Happy Mothers’ Day!
I hope you (if you’re a Mummy, obviously. If not why are you reading this? Go and do the dishes) had a wonderful, relaxing day being pampered. I was woken with a cup of tea, a glass of juice, cards and presents: a bottle of champagne and two glasses from Hubby, a Cascada CD from #1, a The Feeling CD from #2 and a 10 Euro HMV voucher from Lewis Winthorpe III (my surrogate, furry, foster child). Being a control freak in the kitchen, I obviously didn’t allow the children to fulfil their promise of providing us with a roast chicken dinner fit for a Queen, but I did allow some supervised chopping, stirring and mashing, which is the next best thing. #1 cut the lemon, stuffed it ‘up the chicken’s bottom’ (anatomically incorrect, but hey, he was helping), smothered it with butter and oil, salt and pepper and shoved it in the oven. He also mashed swede and made Cranberry Bellinis (yum). #2 did very little apart from polish off two portions of the chocolate cake with gooey melted chocolate centre (I made a normal chocolate cake but stuffed half a bar of dark chocolate into the centre of the raw mix) but he has got a bad gum. They washed and dried up between them and received the weekly verdict: ten Euro each! (extra because of good school behaviour and traumatic dental experience – or it could be that the Bellinis had loosened Hubby up a bit more than normal?).
Anyoo, I’m off for a walk with Luigi Tagliatelle Bolognesi and then my Mothers’ Day snooze on the sofa. Whatever you’re up to, have a fab day. Oh and Mum, I love you. Everything I am I owe to you (don’t worry, I’m not bitter). Thanks for everything! xxx
Happy St Patrick’s Day!!
Well, yesterday started quite well with #2′s teachers singing his praises in the most wonderful way. They’ve just done national tests and I was assured that ‘whatever else, you’ve no need to worry about him academically’ (okaaaayyy…, which means I have to worry about him in what other way?). It was all good generally, apart from the small matter of his inability to sit still, and his handwriting being in need of a new spider. When I’d picked myself up after the shock of it all, we headed to Dublin to see our lovely dentist where the poor little chap received the bad news that one of his teeth was in a bad way, and seeing as it’s a first tooth and likely to fall out within the year, it was best just to whip it out. Ouch. In typical #2 style, he was very brave (in fact, it was his mother who was in danger of fainting) but still – not a nice experience. Actually, it’s the first extraction I’ve watched and it was quite fascinating to see how much pressure the dentist had to apply in order to get the little sucker out. Nasty.
So, we spent the first half of St Patrick’s Day engaged in that most Irish of pastimes: waiting for the electricity to come back on. Power cuts are particularly problematic (ooh, I’ve gone all alliterative) here, because we don’t have mains water and although having our own well may be terribly rustic and all that, it means that a power cut means no pump to bring the water up and therefore no water. Eventually around lunchtime we were back up and running, leaving us gutted as we missed Soccer AM, and our favourite bits particularly, which are ‘Crossbar Challenge’ and ‘Showboating’ (if you don’t know, I won’t bother explaining).
Anyhoo, seeing as I’d just battled through gale force winds and driving rain for fifteen minutes persuading Louis that it wasn’t too scary to wee in such conditions, we decided against the raft race (doubtless the poor competitors wished they’d decided the same) and headed for Supermac’s, the all-Irish equivalent of McDonalds. Living in the middle of nowhere means no junk food – generally a good thing, but as an odd treat (for getting good reports and enduring the dentist) we enjoy ingesting some crap. Hubby had tried Supermac’s before in Waterford and I have to say it was very nice. I had a ‘Supermac’ (no surprises there) and garlic fries (big fat chips smothered in garlic mayo – yum!), followed by a warm chocolate muffin with ice cream (stop raising those eyebrows, I shared it with Hubby, and anyway I had a diet coke so it’s okay). We actually gave it a higher score than Macs, being sparklingly clean, with very friendly staff, a huge choice and much nicer fries to boot.
So, back to the sticks, Hubby dragged the boys out in Hurricane Paddy to hunt for firewood and in typical ‘King Dad’ fashion, stood and sniggered behind the video camera as they struggled home with half a tree. Honestly, children. They’re rubbish at being slaves.
