Or, more accurately, No-Sex and the Senile Mother, as this is very much the way things had been going for quite some time here at Axis Towers. It's almost three years since the Axis' dad took off, his heels scorching skid marks in the hallway, for pastures new (and chavvier, in my opinion, but what else would a newly dumped woman say?). Since I stopped working for the hellish Old Place, and started a far more reasonable job with a far more intelligent manager, I have been feeling, well, well. Unbelievable. As the previous post shows, I even started wearing make-up, and using the mirror. Obviously, what I saw was pretty appalling; after two children and years of neglectful self-care I look more like my grandmother than she probably does (God rest her soul). Dropping cheeks, one eye that looks permanently lop-sided, sparse and inconsistent eyebrows, an inexplicable clump of spots on the cheeks, and - worstest of all - the Mummy Tummy. Ugh. Hideous. Nothing can be done about the Mummy Tummy. I know that without even trying. (Of course, this might be part of the problem, but I'm too terrified by it to try and deal with it. Better to pretend it just isn't there.) The Mummy Tummy is truly horrid, flaccid handfuls of post-pregnancy stretched flesh, clinging on to your body despite your desperate wishes for it to just fall off. Of course, some people I know were leaving hospital, post-delivery, in their pre-pregnancy jeans. Good for them. I'm absolutely bloody delighted for them. I, however, was not. I have Never Been the Same Again.
Such a brutal knock to my confidence was caused by the MT that I also had decided I was probably going to spend the rest of my life alone. There's hardly a lot of talent around here in sunny SB - and besides, once Daddio left me a stranded single mother, several of my married friends politely but rapidly chose to cease and desist with the offers of dinner and drinks chez leurs (I know that that's not proper French) in case I chatted up their husbands. Ha! I wanted to shout; more fool you - I'm free now - I'm not going near any of those feckers EVER AGAIN, so don't you worry, sister (if sisterhood is, in fact, a concept that is anything other than alien to you). I mean, I had the Axis. I had a job that I and everyone else who worked there loathed in sufficient measure to require post-horror drinks on a regular basis to dissect the latest idiotic move by the management, therefore bonding many of us as close friends. I had great friends and neighbours. I had a garden. I did not need, nor want, nor ever plan to be ever again with, a man.
However, the weird, irrational, biological twitch cannot be controlled by sheer willpower, and sure enough, I began wondering about that chromosome-deficient half of the human race once again. Admittedly, it was in a stop-start-y kind of way, but then the inevitable happened: someone pointed out to me the usefulness of having someone else around to help control the Axis. I can't remember who; it might have been PregBF, it may have been GBF, but whoever it was, I began thinking, WHAT a good idea, fairly quickly. And also - someone who could reach things - how I missed the sheer reach of Daddio's 6'3" for opening windows, cleaning tops of cupboards (ha!) and such like! So it was to the internet - in particular, a certain broadsheet's dating site, the equivalent of the singles bar for over-30s who know their arancini from their armpit. Thus, I could specify. 5'12" and above, please. Certain level of education (ok, snobby, but with reason). No vegetarians. Must like guitar music and have at least heard of, if not have a vast collection of, Sub Pop vinyl and/or back issues of the NME (no later than 2002 though, that would be very sad). Over 30. Can complete this sentence: 'Punctured bicycle, on a hillside, desolate...'. Laughs loudly and often, can wink without looking like they should've gone to Specsavers, DOES NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES think 'Thatcher had a point', can wash their own pants AND fold them AND put them away, makes loud appreciative noises when sampling my cooking (which is faultless) and bloody well washes up afterwards. Oh, and also a chance to break my peculiar habit - notably, that every man I've ever been involved with has had more than a passing fondness for the old weed. Why? I don't, especially! Why do I go for them? At least on the internet I could filter out the bong-lovers.
Obviously, I didn't say any of this. Instead I went for the usual blarney about wanting someone I can connect with, someone who is kind and generous and enjoys life and blah blah blah blah blah. I may even have mentioned James Joyce. Honestly. Who gives a crap about James Joyce?
Quite deservedly, the male population of this particular site responded with a collective 'Meh.'. Too idiotic to mend my mistakes (which included a profile pic taken the day after the Kong had accidentally broken my nose - about which, more later, if you can stand the suspense), I dealt with it by checking the site daily and sulking at the lack of interest. Until, of course, I got an email from a man who seemed Just My Type - oooh, yes he did. Bit alternative. Quite intellectual. Tall, pale, Welsh, glasses, longish hair, same interests, correct spelling and grammar. And the best thing was - he was fit as a butcher's dog. Sporty but 'without the connotations that that term usually implies', or so he claimed, running, cycling, surfing, footballing and presumably, if he'd wanted to, pirouetting his way into my affections via some parma-violet prose. I was pretty convinced you can't do a half marathon in 1 hour 40 if you've been smoking up a storm the night before.
