Last week I took one of my service users to Alton Towers for a day trip. It was a brilliant day out, with good weather and, thanks to a special red wristband we got on every ride without having to queue - a day out made all the better by not having to queue for an hour and a half at a time with the sweaty general public. The last time I went there was about 5 years ago with a friend. My overwhelming memory of that day was said friend and I putting on our cheap Primark ponchos to go on the 'Congo River Rapids' (yes, I know half the fun is getting soaked but I didn't want to walk round all day with a soggy rear!), and when she leant forward to hold on to the handrail her poncho split open down the back. I laughed so hard I nearly weed and tears trickled down my poncho. Prior to that I went with The Husband; we ran straight for 'Nemesis before it got busy, went on four times on the trot and spent the rest of the day feeling sick. I didn't want to take any chances so this time I went fully prepared and chewed a few of the travel sickness tablets I'd bought for The Boychild aka 'Car-sick Kid'.
It worked; despite going on all of the big rides at least once, the contents of my stomach remained in situ. Which is more than can be said for the poor chap with the delicate constitution we saw getting off 'Nemesis'. He flew past us, his face as grey as his jumper and lost his lunch to the floor. One of the ride attendants went straight into Jobsworth mode and repeatedly screamed "MIND THE SICK!! MIIIIIND THE SIIIIIIIIICK!" whilst flamboyantly ushering other ride-goers around the vomit puddle. He must have been properly hardcore though as we saw him 5 minutes later - still grey - queuing up for 'Air'! Hat's off to you fella, hat's off.
What I had forgotten about being at a theme park all day is that special kind of knackeredness you get from repeatedly having your adrenalin levels fly up and down like a jack in the box. By lunchtime I was so exhausted I was getting too weak to brace myself on the rides and just allowed myself to be flung about like a ragdoll. My throat was ravaged by all the screaming I'd done in the morning and could now only emit small croaks of fear. We saved Alton Towers newest ride, 'The Smiler', until last. Probably a good idea as it left me so traumatised that if we'd gone on it first, I'd have had to go for a lie down. It has 14 loops, although it feels like a hundred. After about an hour of being subjected to medieval torture techniques we came to a halt and I sagged with relief. Until I looked to my right and saw a huge sign saying 'Halfway there..'. And nearly cried. I'm sure whoever called it 'The Smiler' did so with a smirk of irony because I certainly wasn't smiling when I disembarked. I was too busy swearing and wondering if I was bleeding from my eyes and ears.
No theme park trip is complete without frittering away a weeks wages in the gift shop on the way out and I spent with the abandon of a woman glad to have survived the previous 6 hours. I slept like a baby that night, and realised one thing - that if I have to take travel sickness pills beforehand and if I'm left feeling like I've completed a marathon at the end of the day - I'm probably getting a bit too old for it all. Maybe it's time to hand the thrill-seeking baton over to The Daughter, and look for more sedate ways of having fun. Who am I trying to kid? I'll still be rollercoastering when I'm 75! And The Daughter? Well, she can either come on too...or hold my dentures for me!
Monday, 24 June 2013
Tuesday, 11 June 2013
Flying the nest
My baby boy, the youngest Childbeast, will be 4 next week. With this realisation comes a whole avalanche of emotions; most based around the fact that in a few short months my little lad will be starting school. My mini-man, who has a blanket with a lions head on it called Noonie in bed with him, who gets his head stuck in the sleeve of his t-shirt and panics, who still battles with the urge to poke a finger in the cats bottoms, will be joining the big boys and girls on his journey through the education system. I'm scared mainly; that he'll get upset because he won't get to 'schzum' cars all day, that his constant demands of "Watch this!" to the teacher will result in a telling off and then tears, that when he comes out of the tiny school toilets with his trousers round his ankles and his trinklements poking over the top of his 'Fireman Sam' pants, his exclamation of "Me peen's sticking out!" won't elicit the laughter he has come to expect.
The Daughter was more than ready to start school and I had no concerns about how she would settle in. But The Boy is so different in so many ways. I'm to attend a meeting with his new teacher, in which I have to answer questions about his abilities, skills, personality etc, with the aim of them knowing what sort of level he is at. I remember with The Daughter I was asked whether she could eat with a knife and fork, if she could dress/undress herself, could she write her name, count up to 20, what her interests were and so on. I have to prepare the Reception class teachers for a boy who would happily eat all his meals with his fingers, even beans - like a monkey picking peanuts out of poo. He can dress himself, if they're happy with him wearing his clothes backwards and inside out (rather like a tiny member of Kriss Kross - remember them?). And his interests are schzumming cars and showing you his bum, things I hope he will grow out of before he needs to start compiling his CV.
