Tag Archives: Embarrassing moments

So… Love


As some of you already know I have four whole children. I’ve counted and double counted and it’s true – there really are four of them! It’s bizarre. I can’t always quite believe it myself. But there you are.

They entered the world like this:

  • girl
  • girl
  • boy
  • another girl

When my then six year old son heard that his third sibling would be yet another girl he was so pissed off disappointed that he said, “Bloody hell!”, crawled under the dining table and refused to come back out.

Bringing up four whole children is wild. Seriously.

Firstly, you spend a lot of time counting heads to make sure that you haven’t left one somewhere. Or added one accidentally. You learn, quite quickly, the importance of making sure that you haven’t double-counted the same head, because that leaves you with the false sense of security of having all of your children present and correct.

You swiftly learn, to think on your feet when your children well and truly drop you in it. You also develop the art of the quick getaway.

Saying sorry becomes second nature, so much so that you often say it as a precursor to an event, the moment you enter the room/shop/tourist attraction/bank/doctor’s office (delete as appropriate).

You find going out with adult friends difficult because you find yourself continually compelled to ask them: “Do you have your key?” And, “Are you sure you don’t need to go to the toilet?”

Finally having child free time with your partner, you ban talking about the kids and then stare into space until you both give in and start talking about the kids again.

You never, ever have any money in your purse. It’s like money has some kind of aversion to your purse. You regularly find yourself going into the butchers and the bakers only to find yourself penniless. Thus having to explain to the not-always-so-patient shop assistant that you, yet again, need to nip over to the hole in the wall to grab some cash.

You can never remember the name of the child standing in front of you. Especially when you are annoyed. So in the middle of a telling off you have to shout, “What’s your name again?” before dishing out the punishment.

Food vanishes. You shop and shop and shop. You cook and cook and cook. But every time you attempt to make yourself a quick snack or snatch a biscuit: there’s nothing left.

Your house is filled with germs. For two reasons. One is: you have lost the will to clean. And the other is: they bring home every conceivable type of germ from even the remotest part of the region and then they share it all around.

At some point you get the Norovirus. In your house. For three weeks solid. You lose your mind. Especially when your children admit they might just have spread it around again because they shared a sandwich.

You become an expert nit picker.

You also become a taxi driver, counsellor, mediator and pharmacist.

Seriously, visitors come to your house just to admire the array of medicines in your cupboard and to compliment you on your ‘tried and tested’ pharmaceutical knowledge (all the while kindly ignoring the clutter that surrounds you).

You laugh a lot. It would be true to say, not always at appropriate moments. But you develop a deep, belly laugh that suddenly booms out of you uncontrollably. Finally your children feel embarrassed. At your loudness. At your lack of restraint. They whisper, “Mum!!” with agitated voices.

But you know, from experience, that one day they will say, “One of the things I love most about you, Mum, is your huge laugh!”

And you’ll say, “I learned to laugh so much because of you.”

 

 

Eye-smiler!


Love is a funny thing really. You don’t choose it. You don’t scan a vast array of heads and shout, “I’ll take that one.”

I just saw you in the street. You smiled and you had me.

I was putty in your hands. Just like that.

I had no idea if you were a good or a bad man. I didn’t know what your name was. I hadn’t even sniffed you. You were across the street, far too far away for me to get a whiff of your pheromones.

But somehow, you magnetically pulled me into staggering towards your smiling eyes and your big strong arms. It didn’t seem to bother you at all that I couldn’t hold my vodka.

It’s been almost 15 years and you have never given me reason to doubt you. Quite the opposite. You have only, over the years, given me reasons to love you more and more.

To be honest, I remained convinced that I am either extremely lucky or that one day, you’d wake up and think to yourself: what on earth am I doing with this crazy woman and her chaotic life? But each day you just kept on smiling at me with those beautiful eyes. In fact, you seemed to smile a little more the more chaotic I was. Even though, you yourself are really quite orderly.

I mean, I did spot that you’re a little odd too. After all you said things like: “You’re the spice of my life!” Or, “Maths is beautiful!”

Sometimes I really couldn’t take you quite so seriously…

But the other day, something happened that made me finally realise that you’re probably planning to stick around for good.

We’d gone to bed. Me quite late again because I couldn’t stop coughing and I didn’t want to keep you awake half the night coughing when you had to go to work the next day.
I finally joined you and after a few tosses and turns and a few more coughs, I nodded off.
Then I woke up feeling nauseous. You ran to the kitchen and got me a bucket then you ran again for a glass of water. You rubbed my back as I coughed and spluttered over the bucket – without complaining that no sick actually came up at all. Then you ran to our daughter who also needed a bucket and also retained all of her stomach contents. You returned to our bed where I lay complaining, rather loudly, about the heat in the room so you measured my temperature and stated that, it was, in fact, completely normal. You encouraged me to “just try and sleep” as I tossed and I turned but I thought I might be better off upside down in the bed, with my face right next to your feet. Then I sat up again and wailed for the bucket. I heaved and I coughed and I snotted. Then I cuddled back down and hugged you tight, breathing hot germ-filled breath into your face. I talked and I talked but I didn’t make the slightest bit of sense. At some point, I started to cry, quite hysterically, which, after a while turned into uncontrollable laughter with an added cough instead. Finally, after even more giggles and strops I drifted back to sleep.

I woke up the next day feeling at first refreshed, you’d got up with the children and had let me sleep. At first, I thought about how tired you must be, then I started to remember bits – wailing, incessant talking, hysterical laughter. You may be my husband and my best friend, but in all honesty: I was mortified.

On your return home I apologised.

And here’s the thing: you just shrugged and said you were used to it and that it happens quite often of late. 😮

That’s when I realised that you really are here to stay. That you love me, warts and all.

I hope, that for the rest of our lives, I continue to make those eyes smile.

 

 

Post Traumatic Nipple Stress


So, last night, I sneezed so violently that my whole body wrenched forward and my nipple got caught in between my wrist and my watch strap.

#truefact #notalternativefact #youcouldn’tmakeitup

I yelped slightly, partly because of the shock, partly because of the sheer intensity of the sneeze, not so much because of the pain – it strangely didn’t hurt that much, and quite a bit because of that traumatic memory of when I accidentally whisked my boob.

My yelping interrupted the film we were watching and my husband, who luckily is used to my violent sneezes, glanced across and I exclaimed to him, “My nipple got caught in my watch strap!!!”

He winced appropriately and turned his face back in the direction of the TV screen.  After all, whisk flashbacks are mine and mine alone.

To be honest, I did feel the need to re-discuss that old event, but then, for some reason, I thought better of it.