Exciting (and scary)
Ooh, I’m very excited. St Patrick’s Day is nearly here and there are all sorts of things going on here. The boys finish school at 1, then it’s parent consultations (uh oh… #2 looked particularly tense this morning) and then we’ve got to rush down to Dublin to go to the dentist (yes, I know I should find a local one but he’s SO kind – and rather nice to look at – don’t tell Hubby), then for the much-dreaded and moaned about annual haircut, then it’s fun fun fun until Tuesday, wehay! On Saturday we’re going to watch the raft race on the river (and take Louis to socialise and get some more free ear scratches and sympathy), then in the evening there are fireworks in the town, which, unfortunately Louis will have to sit out. Sunday is Mothers’ Day during which I will obviously be waited upon hand and foot, showered with presents and generally pampered for the whole day (I can dream, can’t I) and then Monday we get a day at home together as it’s Bank Holiday. Lovely.
Louis is excited too – can’t you tell by the picture? Actually, he’s a bit depressed as he had a very scary day yesterday. First of all I dropped the calendar on him (it hangs on a hook above his bed) and this sent him skittering and whimpering across the kitchen floor and prompted a ten minute session of the shakes (calm down dear, it’s just a calendar!). Then the man who had come to deliver our third new TV and pick up the faulty second one arrived just as I was coming home from the shops so I let him in the back door, not thinking about the dog. The man (who was the size of a brick outhouse with a very large voice to match) boomed: ‘oh, a greyhound – my Dad breeds them!’ and went towards Louis rather fast with his big, huge hand outstretched. Well, of course this totally freaked him out again and he squeaked in a very unmanly fashion, jumped about a mile in the air and did a bit of ‘Holiday on Ice’ on the tiles trying to get away from the huge scary man, slipping and sliding and finally skirting round us to land back in his bed, wide eyed and quivering yet again. The third incident was Hubby, who, arriving while the man was putting the TV stand together, rushed into the kitchen to get a screwdriver and made our big brave soldier, who was having a little nap, jump out of his skin yet again. This time Hubby had to give him a big ten minute man to man chat to calm him down. How he ever plucked up the courage to chase a bloody rabbit I’ll never know…
Louis Gielgud, dahling
My patient is somewhat improved this morning. Well, he’s improved in that he’s stopped limping but should be a member of RADA with the fantastic acting skills he has. He still shakes pathetically when he’s trying to get comfy in his bed or when we’re wrapping clingfilm round it before we take him out for a ‘comfort break’. And worse, he actually laid on his bed last night with his paw across his face as if to say ‘oh the misery…the torment’. Very John Gielgud. Hubby is disgusted that Louis is being such a baby (but still lavishes huge cuddles and back scratching sessions on him and spends ages making sure that his dressing stays dry). The cling film was useless and after several false starts we’ve settled on a freezer bag held around the paw with insulating tape, just during walks obviously. Louis is not best pleased with this and flaps his paw and tries to bite it when he’s walking which makes him stagger about. Honestly, it’s like walking a drunk on a lead. I’ll be glad when the five days is up.
He’s also sussed, pretty cleverly, that he gets lots of sympathy off the boys and sighs loudly, flopping his chin down on his bed and looking pleadingly at them so they come and cuddle him and give him cheese. Suckers.
In other news, (and talking of acting) #1′s play practice is proceeding well. They certainly take this business seriously – he’s been rehearsing until 7.30pm every night this week, has been for his second ‘wardrobe fitting’ and has been lugging around a script the size of War and Peace. I swear I know the words of every song in Bugsy Malone, and found myself singing ‘My Name is Tallulah…’ whilst cleaning the toilet this morning in my pyjamas. Glad no one was watching. I also heard #2 singing ‘So You Wanna Be a Boxer’ in the loo the other day – no wonder Louis is terrified of the bathroom…
Look, I’m dying…
Poor Louis has hurt his foot. I’m not quite sure how it happened, but he yelped when we were out walking so must have stood on something sharp. I noticed blood but he wouldn’t let me look without crying (him, not me) so I thought it was safer to pop to the vet (neurotic, I know, but hey). I’d never met the chap before but he didn’t endear himself to me initially when I asked him to help me lift Louis out of the car (he’s the size of a small house for goodness’ sake) and he said he would after he’d muzzled him. I politely but firmly assured him that Louis doesn’t need a muzzle and is the biggest scaredy, trembly, terrified-of-everything baby I’ve ever known, and after that they kind of bonded.
Needless to say, Louis found the whole experience terrifying and sat in the waiting room shaking so violently he actually made me a bit worried – he even developed a really dodgy twitchy eye that reminded me of John Cleese doing Basil Fawlty. The vet was so nice though – he ruffled Louis’ ears and even found the nice scratchy bit on his neck that makes his back leg go funny and said ‘greyhounds make very good pets, y’know’, which made me smile (I know!!). Anyhoo, once the big wobbly jelly was diagnosed (a small puncture wound), cleaned, bandaged (somewhat ostentatiously in my humble opinion) and given a course of antibiotic tablets (‘I won’t inject him, greyhounds scream like girls’), he felt courageous enough to be cuddled by the nice receptionist, and was given a celebratory pig’s ear for being so brave (pah!).
