Bathtime chat

A sneak peek into life with Albs, age 6 and Georgie, 2 and a half (plus some)...

Me: George, it's bathtime.  Time to get undressed.
George: If you take my clothes off I'm going to be really angry with you.
Albs (standing behind George): I'm trying not to laugh mummy.
Me: Don't worry mister.  Your little brother is a real character.
George: I am not a carrot.

There ends this evenings reading.  x

Oh no! Santa’s stuck in the chimney

George’s favourite song this Christmas is “When Santa got stuck up the chimney”.  We have probably heard it 30 times in the last 3 days on the way to and from nursery.  The second the song ends a little voice in the back of the car pipes up “again mummy, again.”

Collecting him from nursery today I was told that the children had spent the day dictating their letters for Father Christmas. George hadn’t quite grasped the concept and instead insisted that his letter tell the story of Santa being stuck in the chimney, wiggling not setting him free and him having to be saved by a special fire engine with the hose and a ladder.  And a hose. (Credit here goes to YouTube I believe, there’s no fire engine in my version of the song however I did leave him with my phone the other day when needing a distraction as I got myself sorted for the school run).

This evening coming back from nursery rather than listening to the song we discussed it.  For 15 minutes straight.  Anyone who converses regularly with a 2 year old will understand that any toddler chat lasting 15 minutes is in fact a 1 minute bit of chat in a constant loop.  Here’s how our one went:

G: Mummy.  Santa got stuck in the chimney

Me: That’s right George.  Father Christmas got stuck.

G: No.  Not Father Christmas. <pause> Maybe... Santa?!

Me: They are the same George.  Father Christmas and Santa are the same, they both got stuck.

G: Yes mummy, that’s right.  Father Christmas and Santa both got stuck in the chimney and they couldn’t get out.

Me: They ate too much chocolate.

G: They were too fat to get out. <pause> He has the toys for the boys.

Me: That’s right.  He’s got presents for all the children and they are waiting for him.

G: The children need their toys and are waiting for Father Christmas and Santa.  Father Christmas and Santa are stuck in the chimney.  The children need their toys.  And the cows need their toys.

Me: The cows?

George: The cows and the sheep and the donkeys...and the...COWS!!!

And so it continued.

We had another brilliant bit of toddler thinking just before bath time when I started referring to Santa as Santa Claus...

George: That’s right mummy.  Santa Claus.  He has terrible tusks and terrible claws. 

Me: Like the Gruffalo.

George: Terrible claws.  Grrr.  Sharp and scary!

And so there you have it.  The Christmas myth grows in our household.  Those who are good get Santa Claws.  Those who are bad better watch out, Gruffalo claws is coming for you.  

Who’s idea was it to put the clocks back?

Today has been a productive day.  A very productive today.  We / I have:

• Made rice crispy cakes with Halloween decorations ready for the birthday boy to take into school on Tuesday
• Hollowed out, designed and carved pumpkins 
• Hoovered the house and dusted upstairs
• Changed the bedding in all rooms - stripping, washing, drying and making again for the boys rooms
• Washed two cars inside and out
• Walked Percy morning and night
• Conducted 3 science experiments - homemade slime, disappearing water and homemade snow 
• Exercised 
• Read books, wrestled, made models and collapsed in front of the telly, with a two year asleep on my lap. 

This at the end of the week where I...

 









was up working until 2am Monday morning in order to crack through the to do list so I could leave work a tad early on Monday to get the train (or more precisely three trains) with boys, to London to see my brother and his little monkeys. We fitted in a trip to the park, pub dinner and philosophical socialist v capitalist discussions until 1am before crashing, me next to my two deep sleepers, him in a camp bed in the kids room. Breakfast, lego construction, two trains and a Yo Sushi lunch later and we were back on the train home. 

 

On Wednesday we unpacked and got in the food shopping before  joining our Wiltshire favourites for a picnic, wildlife walk and river splash. (Smalley testing the depth, cheeky grin on face, until the water poured in over the tops of his wellies, finished the walk trouserless and in flip flops. Albug meanwhile had been making a rock pile and sliding down dirt hills meaning he was forced to strip to his pants before being allowed back in the car.) 

 

Once home we re-packed, tidied and I got on with more work once the boys had fallen asleep to ensure I was ready for my meetings on Thursday.

By 6.30am Thursday morning we were on the motorway to my in laws, the children were deposited, and I headed into work for a day of back to back meetings. After the longest journey back to Surrey I’ve ever done (thank you half term rush hour traffic for that gem) I put the boys to bed and then stuffed and stamped 297 letters into envelopes. 

