A few days ago I blogged about the unfinished thoughts that regularly play bumper cars in my mind. Yesterday was diffferent. Yesterday was all about unfinished actions. It was day two of chicken pox watch, which meant trying to fit in a full day's work while also looking after a bored and somewhat fractious child.
It is possible to do this but one of two things will happen: you'll either not finish any of your work or your house will be destroyed. I opted for the latter. My son was very good at entertaining himself but the family room bore the brunt of his amusement. It looked like an explosion in a lego factory mixed with a healthy sprinkling of cheerios, toast crusts and babybel wrappers. The cushions from the sofas became a teetering climbing frame and every gogo and pencil crayon we own filled in the free spaces of carpet.
We then went to get his older brother from school. He insisted on getting the craft box out the minute we got home. I asked him to please not make a mess (I'd have had a more effective conversation with the wall). I was then tasked with getting them snacks, making them cups of tea, trying to unpack the dishwasher and tidying up the anarchy. Meanwhile son 2 was bored and wanted mummy to help him build the hotwheels track - only one billion different parts to try and connect and whatever I did was 'wrong mummmmmaaaay!'
As I was trying to build the hotwheels thing, I turned around, tripped over a piece of plastic crap and knocked my tea all over the rug. While attempting to clear this up, I had two boys yelling that I needed to help them in their respective activities. Son 1 marched over from the craft table saying: 'I can't tidy up anymore'. Looking up I saw purple glitter everywhere. EVERYWHERE. So I dropped the tea wiping up in favour of halting the sprinkling of glitter that seemed to happen everytime son 1 moved.
Son 2 still whinged that he wanted the hotwheels thing built. So with neither tidying up task really completed, I tried to build the hotwheels track. I sort of finished doing this but then had son 1 nagging that he was starving and needed something to eat NOW. As I headed to the kitchen to make a snack for him, son 2 decided he was bored of hotwheels after all and broke up the track.
I seemed to bounce from demand to demand, crisis to crisis without ever really finishing anything. It all came to a head when I had food on the stove top sizzling, the telephone ringing (a new prospective client wanting to have a long and in-depth chat) and the boys trying to remove each others eyes with sharp pointy sticks. The level of noise, the nagging, fighting, whining - all while I felt absolutely shocking with a head cold - resulted in me having an actual tantrum. Seriously. Slammed the door and everything and yelled the word SHIT quite loudly (which resulted in much repeating of that later). Not my proudest parenting moment but sometimes that's just the way it is.
By the time husband came home I was beyond shattered. He tutted a bit about the mess. I tried not to kill him. I ended the evening with a whiskey.
However, there was one bright spot on the otherwise fairly rubbish day, I have managed to get my children hooked on Masterchef. I am bored out of my mind with Cbeebies given it seems to have been on 24/7 with a sick child at home. So I suggested they might want to watch a cooking competition. Anything that is a competition holds appeal. So I played a recorded episode of Masterchef for them. They were engrossed. In fact the highlight of my day was the expression on my husband's face when he returned from work to find all three of us glued to the cooking show. He bemusedly accepts me watching it, but having his sons sucked into the Masterchef vortex left him resigned to being outnumbered.
After a fitful night (thanks to small boys in my bed) we all got up at 5.30am and the first thing they asked for was the next episode of Masterchef. They are watching it as I type this although with many interruptions for more milk, and questions about why one contestant has been booted off and why they're cooking rabbit, I'm probably not very coherent. Their father will be 'working' from home today as I have to go into London and be a grown up with meetings and everything. He has no idea what's about to hit him. I've tried to warn him. I've tried to explain that his OCD tendancies will have to be put aside for a day. He must accept that he won't finish any work. But I don't think he really understands. He will soon.