Now, at this point, you may be forgiven for wondering why my watch strap is far too big or if I have an exceptionally small nipple? I can ease your concerns on both counts. Well, I think I can. I mean, I haven’t actually compared my nipple to other ladies nipples as it’s not really polite to do so and I am, after all, British. But my suspicion is, that in terms of size, my nipple is completely normal. And my watch strap is not too big either, rather, I have to wear it slightly loose because it says to do so in the instructions. It’s one of those Fitbit things. You know, one of those watches that measure not only time, but also your pulse as well as the amount of steps that you take in a day. What that actually means is: that it’s a watch that controls your mood – if you achieve more than the 10,000 steps that it expects of you in your day, then you feel ON TOP OF THE WORLD and if you don’t, like yesterday, you fall into a deep black hole of depression – and from then on in you just wander back and forth to the fridge scouring for sugar. I really thought my Fitbit might have cut me some slack and given me a point step for each violent sneeze, after all I’m sure they must use up more calories than a simple step. In fact, they are so whole-body-consuming that each sneeze should really be classed as exercise.  But no, my Fitbit not only discounted my activity, but it also ensnared my nipple.

Shortly after my ‘event’ interrupted our viewing pleasure, we heard a little knock on the living room door. We thought about it for a brief moment and then we shouted unanimously, “Come in!” And a  no-longer-so-tiny daughter shuffled into the room. Crying.

My husband paused the film.

We asked her what was wrong. But she was so absorbed with her own tears that she couldn’t tell us anything. So I started the guessing game:

Are you ill? Did you have a bad dream? Have you forgotten about some piece of homework? Have you lost something? Are you dreading going back to school? Did your brother annoy you?

She couldn’t speak, only sob and shake her head.

So, I thought I’d try the cheer-her-up approach. “Do you know what just happened to mummy?” I asked, excitedly.

She shook her pretty little head again.

“I just sneezed so violently my nipple got caught in my watch strap!!!!”

She screwed up her face.

But the sobs seemed less….

So I continued, “Do you remember the time mummy whisked her nipple…?”

Kids. You gotta love ’em. They have their uses…

Life is full of surprises and not always where you’d expect them


tango face surprise

It’s nice to know, that even at 44 years old, life still has the opportunity to surprise me.

I mean, there are some things which remain pretty much the same. Like the fact that we rent a new car each year through my husband’s company. And the fact that, it takes me the whole year to get used to that new car. The whole year to learn to recognise it in the car park without pressing the central locking button on my key, to make the lights flash. Without that button I would never, ever find my car, let alone get into it.

To be fair, I do try really hard. I have stopped relying on the kids (who are nowadays, no longer always accompanying me on my journeys) to ‘know’ where I last left my vehicle,  and  I do my very best to focus in on car park letters and numbers and street names and notable landmarks and try to memorise them. Some times it works well, I’ve discovered, other times not quite so well.
But however well it works I always need my secret weapon central locking button.

Take last year’s new car as an example. I drove it to my local supermarket, carefully selected a space, in the very same row I always try to park in (that way I have a much better chance of finding my car). It’s a less popular row, as it’s a bit further away from the supermarket, but it still has a trolley park in it. I don’t mind the walk. It’s direct. If I have to wander round and round the car park, all the while sneakily pressing my ‘locate vehicle’ button in my pocket, it turns out that I have to walk much, much further, which is a horrible experience with a wayward trolley and besides, if I press my button too much, I end up needing a new key battery which means taking my key to the local car dealership and watching the salesman scratch his head while saying, “The battery doesn’t normally run out within a year, that is very strange…” OK, technically, I never did take my key back, I always made my husband do it: I was far too embarrassed.
So, as I said, last year, I parked my then new car in my favourite row, and then, on completion of my shopping, I strode back across the car park towards my new Mercedes. The row was almost empty so I confidently withdrew my key from my pocket, pointed it unwaveringly at my car and I pressed and I pressed but strangely, the lights remained unlit. I wondered, what on earth was wrong with the damned car then, in good faith, I opted for the ‘open boot’ button instead. I pressed and I pressed the button. Then I shook the key a little bit, as you do when today’s gadgets don’t seem to be performing properly, but that didn’t help one bit. The thought did flash across my mind that I’d potentially already worn out the battery in the key with all my pressing, but really? The car was only a couple of weeks old… It was at that moment that I spotted a woman standing, staring at me, mouth gaping… Apparently she was standing next to my car I mean, her car. By the time I’d actually noticed her, I was almost at her boot, which I thought was my boot, ready to unload my overflowing trolley. She stood there, protectively, as I glanced fervently around, that’s when I noticed, two spaces further along, another car with its boot wide open and its lights flashing like a full on disco.

You could think that was one of the surprises I’m talking about. And you’d be partly right. To be honest, I am quite used to attempting to gain entrée to a vehicle that is not my own. It all started when I was a kid. I was shoving an extremely heavy, headstrong trolley towards my parent’s car all by myself. I rammed the key in the boot’s lock and I could not understand, for the life of me, why it would not turn. My parents marched on past without more than a mere  glance in my direction. I did my best to twist the stubborn key in the lock. Then I started to notice odd things in the boot as I peered through the window. Like a blanket which wasn’t ours… Something wasn’t quite right… So I looked deeper into the car and I’m sure you can imagine my absolute shock when I noticed a couple, sitting in the two front seats, glaring at me through their rear window.

But the thing is: the car was exactly the same colour as ours, an unusual kind of rusty orange brown colour, and it was exactly the same model.

So really, I could be excused, after all, it was an easy mistake to make.

But last year, when I’d almost pressed my vehicle finder to death, and started rumours of a disco at the supermarket car park, I realised, as I saw the two cars parked practically side by side,  that they looked completely different. Mines was a Mercedes. Hers was a Ford. And to top it all, hers was a completely different colour.

That threw me a bit. I must admit.

And, to be honest, I suspect the stranger thought I was a proper loony.

Slightly more than a year has passed since that little incident and yet, again, we’ve swapped cars. The thing is, they’ve adapted the model. So it looks a bit different and it has new features.

I’m not so good with new features. Don’t get me wrong. I like them. I even get quite excited about them when my husband describes them or better still shows me them. But within ten minutes I’ve forgotten how to use them. I am starting to suspect that I am not really a very technical person.

Each car, each year has new features. As a matter of fact, last year’s car had an App that you could put on your phone to help you find it. I guess there are more people burning out the key battery than that head scratcher cared to admit!! My husband kindly put the App on my phone and taught me how to use it. To be fair, I have managed to check out whether my car is locked or not. It wasn’t. My husband thought this to be a silly feature, but I actually proved him wrong! Still, the main reason for using the App, car location, is something I haven’t managed to conquer. So I’ve stuck by my tried and tested method and kept my nickname: Battery Depletor.

But this year’s car is truly confusing incredible. It can even park all by itself if you can remember how to let it.

I was really surprised because you don’t use a key to start it: instead you press a button. And there is no hand brake. At all.

