What does parenting in Thailand look like? It looks like a tired Mama almost jumping out of her skin at a sudden, loud, crunching noise emanating from the air conditioner. It looks like her nervously investigating the things that then dropped from said air conditioner. It looks like her clutching the Baby in horror […]
Sept 19, 2015 Me: “Gav, what’s wrong?” (in response to his audible huff of frustration G: “My butt keeps farting,” he replies angrily. “Why does it keep farting?”
Three things tried to kill me today.
The first thing was a potential heart attack masquerading as an accidental culinary masterpiece. I cooked sausages in the pan I used to cook sausages yesterday. Said pan ended up being so full of sausage fat that my lightly fried sausages ended up deep fried in a skillet. Dangerously junk-foody yummy, but I survived.
The second thing was my baby. Toddler boy is always trying to kill me. A general daily assassination attempt is to be expected; today was on the general theme of throwing things at my head of which he is a crack shot; leaving toys on the stairs and being so adorable I could cry. Although a wooden Ark hitting your head at speed can be really quite painful. That lessens the adora-tears somewhat.. He tried to drown me in puddles of runny green mucous whenever I tried to wipe his nose so that his face was visible through the curtain of snot but the less said about that the better. Tantrums + snot = eww.
The third thing was my afternoon tea. Scones and Ribena. Not the most ideal of items to breathe in; especially together. I was nomming away happily until my breath hitched in my throat. I then went beetroot and spent the next 15 minutes coughing. Scared everyone, including myself. It was unpleasant – and messy! Snot and spit and scones everywhere. I might’ve peed a little.. And laid a tiny air biscuit. I did manage not to spill my Ribena though.
I’m not going to count Toria Belles wind as trying to kill me today – even if it could’ve rendered the population of a small country unconscious at thirty paces. With breathing apparatus. Phew she was wicked today! And obviously thought it hilarious. Her giggles were almost worth the bile in my throat. Almost.
That’s one more Monday out of the way. I managed to survive it and go on to an evening of GCSE revision with Noodle, tidying and talking with everyone else and generally being mama. It was good actually, quite uneventful. It was quite nice.
I am a happy content mama right now and I love my little fambly. Warts and crusty bits and bad smells and all.
Everything about this post makes me want to live there! I get to coo over babies and have people love mine too? Yes please!!
It has to be said about the Italians: they LOVE babies. When I was pregnant and carrying that big baby bump everyone in the “village” where we live was following my pregnancy: concerned about my wellbeing, the baby’s and even The Things’. When I went overdue bets were being placed on WHEN the baby would […]
We’ve all done it. Seen it. Shied away from admitting it. Felt that tremendous sense of relief when we finally read or hear about someone else that’s done it too. Yup. I’m talking about angry cleaning. I tend towards angry-and-involved cleaning; as in involve everyone else in my cleaning and my muttering, but the author of the article is more focused on the inside of the head stuff. I pretty much agree wholeheartedly with most of it and I’m certifiable anyway so I’ll not go into detail about my own personal angry thoughts and concentrate instead on the overall experience – the more physical, involved aspect of angry cleaning.
The mama who wrote these angry thoughts down for our entertainment has either not destroyed her muff giving birth to more than a couple of smalls, or she has frankly not lost her shit over a layer of loo roll too many on the lounge carpet. As I read I couldn’t help but think she had maybe been a bit too liberal with the baskets and not liberal enough with the shouting.
It’s amazing how many chores can (and do) get done when mama comes out of her gently, softly, understanding “please help mama today, it’s nice to be helpful and we all have our own jobs to do, it’s ok, take your time” nice mama mode and flips the switch way far out the other side into the slightly scary realms of “I can’t even walk across the hallway without getting random icky stuff stuck to my feet, eww! What’s that? Who even eats yoghurt in the bathroom!”
That actually happened by the way. That same day I picked up empty Yoghurt tubes from down the side of the toilet. And a crisp packet. And a juice box from the windowsill. Evidently someone knew theyd get peckish on the lav.
I started off today as I start off most Sundays. Chilled, pretty content, happy. No rushing, no having to get dressed or get anyone else dressed. It’s a positively lazy Sunday morning. Right up until I open the door and enter toddler boys room. He’s pooped and it’s all down his leg. It stinks. Imagine your worst nappy explosion. Now give it a run of ‘milkshake gives him the dire rear, he’s constipated, we need to do something’ and imagine the fallout. Literally. Im on it – get the bath run, him clean, job done, still chilled, content to just go with the flow for my lovely Sunday.
