musingsponderingsandrants

Parenting, profundities and humour

Author: sarahsmale

Hmm... about me...well three kids, a husband (not acquired in that order)... and a love of punctuation...
Relaxing weekend — June 25, 2015

Relaxing weekend

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IMG_4282

Last weekend was a tad…frantic…  I would like to say it is unusual. It isn’t really… I am sure some of you can empathise..

It started off on Friday. I was a due a day with no workmen…just a furniture delivery and a furniture collection. Oh and the grocery shopping. But then the wooden floor man asked if he could start prep for Monday’s job and of course I agreed, hoping to salvage Tuesday.

And so I was confined to barracks again waiting for people. In any event I had a cake to bake so really it wasn’t too bad. And my in-laws were due so things had to be prepared and cleaned. The floor man arrived at lunchtime and immediately got VERY noisy doing unspeakable things to my architraves… I left him with the in-laws to collect eldest and youngest from school. He had thankfully finished when I got back.

We dashed off a bit of homework and then I took youngest to piano, you know that hokey cokey I think I have mentioned before. After a bit more desert natural life adaptation work I took eldest and his cello to piano (don’t ask) and picked up youngest. I slowed down outside our house, booted her out of the car, checked the in laws had answered the door and drove off to pick up middlest from his school trip. After the obligatory wait for the bus to crawl up we left and I took my Tudor boy to the chippe. Youngest is banned. The blood splatter is still there.

We got home around 6.20pm and stuffed down chips.  At some point the kids went to bed and I then packed for the following night and built a football out of rollable icing for the top of that cake.

The next day dawned, wet. Husband and I did the usual fielding of football games/ training sessions, made slightly easier by eldest having the weekend off. I watched youngest and her team comprehensively beat the opposition, in the rain, with Granddad and latterly Grandma and eldest, who, showing his empathic side, had brought a folding camping chair for Grandma…I had time for a momentary flash of pride.

We managed to get home before middlest, who was merely training, and his father. So, damn, I had to start on lunch. Spag bol for seven. Whilst that was steeping I emptied chests of drawers.

After lunch the husband of a lovely friend (of course he is lovely too) turned up to help shift our extremely heavy chests of drawers out of our bedroom onto the landing in readiness for our fitted wardrobe…fitting. I bet he wished his wife was not in the Monday morning coffee group I attend. Where we regularly offer up our husbands for ridicule (in a loving fashion) and the occasional job.

We then spent a few hours at the kids’ football club annual presentations, in the rain. The children seemed to enjoy the stalls on offer, despite having to wring out their socks after utilising the bouncy castle obstacle course. Husband and I managed to see youngest receive her medal and take a team photo before we had to rush home to get ready for an evening out. We left the in laws to watch middlest and eldest get their awards. They were there until gone seven. Ouch.

An evening out is a rare and wonderful thing. This was work though. We had to schelp to Birmingham (an hour and a half drive- in the rain) in time to host a table of 12 at the Rep Theatre’s fundraising 1920s murder mystery dinner. We arrived in Birmingham at around 6pm and drove towards the hotel. We were slightly disconcerted at the large number of ball gowned ladies tottering towards our venue. We couldn’t check the time that our function started as the details were in the boot of the car. Fingers crossed husband had it right then.

He did…we had about 50 minutes to get changed and make ourselves over from soggy football parents into scintillating black tie dinner guests. Posterity will show if we got that right, along with the annoying photographer at the event. Husband assured me that the venue was ‘right next to the hotel’ so off we went. Luckily it had stopped raining. I tottered, he strode; I shouted, he slowed down. After crossing a canal, walking past hundreds of bars, dodging pools of sick (never easy in a floor length gown)and walking through what looked like a shopping centre we arrived. I may blame that ‘quick walk’ if I look less than scintillating on those photos.

Luckily the guests husband had chosen were actually quite good fun, they were even more fun after a few glasses of free wine. Them not me, I don’t drink. In fact I love watching other people drink. In a kind of anthropological experimentation kind of way. One mentioned that they had passed the Annual Slimmer’s World awards ceremony on their way- ah those ball gowned ladies. On the menu- one shake and a green salad?

