1.  Cleaning

2.  Keening

3.  Meaning

Our Family Activity this morning was cleaning the Fish Tank.  Flossie, Floppy, Fluffy, Zizzy, Sulky and Coupon are all still going strong. Floppy last part of his tail and it has grown back.  Betcha didn’t know that happened.  Sulky and Zizzy have put on a bit of weight.  So telling them apart from Floppy and Fluffly is… not possible. Coupon has grown in confidence, and no longer lives shivering in the Bog Wood.  Sigh.  Whole New Worlds into which my children have taken me.  Anyway. The Man has a new sucky siphon thing which he used to hoover the gravel. He cleaned the filters.  I caught snails, because The Man won’t touch ‘em.  I caught 10, and put them in a plastic tub, where most were flattened in a single squelch by the curious and chubby index finger of Son 2 aged 2y 2m.   

Then we went crabbing. This was down to The Man.  Yesterday, having a quiet cuddle with Son 1 aged 5y 1m, he said idly: “What time’s your party?”  Oh dear, wrong in so many ways.  I had accepted an invitation to Little Classmate’s party. And then I had to ring back and say he couldn’t go. I explained all this to Son 1, and he’d protested, but then forgotten. The Man dredged it all up again. And then said, to calm the wails: “Don’t worry, we’ll go crabbing instead.”  Son 1 was thrilled. “Darling, there’s a Force 10 coming through, and the Coastguards are asking people to stay away from quays,” I said. A cubic metre of water weighs a tonne. My new fact of the day.  More wailing. Today the sky was blue, the water was flat, so we all went down to the Quay at the end of The Terrace, and caught bucketsfull.

The Aged Aunt has died, and I am strangely unsettled. She had a stroke while we were on holiday, and has been in hospital since. Eldest Brother was her carer, and I’d spoken to him last weekend to see how they both were.  Younger Sister rang this morning; she’d died in her sleep.  The Aged Aunt was my late father’s elder sister.  There was another brother, shot dead aged 19 by a German when he parachuted into Normandy in 1945.  I feel as if a link with my Dad has been cut.  We took the boys to see her in June journeys so at least we have pictures to show them later.  I watched Son 2 load pigs, sheep and people onto his Playmobil tractor. He knocked it over. “Oh Deer. Wos ‘appen ‘ere.”  The light caught on his pale white face, his skin smooth, his eyes shining.  In 1924 my Grandmother may have sat, with the same adoring expression on her face, watching the Aged Aunt play.

1.  Blotches

2.  Does Your Child?

3.  A Shade Different

Not a Good Night. Poor old Son 1 aged 5y 1m came in at 0230, and I had very little sleep after that. I went downstairs at 4, and then got up at 6, with Son 1 pad-pad-padding down behind me.  One Wednesday Friend - the Booming Businesswoman - is away in South Africa, doing Very Well without the children. The other texted. Swimming?  Nah. Can’t really. I have Son 1 as well as Son 2 aged 2y 2m.  He’s off school with a sore throat.  She would go swimming, we decided, and we three would see her in the cafe afterwards.  I made lunch. I loaded the Big Pram into the car. I loaded all the bags into the car. At about 1015, for some reason I still can’t remember, I checked Son 1’s tummy. There was a rash.  Red.  Not even a rash, particularly. Just big blotches and patches of red.  Nah, not red. Pink. Too faint for red. Nope. Not faint. There. Inescapable.  And, come to think of it, if we’re honest, and not trying to make the least of something, it’s red. Red. At his neck. Under his ears. On his chest. On his tummy.  I kept peering at him. He kept protesting.

I got my Book out.  Rashes With Fever.  Does Your Child Have A Fever? Yes.  Is the rash red, widespread, and vanishes when pressed? Yes. Does Your Child Have A Sore Throat? Yes.  = Scarlet Fever. See Your Doctor.  I looked at Son 1.  I looked at The Rash. I looked at The Book.  I looked at The Rash. I rang the Doctor. The receptionist was vaguely interested. “There’s only emergency appointments left. Is it an emergency?” “Well… he’s got a sore throat, a fever and a rash, and I’d like him someone to look at him today.”  ”Four Fifteen. You’ll have to come and wait.” “That’s fine.”  “So it’s sore throat and fever? His symptoms?” “And The Rash. On his neck. And his body.”  “Could you please just excuse me.  I’m putting you on hold. ”  I tum ti tummed. “Sorry, I can’t get the Duty Doctor. Can he ring you back?”  Of course he can. He rang. ”Bring him in now, I’ll have a look at him between appointments.” 

