Working as I do in the criminal justice system, there are times when I have reason to pause and wonder: just what exactly made this young man (and it usually is a young man) like this? Was it a childhood full of neglect, a mother or father who used bad language at them, shouted at the top of their voice at them, made unreasonable demands or expectations? Was it living in poverty, being from a broken home, a godless life in a selfish country?
Thank the Lord, I think smugly, that I am not like that. No no, I am a paragon of motherliness, loving, serene, ever-patient, attentive and kind. My bairns do not misbehave, they 'challenge the boundaries'. They have no 'evil streaks', they are merely human. All these judgements, failings, complaints and desperate acts are misdemeanours of which others are guilty. They have no place in my parenting repertoire. Ahem. Yeah. That's right...
Axis Towers, approx 7.32pm. There has been much singing, dancing, general merriment and smearing of Nutella on newly laundered sofa covers. I've asked, cajoled, ordered and begged - with nil resultat. Finally I've had enough. I take a deep breath and summon up a motherly roar: 'Will you PLEASE put your SODDING underpants in the SODDING dirty bin and get in your SODDING BED NOAH!' The cavorting Pie stops mid locomotion and says, in mock shock 'Mum! You naughty! You said 'sodding'! You can't say that! It's NAUGHTY!' I'm too cross to come up with a mature response, and I'm (slightly) ashamed to admit I just said this: 'Yeah, Pie? And WHATCHAGONNADOABOUTIT?'
Pie eyeballs me. There is a surprising amount of steel in his gaze. Quick as a flash he responds: 'I'll tell the police.' He waits, a smile forming very slowly, for my reaction. I crack, and burst into hysterical laughter. 'You little...' 'Mum! Don't say it!'
The little toad. He follows this up on the way to school the next day. Having done his darnedest to get out of going to school ('I'm ill/I'm not supposed to go in today/I think perhaps I'll just go two days a week') he resorted to the inevitable 'but Muuuuuuum, WHYYYYYY?' at which I told him that he had to go to school or the police would arrest me. Perhaps this was a little short-sighted of me, but I was very, very exasperated by this point. In fact, I think a little me-time in the cells at Trinity Road nick might have been not unpleasant, all things considered.
However, to reach Pie's school from our house there is a relatively long, single track lane. It isn't wide enough for two, and if you get stuck behind a dawdling five year old and his whingeing lump of a toddler brother, you're nigh on forced to listen to their conversation. Which, this morning, went a little like this:
Pie: Mum, the police aren't going to come and get you, are they?
Me: What! Shush, boy.
Pie: Cos I'm going to school. I'm only going to school for you, Mum. To stop the police from coming to get you. That's how much I love you.
Me: (forced laughter) Eh-he-heh, um, yes. How funny you are. (Aside) OK, you can put a sock in it, now.
Pie: I don't want the police to arrest you and put you in jail, Mum!
Me: (desperately) Shut UP, Noah.
Pie: Cos what will happen to me and my little brother?
Kong: Yeeeeah! I his little brudder! Poor Leo! Dat me! You carry me now?
Me: I don't know, Noah, but if you don't shut up soon, we're all going to find out...
Later on that day, I decide to treat the Axis to a fish and chip tea at the relatively new chippie up the road. I reckon a large pile of grease and batter might soak up some of their excess energy and help them adopt the docile temperament of these obese, lethargic children we're always reading about in the press. The Axis could do with a bit of lethargy, so, forgoing the carrot sticks and quinoa, off we trot.
This turns out to be a BIG mistake. So tinged with horror was the whole event that I cannot bring myself to recollect it in detail. Suffice to say, after the Kong was retrieved from the top of the menu board and the shop owner confirmed his insurance covered him for 'slipped on a chip' injuries, whether said chip was strategically placed by rambunctious Pie or not, we legged it back up the road in a ragtag fashion, me with one boy under each arm, them clutching a styrofoam box filled with clammy bounty. At this point one of the other mums from school came the other way and started waving and smiling. The smile faded as we got closer. Her own two children, the same age as mine, were strolling quietly side by side, in step with their mother. They had no ketchup in their hair. Neither of them had recently been cause for a call to the non-emergency police number. And there was nothing dripping or oozing from either of them. How jealous I was.
