Starting school: A sinking feeling

Despite the rocky start to the Summer holidays (namely writing my car off by letting it roll down a bank into a ravine), August has been such a fabulous month.  We bought a new car (far nicer than the old one), and have been on several jaunts around the country, from the mindblowing Camp Bestival, to camping with family and the hilarious Kevin Bishop for four days on a farm in Dorset, to becoming free-spirited and smelly at the Wilderness Festival, to being tourists (and nostalgic) in London for a few days. 

I cannot believe that August is already nearly over.  The week after next Betty starts school.  This gives me a sinking feeling.  This is because:

Firstly, my sweet baby girl is about to embark on a very grown-up thing - the education system, and she will be in it for many years to come, and for five whole days a week.  She will get attitude, learn unsavoury vocab, develop awful dress sense, and probably start to hate me.

Secondly, we will lose our freedom to a certain extent; no more visiting great grandma for lunch on Thursdays, no more going on holiday whenever the heck we like, and no more just being able to hang out together at home on weekdays, and get on each others' nerves, and argue about what we are going to have for lunch.

Thirdly, going into town yesterday to get Betty's new school shoes, and fighting our way through all the other parents and their slightly depressed looking kids (that was me thirty years ago) trying on shoes, made me realise that we are now part of the school pack - the pack who have to do these grown up things every term (or at least every year) for the next twelve years or so, like get school uniform ready, buy pencil cases and rubbers and exercise books and lunch boxes and bags - we are no longer in our own exclusive pack where we get to wear whatever colour shoes we like.

Our Summer of fun and freedom is coming to an end, and soon it will be back to routine and serious things like spelling tests and getting up early, and making sure we have edible food in the house for packed lunches. 

But Betty is very excited about starting school.  In fact, she cannot wait to start, and told me the other day: 'Please Mummy, no more camping, I just want to go to school and do my letters with my new teacher'.  Of course I share her excitment and enthusiasm, and on the one hand I feel excited and happy about this new chapter, but I still can't help that sinking feeling.     

Unfamiliar memories

Our last night in London, we jumped on the bus and went to Parliament Hill. The kids hadn't been going to sleep until about 10pm for the previous three nights and so we decided to keep them up late, to teach them a lesson they wouldn't forget in a hurry, and save ourselves the heartache of trying to get them to go to sleep.

We decided on Parliament Hill because it was a beautiful sunny evening, and it is the place where Tom proposed to me about eight years ago.  We wanted to show the girls the place where their Mum and Dad sat sipping champagne out of plastic wine glasses, gazing at the sparkling diamond, feeling utterly elated and dizzy from the moment, while fat men flew kites in the background.

As we strode up the hill, we passed many familiar landmarks (the Mandala pub, Tanza Road, the memorial bench), and it filled me with nostalgia and now slightly unfamiliar memories of being in my twenties, and spending long lazy afternoons here with my friends picnicking and drinking cider. Then a few years later the memories of Tom and I throwing frisbees, flirting, and talking a lot of rubbish to each other,while building on our friendship, which would eventually turn into marriage, and a Betty and a Dolly. Who would have thought.

Every time we go to London now, my former pre-children life seems to slip a bit further away. I found it almost impossible to remember the sense of total freedom and independence that I had when I sat in the very same park, a park that hadn't changed at all.  It was all reassuringly the same, yet felt alien - like I was some kind of fraud for thinking I did exist then - a much thinner, younger, carefree, less serious, less stressed me. 
 
I watched my girls dancing freely on top of the hill, while posh Hampstead types walked past and gave them admiring looks.  The wonderful views of London were behind them, and Tom was photographing them, and I felt very happy, and very proud. 

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace

Seeing London through the eyes of a small child is such fun.  While Tom and I wander around feeling nostalgic but happy to be back in London for a short while, Betty and Dolly give us that excuse to become real tourists.  And instead of getting excited about visiting old haunts (ie pubs, cafes, markets, parks etc) we find ourselves getting excited about merely getting on the tube, or spotting black taxis and double decker buses, or seeing big buildings and statues.

Betty was almost beside herself when she saw a poster of Kate Middleton in her wedding dress on the wall of a tube station.  'Look Mummy, it's the beautiful princess who got married on the telly!'

So this morning we are off to see the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace, and if the queues aren't too long we may go on a tour of the palace itself where 'the dress' is on show.  I have secretly wanted to go inside the palace for years.

We are also going to go on a double decker bus, eat sushi, and go on the boating lake at Regents Park, and today, the sun is shining - London in the sunshine is just the best.

In the Wilderness

Tom has been smelling like a trout lake for the last three days, and I have been smelling like someone who hasn't had a shower.  When we got home yesterday afternoon after our stint in the wilderness, we almost had a physical fight over who was going to have the first shower, and who was going to scrub the tired and cranky kids. It had been three superb days of slighty stressful fun.

I have put on about a stone in weight, because we have been living on a diet solely of pie and chips and cider, apart from the one ostrich burger Tom bought me when I entrusted him to go and get lunch while the girls and I watched The Flying Seagulls show. He was severely reprimanded for this error of judgement.

Tom did a Chi Gung class in a yurt ('even waftier than I expected', was his verdict), he sat on a hay bale in the middle of the field and played a piano, he went on half a foraging expedition (terminated when Dolly's Hula Hoops ran out and she insisted they return to the main site), and he swam in the lake every morning.  Betty threw a pot, made a fairy crown and a felt butterfly, and learnt the art of stone balancing. Dolly spent a few short but specatular moments bashing some drums with a clown on stage. And I made sure there were enough nappies, snacks, and warm clothes at all times. I was almost tempted by the 'gong bath' but was put off by the constant gawping audience, and the giggling kids pointing at the poor person trying to get healed.

The festival had a Boutique Babysitting service, which was absolutely fantastic. Their tent was so warm and welcoming that I would have quite liked to spend a bit of time there myself. And the staff really went the extra mile. I took the kids along to have a look at their tent, and they loved it - in fact it was their favourite part of the whole festival. The lovely lady said we could leave them there til 11.30pm if we liked, at no extra charge.

So we dropped the girls off with great excitement and a tremendous sense of freedom. We could go and watch a gig, hang out at the masked ball, eat fine food, listen to a talk, drink cider, anything we liked. We ended up sitting in silence in a beer tent opposite the babysitting service, eating pie and chips and watching for any signs that our children might want us to come and get them. The pressure became unbearable after about an hour: we collected them and went off for an early night. We lay there smugly in our sleeping bags, listening to people stumbling around in the dark trying to find their tents and tripping over guy ropes throughout the night. The sun had not yet gone down when we'd gone back so we'd cleverly avoided that problem.

On the last night Betty and Dolly dressed up in their fairy/princess costumes and rocked out to Mercury Rev. Tom had promised to take Betty dancing all weekend and this was the moment. There was a fabulous atmosphere, it wasn't raining, and for a while we were all completely chilled out and happy.

It all went tits up when Betty and Dolly, in their excitement, accidentally bashed heads, so we bundled the wailing pair up and started making our way across the field towards our tent for another early night. Then the opening strings of the song 'The dark is rising' drifted across the site, and lured us straight back to the gig. Tom had wooed me with this song ten years previously, in a flat in Bayswater, and now here we were listening to it live, in the company of a couple of miniature humans who looked like us.

Wilderness, is a new three-day festival of music, food, theatre, literary debate and outdoor pursuits located among the lakes, forests and ancient parkland on Oxfordshire’s Cornbury Estate - a weekend of freedom and inspiration for all free-spirited festival lovers.   
http://www.wildernessfestival.com/

An audience with Jo Whiley at Camp Bestival

Betty and I have just got back from a full-on, but fabulous weekend at Camp Bestival which is held at Lulworth Castle in Dorset. Persil very kindly invited us to the festival to take part in their 'Pass on the Love Picnic' campaign. Tom and Dolly stayed at home (we decided that, at two, Dolly was a bit too young to appreciate the full glories of festival life), and so we invited a friend and her little boy to join us instead.

Persil organised for me to interview Jo Whiley (who was fronting the campaign) at 3pm on Saturday.  I think Tom was quite in awe of me, and the fact I was going to meet her. 'She is amazing, I LOVE HER' he said excitedly beforehand. 

At 2.45pm on Saturday, I sat drinking my tea, watching a magic show with Betty, my palms sweating. At this point I hadn't slept or showered for two days. I had white powdery hair from all the Batiste I had been putting on it, a ruddy blotchy complexion, dirty fingernails, and grass stains on my jeans. All ready to dazzle one of the country's top DJs.

