23 Apr 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum, Parenthood Tags: Child, Husband, School, Squidge
When Squidge hit school I realised that it was time for me to broach the concept of The Sleepover. Now, I am hardly the fainting violet type but the entire idea put the fear of god into me. What if the other offspring cried for its parent? What if it was naughty and I made it cry? What if my child made it cry? What if it made my child cry? What if I lost it somewhere? Oh, dear heavens…
And, quite frankly, the horror stories from other parents hardly helped.
“Oh I had to take the other child home after a few hours,” said one mum, “She told my daughter that she hated her and that she wanted to go home.”
“The other child was so badly behaved and rude,” said another, “that I honestly cannot face her coming around ever again, not even for an afternoon.”
As you can see, the sleepover is a minefield peppered with social mores, high risk interactions, terror of error, and possibly parental alcoholism.
The Husband, obviously, didn’t see any of this. He merely shrugged and said, “It will be fine.”
Yeah. Right. He only comes home at 6pm. Bastard.
Luckily for me Squidge’s first sleepover (both the child coming here and her going there) set was a breeze. They enjoyed every minute and no tears or drama accompanied them.
Then came THIS holiday a.k.a. The Sleepover Week Of Doom.
I had been lulled into a false sense of security. I had been gulled. For the second round with another child was a highway littered with explosives.
It also started out alright. They played happily for an hour or two and then, THEN, began the pain. The other child (OC) went quiet. Ominously so.
“I am hungry,” she said, staring at me with the kind of face you see on an NSPCC ad. Oh god. It was 5:30pm and I hadn’t made supper yet. I’d been distracted by that dratted Kindle.
Immediately I raced into the kitchen to make my tried and trusted playdate favourite – homemade mini pizzas with sundried tomato paste, cheese, viennas, peppers and carrots. Delicious and faintly healthy.
I presented these to the kids with pride. I had salvaged my reputation. All would be well.
“This is,” said OC, “Disgusting.” My child, copying every mannerism of her guest, pushed her plate away too with the same expression of revulsion. (Traitorous creature, she loves these pizzas!)
Um. Shit?
It was at this point that I think I realised that my parenting skills were a bit crap. I tend to love people and want them to love me, a bit like a Labrador puppy. This is not a suitable characteristic for a parent. No. A parent must be firm and wise, must dispense authority with calm assurance. Must be patient and kind.
I am not these things. I am the panicked human who sidled desperately into the kitchen and stuffed a plate with breadsticks, wobbly cheese (Cheesestrings), grapes, and cold meat in an attempt to placate the OC.
It’s her eyes, I tell you. They bored straight through me and filled me with terror. She could smell my growing fear.
The offering was met with disinterest as was the movie, the games I suggested, and playing with Squidge.
Squidge, in the meantime, was retaliating to the fact that her friend considered her boring, by crying about everything and hunching into a grumpy ball at the end of the sofa. By the time The Husband got home I had my head in the drinks cabinet searching for a beverage that wouldn’t make me smell like a mad woman with a shopping trolley full of shoes.
The Husband casually took over with the aforementioned parental wisdom and calm that apparently has skipped my genetic structure altogether, and soon the two were asleep in bed. I was upstairs rocking back and forth with drool forming a rainbow to the floor.
The next morning was (BIG surpise) my morning shift so I was up with the two small humans at 6am. Yes, you read that correctly, SIX A.M. That is no normal time to be awake, unless you are about to travel to an exotic destination and need to be at the airport.
“I want my moooommy,” wailed OC, as I desperately tried to persuade her that the chocolate Wheetos were the same as Coc0 Pops and to stop Squidge from once again forming a ball-like huddle at the end of the sofa.
It was also when I discovered that fake tattoos (the ones you put on with a damp cloth and wash off after a bath) were the solution to all ills. With one flourish of a tattoo filled page smiles were returned to the faces of the two tots and I could once again return to worshipping my coffee mug.
While the rest of the sleepover was uneventful and painless I was struck with such sadness as to how the two children interacted. The OC is older than Squidge by a good six months and it shows. My little girl was born late July and is one of the youngest in her school. At a time when development can be measured in weeks, is this going to make her life harder? Would it have been better if she had been held back a year and been the oldest in her class? There are pluses and minuses for each decision but there is no going back now.
