The Potty Training Of The Beth

I know. It's been a while in the coming.

And, if I'm honest, it's mainly because it doesn't even remotely compare to the wonder hideousness which was THIS.

Yes, Beth has defiled fulfilled all my wildest dreams by being actually rather quite good at potty training. By which I means she's weed... in the toilet. As opposed to on her own feet. SO not a child of mine.

The down side is, it makes for rather less entertaining blog material. Essentially, I told her on Day 1 to wee in the toilet. And - well - she did.

On the plus side (from a blogging perspective, as opposed to a sanity perspective), poos were something of a different story. The afternoon I spent screaming, covered in shit, with one arm entrapping the poo encrusted toilet and one arm pulling poo smeared wipes from the u-bend... well, that's this blog at its finest. Just be thankful I'm sparing you the gory detail.

Two weeks on though, and even poos appear to be sorted. (Crosses fingers and hopes desperately is not tempting fate.)

AS OPPOSED TO MR JAMIE. Who emerged from school yesterday with the most horrific looking stain on the back of his school trousers, right between his butt cheeks.

"JAMIE!"

"Mummy?"

"Um ... did you have a good day?"

"Yes. Why did you shout at me like that?"

"Um ... I was just worried."

"Worried about what? About those people with guns?"

"Not so much. I was worrying about your trousers."

"Why?" Turns to survey his trousers.

"DON'T TOUCH YOURSELF!"

"Whaaaat... why?"

"I mean, don't touch your trousers. At all. Even if they're falling down."

"But they are falling down."

"Never mind."

"But my bottom might come out."

"It's not the worst thing that might happen right now."

"What is that..."

"DON'T TOUCH IT!"

"Oh, is it poisonous?"

"That's the least of your worries."

"What should I do Mummy?"

"Get home. Remove your trousers. OUTSIDE OF THE HOUSE. Run yourself under hot water for at least half an hour. With soap. We'll burn the trousers. And then - only then - we might all be okay."

Potty training has NOTHING on 5 year old boys.

Things I Should Probably Get Tattooed On My Face

Because then it would stop me having to say them for, like, THE MILLIONTH TIME. Whether at home or at work, there are very few situations in which I cannot think the below would be useful to have as a permanent reminder on my forehead:

• I don't know; neither do I care

• Go to the naughty step

• I'm sorry for shouting

• We do not take our pants off in public

• Go. The fuck. To sleep.

• DON'T poo on the floor

• Send gin

• Why?

• No

• Just BECAUSE

• BECAUSE I FUCKING SAID SO

And Still More Mr Jamie-isms

Because, following on from this post here, I promised them to you. The very finest of this blog's archives. Enjoy.

On why he was laughing: "I'm laughing ... hahahahaha ... I'm laughing ... hahahahaha ... I'm laughing because I pulled down my trousers AND I SAW MY WILLY."

On reasons why I shouldn't be allowed to come on holiday: "Well, she has been a very good Mummy at home, but at work she was naughty and she hit someone. She said it was an accident and she said sorry, but I don't know if she can come now." (THIS IS NOT TRUE!)

On not going to bed: "Mummy. Daddy. I have come to tell you ... that I don't think I WANT to go to bed. So I think I'm going to stay up instead and have a little play."

On watching me try on clothes, before pulling back the changing room curtain: "Look everyone. Me and Beth have got all our clothes on, but that my Mummy there, and she has not got any clothes on AT ALL, because SHE IS NUDEEEEEEEEEEEEEY."

On what he should remember to do at nursery: "Ummm ... ummm ... not to hit ... not to bite ... not to pinch ... not to be silly ... and not to KILL PEOPLE."

On Beth's gender: "I think maybe Beth is going to turn into a boy, and that's why she's got short hair, because she's going to grow a willy."

On watching me insert a tampon: "Is the tan-man hiding in your front bottom? Why is he hiding up there?"

On being told to apologise after kicking Beth: "Sorry for using Beth like a football."

On what I do, when asked at nursery: "My Mummy drinks LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOADS of wine. Loads and loads and LOADS of wine, and she does it ALL the time."

On catching sight of the contents of Beth's nappy: "My GOD Beth. What HAVE you done?"

Pick your favourite...


 

Sports' Day - The Aftermath

Don't worry, I made it through.

Just.

Goodness me, what utterly bizarre events Sports' Days are. Mr Jamie's kind of fulfilled all my wildest fears. And his, one suspects.

Bizarrely, it got off to kind of a good start, when they handed us a list of Sports' Day Rules (masquerading as a programme). I nearly fell off my chair, I was laughing so much. It's like they knew I was coming...

And then the races started...

Mr Jamie acquitted himself kind of okay in the first race, which was a simple case of 'Run from Point A to Point B'. By which I mean he didn't come last (quite), and he didn't fall over. More than his mother ever managed to do.

