my family and other animals

Teeth update: I attempted to floss and they moved. Gah!
It took me an hour to clear up this afternoon whilst the lads slumbered. Boys are messy filthy beasts who will only get messier and filthier as they grow. Its a bit off putting, so I'm thinking about trading them in for girls- or a Wii. I can't decide yet.
Despite my best attempts at tidiness, small guests still locate rotting fruit, lost bricks and vicks vapour rub ("I was worried it might be in his eyes" Jo mentioned, recalling how she's seen the worlds biggest bogey on Seth's head- only to discover the globs' menthol origin.)
The good news is that the smell of urine and damp and sweat and poo will lessen now our NEW WASHING MACHINE has arrived. The pile threatening to block our view from the windows will soon go down. It is to be plumbed in about three hours.
Our lovely landlord announced that it'd cost him a bomb. I can't help it if the repair man he brought round to the house buggered off with the electrics gadget thing, promising to replace it- then left the country.

I can't talk about my temporary teeth

other than to say they hurt- they're covered in glue and it makes me look like I havent brushed me teeth in months, and my proper veneers will not be fitted until the 11th January.
The lads are slowly improving healthwise. Our washing machine is still on the blink. I haven't managed to get to the gym more than twice in a week for a month.
Still- there's all that festive food and booze to look forward. Oh, and this year *gasp* rumour has it my husband has bought me a birthday present.

phfhfhfhfhfhhfhffhfhhf!

John took Seth to A&E yesterday morning. He's had a fever for a few days, a hacking cough for ever and was breathing a bit too rapid for our liking.
He came home a few hours later with some antibiotics, two new inhalers and a "virus".
Seems Seth may've inherited the same lungs as Ez. So at present, breakfast and dinner look like drug time in the hospital. Our children breathe into matching spacers, with multicoloured inhalers and we spend most nights listening for wheezing and coughing (or no wheezing and coughing- and indeed breath.) Syrupy synthetic fruit flavoured medicines are spooned and syringed into their mouths, and as neither has much of an appetite at the moment- they'll probably be shocked to taste real food when they're well again. Plus I'm topping them up with fresh fruit juice and vitimins.
They're mostly caged, playing with their toys and watching DVD's as its bitter outside and a trip to the swings leaves them both tearful. Except when I'm dragging them around the supermarket or (indoor) shopping mall.
These bloody viruses are ravaging my children. My mother-in-law is starting to question our living conditions (is your house damp?) and I am torn between getting on with life and hysteria.
In addition to my children's ill health, our washing machine is broken, John's lost his mobile phone and I don't have a pair of shoes to wear tomorrow night for my birthday night out with my gals.

one filling later

Having carried both children (one in a pram) up two flights of stairs, I arrived- panting, in the Dentists surgery.
He greeted me warmly, was kind to the lads and offered me a seat in the big chair.
I blurted that I probably had a cavity, and he swiftly confirmed that I was right.
He checked the rest of the pegs and announced that the rest of them were in good nick. "well done" he smiled. I would've felt patronised if I wasn't such a praise junkie. And so very relieved.
"Do you have time for me to fix the tooth now?" he asked.
"That would be fantastic" I replied.
Ez watched open mouthed and frozen, as the dental wizz injected my gum (it didn't hurt a bit!) and filled the tooth in minutes. The man's a genius. Whilst doing so he put on a light show and sprayed water in the air to entertain the lads. 10 minutes later, it was all over.
I leapt from the chair as he softly mentioned I sould think about new veneers.
"Come back in the new year and we'll sort them out"
"Erm, my maternity exemption runs out at the end of this month" I blurted- burning with embarassment.
"It seems silly for you to start paying now. We'll consider it a continuation of the treatment you're receiving and we'll do them for free"
"I love you" I swooned, and kissed him passionately*


*The loving and kissing might be a slight exaggeration.

being lefthanded

Aahhh, I feel much better now my blog is the right way around. All that right hand clicking business was driving me bonkers.
So, I tried on my wedding dress today. Don't ask me why- I haven't so much as looked at it since 07 April 2001 when I slapped it on a hanger and flung it in the wardrobe.
Its a two piece- a bodice and a big skirt, which is- incidentally- filthy. Anyhoo, something unusual occurred. Firstly, the skirt fitted perfectly. Queue smug dancing around the room before tripping over the train. The bodice- however. I couldn't fasten up the bodice. As a young bride, it was the the bodice that was a tad roomy. I also remember my boobs looking saggy and the whole thing turning itself around more than once (it was strapless, for anyone who now thinks I'm some sort of fabulous contortionist.)
My backside has always been my biggest bit, but since having children there's been a balancing of the elements.
My boobs and bum now match. Fancy that? I've still got a sack of leftover skin around my abdomen, but hey- we can't all be Geri "How I lost my pregnany pounds" Halliwell (and bloody hell, who'd want to?) And with my appetite for beers wines and spirits, rich food and chocolate, its pantygirdles all the way for me.
I remember feeling fat on my wedding day. I looked in the mirror and thought "I wish I'd gone on a diet like other brides."
When I look back at the photos of our wedding day, I just see two very young, happy people. I no longer look fat on that day and I've been much fatter since (one can never be fatter that almost 10 months pregnant.)
It reminds me of that wierd track, or advert, or poem by someone at some point in the last century, that says "you will never look this young and this slim ever again."
When I saw myself in my wedding dress today (I eventually fastened the bodice by holding my breath and standing very still)I saw an older, slimmer woman than the one I was before. The same outfit, an entirely different perception of my body.
Only two weeks to my 32nd birthday.

wooden teeth and christmas whatnot

I'm not sure my liver can take much more alcohol abuse. I've been quaffing huge vats of booze, and with christmas coming, I will probably quaff lots more. If I don't die from alcohol poisoning, I'll be drying out in January. This blog may become a very dark and miserable place (What? even more misery you say? Can we take it?)
Oh, and my teeth are about to fall out.
I have an aversion to dentists and the accompanying dentistry. A collision with a see saw, a fondness for my thumb, and an inherited overbite meant that I spent a lot of time in pain in the dentists chair as a child. Once the braces were off and the veneers were fitted- I vowed never to visit the dentist again. That was 17 ish years ago. I have been since, but sporadically- and always when I'm desperate.
Its ridiculous considering I have been entitled to free dental health care for over a year now. The last time I saw my dentist (in 2004) she suggested that I might need new veneers. She quoted me an astronomical price for posh new teeth and I promptly ignored her suggestion and vowed never to visit again (again)
Now my veneer covered front teeth are feeling a bit 'sensitive' and on closer inspection it appears there's either a huge cavity- or one tooth has finally given up and died.
So- with less that three weeks free dentristry left I am in a mad panic to get my teeth fixed up. My worst nightmare is that the veneers need to be removed and by some quirky twist of fate I'll have to roam the christmas streets with my broken stumps on display for all to see. Or even worse- that the stumps have to be removed all together leaving me-gulp- front toothless for Christmas. Why am I not more sensible, instead of being wierd and scared. It'll be my own fault if I'm the drunk gappy gobbed one drooling at the dinner table.


Oh, go on then "all I want for christmas is my two front teeth........."

only 30 days left till this annus horribilisis closes

I am relieved, and a little anxious about what else can be chucked our way before the end of the year.
I keep mentally checking off my loved ones. My sister has (almost) sold her house and moved on from a traumatic and challenging time which has lasted over a year now. (and if I ever see her ex, he'd better run, because if I catch him I'll breaking his legs)
Mum and Dad are doing well-ish. They're hosting Christmas with one daughter and the entire contents of her house, and the other daughter with the entire contents of her family under one roof. Plus they're redecorating, and Mum's awaiting another appointment to get the trigeminal neuralgia zapped. Despite this, we know that Father Christmas has already been to the house to size up the chimney, and the lads will probably drown in presents and treats.
Nan and Grandad will be at Mum and Dad's for Christmas, and are currently living in a home filled with techno-gadgetry. I'm sure they are the only great grandparents who have an ipod. Grandad's in heaven. I expect Nan is fed up of dusting (whilst listening to said ipod).
My friend's baby is due in a few weeks, and despite a scare a few weeks ago, is growing her little girl with aplomb (and looks particularly beautiful as a pregnant person.)
The last time I spoke to Jo, she was panicking over a lack of commissions. I recommended a well earned rest- No doubt she is swamped with deadlines by now! Her son El is a superhero obsessed hunk of gorgeousness. He is a giant, has a haircut to die for, and is fast becoming a world class chatterbox.
One friend is on the verge of something exciting and dangerous. I hope she finds some peace once its done.
Everyone else is ticking along nicely, I believe. Lets all hold hands and keep our heads down till five past 12.