Still, it is hard to see other children boss her and roll their eyes at her because she isn’t at the same place as they are just yet. In fact it breaks my heart.
31 Mar 2011
by Tamsinin Parenthood Tags: Child, Fascinating, Husband, Squidge
This is possibly one of the funniest things my daughter has ever done and yesterday we figured out why she did it.
On Tuesday, while walking with The Husband to school, Squidge started telling him a story. The story was (according to The Husband) adorable and about a little girl who found a snail on the way to school.
The Husband was getting quite involved in the story until she stopped.
“Why have you stopped?” he asked her, “What happens next?”
She looked up at him and said, in a very firm voice, “You have to pay to hear the end…”
Hahahahaha
Genius.
And why the iPad? Because a couple of the “free” books I’ve downloaded for the iPad have gone halfway and said “Please pay to see the end“.
Today, as I walked Squidge to school, I made sure I had 2p in my pocket so I could pay to hear the end…
22 Mar 2011
by Tamsinin Slightly Insane Tags: Husband, Mommy, Turning 40
So yes. I had one. A midlife crisis. A full on mind blowing, heart bleeding ball of crap. I judged where I was in my life. My home. My weight. The singularity that has become my butt. It was pretty weird and intense.
I can see why people go slightly off the rails and wander off with hot Latino men on motorbikes. Although that seriously is not my cup of tea. The Husband drives me nuts but he is adorable.
I am vile at motorbikes, as my brother will tell you. When he tried to teach me I panicked, forgot where the brakes were and jumped off the bike. Sad, sad, sad.
So those options were out.
The next line of midlife crisising took me down the route of the pneumatic blonde. Yeah. Couple of issues there. Firstly I don’t have a secretary, much less a hot blonde one, and secondly I am not entirely sure that a faintly poor wordsmith is what those types go for. I’d need a BMW in my non-existent garage at the very least.
So it became a journey of thought. I read up about Woman vs. Midlife Crisis. I had meaningful baths. I ate cake. I ate even more cake (I now regret the cake). I shouted at things.
Then I decided to do one thing I have always wanted to do. I decided to get a dragon tattoo.
No. Not like the movie. I am older than her.
Since I was 12 I loved the Anne McCaffrey Pern series. I desperately wanted my own telepathic link with a dragon. I was gutted that they were not real. They transported me as I read, re-read and read them again and again.
I am re-reading them now. Again.
I realised that, at the tender age of 39-going-on-40 I could actually turn off my father’s voice in my head that said, “You will NOT get a tattoo!!” and actually just go and get a tattoo.
So I did. Last Saturday I went into the tattoo parlour and started the outline of my dragon.
Now it took planning. I didn’t just amble down the road and think, “Oooh needles!” and bounce gaily into the tattoo parlour, stripping clothes as I skipped.
Nope. I spent hours searching for the artists who did the cover art. Found the cover that had me mesmerised as a child. Printed it out, and the artist then adapted it for my back. The picture you see above is without a wing on the left, my tattoo has that wing.
It hurt. Ooooh that left shoulder hurt. No idea why it hurt more than the right, but it hurt.
I don’t think it makes me white trash, or weird (ok, it probably makes me weird) or any of the other stupid stereotypes attached to big tattoos. It makes me feel gorgeous and young and fabulous.
Below is the shot of my shoulder being tattooed by the artist. The needle looks very terrifying. Zoinks, as Scooby would say…
Next week I go in for the shading, and then the next week will be the colouring. I will share each stage. There will be no scabby, bleeding, shocking back shots. Ok? I have SOME self esteem. The shot below is a bit red but, hey, it isn’t bleeding or leaking. Look if you dare.
The red at the bottom is from sticky tape. Yeah, he wrapped me in clingfilm…
11 Mar 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum, Slightly Insane Tags: Blog, Husband, Mommy, Mother, Tired, Zombie
This is hilarious.
Boy I have been invisible of late. It’s amazing how busy things have been and how quickly I’ve come to neglect poor Saffa. You see, I have just launched another webiste and it has taken up all of my free time. The Canny Crafter is my little baby and it needs lots of TLC. Still massively in development, this site is my dream come true.
