Super super supermarkets

Picture yourself in the pasta aisle of Sainsbury’s on a Saturday afternoon.

It’s noisy and busy. You are pushing a trolley. In that trolley is an effervescent two year old, to whom some well-meaning member of staff has given a balloon on a stick.

You are being repeatedly bashed in the face and you’re trying to navigate round browsers, chatters and elderly shoppers who prefer to take their time. Your shoulders are burning from the effort of steering a top heavy trolley with four independent wheels. Your mind is whirring with a list you didn’t have time to write down. You’re making a paella and need such awkward ingredients as tomato paste, squid rings and saffron. Three different shop assistants aren’t even sure what saffron is and you feel like a fool informing them it’s the stamens of crocuses. It has also occurred to you that, since you have blindly run this gauntlet, you may as well stock up on the things you need for the home. But your arms are now a bit numb and your hair is so static it’s sticking to your eyelids. A man steps forward, not to show you where the goddamn saffron is, but to ask you if you’ve considered Sainsbury’s bank. You stare at him, trying to decide if you’re actually about to lose it, but remain British and politely tell him you don’t generally shop here.

The balloon escapes from its stick. There is a wail and a helpful dad trots up with the errant balloon. Your toddler grins, delighted with this new game. You now have to steer the trolley with two dead arms, partial blindness and precarious patience while playing a kind of slow motion keepy-uppy. You search for the toiletries aisle and find it round the corner, next to the clothing and up an imperceptible hill. You let go of the trolley for a second to grab the shampoo and it rolls into a woman, who not only gets a bruised ankle but a head bashed with a balloon. She is clearly childless. She doesn’t share your slightly hysterical giggling. You decide its probably best to just check out and accidentally unload your trolley on the basket-only belt. The assistant opens her mouth to protest, notes the grimace, frizz and cackling child, and closes it again. You prepare to gasp with relief as you get close to the exit – only to discover the skies have opened and your jacket is in the car.

But your paella is fucking good.

paella

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Finding calm

running through the cactiI’ve been doing a challenge called Janathon, which involves running or exercising every day in January and then blogging about it. It’s just as well really, as I put on four pounds over Christmas.

Today the wee man and I hit Duthie Park so I could tackle today’s workout (read more on it here). It had been such an effort in the howling gales that I thought we more than deserved a wander round the winter gardens. Clearly the universe thought we deserved it too, as the huge part that had been under renovation had just re-opened.

wandering free

Having patiently sat in his buggy for the half hour that mummy was running about daft, the wee man was delighted to run down all the new paths. The tropical house led into the arid house and the contrast was remarkable. From lush foliage and exuberant flowers to beige pebbles and towering cacti – from huge waxy leaves to short spiky thorns, the two houses were polar opposites.pink flower The fabulous part was they were both toasty warm, so I was quite content to meander around while the wee man explored.

At one point he stood for ages just sifting the pebbles through his wee fingers. It’s so rare that his inquisitive mind is focused on the one thing for so long that I enjoyed just watching him. I wonder what he was thinking. Soon he was off again and when I suggested we go and find the fish he happily held my hand and trotted beside me. I think these winter gardens have a calming effect on him. They certainly pebbleshave that effect on me. Maybe he’s calm because I’m calm. Maybe he’s calm because I can let him roam free without always having to call him back or tell him off (like in the real world where he seems to find danger at every turn).

He watched the fish and chased a sparrow who was bravely hopping by his feet looking for cracker crumbs and helped me choose some primroses and a hyacinth to take home.

I think we’ll go back tomorrow.

cacti collage

Don’t these remind you of something? …

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#screwyouGisele

I have never trolled in my life, but if ever a picture has inspired my ire, this is it:

Screen Shot 2013-12-12 at 20.48.56

 

She made some comment about multitasking when supermodel Gisele Bundchen posted this picture on Instagram.

She is not multitasking.

She is doing one, admittedly admirable, thing, while being spoiled from all angles.

