I just want you to know...

You know what's funny? When I think about my kids I've realised that the way they entered this world has determined their characters a wee bit. Perhaps. 

Ollie was late, by 16 days. They had to practically stick a pack of c4 up there to get him out, and even then he had to be airlifted out the sunroof in a hurry. Thing is with olls is he's stubborn and strong willed, as many kids are I suppose. He just decided he liked it there so he stayed. Now? Now he nags you for something, he knows what he wants and he won't let it drop. He can be quiet, observant. I think he knows things but he doesn't let on that he knows things. He's impatient, bossy, all the things the oldest child should be. I like to think it will make him a great leader one day, that all that stubbornness is actually determination in child form. He's so good with his sister, he's helpful (when he wants to be) and he's lovely. Really lovely. He's my oldest, my firstborn, my beginning of a journey into motherhood, which has seen me really fit into the niche I was designed for.  I really love him, he's amazing. I just want you to know that. 

Now Ben. Ben is...in a completely different world. He's a character to say the least. There's not a day goes by when I don't roll my eyes to heaven and wonder where he's wandering off to now. After having an emergency c section on Ollie I was determined to have a normal birth on my second. Was all set until they discovered he was breech. Happy days. Another one to be ripped mercilessly from my insides. I tell him often about how he used to sit like a meer cat inside my tummy, peering around. He always had to be different, all the other kids were in the correct downward position. He loves hearing about it, always laughs his head off. Ben is a meanderer. He strolls through life and enjoys the journey. Surely one can't complain about that? Except he takes his sweet time about it (along with the hobgoblins and aliens which reside in his head) and sometimes it gets him into trouble. But he's just so funny and random, and quirky. Yes, definitely quirky. If you're going to see me hide my head in my hands at any of my children, it will absolutely be Ben. He's my second, the middle boy, the one who had to fit into a schedule undetermined by him.  And I really love him. I just want you to know that. 

Now Jasper is the birth I enjoy thinking about the most. Imagine the scene. 38 weeks pregnant, a c section booked (for 2 weeks time), I go out for a meal to TGI Fridays with some 'mum and toddler' friends I'm close with. I stand, for a wee, and feel a glug. (Sorry). Pause. Rush to the toilet. More glugs. (Really sorry). Panic. Friend pops in to see if I'm ok (she's had 5, she must know what's happening, this has never happened to me before...2 sections, remember?). Ring the hubby. He tells me to stop kidding around, couldn't be a worse time for us to have a baby. I leave in a mad frenzy (drama queen that I am had to announce it to the whole table, resulting in squeals, frantic texts to absent mums, mouths agape), and with a close friend....who is also heavily pregnant!!! (Also, a missed opportunity...why didn't I think to tell the staff, could've had free meals for a year...). Anyway, this little boy of mine, my youngest boy, my poppet, is always the first one awake in the house. He hates going to bed early and missing anything, he loves to be in the middle of the action. He's popular, crazy, and also quite stubborn. I think he decided he'd had enough of missing out on the action; he could hear his brothers having all the fun, why shouldn't he come out early to meet them? So c section number 3. He's hard working, sociable and is still young enough to give really great cuddles.  I really love him. I just want you to know that. 

Finally the girly. She's not so easy to read, she's still young, not even 2. Her birth was relatively straight forward, (c section number 4), though I had a slightly more difficult pregnancy. One thing I know though, she's been born into a fantastic family...she has 3 older brothers for goodness sake. When I was pregnant the first time I was desperate for the baby to be a boy. For many reasons, but one was so that if I ever had a girl, she would have an older brother. (I always wanted one). She has 3! Who knows if they will protect her from bullies and creepy blokes as people keep assuring me they'll do. Who knows if they will sneak her out of the house when she's 16 and drive her to a night club and keep an eye on her without us knowing. (I seriously hope not). Who knows if they will kidnap any future suitors and take him through an initiation process (strip him naked, blindfolded, leaving him in tescos at 2 in the morning). I don't know. All I know is she has 5 people looking out for her and that can't be too bad. She's sweet, dainty, and also stubborn. She's shy, likes to babble, and likes her independence. I really love her. I just want you to know that. I don't love her more than the boys because she's a girl. I love each of my children equally and unconditionally. 