The interview took place in a corner sectioned off in the Persil tent, where Jo and I were asked to sit on tiny kiddie chairs - this was fine for Jo because she is very light and narrow, but me being a somewhat wider and heavier load, I balanced precariously on the seat while desperately trying to remember the questions I wanted to ask her, and attempted to disguise the fact I had forgotten to take the gum out of my mouth.

So there Jo sat, looking fresh-faced, clean, immaculate, cool, and downright amazing. As I gazed at her, my mind went momentarily blank.  Being the lovely lady that she is, she put me at my ease, and asked me about my blog, and my children. As I babbled away about the ages of my children (and was about to mention the fact that Betty liked butterflies and fairies whereas Dolly prefers rocks and mud), I had to stop myself short; she was not here to interview me, I was supposed to be interviewing her, and so we began...

Having had a stressful two days with Betty in tow (mainly because I was neurotic about accidently losing her)I asked Jo how she manages her children at festivals, whilst working, and trying to have a good time, and she said that she is lucky enough to get a lot of help from either her husband or her friends. I was sorely missing Tom at this point. She said she loves having her kids there with her, as when she is not working, she gets to spend lots of time with them, doing fun festival things.

I had spent the last two nights in a tent, on a 45 degree incline, with no showers to speak of, and I was desperate to ask Jo about her festival digs, but I restrained myself in case it embarrassed her to highlight the comparison between her no-doubt luxurious surroundings and the crowded slope where I was camped.

Instead the conversation turned to Camp Bestival and how fantastic, and child-friendly it is - there is so much geared towards kids of all ages, and also towards adults - and with so much going on, it is totally mindblowing.  And Jo talked about Persil's 'Pass on the Love' picnic - where children are invited to bring along an old unwanted (but clean) cuddly toy, place it in a big basket, and pick out a different one to keep.  Betty picked out a giraffe, which she has named Jeremy, and who now sleeps in her bed with her - so like Jo, I think the campaign is a great idea.

I finished the interview by telling Jo that she looked amazing (and prayed that she wasn't getting wafts of my sweaty Birkenstocks).  I asked her how she always looks so good: 'Good hair and make-up!' she replied.  She also said that she goes to the gym a lot (she would have to with a figure like that), and enjoys her time in there, and that being in her line of work there is that incentive to look your best.  I, perhaps naively, inwardly consoled myself with the fact that if I was a celebrity, I too would look like Jo, and enjoy going to the gym.

As I shook her smooth, cool hand, I thanked her very much for chatting to me, and blurted out: 'MY HUSBANDS LOVES YOU', before we parted.

Jo Whiley is warm, friendly, and just lovely! - thank you to Persil for setting it up, and inviting us to be a part of this fab campaign and a truly fantastic festival.

'DJ and mum-of-four Jo Whiley hosts the first 'Persil Pass on the Love Picnic' at Camp Bestival this weekend. Mums and kids were encouraged to hold a picnic and bring newly washed soft toys for another child to love - for fun family picnic ideas and more visit www.netmums.com/persilpassonthelove'

My vacuum cleaner wrote my car off

I have been in a severe state of shock since last Thursday.

Having got back from Betty's 'farewell assembly' at her pre-school (emotions already running high), I decided to clean the car out - a rare event it has to be said.

Betty and Dolly were having their dinner with their grandpa who was visiting, and I was outside with Henry (the vacuum cleaner), rigging him up to the extension lead.

All car doors were open, mats were out and shaken, and Henry was happily whirring.  I vacuumed the driver's seat, without a hitch, then shoved the nozzle down between the passenger seat and the brake handle to try to get to a rogue Shreddie I had spotted.  The next thing I knew the button on the handbrake went 'PING' and my car started rolling away from me.  Bloody Henry, whom I have previously referred to as my 'saviour', let the frickin handbrake off.   Normally this would not have been so much of a problem as being the neurotic person that I am I ALWAYS leave the car in gear on our slopey driveway.  However, just 30 seconds before, I had pushed it into neutral to vacuum out all the crisp/biscuits crumbs inbetween the gear stick.

I dived out of the way, got knocked by the open door, and was pushed into my father-in law's car, then I watched as the car, who also decided to knock into my FIL's car, then went careering off down the driveway and down a steep bank at the bottom and into the ravine (as the recovery man referred to it) at the bottom.  I watched in absolute horror, car doors flying clean off as they hit trees on the way down, and my beloved car disappearing out of sight.

In my hysteria, I scrambled down the bank into the bog where it lay, and through a mangled doorway, I began sweeping off the remaining crumbs from the driver's seat.

Thank goodness no one was hurt.  A complete freak accident, but a shocking experience all the same.  The car is a write-off.  I was hysterical.  I have been beating myself up about all the 'what ifs?' ever since.

Once I had calmed down (only yesterday) Tom, who has been amazing throughout, commented: 'You've got to laugh, it is all rather slapstick'.

Henry got dragged down the hill with the car, but amazingly he survived and still innocently whirrs away as it nothing has happened.  However,  as irrational and callous as it may sound, he needs to go.

Stealing and lying

I tell my kids white lies on a daily basis, and rarely feel guilty. I think they are needed in order to run a functional, less stressful life: 'No we can't go to that fairground, it is for children over ten' or 'No we can't get the paddling pool out, there is no water left in the taps'.

However, recently I got caught out by Betty, told a white lie to save my bacon, and felt awful about it. She is a hoarder, and can make her Easter egg supply, for example, last months. I am a chocoholic, and if there is chocolate in the house I find it very hard not to eat it. I do have morals though and draw the line at stealing from a four year old.

The other night, however, one minute I was watching Eastenders, the next thing I knew I had devoured an entire egg, from Betty's collection.

Despite my prayers that she might not notice the missing egg, she of course noticed the very next day. 'My very very very special big egg has gone' she said with tears rolling down her cheeks.

'It's ok' I said, 'The Easter Bunny must have come back to collect it in the night, because it has been there for so long it became mouldy, and he didn't want you getting sick'.

Betty eyed me suspiciously. I felt wretched. And although fairgrounds will continue to be for over ten year olds, and our taps will conveniently run out of water when it suits, I will never ever steal from my children, and then lie about it, again.

Progress reports

One goes in...

'Dolly has started here without any problems, she has settled in very well and is quite easy going. She needs a little support at circle time and lunch time as she does like to be on the go. She is confident with staff.'

And one comes out...

'Betty is a very confident, capable and independent child.  I feel sure she has enjoyed her time here, just as much as we have enjoyed having her.  She is now ready to move on to 'big school'.  I am sure she will do very well.  We will all miss her'. 

And while I held the two progress reports in my hand and sobbed pathetically, Tom was strutting around punching the air, with his chest puffed out, thrilled at these particular lines:

'Dolly has helped in the garden, weeding and composting'.

'Betty loves being out in the garden and making sure we do the composting'.

Dressed to impress

We went to a fabulous wedding in Somerset on Friday, and got back yesterday evening.  The return journey should have taken two and half hours, but instead it took five.  Tom ignored our new lady friend and me, thought he knew better, and took a wrong turn.  He now feels he needs to make amends, and last night he put the kids to bed, and cooked supper, and this morning I am getting breakfast in bed.

Anyway, the wedding was great - apart from the embarrassment of Betty sitting on a hay bale and sobbing inconsolably, and saying 'But this isn't the same as the other wedding we went to - where's the carpet? I want to take my shoes off and dance on a soft carpet - I want to be at the other wedding we went to'.  This went on for some time, and when the groom overheard and looked hurt I considered throwing in the towel and leaving. Instead I bundled her up and took her for a walk around the grounds to explain that not all weddings were held at the same place.

Miraculously our little chat did the trick, and Betty became accepting of the carpetless circumstances.  She got her second wind, asked for her Snow White dress to be put on, and took ownership of the dance floor til the party finished (one woman was so taken with Betty's dancing that she went up and kissed the startled little performer). Meanwhile Dolly wandered around asking everyone if she could have a swig of their champagne, and if she could borrow their phone, because she wanted to play a game.

Before the Snow White dress came out, Betty and Dolly were wearing matching Stella McCartney dresses (we have a friend who occasionally sends us these wholly inappropriate garments for our kids).  Dolly took exception to her frock and spent the day angrily trying to rip it off.  And Betty didn't want to wear her leggings underneath because she said she preferred the 'pretty colour of skin'.  And before we'd even got into the actual wedding they both had massive grass stains on their knees and pig slobber on their hands which was wiped down the fronts of their dresses. 

