Thursday, 6 January 2011

Christmas....The Aftermath

Almost a month since Christmas. Ah, love Christmas. Love, love, love's like a big shiny disco ball. I decline for at least 3 months after it's all over. The problem with Christmas is (and there aren't really any problems with Christmas but if there was one this would be it) the aftermath. Not financially, I don't do Christmas on my credit card but when I do find myself in ASDA, forking out double the amount I would normally deem unacceptable in the single amount, I remain insouciant. Children's demands don't bother me because they don't really make any. The certain mayhem of the actual day...well, it wasn't too bad this year and we're a bit disorganised here at Demands? Towers anyway, so we cope. No, it's the 'taking down of the decorations' that gets me. Every year, without fail, we manage to stock pile another box of decorations (Sig. Other has a bit of a thing for Christmas lights and I have a bit of a thing for breaking them, plus I love John Lewis, you get the picture). So, there is all this stuff piled up and then I have to hack off the branches of the Christmas Tree and someone always manages to get a pine needle stuck in, usually. So, it's all going on, I'm finding rouge baubles in random places but it gets done and I realise how a few carefully placed decorative displays manage to disguise a plethora of clutter. Now we are I have to get sorted, get organised because the darn 'New Year' rears it's unwelcome head with all that 'New Beginning' nonsense. It's a real problem for the chronically disorganised.

So I did it all, I managed to sort it all and one month...a whole month later, I'm still getting pine needles stick in my feet and still finding rouge Rose's chocolates. Still wading through pickles and bath gel. However, I really, really, really do wish it was still Christmas.....'I know Mum' yawns my 7 year old 'you say that ALL the time.' Sensible girl. Maybe I have an issue with letting go?

Wednesday, 24 November 2010

things my baby says

eeer ya go mummi (here you go mummy... but in a very Manc. accent)

pick you (PICK ME UP NOW)

Where? (please find the washing insruction label on my blanket)

Guy (In The Night Garden)

Guy NOW (Can I watch In the Night Garden?)

Why doesn't #3 talk as much as #1 and #2? Probably doesn't need to, they do it for him. Plus, is anybody elses child obsessed with the tag ( the washing ones) on blankets etc? What's that about?

Thursday, 5 August 2010

'Me time'....hmmm. How does that work then?


I started insisting on this ritual, mainly because of the summer holiday and because of the summer holiday, me and my brood are chained at the hip. I was reading this posh woman's periodical, that's where it all started. The magazine itself was all 'Outfits which will carry you from the boardroom to .....' ah, I dunno, wherever these woman make off to when they've finished in the boardroom and creating the 'shabby' as in chic opposed to the SHABBY as in a bit grubby, sorry folks, I've got that look down pat.

Anyway, this mag. waxed lyrical about 'the importance of time spent in a state of tranquility' Say this last bit with a slightly furrowed if you really care. The author carried on waxing about the Grandmother, who, when caring for her Grand-brood, insisted on shutting her door for an hour and indulging in some relaxing time.

I'm all for me time but my 'me' time usually consists of ME putting the baby down for his sleep and trying to watch Come Dine With Me repeats, whilst my other 2 jump all over ME. Please don't judge on the Come Dine... front; we all have our guilty pleasures. I have several: Man V Food, Iron Chef America and, well anything low brow, American and food related. I am, of course, very high brow but during 'me' time, I like a bit of low brow. I wouldn't say my 'me' time was solely for me anymore. My eldest ones love watching the Food Channel, they love Man v Food, they love my low brow televisual treats, 'Mummy's time' is a reason to celebrate! Sometimes they even ask for lemonade. Lemonade!!!! Well, it is the hols so I occasionally capitulate, on the condition that they get it themselves, for it is ME time. More reason to whoop, they give themselves far more than I would ever allow.