Showing posts with label cbeebies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cbeebies. Show all posts
Friday, 16 January 2009
Thursday, 6 November 2008
The delights of sick children
The joys of having a sick child. I'm not sure which bit I like least really:
a) The genuine concern that this might be something more than just a passing bug and that perhaps we really ought to go to the doctor/A&E/call NHS direct but have been down that route so many times and it always ends the same: just wait it out.
b) Knowing that the cheque is in the post. It's only a matter of time really until my other child gets this bug followed by me getting it. Husband probably won't as he's barely here but if he does that will be the end of my sanity as it will instantly morph into man-flu of the worst sort. He will expect sympathy and days of bedrest while I'll have to just crack on and vom/wipe my nose when I get a spare minute.
c) Knowing that the aforementioned cheque is likely to arrive this weekend which happens to coincide with a friend's 40th birthday party that's been the talk of the town all year. We have fabulous 60s style Austin Powers outfits which we can't wait to wear but they won't go well with a violent hacking cough. And besides, if the children are deathly ill, we can't abandon them to a childminder for an over night stay.
d) Several nights of no sleep thanks to a having a small furnace sleeping next to me, coughing violently all over me, asking for 'brinks' every three minutes and me bolting upright everytime a pre-vom sounding whimper is emitted, frantically feeling my way in the dark for the sick bowl.
e) Not being able to work because even when the sick one is sleeping, I am so tired and lethargic that I can't get my brain to operate.
f) The semi recovery phase where the child is still too poorly to do anything but well enough to have a bad attitude, demanding peeled oranges but insisting that not a single piece of 'white stuff' is allowed to be left on or demanding peanut butter on crumpets before flinging the lot on the sofa proclaiming that it's not spread on properly.
g) Having to watch endless rounds of cbeebies. Or reading Cock-a-doodle-do, Farmyard Hullabaloo a gazillion times.
h) Trying to keep older brother entertained at the same time as looking after younger sick brother. This borders on the impossible.
I am so tired I can barely keep my eyes open and the bags underneath them are a delightful shade of deep purple. It's amazing how my child's illness can make me feel so unwell. I will write again when we are no longer a plague house. Pray that the gods of good health visit us soon.
a) The genuine concern that this might be something more than just a passing bug and that perhaps we really ought to go to the doctor/A&E/call NHS direct but have been down that route so many times and it always ends the same: just wait it out.
b) Knowing that the cheque is in the post. It's only a matter of time really until my other child gets this bug followed by me getting it. Husband probably won't as he's barely here but if he does that will be the end of my sanity as it will instantly morph into man-flu of the worst sort. He will expect sympathy and days of bedrest while I'll have to just crack on and vom/wipe my nose when I get a spare minute.
c) Knowing that the aforementioned cheque is likely to arrive this weekend which happens to coincide with a friend's 40th birthday party that's been the talk of the town all year. We have fabulous 60s style Austin Powers outfits which we can't wait to wear but they won't go well with a violent hacking cough. And besides, if the children are deathly ill, we can't abandon them to a childminder for an over night stay.
d) Several nights of no sleep thanks to a having a small furnace sleeping next to me, coughing violently all over me, asking for 'brinks' every three minutes and me bolting upright everytime a pre-vom sounding whimper is emitted, frantically feeling my way in the dark for the sick bowl.
e) Not being able to work because even when the sick one is sleeping, I am so tired and lethargic that I can't get my brain to operate.
f) The semi recovery phase where the child is still too poorly to do anything but well enough to have a bad attitude, demanding peeled oranges but insisting that not a single piece of 'white stuff' is allowed to be left on or demanding peanut butter on crumpets before flinging the lot on the sofa proclaiming that it's not spread on properly.
g) Having to watch endless rounds of cbeebies. Or reading Cock-a-doodle-do, Farmyard Hullabaloo a gazillion times.
h) Trying to keep older brother entertained at the same time as looking after younger sick brother. This borders on the impossible.
I am so tired I can barely keep my eyes open and the bags underneath them are a delightful shade of deep purple. It's amazing how my child's illness can make me feel so unwell. I will write again when we are no longer a plague house. Pray that the gods of good health visit us soon.
Thursday, 16 October 2008
Do you think they make adult sized armbands?
Well let's just say that the gogos will be remaining in their bag for some time and swimming lessons are cancelled indefinitely. I do not have the emotional stamina to go through it again. Son 1 refused to go swimming before we even left home. Despite getting into his swimming things, he wouldn't leave the house. I tried to find out why he hated swimming so much. He said he was tired. I tried rationalising. Explaining. Being understanding. Cajoling. Reminding of gogos. To no avail. So I asked son 2 if he still wanted to go swimming. Oh yes, he said charging off to the car. I asked whether he was 100% sure. Absolutely definitely yes.
