Postcards from the edge

So that's another Wednesday that I survived. It all went pretty well really, bar a few special moments. Here are some of the snapshots from my day:

Shortly after my morning blog post I was foolish enough to think I could poo in peace. I mean my husband spends a good hour in the loo on his own everyday. Thanks to my regular intake of All Bran I don't need such extensive visits, however, a few moments alone would be nice. This morning that was not to be. Not even 30 seconds in, urgent yelling came from downstairs. 'MUMMY! MUMMY! MUMMMMMMMMMMMY!' Assuming somebody was losing a limb, I yelled: 'What??' No explanation, just more of the same screaming, only it got louder and more emphatic. Assuming the worst, I hastily tidied things up and barrelled downstairs still doing my trousers up on route. 'What's happened?' I asked. Eldest child informs me that I have to guard his cushion from younger brother and that no matter what I must not let him have it. Slightly out of breath and a bit bewildered I say: 'But there are three identical cushions on the floor. What's wrong with those and why can't you guard your cushion? (And is someone on the verge of bleeding to death?)' 'Because,' he informs me already striding off, 'Jamie wants my cushion and I need to poo.' And off he goes to poo in peace leaving me to guard a cushion wondering just how that had happened.

The poo theme didn't end there. Oh no. Having just regained my composure, son on the loo calls me to wipe his bum. So I go, relinquishing the cushion which younger son immediately pounced upon causing more drama a few minutes later. I ask the poo interrupter whether he had attempted to wipe his own bum given he will be going to big school in a few short weeks time and that no-one would be doing it for him there. So he had a go, half a roll of loo paper for a cursory wipe repeated three times. This was flung onto of the world's largest poo. So once we were finally able to flush, the water level simply rose and rose with its contents threatening to spill over the top. Thank god it didn't. But it did result in me having to get the loo brush to break up the poo contents so that it could all eventually get down, while both of them cheered me on.

Moving on to about 10 minutes later, younger son was eating dried cranberries. He then sneezed at the same time. I was in the kitchen writing a shopping list. Shrieking ensued. Pen dropped, I raced over once again thinking that something absolutely dire had just happened. 'Look,' small child exclaimed. 'LOOK!' And I looked. And had the pleasure of seeing yellow snot coupled with saliva and half chewed cranberries that looked like blood globules spread across the back of his hand. I momentarily thought he might actually have a nose bleed, then spotted the cranberry lumps, wiped it up and resumed my shopping list.

I then had a shower and let the boys get in with me as a special treat. That was fine. However, getting myself dry afterwards was less pleasant. They decided to play 'Look at mummy's bum bum', which involves the two of them running behind me and attempting to force my butt cheeks apart so that they can 'see where the wee wee comes from'. Someone has to teach them some biology soon.

This was followed by naked bouncing on the bed (them, not me) and insisting on wearing odd socks to the shops.

We managed to make a hasty getaway to Sainsbury's and had a remarkably pain free shop, until we were packing the bags and younger son decided that the new loo brush (see above as to why it was needed) was the perfect thing for brushing mummy's hair. It was at that point that the check out lady said: 'Madam, are you sure you don't need any help?' I wanted to say that actually I could really do with a nanny but I don't think that's what she meant.

We then managed to squeeze in play group, lunch, a walk in welly boots and raincoats up the track to inspect our fort/look for snails/throw stones in the puddles, returned home sodden to make cranberry muffins which according to my two food critics tasted like lemons and are 'gusting' resulting in me holding partly chewed cranberries for the second time in a day, prepared dinner, read all of the Beatrix Potter books and broke up several fights about who was going to play with the orange car (I have no idea where the obsession with orange comes from - maybe they're part Dutch?)

Just before dinner, we had a double drama. Older son cut foot (tiny, barely noticeable) but which required lots of screaming, immediate attention and a winnie the pooh plaster. Younger son decided to wipe his own bum. I don't need to say anymore but it involved a lot of soap thereafter. Just as I was trying to get dinner on the table, I noticed one of the part chewed cranberry muffins had been left lying on the sofa leaving a lovely cerise stain behind. I then pulled out the big guns and said: 'That's it, I'm calling your father.' Cue extra loud wails.

