Into the Deep End: tales of a birthday party

There’s only one thing worse than having to throw your child a party and that’s having to throw your child a swimming party. My son is 7 on saturday and after all the, ‘How did that happen?’, ‘Where did all that time go?’ type discussions, we forced ourselves to ask him how he’d like to celebrate.

‘I’d like a Mario Cart Wii party’ he said, looking expectantly up at me, ‘For my 25 best friends’.

‘Hmmm that might be a teensy bit tricky’ I replied in a slightly hysterical tone, ‘What about a cinema party for 5?’

‘How about an Angry birds party for 20?’ he begged, jumping up and down with glee

‘Or a tea party at ours for 7?’

The negotiations went on like that for a while until suddenly I had somehow accepted the deal on a swimming party for 10. Fabulous. You can see how much I like swimming pools here.

And now, just 2 days before the party, the reality has struck. I have worked out that no matter which way I look at the numbers and ratio of kids to adults, there is absolutely no way I am going to be able to get out of going in that pool. So I will be subjecting not only myself, but other parents to the joys of the local kids pool, crowded and noisy with 10 excitable 6 and 7 year olds.

It hasn’t gone down too well in the playground, either. Every parent I gave an invitation to immediately said, ‘Ooh thankyou!’ Then after they’d inspected it a bit more closely, ‘Oh. A swimming party. Great’, barely able to keep the tone of impending doom from their voices. People have started to back away when they see me (though to be fair they already did that) for fear I will ask them to actually enter the water with their child as opposed to sit on the side behind some protective glass. Surprisingly no one has backed out. Yet. I expect a mass exodus on the day (at least that is what I’m hoping).

To top off the fun of the swimming, we will be hosting an indoor picnic back at ours afterwards. The weather has put pay to our idea of letting the children run feral in the local park before eating a birthday tea and throwing sandwiches at the ducks. Instead they will be running feral around our living room and throwing sandwiches at the cats. I’ll probably have to move the sofa and kitchen table into the garden to make room for them all, but at least it will contain them. I have had a few nightmares of losing one of them in the park and having to say to a parent, ‘Well, we managed to keep 9 of them safe. That’s pretty good statistics, hey? You win some, you lose some’.

After everyone has gone home and our house has been made to look like something that has barely survived a napalm attack, our 7 year old will open presents in the manner of an animal being given food after a weeks starvation diet. More mess will be created and we will spend hours trying to work out which child gave him which present so he can send out thankyou cards (these took him 4 months to write last year, even after a lot of bribery. Indeed some took so long that they were given out with this years party invitation).

We’ll later sit and drink wine, survey the damage and relax, safe in the knowledge that it’s out the way for another entire year. Until one of us brings up the subject of our daughter’s party in September, a Harry Potter Magical Princess Disco for 35, that is.

Happy birthday, little man

The Night of the Living Dinner Party

 (and other Middle-class nightmares)

I find the idea of proper dinner parties at best frightening, at worst anxiety inducing on the scale of provoking a complete mental breakdown. I am not generally a person who enjoys formal dining experiences, I find my dads golf club restaurant with its enforced posh dress code ridiculous and over the top. All those people sitting around in their Sunday bests, ignoring each other to the strains of a Classic FM mix cd. I cannot eat without worrying I will make a mess and accidentally spit consommé all over the starched white tablecloth, or I’ll panic over the bewildering array of cutlery and have a ‘Pretty woman’ type incident with a pair of lobster crackers. I find it hard to speak for fear I will come out with something so devastatingly stupid that the whole room will immediately fall silent and I will be ordered to don a dunce cap and stand in the corner until everyone’s finished their petit fours.

That said I enjoy very much a meal with friends. A group of four or six people I know well and lots of wine and convivial conversation. No standing on ceremony, everyone crowded around our small kitchen table, three to a bench seat, in the dim light of a table lamp and candles because our main light is yet to see an electrician. Children’s drawings and photos adorning the walls, handmade cards and homemade pottery ornaments crammed onto the dresser. Lasagne and salad for main and some fancy chocolate desert I found in a Tana Ramsey cookbook which leaves everyone high on sugar and unable to sleep. Then Ferrero Rocher or Blacksticks cheese and crackers afterwards and everyone leaving, falling-over drunk, laughing and hugging, wobbling away on bicycles or getting into taxis.