'I was just going to take mine for tea to that new chippie,' she said, looking nervously at the half dangling, half swaying Axis, just about still in my grasp, and baying for blood (or perhaps just chips). 'But if that's the effect that food has on them...'
I hoist the Axis a little higher, prompting little yelps of protest that I found oddly gratifying. 'Oh no,' I reply. 'The food doesn't do this to them. They haven't had any yet.' And with that, I march the Axis back to our house, put them down outside next to the bins and pray for a bit of peace. When I come back they have smeared their food all over the outside wall of the house. Resisting the temptation to smear them alongside it, they are once more swiftly dunked in tepid water and dispatched to bed. And lucky old Mummy gets to spend the evening hosing down the house so as not to attract vermin. Perhaps that should be 'any more vermin'.
Monday 21 November 2011
Wednesday 9 November 2011
Punchdrunk Lovesick Singalong
(...there is a prize for anyone who can tell me where the title of this post comes from. )
There is no telling where the Axis' loyalties to one another may stand or fall. They need close monitoring in case World War 3 breaks out most of the time; occasionally, they will be so affectionate to each other it goes beyond endearing and spills right over into nauseating. For example, over half term, I had cause to send the following text message: 'Apols Pie cannot come to lunch today because has punched brother in face. Blood (nose). Pie grounded. Sys'. Then, just as I was mulling over how to best punish errant Pie, the Axis suddenly decided they must be together at all costs, even at night: 'Leo has to sleep in MY bed. I WANT him. I just LOVE him. And when I grow up I want to MARRY him!' The Kong nodded vigorously: 'Yeah. Yeah. Wuv you Woah, lots and lots.' All this said whilst clutching each other in what had started off as a headlock and was now most definitely an embrace. Stinking pair. I slung each in his own bed, ignored the screams of agonising separation and swanned off. The next morning, Pie got up to use the bathroom and Kong promptly jumped on his bed, cradled Noah's monkey and started singing a beautiful song (well. I'm sure it's beautiful to someone). And how did Pie receive this token of adoration from his beloved brother?
'GET OFF MY BED! AND DON'T TOUCH MY MONKEY!'
That's more like it. Phew.
There is no telling where the Axis' loyalties to one another may stand or fall. They need close monitoring in case World War 3 breaks out most of the time; occasionally, they will be so affectionate to each other it goes beyond endearing and spills right over into nauseating. For example, over half term, I had cause to send the following text message: 'Apols Pie cannot come to lunch today because has punched brother in face. Blood (nose). Pie grounded. Sys'. Then, just as I was mulling over how to best punish errant Pie, the Axis suddenly decided they must be together at all costs, even at night: 'Leo has to sleep in MY bed. I WANT him. I just LOVE him. And when I grow up I want to MARRY him!' The Kong nodded vigorously: 'Yeah. Yeah. Wuv you Woah, lots and lots.' All this said whilst clutching each other in what had started off as a headlock and was now most definitely an embrace. Stinking pair. I slung each in his own bed, ignored the screams of agonising separation and swanned off. The next morning, Pie got up to use the bathroom and Kong promptly jumped on his bed, cradled Noah's monkey and started singing a beautiful song (well. I'm sure it's beautiful to someone). And how did Pie receive this token of adoration from his beloved brother?
'GET OFF MY BED! AND DON'T TOUCH MY MONKEY!'
That's more like it. Phew.
Monday 23 May 2011
Bloomin' Marvellous
It's quite a lonely life being a single mum to two ratbags like the Axis. Except, of course, when they go to their dad's for a couple of days. Then it's a veritable social whirlwind with parties, drink, chattering and general shouting and jumping about. I was recovering from just one such weekend this morning when I popped the telly on for the Pie as the Kong was in bed.
