If You're In A Good Situation, Don't Worry It'll Change

Just when things were going okay and I was (gasp) feeling positive about the summer holidays, The Tomboy dropped a clanger of a tantrum which made me remember why I started this blog in the first place. I thought my days of tantrums were over, except for The Toddler, (two months free of embarrass-mum-in-public moments so far) so I was gobsmacked by The Tomboy's performance yesterday.

Fortunately The Tweenager was being lovely which generally happens when The Tomboy loses it. And vice versa. They get a kick out of the other one being in Big Trouble. And Big Trouble is not a place you want to be when I am feeling hot & bothered on the way back from school.

It all started with me talking to The Tweenager about getting him a bigger bike. Bearing in mind that The Tomboy likes all things black and boyish, I thought what a perfect idea to give her his old bike. But I was forgetting that you can't predict The Tomboy. As soon as she got wind that The Tweenager might be getting a new bike, she went mental. And I mean that crashing to the floor, screaming like a banshee, shouting "YOU ARE A STUPID MUMM-EEEE" kind of craziness that always happens in public when a Perfect Mother is walking by. Plus the addition of her being slap bang in the middle of the road when it happened. Thankfully The Tweenager was being a sweetie and The Troublesome Toddler was asleep, otherwise I would have just laid down in the street with her.

Now it takes a lot to make me smack. I don't always agree with my reasoning behind it, but hey, if it makes me feel better than why not. So I tapped her on the bum. "Ha" she said, "That didn't hurt". So you know what I did? I dumped her scooter in the nearest hedge and dragged her by the arm, hoping her body would follow, all the way home and shut her in the bedroom. Which might sound a bit harsh, bearing in mind that it was partly my fault.

A good mother, you see, would have predicted this tantrum. Any promise of new stuff to a sibling is bound to cause a major freak out from the other child. But being in a glass-half-full sort of place, I thought everything was going swimmingly. (Needless to say my glass is now very empty and very smashed). Mentioning a new bike in front of The Tomboy is the equivalent of holding a bacon sandwich to a newly turned vegetarian.

So after recovering from my post traumatic stress, I have decided to analyse the situation and have come up with the following formula:

SIBLING RIVALRY + CRAP PARENT = TANTRUM = MOTHER LOSING THE WILL TO LIVE

Which will be handy to know when the new bike arrives. And The Tomboy has to see it every day.

Getting My Own Back And Other Things I Plan To Do When I Am 85

I've been loving the report in the paper of the 80something man caught off his head on Benylin cough syrup which you can add to my list of things that I wouldn't do now but am looking forward to participating in when I'm 85.

There's a long list of things I plan to do when I'm an octogenarian.

Ever since The Tweenager was born seven years ago, I've become so goddamn responsible and ridiculously conservative in my actions that I need an occasional release in the other direction. Like confining 90 percent of my annual alcohol intake to the school summer fair the other week. I was so rock n roll. I got drunk whilst running the children's tombola stall then went on the spinning teacups and almost threw up. The other big release is my promise to myself to catch up on all the stupid, socially gross and self-destructive things that I'm not participating in now but am going to do in my golden years. I have no bucket list of mystical places or extreme sports. My list is stupid and perhaps illegal things that I'd never get away with as a parent of young children without social services getting involved.

FOR EXAMPLE:

Doing drugs is high on the list. It's been almost a decade since I did any illegal substances. Except after my C section I realised what prescription painkillers can do if you're taking too many when you don't actually need them. And when I'm 85 I will want to feel like that all the time. Realistically I'll have to practice in moderation in case of grandchildren but hopefully I'll be able to indulge when they go home and I'm left alone in my retirement apartment.

Wearing pyjamas everywhere is another must. At the moment, I try and make an effort on my trips to & from the schoolyard and Asda. But since getting The Dog I've been letting myself go a little and I plan to go the full way when I'm 85. And wear a visor with wraparound sunglasses.

Refuse to get in/out of my wheelchair. So these bloody kids will pay for all the time wasted trying to force them into the buggy and carseat.

Soil my incontinence pants at inopportune moments. That'll teach The Toddler for always pooing just as we're leaving for school.

And finally, be very very fussy about food even if I'm being liquid fed and projectile vomit anything green.

I can't wait! I'm going to fun again! Only another 44 years to go...

Life On Planet Poo

Many years ago I had a boyfriend who came to stay at my parents house. In the morning, I discovered that the dog had poo'd in his shoe. I broke it off with the boyfriend the following week. I figured that if the dog didn't like someone, then I shouldn't either.

That was my first encounter of living under the Rules of Planet Poo.

My life now is governed by poo. This is how my day went yesterday:

- The Tomboy woke up in the night because she needed a poo.

- The Tweenager did a huge poo when he got up.

- The Dog decided to poo twice right in the middle of the village playing field.

- I took The Toddler's nappy off for his bath and he poo'd all over the kitchen floor.

- I discovered that The Dog has been pooing in the corner of the garden over the past week.

I do not like toilet humour and I'm not a fan of people who talk about potty training and toilet habits. But I felt like I needed to mention poo because clearly I am living on Planet Poo.

I think it's really interesting that I can be talking about Jackson Pollack one minute and smelling poop the next. That's how complicated my life is getting. But come to think of it, my children do have the ability to poo in Jackson Pollack type patterns.

I'm well aware that this blog is an effective form of birth control. And I think it's a particular low point when I talk about poo. Don't get me wrong, it's wonderful when a child says "I love you" but that backfires when they do a particularly smelly poo right when you're taking a shower.

Oh I've just remembered when I was fighting the Battle Of Potty Training with my fellow first time mums. There was a particular mum who was bragging that her daughter was fully trained and had been wearing pants for weeks (at aged 18 months). Right on cue, her daughter did a massive poo which came out of her pants and thudded on the ground. Hilarious!

Anyway, I promise I won't mention poo again. Except maybe Mr Hankey the Christmas Poo. And Winnie The Pooh.

My Dog Blog

Ministry Of Mum is very pleased to announce the safe arrival of Slim Shady Shadow Bella Swan Cullen Smith (or Shady as she is known). A blacklab/collie-cross fantastic addition to our feral household. After many months of whining at The Husband, he finally reached breaking point and agreed to let me have a dog. Anything for a quiet life, he said. And a barking dog is much more bearable than a moaning mum.

At six months old, The Dog has the temperament of The Toddler but the added value of me being able to put her in the garden/the downstairs hallway/on the lead whenever I want (which is virtually impossible to do with the kids). She goes to bed when I tell her, eats whatever I feed her, fetches stuff and sits on demand. Doing whatever I ask while showering me with affection - it's a new experience for me. Give me dogs over the children any day. I make a much better dog owner than I do mother.

I have no idea what made The Husband finally cave in. I didn't even have to do the special love. He says I can't cope with three children nevermind a dog and it's him that suffers when he gets in from work. So if ever I have an 'off' day with The Dog, I can never ever tell him because I've promised that I can manage.

I love The Dog, the children love The Dog, but The Dog hates The Cat. Problem One. It's not bothering me (yet) constantly separating them - I just wish it was as easy with The Tomboy and The Tweenager.

But the best thing for the kids about The Dog is that whatever badness they get up to, they can always make out that The Dog did it. Tonight The Tomboy drew on her bedroom wall and insisted it was The Dog. The more I learn about the children, the more I love The Dog.

So YES this one time City Girl is starting to make peace with village life. Think I'm going to turn into Barbara from The Good Life. I've even bought wellies. Okay so they're Hunters but I'm not ready to give up the fashionista in me yet.