As we walked up the grand pathway towards the wedding venue, Betty said: 'But Mummy, when are you going to get changed?'  So with me sporting Primark's finest, coupled with Birkenstocks, and my children in their designer wear, they looked like they didn't belong to me.  The only thing that gave it away was the fact that Dolly was in a pair of Clark's Doodles beach shoes.

During the day, I caught up with some old school friends, a few of whom I hadn't seen for years, and we had a merry old time.  I saw a bloke I was at school with and we happily chatted away for quite some time, until he said: 'I have absolutely no idea who you are'.  When I told him, he said: 'No way! I totally didn't recognise you - mind you, women do tend to lose their looks as they get older'. 

By the end of the night I was telling anyone who would listen: 'I write a blog you know - you must read it - it is absolutely amaaaazing hic', while spilling red wine all over the white jacket I was wearing (on loan from a friend). 

New lady friend

We Buttons had to drive into central London last week, for a function which was being held near Tottenham Court Road.  To help us negotiate the busy roads (Tom had forgotten the A-Z), we had an additional passenger in the car with us - a calm lady with a deep soothing voice, a lady completely unfazed by my children's backseat antics, and Tom's blatant rudeness and hostility towards her.

After a long journey on the M40, with the help of the lady, we effortlessly cruised down Marylebone Road, and Tom began warming slightly towards her, and commented that perhaps she was quite useful after all.  It was at this point that Betty declared that she did not like the lady's silly voice.  I defensively told Betty that this lady was about to single-handedly revolutionalise our experience of driving through a city.  In protest, Betty talked over the lady whenever she tried to direct us. 

When Tom misheard direction from the lady, mainly thanks to Betty, I could almost sense the lady inwardly tutting, as she announced for the third time in three minutes: 'Please do a U-turn at the next junction'.  'I am not doing a bloody U-turn on Marylebone Road, it is dangerous, and it is illegal,' Tom told the lady.  But it was when she coolly told us yet again to go the wrong way down a oneway street that Tom began shouting, and demanded that she get out of the car.  'Why are you shouting Daddy?' Dolly asked him.  'I don't like this ridiculous lady,' he replied.  'She is a funny lady,' Dolly said.

I think the lady could sense the tension in the car, and began to sound a bit exasperated herself, as she announced for about the 56th time that she was 're-routing' us.

Just as we were literally a minute from our destination, Tom and the lady had yet another argument, so begrudgingly, and at Tom's insistance, I muted her.  We then drove round and round without her, and eventually parked up, and walked for about half an hour to our destination.

The Birkenstocks' journey

They spent the first year of their life in London; frequenting the bars in Notting Hill, hanging out in the BBC canteen, and picnicking in Hyde Park. They were in their prime, and despite the wine stains, quite cool.

In 2003 they moved to the countryside, where the new terrain took a bit of getting used to. In their new environment they were something of a rarity, and although they relished being different, they missed their pals back in London.

It didn't take long for them to get back in their stride; they began walking up muddy mountains, wading through rivers, and frequenting the local pub. They happily started making new friends, and were delighted when others just like them started moving into town.

They went on to have many adventures; they went on a 15 mile trek in Cuba, they paddled in the sea in Italy, and they walked around many chateaus in France.

On a couple of occasions they were met with much hostility, once at a wedding, and once at a dinner/dance. But they stood tall and strong, and proudly danced for a good five hours, anyway.

In July 2005, they finally got the recognition they deserved, and although this time they were sadly not present (not for want of trying), they were mentioned in not one, but two speeches at the best, happiest wedding in the world, by two speakers who had become very used to having them around.

It was a sad day for them during the Summer of 2010; barely intact, they were begrudgingly put away, to make way for a much newer, shinier pair. Although they welcomed the much needed rest, they missed their trips to Sainsbury's, the playground, the soft play centre, and even the chicken coop, where the hens seemed to take exception to them being on their turf.

However, just three days later, they gleefully waved goodbye to the newer, shinier predator (who were now happily frolicking around on eBay), and they were back! And still to this day, although they are weary, they just keep on going.
 
Written for Josie's writing workshop

Crying in the playground

Betty went to school for a three hour induction session last Thursday morning, the first of five, in preparation for September. 

As I was walking back down the playground, having just dropped her off in her new classroom-to-be, I saw the Head Teacher.  'Is Betty OK about it all?' she asked me.  'Yes, she is absolutely fine  - really excited' I said. 

'Is the school uniform skirt, blue or grey?' I asked her, then burst into tears. 

Still whimpering, a barrage of questions then came out of my mouth:  'Will Betty have to wear black shoes?'  'Will she need to bring her own pencils?'  'What time does school start in the mornings?'  'Do the reception class have their playtimes on the big playground with the big kids?'  'Do they have homework at this age?'  'Does she really have to come to school?' 'Do parents often cry like this?'  The Head Teacher was warm, empathetic and reassuring in her response.

When I went back to pick Betty up at midday (after a fractious few hours of Dolly having a meltdown, and insisting that she too wanted to go to school), I asked Betty how she had got on.  'I played in the big playground, and I made a new friend, and I really like my teacher, but I really don't want to wear grey tights Mummy - please can I wear my gold sparkly ones?' she said. 

With a huge lump in my throat we drove home. We spent the rest of our Thursday making purple glittery play dough together, and then going to the playground, and having an ice-cream.

No handbrake turns today

After a couple of hours at the supermarket with an unusually impeccably behaved Dolly, when we got to the top of our driveway, I rewarded her by letting her sit on my lap at the wheel, and 'drive' us the rest of the way home. I somehow knew she would relish this.

There she sat with two hands firmly on the steering wheel, she checked her rearview mirror, did some movement with the gear stick and then assertively said 'Go Mummy'.

I know that Dolly has only just turned two, but it took me right back to the days when I first learnt to drive. My brother, who is 18 months younger than me, taught me in a field when I was 14 (which made him about 12). This is what us country folk did back then - we didn't have anything else to do, other than terrorise sheep in fields by skidding and bombing around, doing handbrake turns, with windows down and some dodgy 90s track blasting out; 'All That She Wants' by Ace of Base springs to mind - I seem to remember listening to this song a lot in my Electric Blue Ford Escort car - the love of my life.

I very slowly took my foot off the brake and we began sedately meandering our way down the muddy track. 'GO FASTER MUMMY' Dolly bellowed. 'This is quite fast enough my darling' I said.

I want to live in America Mummy

I sit at the kitchen table eating my toast, and look up at a picture on the wall of Dolly at around 7 months old - cute, and smiley, and relatively tame.  I reminisce fondly about her baby days; her being content with just a teaspoon to play with for hours on end, while gazing at me and Tom lovingly, and smiling sweetly at her sister.

'MUMMEEEEE' shakes me rudely from my thoughts.  I see Dolly, standing at the world map poster on the wall.  'I will live here' she says, pointing at North America.  'I will live here' she says again, as if labouring the point, and still pointing at America.

When I got to about 17 years of age, I had hankerings to move away from my hometown, onto to somewhere more exciting. Dolly has just turned two.

'And you, and Daddy, and Betty will live here' Dolly says, pointing to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

I don't care what the weatherman says...

Having camped many times in my life, I would describe myself as a pretty seasoned, unfazed camper.  I have experienced: being woken by a massive bird sitting on my chest, the car accidentally dragging the tent half way across the field by its guy ropes, not being able to remember which tent is mine, large bear-like animals poking their noses into the canvas in the dead of night, tent/music rage, being attacked by midges, tent burglary, and most weather conditions, including getting drenched, and getting half baked in the early morning sun.

So there we were on Saturday night, us Buttons, all lined up in a tired, snug, little row, in our tent, listening to the sound of the waves, our faces glowing from the cider, and the sunny warm day spent on the beach, playing in the sand dunes.  And I couldn't help but feel a little bit smug that we had ignored the weatherman's warnings, and made a last minute dash to the coast.  All was perfect.  And off we all went to sleep, in sandy, cosy, slopey airbed heaven.

At 3am I woke to the sound of rain lashing against the tent, and the wind ripping through it, blowing and bending it this way and that - rather vigorously I have to say.  And I could hear the waves crashing against the rocks just 50 yards away.  Tom and Dolly were snoring soundly.  I looked over at Betty and her eyes were wide open, not blinking.  'Betty' I whispered 'Are you ok?'  'I'm a bit scared' she replied.  'It's ok my darling, it's just a bit of wind and rain' I told her.  My heart was pounding, I was sweating like a pig, I was terrified.  I kept thinking about my friend's 12 ft trampoline, and how just a few weeks ago, the wind managed to blow it clean over her garden fence and onto the main road some distance away.  I imagined our tent being the trampoline (with us in it) and the main road being the sea.