“Open wide. Say Aaaah. He’s got white spots on his throat and palate. Rashes are hard… that could be viral.. or… what’s his highest temperature been?” “37.9.  And 38 last night, but that was when he was in bed with all his covers on so I didn’t think it counted. But I don’t really do temperatures. I’ve just been giving him Calpol and Ibuprofen to help him when he’s clearly too hot.”  “Over 38 is probably an infection.  What do you think it is? Scarlet Fever?”  ”Well,” I said. “I’ve got this Book. And it says fever, sore throat and rash = Scarlet Fever.  And we’ve been on holiday so he’s been on a plane. And we spent a lot of time in a Spa Bath, and I’ve read somewhere they’re high risk for Scarlet Fever… and… if you tell me it’s not, I’ll be happy.” “It’s not one of those where you take chances,” he said, swabbing Son 1’s cheek. “Usually, if there’s any doubt, you don’t give children antibiotics. Except for suspected Strep, when you do. ” The printer buzzed. ”No school till at least a day after the rash goes and his temperature is normal.  No mixing with other children till you’ve had a clear day.” “What about Son 2?” I asked. “Oh if he’s getting it, he’s got it. Ring on Friday for the Swab result.” Outside, I rang The Man. I told the people we’d been with over the last few days.  Only suspected, I said. Could still be viral. Yes, he did…er.. go red before my very eyes.   At home, the boys watched telly. I made tea.  Son 1 couldn’t eat any. At bedtime, I took off his top to put him in the shower.   His back was shiny, coated in the rash.  No white bits. And I’ve kind of hunted here and there for the right word to describe the shade.  Deep red?  Crimson?  Nah, a just  a few shades pinker.  Vermilion? A bit too orangey.  Scarlet.  Definitely scarlet.

1.  Geography

2.  History

3.  Biology

I was late out of the door because we were up in the night. Son 1 aged 5y 1m was hot, thirsty, uncomfortable and wanted his Mummy.  On my way out I met a friend, the same age as me, with granddaughters aged four and 10 months.  Her 27 year old son went to Afghanistan a month ago. He’s still got five months to go.  Her daughter-in-law’s having a hard time with the News, the Remembrance coverage, and being on her own with the baby.  My friend aches for any contact from her son. And lives in constant dread.  

At lunchtime I went for a sandwich with another Mother, a few years older than me.  Acutely worried about her brilliant, but vulnerable 20 year old daughter. For the first time, I heard the story of the eldest child, who would have been 25 on Friday.  She died, from a chromosomal disorder, a few days before Christmas when she was 2.   “There’s a programme on tonight. I think the little girl has what she had.  She just looks the same.”  Because, 23 years later, you remember.  

Son 1 being at home gave me an extra half hour after The Office. I went for a Twilight Run.  Cold, damp, crisp and grey.  I’m still half-walking and half-running, but who cares.  I was out, in the kit, in the dark.  Back home Son 1 seemed much better, until just before bedtime, when his voice was shot and I could almost hear the wince in his eyes as he swallowed. We doubled up, again, on Calpol and Ibuprofen to bring his temperature down.  He had a clear mission. To get tomorrow, Mummy’s Day off, off school so we could have Adventures again like we used to.  As he wilted, The Man and I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and give him the extra day, just to make sure. And Back To School on Thursday.

