There is one part of my life that isn't extraordinarily busy - thank god - and that's my social life. I don't really have one. Staying in is the new going out. Has been for a while actually. Except that last night I threw caution to the wind and actually left the village. Shock.
It was a friend's birthday and it happened to coincide with a special ladies shopping evening at the House of Fraser in Reading. It was an invitation only thing where you go along in the evening, have champagne and nibbles, listen to the Dior make up team tell you how you could look 20 years younger if you spend about £1 million on their products, followed by a talk on how to wear this year's fashions if you're a normal person with an oversized gut/butt/chest etc. You then get to browse the store after its normal closing hours.
Ordinarily I would have been very excited about this. I am clueless in the fashion department and need all the help I can get (although recently I have made some headway on the skin regime front given that my 36 years are making themselves quite prominently visible on my face. The saying shutting the barn door after the horse has bolted springs to mind...) However, right about now fashion isn't high on my list of priorities.
For a start, I have no money. Every last penny I have (which isn't many) is dedicated to the sailing fund. My clothing requirements have also changed. Last weekend, while in the Isle of Wight, instead of buying a maxi dress and strappy sandals in preparation for summer, I bought £60 worth of thermal underwear. As you do.
Normally I'd love nothing more than a couple of hours to browse clothes without small childen pulling things off hangers and opening dressing room doors to reveal my flab to passersby. But last night shopping had lost its gloss. There is absolutely no point looking when you can't buy. All it does is depress you. It makes you realise how utterly 'off trend' your existing wardrobe is and what's worse, how little you actually care.
When I got to the shoe department (most women's idea of heaven, my personal hell) I actually laughed out loud at some of the ludricous heels they expect people to walk in. Sure you'll look great while you're standing still holding onto something, but not so fab the minute you try to walk unaided.
So after a cursory look around, my friend and I left, without a single purchase. At least now I know that I can expect to see lots of lime green and orange this year and that for my colouring I should attempt to wear it. That you should never wear mid-calve length anything, that Oasis makes good jeans and Coast does good shrugs. Patterns are in. Fine. As are harem pants. Not fine.
Best of all though, one of the biggest trends for 2009 is the nautical look. So I reckon I'm going to be bang up to date with real nautical authenticity. Hooray! I am fashionable after all.
Showing posts with label shopping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shopping. Show all posts
Thursday, 19 March 2009
Sunday, 4 January 2009
The eve of Back to Work Monday (and Supermarket Sweep)
Tomorrow is the big day. The day in which we all hop onto the hamster wheel of life once more and begin walking briskly, moving quickly to a fast jog and before you know it, running like loons trying to keep up.
Although the last two weeks haven't exactly been relaxing, it has been two full weeks of having my husband at home helping out with stuff. The daily routine and grind hasn't been there. For a start I've got to sleep-in quite a few times. There've been no lunchboxes to make, show and tell goodies to find, uniforms to wash. My emails have been limited to about 10 a day. And most of those I could ignore. I've had time to do some kind of exercise every single day and I feel a billion times better for it.
But tomorrow we're back to work and I definitely have that back to school feeling. This is ridiculous. I work for myself. It's not like I have to go into the office and get dressed up. I just have to saunter upstairs with a cup of coffee and crack on. Maybe it's because I know I have to make a small fortune to pay the tax man. Maybe it's because I'm scared about things going right back to groundhog dayville without it changing, and it should change, it's a new year. Maybe I just want life to always be a holiday. It would be nice, wouldn't it?
I refuse to feel like this. Beaming positive thoughts at my brain: Tomorrow I shall have the house all to myself. Tomorrow I will get to think creatively and earn money. Tomorrow is the proper start of a brand new year in which I'm determined that son 1 will learn to ride his bike without stabilisers, swim without arm bands and learn to read. Son 2 will stop peeing in his pants and finally get out of night nappies. Husband and I will spend more time together. And we'll all live happily ever afterly.
So that's sorted then. Who needs to pay life coaches thousands of pounds when a short sharp talk with yourself works just fine?
