As we left school yesterday I noticed The Youngest was chewing.

“Are you eating?”

She just smiled at me.

“You’re chewing, what are you eating?”

She chuckled a little, she may have chuckled more if her mouth hadn’t have been full. Her friend intervened at this point.

“She’s eating a carrot off the floor”

Of course she was. I’d seen the carrot on the floor, it was dry and a bit wrinkly, it was grim. Yet, Little Miss Hungry had seen it and thought

“Yum, I’ll have that”

I made her spit it out, little grot bag.

I’ve just made her lunch for today with a lovely fresh crunchy carrot in there. I know it’s a good ‘un because I’ve eaten some. Thing is, I feel bad. Why did I make her spit out her tasty treasure? She’d have already chewed the gravel and muck off of it then I made her give up the good bit.

Being a parent is hard, we have to make a lot of quick on the spot decisions.

Yesterday I got it wrong.


Money Money Money

“If you had infinite money what would you buy?” asked The Eldest.

For a while I couldn’t think of anything. Nothing. Damn I’m boring. Eventually I plumped for a house with land, I’d like some land.

“Is that it?”

“Oh, I’d have a top of the range Range Rover, an all singing all dancing Range Rover . . . . . . and a live in chef”

I was getting the hang of it now but it was his turn.

“I’d have a new graphics card and an HTC Vive VR headset for £700. Then I’d give some to the poor”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise.

“Oh yeah, you didn’t think about the poor did you?!”

No. No I did not. I am a horrible human being.


I Wouldn’t Want To Be Anywhere Else

Whenever we go away:

1) We buy supplies, chocolate and milkshake for the kids, food for the grownups. Oh and tea bags.

2) We find leaflets, lots of those touristy leaflets and we each pick a thing.

3) We are each allocated a day to do the thing we’ve picked.

4) We whine about the others choices.

5) We argue over the remaining days.

Day one. The Husband chose the seaside, that was a car wreck and we left in under an hour. The weather was shite and then The Youngest needed a shite. Public toilets are a no and she was doubled up so we left. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it, the truth will go with me to the grave.

Day two. The Youngest chose the Queens Palace or Sandringham as it is more commonly known. The Eldest had a broken nut, an injury gained that morning during a game of hide and seek, a dangerous game if ever there were one and we should have known better. He tried but couldn’t walk far so I ended up sat in the car with him whilst the other two went for a wander. The Youngest had a go on one of those trampolines with the bouncy ropes attatched, she loved it. Well it looked as though she did in the recording The Husband took because he knew I’d be pissed I missed it.

“I was acshally terrified” she giggled.

Day three. I chose Davenport’s Magic Kingdom. This was slightly less of a car wreck but only just. We travelled for an hour and a half to a warehouse. We’d gone too far to turn back so in we went. It was ok. Some magical history which was nice. A dead cat and a cheery fellow who talked us through a re-creation of the Davenport’s shop that once stood in London. He did a little magic and was very very funny. Then back into the magical exhibition where we waited for the star attraction. The latest magical Davenport. His long dead relatives must turn, nay spin, in their graves. Only just watchable because The Youngest went onto the stage to have a glass of water popped on her head. She thought the whole thing was “amazing” so I consider this day a win. Just.

Day four. The Eldest picked today as his day for us to do the thing he chose to do. Today is the day we stay in. Yes, that is correct, we are staying in. We are staying in because he’s a funny little chap and his idea of fun is being locked inside our holiday cottage, the four of us, pottering.

Day five. I try to hide the bodies.







Tomorrow We’re Off To The Seaside

What can I say? A trip to the seaside looks so much better in my head than in reality. The funny thing is though, on the way there The Husband and I were discussing the pros and cons of taking our children abroad. Yeah, that’s never happening. We couldn’t manage two hours in Hunstanton.

I’d packed a picnic, I was excited, I love the seaside. The children wanted to stay in the holiday cottage because they are boring beyond belief. We didn’t care and took them out anyway. That was a bit of a boo boo.

It was freezing. When we left the weather was glorious, we were dressed for glorious. We pushed on. What I mean when I say this is we sat in the car and ate our picnic while counting how many layers passers by were wearing.

“I want ice cream. Can I have ice cream please?” said the hardiest of us.

