Lost in translation

Could it be?

2011-12-05T14:35:00.001+01:00

It seems we nearly have a government. I hope they haven't hurried through the negotiations too much - it's only been 540 days. You know, maybe they shouldn't rush into things.

Absolute must have information

2011-11-15T10:49:00.001+01:00

This book:

I can't recommend it enough. It's a way to understand your own fertility/cycles and then make informed decisions about them. I read the whole thing in a day. It's massive but so fascinating I couldn't go to sleep. I can't believe they don't teach this kind of information in schools. We're all being kept stupid, and I'm wondering (along with the author) if the professionals are underestimating women, if they're just wanting to hold onto their own power, or if they want to sell their drugs. It's probably a combination of all three.

I wish I'd read it twenty years ago. Now I have, I'm not sure what I'm going to do with the information, but hey. Anyone already familiar/happy/unhappy with the theory/practice - please do leave a comment if you want. I am searching the internet for opinions, but I'd rather have some from you, my trusted readers.

Remember to breathe

2011-11-12T09:16:00.001+01:00

So I do play the piano, and I'm singing Mozart's Requiem in choir, and then there's friends and family - and, oh yes, three children and a husband. Them too. I've been away to practice my Mozart in the forest, and away to just relax with Babes in the hills. I've been doing it right, I think - putting the kids first, and then exercise and good cooking, and relaxing, and learning music, and yet I'm not managing the first thing - I'm not managing to breathe properly. Isn't that silly? I can do mental arithmetic and I can play the piano (with two hands!), I can juggle three kids and a busy social schedule, but I can't manage that very basic trick that most people seem to manage: to keep my breathing steady and under control.

I do wonder - it's not because I'm not writing? Is it?

Picture update

2011-11-06T22:04:00.001+01:00

There's life out there, and it's exhausting

2011-09-27T22:04:00.001+02:00

I have discovered that if you take up the piano, start night classes at music school, and move your computer up to your bedroom all in the same week, you end up going online roughly once every two weeks. Also, you will lose "followers," because people don't like it when you don't pay attention to them. Which I get, because I, too, am an attention whore. (Love me, please!)
Marie, to Jack's friend: Look at this cup! It's full of my pee!
It turns out that commercial house concerts are rather good fun, as long as you have a few drinks beforehand.
I may need to move my computer back downstairs. I have been folding laundry and practising the piano during nap time, which cannot really be healthy. I can play a pretty little waltz now, though. And everyone has clean clothes.
With my new night class/social schedule, I am at home only on Saturday nights. I'm not sure I can keep this pace going. I must now go and collapse into my bed.

Why the hell not? (x3)

2011-09-16T14:09:00.000+02:00

Yesterday, I was driving through the center of Antwerp, on my way to have lunch with An. When I had to slow down to turn a sharp corner, this old lady just got into my car. I barely managed to snatch the child seat out from under her bum. She said she was late getting to the other end of the street, and I wouldn't mind dropping her off of course. It wasn't a question, really. More of a statement. She was all tanned, manicured, high heeled, expensively dressed and coiffed. She left a big cloud of perfume in my car. It made me laugh for the rest of the day. It was just so unexpected.
Going out last week, I had nothing to wear. I did have this beautiful pair of jeans in my wardrobe, but I never wore them because I bought them too long. I always intended to shorten them, but seeing as I never ever complete a sewing task, they now had holes in the bottom of the trouser legs from where I wore them a couple of times and stepped on them with my heels. So I got a big pair of scissors and just cut them off. I now have gorgeous new (slightly frayed) jeans which make my legs look endless. Ever since I did this, I have noticed lots more people with cut off trouser legs. I never even considered it before! It felt most liberating, I must say.
Then finally, I must blush a little. You know my little priorities speech? I can tell you there's been some progress. I now have a space to write (it's in the bedroom, but that's better than in the kitchen) and I have sat there and written a bit. I now have 10,000 words of complete crap. Which is better than no crap at all, but still not exactly what I was aiming for.
However, I have to eat my book club hat because a lovely friend dropped round and asked me to come back, which made me walk around on little clouds for a day. Who could say no? I have decided I will only read the books I like the sound of, and the other times I will just go along and enjoy the company of thinking women. It's only once a month, and frankly I crave intelligent conversation these days. So - why the hell not?

Priorities

2011-09-09T23:27:00.000+02:00

I gave this big speech to Jack about priorities. He wants to do it all: handball, swimming, music school twice a week, choir, and now... ropeskipping. And it's just too much. For me, for poor Marie and Charlie who have to sit in the car too much, and for him, because he's exhausted already in his second week of school. So I told him he had to drop something. And thank fuck, mercy, and all your combined deities, because he dropped choir, which is a very sad thing, but at the same time I don't have to do the Friday night ride of hell any more in which I take him several towns away through peak time traffic to be in choir from six till eight. Did I mention this was on bloody Friday night, when everyone else is collapsed in their sofas, resting after a hard week's work?

Anyway - back to the theme of the day: priorities. I'm starting my piano lessons next week, and I accidentally booked them for a Tuesday night, which clashes with my once-monthly book club. The double booking was an accident, but when I realised my mistake, it dawned on me that I could use the same speech I just gave to Jack. So, however much it pains me, I have decided that there will be no more book club this year. If I want to finally write something substantial for myself - and what does the world need more than another unpublished "author" who takes herself seriously - I don't need to also read ten books other people picked. I will miss it, but I can only do so much. (Also blogs - this one and others - have to come after the other writing for which I apologise dear reader.)

The world makes more sense to me now. I was only running Jack to that choir every week because I loved it so much when I was a kid anyway. He needs to find his own amazing experiences, and he will. Hopefully much closer to home. And I am finally sitting down to write a bit more. In between snotty noses, school runs, and ropeskipping drop offs. All I need now is a place to sit down on my own in the evenings. The couple of hours I can find here and there during the day just won't cut it, and sitting on my bed at night with my laptop on my knees may still seem romantic just now, but I'm sure it won't be when my back gives out. A room of my own won't be possible, but perhaps I can find a small corner table.

So, "priorities" is my theme of the week.

Igor will be proud of me. And more importantly, I will, too.

What you don't see doesn't exist

2011-09-08T14:11:00.000+02:00

Don't let the clean toilet and the hoovered carpet fool you. Sitting in the living room, I look like I have my shit together, don't I?

If you look just a little further, a little deeper:

That pan on the stove? Full of old pasta, cereal and lunchbox leftovers.
Round the corner in the kitchen? Baskets of laundry, piles of books and random paperwork.
Upstairs? A tip.

It makes me wonder: what is everyone else hiding? What are you?

He won

2011-09-06T11:24:00.000+02:00

But I got some peace

It had been a while since I cried in class

2011-09-01T23:59:00.001+02:00

I had this brilliant plan: in order to get cheap piano lessons, I would join the local music school and put up with the "general musical education" lessons. In the process, I would finally get my official diploma and have cheap piano/singing/violin tuition for evermore and evermore; the end. Straightforward plan, yes?

I have, in the past, had six years of "unofficial" music education, 10 years of violin lessons, and roughly 25 years' worth of choir singing, so I wasn't really expecting any problems. So this evening, I went for an admission test, which also established that, yes, I was fine and good to go. No problems at all, in fact, and I could decide for myself if I wanted to go into the second or third (and final) year.

As is my annoying habit, I was all insecure and thought I wouldn't manage, etc., so before the break I tried the second year class. It was fine. Easy, but fine. Lovely neurotic, reed thin, stiff upper lip teacher (I liked her). Very easy rhythm exercises, easy singing exercises, just-fine theory. Basically, I was not challenged at all. And me being the overachieving teacher's pet that I am, of course I had to go on to the third year class after the break, just to see if that would force me to study more and then shine with my new found knowledge when I put my finger up during the next lesson, shouting "Me, me! Pick me, you lovely teacher, because I studied hard and will now show off to you and my class mates." You get the picture. (Another motivation for moving classes, and to be honest a rather pressing one, was the fact that the teacher had announced recorder practice after the break. Now I have a recorder, but it was lying at home, so the teacher promised to get me a school recorder. To put in my mouth. A recorder that had been touched and blown on by all the smelly school children in the neighbourhood. This was not going to happen. My two options were: change classes or fake my own death.)

So after the break, I stepped into the other class. There I was, expecting some medium difficulty rhythm exercises, or maybe some mildly complicated songs, when the teacher (colourful, buxom, loud) told us to stand up, belted out an African song and told us to repeat it and then improvise variations on the theme. Eh, come again? All the students in fact did stand up and repeat the song, after which they all improvised away for about a hundred repetitions of the original tune. I just stared at them. After a while, I hummed a little half hearted approximation of the tune, but stopped because it just felt so very very alien and scary.

Anyway, after that ordeal we reviewed the song the class had practised before the break - it was fine. Nice and traditional; mildly challenging. Just fine. Then the teacher goes "Everyone take a djembe." - - - I was ready to make a fucking run for it. What did this woman think she was doing? I thought I was in a quiet suburban Belgian town, learning quiet suburban Belgian music, not in some African music workshop. Oh, I was not happy. I was still shaking from the earlier improvisation debacle. No, this was not good.

We started with some very traditional rhythm exercises. Pretty easy and stardard ones, were it not for the fact that we were beating these weird drums instead of clapping our hands. Then we had to make up our own rhythms and play them to the class. My hands were trembling so hard it was pretty hard to stay in time. I did it, but kept apologising for getting it wrong. First time on a djembe, heart palpitation, FEAR!

Then we sang another little song. Hungarian, two voices, some tricky rhythms, but comfortably doable. Only this time I knew - I just knew - that she was lulling me into a false feeling of peace. And sure enough, she pounced with one more repetition of the African song she'd sung at the start, and lots and lots and lots more repetitions and improvisations. Which she accompanied on her djembe, of course. How else? No piano for this woman. When people started to clap along, she told them they were being "too Western" and to clap only on the second and fourth beats. She also told us to "Loosen up! Have fun! Look like like you have fun!" Eh - no. It was not fun. It was torture. I tried to sing along now, quietly, making up some of my own variations, but somehow they all ended up sounding like what the teacher had just sung.

Then the lesson was finished and everyone left the room. I was packing up, in a daze, when the teacher asked me what I thought. I teared up and while I wiped my eyes, I told her

I think I'm "too Western." I don't like improvising while people listen. I felt self-conscious. I didn't come here to play djembe. I came here to learn music theory and to read music better. I don't feel comfortable playing this strange instrument in front of the class. I like my lessons traditional, and calm, and a lot less intrusive. I'm overwhelmed. It made me cry. I couldn't breathe. I was trembling and shaking. I hated it. I can't imagine I'll ever like it.

Also, I think this is exactly what I need and I will come back next week if you don't mind.

Whereas the second year class was slap bang in the middle of my comfort zone, the class I ended up with was so far from my comfort zone, it was "over the hill and far far away" (Babes' words). I can't imagine I'll ever like it. I was told by the teacher to "just stop thinking and let go." I'll try, I will.

Don't you just hate it when you go looking for what you think you want, and then you get ambushed by what you hoped you didn't need, but you really totally do? I hate that.

Thursday nights, I will be improvising African songs and beating a djembe, all the while trying desperately to let go and stop thinking. And I will hate it. Until I don't. (I hope.)

The only way to stay sane (filthy, but sane)

2011-08-26T21:03:00.002+02:00

Charlie's too old for formula now.

Me, to Charlie: You drink your big boy milk.
Jack (jokingly): Did that milk not come from a cow then?
Me: I personally milked three big boys to fill this cup.

My brilliance and wit are completely wasted on my daily audience of midgets.

I was too busy sleeping to miss my kids, thankyouverymuch

2011-08-25T23:57:00.000+02:00

I cunningly forgot that I was hosting baby morning today when I told my mother she could have the kids to stay. So this morning, two mothers and three children turned up to my house and none of my babies were actually here. It was quite blissful. I sipped my tea and nibbled my home made brownies, while all the mucky faces and poopy bums were someone else's problem. I have a vague plan to always ditch the kids when I'm hosting from now on. (Just joking.)

The difference between first time mothers and dyed-in-the-wool veterans was made manifest once more when the one mother asked me if I didn't miss my kids terribly, while the other just looked green with envy. No prizes for guessing which was which.

When I went to collect the children, a blanket of fatigue came down on me. I felt a bit bad about that, because I've been quite energetic the last couple of days, and I only just saw them again. Of course, it could well have nothing to do with collecting the children at all, and everything with that ridiculously strong mojito I was served in my new favourite Mexican restaurant last night. They must have made a mistake with the measurements because it made my eyes water, it was so strong.

Tonight, I'm being stupid. Instead of getting some rest, which I obviously need, I'm pretending I'm still off the clock and staying up late again. I'm trying hard not to spoil it by feeling guilty. If I'm being stupid, I may as well just enjoy the time alone. I'm thinking I may even watch a bit of TV. I hardly watch TV these days. When I do put it on, I watch mainly nature programmes with the children - except when I watch Mad Men late at night, which may as well be a nature programme for the earthy feelings Don Draper inspires in me.

Yes, maybe just a little TV and then bed will be perfect. In Therapy (the Dutch version) is only about fifteen minutes long, so I could watch two of them. Oh, and dear reader, do tell me if there's anything you're loving on TV just now because I only ever tape a couple of series and watch them when I get a chance, late at night and on my own, but I never know what's new and good. (It's okay if you've already watched it because we're generally a season or two behind the English speaking world.)

Goodnight my lovelies!

TMI, the food poising edition

2011-08-24T13:10:00.002+02:00

Ha! Isn't that funny? In my last post, I left you all with the ominous words

I choose to stop feeling like a piece of shit and be a fully functioning person again. Tomorrow. Tonight I will just watch some more crappy TV.

and the next day I was hit with an amusing little dose of food poisoning. I'm assuming it was food poisoning anyway, because Babes and I took turns running to the loo while Jack just couldn't eat all day. We'd all thorougly enjoyed our prawn salads the night before. Marie, who picked at hers but was too tired to eat much, was bouncing all over the place wondering why everyone was looking so glum.

I'm so happy that

I didn't make the salad. (I'm not blaming Babes, I swear, but at least I don't have to blame myself.)
Charlie refused to eat that night.
It was a creche day so I could lie the fuck down.

Dropping Charlie off at creche (half an hour's drive away), I was very disconcerted to see that the toilets were being cleaned. I had a very interesting, very bubbly, drive home but managed to make it in time. (Yes, aren't you happy you stopped by today? I'm all about the oversharing again.)

On the bright side, I did lose a couple of pounds and got compliments for my trimness yesterday when I had friends over. Also on this very same bright side, my rampant appetite seems to have relented for the time being. It turns out that I wasn't really all that stupid when I was wishing for an explosive tummy bug the other day. The whole time I was lying on the sofa feeling queezy and crampy I was mentally writing a post entitled "Be careful what you wish for," but my heart wasn't in it. I didn't even chuck up once, got to lie and watch daytime TV for a day, had an excuse to tell the children to keep quiet, lost some weight, and was all better in 24 hours. It was just like a mini-holiday, only with a burning poo hole, but really, if we're honest that's not an uncommon byproduct of any mini-holiday so I was fine. (There I go again with the ickiness. I propose we wrap this up.)

See you soon, people. And remember: if you're not quite sure about the seafood, just wash it down with a glass of wine. You'll be fine.

Holiday fatigue + gratuitous PMT moan

2011-08-22T01:06:00.000+02:00

Extreme holiday fatigue has finally hit. I feel I'm not doing too badly, as it's only nine days until school starts again, and so far (the other 53 days) it's been fun. I've packed those next nine days full of action, so they should fly by.

My mother phoned earlier, asking if she could have the kids to stay over at her house for a couple of days. This means I will get Wednesday to myself - so hurray - but it's the first time Charlie's going for a sleepover, and to make it two nights straightaway... It seems a bit much. I've said I will go with them on Tuesday night so I can tuck them all in, and then I'll be back there Thursday morning. Charlie will be fine. He'll have his brother and sister there, and his grandmother of course. So he'll be fine. And I'll be only half an hour away, glued to my mobile phone. Still, he only just turned one, and sending him away for two nights??? I feel like an evil witch.

In fact, it will do all of us good. We're all getting quite fed up with each other, I think. We've had some great holiday moments, but now we all need a change of scenery. Two full months is really a very long time in the life of a little child, not to mention their mother.

Marie's sleeping somewhere else four nights in a row this week, but that's quite different because she asked me to arrange that for her.

Anyway, I think I have a touch of PMT going on (just a touch *cough*), and it's too damn hot over here. And I am still chronically exhausted, and I have a sore throat. Also I dreamt earlier that Babes had replaced me with a blonde bimbo. I have internet fatigue and I'm watching way too much TV. And then there's my diet, which is not really a diet, but just hardly eating at all between parties where I just stop caring.

---
It's funny - reading that last bit back, I realise that I feel like that every so often - not to say once every month - so it's not unusual for me at all. I also know, rationally, that this will end, and it will end soon, but it feels like it will last forever. Isn't that stupid? Ah well. I'll see you all soon, I'm sure, at the other end of the tunnel. I choose to come out of it tomorrow. How's that? I choose to stop feeling like a piece of shit and be a fully functioning person again. Tomorrow. Tonight I will just watch some more crappy TV.

Boinky-boinky-tweet-tweet

2011-08-19T16:14:00.001+02:00

It seems I have agreed to go to a commercial house concert with some lovely friends of mine.

Actually, I'm not sure I should add anything to that. If you know me well enough, just that statement would probably be enough for a good giggle.

So, yes, someone is probably right now buying me a ticket to a Milk Inc. concert. In a hall with about twenty thousand other people, and a whole lot of boinky-boinky-tweet-tweet music. (Does it show I'm not really a house connoisseur?)

I am obviously getting on a bit, because my immediate worries are

will my hip give out if I dance too much (surely the only way to deal with this ordeal is to fecking go for it)
which are the best earplugs to buy
will the toilets be sanitary
will there be gangs of wayward youths attending this concert
if so should I fear for my safety.

I think my friends only asked me along to be polite. Their faces showed their assumption that I'd say no. But I reckon I can't know I don't like it if I've never tried it. Actually -

Things I've never tried but I'm pretty sure I'd hate:

Swimming with sharks
Spunge bathing president Bush - the older or the younger one
Base jumping
Tiddlywinks

I do like dancing. And I do like my friends. And I'm sure if I take earplugs, toilet wipes and a concealed weapon I'll be absolutely fine.

---
Note to the police, secret service and Milk Inc. security: I was joking about the concealed weapon. (Better be careful these days, I could get four years in jail.) It was a joke, referring back to the wayward youths. I never carry weapons, concealed or otherwise.

Moron

2011-08-17T14:26:00.000+02:00

This is what happens when I finally sit down to write:

It is so obviously the time to fix that H key that has been sticking a bit for weeks - and then spend the best part of an hour trying to get it back on.