Friday saw another day of meetings before heading Back to Surrey, to walk the dog and boys to the park. At the park I did warn Smalley not to play with the swing but a Mummy Fail was clearly due and then shortly thereafter I wiped away his tears and soothed his screams after said swing had knocked him in the mouth cutting his inside lip whilst simultaneously producing two blood blisters on the outside making him look like an inside out vampire. (He was with his grandparents for two days and didn’t get a scratch or a bump on him. One hour with me and his top and sleeve are covered in tear diluted blood). Back to the house, load the car, drive home, pile into bed and then wake at 6am on Saturday to drive to Cardiff, work all day and then see two more of my favourite people for dinner at Bill’s down on the Bay.  (The waiting staff being tickled by me digging into garlic bread whilst wearing my work t-shirt, logo in bright orange across the chest.) 

Home by 11pm and then back up before dawn today for what feels like the day that wouldn’t end. 

This isn’t me trying to show off about my life. For all the jobs completed there is an even longer list of things still to start let alone complete. And alongside all the love, cuddles and giggles with week has produced, delivered by family, friends and colleagues alike, there is guilt and frustration at the jobs not done, the time efficiency not shown... 

My time management has never been strong and as work has moved into an ultra  manic stage, so much so I’m now having to take an extra day each week, this is my long winded way of saying: life is busy. 

And as one person with a crazy busy life I want to give a shout out to all the other 30 year olds out there juggling busy work schedules, social lives and family love. Child free, childless or child filled, I am absolutely not in this alone. And whilst this week is busier than normal for me, I have peers who will regard it as tame. Those travelling and networking. Those lesson planning or studying. Those working through their identity, relationships and priorities and those just getting through each day and then, like me trying to work out where their energy has gone before  looking back over their week in bemused wonder whilst muttering “was that really this week?”

And to all of those non morning people like me: yes I want more time. As shown above the extra hour today has supported a very productive day. But I don’t want it at 5:30am THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!  I mean REALLY? I almost fell over in disgust at how much we’d managed to achieve by 9:30am in a Sunday morning. Utterly unacceptable. 

To my crazy life peers - I empathise. I hear you. I’m here with shoulders for leaning on if needed. 

To everyone else - do not tell me to put my feet up or treat myself, I don’t have the time! Unless you are offering an intensive time management course, caffeine or high end make up to hide the bags under my eyes, I’m sorry, I love you but I don’t want to hear it. 

It's a Brooks thing

Those lucky people whose TV time isn't dominated by CBeebies won't be aware of Bing bunny, a toddler rabbit(ish) chap, who hangs out with his dad, Flop, neighbours and cousins doing everyday things. They might draw pictures, have lunch, build a tower out of bricks or similar. Generally something goes wrong: water is spilt on the picture, lunch is dropped on the floor, the tower is knocked over by his baby cousin... and Bing Bunny has to learn a simple but big lesson, summed up at the end and closed with the catchphrase "it's a Bing thing". You're never quite sure where the mundane story is going to take you or what Bing will claim ownership off, from "lunch; it's a Bing thing" to "Carrots; it's a Bing thing" to "Sharing; it's a Bing thing".

Increasingly I've found myself thinking about the randomness of Bing after each trip the boys spend with my folks. It starts innocent and simple enough but I'm never entirely sure where I'm going to end up.

Jump back almost three years, Alby turned up at my parent's house with a very interesting, child friendly book about recycling, based on the life story of a plastic bottle. The visit ended with Alby running around the house, pointing at my mum and shouting "she doesn't even know what polymerisation is" before bursting into hysterical laughter.
Mocking Narna; it's a Brooks thing.

Take another trip down memory lane and I come home to find Alby standing against the wall with an apple on his head shouting: GRAVITY!! EUREKA!!
Newton; it's a Bing thing.

Monkey and Pigsy, slime balls, rabbit poo, rocket blasting and sumo wrestling; it's a Brooks thing.

Jump forward to this week. Albug is playing with his Ninja Turtles, flipping and charging them about the room along to a little script mumbled out between jumps. Out comes the line "Boys are best".  Now, like my male and female peers, I label myself as a feminist. I think people should be identified, driven, valued and respected for their talent, their skills and their passions. Not by their gender. I'm proud that my views are no longer regarded as the views of rolling pin wielding, bra burning, fanatics but are decidedly mainstrsam. (Despite the wishes of my Chinese lecturer I am not the extreme, revolutionary protestor of the past.) So when a line such as "Boys are best" comes out I will challenge him: "excuse me Alby?"
As always, he is quick with his response. "It's just pretend." He goes back to playing, then pauses before piping up with: "anyway mummy, I was being ironic so it's the opposite isn't it".
Ah yes, that's right, my quick witted, fast worded son was taught about irony over breakfast with my dad. Excellent.
Irony, it's a Brooks thing.

It's out!

