Being Santa...

Thing One is on the cusp of not believing.  Moomin hasn't even found her own toes yet let alone a belief in Santa.  The Dude has only just learned to write his name.  Thing Two however, loves to write.  This is the second year she's written to Santa.  Last year he didn't reply, I think if that happened again this year the sadness would be palpable.

So, with a Moomin asleep on one of my arms I've typed a reply, one handed.  Lets hope she likes it...

Dearest [Thing Two],

I have just received your letter, what beautiful writing you have!  I bet your parents are very proud, I know myself and Mrs Claus are very impressed.  The Elves have told me that you’ve been a very good girl this year that’s worked hard at school and at home, keep up the good work as it makes me very happy to know I can trust you to behave even when others aren’t being as nice as they should.  You really should keep your room tidier though, I don’t want to trip up when I visit!

I’m glad you liked the gifts I left for you last year, I can only bring so much and yet I see so many things I think you’d like so it’s very hard to choose what to give to you. 

Where do I really live?  This is both an easy and a difficult question to answer, Princess.  I live at the North Pole yet often my village is cloaked in magic that can make it impossible for mortals to find.  I know it sounds mean but it’s necessary to ensure the safety of myself, The Elves and our reindeers

Do I go to shops for presents?  Not exactly, often it is my elves that help design the toys that you see in the shops.  Sometimes if there is a very specific toy a child has requested we may send an undercover Elf to procure it.  The Elves have many jobs, some are very highly skilled in the art of subterfuge and have the ability to appear as humans to help me, be it to help me see who’s on the good list or to help get presents from places you may know.  They’re everywhere which is why it’s so important children behave for who knows but their teacher, friend, doctor or even shop keeper may just be one of them.  Sometimes, especially now the world has so many children in it,I will ask the grownups to help me.  Often you’ll see boxes and parcels in your home that they get for me to collect, others my elves deliver so grownups can help wrap them.  Elves don’t breed as easily as grownups so as more and more children are born we require more and more help.  Mums and Dads are a great help to us.

Am I related to anyone?  I have my wife Mrs Claus yet as Father Christmas I see all children as my children and love you all dearly. I've existed under different names for longer than time itself and as thousands of years have passed I find I remember very little of my origins before the mantle of Santa Claus was bestowed upon me, only that as long as there is belief in the world, I exist so please keep believing!

It has been lovely writing to you yet the reindeer are giving the elves a hard time, it would appear they really do detest being bathed!  They’re being awfully naughty about it so I must intervene!  Also Mrs Claus needs me to try on my suit, it needs some repairs before Christmas Eve .

Keep up the good behaviour.  We’re very proud of you here at the North Pole.  We enjoy hearing you sing in the school choir and watching you play with your brothers and new baby sister.

Don’t forget to go to sleep nice and early Christmas Eve and leave your pillowcase out for me to fill.  I’m relying on you to ensure that [Thing One] and [The Dude] do the same.  I know I  can trust you to help them behave.

With Love & Magic,

***If the header/footer images are yours and you'd like them crediting or deleting please do get in touch so I can do this for you.

Competativeness

The school are holding a competition.  The worst kind, a crafty kind.  I send the little darlings to school to do all that messy creative stuff so that we don't have to do it at home all the time.  It only ever leads to mess and disappointment as like me The Spawn have grand ideas yet limited artistic ability.

The challenge?  To decorate a boiled egg for Easter.  Sounds frightfully simply, neh?

The Husband and Things One & Two had a failed attempt earlier in the week with childrens paint that resulted with grotesque looking drippy things akin to toddler nappy contents, you know the kind from after they've eaten all the crayons.

Fast forward to a last minute attempt last night , the night before it's due in, with some permanent markers.  In my defense I did try to dye them according to Google yet even that failed to work.

I provided them with an egg each and the pens and left them to it, afterall it is their project.  They did their best.  Although rather fond of craft, Thing Two prefers to do things spontaneously and not to order.  She likes to free think and not adhere to specifics.  Thing One is like me, poor sod, no patience and very little craft gene.  The Preschooler wanted in on the action despite the school Nursery not taking part so I helped him create his own too.

