Rouge, Jaune, Vert, Bleu

1.  Avoir Fatigue

2.  M’Aider

3.  The Couleurs King

I have been awake since 3am. Ellen MacArthur did five months on five minutes’ sleep every four hours.  Or something. I could so see her off.   I woke up, couldn’t get back to sleep, went downstairs, made a cup of tea, went back upstairs, got my Book Club book and went back down to the Double Bed for a peaceful middle-of-the-night readfest.  A little figure came padding down from the Big Bed. Wordlessly and glassy-eyed, Son 1 aged 5 plonked himself in the Double Bed.  Mrs Smiley’s voice echoed in my head: “How’s his sleeping?”  I switched off the light. “My head is still hurting.” I gave him a slug of Kalpol. He didn’t sleep; I didn’t sleep. He eyebrowed vigorously and clamped himself to me.  After a very very long time, Son 2 aged 2y 1m wailed.

After an hour at The Office, my voice had gone again.  “I’ll go home and work there,” I told a colleague. I didn’t make it. I found if I kept my head down, said nothing and drank lots of hot drinks, I could manage. I did a mad run round the shops at lunchtime.  I have… erm.. burnt Son 1’s tummy by putting neat tea tree oil on his molluscum. It’s made his eczema flare up.  I asked Teenaged Niece what she put on her eczema. “HE 45″ she said. I wasn’t going to take her word for it. I was going to ask the pharmacist. Only all pharmacists in the Big Town take their lunch between 1pm and 2pm.  “When can you guys make it?  OK.  That’s when we’ll shut up shop.”  So. HE 45 it was. And some allergy-for-children medicine.

Back late, and Son 2, the Cooler King, was shut up in his cot in a darkened room, having a raging tantrum.  ”He’s been horrible,” said The Man. ”He wouldn’t eat his tea, he wouldn’t have a bath, and I only just got his teeth done.” I got Son 2 out, and he sat on my knee, quietly panting, his head against me.  I took him into the other bedroom. Son 1 had a French lesson today, and was singing something about quelle couleurs.  The Man and I were baffled by the verse: Hoar, jaune, bleu, vert. We eventually worked out that the problem was our dodgy accents. Our rouge features the same sound as kangaroo.  Son 1’s has a throaty soft French “r” and a “g” that rolls into the “j” of “jaune.” I gave him the anti-allergy medicine. And then read the ingredients. Sugar and alcohol.  Nice.  I really want to give that to my five-year-old.

Double Dating

1.  Howlround

2.  Clash

3.  Bump

Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht. Alles schlaft. Until Son 2 aged 2 started SHOUTING FOR MUMMY. I sprang out of bed to get to him before he woke Son 1 aged 5, sleeping next to him, scooped him up and put him in the Double Bed between The Man and me.  Granny is in the Big Bed upstairs, and The Man are next to the boys. I checked the time on a clock downstairs.  4am. The little beggar.  He tossed and turned and wriggled and writhed. At 0445 I gave up and got up. On the Bright Side. I copied dates from 2009 into the 2010 calendar. I cleared out the mess in my bag. I paid a bill which had been outstanding forever. I ordered school photos. I made the lunches.

Son 2 wasn’t impressed with being left at home, Son 1 was Perfect Child. A long drive in this morning because of the rain. I dropped him off and had another Hard Day At The Office.  I have muddled up Son 1’s Parents’ Evening. I thought it was today, which I could have left early for.  It isn’t. It’s next Tuesday, and already my whole day is jam-packed.  The Man will have to go without me.  Bright side: I bought a new dress from TK Maxx.  There is an Important Office Do on Thursday night.  I took it round to the Godmother for a second opinion. She approved, and provided pashmina and handbag.

When I got home, Son 2 chortled, giggled and clung.   Both boys were excited… there were two plastic bags resting on top of the water in the Fish Tank. Granny has bought four more fish.  Son 1 has carefully considered, and named them Fluffy, Floppy, Zizzy and Sulky.  Friends for Flossy and Coupon.  An instant shoal.  They seem to be getting on ok.   In Son 1’s bag there was an apologetic note from his class teacher. We can’t have the time we asked for his Parents’ Evening appointment. She’s happy to do another day and time if it would be more convenient. Oh all right then.   As you’re unable to fit us in, we’ll re-schedule.  No, no, don’t mention it, we don’t mind at all.