the rollercoaster that is our health

Today I decided that Seth's hacking cough had gone on for long enough, and booked him in to see our GP. GP listened to his chest and decided his tubes were inflamed and crackly, and prescribed an atrovent inhaler. We're experts in the use of spacers and puffers, and Ez was eager to share the joy with his little brother. "Now you're a big boy, you can have a puffer too." I rang my Mum to update her and she suggested that taking them out near-naked in the cold might be the cause of my children's inadequate tubes. Only my Mum would get away with a quip like that- anyone else would be extracting a spacer from a very tight space!
We popped to see the Health Visitor whilst we were there, and Seth is growing steadily. Ezra has not grown since september. Alert! Alert! (again). She suggested we refer him privately once and push for a definitive answer on his slow and sporadic growth. Once John's health cover kicks in, we might be able to stretch to that.
On the way back I vowed to feed them both organic veg and pure protein until obesity is the new diagnosis- however, I know that blaming my poor parenting and vowing to change isn't going to solve this one.
I've been worried about Ezra's growth since he was six months old. As my Mum said "we've got small genes" and its very true- my cousins on my dad's side are positively miniature, but still -I'd like to know that it is just small genes and not something darker and more insidious.

mother knows best, so stop thinking otherwise

norah's blog won't let me leave comments anymore. I'm feeling slightly paranoid about this, but I'm going to keep it to myself.
Seth, John and I had a three way standoff last night. Seth informed us he would prefer to sleep in our bed than his own, John agreed that letting him share out bed would be preferential to listening to his ear splitting three octave vibrato cry. Being the Evil Dictator of The Minkleberry State I decreed that everyone would sleep in their own bed until I decided otherwise.
At first John ignored me and kept popping in to comfort Seth and hopefully lull him to sleep. He loved being rocked and purred contentedly in his Daddy's arms, the minute his bum touched mattress he screeched once more- filled with rage. Silly mistake- never confuse a 10 months old rage cry with a sad, ill, terrified or lonely cry. Two hours later they were repeating the same pattern. Fools.
Eventually, after many insults, swearing and evil eyes, everyone to their separate quarters (well, actually, John sat in the bathroom with his fingers in his ears.) Five minutes later the wailing stopped.
Because it always does.
Mother knows best (hi five to myself and every other mother out there)

twenty separated socks

Twenty singles. I'm worried my washing machine is going to choke on all the odds that must be caught up in there somewhere.
We've also lost three knives and two forks. Where are they?
You might guess I'm having a bit of a clear out/clear up which means I'm still functioning on at least six hours sleep. I would do a happy dance if I weren't so busy ignoring my children so I can clear out my cupboards Oh, hang on- I did do a particularly terrible impression of Robbie Williams dancing in the Back for Good video the other night.
The swaggering was at a children's book evening, organised at a friend's house. Like Tuppaware and Anne Summers but without the repression and competition.
One minute we were flicking through Welsh flashcards, discussing the merits of learning French, sipping wine and (I was) nibbling on crudites. The next we were arseholed and jumping around the room like deranged teens. (Hence the Robbie impression.) Now thats my kind of parents evening.
The following morning I trotted off to the gym and flung the boys in the creche. After 30 minutes of near cardiac arrest (and a strong whiff of pinot grigio) I admitted defeat/dehydration and scooped them up hoping my wine fumes wouldn't floor the childcarers and alert social services.
Still, I feel pretty perky today following another night of shut eye and can even comprehend activities other than trudging in dark glasses around the common and lying down on a bouncy castle.
Next week the kids are coming round to make christmas decorations.
I know.
I feel positively Anthea-like, but without the millions, ugly husband and white jeans.

boring

My blog is not only boring but maudlin. Reading it is making me want to jump out of the window, so I can only imagine that anyone who pops in here is getting sick and tired of all the bleugh!.
So- reasons to be grateful;
1. Obviously- two blonde bombshells
2. Leopard print mini dresses. I may look like mutton, but its leaner mutton.
3. New jobs- rent paid, bills paid, Father Christmas well stocked.
4. Christmas at my Mum and Dad's. 3 starters, three types of meat and my body weight in potatoes. Bliss.
5. Childcare vouchers. Could Ezra finally be getting his wish to go to Nursery?. "When I'm three, I go to school with the other childrens"
6. Dean Gaffney. His live bush tucker trial was the funniest thing I have ever seen. ever.
That'll keep me going for now.

you don't know me

I'm a Mum who on two consecutive nights has slept for 7 hours. Thats right- with the occasional whimper and toilet break, I have been asleep in my bed for 7 hours. Last night it was almost 8 hours. Thats right ASLEEP.
You'd think I'd feel rejuvinated and refreshed. I actually feel exhausted and my body aches. Years of sleep deprivation- they will take a while to get over.
Still, Seth has been sleeping through the night for over a week. We can't believe our luck, considering Ezra was still getting up two or three times a night just a few days before I gave birth to Seth.
We also know it might not last, which makes it all the more delicious.
My midlife crisis continues but less dramatically (more sleep offering perspective perhaps).
I also had an abrupt wak eup call when I caused a huge row with my friend over things that happened years ago. I said some terrible things about how I felt at the time but absolutely don't feel now. We have moved on and moved through. I have a deeper understanding the past, and we have grown up a lot since that time.
However, it was just like I'd stepped back in time, and was transported back to the young selfish and hurt girl I was then- and it was also cruel and mean.
It reminded me that I need to be alert, conscientious aware. Its been a strange year and I'll be glad when its over.

pre- birthday angst

The last few birthdays have passed without much drama. I haven't had time to beat my chest and wail at the moon. I've been too busy being pregnant, or celebrating the end of lactation, or being pregnant.
So, with a few weeks to go before my 32nd birthday, I've realised that I'm preoccupied with my lost youth, my changed body, my bad decisions, my creaking bones and my aching joints.
Yes, I know- I should've done all this three years ago- but I was too busy being pregnant (and so on).
Its all so self indulgent- oh, wallow, wallow. waaaaah waaaah. I can just hear people I know reading this, and saying "I wish I had time to worry about such nonsense. At your age I was too busy raising 18 kids down't pit, whilst cooking a meal from nowt but a tatty and a bit a bread dipped round't sink."
I'd tell me to pull myself together if I weren't so busy 'waaaah waaaahing'
I'm spending most nights tossing and turning. Did I make the right choice? Should I've said that? Or not said this? Have I been too safe? Too daring? Too selfish?
I've reverted to my former teen self. Short of a pair of Doc Martins and and some Happy Mondays, I could be a sullen, petulant 15 year old all over again.
To all of you who have been there and done that- Its my go. I'll see you on the other side of my turgid misery.
So there.

I've still got a twinkle in my eye

Yesterday I visited my past for a few hours. We talked of old memories and I was impressed that my recollections are not the only ones to be rose-tinted.
When I think of my late teens, I remember feeling out of control a teensy bit hysterical most of the time. It appears I hid the mania quite well.
Elsewhere, John starts his new job next week so he is at home. This is good, in that I get to visit my past and blog without guilt. Oh, and we can all spend time together too. Its bad in that he gets under my feet and on my nerves.
Seth is getting more teeth and seems to've moved into our bed permanently. He has a fierce temper and can scream like he is being murdered when we try and return him.
Ezra is jealous about our cosleeping and I can't blame him. However, 10 minutes squeezed between the three of us drives him back to his own bed.
Tonight John is going to trip the light fantastic with his ex colleagues. His ex employers are paying. I'd consider it a weakness if he came home before dawn.
I intend to have the boys asleep by 7pm and be in bed by myself by five past.

voila!

I am blogging from the desk of professional journalist and professional friend Jojo. I am babysitting for her adorable sleeping son and consuming all her booze and food. (Her keyboard is so overworked that the keys no longer have their letters inked. They've been quite literally typed away.)
I'm just popping in to spread the news. Like magic, and after less than one day unemployed, John has snaffled a better job earning more brass and with better benefits. There's even a view of the thames thrown in.
Now there's some good tidings for ya.

Despite impending doom

I feel less depressed than last week, mainly because I attended a fabulous bonfire party (without the bonfire) and ate pie and peas and plot toffee and I refused parkin. The lads are recovering from their colds, so at last we can go and play outside in the frost, and most importantly my pre-menstrual misery has lifted. Suddenly being on the breadline doesn't look so bleak anymore. We've been through worse and its only money (and bread).
I seized my newfound zest, and hauled it to the gym for a programme assessment. "I want to reach my goal weight and be superfit by my 32nd birthday." My fitness mentor smiled kindly (she knows its an impossible task) but she tried her best. I left the gym with wobbly legs and a heaving chest. I'm still not sure why I agreed to sprint for so long, and those crunches at an awkward angle balancing on a ball can't be good for anyone . Still- under my folds of flesh I will have abs like a washboard and the body of an athlete. Hurrah!! There really will be a skinny person inside me just crying to burst out.
Today John discovers his fate. We both spent a sleepless night silently rehearsing what he was going to say to his boss when they give him the boot. I imagine my version, involving a carving knife and numerous expletives might be different from the measured and dignified response he will deliver.
He continues to apply for fabulous and sometimes outlandish jobs undeterred. He is currently my number one hero, but don't tell him- he'll only think I'm going soft.

