Wordless Wednesday: The hair issue

My son has gorgeous hair.

It's all golden and licks around his temples and the nape of his neck and even though it's slightly too long, I think it really suits him.

Opinions are divided on it. Grandma and nana aren't so sure. If I had a pound for every "ooo Danny, you do need a trim" said to him but clearly aimed in my direction, I'd be a wealthy woman.

It's an absolute nightmare to control in the mornings when we get ready for school. It takes twice as long to sort his mop out than it does his sister. There is usually some form of food in there that needs combing out and on more than one occassion we have left the house without actually brushing it.
Still, he still manages to work the look to great effect. This is not something he ever got from me.

Anyway, tomorrow it will be no more.

Daddy is taking him to the hairdresser (I just can't bring myself to do it. Plus if it goes wrong I have someone else to blame) and Daniel has said he wants it 'spiked'.

I can't look, I just can't look.

Please tell me I'm not the only one who gets this upset over a bloody haircut!

See more of my Wordless Wednesdays or see others from around the globe here.

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I (nearly) killed Baby

Before you all start to panic and come at me with pitchforks and angry faces, Baby is my daughter's beloved doll that she takes everywhere with her. Everywhere.

She is grotesque. And that is me being diplomatic.

This 'thing' plagues me (and probably carries some form of plague in the folds of it's threadbare outfit), but my baby girl adores Pink Baby.
Even though it stares up at you with one eye permanently closed and has a bit of an odd whiff about it, she will not let that grubby looking slightly offensive doll out of her sight.
The arms and legs are soft, filled material and only the head, hands and feet are plastic.
She has drawn on the hands in blue pen because "Baby wants a tattoo" and the 'hair' is starting to wear off.
But every night she cuddles up to her and every morning they have breakfast together, get dressed together (although Baby wears the same horrendous babygro).

I used to watch her coo and fuss over Baby and wonder at how little girls (even little girls who want to be little boys) mimic their mums by rocking their dolls in their arms or stroking their face or, in my case, holding her by one leg and tossing her on the sofa.

As I've mentioned before, anyone who asks: 'what is the dolly's name?" is treated to a withering stare as if you've just asked "can I cut your doll's head off" and she replies: "It's Baby". And you had best leave it at that.

Kind grandparents have tried buying replacements. She is not interested.

So today, I took it upon myself to wash 3 years of grime from Baby's little body.
I put her in the washing machine. With 2 big fluffy towels to soften the blow. I put her on gentle wash, 30 degrees.

When she came out the left side of her very hard head had caved in.
BABY'S HEAD HAD CAVED IN!
I was beside myself with panic. I tried to force it back into shape but the eyes just started to bulge and stare up at me, accusing me. And did I mention that the head was very hard?
So there was nothing for it. I had to operate. With pliers.
I grabbed Baby's ear and pulled.
Sure the head is back to something approaching normality now, but boy her ear looks weird.

I was dreading Mia coming home and noticing that mummy had defiled Baby so I was all 'look at how lovely and clean Baby is. Aren't you pleased?'
She looked her up and down, shoved her under her arm and said "s'ok, but she sure smells funny".

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Apparently I am cool

I did the unthinkable last week and took a 7 whole days off to spend with my children and husband.

I literally only dipped into the tinternet a couple of times but, of course, there was loads going on that I've missed out on and so this is a very quick catch up of what has been happening while I've been grubbing in the garden and watching Monsters vs Aliens. And (whisper it) the Hannah Montanna movie.

First up I got accepted as a mummy blogger at Alltop.

This is a big thing and apparently means I am officially cool now.
I told hubby this and he just rolled his eyes and carried on varnishing the fence. I told him this is big business as only important people are allowed into this club. He carefully put his dripping brush down on the nearest plant pot (err, hello, there are flowers in there), fixed me with a look that he usually reserves for the children and said 'that's just great honey, well done'. Git.

It was all going on at More Than Just A Mother's blog.

First she held a British Mummy Bloggers Carnival which are always a fab read if you're looking for new friends and interesting blogs.

Then she generously handed me this award. Which is fab. I have to list 5 things I am addicted to in return - what, only 5?
Like her, I'll miss out blogging and Twittering and emailing, which to be honest is waaaaay beyond addiction for all of us if we're honest.

I'll also keep it short then pass it on.

1. Movies. Can't get enough of them. The news that there is talk of remaking The Karate Kid and Clash of the Titans has hit me big time. And not in a good way.