Then came this morning.  Evidently some parents have some difficulty with understanding that this is a competition for the children.  Their competitive nature took over and a glance around the playground showed some efforts worthy of Pinterest.  You look at these epic creations, picture perfect, not a single visible drip or brush stroke.  Everything is highly defined, unnaturally neat and damn near perfect.  It doesn't stop there, they have to go the whole hog and create whole islands and tanks and what have you to display them in.  Fair play you think, then you look at their child.  There is no way that snot nosed, disinterested little child went anywhere near that entry.  You see the hungry look of competitiveness in their parents eyes as they painstakingly cradle these creations that you just know, they made.  Yes, the parents. Their children have absolutely no interest in them, why should they?  They didn't make them! Cheats! Cheats! Cheats!

It's not just the lack of fairness that perturbs me, it's more so the message they're sending to their children. That it's all about the winning.  They have eradicated the taking part.  This should have been a fun activity for the children to do themselves.  Nobody was expecting anything to remotely resemble it's apparent theme, it should have been a mass of dribbly, speckled blobs that are the childrens vision, their pride and joy.  They've stolen the taking part from them.  It's become a lesson in fierce perfection rather than an expression of creativity.

Don't get me wrong,  I never for a moment expect Thing One or Thing Two to win, but it would be nice if an imperfect, genuine entry won.  Something a child did with minimal supervision and interference.  One of the lopsided ones you have to squint at to figure out what it's supposed to be.  One of the ones where you can almost picture the child, tongue firmly poking out in concentration, as a paint brush overloaded with poster paint redecorates the kitchen as well as the egg.  One made with love and determination.  One made with the notion of making something coming first and the idea of winning an afterthought.

Thing Two got a silver star the other day for randomly commenting to a teacher that she doesn't so much care about winning things, she just likes taking part and knowing she's tried.

It would appear some of the parents could do with understanding that.

I'm a firm believer that activities like this should be done in school time, among their peers under the supervision of teachers with zero interference from parents.  This has nothing at all to do with my general allergy to childrens crafts, honest.

Thing Two's Birth Story (2006)

In Short

Thing Two was born on Thursday 7th September at 23:30 weighing 8lb 15oz after 3 pushes and a 4.5 hour labour start to finish.


The Long Story
In the weeks leading up to the birth I was a familiar site at the day ward at the hospital, once for suspected waters leaking (turned out they were in tact), once for spotting and then in the very final weeks I had high bp and had to spend three gruelling days travelling up to the hospital to have BP profiles done that seemed to take all day and as you can imagine were terrifically boring. They wanted to admit me as an inpatient, the night before Thing One's second birthday. I listened to them, weighed up my options and making an informed albeit 'against medical advice' decision, I discharged myself and went home. The protein was only a trace, the BP was high for me but not fatally so nor high enough to warrant any medication and everything else was fine.  The anxiety caused through staying in hospital alone, never mind missing Thing One's birthday would have been far more detrimental to my health. Plus,  after Thing One's poor first birthday (he was very poorly) there was no way I was missing his second even if i did have to spent the first half of the day back at hospital (The compromise we came to with the Consultant)

I was 40+4 and thoroughly once again fed up, i'd tried -every- natural induction thing going (apart from castor oil because that's just fucking dangerous) and i hadn't even had so much as an itch never mind a twinge!  My tiongue was spasoming from excess pineapples, my lips sore from curry and my pelvis in agony from walking.  OUr bathroom stank like a hippies brothel from an explosion of Clary Sage. I had my 'overdue' appointment at the hospital and was more then prepared to be told my cervix would be posterior thick tight and closed (like at 41w with Thing One)  Optimistic I was not. From self examination I did suspect I might be 2cm.....so imagine my surprise when the doctor told me I was 3-4cm dilated pre-sweep! she did a sweep and told me she thoroughly expected me to be delivering that night or the night after but if not to go back the following Wednesday to have my waters broken. She found it hard to believe that I was that far dilated without even a cramp.  Like my first pregnancy, I never experienced so much as a BH.

