Refreshing walks in the rain

Well I did indeed don my raincoat and wellies and head outdoors into the mizzle. I went on my own leaving husband watching Ratatouille with the boys. It was roughly 3pm when I left.

The first 15 minutes were wet. And I pondered my sanity on being out. But I perservered. Then something amazing happened. The wind blew the rain directly into my face and literally washed the cobwebs away. For the first time in what seems like a billion years I felt entirely on my own. My brain felt free. I wasn't being nagged. I wasn't cajoling. I wasn't shouting. I wasn't working. I wasn't watch trash on TV. I wasn't talking. I wasn't doing anything except being. And it was marvellous.

The freedom of the it was the best bit. I actually did start talking to myself but only because the moment was so fantastic that I felt I had to say something, even if it was to myself. I felt so light. So free. So reconnected with the part of my brain that used to get used for random thinking.

I distinctly recall most New Years Eves that until the last five years of my life, were all spent exactly the same. I would examine my life. I would think grand ideas. I would imagine and dream and come up with positive ways in which I would change my world and the world around me for the better. Obviously on New Year's Day with a hangover, I seldom did any of those things, but at least I'd had the chance to navel gaze and examine my life for a few moments. It's been a long, long time since I had the chance to do that.

And although this walk gave me that chance, I didn't want to ruin the walk by thinking deep things. I just wanted to enjoy knowing that I could if I wanted to. And so I walked on. I stomped in a lot of puddles, which in itself was lovely instead of reminding small boys not to let the water go over the top of their wellies.

I was just going to do our normal walk - the loop - as we call it. But I got to the bit where we normally turn back and I thought to hell with it, I'm going exploring. So I headed up a public footpath that I'd never visited before. I quickly realised that I was no longer on the public footpath but on private land, but I didn't give a rat's bum. I stomped on.

Then I got to the top of a hill and before me lay a view of jaw-dropping beauty. Rolling hills, a herd of at least 20 deer with a stag, several hares that were larger than most dogs lolloping about in the fields and dozens and dozens of pheasants clucking about. It was like I'd stepped into some kind of film set. Except here it was. Right on my doorstep. And in three years, I've never discovered it. So I walked on. And on. And on.

I found a forest and literally had deer jumping across my path. At this point I was convinced I was on some kind of cold air acid trip but I kept walking. Eventually deep in a wood, the path ran out. I was surrounded by trees dripping rain off their leaves. Quiet. Nobody except me and lots of things that could have been shot and put in a stew pot. For about five seconds I thought it was bliss.

Then my South African paranoia kicked in and I realised that I was on my own. In a wood. It was almost dark. I wasn't 100% sure which way home was but I'd been walking for at least an hour. No-one knew where I was. And things could go horribly wrong turning my disney skip through the woods into something more sinister.

So I about heeled and retraced my steps until I spotted a field that looked vaguely familiar. After a long time, and now in the almost complete dark I found my way home.

I was exhilirated. It was the most head-clearing, slightly scary yet relaxing, life changing thing I'd done for a long time. I got bollocked by husband when I got home as he was starting to worry (which I did have a debate about with myself on the way home as to whether he would be worrying or whether I could have ended up in a bear trap in the woods and he'd only notice when the kids started to nag for food).

I have now decided that stomping across the fields, regardless of weather, is something I am going to fit into my week - at least once a week. I am going to risk getting shot at by grumpy farmers and pheasant poachers and being disembowled by protective stags. It was bliss. And I highly recommend it to all mothers. It's the new sanity saving tool. Move over prozac. Hand me my hunters and mac.

Being a parent should be an olympic sport. Well at the very least we should get a medal.

It's raining. Again. Despite being August. Sigh. I've had a long week. It's involved trying to stay calm with my ever-increasingly hyper children. And now it's the weekend. All I want to do is snuggle on the sofa and watch the Olympics. It's the only time I watch sport, so I feel that vegging in front of a TV once every four years isn't too much to ask.

The last time the Olympics were on, my eldest son was only about 5 months old and beastie 2 definitely hadn't been thought about. Back then, I didn't work. All I had to do was figure out how to stop a small, puking baby from crying all day long. I didn't even have to leave the house or get out of my jammies. So I got to watch lots of the Games at my leisure. How things have changed...

After lunch today I put the tv on to watch the swimming. Immediately there were demands for 'our tv' i.e. Cbeebies. I said no and tried to explain the importance of the Olympic Games. I'm afraid it was pearls before swine. So I took it down several notches and pointed out how the swimmer's goggles and bathing caps were similar to theirs, which caused a flutter of interest. I then tried to explain the different strokes that were appearing in the 400 metre medley. I was told to be quiet by older son because 'I know what they're doing, stop telling me.' So I gave up trying to educate them and just attempted to watch in peace.

That failed too.

My children wanted to play tennis. Outside. Right now. In the rain. I said they were welcome to but that I wouldn't be joining them and that they needed to wear raincoats. They refused on the raincoat point, so I sent them out into the downpour and said to crack on. Approximately 30 seconds later they were back dripping water all over the house saying: 'We've finished playing tennis.' Promptly followed by: 'We're bored.' And, 'We're hungry.' And 'Can we have a biscuit?'