2. Children's clothes shopping. Don't she doesn't need yet another dress from Zara, but it's soooo cute and just think how much it would suit her and how well it would go with the other items in her wardrobe that are so vast she will probably never get around to wearing them. This is the conversation I have in my head all the time. When the latest Boden or Next or White Company catalogue plonks through the letterbox in my house, my husband goes into Alert Mode and tries to hide them.

3. Lost. Boy that TV show has taken over my life. The thought of missing it sends me into a cold sweat. I was the same with The X Files.

4. Tea. I drink about 5 cups a day and I am super fussy about how it's made. If I visit your house I'll probably offer to make it myself because you'll never get it right. For the record, I like it so strong you can pretty much stand your teaspoon up in it but DO NOT stew the teabag. Urgh!

5. Face creams. One of the best gifts my mother ever gave me was to teach me to always always look after my skin. I spend a lot of money on face creams, oils, scrubs, masks. I make no appologies for this because it's worked. Even if I do say so myself, I have great skin for a 40-year-old. With 2 kids.

I'm passing this on to Metropolitan Mum, who has literally just given birth to a beeautiful baby girl, to Noble Savage whose blog really gets you thinking and to Tracy at I Hate My Message Board who I respect greatly because she has a whole team of boys. And she still manages to be lovely.

Then last Monday two great bloggers launched a fabulous new website for creative types called Collective Inkwell.
Blogger Dad and Writer Dad are AWESOME. Collective Inkwell, it's awesome. You may want to get in there from the start.

And to mark their launch there is even a creative fiction competition to win a new all singing all dancing Thesis blog design from the dynamic duo.
This is also a big deal. If you are a writer (and there are a couple of you out there that I know would be perfect for this sort of thing) I urge you to put pen to paper and join in.

Finally Dave Fowler came back. I don't know if this is a good or a bad thing.

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Wordless Wednesday: Dirt under the fingernails

There is a photograph of me stashed away somewhere that was taken when I was about 6 years old and I am having the time of my life in the back garden at my grandma's house, sat in her metal wheelbarrow.

Well, it seems that brand of fun transcends the generations, as this weekend my two would say the highlight of our day in the garden was having daddy wheel them around in the barrow that was filled with soil, leaves, grass and all manner of creepy crawlies.

That, and having nana soak them with the hose, of course.

I haven't heard them laugh so loud and so hard in ages.

Who needs expensive toys and TV?

Check out more of my Wordless Wednesdays or visit here for entries from around the world.

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The definition of a 'tricky' child

In a previous post I asked about whether parents resorted to smacking and one commenter (anonymous) came over here with a pair of size 12 bovver boots and stomped all over what everyone had said by pointing a finger and saying that we were being holier than thou and oh boy aren't we just lucky to have such well behaved children.

The comment wasn't rude or particularly outrageous so I don't really know why the author wouldn't leave their name, but it read like this:
Wow, lots of virtuous parents out there - good on you all for being so fabulous - maybe you could all co-contribute to a self-help book for parents with 'tricky' kids? Look it up if you don't know who/what these kids are...

I sure as heck know what a 'tricky' child is like.

As I commented, my 3-year-old daughter has taken my husband and I right to the edge of sanity and had us throwing our hands up in despair because we just didn't know what to do with her or how to stop her being so naughty.

We try to ignore it now and tell ourselves that she's going to be a fabulously, feisty and independent young lady.

"It's a phase" we sigh as we clean up the devastation.

Here is how well behaved my daughter is.

In the last 48 hours she has:

• Locked herself in the toilet at a pasta restaurant and toyed around with her 'deposit' with the toilet brush.
• Decapitated two worms with her bare hands while playing in the garden then tried to store them in her bedroom 'to look at later'.
• Daubed sugar pink lipstick all over the walls, doors, bedroom furniture - in fact everywhere except her lips.
• Hidden my i-Phone in the kitchen bin. Then forgot she put it there.
• Used my white duvet cover as a sheet of paper when she wanted to write something urgently. In red Biro.
• Called me an idiot.
• Bitten a chunk of skin out of her brother's back 'to get his attention'.
• Ate the contents of the biscuit barrel in secret and smashed said barrel in the process.
• Discarded her squeezy strawberry yoghurt 'pot' by launching it across the lounge so splattering uneaten yoghurt up the walls, over the sofa and up the TV screen.
• Hides her toothbrush in bizarre places (daddy's gym bag, under the bed, her brother's wardrobe) so she doesn't have to brush her teeth.
• 'Missed' the toilet while going for a wee and peed on the floor because 'it's funny'.
• Flat refuses to wipe after going to the toilet because 'it's boring'.
• Threw the rest of her dinner on the floor, under the table, so I would think she'd eaten it.

