Armageddon

I'm messing with the plasticine even though my son has moved on to playing multi-story car park with the television stand.   There is an actual toy multi-story car park that we paid good money for less than a meter away from him, but never mind.

I'm busy making a pizza with the red, yellow and green bits when I sense a quietness come over the room. I look up to see Brendan standing stock still, knees slightly bent, a car in each hand.  His face is turning peuce as he braces himself.

I sigh quietly.

"Are you doing a poo poo?" I ask.

He smiles and points to his crotch.

"A doo doo," he confirms and goes back to his game.  The smell hits me.  Oh dear Christ!

I sigh again, more deeply this time, and rue the fact that my husband isn't here to negotiate with.

"Come on then," I jump up, "let's change your nappy."

No response, although the fleeting sideways glance suggests he understands me very well.

"Come on, upstairs, clean bum!"

I take him by the wrist and his whole body goes limp and then squirms in protest, releasing more of the offending odours.  Oh sweet Jesus that's bad!

He pulls this way and that as I pick him up and take him upstairs.  My eyes water.

He's calm now and so I set him down on the floor of his room as I prepare for a shocker: extra wipes, oh and a spare vest... just in case...

While my back is turned he has spotted the books on the shelves.  I hear the armchair creak and spin round to find him standing near its edge, wobbling precariously as he reaches up.

"ON YOUR BOTTOM!!" I cry, my standard instinctive response to his current furniture climbing phase, only this time I regret it instantly as he launches himself backwards onto his full bum with a resounding thud. He's safe, but at what cost to his nappy's defences?

I lay him on the changing table as he looks up innocently.  He hums Twinkle Twinkle to himself as I prepare myself for Armageddon. It doesn't disappoint.

Daybreak at the mothership

My eyes are sealed shut and I sense the movement of his warm little body as he starts to stir. He moves a quarter turn as he squirms, his feet in my rib cage, his head in his dad's armpit, making his grumpy morning noises as if someone is forcing him to wake up. I assure you, no one is!

I can see daylight through my eyelids but I cling to the hope that he'll drop back into sleep, although this has never happened before.

His movements grow as he flips onto his belly and then up on to all fours. He turns round, kicking me in the chin and using his dad's face to steady himself.  I know this because I hear the grunt from my husband.

A shadow looms over me and I feel a string of wetness land softly on my cheek: his dribble. I know he's watching my face closely for signs of life.

I open my eyes and he smiles in delight as he pushes up on to his knees.

"Eyo lully" he says. I can't help smile too even though I see 5.30am on the clock.

"Hello Brendan". Not much more than a croak.

In an instant his knee is in my groin and his sharp little elbow stabs my boob as he crawls over me. I steady him as he swivels round to jump down from the bed with a quiet thud.  I've shut my eyes again.  My husband has gone back under.

The duvet shifts as he searches under it to find my hand. He grips my fingers in his hot little fist and I open my eyes again. Pointing to the stair gate he starts pulling at my arm with an insistent moan.

"Okay okay, I'm coming".

I throw on a jumper and he holds my hand as he counts his way down the stairs.  We turn into the lounge, his face lighting up as he beelines for the toy garage.  Always his first port of call.

I stagger to the kettle, yawning.

And so our day begins.

The world is my coffee table

I see his expression change as it dawns on him that I'm actually going to stop him from standing on the coffee table.  What a dreadful mother!  Climbing onto furniture is ace, right?  So why on earth would I ruin his whole life like this? Tsk, where's that Childline number when you need it?

His little face shifts from triumphant wonder to confusion to utter desolation in as many beats as I stand over him wearing my stern face.

His first strategy is to squeeze his arms as close to his body as possible so that I can't get my thumbs under his armpits.  I suppress a smile at this stubborn pose and manage to wedge them in somehow.  Foiled, he resorts to the "dead weight drop", relaxing every single muscle in his body at once (except for his vocal chords) to plummet directly towards the sharp corner of the table.

But I'm ready for him.  I brace myself and hold him firmly around the chest with both hands. Outmanoeuvred again, he opts for the "twist-twist-scrunch" followed by a quick "plank of death" and finishes his salvo with the "ball of fury".  He nearly breaks free but I hold fast and lift him from the table. He senses defeat but tries one last "plank" and head butts me in the face.  