1.  Getting Up

2.  Stepping Out

3.  Lying Down

As always, on a Monday morning, The Man and I were clattering around downstairs while the Son 1 aged 5y 1m and Son 2 aged 2y 1m softly snored in their bedroom.   I drank coffee, and gazed blearily at the clocks.  Every clock in the house has to be fast, or I am Late For Everything.  And only a few have been put back.  So in the lounge it was 0730. In the kitchen it was 0630.  Everywhere else,  it could have been anything from 0615 to 0620.   Wonder Nanny, months ago, told me she never looks at any of our clocks and relies on her mobile phone for the time.  The boys came down.  Son 1 now turns his nose up at Coco Pops, so we’ve gone back to pancakes.  Son 2 stuffed his face. Son 1 nibbled the edge of a tiny piece like a teenaged girl in ballet school.  I nagged and nagged.   As always, on a Monday morning, I was Gloriously Grateful that Son 1 got to School on time.

At lunchtime, a colleague and I went out for a Run.  I haven’t been out since A Pan Fan.  ( Another Good Thing. I have worked out how to edit the hyperlinks…)   We were therefore both Beginners, and did 3min walking and 3 min running x 5, in bright, crisp autumn sunshine.  We went down by The River, past the Garden and the Playground and along to the Sports Field.  My colleague wanted to run on the grass to save our joints. I didn’t want to mess up my nearly new shoes.  And yet inside I still think I’m a runner…  

I collected Son 1 from After School club.  He burrowed his face into my shoulder.  “Are you tired, Son 1?” I asked. “They’re all a bit tired, today,” said the Helper. Son 1 wanted a carry.  I hitched him up, and he slumped against me. “You’re not very well, are you?”  “My throat’s sore. It hurts when I yawn. Tell Daddy I don’t think I’ll have any tea. ”   I carried him across the playground. “I’m parked right up the Muddy Path. Do you want me to leave you on the bench while I go and get the car?”  “Yes please.”  Reader, I couldn’t.  I carried the poor floppy lump quarter of a mile, in my trouser suit and three inch heels.  He only ate a Frube from his tuck box, and was asleep by the time we got home.  I took his temperature. 37.9.  Son 2, chuckling with joy at first sight of us, went nuts at the amount of attention Son 1 was getting. They were both in bed and asleep at 7pm.  Or 8pm, if you were in the lounge.

1.  Congestion

2.  Consumption

3.  Commotion

I have still got this bogging cold.  I have to hold my forehead  to stop my head exploding every time I cough - weirdie look, especially with my other hand in front of my mouth to prevent germs spraying. I am stone deaf apart from the crisp packets someone’s crinkling up in each ear, my nose is streaming, I wheeze when I breathe, my face is fat, I can’t swallow and every time I take a step in my clippy-cloppy shoes it hurts my head. But I do not have a temperature so it is Nothing Serious.   We have a Swine Flu Strategy at The Office which involves Not Going In If You Don’t Feel Well To Protect The Health Of Your Colleagues.  So I had a day of people telling me to Sod Off.    But I have Thursday and Friday off for Son 2 aged 23m’s birthday and no matter how hard I hope the work just doesn’t do itself.   And no I can’t work from home because there is a child and a Nanny there.  And God said: “Have a read of Active Conversations on Mumsnet and Stop Complaining.”  So I have. And I will.

Son 1 aged 4y 11m arrived in the Big Bed during the night. I woke at 0630 and went downstairs to make coffee, lunches, breakfasts and put a pile of work and school things together.  I got up Son 1 and Son 2 and they ate Coco Pops.  Son 1 and I set off and got to School on time. “We’ve been hearing a lot about his Fish Tank,” said the Teaching Assistant. “We’ll have to have a photo when it’s up and running.”  Son 1 sat and quietly did puzzles while we talked about him. At lunchtime I went out in search of decongestants and accidentally ended up in TK MAxx.  Stocking fillers for the boys’ brithdays. And trousers, a shirt and a red-stickered cashmere top for me.  There was a beautiful CK coat there but it was, sadly, Too Tight In The Bodice.