Listen to me real good - it is HAAAAAARD work mothering this child.
But boy is she gorgeous when she throws her arms around me and says "I love you sooo much mummy"

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Toxic sweets, cheap tat and redecorating the house: the hell of children's party bags

In his first year at school my son had about 25 party invites.

Ok so I'm exaggerating slightly, but I don't think I'm far off the mark.
During one month, he had an invite pencilled in for every weekend, plus two midweek.

It comes to something when my son's social life totally outstrips my own.
A nice weekend away in the countryside? No can do; Molly has a clown party slap bang in the middle of Saturday and Jake is having a Go Cart party with bouncy castle which will cut Sunday in half.

And don't even get me started on the whole party bag thing.

I did not know stress until I found myself circled by 12 eager and very insistent children demanding to know where their party bags were at my son's 3rd birthday.

By the age of three they know the unspoken party rules - fun, food, sing Happy Birthday, party bag.

And heaven help you if you deviate in any way shape or form.

Last year I was interrogated by a little girl who had scoped out our house the minute she arrived and couldn't see any sign of said party bags. She was insistent that I tell her whether or not they would materialise any time soon from some hidden goodie cupboard.

And she had the look of a child who would have her mother call a solicitor if she doesn't get her bag of bootie.

This weekend we had a double whammy of children's parties - my son at a football party, my daughter at an indoor soft play area (gah!).

Hubby and I had to divide and conquer and when we converged back home we pooled our party bags to pour over the latest pile of cheap crap we had acquired to litter our house for the next few weeks.

Pickings were slim. The chocolate cake was, of course, smeared over the back seat of the car, the radioactive sweets sucked then stuck to the carpet, the various wrappers littered the parcel shelf.
The plastic crap in our haul was a yoyo which will break the minute you so much as look at it, a giant bouncy ball ("look at the stars in it mummy") that will probably lead to mummy breaking her neck as it's left in the hallway, a mini maze game where you need to manoeuvre the balls into the holes and a mini, bright green highlighter pen (cause that's an ideal thing to give a naughty 3-year-old).

But by far the gift to elicit the biggest 'wow' was a pale pink mini tube of lipstick.

I want to drag that mummy who put a lipstick into my daughter's party bag by the ears to my house and show her the devastation her 'generous' gift has had.

I could forgive her the stress she caused as I was forced to watch helplessly from the driving seat as my precious girl started gnawing on the toxic sugar pink stick, ingesting all kinds of cell-frying chemicals as she missed her lips by a country mile.

And I admit it was quite adorable watching her turn all girly as she popped her lipstick into her strawberry-shaped handbag, proud as punch.

But that feeling evaporated this morning as I awoke to the sound of hubby's voice raised about four octaves in shock. I instantly knew Mia's days of make overs were, well, over.

Bored of putting the lipstick on her lips, our versatile little girl tried to redecorate the bathroom wall, the soap, the flannel, the white doors, her brother's bedroom wall and finished off with a flourish on her new white wardrobe.

I mentioned the whiteness of everything, right?

(All of which did not go down well with hubby who spent 30 minutes in the garage trying to sort out which colour paint pots were used on which walls. I've heard him swear twice, then shout from the depths of the garage: 'whose room did we paint Thai beige? And why the hell would we buy a paint called beige?').

My children have brought home some gorgeous party bags in the past. Party bags that, to be frank, probably cost more than the gift we wrapped up and handed over.
And I'm thinking of Frog in the Field specifically when I talk about this sort of bag.

These were not those sorts of bags. These left an inky reminder on your hands after you had held them for more than 5 minutes and the contents will find their way into every available crevice in my house as they invariably get broken/forgotten/bored of.

So fess up. What's the worst toy/sweet/gift yours have brought home in their flimsy little plastic bags?

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Fatties of the world unite

I am so very very boooored of trying to lose weight.

Every day I wrestle with the guilt of having eaten too much, not exercised enough, my clothes don't fit right, I'm not like I was pre-babies etc etc.

Blah blah blah blah.

I've had enough. I quit. I am no longer giving up sugar/goodies/junk. I am going to throw myself headlong into it and gorge.

No more guilt for me - things are going to change.

But don't you worry about me. I'm not on my own. I'm getting fat with my fellow keep fatter Blogger Dad at Blog To Fat.

So if you've had enough of denying yourself the good stuff, or sniffing the cork of the wine bottle instead of drinking it, or working out at the gym when you'd rather be slobbing out on the sofa with a giant block of Green & Black's chocolate and a popcorn chaser, then join us for some all out gluttony.

Recipes will be greatly appreciated as will inspirational photos and any motivational tips.

Join us in our quest or just sit on the sidelines and watch us get really really fat.

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