Murder on the forecourt

I purchase my very expensive, luxury commodity, aka Diesel, for my beloved 'Galaxy the Wondercar' from the local Tesco petrol garage. And every time I make the journey, I am irritated by the 'numpties'. There's a good Scottish word for a Friday.

There is always at least one. I must admit that I am probably less patient, even than usual, when attempting to purchase fuel.. Usually because I've usually been driving around for a couple of days with the warning like shining like a pleading beacon on the dashboard, always thinking to myself that I must get fuel after this journey - and then never getting around to it. So the sheer relief of reaching the forecourt with a car running on nothing but residual fumes always leaves me a little bit short tempered.

There are 12 pumps at our local garage. Six of these have pumps which are situated to the left, and six to the right, arranged in 6 rows of two. There a few types of numpty, which I will cheerfully explain.

There is the 'I was here first' numpty. This is someone who blocks the double lane entrance to the forecourt, so that they can ensure that they get the very first pump to become available. This means that the whole queue behind them spills out onto the entrance road and causes traffic chaos.

Second, there is the 'I MUST get my fuel from the right side' numpty. My car seems to share with what I'd estimate at perhaps 75% of the cars on the road in this area at least, if not in the UK - the fuel cap is on the driver's side of the car. Now, I drive a car which is, in comparison to most, closer in proportions to a double decker bus. And if I can get the diesel hose to stretch over, then I'm sure all of you people who drive sugar-cube cars can do the same. I do appreciate that some people would prefer to wait patiently for the right side, which of course is their prerogative, and I graciously allow you to make that choice without the wrath of my sharp tongue, unless, of course, you are a hybrid cross with numpty type 1. Because nothing makes my blood boil quicker than sitting second in the queue behind this type of numpty, where there are 6 empty pumps and they won't bloody move forward because those available are on the wrong side for their precious vehicle.

The last noteworthy type of numpty is the 'unneccesary verbal abuse numpty'. These are the type who give rude hand gestures and wind their windows down to shout profanities when people such as myself become extremely impatient with numpty 1 and numpty 2 (and numpty 1/2 hybrids) and mount the kerb, pavement, or flatten bushes to get past and head straight into any available pump. Right side or wrong, I can manage to purchase diesel from either. If you lot are all going to sit there, I'm not. I'm a busy woman, and I can guarantee I have between 1 & 4 children whining in the back of the car, so please, if you want to gesticulate & give verbal abuse, you've picked the wrong person.

There are of course moments of embarrassment associated with such impatience. I'm big enough to admit them. I generally go to a wrong-side fuel pump as I can generally go right onto the forecourt and find one available, cheerfully skipping the queue of grumpy drivers. And when you do that with a car as big as mine, you really must get the positioning of the car spot on so that the hose reaches round. It's a bit of a walk of shame when you overshoot, and have to get back behind the wheel & reposition the car. These moments call for sunglasses and a hood, even if it's weather inappropriate. And in the opposite extreme, I have been known to park too close, so that either the hoses smack onto the side of my car, the alloys grind into the tiles of the pump base, or I can't physically lift the nozzle from the pump. The biggest embarrassment however is when you smugly drive straight into a pump and discover it actually cordoned off, covered in signs, and not available for use. Fine if you notice before you get out of the car, you can quickly make it appear as if you were actually just using that lane as an exit route to get your fuel later. More obvious mistake if you've already got out of your car with your debit card & clubcard between your teeth and donned those lovely designer plastic gloves. Oops.

However, on the whole, this entire situation means that one way or another, I generally approach the garage, and get straight into a pump by bypassing the whole of the queue, with a wave and a smile. So thanks for that.

The moral if this story (whinge?) therefore is, please, please, can you just pick a flaming queue and sit there, bear in mind that unless you're in a transit or bigger the hose will stretch, and if you sit back I will cheerfully overtake.

That is all.

Except to say to any of my friends reading this, if you are one of these numpties, I mean it in the most affectionate way possible :-)

We have mobile!

I have had a few requests to rescuscitate my sadly neglected blog. So in a last ditch attempt to find the time to empty various trains of thought into this cyber bucket, I've discovered and installed an android blogger app.

I do fear however that we may end up descending into text speak, as smart phone keypads are not particularly convenient for.anything.longer than a facebook status or text. So you may well find that vowels start to disappear, syllables are replaced with numbers, an invasion of 'smileys', terrible grammar, lack of punctuation, and worst of all, faux pas worthy of www.damnyouautocorrect.com, due in part to my phone's autocorrect and also due to an error not spotted until 3 paragraphs later - and it's such a pain in the arse to get the cursor to land in the right word that i'll probably give up and publish as is.

If u fink dat snds like a gr8 idea, watch dis space......... =-O

Oh.... KNICKERS!!!!

I got out of the shower this morning, still half asleep. I have an ensuite, so it is literally 3 steps between the shower and my underwear drawer. Right away, I was thrown into a dilemma, and believe me, I can't cope with any sort of dilemma, however minor, at pre-caffeine time in the morning.

When I opened my knicker drawer, I found to my horror that there were none of my usual comfy pairs ready to wear. Bugger. So, what to do?

Firstly, I decided to check and see if any were hanging on an airer somewhere in the house. Yawning, I gathered up my large towel and trudged through to the kitchen. With the run of nice weather, I have actually been hanging the washing outside to dry, and the latest basket was sitting, still slightly damp, waiting to be hung up indoors or tumble-dried. Hmph. The drier was empty in anticipation, so no-go there either. And the latest wash was still soaking wet in the machine.

Back to the drawing board, I dragged my sopping wet self back to my knicker drawer to ponder some more.

So, it's down to deciding which of the 'not-so-comfy' pants I'm wearing today. I guess some people might opt for putting yesterday's back on, but I'm not one of those types thank you very much!

Everyone has a type of knickers they like to wear. I've tried various types and they are all still in my drawer in case of emergencies such as these. I am a hi-legs girl, usually. Not sure if I should be admitting that to the general virtual public, but there you have it.

When I was in my early 20s, thongs were in. I furnished my knicker drawer with 10 pairs and tried to agree with everyone how comfy they were, and how having no VPL was indeed the future. I was so relieved when I discovered that in actual fact, no-one found them comfortable, but didn't want to admit it. I defy anyone to find thongs comfy. You spent the day feeling like your arse is trying to eat them, and wanting to pull them clear of your crack. Sorry, but that's how it is. I won't say too much more, but I do have one thong left; it matches a particular 'set' and suffice to say it isn't suitable wear for a normal school day.