I lay there, holding Betty's hand, and trying to think of a survival plan, if the tent indeed took off and landed in the sea, or collapsed and suffocated us all, or if the tent poles came free and knocked us unconscious.  I had just accomplished the first part of my plan, which was to find a form of light (my trusty mobile phone) in order to be able to see during the rescue operation, when a huge gust of wind swept under the tent and lifted us a couple of inches into the air.  Now convinced we were in a hurricane, I shook Tom awake, and told him he was to transport our children to the car.  'Don't be so ridiculous' he said, and promptly started snoring again.  I shook him again and aggressively whispered in his ear 'We are in severe danger, we need to get out'.

While Betty got more frightened, and I pretended not to be, Dolly slept on, and Tom was outside whacking tent pegs back in.  When Tom reappeared he coolly said 'It's all fine, go back to sleep'.

As we drove out of the campsite at 4am, with a befuddled Dolly, and a shell-shocked Betty, up to their ears in wet tent parts/sleeping bags etc, we saw many battered tents and campers dotted about the place.  We also saw that one family had given up on their tent completely and hurled it into the bins as they made a dash for cover.

Doctors and nurses

Betty's doctor's kit has been getting an airing recently, and she has spent many a happy hour fixing us all.

Betty to me:

'What have you hurt? Your ankle? Did you hurt your ankle in the desert or the woods? Is it the ankle on your arm or your foot? Did you fall over, or get a splinter from a tree? Right, take Calpol tonight and when you wake up. Stick this in your mouth and bite it [a thermometer] it will make you much better. I just need to count your teeth before you go. You have nine teeth, that is great. That's lovely, thank you - can you go home now please - go on off you go. N-E-X-T'.

Tom has also been treated by Dr Betty. They spoke intently for a while as Betty took Tom through the diagnosis: He had been doing Tai Chi balanced on the side of a boat and fallen into the sea, where 100 crabs had attacked him on the head and the knees.  Apparently Betty had treated his knees but said that his head would take a while longer to heal up.

Meanwhile 'Nurse Dolly', who was supposed to be assisting the doctor, was wandering around with an unidentified piece of furniture that looked like it had been ripped off a chair, and was bashing it against anything in her path.

One out of five

I have talked a lot on this blog about 'Duckie', Betty's longstanding cuddly friend.  I have written about the stresses of only having one Duckie, with no back-up to be found anywhere on the planet, despite my best efforts.  I have guarded that duck with my life for over four years, and despite a few minor mishaps, he has remained safe.  Half the Button household breathed a large sigh of relief recently when the duck went into semi-retirement, and was no longer a key player in Betty's life.

Determined not to make the same mistake twice, I watched Dolly like a hawk when she was a small baby, to see which of her cuddly friends she was forming a bond with.  It turned out to be Rabbit (pictured right).  I was thrilled as I knew exactly where I could buy more rabbits who were exactly the same, and I did just that.  We now have five identical rabbits in our possession.  One would think that this would solve all the problems and disperse the usual anxieties of Rabbit either getting: lost, covered in food or chicken shit, singed by the fire, mangled by the lawn mower, painted blue, left out in the rain in the back of a toy tractor, or stolen by a bird of prey.

Things inevitably failed to go to plan. I think it all went wrong when she discovered that there was more than one rabbit knocking around the place - she spotted three lone rabbits whizzing around in the washing machine on a 90 degree wash one fatal breakfast time (this was not very well executed on my part). She refused to go to sleep with fewer than two rabbits in her cot, then upped the stakes to three, until I sat her down and gave her a stern talking-to.

Things continued OK for a while until Dolly decided that there was only one particular rabbit that she was happy with.  She can tell from a million miles away if I am enthusiastically wielding the wrong one at her.  You might be forgiven for thinking that THE rabbit would be the original rabbit that she formed that bond with in the first place, but it's not. She is inseparable from her rabbit of choice (it is the most-used, worn one, the one that most resembles a rag).

So, it turns out that I continue on this journey of guarding a child's comforter with my life, and have four redundant rabbits, all of which permanently live in the washing machine in an attempt to wear them out.

All by myself

After our holiday I needed a break, so as soon as we arrived back home I booked both kids in for an impromptu day at pre-school.  This was Dolly's first time going for a full day (and my first day on my own for several years), and so when I dropped them off, I was apprehensive; but by the time I had reached my car, having left them stabbing some play dough with scissors, I was over it.

I sat at the wheel, engine revving, MY music playing, and my mind racing.  Desperate not to lose a single minute, I frantically went through all the exciting things I could do for the next six hours - it felt like the sky was my limit.  Some time later, realisiung that I was still sitting in the pre-school car park, I aimlessly drove away.

I ended up at Sainsburys, half an hour away.  I glided into the parking space, turned the engine off and sat in my own thoughts, for about twenty minutes.  I then simply got out of the car, locked it, and effortlessly walked to the shop entrance, with my tiny bag over my shoulder, my arms swinging freely by my sides, and the Postman Pat ride not even getting a sideways glance.

Once inside, I slowly ambled up and down the aisles, with the trolley so light and undemanding, it practically pushed itself.  I saw things on the shelves I had never noticed before - lovely grown-up treaty things, all of which seemed to jump onto the conveyor belt at the till, and I casually browsed through a magazine while I waited my turn to pay.

I got back to my car, and with just one door to open, in I got, as quickly and as easy as that, and popped my little bag of shopping next to me on the passenger seat.  I sat for another twenty minutes in silence, just because I could, and then drove away calmly.

This time I ended up back at home.  I wandered freely round the house for a bit, and then I had chocolate for lunch. It was all very liberating.  I wrote a few tweets, sent a few emails, and then sat on the sofa and read a magazine.  Then I did a bit of hoovering.

Celebration Sunday

Sundays have always been, and always will be, a slightly odd, lethargic day of the week, with Monday looming, and you still hankering after Saturday. You wake up and try and have a lie-in like in the old days, watching telly in bed and eating peanut butter on toast, while flicking through Heat magazine looking at pictures of size 6 celebs banging on about their berry and cider vinegar breakfasts. Then the miniature beings appear on the scene, in their pyjamas, bright eyed, and say 'What are you watching this for? Come on, let's put CBeebies on'. Then they start jumping up and down on your head, shouting 'We want to go to the playground!'

What a contrast with your fomer life, being able to do whatever you liked with your Sunday. Most weeks, of course, you would eat cold sweet and sour pork in bed, with a hangover, watch Friends til lunchtime, and wonder what virtuous thing to do for the rest of the day. Often the best idea you could think of, with your wine stained lips and MSG dripping down your chin, is a trip to the local swimming baths, followed by watching the omnibus edition of Eastenders, and eating an entire box of Maltesers.

It's true, you rarely get a 'real' lie-in these days, but your kids make Sundays go round. They say, and do that funny thing, and they have such energy and enthusiasm. They make you think that Sundays aren't so bad after all, in fact it becomes a day to be positively celebrated.
 
Now please excuse me while I get back to drinking my tea in bed, and having my arms wrenched out of their sockets by a two year old.

My new baby

I have got a new phone. From what I can work out it can do virtually anything - even things I previously only ever thought possible in my wildest dreams. It is a far cry from those jolly little Nokias we all seemed to have about ten years ago, where texting and phoning were the only things on offer (that, and the thrills of Snake of course). I am obsessed, blown away, in love...

Gone are the days when I would happily let my kids use my phone as a toy just to get some peace, and then not be able to find it for days. This phone gets locked away in a cupboard during the day - I cannot take any risks - specially with Dolly who would track it down and sabotage it within seconds.

Tom asked me if he could look at it the other day. I reluctantly handed it over, but experienced the same feelings as when I handed over my precious newborn babies to visitors for the first time - I didn't take my eyes off it for a second and all I wanted to do was grab it back immediately and clasp it to my bosom.

Tom is concerned, and had to phone me up the other evening just so that he could get to talk to me. 'I think you are spending too much time on that thing and not getting your priorities right' he said, his voice trembling with emotion. 'Yes I know' I agreed, feeling a little bit annoyed that he had interupted me from an international GPS experiment, 'I feel like I have been really neglecting my laptop since I got this phone'.

