In my daughter's shoes.

Oh, oh oohhhh! Am SOOooooo excited! M's teachers (there's 26 kids in the class so they have 3 form teachers sharing the responsibility - not like in my day when it was one, very green, very harassed college grad for 25 of us!) have asked me to organise a cooking class for the little darlings tomorrow. My first cooking demo ever to the under-5's market. Husband reckons I should give each of them a business card to take home to their parents...ever the entrepreneur! (S'ok, I won't).

So corny I know but at this time of year, what else is there to make but mince pies? So I have packed my child-proof mini-muffin pan, which makes the dinkiest and most chic mince pies ever, pastry cutters, icing sugar and miniature rolling pins. And tomorrow, instead of dropping my little girl off at school, I shall be following her footsteps and going into the classroom with her! At last I'll get to see what it's like to be in her shoes. Kind of. Except I'm meant to be in charge, or something.

I don't know about teaching but I can't wait to get all those little kiddies rolling and cutting and mixing and baking. Just think of how much mess we can make with just 1 bag of flour and an icing sugar duster! The teachers will never forgive me...but hopefully M's classmates will have a ball. I can't say my chosen recipe gets top marks for nutritional value but I think in December, there are some things you just can't fight and mince pies are one of them (Kate, take note...). Officially, I believe it's obligatory to accompany said pies with steaming mulled wine but I think if I hand round my thermos, I might never get asked back. Which would be a shame.

The only thing that's bothering me is what to wear? Do I go for the smart grey wool trousers and linen shirt option? Or a more funky Boden skirt and stripy jumper combo? Are black leather knee-high boots inappropriate in Reception? Will my eco-friendly felt Timberlands have them snickering at me behind their pudgy little hands?

Advice please. Any time between now and 8 am tomorrow morning....no pressure...

Why Kate's missing out

I'm still reeling from Kate Moss's indescribably stupid comment on diet advice,

"Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels"

And before anyone starts defending her as being taken out of context (the rest of the quote was, "You try and remember but it never works". Does that make it sound any better??!)

As an ex-ballet dancer, I've seen more than my fair share of eating disorders...in fact, in a company of 60 professional dancers, I was the only one who ate real food. My fellow athletes chain-smoked and took intravenous caffeine - with a vitamin chaser of course - to survive. Which they barely did. I saw more than one admitted to hospital, to be force-fed and pumped up with life-saving steroids. Others would swallow a boiled sweet or spoonful of honey, in lieu of food, to give them a quick burst of energy before they flitted onto stage. (It may have done but I still had my heart in my mouth watching these skeletal girls wobble through 2nd Act of Giselle).

Health and nutrition aside, I think the saddest thing about this attitude is how Kate and other extreme dieters are missing out on a richness to their lives that food can offer. I don't just mean the sensory pleasure of eating a delicious morsel but everything that goes with that experience.

I like few things better than choosing a mouth-watering recipe by one of my favourite food writers and carefully sourcing the ingredients on my next outing - choosing the glossiest aubergines, the most fragrant oranges, fresh peppery watercress, a pungently ripe cheese. Next comes the cooking - contributing to the amazing alchemy that turns raw ingredients into a delectable feast never ceases to thrill me. Tasting it, of course, is the pinnacle of all that effort but even better is sharing the moment with friends. Food should be a celebration - of delight and gratitude that we are able to partake of such things at all. This to me is what eating is all about.

I would hate to lose this dimension in my life in order to wear Kate's skinny jeans (For the record, I'm a size 10). That wouldn't feel like living to me. Just existing. And Kate must know she's missing out at some level or she wouldn't be desperately seeking sensory thrills from illegal (and frankly dangerous) drugs.

Why is the Y chromosome SO much trouble??

Ok I know this is the wrong attitude. Especially when it's referring specifically to my own apparently-cherubic 2.5 year old.

As he frolics along the high street, jumping merrily into puddles with his white-blond hair whipped up by the wind into a halo and huge blue eyes gazing innocently at towering passers-by, other mothers chuckle fondly, sailors dodge his splashes with kindly amusement and little old ladies pause to gaze at him wistfully. He's even capable of causing the grumpiest of shop assistants to rush over and distract him mid-meltdown.

Which is just as well because yesterday I thought we were about to get banned from our local Co-op.

I'd had both children off all week with Slapped Cheek disease otherwise, clearly, I would not have braved the supermarket with the two of them. At 4.30 pm. Without £1 coin to rent a trolley...

So there we were trundling along the aisles - I say 'we'...my daughter was very sweetly carrying her own basket, chattering away to me and helping me choose food from the shelves. God bless little girls! Son Number One (a slightly pointless nickname as I very much doubt I'll be brave enough to ever have another) was using another shopping basket as a kind of skateboard and whizzing it along the aisles, narrowly dodging fellow shoppers. Shop Assistant 1 gently suggested he might hurt someone and that her manager would be along soon. When her comment caused bottom-lip syndrome, she hurriedly went about trying to put a smile back onto his perturbed face. Well-meaning though she was, she clearly didn't have kids herself as she actually encouraged him to hop into the wheely basket (you know those deluxe shopping baskets with a cool extendable handle) and asked my 4 year old to push him along. This proved something of a physical impossibility and caused both children to have a bit of a 'moment'. The shop assistant mumbled something about, "Who's in control here? Ha ha..".

