Clearly it was a bad idea to go for a hot chocolate in HENDON CENTRAL

It’s fair to say that 600 months of lockdown melting almost seamlessly into 400 further months of summer holidays can leave even the most enthusiastic parent holding up their hands to heaven on a midweek grey August afternoon  beseeching the Powers of the Universe with a howling refrain: “What ELSE can I possibly do to keep three young children entertained?”

It’s a grey midweek afternoon in the middle of an interminable August. It’s 2020. The Year of the Pandemic. We’re having a staycation, a homeliday.

I am with my three young children in a back garden in London NW4.

We are rabbit-sitting a cute rabbit called Beyoncé and unfortunately have smashed Beyoncé’s water bottle. So I hunker down on my phone and discover on Google Maps that there’s a pet superstore just down the road in West Hendon.

HALLELUJAH! Just when I’m wondering hopelessly about where to take the children after we leave our bunny friend, a plan has miraculously manifested itself.

We have a mission! We have an outing! Never have I felt so grateful to a smashed bunny bottle before. We’re off to the pet superstore!

We bomb it over to pet superstore. One beady-eyed child eyes up a Tesco Metro that we pass and starts hammering about stopping for a treat. “No, pet superstore is shutting VERY SOON,” I reply mendaciously, “so we can’t stop.”

We arrive at pet superstore and glide into parent-with-children parking spot right in front of entrance. It’s clearly meant to be.

Horrible disappointment number one: After promises to three excited children aged 3, 5 and 7 about what adorable little puppies and kittens and bunnies and guinea pigs we’ll find – for whom we will obviously have unlimited stroking privileges  (Covid-19 notwithstanding) – in pet superstore, we discover there are zero animals on-site. All cages, runs, hutches are deafeningly empty.

Oh.

Try in vain to interest children in cute shaped hutches and interesting rabbit treats.

I efficiently locate new bunny water bottle with great ease in record time and head off to  check-out.

Overly optimistic prediction of how much time pet superstore outing will use up of this endless afternoon prior to arrival: 1 to 1.5 hours.

Actual time spent in store: 3-5 minutes.

Come on children, let’s go back to Beyoncé to give her her new bottle and we’ll stop to buy a treat on the way, I say.

There’s no other way to get back to Hendon from West Hendon other than through Hendon Central.

There’s no avoiding it. I’m going to have to take the children out in Hendon Central. Possibly the grimmest traffic junction in the whole entire world? Hendon Central is this: Three-lane traffic roaring up the Hendon Way, people marching in and out of tube station, traffic lights flashing, seedy shops spilling out in all directions, a boarded-up Jews for Jesus store (Jews – and everyone else – are for one thing alone in Hendon Central: getting the hell out of there as quickly as possible and heading home), a youth hostel, more seedy shops, umpteen fried chicken joints, a Mama Africa restaurant with darkened windows, a hair regrowth clinic, and lots of greasy cafes should you need to take three children out for an apple juice and a bite to eat.

We park the car. I go buy children snacks in Tesco and some magazines with plastic tat freebies on the front to keep them entertained in whatever eatery we end up in.

Can’t face walking through the grim underpass to the Other Side of Hendon Way where there’s a Costa café. So I look around hopefully near where we’ve parked. I spot a little Italian restaurant and pile the children in there. There are no other mums with children; just a few groups of men from different European nations sitting around quietly at various tables munching and chatting.

The waitress is smiley and lovely to the children. I want to hug her.

We order our: apple juice, orange juice, hot chocolate and a Mocha for Mum. I get out the new magazines, our ever-present bag of felt pens and colouring books so the children can busy themselves while I sit back and take a sip of my drink.

Mummy can you open my magazine?
Don’t knock over your orange juice!
Mummy I need a straw!

What’s the magic word?

Mummy can you open my slime?

Mummy my hot chocolate is not sweet enough.

Mummy can I have a sip of your mocha.

Mummy what’s a mocha?

Mummy I don’t like my orange juice.

Mummy what are you meant to do on this page?

I NEED that green pen!

S/he snatched my new toy from my magazine!

Children, how about being a bit quieter?

Eventually things quieten down.

There’s even some actual colouring happening.

I take another sip. Bliss?

But only momentarily.

One child needs the toilet. And not just an innocuous Number One.

Oh no, it’s the dreaded Number Two. And I didn’t bring any wet wipes with.

Shudder.

Child needs me in the toilet urgently. There’s been a bit of an accident and underwear is, well, soiled.

Child cannot stay in soiled underwear so we take it off, soiling my hands and their other clothing as we go. The horror of it all. Why does no one talk about how much poo you’ll get on your hands for years to come when you first announce you’re having a baby?