So due to the company the event was actually fun. There was also a really quite good murder mystery to solve. And a live jazz band. Well we were in a theatre so I had expected a certain level of acting and music. There was a quiz. I love a quiz. There was an auction to take the mickey out of (we were at a table of bankers and guests I leave you to decide how much was spent collectively). I managed to be amusing and good fun so all in all not a bad night’s work.

All too soon it was time for that ‘quick walk’ home. I purloined husband’s jacket to avoid garnering too much drunken attention en route. I may be the wrong side of 40 but still scrub up OK in a ball gown, especially when the audience is pissed.

After a terrible night’s sleep (clearly chucking out time is now 3.15am- when did that happen?), we awoke, packed, and left to head back to the kids and relieve the in-laws, stopping en route for a sausage and pancake meal somewhere on the M6.

We got home around 11am. During that 3.15am early morning call I had realised that this was going to be my only window to get my prize winning children to a book store to choose appropriate books ahead of Friday’s deadline. Yep you read it right, my only window. So I scooped them up and drove to town, leaving husband to rustle up some roast potatoes and cabbage for a 1pm lunch. We browsed the books, fought over suitability and discovered that the book tokens provided by the school would in no way cover the cost. On the way home I picked up a ready cooked chicken.

We ate. We cleared. We had a small space for a sit down. We then left to host youngest’s 8th birthday party at a gymnastics centre in a nearby town. Once everyone had arrived, and I had reminded the staff of what I had actually paid for, the party went quite well. I rolled out that cake, children were collected and I drove home. Really this does not in any way sum up two hours with 13 very excited children, two Year 9 boys ‘in charge’ and a host of dangerous gym equipment but I let your imaginations fill in the gaps. I am too traumatised to go through it all here. Suffice to say it wasn’t what I needed after 4 hours sleep. But then children’s parties are never something I need even on a full 9 hours.

We came home, unwrapped presents, assembled kit for the next day & accomplished the bed time routine. I discovered it is actually possible to fall asleep whilst reading aloud from Harry Potter and the Order of the Pheonix.

We got some tea for the in laws. Who looked a bit shell shocked.

And then I sat down and fell asleep in front of the Antiques Roadshow.

I make no apologies for that.

Amphibious Issues — June 24, 2015

Amphibious Issues

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Here’s an interesting one… well I thought so…

At our old house our bedroom was above the Sky satellite receiver. Often lying in bed at night I would hear a beep beep beep. Really quite annoying. I put it down to some sort of electronic malfunction. With the Sky dish. I never got round to calling Sky.

Whenever I opened the window I could swear the sound had moved and so I began to blame the neighbour’s burglar alarm. I never got round to mentioning it to the neighbour.

We were moving. So I thought I would leave such issues behind.

Then a couple of weeks after the move I noticed the sound had followed us. Our new Sky dish was…well brand new so an unlikely culprit. And so as we now owned a burglar alarm I blamed that. When we had the service company out to give it an overhaul I forgot to mention it.

Then recently I was chatting with one of our new neighbours, who also happens to be a friend, about how we were liking the new abode and I told her that we found the owls in the wood opposite a tad noisy. She told me that as her neighbour has six cats they were often awoken by fights in the middle of the night and that also the midwife toads were a noise nuisance. I asked her what they sounded like.

And she described my beeping precisely.

I looked it up on You tube. And all along it has been an amphibious issue.

Thank goodness I never mentioned it to anyone.

Sometimes that senior brain of mine saves all sorts of embarrassment.

Procrastination… — June 23, 2015

Procrastination…

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ahh-procrastination

I think I may have mentioned before that I love writing this blog.

I think I may have also mentioned that sometimes I panic gently about running out of ideas.

And then I need to do something unpalatable. And suddenly I become full of the muse and set to work…

Today I am supposed to be packing two smallish boys up for Cub and Scout camp. It is one of those chores which sounds easier than it is. I loath it. If I merely pulled my digit out of a small orifice I could have the job licked within about two hours or so (not including the GF cake I need to bake and name labelling all their newer kit). But something in me is putting it off.

And so I am writing this piece of fluffy nonsense instead.

On the kit lists it says that the smallish boys themselves should pack their bags. Hmmm. Well that would be lovely I am sure but as tonight I have to drag all of them down to the camp field to actually pitch the Cub tents and tomorrow one has to get to a village at least 30 minutes away by 5pm during rush hour, when we will only land in from school circa 4.15pm that aint going to happen.

