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.
Thursday, 30 August 2012
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.
Monday, 23 May 2011
Bloomin' Marvellous
It's quite a lonely life being a single mum to two ratbags like the Axis. Except, of course, when they go to their dad's for a couple of days. Then it's a veritable social whirlwind with parties, drink, chattering and general shouting and jumping about. I was recovering from just one such weekend this morning when I popped the telly on for the Pie as the Kong was in bed.
'Oooh Mum! Mr Bloom's on!' shouts the Pie, wickedly. I blush involuntarily. Mr Bloom is a CBeebies character who has an allotment, is obsessed with the correct composition of compost and grows cabbages. He dresses like the Wurzels, is in dire need of a decent haircut, probably is partial to a couple of pints of scrumpy and has a very dubious accent anchored somewhere in the north west corner of England. Men like this tend to make my heart flip when they near. Needless to say, I have a sizeable crush on TV's Mr Bloom. The Pie seems to have picked up on this as he is grinning in a most unseemly manner. 'Muuuuum?'
'Yes, Pie?'
'Is Mr Bloom your favourite?' Dammit.
'Sort of, Pie.'
'Whyyyyy?'
Why? Well, Pie, where do I start? Could it be that his kindly yet confident manner is a sure vote-winner with all but the most hardened of women? Or that his unintentional grubbiness signals a childlike disrespect for artifice that can only invoke a response of 'aaaahhhh, bless'?
The Pie is still looking at me expectantly. I steel myself.
'Well, Pie, Mr Bloom ALWAYS tells the truth. And he doesn't pretend. And...you know where you are with him. '
Pie opens his mouth, stops, frowns, looks puzzled, then speaks. 'Are we in Heaven with him, Mummy?' Clearly, Sunday School has sunk through more than I thought. I pretend not to hear.
The subject of honesty raises its head, somewhat inevitably, all week. Pie tells a little white lie and I come down on him like a ton of bricks. I hate lies. Or, at least, I say I do. Pie doesn't understand why his lie about hitting Kong was worse than him actually hitting Kong. I can't explain it. Instead, I flip out, tell him off, then go in the kitchen and burst into tears. What is going on?
I look at the kitchen calendar. It's 10 (count 'em) years since my mum died next weekend. I wish I could go to sleep and wake up on July 1st, so I miss the rest of June, which is always hell. I ring my aunt in America. She says how much she misses her little sister. I hang up feeling even lonelier than before. How she'd love to have me over, she says. I don't really believe her. It's a safe thing to say, is that, when you're talking to someone 5,000 miles and a similar number of dollars away. I look at pictures from 10 years ago and contemplate ringing my old boss, or possibly some of the friends I had then, but it wouldn't make any sense, and it's something I've got to deal with alone.
I approach the Pie, sitting on the naughty step, and instead of the usual reproaches I grab him and clutch him tight. This, I think, frightens him more than any scolding ever could. He starts to protest. 'But Mum, I DO love Leo, I just...Mum?' I am weeping now, trying to hide my sobs but clinging to my darling boy, my firstborn, bringer of chaos and Lego and chocolate handprints on newly painted walls. His brother, the bemused completer, blinks belligerently at us over the safety gate and shouts our names, unintelligibly to all other observers, but all too audibly to us. Pie puts a hand up to my head and strokes my hair, softly saying 'Mum! Mum, it's ok. Did you lose your rhino? Shall I look for your rhino?' I grab him harder, breathe deep and say 'yes, son. Yes, I did. But I think she's upstairs, now. Don't worry.'
'Oooh Mum! Mr Bloom's on!' shouts the Pie, wickedly. I blush involuntarily. Mr Bloom is a CBeebies character who has an allotment, is obsessed with the correct composition of compost and grows cabbages. He dresses like the Wurzels, is in dire need of a decent haircut, probably is partial to a couple of pints of scrumpy and has a very dubious accent anchored somewhere in the north west corner of England. Men like this tend to make my heart flip when they near. Needless to say, I have a sizeable crush on TV's Mr Bloom. The Pie seems to have picked up on this as he is grinning in a most unseemly manner. 'Muuuuum?'
'Yes, Pie?'
'Is Mr Bloom your favourite?' Dammit.
