.....again. He must have timed his summer hols with ours. Lovely waking up of a morn and sauntering down stairs to a leisurely breakfast...well, in between the food fights and normal sibling warfare that is part and parcel of family life that is.....cruising out to the pools for an all day dip. Now he`s back. In the corner. Beating away on his drum most heartily with that stupid grin on his face. Where are the darts? And his bloody loincloth looks like it hasn`t been washed a while too. "Shut up!" I screech," I am going as fast as I bloody can!"
" Mummy! Will you please stop shouting at the wall! " Bat Boy wailed, rolling eyeballs up in an enviable Exorcist movement, "No wonder everyone thinks you are bloody weird!"
"Stop swearing!" I admonish.
"Why?" Bat Boy counters, " You are always bloody swearing!"
"No, I bloo...blo..antly don`t!" I stammer back.
"Chill out,Mummy." smiles three year old The Booby Slayer.
"Yeah...chill out,Mumsy," adds Bat Girl," The world ain`t going to end if our bento is burnt!"
"When I feel stressed, I like to play with my willy," interjects Bat Boy.
"Thanks for sharing,love." I grin, somewhat forcibly." But we didn`t need to know that."
The drum beat notches up as I text hubby ` Your son is talking about willy sports in public again. Fatherly chat required tonight. Thank you`. Oh bloody hell, I can smell something burning.
"Bloody hell," shouts out Bat Girl," The pizza for our lunch box is on fire....again, Mummy!"
The drum beat fills my ears as I feel the house lurch and the smell of the sea assaults my nostrils.
"Coming!" I cry out, sounding like Alpha Dalek from Dr Who.
" I am feeling a bit stressed,Mummy!" cries The Booby Slayer." Can I play with Bat Boy`s willy?"
"No, you can`t!" I firmly reply while attempting to put out the pizza bonfire....
Showing posts with label Parenting abroad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parenting abroad. Show all posts
Sunday, 21 August 2011
Thursday, 25 November 2010
The Saga Of The Neighbours Takes A Twist. Free Willy Lives Across The Path.
Here I am. Enjoying `Barnaby` on Mystery Channel when I hear a crash from outside. Pulling a coat over my PJ's and crutches on either arm, I open the front door to see....
The Neighbour from the house opposite. Perched high up in a tree in his garden......sawing away at the branch of said tree.....So what you say. Ain`t a chap entitled to do a spot of gardening when he likes. Yes, so true but factor in a few points please. It`s raining. It`s after 10pm. He is wearing only a pair of boxer shorts......boxer shorts with a very unimpressed willy hanging out the front......I don`t think he realises the risk of frostbite in a rather delicate area.
He waved "Good Evening! Just trimming the tree!" I waved back and said "Nice weather for it" and hobbled back indoors.
When in Rome do as the Romans do. I didn`t see a thing. Not even a willy.
The Neighbour from the house opposite. Perched high up in a tree in his garden......sawing away at the branch of said tree.....So what you say. Ain`t a chap entitled to do a spot of gardening when he likes. Yes, so true but factor in a few points please. It`s raining. It`s after 10pm. He is wearing only a pair of boxer shorts......boxer shorts with a very unimpressed willy hanging out the front......I don`t think he realises the risk of frostbite in a rather delicate area.
He waved "Good Evening! Just trimming the tree!" I waved back and said "Nice weather for it" and hobbled back indoors.
When in Rome do as the Romans do. I didn`t see a thing. Not even a willy.
The Invisible Something Or Other.
I wave a cheery "Good Morning!" to Madame Gomi ( Japanese for `rubbish`) Gestapo and turn to see next door neighbour staring intently at me. " There`s something different about you today!" she slides in between a yawn. " Have you lost the baby weight?" My baby is now the ripe old age of 3. I scan her face for a trace of that British trait I adore so much, sarcasm. The cupboard is bare. " No!" I reply pushing left crutch down to begin the Monroe cum Hunchback of Notre Dame hobble back to a warm, sugary cup of tea anxiously awaiting me on a tabletop. " Have you had your hair cut?" My gut reaction was to quickly round up the two greasy strands loitering over my right ear, back into the tatty scrunchy I`d herded my locks into earlier that morning. This was supposed to be an `out and in` job. Conversation wasn`t on the menu. Shaking her head,"I don`t know! Something is different about you today!" and strode off down the street, arms pumping air. `The something different about me` might have everything to do with the big white cast adorning my right foot and crutch accessories I now wear, non too proudly, around either elbow.