Following on perfectly from my last post, we are thrilled to report that after a whole month of wobbling and wibbling with finger and tongue Alby has lost his first tooth. Something he has told us about at least twenty times today in case the hole in his mouth wasn't evidence enough. God forbid we get distracted by the whole moving house ordeal (packers arrived yesterday and we've been battling boxes ever since).
For those who like the detail, Alby decided that sleep is clearly an over rated part of life. At 4am he started shouting for us - not as unusual an occurrence as we'd like, we generally find ourselves being summoned each week. This time however the call for "ANYBODY! ANYBODY! Was accompanied with "my tooth came out". What was he doing wobbling his tooth at 4am? How long had he been awake wobbling it? I dread to think. But it is out. He is happy and now eagerly anticipating the arrival of the magical, and very much real, tooth fairy. Sadly for him, he will not be getting the perfumed paper, mirror written messages from Fairy Midnight. I still feel somewhat disgusted that my mum was put through that ordeal with me. Such a cruel trick on a parent - as if just remembering to put £1 under the pillow wasn't enough!! Thankfully, Alby is all about the money and questions have been limited to just making sure his pillow is properly rewarded in the morning.

Stop the clocks...

... Albs has a wobbly tooth.

Okay, this post may now be 6 days late - I'm sorry, we are getting to the end of term, life is awesome fun but crazy exhausting and we are all in need of a summer holiday. Just log it to the ever growing list of mummy fails.  (A list which grew just two hours ago when I confiscated George's orange whistle for fear he'd wake Albug/the neighbours/the village. Obviously this led to an immediate and impressive tantrum that only the appearance of bubbles from his yet unseen party bag was able to stop.)

I digress, as always, Alby has one wobbly tooth. Possibly two. It's all a bit confusing. Mostly as it barely wobbles and I think he will be wobbling them for the whole of the summer holidays before they are even close to coming out, but for Albs this is a hugely momentous occasion. He was most disappointed that the slightly loose tooth following the bat to the face incident re-bedded and ever since he has been asking when his teeth will start to come out.

So strong has his fixation been that I'm entirely sure he hasn't wobbled this one loose himself - time will tell I guess. Realising that my previous post was about George's teeth we are clearly living a theme at the moment. Oh well. Anything to dodge the clearing and cleaning to come with our impending house move. And I was finally feeling properly settled here!

Georgie mouth coming through

It is 1am in the morning. Smalley has just walked into our room announcing: "Let's go mummy. Georgie wake up." Ahhh yes, the joys of a teething baby.

Smalley's response to teething varies hugely depending on whether it's day or night. In the day he puts his fingers in his mouth, grizzles and cries whilst announcing in the most miserable voice you can imagine: "Teeth coming through. Owwie teeth." (Most adorable, last month it was "mouth coming through" rather than teeth.) It's quite a thing to hear your two year old be able to express pain and discomfort so clearly. I don't remember Albug having the same level of clarity but that may just be sleep deprivation and clever parental amnesia at play.

In the nighttime the response is completely different. No crying, no grizzling, he is just awake. He wakes up happy, chatty and coherent. It's almost as though it's morning time and he's waking after a full night's sleep. Almost but not quite; he looks exhausted, skin pale and eyes pink. Meanwhile my parenting skills are undermined by me stumbling around in the dark, eyes glued together with sleep, brain struggling to work out where I am and what I'm doing. At times like this I say a little prayer of thanks to Disney, more specifically to the team behind "Planes". We come downstairs, he settles in the sofa or armchair and we get the DVD set up. If it's a bad night I collapse on the floor, good nights are distinguished by my brain being awake enough to remember we have a sofa bed in the living room and manage to set it up in my half awake state.
We are now in the final lap of teething; the final two molars have cut and we are just waiting for them to fully cut. One side has come through, the other side explains why I'm currently tapping away at 2am. We've got into a little routine with the film. We cheere when Dusty makes his first arrival. We point out the characters as they appear, Smalley loud and excited, me through closed eyes echoing his words in slurred, exhausted voice.

As Smalley's vocab grows and his understanding improves out come those classic "out of the mouths of babes" statements that put a smile on your face no matter the hour. During a teething midnight party last week Smalley yawned an enourmous yawn. "You're tired" I said to him. "Georgie's tired. That's right!!" He replied in a chippy, excited voice. I laughed. Kissed his forehead and pressed play on the DVD. It was almost as cute as when he'd grabbed my hand earlier in the day and pulled me into the kitchen whilst shouting "come on mummy, it's an emergency, come on." Getting into the kitchen he pointed at his toy, just out of reach on the kitchen counter: "get it mummy. Emergency." Think I might leave it a few more years to teach him to dial 999 or I'm going to be opening my door to firefighters summoned to turn on the TV.

For now, the yawns by both of us are coming quickly. My little man is lying across me, equally exhausted and excited as he watches Dusty save Bullog. It's goodnight from me and good riddance please to the teething silliness. Sleep calls me.