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.
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
Strawberry Milk
Ah, the dark days of the end of December. When no-one really wants to go in to work but grumblingly does so because the boss might be in, taking note of the empty desks and seeing if they marry to the annual leave sheet. When the sale scrummage is at its' worst, and women furiously pull £7 pairs of skinny jeans off the shelves like they're going out of fashion (which they are). When small children up and down the country have pulled over the Christmas tree, broken their new toys and are resorting to pummeling each other for entertainment - this is generally when their parents scream ENOUGH! and drag them to a soft play for the day.
For those who haven't been lucky enough to attend one of these places, soft plays are essentially padded cells the size of an aircraft hangar, filled to the brim with plastic crap and punchbags shaped like giant pirates and dubiously-scented ball pools with dribbling children leaking all over the bloody place. They are usually in some trading estate on the outskirts of town, are completely deprived of natural light, and are some of the only remaining places where you can buy chicken-in-a-basket with no sense of irony whatsoever. They are at once wholly depressing and highly anxiety-making, so I tend to attend only when I've had a few good days with my medication (you can see parents new to this experience reaching for the Prozac after about 12 minutes' exposure).
Nevertheless, children (obviously) love it, and the Axis are no exception. The problem is, they get so excited that by the time we get to the desk to pay our admission, they are usually already on the verge of getting chucked out. This time it was because the Kong kept lungeing for the till, presumably in the hope that whacking it, hard, would get him some kind of privileged access. It got him nothing, but got me a frosty glare from the clearly hungover teenage girl on the till. I simpered as best I could and willed the boys to look cute, not realising that the Pie was constructing some sort of artificial barrier across the entrance so that no-one could get past him and his brother. I grabbed both boys, assumed the position (one boy under each arm like a rugby ball) and marched into soft play hell.
Once in, I was relieved to see that there were literally hundreds of other boot-faced mums whose offspring were screaming and charging about like they couldn't believe their luck, and a few dads who don't generally come to these things, but as it's Christmas, well, it's all about the children, innit? Therefore, the idiot fathers had 'reserved' tables in the cafe by sticking their stupid anoraks and copies of the Daily Mail on the chairs, with the net result that there was nowhere free for the Axis and me to eat our lunch. In desperation I installed them at an empty-ish table, only to be faced with a red-visaged skinhead Meader, who reluctantly agreed to 'let' us sit there to eat our lunch, provided we didn't spill anything on his stuff. If he hadn't looked immeasurably harder than me, and the kind of bloke who'd have no problem whacking a woman in full view of a bunch of kids, I'd have told him he didn't own the table and to move his crap so we could sit down, but obviously, I didn't. I then spent lunch in a state of high anxiety about the Axis' propensity to chuck food anywhere they could, which reached a climax as I caught the Kong raising his arm high in order to dispense strawberry milk all over the assembled Meaders.
In my panic I grabbed the nearest thing I could think of to deflect this jet of lactal horror and amazingly, it worked. However, it soaked the Kong's back in strawberry milk, and, as a howl went up from the Pie, I discovered it had been his treasured Thomas the Tank Engine magazine that had paid the ultimate sacrifice and shielded us from the wrath of the Mead. I dried off the Kong as best I could and returned to the soft play, dumping them both unceremoniously in the ball pool and praying like mad they'd stay there. They didn't, of course. The Pie was off up Death Mountain (which is supposed to be for eight year olds up - the Pie is not yet four) and the Kong was ambling around, leaking from the nose and mouth and grinning hideously like Frankenstein's monster at all the mums and dads. Several times the following exchange happened:
Mum or Dad: What a cute little boy.
Kong: HHHHURUUUURRRGGHHHHNNN!
M/D: Awww. (Distastefully) Oooh! Did you know your little boy's got a wet bottom?
Me: It's not urine. It's strawberry milk.
M/D: Oh. Right. (Thinking: Yeah, and I bet his poo smells of roses, love).
When I noticed the Pie preparing to throw himself after a bowling ball towards some actual skittles, I decided to grab him and return him to the toddler area. Now, the toddler area has a new rule that you have to be under a metre tall to play in there. This is totally ridiculous as the Pie is well over a metre tall, but is only three, whereas some shrimpy kids I know have reached the age of five and not managed to surpass about two foot. The Pie and I approached the gate and - oh joy of joys! - it was now being manned by the same surly teenage girl whom the Kong had attempted to charm so ill-advisedly at the entrance. She clocked the Pie and smiled out of the side of a mouthful of metal.