I was convinced the sweep wouldn't work, they rarely do and I'd already had my allocated success with Thing One. (with Thing One I had one at 41+4, when i was 2cm, at 8pm, had cramps immediately afterwards and loads of show. Labour started at 11pm and he was born after 10am next day), I had no show this time and no cramps. Bugger. We got home and went for a 2-3 mile walk into Farnworth, then had a clary sage bump rub and went for a nap. Still no cramps, no even a stitch!  In fact the only pain was from my poor decrepit pelvis which was rather miffed at the walk.

At about 6.50pm i noticed I was getting totally painless tightenings, about 10 mins apart. By 7.15pm they seemed to get stronger so we decided to bath Thing One and get him to bed.  I was most insistant that he was safely and happily tucked up in bed before I'd even entertain the idea of labour. By 7.30 i was in tears, clutching onto door frames in absolute agony unable to move/talk whilst The Husband was in a mad panic trying to bath/dress Thing One and put him to bed, knowing that his wife, who never cries, was in tears of agony.  I Called The Mother and told her to get a round quickly.  I'd pre-warned her after my sweep to share the news that it was highly likely I'd be in labour that night, they knowingly embarked upon a normal evening of wine rendering The Father unable to drive. Stupid Bastards.  I'd warned them.  They knew.  It's okay, she'd rely in a taxi. I called hospital and they said to dial 999. Bloke on the 999 line timed my contractions and said they were a minute apart. Twatwaffles. Ambulance showed up and as I insisted on going to Hope hospital, where Thing One was born and not Bolton Hospital (which was only 10-15 minutes away) they put the flashies on and bombed it down the road to the hospital on the proviso I kept my legs firmly crossed. I was having about 4-5 contractions in a space of five minutes on top of each other. There are quite simply no words to possibly explain the intensity and agony of this. They offered me gas and air but I hated it when I had Thing One, only had three puffs and said 'gas and air is the only thing that tastes worse then my breath right now so no thanks!'

When we got to the delivery ward we were shown into a room (not a patch on the room we had with e Thing One which had it's own bathroom!, this was more akin to a medical cell) I was told I was 6cm and asked what pain relief I wanted....I said diamorphine (like i had with Thing One). I was fucking petrified everything had happened so fast and with no warning.  No labour to full on labour, no cramps or tingles just pain and panic.  Understandably It shook me up, the absolute loss of control and the lack of warm up was simply petrifying.  Whilst waiting for her to finish writing up my notes my eyes were drawn towards the gas and air and I thought 'fuck it, gimmie some'  What a difference from last time, the act of having to physically stimulate the admission of it gave me something to focus on, something for my breathing to focus on. What can I say? wow. I loved it....bloody fabulous stuff.  I can liking the feeling only to being stoned. Next came the Diamorphine.  I was as close to Zen as could be expected.  Mellow, trippy and calm.  Naturally, The Husband was terribly envious.  Then came the talking and wholly hell did I talk, I talked The Husband's ears off and all the mw's ears too....I even got the giggles. It was 8pm when i arrived at the hospital or there abouts.

At around 11pm, I really needed to pee so hauled myself up and with the help of dean waddled to the bathroom across the corridor, who's genius idea was it to not have a bathroom in the room? It was in the bathroom that I  found out I was bleeding.

The MW started a trace on baby who was fine, but said she was worried as the bleeding signified that the placenta was starting to come away, if that had happened baby would have no oxygen. Fuck.  What a way to bring someone on an immediate and terrifying come down.

She did another internal (I can't even remember her name, how frightfully sluttish) to check my waters hadn't gone, and said I had no cervix left, it was just bulging waters.  Not even I took a moment to imagine that, just well...no.  Once again it would appear that my waters have not read the script and seem incapable of bursting themselves, so, she burst them.  Although old, the waters still had meconium within it so combined with the pleading she instantly told me to start pushing.er.  I never felt this at all with Thing One and none surprisingly neither did I feel it this time.  They say it's like the urge to take a shit, I only ever felt an urge to piss.  Just bear down and push! she urged.  Righty-o.  Three pushes later and more than my fair share of prehistoric vocalisations, at volume, she was born.  Just like that. 

