Paper Roses

I wonder whether you can make these out of kitchen roll…

Tonight is my fourth night on my own, and it has taken this amount of time for me to realise something: everyone uses resources at different rates.

Being on your own for a time really crystallises that as you become really aware of how much or little you use in comparison to those who you live with.

It has become apparent to me, for example, that I don’t do as much washing up as my partner (this is quite some admission on my part!).

The reason I have come to this conclusion is that we seem to have loads of washing up liquid around at the moment- the amount in the bottle isn’t going down at all!

By some sheer coincidence, the pile of washing up is nearing student proportions and I may have to resort to disposable cutlery soon.

no wonder I have pesky flies at the moment…

My other observations around resources is that clearly I do not use paper based products with the same vigour and energy as my other half. For example, I am still on the same kitchen roll, tissue box and loo roll as when he went away.

This, my friends, shows that I am not a disposable sort of woman. I think about my resources before using them.

Since his departure to a Spanish island, I have been quite content wiping surfaces with a cloth, not immediately wading in with half a kitchen roll as my other half would opt to do.

Before I met him, I’d wager that I’d easily bought less than 10 rolls of kitchen roll in my life: I was a cloth kind of a gal.

No more.

Nowadays I seem to plan my Saturdays around getting to a trusted market seller who ‘stocks us up nice and good on the white stuff’.
We get through a lot of kitchen roll.

I am now caught in the cycle of kitchen roll addiction: earlier this year we went to France, self catering, but the family did not believe we could get through 7 days on the continent without taking a reasonable stock of kitchen roll with us (They sell it in France too, you know, but we couldn’t take the risk!). My friends (quite rightly!)laugh at us, but we used every darned sheet of those few rolls in a week, and being honest, my other half was really scrimping on his usage in the last few days.
He was having strong palpitations that there were merely single number sheets left near the end, with no replenishment in sight.

I thought that I had been sucked in to this disposable consumption cycle of his and would never get out of it, but hey ho, look at that – 4 days in and I am back to good old cleaning cloths! I feel I deserve my “environment” girl guide badge back again!

The paper overuse issue sadly isn’t confined to just kitchen roll. Tissues also seem to be used at the rate of knots in our house. Not just when people have colds, but all year round. I am sure that this excessive usage has just crept up on me. Times were that I would be happy to buy tissues between the Nov – Feb period as it got us through the “sticky” times. But I’m starting to resent seeking out tissue offers 365 days a year (When you buy as many paper products as we do, you do compare prices and follow deals!). And I don’t know what has caused the surge in usage, but all I will reiterate is that this week, the house is in the unusual situation of displaying the same box of tissues as it did last week.

This is unheard of.

Equally I don’t get how we get through so much loo roll. I once stocked up on some on my way back from a dinner party (thankyou, 24 hr supermarkets in Ipswich!) because I was getting worried about low stocks. I mean, who ever really wants to run out of that stuff?

Eeeeek! Can you imagine being faced with this situation?!!!

I’m not the sort of person who would want to take the risk of finding out what I’d do if we ever did run out. The problem is, the usage is not consistent or predictable, which makes procurement planning very difficult for shoppers with a nervous disposition (such as myself). That’s probably why I always, always, always have a pack of 16 rolls at the back of the airing cupboard*

It feels quite unnatural for me not to be thinking about my next “fix” of buying either loo roll, tissues or kitchen roll, and it should feel quite liberating, but it doesn’t. It just reminds me that my boys aren’t around at the moment.

Anyway, for one week only, there’s a house in Debenham overflowing with paper products, just waiting for the return of the brood to play “catch up”. If anyone is running short, you know where to come!

*See my blog post on hoarding for other examples of this practice.

Me “Was the ‘Ea…

Me “Was the ‘Eat All You Can’ buffet bit, busy?”
Him “It’s ‘All You Can Eat’. There is a difference.”

 

Is there though?

 

I thank you, Mr. Mika: Celebrate!