'He can't go in there,' she announced smugly.
'Oh. Why not?'
'Because that's the toddler area.'
'But he's been in there before.'
'I know. But he shouldn't have been. And now he can't go in there.'
'Why?'
Now, I knew perfectly well that it was either because the Pie was too tall, or too old. But when faced with this sort of blank-faced refusal to back statements with logic, something strange happens to me. It used to happen to me at school when given pointless orders by dinnerladies. It happens now when some git at the council refuses to accept that my council tax has been paid, over and over again. And it was happening now. I knew what the reason was; I just wanted to make her say it. Awful, ain't it?
The Pie made to run off but I held firm to his shoulders. 'Sorry, why?'
'What colour wristband has he got on?'
'Silvery-coloured.'
'Well, silver can't go in there.'
'But WHY NOT?'
She was getting exasperated now. I could see the Kong, just beyond the gate, frolicking in the Elysian Fields of the ball pool. We stared at each other and finally she grabbed the Pie's wrist. Then she rolled her eyes at me.
'That wristband's not silver. That wristband is METALLIC GREY. Metallic grey can go in there. Off you go, sweetie!' I couldn't believe it. Then she continued: 'By the way, I think your other little one's wet himself.'
'He hasn't,' I said, realised I was losing Mum credibility as I spoke. 'It's strawberry milk.'
'Oh. Right,' she replied.
After another hour or so, during which time I busted not one, but two dads attempting to have a snooze on the bouncy castle, I declared the day over and began the slow process of ejecting the Axis from the building. I handed in the entry stubs and the soft play staff graciously conceded that yes, the Axis were in fact my own children (worse luck). Then I retrieved the shoes, coats, hats and bags and attempted to stick each item in a reasonably fixed position on each child. Unfortunately, so were the other hundred thousand parents in the place and it quickly descended into chaos. On the way out I noticed the Pie had a toy plane, a packet of crisps and some Milky Way stars in his pockets that he hadn't got from me. A tap on the shoulder revealed the items' true owner, who in turn handed me a Dora the Explorer whistle that the Pie had dropped. I thanked the mum in question, who said 'No problem. By the way, I think your little one's looking a bit wet in the bottom area.'
'He's not. It's strawberry milk.'
'Oh. OK.'
I managed to stick the Axis in the car when the phone rang. It was work, asking for the laptop I had taken home with me so I could work at home while I was off. Ha! It was still in the boot. Off to the other side of town, with the boys snoring like pigs in the back of the car. Excellent, I thought. I'll just nip in, drop the cursed thing off and then get home before they wake up.
Of course, it was not to be. The Pie awoke as I turned the engine off, screeched his displeasure, waking the Kong, and I had to drag them both into the office. As luck would have it, one of my least favourite colleagues was there to witness the ensuing carnage of my two screaming boys.
'Oh, we were wondering where that had gone,' she said, eyeing the laptop. 'You had it ages, didn't you?'
'NO,' I said, trying not to sound too defensive, whilst trying to keep a grip on the wriggling Kong and stop Noah jamming paperclips into the printer.
'Oooh, I think the little one's wet himself, poor little thing. Didn't you notice?'
I was about to explain, but I'd had enough.
'No! Has he really?' I said in amazement, and plonked the soaking child flat down on her desk, to a look of most satisfying horror from her and the rest of the office. Ha!
For those who haven't been lucky enough to attend one of these places, soft plays are essentially padded cells the size of an aircraft hangar, filled to the brim with plastic crap and punchbags shaped like giant pirates and dubiously-scented ball pools with dribbling children leaking all over the bloody place. They are usually in some trading estate on the outskirts of town, are completely deprived of natural light, and are some of the only remaining places where you can buy chicken-in-a-basket with no sense of irony whatsoever. They are at once wholly depressing and highly anxiety-making, so I tend to attend only when I've had a few good days with my medication (you can see parents new to this experience reaching for the Prozac after about 12 minutes' exposure).
