The truth, the whole truth, and nothing near the truth.

I would just like to clarify that, no matter what you may hear to the contrary, I do NOT have hairy boobs. That statement does have context by the way, more on that later.

I really dislike lying; I think it's incredibly disrespectful and for the most part it's unnecessary. Obviously there are times when a small white lie is called for and goodness only knows I'd be fibbing if I said I'd never fibbed, but the vast majority of lies are harmful and used for self-preservation rather than to spare someone elses feelings. It's pretty hard feeling so strongly about this when I have a daughter who is a compulsive fibber. That girl would swear blind she'd not got a hole in her bum and the sky was pink.  She's not been too bad of late to be fair to her, but we went through a period of months where barely a true word left her little mouth.  Like the time I found that some of my sweets had disappeared and had mysteriously shed their wrappers under The Daughters pillow. Obviously she had no idea how they got there. Similarly no idea about how the toilet seat got broken or red felt tip got on her bedsheets or how a big piece of lettuce covered in mayonnaise ended up under the table. And the most frustrating bit is that she never admits to anything, unless she literally has no choice. That girl holds up so well to questioning that I start to believe she's had some kind of formal interrogation training; I could tie her to a chair, shine a light in her eyes, and force her to watch News24 for days on end, and she'd still not crack and admit that it was her who stuck the Buzz Lightyear sticker on the back of the dining chair.

There must be a clear line, somewhere between The Boychild's age and The Daughter's age, where sweet and innocent becomes cynical and wily because as of yet - at three and a half - he hasn't learnt to lie. The other day I went into the hall to find the curtains, still attached to the curtain pole, lying on the floor. "Charlie" I asked him, "Did you pull the curtains down?" Without a second of hesitation he said "Yep", as though I'd just asked him if he liked kittens.

Of course, by some strange irony, while she is so stubborn when it comes to owning up, when it comes to things you actually want keeping on the QT, they're fair game for the world to hear. For example, The Boychild has been having some problems in the toilet department. And by that I mean he can't poo. Actually, he WON'T poo. And after a week of him sitting on the loo for hours putting more effort into wailing than into pooing, I went and bought some suppositories to try and get the poo bomb to explode. The Daughter went and told a load of her friends at school about her poor brothers misfortune and was most disgruntled when they laughed! I tried to explain that some things should be private, but heaven knows if it got through. And thus we arrive back at my (un)hairy boobs. Apparently she was insisting a few days ago to The Husband that Mummy has hairy boobs, and wouldn't accept otherwise. I was getting dressed yesterday when she looked me up and down and said "I told Daddy your boobs were hairy but they're not! It's just your bum!" And I was - and still am - too afraid to ask if she'd seen fit to divulge this information to her school friends. So if any of you should hear any such rumours about my hirsuteness, it came from The Daughter - and you can't believe a word she says..!!

Turning into my mum

When I say I'm turning into my mum, obviously I don't mean literally. There'd be a few shocked faces if I woke up in the morning having shrunk ten inches and aged 30 years! And none more shocked than me (sorry Mum). No, of course I mean that all of those countless 'Mum-isms' you try to ignore as a kid and think there is no way you'll catch yourself repeating, I now find myself liberally sprinkling about my daily doings. A few examples - "Don't come crying to me when you poke your eye out/break your leg/split your head open", "Tidy all these toys up now or they'll be in black bags waiting for the bin men when you get home from school", "Pick your feet up!" to name but a few.

These Mum-isms have crept up on me, and became part of my daily intercourse (*sniggers at the I word, just to prove I'm not a proper grown up*), without me even realising. And now that I've started I can't seem to stop, they just fly out of my mouth. If I'm completely honest, I think there's a teeny tiny part of all parents that secretly revels in the delight of an 'I told you so' moment when it comes to your kids. I don't mean for a second that you want them to get hurt just to prove you right, I just mean that when something does happen, it's sometimes reassuring to know that all of your constant warnings haven't totally been in vain!