Being a mum is the most amazing thing I've ever achieved. (And that's saying a lot from a girl who's been married to Fitch for as long as I have). 

Scrooge

So this weekend I have sweated, smiled to the point of pain and swelled. (No, not my ankles, but swelled with pride). (No, not the bad sort of pride, the good sort.) (IS there a good sort?) (Don't know but my over-use of brackets is beginning to bug me too.)

Many years ago, my buddy Marcia was thrown in the deep end. Instead of waving at me as she drowned, she pulled me in with her and we drowned together. Except we didn't drown, we floated, and together we started doing amazing things. (Ok sounds a bit flaky, will drop the dodgy analogies, along with the brackets.) 

This is just a little thank you to her for trusting me and my crazy ideas (what WAS I thinking with that minstrel? Not very Dickensian...) and for letting me offload when things got too much. For putting me in my place when I moaned that I wasn't acting in it (at first, though things got rearranged half way through). For trusting me to direct a group of people (whose only experience of acting has been in this church). Flip me, what was she thinking? 

I have had a ball, there really is something thrilling about treading the boards. (Is that right, or am I mixing my idioms?) I'm proud of the cast and crew and proud of my mate Marcia who managed to find a buoyancy aid for us. Thank you to all who came and joined in our journey. (Now pass me the bucket, I need to vomit). (And not just because of the slushiness but also because of those damned brackets.)  

Nonsense...

Why can't I ever think of quick, on the spot one-liners? 

When told by a complete stranger that I finally got lucky "fourth time round" (with regards to having a girl after 3 boys), why did I politely and respectfully reply with "oh we always wanted lots of boys, we're really rather happy" instead of "shut up you stupid woman, who sat on your face and squashed it?" 

Ok I know why I never said that, it's because it's unkind and mostly untrue. And I can't stand the idea of hurting someone's feelings even though they've hurt mine. But still...it would have been a fun story to tell. 

I was raised to be polite and kind to others, which is sometimes a pain in the cahoops. (I made that up, it doesn't mean anything, just a random word). Only when I feel justifiably angry do I speak my mind. 

Once, me and the hubby were driving into a car park and a lady of the (much) older generation got in our way and cut us up. We tutted and shook our heads (as one does), and finally parked once she had moved. Seconds later we experienced mild shock and surprise when she came and knocked on the window. 

"Just so you know I'm partially deaf so can lip read, and I am not a stupid cow." 

Me, incredulous...

"We never said you were, you stupid cow!" (Ok, I didn't say the stupid cow bit). 

I was shocked but assured her (politely) that we didn't say anything of the sort and she walked off. Then we laughed so I didn't get angry at all. Doesn't really prove my point, does it?

Ok I've got one. It's about a DVD but it's boring so I shan't tell it. But I got mad and told that woman what's what, and trust me, we got our £3.99 back, yes siree. 

Anyway, I'm too polite and maybe that's a good thing and maybe it's not. I just hope that when it comes to the things that counts (silly people telling me my gorgeous 3 boys are unlucky when they are right there, within earshot), that I can speak my mind respectfully and calmly.  The witty one-liners which would make me feel better are sure not to, though I particularly like the ones about fat mothers...

Bye. 

Camping with ma friends.

So recently we went camping with a group of friends from church. Some people I know, some I don't know so well; some people with kids, some newly married; some single parents, some parents with so many kids they're reaching double figures. (Ok, that only applies to one...the infamous Paines!) It was an awesome weekend. 

The weather. 

We really do obsess with the weather, us British folk. On Friday it was beautiful - by the evening, us mums who had forgotten to put sun tan lotion on ourselves were glowing, sporting red noses and strap marks. However there was a figurative black cloud hanging over us the next day, which eventually turned to - literal - rain. There was moaning, wailing - what would we do now? People's tents leaked, the earth turned to a soggy mush, some had to go home. 