So, my mornings now go something like this: make sure the kids are ready for school. Run around looking for my car key (which is now just a set of buttons: one for car location unlocking the central locking, one for locking the central locking and one for opening and closing the boot). Yell at Tell all the kids necessary to get into the car. Press the unlock central locking button (which by the way, to my confusion, also on one occasion opened all of the windows?!?). Stand next to the car, trying to figure out what I should actually do with the key once I am in the car? Should I put it in my pocket? Because then I might, yet again, forget to lock the car… Once I’ve come to a decision about the key and I’m sitting in the car,  I then have an exhaustive search for the hand brake… Eventually it dawns on me that there is no longer a hand brake. Then I get excited that the lovely people at Mercedes decided to bless me with a camera at the back so I reverse the car out of the driveway without knocking over my or my neighbours bins and I drive off up the hill. On my return home I have to exit my vehicle. This means: press P for Park. Press the start/stop button to switch the car off. Locate the key. Leave the vehicle. Remember to lock the car and then carry on about my business. This may sound simple. But I have noticed that I’m pretty fixated on the key location aspect of the task, so much so, that I keep forgetting to switch off my car. To which my car responds by screaming at me “You bloody idiot!!” flashing red lights and beeping loudly.  Which sets me off with a little adrenalin rush for the start of my day.

Who needs coffee?

My son has surprised me a lot this year. He’s reached the grand old age of 16. This was not absolutely clear as he’s the semi-autistic/extreme ADHDer who is mostly driven by impulse. He has become extremely tall and even more gangly than before. He has grown a full head and shoulders above his eldest sister which he sees as his greatest achievement of the year, because way back at the start of 2016, his head was still bobbing along below hers.

We have been trying to encourage him towards other productive – not just growing – activities. He needs to find direction and no, not the astronaut one. The European Space Agency will not let an extreme ADHDer loose with their space rockets. It seems even the German military won’t let an extreme ADHDer loose with their tanks. Which, having watched my son grow up, I can kind of understand.

Last week I thought I’d encourage him in the kitchen. He has a natural cooking ability although he doesn’t seem to like to use it too much. I told him to dislodge himself from his tablet and he entered the kitchen and I warmly explained to him that I would make him my  masterchef in the kitchen. I said that Papa wants him to be his prodigy on the computer. But I nabbed him first. He didn’t look too impressed but I soldiered on. I informed him matter-of-factly that today, we’d be making pastry. I asked him if he knew how to make pastry and he said yes, I’d already taught him. But I carried on. I had yet again another mammoth headache but life goes on and I stipulated how much flour and how much butter A.D. should measure out. He did so, accurately. I’m more of a  ‘throw it together’, ‘that’ll do’ and a ‘bit extra for good luck’ kind of chef, in all honesty. I looked at the amount of flour and through my strange haze I thought something isn’t quite right here. Then I realised that actually, I exchanged the flour and the butter quantities. Aden corrected my mistake by himself and then I double checked his work and decided, through my fog, it was wrong again, so he re-fixed it. Once he was ready to continue, I noticed that he’d actually been right with his own correction and I had fluffed it up yet again. He painstakingly weighed out the grams as I profusely apologised and blamed my head.

Flour met butter in the processor and I relaxed a little bit as Aden pulsed away and produced perfect ‘breadcrumbs’. Then I told him, that the secret of making good pastry in the food processor lay in adding splashes of water slowly and pulsing the mix until the dough starts to come together, then removing it and doing the rest by hand.

Our pastry started to come together, I instructed  Aden to stop pulsing  and I turned my back for the briefest of moments.

Suddenly, I heard quite rigorous pulsing behind me. I span around and saw the arm of the food processor, no longer in the bowl but in the air, freely spinning with dough swinging from it.

Frankly, I yelled. Then I exclaimed how the dough needed to be used for cooking and not for spraying the walls.

In all fairness, it did seem like Aden was having the time of his life before the yelling.

I recovered my dough, took it to my floured work surface and prepared it to be chilled.

In the meantime we made toppings for the mini quiches we were creating.

Once the dough had chilled I talked Aden into buttering the creme brulee dishes while I rolled out the pastry.

Then I said, “Now we are going to bake the pastry blind. What does that mean?”

He bounced excitedly up and down, not something he’ll be able to do in our kitchen much longer if he continues to grow at such a rate, and squealed, “I know! I know!”

“Is it that you throw loads of ingredients in without looking and then you don’t know what you’ll be eating?”

“What??? No!!!”

He paused for the tiniest moment.

Then he started leaping around again. “I know. Is it that you poke the pastry with a stick like a blind person?”

“What??????????????? NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

He looked slightly deflated.

I handed him a fork and told him to prick the pastry then we’d place baking paper between the pastry and the ceramic baking beans. He pricked rather enthusiastically at first, all in all there were more holes than there was pastry. So I showed him how to do it properly and then returned the fork to him. Then he got the baking beans from the cupboard and asked if he could try one…

At least he asked. Which is more than the crazy dog did. When I accidentally rolled some off the tabletop onto the floor. She stole one. Ran off. Then spat it back out on to her blanket.

No wonder there always seem to be fewer ceramic baking beans in the tub with every use…

We did manage to finish the quiches and I have to say, they were delicious. But by the end I was thinking of offering Papa Aden as his prodigy…

Life rolls on. The end of the year is nigh and the kids only have a couple of days left at school. Aden rolled off to the bus stop this morning on his scooter. A few minutes later the phone rang. He was extremely upset. He’d started to feel rather squeamish on the bus then had suddenly vomited. Everywhere. Including on three fellow passengers.

He’d got off the bus. At some random bus stop and had no clue where he was. Bless. I had to look his whereabouts up on the internet and go and rescue him. He was covered from head to toe in sick. I am still not sure how I didn’t puke in the car because of the smell.

Yes, the new car.

I got him home, heaved as I put the sick filled clothes into the washing machine and then ran out to thoroughly disinfect the car. I have so learned since the Norovirus.

My husband pointed out that at least we don’t have to put up with that new car smell anymore…

My son may not be the next astronaut or the next tank driver. He may never decide to be a chef. But at least I know that when he projectile vomits, he does it properly.

I wanted to finish there. But my daughter arrived home from school. Calm but I could sense she had something on her mind.

It wasn’t that she’d had yet another nosebleed (she had, but that’s beside the point). She’s a first aider at her school and had to deal with an emergency. A boy had been pushed, and had hit his head against the edge of a table. He had an actual hole in his head. She said that she’s never seen so much blood. At one point she even saw clots that she momentarily thought might be bits of brain on the child’s neck. She remained calm and collected and helped patch the quite young boy up and sat with him, keeping him calm, until a relative could be on the scene to take him to a doctor. I am in awe. I would have fainted. Or have thrown up. Or both.

My kids never cease to amaze me.

Happy Christmas!!!

 

 

 

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glass cracked – water splashed


You cannot possibly know just how far one and a half litres of boiling water can actually stray.

I do.

I acquired this knowledge just this morning.

I am in the process of listening to my body and it told me, that after an eternity of feeling sluggish, what I could probably do with, is some kind of detox.

Now, my mind told me that it could not possibly face the starvation kind.

So I ransacked Pinterest and found a delicious looking recipe for a fat-flushing, kidney-resuscitating kind of drink.

I went to the local supermarket and purchased something for dinner and fat-flushing water additives.

