To say my three kids march to a slightly different drummer would be putting things mildly. They're all nuts; doing their own thing, not really caring what other people think. You know the sort.
A few days ago we had our first "conference" with the Little Guy's first grade teacher. He's loving school but seems to lose at least one recess/playtime a day. He claims they're all because of accidents. Not the wet-pant type accident, but him not really meaning to do whatever he did. Yeah right. And the teacher's not fooled either.
Apparently LG and a little friend both had to stay back a few minutes, to finish whatever task they hadn't completed because of excessive high jinks. The friend diligently finished his work while LG attempted to debate his way out of the situation. Needless to say, friend got to go outside having completed his assignment, while LG wasn't even near the closing argument. The teacher then pointed out how much time he'd wasted and made it clear that no further discussion would be taking place. LG thereupon started whimpering for me, telling the teacher he missed me.
Oh pur-leeze. Don't be fooled. Oh yes, his big blue eyes well up and the tears really do roll down his face. Heck, he even wipes his eyes theatrically and gets a snotty nose, but the teacher (forewarned by moi) was having none of it.
Teacher - "Now you're wasting even more time by crying instead of doing your work"
LG - (arms stretched out to each side, palms up). "Hey. I can stop. Any time."
Apparently the teacher had to walk away because she was laughing so much!
.
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
Monday, 28 September 2009
Make Sure you get my Best Side
Apart from swanning off to England and the Med this summer, I forgot to mention a few other things.
I have been co-hosting the Pond Parleys blog for a while now with fellow author and American expat, Mike Harling. Although both of us are happily married (and I've met his lovely wife), we hooked up bloggy-wise a few years ago and we e-mail probably more than we e-mail anyone else - usually panicking about the topic for our weekly blog post or tackling the challenge of publicizing our books. It's one of those e-mail relationships where you think you know the person so well that you almost sign off with a few xxx's. So far I have restrained myself.
Well, this summer we finally met up for a pint. Mike's account of our meeting is here, and very enjoyable it was too. Once again, I was interrogated about my 'date', this time from my aunt with whom I was staying. The teenagers crossed their arms and nodded judgementally (if that's a word) behind her. I couldn't have felt more guilty if I'd been caught leaning out the bathroom window with a fag. (Americans, please, it's not what you think!)I have become so adept at dodging the "blog date" inquisition that I now tend to say that "it's someone I write with", (although my grammar would leave much in question). Unfortunately, the kids are not fooled and made my cousin drop me off at the pub. That he left before I even walked through the pub door rather defeated the purpose but it certainly made me feel like a wanton teenager.
Up north (or "oop north" as southerners seem to think we say), I had lunch with another bloggy friend. I met her last year and although she no longer blogs, we've kept in touch so it was perfectly legit to tell my mother she was a friend. (Okay, so if my mother was meeting people she'd met on the Internet, I'd have a fit. I can hardly expect her to be any less fitty, can I?.) Friend works for the big newspaper in town, and she asked if I'd like to be in the paper, or something like that.
"Fine", I replied, thinking she wanted me to contribute something to a piece. "What do you want me to do?"
"Well we'll write about you and put some photos in", came the response.
"Oh", I said.
Next morning I did a phone interview about, well, me. I scheduled it for early morning to make sure the snarky teenagers were still in bed. Then we all trooped off to Newcastle City Centre for photographs. I dressed quite nicely but thought, for some reason, that the photos would be head and shoulders, or at least nothing past the hip. But no. Of the two that appeared in the full page spread (what on earth could they have to say) one exposed the full whiteness of my legs. This was before I came back from Ibiza with the sun-goddess tan (not).
The photographer (a lovely feller) said he could "bronze it up", but clearly he was joking.
I'm now beginning to see why the Hollywood lot are so obsessed with their looks. I think if I had papparazzi following me everywhere, I too would emerge from my house fully made up, weighing less than my kids and giving them my best angle.
I have been co-hosting the Pond Parleys blog for a while now with fellow author and American expat, Mike Harling. Although both of us are happily married (and I've met his lovely wife), we hooked up bloggy-wise a few years ago and we e-mail probably more than we e-mail anyone else - usually panicking about the topic for our weekly blog post or tackling the challenge of publicizing our books. It's one of those e-mail relationships where you think you know the person so well that you almost sign off with a few xxx's. So far I have restrained myself.
