Daddy time

As I type Mark is singing a very loud rendition of “Row Row Row Your Boat” complete with crocodile scream from Alby at the end of the second verse.  This follows several renditions of “Wind the Bobbin Up”  - clearly Mark is coping with the post nursery Alby / afternoon exhaustion better than I do.

My fears of the two taking a while to bond were completely unfounded.  Whilst Alby didn’t appreciate having an extra person in the room when he woke at 10pm shortly after Mark walked through the door, the next day he was happy to have cuddles with daddy from the start treating Mark to a reverse sit, back hug and snog all within the first 24 hours.

For a good few weeks before Mark returned I had to remind myself that he had seen Alby walking (albeit not by himself admittedly rather with the aide of a walker).  My brain kept remembering Mark and Alby together having cuddles when he was a tiny baby but I couldn’t picture the two of them beyond the newborn stage.  Clearly I’ve been so caught up in the time apart – the year felt like just a succession of weekend reunions followed by weeks and weeks apart, that it’s taken some real mental agility to remember that Mark has shared many a meal time, walker bash and Percy cuddle with Alby too. 

To their credit, neither Alby nor Mark needed such reminding.  To see them now you wouldn’t know they’d ever been apart. As Mark and I work at being a team again, learning to have patience with each other and to make time amongst the errands to allow the other to help out etc., Alby and Mark have fitted back into their relationship without a second thought.  

I wasn't going to write this blog at all whilst Mark was home, but I think I will try to do at least the occasional post - so that I can record my boys as they go.  That way, when Mark goes back he has some prompts to remind him of the time he spent with his Trouble Monkey.  A time of giggles, bashes, tantrums, squeals and plenty of "Da da da da dadadaas".

Friday fun

My house is as clean as it's going to get, my boys are asleep, my gritting efforts totally undone by the current snowfall (now into it's fourth hour) and my brain is shot.  As such it seems the only sensible thing to do now is to have a bit of fun and this week's fun comes courtesy of FaceInHole.com - hee hee

A note for myself

Emotional rollercoaster

From treading water on Tuesday to bouncing off the walls with unfocused excitement yesterday to feeling absolutely shattered today – the countdown to Mark’s return is proving an emotional rollercoaster for me.

Clearly I peaked too soon on the excitement levels – yesterday’s adrenalin mixed in with Alby not sleeping properly has led to me being a total zombie today.  When Mark phoned earlier excited by the prospect of possibly coming home a day earlier rather than being excited I panicked.  With grizzly child in my arm, stubborn bulldog at my feet and a house which looks like was at the epicentre of a tornado the idea of having to present myself to anybody, even my love, seemed too much.

I don’t remember things being quite so crazy last time he was due home.  I remember being gutted when his flight was delayed – gutted, sad, angry and totally at a loss as to what to do which left me in an emotional tizz.  This time the emotions have come about a week early.  I’m completely distracted, turning from one thing to the next in mad panic. 

The only task I have properly seen through to completion is my gritting of the road.  From my house to the main road I have been out twice sweeping aside the snow and ensuring a good covering of grit. So experienced am I now at gritting – usually a man’s job in our household, that I even have my own technique to ensure maximum coverage for minimal effort. (No, I’m not going to explain – a good tradeswoman never shares her secrets).  Whilst I was treated to a nice smug feeling when I took Percy out for his evening walk, pleased that my efforts were not in vain as our road was the only one clear of snow, what most amazes me about this task is home completely and utterly unnecessary it is.

The other side of the patch

My work here is done

Yes we’ve got snow coming and yes it gets exceptionally icy and slippery up here and no, nobody else will do it.  But for somebody who has a to do list as long as they are tall spending three hours over the past few days sweeping, gritting and re-gritting the entire road is a little bit ridiculous.

As I said to my boss the other day, I’ve never been good at working out what’s a priority and what isn’t.  Mark may be able to get to the drive way easily enough but I’m not sure he’s going to want to come into the house!

Albert Le Chef

Alby, like most babies, is a big fan of bashing a spoon against a saucepan.  In recent days (ever since I allowed him to stir the soup I was cooking) he has decided that having an empty saucepan is useless.  Ever the astute child, to Alby it’s just not worth it unless there is something to stir.

As a child I remember keenly watching the A La Carte kitchen adverts on television where the little girl cooked breakfast for her daddy (baked beans on toast).  I wanted to do exactly the same thing and longing for that kitchen is one of my earliest memories.  To say that I was traumatised to discover that, on unpacking it, I wouldn’t actually be able to cook is a bit of an understatement.  

Keen that Alby never go through the same distress, I have ensured that his saucepans come complete not only with real food but food that can be eaten as is – raisins, broken rice cakes, frozen peas... 

