Housework I hate

Well, after admitting what a trog I look....might as well let you into the other dirty bits.

1. Hoovering (or vacuuming for those over the pond). A little known, and in my opinion, much neglected bonus of having IVF (yes - BONUS) is - once those little embies are in there you're BANNED FROM HOOVERING! How good is that? Really makes spending £6k plus on injecting yourself with hideous drugs for 6 or so weeks well worth it. Oh, and you just *might* get a baby out of it. Hooevering wasn't on my list of fave tasks before IVF, but get this - I have hardly dragged one around the house since! For some bizarre reason, my beloved has conveniently (for me) forgotten I am not the recptacle of our precious cargo any more. This has caused a vague dislike to blossom into out-and-out hate.

2. Ironing. Why. Who bloody thought ironing up 'I know - let's add a job to everyone's day'. You'd think those iron age people had better stuff to think about - say some decent heating for the caves, or TVs to while away nights not out hunting unicorns or whatever. I am actually looking forward to being an old lady and either: not caring if I look like the cast-offs from a car-boot sale (wait - you read yesterday's blog - bugger) or investing in some nice drip-dry ensembles. Naturally by that point the girls will hopefully be taking care of their own clothing, DH can wear some stylish sports suits - sorted.

3. Emptying the dishwasher. I don't really know why but once I know it's finished I slink past it and pretend I haven't noticed. I think DH is under the impression that it's just unhappy coincidence it has always just finished when he goes into the kitchen.

4. Putting clean duvet covers onto quilts. Which is highly unfortunate as I have a bit of a clean bedding habit. I love the feel/small of it, and can go into a fugue and wake up and find myself stood next to a stripped bed, with all the linen thrown down the stairs. Which obviously means I then have to put clean on. I am short. I need to stand on the bed. We have a memory foam mattress - so the minute I am on the bed I slowly siiiiiiink whilst frantically trying to shake the quilt into the cover.

5. Emptying bins. Ugh. All of it, so yukky. I stuff and stuff and stuff and stuff things in until DH eventually arrives home 'wow - the bin just got full - why did you put that apple core in - you could see it was virtually full'.

Jut so you don't think I am a complete vile compost heap - I DO like: OCD cleaning of bathrooms/loos. I do like tidying cupboards. I do like clearing out crap, a little too much probably. I do like cooking, just wish I had more time to do 'creative' cooking rather than the-get-freezer-as-full-as-possible-for-dinners-after-work cooking. I do like blogging. Oh, wait - that's not strictly housework. Or actually, it isn't housework at all, is it? Oh well.

Yummy Mummies

Do you know one? Are YOU one?

I most certainly am not. But today I bumped into one I know. I literally curled up into a little ball of envious, pathetic, gibbering scruffiness.

I used to work with her. She now has 2 children - both conceived exactly as planned - #2 in a 1-week window when her blokie had a week back from Iraq. She planned his leave around her ovulation. Naturally they hit the jackpot. But that isn't why I feel such a frumpy, messy, uncontrolled freak around her.

Let's start with how she looks: Tall, naturally very blonde, willowy. She is upper class, and sounds like that, and along with the good breeding she has those perfect social skills that make you feel how thrilled she is to see you, and before you know it you're babbling about the ridiculous bitty-shitty small stuff that SHE DOESN'T NEED TO KNOW! She was wearing some effortless looking ensemble which looked immaculate, her skin was clear, dewy and radiant.

Then there's the 2 kids. #2 a beautiful redhead, perched clamly and quietly on her hip, no fussing, no dribble, no mouth/hair/eyebrows covered in ketchup (the meet was in McDonalds). Her eldest stood next to her, waiting patiently, not saying a word and not running around like a demented rabbit.

Now let's move our viewpoint: Me, hair like a greying, head-scratching 8-year old boy's. Skin...well, probably hideous. I am incubating a non-period zit, and after 2 wake ups last night and then not being able to get back to sleep because I had some very important worrying to do...
Clothing - blue tracksuit. Amazingly, non-dribbled on (at that point) My girls - running around a mirrored pillar taking it in turns to squeal. Both of them with hair everywhere, and Alice with her skirt halfway around her knees because she insisted on wearing one that's too big. Florence's trousers were ducky pink with orange stains - she had an orange on the wayto the shops in the car.

HOW DOES SHE DO IT. ALL OF IT.

I make no secret of the fact that I have always wanted to be one of these 'together' women. When I worked with this girl she was also a complete achiever - but never at the cost of alienating anyone. So very good at her job, so organised, so full of bright, workable ideas. I want to puke. I have never been someone who has that 'groomed, finished look' even in the days before 2 kids slimmed my me-time down so much (whilst having the opposite effect on my figure). Now my girls are going the same way. If I put their hair up in pretty things it is either ripped straight out, or the journey there, and car-dancing proves too much for the 'do' and they look like old barbies before we get there. I am thinking dresses. Well, more than thinking actually. I bought them 4 each this weekend. Which is very naughty as we're supposedly going careful in preparation for our holiday.

