Because I Said So, page 6
Of course, the cinema management had taken into account that both automatic ticket dispensers were broken by putting on extra staff. Yes, there were a whole two behind the desk. And you couldn’t have got a longer queue if you’d been giving out free lapdances at a stag night. Don’t ask me how I know that.
Twenty minutes later, we finally got our tickets.
‘Mum, can I have a hot dog, please?’ Low the Elder asked. ‘Sorry pet, no time!’ as we charged past yet another huge big line.
‘I need the toilet!’ Low the Younger wailed. We stormed the ladies, only to discover there was no loo roll in any of the manky cubicles. ‘Baby’ and ‘Wipe’ weren’t the only four letter words that were muttered as I dived into my bag for my own supplies.
Panic was rising as I tucked one boy under each arm and rushed into the screening hall. We crept like prowlers down the aisle, climbed over twelve people and finally settled ourselves in the middle of the third row. And joy, the adverts were still showing so we hadn’t missed the start of the movie.
I took a deep breath of soothing calm. We’d made it!
Unfortunately, so had the three six-foot-four guys that slid into the row in front of us, making my two wee blokes think there’d been an eclipse.
We clambered out of our row and down to the front, just as the movie was starting. There, in glorious Technicolor, at last, for our enjoyment, was… drum roll, drum roll… Nanny McPhee.
Yep, we were in the wrong hall.
Never again. Ever.
Instead, I’m going to concentrate on less stressful uses of my free time.
Anyone know the telephone number for the national colonic irrigation booking hotline?
Because I Said So
‘Mum, can I have a Gameboy for my birthday, please?’ asked Low the Elder a couple of weeks before he reached the monumental age of five.
‘No, honey.’
Bottom lip on floor. ‘But why?’
‘Because it’ll turn you into an antisocial recluse who will confine himself to his room, subsist on a diet of Quavers and lose social skills and all powers of communication. This will then result in the inevitable degeneration into a life of crime and destitution that will end only when you’re old, decrepit and alone, with thumbs the size of marrows.’
At least, that’s what I meant. In reality, I invoked the first response from the Parental Code of Democracy, Fairness and Logic.
‘Because I said so,’ I replied.
‘But, please,’ he wailed.
Time for the second response from the Parental Code of Democracy, Fairness and Logic – when under siege, take a deep breath, consider the options in an informed, intelligent manner… then panic and call in the cavalry.
‘Go ask your dad.’
Five minutes later, back comes wee hopeful face, big eyes, fingers crossed. ‘Dad says it’s up to you.’
The cavalry had obviously invoked the third response – the one that involves shamelessly passing the buck during watching of sport on the telly or when the question is in any way related to the reproductive process of the human race.
‘I’ll think about it, pet,’ I replied. Twenty seconds later I realised that he was still standing there. ‘What is it?’ I asked, puzzled by the Duracell Bunny’s longest ever stationary period. ‘I’m waiting until you’ve thought about it. So can I have one then?’
You’ve got to admire tenacity.
‘Please, Mum, all my pals have got them and they’re awesome!’
Awesome. Not even five yet and already he’s talking like a bit-actor in Baywatch, while demonstrating the first ever instance of being swayed by peer pressure. Nooooo! That isn’t supposed to happen yet. I thought peer pressure started somewhere around puberty and involved shoplifting, girls, or a sly cig behind a shed.
‘So can I, Mum, can I, please?’ snapped me out of my reverie.
Sigh. I want them to paint. I want them to play football from dawn until dusk. I want them to have long, informed debates about important issues like the deterioration of the ozone layer, global warming and whether Bob the Builder could whoop Postman Pat in a square go. I don’t want them to be sitting in a corner with a best pal called Super Mario.
But there’s no escaping the fact that these things are part of modern-day culture and, I pondered, surely as long as I rationed the use of it, then it couldn’t do any harm? Besides, if memory serves me right, Dr Robert Winston, world-renowned fertility expert and hirsute chappie from the BBC series Child of Our Time, concluded after extensive research that (in moderation) computer games improved kids’ hand-to-eye co-ordination and brain reaction times. Och, it must be fine then. I’d trust that man with my fallopian tubes, so surely his advice on all things child-rearing must be sound.
