What children really want

Now that heat has been restored to the house, my brain is defrosting enough for me to blog again. Here is the first of the holiday insights I had:

As parents, we often over complicate things. We imagine that children want expensive toys, when they're perfectly happy turning a carboard box into a den. We believe that unless we take them to expensive theme parks or zoos, they'll be bored. We feel the need to control what they're doing so that they're kept safe and don't bother other people. We think they need to bath everyday because the books said bathing helped babies settle well and we just stuck with the routine. We think they need to have three well balanced meals a day at roughly regular times.

But here's the thing. While discipline and healthy eating and safety and cleanliness are all important things, every once in a while it's ok to let it all go to hell in a hand basket. What's more, 'treats' like going to funfairs and meals out aren't necessarily what kids want.

What they want is the freedom to be, without the constraints of over zealous parenting.

Where we spent Christmas is the perfect place for children to experience the freedom that most kids just don't have these days. My children would get up, occasionally change out of their PJs and into shorts and Ts, reluctantly submit to an application of sunblock and then bolt out the door in search of their friends. They'd spend hours at a time out of our sight and without my knowledge of where they were, but with my knowing that they couldn't have got too far and were probably with someone I knew.

On one particular occasion, I found them four houses down in someone's else garden, high up in a tree. The tree was directly above a brick wall, which would have made for a fairly unpleasant landing place had they fallen out of the tree. The tree also had some kind of electric box on it for lights, another potential hazard. When I found them, my youngest child was hammering the tree with a large piece of metal. My normal mother antenna flicked on: Danger - could fall out of tree. Danger - could land on wall. Danger - could electrocute self. Behaviour - hitting someone's tree and potentially causing damage. Danger - could hit someone with metal. Behaviour - had they asked permission to climb the tree?

I knew the family whose tree it was, not that I could see them anywhere. I was about to start asking them to get down when my son turned to me and said: 'Could you leave now please?'

And I realised that sometimes, you just have to let go and let them be. They came to no harm. Neither did the tree and the people who's tree it was didn't bat an eyelid.

The kids would come back home when they were hungry. They were allowed fizzy pop (creme soda - vile green stuff with way to much sugar and artificial things in it) albeit in limited quantities. They got cleaned once a week despite having black feet and rings of dirt around their necks. They swam for hours and hours and hours. They learned to do forward rolls and forward flips and dives. We always had someone watch them swimming - I couldn't let go that much - but they were allowed to do outrageous things on piles of floating tubes that had me clutching my phone ready to call an ambulance, without saying a word (or at least not often).

They played impromptu games of football and rugby with a bunch of random kids and grown ups - whoever happened to be passing by. They flew kites and got them tangled. They played board games to escape the sun - and yes, they did play on their nintendo DSs that they got for Christmas a little more often than I would have liked.

They explored rock pools on beaches and pretended to hunt for pirate loot. They skimmed stones. They collected shells. And my eldest even managed to swim right across the river unaided, although my husband was on lifeguard duty on a canoe.

In short, they were free to be. And they loved it. We've had some lovely holidays, but never before at the end of a holiday have I had two small boys sobbing - I mean body shaking sobs with rivers of tears - about having to leave.

So parents if you're planning your next big expensive holiday, packed with activities and outings, I suggest you choose somewhere relatively safe where kids can play, ideally with other kids, and let them explore and be free. The sneaky plus side of this is that you get to chill out and read books (more on this in my next blog post). A win win.

Failure in many things

My tummy hurts. This might be because I've just wolfed down two half eaten bowls of pasta, pesto and peas, a home made jam tart (burning my tongue in the process) and two carrots (in a bid to eradicate the calories of the other stuff). This wasn't my dinner. That's still waiting for me. This was me doing my duty to starving children in Africa and not letting food go wasted. It's the same reason I ate one and a half hot cross buns that were far from hot earlier today. The kids hadn't eaten them (despite demanding them for breakfast) and so they sat there folornly with the butter congealed, nibble marks on the side of them. Their sorry state didn't deter me in my efforts to stop world hunger. Sigh.

Remember how I was clinging to that resolution wagon with white knuckles? It's safe to say that I fell off a while back and the dust kicked up from the wagon has long since settled. My exercising has reduced to once a week on the weekend when I finally get a moment to myself. And the no drinking in the week rule seems to mean that our weekend actually runs from Wednesday through to Sunday.