He reaches a vocal crescendo that ebbs away to silence as his lungs run out of air.  I carry him away from his Everest, face frozen in his wail until a deep breath is sucked in to prepare for another tsunami of sound.

The only place to put him is on the floor and so I lay him down gently taking care he doesn't bang his head. He kicks me in the boob.

I go to the kitchen to seek refuge in a cup of tea.   His sobs die down to nothing and I sneak a peek into the room.  He's pointing out of the window and sees me looking.

"Tree!" He shouts with glee! "TREE!"

And with that the coffee table is forgotten.

Plane Spotting

"Lay!!!" shouts Brendan, almost falling over himself as he comes to an abrupt stop in the middle of the zebra crossing. He's pointing to the sky.  "LAY, LAY," he screams in delight while I manhandle him to the pavement.

I crane my head upwards while he jumps up and down, his finger pointing desperately.  "LAY, LAY, LAAAAAYYYY!!!!"

At last I see the plane, its tiny fuselage glistening in the distance, a small shape in the sky that his hawk-eye spotted easily.  If he wants to be a pilot one day, I'm pretty sure he'll pass with twenty twenty vision.

We continue towards the park:

"Dar!" He points at a car.

"Dar!" He points at another car.

"Axi!" He points at a taxi.

"Dar!" He points at a bus.

My son, who can tell the difference between a car and a taxi, but not between a car and a bus. I smile.

I pop him in the swing and start to push.

"Loon!!!" He exclaims.  I look around trying to figure out what he's telling me.

"LOON!!!"  He looks at me for confirmation. I'm stumped.

And then I see a crescent in the sky, the thin sliver that I showed him the day before.

"Moon," I say. "Yes, that's the moon. Well done Brendan."

We carry on swinging and I see a group of teenage boys just outside the playground. One spits.  Another has his hands in his pants cupping his privates.

I look back at my son and wish he could be this age forever.

A Mother's Day Muse

I've been doing this mothering malarkey for nearly eighteen months now.  Before Brendan was born I had so many ideals about what sort of mum I would be, and what I would and wouldn't do.  Here are just a few of them that might make you smile.  

1.  I'd have my baby in a lovely birthing pool with maybe just a drop or two of lavender oil and a touch of arnica (you know, just in case).  I'd listen to the playlist I'd put together on my iPod called "birth chill".  My child would float up to the surface and break through the water all perfect and lovely. The midwives would tell me how remarkably composed I'd been throughout and I'd be discharged just a few hours later.  I'd go home looking serene and calm.  

2.  Breast feeding would be a life affirming experience. I'd be a natural and so would my baby.  Of course it wouldn't hurt at all, I mean why would it? Oh, and I'd never, ever use formula.

3.  I'd be running again within three months of giving birth.  I'd lose the baby weight within six.

4.  My son would sleep through the night by the time he was four months old. I'd try not to be smug.

5.  I'd take the opportunity to write a novel while on maternity leave.

6.  I'd bake every day.  In fact I'd really indulge in my love of cooking and have amazing and diverse food ready for when Dave came home from work.  Having a baby wouldn't impact on our sex life, either.  I mean my body confidence would be tip top and he'd sleep so well, right?

7.  I'd do up the flat while my baby napped.  I'd learn to sew and make matching curtains and cushion covers for our bedroom.  I'd also make most of my baby's clothes and maybe a dress or two for me.

8.  I'd buy reusable nappies and only ever use disposable ones on long journeys.

9.  I'd dig the camera out and take experimental photos of London while my baby slept in a sling.  I'd win photo competitions with my amazing shots.  People would look on in admiration.

10. I'd never have cause to feel guilty as I would balance everything perfectly and would never doubt myself. 

11. My child would never watch children's television.

Funny, right?

But while maybe only the tiniest hints and suggestions of the above ever actually came to pass, I don't think I'm a lesser mum for it... just a very different one than I'd envisaged back in those naive pregnant dreamy days.

Happy Mother's Day you mothers! Pats on the back all round don't you think?