I wash out soiled underwear as best I can and wring it out. I blitz my hands with half a bottle of hand soap and hope for the best.

Distracted by another child’s howls of protest wafting through to the toilet from the restaurant. I rush back and see they’re being bullied by the other child at the table who keeps grabbing their stuff from the new magazine and not giving it back.

It’s MINE! Child keeps screeching so so loudly. I hush them urgently.

Felt pens are strewn all over the floor.

Everyone in the restaurant, including Nicest Waitress in the World, is still smiling and being nice to me and not one bit disapproving and tight-lipped like they would be if they were English (I’m English myself so I’m just being self-hating not racist, in case you’re wondering).

I give the waitress a generous tip and she tells us, you won’t actually believe it, to COME BACK AGAIN. We love children, she says!

I almost forget I’m in Hendon Central and imagine I’m in Sicily for a second.

I bundle the children, felt pens, plastic toys, hoodies, magazines, mobile phone and me out of restaurant and back to the car.

As we’re driving back to Beyoncé, I suddenly remember with horror: I left the balled-up wet, soiled underwear sitting in the sink in the toilet at the restaurant! I forgot to throw it away / take it with us!!! And the waitress was SO nice! How could I have left that vile object behind?????

So just to apologise in advance – in case you ever – inexplicably – wanted to meet me in Hendon Central for a drink, I’m terribly sorry but I simply can never show my face there ever ever EVER again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What could possibly go wrong? Homeschooling three young children in lockdown and attending online university lectures all in one go? Not a chance.

Here’s a recent “Day in the Life” blog post I thoroughly enjoyed writing (in a cathartic kind of a way) for The Motherload blogzine, going through in excruciating detail how my supposed blissful day of online university lectures and seminars unravelled as three feral homeschooled children in lockdown got slightly in the way. Enjoy the read and if you are a parent experiencing the never-ending loop of (failing at) homeschooling in lockdown, hope you can relate! 🙂

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What could possibly go wrong?

Homeschooling three young children while trying to hide in the other room to attend online university lectures at the same time – what could possibly go wrong? (Spoiler: everything.)

06.40: 3 year old joins me in bed, asking questions about Minnie Mouse in very loud voice right in my ear.

07.30: Stagger out of bed. So excited – it’s online university day today! An intellectual oasis amidst the endless tedium of lockdown, homeschooling three kiddies aged 7 and under. A bit bleary-eyed, having stayed up until 2am to prep some written work for today’s online seminars.

08.00-09.00: Repetitive rounds of toast-making, cereal-eating, and bicker-moderating at breakfast table.

09.05: Just about remember to get dressed in something vaguely presentable (i.e. not pyjamas), and charge tablet for 09.30 online seminar start. All looking good.

09.18: It’s a homeschooling principle (that I frequently flout) that 7 year old’s reading practice must be done straight after breakfast or it doesn’t happen. So 12 minutes to chow through four pages of Walliams? Luckily, son is reasonably cooperative today – at least he’s not playing his new “Let’s make Mummy raging mad by adding in random words that aren’t actually in the text when I do my reading practice” game today. Pass homeschool duties to hubbie and issue dire warning to him to keep children away from bedroom OR ELSE.

09.30: Rush into empty children’s bedroom armed with tablet and note-taking materials and slam door, just in time for first seminar of the day. Feeling fairly calm. Microsoft Teams – which worked perfectly last time – will now not admit me. Swear profusely. It’s demanding I download app, then repeatedly claims log-in error. Keep uttering vicious oaths.

09.40: Finally access Microsoft Teams as ‘guest’. Have now missed 10 minutes of 30-minute seminar. Not good start. Finally enter my blissful Alternative Reality where my tutor and fellow (much younger, more organised, entirely child-free) students are engaged in brilliant intellectual discussions.

11.15: Feel first massive wave of IHPS (Incompetent Homeschooling Parent Syndrome) guilt as have ignored 5 year old’s homeschooling needs and have just 15 minutes until next online lecture starts. Rush her frenetically through her reading practice.

11.30: Charge back to bedroom, miraculously get into Teams with no problem this time. Am getting the hang of this, I think smugly to myself.

12.30: Surrounded by scattered Rice Krispies, sticky plates, felt pens (with missing lids), attempt impossible multi-tasking feats at kitchen table: Reading fellow students’ written work and offering thoughtful peer feedback on laptop while simultaneously making monsters out of toilet rolls with children.

13.00: Lunchtime blur.