Dinner went remarkably well. Older son refused to have a bath for fear of his winnie the pooh plaster getting wet and god forbid his foot falling off. There was a fair bit of screaming due to random leg pain which was instantly cured the minute the calpol bottle was promised.

And then they were off, away with the fairies. So you see, this stay at home mum thing is a lark... Seriously, I bow down to all who do it on a fulltime basis. Your alcohol habits must be worse than mine.

Getting an early start

It's not 7am yet but so far I have:

• 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

Am about to go make breakfast and then have the toss up: do I do my teetering ironing pile or do I get the kids out of the house and into Sainsburys really early so that we can be done in time for playgroup? If I choose the latter, it means I have the afternoon free of chores. But it also means trying to entertain two hyped up boys on a rainy day. At which point a trip to Sainsburys becomes quite appealing just to keep them entertained.

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.

I need wine.

I am gagging for a glass of wine. I can imagine the sound of icy cold pinot grigio or chardonnay or to be honest any damn thing being poured into a glass. The first sip. The cutting coolness of it. Aah. But it's Tuesday. That's a day of the week. Not the weekend. And we're not supposed to be drinking during the week because

a) it costs too much
b) it's fattening
c) you're not supposed to have a million units of alcohol a week. Something to do with gout and liver disease.

So we have supplemented wine for tea. In my case, rooibos tea. And quite frankly, caffeine free tea is not a very satisfactory wine replacement.

I know that if I don't have any wine tonight, tomorrow morning I will wake up feeling clear headed (well as clear headed as anyone waking up before the birds can feel) and I will have the warm glow of satisfaction that I didn't succomb to what are worrying alcholic tendencies.

But it's been a not brilliant day. Not awful mind, just a bit out of sortish.

Firstly, I'm definitely having a career wobble. I shouldn't be surprised. I have one about once a month (hmm, I wonder what the cause could be?) I am my own worst critic and the slightest thing tends to make me question my abilities. Right now I am grappling with the 'do I scale up or do I stay small' dilemma. Both have pros. Both have cons. Both require me to remove my butt firmly from the fence which I've become quite comfortable sitting on.

Secondly, I have two small boys. Yes, I may have mentioned them before. Today, the younger son was apparently tired. Very. That means an awful lot of completely irrational behaviour coupled with loud yelling. And that's just me... ba boom. But the older one wasn't on fabulous form either - and given he currently sports a black eye from his younger brother head butting his cheekbone - he looks more thuggish than usual.

We had the fight over who was going to have the orange cup, for something new and completely different. Then we had the fight about who was going to play with which of the 4,000 plastic cars we own. Then we had the fight about who had said 'Snap' first. Son 1 hasn't quite mastered the art of losing so playing a game like snap is dangerous ground. Then son 2 refused to go for a pee. And then promptly peed his pants. Then I had to get dinner going and son 2 wanted to help. By that read, I peeled the potatoes. He used the peeler to lacerate my cookery book. I chopped the potatoes. He 'helped' by putting them into the pot of water .... dropping them from about 15 feet up so that the entire kitchen was drenched by the end of it.

Broccoli, a firm favourite in our house, became the world's most evil vegetable during today's dinner and son 2 also refused to eat the mashed potatoes he had helped make. For pudding, I offered yogurt. Cue major screams as yogurt doesn't include ice-cream or chocolate. Finally resigning themselves to boring old yogurt, they proceeded to fight about who was going to snap the tubs apart. Eventually the both pulled, ripping two of the tubs in half resulting in a yogurt explosion and cries of: 'That one's oogy. I don't want that one.' Obviously. So much for Gordon Brown saying not to waste food. Does the man have children? Real ones?

Anyway, I could go on about bathtime antics and the fact that the younger son caused the older son to smash his head into the toy box just before bed, but I won't. Because I'm going to go get some wine. I'll pretend it's Saturday. After all, it's Wednesday tomorrow which means I'm not working. Hurrah.

Green and pleasant land

It was William Blake (or so wikipedia informs me) who coined the phrased 'green and pleasant land' when referring to England. Let's just ponder those words for a minute shall we. 'Green'. Well yes, it is very green, particularly if you live in the countryside and certainly when you contrast it to the dry, yellowy brown plains of Africa that I grew up with. And the reason it's green is because it never stops raining. Ever. The grass could try with all it's might to wither and die in a vain attempt to turn brown. But the relentless onslaught of rain means it doesn't stand a chance. It will just grow and grow and stay shiny and green. Just ask my husband who gets to mow the stuff every weekend.

