumbled the rapidly-setting gel material in his hand.  He crumbled his mould, and then poured water from the jug in.   It was a craft material. We let him get on with it.  Later, ready to collect Granny from the Airport, the kitchen was spotless, and Son 2 was wearing the latest outfit she’d sent him.  While we were still tidying frantically elsewhere, he climbed up to and opened the plaster-of-paris packet from the handprint kit, sending stiff white powder down his Sunday best and all over the kitchen. I texted this to his Godmother, who has finally been released from hospital.  “I love Son 2,” she texted back. “You can buy him on eBay,” I replied. 

We had a coffee at the Airport while we were waiting for Granny’s plane. And then saw her, trailing forlornly outside, pulling her case on wheels. Oops. The Man and I are veterans of the Airport in the days when the sound of planes landing shook the paint off the tinpot terminal walls and rattled the fillings in your teeth.  It’s all got a bit bigger since then.  Son 1 and Son 2 were skipping with delight to see her. We played Spot The Yellow Car all the way home, with Granny proving almost as good as Son 1. A cup of tea, then lunch, and then we walked into The Town. Son 1 was still pingponging off the walls, and I decided we needed to Burn His Energy Off. He did very well, walking the 3/4 mile down to The Square and then some on the way back.  Climbing up onto every railing, going up and down every step, round and round every column, under every cycle rail and up onto every flat surface offering King Of The Castle potential.  It’s a form of Free Running. Only much, much, much slower.

I made Fish and Chips for tea, Sea Bass I bought from the fishmonger’s yesterday, home-made chips and peas. I was five minutes from landing when friends called round. They’d bought a jacket on ebay for their 3 year old. It was too big, but beautiful. Did we want it for Son 1 for the winter? Ooh yes please. And an unwanted bimini someone was throwing out, which they’d thought we’d like for The Boat.  “Bim bimini, Bim bimini,” sang The Man.  He’s got a great line in malapropism.  “Sit!” he said to Son 2.  “You sound like you’re training a dog,” I said. “I know. I feel like Mary Whitehouse sometimes.” “Do you mean Barbara Wodehouse?”” “Same thing.” Son 1, Son 2 and 3 year old played in the garden.  We drank and chatted. Our friends left. Tea was late.  Bedtime was late.  Oh well, only 2 weeks till half term. We can all have a bit of a rest then.

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.

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.

Sunday Trading

,  Chest Flies

2.  Lord Of The Flies

3.  No Flies

We didn’t get the boys to bed till 9pm last night, so we felt we deserved a lie in this morning. Nah.  The only impact was no little visitor clambering into bed with us during the night.  The Man got up at about 7 and went downstairs… Son 2 aged 23m wailed, I heard Son 1 aged 4y 11m chatter… and that was it. I rested for as long as I felt I could get away with it.  “I don’t understand why my cold’s gone in three days and yours is still going on and on and on,” said The Man. “Because if you’re exhausted your immune system doesn’t work as well.” “Well why don’t you check into rehab or something?”  Not Just My Husband, My Very Best Friend.

The Man wanted to drill holes for the fish tank power. The boys and I took Nanna’s giant stone mushroom to her house – two months after her birthday. We picked her up and then went to the Garden Centre. The idea was that each boy would choose a toy for the fish tank, to be given as a present on their birthdays. Son 1 couldn’t care less about anything I showed him: one-hole two-hole three-hole rocks, hippos with mouths that opened by bubbles, pieces of wood. He only wanted a bag of shells. He said if I bought them for him he would behave for the rest of his life.  It seemed like a good deal. Son 2 got a red ray, and I chose a lump of wood for Son 1. Away from the fish tank, it looked as if it would fit. Back home it clearly won’t.  Might have to saw a bit off.

We walked down through the town to meet Nanna for lunch.  The Man strode off with Son 2 in the Big Pram, Son 1 and I took longer. In the cafe Son 1 wanted pizza. I turned to Son 2.  “What would you like?” “Cips.” Not 2 years old and he can order in restaurants.  I didn’t go into a cafe till I was 14 years old.  The kitchen messed the order up so we had two small, tired, over-hungry boys melting down.  Looking on the bright side, they could have been a lot worse.  After we went to the discount shop, where I bought them each a Playmobil toy with money Nanna gave them for a birthday stocking-filler. Son 1 studied each box on the way home. “Son 2’s is better than mine!” he decided.  Son 2’s cost a pound more.

