Tag Archives: socks

Boxers Not Briefs Please, Mummy

I Love My Uniform!

I Love My Uniform!

OK.

I know it’s been a few days weeks since the last post and all I can say is sorry – real life sort of took over and hijacked me.

Motormouth started school, which was of course a really big thing, and we were trying to cram as much as we could into the time we had left with him, mainly because the Other Half works a lot of weekend days. I think we did pretty well getting to the Historic Dockyard (twice), Sitingbourne and Kemsley Light Railway (twice), the Royal Engineers museum, picnics, trips to the park… Eventful if knackering.

Then, of course, there were the mutual support communiques with other parents whose children were about to take the plunge into education – the difficulties of getting exactly the right colour of fleece in something approximating the size you think you’re child will grow into around Christmas had the potential to generate quite a thread.

Strangely enough, we all seemed to be doing OK with underpants. At one point, oh, maybe a week before school started, I had managed to get two pairs of PE shorts and a dozen pairs of boxers (Motormouth has decided he’s too grown up to wear underpants, so boxers it has to be. Why are boxer shorts for a 4 year old more expensive than they are for the other half anyway?). I felt really bad until I found out I wasn’t the only one. Thank you Facebook.

Motormouth loves his school uniform, at least so far, which is a bonus. I really didn’t fancy the arguments to get him dressed, the daily Battle of the Toothbrush is quite enough, thank you very much. We have had the odd meltdown, especially when I wouldn’t let him wear his baseball cap to bed, or his trousers in the garden. I can deal with those. At the moment anyway.

As to how it’s standing up, Motormouth is proving to be a true boy. On the first day he came back with a lump of play doh the size of my head ground into the knee of his trousers. (OK I might be exaggerating there, it may only have been the size of his head).

The second day he managed to get tiny little splatters of blue and yellow paint all over the back of his sweatshirt. It’s just a shame his school colours are red, white and grey.

Then we had a day’s grace before I had to pick up MudBoy, which was odd since I was sure I’d dropped Motormouth off there in the morning.

It’s just as well they make trousers with Teflon these days (it must have been a parent who had that idea.) It was quite sweet when he put his trousers in he washing machine on the Friday night and came to ask me how to turn it on. It was a little while before I could persuade him that we really did need to wash more than one item at a time.

Then of course we have the mystery of the disappearing socks. He started school (was it only 10 days ago) with 10 pairs of socks. They all went into his newly-cleared school uniform drawer. Three days in and I was scrabbling in the washing bin to find a pair of socks, hoping he wouldn’t notice since he has a strong belief that everything in the washing pile must be stinky (including the T shirt he wore for a whole 3 minutes).

I think I’m just going to have to get used to having one of those boys. He’ll be climbing trees before I know it.

So, do you think Motormouth will grow into his father’s shorts by Christmas? Maybe? Perhaps I should just order some more socks instead.

C is for Calm

 

C is for Calm

C is for Calm

This is calm for you, not necessarily anyone else, by the way.

Now what can we say about calm, that is calm as a state of mind?

Well, you probably had a fair bit of it before you got pregnant. Hang on, turn the clock back a bit further, before you decided you wanted to try and get pregnant.

You probably even stayed fairly calm throughout conception (well, maybe not the specific moment, but you know what I mean) and your pregnancy (providing you had none of the nasty scares that life has a habit of handing us).

Then it all disappeared, quite possibly in a haze of gas and air.

And life changed totally and a state of calmness was just a distant memory, one you might want to aspire to (once you’re not so tired and that’s probably in about twenty years time).

You had a baby. Yep, a real live baby looking to you for absolutely EVERYTHING.

Calm?

Pfft!

Bring on the panic!

I can let you in on a little secret.

It comes back. The calm that is, not the panic.

At first it’s all pretend.

That’s the second secret.

As a mother you spend most of your time pretending you know what you’re doing. Eventually you start to believe it (everyone else believed it right from the start. Let’s rephrase that – those who weren’t too busy giving you advice that you’re going to ignore anyway. Everyone that matters believed you from the start). (Whew. That was a long bracket.)

But then an eerie calm develops.

Dinner running late? Never mind.

Baby needs the fourth change in clothes in two hours? Yeah, so?

Partner can’t find his clean socks? Shame.

In fact, you will be the Rock of Gibraltar. You’ll even have the queues at the border as your family line up to ask you where things are, regardless of their age. (I think there’s a secret sock relocation programme a bit like the resistance underground or witness protection. Your sock is now hidden under a railway carriage on its way to Miami and in future will be answering to the name of frilly knickers). (I know I’m mixing allegories, or is it metaphors, but I now have this image of furtive meetings and false papers being exchanged in the shadow of the bookcase thrown by a Fireman Sam night light. The shadow that is, not the bookcase. I don’t think Fireman Sam is that strong.)

Rocks! That’s where I was, wasn’t I? And… calm? Yes, calm.

Well, after a little while pretending, you really are calm.

All around you the world (or at least the world contained within your four walls) may be whirling in the throes of where is… what did you do with my…. have you made…. but you?

Water off a duck’s back.

Until the school run when all bets are off, because that is the time when your oldest will move so slowly he’s practically going backwards, not to mention the fact that he’s forgotten how to dress himself. And your youngest will be alternating between trying to shove whatever leftover food she can find into her mouth (or at least in that general area) and making the face.

You know the one.

The one that says “hey something’s coming”, then “whoah, I’m not entirely sure where it’s coming from, but don’t worry, this should be good!”

And you have this tiny little debate with yourself about whether you should change her or whether you could get away with dropping her off at the child minder with a nonchalant “She might have done something on the way in the car, so it could be worth checking.”

It’s only a tiny little debate, after all we’d never do something like that would we?

Of course not.

Despite all this, you are pretty much guaranteed to be the calmest one in the family, whatever the circumstances.

Get used to it because that’s not going to change for years.

One last thing. If you do need to shed some of your calm to engender a change in behaviour (otherwise known as “mum’s lost it again”), feel free. But when your Significant Other, or other foolhardy person advises you to calm down, well, you’ll know what to do.