You know, one of those things that you think of and think of until one day you go, “If I don’t do this now I am going to have to take my head off and leave it somewhere.”
So off I went and did it. Boy is it scary. Scaaaaaary. I have a massively loud negative internal voice. Actually, if any of you know of a way of switching the bugger off, let me know. The voice says things like, “Rubbish” and “Pah” – a lot. Stupid voice.
I also need to thank (as if this is some kind of insane Oscar speech by a deranged lunatic) The Husband for his patience and help, and The Person for HER patience and help. I have always said that the two of them are like brother and sister from another mother, and the help they have given me (as well as the rolling of eyes) has proven that quite thoroughly.
Why the Invisible Mother? Because I am shattered. My poor offspring is spending a lot of time with a zombie. I even drool slightly. Yesterday I fell asleep on my keyboard. My computer (thanks Windows. Not…) rebooted thanks to updates and while I was waiting for it to restart itself I fell asleep. How sad is that.
So, here’s to your weekend! May it be full and fluffy and lovely. Mine is going to be about a wedding! C and K are getting married (they sound like a designer brand advert, snort) and The Husband and I are their photographers.
Yes, I also think they are NUTS for choosing me, but hey…
We are off to Bath for three days of shooting, bonding, chatting and laughing. And celebrating the marriage of two amazing humans. Wahoo!!!
I promise to update here more often, and to try and be more entertaining. Promise.
04 Feb 2011
by Tamsinin Slightly Insane Tags: Cake, Husband, Turning 40
It’s true. You did. And here is why…
You didn’t faint with amazement at the sight of my new haircut.
I am looking at you shop assistant with whom I have casual greeting acquaintance and with whom I exchange pleasantries. I look amazing. You should have said so. Next week I buy my bagel from someone else.
I did a whole 25 minutes on the step machine this morning, someone should have taken one look at me and gone, “I wish I was her.” Nobody did. That is why I am upset.
Elle, Marie Claire, Cosmo – not one editor strolled past me in my hurly burly urban life and asked me to be on the cover of their magazine because (and I quote), “You look fantastic for your age and no, it doesn’t matter that you don’t wear make-up.”
An agent hasn’t read my blog and offered me a book deal.
I discovered a new facial hair. One lonely bugger of a follicle sprouting quietly From A Mole. Like a bloody witch. Husband, yes, you, Husband, why didn’t you tell me? No sex for a month. You upset me with your failure to ensure that I don’t look like someone about hijack a broom.
Most of you are thinner than me. I understand that you don’t understand the art of eating cake but it isn’t that hard. Thin people let my cuddly self down. If we all ate cake then there would be no size zero to compare us to. It upsets me that none of you are noble enough to take responsibility for yourselves.
That is all.
01 Feb 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum, Parenthood Tags: Child, Husband, Mother, Saffa, South Africa, Squidge, Wee
I want to make friends with the natives, I do. I want them to envelop me in their English arms and feed me muffins and jam.
I have been actively stalking them at the school gate. And one poor innocent creature fell for my African charms. H is a lovely lady and her daughter is one of Squidge’s best friends. Squidge and G adore each other and I regularly have her over for playdates.
The first, and only, time H ever visited me my toilet blocked. Yes.
Yesterday it was our turn to visit her. Squidge was clean. She was well presented. I had brushed my hair and tried not to look like I’d had a one on one with a nearby shrubbery.
There I was, the playdate had just begun. Squidge was happily playing with G. I was happily chatting to H. Squidge came through with her stockings.
“They’re wet, Mama,” she says, and then gambols off.
It takes a good minute for the reality to sink in. The kids don’t have drinks yet, H is busy making them, so how did her stockings get WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE……
I urgently sidled out of the kitchen to find my child and discover the extent of the damage. Was it a little wee? A minor moment?
No.
It was a lake. It was a small lake on their carpet. And on their stool. And on the toy microphone.
So I ask you, what do you do? On your right is a child dripping and on your left is your new found friend person who will never speak to you again’s carpet.
I’ll admit. I vacillated. Sort of stood there quivering faintly to the left and then quivering faintly to the right.