Nevertheless, children (obviously) love it, and the Axis are no exception. The problem is, they get so excited that by the time we get to the desk to pay our admission, they are usually already on the verge of getting chucked out. This time it was because the Kong kept lungeing for the till, presumably in the hope that whacking it, hard, would get him some kind of privileged access. It got him nothing, but got me a frosty glare from the clearly hungover teenage girl on the till. I simpered as best I could and willed the boys to look cute, not realising that the Pie was constructing some sort of artificial barrier across the entrance so that no-one could get past him and his brother. I grabbed both boys, assumed the position (one boy under each arm like a rugby ball) and marched into soft play hell.
Once in, I was relieved to see that there were literally hundreds of other boot-faced mums whose offspring were screaming and charging about like they couldn't believe their luck, and a few dads who don't generally come to these things, but as it's Christmas, well, it's all about the children, innit? Therefore, the idiot fathers had 'reserved' tables in the cafe by sticking their stupid anoraks and copies of the Daily Mail on the chairs, with the net result that there was nowhere free for the Axis and me to eat our lunch. In desperation I installed them at an empty-ish table, only to be faced with a red-visaged skinhead Meader, who reluctantly agreed to 'let' us sit there to eat our lunch, provided we didn't spill anything on his stuff. If he hadn't looked immeasurably harder than me, and the kind of bloke who'd have no problem whacking a woman in full view of a bunch of kids, I'd have told him he didn't own the table and to move his crap so we could sit down, but obviously, I didn't. I then spent lunch in a state of high anxiety about the Axis' propensity to chuck food anywhere they could, which reached a climax as I caught the Kong raising his arm high in order to dispense strawberry milk all over the assembled Meaders.
In my panic I grabbed the nearest thing I could think of to deflect this jet of lactal horror and amazingly, it worked. However, it soaked the Kong's back in strawberry milk, and, as a howl went up from the Pie, I discovered it had been his treasured Thomas the Tank Engine magazine that had paid the ultimate sacrifice and shielded us from the wrath of the Mead. I dried off the Kong as best I could and returned to the soft play, dumping them both unceremoniously in the ball pool and praying like mad they'd stay there. They didn't, of course. The Pie was off up Death Mountain (which is supposed to be for eight year olds up - the Pie is not yet four) and the Kong was ambling around, leaking from the nose and mouth and grinning hideously like Frankenstein's monster at all the mums and dads. Several times the following exchange happened:
Mum or Dad: What a cute little boy.
Kong: HHHHURUUUURRRGGHHHHNNN!
M/D: Awww. (Distastefully) Oooh! Did you know your little boy's got a wet bottom?
Me: It's not urine. It's strawberry milk.
M/D: Oh. Right. (Thinking: Yeah, and I bet his poo smells of roses, love).
When I noticed the Pie preparing to throw himself after a bowling ball towards some actual skittles, I decided to grab him and return him to the toddler area. Now, the toddler area has a new rule that you have to be under a metre tall to play in there. This is totally ridiculous as the Pie is well over a metre tall, but is only three, whereas some shrimpy kids I know have reached the age of five and not managed to surpass about two foot. The Pie and I approached the gate and - oh joy of joys! - it was now being manned by the same surly teenage girl whom the Kong had attempted to charm so ill-advisedly at the entrance. She clocked the Pie and smiled out of the side of a mouthful of metal.
'He can't go in there,' she announced smugly.
'Oh. Why not?'
'Because that's the toddler area.'
'But he's been in there before.'
'I know. But he shouldn't have been. And now he can't go in there.'
'Why?'
Now, I knew perfectly well that it was either because the Pie was too tall, or too old. But when faced with this sort of blank-faced refusal to back statements with logic, something strange happens to me. It used to happen to me at school when given pointless orders by dinnerladies. It happens now when some git at the council refuses to accept that my council tax has been paid, over and over again. And it was happening now. I knew what the reason was; I just wanted to make her say it. Awful, ain't it?
The Pie made to run off but I held firm to his shoulders. 'Sorry, why?'
'What colour wristband has he got on?'
'Silvery-coloured.'
'Well, silver can't go in there.'
'But WHY NOT?'
She was getting exasperated now. I could see the Kong, just beyond the gate, frolicking in the Elysian Fields of the ball pool. We stared at each other and finally she grabbed the Pie's wrist. Then she rolled her eyes at me.