In any event they can’t work the loft hatch, unhook the trailer cover or sew on name badges all of which I need to accomplish to pack the bags.

No I prefer to focus their energies on remembering to BRING ALL THE STUFF I LOVINGLY PACKED BACK…

And so packing is my domain and the process (once I got round to it) goes something like this.

First I attempt to find all the stuff from downstairs. To avoid going up and down those stairs too often. So I scoop up tea towels and medication, carrier bags for wet clothes, small travel sized tubes of sunscreen, packets of tissues.

Next I raid the garage in search of camping crockery and cutlery, strong boots, wellies, a camp chair. The latter is a new one on me. Clearly Scouts is a lot more civilised than Cubs. Or the group owns less seating.

I then make my way into the loft and throw down sleeping bags, pillows, thermarests & hold-alls that could never hope to contain all this stuff. This is made harder today as I have never been in my current loft and first need to negotiate the unknown loft ladder. Once I gain access I find that I am lucky and husband has put all this stuff in plain view.

I dig out flannels that won’t embarrass but are named, four towels (eldest needs three- the mind boggles), soap in boxes (how 1970s), spare asthma inhalers and spacers.

Finally I get to the bedrooms to assemble the rest of the gear. I search drawers for all the clothes that are old and already labelled. Unfortunately we have recently replaced a lot of their outdoor gear as their ankles were on show and for some inexplicable reason I have failed to name eldest’s new Scout uniform. So I amass a large pile of sewing.

It is at this point I realise that I have forgotten ‘shoes which can get wet’ (garage), waterproofs (under the stairs) and torches (in an unknown location- last seen on my hall bookcase unfortunately in my previous abode).

I call husband and leave a message torch wise. I gather the other bits, check the weather forecast and decide to chuck in sun hats and woolly hats.

A quick glance at the clock and it becomes apparent  that I have now only got an hour left to bake that cake and eat lunch before my afternoon meeting. Should not procrastinate, should not procrastinate. So I dump stuff on the floors and vow to finish tomorrow when my supermarket will have delivered the extra tooth paste I require. I do not have enough tubes for everyone to be in a different location. These en-suites have their disadvantages including needing 3 tubes of toothpaste- well 4 now so the boys can split up too… who knew dental hygiene could be so problematic.

Mid whisking hubby calls back and asserts that the torches might be in the bottom drawer of his chest with all his running, cycling and gym gear. It is a drawer I avoid at all costs it being a tangle of an unbelievable quantity of lycra, padding and vaguely sweaty accessories. I take the plunge and rummage around and unearth the torches. Another cross off the list.

I bung the cake in the oven and stuff down a cheese and pickle sandwich. Mid crisp, and again remembering the forecast of ‘extremely heavy rain’- I believe it was a Yellow warning- I remember waterproof trousers and dig around in my under stairs cupboard. During this process the timer on my cake goes off. I extract it and rush off to my meeting.

Tomorrow I will add teddies, that toothpaste, ice the cake, try to remember water bottles.

And tonight I will face the sewing mountain.

I wouldn’t mind so much but I know that when they return precisely none of the garments or towels and flannels will have actually been used. The soap in a box will remain pristine. Even the spare pants will be untouched. I try to see the silver lining in this whilst they soak in a bath and I load the washing machine whilst trying not to touch anything and put the clean, dry clothes back in the drawers…

Footnote: I appreciate that having to pack two boys for camp is a mere drop in the ocean compared to the effort the leaders put into these events. And I really do appreciate all their work on behalf of my kids and everyone else’s. You lovely people.

What do points make? — June 21, 2015

What do points make?

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trophy

Every Bruce Forsyth fan (and I count myself amongst them, fond memories of watching idiots try to throw pots and ice cakes in 30 seconds on prime time TV in the 70s) knows the answer to that question, all together now

‘Prizes!’

It is soon Prize Giving Evening  at my children’s school. All the teachers wear their university robes, which is a bit startling when you have only seen some of them in shorts all year. They get some old boy (there are not yet many old girls it being only 10 years since the school went co-ed) to present books with a plaque inside to children who have presumably shone in various areas.