Unfortunately, I’d raided Pinterest somewhat excessively, and I hadn’t actually bothered to write the necessary ingredients for my fat-flushing beverage down. So I got confused and bought a mixture of completely wrong, as in not-fitting-together, fat-flushers. Like ginger instead of mint and mandarins instead of grapefruit – that sort of thing. And I really, really wanted to do it by-the-Pin, because I’m new to the game.

So I found myself scrutinising Pinterest again, with the ingredients that I actually had to hand – I’m not setting foot outside the house again today, unless someone’s life depends on it: the ground is a mixture of ice and snow. I discovered an interesting recipe entitled ‘Ginger Orange Detox Water’. I also found an old orange in the fruit bowl.  Perfect!

I set to work in the kitchen, peeling knobbly ginger. Did I need to peel it? I just assumed so – it didn’t say in the recipe.  And I scrubbed the not-yet-mouldy orange. All good. Then I approached the jug issue.

I took two large glass jugs from the cupboard and tried to remember which one was the 1.5 litre jug and which one was the 1 litre jug. They both have completely different shapes, but I suspected that the one with the handle could hold more liquid than the other one.

I cleverly tested out my theory by filling the handled jug with cold water and pouring it into the other jug. Smugly, I proved myself right.

I then realised that I had a surplus of cold water in the bottom of the handled jug, and the recipe clearly stated to pour boiling water over my ginger. I don’t like to waste water, so I decided to tip the excess into a pot plant in the living room. In my haste, I more splashed than poured, which splattered a good splattering of soil up the living room wall. The dog was useless. She didn’t come anywhere near in an attempt to lick up the mess for me, like she regularly does with spilt coffee or squirted apple juice. No, she just lay in her cosy bed and looked on. And I had to wipe the wall down all by myself.

I raced back to the kitchen, to my peeled ginger and ready-to-be-sliced not-yet-mouldy orange and popped the kettle on.

I did notice that the jug really was quite cold. But I felt, you know, somewhat confident.

I did think, for a brief moment, cold glass jug, mega-hot water, good idea? And I think, that might be why, in hindsight, when I poured the water into the jug, directly after it boiled, I stepped back, hesitantly, from the worktop.

The glass cracked and the water overwhelmed the work surface.

The dog sprinted to my side.

Water cascaded from the counter to the floor. An immense puddle formed and I swathed the whole room in kitchen towel.

You may think that 1.5 litres isn’t much volume, when it’s sitting there all calm and collected, minding its own business, in a glass jug. But when you set it free, be warned, it will take over your kitchen.

It will drip down rapidly filling your drawers. And you will wish, that you had never invested in all that Tupperware. All those pesky lids and lunch boxes, all those freezer tubs that are never stacked, just thrown into the drawer, causing all kinds of calamities: space loss, drawer jams and never being able to find the right lid for the right base at any given time. It will drench your cutlery and you will be forced to completely empty the drawer that you’ve been meaning to ‘clean out’ for yonks. You’ll discover that you have an odd number of chopsticks and 10 medicine spoons when you really only need one. The McDonald’s straw that you kept, pristinely wrapped in it’s paper packet will be soggy and you won’t know what to do with the wrapper because the paper recycling people clearly stated ‘No wet paper’.

You may well make the mistake of wiping the floor first. Unwinding realms of shop’s own kitchen roll that you’d stockpiled during a special offer period, and hurling it at the floor. It may seem like the right thing to do, because the dog is there, looking for a random lick. And you’re not sure there aren’t any tiny pieces of glass lurking in the liquid. And you don’t want to splash through a puddle just to get to the work surface and then traipse moist footprints across the room each time you walk to the bin and back.

Intermittently you might take a desperate shot at the drawers. Ramming in wads of save-the-kitchen roll.

But it will all be pointless. As you’ll realise when you come face to face with the onslaught on the tabletop.

A thin layer of water covers everything.  You’ll end up yelling at your cheap-buy kitchen roll because it has no soaking power whatsoever. The lake on the tabletop will remain steady and sure.

The water will have swamped everything. Except for, that is, the plant in need of water on the windowsill. You will have to dry the kettle base out for the upcoming year to make absolutely sure there are absolutely no dangers of electric shocks in the near future.

You will swish and swash the water towards the bread and away from the bread in a desperate attempt to mop the surface. It won’t make any difference. And when you finally pick up the bread, you’ll discover yet another puddle underneath.

Then you’ll be horrified to spot medication. Floating in the pond. You’ll let out a shriek and start to pray that your daughter’s brand new inhaler is still fully functioning and not now a muggy, chemical clog.

Next to it you’ll spot a packet of fallen-from-the-shelf travel sickness tablets and you’ll pop them, merrily, on the hot radiator. In full-on rescue mode. You will regret this later. When you double check the instructions which read: “Do not store over 25°C.” And you will have to throw them away.

The Italian biscuits you’ve been savouring since Christmas, as a treat for your coffee, will bathe themselves in water and you’ll wish you’d pursued the match-the-Tupperware-parts test instead of clipping the packet haphazardly closed.

You may choose to rescue your freshly peeled ginger, and without too much consideration, pop it into a random glass in the glass cupboard. This moment will come back to haunt you. While you’re still deliberating if the ginger is a safe-to-consume, glass-splinter-free zone, and thus forgetting leaving the ginger in the said glass, in the said cupboard, you will face a barrage of questions in the  ‘Why is there ginger in a glass in the cupboard, mum?’ test later on. Questions such as:

  • Does it keep flies away?
  • Are you trying to make the glass taste of ginger?
  • Does the flavour intensify when it’s sitting out?

The Fairy liquid bottle, will, by this time, be spawning its own bubbles and as you see them grow; you may have a flashback to that time you first tried to utilise a twin tub.

You left the twin tub on, all alone and on returning found the room completely filled with bubbles. You had to call your flatmate’s mother to come and assist you to de-bubble the room.

You’ll wipe the tabletop and mop your brow and then notice your already cleaned floor is totally wet again.

You’ll realise at this point that you are very much in need of reinforcements. Coffee and a biscuit. So you’ll open the cutlery drawer, automatically, and discover, that the bloody thing is full of saturated kitchen roll and even more water. You’ll end up dismantling the built in cutlery tray and finding an overflow of water underneath. Which is snaking its way into the plastic crap drawer below. You will be forced, by water, to empty out each bit of not-so-fantastic plastic, and wish, that’s what you’d just have done earlier. You’ll have to wash and dry: all of the lids, all of the lunch boxes, the snack cups, the water bottles, the tumblers, the not-stacked stackable freezer boxes and the picnic plates.

Then you’ll have to re-mop the floor.

There is only one happy moment in this sad story: the moment you’ll realise that 1.5l of water could not stray as far as the carousel cupboard. With all it’s flour and sugar and teabags. 

You’ll sigh a relieved sigh, salvage your Italian biscuits and listen to your body – which says: gorge.