So I admit it, I caved, and when the brand new five-year-old opened his new gadget on his birthday last Friday his grin could have steered ships away from reefs and rocks.
I, however, was still in turmoil. Buying him a Gameboy instead of something more outdoorsy and practical caused a momentary resurgence of the parental guilt hormone. The same one that made me start up a fund to pay for the counselling sessions they’ll need when they’re forty-five, have a midlife crisis and it’s all blamed on the fact that their mother worked when they were children.
Anyway, I needn’t have worried. Sunday afternoon, he appeared in full football kit and announced he was going into the back garden for a kick-about. Yay! He hasn’t been completely overtaken by the cult of marrow thumbs.
‘Not playing with your new game then?’ asked I.
‘Can’t. Dad’s playing with it and he won’t give it back to me.’
It may be slow. It may be unreliable. But it’s great to see that in times of trouble, strife and Gameboy guilt, the cavalry gets there eventually.
On The Third Day of Christmas…
On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me… stress, interludes of panic, and an overwhelming urge to tell Santa where to stick his ho, ho, ho’s.
Actually, none of these things have been caused by my true love, but since he is the ‘blame default setting’ for everything that goes wrong in this house, he’s being made to suffer.
To be honest (and I reserve the right to deny this admission when it suits), this week’s mayhem is all down to unforeseen circumstances and the fact that I could have Janet Street Porter’s dental superiority and I’d still have bitten off more than I could chew.
And it’s all the more perplexing because I was sure I was organised. Obviously, however, I missed chapter 327 of The Mothering Manual – the one entitled: ‘In the Run-up to Christmas Your Children Will Suddenly Adopt the Social Life of a Magaluf tour rep.’
I’m no longer just a mother; I’m now my two boys’ Entertainment Co-ordinator. My three-year-old has been to more parties in the last week than I’ve been to in a year. He now thinks Santa is his new best friend and will be gutted if the fat bloke in the red suit doesn’t start popping round one night a week for a play date. My five-year-old’s schedule is even more frantic. This is his first year in school so he has a packed programme of nativity plays, carol services, parties and Christmas lunches. And each event sees me running around like a headless turkey organising the appropriate clothes, food and presents, while answering questions about the logic of our Christmas traditions – like why does Santa use reindeers when helicopters would be far more efficient?
Still, at least things aren’t too pressured work-wise at the moment. It’s not as if it’s only nine days, three hours and forty-two minutes until my next book is due to be delivered to my publisher’s office. Hear that thudding noise? That’s the sound of me hitting the floor in a panic-induced faint. Nine days, at least two of which will be written off due to the medical condition chocmintos toxicosis – the inability to move from the couch due to chronic abuse of After Eights.
I could weep. Actually, I did on Sunday, when one of my hands got jammed in the garage door. Cue big bandage. Oh, yes, it never rains but it snows. Nine days to finish the book and I’m down to one hand – meaning my normal two-finger typing output has been reduced to a single digit.
Present wrapping has also been transformed from a fun, festive task into a feat of one-handed contortion. And last-minute festive gift buying will necessitate asking shop assistants to tie things to my back.
Incidentally, on the subject of shopping, I had all my gifts in by the end of November. Then I got to Chapter 328 of The Mothering Manual: Small Children Change Their Minds About What They Want for Christmas on a Daily Basis. Santa would need to have multiple personality disorder to deal with the wishes of my wee elves. Yesterday: a Power Rangers’ suit, an Action Man and Robin Hood’s castle. Today: a Batman bike, a skateboard and a pet reindeer. In the last month I’ve spent more time at the Toys R Us returns desk than the people who work there.
