Yet Another Lavatorial Tale

It was a blissful momentary thing. It seemed that my work as a Mother was done. Complete.
I had no more need to chastise, clean, order around or shout.
Why?
This morning, was running around as normal, shouting at people (mostly my children) and ordering people (mostly my children) to get lunch boxes, PE kits, coats (bloody cold this morning, eh?) book bags, heads, etc into some semblance of order so that we could get them all to school...
When I smelt it...
A shiny, green, fresh sort of smell, not often found in my house, unless instigated by me...
Namely.
Toilet Duck.
Yes, I smelt it... an aura of Cleanliness and Order, of Shiny Enamelled Lavatories, of Non-Crappy Loo.
One of my children had Actually Used it.
To clean out the loo after Performing.
The window was open, the loo shiny new, and the sweet sweet smell of Toilet Duck flooded the senses. (and the bloody Bowl, must have used half the bottle)
I tell you, my work is over.
The lessons over the last 22 years are finally coming to Fruition.
'Have you Flushed?'
'Is it clean?'
'Can my friends sit down on the seat without Fresh Urine all over their legs?' ('Ewww, Mum, you are DISGUSTING.'
'Not half as much as you PEE'ING with abandon ALL OVER THE WALL.')
But no. Not any more, it seemed.
One of them could handle Toilet Duck. Appropriately.
And this would surely mean that the others would too.
Take me home, James.
My work is done.
And then, this evening. As I sat at the computer, in that peaceful moment after the carnage of tea and washing up and more shouting, was interrupted in my blissful reverie by child crashing their way into the downstairs loo.
Smugly waited while they Went. And smugly waited until they had finished.
Smugly went into loo to inspect Pristine Lavatorial Dwelling.
Oh. Shit.
Literally. Round the bowl and even on small pieces of loo paper on the floor.
An entire tree's worth of lavatory paper piled up, meringue style, almost to the top of the loo. And the stench! Brought tears to the eyes...
STOP. REWIND.
Back to basics.
Work as Bossy Cow of a Mother is to continue...
Sigh....
(Incidently, what the HELL does a DUCK have to do with lavatorial cleanliness???
Why not Toilet Tortoise? Or Lavatory Limpet? Or Bog Bat? Grrrrr)

The Hungry Caterpillar

Bugger it.
It appears I have reached new depths.
Was taking my two younger children to school this morning. Beautiful May sunshine, albeit rather chilly at 8.45 a.m. Kissed the children, said 'Morning' to anyone within reach, passed the time of day with a friend and talked about nothing much, and was about to walk back home when same friend plucked a small Green Caterpillar from my rather natty new cardigan (another story) and deposited it into my hand. I rather gingerly held it on the end of my index finger, thanked her politely (she paid absolutely no notice, never does) and started off down the road, sticking out my index finger as if playing guns with Youngest.
Not really liking this small Green Caterpillar being on the end of my finger, tried to shake it off. No luck, so flicked the slimey green bugger off into the hedge.
'Eww!' said a passenger of car sloping past (so slowly could hear the news on the radio through the open window)
Ewww?? I thought? Why?
And then realised.
Eww.
They thought I was flicking off a bogie. Snot. Nose Mucus. Greeny. Any other delightful word that describes such an odious function. Flicking it OFF my finger and into the hedge.
In full sight. A Great Big MOVING Green Bogie. (anyone on the other side of the Atlantic? A Booger to you)
Fab.
New depths.
I wanted to shout after the disapproving backside of the car 'Hey YOU! It's not a bogie, it's a CATERPILLAR!' but thought, quite rightly I think, that this would have made me seem even more weird.
And so I'll simply kill my friend and then let things lie for a while.
Or else pluck a caterpillar from HER natty cardigan (not QUITE as natty as mine) and place it just below her nostril. With Superglue.
For God's sake, WHY ME.
Grrrr.