I gave up watching and said I'd look on my computer to see what we can do this afternoon (and actually all I'm doing is writing this.)

Right at this moment they are watching the boxing. Physical violence is something they heartily enjoy. They've chosen who's backing the guy in red and who's got the blue. There are lots of shouts of 'Knock him down. Knock him down.' I feel as a responsible adult I should step in and explain that this is actually a sport and not something we do on a rainy day because we're bored. But that would mean having to make up my mind about what we're going to do this afternoon.

We could go to a softplay place, but the mere thought of a gazillion children bored out of their tiny minds being unleashed into ball pools filled with wee is enough to make me want to play tennis outside in the rain.

Too late. They've found me. And are now showing me their newly discovered boxing skills. And someone's crying. I need to intervene. Must go.

But before I do, I just want to make the point that no matter how hard those olympic athletes train, nothing will ever prepare them for the challenges they'll face when they become parents. And they'll have to deal with the fact that they'll never get a medal for their pains either. Sigh.

One year on since the rains came (and nursery rhyme nightmares)

Last night my almost 3 year old woke up at 1.50am screaming. I raced through (well staggered blindly stubbing my toe on the wall) to find out whether he was losing a body part. He wasn't. He was having a bad dream. He has these regularly. The best thing about his bad dreams is that although they are no doubt very traumatic for him, they're very amusing for anyone listening to his half-asleep yowls. In the past we've had: 'I WANT MY PUDDING. I WANT MY PUDDING.' And even more specific, we've had: 'I WANT MY APPLE CRUMBLE. I WANT MY APPLE CRUMBLE.' The poor deprived child obviously has deep seated scars about not eating his vegetables and therefore not getting his dessert.

However, last night's bad dream had nothing to do with pudding. It took an even greater swing towards the surreal. He is now apparently dreaming in nursery rhymes. 'I DON'T WANT TO GO TO JACK AND JILL'S HOUSE. I DON'T WANT TO GO TO JACK AND JILL'S HOUSE.' I have no idea what Jack and Jill were doing - no doubt tormenting him with threats of putting him in bed with his head wrapped up in vinegar and brown paper. But it took me at least 30 minutes to talk him off the ledge and convince him that no-one was going to be sending him to Jack & Jill's house or indeed up any hill or to any well.

So that was how my 22nd of July started, the 22nd of July being an auspicious day. Because exactly one year ago today I was quietly working in my office, looking at the torrential rain outside and wondering when it was going to end. I then noticed a small stream running through our garden, which very quickly turned into a large stream and then a river. That river of muddy brown water had only one place to go, and that was in our house.

For some strange reason, despite the several feet of water that had risen up the outside of the kitchen door, I naiveley thought that perhaps our house had some kind of protective shield which prevented water coming in through the cracks. I was wrong. Charging downstairs I watched in horror as water began pouring in through every door. I called my husband in panic saying: 'We're being flooded!' His advice was to 'Get towels' (obviously this is the standard emergency procedures for all events from floods to giving birth). Given the deluge pouring in I don't think he quite grasped the full extent of what was going on. So I started to cry. As you do when water is lapping around your ankles inside your house.

'Put things up high,' he instructed me. Where to start? I mean where do you start? For me, it was rescuing our wedding photo album off the floor in the lounge which hadn't yet got quite as wet. Not knowing how high the water was going to come, I was probably slightly over zealous and ran upstairs and shoved the album on to of the tallest cupboard. Let's just say that if the water had gotten that high, we would have had bigger fish to fry than a ruined wedding album.

However, my little detour upstairs had wasted invaluable time. By the time I got back down again (about a minute later) the water was another foot higher. The sofas were now floating and the things in the kitchen cupboards were bobbing about and clunking into each other. It's safe to say that at this point I entered full panic mode. I stood in the kitchen with a powerful current of water rushing around my knees and was at a complete and utter loss as to what to do. The fridge suddenly lifted up off the floor and crashed into the opposite wall with an enormous bang, startling me out of my dazed and confused reverie and spurred me into action.

At this point we had no elecricity which meant we had no phones (as all of our phones are silly electric-fangled thingies) which meant we had no internet access. I also didn't have any charge in my mobile phone and no cell phone reception in the house anyway. So basically I had no way of communicating with the outside world. There was no way I could open any of the doors because of the weight of water on them.

So I figured that I needed to escape the house via whatever means necessary. I had the presence of mind to pack car keys, a phone charger and mobile phone and the telephone number for the nursery, which luckily the boys were at. I donned a not very waterproof jacket but didn't really think through my footwear situation - flip flops. I managed to climb up onto the kitchen counters, open a window and climb out landing waist deep in icy cold water, and instantly lost my flip flops. I also noticed the large gas BBQ bobbing around the garden which isn't a site you see every day.

