The Friday video: The Death Wish Child at the skatepark
De Brevren made this video together. #2 did the skating and the editing (with help from his big bro), #1 did the filming and because he’s The Mad Professor, somehow knows tricks to get over the YouTube audio copyright restrictions too (shhh). I might be biased but I think it’s quite good. Although mothers of small boys everywhere will be buttock clenchingly aware that the child is moments away from several broken bones. The song is Witchcraft by Pendulum.
‘No naughty words on mugs – promise?’ A trip to Emma Bridgewater
So the Tuesday of half term saw us take a rather wonderful trip. Now the Brethren are 12 and 15 it’s getting more and more unusual that everyone wants to go out together. A shopping trip mostly ends up with one ‘ohhhh okay then’ and one ‘nope, I’m playing Xbox, seeya later’, so to take a trip ‘en famille’ was rather a pleasant change.
We were whooshed to Stoke on Trent in less than an hour from Milton Keynes on the rather swish Virgin ‘leany train’ (yes, I’m sure it has a proper name too), and met up with fellow bloggers Jen, Rachael and Josie, plus Dan and Kate from Kitchen Critic.
During the journey, we established ground rules for the trip. These included:
- No smutty jokes – there will be small children present
- No wrestling amongst the crockery
- No naughty words on mugs. Yes, a drawing of a willy is considered naughty.
Here’s our fabulous day in pictures:
I am pleased to report that not only did we have a lovely family day out, but there was no smut, no wrestling, and I think no willies, but when our mugs arrived from Emma Bridgewater I’ll have to check.
If you’re ever in Stoke I’d thoroughly recommend a free factory tour (book in advance!) and a trip to the Potteries Museum where you’ll find a fascinating retrospective of Emma Bridgewater products stretching back the full 25 years (on now until 26th September, entry is free).
And now the thank yous:
Thanks to the lovely Jamie, and all the staff at Emma Bridgewater for a fabulous day out (sorry about all the sniggering – it’s Josie’s fault). Thanks to the lovely Eb for organising the day, lovely chats and listening to me panicking about train times.
And finally, special thanks to the Death Wish Child and his new camera for all the wonderful pictures (I rent him out y’know…weddings, christenings…).
The Gallery: Motherhood
They’re messy. And often smelly. They’re noisy, they argue, they snigger, they stay up too late, have last minute shouty homework panics, fill the house with mates and when they’re hungry my kitchen looks like it’s been attacked by a plague of locusts..
But that day? That day they danced down the aisle because that’s what they thought would make the day really perfect.
They even wore suits. Okay, so they insisted on red Converse to complete the outfit, but suits all the same.
They welcomed our friends and family, chatted and laughed, decorated cars, held the ring, sang hymns, didn’t giggle, shook hands, directed traffic. They behaved like proper gentlemen…
Look at my lovely boys.
God, I am proud.
This post is an entry for Tara Cain’s Gallery: Week 15.
Paintballing: full body armour and 100mph missiles
So Thursday, then, dawned bright and gorgeous. Perfect weather for cramming yourself into full body armour, a helmet and goggles, and firing small missiles at your fellow man.
No, I’m not going mad. It was The Brethren’s paintballing party (yes, yes, several months after their actual birthdays but then I never pretended to be organised).
Here’s a little précis of my highlights:
- #1 stomping back to the safe zone with a totally orange visor having been hit smack in the face with a paintball (head shots don’t count, but you have to leave the game if you can’t see – taking your goggles off mid-games is illegal – paintballs can travel at speeds of 100mph).
- #2 struggling into body armour about five times too big for him, insisting hotly that it was fine before finally being persuaded to go and get the right size.
- The manager offering to lend me a hi-viz so I could go and take some photos of the action ‘although I can’t guarantee you won’t get shot’. Er, no thanks.
- The full body armour photos afterwards.
- The fact that #1′s mate grabbed a smoke grenade and hurled it back (a long career in the forces awaits this fella)
- Comparing bruises between rounds (they might be gelatine skinned but they still bloody hurt if they miss the body armour).
Special thanks to Olly and Sarah at International Paintball Group (ipg.uk.net) and the fantastic staff at Delta Force, Hemel Hempstead for making our day so enjoyable.
Fercucking hell!
I love the NHS. Yup, really. You won’t hear a bad word said about it in our house. After four years in Ireland spent wondering whether each ailment was worth the fifty quid to see the doctor, I am ridiculously grateful. Add that to several mad dashes to A&E at £100 a pop and you can imagine I’m a big fan.