Then came the 'skipping' (using large plastic hoop in place of a rope, for coordination reasons, one assumes)...

He was fucking AWFUL! I mean, I love you Mr Jamie, but there's no way even I can dress this up as anything else. So heinously bad that the Year 6 marshals ended up 'running' alongside him, encouraging him to the finish line, probably with lines such as 'We really need to get a move on... we need to start secondary school in September'. Surrounded by parents and yelling school children on all sides, he drew level with me and I could see him thinking about starting to cry. (I can't say I blamed him.) And I gave him a shout of what I can only describe as quite brilliant maternal support:

"IF YOU STOP AND CRY NOW THERE WILL BE NO PLAYING MINECRAFT* FOR THE ENTIRE WEEKEND."

Needless to say, after that kind of encouragement, he made it to the finish line.

A couple of other races followed, and then it was time for the horrifically named Tummy-Ball race. No, I know. Absolutely no idea of its origins. All I know is that it involved two small children facing each other, arms around each other, with a large inflatable ball held between their tummies... and having to get from one end of the field to the other.

And Mr Jamie, having struggled to even manage the simple act of running, who had been completely thwarted by skipping... suddenly, along with his mate Rafferty (which probably tells you all about the school demographic you need to know), demonstrated unparalleled skills for the discipline of Tummy-Ball... and somehow finished first. He was delighted. I was busy laughing so hard I could barely speak...

... which is just about conducive proof of the phrase 'pride comes before a fall'. Because, almost seamlessly, came the following over the tannoy:

"IT IS NOW TIME FOR THE MUMMIES' TUMMY-BALL RACE."

You can imagine my face. Particularly as I was then firmly grabbed by my friend Vic (sitting next to me: there was no escape!) and practically frog marched to the start line.

Me, Sports' Day, racing - nay, Tummy-Ball-ing - in front of hoards of small children and Other Parents ... pride hadn't exactly come before a fall so much as a crashing dive off a precipice. I. Was. Mortified. The only consolation was the thought that, if I was going through this, so were many Other Parents. Although I have to say they all looked an awful lot more enthusiastic about it.

My personal hell eventually came to an end. I didn't disgrace Vic (I don't think!) - we came a respectable third or so I believe - and, unusually for me, I didn't fall over. And, if I'm honest, the look on Mr Jamie's face as we Tummy-Balled made it almost all worth it. Although it was less of a look of delight... more a look of What The Actual Fuck Is My Mother Doing?

Tell me about it, Mr Jamie. Tell me about it.

*Online Lego-style game worshipped by Mr Jamie. (It is pretty cool.)

Mr Jamie's Sports' Day

(And when was the last time you saw Sports' Day correctly apostrophised, hmmmm? Because, of course, correct apostrophising is absolutely the reason you read this blog. Almost definitely...)

It's tomorrow. Mr Jamie's Sports' Day, that is. And I am DREADING it.

Reasons why:

• It's a School Event. I've avoided them all year. And now, with ample annual leave, I can do so  no longer.
• It will feature Other Parents. Who tend to view me as some rare, Must Be Treated With Extreme Caution, creature. We are highly unlikely to have anything other than our children in common.
• It will feature Other Children. Because we all know how great I am with Other Children. Or not...
• It allegedly requires my participation. And not just in the setting out of chairs. In the RUNNING OF RACES. All I can say is Mr Jamie has another thing coming if he thinks that's going to happen.
• It's a SPORTS' DAY. Avoided them right throughout my youth. Not entirely sure why this is having to change now.

However. On the plus side. This is how I've prepared for it:

• Informing Mr Jamie there's still a good chance 'Mummy might have to go to work'. Which means, if it really is actually worse than my wildest nightmares... I can still escape.
• Digging out my highest, most vertiginous heels. Nothing says Go Away, I Am Not Going To Make A Tit Out Of Myself By Running like a pair of 5" stilettos. Or alternatively...
• Prepping close friends to make potential Emergency Calls round about 10.30am. Enough time to watch Mr Jamie 'run' (seriously: running... he can barely walk from one end of the garden to the other without falling over), not nearly enough time to get involved myself.
• In the event of all else failing, partnering myself with The Most Competitive Parent (yay Vic!) for said racing. There is no chance of her not ensuring we're successful.
• Drinking more than enough wine this evening to give myself a substantial hangover. I find most things you're dreading look better through a bit of an alcohol induced blur...

Come on then, experienced parents. What am I missing? Help me. Please...

PS So you're not devoid of Mr Jamie-isms: one from last night, after I'd praised him and Beth for being so good and having such a good day. (She pooed on a toilet: that it had been a 'good day' might have been the understatement of the year.) As I delivered said praise, Beth (for unknown reasons) kicked off, yelling like a yelling thing.

Mr Jamie responded. In true Mr Jamie form. "Beth! Stop shouting. You are DESTROYING this good day."

Too bloody right.