Ah, dear fate

I think we've had our fill of crap thrown at us this year, what with almost death, new babies, the big C etc. and yet fate has decided (I choose fate, because if I blame God we could face his wrath and we're knackered already) to make my lovely hubby redundant for the second time this year.
This means that just before christmas he is frantically selling himself to as many souless agencies as possible, in order to pay for the kids christmas presents. Oh, and our rent and bills.
and the MOT, the tax and insurance.
What I'm really, really worried about is that its making me think about going back to work. Not just any work- MY OLD JOB. My days will be miserable and busy and empty and my salary would be mostly gobbled up by the nursery, and my lads will start to sound like south londoners, and will cry when I drop them off in the morning- as will I.
I said Hell would freeze over before I went back into that work.
Well, its cold in our house and at the moment we feel a little bit like we're in Hell.

Dear Father Christmas

Hi, how are you? I hope you and the wife are keeping well. I am writing early this year, as some of my requests might take you a while to fulfill. I have been a good girl etc. (mostly)

1. This year I'd like a cash lump sum. About 5.2 million (sterling) should cover it.
2. A Tiffany bracelet and keyring. I know I know, these items are on my list every year and have been since 1991. I don't even know whether I even really want them. I just feel I should keep asking.
3. A miraculous weightloss solution. I find it a bit tiresome cutting out fat and sugar and nicely refined carbs. And I simply can't stop drinking. There must be something you can do about this?
4. An extra two hours a night. I must define that this is relevant to adults only. Kids do not get the extra two hours because they'll only squander them on jumping on beds and shouting for their parents.
5. The bottomless coffee cup. One is never enough in a morning, but my second is never as good. 6. A seventeen year olds breasts. To replace my current ones. (I don't mind if you retrieve my old ones from when I was seventeen, but if you can- ones with slightly smaller nips.
7. Self waxing legs, bikini line, eyebrows etc.
8. Perfect health for my children. Forever.
9. World peace.
10. A villa in Ibiza.

Thanks Father Christmas,
Love you
Minks xx

Don't!

Ezra sounds like Mariella Frostrup, and they are both hacking like professional pipe smokers.
Despite their obvious illness, Seth has managed to perfect his walking skills, and can turn, walk sideways and- most importantly-dance. Last night they played with some spooky balloons, chasing the floating ghostly faces around the room and I faced my future; the fighting will only get more violent now they are both capable of kicking.
Seth is maximizing his only tooth, by continuing to eat virtually anything (corned beef, beans and tomatoes for lunch) and biting chunks out of his brother's head.
Ez has us in stitches with his singing (Razorlight and Hard-Fi mashed with Fireman Sam) and his comprehension makes him wise beyond his years. ("Mummy don't shout No! at Sethy- he doesn't understand.")
His favourite game is checking his emails and writing his blog. Do you think I might spend too long on the computer?
Ezra is as precocious as ever. And very bossy. He despairs at other children not doing exactly as he dictates. I feel like I am wading through a mire when I try and explain the merits of empathy, generosity and democracy. I can remember with crystal clarity how shattered I would be when other children lied, broke a toy, or broke the rules. If I'm honest, I haven't changed much since I was almost three.
I wonder if should be trying to help him modify his behaviour when he is disappointed and frustrated, as opposed to learning to live with the disappointment itself.
Sometimes, I hate being a parent. This era has shown how responsible we are for informing our children's development. I often make the wrong choices.
This is the guilt my mother talked about. Its amazing how it grows as they grow.

tragedy

They're both sickly with colds. Up for most of last night, and because I am a good and generous mother I dragged them around the shops because, despite being broke, I need new trousers for tonight. I'm going out with some grown ups- many of whom don't even have children!! Also, I have lost some more blubber and can declare some of my clothes officially too big.
Tragedy number one struck when in Hennes trying on trousers. Folding my baby bulge (will the excess skin be there forever?) into what I thought were size 14 trousers, I noted they were a tad tight. "I'll just get the 16's" I thought and "my bum doesn't look too big in these- what shall I have for lunch and will that affect my bum size?". When I took them back to the changing room attendant and glanced at the label. There, in bold black writing- size 16. That means I need an 18. I've gone from healthy, to overweight and now obese in 3 minutes. Still, I upsize and buy them (my bum did look ok).
So, leaving Hennes I realise I am tired and fat and Seth is wailing, because he is sick and Ezra is whinging because he is hungry and wants to watch The Magic Roundabout- because he is "quite sick, Mummy." I want to buy a new eyeliner. I make a mental note not to go shopping with them ever ever again.
We settle on two DVD's from WHSmiths. Seth is now hysterical- Ezra has joined in because he is, by now "very sick mummy. I need an ambulance"
I drive home, listening to them demand food, drinks, bears, dummies and "Daaaaaaaahdeeeeeeeeeeee", and I contemplate the size of my bum, what to make for lunch, whether to wash darks or whites and what shoes to wear with my trousers. In that order.
Lunch is a disaster, and lies strewn across the floor, as Ezra is, by now "too sick for food Mummy. I can only eat a cake"
I throw them both into bed- covered in leftovers, and hurl a load in the washing machine.
My trousers are too long- even with my heels on. I am now tired, fat and short.
They wake up after an half an hour and I yelp and sprint to the DVD player. The shop assistant was so busy trying to tell me how to stop my children from crying, he inadvertantly gave me two copies of the same film.
I lie down in a pile of toys and ironing and expire.

artisan parenting

Violence rears its ugly head once more. The first time around Ezra was but a wee toddling baby and was busy waddling around pushing shoving and pulling hair as only babies can. I was mortified by his behaviour, but together we were able to learn that it was wrong to try and rip other children's arms out of their sockets. (Seth is teetering on the edge of this phase and I go into it slightly more relaxed than last time.)
This time its other kids attacking Ez- and worse, him replicating this behaviour. Now they're all a bit bigger, they spend their time tugging, snatching and stealing each others toys. Everyone has a different way of dealing with this, and I am in no way criticizing other parents methods of tackling this behaviour. I am old school, and so I wade in when there's a visible snatch going on.
Similarly, if another child is hitting Ez (or he's pushing or shoving some other innocent) I wade in and remove Ezra. Occasionally, I've been so incensed by an act that I've even removed the other child and offered them up to their parent. I assume that all parents would want to tackle violence straight away- head on and sternly. I am a zero tolerance kind of Mum.
I am learning that I am wrong in this assumption. Some parents don't seem to care at all (and they should be shot at dawn See? No tolerance.) Some parents believe that a bit of push and shove is all part of learning to socialise and develop independence and confidence (I can see where they are coming from), and some think its character building (oooh, he knows what he wants! He'll be fantastic on the rugby/football pitch.)
I am also learning that in comparison to many middle class parents, I am a working class, shouting, stern downright hard mum. When Ez has been particurlarly naughty (oh no, I labelled my child- he'll become a murderer now!!) he gets a strong telling off and a time out. In public this involves being put in his pram, or standing against the wall away from the rest of the children for a period of time. I can see other parents staring, aghast at how cruel I am being.
I give him incentives for good behaviour- I remove toys and treats for bad behaviour. I think nothing of hollering across a crowded room if I spot him grabbing or pushing, or snatching.
I am aware of how I must appear to others- I cringe at how my desire to be in control often materializes as bullying. I hope I can get the knack of this parenting thing and learn to be less domineering. All I can say is, I'm new at this. As are all of the other parents. I have good intentions. I care about their future and I am trying to teach my children that there are consequences for there actions- both good and bad.

urgh

I was going to blog about being skint and having to use my nectar points to pay for my shopping until I realised two things
a. This is so incredibly boring read and highlights how small my world has become.
b. The fact that I could use my nectar points for my shopping shows how much we spend on food in the first place.
So, instead I'll drivel on about how our Seth woke up a record six times last night. He's got separation anxiety and is very distressed by our refusal to let him sleep with us/jump all over us.
Now, radically, I don't mind the lads sleeping with me on occasion. Daytime naps together are the most delicious treat and best kept secret. I can sometimes sleep much better when they are purring peacefully next to me. However, our bed isn't big enough for us all, and so John usually finds himself on the sofa. In addition, their sleep cycles are very different from an adults, and they wiggle and wriggle, and chatter and get up and walk/crawl around the bed before settling back down. This is very annoying- especially as I find it difficult to get back to sleep once I've woken up.
And really, I know the value of independence and self soothing. They really should sleep alone in their own beds. People might start asking questions if we're all still bedding down together when they're in their twenties.
So, mostly the lads are in their room and we are in ours. Amazingly Ez now sleeps like a top and we don't usually hear a peep from him until morning (a very early morning mind you)
They only climb in with us when they are sick, have wet the bed, or we are just too damned tired to keep getting up to comfort Seth back to sleep.
Except that that boy is canny and clever and knows that if he wakes every hour or so and cries loud enough and for long enough eventually he will get his own way and will spend the majority of the night either in our arms or in our bed.
Well- I'm wise to that kid. More importantly, I've had enough of being being 'The Most Tired Person In Tooting' (yes, John-I am more tired than you. *FACT*)
So, like all parents who never learn their lesson and foolishly believe they can take back control, I'm helping Seth go cold turkey. Again. I wonder how many times I'm going to tackle this sleeping issue, and even if its worth it. Still- it makes me and John feel better to at least try. Its getting embarrassing, watching a grown man cry every morning.
I'll see you in three days, when my eardrums have burst, my heart has broken and Seth has damaged vocal chords from all that crying. But, at least he'll be sleeping in his own bed, and hopefully putting himself back to sleep on occasion.