But what tickled me was the way the men (and me, I won't lie, I did hover around them), crowded round the weather app of the occasional phone which had signal. One minute it was looking bad...we were all about ready to pack up and go home on the Sunday. The next moment there was a 95 percent chance of it being sunny...we were staying til Monday. Brilliant. Nothing brings a group of random folks together like the weather!

Rounders. 

Oh I love a game of rounders. I look like the biggest wally when I run but man, I have fun. My kids got ignored for a whole hour, my husband and I nearly came to fisticuffs when he tapped me "out" on the fourth base, and I think there was dog poo and kids with spades, but no-one really noticed. (Probably because they were laughing too much at me running.)

I laughed a lot and nearly wee'd myself in the process. 

The laughs. 

Ok there were a lot of laughs. Picture this. A group of men standing around the broken car of a damsel in distress, (late at night, a couple of campers snoring loudly), when a wife (we'll call her Cath) of one of the men (we'll call him Alessandro) sneaks up and pinches his bum. She hides. This man (Alessandro) looks at the man standing next to him, crossly. The man (we'll call him Simeon) grins at him and nods his head knowingly (who is, naturally, referring to the snoring). The husband, Alessandro, gets more annoyed at the man, Simeon, who even says "I know". They stare at each other for some time, one smiling, one grimacing. The wife, Cath, pops up and laughs, breaking the tension. But now Alessandro has trust issues with Simeon and the two of them have to be chaperoned wherever they go. 

I laughed about this so hard the next day I was silently weeping. 

Camping was such good fun. I missed my camping family when I got home...I  missed Tony shouting "Yes Fitch", I missed scavenging for food (because I'd forgotten most the essentials) and I even missed the long old walk to the toilet. Until next year......

Summer holidays.

So today I am excited. Yes indeed. Excited cos my kiddies, my boys #1, #2 and #3 as I affectionately call them, are finishing school! 

I never thought I'd be the one to say it, never thought I'd be THAT mother who actually wants her 3 boys (and their little sister) to be at home every day for 6 whole weeks. I always thought I'd be the moany one, grumpy one who stands by the school gate and kicks a stone when the final bell tolls. But (and I'm so glad about this), I'm not! I'm getting that bubbling feeling of excitement just thinking about that last bell, the moment when I can open my arms wide to the kiddies and they will run from their teacher and jump on me, flattening me and bruising my eyes but I won't care because everyone around us is smiling and saying "how sweet", and they might even cry because they wish their kids had done that to them, given them a black eye out of love; and then I'll be crowned mum of the year and the dads (or the stronger of the mums) will pick me up and throw me on their shoulders and there'll be a parade, all in my honour...

Even as I write this, however, I feel obliged to tell you that I have a long way to win mum of the year because just this week, I forgot to pick son #2 from beavers, (he got dropped off by another mother), I sat down in the shade instead of watching out for son #1 so he walked past me and walked home on his own, and I laughed loudly at son #3 because he got hit in the eye by a water balloon. (In my defense I didn't realise he was hurt...and at least I wasn't the one to throw it).  And don't even get me started on the girly, the amount of times she's fallen over because I wasn't watching...

Still, I love my kids an awful lot. They are really fab, and I laugh so much when I'm with them. Yes I make mistakes, and yes I shout (especially when I'm hot, sneezing and wielding a fly swat), but I love them and have a sneaky feeling they still love me. 

I can't wait to wake up and have a leisurely breakfast every morning.

I can't wait to take my time and not clock watch. 

I can't wait to not have to do the lunches every night before I go to bed and worry because I don't have enough healthy stuff yet again, so I end up putting a bag of crisps in. 

Thing is it's not easy having 4 kids home for the holidays. It's hard entertaining children of different ages. But it's fine cos I'm aiming for mum of the year and when you have a goal you'll put up with anything. 

Now I'm going because there are so many flies in this house I'm beginning to think someone's died. 

Kids

We are the type of parents who shout at our children for spilling milk. I admit it.

We are the type of parents who don't like painting or doing play dough with our kids because its too messy. I admit it.

We are the type of parents who occasionally swear under our breaths because our kids are arguing again, and when telling them off for the 118th time, the only way to not drive them to a local beach and leave them there on their own is to use bad language. Quietly. I admit it.

