Poem of the day

Time alone can grant me leave
to cut this putrid chord,
whose stench now overwhelms me
with your dull and spiteful words.

And your parody of friendliness!
A thinly veiled sham.
Thank God I found my reason
and replaced you with a man.

Poem of the day: Untitled

Yes of course we have a table sir,
or we'll find one, as it's you.
You told us you were coming?
Well if you're sure, it must be true.

Would sir care to see the menu?
Sir, this is your usual chair.
No of course I'll find another,
we are nothing if not fair.

Your starter sir? A splendid choice,
would you like Confusion with your Pain?
Or a sprinkling of the finest Guilt,
with a side order of Shame?

I don't believe you've tried the Conscience sir,
but correct me if I'm wrong.
Oh, too bitter for your palate?
It's flavour is a little strong.

Oh I see, it is the aftertaste
which lingers for a while.
In that case sir, may I suggest
a large glass of Denial.

And for your main course? Loneliness,
with Torment on the side.
Of course sir, would you like your Tears
boiled, baked or fried?

Now, for dessert, I think you'll find
we've added to the list.
It's Love sir, very sweet to taste...
Remove it? Of course, if you insist.

You're not leaving us already sir?
Oh no problem, pay next time.
and yes, it was my own mistake
that made you spill your wine.

Oh sir, it is too awful,
what bad manners I have showed.
Perhaps then, sir would care to take,
some Ego for the road.


Written 2000

Birthday Party (or not)

Recently, that wonderful but dreaded time of my daughters birthday raced toward me. Not only did I have to adjust to her becoming a whopping five years old,(five! Already!) such a momentous occassion could not of course be allowed to slip quietly by in a quiet, dignified and 35 year old way. Oh no. There must be a party. Or must there? Competition amongst parents is fierce when it comes to birthday parties. Get it wrong and you find yourself suddenly ostracised at the school gates. If, on the other hand you carry it off as a big-hearted-eco-friendly-domestic goddess, you may claim your rightful place as the object of all envy.
As the big day came thundering toward me with, it seemed gathering momentum and great expectation, (hers, not mine), I considered the options.

1. No Celebration. Unthinkable even for a grumpy, unsentimental person such as myself.

2. Wacky Warehouse. Again unthinkable, but for entirely different reasons. I have been to Wacky Warehouse more times than I care to remember and every time, after about ten seconds of stepping through the door, I ask myself why I thought going there was such a great idea. It can only be sheer desperation that would cause an otherwise sane individual, (that is I), to voluntarily submit themselves to what is basically a massive sensory overload. Why would I think that if two children are driving me mad, going somewhere where there are a hundred squealing young is the answer? True, I can drink a relatively hot cup of 'coffee' undisturbed and if all I want to do is drink and stare dumbly at the wall then fair play. Concentration is impossible and should I be lucky enough to have the company of another half crazed mother, conversation is equally difficult, frequently punctuated as it is by piercing screams, indeed once, one of them was mine. Not only that, but I cant quite completely relax and spend every five minutes or so frantically scanning ball pools and slides searching for the offspring. At least, I used to scan every five minutes, since watching several seaons of 'Criminal Minds' back to back, my paranoia has reached new levels and I now scan every two.
Clearly then, the wacky party was a definite no.

3. The home based party. Ermm, I did consider this and not too briefly either, but in the end, this too was discarded as a fitting way to celebrate the beginning of our girls sixth year. A party at home requires not only more and more imaginative ways to play musical statues/bumps/chairs, but also the dreaded Party Bag. Our kids love party bags. When they receive an invitation to a party they are already anticipating the inevitable mass produced plastic content contained therein, just as I am as quick to breathe a sigh of relief that it isnt a 'funhouse' party. No, if I was going to do party bags I would want to put into them proper gifts, gifts that would last longer than thirty minutes and that hadnt necessarily been made in China. I would put in gifts that would not cause parents to say "Wow" in a dead monotone, or cause them to worry about spills, stains or E numbers. If our kids gave out party bags, they would be filled with quality items that would entertain and endure. No matter that the cost of such wondrous offerings would mean they were permitted only one guest, it would be the prada of the party bag.
You see then the dilemma. Our daughter would shortly turn five, the magic number where it seems her independence and knowledge of the world has instantaneously quadrupled and I am being told constantly to "stop fussing." I had to think of something fast.
And then it came to me in a rare moment of clarity. She would not mind how much the party, (or not) cost. She wouldnt remember if little Chardonnay had had exactly the same party the year before and she certainly wouldnt care whether I bought party bags or made them myself with my teeth out of handmade paper. I had had the most revolutionary birthday celebration idea. Minimal cost, zero imported plastic and maximum offspring satisfaction. Playing. Would you believe, children love it. It's free, it makes them happy and they get to choose the games and the themes. Call me a rebel, but I refused to compete, scoffed at the idea of mini carrier bags filled with tat and instead watched proudly as our daughter and her closest friends, (at that time) had fun, inside and out, upstairs and down with hardly any adult interference. At the critical moment when the birthday girl was inclined to become a little diva-ish turning her guests into faithful puppies with a swish of her sparkly pink wand, a scrumptious tea was served. No celebraton would be complete without jelly and ice cream not to mention the pink pony birthday cake which very nearly wasnt.
And have I been shunned at the school gate? Not yet, although neither am I an object of envy. I am instead the mother of a five year old little girl who giggled her way through her birthday.