toddle on

Seth is walking. How can I possibly keep an eye on them both? I want to tie them together and then strap them to me. Two of Seth's teeth are emerging. He has a penchant for emptying drawers, bookcases and he loves black pudding, beef (chunks not puree) and prawns.
The fun of having two littlies is that they occasionally share things like sleep disruption and teething (Ez is getting more back teeth- ouch!)
As Ez is a little shorter than the average two and a half year old and Seth is pretty much average height (and double avergage girth- he is hench) they are sharing clothes. The double buggy weighs a ton which is giving me wicked muscles, and a bad back.
The great news is that this season's Minks hats are in production. Ez is already sporting an bonfire inspired orange and red stripy number with bobbles which he insists on calling bells "just like Noddy". Seth is modeling a oceanic themed blue green and turquoise beanie. John wants to divorce me after only a week of clacking knitting needles.

(Yes, Ezra is indeed bereft of clothing. He is still going through his "I be naked!" phase)

Why I know biological drives are independent of the rational mind

I haven't had a full nights sleep since I was seven weeks pregnant with Ezra. That's over three years.
Seth has a cold/is teething/separation anxiety/stubborn as a mule and has been waking at least three times a night for roughly six weeks now.
Ezra is terribly two.
I have lost a stone. I weigh less than I did when I became pregnant with Ezra.
I will be 32 in December.
I like drinking booze, smoking (occasionally)
I can honestly say that the first few months with a new Seth and existing Ezra were rock hard.
I rely heavily on the help of my friends when out in public with both children.
I fantasize about 'nights off', adult-only weekend breaks, and all day drinking sessions.
I tend to almost die during childbirth.
We are poor.
We have two beautiful, healthy (mostly) handfuls already.
So why am I staring adoringly at new babies, feeling that deep primal longing to procreate.
Madness (and for the record, I am most definitely ignoring it.)

just wait while I catch my breath

Ezra painted the curtains,telephone, walls, and himself and all while I changed an evil nappy- which squirted its contents all over our bed and floor- which was covered in clothes after the the nappy wearer had emptied every drawer- while I had been getting out paints for Ezra, so he would stop throwing toys around the front room because he couldn't find his bear- who was being dried after the nappy wearer had been sick on him.

blue

Seth has had a cold for a few weeks, which has developed into a shocking cough. For a week he woke every hour leading John to lose all concept of time and space "he's been like this since he was born- why won't he sleep? I'm dying from sleep deprivation." Thankfully, the more severe his cough has become, the more soundly he is sleeping- alas, I am wavering between relief at getting some extra hours in the sack and lying awake worrying that he will stop breathing.
Ezra had a week of wetting the bed- an abrupt reminder that potty training isn't quite over yet. He seems to have returned to dryness in the majority, (with the exception of last night when he awoke from a nightmare and found he had done a huge mattress soaking widdle.)
I've now lost nearly a stone- which is shocking in that its happening quite suddenly and quickly. I wonder if I can reach my outlandish goal of 'Kate Moss thin' by Christmas.
The most exciting event is that we have reached an understanding with our generous Landlord and we have painted our kitchen blue. I imagine my front room with putting green walls and a forest green flock accent wall. clean white bathroom walls. A calico hallway. I am giddy and delirious. Perhaps that's the paint fumes.

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.

more swearing

I rang HSBC again, ready to do battle.

Me: "I'm calling with regard to the charge you have applied to my account"
HSBC advisor "yes"
Me: "I would like you to return it to my account, please."
HSBC advisor: "Please bear with me whilst I look at the details madam. Can you hold?"
6 minutes of hold music later
HSBC advisor: "Mrs Minks, we have reviewed the circumstances of this charge and I have spoken with my supervisor and we will be returning the amount to your account."
Me: "Thank you"

WTF ??

look away. swearing about to commence

Those bastards at HSBC have decided to randomly fine me for going over my overdraft limit. Ok, I know I'm not meant to and usually as soon as I do I make sure there's a transfer to cover the over-overdraft amount.
So, usually HSBC don't penalise me, leaving me to believe that they understand I have funds and they are making enough money from me various interest and charges anyway.
This month however, they have done a 'spot check' and have fined me a huge amount. Fuckers!!
When I asked the poor customer services operator who received the rough end of my blazing mad stick why on this occasion they had fined me, but not on any other, she claimed I had been 'very lucky.' Its my fault for being lazy- but those cheeky twunts are taking the piss by lulling my into a false sense of security before penalising me like some naughty child. She might as well've said. " We charge you to look after your money but we don't actually look at your account very often, we just ring you and write to you and persuade you to take out a huge loan and credit card that you can't pay back BECAUSE YOU DON'T ACTUALLY HAVE AN INCOME. We spend the rest of our time funding terrorism, coups and wars and that. So overdraw as much as you want, love- we probably won't check, but if you do, you'll be in trouble."
I asked her to return the money to my account. Instead she offered to extend my overdraft.
I suggested she and her pirate employers stick their unethical banking and investment practices up their enormously fat arses, whilst I skip off to the Coop for some conscience free banking and 12 bottles of free wine (an offer with my name all over it.)
This has particlularly annoyed me because I've been trying to save some cash. Not easy when there's only one income and three hungry growing men (and one shrinking woman. I need a new wardrobe and might have to knit my own clothes this winter from recycled baby clothes!!)
So, I'm going to have to sell everything we own on eBay to make up the deficit and stop eating. Which means I'll need even more new clothes, unless I become so slim I can just cut my old clothes in half and recycle them that way.

never start rumours

The poor lickle lads have stinking colds. Disappointingly, Ezra's has moved onto his chest and he has a bit of a cough. I am wavering between absolute panic and calm resolution and I've temporarily moved him into our bed so I can keep an eye on his breathing with inhaler at the ready.
I realised just how obsessive I was when I began timing his respiratory rate in the night and watching his clavicle intensely. "Stop staring Mummy" Ez groaned as he turned over.
Seth is waking several times in the night gasping for a drink. They are both eating like hogs during the day which means they are feeding themselves better- a good sign.
Seth has been sitting in his highchair chewing alternately on a piece of chedder and slices of cucumber for 1/2 an hour now and I am overwhelmed by how gentle and calm he is. We were at a friends house on Friday with some other deliciously yummy mummies. They all commented on how lovely he is. He can amuse himself for ages, he joins in with the big kids without a care in the world. They cautiously accept him, gently stroking his head or helping to feed him- but mostly they ignore him, in the same way they ignore each other.
He is very smiley, he likes to explore and loves a snuggle from the other Mums and Dads.
He is happy fearless and independent. I hope remains so forever.

rumour

I'm treating it with kid gloves. I don't want to get too excited about it. Its still not perfect, but,
last night we only fed Seth once. They both got up at 6.30am.
Keep it under your hat.

procrastinators by design

We havent found anywhere to live. It seems that talking about it has not yet transformed into 'doing it'. Sleep depravation and work schedules seem to prevent any real activity.
Still, we've had two better nights, meaning that Seth is finally getting the whole point of nighttimes. A by-product of his epiphany is that will also be more rested, once our annoying neighbours stop hosting parties and playing 70's dirge at 3 in the morning and whooping "you go girl" at someone stomping to 'brown girl in the ring', and so back to why we want to move. Agh!
Being tired makes me guilty. Guilty because when I should be setting up some paints for Ez, whilst jiggling shiny objects with Seth and doing the washing and cleaning, I instead have been switching on Cbeebies whilst I try to figure out where we put the washing up liquid. (Of course its in the bathroom!) God Bless CBEEBIES.
So, anyway, I feel slightly more alert and will be wrenching the lads away from boogie beebies (much to their distress) and encouraging them to interract with me and each other in structured activities involving shiny paper, instead of "lets all read a book in Mummy's bed?"
I wonder how long the fun will last before we are all in tears and Fireman Sam is lulling them into a comfortable viewing coma.

torture

9pm. 12.30 am. 1am 1.30am. Then 4.30am. both of them. and that was it. they didn't go back to sleep. John and I battled cattily over who had had more sleep before he got up with them at 6am and I was jolted awake at 6.55am by a cup of coffee and scrambled eggs. My hatred turned to overwhelming love. We are united sometimes in seething contempt for the nighthawks.
There seems to be a pattern forming and I will surely expire if it goes on for much longer.

sleep, dagnammit!