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.

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.

Accepting

1.  Biting Remarks

2.  An Audience

3.   Value

Forgot to tell you. I solved The Mystery Of The Broken Front Tooth on Saturday.  Vegetarians have great teeth.  Nothing we eat is crunchy or chewy or hard.  And we’re overloaded with calcium.  Yet I lost a fragment of front incisor.  I was more worried than I admitted to myself.  Crumbly teeth = getting old = poor Son 1 aged 4y 11m and Son 2 aged 23 with their toothless crone of a mother. The hygienist on Thursday blamed wine.  But.  On Saturday on The Boat I realised that hooray hooray, I am still young, I am not a drunk…. I just shouldn’t bite Frubes open for the boys.

We had a scrum to get Son 1 and me out of the house on time, and we were doing fine till we we encountered a massive queue of traffic. Broken down double decker. “What have they done with the children?” asked Son 1, craning his neck round. At School, we went in with X from Son 1’s class and his mother. ”X is looking forward to the party,” said Mother.  Yes.  X’s father rang me last night to say he’d be coming. Son 1 answered the phone, and brought it upstairs. He came into the bedroom just as I had my head in the cot singing Son 2’s lullaby.  I ignored him because Son 2 was drowsy and I didn’t want him fired up again.  So Son 1 thrust the phone at my mouth just as I launched into a reedy (but perfectly pitched) Summer-Tiiiimmmmeee.  ”Hello?” said a tinny voice. “This is X’s dad.  He’d love to come to the party.”

I’m still not 100% so I had a Hard Day At The Office.  I took a late lunch and did a Big Shop.  Including a  birthday cake for Friday, lots of little fairy cakes, and Tesco Value Hula Hoops.  You can’t Taste The Difference.  Two Variety Packs for Son 1.  Not 5 years old and I am bribing him with sugary food to get him to have breakfast. The worst sin is not  Son 1.  It’s “And me!” Son 2 who has to have what he’s having. I picked up Son 1 and we headed home. He went in, I unloaded the shopping. Not realising that Son 2 was howling for me upstairs.  We are thinking about toilet training Son 2, so at bathtime we give him a chocolate button every time he pees in the potty.  He has amazing control, and is currently averaging four buttons per bathtime.  I’m not breaking all the Sisterhood of Motherhood rules on sugar. This is science. His brother had nothing sweet till he was two, and is now a sugar junkie. So, in the interests of research, I am plying Son 2 with sweet things to prove that once he is two, he will choose celery sticks and cucumber instead.

Creative Cookery

1.  Domestic Goddess

2.  Domestic Drama

3.  Domestic Bliss

Working yesterday meant I had today off.  Wonder Nanny was off, so it was Son 1 aged 4y 11m, Son 2 aged 23m and me.  September.  Strewth.  The boys were knackered after yesterday, and we all have rotten, rotten colds, so I aimed low.  Maybe some cake making, I thought. Maybe a stroll into The Town.  Maybe.  “What do you want to do Son 1?” “Crabbing.”  The Man took an early lunch, and down to The Hotel With The River View we strolled.  We have by trial and error arrived at the perfect crabbing design.  A washing tablet bag on a piece of string filled with bacon.  The MAn and Son 1 were hauling ‘em up, four at a time.  Son 1 is brilliant. He’s gone from being too scared to go near a net containing crabs to sticking his hands in and flicking them in the bucket.  “Mind your fingers!” “I am minding my fingers!”  Son 2 likes feeding the captives.  So much that you can’t leave him alone with the bait. He’d plop it all in the bucket for his prisoners.  He lost interest and was more interested in paddling in the tidal puddles on the quayside and flipping stones and winkles in the river.  The tide was coming in, The Man was running out of time. He took the bucket and nets… I took two small, tired boys back to the house. 