SUPERMARKET SWEEP
On a sort of related note, I went to the supermarket today. I had to stock up on a few things but I was determined to keep my shopping bill under £50 (part of my new make do and mend philosophy) - and it would have been had I not had to buy coffee and toilet paper, which pushed the total closer to £60 (it's a conspiracy those bog roll people have - they know people have to use the stuff so they charge a bomb for the priviledge. I might write a letter to someone about this...) I digress.
While I was at the shop, I noticed how the aisles of Sainsbury's serve as a mirror image of life. At Christmas time, the aisles were heaving, shelves groaning under the weight of produce. There was gluttony written all over the place. And people were happy. Frenetic. Slightly insane around the eyes, but happy.
Contrast that with today. The last Sunday before back to work Monday. The shelves lay bare, with a few dejected party canapes loitering at half price but not getting any takers. The vegetable aisles were ransacked with a few mouldy cabbages and the odd leek lying about. The end of aisle special offers were all fat free this or detox that. Except for the mini pepperamis that were going half price in a bid to lure parents into buying super unhealthy school lunch box stuff for their kids. People pushed very empty trolleys lethargically around hoping to stumble over a miracle diet or a wallet full of cash.
It was the world's most depressing place. Truly. Just a week ago you could feel the excitement and festive joy. Now it's a double of whammy of credit crunch / tummy crunch, no fun allowed type store. Luckily I won't have to repeat the ordeal again as we're now living on rations till month end and hopefully by then most people will have forgotten their new year resolutions and will start feeling slightly more optimistic about life.
On that cheery note, I'm going to enjoy a few hours of slobbing out and then off to early bed - it's a school night after all.
Although the last two weeks haven't exactly been relaxing, it has been two full weeks of having my husband at home helping out with stuff. The daily routine and grind hasn't been there. For a start I've got to sleep-in quite a few times. There've been no lunchboxes to make, show and tell goodies to find, uniforms to wash. My emails have been limited to about 10 a day. And most of those I could ignore. I've had time to do some kind of exercise every single day and I feel a billion times better for it.
But tomorrow we're back to work and I definitely have that back to school feeling. This is ridiculous. I work for myself. It's not like I have to go into the office and get dressed up. I just have to saunter upstairs with a cup of coffee and crack on. Maybe it's because I know I have to make a small fortune to pay the tax man. Maybe it's because I'm scared about things going right back to groundhog dayville without it changing, and it should change, it's a new year. Maybe I just want life to always be a holiday. It would be nice, wouldn't it?
I refuse to feel like this. Beaming positive thoughts at my brain: Tomorrow I shall have the house all to myself. Tomorrow I will get to think creatively and earn money. Tomorrow is the proper start of a brand new year in which I'm determined that son 1 will learn to ride his bike without stabilisers, swim without arm bands and learn to read. Son 2 will stop peeing in his pants and finally get out of night nappies. Husband and I will spend more time together. And we'll all live happily ever afterly.
So that's sorted then. Who needs to pay life coaches thousands of pounds when a short sharp talk with yourself works just fine?
SUPERMARKET SWEEP
On a sort of related note, I went to the supermarket today. I had to stock up on a few things but I was determined to keep my shopping bill under £50 (part of my new make do and mend philosophy) - and it would have been had I not had to buy coffee and toilet paper, which pushed the total closer to £60 (it's a conspiracy those bog roll people have - they know people have to use the stuff so they charge a bomb for the priviledge. I might write a letter to someone about this...) I digress.
While I was at the shop, I noticed how the aisles of Sainsbury's serve as a mirror image of life. At Christmas time, the aisles were heaving, shelves groaning under the weight of produce. There was gluttony written all over the place. And people were happy. Frenetic. Slightly insane around the eyes, but happy.
Contrast that with today. The last Sunday before back to work Monday. The shelves lay bare, with a few dejected party canapes loitering at half price but not getting any takers. The vegetable aisles were ransacked with a few mouldy cabbages and the odd leek lying about. The end of aisle special offers were all fat free this or detox that. Except for the mini pepperamis that were going half price in a bid to lure parents into buying super unhealthy school lunch box stuff for their kids. People pushed very empty trolleys lethargically around hoping to stumble over a miracle diet or a wallet full of cash.