Well, this summer we finally met up for a pint. Mike's account of our meeting is here, and very enjoyable it was too. Once again, I was interrogated about my 'date', this time from my aunt with whom I was staying. The teenagers crossed their arms and nodded judgementally (if that's a word) behind her. I couldn't have felt more guilty if I'd been caught leaning out the bathroom window with a fag. (Americans, please, it's not what you think!)I have become so adept at dodging the "blog date" inquisition that I now tend to say that "it's someone I write with", (although my grammar would leave much in question). Unfortunately, the kids are not fooled and made my cousin drop me off at the pub. That he left before I even walked through the pub door rather defeated the purpose but it certainly made me feel like a wanton teenager.
Up north (or "oop north" as southerners seem to think we say), I had lunch with another bloggy friend. I met her last year and although she no longer blogs, we've kept in touch so it was perfectly legit to tell my mother she was a friend. (Okay, so if my mother was meeting people she'd met on the Internet, I'd have a fit. I can hardly expect her to be any less fitty, can I?.) Friend works for the big newspaper in town, and she asked if I'd like to be in the paper, or something like that.
"Fine", I replied, thinking she wanted me to contribute something to a piece. "What do you want me to do?"
"Well we'll write about you and put some photos in", came the response.
"Oh", I said.
Next morning I did a phone interview about, well, me. I scheduled it for early morning to make sure the snarky teenagers were still in bed. Then we all trooped off to Newcastle City Centre for photographs. I dressed quite nicely but thought, for some reason, that the photos would be head and shoulders, or at least nothing past the hip. But no. Of the two that appeared in the full page spread (what on earth could they have to say) one exposed the full whiteness of my legs. This was before I came back from Ibiza with the sun-goddess tan (not).
The photographer (a lovely feller) said he could "bronze it up", but clearly he was joking.
I'm now beginning to see why the Hollywood lot are so obsessed with their looks. I think if I had papparazzi following me everywhere, I too would emerge from my house fully made up, weighing less than my kids and giving them my best angle.
Thursday, 24 September 2009
I blame Maggie
So there I was, contemplating my life of leisure with all three kids in school ALL day. (Sorry but I keep having to remind myself that it's really happening.)
Anyway, Maggie May, I'm sure you meant well, but I think you jinxed it!!!!
Sunday evening, a gentle rain started about which I was well chuffed since I hate watering the plants. It continued throughout dinner, seeming to get a little heavier. "Good", I thought, "the dirt/soil needs a bit of a soak".
Later the Queenager and I were lounging around, watching the Emmy's, her bony feet digging into my not-so-bony lap.
"Phew", I exclaimed, "is that your feet?" (employing doting, motherly tone.) Apparently not, as she'd just emerged from another spa-like showering session, plucked, creamed and deodorized.
And then I put two and two together! Heavy rain, bad smell .... can only mean one thing.
"Aarrgghh quick, pull the rug up", I yelled, catapulting Queenager off the sofa and leaping into action. Yes folks, the stupid, ancient, cracked city sewer pipes had once again backed up into the ground somewhere and forthwith into my basement family room. Why Americans in the mid-west have such a love affair with basements I will never know. They are the albatross of domestic life and bleed you dry both financially and emotionally. And the smell is like nothing else, even when you've had three babies.
Mr. Minimal was sent to find all the old towels, and predictably, came down with a very plump matching set reserved for guests. "Aarrgghh" I screamed again, "this is sewage. That would be wee and poo. We are NOT using those towels" (motherly tone slipping at this point.) He eventually located a handful of old, scraggy towels I keep specifically for wee and poo occasions. Ha. Talk about not making a dent. Those towels were wringing wet in less than twenty seconds, requiring me to wring them about (yes people) into a bucket and put them on the floor again.
I hope no-one's eating at the moment.
I then remembered a shop vac (huge barrel with vacuum hose attached) so the Ball & Chain was dispatched to the garage while I continued to wring shitty water out of the towels. (Sorry but I want sympathy.) Unbelievably, gentle readers, we almost filled a 25 gallon shop vac with the manky water that seemed to be gushing into my basement. Thank god it stopped raining after about two hours. I'm not very good after a night of vacuuming up sewage.
Next morning there was a small puddle, but we'd moved all the furniture, removed the rug and have a tiled floor. The nice, but expensive, men from the plumbing and sewage company came out mid-morning and "rodded" the main sewer pipe - to find that it was clogged with tree roots, from the stupid, ugly tree right outside my house. Didn't people realise in the 1880s that if you plant trees next to houses, you're going to have problems some day? Grrrr.
