1.    Infection

2.    Confection

3.    Ingestion

I have a stinking cold, and there is no hope that Son 1 aged 4y 11m and Son 2 aged 23m won’t get it. Son 1 was in bed with me last night, his hands seeking my eyebrows and eyelashes, via my nose and mouth.  Son 2 spends a great deal of time with his fingers up his own nostrils, and also trying to get them up mine.  So although I’ve spent the day trying to Catch It Bin It and Kill It, I have a nasty feeling that next week, when I will be back at work after my holiday, when Son 1 starts reception and when it will all be a bit tense and fraught… I will have two littl’uns feeling awful. Never Mind.  Being Positive. I’ve had a massive stretch of time with neither of them being ill. 

We iced the cakes.  Son 1 and Son 2 on their chairs.  The liquorice allsorts, jelly sweets and sugar letters on the chopping boards.  They stuffed their faces. And spat out the liquorice.  I made icing - first time, ta da! - and they drew on it with writing pens, scattered sprinkles, and stuck sweets on. We had nine cakes, and they looked great.  “Was this as much fun as you thought it would be?” I asked Son 1. “Yes.  Can we do it again?”  Yes. But we will swap our liquorice allsorts for dolly mixtures next time. 

We went to Best Friend’s house for lunch. The whole Wednesday gang was there.  Five year old - who we’ve hardly seen this year since he started school in January, his little brother aged 3 and a half… Best Friend aged nearly 5 and his little brother who’s just three, and Son 1 and Son 2. The five elder boys formed a wolf pack. Son 2 decided to stay with me. The two younger brothers were spat out. There was screeching, strutting, chasing, shoving.  Best Friend accidentally head-butted one Wednesday Mum so hard her nose bled. Son 2 kept getting into various beds, making me think he’s already got The Bug. Five Year Old seemed incredibly grown up.   I have such a clear mental picture of him at 17 weeks old, Son 1 at 9 weeks old, Best Friend at 5 weeks old, lying on pillows at Breastfeeding Group.  Breastfed boys, organic and sugar-free in their early diets.  They polished off the fairy cakes in seconds flat.

1.  A Glorious Day

2.  An Excruciating Evening

3.  A Successful Meal

We have been On Holiday. Fantastic, thank you.  Scorching sunshine, lovely villa, beautiful pools. Perfect.  We were with Granny and Granddad, Elegant Aunt and Golfmad Uncle.    Son 1 aged 4y 7m, Son 2 aged 20m and I spent most of each day in the water. The Man dipped in and out, and Granny joined us yesterday.  Son 1 came on leaps and bounds before our eyes.  The boy who wouldn’t put his face in the water where all about him were jumping in, ducking down and diving under can now swim a length of the children’s pool facedown, pick toys sharks up from the bottom and is pretty damn near being able to copy Marvellous Mummy’s handstands.   Son 1 went to Baby Swimming Classes from about 9 weeks old.  Son 2 has never had a swimming lesson.  By the end of the holiday he could float calmly in his armbands and scrabble back to me if I insisted.   But he didn’t really want to.  On one Amazing Morning, I had them both in the pool at 11am. By 12, Son 1 was asleep under a towel on a sun lounger, and Son 2 was crashed out in the MacLaren.  We all had Bloody Marys. I did 20 lengths in the outside pool, watching an azure-winged magpie flitting around.  I then had the whirlpool and indoor pool to myself, and got to blow-dry my hair after swimming for the first time in four-and-a-half years. When I emerged, gleaming and glowing, Son 2 was Up, Cross and Hungry, on The Man’s knee.

We must do it again, we said, we must stay longer. Son 1 found a leaflet about a 2008 sand sculpture competition. “I want to go here. To the land of the sand.” We’ll try in the autumn, we said, we’ll check out flights and prices… And then the trip home.  Son 2 on a plane. Golly, quel beast.  He was bad enough on the way out, but on an afternoon flight on a plane full of tipsy golfers, there was enough cheering, clapping and ambient sound to absorb his wailing.  On an evening flight, after a long, sleepless day he was Satan With The Baffles Out.  Loudest child there by many, many miles.   He kicked seats, he struggled, he roared, he twisted, he wept, he sobbed, he shouted.  For two-and-a-half hours.  It was past funny, past the point where I could look at anyone else and past the point where I wanted anything to do with him.  He quietened down 5 minutes before landing, and hot, red-faced, glazed-eyed and floppy, ignored the bump as the plane came down. Then, again alert, he peered out of the window, pointed outside at the vehicles whizzing past and said: “Bus.”  

Today we opened post, washed clothes and downloaded photos.  Son 2 wanted to go to sleep, so he and I had a heavenly cuddle on the double bed before he passed out.  Little arms around my neck, a  little cheek pressed against mine, soft breath on my lips… who could possibly ever say a bad word to say about him?  Son 1 had five Euros off Granny for a treat, so we went into The Town in search of a comic, a chicken and some fruit.  Nanna came round , looking, sounding and walking much better since they put her on Warfarin.   The Man made Sunday dinner, and the boys ate chicken, broccoli, carrots, potatoes and gravy.  Big relief to see them eating the right stuff. Son 2’s vocabulary now includes: crisps, chips (same ‘kip’ word for both) sweets, ice cream and chocolate.  Much more advanced than Son 1, who didn’t get a grain of sugar from us till he was gone 2.

