bye bye baby

Dear Marianne,

At the risk of making poo a regular feature of this blog, I have to tell you that Mike has just performed his third poo on the toilet - hurrah. He also invited me to check it out, "It's downstairs, go on, you can have a look if you want to." When Mike asks in that way I can't refuse. This isn't ground breaking news I know, but we were beginning to think that nappies would be with us forever, that the baby era would never pass. So for us it is Christmas come early, not the poo itself, but the fact that for the first time in thirteen years our days will be nappy and poo free.

The first nappy I ever changed was on Becky, what made it difficult was that she was lying in an in incubator in the post natal ward at UCH and I had to work through two hand holes cut in the sides. It was like a challenge from the Krypton Factor, I cried with frustration, but though difficult at first, it became funny and by the fourth day we were so accomplished that it was a competition between me, her Dad and the nurses to see who could do it the best.
She was OK by the way, she had fits in the first two days of her life, a ton of antibiotics followed by another ton of anti-fitting drugs, a lumber puncture, for which I wasn't there (I expect to carry the guilt from that for the rest of my life by the way), x-rays and other stuff I never really could understand. She was also attached to a heart monitor which gave an emergency bleep quite often, this made me jump up and down screaming for help, until the other parents (some of whom had been there for months)explained that it was usually a false alarm and they taught me to reset it myself, so that I wouldn't have to bother the overworked nurses.

I think all this is in my mind now because of the new guidelines which say that babies born before 22 weeks should not receive help to live, and those born between 22 and 24 weeks should be treated subject to a decision made by the doctors and parents. This is exceedingly sensible, sane and I think humane, unless of course I give birth to a child at 22 weeks and then I will use all my mental and physical strength and perhaps even a gun to ensure that the doctors keep my baby alive. I think I'm against animal testing until it turns out it helped my cousin with his epileptic drugs, or played a part in creating the insulin which keeps my brother and sister alive, or that may in future produce the drug which stops my dementia taking hold.

Anyway, back to poo. At work I described my delight at Mikey's ability to poo in the holy hole. My co-workers, though sympathetic to my joyful news, were really the wrong audience having grown their children mostly up. But I touched a nerve with them both and we three Mothers talked for quite sometime about the inability of boys (and men) to wee in to the toilet. What is it with the men? Despite a useful attachment with which to direct the wee, it is still beyond them. If you designed the whole task as a geometry project, requiring an ability to locate and measure acute angles, they would have it sorted, but since they have to hurry back to MSN Messenger and FIFA 2006, they just let it go and hope for the best. Then we Mother's come in, smell, snarl, complain pointlessly to all the men, who are outraged by the suggestion that they are responsible and so on and so on...

Mike might be the exception to the rule in the toilet department, what with the pride he takes in his work and all, but I wouldn't want to put that pressure on him; he needs to learn to be a real man and wee on the floor as Stan, Archie and Craig have done before him. I'm glad though that my greatest concern now is wee on the floor and not wee babies, thankfully things do pass.

Rx

all i want is a room somewhere

Dear Marianne,

Do you know what my current fantasy is? Yes you are close, I do fantasise about me and Daniel Craig romping around on the beach - I'm not sure what I'm wearing (but I look great)he has a nice tight pair of blue swimming trunks and there is a pistol somewhere...
But no, that's not my toppy most top fantasy, my toppy most top fantasy involves me, a toilet and nobody else! I am sitting alone in the house, I receive a call of nature, I go to the toilet and answer the call, and no bastard knocks on the door, shouts up the stairs, asks a question about homework or hurries me because we are going to be late.

It may seem a sad little fantasy, but it is not the only one. Apart from pooing in peace, I want to drink my tea hot, I want to complete conversations on the same day I begin them, I want to stop eating fish finger sandwiches, I want to listen to a song from opening chord to closing crescendo, I want to dance with my husband and not Barney the purple dinosaur, I want to read a book in less than a year, I want to write this blog without someone............Sorry about that, had to find Noddy's car.