Know what the most annoying thing is? The tree belongs to the City of Chicago, so I can't do a thing about it. Except pay through the nose for the damage it does to my pipes. Apparently, if the pipes are under my house, it's my responsibility no matter the cause.
Anyone else think that's really, really annoying?
Anyway, Maggie May, I'm sure you meant well, but I think you jinxed it!!!!
Sunday evening, a gentle rain started about which I was well chuffed since I hate watering the plants. It continued throughout dinner, seeming to get a little heavier. "Good", I thought, "the dirt/soil needs a bit of a soak".
Later the Queenager and I were lounging around, watching the Emmy's, her bony feet digging into my not-so-bony lap.
"Phew", I exclaimed, "is that your feet?" (employing doting, motherly tone.) Apparently not, as she'd just emerged from another spa-like showering session, plucked, creamed and deodorized.
And then I put two and two together! Heavy rain, bad smell .... can only mean one thing.
"Aarrgghh quick, pull the rug up", I yelled, catapulting Queenager off the sofa and leaping into action. Yes folks, the stupid, ancient, cracked city sewer pipes had once again backed up into the ground somewhere and forthwith into my basement family room. Why Americans in the mid-west have such a love affair with basements I will never know. They are the albatross of domestic life and bleed you dry both financially and emotionally. And the smell is like nothing else, even when you've had three babies.
Mr. Minimal was sent to find all the old towels, and predictably, came down with a very plump matching set reserved for guests. "Aarrgghh" I screamed again, "this is sewage. That would be wee and poo. We are NOT using those towels" (motherly tone slipping at this point.) He eventually located a handful of old, scraggy towels I keep specifically for wee and poo occasions. Ha. Talk about not making a dent. Those towels were wringing wet in less than twenty seconds, requiring me to wring them about (yes people) into a bucket and put them on the floor again.
I hope no-one's eating at the moment.
I then remembered a shop vac (huge barrel with vacuum hose attached) so the Ball & Chain was dispatched to the garage while I continued to wring shitty water out of the towels. (Sorry but I want sympathy.) Unbelievably, gentle readers, we almost filled a 25 gallon shop vac with the manky water that seemed to be gushing into my basement. Thank god it stopped raining after about two hours. I'm not very good after a night of vacuuming up sewage.
Next morning there was a small puddle, but we'd moved all the furniture, removed the rug and have a tiled floor. The nice, but expensive, men from the plumbing and sewage company came out mid-morning and "rodded" the main sewer pipe - to find that it was clogged with tree roots, from the stupid, ugly tree right outside my house. Didn't people realise in the 1880s that if you plant trees next to houses, you're going to have problems some day? Grrrr.
Know what the most annoying thing is? The tree belongs to the City of Chicago, so I can't do a thing about it. Except pay through the nose for the damage it does to my pipes. Apparently, if the pipes are under my house, it's my responsibility no matter the cause.
Anyone else think that's really, really annoying?
Sunday, 20 September 2009
Diary of a Mother - alone
So how did I spend my first week-ever-without-small-child?
Well, first day I managed to send Mr. Minimal (middle child) off to orchestra at 7am without checking that there was, in fact, orchestra practise. (Next week then.) He was none too pleased and I was quite glad that we live within walking distance of the school, so that he could stomp back and have another breakfast. It gave me a great excuse to lecture the oldest two about taking more responsibility for their schedules this year. (Yes, that's right, blame the kids.)
I then decked myself out like a Yummy. (In my case that would be wearing a skirt and co-ordinating t-shirt by the way.) Unfortunately, the Queenager noticed that the tan-topping up cream I'd applied the day before had topped up the front but not all the backs and definitely not the left sides of my legs, so I had to run back upstairs and grab a pair of long jeans. So much for looking the part of a leisurely stay-at-homer.
Settled little guy into his new classroom and forgot to deposit checks/cheques for the kids' cafeteria accounts so walked all the way back again. I could've actually done it before I picked him up at 3.15pm (yes, 3.15pm - that would be ALL DAY), but I can't trust my memory these days.
Inevitably, my wide-opn days filled up without any input from me.
Ball & Chain: "When shall I tell the sound guys to come?", (still fixing the world's stupidest smart house).
Me: "I don't know. When will you be in?"