It was the world's most depressing place. Truly. Just a week ago you could feel the excitement and festive joy. Now it's a double of whammy of credit crunch / tummy crunch, no fun allowed type store. Luckily I won't have to repeat the ordeal again as we're now living on rations till month end and hopefully by then most people will have forgotten their new year resolutions and will start feeling slightly more optimistic about life.
On that cheery note, I'm going to enjoy a few hours of slobbing out and then off to early bed - it's a school night after all.
Sunday, 23 November 2008
A day in which things get done. And a Christmas gripe
Morning!
It's not quite 7.30am on a Sunday and here I am. Despite the early hour, I have already ticked off one thing from my 'list of things that never get done'. I have tidied out the tupperware cupboard. It was reaching for the kids' milk cups and having an avalanche of plastic land on my feet that I decided that the time had come. And so I now have lovely neat little rows of plastic bowls reunited at last with their long lost lids. The plates are stacked nicely. The cups all have their appropriate component parts (they all come with straws or sucky bits or something half-chewed and annoying.) I estimate that this little haven of perfection will last until 8am when the boys decide they want breakfast and go get their bowls, at which point it shall return to its previous shambolic state. I should take a photo of it just so that I can console myself on dark mornings.
I am also about to wrap up the last of the Christmas presents destined for foreign shores, before heading out on my morning march in the freezing cold air. I had hoped to be stomping through a fresh blanket of snow. Instead it looks like I'll be slipping on a paltry sprinkling of snow that's frozen over the ground. I've got two local mums who've agreed in principle to come marching with me. They might change their minds when I bang on their doors at 8.30am with a gust of icy cold air hitting their ankles. I managed to go for my stomp yesterday morning but it wasn't restful. I decided to trespass on private land again and quite quickly discovered two landrovers parked next to the woods. There's only one reason that people in landrovers would be up that early in the morning - shooting. Not even two minutes walk later a rather loud bang followed by many strident squawks from the woods next to me encouraged me to about turn lest they mistake me for a rather large blue raincoat clad pheasant.
I can feel in my bones that today is going to be one of those satisfying days in which I get a lot done. I like these kind of days. Yesterday was also a picture of efficiency in our household. I braved the madding crowds to buy the rest of my Christmas presents. Apparently Christmas is coming early this year because everyone and their aging relatives, noisy children and dogs were at the shops. It was the Christmas chaos but without any of the festive cheer. So people were just downright grumpy, barging their way through with heavily burdened trolleys, grabbing for things and pushing into queues (yes, even here in England there was queue jumping).
I managed to get most things but failed to find something for my husband, The World's Most Difficult Man To Buy For. I think that my gift to him should be for me to buy something for myself that will make me happy so that he gets to live with a less scowly wife. I fear he won't agree with my plan. I saw many, many things I would like. Most of them were shiny. But I think I might be getting more tupperware. Or new pots. Woohoo. I guess at least pots can be shiny if you hold them at a certain angle to the kitchen lights.
On the subject of Christmas, I have a gripe. (There's a surprise). I've been flicking through the gazillion women's magazines that I have lying around (care of my job, not my spare time or a desire to flagellate myself for not being the perfect fashionista according to said mags). All of the December issues - without fail - tell you how to glam up for the festive season. There are tips on how to do your makeup/hair in a nano-second while feeding children fish fingers. There are all sorts on tips on how to squeeze yourself into little black numbers and other articles on how to wear the same dress three different ways for all the various parties you'll be going to.
And that's my gripe. Am I just Norman No Mates who doesn't get invited to festive parties or is this whole mega party season just a fabrication of the deluded editors? Sure you could have an office party. At a push you could have two office parties - one for you and one for your partner. But I'm willing to bet that a good number of mums don't work and therefore have no office party. OR they work like I do and have an office party for one in which we toot a party blower, wear a pointy hat and don our pjs to settle in with a tub of ice cream to watch the X-factor. I'm also willing to bet that many companies don't invite partners to their Xmas parties (cost cutting in the credit crunch and all that). And even if you do get to go to a Christmas party, you'll be so busy trying to get the kids fed and into bed that your look will be far more 'au-natural-cum-pulled-through-a-bush-backwards' than glamour puss anyway.
