1.  Clearing Off

2.  Cleaning Out

3.  Cheering Up

The First Day Of The Holidays,  Man took the boys to the Yacht Club last night. Give them a run around on the lawn, exhaust them and then we would get a lie in this morning, hooray.  Lie in my a***.  Son 1 aged 4y 9m was up and in the middle of the double bed before 6am. Eyebrowing madly http://mumsnet.com/blogs/serenedays/2009/06/10/a-quiet-time-with-my-eyebrow/. I was grumpy. I’d worked late, was whacked out and wanted to sleep. He wanted to get up. An exhausting day loomed ahead, with fatigue bringing out the worst in us both… me fractious, him fizzing.  The Man took him downstairs to put the telly on.

The Parking Fairy gave me a space outside the house last night. So The Man decided to clean out my car.  My car is a source of deep shame.  It is so cruddy… sand, feathers, sticks, mud, smoothies on the upholstery, sundry berries, sweet wrappings, pieces of fruit peel, broken toys from party bags, more sand, more mud, dust, grime, smear, stains and crumbs. And most of the outside is covered in seagull poo, kiln-fired solid by the scorching heatwave.  Son 1 was keen to help, and so soon The Man had Henry the vacuum cleaner, and Son 1 had the upholstery wipes. And very industrious they both were. Then Son 2 aged 21m spotted them. “And me!  And me!”  I put him in the driver’s seat, knowing he couldn’t escape from there with me in the front and Son 1 in the back. The Man cleaned the boot.  I used glass wipes on the windows. Son 2 effortlessly commando-crawled into the back. He got the upholstery wipes and, concentrating very hard, cleaned the windows with them.  He liked the soapy smears.  Son 1 rubbed at smoothie stains.  I  did the windscreen. The wipes came up black as if I smoked.  Son 2 rubbed and rubbed. And then pulled all the wipes out of the packet. Son 1 said he wanted a drink and went back into the house. “Food!” said Son 2. Inside, I realised it was 1230. They have lunch at 12. Son 1 had pulled a chair up to the fridge and had removed a haul of two Petit Filous and two Frubes.

Neither of them would eat their lunch. I was fractious. “You eat at Nursery, and you eat for Wonder Nanny, so why don’t you eat for me?” I stomped. “You give us too much,” said Son 1.  He was right. But I didn’t let on, and went off in a sulk. The Man and I decided to go for a drive to get them to sleep and have some peace. It sort of worked.  We drove to the Beach Cafe and bought takeaway coffees, and then drove up to the Headland to drink them. Son 2’s eyes snapped open, and he stared at the boy in the next car who was eating an ice cream.  The man in the driving seat was leaning back, eyes closed, mouth open.  The woman next to him was reading. Comrades-in-parenting. And also knackered.

1.   An Early Run 

2.   Eyebrows

3.   Banana Cake

4.   Yes

By the time I got up to bed last night, Son 1 aged 4y 8m was in the Big Bed with The Man.  The Man trooped downstairs to Son 1’s bed, and I spent the night with a little octopus clinging and stroking my eyebrow. I woke at 0530. A bright, dry morning, perfect for someone who needs to get going on running again. I was a bit depressed reading last year’s blog entry when I was out running more often.  Can’t remember when I last went out. Whenever it was, I left my kit slung over a radiator, so I tiptoed over, grabbed it, grabbed my contact lenses, and fairy-trod downstairs.  I went out of the house as fast as I could. I did five sets of three-minutes running and three-minutes walking - it’s been so long I don’t want to get injured - and felt hugely better for it.  I really can’t be disciplined about my eating, I love food too much. But I do think I can possibly manage to exercise.

We went to the Rockpool beach with the Wednesday Friends. The weather was great - a real bonus as the forecast was grim.  Son 1 played with his friends, rock-climbing and pirates. Son 2 aged 20m was hard work - tired and clingy. Back just after lunch, and I tried unsuccessfully to get Son 2 to go to sleep.  “Do you want a snooze, or do you want to get up?” I asked him, in the darkened bedroom.  “Up,” he said.  So downstairs and I put CBeebies on. Son 1 sat on my lap - I couldn’t get Son 2 to join us.  Son 1 reached back and stroked my eyebrow.  This, as I’ve mentioned before, is a legacy from his breast-feeding days, when he used to play with my eyelashes and eyebrow during feeding.  It’s still his comfort thing, and it’s always when he’s tired.  He Eyebrows me, mainly, and sometimes The Man and Wonder Nanny.  I’ve also see him try Son 2’s, and have now seen him sitting with his fingers on his own eyebrow.  Not that keen on that one.  Don’t want him ending up rubbing them off.   Anyway. “Are you tired?” I asked him as we sat in my chair watching telly and my eyebrow came under attack.  “No.” “Then why are you Eyebrowing?”  “I just want a quiet time with my eyebrow.”   