I managed to wade through the garden to higher ground, traversed the public bridleway which at this point had turned into a raging river, threatening to take my feet out from under me. I got to a neighbour's house where I managed to call for help and alert the nursery - although they rather usefully asked me to come collect my children as they were closing up. There was no way out of the village as the road was blocked. I couldn't go back into my house. I could just sit there and feel my stress levels shoot skyward.

To cut a long and arduous story short, I did finally manage to retrieve the children and we got back into our mud filled, stinking, very wet house. We lived in that delightful atmosphere for a full month, the children getting all sorts of chest problems in the process, until we could find temporary accommodation. £150 000 later, courtesy of our insurers, we moved back into a lovely fully refurbished house that the children have already managed to destroy.

So I raise my coffee mug to the sunny day outside in a silent salute to all that has gone on in the past year. I wouldn't repeat the experience, but then again, I do love my shiny new kitchen. Every rain cloud has a silver lining after all.

P.S. on a completed unrelated subject, I have failed in my duties as a mother for the second time in a week. On Friday I forgot that it was the leaver's event at the nursery, missed it entirely. Today I completely forgot that it was Teddy Bear's Picnic at pre-school. Not only am I not attending (rotten, evil mother that I am) but I forgot to pack special picnic treats in their lunchboxes and most critically, forgot the bloody bears. My children managed to drive the point about my maternal shortcomings home with their very loud sobs. Sigh. I am rubbish.

It looks like rain

It looks like rain.
Now won't that just be jolly.
It looks like rain.
You know I thought it would.
It looks like rain.
I'd better get my brolly.
A short, sharp shower will do the flowers good.

This was a little ditty I learned in primary school. It was part of our elocution lessons so that we could speak in the Queen's English as opposed to sounding like little Souf Efrikens with flat accents. Living in a drought ravaged country - where water restrictions were so strictly enforced that to this day I still ask if anyone would like to share my bath water and only flush if it's vital - rain really did seem like quite a jolly thing.

That was then. Flash forward 25-odd years and quite frankly, I feel that even the flowers are gagging for a bit of sunshine and my brolly has long since given up the ghost. When will it sodding-well end?

The weekend is looming. Husband is going to Seattle....for a week. I shall be left alone with two caged up beasties determined to vent their frustration on my sofas. We cannot possibly bake anything else, which is our normal wet weather programme. I am already the size of baby elephant. My trousers no longer do up and even my boobs are escaping from my C cup bra so that I get that attractive double boob thing under a t-shirt. I don't do crafts. a) I'm not crafty and b) the boys only do the craft activity for about 30 seconds before turning the playroom into a glue/glitter/paint-tastic nightmare. I don't think even more TV is the answer. The track with its various forts is even starting to lose its appeal to the boys, and the throwing of stones in puddles is becoming a listless affair.

I despair. Somebody help me. Please.

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.

Morning has broken

My children have inherited their father's delightful tendency to wake up before the birds do. After 4 and a bit years, 5am starts are getting a little tired. However, I can't really complain because my husband has been the one getting up with them most mornings given he's normally awake anyway. In contrast, I am a growling, surly, thoroughly unpleasant creature who isn't likely to start smiling until the first cup of coffee is down the hatch.

This morning though, husband appears to want to sleep in. Youngest beastie was in our bed at 5am doing his extraordinarily annoying rolling-like-a-crocodile manoeuvre (think David Attenborough documentary on a crocodile grabbing its prey and then rolling over and over and over until the poor creature is thoroughly drowned - that's what this child does with the sheets, until we're all in an incredible tangle and are thoroughly bruised from elbow jabs.)

So succumbing to the inevitable, I got up telling the child that he will be given milk, the telly will be put on and then I'll be returning to bed. Except I forgot. We didn't have any milk. Obviously. So with a wailing child in the background, I pulled some clothes on and staggered out into the rain in search of something dairy-related.

And then an incredible thing happened. I remembered how much I love being up before the rest of the world. It's not something you'll ever appreciate if you stay inside. But the minute you open the door on a new day before anyone else has, you feel as though you have the planet to yourself. So despite getting soaked and having to drive all the way to the service station to get the sodding milk, it was lovely. I was there so early that the newspapers hadn't even arrived yet. And the M&S Food place which is always open was shut. My dreams of hot croissants for breakfast disappeared fast. Lack of croissants and newspapers would ordinarily have annoyed me. But at least I'd secured some milk. And I'd stolen a march on the rest of the world. I was the first customer of the day. For some crazy reason, this made me feel a bit victorious. Perhaps I just needed some coffee.

Anyway, I feel doubly smug at my early start because today is the longest day of the year and I feel as though I'm going to be getting my money's worth and see all of it. Hoorah! Now if only we could actually see the sun, all would be right with the world.

P.S. While typing this I failed to have eyes in the back of my head so didn't see the aforementioned child sucking on a painted pet rock. The paint apparently isn't very good at staying on the rock. So he now has paint all over his face, his PJs and his tummy. I don't really want to go into the room where this incident took place because I have a sneaking suspicion that my positive outlook will rapidly evaporate when I find paint all over the sofa. sigh. Bloody artwork.