So in general I'm not doing spectacularly well. I would ordinarily feel despondent. But I don't because I still have my resolution trump card - the 'make time for myself' masterpiece in the form of flitting across the ocean on a yacht for five weeks. Friday cannot come fast enough and I'm now desperate to know if I'm going to get a place on the race.

I've already got my PR machine in place to start my fundraising efforts. Just this week the Daily Express was looking for mums who'd taken a sabbatical from their families to do something for themselves. I got in touch and told them that I hadn't yet but was really hoping I could. They're dead keen on the story and hopefully if I get a slot on the race, I'll manage to get a good hit that will drive billions of people to my blog (which has yet to be created - don't want to put the cart before the horse and all that) which in turn will result in people throwing money at me so that I can sail this race without getting myself in debt. It's not that I live in laa laa land, I'm just optimistic. Hopeful. A dreamer. A Piscean.

Anyway, today's big news was that we went to the dentist. The last time I attempted to take the children to the dentist, they hid behind me, quivering in fear before throwing the mother of all paddies and charging straight out of the dentist's room, out through reception and out of the building. The dentist didn't get within a 100 yards of their teeth. It was a failure of the most spectacular proportions.

So of course I was really looking forward to today's visit. I'd given up on getting the 3 year old in the chair. He doesn't clean his teeth at the best of times, eats sweets whenever he can (including old congealed things he finds under the sofa) and is according to his nursery teacher 'the world's most stubborn child'. No, the appointment was for the almost 5 year old and I.

For those of you who don't know about my 5 year old, let me fill you in. I've been convinced since his birth that he suffers from bipolar disoder, a split personality or schitzophrenia. When he is good, he is Angelic. When he's not, he'd make Satan weep. The thing is, you never know which one you're going to get.

With a little knot of trepidation we walked into the dentist's room. The dentist said hello and asked who was going to go first. I was about to open my mouth, when 5 year old confidently marched up to the chair, sat himself down and said "me". He then lay back, opened his mouth as wide as a person can possibly open it without turning into a hippo and let the dentist carry on. He politely answered the dentist's questions. He examined the instruments when they were shown to him. He was the perfect picture of angelic loveliness. I was so proud - and not a little flabbergasted - that I had a quiet weep, which was a little embarrassing as I then had to lie down on the chair and have the dentist gaze into my tear filled eyes.

Anyway, it was all over in under 10 minutes and we left. I congratulated my son on being such a star. That was apparently the wrong thing to do. The angel had left the building. I was subjected to a half hour diatribe about how the dentist is stupid and he's never going again and why did I have to have my teeth cleaned because he was sooooooo bored and did I mention that he's never going to the dentist again. I gave up the fight and just nodded.
Then he asked: 'You made another appointment, didn't you?'
Loaded question this. 'Er, yes I did,' I replied.
'Who was the appointment for?' he asked warily.
'Me,' I answered, omitting the small fact that he was included in the appointment given his obvious hatred for the dentist.
'WHY DIDN'T YOU MAKE ME AN APPOINTMENT?? I WANT TO GO. NOW YOU HAVE TO GO BACK AND MAKE ANOTHER APPOINTMENT. TURN THE CAR AROUND NOW!'
Too tired to argue and arms not long enough to turn around and thump him for his sheer contrariness, I said: 'But it's also for you.'
'BUT YOU JUST SAID IT WAS FOR YOU. YOU'RE LYING MUMMY. YOU ARE A BIG FAT LIAR.'

He's right. But I prefer to think of it as giving myself an easy life. I obviously failed on that count.

To crepe or not to crepe

So I've returned from Paris. I'd like to say that I feel thoroughly refreshed and relaxed and thrilled to be back. But I can say none of those things. It's not that Paris wasn't good. It was. Very cold. Lots of walking. Lots of eating. Even more drinking. But good.

However, going out looking glam two nights in a row for someone who seldom gets the chance to wave a mascara wand near her face is hard work. Walking about 8 miles in artic winds, trying to keep warm and still look glamorous is also hard work. Trying to make yourself understood when the only French you know is limited to hello, good bye, please, thank you, coffee and the bill is another thing that falls into the hard work genre. Particularly when the people you're trying to talk to look at you as though you've just been scraped off someone's shoe.