I think he’s secretly quite enjoying it as his limp seemed to be much more pronounced while walking back to the car (lots of people stopped to enquire after his injury and he got several free ear scratches – a result), and when the boys came home from school he greeted them at the door holding his bandaged paw up as if to say ‘look…look how poorly I am…I might die’. I can’t wait to see him when Hubby comes home…I’m expecting death throes and fake convulsions at the very least.
I had to show you this picture – the boys flapped and worried over him and he just lapped it all up; look at the stupid expression, all he needs is a nurse to mop his brow. Actually, it kind of reminds me of that ‘Kiss me, Hardy’ portrait of Nelson. He was a total hypochondriac too. Oh, and if my Dad’s reading, can I just point out that they’re going for a haircut on Friday, okay??
The worst bit of all this is that we’ve got to keep the bandage clean and dry for five (count ‘em) days. We’ve experimented with freezer bags and we’re currently favouring cling film. Don’t they do dog wellies? Maybe I’ve discovered a gap in the market…
A quick update…
Can I just say that my no. 9 wish has come true? My Mum’s manager, the lovely M (thank you, thank you – have I ever told you how handsome you are? Dashing, even) has let her take some of her holiday early and she’s coming over, not only for my birthday (wehay! a big Pinot sesh is in order methinks Ma!), but for #1′s big stage debut in the school play. I have to admit I did cry (but I had consumed 2 glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon so it doesn’t count).
A birthday list
Can I just point out that it is only two weeks until my birthday? If Hubby ever read this blog (which he doesn’t), he would probably be aware that to make me the happiest bunny in Bunnysville he only has to purchase a trifling KitchenAid blender (ooooh, the pink one!!), or a nice Francis Francis coffee machine (I know I hate coffee but they’re sooooo cool), or a nice four-slice Dualit toaster or..oh, hang on, I can feel a top ten list coming:
What I would like for my birthday in an ideal world (in no particular order):
1. A pink Nokia 7360 (sorry, big R, I know you work for Motorola!)
2. A pink KitchenAid blender (okay, a cream one then)
3. A pink Dualit toaster (hmmm..there’s a theme developing here)
4. A big, huge pile of Clarins stuff (I’m not fussy, it’s all good)
5. Scented candles (Jo Malone preferably, but again not fussy)
6. Books (currently into John Harvey, but anything where someone gets murdered does it for me)
7. Cookery books (but obviously not anything I’ve already got). Quite fancy Kevin Dundon’s ‘Full on Irish’ and Bill Granger’s got a new one out too
8. Nice underwear (nothing in that horrible satin that you catch your fingernails on and absolutely nothing in red..yuck..and none of that lace that – look away now family – shows your nipples..ew)
9. My Mum to be here
10. And Louis said he’d quite like a bone, please
I obviously didn’t go for the real fantasy items like diamonds, Chloe handbags, Caribbean holidays or a new Land Rover Discovery 3 – (the TDV6 HSE in Lugano Teal please) – no point in going mad, eh? I do admit to being slightly difficult in the pressie department. Poor Hubby, I have to say, once bought me a bread maker for my birthday when the kids were little and I was so hurt and furious I don’t think I even ever took it out of the box (it got donated to the school raffle as I remember). The funny thing is, I’d be delighted to get one now, but then I felt it was insultingly ‘housewifey’. Funny creatures us women, eh?
Louis, an update
Morning! Very happy this morning as not only can I see again (well, 90 percent), but we seem to be making slow progress with Louis.
As you’ll remember when I introduced him, our latest foster doggy Louis (latest AKA being ‘Loofah’ or ‘Luigi Per Favore’ or ‘oh bloody hell not again!!!!’) has a whole raft of strange issues. We’re working on his fear of being left alone (this entails the quite bonkers-making therapy of getting on your coat, picking up your keys and bag, then going out, then coming back in again, then doing it all again until he becomes bored with the whole process and forgets to be scared of being all on his tod, as well as ignoring him when we’re either leaving or arriving so it’s not a big deal). His house training generally leaves a bit to be desired, but his all-round people skills are improving no end. He’s a little better with his own company and doesn’t insist on following everyone around so that they turn around and trip over him, whereupon he flees to his bed quaking yet again. He doesn’t even like being alone in the kitchen when people are in the house, but if you pop in every so often, pretending he’s not there, it seems to comfort him. In the evening he prefers to be in his bed in the kitchen rather than in the lounge. We think this could just be because he gets too hot, but preferring his own company is another step towards his being a bit more confident so it’s all good. He’s even up for the odd game with his squeaky football, a video of which is available on YouTube:
J&C have been fantastically supportive of our fostering, happily answering dozens of questions and listening patiently to all our moaning when things go wrong. I have to say that the pressure is somewhat lessened when you’re aware that you’re just fostering, especially as the end result should be a happy dog ready to make a wonderful addition to some lucky family. Ooh, talking of J&C, I also meant to tell you I went with them a while back to wave off little Dizzy who has found a new home in Shropshire. A happy ending there then.