H came through. The damage was revealed. I was instantly “Oh god, so sorry, I’ll clean it up. Let me just whip Squidge out of these clothes.”
Needless to say, by the time I’d changed Squidge, H had cleaned it all up.
Mortified
M.O.R.T.I.F.I.E.D
Do they warn you that you may lose all dignity? NO. Well, yes, in childbirth, sure. But afterwards???
And what was The Husband’s response to my fervent, anguished text?
“Is Squidge ok?”
(Of course she bloody was, it was the wee of: So Excited I Forgot To Go To The Loo Until It Was Too Late)
Am moving to Peru.
31 Jan 2011
by Tamsinin Slightly Insane Tags: Fail, Husband, Mommy, Work
Last week I…
- Accidentally called one a publishing house that regularly commissions me. While on the toilet.
- Sent an overly familiar email to a commissioning editor that made me sound like buck-toothed, horsey laughing nutjob. Am expecting restraining order in post any day now.
- In Poo Emergency #9986733 my removal of her clothing got aforementioned substance all over toilet, floor, clothes and me. Urgh.
- Replied to an email saying, “Grrrr, now what!” It was supposed to be forwarded. To The Husband. Reply from lady was remarkably restrained. Felt like a total twit.
- Tweeted a very personal opinion on the wrong twitter account.
- Ate too much cake
One is hoping that this week is better and that one’s visa to Abu Dabi comes through in time…
27 Jan 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum, Slightly Insane, The Blob Tags: Cake, Fat, Husband
I am, quite frankly, crap at dieting. I can’t walk past a bakery display without wanting to bury my head in the pecan tarts and go, “Whooobbble whoobble whooobbble“. Seriously.
I am also starting the very first chapter of CMA – Chocolate Mothers Anonymous. To be a member of this club you need to suffer the following symptoms.
- You eat really well during the day. In fact, you approach 6pm with a level of smugness that can only be seen on yoga instruction videos. You are The Master of Your Cravings.
- You collect your kids, you make dinner, you do a rudimentary tidy/dish wash/polish, you listen to The Husband’s day (your husband, not mine), you place your offpsring in bed, you sit down on the sofa and your entire body goes, “OOOFFF”.
- You sit on the sofa/chair/bed for approximately fifteen minutes. Then it starts….
- After twenty five minutes the desire for chocolate has reached the same level as a nagging itch in a place you just can’t reach.
- You prowl the kitchen. Nothing. Your smug shop during your smug day saw no fattening foods enter the trolley. Your house has fruit, nuts, vegetables and healthy snacks.
- You don’t want these but you manage a half-hearted nibble of a piece of fruit. The itch intensifies.
- An hour later you’re back on the sofa with a packet of chocolates, sweets, fudge which you bought from the nearest open shop.
- You may or may not share this packet with your husband.
- You will go out as late as 10pm to satisfy this urge.
So far there doesn’t appear to be a cure for this, ahem, disease but I’ve found that talking about it with other afflicted humans helps a great deal.
We have three members and have achieved nothing more than a level of competitiveness over who went to the shop the latest. 10:45pm is the winner. The winner chooses to remain anonymous.
20 Jan 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum, Parenthood Tags: Child, Husband, Mommy, Poo, Squidge, Wee
A lot like Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, this B-movie-esque drama had poor acting, rubbish special effects, and lots of screaming.
Squidge was sick. She had a raging fever that shot up to the enormously terrifying heights of 39.6. For two days I’d wrestled the thing armed with an alarm clock (to check on her every few hours), Calpol, Ibuprofen, and juice.
As Day Two of Hot Head dawned I realised it was time to take her poor little self off to the doctor. I called.
“Hey, my daughter has had a temperature of up to 39.6 for two days, we saw a doc last night and he said to call if she was still poorly.”
“Ah, yes, Mrs Oxford. I can see your notes. We’re going to need a urine sample so please bring one in.”
Urine sample
Two words designed to strike fear in the heart of any parent with a child under a certain age. Either the approaching bottle causes screams of horror and outrage that result in wee running down the toilet, your arm, your clothing and, occasionally, your face, OR they refuse to wee.