The alternative I guess is to be reliant on friends to throw glamorous Christmas parties that you get invited to. We have quite a few friends. I know of no-one throwing a Christmas party. Well, except our elderly neighbours but given they're the ones who want us to cut our hedge down, I don't think we'll be making it onto the guest list this year. How disappointing. Everyone is too busy attending school nativity plays, pre-school parties, carol services and simply surviving to have time to throw Christmas parties even remotely approaching something glamorous.
By the same notion, who really has time to stencil their own tablecloths, create home-made Christmas decorations from pipecleaners and pine cones and snowy white pom pom garlands? I'm all for having festive decorations and a well laid table, but these magazines seem to suggest that we should have started our cottage industry of Christmas crafts last January. And the whole notion of getting dressed up for Christmas dinner. Seriously, do people really wear their Jimmy Choos and YSL frocks while shoving a turkey baster up the poor dead fowl's arse? I don't think so.
So prove me wrong. Tell me about your glamorous parties that you'll be practising your eye shadow application for. Send me pics of your home-made holly wreaths. Convince me of the merits of looking fabulous while slaving over a hot stove. Go on. Make me weep with jealousy.
It's not quite 7.30am on a Sunday and here I am. Despite the early hour, I have already ticked off one thing from my 'list of things that never get done'. I have tidied out the tupperware cupboard. It was reaching for the kids' milk cups and having an avalanche of plastic land on my feet that I decided that the time had come. And so I now have lovely neat little rows of plastic bowls reunited at last with their long lost lids. The plates are stacked nicely. The cups all have their appropriate component parts (they all come with straws or sucky bits or something half-chewed and annoying.) I estimate that this little haven of perfection will last until 8am when the boys decide they want breakfast and go get their bowls, at which point it shall return to its previous shambolic state. I should take a photo of it just so that I can console myself on dark mornings.
I am also about to wrap up the last of the Christmas presents destined for foreign shores, before heading out on my morning march in the freezing cold air. I had hoped to be stomping through a fresh blanket of snow. Instead it looks like I'll be slipping on a paltry sprinkling of snow that's frozen over the ground. I've got two local mums who've agreed in principle to come marching with me. They might change their minds when I bang on their doors at 8.30am with a gust of icy cold air hitting their ankles. I managed to go for my stomp yesterday morning but it wasn't restful. I decided to trespass on private land again and quite quickly discovered two landrovers parked next to the woods. There's only one reason that people in landrovers would be up that early in the morning - shooting. Not even two minutes walk later a rather loud bang followed by many strident squawks from the woods next to me encouraged me to about turn lest they mistake me for a rather large blue raincoat clad pheasant.
I can feel in my bones that today is going to be one of those satisfying days in which I get a lot done. I like these kind of days. Yesterday was also a picture of efficiency in our household. I braved the madding crowds to buy the rest of my Christmas presents. Apparently Christmas is coming early this year because everyone and their aging relatives, noisy children and dogs were at the shops. It was the Christmas chaos but without any of the festive cheer. So people were just downright grumpy, barging their way through with heavily burdened trolleys, grabbing for things and pushing into queues (yes, even here in England there was queue jumping).
I managed to get most things but failed to find something for my husband, The World's Most Difficult Man To Buy For. I think that my gift to him should be for me to buy something for myself that will make me happy so that he gets to live with a less scowly wife. I fear he won't agree with my plan. I saw many, many things I would like. Most of them were shiny. But I think I might be getting more tupperware. Or new pots. Woohoo. I guess at least pots can be shiny if you hold them at a certain angle to the kitchen lights.
On the subject of Christmas, I have a gripe. (There's a surprise). I've been flicking through the gazillion women's magazines that I have lying around (care of my job, not my spare time or a desire to flagellate myself for not being the perfect fashionista according to said mags). All of the December issues - without fail - tell you how to glam up for the festive season. There are tips on how to do your makeup/hair in a nano-second while feeding children fish fingers. There are all sorts on tips on how to squeeze yourself into little black numbers and other articles on how to wear the same dress three different ways for all the various parties you'll be going to.
