Wednesday 30 January 2008

There is something to be said for single parenthood. Don't get me wrong, I do miss my husband (in fact I had to take his dressing gown to bed with me last night as the bed really was too big without him), but certain aspects of life are way easier. Mealtimes, for instance. There's none of this slaving away making hearty, meaty man-meals, like cottage pie (which takes about twenty years to make and another thirty-five to wash up). Children are more than happy with a slice of pizza and a handful of chocolate raisins - preferably served up on a slice of kitchen roll to save any unneccessary washing up. Laundry is also easier: no green kit, no PT kit, no moaning about odd socks. There is nobody to complain about the biscuit crumbs on the car seats or the light left on in the hall. Or to get upset about not being able to find the scissors/blu tac/cheque book/car keys. And I haven't watched Top Gear for a whole two weeks now...
So although I do of course adore him with every fibre of my being, miss him like the desert misses the rain, etc. there are upsides!

Monday 28 January 2008

mess'd up weekend

The weekend started with 'Fun Friday' - a misnomer if ever there was one.
On the last Friday of the month the officers' mess is open to families. The idea is that the parents have a quiet drink at the bar, whilst the children sit down nicely to pizza and chips and then, once they have eaten their supper, play nice calm games like scrabble or charades or something, while the adults have a bar snack.
Of course the reality is that big hordes of kids, manic from being cooped up in school all week, swiftly down a couple of cans of Coke and then swoop around en masse like a sticky red-cheeked tornado, jumping off sofas and kocking over anything in its path, be it toddlers or ornamental canons.
Meanwhile, all the adults prop up the bar, knocking back G&Ts.
Did I say all the adults? Oh no, that's right, all the adults except me. And possibly one other concerned mother. Both sat biting our lips with 999 on speed dial.
But the kids love it... and I'm willing to endure just about anything if it gets me out of having to cook and wash up.
Which is why I was back to the mess again on Saturday morning for brunch.
I let the children bring some toys along in the hope that they would play 'nicely' after our fry up whilst I enjoyed a cup of coffee, read the paper and perhaps had a bit of a chat about current affairs with a couple of other parents.
Before we even got there Twin 2 was screaming to the world because I had committed the heinous crime of asking her to walk for a bit as my arm was aching from carrying her. The meal itself was a morass of coco pops, scrambled eggs and plastic dinosaurs.
I do remember having a very brief conversation about the merits of Take That over Boyzone, and mentioning that the reason Robbie was everyone's favourite is that he looked as if he was "good in the sack", which I followed with, "I'd love to stay and chat but one of the Twins has done a poo, so we'll have to go."
I'm not sure where my wild optimism about these things comes from. There is always this gaping chasm between the idea of spending time in the officers' mess and the cold hard truth.

Friday 25 January 2008

Twins have cottoned on to a sure-fire way of turning me from 'evil mummy' into 'nice mummy', simply by crying and saying "Need Daddy" or "Daddy cuddle". At which point I am liable to go all moist-eyed and say "Ah, are you missing Daddy?" and capitulate on whatever unreasonable demand they were having a tantrum about at the time. The result of this is that the eating chocolate vs changing nappies balance has begun to swing the wrong way. By the time Hubby gets back from Afghanistan they will have teeth like Mrs Miggins (from Mrs Miggins' pie shop) and bottoms like baboons.
Hubby will get the shock of his life when he gets home and is leapt upon my two foul-breathed ape-like creatures who insist that only he is the one they will accept to change their nappies.
I'm quite looking forward to it...

Thursday 24 January 2008

poo

I run a mums and tots group one afternoon a week. Well, I say run (and of course that's what I'll say on my CV if I ever get round to looking for paid employment again, which seems increasingly unlikely: if anyone knows of any interesting, well-paid, part-time, fully-flexible jobs that only last for 18 months at a time, or until whenever the next posting comes around, then do let me know), but I actually mean unlocking the door and opening a packet of custard creams.

It only lasts about an hour or so, but seems like an eternity of tantrums, minor head injuries and spilt coffee.

Son turns up after school with a couple of his friends and adds to the mix by waving his scarf in people's faces and climbing on the roof of the wendy house.