For selfish reasons too, I don't want him to grow up. He's (probably) the last of my babies, and still a real sweetie. He's affectionate, and innocent, and as soon as they start school the eye-rolling, attitude and answering back starts. I want to keep him as my little dude forever; to have him sit on my knee and suck his thumb when he's tired. But I know he has to grow up, just as I know I have to let him. And if in time I start to get broody and my womb starts to skip a beat at the sight of newborn babies, I'll just let The Husband know that it's time for another....cat!!
The Daughter was more than ready to start school and I had no concerns about how she would settle in. But The Boy is so different in so many ways. I'm to attend a meeting with his new teacher, in which I have to answer questions about his abilities, skills, personality etc, with the aim of them knowing what sort of level he is at. I remember with The Daughter I was asked whether she could eat with a knife and fork, if she could dress/undress herself, could she write her name, count up to 20, what her interests were and so on. I have to prepare the Reception class teachers for a boy who would happily eat all his meals with his fingers, even beans - like a monkey picking peanuts out of poo. He can dress himself, if they're happy with him wearing his clothes backwards and inside out (rather like a tiny member of Kriss Kross - remember them?). And his interests are schzumming cars and showing you his bum, things I hope he will grow out of before he needs to start compiling his CV.
For selfish reasons too, I don't want him to grow up. He's (probably) the last of my babies, and still a real sweetie. He's affectionate, and innocent, and as soon as they start school the eye-rolling, attitude and answering back starts. I want to keep him as my little dude forever; to have him sit on my knee and suck his thumb when he's tired. But I know he has to grow up, just as I know I have to let him. And if in time I start to get broody and my womb starts to skip a beat at the sight of newborn babies, I'll just let The Husband know that it's time for another....cat!!
Tuesday, 4 June 2013
Hell hath no fury
'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned', 'The female of the species is more deadlier than the male', 'Dispute not with her; she is lunatic'. See, even Shakespeare knew it - women are evil. Not all women, granted; there may be a certain few who manage to go about their daily lives in a calm, level-headed manner without the compulsion to gossip, bitch or moan. I refer predominantly to nuns, although I suspect this has less to do with religion and more to do with the fact that they don't have to co-habit with men leaving the toilet seat up.
I am a woman myself of course, and therefore allowed to label the majority of the sisterhood as half-crazed hormonal harridans. Men, however, are not able to do this without being labelled as misogynistic gits. As a female, you learn from an early age that we should be sliding somewhere along a spectrum ranging from complicated and emotional, to furious and downright mental. Not that I'm saying we're entirely to blame for our, erm, 'ways'. There are of course certain times in a woman's life that we become slaves to our biology and hormones control us like puppets on strings. For at least one week a month I am magically transformed into a spotty, angry, migraine-addled maniac with an insatiable appetite for pork scratchings and Haribo. And I recall at least one occasion during pregnancy where I broke down sobbing in the baking aisle at Asda because they'd not got any Aunt Bessie's batter mix.
All of the above was entirely beyond my control. Indeed, while men may claim we hide behind our hormones, they can be used as perfectly valid excuses (sorry, REASONS) as to why we act so irrationally at times. In fact, insanity as a result of PMS has been used in murder defences; you might want to remember that fella's, next time you get smart mouthed about 'that time of the month'.
One thing I'll never understand about women (and I'm included in this by the way) is how we act towards one another. Having worked in several different environments over the years, I can say without any hesitation that women are AWFUL to work with. And while we have our good points as friends, you don't want to make an enemy of a woman. No sirree. We're fiercely jealous - of anyone better looking/thinner/curvier/longer-haired/cleverer/younger/more qualified/funnier/more popular than us. But do we use this jealousy to drive us to improve our own situation or appearance? Do we chuff. We badmouth and bitch about each other, as though the more moaning we do, the better we'll feel about ourselves. When you're talking about celebrities, this does actually work. Who here has sat ripping the proverbial out of Cheryl Cole's voice whilst the voice in the back of your head is hissing "damn that cow with her big doe-eyes and tiny waist!"?? Yes, you can put your hands down now ladies. But when we're talking about real life, and the people we actually have to talk to or work with, this is where things get difficult. No-one likes to be on the receiving end of gossip or nastiness, or the subject of bitching.