Cooking happy with peas

 Allowing Alby to “cook” by himself is my new great time waster.  He spent twenty minutes the other day happily stirring, bashing and eating whislt I prepared breakfast and his packed lunch.  The only down side is that, on occasion, Alby has been known to get up and leave his food unprotected.  The next thing I know I’ve got a pile more washing to do as my pans are blessed with kisses from Percy.  So my new challenge awaits - how to get Alby washing up…

Treading water

This evening Alby fell asleep when I took him out at 6pm to walk Percy.  He woke up grumpy almost the minute we walked through the front door.  Half an hour later he was asleep again – this time in his cot having skipped bathtime for pyjamas, story and lullabies. Since then he has woken three times in the past three hours.

Last night he managed to sleep five hours without waking.  The night before he wouldn’t sleep unless I was lying next to him – which led to me initially plonking him in front of a Mark Knopfler DVD whilst I straightened the kitchen and then waking up fully dressed at 1am realising I had yet to feed Percy, clean my teeth or set my alarm for the morning let alone get into my pyjamas. 

Bed time a la Knopfler

 Suffice to say that we aren’t quite back into the swing of things yet.  I remember chatting to my mum in the kitchen over Christmas about Alby’s decision to move bedtime to 9pm over the festive season.  The discussion went along the lines of going with the flow during the chaos of Christmas but to think about any changes I might want to make to his routine and, once home, ensure that I implement them immediately.  That was the plan and in some ways I’ve carried through spectacularly – despite the regular wakings etc.  But something that really struck me this evening was how much I feel like I’m just treading water at the moment until Mark gets home.

That’s what is taking up all my energy and emotion – excitement, anticipation and preoccupation.  I’m not complaining, there is nothing in the world I would rather spend my time thinking about.  It’s just that it has taken me some time to appreciate what an utter distraction it is.  From festivities to the return to work to the much awaited return of my love, life is a bit up in the air.  And to be totally fair, that’s how it usually is!

Brave Al-bug

Today Alby had his MMR jabs.  Three separate injections, one in each arm and another in the leg.  Poor little man, he had been having so much fun running around the waiting room, waving to everyone who came through the door and then met a lovely nurse who lulled him into a false sense of security with a great pop up game and the next thing he knows – bam, bam, bam.

The nurse really was great.  She got him fully engrossed with the toy – it wasn’t just a case of “here’s a toy, amuse yourself” which is how I usually do things with Alby.  It was about learning through play and interacting through play. I’m sure she’s done it a million times before and will do it a million times over again but it seemed so natural and Alby was totally taken by everything she was doing.  I’ve seen the same watching Alby interact with my mum and Mark’s mum – they are natural teachers.

I went to China and taught for my Gap year and I remember thinking then that whilst I would survive the six months and even enjoy it, teaching wasn’t something I found easy or intuitive. I find it the same these days.  I’ve decided not to beat myself up too much about this at the moment though.  If my attitude when Mark is back full time is still focused on “here’s a toy – entertain yourself whilst I do something else” then I’ll give myself a talking to, but for the moment I’ll live with it.  Thankfully Alby’s grandparents are a big enough presence in his life to keep him learning.  Anyhoo, I digress…

Alby was brilliant – a few tears but minimal squirming which meant we got all jabs done in quick succession.  The tears didn’t last for long (helped by their being a mirror in the room we could distract him with) and then smiles and waves as we walked back to the car hand in hand.

With any luck Alby should be jab free until 2015 now.  Hopefully by then he will understand what he is walking into and will be susceptible to bribery if the pop up toy has lost it’s charm!

Alberistics – Alby faces

Alby is no stranger to funny faces but today I was treated to what I believe is a first; Alby raised his eyebrows at me.

Alby loves brushing his teeth.  It’s all about his milk teeth toothpaste which he clearly thinks is delicious. (It is, I remember loving the stuff when I was little.)  He brushes his teeth every night in the bath and once he has sucked all the toothpaste off the brush he stretches out to grab at his toothpaste eager for more.  I’ve tried to explain that he is only allowed a little bit each time as I don’t want him getting fluoride poisoning, but he doesn’t seem too impressed with my argument.

This evening he was so busy bashing about with his toys that he didn’t notice me getting his toothbrush.  As I handed it over to him he just stared at it – clearly it was taking a little while for his brain to register, but then he raised his eyebrows in wonder before smiling, grabbing it and sticking it in his mouth. 

Funny little man.

Random ramblings: the reunion

I’ve just spent the past week trying to think of the right way to say to Mark “Alby will cry if you pick him up” and I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no nice way of saying it.

I can’t even begin to describe how much I would love it if, on coming home, Mark is able to pick Alby up in a big hug give him a big kiss and for Alby just accept it.  That would make my heart so so happy.  As a parent that’s what instinct tells you to do: you see your child, you love your child. 

