Sleep is for the weak

Well we survived the billion hour flights. There and back. Even with a sodding Icelandic volcano to add to the joy. And you know, the kids weren't even awful. We had one weeing in pants incident that resulted in a very over tired little boy crying because he couldn't understand why he was wet, and a mother who didn't really want to cuddle him too closely because of said wetness, and several extremely grumpy Germans who felt the child should stop crying, and a mother who wanted to tell them to knob off but couldn't remember any German swear words having had no sleep for 48 hours.

But besides that, they were fine. Except that they were small boys in a confined space for 26 hours a pop. Even as an adult, getting free drinks from the wine trolley (and believe me, I had many of those) and having a full understanding of how to use the remote controls for the on-board entertainment system, 26 hours is a long, long time to sit in one small space.

So this is sort of how it went:

son1: Can you help me get the games on? No, not that game, this game.
son2: I also want the games on.
me: attempt to juggle two remote controls, finding games for son2 and a film for me.
son2: I can't work the controller. Show me how.
me: sigh. Like this....10 seconds of peace. I choose a film of my own and watch 2 minutes of it
son1: I'm hungry. When can we get food?
son2: I'm also hungry. Can we have a sweet yet?
me: food is coming. They only have to serve the 200 people seated in front of us, then we'll get ours. And no, you can't have a sweet yet.
son2: are we there yet?
me: No. We still have 25 hours and 50 minutes to go.....
etc
etc
etc

The food trolley finally arrives, just as the nagging and cries of 'I'm starving' start to get quite volumatic. We're served our little over-filled trays of plastic nastiness. The children rip their cutlery packets open like presents on Christmas morning, immediately dropping their knives and forks on the floor under their seats with no way of getting them out without me loading up three trays in front of me like the leaning tower of Plastic, while they scrabble on the floor looking for their feeding implements. As I set their food trays back in front of them and am about to take a bite of congealed egg (which may have been breakfast, lunch or dinner but my body clock is way out of kilter and it's hard to know what meal it's meant to be) one of them will announce that they need to poo.

It will invariably be the child closest to the window that needs to poo, thus requiring the three way tray pile again, only now less evenly balanced as things have been openened and rearranged. It wobbles ominously. The child will attempt to walk across the seats but will stand on his brother which will prompt a swift punch by the stepped on brother to the legs of the brother in need of a poo. He will then attempt to bunch / kick back resulting in the teetering food tower to wobble precariously.

We'll finally manage to extricate ourselves from our seats, wait with a small boy holding his hand on his bottom, indicating the immediacy of the poo while the food trolley moves painstakingly slowly out of the aisle. When we finally make it there and the job is done, we will have the usual angst of having to block our ears while we flush as airplane loos are a little loud. Why is that?

Then we go back to our seats and repeat the whole performance.

Eventually one child will fall asleep. I will attempt to fall asleep. The other child will wake me just as I finally manage to drift off asking me to put a different film on or perhaps saying he needs a wee or a drink of water or a blanket. As that child drifts off to the land of nod, the other will wake up and ask for a film, a wee, a drink of water or a blanket. The result is absolutely no sleep for the lone parent trying to juggle this.

After hours and hours and hours of this I give up all hope of sleep and opt to watch films instead. Here are the films I started watching:

Avatar
It's Complicated
Up in the Air
The Hurt Locker
An Education
Blind Side
New Moon
Couples Retreat
The Time Travellers Wife

I don't think I saw the end of any of them, due to previously mentioned interruptions.

All in all, from when you wake up on the day you are due to fly out, to going to sleep in your destination, it will be roughly 48 hours. That is 48 hours of no sleep, eating crappy food, sitting in a teeny space getting a very numb bum, constantly whispering: DON'T KICK THE SEAT, and dealing with foreign customs people who aren't blessed with humour or understanding.

Once you get to your destination, you might think you can now sleep. But jet lag kicks in. And even though your body is way overtired, it's also telling you that it's day time, not night time and you should be awake. So you lie there wishing yourself to sleep. And just as sleep eventually steals over you like a heavy blanket, you hear: 'Mummy, I can't sleep.' And just as you settle that one several hours later, you hear the next one say the exact same thing.

And then the sun rises and you have to face the day. Your brain feels like its clogged with soggy cotton wool and your vision is slightly blurry around the edges.

It took me 10 days to get over the jetlag going there. We got back home on Friday. Today is Monday. I can still barely lift my head off my desk. I might be this way for some time to come.