And that's my gripe. Am I just Norman No Mates who doesn't get invited to festive parties or is this whole mega party season just a fabrication of the deluded editors? Sure you could have an office party. At a push you could have two office parties - one for you and one for your partner. But I'm willing to bet that a good number of mums don't work and therefore have no office party. OR they work like I do and have an office party for one in which we toot a party blower, wear a pointy hat and don our pjs to settle in with a tub of ice cream to watch the X-factor. I'm also willing to bet that many companies don't invite partners to their Xmas parties (cost cutting in the credit crunch and all that). And even if you do get to go to a Christmas party, you'll be so busy trying to get the kids fed and into bed that your look will be far more 'au-natural-cum-pulled-through-a-bush-backwards' than glamour puss anyway.
The alternative I guess is to be reliant on friends to throw glamorous Christmas parties that you get invited to. We have quite a few friends. I know of no-one throwing a Christmas party. Well, except our elderly neighbours but given they're the ones who want us to cut our hedge down, I don't think we'll be making it onto the guest list this year. How disappointing. Everyone is too busy attending school nativity plays, pre-school parties, carol services and simply surviving to have time to throw Christmas parties even remotely approaching something glamorous.
By the same notion, who really has time to stencil their own tablecloths, create home-made Christmas decorations from pipecleaners and pine cones and snowy white pom pom garlands? I'm all for having festive decorations and a well laid table, but these magazines seem to suggest that we should have started our cottage industry of Christmas crafts last January. And the whole notion of getting dressed up for Christmas dinner. Seriously, do people really wear their Jimmy Choos and YSL frocks while shoving a turkey baster up the poor dead fowl's arse? I don't think so.
So prove me wrong. Tell me about your glamorous parties that you'll be practising your eye shadow application for. Send me pics of your home-made holly wreaths. Convince me of the merits of looking fabulous while slaving over a hot stove. Go on. Make me weep with jealousy.
Monday, 4 August 2008
Lightbulb moments
I should not be blogging. I should be working frantically on what is one of my last days with childcare before September. But I'm in a weird place. Sort of a waiting-to-go-on-holiday-so-can't-be-arsed-to-start-anything-new-and-wrapping-up-lose-ends-is-all-too-dull type of place.
So instead I will tell you about a few lightbulb moments I had this weekend:
Lightbulb moment 1: The power of cardboard boxes
This isn't really a lightbulb moment because I've known this for some time. But this weekend I was reminded once again that children really DO NOT NEED TOYS. All they need is the empty box that contained nine bottles of wine from the Sunday Times Wine Club (a little present for mummy and daddy). Take the outer and inner boxes and stick them together with sticky tape in the shape of a robot. Get 'the drawing box' (you know the one with a million pens / crayons / pencils where none of the pens have lids so they're dried out and the crayons are all broken in half and the pencils don't have a point and need to be sharpened but only half the sharpener is there?). Every home with children has one of these. It's the law.
If possible, find some glue that hasn't hardened completely and pull out any other miscellaneous bits of craft stuff you may have on hand. Let the children decorate the robot to their hearts content. Do not feel that you have to correct their art in any way. If they want the robot to have its mouth above its eyes, that's fine. If they think it should wear a pink feather boa, that's fine too. Do not worry that they are using up all the craft stuff. At least it won't be sitting in your toy cupboard anymore. Do join in. It is very cathartic rubbing crayons over corrugated card making patterns. And there you go, one rainy morning filled.
Lightbulb moment 2: It is possible to reason with a 4 year old
I know that in previous posts I might have made the odd comment about my 4 year old being a little difficult. But thanks to the book I'm reading telling me how to be a good parent, I've tried a new approach. I've given my son the benefit of the doubt whenever possible. I reason with him and I try to say yes as much as I can. This might sound easy. It's not. However, I had the perfect opportunity to put these principles into practice on Saturday afternoon. I wanted an afternoon of 'me time' involving some retail therapy. My son wanted to join me. Shopping with a 4 year old boy. Yes, I can see the relaxing enjoyment that would afford. Not.