I’m just keeping my sore fingers crossed that all the mayhem subsides and I get back to ambidextrous living by Christmas Day. We’re planning a solemn, peaceful occasion – right up until fourteen people show up for lunch. Fourteen. People. Christmas. Lunch. Sorry, I had to repeat that because I’m still in denial. I am the woman for whom cordon bleu cooking involves a sandwich toaster. I hate food preparation with a passion normally reserved for expense-cheating politicians and anything containing cranberries.
So a wee message to my one true love – forget the partridge in the pear tree. On the first day of Christmas I’d like a new bandage, a secretary, a personal shopper, two happy wee boys and the entire staff of our local Chinese restaurant. And if Santa’s a bit pushed, just get him to bring it all by helicopter.
2006
Battling Brothers and Earth Mothers
Oh, Brother!
Not many people are aware that Russell Crowe and I have something in common. Oh, yes, two peas in a pod.
Well, almost.
Obviously I’m not Australian, male or prone to developing outbreaks of facial hair. Not since I discovered epilation.
Sadly, we don’t share acting talent. Or Oscars. Or a multi-millionaire jet-set lifestyle. And, much as I have been known to occasionally get frazzled with inefficient hotel workers, I’ve so far refrained from any situation involving alleged violence, a receptionist, and the latest weapon from Binatone.
Furthermore, as far as I know, Russ doesn’t spend his Saturday afternoons in Evans’ changing rooms repeating the words ‘effing, effing, effing’, while trying to manoeuvre his bod into a size sixteen summer frock.
But Russ (I feel I can call him that – as long as he’s out of earshot, obviously) and I are both… drum roll, drum roll… a parent of two wee boys. Or at least he soon will be, according to his announcement this week that his wife Danielle is expecting their second son this summer.
So, never one to miss a chance to ingratiate myself with someone who has holiday homes in exotic places (credits cards are maxed out – I’m desperate), I thought I’d share the benefits of my maternal wisdom by passing on some cerebral, spiritual little nuggets of my experiences of raising brothers.
First of all, it has to be said that the inherent bond between brothers who are close in age is a beautiful thing. My sons are five and four, and their frequent demonstrations of reciprocal love, their natural instincts to defend each other, and their lively interactions can often bring a tear to the eye. Especially when a Batman car hurled at speed catches you right on the shins.
I’ve also learned that brothers can have the same gene pool, environment and upbringing and they can still be polar opposites, with different preferences when it comes to food (result: preparation of two different meals every night), pastimes (sports fanatic/couch potato) and toys. Although that last rule of thumb is defunct if there is only one of said toy, in which case they will both want it and a fight to the death will ensue. When this happens, a firm rule of owner/possession must be applied – except if altercation occurs in a public place, when whoever screams the loudest gets what they want. It’s the law.
Brothers have a driving need to establish their own identity, often using tactics that disassociate them from their sibling, e.g. name-changing. As a result, I am not currently the mother of the Low brothers, but my sons Dr Doom and SpongeBob SquarePants are doing just fine.
As a nation, we have many paranormal occurrences: crop circles, UFO sightings, Derek Acorah’s hair. In homes with two small boys, there is the spooky and inexplicable phenomenon of the phantom crayon – a manifestation that normally targets soft furnishings and anything in your wardrobe that’s white.
They will disagree on everything, except the comic merits of passing wind, pants and the word ‘pump’.
They can be too tired to remember their manners, tidy their rooms or brush their teeth, but they’ll still have enough energy to play football or swing from the curtains while making Tarzan noises.
They are programmed with a voice system capable of repeating, ‘Muuuum, he’s annoying me,’ until the end of time.
Like teenage girls, they have a strange compulsion to visit toilets en masse. I won’t go into details of their other bathroom idiosyncrasies, other than to say that, as the parent of brothers, you will never again sit down on a toilet seat without checking it first. And when you hear, ‘Whoo-hoo, mine’s hitting the ceiling,’ you will immediately understand and head for B&Q.
And a word of warning… When rearing boys, it’s probably best not to ponder their historical role models: the Krays, the Gallaghers, the Mitchells or worse, the evil duo who have caused excruciating pain and misery to the ears of millions – the Chuckle Brothers.
