Girly weekends - why I chose real friends over virtual ones

This weekend, it seems that most mummy bloggers headed off to the Cybermummy conference for the biggest girly weekend ever. From the bazillions of tweets and posts on it so far, it seems to have been a marvellous experience and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little (ok a lot) bit jealous.

But I couldn't go. You see the week before the date for Cybermummy was announced, I'd confirmed a girly weekend with a group of my real life friends. Getting a date that suited all of us rivalled military logistical planning, so once I realised that it was going to clash with Cybermummy I was torn.

Do I go to the biggest blogging event in the UK and meet all the wonderful bloggers I've met online? Or do I go to Lymington for a weekend of drinking cocktails and talking rubbish with my 'real life' or 'offline' friends.

Wearing my PR hat, I should have been at Cybermummy. Wearing my mummy blogger hat, it would have been lovely to put some faces to names at the conference. But wearing my Melissa hat, meeting up with friends who know me in all my different hats won the day.

And it was worth it.

I haven't laughed as much (or drunk as much wine) in years. We talked, we walked along the seafront, we laughed, we shopped, we drank wine, we played poker, we drank cocktails, we laughed some more, we had thoroughly inappropriate conversations, we ate fab food, we giggled like fools, we flirted with waiters, we ate ice creams in the sun, we talked some more, we tried on clothes, we watched tennis, we laughed, we picked out houses we'd buy if we won the lottery, we had hangovers, we recounted stories from the night before that were blurry, we got told we were too old to get into a nightclub (damn their eyes), we laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

It was fantastic. So to the 4 lovely ladies who were with me in Lymington, thank you for an amazing time. To all the lovely ladies I didn't get to meet at Cybermummy, I'm sure you understand that sometimes you need to live it, rather than just write it. But next year, I'll be there with bells on.

Gay pirate squirrels ...obviously

Yes folks, it's school play time. Roll up! Roll up! And watch how mothers transform their 6 year olds into ... squirrels. I have no recollection of the Charlie & the Chocolate Factory scene involving squirrels but apparently they're vindictive little beasties who get rid of a vile child. Well done them.

All us parents were asked to do was supply a brown shirt and trousers. The school would supply the tails. Simple right.

Wrong.

We don't have any brown trousers in our house. We used to. But my six year old now has grey school trousers, blue jeans and one pair of cream chinos. That's it. My four year old has a pair of brown shorts. But they nowhere near fit his brother. So we headed into town in search of brown bottoms.

Funnily, brown is not a particularly popular colour for children's clothes in the height of summer. So we charged off to the British Heart Foundation charity shop in the hope of a cast off. Nothing. Then onto the Cancer Awareness shop. Nothing. Then Save the Children (save the mother more like it) shop. They were closed. In a last ditch attempt to find something by tomorrow's pressing deadline, I headed into TK Maxx. Twenty bazillion rows of pink clothes, just the one with boys stuff. And on that lone rail, hung one pair of brown trousers. And like a gift from the Gods, it was actually in age 6. Perfect.

Except that they're sort of shiny brown with patches on them with zig zaggy bottoms. I think it's part of a dress up outfit. Possibly a pirate. Or waif. Or street urchin. But it cost £1. So I bought them. Jobs a good un. Home we go, because at least we have a brown t-shirt.

Or so I thought. Apparently, the brown t-shirt which belongs to the 4 year old, is 'scratchy'. So scratchy indeed that 6 year old could barely stand it against his sensitive skin for longer than a nano-second.

So we tried on a khaki coloured shirt. Wrong colour and just as scratchy. So we tried on a teeny age 3 t-shirt. It looked fine apart from his exposed midriff. "Too small," was the lament. So we tried one of my plain brown Boden tops. "Too big," he cried. So we tried on his brown shirt with the camper van on front. "A squirrel wouldn't wear a camper van on its chest," he yelled. (Well they bloody do in Cornwall I'm sure). So we tried a sort of orangey shirt. Sigh. "It's ookaaay,"I guess he grumbled. "If I have to wear it. If there's nothing else AT ALL."

Insert very large sigh here from me.

So I rummaged in my old sailing bag and found a once white long sleeve t-shirt that had had its sleeves removed somewhere around the equator. It was slightly grey with sweat stained armpits, but he found it comfy. "I want this," one he said.

Marvellous. Except it's white. And I have to hand this in tomorrow and don't have any brown dye lying handily around the house.

Never fear. Twitter and Facebook to the rescue. General consensus is that tea will do the job. Sure he'll smell funny, but beggars can't be choosers.

I find a box of English breakfast tea that must have been won in a tombola a while ago because it was past its use by date. Perfect. 15 teabags go in in a bowl of hot water, including the strategic addition of a few Rooibos bags to add a slightly reddish tinge - after all, I don't know many brown squirrels, just red and grey varieties. And besides, his pirate pants are a more reddy brown anyway.

Well wouldn't you know it, the white t-shirt is now the perfect shade of brown to match the pants. What a result.