We've got to tackle the night feeds. Our seven month old is having two full feeds a night. One at 2am and one at 5am. This means he can drink almost 1 1/2 litres of milk a day. Considering he should be having about 600mls or about a pint- its a bit much and is definitely taking the edge off his appetite for solid food.
There are three ways we could do this. With Ez we went cold turkey, and I just stopped breastfeeding him in the night. He still had a 5am feed until he was 1.
The second method is to gradually reduce the amount of milk we give him at each feed- (I can't see how this would work, as knowing our Seth he'd just wake up more frequently.)
The third is to offer water instead of milk. I tried this the other night and he drank 100mls of water and stayed awake, laughing until it was time to get up for his breakfast. I would quite happily leave him to laugh in his cot and zonk out if it weren't for the fact that he shares a room with Ez and once Ez is up- there's no getting back to sleep ("I awake now! I can't close my eyes, they're broken!")
In preparation I've been stuffing the kid full to the brim with food and milk during the day. To the extent that he vomited his entire feed up in his cot the other night- then promptly demanded more milk.
They're not meant to be hungry in the night at this age- apparently its just a habit. Seems my baby's habit will be a tough one to break.
Wouldn't you just know it.

update

Bear- fully absorbed back into the Ezra-thumb-bear comfort triangle.
Mum- finished radiotherapy today. (Well done Mum xx)
John- has got a new Blackberry, and can be found wandering around our bedroom in his pants on conference calls. (No, really)
Seth- teething (and fully bottle fed.)
Me- pre-menstrual and bloated.

Bear

In first photo taken of Ezra, Bear is beside him. Bear met Ezra before I did. (I was coming round in the recovery room.) Ez and bear are inseparable and he told us only last week that he loved Bear more than anyone or thing in the whole world- even Mummy, Daddy or chocolate icecream. Last night, as I tried to get Seth off to sleep Ezra turned over in his bed and sighed "come on bear" and snuggled down next to him.
Today, somewhere between Balham and Tooting we lost Ezra's beloved Bear.
Ezra sobbed himself to sleep and when he awoke I told him that bear had been found and had been rushed to hospital with severe injuries. Luckily the doctors could make him well again and he would come home soon with new fur and stuffing and everything. (Thank goodness we kept an identical 'imposter' bear and didn't hand him over to Seth.)
So a new and improved bear returned from toy hospital a few hours ago, with a bandage over one eye and on his wrist. He's also sporting a plaster on his nose and a gauze pad on his tail (poor bear!)
Ezra is not sure, but is familiarizing himself with every millimetre of his furry body. We discussed that even though he looks different on the outside- he's still the same bear inside.
I'm going to hell.

moving

We always believed that the rent in our current property had been fixed at the same level for four years because our landlord is some sort of humanitarian philanthropic property magnet. I have discovered this morning that we are infact merely paying over the odds.
We can expand our horizons (and our garden potential) and pay less than we currently do now. Its true that the area we will have to move into is slightly less attractive (and it is a very 'slight' less.) We will swap the Common for a garden and John will have to walk a bit further to the Tube. Oh and we might have to pay for parking (now, that is a pain in the arse.)
We're off enmasse to view some properties this evening and I'm quite excited, though a little nervous. I can get carried away. We once almost rented an unsuitable flat because I fell in love with the vegetable patch.
Fingers crossed my dream house with a huge kitchen will have french doors leading out onto a big lovely garden (one property we're going to see has a summer house).
I'll keep you posted.

misery me

It could be post-hectic weekend blues. Its definitely envy. I am miserable today because I do not have the willpower to avoid litres of vodka, then the inevitable lack of sleep/hangover induced takeaways, fried breakfasts and chocolate.
I am miserable because we do not own a house with a garden. I am uncharacteristically (acting out of character is happening a lot of late) tinged with regret that we didn't save more when we were young. Today I regret that we didn't buy a modest property rather than go on holidays, buy nice clothes and eat nice food in grand restaurants.
I am even questioning whether it really is the right thing to stay at home with the lads when I could be out earning a crust and they could be eating healthily and playing educationally motivated games in nursery, instyead of watching HI-5 while I blog about how miserable I am feeling.
Watch this space (it might remain inactive but I can feel the vibration of change in the air- or maybe that just post takeaway wind)

So very very tired

nuff said.
Tonight my mother-in-law is babysitting whilst John and I attend uncle Matt's birthday party. I am feeling a mixture of nerves/terror/excitement/relief.
I'm not yet in the swing of leaving them with loved ones while we 'tear it up'. Yes, I know we should be leaving them for days at a time by now- but uncharacteristically* I'm a bit controlling and feel uneasy when I leave them with anyone. Its not personal.
Anyway, I've got a new frock- Seth can clap and laughs at jokes and Ezra's speech has taken another leap forward and he now speaks in lovely long sentences.




*My mum is now wetting herself
Oh edit: Ezra has grown 4 cms since he was last measured. Not sure if thats a world record or average but its bloody marvellous anyway you look at it!

but why not?

Remember the 4 lbs I lost in the first week at the gym. Well 6 weeks on I've actually gained a lb. I did have a week off for my holiday, during which I did eat my own bodyweight in cream teas and drank like a boozy fish, but since then I've been good-honest, guv. Not great- but the point is I've been to the gym at least three times a week since and the weight aint shifting. Tis a cruel world where tubbies like me have the unique talent for storing fat whilst simultaneously getting very fit.
I suddenly remember a period during my years dancing where I'd be doing at least two classes a day, plus rehearsals. I was attending lectures, working 30 hours a week as a silver service waitress and was living on a diet of booze and fags with a protein-only meal every two or three days. I was also nursing a recently shattered heart, due to the end of a long relationship. I managed to lose some weight then.
I am too old and too tired starve. Must I resign myself to being rotund forever? And I so wanted to poke someones eyes out with bony shoulders.

breast get it over with

My baby no longer wants to breastfeed during the day. There's just too much to do and see and staring at a rumpled garment and a bit of flesh is no competition for the rest of the world. Instead Seth would prefer to drink all his milk between the hours of 6pm and 6am when its pretty dark and there's not much action in the house.
So, we're on the cusp stopping the breastfeeding completely. He will happily guzzle from a bottle during the day, and can get his comfort fix in other ways and from many other people as well as Mum.
Seth's world is expanding, and mine is inevitably shrinking.
I am sad that this part of our relationship is coming to an end. It signifies that my baby is growing up very fast. I associate breastfeeding with pregnancy and birth- the primal physicality of growing a life and nurturing. It is such a privilege, for which I will always be grateful. If I have no more children, I will cherish this unique time with them long after they run multinational companies and stop calling.

up up up

Seth can now get into a sitting position unaided. The rate at which he masters new tricks is astonishing- especially when he combines them to commit heinous crimes- like TRYING TO CLIMB.
His mission to chew through the computer wires resulted in him pulling himself up to stand and lean over the printer. Seems this isn't enough and having failed to slide underneath the workstation he is attempting to climb up and over the printer and to certain death by electrocution.
He has clearly been watching his brother in his mission to climb up onto his windowsill and throw himself through the window and onto the spikey railings and certain death by Omen style impaling.
I spend most of the afternoons searching our (thankfully small) flat looking for them both. Yesterday I heard lots of giggling coming from the bathroom while I tried to wash up. I walked in to find Ezra had wrapped Seth in toilet paper-when he tired of that he then proceeded to flush the rest of the roll down the toilet- blocking it and causing it to overflow.
Seth follows Ez wherever he goes and they play peekaboo happily together until Ez decides to climb on Seths back and exclaim "I'm a horty" (note- we have explained that infact Seth is the horsey and Ez is the rider whilst dragging him off Seths broken spine.) Seth thinks all of this is hilarious and even when he does get hurt- (Climbing six month olds fall quite a lot.) he only cries momentarily.
Ezra is brilliant when Seth is upset. He'll run over and cock his head "What happened there? Never mind Sethy, its ok. Kiss it better." Ez also likes to inform me when Seth has "done a really stinky poo poo mummy. I'll get nappy- you clean bum?"
My favourite is when Ez mutters "where Seth gone? He's nothing but trouble."

stuff

Remarkably I have managed to get to the gym three times this week and I'm in serious danger of becoming a gym bore. (as in I can only think about going to the gym/not going to the gym) I have thankfully lost the clotted cream-and-jam-and-scones weight gained on holiday but its going to take a while to shed the whole fat suit as I just can't stop drinking booze and eating lard.
Today we relived the holiday in miniature and drove to Whitstable- which is a delightfully dinky village by the sea. I persuaded him indoors to try an oyster (40p and oyster- I'll wince everytime I indulge in a restaurant) and he loved them. So we've finally got something in common- molluscs.
Its such a gorgeous place and we peered invasively into the kitchens of the beach houses- imagining ourselves feeding each other oysters whilst Ez and Seth windsurfed infront of us "Don't surf too far- tea'll be ready in a minute. Its oysters and chips again!"
We decided to move there forthwith until we realised that all the people we know who have grown up in small coastal towns have either killed themselves or become drug addicts. I'm sure that is not true of everyone who grows up on the English coast- but probability indicates that our lads might be nudged in that direction. Less windsurfing and more screaming "I haaaate you you horrible f***ers!!! Why do we have to live in the middle of nowhere! I want Macdonalds- not f**king oysters!!All this sea air is making me sick" Or else they'd make a good living selling and importing class A drugs via Dover.
Back to reality and Ez got to paddle- Seth got to eat lasagne on the beach and husband and I enjoyed a grand day out.

twins

This is really beginning to freak me out. Both photos were taken at six months old. One of Ez and one of Seth. A prize if you can tell which is which (and yes- one of them is sat in a sink)

hang on a minute...