The Overlords of the Universe win again; a spoilt mother complains

2011-08-15T23:55:00.001+02:00

As if Google didn't own me already, I have now switched to Google Chrome. Every time I install an "extension," Google tells me it will be able to access all data on my computer, the dials on my microwave, and the nerves in my spinal chord. I am feeling decidedly uncomfortable.
I wouldn't have switched if Firefox hadn't gone and updated me to a "more advanced" version which disabled all of my funky addons. It's a pity, because I liked the romance of being with the rebel troupe.
Ironically now that I have switched to the Overlords of the Universe, the back button on my mouse isn't working and I have lost all the lovely addons which were still working in the new and deproved Firefox. I miss my Firegestures.
Today was mother's day in Antwerp. We seem to have it all worked out nicely: mother's day in the middle of the school holidays, and a national holiday at that, so even the daddies are at home. It's a recipe for disaster, is what it is. The pressure is just too much. It would be so much easier if everyone just got on with their usual business and mothers were in charge. Instead, we have to cope with chaos and good intentions and other people's agendas. (I know I sound terribly ungrateful. I'm allowed. It's mother's day for another 24 minutes. Tomorrow I will pretend to everyone it was great. Ha!)
Today was always going to be a non-starter. We had a party last night, and it was great, but I had promised Babes that he would get a lie in this morning if he helped make the party a success. Which he really really did. Him, together with a bottle of Pimm's, three bottles of white wine, two bottles of red, ten beers and some whiskies (for eight people). So there I sat, at six thirty this morning, downstairs with Charlie after less than four hours of sleep and with something closely resembling a hangover. On mother's day. My mood was not optimal, and never really recovered.
On Wednesday, I happen to have the day off. Maybe I should make that a tradition. Just put up with the ordeal that is mother's day, and then have a day soon after to recover and do what I want. That could work.

Dammit, the man has a point

2011-08-12T22:32:00.000+02:00

So I have this post I've been wanting to write ever since I got back from holiday and I haven't dared to write it and now I have a few glasses of vino in me and all of a sudden I feel brave. It may not be linguistically brilliant, and chances are I will delete it in the morning, but what do you expect when I use the word "vino" (italicized) in the first sentence? That pretty much sets the tone, don't you think?

Anyway, here's the thing: in the holidays, I was meeting my most wonderful friend - let's call him Igor - in London. He has been my friend since university when we used to meet in the middle of the night - both of us kept irregular hours - and walk the fields around Cambridge while discussing the world, its dog, and the fleas on its dog. It creates a bond, that kind of thing.

So there we are, sitting in the pub, and we have got past the particulars of how are the children, the wife, the husband, the house, the car, the job - you know, the whole inventory of young married life - and then he asks me how I'm doing and am I happy and he can tell I'm at peace but really isn't there anything else I want? And I'm all "No, I'm fine, I'm a wife, a mother, I will soon be a teacher again and I am learning not to ask too much of life." (This being, in my thoughts, the proper mindful line.)

And then he goes and throws this glass of metaphorical acid in my face by saying "Yes, that's all fine, and I'm sure you're a great mother, but what would make you really happy for yourself and what would you accomplish in your dreams?" And then I say (and I swear I only had a half of lager before food, and this was at least an hour later, so I can't even blame the drink) "I'd love to write a book." And then he's all like "You should live your life to the full, and your children should see you doing something you love and want to accomplish, and patati patata" and then I just want to kick him but also hug him.

Now, of course, I'm sitting in the sofa with a glass of wine thinking how many people who write better than I do have an unpublished novel or two sitting on their bookshelves, and how much I really don't need any more rejection in my life. But then again I suppose I could just write a book for the hell of it, or for my sister An (may she only have one sister who guilts her into reading her experimental novels because how many diplomatic responses can you think up and still sound genuine).

To top things off nicely, I also gave my lovely friend Igor the address of this blog (hi, Igor, don't know if you're still reading) which has caused me no end of fretting in the last week because a few most definitely female friends know about my alter ego, and my husband of course, but I have been mentally reviewing the topics I discuss and they are most definitely things I generally only discuss with my less hairy friends. I always say I wouldn't post anything I wouldn't be happy for everyone I know to read, but I think really what I've been doing is writing stuff that wouldn't make me die of embarrassment if my daddy read it, but it's still a lot more of my soul and other particulars than I would voluntarily share with most of the people I know. Even with my very bestest friends if they are, like, kind of - male. But there you go. I'm not going to change what I write, so I hope he can still look me in the face in the future.

Right. That's it. I needed to get that out, I think. I'll be hiding in the cupboard with a cup of tea.

Milestone

2011-08-11T20:29:00.000+02:00

My baby is one today! He's starting to talk, starting to walk, and eating the same food as the rest of us. Which means that tomorrow he will technically be a toddler and we're all out of babies. I'll be the one in the sofa with the glass of white wine and the wrinkles.

Big boy watching Mary Poppins

I have a dirty mind, but really they're asking for it

2011-08-10T23:19:00.000+02:00

Remember when we went to my parents' favourite Chinese place, Ho's Garden

which served the dish "Fukien Mie" as its speciality?

Well, I have some more places from my neighbourhood which were obviously not named by native English speakers.

First, we have our very own local Chinese restaurant, which is called a fantastic

I haven't been in, but I'm kind of hoping they serve Fukien Mie as well, even though it would take on a whole new meaning in a place called Wan Kei as opposed to one called Ho's Garden.

Going on in a similar manner, I give you our local bowling alley:

It sounds to me a little like the result of too much Fukien Mie at Wan Kei.

Our Scottish holiday: who needs heat when you have deer, seals and Spanish beer?

2011-08-09T17:06:00.000+02:00

't Was lovely.

We started off in a Center Parks in Belgium, just the five of us in the woods and the tropical swimming pool. Well, when I say the five of us, of course I mean the five of us plus half of reproductive Flanders. Then we went to see some family in England, all of whom we took with us to holiday in Scotland for another week.
The children were uber-mega-excited to finally be in Scotland. They are half Scottish but with most of their family living in England and Belgium we hadn't actually made it there in seven years.
We stayed in a hunting lodge on a working farm near Stranraer (in South West Scotland), with walking trails to a private beach, leading past a tiny loch and fields full of cows and bunnies. There were partridges and pheasants everywhere. We saw deer as well, and seals near the beach. The lodge itself was right next to a tiny dilapidated castle, overgrown with wildflowers. I don't think the location could have been much more perfect. (Well, I suppose it could have had an internet connection, but that would be childish of me to mention.)
Scottish food is too addictive. The white bread, the bacon rolls, the pork sausages, the fish and chips, not to mention the chocolate brownies and the carrot cake. I was in a decidedly crappy mood yesterday when I tried to get back to a diet which includes the odd bit of - you know - fibre and vegetables.
The drink was decidedly not Scottish. I'm not much of a whisky drinker, and the in-laws had kindly brought most of their (non-Scottish) wine cellar. We contributed a few cases of Spanish beer. Mmmm. I'm planning on cutting out the alcohol as well as the white carbs. Soon. Maybe this Thursday. Or Friday. (No, actually, we're having two separate parties at the weekend. Make it Monday.)

So many kinds of wrong
The weather was amazing. We had a teensy wee bit of rain and wore our coats most days (well, this was Scotland after all) but we were outside every day, the kids swam in the Irish sea (with the aforementioned seals looking on) and Charlie even got sunburned one day (I couldn't look at his red little face without crying out in a most theatrical and Mediterranean fashion. Maybe it was the influence of all that San Miguel.) It's funny because in the comments on my quick hello before setting off, the Scottish residents couldn't quite agree if the weather over there was in actual fact totally crap or exceedingly lovely. Ours was lovely, but it may be a West Coast - East Coast thing.

The damage:

two kilos, of which I promptly lost two pounds yesterday by simply not eating all the pies. And not having any more beer. Isn't it cunning the way I gain weight in kilos, but then lose it in pounds? Makes the gain sound so much smaller and the loss far more substantial.
708 unread posts in my reader. (I may be some time - please bear with me.)

Service temporarily but not quite voluntarily interrupted

2011-07-30T10:52:00.000+02:00

The attentive reader may have noticed I've gone awol. We are on holiday until further notice, mostly away from internet and, for the next week, also from all phone reception. Yes, we are going to the Jurassic, aka Scotland. I WILL be back. (And I will be missing you all.)

Oh, and here's a joke my lovely sister An, may she always have good mobile reception as well as 3G, told me yesterday:

- Knock, knock.
- Who's there?
- To.
- To who?
- To WHOM.

Excellent joke, I hope you will agree.

See you as fast as I can, my lovelies.

What would you lick if you were sure to lose some weight?

2011-07-15T01:27:00.005+02:00

This dieting lark is doing my fucking head in. I finally seem to be past the stage of constantly thinking about food, but I must be lacking in something because otherwise I wouldn't feel the need to come downstairs for a snack after midnight. Right? (I used to come down for snacks in the night when I was still stuffing my face with any old thing as well. Hardly a scientific observation.)

Skimmed milk, small block of cheese
made to look bigger by unconventionally small plate

Don't think I'm being all that virtuous. I'm only having this because the two Leos (continental-style KitKats) I had earlier in bed, with some sweet tea, didn't stop my cravings.

I wouldn't mind feeling hungry so much if the weight was flying off (An, may she never even have to consider giving up alcohol, loses three pounds if she just contemplates eating less) but my body is, as usual, taking its time. When I try hard, I can lose about two pounds a month, maybe three. That's excruciatingly slow. (And I swear I don't normally snack at night at all, ever. This is a one-off. I'm not that stupid.)

What I need, what I really really need, is a tummy bug. Last time I had a twenty-four hour spell of spectacular up- and downward explosions, I ended up four pounds lighter. I'm considering following Charlie's lead. He's always offering me his second hand biscuits from his grubby little paws. Maybe I should do more than just pretend to eat them. He also tastes everything he gets his hands on (animal, mineral or vegetable) and I'm sure if I just did the same I would be sick in no time. Just think of the things I handle in an average day. The poopy nappies! The cat vomit! The randomly poisonous detergents!

I'm thinking I could learn from Marie as well: on any toilet, public or otherwise, she plants both hands firmly on the toilet seat to hold herself up. If I don't watch her (and I admit I often don't), she will "forget" to wash her hands and soon after insert her thumb into her mouth. I'm amazed she hasn't contracted cholera or dysentery yet. (She considers it unnecessary to wash her hands if she hasn't wiped her own bottom. She will make sure I wash mine after wiping her bum, though. Because ewwww, right?)

So, if you see me going around licking grubby old mingers in the street, you'll know that I'm still trying to lose those last few pounds.

If a man did this, I'd be the first to complain, so bite me

2011-07-11T20:42:00.000+02:00

On Saturday, I took the children to the international folklore festival in our local park. There was a wonderful atmosphere, with all ages and nationalities mixing and dancing together. We saw the groups from Yakutia, Macedonia and Spain play music and dance in traditional dress. I took some photos for your entertainment and edification.

The National Ballet of Yakutia, from Yakutsk

(I found some information online suggesting I should be saying "The Sakha Republic" instead. I'm just following the event organisers here - I hope I'm not offending any locals.)

The beautiful dress and long,
long hair of one of the Yakut dancers

Part of the Macedonian troupe

Last but not least I would like to feature one particular dancer from Spain, who struck me as a most amiable young fellow from the very start.

Most amiable young Spanish fellow

As soon as the band started to play, I could tell he had a sparkling personality. It's just a shame that I just managed to miss his face in this picture.

Sparkling Spanish personality

After a first demonstration, all the dancers invited someone from the audience to join them in the next dance. My chosen subject picked an older woman over the many available young mothers, which endeared him to me even more. His kind visage was only just turned away when I snapped this shot:

Kind Spanish disposition

Our dancer isn't only an expert at twirling his partners, he also charmingly joked around with them. In this picture, he'd only just said something most amusing. It's a shame I just got him too low.

Dazzling Spanish wit

Finally I must report that Juan/Diego/Miguel had even more going for him than all the previous: he was also obviously blessed with superior intelligence. The sheer number of steps he had memorised was stunning, the way in which he would teach them to his inexperienced partners a revelation. If only I'd pressed the shutter a little earlier, you could have read his intelligence from his face yourself.

Abundance of Spanish intelligence

Finally, I must coyly add that he also didn't fill those trousers too badly, but of course I would not be so vulgar as to have specific photographic material to illustrate this last point of mine.

Today: the score board

2011-07-08T21:59:00.005+02:00

WINNERS

Me:
Babes had seconds of both the chilli and the banoffee pie last night! Even though technically I probably shouldn't be calling what I made pie. Because strictly speaking "pie" is not a liquid. Also, the caramel was a bit burned, but nevermind.

My runny burned banana-y
creamy goop was a huge success.

The children loved the chilli as well. Victory was mine!
Tonight, another winner: rocket salad with melon, smoked ham, mozarella, tomatoes and homemade crostini. Two nights in a row I got compliments from the children. I'm going to end up chasing that high, it was so good.
Charlie:
Has two definite words. It may come as no surprise that my 4kg875 (10lbs 12oz - at birth, obviously - he's more than twice that now) baby decided to talk about food first. Around his ten month anniversary, he started saying "koek" (biscuit) and now he also says "pap" (word for liquid food). He's copying words like nappy, poo, horse and baby when he hears them, but the other two he uses on his own to demand food. I'm so proud.
Marie:
Can count all the way to twenty! For a while there, she'd misplaced seventeen but it has now been restored to its rightful place in the sequence.

LOSERS

Babes:
Came home sick, and I made fun of him. I can be such a bitch.
Charlie:
Got sick at creche. They phoned me as they were giving him some paracetamol and putting him to bed. I went to get him four hours later. He was happy and drugged, but still... I'm sure karma has a suitable payback in store for me tonight.
Belgium:
A year and twenty five days after the elections, and still no government. A last-ditch effort at making an agreement between the warring factions has been shot down by the biggest party. We have it so good in this country, but people take it for granted. I just hope we all get our acts together soon or we may end up regretting it seriously.
My local policeman:
Who stopped me at four in the afternoon, with three children strapped into the car. Who, when told that I hadn't had any alcohol, asked me: "Really none at all?"
Me:
In an attempt to have a few serious thoughts and note them down, I took a notebook and pencil to the indoor playground today. Next time I should think more carefully about my choice of gear

Not a serious notebook and pencil
Belle:
Used to be really pretty.

Pretty as a picture

Now look at her.

Has let herself go a bit

I particularly like the chest hair.

I told me so!

2011-07-07T15:18:00.000+02:00

I have this overwhelming need to accomplish something today.

Of course I accomplish many things every day. To be honest, some days I should get an award just for getting out of bed. When I've been up in the night wondering why Charlie won't stop screaming (teeth, too hot, too cold, dirty nappy, uncomfortable, sick, hungry: there are just too many options) and the day starts unreasonably early - again - I sometimes feel I should be able to pull out a get out of jail free card and beg for a day off.

I'm writing this post during afternoon naptime (long may it last but probably it won't) and so far today, I have coaxed three children into clothes and a decent breakfast. We have met up with my expat mother and baby group at the children's farm, walked in the park, petted the animals, had pancakes for lunch. I have changed two nappies, wipes many hands and faces, tidied up a few messes already. This afternoon there will be laundry and a trip to the supermarket. And yet, none of that seems like an accomplishment as such.

What I need is to have done something new and exciting. Anything. Just to know I still exist as a person, outside my function of being a mother. A glorious function it is, and one I cherish, but I sometimes feel like it's eating me up completely, and there is no space left for the rest of me. The me who used to take an extra university degree just for the fun of it. The me who loves the smell of books and travelling alone. The me who is still in there, dammit, if you bother to look (most people don't).

And that is why I've cunningly decided that later on today I need to cook chilli con carne, after which I need to bake banoffee pie, neither of which I've even eaten before. (I need to think small. Another degree or solo trip isn't really on the cards right now.) I want to do this while looking after three children. Because I'm clever that way. And when the children complain they don't want to eat kidney beans and the pie has collapsed and Babes refuses a second portion because he had a hot lunch, I will only have myself to blame. I told me so!

Desperation is so not a good look on me

2011-07-05T23:59:00.001+02:00

It's after midnight and this bloody white page is laughing at me. It's mocking my inability to write a measly little post every day, while it can't bloody be that hard because people do it all over the world every day. So WTF really, brain?
I could talk about Charlie's stomach infection and the fact that he has to take Zantac twice a day for a whole month. The geniuses in charge of baby medicine made this one mint flavour. The pediatrician warned me that it doesn't taste very nice, so to definitely give it to him before his meal and not after. You'd think someone could come up with a better plan than to make baby medicine mint flavour. He's being a star, though, keeping his head still and not even complaining. He just winces a little.
I could also talk about the holidays. So far we have had a trip to the sales, one to the zoo, and one to the supermarket. We've had a birthday party and a trip to the hospital (to see the pediatrician). Surely there's a good story in there somewhere? Well, someone did cut in front of us when we were at the till in the supermarket, and we managed to discuss this rude lady for about ten minutes after we left the shop. Also, there was a balloon.
I have decided that the cause of my writing drought is mindfulness. I used to spend every other post bitching about something, and now I'm just so fucking content it makes me sick. So, I've decided: from now on, no more mindfulness. Sure, I will bite the children's heads off by lunchtime tomorrow and by the evening my small intestine will be infected, but that's a small price to pay for a fully functioning blog. Also, hyperventilation is kinda cool. I hear all the hip kids are doing it these days.
I now have to go to sleep but I will backdate this post to about an hour ago so that I can pretend in the morning that I blogged yesterday. It's a confidence thing, so please forgive me what is strictly speaking a lie. (At least I'm owning up to it in typical neurotic fashion.)
Goodnight, people. Feel free to suggest some blog topics to me. I'm desperate.

Find the link: diet obsession, surviving the holidays, random drinking

2011-07-02T21:22:00.000+02:00

It's easier to be on a diet when there aren't constantly three children around demanding to be fed. It's also easier to make clever diet choices when you're shopping with a baby only. I know it was me who put the chocolate covered peanuts in my shopping cart, but I still feel that the responsibility for me stuffing my face with them this afternoon cannot be mine only.
Starting the holidays as a single mother has been interesting. The TV has had more use than I planned, both for the children and for me. The consumption of chocolate, especially in the evenings, has skyrocketed. (That one was all me.)
Babes has been on a short trip, combining business with family visits, and surprisingly it's been okay. He has announced that there will be more of these trips in the future, and in a way it's been like a little holiday for me as well.
I was worried to start with because I was enjoying myself so much. Surely I was meant to miss him? The control freak in me loves being the only one in charge. The wife in me is having trouble sleeping, though.
Overall, I think I would like my husband back now.
I'm secretly loving the holidays. No more rushing around like a headless chicken in the mornings, no more waking Charlie from blissful naps, no more fixed bedtime or homework to supervise. Just don't tell Babes because otherwise he might not think I need to go out with my girlfriends any more. And I do, I really really do.
I'm very close to rescinding my no-alcohol-except-on-Sundays rule. The idea was I would lose more weight, but I'm replacing white wine with the same volume in chocolate, which cannot be the idea. In the end, I obviously need to take in some calories, and they may as well be the fun kind.
Prepared as always, I consulted my new favourite website, Get Drunk Not Fat, and the take home message is basically "Champagne good, beer bad, white wine kindofinbetween." Shots are even better, but I'd better not go there.
(I'm not drinking every day, just when I go out. It's hard to go out on a week night and drink water when everyone else is having a glass of wine.)

How is your summer going so far? Or your winter, if you're down under? (That sounds like it's winter in my panties which is funny with Babes away on a trip. (Maybe just to me. Ah well.))

Updates

2011-06-29T09:18:00.003+02:00

Jack is seven today. I'm sure that makes me officially old, but I've unilaterally decided that I won't be old until he's 18. It's all in the mind, you see.
I am reading a book with the best title ever: The thing about life is that one day you'll be dead, by David Shields. After a title like that, I suppose the contents can only be a letdown, but one chapter in I'm still excited. We'll see.
A little quote from the "Prologue" for you:
[Talking about his father] He's strong and he's weak and I love him and I hate him and I want him to live forever and I want him to die tomorrow.
My kind of book so far.
I have (once again) decided that Charlie is now going to be a good sleeper. The sign I needed was that, in the past two days, he has twice fallen asleep in his buggy and slept on when I took him out to put him into his bed. Surely that's a definite preamble to spiffing sleeperdom. Let me clutch those straws, people.
The summer holidays are starting tomorrow. I have been dreading them, as I was pretty much failing at motherhood without having to look after all three kids 24/7 the last few weeks. However, I have now reframed the event in my mind and it's helping me. Here's how I see it now: all year, I have been forced by the schools / choirs / sports clubs etc. to spend my time as they saw fit, whereas now I will be in control. Therefore the holidays will be better. The end.
Feel free to borrow this argument if you are in the same situation and need to convince yourself that you can survive the vast eternity that is the summer holidays. You're welcome.
Also I need exercise, blah blah blah. You know the drill. At least I'm back in my pre-pregnancy jeans so hurray summer sales here I come. I knew replacing all solid foods with white wine would work.
Oh, and you know I miss you all, right? I'm working on the inspiration / time to write thing. Obviously it will all sort itself this week as Charlie will now sleep well and the holidays will give me all that free time to blog.
Damn, now I have become delusional as well.