I considered very carefully the 'shorts' that were looking up at me, begging to be worn. These are I believe on trend at the moment, not that I'm particularly up on any kind trend at the moment. A couple of years ago I lost a lot of weight (having been a chunky being all my adult life, if was the first time I'd been within the range of a 'normal' BMI) and I bought lots of these. In Debenhams no less. That's how much I liked them. But stuck in this post-natal fatsuit, the shorts type knickers just ride down my backside and I spend the day surreptitiously trying to post my hand down the back of my jeans to retrieve them from somewhere around my knees.

Last but by no means least, I have 4 or 5 pairs of 'full briefs'. So full, in fact, that I'd pretty sure that if I put a couple of eye holes in them, I could pull them up and over my head, and use them as an all in one underwear-and-balaclava combo. These were purchased for my hospital bag. I hate disposable knickers with a passion, and these Primark specials were in any case cheaper than the paper ones anyway. Except shamefully, I didn't dispose of them. They lurk hopefully around my knicker drawer, waiting for a nice big bum to cuddle. On balance, I felt sorry for these sad and unwanted little articles. The pair I chose looked almost excited to be released from it's dark little prison. I pulled them on, trying to convince myself that I would throw these out after this emergency use. But they are actually pretty comfortable. Oh for pity's sake - I'm turning into my granny!!! I could tuck my bosoms into them, I swear.

I'm sure Bridget Jones would be very proud of me!!

Midget gems (or mechanics)

It's been a while since I last blogged; life in general does tend to get in the way sometimes, however I have a great need to get something of great importance off my chest. Followed soon by another few kid-isms very soon. But for now, here goes:

My beloved car (54 plate Ford Galaxy) went into the local Ford garage to have a repair made to the power steering recently. All of the work that needs doing on my car is done in the same place. The guy on the reception desk is, to be quite frank, a bit of an arse, but in general I never feel ripped off, or as if I'm being patronised due to being a member of the female gender. But what the bloody hell do they do in there???

First off, the seat has always moved. Now, I'm not a particularly long-legged being, about 32" inside leg (annoyingly - too long for standard leg jeans, and to short for long legs. Irritates the shit out of me). Funnily enough, my darling hubby has the exact same leg length, which is very handy when driving each other's cars. I'm sure when I was viewing him as a prospective marriage partner, I was thinking how handy this would be, without realising it. (Keep it clean please people, I'm talking driving here!!). Anyway, after work has been done at the garage, the seat in my car is always so far forward and so raised my nose is almost touching the windscreen. Do they employ child labourers in there? It always takes a good few weeks of moving the seat one notch forward, two notches back, and adjusting the seat back & lumbar support before it feels comfy again. Once, they moved the steering wheel, and I almost self combusted on the spot. Can they not get the person with the best height match to test drive the car??? Sheesh.

I'm sure they also have their lunch in there. Being a 7 seater, maybe they can have a little short-person's tea party in there. The steering wheel and gearstick are still bloody sticky, I'm sure the snack of the day must have been sugared donuts.

Yuk.

Life's little luxuries

As a mummy of four little darlings, life's luxuries are limited to the odd glass of wine or a chinese takeaway now and then. Brand name clothes are rarely purchased and when they are it's in the Debenhams 70% off blue cross sale (which I like because unlike Next they do not add little red dots to the label making it obvious you did in fact get the items in the sale). But there is one thing that I do have always, and that's Clinique skincare products.

I have, pretty much my entire life, looked much younger than I actually am. Being asked for identification at Asda when buying alcohol might seem flattering to some, but standing there with a huge bump, 3 other children and my husband of 10 years, it didn't seem quite so amusing. Maybe it was the hormones? Anyway, I always reckoned that my age is going to suddenly catch up with me, then overtake laughing and giving rude hand gestures. All of a sudden, people are going to pitch their stab in the dark at 20 years in advance of my real age. But not if I can help it.

In order to try and beat the premature ageing process back with a proverbial stick, I used a chunk of my christmas bonus in 2002 at the Clinique counter in House of Fraser in Edinburgh. At the time, I was 5 months pregnant with my first child and I worked in a building on Lothian Road. I'm sure the woman saw me coming and knew that it was bonus time, and I'm not talking Clinique bonus time. It was quite a trendy brand to be into at the time, and I thought I'd grab myself a slice of this trendiness. "Oh yes, I used Clinique 3 step on my face. None of your Clarins rubbish. And as for Olay....?!?' (Aside: when and why did they change it from Oil of Ulay??? It's the whole snickers and marathon, starburst and opal fruits thing in a face cream. Pointless, confusing, and highly irritating).

The thing is, I'd always been complemented on my clear, even skin tone. I rarely ever have spots or blemishes, and I don't know what posessed me to alter my skincare regime of doing sweet FA every day - but nevertheless, I was swept along on the Clinique train. And it's one of those things - once you start, you're afraid to stop. Like Infacol - you start using it, and suspect it's doing nothing whatsoever to help, but you're terrified to stop in case your baby is suddenly gripped by unbearable pain - with Clinique I'm terrified to stop in case I become geriatric overnight.

I keep promising myself that it's a pointless waste of money, and that when the current batch runs out, I will get myself some face cream in Tesco, and own brand, or Ponds or something, and I bet for 99p a go, it'll do just as much good and I won't be quite so sparing with the stuff. But my wonderful husband braved the very snotty woman at the Clinique counter in Debenhams, Dunfermline (who I later found out had completely ignored he and Rachel, who waited patiently while she served many people before them who had arrived after but who's faced obviously fitted the Clinique Bill better - I would have told her to stick it up her arse personally) and bought me my three step and eye cream as part of my christmas present. (He also bought me the perfume I like at the moment - Marc Jacobs 'Daisy' - which he accidentally left the price on and I'm afraid to spray the bloody stuff).