This picture does not represent breast-feeding mothers. This picture will no doubt sicken breast-feeding mothers. I’m no longer feeding, but when I was, I felt anything but glamorous. I felt fulfilled and maternal and loving and uncomfortable and tender and tired and always thirsty, but never glamorous. My relationship with my body at that time was not ever focused on how I looked. It was on how it functioned. What mattered at that time was button-down shirts and nursing bras and eating enough healthy food and keeping water nearby and tying my hair out of my face.

For Gisele to call this multitasking is insulting. Most mothers I know, including myself, would kill to have this much help around us. To feel pampered and beautiful and glamorous. I understand that this is her job. But does she understand how this picture makes hard working mothers feel? Multi-tasking is filling the juice cup with water from the bathroom tap while he brushes his teeth and you shove your feet into your shoes as you hold the phone with your shoulder and ask daddy when he’ll be home tonight. And you certainly don’t have a manicure, flawless face and bouncy blow-dry while doing it.

So screw you Gisele, in all your unattainable gorgeousness.

 

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Testing, testing, count to 3

I was just telling my mum, when she visited last week, that I thought we were getting over the Terrible Twos and making real progress…

Then yesterday happened.

super-strength or just grim determination?

super-strength or just grim determination?

I think a devil must have temporarily possessed the wee man , because he has never behaved so badly for such a sustained period as he did on Thursday 28 November. He pulled the curtain off the wall for God’s sake! All I had done was put him down for a nap, at the usual time, after a busy, energetic morning. He should have been tired. Instead, he cried angry tears for half an hour, so I went in thinking he’d maybe thrown his favourite toy out. Instead I was confronted with a tear-stained toddler, his trousers round his ankles and the curtain hanging by a thread.

I had really needed him to nap. We’d spent the morning at the beach and play park – a treat I had thought. But no, he had moaned and cried and ripped off his gloves and hat and refused to walk beside me. He hadn’t even wanted to pick up shells and throw them in the waves for long. In fact, he was only happy when I gave him crisps.

all smiles now...

all smiles now…

So after the non-nap I decided there was no point taking him to the park (he’d be cold) or soft play (he’d misbehave) and bundled him into the car to go to the shopping centre. At least there he’d be warm and strapped into a buggy. He sat beautifully, I got lots of Christmas shopping done and I thought we were over it.

I made him cottage pie for dinner and we sat at the table. He pushed it away. He wanted juice. He tried a mouthful. He spat it out. He wanted more juice. He threw a carrot on the floor. He screamed for juice. He threw his fork on the floor. I tried the aeroplane trick – he swiped the spoon and sent it flying. I refused to refill the juice. He screamed. I tried to cajole him. He pressed his mouth tight shut. I turned away to get the juice. He picked up the bowl and hurled it against the wall. It smashed. Cottage pie splattered. I lost it.

“THAT WAS VERY NAUGHTY” I yelled. He burst into noisy tears. I lifted him up and placed him very gently (so as to prove to myself I was still in control, when I didn’t feel like it) on the naughty spot and told him through clenched teeth why he was there. I then walked to the sink and stood taking deep breaths and counting to ten, while he screamed blue murder. For the next fifteen minutes I avoided all eye contact and just replaced him, time and again, on the naughty spot. I cleaned up the mess and loaded the dishwasher. I wiped down the counter and tidied. Eventually, in our own ways, we calmed down, he sat for the two minutes and I went over to him.

“Mummy put you here because… look at mummy” He did. “Mummy put you here because you threw your plate at the wall. That was very naughty. You don’t throw your dinner. You eat nicely at the table. Do you understand?” He nodded. “Now say sorry”

He leaped into my arms, squeezing me tight and wiping snot all over my shoulder. I hugged him back and kissed his head.

Then I put the cartoons on and opened a bottle of wine.