 

Fever Diva


When I was a little girl, around, I don’t know, maybe seven or eight years old, I picked up one of those childhood illnesses. I’m not sure which one it was. All I know is, that I had an extremely high temperature.

It was so high that I started hallucinating, seeing heads with no bodies and matchstick people doing strange exercises over by my mum’s wardrobe.

It freaked my mum right out, I can tell you.

The problem is: it didn’t stop there.

After that illness, any time I had a low grade fever, I’d start hallucinating again.

When I was a kid, I’d get sick and then, you know, hallucinate. And my mum would become unglued.

I’d stay healthy for a while and then I’d pick up a cold or a sickness bug and then suddenly I’d be shoving away floating faces and yelling at stick men and my mum would be ruing the day she ever gave birth to such an oddity.

When I was 17 my hallucinations and I moved out. We moved around a bit and then settled down in a little house, in a little village.

My fevers and my hallucinations had become more of a biennial event, so, in general, I kept them pretty much to myself.

Then my first husband moved himself in.

He stayed overnight, left in the morning and returned in the evening with some clean underwear. He stayed the night again, then left in morning and returned with a chest of drawers, for his clean underwear. He stayed the night and then left in the morning and returned in the evening with pretty much all of his stuff.

He, luckily,  was only confronted by my visions three or four times, as he trotted his stuff right back out again after about seven years. He found it all a bit odd, but to be honest, he was more exasperated by my lack of interest in wearing two identical socks simultaneously, and the fact that my tool kit consisted of: a hammer, a bag of carpet tacks, Blu-Tack and some felt pens. The latter concern was not unreasonable. After all, when he went to the loo and yanked on the toilet tissue, it was surely fair enough, that he was horrified, that not only the whole roll, but also the holder and a heap of plaster, came flying towards him.

Looking back, I could have yelled at him for destroying my handiwork with his man-strength.

Instead, I was too busy explaining that that rubbery stuff really was Blu-Tack, despite it not being blue. That, I had cleverly coloured it in with the felt pens so it would match the wall colour.

He did not share my enthusiasm. Instead, he went around dismantling things and replacing them with screws and something called ‘raw plugs’.

It took him a good couple of years to stop shaking his head and to appreciate my talent.

I remember the exact day quite clearly.

We’d been housesitting for my parents for a week as they’d taken a holiday. We’d fed the plants and watered the cat.

On their return I wanted the house to be spick and span. So I did all the washing, changed all the bedding, scrubbed down the kitchen and the bathroom, I even popped out to the local florist and bought flowers as a distraction from the smell of polish. All I needed to do was hoover and wash the floor.

I got the hoover out and sucked away on the deep pile carpet in the hall. Then I entered the kitchen, with the brand new cushioned linoleum. I paused for a second, and then I heard a horrifying noise. The hoover, it turned out, had different settings depending on how deep the pile of your carpet was, or in this case, wasn’t.

I pushed and I pulled but the gurgle persisted so I switched the hoover off.

I lay it on it’s back and then glanced at the floor.

I think my heart actually stopped for a second as it sunk in.

The bloody hoover had sucked a chunk right out of my mum’s new, extortionately priced, linoleum.

Driven by lack of linoleum funds and a healthy amount of fear – my mum is not a person you want to piss off – I raided every drawer in the house until I found, no, not felt pens but crayons.

Felt pens wash off. Crayons are wax. Linoleum is frequently washed.

And so I went to work, crayoning the upper linoleum pattern onto the lower linoleum backing with as much haste as my shaky hands could muster.

My first husband, knowing my mother, went into a full blind panic.

When I’d finished, and tested and retested my work, with a mop and bucket, I stepped back and asked him, “What do you think?” I saw that fleeting you-are-my-heroine look flash across his face and I knew, I just knew that all my Blu-Tack colouring-in had been in preparation for that precise moment.

We hurriedly finished the house, desperate to make a quick get away before my parents’ and siblings’ arrival.

I may be mistress of fraud with a  crayon but I cannot lie through my teeth, even if my life depends on it.

We were close to leaving when my parents showed up. So close. We were almost at the back door, in the kitchen. Which meant that the subsequent conversation took part, in it’s entirety, in the kitchen. We enquired about their holiday and made our ‘we need to go ASAP’ excuses, and the whole time, the treacherous cat, stared at the crayoned hole in the linoleum. The same cat that I’d just watered for a week tried to give my game away!!

Years passed. My mum renewed her lino. I renewed my husband. And life trundled along.

My second husband eradicated my sock nonsense and bought himself a bumper tool kit. But the real icing on the cake was that he arrived in my life complete with a full blown cat allergy.

I aged and developed various ailments. The children kindly brought home and shared around all the bugs, nits and noroviruses that they could catch at school. The frequency of my fevers increased steadily, to every few months, rather than every couple of years.

And there had been a new development. With an even slighter rise in temperature, I found myself having restless nights and on waking that I’d turned upside down in my bed. Yup, suddenly I’d wake up in the morning and my face would be, well… facing my husband’s hairy feet.

On Sunday, our youngest child woke us up at 4am having grabbed an illness which ran pretty much like this: vomit, 40°C fever, bad headache, sore neck; which thus sent us into a tailspin, having already gone through one child fighting against meningitis. So we did the mega-alert, test-the-temperature-every-fifteen-minutes for any increase, thing. Actually, we were so anxious that we checked every five minutes. For two and a half hours. Then we started to notice a decrease, so we gave her some Nurofen and some water, and tried to sleep a little.

Her illness developed: sore throat, tissue boxes worth of snot, nose bleeds, a sore eye. The child, who normally puts the bounce in the word bounce, lolled around on the sofa.

Her fever stayed fairly steady for three days.

Three whole days.

For three days, she breathed her hot breath into my face as I stuck the thermometer in her ear and nursed her brow.

For three days, she passed me snot filled tissues and empty glasses so I could replenish her water.

For three days, I was filled with dread because at 38°C, I feel the need, somehow, to cuddle up to my husband’s feet. For three days, I despaired because at 38.5°C, I visualise hovering heads and exercising matchstick men.

What on earth would 40°C mean for me?

On the fourth night, one feverless child lay in her bed and slept soundly. Her mother, on the other hand, kept waking up, thinking that, at any moment, she would be violently sick. Then the feeling would subside, she’d lie back down and snooze again.

At around 4am she found herself sitting, bolt upright in bed, thrashing her arm wildly. Her stunned husband called out to her, “Are you having a nightmare again?”

“No.” She said matter-of-factly. “There’s a scarecrow.”

Because she could quite blatantly see a green grass (rather than brown straw) scarecrow, pogoing in the middle of her bed.

Now I know what happens at 40°C. I have an even better imagination.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You may wish you were a fly on the wall in my house


I sometimes wish I owned a dictaphone to record those ‘special moments’.

Like yesterday, when we visited the local shopping centre. It wasn’t a planned visit. We ended up there because I was really sure we had an appointment at the local hospital. But it turns out, that my racing through town, in desperation to get one of my loved ones there on time, was a bit over-zealous. As the appointment I dragged everyone to is not for another two weeks.