'Oooh Mum! Mr Bloom's on!' shouts the Pie, wickedly. I blush involuntarily. Mr Bloom is a CBeebies character who has an allotment, is obsessed with the correct composition of compost and grows cabbages. He dresses like the Wurzels, is in dire need of a decent haircut, probably is partial to a couple of pints of scrumpy and has a very dubious accent anchored somewhere in the north west corner of England. Men like this tend to make my heart flip when they near. Needless to say, I have a sizeable crush on TV's Mr Bloom. The Pie seems to have picked up on this as he is grinning in a most unseemly manner. 'Muuuuum?'
'Yes, Pie?'
'Is Mr Bloom your favourite?' Dammit.
'Sort of, Pie.'
'Whyyyyy?'
Why? Well, Pie, where do I start? Could it be that his kindly yet confident manner is a sure vote-winner with all but the most hardened of women? Or that his unintentional grubbiness signals a childlike disrespect for artifice that can only invoke a response of 'aaaahhhh, bless'?
The Pie is still looking at me expectantly. I steel myself.
'Well, Pie, Mr Bloom ALWAYS tells the truth. And he doesn't pretend. And...you know where you are with him. '
Pie opens his mouth, stops, frowns, looks puzzled, then speaks. 'Are we in Heaven with him, Mummy?' Clearly, Sunday School has sunk through more than I thought. I pretend not to hear.
The subject of honesty raises its head, somewhat inevitably, all week. Pie tells a little white lie and I come down on him like a ton of bricks. I hate lies. Or, at least, I say I do. Pie doesn't understand why his lie about hitting Kong was worse than him actually hitting Kong. I can't explain it. Instead, I flip out, tell him off, then go in the kitchen and burst into tears. What is going on?
I look at the kitchen calendar. It's 10 (count 'em) years since my mum died next weekend. I wish I could go to sleep and wake up on July 1st, so I miss the rest of June, which is always hell. I ring my aunt in America. She says how much she misses her little sister. I hang up feeling even lonelier than before. How she'd love to have me over, she says. I don't really believe her. It's a safe thing to say, is that, when you're talking to someone 5,000 miles and a similar number of dollars away. I look at pictures from 10 years ago and contemplate ringing my old boss, or possibly some of the friends I had then, but it wouldn't make any sense, and it's something I've got to deal with alone.
I approach the Pie, sitting on the naughty step, and instead of the usual reproaches I grab him and clutch him tight. This, I think, frightens him more than any scolding ever could. He starts to protest. 'But Mum, I DO love Leo, I just...Mum?' I am weeping now, trying to hide my sobs but clinging to my darling boy, my firstborn, bringer of chaos and Lego and chocolate handprints on newly painted walls. His brother, the bemused completer, blinks belligerently at us over the safety gate and shouts our names, unintelligibly to all other observers, but all too audibly to us. Pie puts a hand up to my head and strokes my hair, softly saying 'Mum! Mum, it's ok. Did you lose your rhino? Shall I look for your rhino?' I grab him harder, breathe deep and say 'yes, son. Yes, I did. But I think she's upstairs, now. Don't worry.'
'Oooh Mum! Mr Bloom's on!' shouts the Pie, wickedly. I blush involuntarily. Mr Bloom is a CBeebies character who has an allotment, is obsessed with the correct composition of compost and grows cabbages. He dresses like the Wurzels, is in dire need of a decent haircut, probably is partial to a couple of pints of scrumpy and has a very dubious accent anchored somewhere in the north west corner of England. Men like this tend to make my heart flip when they near. Needless to say, I have a sizeable crush on TV's Mr Bloom. The Pie seems to have picked up on this as he is grinning in a most unseemly manner. 'Muuuuum?'
'Yes, Pie?'
'Is Mr Bloom your favourite?' Dammit.
'Sort of, Pie.'
'Whyyyyy?'
Why? Well, Pie, where do I start? Could it be that his kindly yet confident manner is a sure vote-winner with all but the most hardened of women? Or that his unintentional grubbiness signals a childlike disrespect for artifice that can only invoke a response of 'aaaahhhh, bless'?
