Nevermore permit any individual to apprise thyself to the contrary.

“We shouldn’t use Owl words, we should use Yr2 words” she stated matter of factly.

“What are Owl words?”

Owl is the reception class, aged 4-5, so words used there are perhaps a tad basic? As one would expect for that age group. Yr2 class are 6-7 so are told to use more. I get that, words are grand for describing stuff, so I’m told.

That said I have a few issues with this.

Firstly, what if a Yr2 child was to repeat this to an Owl? This could make an Owl feel dreadful, the thought that the shiny new words they’re learning are a bit wrong.

“I can’t say happy, l must say extremely excited, happy is wrong”

“Whats wrong with happy?”

“I don’t know?”

“No Boom, there are no wrong words. All words are splendid”

Secondly, wrong words? What the fuck are wrong words?

When you see a cat but say “look at that lovely dog” perhaps? But the word isn’t wrong, you are, no wrong words there then.

When you ask “what the fuck are wrong words?” perhaps? Nope. All of those are fabulous too.

Now, I get it, honestly I do. Children should learn lots and lots of lovely words, words for describing things, places and people, words to help them express themselves and tell their stories. I too should continue to learn lots more lovely words, we can’t know too many. But. I’ll not have it said that words are wrong, except the word wrong which is wrong.

All words are fine by me and you should nevermore permit any individual to apprise thyself to the contrary.

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Something wrong up there.

Some of the best, most informative, conversations I’ve ever had have been with my daughter. Not only is she full to bursting with facts, all of which I can guarantee you’ve not heard before, she is also very excited about everything and everyone which makes chatting with her a heck of a boost for your happy cells. The only thing that makes me happier is watching someone she’s just met, someone who doesn’t know, try a conversation with The Boom, it can be a bumpy ride for some.

I say can but I mean could. These conversations, thanks or not to her speech therapist, are fewer and farther between nowadays. Many strangers can understand her now which is probably a good thing albeit a bit dull.

Anyhoo. This brings me to a recent conversation about birthday presents.

“Boom, what would you like for your birthday?”

“I don’t know?”

Great.

“Oh, I have one!”

Thank goodness for that.

“I would like a rainbow light up cat”

“Right. Have you seen one of these rainbow light up cats anywhere Boom?”

” . . . . . . . Oh, no I haven’t. They’re not out yet are they? It won’t be here for my birthday will it?”

“No, probably not, sorry”

“I know what you can make in London”

“Oh, What’s that?”

London? Who was asking about London?

“Candles. Candles and buttons”

“Wow! I like candles and buttons” say I trying really really hard to join the conversation.

“Me too” she said and rolled off her bed onto the floor with a bump.

With that she was gone.

London? Candles? Buttons?

Later that day I was wandering about a field with the dog when it hit me. The children had a Tudor day at school, she’d gone in dressed as Boom Boleyn, they’d been to a Tudor doctor and made lavender filled pouches to cover the pong of Tudor England but, more importantly, they’d made candles and buttons.

The Boom hadn’t got an auditory processing disorder or whatever else it was the school had been pondering on. No, the Boom was bored of my conversation about birthday presents so had moved on to something far more interesting, her mind had wandered onto pastures new. The Boom is me but smaller.

In reception the children take in pictures of their family and their house and pets etc. to help them settle in and to give teacher something to nosey at. The Boom had been asked questions about the photos and had answered with utterly random replies not even slightly pertaining to said photo. Teacher had taken me to one side, concerned at the workings of my tiny child’s mind. At the time I knew, I knew that when they showed her a photo Boom didn’t see the person in it, she saw the place at which it had been taken, she saw the memory of what we’d been up to on the day it had been taken, her mind had wandered to the more interesting.

Why on Earth would she talk about her mum in a photo when earlier that day we’d been to the beach and eaten chips in a wind blown tent? Why would she chat about her house when, just before that picture had been taken she’d been trapped in a sand pit? Why, for the love of biscuits, would she talk about the things you could plainly see when she has better things to talk about? Why, when asked, would she talk about school when she’d once eaten a blue cake? Why would she chat to my friend Mer when she could ask Mer if she was in fact her own daughter? It was clear to all of us there that Mer was not her daughter but her daughter is more interesting than the Mer herself. Looking back on it this was a fair question which was given a fair answer.

“No, I’m not Alexa, she’s at home watching a bit of tele in her PJs” replied my dearest friend without so much as a titter.

It’s taken almost 7 years but I get it. The Boom is not hard of hearing, she’s hasn’t got “something wrong up there” as her teacher once wrongly predicted whilst tapping at her head for full effect. No, she just has better things to think about.