Rude Talk

I think our neighbours might be a little unsettled by some of our loud Garden Talk recently. I yelled across the garden to Middle Son just yesterday, as he was helping Husband to tie up some raspberry canes,
'I think that they are finally DOING IT!!'
And Middle Son yelled back, 'Who? Who?'
And I yelled back, 'Hang on, can't quite see... aha, it's ROSIE!'
And Middle Son yelled back, 'Hooray, dear old Rosie!'
And all was silence again, except for the recently arrived swallows, chattering and arguing about who should build the nest. Or something.
And a few minutes later, Middle Son yelled back to me, where I was weeding a particularly obstinate bit of rose garden,
'He's at it again! Only this time it's Tilly!'
'Hooray,' I yelled back, 'Did he last any longer this time?'
'Um. ' (yelled, quite hard to do really) 'About 5 seconds.'
'Oh. (also yelled, also quite hard). Good for him.'
And again, another five minutes later, 'He's at it with Honey now!'
'Hooray! Such a good cock!'
You see, we haven't had neighbours for ages. By neighbours I mean the house down the lane, about 500 yards away. Only their garden stretches up to the corner of the lane, on the other side of the road from us. And their children have a trampoline, as I can hear the boing, boing noises of children hurling themselves up and down when I put out the washing. Slightly disconcerting to hear neighbours when you never did before. And significantly disconcerting to know that THEY can hear EVERYTHING as I can hear Every Breath of theirs. Every single WORD is as clear as a bell, as they jump up and down on that trampoline of theirs.
Oh, dear. They will think we are Hardcore Deviants.
What?
YOU think we are Hardcore Deviants?
No, no! I am talking about our new cockerel. Timmy. Red plumage, thick as shit, but goes like a train.

Which is just what we want as CHICKS are longed for. And we all know that No Shag means No Chick.
And so we will continue to call out to each other our observations of Timmy the Cock, because each Act is a possible Chick, and that is MOST Satisfactory.
Although, clearly, not to the neighbours.

Messing About In Balloons

Great excitment with balloons the other day.
No, not the Banging sort of balloons. I mean the huge ones that soar over the land during the early evening. Attached to large basket. With people in it.
Carried along on the gentle breeze. Soundless, except for the hugely breathy sound of the balloon filling with hot air.
Saw one recently. We were staying in Essex with my parents. On the farm. We had killed yet more time between lunch and tea by doing things like jumping up and down on a huge pile of sand. Tea time was approaching when...
Saw a Balloon! On the horizon. Very low. Our conversation going rather like...
Ooooh, there it is!
Oh, no, it's not!
Ooooh, yes, it is!
Oh, it's disappeared behind the hedge!
Ooooh, it's come back up from behind the hedge!
Sort of thing.
Well, imagine our excitement when the balloon drifted slowly downwards behind the trees... within what seemed like yards.
Quick! we all yelled at each other. Run!
Children leaped on their bikes and tore off down the track. Parents heaved themselves into Landrover and moved off at less hectic speed.
And me? I ran. After the children, down the track.
Reached the field where we thought the balloon might be. Panting somewhat.
Well.
Wasn't. Near.
Was far away across several fields. But definitely on our land.
We all watched.
Balloon was definitely Going Down. Would dip down, lurch up, dip again.
And then, all of a sudden, down it Really Went. The big roundness of the balloon deflated slowly and slid onto its side, looking like a curious sort of whale, floundering around on the field.
Huge excitement. We all shouted at Pa, my father, to drive us NOW to see the landing... what was left of it.
Pa drove us, very slowly, across the fields.
Can't go too fast, he explained. Might get a puncture.
Faster! Faster! we yelled. Desperate to get there and See The Balloon.
After an agonisingly slow journey with an awful lot of, PLEASE GO FASTER, PA! finally arrived at the Scene.
Curious, balloons are. Huge and elegant in the sky, where they belong.
Beached whales on the land. Where they don't.
We sat on the gate of the field and watched all the palaver of undoing ropes and unhitching other bits. Not to mention the several square miles of silk.
When all of a sudden arrived a filthy dirty landrover which hurtled its way along the road. I could have sworn the vehicle itself was furious. The driver was. Goodness me. Out he shot. Yelled obsenities at the man in the balloon.
Things like,
@What the f**??ng hell do you f*??!ing think you're f**??*ng doing with my f*!!?ing animals with that f***ing thing floating in the f*??!ng sky. Kind of words.
And with one more look of loathing he threw himself back in his landrover and drove off.
Stunned, we were. Hoped that Youngest hadn't heard. Judging by stunned look on his face, he had. Would look forward to him repeating that word to me at some later, highly inappropriate moment.
Man in balloon then called over to us,
'Are any of you the farmer of this field?'
Pa, my dad, strolled over to upsidedown balloon and Balloon Man.
Explained that he was actually the father of the farmer, and tut tutted about the state of the field. After the landing.
Balloon Man offered Pa a bottle of whisky.
Pa said, in nice clear tones, that actually he was owed £50 by any balloon that landed on the farm.
Poor old Balloon Man. He didn't stand a chance what with Furious Men in Landrovers (We found out later that he had had his animals severely frightened by Balloon overhead) and Pa, who was insisting, with great courtesy that he paid what he owed.
Balloon Man was a Brick. As they say in Enid Blyton books. Baffingly.
Said he would pay up. Apologised for state of field. Took details of my brother, whose farm it is, and let the children clamber all over the basket of balloon. They had loved the whole drama, getting closer and closer to balloon and basket, trying to listen in on the excitement.
Balloon Man answered all sorts of questions about Balloons.
What happens if you crash?
How do you jump out?
Where do you go to the loo?
Is there food?
Sort of thing.
The basket was Most Strange up close and personal. Sort of hessian looking with neat compartments for everyone to stand up in, so that no one falls on top of anyone else. The children looked rather like knives and forks in an upright knife and fork basket, neatly arranged and in the right place. Rather thought it would be nice to have basket at home in the house to neatly arrange children when desperate for peace and quiet.
As sun sank below the horizon we settled ourselves back into the Landrover and drove home, back across the fields, for tea, chatting madly about rude men in landrovers and balloon baskets. Killed the time nicely before tea.
And so, next time the children see a Balloon, hovering above the sky line, they will be able to say knowingly to each other,
Been in a balloon.
Which won't half impress their friends.
Will save a penny or two as well. They often comment about how much they'd like to go in a balloon. Well, they have now.
Ticked that box.
Marvellous.

