Suitably Attired

There is no such thing as "just nipping out to the Post Office" in this house, or "just popping round to the Supermarket". It is impossible to Nip or Pop anywhere. Going out requires the kind of preparation and organisation that a Small Military Task Force setting out on an Expedition to engage with Hostile Armies would be proud of.

There are two nappies to change, two trips to the lavatory to be made, three faces to wash, three coats to be found, one push-chair to get out... and that is without Number 1. If he is to accompany us, there is one grumpy teenager to cajole out of bed, one pair of jeans (with holes in) to be changed (because "you are not going out like that!"), one sweater to be found, one lot of pocket-money to be doled out (because "I might want to buy something in the Post Office")... Of course I have excluded my own preparations from this list - usually because I forget to do any, and get half-way down the road before realising that I have baby-sick on my shoulder, my hair is piled on top of my head and secured with a biro, I have weetabix and bogeys smeared on my jeans, I have only got make-up on one eye because the phone rang and distracted me, and I forgot to put my left breast back inside my bra after the last feed...

We have resolved the babysitting problem and found a lovely woman prepared to stay in and look after the tribe and who doesn't appear to be a social or emotional deviant. Or indeed any kind of deviant. So The Husband and I ventured out for the third successive week on a Hot Date. We have progressed from holding hands on the first occasion, to having a quick kiss on the way home the following week, so this time I thought I might be so bold as to wear some Attractive Lingerie. Which is difficult because I don't really have any. Having been permanently pregnant for the last five years, there has been little call for anything Lacy or Racy. In fact, if it can't cope with a hot wash, it is utterly redundant. I did find a bright pink bra in my drawer which looked fantastic when covered up with clothing, and a pair of knickers that weren't too grey and had no safety-pins in the side. So I was Suitably Attired.

A vague bell was ringing in the back of my mind that perhaps being 'Suitably Attired' is the reason we keep having to upgrade our car to one with more seats in, but I needn't have worried. I fed Number 4 right before we left, which requires a little scooping and lifting when one is not wearing a nursing bra with flaps. As a result, poor old Number 4 narrowly escaped serious injury as one of the underwires came loose and nearly jabbed him in the eye. If he wasn't already blinded by the colour of the Offending Article. So back on went the Enormous White Boulder-Houlder. With flaps. We'll stick with the car we've got for the time-being...

A Little Goes a Long Way...

I have decided to do something about the chocolate/cheese intake, and yesterday managed to get through a whole day on only two squares of Green and Black and a matchbox size chunk of Cheddar. I gave up smoking in January, and since then I have really overindulged, somehow believing I deserved it, or was entitled to it, to compensate for the lack of nicotine. A pretty poor excuse, I know, but I must have something - a treat, a crutch, a weakness, call it what you will - something to restore, relieve, reinvigorate. And it is cheese and chocolate - but not at the same time. Obviously.
I have drunk a lot of tea over the past few weeks. More excess. Actually it has been in the line of duty, so to speak, as I have been 'interviewing' babysitters - which really means sitting down over a cup of tea for a chat. The ad read "Wanted - Mature, reliable babysitter for four boys. Experience essential - Grannies welcome" and I placed it in the Post Office window. The phone hasn't stopped ringing. You can learn a lot of things over a cup of tea. And I have. From complete strangers. One woman detailed her abusive childhood, another the fact that her family have disowned her, another that she is not allowed to see her grandchildren... I don't want to make judgements, but it doesn't inspire confidence. I had an image of a surrogate Granny for my boys; a rounded, white-haired lady who would scold and comfort, knit woolly jumpers and make a mean apple-pie. One lady sounded perfect on the telephone - she had been a nanny for a well-known wealthy family for fifteen years, was obviously not to be trifled with and yet had a soft note to her voice. I even baked a carrot cake for her tea-time visit. When I answered the door I couldn't have been more surprised. My elderly Mary Poppins had badly-dyed orange hair and was rounder than round. She elbowed her way in and then asked if the furniture was "all yours?" She sat back from the table with her skirt hoiked up around her thighs complaining about the heat. Number 1's eyes were out on stalks. And she ate three large slices of cake. It was... unsettling.

