What's in a name?

You might have seen in the papers or on 'This Morning' a while back, that horsey-looking posh woman who used to be on 'The Apprentice', spouting her nonsense about such subjects as fat people and kids with chavvy names. Katie Hopkins, that's the badger; with a posh name like that obviously she's more than qualified to pour scorn on the Kylie's and Charmaine's of this world (did the sarcasm come across ok?). What she basically said, in a judgmental nutshell, was that she wouldn't allow her own precious offspring play with school friends who had names which suggested a lower class (Tyler and Chardonnay were the examples she gave), and hated when parents called their children after celebrities, or place names... momentarily forgetting she'd named one of her own darlings 'India'.

Anyway. I won't be getting involved in the big name debate because - let's face it - I'm bound to offend someone. In the privacy of my own home I may cast a cursory snigger at the poor little buggers who have been cursed with being such names as 'Apple' (Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris thingy from 'Coldplay'), or 'Jermajesty' (son of Jermaine Jackson. Seriously. I know - it sounds like one of those words Nicole Scherzinger makes up..Schamazing!) Being the product of a celebrities loins makes it slightly more acceptable to have a daft name, because it doesn't make a difference to the opportunities that life opens up when your dad is a multi-millionaire rocker. But let's face it, you've got fluff-all chance of an interview if you're sending in CV's headed with the name MoonUnit Smith.

The reason behind all of my chattering is that (thanks to my stupid sprained ankle), I've been watching an awful lot of rubbish telly. And I realised that, in all of the soaps or 'reality' shows etc, does anybody share their name with another character. Obviously in Hollyoaks this is a given; it's unlikely you'd catch two people with the name 'Mitzeeee' living in the same street. But in Eastenders, Emmerdale, Corrie, I've struggled to find two characters with the same name. And I know that's probably because it would get a bit confusing for the script writers, but still - it's not very realistic.
I think about the kids at my daughters school and there's a good few groups of 3 or 4 that share names, because that is realistic. Two of my friends have husbands who share the same name and spelling of my other half - and he hasn't got a particularly common name.

But when it comes to names, while I think that nasty Hopkins woman is nowt but a snob (I mean, why would you punish a child for something their parent had done?), there is a point somewhere in her diatribe. Because who can deny that, when they were plumbing the depths of their minds and baby books for prospective names, they didn't skip past the ones that had memories of someone they'd known before? "Noooooo! I'm not calling him Simon*! There was a kid in Juniors called Simon who used to eat his ear wax!" (*names for illustrative purposes only). So names do have connotations for us, even if we don't take things as far as Horsey Hopkins. I've stuck with fairly sensible names for my two - The Daughter is named after my sister who died when we were young, and The BoyChild is named after my granddad. I might just throw all sense out of the window if we have a third though...any thoughts on Cheesecake Hague anyone??

Accidents happen...

One afternoon (about fifteen years ago actually), myself and some Uni friends were taking the rise out of one of our group who had broken his ankle playing basketball. After we'd exhausted the 'hopalong', 'clubfoot', 'clumsy tw@t' insults, I uttered the immortal words "I've never broken a bone before, I wonder what it feels like..?" (I know you know what's coming but don't ruin the punchline before I've told the joke!) Later that evening, I answered the communal phone in the halls of residence and the caller was the mum of my next door neighbour, who'd I'd just seen walking down the stairs. So I ran, full pelt, after her shouting. My shout quickly turned into a shriek as I fell from the top to the bottom, folding my leg firmly underneath me as I went. As I sat in a crumpled, sobbing heap in the stairwell, two things happened. Firstly, the girl whose mum was on the phone walked past me and laughed (Bloody laughed!!) and said "What are you doing down there?". I was in too much pain to say something clever like "Using my tears to wash the floor with my bum" so I just cried a bit more. And then, just to wind me a bit more, the aforementioned doofus who'd broken his ankle came over all Doc Marten and told me in no uncertain terms that mine wasn't broken.

As I returned from hospital many hours later, with a purple cast covering my two broken bones (TWO!! In your face basketball boy!!), I was in no doubt as to what a broken bone felt like. And the novelty wore off very early on in the eleven weeks I had to wear that I had to wear that cast for. Eleven weeks of wearing baggy sweatpants, of hobbling about with a humungous plastic shoe. And don't get me started on the weeks of having to build up my wizened old stick of a leg after the cast came off - it was like a knitting needle covered in dried skin and hair!