Yes, I enjoy shared dining experiences very much indeed. What I absolutely do not enjoy is a formal dinner party. I can’t put my finger on exactly what it is that sends me into a spiral of panic, possibly it is the fear of sitting next to someone I don’t know or have anything in common with and then have to make awkward conversation whilst self consciously eating. What happens if I’m boring, or even worse, they are? How about the food? Maybe they host will serve sea food and I’ll have to force it down my throat whilst saying through gritted teeth how wonderfully delicious these crustaceans are.

Maybe there’s the fear I will have to reciprocate and I won’t have enough matching wine glasses (this has happened, I had to ask friends to bring their own. On another occasion everyone had to bring a potato after a particularly bad grocery fail). I certainly can’t fit more than eight around our table without someone having to sit in the living room at the kids table and even then someone will have to sit in the wonky chair with the slightly shorter back leg and another in the rocking chair. And maybe I’m inappropriate and don’t observe the etiquette throughly enough? I managed to horrify some guests we had several years ago by suggesting we halt the meal between courses to go and watch the final of ‘Pop Idol’, we haven’t seen one of those couples in particular since.

Some socially ambitious types use dinner parties as a way to network and to show off, to work out who will be firm friends, or good influences and wheedle out those who have no further use. One couple we used to know invited new people on a weekly basis in groups of eight to ten. They seemed to have worked out who had things in common (I imagined they had a sort of cabinet war room with models of their friends and one of those big sticks that are used to push armies around a giant map. but it was more likely a computer spreadsheet) and would introduce guests to each other with an interesting follow up comment: ‘This is Bryan, he works in Marine Defence as a Submarine Engineer’ or, ‘This is Flora, she lives in a maisonette and paints portraits of people’s pets for a living’. When we were invited it was just us on our own, to a ‘light supper’, obviously they knew no one they thought would ‘work’ with us, or were too embarrassed to inflict us on their other friends.

After the obligatory return invite, we were never invited back to theirs. But listening to the host described their sex life in great detail to a soundtrack of Norah Jones and Keane on the stereo was something we felt we could probably live without.

To quote the fabulously aptly named Chef, Sonya Kidney, ‘food is supposed to liberate not restrain’, to bring people together, not make them awkwardly stand on ceremony. So there is no room in my life for formal dinner parties, but offer me an evening spent in the great company of good friends, and even the odd stranger, some spaghetti bolognaise and a few bottles of plonk and I’ll be there. Right after ‘The X Factor’ final, that is.

Meme: Firsts

I have been tagged in on my second meme by A Mum’s Internal Monologue who’s lovely blog I have been very much enjoying. So here are my ‘firsts’, read ‘em and weep (mockingly):

First Boyfriend

This is deeply embarrassing but I didn’t have a boyfriend until I was 43. Actually, that’s a lie, I’m not even 38 yet. I was 19, but that is just SO old and SO boring of me I couldn’t help but try to jazz it up with a fib. Anyhow, his name was Logan, which is my gran’s surname and definitely not a first name, although he swore it was his. We were students at the prestigious High Wycombe College, he was studying Furniture (I’m not sure what aspect of furniture, maybe chairs or coffee tables? Or shelving?) and I was studying Film, Media and Culture, innit? (Sorry, I can’t help but say ‘innit’ after the word culture (‘innit?’), not sure why). He was so shy he could only speak after drinking approximately 4 pints of cider at The Hobgoblin. I’m not sure if the cider had to be specifically from The Hobgoblin, but I never saw him drink it from anywhere else. It failed miserably after we got stuck in a lift together at college one day and the look of panic on his face when I tried to initiate a conversation with no cider available told me this was not a relationship that could not last.

First person I kissed

I think it was Adam Carpenter from primary school. I showed him my days of the week underpants (it was Wednesday) and he repaid the favour with a kiss and a nik-nak (cheesy flavour).

