A tale of two days....

My morning: washing up, one load in the washing machine, hoovering, dusting, looking for (and finding) lost ID badge that I needed to when attending the induction afternoon (how else will they know it's me?), hoovering up after I knocked over plant. Breathing. Shouting at Senior Dog who saw fit to check for "hidden bones" in mounds of earth, emptying washing machine, debating whether or not to hang on line in case weather changed, scalding mouth on tea whilst taking phone call from distressed son and racing out of the door with half an hour to spare.

Mac's morning: picked up by devoted older brother, strapped into car seat in back with packet of Haribo and bottle of Ribena nestling on the car seat next to kite, bucket and spade and remote controlled car. Driven to Brighton. Sick in service area and conversation with irate mother who cursed said older brother and his need to fill younger brother with E numbers, instructed by irate mother not to eat "any more crap".

My lunchtime: hastily eaten sandwich in hospital canteen whilst meeting up with colleagues from other departments who have also been railroaded onto induction training, including Mouthy Maureen, head "cook" who is in need of a health and safety reminder. Worrying that sandwich just consumed could be health hazard. Reassured by Maureen it's more to do with "the whole lifting and shifting thing". Scald mouth on hot chocolate, tipping half of this down my (white) shirt.

Mac's lunchtime: fish and chips on Brighton beach, huddled on the shingle with adored older brother.

My afternoon: listening to the Head of HR and Staff Management drone on and on about stuff that is pure common sense, if you've half a brain. Tips included - don't lift anything that's too heavy for you to carry, don't chuck liquids over any of the equipment, don't lean back in your chairs, if the fire alarm sounds make your way to the nearest fire exit - all pretty thought provoking stuff. Think of this from The Office and you won't be far wrong. Comfort break (how I hate that phrase) spent soaking white shirt in staff toilet whilst the rest of the admin team (some coming from third and fifth floor) piled into decide how see through I had rendered said shirt. Remainder of afternoon spent with arms folded across still-damp chest (wish had not worn dingy M&S bra) because Head Porter kept staring at it.

Mac's afternoon: throwing stones into the sea, flying kite, laughing uproariously at older brother who mistimed wave on athletic run with kite and got drenched, playing with remote control car up and down the seafront endangering the life of OAPs and asking Matt why "those two men are kissing?"

My drive home: having escaped the clutches of Head Porter who asked for lift "as we're neighbours" - advised him that Herne Hill is nowhere near Nunhead. Got stuck in traffic as, at the merest hint of an "adverse weather condition" - in this case fog - London grinds to a halt. Took call from David on my Bluetooth who said he'd had a "bugger of a day". Dived into Sainsburys Dogkennel Hill for few bits and pieces and a Starbucks hot chocolate with cream. Worried about my recent need for hot chocolate since I'd given up coffee for Lent.

Mac's drive home: half asleep but woke up in time for packet of Quavers and bottle of apple juice on the M23

My appearance and mood: hot chocolate stained, damply crumpled around the chest area, weary, in need of a cuddle and a lie down, not in the right frame of mind to cook, hair all over the place, dreadful sight for loving husband to return home to. Bless him, he switched on the kettle and got the Galaxy out.

Mac's appearance and mood: over excited, covered in ketchup, faintly smelling of sick, grubby, tired, hair all over the place, not hungry, in need of a cuddle.

So we had one, sitting at the kitchen table, David saying fondly "Aw, she's had a bit of a day" and Matt replying "You should hear what we got up to!"

It's Wednesday and I'm moaning.....

I've never liked Wednesdays - never. Even as a child I hated them with a passion - they're a "nothing" day (and I had double maths and single history on a Wednesday at secondary school). They're middle of the week, not quite Thursday with that "oh it's Friday tomorrow thank God" feeling, nor Friday with that "ooh, it's the weekend tomorrow!" vibe. When I once mentioned this to David he looked at me for a good few seconds before saying "well, of course Wednesdays aren't Thursdays or Fridays - that's why they're called Wednesdays." Grrr.