I picked Son 1 up and we drove home. “I need a poo,” he said, matter-of-factly, about half-way back.  “Can you wait till we get home?” “No.”  “Can you hold on till Asda?”  A loud, long farting noise came from the backseat.  We stopped in a picnic area.  He’d already peeled off his shoes and socks.  I improvised with an old FT from my briefcase and a Waitrose mag for him to stand on.   He was interminably slow dressing again and getting back in the car.  Back home he sprang inside to find The Man and Son 2 and I posted his efforts in the dog mess bin opposite. i bathed Son 2; he stayed downstairs with The Man working on the Fish Tank. Then I read him Tabby McTat - the new Julia Donaldson and Axel Scheffler book which we’ve bought Son 2 for Friday. “Do you think he’ll like it?” I asked Son 1. “It’s a bit more complicated than the others.” “He’ll love it,” he said.   When i finally came down after putting them both to bed, the Fish Tank had water in it, the light was on and bubbles were floating about.  We were right. It is going to be good for our stress.

1,  Chest Flies

2.  Lord Of The Flies

3.  No Flies

We didn’t get the boys to bed till 9pm last night, so we felt we deserved a lie in this morning. Nah.  The only impact was no little visitor clambering into bed with us during the night.  The Man got up at about 7 and went downstairs… Son 2 aged 23m wailed, I heard Son 1 aged 4y 11m chatter… and that was it. I rested for as long as I felt I could get away with it.  “I don’t understand why my cold’s gone in three days and yours is still going on and on and on,” said The Man. “Because if you’re exhausted your immune system doesn’t work as well.” “Well why don’t you check into rehab or something?”  Not Just My Husband, My Very Best Friend.

The Man wanted to drill holes for the fish tank power. The boys and I took Nanna’s giant stone mushroom to her house - two months after her birthday. We picked her up and then went to the Garden Centre. The idea was that each boy would choose a toy for the fish tank, to be given as a present on their birthdays. Son 1 couldn’t care less about anything I showed him: one-hole two-hole three-hole rocks, hippos with mouths that opened by bubbles, pieces of wood. He only wanted a bag of shells. He said if I bought them for him he would behave for the rest of his life.  It seemed like a good deal. Son 2 got a red ray, and I chose a lump of wood for Son 1. Away from the fish tank, it looked as if it would fit. Back home it clearly won’t.  Might have to saw a bit off.

We walked down through the town to meet Nanna for lunch.  The Man strode off with Son 2 in the Big Pram, Son 1 and I took longer. In the cafe Son 1 wanted pizza. I turned to Son 2.  “What would you like?” “Cips.” Not 2 years old and he can order in restaurants.  I didn’t go into a cafe till I was 14 years old.  The kitchen messed the order up so we had two small, tired, over-hungry boys melting down.  Looking on the bright side, they could have been a lot worse.  After we went to the discount shop, where I bought them each a Playmobil toy with money Nanna gave them for a birthday stocking-filler. Son 1 studied each box on the way home. “Son 2’s is better than mine!” he decided.  Son 2’s cost a pound more.

1.  Start A Revolution

2.  Summertime’s In Bloom

3.  A Better Place To Play

The Man has my cold. He is Very Ill Indeed.  All he could manage this morning was getting himself to work, so  I did breakfastanddressingandtidyingupandcleaningupandwashingandteethandmakingpackedlunches.  Poor old him.  Imagine getting it this bad after only one day.  I really am very lucky that I’ve been able to keep going through the whole week I’ve had it. The dentist rang. I have an appointment tomorrow morning, and so does Son 1 aged 4y 11m.  I made this appointment in February.  When I was in pre-school world. Tomorrow is Son 1’s first day at school.  I rang them. “Bring him in when you’ve finished,” they said.

We’d arranged to meet The Wednesday Friends on the Beach By The Garden. MAcs and wellies, because the forecast was rain. But we just wanted to get outside. By the time I’d finished all my jobs though, we were very late. And it was raining very hard. The others had de-camped into the Beach Cafe.  We arrived, Son 1 in full Captain Hook, Son 2 aged 23m barely awake. Six five-and-under boys in a cafe. Didn’t work. We abandoned it.  Best Friend and Little Brother came here, the other Wednesday Family went home.  The boys played well.  It rained and rained. When it came for home time, Son 1 tried to persuade Best Friend to stay. ”This is the funnest house. We haven’t got all the toys out yet.”  He was the Child Catcher. He cried when they left.