Take for example, The Daughter - stubborn little madam that she is. She goes at things like a bull at a gate, and has just started to do that eye rolling thing whenever you say something she doesn't like (fairly often by all accounts). It's a miracle she hasn't been properly hurt by now because she does some seriously idiotic things, and that combined with her innate clumsiness is a recipe for disaster. I sent her upstairs a few days ago to get changed out of her school uniform before tea. Five 'shouting up the stairs reminders' later, I heard a piercing scream. I flew up the stairs and found her (still wearing her bloody uniform!) with her hand stuck inside a ladybird umbrella. Somehow, and the truth still remains unspoken, she had tried to open the umbrella in her bedroom, and had caught the skin on the palm of her hand inside the bit where the pole clicks into place. Ouch indeed. I was as panicked as she was, and I hadn't got a clue how to get her out. I tried to unfold the umbrella and she screamed "JUST LEEEEEAAAAAAVVVVEE IIIIIIITTTTTT!" at me, to which I inwardly (and probably outwardly too) shouted back "How am I meant to just leave you for Chrissakes?! You're going to go to bed tonight and to school tomorrow with your skin pinched in a ladybird umbrella are you? Child and brolly as one, in perfect pissing harmony?!"

Five minutes of wrangling and shrieking later, and she was out. I didn't know what to do first - give her a cuddle or give her a huge rollicking for doing something so stupid. So I did both at the same time. I told her that all those times I'd warned her when she did something silly or dangerous was to try and stop her from getting hurt. I'd hoped she would sink into my arms, sobbing that she was sorry Mummy, that she'd listen to me from now on Mummy, and that you were right Mummy. Did she? Did she chuff. The Husband went upstairs to see what the commotion was about and she screamed at him that it was all my fault! At which point I could cheerfully have wrapped that bloody brolly round her neck.

I guess I have to face the fact that, not only have I turned into my mum, but that in my daughters eyes, everything I say and do is to ruin her fun. Just like I thought when I was a kid. So next time you see me out, and I'm bellowing after the kids "Stay where I can see you or someone will steal you and sell you to the gypsies!", don't pity me. Just give me a small nod, and let me know that I'm not alone.

Bird and snow watching.

Let's just get this out the way shall we; I hate snow. There is literally no reason for us to have it. Rain and sun serve a purpose - all forms of life rely on them for food and growth. But snow? Absolutely pointless, we don't need to have it at all. Looks lovely out the window and on Christmas cards, but actually being out in it is rubbish. I am much too busy concentrating on not doing the 'skid, straighten up and sly-look-around to see if anyone saw' dance to donate so much as a second to enjoying it. It also brings out the extreme mard-arse in me; I wish I could enjoy getting smacked in the chops with a lump of ice all in the name of 'fun', frostbitten fingers and earache, but I've tried and I just can't.

And, it would appear, The Boychild has pretty strong feelings about the cold white stuff too. While mine is a simple preference of being warm, dry and comfortable over being cold, wet and miserable, his is a sheer terror which seems to have come from nowhere. Along with loud noises, flies, bees, spiders, fireworks and the rag and bone man, snow has joined the seemingly endless list of things he is scared of. I knew we were in for a bit of trouble when he wouldn't walk over the grass this mornng to get in the car. And my patience was wearing a bit thin when he whinged all the way to pre-school because he wanted carrying. (He was wearing snowboots and squeezing the bejesus out of my hand - there was no way that boy was falling unless I went first and took him with me).

But when I went to fetch him at home time, we had a full on melt-down before we'd even left the building. After ten minutes of him standing in the middle of the path (which, incidentally was clear because the snow had pretty much melted) screaming and generally in a state of hysteria, the last shred of my sanity went with the 15th comment of  "Big dafty doesn't like the snow much haha!"to gawping onlookers. We'd gone way past the point where gentle cajoling and reasoning with him was going to make a difference, so I did what any responsible parent would do; I bent down and hissed at him through gritted teeth "You've got two choices - you either wind your neck in and get walking, or I leave you here". He reluctantly chose to walk and scream, which I suppose was progress of sorts.