It's official

2011-06-23T09:05:00.000+02:00

Coming out of my mother's house after dropping the children off, I took a deep breath. It felt like the first proper breath I'd had in a week. I got in the car, switched the stereo to the podcast I'd abandoned days earlier and drove off towards my empty home, a good book and a cup of tea. I only had a couple of hours to myself but it felt like a proper holiday.

I think I'm officially done having kids.

The pungent stench of decomposed death

2011-06-17T11:17:00.001+02:00

So I came down from my shower this morning and the kitchen was smelling of death. In fact, the kitchen was smelling of the bit in between the toes after a week of decomposition of death. No, in fact it was smelling like that bit in between decomposed toes and also behind the unwashed ears of three weeks of decomposed death. And I know that's not properly formed or anywhere near nicely flowing English, but that is what it was like and there are no nice words for it. If the words were nice, they wouldn't be conveying that stench properly.

So after I came down and realised there was this godawful evil sickness bearing pungency, what did I do? I opened the window and sat down to make the kids their packed lunches. I left Babes to find and remove the stench of what must have been three diseased storks who got lost on my kitchen surface on their way to their summer pastures, having laid rotten eggs and then vomited, crapped, and died. No way in hell was I going anywhere near there. Did you see that picture this week of that decomposing horse in a deserted Lybian army barracks? All I can say is the rebels were lucky that horse was in a courtyard - outside - and not in my kitchen.

Of course it was entirely my fault that the kitchen smelled like that in the first place. I made a delicious carbonara on Tuesday (with pecorino and spinach), but did I throw out the remains? No, my darling people, I did not. I also tidied the bathroom and the children's rooms a little on that day, but have I sinced washed the laundry I removed from there? No, people, I have not. It is all piled up in three different places. And you should see my garden...

So what have I been doing? I have been at the hospital, visiting my achingly beautiful newly arrived goddaughter at every possible opportunity. I have been gallivanting all over town, going to book clubs and coffee mornings and gossipy lunches and dates with my husband. I have been napping in the morning to catch up on sleep and crafting home made birthday invitations with Jack. I have been teaching Charlie to high five and I have been cuddling in the sofa with Marie.

All of these I consider more important things than cleaning. All of them get given priority over housework any day of the week. Only I should remember that perhaps it may be clever to do some minor disaster containment before, in between and after all the gallivanting and child-loving. Just occasionally. If I don't want to be retching over packed lunches first thing in the morning again.

Comment fix

2011-06-10T21:49:00.005+02:00

The lovely Fiona left a comment today explaining what is wrong with the comments box on my blog. I was most grateful because just knowing I have missed some of your comments makes me cry bitter tears. I will let Fiona speak to you directly:

Incidentally, other 'Anon' commenters, apparently the problem is that Blogger isn't compatible with the latest Microsoft updates. You need to post your comments using Google Chrome, and then you can be yourself again.

That must be why I never had any trouble, as I use Firefox myself.

So, Internet Exporers, perhaps it is time for you to come over from the dark side and try another browser. Or you could comment as "Anonymous" because that seems to work even if you're with "them." If you wanted to leave a comment, that is. (You know, if you love me or something.)

There I was being all paranoid that Blogger were boycotting me after I told you all they are crap, and it turns out that wasn't it - they're just being crap again. (Ah, fuck, now I'll never get another comment in my life.)

Thank you, Fiona!

Unexpectedly surreal

2011-06-09T18:13:00.003+02:00

I was feeling a bit down earlier and thought a walk around the local shops would cheer me up. Then this happened:

(Protagonist is at the till of a department store, paying for her purchase.)

Me: Do you have any rings for little girls?
Shop Assistant (SA): No, we don't, and I don't know where around here you can get them. Maybe try [slightly dodgy extreme discount store]?
Me: I don't know. I'm always worried their stuff would be poisonous or something, and it is for a child who likes to put things in her mouth.
SA: Would it help if I said their stuff is probably made by children's hands?
Me: [Stunned silence] ... eh, not really.
SA: Well, what do you expect with such low prices?
Me: I hope none of the stuff in this shop is made by children.
SA: It's bound to be. Have you seen what we charge for stuff?
[I was in Hema, a very large Dutch chain. Think of a funkier Woolworths. I had admittedly just paid 2 euros for four tall glasses.]
Me: Seriously? Surely you check your suppliers for that.
SA: Oh, we do spot checks, and there are education programmes and everything, but do you really think the parents can pay the bills with what we pay them? You have to be realistic, madam.
Me: [Another stunned silence] ... well, thank you very much.

(Exit stage left.)

I think Hema have been infiltrated by a certain rogue element. I was shockingly not cheered up.

But the goose hissed at me!

2011-06-06T21:25:00.001+02:00

Babes bullied me tonight until I went and did some exercise. The bastard. He must think I'm too fat or something. I couldn't face going to the gym, so I went for a bike ride along the canal to the next town. The journey is perfectly idyllic, away from the main road. There are some house boats and back gardens, but apart from that it's all green and lush, full of birdsong. It was getting slightly misty, with the smell of potential rain. Perfection all around.

So you'd think I enjoyed all this to the full, right? I must have cycled along, happily reveling in the beauty of nature. Right? Well, I did - a bit. But it also struck me that I am spending more and more of my time being scared again. I was scared of the big roads I had to cross, scared of the potential rapists/murderers hiding in the long grass, scared of the smells coming from the factory I passed (it smelled of nail varnish remover), and most of all scared of the gaggles of geese dotted along the tow path. But one of them hissed at me! Which is bloody scary. I tried to think of all of my readers out there who live in exotic places and who have lions or alligators or even dinosaurs for all I know to worry about when they venture outside their houses. It helped a little, in that I decided that if forced to choose between a roaring lion, a snapping alligator and a hissing goose, I would most definitely go for the goose. My heart and breathing still stopped for a while going through each group of them.

After a while I decided that I should stop being scared. Or, to put it more mindfully: I should recognise the fears, let them be and then let them go. I gave myself permission to put my hand on my bicycle bell when I spotted a lonely angler (they do hurt fish for sport after all), but apart from that I told myself to just enjoy the ride. I saw a rabbit running across the track and stop to look at me from the bushes, ducks admonishing their chicks ("Vera, Victor, Teresa and Mary, stay closer to me now. You remember what happened to your brother yesterday!" - I don't know why, but ducks strike me as most Catholic. Especially Belgian ducks) and what I was pretty sure was a parakeet flying right in front of my face.

Anyway, don't tell Babes but the exercise did me the world of good. I should keep doing it until I stop being scared, I suppose - or until I'm murdered. That would put a stop to it alright. Next time I go, I will meditate on the beauty of my surroundings while being kind to myself about my fears when they pop up and seeing them for what they really are: only fears. Thoughts, not reality.

Next time.

---

This post has been included in this month's British Mummy Blogger's carnival.

Marital mindfuck

2011-06-05T23:43:00.000+02:00

My mother used to tell us that if we were ever considering marrying someone, we should not look at how much we love their good traits, but only wonder if we can live with their flaws. Not the worst advice I've ever heard. When you're newly in love, it can seem endearing if your lover picks his toes every night (I swear this one really is a fictitious example as that would be a serious deal breaker for me), but when it's ten years later and the baby is teething and you haven't slept in a week, this once cute little habit will have lost all of its charm.

I'm reading Elizabeth Gilbert's Committed - the sequel to Eat, Pray, Love. I had told myself not to buy it, but then I couldn't resist it in the bookshop because the blurb on the cover promised that it was "irresistably confessional." I regretted picking it up immediately when a most cosmopolitan traveller came up to speak to my most intellectual looking sister and there I was, holding the ultimate in chick-lit. But I do love a good confession, I must admit, and while a fictional confession can be fun, there is no better kind than a real-life look at how the neighbours are doing. (Which is why I'm a sucker for a good confessional blog, as some of you know.)

At one point in her book, Elizabeth Gilbert's boyfriend basically paraphrases my mother's bit of wisdom and then follows a scene in which Liz and her lover list their own faults to each other , in preparation of their impending marriage. (The idea being that they can't complain later, because now they've been warned of what's to come.)

While obviously it's too late for Babes and I to attempt to do the same, it might still be an interesting exercise for us after more than eleven years institutionalised and nearly seventeen ensnared. I wonder - would we get it right? Would the faults we list be the ones that drive the other crazy on occasion? Do we know ourselves well enough by now to know the most awful side of ourselves?

I'm half tempted to try this tonight and compare notes. On the other hand, while neither Babes or I pick our toes nightly so at least in that respect we'll be fine, we do have the sleepless nights and the three small children to contend with, so it may be better right now to let sleeping dogs lie. If there's one thing we don't need, it's an extra source of stress.

The reverse exercise may be more beneficial, and in a way more interesting. I'm thinking that by now our respective flaws are pretty much obvious. They would be the bits that follow the "You always..." and "You never..." of the standard matrimonial argument. What might still have the power to surprise us, is if we made a list each of the other partner's strengths. I'm still not sure what exactly Babes likes best about me, apart from my fabulous body of course. I'm not even sure if he's ever put much thought into it. I think I have a fair idea of what I like about him, but does he know?

It's probably wiser to let this second list be as well right now. What if Babes' list ends up with only two items on it, both anatomical? What if I miss out a stellar trait which Babes considers central to his character? This may be rather sobering to both of us. (I suppose it's not a very modest thing to do either, to say to your man "Hey sweetie, will you make a list of all the ways in which I'm fabulous, please? Thanks, honey - oh, and could I have it in triplicate and laminated, please?" Yeah, perhaps not good.)

Actually, I think I may just give all marital mindfuck games a miss for a while. At least until we've had some sleep. Or perhaps until Charlie's in school. Or maybe until pigs fly, as on reflection it seems rather unwise to tinker with a (mostly) functioning marriage.

I'm a lay-dee with a plan

2011-05-26T09:54:00.000+02:00

Right, people, I will beat this bloody blogger's block if it fucking kills me. One post a day was easier when I still thought it would fascinate you all endlessly if I reported on my every fart. (Not that I ever fart, mind you, because I am a lay-dee.)

My ongoing sleepless nights have me sitting in the sofa "watching" pre-recorded TV shows during morning naptime instead of blogging (I'd admit to being slumped over, snoring, and drooling out of the side of my face if I wasn't a lay-dee). And then there's my frigging diet, which is making the kilos melt away (slowly, slowly, eaty monkey) but it's making me feel rather empty-headed and lethaaargic.

But all this crap has a bright side as well, of course: while I have absolutely no inspiration when I'm faced with the dreaded and seemingly endless white space of the "New post" page, I have now gone a whole six weeks without being asked when my baby is due. I have also, in the last nine months, had only one bout of self-induced insomnia. A record, surely. But it does rather limit the idle blog time.

Nevermind, dearest people. All this is a thing of the past. I have decided that as soon as Charlie's fourth tooth breaks through fully, he will be the best sleeper we've ever had. Also, I am taking a daily vitamin supplement to increase my energy levels (with ginseng, people, this is foolproof) so I will no longer need my morning naps. Now all I need to do is sabotage my offline social life, and I'll be back to blogging away my new-found sleepless nights.

I really don't know why they haven't put me in charge of the UN yet. I'm such a planner.

Nevermind

2011-05-23T22:38:00.000+02:00

Earlier today, I deadheaded the flower pots in the garden, and accidentally cut off quite a few perfectly healthy looking pink flowers as well. Which is fine, really, because all they were is future deadheads. I was conserving energy.

While I was at it, I flushed tomorrow's breakfast down the loo and buried the cat. I'm way ahead of you all, people!

Kill, baby, kill!

2011-05-18T11:27:00.000+02:00

I am a mass murderer. (I have written about this before.) I have a lot of snails in the garden and they eat my hostas, which make them public enemy number one, and I KILL them. Yes, I KILL them. And I feel awful and guilty about it.

(That's what's wrong with us bleeding heart liberals, you know. We can't even kill pests with a clear conscience. See what happened with Bin Laden? The good guys go and take out a bad guy and we're all "Yeah, but what about due process? " I thought it was quite funny when a Republican senator or something was being interviewed on CNN and the reporter asked him if this was an assassination and if there should be an investigation, and the guy just went "I don't think we need to waste too many thoughts on this." Which to me seems to capture very well the difference between us over-thinking bleeding heart liberals and the other lot. But then that may just be my own prejudices coming out. Whatever. On with the snails.)

So as if it wasn't already a problem for me that I am a serial killer myself, I am now teaching my children the fine art of mass extermination as well. The other night, I told them the price of their dinner was five snails. Jack, the sweetheart, was so worried Marie wouldn't get any food he found nine on her behalf.

Me: Throw the snails in this bucket.
Jack: What's in the bucket?
M: Lemonade.
J: What happens to the snails once they're in there?
M: Well, they die. But they die while drinking lemonade, so I think they die happy.

There are so many things wrong with that conversation, even if you disregard the fact that I wouldn't feed them unless they went on a killing spree. The snails keep trying to get out of the bucket, and then one of the children will go and stir the lemonade with a stick so they drown a little faster.

I teach my children other things as well, you know. Like that swatting mosquitoes is okay because they bite us, but swatting flies is not very nice because they don't do anything wrong. I also teach them to be careful when putting a spider outside the house. Maybe I should teach them the word "hypocrite" next.

Girl, you'll be a woman soon

2011-05-15T05:40:00.000+02:00

On Friday, I became a woman. I could tell I was no longer a girl/tomboy because of the way I was holding my shoulders. It was obvious from the way I walked in my black clingy dress: curvy, unashamed. Anyone could tell I was a woman from the way I bought a single croissant for my breakfast (not a sticky bun or even two), kept it in the bag and just pulled off small parts of it while walking to the hairdresser's. In the salon, I didn't apologise for myself, make self-deprecating remarks, worry that I didn't measure up - a woman wouldn't, would she? I went for lunch with my sister; we sat on a sunny terrace with our sunglasses on; I had the most womanly Chef's Salad with a glass of white wine.

Then today I was that girl again.

I woke up with a stupid cold. A woman would have remembered to take her vitamin supplement. A woman wouldn't have wanted her baby's fruit mush so badly that she shared it with him, knowing perfectly well that the spoon was full of creche germs and snot by then. A woman would have found a better way to amuse her kids than to put that snotty baby's dummy in her mouth.

Taking Jack to the swimming pool, I had forgotten my flip flops and refused to go outside the changing rooms with him. A woman would have remembered them. In fact, a woman would not have needed them, being immune to verrucas and not prone like a girl. A woman would not have told her six year old to go shower all by himself, surrounded by other kids and their supportive parents.

I phoned my sister and had a fight with her. A woman would not have done that. A woman would either not have invited her and her family for a meal and Eurovision party, or if she had she would not have phoned to say it was only going to be sandwiches because she was going to the school fete first and would need more than just dos cervezas to get through it. A woman would have been all composed (and sober) at the stove, pretty in an apron, cooking a fast yet tasty meal. The girl thought
She doesn't want me or my company, she only wants the food. When's the last time she cooked me a meal? I would have got good bread and nice cheese. There would have been alcohol. Why doesn't she love me enough?
A woman would have known that a sister can also be a girl. A girl in the middle of exams and probably thinking
But she was going to cook me a meal. Why doesn't she think I'm more important than a stupid school party and dos cervezas? Doesn't she love me enough?

A woman would have worn her favourite dress to the school party. She would have got it in the wash on time and arrived looking gorgeous, curvy, unashamed. She would not have pulled a pair of jeans from the bottom of the pile of clothes in her bedroom, added a shirt that's slightly too small across her boobs and a scarf for warmth around her sore throat. If that woman had turned up at the school fete in that perfect dress, the school gate mummies would have reconsidered their evening plans to go out for a meal without her. They would have said "Why don't you come along, you gorgeous, unashamed, curvaceous woman, with your perfect husband and your perfect children?"
A woman would not have cared if she hadn't been invited of course. It's not as if I'm going steady with any of them. I've met some of them without all the others in tow.
But why don't they love me enough? Is it my jeans? Is it the scarf? Is it because I had a third baby? Is it because I can't turn up on Friday afternoons to chat in the park any more?

A woman would be asleep right now, happy in her post-Eurosong party alcoholic daze. Not like this girl, who slept all the way through Eurosong, now sitting up in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, snotty, stewing, a pile of tissues on the ground next to her.

I don't like this girl. Tomorrow, I want to be a woman again.

Every Spaniard has a moustache

2011-05-13T19:05:00.004+02:00

Jack and Marie's school has done it again. On Saturday the nursery school are performing little dances at the school fete, and Marie's class are dancing to last year's Flemish summer hit, Dos Cervezas - their most inappropriate choice of song since they made a group of little girls dance to Aqua's "Barbie Girl" in miniskirts and make up (no, really, they did - "Kiss me here, touch me there, hanky-panky").

There are so many problems with this song, I hardly know where to start. First of all, they've dressed up all the three year olds as bartenders and barmaids and make them serve beers. The refrain of the song is one long call for more beer. At least this bit is in Spanish so the children won't necessarily understand, but still... I have a feeling a more child-friendly topic is not too much to wish for as a parent. But can you believe that this is not the worst part?

The song describes, in Dutch (our local language, just so we're clear), how the singer gets drunk on a beach in Spain, meets a girl, likes her, kisses her, discovers she has a very hairy top lip and then tries to get as far away from her as possible, because "every Spaniard has a moustache." He then feels really bad, which means he has to order more beer. Such a charming ditty.

Seriously, people. Drunken man goes out with beer in hand, kisses girl, complains about abundance of facial hair, gets more drunk. In the children's own language. I am so appalled I just had to repeat that for you. To stress the awfulness.

Maybe I should be impressed. They couldn't really have got it any more wrong. In a way you have to admire a teacher who can choose a song for three year olds which advocates drunkenness, disrespect for women and manages to squeeze in a few body image issues as well. Oh, and I forgot the blatant racial stereotyping. I have to laugh, but only because otherwise I would cry and have to find them a new school.

---

For those of you who already commented on this post: Blogger ate your comments when it ate this post!

Blogger/Google warning!!!

2011-05-12T19:01:00.002+02:00

People, WTF is up with Blogger and Google? They changed my profile, without asking me, to show my real name and email address on both my profile and comments I leave on other blogs. That was not the deal! I am SO pissed off. This may finally convince me to leave gmail and blogger. They have crossed a line. I am seething! And this is not the first time either - remember the Buzz fiasco?

Anyway, people - you may want to check/delete/whatever your accounts. What clowns!

---

And then they had the cheek to delete my two latest posts! If I was

better with computers
less lazy
less resistant to change

I would be on Wordpress right now already.

---

I am now trying to read the posts in my reader, and half of your posts are gone, too. Arghhhh!

Not just another audition

2011-05-06T22:52:00.003+02:00

Some of my new readers may be unaware of this, but I am not only a blogger, a teacher, and a mother of three; I am also a film director. Ah yes. My greatest triumph was my remake of Brokeback Mountain featuring my two favourite clowns, Bumba and Bumbalu, in the starring roles of Ennis and Jack.