There are two things you should know about me:

1. I do not consider myself to be a “girly girl” (although the facts of my life may well point otherwise; see All the tea in China, for one reference point)
2. I am not terribly good at “living in the moment” (which is why I surround myself with wonderful friends who do – I feel it seems to reduce the pressure on me to be the same – by osmosis they kind of do all of that stuff on my behalf)

However, there is one area where the Deb “norms”, do not apply.

This area would be that of bunting.

Instantly, I sense that 50% of any readers of this blog have now stopped doing so, and I am ok with that. Because I still feel this is something I need to blog about. 

Yes, to me, bunting = utter joy

My joy is anchored firmly in my past.  1981 would be my first recollection of this wonderful expression of celebration. Yes, Mr Charles and Miss Diana were getting married and our local village hall was screening the celebrations (was it live? who could say? It could well have been us watching a recorded version) on a mahoosive tv* to the playschool children. I was 4 going on 5, so, I knew it all.  Well, maybe I didn’t predict the sad ending to the royal marriage, but other than that…

I remember vividly being entranced by the bunting in the village hall whilst we waited, as patiently as 4 year olds can, for the wedding coverage to start. It was then, I believe that I started to positively link bunting with happiness and fun.

Things haven’t changed much in the 32ish years since.  I still think bunting is pretty fantastic.  It has only positive, in-the-moment, lovely associations.  Even if you are not a fan, you can not deny that it is something that you only see during blissful, happy, joyous events. 

My only bunting rule; and it is just a personal preference, is; “no bunting displays in the house, please, we’re British.”

Even typing that, I know I have broken my own rule:  my son has a personalised name bunting banner in his room.  My ‘excuse’ for that is that it was a gift from his babyhood from a good friend and it would be pretty pointless to own it and not display it.  It also looks cute on his beams.**

Other than that minor slip up, I use bunting sparingly, but to great effect: decorating our work place plot at the Suffolk Show during jubilee year; outside our house to attract the attention of passer-byers and sell some preloved goods and prettifying marquees*** at various community events to encourage residents to buy our homebaked goodies.

And so finally, to the prompt for today’s blog: After two weeks of driving a diversion route due to bridge roadworks, I am driving my “usual way” in to work.  I have missed this route, albeit a slightly scary route as I so often forget which villages I have already passed through because my head is thinking about work (Does this sort of admission invalidate my car insurance?).

Today I reached the junction with Hemingstone bridge.  This particular bridge is a bit of a pain for the modern motorist – it is very narrow and you can’t get more than one vehicle driving in one direction across it (could do with a highways priority sign, if I was being asked; but I am not). 

In the 10 months I have lived in Debenham, it has been closed at least twice for bridge repairs.

Imagine my mood, if you will:

• Monday morning (wishing it was still the weekend and I could dream of a lie in) 😦 
• Bridge has again been re-opened (mild excitement) 🙂
• A glimpse of bunting (extreme positive reaction!) :-))

Yes, Hemingstone bridge has bunting all over it.  Not just a little, but metres and metres of it.  A beautiful laminated sign (beautiful only for its textual content, mind, not because it is nasty unrecyclable plastic) tells me, and all who pass her, that the glorious bridge is 200 years old.

I tell you what, I nearly bloody cried.

The combination of people feeling such historical pride in their local landmark so as to take the step of celebrating its very existence, and doing it so publically, with a tonne of wonderful, fluttering bunting – well, it just gave me such a lump in my throat.

To me bunting says it all.  In fact it sings it. It is absolutely 1 minute and 5 seconds in to Handel’s  Zadok the Priest: Coronation anthem number 1 (up to 1 minute and 52 seconds)

It is the icing on the cake, it is the prettifying of a village hall at playschool, it is the decorating of a marquee, it is living in the moment.

I just love bunting.

 

ENDS

Notes to editors:

* As deep as it was wide – none of this flatscreen nonsense in those days!

** This is not a pseudonym

*** For marquee, read ‘Colman’s Event Shelter’. Wonderous bit of craftsmanship for quick and easy use.  I am not on any commission. 