So yes, I'm hoping to wake up in the morning and find it all gone. Probably not as much as Boyface is though! Changing the subject slightly, I saw an advert today for the RSPB. They're having a campaign - The Big Garden Birdwatch - whereby they ask the public to spend an hour looking at all the birds in their gardens, and let them know what we see. This proper tickled me. Because not only am I useless at telling my swans from my budgies (well, maybe not quite that bad), birds don't survive long in our garden. A few years ago we had a rabbit, Stephen, who used to chase birds if they landed on the lawn. We once watched aghast as he charged at a magpie and pulled out one of it's tail feathers. He also used to chase the cats and try to pee on them, but that's another story. And with four cats, the only birds we're likely to see in the vicinity are dead ones. I did think about doing the RSPB thing, and sending back my results which would have looked something like this: 9.40am - small headless corpse (defeathered) seen under the trampoline. Breed - a brown one. 3.15pm - foot found next to the back fence. Breed - parrot? Possibly goose.

On second thoughts, this Ornithology lark could make quite an interesting hobby. Until I get a polite email request from the RSPB asking me for information on live birds seen and to stop sending them pictures and descriptions of dead ones! I'm probably better off sticking to my colouring books and daytime tv..

Back to life..back to reality

Don't get me wrong - I love my kids, I really really really do. But I literally cartwheeled them into the school grounds this morning, whilst whooping and wearing my 'Hurrah!' sandwich board. The last week of the Christmas holidays seemed to last an eternity, and I had a constant headache from all the teeth gritting I did: “I'm boooooooooooored!” *grits teeth while sarcastically asking if the mountain of new toys from Santa have suddenly been beamed up by the aliens leaving you with nothing but toilet roll tubes to play with* “Where are we going today? What do you mean we're staying in AGAIN?” *grits teeth while muttering how the mountain of new toys that aren't appreciated have cleared me out*. It's a wonder my teeth aren't worn down stumps. So yes, I was rather glad that normality has resumed and my little darlings were safely back in the bosoms of their institutions ( I do mean school and preschool by the way, I haven't packed them off to the workhouse).

With those precious hours of freedom stretching before me, I returned to the gym after a three week absence. It was a bit of a half hearted work out if I'm being honest, but I gave myself a small pat on the back for going when I could quite easily have stayed at home watching 'Relocating hoarders homes under the hammer in the country' (I did make that up but it sounds entirely plausible) and eating Cheerios from the box. I showered at the gym, and was disappointed to see so many new people there, obviously all having decided to lose weight/keep fit as their new year's resolutions. Not that I begrudge people the chance to improve themselves, not at all. My issue was that they were in and out of the toilets while I was trying to sit under the hand dryer and dry my hair. I refuse to pay 20p for a 30 second blast from the 'hairdryer' (and I use the term loosely) in the changing rooms, especially as it takes about £8 of 20p's to dry mine. So I wait until the toilets are empty, and squat down below the hand dryers. Obviously I stand straight back up again should anyone walk in (I don't want to look like a proper cheapskate, even though I am), and after a few minutes of being up and down like a jack in the box, I gave up and walked out with a dry fringe and a helmet of wet hair.

It's a good job I don't go to the gym to actually lose any weight, because I don't need Rosemary Conley or Dr Christian 'I've had a hair transplant' Jesson to tell me that it's not good form to do your workout and then eat a packet of Tangfastics and a Double Decker (chocolate bar, not a bus) in the car on the way home. Oops. So things are at last settling down into the daily routine. All I need now is for Neighbours to return to the telly and all will be well with the World. You may remember I started this blog adamant that I was being dragged into being halfway-to-seventy kicking and screaming? Well it would seem, from rereading the things I write, that my resolve is loosening and I am almost happily accepting a sedentary lifestyle, welcoming a quiet and simple routine to the day. If I start wearing slacks and using words like 'pottering' and 'trendy', you have my permission to give me a sharp slap!

New Years desolations..