Souvenirs

The following items did not come on holiday with us, but came back with us:

Tom:

• Several bamboo canes dug up (by him) from the roadside near a cheese-making shop
• A ridiculously massive slab of cheese, from the above shop
• A mint plant, secretly dug up (by him, using Betty and Dolly as diversion aids), from a herb garden open to the public.  He said something like: 'Well if they will charge £6 entrance fee...'
• Two big sacks of dried seaweed from the beach [for the chickens apparently]
• Three large potted plants of mint of different varieties - paid for this time
• A large potted black bamboo plant which cost 30 bloody quid, and was placed in between Betty and Dolly on the way home, and when it wasn't poking them in the eyes and making them cry, they were tearing it apart.
• A job lot of tent pegs
• Some cuttlefish shells
• A book entitled 'Why office work is bad for us and why it's good to fix things'

Betty:

• A red spade
• Shells
• Stones
• Sand

Dolly:

• A blue spade
• A toy truck
• A stick

Dictatorship

At the beginning of our holiday, I felt quite smug, thinking that we Buttons were becoming a functional family at last. By that, I mean that we have now left the baby days behind us: no more being bound by milk feeds, nap times, early bedtimes, regular meals, random unfathomable crying, incomprehensible chatter, and cumbersome baby equipment/toys/babies.

While packing up the car before we left home, Tom remarked that the car seemed unnervingly empty: suitcases check, kids check, food check, buckets and spades check, and ready for the off, just like that, easy.

On the holiday, instead of putting the kids to bed at their usual time, and then spending a bit of time whispering to Tom in the sitting room next door, getting bored and going to bed at 8pm ourselves, we spent long evenings in the beer gardens of Pembrokeshire. Betty and Dolly happily ran around and played together, with only half the time being taken up with fights breaking out between them, while Tom and I were able to kick back with our drinks, and have a conversation, or just stare blankly into space. We were beginning to feel far more free, in that if we wanted to all sit round the kitchen table eating fish, chips and mushy pea at 10 o'clock at night, then that's what we did (only on holiday mind).

However a few days in, it became abundantly clear that the kids getting older doesn't necessarily equal things getting easier. With their blossoming maturity also comes them having their own (very forthright) opinions about, well, everything: what they wear, what we eat, where we go and what we do. Where we used to be able to bundle them in the car and do what WE wanted to do, and they would be none the wiser, we now have a little dictatorship going on in the back seat of the car yelling 'WE WANT TO GO TO THE BEACH', and they whinge and sulk and say 'I'm booored' if the beach hasn't been factored into our immediate plans.

Don't get me wrong, I love the beach, but by the fifth day on the trot, being in the rain and wind, watching them get cold and wet and dirty, with Tom next to me annoyed that he's going to have to carry an angry, shivering Dolly, two buckets and spades, and four layers of discarded clothing up a slippery cliff path back to the car, things start to get a bit wearing.

A far cry from feeling more free, Tom and I have been feeling pretty trapped; trapped at the beach, trapped in pasta and sausages, and trapped in 'let's not let Mummy and Daddy even go to the loo without having an opinion about it'.

I tried to have a reasoned conversation with Betty about the whole thing, and she replied: 'But Mummy, I know that this holiday is for grown-ups too. And I really don't mind you taking me to grown-up places and things, like churches or houses. I will let you do that Mummy'.

No prizes for guessing where we ended up this morning.

I am a finalist!

It's 4am and I am sitting in the kitchen of our holiday cottage, in the dark. The rain is lashing outside and I can see the flickering of the lighthouse - it is all very romantic. I am writing this post now because it is the only chance I will get, in peace, to do it - Tom disapproves of me having my laptop (and phone) on holiday, Dolly would want to break it, and Betty would want to use Paint. Up here in the Welsh hills there is no internet connection so I will have to wait until the morning to publish it (when we all go to a cafe I sussed out earlier, that has Wi-Fi, under the pretense of having a full English, to keep Tom happy).

Yesterday we all went to a museum. A little bored with looking at Welsh farm machinery, and clocking two whole bars of signal strength on my phone, I had a sneaky look on Facebook. I noticed that the MAD blog award finalists had been announced, and was interested to see who they were. I clicked on the link, but my phone started wavering in and out of signal, and Tom was heading my way with a child under each arm, shaking his head. The odds of successfully getting onto the website were against me. However, a few more hasty clicks of my phone, and there I saw it - my blog in the list of finalists! I wasn't sure if my phone was playing mind games with me - these new phones can pretty much do anything nowadays - and if it was real or not, and then my signal completely disappeared again.

With mixed feelings of nerves and excitement, and still unsure what was going on, I told the other three Buttons we were leaving to find a Wi-Fi connection immediately (it so happened that I had my laptop in the boot of the car). We screeched into the carpark of a very posh hotel and in I charged, looking slightly crazed, clutching my laptop, leaving my bemused, slightly irritated family in the car.

Back in civilisation, I was now able to get onto the MAD blog awards website with ease. And to my absolute genuine astonishment, there I was, listed as a finalist in two categories: Family Life, and Pre-School Fun.

I would like to say a huge big THANK YOU!!! to all those who nominated me - I am so totally thrilled, and touched, and it was totally unexpected!

Now there is just one last thing to do... I would really LOVE it if you could now go and vote for me to win in one or both of the categories!

VOTE HERE!

I really do need to go back to bed now, where Betty is lying star-shaped across the mattress, after waking from a bad dream (about a 'rusty old light') in her own bed.

The ace of spades

Every single time we go away on holiday, we forget to take the buckets and spades for the kids. Their sandpit at home is now jam-packed with all the ones we have had to buy, in every colour and size. This time I was determined not to forget, so asked both girls to go into the garden and choose a bucket and spade each, from their collection, and leave them on the doorstep; which they did.

Our first afternoon on the beach yesterday, we realised that we had packed the buckets but not the spades. 'This is progress' Tom said. I took Betty and Dolly to the carpark beach shop and they chose yet another spade each, and while we were there, on a whim, I bought a massive toy shovel for Tom.

For the next couple of hours, Betty and Tom happily dug and built, Dolly carried unnervingly large rocks around the beach, and I took photo after photo of them all without them even realising, with my large zoom lens - a purchase necessary to get nice photos of my kids, and my husband. Tom accused me of 'papping my own kids' and later when he looked back through the photos he despairingly said it was like watching the afternoon in real-time.

Towards the end of the afternoon, I put the camera away and took part in the beach activities. I noticed that when Tom wasn't doing his Tai Chi to the sea, he had been busy building an extraordinary sand construction- it was a large elevated star shape, totally symetrical,and with cleverly balanced rock towers at each point - a man with a large spade on the beach, and a personal rock carrier (Dolly) is unstoppable. He remarked on how much he loved his new spade. Meanwhile Betty had dug an impressively large hole.

I decided that as the beach was deserted, I would go for a 'run'. But as I headed off towards the shoreline, I heard two hysterical children (mine) running behind me, laughing at my 'funny running'; and they soon over took me, still laughing. The three of us stood at the edge of the sea in the soggy sand. Tom was drawing giant letters in the sand with his giant spade. A gentle wave came towards us, about an inch high, and while Betty let it ripple over her toes, I saw the look of panic on Dolly's face (normally the action hero). And instead of turning around and walking away from the wave, she just fell backwards into the water. A cross, soaked, fully clothed Dolly with a sea-drenched nappy hanging down to her knees, marked the end of our afternoon on the beach. When we arrived back at the holiday cottage, Dolly proudly produced the original spades from the washing machine.

http://www.tots100.co.uk/2011/05/16/tots100-blog-hop-become-a-worlds-apart-toy-reviewer/

Mother's ruin

Dolly has got her very first morning at pre-school tomorrow; these are the thoughts I have had in the last hour:

• Gin without tonic is hard on the stomach
• I've now got to make two packed lunches instead of just one
• My nose feels hot
• What the hell am I going to do tomorrow with no kids, for three whole hours?
• This sausage stew I just made is disgusting
• I hope Dolly behaves herself tomorrow
• Perhaps Tom and I could go for a long leisurely breakfast with newspapers
• I will find an empty house very weird
• I can so see why women keep having babies
• I need another gin
• I will need to start thinking about getting a job
• There are bits of dried mud all over the carpet
• Maybe I should have another baby
• I wonder if Dolly will miss me
• An iPad would cheer me up
• This gin is horrible
• Betty will look after her

Under investigation

One of the chickens' redeeming features was that they were producing delicious fresh eggs every morning - that, and the kids and Tom love them.  But they have now stopped laying.