'That wristband's not silver. That wristband is METALLIC GREY. Metallic grey can go in there. Off you go, sweetie!' I couldn't believe it. Then she continued: 'By the way, I think your other little one's wet himself.'
'He hasn't,' I said, realised I was losing Mum credibility as I spoke. 'It's strawberry milk.'
'Oh. Right,' she replied.
After another hour or so, during which time I busted not one, but two dads attempting to have a snooze on the bouncy castle, I declared the day over and began the slow process of ejecting the Axis from the building. I handed in the entry stubs and the soft play staff graciously conceded that yes, the Axis were in fact my own children (worse luck). Then I retrieved the shoes, coats, hats and bags and attempted to stick each item in a reasonably fixed position on each child. Unfortunately, so were the other hundred thousand parents in the place and it quickly descended into chaos. On the way out I noticed the Pie had a toy plane, a packet of crisps and some Milky Way stars in his pockets that he hadn't got from me. A tap on the shoulder revealed the items' true owner, who in turn handed me a Dora the Explorer whistle that the Pie had dropped. I thanked the mum in question, who said 'No problem. By the way, I think your little one's looking a bit wet in the bottom area.'
'He's not. It's strawberry milk.'
'Oh. OK.'
I managed to stick the Axis in the car when the phone rang. It was work, asking for the laptop I had taken home with me so I could work at home while I was off. Ha! It was still in the boot. Off to the other side of town, with the boys snoring like pigs in the back of the car. Excellent, I thought. I'll just nip in, drop the cursed thing off and then get home before they wake up.
Of course, it was not to be. The Pie awoke as I turned the engine off, screeched his displeasure, waking the Kong, and I had to drag them both into the office. As luck would have it, one of my least favourite colleagues was there to witness the ensuing carnage of my two screaming boys.
'Oh, we were wondering where that had gone,' she said, eyeing the laptop. 'You had it ages, didn't you?'
'NO,' I said, trying not to sound too defensive, whilst trying to keep a grip on the wriggling Kong and stop Noah jamming paperclips into the printer.
'Oooh, I think the little one's wet himself, poor little thing. Didn't you notice?'
I was about to explain, but I'd had enough.
'No! Has he really?' I said in amazement, and plonked the soaking child flat down on her desk, to a look of most satisfying horror from her and the rest of the office. Ha!
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
Germicidal Maniacs
It's been a horrid few months at Axis Towers. The little boys have both had a selection of illnesses, which has involved much wiping, scrubbing and cursing on my part. All three of us are now resigned to spending Christmas with our senses muted thanks to congestion in the head. I'm not sure, however, that either of the Axis had much else there in the first place.
Yesterday was my birthday, and the Axis' father kindly volunteered to take them for the day so I could have lunch with my friends. How nice of him, I thought. What I didn't realise was that he was going out on the lash the night before, so it was really just a way of him taking a day off work and making himself look good. Thus he turned up two hours late and I was hopping mad, having received the only kind of present the Kong knows how to produce and not liking it one iota.
The Pie had been asking for cough syrup. Admittedly, he did have a rather persistent cough, so I succumbed. Unfortunately it made him instantly vomit up his breakfast. Cursing and swearing, I cleaned him, and it, up, and then made him a nice cup of hot Ribena while attempting to stop his brother from wading through the mess and redecorating the house with it. Towards the end of this episode, my brother rang up. My brother is young, single and childless, and is very proud of his very lovely and tidy flat. Rather unfortunately for him, he is also very devoted to his two hideous nephews, which puts him in agonising quandaries as he watches them lay waste mercilessly to everything in sight. I explained their latest outrage to him on the phone and could almost hear him wince and grimace.
'Your house sounds a bit...' he sounded nervous.
'What?'
'Well...(longish pause) gross.'
He's right, I thought. It is gross. And has a swamplike quality to it. The laundry has been mounting for months, and even though I do about three loads a day, the Axis manage to keep the pile growing with their emissions. The kitchen has absolutely no worktop space so constantly looks like a bomb's hit it. And the living room looks like a giant softplay after a weekend of kids' parties. And then there's the noise; the constant, relentless moaning (which is me) and the Axis' unremitting demands for drink! telly! food! Mummeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
'It's not that bad,' I say, wondering if he can hear the desperation in my voice. 'I mean, I have people round.' Hmm, yes, but only when the Axis have been at nursery and I've taken the day off to disinfect the place. Just then the Kong lurched into sight, grinned at me, turned puce and...