After a few messages we decided to meet. I summonsed Counsel Inc, who is also of South Asian extraction, round to discuss. 'Oooh,' said Counsel Inc. 'He's been to India. And...oh, God! He says no country has affected him as profoundly...bloody hell. You're going to spend your life cooking chapati in his kitchen while his mum and dad try to plot how to set fire to your sari and make it look like an accident and he does yoga in the front room instead of getting a job.' She peered more closely at the pictures. 'And I'd put money that any date with this guy will end in you smoking weed behind Caerphilly Castle. You're going to be high as a kite when you get home.' I protested feebly, but in truth I didn't really care. It didn't really matter what this guy was like (to some extent, obviously, for safety's sake, if he appeared at all mentally unstable, predatory or admitted to liking Robbie Williams I would be right outta there), this was a big, big step for me to take, and take it I would, as soon as humanly possible.
In the two weeks leading up to the big day I did more exercise than I have ever done in my life. Was it possible to get sporty in such a short time? I would find out. Nothing really happened, except my resting heart rate was lower. The Axis thought it most amusing that I could run up the path with them after a couple of days so got their scooters out to improve my speed, the encouraging coaches that they are - although 'COME ON FAT MUM!!!' may not have been the boost I was looking for...I laid off the booze (a bit), took some vitamin supplements and made a hideous face mask out of mashed bananas, a couple of eggs and some oatmeal. It did nothing. I considered making it into muffins but decided against. In the end I plucked, trimmed, buffed, smoothed, moisturised and polished myself until I was as silky and soft as the Kong's backside. Straight after a bath that is. Definitely not at any other time.
I was ready. I got on the train. The train arrived on time. I was on time. No! I was early! This never happens, how has this happened? I ring GBF in a panic. 'Help! Whaddoo I do? I'm early!' Relax, he said, how early? 'Ten minutes!' GBF gave a snort of derision. 'Ten minutes?! Well, for you, that's like a month, I suppose...shut your face, go get a coffee and sit down with that copy of the New Statesmen you've bought purely to show him you're intellectual.' I protested, feebly once more. 'I didn't get it for that! I just...never get much of a chance to read it these days...I...ok, yeah, I did. But where's the harm? A picture says a thousand words and there are lots more words and pictures inside so I reckon...' GBF sighs contemptuously and tells me to shut up and sit down. I do so, having first appraised the bartender. Nice, friendly, handsome-ish. Wonder if...? No, I cannot start looking with interest at every man I meet. Every bloke that comes in, I wonder, is that him? Until finally, he comes in. It must be him. Cute, tall, confident, chatting happily to the bartender. He looks over - and walks in the other direction. Then the guy behind comes up to me. 'Hello,' he says nervously, 'I think you might be my date.'
Wednesday, 21 November 2012
Monday, 19 November 2012
Paint It Black
Creative expression is very much in vogue and therefore encouraged here at Axis Towers. Having grown up in a somewhat repressive and restrictive environment, where mess and dirt were the enemy and any kind of stepping out of line was viewed with disproportionate disgust, I have renounced the creed of clean and decided not to punish for minor misdemeanours such as treading an entire box of crayons into the carpet or painting your little brother's face blue with a permanent marker. At times, though, I struggle to keep the long view in mind; that being, the Axis need to use all media to fully realise their potential, sometimes the short view (what-the-bloody-hell-have-you-done-to-my-furniture/walls/ceiling) wins out. And the look of sheer greedy glee when they spy an unopened box of chunky, fat crayons, powdery chalks or perfectly pointy pencils will raise a smile in most, so I guess it's worth it.