However we are also the type of parents who love...I mean LOVE... to go out and do things with our kids.

I'm not a super mum. I know people look at me with 4 kids (who are actually very well behaved) and think I must never sit down or that I must be sneaking a tot of gin into my tea first thing in the morning. It's not the case. (About the gin or the sitting down. I sit down a lot). I shout, I get frustrated at the dirt and general state of untidiness, and I love nothing more than to sneak into another room and play candy crush while they're watching yet another episode of Postman pat or iCarly. (Gulp, now I've shattered all your illusions of me. I'll be shunned, outcast, banned from the country club. Ok I don't go to a country club but if I ever wanted to I'd be turned away with a clip round the ear.)

However, today we took our kids on a truly epic bike ride.

We raced, stopped lots for food and water, got filthy on the beach, and got sun kissed.

On Saturday we took them to London for no reason other than we could. And it's cool.

We saw the Crown Jewels (and nearly got trampled in the process), watched the guards at Buckingham Palace (got drenched in a hail storm in the process), and stayed at the Science Museum until we got kicked out (nothing really happened in the process here.)

We do this kind of stuff a lot.

And it's not so we can be congratulated and praised for being excellent parents but because we enjoy spending time with our kids. It's totally awesome and at times we learn stuff from them too. (Like when to say "sick" - apparently its not for feeling ill but for appreciating the worth of something. Who knew?)

I know my failings but I also know my awesomeness. (Not blowing smoke. Just the way it is).

Special human...

I've always thought of myself as something special if I'm honest. I've always had a knack for being nice. I can make my eyes shake really fast. I can watch hours of tv and not get up, even if I need a wee. I can eat 5 donuts in a row and not even be sick. (Well actually I don't think I've ever tried but I'm sure I could. I know I could. I really like donuts...)

It turns out I'm nothing 

spectacular...haven't got bundles in the brain department, not that great with my hands, and seems I haven't got what it takes to be an Olympic javelinist. Javelin thrower. Javelinda. (Really don't even know what that word should be).

And if we're not the unique person we thought we would be, then we think our kids DEFINITELY will be. When our oldest was born we would often joke "he's so advanced for his age!" In fact he wasn't, and every other 8 month old was sitting up and smiling too. Big deal.

I'm pretty sure that my kids are special though. The oldest is going to be a rocket scientist, the second, a musician in a philharmonic orchestra, the third will be some kind of doctor (brain, heart...whatevs), and the fourth, the girly....well I haven't decided yet but she may well take over the family business and be technical like her father and know a lot about the PC mac computer interweb thing. 

The thing is (and here's where I get all emo on you, the soppy bit...get your buckets, you're going to want to hurl...), we ARE all unique and special and sometimes it blows me away. No-one has the same finger print as me. No-one shares my DNA. (I believe it's special, probably pink and sparkly.) No-one looks exactly like me, has the same annoying, nasally voice that I have, shares the same love that I have for bunting (ok, they probably do, but I REALLY love it). That's amazing, that God (and I believe in him completely) had the creativity to make billions of people exactly different and individual. No recycling of fingerprints here and there. I love that. I am fearfully and wonderfully made. And because of that, here's a picture of my eye. Take care, special human x

Fancy dress.

I was eight years old, the age of my first born, my eldest boy. I was invited to a fancy dress party by Rhian Glover who lived down the road. It was her birthday party. My dad, my creative and slightly wacky dad made me a costume.

I wanted a princess costume or a fairy costume or any costume that was pretty. (As I'm sure you remember, I was girly.) But no. Oh no.

I went to this party dressed as...wait for it, it deserves a drum roll, spotlight, round of applause... traffic lights. Ta-Da. Yes. I wore black trousers, a black top and a cardboard box that my dad had spent the week painting. Traffic lights. It's not clever, it's not cool. I mean who has EVER sent their kid to a fancy dress party as TRAFFIC LIGHTS?

That's not the only crazy dressing up that I've done. I've also dressed as Fred (the Homepride flour man), a bride groom, and a tramp. But traffic lights?