Security

The kids and I have recently returned from a visit to Grans house. Nothing unusual about that you might think, but this particular Gran resides on the Isle of Lewis. For those whose geography is as good as mine, that's an island off the left side of Scotland. Of course, you could drive up and take the ferry if you were either travelling alone or barking mad, but we find it easier and happier to fly. For reasons I do not entirely understand, this involves two flights, one to Edinburgh or Glasgow and then another flight onto Stornoway. For sheer practicality and preservation of sanity, I only ever take one case. Everything for me and the children simply must fit into one suitcase and really it is surprising how there always seems to be just a little more room for those last minute essentials; toothpaste, toothbrushes, day cream and a selection of lipsticks to match every possible outfit.
One bag of hand luggage and we were ready for the off! But no. The children appeared at the car clutching all manner of soft toys, blankets and quality freebies from McDonalds. Hmmm. Paddy at the car, or paddy at the airport? We really had to go so we chose airport. Luckily the distraction of the airport and the excitement of the ensuing adventure meant they didn't notice they had left half their stuff in the car.
After checking about a hundred times that I had brought my hideous photo ID and all the required documentation we went to check in. At this point I always worry that something will be wrong. I don't know what it could be, maybe we had only booked one child onto the flight, or maybe there were new rules like you couldn't board the plane carrying a large cuddly dog. Whatever, I only relax, (yeah, right), when I am holding our boarding cards. We bid farewell to the case, fervently hoping to be reunited in Stornoway. After a tearful goodbye to Dad, we headed to security. Having done the flying thing a few times, I headed somewhat smugly toward the conveyer belt and beepers, observing with a degree of sympathy those virgin travellers rummaging frantically in ther bags for any liquids and trying to get them to fit into the stupidly small plastic bags they so kindly give you at airports.
I put my bag on the conveyer, grabbing one tray for our coats and a second for the security blankets, (Bobbas), and cuddly dog. We all found the sight of a floppy toy dog over hanging the tray heading for the x-ray machine quite funny. Judging by the lack of amusement on the faces of security staff, they did not.
Not surprisingly, the sight of three or four uniformed unsmiling grown ups is not a helpful inducement when trying to get ones children to walk through the beeper. However, after a friendly nudge, they were soon through and free to wander about aimlessly whilst waiting for me. I always beep the beepers. Always. I have taken to just walking through and holding my arms up, legs wide ready to be searched. Because of this and also because of my peverse sense of humour, I was wearing a pair of trousers with as many metal buckles and bits as I could find. I genuinely forgot my hair clip was metal.
Some little time later we emerged on the other side and as always headed straight for the monitors in the vain hope that our gate number would be displayed. Instructed to 'Wait in Lounge' we rebelled by first going off to the loo, then grabbing some of the worlds most expensive sandwiches and smoothies. (And, as an aside, why when presented with a range of liquid refreshment, do the children pick the most expensive? And then of course despite assurances to the contrary, refuse to drink it.)
We settled on the floor of the 'lounge' in a corner which afforded us, well, the boy, a view of aeroplanes and airport activity. I think it was at the point where I was almost forcing my daughter to drink the over priced smoothie when offspring number two announced, "I haven't got Bobba."
I laughed because clearly this was impossible. So impossible in fact that I searched the area around us repeatedly hoping that somehow I had neglected to spot an off-white, slightly smelly muslin square. Still in denial, I searched my bag, knowing myself and knowing that I could quite easily have put it in there without knowing I was doing it. No. White Label Bobba was not there. I must appear as scatter brained as I can increasingly be, because when I went back to security and asked if they had found a smelly whitish blanket thing, the man said they had not, but had I checked my bag?
Disaster!! Still, I thought, muslin squares are an essential baby item, there is a Boots, surely there we will find brother of Bobba. No. They sell ridiculously large, (expensive) cups and beakers, almost a whole range of baby food and assorted acessories, but not muslin squares.
The toilets! I hear you cry, did you leave it in the loos? Well if we did, someone got there first. Bobba simply disappeared. In the end I got so desparate I was even looking in the bins.
It was time to go to the gate. Amazing how time flies when you have lost your sons only security blanket. Boarding the plane was my saviour! He was so excited about the flight that all thoughts of Bobba were temporarily suspended.
He still occasionally asks about him and we wonder were Bobba is now. Did he board a plane that day? Did he seize the chance to travel to some exotic clime?
Sadly we will never know. I do know however that the next time we fly, that little bit of room left in the case will be reserved for extra muslin squares.