And this evening I became The Terrifying Mother Who Invites The Whole Class To Parties. In my defence… these are September birthdays. Last year I invited one boy from Nursery who’d already invited Son 1 to something, and then spent the rest of the year feeling guilty every time another invitation appeared.  This year they can all come if they like, hospitality done and dusted, hooray hooray.  And Son 1 starts school tomorrow.  Herein endeth the pre-school years.  And our Wednesdays together.  Pang, Pang, Go Away.  I have done my best.     

1.  Domestic Goddess

2.  Domestic Drama

3.  Domestic Bliss

Working yesterday meant I had today off.  Wonder Nanny was off, so it was Son 1 aged 4y 11m, Son 2 aged 23m and me.  September.  Strewth.  The boys were knackered after yesterday, and we all have rotten, rotten colds, so I aimed low.  Maybe some cake making, I thought. Maybe a stroll into The Town.  Maybe.  “What do you want to do Son 1?” “Crabbing.”  The Man took an early lunch, and down to The Hotel With The River View we strolled.  We have by trial and error arrived at the perfect crabbing design.  A washing tablet bag on a piece of string filled with bacon.  The MAn and Son 1 were hauling ‘em up, four at a time.  Son 1 is brilliant. He’s gone from being too scared to go near a net containing crabs to sticking his hands in and flicking them in the bucket.  “Mind your fingers!” “I am minding my fingers!”  Son 2 likes feeding the captives.  So much that you can’t leave him alone with the bait. He’d plop it all in the bucket for his prisoners.  He lost interest and was more interested in paddling in the tidal puddles on the quayside and flipping stones and winkles in the river.  The tide was coming in, The Man was running out of time. He took the bucket and nets… I took two small, tired boys back to the house. 

I’d roasted a pile of beetroot while we were out. And I made it into pink soup for lunch. In the Duck and The Cat and The Squirrel, they make pink soup one day when they’ve run out of pumpkins. ”I’m not eating that!” said The Duck.  “It’s Pink.”  Son 2 took one look and refused. And when Son 1 realised Son 2 was getting away with not eating it, he refused as well. So I gave them the leftover hummous and veg from  yesterday’s packed lunch and ate two bowls. It was Delicious.   Then we made fairy cakes. Son 1 and Son 2 took turns to press the food processor buttons.  They carefully put the cake papers in the tray.  They broke the eggs. And they licked the bowl out. We watched Wall E. Son 1 pestered to ice the cakes. I said he could if he ate all his tea.  He did.  I made icing while they stuffed their faces with cake sweets. We had a whole pot of jelly tot sweets… There are none on the cakes.  Son 2 just stood on his chair by the chopping board, his attention rigidly fixed on shoving as many sweets in his mouth as he could before someone took them away.  And then Man Oh Man I got the sugar rush I deserved. Son 1 cannonballed back and forth; Son 2 giggled like a drunk. The Man came home. “They made me do it,” I muttered sheepishly as he picked up Son 1 by his torso, his arms and legs still whizzing round like a wound-up bath toy.

I finally got them to bed. Son 1 is still on Book  Club. I went to Book Club last Thursday, which meant I had to leave during his bedtime. “Can I come? I’ll bring one of my books.” “You can have a Book Club tomorrow.. as many as you like.”  On Friday he had all his Thomas books, and all his Mr Men books on a big pile. We counted.  58 books.  We have done about 20.  This evening he passed out after about five. I went downstairs. The Man had made fajitas, because we both have colds.  We ate them downstairs, no telly, no newspaper. A glass of wine, and we talked to each other. We agreed we must do it more often.