I have confronted my dad since about this violation of my human rights. He laughed, he practically foamed at the mouth he was so tickled. (I secretly think he'd forgotten the incident and was congratulating himself on a brilliant idea.) No doubt he would do it again in a heartbeat.

I couldn't sit down in it, it covered half my body. I couldn't play musical chairs or sleeping lions. Even musical statues was a problem. How lovely to eat your plate of party food standing in a corner on your own, while your friends wear party hats and help themselves to cheese and pineapple and iced gems.

The thing is, the crazy, stupid thing is, I am actually secretly pleased. Truth be told, I have considered doing the same for my kids, dressing them in the bizarre, the abnormal. You can imagine it, can't you. "Today Son, you are going to the party, not dressed as your favourite superhero. Oh no. Today son you are going as a lightbulb". Or a hammer. Or a signpost. Or an eye. Or an........ Excuse me while I consider the endless possibilities.

Girly wuss

"You want me to get the spider?"
This was my opening gambit this morning as I walked into the Nissan garage, where 3 men were standing with fliers, trying to guide a penny sized spider - including legs - to the door (which was a good 20 feet away.) (At least I think it was 20 feet. If I'm honest I don't have the faintest idea.)

I'm a girly kind of girl. Love pretty things. Shopping. Shoes. Pink. But when it comes to dealing with a 'man' situation (cars, garages, tool shops), I don't like looking stupid. I think the men will laugh at me, point at me, slap their thighs, pat each other on the backs whilst choking, and all because it took me a minute to park my car. (It didn't but I'm just saying.)

I don't know why I'm like this. I used to fancy myself as a tomboy kind of a girl. I'd play with my younger brother and his friends. We'd go out on our skateboards to the lane where we'd whizz down the hill and stop just before the road. Ok so the hill was gentle, the road wasn't busy and I used to sit on the skateboard (which was my brothers reject,) never stand. Too scary. And all whilst wearing a skirt. So no, not really a tomboy. But I did say I 'fancied' myself as one, not that I was.

I used to work in a very man dominated sound studio as a foley editor. I enjoyed the job but every single bloke I worked with had technical brains on them. I most definitely did not. (And still do not, FYI.) One time a Pro Tools reseller spent the day with us, demo-ing the latest kit. I sat there and played an alphabet game in my head, doing anything to numb the boredom. There was a natural pause after a few hours and I said "yes, but does it come in pink?" My colleagues laughed (in a good way) and I was allowed to leave the room. (And yes, it did.)

Anyway, I walked into the garage and was met with the spider scene. So my automatic reaction was nervous, seeing all these blokes. But my brave-o-meter kicked in and I volunteered to get the spider. One bloke looked particularly grateful but thankfully a burly chap removed it before I had a chance. I like to think i would have calmly scooped it up in my hands and glided to the door but I totally would have screamed and dropped it down my dress. (But THEY don't know that now do they?)

Grandpa.

Today would have been my Grandpas 100th birthday.

Happy birthday Grandpa.

He was a funny, sharp, interesting man, and I must say, I miss him.

When I was younger I used to play "hair tuts" with him. I'd sit him down and use my fingers to chop his hair. His, um, limited hair. (Yes, he was bald with a few tufts here and there.) Certainly never bothered my young self however.

The first time he was introduced to my husband (then boyfriend), I said
"This is my boyfriend Fitch."
My grandpa laughed and said,
"If they call him Fitch, what do they call you? Bitch?!"
Charming. But we laughed.

Every Christmas for every year of my life he would sit in the chair by the window and fall asleep after the Queen's speech, with a paper hat on his head and his mouth wide open.

We always pinched his custard creams because he would pretend to be annoyed.

He used to take us to the airport to watch the planes.

He loved Emmerdale.

The day before I had my fourth child, my first girl, I waddled in to see him in hospital. It was the last time I saw him.

He stayed on until I had my baby, then died a few days later. He never wanted to reach 100 and he certainly didn't want to receive a card from the Queen if he did. Humble, funny, interesting.

Happy birthday Grandpa x

Maureen.

