Christmas Panic

Whilst in the shower this morning, random thoughts popped into my head: hubby needs to make a snowman for The Boy, what veg can I sacrifice for its nose, how do people insulate their lofts when they've got an attic conversion, I wish my nose would unblock, I'll make the Christmas cake today.

And that's where I stopped. Cold. (Even though the shower was scalding hot)

My oven died on Friday; we think it's the element. I've got a double-oven but the top one's not fan-assisted so it's not as good as the main one; never quite reaches the right temperature. So you wouldn't want to cook a cake that takes three hours plus in it, because you'd have to double that time probably. I'm also not convinced it would cook all the way through, and I'm a bit squeamish when it comes to eggs.

It's also quite small. And this is where the cold panic set in. On Saturday I have to cook a three course meal for my parents, the hubby and The Boy. Not just any meal, and no not even a Marks and Spencer meal. The Most Important Meal of the Year! And my oven doesn't work.

Panic!

I would be quite calm about this but for one fact: there's six inches of snow outside and we live in Britain (ok, that's two facts). Britain freaks out in the snow. More so, Royal Mail isn't coping. What if the repairman  (who is hopefully coming tomorrow depending on whether his man-flu is better or not) has to send off for a part?! It will be sat in the sorting office next to the Glee CD for my niece (I'm so listening to that before I hand it over) and my father's 5-in-1 tape measure.

Mum & I will be ok, we're vegetarian and therefore happy with a plate of mashed potato and boiled sprouts. But I've bought meat for the men (one of my mother's sayings, my sister is also vegetarian. Family get-togethers involve some nice filo pastry thing for us and Meat for The Men. Ugg!). It's a really nice three bird roast. And then there's the roast potatoes, honey-roasted carrots and parsnips, and the stuffing. Oh and the pigs in blankets (both veggie variations and the traditional meat ones).

And my oven doesn't work!

Can you get microwaveable turkey?

The Chair

So what do you do?

When I was pregnant, we discussed this and there was no way on earth I was going to put up with it. Yet here I am! What am I waffling on about?

Bedtime practices & night-time disturbances.

I was going to be a 'put him down awake' type of mummy. I was going to be a 'he must learn to settle himself' type of mummy. Guess what? Turns out that I'm not!

When they're tiny weeny you can be cuddling them and all of a sudden they've fallen asleep. "Oh!" you say, "when did that happen?" So what are you supposed to do? Wake them up so you can then put them down in their moses basket awake (and screaming because they don't know why they're not asleep anymore)? What a prize bitch you'd have to be!

Anyway, I digress. We started with the bedtime 'awake under his cot mobile' malarky and it worked. Until he was 5 months old and learnt to roll over & grab the mobile. Hmmm, that went a bit wrong. Drop cot down a level, tuck end of sleeping bag in = sorted!

Then he got a bad cold. And he couldn't get to sleep flat on his back because his throat and nose got clogged up and he couldn't breathe and got scared. So to help this we cuddled him to sleep.

Oops!

And I say 'oops' because that's what we still have to do every night and he's 18 months old now.

Hmmm…

To be fair, I think it was also the change of milk-feeds that exacerbated the problem. If The Boy falls asleep in my arms having his bedtime bottle, what am I supposed to do; poke him 'til he wakes up & then ignore his tears? Just so I can do what Gina Ford says? (or as she is known in this house, 'evil, nazi woman')

So why am I sat here in this Ikea chair (you know the one; cream bucket chair, looks comfy but not when you've been sat in it for an hour and your arse is numb) holding my sleeping baby? 'Ignore him' you say. 'Let him cry it out' you say. 'No, bog off, he's my child' I say. I cannot listen to him cry. Can't do it. I'm not an advocate of controlled crying, I actually think it's a bit cruel (* disclaimer at bottom)

The reason why I won't use it is because The Boy does not wake up or play silly buggers at night. He slept through from 10pm – 6am at 6 weeks old! He goes down at 7.30pm & wakes up about 6.30am+. If he cries in the night, it will be because he's suffering from wind (he still gets colicky pains sometimes) or teething pains. And then he's sobbing in his sleep. I can't ignore him when he's hurting, it goes against every cell in my body.

So we cuddle him. It's not like we're going to be doing it forever. Can you imagine? 15 years old? Exactly.

And we have stopped excusing ourselves because he's our child! I don't criticise you for using a dummy with your three and a half year old child, or when he nutted The Boy on his 4 month old nose, so don't condemn me. (Oh I appear to be having a go at a work colleague here. How did that happen?)

And anyway, look at him…

God, my arse is numb.

(* I apologise to anyone to whom I may have caused offense: I'm not implying you're bad mothers if you use controlled crying, you're braver than I am. That's why your child is asleep, and I'm awake at 2am!)