OK, ok, even I knew that was a bit churlish now that I have bugger all to do. So I releneted and made no plans for Thursday morning.
What I didn't do was work out almost every morning as I had planned. Managed Monday, then when Wednesday came around I had to attend a short meeting at school and then completely forgot about the treadmill. I did, I did. You see, I'm still behaving like one of Pavlov's dogs when it comes to my schedule. Once the clock reaches about eleven I start racing around in readiness to pick little guy up at quarter to twelve. And of course, by the time I remembered that I had ample time to work out, I'd already showered and washed my hair. Shame.
Which brings me to another thing I did - had my hair trimmed. Except it was obviously so long since I'd had it cut, the hairdresser forgot what style it was she was trimming it back to. She always tells me I have thick hair for my age so I wasn't too concerned about the incessant razoring she seemed to be doing. After all, I like layers. However, I have ended up with very little hair below my ears and what there is of it looks very thin and stringy. You don't want your hair looking thinner and stringier in your 40's. Apparently I'm the only one with this opinion as several people have commented (positively) on the new do. My hair grows so quickly that it'll look like its usual self next Thursday anyway.
And then the week was completely taken over by the Queenager being sent home from school with a really, really bad cold. Next week looks very much the same as the boys have both started sniffling.
No rest then?
.
Well, first day I managed to send Mr. Minimal (middle child) off to orchestra at 7am without checking that there was, in fact, orchestra practise. (Next week then.) He was none too pleased and I was quite glad that we live within walking distance of the school, so that he could stomp back and have another breakfast. It gave me a great excuse to lecture the oldest two about taking more responsibility for their schedules this year. (Yes, that's right, blame the kids.)
I then decked myself out like a Yummy. (In my case that would be wearing a skirt and co-ordinating t-shirt by the way.) Unfortunately, the Queenager noticed that the tan-topping up cream I'd applied the day before had topped up the front but not all the backs and definitely not the left sides of my legs, so I had to run back upstairs and grab a pair of long jeans. So much for looking the part of a leisurely stay-at-homer.
Settled little guy into his new classroom and forgot to deposit checks/cheques for the kids' cafeteria accounts so walked all the way back again. I could've actually done it before I picked him up at 3.15pm (yes, 3.15pm - that would be ALL DAY), but I can't trust my memory these days.
Inevitably, my wide-opn days filled up without any input from me.
Ball & Chain: "When shall I tell the sound guys to come?", (still fixing the world's stupidest smart house).
Me: "I don't know. When will you be in?"
OK, ok, even I knew that was a bit churlish now that I have bugger all to do. So I releneted and made no plans for Thursday morning.
What I didn't do was work out almost every morning as I had planned. Managed Monday, then when Wednesday came around I had to attend a short meeting at school and then completely forgot about the treadmill. I did, I did. You see, I'm still behaving like one of Pavlov's dogs when it comes to my schedule. Once the clock reaches about eleven I start racing around in readiness to pick little guy up at quarter to twelve. And of course, by the time I remembered that I had ample time to work out, I'd already showered and washed my hair. Shame.
Which brings me to another thing I did - had my hair trimmed. Except it was obviously so long since I'd had it cut, the hairdresser forgot what style it was she was trimming it back to. She always tells me I have thick hair for my age so I wasn't too concerned about the incessant razoring she seemed to be doing. After all, I like layers. However, I have ended up with very little hair below my ears and what there is of it looks very thin and stringy. You don't want your hair looking thinner and stringier in your 40's. Apparently I'm the only one with this opinion as several people have commented (positively) on the new do. My hair grows so quickly that it'll look like its usual self next Thursday anyway.
And then the week was completely taken over by the Queenager being sent home from school with a really, really bad cold. Next week looks very much the same as the boys have both started sniffling.
No rest then?
.
Thursday, 17 September 2009
Taste Britain
I don't normally do this, and I promise not to make a habit of it, but I was recently sent a copy of the brand new "Taste Britain" magazine and I couldn't resist sharing.
It's a beautiful looking thing, with photos that make you want to try all 54 recipes. (West Country souffle, Cornish Crab Soup, Pancakes with Kippers, and Cheddar Crumble to name but a few.) You'll find information on what's in season, an update on the Campaign for Real Ale's activities, a piece about brown crab (yum), together with profiles on the Isle of Man, Eckerington Manor in Worcs, and a gourmet guide to Padstow.