"So it was last Tuesday...no wait, it couldn't have been Tuesday because we drove to Chepstow and we got stuck behind a tractor! It was driving so slowly and every time we tried to overtake it, another car would drive by and we were there for half an hour. No, it wasn't Tuesday, it was Wednesday. Or was it Thursday? Thursday. No, Wednesday. Hang on a minute, what happened on Wednesday? We went to tesco and......."

In my head I'm thinking about how I'd like to take your annoying story and put it in a very dark place, then I'd sneak up on it and shout BOO really loudly then turn it into a puddle of wee.

"No, it was definitely Wednesday because I remember telling my friend how much I like this day because its the middle of the week."

Before I continue I would like to express upon you that this story is not based on anyone in particular (at least no-one who's likely to read this blog.) This technique of blathering on about inconsequential details of where you were and what you did is what the husband and I call the Maureen effect. Let me explain.

We were camping. It was a Monday- no wait, a Tuesday...(I'm joking) and I realised that I'm a creature of habit. I liked to use the same loo. And if someone happened to be using - nay, defiling my loo, I worried, fretted, got a bit upset. (I've yet to shout at the person but its not beyond my capabilities). As I told the hubby about this later on we started laughing (but inwardly I still worried...MY TOILET, my precioussses). And a character started forming in our minds of a 57 year old woman who worked on the campsite, and who thought of it as her land, her kingdom. And every time someone sat on her loo she'd do nasty things to them like turn the lights off when they were showering or hide outside their tent late at night and make ghost noises. But if she really didn't like you she would talk. Talk. You. To. Death. And her name? Her name was Doris. (Joking yet again!). Meet Maureen.

Every time someone started on an elaborate story where every point was shrouded by fluffy details, we would look at each other and know that the spirit of Maureen was upon them. We introduced her to our friends with brilliant results. One dear friend told her parents about it who, in turn, adopted Maureen into the fold. Her dad told a long story to guests and her mum rolled her eyes and said "maureeeen"! (The guests though she said "boring" though. Oops!)

For those of you now who are reading this and fearing that you do the same, don't worry, we've all been guilty from time to time of elaborating, flowering, boring other people. And I must reiterate, I am not writing this about anyone in particular. But next time you tell a story and you can't remember what day you bought your cabbage, or what time it was when you found the back to your earring, or how many people EXACTLY have read your blog and liked it (ok, that ones mine), just ask yourself...what would Maureen do?

Bikes. Twitter. And stuff...

Twitter is a random thing. I have acquired bike followers but don't know how, as the only time I tried something remotely daring whilst on my bike (a slight detour to the designated path) I fell off. And cried. Then carried on (like any good cyclist should) and stopped on a hill, only to fall off again. This time I swore quite badly, and an old lady looked at me disgustedly then walked away without checking I was ok. I cried again. And had baddie knees.

This makes me a girl in a weird looking helmet with cool looking gloves which seem to do very little to combat the cold. (And such a snug fit, doesn't do my moisturised hands much good).
Anyway I like being part of the biking family, I feel like a comrade even though I have no idea what they're talking about and no desire to join them on their death defying flings down a mountain.

And it's made me more careful around cyclists on the road. I don't want to be named and shamed for knocking a biker off his steed. To feel the wrath of a biking community would be like putting your finger in a shredder then dousing it with salt.

And what's with this n+1 business? My husband (bike fanatic - nay, obsessive), has 10 bikes and wants more. We have a fairly decent sized house but no garage. A shed and a bike shed but our study is housing at least 3 bikes as well. And he wants more. The other day I actually used the words "children in africa have nothing but you want another 3 bikes!" I couldn't think of any other way to make him understand how I felt about more bikes. That the answer is no.

At least he has a hobby I suppose. One that makes him happy and has made him a few friends. Who, in turn have become my friends, of a sort. Who make me want to go out on my bike and be super fit, and talk about bagging my latest KOM on strava. (Yeah, totally don't know what that means, just heard the hubby say it).

But I will be sticking to the flat, uncomplicated paths with the family thank you very much. The paths that have rainbows and bunny rabbits and Tarmac. And occasionally a cafe with coffee cake and cheese scones. Right, salivating, now time to saddle up...