 

 

Don’t blame it on the sunshine…

But clearly, the sunshine is at fault here, oh and the sun cream manufacturer (for not giving enough protection.)

The fault does not lay with wearer of the non existent sunscreen, noooooo! He who vehemently denies  lying when asked at 11am today ‘have you put sun cream on?’ as chest was bared.

Post UVA exposure, I was informed: ‘the sun is hotter than you think’

Really? I think it is pretty darn hot, which is why it is the sun. And is why I put sun cream on: lots and often.

However, my other half feels he needs to ‘brown up up a bit’, and believes the way to achieve that is to crisp up like bacon on day one.

My little Cromer lobster is now feeling a little sorry for himself and I have aloe Vera’d him up to the hilt and given him much water to drink to prevent dehydration.  I am now really looking forward to sharing a bed with this ‘hot thing’, really hoping he doesn’t self combust and require the on call fire crew of the village to have to come out in the night to dampen him down.  Oh the shame.

According to him though, he will become tanned Adonis overnight, so i am remaining optimistic on that front…

Only the lonely…?

I do not consider myself to be a particularly unsociable person, but I am not averse to enjoying my own company.  

I am not lonely, I just like being alone sometimes. Or more specifically, going out on my own.

An application of the ‘Enjoying being on my own’ situation extends easily for me in to a ‘sociable’ scenario which help illustrate a relevant point. Going to the pub on my own.

I don’t have any issues with going to the pub on my own: I don’t feel apologetic nor uncomfortable about it, but it appears that others have those feelings on my behalf?

‘are you waiting for someone?’

‘err, no, just enjoying a drink on my own’

‘really? Oh. Oh.’

Awkward silence. Slight feeling of misplaced pity hangs in air.

I am trying harder than you may think not to draw the conclusion of the pub thing, in particular, to be a gender issue . But it is. Clearly. I witness a lot of men, different ages, backgrounds etc, drinking on their own. Whole host of reasons why. Not an eyelid is battered about that.  But a woman drinking on her own?  People really don’t quite know how to react.  Why is that?

Woman on own + pub = stood up/  lost job / recently dumped

To be honest, I am not against a good chinwag with a stranger in such situations. Just because I am on my own, doesn’t mean I don’t fancy talking to others. You can find out an awful lot in that sort of chat scenario.  People open up a lot more ( may be linked with that pity thing).  You can acquire a lot more information/ gossip than going out as a couple or a group when I feel you can be quite insular and miss what’s going on outside the social circle. I also take the opportunity to absorb my surroundings; things again, I might miss if I wasn’t out on my own.

I know a lot of women who find it all a bit odd that I enjoy doing stuff on my own. I wouldn’t hesitate to go  for a coffee on my own, a gallery, nor going for lunch.   And shopping on my own? Surely it is the only way? You get to go only to the shops you really want to go to, you dont waste time ‘oohing and ahhing’ whilst a companion tries on clothes definitely not suited to them, and you dont feel under any pressure to buy stuff you dont need/want.  Pure bliss!

I would argue vehemently also that much of the world’s best people watching is best done alone.  And I do like a good people watch! Yet in the past women have been aghast at my ‘revelations’ of having lunch on my own.  Embarrassingly aghast. Almost to the point where I wonder if they are the sort of person who always pees in packs at nights out. I kind of don’t ‘get that.’. If you need to pee, go on your own; no one needs an audience, surely? I get a bit sad for that sort of woman. The sort who feels unable to do anything like I do, on their own.  I think more people should do it, frankly.  You never know what you might see,  who you may speak to or what you may hear?!!

Anyway, just to make it clear, if you see me on my own, I really am perfectly happy.  If you want to join me, that is also fine, but don’t feel like you ought if you really don’t fancy it.  Motivation of pity is isn’t easily hidden either, so try not to act on that if you feel it.

And to make it ultra clear, the reasons for drinking alone in pubs thus far in my life have not been related to job loss, end of relationship or Being stood up.  Although some occasions have been related to ‘just needing a drink’. And for that I am afraid, I can not apologise.