So it's a good tired, but a tired person I am none the less. And joy of deep joys, it appears that I either ate a dodgy baguette or got coughed on by someone sporting a diarrhea bug but I've become best friends with the bog since my return. Nice. It certainly ends the weekend on a romantic note.

While away I missed my children. Not on the first night or even much of the first day. Or even the second night. But by day two I was starting to have a few pangs of maternal missing-ness. And it was lovely to see the boys on our return. For the first five minutes. Then I wanted to get back on the train and return to rude waiters and gastro-laced crepes.

You see small boys are very good at wearing out their cute quotient in a hurry. We presented them with a few French chocolates, which they guzzled and then declared them defunct as they hadn't magically taught them to speak French. After that it all went down hill. I think children save their extra specially delightful behaviour for their parents as the childminder says they were a dream all weekend. Tonight ended with me having to get son 1's teeth dislodged from son 2's leg because apparently son 2 was sitting on son 1 and the reason he was apparently doing that was because son 1 wouldn't let son 2 look at the book. And that was just one of many 'welcome home mummy' incidents.

My poor husband whose birthday it is today is having to buy a ready meal curry from Sainsbury's for his birthday dinner as I am not up to much more than a slice of bread. Which is awful as we have a fridge full of lovely French cheese and saucisson. Sigh.

So on that cheery note I'm going to go downstairs and attempt to eat something and see how long it takes before it re-emerges in the world.

Au revoir - I'm off to Paris

Speed blogging because in 1 hours time I need to be catching a train and I still have to get dressed, make a bed up, finish packing and drive to the station. That's because I'm off to Paris for a dirty weekend. Yes folks, first time in five years that my husband and I are actually going away for TWO WHOLE NIGHTS without the children. I'm not actually sure what we'll talk about come to think of it (but I guess dirty weekends aren't really about talking). We might go into shock having to spend 48 hours together without anyone asking us to peel the wax off their babybel or wipe their bum. But we're willing to risk it.

Of course my husband has had to pack himself a bag and head off to work, while I have had to call in the national guard for advice on the logistics of going away for two days leaving our children in someone else's care. Trying to coordinate who picks up which child where and where the rendezvous point will be and where to leave a key and what bags need packing and what meals need to be prepared - I am already in need of my first bottle of French bubbly and it's not even 9.30am.

What's more, the childminder will be staying at our house but this has meant an early morning spring clean to get the worst of the crunchy bits up off the floor and I actually made the kids beds today for the first time ever because I'd like her to think that I always do instead of being the slob I actually am. I've left the kids with strict instructions on how they need to help her out and to remember their manners and to not pee in their pants and to eat what they're given without saying it's disgusting. But they were busy trying to balance balloons on their heads at the time so I doubt too much of it went in. Good luck the childminder.

Anyway, I've decided that my weekend in Paris is not going to be a mammoth citywide dash trying to take in every site their is. It's going to be a leisurely stroll around with many stops for refreshments. My biggest challenge has been what to wear. I'll be doing lots of walking outside so I need comfy shoes and a warm coat. But this is Paris. I can't don my normal yeti attire and hope to not incur the wrath of the Parisian fashionistas so I've tried to come up with something that looks tres trendy and chic but still meets my practical requirements. I fear I'm going to fail on both fronts.

But who cares. I have two whole days without children. And did I mention I was going to Paris?

Kiss kiss

Holidays with children. How not to relax.

'A change is as good as a holiday' they say. And in theory, my holiday was a change. I was in France, rather than England (although it still rained). I ate ten times the amount of bread and cheese I normally consume. I had fabulous adult company every evening. And I had no access to TV or the internet. But really, that's where the differences end (and I'm not convinced that last point is a good thing).

You see, a holiday with children is something of an oxymoron. Holiday = relaxing. Children = not.
Think back to the BC years (Before Children). Holidays meant flinging a bikini in a bag with a couple of sarongs and a pair of flip flops. You'd jet off somewhere hot and exotic that inevitably had palm trees, sunloungers and frozen strawberry daiquiris. You'd roll out of bed at some point before lunch, spend the rest of the day horizontal reading chicklit while working on a tan, possibly doing the occasional bit of exercise or sightseeing, with lots of eating, drinking and generally RELAXING.