Not only that, but the kids had a recent eye test (you guess it, on the NHS), and we discovered that not only did #1 need new glasses, but #2 needs them now for reading and close-up work. He was not impressed.
He was more impressed, however, when it turned out that he could have funky Quiksilver ones (to go with his recent purchase of skinny Quiksilver jeans from T K Maxx, and enormous DC skate trainers that, combined, make him look oddly like Mickey Mouse’s slimmer brother).
I also had to have a new pair. I’d had my old ones since 1994, it turned out, so it was probably time. Later,#2 was on the phone to his Dad:
#2: I’ve got this new pair of glasses – I’ve got to wear them for reading and stuff – they’re wicked! They’ve got Quiksilver on the side! And #1 got some new ones too – his are Red or Dead.
Hubby: And what about Mummy, what are hers like?
#2: They’re okay. They’re kinda brown and they say ‘fercuck’ on the side.
Healthy baked chicken burgers with help from the glamorous Turtle
So during half term, my adorable twin niece and nephew, Miss Turtle and Mr Jackson came to stay with my two chisellers. We decided to have a blow-out junk food and video night and Turtle agreed to be my glamorous assistant, tearing herself away from her mobile phone and nail file (how the girl doesn’t have stumps for fingers the amount of filing she does, I’ll never know) for just long enough to knock up some yummy chicken burgers.
These burgers are a bit of a fave in our house. Not only are they really cheap, they’re very healthy too and there are endless variations. You can make little dinner party ones to serve with a nice Thai dipping sauce, you can make them into little meatballs and serve with a tomato sauce, or you can vary the flavours, say, with coriander or chilli…
Anyhoo, onto the main event. Firstly, you’ll need:
Breadcrumbs (I whizz 2 slices in the blender of doom)
1 onion, or a couple of spring onions
1 egg
500g minced chicken or turkey
Seasoning
Firstly, then, your glamorous assistant needs to bung a couple of slices of slightly stale bread into the food processor (actually we’re using the blender – not that blender – because I broke my lovely braun Braun MR400 Plus Multiquick Handblender 300w
Next up, warn the aforementioned glamorous assistant about the perils of mixing fingers and blenders (she’s worn hers down enough as it is), then bung in the onion/spring onion and the egg. If you’re using anything else, like chilli or coriander, chuck it in now. Of course, if you don’t have an onion-phobic child and therefore don’t need to resort to this kind of stealth cookery, you could just chop them finely. Whizz until you get a strangely satisfying frothy green liquid and silently pray to the cocktail god that your next mojito won’t taste of spring onion:
Next, and this is the good bit, bung the green goo into the breadcrumbs and add the chicken mince. Season generously with salt and pepper, then roll up the sleeves of your glamorous assistant and set her to work squelching up the mixture (with clean hands and beautifully manicured nails) into an even paste:
When the mix is nicely combined, form it into about 6 patties, or smaller little cakes, or balls or whatever (and yes, they do have a slightly green tinge, but don’t let that put you off):
Put them on a non-stick tray (important that) and bake at 180 degrees/gas 4 for about 20 mins. The smaller ones will take less time, but make sure you check to see that they’re thoroughly cooked in the middle.
Now just assemble your burger. We used fresh crusty rolls and garnished our burgers with crunchy lettuce, grated cheese and a little spicy tomato salsa, but feel free to experiment.
Finally, we got out every single fattening thing we could find, including ice cream, whipped cream and a variety of chocolatey stuff, and set about having an ice-cream sundae competition (#1′s is the one that’s just a sundae dish full of chocolate):
And the winner is? Yup, you guessed it:
A few of my favourite things…
So I finally got tagged in Tara Cain’s ‘favourite photo meme’. I was beginning to feel like Norma-no-mates as blogger after blogger got tagged (no, Tara, I’m not bitter…). Finally, though, the fabulous, 51% Linda from Got Your Hands Full and the lovely Zoe over at Diary of a Surprise Mum took pity on me and challenged me to publish my favourite photo…
And actually, I’ve cheated a bit as there are two. The first is a picture of my firstborn, the wondrous Mad Professor, giving his beloved Grandad a piece of his mind, as usual. I love the look on his face (it’s obviously a good story), and you can see that my Dad’s smiling as he’s listens to his Grandson waffling on. Magical.