Education, Education, Education

Cancer Research UK have studied the eating habits of children and have concluded that they inherit their taste for meat and fish but acquire a liking for vegetables or deserts. The study was led by Professor Jane Wardle, who said that "it might be that children who witness their parents show enthusiasm or distaste for certain types of vegetables or puddings are likely to follow suit". Which brings to mind the story of a mother who was anxious because her children would not Eat Their Greens. One evening at dinner, she put the vegetables into a serving dish and set it by her plate. She did not give the children any, but piled them onto her own plate and made a big fuss about how delicious they were. The next night, she did the same, making even more noise about how scrumptious her vegetables were. And so it went on, until eventually the children came to think that the vegetables were quite covetable and asked for their own helpings. Gotcha!

Another mother I know complained that at supper time she ends up preparing three or four different meals because each of her children likes different things. Excuse me? Since when do small children choose what they are going to get on their plate? What happened to "you get what you're given" (one of the mantras of my youth, along with "well, life isn't fair" and "waste not, want not")? If they don't eat it, they go hungry. Simple.

A friend of Number 1 stayed for lunch one day. I made a big plate of sandwiches, cut neatly into triangles and bade them to help themselves. The children did, but the visitor left a pile of crusts on his plate. When I remarked on it, he replied "But I don't eat crusts!" I pointed out that half of the world is starving and it was a terrible waste of perfectly good food. He burst into tears. Anyone would have thought that I had asked him to eat Poo Pie... The child was ten years old, for heaven's sake! Whatever next?

A state-funded information pack for men on how to be better fathers, apparently. With such pearls of wisdom as "your partner may be too knackered to think about sex" and "don't have an affair", it makes you wonder whether the government couldn't have found something more useful to spend £50,000 of the tax-payer's money on. Like... oh, I don't know... some Chocolate Teapots, perhaps?

BOO

The oddest thing happened this morning. Somebody in a call-centre was helpful and polite... His name was Kevin and he was a Friendly Operator. He knew exactly what information I required, did not mind a bit that I couldn't find my reference number, suggested that moving house was stressful and could therefore be the reason I had lost all my paperwork, and congratulated me on the birth of Number 4! Amazing.

Number 3 was traumatized by the sudden appearance of a tabby cat which crossed the pavement in front of us as we went to collect Number 2 from 'school' this morning (to which, by the way, he went quite happily today, as if yesterday's outburst had never happened...). After the Incident with the Birdy yesterday, I have suggested that he shouts "BOO!" at the Scary Creatures he doesn't like. He spent the rest of the day shouting "BOO!" at his brothers.

MotherPie has launched two Community Boards on her site today - one for Breast Cancer Resources and the other for Moms in Action. She has my undivided support - there can't be many of us who have not had our lives touched in some way by breast cancer - in my case, a very close family member was diagnosed and treated for it last year. The mission statement for her Moms in Action group is: Standing Together for a Better Future for Our Children, Moms & Families… Well you can't argue with that, now can you?

Mummy's Little Soldiers

How do you tell an hysterical three year old that he IS going to pre-school this morning and convince him that It Won't Hurt A Bit? Number 2 is currently merrily digging up the front flower bed with a spoon, because I couldn't do it. Instead of learning how to socialise with his age-appropriate peer group, how to share and take turns, how to give and take, how to wait and listen and sit cross-legged, he is digging for treasure in the front garden with Number 3.