My son is insisting on setting off the entire ensemble with my brown faux fur gilet. It makes him look ever so slightly like a gay squirrel pirate on the pull, but whatever, I have fulfilled my maternal obligation and shall present him at school tomorrow with it all nicely tucked into a labelled bag.

Then I shall sit back and wait for the embarrassment of opening night when all the other mothers get to view my attempt at costume design...

One huge step for son, one giant leap for mum

Today is a landmark day. It is my littlest boy's first trial session at big school. He's been ready for this day for a full year to be honest, I certainly have been, but now that it's arrived I find myself in tears.

He woke up this morning, with ants in his pants and brimming with excitement. Displaying no first day nerves, he managed to scoff down three pieces of toast and a bowl of strawberries before shooting upstairs to clean his teeth, make his bed and get himself dressed in his big school uniform - all before 7.30am. With no nagging. Remarkable.

Seeing him in his little grey shorts and school shirt, knobbly knees on show, hair sticking up in all directions, I just wanted to grab hold of him and never let go. There he stood, my baby, tucking his shirt in so that he looked smart, brimming with confidence, ready to take on the world. That feeling right then - that love and pride and sadness and joy - all rolled into one is what it means to be a mother.

As we approached the school to drop off his brother, his confidence gave way as people started to comment on how smart and grown up he looked. The more people looked at him, the more he burrowed into my thigh, blushing furiously and looking as though he wished the ground would swallow him.

Then we had a repeat performance as I dropped him at pre-school. You could tell that he and his little friend were torn between being super proud of their big boy uniforms, wanting to show them off, and not wanting all the attention that was coming their way.

I'll be taking him to school after lunchtime for his first taste of the next 12 years of his life. I know it will be an easier transition than I had for son1, who had to face a complete unknown while suffering from an extreme fear of new situations. You can read about that joyous day here. But it's still a huge step for a little person and I sense there will be some clinging later.

However, while it might be one huge step for son, it's a giant leap for mum. Very, very soon I will officially have two school aged children. I'll no longer be the mum to a baby, toddler or pre-schooler. Life should in theory get easier.

But I still can't help feeling sad. The worst part is that I know these feelings are so utterly unoriginal. Most mothers feel this way when their youngest child heads off to big school. It's just another rite of passage you go through. It's not unusual or earth shattering. It just is. Doesn't make it any easier to deal with though.

So I've tried to think about why it feels so sad. It's not that I wish for another baby. I'm definitely a mother who enjoys her children more as they get older. I didn't do the baby thing well. But watching children grow up really emphasises how fast the years gallop by. You get them for such a fleeting time. This journey of motherhood is short but extremely intense.

Every new step they take is worth celebrating - whether its with tears of happiness or sadness - because it's not just their chance to experience something new or leave behind something old, it's yours too. So to all the mums out there with littlies going off to big school soon, live the experience to the full. Because it's part of your life journey too.

I might just stock up on tissues for the beginning of September. I think I'm going to need them.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

Unlike my friend Katyboo who has read everything on the planet and knows more about books and theatre than anyone else on the planet, I don't. Occasionally I have books recommended to me but more often than not I browse the libraray or book shop and grab what I hope is something good. Invariably it's not. But every now and then I luck out.

For example, several months back I spent the day in Cambridge. I'm not sure whether its the academia of the place that results in a more high brow book at the local book shop (I should have realised that high brow wasn't me), but I bought three from the bestsellers range and left feeling optimistic.

The first book I tried was dire. It was called The Rehearsal by Eleanor Catton. It was shortlisted for the Guardian First Book Award. If it was down to me, it would possibly be her last book. I know that sounds terribly mean and Eleanor, if you happen to read this, I'm sorry. But I just didn't get all the lesbian angst. I'm sure it was very clever and it was probably just me being obtuse but it definitely wasn't my cup of tea. I might sell it to a lesbian book club. They might have more success with it.

The second book had even more critical acclaim. It won the 2009 Man Booker Prize. Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel. This is set in Tudor England and is a rather vast book. It started well, but then got incredibly complicated with many historical characters and complex storylines. I tend to read my books at 10pm - 11.30pm (roughly). It's not when my brain is at its peak performance. I eventually gave up. This no doubt makes me a dunce and I will probably incur the scorn of literary geniuses the world over. But sod it, I tried plodding through 2666 by Roberto Bolano and all that happened was I aged in the process. I wasn't about to repeat the experience.

So I turned to my third and final book purchase, wondering just how dire this last work would be. It is called The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer & Annie Barrows.

IT WAS FANTASTIC!

Honestly, this book is quite possibly the best book I've ever read. It is a series of letters written by the title character (an author) in post war Britain. She discovers a literary society on Guernsey and the book plots her relationship with them. I'm doing it no justice. It is simply brilliant.

I don't want to sound like one of those know-all book critics who dissect the characters with prose of their own so lofty that it sounds like they're trying to outdo the award winning author. So I won't. But take my word for it, this book is something you have to read. It made me laugh out loud and cry just as loudly. It was so incredibly easy to read, yet wasn't fluff. I fell in love with all the characters and Guernsey and made me want to be there.