The Pie is still looking at me expectantly. I steel myself.
'Well, Pie, Mr Bloom ALWAYS tells the truth. And he doesn't pretend. And...you know where you are with him. '
Pie opens his mouth, stops, frowns, looks puzzled, then speaks. 'Are we in Heaven with him, Mummy?' Clearly, Sunday School has sunk through more than I thought. I pretend not to hear.
The subject of honesty raises its head, somewhat inevitably, all week. Pie tells a little white lie and I come down on him like a ton of bricks. I hate lies. Or, at least, I say I do. Pie doesn't understand why his lie about hitting Kong was worse than him actually hitting Kong. I can't explain it. Instead, I flip out, tell him off, then go in the kitchen and burst into tears. What is going on?
I look at the kitchen calendar. It's 10 (count 'em) years since my mum died next weekend. I wish I could go to sleep and wake up on July 1st, so I miss the rest of June, which is always hell. I ring my aunt in America. She says how much she misses her little sister. I hang up feeling even lonelier than before. How she'd love to have me over, she says. I don't really believe her. It's a safe thing to say, is that, when you're talking to someone 5,000 miles and a similar number of dollars away. I look at pictures from 10 years ago and contemplate ringing my old boss, or possibly some of the friends I had then, but it wouldn't make any sense, and it's something I've got to deal with alone.
I approach the Pie, sitting on the naughty step, and instead of the usual reproaches I grab him and clutch him tight. This, I think, frightens him more than any scolding ever could. He starts to protest. 'But Mum, I DO love Leo, I just...Mum?' I am weeping now, trying to hide my sobs but clinging to my darling boy, my firstborn, bringer of chaos and Lego and chocolate handprints on newly painted walls. His brother, the bemused completer, blinks belligerently at us over the safety gate and shouts our names, unintelligibly to all other observers, but all too audibly to us. Pie puts a hand up to my head and strokes my hair, softly saying 'Mum! Mum, it's ok. Did you lose your rhino? Shall I look for your rhino?' I grab him harder, breathe deep and say 'yes, son. Yes, I did. But I think she's upstairs, now. Don't worry.'
Monday 25 April 2011
Great Eggspectations
I am having a few days off from the Axis, who have gone to stay with their father over the Easter weekend. It was pointed out to me by some observant soul that I haven't written anything yet this year; is it because the Axis have been exceedingly well-behaved and thus I am running a little short of subject matter? Alas, not so. Where to begin? Perhaps the days preceding this wondrous and temporary exodus would be a good start...
In common with all parents of small children I have great worries over sleep. Now, the Axis aren't too bad at going to sleep and staying asleep - probably because of the horrendous and active commotion they sustain while awake - but they are little pigs when they are tired in the day. Whining, moaning, demanding sweets, kicking things - the only way to shut them up is to remove them from the house. Last Sunday I was facing a whole afternoon of such horror when the phone rang. It was my lovely friend Susie who has two girls the same age as the Axis. The four of them get along famously, which is probably why last summer we decided to chuck them all in the bath together after a day rolling in mud, which delighted the Axis and horrified the wailing girls. Today, however, Susie was staring down the barrel of the same gun as me and was ringing in the hope that we could better manage the children as a herd. She proposed taking the scooters down to the city farm cafe. Pigs and coffee are two of my favourite things so I didn't hesitate. 'We'll leave now,' I confidently assured her. Yeah, right.
As I put down the phone I turned around and saw a quieted, but slightly sheepish-looking Kong holding an empty plastic cup. 'Kongie! Did you drink all your water? You good boy!' Kong grinned a wolfish, unnerving grin. 'YEH!' he screeched. I looked around and saw an enormous wet patch on the sofa. Was it the water? Or was it...something else? I approached with caution and sniffed. Phew. Only water. But still - better soak it up before leaving.
I went in search of a tea towel to mop up the offending mess. When I got back the Kong was holding the phone and was shouting into it. He'd put it on loudspeaker, so I could hear what was going on. I assumed he'd hit redial and got my dad, and continued with the mopping. Suddenly I froze in horror at the voice's next words: 'I said, what service do you require? Police, fire, ambulance? Hello? Hello?'