But we got over this trifling episode and I was just turning into the vegetable aisle when I realised my little chap had peeled off to play with the automatic double doors. And a 'Wet Floor' sign with which he had started body boarding. I kid you not.

I call his name. 3 times. Then desert Daughter to go over to him and remove said 'body board'. Naturally this causes some consternation. Actually I think I felt the foundations of the entire supermarket quaking from his screams. How could I have ruined his fun??

I scoop him up under one arm and with the other, try and move on hurridly, desperately grabbing the things we need for supper and, by now, pretty keen just to get the hell out of there. It seems as though elderly shoppers are glaring at me from all directions. I think I even see some calling Childline on their mobiles.

It's only after a few minutes when he takes his hands down from his face that I see there's blood everywhere. I mean, everywhere. We stop in the nappy aisle where there are less disapproving rubber-neckers and I fumble for a muslin in my bag. Pretty soon it's covered in tell-tale red stains and his top lip has started to swell way beyond it's normal bee-stung proportions. I am horrified on so many counts but mainly for my baby - as I extricated the shop sign from him, in his anger he must have bumped his nose on the floor and bitten his lip.

After we finally manage to limp home, he whimpers with every sip of drink. I feel awful beyond belief and on my way to my cooking show that evening, I am utterly consumed with guilt.

Of course, I know that 'boys will be boys' and I do keep reminding myself that he's not being naughty (at least not in his mind), he's simply exploring his world. With great interest, determination and energy it must be said. And an unswerving inability to listen to the pleas of his mother.

But despite my allowances, I do find him ten times harder work than my little girl, who though inquisitive and quite sensitive, is a whole lot calmer and biddable. I don't think he's an extraordinarily difficult little boy per se. I guess it's just the difference between that all-important X and Y chromosome.

My mum had three boys (with me in between) and somehow she survived it. I'll have to ask her how. And soon.

All work and no play.

When my daughter started Big School in September and Littlest in turn tentatively began nursery for 2 whole mornings a week, I thought I would have more time on my hands than I knew what to do with. In my rose-tinted dreams, my nails would now remain perfectly manicured, my in-tray empty and my blog updated on a daily basis.

But for some unfathomable reason, not one of these things has happened. I seem to spend an unholy amount of time in the car on the school run (my fault for choosing schools the other side of the Island). Or lurking outside nursery waiting to whizz my son home for a pit-stop lunch and power-nap, before turning round to collect Daughter. My nail polish is looking disgracefully chipped right now (...must remember to hack it off before tonight's cooking show) and, well, you can see what's happened to my poor abandoned blog.

It's not that I don't long to post about the latest ups & downs of our Island life. Not only do I LOVE the creative and cathartic act of writing - as well as receiving comments from my fellow bloggers - but for me my blog acts as a kind of online diary. Somewhere I can record my most difficult or poignant or amusing moments. Or work out my latest angst, you know how it is.

Yet most of the time I barely have time to even read my favourite bloggers' posts, let alone check in to Blogland myself. I find this acute lack of time deeply frustrating and not a little depressing. But I'm starting to think that perhaps I'm just hopelessly optimistic (or maybe ridiculously ambitious) with all that I want to achieve. Either that or I need an alter ego to get everything done.

The trouble is, as soon as the slightest chink of space opens up in my schedule, I manage to instantly fill it with something else. Or three. So Daughter starts school, I start a Book Club (with my friend N and six others). And up my Pampered Chef cooking demonstrations to once a week. And choose my next OU Life Sciences degree module. Alongside marketing the house for sale and attempting to be an otherwise Domestic demi-Goddess.

But I know I'm not alone in this crazy juggling act. Motherhood is all about putting our childrens' needs before our own, right? And fitting our own stuff in as and where we can.

I have to admit though, I am incredibly curious how other mums manage to devote themselves to mothering AND do a fraction of the things they need/want to. And blog.

????????????

When time-out goes wrong...

It was 5 pm. Do I need to say any more? Some of my friends call it the witching hour, my brother goes one step further and refers to it as Hell Hour. Whatever you call it, I think it is universally acknowledged to be a, shall we say, somewhat trying time of the day. It's that magical combination of tired kids+tired Mummy+hungry everyone that seems to produce the most monumental battles between siblings and parents alike.

Anyway, as I was saying, the big hand on our kitchen clock was just approaching that dreaded digit when the kids really lost it. They were arguing about some fuzzy felt figures and when I tried to patiently (I know, get me - think it was the toffee popcorn that I was secretly munching that boosted my tolerance levels!) share the kit out between the two of them, Youngest went into full melt-down mode. He threw himself on the floor, legs in the air, arms flailing, house-quaking screaming. Needless to say, innocent fuzzy felt figures were dispersed EVERYWHERE. Still, they were probably better co-lateral than his sister.

