I am RUBBISH. Profuse apologies, blog readers. I hope you're all okay and haven't had too many sleepless nights worrying about my whereabouts. I am here, entirely intact, WEARING SIZE 10 JEANS (I'm sorry, did I mention the SIZE 10 JEANS there? My mistake) and finding myself with a spare few minutes at last to update you all on the madness chez me.
So we had some birthdays, everything got frenetic, and now we're nearly into CHRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISTMAS. As ever, I am entirely understated in regards to the festive season and am merely so excited I want to vomit. In a totally low key way. Look at me, vomiting on my feet with hysteria. Suaaaaave.
Mr Jamie and Beth continue to be as mad as ever. The madness is somewhat heightened at the moment by Beth's first forage into potty training. I was planning to leave this until she turned 18, but she had other plans and I arrived at nursery the other day to find her announcing in no uncertain circumstances that from now on "Beth PANTS". Oh god. Remember this ...? Yep, so did I.
The 'Beth PANTS' statement has become something of a premonition, as it seems that when it comes to potty training Beth is, indeed, pants. She's got all the enthusiasm - "wee Mummy wee Mummy wee Mummy potty potty potty ... oh no, just FART" - and absolutely none of the required finesse. What's more, she's even started to use urination as something of a weapon, proved when she was denied the opportunity to go up to preschool by her room leader at nursery ... and consequently squatted over said room leader's leg ... and pissed all over it, with a very knowing look on her face.
As if things couldn't get any worse ... Mr Jamie has taken it upon himself to become Beth's chief trainer in the use of the potty. As might be expected, this has thus far been an utter disaster. I was called up the stairs the other night after lights out to find Beth stood in the middle of our bedroom, nappy nowhere to be seen, a pool of urine around her feet.
"Jamie, what happened?"
"She said she needed a wee and so I took her to the toilet and took her nappy off and showed her how to use the special seat and she went up and down it a few times and then she got off and said she was just having a fart ... and then she weed all over the floor."
I have been drinking a LOT of gin. And wearing my SIZE 10 JEANS. Sorry, did I say it again? It's like a very specialist form of Tourette's ...
Thursday, 29 November 2012
Monday, 5 November 2012
Yesterday was something of a day. This was entirely my fault, having spent a full TWELVE HOURS the previous day out drinking in honour of Lorraine’s hen do. How I was not dead is beyond me. Although yesterday’s hangover felt pretty much like I imagine death does, exacerbated I’m sure by my fulfilment of my previous agreement with Neil to tidy my almost-beyond-help dressing area. (Yes, aged 31 I still need to be told to tidy my room. And?) Five hours later, 5 bin bags of ‘stuff’ shipped off to the tip and two children sat on my head throughout ... I was well beyond the point of having lost the will to live.
Through the Day of Doom there was one moment which managed, in the midst of all this pain and nausea, to bring a smile to my face. Ah, mad Mr Jamie. Early afternoon I was taking a brief break and was stood in the kitchen with Beth making some food. (Food = a Beth immediately present and correct, most usually standing poised between your legs on the basis that’s where spare bits of food are most likely to fall off the side and into your mouth. Who needs a dog when you have a Beth.)
Neil came in and decided he would use the opportunity to trim one side of Beth’s fringe – half finished business he clearly felt from when he’d attempted it in the bath the other night. Beth responded in her usual manner to her father and yelled for all she was worth. (Least favourite parent plus kitchen scissors is clearly a terrifying prospect.)
As I was attempting to placate Beth, managing to get her still enough so that Neil could make contact with her hair, Mr Jamie poked his head around the door. And asked, in the most matter of fact voice imaginable:
“Mummy? Has Beth been killed?”
Seriously. What goes on in his mad brain? A combination of both his pragmatism in the face of a potential crisis, and also his complete failure to be able to comprehend that, if she was yelling, chances were she probably hadn’t ‘been killed’ ... not to mention his suspicion that that was going to be the first choice of Neil and I when she failed to comply with the hair cutting process.
I have honestly laughed for about 12 hours straight. Which, let me tell you, is FAR more sensible than drinking for 12 hours straight. Read and learn, people, read and learn ...