But I know that Alby won’t accept that.  I know that if Mark tries such a move Alby will burst into tears and scramble to get away and regardless of how prepared Mark may be for such an outcome I know it will break my heart if I see Alby respond in anything but a positive way to his daddy.

What we're hoping to avoid

Alby warms up to people exceptionally slowly.  This little man is on his guard and has been from day one.  Christmas was really good for Alby, whilst I came down with a heavy dose of present unwrapping fatigue Alby got used to having different people all around and different hands touching him and picking him up.  He didn’t totally drop his guard squirming away from many many a lap to run to me, but he treated his cousin and Mark’s cousin to a reverse sit and cuddle and by the time we were ready to come home he would happily go to my parents rather than to me during dinner time. (This was a real treat as it meant somebody else had to share their meal with him and somebody else had to try and eat with their cutlery and plate a meter away less Mr Grabby Mitts managed in his aim to turn over the plate.)  However, it took three weeks to get to that state despite my parents having been constants in his life from day one and regular babysitters in the build up to Christmas.

And so, eager to avoid heartache on any side I have thought long and hard about how we play the first 48 hours of Mark being home. 

In my mind, I’ll be able to pick Mark up from the airport and we will be home around 5pm.  On getting into the house I think Alby will run to me and I think we make sure that Alby is in my arms for when he says hello to daddy and that he stays in my arms until he wants to get down again.  And once back on the floor that I make sure I am in the same room as him before I take him up for bath and bed, whilst daddy has a lovely warm beer in front of the telly!

The next day, which I’ve taken off work, I think we still have to remember to take it all very slowly. Mark needs to think about whether Alby and I go to our music class that morning and whether Alby should go into nursery that day.  Regardless of how the day plays out, I think Mark should try his hardest to act as though Alby is a naughty, scared dog; don’t go to him but rather wait until he comes to you. 

Alby and daddy - as it should be

This will be a challenge for us all, not least for me.  I have the patience of five year old at Christmas – I know that I’ll keep wanting to rush things and will throw both Alby and Mark off as I bend my own rules.  What I find so hard is that I never wanted to be the key person in Alby’s life.  I remember so vividly when my niece was about 2 years old, she fell over and was crying and her dad went over to comfort her.  He wasn’t good enough.  Only mummy would do.  I hated that, I hated how dad’s get the raw deal and was so keen for Mark and I to share everything so equally.  And now look at me, writing a post which basically says “step away from the child”.

On the one hand I don’t know what I’m worrying about – Mark will be so enamoured of Percy that Alby won’t get a look in for the first few days.  But on the other I know how desperately I want acceptance by all and with all.  I want Mark to be proud of Alby and amused by Alby and not too bitterly disappointed that I have raised Alby to be a total thug.  For Alby I want him to be relaxed with his daddy and accepting of his daddy and for him to be as physical with him as he is with me.  I know that by the time Mark goes they will be that close unquestionably, I just hate that for the first part it will take effort and forethought and agreement and patience from us all.  I guess it’s all about teamwork, thankfully that is something that Mark and I can do, sometimes even exceptionally well.

An hour of amnesia. Amnesia and blindness.

I spent an hour this evening looking around the house thinking “it doesn’t look too shabby”.  Feeling good about the state of the house I went upstairs and indulged in my most time-wasting of tasks: going through my box of “photos-to-go-in-albums”.  The box is packed with photos spanning the last decade.  They are completely disorganised with duplicates, blurred shots and wrong sized prints.  Every year I get the box down pledging to clear it out and get the photos in albums.  For a month the spare room gets covered in photos and then, exhausted and bored by the chaos the photos go back in the box for another year.

Over the past few days I’ve been feeling pumped.  There is nothing like your husband coming back after four months away to get you off your butt and doing things.  I’ve been to the dump, taken two boot loads of stuff to the charity shop, hung pictures on the wall and reorganised the kitchen cupboards once again. 

With guests over today and tomorrow the living room has been dusted, the floors hovered and so, having put Alby to bed my eyes surveyed the house and concluded that going upstairs to flick through photos for an hour would be a completely sensible use of time.

And then I remembered that I hadn’t fed Percy.  Going into the kitchen I realised that I hadn’t taken the washing out of the machine, nor put the next load in.  I hadn’t done the washing up from dinner.  I hadn’t cleared up anything from dinner.  On the way to the tumble drier I knocked over the bag of bottles waiting to be put out in the recycling bin.  I also noted the fingerprints smeared across the mirror in the hall.  Noting all of these I thought I'd sit down and write a to do list, which seemed to trigger in my head a whole list of other tasks already on my mental to do list – making chicken burgers for Alby’s lunch tomorrow, making cookies for my coffee afternoon tomorrow, defrosting liver cake for Percy’s puppy class tomorrow, cleaning Percy’s crate and putting away the pile of wet wipes on the living room floor following Alby’s decision to empty the packet earlier on (I didn’t mind, it kept him busy whilst I was cooking the dinner I have now to clear up).