I tried to dissuade him. He was having none of it. So I explained exactly what would be happening on the shopping trip, how there wouldn't be nagging or whining or shopping for toys. And that if he was prepared to come along on those terms, he could come. He agreed to the terms of my deal. So off we went. And although it wasn't quite the same as browsing on my own, it was a remarkably pleasant afternoon. He was as good as his word. He didn't nag - much (although he did seem to think there might be something for him in every store we went to). He was a savvy shopping assistant, helping me select clothes ('definitely not the purple mummy, I like the green'). We used the time to learn about how to pay for things. And we even celebrated our shopping success with a coffee in a cafe (well I had coffee, he had a smoothie). So it just goes to show that little boys can be reasoned with. And if you train them young enough, they will become dutiful husbands who help their wives shop at some point in the future.
Lightbulb moment number 3: Children can pick winning horses
A long Sunday, working husband, two small boys, what to do? Well we went off to the Newbury Racecourse to watch horse racing. Not a typical thing to do with children under the age of five, but I thought they'd enjoy seeing the horses and we'd get to have a picnic and I promised them a bounce on the bouncy castle that had been advertised. Turns out that they weren't bothered about the picnic or bouncy castle, and weren't even that concerned about seeing the horses per se. But sitting at the parade ring while studying the race guide was a hit. They chose their favourites by what the jockeys were wearing. Stars were tops faves. As was the number 10 for son number 2. They also occasionally looked up at the horses and would choose a horse if it had a star shaved onto it's backside. Using this winning formula, we would go watch the races. Son number 2 was hilarious standing there with the punters, yelling 'C'mon number 10, c'mon'. Son number one covered his ears and cried when it got too loud. But it was uncanny how often they picked winners. Damn shame I didn't place any bets. Next time I'm in need of cash, I'll be heading off down to the races with my kids to pick my winners for me. Nothing like giving them a head start in the art of gambling.
Lightbulb moment 4: A new business idea...
During the aforementioned shopping trip, I bought my son a foam cricket bat and ball. We were actually after tennis raquets but there you go. We returned home and I immediately had the rest of my day lined up in the form of throwing a ball to older son who would miss it and sulk while younger son would pick up the ball and run away and hide it, resulting in older brother hitting him with the foam bat. But we finally got into our stride. Son 1 hit the ball. Son 2 fielded the ball. I bowled the ball. We all had so much fun I suggested to son 1 that we find him some mini cricket lessons. So I looked on the interweb. And, in this great country of England, home of cricket, losers of many, many Ashes series, there is no such thing as cricket training for tots. I am going to investigate this. And might even do something about it. Although given I know absolutely diddly about cricket, it might not be a massive success, but there's the germ of an idea there. Watch this space....
I'm sure I had other lightbulb moments but they seem to have burnt themselves out. But that's a good start. I really must now do some work.
Toodle pip
So instead I will tell you about a few lightbulb moments I had this weekend:
Lightbulb moment 1: The power of cardboard boxes
This isn't really a lightbulb moment because I've known this for some time. But this weekend I was reminded once again that children really DO NOT NEED TOYS. All they need is the empty box that contained nine bottles of wine from the Sunday Times Wine Club (a little present for mummy and daddy). Take the outer and inner boxes and stick them together with sticky tape in the shape of a robot. Get 'the drawing box' (you know the one with a million pens / crayons / pencils where none of the pens have lids so they're dried out and the crayons are all broken in half and the pencils don't have a point and need to be sharpened but only half the sharpener is there?). Every home with children has one of these. It's the law.
If possible, find some glue that hasn't hardened completely and pull out any other miscellaneous bits of craft stuff you may have on hand. Let the children decorate the robot to their hearts content. Do not feel that you have to correct their art in any way. If they want the robot to have its mouth above its eyes, that's fine. If they think it should wear a pink feather boa, that's fine too. Do not worry that they are using up all the craft stuff. At least it won't be sitting in your toy cupboard anymore. Do join in. It is very cathartic rubbing crayons over corrugated card making patterns. And there you go, one rainy morning filled.
Lightbulb moment 2: It is possible to reason with a 4 year old
I know that in previous posts I might have made the odd comment about my 4 year old being a little difficult. But thanks to the book I'm reading telling me how to be a good parent, I've tried a new approach. I've given my son the benefit of the doubt whenever possible. I reason with him and I try to say yes as much as I can. This might sound easy. It's not. However, I had the perfect opportunity to put these principles into practice on Saturday afternoon. I wanted an afternoon of 'me time' involving some retail therapy. My son wanted to join me. Shopping with a 4 year old boy. Yes, I can see the relaxing enjoyment that would afford. Not.
