Tears, tarantulas and tiny white lies

As a responsible mother of two (read 'basket case in sensible clothing') I should by now be able to deal with the mundanities of parenthood. You would think. Enter one large and extremely hair 8 legged 'friend', exit one trembling mother in search of a containment vessel. "Mummy", the oldest asks, "what are you doing?"...(and why are you reaching for the whisky at this early hour???)..... Never one to pass on my (very valid) phobias, I search for a plausible explanation. "Er, well, I'm just popping this glass over the spider." "why mummy? why don't you just put him down the toilet like daddy does?" Because mummy would probably die instantly from sheer terror at such a close encounter of the insecticidal kind. And she just isn't that nice. A slow, lingering suffocation is more what I have in mind. "Well, um, spiders don't really like noise and this one is particuarly sensitive. It cries at Children in Need you know. It hates criticism. And Emmerdale really would finish it off..all that incest, all those deaths by fire and falling lamposts. I'll just pop him under here and he'll be safe." "noooo mummy..." "No? No? " Am gripped by panic at the possibility of a plea for compassion by the eldest. "NO mummy. It's not a he , it's a she. It's Amanda." "Amanda? ....." "Yes mummy. Amanda the arachnid." And that, as they say, was that. "Jeez", says the husband when I recount the (by now somewhat embellished) tale. "Is she turning into a geek?"

Faulty tower blocks

Finally get a chance to take the in-laws round to see the new house. Inch around the burning cars and take in the splendour of 1970s architecture. Can only imagine the conversations at Numpty & Co that would one day lead to this piece de resistance of modern living. "But does it look like a young offenders institution"?.... "Definitely sir". - "good one Wilson, you've really ticked that box. " "Can you make it any uglier?" ...."Not really sir. Could throw in a bit of pebble dash and a statue of my bald auntie in the garden?" "Do it Wilson, do it."

Don't turn around

Wake up this morning with the realisation that my head seems to have been stuck on backwards. Numerous though the advantages of this may be (watch Groundforce from the comfort of an armchair without actually seeing any of it, frighten small children with cries of "do you think I have eyes in the back of my head?? Oh look, i do.....whoooooo, ) it actually hurts. Husband offers twist it back into place with his healing hands. Reject him immediately and remind him of his last attempt with those lethal weapons when poor Winnie the Pooh came, shall we say, unstuck. Said toy emerged as a lovely 'new' pyjama case......who needs stuffed toys? Everyone needs a furry bag witha large hole in the back to store their pyjamas..........We are nothing if not resourceful in our house.

Morning mood is helped immensely by 4 year old - "mummy, why do you have a cat on your head? ". Note to 35 year old self - deep conditioner alone does not a Claudia Schiffer lookalike make. And as for 'love is the message and the message is love'....they clearly don't have the rellies taking up residence. More opium vicar?

Sweeping up the debris

Remember with a jolt that in-laws arrive this evening and a little cleaning may be necessary if we are to avoid embarassing incidents of the "that's where that chunk of cheese/intimate neck massager/tube of canesten got to" type.

Plug in hoover? Check. Read Kim and Agy then relish role as domestic warrior? Er, check. Wade through a mountain of dolls (do any of them not have scary "I'm going to come into your bed and kill you with a toothpick" eyes?) and find that carpet underneath is even less desirable than the plastic peoples' army currently occupying it. Return dolls to original position and move to Outer Mongolia for the week.

Bananas are not for conspicuous consumption

There are things that a girl ("get you", says hubby, " still in fantasy 22 year old mode?" Silence him with a sharp left to the nethers and a sprinkle of fish food in his museli) should learn by the age of 35. Example - the need to relegate certain phallic foods to the comfort of ones' own home. Innocent walk to friends' place to collect the baby becomes a gauntlet of testosterone fuelled verbal warfare - "ere love, get your gums round these instead" when local builder (read middle aged plonker who never grew out of his lego obsession) spots me with a banana. 'A banana, who'd have thought it, she's playing with fire' looks abound from smuggy mummy across the road with tidy children passing by on a fluffy cloud of Boden induced bliss (prozac to you and I). Resist the urge to take his withered plums and nail them to his half-built loft conversion. Or perhaps to smuggy mummys' bugaboo...... "Darling, what have you got there, I didn't know Waitrose had started doing builder balls again? Terribly nutritious. Full of protein...these ones look past their best..?..."
Arrive home feeling ashamed of uncharitable thoughts and vow to spread a little love next time. As soon as I've taken the husband out of his cupboard for a little fresh air and to do his business.

What's in a name?

Husband suggests that talk of fast cooking a family pet may not be appropriate. Tell him that microwave cooking uses far less power and is thus an energy efficient way to make the most unattractive of animals palatable.

Perhaps should reconsider and limit choices to small rodent types. Easier to digest. Although much harder to catch, and let's face it, the days of 'Man Go Hunting' are long gone. In our house, 'Man go to Dishwasher' is such a rare occasion we celebrate with pumpkin pie and a small sherry.

Wednesday 11 Nov, Do good parents watch Judge Judy?

Result, mornings' objectives achieved. Manage to get the wee ones out of the house this morning without reducing either mini monster (or self) to hysterical tears because

- "shoes do not put themselves on",

- hitting with hairbrushes is not allowed (at least not outside of mummy and daddys' bedroom and only on a friday post- pinot grigio)

- Cheerios are not for ears (aural consumption does not contribute to recommended daily intake of b vitamins and minerals and we need all the help we can get in this house)

- mummys' wardrobe has mysteriously morphed into 'clothes from the set of loose women/cash in the attic/emmerdale. Only available outfits are mustard coloured, (really - it looked so lovely and retro in oxfam. Even plastic mannequins can carry it off better these days. Cue large amount of unattractive self pity and vow to self - only 1 block of Green & Blacks a day and MUCH more fake tan from now on.) student stylee - more yampy trampy than yummy mummy, or
flabtastic - say NO more. The last man who did is definitely no longer standing.

Anyhow, large monster at school learning how to stick cardboard tubes together ("it's a space rocket mummy, haven't you noticed the propulsionfuelsticksuperwhammer?"). Small gremlin sleeping. Get to thinking, how to fill this two hour slot with a more meaninful activity than yet another attempt at creating order. Decide on a new career as an adult phoneline operator. What's not to like? Fit around the school run? Check. Stimulating and mind expanding? Check. ish. Friend suggests there are worse ways to make money. Am appalled by the suggestion of loose morals. Am driven not by financial motives - i'll do anything for a pound of grapes. Purely a need to contribute to society in a useful manner. And anything, anything has to be better than Judge Judy. Even Colin from Bolton in his spandex.