Ever since that movie, I must admit my movie career has been on the back burner somewhat, but I have been auditioning various candidates for new movies. More accurately, after my first film's unprecedented popular success and critical acclaim, scores of actors have been sending in audition tapes and demos of themselves in the hope that I will consider them for my upcoming new projects.

Yesterday, I received another such attempt. I'm starting to think the economic downturn has hit actors particularly badly, because this one can only be called a desperate cry for help, a last ditch attempt at finding a job in an otherwise barren market.

Moe and Joe

I would like you to meet Moe and Joe, two diminutive friends loosely associated with the artsy crowd Bumba and Bumbalu move in. Moe and Joe have decided they want to make it on the big screen and they are not going to let their small size stop them. They have read Tom Cruise's autobiography cover to cover and now they have a masterplan. Like Tom, they are trying to cultivate the image of the maverick; the daredevil even. It's a shame that, in their case at least, it really is only an image, as you will see all too soon.

Consistent with their chosen persona of tiny tearaways, Moe and Joe decided to theme their audition on the movie Arachnophobia. They figure any remake with them would be even better than the original, as even common garden spiders can grow to be half their size. Just imagine a well-placed tarantula: it would positively tower over them. Obviously their meagre unemployment benefit didn't stretch to enable them to hire a real tarantula. Still, we must applaud them for their efforts. Kind of...

See, while the idea of the small toy vs large spider movie is a very clever one, I can see many problems with this picture they sent in.

For a start, our "daredevils" are obviously wearing protective plastic suits. They are transparent, but surely they didn't think I wouldn't notice?
The second problem is in their facial expressions: Moe is obviously panicking, while Joe looks completely clueless. Here's another photo of Moe:

Look at the panic in those eyes! Look at the mouth ready for a scream. Hardly a hero, methinks.
The third problem is one that clearly shows their lack of understanding of the film business, or perhaps a touch of stupidity, both of which would make it hard to make a full motion picture with these guys. Here's the rub: Moe and Joe decided to brag and show me they are fully at ease with the ways of modern film making. They decided to do this by posing in front of a blue screen, implying I could add whatever background I want.

It's a shame they forgot they're both blue themselves! D'oh! Yeah, neither seems to be the cleverest grape in the bunch. (I'm starting to see how Joe might have got his facial tattoo.) Ah well, kind of sweet really.

---

As an extra treat, I have managed to get my hands on some photos of the "making of" of the above auditions, from my insider spies (I know the spiders personally).

Here's an amusing one of Moe and Joe practising a scene with a more manageable stand-in, working up the courage to call one of the spiders on set:

And here's one in which the spiders got one of their cousins to climb into Moe's protective suit. They're still getting that picture out every time they get together, just to have a little giggle at the abject terror on poor Moe's face. Spiders are not sensitive souls; what can I say?

Have a great weekend, my lovely people!

Find the hairy boobs

2011-05-05T22:19:00.004+02:00

There are some bloggers who used to visit me here all the time. I know that because they were my favourite kind of blogger: the comment leaving kind. They'd come visit me, leave a comment; I'd go visit them, leave a comment. You know how it goes. Then they stopped visiting. I suppose technically I can't be sure they stopped visiting, but they definitely stopped leaving comments. So either they stopped visiting or they became my least favourite kind of blogger: the non-comment leaving kind.

Obviously people are free to visit or not (Hey, come back, I wasn't talking about you!) but I do wonder what changed. These are not people who stopped blogging, and I didn't stop visiting them either. (Well, not for a while. I probably will have by now.) Maybe they just lost interest, or maybe they had too many blogs to read and had to cull some. That happens, and I get that.

What interests me more is the thought that maybe I did something so objectionable they just couldn't bear reading any more filth from me. See, that's where it gets interesting.

Was it my neverending fascination with bums and poo, sometimes even combined with head lice?
Was it my ridiculing of religion and the overly religious?
Was it my dislike of all animals, and in particular my own cats?
Was it my love of gay porn?
Perhaps they are a huge U2 fan and took objection to my most balanced discussion of Bono's public persona?
Maybe they were fed up with my endless discussion of pregnancy, breastfeeding and my menstrual cycle? (No link - just go pretty much anywhere.)

(Welcome, new readers. If you have got this far, you can stay.)

Anyway, my long-awaiting point comes now: Google Reader, or whatever reader y'all are using should come with an automatic question when you delete a blog, just like the iPhone has for its apps

Deleting only to get full version
of bloody addictive game

only this would be a rating question for bloggers, so it would have to be much, much wordier. It would go something like:

Why have you tired of this blog?
Please give as many reasons as you'd like: ___________________

and then the results would be sent to the writer of the deleted blog. I would read those with as much interest as I do my Google keyword stats. (I am still the queen of Dutch toilets! First in Canada, top ten in all countries I checked. Seriously! Just go google "Dutch toilets" and there I am. I'm so proud.)

I do love brackets - not sure about the hairy boobs

I wouldn't abandon my favourite topics, obviously. I'm not particularly looking to increase my readership amongst gay porn hating religious nutters who are also fans of U2. However, I would like to know in which respect I'm most objectionable, and I do hope I am because I'd rather be objectionable than dull.

If they must leave me, I'd rather it was with slammed doors rather than a "meh" or a yawn.

The "say yes when you mean no" trick

2011-05-04T22:11:00.003+02:00

I love this trick I play on my children: I mean "no" but I say "yes." (It's not my invention. I'm sure I got it from some clever self-help book.) Some examples:

Child of mine (CofM): Can I have an ice cream, please?
Me: Yes, you can - tomorrow afternoon.

CofM: Mama, can I join my friend's football team?
Me: Yes, when you have completed all your swimming lessons.

CofM: Mama, can I have a puppy?
Me: Yes, when you are an adult, not living at home any more, and you never want me to visit again.

I swear it's the best trick ever. They're so prepared to hear "no" that the initial "yes" completely throws them and they don't even complain.

Perhaps this trick is getting to be too much of a reflex if one starts using it on one's husband. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

B (initial, could stand for any husband really): You coming to bed?
Me: Yes, in ten minutes.

Oops.

Still worked. Ha!

Some pictures while I wait for my inspiration to return from its world travels

2011-05-03T23:44:00.002+02:00

Prettiest shopping list ever!

I doodled, then Marie wanted some homework while Jack was doing his, so she coloured in my doodles. Made me smile my way through the supermarket.
So close!

I served up the most nutricious meal, followed by strawberries for desert. Probably shouldn't have added the mounds of sugar then... Must do better next time.

(I realised I have never served "neat" strawberries at home - always with either cream or sugar. Oh how we are conditioned. The next five times they will get strawberries in all their natural glory - oh, alright, I'll wash them - until we have all be unconditioned.)
Ms. Moon penned another gem the other day. Just saying. And linking.

The list of things I won't do with children around keeps growing

2011-05-01T22:33:00.000+02:00

Three times now I have tried to paint my nails while looking after my children alone. I quit. The final straw was when Jack fell over the side of the playpen, partially onto Charlie, scaring the crap out of him. Even rock chick blue nails aren't worth that much stress.

Because of Babes' manflu, I was on my own taking all three children to a party today. Just trying to get ready while looking after them took it out of me completely. The nails, the rearrangement of the face, the "I've got nothing to wear" crisis - all much easier if you have a man around who only needs to throw on trousers and a shirt and can then play with the kids while you pamper and pluck, enrobe and embellish. Eventually, I got Babes out of his sickbed to help me out.

My admiration for single mothers reached new heights today. I tell you if I was on my own with three kids, I'd never go anywhere. I'd just sit at home and talk to my cats.

Looking in the fridge

2011-04-29T23:53:00.000+02:00

There's this meme going around showing the inside of bloggers' fridges, and I thought I would add mine because I don't get fridges that are full of fresh food. Mine just has condiments and booze. Whenever I end up accidentally stuffing my fridge with perishables, they end up perishing (fancy that!) and go in the bin.

butter, cheese, drinks

There's a horribly moist bag of carrots in the drawer at the bottom. It was put there by Babes who does randomly put fresh things in the fridge without having a clear plan for when to use them. He can throw them out as well. There's half a bag of lettuce in the top, slowly liquefying as well. I think I may have bought that one. Babes can still throw it out.

The Coke Light is there just because girlfriends have complained I didn't have any in the house. I don't touch that poison. Unlike the gin, which is a poison I will happily ingest.

(Another thing that surprised me was how little alcohol some people had in their fridges.)

The middle shelf ~~has~~ had Royal Wedding supplies: smoked salmon and champagne.

eggs, sauces, drinks, some jam

Now I'm wondering about those people with fridges full of fresh things: are they just excellent planners or do they throw out a lot of food? Maybe they aren't ladies of leasure like I am, walking my sleeping baby around the local shops every afternoon buying the ingredients for that evening's meal. (Even when I was working I would go to the shops after work most days because of my inability/unwillingness to plan. I'm sure I will do the same when I go back to work.)

I keep thinking I shouldn't post this (because it's dull) but then I have loved snooping in everyone's fridges. If you haven't joined in yet, do! (Because I'm nosy. Really really nosy. And I want to know about the fresh produce vs alcohol ratio in all your fridges.)

My Royal Wedding: it may happen tomorrow

2011-04-29T23:21:00.002+02:00

Watching the Wedding of the Century with my amazing sister, may her migraines go fuck themselves, my mobile phone went off just as Wills and Kate were starting to say their vows. It was the creche, saying that Charlie had a bit of a sore throat. I followed the rest of the service on the car radio. Which is notoriously good at conveying the cheeky smiles of bridegrooms and the demure batting of brides' eyelashes. And all I could think was "Must get baby now."
Tonight, watching the highlights on the BBC, Charlie started crying and needed me upstairs at the exact same point in the service. I have given up on watching it for today. I'm giving it one more go tomorrow (Jack has demanded to see the recorded highlights because he was at school during the wedding) but if it goes wrong again then I will just have to accept it's not to be.
I was back for the kisses!

I know you know the secret and you now know that I know you know the secret so tell me already

2011-04-28T23:46:00.003+02:00

I'd been doing so well with the not-eating-crap and the not-drinking-sugar-bombs. Until this afternoon, when I relapsed spectacularly and had a tonic water followed by a whole lot of chocolate covered peanuts (the devil's droppings, my people - the devil's droppings). Then this evening I had a whole lot of white wine and crisps. I'm not counting the pizza I had for breakfast because a) it was last night's reheated and therefore I was being kind to the planet while also saving money and b) I only had a couple of slices.

(I never noticed how much "peanuts" sounds like "penis" until now - wow!)
(The wine may have something to do with the peanuts-penis thing. Not sure that will seem quite so amazing in the morning.) (I do love my brackets. (As you know.) (And especially so when I've had wine, apparently.))

Aaaanyways... I obviously need a better plan. Because

I want to be able to get into my summer dresses in a month's time.
I'm not joining the other mums at Jack's school in their insanity: they are all buying new fancy clothes for the whole family, just to wear to their kid's communion. My children have great outfits they wore to my brother's wedding in February, as do I for that matter, and I doubt anyone will be mortally wounded by wearing the same outfit a second time.
I am so very fed up with my only fitting pair of jeans.
I would also like to wear one of my T-shirts and not have it ride up on my hips or belly. That would be just wonderful. As a corollary to the last point (have I mentioned I'm a mathematician?) I would like to add that I am not buying a whole new wardrobe. I have perfectly good clothes just sitting waiting for me to arrive at the perfectly normal weight I was at pre-giant baby. I'm five kilos off. This is doable, and it's not like I'm anorexic or anything. I just want my body back.
My liver is kind of precious to me.

So, dearest dearest people I love and adore. Tell me: what do you do to stop the cravings? What do you do when you want to eat all the pies but really you shouldn't? The cup of tea trick is wearing thin.

Also: I would kill for the golden tip that tells me how to get rid of this tummy. I wouldn't believe my friends when they said baby number three would change my body more than the previous two, but they were right and I hate to admit it. I've never had a belly before. (Huge arse? Yes. Tree trunk thighs? Yes. Pot belly? No. Not until now, that is.) So please tell me you know the secret way to lose the stomach and then share it and I will come and lick your feet. Or I will come and not lick your feet. Whichever you would consider more of a reward.

---
PS: Magic solutions only. Don't even think of suggesting will power or sit ups. That is not cool.

Lull/snapshots

2011-04-27T22:15:00.005+02:00

When I booked a weekend away in Friesland with friends, I was fully expecting to be freezing for the whole time there. I did not expect a near-tropical holiday.
It was excellent. The children got to have their first proper beach experience - paddling around, building sandcastles, carrying buckets of water.
on the move

My baby crawls and likes to chew his daddy's boots. Sometimes he gets to munch them for a while before I catch him.

chipped

I need to tidy up my nails but can't decide which colour to go with. Maybe I'll just restore them as they are. The blue is more rock chick, the pink more princessy. I'm not telling anyone that the reason I paint my nails in the first place is that it stops me chewing the skin on the side of my fingers.

I have finally stopped breastfeeding. Well, I do sometimes find myself shoving a boob in Charlie's face when he's having trouble sleeping but there is no actual feeding going on, so I call that a proper end. I'm loving having my body back. I'm finally eating better, eating less (losing some of that baby weight), drinking more (and just about bloody time, too) so all is good. I can sleep on my front again without soaking the mattress.
Now I just need to clear out that messy nursery and move Charlie's cot in there so I don't wake up every time he snorts, coughs, moves, breathes, sleeps too quietly, tries to crawl out of the room, drops his dummy, looks for his dummy, or reinserts his dummy.

Screw the planet with Mwa

2011-04-20T23:07:00.001+02:00

I have realised that on this blog I have now sung the praises of many activities to be performed in the shower, which strictly speaking do not need a shower for the performing thereof.

Yesterday I urged you to brush your teeth in the shower.
In the past you were all told of my sunworshipping in the shower,
and even my secret peeing in the shower.

Today - not unsurprisingly in the shower - it struck me that I am being rather irresponsible in this time of planetary peril. I am advocating the wanton waste of both water and energy, and I am doing so in a public forum. But then I thought "Fuck that, compared to exploding nuclear power plants and burning BP platforms, I am merely misusing a tiny drop of a very large radioactive and very oily ocean." So here are some more things you could do in the shower, if you love showers as much as I do:

Socialise. Put a friend or relative on the toilet, or take them in the shower with you. Be sure to take a bottle of wine and some salami. Do not take crisps; they go soggy.
Educate your children. Be prepared for the lessons to be about biology or personal hygiene.
Write a novel. Hang a pad of paper above the waterline. Be prepared for the story to be about biology or personal hygiene.
Ponder the major questions of humanity and make that Nobel prize winning breakthrough discovery. Be prepared for any great insight to be about biology or personal hygiene.
Sleep, if you don't have a blanket. The water will keep you warm all night. Make sure to keep your head out of the water.

This educational post was brought to you by the Committee for Rapid Acceleration of Pollution (CRAP), which aims to give the environment just that little extra push so that everyone can stop worrying about climate change and we can finally see what we have to deal with.

You're welcome.

Too much biology (Part II): the TMI edition

2011-04-18T23:28:00.001+02:00

Funny thing: you know how I've been thinking my moods are all chemical?

Today

I had an overwhelming urge to do the washing, practise the piano, tidy the living room.
I phoned around until I had six children playing in the back garden. Gave them ice creams, took them out for a walk allowing the three year olds to take their dolls in buggies.
I went outside after dinner to scrub the terrace clean from seven until ten. The neighbours must think I've finally lost that last marble. The mosquitoes were eating me, it got dark, my back was killing me - it didn't matter, I switched the floodlights on and kept going. (Rhi, I swear it wasn't because you're coming over. I'm not that crazy. Not that you're not worth cleaning the terrace for, of course. It's just that we've got this christening coming up and a barbeque. No, really, I didn't mean to insult you. Ah - whatever. I did it for you. Whatever makes you happy.)
Then in the shower I finally remembered (I've been meaning to for ages) to take my toothbrush and toothpaste in. There is no better feeling than to brush your teeth in the shower. Really. If you haven't done it you should try it. I only do it a couple of times a year to keep it special, I love it that much.
Out of the shower, I did some more laundry. At half past ten in the fucking evening! Do you know how unusual that is for me, people? I normally keep shorter hours than a unionised Greek street sweeper.
I've also been feeling very loving to one and all. I kissed all six of the children in the garden earlier, was very happy to cook my family a tasty meal, was already waiting for Babes to get home at five o'clock.
I seriously kept thinking all afternoon "Six kids would be lovely. Look at me, being all motherly to six kids." (Knowing all the while that really I don't want six kids. I do want some sleep at some point in the faraway future.)

Thinking over my day in the shower, I thought I must note this down in my Period Tracker App - yes, seriously, I told you TMI but you wouldn't listen - on my beloved iPhone. (I have been noting down my moods to see if there is a pattern to my sad and happy days.) I came downstairs and selected "Hyper" on the Mood Menu. When I saved it, I checked the calendar to see if it had registered.You know what? The calendar says I should be ovulating.

Isn't nature just the cleverest thing? Well, except now I'm onto it so I can foil its clever plan. (Ha! This egg will stay unfertilised! Take that, nature!)

By the time you read this I will hopefully be in bed

2011-04-14T22:40:00.001+02:00

My dearest dearest people,

So book club was amazing! Ten(-ish) literate women in a room with cheese, wine, tea and fresh hot brownies. It was heaven. I hadn't realised how much I'd missed having semi-serious, semi-intellectual conversations with other adults. Fair enough, my kids are very clever, but conversations with a clever three or six year old are still of a different nature. Thrilling - yes - but in different way.

I had managed to read about 216 pages of the book in the end (I took the children to the playground during naptime and had a final big read) and that was just fine. As you all suggested, lots of people had given up, never bought the book, or only read reviews. It was still a glorious night.

There is something about Anglo-Saxon culture which makes it easier to fit into a new group. Flemish people will stand back and assess you for the first twenty or so times you meet. After that they will be your friend and accept you, but it takes an awfully long time. English speakers, and especially the expat variety, seem to start off with a more welcoming attitude. Even if it's fake (and I'm not kidding myself, it very well may be), it still makes it much easier to cope with new social settings. I felt very welcome in any case.

I'm sorry for the late report on the book club meeting after telling you all I was worried about going. Life is attacking me from so many sides just now, I can't keep up, and I definitely can't keep up with daily blog posts. Charlie is teething and Marie has an ear infection, so I get about an hour's sleep a night. It's also the holidays so there are trips to the park, sleepovers, pancakes to bake. I do miss you all very much, but the inspiration is simply not there because my brain switches off any chance it gets. Literally. I was sitting in a playcafe earlier and I fell asleep on my chair in the middle of all the noise. Just now it seems like I've been this tired forever and there will never be an end to it. I know rationally that that isn't true and that my senses and my inspiration will return, but I'm not feeling it. Until they do return, know that I love you all and that I haven't willingly deserted you.

From your most devoted yet utterly fatigued blogger,
Mwa

I bet there's an illegal drug that could help me with this problem

2011-04-11T20:39:00.000+02:00

I have read only 88 pages of my book club book, so now I'm not sure if I should go tomorrow. It would not look so good to turn up to my very first book club meeting having read only a quarter of the book. If I put in an extra-special effort, I can probably manage another 40 pages or so, but I can hardly spend all day with my nose in a book during the Easter holidays with three kids at home.