He's in such a rush. This afternoon he pulled himself up to standing. He can sit unsupported, crawl really fast and now pull himself up. I expect he'll be running by the end of this week.
He's six months old.

post holibobs blues

We are all quite devastated to be back to the pollution cauldron.
The boys have been sleeping beautifully (Seth even slept through on the last night of the holiday)- last night they were both up every other hour and fully awake by 6am.
They were going to bed to the cacophony of seagulls settling- now its back to car alarms, sirens and techno.
The holiday was too short, too fraught, and too much fun.
I hate London.

six months

I couldn't remember my age a few minutes ago. That's a sign of growing old isn't it? Anyway- I've had my age counted and verified and I am pleased to say I'm actually a year younger than my body looks and feels.
I mention my age because I sometimes find it hard to believe I am married with two children when I am still just a fifteen year old girl with bushy hair and recently removed braces.
My beautiful man Seth has hit the six month mark and is cracking on. He is crawling and almost sitting up. He is gnawing on rice cakes and sucking frantically on Ezra's leftover fruit. He likes formula but loves breastmilk.
He loves making us laugh and performs for giggles. He is friendly and confident- even his separation anxiety seems mild. He can play on his own or with the bigger boys and rarely whimpers- except when he goes to sleep, which he hates, and when he's in his pram (I expect he'd rather walk everywhere.)
My Nan says he's "been here before" and there's certainly a look of wisdom and serenity in those baby blues.
He's amazing- I love that he is so different from his brother. I adore Ezra's zippy energy as much as I'm enamoured with the stillness in Seth. He watches everything and smiles endlessly.
I could watch him play for hours (and often do). Ezra teaches him to sing songs and play with toys, Seth copies Ezra's mannerisms.
They both laugh maniacally at naptime.
My favourite part of the day is lying between them both during their afternoon sleep. Sometimes when I leave them in bed together, Seth snuggles up to Ezra- Ezra doesn't mind one bit.

edit: especially for the viewers of CBBC. I fancy Sportacus.

Hot babies, small toddlers

The big one hasn't grown since his last asthma attack meaning his height is again cause for some concern. Right from my first visit to the health visitor, I've received worried side glances and words of cautious concern from health professionals about Ezra's weight, and later height.
We even visited the pediatrician to be told that he was 'short, but ok' and left with a request to monitor his height.
Its true that the steroids he received in hospital could've recently halted his growth, and the constant colds may've inhibited his growth over his short life, but I am a bit tired of feeling worried about it.
He is developing normally in all other respects, his diet is much improved and he now sleeps for at least 11 hours at night (I say this because lack of sleep can inhibit growth.)
He is much smaller than his peers, and I am fed up of having to explain to strangers the lads aren't 'Irish twins' and Ezra is infact two and a bit. ( that people comment on how close they are in age is so rude- they look at you as if to say "Harlot! You couldn't keep your knickers on for five minutes")
Only time will tell whether there is an underlying issue, or whether he'll suddenly shoot up and be fine (if a little shorter than the average man), but its the waiting that's so hard to do.
In other news, its baking hot isn't it? Who's betting it won't pour with rain during our entire holiday next week?
Not to be completely miserable, I have attended the gym 4 times, conquered the cross trainer and have lost 4 pounds. Thats a pound a visit.

the future

I worry a lot (standard worry- not excessive paranoid worry) about my children. Mostly I worry about things that have not yet happened, but that could- but probably will not. But might.
I worry about them running into the road, hitting each other with heavy objects, illness, bullying (both being and doing)- you know the kind of stuff.
My constant preoccupation is what my parenting is doing to them. Ezra watches telly first thing in the morning, for 15 minutes at lunch when I feed Seth, and for at least half an hour whilst I cook dinner. Does this render his brain mush?
Seth plays alone for ages, happily crawling and rolling around the room eating paper and crayons. He doesn't get anywhere near the attention his brother got, or gets. Ezra is definitely the centre of attention most of the time.
I rarely play with them and their toys- preferring to add a running commentary to whatever bizzarro world Ezra has conjured for them both. (Current favourite is Ezra the fireman driving a fire engine, whilst Seth is usually a cat, duck or dog.
We do play with bricks, and paint beautiful pictures (of fire engines, police cars and dogs, ducks and cats.)
Seth adores his brother and doesn't mind at all if Ezra rolls on top of him. Ezra loves is baby brodder and tells him hourly.
Ezra eats junk food sometimes. Seth eats from jars mostly. I havent sterilized a single spoon or bowl (he frequently licks the floor so it seems futile). I havent ever ironed any of their clothes.
Still, the worry keeps me on my toes and when they grow into ASBO hooligans, I'll know its the creased clothes, junk and telly. Its obvious who the arsonist will be.

post traumatic exercise disorder

I am not using the cross trainer for 15 minutes and they can't make me. I didn't mind the running (I obviously preferred the walking) and the bike was a doddle compared with that evil swishy ski type uphill downhill machine.
Seems that in my absence gym equipment have learnt to recreate natural terrain. Hill running, bumps in the road, steep mountains. I thought that the whole point of going to the gym was that it was an artificial environment which ironed out the imperfections to make exercise easier.
I especially liked it when the machines told me how many calories I'd used up, but my favourite bit was when they said "stopping"

operation shed

Today I will enter a new phase. With Seth eating three solid meals a day and mix feeding, I can comfortably start a weight loss plan. I say comfortably, when, of course it will not be comfortable- it will be tortuous.
I've got an induction with the gym this evening. I haven't used gym equipment in 13 years. We'll say no more on that subject for the moment.
I would like to lose a shocking amount of weight and for my legs to grow about 3 inches. A facelift and tummy tuck would also be quite nice.
So, I've set myself reasonable goals and *looks up* I've got a positive attitude.
I'm poised for success.


Just incase you've been waiting with baited breath. The first night they were together Seth woke up every hour- Ezra slept solidly through twelve hours of sporadic crying.
The second night Seth woke up twice. The third and fourth he has woken at 12am and 4.30am. Ezra has not left his bed or thrown toys at Seth, or wrecked the room. Seth and Ezra have been going to bed at 7pm and 7.30pm respectively and waking up at 6.30am. It seems that inflicting them on one another has worked to everyone's advantage (so far.)

Together at last

Seth has joined his older brother in his bedroom. Our bedroom now feels so big we could have a small roller disco in it.
Seth is still sleeping poorly, but then so is Ezra so they can keep each other up.
This is either a very good, or very bad idea- but I can at least read in bed once more.

and just incase you are vibrating with anticipation- Since they began sharing a bedroom Seth is now waking only twice a night for milk- Midnight and 4.30am. (The first night he woke every hour-Ezra slept through almost 12 hours of sporadic crying.) Both are now waking at 6.30-7am. I feel quietly optimistic that the decision to inflict them upon each other may've worked to our advantage.

I would give anything for just 3 more minutes in bed...

Sometimes having two children is like being two people.
me 1: "Why won't he sleep through the night?"
me 2: "because he is teething/hungry/the product of your over meddling no. 1"
me 1: "I'm so tired, what can I do to make him sleep?"
me 2: "This won't last forever"
me 1: "It feels like forever"
me 2: "but its not. It goes so quickly. He'll be walking, and feeding himself and sleeping peacefully (ish) before you know it."
me 1. "I don't believe you. Look I'm so deliriously tired I'm talking to myself"
me 2. "Its true. Then you'll forget all about all this and start thinking about wanting another one."
me 1. "arrrrrgh!" thud.