Fast forward to the AC years. As mentioned in my last blog post, the packing alone is enough to make you want to cancel the trip and stay home. But then there's the journey. Gone are the days of lovely gins and tonics on board a flight while you listen to your iPod in peace. Instead you're in a car so that you can cart half of Britain with you. As the mother (and this inevitably means you're not the driver) you spend most of the journey swivelled in your chair facing the backseat so that you can:

• catch vomit in carsick bags


• wipe up vomit


• break up fights because someone has put their hand on someone else's side of the seat


• pick up toys that have been dropped into the most inconvenient place that require elastigirl arms to reach them


• hand out snacks on an ongoing basis


• receive the half chewed remants of snacks, wrappers, banana skins, apple cores and find a place to stow them all


• play eye spy ad nauseum with children who don't actually spy the item in question and tell you that it starts with a letter which it doesn't and isn't the correct colour they claim it to be. And then get cross when you can't guess what it is.

You arrive at your destination with a crick in your neck, a good dose of car sickness yourself thanks to constantly facing backwards, and a vile mood.

Your destination is self catering. It has to be with kids. You need the washing machine, dishwashing and snack making facilities on call 24/7 - something no hotel can supply, not without having to remortgage your house. For about five minutes you embrace your inner little girl as you get to 'play house house', unpacking your supplies and figuring out who is going to sleep where. But that novelty wears off pretty fast.

And thus commences the holiday, filled with the promise of exciting thing to do - like canoeing, go-karting, seeing caves, fishing, sightseeing, going for walks, visiting markets and attempting to speak French - badly. I'm not such a killjoy as to claim that none of this was enjoyable - and indeed it was a change from the normal cycle of life.

However (and you just know that there had to be an however coming up) it never once felt like a holiday. Each outing required the same mini packing nightmare of spare clothes, nappies, snacks, cameras etc, etc, etc. If we stayed at home, the theory was that our children would gaily entertain themselves while we lay in the sun reading books. As I said, that was the theory. But as any parent knows, lying down, reading books and actually relaxing simply doesn't happen when there are small children remotely close by. In fact, children seem to have a built in homing device that alerts them to a parent who is approaching a state of rest. It immediately triggers an activation switch which propels them towards the said resting parent to annoy them, like a swarm of wasps buzzing around your head.

Just as you finish applying your sun cream in comes the first request. 'I need to poo.' Shortly followed by 'I'm hungry.' 'I'm bored.' 'Come play with me.' 'Watch this.' 'Can I sit on you?' 'Yowl!' 'He hit me.' 'He hit me first.' 'I had it first......'. So you give up lying down and attempt to play cricket with children who are incapable of hitting a ball so stand there swinging a bat at the air repeatedly. Or you push them on a swing. Or watch them paddle in the ice cold paddling pool. None of which is awful. But it's not quite the same as lying on your big fat bum doing nothing in peace, is it?

Then there's the merry go round of thinking about food, buying food, making food, serving food, washing after eating the food - and repeat. There's laundy and tidying up. And when you holiday with other people, there's an unwritten rule that you all need to pull your weight, so you end up doing more than you might ordinarily do at home (our laundry pile at home for example can sit unwashed for weeks on end) because you want everyone to be happy.

And then there's the fighting. As a holiday wears on and the novelty of having new friends to play with wears off, the children look for any opportunity to have an argument (for that read: beat the bejesus out of each other). Breaking up fights is never a deeply joyous affair, but it gradually starts to affect the parents and the thorny issue of parenting techniques starts to peep over the parapet. Thanks to a change in routine, later bedtimes and more sugar than usual, the children's behaviour dissolves into Lord of the Flies badness with tantrums the order of the day, putting your parentings techniques even more firmly in the spotlight.

And so your relaxing holiday turns into a merry go round of chores, fun activities that the kids will enjoy but probably don't top your list of things you must do before you die, and parenting battles.

Of course in my case it wasn't helped by having my husband leave after the first week so that he could return to work, leaving me to cope with the beastie boys on my own. The return trip alone wiped out any de-stressing that might have taken place in the odd stolen moment.

So I got home not feeling well rested. In fact feeling fairly shattered and in need of another holiday of the BC variety. But that isn't going to happen for at least another 16 years at the earliest, at which point we'll be booking ourselves onto a SAGA cruise and I'll have traded in my bikini for a one of those fetching granny swimsuits with low cut legs, built in tummy constrainer and a matching floral swiming cap to stop my blue rinse running. Now there's something to look forward to.