I can`t say I am surprised. Arriving home with my baby girl three years ago, a couple of neighbours raced over and asked me whose baby it was. Ermmmmm....mine! "You were pregnant!" Well, unless you do it differently over here, yes I was. Nine months of it. Four quite visibly. Or maybe, to the background euphony of spades hitting churchyard dirt, I should have informed them that actually, foreigners lay eggs. Two minutes to push it out then a few months of making sure the spot lamp is set at the right temperature. Less chance of stretch marks but watch out your husband doesn`t mistake your bub`s egg for a common garden chicken one or tragedy will ensue.
My husband doesn`t notice stuff like I do. I am by nature a people watcher anyway but he seriously doesn`t seem to be aware of his surroundings on the same level. Walking down a street,late at night..oh many years ago with a female friend. This middle-aged man suddenly stopped in front of us. Opened his briefcase to reveal an A3 colour photo of himself, taped to the inside of his briefcase. He was wearing only socks with those god awful suspender things. We stood, mouths agape as he deftly shut the case. Locked it. Bowed and uttered a sincere "Gomen nasai" (I am sorry for inconveniencing you!") and walked off into the crowds. Tens of people must have walked right past us with a clear view of his briefcase and it`s eye opening contents. My mate and I ended up going into yet another bar, hysterically giggling.
I can`t say I am surprised. Arriving home with my baby girl three years ago, a couple of neighbours raced over and asked me whose baby it was. Ermmmmm....mine! "You were pregnant!" Well, unless you do it differently over here, yes I was. Nine months of it. Four quite visibly. Or maybe, to the background euphony of spades hitting churchyard dirt, I should have informed them that actually, foreigners lay eggs. Two minutes to push it out then a few months of making sure the spot lamp is set at the right temperature. Less chance of stretch marks but watch out your husband doesn`t mistake your bub`s egg for a common garden chicken one or tragedy will ensue.
My husband doesn`t notice stuff like I do. I am by nature a people watcher anyway but he seriously doesn`t seem to be aware of his surroundings on the same level. Walking down a street,late at night..oh many years ago with a female friend. This middle-aged man suddenly stopped in front of us. Opened his briefcase to reveal an A3 colour photo of himself, taped to the inside of his briefcase. He was wearing only socks with those god awful suspender things. We stood, mouths agape as he deftly shut the case. Locked it. Bowed and uttered a sincere "Gomen nasai" (I am sorry for inconveniencing you!") and walked off into the crowds. Tens of people must have walked right past us with a clear view of his briefcase and it`s eye opening contents. My mate and I ended up going into yet another bar, hysterically giggling.
Saturday, 30 October 2010
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
I think I Am A Sado Machoist.
Or maybe I fell over that precipice and down into the depths of insanity one sunny day without realising it.I love parties. I am determined that each season or milestone be celebrated. Notched up on life`s great wooden bedpost for prosperity. A good time was had by all on this day. Let the memory warm us later in the sunset of our lives as we rock in a wicker chair, the wind caressing our silver locks...or if bald, the lovely cactus jungles that older folk seem to spurt from nasal and aural orifices........ in some home, somewhere far.,far...... hopefully ... far forward in time from now.
"Is this what you class as `resting`?"scolds hubby in his finest ` I know best` tone.I am stood in the kitchen, on one foot, looking like a bloated flamingo. I deftly push the end of the crutch against the touch pad key on the microwave and it duly hums into action,. Microwave knows her place after toaster nearly took an early morning flying lesson, courtesy of one manic mummy. "Just wanted to put the nails on the witches` fingers before the halflings awake.!" I cheerfully explain. I stand back and admire my handiwork. Sixty sausages boiled, chiseled and topped with a carved tomato nail, ketchup glued to the end. Witches` fingers. I point at the plate and with pride enquire."So what do you think of that?" A moment`s silence filled with hubby`s head nodding up and down while he searches for the right words to describe the culinary work of art laid out before him. " Yeah....lovely.Kids love sausages!" Indignation inflates my chest, a timely air sac between hubby and I."Sausages?" I cry," Sausages...?"I hold one up, the tomato nail slides off onto my dressing gown. Sisters together in exasperated solidarity. "This is a...." Now I search for the apt wording," ....not just any old sausage....It is culinary craftsmanship at it`s......it`s pinnacle!" Laughing hubby,"Okay! They are amazing!" Hubby should thank his stars that I am not a high maintenance type of wife,I think smugly. Easily satisfied,am I.My grudges always have a statue of limitations.