I tried to dissuade him. He was having none of it. So I explained exactly what would be happening on the shopping trip, how there wouldn't be nagging or whining or shopping for toys. And that if he was prepared to come along on those terms, he could come. He agreed to the terms of my deal. So off we went. And although it wasn't quite the same as browsing on my own, it was a remarkably pleasant afternoon. He was as good as his word. He didn't nag - much (although he did seem to think there might be something for him in every store we went to). He was a savvy shopping assistant, helping me select clothes ('definitely not the purple mummy, I like the green'). We used the time to learn about how to pay for things. And we even celebrated our shopping success with a coffee in a cafe (well I had coffee, he had a smoothie). So it just goes to show that little boys can be reasoned with. And if you train them young enough, they will become dutiful husbands who help their wives shop at some point in the future.
Lightbulb moment number 3: Children can pick winning horses
A long Sunday, working husband, two small boys, what to do? Well we went off to the Newbury Racecourse to watch horse racing. Not a typical thing to do with children under the age of five, but I thought they'd enjoy seeing the horses and we'd get to have a picnic and I promised them a bounce on the bouncy castle that had been advertised. Turns out that they weren't bothered about the picnic or bouncy castle, and weren't even that concerned about seeing the horses per se. But sitting at the parade ring while studying the race guide was a hit. They chose their favourites by what the jockeys were wearing. Stars were tops faves. As was the number 10 for son number 2. They also occasionally looked up at the horses and would choose a horse if it had a star shaved onto it's backside. Using this winning formula, we would go watch the races. Son number 2 was hilarious standing there with the punters, yelling 'C'mon number 10, c'mon'. Son number one covered his ears and cried when it got too loud. But it was uncanny how often they picked winners. Damn shame I didn't place any bets. Next time I'm in need of cash, I'll be heading off down to the races with my kids to pick my winners for me. Nothing like giving them a head start in the art of gambling.
Lightbulb moment 4: A new business idea...
During the aforementioned shopping trip, I bought my son a foam cricket bat and ball. We were actually after tennis raquets but there you go. We returned home and I immediately had the rest of my day lined up in the form of throwing a ball to older son who would miss it and sulk while younger son would pick up the ball and run away and hide it, resulting in older brother hitting him with the foam bat. But we finally got into our stride. Son 1 hit the ball. Son 2 fielded the ball. I bowled the ball. We all had so much fun I suggested to son 1 that we find him some mini cricket lessons. So I looked on the interweb. And, in this great country of England, home of cricket, losers of many, many Ashes series, there is no such thing as cricket training for tots. I am going to investigate this. And might even do something about it. Although given I know absolutely diddly about cricket, it might not be a massive success, but there's the germ of an idea there. Watch this space....
I'm sure I had other lightbulb moments but they seem to have burnt themselves out. But that's a good start. I really must now do some work.
Toodle pip
Tuesday, 10 June 2008
Telling lies to little children
Some people think you shouldn't lie to your children. Ever. I just want put on record that I think that idea is just plain bollocks.
Let's start with some of the big lies we all tell our children. For example, there's that fat old man in the north pole who happens to deliver a bazillion presents every Christmas Eve with the help of just a few reindeers. And it's not just one lie. There are all the little lies we have to add to somehow make the story plausible. But there are those sad people who believe it's wrong to lie to children and who completely take the magic of Christmas from their child. Bah humbug to that.
However, there are other day-to-day lies that parents tell. My favourite is: Look! A purple dinosaur just ran past the window (in a bid to distract a yelling child who is refusing to get into their car seat). Or in a similar vein: Wow! I just saw a hawk catch a bird (there's a story behind this which I will share one day) or: Is that a fairy?!
Then there's the cunning ways to get children to eat: if you eat that broccoli, you'll grow taller than your brother (not necessarily a lie but a bit of a long wait to find out). Or: there's absolutely no onion in the sauce. The shiny bits are transparent carrots, which you love. (actually they're onion but I'm not going to pick them out one by one).