Our farmer friend suggested that it may be magpies or rats coming in and stealing the eggs. He then went into animated detail about how to train rats to turn against each other, thus producing one killer rat who keeps all the other rats at bay.  'Oh right' was all I could muster in response.  He also suggested that the hens might be laying the eggs and then eating them themselves - and if that were the case he would 'wring their bloody necks' for us.

I wondered whether Betty and Dolly had traumatised them by trying to stab them with a garden fork (it's a game).  Or whether the culprit might be the bogeyman who lives in the hedge with his axe - you know, the one that terrifies me at night when I am home alone.

I was eager to set up my camcorder in the coop and catch whatever it was, but my mum told me it might scar me for life if I saw what went on in there, away from prying eyes.  I am unsure exactly what she meant, but I promptly shelved the idea anyway.

Yesterday (while Tom was out) I did an experiment and I kept them locked in their little house until lunchtime, so that, firstly they would get bored and lay some eggs because there was nothing else to do, and secondly we would be able keep the egg-stealer out, and thus work out whether it was someone/something stealing the eggs or if the chickens just were not laying.   When I let them out at 1pm there was one egg,  four really angry hens, and a very hot, smelly hen house.  I was none the wiser.

My friend came over to identify how old the chickens are - she can do this by looking at their legs - she said that the smooth, slender appearance of their pins meant that they were all quite young and should be in their egg-laying prime.

So, in a last ditch attempt to get to the bottom of what the heck is happening, I have just placed some shop bought eggs in their laying box - if they disappear then there is an egg-loving criminal mastermind at work, and if they don't disappear then the hens were never laying the eggs in the first place.  The suspense...

Never again

I recently convinced myself that taking our kids to a very large theme park would be a good idea, and on a bank holiday, what's more.  Tom was harder to convince, but we ended up going anyway.

Once on site, I insisted that Betty and I went on the first ride we came to.  We queued for an agonising hour and twenty minutes, behind a lady that Betty couldn't take her eyes off.  I feared she was going to give loud judgements on what this lady was wearing/saying at any given moment, and get us beaten up.  When we finally got to the front, I rationalised that to queue for this long, the ride must be bloody amazing.  'Hold onto your hat' I told Betty, as our carriage pulled away.  'Why are we going so slowly?' Betty asked, 'Is the ride broken?'  I was embarrassed, and even more so when literally 30 seconds later we were back at the beginning, and I had to break it to Betty that after all that standing in a line it was time to find something else to do.  'Isn't this all such fun' I said faux-cheefully.  Betty looked intensely annoyed.

From then on, the day just got worse: Dolly got bellowed at by another child who said 'I don't want you here, go away', Betty became increasingly frustrated/upset that she couldn't go on most of the rides, Dolly lost her sacred rabbit comforter, my new shoes were killing my feet, Tom had gone into a depressive state and wouldn't talk, it was hot, and busy, and Betty got temporarily lost.  It was at this point, once we had found her, all of us in tears, tensions at an all time high, we decided to throw in the towel and go home. 

As we sat in traffic on the M25 in uncharacteristic stunned silence, Tom announced: 'I am taking out that National Trust annual membership as soon as we get home'.

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Defeated at this job

I saw a friend on Tuesday evening; she said: 'So... two things happened today...'  I asked her to write it all down and share it:

I keep waiting for the moment, like in a new job, when I feel I have cracked this little job called parenting.

The other day my two-year-old locked herself in our new-ish car. I say locked herself because that’s exactly what happened – she waited for the exact right moment and having wiggled out of her car-seat (courtesy of four-year-old accomplice), crawled through the gap between the front seats, pressing the all-lock button as she went.

I watched, dry throated, as the windows all shut too.

The keys were in the ignition and I was locked out of the house with the four-year-old.

We banged on the windows, gesticulating dramatically while Issy selected the CDs she had been waiting to listen to, unencumbered by other passengers' chatter. She appeared to be laughing at us.

Having locked myself out on previous occasions I have a spare key with a neighbour so we did manage to get into our house and find the spare car-keys.

Phew. I pressed the button but no ‘plip’ – the keys in the ignition obviously override any exterior instructions. My heart began to beat faster – we were now in an official pickle.

Back, more comfortable, in her own car-seat Issy was still smiling along to the music.

Inspired I rang the dealership from where I had proudly driven my car months earlier.

Spluttering over my words, I explained to the nice man on the end of the line my predicament.

“Have you tried using the key in the lock?” he asked calmly.

Embarrassed, I realised how quickly I had forgotten the purpose of an actual key. Of course it worked, the door opened and Issy’s face fell. Her game was over.

“Thank you,” I said to the man.

“Is there anything else I can help you with today?” he professionally followed up.

“Well there is this matter of trying to lose a bit of weight…” I ventured, having regained my sense of humour.

“That, madam, I can’t help you with,” he cheerfully replied.

While I recovered from this frantic half-hour (it had taken a while for my neighbour’s husband to find our key) and made myself a cup of tea I let both girls play in their room. I reconstructed Isabel’s opportunistic strike in my mind, and convinced myself she had been planning it for weeks – she loves the car, and being in it unrestrained.

Tea made I realised how quiet things had got – rarely a good sign.

As I turned the corner into our bedroom I saw Bethan in the process of bathing her little sister, quite well as it happens.

Of course my mind ran into over-ride – scalding, drowning or perhaps, worst of all, hypothermia.

“It’s OK Mum,” Bethan said, “I didn’t let Issy use the hot tap.”

Having calmly pulled the plug and explained in controlled tones the potential to drown in 3 inches of water (or is it less?) I let Bethan get her sister out of the bath and put a nappy on her (the bit I dread most).

I felt defeated and like I'd failed but at least it was nearly the end of my shift.

Imparting wisdom

After hearing the cuckoo for the first time this year:

Me: That was the cuckoo - this means that it is definitely Spring!
Betty: Why does it mean it is Spring?
Me: Because the cuckoo comes in Spring
Betty: Why does he come in Spring?
Me: Because of all the pretty flowers
Dolly: Cuckoo
Betty: Where does he come from?
Me: From far away
Betty: Where?
Me: There it is again... did you hear it?
Betty: Yes. Where is the cuckoo?
Me: In the woods over there
Betty: Why is he in the woods?
Me: Because that's where he likes to be
Betty: Why?
Me: Because he likes woods
Dolly: Cuckoo
Betty: But why?
Me: Umm.... because he likes trees
Betty: Likes trees? Why does he like trees?
Me: Because they protect him from the sun
Betty: Why doesn't he like the sun?
Me: Because it is hot
Betty: Where does he go in the Summer?
Me: Far far away
Betty: Where?
Me: To another country
Betty: Which country?
Me: One across the sea
Betty: So where does he go in the Winter?
Me: Another country
Betty: The same country as in Summer?
Me: I have absolutely no idea

Reproved

Now that Dolly is older, long car journeys have become more bearable of late, and while the kids happily play with some plastic battery-operated gadget or other, and eat their way through copious amounts of snacks (starting from uber healthy to downright bad by the time we reach our destination), I mess around on my mobile phone and give mundane Facebook status updates about where we are on the M4 (purely for the novelty factor; I only ever write status updates on car journeys).  And all is tranquil.

However, just as I had become lulled into smug feelings of happy-journey security, on our last long journey to London at the weekend, the kids' antennae came out and they obviously sensed me being far too relaxed for their liking.
.
There we were, about 2.5 miles into our journey, me happily telling my Facebook friends exactly that, Tom with his slightly gormless driving expression, and the girls smiling sweetly while they ate their raspberries.  When...

'Mummy, I hate your music, please can you put our music on?' said Betty.  'No your music Mummy' said Dolly crossly.  After trying to negotiate with them and teach them the concept of 'fair', I turned Lily Allen off and put on the 'The Wheels on the Bus' CD.  Tom's expression went from gormless to despairing.  To distract myself from the slightly crazed singers on this CD (which has probably been played about 50,000 times), I phoned a friend.  'Me talk phone' said Dolly crossly, over and over.  'Don't talk on the phone Mummy, I cannot hear my music' said Betty. 

And this set the tone for the entire four hour journey to London.  Even when they were gorging on chocolate, I couldn't scratch my leg, look in my bag, have a drink of water, gaze out of the window, touch my phone, talk to Tom, breath or think, without being severely reprimanded.  That'll teach me to think that I can look at an old Tesco receipt found in the glove compartment, in peace.