Hubby."What`s that on your cheek?" I brush and find a seaweed cut out mouth. "Oh,thanks!" I hum" I wondered where that mouth had got to." As I press it down onto a mini pizza surrounded by it`s clones. All grinning manically with mini tomato noses and olive eyeballs. In a few hours, this house will be overrun with thirty small bodies. Each and everyone a little powerhouse of energy to be amused, entertained, fed, watered and contended with. "You need to slow down," hubby yields his gem of advice,pointing a foot in the splint.
It is just after five in the morning. I am stood, like a giant flamingo. Foot in a splint.Various plates crammed with the Halloween spirit. Decorations galore. Balloons awaiting with bated breath. At this point, every time at this point, I always stop, only for a second mind as I just don`t have the time to dawdle. I always stop and think `Why do I do this to myself?` Especially `Why do I do this to myself when I have a broken foot?`
I might have a stone called `Mossy` who I like to spend an evening with on the sofa, here and there, deep in debate on such weighty topics as `Why do rubber washing up gloves always make your hands stink?` I`ve even been known to stick plasters on my nipples in an attempt to wean small beings from the booby. None of these things would fit the criteria for being certified as `nutty`. Neither do I feel the need to compete with other mummies. I haven`t even got a hairstyle let alone a recognised parenting style. Neither do I desire to win the Alfalfa....or whatever it is....Mummy tiara.
I do it for my little ones. For the warm glow I see on their faces, on their friends` faces. Because each day really is a gem. Because life isn`t a dress rehearsal. I am determined to be happy. To enjoy life and seize it by it`s goolies.This is it. So, I will continue on this quest. I am sure my Witches` Fingers are going to be legendary. Sausages indeedy!
"Is this what you class as `resting`?"scolds hubby in his finest ` I know best` tone.I am stood in the kitchen, on one foot, looking like a bloated flamingo. I deftly push the end of the crutch against the touch pad key on the microwave and it duly hums into action,. Microwave knows her place after toaster nearly took an early morning flying lesson, courtesy of one manic mummy. "Just wanted to put the nails on the witches` fingers before the halflings awake.!" I cheerfully explain. I stand back and admire my handiwork. Sixty sausages boiled, chiseled and topped with a carved tomato nail, ketchup glued to the end. Witches` fingers. I point at the plate and with pride enquire."So what do you think of that?" A moment`s silence filled with hubby`s head nodding up and down while he searches for the right words to describe the culinary work of art laid out before him. " Yeah....lovely.Kids love sausages!" Indignation inflates my chest, a timely air sac between hubby and I."Sausages?" I cry," Sausages...?"I hold one up, the tomato nail slides off onto my dressing gown. Sisters together in exasperated solidarity. "This is a...." Now I search for the apt wording," ....not just any old sausage....It is culinary craftsmanship at it`s......it`s pinnacle!" Laughing hubby,"Okay! They are amazing!" Hubby should thank his stars that I am not a high maintenance type of wife,I think smugly. Easily satisfied,am I.My grudges always have a statue of limitations.
Hubby."What`s that on your cheek?" I brush and find a seaweed cut out mouth. "Oh,thanks!" I hum" I wondered where that mouth had got to." As I press it down onto a mini pizza surrounded by it`s clones. All grinning manically with mini tomato noses and olive eyeballs. In a few hours, this house will be overrun with thirty small bodies. Each and everyone a little powerhouse of energy to be amused, entertained, fed, watered and contended with. "You need to slow down," hubby yields his gem of advice,pointing a foot in the splint.
It is just after five in the morning. I am stood, like a giant flamingo. Foot in a splint.Various plates crammed with the Halloween spirit. Decorations galore. Balloons awaiting with bated breath. At this point, every time at this point, I always stop, only for a second mind as I just don`t have the time to dawdle. I always stop and think `Why do I do this to myself?` Especially `Why do I do this to myself when I have a broken foot?`
I might have a stone called `Mossy` who I like to spend an evening with on the sofa, here and there, deep in debate on such weighty topics as `Why do rubber washing up gloves always make your hands stink?` I`ve even been known to stick plasters on my nipples in an attempt to wean small beings from the booby. None of these things would fit the criteria for being certified as `nutty`. Neither do I feel the need to compete with other mummies. I haven`t even got a hairstyle let alone a recognised parenting style. Neither do I desire to win the Alfalfa....or whatever it is....Mummy tiara.
I do it for my little ones. For the warm glow I see on their faces, on their friends` faces. Because each day really is a gem. Because life isn`t a dress rehearsal. I am determined to be happy. To enjoy life and seize it by it`s goolies.This is it. So, I will continue on this quest. I am sure my Witches` Fingers are going to be legendary. Sausages indeedy!
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