Here comes the Sun

Yesterday I felt the sun on my back and had that feeling that we all experience when we sense its warmth for the first time. Whatever you're doing, whether rushing to get somewhere, taking the bins out or strolling round the park, it makes you pause for just a second and go "oh!" in pleasure.

If you're on our own you'll just smile and turn your face up to the sun. If you're with someone you'll probably say something like "ooooh, Spring's just around the corner now!" You might even get a bit carried away and take off your coat before putting it straight back on again as soon as you're in the shade. It's not that warm after all!!!

But for parents with toddlers this moment carries extra significance on one major level that impacts our day to day lives in the most fundamental way: leaving the house with your child stops being the most giant ball-ache ever!!!

Because the simple act of weather proofing your child is one of the most difficult, stressful and frankly exhausting aspects of parenting. And here's why:

Just before you are about to put your child's wet weather onesie on he grows at least three more pairs of limbs. He also chooses to keep these limbs in perpetual motion, moving them as if he's doing head shoulders knees and toes while dancing to Gangnam Style all after eating the bag of Haribo you thought you'd hidden really well. You'll then play the really fun game of "I put your hat on, you take it off again" for at least five minutes before trying to get both mittens on simultaneously so that he can't pull the first one off before you get the second one on.

By this time you'll be so hot and sweaty that you'll need a glass of water, which you'll drink while he stands by the front door screaming to be let out. You'll rush round grabbing snacks and drinks and then look frantically for your door keys (which are always in your pocket aren't they?). You'll put on your own coat, hat, scarf and gloves and then you're finally ready to go... at which point your child looks at you innocently while he fills his nappy with a giant poo.

And so yesterday I felt the sun on my back, and I said "oh!" And then I said, "thank fuck for that!"

Soul Food

I am a little hungover!  In ordinary circumstances this would be an utterly horrific prospect, as we all know that hangovers and toddlers should never ever mix!  (They're a bit like matter and antimatter in that respect.)  Which is why I'm pleased to tell you that Brendan and I are currently 34 miles apart!  He's at home playing with Brio and his dad, and I'm sat around a fabulous kitchen island somewhere in Ascot nursing an effervescent multivitamin drink!

This weekend has been in the diary for some time, with the words "do not double book" underlined in red.  It's a sort of pre-hen weekend, which sounds rather indulgent, but why the hell not?  For one reason or another my school friends can't make the official weekend of gallivanting and so what better excuse to have a warm up can there be?

We all headed to my friend's place, after she'd packed off the hubby and kids to the inlaws for the night.  We popped some bubbly and so began and evening of catching up, laughing and reminiscing.  Oh and somersaults, but we'll gloss over that...

At 10pm I succumbed to a terrific yawn that seemed to originate from my very soul.  My friend looked up with concern and I waited for her to insist I go to bed immediately and make the most of a night away.

"Laura", she said instead, "we are NOT going to bed at ten!"  She looked around the flagging group. "Right, that's it.  We're going out!!!"

"Out???" I exclaimed. "You mean outside out?"

We all looked at her with barely concealed fear.

"Yes, outside out.  There's a club by the station.  Get your shoes on girls, let's see what it's like!"

"Oooh," we started warming to the idea, "yes let's go out.  Remember when we used to do that? But I haven't been out for ages, and I'm wearing snow boots with pom poms. Will they let us in? Are we too old? Surely we're too old to go out?"

And so we went out, to a somewhat ropey club by a station (you can just imagine, right?)  The bouncer let us in free of charge, we downed a shot (classy) and launched ourselves at the empty dance floor.

We did the best we could with what we were given.  The DJ had a penchant for "garage" (or were we just in someone's garage?) which doesn't lend itself well to a bunch of vodka fuelled women in their late thirties who'd probably do better with a bit of Madge or Duran Duran.  But we regressed quickly to the good old days, and danced for a solid three hours.  And while as each hour passed I rued the loss of a good night's sleep, the belly laughs, the retro-chic moves and the drunken walk home holding hands and giggling more than made up for it.

Old friends, music and dancing... Maybe not restful but food for the soul nonetheless...