Now, it is not as if the poor child is packed off to nursery every day for hours and hours. He attends pre-school for three mornings a week, in order to promote an Independent Spirit and to stimulate his development. He is a sensitive soul, Number 2. He is quiet and shy in public, nervous of strangers and prone to chin-wobbles in Unfamiliar Situations, but this morning's outburst was unexpected. The mere mention of 'school' - to which he has happily tripped along for the last six weeks - was enough to provoke the Screaming Ab-Dabs. After much cajoling and gentle persausion he was able to tell me what the problem was. It turns out one of the other children "is 'sgusting". I telephoned the nursery to explain that Number 2 would not be in today, and managed to solicit a little more information. It seems that one of the bigger boys (who is 4) has taken to calling people "Pooh-Head".

Well... I can see why Number 2 feels affronted. It's not pleasant... but not exactly vile offensive abuse. Not really.

Perhaps what Number 2 needs is The Dangerous Book For Boys by Conn and Hal Iggulden. Having read a review for it recently, it is top of my shopping list for my 4 boys. It provides practical suggestions for activities in the Boys' Own mould. How to crack codes, thrash your opponent at conkers, make a bow and arrow, train dogs to do tricks, race a go-cart and construct a catapult are just some of the tasks it details. The authors have also included stirring tales of heroism to inspire courage and bravery...

Perhaps Number 3 should read it too. He has just come screaming in from the garden with that high-pitched note of fear in his voice that sends cold creeping shivers down a mother's spine.
"What is it?" I shouted as I scooped him up into my arms, "What is it?"
"A...A...A...BIRDY!!" gasped my little soldier.
You see? There are some things in life even worse than being called Pooh-Head.

Scrummy Slummy Mummy

We heard a lot about the Yummy Mummy in the 90's - you know, that sickeningly perfect groomed woman, yoga-thin, who had a manicured lifestyle, clean children and a four-wheel drive. She made the whole wife-and-mother thing look like it had stepped from the pages of a glossy magazine. Where has she gone? I don't believe she ever actually existed.

Now, everyone is talking about the Slummy Mummy. Well, I know her. I know her very well. In fact, she is me... and every other real woman I know with children. (Except my mother, of course, who is not in the slightest bit Slummy).

When I had Number 4, quite a few women I know kept asking "How Will You Cope?". I have to admit to being slightly baffled. What do you mean, How Will I Cope? Isn't it obvious? I just Lower My Standards and then I can Muddle Along Nicely. Let's face it, I never iron anything unless it is going out in public. I'd never get any housework done without the help of Mr. Walt Disney and I love my new carpets because they are a speckledy brown and beige colour (which means they only need hoovering once a fortnight).

Stephanie Calman's Confessions of a Bad Mother and Polly Williams's The Rise and Fall of a Yummy Mummy talk about modern mothering like it is, and Fiona Neill is set to see The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy hit the bookshelves early next year. The Slummy Mummy is definitely flavour of the month, as it were. Has to be the first time in my life that I was ever en vogue!

The compulsion by the media to categorize Motherhood with such qualitative judgements is rather tedious. Do we need any more sticks to beat our self-images with? But as Lowrie Turner wrote in The Daily Mail last year, “Whereas the cult of Yummy Mummy made us all feel guilty if we failed to replicate the perfect life we were encouraged to feel was possible, Slummy Mummy makes us all feel better about ourselves. She represents an acceptance that no one can be that perfect all the time”.

In her article Hooray for Slummy Mummies (13th October) Turner describes the Slummy Mummy:

“She’s the mother whose children arrive at school wearing odd socks and with their swimming kit still sitting on the kitchen table. Her home totters uncertainly between shabby chic and just plain shabby... When she gets back from the school run, she thinks about doing some yoga, but she puts the telly on instead. Slummy Mummy does not shirk her maternal responsibilities, although she is liable to take a few short cuts for the sake of her own sanity... She is human and fallible and, most importantly, likeable.”

I must go and re-clothe Number 3. He has removed his shorts and flung them over the garden gate, but there we have it. In my book, the Slummy Mummy is definitely the most Scrummy of All Mummies. Definitely.