So this summer, when you are browsing the book stores trying to get a summer read for the beach, choose this one. Then come back and tell me how you found it. So that I can say: 'Told ya so!'

Another day, another rant

I'm starting to think I should rename this blog Home Office Rant. Because that's all I seem to do of late. And here's another one...

Why is it that children behave so appallingly for their mothers yet behave as though butter wouldn't melt in their mouths when their fathers walk through the door? Why is it that we do 90% of the parenting - all that 'fun' stuff like potty training and weaning and teaching manners - and dads get to do the playing rough and tumble and building dens? Why is it that you can ask your children to clean their teeth 20 times but their fathers just have to say it once and they jump to attention?

And why, why, why when you complain about this to the aforementioned father or mention how shitty the kids have been on a given day, does he try to suggest parenting strategies and point out where you might be going wrong? At what point does he think this is actually helpful?

He might suggest things like: "You just have to be firmer." or "I have a zero tolerance policy." or "I don't let them get away with the little things so they don't try the big things." or "You need to be in the same room with them and spend all your time with them because then they won't misbehave."

I might try this last one. I might just see what happens when I stay in a room with them all day. I won't go to the kitchen to make meals. I won't put any laundry on. I won't take a shower or have a pee. I won't work (god forbid). I won't tidy anything. I will just be with the kids. I can see it working, you?

Is there a point where you can send your husband to the naughty step because he still doesn't get it? Doesn't he know that if I can't rant to him about how the children are driving me insane, that I will have to rant to the internet instead? Doesn't he realise that I'm not looking for answers, I'm looking for sympathy.

Because the bottomline is this: when it comes to little boys, their mother is the person who feeds them, nags them, washes them, carts them around and gives them cuddles when they sit still long enough. Their father is the dominant male in the house. And like a pride of lions, the cubs can either tow the line or get ousted by their father. That's why they do as they're told when he speaks. That's why my roar will never be as loud.

I'm off to have wine.

Pee'd off

I have spent many years moaning about men who leave the toilet seat up. It means I have to touch the filthy thing to put it back down. Or worse, don't notice that it's up, sit down and just about take a swim in the toilet.

However, now that I have two small boys I have a new complaint. It's this:

WHY THE HELL DON'T THEY EVER LIFT THE TOILET SEAT BEFORE THEY PEE??

I know why. They don't want to touch it either. And, more importantly, it falls into the category of 'too much effort'. Particularly as peeing is always left until the absolute final second, when they are forced to perform the pee pee dance, while shimmying their pants down. It's at this point that their pee shoots out of a fully out-of-control willy, like an angry fire hose, covering everything within a three metre radius of the loo.

Obviously being boys, they don't notice this. Or if they do, they applaud how far they can pee, rather than say: Bugger, I'd better clean that up before mum notices.

Which means that now, whenever I go for a pee, instead of falling into the toilet due to a lack of toilet seat, I sit down in a pool of pee. It's usually as I realise that the underside of my thighs are soaked that I notice belatedly that my socks are too....

I might as well take out shares in Dettol wipes as I feel I will be supporting the company for many years to come.

Creative writing

Today I spent the afternoon doing homework. Not mine you understand. I don't have homework. Or rather, I do. All of my work is at home - whether it's running my business or running the house. But none of it is the type I have to get marked by a teacher. Thank God, I'd certainly fail on the housework front.

No, today I helped son 1 with a homework assisgnment. We had to turn a shoe box into a scene on which he could tell a story. It could be anything he liked. He was all for creating a football stadium filled with millions of tiny people. My arts and crafts skills are about as lacking as my housework abilities, so I talked him out of that.

In the end we stuck with what we (me) knew: Africa. We managed to transform a R.M. Williams shoe box into the Serengeti, complete with mountain range, setting sun, jungle, water hole (with real rocks), a river, a waterfall, trees, bushveldt, logs, animals and an alien (a gogo). This all sounds very impressive, but really we just stuck some dead shrubbery from the garden on some cardboard that we'd coloured with crayons. And the animals were small plastic ones we had loitering in the toy cupboard after last year's safari birthday for son2. The gogo was a hangover from that particular school craze.

Rather proud of our efforts (I speak in plural because while I tried desperately hard to restrain myself and get him to do it, I knew that the plains of Africa would have high rise buildings on them sooner than the shoebox would be complete if I didn't take an active role), we moved onto the story.

I suggested that he tell me what he wanted the story to be about, and I would be his PA, typing it up as he spoke it out loud. This too was a challenge. You really, really have to hold yourself back and not make suggestions. You have to just let them write their story as they want it to be. Which is why his story goes like this:

Alien in Africa

Once upon a time in Africa, the animals were drinking at the water hole. The lions were stalking the zebras and the giraffe was nibbling on trees. Suddenly, a big bang of fire fell down into the river. Out popped a green horrible looking alien.

The animals lined up (except the zebras and the giraffe) in a big line to fight the alien. But the alien does not get destroyed until the last cheetah. All of the animals hide from the alien (who goes invisible).

The End

It needs work, but I feel JK Rowling needs to watch out.