It's a common reaction, and one I've recently begun to display with regard to make-up. I made it through the best part of 30 years with the barest minimum of slap, but now that I'm being run ragged daily by the vicissitudes of life, a bit of warpaint seems a reasonable and sensible step. Quite why I think that some glorified poster paint can hide the sunken eyes, puffy cheeks and disturbingly shapeshifting jaw, I do not know, but I'm happy to attempt to fool myself, and everyone else. It started when I had a few hours to kill before a wedding; I wandered into a Mac stand in Glasgow and was immediately confronted with a tiny South African goth who looked almost exactly like a fairy, gossamer wings 'n' all. Staring at the different but unidentifiable pigments, utterly confused, I asked her for foundation. 'What sort?' '...' She sighed in exasperation. 'If you want me to help you, you have to tell me what you want.' I blinked at her, mildly, like a cow in a reverie whilst chewing its cud. She tutted and sighed again. 'OK. Do you want dewy? My skin is dewy. Do you want it to look like this?' I nodded, dumbly, and she pulled out a brush and began dabbing away with something wet and a bit over-brown that made me look like I'd just been swimming in a chocolate fountain. Somehow I plucked up the courage to inform her that I was a bit old for the wet-look. We settled on something that worked pretty well, I handed over a week's worth of lunch money, and that, I thought, would be that for another year.
However...for some reason, I've become completely infatuated with it. The little bottles, tubes and pots; the voluptuousness of a new kohl pencil; the velvet softness of a wet powder eyeshadow; the fact that my brown skin carries purple as a blusher much better than as an eye colour. I wander round the cosmetics stands of high-street chemists, stroking eye crayons, oohing and aahing at nail paint, sampling testers of different primers. All at once, the colours and textures calm and comfort, excite and embolden. I keep thinking of new ways to paint myself, to warp the bare foundation of what is there and make it into something prettier, more symmetrical, with the beholder's gaze drawn to the points I want it to be drawn to. Control.
'Ooooooooh,' said the Axis when, having broken through the complex set of biometric security controls with which I guard my bedroom, they espied the pretty little collection of £1.29 tiny pots, tubes and bottles. 'NO,' I said, as fiercely and with as much intent as I could. They reached upwards eagerly, feeling at the little glittery tubs much in the same way as I did. 'Mum, what is it?' I tried to explain. 'Well, it's like paint, but for Mummy.' The Pie looked confused. 'Are you going to turn blue?' 'No, son. It's...well. It's to make my eyes sparkle, and...and...to make me look pretty.' I pick up a brush. 'Look. This helps my eyes. I look rough today.' The Pie is shaking his head, blinking his ridiculously beautiful and lush long black eyelashes, coveted by several of my female friends. 'No, Mum. You don't.' How touching. 'You always look the same Mum. I know, 'cos I've been with you for a long time now, five years, and you always have looked the same.' Er... 'Thanks, Pieface! I think...'. Bless him.
Later comes the backlash. An advert for the shampoo I use comes on, featuring a bird with long, glossy hair flicking it around for no particular reason. The Axis are entranced. Pie turns to me quizzically. 'Mum. Why don't you buy stuff like that?' Oh, I do son. That's the one I buy. Instantly, I realise I should never have responded, as the vile child rejoins thus, predictably: 'Why doesn't your hair look like that then?' Grrrr...well. Because you have clean uniform every day and don't eat McDonalds for your tea, amongst other things, my Piefaced Child. And I wouldn't have it any other way, but at some point I'm going to have to sort it out, because...well.
Because I'm going on a date, that's why. Horrors.
It's a common reaction, and one I've recently begun to display with regard to make-up. I made it through the best part of 30 years with the barest minimum of slap, but now that I'm being run ragged daily by the vicissitudes of life, a bit of warpaint seems a reasonable and sensible step. Quite why I think that some glorified poster paint can hide the sunken eyes, puffy cheeks and disturbingly shapeshifting jaw, I do not know, but I'm happy to attempt to fool myself, and everyone else. It started when I had a few hours to kill before a wedding; I wandered into a Mac stand in Glasgow and was immediately confronted with a tiny South African goth who looked almost exactly like a fairy, gossamer wings 'n' all. Staring at the different but unidentifiable pigments, utterly confused, I asked her for foundation. 'What sort?' '...' She sighed in exasperation. 'If you want me to help you, you have to tell me what you want.' I blinked at her, mildly, like a cow in a reverie whilst chewing its cud. She tutted and sighed again. 'OK. Do you want dewy? My skin is dewy. Do you want it to look like this?' I nodded, dumbly, and she pulled out a brush and began dabbing away with something wet and a bit over-brown that made me look like I'd just been swimming in a chocolate fountain. Somehow I plucked up the courage to inform her that I was a bit old for the wet-look. We settled on something that worked pretty well, I handed over a week's worth of lunch money, and that, I thought, would be that for another year.