Which brings us onto 'Pleasant'. Billy Blake doesn't know just quite how accurate he was with that adjective. 'Pleasant'. It's not a bold word. It doesn't project greatness, magnificence, awe or wonder. It's not negative (mustn't complain after all) but it's not wholly positive either is it? It's just very, very English. As Bill Bryson sort of describes in his Notes from a Small Island book, only the English would describe having a dry rich tea biscuit with a cup of milky tea in a poky tea shop with driving rain bashing against the windows as 'lovely'. So describing the entire country as 'pleasant' is spot on. Blake could equally have chosen 'this grey and wet land' but he was probably an optimistic sort.

So here we are, living in this green and pleasant land. And every now and then, I wonder whether we've made the right decision in choosing this place as our home. It wasn't a decision taken lightly and to become British I've had to jump through many bureacratic hoops. Let's see, there was the initial proving that I was actually married to a Brit and getting indefinite leave to remain. Then there was the constant stream of paperwork that accompanied anything I wanted to do - from opening a bank account to buying a car - as I had to prove I wasn't some nasty foreigner who would do a runner or launder money or sell small children into slavery (recently I've thought that isn't such a bad idea).

Then there was having to redo my driver's licence - the theory and practical bits. I became the world's most annoying woman telling anyone who would listen what the travelling distance should be between two cars in the rain (very pertinent for driving in this country). And I was amazed to discover that the round white sign with a black line through it meant national speet limit. I'd always thought it meant no entry for the colour blind.

And once I'd got past that test, I had to do my Becoming British test. Instead of asking questions that might actually help a new citizen in every day life - like who you should call if you fall and sprain your ankle while looking after two little boys - they asked things like 'Where did the majority of bus drivers come from in the 1950s?' (I think the answer was the West Indies but quite frankly, should I care? I don't even catch the bus now much less in the 50s and even if I had, I doubt the driver's ethnicity would it have made a difference to my trip unless he had brought some of his homemade rum with him).

And once I'd passed that test, I got to go to a citizenship ceremony in which everyone rather embarrassingly stumbled through the national anthem and had pictures taken with a portrait of the queen. Our son crunched noisily through a packet of crisps the whole way through and instead of wearing a smart suit - like everyone else in the room - I'd turned up in jeans. Probably not the proper way to become a citizen but there you go.

And finally I was the proud owner of a pink passport that allowed me to travel anywhere in Europe without the need for long waits outside embassies in London to secure visas.

So here I am. British. Bona fide. I even have a Union Jack Emma Bridgewater mug to prove it. Yet, as I gaze outside at the drizzle, wearing a jumper and wondering whether to pack wellies for the boys today as well as raincoats, I do wonder whether perhaps we should have chosen somewhere a little sunnier to call home.

Then again, where else do you get Radio 4 and their endless discussions on the trials of pea growing in North Yorkshire, the aforementioned Rich Tea Biscuits (and custard creams), the NHS (don't complain about it until you live in a country where you either have medical aid or die), summer fetes (that are guaranteed to be rained out), Wimbledon (also guaranteed to be rained out), Pimms and lemonade, Yorkshire Pudding and very nice sausages. So really, mustn't complain.

Must head out into the green and pleasant land now with two small boys. Hopefully we won't get too wet.

My brain is full. I need an assistant

Perhaps having children has shrunk the size of my brain. Perhaps my brain is now just full of new things - like all the words to The Wheels on the Bus, Horsey horsey don't you stop and every other children's song on the planet. Maybe the constant juggling of a million different things everyday is making my brain's receptors short circuit - like trying to remember what time to fetch which child from where or whether we still have toilet paper or frozen peas left in the house.

Perhaps its years of drinking too much wine which has slowly killed the brain cells, leaving me with fewer that function. Or perhaps it's just chronic sleep deprivation.

Whatever it is, I think my brain is full. I'm finding it increasingly hard to remember things. It's like my brain processes something and then immediately deletes it to make room for other new stuff coming in.

The result is that after a full day's work in which I feel I have achieved nothing concrete, my brain feels as though a small family of hamsters has taken residence and are frantically spinning their wheels.