 

 

The wonder of you…

What I love is seasonal food, it tastes so much better when you know that it is the prime picking time for some homegrown produce…even if the very produce you are eating isn’t strictly grown by yourself, per se.  

I love, love, love asparagus. I have never grown it myself. Because to be honest, it only generates one spear, is a bit greedy for space and takes ruddy ages to show itself. Asparagus is the Russell Crowe of vegetables: bloody hard work for the effort.

Now, I am really not going to go into the fact that we are now ‘out of season’ for this particular vegetable, because actually, I am pretty shallow and actually am loving the fact I can still procure local asparagus in July.

That in itself is not what I really wish to focus this blog on. Oh no. It is the very real and sudden side effect of ‘asparagus wee’ (dramatic reduction in tone ensues.  Those of a nervous disposition may wish to navigate away from this post).

Now, I have to admit, that until very recently, I was completely unaware, that there are people on this earth who do not ‘suffer’* such consequences as I on this front.

I honestly believed that if everyone experienced the ‘joy’  this green spear giveth, then you would also, consequently, experience the ‘delight’ of the washroom, side effect.  

But apparently not.

Tbh, I really needed to google this ‘fact’ as I thought a colleague was being uncharacteristically coy about his ‘habits’ when he said he had never experienced any  asparagus side effects.  I simply did not believe him ( he isn’t always the most trustworthy of people, so this is not just me being suspicious, more trusting past practice and experience to  draw my reaction of ‘really?!*<%#?)

But on this most rare of occasions, credit was due: according to life’s oracle: google- some people do not experience the sugar puff effect after eating this seasonal spear. Who would have thought it? (don’t tell me this sugar coated cereal doesn’t effect you in the same way? Really?)

I actually don’t mind it…it is simply a strong, in your face reminder of what you have previously eaten.  However, I do struggle with the fact that whenever I eat the darn stuff, I seem, to instantly forget that I have done so, and am faced with an instant reminder  whene’er I pop to the loo.  I never have that with anything else I eat.  I have a poor memory, that is not up for debate, but I can generally answer the workplace question of ‘what did you have for tea last night?’ without too much thinking, but if it were not for wee-gate, I feel pretty sure that I would forget that i had consumed May’s most prevalent veg **

I fail to think ahead sometimes. The last time we had asparagus, I bought it in haste at a supermarket local to where we were cooking and eating that evening: clearly clientele in that  particular locality aren’t big asparagus eaters (else they were avoiding the wee issue- wise old birds!) as many many many packets were reduced to 15p a bunch or similar stupid non-profit making amount.  So I bought. Of course I did. However, I did not foresee the problems I was causing for poor partner as we later trotted off to a forest concert. Quick wee before the concert? we both agreed this was an eminently sensible pre-concert tactic.

Poor man.

Weeing fresh asparagus wee next to other urinal users does not endear oneself to strangers, however  understanding those men appear to be on the face of things.

 He had to apologise.

Out loud.

I understand that talking at a urinal is a big Deal and doesn’t happen unless absolutely necessary.

Oh my dear, vegetable, you appear so very harmless, especially slathered in forbidden*** butter and seasalt, and yet your legacy shall always remain; …the wonder of you.

 

 

* probably bit too strong a term really, on reflection!

**completely made up fact, which may in time be proved to have some grain of truth in it. Imagine that!

*** another exaggeration on my behalf for drama on my behalf; sorry. Nothing is forbidden in my home.  Well, apart from guns and stuff.  Butter probably doesn’t find itself in the category of dangerous weapon.

 

 

For all the tea in China…

I think I have to face facts.  If I was a more focussed and committed type of person, I would definitely be one of those people who collects something and grows their collection to museum style proportions, forcing bikes out of sheds to accommodate whatever it was I chose to collect.

However, I have a short attention span, yet also am quite obsessive.  This combination of traits leads me, I can now admit, to a series of much smaller “collections”.