We knew eldest would be there as he recently co-won the Year 6 Humphriss Prize for Music at the Music Prize day.

All three of mine took part. Eldest played the cello and clearly must have done quite well with his Tudoresque, semi quaver fest. Middlest played his violin and the piano (not at the same time) and got lovely feedback from the adjudicator but was pipped to the Year 5 prize by a wonderful flautist. Youngest banged out ‘What shall we do with the drunken Sailor’ in her pre grade piano way. I think the adjudicators words were ‘great enthusiasm’…

Then today the prize winners were awarded with their book tokens in assembly. Eldest has surpassed himself and also won the Robinson Cup for the Most Improved Sportsman and duly received 2 book tokens. Youngest won the ‘something something’ prize for best person at PE in Year 3- probably because she won the Cross Country for the Year 3 & 4 girls and also the ‘how far can you throw a rounder’s ball’ event at last week’s field sports day. And she can run up House Point Hill very fast.

And middlest won nothing. Nada. Which is fine. Unless you are middlest, sandwiched between your award winning siblings. He had some hopes for the Year 5 Science Prize as all his exams this year have been in the 90%s. But, no, clearly there are many brilliant scientists at their school.

And so here is the very fine tight rope that is parent hood in perfect relief.

I am of course pleased for eldest and youngest. Eldest works incredibly hard. He deserves that Sportsman prize as he regularly falls into bed in a state of physical exhaustion after yet another training session. He was determined to shine with that cello piece after (and maybe I am being a bit partisan here) the really harsh examiner in April provided him with barely a pass for it in his exam. It was better than that even then. Now after a few more weeks of practise we can play it in our sleep. And it showed on the day.

Youngest is a born sportswoman as I may have mentioned before. And whilst this prize may be for something she is naturally good at she does attend every sports club going and she did go out training for that cross country, including taking part in a very cold Duathlon despite being terrified. She has an amazing untaught mind set- when I asked her how she ran through her stitch during the 2k cross country she told me she merely thought about how good she would feel when she won. The rounder’s ball thing was a surprise though.

So I feel they deserve their accolades and want to tell them that. It is hard to do so without middlest in ear shot and actually he should hear it. But how to do that without middlest taking it all the wrong way. My kids cannot understand that when I praise one I am not automatically denigrating the others. That just because I say ‘Well you worked hard for that so you deserve it’ I am not saying ‘And you, you just don’t work hard and deserve nothing’.

Middlest works hard, he isn’t a natural sportsman but tries his best, he is a fabulous musician (who won over that tough examiner in his violin exam to get a merit and leads the school orchestra), he is a brilliant scientist. On this occasion though others were just that bit better.

I feel for him. I told him that in my entire school career I never won a thing. Ever. And yes it hurts. But then I turned out alright didn’t I? He looked a bit askance at this, as he thinks I am a bit mad, but I think it helped. A bit.

And yes this is life. Life is tough. Get used to it. And all such platitudes. But when he is dripping tears into his cottage pie I don’t want to say that. I want him to have a damn prize. Damn it.

Anyway by bed he had become more philosophical. He has decided he would win the prize for ‘Best at Never Winning Prizes’. I may buy him a book and put a plaque in it for him. Not sure I will use his category though… maybe he should just win a prize for being generally wonderful…because he is.

The View — June 18, 2015

The View

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Today my house is full of men. There are six of them here currently. And whilst there are slightly too many pairs of underpants on show and the kettle is in over drive I am quite enjoying myself.

I scheduled replacement French doors (we broke the old ones it’s a long and boring story involving wind, an insurance claim for half the damage and buggered render) and carpet fitting on the same day and I am now beginning to realise that I hadn’t really thought it through. Much. Maybe I got carried away with underpants. Who knows.

So currently I have no doors on the back of my house. The back of my house is my kitchen diner which goes across the whole width. Luckily it’s sunny and relatively warm. Unfortunately the prevailing breeze is northwards and therefore helping to cover everything in my large kitchen diner in a fine layer of plaster and cement dust. And further because there appear to be swarms of carpet fitters in the rest of my house nearly all my furniture is currently in my kitchen diner.