So we found ourselves within the centre of town, with nothing to do. And the rain started. So I suggested the shopping centre. Some people wholeheartedly agreed that it was a good idea. One family member did not. But we jumped back in the car anyway and continued our journey at a more leisurely pace.

Lori, Akasha and I browsed a couple of the shops while the grumpy one stood outside, looking, well, grumpy.

In one of the smaller boutiques Akasha, who as you might remember, is eight, blurted out, at full volume, I should add: “Is this shop so small because it’s not successful?”

I did my best to blissfully ignore her question by pointing out a top to my picky and in-need-of-clothes teenager. But she informed me, in no uncertain terms, that the said top was “ugly”. She did not whisper and the shop was, as I’ve clarified, quite small. We were also the only customers in it, so the assistant was clearly focussed on us. I decided the best option was to make a quick getaway.

Back to the grumpy one.

The summer holidays are drawing to a close and there have been oh so many of those moments.

Like just a few short minutes ago.

Akasha (the creator) bound into the room and jubilated, “I made myself a necklace from my pants string.”

Indeed, around her neck she wore a piece of knicker elastic. Removed from the panties she’s currently wearing creating a ‘matching outfit’ effect.

My teenage son, (the health and safety officer) analysed the situation and noted, in his usual very matter-of-fact tone: “A health and safety person might describe that as a strangulation device.”

To which Lori (our quick-witted ninja) replied, “Like my hands!

 

 

A brief interlude


My recent crankiness, unreliableness and remoteness can all be put down to one cause:

Headaches.

I am like a full on headache-monster. With angry red smoke billowing from my nostrils and everything.

The latest spate started in about October. It’s now July. I am demented. My gut feeling is that it was a sinus infection that set it all off. I don’t go with my head feeling anymore. It tends to lead me down the path of confusion.

I got a cold. A regular cold. As did most of the members of my family. Except, everyone else was blowing their noses and, you know, just generally increasing the value of tissues. Where as, I, only had a slight sore throat and sneezed a couple of times.

Everyone rejoiced, “Mum is fit and well!”

But I panicked, somewhat. I increased my inhalers and bought shares in Sinupret. Because, from past experience, I’m well aware, if it doesn’t stream out of my nose like a gushing river then it either clogs up my lungs or my head.

I continued to breathe easily but I stopped thinking straight.

I shoved sprays up my nose. Washed Sinupret down with gallons of water and rubbed peppermint oil on my temples and forehead.

The latter sometimes served as a welcome distraction, as the oil has a nasty habit of running from the aforementioned forehead into the eye.

And that burns baby.

Enough to make you forget you ever had a headache.

But it lacks longevity. So, it’s by no means a cure.

I fought on with nose showers and steam inhalations and raw garlic.

I am a truly horrible patient. I hate being ill. It stifles my get up and go. And without my get up and go, I’m a right old mess.

So I battled my ‘cold’ and I won. But soon enough I realised that I’d only won a battle and not the war.

I apparently got attacked by one cold virus after another and it seemed like my sinuses got more and more stuffed and the company who make Sinupret had to weaponise me with stronger, more kickass versions of their product.

I knocked back painkillers like an addict. Though I wondered if they did any good at all.

I saw doctors, of course.

They cheered me on in my endeavour and handed me prescriptions that made no difference. At all.

So, I visited a specialist in June, she smeared cold, slimy gel all over my cheekbones and my forehead and told me she could see nothing. At all.

Apart, that is, from a large cyst in the sinus cavity which she reckoned would not be responsible for such continuous pain.

She informed me that there are cavities she was unable to see with her machine and that I would need an MRI.

I asked her for medication. She declined.

I told her Ibuprofen doesn’t seem to help. She said, “No, it wouldn’t.”

We called all the radiologists within 50 miles but none could bang magnetic waves around my head for more than six weeks.

I despaired. I whined. I ordered my husband to learn acupressure from the internet and he, in turn, dented various areas on my head, face and hands. The relief was minute. Even trivial.

I threatened my head, that if it didn’t stop bloody hurting, I would bash it off a wall. It didn’t listen.

There was one other thing that the specialist had mentioned. My neck.

Now, my neck has been a regular source of headaches for me over the years. I’ve repeatedly had physiotherapy. It’s one of the areas I carry my stress, along with my shoulders and my jaw. But also a physio had once told me that the first vertebra in my neck wasn’t sitting correctly, which would lead to me suffering repeatedly from headaches. One of Joni’s friends had been having migraines and had been for a procedure known as ‘AtlasPROfilax‘. Her headaches had been cured but she remained sceptical about the procedure.

For one thing, it costs 220 Euros. That’s £153. Or $238.

But my husband persuaded me.

I was given an appointment, fairly quickly, and my husband drove me there. I had reached the point where I could no longer drive the car. My concentration had gone and I felt like a liability to other drivers.

The first thing that got me excited was the sofa. I kid you not: it was made of recycled cardboard. Here it’s here. Isn’t it brilliant?

It distracted me from my nervousness. For a wee moment. But that was all I needed, because then the physio invited me into his treatment room. I dragged my husband in to assist me with decision making.

During my many years here in Germany I have met many, many doctors, nurses and therapists. But it would be fair to say I’ve never met any quite like this one. He felt, to me, to be more like a salesman than any kind of therapist.

My husband is a pessimist and was also the one carrying the wallet so the holistic ‘healer’ knew he was the one who needed to be convinced.

I was told to stand up and things were pointed out about the way my feet pointed, that one shoulder was higher than the other and the like. If I remember correctly, he also noted that one boob was larger than the other. I’m sure that was the case, because I have a vague memory of wondering how appropriate such talk was. I was living in a land of fuzz and confusion at the time, so I may actually have imagined that part of the conversation.

My husband announced that he couldn’t really notice the minimal difference in shoulder height and that it was regularly the case that one boob would be bigger than the other.

It could be that I attempted to block that last bit out and that is the real cause of my confusion. I am a jealous gal. And I bury my head in the sand about previous relationships my soul mate has had.

The two men chatted on. I was made to lie on the bed, on my tummy, with my legs up in the air. Supposedly a pen was balanced on one of my feet. I turned my head to one side and then the other. My feet moved too, and so the pen was never aligned with the other foot. I didn’t feel anything I just did as I was told and begged inwardly that someone or something would cure my damned headache.

I would describe myself as a realistic optimist. I am an optimist but I also like to be realistic about things. So I glanced around for some sign of science. The healer/physio/car salesman – whatever you want to call him –  showed us the bone, called the atlas, which your head sits on and keeps the rest of your spine aligned (or something like that) with one of those plastic skeletons on a stand that doctors have. He told us, when we are born, it’s already misaligned. He told us that is the case for everyone and that everyone needs to have this procedure done.

Now, I know that I told you that I’m an optimist. But this was the moment when my inner pessimist started to kick in. Everyone? He babbled on about evolution.