Son 1 then decided he wanted to make a cake. I don’t really do cakes.  Mix butter, sugar and flour together and then cook them. In special tins. Add food colouring.  Seems odd.  However.  We have a banana glut (Wonder Nanny and I both bought some on the same day, then the Organic Veg Man brought some) and a Banana Cake recipe from Wonder Nanny. So that is what we made. I got the baking box out. The boys found an opened packet of choc chips and stuffed their faces with them.  Then they tried starting on the Tesco Value cooking chocolate.  I snatched it from Son 2 just as he’d torn his way inside.  We had piled ingredients in the food processor when I realised that every drop of bicarbonated soda had gone into baths for Son 2 during his chickenpox.  We did however have cream of Tartar, and the tub said it was a raising agent, so we chucked that in instead.  The boys took the food processor bowl and spoons and licked it out. Until Son 2 put the coins from his moneybox in the mix, so I confiscated it.  And we were very pleased with the cake. 

Son 2 can say “yes.” He wanted to talk on the phone, so I rang Nanna.  He tried nodding at something she said, and I told him she couldn’t see him and he’d have to say “yes.” So he did.  Perfectly. He has also just started saying something like “fish” instead of his ages-old preference of opening and closing his mouth. In the bathroom tonight “towel.”  And, accompanied by the action of pulling them all out of the box “tissue.”  This is of course a scientific study of language acquisition, and not a bragging mother.

1.  Explorer

2.  Miracle Worker  

3.  Communicator

I worked long and late last night.  At midnight I heard coughing from upstairs, then creaking, then little mouse footprints. I peered up into the gloom. “Son 1, I can’t see you up there, it’s too dark. If you’re there, come on down.” A little wraith aged 4y 7m in white pyjamas plopped down the stairs.  I switched the computer off and we went downstairs to make my go-to-bed cup of peppermint tea. He wanted something to eat.  I gave him a yoghurt, and he sat at the dining table, scoffing it. Upstairs I put him in the Big Bed while I got ready for bed.  “I’m going to have a little read before I go to sleep,” I said, getting my book out.  “I want your eyebrow,” he said, his little fingers heading straight for it. I put the light out and fell asleep straight away. No idea what he did.

Son 2 aged 19m’s spots are starting to scab over, and he’s starting to pick them off.  He is using the “boh” sound he does for “Box” for his spots… gestures at his tummy and goes “Boh!”  “Are they sore?” I asked.  He nodded madly.  Poor, poor little cherub. Son 1 and I took out a library book with pictures of leopards, ladybirds, spotted fish, giraffes, peacocks, ocelots, dalmatians etc. It’s called “Lots Of Spots.” Well, we think it’s funny.   Wonder Nanny, who is Practically Perfect,  said “Aqueous Calamine Cream.  Only Superdrug sell it. Best thing for chickenpox.”  Son 2 has been so much better since we started slathering him in it.  His willy and groin area have calmed down a bit, but the spots are still raging.  The third nipple on his chest which started it all off is the size of a 5p.

I sat on the bed reading to Son 2 this morning.  For once, Son 1, upstairs watching cartoon nuclear wars on CITV, didn’t disturb us.  Oh no, spoke too soon.  Plodding down the stairs.   Carrying the phone to me.  The Man says he will be back tomorrow night.  He says his flights are booked. I will believe it when I see it.  Son 1 hadn’t finished with him and took the phone back.  “No more adventures, Daddy, if they’re going to take this long.”

1.  Domestic Science

2.  Team Game

3.  Lost Property

My usual night-time visitor.  I will never stopped being amazed by the sheer volume of fathomless, trusting, unconditional love that pours forth from both Son 1 aged 4y 6m and Son 2 aged 19m.  Son 1 snuck in the bed in the dark, eyebrowed for England - unconscious and vigorous stroking of my eyebrows and eyelashes to relax himself and get back to sleep - and then burrowed round the bed after me, wherever I went.     At 0530 I tiptoed downstairs, starting on packed lunches, washing and morning snacks.  Son 1 followed after, clearly still exhausted, and I made him a bed form sofa cushions on the kitchen floor.   I had to wake Son 2 up at 0730, after I’d had my shower, after I’d done my make up. 

A fabulous morning. Son 1 was philosophical about going back to Nursery, which was also a good thing.  Got dressed, found himself a nursery toy, packed his bag, had a bit of snack.  All without protest. We got there in plenty of time, which was also a good thing. 

I had a sprint round town at lunchtime… changed the children’s library books, bought school shorts for Son 1 and did an M and S run.  It made me late leaving, so I rang Wonder Nanny to apologise and warn her I’d be late back with Son 1.  Then when I picked him up from the After School Club, his teaching assistant said “The Office rang. They say can you check the message on your mobile before you leave The Big Town.”  I would have checked the message on my mobile.  Only it was in my briefcase. Which I’d left in The Office. We had to go all the way back.  And we were very very late indeed for Son 2 and Wonder Nanny.  Son 2 stood in the bay window watching, smiling and waving as I walked up the street towards the house.