The Boom has been ignoring us all for years, she been busy dancing to the beat of her own drum. My greatest wish is that she continues to do so for many more years to come.

 

Vegans must die.

Tis tricky feeding a family of four at the best of times, one has allergies, one is always on a diet and failing miserably (me) and another doesn’t eat veg. So imagine my joy when the one who avoids veg decides he’s going vegan. Yay!

Squidge has been vegan for a week now and is doing rather well. As inconvenient as it is for me his resolve is both impressive and rather irritating. If only I could stick to a diet like he does, I’d be tiny right now, I am in awe of the 11yr old.

That said, it is time to do the food shopping and I just can’t.

“I’m calling a family meeting” said I.

“Oh no” whined the kids.

I ignored the groaning and continued on.

“I want a comprehensive list of what you would like for tea this week. Squidge, you need to tell me what you can eat now you’re vegan”

He’s more than welcome to vegan himself right up but he can do the research, my brain hurts at the thought of feeding nothing but veg to a non veg eater. I’m not sure how many Indian Vegan burgers a person can eat before they never want to see one again. I’ll buy it, I’ll happily cook it but he must do the ground work.

“Carbonara” announced The Boom.

She’s easy pleased that one.

The vegan fell silent.

I sat scratching Boom’s back, she requested that I did it forever which was fine as we had forever to wait for the vegan to come up with something other than Oreos and prawn cocktail crisps.

We waited.

We scratched.

We waited some more.

“We could rip his head off?”

The 6yr old is a genius. Problem solved.

Once more please.

Can I be a kid again please?

I want my mummy and daddy to look after me.

I want my mummy and daddy to take me to the seaside and buy me ice cream.

I want my grandparents, my uncle David and my uncle Harry back.

I want to go climb the third tree with my mates.

I want to make random phone calls from the telephone box on the green at the bottom of my road.

I want to fill steak pies with sweet corn and whizz them in the microwave then follow that up with a chocolate lovely.

I want to be surprised christmas morning when You Know Who has been.

I want a backie on my mates bike.

I want to throw corn bombs.

Can I then be a wee adult again please?

I want to go on one of those new years eve pub crawls that don’t exist any more, the ones where you could go in all the pubs not just the one you’ve got a ticket for. I want to kiss everybody at midnight. Every. Body.

I want to go clubbing till the wee small hours.

I want to drink. Oh how I want to drink. Lots of boozy yum yums with little to no aftereffects.

I want to pass my driving test.

I want to get my first wage packet.

I want to go drunk sledging in Levi.

I want to buy our first house again and get really rather too excited about buying a fridge.

Then can I end up right here again, right here and right now please?

Thanks xx

Vegan strawberry roses.

Squidge is vegan. Who knew? Not even he until last night. The kid that only eats meat is vegan. Anyhoo, vegan he now is despite my list of non vegan food stuffs.

Eggs both regular and chocolate, McDonald’s nuggets, smoked German cheese and Nutella.

All his favourite things.

Now, should I allow an 11yr old to go vegan? Yes, yes I should. He may be a wee boy but that there is his body and, as such, is his to do with as he pleases. Plus I doubt this will last because Nutella. If it does last and this becomes a complete lifestyle change, whilst remaining happy and healthy, then I’m all for it so long as I can still have shepherds pie.

This is the first of many Squidge decisions I might not agree with, this along with his choice of life partner. They’re not good enough for him whoever they are.

So, we’re a few hours in to his veganismness and he’s doing rather well. Breakfast was vegan, his packed luck is vegan and tonight’s tea is . . . . Erm . . . . FFS what is he having for his tea?

I’ve no idea what a vegan eats but still, I’m immensely proud of him.

Then there’s Boom.

In she strolled this morning, nice and early.

“Wow, you’re up nice and early. Morning Boom”

“Yeah, I’m feeling really good this morning” she grinned.

“That’s marvellous news, you want a strawberry?”

“Yes please. Yeah, only my neck feels a bit weird now, a bit sore”

What now? Since when did anything feel a bit weird? Blooming ‘eck. I gave her Calpol which worked instantly apparently. Go Calpol.

“Can I have a chocolate rose please?”

I made one at the weekend and it went down a storm so this is my life now. On the upside, providing I omit the chocolate drops, I can feed both kids this. Yay.

Kids 0 – Mum 1

But then it is only 8.15am.

QUEEN

“Do you want to see Queen and Adam Lambert at the O2?” asked The Husband.

No. No, I did not want to see Queen and Adam I’m Not Freddie Lambert at the O2. That would mean risking my life for a band I like-ish so no, thank you but no.

“Yeah sure” said I.