For two hours this evening I was suffering from both amnesia, blindness and the delusion that I was on top of everything.  Two glorious hours.  Foolish foolish me.

Thank goodness I snapped out of it now before I have guests in the house.  I’m already feeling quite insecure about the return of Mark’s beady eye which seems to see dust from 100 miles away – dropping my guard seven days before his return is just silly.  And so, without further adieu I’m off to cook, wash, clean and cuddle a bulldog.  Don’t go feeling sorry for me – I don’t mind errands and it has saved me from the frustration of the photo box for, possibly, a whole other year.  Plus, cuddling a bulldog is at the end of my list and you can’t feel sorry for somebody with a bulldog to cuddle.    

Oodles of noodles

My new catchphrase is “Alby you do make me laugh”.  I must say it at least ten times a day. 

When Mark first left I remember being really worried that the house wouldn’t have as much laughter in it with him not being around.  Not in the sense of us all mourning his absence and becoming sombre, but because Mark is such an incredibly, genuinely happy person.  When he is happy all of him is happy – there is nothing subtle about it.  Whilst I’m more reserved and may just smile at something, Mark will actually erupt with laughter; a chuckle will burst out of him, he’ll throw his head forward from the energy of it, slap his knee and tears will form in the corner of his eyes.  And funny situations seem to have some type of contagious effect on him so that he will then give back with something hilarious in return.

I shouldn’t have worried though as Alby seems to have channelled his father and is already a pro at ensuring that we both get exposed to plenty of smiles, giggles and even the occasional cackle of laughter every single day. 

Today the thing that really got me going was watching Alby eat noodles.  Maybe it’s because I’m an incredibly simple person at heart, maybe it’s because Lady and the Tramp is one of my favourite Disney films or maybe it is because as a teenager I genuinely wanted to change my nationality to Singaporean (not totally random, I’d been living in the country for three years and was, clearly, highly impressionable) whatever the reason Alby’s love of egg noodles makes me happy.  And watching him slurp and sucker them up makes me laugh.  And I like to think that if Mark were at the dining table watching it too he’d be chuckling away too. 

Swinging happy

A huge thank you this week to Alby’s Poppa and GG who bought him a swing for Christmas.  I thought Alby would like it.  I was wrong, he loves it.  And thankfully, unlike the Jumperoo which he has never spent more than 5 minutes in, the swing is proving a worthy babysitter keeping Alby thoroughly occupied whilst I run about the garden keeping my mad football loving bulldog entertained.

I never appreciated that Alby would love the great outdoors so much but I guess after 14 months where the only outside time is in a pouch or buggy, being able to actually experience the outside world – walk on tarmac and grass, pick up stones, conkers and leaves, touch the dew..., is like having an adventure play ground on your doorstep. 

These days I just have to show Alby his shoes and he has scampered over to the front door, pulling on the frame with his fingers in a desperate effort to get outside.  As he has yet to master even my most simple of commands – “don’t walk on the road dear”, “puddles are dirty Alby, yuck” and “come here Alby”, I’ve been redirecting him to the back garden.  Initially he is happy just to walk up and down the path but eventually laughing at Percy and admiring the mossy concrete grows tiresome and he heads over to the gate in a bid for the front.  At this point I bundle him into the swing (which randomly is set very high) and he is content for a good twenty minutes or more.  

Thanks must also go to my dad who put the swing together for me.  Combined the grandparents have made this week almost easy!

And so to bed...

The last few nights I have completely failed in my resolution to get to bed before midnight.  At 1am I was still downstairs straightening up the kitchen. 

I do regard myself as one of those people who can generally get by on less than the prescribed 8 hours of sleep each night but my super powers are not such that I don’t need sleep at all and today the signs of strain were beginning to show. 

Whilst overall I’m still enjoying the high of the New Year and am feeling on top of things (as I type the washing up is done, the toys are put away, there’s a load of laundry in the washing machine, tomorrow’s packed lunch has been made, the porridge is soaking and the boys are in bed – woo woo!) I did have a couple of near-miss “really” moments today.  The first when Alby pulled the ironing board down, missing himself but scaring the life out of Percy. The second when I turned around after washing my hands to find Alby desperately trying to touch the water at the bottom of the toilet. And the third when I kneeled down to mop up where Alby has weed on the carpet and my trousers split at the knee (who knew my bones were so strong).

And so, heeding the warning signs I made a promise to myself that I would be in bed by 10:30pm as a way to ensure that today’s near misses don’t turn into tomorrow’s head on collisions.  I’m already running three minutes late so, without further adieu, I’m switching off and turning in. 