First job

I was a Waitrose cashier. I had to wear a flattering A-line brown and white striped shirt dress. It wasn’t too bad actually, it beat the hell out of Woolworth’s navy blue calf length pinafore, Budgens’ extra flammable tabbard, Tesco’s tight-fitting, flesh coloured uniform and the frankly indecent short skirts I had to wear as a waitress. I had to ask customers, ‘would you like a bag?’ so many times that I once woke up my mum, screaming ‘WOULD YOU LIKE A BAG?’ in my sleep.

First pay packet? What did you buy with it?

I saved up my first few pay cheques to go on a 10 day youth hostelling tour of Derbyshire with my best friend. By now you’re getting the impression that I was pretty cool as a youngster, aren’t you?

First CD you remember buying?

‘The Chicken Song’ by Spitting Image, shortly followed by the Spitting Image album. The really sad thing (as if that wasn’t devastatingly sad enough) is that I’m pretty sure I didn’t really get the humour, I bought it for the music.

First holiday abroad

I went to Tunisia when I was 2 and had a camel ride. I don’t actually remember that but saw a photo of the holiday and managed to trick my parents into thinking I have some sort of Mensa standard memory. Sorry, mum.

What age were you when you moved out of your parents’ home?

I moved out when I was 19 and went to the prestigious University of High Wycombe, in Buckinghamshire. I was so excited to explore a new place after 19 years in London that I was seriously disappointed to realised that everyone I met had tried and failed to get into any decent London Universities, and the reason they’d chosen High Wycombe was its close proximity to London. Damn. It was also full of rich ex-private school kids who couldn’t be arsed to get good grades at school but who’s parents had bribed them to get on a degree course because it looked good for them. Consequently I have only one friend from University days, but he is a good one and is worth 186 of those prats I was forced to study ‘Film, Media and Culture, innit’ with.

So now I get to tag in two more fellow Bloggers:

Bishopston Mum

View from the Lounge Window

Over to you!

Tales from The Shallow End

I  will  do  almost  anything  to  get  out  of  taking  my  children  swimming.  As far as I am concerned going within a half mile radius of a ‘baby pool’ is akin to licking someone with a contagious disease.  From the  changing room with  its hairy floors  to the pool itself where toddlers empty their bladders, it is just one big breeding ground of horror.

I think this phobia stems from an incident when I was younger and used to go swimming twice a week with a colleague. During the 6pm-8pm ‘adult swim’ I remember seeing a very hairy man at the end of the pool very definitely washing his armpits. The look of concentration on his face and the stream of filthy water dribbling from his under-arms was enough to almost put me off communal swimming forever. It also explained the rather stale tasting water. It took nearly six years to get me back into a swimming pool after that.

The next time I braved it was when my son was a baby and I felt guilt-tripped to try it out. Everyone in my post-natal group was going to our local pool which had been done up fairly recently. Despite it being in a rather rough part of town (there were three prostitutes outside selling their ‘wares’ that day) it was actually rather beautiful. A large, light open space with lots of big family changing rooms and a generous sized baby pool. However I’d underestimated the stress of trying to get a small, shout-y, reluctant thing into a swim nappy. By the time I’d got him ready for the pool he was hysterical and, as it turns out, plunging him straight into water the sort of temperature only polar bears would feel at home in, was a very bad idea. His lips quickly went blue and within three minutes I’d hoiked him out of the freezing waters and back in to the changing room.

I quickly learnt that if I thought it was hard trying to get a warm, dry baby into his swimming things, it was nothing compared to getting a freezing, wet and screeching baby back into his clothes. And all the whilst I stood shivering and cold in a wet swimming costume with my bare feet on the hairy floor desperately trying to avoid treading on a used plaster. It was then that the idea of ‘two towels for me, two towels for baby and one towel for the hairy floor’ was born. If I was ever going to get back in the water again I was going to have to hire a camel to carry all the towels.