Second up is my favourite photo of The Death Wish Child. He’s on a very windy beach in Lanzarote. I’m not sure why I love it so much, but I love his scrunched up little smile and his funky denim hat:
And lastly, here’s my absolute favourite song. Hubby has it on his laptop, my rockin’, Slipknot loving #1 has this on his phone, as does funky, Chipmunk loving son #2. It’s a proper family favourite:
So now, I tag the lovely Liz at Living with Kids, and let’s open it up a little farther shall we? To Coastal Aussie in the land of Vegemite. Off you go, then…
Curse you, Supersleepover Mum…
Picture the scene:
It’s dinner time. My child has come home from a sleepover and is enthusing about it, telling me every little detail. He’s stabbed a chip and is currently waving it about as he tells us how cool his mate’s mum is. I’m trying to sound interested, I really am, but frankly, the old eyes are starting to glaze over…
‘…and she’s, like, really trendy – and like, really interested in all the same music as us…’
['but I like your music...', I fight the urge to wail, 'I can name every member of N-Dubz... even the one with the hat...']‘, but actually I smile and say: ‘no way? That’s great!’
The chip continues to wave around in mid-air.
‘…and we got a chinese and were allowed to order anything we wanted…spare ribs, crispy duck… anything.’
['No veg, then?']
‘…I had tons. It was gorgeous…’
['but I cook you nice stuff too...' Home made stuff...'] I follow the chip as it waves around in front of his mouth: ‘Wow, chinese? You’re so lucky’.
‘…and she made wicked cookies with Green and Black’s and we were allowed to eat all of them…’
['but I do cookies - don't I? I do! I do cookies all the time! Okay, mine say 'bollocks' on, but hey... And cake! I do cake!] ‘Ooh yummy, bet they were gorgeous’.
The chip finally hits the target and there’s a brief pause before my torture continues:
‘…and she let us go on the trampoline in the snow. It was awesome!’
[Shit. Broken twisted limbs - no fucking way I'd let you do that...] ‘Gosh, really?’.
Come on, admit it. You’ve all been there. Your child has come back from a sleepover and ‘X’s mum is awesome!’ Oh God.
X’s mum is obviously far trendier than me. She must have the patience of Mother flippin’ Theresa and be as deaf as a geriatric. I feel inadequate. I’m crap at sleepovers. I get really grumpy. It has been known for me to request that their friends ‘shut the f*ck up’ when they’re still giggling at 2am.
But X’s mum goes above and beyond. There was trifle. Eaten in bed. And she’s, like, so funny too…
['But wait, what about my hilarious parody of Kardinal's rap in Akon's 'Beautiful' ... pretty funny huh?...']
The thing is, she’s actually a really, really nice person. It’s just that at the end of every sleepover, I want to poke out her eyes with a blunt kebab stick. Talk about raising the bar.
To Ireland, with love.
So that’s it, then. Packing has commenced, the chickens have been collected in a trailer and carted off to their new home, and in a very short time we shall land back on terra firma in the good old Kingdom of United.
I have mixed feelings, frankly. When we first moved to Dublin I was miserable. I missed my friends, my family, the familiarity of having lived in a place your whole life; bumping into people you know in Tesco (frankly, being able to even go to Tesco without an hour’s round trip). It was rotten. The children hated their new school (#1 was the only native English speaker in his class), everything was alien, everything shut for lunch, or on a Monday, or on a Wednesday or had to be requested in writing, and I lasted about 6 weeks before I fled home, leaving poor Hubby blinking in a bewildered fashion in a big empty Irish house.
Still, we made it back. And with a new school for the boys, a new dog (the wonderful and much missed Becks), a new friend in Jenny and a new blog to take up my time (EnglishMuminIreland.blogs.ie – where it all began), I started to settle in. The Irish are a wonderful breed: open, friendly, always up for a laugh, never too busy to help… With Hubby’s new job we found ourselves here in Cavan and from the moment we walked over the threshold of English Towers, we felt at home. With the lovely C next door already terminally ill when we arrived, a sad by-product of being able to help in small ways like minding children or fetching medicine from the chemist was that we (selfishly) felt needed and wanted very quickly. We made friends with The Lovelies, the Galway Cs and Poppy’s Mum and her family (if you’re new here, check out ‘All about me’ at the top of the screen for more info), all via D, who was unceasingly generous with both his time and his friends, and have felt happily and contendedly as though we were home for the past two years. D now has a new, lovely lady in his life. The children are delighted and so are we. We wish them all the love and happiness that they so deserve.
But things change. The Recession came and bit us on the bum and it’s time to move on again. I’ll miss the beautiful countryside, the wonderful people and the laid back lifestyle, but the hustle and bustle of town life is calling me back too. Living in this huge house with the dog and the chickens and the lovely garden has been a massive adventure for us all. The children have made lifelong friends, received a fantastic education and enjoyed some amazing life experiences. They have benefitted immeasurably from their time here, as have the Hubby and I. We’ve been lucky enough to share this fantastic place with our friends and family when they came over for our wedding blessing and have even been welcomed into the new community of the church by the kind and gentle Revd Craig - something I never would have imagined in a million years. I know we’ll return so much more open to new experiences, and with a fresh appreciation for all the people and places that we’ve missed over the last four years.