Sweet dreams. xx

Snogger!!

Alby has started giving kisses and I’m totally smitten with this new skill.  I’ve no idea where this skill and understanding suddenly sprung up from but the other night when Alby was giving Percy the obligatory goodnight bash I said “give him a kiss Alby” and to my utter surprise he did. 

Don’t get me wrong, Alby gets a good dose of kisses from me and Percy, but I’ve never put a word to the action so that he knew what I was after and responded makes him, once again, a genius in my eyes.  (Either that or this is yet another display of my parents superior skills in child rearing.)

Now, taking after his namesake Albert Laurence is a snogger and bless him if kissing Percy goodnight didn’t end up with him receiving a nice lick across the face from a stinky bullhound.  I was slightly mortified.  Alby was thrilled.  Percy was nonplussed.

Wondering if Alby’s kisses are reserved just for Percy I asked him yesterday to give me a kiss and my little heart warmed when I got a kiss back.  Since then I confess there has been a lot of kissing taking place in the Beebe household – even baby got a snogging before bed tonight (well, his photo did but that’s the best we can manage at the moment). 

I do feel that it is necessary to explain that when I say “kiss” I’m not completely referring to what you or I would normally term a kiss.  An Alby kiss is more an open mouthed press, but I’ll take it.

Rambling reflections: the return to work

Today a friend made a comment on Facebook about how hard it is to strike a balance between work and her little one. Her comment reminded me of the months and months of internal dialogue that I had over my own return to work.

In many ways the decision was taken out of my hands.  The move to Yorkshire meant that I couldn’t return to my old role.  I was offered a slightly more junior position which I could do part-time and from home. I wasn’t going to get as sweet a deal anywhere locally and with Mark’s deployment coming ever closer returning part-time to a role I was confident in was perfect.

However, the fact that it all turned out well didn’t stop months of questions and analysis as I went through a full on identity crisis.

From as early as I can remember I knew that I would do my A levels, go to University and go to work.  I had big plans for myself too – a high powered international job in the UN or similar.  Ahhh, aren’t dreams special…

I love work.  I love the satisfaction of seeing a job through to completion.  Of the ownership of work.  I love being part of an office (even remotely). I love typing away at my computer.  Yes there are days when I want to throw my computer out of the window and pack it all in but, for the most part, I’m somebody who genuinely gets pleasure out of work. 

And in my head the two went hand in hand - I was brought up to believe that not only could I do both but that it was my duty to do both.  With such strong views in mind, prior to having Alby I was under the very firm impression that I would head back to work full-time after Alby was born.

And then I went into work for a catch up with my maternity cover when Alby was just three months old.  A half hour chat led to a three hour strategy meeting and I drove home thinking “no way, I’m not going back full time”.  And with that conclusion my whole sense of self started tumbling.

(I feel the need for a disclaimer here lest people think Alby is solely responsible for my little head spin.  The move to Yorkshire and the relationship between Mark’s career and my career play an equally important role in causing my sense of self to unravel, but more on that another day.)

What strikes me now is that Western society has never been able to produce an image of women which actually allows balance.  Generations ago women were “the weaker sex”, their place was in the home and their education, which was dubious at best, focused on keeping house and being an accomplished lady (which, if Jane Austen is to be believed centres on being able to play the piano forte and hold one’s own at cards). 

Today, women are meant to demand the same position in the work force as men.  Education is now totally focused on preparing people for the city (potentially with the occasional game of hockey or rugby thrown in).  Articles are written in the hundreds about how there aren’t enough women in Board rooms or senior management (and there aren’t).  The trouble is, alongside all of these demands is an equally powerful rhetoric demanding that we all ensure balance in our lives.  And that’s an impossible aim if we spend our entire lives striving for one extreme or the other.

There actually aren’t enough hours in the day for women to equally split their time between work and child care.  Babies are awake for around 12 hours a day, the working day is 7 hours long (and that doesn’t include time taken to get to and from work).  The only way to have a perfect balance requires the working day to become shorter – and that’s universally shorter (what we do at the moment is just make it shorter for women and with the reduction in hours comes a reduction in involvement and opportunities, thus eroding claims of equality).

Sadly, the number of hours in a work day isn’t suddenly going to change.  And so women have to make a choice, or as it is so often called “a sacrifice” – more time with their child or more time in the office?  Which way we choose to go depends on a huge array of practical and sensible factors in addition to personal wishes and wants. 

For me, I’ve managed to come up with a solution which works for the moment and that’s all it has to do. 

At some point in my future I’d like to have another child.  At some point I’d like to return to work full-time, maybe even in a high powered role, maybe even in international affairs. 