The reasons for my grumpiness today are as follows:

I got very little sleep last night thanks to the sleepover. Far from wearing the boys out at Keston Lakes, I succeeded in only wearing myself out to the point of exhaustion. Ben decided, at tea time, that he hates baked beans. I know for a fact that he loves baked beans. Mac therefore decided he hated them too. I stood staring at the plates of sausage, mash and baked beans and tried not to scream. Both boys weren't tired at their bedtime (8pm on non-school nights) but were over-tired by five past. As a result of this, giggles could be heard emanating from Mac's room along with "kabooms" and "bangs" as they played some sort of game that involved Ben using a very bad American accent and the need for me to pretend that they were both invisible. David, predictably, slept through it all.

Breakfast this morning was far more imaginative than they usually are. Ben eats porridge for breakfast and, knowing that Mac won't touch the stuff, Rosie thoughtfully provided some for me. Mac stuck to toast and regarded the thick gloopy stuff suspiciously. Ben created towns and roads in his porridge bowl, aided by a few handily placed blueberries. We dropped Ben home at just before 12noon and Mac misses him already. I told him that he'd be spending the whole day with his big brother tomorrow and he was quiet for about ten seconds before asking me if tomorrow could be today. I know how he feels.

Before we left the house, I opened my emails and found out that Gibbon Road post office is one of those earmarked for closure - this is ridiculous. That's my closest post office, ever since they closed the one on Nunhead Green. Chuntering madly about Government officials not taking a blind bit of notice about the local community and the fact that elderly people now have to go miles in order to find a post office, I waved my hand out in irritation and knocked my cup of coffee everywhere - the keyboard has only just dried but the "p" and the "l" are sticking. Ben learnt some new words too - was rather concerned that Mac paid little or no notice to my outburst. Am a dreadful mother/responsible (!) adult.

On our way back from Ben's I turned left to go round Nunhead Green, past the Sally Army HQ, on the one-way street to Kirkwood Road. And got stuck behind a belching refuse cart. Now, I know these gentlemen have work to do and are doing us all a service by not leaving us to rot in our own rubbish but they have no sense of community. There were at least three places that they could have pulled into but no, they stood in the middle of the road as I fumed behind the wheel. "Be with you in a minute love" one said to me as he wielded a green bin. Five minutes later I managed to pass them. By the time I got home, steam was coming out of my ears. And found Ben's overnight bag sitting in the hall where I'd left it.

Still. Am feeling better now after my moan. Mac is already "bored" and wants to "do something exciting like making a cake, please, canwe-canwe-canwe, pleeeeeeeeeeeease mummy". I can hear him rummaging around my cake tin cupboard exclaiming "cool!" in a bad American accent.

Ben must have left it behind with his PJs.

Crisis management

My friend (and one-time Pregnancy Buddy) Rosie has no hot water and no heating in her house near Peckham Rye Common. She describes this as “annoying, a blip” – I would describe it as “catastrophic bordering on cataclysmic” but then she’s always been calm in a crisis. During our respective labours, whilst I was screaming and yelling and generally making myself heard she was enquiring after the health of the midwife and reading Prima. “It was fine right up until I wanted to do the washing up after Sunday lunch” she mused to me on the phone this morning. “No hot water, no heating – we all spent the Sunday night huddled together in one bed wearing jim jams and robes and last night we kept our slippers on!” she went on, hooting with laughter at the memory. I was open mouthed at this point, cosy and warm as I was in front of the radiator in the kitchen having just supervised Mac washing up the breakfast things. The Man with a Spanner is due to visit at some point today but the boiler may need parts “that they don’t always carry. It’s all very annoying but what can you do?” she added.

I know what I’d do: I’d be on the phone demanding the immediate presence of a plumber with a selection of spare parts already on the van. “It’s poor Ben I feel sorry for, we’ve just been out in the garden feeding the birds – it’s warmer out there than in my kitchen at the moment.” she went on. Rosie’s “blip” has come at the right time however, Ben is due at any minute for a sleepover tonight. And to ensure that they do actually sleep during the sleepover, am taking both boys and all three dogs to Keston Lakes for the afternoon. Mac is very disappointed at this: he wants to go and be miserable in Ben’s cold house and wait for “the plumby man” – my son loves a good crisis, he’s just like his father.