Life would be so much simpler if we were all men. Men are simple creatures who are easy to fathom and, more importantly, want an easy life. You know where you are with men (in a bedroom smelling of farts and in a bathroom with the seat up mainly). Being a woman isn't so bad though, and I do admit to enjoying a good old bitchfest over a glass of plonk - especially when I can blame it on my hormones. Just a quick warning though - if you see me with pork scratchings and Haribos - run for the hills!
I am a woman myself of course, and therefore allowed to label the majority of the sisterhood as half-crazed hormonal harridans. Men, however, are not able to do this without being labelled as misogynistic gits. As a female, you learn from an early age that we should be sliding somewhere along a spectrum ranging from complicated and emotional, to furious and downright mental. Not that I'm saying we're entirely to blame for our, erm, 'ways'. There are of course certain times in a woman's life that we become slaves to our biology and hormones control us like puppets on strings. For at least one week a month I am magically transformed into a spotty, angry, migraine-addled maniac with an insatiable appetite for pork scratchings and Haribo. And I recall at least one occasion during pregnancy where I broke down sobbing in the baking aisle at Asda because they'd not got any Aunt Bessie's batter mix.
All of the above was entirely beyond my control. Indeed, while men may claim we hide behind our hormones, they can be used as perfectly valid excuses (sorry, REASONS) as to why we act so irrationally at times. In fact, insanity as a result of PMS has been used in murder defences; you might want to remember that fella's, next time you get smart mouthed about 'that time of the month'.
One thing I'll never understand about women (and I'm included in this by the way) is how we act towards one another. Having worked in several different environments over the years, I can say without any hesitation that women are AWFUL to work with. And while we have our good points as friends, you don't want to make an enemy of a woman. No sirree. We're fiercely jealous - of anyone better looking/thinner/curvier/longer-haired/cleverer/younger/more qualified/funnier/more popular than us. But do we use this jealousy to drive us to improve our own situation or appearance? Do we chuff. We badmouth and bitch about each other, as though the more moaning we do, the better we'll feel about ourselves. When you're talking about celebrities, this does actually work. Who here has sat ripping the proverbial out of Cheryl Cole's voice whilst the voice in the back of your head is hissing "damn that cow with her big doe-eyes and tiny waist!"?? Yes, you can put your hands down now ladies. But when we're talking about real life, and the people we actually have to talk to or work with, this is where things get difficult. No-one likes to be on the receiving end of gossip or nastiness, or the subject of bitching.
Life would be so much simpler if we were all men. Men are simple creatures who are easy to fathom and, more importantly, want an easy life. You know where you are with men (in a bedroom smelling of farts and in a bathroom with the seat up mainly). Being a woman isn't so bad though, and I do admit to enjoying a good old bitchfest over a glass of plonk - especially when I can blame it on my hormones. Just a quick warning though - if you see me with pork scratchings and Haribos - run for the hills!
Wednesday, 22 May 2013
Working girl.
I must sincerely apologise. I have been neglectful of my ramblings of late - so much so that the end of my 'halfway to seventy' year (and the entire reason for me writing this) has been and gone. There is a good reason for this, which does partly excuse my slacking...I have a job! I must admit, lots of things have gone to the dogs since I started work; the childers are now latchkey kids who rummage through bins to find something for their school lunches, and the garden is now an overgrown cesspit with the neighbourhood cats drinking stagnant water out of a broken and abandoned washing machine on our front lawn. I jest of course, things aren't quite that bad. My obsessive cleaning has taken a back seat, with the house seeing a cursory vacuum if I get chance. In fact, I have been toying with the idea of just hoovering the cats with a dustbuster of a morning to save even more time.