I am determined that I will not open any of the new bottles until the old are finished. The soap still has a few weeks' worth in the dispenser, and the toner is about halfway done. But the moisturiser.... well, I'll show you:

As you can see, it's about 1/6 full maybe? But, the pump action straw thing doesn't see to reach. When I press the pump you get a vague spattering of cream. I've tried cleaning it and it makes no different. Shaking it, holding it at an angle - nada. And given the price of the stuff, I reckon there is still, what, a fiver's worth in there? I could get 5 pots of Ponds for that, so there's no chuffing way I'm giving up on it! I've tried everything but beat it with a big stick. Is this a ploy by Clinique to get us to replace sooner than is strictly necessary? They've picked on the wrong person, I can tell you. If I have to get a straw and suck the bloody stuff out of that bottle myself I'll do it.

I'm so tempted to open the shiny new bottle though....

Postnatal hair loss

I think my body lulled me into a false sense of security this time.

During each pregnancy, I might have looked over all like Waynetta Slob, but it's the only times in my life during which I've had thick(er) manageable hair. I am cursed with fine, flyaway, wavyish hair. I say wavy-ish, as it was once upon a time a fine head of curls. Very cute as a toddler, not so much as a teenager. In my teens, the spiral perm was very trendy, but unfortunately my curls would have looked much better in an episode of Coronation Street, circa 1970. So I spent years having my hair permed, then of course the straight hair thing came along and I discovered straightening irons and salon-quality hairdryers. The result is that all of those years of abuse has given me a strange demi-wave shape in my hair when left to go into it's natural state. And believe me, in it's natural state, you can do nothing with it bar shove a brown bag over it.

The slight curl in my hair needs to be treated with the contempt it deserves and is straightened every day (or at least every second day) with 230 degree straighteners, and I don't care I do see puffs of smoke when I draw the irons over the length of my hair. However, I suspect that the slight curl is natures way of disguising my very fine hair, so when it's straight, it has to be cut or styled very well. And at the moment, it's not, but hey, I'm straightening it anyway. I still have a surplus hanging on from my last pregnancy, and now that we're approaching 4 months on, I really thought I had a chance of hanging onto it. But I've started shedding like a cat in the summertime.

My 3 year old has a habit of winding his hands around my hair while he sits and watches telly, and I was horrified to see a few days ago that he had a handful of hair in his hand that had detached itself all too easily from my head. And, disgusting though it is, I'm going to mention the clogging of the plughole after a shower. Ruby seems to be permanently covered in rogue strands of my hair, and my clothes also. I dread washing my hair. The strands also seem thinner and more easily broken, so I've started to get the mad fluffy fringe around my head. My hair responds to the slightest bit of moisture in the air by springing into random half curl/half waves, but these odd strands at the front just go completely crazy. I generally don't have time before the morning school run to tame my hair so I generally stuff it all into a ponytail and scrape the random strands back, patting my head hopefully that they will all stay put, but as soon as I arrive home I can see I look like my 6 year old daughter at the end of her school day. It's not a good look for adult.

After giving birth to my son, I almost went bald. Ok, a slight exaggeration, but my hairdresser wouldn't cut it for fear of making me look like I had alopecia. She wouldn't colour it either, so for about 6 months I had to go around wishing it was cold enough (or hot enough) to wear a hat. As he was born in April, I didn't have that opportunity for a long time.

Thank goodness it's winter, and hat wearing opportunities are in abundance!

Three bogs and a little bog roll

Warning: If you have sat down to read this with a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit, I'd finish the biscuit before continuing.

Every few weeks in our house, we end up in this harrowing situation. Three toilets; half a toilet roll remaining. Note to self: must purchase toilet roll. When I do buy toilet roll, I buy a 12 pack, and each bathroom has a holder which stores 4 rolls. Inevitably, the rate of the use of these rolls varies, so there is a long drawn out juggling that goes on as required.

Some people dream extra of WC facilities in their house, should they only have one. On occasions it is very useful. But in general, having three (or more) sounds luxurious, but in actual fact, it is a complete pain in the rear. Apart from the toilet roll situation, you also have the extra cleaning requirements. I defy anyone to claim they actually enjoy cleaning toilets; it's always the last job to be ticked off my 'to-do' list. And in fact, Friday is Toilet Cleaning Day, so I have that joy ahead of me today. Groan. Having spent the much of the last 8 years cleaning up excrement that is not my own, it doesn't seem quite so grotesque when contained within a nappy. So, I'd probably quite cheerfully go back to having the one bathroom. But I'd keep the en-suite and make the kids ask for permission to use it.

So, half a toilet roll remains, and there is a distinct atmosphere. Everyone is on high alert, and the slightest need to tinkle sends you running to avoid the battle for the room with the roll. Heaven forbid you should run for a number 2 and end up in one of the loos with an empty paper holder, as it leaves you at the mercy of another person. It's no fun having to shouting for one of your children, or your husband, to fetch the toilet roll from the another bathroom. If there is no one around, or if no-one hears you, you're faced with a waddle of shame to get it yourself. Simple enough if the elusive toilet roll is to be found in one of the facilities on the same level, but somewhat more complicated if stairs must be negotiated. I always imagine in this situation that the doorbell will go as it always does at the most inconvenient times, and you then have split second to decide whether to just pull up your undercrackers and run, or stand stock still and pretend you're not even there. Very difficult if you're awaiting a courier delivery. Absolute worst case scenario is that a friend drops by with whom you are very familiar, and she rings the doorbell and lets herself in shouting 'Only me!', finding you halfway down the stairs waddling like Dick van Dyke in the penguin scene of 'Mary Poppins' with your knickers at your knees. As long as it's not a mummy friend (who would be greeted by her own children in such a state on a regular basis) who goes into automatic bum-wiping mode at the sight of you.

And then there is always the chance that when you reach the next bathroom, the loo-roll is not to be found, and then on to the last and the roll is empty. Bugger! The waddle continues on the hunt for tissues or baby wipes, hoping that you don't clog the u-bend and have to poke around with an outstretched wire coat hanger. I must admit I never do this, I generally shut the door and leave it to my husband. Men have their uses.