A sleepy Ezra walks into the bedroom and peers through the cot bars at Seth

Ez:"you awake baby boy. Good morning howare you?"
Seth: grin
Ez:"you stink baby boy. poo!"
Seth: giggle
Ez: "Mummy, Seth stink. I not stink. "
Seth: fart
Ez: "Seth done poop Mummy"
Seth: "dadadadadadadadadadaa"
Ez: "Daddy change nappy, Seth?"
Me: "no, darling. Daddy's at work. Mummy will change Seth"
Ez: "Oh, Daddy idiot"

little mover

Its terrifying. Seth Jacob Arthur is fast approaching a crawl. Two weeks ago he was shuffling backwards, last week he was on his hands and tiptoes, this week he's made it to his knees several times. I thought Ez was quick to crawl at six months, but this kid is ready for off. He rolls around the room at apace avoiding being hit by a small green car driven by naked toddler and screeching "beep beep, I driding" and our recent ant invasion has spurred Seth to crawl toward the little black edible insects.
Its all about survival of the fittest.

Perspective

Ezra wakes goes to bed at 7pm. He then spends roughly an hour wrecking his bedroom before collapsing in bed. He wakes at 6am and has more energy than a nuclear reactor. He is experiencing the terrible two's, and meanwhile Seth is waking every hour or so. All of this makes us tired and irritable. However, let me put this into context by writing of my Mum's recent experience.
My Mum had experienced severe bouts of trigeminal neuralgia for about ten years now. They call it the suicide disease as the attacks are so unbearably painful. Towards the end of last year she had also experienced a case of what she thought was shingles and had experienced spasms in her legs. She had been to her GP and had been sent off for some tests.
Around the same time Mum had her first routine mammogram. I remember laughing with her before the test that she was uncomfortable about being manhandled into a machine.
I can't remember which came first, but within weeks two diagnoses came back. Multiple Sclerosis, and cancerous cells in her breast tissue.
I recall feeling like I'd been punched in the head when she called to tell me about the MS. She had had a suspicion and claimed to be relieved to finally have a diagnosis. All I could think was that a cruel and unforgiving degenerative disease was ravaging my lively funny Mummy.
The cancer cells were more tricky. It was unclear from the scan what the 'abnormality' was. The good news was it was very small, and eventually she discovered that the bad news was cancer- however small-and had to be treated. My Mum had more and more tests, biopsies and consultations, as no one could decide how invasive the cancer was and how to treat it appropriately.
She experienced countless cancelled appointments and a few dangled carrots.
Meanwhile my sister's went through a particularly cataclysmic relationship break up and had to move home.
Then Seth and I almost died during childbirth.
Then my uncle John died.
Throughout all of this my Mum was her usual self. Practical and mostly upbeat. When I came round from sedation after having Seth, I was informed that my Mum was on her way down from our home town- despite having been signed off work by her GP to 'get some rest'. I cringe when I think of how she slept on that ropy old put-me-up bed and cared for my newborn baby while lingered in bed. All the time in much more pain that she ever let on. For a while she even returned to work.
My Dad was very low, but brilliantly supportive. I imagine it is unbearable to watch your most cherished love in excruciating pain.
Eventually a decision was made about my Mum's treatment and she had the cells removed. She was told that if the surgeon thought it necessary he would remove her lymph nodes at the same time. She woke up with her lymph nodes, but when she received the results of the tested cells, was told she had to have the nodes removed separately. Throughout all of this the neuralgia was being especially cruel. She had also been waiting for an operation to cauterize the nerves in her face, and this seemed at last to be the solution for her pain.
Two weeks after having her lymph nodes removed and only a few months after having breast tissue removed, she had surgery on her face. She was advised that she would feel immediate relief if the operation had worked.
She woke up in agony.
So, she's got three weeks of radiotherapy to look forward to in10 or so weeks, and can have further operations on her face until she gets some relief.
We have all been squinting to find that light at the end of the tunnel. There are no cancerous cells in the lymph nodes and so the radiotherapy should finish that chapter. Her MS is not fast moving, but I hope she won't mind me saying- it is debilitating.
There have been some darkly funny moments. My Mum's coordination can be a bit 'off' at times- resulting in two very black big toes from being constantly stubbed. Photo images of the offensive toes were texted to me whilst breastfeeding.
My Mum was my lifeline when I was experiencing PTS. She rang everyday and would let me groan about my misery. She laughed at my cleaning obsession claiming to be aggrieved that I'd never lifted a finger when at home, choosing instead to spend my teens buried under a mountain of filth in my bedroom.
When Ezra was in hospital for the first time. She texted we through the long night to let me know she was thinking of us.
My Mum is still in pain- but she's amazing and still laughing and this weekend when we went to stay, delighted Ezra and Seth.
So a bit of sleep deprivation aint so bad.

I love it when Moobs plays tags

Mooby is at it again with his probing questions and, I can't resist a pop quiz. see Moobs for details

(1) Why didn’t you think to say that at the time?
Ten minutes later you had the perfect comeback. What was it you should have said? Exact words please.
I know you are, you said you are, so what am I?

(2) A Damn Good Hiding
Have you ever hidden anything under your mattress? If so, what?
Plenty, but most recently- chocolate and my husbands jazz mags

(3) Guilt Trip
Have you ever felt guilty about something for more than a year? If so, what?
I still feel guilty about most of my teens

(4) Mother Knows Best
Name one thing you kept secret from your mother.
Most of 1988-1996 (sorry Mummy)

(5) Missed Opportunities
Is there someone from your past who, you now wonder, might have been your great missed love? If so, what are they doing now?
No. I now realise, with some distress, that my current husband is my great love. However, I do think if I'd had five minutes with Robbie Williams (Take That years), things might've been different.

(6) Poetry Please
What is the first line of the last poem you wrote?
Bright Morning, twinkly eyes

consumption

Ezra is currently hurling Mr. Potato Head at his bedroom door in protest. Bedtimes are rubbish, apparently.
Anyway, the lads are munching away at apace and the feeder in me is delighted by this. Everytime Ezra tries a new food a little chip of anxiety falls away. I can feel the knots in my shoulders releasing. Could this be the end of his extreme faddiness?
Tonight he ate spaghetti and grated cheese. I could've cried- especially when he ate some of our spaghetti which was delicately enveloped in a lemon chilli garlic and olive oil dressing (anchovy paste in the sauce- it beefs it up a treat.) And not just cheese but grated cheese.
As I sit here supping a glass of wine (yes, I know I'm still breastfeeding, but Seth can have a bottle at 11. OK?) I keep thinking- this is madness. Its only pasta and cheese, and yet a whole world of consumption is opening up for us. I may've mentioned once or twice that I quite like to eat. I have trained husband to to also adore food, (you eat this or you go hungry) and we love to cook and eat out even more. Poor man is now slightly overweight as a result, but now we're the same. HA!
Being able to take the lads out to a restaurant and not have to worry about what they will eat (if anything at all) would be wonderful.
All we have to do now is learn from our mistakes and make sure Seth eats well from the start (I am taking liberties here) and do some serious table manners practice.
I hope that the one of the many things we can bestow our children is a love of food (no not obesity). If nothing else their girl/boyfriends will be chuffed that they can whip up a yorkshire pud and a good lemon and garlic pasta sauce.

criminal

"Mrs Minks. This is Wandsworth Police Station. Is everything ok?"
"Hello. Yes" oh shit. I've just spoken to husband. What has he done now? What have I done?
"Is everything ok there?"
"Yes. Everything is fine" There's an escaped convict on the loose and he's stood outside my door with an axe.
"We've just received a 999 call from this number"
"Oh, I'm so sorry. That would be my son, Ezra. He's two." He may not live to be three.

later..

"Ezra, you mustn't play with the big phone. That phonecall was from the police. You called them by accident. The policelady said if you play with the phone again, she will come and put you in prison"
"In a nee naw police car?"
"Yes. And take you to prison and lock you up without any bouncy castle or football or chocolate."
"I go ring policeman"

and on to the next thing

it seems to be a never ending set of challenges when you've got children- and thats a good thing.
Ezra's breathing is back to normal, so now we're back into potty training, sleep training and weaning.
I've had it with breast feeding. At present Seth spends most of the night attached to my breast. This is entirely my fault. My desire to get some sleep and keep everyone else asleep has resulted in my allowing Seth to use me as the world's biggest dummy.
I also need to drink more booze, and go on a ridiculously unhealthy diet and smoke a pipe etc.
We've had five glorious months of breastfeeding and by six it will be over. I have mixed feelings about this. I do love breastfeeding. I don't love being responsible for my diet and alcohol content.
I'm sure bottle feeding will present a whole new set of challenges. Ah well...

spanner

Ezra experienced his second asthma attack, and was hospitalized on Tuesday. I am glad we recognized the signs. I waved him off with his Dad and he said "bye Mum, see you soon" When I arrived at the hospital five hours later he was too ill to speak.
The whole experience was utterly terrifying for everyone involved. Ezra is older and more aware of himself and his surroundings. He was frightened of the oxygen mask, but adapted well when he learnt that it made him feel better. He was wary of the Nurses and Doctors, but soon realized they were making him well again. He is a brave, clever, resilient boy.
Having a diagnosis confirmed is a relief and a bind. The severity of both attacks, coupled with my family history mean that daily steroid inhalation will be part of his life. I must keep a diary of his symptoms to feedback at the monthly asthma clinic. Bedding, vacuum cleaners, dust and pollen are suddenly very important.
The knowledge that this might happen again is overwhelming. Watching him struggle for every breath, and being power less to help was unbearable.
I feel like my baby is broken- that I broke him in some way. I understand that I am not responsible, and yet how can I not feel its my fault? Everything I ate, drank. My genes; my body gave him life. I can't change any of that now.
So, I can vacuum and change Ezra's bedding, and keep a diary of his symptoms. I can ensure he uses his inhaler, and educate everyone who knows and looks after Ezra about asthma. How to recognize it, treat it and when to seek help.
Ezra, meanwhile- runs around the house covered in stickers and singing the theme tune to Fireman Sam. He is still the same.

in the potty

Do not read unless you have, are, or are planning to potty train someone. For everyone else this entry will be incredibly tedious and dull. What do you mean all my entries normally are?