 

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12 ways to survive Tenerife with a toddler (or three)

1 Don’t take plastic toys on the plane

A five hour flight with the wee man was always going to be a challenge for us – even if his cousin (R-Chopz), aunt and uncle were all there too. We packed a huge bag of tricks and rotated them. While R-Chopz, who’s 13 months, was peacefully sleeping, the wee man stood up in his seat, peered at the sleeping woman behind him and launched Thomas the Tank at her head. She woke with a shriek, we apologised profusely, the wee man started wailing, R-Chopz woke up, he started wailing, and we all had a very jolly time.

travel buddies Wee man and R-Chopz

travel buddies Wee man and R-Chopz

2 Accept you will become even more obsessed with sleep

We met the Wee Man’s other cousin (Shrimpy) and other aunt and uncle at the Tenerife resort, in the bar, where they were having a wee beer to help them through a day that had started with a 6am flight from London. Shrimpy (6 months) hadn’t really napped and the disrupted sleep pattern was to continue for all three children throughout the holiday. Only once did we all have breakfast together – someone was always getting an extra hour’s kip. R-Chopz woke at 5am every morning, the Wee Man at least waited til 6. We made a small breakthrough when we all discovered we could wheel the cots into the bathrooms. The wee man’s post-lunch snooze was always two hours, and dovetailed perfectly with the sun hitting our balcony, so I consoled myself with that.

3 Know that Cava at breakfast is acceptable behaviour

See above and remember, if you have paid for an all-inclusive holiday, it is your moral duty to ensure you get value for money.

4 Beware bare bums

It was hot, we were swimming and the floors in the rooms were tiled, so nappy-off-time was easy. Only once did we get caught out, one afternoon while eating chocolate, when Rod bent down to pick up a “truffle”. It wasn’t.

5 If falling off a chair, don’t grab the nearest child for balance

There were six adults and three children, so we’d usually end up pulling tables together and angling them so that we got the sun and the kids didn’t. We’d also usually rotate the drinking rota. Mealtimes were rowdy, messy and occasionally slightly tipsy, so when Rod swung on his chair and nearly tipped into a flower bed his reflex was to grab the nearest thing: R-Chopz in his high chair. If not for Uncle B’s quick thinking, it could all have been very messy indeed.

Mealtime at the zoo...

Mealtime at the zoo…

6 If leaving your toddler unattended (ie with dad) expect the unexpected

The girls and I spent a luxurious afternoon in the spa, having wonderful massages and then lounging by the adults-only pool on love seats overlooking the beach. We had a few glasses of Cava (efficiently clogging our freshly drained lymphatic system) and then, at 5, thought we’d better get back to help with dinner. Helen gasped as she spotted her 6 month old, covered head to toe in Ella’s Kitchen but at least her son wasn’t injured. The wee man was smiling through his wet fringe as Rod applied ice to a cracker of an egg on his forehead. “He didn’t cry – it could have happened to anyone,” Uncle B loyally exclaimed as I cried out and bit back the remonstrations. The wee man really was fine.

What? He's fine...

What? He’s fine…

7 If claiming golf took 6 hours, don’t post pub pics

Fair’s fair, so the boys went off for a morning’s golf. No children were injured in their absence. They strolled into the rooms six and a half hours later, claiming “the back 9 was really slow” and telling a long story about a German couple. Our suspicions were confirmed later that afternoon when a picture of them enjoying beers in the sunshine appeared on Facebook.

Post golf beers

Post golf beers

8 Choose restaurants with sober staff

We stayed in the resort for six nights out of seven, but ventured out once with two sleeping children and one boisterous toddler (the Wee Man) to the local town for tapas. At 9.15, when Rod and I had practically rocked ourselves to sleep and he was finally quiet, we parked him next to his slumbering cousins and eagerly perused the menu. The waiter bounced over and roared “Are you ready to order?” making us all jump over the buggies and pointedly whisper our requests. Perhaps on purpose, or perhaps because of his mate Charlie, he continued to screech at us until we were all holding onto each other laughing. The arrival of the last dish, Andrew’s “green pepper plate”, nearly ended us all.

Green Pepper Plate, sir?

Green Pepper Plate, sir?