Thing Two was absolutely furious when she was born.....and screamed for ages.  Even when quiet. whenever her eyes open she looked absurdly grumpy and terrifically pissed off.  I still joke that she came out screaming and didn't stop for months for that is exactly what it felt like.

She wasn't tremendously enamored with the entire feeding issue yet showed considerable more willingness to try than Thing One ever did.  I'm convinced this was merely the effects of the pain relief I had in labour.

I had a few stitches, don't know where exactly and can't say finding out was top of my priority list of things to do. What I do  remember was The Husband,  in tears, and me kissing the top of Thing Two's head repeatedly, as if some physical mantra that couldn't be broken yet necessitated the repetitive behaviour. She was simply perfect. She had some hair which was a marvel as Thing One hardly had any at all until he turned a year old, she was also delightfully pink compared to the dayglo whiteness, then again, it's not surprising, that anger is bound to make her pink.


I was convinced she'd weigh about 7lbs.......how wrong was I! 8lb 15oz!

Thankfully they had a single room available albeit at a cost of £30 ( though they never did invoice me for this) although they only allowed The Husband to stay one more hour before cruelly kicking him out into the cold.

She lost interest in feeding and as I have ridiculously large knockers and massive nips (which mw  said are fab for bf'ing?! Oh such a flirt) she had trouble latching on.  

We were all set to leave the next morning, started discharge papers and then we were told............we had to stay another night. Despite me having two anti-d jabs in pregnancy, they found rh- antibodies in her rh+ blood (if you've never had an anti-d this can lead to a very nasty, often fatal, disease in newborns) and they wanted to keep her under obs, if she went yellow they would have to do liver tests etc. They took some blood from her heal to test liver functions....she howled and howled....especially as he kept squeezing it to fill a lil vile.  Bastard sadist.  I dream of having a six hour discharge, I'm destined to be kept prisoner.

Thankfully she didn't go yellow and by the late afternoon on the Saturday we were allowed home.

Thing One visited on the Friday and it nearly broke my heart. I left my baby boy at home on Thursday and on Friday this small child came into my room. He hadn't misses me at all and he seemed to have aged so much, he seemed massive, and different and I felt like I'd missed months not mere days of his life and development.

On the Friday night I was so close to bottle feeding, yet in the end we breastfed, without a single bottle, for two years and ten months.

For those that are worried, your love doesn't split when you have another baby, it multiplies.

Don't worry, only one more birth story to go then no more until later this year when Moomin will join us.

Siblings

The Preschooler: 'Am I your best friend?'

Thing Two: 'I keep telling you.  I don't have a best friend' [arms crossed over her chest.  Glowering]

The Preschooler: 'Well, do you still like me?' [wide eyed and sad]

Thing Two: 'Yes' [Said in the tone one would expect to accompany the phrase 'I hate you']

The Preschooler: [Sighs, looks at me imploringly then back to Thing Two] 'Why are you so grumpy then?'

Just another day

You know you're in for a bad day when it starts with The Toddler attempting to kick the shit out of Thing One, again and then decides to practice pole dancing up a siblings leg.

I'm doing a mighty fine impression of Rudolph with my nose oh so red.  I'm temporarily dying from illness.  I want to pummel myself into unconsciousness just to have a break from sneezing.  If my nose doesn't quit running I'll be tempted to punch it off my face.  My head feels light and spinny whilst my limbs feel laden.  Everything feels slurred.

At least I have new socks though.  Christmas socks even.  Ha! Take that oh Bah Humbug Husband o'mine.

Christmas shopping phase two has been completed, granted mainly online.  Only two more phases to go, neither of which can start until next month.

The Toddler appears to have graduated from watching himself poo whilst on the loo, gazing between his legs to a rather obscure position of leaning over so far that his head nearly touches his feet, yet still not actually falling off the precarious perch his little cheeks have on his seat.

