Because I Said So, page 7
‘Mum, did I tell you we’re to bring in cakes today?’
Lilo Lil
It’s that time again… Husband is giving me that wide berth normally reserved for danger-fraught circumstances like deadlines, contagious illness and PMT. I cracked two toes on the empty suitcase that’s been lying in the hall for days waiting to be put in to service. The passports that have been in plain sight for months have now gone missing – especially worrying as it coincides with the disappearance of a black marker pen and the arrival of a suspiciously guilty look on my four-year-old’s face. And I’m wondering if there’s a safe, non-surgical way to lose four stone by the weekend.
I’d give a heartfelt, howling rendition of ‘Summertime Blues’, but this time of the year is up there with Christmas on the ‘Great Excuse For Martyrdom’ scale, so I’ve taken to stomping around, while sighing pointedly and playing keepy-uppy with my petted lip instead.
‘Chill out,’ says husband. From a safe distance and with the added protection of a riot shield and safety goggles. Chill out? Chill out?
I’m a martyr on a schedule; I haven’t got bloody time to chill out.
And I’m not the only one who’s suffering from pre-holiday stress. Whenever I enter the room, the kids now adopt a look of panicked terror and check out the emergency exits.
But then, they know if they want to get as far as sun, sea and laughing at their mother trying to successfully mount a lilo, then they have to get past the most tortuous event of their year: the holiday haircut.
Why do small boys hate anyone touching their hair? Why can they not sit at peace for more than ten minutes? Why do I think that a Saturday job in a hairdressing salon when I was fourteen has somehow given me the kind of skills you’d expect from Vidal Sassoon?
And why did I only ever learn one haircut? Since I’ve appointed myself responsible for the crowning glories of our whole family, we all march into the airport looking like fully paid-up members of the Tufty Club.
At least everything that will happen between now and the check-in desk is comfortingly predictable.
We leave approximately forty-eight hours from now, so that gives loads of time to pack up our capsule wardrobe, then re-pack it when we discover that the collective weight of our cases is roughly the same as a 747.
Then we’ll find the documentation for our annual travel insurance policy – that expires an hour before we leave.
We’ll discover that we’ve forgotten to collect our foreign currency five minutes after the Post Office has shut.
We’ll remember to book the taxi – and discover that we won’t all fit in one cab.
We’ll make a point of putting the camera in a safe, secure section of the luggage. Fourteen photo-free days later, we’ll come home to mysteriously find it in its usual place in the kitchen cupboard.
We’ll pack the entire stock of the Early Learning Centre, Toys R Us and the Argos catalogue for the children’s amusement on the plane. They’ll be saying they’re bored before the wheels leave the runway.
We’ll find last year’s suntan lotion… has leaked all over our newly packed clothing.
We’ll cancel the papers, ask a neighbour to put out the bins, clear the fridge of perishables, beg a nice friend to cut the grass, stop the mail, pay all outstanding bills, clean the house, stock up the first aid kit and change the beds.
Sorry, just realised that through the whole of that last bit I was using the term ‘we’. I do, of course, mean ‘little old martyr me’.
Husband will show up half an hour before we leave with four pairs of kecks, a pair of flip-flops, a book and his swimmies. And somehow he’ll still have something to wear every night of the two-week break. Woe.
Thankfully, preparing for a holiday is like childbirth – the minute it ends and you reap the rewards, ecstasy kicks in and you forget the pain…
At least until next year’s countdown to Tufty Tours.
Power Cut
What do you get if you mix the lethal combination of Lambrusco, Internet travel websites and a new credit card? Two weeks in Florida and a bank manager who calls security at the mention of your name.
But, oh the excitement! We were all set for a fortnight of family bliss, relaxation and sun, sun, sun… I know, I know, don’t even say it. My predictions are notoriously inaccurate. This is why I’ve never won the lottery, swore Madonna would be a one-hit wonder and was convinced that the Bay City Rollers would outlast the Rolling Stones.