But they'll look more 'together' in a dress, right? As for me....the only time I can get to the shops is with them, and I don't get more than 2 minutes looking at me-stuff before the craziness commences.

Flat

That's how I feel tonight. Completely flat.

I spent all day collecting little titbit memories to blog about (excluding the weekly saturday express-train to nervous breakdown grocery shop) and even had 2 goodies to get me kick-started.

Then DH left for his night shift. And my mood, very quickly, quietly and thoroughly plunged. To flat. I hate hate hate these police shifts. He didn't get in till 10am this morning, was meant to finish at 7 but as virtually every shift, had to stay late. We never did anything vastly exciting or important at weekends - no family near and no one my girls know well enough for me to leave them with, our high point was usually a takeaway, a DVD, and maaaaaybe, if we were feeling frivolous, a bottle of wine or a couple of beers between us.

But that complete together, relaxed, home, US thing rocked my world. We're so comfortable together, find the same things funny, understand each other's weird worries, oh and we can even share it in russian if the english word doesn't quite hit it!

Now it feels like he's never here. Not in any significant amount anyway. I'm not good at TV, it takes me some discipline to actually sit that inactive. With him watching a movie was activity in itself, just being there with him. But there's no point without him here.

He tried so hard to get into the police - 3 goes. It didn't come easy as the hurdle of not being a native speaker of english was, and in some ways still is, huge. I am so proud of him. But, there's a big part of me saying 'be careful what you wish for' Yes, he got in, but not only now really faces the mountain of learning the job, but also it has had such colossal impact on the time we get together...

OK, one bit of what I wanted to blog about before I got a case of the sads:

Alice and I have a fairly complicated ritual regarding bedtime, the penultimate part of which is 'so, darling - what are you going to dream about?'

Tonight's answer: Birmingham

Each to their own, Alice, each to their own.

My DH

I am always on here, blah-ing about myself or my girls, or work, or my toenails....or whatever pops into my head....

But there's this 'aside-mentioned' person who never gets a look in. Not that he's bothered. He finds the idea of writing to either the ether or other people on the internet bizarre at best.

He's just left work for a night shift, and as it always does, my heart drifts through the memories we have built together since we met in 2000.

So, some random facts (no, not THOSE ones, you dirty trollops - go google hot boys or something)

My DH is originally from Georgia. The USSR one.

He speaks 4 languages fluently

He is a Trainee Police officer

He adores football (baaaaah)

He has given our girls their gorgeous eyes

He does this little ritual when he gets into bed (always after me)...comes into room, tickles one of my feet which are sticking out of quilt, goes to bathroom etc, comes in, sits on bed and BRUSHES HIS FEET....Whaaaaat - do we live in a bedouin tent? Was there a sandstorm while I was reading?

He gets horrific hayfever, a gift from the UK to him

He is OCD clean obsessed. Goes SO well with having toddlers

He is nuts on watching movies - any old rubbish

He can't stand adverts on TV and will feverishly flick channels in an attempt to avoid them

He has been an absolute rock for me through some difficult times

He can have a hideous temper but life as a Police Officer seems to be suiting him well in changing this tendency

He makes me laugh until I almost wet myself (almost being......well, 2 kids - what do YOU think?!)

He has expensive tastes

He has an award for bravery - pulled a woman from a burning house

He has a wife who adores him

Will stop before I go too sloppy and lose my regular readers who come here for sarcasm, self-pity and to see if my space bar is finally working

Drip drip drip

A little dripping tap of mini-annoyances turned today into 'utterly fed up and wants to win the lottery and buy a house and a beach'.

Here is not the place for me to list them, work stuff, individually I would have ridden them and thought 'bah, curses, how frustrating'. Together, one by one they totally knocked my mood and now you lot get a whiny blog (ah, but I did WARN you, in my profile!)

So, rather than enumerate them, let's give them a rough category:

Someone being horrid
Someone being forgetful
Someone being pissy and spoilt
Someone being thoughtless

2 of the items affected other people so had knock-ons, the other 2 only affected me and will have passed unnoticed by the individuals. So - they're alright then...? right?

Gaaaaaahhhh.

When I am in this mood I want nothing to do with anyone other than my family. I beat myself up and think why why why why and picture myself in a little ball of ice, touching no one until it melts when I come home.

On a lighter note, although not moving away from the 'hit-Nic' theme - I am a complete monkey. Need to look into my IComLeavWe status, as stupid skim-reader I can be when rushing through something, the 'We' part of it didn't register as 'week'. Or what week. Yes, that'll be the one when we go to South Devon on hols. In a caravan. With no wireless access no doubt. Even IF DH would be overjoyed with my keeping up my blog addiction whilst away. Sooooo....I am reading tons of blogs at the moment, and commenting more than lurking, so hopefully it can be in the bank??? Please??!!