I am genuinely trying to read every chance I get, but I am just too predictable: I fall asleep every fricking time. But then again you try reading the relatively small print of even a very entertaining and well-written paperback (because my falling asleep is absolutely no reflection on the content; this is turning out to be one damn fine piece of literature) - but you just try it after not sleeping another bloody night, a walk with two bicycling children, a couple of hours of heavy gardening, a trip to the garden center with a baby strapped to your chest and two other kids to marshal, and then to top it off a quick outing with those same three children to the supermarket - allowing them to scan all the produce and put it in their miniature cart. I bet you'd be snoring within minutes, too.

Another stumbling block is the fact that it's an English book. I may sound all fluent to you (ahem) but English still is my second language and as a result I still read it at about half the speed I read Dutch books at, maybe even slower. Isn't that just the weirdest thing? I think in English, write in English, make love in English, watch TV in English and still my brain treats it as a poor relation to my "first language." Someone should tell my brain that its first language has been changed. Maybe I should go into my mind's "Setup Menu" and change the "Language" to "English (UK)." Or, more accurately, "English (UK, well, international with a dash of American - or shall we just call it confused?)."

Babes just walked past me and asked me "Shouldn't you be reading?" How to explain I was blogging about not reading...

Busy me

2011-04-08T11:28:00.001+02:00

Hello my much-neglected people. I will just come right out and admit that I've been unfaithful to you. Not only have I put my children before the blog - we have a Connect Four contest going on which takes up rather a lot of time - I have also started to play the piano (I can play Greensleeves already!) and I've been out socialising in the sunshine.

Luckily God punishes quickly but fairly, as they say over here, and I have once again been smitten with a feverish and snotty baby. (This is how you can tell I'm a true narcissist. I mean apart from the fact that I blog about my own life. The lesser, or wannabe, narcissist would have just felt sorry for the baby, or in extremis thought the baby was being punished - perhaps for pooping out of the side of his nappy. Not this woman. Even my baby's sickness is all about me!)

I would promise to be more faithful to you from now, but while socialising in the sunshine I ran into a lovely English lady who very casually mentioned her expat book club, after which I wagged my tail and rode her leg until she invited me along to it. The next meeting is on Tuesday, and I have just in the last half hour taken delivery of the set book. I now have to read all 411 pages of Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policemen's Union by Tuesday night, in between taking Charlie to the doctor, socialising some more, playing the piano and beating my children at Connect Four. But I still love you!

The ultimate weight loss solution

2011-04-05T23:55:00.006+02:00

I am sitting in my son's school for a meeting I don't want, about a first communion I didn't ask for, listening to a teacher I don't like and a principal who gives me a rash. Bleeding like a horse. In a dress which is probably a size too small right now, but it's my nicest clean one and after this bloody parent-teacher thing we're going on date night. Then this happens: the stick insect (mother) sitting on the bench next to me turns to me and asks

Stick insect: So when's your baby due?

See, that is not a good thing. Not under any circumstances, but especially not under already crappy circumstances. Definitely not when you aren't pregnant. At all. In fact, I am the opposite of pregnant. And I am supposed to go out on a date with my husband immediately after this conversation, in that very same dress.

Me: I'm not pregnant.

What else is there to say, really?

Stick insect: Oh you will probably hate me forever now.
Me: Of course I won't.
(Of course I will - because you're an insensitive idiot.)

Then she thinks she will fix the situation. In a brilliant fashion. By making it a million times worse.

Stick insect: No, but it's really beautiful.

Meaning my belly. Yes. She has the nerve to excuse herself by saying I have such a beautiful pregnant belly. After being told it isn't a pregnant belly. Thereby neatly stressing that really it does look very much like a pregnant belly, beautiful and everything.

You'd think she'd shut up after that. But no. Bearing in mind that she looks like a stick insect - really, her belly is sticking to her back she's so lean - she then plunges the knife in one final time and gives it a good twist:

Stick insect: It's just that I'm pregnant too.

Not "too," you cow. You are pregnant only! I am not! Oh my fucking god what kind of farce have I landed in?

I go in one final time trying to save the situation (while actually I should have just punched her squarely in the face by now):

Me: This is what happens if you have three children. You're never quite the same again.

And then she adds the lovely final thought, while looking at my "pregnant" stomach:

Stick insect: Oh, this is my second - I'll definitely stop after that.

Yeah. I turned away from her after that. It was a matter of self-protection.

On the bright side, for once it was very easy to restrict myself to just a salad on our date. It didn't even cross my mind to have a starter or a dessert. She really should go into weight loss coaching, that woman. She'd make a killing. Or be killed. Whichever. (But I'm betting on the latter.)

Too much biology

2011-04-04T22:47:00.006+02:00

(You've been warned.)

I have this very vivid image in my head. If I was a filmmaker, then this is what I'd be making today:

A girl/woman goes about her black and white cartoon life. She lives as in a daze, in greytones only, goes about her daily business from child playdate to school engagement to do the cooking - you know, the usual stay at home mummy thing. But she's all cute with pretty hair of course. You see her breastfeeding a little grey baby with pure white milk from black and white breasts. I think that would be a very pretty picture. But it would all be a bit sad. Then you see her go to sleep. After a much-interrupted night she drags her feet to the toilet. She sits down to do her morning pee (it's not porn - you don't see anything) still all in grey and then when she goes to wipe herself, the pure white toilet paper comes up bright red. This intense colour then bleeds (haha - get it?) into the rest of her world until everything is full of colour and she's living the same life as before exactly, doing exactly the same things, but now with interest and happiness instead of boredom and depression.
- THE END -

Isn't that strange? I've been so depressed the last week. I didn't want to do anything. I was irritable, did no housework at all (even less than I normally do), just wanted to be left alone all day. I didn't even want to go online or write and then it's really bad. I was starting to think that something was seriously wrong with me. And then this morning my period arrived - the first in nearly a year and a half - and it was as if my reset button had been pushed. The colours of the world were turned on, the sun came out (it was a bit cloudy but not so I'd notice) and all of a sudden I was functioning as if I was a regular person.

I did have a moment of sadness because now my childbearing days are most probably officially over (never say never eh) but then I had the kind of day I normally read about in books. After going to the gym, I stood in the shower for a bit to take in just how beautifully the sun was shining onto the bathroom tiles. All day, I kept coming up with new blog post topics which I should have been able to think of all week but just didn't. Even my skin felt different, it was more alive somehow. I was happier in my body, and all compassionate to the other people in the gym - the old people, the plastic surgery junky, the fitness freaks, the sweet gay couple, the fat lady. (Actually, rereading all that, I must remember to ask Babes if he put any recreational drugs into my morning mug of tea.)

Yesterday I was watching a repeat of Masterchef in the afternoon (it was Sunday) and the visiting judge Michel Roux Jr said something that resonated with me all the way into today. He said that fair enough he was very strict, but he was very happy to look for potential. Then this one candidate's dessert kind of flopped because it wouldn't stand up into its rigid round shape, but he didn't mind because the cook had attempted greatness by combining goat's cheese and vanilla and some other stuff and it tasted great. See, that made me very happy, so today I'm trying to see the potential in everyone, including myself. No "I'm so fat" - just "look at me being all restrained in my eating and giving it my all at the gym." Kindness works so much better as an attitude, also to oneself.

It always amazes and horrifies me how absolutely determined I can be by my biology. Hormones can make me depressed, happy, friendly, monster-like. So can having too little sugar, too much sugar, too little sleep, too much alcohol, too little alcohol - you get the idea. Going to the gym for an hour buys me about two days of "up"ness - unless of course I am at the wrong part of my cycle or I neglect my diet or I don't sleep enough.

At the moment, I do feel like sometimes being a mother is too much biology (a bit like Ms. Moon's "too much nature") - growing babies, expelling them, feeding them, preparing for potential new ones. Whenever you settle into one manifestation of your body, the next one comes along already. Next there will be menopause and old age - I feel like a silk worm or frogspawn or something. I could do with some stability for a bit - in my body and in my moods. That would be nice, and comforting.

Feeling how very very chemical my happiness is, I see why taking happy pills makes so much sense, and I think again that taking hormones to control fertility is such a dangerous game. If you mess with the reset-button of the period, you mess with your chemical makeup which really means you're messing with the fundamentals. I'm not sure I would want to risk that again. In fact, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't.

Of course if anyone ever dares to bring up this overpowering biological imperative with me, they will have their head bitten off - "up" day or not - because I will never admit to being such an animal that I can't override my basic instincts. "You on your period or something?" is never an appropriate question.

(Please do comment - I'd love to know if you feel the same/completely differently, or any other thoughts. (Men dropping by to say "You on your period or something?": Ha ha, very clever.))

Doing it froggy style

2011-03-31T22:30:00.001+02:00

Every year about this time, the frogs in our garden start to migrate. If the terrace is wet, they will hop right up to the French doors of the living room.

I say they migrate, but I suppose technically they attempt to migrate because our row of houses is a rather insurmountable obstacle. This doesn't seem to bother them very much though - they just get it on right outside the window.

Shagging frogs

I always love the arrival of the frogs - partially because they stay nicely the other side of the window and disappear again after a couple of hours without leaving any mess, and partially because they make such a big show of being happy to be alive after Winter and positively extatic about multiplying and starting the next generation of slimy little hoppers.

You're no use, I need the other kind

This year, I was extra happy as it provided a few hours of entertainment to Marie, temporarily distracting her from the tiresome business of testing her mother.

"LALALA! I can hear you, you know!"

I just thought I'd share the joy with you all. You've got to love a frog in Spring.

Blame it on the kids, 'cos that's well mature likes

2011-03-30T22:09:00.000+02:00

Having been stuck in the house for weeks now with the whole family playing musical illnesses (even on our weekend away three of us were sick), I have convinced myself that Snickers are a food group all by themselves. As are Oreos - surely the most addictive substance known to humankind. I think this happened about the time that Marie got a urinary tract infection, peed all her trousers, was put into Charlie's nappies and then promptly decided never again to use a toilet. For any reason, liquid or firm. Yes, I think it was about that time that I started to leave a secret stash of chocolate and cookies next to the kettle so that I could sneak some any time I got a cup of tea. There's something about having to clean up a three year old's poo that will drive a woman to self-medicate with sugar and chocolate. Or this woman in any case.

Another vice I have picked up during my phlegmy vacation from all things joyful and rewarding is a brand-new addiction to my iPhone. I now get why all the other nerds are fused to theirs. It's only taken me a year since first getting the phone, but now I am also app-obsessed (appsessed?). I can spend hours rearranging them just so, downloading better shopping list compilers and prettier versions of Spider Solitaire.

Three of my new apps are called TargetWeight, CalorieCounter and DietApp. I was hoping they would come in handy to tackle the Snickers-Oreo belly of shame - until I found myself lying to my TargetWeight app about my weight. I think maybe I should forget about getting back into shape until my little snotty jailers let me out.

I may need some help with this

2011-03-26T00:02:00.000+01:00

You know you have a serious blogging problem if you find yourself away for the weekend in a great house in the Belgian Ardennes with lots of lovely friends and instead of being downstairs playing party games you are locked in the bathroom upstairs checking your comments and blogging on your phone. Hypothetically, of course.

You will know you have an even bigger problem if you lose the entire post and then you end up trying to recreate it verbatim in your darkened bedroom while trying not to wake the baby.

Have an excellent weekend, my darling people. And remember that even if you have free wifi you are not obliged to use it. You may elect to do something else. Like play party games. Hypothetically. Of course.

Last orders at Bar Mama?

2011-03-24T21:26:00.000+01:00

This stupid cold has really knocked me for six. I've been quite sick with it for a couple of weeks now, and it really is just an ordinary cold. It's making me reconsider my new-found breastfeeding zeal. I have been running on empty for too long, doing without enough sleep and taking it all on by myself. I think it's time to accept more help, sleep more, and not be the only one who can feed that gorgeous Charlie around bedtime. With Jack and Marie, I stopped after six months. Charlie's had seven and a half months now. I think it may be last orders at Bar Mama.

Awwww. I'd miss it loads!

The perfect birthday...

2011-03-23T23:15:00.001+01:00

...,for a start, is not really a birthday. It also has many delights, including being woken by the whole family bursting into bilingual birthday songs. Breakfast in bed, walks, pancakes. I even attended a birthday party, though it wasn't my own. (Son's best friend's - not to be missed.) My present was an electronic piano! How cool is that? I've been meaning to learn. I must dig out my "Piano playing for dummies." (I'm not kidding.) In between I had time (generously donated by Babes) to have a long, long, long shower (including time for deforestation) and a long NAP! Then tonight the babysitter came and we went out to the cinema to see The King's Speech (excellent film) with tapas and cocktails after.

One could mistake me for a real woman today. One with a life. Who has fun. And all this while I'm still - technically - quite sick.

Excuse me while I go to have a lie down.

My girl

2011-03-22T22:09:00.001+01:00

Out for our girls only lunch, Marie got to pick a present from the toy shop. She dithered for a while around the Hello Kitty display, fingering the pens, sizing up the hula hoops - until she broke away and went for this:

That's my girl!

In which I turn the spotlight back on YOU and then embarrass myself a little (again)

2011-03-18T21:45:00.001+01:00

My people, you know I love you, right? Yesterday, I asked you all to amuse me on my mobile with your comments and you did not disappoint! You did not disappoint at all. Best walk I ever had. I froze my fingers and my nose off checking my phone on every corner while Charlie slept blissfully in his buggy. I laughed weirdly while I was waiting in the grocery shop, I pushed the buggy with one hand - all the time giggling wildly - and miraculously managed to miss the hordes of grannies who were also in town for their shopping.

I was going to do some kind of awards show today, but then I realised that I couldn't do better than to point you all at the comments section of that post anyway. They're the funniest, and at times most human, thing I've read in a long time. Do visit all the lovely commenters as well. They are ALL worth a visit. Oh and if you haven't commented yet but you would like some visits too (from the most wonderfullest selection of bloggers ever - truly), you can always tag your comment on at the end. I realise that so far it only represents a subset of my usual visitors. By all means join the party! (But what do you mean you don't visit daily? You have a life of your own or something?)

Finally, thank you all so much for making my day yesterday! And thank you to all those who didn't visit or comment yesterday but are visiting today! (And while I'm being all soppy anyway thank you also for making my year and stopping me from going insane. And for being such good friends. I love you all! (I realise this is getting embarrassing. If this was a real awards show, they'd be dragging my tearful butt off the stage now, with me screaming I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH and sobbing all the way, my face mascara-streaked and my feet kicking wildly at the security guards in the hope of stealing just one more second on stage in which to fully express my appreciation for you all.))

Queue up here for your special brownie points!

2011-03-17T13:34:00.003+01:00

So hello! I'm still here. No end of the world just yet. Phew!

Today, I'm having an extra-special day of denial. I have my misery-blinkers on so I can only see the fluffy and adorable. It's taking all my strength to manage this, but nevermind.

So - while Charlie has finally got sick and is trying his best to drown in his own phlegm, I am grateful

for the good health care he is getting
for the aerosol machine which I torture him with each morning and evening
and for everything he's learning just now: he's waving, rolling, sitting, crawling, playing peekaboo - he's acting more and more like a child rather than a fish and I love it.

Of course I have also caught his bug (damn that creche) and while I could be complaining about my dripping nose and the greyness of the weather, I will not because I have many happy things to rejoice in today:

I have boiling water with a shot of orange juice to soothe my throat
I have my emergency stash of balmy tissues to keep my nose from falling apart
I bought a magazine full of fashion, gardening, cooking and make up tips instead of the newspaper which promised only doom and gloom
and, AND, a-ah-a-and (!) I finally got myself mobile internet!!!
Yes, my darling internet people. After having my iPhone for more than a year, I finally got myself a data subscription for it. Scandalously late, I know.

So, here's my brilliant plan: later on, I will go out to get the kids from school and go shopping - that kind of thing - and anytime I have a spare minute I will check my email. While out! Revolution! And - please help me out with this bit - you will all leave me a comment so I have something to check! (*) (Ta-daa!) No pressure, people. Really. Pretty please? (**)

If you don't have anything to say about all the interesting topics above (sick babies, runny noses, mobile internet, to name just a few), I will give you a little help here:

"Hello" is a perfectly decent comment. It will generate a notification email as well as any other comment.
If you've been dying to tell me something tricky, here's your chance! Tell me I should really change my boring blog theme, tell me which words I overuse or what topics you like and hate. If you know me in real life you can finally let me know if I have a particular personal hygiene problem. Perhaps you think I have too much facial hair? Too little facial hair? Do you think I should grow a beard perhaps or whiskers?
I've never had a troll. Trolls leave comments. Comments are good. Just saying...
I like expletives, as long as they're not used as a description of me. Anything else that's rude will make me smile.
How about a good joke?
Perhaps you want to embarrass yourself instead? Go ahead.

So, I hope I have now made my desperation clear. To increase my chances, I will provide you with an incentive! Brownie points will be handed out for all comments. Here's how they will be allocated:

One brownie point (BPt) for any comment whatsoever.
One extra BPt for a comment that makes me giggle.
One BPt for comments which make me want to do a happy dance.
Another BPt if you tell me something I didn't know yet/need to know.
One BPt for sharing something about yourself, two if you make it embarrassing.
One BPt for a rude comment.

Now if that's not a challenge, I don't know what is.

You're welcome.

(*) Reading this post does not oblige the reader to leave a comment. All readers are understood by the writer to be an adult person with a fully developed personal will.
(**) No children will be harmed, ignored or otherwise disadvantaged in the process.

(I'm going now... With my mobile all pretty and online... No pressure...)

Doom! Doom, I tell you!

2011-03-15T18:19:00.002+01:00

I have this overwhelming end of days feel. Japan, Libya, Christchurch, terrorist attacks all over the place. Earthquakes, tsunamis, civil war, misery. You know, the usual news these days.

I'm sure I'm not the only one, as revealed in this most helpful question put to me by my cleaning lady, Diana: "Do you think it's the end of the world?" I assured her I did not. I am after all the elder of the two of us, and arguably in a position of authority (although my unending gratitude to her combined with my cluelessness in household matters probably do much to undermine that by now rather theoretical position), so I duly made the required reassuring noises and told her that our end is most likely not nigh.

What I didn't tell her is that I'm half expecting a plague of locusts, followed by the rising of the dead. You know, next week or something. I then spoiled my pretense at a cool demeanour by telling her she should go and get her free iodine tablets as recommended yesterday by the government, just in case the local nuclear power plant blows up. Just in case. But I'm sure it won't.

I got my own boxes of iodine tablets today as well, and it felt pretty surreal standing there being told by the pharmacist that in case of a nuclear accident I am to wait for the go-ahead from the government (on TV, if it still works) before administering the medicine to my family and what exactly is the right dose for a baby. The talk at the school gates turned towards the same topic. Apparently, we're not to collect the children from school. We have to lock ourselves into our houses and the schools will keep the children inside until help arrives. I don't like that idea at all. I also half-heard something on TV about having to breathe a certain way for minimal damage to your system, but I can't remember if it was "breathe only through your mouth" or "don't breathe through your mouth." Very useful information, really.

You have to wonder at a world in which it's considered acceptable to build nuclear plants which no one is quite sure won't cause serious death and destruction to the population around it at some point in the future, just so we can keep our billboards lit up all night and produce more packaging for our food that we will throw out uneaten anyway. At least our plant isn't built on a faultline, like those in California. I heard a middle aged male scientist convince himself on TV yesterday that they are completely safe and can resist any earthquake. And middle aged male scientists are always right and know everything. That is a very well known fact.

Strangely the gorgeous weather is not helping me get rid of this feeling. It's all sunny and you can feel Spring in the air. When I took the children to the park after school, they played with their coats off in the sunshine. To me, it looked just like one of these idyllic scenes in a disaster movie in which everyone is going about their rosy lives not knowing that an asteroid is flying their way and all that they know is about to be blown to pieces.