And so, in a groundhog day dejavuey rehash, off we went to swimming with one son howling, one son saying he'll hold his hand. I had told son 1 that he didn't have to swim and that we were going because son 2 wanted to swim. Son 1 was howling because he knew that meant the end of his gogos.
In the change room, son 2 was rearing to go. Son 1 was suddenly vacillating. Then son 2 decided actually he didn't want to swim. Son 1 was still vacillating. Son 2 decided he definitely didn't want to swim. Son 1 was very much still vacillating. I was perspiring (very hot changerooms) and the heat from the stares of the other parents was adding to my rising temperature considerably. I gave them a final ultimatum - it was swim now or forever hold your peace. Another no from son 2, another bit of indecision from son 1. I made an executive decision. Enough is enough.
We left. No swimming at all. Just two small boys wailing about how they actually did want to go to swimming lessons, just not today (although they say that every day). And that they did still want gogos. I explained that all future swimming lessons were cancelled as were the gogos. I knew this was an inflammatory thing to say but quite frankly, I was a little bit pissed off and rapidly approaching the T-Junction of End and Tether.
And so the howling continued. And continued. And continued. And continued. And continued. And continued. And continued. And continued. And continued. All the way home. All the way into the house.
I reached for the remote control and turned on Cbeebies. The noise stopped immediately.
I can now add the £80 I spent on swimming lessons to the escalating total of activities we have tried but failed. I'd like to declare that I will never again spend money on classes for these two but I know I will. I know that I will feel bad that they're not keeping up in maths or really do show musical talent or might enjoy mini cricket and so I'll sign them up for something, only to line someone else's pockets while my children howl about how they don't want to do it.
I just hope that they make adult sized arm bands because I have a feeling we'll be needing them.
And so, in a groundhog day dejavuey rehash, off we went to swimming with one son howling, one son saying he'll hold his hand. I had told son 1 that he didn't have to swim and that we were going because son 2 wanted to swim. Son 1 was howling because he knew that meant the end of his gogos.
In the change room, son 2 was rearing to go. Son 1 was suddenly vacillating. Then son 2 decided actually he didn't want to swim. Son 1 was still vacillating. Son 2 decided he definitely didn't want to swim. Son 1 was very much still vacillating. I was perspiring (very hot changerooms) and the heat from the stares of the other parents was adding to my rising temperature considerably. I gave them a final ultimatum - it was swim now or forever hold your peace. Another no from son 2, another bit of indecision from son 1. I made an executive decision. Enough is enough.
We left. No swimming at all. Just two small boys wailing about how they actually did want to go to swimming lessons, just not today (although they say that every day). And that they did still want gogos. I explained that all future swimming lessons were cancelled as were the gogos. I knew this was an inflammatory thing to say but quite frankly, I was a little bit pissed off and rapidly approaching the T-Junction of End and Tether.
And so the howling continued. And continued. And continued. And continued. And continued. And continued. And continued. And continued. And continued. All the way home. All the way into the house.
I reached for the remote control and turned on Cbeebies. The noise stopped immediately.
I can now add the £80 I spent on swimming lessons to the escalating total of activities we have tried but failed. I'd like to declare that I will never again spend money on classes for these two but I know I will. I know that I will feel bad that they're not keeping up in maths or really do show musical talent or might enjoy mini cricket and so I'll sign them up for something, only to line someone else's pockets while my children howl about how they don't want to do it.
I just hope that they make adult sized arm bands because I have a feeling we'll be needing them.
Thursday, 18 September 2008
Could stressed mothers be a renewable energy source?
I would like to conduct a scientific experiment. I would like all mothers to wear heart and blood pressure monitors for a day. I would like these mothers to do what they do every single day. Then I'd like to view the results.
