1.  Lines

2.  Arcs

3.  Dots

Lordy lordy lordy. 3  x 250ml glasses of wine. Scissor Sisters on TV. I have told The Man how special I think he is and he says I can buy him the Scissor Sisters for his brithday.  Younger Sister and Son 2 aged 22m’s Pagan Godfather went to see the Scissor Sisters in 1999. Or something.  They have no children and are so much more fashionable and richer than us. I keep pressing things which make the screen get bigger and smaller. :Like Alice. Only with less punctuation. The Man says there are a lot women Out There who will regret their tattoos.  I wish I had a tattoo.  It’s not Too Late. 

Ahem.  Took Son 1 aged 4y 10m and Son 2 for haircuts. Consecutive, not concurrent. Like prison sentences. Son 2 played with the Noah’s Ark till Son 1’s haircut was finished; then Son 2 played with it till Son 1 was finished.  They both now have a bit of a “Joan Of Arc” look about them. Nanna and The MAn are not pleased with Son 2’s look.  However. In the  hairdresser’s defence. Son 2 never stopped swinging round to look at Things. 

Went to the Discount Store; filled up on conditioner/shampoo/cleanser etc.  Blew up New Pirate Ship Ball Pool.  Took Son2 to bed. He was very interested, till he heard the click of the back door and snaked himself off the bed, down a flight of stairs and outside.  Nanna came. I made tea. Shepherd’s pie, meat and veggie.  Son 2 tried to cling to my leg.  Tea Time. Everyone wolfed their food. The Man and I went out while Nanna babysat. Usually we only have 2. Today, a neighbour dropped by while we were sitting outside The Bar.  We had 3. He left. I went to the bar to talk to the male nursery nurse Son 1 wants as his party leader next month.   He is free, only  he already has a booking which isnt dependent on time.  We want the Afternoon.  He and his girlfriend left.  We sat outside, The Man and I on a bench.  Between us and The River was a three-storey block of flats. On the roof were eight seagulls. The Man and I had a discussion about it. Was there really a Young One on the chimney, far left?  We agreed there were Eight.  We chatted.  We realised several seagulls were flying, loudly, above us and in front of us.  There were none on the roof any more.

1.  Conflict Averted

2.  Conflict Resolved

3.  Conflict Avoided

We are not wanted in Court tomorrow, which is a Fantastic Thing. I’ve done 4 10-hour days with Wednesdays off since I went back to The Office after having Son 1… so I’ve never had more than two days without a day with the children.   I wasn’t happy about being forced to do a five day week on Jury Service.  And then today… Ping. Don’t have to. Can you all come back on Thursday.    It means The Man can go on a Business Trip tonight instead of tomorrow night.  He’d made all his original plans for today, not realising there was a slight Home Alone problem with the boys if Mummy was busy fulfilling her civic duty.  We met up for lunch to celebrate.

In another Thing That Didn’t Make The Blog Because It Wasn’t Positive… I had a Parking Rage set-to with a neighbour the other week.  She had apparently been waiting ages to park, and was furious when I came along with Son 1 asleep in the back and innocently drove into a space near our house.  She tried to drive me out of it, which has never happened to me before, and wasn’t pleasant.  As I was in it, there wasn’t much she could do, apart from wind her window down and screech how annoyed she was.  I didn’t really respond, just told her there was also another space further up the hill which she clearly hadn’t seen.  I saw her again today and although she didn’t apologise, she made a lot of excuses for her behaviour.  We agreed some people park very inconsiderately and take up two spaces instead of one, and now we are Bestest Friends again.     

After the boys’ tea we went over to the Yacht Club at the invitation of a Dad we know, there with his two girls.   I agreed to go, but told The Man that if he sat down with his mate talking boats and left me in charge of four children, I would come home.  We had a couple of drinks; the children played.  I sat chatting with the Dad; The Man played football with the children.  Son 2 was so tired he could hardly stand, but was determined not to miss anything and kept on and on.  Son 1 cried with disappointment when, at 8pm, we said we had to get home.   Half past nine before we got them to bed.   That just wouldn’t and couldn’t happen on a normal work night.  Jury Service is a Good Thing.