Wretched Kong had rung 999. I grabbed the phone and cut it off, swearing. Then I remembered that, unsurprisingly, the Pie had done the exact same thing at a very similar age, and that, if the operator gets no response, they ring back the number until they do. What to do? Obviously I couldn't ring 999 in an attempt to explain my wayward infant's emergency phonecalls. I would have to wait.
After about 20 minutes, during which the Kong had to be changed into dry clothes twice as a result of his insistence on sitting on the puddle he'd created, it became clear that the Chancellor's axe had indeed fallen on our brothers and sisters in the emergency services and as a result, the Kong and I were in the clear. More muttered curses ensued as I shoehorned the Axis into the car and sped off.
When we arrived, Susie was sitting on the wall in front of her house, trying to placate a whining Older Girl and contain a wriggling Smaller Girl. Lots of mad apologies ensued as Susie tried to reassure me that it was fine and I apologised for being late again: 'It was the Kong...just after I got off the phone to you, he threw a glass of water all over the floor. While I was cleaning it up, he rang 999.' Although I was smiling, my heart was sinking. Susie didn't believe me. I'm not sure I did, either.
In common with all parents of small children I have great worries over sleep. Now, the Axis aren't too bad at going to sleep and staying asleep - probably because of the horrendous and active commotion they sustain while awake - but they are little pigs when they are tired in the day. Whining, moaning, demanding sweets, kicking things - the only way to shut them up is to remove them from the house. Last Sunday I was facing a whole afternoon of such horror when the phone rang. It was my lovely friend Susie who has two girls the same age as the Axis. The four of them get along famously, which is probably why last summer we decided to chuck them all in the bath together after a day rolling in mud, which delighted the Axis and horrified the wailing girls. Today, however, Susie was staring down the barrel of the same gun as me and was ringing in the hope that we could better manage the children as a herd. She proposed taking the scooters down to the city farm cafe. Pigs and coffee are two of my favourite things so I didn't hesitate. 'We'll leave now,' I confidently assured her. Yeah, right.
As I put down the phone I turned around and saw a quieted, but slightly sheepish-looking Kong holding an empty plastic cup. 'Kongie! Did you drink all your water? You good boy!' Kong grinned a wolfish, unnerving grin. 'YEH!' he screeched. I looked around and saw an enormous wet patch on the sofa. Was it the water? Or was it...something else? I approached with caution and sniffed. Phew. Only water. But still - better soak it up before leaving.
I went in search of a tea towel to mop up the offending mess. When I got back the Kong was holding the phone and was shouting into it. He'd put it on loudspeaker, so I could hear what was going on. I assumed he'd hit redial and got my dad, and continued with the mopping. Suddenly I froze in horror at the voice's next words: 'I said, what service do you require? Police, fire, ambulance? Hello? Hello?'
Wretched Kong had rung 999. I grabbed the phone and cut it off, swearing. Then I remembered that, unsurprisingly, the Pie had done the exact same thing at a very similar age, and that, if the operator gets no response, they ring back the number until they do. What to do? Obviously I couldn't ring 999 in an attempt to explain my wayward infant's emergency phonecalls. I would have to wait.
After about 20 minutes, during which the Kong had to be changed into dry clothes twice as a result of his insistence on sitting on the puddle he'd created, it became clear that the Chancellor's axe had indeed fallen on our brothers and sisters in the emergency services and as a result, the Kong and I were in the clear. More muttered curses ensued as I shoehorned the Axis into the car and sped off.
When we arrived, Susie was sitting on the wall in front of her house, trying to placate a whining Older Girl and contain a wriggling Smaller Girl. Lots of mad apologies ensued as Susie tried to reassure me that it was fine and I apologised for being late again: 'It was the Kong...just after I got off the phone to you, he threw a glass of water all over the floor. While I was cleaning it up, he rang 999.' Although I was smiling, my heart was sinking. Susie didn't believe me. I'm not sure I did, either.
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