As you will have worked out, it's not lots, but one big fantasy isn't it. I want my children to grow up and look after themselves really quickly (next Tuesday would be nice). But why tease myself with such thoughts, I need to enjoy what I have now and the day will come when I will be able to have a bath when I want and afterwards walk up and down the house naked; not necessary but possible you understand. The problem is that when my youngest are grown up I will be grown older and I won't be able to fulfill my fantasies. Pooing will be in to a bag, tea will be banned by my nurse, my brain will be too addled to hold a conversation about anything more than Deal or No Deal and etc.etc.

Anyway the two youngest, whose happy lives are messing with mine, were both off school today and so they accompanied us on another Magical Misery Tour of the South Coast's best kept lies. So we set off with hope in our hearts and "desperate suckers" tattooed on our foreheads to see some more houses in Hove by the Sea. Actually if you leaned to the right it was Hove, but if you stood up straight it was Port - fucking - slade. It was opposite the Lagoon though and "if you listen" said the Lettings Man "you can hear Heather and Paul arguing, tee hee". This is so sad, our Lettings Man must have spent four years trying to shift houses like this - tiny, ugly and with a view of the Power Station - using the fact that the McCartneys live desirably close. Then, for the past year he has been selling them because they are desirably close to two unhappy people, how uplifting for all of us.

The house we were in would have been perfect for us if we had been born blind midgets. "Snug and warm in the winter" said the Lettings Man as I tried and failed to swing a cat in the kitchen. Depressingly small I said to Craig as I went out on to the tiny patio to check that the sky hadn't fallen in. We left sharpish, even Mike and Anna unable to find an upside to the gloom. We then saw a massive (would be good for sharers) house on the seafront and then two fake Georgian houses in succession. To give you an idea of the utter rot that is available on the Lettings market, we are considering one of the Georgian fakes.

After chips in the blustery wind with some old ladies, bikers, and a bloke with tattooed tears from his left eye, we did some pigeon chasing(I know, should have been seagulls - we were confused too), I told Anna that they were on holiday from Trafalgar Square. Then it was home to the Wells, to a house which is looking larger and brighter by the day. Not to worry though, I still retain my fantasy of happy days in sunny Hove for all the family, young and old.

Rx

i do like to be beside the seaside

Dear Marianne,

Whilst fighting an overpowering urge to stab myself in the heart with the pencil sticking out of my "houses and flats in Hove" notebook, and standing in the most depressing room, in the most depressing flat, in the most depressing street in the world, I heard the letting lady say (with as much magic as she could muster), "...and from this room you have oblique views of the sea".

Oblique?! Nope, did she mean bleak views perhaps, or devoid of. Maybe she had heard someone else use the word earlier in the day, and thought she'd have a stab at using it now. According to Dictionary.Com oblique means "neither perpendicular nor parallel to a given line or surface;slanting or sloping." Or "diverging from a given straight line or course" or "not straight or direct, as a course." Or "morally, ethically, or mentally wrong; underhand; perverse." The lettings lady was talking crap, she was definitely on the oblique side; a liar I mean.

She said "large rooms" I saw small rooms.
She said "nicely decorated" I saw artex ceilings and an iron shaped burn mark on the green carpet.
She said "Really the sea is your garden" I thought, yes as long as you don't mind crossing a bypass to get there.
She said "oblique views" and well I won't go on...oh too late.

I wanted to say, you do know you're talking out loud, we can hear you, and we are in the same flat you are describing. We have eyes and minds which are working and we have access to a tent at the end of my Mum's garden which, right at this moment, holds a greater attraction than this miserable council flat masquerading as an upmarket "apartment".

The flat was one in a block off the Kingsway - you know those Soviet looking buildings that line seafronts from Ramsgate to Plymouth, filled with tiny, quiet wealthy ageing couples, who pop in and out unseen until finally it is their clogs they pop. But, I've never seen anyone go in or out of these places, just us, today. An ugly comfortable place to live, whilst you get ready to die.

In the car, after the ordeal, we both felt as though we had walked through slime - we needed to get home and have a hot shower. Luckily the day had started better than it had ended, we had seen a perfect house in the morning, and could imagine ourselves and the children enjoying life in the leafy suburbs of Brighton perhaps sooner rather than later. I don't mean to be oblique but, I think there may be a reflected ray of light at the base of the prism.