Backwards and Forwards

Does anyone else have to scoop out a pile of rocks from the washing machine before you can load the laundry? Number 3 is using it as a handy repository for Interesting Things he finds in the garden.

Yesterday we went back to where it all began. It feels as if we make a pilgrimage every time we return, but yesterday was different. It is the last time I shall go back, I think. The memories are precious and shiny, but the reality is quite faded. Only a handful of the old crowd remain - and there was a sadness in that too. Same Old Faces doing the Same Old Things.

On a lighter note, I breastfed Number 4 just before we left, and pulled on my super-dooper new t-shirt and a non-nursing bra, which does quite a good job of scooping up my gurt milk churns and keeping them off the floor. So I don't trip over. It was only when we got back that I noticed as I passed the hall mirror that I was lopsided in the extreme. The breast that had previously been fed from was a reasonable size and in a good position. The other was gigantic and rapidly heading south...

Thanks to all who have emailed about the new banner. I am going to do a bit of experimenting over the next few days and would really appreciate your feedback. Perhaps we'll have a vote?! It is time for a new look...

If you're stuck for a quick, light supper try my new Smoked Salmon and Crispy Bacon Salad which is a doddle to put together, and looks fantastic. Perfect for a summer evening in the garden with a glass of bubbly, or with a bit of toast for lunch.

Anyway, must go and put in a whites wash. And retrieve broken flower pot.

One of Those Days...

"Mum, what day is it today?"
"It's Saturday."
"Oh. We had one of those last week..."

Like Number 2, I am sometimes disappointed not to find a whole new day, with a whole new name, lurking somewhere in my week.

Absolute Genius...

A friend had her first baby a few weeks before our own Number 4 arrived. Like all first time mothers she has had to find her way through the quagmire of other people's well-meaning but conflicting advice while coping with sleep deprivation and an overwhelming desire to 'get it right'. She is, of course, a wonderful mother already and would do well to ignore everyone else...

She dressed her two month old baby in a pretty pink outfit and took her visiting, proud to show off her Beautiful New Daughter. Beautiful New Daughter behaved impeccably, smiling and gurgling in her chair. And then... she started farting. Collosal great big Man Farts that rumbled and roared in her tiny nappy. It caused Much Hilarity and went on for quite some time. Eventually Mum took baby up to the bathroom to change the nappy to find Bright Orange Poo (of which I have spoken before) had erupted like Vesuvius and had crept up Beautiful New Daughter's back to her neck and down Beautiful New Daughter's legs to her ankles. What to do? There isn't a page in the Baby Instructions explaining the appropriate response to a moment like this. Mum knew that to remove soiled sticky orange garments in the conventional manner would involve pulling them over Beautiful New Daughter's head... Can you imagine the mess?

Rifling through the bathroom cabinet (for inspiration) she finds a pair of scissors. And in a flash the job is done. She just cut straight through the offending garments and dropped them into the bin. Absolute Genius.

Shout! Shout! Let It All Out!

The Happy Housewife has been introduced by MotherPie to Pygmalion's Wife. (It sounds like a secret agents' meeting of the Mother's Union...)

I was reading an old essay last night by Andrea Buchanan entitled "The Secret Life of Mothers: Maternal Narrative, Momoirs, and the Rise of the Blog" and it got me thinking.

She writes: "Mothers who go online are finding a multiplicity of viewpoints, a real and humanized investigation of the complex and varied ways in which we mother, and mothers who recognize themselves in the writings of these mother-bloggers feel valid. They feel heard. And they feel empowered.

They know, as readers powerfully and humblingly write to tell me, that they are not alone. That despite what divides us – whether we co-parent or single-parent, whether our children are grown or just being born, whether we micro-manage or mis-manage – we are here, doing the daily work of mothering, together."