It was only when my partner drew to my attention that this behaviour had spread to “collecting” teabags that I realised that I may have a “problem”.  He physically got out of the kitchen cupboards all the tea he could find (he didn’t find it all) and stacked it up in one place.  And took a picture.  I found it quite funny, but I think he is genuinely disturbed.  He would like to curtail my tea buying habit so we free up space in the cupboards (not quite sure why – cupboards are meant to be full aren’t they? Else they aren’t really performing to capacity in my opinion.).  My justification for the tea hoard is that it is a hostesses job to ensure that you have in stock, a variety of tea to suit all tastes.  I’d be mortified (this in itself probably tells you a lot about me!) if someone came over for a cuppa and only drank green tea and I didn’t have any.  So I do.  I have lots of different teas.  Anyway, the tea stuff in itself is probably a bit irrelevant – I think what surprised even me, was that I do actually have little collections of all sorts of things – and the tea is probably the most functional and “useful” of these.

I also have a collection of teatowels.  I can’t resist a nice teatowel.  And I do like to roll them and display them in my nice trug in the kitchen (It looks better than it sounds).  I think it is not only practical to have a nice choice of teatowel (who isn’t cheered up getting a new teatowel out with a pleasing design on it, I ask you?) but also a nice decorative feature in the kitchen.  

I also like a nice jug. (no jokes, please – I’ve wee’d myself giggling over my love of “jugs” enough over the years) – I am now VERY pleased to have acquired a little bit of furniture upon which I can display my little collection.  Again, a practical choice of collection as they always are in use – milk, gravy (hmmmmm, gravy. yum); actually, to be fair I can only think that they ever hold those two liquids – but they do them often enough to warrant a reasonable sized collection.

Then my collections become a little less practical, but I think (naturally), that although they may seem a little bonkers, that they add something of “me” in to the house.  So, I have a small collection of old keys hooked on a wall; a very small collection of wicker baskets on a wall; a small collection of mirrors and vintage trays on a wall; and I am building up to a collection of LPs on a wall (struggling to find a spare wall, you will appreciate).

My partner is less keen on this, although I really think it all started with him.  When we met, in his house, he had a small collection of masks he had acquired whilst travelling.  I don’t like them.  They are a bit scary (like collecting dolls – why do people do that?).  However, when we moved (twice), sadly we were unable to “lose them along the way”.  So I feel pretty proud of myself that they too are displayed in the house. Yes, they are on a wall you are unlikely to come across as a guest here, but nevertheless, they are displayed.

So I think we all like a little bit of collecting in some way.  I feel quite comforted by it myself.  I would rather that people came in to my house and could see a bit of me in the house, rather than lots of magnolia paint and perfectly tidy rooms (ahem, that isn’t ever the case here, sadly – I am a self confessed “messy tyke”).

So my only outstanding question is – what is the term for this sort of itty bitty approach to collecting? I don’t think I will rest until I know what the word is; what box I am classified under? If anyone knows, I’d love to hear it.  Your reward?  A teabag…of your choice, naturally!

What’s in a name?

At present, I am having to undertake my dailyish commute by my most favourite mode of public transport – the bus (I understand that sarcasm does not travel well in a blog) – as my car is currently “indisposed”.  This in itself is a blog topic all on its own, but during my bumpy, winding-round-the-villages journey this morning, I was “inspired” (loose term)to baggsy a topic upon which to write tonight’s installment.

House names.

Uncontroversial, you may think. Oh dear. How little you know. The subject can be most emotive – try raising it as a topic of discussion at your next family dinner and you will lose (whatever your view point as to whether they are quaint or not).

Now, I will be perfectly upfront with you; we bought a house in the village of dreams (yes, this is where I live- the village of dreams) and it has a house name.  If I am really honest, the fact it has a house name is something that helped sell it to me (I am trully a marketeer’s dream).  It reflects the house’s history, and I love that.

Orchard House, Rose Cottage,  Ivy Cottage, The Coach House: All lovely names, evoking some historical, botanical or geographical feature or USP at the very least.  So what does one make of a house which has a name which clearly isn’t imparting that “feeling”?