Anyway, an ovelwhelming desire to be naked (Ez, not me) is advantageous when potty training in the house. A little embarrassing outdoors, but not unmanageable.
I underestimated how long it would take for Ez to get the hang of the outdoors bit. I had read somewhere that it would take about a week to do basic potty training. Further clarification from my sister confirms that it will be about 4-6 months before Ezra is fully functional. I might've been a tad ambitious and I am concerned about my expectations for Ezra and any academic pursuits.
So, our first week has gone remarkably well. When we are at home, all wee's now end up in the potty. Poo's are normally adjacent to it, though their conception does take place on the potty. Hearing a plop is a good signifier to get up, and potty's don't have a satisfying splash pool to confirm that the target has been hit.
Outdoors are another matter. "Wee, Mummy" can often be followed by "drink mummy. Ooooh sparkly. Car, Mummy!" and before we know it there's a wet patch growing (and by the way. 10 pairs of underpants for 3 pounds at Primark! Perfect.) However, Ez is learning and the accidents are much less frequent.
I am tempted to start Seth now!

Obsession

I have entered the zone. The sleep deprived place where only the parents and carers of babies go.
Once in the zone nothing else matters. Even Big Brother is only vaguely exciting me. (however, live streaming on E4 might be a godsend.) Operation "sleep or I'll die" is in progress.
I was beginning to think that my second child was peculiarly precocious. Thankfully, he is no more compliant than my firstborn
Thank crikey for obsessive blogging whilst in the zone. This has settled a long running dispute with my husband. He is convinced that Ezra was born aged 2 and never had a sleepless night in his life. The rest of us remember the nights filled with screams and wails- and baby Ezra made quite a lot of noise too.
I have cracked under the weight of constant breast demands and have forced a dummy into my babies life. So shoot me- I'll deal with that issue when I'm less tired.
I am also planning on introducing three square meals in the next few days. If that doesn't work- its eggy bottles all the way*

*(you'll have to ask Jo about eggy bottles.)

Progress, regression

Progress:
Ezra is in-training for Potty duty. House widdling is all now potty bound. The outdoors is still a stressful potty adventure. We've had a few accidents, and as yet no poo disasters. Will keep you informed.

Weaning is working for both boys. As Seth tucks into his carrots, Ez is quietly indulging in VEGETABLES!! And PROTEIN!! But shhhhhhh, don't make a big deal about it.

Seth loves his playgym. Just as I was about to flog it on eBay (Ez hated it with a passion when he was a baby) Seth has decided to keep himself amused in there for ooooh about 45 minutes now.

Seth is complying with my request to drink from both the breast and bottle.

I can give them both their tea, bath and put them both to bed without collapsing (my eternal thanks goes to the producers of CBeebies bedtime hour)

Regression:
Night feeding. 3 events per night. No, really he isn't just a sucky baby- well he IS a sucky baby, but he is really hungry in the night. I can express 7 oz per breast per feed and my weight can fluctuate by 4 lbs depending on whether I'm pre or post feed. Seth is also being topped up with lovely formula and still there's no filling that boy. Lordy lord, roll on six months so I can stuff the kid full of steak and chips.

make believe

Whilst we were all lounging in the sun on the common, (with the exception of Daddy, who is now commuting into Soho for a job involving football. I'm still not sure this is actual 'work') Ezra gallops down the hill.
Ez "I'm a horsey"
Me "you are"
Ez "right. I going work now."
Me "like Daddy?"
Ez "yeah. I got new job."
Me "Ok, have a good day"
Ez "Oh shit. Where my keys? My phone? My wallet?"
Me "just like Daddy"

how rude!

My husbands only gone and got himself another job! After a few weeks off, imagine- going out and earning some money when he could be at home helping me look after the bairns. Who cares if we can't afford the rent and Ezra is growing out of his old shoes? Its nearly summer- we can live outside- barefoot.
From now on I might have to put them both to bed- on my own. Its a bit selfish to get a job working beyond 4pm. And, anyway, how is this bedtime thing possible when there's only one adult involved? I struggle with naptimes. I'm currently thinking about a telly in Ezra's bedroom and whiskey in Seth's milk.
what's that you say? Women have been doing it for years? But how? Surely they all had staff?
Who's idea was it to be a full time Mum anyway? It wasn't mine.

Snotty

Ezra has officially been ill with one form of cold or another for a year. The most recent chest/throat/tonsil viral infection has resulted in several nights of constant awakening. "Muuuuuuuuumeeeeee. Hot. Water. Hot. Muuuuuumeeeeee"
Ezra likes to sneeze on Seth and so he too snuffles along at the same time.
I write about this now as they are both feeling slightly better. Last night they both slept well. However, I am so used to waking every hour with one or the other that after 2 hours sleep I awoke bright as a button and feeling like I'd had my nights quota.
It was 12.15am.
Its amazing how your body adapts to sleep deprivation, though I have been assisted by my husbands unemployment. (redundancy- long story). I do the night shift, he does the mornings- so for the past 3 weeks or so I've been start stop sleeping in half hour-ish chunks until 6am, then having a blissful hour or two uninterrupted.
You may think that this entry is preoccupied by sleep discussion, and that's true- but it is impossible to think of anything else when you are this tired.
However, I will update you on the anxiety-ometer. I have returned to normal levels and look back on the previous few weeks with awe. I really wasn't feeling very well at all.
When I am less sleepy (in about 10-15 years) I might be able to describe just how unwell.

bit of both

I always wanted to be one of those Mums who could breast and bottle feed. With Ez there was no convincing him milk came from anywhere other than a breast despite trying everything. From five weeks to eight months we persevered, and then suddenly he picked his mates partially drunk bottle off the table and began glugging. Typical.
With Seth I aimed for things to be different. He did start out bottle fed as I was otherwise engaged in surgery and sedation and whatnot. Similarly we persevered with at least one bottle a day which became more and more of a struggle, until we gave up completely for a few weeks.
Breastfeeding is great- good for baby, convenient for mum. However, it is a tie when you fancy a few beers, or (in our case) both kids become ill and are up day and night crying and demanding liquid. Its exhausting feeding every hour for days on end with no one to assist, and then running around keeping a toddler engaged during the day.
I decided to take a leap this weekend and reintroduce the bottle to our lives- if possible. I'd read that if you offer only a bottle for two days, baby will learn to latch and suckle from a bottle. A baby will never forget how to feed in his preferred method, and can learn to do both.
So, day one was yesterday. I expressed 24oz, Seth drank 14oz. The first feed was hellish and he sobbed for 40 minutes before falling asleep and suckling 2 ounces in his sleep. Gradually as the day progressed, he was consuming slightly more but each feed was taking an hour or more and he was sobbing most of the time. I don't know how I carried on as my heart was breaking- but I did. Thankfully he only woke twice in the night and I hoped for a better day today. Sadly the morning feed was just as bad as the first, and as I went off to buy more bottles, I was feeling dejected.
Whilst in Boots I discovered a new Tommee Tippee product called Closer to Nature. They are feeding bottles with wide extra wide silicon teats designed to replicate the breast surface, the theory being that baby can latch with a wide mouth. The silicon becomes stretchy when filled with milk mimicking a nipple, and the bottles themselves are short, wide and stout so that you can turn baby to into your body and still wedge the bottle in to feed.
Seth took to it immediately. He has guzzled two feeds happily. I would enthuse more about the bottles but I am too tired. For anyone who is planning to breast and bottle feed- buy them.
My plan is to give him his 7pm and 11pm feed from a bottle and gradually wean him off the breast over the coming months. If I'm successful, I'll see you down the pub for a fair few bevvies.