There is a female solidarity, a maternal camaraderie possible in the faceless, real-nameless virtual reality of cyberspace. Here the voice of Motherhood can shout loud and long into the void and be sure of an echo. It is safe because we do not upset anyone, we are not admitting our fears and weaknesses to real people, so there are no repurcussions. We are still Good Mothers in the Real World. We are still Respectable Mothers in the Real World.

It is emotional interaction incognito. Emotional interaction without the social responsibility? Where is the moral line? We can 'take up' with people at the click of a mouse, and shut them off with a touch of a button.

I have been moved by the story of Pygmalion's Wife that is playing out on my computer every morning. I will send her messages of support, kind wishes of encouragement as her voice resonates through my memories of a time before this Housewife got Happiness. But is my involvement anymore than that of a soap-opera addict? Does Pygmalion's Wife need me, any more than I need her? Do we owe each other anything, us two mothers who have never met...? And does it matter?

Cyber-relationships may exist only on a virtual plane, but their impact in the Real World is undeniable. In the same way that I hope Pygmalion's Wife is finding her blogging cathartic and is drawing hope and emotional sustenance from (most of) her reader's comments, I am saddened by my friend Maid Lizzie's announcement that she has decided to put a stop to her blogging. Now there is another gal with a secret life! She has inspired, and encouraged and provided hope for a marginalised community who have found a voice - indeed a whole conversation - through the internet. So does she have any kind of moral responsibility to her readers...? (No pressure intended, Lizzie!)

I keep saying blogging is cheaper than therapy. Shout Loud and Strong Pygmalion's Wife! Shout Loud and Strong Maid Lizzie!

I, for one, will keep listening.

Firm Foundations

Out of my kitchen window I have been watching a young couple build their own house. They have been digging out the foundations for the past few weeks, with the help of a mechanical digger. Every evening, she, perky with a pony tail and wellingtons, stands in the road to hold up the traffic, while he reverses the digger out of the site and parks it neatly beside the plot they will eventually call home. Today, Number 3 and I have watched a huge lorry dump cement into the big hole. Today, she looks perkier than ever, bright eyed with the promise of this New Life they are creating together. Today, I have wanted to throw open my window and shout "Stop! Are you sure that the house you are building will stand up to Storms and Tempests? Are you sure those foundations are Deep Enough, Wide Enough, Strong Enough?"

Of course, I didn't though, tempting as it was. Not least because I don't want to get a reputation for being the Mad Woman in the Crooked Cottage, but also because my kitchen window has been painted shut. Which makes it very hot when I am cooking, and also means I set the smoke alarm off whenever I use the toaster, even if the toast is only toast-colour and not burnt at all.

The only reason Our House does not entirely collapse in the face of Much Battering by Inclement Weather is that we don't discuss the hole in the roof where the tiles have come adrift, or the rotting window frames and loose panes of glass, or the peeling paint in a colour we could never agree on, or the crumbling stones and cracking stones and creaking stones. I have given up trying to point out that it might be an idea to get the builders in before the whole lot disintegrates. If we don't mention the State of the House it will go on standing, and my children need a roof over their heads while they are young.

I ignore the Deathwatch Beetle that wake me with their insidious scuttling in the night. I make flapjacks and keep the kitchen window closed. And wait.

The Dummy Debate

A recent Australian study has sparked off the perennial debate about the wisdom of giving babies dummies or pacifiers. The new research concludes that dummies have a detrimental effect on breastfeeding. "It is plausible that pacifier use causes babies to breastfeed less...The innate sucking reflex of the infant is satisfied by the pacifier, decreasing or eliminating the desire for contact with the nipple and breast."