As it’s Sunday, it tends towards being the main cleaning day in the house, so I did as I always do and gave the children some jobs to do. I had to help Pond somewhat as he was poorly and I had other stuff to think on and get sorted so I jollied along and continued my day… Until an hour or so later. Because the chores I’d given out were only half done. I’m not a monster mama. It takes me a while to get peeved if something isn’t done properly. I will ask a good four/five times before I start to ‘tell’. If I add “please” with mama-tone that’s when you know. The switch is gonna go. It’s there, ready, taut on its string just waiting for the flip. I’m really quite patient but over an hour of asking someone to do the same thing again and again can really boil my swede.
Swede boiled, switch flipped and along came lots of mama-tone and some very angry cleaning. Less thought, more action! The chores got finished. I threw out pretty much whatever I could find to throw out, moaned about pretty much everything I could find to moan about and grudgingly said thanks when the chores were completed. (Grudgingly enough to scramble eggs just the way everyone likes them). I was really quite annoyed. But you know what? That’s okay. I’m not ashamed to admit it. It’s been a difficult Sunday, although very productive and with the advent of wine and an afternoon watching Netflix it got a whole lot better. And cleaner.
So, to all my mama-homebodies out there. Take heart. It doesn’t last forever. Or even a whole day. You’re not alone. Every time you clean angry know that you’re not alone.
My name is sixymama and today I lost my shit. Cheers.
I recently read about someone – a mum – ‘having a morning’ when all her jobs, house jobs, mama jobs, work jobs got on top of her and she took the morning off. To just ‘be’. I rather like the idea of ‘having a …’ Admittedly, I think the morning off turned into an afternoon off because otherwise I should have to find a pair of judgey pants, put them on and judge away, because in mama land it has to be gone noon otherwise red wine is bad and completely unacceptable as anything more or less than an ingredient in a casserole. Or something. Also white wine, although one minute past 12 is fine. Pretty sure I heard that somewhere. No brown paper bags necessary.
So, I had a ‘day’. I got up early as usual, woke and helped the three smalls dress, walked them to school, tidied and swept up, cleaned toddler boy up, gave him his breakfast, cleaned him up again, added a few bits to the blog, cleaned toddler boys mess up, had a lovely long call with my own mama, wiped toddler boys grotty bum, sorted out repairs for the bath, picked up the entire contents of the toy box from the floor and planned out some yummy looking muffin type pancakey cakey things – posted on Facebook by my lovely friend Sarah – for next time we have some fresh blueberries. I cleaned toddler boy again, took some toys upstairs for him to play with in bed, and while all was clean and tidy, put him to bed before the house realised and shook itself back to normality. I then got changed and laid my butt down.
I wasn’t so much down as I was worn out. Obviously being down in general and worn out in specific is going to have an impact. So in retaliation, I had my day. I slept while my baby napped. Knowing his little self dreamed and slept soundly was relaxing enough, having hubby close to me sent me off to a most wonderful sleep in no time.
When I woke I was still down – but less.
So.. I woke. Clear minded. The Noodle picked the smalls up from school for me and once they got home their energy was infectious. I was filled with the need to do chores, get the house clean, tidy, washed, scrubbed. Everything was go go go! Dinner, school stuff, pj’s, sweeping, folding, sorting, chucking, putting away/out/on, Books tidied, shelves emptied, rearranged, organised… The never ending laundry to be washed/dried/folded/sorted/put away even got done. The laundry basket was empty for one blissful (fast) second. Phew. It was loud and busy and fun. The small ones didn’t get to bed until 8 and the older ones and I didn’t stop working until gone 9. It was a mad few hours – and apparently, that is the result of me ‘having a day’… A clear mind, a happy heart, a burst of energy and some serious working arms with which to push the dark away.
Not bad at all. I think I might have another day soon.
Picture from One Mother to Another
Made me think. What if I wrote down the silly things that we say in this family. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t make it up, or indeed make it into a book but it might be funny. Or just plain disgusting.
Walking smalls to school with Pond – “Move. I’m bigger.” To teenage girls in the middle of the street.