I predict that between the hours of 8 and 9am, heart rates will universally be racing and blood pressures will be through the roof as they attempt to get school children and themselves out of the house on time. Collectively, the extra energy generated by these racing hearts and soaring BPs would be enough to power Wales through winter. I also predict that between 5pm and 7pm the same thing would occur, slightly less intense but prolonged over a greater length of time. Again, the power surge would see the Blackpool lights lit year round.
My final prediction is that around 7 to 8pm, there will be a collective sigh, a group slurp of wine and a massive spike in endorphins as mothers around the country collapse in a small heaps on their respective sofas.
If there was some way to harness these power surges and indeed capture the expelled breath from all the sighs at the end of the day, I'm sure we'd overcome the need to build wind turbines. We could bid farewell to our need for oil. Our economy could be saved. All would be well.
To ensure that their energy source remained secure or even increased, the government (and industry) could do things like dig up more roads making it more difficult to do the school run, package food items in containers that are even more impossible to open, cancel cbeebies and push the price of wine up. Luckily, the MPs making these decisions (mostly male) probably assume that mothers do little more than watch trash telly and shop for groceries and barely have a thing to get worked up about, so don't realise the potential replacement oilfield they have sitting on their doorstep. Thank God for that. For now Cbeebies is safe. Long may it last.
Note to self: research stress absorption machines and how they can connect to the power grid. Call Patent Office.
I predict that between the hours of 8 and 9am, heart rates will universally be racing and blood pressures will be through the roof as they attempt to get school children and themselves out of the house on time. Collectively, the extra energy generated by these racing hearts and soaring BPs would be enough to power Wales through winter. I also predict that between 5pm and 7pm the same thing would occur, slightly less intense but prolonged over a greater length of time. Again, the power surge would see the Blackpool lights lit year round.
My final prediction is that around 7 to 8pm, there will be a collective sigh, a group slurp of wine and a massive spike in endorphins as mothers around the country collapse in a small heaps on their respective sofas.
If there was some way to harness these power surges and indeed capture the expelled breath from all the sighs at the end of the day, I'm sure we'd overcome the need to build wind turbines. We could bid farewell to our need for oil. Our economy could be saved. All would be well.
To ensure that their energy source remained secure or even increased, the government (and industry) could do things like dig up more roads making it more difficult to do the school run, package food items in containers that are even more impossible to open, cancel cbeebies and push the price of wine up. Luckily, the MPs making these decisions (mostly male) probably assume that mothers do little more than watch trash telly and shop for groceries and barely have a thing to get worked up about, so don't realise the potential replacement oilfield they have sitting on their doorstep. Thank God for that. For now Cbeebies is safe. Long may it last.
Note to self: research stress absorption machines and how they can connect to the power grid. Call Patent Office.
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
Getting an early start
It's not 7am yet but so far I have:
Decisions, decisions. I'm sure there are many hedge fund managers and other important people dealing with bigger decisions at this early hour, but this is quandary for now.
Wish me luck as I head into a full day without childcare coupled with torrential rain. I shouldn't have had the wine last night. I know it will be needed by the end of today.
- had coffee
- sorted out a fight about whether to watch a DVD or cbeebies
- prepared milk and cunningly managed to let each small boy have part of an orange cup to avoid fights
- unpacked the dishwasher
- repacked the dishwasher
- folded yesterday's laundry from the line
- put load of wet washing into dryer
- folded dry laundry from dryer and put away
- put on another load of washing
- gone through email
- checked the world wasn't ending courtesy of BBC website as I never actually get to watch the news on tv
Decisions, decisions. I'm sure there are many hedge fund managers and other important people dealing with bigger decisions at this early hour, but this is quandary for now.
Wish me luck as I head into a full day without childcare coupled with torrential rain. I shouldn't have had the wine last night. I know it will be needed by the end of today.
Monday, 16 June 2008
The art of resting. Or not.
If you'd told me that I could have a whole weekend to sit on my butt and do absolutely nothing I would have thought it was a dream come true. I NEVER get to sit and do nothing.