I must think of a collective noun for a group of really quite young and beautiful carpet fitters…may be a ‘grip’ as in get a grip of carpet fitters….too 50 shades? My apologies.  I am not really sure when I turned into a middle aged lecher. Hey ho. Soon my sons will be teenagers bringing their friends home. I must get over it now before I turn into a jaguar…or is it some other large cat? Anyway I digress…

Rather ridiculously, it appears now, I had down on my list of jobs to do (which can be achieved whilst still leaving time to field workmen) baking a cake for youngest’s imminent birthday party.  I think I may need to hold off  until my house is again weather tight…get me all Nick Knowles… Unless she fancies a plaster dust cake… Maybe not…

I had just finished making my shepherd’s pie, there I go again, sorry kids, cottage pie before “I Came From Alabama” rang out announcing the arrival of the door men….(an architrave of door men?) so at least tea has escaped the light dusting with the intervention of a hastily thrown tea towel…out of the drawer…one of my precious drawers.

So that cake will have to wait. I do have my on line Sainsburys shop to do. I can’t use my computer because it is under a dust sheet it being perilously close to one set of…holes… And the last time I used my I pad to order my groceries it cut out half way through and I swore a lot….so again I’ll save it for later.

So here I sit stuck in my dusty kitchen diner…literally…my stairs are currently out of bounds as one of the grip is working there banging….gripper….into my treads… The family room has another one…he is currently under laying. And oh my goodness all the banging… It’s interminable. And now right over my head. My car is blocked in by a fleet of vans…clearly they don’t get on that well as they all came separately.

So I am trapped, without chores, without the ability to speak on the phone without hollering and there is really nothing left to do but to write to you all and gaze at the view…. Brew anyone?

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The Games My Children Play — June 16, 2015

The Games My Children Play

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DVD players

So today on a really not that long car journey my children (11, 9 and 7) decided to count passing German cars. They wanted to see how many they could find in a row.

Being them, the game soon escalated and became more and more involved so that by the time we were coming back again they were giving each car make a ‘handle’ whilst still counting German cars… and so the conversation went something like this…

one, two, sushi, sushi, burger, burger, double burger, one, burger, sushi, burger, burger, ugly burger, poppadum, poppadum, poppadum-dum-dum (sung), one, sushi, Retreat, Retreat We Surrender, sushi, burger, burger, sushi, poppadum, poppadum, poppadum-dum-dum, somewhere in a factory in South East Asia, ein, zwei (things had moved on German wise), Taekwondo, sushi, sushi, poppadum, poppadum, poppadum-dum-dum, burger, burger, burger with ketchup (roof rack), I can play chopsticks with chopsticks, sushi, burger, burger, ein, zwei, drei, burger, God Save our Gracious Queen (etc sung- rare old Rover), Retreat, Retreat We Surrender, burger, burger, sushi, sushi….

Etc

And this is why we have in-car DVD players for longer journeys…

This is the Winter of our Discontent… — June 14, 2015

This is the Winter of our Discontent…

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winter

As all parents of Primary school aged children will know it is the earth’s tilt (approximately 23.5 degrees) that gives those of us who live a good distance from the equator our seasons. This is the second year on the trot that one of my offspring has drawn that well known diagram showing why the north and south experience their annual cycles.

And I love living in a country with seasons. Every time I go away on holiday anywhere near the tropics I am always surprised on the first evening when the dark descends, suddenly, like someone has turned out the lights bang on 6 p.m. I associate heat and sun with long drawn out evenings. With childhood memories of not being able to sleep because my inadequate curtains let in so much light. So I wouldn’t want to swap those long summer evenings for a regular 12 hours of light, day in, day out. How boring, how monotonous. If warm.

Similarly I wouldn’t want to go the other extreme that some of our Scandinavian cousins have to experience, full time dark and possibly even weirder full time light. The Vikings had it right moving over here- much more civilised.

No, as with a lot of things this country of ours has got this just about spot on, with, for me, one exception.

I struggle to pick a season I like the most. I adore spring, so full of promise and zingy colours, when the light starts to return, cheering my soul. Summer is heady and long. I forget to put the kids to bed as hours slip by bathed in glorious sunlight. And autumn has its own special melancholy, mists and colour and blackberries, the first frost but also the possibility of unexpected heat.