I really think I need an assistant. Someone who can handle all the billions of little things that fly at me everyday. They need to be organised. Very organised. Because I'm not. They need to be able to do things like take out magazine subscriptions for me (a pathetic task that will earn me no money and cost me a fortune but which must be done for work purposes. Incidentally, to all those magazine publishers out there, streamline your blinking ordering process please!! And no, I do not want to be sent any sodding information from any of your carefully selected partners).

The assistant will also have to update my press lists and tidy out my outlook inbox and possibly even call the odd journalist or two on my behalf. They will have to search for and scan client coverage. They might even have to answer the phone. And they must be willing to be paid a pittance.

Know anyone?

Because unless I get someone soon, I'm just going to start responding to everyone with the same response: Brain says no.

Must go fetch the children from somewhere. Just got to remember where.

Good bloody morning.

When? When will it end? These hideous early mornings. Four and a half years now and still our children rise well before 6am. Everyone said it was a phase. They'll grow out of it. Just wait till they're teenagers. Well bring on the bloody teens is what I say.

The problem, I've realised, is my husband. He has defective genes that means he naturally wakes at about 4am. He appears to have passed those genes onto our children. And I know I've ranted about this before and the solution is obvious -if he's up, he can deal with the children.

BUT, during the week, husband gets up early and hops on a train to London, going to a gym before starting his working day. Well done him. However, that leaves me to deal with the beastie boys.

I'll be fast asleep and hear the plodding of small feet. They always go to their father's side of the bed first because they know they're less likely to lose a limb that way. On seeing their father's empty bed, they immediately say: 'Is it morning? Can we go downstairs? Is daddy here?' On the mornings that husband hasn't gone into work early, I happily mumble: 'Daddy down, go.' And off they trot, ready to share the dawn with their dad. (I realise that this causes inconsistency and lets the children believe that it's ok to get up that early, but as a parent, you take the path of least resistance particularly if it means additional sleep.)

But should daddy already be hurtling towards the big city on First Great Western, the situation doesn't work out quite as well. In reply to the 'Can we go downstairs?' question, I mumble: 'No, snotmorningyet, getinmybedkeepquietandstill.' They crawl in and for about 5 seconds we have a lovely cuddle. And then the wriggling/inane questions/verbal diarrhea starts. 'Mummy, why don't dogs have wings?' 'Mummy, I'm not going to pre-school because I don't like my friends.' 'Mummy, when can we get a pet?' 'Mummy, when can we go to Disneyland?' 'Where's daddy?' 'My pillow isn't comfy.' 'I need more room.'

(On the subject of needing more room, we have the world's biggest bed which we bought in the USA. And let's face it, most Americans need big beds. Well ours is called a Californian Super King. It is roughly the size of a small football field. We bought it because my husband is six foot five and I like personal space when sleeping. Yet despite the vast dimensions of our bed, our children are still able to force me onto a postage stamp size space while they starfish their way around the rest of it.)

Anyway, so the child is wriggling and talking and elbow jabbing and toenail raking itself into my bad books. And just when I think it can't get worse, plod plod plod plod plod, and in comes the next one.

So once again we have: 'Is it morning yet? Can we go downstairs? Where's daddy?' I then growl: 'Snotmorningyet.Getinliestilldon'ttalk.' So obviously that works because then their are two bored boys who think it's much more fun to burrow down to the bottom of the bed to make a tent with the duvet than actually sleep. No tent is complete without pillows so gradually all the pillows make their way down towards my feet, including the last square of the one I'm attempting to use and I have my head unceremoniously yanked upwards as they attempt to free it.

Then the fighting starts about who owns which pillow and who's got more space. Elbows fly. Toenails dig deeper. The rolling and yanking of covers reaches its zenith. I snap.

'GET OUT OF MY BED NOW! GET OUT! GET OUT! OUT! OUT! OUT!' At which point they both start to wail as I obviously look like some kind of insane she-devil with hair standing on end, yesterday's mascara not quite removed and a look of death lurking in my eyes. 'But we want to sleep,' they wail. 'WELL THEN BLOODYWELL SLEEP. THE NEXT PERSON WHO SO MUCH AS BREATHES TOO LOUDLY WILL BE LOCKED IN THEIR ROOM.'