9 When ordering a beer, remember the V

We couldn’t understand why Andrew came back from the bar the first night carrying five gin and tonics and what looked like pink lemonade. “I asked for a beer and I got this,” he said. When I asked exactly what he’d said, he answered, “una cereza”. I burst out laughing. “You forgot the V. Cereza means ‘cherry’!”

10 Anticipate holiday milestones

The best day of the holiday contained a hat trick of tricks. First Shrimpy sat all by himself for over a minute. Then R-Chopz took six whole steps towards me. Finally, at night, the Wee Man greeted his Uncle Andrew with a “hiya” – like it was the most normal thing in the world. Finally – another word!

Hanging out with his cousin

Hanging out with his cousin

11 Beware other children

Further to point 2 –  other families are most likely in the same boat. However, if they finally do get their 8 month old to sleep they should really park him somewhere other than the playpark. Otherwise it’s really inevitable that the wee man will joyously run over and squeal hello into the tot’s face. Oops.

12 Make sure everyone gets a date night

We each had the opportunity to have a meal at the “posh” restaurant at the resort, with the other two couples babysitting. It was nice to take the excuse to properly dress up and have a ‘date night’ but in the end, we cut ours short to rejoin the others. We decided we’d rather spend our last night with everyone.

Date night for cousins

The wee ones had a date night too…

The end of a holiday is always rubbish, but particularly so when you’re saying bye to your family, scattering across the UK and not sure of the exact date when you will all meet up again.

One thing’s for sure, we will definitely plan another holiday together – Tenerife was terrific.

Picture 4

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Two surprises on the beach

Saturday didn’t sneak up on me like it did last week.

Last night I decided the wee man and I would spend the morning at the beach. It’s one of my favourite places in Aberdeen and a real perk of living here, so would kill the morning perfectly.

Isn’t it funny that the more relaxed you are, the easier things become? Two lovely unexpected things happened.

First, the sun blazed defiantly, as if to mock late September. The wee man and I ran around the playpark at the entrance to Balmedie beach, shedding layers and squinting. We shared a packet of Hula Hoops on a bench and he slurped his juice, swinging his legs and grinning up at me. I suggested we went down to the sea and he nodded happily.

It takes a while to walk through the dunes, but we weren’t in any hurry (another lesson from last week). The wee man gathered feathery stems of grass and poked at the fluffy heads of gone-to-seed thistles. As the path became steeper I had to carry him but I enjoyed the anticipation of the view that would greet us at the top.

view from the top at Balmedie BeachI’m glad I didn’t let him go completely when I took this photo – there’s been quite a lot of erosion since we were last there and the path dropped steeply to the river. We found an alternative route, took off our socks and shoes and ran out onto the sand in the sunshine.

For once he held my hand properly and together we stomped through the rivulets of water on the hard, wave-marked sand. He’s not too sure about the sea, so we stayed a little bit back and drew pictures instead.

Pictures in the sand at Balmedie

Then the second lovely thing happened.

The wee man spotted another boy and ran over to him. He was eating raspberries from a tupperware and was happy to share. Embarrassed, I ran up to pull the wee man away, but the dad reassured me it was fine, so I supervised from a distance. We struck up a conversation and it turned out his wife had studied in Glasgow. He suggested lots of new places for me to explore, including another beach at Newburgh. We swapped stories of the trials and tribulations of toddlers (he’s the tidy one in his family too) and the two boys played together beautifully for twenty minutes.

I’ve said before that the wee man opens lots of doors for me, and I appreciate that more than ever in a new city. People have told me Aberderdonians are not generally friendly, but I’ve found the opposite. They’re usually pleased I like it so much here and happy to share inside information.

So rather than spend a lonely morning trying to keep the wee man entertained, I ended up having a lovely morning and feeling like I was on holiday. As I headed back to the car, with my arms aching because the wee man was knackered and refusing to climb the paths, I reminded myself that life was pretty sweet. An interesting chat with a stranger on the beach kind of confirms your faith in humanity a bit.  Plus he’d reassured me probably more than he’d realised when he’d said, “It does get easier.”