Mr Jamie-isms

Not one to blow my own trumpet (this is a lie), I know you are going to LOVE this blog post.

 

Because, let's be honest, you don't come here to read about me. (Sob.) You come here to read all about the crazy arsed world of Mr Jamie.

 

And so here, just for you, are a selected highlight of Mr Jamie-isms over the past four years. I'd tell you to enjoy, but I think that's a bit redundant.

 

On walking in on his parents having sex: "Oh Daddy. I know what you doing. YOU RIDING THE TRAIN."

 

On being a daddy: "When you're a daddy ... you get a beard ... and a watch ... and a WHISTLE."

 

On a swaddled baby Beth, asleep on my shoulder: "Mummy, what are you doing with Beth? Why her got two heads? She hanging upside down like a bat."

 

On being told people like to listen to me singing: "No Mummy. No, they not come and listen. They not like listening to that bad loud noise. You be quiet now."

 

On childbirth: "Mummy, that lady shouting. She shouting because she can't find her baby. But that other lady find it for her. It hiding between her legs."

 

On the fear that Neil might drop the scissors he was cutting Mr Jamie’s hair with: "But Daddy ... what if you DO ... and then you cut my willy off ... and I turn into a GIRL. I don't want to be a girl. I like my willy. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah."

On human anatomy: "Daddy, if you not nice to me, I going to get my skeleton inside me and I going to MAKE IT GET OUT AND GET YOU."

On me attempting to breastfeed Beth: "Yes, you have got stuck, and your ... and your ... and your ... and your BOOBS can't come out, because they are TOO BIG. YOU HAVE GOT THE BIG BOOBS HAVEN'T YOU MUMMY, AND THEY ARE NOT FITTING IN YOUR DRESS!"

On being asked to count to 10 in French: "Okay Mummy. Un, deux, trois, quatre, seep, bleep, blah, bluh, blah, bluh, blah, bluh, blah, bluh, BLUH!"
On Beth’s gender: "I think maybe Beth is going to turn into a boy, and that's why she's got short hair, because she's going to grow a willy."

On Father Christmas: "Daddy, when it's Christmas you have to close your eyes and go to sleep, and then Father Christmas comes, and then you click your fingers and Father Christmas comes in your mouth, and then he does some magic."

 

He is a comedy GENIUS.

PS There are more of these to come... if you're very good.

   

Diva Las Vegas

I write this post collapsed on my sofa, fuelled by wine, having sent the children to bed an hour earlier than usual because I JUST COULDN'T TAKE ANY MORE. (Obviously didn't use this line on them, fobbed them off with something about it still being very light out "because it's summer time darlings, isn't it beautiful", or some other such shite.)

Living in my house these days is what I imagine it must be living with Victoria Beckham, Paris Hilton or some other fashion obsessed starlet. I have actually had to start setting my alarm earlier (oh, the pain) to have even a vague hope of getting us all out the house on time.

Diva #1 is Beth. Who, at two and a half, is fulfilling all of my parents' wildest dreams of KARMA. My god, she's hard work. And that's even without taking into consideration the potty training (a blog post in itself: when I find the mental strength to write it). From a very early age (like, 3 hours) Beth knew what she wanted. And knew she wanted it NOW. Recently, it seems this has extended to her fashion likes and dislikes. I don't even bother getting an outfit out the drawers for her in the morning. What's the point? "No Mummy. I not wear that. I wear ... that (pink trousers) and that (green top) and that (red coat) and THAT (bright pink wellies, regardless of weather conditions)." Despite the fact you have to wear sunglasses to look at her, arguing is fruitless. "NO MUMMY. I WEAR THAT. NOOOOOOOOWWWW."

So far, so chaotic. But then you bring in Diva #2. Who, to long time blog readers, it will be no surprise is Mr Jamie. There are a myriad of old blog posts I could dredge up to illustrate this, one of my personal favourites being this one.

Mr Jamie's been into his appearance for a while (many's the time we've been sat outside the school gate, desperately trying to get his hair to lie flat: "Mummy, just make it look normal"), and, much like Beth, insists on picking out his own outfits. Again, woe betide me if I've put his chosen piece of clothing into the wash.

Today, Mr Jamie had a school trip. To a farm. He was allowed to wear his own clothes. He picked out his own outfit. I may or may not have rolled my eyes slightly. But he went off for his trip.

When I went to pick him up from school this afternoon I started chatting to one of the other mums, whose daughter Jamie is friends with. She suddenly started laughing.

"Oh, you'll never guess what Katie told me last night. Apparently Jamie had told her absolutely everything he was going to wear today" - she listed it - " and this morning, there he was, exactly as he'd said he'd be."

And there he was. Exactly as he'd said he'd be. Diva Las Vegas, eat your heart out. Below, I give you: Mr Jamie ... dressed for a visit to the farm.

I bloody LOVE him.