14.25: Issue another edict to hubbie that no child shall cross threshold of my inner sanctum while final, Very Important seminar of the day takes place (from 14.30-15.30) – particularly 3 year old who is currently napping and who always screams when she awakens from naps.

15.00ish: Tutor singles out a few students’ written work including mine (beam) for discussion for forthcoming enormous assignment. When we get to my piece, she asks me interesting, thought-provoking question. I carefully unmute my microphone, open my mouth, smile modestly, poised to share thoughtful, measured response, when….

….with what could only be described as heavenly inspired timing…

…fiery 3 year old, with wild hair, just awoken from much-too-long nap, bursts into bedroom and screams “MAMAAAAAAAAAAA!” repeatedly in full view of whole seminar group (both video and mic are, of course, turned on). Grab her, hurl apologies into screen, as tablet goes crashing to the floor, mercifully taking me off-screen. Embarrassment levels skyrocket.

Charge into dining room to berate useless hubbie, who claims he didn’t “notice” she woke up. Leave her bellowing in protest and rush back to bedroom. Rejoin Teams sheepishly. But spotlight’s off my work, and tutor group are now discussing next student’s piece. Sob.

15.30: Online lectures finished for the day but…Horror of horrors! It’s mid-afternoon, no one’s been out of house yet, and three children are still in pyjamas. Cue next immense wave of IHPS guilt. Cajole everyone to get dressed so we can go out.

16.00 (or: definitely not mealtime): Children moan in unison that they’re all “staaaaarving”. Dole out Weetabix, toasted bagels, glasses of water on repeat.

17.17: Finally leave home for daily lockdown outing. In pre-Covid times, this would have been supper-time, I think ruefully. Head over the hills and far away for massive walk / scoot / cycle.

20.00: Arrive home. Everyone’s over-tired, hungry…but at least we’ve had fresh air. (But it’s 8pm, I wail inwardly, and we’ve not even started on the supper/bath/bed marathon and I neeeeed to study!!!)

20.45: Over hideously late dinner: “I want to leave home, then I can watch YouTube again!” pronounces 7 year old, utterly incensed at having age-inappropriate video clips banned from his life.

20.50 “I don’t want to be Jewish. I want to eat pigs!” announces 5 year old provocatively. Organised religion has taken a real bashing during lockdown in our house.

20.52 “Alexa! Play ‘I’ve Done a Poo’!” (It’s a real song. Ask Alexa yourself, if you don’t believe me.)

20.53 “Alexa! Volume 10!”

21.39 Oldest two children finally in bed.

22.00 Finally eat supper myself, but 3 year old’s still marauding around house in pirate get-up, brandishing sword thanks to eight-hour-long danger nap this afternoon.

22.15 Inexplicably find myself bidding on Minnie Mouse soft toy on eBay at 3 year old’s bidding. She’s finally all snuggly and cute now and it’s hard to say no. Do I detect signs of tiredness?

22.30 Miraculously convince her it’s bedtime.

22.35 Homeschool finally closes for the day! Now to get back to research for that highly important 5,000-word university assignment hanging over me.

Can’t think why, but I’m just not in the mood to study tonight. Essay will have to wait until tomorrow…

Originally published on The Motherload

Oh no, not another children’s birthday party disaster!

Vomit! Kittens! 13 small children making biscuits! Vomit again! What could possibly go wrong when you’re hosting your *just a small family get-together* child’s birthday party?? Here’s the lowdown on how EVERYTHING went wrong at my baby’s third birthday… published on The Motherload and The Motherload® Community & Website www.the-motherload.co.uk. Enjoy the read 😄😍🎉

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It’s when the biscuit dough turns out to be much too sticky for all those little party guests that I realise I too am in a bit of a sticky muddle…

It’s right in the middle of my baby girl’s 3rd birthday party. The “small” family get-together I’ve planned has morphed into a gathering of 15 adults and 13 children. Yes, I counted them.

Lots of small people with high expectations are gathered around kitchen table with sticky dough rapidly encrusting their little hands, and the cookie cutters, rolling pins and the table top. “Keep sprinkling with flour!” I bark at my fellow adult helpers. Puffs of flour duly billow across kitchen.

The party started about an hour ago with a flourish;  Birthday Girl making moral point of demonstrating that the terrible twos are *absolutely* continuing into the threes by throwing a major-incident tantrum. Excess of screams culminates in her throwing up in hallway just as the first guests ring on door.

Attempting to wipe up sick in casual manner with foot and dirty tea towel, I usher guests in. “Be with you in a minute,” I squeak cheerfully. Luckily it’s kind Auntie S and Cousin G, who are not bothered by fresh vomit smells emanating from our abode.