Rx

gunpowder treason and plot

Dear Marianne,

When I was young, fireworks night was called Guy Fawkes night and some of us children understood what was going on. A Catholic bloke cocked up his plan to blow up the Houses of Parliament and a Protestant King, and so we have fireworks, baked potatoes and sparklers. When we were young, we made images of Guy Fawkes and toted him around the local area asking for a Penny for the Guy. Today its called Firework Night, children have no idea who Guy Fawkes was, but they still go door to door asking for a Penny for the Guy. Clearly they're hoping for more than a penny, but they've heard the line and know that you get money if you say it to John and Maureen at number 2. I heard a story that when one group turned up at a neighbour's door, asking for a Penny for the Guy, she looked for the stuffed trousers wearing a Scream mask, when she couldn't see one she asked, "Where's the Guy?" ... "What's a guy?" was their response.

When we were young, there were neighbourhood bonfires - unlicensed and dangerous, there were council run bonfire nights - licensed and dangerous, but with baked potatoes, and there were family back garden fireworks - miserable and dangerous; or was that just my family fireworks?

Bonfire Night (that's what we called it) at our house meant danger and possible death, because my Dad sold it that way. Before November 5th he would buy some weedy fireworks and hide them in a silo I think. Then, when the dreaded night came, he would go right to the end of our very long garden, on his own, with the fireworks, firework receptacle, matches, and bucket of water. He would stand us against the wall of the house, where we would huddle in fear and silence, he would then announce that he was lighting the firework, "I'm lighting the firework!" Nick would move to scratch his nose, "Stand still!", Jane would sigh, "Be quiet!"
Then he would stand as far away from the firework as physically possible, whilst still remaining close enough to light it. Then he would shout, "It's alight, stand back!" Obviously, standing back would have meant going in to the house, so we just stood more still and tried to look more solemn and sensible, because this fun lark is a serious business. I can't really remember the fireworks, I'm sure they were lovely, but by the time they were in the air we were either petrified or too busy weeping with laughter at the spectacle of our Father losing it.
Naturally, it was a damaging experience, and for many years afterwards I was afraid of fireworks, even the rubbish ones that go whoooosh...nothing...plop.

Eventually we were all put out of our misery when my brother Nick singed his hand on a sparkler. All outdoor fireworks were banned and in their place my parent's provided a game for all the family to play and some indoor fireworks. Now, if you were thinking how sad, a game for all the family to play, you obviously have never experienced the utter uselessness of indoor fireworks. I hadn't met anyone who had heard of these until the other day when the subject came up and Bonnie's face suddenly registered the image of indoor fireworks, "Yes , I know, turd on a plate", she said "Yes, exactly". Indoor fireworks are perhaps the most pointless things ever invented, although they probably fit in to the same category as quorn sausages, decaffinated coffee and alcohol free lager. They are everything a firework isn't, they are colourless (unless you are in to grey), they are silent, they are safe, boring and small enough to light several on a plate and watch them, well, become turds really.

If I had never met Craig, I would still spend each Fireworks Night inside with the pets, complaining about the noise and the danger. Thankfully he saved me, forcing me to enjoy myself at the majestic Ally Pally display, now I love them and so do all the children except for Mike, who doesn't, but he thinks the hand dryer in public toilets is too noisy. So it was me Becky and Anna who made our way up the road last night to watch the Dunorlan Park display for free, from the roadside - well it was £6.50 per adult and £3 per child to go in. We took sparklers and chocolate cake, and we had a perfect view from just across the road, we stood and shouted out the colours as they came, whilst the police put away their orange cones. At the end, Becky gave Anna a piggy back down the hill, and we were first to be on our way home for baked potatoes, hot dogs and some rather good peppers roasted in red wine.

We had planned for Bonnie, Kevin, Archie and Brodie to be there too, but Archie was not well. I've saved some rainbow sparklers for them, so that we can have another go next week. I just hope that Bonnie didn't succumb to indoor fireworks, Kaliber beer and a nicorette patch to see the evening through.

Rx