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?