Alas for us expats, there's a tantalising list of "tried and tested" sausages, available from Waitrose, Morrisons etc, but not the USA. (Sigh!) Indeed, a few of the recipes, though tempting, list "good-quality sausages" or "pickle" (presumably the Branston-type) which are both a bit of a pain to procure here.
The US special offer is $45 for 6 issues, which isn't cheap but you'll get around (50 x 6) 300 recipes and serious gourmet kudos if you leave it lying around your kitchen. (Subscriptions are also available worldwide and obviously in the UK). An even better idea is to give a subscription as a gift either to someone leaving the UK or to a friendly, neighbo(u)rhood Anglophile.
(PS. To satisfy whatever disclosure rules are currently being discussed over here, I received nothing other than one free issue of Taste Magazine, and in return did not promise a positive review or any review at all.)
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
I'm what?
Aah - I bet you thought...? You know? Well, I'm not.
However, in response to a post on British Mummy Bloggers, I'm telling the tale of when and why I decided to find out the sex of one of my kiddies. Given that my doctors had unscientifically "guessed" (wrongly) the sex of my older two, it could've been to avoid any of that again. My first had such a low heart beat during the mammoth delivery and subsequent c-section, (more typical of a male), that my obstetrician kept telling me it was a boy as she pried it from my wracked body. Not so. My second (a huge boy) was estimated at being "well under eight pounds" at birth and therefore probably a girl. Err, wrong about the sex and the weight.
No, - what prompted the decision to find out the sex of my third was something completely different. See, I sat on the fence for a long time about whether to have a third. We had had a little scare with number two, and the Ball & Chain in particular, didn't feel like tempting the gods again. When I got to about 37, I decided I was too old, (cue hysterical laughter) and besides, why would I want to be running around after a toddler in my 40's? (..and even more hysterical laughter.) In due course, we took certain medical steps to ensure no more off-spring.
Fast forward about 18 months and I was convinced I was dying. At that time, Sharon Osbourne had just been diagnosed with cancer, and when asked how she knew, she just said she felt generally unwell. My symptoms were a bit worrying - I looked terrible, felt terrible and suddenly had an immense loss of energy. Diving into my well-women medical books, I could have had any number of syndromes, or god forbid, soemthing worse. I decided that I should probably get some tests done and made an appointment with my GP.
"I might as well take a pregnancy test before I go in, and get that one off the table", I told the B&C.
Next thing I know I'm staring at the inevitable blue line in the window! The phrase "crumpled to the floor in a heap" comes to mind.
"This can't be happening! I'm too old (41)." Anyway, it was and apaprently I wasn't. Needless to say, it took me a while to get used to the idea. I had plans. I was almost finished writing my book; I had found a great agent; the sky was the limit. And the kids will know what we've been up to. I don't really remember much about the next few days except a panicked visit to my lady doctor for confirmation and sympathy.
Because of my advanced age (!) a lot of genetic testing was required, which meant that they could tell me the sex with 100% accuracy. I realised at some point I would have to face up to the fact that another baby was on the way, so decided to go for it in an attempt to make this baby real. It also helped the older two to get their heads around things. It was actually quite exciting trying to guess what he would look like - the missing link between his parents, or his two siblings, which he is. We discussed names - and rejected Stanley and Seamus with much huffing from the young boy. (Apologies to anyone who chose those names.)
By the time he arrived, he was already a big part of the family and we were breathless with anticipation. Unfortunately the parents had forgotten what it means to have a brand new member of the family thought the night, but that's another story.
However, in response to a post on British Mummy Bloggers, I'm telling the tale of when and why I decided to find out the sex of one of my kiddies. Given that my doctors had unscientifically "guessed" (wrongly) the sex of my older two, it could've been to avoid any of that again. My first had such a low heart beat during the mammoth delivery and subsequent c-section, (more typical of a male), that my obstetrician kept telling me it was a boy as she pried it from my wracked body. Not so. My second (a huge boy) was estimated at being "well under eight pounds" at birth and therefore probably a girl. Err, wrong about the sex and the weight.
No, - what prompted the decision to find out the sex of my third was something completely different. See, I sat on the fence for a long time about whether to have a third. We had had a little scare with number two, and the Ball & Chain in particular, didn't feel like tempting the gods again. When I got to about 37, I decided I was too old, (cue hysterical laughter) and besides, why would I want to be running around after a toddler in my 40's? (..and even more hysterical laughter.) In due course, we took certain medical steps to ensure no more off-spring.