I shall now be avoiding confined spaces with my sweet children for any length of time, and however much I love London, I don't love it enough...

A wedding commentary

Through the eyes of a four year old:

• I think the princess will be wearing pink with lots of pretty flowers around her head
• I think the princess might be orange
• Are we going to the wedding?
• Would I have to wear white when I get married?
• When is Daddy coming back with the Jaffa Cakes?
• Is Westminster Abbey as big as our house?
• I don't like those noisy people with flags
• Is that the princess? [it was Carole Middleton]
• I want to see the princess
• Is that grandma on the telly?
• Queens are not yellow Mummy
• Is the princess arriving in one of those taxis?
• Is the princess on that motorbike?
• I wish I was getting married - I want to marry my sister
• I really want a Jaffa Cake
• Can I marry my Daddy as well?
• And I want to marry you as well Mummy
• What are those yellow things?
• The princess is smiling and beautiful
• I think the princess has got a bouquet of Buttercups
• Is she holding the princess's dress so that it doesn't get dirty?
• Is the prinesss married yet?
• Why does that man keeping talking and ruining it? [the Bishop]
• Is this what happened when you and Daddy got married?
• Will the princess sit down?
• I don't know that song, do you know that song Mummy?
• Who is that man? [Elton John]
• Is the princess's mummy singing?
• Can I have another Jaffa Cake please?
• Do you know mummy, I have been to a church before
• I would now like to go to the palace in my Snow White dress
• Your wedding dress was just like the princess's dress Mummy
• What are they singing now? [her interest now waning]
• Can I have pickled onions for lunch?
• I am going to find Daddy

Wedding wallow

So, Will and Kate are getting married tomorrow.  I do keep wondering how Kate is faring under all the pressure and media frenzy.  I almost went to pieces several times in the lead up to my own wedding, and we only had 150 guests watching in a little unknown village in the middle of nowhere.  So with the world watching (bar my husband) I cannot even begin to imagine how she feels right now.

And with the wedding, of course, comes all the street parties - there are many celebrations going on around us - all of which Tom refuses to go to.  I tried to form a royal wedding ally in Betty and enthusiastically told her that a real life prince was marrying a lovely girl called Kate tomorrow in a huge church, and that the Queen of England would be there too.  I asked her if she would like to watch it with me on the telly.  'Will there be Jaffa Cakes?' she asked. 

Just when I was feeling thoroughly deflated at the prospect of watching the royal wedding with an uninterested and fidgety four year old, while Tom and Dolly were out having a 'wonderful time', the phone rang.  It was my grandmother.  She asked me if I would like to go and watch the wedding with her on her TV.  I wondered whether Tom had put her up to this, but I felt mildly lifted anyway.  'Shall I bring bunting?' I asked.  'No,' she replied. 'I miss Diana too much.'

I had a dream (by Betty)

Do you know last night I dreamed of a car-house.  It had lots and lots of stairs in it and all my friends were there too and it was very wobbly.  We drove to the church because everyone was getting married and there was lots and lots of cakes and ice-cream and Jaffa Cakes and biscuits.  And all our Mummys were in the car-house going up the wobbly stairs.  And there were lovely beautiful carpets.  There was an old lady who was really really not very nice and she was so so mean to everyone.  The car-house turned into a train-house and the wheel was right on the top.  Me and my friends went right to the top of the train house and we were just seeing if the Mummys were doing the good driving.  On the train-house we went to the soft play centre. My friends amd I lived at the soft play centre.

Betty Button, aged 4

Happy Birthday Dolly Button

I am not going to bang on about how fast time goes and how I cannot believe that my baby Dolly is two (TWO!) already - it is universally accepted that time takes on a whole new pace when you have kids, we all know that too well... I find myself constantly in a perplexed state, trying to catch up.

I hadn't yet woken up this morning, when Dolly snuggled into me (she had come into our bed in the early hours) and sang the following stream of conscientious:

'Happy Birthday to me.  Happy Birthday to you.  Sunny out there.  Spider.  Betty kiss me.  Betty's bed.  Rabbit.  Kiss me Mummy.  Get milk Mummy.  Lid on Mummy.  Daddy's downstairs. I want to touch 'puter button.  My picture'.

Her early morning chorus basically sums Dolly up: She is excited about her birthday, but, as always, wants everyone else to share in the joy and be happy; she loves the sun and pottering around in the garden - when outside she insists on wearing her pink wellies and skipping everywhere; she is ambivalent about spiders; she absolutely worships her big sister (but also sometimes pushes her, yells at her and pulls her hair); her rabbit is her comforter and she strokes it across her face while sucking her thumb (Tom thinks she now has buck teeth - she doesn't); she is a cuddly and kissy little girl; she is sensible and observant; she is obsessed with sabotaging my computer but always asks first if she can touch the buttons (I let her when it is turned off); and lastly on her song list, she has recently unleashed her creativity and feels very pleased with herself about a picture she 'put together' yesterday.

Dolly Button, we are all completely besotted with you (sometimes to your irritation) and are slightly in awe of you: your humour (and humouring), your feistiness, your willpower and your bravery - we feel you are a little bit too cool for us, but feel utterly blessed to have you.

Happy Birthday my darling, beautiful, funny, sweet girl - I hope you enjoy seeing the giraffes and 'phants today, and your Betty Birthday cake...

The demise of Duckie

It is with great regret, and a tiny bit of relief, that I announce that Duckie and Betty, after a four and half year intense relationship, have parted ways. In a statement earlier today, Betty announced that Duckie was now happiest with his 'boy duck friend' resting in a little crib she lovingly prepared for them next to her bed.

He/she (the gender of the duck changed from day to day to suit Betty) hasn't been totally abandoned and is allowed to 'rest' in her bedroom, but no longer does he get to: be a player in all major decisions, go away on weekend breaks, watch CBeebies, partake in meal times, play fairies and princesses, and be breastfed, cuddled, squeezed, chewed and talked at, 24/7. And I very much doubt his little Christmas stocking that I dutifully made for him at Betty's request a few Christmases ago, to match her own stocking, will ever see the light of day again.

Although this is a time of great sadness (Tom is in denial about the whole thing) and we in the Button household feel this new development marks a huge transition in the life of Betty Button, this sadness also comes with a real sense of relief. The duck had become smelly, threadbare and discoloured and no amount of washing could remedy this. No longer do I have the stress of Betty coming to me (on a weekly basis, of late) to show me a new hole in his wing and asking if I can sew it up for her - it got to the point where there was no material left on his wing to actually sew up.  And no longer do we have to live in fear of the duck getting lost.

That duck, who hailed from H&M on Kensington High St, has been in Betty's life since before she was even born and meant more to her than her own parents.  Perhaps now, Tom and I will get the respect and love we deserve and crave from our first-born.

To mark the retirement of Duckie, and the end of an era, I leave you with a picture of him lovingly drawn by Betty, back in the good old days....

Home alone

Tom and Betty went away on a jolly to visit friends last weekend - I really didn't feel like going (very stressful week) and so Dolly and I stayed behind.  And for the first time ever, I spent the night in our house, with no other adults present.

I spent all of Saturday mentally preparing, and trying to hypnotise myself into not being scared of the bleating sheep, the rustling trees, and the people hiding in hedges.  I had to wait until dusk when the pesky chickens had retired into their hut so that I could lock them up before I could retire to bed myself.  Because I was on high alert, mine and Betty's newly-installed homemade scarecrow, next to the chicken run, gave me the shock of my life and with heart pounding I ran back to the house, locked all the doors, hid all the keys, turned all the lights on, took a swig of rum, and went upstairs with my new box-set of Benidorm, an Easter egg, and Heat magazine.

From my bed, I nervously watched dusk turn into darkness and kept giving myself pep talks.  I reasoned that it would be pretty unlucky to get burgled on the one night I was alone in eight years.  Plus, I wasn't actually alone, I had Dolly sleeping soundly in her cot next door, but she isn't even two yet and wouldn't be that much use during a break-in crisis - though saying that, with her Phil Mitchell thuggish tendencies, she would probably be a hell of lot more use than me.

Still I was scared so I decided to sleep with the lights and the TV on in the bedroom - I found a channel showing snooker, so decided that would be calming enough to sleep through.  At 2am I woke to the sound of balls being potted, and Dolly crying.  Spotting an opportunity to join forces against the unknown terrors outside, I went straight to her and asked if she wanted to come into my bed. She said 'no'.  I took her anyway.  I turned the lights and the snooker off and cuddled up to an annoyed Dolly. 