Should've gone to spec savers...

So before we had kids, I had it in my head that they would be short sighted. Not one to dwell on negative stuff, me. But I did.

When I was 10, I would sit at the back of the class and borrow Anna Swayby's glasses with the guise that "it's so fun looking through them". She'd get cross at me but give in eventually. When she didn't or wasn't there I'd make a diamond shape with my fingers and look through the tiny gap and just about be able to make out words on the board. Shocking. Of course the inevitable happened when the nurse came and did health checks on the class. It had not occurred to me until that moment that I was short sighted. It was as much of a revelation to me as it was to my parents, who had no idea whatsoever. Seems all of us were oblivious to my blind-as-a-bat status.

Now the glasses that were presented to me (the free ones, of course) were big and round. And big, did I mention that? Oh and pink. And free. And big. Really big. I hated those babies. (I don't think that style has ever come back in fashion, they were that bad). And my path of shame and humiliation began.

Now before we had kids I was desperate for them to have normal eye sight and not to go through that. But a few months ago we went to get the older 2 tested. The reason? Well when your 8 year old is constantly standing in front of the tv, blocking everyone's view, you kind of sense that something is up. Of course, we did our own tests and thought everything was fine...
"Ollie, what does that say?"
(Pointing at a huge sign saying Exit)
Ollie: "Exit."
"Good. I think you're ok".
But we took them anyway (just to confirm we know what we're talking about) and Ollie needed glasses.

We chose a rather dandy pair (certainly not big, pink or round) and that was it. I actually felt quite excited, he looked so handsome and intelligent. (Makes his eyes look bigger though, kind of glares at me, I need to get used to that.) He also realised how much he couldn't see, he enjoyed wearing them and looking at detail from afar.

He doesn't wear them all the time though I don't think it will be long before he does. We went out as a family the other week (as we regularly do) but he'd left his glasses at home. I told the boys that the first person to spot a bin would get a prize. (The rubbish in my hand, but they didn't know that). Ollie shouted "I can see one, I win!"
I scoured the landscape in front of me but couldn't see one anywhere.
"There, right over there!"
I looked where he was pointing but could only see a green pushchair.
He started running towards it with the rubbish in his hand but stopped before he got there, confused.
I (good mother that I am), laughed my head off and shouted across the park "should've gone to specsavers!" We laughed about that one for quite some time.

Meanwhile I've realised it's not such a big deal if they need glasses. They're good boys, handsome, sensible. Far more important to worry about the TYPE of glasses that they need. It's all about the image.

Lovely.

First blog ever.

So here I am, writing a blog. The stuff of dreams.

I'll be honest with you I'm finding it a challenge. I'm scared, it's scary, I'm a scaredy cat. Who knew? I'm one of those lets-look-at-everyone-else's-blog-first-to-see-how-to-do-it people, the kind who read witty, intelligent, award winning blogs and know they can't compete, can never produce anything quite so brilliant. I get deflated and start huffing and puffing, and resting my head pensively against a window, stroking the glass because it feels so smooth...

But I'm giving it a go so yeah, go me, whoop whoop. And if its rubbish well...well....um....well it doesn't matter. Does it? Ooh, I don't want people laughing at me. Ah, stuff it - they can laugh.... Ha ha ha, I'll laugh with them. (Except I totally won't laugh, not my strong point if I'm honest).

I think I'll find enough stuff to talk about, though. Stuff seems to happen to me, leaving me with two options...either cry and never emerge from my bedroom again or write about it and have it out in the open. Like the time I had a conversation with another mother at the school about the holiday we were going on. "Oh yes, we love cottaging." The time I was in a toilet cubicle with one of my sons and he shouted at the top of his voice "Please don't hit me mummy". The time I shoulder hi-fived a tescos delivery man and left him dazed and confused on my door step. (Long story, it was a mix up - I don't normally touch delivery men unless they're particularly dishy).
It's going to be an adventure and I frigging can't wait.

So for now I'm off to bed, it's been a long day and tomorrow I have to be with dozens of little children, most of whom are mine. Wouldn't have it any other way.