However...for some reason, I've become completely infatuated with it. The little bottles, tubes and pots; the voluptuousness of a new kohl pencil; the velvet softness of a wet powder eyeshadow; the fact that my brown skin carries purple as a blusher much better than as an eye colour. I wander round the cosmetics stands of high-street chemists, stroking eye crayons, oohing and aahing at nail paint, sampling testers of different primers. All at once, the colours and textures calm and comfort, excite and embolden. I keep thinking of new ways to paint myself, to warp the bare foundation of what is there and make it into something prettier, more symmetrical, with the beholder's gaze drawn to the points I want it to be drawn to. Control.
'Ooooooooh,' said the Axis when, having broken through the complex set of biometric security controls with which I guard my bedroom, they espied the pretty little collection of £1.29 tiny pots, tubes and bottles. 'NO,' I said, as fiercely and with as much intent as I could. They reached upwards eagerly, feeling at the little glittery tubs much in the same way as I did. 'Mum, what is it?' I tried to explain. 'Well, it's like paint, but for Mummy.' The Pie looked confused. 'Are you going to turn blue?' 'No, son. It's...well. It's to make my eyes sparkle, and...and...to make me look pretty.' I pick up a brush. 'Look. This helps my eyes. I look rough today.' The Pie is shaking his head, blinking his ridiculously beautiful and lush long black eyelashes, coveted by several of my female friends. 'No, Mum. You don't.' How touching. 'You always look the same Mum. I know, 'cos I've been with you for a long time now, five years, and you always have looked the same.' Er... 'Thanks, Pieface! I think...'. Bless him.
Later comes the backlash. An advert for the shampoo I use comes on, featuring a bird with long, glossy hair flicking it around for no particular reason. The Axis are entranced. Pie turns to me quizzically. 'Mum. Why don't you buy stuff like that?' Oh, I do son. That's the one I buy. Instantly, I realise I should never have responded, as the vile child rejoins thus, predictably: 'Why doesn't your hair look like that then?' Grrrr...well. Because you have clean uniform every day and don't eat McDonalds for your tea, amongst other things, my Piefaced Child. And I wouldn't have it any other way, but at some point I'm going to have to sort it out, because...well.
Because I'm going on a date, that's why. Horrors.
Thursday, 30 August 2012
The Gender Agenda
Many people who know them profess the Axis to be the most boy-like boys they have ever met, with more than one friend describing them as 'slugs and snails and puppy dogs tails' little boys. Yet the gruesome pair are indeed in touch with with their feminine side. Kinda...Here are three ways in which gender identity has reared its head recently at Axis Towers:
1. Anything Pink: The Axis love pink. They look pretty damn good in it, too, the multicultural metrosexuals they indubitably are. Pie rocks a mean fuchsia t with a dinosaur motif, while the Kong is cool in pastels and peaches. A couple of years ago, Pie was so into pink that I saw a cup at Tate St Ives that was bright pink, had lots of different textures on it, a photo of a neon sign flashing 'PINK' and a pink china doll on. Naturally, I got it for him. It's still his favourite cup, and it is pretty darn awesome. As he is away with his dad, I was cradling it fondly when my GBF came round. GBF sniffed disdainfully at the gorgeous article, muttered 'isn't that a girl's cup?' then slouched off outside with an ever-so-manly roll-up while I huffed and puffed inside. Right then, GBF, that's another lump of coal in your Christmas stocking...
2. Modes of (Ad)Dress: Recently we were at a school fete, about which, more later, once the lawsuits have subsided. At this joyful event there were several stalls, all of which are designed to rob you of all the small change produced in the national mint this year with the speed and dexterity of a Victorian pickpocket. I gave the Axis a miniscule amount of shrapnel and some centimes left over from a 1996 French exchange trip and sent them off to do their worst. Sure enough, within a couple of minutes the following exchange occurred.
Stallholder: (propelling Pie forward) Are you this boy's mother?
Me: Depends...
Stallholder: He says he has to call you 'Sir'.
Me: I...er...
Stallholder: I told him not to be so cheeky but he's quite adamant.
Noah: Sir! Sir! I did as I told you Sir! May I have a drink now Sir please Sir!