But one thing I can be categorical about is that I hate winter. I don’t do cold. I don’t do dark and to be honest once the distraction/ headache of Christmas has passed winter just feels like a huge mountain to climb. Through the foothills of January, the scree slopes of February and the seemingly endless knife edge ridge of March.

Everything is harder work in winter. My eldest was born in January. That month when day ends at around 4pm and doesn’t start again until gone 7am. That is an awful lot of feeds in the dark. A lot of time to fill when the out of doors is out of bounds. Even when the light was around getting out into it involved so much effort, wrestling with snow suits and pushchair rain covers, that often I could not be bothered. Middlest and youngest were summer babies and life seemed so much easier. We could pop out by merely unfolding the buggy, slipping on sandals and just, well, leaving.

And even now they are older it is still harder work. Collecting them all at their various times from various activities and delivering them later on to other activities takes so much longer when on each occasion I have to don gloves and hat, defrost the car and gird my loins for another dark drive.

But it is not only the lack of light. I hate the cold. I have always struggled with it. A combination of low blood pressure and lack of insulation. I start wearing my thermal vest in October and it does not come off until April is out. I am the one in layer after layer of clothing, under a slanket on my sofa and taking a hot water bottle to bed in an attempt to have warm feet by the time I drop off.

In my third year at Uni we lived in a house with no central heating. My boyfriend at the time and I would regularly wake up to frost on the insides of the windows. Our only source of heat was a gas fire in the living room. I used to wear nearly all the clothes I possessed to keep warm and sit as close to that fire as possible. One time I was wearing so much and sat so close that it was only a friend alerting me to a nasty burning smell that made me realise the arm of my outermost garment was on fire.

And I find it much harder emotionally in those dark, cold months. It is harder to battle inner demons. Harder to feel optimistic. Harder to accomplish tasks requiring perseverance and energy. It is not a co-incidence that I started writing this blog (a long held ambition) at the beginning of spring.

And so I find winter a chore. I spend four plus months of the year battling the dark and cold and expending a great deal of emotional energy in the process.

Then, every year, normally at some point during the Easter school holidays, I wake up one morning and realise I have emerged from it unscathed. More or less. The light has returned, the sun is up and I am free mentally and physically to take life up whole heartedly again.

I know I play like a girl, try to keep up… — June 11, 2015

I know I play like a girl, try to keep up…

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playlikeagirl_1

I recently bought youngest (7) this T shirt, although in purple, her favourite colour.

And the reason is that my daughter is a soccer player. She adores the game and has played in a team from year one. Since she started a new school in September we have also found out that she enjoys hockey, netball, rounders and long distance running. But given a choice football is what she wants to play.

Whilst I am at a complete loss about where this sportiness comes from, I myself being one of those children who was picked last for every single team sport, every single time, I am immensely proud of her.

I really wanted a daughter. I am not going to lie and say that I was not secretly quite pleased on that last 20 week scan to be told it was 95% likely that a girl was what I was having. I am not really sure why I was so keen on it. There are many superficial reasons, like wanting to be mother of the bride, knowing that daughters tend to turn to their mothers when they become mothers themselves rather than their mother-in-laws, fancying browsing a new section of the baby clothes aisle after two sons.

But I guess the main reason is that I thought over the years I would be able to empathise more with a daughter.

Had that third child been a boy I would have been fine, I love my boys, and another would have been absolutely brilliant. But the fact she was a girl felt like the icing on the cake. It’s controversial to say it but that is how I felt.

And not only I am pleased to have a daughter, I am pleased to have the daughter she is. I am pleased for many reasons but mostly because she is fiesty, strong willed and intensely independent. She is not someone who takes any nonsense and she holds her own in almost any company. She does not see her gender as a barrier to anything. If she is the only girl on the football pitch she shrugs her shoulders, pulls on her shin pads and studs and sets to work.

And that is how it should be. I hope it continues and she can carry that inner confidence long into her future. Because it’s hard, as a female, to do that. I will certainly try to help her with it.

So I am proud of my daughter the football player. Because it epitomises what I want for her in her future. Feelings of confidence, worth & value and a knowledge that she can do anything she wants to regardless of her gender.

Takin’ It Easy — June 9, 2015

Takin’ It Easy

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IMG_4248

Last Friday I decided to make life easy for myself.