However, day two and not even torrential rain could dampen our spirits as we headed to the fantastic Disney MGM Studios, home of Indiana Jones, the Muppets and many grown adults dressed as animals – something that’s probably outlawed in several conservative US states.
After a couple of hours wandering around in our undeniably chic (!) waterproof ponchos we came across hoards of people waiting for, drum roll, the Power Rangers. My heart sank. The Power Rangers are now strictly banned in this house. Ditto Star Wars, Pokemon, Jackie Chan, Teen Titans and anything else that has scenes of karate, shooting, fighting or general random assault.
I have two wee boys – at the merest suggestion of violence in a television programme, they immediately commandeer the Dyson and the pole that opens the loft hatch, brandish them at each other in a playful yet threatening manner, and before you can say ‘Accident & Emergency’ I’m digging out the first aid kit and dishing out the detention. Someone once gave my five-year-old a Power Rangers DVD – after one viewing he declared a planetary war on his wee brother and attempted a triple-back somersault from halfway up the stairs. Said DVD now resides under the couch, and will not be retrieved until he’s old enough to view it without morphing into Tartan Power Ranger – the one whose mother runs around behind him shouting, ‘Stop that kung fu nonsense right now or I’m burying the biscuit tin in the garden.’
Back to Disney. Regardless of my superhero embargo, my boys were ecstatic when a huge open-top car appeared, blaring the Power Rangers theme tune, and off jumped five dodgy looking characters in luminous helmets and jumpsuits so tight you could’ve counted the intergalactic change in their pockets. One look at my two wee heroes’ rapturous faces and, despite my disapproval, I knew we had to join the huge queue waiting for a photo opportunity. Twenty minutes later, we were next in line to meet one of the Rangers. A few more moments, a few steps forward and… ‘Sorry guys, the Power Rangers have to get back to their vehicle now,’ an official informed us as they suddenly bolted back to their vehicle and took off. Apparently there was a universe that needed saving. Or it was nearly closing time in the Disney staff canteen.
Cue two wee trembling lips. Actually, three if you count mine, but I maintain that was due to a chill caused by rain-soaked nethers. There was nothing else for it – we had to stay in the park for almost three more hours, waiting for their next appearance.
Three long, wet, impatient hours.
When they finally did reappear, there was an undignified, mad scrummage back to the front of the photograph queue. Until husband pulled me back and told me to behave myself.
Call it temporary insanity, but at that moment there was nothing in the world more important than a Kodak moment with a bloke dressed like an Eighties throwback. We shuffled back up the queue. Almost there. Almost. Nearly. It was just about our turn when the heavens opened and we were subjected to another downpour. Immediately, I realised with horror what was about to happen. The rain-fearing Ranger nearest to us quickly turned, searched out his car, started towards it and… was met with a mad Scotswoman blocking his path, saying, ‘You’ll have time for one more photo, Mr Power Ranger’ in a voice that made it clear that rejection was not an option.
Yep, the Power Rangers may have defended our galaxy, conquered enemies from the outer cosmos and saved the earth on a weekly basis, but one of them almost got his Lycra pinged by a jet-lagged, soaking wet, PMT-crazed Glaswegian mother in a plastic poncho.
On reflection, I’m mortified but, hey, it was worth it. Two delighted boys, great memories and fabulous photos on their bedroom walls.
I just wish I could find the Dyson and the pole for the loft hatch.
Boy Oh Boy…
The most common conversation I had when I was pregnant for the second time began something along the lines of, ‘Aw, congratulations! And you’ve a wee boy already – bet you’re hoping for a girl this time.’
Actually, that’s a lie. With permanent morning sickness, the manoeuvrability of a Portakabin and a new familiarity with creams that go in places nothing should ever go, the most common conversation included the words ‘never again’, ‘celibacy’ and ‘snip’.
But back to the girl thing. In truth, after six years of fertility treatment that included hormone treatments, countless medical procedures and more mood swings than a temperamental pendulum, I was just thrilled that I’d somehow managed to defy my dodgy ovaries and have one child and another on the way. I would have been equally grateful, thrilled and excited whether I had a boy or a girl.