The was a catastrophic disaster.  The Husband decided to use The Witching Hour (the time after tea yet before bath) to run an errand.  Upon asking Things One and Two to tidy the front room, The Toddler decided to fix an unbroken window with a toy hammer which in itself was fine, pick your battles and all that jazz however I had to act when he decided to trash the room, whilst his siblings attempted to tidy it.

Having carted him upstairs to run the bath, he commenced operation screamathon which consisted of me sat by the bedroom gate whilst he attempted to destroy it, first with his body, then his mind and finally with his volume levels.  Seeing as the gate refused to submit he then decided to destroy me, or my hearing at the very least as he screamed directly into my left ear.  It's still hurting several hours later.  I remained sat on the floor, calmly reiterating exactly why he wasn't going downstairs whilst he continued to shout...and scream.  A lot.  Obviously this was the perfect time for Things One and Two to fall out rather tremendously.  Give me strength Gin.

Parents Evening.

I shall warn you in advance this is one of those sickening proud parent posts that make you want to stick too fingers down your throat and roll your eyes.  Sorry.  Or not.

This week was Parents evening or should we say parents afternoon.  First up was a meeting with Thing Two's teacher.  Seeing as there was no report to reflect upon and peruse in advance it was merely an opportunity to see how he's settled into year 5.  Egads, I still can't quite get used to saying that.  I won't tell a lie, as endearing and utterly fabulous as he is, at home he's also a git.  I can say that, he's mine.  If you say it, I'll mess you up, okay? Not a day goes by when Thing One and The Husband don't clash magnificently (Oh if only they could see how similar they actually are) He's a drama queen and an times utterly exasperating yet he's also charming, caring, witty and astute.  Yet be it at The Grandparents or at school, we're assured he's composed and incredibly well behaved bar the usual young boy trait of silliness that seems to be in their genes, or their balls or something like that.  I especially worry about Thing One as he is the youngest in his year.  Had he been born two weeks later he would have been in the year below.  I needn't have worried.  His teacher was positively aglow with praise for him, his attitude to learning is apparently wonderful.  Not only did she endorse him academically but more importantly as a person.  She did the usual reeling off of levels that we're somehow supposed to understand, yet don't as we smile, uhm and ahhhh in the right places whilst wondering whatever happened to the good old grading system.  He's apparently a 4B in reading and writing and a 4C in Mathematics, whatever that means.  He has been genuinely enthusiastic about his new teacher, I was rather dubious at first as he's had predominantly male teachers for many years yet he seems to have gelled instantly with this rather lovely woman. Anyway, she's happy and he's happy which means we're happy. Job's a good 'un.

Which takes us to Thing Two.  The opposite end of the spectrum, she is one of the very eldest in her year having started school nearly a full year later than her brother did.  She's opposite in other ways too, as dramatic and emotively bulimic as he is she's restrained and at times insular.  He's an vibrant open book whereas she's guarded and locked.  Her teacher opened the meeting with 'What can I say about her really?  She's an absolute star but then you know that as she's your star' and concluded with 'she will have no difficulty whatsoever in being whatever she wants to be in life.  She can and will do anything'  Apparently she'll easily be a level three before the end of year 2. Whatever that means.  She has a habit of being adored by academic staff.  So once again happy all round.

Obviously we're proud of their achievements academically but the part I like most about parent meetings is the pride I feel about them as people in their own right, their attitude, their effort, their personalities, their manners, their behaviour, their blinding sparks that light up rooms.

I love them so terribly much for being so terribly them.

You can put the bucket away now.  Normal service shall be resumed shortly.

Thing Two and her memorable day.

Yesterday was terribly eventful for Thing Two.  It started with her class her Class Harvest Assembly which was all terribly twee, you know the usual small people stood murmuring lines with paper held up to their faces at hyper speed so that you can't understand what on earth it is they're saying whilst some baby in the audience goes bezerk .  Oh and lest us not forget the god songs, always an annoyance in a county primary school.  They class themselves as being diverse yet still attempt to go frightfully god bothery on the little cretins still practicing that mandatory and demeaning prayer at the end of assemblies.