1.  Under The Weather

2.  Under Surveillance

3.  Under Pressure

Son 2 aged 23m’s dramatic, croupy cough rattled out after we’d gone to bed. I couldn’t see how Son 1 aged 4y 11m could sleep through it, so way past midnight, I sent The Man downstairs into the Double Bed, scooped Son 2 up from his cot and took him up into the Big Bed with me.  Mummy Serotonin makes them get better quicker.  The idea of sleeping with Son 2 is always lovely.  I agonise over him snugging himself up in his sleeping bag in his cot - I’m sure Son 1 was in with us most nights at that age. So I dream about Son 2 and I cuddling, dozing, drowsing, in tune with each other’s sleep cycles. In reality? Even ill and exhausted, he’s always up for a party.  PUshing and towing pillows off the sides of the bed.  Feeling for nose and ear holes and sticking fingers in them. And endlessly, endlessly, turning over, crawling, pulling the quilt up, kicking the quilt off… Until: “Son 2!  If you don’t lie down and go to sleep I am going to put you back in your cot and leave you there!”  He laid his little fluffy head on the pillow and went straight to sleep. 

We’d planned lunch with Nanna.  She said she’d brave our colds, so we decided on the Big Town.  We arrived, parked, and went to TK Maxx to look for shoes for the boys. Nanna was left in charge of Son 2 in the toy section.  The Man was with Son 1 in Children’s Shoes.  There was an argument about a grey pair. “He won’t try them on,” said The Man. “I don’t like them.” “Why not?” “I want bright shoes.”  It’s TK Maxx. Their entire business plan provides leftover pairs of orange shoes for little boys like Son 1.  We got him sorted, and I looked up to see Nanna walking out of the open double door and then back in again. “Where’s Son 2?” I asked. “I’ve lost him.” She continued to look round clothes racks. “Where?” “He just ran off!”  I looked for The Man. “I’ve seen him!”  He strode off halfway across the shop.  Son 2 nearly made it back to the escalator.   We got the reins out.    The boys were heavenly at lunch.

On the way back we stopped off at fish tank shops.  The Man is looking at tanks the size of Swan Vesta matchboxes. I am looking at tanks you could pickle cows in.  This is supposed to be a joint birthday present… we have less than a fortnight before Son 2’s big day.  It took us 17 years to decide to have children.  We have asked Son 1 if he’d rather have a rabbit.

1.   True Love

2.   Little One

3.   A Swell Party

Son 2 aged 23m has a hacking cough. Son 1 aged 4y 11m is sneezing and coughing.  I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.  It’s the end of August, and because The Man has spent the summer re-fitting and painting and sanding we’ve only been out on The Boat twice. The forecast was so-so, and worse for tomorrow.  The Boat it was.  Son 1 and The Man went off to get the dinghy ready. Son 2 ran after them, a sandal in each hand, “and me!” and sobbed when they left without him.  I put him outside in the yard on the astroturf, naked,  with a bowl of warm soapy water, some washing powder jugs and two beach buckets.  I started on the sandwiches.  Son 2 toddled back in carrying the empty bowl.  “More wah wah!”  “Who tipped out the last bowl?” I asked. “Me!”  Off he went.  I carried on.  He came back in twice more for water.  I chopped vegetables. Then he came back in and pawed at his clothes. “Dest.” “You want to get dressed?”  “Yes peez.” And then “Pooo.” He pointed to the yard. There, on the sodden, soap-soaked astroturf, was a damp, squashed poo. 

Son 2 was hard work. Clingy, insistent, tearful.  He also kept falling over.  The Man and Son 1 came back and we went down to the Yacht Club.  Son 1 and Son 2 played races on the lawn. “Ready… Steady… Go!” yelled Son 1 as they pelted across it. Son 2 was still falling over.  “Try ‘Ready, Steady, Lie Down.’” I said.  “Ready, Steady, Sleep!” called Son 1, and they both fell down. In lifejackets. Stuck on their backs like upended tortoises. 

So we took the baby with his fluey cold and balance problems and put him on a motor boat in a heavy swell.  He fell over. In the cabin. Bump on the forehead. He fell over on the deck.  Bump on the forehead.  We had lunch, and then bribed the boys. If they went to sleep they could have a sweet when they woke up. They both slept.  I read the paper, The Man and I drank coffee.  When they woke up we caught crabs. The world-record for Biggest One Yet.  Barely fit in the bucket.  Son 1 was a stroppy, screeching pain all the way back. I did not cope well.  I think that’s Three Down, and The Man in charge.