'Sort of, Pie.'
'Whyyyyy?'
Why? Well, Pie, where do I start? Could it be that his kindly yet confident manner is a sure vote-winner with all but the most hardened of women? Or that his unintentional grubbiness signals a childlike disrespect for artifice that can only invoke a response of 'aaaahhhh, bless'?
The Pie is still looking at me expectantly. I steel myself.
'Well, Pie, Mr Bloom ALWAYS tells the truth. And he doesn't pretend. And...you know where you are with him. '
Pie opens his mouth, stops, frowns, looks puzzled, then speaks. 'Are we in Heaven with him, Mummy?' Clearly, Sunday School has sunk through more than I thought. I pretend not to hear.
The subject of honesty raises its head, somewhat inevitably, all week. Pie tells a little white lie and I come down on him like a ton of bricks. I hate lies. Or, at least, I say I do. Pie doesn't understand why his lie about hitting Kong was worse than him actually hitting Kong. I can't explain it. Instead, I flip out, tell him off, then go in the kitchen and burst into tears. What is going on?
I look at the kitchen calendar. It's 10 (count 'em) years since my mum died next weekend. I wish I could go to sleep and wake up on July 1st, so I miss the rest of June, which is always hell. I ring my aunt in America. She says how much she misses her little sister. I hang up feeling even lonelier than before. How she'd love to have me over, she says. I don't really believe her. It's a safe thing to say, is that, when you're talking to someone 5,000 miles and a similar number of dollars away. I look at pictures from 10 years ago and contemplate ringing my old boss, or possibly some of the friends I had then, but it wouldn't make any sense, and it's something I've got to deal with alone.
I approach the Pie, sitting on the naughty step, and instead of the usual reproaches I grab him and clutch him tight. This, I think, frightens him more than any scolding ever could. He starts to protest. 'But Mum, I DO love Leo, I just...Mum?' I am weeping now, trying to hide my sobs but clinging to my darling boy, my firstborn, bringer of chaos and Lego and chocolate handprints on newly painted walls. His brother, the bemused completer, blinks belligerently at us over the safety gate and shouts our names, unintelligibly to all other observers, but all too audibly to us. Pie puts a hand up to my head and strokes my hair, softly saying 'Mum! Mum, it's ok. Did you lose your rhino? Shall I look for your rhino?' I grab him harder, breathe deep and say 'yes, son. Yes, I did. But I think she's upstairs, now. Don't worry.'
Monday, 25 April 2011
Great Eggspectations
I am having a few days off from the Axis, who have gone to stay with their father over the Easter weekend. It was pointed out to me by some observant soul that I haven't written anything yet this year; is it because the Axis have been exceedingly well-behaved and thus I am running a little short of subject matter? Alas, not so. Where to begin? Perhaps the days preceding this wondrous and temporary exodus would be a good start...
In common with all parents of small children I have great worries over sleep. Now, the Axis aren't too bad at going to sleep and staying asleep - probably because of the horrendous and active commotion they sustain while awake - but they are little pigs when they are tired in the day. Whining, moaning, demanding sweets, kicking things - the only way to shut them up is to remove them from the house. Last Sunday I was facing a whole afternoon of such horror when the phone rang. It was my lovely friend Susie who has two girls the same age as the Axis. The four of them get along famously, which is probably why last summer we decided to chuck them all in the bath together after a day rolling in mud, which delighted the Axis and horrified the wailing girls. Today, however, Susie was staring down the barrel of the same gun as me and was ringing in the hope that we could better manage the children as a herd. She proposed taking the scooters down to the city farm cafe. Pigs and coffee are two of my favourite things so I didn't hesitate. 'We'll leave now,' I confidently assured her. Yeah, right.
As I put down the phone I turned around and saw a quieted, but slightly sheepish-looking Kong holding an empty plastic cup. 'Kongie! Did you drink all your water? You good boy!' Kong grinned a wolfish, unnerving grin. 'YEH!' he screeched. I looked around and saw an enormous wet patch on the sofa. Was it the water? Or was it...something else? I approached with caution and sniffed. Phew. Only water. But still - better soak it up before leaving.