Being on the road to permanent frugality, I usually stand in the bog roll aisle of Tesco with my calculator working out which loo rolls are the cheapest, per unit. In a family of 6, there is a lot of bum wiping to be done. It happens to be so that the cheapest in the last few weeks has been the Andrex luxury varieties; both the quilted and aloe vera varieties have been in special offer. I really love having posh loo roll, because the smart price stuff is really scratchy, like the stuff you find in motorway service stations. But the toilets don't like it so much. It might be thick and plush, but it bloody good at choking the pipes. Especially in the quantities used by the kids. Children are also not very good at flushing toilets, and if one of them does by some miracle, after they've all been twice. it's never nice to walk in to the loo to find the water up to the seat with.... well.... I don't need to elaborate really. One of those occasions where I walk out, shut the door, and lock it from the outside. And let the husband deal with it.

See, I knew there was a good reason to have extra toilets in the house....

The health visitor is a-visiting

I'm pretty sure Ryan never got so many home checks, but nevertheless, the health visitor has arranged to come in and do Ruby's 4 month check this afternoon.

I'm not one of those people who hang off my health visitor's every word in a state of awe. Especially since we moved to our current practice. When Ryan was just months old, I went to one of the health visitors for advice. A friend's son had contracted suspected Rubella, and being pre-MMR age I wondered what I should look for, and if he should happen to fall foul of the virus, what I should do if anything. That particular woman told me she knew nothing about Rubella and stalked off, chewing her gum. Ummm.... I thought she was off to get me a leaflet or find someone more knowledgeable so I followed her. When she noticed she said 'Oh sorry.... did you have something else to ask?'. I'm afraid from that moment, she was put into the 'Muppet' section of my brain's internal filing system. Granted, this lady is no longer with the practice, but I must admit to being very sceptical about the current lady who visits. I can't help but think that with four children, I could possibly tell them a thing or two about raising them. The official line on many subjects leaves me feeling that common sense should prevail (see earlier post on the weaning age).

Despite the above, why is it that I feel the need to make sure the place is running ship shape and Bristol fashion? Somehow, having a clean and tidy abode seems to correlate directly to being a level-headed and responsible parent. Now, my house is generally lived in but tidy enough, so it's not such a big deal. I think we do quite well despite having six people in one house. I guess that is partly attributed to the fact that my children do prefer to sit on their backsides quite a lot, I'm sick to the back teeth of trying to encourage and cajole them into 'doing something constructive'. The telly induced coma is sometimes useful, I admit, but for goodness sake, get off your bums!! Anyway, the result is, it's quite easy to keep the place relatively tidy, but lived in. So I've spent the morning hoovering and dusting, doing the odd dishes, putting the washing hanging EVERYWHERE into baskets, and shutting doors to the rooms that are just not for public viewing. Like the office which is wall to wall junk at the moment. I'm also considering carefully laying out a few toys on the floor, and strategically arranging a game of snakes and ladders. See - wholesome, thoughtful, loving mummy, who dedicates her days to the entertainment of her children. Would it be too much to put a loaf of bread in the breadmaker? Hmm, maybe. But I guess it would be best to put the Vodka away from the side in the kitchen.

I know full well that the health visitor will come in, be subjected to 20 mins of nonsense about Super Mario Brothers and Donkey Kong from Ryan, and instantly know full well that he does in fact spend much of his time either playing the Wii or asking for it, she'll see how tidy the place is and automatically suss out that it's been done for her benefit, and see that Ruby is alive & well and deem me to be..... well..... entirely ordinary.

So that'll do for me!!

Blue Monday

Today is apparently the most depressing day of the year. It's true, I saw it on Facebook.

I am guessing that this is attributed to the fact that it is still over a week until payday for many people, and the post Christmas blues have set in. There are no fixed or traditional holidays in the foreseeable future, and the weather is, to be frank, pretty shite. But is it Blue Monday in the Erskine household?

Mondays are, for most people, a grit your teeth and get over it day. Monday occurs, as far as I am aware, once in every single week. Forever. So it's a great pity to spend a whole 7th of life feeling... well.... a bit down? Sighing and wishing the day was over? Monday to Friday are pretty much the same over again for me at the moment. Not being at work, and dedicating my days to the school and nursery runs. And breastfeeding. And cleaning, washing, hoovering. You get the picture. I am a housewife. I admit it. I do love the fact that I have a wonderful family, and although I find the general school-run and cleaning routine a little bit boring if I'm honest, I wouldn't have it any other way - for now. I have a lot to be thankful for, but like all the office dwellers (my once upon a time life) and other workers out there, I still find myself counting the days until the weekend, when there is someone to share the responsibilities, so help with the running of the house, the occupation of the kids. So why is it that the house is more of a tip on a Monday than any other day of the week?

Mondays are now also 'weigh-in' day. I haven't ventured over to the virtual fat club yet, but I have managed, in a week of eating very carefully, to lose a whole pound. One. Sodding. Pound. It just confirms my suspicion that the losing weight whilst breastfeeding thing just doesn't work for me. Had I spent the last week feasting on McDonalds and packing away the chocolate, I'd have stayed the same weight. So, is it worth trading a bit of serotonin release for a single pound off the hips?

Weight loss is a funny thing. You'd think that rationally, if you are not losing weight you'd try harder, but the exact opposite is true. When you see the numbers on the scales start to decrease, you get a huge dose of motivation. When you see no results, you head for the chocolate cupboard, then the pangs of guilt start to creep over your conscience.

Ok, just the weigh-in has tinged the day with blue already. I'm not going to head for the chocolate cupboard, I'm going to look at my kids, smile, get the house in order, and be thankful it's Monday. Even though I'm fat, skint, and lonely. Big raspberries.

So, the weaning age is, yet again, under scrutiny

There's been a lot of hype in the media, once more, about when to move your child from your own bosomly nutrition (or formula milk - and despite choosing to breastfeed, I do not believe this liquid is sent directly from the devil) onto solids. The Times was, I believe, the first to put this 'new' information forth to those of us in the UK.

While having a sneaky Starbucks this morning (and yes, in this month of gross frugal-ness it's not entirely appropriate, I'm sure I should have taken a flask of tea, with the tea being made from muslin squares and hoover dust) I decided to search out this article online. God bless the mobile phone with internet access. So I read the article, and have yet to track down the actual research it referred to. So, after being told by the government for the past 'x' years that we should be exclusively breastfeeding for 6 months, this has been cast into doubt. It now 'may' throw our offspring under a cloud of 'possible' malnutrition. Apparently, the delayed introduction of solids can increase the likelyhood of allergies and iron deficiency.