And finally, here’s a little thought for the day, which I read on a forum and thought it was incredibly true: ‘We all get heavier as we get older because there’s a lot more information in our heads. So I’m not putting on weight, I’m just really intelligent and my head couldn’t hold any more so it started filling up the rest of me.’?
Poorly (and the verdict)
Hello strangers! Well I’m finally ‘back in the saddle’ after a week living in the weird, underwater world of the blurry sighted. Let me explain…last week I suddenly couldn’t see properly, and no amount of rubbing my eyes or eye baths could clear my right eye. Apparently, I’d got a corneal abrasion – goodness only knows how as I don’t remember scratching my eye, or even getting anything in it, but I basically lived most of the week seeing only milky nothingness out of that eye. I’ve got some eye drops, but mostly it’s only time that’ll make it heal. It’s definitely on the mend, but it’s still blurry and things like the computer screen and TV are especially difficult to look at, so I’ll keep it brief (well, I’ll try). I felt a bit like the Queen actually, as I was ferried about and looked after rather magnificently well. Sometimes there are perks to being ill.
I just had to update you on the new pocket money regime. Well, dear reader, it’s a miracle. Someone has stolen my lazy and ungrateful children and replaced them with helpful little souls that are tidy and accommodating. So, today being the day of reckoning, we had the family conference where King Dad dished out the verdict. Firstly, they both lost their Friday Euro for an unseemly argument over the toothpaste which descended into some rather artistic name calling. I have to say from my point of view it’s so much easier to just walk in and say ‘right, that’s it, you’ve lost your money today’ – a punishment which leaves them both instantly mortified and eager to make amends.
#1 also lost a Euro for losing his riding helmet at school (therefore not being able to have everything ready for his riding lesson – harsh but necessary I’m afraid – he certainly seemed to find it again pretty quickly). And that was the final score: #1: 5, #2: 6. A right result for them, and I have to say I’ve had a much easier week, not only because they felt they should help because I couldn’t see properly, but also because they knew their end result depended on it. They’ve washed up, taken the dog out, made tea and tidied up, all without being asked, and it’s a much nicer house to live in. Go Dad.
Moving the goalposts
There was a certain amount of unrest in the camp yesterday. Seeing as Sunday is ‘trolley dash’ day, the children began their customary rampage through the house, rescuing all sorts of discarded crap (#1′s socks for some reason accumulate under the cushions on the sofa – this is because he finds socks ‘uncomfy’ when he’s watching telly apparently) and reclaiming all sorts of items from the dog’s bed from where they’ve been ‘tidied’.
The unrest was caused when King Dad, ruler of all that is householdish, deciding in a kind of ‘back in my day’ moment that his subjects weren’t pulling their weight, decided to move the goal posts. I see his point; for the whole week the lazy slobs leave their dirty clothes in heaps on the floor until yelled at to pick them up (then moan because they have no clean uniform – well, duh, it’s on the floor in your bedroom), forget their school stuff and generally use the place as a hotel, then miraculously on Sunday they are paid for tidying up the mess that they made. Something’s not quite right. So His Royal Hubbyness has therefore decreed that there shall be, henceforth, a new regime for our tiny slackers (cue much tutting and muttering). The rules are simple:
1. You make a mess, you clear it up – right there and then
2. You take responsibility for your school stuff and make sure everything you need for the next day is ready the night before
3. You help around the house – take your plate out/offer to lay the table/wash up/dry up/help without being asked/forced/bribed (delete as appropriate)
4. You keep your bedroom tidy – every day
In return, they get a Euro for every day that they’ve kept their part of the bargain, but a Euro deducted every day they break a rule. So, in theory, they could reap a reward of a whopping 7 Euro a week if they play their cards right. The temptation of this much cash had them rushing to the computer to print out tables and charts to track their progress (and therefore their cash). #2 dried up after tea and #1 had his football kit ready before Top Gear. I give it ’til Wednesday.