Having dipped our toes into the English swimming pool experience, we decided to try the French version out when we were staying with my mum in the Limousin. We had two children by then and took one each to get dressed in the separate changing rooms. When we arrived at pool side we were met with the most almighty roar of noise. Every man, woman and child from the nearby 15 mile radius had decided to turn up that day. Just as we were edging our way past a group of 18 who appeared to be having some sort of family reunion in the shallow end, a man shouted ‘Non!’ at my husband. We were a little bemused, not sure what the problem was until we realised he was angrily glaring at my husbands swimming trunks. He shouted ‘Non!’ again and pointed to a picture on the wall next to the usual ‘No dive bombing; No heavy petting’ signs of a man wearing long trunks with a red line drawn across it. A quick glance around told us that in French swimming pools only the speedo, the thong and the skimpy posing pouch were acceptable modes of wear and the baggy trunk was complètement interdit.

Apparently it’s something to do with hygiene, your baggy bermudas could be bringing all manner of debris into the pool. My husband, however, would argue that pouring himself into an unfeasibly skimpy alternative could pose just as much a health risk by cutting off some much needed circulation. So we were forced to leave, and that was the end of our French swimming pool experience. And pretty much our UK one too.

So I have decided to stage a one woman boycott against swimming pools, as they’re clearly bad for the health. If you survive the freezing water, the bizarre rules, other people’s weird swimming habits and the exposure to some 30 different types of germs, the dirty floors will get you in the end. This boycott doesn’t extend to the children unfortunately, I’ll be spending every morning of February half term sitting pool-side watching my two learn the doggy paddle.

But may this post act as a warning. And if you do insist on taking the plunge, don’t forget the extra towel for the hairy floor (or the camel to carry it).

Photo courtesy of:

http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/view_photog.php?photogid=2588

Beware: The Opinionators

In the Year 2012, the parents of this planet devised the ultimate plan. They would shape the Future by changing opinions. One by one. The plan required something that felt no pity. No pain. No fear. Something unstoppable. They created ‘THE OPINIONATORS’

 You would have thought that after 7 years of parenting, nearly two years of pregnancy and constantly having children hanging off me, wiping their noses on my various coats, I would be used to a certain amount of other people foisting their opinions on me. Old ladies in supermarkets telling me the baby needs feeding, strange men on buses commenting on my daughters chocolate Freddo Frog: ‘Is she gonna give me some of that?’ (how we all laughed), nosey neighbours shouting, ‘your son has LITERALLY nearly killed me on his balance bike, should he be going SO fast?’, I’ve heard it all.

I remember the first time it happened when I was pregnant and a random woman poked me in the stomach in the library and asked me if I was ‘breast or bottle?’ At first I thought she might be about to produce a roast chicken and wanted to know which bit I’d like. Then I wondered if I’d accidentally stepped into some sort of parallel world where people walk around topless and tell complete strangers about their sex lives. It took a few more prods and strange comments to realise that now I was in the baby-making industry, I had become OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS.

Whether it is to tell you you’re doing a great job, like the woman who gave me a thumbs up for shouting at the children in the swimming pool lobby, or to tell you you’re getting it all wrong, people will force their unwanted opinions on you. Every time one of my children has a major public strop (about three times a day) someone pops up saying, ‘Ooh, you think it’s bad now, wait till they’re teenagers!’ or ‘Oh dear, your child appears to be malfunctioning! But don’t worry love, it does get easier’. What to believe?

Surprisingly enough I have found by far the the worst opinionators (I think I’ve made that up but say it to rhyme with Terminator) are other parents. Parenting is a minefield of decision making right from the offset. From breastfeeding versus bottle feeding, cloth nappies versus disposable, co-sleeping versus separate sleeping, everyone will make different choices, but what they share is the fear that they’re not doing it right.

When people are insecure about something they can either be terribly honest and hysterically cry, ‘I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing!!!’. Or they can do the complete opposite and try to counter this uncertainty by attempting to make sure everyone else is doing it exactly the same by being overtly opinionated about their own method. As a ‘I have no idea what I’m doing!!!’ sort of parent it always surprises me when another mother challenges me on some throw away comment that I’ve made, or has a firmly held belief about something that needn’t warrant such strong opinions.

Recently I was in the pub (memorable purely because it was a pub and it was dark) and a friend suddenly decreed: ‘I think all siblings should share a room!’. ‘Well we can’t possibly do that because we have decorated the children a bedroom each. And after all that effort they will damn well use them!’ I said, in an amused sort of way. She dismissed my comment as frankly inane, and went on to summarise her opinion about why siblings should share bedrooms. I agree that children get a lot out of sharing and if our second hadn’t been such a sleep-avoider we would have done the same. However It seemed like such a strange and specific thing to feel strongly about, a bit like saying, ‘all 2 year olds should only eat mangoes on a Wednesday’.