Of course, it was all downhill after the first break, having been jinxed by those haunting words. I then went on to break a finger decorating the kitchen (I knocked a clock off the wall, and in a save worthy of Peter Shilton, I grabbed the clock before it hit the ground. Smacking my finger on the doorframe in the process). And the hat-trick was breaking my middle knuckle chucking the cat out through the patio doors. I would rather go through childbirth than do that again, seriously.

I thought that after the three, my bone breaking days were done and behind me. And so yesterday - bank holiday Monday - as we joined the throngs of tourists at the Heights of Abraham in Matlock, it was just my luck that my ankle decided to spectacularly miss a step. My body did this crazy kind of fall flailing/grab something/nearly throw up from the pain thing. All in front of a beer garden of bikers. The kids had an exciting afternoon running round a hospital waiting room and were probably more excited about Mummy's "Skilts" (crutches) than they were about the cable cars and sightseeing.

My bones thankfully remain unbroken this time; my soft-tissue injury has been strapped up, elevated and regularly has painkillers directed at it. I have my Skilts to hop around on, and The Husband is doing his Husbandly duties - ringing me to tell me not to attempt the hoovering and helping me hobble to the loo. I have decided that it is just too risky for me to leave the house. If I venture out, it will be with a crash helmet and my limbs covered with bubble wrap   Heck, if I can break my hand painting and putting the cat out, it's probably safest if I just stay in bed!

Holidays from hell.

It has begun; the vacuum of time and space that is The Six Weeks Holidays (dun-dun-DUNNNNNNN!) We're now into the second week, and we're all still alive and relatively sane so that's a bonus. The Husband and I are taking time off on alternate weeks to make sure we don't use all our holiday entitlement up. Last week was my turn to spend a small fortune entertaining them and being referee to the fights over Lego theft and under-the-table-kicking matches. This week it's The Husbands turn. He's already taken them on a three day holiday to Essex where they breakfasted on bagels and slept in bunkbeds (how can I ever compete eh?).

I finished work early today and, determined to make the most of our family time, we  took the Childbeasts swimming. They were both ridiculously excited on the way there - even Charlie, because he hadn't remembered at that point that he hates it. Of course, as soon as the thrill of wearing his Spiderman armbands had worn off (just as he got to the edge of the pool) that was it - he wanted to get out before he'd got in. There was a good hour of shrieking, clinging on with fingernails embedded deep into parental flesh, and us repeating "No, we're not getting out" several hundred times before we finally managed to convince him this was fun and prise him off. The Daughter didn't aid matters by following him around showering him with a yellow toy watering can, although it did help to wash the snot off his face; every cloud and all that. But as soon as he was released into the water, that was it. With about 20 minutes to go before the pool closed, he decided he did like it after all and was off into the water with his teddy bear shaped float, splashing the bejesus out of everyone. We should have expected it really, little animal that he is, but our boy decided to make sure he showed us up before we left by pootling over to a little boy and his dad and announcing "I trumped I did!" in a delighted voice. I also made a bit of a tit of myself by climbing aboard a large foam horse and managing to stay on for about 2 seconds before flailing back into the water like a duck on ice.

Now, as it to be expected, you see some sights in public swimming baths and today was no let down. In the pool I spotted a woman with her eyebrow pierced. Nothing out of the ordinary there I hear you say. Except for her having a piece of jewellery meant for belly button piercings through the hole in her eyebrow. An enormous blingy crystal poked her in the eye every time she blinked, like a ridiculous mobile chandelier. And the lifeguard watching over the teaching pool was so colossally overweight and gormless, he didn't look as though he could save a fart in a jam jar. I looked at him and wondered if he'd passed his lifeguarding tests before or after he ate all the pies? Although I suppose in the event of an emergency we could all have clambered aboard his tummy and rowed to shore.

So from events thus far I can conclude several things. That I am too old (and sober) to be goating about on foam horses. That some body jewellery really is not interchangeable. And that I will end up having to sell my remaining kidney to fund my children's entertainment before the holidays are out.  For all others who are on their way to a stress/child induced stomach ulcer - hang in there, only five weeks left to go!

Life is a rollercoaster

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!

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!!

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!

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