My Mother

My Mother
Well, the best mother in the world, of course.
Why?
Well, because she listens.
And when listening to someone's tale she will say,
'Stop! Wait! Start at the beginning! You parked the car...'
And will then Really Listen. Right to the very end. And beyond.
And you know she's listening because she likes to know all the details. And asks for them.
Which is pure gold.
She cares.
When I am sick, she rings.
'Darling, how ARE you?' she will ask.
And keep asking, until she knows I am OK again.
She goes to see darling

By the Skin of his Teeth

Youngest is awfully good at saying he had Done His Teeth.
And not doing them.
Every morning I ask him, EVERY MORNING,
'Have you done your teeth?' as he comes down the stairs to have his collar straightened. It gets stuck under his school jumper. This also happens every morning.
'Yes,' he beams. Every morning.
'Show me,' I say. Every morning.
And Every Blasted Morning he does a Half Bare'ing sort of smile. Showing bits of teeth, but not the full package.
And EVERY CHUFFING MORNING I tell him
'No, you haven't, go and do them again.'
And EVERY CHUFFING MORNING he sulks, and goes up the stairs to do them. Again.
Although he hasn't done them AT ALL.
You would think after almost 7 years of Teeth Cleaning, of which the last 700 mornings he has done it on his own, with me peering into his mouth to check out the missed bits, that he would have Copped On.
Nope.
Oh, well, at least I don't have to check his bottom these days. You know, the 'Have you wiped your bottom?' scenario, when they say they have and you know, you just KNOW that it hasn't been That Successful.
And you check.
And you thank the Heavenly Stars above that you did.
Because it is Carnage.
So checking a mouthful of teeth isn't so bad really. It's at the right end of a person. Can't really go wrong.
Teeth? Or 'Wiped' Bottom?
Absolutely No Contest. Teeth every time. I avoid bottoms at all costs these days. Apart from my own.
Reluctantly.

Hysteria during Revision

Am vaguely aware of Middle Son revising for his Geography Exam, as I examine my emails, tea all finished and washing up complete.
'Ecosystem,' he is muttering to himself.
Occasionally he asks me a question, but I am too engrossed in a new email that am not really hearing him.
'Just a minute,' I say.
When suddenly, through my consciousness, I hear him say, quite distinctly. 'Orgasm.'
What the ****?
'Dead orgasm,' he is muttering now.
'Darling,' I say, brightly. 'Don't think you have the right word.'
'Huh?' he grunts.
'ORGASM!' I yell, trying to Get Through fog of incomprehension.
Middle Son's eyes widen like an animal caught in head lights. There is a brief moment of brain ticking.
Then the penny drops.
Helpless giggles begin.
'Don't write that in your exam,' I weep, trying to get the words out.
'Nope!' he whimpers back, holding his stomach.
'Dead orgasms!!' I manage to voice, hoarsely.
'Living orgasms!!' he claws out, with effort, between bouts of laughter.
And so it continues.
Until we have exhausted the orgasm jokes. And then, we settle back into Sensible Revision Time.
With just the odd chuckle or two to relieve the monotony of memorising Food Chains and Herbivores.

