Out of the mouth of babes

Parentdom...the phrases chapter.

In the beginning there was a baby. Your baby. A beautiful gurgling bundle of joy.* And then that baby grew. You watched that baby's every move, encouraging them to roll over, to crawl, to walk and ...to talk. 

To talk...we encouraged them to talk. We did this. It was us...and then the talking didn't stop - and then the phrases came....phrases that can pinpoint milestones in the progressing years.

But in all the years (so far) there has to be one feckin phrase that tops the charts as THE PHRASE guaranteed to make every parent want to fall to the floor and have their own big fat gigantic tantrum. 

Topping the charts of this never ending list of the phrases of doom has to be......

In. A. Minute. 

It's a standard phrase in my house. The fifteen year old and the eleven year old use it more often than 'What's for tea? and I'm hungry.'

It doesn't matter what is being asked of my beautiful babies, there is a standard response.

Me:

"Can you go and get the seventy billion glasses you have left in your rooms as we're now drinking water out of egg cups?" 

Reply: in a minute. 

Me:

"Can you put your shoes on? Because we're going out in the car to take you to your cricket match." 

Reply: in a minute. 

Me:

"Can you go to bed?"

Silence. 

Me:

Repeat three times. 

Reply: in a minute. 

Cue loud screaming from me; followed by....

"Mum why are you being so grumpy? There's no need to shout. We'll do it/go/get it IN A MINUTE."

Me. Rocks in a corner. Opens wine and pours bottle down neck. 

It's a phrase that can incite a rage in even the most perfect of parents. 

Out of the mouth of babes comes the phrases of doom. 

Nearly topping the charts has to be the clamour from my poor starving mites who haven't been fed for years. 

The scenarios sometimes differ but usually I am in a meeting and my phone rings. Seeing the name and number of  my most cherished of humans, I immediately grab the phone wondering what could have happened, immediately starting to pack up my bags and shrug my shoulders at my colleagues who recognise the face of a worried parent. 

And then the voice on the other end of the phone echoes down that there telephone wire. Trembling I wait for that nanosecond, mainly shitting myself that something terrible has happened....

"Mum, what time are you home? What's for tea?

Stuff my meetings. Sod my professionalism. Who needs to work. My poor starving children need me. They need feeding. They will have opened the fridge and stared in dismay at the spinach and broccoli staring at them (of course I'm on a diet). They needed proper food. They needed someone to come home and do it for them. Immediately.

Sometimes. Just sometimes the phone doesn't ring. Sometimes I get all the way home, open the front door and yell 'Helloooooooo' to the household. The stupid dog hurtles at me, happy to see me, but silence from humans mainly greets me. The son is of course killing people on his xbox and the daughter is revising.*

I holler again. HEEEELLLLLLLOOOOOOO

And then I get a response:

"Oh hi mum, what's for tea?"

"Oh hi kids. How are you? I'm fine thanks. I've hightailed it down the motorway at speeds faster than light to get home from the office just so I can cook your tea. I've still got my coat on. I've not had a wee since 6.38am but I am going to hurry the fuck along and make your tea because your lives are so terrible."

25 minutes later. Waffles, eggs and beans are on the table (it's Tuesday okay. There's football and cricket so there's no chance of any home made sauces, proper food or even a sense of trying). 

26 minutes later I shout....Tea's ready. Come on. 

"In a minute" comes the bloody chorus. 

Opens another bottle of wine. 

* joy = mainly cacophony of screaming until dummy was applied

** watching NCIS with her computer open

An easy bank holiday weekend beckons

Let the bank holiday chaos commence

It's just dawned on me, it's the actual bank holiday weekend. A weekend greeted by the most of the population as three days off, three days of pure pleasure.

Not two days, not a normal weekend BUT THREE...THREE days, three whole days of no work...

And then it dawned on me...this weekend has got chaos written all over it.

Chaos that commenced yesterday.

Yesterday the stupid D.O.G went under the knife in a dramatic operation...when I say dramatic she was having her bits removed..some may see that as routine. In my house with two small things who worry about the dog's every movement, it was dramatic.

Dropping her off at the vets on Thursday morning was nothing short of a traumatic separation. 

Separation anxiety that mainly oozed from every dog paw (see what I did there?)

As myself and the 9 year old left her standing forlorn in the vet's surgery, as she watched me with sad eyes pass the lead over to a stranger and leave her alone to face the knife, as she cried and whined as we left the vets, as the 9 year old blinked back the tears, I knew the return of the D.O.G was going to be a family trauma.

So as every good dog owner does, I rang (from my meeting, professional as ever) to check if said dog had died on the table. Luckily said dog had survived and was ready for pick up at 4.30pm - the same time I was due to pick the 9 year old up from cross country and 20 minutes before the hired hot tub was due to arrive for the 13 year old's birthday party...yep hot tub.

So like every self respecting working mum, I threw 12 balls up into the air and hoped to catch at least one nine (year old). 

Amazingly it all worked with precision timing. 