I’d roasted a pile of beetroot while we were out. And I made it into pink soup for lunch. In the Duck and The Cat and The Squirrel, they make pink soup one day when they’ve run out of pumpkins. ”I’m not eating that!” said The Duck.  “It’s Pink.”  Son 2 took one look and refused. And when Son 1 realised Son 2 was getting away with not eating it, he refused as well. So I gave them the leftover hummous and veg from  yesterday’s packed lunch and ate two bowls. It was Delicious.   Then we made fairy cakes. Son 1 and Son 2 took turns to press the food processor buttons.  They carefully put the cake papers in the tray.  They broke the eggs. And they licked the bowl out. We watched Wall E. Son 1 pestered to ice the cakes. I said he could if he ate all his tea.  He did.  I made icing while they stuffed their faces with cake sweets. We had a whole pot of jelly tot sweets… There are none on the cakes.  Son 2 just stood on his chair by the chopping board, his attention rigidly fixed on shoving as many sweets in his mouth as he could before someone took them away.  And then Man Oh Man I got the sugar rush I deserved. Son 1 cannonballed back and forth; Son 2 giggled like a drunk. The Man came home. “They made me do it,” I muttered sheepishly as he picked up Son 1 by his torso, his arms and legs still whizzing round like a wound-up bath toy.

I finally got them to bed. Son 1 is still on Book  Club. I went to Book Club last Thursday, which meant I had to leave during his bedtime. “Can I come? I’ll bring one of my books.” “You can have a Book Club tomorrow.. as many as you like.”  On Friday he had all his Thomas books, and all his Mr Men books on a big pile. We counted.  58 books.  We have done about 20.  This evening he passed out after about five. I went downstairs. The Man had made fajitas, because we both have colds.  We ate them downstairs, no telly, no newspaper. A glass of wine, and we talked to each other. We agreed we must do it more often.

Compensation

1.  Ingedients

2.  Processing Food

3.  Sweet And Sour

7am.  Son 1 aged 4y 11m got into the Big Bed.  He was freezing.  And doing his mock-crying/mock whining thing. “What’s the matter?” “I don’t want to give our ingredients to Wednesday Mum.”  I was rabid about the loss of the sandals. And told Son 1 there would be no fairy cake making, and that all the ingredients we bought would be given to our Friends.  “We’re not going to. Mummy was probably a bit too cross yesterday. I’m sorry.” ”I’m sorry I lost my shoes.”  “I’m sorry I was so cross. But your feet are very long and thin and it took me a long time and a lot of shops to find some that fit.” “Can we still make our cakes?” “Yes we can.” “I’ll go and get the ingredients.” “From the cupboard?” “No. I hided them.” “Where?” “Behind the toilet.” Son 1 and I went downstairs.  Bicarb, sprinkles, jelly sweets, sugar letters, caster sugar, icing sugar, cake wrappers… all wedged on the floor in the cobwebs behind the U bend.    It must have taken him three or four trips. No wonder he was freezing.

We had a group trip into The Town after breakfast, and then came back and started cake-making. Son 1 and Son 2 aged 23m stood on the big chairs.  They were interested in three things: breaking eggs,  pressing the buttons on the food mixer and eating sweets.  Much disappointment when Son 1 realised the sweet stage doesn’t come till you ice them. We mixed. Son 1 broke his egg. “And me!” yelled Son 2. Ah. We only had one egg. Wonder Nanny went down the road in search of another box.   The cakes went in the oven.

We had lunch and then Son 2 and I went for a lie down. Luxury.  I think lying down for a snooze with a little child is one of the great free pleasures in life.  We slept for more than an hour – I’ve got a cold coming and am feeling pretty wrecked. When we went downstairs, Wonder Nanny and Son 1 were peeling crayons. “I’ve been meaning to do this job for ages,” said Wonder Nanny.  I didn’t even realise it needed doing. We went swimming.  The pool was almost empty. Son 1 piled up surf boards to make a surf shop.  Son 2 delighted in the surf boards. He clung baby-like in the deep end, but as soon as he had solid ground under his feet his confidence soared.  He was great.  At bedtime they slept instantly.  Wonder Nanny babysat, and The Man and I went out to the local Thai restaurant. We sat in the window. Some Eastern European men set upon a man walking up the hill directly outside. My view was bloked by the menu in the window, but The Man saw the whole thing. The police arrived. Someone came in and asked if the staff had seen anything. “No no,” said the waiter. “All in kitchen.”  No they weren’t. They watched it all.   I was a Juror.  I made The Man go and see the police to make up.