It's not often in life you find something that a) you enjoy and b) you're quite good at. And I've found it, being a support worker in the local community. Lots of people have said to me "I don't know how you do it" and the like. And to be honest, if you'd told me seven or eight years ago that this is what I'd be doing, then I'd have said you were mad. But having kids does a lot to change your opinion on caring and all that it entails. When you regularly have to go excavating in the bogeymines of a three year old boy, when you've been up and down the stairs all night changing the bedding of a child that's covered their bedroom in sick, well - everything else is a walk in the park. Caring is probably the worst paid, but most noble of professions. The Daughter is especially proud of what Mummy does. I wear a uniform, therefore I'm a nurse. And when I do sleeping-in shifts she says "Are you having a sleepover tonight Mummy?", as though my 75 year old service user and I will be sitting in a den we've made from a sheet and two dining chairs enjoying a midnight feast of Haribo and cheese-strings. Which, of course, we do but Sssh - keep it to yourselves.
As much as I love having some responsibility outside of the family, it's not all been plain sailing. Understandably the kids have missed Mummy being there at bedtimes and to take them to school, and we've had some 'issues' with The Daughter acting up for attention. Thanks to a fantastic rota this week I've been able to do the school run, and on the way home today The Daughter ran out into the road outside school, resulting in Mummy having a cardiac arrest and screeching like a fishwife in the street. Now though, with the benefit of hindsight, I wonder if she was so desperate for some attention that she calculated the risk of throwing herself in front of a Honda Civic. Doubtful, but who knows what goes on in the mind of a six year old? And anyway, I keep dangling the promise of a holiday to Disneyland in front of her, now Mummy is earning. That should placate her for at least another 6 months.
I hope you will accept this as a genuine reason for my lack of blogging, and offer some understanding if my childlets turn up to school looking like street urchins with Dairylea Dunkers and a handful of cat biscuits for their lunch. I've joined the ranks of the working mums; permanently knackered but smiling with a sense of purpose. On that note I must leave you - I have to be up early to hoover the cats. Na-night!x
It's not often in life you find something that a) you enjoy and b) you're quite good at. And I've found it, being a support worker in the local community. Lots of people have said to me "I don't know how you do it" and the like. And to be honest, if you'd told me seven or eight years ago that this is what I'd be doing, then I'd have said you were mad. But having kids does a lot to change your opinion on caring and all that it entails. When you regularly have to go excavating in the bogeymines of a three year old boy, when you've been up and down the stairs all night changing the bedding of a child that's covered their bedroom in sick, well - everything else is a walk in the park. Caring is probably the worst paid, but most noble of professions. The Daughter is especially proud of what Mummy does. I wear a uniform, therefore I'm a nurse. And when I do sleeping-in shifts she says "Are you having a sleepover tonight Mummy?", as though my 75 year old service user and I will be sitting in a den we've made from a sheet and two dining chairs enjoying a midnight feast of Haribo and cheese-strings. Which, of course, we do but Sssh - keep it to yourselves.
As much as I love having some responsibility outside of the family, it's not all been plain sailing. Understandably the kids have missed Mummy being there at bedtimes and to take them to school, and we've had some 'issues' with The Daughter acting up for attention. Thanks to a fantastic rota this week I've been able to do the school run, and on the way home today The Daughter ran out into the road outside school, resulting in Mummy having a cardiac arrest and screeching like a fishwife in the street. Now though, with the benefit of hindsight, I wonder if she was so desperate for some attention that she calculated the risk of throwing herself in front of a Honda Civic. Doubtful, but who knows what goes on in the mind of a six year old? And anyway, I keep dangling the promise of a holiday to Disneyland in front of her, now Mummy is earning. That should placate her for at least another 6 months.
I hope you will accept this as a genuine reason for my lack of blogging, and offer some understanding if my childlets turn up to school looking like street urchins with Dairylea Dunkers and a handful of cat biscuits for their lunch. I've joined the ranks of the working mums; permanently knackered but smiling with a sense of purpose. On that note I must leave you - I have to be up early to hoover the cats. Na-night!x
Wednesday, 27 February 2013
My big fat...Infants disco.
Just before half term, it was The Daughter's 'Valentines Disco' at school. I've never really been involved in those sorts of things (other than dropping her off looking reasonably presentable, and picking her up an hour later looking like a sweaty mess. Her, not me.) but being the dedicated parent I am, I offered my services to help out on the night. 'How much work can it be?' I thought, 'I'll just be standing around watching a room full of 5/6 year olds flinging themselves about to cheesy pop songs and making sure any whirling-induced vomit puddles are cleaned up before anyone skids on it''. Oh, what a poor naive soul I am.