That was it. That was the science. The remaining 20 minutes or so, he ‘sold’ us evidence of his healing ability by telling us about various local doctors who, along with their families, had come for AtlasPROfilax at his clinic. He even dropped in a few names in order to convince us.

I should probably mention that he did also look at my neck for a few seconds.

I asked him what the procedure entailed and to my horror he pulled out a patented tool, which, I thought looked rather like a poking vibrator, and told us, quite excitedly that this tool vibrates (I wasn’t really surprised by that point) which softens the tissue and muscle around the atlas so that it can move into the correct position, from which it can never move again.

Then he asked us a question, befitting a true salesman:

Do you trust me?

Now had I been fit and well…

Had he had a healthy specimen standing there before him…

Had I not been driven to the point of no return by a raging headache…

I could have stomped on his foot, told him to shove his obscure looking vibrator, yelled at my husband to grab the sofa while I nabbed the very cool plastic skeleton (for educational purposes, naturally). In order to to teach him about the consequences of conning all of those doctors and that 91 year old female patient he told us about. And about the importance of data protection.

I wanted to shout, “Why the hell would I trust you? You just broke medical confidentiality! I would be a complete lunatic to trust you!! I don’t want you anywhere near me with your vibration rotation contraption!!! You just insulted my boobs you cocky scoundrel!!!!”

Instead though, I just said, “Do it!”

I was that desperate.

I can tell you there was nothing soft or soothing about the treatment. My neck was intensely beaten by a pokey vibrator. In fact, in the days that followed it was clear to me that I had some internal bruising.

He made me stand again and strangely one of my feet seemed to stand naturally straighter than before. He did the pen test again and apparently, no matter how I turned my head, my feet stayed in the same position and therefore were always aligned with the pen.

I went to the receptionist who insisted on a cash payment. I was given a receipt from a copy book that could have been bought at any stationers.

Which all, of course fuelled my inner and my husband’s outer pessimists.

But within a couple of days my headache was gone.

Gone, I tell you. GONE.

And it stayed away for about two weeks.

Then I caught a bloody cold again.

But I have a free, follow up appointment in two days. And my MRI is now only just over a week away.

I’m feeling distinctly optimistic.

Vibration rotation anyone?

 

 

Sickness wreaks havoc


People often ask me how on earth I manage with four children. I tell them: it’s a little extra work, yes, like a lot of washing (think of mountain ranges like the Alps), and sometimes I have to make difficult choices, because there are times, when I get double booked into events, like two parent evenings occurring on the same day in different schools, which also happen to be miles apart, at the very same time. You might question what the odds are on that happening. I can tell you, they are apparently quite high. I can also tell you that I have quite active children, between them they regularly: sing in choirs, partake in drama class, do ninjutsu, climb, geocache, canoe, ballet dance, play keyboard, go to youth fire service, swim, cycle, play bass guitar and arch – play archery? Go arching? – Whatever! So, sometimes I find myself double-booked into two audiences at once or as a taxi-driver expected to drive in two opposing directions simultaneously.

When it comes to deciding which child to opt in favour of, my general rule of thumb is to select my favourite at that moment. That tends to be the one who has been the most helpful and/or has bribed me with the most sweets or cake.

Once I’ve worked out the logistics, I normally find most tasks doable, in a hectic kind of way. I try my best to be to organised and it comes together in a perfect picture of organised chaos. And so we toddle along. Until, that is, someone gets sick.

Sickness wreaks havoc…

It all started last week. With all of those children doing all of those activities and meeting all of those other children all of the time it is quite clear, that they are going to bring some germs home at some point or other. So no element of surprise there then. Just bad timing.

Aden came home with a cold and being the generous, sharing boy that he is, he donated some of his germs to Lori.

Now that left Lori in a fix. Normally, she would not bat her eye at a mere cold but I knew something was seriously wrong when our obsessed Ninja informed me that she didn’t feel fit enough for sword training. Then, that very night, she woke up with a high fever and a pair of very sore ears!

Poor timing indeed. The following day she was due at one of the final rehearsals of her much rehearsed school play.  The same play her older sister would also be playing in.

In order to realise the significance of this development, I probably need to give you some background information.

The play, “Momo”, is one they have been working on for about six months. Both daughters have several parts. One main character and and a a few minor roles.

It’s an adaptive, evolving piece. The kids explore their characters in depth and change the script constantly until it fits. They add in music, songs, and various theatrical effects and decide what props and costumes to use. They keep the essence of the story but they vamp it up, modernise it and make it their own.

During this time lines constantly change and minor roles are passed from person to person. Depending on who’s getting changed for the next scene and who’s currently on stage at the time.

So, although they have the script months in advance they don’t actually learn their lines until much later on.

Now let me put your mind at rest. Lori knew all of her lines last Thursday when she got sick. So to miss the rehearsal on Friday wasn’t great but it wasn’t a disaster either.

But Joni

Joni has been taking her ‘Abitur’ – her High School Diploma in the last few months and officially she left school about two weeks ago, but then she disappeared off to the Austrian border to do some work experience.

So, just to refresh, while others were getting sick and learning their lines Joni was galavanting around Europe discovering what it’s like to be a teacher taking kids off on a school camp. She had a whale of a time.

To be fair, she took her lines with her. But she was too busy having a whale of a time she didn’t have time to learn them.

I should perhaps point out something here, Joni is more of a ‘last-minute’ sort of person.

Where were we?

Ah, yes, so Lori was sick. In bed with a fever. Weak. Being force-fed vitamins, throat lozenges and very spicy home-made soup by her doting mother and Joni had returned and was back in the midst of rehearsals.

She decided the weekend would be a very good time to learn her lines and she also had Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday – during the day – because the play wouldn’t be on until Wednesday evening. (As in, this evening.)

But Saturday was Akasha’s day to shine. She’d been rehearsing her butt off too. Quite literally. She’d been dancing not only at her rehearsals but also in the living room, in the garden and well, just about anywhere there’s been space to dance in, if truth be told. I am her witness. I’ve been forced to be her constant audience for many a month now. I swear, if I didn’t have an arthritic knee, a dodgy hip and well, just a general lack of bendiness, I could actually do the dance alongside her. Without any rehearsals or anything.

So, Saturday was filled with rehearsals and hairdos and checking in on the sick one and then, finally, many beautiful ballet performances by many excited, but graceful children. One of the best moments was when one of the littlest dancers just stopped dancing, looked for her mum in the audience and gave her a big smile and a wave.

Joni used to dance too, so she found herself thoroughly involved in the day’s experiences.

To celebrate Akasha’s tear-rendering performance – I admit to being hopeless, I need to carry tissues en masse to every event – we took the two girls out for a celebratory dinner, which ended in Akasha having quite an entertaining sugar shock after being given a bit of meringue in her free ice cream. It was especially entertaining for the waitress. I don’t think she’d ever witnessed a child ‘drunk’ on sugar in her restaurant before, giggling hysterically and then yelling, “No, no, I  can’t take any more!!!!” when she brought the customary little shortbreads with the bill.  I attempted to hide behind a soggy tissue, with no avail.