During a black out a couple of years ago David secured the house (from marauding looters no doubt), lit candles (making sure they couldn’t be knocked over/blown out), found torches and put them on the stairs to illuminate our way upstairs and down again, wrapped eight month old Mac up in a blanket and popped a thermometer in with him (to “check his core temperature doesn’t go down”) and spent half an hour outside comparing notes with the neighbours “Bill Opposite reckons it’ll be hours before it’s back” he said gleefully on his return “we’ve checked, they’re in darkness up to six streets away!”. It wouldn’t be a lie or an exaggeration to state that at this point he was hopping from foot to foot and rubbing his hands together. He was quite disappointed when everything came back on just before half past ten.

In the summer, when all three dogs decided to go leaping into the sea from the causeway at the same time and then rushed round our rented cottage at speed, scattering water, sand and the odd crab they’d found and decided to bring back, I was the one standing in the middle of the street outside, clutching my head and muttering. David and Mac, on the other hand, were marshalling the dogs into order, fetching “all the towels in the house son” and getting ready for the crab hunt. I skulked in once the crisis had blown over and spent the rest of the day saying wonderfully helpful things like “how the hell am I going to get fifteen towels dry? We go home tomorrow!”

“Never mind” I reassure my pouting son as we pump up the inflatible mattress “who knows what’ll happen while we’re out”.

Why do I now feel like I’ve tempted fate?

Induction irritation

My boss Iris rang me on Friday – my first thought was that she wanted me to actually come into work (I was halfway through a gorgeous ham and cheese Panini at the time) but no, she just wanted to see how I was and to pass on some information. I’m an “adhoc” member of her admin team, or as Iris calls me “a floater”. This means that I can be called upon to cover the sick leave or annual leave of any member of her team across the whole hospital. Unfortunately, the term floater doesn’t impress me much and causes much hilarity amongst my colleagues. Iris is oblivious to this but it’s something I’m going to raise when I have my appraisal at the end of February – not that I’m not a “team player” and “one of the gang” but I object to being put on a par with, no, I’m not even going to say it. Sensitive, moi?

Anyway, Friday lunchtime and her dulcet tones are booming down the line at me - my induction training has been set for this Thursday. “Yes, yes, I know, it’s pointless, I know you’ve already done one but as far as They are concerned you’re a new member of staff” Iris yawned. “They” are Der Management and/or Human Resources and a fair amount of (deserved) derision is sent in their direction. My first induction was when I’d been in the job for two weeks, back in 2000. My marriage caused them a fair bit of concern too – they tried to send me back to induction training because all of a sudden, this “new” person appeared on their database. Human Resources were “confused” at the fact that I had changed my name – they obviously didn’t get any of the twelve million emails sent about my hen night and pre-wedding knees up in the social club.

So now, having been on extended maternity leave and a bit of a career break, I rejoined the workforce and the rat race in October last year and I’ve reappeared on HR’s database and this time they’ve got their wish – I need to be reinducted. The fact that it’ll just be a repeat of what I already know is besides the point, the fact that I’ve been back at work for nigh on four months already is besides the point and the fact that it’s half term and I’ve got to arrange childcare for Thursday afternoon is also very much besides the point – as long as I’ve got that bit of paper in my file which won’t ever get looked at or referred to ever again……..mutter, whinge, moan, grrr.

Matthew has been called in to help, persuaded by his father to spend some time with his younger brother. Not that he needed much persuasion to be fair, according to Lydia Matt leapt around the room when he was asked to have him for the day and his planning a return to his own childhood. Mac is extremely happy to be spending time with his big brother and wants to do “lots and lots of…..things mummy”. For my own sanity I’m not going to ask what he has planned – I’ll only be fretting whilst listening to the Head of HR and Staff Management drone on and on about “how to lift a box safely” and what to do “in the event of a fire”.

Answers on a post card please…..

Valentine Inventory

So far I've heard that:

Bea got two dozen red roses and a Tiffany necklace.

Charlie got two cards from secret admirers, a box of chocolates from the "geeky guy in Obstetrics" and a hot look from the sexy Emergency Department consultant.

Saskia got a card, six phone numbers from the Singles Night she was at on Thursday in Canary Wharf and "some greasy git giving me puppy eyes all night".