Understanding

1.  Under The Weather

2.  Under Surveillance

3.  Under Pressure

Son 2 aged 23m’s dramatic, croupy cough rattled out after we’d gone to bed. I couldn’t see how Son 1 aged 4y 11m could sleep through it, so way past midnight, I sent The Man downstairs into the Double Bed, scooped Son 2 up from his cot and took him up into the Big Bed with me.  Mummy Serotonin makes them get better quicker.  The idea of sleeping with Son 2 is always lovely.  I agonise over him snugging himself up in his sleeping bag in his cot – I’m sure Son 1 was in with us most nights at that age. So I dream about Son 2 and I cuddling, dozing, drowsing, in tune with each other’s sleep cycles. In reality? Even ill and exhausted, he’s always up for a party.  PUshing and towing pillows off the sides of the bed.  Feeling for nose and ear holes and sticking fingers in them. And endlessly, endlessly, turning over, crawling, pulling the quilt up, kicking the quilt off… Until: “Son 2!  If you don’t lie down and go to sleep I am going to put you back in your cot and leave you there!”  He laid his little fluffy head on the pillow and went straight to sleep. 

We’d planned lunch with Nanna.  She said she’d brave our colds, so we decided on the Big Town.  We arrived, parked, and went to TK Maxx to look for shoes for the boys. Nanna was left in charge of Son 2 in the toy section.  The Man was with Son 1 in Children’s Shoes.  There was an argument about a grey pair. “He won’t try them on,” said The Man. “I don’t like them.” “Why not?” “I want bright shoes.”  It’s TK Maxx. Their entire business plan provides leftover pairs of orange shoes for little boys like Son 1.  We got him sorted, and I looked up to see Nanna walking out of the open double door and then back in again. “Where’s Son 2?” I asked. “I’ve lost him.” She continued to look round clothes racks. “Where?” “He just ran off!”  I looked for The Man. “I’ve seen him!”  He strode off halfway across the shop.  Son 2 nearly made it back to the escalator.   We got the reins out.    The boys were heavenly at lunch.

On the way back we stopped off at fish tank shops.  The Man is looking at tanks the size of Swan Vesta matchboxes. I am looking at tanks you could pickle cows in.  This is supposed to be a joint birthday present… we have less than a fortnight before Son 2’s big day.  It took us 17 years to decide to have children.  We have asked Son 1 if he’d rather have a rabbit.

A Pan Fan

1.  Peter Pan

2.  Baking Pans 

3.  Panic

Peter Pan was the DVD. Son 1 aged 4y 11m and Son 2 aged 23m were playing with the toy pirates. We bought Son 1 a new Captain Hook yesterday. He has got through 2 Disney ones, so now we’re on Toyshop Traditional.  The old Captain Hook fell to pieces.  Son 1had found a Peter-And-The-Children pin badge that I’d bought him. ”I’m a Peter Pan fan, aren’t I?”  Orwell fashion, I have come to love Peter Pan. Ignore the dodgy author and the political incorrectness, and name another children’s classic that’s as brilliant on Motherhood.  The Lost Boys and The Pirates who want Mothers, Wendy who doesn’t want to be a Mother to Peter, Mrs Darling sitting in the empty bedroom, and poor Peter, damaged by a closed window and another little boy asleep in his bed. ”If you find your mothers,” he said darkly, “I hope you will like them.”  I bought my copy new in 1972, price 25p.  And I grew up and had a son.  Who feeds pieces of broken Captain Hook to toy crocodiles. 

 A grey day, with two shattered children. We decided yesterday went askew because we got the meals wrong. We drove the Big Town to do a Big Shop. Son 2 fell asleep in the car, Son 1 was car sick. We went down to the River and parked. The Man and I had coffee, the boys ate peanut butter sandwiches for lunch.  In the supermarket, we bought heaps of cake and biscuit making ingredients. I have a week off, the forecast is not good, and I have much Uber Mother ground to make up. Son 1 longs for me to make a cake.  I find cake tins frankly baffling.  There are the ones with the clock hand things in them, presumably used for Getting Your Cake Out. And the ones that are rings with round circles at the bottom. Presumably also used for Getting Your Cake Out.  Greaseproof paper, baking paper, baking parchment. All for Getting Your Cake Out.  I’m only guessing, but is there sometimes a problem Getting Cakes Out?  But anyway. We can manage muffins. And Biscuits.  And Wonder Nanny will be here. I bet she can Get A Cake Out. 

We did a massive pile of shopping with loads of Sunday afternoon yellow stickers.  Son 1’s shopping treat was a Scooby Doo biscuit making kit. I thought it was going to be a box with biscuits for them to draw on with an icing pen. Oh no. Back home there was an egg and milk involved. I put too much milk and egg in the packet mix and ended up with gloop so sticky it glued my fingers together.  I finally fought my way out of the mixing bowl, and the boys rolled it, cut the Scooby shapes and we put them in the oven.  Son 2 washed green beans for tea.  They had roast lamb… I went for a run.