Obviously the best thing to do in this situation is just to laugh it off, but maybe there’s something in this opinionator thing, perhaps in giving their views a person can feel superior, self satisfied and A BETTER PARENT.

However, it’s important to remember that if you never felt compelled to tell a teenager off for swearing in the street before you had kids, then it’s not okay to tut at someone for feeding their child chocolate biscuits to keep them quiet on a train. Especially if that someone bears a striking resemblance to me.

The Stepford guide to Loud Parenting

Having children is brilliant for lots of reasons. For me, it’s been very useful for getting out of things. My two have provided plenty of ready-made excuses over the years for not doing things I don’t want to do. Invited to attend a boring meeting at work? ‘I’d love to but the children are ill and contagious’. Friend you don’t want to see wanting to come and stay for several days? ‘Such a shame but the children are waking a LOT in the night and we’d hate to inflict that on you’. Invited to a wedding abroad? ‘Sadly the children don’t have passports’. You get the drift, basically I’m an anti-social nightmare,

However by far the best revelation about having children is that they can be very useful for a spot of stealth boasting. What better way to get news out of a promotion at work, or to share your good fortune about the windfall you have just received than to say it loudly to your children in a packed school playground. For example, ‘Did you have a good day, Jimmy? Is that a pottery horse you have made? Great! We can put it on the mantelpiece next to MUMMY’S BEST EDITOR BAFTA’. Or, ‘Goodness Jess, what a delightful iced biscuit in the shape of a sausage dog, shall we take it home and pop it on OUR BRAND NEW GRANITE WORK TOP?’

One thing to remember when indulging in stealth boasting is that you really want to target as many people as possible. The best places to do it are the doctors waiting room, Toddler Time at the library, the swimming pool which has great boasting acoustics (an echo means everyone hears it twice) and of course the school playground.

And you don’t need to restrict stealth boasting to the times when your children aren’t at school either. With a bit of imagination you can do it very succesfully on your own. Fairly reliable is the ‘pretend phonecall’ where you use your mobile phone to have a pretend conversation to extol loudly that your son just got selected for the over-12′s football team even though he is only 9. Although this can go wrong if, when in the middle of the ‘pretend phonecall’ your mobile actually starts ringing. I would advise putting it on mute before you attempt this.

An off-shoot of stealth boasting is of course Loud Parenting. You can use Loud Parenting to boast about your children’s achievements pretty effectively, which obviously reflects back on you and your wondrous parenting. Getting her to sing the Jolly Phonics song in the morning line-up is a way of showing other parents that your daughter really knows her stuff, and shouting ‘Lets change your reading book, darling, there are so many to choose from! I GUESS YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE ON OWLS!’ will definitely get the other parents’ attention.

Loud parenting won’t make you popular but it will let everyone know how great you and your parenting skills are. And that will be a huge comfort when you stand alone in the playground day after day hoping someone will talk to you. You can always invent yourself a nice social life though by yelling into your phone ‘HIYA, ANGELINA! I HEAR YOU’RE OVER HERE FILMING, LETS DO LUNCH!’

Photo courtesy of http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/view_photog.php?photogid=2588

Highs and Lows of 2011

Okay, I have seen the word ‘meme’ (is it a word?) banded about twitter for a while now and assumed it was something terribly clever and technical that more experienced Bloggers did (do you do a meme?). However, yesterday the lovely Bishopstonmum at www.bishopstonmum.blogspot.com and dear friend in REAL LIFE, tagged me in on this one, so I thought I’d give it a go. Here goes:

What was your happiest event?

Our holidays in Charmouth in February, Scotland in August and London in December. Yes they were all cold and rainy, and no we never go anywhere expensive/exotic/that doesn’t rain constantly. But we have the best times when it’s just the 4 of us exploring new (wet) places.

What was the saddest thing to happen?