1.  Lost Passport

2.  Hair Loss

3.  Lost Bottle

The children’s passports were in a Safe Place.  At Easter, I moved them from the Safe Place and put them Somewhere Else.  Deep in the night, I realised that I had absolutely no idea where Somewhere Else is.  I came downstairs and hunted without success.  We need the passports on Saturday.  In the morning I confessed to The Man.   In front of the boys, little was said, but we looked and looked. The Man went to work.  A Wednesday Friend’s sister-in-law is gravely ill.  We went to the other’s for lunch.    Son 1 aged 4y 7m disappeared with Best Friend.  Son 2 aged 19m came downstairs with Best Friend’’s Mother and me.  The air was coloured by the missing passports.  Best Friend’s Mother says she always puts important things in Safe Places and then can’t find them.  Very normal. Taking them from Safe Places and putting them Somewhere Else is a new approach.    A phone call during our visit from a colleague at The Office.  With Good News.  Then a text from a colleague at The Office, also with Good News.  They were all having a Good Time.  Son 2, usually interested in Best Friend’s Mother’s dog, howled and cried whenever it went near him. In the end, he clambered up on me. Son 2, I mean, not the dog.

After our visit we went to the hairdresser’s.  It was Son 2’s first proper hair cut.  His baby hair was long, wispy, thin, blond, tufty over the ears, a kiss curl at the back, his scalp caked white with calamine cream over raised scabs, and, this morning’s final touch, a thick landing strip of maple syrup hardened on top.  They sat in neighbouring cars, Son 1 watching Kipper, Son 2 watching Fireman Sam.   Son 2 was interested at first, but then just wanted to get out.  The hairdresser saved me his kiss curl, and thinks it will probably grow back.  “Look Son 1,” I said. “Our baby is gone.  Now we have a little boy.” And then, so Son 1 didn’t feel neglected: “And you’re now a big boy, don’t you look smart.” His hairdresser picked up the cue. “How old are you now Son 1?” He pointed at me to answer. “He’s four now. Did you think he was so big he must be five?” “Only four?” the wise woman gasped. “You’ve sat so still I thought you were seven.” Later, in the bath, as I recounted this to The Man, Son 1 confided “All my life I have wanted to be seven.”

I hunted before they went to bed, I hunted after.  The shelving is looking much tidier, and bags of books have been liberated for Oxfam.  The Man was trying to help, and getting out packets of photos from a cupboard.  He gazed fondly at a pile of black-and-whites. ”Look, don’t I look like Son 2 there.” “Look, don’t I look like Son 1 in that one?”   And then suddenly I moved some children’s books and there were two passports, on a shelf. I have no memory at all of putting them there.  There was a bottle of champagne in the fridge waiting for an occasion.  It isn’t there now.

1.  Wake Me Up

2.  Bad Boys

3.  Freedom

Son 2 aged 18m had an awful night.  I got back late from the Big City, he cried, I went in and he was burning up.  So, worried he had my cold, and worried he needed Mummy Serotonin, I slept with him. And was instantly reminded why I don’t do it.  He just doesn’t sleep if I’m with him.  At one point he had me pressed against the foot of the cot, the bars in the side of my head, as he lay T-boned alongside the pillows, his hard little head shoved into me.  In the morning he cried to get up, his sleeping bag twisted round and round him so he could no longer move.  My head stayed on the pillow.   Son 1 aged 4y 6m came in, chattering.  Son 2 pushed himself up on his arms and smiled.

The Beach By The Garden was the Wednesday trip.  The other two mums were already there.  Son 1 played with Best Friend, Best Friend’s little brother, and 3 year old.  Son 2, flashing through the Seven Dwarfs of Over-Tiredness.  Crabby, Floppy, Clingy, Tetchy, Dozy, Clumsy and Loud.   The four big boys scattered like marbles.  I put the beach tent up, hoping it would keep them all in one place.  They tried to tow it away by the guy ropes.   One Mum went, Son 2 fell asleep At Long Last, and we de-camped to the Garden.   The three big boys played among the young Gunnera on Snake Island, lying on their tummies, watching the fish flicker back and forth in the streams. I bought them ice cream.  They stripped off and played monkeys, eating chocolate ice creams and climbing on railings.

In the evening I picked up one Wednesday Mother and drove over to the other’s.  We drank Cava and sauvignon blanc, and planned virtual dinner parties to stop us talking about children.   We got as far as Jo Brand, Michelle Shocked, Sawyer from Lost, Jane Austen, Jesus and Shakespeare.  We had problems coming up with enough women, and decided Society Was To Blame.  Then we did Which Chef?  And we got back late.

