1.  Looking

2.  Listening

3.  Learning

Hell fire it was hard this morning.  Son 1aged 5y 1m has needed navy blue swimming trunks since term started.  Here we are after our three week half term, with his baggy white Monsoon shorts still damp and packed somewhere in the suitcases.  I was in Asda at 9pm last night pushing a trolley round George looking for trunks. I asked an assistant. They are, apparently, seasonal items. They come in to the store in Spring and go in the Sale in July. And that’s it.  My fallback plan was a pair of  navy and red Aged 3 swimming boxers I’d found in a bag of hand-me-downs before we went away.  But what had I done with them.  Wonder Nanny had also been sorting clothes. She’d taken my random pile and put the clothing away in the most logical place. Which was where I found them.  This was a Good Thing.  Son 2 aged 2y 1m cried and clung, but Son 1 got to School and I got to The Office on time. 

At The Office a colleague had done something so Useful and Important for me that my first morning  back was a breeze. I took her out to lunch to say thank you, blasting holes in my Holiday Resolutions of watching my spending and my eating.  I managed to offload a great pile of Nachos on to her plate in revenge.  In the afternoon, the contrasts.  The Man rang. Son 2’s Godfather is gravely ill again. And then I had a long conversation with someone I know whose young daughter, nearly three, is terminally ill.  “We never recorded her voice while she could still speak,” he said.  Wonder Nanny, who is very qualified, very competent and very caring, took Son 2 round to play there about a month ago. The father felt it was a success, so I’ll ask her to go again.  There is something very crap about the Mother who sends her Nanny round to help the desperate family.  But I just don’t know what to do. 

I picked Son 1 up in the closing minutes of After School Club.  He had his school photos, which are gorgeous.  At home, I just wanted to cut out pictures of my two gorgeous children and put them in their little cardboard frames, ready to send to Grandparents and Aunties.  The real-life versions of the two gorgeous children scrapped and screeched and shrieked for my attention.  Which they got. Words from earlier floated back:  “Her span is only going to be short so we’re trying to make sure it’s the best life possible.”  I will be less snappy with my children.

1.  The Godparents

2.  The Godbrother

3.  The Godfather

Younger Sister is Godmother to Son 1 aged 4y 7m.  Her partner is Godfather to Son 2 aged 19m.  They’ve been having a tough time, because he’s been supporting his 87 year old mother through Difficulties.  He’s worn out, wiped out, whacked and weary.  Stare, stare in the basin, and wonder…  When he was 19m… or 4y 7m… did she ever try and look forty years ahead?  Being Positive, they may be through the worst part. And we’re going up to stay with them at the end of the month.

Son 2’s Godbrother is 13.  He’s been having a tough time.  He is gorgeous, and Spirited.  Son 2’s Godsister, 14,  was going to buy him nicotine patches for Christmas.   The school’s been great, he’s trying really hard, they were all pleased.  Then a Difficulty at the weekend.  And he’s off sick today. Jaysus I remember how horrible it was being 13.  I also remember Godbrother when he was smaller than Son 2. Gone in an eyeblink.  You cannot conquer time.

Son 2’s Other Godfather called this morning.  Just when you think you have produced the last child of your generation… a new little Late Lamb is on the way.  The Other Godfather has, over the past years, come through a very tough time.  The new Godbrother/Godsister is expected later this year. A Very Lucky Baby with very special parents.   We will see them later this month. Life remains a blessing.

1.  Up

2.  Tummy Ache

3.  Mamma Mia

5am and the screams of a child in mortal peril split the night.  “I SPILLED MY DRINK!!!!! MUMMEEE SOB SOB SOB MUMMMMEEEE SOB SOB SOB.”  I sprint downstairs.  There is an outside chance the situation can be saved, but once Son 2 aged 15m is awake, we are all Awake.  And Up.   The bed isn’t wet.  Son 1 aged 4y 3m isn’t wet.  “What happened?” I whisper in the pitch black.  “My drink slid-ed out of my hand.”  “Where’s your cup?”  “On the floor.”  “Well I’ll leave it till we get up.”  I didn’t want the light on.  That would reveal the Christmas stocking.  And we would be Up.  I snugged down on the bed with Son 1.  Every time I thought his breathing was deepening, he asked “Can I get up yet?”  “No, it’s too early.” “Has Santa been?”  “I don’t know, it’s too early.”  “I made myself wake up early to open my presents.”    Snooze.  I could smell the spilt milk.  “Can I get up yet?”  “No.”  “I want to open my presents so much my tummy hurts.”  It was decades ago, but I can still remember what it feels like to want to open your presents so much your tummy hurts.  It was 0545.  I switched on the light.  Son 1 dived into his stocking.  I went to clear up the milk.  There wasn’t any.  His cup was still on top of his bed where it always is.  It was only a dream.