OK, so there is a reason for this. Recently there was a co-ordinated operation to clean the Axis' bedroom. It required military planning and precision, and the little toads would not do a thing I said. In order to get their attention, I told them that from now on, they were to address me as 'Sir' or I wouldn't do anything they wanted. They took great delight in this, and adapted happily to the new Peppermint Patty-style gender-confused moniker. Unfortunately as I was explaining this to the unconvinced member of the PTA (which fascist society, as any self-respecting parent of schoolies knows, has all the understanding and empathy of the Spanish Inquisition on an off day), the Kong had decided to spend some of his money, on a very fetching little hairbrush and slide set, which he purchased from an apparently seriously short-sighted pensioner (these are another abundant feature of the joys of school fetes). Said older lady beamed happily at him and said to me 'Isn't she going to look lovely? Look what good care she takes of her hair!'. Undeterred, the Kong, resplendent in the most boy-ful clothes he possesses, beamed back, unwrapped the hairbrush and proceeded to roundly attack his brother with it, sending him fleeing, howling, into the middle of the taekwondo demonstration going on in the Year 1 playground. Several cracked clay slabs later we were advised to leave the area before any further action was taken. Axis ejected, once more.
3. Messianic Complexes: The Kong was lying in the bath, hair flowing out behind him like a halo, when I discovered the water had gone dangerously cold and asked him to get out. 'No.' Why not, el Kongerone? 'Because I'm the little baby Jesus.' What? He fetched his flannels and stuck them all over his body. 'Look. Got cloths wrapped round all tightly. Heh heh heh heh heh heh.' Sunday school appears to have backfired. I then overheard Kong chatting with one of his little (female) friends at nursery: Kong: I'm the little baby Jesus. Friend: No I'M the little baby Jesus. Kong: No you can't, cos you're a girl. Friend: Jesus was a girl too. And a boy. Kong: Like my grandad?
Holy macaroni.
1. Anything Pink: The Axis love pink. They look pretty damn good in it, too, the multicultural metrosexuals they indubitably are. Pie rocks a mean fuchsia t with a dinosaur motif, while the Kong is cool in pastels and peaches. A couple of years ago, Pie was so into pink that I saw a cup at Tate St Ives that was bright pink, had lots of different textures on it, a photo of a neon sign flashing 'PINK' and a pink china doll on. Naturally, I got it for him. It's still his favourite cup, and it is pretty darn awesome. As he is away with his dad, I was cradling it fondly when my GBF came round. GBF sniffed disdainfully at the gorgeous article, muttered 'isn't that a girl's cup?' then slouched off outside with an ever-so-manly roll-up while I huffed and puffed inside. Right then, GBF, that's another lump of coal in your Christmas stocking...
2. Modes of (Ad)Dress: Recently we were at a school fete, about which, more later, once the lawsuits have subsided. At this joyful event there were several stalls, all of which are designed to rob you of all the small change produced in the national mint this year with the speed and dexterity of a Victorian pickpocket. I gave the Axis a miniscule amount of shrapnel and some centimes left over from a 1996 French exchange trip and sent them off to do their worst. Sure enough, within a couple of minutes the following exchange occurred.
Stallholder: (propelling Pie forward) Are you this boy's mother?
Me: Depends...
Stallholder: He says he has to call you 'Sir'.
Me: I...er...
Stallholder: I told him not to be so cheeky but he's quite adamant.
Noah: Sir! Sir! I did as I told you Sir! May I have a drink now Sir please Sir!
OK, so there is a reason for this. Recently there was a co-ordinated operation to clean the Axis' bedroom. It required military planning and precision, and the little toads would not do a thing I said. In order to get their attention, I told them that from now on, they were to address me as 'Sir' or I wouldn't do anything they wanted. They took great delight in this, and adapted happily to the new Peppermint Patty-style gender-confused moniker. Unfortunately as I was explaining this to the unconvinced member of the PTA (which fascist society, as any self-respecting parent of schoolies knows, has all the understanding and empathy of the Spanish Inquisition on an off day), the Kong had decided to spend some of his money, on a very fetching little hairbrush and slide set, which he purchased from an apparently seriously short-sighted pensioner (these are another abundant feature of the joys of school fetes). Said older lady beamed happily at him and said to me 'Isn't she going to look lovely? Look what good care she takes of her hair!'. Undeterred, the Kong, resplendent in the most boy-ful clothes he possesses, beamed back, unwrapped the hairbrush and proceeded to roundly attack his brother with it, sending him fleeing, howling, into the middle of the taekwondo demonstration going on in the Year 1 playground. Several cracked clay slabs later we were advised to leave the area before any further action was taken. Axis ejected, once more.