Upon waking, Boom boom checks under his pillow to see if the tooth fairy has been. She hasn’t, I forgot. I told him it was because he’d stayed up too late the night before and if he wasn’t asleep by 9pm then she’d not come. Little fairy didn’t come the next night either, and in our house there is a rule – if the tooth fairy hasn’t been while your tooth is under your pillow 2 nights in a row, your teeth aren’t clean enough and you’ve been up too late.
“Do not put your hands in your bum. Do not smell your hands. No smelling! Yuk. Go and wash them. No smelling them!”
“We don’t strangle the dog! Put him down. Gently.”
Daddy – “I don’t believe in the Easter Bunny”
Daughter – “but you do believe in chocolate”
Pond to me “did your son really just do The Hulk at me?!”
Everyone at several points to Boom boom and Toria – “Don’t lick me.”
“Why? (Licking away)”
“Because it’s weird”.
“Stop sucking your arms!”
Every morning – to every child:
Me “did you brush your teeth?”
Me ” go do it again”
“You’re not allowed to fart while I’m changing your bum”
“don’t come sit next to me just to fart!”
“don’t come sit next to me just to pop!” (Loud protestations of innocence and sneaky giggling…)
“did you do a pop?” Uncontrollable 6 year old laughter…
“aww that’s a nice cuddle, I love you too. *sniffs* did you pop? ” Uncontrollable 4 year old laughter…
Sniffing the air. “What’s that. Who was that? That’s a fart. Who farted.” Getting up, walking around sniffing. “That’s not person fart, a person couldn’t smell that bad. Eww. It’s not dog fart, that’s dog poo. Has the dog poo’d again? Where’s it coming from?” Wandering around the house for 5 minutes, checking under tables, in the hallway and other rooms only to come back to laughter from both teenagers. It was one of them.
If you’re naughty in the run up to Christmas, Santa Claus will turn your stocking presents into sprouts one by one. One for each incident. There are usually 2 or 3 sprouts in each stocking.
“You’re a wally. What are you?”
Said regularly in a house with 4 boys, variations on the theme of:
“Take your hands out of your pants.”
“Don’t adjust in public.”
“Don’t walk around with your hands in your pants.
“I don’t care if you’re itchy take your hands out your pants”
“Leave your dink alone”
“No one wants to see your dink”
“Dinkys go in nappies”
“Put your dink away.. Please?”
Feeding small people is a pain in the butt! Especially when they’re as fussy, mardy, picky, and just plain contrary as my lot. So, I do what I can. Tonight’s culinary delight was.. *drum roll please* cheesy pasta.
Literally, cheesy pasta. Pasta with the cheese. Easiest tummy filling meal in the world, still leaves room for pudding. (If I haven’t scarfed it waiting the hour+ it takes a certain small person to eat a quarter of a bowl of anything).
So, to make, you need:
Cheese, grated. Buy it pre-grated to make it even easier.
Spaghetti, uncooked. Buy the quick cook type if you want – I don’t want because yuk.
Hot water. The kettle will boil water for you if you don’t want to faff boiling water on the hob. Kettles are good – if you don’t have a kettle, why are you even here?
Boil the water in the pan and put your spaghetti in. Cook until it’s done, or until you can squish it between two fingers with little to no effort. Drain it off, pour more boiled water over it if you want – I don’t do this because I don’t care if it’s sticky, and it takes longer. Dish it up in bowls using grippers or whatever the hell you like. Single spoons are as the name suggests. Awkward. Top with grated cheese. For the 2 year old I cut it up with two spoons so it’s less mess.. But mostly I’m done, finished..
Easy peasy huh? A culinary masterpiece in just minutes – and all my smalls will eat it by the bucket. Of course I won’t eat it – I hate pasta! 😁
Took me a day to read this book. It draws you in and then it doesn’t let go.
It really is a beautiful imagining of words and thoughts and jumbles. The pictures are authentic and quite breathtaking. I found myself looking at them again and again..
The overall story (without spoilers!) is surprising, it starts sinply enough, almost mundane in its ordinariness. Then it steps up, ever so slightly and increases in tiny, wee extraordinary little steps until boom! You’re in, consumed, sucked into the weirdness of the story and you’re wishing and hoping and empathising and wanting and there right alongside, inside the book, breathing the air of it.
Then it’s over. The end rushes in, and it’s hurried, it feels like everything was building towards not this end but an end elsewhere in another book, a different story, you know there’s more to come and it just falls away. Crumbling like a cliff into the sea – you can see it was there and you can see the shape of what’s to come but you can’t quite reach it yet.
Reviews to come. 👍