Here we are, a mere 4 days into 2013 and already we've had our yearly quota of bad luck and stuff to be pissed off about. The Husband and I didn't see New Year in - we were in bed. Asleep. Well, he was. I actually saw midnight with The Daughter who was awoken (sobbing and more than a bit furious) by the ridicuously loud fireworks. The Boychild has already been struck down by illness; I kind of knew that was coming though as we don't seem to be able to complete a fortnight without him puking or being dealt a dose of boy flu. During a water change of the fish tank, two of the remaining four Guppies lost their lives and The Husband rejoiced that the household was two time and money guzzling pets down. He had cause to celebrate once more this morning, as one of our guinea pigs - Margot Von Snugglesworth died. I got up, and en route to the bathroom I heard a strange noise, which turned out to be Margot breathing. The poor little bugger was lay on her side looking very poorly, so I picked her up and put her on my knee. Within a minute she had gone, almost like she was waiting for me. There was no love lost between our piggies, Margot and Custard, but I wasn't sure how Custard would take the loss of her cage-mate. Turns out she doesn't give a rats ass! You could almost see her stretch her legs out and smile at the thought of not having to share her celery! And speaking of heartless responses, The Daughter wasn't much better. She was so emotional just after Margot passed over to Guinea heaven - she couldn't stop sobbing and drew a picture of Margot, her hot salty tears dripping down onto the paper. I was comforting her and trying to reassure her that our little piggy was in a better place, when she turned the tear-tap off, looked at me and said "Will you ask Nanna if she'll take me somewhere nice today, to take my mind off Margot?". She's her fathers daughter alright!!

Margot was buried in the Pet Cemetary (our flower border), joining the various furry friends that have touched our lives. The Husband was flinching with every spadeful of earth, in case he uncovered a semi-degraded body part or five. Barely had the ground been flattened than one of our cats went out and laid a fresh turd on top. I like to think of it as a mark of respect rather than an act of mindless shatting. RIP Margot Von Snugglesworth ♥

It's not all been bad news though. I won £100 playing online bingo a couple of nights ago, which put a smile on my face. And sent me spiralling headfirst into a gambling addiction no doubt. I decided to go into town today and spend a bit of the money on treating myself to a haircut. I knew there was a reason I'd previously stopped going to the salon I used today, having landed myself the stylist with all the customer relations skills of a pissed off camel. I made the mistake of visibly wincing when she told me how much my trim was going to cost, so she got her own back by washing my hair in cold water. I was a bit too frightened to say anything, and meekly nodded as she chuntered on about my dry ends, even though I was inwardly cracking myself up with jokes about her orange arms and cankles. Off I went, £30 and a millimetre of hair lighter, to look round the sales. I was served in new Look by a strange teenage thing with half a shaved head who had obviously been forced to ask "Did yer find what yer were looking for today?". I resisted the urge to say "Well no actually, where do you keep your pressure cookers?" and paid for my bargainous cardigan. And I have just realised that I sound like I've entered middle age.

Despite the animal bereavement and a brief emotional blip yesterday, I thought the bad luck might have run it's course. I should have known better really. Tonight I put a pizza in the oven for the kids tea, and after ten minutes a strange smell filled the air. "What's that?" The Husband asked. "Burnt cheese probably" I replied.  But when the oven went 'BINK!', and all the appliances in the house switched off, we knew there was a fault not caused by a stray bit of Monterey Jack. The bloody oven has broken; the oven that The Husband had bought less than a year ago, crowing that it was so cheap he could afford a new hob too! Let this be a lesson to you dear, as you tear the house apart looking for the receipt for the World's cheapest oven; cutbacks aren't always a good thing. And while we're on the subject of cutbacks, I'll be starting back at the gym tomorrow after 3 weeks doing nothing but almost constant eating. I have a dilemna though. We have so much festive filth left! Do I a) eat a bit of it every day until it's gone (June, probably) or b) spend the next week gorging myself stupid to get rid of it all before I begin my health kick? Decisions, decisions. Although, if we can't get a new oven sorted, the whole family will be living off turkish delight and Twiglets...

Happy new year everyone!