Onwards and upwards, then. Pass the bubble wrap. Goodbye Emerald Isle. It’s been a blast.
5 Reasons why I am a bad mother.
1. Saturday morning. I wake up to accusing looks from both offspring. It turns out that I forgot to go out and shut the chickens up last night, now two of them are missing. I am a bad mother. I go out to look for them and find mounds of brown feathers strewn all over the coop. It’s pretty obvious that a fox got to them. I sit on the patio step and dissolve into tears. Minnie pecks at my wedding ring. I push her away and continue to cry guiltily before it dawns on me that she is obviously not dead. Chilli is standing about ten feet away from me looking feathery and fine and not bald at all. She must be moulting. I give them both revolting smelly chickeny hugs and smile smugly at evil-eyed offspring.
2. Sunday morning. I am upstairs folding washing when all of a sudden a blood curdling scream chills me to the core. Hurdling the dog, whose first instinct is a hopeless attempt to try and force himself under the bed, I take the stairs four at a time to the kitchen where #1 is found to be the source of the screaming and is running around clutching his posterior. #2 is standing looking guilty. Turns out big brother wanted a hug from small brother who wasn’t too keen and shoved him a little too hard. He hurtled backwards into the corner of a door and sustained a nasty injury to: ‘MY ARSE! OW! MY ARSE!’, or more accurately, the base of his spine. Injured party is now running around, clutching aforementioned arse and squealing in a pitch so high that only dogs can hear him.
I calm things down and fetch an ’arse pack’ from the freezer which causes me and the small one to dissolve into fits of hysteria and the large one to tell us to go away with words that would make his Grandmother blush, interspersed with ‘OW! MY ARSE!’ albeit in a slightly calmer tone.
3. Sunday Evening. Both offspring want to go down the boat road to watch the Pumpkin Festival fireworks. I don’t. I am a bad mother. It’s two against one and I seem to be losing. Happily, D-next-door comes to the rescue and offers to take them. Two hours later, happily snuggled on the sofa with red wine and chocolate, the back door slams and the high pitched ‘OW MY ARSE!’ dog-deafening resumes. Turns out instead of being sensible and representing the family and staying close to D as I had instructed, they’d messed about on an old rope swing down by the lough and #1 had fallen, yup you guessed it, straight onto the aforementioned injured bum again. I offer the arse pack. #2 and I collapse again. #1 stomps off to bed.
4. This morning. #2 is taking part in a sponsored walk with the school. I have forgotten that I promised to email his Grandparents and various aunties, uncles and friends. His sponsorship form is completely empty. Feeling that I am an incredibly bad mother I spend ten minutes inventing people and filling in his sponsorship form with fictional sponsors. He is not impressed. I am a bad mother.
5. #1 wishes to go up to Cavan with his mates and watch ‘The Vampire’s Assistant’ or some such. I’m not sure. Not only am I not sure whether he’ll be able to use his bus pass at half term, I’m also not sure that he should be in town on his own, even though he promises they’ll go straight to cinema and not hang around in one of those horrible teenage ‘gangs’ that make half term so unpleasant for us normal people. I ‘obviously don’t trust him’ and am a bad mother. I ask his Dad. His Dad says yes. Victorious child can barely keep smugness from his face as we drive to bus stop. I am tempted to enquire after the wellbeing of his arse but fight the urge. Smugness disappears instantly as he realises he’s left his bus pass at home.
Hurling the child from the still-moving car, I shout at him to hold the bus, execute a pretty impressive J-turn in the middle of the N3 and hurtle home to retrieve the bus pass. Just as I’m speeding back, he rings and tells me the bus is here. I assure him I’m two minutes away. He rings again. The bus driver couldn’t wait but allowed him to get on the bus as long as I catch up with them and give him the bus pass.
Cue ‘Benny Hill’ music as I drive like a woman posessed trying to catch up with the bus which is obviously being driven by Nigel Mansell. Half way to Cavan I manage to catch them up. As I hand over the bus pass, the bus driver gives me an ‘I am not impressed’ glare.
I give him an ‘oh piss off’ glare back and head home.
#1, however, sends me a text telling me that, on the contrary, I am a ‘legend’
I reply and tell him that he is a spanner.
I am a bad mother.