Dear Saint Nick


I've (mostly) been a good girl this year. If you could overlook the incident where I accidentally told a class of 8yr olds that you might not exist, that would be greatly appreciated. And I didn't mean to damage hubby's new glasses when I threw a cushion at him, he's clearly got a tougher nose than I anticipated.

So because I've been dutiful, generous, loving and kind, I would greatly appreciate a little something from you in return if I may?

Yes of course a lottery win would be nice. I could give up work, pay off my debts and be there for my son 24/7. (Although if hubby could still do the night-shift I'd appreciate it, we all know what a bitch I can be when I'm tired). And you're quite right, a larger house would be amazing. Then we could have even more crap!

But no, what I'd really like is my mojo back. I'm not talking in an Austin Powers way here Santa baby. Just my 'get up and go', because well it seems to have got up and disappeared without leaving forwarding instructions. I'm sure it was there a few months ago, but no I've checked and it's definitely not where I left it for safekeeping.

It seems like such a small thing, but would make such a difference Father Christmas.

Many thanks,

The Boy's Mummy

P.S. If you've got a spare iPad, that would be marvellous!

Lexicon

The Boy:

Mummy. Daddy. Nanny. Grandma (actually means Grandad). Diddie-diddie (tickle). Brrrm. Car. Lorry. Bus. Eh-ore (donkey). Ta. Ockle, ockle, ock (cockerel). Ow-meow-me (cat). Bottle. Drink. Water. Milk. Bambi. Baby. Ball. Army (arm). Knee. Eye. Brocolli. Strawberry. Properly. Greyp (grape). Bubbles. (Mr.) Tumble. Buttons. Oh dear. Star. Moon. Sun. Book. Oliver. Giraffe. Nope. Not. Yep. Uh-oh. Stop. Go.   … (his own name). 'tato. Carrot. Onion. Train. Beep. Click-clack track (!!).

Me:

How?!

Quite simple I find it completely and utterly mind-blowing that my tiny baby (now 18 months old) has managed to learn all those words. It fascinates me.

Oh Christmas Tree, how plastic are your branches…

In an effort to find my inner mistletoe (I am seriously lacking in the Christmas enthusiasm department this year) I made hubby drag down the trees from the attic on the weekend. Yes I said trees. Plural. One for the living room (three-footer, piddly thing so it doesn't count) and one for the dining room (six-footer, a proper one that shall from henceforth be known as the beast).

On Sunday night I assembled the smaller one as a warm-up to the main event. I dressed it in regulation whites, silvers and blues to match the room. With the oversized star firmly instated at the top I admired my handiwork and couldn't wait to see The Boy's face the next day.

He walked in and ignored it. I pointed it out to him. He looked at me like a teenager would.  "What do you want me to say Mummy? It's a tree. Let's face facts, it's a bit pathetic really isn't it?" said The Boy. (Only he didn't because he's 18 months old and single words are the extent of his repertoire at the moment)

I spent the day mildly disappointed with his reaction and pampering the tree to boost its already inferior ego. The Boy spent the day wondering how to get me sectioned as I had clearly lost the plot.

Last night I decided to tackle the beast. I managed it with some help from hubby, I ended up having to send him away; he was doing it all wrong. I decided to go for the minimalist look. Apparently though, just lights and tinsel aren't enough so on went the obligatory natural wood and golden decorations. I left the bottom third of the beast for The Boy to do in the morning, but didn't hold out much hope.

This morning, The Boy sauntered into the dining room and stopped in his tracks. A look of awe and wonder crossed his little face, and a huge beam broke out on mine. This was the desired reaction! We decorated the tree together just as hoped whilst listening to Christmas songs. When I say 'we', I clearly mean he repeatedly put three baubles on one branch and took them off again. But we had fun!

Oh and I found my inner mistletoe!

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…is anybody there?

There are a few things I really would rather avoid; spiders, nuts, frogs, her from the X-Factor that raps continuously & spoils every song (someone hand the lass a facial wipe too).

Then there are those things that I'm scared of; scorpions, the colour orange (probably best not to ask) and making a fool of myself.

So this is a very big deal for me. I'm 33 and still people's opinions of me matter a great deal. It feels like I'm standing infront of the four judges on aforementioned 'talent' show & that they are about to discover I am certainly not the next Leona Lewis.

There are so many great bloggers out there (MammyWoo, The Moiderer & More Than Just a Mother are some of my favourites) that to even try and dare to put myself out there is daunting. However, with their encouragement I am.

I'm not guaranteeing side-splitting laughs where you are reminded that you didn't do your pelvic floor exercises like everyone told you to. I'm not even suggesting heart-wrenching posts which will have you wiping your drippy nose on your already snot-encrusted sleeve (if like me you have a toddler, you will know what I mean). It's more likely to be idle ramblings to pass the time of day. I get a bit bolshy sometimes, I can be a bit opinionated, but generally I try not to offend.

I can guarantee (hopefully) the correct use of an apostrophe however.

Oh and if you ask nicely, I might explain the orange thing.

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