Soon Auntie Y arrives with Grandma A, armed with the birthday present to end all birthday presents: Two tiny kittens peek out of party bag she brandishes at Birthday Girl with ferocious excitement. No time to question animal welfare ethics, cute kitties (on loan for duration of party, not to keep) prove massive hit – except with Grandma A, who is cat-phobic.

More and more cousins, aunts, uncles, elders pour in through front door. This stream of relatives seems endless, I think faintly to myself, as I usher them in and ply them all with vast quantities of pizza, chips, carrots sticks, popcorn, crisps, chocolate …

Three-year-old Cousin R scrutinises Eccentric Elderly French Cousin F. Taking in his majestic unkempt beard and military slacks, he walks up to him in very purposeful manner and asks with absolute awe: “Are you ACTUALLY a pirate?”

Grandma B, Partner and rambunctious dog Jemima arrive to great fanfare. We now have *awkward situation* squared:

1. Dog + dog-phobic Grandma A

2. Dog + 2 delicate newborn baby kittens.

Grandma A is on verge of walking out. We frantically tie up Jemima in hallway and attempt to jolly Grandma A back into living room.  Frantically hide kittens in back bathroom.

“Time to make biscuits, children!’” I call out cheerfully, feeling slightly lower levels of cheer on the inside. Multitudes of small children squash round kitchen table and somehow, through co-opting kind aunties to help, the stickiness issue is overcome and trays of biscuits in all manner of shapes and non-shapes are placed in oven.

Mess levels are staggering.

Noise levels are extreme.

Everyone seems to be having good time. Except for Grandma A who leaves prematurely, having had her fill of animal menagerie for the day, dragging Auntie Y (and her kittens) in her wake.

Time for birthday cake! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU we all sing in range of keys. Birthday Girl comes close to new major-incident tantrum when older sibling attempts to blow out candles on cake. By (metaphorical) knife’s edge, sibling is successfully tackled and a crisis is averted.

Cake handed out, there’s nothing else for it: let’s play Pass the Parcel. Children sit in misshapen circle on living room floor ready to play. Except…

Biscuits in oven! Forgot all about them! Feeling somewhat out of control, lurch over to oven. Biscuits luckily rescued in the nick of time before burning to crisp.

Right, back to Pass the Parcel. Except….

‘MUMMY I FEEL SICK!!!!’ Throw pass the parcel urgently at Auntie D and bellow, “You’re in charge!” while dragging 7 year old – who’s apparently scoffed too many chips and piping hot biscuits – through the kitchen with my hand over his mouth trying to hold off vomit gushing out. We reach the bathroom leaving an actual trail of sick behind us. I weakly throw piles of tea towels over gruesome evidence and tend to the child in the bathroom – and to the horror of my soiled hand.

Vomit incident #2 is over. Pass the Parcel has been played and won.

Guests finally start to exit.

I swear majestically in my head as remember one last tray of cursed biscuits still baking in oven. Rush to save them.

Whose *great* idea was it anyway to make biscuits at party for 30 guests? Oh, mine.

Aunties, uncles, cousins start drifting through front door bidding us farewell. Everyone’s had a wonderful time. Baby Girl’s had a great time and starts ripping open presents.

With dignity and finesse, the party ends just as it began: me engaged in disjointed and somewhat distracted conversations while valiantly wiping up sick.

Happy Birthday to you…

Mum life unfiltered – an evening out to the theatre

It was an exciting, rare evening out to look forward to – I was finally getting myself out for a night at the theatre with some friends! Fiddler on the Roof beckoned, and on the day itself, my excitement grew as the evening got closer.

Of course, preparing to go out involved somewhat different parameters to my previous pre-mum incarnation when all I had to concern myself with was an insouciant flick of mascara to apply, a relaxing ponder as to which pleasant novel I should throw in my bag to read on the Tube ride in and a casual light supper to be consumed gracefully.

Instead here’s what happened:

Three children 6 and under need homeworking, supping, bathing, teethbrushing, toilettraining, pyjamaring all by 6.50pm (by which time hubbie promises faithfully to return home) if they are to go to bed on time and I am to leave on time and make it for 7.30 show start in Charing Cross.

Throw myself into wildly efficient mum mode the minute we get home from school.  First fatal error: Decide to make not-simple and not-remotely-quick butternut squash soup for supper. Cue efficient yet slightly frenzied chopping of mountains of vegetables. Knife gets helplessly stuck in tough rogue swede and as I attempt to remove it, blade and handle of knife wish each other adieu and various small perilously sharp segments of blade shower down on the kitchen floor.