Well why not? That’s what folk do at the seaside. I decided that if ice cream was the game then inside was the aim. We found a cafe.

Half way through my cappuccino and my single scoop of New York cheesecake ice cream . . . .

“I need a poo”

Now then, I’ve heard that many children will poo on a public toilet. I’ve never seen it, thankfully, but I have it on good authority that it has been done. That’s not the case here.

“My tummy hurts” she said clutching at her middle.

Clearly this was happening, they’re was no delaying it.

“Oooh” she’s doubled up at this point.

We break into a trot.

“Mum, can you spell poo? P and an oooo”

It never ceases to amaze what a good education can achieve, she looked so pleased with herself. I was pleased for her. Anyhoo, onwards and upwards.

We’d been at the seaside almost a full hour, not bad, not bad at all, that’ll do. We go back to our holiday cottage.

Our host is in her garden.

“Hello there, have you had a good day?”

I pondered on a polite answer. I wracked my weary brain for something, anything, positive to say about our trip out but I had nothing. I plumped for the truth.

“No. No, not really”

There, I said it, it was out there. I felt better for it. I then inhaled a whole packet of Jaffa Cakes. All was well in the world.

Tomorrow we’re off to the seaside.

My Hour Is Up

I was moaning. I do so enjoy a good moan. On this particular occasion I was going on and on and on about how bloody boring housework is, how it’s never bloody ending and, worse still, how the only person to ever see the bloody house in all it’s clean and bloody tidy glory is me.

And on I went.

I muttered on about all the stuff I could be doing but don’t get time to do, the reading, the writing, the making stuff, the walking, the gardening and the catching up on stuff. I whined on about how I thought I’d have nothing to do now both children are at school but I don’t get the time to have nothing to do and, oh, how I long to have nothing to do.

And on I went.

I then pondered, out loud, on how I can have six hours a day to myself but not have any time to myself. How can that be? It isn’t possible to be doing all bloody day but not get anything done. What the hell am I doing for six hours if I’m not reading, writing, walking or gardening? I can’t be doing housework for six hours, can I?

And on I went.

The Husband was looking at me but was he listening? He’s become rather good at the looking as though he is listening. His face registered that I had stopped going on.

“Look” he said.

I waited for his words of wisdom.

“Just don’t do the boring stuff, I’ll do it”

Tempting but no. The boring stuff is my job. The Husband works damn hard so that I can stay at home with the kids, this is where I want to be right now. Whilst they are wee and still need me around I want to be exactly that, around. Not a round, although I’m that too.

“Right then” he said.

Again I waited for his wiseness.

“Do everything for an hour”

Sorry, what now?

“Your time management sucks”

A bit harsh.

“Drop the kids off then do housework for an hour, if something doesn’t get done it will wait. Then write for an hour. Then hit the garden for an hour or stroll for an hour or watch catch up tele for an hour. But everything for an hour. That way you get to do a little of everything every day”

It works. It only bloody works. I hate him for that.

Oh, my hour is up, bye.

Saving The Interesting Bits

I’m new to this blogging malarkey so I signed up for a little assistance. My first challenge is to write about who I am and why I want to do this. So here goes.

I am Tina and I am bored. Only when the kids are at school and The Husband is at work. Bored of boring jobs, of washing, cleaning and tidying. Bored of not reading, writing and walking. There’s so little time for the fun stuff because of all the un-fun getting in the way. There’s also very little time for getting a job when you need to fit it around young children and school and not wanting to get a job yet because you want to be available at all times just in case of something, something happening that you might be needed for like, oooh, illness. Oh dear. Someone needs a life or, at the very least, a hobby.

This brings me nicely on to why I’m doing this.

Because I was told to. This was set up by a friend, one of many that said this would be a good idea, one of a few that really meant it. I decided they might be right.

My plan is to write down all the nonsense my children may, or may not, want to know about as they get older and to write it down before I forget it. This gives me roughly a week, two at best, to jot down anything I think they might find interesting or funny. A sort of diary of stuff and nonsense.

A year ago I met a lovely lady who writes biographies, she told me to write. I explained that I have diaries, lots of diaries, that my children could peruse once they’ve spent their inheritance.

“They won’t read them, you need to take out the interesting bits”

So, here I am saving the interesting bits.