Sunday, 26 July 2015

Week 198- i-parenting, talking on your mobile and losing the remote...

My one-year-old son would prefer to toddle around with my phone held in the crook of his neck whilst he babbles away, rather than play with an entire bedroom full of age specific toys.

He can’t even talk.

My three-year-old daughter has found different functions on our iPad that I didn’t know existed.

Or have any idea how to replicate.

And the pair of them think the remote control is the gateway to their eternal happiness.

I’ve become a fucking i-parent and I didn’t even see if happening.

Black plastic with buttons or a screen tops wooden toys or drawing for them- every time.

And it makes me wonder what messages I must be sending out to them everyday.

How many times my daughter asks me to watch her as she stands on one leg or spins round in circles and I’m casually scrolling through Facebook.

Or pushing my son along in the pram whilst quickly checking if I’m still winning the pair of French Connection jeans on the E-bay app on my phone which I a) can’t afford and am desperate that someone outbid me and b) will never fit into if I do, as I had a total body dysmorphia moment at 2am when I couldn’t sleep.

But, I feel like karma has finally bitten me on the ass.

My son has walked off with the remote control for the Virgin Media box and, try as I might to think like a one-year-old, have absolutely no idea where he has hid it.

Last time it was in his cot.

And the time before that, under the child step in the toilet.

But worse still, the TV is now stuck on channel 5 following a Milkshake marathon this morning.

So. If someone could tell me what happens in Humans this evening that would be fantastic.

I shall, instead, be thinking up ways to engage with my children that involves glue/ poster paint/ cardboard boxes/ loo rolls/ and a straw, as I can’t bear the thought that my daughter even knows what Netflix is, let alone requests it.

Following that I will be watching Police Interceptors Unleashed.


Sunday, 19 July 2015

Week 197- camping, driving and wetting your pants...

Summer holidays are around the corner and we're going camping in France. 

For ten days. 

That's right. 


The longest we've camped before has been two nights, and that was with one child, and we could basically see our house from the campsite.

Now we are going to drive 10 hours with a car-sick three-year-old and live in a tent for the best part of two weeks in an overcrowded campsite with children who wake up throughout the night and start the day at 5.30am.

I don't think we are going to a) make any friends or b) feel at all relaxed by the time we come home.

When growing up we camped in France every summer. I have fond childhood memories but I don't know if that's because my brain has cancelled out the horror of the experience as some kind of survival method. 

Me and my sister used to spend the first day wandering around the campsite looking for GB stickers on cars and willing them to have a child for us to play with. 

And I do remember having to hold tent poles for hours on end whilst my parent got more and more frustrated as they attempted to put the bloody thing up.

In fact I did wet myself one year as I stood for the best part of an hour holding a bit of tent up.

I was four, and I'm not intending to piss myself on this holiday unless absolutely necessary, but still...


That's it.

I'm going to book an Air B and B.

Monday, 13 July 2015

Week 196- gin, sleep and bingo wings...

I'd imagined that, given the chance of a childfree night away at a hotel, I would sleep for Britain and awake up half way through Sunday Brunch. 

So why is it that at 5.30am I'm sat bolt upright with that niggling feeling that I should be doing something?

It could be because I drank my body weight in gin at a friend's wedding and the alcohol-based anxiety sweats are starting to kick in.

But more likely, it's that I am now preprogrammed to wake up when my children wake up and therefore destined to never have a lie in again.  Ever.

Stupid, stupid brain.

At present, there are no less that three people sleeping in our bed at any given moment during the night. 

When one child wakes, there is a Rubik's cube-style shift around, seamlessly carrying one sleeping child out of our bed and back into their own to make way for the next.

Which, on paper, seems like a good idea as you get more that 4mm of bed to sleep on with one less person in there. 

But the practicalities mean your are basically walking around in a daze, weight-lifting small people for about two thirds of the night.

I should, by rights, have arms the size of Arnie instead of bingo wings but there you go, nature's cruel tricks again.

I keep reassuring myself that it is just a phase. That they will just, like everything, grow out of it. But a mate told me the other day that she knows of someone who's child still gets into bed with them every night and they're seven. THAT'S SEVEN.  That's three and a half years away...

So, next time I have a night away at a hotel on my own, I am going to go to bed late afternoon, having only drank peppermint tea, because, if I am going to wake up like clockwork at 5.30am everyday, and if my children are going to bed hop until they start secondary school, I'm going to have to be more strategic at catching up on those zeds. 

Even if it does mean going to bed straight after Neighbours. 

Sunday, 5 July 2015

Week195- self denial, sleeping and staying up past bedtime...

You know that point at about 11.30pm on a weekend night when you're with one of your best mates and you've already shared two bottles of wine and you convince yourself that tonight, TONIGHT, is definitely going to be the night when your children learn to sleep through until at least 9am, so it would definitely, DEFINITELY,  be a good idea to buy another bottle of overpriced Echo Falls?

And then you know how you are instead predictably woken the following morning at 5.30am by a one-year-old crushing your own mobile phone affectionately into your cheekbone?

Well, if you do, you'll understand why tonight's blog is pitifully short.