However, yesterday Thing Two was to perform a song on her own (her class would join in the chorus) a song which she had written herself.  She did so beautifully, she'd memorised all the words to the song (and to her spoken lines in the assembly) She sang clearly, loudly and with poise.  As mentioned previously this was a considerable big deal.  I'm incredibly proud of this natural emergence of confidence that through not insisting she does things she has been let to grow her own esteem and she's absolutely flourishing.

I'll admit I was somewhat disappointed with the Head Teacher who predictably stepped in after the assembly to praise the children in her trademarked condescending voice, she is obviously well qualified in patronising, yet no mention was made of her performance.  Don't get me wrong, it's not because it was my daughter, it was the fact that a seven year old little girl took the initiative to write her own song at home, teach it to her class and do a virtually solo performance of it in front of teachers and children alike.  Regardless of who the child is, in my eyes that child deserved a special mention.

Later that morning as we were awaiting a bus to take us to the loony bin, we had a call from school to say that Thing Two had had a rather large nosebleed that had gone all over her (gorgeous new mini-boden) coat and would we like to take her a different coat and put this one in soak.  Another coat?  She only has one winter coat.  The way it was relayed to us made it seem apparent that it was just one of those random spontaneous nosebleeds people occasionally get.  They assured us she was perfectly fine in herself.

Come home time, Thing Two trots out of her class with her P.E top on and her coat in a plastic bag.  Turns out the reason her nose was bleeding was because another child accidentally threw a hard rubber ring at it in the playground.  Yes, smack bang at her nose.  Call me old fashioned but i'd class this as an incident and it would have expected to have been informed of it as such.  I was somewhat astounded that she didn't cry, surely a large nosebleed is frightening enough in itself without the added shock and pain of something hitting your nose to cause it?  I would have cried. Apparently she went to her teacher in the playground with her head tilted back yet let all the other squabbling and pushing children vying for the teachers attention go first just standing there, dripping blood, quietly.  Needless to say her teacher had quite the shock when she turned around to see Thing Two stood there covered in blood patiently and silently waiting her turn.  She attracted a rather large circle of boys who were tremendously impressed at all the blood.

In typical school fashion she was offered the cure-all of a wet paper towel.  Eye falling out?  Broken leg? Lurgy?  Here, have a wet paper towel.

So yes, yesterday was memorable in more ways than one for Thing Two.

Toothypeg

When Thing Two was just 21 months old this happened:

It was absurdly strange, one minute she was sat on  low childrens chair and the next she'd fallen, it wasn't even a big fall, no bruises or lumps or cuts and certainly no concussion.  Even the dentist was rather flummoxed as to how such a none event resulted with her whole front tooth falling out, root and all! I had no idea teeth were so terribly long!

Five and a half years later our gappy Princess appears to be sporting this:

Do you see it? It would appear that after all this time a new tooth will fill the gap!  We were never even sure if this would happen and neither was the dentist.

Thing Two

At Things One & Two's school they have, every Friday, what are known as Star assemblies for the infants and the juniors.  Throughout the week teachers award silver stars to their pupils for behaviour, effort, achievement etc.  Should a child have over 25 stars they receive a certificate, should they receive 30+ they get a certificate and something from the prize box such as bubbles or colouring pencils etc.  Thing Two is an old hand at this and rarely has a week gone by when she hasn't received a certificate, like I've said before she's so beautifully strange, well behaved and ridiculously clever, I sometimes wonder if she's really ours.

Last night I found her sat at her desk recreating, by hand, one of the certificates in impressive detail yet awarded to....her teacher.  This morning in class she handed it to her Teaching Assistant and asked her to place it in the middle of the pile.  Later that day, in the assembly, her teacher was reading out the names of the children awarded certificates and obviously came to a hand drawn certificate with her own name on it.  The other year two teacher stepped in, took over the handing out of certificates whilst Thing Twos teacher was made to stand in line with the other recipients of certificates to be applauded.  Needless to say both staff and pupils found this frightfully fun and entertaining.

All of this was Thing Two's own idea.   Every last bit of it.