1.  A Hard Day’s Night

2.  This Will Be The Last Time

3.  You Really Got Me

Son 1 aged 4y 5m was in with me all night.  He’s always allowed the night before The Man comes home.  He is a heat-seeking missile who cannot be stayed from his course.  He is in bed to snug with Mummy, to lie against me and feel my eyebrows.  (Used to do it when he was breastfeeding.  Has never stopped.  Does it when he’s asleep. In my absence anyone’s eyebrows will do.  Also does it on Son 2 aged 18m.)  Son 2 aged 18m slept through, but woke at 6am.  I put his fan on (white noise) and got into the double bed with him.  He dozed.  Then he woke, cried, and wanted his sleeping bag removed.  I took it off.  He slithered out of bed, onto the floor, and off he went on his own.  ”Mummy’s staying in bed.” I said.  “Bye bye,” he said, stopping only to pull the blankets off the chair as he went past, opened the door and went out onto the landing in the dark.  He had the grace to totter back again and stand in the doorway.  “Mama.”  Ha.  Yes I had to get up but I think I still won on goal difference. 

We went to the New Play Centre.  On the positive side  (I Do Not Like The New Play Centre)  Son 1 had a blast, playing with Best Friend, Best Friend’s brother and another boy they know, Son 2 loved it.  He loved the Ball Pools, he loved being pushed around the baby area in a Little Tikes ride on car, he loved walking over the rope bridge, he loved playing with the sponge ball cannons, he loved rolling and climbing and sliding and pushing and just generally Being Big.  Son 1 was hilarious when I told him we weren’t buying lunch there. “Is that your tricking voice?”  No darling, they have again annoyed me and I shan’t be giving them any more money.  How do you explain the concept of a boycott to a four year old who wants sausage and chips.

Back home we had a good time. The boys ate their picnic lunches.  I got out some ham. It was smoked, and I’d bought 2 packets. “Try it, and if you don’t like it I’ll give it to Nanna.”  They wolfed it.  We played with the Wooden Railway.  Son 2 did a poo so big it went up to his neck.  Too much information, sorry.  But there was a big part of a crayon in his nappy.   He wears a one-piece vest.  His nappy tabs are fastened too tight for a crayon that size to fall down.  If something was blocking the tubes, that would account for the sheer volume when it came out.  But if Son 2 had swallowed that crayon he would have choked.  So how did it get there?  

Nanna arrived.  Son 2 wanted to watch The Wiggles again.  I booked tickets for The Wiggles.  Nanna will come.  I made Veggie Mince and tomato sauce.  Son 1 didn’t want the Veggie Mince.  But then ate it all.  A real breakthrough, offering  the possibility that I may be able to eat the same as them.  “Shall we try Daddy on this?” I asked Son 1.  “Daddy won’t eat Veggie Mince,” he said wisely.  The Man came home.  Nanna waved goodbye to Son 2 in the bath.  “Bye Bye,” he said.

1.  Never Land

2.  Creative Conflict

3.  A Whole New World

Son 2 aged 15m woke when The Man went up last night.  I couldn’t get him back to sleep.  Son 2 went in with The Man.  Son 1 aged 4y 3m woke screaming in the small hours I went downstairs and got in with him.  He still soothes himself by stroking my eyebrows and/or eyelashes when he’s tired, and I have to lie on my right side with my face towards him so he can reach them.    He slept, I dozed, until a whispered: “Mummy.  I need a poo.”  We read his new pop-up Peter Pan book till next door woke up.  The Man and I competed over who had had the worst night’s sleep.

The Man went shopping, I put Son 2 down for his nap and went up to where Son 1 was watching telly.  “Shall we paint your Power Rangers now?”  “No, I want to watch this.”  I got my paper.  “No.  No newspapers.  Watch telly with me.”  “Your telly is your fun, my paper is my fun.”  “Reading papers isn’t fun.  It’s stupid.”  We went downstairs and started to paint the Power Rangers.  Every time I mixed a colour for Son 1, he painted the plate we were using with it, rather than putting it on the Power Ranger.  After the third or fourth time of telling him, I started to get annoyed.  “Stop doing that. You’re wasting your paint and I just have to mix even more colour.”  He got cross with me for getting cross.  “Stop it.  You’re a grown up and I’m only a little boy and I don’t know.”  I was forgiven very soon.  “Mummy I don’t want to grow up.”  “Why not?”  “I want to stay with you forever.”   After our artistic differences and deep meaningful exchanges about our relationship, Son 2 woke up.  We had painted one Power Ranger blue, and the other… er… red.

I gave the boys lunch and let them have chocolate cake for pudding.  Hell unleashed.  Every atom in Son 1’s body zinged up and down, back and forth and round and round.  Son 2 juddered about shouting and falling down.  And they fought.  Stepping over the contents of the recycling box - Son 2 is enjoying putting lids on and taking them off milk bottles - the crayon pack from the bottom of the pram, and the bits of washing they’d dragged away from the laundry pile, I packed them up and took them out in the freezing Easterly.     Later we went down The Terrace to see some friends.  The Ones With Girls.  The house was tidy.  The toys were wooden.  Son 2 dived into the olives thinking they were grapes, spat one out, picked another, spat it out, picked another and then gave up and started stuffing them into my mouth.