A present fest.  The boys opened their stockings and then  when Granny and Granddad came at about 0730 we started on the big stuff.  Son 1 ripped through his so quickly he was soon in mourning because everyone except him had some left.  Son 2 tore a few bits of paper off and then continued his remorseless and relentless pursuit of remote controls, mobile phones and electronic gadgetry.  He only came alive once every bit of wrapping paper had been stuffed into a great big carrier, whereupon he dealt with it in the traditional baby manner.  I rang Younger Sister at 11am.  She has Godfather, Nanna, Elder Sister, Godfather’s Mother, and Godfather’s Brother for Christmas lunch.  I told her about Son 1 and the early start.  “I want to open my presents so much my tummy hurts,” she said.  “But we’re still waiting for people to get up.”  We had  a turkey crisis.  The Man had put a fridge up in his Shed to house the overspill food.  He cranked up the temperature and put the turkey in it.  Then last night when he took it out he’d frozen it.  We had the heating on all night to thaw it, and this morning it was just very chilly indeed.  So it took forever to cook.  But we got there, and, at the time of writing, our meat-eating company of two pensioners, two under-fives and a Bloke is all still alive.  Son 1 and Son 2 were in pieces late afternoon, and we just plopped them in the bath.  In bed, Son 1 said “I love Christmas.”  “So do I.”  “I love you Mummy.”  “Oh that’s a kind thing to say. I love you too.”  “You’re so lovely,” and he snugged into my arms.    

Quarter to seven and they were both in bed, asleep.  Granny and Granddad had gone back to their hotel.  Nothing on telly.  “What about Mamma Mia?” I suggested, having bought it at the end of November, and not having managed to get near it since.  “You watch it, I’ll do this computer,” said The Man, who needed to wrestle with a laptop.  So, a couple of glasses of Cava, The Man till half way through “It is a bit of a chick flick, isn’t it?” “Honestly, it’s a war film. They’ll start shooting at each other any minute.”  He went to bed. Not As Good As The Show. Which I think I saw twice.  Can’t remember.  I liked:  Meryl, because she must be nearly 60, and that means I can still be Youthful and Fun and Fashionable when the boys are 20.  The songs, because I was there, queueing round the block to see Abba The Movie in 1978 when the first showing was full.  Pierce Brosnan singing.  It just made me laugh.  I think The Man looks like Pierce Brosnan.

This has got to be one of the longest posts I’ve done, but it’s Christmas.  I spared a couple of thoughts for the people who aren’t with their children on Christmas Day - a hell I only recently understood. During the film I thought about the day Son 1 and Son 2 tell me they’re not coming home for Christmas for the first time. And then Son 1, barefoot in his Ben 10 pyjamas, bounding down the stairs to let Granny and Granddad in “Quick quick come in, it’s time to open the presents.”

1.   Dawn Presence

2.   Perfect Presents

3.   Present Tense

The Man was away overnight.  I woke at 0615, aware of a presence, a pitter-patter of footsteps, the light touch of hands feeling for me in the dark and a whispered: “Mummy I want a wee.”  “Ok-don’t-worry-I’ll-put-a-light-on.” “It’s coming. Now.”  “Okay-okay-okay.”  We sorted him out, and then Son 1 aged 4y 2m climbed into bed. The idea was that we would cuddle in the cold and have a little snooze.  He didn’t stop talking.  We went downstairs for snacks and drinks, and then heard Son 2 aged 15 m wailing.  “Go upstairs and look after him while I bring the tray up.” Up he went.  Son 2 stopped crying.  When I got up Son 1 had put the lights on, put a balloon in his brother’s cot and was bouncing on the bed to entertain him.  A natural.  I might get him to babysit.

I Christmas-ed shopped at lunchtime.  Nanna is going to see The Family on Saturday, so my meagre pile of presents needed boosting.  And Nanna is going on the train, so the presents must be no weight.  She wanted make-up, which I think is quite cool as she is a lady of a certain age.  I only really managed to get hers, but I was pleased with it.  I looked everywhere for light presents suitable for The Brother and The Godfather.  Socks. Belts. Hankies.  Stuff it we’ll have to pay for lunch next time they visit. Teenaged Niece and Nephew are going to have money, which is all they want anyway.  And then I bought two more books for Son 1.  I had a long, long look for stocking fillers for Son 2.  I really am finding him very hard.  He’s got an ambulance Son 1 picked for his birthday that he likes, but other than it’s remote controls, computers, wires, phones and stairs.  And books. He likes books.  His latest trick is climbing up on the piles in Son 1’s room and surfing down on the top book, but he does like looking at them as well.

The Man came back from his Business Trip, which was a third Good Thing.   He had the shower on for Son 1 when I came up the stairs, which meant he didn’t hear Son 2 screaming because he’d caught his little baby fingers in a cupboard door.  I keep thinking I should just let Son 2 learn the hard way not to play with doors … but then I flash forward to the interview in the Guardian: “I lost the use of my right hand when I was a year old and my fingers got flower-pressed in the door hinge.”  We did the whole of Son 1’s babyhood with just two stair gates, so we still don’t quite believe the way Son 2 climbs on the the things we put down to stop him climbing.  We’re sure that his accepting, biddable side will emerge in a few more weeks.