So my opinion? I'm swaying towards load of tosh, with a heavy sprinkling of use your own common sense. What did mothers do before the government waded in shoving guidelines up our noses? We followed our instincts. And be they wrong or right (and as instincts go, is there actually a clean cut answer to what's wrong or right?) we just did it, no question, no judgment, nada. If the government produced a paper tomorrow which showed that the University of Anywhere had conducted research into nose picking, and doing it publicly actually increased your street cred and popularity, I wouldn't run out the door with a finger up my nose. So where does this weaning advice come into play?

Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for research and it's benefits. But it really should be presented in such a way as to help women make an informed choice, not guilt them into doing something because the powers that be say so. Personally, I think I am sensible enough to see when my children need something other than milk.

My own experience is that children, even siblings, are grossly different. My first child was mainly bottlefed, we gave breastfeeding a good try, and after 3 or 4 weeks, all of that time suffering breast thrush and immense pain we gave up. I do believe that breastmilk is a fabulous substance, but you do reach of point of realising that sometimes, other things can be more important. Had I carried on with that pain another day, I am pretty sure I'd have ended up in a lunatic assylum. It's all very well being breastfed, but it can't help you with your mother's mental health. So, Callum went onto bottles, very quickly up to 8oz of hungry baby milk in a sitting, and still wanted more. So, by 12 weeks, he was on solids. I would admit to bowing to a little pressure, and he was probably on food a little earlier than I'd have liked, looking back. Rachel was breastfed after we got over those initial problems. She was on solids around 5 months, as and when I felt she displayed the readiness. Then there was Ryan. Also breastfed, he had other ideas. Much as I tried from around 5 months, he point blank refused. It was 7 months before he would accept anything other than milk directly from the breast. We offered, but he refused. By that time, I must admit, I was very frustrated, and ready for a break. But in the end, he showed me when he was ready, and that's fine by me. Now had I been a more careful mother, the new information would have thrown me into chaos, wondering if I'd harmed by youngest son by not force feeding him in in the birthing suite. Not me, I'm far to sloppy for that.

Ruby's now somewhere between 3 and 4 months, and the truth of the matter is, I'm intrinsically lazy. I'm breastfeeding her, and I do 'feel' it's the best thing to do. Not because the government say so, and at the end of the day, it's all about saving money for them, be it in healthcare or whatever. And also I wouldn't trust this coalition as far as I could throw them. I couldn't imagine at the moment having to find time or inclination to make bottles, or find places to heat them when I'm out. Or do anything except shove a boob at a screaming child in the night. So my lazy self will let her decide when she's ready for food. And as far as I'm concerned, the later the better, it's less hassle that way, but at whatever point she and I decide she's ready, I'll be there with my hand blender and steamed veg.

Maybe I'll wait until she's 12 and we just take her out for a deep fried mars bar and a can of irn bru. We are in Scotland after all.

That time of the month again

So, it's that time of the month that everyone dreads. For me, it is preceeded by a few days in a crabbit & easily irritated state. When it hits, and you get it over with, there is intense relief, and you can forget about it for another 4 weeks or so. Yup - it's time to sort out the bills.

I've spent the day in between nursery/school runs and dealing with an irritable drooly baby poring over the bank accounts. Checking for payments in and sorting the payments out. Being on maternity leave from self employment means that I still have to cover my bills, but with pretty much Sweet Fanny Adams to do it with. Another reason for becoming a reduced bread scavenger in Tesco at 7pm. My postnatal brain (or what's left of my brain) it getting much less adept at retaining useful information, even on a short term basis. So I'm writing on post it notes which I keep dropping, or sticking to the bottom of mugs and Nintendo DSs. And to the children. So I'm redo-ing all my work to find the post-it I was looking for after it's no longer required.

Trying to remember all of my login details is also a problem. They are all different. Great for security, not so great when you have the memory capacity of a goldfish.

I know that when all the money is in the right place, I'll feel a wave of relief. Then when I realise I have a few pounds left over, it'll be hard not to skip right into starbucks and order the biggest frappucino ever. But we gotta eat I suppose.

January STILL sucks.

What, exactly is a 'normal' day?

Well, I guess no-one can answer THAT particular question, and it will inevitably vary from person to person. But as a mother of 4 children, I'm not sure I will ever feel like I've had a normal day again.

In the last 24 hours since I visited the cyber land of Blogsville, we've had a rather epic and noteworthy tantrum from the three year old, which deserves a paragraph so I can look back on other occasions and use it as a benchmark to decide where, on the Richter scale, each future tantrum lies. With all the parking worries of the morning, we generally walk to school of an afternoon. Now I have a vague recollection of mentioning this yesterday, so perhaps it has become a self fulfulling prophecy and I ought to be more careful what I say, but I walked the mile or so to school and back with what can only be described as a snot covered Tasmanian Devil attached to the end of my arm.

Ryan left the house quite enthusiastically wrapped up in his hat, gloves, and wearing his wellies and ready for a fun walk with mummy, which generally consists of a long game of dodge the dog poo. I generally only head for the car when it is absolutely pissing with rain. And that's only because I hate getting wet, the kids can get their wellies on and soak it up, toughens them up. But I just get mardy. Anyway, the weather has been strange and changeable, and although there was no frost or ice in the morning, the remaining slush-like substance had frozen into a smooth and potentially lethal sheet of ice. Now, the path we take to school is not a 'council approved route' - mainly in the name of their shocking self-induced catchment problems, but is generally safer than the actual paths at this time of year which are ungritted and uncleared, and there is a path well worn into the grassy area we walk across. However the slush that had collected had become a smooth and glassy trail of ice, and we were forced to walk at the sides of the trail, where the grass is longer and therefore the snow, which hadn't been trampled down, was rough and not such a slip hazard. In the normal course of things, I am generally barking at Ryan to stay on the path with the intention of avoiding aforementioned canine bowel movements. So it was probably only to be expected that the poor lad would find this confusing. As soon as we stepped out, he slipped and had a minor fall and proceeded to stand up, screaming, and declare he was going nowhere. With Ruby in her sling on my front and Ryan being a good 3 stone, I couldn't carry him over a treacherous pathway also, so I stood for a moment trying not to swear at him, counted to 10 (very quickly) and summoned Patient Mummy. She asked him to listen carefully and walk exactly where she walked, never mind the poos as they would be frozen solid anyway, and he would be fine. But he insisted on walking on the path, falling, then screaming that I made him fall. After the third round, by which time we'd only walked around 10 metres, Patient Mummy decided 'bugger this!' and left me alone with this highly unreasonable and hysterical child. There was nothing for it but to grit my teeth, grin, take him by the hand and pretty much drag him to school. Time is a precious commodity, and I can't wait until Ryan gets to the age that he understands this concept. When we reached the school gates he was screaming at the top of his voice, and had snot trails that could have been mistaken for a ski slopes. Which he continually wiped on my sleeve and not his. Lovely.