Negotiator

Have you seen the film, 'The Negotiator'? It stars Samuel L.Jackson and Kevin Spacey, both trained hostage negotiators who end up on opposite sides in a tense and action packed battle of nerve and wit. As well as being an excellent film, fast paced with an engaging and easily understood storyline, it is also essential viewing for every parent of a preschooler. At this point you may be questionning my state of mind, but bear with me. Without wishing to spoil it for you, (because obviously you will be wanting to watch it), there is a scene in the film which contains a valuable lesson for parents everywhere. During a somewhat fraught telephone conversation, Samuel L. Jackson basically shreds the nerves of an obviously anxious and inexperienced police officer. Amongst all the taunts and shouting, the key point of this exchange is that as a negotiator you must never use the word, 'No' when speaking with a hostage taker. Makes them cross apparently. Remind you of anything? In a hostage situation, tensions run high, say the wrong thing and it all goes horribly wrong. A neotiator may be faced with urealistic demands from the hostage taker, demands which can never be met and yet an outright refusal is impossible. Instead, he must be creative in his responses, say no without actually saying it.

Well, hello people! How day-to-day is this situation for you? How many times are we, as parents dealing with our very own mini hostage takers? Ok, so there are no actual hostages, not usually anyway although the odd sibling or family pet may become unwittingly involved, but the happiness of the day, the sanity of the parents, these virtual hostages are put at risk whenever we are faced with the task of having to say no. Quick thinking is required, accurate assessment of the childs state of mind essential. Are they tired? Hungry? Over tired? The volatility of the situation increases with every box you tick. Like a negotiator, you know the straightforward response, the one you would really like to make, "No, you cannot have another biscuit." would spell disaster and unparalleled rage. Now, unlike a negotiator whose sole purpose in such a situation is to be a negotiator, you are probably doing a hundred other things at the same time. Trying to refuse a request creatively when you have your head in a cupboard or you are up to your eyes in wipes and nappy cream is no easy task. Practice my friends, practice. Thing is, it may sound bonkers to some but it actually does work. Replacing, "No you cannot have another biscuit." with "I know what you can have, let me show you..." or "It's nearly dinner time, would you like to help me?" may just make the difference between wanting a cup of tea after bedtime or a large glass of wine. Not only will these skills help to defuse lots of lovely little bombs, you will have had oodles of preparation for a new career in years to come. Watch the film, you'll love it, you may disagree with everything I've said, but it's still a great movie.