3. Messianic Complexes: The Kong was lying in the bath, hair flowing out behind him like a halo, when I discovered the water had gone dangerously cold and asked him to get out. 'No.' Why not, el Kongerone? 'Because I'm the little baby Jesus.' What? He fetched his flannels and stuck them all over his body. 'Look. Got cloths wrapped round all tightly. Heh heh heh heh heh heh.' Sunday school appears to have backfired. I then overheard Kong chatting with one of his little (female) friends at nursery: Kong: I'm the little baby Jesus. Friend: No I'M the little baby Jesus. Kong: No you can't, cos you're a girl. Friend: Jesus was a girl too. And a boy. Kong: Like my grandad?
Holy macaroni.
Sunday, 5 August 2012
I'd love to stay here and be normal. But it's just so overrated
It was bound to happen at some point, but I've finally taken the big leap into the unknown. No, I've not put the Axis up for adoption. I've put myself up for a new job, and, by golly, I got it. Lord only knows what I can expect, and as far as the boys are concerned. very little has changed. I guess I'm shouting at them less (30% as opposed to 60% of the time); only every third knock at the door might credibly be social services, and there's a lot more singing, dancing, playing of instruments and generally fuckwittery in the house. All of which, if you're a five or three year old boy, is to be welcomed.
What's less welcome is the lack of cash. However, this primarily impacts on me, as the Axis are highly adept and unaware shoplifters (I'm kidding). No, really, this is all part of the adventure of single parenthood. Being ingenious about how you make money is all part of it. Most ingenious of all is how you hide your lack of readies from your less impoverished friends. No-one is as boring as a skint friend, and keeping up appearances becomes more important the less you're able to do it. True friends will love you anyway, will come round and drink BIERE instead of beer and will suffer the vileness that is your bathroom and carpets without complaint, but they are few and far between (mainly concentrated around the Glasgow area last time I looked).
However, it remains that I live in a particular part of Bristol, that I attend a particular church and that I am a particular kind of cantankerous old bitch. I must admit, I like it that way. I never had any authority before. I doubt I have much now, judging by the way the Axis grin at me when I try to tell them off. I pity the world before them; the charm they possess is out of all proportion to the havoc they may wreak. The Pie is essentially my family distilled in a beautiful, charming, intelligent and engaging individual; the boy is sheer delight from the moment he wakes to the moment he sleeps (if you can get him to shut up for the odd second here or there), incredibly talented, could master anything he turned his hand to. The Kong is all the best bits of his father; moody, stroppy, seductive, witty, lovable, verbose, cerebral, adoring and just so utterly scrumptious you can forgive him anything and follow him around the world if he wants you too (except to south Bristol. I mean, there are limits). But I have spent the past four years cultivating my image as a respectable and safe maiden of the church, and I think it's finally paying off - one of the other church parents of kids my age (who normally avoid me like the plague in case I try and get off with their husbands) asked me to the cinema next week! Does this mean I'm finally accepted or that I've succeeded in appearing to be utterly sexless? The one is acceptable and the other is a disaster, and I for one am not sure which would be which.
I go out to dinner with a friend. She is a wonderful, wonderful woman; intelligent, incredibly talented, one of the most hardworking people I've ever met. My family, all nurses or other immigrant workers, would be mightily impressed with her. Yet she apologises for everything; for having a hard job, and talking about it; for having too much pressure on her, and talking about it; for apologising. I can't understand it, then I realise that several years ago, I was her. Working constantly, completely dedicated, consumed by the desire to know; all admirable things, but ouch, you have to give a lot to pursue it. These days, I'm more selfish. I've succumbed to the fuck-it factor, as another ice-cream loving chum puts it. I listen to Blur playing Beetlebum at Maida Vale 15 years after it came out and still feel pained like I did then.
But I'm lucky. I can look at my Kongie boy's black, black eyes; I can listen to him shouting he wants his brother; I have them both swarming me and saying how much they love me, how I'm the best mummy in the whole world (fools!); we sit together and play drums, guitars and the piano and make it sound halfway decent; we have a life together, a family life, a life including sound and vision and toys blocking U-bends and ACDC and helicopters and zumba and cricket and the Tyne, Forth and Cromarty. I look at my beautiful boys and know what a lucky so and so I am; how I don't deserve anything as wonderful, as pure, as truly amazing as they are, and how much I hope they don't waste time trying to impress fools who aren't worthy of them, which I think we all do. I wish we didn't. I wish I didn't. I hope they don't.