However, it's worth noting she only awarded her teacher 25 stars so the poor teacher didn't get to dip in the prizebox.  Better luck next time....

Toothgate

Thing Two had a wobbly tooth or rather she has several yet specifically one really wobbly one as in to say it's hanging on my will power alone.  She could quite literally push the ruddy thing forwards with her tongue and it would stay there.  She's only ever lost two teeth before, one was a freak trauma when she was a toddler and the other happened at school last year and despite it having been wobblesome for a terribly long time her teacher still reported to us that she was traumatised by it.  When I was a child I couldn't abide wobbly teeth, as soon as they begin to wobble i'd ruthlessly extract it, severing the very root with my nails and yanking.  Even now I lumber wobbly teeth in the same camp as feet, both ghastly and absolutely vile, vile as in the thought makes me nauseous and the sight makes me heave tremendously.

We've been subtly hinting for at least a week now that she really ought to pull the bugger out, a suggestion that was met with equal measures of horror and disdain.  Today however, enough was enough, we brought out the big guns.  It's interfering with her eating and she's been worrying her tongue on it frequently becoming increasingly perturbed by it.  The Husband issued an ultimatum seeing as she'd spent a good hour or so sulking, whimpering and crying about the blasted thing, if she didn't pull it out by bedtime; he would. Oh the terror.  Undiluted abject misery flooded her little face.

I stepped up to the mark, I offered to do it instead.  She surprised me and said yes.  Arse.  Even thinking about it causes me to be sick a little in my mouth.  Still, I did it.  I pulled the bastard tooth out and blood was shed yet not a tear.  Hoorah! Mission accomplished. So she gets a visit from the tooth fairy tonight, I do hope The Husband remembers to wear some wings and me?  I  want very much to bleach my brain.

Cloud Dough

Very rarely, I'll get most overcome with that awful mothers guilt thing and randomly decide to do something somewhat different with the little cretins, who usually are bloody good at just playing.  Unlike me, I'm crap at playing (unless it involves dressing up, as an elf. Oh do behave! not in the bedroom) and despite being a domestic slattern of the first degree, I'm actually desperately squiffy at the thought of messy play.

It's even a rare event to get paints out here, they have free access to pens and crayons etc but paint is an entirely different ball game, especially as The Toddler appears to lose interest after five minutes anyway.

So, at some point today I lost the threads of my fraying sanity and decided to make some 'cloud dough', i'm sure if you have a lunchtime fling with Google you'll be inunindated with recipes and ideas for this ...erm...stuff.

It's terribly simple to make, at it's most basic you need two ingredients from your store cupboard, flour and oil (any cooking oil will do, even baby oil)

I used 6 cups of flour and 1 cup of oil.  You simply combine them that really is all there is to it.  I told you it was simple.  I added some yellow food colouring with some perverse nod to to the weather, thinking we'd have our own beach play despite the snow and ice outside.

It will look like a rather lumpy dough, not to worry, this is exactly how it's supposed to look.  No really.  I'm absolutely not shitting you.

However, when you touch it (unfortunately a necessity. Balls.) it has the feel of wet sand, if it wasn't for the fact it gets under my nails and into my jewelry the texture would have been delightfully cathartic to play with)  The Toddler found it fiendishly exquisite or at least he did after I managed to encourage him to not be a wuss like me and do away with the spoon.

With the aid of a pot it was sand castle time!  He remained rather conservative with his efforts at first, yet soon lost all sense of reservation and it was cloud dough everywhere, and I mean everywhere.  This alien creation in our abode was so enticing that even Thing Two begged to play

I was decidedly impressed with the longevity of it's attention holding spell, it was nigh bewitching to them, which almost made it worth while.  Yes, almost   Remember me saying it was messy?  That was a horrific understatement, the bloody stuff gets everywhere.  I even found the wretched stuff on my jeans clad arse.  How? Clothes, floor you name it it had been utterly cloud doughed.  Thing Two tried to escape for a wee, treading it all over the carpet en route.  Argh.  What a catastrophe.  It was even in The Toddlers eyebrows.  So operation clean up involved stripping them both down and me sweeping and wiping whilst it seemed to breed and multiply before my very eyes with The Toddler helpfully singing 'clean up, clean up, everybody clean up!' only everybody wasn't cleaning up, just me. Finally an  impromptu bath, sometimes it really is the easiest option.