Fast forward about 18 months and I was convinced I was dying. At that time, Sharon Osbourne had just been diagnosed with cancer, and when asked how she knew, she just said she felt generally unwell. My symptoms were a bit worrying - I looked terrible, felt terrible and suddenly had an immense loss of energy. Diving into my well-women medical books, I could have had any number of syndromes, or god forbid, soemthing worse. I decided that I should probably get some tests done and made an appointment with my GP.
"I might as well take a pregnancy test before I go in, and get that one off the table", I told the B&C.
Next thing I know I'm staring at the inevitable blue line in the window! The phrase "crumpled to the floor in a heap" comes to mind.
"This can't be happening! I'm too old (41)." Anyway, it was and apaprently I wasn't. Needless to say, it took me a while to get used to the idea. I had plans. I was almost finished writing my book; I had found a great agent; the sky was the limit. And the kids will know what we've been up to. I don't really remember much about the next few days except a panicked visit to my lady doctor for confirmation and sympathy.
Because of my advanced age (!) a lot of genetic testing was required, which meant that they could tell me the sex with 100% accuracy. I realised at some point I would have to face up to the fact that another baby was on the way, so decided to go for it in an attempt to make this baby real. It also helped the older two to get their heads around things. It was actually quite exciting trying to guess what he would look like - the missing link between his parents, or his two siblings, which he is. We discussed names - and rejected Stanley and Seamus with much huffing from the young boy. (Apologies to anyone who chose those names.)
By the time he arrived, he was already a big part of the family and we were breathless with anticipation. Unfortunately the parents had forgotten what it means to have a brand new member of the family thought the night, but that's another story.
Monday, 14 September 2009
But They Look Good
I can't be bothered to write this all out again, (I'm exhausted from doing nothing on Friday) but I had an interesting experience with the Queenager last week, regarding tight jeans.
It's all on the Mad Manic Mamas blog.
I was just wondering what anyone else did as a teenager that seems ridiculous now.
It's all on the Mad Manic Mamas blog.
I was just wondering what anyone else did as a teenager that seems ridiculous now.
Thursday, 10 September 2009
Don't judge me, but......
........I can't believe this day has finally come.
It's only taken sixteen years, six months and twenty two days. (My doesn't time fly.)
Some of you will be aghast that I'm not weeping. Indeed some will already have posted about this momentous day, and not in a celebratory way. You will have shed a quiet tear, tiptoed into certain bedrooms to breathe in the scent of stuffed animals and lovingly retrieve items of clothing casually tossed in a heap on the floor. (I've always said I should stay away from the novel-genre and stick to non-fiction. There's your proof.)
No. I'm afraid after sixteen years etc. I've long passed the grieving stage. You see, tomorrow marks the first day in sixteen years, six months, and twenty two days (did I mention that?) that I am ALONE IN THE HOUSE. Yahoo! Little Guy is starting 1st Grade (Year 2) which goes on all day. None of that picking him up at 11.45 malarkey.
Given the vast age difference between the little guy and his two teenage siblings, plus that fact that they don't start full time school here until they're about 11, I have had a small human in the house for all of part of the day for over 16 consecutive years. Yes. I know.
People have asked me what I'm "going to do with" myself, and to tell you the truth, I have no idea. Of course, I have a mountain of things to do, not least because we moved into this house 6 years ago and I had a 5 month old baby and a brand new publishing contract. Not a lot of time for home-making, so it's all still there in it's guilt-inducing glory. A guest bedroom that looks more like a hospital ward, a boy's room that is now embarrassingly baby blue, and a kitchen than is about as organised as Chicago's bid for the 2016 Olympics. There's also the 70% finished book that needs well, finishing and fact-checking, as well as lots of unsubscribing from Internet groups that I have joined and subsequently ignored.
The Ball & Chain is making strange noises about retiring early, but I'm having none of that. There's no way I'm spending sixteen years, six months (yes, I know, you know) and twenty two days stepping over small children only to start all over again with a 6 foot 4 inch version. No siree Bob. If he wants to retire I will have to put him in a retirement home, that's all there is to it. I'm not having doddery people cluttering up what will soon be my wonderfully organised (not to mention co-ordinated) house.
So - what are my plans for this joyous day? No idea - answers on a postcard or the back of a stuck down envelope please.
.
It's only taken sixteen years, six months and twenty two days. (My doesn't time fly.)