But I have to admit, another wee guy was a gorgeous, not to mention pragmatic, prospect. I already had all the blue stuff and knew all the words to the Spiderman theme tune. And, let’s face it, throughout history there have been many examples of the unbreakable bonds and great things achieved by brothers: the Wright brothers invented the aeroplane, the Grimm brothers became legends in the literary world, and, most significantly of all, the Kemp brothers sang ‘True’, and that’s the best snogging song ever recorded.
So when one of my girlfriends announced this week that she’s having her second boy, I was thrilled for her and more than happy to pass on the nuggets of wisdom I’ve picked up over the last five years as mother of two small men. It’s been a profound experience that has helped me grow as a person and reach a whole new level of karmic spirituality, as demonstrated by the fact that I can now name all of Bob the Builder’s crew and list the top-ten threats to the galaxy in alphabetical order.
Things that having two boys has taught me:
1. There are 2,654 uses in the English language of the word ‘pump’. All of them side-splittingly hilarious to males under four feet tall.
2. I am destined to sit on a wet toilet seat for the rest of my life.
3. Farting is not a bodily function, it’s a form of entertainment surpassed only by surreptitious nose picking and anything to do with mud.
4. The best time to announce that you’ve learned a new swear word is in a crowded shop. Ditto asking mum to explain words relating to bodily functions or body parts.
5. Sniffing should be an Olympic sport.
6. As should burping, giggling and projectile peeing.
7. At the end of every day, boys slump into exhaustion – until you mention the word ‘bed’. This is the trigger for an energy surge strong enough to fuel a new world record for complaining.
8. It’s never too wet, too windy, too cold, too snowy or too late for a footie kick-about in the back garden.
9. The fashion must-have is anything dirty, mucky or torn at the knees – preferably within five minutes of putting it on.
10. It is compulsory to acquire food stains and suspicious damp patches on the way to visit relatives.
11. Felt pen is permanent even when it’s not supposed to be.
12. Brussels sprouts are handpicked from Satan’s garden.
13. You should never leave home without your Star Wars pants.
14. Scented candles can provide momentary relief; they cannot, however, perform miracles.
15. There are three standard replies to all accusatory questions: ‘It wasn’t me,’ ‘I wasn’t there’ and ‘He did it.’
16. Words of complaint, annoyance or indignation should always have at least six vowels. Aaaaaaw Muuuuuum!
17. Nothing, but nothing, swells the heart like two gorgeous wee guys showering you with kisses and vowing that they’ll never leave their mum. Although I do realise that the effect of this may change when said guys reach middle age.
Profound. Deep. Spiritual.
Yep, spawning brothers has been a true blessing. And I can only hope that throughout their lives the boys draw on each other’s support to achieve all the things that would make their mother proud: successful careers, healthy relationships, and writing the best snogging song ever recorded.
Away With the Fairies
‘Mum, Mum, another tooth fell out today and I didn’t even cry,’ screeched five-year-old Low the Elder, in a voice so high-pitched with excitement that neighbourhood dogs added earmuffs to their Christmas list.
‘Fabulous,’ says me, full of parental emotion, ‘so you know what that means, don’t you?’
The answers I was going for were:
a. he’s getting to be a big boy now;
b. he was so, so brave not to shed a tear; or
c. his big tooth would soon come through.
The answer I got? A huge toothless grin, followed by, ‘Yep, four packets of football stickers and three Curly Wurlies.’
The gum was still throbbing, the tooth was still warm, yet he’d already divvied up his dosh from the Tooth Fairy. Oh, he makes me so proud. I swear that boy is going to be an economist when he grows up.
Or treasurer of his cell block’s savings scheme.
However, according to new research, I should enjoy his innocent optimism while I can because apparently childhood is on the way out. A survey by TV channel, the Cartoon Network, has concluded that today’s kids stop believing in characters like the Tooth Fairy, elves and Santa a whole four years earlier than their parents’ generation.
Which means my boys will stop writing letters to Lapland at the devastatingly young age of thirty-six.