My dear old Grandma, the most independent and feisty woman I know, having to go into a home. She lived on her own in her cottage on the Isle of Arran, her closest neighbours being a herd of Hebredian sheep. She is 95 and still manages to be quite terrifying and very funny, but it is so sad seeing her lose her independence. She’s in a lovely home though, with views of the mountains and all her old mucker’s round her. She’s a little doolally (sometimes a saving grace at that age and in her circumstances) and thinks she owns the place and that all the other residents are her guests. She’s also invented a husband for herself, a ‘hot young thing’ called Alan who is a spring chicken at 82. She’s chosen to ignore the fact that Alan lives in the home with his wife, but that’s my gran for you.

Who let you down?

Work! I’m a freelance television editor and work by getting block bookings of several weeks at a time. I usually work between 16 and 20 weeks a year and try to be home for every school holiday, and I do like to get booked up in advance so I can organise my time. Often these ‘bookings’ change, usually after I’ve spent an entire day planning childcare and asking friends for favours. Grrrr

Who supported you?

My husband and my children. Without them I’d be a crumbling, shivering, discombobulated wreck.

Tell us one thing you learned?

Not to care what others think, not to get annoyed with myself when I care what others think. Not to get annoyed by others by what they’re thinking (I think).

Tell us one thing that made you laugh?

The Inbetweeners, 30 Rock and Modern family. Oh, you mean not on the TV? Okaaay, well I get an immense amount of pleasure out of watching (laughing at) other people and the school playground gives me plenty of amusement. I also make myself laugh by being an utter f***wit on a regular basis. Recently I walked to school with three children, a violin and my skirt tucked into the back of my tights. That was REALLY funny. And last week I went for an olympic standard triple slide followed by backflip ending in a squat thrust on a pile of wet leaves directly outside the headmasters office, in front of a large gaggle of mums.

Tell us three things your children did to make you proud?

My daughter started school in September, which sent me into a bit of a crisis about having no children left at home and how fast life goes, etc. However she’s absolutely loving it and asks to go even in the holidays (I’m trying not to be offended). I realise it probably won’t last but it’s so nice to have one child who likes school.

My son doesn’t love school, although he is sociable and likes spending time with his friends. He has had a shaky start and it has taken until now, year 2, for him to start to find his feet. However he is just sooo clever at maths and times tables and has no fear of computers. He mastered my husbands ipad before we’d even turned it on. Who knows where this comes from? Certainly not me, it took 20 minutes to work out how to log on to my blog this morning.

Both the children are smart, funny, warm and kind. They are 16 months apart and although getting here has been very tough at times (none of us got any sleep for the whole of 2007), it has been so well worth it. My girl is 5 and my boy is 6 and they play beautifully, fight fiercely, laugh uproariously and they love each other. And that is just the best.

Tell us one thing that made you proud of yourself?

Learning to use Twitter; working out that if I’m precisely 8 minutes late for the train it will come almost immediately; starting this Blog; editing ‘When The Circus Came To Town’ for BBC4. Oh, wait that’s 4 things. Okay the thing I’m most proud of is that, despite shaky mental health at times, I have two happy, contented children.

Tell us one challenge you overcame?

Getting the balance between working outside the home and working in the home. I’m a strange hybrid of full time editor and full time SAHM. It works for us and is the only thing my children have ever known. But I’m prone to terrible mum guilt, particularly when other people make careless comments about how my children cope with my working. They cope brilliantly! I’m not sure how we got here but they’re now both at school and things are easier. It was a challenge finding ad-hoc childcare nearly full time for only 16 weeks of the year, but school has made things more stable for all of us. And they love breakfast club so much that they’ve taken to asking if they can go when i’m at home. Hmmm, again, I really should be offended, shouldn’t I?

Is there anything you would like to change about your life in 2012?

I would like to learn to drive. Ever since that fated driving test in 1992 in which I mounted the pavement, drove over a mini roundabout and narrowly missed hitting a pensioner, I have been phobic about driving. Unbelievably I failed that test (I know, should have appealed, right?) and so my new years resolution is to take some lessons and hopefully pass a test. And just to make sure it happens, my mum is coming over from France in february to (force) help me get some practice. Watch out drivers in the west country, here I come…