1.   Shouting Out

2.   Listening Up

3.   Quietening Down

So Son 1 aged 4y 4m had permission to creep in bed with Mummy and Daddy if he woke in the night.  He woke in the night and screamed The Terrace down.  Son 2 aged 16m woke and went into air-raid siren mode.  It was 3am.  I am now finding it difficult to set a good example of restraint under stress.  But looking on the bright side, when you’ve already decided your strategy is Giving Up, at least you don’t have to waste time Teaching Them To Sleep Independently (The Greatest Gift A Parent Can Give.)  I went into bed with Son 2 while The Man  took Son 1. 

Getting to  Son 1 before the After School Club closed was a Good Thing.  One of those “If the road is clear, if the clock is right, if nothing happens, if I can park” journeys.  I got there with about 4 minutes to spare, and Son 1 shone a smile at me and ran to find his things.  On the way back we listened to Peter Pan.  It was dark, Son 1 was silent, and I wondered if he’d fallen asleep.  Back in street lit territory and I snatched a glance in the mirror.  Son 1 was sitting forward in his car seat, hands on his knees, leaning forward to listen, riveted.  We got to the house just as the Lost Boys shot Wendy. 

We were late back, and Son 2 was already upstairs with The Man.  We went up and obliterated The Man’s attempts to follow our routine.  Son 2 laughed, tottered, held out his arms, ran after Son 1, ran away from Son 1… The Man took Son 1 downstairs for tea.  Son 2 and I read books, and then I put him in the bath.  He’s such a poppet.  He’s just started shaking his head and nodding his head, only he does little, fast to-and-fro movements like he’s shaking water out of his ears.  I put him in the cot, did my singing and counting down and left him.  Not only did he lie down without trying to clamber out of the cot, but he also cried for less than 5 minutes after I’d gone.  A Good Thing.

1.  Hunting

2.  Gathering

3.  Nurturing

2 small boys played upstairs in Son 1 aged 4y 4m’s bedroom.  They had the Duplo out, Son 1 laying train tracks, Son 2 aged 16m taking out all the little animals and people, then all the little vehicles, then all the little bricks.  Chatting, absorbed.  Flow.  A Good Thing.  Only everything I needed to do was two floors down.  Who needs a workout.  Down two flights, load washing machine.  Wails from upstairs.  Up two flights. Son 2 has dismantled Son 1’s Duplo robot.  Down two flights.  Tidy up breakfast things.  Stop.  Listen.  Silence.  Absolute silence.  Up two flights.  Game continuing, no foul play.  I lay down on the bed in the next door room.  I will just rest and relax while they entertain themselves.  In toddled a small laughing boy, carrying a Duplo giraffe.  He got the joke.  Mummy was hiding and needed to be found.  Closely followed by a slightly bigger boy.  He got the joke.  Mummy was lying down waiting for someone to lie on top of her.  The phone rang.

It was the Wednesday Friends.  One set is still ill, the other were going to Grandparents while Mother and Father go away for a couple of days.  They were going earlier than planned because the weather forecast is bad.  I rang Friend With New Baby (Third Boy.)  Can we come?  We will bring Ready Meals.  We stopped off at Asda.   A kind man found me a trolley with 2 baby seats and I jammed the boys in.  Max 15kg.  No idea what that means.   Clearly doesn’t apply to Children Of Older Parents.   The weather forecast is Saving Retailing.  The trolleys were tessellated in the aisles.   We added ours and bingo, gridlock. The boys leaned out for packages, pointed and picked, and pinched and slapped each other all the way round.  “You’ve been so good,” I said brightly, as arms shot out like swords on chariot wheels to destroy leaflet stands on both sides of the checkout. 

We had a great time at Friend With New Baby’s.  Son 2 clapped eyes on the 5 week old new arrival and was enslaved.  A house full of toys, shelves, buttons, fireguards and televisions… and he just pitter pattered back again and again to the lounge where New Arrival sat in his bouncy chair.  “You can play when he wakes up,” we said, taking him back to the playroom.   Pitter patter pitter patter.  When NA awoke, Son 2 bent over and kissed his head, he laid his head on his tummy, he patted and stroked and touched and held.  The Elder Brothers are 4 and nearly 3 and formed a gang with Son 1, playing Spiderman, Power Rangers, Pirates and Sinbad.   Son 2 occasionally showed an interest in them, and had a look at some toys, but all he really wanted was the baby.  After lunch we watched Nanny McPhee.  Two boys slept all the way home.

