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.

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.

It's so peaceful and quiet

The rain is gently falling on our thatched roof. The wind is rustling in the trees. The tumble drier is letting out a comforting whir with the odd click as a button hits the sides. And that's it. There is no other noise - besides me tapping on the keyboard. This is my idea of bliss.

Yes I am officially working. But oh, the sweet joy of simply being alone. The peace, calm, quietness of it all.

In less than three hours all of this loveliness will be replaced with:

'I'm hungry. I need a snack.'
'I want chocolate.'
'I want two chocolates.'
'His chocolate is bigger than my chocolate.'
'I need to pee.'
'That's mine. I had it first.'
'He hit me.'
'Well he hit me first.'
'I want TV.'
'I don't want TV. I want to play dinosaurs.'
'Let's build a cave.'
'But we have to have all the cushions on the floor.'
'No I don't want to pee.'
'But we need get ALL the toys out.'
'No my pants aren't wet.'
'When can we go to Disneyland?'
'Why can't we have a dog?'
'I don't like that supper.'
'I want pudding.'
'I don't want to pick up the toys.'
'I didn't make the mess.'
'But it's not bedtime.'
'He's not giving me enough room in the bath.'
'Wash him first.'
'I don't want to clean my teeth.'
'Not those pyjamas. The ones with a pocket on.'
'That's a stupid story. I didn't want that story.'
'Why does he always get to choose?'
'I don't need to pee again.'
'I need another cuddle.'
'And a song...'
'And another cuddle.'
'Night night'

And then peace and quiet will be restored again. Only 7 more hours to go then.

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...