Janey got "lucky - Darren took one look at my return to my former self and dragged me upstairs".

Lydia got a card, some freesias, a DVD of Open Water, a bar of Cadburys Fruit and Nut and "not a wink of sleep"

Marjorie got a card the size of Wales, a lemon tree, chocolate body paint and a kitten she's called Nero.

Jane Opposite got "f*** all, he don't do Valentines Day, tight git"

My mother in law received a card and a bouquet of flowers that she's paraded around the residential home so much all the petals have drooped.

Jack Next Door got a card and an invitation to dinner "one night" in Sevenoaks.

I'm happy to report that I did just as well as those listed above and, if you'd excuse me, am just off to get ready for a lovely meal out with my wonderful husband.

Dear cupid!

Who loves ya baby?

I am absolutely exhausted, whacked out, on my knees, yawning loudly and frequently. If ever there was a reason not to go all wobbly legged and dewey eyed at a pair of teeny tiny socks in Mothercare then I spent all day with it yesterday. Oh, Scarlett is cute to look at, a dream when she smiles (“It’s not wind, she’s smiling”) and her giggle is enchanting. It’s the bloody screaming I couldn’t cope with. It started innocently enough. Janey has embraced motherhood extremely well and, just over a month after her precious girl was born, she took one look in the mirror and “damn well nearly fainted”. Janey is, at best, very image conscious, at worst, extremely vain. “My roots are three inches long, my nails are all different lengths and I’m the colour of SMA. No wonder Darren’s taken to staring at me with a funny expression on his face.” So she was spending the day at “Top to Toe” being plucked, waxed, bronzed and blonded while I look after her precious baby “it’s okay” she said “I trust you.”

Certainly, the woman I saw scurrying up the path complete with baby, pram, nappy bags, holdalls and changing mat was very different to the euphoric woman I last saw in the hospital proudly proclaiming “the midwife wanted to know what colour my nail varnish was!”. She had her hair scurfed back into a pony tail and a baseball cap jammed on top, baggy jeans and a grubby T-shirt under a ankle length cardigan in shocking pink. Once inside she revealed the full horror to me. Her hair was indeed carrying a three inch root line of mousey brown, she was paler than I could ever remember her being and her nails were unvarnished, chipped and all different lengths. “That’s without me legs, me pits and me Minnie” she revealed. And I’m glad to say that’s all she revealed on that particular subject.

Details of Scarlett’s feeding times, the exact position she liked to be in for winding, how she had to have Kippy the Koala when she went to sleep AND her comforter (terry nappy that Auntie Ivy foolishly thought Janey would use instead of disposables) were given, a quick hug for me and a prolonged smooching session with Scarlett and she was off at twenty to ten with a promise to return by two “at the latest”.

I just love the way babies just are. In their own little world, wondering what the hell all these inept adults are doing with them. I remember when we first took Mackenzie home from the hospital. We just sat there looking at him in his carry cot and he was looking back at us, almost as if he were saying “Right, he’s the experienced one, but you haven’t got a clue have you?”

David had, of course, already been through all of this and so was invaluable in those early days. I have a tendency to panic (no, really?) and used to keep waking Mac up if I’d thought he’d slept for too long. As a result, Mac got tetchy and used to view me with suspicion every time I came near him, David lost count of the amount of times he hold me to “leave him alone” and I felt about as useful as a chocolate teapot.

The first baby I’d been in sole charge of since Mac was the same age opened her eyes at five past ten, looked around, realised that Mummy was not on the, let’s face it, unknown premises and started mewing. Foolishly thinking I could stop the squall before it reached gale force, I picked her up for a cuddle, first covering my front with her comforter. That was my second mistake. My first was saying “Of course I’ll have her!” on Wednesday night when Janey rang to ask.

The mewing turned to yowling, the yowling soon becoming full blown screaming. I then started dancing around with her in my arms, singing loudly – “she likes Kylie” – and making all of those ridiculous noises that people make when they’re trying to stop babies screaming. None of it worked, not even my brilliant version of this. Still holding her, I flicked through the music channels. Great, a surplus of Westlife and the Foo Fighters with a bit Kanye West thrown in but no sign of Kylie. All of my Kylie CDs are in the car – David has an aversion to the pint sized pop princess that borders on the irrational – and I didn’t dare leave her to run over the road for a quick rifle through my glove compartment.