There's the 'I really need to go check my emails but need to pretend I'm not working' lie: I'm just going to put on a load of washing...
There's the standard lie when shopping for groceries and the nagging for sweets starts: 'We'll see'. Which means no. (Incidentally, I've been told by a friend - you know who you are - that my use of the word 'groceries' highlights the fact that I am foreign as a normal British person would simply say food. However, I feel groceries is a more all-encompassing term so shall continue to use it and while I'm at it, will say traffic circles instead of roundabouts).
But yesterday I told my 2 year old a bit of a whopper and I'm now reaping the not-so-clever rewards. He has been out of nappies for almost a year but seems to forget this on a daily basis and pees in his pants constantly. It is driving me insane, not to mention what he's doing to our washing powder consumption.
So in an effort to get him to not pee in his pants, I put him in a pair of underpants that has a little monster on the front with sharp teeth. I told him the monster was called Morris. Morris the marshmallow munching monster. And Morris doesn't like getting wet. And if he peed on Morris, Morris would sink his sharp teeth into his willy and give it a bite (obviously mistaking it for a marshmallow). The child - with fairly large eyes at this point - asked what would happen if he didn't pee on Morris. Not being able to think quickly enough, I said that Morris would give his willy a cuddle instead.
Sigh. You know what's coming next.
'Mummy, I haven't peed in my pants so Morris is cuddling my willy'. And this morning: 'Mummy, I'm not going to let Morris bite my willy today.'
Which is all well and good when it's just the two of us having this conversation, but when he relays it to staff at the nursery it's really not great. I fear I might be getting a letter from them soon suggesting that social services might want to come round.
Let's start with some of the big lies we all tell our children. For example, there's that fat old man in the north pole who happens to deliver a bazillion presents every Christmas Eve with the help of just a few reindeers. And it's not just one lie. There are all the little lies we have to add to somehow make the story plausible. But there are those sad people who believe it's wrong to lie to children and who completely take the magic of Christmas from their child. Bah humbug to that.
However, there are other day-to-day lies that parents tell. My favourite is: Look! A purple dinosaur just ran past the window (in a bid to distract a yelling child who is refusing to get into their car seat). Or in a similar vein: Wow! I just saw a hawk catch a bird (there's a story behind this which I will share one day) or: Is that a fairy?!
Then there's the cunning ways to get children to eat: if you eat that broccoli, you'll grow taller than your brother (not necessarily a lie but a bit of a long wait to find out). Or: there's absolutely no onion in the sauce. The shiny bits are transparent carrots, which you love. (actually they're onion but I'm not going to pick them out one by one).
There's the 'I really need to go check my emails but need to pretend I'm not working' lie: I'm just going to put on a load of washing...
There's the standard lie when shopping for groceries and the nagging for sweets starts: 'We'll see'. Which means no. (Incidentally, I've been told by a friend - you know who you are - that my use of the word 'groceries' highlights the fact that I am foreign as a normal British person would simply say food. However, I feel groceries is a more all-encompassing term so shall continue to use it and while I'm at it, will say traffic circles instead of roundabouts).
But yesterday I told my 2 year old a bit of a whopper and I'm now reaping the not-so-clever rewards. He has been out of nappies for almost a year but seems to forget this on a daily basis and pees in his pants constantly. It is driving me insane, not to mention what he's doing to our washing powder consumption.
So in an effort to get him to not pee in his pants, I put him in a pair of underpants that has a little monster on the front with sharp teeth. I told him the monster was called Morris. Morris the marshmallow munching monster. And Morris doesn't like getting wet. And if he peed on Morris, Morris would sink his sharp teeth into his willy and give it a bite (obviously mistaking it for a marshmallow). The child - with fairly large eyes at this point - asked what would happen if he didn't pee on Morris. Not being able to think quickly enough, I said that Morris would give his willy a cuddle instead.
Sigh. You know what's coming next.
'Mummy, I haven't peed in my pants so Morris is cuddling my willy'. And this morning: 'Mummy, I'm not going to let Morris bite my willy today.'
Which is all well and good when it's just the two of us having this conversation, but when he relays it to staff at the nursery it's really not great. I fear I might be getting a letter from them soon suggesting that social services might want to come round.
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