Some of you will be aghast that I'm not weeping. Indeed some will already have posted about this momentous day, and not in a celebratory way. You will have shed a quiet tear, tiptoed into certain bedrooms to breathe in the scent of stuffed animals and lovingly retrieve items of clothing casually tossed in a heap on the floor. (I've always said I should stay away from the novel-genre and stick to non-fiction. There's your proof.)
No. I'm afraid after sixteen years etc. I've long passed the grieving stage. You see, tomorrow marks the first day in sixteen years, six months, and twenty two days (did I mention that?) that I am ALONE IN THE HOUSE. Yahoo! Little Guy is starting 1st Grade (Year 2) which goes on all day. None of that picking him up at 11.45 malarkey.
Given the vast age difference between the little guy and his two teenage siblings, plus that fact that they don't start full time school here until they're about 11, I have had a small human in the house for all of part of the day for over 16 consecutive years. Yes. I know.
People have asked me what I'm "going to do with" myself, and to tell you the truth, I have no idea. Of course, I have a mountain of things to do, not least because we moved into this house 6 years ago and I had a 5 month old baby and a brand new publishing contract. Not a lot of time for home-making, so it's all still there in it's guilt-inducing glory. A guest bedroom that looks more like a hospital ward, a boy's room that is now embarrassingly baby blue, and a kitchen than is about as organised as Chicago's bid for the 2016 Olympics. There's also the 70% finished book that needs well, finishing and fact-checking, as well as lots of unsubscribing from Internet groups that I have joined and subsequently ignored.
The Ball & Chain is making strange noises about retiring early, but I'm having none of that. There's no way I'm spending sixteen years, six months (yes, I know, you know) and twenty two days stepping over small children only to start all over again with a 6 foot 4 inch version. No siree Bob. If he wants to retire I will have to put him in a retirement home, that's all there is to it. I'm not having doddery people cluttering up what will soon be my wonderfully organised (not to mention co-ordinated) house.
So - what are my plans for this joyous day? No idea - answers on a postcard or the back of a stuck down envelope please.
.
Sunday, 6 September 2009
Back to life, back to reality
And we're back. Landed last night, and wimp that I am, I went straight to bed (8pm). I can't be bothered to put myself through the pain that is "trying to get back on to Central Time" by keeping myself up half the night. Besides, the only things demanding my attention were bulging suitcases and a pile of mail. I think not!
To answer the question "Why Ibiza?" - actually, not a lot of thought went into it. My kids decided they wanted to go on holiday with their cousins, so I rang my sister and muscled our way into their holiday, which was already booked. Time constraints being what they are when you visit friends and family in the old country, we only went for a week compared to their two. I must have become a bit American there - I can't really stand doing the beach/pool/dinner routine for too long.
As I mentioned, we stayed in Portinaxt (I believe that final "t" is silent). A very quiet place indeed. I think the teenagers were hoping for a bit of action, but all they got was the sight of two local dogs taking turns to hump each other. We did go into Ibiza town one day (very nice), the plan being to stay late and watch the transvestites (sorry if I sound non-PC but they do prance around to be watched). However, two of our group had slightly dodgy tummies that day, and after about 6 hours of walking around, we decided to head back.
Back in England for our last week, it did not disappoint - and rained every day! The last couple of days in Surrey, the wind also howled ferociously. Which brings me to my fave holiday photo -
Necessity is the mother of invention!
To answer the question "Why Ibiza?" - actually, not a lot of thought went into it. My kids decided they wanted to go on holiday with their cousins, so I rang my sister and muscled our way into their holiday, which was already booked. Time constraints being what they are when you visit friends and family in the old country, we only went for a week compared to their two. I must have become a bit American there - I can't really stand doing the beach/pool/dinner routine for too long.
As I mentioned, we stayed in Portinaxt (I believe that final "t" is silent). A very quiet place indeed. I think the teenagers were hoping for a bit of action, but all they got was the sight of two local dogs taking turns to hump each other. We did go into Ibiza town one day (very nice), the plan being to stay late and watch the transvestites (sorry if I sound non-PC but they do prance around to be watched). However, two of our group had slightly dodgy tummies that day, and after about 6 hours of walking around, we decided to head back.
Back in England for our last week, it did not disappoint - and rained every day! The last couple of days in Surrey, the wind also howled ferociously. Which brings me to my fave holiday photo -
Necessity is the mother of invention!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)