At this point, I thought a few minutes quiet time might be useful for anyone to regain their composure. I scooped Youngest up and started to carry him up to his bedroom at the top of the house. By the time I'd negotiated the first flight of stairs with this unhelpfully flailing creature, I decided the bathroom right opposite us would be just as good a location. I mean, what harm can 1 two and a quarter year old come to in a clean, spacious bathroom? Well might you ask.

So in he went and 'shut' went the door. I sat outside listening to his blood-curdling wails for maybe two minutes. And then, just as I was about to put my hand on the door handle and ask him if he was ready to rejoin civilisation, I heard something that made my blood run cold. The click-clunk of the lock inside the bathroom being pulled across. Oh. My. God.

I tried to remain calm and started asking him to pull the lock back. "The OTHER way, darling, move it the other way". He tearfully kept saying he couldn't do it and pleaded, "Let me out, Mum, let me out". I tried to think of other ways I could get him out but there's no other door into the bathroom (funny that) and although there is a window, it was, naturally, well and truly locked.

It was around then that I started seeing images of the police being summoned to break the door down and take my son away from me as a clearly irresponsible mother. Or firemen climbing ladders at the back of the house and having to smash the window to get at him. Or neighbours phoning social services in response to my child's terrified screams. I kept up my entreaties to Youngest to open the lock but of course it had obviously been a complete fluke that he'd pulled it across at all. He didn't even realise what he'd done and now thought that Mean Old Mum was keeping him imprisoned.

So I did what any desperate housewife would have done. (No, not the gin, not yet...). I called Husband. For about the millionth time since I became a mother, I thanked the powers that be that my other half works approximately 2 minutes round the corner from our house. He was back home in half that time. After a bit more cajoling, it became clear that Youngest just didn't have a clue what we meant by 'lock', so Husb. asked him to stand back and gave the door one almighty, man-sized shoulder shove. The lock pinged off and Youngest stood there, blotchy-faced and red-eyed, blinking at his saviour. In a pitiful echo of Jenny Agutter in The Railway Children, he bleated gratefully "My Daddy!". I swallowed hard and thanked those powers that be again for such a swift release from a potentially hideous nightmare.

So I won't be using that option again, methinks. That'll teach me to try and cut corners with my punishments! And there's nothing like a bit of guilt for a slap-up tea...pancakes with bacon and maple syrup anyone?

La petite fille

M had a French day at school yesterday. She was even more excited than usual to get to school. I'm not sure what was the best bit - trading in school uniform for a Red/White/Blue outfit or pommes frites for lunch.

Personally, I still can't get my head round my little girl having proper lessons, at like, real school, let alone learning another language there and coming home talking about Mademoiselle Noot and how she had Lait instead of L'eau at snack time.

How the time does fly...

Well it's been almost a month since I posted anything and I do feel incredibly guilty that I've let my blog fester for such a time. But the truth is that life has temporarily got in the way of anything and everything else.

Unbelievably, the house selling/moving situation is no further on. We've played many silly bargaining games with buyers and vendors alike. The vendors of Dream House (having agreed on an offer from us 4 months ago) suddenly decided they wanted their asking price, which meant us finding an extra $30K. After much wheedling and prevaricating on our part, they eventually remembered that the entire country is still ankle-deep in a recession and agreed to come down fractionally. But by this time, our buyers had got cold feet and wandered elsewhere. Enter, Buyer No 2. Who laughably offered us $60K less than our asking price. They want an investment you see. I couldn't decide whether to be offended or amused by such a ludicrously low offer. Did we really seem that desperate? And where exactly did they imagine we could possibly move to with such meagre proceeds that would be any better than where we are? In the end, we gave them short shrift and told them that if they wanted an investment they were very much looking at the wrong place. Finally, we had a cash buyer looking round at the end of last week. So who knows, perhaps he'll be our man.

To be honest with you though, I've sort of lost interest in the whole thing. Obviously I still desperately want more space and a garden for my children. And Husband is pretty keen to be in Dream House on account of its proximity to the Creek (therefore boats, sailing and ensuing Swallows & Amazons lifestyle). But right now, our little cottage feels so cosy (I'm writing this on the laptop, whilst buried in our squashy sofa opposite a roaring fire) and snug that the thought of packing up and moving somewhere new, that needs completely gutting and decorating throughout, fills me with a slight shudder of horror.

Then I've been somewhat inundated with cooking shows (for my Pampered Chef sideline) which is all GOOD but busy busy busy. And the boiler packing up, which has meant no hot water for the past week (thankfully we've been able to bathe in the cottage next door) rather put a, well, dampener on things.

And last Wednesday, I was struck down, along with both babes with (I think) Swine Flu. It must be SF rather than just your regular seasonal 'flu because not only have we all had high temperatures and a myriad other symptoms but I've also been hit by a most unfamiliar and annoying fatigue. For the past few days I've barely been able to drag myself out of bed and then when I do, it's only to collapse on the sofa, where my eyes involuntarily close and I'm no use to anyone. I do hope it's on the way out as my To Do list is growing hourly and I just can't afford to have my eye off the ball any longer.

So whilst that may sound like a very tedious and protracted list of excuses, I hope you'll forgive me my absence and understand that I shall be back in Blogworld as soon as I can wrest control of my life again.