Not only did I remember to text the 13 year old (again from said meeting) to tell her I wouldn't be in when she got home from school (I may have forgotten that small detail in the morning chaos of the dramatic dog drop off), I left my meeting on time with some semblance of professional integrity, I got to school with 22 seconds to spare before cross country ended, dropped friend of 9 year old at home (again may have forgotten that I had promised to drop said friend off, but luckily the small things remembered), arrived home to greet 13 year old (who was of course slumped on couch with instagram a go go) met hot tub delivery man, left hot tub delivery man  in my garden to set up said hot tub to pick up very sad, sorry for herself conehead and returned home.

Donning my veterinary nurses attire, I settled conehead with the small things and went to check on the hot tub delivery.

And all this before 5.12pm.

In the amount of time that it had taken to pick up conehead and listen to very specific instructions on how to care for dog patient (including not letting the jumpiest dog in the world, not jump for TEN DAYS), the back garden had been transformed into a chavtastic homage to 13 year old birthday party heaven.

A hot tub, a giant connect 4, a marquee, a floating bar for the hot tub - and some more very specific instructions on how to ensure the hot tub keeps working for the entire weekend.

In the space of 20 minutes (whilst still wearing meeting attire) I had received two sets of very important instructions to ensure this weekend goes safely and without dog death whilst dealing with two hysterical small things who cannot cope with conehead's sadness.

The instructions have since merged and in my head go something like this:

• there is a button I must not press on the hot tub as it could blow the entire street up (no idea which button)
• there is a button I must not turn off otherwise said hot tub will mainly be a cold tub
• there will be bubbles if I can find the bubbles button
• in the event of high winds and the marquee blows away, it's my fault
• the dog must not go in hot tub - or just must not jump. If conehead jumps and burst stitches, the cost to restitch is £400
• Conehead must wear cone at all times especially when not swimming and not jumping in hot tub
• Children must not be drunk in hot tub
• No jumping in hot tub from bedroom window
• Conehead must not jump from bedroom window
• Something about filters and chemicals
• Dog must eat - something about medicine and eating - or was that chemicals and eating

Anyway, there's some instructions in order to maintain safety this weekend. 

So finally last night, I remembered to feed the small things, the small things remembered to feed conehead with some medicine and I forgot to go for a run - but luckily running partner came round with much needed wine.

And so the start of the much awaited long weekend beckons - and I have still to buy appropriate 13 year old schiz to accessorise said party (this shopping list really mainly involves wine for me so I can cope with eight 13 year olds in my back garden shrieking OMG and LOLZ).

I'm sure it will all go to plan.  I'm sure the dog will be fine - and I'm sure the hot tub will be hot at the appointed hour - possibly.

Anyway - thank crunchie it's a long weekend and I can recover .... with conehead, a birthday party for eight 13 year olds, a hot tub in my garden and a family barbecue.

Pass me the wine.

A friend for life

Project Dog

As many of you know 'Project Dog' has been gaining momentum in our house for a while now.

There was the school PR campaign that the 10 year old launched last year when her cohorts commenced on 'Campaign Cockerpoo' which essentially involved bucket loads of research and even the class teacher becoming involved in why we should buy a pooch. That girl has a career in spin ahead of her.

There has been the repeated requests. The promises that said dog will be looked after and the ultimate statement - the small things are prepared to pick up poo.

There have been many a friend who have told me what a ridiculous idea it is and many a friend who have frankly encouraged it so they can enjoy dog ownership from afar without the actually nonsense of owning a pet.

I've grown up with dogs. Two labs called Tess and Barney were a big part of my life. I know the joy of having a dog and how tying they can be. Then there is the fact that Tess - family dog of 13 years - bit my beautiful niece when I was looking after her and in one frozen moment turned from pet to animal. One moment that will forever be imprinted in my memory. (Luckily amazing niece is absolutely fine.)

So.... I know that as much as people put their dogs in their handbags and tell me that they are their babies - dogs will always be dogs in my book. A great addition to family life if you get one - but still under it all is the need to train and watch an animal. This is one of the reasons I haven't even considered it until the small things have got a bit older.

And then I found myself considering it, thinking about it, listening to the raging PR campaign fronted by the children. 

Could anything be more powerful - small things pushing cute puppies in front of my face with pleading faces and promises to be good forever.

So I decided a list was in order - the pros and cons of buying a pooch; much like that pros and cons list you write when you are deciding on finishing with your boyf when you are 15...

The pros:

- dog will be cute
- kids will love dog
- I will be best mum ever
- dog can run with me


The cons:

- dog will wreck my house
- dog could eat my shoe collection
- dog needs taking out 
- dog will poop, in my house, in my garden, on a walk
- I will have to pick up said poop
- dog will be tying
- dog requires commitment
- small things may get bored of dog
- dog will smell (even though there is a poodle parlour right on my high street = bonus)
- dog might get ill which will (a) cost and (b) upset small things
- dog will live a long time
- dog will cry when it arrives and possibly crack even my hardened heart
- a small, teensy weensy matter of possible allergies in the house
- much like those small things, I can't send a pup back

Anyway, the pup arrives on Friday.

Meet Bessie. Well, could you have resisted? 

Bring on the fun...(and mum of the year title).