It’s rare in our house to have a completely empty evening, free from taxi-ing, and this night was no exception. However I had swapped two piano lessons (which involve a sort of hokey cokey – you take the first child down, you bring the first child back as you take the second child down, you bring the second child back, take, collect, take collect, shake it all about) for one All Age church choir session involving us all. Only middlest and youngest had homework, and youngest had forgotten her book anyway. And husband was out for the duration, due back about midnight.

And so I felt in a reckless mood. Hence I decided to scrap the stir fry I had planned and treat the kids to fish and chips on the way home from our choir session. Before chilling out after the minimal washing up that surely my pants dishwasher could cope with.

The sun was shining, we all felt upbeat from singing and meeting up with friends and so we hit the chippie in fine fettle.

Eldest and I queued up (along with, so it seemed, the rest of my village, including a fair few members of the choir) he having decided he is now too mature to swing on the railings outside the parade of shops. Middlest and youngest have no such scruples and so they began their usual swinging and messing around.

At one point eldest (self appointed health and safety advisor) reported to me that he thought middlest and youngest were being ‘a little reckless’. I was nearing the front of the interminable queue and merely commented to the choir member next to me that, and I quote, ‘they will only crack their heads open once before they learn’…

I had just ordered and was waiting for a new batch of chips to be ready (behind a man who was clearly mustering a small army as he had requested 8 portions of fries) when middlest came in and told me he ‘thought’ youngest ‘may have hit her head’.

I rushed out and would like to say for the record that there was clearly no doubt that ‘youngest had hit her head’ as she was standing in the middle of a blood bath looking a bit shocked.

I entered that state that I am sure many of you parents out there are all too familiar with. I call it ‘rabbit in the headlights’. I had no idea what to do first. Console. Staunch blood (with presumably my hands as I had no other sort of useful gear with me, assuming, as I had, that we could manage an outing to our local chippe with just my purse and keys). Shout. Check for pupil dilation with a small torch (no scrap that no equipment). Collect chips.

Luckily for me our take away is situated right next door to a pharmacy which was still open. One of the workers had seen the incident and came out to offer us his facilities. Cane chair (it flitted across my mind to sit on it myself), gauze pads, tissues and wipes. We utilised all of this most fully. Eldest remained in the chippe to field our order. Middlest (always good in a crisis) was oscillating between our two encampments providing updates to eldest and consoling youngest whilst I applied pressure to the back of her head which was gushing blood.

The pharmacist, whilst not asking for any form of reimbursement which I felt doubly bad about considering youngest had bled copiously all over his floor, mentioned the word hospital. Youngest, already in a state of shock, then descended into hysteria. She hates hospitals. Well actually so do I especially on a Friday evening with no spousal support. I inspected what I could see of the wound through her extremely thick hair and decided to get her home and reassess once it was clean. Self triage- I have seen those posters at the A&E and didn’t want to prevent someone in real need from a nurse or doctor. In any event the thought of taking three kids, one in hysterics I was having no joy in rousing her from, to A&E on our empty stomachs was more than I could, well, stomach.

By now the chips had finally arrived. Eldest wandered in really quite unconcerned. Middlest held the gauze pad to his sister’s head while I strapped her in and we drove home amid sobs, screams and snot.

Once we arrived home I dished up food and tried to get her to eat something. We had all gone off the thought of eating a bit but we did our best. Next I stripped youngest of her blood soaked shirt (see above) dumped her in a warm bath and used the saline solution again provided by my friendly pharmacist to clean up the wound. All this amid screaming. Now she felt sick so I gave her a plastic jug. From what I could see the wound actually appeared to be a number of smallish cuts and abrasions on top of a massive egg extruding from her scalp.

I attempted to get the rest of the blood out of her bum length plaits with mediocre success, gingerly brushed her hair and re-braided it, dosed her with Calpol and put her to bed were upon she immediately fell into a deep sleep.

Vowing to check on her vital signs half hourly I returned downstairs to deal with the bloody shirt and floor. I then persuaded the boys into bed after reassuring them that their sister would not ‘die in the night’- eldest looked a little disappointed but tried his best to hide it.

And then at around 8.30pm I actually started my ‘easy’ evening.