Did they love it? absolutely.  Was it easy to make? Ridiculously so.  Cheap? cheap as chips. Would I make it again?  Are you shitting me? Maybe once a year, with them in the nud, outside, at someone elses house.  Possibly.

I think in future a little more planning may be a good idea, perhaps one for summer and the garden.  That's the entirety of my creative maternal inspiration exhausted for another few months now.  Even i'm not masochistic enough to do messy play routinely, afterall that's what The Grandparents and (eventually) Nursery are for, right? 

Parents evening

Or should I say Parents Conferences as they've finally had the long overdue genius idea of doing them during the day too now.

Things One & Two have further confirmed that they are indeed utter aliens.

Thing One has been jumping up sub levels as if he were in springs and has apparently been awfully well behaved, so it's just us then that he obviously despises.  Thought as much. Spiffing. Super. He is one of the youngest in his year (year 4) yet is level 4C and 4B which are apparently consistent with the end of the year above, clever little bugger.  I'll have to take their word for it as unfortunately the part of my brain that deals with scores and figures came out with the placenta.  All in all his teacher is terribly impressed with his achievements  enthusiasm and his randomly large if not at times questionable vocabulary, much preferential to a large arse which is unfortunately all I've been lumbered with.

Thing Two (age 6 and in year 1) apparently has the reading age of an 11+ yr old and is moving on to year three maths work very soon.  Our beautiful strangeling is apparently well known to the head teacher, for all the right reasons and remains her charming little self ever questioning the validity of her peers actions and emotions (they said they 'love' me? what's that about?) and remaining somewhat bewildered by their antics whilst as ever pondering the meaning of life.

Can't ask for much better really, superb behaviour and attitudes, am obviously doing something right then, somehow.

Dear Santa.....

So, Thing Two (age 6) came downstairs one day clutching an envelope asking if we had Father Christmas' address.  I assured her i'd find it and would in the mean time put her letter somewhere safe

Naturally as soon as she went to bed I had a nosy, well you would wouldn't you?  I expected the stereotypical 'I want I want' letter that kids are expected to write.

I should have known better, after all this is Thing Two we're talking about.  Inside the letter was a picture coloured in for him and a card hand written by herself, with a free hand portrait of him..

Bless her, not once did she tell him what a good girl she is and nor did she ask for a single thing

Lil' Miss Pedantic

The Husband was wearing his rib cage wife beater a la Nigel Tufnel.

Thing Two: 'What's that on your T-shirt?'
The Husband: 'You know what it is'
Thing Two: [nonchalantly]'No I don't.  I forgot'
The Husband: 'It's a skeleton'
Thing Two: [Dean Pan]'hmmm.  I thought it was a rib cage...'

The Husband: 0
Thing Two: 1

'I hate tidying'

Thing One and Thing Two don't really have chores per se yet there are some simple tasks that we expect them to do such as putting their washing away and the real thorn in our side, tidying their rooms.  Don't get us wrong we're not OCD on the tidy front, infact I'm a reet scruffy bugger so we don't by any means expect it to be spotless, just well...tidy or tidier should we say, then it was.

Yet judging by the reaction Thing One displays every single time we ask him to tidy his room, you'd think we were asking him to go scalp himself.  To say he tantrums would be somewhat of an understatement.  He'll argue, shout, throw himself on his bed, throw himself under his bed, rock, scream, cry, hit himself, shout bloody murder etc etc.  Yes, really.

Thing Two however is a tad more subtle in her protests she usually just shuts her door, sits down and starts dressing up or reading or else wonders of wonders actually just gets on and tidies it!  Very occasionally if she's tremendously tired she may cry.  However, last night she silently handed me a note that said 'I hate Tidying' followed five minutes later, again in sullen silence, by another note that said 'I'm really tired'

Me too darling.  Me too. On both counts.