So, in conclusion, does it work? Hmmmmm....the tranquility bit passes me by but maybe that's more to my dubious tastes in entertainment; watching a grown man eat his own body weight in burgers is hardly tranquil making. On the other hand, the kids understand that I need a bit of a sit down when the wee one is napping and, yeah....well... yeah. Yes/No (don't you hate it when people say that) but yes/ can and it can't..I don't mind...because maybe, one day they want want to encroach on my 'me' time, then I will be sad. for Brio Hedgehog to sorry, I have lost the web address for the guy who asked me to review...please send it to me, the Brio Hedgehog was a storm!

Wednesday, 4 August 2010

Breast is best......or is it? Plus a few asides...

There is a supermodel, she's called Giselle Bundchen and, apparently, she thinks a law should be passed and the mother's of this world should be made to breast feed for at least the first six months of baba's new life....hmmmm, conjours up pictures of battery breast feeding farms, with Ms Bundchen policing the proceedings. How else could you do it? D'you think the Tories...opps, sorry, the 'coalition' could find a few extra pennies down the back of the sofa to fund 'Breast is Best' enforcers? Sorry, my inner child is giggling at the thought of the uniform.... go to the naughty step inner child!

Read the BBC article, go on...I defy you not to gasp in astonishment, roll around on the floor displaying large amounts of mirth, shake your fist at the computer, whilst emitting a healthy GGGRRRR. As for the modelling of swim wear after 6 weeks....isn't that a bit early to go back to work Ms B? Sorry, couldn't resist. The point is, after 6 weeks of having my first child, I was leaking nay, squirting breast milk everywhere (gallons of it...everywhere), crying in pain due to a nasty, nasty bout of mastitis and ready to quit breast feeding. I didn't, and was lucky enough to feed all my babies for a long (long, long, loonnnngggg) time.

She thinks: 'Are you going to give chemical food to your child when they are so little?' Sweetie, these women, y'know, the ones who bottle feed? Well, they aren't giving their babies crack cocaine. It is lovely to breast feed but, for some, it isn't possible, it isn't an option or it isn't desirable. We are not to judge. I know people who do extended breast feeding, co-sleep, attachment parenting etc and then spend the next few years being frustrated by their feisty, awkward toddlers. The point being, as long as our babies feel loved and secure, we have given them the best possible start. Provide the support for those that do breast feed...breast feeding cafes sound lovely (far more comfortable than feeding baby at a crowded Old Trafford Cricket Ground firework display) but, equally, don't make those who don't somehow 'inferior' or guilty; it isn't fair.

Right, this post marks my blogging comeback. I'm still teaching but it is, in no way, going to take over my life. That aside, nothing much has occurred, although my 7 year has discovered 'popular' music....she likes this

and these
How could this happen???!! I'm wondering now....I mean, I don't want to create a child in the image of myself, but all those hours listening to The Clash and the Buzzcocks; did they meant nothing!!!!???? Ahhh well, I used to love A-Ha, so one day, pop may well itself (muso ref there for all your muso's) and, whilst no doubt disagreeing on a lot ( d#1 is feisty to say the least) we may unite in a love of good music.

Tuesday, 2 March 2010

When is a baby not a baby?

Nope I haven't given up my...ahem...'career' in teaching to become the Riddler; instead I've been pondering the issue of whether my 15month old baby #3, last baby - Archie to be precise - has, without telling me ( he has no manners that Archie!) turned into a toddler:

Here he is looking quite angelic (or maybe a bit guilty?!); "ohhhh he looks like a proper little boy now" people do exclaim. Does he? I always thought he looked quite girly! He did when he was a new born but that is probably because he was the image of my daughter and not at all like my son. He walks, he climbs, he feeds himself, he plays; all the things a toddler should be doing but, nope, he's still a baby. My friend, who has a little one 2 weeks younger than Archie,refers to her 'toddler'; mind you,she's expecting her second in a few months...that, in my experience,is when the baby #1 really does grow up!

Do last babies stay babies longer than others? I think so. Therefore, I pledge to continue to ensure Archie calls himself 'baby', I will continue to buy sleepsuits with feet in (so cute) etc, etc,etc (ha,ha...that's what the kids did in my old class when they couldn't be bothered finishing their stories eg '...and they woke up and it was all a dream etc, etc, etc). So,in a few years time, if you should happen to see an 18 year old male wandering around in a sleepsuit shouting "I'm not a 'baybee' now mother" send him on home to me.