With each new step I will no doubt be starting this conversation again as I make my future plans based on what type of mother, wife and person they allow me to be.  I’ve turned my back on articles citing how hard it is for women to get back into work after a break – only time will tell.  I have to have faith in myself and in my family as they are who I will ultimately have to answer to.

A special seat for Alby

When we were staying at Mark’s parent’s house over Christmas Alby’s absolute favourite place to be was sat up at the coffee table.  Poor Poppa had to move all his photos from their home lest Mr Grabby Throwy Mitts (aka Trouble Monkey) cause any permanent damage to them.

Just the right space for a spot of sitting down

Even when the attraction of silver photos to point out and grab at was removed the footstool-seat and table remained a firm favourite location for Alby and every chance he got he would walk over, crawl onto the seat, tuck his legs under the table, give the table a good bashing, curl his legs from underneath, slide off the seat and walk off before turning around and repeating the entire process for a second, third, forth… time.

Making space for Cousin Oliver

I thought it was cute.  I hope Daddy does too.

After a break...

This evening has mostly been spent researching cottages for a weekend away when Mark is back on R&R.  We had originally wanted to go skiing, something we had been getting excited about for quite some time, but I got behind on organising it and last minute deals for a long weekend simply don’t exist.  In fact trying to go skiing for a weekend rather than a Saturday to Saturday week simply is unheard of.  I had some luck finding a place for us all but the pressure was on to start booking and I got cold feet – I’m not sure how suitable a small chalet intended for two adults and two children would be filled with four adults and two babies. What’s more, the costs were adding up, flight availability was getting tight with costs rising and, to cap it off, the ski resort wasn’t somewhere that I’d ever heard of before.  (I’m not claiming my knowledge to be vast but I hadn’t got my head around what the village and slopes would offer and in light of everything else I got cold feet).

Skiing also meant that Mark’s only full weekend back in the UK would be spent in France – no bad thing but when you consider that we already live 250miles away from our bestest friends (not including those we live 4,433 miles from) it was a question of working out what we wanted to do most.

And so, whilst skiing hasn’t been totally taken off the list, I’ve been looking instead at possible cottages in England. (That said cottages isn’t really the word when you are looking for a property that will potentially fit 8 adults and 3 babies plus 2 dogs).

I have found a couple of gems.  Two are halfway between York and London and one is just that little bit further South, down in Kent.  Whilst Kent is quite a distance to travel the advantage is that it is near Mark’s brother and his family and so by heading that way we could hopefully see them too. 

The properties are:

The Thatched Barn (Kent)

It sleeps 11 but is really set up for 8 (three double bedrooms, one twin plus pull out beds in most rooms).  Bonus of table football in the games room.  £172 per couple (based on 8 people)

Hollywall (Worcester)

It sleeps 8 split across 2 double bedrooms and 2 twin bedrooms. No playroom, but spectacular views and only £62 per couple for three nights stay (!!)

The Old Forge (Norwich)

This one is only a semi-detached but again sleeps 8 (3 doubles, one twin). 

All properties allow dogs, have stair gates plus a highchair and cots.  Brilliant!

Now just to see if location works, all hoped for friends are able to attend and the hubbie is happy...

A skewed sense of perspective

I picked up on this little anecdote that somebody posted yesterday and love the sentiment:

A meteorology professor stood before his Meteorology 101 class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, wordlessly he picked up a very large and empty glass mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.

The professor then picked up a jar of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles, of course, rolled into the open spaces between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar and of course the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with an unanimous yes.

The professor then produced two cans of beer from under the table and then proceeded to pour the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the grains of sand. The students laughed.

"Now," said the professor, as the laughter subsided, "I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things -- your family, your partner, your health, your children, your friends, your favorite passions -- things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full.

"The pebbles are the other things that matter, like your job, your house, your car. The sand is everything else -- the small stuff.

"If you put the sand into the jar first," he continued, "there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for your life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you. Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your partner out dancing. Play another 18.

"There will always be time to go to work, clean the house, give a dinner party and fix the disposal. Take care of the golf balls first -- the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand."

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the beer represented. The professor smiled. "I'm glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always room for a couple of beers."   

Clearly I’ve not quite understood the story properly – as it’s nearly 1am and I’ve just finished the ironing however I have come to the conclusion that I am absolutely and completely on the wrong time zone.  Somewhere in my childhood travel my body clock got set on tropic time and it has yet to budge.  I seem to peak when everybody else is going to be – and then get stuck in some vicious circle as I then wake in the morning feeling like a complete zombie. 

One of my developing New Year’s Resolutions was to be in bed by midnight.  Well I’ve failed this evening, but it’s Monday, the rest of the week has yet to play out and hopefully I’ll be able to get my self on GMT in time for Mark’s arrival. 