Puppy Love

'Oh, it's just like having a baby again!!!'
Says Everyone.
About having a puppy.
I laughed.
I did!!
Really!
Because I thought to myself, WHY?
It's a Puppy. Not a Baby.
But. I. Was. Wrong.
A puppy is NOT a dog. A puppy is a wee'ing, poo'ing, whining, biting, taking everything away'ing, BABY.
And not only that, but as I sit next to his cage at night, waiting until he drops off (yes, I do, I really, really do) and thinking to myself that this is JUST like being a mother and waiting for that baby to GO TO SLEEP so that I can finally put my oh, so weary head on my deliciously comfortable pillow and disappear into the haven of unconciousness...well, as I do that, I am KICKING myself for not doing this sooner.
Because I am loving every minute.
Because although Milo is just like a baby in some ways, (wee, poo, feeding) in all other ways he is a delightful, gallumping, sweet natured, DEAR little thing.
And the best thing is that, unlike new mothers, I DON'T have anything pouring out of every orifice that I possess. (not ears, I seem to recall...)
I DON'T have breasts the size of two magnified melons, each one seemingly plugged into a painful and persistent electric shock treatment, just as the baby latches on, yet again, for another agonising feed.
I am NOT stupified by a 48 hour labour, the equivalent of a triathlon. Twice.
My stomach is NOT a quivering and wobbling landscape, trying to escape from Maternity Jeans at every movement.
No. Really! HONESTLY!
On the whole, I am just as I was a week ago, perhaps a little weary from getting up in the middle of the night, to potter outside with Milo, while he wees and does his stuff. And then waiting for him to settle, before I nip upstairs to bed.
But also very happy as we wander down the track behind our house, with Milo in arms until we are off the public footpath and we can finally let him go, and let him gallump and gambol next to the children.
Who LOVE him.
I mean, who COULDN'T!
I mean, LOOK at Milo and Eldest. Ad-or-able. Both of them.

And so, yes, it IS just like having a baby again.
Only without the enormous breasts, sleepless nights and preoccupation with Orifices.
Marvellous!
Mind you, looking forward to a whole night's sleep. Tell me, how does that feel again?
xx

Meet Milo. Small, round and gorgeous.

Look who's arrived at our house.
Name of Milo.
Howled throughout the whole of the first night. Thought that would have to return the little blighter.
Slept until 5 am this morning, which was a vast improvement.
Children are totally in love with him. Well, who WOULDN'T be?!
Youngest says things like,
'It's all different now, Mummy. All changed. The cat's food is Not On The Floor anymore.'
And sighs deeply, as if all the weight of the world were on him.
But this IS the biggest change in his life. Huge.
And we are all adjusting to the strangeness of a new member of the family who pees everywhere and bites little holes in our shoes.
But OH! We love him.
Hope you do too.
xx

A Little Tale about Nothing in Particular

'Mummy, Mummy, Mummy,' started Youngest, yesterday after tea. Was still struggling with the clearing away of mountains of plates and cutlery, forcing the buggers into the Dishwasher, as I like to fill each and every Available Crevice with plates and cups and saucepans and lids and big spoons that won't fit into that absurd Cutlery thing that's supposed to fit all the Cutlery. But never does.
'WHAT?' said I, somewhat Exasperated, as can't seem to finish a Thought in my Head at the moment, let alone a Simple Task about the Home. 'Can't you see I am already busy? Trying AS USUAL to do too many things at the same time??'
You can see what a marvellous mother I am.
I can see Youngest thinking.
'I can do two things at once,' he announced.
'Really?'
Was a little Doubtful. He is after all Male and six years old.
'Yup,' he said. Confidence oozing out of every pore.
'Tell me what two things you can do at once,' I muttered, from the bowels of the Dish Washer, forcing that last fecking glass in.
Youngest almost Preened with Pride.
'I can make a Poo AND a Wee come out at the same time.'
Oh, Dear.
Could see my giggling mirror image in the dirty reflection of saucepan lid, winking up at me, as I am crouched over my machine like a paratrooper over land.
Heaving myself out, Youngest asked when I would be ready to play with him.
'In a minute!!' I said, in that time honoured way, crashing dishwasher shut and hearing the familiar whirrings and splashings to indicate that the cycle had begun.
'Oh.' he said.
Eeyore-like with Gloom.
There was a Very Long Silence.
And then he said,
'I'll just stand here then and Stare at the Floor.'
Oh, for God's sake. Talk about Martyr. Clearly action was needed and Fast.
'Nearly done! I boomed, in Cheerful Mother mode, when she knows that Playing with Children is Inevitable and there is NO MORE procrastination available.
In desperation I tidied the Fairy Liquid.
I could see Youngest in his droopy pose in the reflection in the window.
Staring at the floor.
Ker-ist.
I pulled myself together.
And took my Youngest into the warmth of the sitting room where we played Racing Demon for half an hour before bath time.
Which is crap with just two people, but Youngest doesn't mind.
It beats staring at the floor.