Look, I know it's not the end of time, or I sincerely hope it's not in any case. I heard that the end of days is not scheduled until next year anyway so even if it is, it's not for tomorrow. It's just that all the chaos and destruction in the world is really getting to me just now. I am half considering turning the TV off and not buying a newspaper for a few weeks so I just don't have to know any of it any more. On the other hand, we did just get a very pretty flatscreen and how would I know when to take my brand new iodine tablets if there was a nuclear disaster if I didn't have the TV on?

Still chewing my fingers but now in mystification

2011-03-14T21:10:00.001+01:00

So yeah hi I'm back! Sorry about ignoring you all so callously. I had planned to blog while in Austria, but then my days looked like this:

no sleep
no sleep
nursing
no sleep
childcare
breakfast
skiing, pub-crawling, skiing, eating, skiing, back to pub (oh yeah, woe is me - that part was pretty good)
childcare
fall asleep in the bath
childcare
nursing
eating
childcare
no sleep
no sleep
no sleep

... and repeat. So it was pretty good, but there was no time whatsoever to even check my email (well, maybe I peeked at your comments just once), in spite of all the free internet in the hotel. I should have scheduled some brilliant old posts, of course, like that time I had my PENIS for the length of my TWAT. (Please new readers, click through - it isn't nearly as rude as it sounds. Honest.) Yes, that would have been clever. And it would have meant that you all didn't spend more than a week crying over my absence. (You have permission to stop weeping now. You're welcome.)

Charlie didn't get sick in the end. I did spend the two first nights feeding him pretty much continuously and felt tremendously proud when my mother said I had "nursed him through it." I'm not sure there's any such thing as nursing a baby through an impending ear infection but it felt good anyway. So, now I'm back and I need a holiday (the return journey took nearly fifteen hours), but I will try and post more often.

I will leave you with the mysterious tale of the multiplying Hilfigers. Going on holiday, I took one pair of jeans. (Hilfigers - ooh aren't I posh? (Outlet jeans which make my bum look peachy, what can I say?)) Coming back, I found two pairs of Hilfiger jeans in my suitcase. When I went to put on my jeans this morning, I thought they were awfully roomy and they felt a bit weird.

They're a size bigger than the other pair I took but the same length. I just don't get it. It's not like housekeeping ruined my other pair and cunningly replaced them, because the original pair were still in there as well. We were in a room with just the five of us, so no similar-size girls around, unless Babes isn't telling me something. I am mystified, and at the same time I wish they'd been a size smaller because I could do with another pair of jeans that actually fit me. Ah well.

For a start I should stop chewing my fingers because that's quite unbecoming

2011-03-04T00:17:00.000+01:00

Reasons why I'm being incredibly stupid:

We're going skiing in nine hours and instead of packing or sleeping I'm blogging.
I'm taking Charlie on said skiing holiday, even though he's kind of maybe getting sick.
This means six hours in the car tomorrow, four the day after, and nine on the way back. With three children, and one of them quite possibly with an ear infection. As in - the baby.

Reasons why I'm also kind of clever:

I have told my mother we may be a couple of days late if Charlie's not up to travelling tomorrow.
I have taken Charlie to the doctor and have stocked up on medicines just in case.
Staying home if he doesn't actually get sick would be a bit stupid.
We're not wasting a skiing holiday with a non-skiing grandmother who is willing to babysit.

No, that second list didn't really help. I still feel very anxious about the combination sick baby - skiing holiday, and even more about the combination sick baby - six hours in the car. I'm also anxious about fighting my corner if I do think we shouldn't go quite yet. I should probably just get some sleep now. Or pack a little. Maybe things will be clearer in the morning.

Important warning

2011-03-03T11:31:00.000+01:00

If you're thinking of getting a kitten (a fluffy, cute kitten to play with, oh such fun, and so cute, and won't it be adorable), I urge you to think again. You will enjoy it for a while. It will wrap its incredibly soft little paws around your hands and face; you won't be able to stop yourself falling in love; it will play with a bit of fluff or run after the reflection of your knife on the wall while you're eating and you will be sure that this delight will last forever. Only you won't realise that one day, thirteen years later (you can feel the doom even in that number), you will be cursing the day you thought it was a good idea to acquire said lovely cute kitten and his brother because now you're doing the washing in the laundry room you foolishly agreed to share with the cats after the move six years ago so you can't even leave any clean washing in there and you're wondering where the cat pee smell comes from, that smell you remember so well from the first cat-related disappointment when those little kittens scratched your brand new turquoise leather sofa until it was torn and looked about twenty years old and then proceeded to pee on the stuffing through the slashes in the leather so that for ten years you would have to live with the occasional whiff of cat pee emanating from your manky turquoise-and-brown-scratch sofa (no amount of Febreze would make it go away), until you could finally afford to replace it with a brand new fabric sofa which your toddler will then vomit all over but that's quite another story, anyway, you remember the smell and now it's in your laundry room and you wonder if one of the cats has gone senile and is this the smell that will linger in your guest bathroom (which is just off the laundry room) for the next couple of years until the cats finally die after what will no doubt be a long and costly deterioration dotted with many more puddles of urine, faeces (preferably runny) and bile. If you still get that kitten you can't say I didn't warn you.

Priorities

2011-02-27T22:00:00.000+01:00

On Friday, I planned to take Charlie to the creche so I could go to the gym, have a long shower all by myself, have a nutricious lunch and have time left to do some laundry. This is not even really a luxury. I need my gym time just to be happy.

I started off very well: I took Jack and Marie to school, dropped Charlie off at his creche. Then I came home...

...went to bed and slept for four hours.

It was so worth it. It's just a shame I didn't get my happy exercise hormones. I'm slightly more rested now but I am a little fractious. It's a shame I have to choose.

Ah well. At least I finally got some sleep. Now I just have to make sure I don't make it a habit. Tomorrow, I must must must go to the gym instead of coming home for a repeat of Friday. I'm not taking any bets, though. Charlie's teething and has a cold so sleep is even more elusive than it already was.

Of course, a clever person would not be blogging with a gin and tonic at hand. A clever person would have drunk a healthy smoothie two hours ago and be counting sheep by now. A clever person would probably be going out for an early morning run before everyone even gets out of bed tomorrow. Oh don't you just hate that clever person?

Right - now I must go to sleep, partially because Babes is watching Top Gear within hearing distance and I loathe that programme with all its scriptedly spontaneous nitwitshit so I want to get out of this room.

*goes off muttering "Must must must go exercise, not sleep. Must must must go exercise, not sleep. Must must must..." *

Jesus problem sorted

2011-02-24T14:04:00.004+01:00

So on Tuesday I wrote about our Jesus problem. Yesterday afternoon, I got a phonecall from his principal. Luckily Jack himself was sitting next to me, so there was none of that "oh no he's fallen off the climbing frame and broken his neck" panic going on in my head.

Principal: Can you come into the school for a "chat," please?

(No reason given.)

Me: What is this about?

(No way am I going into such a "chat" blindly. A mother has to prepared for such "chats.")

Pr: The First Communion.

(Aha!)

Me: Well, is he going to be allowed to do it or not?

(I am not going in for a "chat" if he's not.)

Pr: That's what I want to talk to you about.

(OMFG woman tell me already.)

She basically wanted to know how "serious" he is about doing his communion, to be sure he's not doing it for the presents and the party. I had already promised him a "Spring Party" even if he didn't. It's quite the thing for non-religious parents in Belgium to give their non-communicant a party anyway. So that definitely wasn't a factor for him. He's getting a new bike either way.

I told her about Jack's reasons: he wants to be included in the mass, he wants to sing the songs, he wants to go to the lessons with his classmates. Also, at my brother's wedding, he was taken aback when the priest asked him if he'd already done his First Communion and then didn't give him the host because he hadn't. I really don't think you can ask for any better reasons from a six year old. What had she expected? Some kind of deep theological argument? I also assured him he was from a nice Catholic background. (Well, half of him is. I didn't mention the more suspect Protestant roots.)

Then she asked me why he wasn't doing it all along, to which I replied that I wasn't going to force him to do anything he didn't want to do. (Novel concept, apparently.) I prudently didn't add the bit about me losing my faith and raising my kids the atheist way. She then gave me a bit of a lecture on being serious and not changing his mind and how difficult it would be for the teachers to change the mass and their planning. But at least he's allowed. We'd passed the seriousness test, and I don't even have to come in for that dreaded "chat" any more.

When I told some other parents about this conversation, one said "Mine's only doing it for the presents" and another one "Mine's only doing it because I told him he had to." So much for serious reasons on the part of the child. If they want to get to them early and start indoctrinating them, they had better not ask too many questions about the intentions of the child beforehand. After all, they're only just starting to implant those intentions. They should just be happy with a blank canvas. (I didn't tell them I would be counteracting their brainwashing tactics with special critical thinking lessons at home.)

Jesus would be so proud.

(I must be off now - I have a mass christening to organise and a priest to convince of my good intentions, presumably in a similar manner to the one above. I hope he doesn't ask about Charlie's intentions getting christened. I also won't tell him I've promised Marie a Beyblade already if she allows the priest to christen her. Seriously.)

What would Jesus do?

2011-02-22T14:21:00.000+01:00

Jack is in his second year at our local Catholic school, which means that most of his class will be celebrating their First Communion in June. Now as you all know I am a confirmed hypocrite when it comes to religion: respectful of all but my own native creed, married in a church but blasphemous in word and sometimes deed.

Fully in keeping with my morally dubious stance, I let Jack decide for himself if he wanted to do his First Communion or not. He decided he wouldn't, which was just fine with me. When I asked him why he had made that decision, he said "Because I don't believe in God and I don't like going to mass at all." Fair enough reasons, but not of the kind that have ever stopped a Catholic from doing anything before.

Now because he's at a very Catholic school, Jack has been sitting in on all the preparatory classes, along with all his fellow little atheists, Muslims and other assorted infidels. And sure enough, last week he confessed to me that he'd changed his mind. My good little Catholic has, in the true spirit of Catholicism, decided that while he still doesn't quite buy the whole deity business and he still doesn't like mass, he does rather love the pretty songs they will be singing (and the drama of it all, the drama!) and can he please do his Communion anyway? In a similarly Catholic manner I thought "What the hell, that's as good a reason as any," so this morning I went into his school to ask his teacher if he could still join the party.

And then she, again completely in line with Catholic custom, said "I don't think so. It would be very difficult to include him at this stage because we've already planned the readings for the mass and all the slots are taken. I doubt he will be allowed but I'll talk to the principal about it." (Remember we're talking about a June event - more than three months away.)

Jesus would be so proud of all of us.

Ungrateful cow

2011-02-21T20:27:00.000+01:00

So I texted my sister to ask if she wanted our old TV. We're getting rid of it because I've heard they can spontaneously combust. She said no. I think she's being terribly ungrateful, and now I have to think of something else to give her for Christmas - I thought it could be her early present. I was only thinking of Bob the Builder: "Reduce, Reuse, Torch a sister." She really is a bit of a picky princess.

Creative with exercise: the saucy edition

2011-02-18T19:44:00.002+01:00

I have a little problem with my gym routine (yes, twice does so constitute a routine). It's not that it's not helpful. I slept for about two hours last night, but after fifty minutes on the bike (which was hard work after so little sleep) I tidied the hall and the kitchen in under half an hour. It's a miracle, I tell you. I even emptied the motherfucking dishwasher, filled it up again, and didn't die in the process. Which I was sure I would before.

Anyway - my problem. Charlie's only in the creche on Mondays and Fridays (he loves it, thanks for asking. He smiles the whole time, gobbles up the food and even goes down to sleep very well) and my exercise buzz wears off after a couple of days. I badly need to exercise on a Wednesday as well or my house will never get as tidy as I want it. (I need the exercise buzz to tidy.) I have come up with a few possible solutions:

I get the exercise bike out of the garden shed and put it in the bathroom/living room/kitchen (only spaces left in the house) and work out during Wednesday morning naptime. Who needs to pee/sit/cook anyway?
I acquire an Xbox Kinect and work out with it during Wednesday morning naptime. This would require either theft or selling my soul to the highest bidder. (I would so do my first review/giveaway. If the machine was free and came with an Xbox and at least five games. I know, I don't come cheap, but I'm worth it, Microsoft. I swear I am. I have some great readers.)
I find a babysitter for Wednesday mornings and go to the gym anyway. (Dull!)
I take Charlie for a ride on my bike and thus get the required exercise. Problem: he can't sit in the seat properly yet, and it's bloody cold out here. Also, it means looking out for traffic, which I'm not too great at. (This I will call "The Summer Solution" or "Future Plan, Honest.")
I go running with Charlie in the buggy. Problem with this plan: I am not a moron. That would be too much effort by far. I'm only taking up running when I'm in my forties. That's the plan and I'm sticking to it.
I put the responsibility on Babes. We have date night on Wednesdays these days, and maybe he could exercise me post-date. The problem here is that I like a very vigorous workout, so he would have to exercise me in all four corners of the room. And frankly, that's just too much after a day of running after the kids and then going out as well. One corner, fine. Two corners I can just about manage at a pinch. Three corners? Zzzz. Four corners on a weekday would require flying pigs and a truckload of Rohypnol, I'm telling you.

Choices, choices.

World record, life guru, baby cynicism, face on

2011-02-17T22:30:00.000+01:00

We have now officially broken the world record in government formation. 249 days and no agreement even on the horizon. The previous record was held by the Iraqis and it amused me greatly to see an item on the news of a couple of Iraqis handing over a trophy to a couple of Belgians. They had come all the way to pass on the honour. Or the shame, really. I'm sure they're glad to finally not be the world's most dithering idiots. It's a pity we now are.
Cesar Millan is coming to Belgium, to an arena near me. He is my guru. It would make perfect sense if I went to see him at work. Even though I don't have a dog. Even though I loathe dogs. In fact, Babes must buy me a ticket and take me on a day out. He simply must. I have children to raise in a calm and confident manner, you know.
I have now gone to an Anglosaxon-style mother and baby group twice. I have to say I love it and it's the answer to all my prayers. I meet people who are just lovely and get what I'm doing at home with the kids, and Charlie loves to play with the other babies. The only thing that takes some getting used to is the singing. for five minutes at every meeting, all the mothers sit down in a circle on the floor with their babies in their laps to sing songs together. This was very surprising at the start, and quite awkward, but the children absolutely love it. It took all my strength not to be cynical about this (being Flemish cynicism is pretty much my default setting) but I vowed a while back to stop being cynical, so now I think it's just another lesson from the universe teaching me to go with the flow and not judge everything. It's still weird, though.
I am 33 and have finally discovered the joys of makeup. Yesterday, I went out "with a face on" for the very first time - ever. I think it was possibly an amateurish face, but I felt very grown up and pretty. Any tips and tricks gratefully received. Especially for getting rid of black shadows all around my eyes (sleeplessness and old age are ganging up on me) and how to pick a good lipstick colour. Oh, and how to do eyeshadow or isn't that the in thing any more?

Why I should have listened to Cesar Millan today

2011-02-15T22:08:00.002+01:00

On Sunday night, I packed off a slightly sick Marie and a perfectly happy Jack to my mother's so I could selfishly go to the gym yesterday. (Not really all that selfish, happy mummy is better mummy and all that, but still - she was a bit sick.) Then karma bit me in the backside by returning to me one better but bored Marie, and one pretty sick Jack. Marie was up half the night eating her way through all the cereal in the kitchen so she couldn't go to school yet today. With Jack on the sofa retching and feeling miserable, the cleaner trying to work around the three testy children and me doing the laundry this morning, I told Marie to stay on the sofa, watch TV and not move. Big mistake. Cesar Millan would gently yet assertively remind me of the

Exercise, discipline, affection-rule

I did not give her the stimulation (exercise) she needed, so how could I expect any discipline to work? (I love my guru.) And oh boy did it ever not work. She did the opposite of what I asked all day long. And I did not deal with it too nicely, I'm afraid. I'm trying to be happy with small victories here (I did not spank her or shout at her) but there was too much putting in the corner and nagging to behave. Not enough distraction and positive input.

Another thing the enlightened Cesar might have told me was that my energy was all wrong. I was no

Calm confident leader

I was a tired and chaotic muddler, because I hadn't slept. Again. I think Charlie's getting something as well. Judging by the greenness of his snot and the loudness of his snore (when he did sleep for a bit), I'm guessing he's a couple of days removed from his first illness. He did go to the creche for the first time on Friday, so I suppose it's only to be expected. Serves me right for letting him consort with that assortment of snot-covered midgets (aka babies). I can't decide if I should take him for his scheduled vaccination tomorrow or not. I suppose I should see in the morning.

Ah well. I hope I will do better with Marie tomorrow. When I will remember the crucial exercise part. And send her to school. So they can exercise her. Her teacher is quite the calm confident leader. Ha! I thank my lucky stars for Belgian schools starting at 2 1/2 once again. If they started at five like in some other countries, I would have gone crazy long ago. Well, crazier.

Exercise bike high

2011-02-14T20:07:00.002+01:00

WOOHOO!!!

That is all.

Sometimes I don't know why he stays with me (It's because my hair is pretty)

2011-02-12T21:14:00.000+01:00

I have rage. RAGE. In my chest, in my skin, in my toes, in my neck, vibrating in all my atoms. It's not a well-defined rage. It's just general frustration, I guess. I keep making plans, in spite of never getting any sleep, and most of my plans get scuppered by others. Resulting in rage. I'm trying to break out of this cotton candy prison of constant baby care by getting a bit more independent and every time I make a plan something goes wrong.

My weekend sleep is thwarted by Jack's Saturday morning swimming lessons.
My mother-daughter shopping and hairdresser trip was ruined by an as yet unidentified virus which has invaded the daughter part of the mother-daughter combination.
My brilliant plan to ditch the baby at creche and go to the gym on Monday has been ruined already by Jack and Marie's school because they have the day off. For Valentine. What crap.
There is also no peace and quiet in this house since Charlie has learned to roll over and to scream, both in the same week. He uses his high-pitched scream when he's not happy, which is basically when he's not being entertained or has turned over onto his tummy and can't roll back. Which is every time anyone puts him down.
And so on and so forth. Woe is me. With my perfect babies and my lovely husband and no money worries. Oh yeah I'm having a completely undeserved self-pity-party. (I do know that.)

Anyway, this general rage sometimes comes out and bites people in the face when they dare to open their mouths. Not so much the children, because I seem to have some restraint with them. So it's basically Babes who gets it, poor guy. After he had taken the baby for a walk and gone food shopping, and before he cooked us all dinner, he dared to ask me to load the dishwasher. For roughly the first time in a year. Because, you know, I'd been too pregnant and then too tired and breastfeeding and he is a helpful sweetheart. How can he be so unfair? How dare he! I sulked, shouted, stomped. But did it. Because you have to know when you're in the wrong. Even when it hurts. Even when it's the most horrible job in the world.

The bastard. I hate it when he's right. For once I won't even make him apologise.

At least my hair is pretty.

My children have Stockholm syndrome

2011-02-10T21:46:00.000+01:00

My children have Stockholm syndrome. Even though I am basically their evil jailer, they love me. Here's the proof:

I am their jailer:
I tell them where to go, what to do, what to eat, sometimes even when to go to the toilet. When they wilfully try to have things their way, I even put them in the corner.
I am evil:
I never pass up the chance to hurt them.
Charlie's not six months yet, and so far I've cut his left thumb twice, till it bled. (I'm not so good with nail clippers.) Earlier I left him lying on a step and of course he promptly fell off. I'm always letting doctors loose on him with needles, and when he's already suffering with a cold I squirt salt water up his nose. I pick off the remainders of his cradle cap while he's trying to sleep and pick his nose when he's only just woken up. When he's nursing, I'm often annoying him by picking earwax out of his ears with my nail.
Marie's terrible twos have now merged into thrashy threes, and some days she seems to spend more time in the corner than actually annoying me.
Last night, Jack came down from his bed to inform us that he was sad, and he pulled such a convincing sad face that I laughed until I couldn't breathe. Not nice, quite evil.
They still love me:
The only thing Charlie wanted after I wantonly bounced him down the stairs (okay, dropped him off one step, but still) was to be nursed. By me.
When I put Marie or Jack in the corner, afterwards they come to me for a hug and sympathy.
When I laughed at Jack, he laughed with me. Through his tears, but still.