Apparently, back in the good old days, when taking drugs meant Disprin and the worldwide web was what Spiderman used to catch the bad guys, sixty-seven per cent of adults still believed in fairies at the age of ten. Now? Tinkerbell is up the dole office looking for her giro shortly after a kid’s sixth birthday.
But the biggest tragedy of the new findings, and yes, I am aware that this makes me sound like a nostalgic old fart, is that the survey confirmed that games from our childhood are nothing but a distant memory.
Although, I suppose in today’s consumerist nanny state of cosseted kids and rampant political correctness, it’s not really surprising.
Peevers (posh name: hopscotch) now results in an ASBO for chalking up pavements. Health & Safety would batter you to death with a pair of clackers for building a rope swing. And E-numbers rule out standing still long enough for a game of statues.
Today’s extended families mean that a game of aunts and uncles would take so long it would have to be interrupted by life-sustaining acts like eating and sleeping.
Bicycle helmets are a great idea that I fully endorse, support, and force my boys to wear. However, there’s no denying that they’ve replaced the pure gallus headgear that was mandatory for riding our Choppers – the hood of an anorak, with said jacket flying in the wind behind us like a cape, à la Batman/Wonder Woman/Elvis in the Las Vegas years.
And, of course, iPods, Playstations, Xboxes, Nintendos, computers, satellite TV and Gameboys have superseded our favourite playthings: pals.
Which is just as well, because role-playing is out of fashion, too. A game of doctors and nurses would undoubtedly now result in a lawsuit for medical misconduct. Cops and robbers would violate the perpetrator’s human rights. And playing cowboys could lead to legal action for contraventions of the firearms code.
Modern technology means that it would now be insanity to snog your boyfriend behind the bicycle sheds – someone would film it on a mobile phone and your dad would have irrefutable photographic evidence within seconds.
And the birth of kids’ designer labels has banished those heady days when there were only two types of trainers: plimsolls and Green Flash.
Nope, I wouldn’t trade growing up in the Seventies and Eighties for anything, and I wish that someone, somewhere – Santa, the Tooth Fairy, the nanny state – could deliver to today’s children the really important things in life: innocence, freedom, and a childish, outdoor life full of friends and riotous fun.
Oh, and any chance that while they’re at it they could throw in four packets of football stickers and three Curly Wurlies?
2007
Milk Breaks and Saddle-aches
Crazed By the Bell
There were tears. There was the occasional wail. There was even an embarrassing act of lamppost hugging, a delay tactic that was finally counteracted by peeling ten fingers off the metal pole and the promise of a medicinal Dairy Milk.
Oh, and Low the Younger was a wee bit apprehensive about his first visit to his new school, too.
It’s Operation Primary One, minus sixty-two days and counting, and boy, Houston, do we have a problem.
I know it’s pathetic, but I have to admit that the thought of waving my baby off through those gates for the first time is up there with back-to-back episodes of Little House on the Prairie on my sob-o-meter.
Two years ago we did the same induction tour with Low the Elder, or Darth Vader as he was then known – it was during his dalliance with the dark side when he changed his name and used the power of the force to projectile pee, suck up spaghetti and confiscate all his wee brother’s toys.
Darthie is an extrovert; a confident, fearless wee thing who loves change, thrives on excitement and takes everything in his stride, so I didn’t have a moment’s hesitation about nudging him out of the nest and into the land of ABCs and miniature-sized WCs.
But his wee brother is a completely different kettle of fish fingers.
He’s a sweet, naïve little soul who still believes that the flashing alarm sensor in the corner of the living room is ‘Santa’s camera’. He loves his bears. His favourite thing in the world (other than Alphabites, his Scalextric set and his SpongeBob SquarePants DVD) is having his face rubbed until he falls asleep. And he still thinks the only evil in the world (Darth Vader aside) comes in the form of Superman’s enemies and is kept under control by wearing his pants over his trousers… just as long as there’s time to take regular crime-fighting breaks for some milk, a banana and a wee nap before tea.