I was pretty sure that he would calm down when we reached school, but the more people who asked what was wrong, the more he screamed. So we did it all again on the return trip. By the time we reached home, I was shouting at him like a mad woman to stop screaming and LISTEN to me, and all I could make out was 'AAAAAAAAAAAAYOOOOOUDOOOOON'TSHOOOOOOUTAAAAATMEEEEEEEMUMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIDOOOOON'TWAAAAAAAANTTOOOOOOOOWAAAAAAAAALLKAAAAAAAAAAAAYOOOOOOOOUDOOOOOON'TLEEEETGOOOOOOOOOOFFFFFMMYYYYYHANNNNNDDDDDDAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!'. And for a good 20 mins after we were all safely parked in the livingroom, he still screamed about not wanting to walk. Sheesh. Valium anyone?

While we're on the subject of Ryan, I'll go on. While playing yesterday, I heard him exclaim 'Oh Bugger', Captain Jack Sparrow stylee. One of those moments that makes the world stop turning for a second while you consider how to react. Now I would have to admit that this is in fact my fault. Pirates of the Caribbean is one of those rare films that both the adults and children of the house will quite happily watch together. And while I was pregnant, I was eternally grateful for such a thing - I did spend a lot of last year watching these films with Ryan and we are both probably almost word perfect on the script. And for many laydeez, Captain Jack is serious eye candy. What is it about a man dressed as a short, dreadlocked, filthy pirate with too much eyeliner who act is a rather camp and strange manor that can have the female of the species swooning to such a degree? And then there is Orlando Bloom, who is more straight-forward handsome. Not that I feel like that of course. My husband might read this. Anyway, Ryan seems to have picked up this phrase, so perhaps it's time to stop watching these films. But then, surely I would suffer too, on those long days where I just want to sit down and watch mindless telly. No, perhaps Ryan and I will just have a conversation about swear words and how it's not really all that acceptable. And how much will a 3 year old respond to this? I'll have to say all the swear words to explain, and surely that will just reinforce them into his general vocabulary. Ok, just don't say 'Oh Bugger' at nursery else I'll be getting summoned into the Depute's office. That'll do. We'll deal with that when you're older.

The January Blues. Especially for my purse.

So, it's January. It's now the 11th, and Christmas is a distant memory in pretty much all ways, except for the finances. Now, one good thing is, we didn't pay Santa by Visa this year, but we are still repairing the slash in the bank account. Being skint is one thing, but with all the good spirit and all-round happiness that Christmas brings, everyone feels inevitably flat in the post Christmas period. Which, if the weather is particularly bad, can last until the summer in my experience.

As always, we start the year intending to be more frugal. (Teamed with the intention of being wholesome and honest people, good parents and the like, I wonder if we are aiming for Saint-like status). And the intention of being more frugal is, to be honest, more by force than by choice. But, I'm determined to embrace it. The washing is still up to date and not being tumble dried. Even if my house looks like a veritable chinese laundry. It does not lie in the machine for days until it smells funky, thus needing rewashed. I reckon this alone has cut the washing liquid consumption by two thirds. We do at least have a useable garden this year so when (or should I say IF) the weather improves I will be regularly stood in the garden like the lady from the comfort fabric softner advert, with a wide grin and flowers in my hair and my perfect, clean and contented children playing happily around me. And of course I'll be skinny by then.

You also know it's January when you are consuming all the the UFOs in your home. I'm sure every home has a number of these - Unidentified Freezer Objects. You take them out and defrost with extreme care, checking for any signs they are off as the ice starts to melt so that you can get them the hell out of your kitchen should the start to emit any foul odours. Once it is defrosted, you can try to decide whether it's pork, chicken or beef. I usually go for shoving it in a curry sauce, which tends to hide a multitude of sins. Then shove fish fingers and smiley faces in the oven for the children.

You also find yourself lying to your children more. Knowing full well they don't like pork, but that is what the latest UFO turns out to be, my approach is to chop it up small, breadcrumb it, then tell them it's chicken. When they complain, I remind them of all the starving children in the world who have nothing. So soak it up, smile and enjoy your tea, mummy worked hard to cook if for you.

I'm also finding that the cost of diesel is now encouraging me to walk more. Which in turn, should help with fighting the flab. See there are benefits to this. However, while Ruby seems to enjoy her view of the world from her carrier on my front, Ryan is another kettle of fish. He does tend to complain a lot at the prospect of walking, and when half way back from the school he often declares he is just not doing it, which presents a bit of a problem when I can't actually carry him. While the other parents are still trudging past on their way home, I try to smile sweetly and talk gently, posing as the patient and loving mother that I aspire to be, give it another 5 mins and I'm hissing unreasonable ultimatums (like no telly for the rest of his life, yeah like I could carry that through and NEVER get any peace) through gritted teeth and walking away cursing and muttering while he stands there and screams at the top of his lungs.

I also decided to try saving my tea bags and make more than one cup from each having never tried this before. I got googling and discovered it was actually quite a common practice, with some claiming to be able to use for 5 mugs of tea. This trial lasted one day. I don't know if I drink my tea particularly strong in order to achieve the maximum caffeine hit, but on the second use, the tea still look pathetically pale after a good 5 minutes soak. Patience has never been my strong point, so I gave up on that pretty quick smart.

Time for a cuppa, all this talk of tea has made me feel pretty parched!

What the......

Ok, I know it's Monday morning, but still, is it really an acceptable excuse for doing really mad and random things?

I did my usual on waking this morning, looked at the baby to check she was still asleep, then checked all other children were contained within the general livingroom area under the influence of suitable TV viewing. I then staggered bleary eyed to the kitchen to boil the kettle. I put out 2 mugs, put in 2 tea bags, put water in both, took the tea bags out and added a good splash of milk....... notice the plurals?