Footnote: she was fine. I gave her more painkiller at my bed time which I easily roused her for. She was scabbed over by the morning and able to play football…. and the shirt did come clean, a combination of cold water and Vanish and my new German washing machine saw to that…I am mighty pleased at £10 a pop…

Lumpy Mash — June 7, 2015

Lumpy Mash

/sarahsmale/2 Comments

first aid

One day last week the mash on my shepherd’s pie was lumpy.

This is bad in the ‘World According to My Offspring’ for two reasons. One it isn’t actually a shepherd’s pie as I made it with minced beef, and so therefore it is a cottage pie… my mistake… I blame too much Masterchef Australia for my children’s gourmet tendencies. And, two, my kids hate lumpy mash. Again see Masterchef above.

And here is why the mash on my COTTAGE pie was lumpy.

I like to top my COTTAGE pie with cheese. Well actually I top half my COTTAGE pie with cheese so my darling husband will partake (please see my earlier entry Food Glorious Food– which incidentally remains my least read entry of all time, which I think is a shame, I thought it was quite funny, but then, hey, what do I know, its probably to do with timing (please see my earlier entry Timing, Its Everything, if you need an explanation)- if you need an explanation). Wow what a master of subordinate clauses-which middlest has been studying in Grammar this year- I am.

He unpacked the kitchen (see my earlier post Maxims for Successful Kitchens) when we moved house. And now I cannot find the cheese grater. These two things (his cheese aversion and his unpacking of the kitchen) may be related although he swears not. It is odd, though, that as far as I can tell it is the only thing missing from my kitchen. Even the knife and spoon that remained in the German dishwasher we left behind (again see Maxims for Successful Kitchens) made it back via my lovely buyer.

I was searching for the cheese grater more thoroughly than on my last attempt. And entered the cupboard that my husband had haphazardly piled with my Robochef and all its accoutrements, my hand held blenders, my lovely Boden electric cake whisk which I treated myself to when the cake requirements for Cub Camps became excessive, the sandwich toaster and the little mini blender I used to puree carrot in when my kids were weaning (mental note must do a blog entry about that!).

Whilst furteling around in the cupboard I put my left hand in a small bowl which I have never in my history of owning my Robochef (about 20 years) ever used- it probably chops garlic or fresh herbs (dried herbs were invented for a reason people) or some such poncy thing- and slit the middle finger of my left hand open. Two things flitted through my mind. One how sharp that twenty year old blade remained- credit to the makers of Robochef- and OUCH!

One of the many things I have noticed about aging (please see my earlier blog entries Senior Moments & My Brain for others) is that my blood takes much longer to clot. It didn’t look like much of a cut. But it bled like a stuck pig. I pressed kitchen roll to it and held it in the air for as long as my biceps would stand. About a minute.

And anyway then the phone rang, which in itself is a minor miracle (see Rant Alert and Rant Alert Update), and as I no longer have caller ID- I lost that somewhere in the LLP debacle (you really need to read those entries)- I felt I must pick up. Ironically it was someone who thought I had recently been involved in a no fault accident.  However as she couldn’t put a monetary value on my inability to mash root vegetables I hung up.

I was now under increasing time pressure as I was due to take out my lovely friend (she of the laundry fame- please see my earlier entry The Definition of Sod’s Law) for a birthday shopping and lunch trip. And I needed to mash the topping for my COTTAGE pie.

The cut would not stop bloody bleeding. And I am allergic to plasters, which anyway are out of reach in a cupboard which my husband unpacked. So I tried to mash the potatoes whilst holding a piece of kitchen roll to my finger. It did not really work. I had to drop the kitchen roll which meant that I could only mash for about 5 seconds at a time before droplets of blood threatened to turn the potato a fetching shade of pink. As such my usual vigorous and thorough technique was somewhat lack lustre and led to lumpy mash.

Which my kids complained about. Along with who got the most cheese (please see my earlier entry The Unfairness Indicator) which I had managed to grate a barely sufficient quantity of using my tiny Parmesan grater in between swabbing down the work top (perhaps the only substance not to show up on it too badly is blood…see Maxims for Successful Kitchens)

In the end I did have to resort to a plaster so I could leave the house. Its 24 hours later and the cut has finally stopped bleeding and is now just throbbing not really that gently.

As for that cheese grater. I will find it I am sure. Probably after I have bought a new one. That’s Sod’s Law (again).