Being a human who knows that the bottle must be sterile, and being an incompetent and tired human who couldn’t be bothered to find out how on the interwebz, I decided to fill her up with juice and get a proper little bottle dude from the doctor.
When we get there I discover that they now cost 30p. “Sorry, but we have to pay for them now, so the charge is passed onto you.”
HA! 50p in pocket. I laugh in the face of hurdles. Is this the best that the Urine Sample can dish out? Mwaahahaha. etc.
Then, adopting the “I shall explain it all to you as we go so that hopefully you play along” parenting strategy I wave the bottle at Squidge and say, “Shall we go and see if you can wee in the bottle?”
Cue Option 1 of Urine Sample – crying, outrage, flailing and deep, deep parental embarrassment.
I dragged the now very unpleasant child to the loo while fixing a stupid grin to my face and saying calmly (well, I thought it sounded calm), “It will only take a second, please be brave. You can do it.”
The first toilet was a bust. Squidge disapproved of the colour of the walls. And by disapproved I mean, “NO I WILL NOT WEE IN THERE!”
I swear to god we scared the nice little old lady powdering her nose (not a euphemism, she was actually powdering her nose).
Finally I have Squidge on the toilet, I am kneeling in who knows WHAT on that floor, and I bring the bottle closer. It was like those alarms – bring it close, lots of squealing, take it away, noise abates. Eventually I whip it underneath her and she starts to wee.
All over my arm, my hands, my sleeves. Still, I thought, there is wee and there is a bottle underneath it – RESULT
Excitedly I whipped out the bottle to view my brilliance. There were about 1.4 drops. I stared at it and thought, this will just have to do. The end.
I also thought – you pillock.
The next 45 minutes (Doc was running late. WHY can’t they tell you that on the phone?) are happily spent playing with the toys. Then…
“Mommy, I need a wee.”
AWESOME
The bottle is whipped out, the child raced to the loo – I AM READY!
Urine sample, you are about to be defeated. THIS time I am the winner.
Amazingly there are no cries of outrage, no roars of disapproval, she lets me place the bottle in the correct position and we wait.
What happens next should not happen to anyone, ever. It’s not right, it isn’t.
A gigantic poo smashes into my hand knocking the 1.4 drops flying, the bottle into the toilet and me backwards in complete horror.
This time it was me screaming. But inside, yes, inside. It wouldn’t do to upset the child, would it?
When the doctor asked for the sample he got a flat stare and, “No sample. Don’t ask. Let’s move on.”
OF COURSE when The Husband came back the next day from his excursions in Zambia he got a sample without a sign of the Killer Poo.
Bastard.
12 Jan 2011
by Tamsinin Fascinating Things, Get Fit For Charity, Saffa Tags: Charity, Child, Exercise, Get Fit For Charity, Husband, Saffa, School
Photo stolen from The Husband
As you all know I started a Get Fit For Charity theme last year which, sadly, fell by the wayside as the month in South Africa, illness and work overload put it to the side. I’m not very good at exercising and dieting when I’m tired and under pressure so I failed to raise a cent for LearnAsOne.
However, a few months ago I had an extraordinary experience that defined 2010 for me – a woman working for a company I used to work for, contacted me via Facebook and told me that the aforementioned company owed me money. This was due to some law that was passed in SA and I ended up with an unexpected windfall of R24,000. A lot of money!
I swore that a portion of this money was to go to a charity. But I didn’t want to just donate to an organisation, I wanted to see my money actively change a life. So, I gave the money to The Husband as he was venturing back to Zambia and to the LearnAsOne project, and I asked him to give it to the school.
After buying some shoes for the kids, he also ended up donating the remaining money towards building and maintaining a nursery on the land. I honestly could not have asked for a more amazing investment. What an utter honour and privilege to be able to change young lives. It is incredible.
You can read the whole story on The Husbands blog, he reveals the ins and outs of the nursery and how it came about.
If you would like to help me keep this nursery going and these children educated, then please do donate to LearnAsOne. It doesn’t matter how much you donate, it really doesnn’t. Every teeny bit helps. The nursery is a part of the school project so any money donated will ensure that these kids keep on learning.
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