Well, either they have Stockholm syndrome or they're just really stupid.

Meeting bloggers in real life can be very dangerous - be warned!

2011-02-08T22:53:00.003+01:00

Yesterday I met my first real life blogger! The lovely Rhi from Flour Child lives practically around the corner, so we just had to meet sometime. I knew we'd get on when I got an email in the morning to say her daughter would be coming along as she'd forgotten there was no school that day. I have done that so often. We had lunch in a cafe with three of our five children and it was great. I loved that I could finally put an (Australian) voice to the writing.

While the meeting was a lot of fun, I have now also realised that meeting people you meet online can have serious repercussions, so I thought I would warn all bloggers out there:

meeting online chums can play havoc with your nicely ordered life.

No, Rhi was not an axe murderer. That wasn't the problem. Babes was on serial killer watch, though, because he doesn't trust the interwebs. I sent him a reassuring text message while Rhi was in the bathroom:

The problem is that meeting someone you only knew in bits and bytes before in real life means that they can have real life effects on you. For example - mere hours after Rhi and I met, I was busy cooking a labour-intensive meal of vietnamese spring rolls instead of shoving a frozen pizza into the oven:

(Because I'm a copycat and that's what Rhi was cooking. It was most delicious.)

Even more life-changing is the fact that I have now committed to going to an expat mother and baby morning which Rhi is organising on Thursday and I am rather - ehm - nervous? Yes, I shall say nervous. (I'm thinking "shitting myself" but that would be a coarse way to put it, and that's surely not how proper expat mothers talk.)

I was complaining to Rhi (as I often do) that I don't meet so many SAHMs and that Flemish women are so difficult to approach (think "lionesses with brand new cubs" kind of difficult to approach) and all of a sudden she had spoken the words "I organise an expat mother and baby coffee morning at my house if you'd like to come" or words to that effect. I'm not so sure of her exact words now - I was too distracted by the angel choir descended from heaven singing hallelujah all around her.

I never thought I'd be allowed in at one of these mornings, but - get this - my children are once again my saviours. The mornings are for English speaking toddlers and babies! My children are the expats, and it doesn't matter what their mother speaks. Can you tell I'm doing a little happy dance? A nervous little happy dance?

Of course you all know how confident I am meeting women I don't know. I'm trying to stay calm but I CAN'T BLOODY DECIDE IF I SHOULD WEAR A SKIRT OR NOT, AND SHOULD I WEAR MAKEUP AND DO I TAKE CHOCOLATES OR BISCUITS OR PIE OR PERHAPS FLOWERS - and breathe... Just breathe... Yeah. So that will be fun. No, really, it will be. I have been hoping, praying and complaining until I went blue in the face for this kind of thing to come along for me so now I will bloody well go and enjoy myself, young lady. (Oops.)

Oh, and then finally there's the small matter of my impromptu apple pie baking tonight, which to be honest I cannot fairly blame on meeting Rhi, but it's so unlike me that I will anyway.

I decorated it with piecrust leaves!

...because she bakes pretty things and I never do, so it must be part of the aftermath.

Seriously, though, for a first blogger meeting, I think it went really rather well. Rhi was lovely, we're meeting again soon, I will be meeting more people as a result, and I've been cooking lovely food. I would rate that excellent.

The ultimate solution to tights that won't stay up properly

2011-02-07T09:52:00.000+01:00

I was pulling up my tights at my friend's house a while back, and she said "Are you still hoiking up your tights? Don't you know the solution yet?" (She's teaching a gaggle of twenty year old future nursery school teachers, so she knows stuff - girlie stuff - that I don't.) And then she said - and this changed my life -

You should wear underpants on top of your tights.

Changed.my.life. Have done since, haven't needed to hoik again. It's a revolution, people. Apparently all the girls are doing it.

(It does feel a bit strange wearing two pairs of underpants at first, but even under a thin silky dress you couldn't tell, and I did get used to it within an hour.)

You're welcome.

Baby's happy as can be, you know

2011-02-02T22:45:00.006+01:00

I just left Charlie with our babysitter for the very first time. They've been getting to know each other for a while, and this was the night! I watched my phone the whole time, and we were back within two hours. (Some date, eh?) I was prepared for drama. There was none. They were just fine.

Which just proves that I need to trust my baby more. He's perfectly capable of dealing with a little change. I have been at his beck and call for nearly six months now; this is one secure and happy baby. He feels safe enough so he won't panic if I'm not there all the time. I need to remember that. He can do this. We can do this. Not to mention the fact that we need to do this. Because he needs to know he can exist without me for a bit, and I need to gain some perspective and a have a teeny tiny bit of alone time. Soon.

Of course this is all just a dress rehearsal for his first days at the creche. We have an appointment on Friday to see his childminder. I've never met her. I don't know if you remember me complaining about the woman who was going to look after him. Well, soon after that I decided to calm down about it and trust the universe.

Sure enough, a few weeks ago I got a phonecall from the creche saying they had given Charlie's place away to someone else. (So far, so typical.) Also, could I maybe wait until September so he could start in the younger group. (No, I bloody well couldn't!) I asked the administrator how old exactly the babies in the older group are and couldn't they put him in there. It turns out that the youngest baby there is only half a month older than Charlie (who's a giant anyway so he'll fit right in), there is a space in that group, and they now think I'm a genius for thinking of moving him there.

Thank you, universe.

The childminder in that new group is not someone I know, but apparently she's a young mother, newly back from maternity leave, and "very creative." I have a good feeling about this.

If all goes well, we will have him in the creche for two half days a week by mid-February and I will be able to go to the gym twice a week (to lose my pregnancy pounds, meditate, and generally get some happy chemicals in my system). Now I only have to remember to trust Charlie to be able to deal with this. He was fine tonight. Chances are he will love spending time with other babies and playing with other toys. Why wouldn't he?

I may not be fine, but it's time to lengthen that umbilical cord just a little.

I miss homework

2011-02-01T21:17:00.000+01:00

Comparative research done in order to decide which doors to put on the bookcases in the soon-to-be-finished nursery:

Three configurations and four price classes make for twelve calculations. So pretty!

I opted to do this instead of make dinner. I used colours. There was mental arithmetic. There was even an educational moment when I taught Jack how to use a ruler and draw to scale. Oh man, it was excellent.

I think we're going to go with the green option, but in off-white. Not quite sure which doors yet. It was so worth phoning pizza for.

---
(In case anyone is crazy enough (as I would be) to check my maths: there are two sets of bookcases in that room, so all amounts were multiplied by two. Just because I know some of you out there are as far gone as I am.)
---

And finally I want to thank you all for making me laugh and feel virtually hugged last night. I was feeling CRAP and you made it all so much better. I send you all a virtual hug back, but a different one. Not the one you gave me, thrown back in your face, because that wouldn't be very nice now, would it? A fresh and sanitary one, especially for you. Thank you.

Why is that?

2011-01-31T14:55:00.001+01:00

Why is it that

when I look in the mirror or at recent photos of me, all I can see is fat/ugly? I'm not that fat. Just a bit fat. I'm pretty much as ugly as I was before.
I know it's untrue and yet I feel it in my bones. Crap.
it's okay for me to leave Charlie to play on his own when I'm doing the laundry, but not when I'm blogging?
(Actually, this one is probably for the best. And I don't have any guilt issues when he's napping.)
I find it so hard to stop Charlie's night feeds? Is it because they make me feel needed? Is it because he's probably my last baby and these would be our last night feeds? Is it because he's so big and needs a lot of fuel?
I feel I have made a good effort, introducing the late-night bottle, trying to give him water instead of nursing him, and still no luck.
my funny me has gone on holiday but my tidy me is at home and doing overtime?
self-hatred is the hardest thing to stop?

Cra-zy in the head

2011-01-27T21:18:00.002+01:00

I can see her in the distance. She's been sick with a bad flu all week, but now she's ventured outside. I'm happy to see her. She's a good friend and I've missed her. She's closer by now. I put up my hand for a little wave, and so does she. Her hand goes off course, and straight to her mouth from which she emits a small cough. It's a small cough - hardly audible - but unmistakably a cough.

A little alarm bell goes off in the back of my head. I tell this bell to fuck off. This is my friend, she has a little cough, she's most likely not going to kill me. Or my little innocent baby in his buggy. No, she definitely won't. Get a grip, Mwa. Everyone carries all kinds of bugs, she's no different. Just get on with the conversation and forget about the cough.

She gets to where I've been standing at the school gates. We catch up. I commiserate about her flu. I mean it. Poor her. But this conversation does rather make me think about it. And it makes me wonder, at the back of my mind, how long can a virus live outside the body. Is her coat infectious? Is she still infectious? Maybe her cough is just a secondary infection and no longer carries live viral matter. OMG MWA will you give it a REST? This is your FRIEND! Your very own children are CESSPITS of disease who bring home every kind of bug you can imagine from school. GET OVER IT!

The conversation gets off the topic of the flu and I feel slightly better. Almost forget about it. Yes, look at me standing here, being all benevolent to the woman who really should still be in quarantine or at least wearing a mouth guard and I'm not even mentioning any of that. I'm carrying on a conversation as normal. LALALA! Look at me being all socially adapted. No one can even tell I'm cra-zy inside. OCD I kick your annoying arse!

Toddler girl comes running out of the school and asks me to pick her up. While I bend down to gather her into my arms, I realise I have left the baby-buggy area unattended. The situation has gone from code orange to code red now. I took my eye off the ball. And there you have it already: my friend feels another cough coming up, lifts her hand, coughs into it, then out of the corner of my eye I see her "helpfully" taking the buggy from me. With the infectious hand. The hand full of cough residue.

"RED ALERT!!!" someone screams in my head. "GENERAL ALARM!!!" The head of virus monitoring inside my brain's OCD command centre goes purple. He fucking knew this was going to happen. Why hadn't I listened to the "fight or flight" command he so clearly sent out at the first glimpse of the lurgy-ridden ex-patient? This was a preventable cock-up, people!

My friend and I walk a little way. The buggy is now well and truly contaminated. Then I put down toddler girl and my friend gives the buggy back to me. I force myself to hold it, in the normal place, in the very danger zone. I will not make my friend feel bad. She's been helpful - kind even. She hasn't meant to infect me and my entire family with her awful flu. I feel like Mother Teresa or something. Mwa tends to the sick with no care for her own well-being. I can just see the headlines: "Mother of three dies from swine flu after act of kindness to friend; Baby will most likely pull through."

All the way home, I am conscious of the flu being on my hand. And then it's on the children's coats. And then on their hands which I hold. And then on the school bags. And now on the key, and then on the door. By the time we get home it's no use desinfecting hands or buggy because I would have to wash all of us with bleach all over, which I'm not going to do. Because I'm not crazy, people! So I let it go. Oh yes I do. I hardly think of it the rest of the evening. Maybe twenty times, but that is all.

The next day, I wake up with a sore throat. Bugger.

Non-anal baking high

2011-01-24T23:23:00.001+01:00

See what Ms. Moon made me do yesterday evening:

Looks like muffins
Tastes like brownies

But then she put me to shame today with her own gorgeous brownies which actually look like brownies.

I've been wanting for ages to bake something without being completely anal about it. I've only ever baked two things in my life (how typical I blogged about both), and each time I measured everything to the motherfucking gram. Which is tiring. And not fun. And quite unnecessary I'm sure. This time I scanned a couple of online articles, then consciously forgot them and threw some stuff together. No bain marie for the chocolate and butter - just the microwave. No sifting, just chucking. No measuring, just "does this look okay" and "does this taste okay?" Just a little more of this and a little more of that.

It was liberating! Baking like that is such a joy and no one ever told me. I'm planning a lengthy campaign of baking, and I won't be using any cookbooks. Trial and error only. I am reconnecting with my cavewoman ancestors (just like michelle with her knitting). It makes me feel powerful, my people. Like I can do anything, anything useful that is - like nurturing and loving and feeding and clothing. It makes me finally realise to the full what I thought I understood all along: that my job in the house just now is an all-important one. One that would beat market research's and investment banking's ass any day. (Maybe not gynaecology or social work or nursing. Bygones.) And all because of a bit of baking. (Maybe the eggs were bad or something - I'm obviously tripping.)

Still on my baking high and with the exact same attitude, this evening I also made - no kidding - the best quiche in the whole world ever! It has slices of sausage, diced courgette and emmental cheese. I don't even like quiche but this was great. The children finished their pieces completely.

Who the mama? I the mama.

Thank you!

2011-01-21T23:38:00.000+01:00

I just want to say thank you to everyone for your advice the other day. Charlie has now drunk a bottle for the second night in a row. I don't know if he would eventually have caved and had a normal bottle anyway, but I went out and got the boob-shape tommee tippee bottle yesterday. I gave him some water in it with his lunch but he was still not sure about it. (Today I just gave him a cup for his water. He may as well learn to use one.) Then yesterday evening he drank a good-size bottle. He still didn't sleep properly last night, though. In fact, I think he slept worse.

Tonight, we added some heavier formula which promises to give him a more satisfied feeling for longer. I'm keeping my fingers crossed. The bottle is a good start already because in theory I could now get a longer sleep. If I didn't stay up to watch TV and then go online.

The road to enlightenment is bumpy and sometimes smells of bacon

2011-01-20T14:27:00.002+01:00

So the bummer is that all the beautiful equanimity resulting from a good dose of buddhism for mummies only lasts as long as the mummy in question keeps up her bloody practice. If you don't "study the texts" or meditate for a couple of days, your kitchen will be a stinky mess and you will once again be surprised, and ever so mildly annoyed, if your baby dares to nap for less long than you planned. (I'm speaking hypothetically here, of course.) If only there was an enlightenment switch in the brain which could be flicked to "on" by reading the right book. That would be the ticket. No more bloody "journey," or "it takes a lifetime." I want to be free from urgent desires, and I want it now!

The way back to happiness often starts with a good lunch for me. If I bother to cook myself something tasty, instead of chucking together a slice of bread and a dollop of Nutella, there's a good chance the day will end better than it started. A quick perusal of the fridge and the cupboards only showed that I urgently need to go to the shops. There was some bacon Babes had bought, and a jar of pesto, and then some white bread left over from Marie's class breakfast yesterday. Now everyone knows the Buddha's famous saying

"For human to achieve happiness, sometimes pig must suffer."

so the pig got it. Vegetarianism will have to wait once again. The pesto was overkill (what a terrible choice of words, in light of the hog's demise) because it competed too much with the taste of the bacon. It would have been more respectful to trust the pork to shine by itself. Bread and bacon need no accompaniment, except for the bacon fat straight out of the pan. Or chicken. Or lettuce. Or tomatoes. Okay, it can have an accompaniment, but there was no call for pesto.

I will give the pork another chance to shine tonight, and properly this time. I saved the bacon fat in the pan and the leftover rashers of bacon, with the vague intention of doing "something" with them for dinner. I have since arranged to have dinner out with An tonight (see, I told you the day would get better), so I won't get to partake of the marvel I will cook up but cooked up it shall be. Maybe I'll get some chicken to go with the bacon. And some lettuce and tomatoes. Yes, that would be good.

I shall leave you now because Charlie is having another nap and I need to spend at least some of it regaining my sanity (meditating, studying my texts) so I can survive the hours until I get to escape the drudgery that is my everyday life (yay positive thinking) to go and have dinner with my darling sister.

Namaste, my beloved people. Namaste.

These books will change your life

2011-01-18T21:40:00.003+01:00

My books have been behaving like buses: no decent reads came along for ages, and then all of a sudden three brilliant ones arrived at once. I'm alternating them - reading a chapter in one and then onto the next book. And, because I'm so generous and loving, I will share them with you. Because you're so pretty, dear reader. Oh yes you are.

1. Buddhism for Mothers of Schoolchildren, by Sarah Napthali

I'm not sure words can describe how happy I am with this book, and how absolutely bang on time I was given it by my sister An (may her lucky streak continue evermore). I read the preface last night and actually cried by the end of it. She'd just described exactly my situation, and the changes I would like to make.

Today I read the chapter on stress. And OMG it changed my whole day around. I had a frazzled and chaotic start to the day, then read this chapter and...

(I hardly dare to say it, it sounds so ridiculous) ... the rest of the day was like a different country. It really truly was.

The book just made me aware (again) of the fact that stress is a reaction, and with every reaction there's a choice. I remembered to relax my body, look at the causes of my stress, and to accept unforeseen circumstances more easily. I stopped thinking of all the things I "should" do. I did so much more than that as well, but I'm not going to copy out the book. I suggest you read it. It doesn't actually matter if you're a mother, a father, or neither. That first chapter would help anyone who is stressed.

Napthali talks about conflict of desires so clearly that I couldn't help applying the concept immediately. I was reading her book in the room which has my bookcases in it. I've been meaning to weed out a whole lot of books for ages but hadn't managed to do this successfully. Reading the chapter, I could finally see that my conflicting desires (uncluttering vs. holding on to my books) were holding me back. I decided there and then to remove a whole lot of books to the attic. Now the room is uncluttered, but I can hold on to my books nonetheless. In about half an hour, I had solved a problem I've had for about five years now.

The rest of the day went ridiculously smoothly. I fed lunch to Charlie and didn't put the TV on in the background. I was in the fucking moment, people. Yeah - you hadn't expected that, had you? Neither had I. Later on I went for a walk to the shops with him, bought whole complete vegetables (no bag of pre-cut stuff), a pie (to reward myself on my progress) and a minty Labello so I take care of my lips while simultaneously surprising myself with minty fresh lips. Ah yes. Life can be good that way.

I got to the children's school half an hour early! Then afterwards I did homework with Jack, only losing my temper once. (I apologised and moved on.) I let Charlie suck on my cheek for ages (he loves that) and I let Marie play with her plasticine for as long as she wanted. I'm a fucking saint! (No, I'm not - I do realise that. But it does feel like I was abducted by aliens. (They can keep me.)) On top of all that, I managed to cook, tidy, put the kids in their pyjamas and set the table, all before Babes got back from work. This is unseen, my people. Just unseen. And it felt bloody good.

My spaghetti sauce was abundant.
Even managed to finally use those chickpeas.

It's amazing how much time and energy is freed up if you just stop stressing about everything. Overthinking, thinking what I "should" be doing, feeling guilty, wanting other things than what I have, planning the future all the time - all these things tire me out so much more than I ever realised. Just stopping those things leaves me with energy left at the end of the day! I haven't felt like this in many many months. (Probably since I last meditated and exercised. No surprises there.) Being happy and content in the moment is the greatest joy there is. (I'm about to levitate now. Any second...)

I will be reading and re-reading this book, probably for a few years. I imagine a chapter a day is the most I'll be able to manage without having too much to process at one time.

So yeah - excellent book. I would definitely recommend it, after reading only the preface and the first chapter.

2.World Without End, by Ken Follett

This is the sequel to The Pillars of the Earth. It's historical fiction, set in medieval England. Monasteries, knights, outlaws. Complete escapism of the most entertaining kind. I found the first part kind of unfriendly to women in parts, but not so much that it stopped me racing through its pages and regretting getting to the end. I'm hoping to get the same (minus unfriendliness to women) from this book. So far, it hasn't disappointed.