1.  First Flower

2.  Country Roads

3.  Night Nights

Son 1aged 4y 4m and I left for Nursery ten minutes earlier than usual.  He has had enough of The Pirate’s Hat And Other Stories… he has had enough of Horrid Henry.  So this morning it was the Famous Five and Treasure Island, free with a paper some time ago.  Son 1 calls it the Famous Fights.  “I wish I was called Georgina.  If I was called Georgina I will say everyone must call me George.”   He also wishes he had a boat, and an island.  And a dog of course.  We arrived in plenty of time, and so parked up the drive and walked down the Muddy Path.  And there, in among the sodden leaves, on a little clump of bright green foliage, was a single pale yellow primrose flower.  Spring Is Sprung.  

To make up for this morning, the roads were heaving this evening, so I decided to explore some back routes to get home.  Mistake.  Tiny, flooded, debris-strewn barely-maintained tracks switchbacking this way and that as the light faded.  We went for miles.  The Famous Five had found some Ingots in a dungeon on the Treasure Island.  A Baddy threatened to shoot Timmy the Dog.  We got back on the usual route and pulled round a group of three of four cars parked together at the side of the road, broken glass, crumpled bonnets, people milling.  Perhaps a Good Thing that we were a little later than them.

Son 2 aged 16m waved from the window as we pulled up outside the house (Thank You Parking Fairy.) He was on top form.  Laughing, squealing, insisting on being held and carried.  He mineswept Son 1’s leftover smoothie from the car, and ate nearly a whole satsuma from his picnic bag.  Son 1 refused tea but accepted a couple of pieces of fruit, and listened to the end of the Famous Five on a laptop upstairs.  Son 2 is still crying as soon as I say night night and leave him in his cot.  Son 1, who used to send The Man packing when I went to see him for his bedtime stories, now says “Oh Mummy, you’ve come at exactly the wrong time.”  He fell asleep during Fairy Child.

1. Organic Matter
2. Smile and Wave
3. Vegetable Matter
Son 2 aged 13m woke up in his cot at 0545. Hooray hooray. The Man was Tired, so I took the boys swimming one after another. Son 2 was so excited that in the changing room he sat by the cubicle door and bounced up and down. We sat in the baby pool in the Shallow End. There was Matter in the water. I checked Son 2’s swim nappy. It wasn’t his. I looked around. More Matter. I took Son 2 over to the lifeguard, stepping past a two inch turd lying at the bottom of the pool. “There is poo in the pool,” I told the lifeguard. “Where?” he said. “There,” I said. “And there, and there and there.” Son 2 was so keen to swim that I took him up to the Deep End where some Friends were swimming. Nothing sinister there. I watched the lifeguard go from the Shallow End to talk to his colleague at the Deep End. They changed seats. Nothing happened. 30 minutes later, a net came out. Stuff was removed from the Shallow End, many times. The net was emptied into a fire bucket. Then the fire door was opened, and the contents of the bucket were tipped onto the grass outside. As our Friend said: “Isn’t it lucky they shut the cafe?”

I took Son 2 back at the end of the session, and picked up Son 1 aged 4y 1m. At the pool, the wave machine was on, and I gave him a surfboard. He pulled himself on it and kicked and paddled effortlessly to the Deep End, where he joyfully bounced up and down on the biggest waves. Then he paddled himself over to the Tunnel, turned himself round and kicked himself backwards all the way along. Every time I tried to touch the board he pushed me off. “I can’t believe my eyes,” I said. “Where did you learn how to do all this?” “At my Nursery,” he said.

“But can he swim?” said The Man, back home. “No idea,” I said. I have taken Son 1 to swimming lessons since he did dunk-the-babies when he was about three months old. He hated going under water from the first immersion and has never budged his opinion. So now I never comment, never enquire, never try and make him do anything. The boys played, and I finished off the roast chicken dinner. I didn’t get Son 2’s on his highchair in time to avert major ice-cap melting tantrum. He couldn’t do it. Son 1 however, transformed himself into a Perfect Child. He rejected the courgettes and parsnips, but ate whacking great chunks of cauliflower and shovelfuls of leeks. He got his toy dustpan and brush and cleared up all the food Son 2 had flung overboard. Then, when I at last got near my meal, he sat on my knee and ate my cauliflower and leeks too. Apparently if you eat more vegetables after your pudding you have to have another pudding. We settled on a Scooby Doo Ice Pop.