1.  The Mystery Of Faith

2.  Let There Be Light

3.  The Patience Of Job

Son 1 aged 4y 2m and I went to Church.  First Sunday of Advent.  We sat at the back.  He burnt his fingers on a boiling hot pipe running along the wall just above the floor.  We were taken through a side door to a little kitchenette.  The water was so cold that Son 1 soon decided his fingers didn’t hurt anymore.  He did a puzzle at the back.  Then he reached into his Parkha pocket.  “I’ve got something for you,” he whispered.  And produced a handful of bigger-than-pea gravel.  “Where did you get that?” I asked.  “From the beach,” he whispered.  He coloured in his stones with the Church’s felt tip pens to make jewels for his Treasure Chest.  

Late Afternoon we walked down to The Square for the Parade to switch on the Town’s Christmas Lights.  Son 2 aged 14m was trussed up in his cosi toe, happy in his woolly hat.  Son 1 had four layers on including a fleece and his Parkha.  He was too tired to walk down and rode on The Man’s shoulders.  He wanted candy floss, which his Favourite Thing in All The World, even though he’s never tasted it.  In The Square it was perishing.  Son 1 sulked over candy floss, Santa helium balloons, although a friend supplied some raisins in yoghurt which quietened him.  The Parade started.  We were behind the Samba band and the Mayors’ parties, but in front of Santa.  There were sweets. Lots of them.  Lollies and haribous and chocolates, handed out from great carriers full.  Carols were sung, the Lights went on.  I listed Son 1’s sugar intake as I cleaned his teeth: ice cream, yoghurt raisins, haribous, lollipop, more jelly sweets, candy floss, more haribous and raisins.  He bounced off the walls like a squash ball.

Son 2 aged 14m woke 4 times in 90 minutes after we put him to bed.  He’s been sick twice, crying himself into gagging because I haven’t rushed up.  I’ve just cracked and lay down on the double bed with him to get him back to sleep… and that’s taken well over half an hour.  He has started drooling again, so it could be teeth.  It could be separation anxiety - I don’t feel as if I saw a lot of him today… he could be coming down with something…  it could just be too much stimulus from the Lights switch on.  I really thought we were getting somewhere with his sleeping, but that was awful.  And I’ve still got to get him in his cot when we go to bed.  However.  Today I gathered up my 5 remaining feeding bras and threw them out.  Progress Has Been Made.

1. The Show

2.  The Walk

3. The Facts

I took Son 1 aged 3y 10m to The Children’s Show at The Theatre this morning.  Row K.  He did his usual, made one packet of jelly sweets last two hours. “Mummy can I have more sweeties, please?” and me feeling I needed a flashing banner: “He eats really slowly.  This is the same half-packet he came in with.”  Show was good - well pitched for pre-schools.  Nursery rhymes. Simple plot, repeated in segments.  Son 1 riveted, with total lack of inhibition: “Jenny! You don’t realise it’s XXXX in disguise.” And his bewilderment at the lead. “He doesn’t recognise me!” (three times.) “Darling he can’t see you. He can only see the first three rows because of the very bright lights.”  If I wasn’t being such a positive blogger, I would say the eco-facism of the plot made me want to buy four-packs joined with plastic linkage and scatter it over the innocent blue ocean.  Every other song was about recycling.  To an audience of under-fives wearing flashing deely-boppers (do the young and fash still call them that?) and waving fibre-optic wands - all £6 a shot as soon as you walk in  - which will take 600 years to decompose.

Son 2 aged 11m can use the Early Learning Centre wooden walking trolley which Son 1 had for his 1st birthday.  His life at the moment involves:  pulling up; hunting for things small and chokeable overlooked by parents and elder brother; nappies; sleeping; food.  And he doesn’t sleep much.  So I put him on the trolley and he took a few slow, experimental steps.  And then gave it up for an ossified bit of pasta half a room away.  He did a little balance as well today.  Oh luckily I have a fine sense of humour and can enjoy the irony. Son 1 didn’t walk till he was 15m and I can still tell you how old all his friends were when they started… Son 2, a child who never sleeps, does great, howling sobs of frustration when his little locked legs give out through fatigue and he has to sit down.  Smell the roses boyo, Mummy doesn’t mind if you wait till you’re twelve.

Went out for a drink with The Man tonight.  Had mother over for tea - too wet to drive on Wednesday, vile day - and she stayed to babysit.  It was big party night for The Festival and the whole Town was in fancy dress. I texted the glamorous 22 year old graduate to see if she was on the tiles.  “Yes. But I am dressed as a tropical bird, and cannot face The Town,” she replied.  The Man was dressed as a 1980s slob and I was dressed as a plus size TK Maxx  model.  On the way back, at 10pm, we were walking in front of some Young Men discussing liqueurs.  “I just like the flavour,” “Yeah like cointreau is the same. It’s like, herbal, really good.  But my very favourite is sambuca.”  Me and The Man bonded instantly, enjoying the fact that we know what they’ve got coming.  The morning, two or three years away, when they decide they will never drink liqueurs again.  We larfed and larfed…