What's less welcome is the lack of cash. However, this primarily impacts on me, as the Axis are highly adept and unaware shoplifters (I'm kidding). No, really, this is all part of the adventure of single parenthood. Being ingenious about how you make money is all part of it. Most ingenious of all is how you hide your lack of readies from your less impoverished friends. No-one is as boring as a skint friend, and keeping up appearances becomes more important the less you're able to do it. True friends will love you anyway, will come round and drink BIERE instead of beer and will suffer the vileness that is your bathroom and carpets without complaint, but they are few and far between (mainly concentrated around the Glasgow area last time I looked).
However, it remains that I live in a particular part of Bristol, that I attend a particular church and that I am a particular kind of cantankerous old bitch. I must admit, I like it that way. I never had any authority before. I doubt I have much now, judging by the way the Axis grin at me when I try to tell them off. I pity the world before them; the charm they possess is out of all proportion to the havoc they may wreak. The Pie is essentially my family distilled in a beautiful, charming, intelligent and engaging individual; the boy is sheer delight from the moment he wakes to the moment he sleeps (if you can get him to shut up for the odd second here or there), incredibly talented, could master anything he turned his hand to. The Kong is all the best bits of his father; moody, stroppy, seductive, witty, lovable, verbose, cerebral, adoring and just so utterly scrumptious you can forgive him anything and follow him around the world if he wants you too (except to south Bristol. I mean, there are limits). But I have spent the past four years cultivating my image as a respectable and safe maiden of the church, and I think it's finally paying off - one of the other church parents of kids my age (who normally avoid me like the plague in case I try and get off with their husbands) asked me to the cinema next week! Does this mean I'm finally accepted or that I've succeeded in appearing to be utterly sexless? The one is acceptable and the other is a disaster, and I for one am not sure which would be which.
I go out to dinner with a friend. She is a wonderful, wonderful woman; intelligent, incredibly talented, one of the most hardworking people I've ever met. My family, all nurses or other immigrant workers, would be mightily impressed with her. Yet she apologises for everything; for having a hard job, and talking about it; for having too much pressure on her, and talking about it; for apologising. I can't understand it, then I realise that several years ago, I was her. Working constantly, completely dedicated, consumed by the desire to know; all admirable things, but ouch, you have to give a lot to pursue it. These days, I'm more selfish. I've succumbed to the fuck-it factor, as another ice-cream loving chum puts it. I listen to Blur playing Beetlebum at Maida Vale 15 years after it came out and still feel pained like I did then.
But I'm lucky. I can look at my Kongie boy's black, black eyes; I can listen to him shouting he wants his brother; I have them both swarming me and saying how much they love me, how I'm the best mummy in the whole world (fools!); we sit together and play drums, guitars and the piano and make it sound halfway decent; we have a life together, a family life, a life including sound and vision and toys blocking U-bends and ACDC and helicopters and zumba and cricket and the Tyne, Forth and Cromarty. I look at my beautiful boys and know what a lucky so and so I am; how I don't deserve anything as wonderful, as pure, as truly amazing as they are, and how much I hope they don't waste time trying to impress fools who aren't worthy of them, which I think we all do. I wish we didn't. I wish I didn't. I hope they don't.
Tuesday, 5 June 2012
Bloodied but unbowed
The past few months have been frankly hellish here at Axis Towers; indeed, I feel relieved and lucky that we still remain here at Axis Towers, and the only silver lining has been that I've had a lot more time and attention to lavish on the gruesome twosome. As you might well imagine, this has been repaid not with affection and the rapid completion of chores, but with ever-louder bellows for 'JUUUUUICE! MUUUUM!!!' (Pie) and an increasingly lax attitude to using the toilet as opposed to the carpet (Kong). Following the Bank Holiday to celebrate 60 years of QEII, I decided to take stock of the Axis' more irksome activities over the past four days, and have come up with the following highlights:
1. Spreading of substances: In particular, anything brown and sticky, which includes bits of chewed-up stick and anything else more noxious that fits that description. The Kong's ingenuity and an unprecedented growth spurt meant that the vile pair were able to clamber upon the kitchen worktop and scoop Nutella out of the jar with their fingers. Kong then trailed his hands across the walls all the way from the kitchen to his bedroom (two floors up). This alone was bad enough, but the fact that he stopped off at the lavvy en route meant I had to sniff each metre of stained wall to determine whether bleach or mere Flash was the more appropriate detergent. Disgusting.
2. Gratuitous dropping of small and sharp objects: Now, I know that this is a torture common to most parents, but the Axis have taken it to a whole new level with the entropic nature of their object-dropping. Per square foot, it is not unusual to find bricks/puzzle pieces/game pieces etc belonging to more than 10 different toys, none of which can be easily located in the quick 5-minute bedtime tidy. Net result - shove the lot in cupboard for Axis to have ready access to missiles when they lure their friends round.