Although it’s probably safe to say that, with the state of the British dental care system, it’s unlikely that they’ll ever become the Osmonds.
So, Russ, here endeth the lesson. And if you want to experience my boys in action, we’re available for trips to sunny holiday homes. Preferably the sooner the better – before that new Evans’ summer frock gets crayon on it.
Morning Has Broken… Me!
Reasons I’ll never pass my HMC (Higher Maternal Competence) in Parenthood, number 2,342 – mornings. The very thought of them makes me want to lie down in a dark room until the Neighbours theme tune signals that it’s lunchtime.
Ladies, is it just me? Is mine the only household in the world where mornings are an exercise in urban warfare?
Back in my teens, I occasionally envisioned what my happy little family life of the future would look like. We’d all sit around the breakfast table: I’d be a size 10 and look like the blonde one in Bananarama and my husband, Morten Harket, the mullet-topped lead singer of A-ha, would gaze adoringly at our two little bilingual child prodigies.
Later, in my PE days (Pre-Episiotomy – blokes, ask the wife and have your best sympathetic face ready), mornings were a hassle-free operation consisting of a quick shower, a coffee, a ciggie and a 100-metre dash to the car.
Now? I adore my boys, but mornings are chaotic mayhem, with a noise level that warrants an ASBO.
I try to be a serene earth mother, but instead I end up getting louder and louder until someone either answers me or throws something at me in the hope of breaking my voice box.
Low the Elder usually climbs into our bed some time before dawn, where he proceeds to sleep like a starfish, leaving husband and I three inches of mattress each. He then wakes up at the first claxon of the alarm clock and requests sustenance. He’s five, so he hasn’t quite sussed out yet that repetition isn’t necessarily a good thing.
‘Can we go down for breakfast now Mum, can we, can we, can we, CAN WE?’
Meanwhile, I’m still trying to prise open my eyes and remember my name.
Eventually, I give in and allow myself to be dragged into the bedroom of Low the Younger, who is four but thinks he’s a fully-fledged teenager who should be allowed to lie in bed until he’s old enough to shave.
‘Come on honey, time to get up,’ I whisper lovingly.
He throws the duvet over his head and informs everyone living within our postcode area that he’s ‘STILL TIRED!!!!!!’
Twenty minutes of negotiation, bribery and coercion later, we get to the kitchen table – one still repeating the breakfast mantra and the other threatening to leave home.
When I was in Bananarama, our disciplined, perfect family all feasted on the same breakfast. Yeah, right. That would be a Frostie too far for my lot, who each require their own individually designed assortment of Jamie Oliver-approved edibles.
‘I’m not hungry,’ declares son number one, the very same child who has been pulling me towards the kitchen since daybreak. Hear that banging noise? That’s my head coming into contact with the cereal cupboard.
Next comes the ablutions bit. Otherwise known as ‘chasing two wee boys around the house clutching two toothbrushes and a tube of Colgate’. Closely followed by another circuit of the house with a face sponge and soap, and loud yells from me demanding that they stop playing football in the house or I’ll confiscate the goalposts: an Ikea lamp and the ironing board.
Then comes the Pants Scrum of Death. ‘I’m wearing the Batman ones!’
‘No, they’re MINE!’
‘Muuuuuuuuuuum!!!’
At which point, the clock has jumped forward thirty minutes and we’re now in danger of being late. Nooooo! Panic!
Their uniform/clothes get thrust on, only for them both to take another drink of juice and spill it down their front, necessitating a repeat of the whole exercise.
Then I remember I haven’t made up the packed lunches, checked homework, made the beds and I’m still in my pyjamas.
Oh, and son number one still hasn’t eaten his breakie.
I somehow manage to get them sorted and in the car, deposit son two at nursery and flee to his brother’s school, just in time for noise of the bell to drown out the noise coming from my thumping heart.
Phew. Made it. And as I look down at that gorgeous little face, still stuffing the last of his breakfast into his mouth as he leans over to say goodbye, I realise that I’ve managed to conquer another morning. I did it! And survived!