1.  Message from a child

2.  Message from China

3.  New shoes

Son 2 aged 1 was in with me from the wee hours.  He woke up 8 or 9 times and cried every time my head was on the pillow, until I worked out that what he wanted was to snug his cheek/head next to my cheek.  When he dropped off straightaway.  Bit of a breastfeeding thing then. What does a warm, soft cheek feel like when you’re drowsy?  It’s so hard because I am so sure of what he needs and why… but I can’t deliver it.  In cave baby days Mummy could just curl up at the back with the baby, waited on by the female relatives and older children and sleep till Daddy came home with the roast sabre-toothed tiger.  But Mummy’s got to go to The Office and she’s really tired.  Son 1 aged 4 and I pushed Son 2 in The Pram down to the museum to see our friends.  Son 1 sang “Give yourself a pat on the front” as he walked along.  I don’t know whether he’s learned it at nursery, from telly, from Wonder Nanny or if he made it up.  But I am taking it as A Sign, so I think I will.

The Museum was great.  We were there more than three hours.  The Beijing Business Trip mother is back, with a glorious Dolce and Gabbana handbag and five pairs of   designer glasses which had a meteoric impact on the flagging spirits of those of us left behind to endure the collapse of imperialist paper tiger capitalism.  The boys played, the mums got coffee, Son 2 ate heartily.  A very good morning.

The Man rang.  Strolling past The Museum to buy a spanner, at the moment where Son 2 fell asleep in The Pram.  We went to Pizza Express for lunch.  Sat outside - I have a pash for sneaking outside lunches in autumn/winter - with Son 1 sitting in his huge parka complaining he was freezing and wanted to go home.  He was so tired after looping the loop in the Museum all morning that he could hardly walk.  So The Man carried him on his shoulders to the Shoe Shop, where we finally replaced his size 9 playshoes with a pair of size 10 1/2.  Son 1 chose hideous bright blue ones with toys in the heels and matching wellies.  They did, however, give him enough energy to walk the rest of the way home.  Nanna visited.  The boys went to bed.  Son 2 grizzled.  And The Man announced he needs another Business Trip on Sunday.    

1.  The lie-in

2.  Bouncing

3.  A clear sample

Son 2 aged 10m woke at 5-ish and was put back to sleep by The Man.  Son 1 aged 3 y 9m was exhausted after an 8.30 bedtime.  So I was wakened at 0730 by The Man, bringing coffee and lifting up the blackout blinds.  Loudly.  Son 2 had been sick in the cot.  Son 2 threw up his breast feed.  I had my shower and sat Son 2 on the bathroom floor playing with the duplo.  Finished, went to get my clothes, came back, and Son 2 had been sick, and was sitting in a pile of porridge, patting it with his hands.  I went to pick him up and then realised it wasn’t sick.  He’d done a poo slick, and he’s lost so much weight now that it ran out of the side of his nappy.  Took him to the doctor.    Who said he looked well, considering what he’s been through, he’s still infectious, so don’t take him near other children or mother.  We are apparently all immune after 48 symptom-free hours.  He said he’d chase up the sample from the Holiday Hospital, and gave me a kit to take another today.  Ring him back at 5pm.

Son 2 could not sleep, so we put him in the Big Pram and walked through the town. I promised Son 1 an ice cream to make up for his disappointment in not seeing his friends today.   The Man came out for his lunch hour.  I let Son 1 bounce on the bouncy castle.  I bounced Son 2, who liked it, but couldn’t keep going very long.  I sat down with him on my knee to give him his banana lunch.  He had a little banana, but was more interested in drinking milk from the bottle.    A little bit more banana.  A little bit more milk.  And then a huge wet patch on  my skirt which quickly dripped all the way down to the pavement.  A great big pile of porridgey liquid poo.  Son 2’s, that is.  Took him to a baby change, cleaned him up.  Couldn’t clean me up, no spare clothes.  Took Son 2 out in his nappy.  No spare shorts/trousers, because we cleared out all our supplies on the Long Trip back.  This was 1330, and the doc had said get the sample back for 2pm if we wanted it to go today.   Being positive, my skirt was brown, so it didn’t show.      This was a low point indeed.

Rang the doctor at 5pm, who said the sample from the Holiday Hospital was clear.  It isn’t e coli, listeria, rotovirus or something else I’d never heard of.  He’d like to have another look at Son 2 tomorrow morning to see how he is.   Something else for Pollyanna to be Glad about.  Son 2’s stomach will apparently be inflamed for a while after the infection, which could be why he’s being so sick and having such bad diarrhoea.  He is just skin and bone now - he was slender before, but now his ribs stick out and his sternum’s really pronounced.  Poor little mite.  A friend came round this evening.  “I was going to tell you what had happened in a jokey way and say everything’s fine,”  I wailed.  “But it isn’t.  It’s awful.”  “He’ll get better,” she said.  ”He will turn into a big strapping lad, like they all do, and none of us will remember this.”