As I walked in, a flashing and very professional looking DJ rig was set up at one end of the school hall, and at the far end was a couple of trestle tables groaning with carbs, fat, colourings and sugar. An organisy-looking woman marched up to me with a clipboard, told another helper she was on toilet duty (which was not received well) and informed me I was on the tuck shop counter. I rolled my sleeves up, went to my post to familiarise myself with the price lists, and waiting as the throngs of exciteable kiddies poured through the doors.
And the rest of the evening was nothing but a blur. I remember going in, and then an hour later there I was - a sweaty, nervous wreck with a pounding headache. From the second the tuck shop opened and solidly for an entire hour, there was what can only be described as a sea of tiny trendsters all thrusting coins in my face, and dozens of grasping hands dipping in to the boxes of Freddo's and Poppets. There weren't many who knew what coins were worth what amount, so I was having to rummage in tiny silver purses to count out 25p in pennies, and shout others back for their change after they'd handed me a pound coin and walked off, too desperate to get into their Flumps to wait.
I was stuck in 'Mum' mode, and had to bite back from saying "Are you sure you've not had enough?" to those who had consumed enough sugar to warrant Dr Christian Jessen emerging from behind a curtain with giant posters of leg ulcers and rickets. The Daughter came behind the counter holding hands with one of her friends who felt sick. "Maybe you should stop eating for a little bit and just sit down to cool off for a bit?" I suggested. "Ok" she said, as she threw a handful of Mentos in her mouth and then went back to the dancefloor. Ah yes, the dancefloor. The only thing that distracted my attention from the crowds clamouring for sweets was the sight of 50-odd small children gyrating away to 'Sexy and I know it' in a way more suited to a Gypsy wedding. There was a lady standing at the front who worked with the DJ, and every time a well known song they came on she would teach them the dance moves. Not that they needed it! As they all did the dance to 'Gangnam Style', shouting the words in unison, I stood - jaw wide open - thinking How the hell do they know this?! I resolved at that moment that The Daughter was to listen only to Disney songs until her 18th birthday.
To round off the night, we ended with a display of fireworks. And by fireworks I mean a tantrum from The Daughter, after I gently suggested she save the rest of her Love Hearts for the next day. Anyone would have thought I'd just made her choose between setting fire to all of her clothes or shaving her head in front of the entire school. In summary, it was one of the longest hours of my life. And next time (if there IS a next time), I'm volunteering for toilet duty!
As I walked in, a flashing and very professional looking DJ rig was set up at one end of the school hall, and at the far end was a couple of trestle tables groaning with carbs, fat, colourings and sugar. An organisy-looking woman marched up to me with a clipboard, told another helper she was on toilet duty (which was not received well) and informed me I was on the tuck shop counter. I rolled my sleeves up, went to my post to familiarise myself with the price lists, and waiting as the throngs of exciteable kiddies poured through the doors.
And the rest of the evening was nothing but a blur. I remember going in, and then an hour later there I was - a sweaty, nervous wreck with a pounding headache. From the second the tuck shop opened and solidly for an entire hour, there was what can only be described as a sea of tiny trendsters all thrusting coins in my face, and dozens of grasping hands dipping in to the boxes of Freddo's and Poppets. There weren't many who knew what coins were worth what amount, so I was having to rummage in tiny silver purses to count out 25p in pennies, and shout others back for their change after they'd handed me a pound coin and walked off, too desperate to get into their Flumps to wait.
I was stuck in 'Mum' mode, and had to bite back from saying "Are you sure you've not had enough?" to those who had consumed enough sugar to warrant Dr Christian Jessen emerging from behind a curtain with giant posters of leg ulcers and rickets. The Daughter came behind the counter holding hands with one of her friends who felt sick. "Maybe you should stop eating for a little bit and just sit down to cool off for a bit?" I suggested. "Ok" she said, as she threw a handful of Mentos in her mouth and then went back to the dancefloor. Ah yes, the dancefloor. The only thing that distracted my attention from the crowds clamouring for sweets was the sight of 50-odd small children gyrating away to 'Sexy and I know it' in a way more suited to a Gypsy wedding. There was a lady standing at the front who worked with the DJ, and every time a well known song they came on she would teach them the dance moves. Not that they needed it! As they all did the dance to 'Gangnam Style', shouting the words in unison, I stood - jaw wide open - thinking How the hell do they know this?! I resolved at that moment that The Daughter was to listen only to Disney songs until her 18th birthday.