Toes

 

 

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In praise of the Whirligig

The bane of my life, as a working mum

Is laundry. It’s such a pain in the bum.

Yet something exists whose effects are quite big

The wonderful, functional Whirligig

 

My granny had one, but my mum never did

A clothes line is what I would see as a kid

“The garden’s for flowers” she’d say and she’d dig

So blind to the glorious Whirligig

 

My friend bought a house with one in the front

As builders began the poor thing got the shunt

But oblivious Sarah did not give a fig:

“I’m not 80, I don’t need a Whirligig”

 

I moved to a house as a wife and a mother

Adjusted to life lived on top of each other

When chores finally ended, I’d do a wee jig

While still unaware of the Whirligig

 

My son got more mobile, the pile of mess grew

The washing and ironing was all I would do

With clothes drying all over, I lived like a pig

If only I’d known of the Whirligig

 

We moved to the north and searched high and low

For somewhere to live where our family would grow

On moving day, opened the wine, took a swig

Gasped :“What’s that – out back – it’s a Whirligig!”

 

My life is transformed and my time is my own

On laundry day never again will I moan

I hang out the washing, run round playing ‘tig’,

As it spins, flutters, dries on the Whirligig

 

My house is so tidy, the heaters are bare

There’s no smell of damp or dead flowers in the air

I’ve time to blow dry! Hair sits good as a wig

All thanks to my fabulous Whirligig

 

If you’re reading and thinking this woman’s gone mad

Don’t diss me, dismiss me as really quite sad.

Who wants to do chores? Feel light as a twig!

Go get yourself one – praise the Whirligig!

whirligig

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Distraction: Provide it or be driven to it

In the end it was the dog’s squeaky toy that did it. It was 22 degrees, my hair was in my face, the wee man was screeching, twisting and kicking me in the stomach, the nappy was dangerously dirty and the whole time the dog was going “SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK” right next to my knee.

“CAN SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME?!” I bellowed as my husband and parents remained glued to the Wimbledon final. Rod sauntered out. “Let me do it,” he said in a perfectly reasonable tone, which at that point, made me want to hit him.

“All you need is something to distract him.”

Now that I’m back to my calm, reasonable self, I can see that was the perfect response. While I’ve been subconsciously using distraction with the wee man his whole life, I’ve now realised I’ve actually got to promote this tactic to a rule.

He is now two years and three months. He wants to do everything himself – eating, brushing his teeth, getting dressed, walking to nursery, driving my car – and clearly has not yet got the motor skills to do any of it properly. We battle every five minutes. He does not want to get into the bath. Then he does not want to get out of the bath. The screaming echoes beautifully in there. He does not want to eat his toast. He does want to eat my toast. He decides halfway through chewing that he does prefer his toast, so lets the mouthful fall out. Onto a clean shirt. Five minutes before we leave for nursery. Yesterday, after an almighty battle to get dressed, he ran joyfully outside and fell straight into the dog’s water bowl.

This week I’ve changed tack completely. I’ve decided to pick my battles and always to provide a distraction. I’ve prepared for this by leaving small toys and books in strategic locations around the house.

“Look, where’s your sunglasses? They’re on mummy’s face!” Snatch. I don’t pick the no-snatching battle, instead I swiftly lay him down and change his nappy while he’s trying to hook them round his ears. No bruises on my tummy. One clean bum.

“Where’s the tiger on the cards? No, that’s the lion” I lay out his favourite cards on the breakfast table and swiftly clean his teeth before he can remember to clamp down on the brush. The no-snatching battle doesn’t even start and the teeth are clean for another 12 hours.

The beauty of this tactic, I mean rule, is that it’s portable.

“No, we do not grab toys, say sorry to Arthur. Now look at this car, it goes beep beep” before the screaming and chasing after Arthur can begin.

I’m becoming a master manipulator.

I’m also realising this tactic can be applied to grownups…. But that’s another blog.

chocolate

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