Well, I'm not convinced. If this argument stands up, could it not equally apply to thumb-sucking? Perhaps we should surgically remove all thumbs at birth, just in case. Nor is the conclusion borne out by the evidence of breastfeeding in Norway, for example. 98% of Norwegian new mothers breastfeed, falling slightly to 90% at four months, yet the use of pacifiers is commonplace there. Compare this with the statistics for this country - only 69% of new mothers breastfeed, dropping sharply by 20% in the first two weeks, to 28% still breastfeeding at four months. In Britain, we have an aesthetic problem with the dummy. Is a concern about aesthetics a middle-class preoccupation? The same middle-classes whose educational advantage might lean them towards breastfeeding? Does the research say more about the mothers than the babies?

My health visitor suggested I use a dummy with Number 2, who suffered severe colic. It certainly kept me sane, but I should have taken it away when the colic passed at about four months, because he still had it when he was two years old! It was only allowed at bed times, and I couldn't really see the harm. One day, it just got 'lost' (in the dustbin) and that was that. A few tearful nights, and it was all over. The first forty-eight hours with Number 4 saw me 'sleeping' sitting upright with the baby clamped to my bosom. Uncomfortable and exhausting. I was tempted to introduce a dummy then, but he wasn't having any of it and it was spat out in disgust. He quickly found his thumb and sucks it constantly (and loudly). It will be a lot more difficult to put an end to that habit, I think.

Anyway - decided to poach the chicken on Sunday, instead of roasting it - just for a change. I threw it into the stock pot with some leeks, onion, carrots and celery, some bay leaves and a handful of thyme, and put it on a low heat so it just glupped away happily for a few hours. Taking the chicken out of the pot was the tricky bit. It literally fell apart - the most gorgeous, tender, succulent meat. Usually on a Monday, I make stock with the remains of the joint, which then becomes soup, but today the job was pretty much done for me. I just reduced down the cooking liquid that was left in the pot with the vegetables, added a stock cube and seasoning, and used the hand blender to blitz everything to a souplike consistency. With homemade bacon bread, some good strong Cheddar and fresh tomatoes, and a bowl of luscious ripe peaches afterwards - that's supper sorted out. A glass of wine, a piece of chocolate, the cryptic crossword in front of the TV, and a contented little boy, thumb in mouth, will make for a Happy Housewife this evening.

Manners Maketh Man...

We were at a party on Sunday night, when Number 3 was offered a biscuit.
"What do you say?" asked our hostess.
"That One!" replied Number 3 very seriously, pointing into the biscuit tin.

She knows my children very well and they have been to stay with her on a number of occasions, but I was still mortified. She thought it was fantastically funny and pointed out that it made perfect sense to a hungry small boy, and she wasn't a bit cross. Unlike me, who put on my teacher's voice and bade him say "Thank You", which he attempted with a mouthful of crumbs at which point I started worrying about her persian rug.

Much later after we had left, somebody else remarked that if she had spoken to her son in the manner in which I had spoken to Number 3, he would have replied "Mother, don't take that tone with me." She thought that was fantastically funny. Her son is five. At which point our hostess began to wax lyrical about how polite my children usually were and how refreshing it is to find Children with Good Manners in this Day and Age. I'm not sure how convinced her audience was, bearing in mind Number 3's earlier performance.

Anyway, the whole silly episode got me thinking about Good Manners. It is true that I have drummed those "Pleases" and "Thank Yous" into my children from the word go. Absolutely nothing happens in our house without a Please and a Thank You. Even before they are able to speak, I am saying it for them, so that they grow up almost unconsciously just knowing that is How You Behave. It's about Showing Some Respect. If any of my children spoke to me in the way that woman's five year old apparently speaks to his mother, I would be livid! Precocious children are not cute, they are rude - Good Manners are not just about the "p's" and "q's". So I will continue to 'take that tone' with my children, especially Number 3, until they get it right because I am the grown-up and I am in charge.

I will never have much money but my children will have Good Manners. I may not be able to give them any of the advantages a big wallet can afford, but they will be able to go anywhere and Know How to Behave.

Or at least that is the theory...

I caught Number 3 attempting to wee into his brother's wellington boot yesterday.