'What the hell was that?' asked my brother, sounding suspicious.
'Um...what?' I said, as innocently as I could manage.
'That...squelching noise. What was it?'
'Nothing!' I trilled. 'Gotta go -byeeee!'
A pox on that vile Kong! All the scrubbing in the world wouldn't sort this out. I rang my neighbour and asked her if I could borrow the magic carpet steam cleaner machine thingy. She brought it round and, while she was comforting the poorly Axis (for whom illness seems to be no barrier to consuming junk food and scaling the bookcases) I attempted to shampoo the carpet. Something had gone badly wrong with the magic carpet steam cleaner machine thingy, however, and the room was soon filled with the smell of week-old chicken gravy.
'Phoooooooar,' said the Pie, wafting the air in front of his face and screwing his nose up in camp disgust. 'Mummy, that stinks.' I rolled the rug up and shoved it behind the bins down the side of the house where it will stay til I can take it, and the five broken tellies in the garage, to the tip. After that I spent half an hour sat in the kitchen eating crisps and wondering how long I could hide from the Axis. I'm going to take myself to the tip if this doesn't stop soon.
Yesterday was my birthday, and the Axis' father kindly volunteered to take them for the day so I could have lunch with my friends. How nice of him, I thought. What I didn't realise was that he was going out on the lash the night before, so it was really just a way of him taking a day off work and making himself look good. Thus he turned up two hours late and I was hopping mad, having received the only kind of present the Kong knows how to produce and not liking it one iota.
The Pie had been asking for cough syrup. Admittedly, he did have a rather persistent cough, so I succumbed. Unfortunately it made him instantly vomit up his breakfast. Cursing and swearing, I cleaned him, and it, up, and then made him a nice cup of hot Ribena while attempting to stop his brother from wading through the mess and redecorating the house with it. Towards the end of this episode, my brother rang up. My brother is young, single and childless, and is very proud of his very lovely and tidy flat. Rather unfortunately for him, he is also very devoted to his two hideous nephews, which puts him in agonising quandaries as he watches them lay waste mercilessly to everything in sight. I explained their latest outrage to him on the phone and could almost hear him wince and grimace.
'Your house sounds a bit...' he sounded nervous.
'What?'
'Well...(longish pause) gross.'
He's right, I thought. It is gross. And has a swamplike quality to it. The laundry has been mounting for months, and even though I do about three loads a day, the Axis manage to keep the pile growing with their emissions. The kitchen has absolutely no worktop space so constantly looks like a bomb's hit it. And the living room looks like a giant softplay after a weekend of kids' parties. And then there's the noise; the constant, relentless moaning (which is me) and the Axis' unremitting demands for drink! telly! food! Mummeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
'It's not that bad,' I say, wondering if he can hear the desperation in my voice. 'I mean, I have people round.' Hmm, yes, but only when the Axis have been at nursery and I've taken the day off to disinfect the place. Just then the Kong lurched into sight, grinned at me, turned puce and...
'What the hell was that?' asked my brother, sounding suspicious.
'Um...what?' I said, as innocently as I could manage.
'That...squelching noise. What was it?'
'Nothing!' I trilled. 'Gotta go -byeeee!'
A pox on that vile Kong! All the scrubbing in the world wouldn't sort this out. I rang my neighbour and asked her if I could borrow the magic carpet steam cleaner machine thingy. She brought it round and, while she was comforting the poorly Axis (for whom illness seems to be no barrier to consuming junk food and scaling the bookcases) I attempted to shampoo the carpet. Something had gone badly wrong with the magic carpet steam cleaner machine thingy, however, and the room was soon filled with the smell of week-old chicken gravy.
'Phoooooooar,' said the Pie, wafting the air in front of his face and screwing his nose up in camp disgust. 'Mummy, that stinks.' I rolled the rug up and shoved it behind the bins down the side of the house where it will stay til I can take it, and the five broken tellies in the garage, to the tip. After that I spent half an hour sat in the kitchen eating crisps and wondering how long I could hide from the Axis. I'm going to take myself to the tip if this doesn't stop soon.