 

Allow me to explore with you the phenomenum of naming houses after yourself.  More specifically, the disturbing trait (in my opinion) of people naming their property with an amalgamation of the owner’s first names.

Seriously, what is that about?

Allow me to return now to my rural bus journey.  By 7:12am, the bus stopped to pick up a fare.  The stop was outside a named house.  The name did not reflect any botanical connection, and it certainly didn’t appear old enough to warrant a previous commercial/trade name (such as Blacksmith’s cottage). No. It was “simply” called “Claudelle”.

Claudelle.  I ask you – what sort of name is that for a house? 

If I may be so bold as to suggest so; that house appeared to physically hold its face in shame, and frankly, I do not blame it.  Who in their right mind (again, all just my opinion) calls their house after Claude and Michelle? I rather have hazarded a guess at the lady’s name – it could be any number of female names, but the only other one I can think of right now is Danielle.

Whatever the names which have contributed to the sad amalgamation which now adorn this property, is almost an aside – it is the fact that the owners clearly thought it was “a really lovely idea”.  No it wasn’t. Really. 

A colleague has an equally disturbing house name to share with me. I must stress that it is not her house name. No. She is a sensible lady and has a house number. I am sure her postman rejoices in that fact.
Ok, to the name: ‘Withaney’.

For the eagle eyed among you, you may already ‘get’ it. I will explain. The couple who named said house have a surname which can be written two ways, and often find themselves on autopilot telling people to spell it “with an ‘e'”. It is indeed a bold and interesting step to then take that family ‘joke’ and make it your house name. So as not to appear too obvious or common, they decided to add a ‘y’ to the end of the house name. I think you will agree, this little trick of sophistication certainly raises it a class or two.

And so I plead with others – do not name your house after you, your family or your wife/husband. It is all a bit wrong.

I feel so blessed that my house already has a name – a historically relevant one.  Imagine the arguments if we were faced with a nameless house? What would our joint house name look like? Partner’s name first or mine? How much of each? His is an equal number of letters, but mine is not – how do we make it equitable?

 

The answer is always – don’t.  Just don’t – don’t make it equitable, and simply just don’t do the personal name thing.  Call it Rose Cottage instead and ruddy plant a nice climbing rose round your door.  At least that way you won’t have strangers sniggering at your house name when the rural bus stops right outside your property.

 

 

Pink shirt-itus

The thing is, I do try not to have any prejudices.

But clearly I do have them. 

A long abiding one relates to males wearing pink shirts.  I simply can’t accept that trustworthy men choose to wear such a shade.  There are plenty of manly colours out there, so why choose pink? 

Now,  I am fairly certain that I would have outgrown this opinion if it had not been for various men in various roles going and proving my point that men wearing such a shade in shirt should be untrustworthy. 

Time and again, pink shirt + man = dodgyness on some scale. 

I completely pre judge men now on that basis. 

I did it at work the other week in a potential contractor meeting. As soon as I saw the “sales guy” and clocked the pink shirt, I instantly took a dislike to him.  If it was up to me, there is no way that chap would be winning any contract.  I would like to be able to say next April, that I was proved correct. 

Similarly, an ex colleague wore a pink shirt once – yes, just once- I distinctly remember pulling his leg about it in the only way a junior officer can without risking instant dismissal.  Pre “shirt”, he was much respected in his profession, adored by men and women alike – next thing I know (well in my head it was an action very closely associated timewise with the pinkness incident), he has left his long term partner, changed jobs to an airy fairy one to match his airy fairy shirt, and shacked up with a divorcee (to protect identity, I will make no further comment, despite my wanting to as I know some details would serve to reinforce my pinkness theory!)   

I wonder if men have such strong feelings about some women’s clothing? 

Clearly I don’t wonder about that question too much as I am swiftly moving on to another paragraph. 

 

I group men who wear pink shirts alongside second hand car dealers.  Everyone knows you can’t trust the latter. 