These boots are made for walking and that’s just what they’ll do...

Well, not so much boots as tiny little Velcro strapped shoes no more than 10cm long but the sentiment remains the same.   

Alby’s walking is coming along brilliantly – we’ve even been exposed to the occasional bit of running.  And so this morning before heading off to Percy’s puppy class I layered Alby up, stuck the lead on Percy and my boys and I went for a wander around the block.

It was slow progress but nothing too painful and within ten minutes we were back at the house.  Alby had walked the entire way stopping only to admire the occasional leaf or to search for gliders overhead.  When we passed another dog Alby didn’t flinch, he tapped the spaniel on the nose and carried on his way.

This evening, feeling emboldened by my morning success I let Alby walk for the first part of the daily evening Percy walk.  Alby was thrilled – he was at the end of the driveway whilst I was still getting Percy out of the house.  (A little side note to emphasise how grateful I am at the moment to be living in a safe and quite neighbourhood).

The first ten minutes of the walk were brilliant – Alby waddling along at Percy’s side.  At one point he put his hand over Percy as they walked together which really was the cutest thing...

Five minutes later things became a little bit more trying as Alby decided he wanted to hold Percy’s lead.  And that I wasn’t allowed to.  Intrigued by what would happen (would Alby just drop the lead and keep walking? Would Percy refuse to move?) I handed it over.  Silly mummy.

Percy did walk for Alby and for about five seconds I thought “this is the best thing ever”.  But then Alby got distracted by a leaf, Percy used this as his cue to stop walking, Alby started walking, Percy did not, Alby flapped the lead, Percy started walking, we moved five steps, Alby got distracted by a leaf...

Clearly I have a long way to go before I can be described in any way shape or form as a patient person.

Five minutes after that things got even more testing when Alby stopped to watch children playing.  It took an awful lot of coaxing to get him moving again.  When he did he realised I had once again commandeered the dog lead and was thoroughly unimpressed to the extent of ensuring that each step was accompanied with a whine.

So, twenty minutes in and we’d only made it as far as the Welfare Office – not to worry, I’d brought the front pouch with me and whilst Alby wasn’t initially as thrilled about this as I was I think the twenty minutes he had been walking for had knackered him more than he realised. 

Parents and experts alike these days talk so much about how important it is to have children outside playing not just spending their time in front of the telly.  I’m as keen an advocate of physical activity over sofa time as anybody but I didn’t think I’d have the opportunity to put my words into practice just 14 months after having Alby.  However, whilst dog walking with Alby isn’t suitable I think there is much to be said about allowing him to walk home from nursery at least a couple days a week.  Great physical (and mental) exercise, an early start on road safety, an early start on staying close to mama and coming when she calls.  Plus, the more time we spend outside the less mess we can make inside, which means less cleaning and that is always a good thing. 

If I want 5 year old Alby spending his weekends playing football / rugby / cycling then why not start now?  Why not get into the habit of doing this as much as possible as early as possible so that it becomes second nature to the both of us?  Now, I just have to hope the rain keeps away...

What do I owe my parents...?

...A lifetime of gratitude.

Today my parents made the journey back home having been up to stay for the past five days.  I had to go back to work on Wednesday but as the nursery doesn’t open until Monday I was stuck relying on my favourite babysitters for urgent childcare assistance.

Over the past few days I think every other word coming out of my mouth was “thank you” and if it wasn’t, it should have been.  In addition to taking care of Alby (no small thing) and Percy (a bigger piece of work than people assume) they also:

-          Put up a swing
-          Visited the dump to clear my cardboard and polystyrene supply
-          Cleaned my curtains (Alby’s yoghurt flinging is more impressive than I had realised)
-          Cleaned my sofa covers (Alby and Percy jointly responsible for mess there)
-          Fixed my freezer drawer
-      Bled the radiators
-          Defrosted my freezer
And that’s not to mention all the cooking and washing up that they did, plus ensuring slightly more grown up conversation than I get with just the boys each day. 

I’m sure I’m forgetting loads of other errands they did - the to do list I wrote on their arrival was no small thing.

The thing that I found hardest over the Christmas period was that I couldn’t be of any help to anybody.  If I wanted to lay the table or help serve or do the washing up I had to rely on somebody else to keep an eye on Alby.  And whilst I was keeping an eye on Alby, I couldn’t do anything else.  During the hour he spent asleep I did my best to be of use but by Boxing Day as he slept I sat without moving in the kitchen just watching Mark’s mum rush about.

Whilst I was south I met up with a school friend who has two little ones – just 17 months apart in age.  I asked if she was enjoying motherhood and she replied with “I hate that it’s hard”. 