On another note; why do kids have great hair?
Here's Lily. Lily hates hairbrushes, shuns clips, what never, ever, in a million years let me dry her hair and yet her hair is the colour of spun gold and has the bounce of ...something very bouncy. When I was a child,I remember my mum would spend ages combing and drying and putting it in rollers (remember those sponge rollers with the clip on?). I would,of course, moan about this imposition...just like Lily does if I advance with the hairbrush now. "Doesn't matter"my mum would tell me "when I was a child my mum put my hair in rags...that was far more painful" and the brushing and the rollering would continue unabated. that would be a novel sanction: "Don't answer back...or I'll put your hair in rags" bet that's better than the naughty step of time out bucket. I'll let you know.

Friday, 19 February 2010

Piles.... not THOSE sort of piles (ya see what I did there!? A cheap way to get attention I know!) I am, however, suffering from the worst kind of piles; piles of junk mail; school letters; THINGS that need immediate attention (my sense of the immediate is ahem...a rather delayed reaction). These piles though, they just grow; they breed over night. What started out as a relatively modest pile snowballs into mountains of paper and plastic and library books and...well the list goes on.

Childbirth brings about the worst, most painful sort of piles (I did it again....;-) because those are the piles that need to be dealt with; envelopes that need to be opened: the child trust fund, the school targets, which I kind of ignore; hey, I'm a teacher I know where my kids are at....honestly. I won't get started on target setting for our wee ones, those who should be playing and not worrying about sub levels and SAT's. Suffice to say, have no fear, if I ever happened to teach your child I would target set until the cows come home (it comes with the role, no matter how ridiculous I find it!). The most dreaded source of piles though it the WORKING TAX CREDIT THINGYS. How many pieces of paper does that one use???!!! I have studied each and every correspondence from a variety of angles but, nope, it makes no sense to me.

So, these piles are building up and are being ever so neatly stacked on any available surface and I look and think 'Goodness, must do something about that lot' but still they grow. Of course immediate filing would sooth the problem but then that would dispel my assumption that I'm suffering from some sort of chronic disorganisation disorder. It's real, honestly! Google it..there are specialists in the States who deal with this sort of thing. So, you see, it's catch 22. WHAT should I do about my piles?? More than likely, stop this procrastination and starting acting....oh well, mañana.

PS: Mum with carrot in her hair tagged me in a meme (that always make me laugh as son#2 calls his blanket Meme) I haven't forgotten Mum....and I will do (it's the Chronic dis......yeah, yeah!)

Saturday, 16 January 2010

The problem with...

work. The problem with work is that you actually have to be prepared to turn up and do it. Since going back to work (albeit part time), I realise I don't feel the same anymore. Sorry work, we used to have a connection but it's all's not you, it's me. Work has definitely been supplanted by family (this was always the case) and, dare I say it, domesticity. Honestly, pre-kids I didn't care what state the house was in, as long as it was basically clean (not quite as bad as the friend who, after a break in at her flat called the police, they were commiserating with her, over the appalling state the reprobates had left her room in, it was with some huge embarrassment that she had to admit that this was her natural habitat).

Anyway, work. I basically like my job, I don't like box ticking, continual monitoring, huge workloads that insist on an invite home. 'Why do you stay up until 3am working?' asked one of my childless colleagues. She's planning a baby, 'you'll find out' I said, hopefully in enigmatic tones, but more likely in a weary drawl enhanced by the eye tick, the signifier of the permanently knackered.

So, I'm (hopefully) shipping out; well, for a bit anyway. I reduced my hours, changed my role, been very pro-active but I'm sick of snapping at my own kids because I've been pushed to the limit at work. I'm sick of rejecting nights out because there is still one more job to do.

Sooooo, any suggesting for 'life after teaching?'. Or, alternatively, is there a school out that that still trust teachers enough to teach? C'mon...there must be one or two?