For some strange reason, I'd decided to make my mug of tea twice. WTF? I didn't even notice til I picked them up to carry them to the livingroom and realised I had two in my hand. Now, I will admit to suffering a bit of post-natal loneliness. Being on my 4th child, most other friends sensibly stopped pro-creating at 2 or 3 and have returned to work. So the choice of adult company in the day times is limited and a bit sporadic. (I've asked my husband to give up work just to give me someone to talk to, but he reckons the bills really do need to be paid). But, I think that making cups of tea for an imaginary friend is, at my age, taking things just a bit too far. I know - maybe I could sit the mugs at each side of the kitchen table, and I could run back and forth, having a conversation with myself?

As it happens, I quite often manage to squeeze in 2 cups of tea in the morning, but such is organising four children to be in their various places by 9am, I rarely drink them while they are hot. And having two on the go at once presented a challenge. Drink one after the other, and the second is bound to be vomit-worthily cold. So I opted for sipping from them alternately. It was such hard work, it's bound to count as a good 10 mins exercise. At least for my brain.

Speaking of exercise and all things healthy, I am suffering from psychological extreme hunger at the moment, as it is day one of the 'diet'. I joined a fat club started by a lovely facebook friend to keep me motivated. No chuffing way I'm spending £6 a week on weight watchers to stand on a set of scales and be told I'm fat; I can do THAT myself. So weight has been noted in this semi-public place - the virtual walk of shame to the record it on the wall is done after weighing myself naked, after a visit to the toilet, and before the consumption of any food.  So I'll probably spend the day perpetually hungry even though I'm not, just because I know I can't have chocolate or crisps. Why is it that you can think of nothing to eat when you're on a diet? Fruit looks decidedly unappealing, and there's only so much water you can drink to try and trick your body into thinking it's had a burger and chips. So I'm off to look out the weight watchers and rosemary connolly diet books, to depress myself even further.

Sleep disturbances

We got to bed at a reasonable time last night, but my sleep was disturbed in the wee hours of darkness. Not by the baby demanding a sleep, who is actually still giving it big zzzz's in her carrycot at nearly 10am, but by my husband. And no, he wasn't attempting to get amorous, he was knocking the life out of his bedside cabinet. Literally.

Ok, few thoughts flash very quickly over your mind when you realise what's happening. They say you shouldn't wake someone who is dreaming, but he was at serious risk of breaking his knuckles here, or at least breaking the cabinet. And I was at serious danger of receiving a left hook if he turned on me instead. I wonder what he thought the cabinet had done? Anyway, I put my hand gently on his side and said his name, then curled into a ball in case any stray punches should come my way. He stopped flailing around and immediately started snoring. Good good. A few minutes later, he suddenly sat up and asked if he got the burglars. Wasn't quite sure what to say, so I didn't answer, and he muttered something about ignoring him and went back to sleep. I of course had a stomach clenching rush of adrenaline that follows a sudden wake-up, that must be allowed to subside before sleep returned. Thanks for that Lewie. Turns out he dreamt of noise outside the house which was immediately followed by a burglar appearing in the bedroom.

I spent the rest of the night dreaming of armageddon, where we were all waiting to die by asphyxiation as a large star collided with the earth. Proper meteor showers, rumbles, earthquakes, and 2 suns in the sky? And the telly signal had gone so we didn't even have that to pass the time. Well depressing. I don't know why I didn't think to at least switch on the wii if the power was still on.

Think we need to turn the heating down a bit.

My 5 minutes of minor and quite unwanted fame

So, this week I appeared in page 13 of the local rag, the Dunfermline Press. No photos, just a mention. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll? ASBO? Drunk and disorderly? Hmm, the last would almost be possible was I not still breastfeeding the baby. Nope, all about the parking around Ryan's nursery. Such a high flying and interesting life that I lead.

Ryan is in his ante-preschool year at a nursery 2 or 3 miles from Callum & Rachel's school. Bare bones of the story being that the council made an arse of it when they decided the capacity of the school in this area, and the nursery had to close to make way for classrooms. There are no official nursery catchments, but we are now leaning to this particular nursery where capacity has been increased to cope with the new demand. The whole situation is a parking minefield.

To save boring with you with all of the details, I did one day (just after the major snow which shut the schools for a week back in early December) park in the car park of a hotel close to the school and was rudely asked to move my car. Parking is bad in the area but after the snow, the pavements were impassable and piles of snow prevented parking in most of the cul-de-sacs usually used. Being a sane and rational human being, I of course stayed very calm....... then immediately freaked out about the safety of my children, the ongoing parking issues, and the rudeness of the hotel manager. I'd also had a fixed penalty notice on my car a few weeks before for being a little on the kerb. Luckily, the notice contained a snotty warning letter rather than an actual fine, however, sanity left me for a while (as if often does) and I came home writing a rather highly strung email to the community police, the school, the hotel...... and as the piece de resistance, I copied in the local rag expecting nothing to come of it. Sanity returned with its tail between its legs when the irate hotel manager phoned me to discuss the email. To be very fair, once we'd both calmed down, she apologies for her rudeness, I apologised for my overreaction, and that was that. However, a couple of days later the press rang and I thought ohhhhh shhhheeeeeeeit. He asked a few questions, and at the end of the conversation asked if there was anything else I'd like to add. Gulp. Flashes of a double page spread in the Sun, with the paparazzi catching me doing the school run with no bra and unbrushed hair. Not that I would. Honest. Well, not without a hat and a big coat. (Incidentally, I didn't, and still haven't, heard from the school or community police).

I bought the press that week, and there was nothing, but many similar stories regarding parking at other schools and treacherous pavement conditions. Phew. Sat back and relaxed, with a background buzzing in my brain, blowing this thing out of all proportion. In my head, I'd decided that the paper would depict me as an ungrateful sod of a mother who thought nothing of the nursery staff, was abusive to residents and local businesses, would print everything from my full address and phone number to dress size (and the latter is the most worrying of the numbers in my post natal state), and I'd be met one morning by an angry mob with billboards who would slash my car tyres while I dropped Ryan off.