PS - we had a fab holiday. But next time, I want a Star Trek Beam me up Scottie machine to get there.

Small talk

"Muuuummmy!" Son 1 yells from the loo.
"What?"
"I've got one more poo and I can't get it out! It's huge and it just won't come out!"
"Well what exactly would you like me to do about it?"
"Get something and stick it up my bum to get it out."
"I don't think we can do that."
"C'monnnnnnnn. It juuuust woooon't cooooome ooooooout! I think this poo has been in my bum since, since.....since I was born!"

Who says I don't get scintillating conversation?

Men and their masterful poo

You know how I said that one of my resolutions was to be kinder to my husband? I just want to point out the fine print that followed in which I said I may not always be kind to him in my blog, just real life. I'm pointing it out in case you didn't see it and then thought that I was failing in my resolutions already, as I'm about to be unkind about my husband. Luckily he doesn't read my blog very often so hopefully he won't know and therefore it'll be like it never happened.

Here's the reason for my preamble:

Late afternoon. I've just returned from a run. (Yes, that's another resolution going well. I did a real run. Up hills and everything. And I didn't even turn purple in the process.) I was a little chilled from sweaty clothes and artic wind and thought a nice hot bath would be in order. I passed my husband coming down the stairs as I was going up and I told him that I was off to have a bath.

'Well be careful,' he said. 'You'll probably get mugged when you go in there.' I raised an eyebrow.

'I don't know what is going on with my poo at the moment,' he says by way of explanation. 'It's the second time in two days that I've laid such a big cable that it won't flush down.'

Nice. Who says romance is dead right?

Anyway, I go check email before heading into the bathroom having forgotten the warning. Immediately the skin on my face is stripped bare by the stench coming from the room. I head toward to the bath passing the loo en route. There lying in the bowl is the world's largest poo. Honestly. I was almost tempted to ring the Guinness Book of Records people as it's surely not possible that any other human being could have done such a vast poo before.

I held my nose, gave a courtesty flush and evacuated the room, opting instead to bath with plastic submarines and squishy whales filled with black goo that decorate our children's bathroom.

After my bath, I headed back to our bedroom to get dressed and was once again gagging at the fruity aroma coming from the loo. I risked a peek to see whether it had gone. Oh contraire. It was still lying there in all of its magnimity.

I went downstairs and asked my husband what he planned on doing about it. 'Nothing. I'll just keep flushing till it goes,' he said. At this point our children were intrigued. They are, after all, little boys. So they both went up and had a good look at the world's biggest poo and agreed that it was an awesome thing to behold. And they both gave a flush. It didn't shift a millimetre.

I've just returned to the scene of the crime (by now a good 5 hours after the log was laid) and it's still there. Immovable. I have suggested to my husband that he might want to get a coat hanger and attack it so that it breaks into manageable size pieces which the pipes can cope with. He's refused. I think he thinks it's funny. Or impressive. Either way, worth saving.

This is a problem. This is MY toilet. Mine. The one I use a LOT. It's the one I go to just before bed and in the middle of the night and first thing in the morning (I have a cheap made in Japan bladder). And now I have the choice of either peeing in a half hovery squat type position to avoid gettting attacked by the killer poo, or walking to the boys toilet, which is cold and I'll probably end up standing on a hard plastic tigger or something.

How is it that men can be so nonchalant about their poo? If it were my poo that had clogged the bog, I'd be on my third toilet brush trying to remove all evidence. I'm just surprised my husband hasn't got the camera out and taken a picture of it to email to his friends or put up on Facebook. They, being of the male persuasion, would no doubt also find it hilarious.

ADDENDUM - FIVE MINUTES LATER
I've just been downstairs again and told my husband that it's STILL there. He asked: 'How many times have you flushed it?' (When exactly did this become my responsibility??)

So I told him, 'Several'.
'Just leave it over night. It'll have softened by morning,' he shrugged.
'But I use that loo at night,' I wailed.
'Well it's not going to attack you is it,' he said.
'It certainly looks like it could,' said I.
'Chuckle, chuckle' is all I got out of him.
'You don't want to get rid of it, do you? I asked. 'Secretly you're actually proud of it and want to keep it for a while so that you can admire your handiwork, don't you?'
'Yes,' he giggled and was off.

This is why books are written about men being from mars and women being from venus. I do wonder if they ever cover chapters on poo management.

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.

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...