Well it was Friday the 13th. I should have expected it.

Late afternoon yesterday, I was bringing my two extremely overtired children home from nursery. It was about to pour and I really needed to get them, all their kit and me into the house before it did so. I hitched the sobbing two year old onto my already dicky hip, slung their two incredibly heavy nursery bags (filled with peed in pants) over my shoulder and attempted to carry the two new recycling boxes that had been left in our drive, all while chivvying along the 4 year old.

One minute I was upright. The next I had collapsed in a small heap with the two year old firmly planted in a bush, and moving swiftly from sobbing to hysteria. I had gone over my ankle. The pain was so bad, I couldn't even whisper the numerous four letter words that were trying to escape from my mouth.

Initially finding it quite amusing, the 4 year old quickly started to realise something wasn't quite right when mummy had tears streaming down her face. So he started to cry too. So that was the three of us blubbing. If only the neighbours could have seen us.

'Get up mummy, get up,' he pleaded. So trying to be a good mother, I attempted to stand up but immediately realised that it was a thoroughly stupid idea so sat right back down again. Cue even more crying from the now bewildered and very frightened little boys. And even more crying from a bewildered and frightened mummy who couldn't quite see how this situation was going to work itself out.

What a bloody nightmare. So I attempted to scooch along on my arse toward the front door. Not an insignificant length journey that also includes three steps down and one up. I begged son number one to bring the bags in so that they wouldn't get wet in the rain. But bless his sweet soul, he didn't want to put down the presents he'd made for his daddy for Father's Day in case they got dirty. So he passed them to me, which I clenched in my teeth while doing my bum scooch leaving him free to drag the bags along, all with tears streaming down his little face. A contender for top place in the list of 'thoroughly crap parenting moments'.

I finally got inside and tried to cajole the 4 year old to go fetch his hysterical younger brother, who at this stage had completely peed his pants and was refusing to move from the top step despite the rain. At long last we were all in doors. I then had to instruct a very distraught 4 year old to find the phone (could have been anywhere) and bring it to me so that I could call for help. Husband was well over an hour a way in London. Luckily I managed to reach a friend and our childminder who both raced over. Before they got there though, my little star 4 year old had even managed to get a bag of frozen peas out of the freezer, wrapped it in a towel and helped me apply it to my ankle. Bless.

We then had an interesting hop around the local minor injuries unit where I was exposed to a woman who was patently in the wrong career. The delightful woman - who I assume was a nurse - told me to follow her. She disappeared leaving me to lean on my friend while I hopped, each hop jarring my now hugely swollen ankle. Not an especially pleasant trip. When we finally got to the nurse, she had the gall to say: 'Take your time why don't you'. It was a good thing they hadn't offered me crutches or else she might have been walloped round the head with them.

Turns out, after the most cursory of examinations, that I had a serious ankle sprain. At least it wasn't a break although that sounds more dramatic and would give me a cast that my children could colour in. My instructions were to keep the foot elevated, put some ice on it and rest.

So that I what I am now attempting to do. Only, I have two small bored boys who think mummy hopping about is a great lark and keep nagging for me to do more of it. They also seem to find the gap beneath my raised leg and the sofa a great place to build a den, fully equipped with noisy plastic toys. Meanwhile, it being Father's Day weekend should have seen my husband sitting on his bum doing nothing. Instead he's quickly coming to terms with what it means to be a mother. And I don't think he'll be applying for a full time position any time soon.

Must go. Apparently son number 2 had emptied the contents of a kitchen drawer on the floor, son number 1 'CAN'T FIND A PUDDING YOGURT!!!' and husband is cursing both of them. Happy father's day dear.

Wine plus children

Why in the name of all things holy do children insist on waking up at 5.30am on a Sunday morning, particularly when the night before involved several rather large glasses of wine? And why must they also choose this exact time to do a poo and yell that they need their bottom wiped? Because quite frankly, stumbling out of bed to face a small boy on all fours with his yet to be cleaned bottom waving in the air - arms presented so to speak - is not quite how I like my Sundays to start.

And if anyone knows how to turn off a remote controlled T-rex that won't stop roaring, please let me know because it's about to become extinct.

God my head. Crawling back to bed now...