However, just because I had an ankle the size of Britain that really should have been kept up in the air, didn't excuse me from my maternal duties. I mean, what are you going to do when your 2 year old yells: 'I need to pee mummy!' while doing his little wiggly bottom dance which means pee is imminent? Husband was mowing the lawn as our newly recruited teenage lawn mower decided that after doing it once he really couldn't be arsed to return. So of course I had to get up and hobble to the loo (about 60 times). And then there were all the fights induced by boredom, which needed to be broken up all while trying to keep my ankle out of the fray.
There was the lack of anything to eat due to no grocery shopping getting done, so at some point I resigned myself to baking a cake just so that the children could have something to look forward to/stick in their gobs to keep quiet for a few moments. Only, I didn't quite think that through, so once the chocolate and sugar kicked in, the fights and bouncing and general mayhem increased ten-fold. Never has bedtime been so appealing.
Also, sitting on your bum all weekend is vastly over-rated. It might not have been had I been able to watch things on tv that I was interested in instead of Cbeebies. Or if I'd been able to read a book or magazine in peace. Or even had I been allowed to surf the interweb on my laptop without clamours for 'my spelling game' (which for any parents out there is a cunning website called http://www.starfall.com/ that is entirely free and teaches children to read albeit with an American accent).
But obviously none of those things happened. So sitting on my bum actually sucked. What's more, it's pretty boring which meant I ate lots of the aforementioned chocolate cake. And not being able to move and burn off any calories means that my arse and thighs have doubled in size, much like my ankle.
This morning I had to attempt to drive a car with my poorly foot so that I could get the boys to nursery. It wasn't good. Pushing the accelerator down was fine. Lifting it back up again wasn't great. So changing gears involved a lot of unnecessary revving. And then there was the swivelling of my foot sideways to get to the break pedal. Not good. Luckily the children aren't yet old enough to commentate on my driving skills although there were several chirps from the back along the lines of 'Go faster mummy. This is boring'. Not from where I was sitting it wasn't.
Anyway, must attempt to get back into work mode although the peace and tranquility of the empty house is strongly suggesting that perhaps I should do what I should have done all weekend. Put my feet up and rest.
However, just because I had an ankle the size of Britain that really should have been kept up in the air, didn't excuse me from my maternal duties. I mean, what are you going to do when your 2 year old yells: 'I need to pee mummy!' while doing his little wiggly bottom dance which means pee is imminent? Husband was mowing the lawn as our newly recruited teenage lawn mower decided that after doing it once he really couldn't be arsed to return. So of course I had to get up and hobble to the loo (about 60 times). And then there were all the fights induced by boredom, which needed to be broken up all while trying to keep my ankle out of the fray.
There was the lack of anything to eat due to no grocery shopping getting done, so at some point I resigned myself to baking a cake just so that the children could have something to look forward to/stick in their gobs to keep quiet for a few moments. Only, I didn't quite think that through, so once the chocolate and sugar kicked in, the fights and bouncing and general mayhem increased ten-fold. Never has bedtime been so appealing.
Also, sitting on your bum all weekend is vastly over-rated. It might not have been had I been able to watch things on tv that I was interested in instead of Cbeebies. Or if I'd been able to read a book or magazine in peace. Or even had I been allowed to surf the interweb on my laptop without clamours for 'my spelling game' (which for any parents out there is a cunning website called http://www.starfall.com/ that is entirely free and teaches children to read albeit with an American accent).
But obviously none of those things happened. So sitting on my bum actually sucked. What's more, it's pretty boring which meant I ate lots of the aforementioned chocolate cake. And not being able to move and burn off any calories means that my arse and thighs have doubled in size, much like my ankle.
This morning I had to attempt to drive a car with my poorly foot so that I could get the boys to nursery. It wasn't good. Pushing the accelerator down was fine. Lifting it back up again wasn't great. So changing gears involved a lot of unnecessary revving. And then there was the swivelling of my foot sideways to get to the break pedal. Not good. Luckily the children aren't yet old enough to commentate on my driving skills although there were several chirps from the back along the lines of 'Go faster mummy. This is boring'. Not from where I was sitting it wasn't.
Anyway, must attempt to get back into work mode although the peace and tranquility of the empty house is strongly suggesting that perhaps I should do what I should have done all weekend. Put my feet up and rest.
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