Library

As my library books were again overdue, I decided last weekend that I really ought to return them. I love libraries and enjoy meandering through the aisles of shelves so it always comes as a bit of a surprise to me when my books become overdue. Visits to the library are not painful, or embarassing, (most of the time) and I really should make the effort to go more often. Because I was returning my books and not the childrens books it took only a few minutes to gather them together as opposed to the frantic searching through every room in the house. The fact that there is no fine to pay on overdue childrens books is not helpful to people like me, who, due to the complete absence of punishment for late returns will hold onto the kids books for so long that I no longer remember what they are, let alone where they are. The battle cry of "Right then! We need to find the library books!" is met with zero enthusiasm and very little co-operation. Occasionally I will end up with an unsteady tower of books being built beside me, only to discover that we in fact own every one. Even when we, (I), have gathered them together and happily slid them across the desk to the librarian, you can bet that there will be at least one that I have missed.
Anyway, I finally got my act together and went to return my books. My thoughts wandered to the next task on my mental checklist as I walked up the ramp and through the sliding door. I made my way absent mindedly to the issue desk. But wait! What issue desk?! Where is the desk? I was completely shocked and disoriented to find the desk had gone, along with the librarians and instead were two blue glowing machines, cousins perhaps of the ticket issuing machines found in multistorey car parks. As I stood there toally confused a library person mysteriously appeared and came to my rescue. I anxiously clutched my books as she gave me an expertly brief tutorial on the new 'librarians'. These are the libraries new toys and they really are something to marvel at. Now when you borrow or return books, you just put them into a little recess in the front of the thing, where it then scans and displays the titles. You dont even have to put books in one at a time, oh no, you can put in a whole pile of books and the titles will quickly pop up on the screen! Wow! You then scan your library card, (this is accompanied by a very satisfying beep) and it gives you a little print out of the return date. It also allows you to pay a fine and give you change. Amazing!
It was so clever, I kept waiting for it to speak to me and I was as unashamedly impressed as my parents were when introduced to the wonderful world of text messaging. The children will of course grow up with this, they wll not remember any different and my telling them how it used to be will be as effective as my dad pointing out his old school to me and my brother when we were children. We looked, but we just didnt get it, the significance, the cast ofs of time.
Progress. It really is amazing, incredible even. Call me old fashioned, but I will miss the contact with a person, even if they do barely crack a smile, I will miss the stamping of the book. I will even miss the slight shame of handing over a book I know should have been back a week ago whilst mumbling a sort of apology.
There is however one plus point of the new automated system. These helpful devices print off a list of the titles you have borrowed, so no more wondering if 'Duck in Trouble' does actually belong to us or not. Unfortunately though, it is not going to help me find them.

Friends of ours have just had a baby, by just, I mean in the last week. Wonderful news indeed. Their little bundle of boy will probably be at the stage where babies do what I had somewhat foolishly believed babies always do, sleep and feed, sleep and feed, with the occasional happy gurgle. In fact I remember commenting to my husband that I didnt know what all the fuss was about, that living with a new baby was easy peasy lemon squeezy. At eight weeks of age, everything changed. Feeding and sleeping were now interrupted by prolonged periods of awakeness and an accompanying reluctance to be anything other than awake. Easy peasy no more. Anyway, I digress, I have not of course shared the 'Eight Week Metamorphosis' with our happy friends, not wishing to burst their cuddly bubble and of course, it may be that their delightful offspring continues to be just that. Hmmm.
One thing I do know, New Mummy is breastfeeding. Now this is something which I do truthfully miss about babies, but I have not forgotten the complete awfulness invloved which NOBODY tells you about. Oh no. Keen as I was, I devoured information on establishing breastfeeding with almost as much ferocity as I devoured rather too many jam doughnuts. Still working, I borrowed the educational baby doll from the office and put its little plastic face to my bosom. Oh yes, by the time my baby was born, I had a clear mental checklist of latching on, breastfeeding posiions, etc etc. I was looking forward to doing what I had read about, 'relax and watch your baby feed' accompanied by a soft focus picture of a pretty, presentable mother and baby who had clearly bonded at conception.
Total shock when the picture in our house was somewhat different. A tired, possibly slightly grumpy mother, pale and dishevelled in the cold light of day, clad in pyjamas with the obligatory patch of baby sick up on one shoulder, (at any time of day or night), toes curling in pain as my beautful new baby fed happily with a sucking power I had only ever encountered on a vacuum cleaner. How is this possible? How can a creature who cannot support its own head, find the strength to stretch and pull a nipple beyond recognition? I watched my baby feed alright, and I got pretty good at recognising when she was about to do the 'I'm finished, think I'll have a stretch, but won't let go' thing.
Partly because I am stubborn, well, mainly because I am stubborn, I persevered. There was a brief foray into the world of nipple shields, but the poor child struggled to get what is essentially a toy traffic cone into her mouth without getting poked in the eye. As time went on, my toes began to uncurl, I stopped crying when she cried to be fed and I truly did enjoy her feeding. It was just us, and at night when we were both fighting to stay awake in the dim night light, listening to the gentle tick of the clock and soft baby snuffles, it became almost magical.
I wish my new mummy friend the very best in her breastfeeding endeavours and should it not work out, I hope she wont beat herself up about it. My boobs were my own again when my babies were around four months old and after seeing what eager little baby teeth can do to the teat of a bottle, I am very glad I stopped when I did.
GRSA3JJFCW7E

I was babysitting for a friend the other night, (yes, the MI5 one), when I noticed in her kitchen a toy cooker. This brought back memories of conversations about our little ones noisily entertaining themselves alongside us as we attempted to prepare dinner. And by prepare dinner I mean opening a pack of frozen peas whilst trying to remember what time the frozen thing went into the oven. For one mad, insane moment, I thought to myself, ah, I kind of miss that. What?! What was I thinking? What kind of rose tinted madness was this? Having pulled myself together, I was able to look back with clarity at what I was bizarrely recalling as an almost magical parenting moment.

