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.

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.

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!

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...

My life is a right old social whirl. Went to a pottery painting evening at the welfare centre on Wednesday. Everyone else did truly gorgeous and festive bits of decorative ware, I spent two hours painting a small black china spot - not a hint of crimson or green in sight. Once it is fired it will be a very chic black pendant thingy, which I will be able to wear to xmas functions. When people say "Oooh, I love your necklace; where did you get it?" I can reply that is is a one-off, designer piece. Alternatively it will be a complete waste of a fiver (plus seven quid for the baby sitter and another fiver for the bottle of wine I took along - come to think of it, it works out a bit of a rip off, even for a one-off designer piece). Got quite squiffy, as no-one was really drinking, except me - they were all too busy making nice little homey things to make their houses look christmassy (my family have to put up with a string of sparkly fabric elephants hanging in the living room, which have in fact been there since last christmas). However, after draining my bottle of cava, I dragged myself away in time to roll home for the last episode of Heroes. Really glad I made it in time, but don't ask me what actually happened.
Hubby was supposed to be home at the weekend, but of course wasn't. Think this may be the military equivalent of 'working late at the office' and he is having an affair with a saucy insurgent. Or something.
Twin 1 keeps saying she wants Daddy, and wants him "now, now, NOW!", which is all very sweet, but not at 3am, which is what happened last night. Somehow after this I ended up with Twin 1 and 2 and the dog in bed with me. Then son came in at about 6am to update me on the status of his broken toe nail. Or was it something about a poo? I am not a very good listener at silly o'clock in the morning.
I am looking forward to Hubby coming home, so that when we are woken up in the middle of the night, I can say "Look, there's no point me going, it's you she wants".

Balls!

There is a diplomatic crisis going on in the street.
It's the mess Christmas ball on Saturday and there is all kinds of rising tension, bitterness and recrimination concerning the seating arrangements.
Husbands who have been tasked to put down names on seating plans in the mess are now finding themselves in serious marital disharmony having put their wife next to someone she doesn't want to talk to for five minutes, let alone through a five course meal.
Wives are hopping into their four-wheel drives and zooming down to the mess to rub out names and frantically re-arrange before the whole thing is finalised, whilst cheerfully lying: "I'm so sorry, I can't sit next to you because Rupert - God, aren't men useless! - forgot that we had already promised to sit on the Robertson's table." etc.
Furthermore, there is a logistical crisis as the wife who was supposed to be doing the flowers now can't, so there is some panic amongst the wives who have now been spammed with the task, and much debate about chrysanthemums and gypsophelia. And this is on top of the usual headache surrounding what to wear, finding a cheap-but-reliable baby sitter "...and God knows when I'm going to have the chance to get my roots done!" and so on.
I am well out of it because we aren't going this year, otherwise it would quite possibly be me stressing about my highlights and the suitability of lilies and roses in the table decorations. (Although even if we were, I can't imagine anyone would be fighting to get on our table as we are without doubt the least sociable couple in the street.)
Which is all a bit scary as I am within a whisker of becoming the stereotypical army wife.
I am just a heartbeat away from buying a breadmaker, renaming the dog 'Trooper' and developing an interest in country crafts.
Whatever happened to the girl who liked roll ups and the Stone Roses? If anyone finds her, please post her home!

the family seat

Seem to spend an inordinate amount of time on ebay at the moment. I wouldn't mind, but it's not even as if I'm bidding for anything cool or exciting, like designer sex toys (which, come to think of it, are neither cool or exciting, but I'm so out of touch I don't even know what would be cool and exciting).

No, I'm in the market for family toilet seats.

Twins keep telling me about their wee and poo, which is all very helpful, but the thought of potty training two at the same time is mildly terrifying. However, it has to be done, so I suspect Santa may be bringing one of those toilet seats that's a big seat and a little seat in one - if you have kids you will know what I mean (Santa is very kind to us in this respect and will also be bringing toothbrushes, soap and probably pants and socks. There may be room in his sack for a couple of toys, but no promises). That is, if Mrs Santa doesn't keep getting outbid on ebay.

So I have been spending my evenings crouched over a hot keyboard, desperate to get the best bid in. So far, the news is not good, but I've upped my limit to twenty quid this time, so fingers crossed. (Do you think ebay is like online gambling? Am I developing a habit? Will I end up neglecting my children as I spend ever longer hours bidding for elusive bits of toddler gadgetry?)

It's a sad indictment on my sorry existence that the main focus of my energies at the moment is finding a cheap lavvie.

Anyway, now off to log into ebay for yet another evening's rollercoaster ride of hope, anticipation and no doubt ultimate disappointment.

Have not heard from Hubby for ages. No idea what he's up to, but sure it has nothing to do with bathroom logistics of any kind.

PS. I am asking Santa for a new bottom for Christmas....because my old one's got a crack in it... ho! ho! ho! (ah, the oldies are the goodies)