Furiously usher three barefooted children out of danger zone, and intensely sweep across kitchen floor. In spite of careful methodical sweeping action, am nevertheless left with lurking feeling that I *may* have missed one particularly small particularly sharp knife segment.

Put lurking fear out of my mind and continue relentlessly on with evening activities.

It is now gone 6.30pm and as the minutes towards my departure time tick by, I start feeling somewhat out of control. Am still wearing stained grubby clothing smelling of cooking and unable to imagine ever actually extricating myself from this scenario and exiting house.

Then everything really kicks off. 2yo who is in process of being toilet trained suddenly cries out “I need a poo!” (she has, to date, very limited success rate of reaching toilet seat in time for said event to take place). At the exact same second as these immortal words leave her lips, 5yo suddenly screams “I’m bleeding!” and starts howling.

Not knowing which way to turn – poo or blood? blood or poo? – I throw 2yo on toilet, hoping and praying we’ve got there in time. But no, we are a millisecond too late and poo is already issuing forth. No time to see where poo has landed, I run over to see what grievous injury 5yo has incurred and step squarely into poo already landed on floor next to toilet.

No time to deal with poo-ridden shoe, nor poo on floor scenario. I deshoe without further ado and hop over to screaming 5yo.

Blood is pouring forth from the sole of her foot. She has stepped on something sharp. Yes, indeed, she has stepped on that missing, invisible to the naked eye, phantom piece of broken knife shard.

ACT FIVE:

Scroll forward 45 minutes. I arrive huffing and panting in dirty, soup-scented clothing at theatre doors at 7.30 on the dot. Cannot believe I have arrived on time. Rush inside. To my utter sorrow, usher informs me it is too late to get to my seat in time for the start of the show.

Utterly bathetic anti-climax as I watch rousing opening number TRADITION!!! TRADITION!!!! on lowly TV screen in deserted theatre bar with a handful of other hapless latecomers.

Song finishes and I’m finally allowed in. I grin sheepishly at my punctual friends, take a deep breath, sit back in my plush theatre seat and prepare to enjoy the show.

(PS The rest of the show was just amazing. Go see it. And yes, have no fear, 5yo’s cut was pretty superficial in the end).

 

The playdate

 

Here’s my latest blog post for The Motherload, all about how a beautifully anticipated playdate planned for a very hot July’s afternoon went rather pear-shaped! (click on link below):

It’s my son’s party and I’ll cry if I want to

To continue from my last blog post theme of me being loud and dramatic on birthdays , here’s my latest offering published on The Motherload, a fab, down-to-earth parenting blogzine, all about how an embarrassing crying incident at my son’s birthday party launched my *complicated* relationship with children’s birthday parties. Enjoy the read (click on the following link):

It’s my son’s birthday and I’ll cry if I want to

 

 

It’s my birthday and I’ll shout if I want to

How did my birthday degenerate in such spectacular style, I thought to myself at around 4.30 pm this afternoon.

Two of my three little ones were howling in unison – 1.5-year-old was following me around the flat, roaring and practically pulling my skirt off in her urgency to get me to pick her up which I couldn’t do because a) I didn’t want to and b) I was trying to gather up water bottles-nappies-wipes-shoes-socks-coats-more stuff so we could leave the house to go out for an early supper for my birthday (my birthday treat to myself).

3.5 year old was howling histrionically as I had apparently dropped a shoe on her tender little hoof and it hurt – A LOT.

This is not how birthdays are meant to be celebrated, I observed ruefully to myself.

I then did exactly what all the parenting bibles tell you not to do. I started shouting – quite loudly – at both of these two little people – to STOP SHOUTING.

I SHOUTED AT THEM TO STOP SHOUTING and it felt quite cathartic, so I CARRIED ON SHOUTING A LITTLE MORE.

Baby seemed quite startled at this show of noisy force coming at her from my direction, and this temporarily  stopped her howls.

I shouted SORRY VERY LOUDLY at 3.5 year old about the foot incident and shouted again NOW YOU HAVE TO STOP SHOUTING COS I SAID SORRY.

I then carried on grabbing random stuff, while shouting in a maternal guilt-tripping way that they are too young to understand that they were RUINING MY BIRTHDAY . I may even have stamped my foot (yes I am turning 5 today).

Finally ready to leave the flat. Trip trap trip trap down the stairs to the ground floor. Drag the buggy out of the hallway and outside.

And then finally, breathe in some fresh air and we were all in transit, either in buggy or on two feet, heading towards the restaurant with the tantalising image of chips with ketchup by the bucketful awaiting us.

And peace was restored.