Hoegaarden, baking and creche

First off- I have discovered the very expensive and very poncy (in John's opinion) Hoegaarden. Big thick glasses and a pleasing cloudy lemonade colour. It goes down a treat with Bubbalicious (long story.)
Next- I am baking my second chocolate loaf cake this week. If I may say so myself, my first was stupendous (obviously a fluke) so this one will inevitably be the same density as stone and will taste of raw flour and burnt chocolate. I aint no Nigella. Thank God. No one should go that long without washing their hair.
Finally- I have caught the Man-flu which has plagued all three men in this house (and one male friend), plus I drank 4 pints of Hoegaarden and ate a kebab last night, meaning that I flopped around like a dying swan this morning, before getting it together sufficiently to drop the lads off at the creche. Its Seth's first time- Ez has been before when I was pregnant. I felt a bit dangerous- leaving them both at the same time felt like a gamble, if something happened up in that small room I'd be left childless.
Nevertheless, I issued instructions to a very competent carer who swept Seth off to play in a squishy ring- whilst Ezra busied himself making an omelette (we're really going to have to buy one of those pretend kitchens.)
I chewed my nails and watched the clock for an agonising 45 minutes, before dashing back to receive a lukewarm reception.
And that's what its all about, isn't it? Preparing them to enjoy the world without you. *sob*

slide

Yesterday I received a new prospectus from the University of my choice and their admissions criteria has changed. This means I am minus six months relevant work experience. The other University option requires two years work experience. I've got a few plans as to how I can obtain the work experience in time, but, as ever, its totally dependent on the lads schedule. Perhaps this career plan might take longer than I had envisioned.
The gym/weight promise Moobs and Norah dished is finally happening. I have now lost 9 pounds and have skipped a dress size- which is nice, and about bloody time considering how much slog I've put in. A bout of food poisoning did kick start the weight loss but now it seems to be gently slipping off.
I'm pleased that its coming off all over. In the past I would lose weight around my bust and midriff, leaving my muffin, arse and thighs to wibble independently.
Speaking of bust. I'm never breastfeeding again. I won't be volunteering as a wetnurse anytime soon, and should fate decide to offer up further children, John will be standing in as number one feeder. (because by the time I'm ready to have another baby men will be able to lactate) - two empty sacks reside where once my bouncy puppies bobbled happily. Will they ever defy gravity again? A little piece of my youth dies everytime I roll and scoop them back into the hammock that was once a lacy balconette.
Still, my hair is long so, if nothing else, I can cover them with my wavy tresses (before my hair, like the rest of me buckles under the pressure of age and starts to break off.)

flip flap

I'm fussing and flapping over childcare this week. It has suddenly dawned on me that we need to get our application for pre-school in by january. This is a very important decision and I am terrified.
I am also trying to suss out some local creche's and playgroups for us to attend- with a view to a. leaving Ez there for a few hours a week, if the budget will stretch and b. for me to volunteer so I can also study for the early years NVQ.
Finding the time is awkward for fiddly reasons. Trying to cook more healthy food (Jamie has driven me guiltily into the kitchen fulltime), acres of washing, whacking hangovers (mine. red wine. don't ask.) prescriptions pick ups, and entertaining the troups without resorting to the Incredibles every hour of the day (I want Incrediboy Mummy, can I can I can I can I repeat ad nauseum)
Speaking of Incrediboy, we went to visit the paediatrician on Thursday, and all is well. Incrediboy is growing at a more normal rate - apparently slow growth is common in undiagnosed asthma, but hopefully he should shoot up over the next year or so. We're going to take him off the steroid inhaler in April, and quote "he'll either be fine or have a more acute asthma attack." The prognosis is good. Viral induced asthma in littlies is very likely to clear up before they get to school. I feel less hysterical.
Finally potty training update. All present and correct. The po issue is no more and several are appearing every day. No more nappies at night. Phew!

commitment

The application process continues. The cost of study is gynormous. We're looking at almost £8k, and this makes me feel sick. I can apply for funding, but I'm not holding out much hope. I've also got to factor in childcare costs, but I'm sure we can work this out along the way.
The thing I am most nervous about is commiting my family to living in or very near to London for another 4 years (I won't start the course until next september.) This makes me feel incredibly guilty.
School places are in short supply- good schools, even less. I also have lots of neuroses revolving around suburbia, accents, lack of fresh air, crime, grime and of course- cramped living conditions.
I'm going to push on with the application- but we may need to think differently about how we can make this happen. How long do you think it would take to cycle into London from Yorkshire?

What if I don't get a place?

I was a difficult child. My Mum'll tell you- just ask. I was arrogant, yet shy. Outspoken yet crushed by criticism, and plagued by self-doubt. I was bright, but not as clever or as talented as I wanted to be. I looked odd. I was bossy. I was highly moral. I was self-righteous. I loved to show off. I was picked on for being snobby and different.
There was an after school dance group at my middle school. Hutton Youth Dance Theatre. I was ten and it was perfect for me. That was when I fell in love with contemporary dance.
I became part of a club that appreciated music and movement. The older dancers wore their hair and clothes differently. They weren't afraid to be different. I found that I felt confident and this allowed me to be who I wanted to be without fear of criticism.