I know exactly how she feels – well I don’t as I get overwhelmed just having Alby so I have no idea what two little ones would be like right now, but I appreciate the desire to be this natural mother who breezes through life with a baby because you’re so on top of everything and organised with it all.  And how tough it is when your life is actually anything but that.

And then my parents show up.  And, with them helping out, I get the chance to be the mother I want to be.  And the daughter I want to be.  And the employee that I want to be.  I suspect that they have gone back completely knackered and will be rejoicing a week without baby, dog and daughter to sort out.  For me, I got to sleep in this morning and that is the best gift I could ever get.  I get to start the Year feeling well rested and generally on top of things. 

What's more, I get to see how closely Alby has bonded with his grandparents.  How they are the bestest of friends.  I was sad to see them go, but they have left me on the biggest possible high. 

Sharing Granddad's toast

Story time with Narna

To my parents I give my thanks, my love and my constant admiration.  They are truly deserving.

What will Mark think?

I’m trying not to get too overexcited about the fact that Mark will be back on R&R in just three weeks time.  I keep telling myself that three weeks is not that much shorter than a month and a month is a very significant amount of time and, as such, I shouldn’t get excited until we’re three days away rather than 21 days (well 18 now actually).

But I can’t stop myself and no doubt this time next week I’ll be complaining about how slowly time is ticking by. 

With Mark’s arrival relatively close I’ve been increasingly wondering what in the world he is going to make of Alby.

In some ways nothing has changed – Alby still loves to see himself in the mirror, giggles when turned upside down, enjoys a good rendition of the Wheels on the Bus or the Incy Wincy Spider, can make a mess with yogurt like you wouldn’t believe and loves a morning story (especially the noisy or touch and feel books).

But in other ways he has changed tremendously.  He walks.  He babbles (honestly Mark, you’ll be so impressed by the range of noises Trouble Monkey now makes).  He applauds himself every five seconds and expects you to do the same.  He waves hello and goodbye on demand, not just five minutes after you request when the person he was meant to be waving at has already long gone.  He now feeds himself with his spoon and fork (ish) and drinks from his cup all by himself.  He’s given up on bottles. 

He’s still a snogger, but he is a hugger now too.  He’ll come for a reverse-sit cuddle on your lap or he will give you a back hug. (This is reserved for the most special of people who, when sitting on the floor, will suddenly find Alby pressed up against their back with his arms open wide).

He thinks he is the funniest person in the room.  I think he is the naughtiest.  He’ll ignore you completely for half and hour or more and then cry the minute you leave the room.  He’ll refuse his dinner and then stand in the kitchen arms stretched up to the fridge whining until you get down the Fruit and Fibre so he can put his arm in the packet and pull out a handful of cereal which he then slowly picks at – offering every other bran flake to Percy.  He will drink his water, then shake his cup up and down until you and he are both wet, and then hurtle his cup across the room (or if today is anything to go by, at the nearest person to him) all whilst tipping his head back in manic laughter (thank goodness for cups with lids). 

What’s more, he will tell you what he wants these days and complain if he doesn’t get his way – as witnessed this afternoon when I told him off for standing on his chair.  I took his chair away and got very swiftly cried at.  Or the other day he picked a 5p coin off the floor and put it in his mouth and cried when I took it off him. (I’m a very cruel mother.)

On Alby’s side, I hope that he makes Mark laugh.  I hope that he makes Mark proud.  On my side, I hope that Mark doesn’t get too cross with me for raising a Trouble Bear.  I hope that Mark doesn’t get to annoyed with me for calling him every five seconds to “come and look at Alby” as I desperately try to cram in three months of Alby experience into just 14 days.

Alby and Percy: the next chapter

Alby and Percy have a very finely balanced relationship. 

On Trouble Monkey’s side, Percy gets a hello every morning, a goodbye every night and a hug every time we walk into the house (I can only put this down to true and total bulldog love but every time we come in the house Alby will walk up to Percy’s crate and flop on top of Percy).  Percy also gets food hand fed to him.

On Percy’s side, Alby gets his hands back unbitten after they have been in Percy’s mouth, somebody to clean up his dinner for him, an occasional lick and a huge dose of tolerance. 

Yesterday, the balance shifted very slightly – Percy chased a toy thrown by Alby.  And it happened again today.

For weeks now Alby has been going up to Percy in the middle of a play session and taken a toy right out of his mouth.  He’s then turned his back on Percy, toy raised in the air, and lobed it as far as he can (usually throwing it half a foot or so).  If I tried this I’d likely get a bulldog in my face.  Alby gets nothing - Percy just looks at the toy and waits for me to resume play. 

Either his confidence in Alby is growing or he’s getting fed up having his toy time stalled by the grabbing mitts of a toddler, but as of yesterday play time stepped up a gear and we are one step closer to me being able to leave them to mind over each other when I pop off to do errands!