To round off the night, we ended with a display of fireworks. And by fireworks I mean a tantrum from The Daughter, after I gently suggested she save the rest of her Love Hearts for the next day. Anyone would have thought I'd just made her choose between setting fire to all of her clothes or shaving her head in front of the entire school. In summary, it was one of the longest hours of my life. And next time (if there IS a next time), I'm volunteering for toilet duty!
Wednesday, 6 February 2013
"Kirsty has much to say..."
Tis The Daughters parents evening next week! Not her first, that was last year in Reception. And that one was a proper rush, thanks to me being the last one of the night. Teach' had obviously got a casserole in the oven or was gagging to get back in time for Emmerdale, because after a "She's doing great - wish I had more of her in my class, any questions?" she was picking up her handbag and ushering me out of the room. I was just relieved that she'd not told me she'd been taking a poop in the cloakrooms or punching people (Jenny, not the teacher) to be honest, and safe in the knowledge that darling daughter was neither a total thickie or a hooligan I rushed home for Emmerdale.
In Jenny's first week in Year One, her teacher called me over, and without a word of a lie, had me in tears. I know my daughter better than anyone; I'm under no illusions that she can be a proper moo at times, but when it comes to school we've never had any problems with her behaviour. So when Teach' made her out to be quite possibly the worst child she'd ever had the misfortune to encounter I wondered what the dillydickens she could have done! Had she killed the headteacher and been caught trying to bury the body in 'the Peaceful garden' (which is a paradox - how can anywhere be peaceful when it's got kids in it?)? Had she put a whoopie cushion covered in glue on to the Teachers seat and then led the class out in a riot through the village? No. Her heinous crime was that she'd not been sitting on her chair properly. After crying out some angry tears (in the privacy of my own home of course) I spoke to The Daughter, fully expecting her to say she hated school and didn't want to go ever again. But no, she didn't give a rats ass and liked the Teacher, much to my confusion and relief.
So as parents evening fast approaches, I wonder what delights await. The Daughter is very much like Mummy; enjoys and is good at English but just about copes with anything numerical. And loves to talk. My school reports were usually really good, but my parents came to accept and expect the phrase "Kirsty has much to say..". Which basically means 'will not stop bloody talking!' I remember to this day being so engrossed in my conversation with a friend about Bros that when the deputy headmaster came up beside me in class and said "Kirsty?", I responded crossly with "What, dad?!" Strangely, he didn't find it half as funny as my classmates did. So if The Daughter follows in my footsteps, I won't be too disappointed - I didn't turn out too badly despite the verbal diaorrhea. And you know what? I still don't stop talking!
In Jenny's first week in Year One, her teacher called me over, and without a word of a lie, had me in tears. I know my daughter better than anyone; I'm under no illusions that she can be a proper moo at times, but when it comes to school we've never had any problems with her behaviour. So when Teach' made her out to be quite possibly the worst child she'd ever had the misfortune to encounter I wondered what the dillydickens she could have done! Had she killed the headteacher and been caught trying to bury the body in 'the Peaceful garden' (which is a paradox - how can anywhere be peaceful when it's got kids in it?)? Had she put a whoopie cushion covered in glue on to the Teachers seat and then led the class out in a riot through the village? No. Her heinous crime was that she'd not been sitting on her chair properly. After crying out some angry tears (in the privacy of my own home of course) I spoke to The Daughter, fully expecting her to say she hated school and didn't want to go ever again. But no, she didn't give a rats ass and liked the Teacher, much to my confusion and relief.
So as parents evening fast approaches, I wonder what delights await. The Daughter is very much like Mummy; enjoys and is good at English but just about copes with anything numerical. And loves to talk. My school reports were usually really good, but my parents came to accept and expect the phrase "Kirsty has much to say..". Which basically means 'will not stop bloody talking!' I remember to this day being so engrossed in my conversation with a friend about Bros that when the deputy headmaster came up beside me in class and said "Kirsty?", I responded crossly with "What, dad?!" Strangely, he didn't find it half as funny as my classmates did. So if The Daughter follows in my footsteps, I won't be too disappointed - I didn't turn out too badly despite the verbal diaorrhea. And you know what? I still don't stop talking!
Wednesday, 30 January 2013
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..!!
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..!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)