Parenting survival guides will quite often advise that within a kitchen there should be one drawer or cupboard which is safe for your youngster to explore. The theory being that whilst you prepare a sumptuous and nutritious repast, they will be able to satisfy their curiosity and entertain themselves happily and safely. Marvellous! What a great idea! Having gone to great lengths to establish such a safe, but fascinating collection of harmless kitchen objects, it soon became clear that this theory was flawed. In fact, I began to wonder if the person who had come up with such a thing had ever attempted to put it into practice. Maybe they had an enormous kitchen like the ones in all the Magnet ads. I however, do not. It is surprising how a small child can quickly and with remarkable dexterity, open and empty a kitchen cupboard. Equally surprising is how the aforementioned harmless kitchen objects suddenly become anything but, turning your kitchen into something resembling a mine field. If you’re having one of those rare, but wonderful ‘I am a parenting God’ kind of days, you may be able to navigate your way through the debris from cooker to sink unscathed. The smug smile of satisfaction may become a little strained however once the banging and crashing starts. Saucepans dropped onto a tiled floor are difficult to ignore. And why is it that a baby who is startled ad occasionally reduced to tears by a bursting balloon or noisy motorbike actually laughs at the sound of pan lids crashing? Repeatedly. There is only so long you can grin and bear it. Your child may be happy, but you have now been staring at the cooking instructions on the side of the box or a full two minutes and you still don’t know what to do with it. I’ve been the bad guy, I’ll admit it. I have taken the joy giving saucepan from a smiling baby. They look away, you swoop in, remove the offensive item and replace it with something equally fascinating, yet infinitely quieter. I would however advise against the wire cooling rack. It’s amazing how easily chubby little fingers become stuck in the gaps. Should this happen, not only have you added to the kitchen floor mess, but your baby is now crying. You can guarantee that the peas you have been waiting forever to boil will boil over the instant you move over to free your little ones swollen fingers.

A friend commented recently that if the MI5 wanted to extract the truth from a suspected spy, all they need to do is sit them in a car with a small child. After a five hour journey of non stop toddler chatter, they would surely confess to all manner of things, screaming to the driver to just stop the car!

Car travel and children, what a delicious combination! Road safety agencies advising against driving whilst eating, programming the sat. nav. or fiddling with the stereo, should also consider cautioning drivers against travelling with toddlers. The ultimate in multi-tasking, you are a captive audience, driver, navigator, mediator. Take to the road with pre-schoolers and your sanity is in their grubby little hands.

And it starts even before your journey does. You get to the car, (this in itself may have taken a ridiculous amount of time.), bend down to help your little cherub into their seat when you hear those three little words. “Me do it!” You know for a fact that they cannot do it. They do not accept this. Panic begins to set in as you mentally scan the options. If you let them try by themselves you will almost certainly be late. If you help them you will be rewarded by an angry outburst of massive proportion.
Of course, a lot depends upon mood, yours and theirs. On a good day when things are going swimmingly and you feel in control, (hah!) it doesn’t matter that you have been standing outside the car for half an hour watching Little Miss Independent try and repeatedly fail to manouver her chubby little body into her car seat. Occasionally on particularly good days you can even turn it into a game, becoming a big crane to hoist your toddler cargo into position. If your time, patience and mental capacity have already been sorely tested however, you are likely to go for option two, bracing yourself for the indignant wails of fury as you contort little arms through twisted straps, rummaging madly for the buckle whilst trying to bend your child in the middle.

I must admit, it is usually with some degree of relief that I ease myself into the drivers seat secure in the knowledge that my two energetic children are, well, secured. Relief quickly dissipates however once the journey is under way together with the running commentary. One of the best bits about being a parent is how completely fascinating and full of wonder the world is to children, how they find joy in the simplest of things. And it doesn’t stop in the car.

Stressful it may be, but after three and four years of advanced driving, as I like to think of it, the children have me well trained. I will now with very little prompting, regularly extend my hand behind me into the back seat ready to receive any manner of empty bottle or packet. I have learnt to notice and announce diggers and tractors with toddler-like enthusiasm and a train passing over a bridge above us has us all squealing with delight.

I can see totally where my friend is coming from, and I have a couple of little chatterboxes the MI5 could borrow from time to time. I am sure they would prove most effective. Thing is, after being my in-car entertainment for a number of years now, I think I would find the silence even more tortuous.