I went in search of a tea towel to mop up the offending mess. When I got back the Kong was holding the phone and was shouting into it. He'd put it on loudspeaker, so I could hear what was going on. I assumed he'd hit redial and got my dad, and continued with the mopping. Suddenly I froze in horror at the voice's next words: 'I said, what service do you require? Police, fire, ambulance? Hello? Hello?'
Wretched Kong had rung 999. I grabbed the phone and cut it off, swearing. Then I remembered that, unsurprisingly, the Pie had done the exact same thing at a very similar age, and that, if the operator gets no response, they ring back the number until they do. What to do? Obviously I couldn't ring 999 in an attempt to explain my wayward infant's emergency phonecalls. I would have to wait.
After about 20 minutes, during which the Kong had to be changed into dry clothes twice as a result of his insistence on sitting on the puddle he'd created, it became clear that the Chancellor's axe had indeed fallen on our brothers and sisters in the emergency services and as a result, the Kong and I were in the clear. More muttered curses ensued as I shoehorned the Axis into the car and sped off.
When we arrived, Susie was sitting on the wall in front of her house, trying to placate a whining Older Girl and contain a wriggling Smaller Girl. Lots of mad apologies ensued as Susie tried to reassure me that it was fine and I apologised for being late again: 'It was the Kong...just after I got off the phone to you, he threw a glass of water all over the floor. While I was cleaning it up, he rang 999.' Although I was smiling, my heart was sinking. Susie didn't believe me. I'm not sure I did, either.
In common with all parents of small children I have great worries over sleep. Now, the Axis aren't too bad at going to sleep and staying asleep - probably because of the horrendous and active commotion they sustain while awake - but they are little pigs when they are tired in the day. Whining, moaning, demanding sweets, kicking things - the only way to shut them up is to remove them from the house. Last Sunday I was facing a whole afternoon of such horror when the phone rang. It was my lovely friend Susie who has two girls the same age as the Axis. The four of them get along famously, which is probably why last summer we decided to chuck them all in the bath together after a day rolling in mud, which delighted the Axis and horrified the wailing girls. Today, however, Susie was staring down the barrel of the same gun as me and was ringing in the hope that we could better manage the children as a herd. She proposed taking the scooters down to the city farm cafe. Pigs and coffee are two of my favourite things so I didn't hesitate. 'We'll leave now,' I confidently assured her. Yeah, right.
As I put down the phone I turned around and saw a quieted, but slightly sheepish-looking Kong holding an empty plastic cup. 'Kongie! Did you drink all your water? You good boy!' Kong grinned a wolfish, unnerving grin. 'YEH!' he screeched. I looked around and saw an enormous wet patch on the sofa. Was it the water? Or was it...something else? I approached with caution and sniffed. Phew. Only water. But still - better soak it up before leaving.
I went in search of a tea towel to mop up the offending mess. When I got back the Kong was holding the phone and was shouting into it. He'd put it on loudspeaker, so I could hear what was going on. I assumed he'd hit redial and got my dad, and continued with the mopping. Suddenly I froze in horror at the voice's next words: 'I said, what service do you require? Police, fire, ambulance? Hello? Hello?'
Wretched Kong had rung 999. I grabbed the phone and cut it off, swearing. Then I remembered that, unsurprisingly, the Pie had done the exact same thing at a very similar age, and that, if the operator gets no response, they ring back the number until they do. What to do? Obviously I couldn't ring 999 in an attempt to explain my wayward infant's emergency phonecalls. I would have to wait.
After about 20 minutes, during which the Kong had to be changed into dry clothes twice as a result of his insistence on sitting on the puddle he'd created, it became clear that the Chancellor's axe had indeed fallen on our brothers and sisters in the emergency services and as a result, the Kong and I were in the clear. More muttered curses ensued as I shoehorned the Axis into the car and sped off.
When we arrived, Susie was sitting on the wall in front of her house, trying to placate a whining Older Girl and contain a wriggling Smaller Girl. Lots of mad apologies ensued as Susie tried to reassure me that it was fine and I apologised for being late again: 'It was the Kong...just after I got off the phone to you, he threw a glass of water all over the floor. While I was cleaning it up, he rang 999.' Although I was smiling, my heart was sinking. Susie didn't believe me. I'm not sure I did, either.
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