Which is a bit of a shame in a way as very shortly I will have to trust one of these people as I will need to procure another car. 

God help me if he is wearing a pink shirt.

Opening words…

Now, I am not entirely sure what the accepted etiquette is when it comes to blogging – where one should begin.  Having not read many blogs (a few interior design ones and a few friends’), and not being one for wasting too much time on detail, I am not even going to google it – because to be perfectly honest I have rather a lot of things I want to blog about and I just want to get started.  

If I was still in my 20s I would have listed these potential blogging subjects as if I were to write an assignment; working out which order I should place all the blogging subjects so that  there was some sort of flow which would make any sense to any readers. Ah well, those days are clearly behind me.  Days are rather more busy now, and I have to do a lot of thinking on my feet; delivering with utter conviction each time, so I will approach my blogging subject in that way too.

In the spirit of embracing one’s “fly by the seat of one’s undies”, I am going to go forth and explore/share my experiences re motherhood/being too in to “me”.

Take this evening. It is very definitely Son’s bath night. However, around 5:30pm I got this little voice in my head speaking to me about writing my own blog.  I am very much a person who “thinks, makes decision, then does” – right then.  As I have got older and more busy, I have become rather poor at that planning malarky, for which I used to be famed: my problem has always been sustaining my interest for long periods of time, so my mantra has now become “do it now, or you’ll never do it”.  So, the blog was something I felt that if I didn’t start immediately, then I’d never start.

So of course, like any other normal person, I set about doing so.  Now this shouldn’t cause any alarm, unless of course you factor in the matter of me being in sole care of my son tonight. (I know i shouldn’t phrase it in that way – that is all part of me rather forgetting at times that there is more than “me” and that I am in fact a “mother” too.)  As it turns out, I have been a little “passive”  and distracted in my mothering tonight, so bathtime hasn’t been the best example of my mothering technique – it has been late, a little half hearted and  not as engaging as it normally would be (pre blog).

I have got him in the bath at least.  But probably not done things as thoroughly as I should do in that regard.  The laptop is right here with me – sat on the closed loo seat (thought it was important that I stressed the seat is closed.) as I “supervise” bathtime in a very distracted manner.  As I have been setting up the blog, it has meant a delayed spot of “tea” (I am from Yorkshire – it will always be Tea to me) for Son. So, my compromise was “pudding in bath” – thought Son would quite like that – so I prepped a bowl of strawberries and took them with us to the bath.  “Hoorah” I think – “I have mastered this passive parenting thing by multi-tasking”.  He got in to the bath.  His hands got wet – naturally – he refused to eat said fruit without a fork – which I hadn’t brought up.  I was a bit annoyed as it meant I would be delaying in starting my blog.  “No matter” I think to myself, “I’ll get his fork and I’ll grab a glass of wine for myself whilst I’m there” – in that “it’s kind of all about me” mode I live my life.

So downstairs I go.  Still pondering what of the raft of subjects I want to blog about, will come out first.  I completely bypass the cutlery drawer and remember we have some hummous (why can’t i ever correctly spell that chick pea tahini dip?)  – “oooh yes,” I think, “that will go nicely with some breadsticks and red wine” and proceed to make myself a lovely little preamble of a supper. Yum.

I step upstairs to start blogging in the bathroom – ahhhh. forgot the fork. Oh dear. Epic mummy fail.

I try and  redeem myself and dash downstairs to get a fork ASAP.  

And now, right now, my partner has just come in and dashed super speedily upstairs to us because Son has just started crying in the bath in a kind of manic manner as he ripped his plaster off in the bath and it hurts – I now look like uber monster mummy for not mumbling more than a passing “no son” when he clearly asked me “will it hurt if I pull my plaster off?”…If I was 100% right there in the room with him (as I mostly am – really, I am.) then I would have been as honest as I ever am with him (I don’t believe in lying to kids) and said “yes son. It always hurts. Quick or slow, plaster removal always hurts”.  

I am simply just too in to myself.