This week he announced he needed a poo and would I come with him please. I said I'd wait by the door. One of the centre's admin staff unfortunately (for her) needed the loo at the same time. Son is a remarkably affable chap, and won't pass up the opportunity for a bit of friendly chat. So the poor woman was subjected to a running commentary, which started with: "Sorry if it's a bit whiffy, but I am having a poo." - he is nothing if not polite - and after several long minutes ended with "Good bye. I'm going to stay here a bit longer because there is quite thick poo on this toilet paper so I think I need to do a few more wipes."

I think it's a good thing that he has no inhibitions about striking up conversations with strange women. He might need a bit of advice from his dad when it comes to chat up lines, though.

Tuesday 22 January 2008

Rainy weekends with small kids, dontcha just love 'em?
I have, over the past few weeks become a coinosseur - hmm that spelling looks a bit dodgy, maybe lets just say expert instead - of soft play centres. I have to say that they are a jolly super invention, without which I would probably be stark staring mad by now. Or my children would be dead. Or both. So hurrah for all that foam and multi-coloured balls.
I had vague thoughts about taking the children to church on sunday mornings, which I did once, and it was lovely. But I have to say this is so much easier and much more fun for them to barrel about in a multicoloured padded cell. So apologies to God and all that, but churches to tend to have hard corners and they don't tend to be able to rustle up a caramel latte. Sunday is now soft play day, hurrah. This weekend I even managed to get a couple of other families to come along with me (out of pity I suspect, as they know Hubby has gone again and can hardly have failed to notice the whole bad hair/spots/misery thing), so even got a bit of adult conversation along with my latte.
Twins were swathed in snot as usual so I think the entire area probably had to be de-slimed after we left. Oh, and son almost got into fisticuffs with a fat boy in a batman top who insisted on becoming the protector of Twin 2 (she is a bit unsteady on her pins still, bless her) - a job which Son thought was rightfully his. So as the two feuding super heroes slugged it out, the damsel in distress wobbled off to find the ball pit on her own. I suspect this is a sign of things to come. She does seem to have an uncanny knack of making people - boys in particular - want to protect her. Which is no bad thing, but the truth is that the pair of them are as tough as old boots and regularly give other kids the 'Grant Brothers' treatment.

Sunday 20 January 2008

No, I really am back now.
Hubby has finally legged it back to Afghanistan. I managed to speed his departure by becoming incredibly spotty, hormonal and getting a rather dreadful haircut in the week before he left. So with not much reason to hang around, the project out there became all of a sudden really rather urgent and he was off.
He has taken his special anti-insurgent mug with him, so I'm sure he'll be fine.
And I am now free to droog around the house of an evening wearing old pairs of his jogging pants and torn sweatshirts emblazoned with 'Bosnia Herzegovina 1996', hair scraped back and spotty chin slathered in nappy rash cream.
Oh and for supper this evening the kids and I had cake. Yes, just cake. Lovely big slabs of chocolate cake with buttons on donated by my fab neighbour (who as a result is now my best friend). Son timidly asked if he could have some fruit because that would be a bit healthier, mummy, but I told him no fruit until he'd eaten his chocolate cake. He didn't manage to finish it - it was rather a big slice.
Apart from Hubby's flit back to the war zone, not much to report this week. There was book club on Tuesday, which I went to because I had actually read the book for a change. Turns out I needn't have bothered as no-one was in the slightest bit interested in talking about anything more challenging than how much weight they'd put on over Christmas. We were of course discussing this theme whilst quaffing wine and tucking into breadsticks and dips. Hmm.
Even though I developed a bit of a passion for making chocolate fudge over Christmas (it was a Nigella Lawson recipe, so of course I made it wearing a velvet corset and plenty of lipgloss, whilst playfully flicking my glossy mane of hair - oh yes, this was before the haircut disaster), I have only put on a couple of kilos. And I'm sure my cake-for-supper diet will soon sort that out!

Sunday 6 January 2008

Hello. I'm back. After almost a month I have managed to elbow my way back to the laptop. Hubby came back and I immediately turned into a Luddite and haven't even checked email for weeks (around the same time I also lost the ability to check tyre pressure, hang pictures and rake up leaves!). He's out tonight to see an old mate called Dave, who used to be in the army but wisely got out many years ago. (I think that most men Hubby's age are either called Dave or have a mate called Dave. And now there's even a TV channel especially for them, which seems to show Top Gear on a never ending loop. Anyway, I expect they are as I write complaining about the price of a pint these days and having some 'witty banter'. ) So I'm at home with the pc (finally) to myself, hurrah! And now I'm off to bed, but at least I have broken my festive blogging fast and promise to write again soon...