3. The Mirror Within, by Anne Dickson

The subtitle of this book is "A new look at sexuality." It was recommended to me by my own personal smut guru, who has indicated that she may not wish to be identified as such, so I will leave it up to her to claim or not claim the honour in the comments section.

So far I am very happy with this book. The first chapters deal with the history of women's sexuality in the West, some of the myths attached to it, the roles we assume or identify with, and body image. It's making me think a lot. I'm not sure if I'm ready for the practical tasks yet (yes it has them at the end of every chapter), and when I am I'm pretty sure I won't be sharing here.

So - I haven't read all that much of this book yet either, but I already have a feeling that it's been a well-kept secret and someone should have told me about it years ago. Its main purpose seems to be to assign greater value to the female body, and to give the power over their sexuality back to women themselves. It has me hooked.

Search term update

2011-01-17T22:26:00.004+01:00

Yep, I've still got it: my search terms are all poo, breastfeeding and gay porn. Just the way I like them.

cant sit down after poo..bum contracts
→ That is an unfortunate problem. Please see your physician. I sympathise, though. A lot.
cows breast feeding cats
→ Would make a funny picture.
In fact, just in case anyone else comes here looking for the above, I found this picture for you on Google:

My search led me past some very disturbing images of women breastfeeding cats and calves, and of a man "cutting out the middle man" with a cow. Google at your own risk.
gays using fruit jack off porn
→ Just any fruit? No preference? You'd be disappointed if they were using a kiwi! Just saying. Next time you may want to specify.

From breast to bottle: help needed!

2011-01-14T13:48:00.000+01:00

On Wednesday I reached my limit. A person can only go without decent sleep for so long, and "so long" in my case seems to be five months. I went out and got some formula for Charlie to see if a bottle at eleven wouldn't make him sleep a little longer, and - crucially - deeper, so he wouldn't ask for his dummy every hour. I'll keep going with the breastfeeding for his other milk feeds, but I need a little help in the night.

I was determined to breast feed exclusively for much longer than six months this time. In an ideal world, I still would. At the weekend, I have great milk even at night. I get to catch up on some sleep, I get some good meals thanks to Babes and his culinary talents. During the week, I seem to run out of milk by the evening. I try to eat and drink regularly and rest enough, but it's impossible. The other two children need attention, too. There's shopping to do, school runs, tidying - well, you know, the work of the household drudge - and I only have so much energy in me. I'd be able to keep it up if I had more help, but I don't and that's all there is to it.

I've been slowly getting Charlie used to eating vegetables and fruit during the day - a spoonful at first, then gradually more. I am saying goodbye to that gorgeous breastfed baby smell. It is also the end of liquid nappies - I'm less sad to see them go. The major change, though, is in his naps. He's sleeping much better during the day. It doesn't take me twenty minutes to get him to sleep, and I don't have to keep going up to give him his dummy.

This boy needs stodgier food than he's been getting. He's a five month old giant, and giants are not satisfied with milk only. I feel bad for him that I've left him feeling unsatisfied for this long. He was obviously getting enough nutrition because he stayed at the top of the growth curves, in both length and weight, but I think he did need a little extra substance. You should have seen him the first time I gave him a spoonful of fruit mush. He was so happy - it was as if he was saying "That's what I've been trying to tell you at the table every night. I needed some decent food!" Now we just needed a similar solution for his night feed. Some stodge. Some nice, sleep-inducing stodge.

So - it's a bottle we need and out I went to get him one. Of course it turned out like that saying "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans." God in this case would have been Charlie. He knew the breasts were around, so he wasn't going to settle for anything less. After a little while - predictably - he won. I've offered him a little bottle before most meals since. He doesn't cry any more - he just chews it. He gets a little bit of formula that way, but nowhere near enough to fill him up. And I need him to suck! Now!

I've tried to trick him by giving him a dummy first and then making the switch. I make sucking noises so he'll get the idea. I let him suck on my hand. I make sure he gets a little taste of the milk first. Occasionally he sucks it by accident, stops himself, then starts to chew again.

Please tell me all your best tricks. Please! I need a night off.

I'm into blogging (more than dogging)

2011-01-12T21:52:00.004+01:00

A couple of months ago, the lovely Jo posted what must be the most hilarious video of the year. I am shamelessly reposting it here (but read on because there's a point to this):

I think half the appeal is to hear that smut out of the mouth of someone who looks like a mother-in-law. It is such a catchy tune that I have found myself giggling randomly and at the most inopportune times over the last two months. One sleepless night, I started to make my own lyrics:
(Please do watch the video first, or only watch the video, because it is about a gazillion times better/funnier/prettier than the derivative attempt below. Also, you need to know the tune to appreciate the verses to the full.)

Blogging*
(To the tune of Aida's "Dogging:")

On Tuesday I was sitting here upstairs at my computer,
while in the living room the Polish help looked ever cuter,
and Babes who was off work because on Monday night he'd sneezed
was left unsupervised to do exactly as he pleased.
When I'm blogging, when I'm blogging,
I don't care who Babes is pawing, even snogging.
If I am left alone, he can kiss or even bone
any floozy or old crone, when I'm blogging.
On Wednesday both the kids were home from school and I was stressed.
I put on the TV and told the kids don't be a pest.
I didn't see the older one give baby beer and cake,
the girl peed in the sofa but at least I got a break.
I was blogging, I was blogging,
so the children had been threatened with a flogging.
One got a hacking cough - do you think that I logged off?
No, I told her to fuck off, 'cause I was blogging.

*Parts of this song are fictional.

Pretty presents, moon-phase wonder

2011-01-10T13:26:00.000+01:00

She knows me so well
Christmas presents from my ever-so-thoughtful sister An, may her screws stay fast and her ducks be all in a row:

Buddhism for mothers of schoolchildren
Finding calm in the chaos of the school years

Notebook
Poo

Perfection.
Was it the moon or something?
No one slept in this house last night. Well, Babes would have had it not been for the rest of us. No one is sick and no loud noises were made in the neighbourhood, but I could not sleep and neither could all three of the children.
It turned into a farce which by two o'clock I had called "Upstairs Downstairs" to the blogging audience in my head (as you do). No one cried (not even me), no one was annoying - it was all "I'm thirsty" and "I need to pee" and "I have a dirty nappy" and "I'm hungry." I tried not to wake poor Babes but the second poopy nappy was a poopy bridge too far to me, so he did get sent downstairs for that at twenty to three. After which it took me a good hour to get Charlie back to sleep.
Paradoxically, this complete lunacy has made the back-to-school fantabulousness even better because when I asked that gorgeous Babes to get the children ready for school and take them there as well so I could get a measly hour's sleep, he kindly did so and only woke me up at ten (!) with a hungry baby for me to feed and by that time he had taken the day off, been to the shops and was making a beef stew for our dinner!

Did anyone else experience freak sleeplessness last night? I'm seriously wondering if it was something to do with the moon or the weather.

I'm right on schedule with the end of holiday despair - always a relief

2011-01-07T21:59:00.005+01:00

It is January the 7th. Charlie, my newest baby is four days away from being five months old. If I was a normal Belgian full-time working mother, I would have been back at work two months ago. This just seems ludicrous to me. My only goal apart from taking care of my family is to write one blog post a day, and I can't manage that. I don't understand how people can go back to work and function like normal human beings just three months after giving birth. They must be some kind of superhuman cyborgs. Either that, or pretending to be fine while really falling apart on the inside, especially the ones whose babies are still refusing to sleep properly.

(This is no stay at home or out to work manifesto. Whatever works for you. I've done both, I just happen to be at home this time.)

But then again of course I do understand how they do it. Because today, going back to work would feel a little like a holiday. I would see adults! I would get to go to the bathroom without sprinting back to check if anyone has been smothered by someone else. I would get to eat without having someone shout for my breasts as soon as I set the plate down in front of me. Someone else would deal with all of it. My aunt, also a mother of three, was asking me only this weekend why didn't I just give up on the breastfeeding and go back to work. She said sure you feel bad for a bit leaving them, but just think then you can breathe. And she's right.

I remember that feeling from when I went back to work after having Jack. First you have the guilt - "how dare I leave my baby in the care of strangers what if he dies because they misinterpret his cry what if he grows up fearful and depressed because he was abandoned by his mummy when he was only tiny" - and then comes the relief. Because all of a sudden you aren't constantly needed and cried for and prodded incessantly and guilted into leaving your tea to get cold to clean up another nappy or another spilled drink.

Of course I feel guilty even writing this. My babies are gorgeous and fantastic and it's my pleasure to stay home with them to take care of them and love them to bits and cuddle them when they fall. How can I say I want to be away from them? (If one of them dies tomorrow, I will be sorry because it will be as if I asked for it. (That's just my sick neurosis talking - pay no notice.))

I just want a break. I want to go to the gym and spend a couple of hours listening to Britney Spears and the Village People while pounding my body into obedience. I want to have lunch with my sister and not have to spend it apologising to her for not listening 100% because I'm breastfeeding/wiping a nose/changing a nappy/consoling a child-with-a-bump-on-the-head. Actually I'd settle for just having lunch with my sister at the moment.

I know that time will come, and when it does I will think back of this time and miss it. I will miss the breastfeeding and the snotty noses. I will miss the soft little buttocks in the stinky nappies and I will miss my kisses being the one and only thing that can heal a bump on the head. Those parts of my day I love right now. It's the bits in between that I am counting down to the evening. The bits in between I need to tell myself over and over and over again will end will end will end, because every other day so far has ended so surely this one will.

I'm a barrel of laughs today, I am. I hope I'm not bringing you down. Actually, most sensible readers will have probably clicked away by now. If you're still here, I can only assume that despair is something you are familiar with and doesn't scare you off. In which case do join me for a little moan. Tomorrow will be much better. Tomorrow we do gratitude and calmness and appreciation of all the many, many plentiful gifts the universe has bestowed on us. Tomorrow will be fun and games, love and laughter. Until then, I will be right here feeling sorry for myself.

(And Monday school is back, so all will be well then. Thank fuck for that.)

Operation "Kill Snow White"

2011-01-05T18:29:00.008+01:00

My lovely brother is getting married in February, which meant that yesterday I went out to find myself a party outfit. This would have been fine normally and I have recently lost a dress size (which you know because I keep bragging about it) but let me tell you there is still quite a bit of baby fat there. My nearly-five-kilo excuse is now four and half months and eight kilos already, so the excuse is wearing thin (I wish I was) while the self-hatred is reaching new peaks. I need to lose two more sizes before I will feel happy about the way I look and feel and I should really stop hiding behind the breastfeeding because that does not normally stop people losing weight. Au contraire, mes chéries.

I was so sure that I wasn't going to find anything nice in my size that I was in a bad mood before I even started. With this positive attitude, three children in tow and a patient and very brave companion, I set off for the centre of town on the second day of the sales - a ridiculous idea under normal circumstances but simply suicidal with two prams and one of the children coughing up alarming amounts of phlegm. I intimated to my companion that I was not feeling too great about myself. (Okay, I whined. I sulked. I refused to even enter shops which only cater to the fashionably-sized. (Oh, how I long to be fashionably-sized again. (Give it six months, Mwa, give it six months.)))

When I finally did go into a gorgeous (and very fashionable) shop, of course I did fit in some of their "size 4s" and I found a stunning dress, teaching me that pessimism always pays off because I was far happier than I would have been had I not been expecting abject failure. I had been trying to hide my self-loathing from the children by discussing it (okay, lamenting it bitterly) only with the shop assistant and my shopping companion but I probably should have expressly stated this desire to obfuscate to them, as my shopping mate told me "You say 'I'm too fat, I'm too fat, I'm too fat,' but this camouflages your belly quite well" right in front of them. So much for my attempt not to pass on the self-esteem issues. Another faux-pas was the most used description of outfits shown: "Not exactly slimming." Sigh. I'd call that a completely failed mission.

Which makes my next operation all the more important: I call it "Kill Snow White" because that is what I may perhaps be planning to do. I have not decided the means of her demise yet, so perhaps you should all help me. Marie was given this Barbie - well, officially Snow White but see for yourself - by someone at Christmas. I may have slightly put my foot in it by making a derogatory comment about this doll of horrors the next day in front of the horror dolly giver. Woops.

Actually I haven't fully made up my mind to exterminate her yet. Marie really likes this doll. But the very first thing she did was take off all her clothes, revealing her in all her ridiculousness.

Well, obviously she didn't come with those various instruments of torture. That would have been even more ridiculous.

I don't think it would be a very nice thing for me to secretly murder Marie's new friend. Then there's also the trail of evidence to consider. If I document my unspeakable (but apparently bloggable) deed, she may find out in the future and resent me for it. Then again, if I don't she may develop an even more unhealthy ideal of the female shape than she was no doubt already going to have, and potentially an eating disorder. I mean, look at those fucking legs. And the breasts actually poked me when they were in my trousers, they are so pointy. (Maybe I should explain that I put them down my trousers in order to smuggle them past my assembled brood, just to avoid the obvious question of "Where are you going with my new dolly and those matches, mama?" No, still doesn't sound good, does it? A Barbie down one's trousers may never be explainable to a satisfactory degree.)

So, interwebs, what do you think? Do I let Snow White disappear quietly, do I maim her in a cathartic and symbolic revenge for all the hours I've spent disliking my own shape because of cultural stereotypes like Barbie, or do I allow miss pointy-limbs to continue messing with my little girl's mind? I fucking hate her. I'll probably just hide her in the back of my wardrobe, where I will find her each time I attempt to get into my gorgeous dream-on-jeans (three sizes away), making the humiliation sting just that little bit harder. Karma's a bitch that way.

Antichrist-Mas ramble

2011-01-02T21:03:00.004+01:00

Well, thank fuck the festive season is over. Let's get on with life! *breathes big sigh of relief*

On Friday, I had not realised that there were Big Expectations that go with New Year's Eve in the Mind of Babes. I was in my usual festive funk and decided that I was fed the fuck up with all the bloody mess in this house (yes, I am a darling dollop of delight around the holidays) so pulled out all the contents of all the drawers, cupboards and storage boxes in the living room and kitchen, and proceeded to reduce, reorder and rehome them.

As much as I claim not to be interested in the pointless celebration of the mere change of a number on all our calendars (the Chinese, Jews, Muslims and probably many other people celebrate their New Year on a different day, underlining its arbitrariness), I do see the symbolism in my deed there: out with the old, in with the new. It was rather cathartic and went some way towards lifting my most morose mood, which is why I couldn't understand that Babes considered my actions less than festive and in fact not in keeping with the occasion. I don't know why he complained, really, because he got the booze, the bites and the whole TV all to himself. And a tidier house on top of all that. Win-win-win-win!

I haven't stopped tidying since, and I hope the urge won't leave me too soon. I feel liberated and cleansed.

(I did stop tidying for the hour or so before and after midnight - had some champagne and all that. I don't know why he was surprised. I ask him every year can I please go to bed at nine.)
(Also I do do the happy holidays part for the children. Really. Tree, light, presents, even a smile and a song. Yes, a song.)

And - AND - a!n!d! - my lovely people, last night Charlie slept from ten until seven with only a brief interruption around two o'clock for the dummy dance - which is the first time since he was born that I got a decent stretch of sleep so all is well with the world. Truly. I could almost be persuaded to drink some gluhwein, set off some fireworks or send out some Christmas cards. Almost.

Another benefit (apart from the tidier house) to my antichristmas spirit and a fussy baby is that I keep missing meals, or parts thereof, either breastfeeding or pretending to, or running up and down the stairs to reinsert a dummy, which makes me probably the only woman in the world who went down a dress size at Christmas. Only three sizes to go now. (Two, realistically, but I still have that gorgeous pair of jeans that I bought a few years back "to grow into" and a girl can dream, eh?)

There is a point to this post. Really, there must be, somewhere in the middle of all that rambling. Ah, there it is: hating Christmas makes you thin, your baby sleepy, and your house pretty, people! You're welcome.

To my clogged milk duct

2010-12-29T21:00:00.003+01:00

My dearest clogged milk duct,
you make my nipple look funky.
Your enforced sleepless nights
have my writing go clunky.

You turn feeds which were lovely
really quite sore
complaining about you
makes me a bore.

You mess with the booby
I let my baby suck of.
My dearest clogged milk duct,
now kindly fuck off.

A white(-knuckled) Christmas with the in-laws

2010-12-25T19:53:00.001+01:00

So we thought it would be a good idea to take two children and a baby over to the UK for Christmas. Because they all love to sit still in the car for hours and hours. HAHAHA!

Anyway - Merry Christmas to you all! I hope you all get iPads and fancy jewelry. Oh, and love and friendship and all that crap of course.

Normal services will resume when my children have stopped vomiting/not sleeping/being complainy from the shock of the journey, and when I can get properly online because I can't even get my iPhone connected to the WiFi here. I feel as if someone has cut off one of my limbs. You know, Google Reader - the limb that grows between my right arm and my belly button.

Girls girls girls

2010-12-22T22:07:00.000+01:00

For a few weeks at university, I tried to be a lesbian. I thought I should find out if I had any inclination for it. You see, there was this gorgeous girl who would swoop into lectures in a floral summer dress, and - well - she wore that summer dress like no other girl could have done, and she always distracted me from my equations and theorems. By the second week of the experiment, I was sure it wasn't for me. There happened to also be a boy around at that time who would distract me at least as much. And while I never dared to talk to either girl or boy, I still fancied the logistics of the boy more than that of the girl. Breasts I'm sure I could cope with, but for recreation I choose penis over vagina any day. And that was that. (Of course I don't know what I'm talking about since I've never actually tried the latter.)

Today, though, I nearly forgot to pick up my children from school because I was so engrossed in The Secret Diaries of Miss Anne Lister, something I'd taped to watch during breastfeeding. Two girls were getting really quite passionate when I realised I had five minutes to get Charlie into the buggy and both of us to the school gates. Running along the pavement with the buggy flying ahead of me, I saw my favourite parcel-delivery girl ring a doorbell down the road. She's rather butch (assumptions, assumptions - they really won't do) in a lovely way, and I feel a flutter whenever she brings me my online purchases. Today I got a wink which pleased me rather a lot.

All this is making me think today about the boundaries between friendship, love and infatuation. If I didn't have Babes could I meet "the right girl?" I have had some serious girl crushes in my time. At secondary school, I used to write 40 page letters to my best friend after I got home from school at night, to hand to her when I got into school the next morning. I never spent nearly that much time on the boy I was supposedly "in love" with (desperately, stupidly, from afar). Then again, if I had to have a threesome - you know, if I was forced :-) - I'd still prefer two men. (Call me, Benicio and Orlando or Ewan and Robert or McDreamy and McSteamy! (Apparently I'm not picky. (Or: how to make them all feel extra special.))) But I would watch Tina Fey on TV before any of the four men in brackets. Or any other girl crush of mine.

Isn't love/lust/life just delicious in all its manifestations and possibilities? I'm feeling giddy with it today, as if we all live in a giant kaleidoscope, or a hall of mirrors.

Sleepy creepy

2010-12-20T23:18:00.000+01:00

I go upstairs to check the children. On the landing I find one of Babes' shirts, covered in maggot-like insects. They are crawling all over it and I wonder where they could have come from. I go up seven steps to the next floor, and the hall is completely wet. I peek into the study and I find Marie and Jack together on the air mattress. They're meant to be in their own beds, but I leave them there because they are so cute.

From the study I go into my darkened bedroom. Where Charlie's meant to be, there's a big man with an overly large head, sitting in the crib asleep. I think I must be so tired that I'm seeing things that aren't there so I go up to the crib and try to lay the man/Charlie down so he can sleep more comfortably. The man opens his eyes and gives me an icily evil stare while he grabs my arm so hard I cannot run away.

I wake myself up shouting "No, no, no!"

- Sleep does not always equal rest.