Since the birth of our children there has been very little The Husband and I have done just the two of us, we’re either with the children or one of us is oot and aboot whilst the other is with the children so, when he asks if I want to do something kid-less, I feel obliged to say yes even when every cell in my body screams FUCK NO.

Thing is, I like spending time with The Husband, honest, it’s just that I knew we would die in a terror attack at the O2 if we went to see Queen and Adam Blooming Lambert. It was months away so I just shoved the thought to the back of my mind along with all the other shit that scares me, there was a little room in a dark corner just past where I keep my fear of cancer.

At some point I made a joke about our impending doom.

“You don’t have to come, I’ll take someone else if you’re that worried”

He would have too and not thought less of me for it but no, The Husband had asked me, I could do this.

Fast forward to the day we were off to see Queen and Adam Sodding Lambert.

Most of the day was spent wondering how I could wriggle out of going but, before I could think of anything remotely believable, we were in the car heading to London.

Traffic. There was lots and lots of lovely traffic and we were stuck in it. We hadn’t moved in an hour, we would have to abandon ship. Yay!

“I think I’m going to leave the motorway . . . . ” The Husband pondered.

Do what you like mate, we’ve missed it, may as well turn for home. Whoopedy do da day.

“Yeah sure” said I.

I forgot that Mr Satnav used to drive all over the country in a previous life and that he knew exactly what he was doing and where he was going. Bugger. We hit London at what felt like warp speed, weaving in and out of traffic and taking sudden detours when it looked as though we were about to get stuck. I was beginning to lose it, the panic had set in. We weren’t travelling at warp speed at all but my heart was and I was struggling to breathe by the time we got to the car park of the O2. Oddly we’d managed to get parked quite close to where I was about to meet my end, which was convenient as now I had lost the use of my legs.

“Slow down, I need a wee”

It wasn’t a complete lie, I did need a wee, but my, far more pressing, problem was the full blown panic attack I was in mid flow of. The Husband, not wanting to miss any more of Queen and Adam Fucking Fuckwit Lambert than was absolutely necessary, had decided to run.

We hit security. Security which is there to keep a person safe but just reminded me of the Manchester Arena bombing. Shit. I could drop to the floor and play dead. This would be my last chance to escape the nightmare. I did neither, drop nor escape.

In we went. Still running we found the wee wee facilities then the door that would take us to our seats. We paused to double check we were where we should be. I took a deep breath, the first in a while, and the doors opened.

The crowd cheered, it was all I could do not to take a bow. We’d entered at the end of a song so the cheers weren’t for us, I don’t think, but the sensation of walking onto the O2 to that level of happiness will stay with me right up until the day I forget all about it. The heat, the lights, the volume knocked the panic and fear of everything right out of me. I loved it. I loved Queen. As for Adam Oh My Word He’s A Delight Lambert, boy can he belt out a tune.

So I am now a Queen fan, who knew?

We were buzzing for days, we even thought about getting tickets to see them again that very weekend but we’d already had to sell a kidney each for the first pair of tickets so decided against it as the kids needed feeding and a roof over their heads or something equally dull.

So, am I now cured of my fear of everything? No. I doubt that day will ever come but I did learn one hefty life lesson, never ever ever sing in public. When I played back some of the videos I discovered that I have the voice of an angel being wrung out like a wet dishcloth. I’d posted them to Facebook too! Delete. Delete.

Summis Desiderantes Affectibus.

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In the car on the way home from nannies.

“When I change schools will I be able to go to bed later?” pondered The Eldest.

“It’s a quarter past ten, if you want to go to bed later at your next school you need to start going earlier at this one”

“Oh. Yeah. But I usually . . . ”

“I LOVE MY LIFE!” exclaims The Youngest.

“Ah, that’s splendid news” says me genuinely pleased as punch.

TY – “I love my life and I love school”

TE – “I love my life but I hate school”

TY – “But we need to learn”

TE – “I’ve learnt everything. Go on, tell me something I don’t know”

ME – “The Summis Desiderantes Affectibus was written in 1484”

This is the only thing I remember from A Level History that I took aged 24.

TE – “When will I ever need to know that?”

ME – “At a pub quiz perhaps?”

TE – “No. Tell me a useful fact that I will learn at school”

I’d got nothing.

ME – “It’s not just about facts, it’s about learning to do new things and making friends and stuff”

TY – “Yeah and love is real”

TE – “What’s love?”

TY – “Erm . . . It’s kisses . . . ”

TE – “Eww”

TY – “And hugs . . . ”

TE – “Ewww!”

TY – “And giving presents”

The Youngest is just the loveliest wee soul huh?

Wrong.

When we got home she decided to run an arm wrestling competition. I didn’t win and they finally went to bed at ten past eleven.