Sunday arrived and Lori rose from her bed. But every time she walked, she stumbled. She felt really dizzy, but incredibly, believed that it would be a good idea to go to school and then rehearsals the following day. I can be quite an authoritative parent. I told her “No, not on your nelly!”

By the evening Joni seemed to be wearing a scarf. And a pullover. Even though it was about 28°C outside.

The following day, I made one child rest and sent two off to school and one ferreted around a bit and then left for her rehearsals. She told me she felt fine, but she appeared to have become attached to her scarf and her pullover.

Apparently, when she approached the teachers at the theatre, they became very alarmed. I do understand why. She did look rather peaky.

Tuesday, as in yesterday, I would like to say, came and went without much ado. However, the truth of the matter is: no day in this house ever comes and goes without some drama or other. We could be a reality TV show keeping the public thoroughly entertained.

So Tuesday arrived and the first issue of the day was that lovely little dancing Akasha was no longer dancing. Instead she was wheezing, rather emphatically. She’s asthmatic and we gave her her medicine. But she didn’t get any better at all.

No, actually that was the second issue of the day. The first issue was that the dog spewed. She tried to be considerate. She attempted to tidily regurgitate just on her cushion. But she was out of luck, some of it oozed off onto the floor.

Joni and Lori insisted on going to all day rehearsals, as in, ten hours of rehearsals. They were croaking like frogs and although Lori could walk in a straight line once again, Joni looked like she’d undergone some kind of surgery to become attached to that scarf and pullover. They insisted that they were fine. They have that ‘the show must go on’ attitude of true professionals.

My husband took Akasha to the doctor as I was starting to feel a wee bit under the weather and hadn’t slept too well. He returned with antihistamine – the doctor didn’t believe our littlest had a cold, instead he thought she was taking some kind of allergic asthma attack. We were thinking more along the lines of bronchitis and I’m still unconvinced.

Joni and Lori arrived home after their ten hour session. Lori lay on the sofa and went into a deep, deep sleep for over two hours. I tell you, we could have had a party in that room and she wouldn’t have noticed a thing.

Joni did not look too well at all.

We ate together. I added extra vegetables for nutrition and meat and fish. As well as eggs and bread.

I don’t think it was the most well-conceived plan I ever had.

A couple of hours later, Joni appeared, looking grey. Not because she’d finally removed her brightly coloured scarf. Her blood pressure had dropped, she had a fever and she ended up in the bathroom hugging the bowl for longer than would have been necessary, I am sure, had I not stuffed her with so much food.

Lori wrote to the dramatic drama students on her Whatsapp group “Shit, shit, shit, my sister’s being sick and sick and sick!” In the hours that followed, I believe there were a lot of frantic messages to-ing and fro-ing in the group which involved many swear words and exclamation marks.

I, for my part, just started force feeding the kid again. This time I fed her ‘good bacteria’ and electrolytes. I sent her to bed and expected her to, you know, lie down and sleep, after all that stomach wrenching.

I wandered into her room armed with a just-in-case-you-can’t-make-it-to-the-loo bowl and instructions for her Whatsapp-ing sister to wake me should she be sick again.

And I found her, sitting on her bed, learning her bloody script!!!

So, today’s the day. I got up extra early this morning. A whole hour earlier than I’d actually planned. That’s because Akasha woke me to tell be that she couldn’t get any air. I gave her her inhaler and took her into my bed with me, but she enlightened me, that there would be even less air in my room, because there were now three people in it.

She took her medicine. The doctor warned us that it would make her tired. That’s not proved to be the case. We’re almost in sugar shock Duracell bunny territory once again. She’s been being a mermaid (which did involve some under-the-table-with-legs-tied-together style maneuvers), she’s played her keyboard, read, sewn costumes for her dolls (she has some big teddy wedding event on the horizon, allegedly) all the while wheezing and coughing away.

Joni and Lori left for their final rehearsals, but only after I was sure their temperatures were normal and Joni had managed to retain a whole slice of toast and a couple of drinks. The Whatsapp group had been informed every step of the way.

I packed them up with tissues (supposedly there had been a nose dripping issue in one of the still scenes), an array of lozenges (luckily Joni is mainly playing an old man, so her new voice is quite appropriate, but she also plays a high pitched doll so we needed that avenue covered), a lot of water, peppermint tea and money so that they would be prepared for all eventualities, including, of course, shopping.

The moment of truth will soon be upon us.

Will Joni remember her lines? Will Akasha make it through the performance without being sick in the bucket, which she feels she might just now need to take with her? (She’s been looking forward to her sisters’ performance for many months and nothing, NOTHING is going to stop her being there!!) Will Aden record the show upside down like I did with Akasha’s ballet performance at the weekend? Will the audience notice nose drip? Will voices be lost? Will the high pitch doll sound like an old man, who smoked all his life? Will Lori repeat her coughing fit from this morning and spit mucus into a tissue?

The moment of truth is almost upon us.

I, like Akasha, can’t wait. Six whole months I’ve been excited about this production. And I know that if any two girls know how to pull it out of the bag through sheer determination and enviable spirit, it will be those two.

Besides, Joni only needed to turn up at her drama group today to receive a round of applause. She’s already on a roll.

 

 

Postponed post results in wonky weight of weird woman?


I could tell you that everything is running swimmingly at the moment. But I’d be lying to you.

I could tell you that beyond the odd hiccup or two, all is well in my world.

But I’d be leading you straight up, a very wonky, garden path.

I could tell you that my son’s voice is not breaking. That my house is bright, clean and sparkly. That my washroom does not have the nickname ‘The Alps’. I could even say that I didn’t just get lost trying to find the hall where my daughter is doing her ballet rehearsal for her show tomorrow night.

But I’d be telling porkies.

Instead, it would be truthful to say, that it was the very same hall she did a different show in last year. The very same hall I’ve walked past with the dog. The one that’s quite big and has a car park and is, once found, relatively easy to find.

I can also tell you that I had to ask a postman for directions and that he had no clue either. But to be fair, the post-people have only just returned after a lengthy strike. And it could well be that they hired some new post-people to catch up with the enormous mountain of mail that the people at the post office were talking about this morning. I was there. Picking up a parcel. Not sending anything. I’m still too afraid to. I have images in my head of my delayed birthday presents and my postponed get well soon cards being distinctly smaller and more loseable than a needle in a haystack.

I am particularly perturbed by the loseable image now. Seeing that the postman I met didn’t seem to know his dance halls.

I could tell you my bathroom scales are broken. After all, it’s what I told my husband until I suddenly discovered I could no longer fit in pretty much any of my summer clothes. Without forcing them and hearing tiny ripping sounds, that is. At first, I assumed the washing machine must be on the blink as there seemed to have been some shrinkage.

I could tell you that I didn’t just console myself with ice cream. And that I am not presently eyeing up a Wholenut.

Sorry, that I have not just eaten the said Wholenut.

But I’d be bare-faced lying.