Re-Reading

1.  Lies

2.  Damn Lies

3.  Statistics

Last night I worked late and went to bed very late.   Well towards 1am, I tiptoed upstairs, weightless, soundless, I did not breathe.  The Man rolled over, grumbled and switched off the telly.   I took out my contact lenses.  I peered behind me.  Son 1 had teleported in,  lurching round like a drunk. The Man was in the Big Bed, he wanted to lie down, but “Where’s Mummy?” “In the bathroom.”  Son 1 was still bothered by The Man in the Big Bed.  “When you’re not here, if I wake him up when I come to bed, he settles down in your side watching me while I take off my make up and do my teeth, and then I have a little read in bed, and then we both go to sleep.”  The Man harrumphed and  trogged off to the Blue Room.  Yes yes I know that Son 1 will one day be off with She Who Will Never Be Good Enough For Him and I should be Putting My Eggs In The Man’s Basket (this is going badly wrong) but what the hell. It was the way Son 1 just stood patiently at the bedside waiting for his space to become available… 

So this morning I was matchsticks-under-the-eyelids. Another oh God look at the state of the boys, never mind, Wonder Nanny can do it when she gets here, bye, sesh.  I am doing better though on reading to Son 2.  We did our five books.  Pinocchio, for God’s sake. He insisted.  This is Son 1’s library book, the Disney series that everyone has at least 1 of, somewhere.  I should be reading stuff that is Rooted In Reality.  About washing machines and buggies and looking at leaves.  So. Son 2. Gepetto makes this toy, and the only woman in the story, winged, badly drawn, wearing a pillow case,  makes it come alive, and it goes shopping and gets mugged – twice -  and then gets caged, whereupon Gepetto rescues it and they all live happily ever after.  Son 2 couldn’t give a hoot, and wanted it twice. He’s only really looking at the pictures of the nose getting bigger. “Wee wee,” he said, at the end.  I went all the way downstairs to get his potty. He rejected it, sat on Son 1’s old booster seat, and wee-d in the loo. PSB. “Bye bye Mummy,” he said, as I went off to The Office. 

At bedtime, Son 1 gets the book time. We took out 17 from the library, some for Son 2, but most chosen by him. ”Improving your fishing,” has been a bit of a challenge.  I always put at least one book about another country or culture in the pile. ”And the liberal, with a small ‘l’, cries in front of the TV,” sang Billy Bragg when I was Young. ”Coming Home” went in on the strength of a cover drawing of a black woman in a hijab with a small boy. Oh-Good-Islam-Portrayal-Not-Arab-We’ll-Have-It was the quarter second attention it got as I tossed it in.  Hassan is a Somalian refugee.  Son 1 and I have done Somalia, in answer to the “Mummy, are there any pirates now?” question. “There are some very poor people from a very poor country run by bullies and they steal other people’s boats and ships because they Have Nothing.” “What happens to them?” “President Obama (Most Powerful Man In The World.  In answer to: “Who’s that man on your book?”) sent a big ship and told them to stop. Now darling, let’s clear out Son 2’s old toys and take them to Oxfam.”   Hassan’s Uncle is killed by soldiers who burn his house down. Son 1 wanted it twice. ”Is his Uncle dead?” “What happened to the animals?” “Where are his cousins?” “Will it happen here?”  At this point my inner Nanna broke through and I couldn’t resist. “No. Because we are one of the richest countries in the world, and you are such a lucky little boy, and that is why Daddy and I get cross when you don’t realise – ” Son 1 burst into tears. “I’m scared of the soldiers.”  Gepetto was a woodcarver, I said, and one day he made a puppet. 