Next thing I knew it was 6.30am, Dolly was fast asleep and as far away as possible from me in the bed, and it was light.  I felt so unbelievably relieved we had made it through the night, and although I had had the help of Dolly, the medicinal rum, the snooker, and all the lights, and had hardly slept, I felt this was a real breakthrough.

In an hour

7.50am - wake up with a start, and remember that I forgot to do an online Tesco shop yesterday.

7.51am - with no bread and fruit in the house, I lie there and worry about what I am going to give the kids for breakfast, and what I can fashion together for Betty's lunch box, without pre-school staff thinking I am a neglectful mother.

8.00am - still in bed, I brace myself for my little darlings to start bellowing 'IS IT MOOOOOORRNING?' in unison over and over until I go to them. 

8.04am - 'IS IT MOOOOOOOORNING?' jolts me from my thoughts of Shreddies, the horrors of training pants, and rusty lunch boxes.

8.05am - unleash the children from their bedroom and put on CBeebies

8.07am - go into kitchen, put kettle on, wash-up, warm up their milk, make tea, prepare breakfast, make Betty's lunch, sweep floor, wipe surfaces/kitchen table.

8.20am - while the kids breakfast on breadsticks and raisins, I choose their outfits - preferred clothing is either in the wash, very creased, or can't be found.

8.25am - start the getting-dressed battle.  Dolly cries because she wants to wear her pyjamas all day and Betty tells me that the dress/leggings combo I have picked out don't work together.  Betty then goes into meltdown when I accidently brush her cheek, while doing her hair. 

8.32am - I tell them not to make each other cry while I go into the bathroom, have a 30 second shower, spray some Batiste (dry shampoo) onto my hair and slap some Nivea on.

8.34am - I get dressed, and search for my shoes and my sunglasses (needed to help hide my white powdery hair).  Dolly has hidden them again, and refuses to tell me where they are.  [She will produce them just before bedtime later, true to form]

8.37am - search for girls bags, coats and shoes, and yell a lot.

8.39am - put some washing on, and look for a consent form and some money for a pre-school trip that afternoon.

8.40am - have three gulps of cold tea, and sweep up the raisins from the floor.

8.41am - try to get kids' coats on, and wipe faces.

8.43am - with breakfast unfinished I tell them to eat it in the car.  I break it to Betty that what she is eating for breakfast is pretty much what she will be having for lunch (with the addition of some olives and a yoghurt).

8.44am - leave the house, kids coats under arm, and me wearing Crocs because I can't find my shoes (no standards), and Betty and Dolly wearing Crocs (because I don't have time to do up shoe laces/buckles, and can't find their shoes anyway).

8.45am - wait while Dolly (at her angry insistence) painstakingly clambers up into her carseat, gets legs caught in the straps, spills her breakfast all over car, loses a Croc etc. 

8.47am - with all of us strapped in and engine going, Betty tells me her feet are cold and could she have some socks.

8.49am - I return to the car with the socks, and have to break up a fight over a plastic horse.  Dolly tells me she needs a wee and I tell her to just do it in her pull-up nappy.  Betty implies that I am a bad mother for not letting Dolly use the toilet. I ignore her.

8.50am - we pull out of our driveway onto main road and Betty informs me her bag with lunch in is still on the porch step.

Making amends with the hens

Tom has been away for most of the week, and is back tomorrow.  Normally I quite enjoy his absence, mainly because I get to watch trashy TV in bed, while eating crisp sandwiches, in peace.  But since getting chickens, I now sightly dread him going away.

He gives me instructions on what I have to do with them, like: let them out at 7am, feed them, talk to them, don't kick them, find them worms, collect the eggs, and then lock them up again at night.

The first morning Tom was away I totally forgot about the chickens until midday, and I only remembered because Betty informed me, with basket in hand, that we were off to collect the eggs.  As we neared the coop, I heard some very angry hen noises - there was no mistaking they were pretty pissed off.  It sounded like they were throwing themselves against the hatch door in an attempt to get out.  I feared they may attack me, so I went in armed with a big stick and bravely told Betty and Dolly to wait for me outside the coop.  I opened the hatch and out they charged with an evil glint in their eye.  I had stupidly forgotten to put out their food, and so they pecked furiously at my shoes and surrounded me in a menacing manner.  I was terrified.  I flapped my arms in an attempt to get them away from me, but they, in turn, began flapping their wings.  'Mummy what are you doing?' Betty called.  'HELP' I called back.  I noted that Dolly was giving me a pitiful look.

I did eventually make it out of the coop, albeit a quivering wreck, and closed the gate firmly.  They still needed food though, but there was no way on earth I was going back in there.  So I grabbed handfuls of corn from the tub and threw it at them over the fence.  The clucking now getting more ferocious, they seemed incensed by my actions and they refused to eat the corn.  'I need to collect the eggs Mummy' Betty said.  'We are not collecting the blinkin eggs' I said. I then frog-marched Betty and Dolly back to the house.

Now safely inside, Betty continued to go on and on about the eggs and insisted that she needed to eat one for her lunch.  At that moment in time, I could not think of anything worse than eating an egg laid by one of those chickens - evil chickens who seemed intent on pecking and flapping me to death.

After a stern, but reasoned, talking to from Betty, and lots of sighing from Dolly, I began thinking a little more rationally about the whole thing.  I concluded that it was unlikely they were killer hens and were just plain hungry.  With my maternal instincts kicking in, I then had intense feelings of guilt, and so decided to cook up a proper wholesome meal for them by way of an apology.  So an hour later, armed with an elaborate vegetarian pasta dish, the girls and I headed back towards the coop.  I gently poured the food over the fence, and talked to them slowly and calmly.  And while they appreciatively gorged on the pasta, I sent Betty in to collect the eggs.

Ambiguity

Betty came home from pre-school the other day, and excitedly gave this picture to me.  Genuinely impressed, and getting rather good at interpreting her creations, I said: Wow that is a brilliant crocodile!'

She coolly replied: 'It's a swimming pool'.

A chicken revelation (by Tom)

As I stood outside my chicken run (the result of three years hard work, on and off) watching four new-to-us bedraggled pullets pecking around, I felt a very familiar but indistinct surge of emotion. The first time I had ever kept chickens! Why were they making that particular clucking noise? Were they good clucks or angsty ones? Were they happy in their new home? Was I hearing an angry or fearful noise? Were they desperate to scale the fence I’d so laboriously constructed?

Slowly, the thought crystallised that I was feeling pretty much exactly the same feeling of utter cluelessness that I’d felt shortly after the arrival on planet Earth of Betty Button. That feeling of being totally, viscerally responsible for another life, feeding it, keeping it warm, and happy, and safe, a feeling that I had assumed would not come around again until, or unless, grandparenthood descended.

I am glad to report that the feeling did not last long – these were ex-battery chickens, retail value £1, and given to us by the neighbouring farmer so we had even saved ourselves that four pound outlay. It really didn’t matter (apart from to the chickens themselves, and even then, after what they’d been through, it was 50:50) whether they keeled over and died right there, or were savaged that night by a crazy rampaging gang of foxes and badgers, or flew out of the cage to begin a new, free and short life in the field over the way. These were not actual human beings with a genetic link to myself and the rest of my family, in whom god or someone like him had placed a precious charge. No, these ladies could fend for themselves or they could face the consequences.

Thus, at least, ran the rational part of my brain. Yet the old familiar feeling niggled. I had just gone through the mostly enjoyable palaver of putting Betty and Dolly to bed, so perhaps I was feeling overly parental. I watched the hens strutting around, descended from jungle fowl, weird and bald from their lives in an absurdly cramped factory farm. I had thought I’d have a hell of a time herding them into the shed, up the crap ladder I’d cobbled together one evening, the sound of whacked nails echoing across the valley, but as I watched they took it in turns to scramble up the ladder and explore the inside of the shed. They seemed genuinely taken with the stick I’d wedged in as a total afterthought of a perch. I felt like cheering. Soon three of them were in. A fourth continued outside and I decided that this would be the problem bird. Things had gone too well and I had visions of cramming it into the shed only to have the other three escaping and so the Benny Hill style routine would carry on until dawn. But then, only a short while later, that last one stalked up the ladder and into the shed. I whipped away the ladder and closed the hatch. They were in. I braced myself for squawking chaos but none came. They were silent. Happy? Hard to say. Asleep? Unlikely at such short notice. But as I strode away from that chicken run, there was an undeniable stirring at a gut level, some atavistic satisfaction at having put a series of creatures to bed.