Saturday, 4 September 2010
That Sinking Feeling
The Axis have been unusually quiet, due to a selection of illnesses incurred during a bank holiday weekend spent mostly outdoors in the rain. However, they perked up quick enough and have obviously decided to spend the last couple of days making up for lost time.
My lovely landlady/neighbour/friend has two sons, aged 16 (the teenager) and 22 (the new graduate). They are the polar opposites of the boys I work with and I'm hoping their polite influence and genteel manners will rub off on my two uncouth ratbags. The 16 year old is a very talented engineer and can whip up a fully-functioning Harrier Jump Jet from a dustbin lid and a bit of string in ten minutes flat. He has an array of fancy remote control toys and the Pie thinks his house is, essentially, heaven on earth. It's very useful to have them next door as recently the Pie's boredom threshold has sunk even lower, with the result that he has taught himself to fart at will - and he stinks. Bunging him next door means I have a few minutes to fumigate the house before the Pie's next onslaught.
On the last sortie the Pie and the Kong discovered a brand new, enormously powerful speedboat. 'Oooooooooooooh,' cooed the Axis, in glorious silent and reverent unison (the kind they do not employ in church). The teenager grinned proudly and offered to take the Axis to the lake to show off the boat's capabilities. So off we all went - the teen, the new grad, their mother, their dog, the Axis, and me.
When we got to the lake it was completely covered in thick, opaque green algae. It looked like a crazy golf course down there. Undeterred, the boys put the boat on the lake and it began to turn amazing tricks, zooming up and down and scaring various wildfowl, until all of a sudden it putt-putted out and would only go in anti-clockwise circles. We all stood there, scratching our heads about how to get it back. No-one noticed Noah climbing the railing on the deck. And I fully understand that, as we will hopefully live round here for a good many years to come, at some point both those boys will probably fall in that lake. But I don't think it's very reasonable for them to attempt it at such a young age...
The Axis are with their father this weekend and so I have been looking forward to spending the morning in bed drinking tea. However, all three of them are downstairs playing some game which seems to involve them growling as loudly as possible and then splitting their sides laughing. Why can't they play this game at Daddio's house? Why is the Kong still downstairs smearing marmalade all over my carpets? Ratbags.
My lovely landlady/neighbour/friend has two sons, aged 16 (the teenager) and 22 (the new graduate). They are the polar opposites of the boys I work with and I'm hoping their polite influence and genteel manners will rub off on my two uncouth ratbags. The 16 year old is a very talented engineer and can whip up a fully-functioning Harrier Jump Jet from a dustbin lid and a bit of string in ten minutes flat. He has an array of fancy remote control toys and the Pie thinks his house is, essentially, heaven on earth. It's very useful to have them next door as recently the Pie's boredom threshold has sunk even lower, with the result that he has taught himself to fart at will - and he stinks. Bunging him next door means I have a few minutes to fumigate the house before the Pie's next onslaught.
On the last sortie the Pie and the Kong discovered a brand new, enormously powerful speedboat. 'Oooooooooooooh,' cooed the Axis, in glorious silent and reverent unison (the kind they do not employ in church). The teenager grinned proudly and offered to take the Axis to the lake to show off the boat's capabilities. So off we all went - the teen, the new grad, their mother, their dog, the Axis, and me.
When we got to the lake it was completely covered in thick, opaque green algae. It looked like a crazy golf course down there. Undeterred, the boys put the boat on the lake and it began to turn amazing tricks, zooming up and down and scaring various wildfowl, until all of a sudden it putt-putted out and would only go in anti-clockwise circles. We all stood there, scratching our heads about how to get it back. No-one noticed Noah climbing the railing on the deck. And I fully understand that, as we will hopefully live round here for a good many years to come, at some point both those boys will probably fall in that lake. But I don't think it's very reasonable for them to attempt it at such a young age...
The Axis are with their father this weekend and so I have been looking forward to spending the morning in bed drinking tea. However, all three of them are downstairs playing some game which seems to involve them growling as loudly as possible and then splitting their sides laughing. Why can't they play this game at Daddio's house? Why is the Kong still downstairs smearing marmalade all over my carpets? Ratbags.
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