3. Honesty: 'Why doesn't Daddy live with us any more, Mummy? Is it cos you keep on being a bitch to him?' Obviously I went suitably ape at this particular incident, although I didn't consider the perpetrator to be the poor old Pie but the more obviously immature Daddio, whose chavtastic tastes in potential stepmothers for the Axis has caused enough of a knock to my self-esteem to ensure I spend every Saturday night from hereon in sat in front of World's Craziest Fools eating whatever Nutella remains directly from the jar with a spoon. Unexpectedly, the worst thing about their honesty is that it shows up my copied-from-Supernanny disciplinary methods for the ill-considered cod child development it obviously is...Me: 'Kong! You have been put on the naughty step for smacking your brother round the head with Buzz Lightyear/crapping in the flowerbed/streaking naked down Stoke Hill and causing a pile-up of pensioners. That is naughty behaviour. Are you going to stop it and be a good boy?' Kong: 'No.' 'Nuff said...
4. And finally...GOING ON. AND ON. AND *&*^ING ON. I don't need to elaborate on this. It's wearing me just describing it.
I mean, there are lots of good things they do too. Pie doing his streetdance classes and worshipping astronauts and rock guitarists. Kong telling everyone to come to his birthday and insisting on wearing a crown for the entire day for his actual birthday. And then there's the many times a day when I get a nice cuddle from them and they shout 'love you Mum' before running off to do something heinous, even when I'm a snivelling wreck from all the other crapulousness going on. But let's be honest, no-one wants to hear about that. Nothing impresses me as much as my boys' capacity for creative thinking/horrendous mischief. And I suspect it's the thing most of my mates like best about them, too.
1. Spreading of substances: In particular, anything brown and sticky, which includes bits of chewed-up stick and anything else more noxious that fits that description. The Kong's ingenuity and an unprecedented growth spurt meant that the vile pair were able to clamber upon the kitchen worktop and scoop Nutella out of the jar with their fingers. Kong then trailed his hands across the walls all the way from the kitchen to his bedroom (two floors up). This alone was bad enough, but the fact that he stopped off at the lavvy en route meant I had to sniff each metre of stained wall to determine whether bleach or mere Flash was the more appropriate detergent. Disgusting.
2. Gratuitous dropping of small and sharp objects: Now, I know that this is a torture common to most parents, but the Axis have taken it to a whole new level with the entropic nature of their object-dropping. Per square foot, it is not unusual to find bricks/puzzle pieces/game pieces etc belonging to more than 10 different toys, none of which can be easily located in the quick 5-minute bedtime tidy. Net result - shove the lot in cupboard for Axis to have ready access to missiles when they lure their friends round.
3. Honesty: 'Why doesn't Daddy live with us any more, Mummy? Is it cos you keep on being a bitch to him?' Obviously I went suitably ape at this particular incident, although I didn't consider the perpetrator to be the poor old Pie but the more obviously immature Daddio, whose chavtastic tastes in potential stepmothers for the Axis has caused enough of a knock to my self-esteem to ensure I spend every Saturday night from hereon in sat in front of World's Craziest Fools eating whatever Nutella remains directly from the jar with a spoon. Unexpectedly, the worst thing about their honesty is that it shows up my copied-from-Supernanny disciplinary methods for the ill-considered cod child development it obviously is...Me: 'Kong! You have been put on the naughty step for smacking your brother round the head with Buzz Lightyear/crapping in the flowerbed/streaking naked down Stoke Hill and causing a pile-up of pensioners. That is naughty behaviour. Are you going to stop it and be a good boy?' Kong: 'No.' 'Nuff said...
4. And finally...GOING ON. AND ON. AND *&*^ING ON. I don't need to elaborate on this. It's wearing me just describing it.
I mean, there are lots of good things they do too. Pie doing his streetdance classes and worshipping astronauts and rock guitarists. Kong telling everyone to come to his birthday and insisting on wearing a crown for the entire day for his actual birthday. And then there's the many times a day when I get a nice cuddle from them and they shout 'love you Mum' before running off to do something heinous, even when I'm a snivelling wreck from all the other crapulousness going on. But let's be honest, no-one wants to hear about that. Nothing impresses me as much as my boys' capacity for creative thinking/horrendous mischief. And I suspect it's the thing most of my mates like best about them, too.
Monday, 21 November 2011
Law and Order
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'.
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'.
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.
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