Putting her down was a no-no anyway – the minute I did she thrashed and kicked and screamed and the pram rocked alarmingly from side to side. The carry cot, with a wriggling Scarlett in it, slid along the laminate flooring which caused Junior Dog to flee upstairs in fright. Senior and Middle Dog had already retired to the top landing, all three were peering down at me through the banisters. “Come on little one” I soothed at a deafening level “you were in this house before you were born, your mummy lay on that sofa for hours at a time!”. She wasn’t having any of it, her face was puce and her voice raw. Then the doorbell rang.

“My my my!” said Marjorie Stewart as she bustled her way into the house “I thought you were murdering kittens!” she guffawed, plucking Scarlett from me, despite my protestations. The treacherous little terror immediately stopped screaming and stared, unblinkingly at Marjorie’s powdered face. Her tiny body wracked with sobs she whimpered, safe in the knowledge that she was in the hands of a professional. I felt like I felt when Mac was a baby and would just not stop crying: useless, hopeless and about 100 years old. “They just need to know who’s in charge” Marjorie said firmly as she shimmied around the room with Scarlett openly sobbing in her arms but gradually she calmed down with no recourse to singing Kylie. I was feeling a bit tearful myself and inhaled shakily several times. “There now!” Marjorie said as she handed Scarlett back to me. “Shall I put the kettle on?”

I took advantage of the fact that I had a co-pilot and ran out to the car to get my Kylie CD’s. “Mine liked Neil Diamond” Marjorie revealed as she dunked her fifth custard cream. “Mac preferred The Beatles but I blame David for playing Yellow Submarine to my bump every day for the last two months of my pregnancy - he said it had a story-book feel to it.” I added, cocky enough now to lie Scarlett down while I warmed her bottle. The saucy little minx gazed up at me sweetly as she galloped her way through the bottle and didn’t even whinge when I got the “over your left shoulder, one hand supporting just her bottom, one hand rubbing between her should blades” routine slightly wrong. Although the dribble of milky vomit might have been a fair comment.

2pm came and went with no sign of Janey. Marjorie had left at just gone 12 “to put Frank’s faggots in the oven” and I had Kylie on low in the background. By 3pm I decided that I’d best get everything ready to go and collect Mac. Nappy changed (I can never get over the fact that it’s, for the most part, green!) I bundled her in the pram and set off for a jaunty walk. Strangers stopped to coo and Mac greeted me with “When did you have that baby mummy?” which caused a stir at the gates. As did the almost life sized Valentine’s card he’d made me – “he just kept adding sheets of paper with sellotape” Miss Phipps the playground assistant told me. He does like a bit of sellotape, I will admit.

Back by ten to four and still no sign of Janey. Had she drowned in bleach? Been waxed to death? Tanned to within an inch of her life? Scarlett decided that she’d had enough of the rank amateur and wanted that nice woman from next door back and started yelping. I paraded Kippy the Koala and her comforter in front of her, turned Kylie on full blast and Mac and I did a rather funky routine to this. She raised a little smile and thought better of letting rip. Thanks to my rather foolish decision to give up both chocolate and coffee for Lent I was left with a cup of builders tea and a custard cream to keep me going. My day had started so well too, a lovely card and the promise that David would cook dinner and Mac was “making the pudding mummy”.

Janey finally returned at five o’clock. Gone was the mousey haired pale woman with out of control eyebrows – in her place was a bronzed, glossy blonde with eyebrows so sharply defined they shrieked cutting edge. That Scarlett obviously didn’t recognise. She bellowed from the bottom of boots as a perfectly coiffed and taloned up woman appeared over her carry cot and cooed “have you had a good day sweetheart?”.

As I said to Janey as I bundled them all down the path at speed and with a fair bit of force, she obviously doesn’t recognise her new Yummy Mummy.

A little something free from me to you.....

Like Cadbury's Mini Eggs? Live or work within walking/driving/cycling distance of a Woolworths? Got a printer? Then all you have to do is click on this and it'll all come together nicely for you. But hurry, the voucher expires soon......