I was bullied very badly during the time I was with the group, and it was my solace. I was quite good at dancing- I loved to choreograph and adored performing. We also had a couple of very attractive older boys to lust after. We were encouraged to use our experiences and emotions when improvising and performing. I cannot begin to express how fabulous this is for the angst-ridden, overdramatic throbbing hormone of a girl I was then.
Perhaps more importantly it helped some less fortunate than me to express their frustration anger and sadness.
We grew in strength both inside and out. Some of the group would certainly be in prison if it weren't for weekly rehearsals and the threat of expulsion from performing if we got into trouble.
Unfortunately when I left middle school the group phased out and I stopped dancing. Love of boys overtook my love for sweatpants and aching thighs.
There followed a stormy three years. I passed my GSCE's- against all odds (the odds being me and my inability to adhere to the rules, attend school, listen to my parents, avoid other illegal activities.) I should've failed due to a fatal combination of laziness and precociousness.
My Mum and teachers suddenly decided that A'levels at school would be the best route. I wanted to go to the local community college which was located right next to the university, where I could hang out in the student union and play at being a fresher (most of my friends/boyfriend were older and either at Uni or on their way.) They won that round and one disastrous year later I was asked to leave by the sixth form head, and faced a devastating ultimatum from my Mother (get some A'levels or get a job, madam.)
I enrolled for three A'levels on a revision course at Bradford and Ilkley Community College. I would take the exams for three new A'levels in a years time (I couldn't bare the thought of starting from scratch and being stuck at home for another year.)
My teachers at school had encouraged me to apply to read English and History at University. I wasn't so keen on the idea. I had begun to realise that I missed Dance. I wanted to bring it back into my life, and I'd found a doorway.
I applied to study Dance Studies with Sociology at Roehampton University, London- a long way from home. The day of my audition my boyfriend drove me to london. The sun twinkled its reflection on the lake outside the stately home that would be my college and dorm and I was hooked.
Fate was on my side. I scraped some A'levels, and landed a place at the best University site outside oxbridge.
I loved my three years study. I grew as an academic and a woman. My passion for the arts within the community grew- yet I was unsure of my abilities. I didn't know quite where I wanted to take my new learning (although I had an idea) and I was skint and in love.
Once again I turned away from dance and moved onto different pursuits- new careers, marriage and children.
Here I am again, that door has opened a chink, and now I know a little bit more about myself and the world, I think I know what I can do with my love, my experience and my precociousness.
I am applying to study a Masters degree in Dance Movement Therapy.

a little bit scared

*whispers* I think I know what I'd like to be when I grow up. I've thought about it often and even pursued it for a time- then work and money and babies became more important and I pushed it away for a while.
I am very happy to be able to live exactly the way I want to. I look after my children full-time. A luxury (and to me it is a luxury) that others cannot afford. I am lucky to be doing what I always dreamed of and I am beginning to realise that when the go off to carve their own path in the world (pre-school and school is only round the corner for Ezra) I will have to return to work. I'm having such a ball now- I can't go back to the way things were. The contrast between doing a job you love, to doing a job that confines, bores and angers you is even more stark. Especially now I know I couldn't really give a monkeys about money.
So a plan has been formulating for a while now. I can see a route to a different future, but it is a complicated path that would require focus, time and bags of confidence- the three things I struggle with.
It could end up being another dream scheme that I wax lyrical about for a few months before scrapping the idea as "too hard", but I feel differently this time.
I'll keep you posted.

subtle

Lots of things have happened this weekend. Starting with Ezra, who decided- on the night I wrote the poo blog- to poo in his potty. Its a start and a break from the monotony of my ever decreasing circles of parental paranoia. Note to self: stop associating Ezra's potty training with my ability to be a good Mum. So it takes him a while to be completely dry and unsoiled- he won't be the first, or the last and at least we took his lead and started potty training when he wanted to.
Secondly- we decided to tackle the night-feeding and spent from 12am to 6am sunday morning with a cry-athon- but no milk was consumed by anyone in the Minks clan during these hours.
Last night was much better. He woke at 1am then put himself back to sleep. He then woke at 3.30 and this was another nightmare episode. He had some water and went to sleep in John's arms, but then woke the minute he hit the mattress. However, John and I swapped places, just as John began losing the will to live and the change in parent did the trick. I popped a dummy in his mouth and he sucked away seriously till he dropped off.
He woke again an hour later and I popped the dummy back in and he went straight back to sleep.
He did the same at 5.30am but by that time we were on the home straight and he again fell asleep after a cuddle and some intense dummy-sucking. Both boys then woke up at 6.45am and giggled till 7am.
If the three night rule is true then tonight should be even easier and we will have broken the pattern. Fingers crossed.
Finally, I had my gym assessment at 9am Sunday morning. We went through my programme and he has tripled everything and given me new fangled man-weight machines to press. He insisted I cross train harder, cycle faster up a bigger hill and walk up a mountain on the treadmill. He then weighed and measured me and despite weighing exactly the same as I did when I started, I have shrunk by 2 centimetres around each bicep, 4 1/2 centimetres around my waist, 5 centimetres around my hips and 2 centimetres around each thigh. I am delighted to see that the hard work is paying off- if slowly.
At this rate I shall be thin when I am fifty. but I will be thin.

there's nowt quite like a good bab

The subject matter of this entry is quite explicit. Those of a delicate disposition may wish to avoid it.
Poor old Ezzie is having difficulty pooing in his potty. As in, he won't do it. Every night at the same time just before bed we encourage him to sit on his potty while John reads him a story. The potty remains empty and Ezzie puts on his bedtime nappy. Within seconds he emerges from his bedroom shouting "done poo mummy."
Its got to the stage where he can come into us with his nappy in his hand, wipe his own bottom and put it all in the bin. He's trying so hard to do the right thing but he just won't go on the po.
I'm at a loss. Doing some intensive internet research on potty problems has revealed that this is quite a common problem. What alarms me is that some children as old as 5 are still doing a poo in their pull-ups!!
We've followed all the advice, rewarding potty activity, ignoring accidents. He's observed both parents pooing- he's watched his friends do it. We've talked about how great pooing is, we've ignored the subject completely. We've offered bribes, rewards and even drawn pictures.
We've got to crack this one but I'm just lost as to what to do now. Its yet another baffling episode in child-rearing.