Silence and stillness descends for about 3 seconds. Then the giggling starts. Then 'Mummy, the clock says six one five. Does that mean it's morning yet?' 'No. It's only morning when it says six three zero.' And so they start the count down. 'Mummy, the clock says six one six.' 'Mummy, the clock says six one seven.......' etc.

My day would be infinitely better if I just resigned myself to the fact that I am by this stage well and truly awake and got out of bed. But I fight on, determined to win this battle. Each minute by minute announcement ratchets up my bad mood by several notches until we finally reach the magical 6.30am and I huffily get out of bed. They tear off down the stairs all excited to finally be freed from the confines of bed before starting the fight about who's going to have the orange milk cup. I pee. Make coffee. And curse my husband and vow that from now on we will enforce the no milk or tv before 6.30am rule and that they will be trained to sleep/read books in their room until the alloted hour.

But I know it'll never happen. Not until they turn 16 anyway.

Busy, busy, busy in a tizzy, getting dizzy

I haven't fallen off the planet. The planet just seems to be awfully busy at the moment. Hence the lack of blogging.

What have I been up to then that's kept me so incredibly busy, I hear you ask?

Well, for starters I had to eat a lot of cake over the weekend. I finally got to hold my girly tea party. And it was as girly and frou-frou as I'd hoped it would be. I managed to make a gravity defying three tier cake full of luscious marscapone and blueberries and although we all applied ourselves well, there was still enough cake left over to feed several starving families in Africa. Although I imagine if I was a starving family in Africa, cake with marscapone and blueberries might seem a bit OTT. Anyway, I had to eat my way through a lot of that which left me feeling bloated and ill and in no way capable of blogging.

We also got to go to Beale Park on the weekend. This is one of those places with many small, foreign and very dull animals in cages/pens/paddocks which you battle to find in amongst all the foliage and which the children aren't really overly bothered about seeing anyway. The Hawk Owl made a big impression on the four year old though, and we had to revisit that bit of the park several times, complete with smell of rotting mice that are apparently used to feed it. As if we weren't feeling queasy enough, we got to eat bad food at a cafe to add to the indigestion.

On Monday, I tried to do the workload of four people. And then for evening giggles, I got to do month end accounts. How I love month end. Not. I should really enjoy it, totting up my invoices to see how many pennies I've made before I give it all away to the nursery/childminder/pre-school, but I don't. I have this ridiculous belief that all my clients are going to object to being presented with a bill. I mean I do the work for them, so I have an entirely valid reason for giving them a bill. It's just that I somehow feel guilty about doing it. I'm beginning to think that perhaps I'm not a natural entrepreneur.

On Tuesday I tried to catch up on all the work I should have done on Monday and then my sister arrived with her baby. So that meant lots of time telling my sons that their 7 month old cousin probably doesn't want a loud, roaring dinosaur shoved in her face and that she can't be used as a cushion to bounce on.

Wednesday, I had to pretend to be a good hostess and actually go get some groceries to feed our guests. Nothing like a quick whirl around Sainsbury's for a morning's entertainment. I spent the afternoon with the boys dressed in wellies and raincoats, exploring the track for buried treasure. We found: a trowel someone had left behind (which was very handy really because we needed something to dig up the buried treasure), two power sticks (i.e. two sticks which magically turn into guns and make the noise: POWER! POWER!), a Large Throwing Rock (don't really need to describe what happens with this do I?), a leaf (actually we found about a million of those but for some reason the one we took home was precious), a rusty old buckle (could quite possibly be of roman origin... or not), a pine cone and two acorns. Quite a haul.

And today, I'm back at work, having managed to get older son into big school for his last trial session with only a few bruises on my shins. About to go have a meeting with the head teacher (scary) and tonight - Shock! Horror! Alert the media! - husband and I are actually going out as we have built in babysitters (thanks sis.) What we'll talk about is anyone's guess. Then again we're going to a movie which will cut down on the need to make conversation quite a lot. It's not that we've not got anything to say to each other, it's just that it takes more than a single night out for us to remember how to talk seven types of shite again instead of serious issues like when the lawns next need to be mown and whether to buy sew-on or iron-on name tags for the kids clothes.

Speaking of which, I only have 30 minutes left till I need to be at the school so must run. But as Arnie says: I'll be back.