Toddler food rules

1. If you haven't eaten it before, don't try it.

2. Unless it's on Mum or Dad's plate, then eat all of it.

3. If they try to move some of the food on their plate onto yours, halt this action immediately by means of screaming hysterically like a crowd of wolverines is attacking you.

4. If you're not too sure if you've tried it before, best to stay on the safe side and follow above rules 1-3.

5. 'I'm full' actually means 'I am full of this vile main course you're attempting to poison me with, please commence with pudding'

6. Always ensure you gulp as much juice/water as is physically possible before eating.

7. When Mummy appears particularly harried, hot and bothered, adopt your best whiny voice and ask for sweets/crisps/chocolate/biscuits in an increasingly threatening manner.

8. If you have a sibling, do your best to eat in the most ridiculous, mess-making manner to get them laughing, and copying. Hopefully in an even more outrageous way than you.

9. Then copy that.

10. Between mouthfuls (if you have caved that far) run around as much of the house/garden as you can.

11. When not running go to the loo, put on Mummy's clippy shoes or muddy wellingtons and 'made for walking' is your watchword.

12. Beware of the GOOD cake. There are occasions you will be palmed off with smiley biscuits or jelly or muffins. Mummy and Daddy may just have gourmet range (or even home-made - gasp) mouthwatering delights. Hold out for these.

13. If holding out doesn't work, go back to rule 3.

14. Parents may erroneously attempt to bribe you into eating. There is intensive research being undertaken, but it is highly likely that Santa DOESN'T see everything, and what goes past your lips doesn't interest him one whit.

15. Growing big and strong is down to genes. More research is taking place, initial results of which point to sweets and crisps being highly beneficial to bigness and strongness.

16. If the pressure's really on, and some of the threats/bribes seem genuine, make puking faces. These of course disappear the moment the pressure is lifted and you can move onto the sweets/crisps/chocolate litany.

17. Try not to fall for the 'disinterested act'. Look closely and you'll see they ARE bothered, just keep it going.

18. Check what has been cooked for dinner and ask for the polar opposite. Keep Mummy off-balance and you'll always have the upper hand.

19. Run upstairs and slam your door at the mention of dinner. Just because, really.

20. It sounds a cliche, but mindless screaming really is SO effective.

Who let the guts out?

Oh my sodding stomach. It's out of control. It's its own universe. It lives its own life, has its own job and I think (hope) has booked its own holiday.

I wasn't exactly sylph-like before my babies, but this is NOT FUNNY. Ironically, Ihave thread-like arms, child-sized wrists and ankles of a young gazelle. And the gut of a dart-playing, beer-swilling, pie-eating fat bastard.

Sit ups you say - the muscle is buried so damn deep below this ecosystem of lard, they're not even aware if Ihang myself upside down holding a toddler by each arm.

Eat less you say. Well, that's all well and good, but I object on moral grounds the fact that whatever deliciousness you put in your mouth bears any relation whatsoever to Planet Belly.

Tummy tuck you say. In a heartbeat. Except. In the country of 'free' healthcare (otheriwse known as 'Wing it, hope you stop moaning and if we do have to refer you on, hopefully it'll be gone by the time you eventually get to see a dismissive consultant' the idea of spending any money on private medicine NOT for the purpose of keeping us all healthy is quite inconcievable. The only time I have paid for medical treatment was for children - before I had them, and expressly for the purpose of having them. Added to that, there is also the not-so-small issue of a hankering for private education for the girls. They are allegedly quite bright for their ages, but to be honest, having seen some of the results of state education during my forays into teacher training, even if the girls were as bright as my cat, I would still prefer them to be privately educated.

So, we're at an impasse. At the moment I haven't got the energy to devote to the control that a 'diet' requires, and despite my objections I know it's the only way. Sigh...

Calamity tonight. Florence is a hider. She grabs stuff and secretes it in all sorts of odd places. We're still minus the middle bit of the loo roll holder in the downstairs loo since she put it 'in the bin' (her words, not mine). Now tonight we had absolute meltdown from Alice because her toothbrush has disappeared. I turned out every teeny little bag, every cupboard, drawer, under every bed, behind the loo. Nothing. So I have to come up with something clever to persuade Alice to be ok without her sparkly-blue-flashing-rabbit toothbrush tomorrow morning.

It's summer here in the UK. Today, that is. I don't deal well with the heat, DH abhors flies and also suffers with hayfever so teatime/bedtime was a little frazzled with 'BATTLE OF THE DOORS'. I eventually won, although he doesn't know it. Multiple windows wiiiiiiide open upstairs.

Hehehehehe.