Nemo

1.  Mummy Vanishes

2.  Fishing

3.  Finding Nemo

The Man was still alive this morning.  “I did think you might be worried.  I’ll take my phone up with me next time.”  “Is it a Wonder Nanny day today?” asked Son 1 aged 4y 10m as I was getting ready for The Office.  “Yes,” I said. “And then Mummy will be with you tomorrow.” He let off a high wail.  “You don’t (sob) love your boys (sob.)”  Thanks for that one Son 1, I’ll even up a little when I’m in the nursing home.  Son 2 aged 23m was a little darling. “Neno!  Neno!” I do an abridged version of Son 1’s Disney book. “Tak Ta!”  His lift-the-flap farm book.  I almost got him to sit all the way through The Cat In The Hat last night. The Cat was a winner, so was the fish.  He went walkabout well before Mother Came Home.

I had to drive to The City. The roads were ok, it’s always good to see my colleagues from The City Office, and someone said something very nice to me in a meeting. On the way back I stopped at Waitrose because we’re out of Cheerios and tea. A friend wants Wonder Nanny to take her child as well as our two for one day.  Fine, I said, but I’ll have to ask Wonder Nanny. She’d gone by the time I got back. Son 1 pelted down the stairs to greet me, Son 2 just sat up top laughing. 

Son 2 is great. “How old are you going to be on your birthday, Son 2?” “Doooo.”  We sat and read, and then he had his bath, lying face down, full length in it as he played with two tigers and a donkey. His post-bath game is called “Boo.” It involves him lying down with a towel over him. “Daddy, Daddy, something terrible’s happened!  I can’t find Son 2!”  Daddy comes in – somehow this is always timed just after he’s lain down on the bed – lifts up the towel and there is Son 2, who laughs his head off.  Son 1 also plays. He comes in, points at Son 2 and says “He’s there. Under the towel. He’s always under the towel.  Every time.” Again, thanks for that. I put a toy Nemo we’ve had hanging around for ages into the cot with Son 2 tonight, in the hope it might stop him screaming for me the minute I leave. He still screamed, but not for as long.  Could this possibly be the solution?

Dance Of The Hours

1.  A Thousand Cuts

2.  Thanks A Thousand

3.  A Thousand Times

Son 2 aged 22m didn’t wake up screaming till 0615.  This is a Good Thing. Lately it’s been unremitting before 0530.  The Man has tried.  I’ve just left him, his screams not quite drowned out by the klaxon of my guilt. I wonder what’s wrong. Wonder Nanny says he’s the same when he wakes up from his daytime naps. I wouldn’t know. He never sleeps in the daytime when he’s with me. Which all leads me to the Pang Pang Pang conclusion that he needs to see me more. Oh Lord.   At least we have Wonder Nanny so he doesn’t have to go to Nursery.  He stood at the door and cried after she left tonight. Pang Pang Pang.    

Cheer Up, Said George.  (Son 2 and I are doing The Smartest Giant In Town at the moment.)  The Man has taken some time off.  This is cause for the firing of cannons and a public holiday.  I have tried pointing out that even Junior Doctors are barred by law from working more than 48 hours a week but for some reason he thinks he’s exempt from the Working Time Directive.   And the boys’ Elegant Aunt has offered us her timeshare week. Hoorah hoorah.

I tried to get home from work a bit early to see a little more of Son 1 aged 4y 10m and Son 2.  Didn’t work.  When I cuddled Son 2, Son 1 went mad with jealousy, and relentlessly tried to bash him off me or force his way between us. When I cuddled Son 1, Son 2 let out intolerable ear-splitting shrieks and I ended up dumping him in his cot.  I left him there for five minutes, and then went back up. He was standing, in his dungarees, cute as a kitten, in the corner of his cot.   A big smile. “Mummeeeee!” “Are you going to stop shrieking?” “Yesssssssssssssss.”  And he made it till bedtime without a single screech.  And then, after I’d laid Son 1 down in his bed and closed their bedroom door, their day ended as it began. “MUMMMMEEEEEEE! MUMMMMEEEEE!!!!”