Two weeks on, and a friend alerted me this evening to my presence on page 13.... here we go!!! So off I went to tesco, jeans over pyjamas. Well, ok, lesson learned. The worry really was out of proportion, and I'd still prefer not to be in there but it didn't make me look like an absolute psycho who lost the plot one snowy morning. There was a hint of exaggeration, a bit of dramatic emphasis, but all in all, it really only highlights the problems faces by those of us who must drive our kids to the nursery.

Note to self: to save much unneccesary stress, do not copy emails to the local paper in a postnatal, hormonal and slightly irrational state.

Amazing babies

Babies. Tiny little people who can provoke a massive emotional response. Take my Ruby. She is, if I may say so, an extremely fine specimen to use as an example.

Ruby is now 3 months and 1 day old. Being my 4th child, I did have to look that up. I remembered she was born in October (despite being due to arrive in September, little sod. Being fashionable late is good in many situations but not when it comes to your own birth) but I am still having to delve deep into the old grey matter to find the day. To be fair, it was in the early hours, (1.12am? Ummm.....) so almost the day before. Had she been my first child, I could have recalled her age to the minute on demand.

Ruby is just as delicious, if not more so than the other children. It's amazing how your love grows with the more children you produce. Ruby's a 'whoops' child, in that the plan was to stop at 3. Well, it's a little more complicated than that, there was another 'whoops' conception who we sadly lost at 9 weeks, so she's all the more special. Not more special than her siblings, but it was a sweet moment to hold that child in my arms after a loss. After the miscarriage, we thought 'what the hell' - we had gotten our heads around the four children thing, so we might as well carry on with it. It does however amaze me how having four children can give strangers and acquaintances (and friends!) alike the capacity for rude questions. Yes, my children all have the same father thank you, and yes, I do know what contraception is. Ha ha ha, very funny, there was nothing on telly. Heard it, heard it, heard it.

You'd think that watching a baby reach their usual milestones could become a bit tedious, boring, and un-noteworthy by the time you're watching for a 4th time. Maybe this is true for some people, but I am in a constant state of excitement like a wobbly oversized cheerleader. Ruby is trying to use her hands and concentrating on objects within her grasp as if willing them into her hands, and she does occasionally make a small semi-effort to grab them. Cue much clapping and cheering from Mummy. She then looks at me like I've completely lost the plot. Bowel movements are subject to just as much praise. Doing the 'Go Ruby.... Go Ruby....' dance when she fills her nappy is probably not the coolest way to be a mummy. But there you go.

She is currently lying on the floor attempting to roll over, and when she gets onto her side the laptop is almost dropped in my haste to pick her up and praise her. I mean, all the books tell you to be positive with your child's achievements, right? I suspect that a poo is on the way, if we get half a rollover as well I might have to do some star jumps or something energetically celebratory.

I think I may be losing my marbles!

Monday is D day

Monday, I start the new 'diet'. So, obviously, in the period between now and then, I'm going to eat absolutely everything that crossed my path. That's edible, not like eating the cat or the kids or anything. Unless I get really hungry.

Trying to lose weight when breastfeeding is, in my previous experience, like shovelling snow when it's still snowing. Even though I have an arse that could feed a small third world country for a good couple of weeks, my body seems determined to hang onto those calories in case a famine hits Fife. And with the recent freak snow, maybe my body subconsciously knows that it is entirely possible that we may not be able to get to tesco for 48 hours.

I'm starving, just after having tea, just at the thought of cutting back to dust and the odd jaffa cake in a couple of days. Best finish off all of the christmas chocolate to save me being tempted.

ETA (at 20.27pm) - I'm not on the diet yet and I'm ready to chew eat my own feet. This does not bode well.

As I said...

Just to conclude, Ryan's just taken a head in the guts and spent 3 long minutes screaming in my ear. Game's a bogey. We'll need to find another way to be good people like the Waltons.

Saturday night fun, said with a hint of sarcasm

So it's Saturday evening in the Erskine household, and every new year, we all make rash new year's resolutions. One made jointly by my husband and I was to spend more 'quality time' with our four children. Tonight we are going to attempt to play the board game 'Hullabaloo'. God only knows how long it's been unopened in the cupboard, I think it was a christmas present circa 1982. From what I understand, although I may have this very wrong, it involves animal noises and actions, and generally making a complete arse of yourself in the name of good fun. The baby I'm sure will enjoy it. Either that, or spoil everyone's fun by being needy. She is at the moment lying on the carpet laughing at the setting up process - so far so good.

Now, game playing with 3 children (and a baby) can go one of two ways, it can all be calm and wholesome and everyone plays nicely, leaving us with that warm, fuzzy feeling of being a good parent. Or, all hell can break loose. Generally, the latter happens after a certain period of time has elapsed. You'd think the 3 year old would have the shortest attention span, but it's currently the moody 7 year old with a teenage attitude, who currently wants to do nothing that doesn't involve a wii, ds or pc. He is not even in the room at the moment, he will need dragged in by the ears to encourage participation.

Wish me luck. Judging by the chaos ensuing, my thoughts on the game rules were completely wrong. Seems like some sort of electronic twister thing. Coloured spots on the floor and lots of running around, landing on specified shapes and colours. Seems like a game which will inevitably end in a painful collision and some child or other being in an extreme huff. I'll sit this one out ready to jump in with my referee's whistle and a cold compress. Think I best move the baby - being number 4, I do tend to forget her exact location at times. I do mean within the room, not like leaving her in a trolley at tesco. No need to pass her a phone on speed dial to childline or anything.

This time, I'm going to do it. And I mean it.

So, I've tried on numerous occasions to make a blog, and created an initial post, never to return again. But not this time, oh no! This time I'm sticking with it. So, my resolution in 2011 was to begin blogging as I'm far to lazy to handwrite a diary, and anyway typing is much quicker. And possibly cooler. So, we're only 8 days into January, I guess that's not bad as far as my usual level of punctuality goes.
None of that 'dear diary' sh1te -, it'll be said as it is and yes, I'm afraid I am partial to the odd profanity, should I deem it appropriate. Although I do think I can avoid developing blogging tourettes.
I was going to tell you all about us, which is generally how my previous first posts go. So this time, I'll do it differently. I'm going to tell you nothing, and let you fathom it out as we go along.

And so, the blogging journey begins......